The Mannequin House (4 page)

‘What?’

‘He wanted to die.’

‘And so you obliged him?’

‘I could not have prevented it, even . . .’ Quinn broke off.

‘What? Eh? What were you about to say? You could not have prevented it, even if you had wanted to?’

Quinn flinched under the force of Sir Edward’s snapping rebuke. He said nothing for a moment. At last, without lifting his head to look Sir Edward in the eye, he ventured: ‘I had no choice. That is what I meant to say.’

‘“Ye did not hear; but did evil before mine eyes, and did choose that wherein I delighted not.” Isaiah, chapter sixty-five, verse twelve. You had a choice, Quinn. You always do have a choice. And always you make the same choice.’

‘Not always, sir. With respect, I feel that is rather overstating it, sir.’

‘Have there been any whom you did not kill?’

‘I feel there must have been, sir.’

‘Can you name them?’

‘My mind’s gone blank, sir. But if you were to look back over the files I am sure you would find some whom I did not kill.’

‘Oh, if they were not killed by you they were killed by your men, Inchball and Macadam? Men acting under your command.’

‘That’s unkind, sir. Sergeant Macadam only once killed a suspect and that was by accident. It was before he had fully got the hang of the motor car, sir. It wasn’t his fault the fellow ran out in front of him.’

‘You make no defence of Inchball?’

‘Sergeant Inchball is a first-rate police officer.’

‘His methods are brutal.’

‘His methods are effective, sir.’ Quinn paused a beat before adding, ‘As are mine, sir.’ So confident was he of this assertion that he repeated it. ‘As are mine.’

‘You cannot keep using that argument as your licence to do what you will. You must exercise more control, Quinn. That’s an order.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Quinn. Even to his own ears his voice sounded pathetic. ‘In those situations . . .’

He was almost grateful when Sir Edward cut him short: ‘You cannot set yourself up as judge, jury
and
executioner. Does the Bible not say, “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” Matthew, chapter seven, verse one. It has similar prescriptions against the taking of life.’

‘I found the killer.’

‘Well, that’s another thing, isn’t it? We only have your word for it that this fellow confessed to the crimes.’

‘You doubt that he was the killer, sir?’

‘Oh, I’m not saying that. It all adds up. You’ve tied it all together very neatly. But the fact remains: the man you say confessed to the crimes is no longer alive to confirm his confession, which was made only to you.’

‘I cannot help that, sir.’

‘But it is a failing. A lamentable failing. If you are not careful, this sort of thing will be held against you.’

‘By whom, sir?’

Sir Edward pulled out some press clippings that had been included in the file. ‘I see the papers are no longer calling you “Quick-Fire Quinn”. No, now it’s “Cut-Throat Quinn”!’

‘That’s just the
Clarion
, sir. I think we both know what lies behind that. The
Clarion
has not been our friend since you threatened to arrest its editor. They see me as your man, so they attack me to get at you.’

‘What? Eh? Allow me to enlighten the eyes of your understanding, Quinn.’

Quinn suspected there was a biblical allusion behind Sir Edward’s choice of words but he was unable to place it.

‘You cut this fellow’s throat. You cut his throat! With a razor!’

‘There was nothing else to hand.’

‘That is not how you bring in a suspect. That is not consistent with self-defence. The
Clarion
is even hinting that you are the Exsanguinist yourself, and that you killed this fellow to divert suspicion away from yourself.’

‘Libellous!’

‘Oh, they are very clever in the way they word it. But that is clearly the inference.’

‘He was the killer. The forensic evidence was conclusive. There were traces of human blood in the back of his van. And then there was the young man whom he had drained in his cellar.’

‘Yes. I had wanted to talk to you about that, too. A civilian employee of the Met. You had no business involving him in your hazardous enterprises either.’

‘He volunteered to help.’

‘You should have refused.’

‘With hindsight, of course, I wish that I had.’

‘Too many deaths, Quinn. That’s the long and the short of it. Too many deaths.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Sir Edward shook his head sternly. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can carry on protecting you, Quinn.’ After a moment, he added: ‘This must stop.
Repent therefore and be converted.
Acts, chapter three, verse nineteen. No more deaths, Quinn. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. I understand. The Home Secretary . . .’

