Mr Sparks

by Danny Weston

  ‘May I enquire if you work here every day?’ he asked.

  ‘Every day the Lord sends,’ she assured him. ‘Ever since I was a little girl.’

  A very long time then, thought Quinn. But he maintained his smile.

  ‘I wonder, madame, if you have seen a boy recently?’

  ‘A boy?’ She looked at him quizzically.

  ‘Yes. An English boy of around twelve years of age. Travelling on his own with just a suitcase. I’m sure you’d remember seeing somebody like that. It would have been in the last few days …’

  Her expression changed subtly and Quinn read her like an open book, just as he read everyone he met. Yes, she had seen the Dyer boy and she had thought it strange at the time, but Quinn sensed that she was reluctant to say anything about it now, just in case she got him into some kind of trouble …

  He leaned over the counter and gave her a disarming look. ‘Please don’t worry,’ he assured her, ‘we’re not the police and the boy isn’t in any trouble … at least, not yet. He’s run away from home, you see and his mother is naturally concerned about him. They had a silly argument and the boy packed a bag and ran away in the middle of the night. His mother has hired me and my partner to find him and fetch him back. She didn’t want to involve the police, as I’m sure you can understand.’ He made a big show of inhaling the smell of coffee issuing from the kitchen. ‘Ah! Now that smells absolutely wonderful,’ he told her. He was lying. It actually smelled as though the percolator needed cleaning out, but he wanted to get into her good books.

  She chuckled, enjoying his attention. ‘Oh yes, it’s the best coffee in town. Everyone says so. We have a very good supplier.’ She arranged cups on a tray and filled an earthenware jug with milk from a container. ‘There was a boy, actually. And I did think it was odd that he was on his own. He was travelling down to Paris to appear in some kind of variety show.’

  ‘He … told you that?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly. As soon as he came in here, he got this dummy out of his case … you know, one of those talking creatures that are used by …’ She waved a hand, unsure of the word.

  ‘Ventriloquists?’ suggested Quinn.

  ‘Ah yes, that’s the word I was looking for. So it was the dummy who told me they were going to Paris.’ She smiled, recalling the moment. ‘Now I come to think of it, the boy himself hardly said a word. English, you say? Who would believe it? His French accent was perfect! Anyway, he put on a little show for us. It was very funny. That dummy, what a character! The things he came out with!’

  ‘There were others in the bar?’

  She nodded. ‘Oh yes, a few people came in while he was here. He got talking to each of them in turn … using the dummy, you understand, sort of like a little act he was doing and then of course, Henri came in and they got talking and he offered to give the boy a lift …’

  ‘Henri?’

  ‘Yes, just one of our regulars.’

  ‘I see. So where did he take the boy?’

  The woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘I really couldn’t say. Henri drives a delivery truck. He goes all over the place, sometimes as far as Paris …’

  ‘Yes, but where was he going that day?’

  ‘I’m sorry, monsieur, I really don’t know.’

  Quinn made a titanic effort to conceal his frustration. He smiled again. ‘This … Henri, he’ll be in today?’

  ‘I don’t know, monsieur. He calls by once or twice a week, depending where his work takes him. It varies, you know?’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you, madame, you’ve been most helpful. If Henri should come in while we’re here, would you be so kind as to introduce us?’

  ‘Of course.’ The door of the kitchen opened and a surly-looking, moustachioed man appeared holding a plate of warm croissants. Quinn looked at him hopefully. ‘Perhaps this gentleman might know where Henri was heading that day?’ he ventured. But it soon became clear that the man, the woman’s husband, didn’t know very much at all. Indeed, judging by his dazed expression, he barely knew what day of the week it was.

  Quinn gave the woman his thanks and carried the tray over to the table, noting as he did so the look of disappointment on Wilkins’ potato-like face when he saw what his breakfast comprised.

  ‘What’s this?’ he complained. ‘No tea? No bacon?’

