by Alex Grecian
“I’m hardly a citizen. You might even call me an auxiliary policeman, since I clothe you all. At least I like to think of myself as such, and I’m awfully proud to be of service to you fine gentlemen. Why, I’m practically one of you.”
“Practically ain’t reality.”
Cinderhouse nodded. He made a calming motion with one hand to let Kett know that he wasn’t dangerous, wasn’t going to do anything hasty. He could see the shears sitting out on a desk in there, almost within reach. The only evidence that connected him to the crime and it was right there, and if he didn’t do something to get those shears, then didn’t he deserve whatever fate the detectives had in store for him?
“Are those the shears?” he said.
Kett shrugged.
Cinderhouse peered at the scissors over the top of the rail. They were his own. He was sure of it. There was a nick in one blade where he’d run up against a snap in a sailcloth jacket. He could see it from here. There were chips flaked off the glossy black handles from long use, one crack in the paint that he’d always thought resembled the shape of Italy. And there was Colin Pringle’s blood, caked in the crevices where the blades met the handle and where the rivet swiveled the shears open and shut. The blood was still so fresh that it gleamed red in the lamplight.
“Hmm,” he said. “I suppose they might be of the same sort I use at the shop. A little different, of course.”
“I’m sure.”
“Tell me, how did Inspector Day come by them?”
“In the course of his investigation.”
“Well, yes, but I mean … how?”
Kett clucked his tongue and scowled.
“Official business of the Yard. If there’s nothing else—”
“I have an idea.”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you let me take these with me back to the shop? Then I can compare them to my own shears—I have several pair—and to those in the catalogues I keep. I may be able to match them exactly.”
“I’ve been patient with you,” Kett said.
“Forgive me. Only trying to be of help. And, as I said, I’m practically one of you.”
“It’s why I haven’t hoisted you out into the street yet. But we’re a bit busy at the moment, and it’s not part of my job to give tours.”
Kett motioned for Cinderhouse to precede him through the back hall. The tailor hoisted Pringle’s trousers high so that they wouldn’t drag on the dirty floor. He bit his lip. If Day had been in the squad room he might perhaps have welcomed Cinderhouse’s help. But the sergeant wasn’t interested and Cinderhouse couldn’t seem to make him interested, no matter how he approached the thing. There seemed to be no way to get close to the investigation and find out how it progressed. He was in the dark and would, it seem, remain in the dark.
“I s’pose if you really wanna be of help,” Kett said, “you could bring those catalogues you mentioned and let the detectives take a look at ’em.”
Cinderhouse turned suddenly, sending the heavy end of the trousers swinging.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Bring them in?”
“I don’t know. That might be a thing they’d wanna see.”
“But of course. I’ll rearrange my schedule. I have a few fittings, but they can easily be pushed off until tomorrow, provided I can get a message to my clients in time.”
“Don’t mean to put you out.”
“Not at all. Happy to do it. I’ll change my appointments, arrange for someone to watch my son, and be right back round with those catalogues.”
“No hurry, I’m sure.”
“I wouldn’t want to keep Inspector Day waiting. I’ll be back with them as quickly as I possibly can.”
Cinderhouse smoothed a leg of Pringle’s trousers over the hanger.
“Best take these back with me, anyway. Clumsy of me to have dropped them. Now I’ll have to press them again.”
“I’m sure they’re fine. You can leave them here for the constable.”
“Ah, you must not know Mr Pringle well. He’s very particular about his trousers. No, I’ll take them along to the shop. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll turn up after all.”
As he retreated down the hallway, his eyes darted back and forth, from walls to ceiling to floor, as if he were already caged. Entering the lion’s den had been a calculated risk, and he still wasn’t sure he had made the right choice. But waiting to see if the other shoe would drop was excruciating. He had to know what they knew.
There was one more thing he could do to keep Inspector Day under his thumb.
“Pardon me,” he said. He turned just inside the door. “This is frightfully embarrassing, but I’m afraid I need some directions.”
The sergeant looked at him without speaking.
“I forgot about Inspector Day’s new suit. I was supposed to take it round to his house, but I neglected to ask him for his address. I’d hoped to get it from him today, but since he isn’t here … Is there a chance I can get the address from you?”
The sergeant frowned and grumbled something under his breath, but he took a piece of paper from the desk next to him. He leafed through a large leather-bound book dredged from somewhere below Cinderhouse’s line of sight and wrote an address down. He handed the note to Cinderhouse without a word and went around the desk. He sat down and was immediately reabsorbed in his paperwork.
The tailor smiled and thanked the top of the sergeant’s head. He tucked the paper with the address into his pocket and left whistling a happy tune.
45
I’ll stay down here,” Blacker said.
“You’re not coming up?”
“Not a chance, old boy. It was difficult enough the first time around.”
“Wait for me, then. I’ll be a moment.”
“Take all the time in the world. I shall stand out here and enjoy the sun on my face and pity you up there.”
“I’m sure that will sustain me.”