‘There is a higher authority even than the Home Secretary. We must think of your eternal soul, Quinn.’

‘I fear that it is already too late for that, sir.’

‘Nonsense. It is never too late. Do you attend church, Quinn?’

Quinn mumbled something in embarrassment.

‘As I thought.’ Sir Edward’s turtle head nodded in his stiff collar. ‘My life changed, you know, that day Alfred Bowes took a pot shot at me. You may find it hard to believe, but Bowes did me a great favour. I would go so far as to say it was the best thing that ever happened to me.’

‘But you nearly died, sir.’

‘Exactly, Quinn. And that was what it took for me to see things as they really are. I nearly died, but I was reborn. The scales fell from my eyes. Do not wait for the same thing to happen to you before you open your eyes to God. It may be too late.’

‘I will bear that in mind, sir.’ Quinn bowed his head as if he intended to pray. Then remembering himself, he sat up sharply. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

‘What? Eh? No. Not quite. Have you seen the papers this morning?’

Quinn shook his head. He had seen enough of the papers these last few days.

‘They’re full of this business over at the House of Blackley. You know, the department store. Lady Henry is a great devotee of the place.’ Sir Edward’s voice was laden with disapproval and regret as he made the pronouncement. It was almost as if he was accusing his wife of being a devotee of the Goddess Shiva. ‘One of the mannequins has been found dead. Murdered, it seems. The house where it happened – a house owned by Benjamin Blackley for the purpose of lodging the mannequins – is not far from our home. Lady Henry is rather upset about the whole affair. She believes she knows the girl in question. She once had a costume modelled by her.’

‘And so you wish the Special Crimes Department to look into it?’ It was Quinn’s turn to introduce a note of disapproval into his voice.

‘No, no, no, Quinn. That’s not the reason why I want Special Crimes involved. In fact, the suggestion that you take over the case did not come from me. It came from the Home Secretary himself.’

‘But I thought the Home Secretary wanted to close us down?’

‘When did I say that, Quinn?’

Quinn’s brows drew together in confusion. ‘Why does the Home Secretary want us involved, sir?’

‘The local bobbies are out of their depth. They’ve already turned themselves into a laughing stock. According to the newspapers, they’re pursuing a theory that the murder was committed by a monkey.’

‘What sort of monkey, sir?’

‘A monkey in a hat. A fez, at that. It’s clearly preposterous.’

‘I meant what
species
of monkey, sir.’

‘I don’t know what species!’ cried Sir Edward impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter what species. The monkey clearly had nothing to do with it. I want you to get over there and put them straight. We want it wrapped up quickly too. The papers have already dragged in Lady Ascot’s name. She and her daughter were attending a costume showing at the store at the time the body was discovered.’

‘I see. And her husband, I suppose, is a friend of the Home Secretary’s?’

‘That has nothing to do with anything, Quinn.’

‘Are there any other unusual aspects to the case that I ought to know about?’

‘Oh . . . not really,’ said Sir Edward, suddenly subdued, his eyes flicking evasively to one side and his head receding towards his winged collar, as if it would disappear inside it. ‘I dare say you’ll find out all about it when you talk to the local CID.’ He opened the file on his desk and began shuffling the papers uselessly.

Quinn knew when he was being lied to. The interesting question, of course, was
why
? ‘Sir Edward?’

But the commissioner would not be drawn. He closed the file and handed it to Quinn. ‘Take this away.’

Quinn obeyed. He would find out what Sir Edward was holding back soon enough.

Outside Sir Edward’s office his secretary, Miss Latterly, was at her desk. Her fingers worked tirelessly to produce a stream of angry clatter on the typewriter.

Quinn paused just in front of her. As always when he encountered Miss Latterly, he experienced a strong urge to speak to her, but was utterly at a loss as to what to say. At last he settled for: ‘I am to go to the House of Blackley.’

The frenzy of clatter intensified. He watched her fingers, fascinated.

She broke off and looked up at him. ‘Why are you telling me this? Does Sir Edward require me to provide you with anything?’

