“Not at all. May it be counted unto me for righteousness that I forebore to ask all those questions I might have asked,” replied Mr. Carringford.
CHAPTER EIGHT
i
MACDONALD put Inspector Jenkins on to the job of doing his best to elicit information at Paddington Station, observing that it was quite unlikely any information would be forthcoming, but forlorn hopes did occasionally bear fruit. The Chief Inspector himself set other wheels in motion. He rang up one of the police surgeons who was a personal friend of his own, saying “I’ve got to make inquiries about a chap in your line of country—a consultant at the Collegiate Hospital. I’ve no doubt you can find out what I want to know about him much more easily than I can—and he won’t he annoyed by hearing that the police are collecting data about him.”
“Umps . . .” said the voice at the other end of the line. “ Are you talking about Ross Lane? I noticed he’d had the misfortune to come across one of your cadavers. He’s a first-rate chap. What do you want to know about him?”
“Is he married?”
“That one’s easy. Yes. He got married about four months ago.
“Who’s the lady?”
“A woman doctor—very competent one too: she specialises on backward children—thyroid deficiency and the like.”
“Does she practice under her maiden name?”
“Yes—Dr. Josephine Falton. She’s kept her old consulting room in Welbeck Street. Incidentally she’s out of London at the moment. I know that because they wanted an opinion from her about a juvenile delinquent and couldn’t get hold of her.”
“Right. Can you oblige further with the date of their marriage?”
“Beginning of August some time. They went to Skye for their honeymoon. He’s a friend of mine incidentally, so don’t go getting bees in your bonnet about him because he was sufficiently public-spirited to go rushing in when he heard a police whistle.”
“I’ll remember. Thanks very much for your help.”
Macdonald meditated for a moment after he hung up the receiver. Then he put a call through to Ross Lane’s consulting room and was answered by his secretary. Inquiry evoked that Mr. Ross Lane was booked up with consultations until half-past six that evening, and it was probable that he wouldn’t get rid of his last patient much before eight. If an appointment was to be made with him, it could not be before the middle of the following week. Macdonald rang off, deciding that he would leave Mr. Ross Lane to his patients for the time being and concentrate on another angle of his case.
ii
None of the tenants at Belfort Grove had telephones in their flats, but there was a call-box in the hall. This was answered by the housekeeper, Mrs. Maloney, when she happened to hear it. Mrs. Maloney disliked climbing stairs—a not unreasonable aversion since her age was nearer to the constable’s guess of eighty than the sixty-five years which she claimed officially. In order to save her legs, she was careful to observe when the tenants went out, so that she need not mount the stairs unnecessarily if a telephone call came for them. Over the telephone, as over much else, Mrs. Maloney ‘obliged.’ It was not part of her official duty to answer the telephone, but it was a profitable sideline for her, for the tenants were quite willing to pay a few pence for her trouble when she fetched them for a call or took a message for them. The afternoon was generally a peaceful time for her, for most of the tenants were out and she had the place to herself.
On this particular afternoon she was ‘doing’ Mrs. Rameses’ bedroom: she knew that everybody was out except Mr. Carringford, and when she heard the telephone bell she disregarded it. The bell went on ringing, however, with quite unusual persistence, and at last, in sheer exasperation, she went to answer it, and having grasped the purport of the message she toiled up to Mr. Carringford’s flat and rang his bell.
“It’s the telephone. The police want you,” she announced when he opened the door. “Been ringing goodness knows’ow long, and me on me’ands and knees working. You’d better’urry up. They sounded real mad the time you’ve kept’em,” and with that Mrs. Maloney stumped off downstairs. Mr. Carringford was not one of her favourites. “Fussy,’e is, like an old woman with’is bits and pieces and everlasting books, and never a word to spare.” So she described Mr. Carringford, for his meticulous neatness “got on’er nerves”; and his terse rejoinders to her well-meant chattiness were not endearing.
Going back into Mrs. Rameses’ flat, Mrs. Maloney pushed the hall door to and listened—her hearing was excellent. She did not learn very much from the one-sided conversation, save that Mr. Carringford was distinctly put out.
“What—immediately?” he demanded. “Oh, if it’s urgent I suppose I must, but it’s very inconvenient. Where? The first-class booking office? All right.”
