by R. N. Morris
They were joined in the garden by Macadam, who had with him two men. Quinn recognized Blackley. The other was a large individual in an Inverness cape with a monocle lodged in one eye.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Blackley. At the sound of his voice the monkey gave vent to a scream of distress.
Blackley was clearly a man used to taking charge. Despite the brusqueness of his tone, he wore an easy smile that was no doubt intended to charm away any opposition to his commands. Perhaps that smile was a little too determined; it might even be described as fixed. But under the present circumstances that was understandable.
‘We have found the monkey, sir,’ said DCI Coddington – redundantly, it had to be said, as everyone was now looking up at the animal in question. The din of jabbering put an additional strain on Blackley’s immovable smile.
Blackley and the man in the Inverness cape exchanged a look, the meaning of which was not clear to Quinn. The word ‘conspiratorial’ came to mind. ‘Mr Blackley?’ Quinn held out his hand. ‘I am Detective Inspector Quinn of the Special Crimes Department, Scotland Yard.’
‘I see. Very well . . . The more the merrier, I suppose.’
Quinn turned to Blackley’s companion. ‘Who is this gentleman?’
‘This is Mr Yeovil.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,’ said Quinn. ‘Why is he here?’
‘He acts for me in a number of capacities, in particular as a legal adviser. He happened to be in the store so I asked him to accompany me.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that, sir,’ put in Sergeant Macadam. ‘Mr Blackley refused to come until he had tracked down the other gentleman.’
‘As I said, I value his legal expertise. In addition, he has some experience as a private investigator. I commend his services to you. He can be Sherlock Holmes to your Inspector Lestrade.’
‘There is more to being a detective than wearing outlandish clothes and affecting eccentric habits.’ Quinn flashed a look towards Coddington to make sure the message was not lost on him either.
‘That’s true enough,’ said Yeovil, his voice a booming rumble from deep within his great chest. ‘One must understand the psychology of the criminal. To put it another way, one must think like a criminal. It helps if one has personal acquaintance with the darker side of human nature. Is that not so, Inspector?’ He gave Quinn a knowing look, seeming to wink from behind his monocle.
Quinn had no time for the charlatan’s antics. ‘Besides, there is a conflict of interest in Mr Yeovil’s involvement, surely. He is acting on your behalf. And yet, you may yourself be the murderer.’
‘I? But that is an outrageous accusation!’
‘It is slanderous,’ advised Mr Yeovil.
‘I am not yet in possession of enough evidence to rule anything out. You have a reputation, Mr Blackley, for controlling every aspect of your employees’ lives. Perhaps that now extends to their deaths too?’
‘You go too far, sir,’ said Mr Blackley’s legal adviser. ‘On what evidence do you base these evil suppositions?’
‘Amélie Dupin worked as a mannequin in the Costumes Salon of your store, is that not so?’
‘Of course.’
‘And this is the house where the mannequins reside?’
‘Yes.’
‘The location of which is a closely guarded secret, is it not? Indeed, may we not go further to say that you are one of very few men who know the address?’
‘I didn’t kill her,’ said Blackley bluntly, his northern vowels asserting themselves more noticeably than before. ‘Why would I? Amélie was one of my best mannequins. No – the best,’ Blackley corrected himself. ‘It’s the mannequins that sell the costumes, you know. My lady customers look at the mannequins and see themselves – perhaps as they dream of being, or perhaps as they once were. It was not in my interests to harm her – she was a valuable commercial asset. And another thing, this sort of affair is very bad for business, you know. A murder, and all the scandal associated with it . . . It’s the last thing I need.’
‘Not necessarily. I’m sure you are familiar with the notion that there is no such thing as bad publicity. There was a major fire at your store a few years ago, I believe. If I remember correctly from my reading of newspaper accounts, afterwards you actually experienced an increase in sales. Customers were not dissuaded by the prospect of being burnt alive; rather they were drawn to Blackley’s, whether out of sympathy for your misfortune or out of a ghoulish fascination, who can say?’
