by R. N. Morris
The man’s carelessness drew Quinn’s attention; he slowed his step to eavesdrop on the exchange between the two workmen. Inchball and Macadam hung back to wait for him.
‘Mr Blackley’ll fine you if ’e sees that,’ warned the driver, a sudden wariness stifling his chipper demeanour.
‘Blackley ain’ ’ere,’ growled the warehouseman. His accent was heavy: Eastern European corrupted by Cockney.
The driver smiled uneasily, aware of the lurking presence of three strangers.
‘Don’ vurry ’bou’ dem. Dey go’ bigger feesh to fry. Or should I say, monkeys.’
‘I ain’ got the faintest idea what you’re on about. As usual. All I know is we’d better get the ol’ van loaded PDQ so I can be on my way again. Wha’cha got for me?’
Losing interest, Quinn led his men on through the loading bay into the cavernous interior of the warehouse. He sniffed the itchy scent of sawdust and cardboard. A dim light from high, grimy windows gave the place a semi-mysterious air. Stacks of boxes loomed, mountains of promise and potential. Who knew what treasures their bland exteriors concealed?
Macadam directed them to a swing door at the far end of the warehouse. They stepped through into a realm where those mountains of promise and potential were fulfilled.
It was evident that the news of Amélie’s murder had done nothing to dent the public’s enthusiasm for Blackley’s great emporium. The shop floor was bustling. ‘Is it normally like this?’ Quinn asked incredulously.
‘Well, I’ve never been here on a Thursday morning before,’ said Macadam. ‘But it’s easily as busy as any Saturday afternoon I’ve seen, on the times I’ve been here with Mrs Macadam.’
Quinn detected the same fierce, almost hysterical excitement in the eyes of the jostling shoppers as he had seen in the mannequins when they had burst on to the garden. They were thrilled to be there. They seemed to be on the lookout not for bargains, but for dead bodies. ‘Strange,’ he observed. ‘The effect that murder has on people. They seem . . . enlivened by it.’
Inchball grunted noncommittally. Macadam’s expression was anxious.
Quinn continued to observe the streaming crowds. He felt he understood the primitive urge that had brought them there, the need to place one’s self close to catastrophe, in order to face up to it. And was there an element, too, of warding off its return? A superstitious belief in the principle that lightning never strikes twice? ‘They’re after souvenirs,’ he realized.
‘They ain’ gonna make our job any easier,’ grumbled Inchball.
‘Do you know your way around this place, Macadam?’ demanded Quinn.
‘The Costumes Salon is through there. Mrs Macadam always will insist on visiting that place.’
‘We’re looking for locks and clocks.’
‘You mean Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances? Straight ahead. Next to the Menagerie.’
‘The Menagerie? That’s interesting,’ said Quinn.
‘It was there that Mr Blackley came to pick up Mr Yeovil, sir.’
‘Yeovil was in the Menagerie?’
‘That’s right, sir. Right there, next to the parakeet cage.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘He appeared to be watching the neighbouring counter.’
‘Locks, Clocks and whatever?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Watching it? What do you mean?’
‘It was almost like he had it under surveillance. I would not say he was hiding, exactly. A big man like that would find it hard to hide anywhere. But he was standing in such a way that he could not be easily seen by the gentleman on Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances. And when we approached him, he fair jumped out of his skin, sir.’
‘I bet he did,’ said Inchball. ‘The sight of you is enough to give anyone a fright.’
‘I got the distinct impression that he was engaged in some kind of clandestine activity.’
‘And that was the gentleman he was watching?’ Quinn pointed to the man behind the Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances counter.
The man appeared to be about sixty years old, his bald head framed by stiff, unruly tufts of white hair. A once rangy figure, now starting to stoop with age, he peered out myopically through a bent and battered pince-nez. In truth, he looked an unlikely candidate for Amélie’s suitor. At present, as far as Quinn could see, there was no one else behind the Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances counter.
