Читать книгу Murder by Matchlight - Edith Caroline Rivett - Страница 8

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When the crime in Regent’s Park was referred to the Commissioner’s Office, the case was immediately handed over to Chief Inspector Macdonald for investigation. Macdonald, when he heard the brief salient facts, said:

“Well—that’s an unusual story: murder isn’t uncommon, but murder in the presence of witnesses is quite uncommon. In the circumstances I’ll finish off this report and get it done with. Tell the Regent’s Park fellows I’ll be with them shortly. Meantime, they can carry on.”

So it came about that Inspector Wright, much to his own private satisfaction, was able to continue the job by interrogating the second witness of the crime—he whom Bruce Mallaig had described as the “bridge man.”

“Stanley Claydon, aged twenty-eight, address 115a Euston Passage. Discharged as unfit from the Army (Middlesex Regiment, Nth Battalion). Discharged as unfit from the Arsenal Small Arms Factory. At present of no occupation.”

Inspector Wright absorbed this information and studied the man to whom the information referred. A tall weedy fellow, pale and unhealthy looking, was this Stanley Claydon, but he looked fairly muscular—by no means feeble.

“What’s the matter with your health?” asked Wright.

“Asthma,” was the answer. “Never know when it’s going to lay me out. It just comes on—and then I’m kippered.”

“Yes. Nasty thing, asthma,” agreed Wright amiably. “Now what was it took you for a walk in Regent’s Park this evening?”

“Well, it’s a rum story,” said Claydon miserably. “I know before I start you won’t believe me.”

“I haven’t the chance of believing you until I’ve heard your story,” replied Wright. “It’s up to you to choose if you want to make a statement—or if you want a solicitor present before you do so.”

“Solicitor? Likely, isn’t it? A solicitor couldn’t tell you what he doesn’t know, could he? It’s just my luck. I always said I was born unlucky.”

Wright enjoyed listening to Claydon’s story—it was interesting and unusual—“ingenious” Wright called it when he was talking to Macdonald later—frankly the Inspector did not believe a word of it.

“I woke up feeling fed to the teeth this morning,” began Claydon. “I’d been fired from the works because the doctors said I wasn’t fit. Told me to get an out-of-doors job, but I was to have a holiday first to get fit. Well, I thought I’d ring up my married sister—she’s got a house in the country, near Bedford. I went into St. Pancras Station to telephone—one of those call-boxes in the booking hall. It’s dark in there—you know it?”

“Yes. I know it.” (“Why did you choose a call-box there, I wonder?” Wright asked himself.)

“Well, I had to wait a longish while before I got on, and while I was waiting I heard a bloke talking in the next call-box. I could hear every word. I wasn’t listening in particular, but I just couldn’t help hearing. He asked for a doctor somebody—I didn’t catch the name—and then he said ‘Just say it’s Tim—Timothy you know.’ He’d got a rum voice, not quite English somehow. Next thing he said was ‘That you, Joe? This is Tim speaking. Tim. T. I. M.’ He went on for quite a bit, saying it was Tim, and he was quite O.K. and in the pink. Then he changed his tone a bit and said ‘You and me had better get together and have a talk, Joe.’ Something in his voice made me think he was threatening, and he went on, quite sharp, ‘now don’t argue. I’ll be waiting for you at 8.30 this evening on the little wooden bridge close by the gate of Regent’s Park in York Gate. You know the place—near that island at the end of the lake. Oh yes, you know it all right. You’ve got to be there. Got that? Don’t try any funny stuff because this is Tim and we’ve got to have that talk.’ I think he rang off then, but anyway my own call came through and I didn’t hear any more.”

At this juncture Stanley Claydon glanced round nervously: another man had come into the Inspector’s office and stood listening. Wright got up, but the newcomer said:

“Carry on. Finish the statement,” and Wright sat down again and turned to Claydon.

“Yes—you said your own call came through.”

“Yes, I was ringing up my sister, Dora. Mrs. Steven her name is. She’s got a house near Bedford and a small business—cigarettes and confectionery, leastways, she had. The woman who answered the ’phone said Dora had joined the ATS and parked the kids out somewhere and the business was sold. I was fed-up, I tell you. What can a chap like me do when he’s told to take a holiday? Dora’s the only relation I got. I came out of that call-box more fed-up than ever. I’ve got nothing to do and no one to do it with. The woman at my digs won’t give me any dinner and won’t make me a fire in my room. I just mooched about and went into cafés and had cups of tea—and all day long I thought about that Tim and his doctor bloke, and the more I thought, the rummer it seemed. You see, I know that bridge in Regent’s Park. It’s a lonely place after dark. Of course the park used to be shut at nights, but now the railings’ve been taken away, so it’s always open. Well, I tried going to the flicks, only the stuffiness of them places always makes me cough, and then later on I went to the Corner House and had a real blow-out and felt better. I didn’t want to go back to my room and think—so I jolly well made up my mind to go to Regent’s Park and see if these chaps turned up. I thought it might be funny. Just my luck ...”

Stanley Claydon was a big fellow, but his loose underlip quivered as though he were on the verge of crying. “What can a chap do when he can’t keep a job?” he asked querulously. “In the Army they set me to work peeling potatoes—millions of them—only that gave me asthma, too. The place we peeled ’em in was that damp.”

“Never mind about that,” said Wright. “You get on with Regent’s Park.”

“I wish I’d never bloody well gone near Regent’s Park,” said Claydon, plucking at his loose underlip.

“It’s a bit late to think about that now,” said Wright, “so get on with your story.”

“Well, I got on to the bridge about twenty-five past eight—I looked at the time in Baker Street Station. It was black dark, and I didn’t quite like the idea of waiting on the bridge till the chaps came there—this Tim and Joe. I didn’t know which way they’d come for one thing, so I thought I’d just jump over the bridge down on to the path below—it’s only a few feet. Then I thought I could hear ’em talk. Anything for a bit of fun. I can see now it was a silly thing to do—but I was bored stiff and wanted to get my mind off myself. I turned my torch on—just to see there was no one about—and then I climbed over and got underneath the bridge. I hadn’t been there very long when I heard someone walking along York Gate and then they turned on to the bridge, and a voice asked ‘Anyone about?’ I recognised the voice—it was the bloke Tim who’d been in the telephone box. No one answered, and presently he struck a match and lighted a cigarette. I could see the light gleaming between the planks of the bridge, and I could smell the cigarette. I don’t smoke myself, it gives me asthma. It was perishing cold there, and I couldn’t move about in case Tim heard me, and I began to wish I hadn’t come. He threw his cigarette away—the end fell in the grass nearby where I was and it give me an awful turn—it shone so bright as it fell. Then he lit another match: leastways, I suppose it was Tim, though I couldn’t see him, and then there was a sort of schemozzle and an awful bump on the bridge ... and something warm dripped on my face as I looked up into the dark.” Claydon shivered, and his breathing grew laboured as he spoke. “I was frightened stiff,” he said. “I hadn’t expected anything like that. I’d have run for it—but I didn’t know if the gates of them college grounds was locked, and it wouldn’t have looked too good if I’d got copped there—so I thought I’d climb up on the bridge again and beat it down York Gate. I pulled myself up on to the bridge somehow, and then someone went for me—nearly throttled me. I couldn’t get away, and I couldn’t even yell out because I’d lost my breath ... I just knew he was going to do me in, too. I tell you I was scared stiff....”