  ‘Judging by your ever-expanding waistline, you’d do better to concentrate on a continental diet,’ observed Quinn cuttingly. ‘It’ll be better for you.’ He poured milk into his cup and stirred in a lump of sugar. ‘And when in Rome …’

  ‘But we’re not in Rome, are we? We’re in France.’ Wilkins scowled, but he lifted a croissant to his mouth and took a generous bite. He chewed for a while, his expression blank. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he muttered, unaware that shreds of pastry were now clinging to his lips and chin. ‘Not like proper grub, though.’ He took a noisy slurp of his coffee, grimaced and then added milk and sugar to the cup. ‘Did you learn anything from your little chinwag?’

  ‘Yes. The boy and his infernal companion were here. Somebody gave them a lift … the problem is that malodorous old mare at the counter doesn’t know where to, so we’re going to have to hang around in this dump of a town until the man in question puts in an appearance.’

  Wilkins looked outraged. ‘But that could take weeks!’ he protested.

  ‘Days,’ Quinn corrected him. ‘Our hostess claims that “Henri”, as he’s known, comes in several times a week. Who knows, we could get lucky.’ He lifted his cup and took an experimental sip, then grimaced. ‘If this is the best coffee in town, I’d hate to taste the worst,’ he said.

  Wilkins chuckled. ‘You were doing pretty well with the old French lingo, just now,’ he observed.

  ‘That’s because I know this part of the world well,’ Quinn told him. ‘My ancestors came from Brittany.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Wilkins took another bite of his croissant. ‘I never knew that. Here, that painting back at your place. You know, the one of the bloke in armour, the one that’s ’anging over the stairs …’

  ‘What about it?’ snapped Quinn irritably.

  ‘Something tells me that bloke is French. There’s some kind of flag in the background and I fancy that there’s Frenchie writing on it.’

  Quinn smiled. ‘You’re not quite as stupid as you look, are you?’ he said. ‘Well, yes, if you must know the gentleman in the portrait is one of my ancestors. He was one of the dukes of Penthievre.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What were they when they was at home?’

  ‘They were the rulers of the ancient kingdom of Brittany.’

  This seemed to amuse Wilkins. He chortled, scattering crumbs of pastry in all directions. ‘You mean to say that you’re descended from royalty?’

  ‘Does it seem so unlikely?’

  Wilkins considered for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, actually it seems to make sense, now I think about it.’ He took another mouthful of coffee. ‘So what made you up sticks and move to England?’

  ‘Oh, that’s a rather long story,’ said Quinn.

  ‘Well, we need something to occupy us,’ suggested Wilkins. ‘We can’t just sit here twiddling our thumbs.’

  ‘Indeed, we cannot. Which is why as soon as you’ve finished eating, you’re going to head out and find a garage.’

  ‘A garage?’ Wilkins looked puzzled. ‘But … we ain’t even got a car!’

  ‘Precisely. Which is why you’re going to find somebody who will let us hire one.’

  ‘Hire one?’

  Quinn tried not to lose his temper. ‘Do you propose to repeat everything I say?’ he snapped.

  Wilkins reddened. ‘Er … no, I just … I’m not sure how I’d—’

  ‘It’s a very straightforward arrangement, Wilkins. You find somebody with a decent automobile and then you offer them money to let you borrow it for a few days. Obviously, you allow them to hold onto a sizeable deposit to ensure that you return the car.’

  ‘I know ’ow it works,�
� grumbled Quinn. ‘But … I don’t speak the lingo, do I? Wouldn’t it be better if … well, with respect, if you went and sorted that?’

  ‘And what if in the meantime, our Henri turns up and somebody needs to question him about where he took the boy? Are you suggesting that you would be a better candidate for that job?’

  Wilkins looked crestfallen. ‘Well … no,’ he said. ‘It’s just …’

  Quinn reached into the inside pocket of his coat and produced a notebook and pen. ‘I will furnish you with a script,’ he said. ‘If in doubt, you can show it to whoever you’re attempting to communicate with. And you never know … they might actually speak a little English.’ He thought for a moment and began to scribble down a few lines. ‘Look on it as a challenge,’ he said.

  ‘What about money?’ asked Wilkins.

  Quinn reached into another pocket and pulled out a thick roll of francs. Wilkins took it from him, looked at it for a moment, then transferred it to his own pocket. ‘You ever stop to think how much you’ve already spent on this?’ he asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Over the past two years. Travelling, staying in hotels … it must amount to a pretty penny, I’d say.’

