The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Zeiss. Lenses. Are. The best. In the world!’ insisted Macadam with slow, deliberate emphasis. He could no longer keep his appeal to Quinn mute: ‘Sir?’

  Quinn let out a sigh. ‘I do not believe that an application for additional equipment will meet with success. We have been fortunate to get what we have. We must make the best of it.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I hardly think that using a Zeiss lens is making the best of it.’

  Quinn pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Macadam, you have your camera. You have your lens.’

  ‘Bleedin’ German lens,’ muttered Inchball.

  Quinn stood up decisively, although he did remember to bow his head at the last minute. ‘Perhaps we can now give some thought as to how we are going to employ this equipment in our current operation?’

  They were now committed to keeping the barber shop under surveillance, as far as the limited resources of the department allowed. Quinn had to accept that Inchball’s first instinct had been tested and proved sound. His description of the man who had come to the door – ‘He was as bald as a bleedin’ coot, I’m tellin’ yer!’ – somehow clinched it. So too had the detail of the green writing on the envelope. When Inchball had told him about this, he had immediately thought back to his interview with Lord Dunwich. ‘What does it say about a man if he uses green ink?’

  Quinn tried to remember where he had seen green ink. He searched through the old correspondence on his desk until he found the card from the film production company. There it was in the top left-hand corner: Quick-Fire Quinn and guest.

  He had meant to throw it away, having no intention to accept its invitation:

  You are cordially invited to the world premiere of

  THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER

  The main reason he discounted the possibility of going, or so he told himself, was his annoyance at being addressed as Quick-Fire Quinn. But he had found the addition of ‘and guest’ after his name troubling in a different way. Whom would he invite? Of course, he fantasized about taking Miss Latterly. But what he was really frightened of was that in a moment of weakness he would ask Miss Dillard.

  But now, the mention of green ink by Lord Dunwich and the green ink on the package handed over in the barbershop … was there some connection between the film company, the barber’s and Lord Dunwich’s spies?

  He scanned down the type: Written and directed by the renowned maestro KONRAD WAECHTER.

  The name sounded German. Perhaps there was something here after all.

  He knew that Lord Dunwich was holding something back. His sort always did. But surely it didn’t follow that his lordship was in league with foreign spies? Perhaps the question about green ink had been prompted by a completely unrelated matter. Had Lord Dunwich received an invitation to the premiere too?

  He made a mental note of the date of the event before returning the card to its place in his pile of correspondence.

  Could it be that the spy operation was a red herring, designed to divert the department from something even more nefarious? Quinn had noted a hunted quality to Lord Dunwich’s eyes, a way they had of simultaneously seeking out and shying away from any questioning gaze. Those were not innocent eyes. They were eyes that longed to reveal the secrets that burdened them. It was a quality he recognized. He saw it every time he looked in the mirror.

  Whatever was the truth, Quinn felt a bridling of resentment. It would not be the first time he had been sent into the field without being afforded the courtesy of full disclosure.

  He experienced a momentary flash of Miss Dillard’s eyes. He had to admit, he did not always tell his men everything that he knew, and sometimes his reasons for withholding information were obscure even to himself.

  ‘Inchball, you are the one who is most familiar with what’s going on at the German’s.’

  ‘Yes, guv. I’ve been keepin’ me beady eye on the place ever since I visited it last week.’

  ‘I trust you were not observed? Dortmunder knows you now.’

  ‘I’ve been very careful, guv. I’ve taken steps to … err … blend in, you might say. Even my own mother wun’ recognize me.’

  Quinn’s involuntary grimace betrayed his unwillingness to know any more about the details of Inchball’s disguise. ‘What is the layout of the street? Would it be possible to set up Macadam with his camera so that he could record the comings and goings?’

  ‘We could get a vehicle in there from Maiden Lane, guv. If we had a van, we could put Macadam in the back, drill a hole through the side and Fritz is your uncle.’

