ii
Jenkins had an admirable bedside manner. He found Mr. Carringford stretched in an easy chair beside the fire in his bedroom and the Inspector, after an apologetic opening, said:
“I’ll put the matter as briefly as possible, sir. You told the Chief Inspector yesterday that you thought you had seen one of the witnesses at the identity parade before. This was a thin weedy chap of the artisan class—he was third in the parade.”
“Yes. I remember: he wore a cap and a shoddy raincoat. I said I thought I’d seen him hanging round the pub at the corner of Belfort Grove.”
“That’s a very odd thing, sir. Just before the incendiaries fell this same man was found in deceased’s bedroom at Belfort Grove—the late John Ward’s bedroom.”
“Found in his room?” echoed Mr. Carringford. “What explanation did he give of his presence there?”
“He wasn’t able to give any explanation, sir. A dud shell brought part of the root down, and this man, Stanley Claydon, was pinned underneath a beam. He was unconscious when he was found, and he has remained unconscious. The simplest explanation seems to be that he was involved in some of John Ward’s questionable dealings and that he made his way into the house to look for something. There’s only one point which makes this matter complicated. The door of John Ward’s room was bolted on the outside when Claydon was found. Somebody must have locked him in.”
“Who the devil did that?”
“We can’t tell, sir—not until Claydon recovers consciousness and tells us himself. He’s got to give some sort of explanation of his presence there, but I’m willing to tell you, in strict confidence, that just before ten o’clock last night a man called at Belfort Grove and was admitted by Miss Willing. This man asked for Mr. Rameses. I can’t say any more—but that piece of evidence is known to several of the inhabitants. Now do you think you’ve ever seen Claydon actually at the house before, or in company with Mr. Rameses?”
“No. I said I thought I’d seen him outside the pub—if I’d ever seen him at the house I should have said so. You say Claydon’s unconscious. Does that mean he’s in danger?”
“He got a nasty knock on the head, sir, but he’s getting on nicely. We’ve got a man stationed by his bedside and we’re hoping he’ll be able to speak before long.”
“For your sake I hope he will—he may be able to simplify things. Did you ever trace the man we were looking for at Paddington Station?”
“No, sir—but the Chief Inspector has traced Timothy O’Farrel. It’s a very complicated story and I won’t bother you about it now. There’s just one other point. When you were at Canuto’s on Thursday evening you put through a telephone call, so Mr. Hardwell tells me. When you walked through the restaurant to the call-box did you notice a tall pale young fellow with glasses wandering about as though he were looking for somebody?”
“No. I can’t say I did.”
“Do you remember what time it was you put your call through?”
“Yes. It was half-past eight. I glanced at my watch. Mr. Hardwell had got some other visitors coming and I wondered if they’d arrived. It was only a London call I put through—a matter of five minutes’ conversation.”
“And there was nobody waiting by the phone?”
“No. Not that I noticed . . . I can’t be quite sure, but I don’t remember anyone.”
“Very good, sir. I’m sorry to have bothered you, and I hope you’ll be feeling better soon.”
“Thanks very much, Inspector,” replied Carringford.
iii
As Jenkins entered the hall of the house again he saw that Mr. Hardwell was waiting for him by the front door.
“Come in here for a moment, Inspector,” said Hardwell and led Jenkins into a small room by the front door.
“I’ve been thinking this over, Inspector,” said the connoisseur. “You’ve got me interested, and I was wondering if I could help you. Police work isn’t in my line, but I admit that it’s the duty of every honest citizen to help to uphold the law. You’re trying to find out if this man Mallaig was really at Canuto’s, as he claimed to be, or if he got some other chap to impersonate him. I’ve told you, perfectly truthfully, that I don’t remember seeing him there, but I’m prepared to make an offer if it’s any good to you. I always dine out, either at my club or at a restaurant—frequently at Canuto’s. If I go there to dine this evening, could you get Mallaig to come in and to go through the same actions, more or less, as he did on Thursday ? It’s possible I may recognise him after all, or if I don’t, some of my friends may. I know several people who dine in the place fairly regularly and I could ask one or two of them to co-operate.”