‘Are you now suggesting that I set the fire myself? The cost of the damage was barely covered by any sales increase, not to mention the inconvenience.’
‘And the loss of life?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’ Though, in fact, he had not mentioned it.
At that moment, Miss Mortimer returned to the garden holding a banana in front of her between her thumb and forefinger, as if it were an object of some distaste to her. ‘This is the nearest thing to a banana I could find.’
The sound of her voice provoked a similar response from the monkey as Blackley’s had. A scream of rage.
Coddington took the banana and peeled it. He held the fruit up to the monkey. ‘Come on, little chap. Doesn’t that look tasty? A lovely banana. All yours. That’s it.’
Coddington’s plan seemed to be working. The monkey worked its way gingerly along the branch nearest the banana. As the creature approached, Coddington withdrew the prize a little, forcing the monkey to advance even further. The two uniforms closed in on either side, presumably in anticipation of snatching the animal as soon as it came within reach.
‘That’s it, my little friend. Come and get it,’ murmured Coddington.
The noises from the monkey were calmer now. The prospect of a banana seemed to have had a soothing effect.
‘He’s quite tame, really,’ Coddington said. But his smile of triumph proved to be premature. Until this point the monkey’s movements had been slow and tentative, responding to the man’s encouragements. It gave every impression of docility.
With a sudden dart it flashed out a hand and snapped off the top of the banana, scampering back into the deepest part of the tree, where it proceeded to gobble down its unexpected meal.
‘Cheeky blighter!’ cried Coddington. ‘All right, PC Masterhouse. Get up there and get it.’
‘Me, sir?’ asked one of the uniforms disconsolately.
‘Is there anyone else here called Masterhouse?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, then. Up you go.’
Masterhouse looked up uncertainly at the spreading branches and the monkey hiding within. One more unenthusiastic glance towards his governor told him that there would be no way out of this.
He removed his helmet and handed it to the other uniform to hold. Then spat on his palms and rubbed them together. Next he circled the tree repeatedly, as if he was looking for the stairs.
‘Get on with it, man! We haven’t got all day.’
Masterhouse swallowed unhappily. At last he grasped one of the boughs and attempted to pull himself up. The tree began to shake, prompting the monkey to screech. There was an alarming creak as if the branch would snap. Masterhouse let go. ‘I don’t think it will bear my weight, sir. Perhaps it would be better if I had a ladder.’
Coddington nodded impatiently. ‘You, Miss Mortimer. Is there a ladder?’
‘Is there a ladder? Good grief, what a question!’
‘It seems a perfectly reasonable question to me,’ objected Coddington.
‘What would we be doing with a ladder?’
‘You might have one for maintenance jobs.’
‘The maintenance team from the store takes care of all that,’ said Blackley. ‘They have their own ladder. A very long one.’
‘You will have to manage without a ladder then, Masterhouse,’ said Coddington. ‘Lappett, give him a leg up.’
The second uniform looked down at the helmet he was holding, his expression every bit as doleful as Masterhouse’s had
been when told to climb the tree.
Coddington was having none of it. He snatched the helmet out of Lappett’s hands. ‘Here, give me that. You men . . . I don’t know.’
Lappett stooped and cradled his hands for Masterhouse’s boot. A strenuous lurch had the latter up in the tree, straddled over the apex of the trunk. His expression registered utter mystification at finding himself there.
‘The monkey, Masterhouse! Get the monkey!’ shouted Coddington.
But it was too late. The monkey scurried to the top of the tree, from where it leapt on to the high fence at the bottom of the garden. It perched there for a moment before disappearing over with a barrage of screeches.
The Mask Slips
If that was mockery, it was nothing compared to the sound that they heard next: the laughter that came from Miss Mortimer at the monkey’s escape. An utterly startling sound, it drew the attention of every man in the garden. And now that she had unleashed it, it seemed that Miss Mortimer was powerless to stop it. It was wilder, stranger than mockery. It was unhinged. Hysteria.
