He watched the man cross the Embankment and then lost sight of him behind a London plane tree. The only possible conclusion was that he was hiding – waiting for Quinn to make a move before following him.
Quinn conjured up an image of the man’s face and mentally ran through the archive of his memories to see if he could find a match. He could only think that the man had some connection to one of his old cases. His age would suggest a case from the distant past. The bitterness was consistent with long years wasting away behind bars.
Quinn tried to deduce his way to the man’s identity. He had obviously not received a capital sentence, which meant he was not a murderer. Some lesser but still serious crime. Manslaughter, perhaps. The gloves, perhaps, were worn from habit: the habit of the professional housebreaker. And yet the peculiar ravage of his face suggested a ruined reputation. Was he, perhaps, the perpetrator of serial frauds? Something snagged, an emotional memory that went back further than Quinn had expected, to a time before he had become a policeman. But he could not translate it into a precise recollection.
What he ought to do was confront the man. But all at once a strong sense of repugnance came over him. Whatever it was that had carved that expression on to the man’s face, it was not something Quinn wanted to get to the bottom of.
He set off down the Embankment towards New Scotland Yard, his gaze fixed steadfastly ahead of him.
Sunlight flooded the cramped attic room. Quinn squinted and turned his face away from the dazzling square in the window. The wall opposite was blank. The photographs and sketches from the previous case had already been taken down.
He took off his bowler and hung it on the coat stand. There was no sign of DCI Coddington’s Ulster.
Detective Sergeant Macadam looked up from the journal he was reading. ‘Morning, sir.’ Quinn detected a boyish excitement in his sergeant’s fidgeting. It seemed likely that Macadam was in the grip of a new enthusiasm.
‘Good morning, Macadam. Is himself about?’
‘Who, sir?’
‘Coddington.’
‘I’ve not seen him yet, sir. At least not in the department. I think I did catch sight of him on one of the lower floors earlier.’
‘So … he is in the building?’
‘I believe so, sir. Unless I was mistaken. However, his herringbone Ulster is very distinctive.’
‘His herringbone Ulster?’
Macadam frowned, presumably at Quinn’s peculiarly pointed tone.
‘I was the first Scotland Yard detective to wear a herringbone Ulster, Macadam. Coddington copied me.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
‘I’m not wearing it today, of course. No need for it on a day like today.’
‘You can never tell at this time of the year though, sir, can you? Granted, it’s fine now.’ Macadam looked out of the window dubiously, as if he suspected the weather of malicious designs. ‘But it could change like that, sir. It’s the sort of thing you have to bear in mind if you wish to make a kinematograph.’
Quinn thought it best to make no comment on this cryptic pronouncement. He sat down at his desk and sorted through the correspondence that was waiting for him. One envelope drew his attention. It was addressed to ‘Quick-Fire Quinn of the Yard’. The form of address provoked a feeling of sour dismay in Quinn. He was tempted to throw the letter away without opening it. But from the envelope, it did not look like the work of a crank. The address was typewritten, on business stationery. The symbol of an eye was embossed on the back, beneath which was printed: VISIONARY PRODUCTIONS.
Inside was a card:
You are cordially invited to the world premiere of
THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER
The latest moving picture drama from VISIONARY PRODUCTIONS, of Cecil Court
With scenes of unprecedented MYSTERY, SENSATION, HORROR & EMOTION
Astonishing visual presentation
Featuring MADEMOISELLE ELOISE, the international star of the silver screen,
in the role of
THE LOVED ONE
Written and directed by the renowned maestro KONRAD WAECHTER
The world premiere of THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER will be screened at
PORRICK’S PICTURE PALACE, Leicester Square
On Friday, April the 17th, 1914, at 7 p.m.
Before an audience of specially invited celebrities
Handwritten in the top-left corner in green ink were the words: Quick-Fire Quinn and guest.
So. This was what it had come to. He was a celebrity. He supposed he had The Daily Clarion to thank for that. He wouldn’t go, of course. It was beneath his dignity. And if Sir Edward ever found out, there would be hell to pay. The Special Crimes Department was meant to keep its head down, a creature of the shadows. Sir Edward Henry, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force who had created the department, was far from happy with the notoriety Quinn had already attracted.
Quinn put the invitation to one side and shuffled the rest of his mail. As it happened, there was a memorandum from Sir Edward’s office. The brief typewritten note exercised a peculiar hold. He thought of the person who had typed it. He was tempted to sniff it to see if he could discern a trace of her scent.
‘You’re probably asking yourself, why on earth should I wish to do that?’
Quinn was startled by Macadam’s voice. He looked across to see his sergeant brandishing the journal he had been reading.
‘But have you considered that the kinematograph could be a valuable aid to policing?’
A cheery whistling on the landing inhibited Macadam. He hurriedly put the journal down as Sergeant Inchball stooped into the room.
‘Mornin’, guv’nor. Whatcha got there, Mac?’ Inchball didn’t miss a trick. He leaned over and read the title. ‘The Kinematograph Enthusiast’s Weekly? What the bloody ’ell you readin’ that for? You thinkin’ of leavin’ us and goin’ into the moving picture business?’
‘Of course not. I’m looking into it to see if we could incorporate it into our investigative techniques.’
‘What the …? I’ve ’eard it all now!’
‘Think of the evidence-gathering possibilities. We already use photographic cameras. A kinematograph is merely taking that technology one step further. Imagine if we could record a kinematograph of a criminal in the very act of committing a crime.’
‘Don’ make me laugh! What villain’s gonna consent to have himself filmed?’
‘I am talking about secret filming, of course. It could be used in a surveillance operation.’
‘Secret filmin’? ’Ave you lost your bleedin’ mind? ’Ave you ever been on a bleedin’ surveillance op?’
‘Yes, of course I have.’
‘Day or night?’
‘Both.’
‘Ever see anything naughty?’
‘Once or twice.’
‘And was that during the day or during the night?’
Macadam hesitated before answering, his head dipped in embarrassment. ‘Night-time, mostly.’
‘’Ow you gonna film in the dark? Won’t those big bleedin’ lights they use give the game away? And besides, why you filmin’ this geezer when you could be nicking ’im?’ Inchball appealed to Quinn. ‘’Ave you ’eard this, guv?’
Quinn nodded distractedly and rose to his feet, in the process cracking his head on the sloping ceiling. He rubbed the back of his head. ‘Sir Edward has asked to see me.’