A moment or so later Mr. Carringford left the house, and Mrs. Maloney saw him go with considerable satisfaction. “That’s the lot,” she said to herself. “Now the blinking telephone can ring its’ead off an’oo cares—not me.” She was a very honest old soul, as the tenants could testify, and she did her not very skilful best in the way of cleaning and polishing, working harder than many a younger woman would have done. Having brushed the carpet in Mrs. Rameses’ bedroom, and retrieved the very varied oddments which had been kicked under the bed, Mrs. Maloney sat back on her heels for a breather, and uttered a heartfelt “Drat!” when the front door bell rang. “You get on with it,” she said, producing a duster—but the bell rang again, and she peered carefully out of the window. “Lawks! them police again. What did’e want to go and do it for, there ain’t a moment’s peace for anybody.”
Macdonald was standing on the door-step accompanied by a uniformed officer. Mrs. Maloney hurried to the front door: she might grumble about the police, but she had her fair share of natural inquisitiveness. She had, moreover, been rather taken with Chief Inspector Macdonald, who had talked to her “as a real gentleman does talk to a lady.” She removed her working apron and went to the front door.
“Sorry I’m shore, sir, but it’s all out they are—every one, and me doing a bit o’ dusting for the first floor.”
“Well, it’s fortunate that you’re in, Mrs. Maloney,” replied Macdonald, quietly making his way into the entrance hall. “Shut the door, will you. I’ll explain what we have come for.” She obeyed, and Macdonald went on: “You know what a Search Warrant is, Mrs. Maloney?”
“Sure to goodness—you’re never going to search here, and all themselves out ? It’s me they’ll be blaming when they come back.”
“There’s nothing for you to worry about, Mrs. Maloney. You have the key to all the flats, haven’t you?”
“Sure and I have, me doing the only bit of cleaning that’s worth calling cleaning. I have to get in, don’t I, and there’s never been no complaints——’’
“I know that. All the tenants trust you. Now I have a Search Warrant which gives me the right to enter any of these flats. I shall get you to come in with me and this officer. We shan’t disturb anything. I want to look round to see if I find one particular thing: it’s quite a large object and it won’t be in a cupboard or a drawer or anywhere like that.”
“Well, I can’t stop you looking if you’ve got a what-you-call-it,” replied Mrs. Maloney, “but seeing as I’m trusted with the keys I reckon I ought to keep an eye on you.”
Macdonald was much entertained with this notion, but with a perfectly straight face he said: “By all means. Now you were working in the Rameses’ flat, so shall we start there?”
“Dearie me, and a fine old mess it’s in and all. Never you let rooms to no conjurers, sir. I’m always expecting to find snakes under the bed and I don’t know what.”
Macdonald’s search was a very superficial affair. He glanced into each of the untidy rooms and stood studying it while Mrs. Maloney tried to guess what he was looking for. Macdonald was actually assessing the size of cupboards and other places of concealment, but as he went through each room of the different flats he saw at once how
little space was allowed for any store room or box room. Originally this house had had very big rooms, but these had been sub-divided to make bathrooms and kitchenettes, and cupboards had been dispensed with. At the conclusion of his tour he turned to Mrs. Maloney.
“Do the tenants have any storage room in the basement ?”
“That’s right, sir. The ould scullery down there’s been made into lock-ups. Shilling a week or two shillings a week according to size. Ten shillings a week that scullery brings in—that’s’ow to make easy money.”
“And what about the keys?”
“The tenants all’ave their keys, but I got keys too. You see people’s that careless, always mislaying’em. It’s mostly trunks and old junk, save for Mr. Carringford, and’is books—’undreds of’em. Ought to go for salvage I say. Down’ere, sir. I’ve got me keys in me kitchen. I uses the kitchen for’eating water and that.”
Mrs. Maloney retrieved a bunch of keys from a tin which stood on the kitchen shelf, and she led Macdonald to the scullery door at the back of the house. The scullery was now subdivided by matchboarding into narrow cubicles. Some were the full height of the room, others divided into an upper and lower storey, each locked, and a stepladder was provided for access to the upper ones. There were eight compartments altogether and Mrs. Maloney announced their ownership.
