BRUCE MALLAIG worked in a laboratory equipped by the Ministry of Supply in a big modern building in Bloomsbury which had been intended for very different purposes from those to which it was now being put. There was a canteen in the building, but Mallaig often went elsewhere for his mid-day meal, to vary the monotony of the fare obtainable at the canteen. On the day after his exciting evening in Regents Park he made his way to the Grill Room at St. Pancras Station, experience having taught him that he could get a good meal there. The Grill Room was pretty full, but he saw an empty seat at a table for two where another man was sitting waiting for his lunch to be served. Mallaig, before sitting down, inquired:
“Are you keeping this seat for anybody?”
“Oh, no—it’s vacant—thanks for asking,” returned the other.
Bruce stared. “Good Lord! How funny!” he exclaimed.
“What is?—an empty seat?” demanded the other.
“No. The long arm of coincidence,” replied Mallaig as he seated himself. “I heard your voice in Regents Park last night. You’re the doctor who rolled up when the Bobby was wondering what to do next. I suppose ‘funny’ may not be an appropriate word, but you must admit it’s odd.”
“Damned odd,” replied the other. “I recognise your voice now, I hardly saw your face. The constable was holding on to you with tender care. They let you go, then?”
“I should think they damn well did,” said Bruce indignantly, and the doctor replied:
“Obviously I’m hoping you’ll tell me all about it. I don’t know what happened. I was taking my dog for a walk and I heard the chemozzle in the distance. By the time I arrived there was a corpse on the ground and two chaps in the arms of the law so to speak. I was asked to produce my Identity Card, and when the second constable arrived was given to understand that my immediate presence was no longer required.” The doctor surveyed Bruce with keen humorous eyes, half smiling behind his big horn-rimmed glasses. “Who batted who?—no offence meant,” he concluded.
Bruce laughed and turned to the waiter. “Soup, roast beef and all that, and a Bass.” He turned again to the doctor, deciding he liked the look of him—a lean well-built fellow, round about fifty, with grizzled reddish hair and grey blue eyes.
“Incidentally, my name’s Ross Lane,” said the doctor, producing a card. “I’ve got rooms in Wimpole Street, and I take my dog for a stroll round the Outer Circle most evenings—though I don’t generally meet any excitements en route.”
Bruce rejoined with his own name and then said: “If you want the yarn, here it is,” and gave a neat prêcis of his previous evening’s experiences.
“It’s a fantastic story—but fantastic stories do happen in London,” said Ross Lane. “Incidentally, now the excitement’s over, in the cool judgment of the morning after, do you suppose the chap under the bridge was the guilty party?”
“No. I don’t,” said Mallaig. “At the time it happened I did: that’s why I grabbed him. Thinking it out later I’m certain he couldn’t have done it, because I should have heard him climb that bridge. He was a clumsy goof.”
“Well, what was he doing under the bridge ? Innocent folks don’t generally hide under bridges.”
“I know. I felt that, too, but after the police had finished asking me questions and had let me go, as you put it, I hung around deliberately because I wanted to talk to that bloke who was under the bridge. Of course I didn’t know if they’d detain him, but I thought they’d probably make him have a look at the chap in the Mortuary, as they did me. I was right over that—and they let him go afterwards. I waited around and had a talk with him—took him into a pub and we had quite a chat.”
Ross Lane raised his fair eyebrows. “Very unwise of you, you know. The police are bound to suspect collusion.”
“Well, let’em! Damn it all, I’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I’d never seen the bloke before—Claydon his name is, a seedy sort of customer. By the same argument the police might suspect you and me of collusion.”
“Quite true—so what?”
“Be damned to them,” said Mallaig. “I don’t know what you feel about it, but it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever tumbled across a mystery, and I damned well wasn’t just going to go home and pretend I wasn’t interested. Besides, I wanted to tell that chap I was sorry I’d man-handled him. I realised he couldn’t have done it, and I was a bit sorry for him.”
“Sympathy’s an amiable attribute,” said the doctor, “but before I expended any on the seedy-looking Glaydon I should have wanted to know what he was doing under that bridge.”
“Good Lord! Do you think I didn’t want to know, too? It was because I wanted so much to know that I hung around in a damned cold street outside an infernally cold Mortuary waiting on the off-chance of seeing the other chap. Actually the story he told me was the rummiest business—it was worth while waiting for.”
“Was it, by jove. Well, I’m waiting, too—ears flapping, so to speak.”
