Murder by Matchlight

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “There he is—there he is, I say,” and Mr. Carringford’s voice rose almost to a scream:

  “It’s the murderer—the murderer at the bridge . . . catch him!”

  “And how do you know that, you dirty blighter?” Corporal Nightingale had forgotten all his previous instructions and had broken into furious speech. “Take that, you bastard!” he exclaimed, switching on a torch and lunging towards Carringford.

  “Stop it, George!” roared Mr. Rameses, “this isn’t your show,”—and the illusionist with the Chaliapin voice adroitly tripped up his aggressive offspring.

  Mr. Carringford gave a scream that echoed shrilly down the street, for the sight of Mr. Rameses’ masked face seen in the torchlight was enough to shake any nerves. As George tripped over his father’s foot, Mr. Carringford broke into a run. Head down he bolted down Paddington Street as though furies were after him.

  “Stop him, Reeves—he’ll be under that lorry. . . .”

  It was Macdonald’s shout, but it came too late. Carringford, blind with terror, flung himself across the road and literally hit the front of the lorry before the astonished driver could pull up. There was a scream of brakes and another scream as well as the would-be fugitive went down like a ninepin before the weight of a three-ton lorry which could not stop in its own length.

  Mr. Ross Lane’s voice spoke from the darkness: “This is another of the occasions when nothing I can do will be of any use . . . but no one can say this was my fault this time.”

  iv

  Five minutes later an oddly assorted party returned to the restaurant for drinks. Mr. Rameses, dangling ‘Ananias ‘by his locks, chose plain soda water. The Commando asked for a Scotch—and got it. Mr. Hardwell joined George in a much-needed reviver. Bruce Mallaig accepted a gin and lime, looking as though he needed it. Jenkins and Macdonald were elsewhere on official duty connected with recent events. Mrs. Ross Lane was still drinking coffee.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Hardwell swallowed his drink before replying.

  “Carringford—the chap who dined with me—chucked himself under a lorry . . . A nasty business. I still can’t believe it. . . . He must have done it, though why he did it, God alone knows—and he was always the world’s worst funk.”

  “That’s why,” said Ross Lane cryptically, pouring himself the remains of a bottle of Lager. “It’s because he was a funk and Timothy O’Farrel knew all about him.”

  “Who was Timothy O’Farrel, anyway?” demanded Mallaig.

  Ross Lane replied tersely: “Timothy O’Farrel was an undergraduate at Dublin University in 1918. So was Carringford. So was my wife—she recognised Carringford this evening. Think it out.”

  His drink had done Bruce Mallaig good. His wits were working again.

  “But that chap Carringford—I had a good look at him this evening—he was about sixty, wasn’t he? How could he have been an undergraduate in 1918? He’d have been . . . well about thirty-five then, wouldn’t he?”

  “Carringford was the same age as Timothy O’Farrel—forty-four last year,” said Mrs. Ross Lane, and her husband added:

  “That is, thirty-nine when war broke out. And he was a funk. And Timothy O’Farrel knew all about it.”

  “But who was Timothy O’Farrel?” demanded Mallaig helplessly, and Ross Lane replied:

  “He was your Irishman, John Ward. . . . You think it out. I’ve no doubt Macdonald will enlighten you if you can’t see daylight.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BRUCE MALLAIG was still “thinking it out” when he arrived at Mr. Hardwell’s house, invited by the owner to come to hear Macdonald’s elucidation of the “Bridge Mystery “—as the journalists termed it. The room in which the strangely assorted company met had undergone a change since Macdonald last saw it: the Chippendale pieces had gone, and were replaced by Jacobean oak: even the curtains and pictures were different, and Macdonald glancing round, said:

  “So your deal went through safely?”

  Mr. Hardwell nodded.

  “Yes. The stuff’s all out of harm’s way now: a very satisfactory business.”

  When Mallaig entered, with his habitually diffident and rather worried look, he found there was quite a party. Mr. and Mrs. Rameses were there, and their son, George. Miss Rosie Willing sat in a corner. Mr. Ross Lane was also present, his wife beside him, and Inspector Jenkins beamed at Mallaig in his usual benevolent way.

