“I have no grounds for assuming that Ward had relatives in Bedford, sir, but I have sufficient reason to think that he may have used the L.M.S. from St. Pancras. I think I made that implication in my report.”
“Is that so? I am afraid I missed the implication, then.”
“You will remember that Mallaig stated that Ward acted as one of the crowd in a film called ‘The Night’s Work.’ I have not yet had time to substantiate this statement, but it seemed quite probable that a man like Ward who disliked and avoided regular work would have been glad of the occasional guinea to be picked up by casual film jobs. It’s worth remembering that Elstree—which has a film industry—is on the L.M.S. line.”
“I see. I see. A shot in the dark, Macdonald, but an intelligent shot.”
“Less haphazard than a groundless assumption of relatives in Bedford,” said Macdonald solemnly, and Wragley laughed.
“All right, all right—and so what? as my nieces and nephews are so fond of asking.”
“I’m putting Reeves on to the St. Pancras job. He’s trying to find any of the station staff who can recognise Ward’s photograph. In the event of my guess about Elstree proving wrong, I want to find out what he was doing at St. Pancras and with whom he was doing it.”
“Why not try the Elstree studios direct?”
“Reeves is doing that, but the St. Pancras end is important for this reason. If Ward travelled with a friend or acquaintance, he may have said something about his rendezvous in Regents Park. My argument is this: either Ward was killed by the individual he had arranged to meet at the bridge, or by some other person who knew that Ward was going to be at the bridge.”
“Why the either-or, Macdonald? Isn’t it safe to assume that he was killed by the person he had arranged to meet?”
“The principal argument against that is that Ward’s behaviour at the bridge was not that of a man who expects danger. It’s true, according to Claydon’s evidence, that Ward was truculent over the ‘phone: he spoke with confidence, like a man who knows that he holds all the cards, but his choice of rendezvous, and his behaviour when he got there, give the impression that he was going to meet someone from whom violence was most improbable. If Ward had had any idea that violence was going to occur, I don’t think he would have chosen a dark and solitary spot for the meeting. It seems to me that someone may have learnt about Ward’s appointment and used it for their own purposes. It’s on that account that I am anxious to trace Ward’s actions during the day.”
“Yes. I see. To my mind, however, it’s more fundamental to trace Ward’s past history.”
“Yes, sir. I hope to tackle that myself. It’s an interesting point to consider. At some period in deceased’s history he took the trouble to change his identity. That has been done by other men before, generally from one of two motives—the desire to escape from justice—keep out of the hands of the police, in short—or fear of an enemy. To the best of my knowledge the first motive doesn’t apply. We have no record of any police conviction against Ward—his fingerprints can’t be traced—neither does he resemble anyone for whom the police are searching at present.”
“So you assume that he was hiding from an enemy?”
“Possibly—but he must have considered it profitable to disappear, so far as his previous identity was concerned.”
“So profitable that he chose a particularly difficult time to change his identity. Wartime regulations don’t facilitate that sort of thing.”
“That’s only partially true, sir. In one way, the chaotic conditions of to-day make such a thing easier. A man turns up from nowhere, possessing nothing: he says he has been bombed out and has lost his home, his family and his entire possessions. It’s happened in so many cases. How many people bother to substantiate the story? Deceased was a man of considerable charm—can’t you imagine how he would have made friends among similar casual gentry—those classed as Bohemians by the average respectable householder—and ‘poor Johnny Ward—just been bombed out ‘would have been accepted at his face value, having lost everything save his Identity Card.”
“And Ration Book?” inquired Wragley.
“He lost that, certainly—but a new Ration Book was issued to John Ward of Dulverton Place after the bombing. They had to be issued to a number of people, and the clerks were too busy to challenge identities closely. The holder of an Identity Card got an emergency book if the original book was lost.”
“By Jove, Macdonald, I’m beginning to get interested in this story.. . . It’s got possibilities. . . .”