“This is the size of it,” said Mallaig, and related Claydon’s story in full, while Mr. Ross Lane listened intently. At the conclusion of Mallaig’s narrative, the doctor gave a prolonged whistle and looked around him with an expression of whimsical consternation.
“D’you know, I don’t quite like it,” he said. “The whole thing has too much of what the youngsters of to-day call ‘pattern-making’ in it. The story begins with a telephone conversation overheard in St. Pancras Station: it goes on with the murder of a man unknown to any of the other participants. The next instalment is a chance meeting between two of the witnesses, previously unknown to one another, also in the purlieus of St. Pancras Station. What’s the betting that the seedy Mr. Claydon isn’t strolling around in the booking hall somewhere, haunting telephone booths on the off-chance of hearing more? I don’t know if Scotland Yard wastes time on what the detective writers call ‘shadowing’ but if anything of that kind’s going on, the shadower must be getting his money’s worth. I feel another drink’s indicated. What’s yours?”
“Oh—thanks. Gin and dry ginger appeals to me at the moment. Yes. I said ‘How funny ‘the minute I saw you.” Mallaig paused a moment and then said “It’s not really so improbable as it sounds. I work in Bloomsbury. I often come here to eat.”
“So do I. I attend one day a week at the Collegiate Hospital and this place is conveniently placed. Also I often take the dog into Regents Park. Still—it’s a rum go, taking it all round. Now look here: assuming that Claydon did not bump deceased off, and that you were merely a contemplative onlooker, what do you make of the doings? Any great thoughts to proffer?”
Mallaig pondered a moment and then said: “It occurs to me that the chap who did the Irishman in wasn’t the man Tim was expecting to meet.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it was quite obvious from the way Tim behaved that he wasn’t anticipating any violence. Far from it. He was full of confidence. When he arrived on the bridge he asked ‘Anyone here?’ in quite a matey tone of voice, as though he was prepared to go on ‘Glad to see you, old chap.’ He then struck a match and lighted a cigarette, making a deliberate target of himself. If he’d thought there was any chance of rough stuff, he wouldn’t have done that.”
“Yes. I think that’s quite sound reasoning,” agreed Ross Lane. “That being so one has to assume that Tim told somebody else of his projected rendezvous, and they took advantage of it to eliminate him hoping that a third party would be left to hold the baby. You’ve left out one point. Who was the party whom Tim expected to meet at the bridge? Are you certain there wasn’t anyone else in the offing?”
“I can’t be sure, can I?” said Mallaig. “It was as black as pitch and you couldn’t see a thing. It was true I listened pretty hard—but that proves nothing, because I didn’t hear the third chap arrive. I should never have known he was there if I hadn’t seen his face in the matchlight.”
“You can swear to it that you did see a face?”
“Oh lord, yes. I saw the face all right. It was the face of a dark high-coloured merchant: he’d got rather bulging cheeks, a black moustache, bushy eyebrows, and he’d got a purplish chin as though he needed a shave. I saw him all right—although I didn’t hear him. Not a sound.”
“Well, in a way it’s lucky for Claydon that you were a witness, although you were the means of his being copped. If you stick to it that you saw the face of the real aggressor—and it was quite unlike Claydon’s face—the latter’s safe enough. You’re his witness for the defence.”
“Yes—but I’ve wished once or twice I’d got a witness for my own defence. I know quite well that when I told my story to the Inspector bloke at the station, he didn’t believe a word of it—and it did sound pretty thin. Why did I choose to sit down by Regents Park lake on one of the foulest November nights you could wish for? Did I often walk in the Park?—and all that. Have you ever been to listen to a case at the Law Courts or the Criminal Courts?”
“And heard a skilful counsel cross-examining, making a witness contradict himself and tie himself up into knots? Yes. I have—and I tell you it’s made me sweat in sheer sympathy for the bloke who was being badgered. But I’d say this: if you haven’t any idea who the dead man was, and if your story is true throughout, you’ve no cause for apprehension. Our English police may be slow, and their manners a bit surly, but they’re not out to convict any man but the man who commits a crime.”
Ross Lane paused for a moment, turning round to call the waiter, and Mallaig was silent as they settled their bills. Then he said:
“What you say about the police is quite true—I’m sure of that. There’s one other point I’ve been pondering over: I’ve got a queer feeling that I’ve seen that chap Tim somewhere before. I never knew him—I’m sure of that, and I haven’t the foggiest idea who he is—was—but I still believe I’ve seen him somewhere. You had a look at him—did he remind you of anybody?”
