WHEN he left the Mortuary, Macdonald made his way to the Marylebone Road and turned up York Gate. The night was intensely dark and the streets were deserted; the buses were no longer running and not a single car was in sight as the Chief Inspector crossed the wide roadway opposite Marylebone Parish Church. London was silent, with a silence which had no quality of peacefulness: in its shroud of darkness the place seemed tense, uneasy, as though waiting for the first banshee howl of sirens which seemed a fitting accompaniment to the listening darkness. Had Macdonald not known his way very well he would never have found the entrance to the little bridge. He had not turned his torch on because he liked finding his way in the dark, steering by reason since the sky was so overcast that the keenest vision could not perceive the outline of roofs or trees against the clouds. Macdonald, using his memory, noted every kerb as he negotiated it, the roughness of asphalt and gravel, the smoothness of tarmac in the roadway of the Outer Circle, the slight rise in the ground as he crossed the road-bridge over the lake. When he did turn his torch on, he found himself exactly at the point he had calculated, and as he flashed the torchlight on the ground he was challenged by the constable on duty.
For the next fifteen minutes he examined the ground on, around and below the bridge. The latter told the plainest tale. Claydon’s footmarks showed clearly on the damp path, and it was evident that he had stood still for some considerable time, for the pressure of his shoes had made distinct imprints. He tended to dig his heels in, and the evidence was plain to see. Next Macdonald made his way to the seat where Mallaig had observed the earlier part of the evening’s proceedings, and here again his footmarks showed clearly, the imprint of the crepe rubber soles clearly discernible, as were their tracks when he had run to the bridge. On the bridge itself it was less easy to read the traces. There was a patch of mud at one point, at the place where John Ward had stood, and Macdonald guessed that he had walked across the muddy path recently trodden by pedestrians on the grass bordering the Outer Circle. Bending low, Macdonald brought the ray of his torch close to the surface of the bridge, while the constable stood by watching. At last Macdonald said: “There’s the print of bicycle tyres here—only as far as the point where deceased stood: perhaps that explains the most puzzling part of the story—how a third party approached the bridge without being heard by the man below it.”
Following up the prints, Macdonald found evidence that a bicycle had recently been ridden—or wheeled—along the sidewalk of York Gate and had turned in by the gate giving access to the bridge. The wheel tracks were fairly plain on the sidewalk, but only just discernible on the bridge where they were partly obliterated by footsteps. Macdonald stood and considered. It seemed possible to him that a man could have freewheeled a bicycle down the slight incline of the side-walk, swerved in at the gate and come level with the man on the bridge without being heard. If the evidence of Mallaig and Claydon was to be trusted, the blow which killed Ward had been struck while his head was bent over his cupped hands as he lighted a cigarette. The matchlight had made him a clear target for a few seconds. While he stood considering this possibility, Macdonald saw a light approaching in the road and realised that a bicyclist was close at hand.
“Hi there, cyclist! Police speaking. Stop just a minute.”
“Lord, what’s up now ?” demanded a resigned voice. Macdonald’s torchlight revealed the figure of a man in Civil Defence uniform, and the C.I.D. man replied:
“Nothing for you to worry about. Can you spare your bike for a couple of minutes while I try an experiment?”
“O.K. What’s the idea?”
“Would you like to co-operate?” asked Macdonald, and the other replied:
“You bet—provided it won’t take too long. I’ve got ten minutes.”
“That’ll do. Let me have your bike. I want you to climb over the bridge and wait underneath it—and tell me what you hear afterwards.”
“Right oh. That sounds easy.”
“Good. Get over the railing here—we’re trying to get some evidence from footprints further along . . . That’s right. Just wait there—and when you hear me whistle, listen for all you’re worth.”
Macdonald then gave a few words of instruction to the attendant constable, who was bidden to stand at the same spot that John Ward had stood and to strike a match and light a cigarette after he had counted twenty. Macdonald himself then wheeled the bike a dozen yards up the side-walk of York Gate and whistled shrilly. He stood with the bike on his left, and then with his left foot on the pedal shoved off and free-wheeled to the gate. Just as he came level with the gate the match spluttered and the constable’s face and hands showed up clearly in the flickering light. Macdonald swerved on to the bridge close behind the constable, brought himself to a standstill with one foot on the ground and made a swipe with his right hand at the constable’s helmet. Still with his left foot on the pedal the Chief Inspector shoved off again and the bike moved forward into the darkness of the park. The constable, following previous instructions, had collapsed noisily on to the bridge. Macdonald returned to the bridge and called to the Civil Defence man below:
“Experiment’s over. Can I give you a hand up?”