“One, two and three are the big’uns. One and two belong to Mr. and Mrs. Rameses, three’s Mr. Carringford’s. Four and five are Miss Grey’s. Six is Miss Willing’s and seven’s Mr. d’Alvarley’s. Eight’s to let. Keys is numbered according . . . Drat that bell! It’s the front door again. I’ll’ave to’op—and don’t you go moving nothing.”
The old soul hurried off, and Macdonald opened the Rameses’ compartment. In front of the first lock-up was the object he had been looking for—a bicycle. It was a similar machine to the one he had borrowed for his reconstruction scene, specially built for trick riding on the stage. It was made in sections which would come apart at a turn. The sergeant who accompanied Macdonald chuckled as he looked at it.
“I’ve seen those trick riders pull their machines to bits till there was nothing left but the back wheel and the pedals and they still rode round like monkeys. It always makes me laugh—I’ve rocked till my sides ached over them.”
Macdonald nodded. “So have I. I should like to see Mr. Rameses in this outfit . . . I’ve been thinking. A real trick rider could have used this thing scooter-wise on that bridge.”
The sergeant nodded. “I reckon he could. My hat! it’d have been a queer sight if anybody could have seen it. Do you think it was this Rameses did the job?”
“According to the manager at the Surrey Met, this Rameses was on the stage from 8.15 till 8.40 on the evening of the murder—and the manager’s prepared to swear to that.”
“Yes—but I was talking to Bill Thwaites—he’s seen that turn at the Surrey Met. He says the Rameses are made up as Egyptians—a sort of mummy outfit, they hardly look like human beings at all. Who’s to swear it was really Rameses and not one of his pals?”
“I know. That’s a point—but here’s the old lady again.”
Mrs. Maloney came thumping down the area steps.
“’Aven’t you finished? I don’t like you being’ere and that’s a fact. Reflects on me, it do. I’ve never’ad no complaints before.”
“And you shan’t have any now,” replied Macdonald. “I haven’t moved a thing. The only thing I’m going to move is that trunk of Mr. d’Avarley’s. I want to look through it to see if there’s any letters mentioning Mr. Ward. You see we can’t find out who his people are.”
She gave him a shrewd glance. “P’raps his people aren’t that anxious to claim’im. I liked’im meself—but ‘e wasn’t everybody’s money. Always cadgin’. I’ve paid ‘is taxi for’im meself when’e was stuck.”
Macdonald leaned against the door of Mr. Rameses’ lockup.
“You’re old enough to know better, Mrs. Maloney,” he said, and the old woman bridled.
“But’e’d got a way with’im, he was a boy, he was! I shall miss’im. Brought a bit o’ fun into the’ouse with’im,’e did.”
“But you say he wasn’t everybody’s money—and you’re right. He got shown the wrong side of the door by some folks here sometimes.”
“And I’m not saying’e didn’t. That Rameses couldn’t abide’im—Mr. Ward talked too pretty to Mrs. R. But there wasn’t nothing in that, bless you. Them too—Mr. and Mrs. R., love birds ain’t in it. Dippy, they are. Lady Bird ‘e calls’er. Some bird—but she’s generous. The Variety folk is all free with their money.”
“Would you say Mr. Rameses was generous ?”
“Bless you, yes. Very good’e is. Never expects nothing for nothing.’E’s all right.’E didn’t go wasting’is money on Mr. Ward—’e’d too much sense, but’e’s open’anded if you works for’im.”
“On Thursday—the day Mr. Ward was killed—you were in the house all day, Mrs. Maloney?”
“I was—same as I told the other policeman until’alf past eight when I went out for me usual.”
“Did any of the tenants come in during the afternoon or evening ?”
“Everyone was out all afternoon. Quiet as a grave it was. Mr. Ward came in about’alf past six. I’eard’im in’is room. Mr. Carringford was in some time, because I’eard Mr. Ward speak to’im before they went out. I didn’t ‘ear no one else. Mr. and Mrs. Rameses, they don’t generally come in at tea time. They got matinees to do and once they go out they stay out—but I never’ear Mr. Rameses when’e comes in. Quiet as a ghost’e is, a great big chap like that. Still, I reckon’e was out Thursday. Mrs. R. told me they’ad a fish tea at the Corner’Ouse between shows.”
