by R. N. Morris
‘I don’t think that is Miss Amélie,’ said Arbuthnot.
‘Who is it then?’
‘Who is it? Or what is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
But before Arbuthnot could answer, they heard the key on the other side begin to turn.
The effect of this on Miss Mortimer was striking. She began to shake her head in fierce denial. ‘No! No! No!’
The unseen presence struggled with the key, stopping occasionally to scream in frustration.
Then, all at once, the key turned fully in the lock.
But the door remained closed. There was no further attempt to open it from the other side.
Arbuthnot interpreted this as an invitation. He reached out a hand tentatively towards the handle, looking for encouragement from Miss Mortimer. But that lady’s expression was far from encouraging. Still shaking her head, she was now murmuring incomprehensibly to herself. Arbuthnot could not understand all that she was saying, but he seemed to hear: ‘This cannot be!’
He had not pushed the door more than a few inches when he saw a flash of silver speed out from the opening at ground level, brushing against his trousers as it hurried past him. ‘A monkey!’ he cried. The tiny shrieking macaque scurried down the stairs, a diminutive Turkish fez attached to its head.
‘But that’s not possible!’ cried Miss Mortimer, her habitual loud volume at last justified. ‘The girls are not allowed to keep animals. Wait till I see Amélie! The rules are quite clear. No animals in rooms! Mr Blackley will not stand for it.’ She shook her head somewhat self-consciously, it seemed to Arbuthnot.
Arbuthnot pushed the door completely open and stepped in.
The missing girl lay fully clothed on top of the bed. She was as still and lifeless as a plaster – rather than a human – mannequin. But unlike the inanimate white dolls that populated the windows and displays of the Costumes Salon, her face was swollen and purple.
Her eyes were open. Arbuthnot’s attention was drawn by the vivid bursts of red that showed in the corneas. As a salesman in the Costumes Salon, he couldn’t help observing to himself that the colour of these flecks matched perfectly the silk scarf around her neck.
The Usual Misunderstanding
Sir Edward Henry received the bulging file from Silas Quinn with a disapproving glower. He signalled curtly for Quinn to sit down.
From time to time, Sir Edward winced as he read. The detective hoped that it was the commissioner’s old gunshot wound playing up. That was not to say that he wished actual bodily pain on Sir Edward, but it was better that than the alternative: that his wincing was due to the contents of the file. In Quinn’s defence, Sir Edward was rather given to wincing, and the cause usually was the bullet he had taken in the belly two years ago.
Quinn knew very well what was in the file. He had compiled it, and written the report that tied together all the statements, interim reports, post mortem reports, forensic analyses and crime scene photographs. The file, in essence, was the justification of Quinn’s conduct. If the file was causing Sir Edward pain, it was the same as saying that Quinn was causing him pain.
Now and then, Quinn craned his neck to look across Sir Edward’s desk to see where he had reached in his perusal. Once or twice he attempted to venture an explanation, but Sir Edward would cut him off peremptorily, raising his hand and barking forbiddingly. Sir Edward kept Irish Wolfhounds and it seemed that he viewed members of the Metropolitan Police Force and his dogs as being somehow equivalent. In both cases he evidently saw barking as the most economical way of asserting his dominance.
Certainly, after a couple of such attempts, Quinn was deterred from interrupting again.
Sir Edward replaced the last sheet with trembling hands. He closed the cover of the file and peered across at Quinn. His head seemed to rise out of his winged collar and extend towards Quinn, giving him something of the appearance of a moustachioed turtle. ‘Was it really necessary?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Was it really necessary for him to die?’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Who? He asks who! The fellow you killed, that’s who.’
‘Ah, sir, it was a matter of self-defence.’
‘He was naked. And unarmed.’
Quinn appeared startled by this information. ‘I could not be sure, sir.’
‘You could not be sure he was naked? Could you not tell by looking at him?’
‘It was dark in that cellar, sir.’
‘There was a lamp, I believe.’