  ‘It’s of no consequence,’ said Quinn.

  Wilkins shook his head. ‘That’s what you always say. But I don’t get it. Why does it mean so much to you? I mean, supposing you do find this Henri geezer and supposing he does put us on to wherever the boy went? And let’s say after all the chasing around we’ve done trying to find him, we finally get hold of that blasted dummy … corner him somewhere and grab hold of him. What are you gonna do with him then? Eh? What’s the pay-off? You gonna take him back to your laboratory, are you? You going to study him, see what makes him tick?’

  Quinn looked calmly across the table at Wilkins. Then he shook his head.

  ‘I would have thought my intentions were obvious,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not interested in studying that abomination, Wilkins. No, I’m going to destroy him. I’m going to get rid of every last trace of him from this earth. And only when I’ve finally done that will I finally be able to rest.’

  He smiled grimly. Then he lifted his coffee and took another sip.

  19

  Wake Up, Charlie!

  Owen and Gerard got back to the cottage and went inside. Only now did Owen notice that, when they’d gone out earlier, Gerard hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.

  ‘Is that safe?’ he asked. ‘Leaving the place open?’

  Gerard shrugged. ‘I told you nobody ever comes here. And I don’t have anything worth stealing.’

  ‘What about all those lovely toys?’

  ‘Those?’ Gerard scoffed. ‘Lately, I can’t seem to give them away. They are like me … relics from the past.’ He took off his jacket and hung it on a peg, then took Owen’s coat from him and did the same. He led the way through to the kitchen. ‘How about another cup of coffee?’ he suggested, but Owen shook his head.

  ‘No, let’s try again,’ he said. Gerard sighed but led the way into the workshop. Mr Sparks was just as they had left him, eyes closed, face turned up to the ceiling. Gerard regarded him for a moment.

  ‘See how peaceful he looks,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you a little bit tempted to leave him like that?’

  ‘For another day?’ asked Owen.

  Gerard frowned. ‘For ever,’ he said wistfully.

  ‘But … why? I don’t understand, you’re supposed to be the one who looks after him.’

  Gerard shook his head. ‘Forgive me, but I think that’s your job now.’ He looked around the workshop. ‘Oh, look at this place, Owen. It’s finished. Nobody comes here any more and there’s nobody to take my place when I’m gone. Supposing Charlie does recover and needs my help in ten or twenty years’ time? Who’s going to repair him then?’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Owen.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Well, why not? Maybe you could teach me to use the tools.’

  ‘You’d do that? For him?’

  ‘What else have I got?’ Owen asked, and Gerard seemed to have no answer for that. After a few moments, he sighed again, bent over the dummy and whispered the sequence of words into his ear. This time, the results were dramatic. Mr Sparks’ entire body jolted as though an electric current had passed through it and his eyes snapped open with a click. He began to sing in a loud, tuneless voice.

  ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.

  I’m half crazy all for the love of you …’

  His voice trailed away and he turned his head to look at the two people watching him. ‘Oh, my giddy aunt, look who’s here!’ he exclaimed delightedly. ‘My two closest friends in the whole world. It’s Lucien …’ He was looking at Gerard when he said this, then he swung his head to look at Owen. ‘… and Gerard!’ he said. ‘How are you both?’

  ‘No, Charlie, I am Gerard. And this is your new friend, Owen. From Wales, you remember?’

  ‘Owen? Owen?’ For a moment, Mr Sparks’ face remained blank. Then realisation seemed to dawn in his eyes. ‘Owie!’ he cried. ‘Owie Bowie!’

  ‘That’s right.’ Owen felt a sense of relief go through him. He took a step closer to the bench. ‘You remember what happened, don’t you? You came to the hotel in Llandudno with Otto and—’

  ‘Otto?’ Mr Sparks tried to crane his head around to take in the rest of the room. ‘Dear, dear Otto, where is he? Eh? Where’s he hiding himself?’

