“There?” he said. “Taylor lived there?”
“What’s wrong? It’s part of a scheme, redevelopment…”
Then Avery understood. Leclerc was ashamed. Taylor had disgracefully deceived him. This was not the society they protected, these slums with their Babel’s Tower: they had no place in Leclerc’s scheme of things. To think that a member of Leclerc’s staff should daily trudge from the breath and stink of such a place to the sanctuary of the Department: had he no money, no pension? Had he not a little bit beside, as we all have, just a hundred or two, to buy himself out of this squalor?
“It’s no worse than Blackfriars Road,” Avery said involuntarily; it was meant to comfort him.
“Everyone knows we used to be in Baker Street,” Leclerc retorted.
They made their way quickly to the base of the block, past shopwindows filled with old clothes and rusted electric heaters, all the sad muddle of useless things which only the poor will buy. There was a chandler; his candles were yellow and dusty like fragments of a tomb.
“What number?” Leclerc asked.
“You said thirty-four.”
They passed between heavy pillars crudely ornamented with mosaics, followed plastic arrows marked with pink numbers; they squeezed between lines of aged, empty cars, until finally they came to a concrete entrance with cartons of milk on the step. There was no door, but a flight of rubberized steps which squeaked as they trod. The air smelled of food and that liquid soap they dispense in railway lavatories. On the heavy stucco wall a hand-painted notice discouraged noise. Somewhere a wireless played. They continued up two flights and stopped before a green door, half-glazed. Mounted on it in letters of white bakelite was the number 34. Leclerc took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his temples. He might have been entering church. It had been raining more than they realized; their coats were quite wet. He pressed the bell. Avery was suddenly very frightened. He glanced at Leclerc and thought, This is your show; you tell her.
The music seemed louder. They strained their ears to catch some other sound, but there was none.
“Why did you call him Malherbe?” Avery asked suddenly.
Leclerc pressed the bell again; and then they heard it, both of them, a whimper midway between the sob of a child and the whine of a cat, a throttled, metallic sigh. While Leclerc stepped back, Avery seized the bronze knocker on the letter box and banged it violently. The echo died away and they heard from inside the flat a light, reluctant tread; a bolt was slid from its housing, a spring lock disengaged. Then they heard again, much louder and more distinctly, the same plaintive monotone. The door opened a few inches and Avery saw a child, a frail, pallid rag of a girl not above ten years old. She wore steel-rimmed spectacles, the kind Anthony wore. In her arms, its pink limbs splayed stupidly about it, its painted eyes staring from between fringes of ragged cotton, was a doll. Its daubed mouth was lolling open, its head hung sideways as if it were broken or dead. It is called a talking doll, but no living thing uttered such a sound.
“Where is your mother?” asked Leclerc. His voice was aggressive, frightened.
The child shook her head. “Gone to work.”
“Who looks after you, then?”
She spoke slowly as if she were thinking of something else. “Mum comes back teatimes. I’m not to open the door.”
“Where is she? Where does she go?”
“Work.”
“Who gives you lunch?” Leclerc insisted.
“What?”
“Who gives you dinner?” Avery said quickly.
“Mrs. Bradley. After school.”
Then Avery asked, “Where’s your father?” and she smiled and put a finger to her lips.
“He’s gone on an airplane,” she said. “To get money. But I’m not to say. It’s a secret.”
Neither of them spoke. “He’s bringing me a present,” she added.
“Where from?” said Avery.
“From the North Pole, but it’s a secret.” She still had her hand on the doorknob. “Where Father Christmas comes from.”
“Tell your mother some men were here,” Avery said. “From your dad’s office. We’ll come again teatime.”
“It’s important,” said Leclerc.