The waxwork figures stood on small stands, with numbers at their feet. He knew some of the figures but not others. There stood Thurtell, the murderer of Weir. Over there was little Lefroy, a killer hungry for money. Five yards away sat Mrs Thompson, known for her unusual lovers. Browne and Kennedy, the two newest figures, stood next to Mrs Dyer and Patrick Mahon.
Marriner showed Hewson the most interesting murderers one by one. ‘That’s Crippen, as you perhaps know. A weak little man, not very interesting to look at. There’s old Vaquier. You can tell him by all that hair on his face. And this is –‘
‘Yes, who’s that?’ asked Hewson quietly.
‘Oh, that’s the best figure in our show. Of all these people, he’s the only one living today.’
Hewson looked at the waxwork closely: a mall, thin figure only five feet tall. It had a little moustache, big glasses and an unusual coat. It was easy to see that he was French. Without knowing why, he felt suddenly afraid of that smiling face. He moved back from the figure, finding it difficult to look at it again.
