The Mannequin House

by R. N. Morris

  ‘Monkey, monkey, monkey!’

  ‘The monkey murderer!’

  ‘Ooh-ooh-ah-ah-ah-ah!’

  One girl in her exuberance even turned a perfect cartwheel.

  They are little more than children, thought Quinn.

  Did it require so little to distract them from the terror of death? Or had their dislike of Amélie been so great that they exulted in her demise?

  A further possibility occurred to Quinn: that one or more of them had had something to do with her death.

  He began to look more closely at the interactions between the girls. He noticed one whom all the others seemed to look up to; literally, because she was the tallest, but he also detected a subtle deference in their manner towards her. She was not a particularly attractive girl. Her face was too broad, her features almost coarse. And yet Quinn was fascinated by that face.

  She was the only one who seemed in control of her emotions.

  There was something going on between her and Blackley too, Quinn realized. Her glances in his direction were not the simple soliciting of approval that the other mannequins went in for. Her look transmitted first a question, then a warning. And something steelier than pleasure entered Blackley’s smile in response. He admired her, that was clear; perhaps he feared her too.

  Possibly, he wanted her.

  ‘The monkey has gone.’ Blackley was staring at the tall, broad-faced girl intently as he spoke. His words seemed to be charged with a meaning that only she would understand.

  ‘Is it a big ape?’ asked one of the other girls. ‘It must be a big ape if it’s the one what killed Amélie.’

  ‘’Course it’s the one what killed Amélie,’ said another girl. ‘There wouldn’t be another monkey on the loose, would there?’

  ‘Oh, no, it’s not big at all,’ said Blackley. ‘A tiny little fellow. I hardly think he could have been responsible for poor Amélie’s death.’

  ‘But that’s what the papers are saying.’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers, should ya?’ said the broad-faced girl, who kept her eyes on Blackley as she answered the other girl. It was the first time she had spoken. Her voice sounded remarkably mature – her tone, knowing – compared to the others.

  ‘Marie-Claude is right,’ said Blackley. ‘Newspapers are not to be trusted.’

  So, thought Quinn. This is Marie-Claude. The other girl with a fur in her wardrobe.

  She must have detected his interest in her, flashing a sly look in his direction. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends, Mr Blackley, sir?’ Her emphasis of the last word was almost sarcastic.

  ‘Oh, these gentlemen aren’t my friends!’ laughed Blackley. ‘They are policemen. Detectives.’

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Quinn of the Special Crimes Department, and this is Detective Sergeant Inchball. We will wish to talk to all you girls individually, of course.’

  ‘We’ve already spoken to the other feller,’ said Marie-Claude, with a nod towards Coddington.

  ‘Yes, but some new evidence has come to light. Besides, we are a separate department with specialist skills. We prefer to ask our own questions, in our own way.’

  ‘New evidence?’ The question came from Yeovil. ‘You didn’t mention anything about new evidence before.’

  ‘I was not under the impression that I was obliged to.’

  ‘What is this new evidence?’

  ‘Naturally I cannot divulge that information.’

  Yeovil stared fixedly into Quinn’s eyes, angling his head down slightly. At the same time he held his right hand out to Quinn, as if inviting a handshake. But when Quinn reached out to grasp the hand, it was snatched away to execute a bewilderingly complicated movement in front of Quinn’s face. At the same time, Yeovil leant forward to murmur something into Quinn’s ear. The strange thing was that Quinn was aware of hearing what Yeovil said, but almost at the same moment had forgotten the words.

  ‘Sergeant Inchball, take the young ladies inside and start going over their statements one by one.’

  ‘I’ll go over them, all right,’ said Inchball with a leer.

  The comment provoked a round of giggles from the mannequins.

  Quinn drew his sergeant to one side. ‘And you, a married man . . . a father!’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’

  Quinn glanced nervously at Coddington. ‘You heard what Macadam said. The department is under scrutiny. We must comport ourselves with the utmost propriety at all times.’