‘Shut up, you stupid woman!’ The outburst came from Blackley, his face screwed up as tightly as a fist, beetroot red in his rage. His affable smile, for once, was nowhere to be seen. ‘What in damnation are you laughing at? Someone has died. Do you understand? Have you any idea of the gravity of the situation? Well, have you? You, you, you . . . imbecile?’ He waited for an answer. But she was too shocked by the ferocity of his onslaught to say anything. ‘Of course not. You have never understood a bloody thing throughout the whole of your useless life.’
Miss Mortimer’s face was drained of colour. Her lips were compressed so tightly that they practically vanished.
Blackley shook his head in dismissal. His rage had settled into something colder, more devastating: contempt. ‘Get out of my sight.’
Miss Mortimer’s head hung down. She walked away with the stiff, jerky movements of a scolded child.
Quinn was surprised to find that he felt sorry for her. He turned his attention to the man who had inflicted her misery. The choleric heat still showed in Blackley’s complexion. It would take some moments for the blood to retreat. However, his irrepressible smile was back in place. If anything, bolder and brassier than before.
‘Now then, gentlemen . . . do you have any further questions or may I return to work? I hope you will not consider me rude if I remind you that I am a very busy man.’ Blackley gave the last words a patronizing emphasis, almost avuncular, as if he were addressing young children.
‘What’s over that fence?’ asked Quinn.
Another look passed between Blackley and Yeovil. A nod from the legal adviser released the answer from Blackley. ‘I believe the garden backs on to our dispatch yard.’ The smile quivered but came through.
‘You mean the dispatch yard for the House of Blackley?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘How does one get to it?’
‘There is access on Abingdon Road.’
Quinn glanced at Coddington, who took the hint. ‘Masterhouse, Lappett. Get round there.’
The constable in the tree dropped to the ground, staggering upright as he landed. ‘I think I’ve just sprained my ankle, sir.’
‘Nonsense. Get after that monkey now, both of you.’
Masterhouse took his helmet back from Coddington with a wince of pain and limped away after Lappett.
‘Shall I go with them, sir?’ Macadam asked of Quinn. ‘I have a chum who is a keeper at London Zoo.’
‘What the bleedin’ hell use is that?’ cried Inchball.
Macadam was undeterred. ‘I remember him once telling me about a technique he had for putting agitated monkeys at their ease. You mustn’t look at them in the eye. The important thing, if I remember rightly . . .’
‘There’s no time for that, Macadam,’ said Quinn. ‘Just get round there and offer the constables your assistance.’
Macadam hurried away with a bow, while Inchball shook his head, muttering incredulously.
‘Will that be all?’ said Blackley, drawing himself up complacently.
‘I have one more question for you, sir, if you don’t mind,’ said Quinn. ‘Miss Mortimer tells me that you occasionally stay at the mannequin house. There is a spare room kept ready for you. Did you stay there the night before last?’
‘Now hold on a minute,’ interrupted Yeovil. ‘Without knowing at all what Mr Blackley might say in answer to that question, I find I must intercede on his behalf. Come now, Inspector. You know he cannot be expected to reveal information that might incriminate him. He is under no obligation to answer such an offensive question – one that is highly damaging to both his personal and commercial reputation. If you intend to arrest Mr Blackley, then by all means do so. But you should not forget that he has rights. And by Christ, you’d better be sure that you have evidence before taking such an egregious step!’
Blackley’s smile gave the impression that he would love to answer Quinn’s question if only he could; regrettably he was gagged by his legal adviser.
‘It is a routine question. Naturally we’re asking everyone about their whereabouts at the time of the murder.’
‘So, you have established a time of death?’ There was a glint of sunlight on Yeovil’s monocle. It gave his face a mischievous twinkle.
‘We don’t yet have an officially confirmed time of death. But we are working on a theory that it was sometime on Tuesday night. Mr Blackley, where were you that night?’
‘No,’ insisted Yeovil firmly. ‘I really can’t allow it.’
