“Miss Grey said that Miss Willing told her that a man had just gone into the house and asked for Mr. Rameses.”
“Yes. That’d be Turnip Face. I guessed as much.”
“Did he come to your door?”
“No. Nobody came to the door. No one came into the flat.”
“What were you doing at ten o’clock, or around ten o’clock?”
“I unpacked that box of masks. Otherwise—I sat, thinking.”
“What was the noise which was going on in your flat then ?”
Rameses sat staring at Macdonald, still and inscrutable.
“There wasn’t any noise. . . . At least, if there was I don’t remember it. Never notice noise. I’m conditioned to it. Maybe the wife was busy—she can make a lot of noise when she’s busy. Like to ask her ? You’re welcome. She’s in the kitchen.”
Rameses got up, saying, “You come along and find her. She’ll be glad of a chat. She’s like Mrs. Maloney—taken a fancy to you.” Macdonald followed him into the little passage and Rameses breathed into his ear: “You leave me to talk to George. I’ll make him see sense. He’s never heard of Johnny Ward before I mentioned him to-day. His mother was too full of the air-raid to remember to mention it. Funny how women love talking about bombs . . . George didn’t do it. Got that? You can say I did it—but you can’t say George did it.”
“Right. I’ll remember,” said Macdonald, and walked on towards the kitchen while Mr. Rameses returned to talk to George.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
i
WHILE Macdonald was occupying himself with the complexities of the Rameses and Nightingale detachment, Jenkins was busy with another angle of the case. He went and called on Mr. Hardwell, the connoisseur of Bentick Street—the gentleman who gave good dinners in war-time. Jenkins was very much impressed by such an achievement, because it seemed to him a very long time since he had had what he would have described as a really good dinner himself. Pheasant had been mentioned as the piéce de résistance—and Jenkins sighed: he had not tasted pheasant since the war started.
Mr. Hardwell himself answered the front door of his chambers and he looked at the stout inspector with but little enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, sir,” said Jenkins, in a voice so apologetic that no one could have resented it. “I understand that Mr. Carringford is staying with you and I hoped to have a word with him if it’s not inconvenient.”
“Well, if I were Carringford I should feel inclined to tell you to go to hell and stay there,” replied the connoisseur. “I don’t mean to me offensive, Inspector, but the poor chap was bombed out last night and he’s got a weak heart anyway. He’s resting in his room—I’ve no doubt he’ll be willing to see you, but don’t take him on another wild-goose chase. He looks shaky.”
“Ah—he’s feeling the shock . . . wretched business for him,” murmured Jenkins sympathetically, “and between you and me he’s not so young as he was. We feel these things more as we get older.”
“Very true. I don’t know how old Carringford is—never asked him—but I often wonder if he’s not older than he admits, poor old chap. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s getting on for seventy. Now what is it you want—anything I can help with? Come along in.”
Jenkins was led into a room which he had the good taste to admire, even though he had not the expert knowledge to fully appreciate. Every piece, including china, pictures and objets de vertu were of that great period of English craftsmanship when Sheraton was building furniture, Gainsborough, Romney, Reynolds and Hoppner were painting portraits, and Robert Adams was designing some of the most graceful interiors ever achieved.
“Now what is it you want, Inspector?” demanded Mr. Hardwell, and Jenkins began to talk in that diffident gentle way of his.
“It’s like this, sir. In our job we often come across what one might call curious coincidences. You’ll have heard the main outlines of this case I’m working on?”
“Yes. Carringford has talked to me about it. Fact is, I’m a bit tired of the case. It seems to me that the fact that one ne’er-do-well has met a violent end is not a matter of supreme importance in a world which is in the throes of a convulsion which may destroy civilization itself before we’re through. Take what happened last night: a few bombs, dropped haphazard on London, a few lives lost, a few houses destroyed . . . no great matter, not worth a head-line, so to speak. The bombs which destroyed Belfort Grove might equally have fallen on this house—again, no great matter. If that had happened some perfect examples of a great period would have crumbled to dust. Quite unimportant perhaps—but posterity would have been impoverished far more than by the death of that Irishman you’re making such a song about.”