“No. No one at all. I’ve never set eyes on him before. When you say you think you’ve seen him before, can you place the occasion? Was he by any chance a fellow you knew at school, or college, or have you seen him in the dock or witness box when you went to hear a case at the law courts or police courts?”
“I don’t know,” said Mallaig. “I can’t place him—but I still feel that his face is vaguely familiar. It’ll come back sometime: it may be just that he resembles somebody I’ve known or seen.”
“I don’t suppose you want any advice, or that you’ll take it if I offer it,” said the doctor quietly, “but it does seem mere common sense to avoid giving the police food for suspicion by involving yourself unnecessarily in this case. Don’t try to see any more of Claydon for instance. The chap may be a rogue—he’s obviously a busy-body—and he might tell lies about you that you’d find it difficult to disprove.”
“Yes, I see that—but I can’t help being interested. For instance when I saw you sitting here, if I’d been as cautious as all that, I suppose I should have gone and sat somewhere else—whereas I’ve enjoyed talking to you. I feel I’ve got my ideas straightened out a bit by talking them over.”
“I’m jolly glad you didn’t go and sit somewhere else,” said Ross Lane. “I’ve been enormously interested in hearing you talk. As you can imagine, I wondered what the deuce had happened. Well—I expect the Inquest will be held to-morrow, and you’ll have to say your piece. You’ll make a good witness because you express yourself clearly.”
“Will they call you?”
“Yes, I expect so—to testify to the fact that the man was dead when I first examined him. It’s probable that proceedings will be very brief. In any case which promises a prolonged inquiry the police prefer the original sitting of the Coroner to be as brief and formal as possible. Well, I must be getting back to my job. Good-bye—and thanks for a very interesting lunch.”
Mallaig sat on at the table for a few moments more feeling vaguely uncomfortable. He had liked Ross Lane: there was something about him which was both sensible and sympathetic; he had a very pleasant voice and the easy confident way which is a characteristic of all successful doctors. Mallaig’s feeling of discomfort was due to the doctor’s rather abrupt termination to their talk. He had not said “Are you going my way ?” or waited for Mallaig to get up and accompany him out of the grill room: neither had he said “I hope we’ll meet again”—a very usual termination to a chance meeting which had given pleasure to both parties. “Does he believe I did it?” Mallaig asked himself the question uncomfortably, and then poured himself out another cup of coffee and sat pondering deeply, oblivious of the fact that he ought to have been back at his job. A sudden idea struck him, and he sat worrying away at it in the same manner that he worried at his problems in the laboratory.
When he returned home that evening, Mallaig had a call from a constable who left a document demanding his presence at the Coroner’s Inquest the next day. A few minutes after he had studied this unfamiliar document a telegram arrived from Pat saying that her leave was off as she had got ‘flu. Bruce began to feel unreasonably depressed. There was yet another ring at the front-door bell and his landlady, with a long-suffering expression on her face, opened the door of his room announcing “A gentleman to see you.” The visitor followed her into the room, and Bruce found himself face to face with a tall, dark fellow, lean, well-built, well-balanced: a man with dark hair brushed back hard from a good forehead, and a tanned nut-cracker type of face lighted by pleasant grey eyes.
“I’m sorry to bother you at the end of your day’s work when you’re probably looking forward to a spot of peace and comfort,” said the visitor. “My name is Macdonald. I’m a C.I.D. Inspector——”
“Good Lord! The Irishman again,” groaned Bruce, and the newcomer laughed.
“That’s about it. Has he been haunting you?’’
“That’s exactly what he has been doing,” rejoined Bruce. “As a subject for thought I’m about fed-up with him. Sit down, won’t you.”
“Thanks. Perhaps a talk on the subject will de-haunt you. It often helps. I expect the fact is that this is your first experience of murder, and you don’t like it.”
“Perfectly true,” said Bruce. “I keep on thinking about the beggar, even when I’m trying to balance equations. I suppose I was an ass: I got talking to that chap Claydon last night—I hung about outside the Mortuary waiting for him.”
“Why did you do that? Just intelligent interest, or had you met him before?”
“No. I think the fact was I was a bit ashamed of having let him in for a poor time—he was a seedy down-at-heels sort of blighter, and I was pretty certain he hadn’t anything to do with the actual murder: at least, that’s how I felt when I’d had time to think it over. When I copped him it was a sort of reflex action—stop thief. I hadn’t time to think, I just jumped at him. Then—oh, I just wanted to know what on earth he had been doing under that bridge. He told me about the telephone business—and the rest was natural enough, I suppose, when you realise how bored the chap was.”
