Читать книгу Murder by Matchlight - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 13

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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 side-walk of York Gate and had turned in by the gate giving access to the bridge. The wheel tracks were fairly plain on the side-walk, 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 free-wheeled 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 to-morrow. 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 Regent’s 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 Regent’s 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 Regent’s 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.”