Summon Up the Blood

by R. N. Morris

  The young man took out a silver cigarette case. Quinn’s heart began to pound like a steam hammer.

  The cigarette case flashed open. A row of fat cigarettes lay in languid readiness. With the waft of tobacco came a sense of temptation and disrepute. The enlarged girth of the cigarettes and the faintly yellow papers suggested that they were Egyptian.

  Quinn’s companion took out a cigarette and snapped the case shut before whisking it out of sight.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ said Quinn.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cigarette case. I would like to see it. I was looking for just such a case.’

  ‘A friend gave it to me.’ The young man spoke with the unlit cigarette bobbing on his lips. The effect was insolent. He made no move to take out the cigarette case and show it to Quinn.

  ‘Was it the gentleman with whom I saw you in the draper’s shop? Pinky?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, doancha?’

  ‘Perhaps I am interested in you.’ Quinn couldn’t look at the youth.

  The other sensed his discomfiture and laughed. ‘I thought you was a friend of Jimmy’s?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Ain’t seen him around for a while.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘Mebbe I do, mebbe I don’t. Who wants to know?’

  ‘My name is . . .’ Quinn hesitated, consciously stopping himself from giving his real name. ‘Quentin.’

  ‘Quentin? You don’t look like a Quentin.’

  Quinn shrugged.

  ‘Well, Quentin –’ The young man gave the word a sceptical emphasis. He held his cigarette affectedly between his second and third fingers. ‘Why are you so interested in finding Jimmy? As if I didn’t know.’

  ‘If you already know, then I don’t suppose I am obliged to answer your question.’

  ‘I seen all what Jimmy has to offer.’ The young man raised his eyebrows. ‘You got a light, Quentin?’

  Quinn took out a box of England’s Glory. His hand shook as he struck up the match and held it to the young man’s face. He was shocked by the other’s touch, hand enclosing hand to steady it. In fact, the touch was more than shocking; it disturbed him deeply.

  He wanted to snatch his hand away, to clench his fist and punch him for his impertinence. And the unflinching challenge in the young man’s steady gaze indicated that he knew full well what turmoil Quinn was suffering.

  The young man held on to Quinn’s hand long after the cigarette was lit. He blew out the match with a swirl of smoke just as it was about to burn Quinn’s fingertips. When he finally did release his grip, which was all the more disturbing for its lightness, he twisted his index and middle fingers together. ‘Me and Jimmy, we’re like that.’

  ‘So you do know where he lives?’

  ‘Jimmy likes to move around. Like you said in there, he has a lot of friends. He likes to visit them all from time to time. He likes to put himself about, you might say.’

  ‘He has no fixed abode?’

  ‘Ooh. Harken to you. No fixed abode. What do you sound like?’ The young man’s face hardened. ‘I’ll tell you what you sound like, friend. You sound like a rozzer. Is that what you are? One of them lousy agent provokers?’

  ‘No.’

  The young man smoked his cigarette in silence as he considered Quinn’s denial. ‘What you got there?’ he said finally, nodding at the parcels Quinn was holding.

  ‘I bought a book.’

  ‘So I heard. What’s in the other one?’

  ‘Some silk.’

  The young man snorted.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘My my, what an innocent you are, Quentin. You’re so innocent, I really think you must be a copper after all.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Nobody goes in that shop to buy cloth, Quentin.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Were you looking for Jimmy in there too?’

  Quinn nodded.

  ‘And she sent you next door, did she? Cheeky bitch.’

  ‘Where else should I look for Jimmy?’

  ‘Forget Jimmy. Why don’t you and me go somewhere private so we can look at that book of yours together in peace? It might give us some ideas, you know, of what to do with ourselves.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘You can call me Tommy. If you like.’

  ‘How did you come to this life, Tommy? What led you here?’

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘Listen to me, Tommy. This, what you do, picking up men in the street . . . you’re putting yourself in grave danger. Mortal danger.’

  Tommy gave a careless laugh. ‘If it’s my soul you’re worried about . . .’

  ‘No. Not your soul. Your soul is no concern of mine.’

  ‘What then? My arse’ole!’ Tommy was inordinately delighted with his joke.

