He went to the sink in the morgue and turned off the running tap, then stared into the mirror to watch his will take shape. The surface of the shroud was already twitching and scurrying as he demanded new forms of it. At first there was only the primitive outline of his head, roughly shaped, like that of a snowman. Two pits for eyes: a lumpen nose. But he concentrated, willing the linen to stretch itself to the limits of its elasticity. And behold! it worked, it really worked! The threads complained, but acquiesced to his demands, forming in exquisite reproduction the nostrils, and then the eyelids; the upper Up: now the lower. He traced from memory the contours of his lost face like an adoring lover, and remade them in every detail. Now he began to make a column for the neck, filled with air, but looking deceptively solid. Below that the shroud swelled into a manly torso. The arms were already formed; the legs followed quickly on. And it was done.
He was re-made, in his own image.
The illusion was not perfect. For one thing, he was pure white, except for the stains, and his flesh had the texture of cloth. The creases of his face were perhaps too severe, almost cubist in appearance, and it was impossible to coax the cloth to make a semblance of either hair or nails. But he was as ready for the world as any living shroud could hope to be.
It was time to go out and meet his public.
‘Your game, Micky.”
Maguire seldom lost at poker. He was too clever, and that used face too unreadable; his tired, bloodshot eyes never let anything out. Yet, despite his formidable reputation as a winner, he never cheated. That was his bond with himself. There was no lift in winning if there was a cheat involved. It was just stealing then; and that was for the criminal classes. He was a businessman, pure and simple.
Tonight, in the space of two and a half hours, he’d pocketed a tidy sum. Life was good. Since the deaths of Dork, Henry B.
Henry and Glass, the police had been too concerned with Murder to take much notice of the lower orders of Vice. Besides, their palms were well crossed with silver; they had nothing to complain about. Inspector Wall, a drinking companion of many years’ standing, had even offered Maguire protection from the lunatic killer who was apparently on the loose. The irony of the idea pleased Maguire mightily.
It was almost three am. Time for bad girls and boys to be in their beds, dreaming of crimes for the morrow. Maguire rose from the table, signifying the end of the night’s gambling. He buttoned up his waistcoat and carefully reknotted his lemon water-ice silk tie.
‘Another game next week?’ he suggested.
The defeated players agreed. They were used to losing money to their boss, but there were no hard feelings amongst the quartet. There was a tinge of sadness perhaps: they missed Henry B. and Dork. Saturday nights had been such joyous affairs. Now there was a muted tone over the proceedings.
Perlgut was the first to leave, stubbing out his cheroot in the brimming ashtray.
‘Night, Mick.’
‘Night, Frank. Give the kids a kiss from their Uncle Mick,
eh?’
‘Will do.’
Perlgut shuffled off, with his stuttering brother in tow.
‘G-g-g-goodnight.’
‘Night, Ernest.’
The brothers clattered down the stairs.
Norton was the last to go, as always.
‘Shipment tomorrow?’ he asked.
Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ said Maguire. He never worked on Sundays; it was a day for the family.
‘Not, today’s Sunday,’ said Norton, not trying to be pedantic, just letting it come naturally. Tomorrow’s Monday.’
‘Yes.’
‘Shipment Monday?’
‘I hope so.’
‘You going to the warehouse?’
‘Probably.’
‘I’ll pick you up then: we can run down together.’
‘Fine.’
Norton was a good man. Humourless, but reliable.
‘Night then.’
‘Night.’
His three-inch heels were steel-tipped; they sounded like a woman’s stilettos on the stairs. The door slammed below.
Maguire counted his profits, drained his glass of Cointreau, and switched out the light in the gaming room. The smoke was already staling. Tomorrow he’d have to get somebody to come up and open the window, let some fresh Soho smells in there. Salami and coffee beans, commerce and sleaze. He loved it, loved it with a passion, like a babe loves a tit.