Читать книгу Murder by Matchlight - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 14

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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 façade 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 of 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.”