the tip of his nose. His complexion was chalky and unusually pallid; his hair pure white.
A look of grim recognition crossed Moon’s face and he nodded with icy politeness. “Mr. Skimpole.”
The albino gave a curious bow. Despite his faintly comical appearance there was something threatening about him, a tangible air of menace.
“I didn’t see you,” Moon explained.
“People rarely do.”
“And how long have you been following me?”
Skimpole brushed the question aside. “Give my regards to Mrs. Puggsley.”
“What do you want?”
The albino stared impassively at him, the lower halves of his eyes magnified weirdly by the pince-nez. “I need your help.”
Moon snorted in reply and began to walk away.
Skimpole hurried after him. “Wait.”
“I’ve refused before. My answer has not changed.”
“There is a plot against the city. Some conspiracy has been set in motion. The Directorate needs you. Your country needs you.”
“Find another stooge.”
“Something’s happening. Can’t you sense it? Some great crisis is upon us.”
Moon stopped dead in the street and turned to face his tormentor. “Must be your imagination, Mr. Skimpole. Too much cheese before bedtime.”
“I could make you…” Skimpole spoke lightly. “
Moon said nothing.
Skimpole’s pale face contorted itself into a semblance of a smile. “You’ll help me.”
Moon smiled back with excruciating civility. “Even I have some scruples. You’ll have to put a gun to my head before I’ll help you.”
He strode away and Skimpole watched as he melted into the distance. “It may come to that,” he said softly. Then, more firmly: “It may yet come to that.”
The following day did not start well. The ape Moon had used in his set for the past two years fell unexpectedly ill and was prescribed by his veterinarian a rest cure of indefinite duration. The zoo sent a replacement but he was an obstreperous troublesome fellow with none of the natural talent of his predecessor. Asked to caper with enthusiasm, he gibbered listlessly; required to materialize with style and panache, he limped onstage with all the eagerness of a condemned man queuing for his final meal.
It was with relief, then, that Moon returned home at the end of the show, the Somnambulist choosing to linger upstairs a while longer in an attempt to cajole some semblance of a performer from the recalcitrant chimp.
When Moon let himself inside, Speight was dozing uneasily on the steps. On hearing his arrival, Mrs. Grossmith hurried out to greet him. “There’s somebody waiting for you. I said it was late but he did insist.”
“Who is it?” Moon lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is it the albino?”
Someone out of sight laughed uproariously.
Moon walked into the kitchen to find an ungainly figure sprawled in his favorite armchair.
“Albino?” The visitor laughed again. “Really, Moon, I swear your friends get odder each time we meet.”
Moon allowed himself a small smile. “Inspector.”
Detective Inspector Merryweather got to his feet and shook Moon warmly by the hand. “Pleasure to see you again. I only wish that one day we might meet under happier circumstances.”
As Mrs. Grossmith retired discreetly to her room, Moon produced a bottle of whisky and a set of glasses, sat opposite his guest and poured them both a generous draught. “I take it this is a professional visit?”
“’Fraid so. I apologize for the lateness of the hour but I’m at my wits’ end.”
“You mean you have a case for me?”
“You’ve seen the headlines?”
“The Honeyman business? I’ve followed your lamentable lack of progress with no little disappointment, Inspector. I’d hoped by now that you might have learnt something from my methods.”
“We’ve done our best. But take my word for it, it’s the strangest one yet. The most baffling case of my career.”
Moon arched an eyebrow. “Aren’t they all?”
“This one’s special,” the man insisted. “There’s something queer about it, something grisly and gothic and bizarre. So you see why I thought of you.”
“It sounds perfect.”
Merryweather laughed again, another raucous, splenetic bellow. “Mrs. Grossmith told me you were bored. You know, by rights, I shouldn’t be here. My colleagues don’t approve. They think I’ve got rather an
The conjuror flinched.
Well, they’re not so inclined to turn a blind eye any more.”
HELLO INSPECTOR
Merryweather had always felt oddly discomfited in the presence of the Somnambulist, and on the giant’s entrance the inspector’s natural good cheer was immediately muted.
The Somnambulist sat down, tore off his tie and poured himself a tot of milk. He had just raised the glass to his lips when Moon got to his feet and turned to the inspector. “Well, then,” he said impatiently, “I want to see where it happened.”
An hour later, the three of them stood at the top of the tower where the late Cyril Honeyman had taken his final, ignominious curtain call. The window through which he had fallen had not yet been repaired and the room was bitingly cold. The smell of decay congealed in the air, its source a table stacked with putrid, long-abandoned food — what was once a great feast made stinking and corrupt.
“My apologies for the smell,” Merryweather said. He was wrapped up in a thick woolen coat, a black slab of scarf knotted about his neck. “There was a bottle of champagne here as well but the boys polished that off days ago.”
Moon ran a finger along the table, stained gangrenous and gray by dust and mold.
“What was this place?”
“No one’s quite sure. We think it might be some sort of water tower. Disused,” he added rather desperately. “Can’t find it on any maps. Doesn’t seem to exist officially.”
“I don’t think it’s a water tower, Inspector.” Moon stood by the window, gazing absently down at the street. “I think it’s a watchtower.”
“Sorry about the mess. The Met boys seem to have trampled your evidence half to death.”
Brandishing his chalkboard, the Somnambulist tapped Moon on the shoulder.
SUEISIDE
Moon dismissed the suggestion with a brusque wave of his hand.
“You know the reputation of this district,” Merryweather said. “Given the food and the bed, we think he may have been lured here.”
Moon hardly seemed to hear him. “I should have thought that was obvious.” He knelt at the foot of the shattered window and picked up some broken pieces from the floor. “See the way the glass has fallen. If Honeyman broke the window when he fell, I would expect to find glass only outside. There’s far too much in here for that to have been the case.”
Merryweather furrowed his brow. “What are you implying?”
“That someone — or something — broke the window from the other side. From outside the tower. Something got in.”
“Impossible. No one could possibly climb this high.”
“Curious, isn’t it?”
Merryweather sighed. “Will you take the case?”
