“It’s a child’s toy.”
Day threw his head back and laughed. He couldn’t help himself. The anxiety he’d felt since moving to London caught up to him all at once and he let go. Blacker glared at him and then gave in and began to laugh, too.
“It looked so real,” Day said. He wiped a tear from his eye. “In the gaslight it looked completely real.”
“It looks real enough in the sunlight as well,” Blacker said.
“I don’t hurt people,” the dancing man said.
“Of course you don’t,” Day said. “But you’re in danger of being hurt yourself. This isn’t the best spot for you to dance, you know.”
“I have a message for you,” the dancing man said. “The messenger wants me to show you something.”
“How lovely,” Blacker said.
“The messenger?” Day said.
“He left something for you. He knows who kills the police.”
“Who is this?”
Day was suddenly interested despite himself. Even Blacker had stopped chuckling and seemed to be listening.
“Come,” the dancing man said.
He took off at a full gallop across the street and down an alley. Day and Blacker followed at a safe distance, keeping the vagrant in sight. At the mouth of a storm drain, the dancing man ducked down and disappeared. The detectives rushed forward and found the dancing man standing hip-deep in rippling water.
“I’m not going down there,” Blacker said.
“Nor I,” Day said. “But thank you for showing us, sir.”
He smiled at the dancing man and turned to go back to the Yard, but the dancing man shouted, “No, look!”
Day turned back and, with a deep sigh, squatted down to see what the vagrant was pointing at. There was a ledge formed by a crosspiece between two pillars deep in the tunnel, and there, shining bright against the dark red bricks, was a pair of shears.
Day pointed and grabbed Blacker by the leg of his trousers.
“There,” he said. “Go get those.”
“Not me,” Blacker said.
“I’ll get them,” the dancing man said.
He splashed into the cavelike tunnel and emerged a moment later holding the shears high. He presented them to Day, who took them and turned them over. They were streaked with a filmy layer of red. He clenched his jaw and looked at his colleague.
“Kingsley said that Little’s wounds were-”
“Inflicted by shears.”
“Yes.”
“Let me dance.”
“Come with us,” Day said. “You can dance inside.”
The dancing man tossed one end of the long strip of black crepe around his throat as if defying the breeze to touch him.
“My things,” he said. “I need my things.”
They walked back to number four and Day collected the dancing man’s things, including the broken broomstick, but left the milk crate where it was against the brick wall. He was conscious of spectators who had begun gathering in the street in the hope that there might be an arrest.
Sergeant Kett was at the desk in the back hall and he stood as the dancing man entered ahead of them.
“Here now, get on out,” he said.
Then he saw Blacker and Day. He scowled.
“Aw, what’re you doin’ bringin’ ’im in here? Smell’s worse’n usual today.”
“Sergeant, you’ve been coddling Little’s killer right outside your door,” Blacker said. “You and Inspector Day both.”
“No,” Kett said. “It can’t be.”
“There is that possibility,” Day said, “but it seems doubtful at the moment. Don’t trouble yourself, Mr Kett. Detective Blacker is getting ahead of himself.”
“If this’s the one did Mr Little in, you just put me in a room with ’im for a minute or two and look the other way, lads.”
Day grimaced and pushed the dancing man down the hall and around the corner. The big room was busy with the bustle of uniformed police coming and going, but the Murder Squad room behind the rail was nearly empty. Only Jimmy Tiffany sat at his desk, writing a report and cursing his pen, which had worn to a nub. Day was too far away to read what Tiffany was writing, but he could well imagine the ink smearing across the page.
“Get him out of here,” Tiffany said when he saw the dancing man.
The dancing man was quiet, scowling at the floor. Blacker pushed him through the short gate in the railing and guided him to Patrick Gilchrist’s desk. Day dumped the dancing man’s belongings on the desk and started sorting through them. Tiffany stood up and moved over to Gilchrist’s desk.
“Help me go through all this,” Day said.
“I’m not touching any of that,” Tiffany said. “What’s he doing in here?”
“Not sure yet. May be something, may not, but he led us to what looks like our murder weapon.”
“Did he do the deed?”
“Personally, I think not. I think he just found the scissors.”
“Well, take him somewhere else to figure it out.”
There was a small holding cell in the back, but it was only used to keep dangerous or demented criminals temporarily out of the way until they could be moved to the larger and more permanent jail facility at Millbank.
“Since I’ve no idea what we’re doing yet, I can’t promise anything.”
Tiffany turned to Blacker.
“Come now, Blacker, you can’t expect the rest of us to work while you’re parading this creature through here. He reeks. And now the entire room reeks.”
“Then take your work off to Trafalgar Square and make a picnic of it. Or better yet, help us. Have a boy sent round to fetch Dr Kingsley.”
“I’ve already got more here than I can handle. I don’t have time to be your errand boy.”
“Then try to stay out of our way.”
Tiffany glared at Blacker for a moment, but Blacker didn’t flinch under his gaze. Finally Tiffany gave up and went back to his desk. He threw his hands in the air as if to wash them of the entire incident, then turned his attention back to his broken pen and his uncompleted report. Day noticed that Tiffany was now breathing through his mouth to avoid the odor in the room.
Day spread the dancing man’s dirty blanket out on the desk and placed each item on the blanket as he examined it. There were two mismatched boots, one of them too big to fit the dancing man’s foot; a dented tin canteen (Day opened it and smelled the contents, which resembled chicken soup); the toy knife; a handful of grubby rags; and the tattered remains of what might have been a foxtail stole. Day held this last item up at arm’s length and made a face before dropping the bedraggled thing on the blanket. When he looked up, Tiffany was staring at him.
“That’s it,” Tiffany said.
He pushed his chair back, stood, and went to the back of the room where he rapped loudly on Sir Edward’s office door. Day looked at Blacker, who shrugged and gestured for the dancing man to sit. Sir Edward’s door opened and Day heard Tiffany ask if he could enter. A moment later, Tiffany was in the office and the door had shut behind him.
Day gathered the corners of the blanket together to form a loose bindle with the dancing man’s belongings inside. It did nothing to cut the stench in the room. He was looking around for an out-of-the-way place to stash the bindle when Sir Edward’s door opened and Tiffany stomped out. Behind him, Sir Edward’s deep voice boomed. “Ridiculous.”
Sir Edward stepped out of the office and his eyes swept the Murder Squad desks. He took in Day, Blacker, and the dancing man, sniffed the air, and nodded.
“Is this man a suspect?” he said.
“We believe it’s possible, sir,” Day said. “He’s at least a witness.”
“Then get on with it, detectives. Feel free to use the storage closet in back for your interview. I believe two chairs will fit quite comfortably inside and it might be best to keep him out of sight of Little’s peers. We don’t want anyone assuming the worst and lashing out at the fellow before we know anything useful.”
He turned to Inspector Tiffany.
“As for you, Mr Tiffany, if you can’t help in the investigation, at least stay out of Mr Day’s way. I don’t want my detectives running to me with every little thing.”