Читать книгу Murder by Matchlight - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 15

Table of Contents

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 ten o’clock, just after Claydon had finished his statement. Macdonald left for the Mortuary at 10.5 and reached Regent’s Park at 10.15. He was at Belfort Grove from shortly after 11.0 and left there just before midnight.