Quinn threw up his hands evasively. ‘The man was clothed when we went down into the cellar. I didn’t know he had undressed. I couldn’t take any chances. I knew he had killed five times at least. Possibly more. There was a member of the public there.’
‘Whom you had coerced into accompanying you. Whom you had endangered.’
‘No, not coerced. He came willingly. He wanted to help.’
‘But was it necessary, Quinn? Was it really necessary? Could you not have overpowered him? You had access to chloroform, I believe. You had already administered it to the other one, after all.’
‘Ah, but you see, the problem was, sir . . .’
‘What?’
‘He wanted to die.’
‘And so you obliged him?’
‘I could not have prevented it, even . . .’ Quinn broke off.
‘What? Eh? What were you about to say? You could not have prevented it, even if you had wanted to?’
Quinn flinched under the force of Sir Edward’s snapping rebuke. He said nothing for a moment. At last, without lifting his head to look Sir Edward in the eye, he ventured: ‘I had no choice. That is what I meant to say.’
‘“Ye did not hear; but did evil before mine eyes, and did choose that wherein I delighted not.” Isaiah, chapter sixty-five, verse twelve. You had a choice, Quinn. You always do have a choice. And always you make the same choice.’
‘Not always, sir. With respect, I feel that is rather overstating it, sir.’
‘Have there been any whom you did not kill?’
‘I feel there must have been, sir.’
‘Can you name them?’
‘My mind’s gone blank, sir. But if you were to look back over the files I am sure you would find some whom I did not kill.’
‘Oh, if they were not killed by you they were killed by your men, Inchball and Macadam? Men acting under your command.’
‘That’s unkind, sir. Sergeant Macadam only once killed a suspect and that was by accident. It was before he had fully got the hang of the motor car, sir. It wasn’t his fault the fellow ran out in front of him.’
‘You make no defence of Inchball?’
‘Sergeant Inchball is a first-rate police officer.’
‘His methods are brutal.’
‘His methods are effective, sir.’ Quinn paused a beat before adding, ‘As are mine, sir.’ So confident was he of this assertion that he repeated it. ‘As are mine.’
‘You cannot keep using that argument as your licence to do what you will. You must exercise more control, Quinn. That’s an order.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Quinn. Even to his own ears his voice sounded pathetic. ‘In those situations . . .’
He was almost grateful when Sir Edward cut him short: ‘You cannot set yourself up as judge, jury and executioner. Does the Bible not say, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Matthew, chapter seven, verse one. It has similar prescriptions against the taking of life.’
‘I found the killer.’
‘Well, that’s another thing, isn’t it? We only have your word for it that this fellow confessed to the crimes.’
‘You doubt that he was the killer, sir?’
‘Oh, I’m not saying that. It all adds up. You’ve tied it all together very neatly. But the fact remains: the man you say confessed to the crimes is no longer alive to confirm his confession, which was made only to you.’
‘I cannot help that, sir.’
�
��But it is a failing. A lamentable failing. If you are not careful, this sort of thing will be held against you.’
‘By whom, sir?’
Sir Edward pulled out some press clippings that had been included in the file. ‘I see the papers are no longer calling you “Quick-Fire Quinn”. No, now it’s “Cut-Throat Quinn”!’
‘That’s just the Clarion, sir. I think we both know what lies behind that. The Clarion has not been our friend since you threatened to arrest its editor. They see me as your man, so they attack me to get at you.’
‘What? Eh? Allow me to enlighten the eyes of your understanding, Quinn.’
Quinn suspected there was a biblical allusion behind Sir Edward’s choice of words but he was unable to place it.
‘You cut this fellow’s throat. You cut his throat! With a razor!’
‘There was nothing else to hand.’
‘That is not how you bring in a suspect. That is not consistent with self-defence. The Clarion is even hinting that you are the Exsanguinist yourself, and that you killed this fellow to divert suspicion away from yourself.’
‘Libellous!’
‘Oh, they are very clever in the way they word it. But that is clearly the inference.’