Day smiled and shook his head. He opened the door and stepped through into the foyer of Inspector Little’s building. The space was so tiny and foul that Day kept his arms tight at his sides for fear they’d brush the walls and come away stained or sticky. To his left was a closed door and, directly ahead, a long dark staircase that disappeared into the gloom up above. He took a deep breath before letting the street-level door swing shut behind him, and then trudged up the steps.
“Damn Blacker for a coward,” he said.
He let a small amount of air out through his nose and could taste the old food odors that lived in the hall. The essence of stale spices lodged in the back of his throat and made him want to cough, but he stifled the impulse. He tried to remember the smell of trees outside his home in Devon, but could not.
The landing at the top of the stairs was as small as the foyer, and the door to the Little home was open a crack. Day could hear muffled voices inside, accompanied by an occasional high-pitched wail.
He swallowed, took a breath, and rapped lightly on the jamb. After a moment the door swung open wider and Little’s boy Gregory appeared in the gap. Gregory immediately turned and disappeared, but Day heard him speaking.
“Ma, it’s the policeman again.”
“Get ’im in.”
Day didn’t wait for the boy to come back. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The flat was much the same as it had been on his previous visit, but there were subtle changes. The window over the sofa was still curtainless, but the glass had been washed. Sunlight streamed into the room, lending it a somewhat cheerier appearance. Gregory, the helpful son, was fully dressed in clothes that looked reasonably clean to Day. The simple son, Anthony, was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, stacking wooden blocks. His empty chair sat in the corner, the straps hanging loose. Day was so surprised to see the boy quietly playing that he didn’t notice Mrs Little until she tugged at his sleeve. He jumped and turned.
“He ain’t breathin’, mister.”
Day saw with alarm tha
t she was holding the baby and that its skin was pale blue. Without a thought, he took it from her and turned it over, laying it against his arm. He smacked its back with the heel of his hand, once, then again, and a third time.
Something small and brown thumped against the floorboards at Day’s feet, and a second later the baby began to cry, haltingly at first, its howls interrupted by hiccups, but then building to a startling crescendo.
Day passed the baby back to its mother. She bounced it up and down, her massive bosom jiggling. Day averted his eyes.
Anthony looked up and shouted something that Day found incomprehensible, but Gregory nodded and Anthony returned to his blocks, apparently satisfied.
“Thank you, mister,” the Widow Little said. “That was a close one.”
He looked at Mrs Little. She was watching him, biting her lip, rocking the baby back and forth in her arms. She looked much the same as she had that morning, but her hair had been washed and combed and her housecoat had been freshly pressed.
The baby’s skin had returned to a healthy pink color. Day smiled at the widow.
“This happened once before when I was a country constable,” he said. “The rector’s son choked on a bit of sausage.”
“This’un puts ever’ damn thing in ’is mouth. Can’t hardly keep up with takin’ it all back outten ’im afore he stops breathin’.”
Day decided not to ask why she didn’t simply keep small things out of the baby’s reach. The drama now ended, he scanned the floor, looking for the object the baby had been trying to eat. Gregory saw him looking and scampered over to the barrel-table. He reached down and picked up the tiny thing, which was hidden in the shadows. Gregory brought it to him and Day took it. It was a small round button, buff-colored, stained, and smooth.
He went to the sofa under the window, where a dozen identical buttons had been pulled loose from the upholstery and now dangled on threads. He took a button from his pocket and compared it to the others. It matched perfectly.
There could be no mistake, now that he was able to make a side-by-side comparison. The button in the trunk had come from this sofa in this flat.
And Day suddenly knew how it had happened.
“Ma’am,” Day said, “did your husband visit you on the eve of his … I mean, when did you say you saw him last?”
“Aye, it was the night afore what was done to ’im.”
“Did the baby choke then as well? In Mr Little’s presence, I mean?”
“This baby chokes damn near ever’ day.”
Day sighed.
It was clear in his mind. Little had returned home to give his wife money for the household. His infant had choked on a sofa button. Little had got it out of the baby’s mouth and absentmindedly put it in his pocket. He had carried the button with him to his doom, but it had nothing to do with the murder and could lead the detectives nowhere.
Day put the button back in his pocket and then, on impulse, reached out and plucked the remaining loose buttons from the sofa.
“’Ere now, what’s this?”
“I need these as evidence.”
“Evidence? What’s my couch got to do wiff anythin’?”
“It’s hard to say now, but these may come in handy.”
Little’s widow sniffed and cast her eye on the mangled sofa. “Don’t look no worser now, I s’pose.”
Day pocketed the handful of buttons.
“I see there have been some improvements made since I was here this morning.”
“The money yer one-armed gennaman gave. Got me thinkin’ ’bout things might be done round the place now we have that pinchin comin’ in.”
“Sir Edward is a good man.”
“Is he married, though?” The widow winked at Day and he winced.
“He is.”
“Shame that.”
“I’m sure it is,” Day said. It seemed too soon after her husband’s murder for Mrs Little to make the joke, but he realized she was trying to cope and to connect in whatever way she could. Without her husband, and with few obvious prospects, she would be marginalized now and forgotten. “I’ll take my leave now.”