  ‘What about that, Macadam? Would you be able to film successfully through a hole in the side of a van?’

  ‘It should be possible, sir. As soon as we get the film, I could run a test.’

  ‘You mean they haven’t sent you no film? Bleedin’ typical.’

  ‘I’m sure the film will turn up in due course, as will the other items I requested, such as the tripod. Oh, and the projector, of course. We will need that to see what we have filmed. In the meantime …’ Macadam opened up the side of the camera, revealing a series of spools and cogs and other mechanisms. There was a set of printed instructions stuck to the inside of the hinged cover. ‘I daresay I can be usefully employed in familiarizing myself with every aspect of the machine’s operation.’

  Inchball snorted derisively. ‘While you’re playing with your new toy, I shall get on with some real policing.’

  ‘What do you have in mind, Inchball?’

  ‘With your permission, guv, I intend to go back to the barber’s. I have been allowing my whiskers to grow for the last few days expressly for that purpose.’ Inchball drew the fingertips of both hands down across either side of his face.

  ‘And what do you hope to achieve?’

  ‘Well, what if I was to let it be known that I’m a copper? What do you think Herr Dortmunder would say to that?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘So, I’m a copper, righ’. I can get in an’ out of certain highly secure premises, the sort where state secrets are kept. I have keys that can open doors. I even know the combination to some government safes.’

  ‘What kind of a copper are you?’ challenged Macadam, warming to the subterfuge.

  ‘I’m the sort what guards the Admiralty, or some of the high-ups in it, say.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Quinn.

  ‘And what if I also let it be known that I am not a happy copper? That I am, in fact, a thoroughly disgruntled copper, ’arbourin’ a grievance against them very high-ups I is supposed to be lookin’ arfter? What if all that – and what if I was also to let slip certain warm words of admiration for the Bismarckian state? What if I were to let slip that there were days when I wished England could be more like Germany? What do you think our friend Fritz Dortmunder would say to all that, guv?’

  ‘It’s a dangerous game, Inchball. If these men are all that we suspect them to be, then you could be placing yourself in extreme danger.’

  Inchball shrugged.

  ‘By all means go back there for another shave. It will be a good thing if you establish a rapport with this fellow by becoming a regular customer. But don’t, for now, mention anything about being a policeman. Let’s keep that up our sleeve. If we proceed too quickly, he may smell a rat.’

  ‘May I say I admire the Bismarckian state, guv?’

  ‘For now, confine yourself to complimenting him on his barbering skills.’

  ‘Ah, subtle. Very subtle.’

  ‘It may be enough to hook him at this stage.’

  Quinn cast his gaze towards the window. It signalled either his release of Inchball, or his own desire to escape the confines of that room and soar into the pale bleak glimmering sky beyond.

  TWELVE

  Furled in the darkness, that was how it felt. Macadam was furled, like the film inside his precious camera. Both man and film poised, ready to spring into action.

  But the operation was more difficult than he had envisaged. He could not look directly through
the camera lens, and using the viewfinder was out of the question because of their concealed location. To get round this, back at the garage, he had drilled two holes in the side of the van. One for the camera to film from. Another, alongside the first, for them to look through. But essentially, he had to rely on guesswork when it came to positioning the camera. He was more or less filming blind.

  Naturally, he kept his apprehensions to himself. He was reluctant to give Inchball any ammunition for his constant barrage of mockery. Neither did he want to worry the guv’nor unduly. He would make this thing work. He would justify the guv’nor’s faith in him.

  He gripped the crank handle lightly, testing the sprung tension in its resistance. He murmured soothingly to the machine, as if it were an animal that he was about to unleash. At other times, in the potent darkness in the back of the van, he imagined that the camera was an extension of his own being. He almost believed it.

  And yes, there was something peculiar about this darkness. It was a darkness born out of bloodshed. A darkness with a vile and sordid history. The vehicle had been impounded because of its involvement in a previous case. It was the means by which that queer-killer had distributed the exsanguinated corpses of renters around London.