  “Well, here we are, Chief Inspector,” said Mr. Hardwell, “all waiting to hear how you spotted it. I still can’t believe that Carringford had the nerve to do it—he was always such a frightened fellow.”

  “There is an expression ‘died of fright,’ ” said Macdonald. “It is generally prefixed by ‘nearly.’ In this case two men might have been said to have met their deaths because one was a coward. I think it will be simpler if I give you a straightforward statement of fact, and then tell you how we sorted out the bits and pieces. James Carringford was born in the West Indies in 1899. The place of his birth is only of interest for this fact: men born and brought up in the tropics, notably in the West Indies, do age in appearance more quickly than men born in temperate climates. Carringford’s white hair and lined face gave an illusory impression of age. When he was of university age, Carringford was sent to Dublin University. Here he knew Timothy O’Farrel and Mrs. Ross Lane—who was then Josephine Falton, a medical student. The only other actual fact I need put forward now is that Carringford was a coward, and that he had an utter terror of military service and the dangers and horrors of war. When all men and women were called upon to register for purposes of National Registration Identity Cards, Carringford thought things out: he knew that conscription would draw him into the military machine—unless he were medically unfit or over age. He was not unfit—his heart was perfectly sound and he was a very healthy man—so he thought out the notion of adding fifteen years on to his age. It was very improbable that this fraud would be discovered, and he probably had a cousin’s birth registration to produce if it were demanded—but it never was demanded. He registered in 1939 as a man of fifty-five years of age, and his white hair helped him to look the part.”

  It was here that Rosie Willing put a word in: “I’d say he was about the only person in England who pretended to be older than he really was—barring the boys of 16 who said they were 19. Most of the women wanted to be registered as younger than they really were. That business about putting your age on your ration card demand made some of my friends go up in smoke!”

  Ross Lane said: “Carringford was far-sighted. Very few men thought of avoiding a call-up some years in advance. However—let’s hear the story; I naturally take an intense interest in it, because I must have looked so fishy myself.”

  Macdonald went on: “You all know what happened at the bridge. A detective has to take very special note of those who report a crime. In this case, although one of my colleagues was sceptical about Mallaig’s and Claydon’s statements, I was disposed to believe them because they tallied: it struck me that each mail had told the exact truth about what he had experienced, and in their different ways they were good witnesses. From their evidence it occurred to me that the assault on John Ward might have been made by a man mounted on a bicycle—experiments bore out the possibility of this—so after I had first examined the ground, I set out with these ideas in my head: a dark complexioned gentleman who could ride a bicycle and wield a hammer—and this same gentleman might be known in his trade or profession as ‘doctor.’ ”

  Mr. Rameses gave a good resounding snort: “I was known as ‘doctor’ when I toured in South America. The management liked the title—said it was toney.”

  “Yes,” observed Macdonald. “I must admit that a doctorate of that variety seemed indicated to me. Although there are a lot of jokes about doctors killing their patients, it’s unusual to find English practitioners bumping off their foes with coal-hammers. However—I kept an open mind on the subject of doctors. Now to get on to Belfort Grove. When I
first examined John Ward’s room I was convinced that it had been rifled. There was no scrap of paper of any kind save a few ancient novels. If you think it out, hardly anybody destroys every single scrap of paper, old envelopes, old bills, and all the junk which accumulates so quickly. The very negative-ness of John Ward’s room made me suspicious: I believed that someone had been there between the time he left at 7.0 o’clock in the evening, and the time I arrived just after 11.0 o’clock, and had ransacked his room. I had no actual proof of this, but I was so certain of it that I added the qualification to my other requirements—the gentleman with the blue chin who rode a bike—in the park after dark—had either removed every paper exhibit from John Ward’s room—or had got a friend to do so.”

  “I just can’t think why you didn’t arrest my Birdie on the spot,” twittered Mrs. Rameses, and her husband replied:

  “If he hadn’t more horse sense than most men I should be languishing in jug. I know that.”

  “I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that myself,” replied Macdonald, his face lightening into a grin which made him an exceedingly likeable person. “We don’t arrest on suspicion or intuition, you know.”

