Murder by Matchlight

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “Yes, I saw it—because I looked for it,” said Macdonald.

  “Yes, you’ve got the wits to see the connection,” growled Rameses. “The bike, and then this——” dangling the mask. “Both mine . . . and I’ve only got one neck, same as other folks . . . and that fat buffoon is cooking up some story about my show on Thursday night. Says I didn’t do my own stuff. Says my boy did it. My boy’s in the Commandos . . . got a week’s leave after coming out of hospital. There it is. If I know an honest man when I see one, I’d say you’re an honest man. That’s why I’m telling you. Matter of common sense. If you took me before a jury to-morrow with only the evidence I’ve given you to-night I should be committed for trial. I see that.”

  “Yes. I see it, too,” said Macdonald. “I take it you’ repleading ‘not guilty——’ ”

  “Pleading? I’m not pleading anything. I’ve seen men shot: I’ve seen men stabbed. I’ve seen a knife thrown so that it slashed a man’s wind-pipe and cut through his jugular—but I’ve never killed a man yet, nor done any dirty trick I’ve cause to be ashamed of. I’ve played the clown—on stage and off. I’ve laughed and made crowds laugh and I’m proud of the skill I’ve worked to attain. Plead?—the word makes me mad. . . .” The man’s voice was extraordinarily impressive: low and deep, it rumbled on and yet the words were curiously distinct against the background of gunfire. Macdonald was hard put to it to find an answer—and then came an interruption, as Someone hammered on the outer door.

  ii

  It was true that Constable Booker disliked air-raids, but it was the actual shriek of the sirens which penetrated to his nervous system, and as the raid went on he became more and more phlegmatic in the face of danger. After he had put down that very comforting cup of tea he sat down in the dimly-lighted lobby of Mr. Rameses’ flat and had a comfortable rest, reflecting that things might be much worse—he was well under cover, on the ground floor at that: Booker accounted himself lucky and even felt halfway towards a comfortable nap. His heavy head was showing a tendency to nod when his ears—which were still on the alert—picked out a different sound from the uproar without—someone was clattering down the stairs and running across the entrance hall of the house. “The old girl’s got the wind-up after all,” he thought, and then realised that someone was banging on the Rameses’ front door. He opened it and saw Mrs. Maloney, her grey hair in curlers on one side and straggling down to her shoulders on the other.

  “Now don’t you get worked-up, mum. Things is quieting down nicely,” said Booker.

  “Me, worked-up? an’ you the Bobby that fell down my front steps in a funk?” she retorted. “You look after your own .business, and I’m telling you it’s not sitting in an easy chair on the ground floor you ought to be. There’s something’appening upstairs in the late lamented’s flat—sounds like’e’s come back and is makin’ a real old racket.’Eard’im through the guns an’ all I did.”

  “What’s that you’re saying, Mrs Maloney?” inquired Macdonald who had come out into the lobby, and she said joy-fully:

  “You come and listen yourself, sir—you’re the one to settle this. Not’im” (indicating Booker): “not safe on’is feet,’e isn’t. You come upstairs and listen. Bombs I don’t mind, but ghosts I never did fancy, and if so be Mr. Johnny Ward’s rumpusing about up there,’tis no place for me to be.”

  “I’ll come up,” said Macdonald, and began racing up the dark stairs, holding his torch half-covered in his hand. Booker made a spring after him, but Rameses was quicker: slipping past the constable he gained the stairs just behind Macdonald while Booker rushed behind and Mrs. Maloney panted in the rear shrilling breathless encouragement:

  “Go for’im—you’re the one to do it,” she shrilled.

  Macdonald had just got to the bottom of the last flight when a crash sounded above his head which had certainly nothing to do with ghosts: there was a rending sound of cracking wood, and a rumble of plaster as the ceiling over his head came down in a shower of dust and pulverised fragments.

  “That one’s a dud,” said Mr. Rameses calmly. “If it weren’t none of us’d be left to chat on the stairs.”