  He put his eye to the peephole, so that his vision could escape for a moment from these grim associations. But the prospect that greeted him was scarcely more cheery. Bereft, that was the word that came to mind. Bereft of light, and hope. Among the dark, soot-blackened buildings, most with boarded-up windows, the German barbershop was a curious anomaly. It was not surprising that it had caught Inchball’s eye. Admittedly it was at the end of the alley nearest the Strand, just in from the arched passageway that communicated with that thoroughfare. The passageway itself was reasonably well-maintained; it appeared to have received its last coat of whitewash within living memory. The shop could be seen as part of that world, looking out on to the Strand, turning a blind eye to the dilapidation and despair that lay two paces along.

  Macadam’s faith in human progress was momentarily shaken. The existence of these houses at the beginning of the twentieth century outraged him. How could people live like this? His outrage settled into an easy disgust.

  For reasons of his own, he was more troubled by the effect the alley seemed to have on light. It sucked it up. It was not an excessively bright day to begin with. But what light there was drained away into the porous fabric of that starved and stricken turning. There was a very real possibility that the operation would end in failure.

  To make matters worse, he had only been given a single two-hundred-foot-long roll of film to play with, some of which he had already used in the tests he had conducted the previous day. He had not yet been able to see any of the results of the tests, in the first place because the film had not come back from the processor’s, and secondly because there was still no projector to view it on. He couldn’t be sure that he was pointing the camera in exactly the right direction. He was far from certain that there was enough light to effect a successful exposure. There was the very real possibility that he would run all the film he had through the camera without capturing a single decent image.

  As yet he had not once given the handle a turn. There had simply been no movement worth recording. A mange-ridden dog had cocked its leg and relieved itself in a doorway. In the same doorway, soon afterwards, a pile of rags had stirred and shifted, revealing itself to be a human being, now presumably one soaked in dog urine.

  How could people live like this?

  Behind him, crouched against the other side of the van, Inchball sighed and stretched. Macadam felt the van rock on its suspension. ‘Steady!’ hissed Macadam between his teeth.

  ‘Well!’ came Inchball’s barely voiced justification.

  ‘Sshh!’

  Suddenly there was movement outside. Macadam’s hand tensed on the handle, but still he held back from cranking it. A diminutive figure had peeled itself away from another doorway and stepped out into the gloom. A child, a grubby-faced girl, lifted her head slowly, as if it was immeasurably heavy, and looked around. Her expression was resentful and at the same time confused, as if she did not understand how she came to be here. She eyed the van suspiciously. Formerly, it had been a baker’s van, and the advertising was still painted on the outside. A look of cunning settled over the girl’s features. She glanced furtively up and down the alley, before pulling her shawl over her head.

  Then she stepped out and approached the van, causing Macadam to lose sight of her as she went to the back. The rear door handle began to rattle and pivot.

  Macadam turned in Inchball’s direction and held his finger tensely over his lips. In the darkness, he could not make out Inchball’s expression, but he could sense his partner’s stiffening.

  Naturally, Macadam had taken the precaution of securing the door. But the little would-be thief was persistent. Soon, more children emerged from different doorways and joined her. A lively and surprisingly foul-mouthed discussion broke out.

  ‘Ge’ a fuckin’ brick and smash the fuckin’ window,’ one piping voice suggested. The rear door had a window that had been blacked out and painted over.

  ‘My ol’ man’s got a fuckin’ crowbar. We can fuckin’ crack it open.’

  ‘Wha’ the fuckin’ ’ell is it?’

  ‘It’s a fuckin’ baker’s van, innit?’

  ‘’Ow you know that?’

  ‘I can fuckin’ read, carn I?’

  ‘Who taugh’ you ’a fuckin’ read? You fuckin’ cun’.’

  The van began to rock. The handle on the rear door rattled even more violently than before. Macadam closed his eyes and shook his head, willing the awful creatures to go away. This was a circumstance he had not foreseen. His face tightened into a grimace of despair.