  ‘Well, yes. But with respect and all that, guv, that might be more to do with you always killing our suspects – more than with me having a cheeky larf with a bunch of pretty girls.’ Inchball winked. ‘You should try it yourself now and then, guv. You might bag yourself a lady friend. ’Course, not with this lot.’

  ‘What do you mean, not with this lot?’

  ‘Well, no offence, guv’nor, but you’re old enough to be their father. You’ll only make a fool of yourself.’

  ‘And you won’t?’

  ‘I’m just trying to set them at their ease. A little bit of friendly banter never did no harm. They seem to like it so far.’

  ‘Keep your mind on the job, Inchball. Is this how you used to behave when you were in Vice?’

  Inchball’s tone became suddenly stern. ‘That was different. These are good girls.’

  ‘Do we know that, Inchball?’

  Inchball narrowed his eyes as he assessed the mannequins.

  Quinn attempted to bring the discussion back to the investigation. ‘Did you discover anything useful from DCI Coddington’s notes?’

  ‘Shoddy work, sir.’

  Quinn glanced in Coddington’s direction. The DCI smiled back blandly. If he was curious as to what Quinn and Inchball were saying, he was too polite to show it.

  ‘Even so, look out for inconsistencies with the accounts they’ve already given. And I am particularly interested in this mystery benefactor. I have a feeling Marie-Claude may know something about that, though I am not sure you will be able to get it out of her.’

  ‘Leave it to me, guv.’ Inchball nodded and immediately set about his commission with gusto. ‘All right, you lovely ladies, who’s going to be the first to bare all to Sergeant Inchball?’ He rubbed his hands and winked at Blackley, whether to goad him or to acknowledge some kind of bond, Quinn did not know. If there was a kinship between men who were at their ease with women, he was excluded.

  Obstructions

  The garden was quiet again; the men in it suddenly bereft.

  Quinn felt himself the centre of a circle of hostile attention, as if the others blamed him for sending the mannequins away.

  ‘Well, if that will be all . . .’ began Blackley with a disappointed air.

  ‘Wait a moment, Mr Blackley, sir, if I may,’ cut in Yeovil. He turned to Coddington. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Coddington.’ Yeovil spoke slowly, his voice a deliberate monotone. ‘You need to go and help your men track down the monkey.’ He nodded repeatedly as he spoke: small, obsessive movements that seemed intended to wear away all opposition in an onslaught of positivity.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Coddington. ‘The monkey. We must catch the monkey. Everything depends on that.’ He stumbled off, half in a trance.

  With Coddington out of the way, Yeovil repeated the strange hand gesture that he had executed in front of Quinn’s face. ‘Now then, Inspector Quinn, you were about to tell us about this new evidence you have found.’

  Nearly, very nearly – his mouth was open, and he had already drawn the breath to propel the words. But at the last moment Quinn realized that something was not quite right. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry. A simple misunderstanding.’

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re up to with all this . . .’ Quinn mimed Yeovil’s peculiar hand movements. ‘Nonsense. But it won’t work with me, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I can see that. I apologize.
It’s true, I do have certain skills. A talent. But it only works on susceptible individuals.’

  ‘You were attempting to hypnotize me? You have already hypnotized DCI Coddington – it’s obvious. I suppose you put the idea of the monkey as the murderer into his head? For what reason? To divert suspicion away from your employer, Mr Blackley?’

  ‘No, no. I assure you, DCI Coddington came up with that theory, all on his own. I may have reinforced the idea in his mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was trying to help him clarify his thinking. But I did not seek to influence it. Inspector, there is no law against what I do. Indeed, you may find it a very valuable tool in your investigation. As Mr Blackley has already stated, I am at your service. I am willing to help you in any way possible.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck. Do you not realize how incriminating this is? You were seeking to exercise undue influence over a police officer. It is almost certainly an offence. No different from if you had attempted to bribe me.’