  ‘Don’t you ever worry? Aren’t you ever frightened? There must be some men you meet . . .’

  ‘I ain’t frightened a’ nobody. You don’t understand where I come from. What I’ve been through. I seen what it’s like in the workhouse. In the Limehouse men’s ward. Why should I get bummed by some dirty tramp for nothing when I can get ten bob off a gentleman what’s had a bath and smells of cologne?’

  ‘Tommy, listen to me. Jimmy is dead. His throat was slit. Most likely by a gentleman smelling of cologne.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘When did you last see Jimmy?’

  ‘I don’t believe you! How do you know? Who are you?’

  ‘You were right. I am a policeman. But, Tommy, listen. I’m not interested in anything you’ve done. Your crimes. I’m trying to find out who killed Jimmy. I’m going to need your help, Tommy. And the help of boys like you. But more than that, Tommy, I need you to take care. I implore you to be careful. The man you were arguing with in the draper’s, Pinky . . . Who is he?’

  ‘Pinky wouldn’t hurt no one. Pinky wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

  Quinn was not ready for the speed of Tommy’s reaction, though he recognized what fuelled it: rage. He didn’t see the fist coming. The fist that whipped up into his nose. In truth, he did not believe it was a heavy punch. But it was perfectly timed and fast. It was enough to knock him off his balance.

  As he staggered back he threw out his arms, dropping both his packages.

  ‘That’s for wasting my time, you lousy agent provoker!’ screamed Tommy, as he snatched up one of the parcels and ran off.

  Quinn put a hand to his face and felt a profuse dampness streaming from his nose. When he looked at his hand it was red with blood.

  The Cigarette Tin

  Macadam was replacing the earpiece of the telephone just as Quinn came into the department. ‘Blimey, sir! What happened to you?’

  Inchball looked up from the report over which he was labouring, like an overgrown schoolboy at his prep. His eyes widened in alarm.

  ‘A minor injury sustained in the course of my investigations. Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘We can’t allow this, sir – with respect and all that. Police inspectors assaulted while going about their duties . . .’

  ‘I appreciate your concern, Inchball, but I wasn’t assaulted. It was an accident. A door swinging open caught me in the face. It’s fine. Nothing broken. Just a bloody nose.’ Quinn couldn’t explain to himself why he chose to lie to his men.

  Inchball’s next remark provided justification enough: ‘Just so long as it warn’t one of them queers what done it.’

  Quinn cleared his throat. ‘How have you two men been getting along? Have you uncovered anything of interest?’

  ‘I have made some progress in the identification of the cigarette case,’ said Macadam. ‘But first, sir, may I offer you an arnica tablet?’ Macadam opened a drawer in his desk and took out a large brown bottle. ‘I have found it very efficacious over the years, sir, in minimizing the manifest effects of the injuries I have sustained in the execution of my duty. It was a tip passed on to me by a
pal of mine who used to box.’

  ‘Gawd, what next?’ muttered Inchball.

  Quinn studied the bottle sceptically. ‘It doesn’t really hurt, I tell you.’

  ‘It’s not an analgesic, sir. It stops the bruising.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Quinn, slipping one of the small white tablets on to his tongue. A shining bruise in the centre of his face was the last thing he wanted. It would only draw attention to him as he continued his investigations. ‘Please continue what you were saying about the cigarette case.’ He made to hand the bottle back to Macadam.

  ‘No, sir. Hang on to it for a day or so. You’ll need to keep taking them every few hours.’

  Quinn gave a frown of annoyance, but pocketed the pill bottle all the same. ‘Really, Macadam, you’re making too much fuss. Now, the cigarette case.’

  ‘It’s a widely available item manufactured from electroplated nickel silver by a firm in Birmingham. A relatively cheap product, retailing for between one shilling and one shilling and sixpence.’ Macadam produced a silver cigarette case from his jacket. ‘I took the liberty of purchasing a sample. I trust you will approve the expense, sir?’

  Quinn took the case and opened it. It was empty, of course, and the inside of the lid was blank. This was only to be expected, and yet the object felt incomplete somehow.

