The Mannequin House

by R. N. Morris

  ‘She most certainly did not.’

  ‘Could she have stolen them?’

  ‘Amélie would never . . .!’

  ‘Then the only possible explanation is that someone gave them to her. A man, for instance.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘But you knew Amélie. You can help me guess who might have given them to her. It must have been someone wealthy, must it not?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you.’

  ‘Did you see Mr Blackley in the mannequin house on the night of Tuesday the thirty-first of March?’

  ‘Mr Blackley?’ There was an unmistakable note of panic in Leversage’s stalling.

  ‘Yes, Mr Blackley. You know . . . Mr Blackley who owns the House of Blackley department store. Your employer?’

  ‘Oh, that Mr Blackley.’

  ‘Yes. That Mr Blackley. Is there another?’

  Leversage ignored that question to answer Quinn’s original one. ‘No. I didn’t see him.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual that night? Did you see anyone at all who should not have been here? Were there any callers to the house?’

  A splinter of hesitation before ‘No.’ Leversage’s eyes oscillated wildly as he made the denial.

  Conversations With Mannequins

  Quinn caught up with Inchball in the hall. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘No one’s giving anything away. Tight-lipped little bitches. They all claim to be the dead girl’s dearest friend, of course. Don’ believe a word of it.’

  ‘They weren’t behaving like there was any love lost earlier.’

  ‘Exactly. Managed to turn on the waterworks when I spoke to them, though. Very convenient. How did you get on, guv?’

  ‘I spoke to Monsieur Hugo – or Hugh Leversage, to give him his real name. I can tell he’s hiding something but I don’t know what yet.’

  ‘Shifty blighter, is he?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Never trust a man who pretends to be a Frog.’

  ‘I shall try to remember that advice. I also met the maid. Kathleen. She told me a few interesting snippets. I think we may be able to get more out of her, but we’ll have to go carefully. Have you spoken to all the mannequins now?’

  ‘One more to do. Marie-Claude. I was saving the best till last. She’s in her room. Want to come with me?’

  Quinn nodded.

  Marie-Claude stood by the open window, smoking. From time to time she wafted the smoke away from her, encouraging it to float outside. She had a room at the front, a view over the street. She looked out warily, keeping herself as far as possible out of sight of anyone below. ‘I could get fined if any of his spies see me smokin’. ’Ere, you ain’ gonna tell on me, are you?’

  Quinn shook his head.

  She seemed satisfied with this. ‘I ain’ gonna pretend. I din’ like her. What’s the point of pretendin’?’

  ‘No point,’ said Quinn. ‘It’s much better if you tell us the truth.’

  ‘Of course. I know that. I ain’ stupid.’

  ‘I can tell that. In fact, I would say you’re very smart. Your real name isn’t Marie-Claude, is it?’

  ‘Do I sound like I’m bleedin’ French?’ A gurgle of laughter sounded in her throat, expelling smoke. She became suddenly serious. ‘An’ you ain’ gonna tell him I swore either?’

  ‘We’re not interested in that.’

  ‘That’s sixpence fine. Diabolical liberty, it is. Diabolical bleedin’ liberty.’

  ‘You don’t like working for Mr Blackley?’

  The girl’s expression narrowed suspiciously. ‘I like it well enough.’

  Quinn nodded, signalling that he would not pursue that line. ‘So what should we call you?’

  ‘Daisy. My name’s Daisy.’

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘Popplewell.’

  ‘’Ere, guv, that bleedin’ fool Coddington din’ even get their real names,’ confided Inchball in an aside.

  ‘So you didn’t like Amélie. Any particular reason?’

  Daisy shrugged. ‘I wun’ say there was, no. Just her and me. Chalk and cheese.’

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with her being given your room?’

  ‘Do me a favour. Wha’cha think I am? Twelve years ol’? I couldn’ care less about tha’.’

  ‘It wasn’t your choice to give up your room, though?’

  ‘We do what we’re told ’ere.’

  ‘And who told you to do it?’