  He felt one of Inchball’s fingers prod him in the side. He could make out the other man’s dim silhouette. His arms seemed to be raised in a questioning gesture. Macadam shrugged his response.

  Their options were limited. They could sit still and hope that the brats lost interest and went away. Or they could make their presence known and hope to drive them away.

  The rocking motion of the van accelerated. For a moment, it seemed possible that the gang might be capable of upturning it.

  Macadam risked putting his eye to the peephole again. A small boy with an enraged expression – as if he were personally affronted by the van’s refusal to open up and deliver its bounty – was prowling along its side. Suddenly, he stopped in his steps and glared up directly into Macadam’s eye.

  There was no doubt about it. He had been seen.

  ‘’Ere, you,’ said the boy to one of his companions, an older, lankier version of himself. ‘Gi’ us a fuckin’ piggy back.’

  ‘You wha’?’

  ‘You fuckin’ ’eard me. You wan’ some of that fuckin’ bread, don’ ya?’

  The other boy scowled but did as he was directed. Despite his smaller stature, the first boy seemed to exercise some authority over the group. Macadam thought he recognized his voice as that of the child who could read.

  Now the boy’s angry face was level with the peephole. He leaned in and put his own eye to the hole, so that he was eyeball to eyeball with Macadam. Then he leaned away and, before Macadam realized what was happening, stuck his forefinger through the hole straight into Macadam’s eye.

  Macadam cried out, and recoiled from the attack, falling back into Inchball, whose reaction was characteristically profane. The boy started to laugh. His laughter was an ugly, jagged sound, every bit as angry as his expression.

  ‘Wha’ is it? Wha’ the fuck is it?’ demanded one of his fellows.

  ‘There’s some dirty geezer in here. Some dirty fuckin’ peepin’ Tom.’

  Macadam groaned.

  Someone banged on the side of the van. Presumably the boy. Immediately, the rest of the gang joined in.

  Uncharacteristically, Macadam cursed under his breath. It felt as though they were trapped inside a kettle drum.


  All at once, the drumming stopped.

  An accented man’s voice addressed them. ‘What is going on, you children?’

  ‘A German!’ whispered Inchball. He pushed Macadam out of the way to peer out of the peephole.

  ‘There’s some fuckin’ geezer in there.’

  ‘I see. Here. Money for you all. Now leave. I will sort this. You children go and play now.’

  Whatever largesse the German had bestowed was met with approval. ‘Ta, mister. You’re alrigh’, you are! A proper gent.’

  The children’s unruly hilarity scattered. The alley fell suddenly quiet. Macadam could hear the German’s footsteps as he paced round the van. And then, without a further word, the footsteps went away.

  THIRTEEN

  Only one vertical wall extended to the full height of the department. Usually, in the middle of an investigation, it was covered in photographs of victims, maps, crime-scene diagrams, as well as lists of suspects’ names, together with photographs if available, and any other relevant notes. It was blank now, dully reflecting the wan sunlight from the window opposite, and reflecting also their lack of a case.

  Since the fiasco in the van, it had naturally been difficult to continue the surveillance of the barbershop. Inchball had gone through his repertoire of disguises, before settling on the identity of a vagrant and taking up residence in a doorway opposite the shop. He had fallen into a turf war with the other tramp in the street, but had succeeded in seeing the fellow off thanks to his superior physical strength and sobriety. He had only had to tap the man once to knock him to the ground. A blow from which he did not immediately get up. For one sickening moment, Inchball thought he had killed the man. Not that he would regret his passing, simply that it would be another inconvenient distraction. What on earth would he do with the body? Fortunately, Inchball’s brusque encouragements – ‘Come on, ya bastard! On ya feet, ya louse!’ – coupled with a mild toeing, succeeded in rousing him.

  As well as taking over the tramp’s patch, he also inherited the attentions of the pissing dog, who seemed to exist solely to add misery to the lives of the abject.