  ‘He …’ Owen glanced at Gerard, seeking help, but received only a shrug in reply. ‘Don’t you know, Mr Sparks? Don’t you know he’s … dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Mr Spark’s mouth dropped open and his glass eyes welled with tears that trickled down his white face. ‘Dead? How can he be … dead? I was only saying to him five minutes ago that he needed to have a shave.’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ insisted Owen. ‘He was ill. He passed away back at my aunt’s hotel.’

  Mr Sparks’ blue eyes narrowed, as though remembering. ‘Oh yes, he did, didn’t he? I remember now! Oh yes. It wasn’t easy. He was old but he was still pretty strong. He struggled quite a bit …’

  Owen felt his heart lurch in his chest. He actually took a step back. ‘Are you … Charlie, are you saying …?’

  ‘Otto Schilling, what a man! Washed his face in a frying pan. Combed his hair with the leg of a chair … now he’s gone and I’m still grieving. Took a lot to stop him breathing!’

  Owen swallowed hard. He was finding it hard to catch his breath. ‘Charlie. Are you saying … are you saying that you killed him?’

  ‘Killed him? How dare you? I merely helped him on his way. He was old and tired, he wanted me to assist him, that’s all. Don’t you go pointing the thingy at me … er, the finger at me!’ He moved his head restlessly from side to side. ‘That’s how rumours start. People hear other people saying things and that gets them stinking … I mean, thinking! And before you know it, the whole thing gets out of hand. So if anyone asks, Otto was old and tired.’ He gave a sly wink. ‘Got that? Good! Now, exactly where am I? Don’t just stand there like a pair of lemons. One of you help me up!’

  Gerard moved to assist him because Owen was still rooted to the spot with shock. He could barely believe what he had just been told. He watched, numbly, as Gerard lifted Mr Sparks into a sitting position. The dummy gazed around the workshop for a moment, taking it all in.

  ‘I see you still haven’t decorated, Lucien,’ he observed. ‘What a mess!’

  ‘It’s Gerard!’

  ‘I knew that. Didn’t I say when I was here three weeks ago …?’

  ‘It was years,’ Gerard corrected him.

  ‘All right, no need to be picky! When I was last here, didn’t I say that this place needed a lick of paint?’

  ‘You did,’ agreed Gerard. ‘And I gave it one, the day after you left. But then the years went by and—’

  ‘All right, all right, you don’t have to go on and on about it!’ Mr Sparks lifted a hand to touch the place wh
ere his head had broken. ‘Feels like somebody did a good bob … er, a good slob … a good …’

  ‘Job?’ ventured Gerard.

  ‘Exactly! That’ll be you, Lucien … er, Owen … Er … Gerard! Always good with your hands, just like your dear old dad. And your dear old granddad. And … all the others.’ He looked at Owen now. ‘Ooh, I was well injured, I was. But I can’t remember exactly how it …’ His eyes narrowed and he glared at Owen. ‘Oh yes I can, it was that mad mother of yours. She gave me a right kicking, she did. I hope she’s not with us?’ He stared at Owen, no doubt expecting some kind of reply. ‘What’s with you, Owie Bowie? You look like you’ve swallowed a horse.’

  ‘Er … I’m still thinking … what you said about Otto?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘How could you do that to him?’

  ‘Do what? I didn’t do anything much. Just put a hand across his nose and mouth and gave a little squeeze.’

  ‘Charlie!’

  ‘Oh, come on, you saw how he was. He was old. He was slowing us down. And he’d had enough, Owie, he didn’t want to be chased around any more. You saw how close those people were …’

  ‘Who are these people who are chasing you?’ asked Gerard.

  ‘Oh, who knows? Bible-lovers, I expect. It’s always Bible-lovers of one kind or another. People who think that I don’t have any right to be on the same planet as them. Just because I’m a bit … different.’

  Gerard couldn’t resist a snort of laughter. ‘Well, that’s one word for what you are,’ he admitted. He glanced at Owen. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Owen nodded. He still didn’t know what to think about what Mr Sparks had told him. He had confessed to a murder, but he seemed to think that Owen should accept the fact as readily as he might accept any of his other little ‘confessions’. What’s more, it was pretty obvious that he wouldn’t have said anything about it at all, if he hadn’t been so confused.

  Gerard sighed and ran his hands through his long hair. ‘So, it is just as I feared,’ he said. He looked at the dummy. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.