Lost and Gone Forever (18 page)

T
he coffeehouse opened before lunch, and Leland Carlyle was there early. He wasn’t sure when the staff would show up to begin preparing, but the place was empty when he arrived, so he stationed himself behind a tree across the street from the front door. He was surprised by how boring it was to simply stand and wait for someone else and regretted that he hadn’t brought a newspaper or book to look at.

Just after midmorning, a sour-looking old man unlocked the shop and went in. He propped the door open and drew the shutters. He disappeared somewhere inside and a moment later emerged again with a broom and a dustpan and began sweeping the path outside the shop. Within a few minutes, an old woman arrived and entered the shop without stopping or saying a word to the man. Carlyle could see her passing back and forth in front of the windows, donning an apron and laying cloths on the tables. The old man went back inside and carried his broom to the back of the shop, out of sight. Carlyle waited longer and soon saw the girl who had served
him the previous day. She walked down the street, in no particular hurry, looking up at the tops of trees and clearly enjoying the feel of the sun on her face. Carlyle could identify with her. After the blizzard and the slush, the rain and the heavy fog, the sun was a welcome visitor. The girl’s skirts dragged behind her on the ground, and he wondered how well the old man had swept, whether the girl was carrying cigarette butts and dog shit around in her hems.

He stepped out and hailed her, watching the door of the shop from the corner of his eye in case the old couple came back outside.

“Do you remember me?” The girl looked at him and frowned. “No? I was here yesterday with a couple. You remember?”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said. “Did you leave something behind?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Carlyle hesitated. The girl actually didn’t remember him. She hadn’t listened to his conversation with the Parkers. “I just . . .” He glanced over at the door of the shop. “I had a wonderful time and wanted to know when you would be open today.”

Now the girl smiled, and he realized she’d been afraid he would proposition her. He felt a moment of deep embarrassment, but shook it off.

“We’ll be open at half past the hour today,” she said. “Mum and Dad should have the tables ready by now, though, if you’d like to come in early. I’m sure we could accommodate you.”

It was a family business. Suddenly Carlyle saw her as someone’s little girl, and he thought of his own daughter and was ashamed of himself. “Oh, no, no,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to impose. I’ll come back later. I’ve been away from the office too long as it is.”

She looked confused, but smiled again at him and nodded. “Any time. We’re open seven days a week.”

“Here.” He took out his coin purse and handed her a quid. “For your good service yesterday.” And without waiting for her to respond, Carlyle trotted away down the street as fast as he could go.

•   •   •

“O
H
,
MY
,” M
R
P
ARKER SAID.
“What’s he gone and done?”

“He’s reminded her of himself, is what,” Mrs Parker said. “And now she’ll remember him forever. Maybe us, too.”

They were loitering round a stall at the far intersection, pretending to look through an assortment of paper fans. They’d had no intention of buying anything and were only using the vendor as a convenient place to conceal themselves, but Mrs Parker had found three fans that she liked, and the proprietor was trying to haggle with Mr Parker just at the moment he felt they ought to break away to discuss their plans. Mr Parker overpaid him and beckoned for Mrs Parker to come away before she found another fan she fancied.

“She’s watching him as he goes,” Mrs Parker said.

“We did nothing remarkable yesterday. There was no reason to come back.”

“He thought he was going to cover his trace, didn’t he?”

“Yes, my darling.”

“And instead he made himself stand out from the crowd.”

“That he did.”

“Amateur.”

“Well,” Mr Parker said. “They’re all amateurs, aren’t they?”

“It’s why they need us,” Mrs Parker said.

Mr Parker sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to do something about it.”

“Oh, let me. Do let me take care of it.”

“Discreetly.”

“Of course. I’m always discreet, dear heart. Aren’t I?”

“Have you forgotten the Belgian ambassador, darling?”

“But that couldn’t be helped. He was so enormously fat. And so loud. Like a squealing pig, he was.”

“We led the gendarmes on a merry chase that evening.”

“It was exciting, wasn’t it?”

“But would not have been so exciting had we been caught.”

“That might have been dreary,” Mrs Parker said. “But you know I would never have allowed us to be caught. Not alive, at any rate.”

How well he knew it. “Yes,” Mr Parker said. “You take care of this little mess the high judge of the Karstphanomen has created.”

Mrs Parker stood on tiptoe and gave him a kiss on the lips. He felt dizzy at her touch. She pressed her new fans against his chest, and when he took them from her she scampered away from him down the street.

The shopgirl looked up expectantly when Mrs Parker approached her, and Mr Parker caught the fan vendor’s attention. He engaged the man in a discussion of his wares, and when he looked up both women had disappeared from sight down an alley next to the coffeehouse.