‘I was merely making conversation.’

‘I was under the impression that we had agreed to confine our exchanges to matters related strictly to our work.’

‘I beg your pardon. I had forgotten.’

‘It was only a few days ago when we made this agreement.’

‘I know, but a lot has happened to me in the meantime.’

‘You are not going to talk to me about
that
, are you?’ Miss Latterly went so far as to put her hands over her ears.

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.’ This was true. He had sworn to himself that he would never reveal to anyone what had really happened in that blood-damp cellar in Limehouse. ‘I thought perhaps you might wish me to bring you something from Blackley’s.’ This was not, in fact, what Quinn had been thinking. And to hear himself make the offer caused the heat of duplicity to flood his cheeks. But he was trying to extricate himself from any accusation that he wanted to engage her in a lurid conversation about murder. He knew how little she enjoyed such discussions. Perversely, however, that had not in the past prevented him from initiating them.

‘You are going on a shopping expedition? I had imagined you were going there in connection with the poor girl they found murdered.’

‘Yes, that’s true. But I thought, while I was there . . .’

‘While you are there, I trust you will focus all your energies on finding her murderer.’

‘Naturally. However, if the opportunity arises . . .’

‘I have no money to spend on fripperies.’

‘I was thinking of a gift. To make amends for the misunderstandings that have arisen between us.’ Quinn added hastily: ‘For which I am solely responsible.’

‘No, that’s out of the question. I cannot allow you to buy me a gift.’

‘It need not form the basis of any understanding between us.’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them.

‘As if there could be!’

‘You are quite right to insist on that. As if there could be. There is no question that there could ever be. I understand that.’

‘I am very disappointed that we are having this conversation, Inspector Quinn.’

‘As am I. I blame myself entirely.’

‘If there is nothing else you require from me . . .?’

Forgiveness?
Quinn came close to saying.

‘H
ere we are, sir,’ said Sergeant Macadam as he drove the car slowly along Kensington Road. ‘The House of Blackley.’

Quinn looked out of the window as they passed the front of the great emporium. The vast white structure extended across a whole block of the main street. Window after window in hypnotic monotony. Its architecture possessed a whimsical, almost dreamlike quality. It was like a pavilion, but on a vast scale, as if a garden folly had been infinitely stretched in every dimension. A series of caryatids punctuated the top storey, obscure mythical females bearing the burden of the roof between them. A central dome seemed to hover above the whole fantastic edifice, on the verge of shooting upwards into the clouds. The building’s facade contained within its design a capacity for multiplication. Look away for a moment and it would have taken over another ten yards of the high street. Quinn had the vertiginous sense that it would one day possess the whole world. No doubt that was its proprietor’s dream.

The car glided along the length of the store, so slowly they were overtaken by more than one pedestrian. Their funereal pace drew inquisitive glances, as well as horn-toots and oaths from more impatient road users. But it gave Quinn time to notice that the unbroken uniformity of the frontage was not all that it seemed. It was interrupted at one point by an opening in the wall, a vaguely ecclesiastical arch through which could be glimpsed a short path leading to an ogee-arched door. A squat, brickwork tower rose above the door, peeping over the top of the store’s facade, which was merely an empty screen at this point.

There was something inviting about the entrance, Quinn felt. He was aware of a desire to find out what lay on the other side of it.

Sergeant Inchball was next to Quinn in the rear of the Model T. Quinn felt the press of Inchball’s considerable bulk as he leaned over to get a better look at the view. ‘What’s tha’? A bleedin’ church?’ Inchball sounded outraged by the possibility.

‘The church of Our Lady of the Sacred Heart,’ said Macadam from the front. ‘Blackley has never been able to get rid of it – unlike all his other neighbours, or anyone else who has got in his way. So he has been forced to build his empire around it.’

‘How comes you know all this?’ Inchball’s tone was resentful, as if he took Macadam’s knowledge as a personal affront.

‘Don’t you read
The
West End Whisperer
?’

‘Wouldn’t wipe my arse on it.’

‘There was a piece about Benjamin Blackley in there the other day.’