IMPERFECTION by Ray Clark (good books to read for women TXT) 📕

“Fascinating,” said Gardener. “Are they all Chaney outfits?”

“Not at all. That one there which, to you, probably looks like a bunch of rags, is in fact from the first short movie adaptation of a United States version of the film Frankenstein made in 1910, in which the monster is played by Charles Stanton Ogle. A very prolific film, Mr Gardener, for which I probably have the only remaining copy. And that, may I add, cost me a fortune.”

The atmosphere in the room was intense. The walls were dark. The floor was natural wood, stained and polished. Opposite the mannequins was a tile-topped table running the length of the wall, and above that a huge, dusty mirror. The tabletop was crammed full of paraphernalia: wigs, creams, face powders, jars of chemicals. The whole space had a distinctly unsavoury odour that he couldn’t place, a sort of sour, spicy smell.

Corndell leaned forward and reached under the table. Producing a bin bag, he removed the clothes from the dummy wearing the Hunchback outfit.

“What are you doing?” asked Gardener.

“You’ll want these for forensic testing, Mr Gardener. You have my permission to take them.”

Gardener glanced at Reilly and then to Corndell.

“Do you require any samples of my make-up?” he asked.

Reilly answered the question. “What would be the point?”

“Evidence, Mr Reilly. After all, you are trying to eliminate me.”

“Come on now, Willie, old son. You’re only offering this lot to us because you know damn well that you’ve been careful and we can’t prove a thing. On top of that, there’s no evidence that the costume you’ve given us is the one you were wearing last night.”

Corndell turned. “That remark, Mr Reilly, implies that I am your killer. If my solicitor were here, you’d have to retract that.”

“But he isn’t, is he, Willie?”

Corndell glared at Reilly. “If you would be so kind, Mr Reilly, as to please use the name my mother gave me. Now, gentlemen, is there anything else you require from this room?”

“No,” replied Gardener.

“Then shall we move on to the cinema?”

Gardener followed Corndell up the staircase, into the room. He glanced around, impressed. It was long and angular, and stretched across the top floor of the house. The projection booth sat at the far end, while a screen covered the wall nearest to them. The films were placed in racks on the left- and right-hand walls. There was yet another odour in the room that Gardener also failed to place. “What’s that smell?”

After a pause, Reilly replied, “Mothballs.”

“Not quite, Mr Reilly,” said Corndell. “What you can smell is celluloid, a plastic made from camphor and cellulose nitrate. But... as you so rightly point out, it does smell like mothballs, which were actually made from camphor many years ago.” He smiled, and Gardener was growing ever confident that the man’s pomposity would be his undoing. But had he realised it? Was he now playing games?

Gardener strolled slowly around the room, studying each and every one of the films on display. They were contained in a number of silver canisters banded together. He glanced at the titles, recognising some but not all, wondering how many of those featured Chaney. The Hunchback and The Phantom were obvious, as were A Blind Bargain and London After Midnight. But The Dark Eyes of London didn’t ring any bells, nor did The Invisible Ghost, The Black Castle, or Imperfection. He wondered what the value of the whole collection was.

“The last time we were here, you said it had been a life’s work trying to track down lost films from the silent era. I can see what you mean, now. It must have taken you years. How did you manage to find them?”

“It’s my life, Mr Gardener. If it’s something you’re interested in, you’ll pull out all the stops. They’ve cost me a fortune, but they’re worth it. Take this one for instance.” Corndell pulled the reels forward. “London After Midnight–”

Gardener cut him off. “Interesting you should start with that. Isn’t it commonly known among film collectors as the Holy Grail of archivists?”

“That’s one way of describing it.”

“I was reliably informed that the film was destroyed by a fire in the 1960s. So how did you come by it?”

“You’re talking about the fire in Vault 7 at MGM. That very well may have been the last surviving copy that anyone knew of, but my father passed this copy on to me. He had been the proud owner since the Thirties.”

“Know the film well, do you?” asked Gardener.

“Like the back of my hand.” Corndell’s answer was sharp and his expression stern, as if his intelligence had been insulted.

From his inside pocket, Gardener produced the artist impression of the vampire, the one drawn from the eyewitness account on the night Janine Harper was killed. “Then how come you didn’t know who this was the last time we visited?”

“Oh come now, Mr Gardener, it’s hardly a likeness, is it?”

Gardener had to allow the man credit for not hesitating. “We have a witness who’d disagree with you. In fact, when we showed it to him, he knew who it was straight away.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Reilly answered. “That either you don’t know your films as well as you think–”

“I am the last word on Lon Chaney, young man,” shouted Corndell, indignantly.

“Or, I was going to say before you opened your trap, you’re leading us up the garden path.”

“I am leading you nowhere. I am simply answering your questions to the best of my knowledge, as I have always done.”

“If you’re such an authority on Chaney,” challenged Reilly, “why didn’t you know who that was?”

“Because it looks nothing like the character from the film.”

“There is a resemblance, you could have guessed,” suggested Gardener.

“Guess, Mr