And so, at the end of a fruitless, unrewarding week, Quinn called his officers in.
It was Friday morning. He stared at the wall, willing something to appear on its blank surface, a photograph, a diagram, anything that might give them a lead.
‘We have to look at this from a different angle,’ he said at last. As if to prove the point he turned his back on the wall and sat down at his desk. As it was, neither of his sergeants contradicted him.
Quinn looked down at the card lying on his desk.
You are cordially invited to the world premiere of
THE EYES OF THE BEHOLDER
‘The German community in London would naturally be interested in any cultural event which is connected to their country of birth. This film, for example. I would hazard a guess that Konrad Waechter, the man responsible for it, is a compatriot of theirs. Perhaps he is known to them.’
‘I should say so!’ Macadam sat up with sudden energy. ‘I have read about Waechter in the Kinematograph Enthusiast’s Weekly. His last film was very popular, I believe, and the new one is set to cause even more of a sensation. By Jove, sir! You have been invited to the premiere!’
Quinn’s gaze went to the end of the text on the card:
On Friday, April 17th 1914, at 7 p.m.
Before an audience of specially invited celebrities
‘The seventeenth. That is today. Perhaps I will go, after all. I will take Inchball with me so that he may look out for Hartmann. And Dortmunder too, for that matter.’
Macadam was crestfallen. Quinn couldn’t bear to see the enthusiasm knocked out of his sergeant. If Macadam was to be morose, then there was no hope at all.
‘Macadam, you may come along too, of course. We will get you in somehow. Now, you said you have read about this fellow, Waechter. May I see the article?’
Macadam’s expression lit up. With an eager bustle, he retrieved his collection of Kinematograph Enthusiast’s Weeklies from a drawer in his desk. A few moments of happy thumbing later, he spread out the article in question in front of Quinn. There was a photograph of a young man whose most distinguishing feature was the black patch over one eye. Though dressed in a vaguely bohemian fashion, his bearing seemed somewhat stiff and formal, his expression stern. This was in marked contrast with the rather foolish grin of the man whose hand he was photographed shaking. The second man was dressed ostentatiously in a flamboyant overcoat with astrakhan cuffs and collars. The caption read: Renowned Austrian director Konrad Waechter agrees two-week exclusive with Mr Porrick of Porrick’s Palaces for his new masterpiece, The Eyes of the Beholder.
‘So he is not German?’ said Quinn.
‘Same thing, ain’t it?’ put in Inchball, peering over his shoulder to see the photograph. ‘They’re all bloody foreigners.’
‘Why does he wear the eye patch, do you know?’ wondered Quinn.
‘It is rumoured that he lost his eye in a duel,’ said Macadam. ‘According to that story, he can’t go back to his native Austria on account of charges relating to the duel. He killed his opponent.’
Quinn felt the kick of a familiar excitement chivvy his heart. ‘He killed a man?’ He stared for a moment longer at the photograph, suddenly very interested in Konrad Waechter.
FOURTEEN
‘Do you have it?’ The words crackled urgently in the darkness.
Solly ‘Max’ Maxwell ignored the question, and kept his back turned to the questioner. He was bent over the glowing rods, intent on his task. He had to admit he took pleasure in keeping the great man waiting. Porrick may have been the boss, but it didn’t hurt to remind him where the power really lay in their relationship. Whatever Porrick was, he was nothing without Max.
Max brought the darkness to life. He made it pulse and flicker. He even gave it its voice, a soft, rhythmic ticking that was so close to silence that it was easy to miss it. The pianist’s jarring tinkle drowned it out. So too did the coarse laughter that broke out at intervals from the audience. A single gasp of wonder or horror was too much for its nervous stutter. But he was closest to that voice. He heard its endless mechanical whisper even when others did not. At times it seemed the darkness spoke to him alone.
It was a painstaking task. His back ached with the effort of it, crouched over the illuminant, keeping his eye on the arc light, always ready to turn the handles and draw the imperceptibly diminishing rods together. It required skill and precision, to strike the rods and then draw them apart to the perfect distance for the spark to leap and burn the carbon. It required application, to maintain the optimum gap. It required concentration, to stay watchful for the ever-present threat of conflagration.
‘Max?’
The urgency in Porrick’s voice was echoed by a high-pitched yelp. This was something new. Despite his determination to keep his boss waiting, Max could hold out no longer. He risked a quick backward glance to discover the source of the animal sound. A small, wiry-haired dog stirred restlessly in Porrick’s arms.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘What? Oh … this is Scudder.’
At the mention of his name, the dog gave another highly strung yelp and redoubled its efforts to free itself from Porrick’s restraining hold.
‘Why have you brought a dog into my box? A Yorkshire terrier at that!’
‘Don’t you like Yorkies?’
‘I hate them. They’re so … nervy. The operator’s box is no place for an animal like that. For any animal! Have you any idea what would happen if it ran amok and knocked the machine over?’
The nitrate film stock was the most flammable material imaginable. It was as if this was the price that had to be paid for the revelations it effected – some kind of secret compact between the film and the darkness. And Max knew better than anyone what could happen if you allowed your vigilance to slip. He’d seen his mate Ted’s charred body after they’d dragged it out of the basement of Porrick’s Palace, Islington. The flames had been so hot and fierce they had lifted the paving stones outside.
Surely Porrick would have had no desire to repeat that experience? But it seemed that Porrick was incapable of learning from his mistakes. He truly had a genius for irresponsibility.
‘Are you insane?’
‘I wanted to show him to Waechter.’
‘Waechter?’
‘Have you seen him? He was supposed to be delivering the final print for tonight.’
‘He’s not here. He hasn’t been. I don’t have the print.’
‘You don’t have it?’
‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’
‘You shouldn’t talk to me like that. You ought to remember …’
‘What?’
‘Your position. You ought to show me more respect. I could …’
‘You could fire me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Well, I just want you to show me more respect. That’s all.’
‘If that’s all … I have a job to do here. If you will be so kind as to bugger off and leave me alone, Mister Porrick, sir. And take your nasty little dog with you.’