by R. N. Morris
‘Inspector Quinn, I presume? DCI Coddington. Come on up – we’ve been waiting for you.’
So this was Coddington. Quinn felt immediately that he had nothing to fear.
‘You won’t be needing me anymore, then?’ said the housekeeper.
‘We may have some questions for you later.’
‘I’ve already spoken to the other one.’
‘Yes, of course. But in an investigation such as this it is often necessary for us to interview witnesses a number of times as we go over their evidence and make new discoveries.’
‘I’m not a witness. I didn’t see anything.’
‘You found the body. You knew the deceased. You may have witnessed something significant without realizing it. Please don’t go anywhere without letting us know.’
‘Where would I go? I have work to do.’ Her resentful emphasis suggested that the policemen, on the other hand, were merely engaged in some kind of idle horseplay. She nodded tersely and disappeared towards the back of the house.
Quinn looked up at Coddington, who was waiting expectantly at the top of the stairs. That great drooping moustache dominated his face, at the same time as sapping it of any intelligence or energy. Quinn presumed there was a mouth beneath it because he had heard the man speak. Facial hair was all very well; it might even be considered necessary on a man. But one mustn’t let it get out of hand. That, at any rate, was Quinn’s position, whose own moustache was so minimal as to be hardly worthy of comment.
It looked far too much as if Coddington had grown the moustache in another attempt to look the part. It was his bid for a trademark feature of his own. And yet he evidently lacked confidence in it, because he had felt the need to appropriate Quinn’s use of the Ulster.
‘Very glad to have you on the case,’ said Coddington, extending his hand as Quinn reached the first landing. But the shifty flicker of his eyes belied his welcome. Quinn suspected that DCI Coddington was one of those who were capable of saying the precise opposite of what they meant, if they felt it would serve their ends better than the truth. ‘Of course, your reputation precedes you.’
Quinn nodded tersely as he shook Coddington’s hand; there was more than one way to take that remark. ‘Are you not hot in your coat?’
Coddington frowned in confusion as he led the way along the first-floor landing. He kept his head half-turned back towards Quinn. He managed a deferential expression, or perhaps it was simply wariness. It couldn’t have been easy for him, as the higher rank, to have Quinn catapulted in to take over his case. ‘I . . . uhm . . . I had not really thought about it. We have been so busy, you see. I had no time to hang up my coat.’
Quinn decided to let it go. ‘What have you discovered so far?’
‘The dead girl is a professional mannequin at the House of Blackley. A French girl by the name of Amélie Dupin. It appears she was strangled. We’re still waiting on the ME’s full report but Doctor Prendergast, who examined the body at the scene of crime, confirmed that the facial appearance was consistent with strangulation. There was blood in her eyes. And a red silk scarf around her neck, which we assume to be the murder weapon.’
‘Do we have a time of death yet?’
‘Doctor Prendergast was able to offer the opinion that death occurred sometime during the evening or night of this Tuesday, March thirty-first. That is consistent with witness statements. She was last seen returning to the mannequin house that evening. She locked herself in her room and did not take her evening meal with the other mannequins, which apparently was nothing unusual. She failed to turn up for work yesterday morning. Mr Blackley sent someone round from the store to find out what had happened to her and her dead body was discovered.’
‘I hear you are pursuing the theory that the murderer is a monkey?’
There was a derisive snort from Inchball.
Coddington dipped his head in embarrassment. ‘Well, no, I . . . obviously not. That would be . . . absurd. I merely happened to make a jocular remark to a colleague to the effect that I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be the monkey. Unbeknownst to me, there was a journalist in earshot.’
‘But why that particular attempt at jocularity? What is the monkey’s part in all this?’
Coddington’s demeanour became guarded. ‘You haven’t been told?’
‘I have been told nothing. Other than that a girl is dead.’
‘You haven’t read the newspapers?’
‘I prefer not to. I would rather hear the details myself from the senior officer of the local CID. I know from first-hand experience how the gutter press can twist things round.’
Coddington smiled tentatively and even risked an appreciative nod. ‘The case has a number of extraordinary features. The door was locked from the inside.’
‘From the inside? How can you be sure?’ So this was the detail that Sir Edward had deliberately kept back. He was sending Quinn to investigate a locked-room mystery. No wonder Coddington was out of his depth.
‘Amélie’s key was still in the lock.’
‘I see.’
‘Making it impossible for anyone to have locked the door with another key from the other side. The windows were fastened too. The room was sealed, in fact. There was no way the murderer could have made his escape. However, the dead girl was not alone in the room.’
‘The monkey?’
‘Yes!’ Coddington appeared unduly impressed by Quinn’s guess. After all, the animal had to fit into the jigsaw somewhere. Quinn was beginning to doubt the man’s sincerity. He couldn’t possibly be as stupid as he appeared to be. ‘When Arbuthnot and Miss Mortimer knocked on the door, the monkey calmly turned the key. The door was opened and the beast ran off.’
‘I see. And so, it was natural to presume that the monkey . . .’
‘I made no such presumption, I tell you!’ The force of Coddington’s insistence suggested that this was precisely the assumption he had made.
