Murder by Matchlight

by E. C. R. Lorac

  Mr. Carringford had said that he would go to his friend Mr. Hardwell. The authorities, who had quite enough homeless people to deal with, were far from anxious to dissuade those who had an alternative shelter from seeking it.

  Macdonald yawned again after his contemplation on the dispersal of the tenants in number five and began to formulate his plans for the day. There was Rameses junior to see: there were the Ross Lanes: there was Rosie Willing. Mrs. Maloney had had a word about the latter. “I never was no good at remembering names: she told me about’er friend—name of Alice, but Alice what I can’t tell you. Lives in one o’ them Pembridges—dozens of ’em aren’t there—but I’ll tell you this—if so be Miss Willing’s alive, she’ll be at her the-ayter this afternoon. If she’s been took, it don’t matter to you where she is—Kensal Green or’Ighgate makes no hodds.”

  ii

  It was between eleven and twelve that Macdonald arrived at the “little house in Sudbury” where Corporal Nightingale, son of Mr. and Mrs. Rameses, had made his home. The front door was opened by Mr. Rameses himself, with the clown’s greeting on his lips—“Here we are again.”

  He closed the front door after admitting Macdonald and beckoned him into the little front sitting-room. The house was full of lively sounds: somewhere Mrs. Rameses was singing “Somewhere a voice is calling “(her own voice was unmistakable). Elsewhere another voice was singing “There’ll always be an England,” and from upstairs a man’s voice was rolling out “Shenandoah.” (It was a fine voice, Macdonald noted—undoubtedly the Commando son.) In a cage in the window canaries were singing. Mr. Rameses faced Macdonald squarely.

  “You want to see my boy, to ask him about Thursday night. Well, you can. I tell you this straight. I haven’t mentioned the matter to him. I don’t know what he was doing, and he doesn’t know anything about this Johnny Ward racket or that dam’ fool Veroten. You’re bound to believe that I’ve told him and warned him to give me a leg-up—but I haven’t. I’ll send him along to you.”

  A moment later Corporal Nightingale came into the room: he was a fine specimen physically—as are all the Commandos, a tall lithe dark fellow, with humorous dark eyes and something in the set of his head which marked him unmistakably as Rameses’ son. He looked at Macdonald inquiringly:

  “You want me? I don’t know you, do I?”

  “No. My name’s Macdonald. I’m a Scotland Yard inspector, C.I.D.”

  “Cripes! What the hell do you think you want me for?”

  “Only to answer some questions. I’m on a job, and your name has been mentioned by another witness. I want you to be good enough to tell me what you were doing on Thursday evening.”

  “That’s easy. I went to see the old boy’s show—my father, you saw him when you came in. He’s a conjurer and all that. Cleverest old devil I’ve ever seen.”

  “So I’ve heard,” said Macdonald. “I believe you can do a bit along the same lines.”

  Corporal Nightingale sat down and lighted a cigarette: there was something about his leisurely movements which reminded Macdonald more than ever of Mr. Rameses.

  “Do you?” he replied. “Now perhaps you’d like to answer a question of mine before we go any further. Exactly why are you interested in my doings on Thursday night? I don’t bear you any ill-will, in fact you seem a decent bloke, but I don’t care for liberties—and it seems to me a bit cool for a C.I.D. man to walk into my home and ask me what I was doing on Thursday evening.”

  The deep voice was absurdly like Rameses’ own and Macdonald couldn’t help being amused, but his own voice was serious as he answered: “Yes, I can quite see that—but I’ve got justification for doing so because your evidence is very important. What you were doing on Thursday evening is going to matter a lot to the case I’m working on. It’s been suggested that you took another man’s place.”

  “It has, has it? You’d better go on and tell me the whole story—otherwise I tell you straight you’re going to be shown out of here pretty quick—no offence meant. They don’t teach us to be patient in my present trade.”