“What time do you generally knock off work ?”
“Depends what you call work. I reckon to finish me cleaning by five o’clock, and I’m on duty with the front door till six. Then I goes up and stays up, and I don’t take no notice of nothing.”
“But you heard Mr. Ward speak to Mr. Carringford on Thursday evening?”
“Me hearing’s all right, sir. I’eard Mr. Ward go downstairs from’is room, and I popped out to the you-know-what, on the landing outside me room that is, and not wanting to meet Mr. Ward on the landing, tho’’e always disregarded,’aving nice manners and not being vulgar like that d’Alvarley’oo I couldn’t stomach. I’eard Mr. Ward stop on the first floor and there wasn’t no one else’e could’ve been talking to but Mr. Carringford. They both went out almost immediate—Mr. Ward first’ Mr. Carringford a little later,’cos’e always slams the front door, so I knew.”
“I think you’re a very observant person, Mrs. Maloney. There’s not much you don’t notice. I wonder how often Mr. Ward took advantage of your good nature when he was particularly hard up.”
“As to that,’e always was’ard up. Lost all ‘is bits and pieces in the blitz, so’e said. I reckon some went to Uncle. I’m not denying I lent’im a bob’ere and there. Silly—but there it was.”
“Did he ever pay you back?”
“Sure and he did—when he put it on the right one which wasn’t often.’E told me’e was coming into some money—but there, I’ve’eard that one before. If you want to know what’e was talking to Mr. Carringford about that evening I’d say it was the usual, because I’eard Mr. Carringford say ‘Sorry, old chap, can’t be done’ and Mr. Ward,’e said ‘But it’s the last time!’ It always was the last time with’im. I’ve’eard that one, too, lots o’ times. Well, dearie me, if I don’t go and wash up them plates of Mrs. Rameses I shan’t be done till morning.’Ow much longer are you goin’ to be’ere? I’d rather you was out of the place before any of’em come in. Sure to cause unpleasantness, no offence meant, and unpleasantness I can’t abide.”
“We shan’t be much longer,” rejoined Macdonald imperturbably. “You go and finish your washing up and we’ll get on with our job quickly.”
“One thing, you’re trustworthy—I’ll say that for you: not like some o’ th
e police I’ve known in me time, dearie me . . .” and the old soul took herself off still talking.
“Just go over that bike for fingerprints,” said Macdonald to the sergeant, “while I tackle Mr. Claude d’Alvarley’s trunk . . . I wonder why he chose the name Claude.”
He produced a key-ring as he spoke and heaved the trunk forward while the sergeant opened the door of Mr. Rameses’ cupboard and got busy on the bike with an insufflator.
“I knew a boy called Claude once: nasty little nipper he was, too,” said the sergeant meditatively, “but what could you expect with a name like that.”
Macdonald gave a whistle: he had opened Mr. d’Alvarley’s trunk with one of his own peculiar outfit of keys.
“Somebody’s been through this trunk recently,” he said. “Look at the creases in this coat—some old, some new . . . Do you suppose that Johnnie Ward borrowed Claude’s clothes? Anyone could open this lock with a bent hairpin.”
The sergeant looked round at the open trunk.
“Don’t know,” he replied, “but someone’s cleaned this bike jolly carefully. Not a print on it. Well, well.”
Macdonald was on his knees lifting out Mr. d’Alvarley’s clothes: the ex-actor had a lively taste in shirts, ties, and pyjamas, to say nothing of socks.
“Just go through the pockets,” said Macdonald.
A few moments later he said “That’s that. If Mr. d’Alvarley ever packed any letters or other documents in this outfit, somebody has removed them for him. They say two negatives don’t make an affirmative, but the number of negatives in this house induces a few positives in my mind. Help me fold this stuff up. If ever Claude does come home it’ll be nice for him to find his clothes neatly packed.”
The two men worked quickly and deftly, and in a very short time the trunk was repacked, locked, and returned to its home.
“We’ll go and say good-bye to the old lady,” said Macdonald. “She’s yearning to see the last of us. I think she feels personally responsible for any misdemeanours we may commit.”
Murder by Matchlight Page 10