“Yes, sir,” replied Macdonald, and his face was very thoughtful. “For the past twenty-four hours I’ve been meditating on this matter of poor Johnnie Ward. I assure you I’ve found it extraordinarily interesting. There’s a story behind it: the story of a charming friendly scamp, a man who ‘could only be relied on to be unreliable’ as little Rosie Willing said: a man who played about on the fringes of the Black Market, who had fought for Sinn Fein, who lived by his wits—and who finally became dangerous to somebody and was knocked over the head in the blackout. It may prove to be a sordid story, but I certainly find it an interesting one.”
“Taking advantage of a particularly ghastly air-raid,” grumbled Colonel Wragley to himself. “I find that revolting.”
“I find it illuminating, sir—with regard to the man’s character. I don’t believe Johnny Ward stole a dead man’s Identity Card on the spur of the moment. He must have planned to do it when he had the opportunity: he may have done it before. Here is a man too lazy to work—but he fought in the 1919 rebellion: a man given to cadging loans—but his neighbours said he did all he knew how to get into the Forces: a man who kept his nerve when a shelter was bombed and stole another man’s Identity Card in the shambles of that shelter. It’s a pity he was refused for the Forces. They ought to have put him in the bomb Disposal Squad—because he had just the qualities which would have enabled him to display his charm while straddling a live bomb.”
“Really, Macdonald, you’re giving way to flights of fancy,” said Wragley severely.
“I apologise, sir—but admittedly I find this case food for one’s imagination,” replied Macdonald.
ii
It was in the early afternoon that Macdonald paid another visit to Belfort Grove. Most of the tenants were out, but Mr. Carringford proved to be at home, and he welcomed Macdonald cheerfully.
“I wanted to go to the Inquest, but a job of work kept me away,” he said. “Did anything interesting emerge?”
“From my point of view, it was simply a recapitulation of known facts,” said Macdonald. “What I’m panting for is something fresh—something that will give me a line on John Ward’s origin, or at least on his way of life before he came to live in this house. You may well ask why I should come to trouble you again on this matter, since you have already told me that you can’t help me.”
“I hope you don’t think it’s because I’m not willing to help you, Chief Inspector,” said Carringford. “Ask anything you like, I’m quite at your service. It’s just possible that something may emerge—some small fact which might be meaningless to me might be significant to you.”
“That’s just it,” said Macdonald. Studying his companion afresh he came to the conclusion that Carringford was a younger man than he had at first guessed—nearer fifty than sixty years of age. His hair was quite white and his face lined, but the contour of the face seemed too smooth for an elderly man: there was health and resilence in the lean muscular neck and hands: an interesting face, Macdonald meditated as he went on:
“Since the occupants of this house are the only people whom I can find at present who can tell me anything at all of John Ward, it is those same occupants I must badger. To put it quite simply, I come to you as the one person in the house who studies human nature intelligently and who is observant along lines which might be helpful to me. I’m not trying to be complimentary. I’m stating a fact.”
“Well, I think you’re being a bit optim
istic—but fire away,” replied Carringford.
Right. To begin with, did you know the responsible tenant of Ward’s flat—Mr. Claude d’Alvarley.”
“No, I didn’t know him except by sight. If you ever set eyes on him you’ll understand why. He was of the gigolo type, the junior lead in the more fatuous provincial productions of musical comedy. A type I can’t endure. Neither would he have have had any use for me, he’d have been bored to a degree if he had had to spend ten minutes in my company.”
“How did you come to make Ward’s acquaintance?”
“On the door-step, on the stairs, and in an air-raid shelter. Ward was gregarious: he liked company, he liked conversation, and despite the fact that he had wasted his ability through laziness and utter lack of application, he wasn’t unintelligent and he wasn’t uneducated. As I, told you, he was a wit. He’d probably had a university education—or part of one. He may have been sent down. I don’t know. As I told you, I never asked him questions. He called on me in the first place to ask for the loan of a book I mentioned. I lent it to him—but I never leant him another because he didn’t return the first. I know he read it, and I suspect he sold it. However, if he called in occasionally when I wasn’t busy I found him sufficiently entertaining to talk to.”