Quinn attempted a conciliatory tone. ‘I was merely going to say that it was natural to presume that the monkey must be involved in some way. If not as perpetrator, then as accomplice. He could have locked the door after the murderer had got away. At the very least, he is a witness.’
Coddington frowned. His oversized moustache twitched as if it was a small dog sniffing out a scent. ‘Are you serious?’ A look of almost cunning came into his eyes as he scrutinized Quinn.
‘Are you familiar with the works of Edgar Allan Poe? There is one story, The Murders in the Rue Morgue.’
‘But that is fiction . . .?’ Coddington’s objection was tinged with a touching hope that Quinn might be able to persuade him to the contrary.
‘I believe it was based on a real case.’
Coddington’s moustache became suddenly enlivened; his eyes took on a dangerous gleam. ‘Yes!’ The DCI suddenly clamped one hand over his moustache, as if he was afraid that in its excitement it would bolt from his face. ‘I confess, it was that story that gave me the idea.’
‘If it could happen once . . .’
‘It could happen again!’
‘And did Sherlock Holmes not say something along the lines of, “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth.”’
‘The Sign of the Four!’ Coddington held out his hand for Quinn to shake again. ‘I have a feeling you and I are going to get along just fine, Inspector Quinn. Just fine!’
Quinn caught Inchball’s scornful glance. And now it was his turn to give a well-what-do-you-expect shrug.
The Weeping Mannequin
The sound was animal and raw, a constant stream of small, emotional explosions, each somewhere between a sob and a yelp. Quinn thought of something tender and blind being pulled from deep within a bed of pain. Repeatedly.
He held up his hand to halt Coddington.
‘That’s Albertine,’ said Coddington. ‘One of the other mannequins. She was very close to the deceased. The only one of the girls here that was, apparently.’
&nbs
p; Quinn rapped quietly on the door and opened it.
A single bed practically filled the room. It sat on top of a zebra-striped rug that took up what little floor space there was. The girl sitting on the edge of the bed, framed by the doorway, was the physical embodiment of the sound he had just heard, a sound which was shockingly amplified now that there was nothing between Quinn and its source. She was wrapped in a rather tatty rust-coloured dressing gown several sizes too large for her. Either it belonged to somebody else, or it had once fitted her and she had shrivelled inside it. The damp pallor of her face was reminiscent of a plate of tripe; or perhaps of something even more unseemly: his own flesh after he had lain too long in the bath. Her frail body appeared to be twisted together from pipe cleaners. How it supported her enormous doll’s head was a mystery.
She barely acknowledged Quinn’s intrusion. The heavy swivel of her eyes was devoid of all curiosity; no room for anything but anguish there. If she looked at Quinn at all, it was not to take him in but to transmit her suffering. This was done involuntarily, of course. The savage, raucous gulps that convulsed her did not abate. How could they? She had no power to control them.
‘I wanted to look at her grief,’ said Quinn as he closed the door on her.
Coddington nodded as if what Quinn had just said was standard procedure. ‘All the other mannequins are at the store. Clearly she is too distressed to model clothes successfully.’
‘You have taken statements from the others?’
‘Of course.’ Coddington took out a notebook from the inside pocket of his Ulster. ‘I took them myself. Given the seriousness of the crime, I thought it best. Would you like to read them now?’
‘I’ll have a look round first, I think.’
Coddington pocketed the notebook. ‘Whatever you think best.’ Was there a hint of resentment at Quinn’s rebuff? It was clear that Coddington was proud of the statements he had taken, and was eager to share them. He gestured to the door next to Albertine’s. ‘This is the dead girl’s room. Her body has been taken to the morgue, of course, but everything else has been left as it was found.’
Quinn crouched down and peered into the keyhole. ‘The key is still in the lock, I see. Have you examined it?’
‘It has been dusted for fingerprints.’
‘And?’
‘It was wiped. The only imprints found are thought to be the monkey’s. They are too small to be human.’
‘Wiped, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably not by the monkey,’ observed Quinn drily as he stood up.
‘Well, no. Obviously not. That is to say, we don’t know who wiped the key.’ Coddington appeared wounded by the quip.
The talk of fingerprints reminded Quinn to don the white cotton gloves that Macadam insisted he wear when examining crime scenes.
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Coddington, following his example. ‘You can be sure that I ordered my men to take scrupulous care in preserving the integrity of the crime scene.’
Quinn gave a non-committal nod. In truth, he disliked the gloves and often forgot to wear them. He valued the direct touch of his skin against some object that the victim, and quite possibly the murderer, had handled. In his mind, a kind of communion took place. Of course, he would never admit it to his eminently rational and scientifically-minded sergeant.
Quinn realized that he would have to play it by the book this time. He couldn’t afford a single slip-up. Besides, he no longer believed that the insights he gained through his fingertips were more valuable than any information the forensic boys could provide. The last case had cured him of that particular delusion. He knew that if he was going to survive as the Head of Special Crimes he would have to change his methods. But if he changed his methods, would he still be able to do the job?