  ‘Who do you think? Who always tells us what to do?’

  ‘Mr Blackley?’

  A minimal movement of the head. Smoke blown out through a tautly drawn mouth. Quinn took it that his guess was correct.

  ‘So what was it between you and Amélie? There must have been something?’

  ‘She thought she was better than the rest of us.’

  ‘Monsieur Hugo – as he’s known – says she was.’

  ‘What would he know?’

  ‘She had furs in her wardrobe.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Any idea how she might have come by them? Not on a mannequin’s wages, I dare say.’

  ‘I don’ know nothing about that.’

  ‘Has anyone ever given you furs?’

  ‘You been snoopin’ in ’ere already?’

  ‘A girl like you – I expect you’ve not been short of gentlemen admirers.’

  ‘Mr Blackley don’ allow it.’

  ‘So I hear. That doesn’t mean he can do anything to stop it. Or perhaps he is the admirer?’

  ‘I don’ know wha’cher talking abahh.’ The force of her protestation played havoc with her vowels and consonants.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You won’ find anyone to say anythin’ bad about Blackley.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything bad to say?’

  ‘Not me. Not anyone.’

  ‘You’re very loyal.’

  ‘I know what side my bread’s buttered on.’

  ‘Perhaps Amélie did not?’

  ‘She thought she was better than the rest of us. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Thank you. We’ll leave you to smoke the rest of your cigarette in peace.’

  But at that moment a gong sounded for lunch.

  ‘No such luck,’ said Daisy, squeezing the cigarette out and returning the extinguished butt to its tin.

  ‘What do you make of that, guv?’

  ‘Her honesty is refreshing. So far as it goes. Of course, she wasn’t telling us everything she knows. Perhaps one can’t expect someone who didn’t like Amélie to care that much about finding her murderer. But does it not strike you as strange, Inchball, that none of these girls seem frightened for themselves? They are curiously energized by what has happened, but not particularly afraid. It is as if they know who killed Amélie and know that they themselves are safe from further attack. Why should that be?’

  ‘They haven’t the wit to be afraid, if you ask me,’ said Inchball forcefully. ‘I have to say, guv, apart from that Daisy or Marie-Claude or whatever you call her, I have never met such an empty-headed bunch of tarts.’

  ‘What about the other one? Albertine . . . Edna . . . How did she strike you?’

  Inchball’s demeanour softened. ‘Genuine,’ he declared decisively.

  Edna was curled up on the bed, knees tucked against her chest, her head craned downwards. She had stopped weeping now. Indeed, she hardly seemed to be breathing. A sprawl of hair covered her face like a veil of mourning, sealing out the world and sealing in her grief. Quinn could not tell if her eyes were open or closed behind it.

  A shadow of moisture on her pillow marked where her tears had been absorbed. The alignment of her body gave the impression that her misery was far from spent.

  She looked as frail and fine – and somehow alien – as a dead petal.

  There had been no answer to Quinn’s gentle knock. And so he had eased open the door, suddenly fearing the wor
st. It was not unheard of for someone to take their own life in such circumstances. And in the instant before he saw her, it even seemed possible that she might have simply expired under the unbearable weight of her grief; from a broken heart, in other words.

  An infinitesimally small movement reassured him – the regular expansion and contraction of her chest, the dead petal stirred by the lightest of breezes.

  Quinn prompted Inchball with a nod.

  ‘Edna, love. It’s me. Remember? Sergeant Inchball. Inchie, my pals call me.’ Inchball flashed an abashed glance towards Quinn. But Quinn nodded encouragement. ‘You can call me Inchie, if you like. I mean, we’re pals, ain’ we? You and me. Inchie and Edna. Pals. That’s right, ain’ it?’

  The only sign of acknowledgement from the bed was the absolute cessation of movement. She was holding her breath, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘I’ve brought another pal with me. My guv’nor. Why don’t you say hello? He won’t bite.’

  The curve of her body tightened as she pulled herself further away from the world.

  Inchball winced in disappointment.