“That’s all right.” The chance collaborator was an active fellow and he hauled himself up with ease. Macdonald asked:
“Exactly what did you hear after I whistled?”
The other replied: “I heard the sound of a match being struck and saw the gleam of light—surprisingly bright in the dark. I think my attention was completely taken up by the light, because I didn’t really notice any sound before there was a good healthy biff and then a commotion and thud which made me think the bridge was breaking down. Thinking back, I can remember hearing a sort of faint click-click. It was the bike of course, free-wheeling—but then I knew you’d borrowed my bike. If I hadn’t known, I shouldn’t have tumbled to it that a bike went over the bridge.”
“Thanks very much. You’ve done your bit admirably and I’m much obliged,” said Macdonald.
“Glad to be of use. What’s the racket?”
“I expect you’ll see something about it in the paper tomorrow. Someone got biffed over the head, and it’s a bit difficult to understand how the assailant came up unheard.”
“I follow. Hence the bike idea. All the same, it wouldn’t be easy to biff anyone efficiently from a bike—not unless you’re a bit of a trick rider.”
“I think I agree with you—though I landed quite a fair one on that chap’s helmet,” replied Macdonald.
The Civil Defence man chuckled and then said, “You know it’s not in human nature to have no curiosity at all. It makes me hopping mad to have heard just this bit of the story and then have to clear off and not know another word about it.”
“Yes, I quite see that,” replied Macdonald. “Incidentally, what’s your job?”
“I’m one of the Post-wardens in that block up by the corner there: there’s quite a party of us near the searchlight.”
“Have you just come off duty ?”
“More or less. My mate’s there, and I’ve taken the opportunity of coming to get some cigarettes: it’s O.K. provided one warden’s at the post.”
“I see. You might be useful to me if I want to learn more about the nocturnal habits of Regents Park. Can I see your Identity Card?”
Again the other laughed. “Here it is. Don’t go thinking I biffed anyone over the head—because I haven’t.”
Macdonald examined the Warden’s card in the gleam of his torchlight, saying, “One of the disadvantages of being a policeman is that every innocent citizen imagines one’s suspecting him. Well, Mr. Tracey, I’ll probably look you up at your Post. If you could manage to keep this experiment under your hat for the time being it might be advisable. It’s not essential—but less said’s soonest mended.”
“O.K. ‘Careless speech’ and all that. I’ll remember. I’d better be beating it. What’s your own name, if I’m allowed to ask?”
“Macdonald. I’m a C.I.D. man.”
“Lawks! I’ve heard of you . . . in that Rescue Squad do down Lambeth way. May 10th’41. Shan’t forget that in a hurry, by gum.”
“Neither shall I,” replied Macdonald feelingly. “You Civil Defence blokes earned George Crosses, every man jack of you, that night.”
“What about yourself?—Well, so long. Come and see us at the Post sometime. Cheer oh!”
When Mr. Tracey had mounted his cycle, the constable came to Macdonald. “D’you reckon that’s how it was done, sir? You caught me a good wallop as you passed.”
“I don’t know: it’s just an idea,” said Macdonald. “Incidentally, did you hear the bike as it approached you?”
“Yes, sir, but I was expecting to hear it, and also it was a very old bike. Real bone shaker.”
“That’s true,” replied Macdonald. “I’ll try the same experiment again with a good machine and see that it’s well oiled. There’s one point which puzzled me a bit though: those bicycle tracks only show as far as the middle of the bridge: there wasn’t a sign of them on the side of the bridge away from the gate, and the bridge isn’t wide enough to turn round on—so I shouldn’t like to offer the idea to Counsel for the Defence to make merry over—even if we had any other evidence of the bicyclist’s existence, which we haven’t.”
“All the same, it’s a good idea of yours, sir,” said the constable. “It does explain that puzzling bit about the chap below the bridge not hearing a footstep—and you hit me harder than I’d have thought possible in the circumstances.”
“Devil take it!” said Macdonald unexpectedly. “It’s beginning to rain, Drew. Even if it had kept fine those prints would have faded out by morning, but two minutes of rain will ruin the lot—and you can’t put a tarpaulin over half Regents Park. Oh well, I suppose it’s better not to have too much luck to begin with.”
