‘Can’t tell, it’s warm in here. Maybe two hours. Could be longer, perhaps as long as ten. Considering the weather, you know. This morning, after dawn, I’d guess. It’s six o’clock now.’
Robinson scanned the face, trying to avoid the gaze of the eyes. She had been quite tall, slim, with manicured hands. Her hair was cropped short and there was an odd, oily glaze on the skin. He touched the cold cheek and sniffed. Cold cream. At least the beautifully formed face bore no expression but faint surprise. The faces that had died hard still grimaced in Robinson’s sleep.
Constable Harris, who had searched the floor, carefully avoiding the pool of drying blood, produced his findings. A small bottle which had contained a proprietary sleeping drug, now empty, two crumpled handkerchiefs, a sleeve link, two buttons, a torn strip of flimsy paper with a little blood on the edge, a stick of kohl, and a small notebook covered in red suede.
‘That paper might have been used to wrap the knife,’ observed Robinson. ‘Nothing else? No? In that case, Sergeant Grossmith, you’ll want to start searching for the murder weapon. You heard the description, Terry?’
Sergeant Grossmith nodded. He left, taking the second constable with him. Robinson returned to the corpse. The wound which had killed her was terrible. The little doctor was rendered almost pleasant in the face of such sudden death. ‘She can’t have felt a thing,’ he murmured. The blue eyes in the wax doll’s face stared Robinson out of countenance.
Constable Tommy Harris had opened the wardrobe and was examining the garments. He called to Robinson, who left the dead woman thankfully.
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘There must have been two people living in this room, sir. Look. Gents’ trousers and suits and ties and shoes. And ladies’ clothes and er . . . garments and shoes, too.’
The constable blushed a little and Robinson grinned. He laid a pair of trousers over his charm and measured them against a close-fitting dress.
‘I think it’s stranger than that, son. I haven’t seen you before. What’s your name?’
‘Constable Harris, sir.’
‘Who lives in the house and where are they?’
‘Sir, the landlady Mrs Witherspoon, she was took sick and she’s lying down. A showgirl called Miss Minton, she’s with the old lady. A bloke who’s a stage magician—Sheridan is his real name—he’s downstairs in the parlour. And a lady called Miss Parkes who’s an actress is there too, and my partner’s with them. Sir.’
‘Good. And what’s all this about the roof?’
‘Er . . . I wanted to make sure that it wasn’t just someone oversleeping, sir, so I climbed out on the roof and it was steeper than I thought and real slippery. When I saw him—I mean her—lying all bloody, I lost balance and Miss Parkes ran out onto the roof and got me back. She’s as light as a cat on them glassy leads.’
‘I see. Unusual skill for an actress.’
Robinson eyed the uncomfortable Harris. There was something that he was not telling his superior in rank. Finally Tommy Harris said reluctantly, ‘I recognised her, sir. She’s the woman who killed her husband in the circus, ten years ago. Her name was . . .’
‘Oh, indeed. Mrs Fantoccini. So they let her out, did they? I remember that case. Her husband beat her and was unfaithful and stole her earnings and gambled them. Nasty. Then he suggested that she supplement their income in an unacceptable way. No wonder she greased his trapeze. I went to see her when the kids were young. She was as graceful as a bird, used to do somersaults in the air. Hmm. And she had no difficulty walking that very dangerous roof?’
‘No, sir.’
Robinson replaced the garments and went to examine the window. It was open.
‘Was the window open when you looked in?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘No dust on the sill. Mrs W keeps a clean house. Pity. Not a smear. No sign that something has come in. Or someone. Doctor?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Could a woman have struck that blow?’
The little doctor pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and stared. ‘She’d have to be a pretty unusual woman. That blow would have felled an ox.’
‘Ah, but the woman I have in mind is unusual,’ said Detective Inspector Robinson. ‘Come on, Constable. I want to meet Miss Parkes.’
He left the police surgeon filling out his certificate and walked down the corridor, with Constable Harris plucking at his sleeve. At the head of the stairs he turned.
‘Well, Constable?’
‘Sir . . . Miss Parkes . . .’
‘Yes, what about her?’
‘Sir, she saved my life.’
‘Yes,’ said Detective Inspector Robinson and went down the stairs. ‘So she did.’
In the drinking pit called the Blue Diamond, further down Brunswick Street, Mr Albert Ellis was taking a dim view of certain political developments. His employees were nervous. Hell’s foundations were prone to quiver when the boss of the Fitzroy Boys took a dim view of a situation.
Mr Ellis was small, dark and dressed in a navy suit. His distinguishing feature, according to the criminal history sheet kept by Sergeant Grossmith, was teeth like a rat. He was acutely aware of these intrusive dental adornments, so he never smiled.
Wholesale Louis, the trader in dubious goods, looked at the Mad Pole, whose name was Janucz and who could bend sheet metal in his hands. The Mad Pole looked at Mr Ellis, as it was no use expecting sense from his bench mate Cyclone Freddy. It was well known that since Freddy had wound up his career as a tent fighter by king-hitting the local constable into next week, he had not been as acute as formerly, which was not very acute anyway. He was also prone to take offence if anyone looked at him. No sensible man wanted to cause Cyclone Freddy to take offence.
‘What’s the problem, Boss?’ asked Louis.
‘It’s like this. The Brunnies have been moving into our territory. They pulled that payroll robbery at the shoe factory. I just got word from a dog about it. It was Jack Black Blake’s boys. They got inside information from that bitch Pretty Iris.’ Wholesale Louis nodded. The others sat waiting to be told what to do. Albert Ellis aimed and fired at his men like a sniper. ‘We can’t have that. Can we?’ He raised his eyes. ‘Well, can we?’
‘No, Boss,’ said Wholesale Louis, and the others echoed him. ‘But,’ added Louis, ‘we’re short-handed with Jonesy gone into the bush on that job. When you expecting him back, Boss?’
‘When the job’s done. Might be a couple of months. That don’t matter, Louis. We can handle the Brunnies one-handed. Something will have to be done,’ said Mr Ellis slowly. ‘I got an idea. Is Lizard Elsie still in the front room?’
CHAPTER THREE
Euripides (translation, Gilbert Murray)
