“Yes,” put in Mr. Hardwell. “You taught me a lesson there. When our friend Inspector Jenkins asked me on this second occasion how long I thought Carringford had been away at the’phone, I said ‘three or four minutes.’ I never thought it was as much as ten.”
“Ten minutes was adequate for what Carringford had to do: the bicycle ensured speed,” said Macdonald. “It was an exceedingly clever plan, but the curious part of it was that it was a very risky one, and improvised at very short notice. It was only that morning that O’Farrel had made the appointment at the bridge. It could not have been until lunch time, at the Scarlet Petticoat, where O’Farrel left another man to pay the bill, that O’Farrel could have joined Carringford and told him about his appointment with Dr. Josephine Falton—whom Carringford had known at Dublin. Carringford’s preparations were few and simple. He had to get the keys which Mrs. Maloney kept in the basement, and borrow the bicycle and the mask from Mr. Rameses’ lock-up. He rode the bicycle from Belfort Grove to Canuto’s and left it in the alleyway in Padding ton Street.”
Rameses interrupted here: “You say his plan for murdering Ward was improvised. The immediate circumstances might have been, but he must have thought out the plan of borrowing the bike and the mask some time back. I know he came to see our show one night: he’d have seen the masks then—and when he went to look for them in the lock-up, he’d have seen the bike. He must have pondered quite a bit over the possibilities of those two properties—plus the blackout.”
“Yes. I think you’re almost certainly right over that,” agreed Macdonald. “He probably waited for an opportunity to use his properties, and when O’Farrel was rash enough to tell him about his meeting with Dr. Josephine Falton, Carringford saw his chance—and acted on it.”
It was George’s turn to interrupt: “But why in blazes was Ward fool enough to tell the other bloke? That’s what beats me.
“But Tim always was a fool,” put in Mrs. Ross Lane. “It was part of his make-up. When he thought he’d been rather smart, he always boasted about it. He just couldn’t keep quiet—that was one of the reasons he was so dangerous. I can just see him boasting to Carringford about the coup he was going to bring off, and trying to borrow a final fiver on the strength of it.” She turned to Macdonald: “Did you ever find out what Tim was doing during the past five years?”
“Yes. I’ve just heard. He was in prison, m Eire, under another name: he had come up against some Irish desperadoes who had put a price upon his head. When he came out of prison he managed to give everybody the slip—and he reappeared eventually under the name of John Ward. He came across Claude d’Alvarley, and learned something which the latter was anxious to keep secret—about a woman, I gather—so to keep him quiet d’Alvarley lent Ward his room, and at Belfort Grove he met Carringford and remembered him.”
“Do you mean you’ve got in touch with d’Alvarley, too?” asked Mallaig, almost fearfully.
Macdonald laughed. “Yes. He was at his base, fortunately, and his C.O. got a statement from him and wirelessed it to us.”
“Good work,” growled Mr. Rameses. “You’re thorough, I’ll say that for you.”
The latter sentence set Macdonald laughing, for the voice was the voice of Mrs. Maloney—a perfect piece of mimicry.
Mallaig went on: “You frighten me rather, Inspector. You seem capable of finding out anything. One last question: how did you know that Ward met Carnngford at the Scarlet Petticoat?”
“I knew because a very efficient laddie named Reeves almost camped out there, armed with a series of photographs which included every contact in the case, including Ward’s, Carringford’s—and your own as well if it interests you. Here they are, taken at odd moments when you least expected it.”
“Well I’m dashed,” said Mallaig, and suddenly Miss Willing put in:
“We ought to have asked Mrs. Maloney—she’d have been so thrilled.”
Mr. Hardwell chuckled: “If you call here to-morrow, you’ll see her. She’s taken me on—‘to oblige,’ as the saying is. She says frankly I’m a second-best. It was the Chief Inspector she’d set her heart on. To clean his boots would give Mrs. Maloney the keenest pleasure.”
Macdonald turned to Mallaig, deliberately changing the subject: “When is that delayed dinner party coming off? Has Corporal Pat recovered from’flu yet?”
Mallaig blushed to the roots of his red hair. “Oh—how decent of you to ask. Yes, she’s better and she’s coming up next week—she’s got a whole fortnight’s leave.”
“I’m so glad—and the best of good luck to you both,” replied Macdonald.
Mr. Rameses got up and stretched his massive self.
“Well—that’s the curtain, and a very good one,” he said. “I’ve only one regret over this case. It’s finished, and this chap,”—(patting Macdonald on the shoulder) “won’t come and talk to me any more.”
“Don’t you believe it, Samson. You’re a fellow I’m not going to lose sight of,” rejoined the Chief Inspector. “We work well together—and we’ll do some more jobs yet.”
“Suits me,” rejoined Mr. Rameses contentedly.
THE END
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Murder by Matchlight Page 21