The elderly salesman’s expression was somewhat harassed, his nerves evidently in a precarious state. He was clearly struggling to keep up with the unwonted demands for service from the impatient customers crowding his counter. Some even resorted to pilfering goods, and under his very nose too; a practice that quickly spread when it was seen that these endeavours were met with impunity. It was ironic that a department devoted, at least in part, to security was the object of widespread casual larceny.
Inchball had no patience for such illegality. ‘Oi, oi, oi, oi! Put that back! Yeah, I saw you!’
‘What’s it go’ ’a do wiv you?’
‘What’s it got to do with me? I’ll tell you what it’s got to do with me, missus. I’m a policeman, that’s what it’s got to do with me. And so’s he. And so’s he. So if you fancy a little trip down the nick, then carry on. Otherwise, hop it.’
The counter cleared.
‘Thank you so much,’ said the salesman, dabbing away perspiration from his forehead and temples.
‘S’all righ’. Just doing my job.’
‘I’ve never seen them like this. It’s as if they are possessed. Something ugly has got into them.’
‘You on your own here today, mate?’
‘Yes. Spiggott hasn’t turned up.’
‘Spiggott?’
‘He’s my assistant.’
‘Young feller, is he?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Don’t you have anyone else to help you, Mr . . .?’
‘Anderson. No. It’s just me and Spiggott.’
‘And Spiggott ain’ here?’
‘No.’
‘What’s he like, this Spiggott?’
Anderson pulled a face.
‘A waste of space?’ volunteered Inchball.
Anderson contented himself with: ‘Well, he isn’t here, is he?’
‘Lazy.’
‘He’s filled his head with too many . . .’ Mr Anderson removed his pince-nez from his nose, as if this would help him find the word he was groping for. ‘Ideas.’
‘What sort of ideas?’ asked Quinn.
‘Ideas above his station. If he would only concentrate on what he’s supposed to be doing. On his job . . . And forget all these other . . .’ Anderson waved his pince-nez around, again hunting for the mot juste. It turned out to be the same one. ‘Ideas.’
‘He’s ambitious, is he?’ said Quinn.
‘Oh, ambitious doesn’t come into it.’
‘Ambitious but lazy,’ said Macadam. ‘Not a good combination.’
‘So the lazy bleeder din’ turn up for work this morning,’ summarized Inchball.
‘In point of fact, he went missing yesterday. He turned up for work in the morning as usual, but when the news of that poor girl’s death became known he grew exceedingly distracted.’
‘’E did, did ’e?’ said Inchball suspiciously. He gave a terse nod to Quinn, as if he believed this detail settled the matter conclusively.
‘Oh, we all did. It was terrible. The whole world went mad. And then they started coming.’ Anderson held his pince-nez up to his eyes and peered fearfully through the lenses towards the surging throng around them. ‘Rather macabre, if you ask me.’
‘And Spiggott was affected too, was he?’ asked Quinn, his voice eager.
‘Yes, but it was different with him.’ The pince-nez was back in place.
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s hard to say.’ Anderson’s hand went back up to the pince-nez. He hesitated, torn betwe
en taking it off again and leaving it where it was. ‘Well, he was angry. Everyone else was infected with a kind of . . .’ The pince-nez was back in his hand. ‘Well, glee. It’s the only word for it. But Spiggott was angry. Then again, Spiggott is always angry.’
‘So what happened?’
‘I don’t really know. I mean, I was very busy myself, you understand. I had a lot on my plate. But I was aware of his not being here quite as much as he might be. It was a source of frustration to me, as you can imagine. I had determined to speak to him about it. But by the middle of the afternoon he was nowhere to be seen. After closing time I went to look for him in the usual places. To give him a piece of my mind, you understand. I made enquiries among his associates but no one knew where he was. This morning it was the same. Mr Davies, who has the bed next to him in his dorm, informed me that he did not sleep there last night. So I’m afraid I had no choice but to report his absence. He’s going to be in a lot of trouble when he comes back, I can tell you that.’