  “That isn’t quite true,” replied Macdonald. “I happen to know a bit about Commando training, and if patience isn’t achieved the rough stuff wouldn’t serve its end. If you show me out of the door you’ll be doing somebody else a very bad turn. I know you’re justified in asking for a full explanation, but your evidence would be of much more value if you gave it on the strength of the explanation I gave you just now—that your name has been mentioned by another witness. I’m trying to be fair and I want an unbiased answer.”

  “You’ve got it, haven’t you? I told you I went to see my father’s show. If you won’t say any more, I won’t say any more.”

  “All right. Say if we have your father in, and tell him just how far we’ve got—and ask his opinion about it.”

  “I don’t see that. He’s had bother enough with being bombed out and all that without having Scotland Yard pestering him. . . .”

  The young man broke off and stared at Macdonald, as though an idea had just percolated into his mind.

  “I say, if you’re trying to fix anything on my dad, you’re for it.”

  “Why not do as I suggest and ask his advice? He’s got more common sense than you have, because he’s older and has more experience of life.”

  Again that deliberate stare and then the young man got up and went to the door.

  “Dad,” he shouted. “Come in here a minute.”

  Macdonald heard Mr. Rameses walk quietly across the little passage from the kitchen.

  “I’m here, George. What is it?”

  Macdonald answered, speaking to the son: “Tell your father exactly what I’ve said and see what advice he gives you.”

  George Nightingale drew his father into the room and then shut the door, standing with his back against it.

  “This guy sails in and asks me what I was doing on Thursday evening, and I told him straight. He says it’s been suggested I took another man’s place. That made me a bit mad—sounds like hokey pokey. I asked him to come clean with the whole story and tell me what he was getting at, and he hands me out a lot of vague dope about getting an unbiased answer. I told him if he wouldn’t tell me straight out what it was all about he could get out and stay out. Then he suggests I shall ask you to come in and give your opinion. What I say is, if he can’t put his cards on the table, I’ve nothing to say to him. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s fair enough, George—but you’d better see the cards and think again. They were dealt to me, so I’ve the right to call them. You just sit down and listen.”

  George sat down, on a little hard chair beside the door, his long legs seeming to stretch half across the little flowered carpet.

  Rameses began: “There was a chap living in the top flat at Belfort Grove. Name of Ward. A lazy good-for-nothing son of a gun. I’d no interest in him except to see he didn’t swindle me or sell Black Market stuff to your mother. On Thursday evening Ward was murdered—knocked over the head in Regents Park—8.30 it was when he got his ticket. The Inspector here comes along to our place to find out all that he can about Ward. He had to find out what everyone in the house was doing at the time Ward was killed. That’s all right—if you’ve got laws in a country you’ve got to have police to see they’re administered. The Inspector asked my management if I did my turn as usual on Thursday evening. The manager said that I did—but being a cautious chap he made a few inquiries. The story got round. There’s a song and patter merchant who does a juggling turn early on in the show. He’s see fit to put it around that I didn’t do my own turn but that it was done by somebody else wearing my costume. Done by you, son. Now you know.”

  George sat still and swore, vigorously and persistently, uttering many strange colourful imprecations, most of them new to Macdonald, for the Commando brand of speech is peculiar to his own kind. Mr. Rameses cut in on the flow:

  “Maybe—but all that’s getting us nowhere. It’s just waste of time. What
were you doing on Thursday evening, George ?”

  “Me ? I was at the Flodeum show, dad—the old Surrey Met, watching your turn to see if I could spot that stuff you did with the bananas.”

  “The hell you were!”

  Then Rameses laughed. He laughed until his sides shook and tears ran down his wide cheeks.

  “What’s so funny about it?” growled George. “You diddled me every time, and I tell you I was watching you pretty close.”

  Mr. Rameses wiped his eyes. “And I never knew. You never told me you were there.” He turned to Macdonald. “This just about puts the lid on it—puts the black cap on it. You’ll never be able to prove anything now. George was there . . . What did I say? The comedy of the ironic. I never knew he was there.”

  “What if I was?” shouted George. “Is this bastard going to say you committed a murder ?—Say it!” He turned fiercely to Macdonald. “You just say it, and the . . .”