The art of detection was a strange combination of evidential analysis, ratiocination and instinct. A delicate balance. For it to work, all three elements were required in equal measure. But the problem with instinct was that it did not come when bidden. To summon it, he relied on superstitious rituals such as handling vital evidence with his bare hands. Putting on the cotton gloves was to create a barrier between Quinn and the part of himself that solved crimes, or so he believed.
Quinn began to examine the outside of the door, lightly running his gloved hands over its surface. He got nothing back, of course. The cotton layer sealed him off from the world he was investigating. He stood back and considered the door as a whole. ‘Did the monkey open the door itself?’
‘I don’t know. Is it important?’
‘If it had the strength to open the door . . . What kind of monkey is it, do we know?’
‘A small monkey, the witnesses said. The kind people keep as pets. Silver grey in colour. A macaque, we believe.’
‘Did it belong to Amélie?’
‘No. Not that anyone knew. The girls are not allowed to keep pets. Mr Blackley is very strict about that, apparently. However, we found a cage in her room. Hidden in her wardrobe.’
‘So the monkey first escaped from the cage and then the wardrobe, before unlocking the door to the room?’
‘I suppose he must have,’ said Coddington.
‘Clever monkey,’ said Inchball.
Quinn gestured for Coddington to open the door, with the forlorn air of someone relinquishing a long-coveted privilege.
The first thing that he noticed was the smell, a mixture of disinfectant and faeces.
‘Apparently, there was quite a lot of monkey shit about the place when they opened it up,’ explained Coddington. ‘According to the housekeeper, there was even some on the walls. Presumably, the animal threw it about when it became agitated. Naturally – though perhaps regrettably – the maid cleaned it all up before the police arrived.’
‘I thought you said the room had been left untouched?’
‘Well, apart from that, yes. I made sure of it myself.’
‘So, apart from it being completely cleaned with chemical disinfectant, it was untouched?’
‘Yes.’
‘And so the chances of us finding any significant clues are wiped away at the stroke of a cloth?’
‘I understand your frustration, Quinn.’ Coddington’s omission of Quinn’s rank in addressing him was a pointed reminder of his own superiority, his pretended deference for the other detective’s superior powers momentarily forgotten. He sounded tetchy. ‘But there was nothing we could do about it. We gave strict instructions that nothing was to be touched. . . .’ Coddington appeared to remember himself; his tone became more conciliatory. ‘But you know women. It was done before we got here.’
The room was larger than its neighbour, and contained more in the way of furnishings. It was full of a vaguely feminine clutter: knick-knacks on shelves, clothes spread across a chair, framed artistic prints on the walls. They were of a similar style to the prints in the hallway, though of rural scenes, rather than Parisian.
The key was still in the door. Quinn took it out to examine more closely. It was a basic design, a cylindrical shaft with teeth at one end and a bow for gripping it at the other. The bow was a rounded trapezium, with the narrower end towards the shaft, and a hole in the middle for attaching it to a key ring. But there was, in fact, no ring linked to it. This in itself struck Quinn as unusual. ‘This is the key that was found in the door?’ He wanted to be sure.
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
Quinn handed the key to Coddington. ‘I would like it sent to the forensics boys at New Scotland Yard. Could you arrange that, please?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have it marked for the attention of Charlie Cale.’
Quinn picked up a small fabric-covered box with a key sticking out of one side. He wound the key and sprang the lid. A tiny porcelain ballerina pirouetted to a twinkling melody.
Quinn sensed Coddington watching him closely as he waited for the music box to wind down. He couldn’t be sure whether the other man’s scrutiny was critical or merely
interested. Quinn did not quite trust the eagerly expectant gaze that met him when he turned back to Coddington. ‘The theme from Swan Lake,’ said Quinn as he replaced the object on the shelf.
‘Is it important?’
‘It could be. At this stage, anything and everything could turn out to have a vital significance. Or none at all.’
‘You don’t know what a wonderful opportunity – indeed, what an honour – it is for me to be able to work alongside you, Inspector.’
Quinn frowned. He couldn’t work out what Coddington’s game was. Quinn had never encountered a DCI so completely devoid of egotism as Coddington would have to be to mean what he said. Perhaps he was simply trying to recover ground after his slip-up over the crime scene. He wanted to ingratiate himself back into Quinn’s good opinion. If it wasn’t that, it was something more sinister. One thing was certain: the soft-soap act was designed to hoodwink him in some way.
Quinn turned to the bed, single like the one in the next room, though in fact it appeared smaller, lost in the larger space surrounding it. The mattress dipped in the middle, as if it bore the imprint of the dead girl’s presence.
‘That was where she was found,’ said Coddington.
The room’s monumental wardrobe drew Quinn’s attention, a looming mausoleum of dark wood tucked against one wall. ‘Was this where the monkey was confined?’ asked Quinn. He opened the wardrobe door and saw the gilded cage in the bottom, the flimsy door hanging open.
‘Yes. Presumably Amélie was worried about the pet being discovered.’
‘It’s not much of a life for the poor fellow.’
‘Motive, sir?’ asked Inchball mischievously. ‘Monkey becomes dissatisfied with its life in the gilded cage, hidden away in the dark of the wardrobe. Escapes and murders his gaoler?’