MACDONALD’S work for the day was not done. When he left the Ross Lanes he returned to Scotland Yard to see Detective Reeves and Inspector Jenkins and to hear their latest reports.
It was Reeves who had been given the job of trying to trace O’Farrel’s movements at St. Pancras Station and he had been very successful in his quest. Armed with O’Farrel’s photograph he had tackled the unpromising job of questioning the station staff about a man who might have travelled on a stopping train to Elstree two days ago. The fact that O’Farrel was remembered was due to his talkativeness. The driver of a horse van who picked up goods at St. Pancras regularly every morning remembered the dead man’s face because O’Farrel had come and chatted to him about his horse, patting the beast and showing a lively affection for horses which nearly made him miss his train. He had jumped into the rearmost compartment just as the guard blew his whistle, and consequently the guard also remembered him, O’Farrel having leaned out of the window and chatted to him at the many stops between St. Pancras and Elstree on the 10.50 train. From the guard Reeves learned that O’Farrel had been alone in his compartment until Crickle-wood when a couple of railwaymen joined him and travelled with him to Elstree. At Elstree Reeves went to the studios and produced his photograph. Here he was told that O’Farrel had gone to the office to enter for a crowd part, saying that an agent had sent him. Apparently he had mistaken the date—the job had been for the previous day and he had to return to town having wasted his railway fare. The clerks in the office to whom Reeves talked did not know the name Timothy O’Farrel though they recognised the dead man’s photograph—neither did they know him by the name John Ward. He was simply one of the unknown supers who turn up for crowd parts. ‘That Irish bloke ‘was the description given of him by a weary office manager, who asked Reeves how the blazes he was to remember the names of every guy who blew in to cadge a job?
“Try the agents. They’ll have some sort of name to label him by—a dozen names more likely,” said the manager. “Daphne, who sent that guy along on Thursday?—is he one of Flicket’s lot?”
“Search me!” replied Daphne. “I was busy—I just shoved him off. There wasn’t a show for him and I couldn’t be bothered with him.”
Another girl in the office, addressed as Jill, produced some further information about the Irishman.
“When he left here he went with John Merrilees—he’s had a small part in ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me.’ John Merrilees often goes to lunch at that place in Covent Garden—the Scarlet Petticoat. It’s a snack-bar. Perhaps your boyfriend went there with him.”
Reeves thanked his informants politely and asked them to report anything they could concerning the talkative Irishman, after which he returned to London, learning from a girl ticket-collector at the station that two film chaps had travelled together on the 12.50 London train on Thursday. The train had been late (even later than usual) and they had beguiled their wait by talking to ‘Doris,’ telling her she had just the sort of face for the flicks. In London Reeves had gone to the Scarlet Petticoat and had eventually run Merrilees to earth. The latter remembered Ward all right (‘Johnnie Ward’ was the name in use again on this occasion.) “Amusing chap—real Irishman and a dirty dog at that,” said Merrilees. “Tied himself on to me for lunch and then left me to pay the bill, blast him . . . Never saw such infernal cheek. Ate a good meal, lowered a couple of Lagers and asked for the bill—just before the bill appeared Ward jumped up, saying, ‘Excuse me a second . . . I want to catch that chap . . . you ought to meet him.’ ”
Merrilees saw Ward make for a crowd by the door—and that was the last he did see of him. A waiter had told Merrielees that Ward had played the same trick before.
“That was two-thirty,” said Reeves. “Deceased walked out of the Scarlet Petticoat with another chap—and the rest is silence. Maybe I’ll pick up his trail later. I’m going to eat at the Scarlet Petticoat for a week and try all the habituees.”
“Experience worketh hope,” said Macdonald. “You’ve done jolly well to trace him so far. Now what about Jenkins? Been on the trail since our private view, old sobersides?”
Jenkins, who had apparently been taking a nap, settled deep in an uncompromising government chair, nodded his head and came-to immediately, cheerful and alert.
