Summon Up the Blood (13 page)

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.

Quinn’s hand involuntarily flicked up to his nose.

‘I’ll take it that is a no,’ said Inchball in a heavily resigned tone.

‘I visited the bookshops you had indicated, Inchball. I discovered that Jimmy was known at the first of these, the French bookshop in Wardour Street. It was outside this shop that I had my encounter with Tommy. Oh, and I bought this there.’ Quinn held up the brown paper parcel.

‘What is it?’

‘A book. Which book precisely, I don’t yet know. The bookseller wrapped it in secret and urged me not to open it until I had it home. And even then, not in front of my wife.’

A curl of disgust twisted on to Inchball’s mouth as he looked at the package.

‘He assured me that it was Jimmy’s favourite book. He described it as practically the story of his life.’

‘Don’t expect me to read it,’ said Inchball. ‘I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole. That kind of filth is sickening.’

‘To be fair, we don’t know what kind of filth it is yet, Inchball. Or indeed, if it is any kind of filth at all.’ Quinn placed the book on his desk and sat down. He opened a drawer and took out a pair of scissors.

Inchball stood up sharply, cracking his head against the sloping ceiling. After an oath worthy of a man who had spent part of his career investigating prostitutes, pimps and pornographers, he said: ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not be in the room when you open that. I’m likely to vomit.’

‘Good grief, Inchball. How on earth did you manage to stay in Vice for all those years?’ Quinn snipped the tensioned string, which sprang apart with an eager pop. He pulled away the brown paper to reveal a cheaply produced volume in dog-eared paper binding. The mustard yellow cover bore the title of the work,
The Profession of Shame
, together with a subtitle,
Being the confessions of an unrepentant renter
. The author was given as
Anonymous
, and the book was published by the Erotika Biblion Society of London.

Quinn experienced an irrational disappointment at the book’s title. He realized that he had been hoping, absurdly, for the solution to the mystery of the letters D.P. on the cigarette case.

Inchball had not yet fulfilled his threat to leave the office. Quinn felt his presence at his shoulder. The sergeant’s breathing was laboured. ‘I don’t want to worry you, but that’s not a new copy. Hands other than yours have touched it. Hands that are filthy in ways you cannot imagine.’

Quinn thought back to Tommy’s hand on his as he had lit his cigarette.
What would Inchball have said to that?
he wondered.

He gave a small shudder as he opened the book at random:

cock in both his hands and began gently frigging me. His lordship then placed the swollen bulb at the end of my cock into his mouth, continuing the action of pumping the shaft while sucking hard on the tip. He gradually increased the speed of his frigging.