“That’s very good of you, sir,” said Jenkins warmly. “I think it’s an uncommonly good idea. I shall have to consult the Chief Inspector about it, of course, and see if we can arrange it.”
“Certainly. My idea is this: if Mallaig is innocent, he’ll have no objection to doing what you suggest. In fact he’ll be glad to do it. If, on the other hand, he’s guilty, he’ll make any excuse he can to avoid going to the restaurant in case any of the waiters say ‘That’s not the same chap who got the telegram on Thursday night.’ ”
“Just so, sir. You’ve put it in a nutshell. I hope Mr. Carringford will feel well enough to come, too. His evidence would add corroboration.”
“I’ve no doubt he’ll come. We’ve got to eat somewhere—I have no one to cook a dinner here. Now look here, Inspector. I’ve made you a fair offer: I’m willing to do my best to co-operate and uphold the law as far as I’m able, but I think you might tell me a little more. Have you any sound reason for suggesting that Mallaig may be guilty?”
“No, sir, It’s a matter of elimination: if he’s innocent, we want to count him out. In confidence, I’ll tell you exactly what facts we’ve got. He was on the spot when the murder was committed, and he told us exactly how it was he came to be there. Atfer he had been interrogated on Thursday evening, he waited around outside the Mortuary and met Claydon. The next day he lunched in St. Pancras grill-room in company with the doctor who appeared in Regents Park when the constable blew his whistle. That’s all we’ve got—but in view of Claydon’s presence in John Ward’s room it seems necessary to go into Mallaig’s story very carefully.”
Mr. Hardwell nodded. “Yes. I see that. My offer stands. Carringford and I will go to Canuto’s this evening anyway—and if you get Mallaig to go there, we’ll watch out.”
“Thank you very much, sir.”
“Thank yourself, Inspector. I told you I like to see a man do his job thoroughly—and I also like a man who is as patient and polite on the job as you are. Some of our young police could learn a lot from you: courtesy would get them further than the rather uppish hectoring manner they employ when they’re asking what right a man’s got to be driving a car on the King’s highroad.”
Surprisingly Jenkins blushed. He was a modest man. “Very kind of you, sir,” he murmured. “I’m an old-fashioned chap myself, but I do like to avoid offensiveness as far as I can. Nobody likes having the police in the house and I know it.”
Hardwell laughed. “Well, one day I’ll do myself the pleasure of dining with an old-fashioned Inspector. I hope you’ll come—and I’ll promise you as good a dinner as circumstances permit. Good-day to you.”
iv
Over a late and frugal lunch Macdonald and Jenkins compared notes about their morning’s work, and Jenkins told of Mr. Hardwell’s offer. Macdonald sat and contemplated for awhile and then said:
“Good for you Jenkins. The fact that he made the offer off his own bat is an eloquent testimony to your persuasiveness. It’s a good idea. I’ll see to it we get them all there; as an identity parade it may produce more interesting results than the last one—though we can’t have Claydon in it.”
“How’s he getting on, Chief?”
“They’re trying some new treatment, but it’ll be touch and go. I’m afraid he may not give us any further evidence.”
Jenkins
sat and cogitated.
“It was his own inquisitiveness did for him. Mind your own business is a safe motto,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
i
PUNCTUALLY at seven o’clock the same evening Mr. Hardwell arrived at his favourite restaurant, accompanied by Mr. Carringford. The latter had recovered to some extent from the weariness of the previous night and looked more like the quiet detached person whom Macdonald had found interesting to talk to when he first met him. The two men seated themselves at the same table they had occupied on Thursday evening and were served with gin and lime while Mr. Hardwell studied the menu. Shortly afterwards Mr. and Mrs. Ross Lane came in and claimed a table which had been reserved for them a short distance from Mr. Hardwell’s. Farther down the restaurant, at a table well removed from the latter, Macdonald and Jenkins also considered the menu. Jenkins looked thoroughly pleased with life: it was not often that duty led him to a good dinner at a good restaurant and he was prepared to do full justice to whatever was set before him.