Quinn nodded, almost absent-mindedly. His attention was caught by a large clockwork automaton of a Columbine, fashioned from burnished brass. It was about a third life-size. The toy, if toy it could be called, was performing incessant, identical pirouettes. He found himself wondering if Miss Latterly would like it.
Anderson noticed his interest. ‘A very fine piece. Are you a connoisseur of automata?’
‘Not exactly. How much is this piece?’
‘That? Oh, that is seven guineas.’
‘To be honest, I was looking for something a little smaller,’ said Quinn quickly. ‘A music box, for instance.’
‘Our musical boxes are over here. They are considerably smaller, as you can see. And cheaper.’
‘Do you have anything with a dancing ballerina? Perhaps one that plays the theme to Swan Lake?’
‘Why, yes, indeed! And very popular it is too.’
Mr Anderson opened the back of a glass display cabinet and pulled out an identical musical box to the one which Quinn had found in Amélie’s room.
Quinn took it and examined it as if he were considering it for a gift. ‘It’s very nice. And how much is it?’
‘Two and six.’
‘Yes, that’s more what I had in mind.’ Quinn nevertheless handed the box back. ‘Did Mr Spiggott ever purchase such a music box, do you know? There is a discount scheme for staff, I believe.’
‘Spiggott?’
‘Is he a connoisseur of such things?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘What is his area of expertise then? Locks perhaps? Or clocks?’
‘I am not sure that he can be said to have an area of expertise. Though, of course, like all young men, he considered himself to be an expert on everything. You could not tell him anything.’
‘I know exactly what you mean. Well, Mr Anderson, we are very desirous to speak to Mr Spiggott. Do you have any idea where he might have gone? Back into the bosom of his family, for example?’
‘Spiggott and I never talked of such things. Ours was a professional relationship.’
‘You mentioned a Mr Davies. Where will we find him?’
‘Davies? He’s upstairs in Soft Furnishings.’
The sea of customers surged around them. A new wave crashed into the Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances department. They moved like all crowds do, driven by an unconscious, collective will, dividing around obstacles, filling whatever spaces were available to them. Seizing with spontaneous delight upon whatever was presented to them.
Quinn, Macadam and Inchball found themselves prised away from the counter. A look of panic flashed across Anderson’s face as they left them to it, King Canute against an importunate tide.
‘So,’ said Macadam. ‘He’s done a bunk. Reckon he’s our man, sir?’
‘Why else would he run off?’ demanded Inchball belligerently.
‘There may be all sorts of reasons,’ said Quinn. ‘It doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s guilty.’
‘He works with locks,’ pointed out Macadam reasonably. ‘Perhaps he had the know-how to rig the room up so that it appeared to be locked from the inside.’
Quinn considered this briefly. ‘I got the impression, from what Anderson said, that Spiggott would lack the skill. He’s just a salesman. You don’t need to understand how locks work to sell them.’
‘Maybe he just wanted Anderson to think that?’ speculated Macadam.
‘Spiggott hides his light under a bushel?’ wondered Quinn.
‘Yes. Or maybe, like many men of the older generation, Anderson is in the habit of belittling his junior colleague. It’s possible he underestimates Spiggott’s qualities, either through ignorant prejudice or deliberately, because he feels threatened by the young man’s ambition and talent.’
‘Possibly.’ Quinn noticed that Macadam was staring pointedly at Inchball. The difference in the sergeants’ ages could only have been a few years, perhaps as little as eighteen months. He was not even sure who was the senior and who the junior; but it seemed that Macadam was very conscious of a disparity.
‘And there is the music box to take into account,’ said Quinn. ‘I found one in Amélie’s room identical to the one Anderson showed me. Although Anderson was not aware of Spiggott buying one, he may have taken it at some time while Anderson was away from the counter.’
‘Do you fancy Spiggott for the killer then?’ Inchball pressed.
Quinn looked around cautiously. He remembered how an inadvertent word from Coddington had disseminated the story of the monkey-murderer. It was not inconceivable that there were journalists mingling with the crowds at Blackley’s today. ‘I’m certainly anxious to speak to Mr Spiggott, so that we can rule him out from our investigation.’
