Murder by Matchlight by Edith Caroline Rivett

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?”