The restaurant was soon full up, every table occupied by cheerful diners: occasionally someone glanced in from the doors giving on to the lounge to ascertain if a friend had arrived and the waiters bustled around in a manner reminiscent of peace-time festivity. Shortly after half-past seven a dark bespectacled young man wearing a raincoat looked into the restaurant from the lounge and gazed rather anxiously down the rows of tables. Mr. Ross Lane saw him and studied him with amused unconcern. The young man asked a question of a waiter and then withdrew, but ten minutes later he reappeared and walked slowly between the tables to the angle of the L shaped restaurant. He was obviously looking for somebody, and the head waiter went and had a few words with him. As though unconvinced the young man shook his head and continued his inspection of the diners as he walked towards the Paddington Street entrance, and then returned by the way he had come.
Macdonald watched with some interest to see if the occupants of the various tables took much notice of the worried looking young man, (his name was Reeves, and he was a member of the C.I.D.) The majority of those dining were too much concerned with their own affairs to take much notice: the habitual ‘diners-out’ were concentrating on their food: those who had come with friends—especially the various couples—were concentrating on their conversation.
A few minutes after Reeves had disappeared Bruce Mallaig appeared at the door and stared down the restaurant. He looked nervous, and his hair had more of a tendency to stand on end than usual. After a deliberate scrutiny he withdrew. Certainly Mr. Ross Lane had observed him—the surgeon actually smiled encouragingly at Mallaig: undoubtedly Mr. Hardwell noticed him—he stared long and earnestly at the worried looking young man in the raincoat. Mr. Carringford turned round in his chair and stared also—and then appeared to ask a question of Mr. Hardwell.
Again the head waiter came forward—but Mallaig had withdrawn before that distinguished functionary reached him.
It was now ten minutes short of eight o’clock. Jenkins leaned forward and spoke softly to Macdonald. “Excellent jugged hare, this. I’m enjoying my dinner—but some of our friends are feeling the tension a bit. Mr. Ross Lane has knocked his glass over. Mr. Hardwell has helped himself to pepper three times. Mr. Carringford has just taken another glass of water. Ah, here he comes again . . . good timing. The head waiter’s busy, I see. . . .”
Mallaig had re-entered the restaurant, and this time he walked forward for a more thorough scrutiny of the diners. Macdonald watched the pale troubled face of the earnest-looking young man, re-enacting the scene of last Thursday evening. It was now eight o’clock, and Mallaig buttonholed an old waiter and put a question to him. The waiter, preoccupied with the dishes in his hands, shook his head. Bruce then went to the bureau and spoke to the cashier. He was handed a telegram which he opened and read, and then walked out, more quickly than he had come in. It was then five minutes past eight. Five minutes later a waiter went up to Mr. Carringford and told him that he was wanted on the telephone.
ii
At that moment, Reeves, who had been holding ‘a watching brief,’ left the Paddington Street door of the restaurant and hurried to an alley way just beside the building and unchained a bicycle which leant against the wall and began to ride it through the blackout as though riding a race. A few hundred yards down Paddington Street, left turn into Marylebone High Street, left turn at the Marylebone Road, then up the straight to York Gate and the empty bridge. Three and a half minutes ride—he had timed it before: three minutes on the bridge, and then back the way he had come—the return journey was faster than the outward one. In nine and a half minutes from the time he had left Canuto’s, he was back at the door of the restaurant.
Inside the gaily lighted place, Mr. Ross Lane had left his table and moved over to Mr. Harwell’s, as the latter sat contemplating by himself.
“Forgive me intruding on your thoughts, sir,” said the surgeon pleasantly. “I have an idea we have met before—would it have been at the big sale at Dorrington House ? I was trying to get a dower chest which interested me, but you had me beat.”
Hardwell studied the other and replied: “I don’t remember you, but I remember the chest. 17th century, Spanish workmanship. An interesting piece.”
“Have you still got it?”
“I have. Yes. Do you want to bid again?”
“If it’s within my means. My wife was anxious to have that chest: curiously enough it’s got some armorial bearings on which resemble those of her own family, but with this difference. There was a bar sinister across the shield on the chest.”