‘He done it!’ cried Inchball. ‘Why else would he do a runner?’
‘I’m not so sure,’ said Quinn, lowering his voice in the hope that it would encourage Inchball to do the same. ‘According to Anderson, Spiggott disappeared after the news of Amélie’s murder became widely known. If he was the murderer and he wished to flee, wouldn’t he be more likely to do so at the time of the actual murder? That is to say, the night before Amélie’s death came to light?’
Inchball shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe he panicked. Thought he could bluff it out, but when it came down to it, when he started to feel the heat, he couldn’t handle it. Everybody talkin’ about it. Maybe somebody remembered he’d been round to the mannequin house. So he scarpered to avoid answering any awkward questions.’
‘At any rate, we need to find him,’ said Quinn. ‘In order to put those awkward questions to him.’
‘They should have his family details in the personnel office,’ said Macadam. ‘Perhaps there’s an address. A next of kin. The offices are in the basement, I believe. Would you like me to go down and take a look, sir?’
‘Thank you, Macadam.’
That was all the command that Sergeant Macadam required.
‘Inchball, I want you to go upstairs to the Soft Furnishings department and see if you can get anything out of this Davies fellow. Find out if he can vouch for Spiggott’s whereabouts on Tuesday night. I would also like to know more about these ideas of Spiggott’s. And of course, any information about his possible whereabouts now would be most welcome.’
Inchball grimaced. ‘With respect an’ all that, guv, today ain’ the best day to talk to any o’ these shop people. I mean, look at it.’
‘On the contrary, the pressures they face may prompt them to be less than guarded. Davies may let something important slip without even realizing it.’
‘And what will you be doin’, guv, if you don’ mind me askin’?’
Quinn glanced towards the Menagerie. ‘I need to see a man about a monkey.’
The African Grey
Quinn didn’t like the way the parrot was eyeing him up. It was looking askance at him, there was no other way of putting it. Getting the measure of him with a nasty sidelong stare.
The parrot is the most i
ll-mannered of birds. A feathered lout. This one squawked and wolf-whistled before showing Quinn its arse and squirting out a calculated insult.
It had to be said that Quinn didn’t like anything about the parrot. He didn’t like its stilted sideways shuffle along the perch, or its vicious hooked beak, or the self-righteous way it fluffed up its dirty grey neck feathers. Clearly it considered itself to be better than Quinn.
But the thing he liked least about it was its eye. Quinn felt an instinctual revulsion towards small eyes and the creatures that possessed them. It might be called a prejudice, except that he only realized he possessed this aversion now, staring into the glassy surface of one of the parrot’s abhorrently diminutive eyes. It was too primitive an organ to be comprehended by a complex large-eyed being such as himself. The antipathy he felt was therefore quite natural.
It wasn’t an eye; it was a tiny black lacquered stud. Everything evil in the world was concentrated into it.
He experienced his hatred as an overriding impulse to wring the creature’s neck.
‘May I help you?’
It was a relief to turn and gaze into the eyes of a human being, to see there a gentle despondency, the intimation of fellow feeling, of suffering, and therefore sympathy. The sales assistant was aged somewhere in his forties, with a leanness of figure that hinted at an active life. The animals kept him on his toes, it seemed. But there was a sense, too, that the spring had gone from his step in recent years.
However, his expression lacked the harassed fatigue of his colleague in Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances. Although there was a constant trickle of shoppers going through the Menagerie – an offshoot of the main torrent that flooded the store – the department seemed to be one of the least crowded. Perhaps this was because all the goods it sold – the animals, in other words – were locked away in cages. It was a less attractive prospect to would-be shoplifters.
The inconvenience of a living souvenir also probably contributed to the area’s relative unpopularity. It was one thing walking off with a pilfered trinket from the store where a famous murdered mannequin had worked. It was another thing entirely taking home a terrapin, or some other creature that would either have to be cared for and fed for years to come; or allowed to die and put out with the rubbish.