‘He was the killer. The forensic evidence was conclusive. There were traces of human blood in the back of his van. And then there was the young man whom he had drained in his cellar.’
‘Yes. I had wanted to talk to you about that, too. A civilian employee of the Met. You had no business involving him in your hazardous enterprises either.’
‘He volunteered to help.’
‘You should have refused.’
‘With hindsight, of course, I wish that I had.’
‘Too many deaths, Quinn. That’s the long and the short of it. Too many deaths.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
Sir Edward shook his head sternly. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can carry on protecting you, Quinn.’ After a moment, he added: ‘This must stop. Repent therefore and be converted. Acts, chapter three, verse nineteen. No more deaths, Quinn. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir. I understand. The Home Secretary . . .’
‘There is a higher authority even than the Home Secretary. We must think of your eternal soul, Quinn.’
‘I fear that it is already too late for that, sir.’
‘Nonsense. It is never too late. Do you attend church, Quinn?’
Quinn mumbled something in embarrassment.
‘As I thought.’ Sir Edward’s turtle head nodded in his stiff collar. ‘My life changed, you know, that day Alfred Bowes took a pot shot at me. You may find it hard to believe, but Bowes did me a great favour. I would go so far as to say it was the best thing that ever happened to me.’
‘But you nearly died, sir.’
‘Exactly, Quinn. And that was what it took for me to see things as they really are. I nearly died, but I was reborn. The scales fell from my eyes. Do not wait for the same thing to happen to you before you open your eyes to God. It may be too late.’
‘I will bear that in mind, sir.’ Quinn bowed his head as if he intended to pray. Then remembering himself, he sat up sharply. ‘Will that be all, sir?’
‘What? Eh? No. Not quite. Have you seen the papers this morning?’
Quinn shook his head. He had seen enough of the papers these last few days.
‘They’re full of this business over at the House of Blackley. You know, the department store. Lady Henry is a great devotee of the place.’ Sir Edward’s voice was laden with disapproval and regret as he made the pronouncement. It was almost as if he was accusing his wife of being a devotee of the Goddess Shiva. ‘One of the mannequins has been found dead. Murdered, it seems. The house where it happened – a house owned by Benjamin Blackley for the purpose of lodging the mannequins – is not far from our home. Lady Henry is rather upset about the whole affair. She believes she knows the girl in question. She once had a costume modelled by her.’
‘And so you wish the Special Crimes Department to look into it?’ It was Quinn’s turn to introduce a note of disapproval into his voice.
‘No, no, no, Quinn. That’s not the reason why I want Special Crimes involved. In fact, the suggestion that you take over the case did not come from me. It came from the Home Secretary himself.’
‘But I thought the Home Secretary wanted to close us down?’
‘When did I say that, Quinn?’
Quinn’s brows drew together in confusion. ‘Why does the Home Secretary want us involved, sir?’
‘The local bobbies are out of their depth. They’ve already turned themselves into a laughing stock. According to the newspapers, they’re pursuing a theory that the murder was committed by a monkey.’
‘What sort of monkey, sir?’
‘A monkey in a hat. A fez, at that. It’s clearly preposterous.’
‘I meant what species of monkey, sir.’
‘I don’t know what species!’ cried Sir Edward impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter what species. The monkey clearly had nothing to do with it. I want you to get over there and put them straight. We want it wrapped up quickly too. The papers have already dragged in Lady Ascot’s name. She and her daughter were attending a costume showing at the store at the time the body was discovered.’
‘I see. And her husband, I suppose, is a friend of the Home Secretary’s?’
‘That has nothing to do with anything, Quinn.’
‘Are there any other unusual aspects to the case that I ought to know about?’
‘Oh . . . not really,’ said Sir Edward, suddenly subdued, his eyes flicking evasively to one side and his head receding towards his winged collar, as if it would disappear inside it. ‘I dare say you’ll find out all about it when you talk to the local CID.’ He opened the file on his desk and began shuffling the papers uselessly.