  Macdonald paused a moment and added, “The point about the searching of O’Farrel’s room was more important than it might appear at first sight. It had been done before I got to Belfort Grove shortly after eleven o’clock, but I think it highly improbable that it was done earlier in the evening before O’Farrel was killed. It seemed to me that the murderer must have waited on circumstances to some extent; that is to say, had Dr. Falton or her representative turned up before O’Farrel’s arrival the murder could not have been carried out. That being so, the search of O’Farrel’s room would not have been made when there was a chance that he might have returned and discovered it. I argued that the murderer must have had time to search the room some time between half-past eight and eleven. I found later that Carringford left Canuto’s at half-past nine. With a bicycle he could have got back to Belfort Grove by nine forty-five. It seems probable to me that Carringford was actually in the house when our sergeant first called to make inquiries about John Ward, and that he was searching the room when the sergeant knocked but failed to gain admission.”

  Mallaig shivered: “It’s a pretty grim thought to picture Carringford searching that room, and hearing the knock and saying to himself, ‘That’s the police . . . and they’re looking for me.’ ”

  Mr. Rameses replied: “If you’re going to murder people, you’ve got to put all grim thoughts out of your head, because what you’ve done is grimmer than anything else the world can show.”

  Macdonald went on, “Be that as it may, it was clear that Carringford could have searched O’Farrel’s room, removed all his papers and gone out again himself before I arrived. However—to get the story in the right order. I soon found that the name John Ward was an assumed name, and that John Ward’s Identity Card had been issued to a man very unlike our friend at Belfort Grove. I also found that an identity disc labelled Timothy O’Farrel had been found in the bombed shelter where the real John Ward once took cover. I then continued my researches at Belfort Grove and met Mr. Carringford. He made a good impression: he talked easily and with confidence. I had no reason to suspect him, and the only thing about him which puzzled me was his age. He was white-haired and his face was lined, but he had none of the aspects of age. I did register vaguely ‘This man is much younger than he appears to be at first sight.’ I think you all know the story of the bicycle in the basement. At the same time that I found this machine, I had a look at Mr. Claude d’Alvarley’s trunk—and realised at once that it had been opened and examined recently. It seemed probable that the same practitioner who had rifled John Ward’s room had also been at some trouble to examine d’Alvarley’s belongings. It was on this occasion that Mrs. Maloney underlined my own train of thoughts by saying ‘Some’s older than they looks and some’s younger.’ ”

  “Do you think she guessed?” asked Rosie Willing.

  “I expect you all did a certain amount of guess-work, Miss Willing,” replied Macdonald, smiling back at her. “Mrs. Maloney is a very shrewd old lady. She had her doubts about Mr. Carringford, but she was much too shrewd to put her suspicions into words. Now I had got to the point of finding the bicycle. Carringford himself provided the next diversion. Because he was of a cowardly disposition, he had not the nerve to sit tight and wait for the evidence to be followed up: he wanted to distract attention from the occupants of Belfort Grove and to focus it elsewhere, so, under guise of a circumstantial account of a meeting at Paddington Station, he gave me a few facts which led me direct to the ‘Doctor Joe’ mentioned by Claydon in his account of the telephone conversation. Now I’m not denying that the identity of the doctor, coupled to Mr. Ross Lane’s presence in Regents Park at the time of the murder, did seem a straightforward explanation of the murder. Here was motive and opportunity—and the means were very simple. Nevertheless, another question arose—how had Carringford learned these facts? His story about his chance acquaintance at Paddington did not ring true. I was convinced he had come by the facts in some other way. In short, he knew a lot more about John Ward and Timothy O’Farrel than he had admitted. Then came our identity parade. Mallaig, who had seen the murderer, could not identify any of those in the parade with any certainty; curiously enough it was left for Stanley Claydon to provide an odd piece of evidence in saying that he had once heard Carringford lecture on pacificism. Claydon, as was proved by his original action in going to the bridge, is an inquisitive fellow: he couldn’t mind his own business. He took the trouble to follow Carringford and to get into conversation with him. Carringford was panicstricken: he didn’t want any inquiries which might lead to the discovery of his real age—and here was Claydon saying, ‘You looked quite a young chap last time I saw you.’ ”

  Mallaig cut in here: “Is Claydon still alive?”

