But why had he shown himself to Quinn before the attack? Perhaps he did not intend for Quinn to see him. Perhaps, having been ignored by the film industry, he now believed himself to be invisible to the world. He had been watching Quinn, because he believed that it would be Quinn who would be called upon to investigate whatever crimes he was intending to commit.
The man stood rooted to the spot, still staring at Quinn. If he were the girl’s attacker, it might make sense that he had come here to find out news of her condition. But wouldn’t he make some attempt to evade capture, instead of standing there in the open?
Quinn waved and shouted, as he trotted across the courtyard. ‘Wait! I want to speak to you a moment.’
The man made no move to get away, nor did he acknowledge Quinn’s hail. However, there was something awkward – an unnatural constraint – to his posture. His body was held at an angle, and he kept one hand determinedly behind his back. Looking down at the other hand, Quinn noticed that for once it was not gloved.
‘Who are you? What do you want with me?’
For an answer, the man looked deep into Quinn’s eyes. Quinn found his gaze both troubling and compelling. He recognized that secret quality that marked not just a capability, but also a willingness, to do anything. It was a capacity that was released when an individual went beyond despair. He had seen it in many murderers. He had seen it in himself.
Neither the man nor Quinn blinked, as if they had gone too far for that.
‘I knew your father,’ he said at last.
Quinn’s heart took up where the ambulance’s siren had left off.
‘How is that possible?’
‘I know what happened to him. I know why … why he took his own life.’
‘No!’
‘Do you not wish to know?’
‘What has this to do with what happened last night? A girl was viciously attacked last night after the premiere of a new motion picture. I saw you there. You argued with the maker of that film. You came here to see her …’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Why else would you be here?’
‘Your logic is faulty. However, it is true that I made some enquiries at the desk. They know me here. I was able to ask questions without arousing suspicion. She was not admitted.’
‘Do you know her name?’
‘No. But I think they would have remarked upon the nature of her injury sufficiently to identify her. No one with an enucleated eye was admitted last night.’
‘Why do you care? What has this got to do with you?’
‘I believe Waechter did it. I have reason to believe he is a Satanist. This may be connected to some kind of perverted ritual.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Hugh Grant-Sissons. I knew your father.’
‘Yes, you said. Are you a doctor? Is that why they know you?’
‘No. I am an inventor. I worked with your father on some ideas for a new apparatus that could have transformed medical science. Unfortunately, nothing came of it. Various unfortunate circumstances, including your father’s death, cut our enterprise short. Do you not find it strange that there is no record of her admittance?’ To Quinn, the abrupt change of tack seemed indicative of a dislocated mind.
‘She must have been taken to a different hospital.’
‘That will be a simple matter for you and your officers to confirm.’
‘Are you still following me?’
‘How could I be following you when I was here before you?’
‘What if you were the one who attacked her?’
The furrow in Grant-Sissons’s brow seemed to ripple and deepen, as if the invisible hatchet that had caused it had landed a second, firmer blow. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Revenge.’
‘To the best of my knowledge, that poor girl has never done anything to me. Indeed, I have no idea who she is.’
‘That’s not what I mean. You know what I mean. This is an attack on Waechter.’
Grant-Sissons took some time to consider this. At length, he decided on his answer. ‘On the contrary. It will do no harm to the success of his film whatsoever. In fact, if my understanding of the baseness of human nature is correct, it will serve to promote considerable public interest in Herr Waechter and his odious films. As that is the last thing I want, I think you must agree that I am the last person who would carry out this attack.’
‘Why do you hate Waechter so much?’
‘Oh, I don’t hate him any more than I hate them all. Every single person who has profited from my invention – for which I never received a penny, may I say. My ideas were stolen from me by Edison. I have devoted my life since to exposing this injustice and reclaiming what is mine by rights.’
‘So do you picket every screening of every film?’
‘Not every. I cannot be everywhere. But there are other reasons for objecting to Waechter. He is a degenerate pervert. He cannot go back to Austria because he is wanted there for buggery.’
Quinn suppressed a smile. ‘I thought it was for duelling?’
‘That is a pretext. And as for that creature Porrick – in many ways he is even worse. He caused a man’s death, you know.’
‘Really?’ As always, Quinn’s interest in a person was piqued by an association with death.
‘Yes. He had a workman solder a tin trunk shut.’
‘How did that cause his death?’
‘The trunk contained film stock, which as you know is made from highly flammable cellulose nitrate. One spark was enough to send the whole thing up in flames. The poor fellow was working in a tiny basement room, the way out blocked by more film stock, all of which caught fire. He didn’t stand a chance.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I make it my business. This industry was spawned from my invention. Creatures like Porrick would be nothing without me. Naturally, I follow news of their doings closely.’
‘What exactly was it you invented?’
‘I invented the mechanism that allows the staggered passage of a roll of sensitized film through a metal gate, at the same time as activating a synchronized shutter, so that a rapid series of photographs may be taken – and by the same mechanism, projected. In layman’s terms, I invented the motion picture camera and projector. I have here a copy of a letter I sent to Thomas Edison in 1889, together with the reply, which proves that they received it even though they claimed that the plans I enclosed were impracticable. So impracticable that, in the following year, they produced a machine which is in all essentials identical to mine!’
The hand that was not hidden behind his back delved into the inside of his jacket. After a moment of struggling, Grant-Sissons waved a set of greasy, well-thumbed papers in front of Quinn’s nose.
Quinn couldn’t help raising an objection. ‘Why did you send him your plans? Wasn’t he … a rival?’
Grant-Sissons withdrew the documents, without giving Quinn a chance to read them, and one-handedly replaced them with as much difficulty as he had taken them out. ‘Some ideas are greater than petty rivalry. I was hoping for his financial support. I thought he would recognize me as a fellow inventor. I thought he would realize the potential of my ideas and fund my business. Oh, he saw the potential all right.’
‘Forgive me for saying so, Mr Grant-Sissons, but it seems to me that you were a little naive.’
Grant-Sissons seemed to take offence at this. And a moment later proved that he did at least have the instinct for revenge. ‘Shall I tell you why your father took his own life?’ There was a sadistic edge to his voice.
Quinn had been on the verge of taking the man in as a suspect. But he was deterred by the prospect of discovering at last the information that had for so long tormented him. Furthermore, he had to accept that without the girl, there was little to charge anyone with. ‘I am in the middle of conducting an investigation.’