Quinn knew when he was being lied to. The interesting question, of course, was why? ‘Sir Edward?’
But the commissioner would not be drawn. He closed the file and handed it to Quinn. ‘Take this away.’
Quinn obeyed. He would find out what Sir Edward was holding back soon enough.
Outside Sir Edward’s office his secretary, Miss Latterly, was at her desk. Her fingers worked tirelessly to produce a stream of angry clatter on the typewriter.
Quinn paused just in front of her. As always when he encountered Miss Latterly, he experienced a strong urge to speak to her, but was utterly at a loss as to what to say. At last he settled for: ‘I am to go to the House of Blackley.’
The frenzy of clatter intensified. He watched her fingers, fascinated.
She broke off and looked up at him. ‘Why are you telling me this? Does Sir Edward require me to provide you with anything?’
‘I was merely making conversation.’
‘I was under the impression that we had agreed to confine our exchanges to matters related strictly to our work.’
‘I beg your pardon. I had forgotten.’
‘It was only a few days ago when we made this agreement.’
‘I know, but a lot has happened to me in the meantime.’
‘You are not going to talk to me about that, are you?’ Miss Latterly went so far as to put her hands over her ears.
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.’ This was true. He had sworn to himself that he would never reveal to anyone what had really happened in that blood-damp cellar in Limehouse. ‘I thought perhaps you might wish me to bring you something from Blackley’s.’ This was not, in fact, what Quinn had been thinking. And to hear himself make the offer caused the heat of duplicity to flood his cheeks. But he was trying to extricate himself from any accusation that he wanted to engage her in a lurid conversation about murder. He knew how little she enjoyed such discussions. Perversely, however, that had not in the past prevented him from initiating them.
‘You are going on a shopping expedition? I had imagined you were going there in connection with the poor girl they found murdered.’
‘Yes, that’s true. But I thought, while I was there . . .’
‘While you are there, I trust you will focus all your energies on finding her murderer.’
‘Naturally. However, if the opportunity arises . . .’
‘I have no money to spend on fripperies.’
‘I was thinking of a gift. To make amends for the misunderstandings that have arisen between us.’ Quinn added hastily: ‘For which I am solely responsible.’
‘No, that’s out of the question. I cannot allow you to buy me a gift.’
‘It need not form the basis of any understanding between us.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.
‘As if there could be!’
‘You are quite right to insist on that. As if there could be. There is no question that there could ever be. I understand that.’
‘I am very disappointed that we are having this conversation, Inspector Quinn.’
‘As am I. I blame myself entirely.’
‘If there is nothing else you require from me . . .?’
Forgiveness? Quinn came close to saying.
Speak of the Devil
‘Here we are, sir,’ said Sergeant Macadam as he drove the car slowly along Kensington Road. ‘The House of Blackley.’
Quinn looked out of the window as they passed the front of the great emporium. The vast white structure extended across a whole block of the main street. Window after window in hypnotic monotony. Its architecture possessed a whimsical, almost dreamlike quality. It was like a pavilion, but on a vast scale, as if a garden folly had been infinitely stretched in every dimension. A series of caryatids punctuated the top storey, obscure mythical females bearing the burden of the roof between them. A central dome seemed to hover above the whole fantastic edifice, on the verge of shooting upwards into the clouds. The building’s facade contained within its design a capacity for multiplication. Look away for a moment and it would have taken over another ten yards of the high street. Quinn had the vertiginous sense that it would one day possess the whole world. No doubt that was its proprietor’s dream.
The car glided along the length of the store, so slowly they were overtaken by more than one pedestrian. Their funereal pace drew inquisitive glances, as well as horn-toots and oaths from more impatient road users. But it gave Quinn time to notice that the unbroken uniformity of the frontage was not all that it seemed. It was interrupted at one point by an opening in the wall, a vaguely ecclesiastical arch through which could be glimpsed a short path leading to an ogee-arched door. A squat, brickwork tower rose above the door, peeping over the top of the store’s facade, which was merely an empty screen at this point.