  ‘No, no, no . . . I’m sure that’s not the case. I do have some legal background, you know. I was merely attempting to assist you. I have sensed that there is some resistance in your mind to the idea of my helping you. I clumsily endeavoured to bypass that resistance. I acted in your own best interests. In the interests of the case. If you withhold details of the case from me, how can I be expected to help you?’

  ‘But you seem to overlook the fact that I have no desire for your help. I do not consider it help. I consider it the opposite of help. I consider it obstruction. Obstructing the police in the conduct of their duties most certainly is an offence. And it is one of which I take a very dim view indeed.’ Quinn turned to Blackley. ‘I advise you, Mr Blackley, to sever all connections with this man. He can only damage you.’

  He turned and trudged back to the house. The long grass whipped around his ankles, spraying droplets of moisture as he kicked his feet through it. He had to dismiss the idea that it was Yeovil exerting some power over him. It was simply the garden holding him back.

  There were two ways back into the house from the garden: a side door to the scullery, and French windows that led to a rear drawing room. Quinn chose the scullery. Truth be told, he hoped to find Miss Mortimer in the kitchen. He was keen to get a look at her after her roasting from Blackley.

  Expecting Miss Mortimer, he was mildly surprised to see the maid, stooped over the scullery sink, washing dishes. The girl had her back to the door, so wasn’t aware of his entrance. Even from behind he could sense her unhappiness. She had the slumped, defeated posture of one who had so often been made to feel worthless that she had come to believe it. He stood for a moment watching her as she absent-mindedly splashed the pots with lather and swung them clumsily on to the draining board. She sang tunelessly to herself all the while. It was a mournful, vaguely Celtic sound, all the sadder for having an undertone of resignation to it.

  He remembered that Coddington had described her as ‘simple’.

  ‘Kathleen, is it?’

  The girl jumped and dropped a pan into the sink, splashing soapy water all over herself. ‘Sweet Mary, mother of God!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘You frightened me!’ She kept her back to him, cowering away from his sight.

  ‘I am sorry. Please, there’s nothing to be frightened of. I am a policeman. My name is Mr Quinn.’ Quinn decided that there was little to be gained from giving his rank. It would only serve to intimidate her further.

  ‘Policeman?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m here to try to find out what happened to Amélie.’

  ‘Dead. Amélie’s dead.’

  ‘I know that. Did you like Amélie?’

  ‘Yes. She went to church with me.’

  ‘She was a Catholic? Of course. You went to church together? The church on Kensington Road?’

  She flinched at each of his questions but offered no answers.

  ‘Our Lady of the Sacred Heart,’ remembered Quinn.

  Kathleen nodded stiffly. She had still not turned to face Quinn. ‘Father Thomas.’

  ‘You cleaned her room?’

  ‘It was dirty. Horrible.’

  ‘I understand. Did anyone tell you to clean it?’

  ‘I did it for Amélie. She shouldna oughta have that monkey. If Mr Blackley finds out, she’ll be in big trouble.’

  ‘But you cleaned up the mess after Amélie was dead, did you not?’

  Kathleen gave a jump, like a nervous mouse.

  ‘You didn’t want Mr Blackley to think badly of her? Was that it?’

  Kathleen turned slowly towards him, her plump face creased and red with consternation. ‘Mr Blackley is the Devil.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Kathleen?’

  ‘Father Thomas said so.’

  ‘I see. Why did he say that, do you think?’

  But Kathleen had clammed up. She returned to her task with an intensified vigour, scrubbing away at the bottom of a pan.

  Quinn heard raised voices from the next room. He recognized one as Miss Mortimer’s; the other was a male voice he had not heard before. Realizing that he was unlikely to get anything more out of Kathleen, he stepped through into the kitchen to investigate.

  A row seemed to be in progress between the housekeeper and a slender, immaculately turned-out man.

  ‘I’m telling you, the girls must have their lunch now!’

  ‘And I’m telling you, they’ll get their lunch as soon as it’s ready!’

  ‘Mr Blackley will not be pleased.’

  ‘I can’t do anything about that. He will have to take it up with the police. It’s the police’s fault I am behind today.’