“It’s a good thing you saw those prints when you did, sir. Gave you an idea, so to speak.”
“Quite true—though ideas are dangerous commodities,” replied Macdonald. “Child’s guide to detection—evidence without ideas is more valuable than ideas without evidence.”
The constable chuckled: “I’ve heard that evidence interpreted by ideas is the ticket, sir.”
“Losh, don’t be too intellectual, Drew—on a foul November night in the blackout in Regents Park. What was that low ditty—‘Can your mother ride a bike . . . in the park after dark . . .’ I’m afraid you’re going to have a poor night of it, Drew. Keep listening for cyclists—and remember the old adage.”
Macdonald glanced at the luminous dial of his watch when he had turned his coat collar up. Eleven o’clock—only two and a half hours since John Ward had walked on to the bridge. Remembering the sergeant’s statement that the tenants of the flats at 5A Belfort Grove were mostly ‘in the profession’—on the stage in other words—Macdonald guessed that late to bed and late to rise was more likely to be their motto than the one generally approved by moralists. He decided to go to Belfort Grove and see if any of the household could be helpful. He walked back down York Gate, crossed the now unrailed space of the church-yard opposite and recovered his car where he had parked it in Marylebone High Street and was soon driving westwards along the empty darkness of Marylebone Road—a darkness slashed by the incredible brightness of the traffic lights shining out at the road junctions ahead. Belfort Grove had the same quality as every other London street in the blackout: it seemed completely blank and dead, as though it were impossible that cheerful normal human beings could live and move behind the dead facade of blackened houses. Macdonald parked his car at the entrance to the “Grove,” and turned his torchlight discreetly on to the nearest doorway to ascertain its numbering. After several such attempts he concluded that the numbering of the houses must be continuous—up one side and down the other. As he descended the steps o: No. 27—having previously examined numbers 2 and 16, he heard footsteps approaching him and a cheerful voice enquired:
“Are you looking for any particular number—or are you just looking?”
“I’m looking for number 5A,” he replied.
“Well, well, I thought you might be. You see I live there. Just popped out to the post so’s to catch it in the morning. Number five’s back that way. If you’ll wait till I’ve posted my letter I’ll show you. You just wait here.”
The voice was a woman’s voice, good-tempered and full of confidence. Macdonald heard the click of her heels as she walked briskly along the pavement. He waited as she had bidden him, amusing himself by visualising the owner of the cheerful Cockney voice. A woman as old or older than himself, he judged (Macdonald was looking fifty in the face) a Londoner undoubtedly, one of the undaunted millions who take blackout and bombs in their stride, and prefer the hazards of those “twin b’s” to the “‘orrible’ush” of the safe countryside. He heard her footsteps returning and heard her humming a tune which took him back twenty years.
“Let the great round world keep turning . . .” Macdonald whistled the tune under his breath and was greeted with “Fancy you knowing that! I always says the last war had the tunes. Not a tune worth singing this war. I suppose you’ve come about poor Johnnie Ward.”
“That’s it,” replied Macdonald, falling in step beside her.
“I guessed that’d be it,” she went on. “Funny, isn’t it? I can’t see you but I bet I know just what you look like. You police are a good class these days—not like some of’em when I was a gal. The minute I heard your voice I said to meself, ‘Not one of us and not a newspaper man either. Must be police,’ I said. I fell down in Piccadilly the other night—after the sirens had gone too, and a young Bobby helped me up—you should just’ve heard his voice. Eton. Not half! ‘Madam’ he called me. This is number 5. Now what’ve I done with me latch key. Hope I didn’t pop it in the pillar post . . . no, here we are . . . come right in.”
The entrance hall in number 5 was partially illuminated by a melancholy blue bulb which shed sickly beams on worn linoleum and colourless walls.
“Who d’you want to see?” inquired Macdonald’s guide, and he replied:
“Well, say if I start with you. You’ve been very helpful so far.”
“Righty oh. Always glad to do me best. There’s a lot of stairs though. Heaven’s not in it. You follow me. Remember the old song? ‘So up the stairs he went again, the shopman said ‘How do?’ . . . It’s been a lovely day to-day, what can I do for you?’ . . . Law! my poor feet. . . .”
Macdonald followed the lady up three flights of stairs and then she halted on a dimly-lit landing, produced another latch key and opened a door from which a flood of light poured out on the landing.