D
ay stopped abruptly when he reached the junction of Prince and Lothbury. People were streaming out of Plumm’s, many of them shouting and waving their hands, trying to attract the attention of passersby. Several men were carrying unconscious women, trying to juggle the women and their hats, struggling toward the opposite curb.

Day held his cane down along the side of his leg and moved through the crowd to the front doors, where he was met by a stern man, his white-gloved hand held out.

“There has been a mishap, sir. Please come back on the morrow.”

“I need to get inside,” Day said.

“No one is to go inside at the moment. Please come back on the morrow.” Clearly he had been given a script.

“I’m an inspector with Scotland Yard. I’ve been sent to deal with the trouble.” Day had no idea what the trouble was, but he was certain Jack was at the center of it and was equally certain that he was the only person capable of dealing with Jack.

The man with the white gloves looked him up and down and
stuck his nose in the air. “I have received no notice, sir, if you are indeed who you claim.”

“You doubt me?”

“I did not say that, sir.”

“You have a telephone on the premises?”

“Of course, sir. This is Plumm’s.”

“Call the police commissioner, call Sir Edward Bradford at the Yard and tell him that you won’t let me in. He’ll put you on notice right enough.”

The guard coughed and looked down the street, gathering his thoughts and his dignity. “Do you have a badge of some sort?”

“Inspectors don’t carry badges. Only constables.”

“This is true?” The guard’s expression changed. He was alarmed by the idea that there was something he didn’t know.

“Of course. Why would I carry a badge? I’m not arresting anyone. I tell the constables who to arrest. They’re the ones need the badges.” Day had been hiding deep inside himself for so long that there was no trace of emotion on his face, no way for the guard to tell if he was bluffing.

“Ah, of course. This makes perfect sense.” The guard stepped aside and waved Day through, but then followed him inside. “It’s . . .” The guard stopped with his mouth still open and waved his white gloves at the enormous ground floor space.

Day stopped, too. Peering over the first queue of low display counters, he could see a man lying on the ground. His eyes were open and one arm was thrown over his head, a white glove spotted with red reminding Day of his new companion. A step farther and the man’s waist became visible, his intestines spread out over the floor, a pond of congealing effluvium keeping him afloat. Day turned away.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it, sir?” The man with the white gloves (pure
white, no blood) patted Day on the back. “I suppose even you must be taken aback by a thing like this.”

“What’s your name?”

“Gregory, sir.”

“Gregory, what happened here?”

Gregory glanced down for the first time at Day’s cane. “Don’t policemen carry guns, sir?”

“Most do. I’m with the special branch.” He twisted the handle and drew the blade out far enough that Gregory could see it. “The swordsmen. You’ve heard of us.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Gregory said. “Of course, sir.”

“What happened?”

“A most unfortunate accident. A windowpane that was being installed fell from up there.” Gregory pointed at the gallery. “There was no time for him to move, sir. Or so I suppose.”

“Did you know him?”

“Mr Swann, sir. I will admit he was not well-liked, but I can’t believe it was murder. If that’s why you’ve come, I would have to say—”

“Who was up there at the time? Up there on the gallery when it happened?” Day squinted up at the milling people above. It looked as if someone had ushered everyone in the store out through the front doors or up the stairs, away from the blood. The problem with the latter choice was that women and children might glance down and see the whole grisly mess from above. He hoped the staff was keeping everyone distracted and looking the other way. “I assume not all of those people were up there.”

“I was there, on the door.” Gregory pointed back behind them. “I didn’t see. The installation was a favorite of Mr Hargreave. He
ordered that glass last week, and it was very expensive. They wouldn’t have risked having it jostled.”

“Hargreave, you say? Where is he now?”

“Oh, um, he’s gone, sir. Got the sack, as it were.”

“But somebody’s still putting it together. The installation.”

“Well, his replacement has that task, I suppose.”

“And who is that?”

“Mr Oberon, sir.”

Day squinted at him. “You don’t like Mr Oberon, do you?”

Gregory pulled away from him and looked down at his shoes. “I didn’t say that, did I?”

“And why don’t you like Mr Oberon?”

“He’s . . . Well, he makes me uncomfortable. I believe he hates me.”

“He hates you?”

“He has no reason, I assure you, but he wants to harm me. I see it in his eyes. When he smiles I . . . He’s a cruel man, and I’ve seen my share of cruel men.”

“Why would he single you out?”

“Oh, he doesn’t like anyone. The girls all see it in him, too. We stay well away from him. I have no idea how he won his position.”

Day nodded. “Thank you, Gregory. Your candor is much appreciated by the Yard, and I’ll see to it that you get some sort of commendation. You’d better tend the door now. We don’t want any women seeing a thing like this.”

“Of course, sir. As you say.”

“And call more police. Get more men here right away.”