  “It wasn’t a bomb—not big enough,” said Macdonald, as he shook the plaster from his head and shoulders. “It was either a shell or a good large hunk of shrapnel. I’ll go on up—tell Mrs. Maloney to go and look after the basement——”

  “Nat me!” shrilled the old lady. “I don’t mind bombs and bits, I’m goin’ to see yer cop that ghost.”

  Macdonald began to negotiate the top flight, kicking aside the plaster fragments.’ He was shaking with laughter despite the racket of the guns. The whole situation had a quality between a farce and a nightmare and no ordinary common sense regulations seemed to apply. He doubted very much if ‘the ghost’ had been anything more than the patter of shrapnel on the roof—but if old Mrs. Maloney were not afraid of sleeping on the top floor during an air-raid, Macdonald was not going to funk investigating her ghost for her, crazy though the whole proceeding seemed. He reached the top floor and found the door of Ward’s flat, remembering that he had still got the key in his pocket. Rameses was just behind him, and Booker’s voice panted:

  “ ’Ere, you stand back. This is none of your business,” as he endeavoured to elbow the “illusionist” farther back on the narrow landing. Macdonald found the door was unlocked, but it refused to give to the pressure of his shoulder. Turning his torch upwards, he saw that there was a bolt on the top of the door . . . had that bolt been there before, he wondered ? . . . and as he drew it back another crash resounded on the roof and more plaster came down.

  “Incendiaries—heard that sort of thing before,” said Rameses.

  Macdonald got the door open at last, pushing back a heap of plaster and splintered wood. Rameses was right, he realised—incendiaries, somewhere in the bathroom. His torchlight showed him something else—a man’s figure lying on the floor, pinned down by a beam which had fallen from the roof.

  Rameses pushed in beside him. “I can help here . . . I’m as strong as both of you put together,” he said, and bent to the beam.

  iii

  It was some minutes later that Macdonald and Rameses got the limp body down into the hall of the house. Booker had been sent to call up the Fire Post and Mrs. Maloney screeched like a banshee at the door of each flat while she opened the front doors with her own keys. The incendiary bombs had crashed through the top floor and reached the kitchenette on the second floor. Macdonald had to make up his mind quickly whether to act in his capacity as a Detective Officer or as a Civil Defence worker. He decided to deal with the casualty first and help the firemen second.

  Rameses was as good as his boast—he was a phenomally strong man and he proved capable of lifting a beam with what seemed like half the roof on top of it so that Macdonald could get the limp body clear. Then, together, they carried the body down the stairs while smoke began to swirl round the upper part of the house. Whether their burden was a corpse or not Macdonald had not had time to decide, but his instinct was to get the man into safety. By the time they had reached the ground floor Mrs. Maloney had produced a stirrup pump and Mrs. Rameses—her hair more than ever resembling a home-made wireless set—was intent on helping to fire-fight.

  “Give me the pails, dearie, and we’ll have a real go at it,” she said to Mrs. Maloney. “Not the first time I’ve played fireman. We had the big top alight one night we were in Rio—there’s no elephants here, that’s one thing. I never could manage elephants . . .”

  “My God, Ladybird, come off it!” roared Rameses. “Here you—do what you like with this one, I’m going to stop my missus committting suicide,” he shouted to Macdonald.

  Booker had done his part well: he came panting tip to Macdonald.

  “’Phone’s all right, sir. I got through to the Post. Fire engine and ambulance coming. I’ll go up and see what I can do . . . Another wave of’em coming over, the bastards . . . ought to get the old girl out of this.”

&nbs
p; Macdonald bent over the figure on the floor, his torchlight directed on to the pallid face. Stanley Claydon. “And what the devil you were doing in Johnny Ward’s flat you’ll probably never be able to tell us,” said Macdonald—and heard the clang of an ambulance bell outside.

  “Quick work,” he said to the volunteers. “This chap has probably got a broken back . . . I haven’t had time to find out.”

  “Right oh, we’ll see to it,” responded the man with the stretcher. “Any more casualties here? We’re wanted further along. The N.F.S. chaps are just coming.”