“Pop in!” she adjured him. “Landing blackout’s N.B.G. I do like a bit of light. This dark business is enough to give a girl the creeps. Come right in. That’s better, isn’t it?”
“Much better,” replied Macdonald cheerfully, blinking a little in the strong light. His first impression was of a prevailing pinkness: pink walls, pink curtains, pink cushions: artificial pink roses stood in ornate vases, artificial cherry blossoms trailed over mirrors and peeped coyly round elaborately framed photographs. Macdonald disliked pink as a colour, and this room seemed to him to resemble pink blanc-mange. He turned in some relief to study the owner of all this roseate effect—a neat little black-coated figure, she stood and returned his stare sedately.
“I’m Rosie Willing,” she said cheerfully. “Not that I’m expecting you to know me name. I’ve been in variety since the year dot, but mostly in the provinces. Now all the youngsters are in the services I’ve got a contract with Stolling Ltd. I know me stuff, you see, and if I’m not the world’s chicken I can still get a laugh when there’s a laugh to be got. Sit down, won’t you?”
“Thanks very much.” Macdonald lowered himself into an ancient chair, whose springs were almost defunct under its blanc-mange coloured cover. Rosie Willing was very much as he had visualised her—over sixty years old he guessed, but gallantly and obstinately youthful of aspect. Her fair hair should have been grey, and her cheeks pippin coloured rather than ashes of roses, but her blue eyes were as serene as a child’s. Her figure was still trim and slim, and it was probable that she looked a well-preserved forty behind the footlights. Somehow Macdonald liked her, despite her partiality for very pink pink.
“Poor Johnny Ward!” she said. “So he’s got his number, has he ? It was only yesterday he said to me ‘Reckon I’m on to a good thing this time, Rosie. You and me, we’ll have supper at Oddy’s next week, you see if we don’t.’ Always the optimist, Johnny was.”
“You knew him well, then?” asked Macdonald, and she shrugged her shoulders.
“In a way, yes, in a way, no. These days you get to know your neighbours, don’t you ? What with the raids and shelters and all that, and no one able to get any help. I nursed Johnnie when he had flu’ last month—you know the way one does, these days. He was a nice fellow and full of jokes—but as to knowing him—who he was or where he came from, well, I just don’t.”
“Say if you tell me just what you do know,” said MacDonald, and she nodded in. her bird-like way.
“Righty-oh—but it’s not a lot, so don’t be too hopeful.”
John Ward had first been seen in Belfort Grove about nine months ago, in February: he was introduced to Rosie Willing by Claude d’Alvarley, the actor who was tenant of the room which Ward had been living in. “Claude used to be on the Halls, he did a very good dance turn—tango and all that,” said Miss Willing. “Then he did some work for the flicks and got a contract at Denham. It wasn’t much use to him, because he got called up soon after. He told me he’d let Johnny Ward have his room, and that was that. Johnny just moved in—in May it’d’ve been, and here he’s been ever since. He was a nice fellow, you couldn’t help liking him; he’d got that Irish way with him, so you could have forgiven him anything. We soon got matey, and he popped in and out most days. I shall miss him.”
“What did he do?—was he on the stage?”
“Bless you, no. Fellows like Johnnie never do any work. He couldn’t have held a job down for five minutes. The only thing about him you could rely on was that he was unreliable.”
“Then he had enough money to live on?”
She laughed at that. “Money? Not he. He made a bit here and there, and when he’d got a note in his pocket he blewed it at once.” She studied Macdonald quizzically. “Now look here. Don’t you think you’re going to put me in a witness-box to give evidence. Nothing doing in that line. If I’m asked to swear what I know about Johnnie Ward, I don’t know anything. See?”
“Yes, I see,” replied Macdonald—“but you’ve done a bit of guessing, haven’t you?”
“I won’t say I haven’t, but that’s not evidence,” she replied. “I don’t mind talking to you, but you’ve got to remember it’s only ‘say so.’ I don’t know anything.”
“Right you are,” replied Macdonald. “Now according to ‘say so’ how did Johnnie Ward scrounge a living?”
“Scrounge?” she echoed meditatively. “That’s about the right word. He picked up what he could where he could. You know what it is these days: coupons and ration cards and short of this and can’t get that. Johnnie got a bit of this and a bit of that and he sold it again to the highest bidder. Mind you, I’m only guessing—but I guess it was silk stockings here and a bottle of gin there, and clothing coupons somehow.”