Gregory nodded and hurried away. There was a sense of relief about him, as if he’d been lowered from a meat hook and set free.

Day realized too late that bringing more police would only complicate things for him. He needed to find Jack and deal with him before anyone could try to stop him. He took a step forward and saw the other half of the poor dead man. One shoe had come off and the leg of the man’s trousers was split open at the seam, leaving his shin naked and unguarded. Day grimaced. Dignity was a fragile thing, and the dead were so often robbed of it.

He looked up again and two figures above caught his eye. They were moving rapidly across the gallery, one of them steering the other by the arm as they maneuvered through the crowds toward a back hallway.

Day felt his face flush and his stomach dropped. He pulled the sword free of the cane’s shaft and ran forward. He slipped in Mr Swann’s blood and caught himself, nicking himself with the sword in the process, but he ignored the sudden flash of pain in his arm.

“Nevil!”

The two men on the gallery did not stop moving, but one of them looked over the railing and saw Day. He smiled and gave a little wave with his free hand, then Jack and Hammersmith were lost from view behind a wide marble column. Why hadn’t Hammersmith turned around?

“Nevil, stop! It’s him!”

Day made it to the stairs and bounded up them. His weak leg took his weight and Day knew that he would suffer later for the exertion, but it was still bearing up for now and that was all he cared about. The stairs bounced beneath him, and he could see screws working loose at the juncture where the steps met the railing. All the people on the gallery must have rushed upstairs in a panicked knot.

At the landing he pushed his way through a mass of milling
customers and white-gloved staff. It was early in the day and the store hadn’t been very busy yet, but there were still at least five dozen people crowded at the top of the steps as if debating whether to try to skirt the body downstairs and leave. A woman was lying propped against one of the columns and another woman was gently shaking her, trying to wake her. A third woman was screaming, her hands trembling at her face. A man was wandering alone in a daze, blood spattered across his jacket. Everyone around the man was giving him a wide berth. Someone had taken a stack of blankets from a display shelf and was passing them out. Day had once been called to the scene of a traffic accident. Two omnibuses had crashed into each other, killing one team of horses and a driver. Although no one traveling inside had been killed, they had all looked like these people: numb and lost and somehow snapped free from the normal orbit of life around them.

Day did not stop to help anyone. He did not ponder the fact that yesterday his own name had been a mystery, but today he remembered that long-ago carriage wreck. He kept his pace, shoving people aside, ignoring the screams and cries around him. He had one objective and he kept himself focused on it.

Through a break between people he saw the top of Jack’s head, dark wavy hair, unfashionably long, and he picked up the pace. Someone grabbed at his arm and he turned. A small round man smiled at him and held out a blanket. Day shook his head, but the man adopted a pitying expression and pressed the blanket against his chest.

“Your arm’s bleeding, sir,” the man said. “Let me look at it.” The man’s own arm sported a thick bandage.

“I can’t,” Day said.

“I represent the store, sir, and I can assure you we wouldn’t—”

“I don’t—”

“You needn’t shout, sir. I can . . . Oh, my, I just realized I really can’t hear you. You were speaking, weren’t you?”

Day pushed past him and ran on. The top of Jack’s head was still visible, and he launched himself through an opening between customers.

The world slowed down. He thought he could hear a tune playing in the background, a high-tempo melody that only served to charge him further. As he moved slowly forward he watched Jack turn, a grin on his face, that same wooden, unfeeling grin that charmed people who didn’t know him. Jack brought his arm up at the same speed with which Day was moving and pushed up off his toes, and he was laughing as he hit Day full in the chest.

Day staggered backward into an installation. It was a globe bigger than a four-wheeler carriage, and when Day hit it the framework of the box around it buckled. He put his weight on it and kicked Jack in his wounded abdomen. The monster bellowed and fell to one knee. With a great wrenching sound, the globe tore loose from its perch and toppled to the floor. Day was pulled off balance and stumbled backward. Time froze for one fleeting instant as the great sphere quivered, then slowly rolled away, picking up speed, people jumping out of its way as it moved. It slammed into the railing, and the loose screws of the balustrade gave way. Day followed it, windmilling his arms, unable to get his feet back under him. The wrought iron yielded under the pressure, sending a shock wave back along the metal frame to the stairs, which promptly removed themselves from the landing, bending the footing at the bottom. The entire piece of ironwork dragged itself out into the air, followed by the globe and then by Day’s fragile body.

The last thing he saw as he plummeted toward the ground floor of Plumm’s was a look of alarm on Jack’s face. Day had never seen any sincere expression there before, never seen anything that wasn’t meant to reflect malice or authority. The killer scrambled forward on his hands and knees, reached out, tried to catch Day as he fell.

But it was too late.

Day closed his eyes and surrendered himself to gravity. It was the first time in more than a year that he had felt at peace.