“Welcome to stay. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Thank you, but no. My associate is waiting for me downstairs.”
“Bring ’im up.”
“I’m afraid we’ve more visits to make today. Still on duty.”
He tipped his hat to her and reached for the doorknob, but Gregory reached it first and swung the door open for him. Day smiled at the boy.
“You’re a good boy, Gregory. You’re very helpful to your mother.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“When you’re older, in another year or two perhaps, come by the Yard. We employ runners there, and I would be more than happy to put in a word for you with the sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.”
“Good day.”
He nodded again at Mrs Little and slipped into the dark hallway. The staircase seemed shorter going down than it had been going up, but when he opened the outside door the sudden light hurt his eyes.
“There he is,” Blacker said.
“Have you enjoyed your fresh air?” Day said.
“Like nothing else. Did you find what you came here for?”
“Yes,” Day said. “And I’m afraid we’ve been chasing at least one false clue.”
He pulled the handful of smooth beige buttons from his pocket and tossed them in the street. One of them had been found with Little’s body, but it hardly mattered anymore.
“The button’s useless,” he said.
Blacker looked at the scattering of buttons in the road and then up at the window above them. He nodded, and Day could see that he’d put it together.
“So that lets out upholsterers as suspects, doesn’t it?” Blacker said.
“I think so.”
“Which only leaves everyone else in London.”
“True, I suppose, but I feel this is progress just the same, even if it’s not awfully encouraging.”
“Leaving aside the button, then, we’ve still got needle, thread, and shears. I still want to talk to a tailor. That feels promising to me.”
“Right. What’s the name of the one we use? Kett mentioned him.”
“Cinderhouse?”
“That’s him. He might narrow it down for us, rather than running all over the city to every tailor with a shingle in the street.”
“Should we visit his shop, you think, or send for him?”
“Might pass him on his way back to the Yard.”
“Let’s go back. We have the dancing man waiting for us.”
“Good.”
Day took a last look at Little’s building and followed Blacker across the street. One piece of evidence had been a dead end, but Day still felt he’d done some good. There were no sofa buttons left in the Little home, and so Little’s youngest child might breathe more easily now. And perhaps live a bit longer.
46
The storage closet was an approximate three-meter cube. Blacker had dragged three chairs into the room, and they filled it so that there was barely enough space to sit in the chairs without touching one another’s knees. He lit a tallow candle and set it on a shallow ledge that ran about the walls of the room at wainscoting height. Blacker steered the dancing man toward one of the chairs and Day set the bindle of rubbish at his feet. Day sat in the chair across from the dancing man and Blacker stood behind him. The dancing man sat quietly, hardly moving, seemingly stifled by the close walls. The detectives took a long moment to light their pipes. The smell of tobacco smoke was infinitely preferable to body odor. Day was mildly amused to see that Blacker smoked a huge calabash that dwarfed his narrow face, but he hid his smile behind his hand as he lit his own much smaller pipe. When both pipes were going, Day glanced at Blacker, who nodded, then began.
“What’s your name, sir?” he said.
“Let me out.”
“We will,” Day said. “But we need to ask you
some questions first.”
“Can’t dance here. Can’t dance. Too tight, too close, no room.”
“Let us help you get back out there so you can dance again. Just tell me your name.”
“Can’t dance. Broken legs. Table’s too short.”
The dancing man began to rock back and forth on his chair, hugging himself. Day looked up at Blacker, who gestured for Day to step outside.
“We’ll be right back,” Day said. He rose and left the room with Blacker.
“Shall we send him to the workhouse or to the asylum?” Blacker said.
“I’d like to let him get back to his life. He’s not causing any harm out there.”
Life seemed to turn and change on a whim, and while Day didn’t imagine he could sink as low in life as the dancing man had, he still worried that this might be his own future if he failed as a detective. What had caused the dancing man to slide into invisibility? How did one prevent it? Where were the police when the dancing man had needed them?
“You know as well as I that he didn’t kill Little,” Day said. “All he wants to do is dance with a broomstick. We need to know what he saw, but I don’t see a need to frighten him.”
“Frightening him may get him to tell us what we need to know. Assuming we can get him to say anything that makes sense.”
“The more emotional he gets, the more removed he’ll be from reality.”
“He’s already too removed. Whatever information he might have for us is already jumbled up with a lot of nonsense. There’s no way I can see to make him useful.”
There was a thumping noise behind the detectives as the gate at the railing slammed shut, then:
“Perhaps I can help with that.”
Dr Bernard Kingsley stood in the middle of the Murder Squad room, surveying the desks. Jimmy Tiffany looked up and saw Kingsley. He stood and grabbed his jacket from a hook, then exited through the gate behind Kingsley and disappeared down the back hall.
“You’ve changed a few things since I was here last,” Kingsley said.
Blacker shot a puzzled look in Day’s direction. He clearly hadn’t sent for the doctor.