“You mention an air-raid shelter. Was he nervous of raids?”
“Good Lord, no! The coolest of fish. We were all ejected from here one night by the Wardens because an unexploded bomb fell in the back garden. Ward was indignant about being got out of his bed—I think it took something more than words to move him. I should say he was quite fearless: one of the fatalist type who believed that when his number was up nothing could save him, and that it wasn’t worth while taking precautions of any kind. You’ll generally find that men who hold that philosophy are mentally lazy.”
Macdonald laughed. “Maybe. Personally I believe in taking shelter when I get the chance—which isn’t often—but that’s not because I’m mentally energetic. Do you know anything of Ward’s associations with other members of this household?”
Carringford’s angular eyebrows shot up. “Rather an awkward question, Chief Inspector. We’re a rum lot here, as you may have noticed. This house suits me: it’s cheap and you’re not interfered with. In the evenings it’s quiet, because the tenants are generally out. I don’t want to do the dirty on any of my fellows in this menagerie. They reacted according to their several natures. Miss Willing is a shrewd little lady, but she has the everlasting kindness of her type. She nursed Ward when he was ill and gave him a bit of her mind when he was tiresome. My fellow tenant on this floor is one of the acquisitive kind, I should say—Miss Odette Grey. Have you met her?”
“Yes. I had a few words with her.”
Carringford chuckled. “Then you’ll understand me if I say that her association with Ward might be summed up in a few words I heard on the landing: ‘I know your sort. Leave a girl to pay for the drinks, you do.’ Miss Grey prefers to have her drinks paid for. I imagine Ward never paid for anything. Finally there is the strenuous couple on the ground floor—Mr. and Mrs. Rameses. I believe them to be an honest hardworking pair. I should rather like to know him better—but not her. So I leave it at that. I don’t think that Ward got much encouragement in that quarter—I’m sorry to be so unhelpful, but I’m trying to stick to facts. I can’t tell you about rows on the staircase or riots on the doorstep because there weren’t any.”
“Have you ever come across Ward outside this house—in the course of your film work, for example?”
“No. If I had done so I should have told you. Ward did get an occasional job, I believe—but very occasional. He tried to put it over that he’d played some good parts—but I knew he lied. Actually, I don’t think it was very probable he got any engagement, because he was incapable of being punctual for anything. Agents get sick of that type.”
“Did he ever offer to sell you anything?”
“Of course he did—but I never caught on. He’d offer to sell anything—whisky, silk underwear, pornographic literature—but as I always refused point-blank to have any dealings of that kind I can’t tell you if he could really supply the goods or not.”
“You’re being very patient with me,” said Macdonald, and Carringford replied:
“My dear chap, I’m only sorry I can’t help you. I’ve returned a colourless negative to every question you’ve asked, but I never pretended to know anything about Ward. My attitude is live and let live and mind your own business. I thought him a very probable rogue—and left it at that. I could tell you some of his wilder stories: he pretended to be related to several noble Irish families—Lurgans, Listoels, Plunkets, and so forth—but it was always a different story.”
“Talking of Irish names, did you ever hear him mention the name O’Farrel?”
“O’Farrel? That’s an odd coincidence. No, Ward never mentioned the name to me, but a chap I got talking to at lunch mentioned the name to me only a few hours ago—Timothy O’Farrel to be exact.”
“How did it come about?”
“I went into a snack bar for lunch—the one at Paddington station, and I got talking to a couple of fellows standing beside me—the place was packed and I couldn’t get a seat. I should say one of the blokes I was talking to was a commercial traveller, the other might have been a writer or a journalist. The first one started cursing the Irish nation in general—he’d just had a raw deal from some Irish wholesaler. The other bloke joined in and talked very intelligently. We bandied a few names—famous Irishmen and so forth, and then he suddenly asked me if I’d ever met a chap named Timothy O’Farrel. I said no, and inquired why he asked. He said he believed the chap lived in the West End somewhere and he wanted to find him. It turned out that this writer—if he was one—was an Irishman. He’d been at Trinity, Dublin, in 1919, and O’Farrel was up with him for a term. Why do you ask ?”