Jenkins always listened carefully to those whom he interviewed: his patience was a by-word among his colleagues.
“Yes, sir. I see your point—but I can’t understand how it is you risk leaving all these beautiful things in London. I’m an ignorant man and I know it, but even a simpleton like myself can see the beauty of the things you’ve got in this room.”
“Good for you, Inspector! You’re a man after my own heart,” said Mr. Hardwell. “I’ll tell you a little secret. It’s true I’m a collector, but also I’m a dealer. I tell you so frankly. I’ve collected this stuff in here to show to a particular purchaser. We’ve got some very big men in England just now—the cream of the American intelligentsia. I’m hoping to sell the contents of this room as it stands—furniture, fittings and all. Give me three days immunity from bombs . . . that’s all I ask. I’ve got to show it as it stands, and I’m taking the risk. The man who wants it—I mustn’t mention names—has no time to run down into the country: he wants to see the stuff here.”
“Ah . . . I hope you’ll bring it off,” said Jenkins sympathetically. “I gather from what you told me that Mr. Carringford works up the history of these things?”
“That’s right. He’s a very able and learned man. No fake stuff, no imaginary pedigrees—all properly documented facts. He’s an expert in his own line and he’s valuable to me. That’s why I don’t want you to worry him into a heart attack. Now let’s get on with your errand. You were talking about coincidences.”
“Yes, sir. It’s this. You remember a young fellow named Mallaig was present at the actual murder?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“It so happens that he was meaning to have dinner with his young lady on the very evening that the murder happened. His young lady wasn’t able to keep the appointment, and so Mallaig wandered off into Regents Park to walk off his disappointment.”
“Very romantic—but what it’s got to do with Carringford and myself, I just don’t see,” replied Mr. Hardwell.
“I wouldn’t say it’s got anything to do with you, sir—but it’s like this. The restaurant where Mallaig and his young lady were going to eat their dinner was Canuto’s restaurant in Baker Street, where you and Mr. Carringford dined.”
Really? As you say, that’s an odd coincidence—but Mallaig wasn’t going to dine with us, you know. We neither of us knew him from Adam—never heard of him.”
“Quite so, sir, and I’m very sorry to take up your time bothering you about it, but, between ourselves, we’ve got to look into Mallaig’s story very carefully. At first glance it appeared that he and the other young fellow at the bridge—Stanley Claydon—had nothing to do with the case. They just happened to be witnesses—but as things have turned out, we can’t hold that view any longer. In strict confidence I can tell you that Claydon is involved far more than appeared. He was found in John Ward’s flat last night, just before the first incendiaries hit the house.”
“Good lord! what a surprising business—but I still don’t see what I have got to do with it.”
It’s not you we’re interested in, speaking officially, sir—it’s Mallaig. If Claydon was mixed up in the murder, it’s possible that Mallaig was, too—and Mallaig said he went to Canuto’s. If you’ll have a little more patience, sir, you�
��ll see what I’m getting at. When I interviewed Mr. Carringford before we hadn’t had that little identity parade. We had more than one idea there. If Mallaig had been waiting at Canuto’s, as he said he was, he ought to have seen Mr. Carringford there, and if he saw him there, I should have thought he’d have remembered him.”
“I don’t quite see that. You might as well say that Carringford ought to have remembered seeing Mallaig.”
“The circumstances aren’t quite the same, sir. For one thing, Mr. Carringford is a noticeable person, if I may say so: that white head and dark eyes—what I’d call distinguished. Mallaig is a very ordinary-looking young fellow. Then there’s this to it. Mallaig was looking out for someone who hadn’t turned up: he’d have been studying all the other diners. I can’t quite understand how it was that Mallaig, if he was at the restaurant as he says he was, didn’t spot Mr. Carringford at that identity parade.”