“Yes, Chief. Been improving my education both ends so to speak. I went and had a chat with a gentleman named Hardwell—a connoisseur and epicure to use high-sounding terms. Nice chap. He dined at Canuto’s on Thursday in company with his friend Mr. Carringford. They met there at 7.15 and parted at 9.20. A long sitting, but they had some other friends to join them for coffee at 8.30. Carringford’s an interesting bird, I gather. Historian, bit of a journalist, and an expert on certain periods—costume, furniture and china. It’s that sort of knowledge which earns him a fee from the Movie magnates. Hardwell finds him useful in other ways. For instance if there’s some historic stuff for sale at Christie’s or Sotheby’s, Carringford works out the history and lineage of the owners of the stuff. That sort of thing enhances its value to the Yanks, I’m told.”
“It seems Mr. Carringford is more original than most historians then,” said Macdonald. “ As a rule a history degree implies a teaching career—but not cinemas and sale rooms. However, the point is he was at Canuto’s from 7.15 until 9.20 on Thursday evening. Better check up with the waiters of Canuto’s, Jenkins.”
The stout man chuckled: “I get you, Chief, I hadn’t forgotten. Now for the rest of my evening. I had a nice chat with a little pro. at the Mayfair Palais de Dance—it’s in Earl’s Court. Her name’s Elsaby Vere—professionally. Mabel Harris at home. She was ‘crackers’ on Johnnie Ward—always game to stand him a drink and a meal. She doesn’t know anything worth while about him—she’s a dancing partner and picked him up on the dance floor. The point which seems to emerge about Johnnie Ward is that all his acqaintances were recent ones. No one seems to have seen Johnnie Ward before January of this year. He just appeared, tagging round with his pal d’Alvarley. I’ve talked to several little girls—some of them shrewd, some of them foolish—but they’re alike in one thing, they first saw Ward some time this year. I can’t find anyone who knew what he was doing previous to this year.”
“It seems quite probable that he wasn’t in England prior to this year,” said Macdonald. “In 1938 he was in County Cork, and he suddenly ceased drawing an allowance from a solicitor empowered to pay him. The answer may be that he got himself into prison in Eire, or else got involved in some of the I.R.A. disturbances that are always brewing: in any case it must have been something which made it inadvisable for him to claim his allowance under his own name. It’s fair to assume that he contrived to get himself into England on someone else’s papers and that once in England he watched out for an opportunity to establish a new identity.”
“If we could only get in touch with Claude d’Alvarley he ought to be able to tell us something about the blighter,” said Reeves.
“ ‘Ought’ doesn’t equal ‘would’,” said Macdonald. “I should think the probability is that d’Alvarley lent his room to O’Farrel under compulsion, arguing from what we know of the latter. Gentle blackmail seems to have been his recipe for earning a living.”
Jenkins chuckled, the deep amused sound of a good-natured man enjoying a private joke.
“That’s about it, Chief,” said Jenkins. “I’m almost sorry that O’Farrel isn’t here to enjoy the joke. Here are three of us, respectable, reponsible, not to say high-minded servants of law and order, concentrating on finding some chap who took it into his own hands to do a bit of social scavenging by ridding the world of a blackmailer who lived on other people’s worries.”
“All right: laugh you old pillar of respectability,” said Macdonald. “I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again—just as soon as a society tolerates private vengeance, that society is allying itself to Nazism and opening an avenue for every abuse which exists.”
“I know, I know—and don’t think I disagree with you,” said Jenkins, “but let a man have his joke.”
Reeves sat regarding his superior officers with a thoughtful air, and Jenkins said, “A penny for your thoughts, young fella-me-lad.”
“Well, if you want an honest answer, I’d like as big a helping of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding as I could put down,” said Reeves, “but since I’m not likely to get anything nearer to it than what’s called sausages I’ll say this: murder’s murder and once a chap’s been murdered I’m out to get the other chap who did the murdering, and that’s all there is to it.”
“And quite right, too,” said Jenkins soberly.
Macdonald sat writing his report after the other two had left his office, wondering as he wrote what the Assistant Commissioner would make of Ross Lane’s evidence when a message came through that a witness had called asking to see the officer responsible for the Regents Park case.