  “That’s not going to help, George. You use your wits.” Rameses turned to Macdonald. “He’s got some wits somewhere under that thick skin of his, though you mightn’t think it. You tell him what happened to Ward on that bridge. You’ll say it in fewer words than I shall—and you listen, son. Listen with your ears skinned and think it out.”

  Macdonald’s statement was a model of brevity and clarity and when he had finished Rameses said:

  “Very nicely put. Now then, George. How did the murderer get on to the bridge without his footsteps being heard by the man underneath? You think it out. I did. The Inspector did.”

  “Climbed a tree?” hazarded George.

  “Won’t wash. The Army’s not improved your brains. The first witness saw the murderer’s face, not in a tree, but just above Ward’s standing there. Seems likely to me he was standing on the step of a bike or a scooter. Remember our cycling turn, George? The one we did in’Frisco? Pretty wasn’t it? We did a boxing turn on those bikes. I’ve still got that bike. Stored in the basement. The Inspector found it. He’s thorough, and he’s got some imagination.” Rameses turned to Macdonald. “If I’d had you to train when you were a nipper I’d have made a good conjurer of you, Inspector. Better than George here. You’ve got more sense of detail.”

  George was silent now, his black brows contracted across his face so that he looked a younger replica of his father.

  “Yes. I see,” he said slowly. “I did your show for you, and you went to Regents Park to kill Ward, using your 1’il old bike to stalk him. Very pretty. What did you kill him for, dad?”

  “Search me . . . but that makes no odds. Ward was the type of skunk any man might be proud to kill. Perhaps he blackmailed me.”

  “But that bloke who saw everything said he saw the murderer’s face,” shouted George. “Was it your face he saw, dad?”

  “No, son, but he gave a very good description of the face he did see: I reckon it was Ananias. Remember Ananias? I’ve got him here. Quite safe. Saved him from the fire along with your mother’s silk pants and her best stockings. The funny thing is somebody borrowed Ananias just lately and put him away upside down. No sense of detail. Well. That’s the story. If it can’t be proved I was doing my show, if there’s the least doubt as to whether I was doing my show, then it’s all handed to him on a platter like John the Baptist’s head.” He nodded towards Macdonald and George said:

  “Sorry if I’m being slow but I want to get this straight. You went to Regents Park and I did your show. Without rehearsal. So that no one knew. Never a slip-up. Thanks very much everybody. No idea I was such a swell.”

  Rameses chuckled. “Yes. You know that—but it’d take an expert to appreciate that little point.”

  George stretched his long limbs and lighted another cigarette, slowly, contemptuously. He turned to Macdonald: “You’re pretty smart. The dad says so, and he knows. You’ve only got one little bit wrong. I didn’t do that show. I’m not up to it. Dad did his own stuff. I went to Regents Park and batted the bastard over the boko. I wasn’t going to have my dad blackmailed. Killing folks so’s they don’t even notice is my long suit. I’ve been trained to it for four bloody years. Got that?”

  “Well, I’m damned,” said Mr. Rameses indignantly.

  iii

  “Now say if we all calm down a bit and ask Mrs. Rameses to make some tea.”

  It was Macdonald who voiced this suggestion. For the past ten minutes Rameses and his son had been having an argument, and they had argued with a fury and verbosity which had left Macdonald almost speechless. Rameses had an extensive vocabulary and a capacity for non-stop exposition which rivalled his wife’s when he got going. George had his own peculiar lingo, a mixture of Commando slang and Yankee back-chat which was incomprehensible to the average person. George stuck to it that he had been to Regents Park: having produced the statement he enlarged it and emphasised it until his father was roaring at him in exasperation. Then, quite suddenly, Rameses changed his tactics.

  “You’re a sanguinary liar, George. I did it myself. I killed Johnny Ward, with my little sword, I killed Johnny Ward. …”

  It was at this juncture that Macdonald suggested a cup of tea, feeling that if the excitement continued at its present pitch, father or son—or both—would explode. Mr, Rameses heard the suggestion and performed another of his rapid volte faces and his voice modulated to the low bass murmur which Macdonald was always to connect with Macbeth.