“Yes. I begin to see your point, Inspector. Chacun à son métier et les vaches seront bien gardées, as the French say. My métier is the study of antiques and I arrive at a judgment by detailed observation. You do the same thing in your trade—you consider the smallest detail to see if there are any discrepancies.”
“That’s it, sir. Very well put.”
“Now about this matter of the restaurant. There are two entrances, one in Baker Street, one in Paddington Street. Did Mallaig say which way he went in ? “
“He went in by the Baker Street entrance, sir. There’s a small lounge there, where diners often wait, or have a drink before their dinner. He waited a moment or two there, and then went in to ask about the table he’d ordered. The waiter he asked was an old man who didn’t remember the name—it’s a difficult name to get hold of—Mallaig—especially to foreigners—so Mallaig wasn’t told at once that a telegram was waiting for him. He wandered round the restaurant looking for his young lady. Eventually, after he’d been given the telegram, he left the restaurant by the Paddington Street exit.”
“You’ve evidently taken a lot of trouble over this, Inspector, but for the life of me I can’t see what you’re fussing about. You’ve got all this evidence to prove that Mallaig was in the restaurant and that he did get the wire as he says he did.”
“Oh yes, he got the wire all right, but between you and me we’re not absolutely satisfied with the evidence. This business about Claydon has made us reconsider things, and it’s my job to sift the evidence again. We’ve got proof that a young man did go to Canuto’s and did ask if there was a message for him, and that young man was given the telegram. What we haven’t got is proof that the young man who was given the telegram was Mallaig himself. As I said, he’s a very ordinary-looking young fellow and nobody at the restaurant remembers him well enough to swear to him.”
“I see. You’re certainly taking at lot of trouble over this,” said Mr. Hardwell. “Is it so very important to prove that Mallaig was in the restaurant? You know he was at the scene of the murder—isn’t that enough?”
“The real point is this, sir. If Mallaig’s story is true throughout, it’s probable that he’s as innocent as he appears to be, but if we find he’s been telling any lies the whole situation is different. If he told us he was at Canuto’s at such and such a time and we find it wasn’t true, it’s fair to assume that he’s hiding his actions—and that he made arrangements to secure an alibi for the half-hour previous to the murder.”
“I see. All very interesting, Inspector—but if you’re hoping that I can supply chapter and verse about Mallaig’s presence in the restaurant I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t do it. He may have been there, but I didn’t see him—at least, not to my recollection. That’s not to say he wasn’t there, though.”
“Quite so, sir, but I’m not expecting you to prove his presence there—that would be quite unreasonable. What I was hoping was that you would tell me if you recognised any other diners, and describe anyone you noticed yourself. Any lady with a striking frock, any arrivals, any incident which occurred. Then, if Mallaig can mention any of the same incidents—or recognise any of the other diners—it’ll go a long way to prove he was really in the place when he says he was.”
Mr. Hardwell nodded and seemed to be thinking the matter over: he produced his cigarette case and held it out to Jenkins, saying:
“You’re interesting me a lot, Inspector. I hadn’t realised the amount of trouble you C.I.D. men take over your job. I admire it, because I take a lot of trouble over my own job. You were pleased just now to describe yourself as a simpleton, and you’ve a very good technique. Just the simple, kindly hearty: if I wanted to put a fake piece past you, I’d reckon my chances were pretty poor. Now because you’re intent on doing your job conscientiously I’m prepared to do my best to help you. Have a cigarette and listen to me.”
Jenkins accepted a cigarette and Mr. Hardwell leant back in his chair and began: “You’ve given me a good demonstration of a man doing his job thoroughly, omitting no detail, taking no chance and hurrying nothing. I’m going to emulate your example. If I’m long-winded you can tell me yourself I’m only doing just what you’ve been doing—trying to be thorough.”
“Very good, sir. I’m grateful to you for your understanding—and one thing at least I can claim to be, and that’s patient. Patience is the basis of sound detective work.”
