Coffin and the Paper Man

‘It was the left silver shoe that went, wasn’t it? What about the other shoes? Always the left?’

Young shook his head. ‘Right shoe, left shoe. She liked shoes. One gone out of each of four pairs. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

That someone was faking it? To make it look as though the killer knew her well enough to have taken other shoes? Would her father do that to provide evidence against Tim Zeman?

‘No one knew that we would be coming in for another search,’ said Young, half answering his unspoken query. ‘I suddenly decided to do it.’

So supposing it was real? In which case, someone, somewhere had a collection of shoes.

‘It makes me think I don’t know what to think,’ said Coffin. It would be as well to establish when the shoes went. ‘Fine out,’ he said. ‘If you can. What about the mother? How did she react? Was she surprised?’

‘Surprised,’ said Young. ‘And frightened.’

Coffin drove back to St Luke’s Mansions. He also had a life to enjoy. At the moment he was having a drink in his own sitting-room with Stella Pinero and Sir Harry. He was enjoying himself.

The Paper Man, who was to prove a shrewd psychologist, no doubt reckoned on all this.

Hence the two letters.

‘I love the view from your windows,’ said Stella. ‘Roofs and tree-tops and just a hint of the river beyond.’ She was leaning out of the open window. An empty glass on the table beside her. ‘I mean, you can smell it.’

‘I think that smell’s from a canal,’ said Coffin, pouring some wine into her glass.

‘You ought to photograph this view, Harry,’ she went on.

‘Done a few local street scenes for Dick to use in the gallery. He’s got three blown up to put on the wall as you go in. You must see them. But faces are more my thing, you know. I’d like to do one of you, Stella, if you’d allow.’

‘Love it,’ said Stella. ‘Only let me get my hair done.’ She ran a hand through her hair which she was growing for her part in Cavalcade.

‘Not your best face, Stella,’ said Sir Harry. ‘I want to take you when you are completely off guard. No make-up, nothing. Looking your worst.’

‘Oh thanks.’

‘It will only be what you call your worst,’ he continued gravely. ‘In fact, you will be perfectly beautiful.’

Stella considered the offer. She was not going to refuse. To be photographed by Harry Beauchamp, made-up or unmade-up, represented a great prize. But she did not wish to go down to history looking like the Witch of Endor.

‘I’d like to do you too, sir, if I could,’ said Sir Harry, looking at Coffin.

The hand pouring him some more chilled white wine wavered. Sir, he called me sir. He’s older than I am. Then Coffin decided to take it as a tribute to his rank and authority. Also, Sir Harry was a notable prankster and, come to think of it, was having a good time at both his expense and Stella’s. His hand steadied.

‘Sounds a good idea. Want me in uniform? I have a rather grand one I wear on special occasions like meeting the Queen.’

‘Just head and shoulders, I thought,’ said Sir Harry. ‘Against a blank wall.’

‘Ah yes, a mug shot.’

‘Do you know, I think that may have been at the back of my mind,’ said Sir Harry with an air of surprise.

‘Lay off them, Harry,’ said his friend Dick, from near the door where he was talking to Raina Morgan, the youngest, newest and prettiest recruit to Stella’s team in the Theatre Workshop. She had trained in the Drama Department of the new University and had been brought in to help direct the production after Cavalcade, the play closest (at that moment) to Stella’s changeable heart. Although she was constant enough in theatre matters, only with men was she fickle. The play was The Madras House