‘If he was in the house he might have heard, or seen, something significant. His refusal to cooperate can only be interpreted as a sign of guilt.’
‘Under law, it can be interpreted in no such way. Besides, do you not think, wherever he stayed that night, if Mr Blackley had seen or heard anything significant, he would have already come forward?’
Blackley held up his hand to restrain his legal adviser. ‘It’s all right, Yeovil. I have nothing to hide. Naturally I want to get this business cleared up as soon as possible. I will therefore help the police in any way I can. I worked late that night, it’s true. But I didn’t stay at the mannequin house.’
‘Where did you stay?’
‘I worked through the night. At least that was my intention. I may have fallen asleep at my desk. It has been known to happen.’
‘And is there anyone who can corroborate this?’
‘Really!’ protested Yeovil. ‘You have Mr Blackley’s word. Mr Blackley’s word is his bond. He is known to be a businessman of absolute integrity. You may ask anyone about that!’
Quinn sighed.
‘I’m afraid I don’t think there is,’ said Blackley. ‘I was alone. I sent my secretary, Petherington, home at midnight. But by the same token, I vouch that you will not find anyone to testify that I left the store.’
Quinn decided that there was little to be gained from pushing Blackley, especially with Yeovil in attendance.
‘The upshot is, Inspector, that Mr Blackley is unable to tell you anything about the happenings at the mannequin house on the night of the girl’s death. I think you will have to agree that there is nothing to be gained from the further questioning of Mr Blackley.’
Quinn could not have continued the interview even if he’d wanted to. At that moment the garden was invaded by shrieks and giggles. A small riot of young women swept towards them, eyes gleaming with an almost predatory excitement. The mannequins, Quinn presumed.
Quinn acknowledged a complex mixture of emotions at the arrival of the mannequins. As a man he experienced a frisson of sexual interest, which in his case was both pathetic and absurd. None of these girls would have looked twice at him, except perhaps as an object of authority and therefore fear. And yet, given his own unhappy history with the fairer sex, it was he who was afraid of them, he had to admit.
A wild unpredictability animated the group. At first sight their mood seemed to be one of nervous hilarity. Bu
t Quinn realized there was more to it than that. They bubbled like a pot of boiling water with a dangerous energy. They were in a state of suppressed panic, he realized. Whatever their feelings towards the dead girl, they must have been afraid. A murderer had entered their abode and struck down one of their number. They took refuge in the heedless giddiness that was expected of them. But its tenor today was fierce and fey and empty. They seemed curiously heartless beings.
The unruly explosion of female youth was more wilful and uncontrollable than the monkey.
To the staid middle-aged men in the garden, it felt as though they were outnumbered. But once Quinn’s emotional responses settled down, he was able to see that there were only four girls, though their excitability and restless mobility made it hard to count them. The men, in fact, outnumbered the girls. But were less vital presences.
Quinn instinctively glanced at Blackley to compare his own reactions to those of the great man. Far from being made uncomfortable by the arrival of the mannequins, Blackley was clearly in his element. He basked in their energy, as harsh and feral as it was. For the first time the smile on his face seemed genuinely one of pleasure. He positively beamed. Quinn was reminded of the expression on Mrs Ibbott’s cat Mr Percy when he was being petted by Miss Ibbott. At the same time, Blackley almost seemed to increase in physical size. There was a sense that he was squaring up to the other men there, as if he was ready to face down any challenge to his dominance over the group of females. Of course, there was no one there who would have made such a challenge.
For their part, the mannequins were naturally drawn to Blackley. Their coquettish looks and giggles were, first and foremost, offerings for him. And he accepted them, expected them, as his right.
The sight struck Quinn as distasteful – grotesque almost, coming so soon after Amélie’s death.
Quinn realized that he hated and envied the man in equal measure: the same emotions he felt towards his landlady’s cat.
What the mannequins’ eyes were hunting for, it soon became apparent, was a glimpse of the monkey.
‘Where is he?’
‘Where’s that monkey?’