  ‘Hello, Edna. I’m Silas. I’d like to be your friend too. Can we be friends?’

  A convulsion passed through the body on the bed. The convulsion decayed into an exhausted quaking.

  The manifestation of raw unhappiness repelled Quinn. But Inchball went towards it, perching himself on the edge of her bed, laying a hand on her shoulder. His touch was a lightning rod to her grief, which seemed to pass out of her. She sat up and held on to him, hugging him tightly.

  Quinn watched, his fascination tinged with envy.

  The touch of another human being unleashed a further bout of sobs. Her grief, it seemed, was greater than her exhaustion.

  At last she fell still, surrendering to the fold of Inchball’s massive arms. Quinn discovered that the tenderness of a brutal man is especially touching. His patience miraculous.

  Inchball eased her back on to the bed. She shook the damp hair out of her face and stared up with enormous, terrified eyes.

  Inchball nodded consolingly. ‘It’s all right, Edna, dear. It’s all right.’

  For a moment, her face was almost blank. But then the memory of her loss contorted it into a mask of anguish. ‘She’s gone.’ Her voice was barely more than a gasp.

  ‘I know . . . I know, love.’

  ‘She’s gone!’

  ‘You liked her, din’ya?’

  ‘I loved her.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’ve . . . got . . . no one now! No one! I am all alone.’

  ‘No, no, no . . . No, no, Edna. That’s not true. You got me, ain’ ya? You got me and Silas.’

  ‘She was the only friend I ever had.’

  ‘Wha’? No. No, I don’ believe you.’

  Edna nodded insistently. ‘The only true friend.’

  ‘What about the other girls? You must have some friends there?’

  ‘They hate me!’

  ‘Nah! Nah, I’m sure they don’t.’

  ‘They do. They hate me, just like they hated Amélie.’

  ‘Edna?’ cut in Quinn. ‘Do you have any idea who might have killed Amélie? Was there anyone who might have wanted her dead?’

  ‘They all hated her.’

  ‘You think one of the other girls might have done it?’

  Edna’s features crumpled as the tears came again. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you all these questions, Edna, at such a difficult time. But if we are to have any chance of catching the person who did this to Amélie we must act quickly. You want us to catch her killer, don’t you?’

  Edna nodded jerkily, her movements barely under control.

  ‘You and Amélie were very good friends, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I expect you told each other everything. If she needed to confide in anyone, it would be you. Is that not so?’

  More nods.

  ‘She kept your letters, you know. She kept them hidden. That shows she treasured them.’

  Edna looked up, an eager hope enlivening her eyes. ‘My letters? You found my letters?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘May I have them?’

  ‘Not just yet, Edna. We need to keep them for the time being, to help us with the investigation. You do understand, don’t you?’ But it was hard to be sure that Edna understood anything at the moment. ‘Edna, dear, did Amélie ever write letters to you?’

  She shook her head with an earnest, overdetermined motion. ‘She didn’t need to. She . . . she . . . it was enough just to hear her voice. She was everything to me.’ Her eyes widened with awe. ‘She was a goddess.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you about a gentleman friend? A gentleman friend who might have given her gifts?’

  Edna shook her head.

  ‘Are you saying there was no one? She had no . . . male admirers?’

  There was neither a nod nor headshake at this. She averted her eyes, as if she was shying away from having to consider the question.

  ‘Edna, love,’ encouraged Inchball. ‘Answer Silas’s question, dearie.’

  Edna closed her eyes. Her breath came in sharp snatches as she swallowed back tears. ‘There was one.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Quinn. His voice had none of the gentleness or patience of Inchball’s.

  ‘He came here.’

  ‘To the house?’

  ‘Yes. He called on her. Miss Mortimer wasn’t going to let him in, but Amélie said it was all right.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I’ve seen him at the store.’

  ‘He works at the House of Blackley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In what capacity, do you know?’

  ‘Sales . . .’

  ‘A salesman?’

  She nodded.

  ‘In what department?’

  ‘Near the Costumes Salon. Locks and clocks and things.’