“And of all other work for that matter. Now on Thursday evening I invited Mr. Carringford to dine with me for two reasons. First, he’d done a first-class piece of work for me in working out the history of the owners of that bureau you see over there. That piece has had a very interesting history. If you’d care to read about another sort of detective ‘shop ‘I’ll lend you a copy of Carringford’s script when you go. When a man has worked well for me, I like to show my appreciation of what he’s done, apart from a professional fee. A good dinner is not to be despised these days—and I’d taken a lot of trouble to arrange as good a dinner as the law allows these days. Secondly, I’d invited two other men to meet Carringford: these men were fellow experts, acting as agents for my American purchaser. I thought it’d be interesting, as well as good policy to meet and discuss the work I’d done—and the work Carringford had done. He’s a very good conversationalist when he gets going.”
“Quite so, sir. In other words, your party was thought out and pre-arranged—not just a chance party on the spur of the moment.”
“Quite right. I’d arranged to meet Carringford at the restaurant at seven fifteen: always dine early these days, Inspector. I’d ordered a table, set for two, which would be capable of taking four for coffee later in the evening. This table was in a recess, near the back of the restaurant; you remember the place is L shaped—one arm of the L ends at the Baker Street entrance, the other arm at the Paddington Street entrance. My table was in the corner, so that I could get a good view of both ends of the restaurant if I’d wanted to. We met there at a quarter past seven. At the next table to ours there was an Air Force officer and a Wren officer—both in uniform. At the farther side—towards Paddington Street—there were two elderly men, habituées of the place. I think one is called Parkman—you can ask the management about them.”
Mr. Hardwell leant back and considered as he smoked his cigarette. “What time was it that Mallaig claimed he was in the restaurant?” he inquired.
“He was to have met the young lady at 7.45, sir. He says he got there about 7.30, and that he waited in the lounge until 7.45. Then he got impatient, and went inside to see if the young lady had come in by the other entrance.”
“A quarter to eight . . . about the time we should have finished our first course. . . . There’s only one incident I can remember which may help you. A telephone call came through for somebody named Manners and the porter called the name down the restaurant. If your man were in the place at the time he ought to remember that: the call was for a big stout chap sitting a few tables away from us.”
“Thank you, sir. Can you remember anything else—no matter how small—which happened
between then and eight-thirty?”
“I’d asked the other two for eight-thirty. Incidentally, if you’re in any doubt about my own presence in the restaurant, the management knows me very well. Nothing like making sure, Inspector.”
“Quite so, sir,” replied Jenkins with his kindly smile, and Hardwell went on:
“I can’t remember any incident during the later stage of our meal. I was very much interested in something Carringford was telling me about a Bhul cabinet which he thought was coming on to the market. Just before half-past eight I persuaded him to put through a telephone call to the owner—a chap he knows—to get fuller information and a moment or two later my other guests arrived and we all settled down for an hour’s talk over coffee and liqueur—and a very profitable talk it was—always provided enemy action doesn’t settle my hash.”
“Then you were sitting at your table from seven o’clock until nine-thirty, sir?”
“Barring a few minutes’ break just before the other men joined us.”
“And you did not see a worried young man in glasses walking round the restaurant looking at the diners?”
“No. I did not—but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. When I’m eating my dinner, it’s my dinner which interests me—not the other diners.”
“Quite so, sir. I’m very grateful to you for the trouble you’ve taken, very grateful, indeed. Now I wonder if Mr. Carringford feels well enough to spare me a few minutes ? The Chief Inspector would have been here himself, but he’s had to go out to Sudbury to interrogate another witness. There’s a point he wanted Mr. Carringford to clear up for him about this fellow Claydon.”
“I’ve no doubt he’ll see you. He’s very much interested in the case—but do remember he’s very far from fit. This. bombing business can be very upsetting to a man with a weak heart.”
“I’ll be very careful, sir. I won’t keep him talking too long.”
Murder by Matchlight Page 18