“Man of the name of Veroten—says he couldn’t call earlier in the day on account of his job. Looks like a fat man at the fair,” reported the officer on duty below.
“Send him up. I want a little light relief,” said Macdonald.
Mr. Veroten was duly sent up and entered the door just ahead of a constable. The latter was a stout massive fellow well on into his fifties but for once he looked slim. The witness called Veroten was fat to the verge of the ridiculous, a tall, preposterously cylindrical creature with rosy cheeks and yellow hair, and a smile which switched on an off with disconcerting swiftness.
“Sit down, Mr. Veroten. I have been working on this case for fourteen hours already to-day,” said Macdonald. “If you have anything of value to say, my time is at your service. If not, you may end by wishing you hadn’t come here. What about it?”
“I think I am justified in asking to see you, Inspector,” boomed the yellow-haired man. “I will put my evidence briefly. Yes, briefly. I am an artiste, employed by the Flodeum Company, songs and patter with a juggling act. My turn at the Surrey Met precedes that of a couple known as Rameses.”
“I see,” said Macdonald—who also saw some prospect of the ‘light relief’ he desired. “I have not seen your show, but I have had a private view of Mr. Rameses practising . . . prestidigitation, shall we say?”
“Practising my hat,” said Mr. Veroten. “The man has no more finesse than a rhino—but let that pass. It came to my ears that inquiries were being made about Mr. Rameses’ presence on the stage on Thursday evening. As you may guess, being, as I can see, a man of intelligence, such inquiries, though made in private, spread rapidly in a company such as ours. The whole company is discussing the matter.”
“I can well believe it,” said Macdonald. “Your manager has assured me that Mr. Rameses performed his act between eight and nine o’clock as usual on Thursday evening.”
“Meaning his act was performed,” said Mr. Veroten with a rapid wink. “Now I, sir, was in a position to see more than most on this occasion. I told you that my act came earlier in the programme than the Rameses’. Between my act and theirs is a dancing turn—a very pretty little turn done by a very pretty little girl.” Here Mr. Veroten winked again and his lightning smile flashed on. “I tell you this to explain my presence in the wings, Inspector. I stood there to watch this dancing turn. Just as it was over, I saw Rameses standing beside me. As you may have heard theirs is a costume turn—Egyptian costume, very elaborate indeed. When they are made up the pair resemble mummies or dead Pharaohs, with bronze-green faces and pretentious headdresses. I tell you, Inspector, I assure you, that no average person could have recognised those two when they are made up. Actually you can’t tell if they’re going or coming, because they wear masks on the back of their heads at times and get a laugh by turning round and round so that the audience doesn’t know which is which or what is what. Now 1 ask you, how can anybody—any average person—swear to an identity in those conditions?”
“It must be very difficult,” said Macdonald solemnly: he was enjoying this conversation. “Assuming that you are not an average person, Mr. Veroten, could you swear to Mr. Rameses’ identity during his act?”
The fat man puffed out his cheeks, winked rapidly and held up an incredibly fat pink podgy hand as though for inspection.
“You listen to me, sir,” he said earnestly. “There are more ways of identifying a man than by his face. Yes, sir. I am an artiste and my hands are part of my stock in trade. Same with Rameses: I don’t call his stuff high-class: very poor some of it is, but he’s got skilful hands. Yes. I’ll admit that. He’s got skilful hands. He insures them—for he’d be in the soup without his hands.”
“He certainly would—up to the neck in it,” agreed Macdonald and the other winked again.
“You’re a man of great perception, Inspector. You’ll understand the point I’m going to make. I stood in the wings beside this Rameses. I noticed he was fidgeting—and that’s unusual because he can stand as still as a graven image. He does a deception stunt along those lines—sits as still as a statue, but this time he was fidgeting. Now I happened to glance at his hands. Ever seen Rameses’ hands, Inspector?”
“Yes, I have. He’s got remarkable hands with very supple fingers, and double-jointed thumbs.”
“Quite right,” beamed the other. “ It’s a pleasure to speak to you, Inspector. Now I wonder if you can go any further. Can you tell me any way in which you could identify those hands of Rameses?”