“A bend sinister,” corrected Hardwell. “There’s no such thing in heraldry as a bar sinister. It just doesn’t make sense. Is your wife Spanish ?’’
“No. Irish—but there is Spanish blood in her family—a matter of generations ago.”
“Ah—she’s of an old family. I should like to meet her. I always try to get at the history of the pieces I buy. Perhaps she could help me to unravel the story of that chest.”
Ross Lane produced his card, and Mr. Hardwell sought for his glasses and set them on his nose. Macdonald, unseen, was watching this interview: five minutes had been taken up with the leisurely question and answer of the two men. Ross Lane continued:
“My wife’s people had a place near Dublin—a big ancient house—and the contents were sold when she was a child. I believe a lot of antiques went from that house to the sale room in the nineties. It would be curious if the chest was a relic from Kilboyne House. May I make an appointment with you to view the piece, Mr. . . . ?”
“Hardwell, sir.”
The dealer had taken out his pocket-book and handed a card to Ross Lane as he studied his diary. Nine minutes, observed Macdonald, and a moment later Mr. Carringford re-entered the restaurant. It was then that Macdonald got up and went to the door, leaving Jenkins to settle the bill and chat to the waiter. The big Inspector had very good ears, and he overheard Mr. Carringford’s first remark to Mr. Hardwell when the former returned to his table:
“I can’t make out who the devil it was on the phone: some chap who told me I was to go outside the restaurant into Paddington Street and wait for him—said he’d got something that it was essential I should see.”
“See, eh? in the blackout? He must be an optimist,” rejoined Hardwell. “Are you going? Tell you what, I’ll come with you and see fair play . . . In case of any rough stuff,, I’ll get that gentleman over there to accompany us. He’s just moving on . . . and you, sir,” turning to Ross Lane who was standing a step or two back from the table: “If you’re the sportsman I take you to be, would you care to stand-by and see if a mysterious bloke who’s giving visual demonstrations in the blackout is a scoundrel or not?”
“Count me in,” said Ross Lane cheerfully. “I’ll render first aid to the casualties, but for the love of Mike don’t present me with another corpse. People who find corpses in this country have a thin time with the coppers.”
Jenkins had come f
orward and beamed at Ross Lane with his happy smile.
“You will have your little joke, sir. If there’s going to be any hocus pocus I shall be glad to lend my support to the law-abiding.”
“You’re the sort of chap I like,” said Hardwell, speaking as though his good dinner had made him feel generally benevolent. “Well, gentlemen—we’ll go outside and interview Carringford’s mysterious informant, and I’ll ask you to come in for a round of drinks afterwards. I’ll lead the way just to give you others that feeling of confidence.”
iii
When the door shut behind the four men and they stood on the pavement in the blackout not one of them could see any-thing at all. The darkness was like a pall, it seemed almost tangible. Ross Lane, who was generally good at finding his way in the dark, admitted afterwards that the sudden change from the bright lights and warm air of the restaurant to the black chill of the quiet street nearly made him dizzy. A voice beside him whispered: “Speak up, James. Say you’re here.”
It was Mr. Hardwell, encouraging his friend to action, for Mr. Hardwell was in that happy state when he had drunk just enough to feel vigorous and confident. Jenkins, as calm and collected as ever, was also unable to see anything yet, but his trained awareness made him conscious that there was more than one person close at hand, invisible in the darkness.
Mr. Hardwell’s whisper was answered in unexpected fashion.
A deep voice suddenly broke into declamation:
“ ‘Out, out, brief candle.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. . . .’ ”
Jenkins admitted later that the sound of that amazing voice in the blackout gave him one of the most dramatic moments of a not unexciting career: instinctively he looked in the direction of the voice, and he knew that the men beside him were straining their eyes in the darkness, staring, nonplussed as that vibrant voice tore at their very nerves. Then, as though in climax, a match spluttered and shone in the darkness. Amazingly bright, it illumined a dark face bent over cupped hands—a heavily jowled, dark chinned face. A voice stuttered into breathless speech—Bruce Mallaig’s voice:
Murder by Matchlight Page 19