  ‘Virtually every jeweller and silversmith I visited – and I visited quite a few, let me tell you – either stock it or have stocked it at some time. However, I was unable to trace the source of the actual case in question, sir. No one recognized the inscription. Of course, if the killer did the inscribing himself . . . All he’d need is one of these.’ Macadam produced a small tool with a mushroom-shaped handle and a fine shaft. ‘My burin. I brought it in like you asked me to.’

  Inchball rolled his eyes.

  Quinn took the burin and examined the finely bevelled tip. He held it over the blank surface of the inside of the cigarette case and mimed the act of engraving. He was enacting Macadam’s theory; and if Macadam was right, it was another way of imagining himself inside the mind of the killer. ‘Had any of the shops noticed any unusual patterns of purchasing? The same individual ordering a high volume of these cases, for example? There’s a possibility he likes to give a similar gift to all the young men he befriends.’

  ‘If you will give me a chance, sir, I was coming to that.’ Macadam closed his eyes lightly in an expression of superhuman patience. ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Nothing unusual along those lines, sir. I’m afraid the cigarette case takes us nowhere.’

  Quinn handed the burin back to Macadam. ‘And what about the records? Any sign of our victim amongst convicted sexual offenders?’

  Macadam shook his head disconsolately. ‘It didn’t help that the files were in such a parlous state, sir. Very shoddy.’

  ‘Very well. Any better luck with the tobacco, Inchball?’

  ‘According to Sergeant Macadam’s chum, the cigarettes have less than one per cent opium in their contents. Which means they are not covered under Schedule One of the 1909 amendment of the Pharmacy Act, sir. That is to say, their open sale is permitted. In other words, we are not obliged to look for a licensed source or an illegal source, sir. Or to put it another way, they could have come from any Tom, Dick or ’Arry.’

  ‘I see. So your investigations have been equally fruitless?’

  ‘I dint say that now, did I, sir? With respect and all that. Thinking back to my time in Vice, I recalled that your opium-soaked cigarette is something of a speciality taste. Your normal healthy smoker prefers a normal healthy cigarette, sir. One that hasn’t been tainted by the fiendish Yellow Man’s drug. This particular type of cigarette, sir, is favoured particularly, if memory serves me right, by individuals of an aesthetic bent. I seem to recall that that feller Wilde was always puffing away on one. The type of person you or I would call a degenerate deviant, sir, though I believe the scientific term is an invert. Macadam will correct me if I’m wrong.’

  Macadam nodded to signal that he acquiesced in Inchball’s terminology.

  ‘And so, sir, I decided to begin my enquiries with those tobacconists I knew to be favoured by the brotherhood of the bum.’

  ‘That’s not a scientific term, I take it?’

  ‘Correct, sir. It’s a term used by the officers in Vice. I knew of one such tobacconist, sir – Featherly’s, in the Burlington Arcade. A known haunt of the kind of deviants we are dealing with here, sir.’

  ‘I see. And so you visited this shop – Featherly’s?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I hope you were tactful in your approach, Inchball. No banging of fists on the counter.’

  ‘I was as good as gold, sir. Like an angel, I was. I discovered that Featherly’s do indeed stock a brand of Egyptian cigarettes which, as the label is obliged to indicate, have been infiltrated with opium. The Set brand. I took the liberty of purchasing a tin.’ Inchball held up a slim, crudely printed cigarette tin. The design on the lid depicted an Egyptian-style illustration of a human figure with a strange animalistic head. ‘I too trust you will sign off the expense form, sir.’

  Quinn took the tin and studied the figure in the illustration. The head was that of no animal he recognized. Printed solid black, it had a curved bird-like beak and two long ears that stood up straight and were strangely square at the end. The lettering, in a typeface designed to suggest Egyptian hieroglyphics, announced the brand name, and other particulars: SET. THE EGYPTIAN CIGARETTE COMPANY. CAIRO (EGYPT). IMPORTERS AND MANUFACTURERS OF TURKISH TOBACCO. EXPORTERS OF TOBACCO AND CIGARETTES. EST. 1874. WORKS AT THE TEWFIKIEH QUARTER.