“Because I’ve come across the name in connection with Ward.”
“Well, I suppose that’s what you describe as a coincidence—one of those odd things which makes you wonder if the universe is more purposeful than sometimes appears.”
“Maybe it is—but tell me what you learnt about O’Farrel—if you did learn anything.”
“Oh I heard quite a lot—enough to be bored with the subject before I was quit. All Irishmen talk—they’re the most garrulous nation under the sun. This Timothy O’Farrel read medicine at Trinity, and apparently he married one of the woman students—also a medical. This girl was named Josephine, and I suppose she was originally the fiancée of the chap who was talking to me—anyway it was Josephine O’Farrel my chap was really trying to find. I told him to try the Medical Directory, since he believes she qualified. That was about the sum total of the conversation.”
“I should like to get into touch with the man you were talking to—or who talked to you. Can you describe him?”
“He was a big chap, dark, inclined to stoutness, with a high colour—the opposite of a romantic in appearance, but with the mind of a sentimentalist once he’d got some beer inside him. He was dressed in an old Burberry and a Trilby hat and he carried a suit-case.”
“Any initials or labels on the latter?”
“I didn’t notice. I have an idea he said he came from Bristol. He was certainly an Irishman and he was a very intelligent fellow—until he got reminiscing about his Josephine. Has it ever occurred to you that you get told some marvellous stories at railway stations? There’s something about a station and train journeys which makes a certain type confidential to a degree.”
“Yes. I have noticed that—particularly with regard to train journeys,” replied Macdonald. “I’ve had a man’s life history poured out to me between Edinburgh and Carlisle before now. Now isn’t there anything more definite that you can tell me about the man who talked to you at Paddington—anything that would make it possible to identify him ? You say he may have been a writer. Why did you assume that?”
“Mere guesswork. The chap was widely
informed and expressed himself clearly. He had an unusually good vocabulary and he spoke correctly—which very few people do. A good writer gets into the habit of correct speech. Also—this chap didn’t seem to have any job which tied him down to a timetable as far as I could gather. He’d all the time in the world. When you get talking over a drink most men have a tendency to mention their jobs, or it crops out in the course of conversation. Now as to identifying him—I can’t remember anything outstanding. He had very big hands, well-shaped and well-kept . . . no ring . . . a soft collar and dark tie . . . a rather dark chin and jowl . . . wanted shaving twice a day at least . . . a jutting out nose, dark eyes, rather beetling brows. I’m afraid that’s about the best I can do.”
“Will you describe the other chap—the bagman.”
“A smallish fellow—colourless, dressed in a grey top coat and bowler hat . . . potato coloured face, string coloured hair and light blue eyes. A very unnoticeable chap. We were wedged in between a crowd of Tommies and Jacks—most of them hurrying to get a drink before they got on the West of England trains. The commercial gent hurried off to catch the 12.45 to somewhere. I stayed long enough to have a good lunch—you get an uncommonly good one at that place, and I left the other chap having another glass of beer. Sorry I can’t think of anything which would identify him for you. Verbal descriptions are no good without some definite abnormality to aid them.”
Macdonald had taken out his note book: “Let’s see the best we can do. What was the man’s height?”
“He was tallish—say five feet ten: stout build, large hands and feet, black hair—what I could see of it—dark eyes. High colour.”
“Dressed in a raincoat and felt hat, carrying a suitcase,” concluded Macdonald. “Similar, in short, to a few thousand other men who walked up and down Paddington platform to-day. Well—nothing’s lost by trying. This is where I go to hand on a thankless job. Many thanks for all you’ve told me.”
Murder by Matchlight Page 9