“I think I could identify them anywhere,” said Macdonald, and the other went on:
“Maybe you could, but I wonder if you noticed that Rameses had a wart on his right hand—on the back of it, just below the knuckles.”
“Yes. That’s quite true,” said Macdonald, and the other went on gleefully:
“Excellent! excellent. Now believe me, Inspector, on that Thursday night when Rameses stood beside me in the wings, he had not got a wart on his right hand.”
“Perhaps he had had it removed: it’s quite simple to have a wart burnt off,” said Macdonald, interested to see how far his visitor’s intelligence went.
Mr. Veroten winked rapidly. “True. True. In fact he has had it burnt off. It’s gone. Yet though you saw his wart on Friday morning, Inspector, the hand I saw fidgeting with Rameses’ robe on Thursday night had got no wart on it. It wasn’t Rameses’ hand, Inspector.”
Macdonald sat very still and looked hard at the pink shining face of his obese visitor. “You had better think this out very carefully, Mr. Veroten,” he said. “It is a very serious allegation you are making. It’s one thing to make a statement light-heartedly, it’s quite another to repeat it on oath. You know what perjury means?”
“Yes, Inspector. I know. Anyway, it’s my word against any one else’s. I saw Rameses’ hand—and the wart wasn’t on it on Thursday night. You say you saw it—on Friday morning that’d be? I heard Ladybird singing your praises on Friday afternoon. She’s a talker, that one.”
Macdonald was thinking hard. If this evidence was true, it looked like settling this case out of hand—but was it true ? Mr. Veroten described himself as doing a ‘song and patter with juggling’ act, and his turn preceded the Rameses’ turn on the programme—that was to say Mr. Veroten’s turn was not regarded as such a valuable performance as the Rameses’. Considering the two men, Macdonald guessed that Veroten would not be in the same street as that ‘graven image,’ Mr. Rameses. There was much bitter jealousy among variety players.
“There are other talkers to be reckoned with in addition to Mrs. Rameses,” said Macdonald. “Have you ever heard an able counsel cross-examining a witness? They’re very formidable talkers, these learned gentlemen.”
“Let’em talk,” said the other, with his lightning wink. “Think I’m likely to go back on you, Inspector? I shan’t. What I saw, I saw.”
“Other issues will be raised. Apparently you don’t think highly of Mr. Rameses’ skill, but it’s not many people who could take his place on the stage and do his stuff sufficiently well to deceive everybody.”
“Not many people, no—but Rameses has a son. Did you know that, Inspector ? Well, you ask.”
“I will,” said Macdonald, “and meanwhile, there are one or two things I should like to ask you, since you’ve been so obliging as to come and see me. About those masks you mentioned: are they the usual theatrical properties you can buy at the dealers?”
“No. Nothing of that kind. They’re very remarkable productions, that I’ll admit—life-like. Rameses won’t say where he got them. Personally I believe he made them. He’s as clever as hell in some ways. He’s got a pair for himself and his missis that were made from casts of their own faces. He can put that mask on on the stage before a gaping audience without’em ever seeing him do it. One second it’s not there, next second it is—and once he’s got it on, you can’t tell which way he’s facing. Damned funny: childish, but funny all the same.”
“I’m sorry that I haven’t seen the Rameses doing their act,” said Macdonald. “I can imagine I should get my money’s worth. Can you tell me where Mr. Rameses keeps his masks, Mr. Veroten? Would they be in the dressing-room at the Surrey Met?”
“I can’t tell you, Inspector. I’ve never been into their dressing-room. As a rule variety artistes are a friendly lot—matey and generous. You may know it’s difficult to buy makeup materials now—very difficult. Generally speaking, if I’m short of a liner or cream somebody obliges if I mention it—just as I should in the case of a fellow artiste—all friends together is our motto.”
“Yes: all things in common—like the early Christians,” observed Macdonald, and Mr. Veroten stared a moment.
“Ha ha!” he chuckled: “early Christians . . . very good indeed.”