Macdonald had been letting Mallaig talk on because it gave a good opportunity of studying him. Bruce was a thin fellow, pale faced and not very robust looking; he had a pleasant face, though he certainly wasn’t good looking. A low square forehead, short nose and obstinate chin, with blue eyes set well apart and a thatch of dark reddish-brown hair. Macdonald judged him to be impetuous and obstinate, naturally straightforward and honest—a young man of little finesse but of good character. Mallaig would have been surprised had he known how the other was summing him up. Rumpling up his hair (which was naturally intractable and stood on end if not firmly dealt with) Bruce went on: “When I went into the St. Pancras grill room for lunch to-day, I happened to sit at the same table as the doctor who turned up when the Bobby blew his whistle last night. That was just chance—one of these rum things that does happen occasionally. Of course we talked—chewed it over right through lunch. Wouldn’t have been human nature not to. Then at the end he got up and sort of said, ‘Thanks so much, that’s that,’ and beat it. I’ve felt ever since that he was convinced I’d done the dirty work—and it’s a beastly sort of feeling because it’s so difficult to disprove.”
Macdonald laughed. “I hope you feel better now you’ve got all that off your chest. Don’t think your reaction is an abnormal one. It’s hardly ever that an innocent person doesn’t feel uncomfortable when questioned by the police: the more innocent they are, the more likely to get agitated and imagine we’re suspecting them. If it’s any comfort to you, I can assure you that the D. Division men—the local police—know their stuff. They went over the ground by the bridge most conscientiously before I got on the job at all. They observed what shoes you were wearing—the same ones you’ve got on now, I take it. They found the traces of your shoes by the seat where you said you’d been sitting: they found one set of your footprints, made when you’d obviously been running, between the seat and the bridge. They found no return traces of those particular shoes. In short, the statement you made was corroborated by your own footprints as well as by the chap under the bridge.”
“I say, it’s jolly decent of you to tell me that,” said Bruce. “Stops that sinking feeling.”
“Good. Having got you on to an even keel as it were, perhaps you won’t mind answering a few more questions.”
“Anything you like—if I happen to know the answers,” said Mallaig, “but there’s one thing I’m simply bursting to tell you. The Inspector made me go to the Mortuary last night to see if I could identify the chap who was killed. I couldn’t, of course: I’d no idea who he was, but I thought I’d seen him somewhere before. His face was familiar in some vague way. I’ve been worrying all day about where I’d seen him before and I believe I’ve spotted it.”
“Good. Where was it?”
“In a film studio. I was taken to the Denham Studios once—they were doing a film which had a scene in a lab. and I was taken along by a chap in our lab. who was giving an opinion about the setting. We saw another film being shot, and I believe the Irishman, as I call him, was in one of the crowd scenes. The film was ‘The Night’s Work.’ I saw it when it was released in the West End. I’m almost certain the Irishman was in the railway station scene in that film. Did you go to see it?”
“No—but I expect I could get it run through for us. It might be useful if any other contacts in this case appeared on the same film. I hope your recollection turns out to be correct. Why do you call John Ward—deceased, that is—the Irishman ?”
“Because he looked like one—and sounded like one, even though I only heard him speak a couple of words. Was his name really John Ward?”
“I don’t know—probably not, but I haven’t been able to find out much about him. What I really want to ask you about was the third man in the case—the man whose face you saw by matchlight. Are you perfectly certain you saw a face and that you didn’t imagine it?”
“I’m perfectly certain.”
“Then will you describe to me, in the most detailed way, everything that you can remember from the time the Irishman threw his first cigarette away.”
“I’ll do my best. I was sitting at the end of the bench by the lake—the end farthest from the bridge, I mean, and I was sitting in such a way that I faced the bridge. I was watching and listening for all I was worth. I knew somebody was underneath the bridge, and what I was really expecting to happen was that a girl friend would turn up and join the Irishman, in which case I intended to warn them about the blighter under the bridge. It all made me very inquisitive, because it was such a rum set-out, with one chap on the bridge and the other immediately below it. Anyway I was listening and watching, too—although it was pitch dark and I couldn’t see anything except when somebody showed a light.”
“During the time the Irishman was on the bridge can you remember hearing anything at all? Did you notice anybody walking on the path on the other side of the lake, or along the Outer Circle, or up York Gate?”