  Stanley Claydon was carried out feet first as the firemen came in, and for the next few minutes Macdonald was busy going into every room in the house to make certain no one else needed assistance. When he came up the basement stairs again he heard a weird sound on the staircase. It was Mrs. Maloney, sitting on the bottom step, singing in a strange cracked voice, and an Air Raid Warden, who had just come in, was shouting:

  “Now then, you’ve got to get out of this into the shelter along the road.”

  “Not me,” yelled Mrs. Maloney, and Macdonald interposed:

  “If you won’t go quietly I’m going to carry you, Mrs. Maloney—stop in this house you shan’t!”

  He bent and lifted the old lady up as though she had been a child and she cackled with glee.

  “Arms o’ the law . . . well I’m blessed . . . Abraham’s bosom.”

  “You stop being funny. I won’t be called Abraham, not even by my friends,” protested Macdonald. “Where’s Mrs. Rameses?”

  “Don’t you worry about’er.’Er Birdie’s doing the strong silent man I don’t think. Can’t carry two of us, can yer?”

  Macdonald set her on her feet at the front door and listened for the next lull in the gunfire. He reckoned it was a hundred yards to the shelter.

  “You stay here, old lady, and none of your jokes,” he said. “My car’s still there. It’ll get you to the shelter faster than I can run—and this house is going to fall down any minute. Now when I say ‘jump ‘you jump—straight into the car.”

  “All correc’, Cap’n,” she retorted, and at Macdonald’s word she was down the front steps with the agility of a cat.

  “You’re a wonderful woman for your age,” said Macdonald cheerfully. “Here we are: in you tumble—and don’t let me find you’ve been up to any tricks when I come back. I want a nice long chat with you.”

  He pulled up at the shelter and hustled her in, left his car where it was and raced back to number five. No more bombs had fallen since the cluster of incendiaries came down, and the Fire Service seemed to have got things under control. At least, there was no big outbreak. At the front door Mr. Rameses was giving orders to his Ladybird:

  “Right along there to the shelter and don’t argue,” he commanded. Macdonald raised his voice:

  “I’ve just taken Mrs. Maloney along there. Won’t you go and look after her—the poor old soul’s all shaken up.”

  “Oh, that’s different,” said Mrs. Rameses cheerfully. “I’m always glad to oblige, but my husband . . .”

  “I’ll look after him,” said Macdonald and steadied her down the steps.

  “One thing, I never was frightened of the dark,” she called back, “and if a girl was brought up to step dance on liberty horses she never loses her balance. . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she ran towards the shelter and Rameses said “Frightened? My God! I don’t know what she is frightened of, barring burglars under the bed—and she could strangle any burglar with one hand. What’s next on the programme? Go up and help the fire wallahs?”

  “That’s about it,” said Macdonald.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  i

  “WHAT’S the time?” asked Mr. Rameses some time later, and Macdonald found that his wrist-watch was still intact.

  “Half-past twelve—to-morrow in other words,” he replied.

  “ ‘To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow,

  Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

  To the last syllable of recorded time;

  And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

  The way to dusty death’.”

  Amazingly, Macdonald thought that he had never heard those lines more impressively spoken—or more beautifully spoken, either. Drenched with water from the hoses, filthy, torn, Mr. Rameses stood in a fire-drenched room amid the reek of soaked charred furniture, his deep voice declaiming immortal lines with never a quiver in the superb bass. He turned to the window, from which glass and black-out had long since gone and stared out at the flickering skies, where a grim light shone on the under sides of the barrage balloons: “‘. . . have lighted fools the way to dusty death’ ” he reiterated, half under his breath. “Can you beat it! You’d have thought he knew . . . there’s many a fool found the way to dusty death this night.”

  “Don’t stop here, old chap. If you want to spout poetry, go and do it in the shelter.”

  It was one of the N.F.S. officers who spoke. “This house may be standing to-morrow or it may not—so you get, while the getting’s good.”

  Standing behind Mr. Rameses, he patted the massive shoulder. “Good old Samson!” he said. “I don’t know who you are but you’re a grand chap. Off with you! Our outfit’s moving on, we’re wanted south of the river. Get a move on I I’m evacuating this . . .”

  Rameses chuckled: the unprintable words fitted his mood.

