The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914 Read Free Page B

he believed he had. A blur of movement configured by intent. Resolving itself into a human form shadowing him. Footsteps moving in time with his own.
    He had thought nothing of it. Or very little. He had registered the sensation and dismissed it. No, not quite dismissed it. He was a policeman, after all. Over the years he had put away more than his fair share of villains, and dispatched another quota to face a higher justice. The former would have grudges of their own against him, which they would nurture and fatten as they served out their sentences (if they had not paid the ultimate price); many of the latter would have left behind associates who might be presumed to have sworn oaths of vengeance on their behalf.
    It was a plain fact that there were people in the world who were out for Quinn’s blood.
    He accepted this, but the thing was not to become obsessed by it. No doubt the day would come when he would find himself face to face with a man who would calmly aim a revolver between his eyes and fire. In the meantime, he couldn’t go around jumping at shadows.
    And so, he had registered the sensation of being followed and pushed it to the back of his mind. It was most likely a coincidence. Someone else on their way to Brompton Road Tube Station, whose footsteps would naturally follow Quinn’s.
    It occurred to him that this sensation of being followed was simply a fact of modern life. This is how it feels to live in a crowded metropolis at the beginning of the twentieth century, he realized. To notice it, to become preoccupied with it, disturbed by it, was perhaps the sign of a man at odds with his existence. There was danger in that. The danger of alienation, and madness. Quinn knew enough about that to recognize the signs. It was something he in particular needed to be on his guard against.
    On the platform, he had felt sufficiently invisible to put the sensation from his mind. The brown and green tiles seemed to suck the life out of the feeble electric lights. It was a space that fell away at its soft dark edges. He had instinctively sought out a place on the periphery, slipping away into the welcoming gloom.
    A tide of bobbing bowler hats had closed behind him. He had found a spot at the end of the platform, peering expectantly into the black abyss of the tunnel. He was in fact at the closest point to that abyss that it was possible for him to be without falling into it. A spot of light appeared, signalling the approach of the next train. Almost simultaneously came the first stirring of the air. And then the distant rattle that grew into a scream. The light expanded as it hurtled towards him.
    He had entered the train by the gate at the rear of the last car. And – or so he thought – he had been the only one to do so. Was it possible that he had missed the entrance of this other man, who had somehow slipped on after Quinn but before the gateman closed the gate and rang his bell?
    Or was it all in his head? Was this sensation of being looked at of a piece with the sensation of being followed?
    Quinn turned his head. The man was seated on the opposite side of the car, just to Quinn’s right. And he was staring fixedly at Quinn. There could be no mistaking it.
    The blinking of the carriage lights grew more insistent. The intervals of blackness increased in duration. Then all at once, the lights died completely, all along the length of the train.
    There was a collective groan and a rustle of protest from the newspaper readers. But a moment later, the groan became a cry of anger tinged with alarm as the train came to a screeching, grinding halt.
    It was strange how calm Quinn felt. After all, if the man was going to kill him, now was his opportunity. In fact, Quinn felt that he would be disappointed if there was not some attempt made on his life.
    The darkness cloaked the movement of his hand. And hid the sleek steel object that weighted it with death. He held the gun out straight in front of him,