  ‘Locks and clocks? How very interesting. I thought Mr Blackley kept the location of the mannequin house a secret from the men at the store. How did he know where she lived?’

  ‘He must have followed her,’ said Edna.

  ‘Or she told him,’ suggested Inchball.

  ‘What happened when he came round?’ asked Quinn.

  ‘Sh-sh-she agreed . . . to take tea with him. In the drawing room.’

  ‘Miss Mortimer allowed that?’

  ‘She didn’t like it. Was all for telling Mr Blackley, but Amélie pleaded with her.’

  ‘I see. And what happened?’

  Edna gave a great sigh, which seemed to rally her strength. She was able to sit up and speak with some fluency, although her words had a slightly detached quality. ‘It did not end well. He made a scene and stormed off. I believe she rejected his advances. Amélie told Miss Mortimer never to admit him again.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  Edna sank back on to the bed, her head quivering in a spasm of negation.

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Lean, angry, selfish face.’

  She closed her eyes. Her breathing settled into a regular pattern. Sleep was her escape; sleep, or something more profound: the oblivion of complete physical collapse.

  Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances

  Inchball hurtled down the stairs, the soles of his boots hammering out an eager tattoo. Quinn followed more tentatively, but he too sensed the promise of a breakthrough. If he resisted going towards it, it was only because his instincts drew him in a different direction. He was not convinced that a young salesman would be able to afford furs any more than a mannequin could.

  Inchball ran into a crestfallen Macadam at the foot of the stairs. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’ve got a face like a smacked arse.’

  ‘It got away.’

  ‘What did?’

  ‘The monkey.’

  ‘Your pal’s little technique din’ work then?’

  ‘It was all DCI Codding
ton’s fault. I would have had it if he hadn’t turned up and scared away the little fellow.’

  Quinn joined them in the hallway. ‘Where is it now, do you know?’

  ‘It got into the warehouse and disappeared behind the packing cases. I nearly had it too.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Quinn. ‘I’m not sure we will get any more out of the monkey than we have already.’

  His two sergeants exchanged frowns of deep bemusement.

  ‘We have a lead,’ Quinn informed Macadam. ‘Not much of one, but still: a lead, all the same. The first.’

  ‘Missy had an admirer at Blackley’s,’ said Inchball. ‘They had a barney an’ all. I reckon she broke it off with him.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Quinn. ‘But we’re going round to the store to talk to him.’

  ‘I’d better come with you,’ said Macadam.

  It was Quinn’s turn to frown. Macadam’s tone suggested a lack of trust. ‘Are you afraid that I will do something unfortunate?’

  Macadam’s answer didn’t come quickly enough to convince. ‘Not at all, sir. He may try to make a run for it. The more of us there are, the less chance he has of getting away.’

  The three policemen entered the store through the goods entrance on Abingdon Road. A horse-drawn delivery van, immaculately painted in bottle green and black, pulled in at the same time. They were obliged to dash out of the way as it thundered past. A heedless, unstoppable force, the symbol perhaps of Blackley’s commercial rise. For indeed THE HOUSE OF BLACKLEY was spelled out in a grandiose arch of letters on the side of the vehicle, with the legend A World of Provision beneath.

  A sullen-looking warehouseman wielding a broom came out, drawn by the clatter of hooves and the rattle of the wagon over cobbles. He greeted Macadam with a terse nod of recognition. A small curl of sarcasm twitched on his lips, around the tail end of a cigarette. He was no doubt remembering Macadam’s earlier efforts at monkey-catching.

  ‘Any sightings of the beast?’ asked Macadam.

  The warehouseman shook his head as he blew out smoke. He took a moment to contemplate the burning tip of his cigarette.

  The driver jumped down from his wagon, whistling cheerily.

  ‘Look lively there, Kaminski. I ain’ got all day.’

  The warehouseman threw the still-glowing stub of his cigarette casually over his shoulder and dropped the brush. It bounced with a lithe and resonant twang, lying haphazardly where it fell.