  “He’s not only alive, he’s going to recover completely. The surgeons have done a marvellous job with his damaged back: he’s in plaster, stiff as a board, but very talkative, so we have his evidence to help towards the total. He says that he went and talked to Carringford and reminded him about that lecture. Carringford let him talk, and asked him what he was doing and if he’d got a job. Carringford then told him to call at Belfort Grove at 10.0 o’clock that evening, and to come straight up to the top floor flat. If he met anyone in the entrance-hall, or on the stairs, he was to say that he had come to see Mr. Rameses. Exactly what Carringford’s idea was we shall never know: he may have been going to stage another red-herring involving Mr. Rameses.”

  “But that was pretty futile,” put in Mallaig. “Claydon would have said that it was Carringford who told him to come.”

  Mr. Rameses gave another of his resounding snorts:

  “And who would have believed him?” he asked. “Carringford would have denied all knowledge of him, and Claydon was semi-suspect, anyway. It was another baby for me to hold—me an Ananias.”

  Macdonald chuckled. “Incidentally, which Ananias was the prototype—Sap’hira’s husband or the other chap?”

  “The other chap—Shadrach,” replied Mr. Rameses. “Never mind why—just get on with the story.”

  “This part of the story might well have been ‘The Annals of Ananias ‘,” rejoined Macdonald. “During the course of the evening I had had a visit from a gentleman named Veroten, an artist in a variety programme, who, I surmised, resented the fact that the Rameses’ turn was more highly considered than his own performance. Mr. Veroten attested with considerable vehemence that Mr. Rameses’ performance on the Thursday night was done by an understudy, the understudy being Mr. Rameses’ son. Mr. Veroten told me about the masks, I admit that the latter topic interested me considerably, though I was not favourably impressed with Mr. Veroten himself.”

  “‘A certain lewd fellow of the baser sort,’ “quoted Mr. Rameses. “George is going to see him later.”

  “George has my sympathy, tho’ I hope t
hat no action for assault will arise,” said Macdonald. “I should hate to be sent to arrest George. My own next activity was to call upon Mr. Rameses—and thereafter, for that evening at any rate, the band played. My arrival at Belfort Grove sychronised with the sirens: on the doorstep was Mrs. Maloney, and almost immediately somebody fled from the house with an abruptness denoting great haste or great fear—or both. I was introduced to the mask named Ananias—and for a moment or two, I admit, the race looked like anybody’s. Things could be made to fit in a variety of patterns.”

  “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but not a pattern,” said Mr. Rameses. “I fitted the bill all right. I knew it. He knew it”—pointing to Macdonald.

  “I did—but I didn’t believe it for long, Samson,” responded Macdonald. “You and I did a good job of work together over that fire. It wasn’t our fault if the whole bag of tricks collapsed afterwards. While I was fire-fighting with you I still had time to think. If evidence pointed to you as a murderer, then it seemed to me there was something phoney about the evidence. It was plain enough that the evidence against you could all have been planted. However—to .get back to Carringford. What his intentions were with regard to Claydon, I don’t know. Personally I think he had lost his nerve completely. Fear had dictated his actions up to this point, and fear is a potent urge. But then the sirens sounded. Carringford was terrified of bombs: he simply had not the physical courage to stay at the top of that house any longer. He locked Claydon into John Ward’s room and then turned and ran for shelter. When I saw him in the shelter later in the evening, stark fear was written all over him. It was then that I had an idea: here was a man, pretending to be older than I thought he could be, frightened to the uttermost over the prospect of being bombed. What else could that man be frightened of? If he had given a fraudulent statement about his age, and Timothy O’Farrel could prove it, then O’Farrel could have been a living menace to Carringford. With that notion, a number of points fell into line. When Mr. Hardwell suggested to Jenkins that he would dine at Canuto’s again and take Carringford with him, I decided upon various tests. Mr. Mallaig—about whom I had never any real doubt, agreed to re-play his original part at the restaurant. Reeves was brought in to complicate things a bit. Mrs. Ross Lane came with her husband to identify a man she had seen over twenty-five years ago as an undergraduate. The telephone call was made to Carringford in order to test Mr. Hard-well’s accuracy about assessing time intervals. He had said that Carringford was away from the table for ‘a few minutes ‘on the Thursday evening.”