“No. Again I’m perfectly certain of that, because I was expecting to hear somebody. It was obvious the chap on the bridge was waiting for someone, and I wondered which path they’d come by. There are a lot of ways of approaching that bridge, aren’t there? You could get to it by the way I did—walking along the north side of the lake by the college railings, or you could come up by the road bridge over the lake from York Gate and Marylebone Road, or you could come down from the Inner Circle. I put my money on someone coming from York Gate—because not many people are mugs enough to walk in the park on a night like last night.”
“Can you remember hearing the footsteps of the other two arrivals—Claydon and Ward?”
“Oh, yes, I heard them all right. They both came from the York Gate direction. No one passed along the path I’d come by, I’m certain of that, and no one came down from the Inner Circle. I remember thinking how uncannily quiet it was: I didn’t even hear any cars or taxis in the Outer Circle.”
“How long had you been sitting on that bench before Claydon arrived?”
“About five minutes I suppose, not more.”
“Were you smoking?”
“No, not while I was on the bench.”
“Right—then go on, telling me every single thing you can.”
“There’s so little to tell. The chap on the bridge threw away the fag-end of his first cigarette. A minute later I heard the rattle of matches in his box as he shook it—as though he were wondering how many matches he’d got left—and then he struck a light: it seemed a surprisingly big light for a match—but I’d been in the dark for a goodish while. I could see his face bent down over his cupped hands—and then Irealised there was someone just behind him——”
“Let’s go over this very carefully. How was the Irishman standing?”
“He was leaning on the handrail of the bridge, facing towards the lake: the other chap was facing me, more or less, but he was very close behind the Irishman. I didn’t have time to notice much, but I remembered wondering how the deuce the third chap had got there without my hearing him. It was like a peep show, all over in a flash. I didn’t actually see any blow struck: I heard a thud and a tumble. That was all. I certainly didn’t hear any one running away. It was just fantastic. If I hadn’t caught sight of the other face I should have believed Claydon was right in guessing that the Irishman had been hit by something dropping from a plane.”
“What do you remember about the height of the man whose face you saw, comparing his height with the Irishman’s?”
“The chap must have been very tall. His head was a lot above the Irishman’s. Thinking back he seemed grotesquely tall. You see I only saw his face. He must have had a dark coat fastened right up to his chin and something like a dark beret on his head: the only thing that caught the light was the face—fleshy and dark with rather bulging cheeks and very black eyebrows. It’s no use pretending I made that up,” declared Mallaig. “I didn’t. I shall never forget it. It was just a disembodied face seen for a split second against the blackness. You see, I think the Irishman had finished lighting his cigarette, and he waved the match as one does to put it out. It was a very still night and the flame burnt steadily.”
“Yes. It was a Swan Vesta—we found it afterwards.”
“Look here, how on earth do you account for the fact that the third man got on to the bridge without Claydon hearing him underneath?”
“Claydon’s a bit deaf. We got a report from his doctor. He can hear most things, but his hearing is not at all acute. Now you have described the third man to me as having a dark coat right up to his chin and perhaps a dark beret on his head. Does that put you in mind of anything ?”
“Yes, of course. Civil Defence uniform. That’d just about fit the bill—but I couldn’t see it. If I told you the man was in a Warden’s uniform I should be telling lies—but he might have been.”
“Well, I think you have done pretty well to remember as much as you have,” said Macdonald. “Now I’ve got two requests to make. The first is this: I want you to come along to Regents Park to witness a reconstruction of what you saw last night, so that you can tell me if I’ve got the idea right.”
“All right. I shall dream of this for the rest of my life—but I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Some time later—you can fix a convenient time yourself—I want you to have a look at John Ward’s neighbours—some men who live in the same house as he did, just to see if you recognise them. An identity parade, in short.”
“All right. Any evening will do.”
“Good. I’ll fix it up. Now if you’re game we’ll go straight along to Regents Park. I shall drop you at Clarence Gate and you can saunter to your seat by the lake, just as you did last night.”
“All right—but I do wish to goodness Pat hadn’t got’flu and I’d never gone into Regents Park last night,” said Mallaig.
“I’m sure you do—but there’s this to it. You can be grateful you didn’t interfere too soon,” said Macdonald. “There was a man on that bridge who knew how to hit, and who aimed extremely accurately.”
“Good Lord!” said Mallaig. “I hadn’t thought of that.”