  “All right—but I’m going to pick up some dunnage from my coop on the ground floor. What d’you think I sweated for? sheer goodness of heart ? You think again. There’s some tripe I don’t want burnt.”

  “I give you three minutes then. Can’t spare you, Samson, you might come in useful another day.”

  As they went down the reeking stairs the fireman spoke to Macdonald. “Who are you, by the way? You know your stuff.”

  “Inspector, C.I.D.,” was the reply.

  “Good God . . . and who’s he?”

  “Conjurer and illusionist, name of Rameses—knows his stuff, too.”

  “Cripes! I’ve met some odd couples on this job, but you two beat the band. See that Samson doesn’t outstay his leave, Inspector. Three minutes I said—and I meant it.”

  “He won’t lose me,” said Rameses profound voice. “I’m the hangman’s prize. He’s here on a job. Funny, isn’t it?”

  ii

  Macdonald followed Rameses into the flat on the ground floor. Some of the ceiling had fallen down in the practice room and the place looked even more demented than before, but strangely enough the big brown tea-pot still stood intact on the table.

  “Thank God!” said Mr. Rameses. “I’m as thirsty as hell. Tea for me—every time.”

  He poured out a cup of the cold dark liquid, and added some milk, saying “Help yourself . . . cold tea’s a good drink.”

  Macdonald realised that he was very thirsty too and followed the suggestion. Mr. Rameses, having gulped down his tea, pulled a box from under the table and closed the catch carefully. It was the box which contained his masks. Seeing Macdonald’s eyes on him he said:

  “Most of the other tripe I can make again—but not these. There’s nothing in the world quite like them . . . Wait a jiffy, I want something else.” He darted across the passage and Macdonald followed, saying:

  “Can I help. Time limit’s running out.”

  “If you’d be, so kind . . . these in your pockets . . . thanks, this lot over your arm . . . I’ll take these . . . quick march. . . .”

  To add the last touch of grotesqueness to a grotesque night, Macdonald found that his share in the final rescue act (probably made, he reflected, at the risk of both their lives to judge from the creaks of the old house) was the salvaging of Mrs. Rameses’ silk stockings (in his pockets) and a quantity of her clothing (over his arm). Mr. Rameses had snatched the entire contents of a wardrobe, frocks, fur coats and trailing chiffons and thrown the lot over his shoulder.

  “Never forget the wife,” he boomed. “She’d have hat
ed to lose this lot. Where are we going now? Condemned cell?”

  “Not with these,” said Macdonald, hitching up the trailing garments on his arm, and Rameses laughed—a laugh full of genuine amusement.

  “You’re a decent chap, Inspector,” he said. “Whatever happens, I’ll never bear you any resentment. Shake hands. We had a damned good show up there with those firemen.”

  Freeing his hand from some of Mrs. Rameses’ garments, Macdonald shook hands. “Well played, Samson,” he said, “and now I think we’d better go and see how many of the party are in the shelter.”

  “The shelter, eh? Well, I haven’t heard the All Clear go yet,” said Mr. Rameses. “I expect we shall find some of them there.”

  “I shall be very disappointed if we don’t,” said Macdonald. As they went out of the front door of the house (it was jammed and would no longer shut) they saw a small group standing on the pavement. Booker was there, a Civil Defence man and a Special Constable. The guns still sounded in the distance, but it was almost eerily quiet after the preceding uproar.

  “That was a good bit of work’ said the Civil Defence man. “I thought the whole crescent would burn out—and no casualties to speak of.”

  “We’re not through with the night’s work yet,” said the Special. “If I know anything about Jerry we shall have another wave of’em over—it’ll be H.E. next time.”

  “Always look on the bright side, as the devil said when he raked up the ashes a bit,” boomed Mr. Rameses, and the Civil Defence man chuckled.

  “What I’m really dying to know is if old Sam Stillman’s got his back door open along at the Duke of Clarence. He’s a lad is Sam—open house to the Civil Defence on nights like this. He’s saved my life before now.”

  “Fancy you drawing my attention to a thing like that—I should have thought you’d more sense,” chuckled Booker. He’d got over “that siren feeling” and was his cheerful self again. He drew nearer to Macdonald.