THIRTY-SIX
As he turned from the open expanse of Charing Cross Road into the sun-starved alleyway of Cecil Court, Quinn felt a physical chill descend. The events of the previous night came back to him, as if the ghosts of all those involved were now in place. The huddle of men around the screaming girl. Her body racked with uncontrollable shudders. The man who stepped from the carriage and took over with the assumed authority of a doctor. The arrival of the party from Leicester Square. The nasty yapping dog with the eye between its teeth.
The scene replayed itself in his mind. It took on the quality of a kinematograph projection, flickering, grainy, juddering and monochrome. In fact, it was like several films projected simultaneously, and repeatedly. At first, the layered multiplicity of images confused him. It was hard to see through the ever-shifting fog of movement.
But then his perceiving mind got used to the patterns of repetition in the presentation that his subconscious mind was trying to force on him. One detail cut through. The iris of the eye he had held in his hand.
This was the only part of the mental diorama to have colour.
But his mind must have been playing tricks on him. It presented the eye to him as blue. And yet he remembered – not as a visual memory, but as a factual memory – the moment when he had first consciously registered the colour of her eyes.
He had been talking to Lord Dunwich. He had opened the handkerchief in which the eye was wrapped and looked down to see a brown eye looking back at him.
This was why, as Macadam would no doubt remind him, it was so important to gather firm evidence, and subject it to meticulous scientific scrutiny. Memory was unreliable. His own mind could not even agree with itself as to the colour of her eyes. Fortunately, he had retrieved the enucleated eye and sent it for analysis by a pathologist. All that he lacked was the girl from whom it had been taken.
He was admitted by Magnus Porrick, who was apparently on his way out, and highly distraught. He stared wildly into Quinn’s face as they crossed paths on the threshold.
Something about that look persuaded Quinn that he ought to detain Porrick. ‘One moment, sir. I would like to talk to you. There has been a serious development in the case. Please, if you will step back inside.’
‘But I have to find him!’
‘Who?’ For a moment Quinn thought Porrick was referring to the missing Novak.
‘Scudder.’
Quinn was not sure what Porrick had said: a name, an oath, a command, or possibly he had not said anything at all. He had merely emitted a meaningless involuntary sound, like a sneeze. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘My dog, Scudder. He’s gone missing.’
‘That was the animal who found the girl’s eye?’
‘What?’ Porrick’s distress was such that he was evidently finding it hard to concentrate.
‘Last night. Just here, outside. You must remember?’
‘Oh, yes … yes.’ Porrick suddenly looked at Quinn with staring, accusatory eyes. ‘You were the man who was going to shoot him! What have you done with him?’
‘I have done nothing with him, I assure you.’
‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you? You have to help me find him.’
‘I’m afraid I have rather more pressing duties. However, I am sure your dog will turn up. Or if not, it has probably met with some fatal road accident. A dog like that can have little road sense, and from what I saw, you had no control over it last night. Either way, it is not a matter for me.’
‘Do you think Scudder could be dead?’
‘I really don’t know. Mr Porrick, will you come back inside with me? I have some questions.’ Quinn was about to impress upon Porrick the seriousness of the situation, given Dolores Novak’s death. However, another thought occurred to him. ‘We may be able to throw some light on the whereabouts of your dog.’
Porrick’s gaze became pathetically fixed on Quinn. Docile and trusting, he allowed himself to be turned back.
The offices of the Visionary Production Company had the stale, dead air of the morning after. The gloom of Cecil Court permeated the interior, depressive and grey, like a hangover waiting to be claimed. Empty champagne bottles littered the floor and furniture. Cigarette stubs had not always found their way into ashtrays. The white of the decor seemed dingy and weak, unable to hold its own against the negative power of the black. The black sucked the energy out of everything.
Konrad Waechter was sitting at a desk, tapping away at a typewriter. He barely looked up when Quinn and Porrick came into the room. Quinn gestured for Porrick to sit down, but his own attention was now drawn by the director. In particular, he found that he was fascinated by the patch over Waechter’s eye; or more accurately, by speculations as to what lay behind it. ‘Mr Waechter?’
Waechter grunted but did not look up.
‘I would like to speak to you too. Something has happened. I am afraid it is my duty to tell you both of a very great tragedy that has occurred.’
It seemed Quinn had said enough to get the man’s attention. Though judging by his questioning frown, he did not fully understand the detective’s words. He had clearly been impressed by his tone, however.
‘Last night, as you know, a woman was attacked just outside these offices. We have reasons to believe that she attended the screening of your moving picture film at this gentleman’s picture palace in Leicester Square.’
‘Picture Palace is another chain. Mine are Porrick’s Palaces.’
‘It has now come to light that a second woman was attacked last night. Dolores Novak.’
Quinn paused to observe the effect of the name on the two men.
Magnus Porrick leaned slightly – almost imperceptibly – backwards, as if recoiling from a blow. The speed of the reaction suggested that Porrick’s shock was genuine. If anything, it seemed that Porrick was trying to minimize it, although he could not control the colour draining from his face. Maybe Porrick had not known that Dolores Novak was dead. But he did know something – something that he was at pains to keep to himself.
Waechter seemed to draw energy from the news. His visible eye widened, as if the entrance to his inner self was opening up, so that he could drink in all the horror of this sensational revelation.
Quinn reminded himself that he was dealing here with film people. Waechter no doubt came from a theatrical background. If he had not been an actor himself, he had certainly spent a lot of time in the company of actors. He understood the techniques they used and was probably adept in them himself.
He wondered whether behind the patch was an eye that Waechter could not control, that on the contrary would always betray his true feelings. And that was the reason it had to be kept hidden away.
‘There are similarities between the two assaults. Both victims were subject to the removal of one eye.’
Waechter thumped the desk excitedly and let out a stream of German.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that. What did you say?’
‘I do not believe … Vot you say is not possible!’
‘Why do you say that?’
Waechter merely shook his head.
Porrick at last was prompted to ask the question. ‘And how is she? Mrs Novak?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘No!’
Again Waechter gave vent to his thoughts in his native language.
‘I am naturally interested to recreate Mrs Novak’s movements after the party last night. Did either of you gentlemen see her leave?’
‘It is hard to say,’ said Waechter.
Porrick concentrated on avoiding Quinn’s scrutiny.
‘Hard to say? I don’t see why it should be particularly hard to say. If you saw her leave, you simply say yes. If you did not, then you say no.’
‘There were many peoples here. Many peoples coming and going …’