  Quinn decided this would be a good point at which to make his presence known. ‘Monsieur Hugo, is it?’ Although he was confident in this identification, Quinn allowed a note of uncertainty to enter his voice.

  ‘Oui, je suis Hugo. Et vous?’

  ‘Ah yes, very good. French. I see. I get it. You’re Monsieur Hugo and you speak French. Only I did just hear you speaking to Miss Mortimer. Your accent sounded more Balham than Boulogne.’

  Monsieur Hugo considered his options for a moment, then demanded, without a hint of a French accent: ‘Who are you when you’re at home?’

  ‘I am Detective Inspector Quinn, of the Special Crimes Department.’

  ‘A copper.’

  ‘That’s right. Very good command of English vernacular you have there.’

  ‘Aw righ’, aw righ’. I’m not French, I admit it. Is it a crime?’

  ‘That depends. Real name?’

  ‘Hugh Leversage.’

  ‘And you pretend to be French for what reason?’

  ‘The ladies like it.’

  ‘The ladies?’

  ‘Customers. It’s good for business. Besides, me ma’s French, so it’s not exactly a lie, is it?’

  ‘I see. I need to talk to you about the events of Tuesday night. Perhaps we could go somewhere and leave Miss Mortimer to get on with her duties?’

  Leversage gave Quinn a quick look of appraisal. ‘We can talk in my room.’

  Before accepting the invitation, Quinn paused to study Miss Mortimer. She met his enquiring glance with a look of impassive calm. One eyebrow rippled, perhaps quizzically, perhaps ironically. Her recent brush with the rough edge of Blackley’s tongue had left her curiously unperturbed. He could only deduce that she was used to it.

  It was clear that Leversage took pride in his room. As he held open the door for Quinn there was the hint of a challenge in his gaze. He seemed to be defying Quinn to criticize what he was about to see.

  Leversage’s taste was what was commonly described as ‘artistic’. Indeed, it was almost confrontationally so. The fabrics that hung on his walls were in garish colours, like the abstract paintings that might be found in a modernist art exhibition. His furniture was upholstered in a similarly bold style, so that when Quinn sat down on a gaudy ottoman he half expected to hear the c
rack of a splintering picture frame.

  A poster for the Ballets Russes and sketches of dancers’ costumes declared a theatrical bent.

  Leversage raised an eyebrow, inviting comment, but Quinn kept his counsel. ‘Your position here in the mannequin house is rather interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You are the only man.’

  Leversage gave a small moue of inconsequentiality, as if the observation had never occurred to him before now.

  ‘I have heard it said that Mr Blackley does not like men to come to the house. Apart from you. And himself, of course.’

  ‘Mr Blackley has the girls’ best interests at heart. He is like a father to them.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship to the mannequins?’

  ‘I’m more like a brother. A big brother.’

  ‘Tell me about Amélie.’

  Leversage fanned the emotion away from his face. His eyelids fluttered as if he was struggling with tears. ‘That poor girl.’

  ‘You were fond of her?’

  ‘I loved her,’ insisted Leversage. ‘Like a brother,’ he added quickly.

  Quinn thought for a moment how best to respond to that. ‘I . . . yes . . . I believe you. But the other girls . . .’

  ‘Oh.’ Leversage shook his head dismissively. ‘The other girls were jealous of her. It goes without saying. Only natural, you understand. She was so . . . good. So perfect. So much better than them. But they din’ mean nothin’ by it. They’re good girls really. Honest, they are.’

  ‘So you don’t think one of them could have been responsible?’

  ‘One o’ my girls do that? Are you crazy?’

  ‘Are you aware that Amélie had a fur coat and fur stole in her wardrobe? And many other expensive items in her room.’

  ‘I never saw her wearing anything like that.’

  ‘But it doesn’t surprise you?’

  ‘I din’ say that. I find it very surprising, if you must know.’

  ‘Have you any idea how she came by them?’

  ‘No idea at all.’

  ‘She didn’t receive them from you, as a reward for her work at the store?’