  “Tea? Not a bad idea. George, go and ask your mother for some tea. Three cups—and ask politely and tell her she’s not wanted in here.”

  “Like hell I will,” said George, “and leave you to tell the tale to the C.I.D. Likely.” He opened the door and shouted: “Hi, Ladybird. He wants some tea. In here. Three cups. Sorry I can’t come and fetch it but I daren’t leave him. He’s a shocking old liar.”

  “Tea?” chimed in Mrs. Rameses’ fluty voice. “Coming, baby. I’ve got the kettle on. Quite a nice little chat you’ve all been having. Can I help?”

  “ No,” roared father and son in unison. The tea was brought in by a smart young lovely whom Macdonald guessed was Mrs. George Nightingale.

  “Glad you’re enjoying yourselves,” she said blithely. “If you make much more noise we shall have the police in.”

  There was a second’s deathly silence and then Mr. Rameses said “Well, George, if you’ve forgotten your manners, allow me: my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Nightingale. Mr. Macdonald. This gentleman helped salvage your mother-in-law’s best clothes last night, Belinda.”

  “Now wasn’t that just sweet of him,” she murmured. “Sorry I can’t stay. George the second’s in the coal-bucket.”

  Mr. Rameses applied himself to the teapot, stirring vigorously, and George turned nonchalantly to Macdonald.

  “Going to arrest me?” he asked.

  “No,” replied Macdonald. “Not for the moment. I’m willing to accept one confession of guilt, but not two simultaneously. If you’ll just get back to the matter in hand—which is version number one of your doings on Thursday evening—will you tell me which part of the house you were sitting in?”

  “I wasn’t in the house. I was in Regents Park.”

  “I wish you’d take your father’s advice and use your wits,” said Macdonald patiently. “You said you went in order to study his act and see if you could spot his methods, so I suppose you sat fairly well forward, in the stalls. You’re a noticeable chap. Somebody must have sat next to you. Probably some of the usherettes noticed you—you’re very like your father. You think things out. If you can’t produce chapter and verse to prove that you were sitting in the stalls during your father’s act, you’re a duller chap than you’ve any right to be. Now Mr. Rameses, it’s time you and I had a quiet talk. You’ve still got that mask?”

  “Ananias? You bet. If I’m going to appear in dock I’ll wear it. Thinking of doing a reconstruction act?”

  “Something of the kind. Next—about that wart you had on your hand. When did you get it removed?”

  “Did it myself. Saturday morn
ing. Burnt it off. Clean as a whistle. Heated a steel knitting needle in a blow-lamp. Learnt how to do it from a dancer in Buenos Ayres. Hate warts.”

  “During your act on Thursday or Friday night did you have any member of the audience on the stage to play up and spot the illusion?”

  “Sure. A Jock. Seaforth Highlanders. Nosey Parker. Nearly spoilt the show.”

  “Good. I’ll see if we can find him. He might have been an observant chap—they do exist. Next—what time did you get home last night ?”

  “Just after half-past nine. Finished early and came straight home.”

  “Was the front door open or shut?”

  “Shut.”

  “Any idea if there was anybody in the house?”

  “No idea. Perfectly quiet.”

  “Was the bulb in the hall all right?”

  “It functioned—dim blue light, but enough for the purpose.”

  “Did you go downstairs to the basement?”

  “Sure. Wanted to see about my masks.”

  “What did you do down there?”

  “Took my torch—blackout’s not too good down there. Went to see if the old lady kept her keys in the same place—keys of the storage rooms. She’s got duplicates. She keeps them in a pail under the sink. Seen her go to get them. They were all there. Anybody could’ve borrowed them. I’ve never worried. The only thing of mine anyone could raise money on was that bike and I’d padlocked the back wheel.”

  “Had you. Someone had filed through the chain then.”

  “Yes. Noticed that. I got the box with the masks out and carried it upstairs.”

  “Light still on in the hall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you hear anyone about?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear anyone come in or go out during the next half-hour?”

  “I heard someone talking at the front door—Miss Willing I think it was. Didn’t notice much. I was thinking.”