“Black market, then?” inquired Macdonald.
“I didn’t say so—and I don’t know,” she replied, “but when governments go making all these rules and regulations, why then the Johnnie Wards of this world say ‘Where do I come in?’—same’s they did with prohibition in America. Always happens.”
She broke off again, studying Macdonald with her shrewd blue eyes. “I’ve been in vaudeville since I was a little kid,” she went on, “and I tell you you learn a bit about human nature. I’ve seen Johnnie Wards by the hundred—except that our Johnnie had got more of a way with him than any of them. He was educated, too. What I call a college boy.” She chuckled a little. “If he hadn’t a bean to pay for a meal, he’d just gate-crash into somebody’s party. Always got away with it, too. There wasn’t a woman in the world could be angry with Johnnie when he got wheedling.” Her head cocked on one side, she concluded “I’ve sure said a mouthful, as the dough-boys say—and not a fact nowhere—because I don’t know any. Take it or leave it. That was our Johnnie—scrounging his way along. Never quite in trouble but always asking for it, though he said he’d die any day to save himself trouble.”
“You’ve given me as good a picture of him as I could want,” said Macdonald, “but can’t you help me a bit further? He must have had some relations somewhere.”
“If he did, I never saw them or heard about them,” she said. “He said he was alone in the world. Oh, he told me lots of stories, but one always contradicted the other. His father was an Irish Peer one day, and a Viceroy of India the next: he was born in New York and in Dublin and in Park Lane. Oh, he made me laugh, he did. He knew I never believed him. I think one thing was true—he was lame, you know—and he said he got wounded when he was a boy of twenty in the Black and Tan rows in Ireland. 1919 wasn’t it ? He was lame all right, and had a bit of shrapnel or something in his lung. He went for his medical when he registered—he wanted to join up. Loved a scrap—but they wouldn’t look at him.”
She yawned, a good wide honest yawn, and then said: “Sorry—but I’ve been on the go since I queued up for the fish this morning—and never got a sprat for me trouble. Now just tell me this—what happened to Johnnie? Traffic accident was it?”
“No. Someone knocked him over the head. Do you know what he was doing to-day, or who was he doing it with?”
“No. Not the foggiest. He never told me what he was going to do—thank goodness. I might have had to tell him not to, and what was the use ? Might as well’ve saved me breath.” Yawning again, she added “And you might as well save yours if you’re thinking of asking me if I can guess who knocked him on the head. I can’t. I just don’t know.”
Macdonald got to his feet. “All right, Miss Willing,” he replied. “I’m ashamed to keep you up answering questions because you’re tired and it’s very late. Just answer two more questions. Where is Claude d’Alvarley now?”
“Search me! In the Forces out east somewhere—India or Burma, that’s all I know.”
“Will you tell me the names of the other tenants in this house and the number of their flats.”
“That’s easy. First floor, Mr. and Mrs. Rameses, conjurors and illusionists—they’ve a contract with Flodeum Ltd. at the Surrey Met. Second floor, Mr. Carringford, scenario writer or something like that, and Odette Grey—separate flats they’ve got of course. She’s in the chorus at the Frivolity. Third floor, Mirette Duncan. She’s on tour with Ensa in Egypt. Fourth floor, Johnny Ward and me, and old Ma Maloney in the corner attic. That’s the lot.” She yawned again and Macdonald said:
“Right. Thanks so much for answering all my questions. Good-night. I’ll find my own way out.”
“Rightey oh. I’m tired and that’s flat,” she replied. Macdonald was tired, too, but he stuck to his job. While the facts were fresh in his mind, he made a summary of the timetable of the case so far—a precaution which had stood him in good stead on other occasions. The murder had occurred at 8.30. The body had been taken to the Mortuary in an ambulance at 8.55. As soon as the body had been examined and the Identity Card found a sergeant had been sent to 5A Belfort Grove, arriving there at 9.30. The sergeant could get no reply to bell or knocker at 5A, but inquiry next door had directed him to the public house where Mrs. Maloney was known to spend her evenings. The sergeant had returned to the station at 10 o’clock, just after Claydon had finished his statement. Macdonald left for the Mortuary at 10.5 and reached Regents Park at 10.15. He was at Belfort Grove from shortly after 11.0 and left there just before midnight.