  Quinn sprang open the lid, releasing the corrupting waft of tobacco. The fat cigarettes rolled in pale yellow papers were identical to the ones he had seen in Tommy’s case. ‘What else did you discover?’ Quinn knew by Inchball’s eager stance that he had something significant to reveal.

  ‘I was able to extract certain disclosures from the tobacconist concerning his clientele, which he was at first reluctant to divulge.’

  Quinn winced. He was grateful he hadn’t been there to witness the methods Inchball had employed.

  ‘Most of the Set brand cigarettes he sells go to what he describes as passing trade. However, the majority of these customers, I would say, are regulars, many of whom are known to him by name. I managed to persuade him to provide me with a list.’ Inchball retrieved his notebook from his desk, thumbing the pages. ‘Here, sir.’ He handed the notebook to Quinn, open at a long list of names: some Christian names, some surnames; the latter given with a respectful ‘Mr’ added. Quinn scanned the list and noticed a ‘Tommy’ but no ‘Jimmy’.

  ‘Now it’s your turn to go back to the records, Inchball. Cross-check these names against the files. See if any of them come up in connection with previous investigations.’

  ‘It’s a safe bet they will, sir.’

  ‘What we are looking for in particular is any history of violent criminality. There is sometimes a progression of violence. The man who kills today may have grievously assaulted in the past. Of course, it’s perfectly possible that our man has kept a lid on this aspect of his nature until now, which may explain why it has manifested itself so ferociously and spectacularly.’

  Inchball took the notebook back from Quinn and turned the page. ‘And then there was this, sir. A list of customers who have placed regular orders for Set brand cigarettes at Featherly’s.’

  ‘Let me see that.’

  ‘A mixture of fashionable restaurants, public houses and well-established gentlemen’s clubs, sir. All apparently above board.’

  Quinn scanned the list. Two names were marked out: one with an asterisk, the other by underlining. ‘Why have you indicated these places?’

  Inchball took back the notepad. ‘Ah, yes. That one, sir – the Criterion – that was known to me from my time in Vice. It was popular with a certain class of men, if you take my meaning, sir. Not to put too fine a point on it – queers.’ />
  ‘Yes, and the other place? The Panther Club?’

  ‘That’s his biggest customer, sir. For Set brand cigarettes, I mean.’

  ‘I see. What is it? Do we know?’

  ‘Some kind of toffs’ club, sir.’

  ‘Did you ever hear of it in connection with anything?’

  Inchball shook his head. ‘No, sir. It’s not known to me. However, I have made some enquiries, sir. It’s located on Pall Mall. Along with all them other toffs’ clubs.’

  Quinn nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘Well done, Inchball. This is good work.’

  ‘How did you get on, sir?’ asked Macadam. ‘Apart from sustaining a bloody nose?’

  ‘I was able to make one important discovery. Our victim now has a name. Jimmy.’

  ‘Jimmy?’ Inchball was unimpressed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With respect and all that, sir, it ain’t much to go on. A surname would be more use to us.’

  ‘It’s more than we had before, Inchball. Naturally, I intend to continue my investigations tonight. The night is the natural element of these men. Paradoxical as it may seem, I have a feeling I shall discover more under cover of darkness.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Macadam.

  ‘Brown-noser,’ was clearly audible from Inchball.

  ‘One other thing,’ said Quinn. ‘In the course of my investigations today, I made contact with an individual by the name of Tommy –’

  ‘Tommy?’

  ‘Yes, Tommy.’

  Inchball rolled his eyes. ‘Tommy . . . Jimmy . . . Who next? Bobby?’

  ‘This individual was of interest to me for a number of reasons. First, he claimed to know Jimmy. He also had in his possession a cigarette case similar to the one found on Jimmy. Not only that, he smokes cigarettes that look remarkably like these ones here. And just now I happened to notice that there is a “Tommy” listed among the names comprising Featherly’s passing trade.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring him in, sir?’ demanded Inchball.

  ‘One reason was because not all of this information was known to me at the time. But more importantly, I felt that I would get more from him by winning his trust.’

  ‘And did you, sir? Win his trust?’ asked Macadam.