“But I gather the Rameses don’t share this amiable attribute,” went on Macdonald, and the fat man snorted—a fine loud snort which would have carried to the back of the pit, so that the attendant constable jumped in surprise.
“You’re right, Inspector. Mean? You’d hardly believe the meanness of that man! However, that’s neither here nor there. You asked me about the masks. I don’t think Rameses keeps them in his dressing-room. He sets great store on those masks. They’re made of some queer plastic—rubbery, so that the masks aren’t rigid like the usual stage properties. I should say Rameses takes’em home with him in that case he always carries about.”
“Does he take his make-up box home with him, too?” queried Macdonald innocently, and the other replied:
“Believe me, that’s just what he does do. Suspicious, that’s what he is. I hate suspicious characters. All out of place in the profession.”
“Yes—open-handed friendliness such as yours seems more becoming,” said Macdonald gravely, and Veroten stared, his mouth open to reply, but Macdonald went on: “I’m afraid I shall have to keep you here for a little while, Mr. Veroten, just until the main part of your statement is typed, and then you can sign it. Booker” (turning to the constable) “ take Mr. Veroten to the waiting-room and send me a typist.”
The fat man, looking distinctly less happy than he had done a moment ago, was ushered from the room. Macdonald, after a glance at his watch, (it was now half-past ten) took up his telephone receiver and put a call through to a number on the Flaxman exchange.
“Is that Mr. Borrington, the Flodeum manager? Chief Inspector Macdonald speaking. Could you put me in touch with somebody who has enough knowledge to swear authoritively that Mr. Rameses’ act last Thursday could not have been performed by anybody other than Rameses himself?”
“Good God! Are you still barking up that tree ? I tell you I’m fed up with all this nonsense. Rameses was doing his stuff on Thursday. Look here, tell you what. I’ll send you old Potter. Potter does the lighting effects for Rameses, and has to synchronise his changes with the act. Potter knows Rameses’ stuff backwards. To-morrow morning do? He lives out Morden way.”
“To-morrow morning will do. Thanks very much,” said Macdonald, and as he hung up the receiver Constable Booker reappeared. “Got the gist of that statement,. Booker? Good. You’d have made your fortune as a Press reporter—terse and to the point. What did you make of Mr. Veroten, Booker?”
The constable scratched his thatch of greying hair absentmindedly: he had been attached to Macdonald for years, and though he was one of the stupidest men in Cannon Row in many respects he had the native shrewdness of the real London Bobby—and he loved Macdonald with an almost maternal affection.
“If you ask me, sir, I’d say Veroten’s a dirty dog. Jealous, that’s what he is, trying to do the dirty on that Rameses. The awkward part of it is that it’s going to be difficult to bowl him out over that wart story. Cunning it was: very cunning indeed.”
“Very cunning,” agreed Macdonald. “If it’s true, that wart might hang Mr. Rameses. If it’s not true, and I can prove it’s not true, I’ll see to it that Mr. Veroten loses some of his adipose before he’s heard the last of it. However, apart from the wart, he gave us some interesting information. Those masks sound suggestive to my mind.”
“You ought to go and see that Rameses, sir,” said Booker. “’E’s a marvel! I went when I was off duty this afternoon and’e fairly got me moithered. Clever? you’d hardly believe it. Clever as the devil’imself !”
“Well, well! Mr. Rameses is getting the attention of this department in more ways than one,” said Macdonald, and Booker said:
“Seems to me if that Rameses wanted to murder anyone, he’d do it so neat no one’d ever guess how. I was almost frightened, sir—and it takes a bit to get me rattled.”
It was at that moment that Macdonald’s telephone rang and after a terse “Put him through,” Macdonald said:
“Good-evening Mr. Rameses,” and Booker’s eyes goggled. “Well, I’ll take your word for it, and I’ll be along with you shortly,” said Macdonald. He turned to Booker. “Would you like to see Mr. Rameses in private life, Booker? It won’t be much like fun for you—waiting about, probably in the dark, while I do the chatting.”
“Would I like . . .? Not’arf! Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Booker.