The Dark Palace

The other man said nothing, but stared at Qui

‘I am looking for Grant-Sissons. I am Detective Inspector Qui

‘I am Grant-Sissons.’

‘I was looking for an older man.’

‘You want my father.’

‘Is he here?’

‘Yes. But he’s resting.’

‘It’s very important.’

‘Who did you say it was?’

‘Qui

The door was shut in Qui

An enquiry came from Macadam’s end of the passage. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

‘He’s here,’ said Qui

The door began to open once more.

The workshop was lit by an oil lamp that hung from a hook in the ceiling. It cast a feeble yellow wash over what appeared to be a cave hollowed out inside a mountain of scrap metal and general refuse. Grant-Sissons lay on a camp bed, a coarse, grubby blanket pulled up to his chin, his hands hidden from view beneath it. His bed was like a raft floating on a sea filled with the least buoyant flotsam and jetsam imaginable: rusting cogs, the skeletons of obscure machines, industrial coils of copper wire and other electronic components, a detritus of useless parts and tools. The inventor’s face had a sickly tinge to it that Qui

With every step, Qui

‘So.’ Grant-Sissons’s voice was weak and worn-out. ‘You have come to find out the truth about your father.’

‘I am more concerned, at this present moment, with a current investigation.’

‘If this is about that girl, I’ve told you, Waechter is behind it …’

‘It is likely that that attack was a hoax. However, another woman has been attacked and killed, and unless you know of a way to bring corpses back to life, I fear that this will not prove to be a hoax.’

‘Why do you want to talk to me about this? I know nothing about it.’

‘The victim was a film actress of sorts. She had been employed by Visionary Productions. You were seen in Leicester Square outside the theatre which was presenting a film in which she appeared. You were seen to behave in a ma

‘I told you, I was at the hospital on my own account. As you can see, I am not a well man.’

‘Today a bomb was placed outside the office of the Daily Clarion. We are currently pursuing the theory that both the murder of the actress, Dolores Novak, and the bomb outrage were motivated by a desire to damage the interests of the film industry. The proprietor of the Clarion is an investor in Visionary Productions. He also publishes a weekly organ promoting film production and exhibition. The home-made bomb was placed inside a film canister. This seems consistent with our theory, as an embittered perpetrator with a grudge against film people might consider it ironic to use one of the tools of their trade against them. Do you not think?’

‘It’s an interesting theory.’

‘It would require someone with a certain degree of technical and scientific proficiency to construct, prime and detonate an explosive device, do you not agree?’

‘And you think that I am this person? But that is a conclusion of startling ineptitude and stupidity, Inspector. It is a travesty of logical deduction. Do you think I am the only man capable of constructing such a device?’

‘Ah, but you are the only one who also has a viable motive, so far as I am aware.’

‘And there the whole absurdity of your position is revealed, in that “so far as I am aware”. Surely even you must be able to grasp the possibility that your perpetrator may simply be someone who is not yet known to you? Inspector Qui

‘Your son could well have placed the device on your behalf.’

‘But he has been here the whole time, I tell you. By all means, ask him.’

‘It’s true, my father hasn’t moved from his bed the whole time. And I haven’t set foot outside this … place.’

From a legal standpoint, a father and son each providing the alibi for the other rather left something to be desired. However, there was something about the bitter, resentful despair in the son’s voice that inclined Qui

‘I’m dying, Inspector Qui

‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘I have cancer.’

Qui

‘It started there, but it has spread. I was fortunate. I had some weeks of remission. I tried to use that time to make one last protest. And to see you, of course. But the disease is racing through me now. I have seen the end. The horrible end. There is no way to stop it. Do you really think a man in my position would run around planting bombs?’

‘Why did you want to see me?’

‘I have already told you, I knew your father.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘We worked together as business associates. He came to me with an idea for an invention. He hoped to combine the techniques of photography with the properties of X-rays, thereby developing a machine that could capture images of the internal arrangements of the human body, which he believed could be used to facilitate diagnostic practice in medicine.’

‘What happened?’

‘We were forced to abandon our work.’

‘Why?’

‘My research assistant became ill. She – my assistant was a young woman – Louisa … Louisa Grant-Sissons. She was my wife. Louisa volunteered to be the subject. She was captivated by the magic of it. By the idea of having the inside of her hand made manifest. Of seeing the delicate interco