The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914

by R. N. Morris

  But the main problem with this disguise was that, while it enabled Inchball to linger unobtrusively in the alleyway, it was all too conspicuous elsewhere. It made it impossible for him to follow anyone who came out of the shop and down on to the Strand.

  Quinn was especially keen to track down the man they called Hartmann, who appeared to be Dortmunder’s most frequent visitor, despite being – as Inchball continued to point out – ‘as bald as a bleedin’ coot’, and in no obvious need of a shave. Inchball was convinced that it had been Hartmann who had paid off the urchins.

  Macadam had sunk into a slough of despond over his failure to record anything significant on the kinematographic camera, and the subsequent abandonment of that particular method of investigation.

  Even the arrival of the projector – a Gaumont Chrono – did little to rouse him from his depression. He withdrew into the task of familiarizing himself with its operation and morosely informed Quinn that there was a discrepancy between the voltage of the power supply at the Yard and that required by the machine. The explanation went over Quinn’s head, but what he understood was that another piece of equipment had to be bought: a rheostat. This entailed the submission of a second formal request to the Procurement Department. There was no guarantee they would approve it. In fact, it was likely they would take the view that they had already spent enough on Special Crime’s new toy. Quinn felt sure they would refuse the application, even though the equipment they had already purchased was useless without this new piece of kit, and therefore the money they had spent so far, wasted. At any rate, there would be a delay.

  The setback seemed to act as a spur to Macadam. He remembered that he had a pal who was something of a dab hand at all things electrical. The pal was able to lend them a suitable rheostat of his own, which he set up in the department so that Macadam could operate the projector, and spark the electrical arc lamp that provided the illumination.

  And so Macadam was able to show them the test footage he had got back from the processors.

  They did what they could to turn the department into a kind of picture palace, draping Quinn’s trademark herringbone Ulster over the window to block out the light. It was only a partial success.

  However, as the film began to ratchet through the escapement, Quinn felt the same anticipatory excitement – the sense that he was about to witness wonders and magic – that he always experienced when he went to a moving picture show. But as the seeping blurs of grey, white and black began to swoop across the glowing patch of wall, his excitement turned to bemusement. It was hard to tell exactly what he was seeing. Part of the frame was cut off in a block of heavy shade. The rest appeared to be out of focus.

  The show was over in a matter of minutes, seconds even. There was an equal interval of deep, contemplative silence. Inchball broke it with a slow, sarcastic hand-clap.

  ‘There are one or two adjustments to be made,’ admitted Macadam as he removed Quinn’s Ulster from the window. It was a relief to get the light back. ‘I think I know what I have to do. The camera was not in the best position within the van. The lens was partially obscured. And I need to adjust the focus. I evidently made a mistake in calculating the depth of field. It’s all to be expected. Next time … next time, we’ll get it right.’

  Quinn felt sorry for his sergeant and so mooted the possibility of setting up the camera in one of the boarded-up houses opposite. However, it turned out that the buildings were far from derelict. The occupants guarded their thresholds with all the jealous pride of suburban householders, but with a more suspicious and leaner glower. There could be no question of prevailing upon their public spiritedness or patriotism. Money might have bought access to a viewpoint, but the venality that allowed that also made them unreliable conspirators. They were just as likely to betray them to the Germans in return for a few bob.

  And so Quinn had shifted the focus of the operation away from the shop on to the mysterious Hartmann himself.

  He and Macadam took up positions on the Strand, on either side of the arch that led to the alley. Neither of them had seen Hartmann, but Inchball had repeated his incredulous description of the man so often that they felt sure they would recognize him. Should they see a large, bald, mustachioed man enter the passageway, Macadam would follow him in at a discreet distance and seek confirmation from Inchball, who would be in position on the other side.

  Macadam’s spirits had rallied decisively when Quinn had held out the prospect of setting up the camera at whatever location they followed Hartmann to.

  For Quinn, maintaining his concentration and enthusiasm proved harder. He continued to be visited by the image of Miss Dillard’s reproachful eyes. For example, once when he was looking into a ladies’ outfitters, he noticed that every one of the plaster dummies seemed to possess eyes of the same pewter grey, eyes that were not just like Miss Dillard’s; they were Miss Dillard’s. And every pair of those eyes was turned on him. If it was a sign that his conscience was troubling him, he could not think why. Or at least, why now, more than any other time. He had not spoken to her since the incident on the landing, over a week ago now. In fact, he had avoided all contact with any of his fellow lodgers. And so he had committed no new blunders. Her eyes had nothing fresh to hold against him, unless it was the very fact of his isolation that was the source of her reproach.

  The weather continued to be changeable. Brief bursts of sunlight were quickly forgotten in the pervading damp gloom. The constant flow of traffic around them worked in their favour, creating an ever-changing population on the street. No one else was there for long enough to remark on the two men who never seemed to go anywhere. (Quinn took the precaution of flashing his warrant card at the local bobby, in order to forestall any unwanted enquiries from that quarter.)

  They took it in turns to break, either to grab a hurried pie or a chop in a cheap restaurant on the Strand, or to take a leak in the public convenience in Fleet Street. The rest of the time they pretended interest in shop windows into which they barely glanced, Macadam because he had one eye on the entrance to the alley, Quinn because … well, it was enough to say his mind was usually elsewhere.

  Herr Hartmann did not return to the shop. Dortmunder appeared to live over his shop, alone. When he pulled down the shutters in the evening, a light came on upstairs. As far as they could observe, he went out only to buy provisions from nearby shops. Not only did Hartmann not show, but there were no visitors to the shop at all, at least during the hours that they watched it. Apart from Inchball, who on Thursday afternoon put aside his disguise to return for another shave, Dortmunder did not have a single customer for three days. The incident with the van had clearly spooked Hartmann. Whatever operation he was running from the shop, it appeared to have been shut down. Their surveillance was effectively stalled.

  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.’

  Max was bent over the rods again, as if his own words had spurred him back to vigilance. He heard the door shut as Porrick left him to his asbestos-lined brick box.

  His whole body ached with the strain of watching the fierce white glow that he kindled just inches from the running film. He thought of a caveman nurturing the precious spark of fire. Like the audience in the kinema gathering in front of the glowing screen, the members of the tribe would huddle around the source of warmth and light, as the fire-bearer span tales to ease their fears. He thought of the honour in which such a man would be held. He would be seen as a magician or a priest; he might even be considered the tribal chief, Max reflected ruefully.

  They ran films on a continuous programme at Porrick’s Palaces, which put a strain on Max’s back all right. Audience members came and went as they wished. It made sense when all the films they showed were single-reel shorts. But nowadays the trend was for longer films, with advertised starting times. And if there was any technical problem that delayed the start of the main feature, it was Max who got it in the neck.

  For all this, for the long hours, the back ache, the physical danger, for all his skill and expertise, his facility at operating the projector, his calm and expert handling of the film, his knowledge of the mysteries of electricity (who else there understood how the rheostat worked – or even what it was?) he was paid sixty shillings a week. True, it was more than any other member of the staff, but it was nothing when you compared it to Porrick’s box office takings. And it was a long way short of the respect that the prehistoric fire-bearer had received.

  One thing he would say for Porrick: he had not skimped on the machinery. The operating box was equipped with two Brockliss Motiographs, each adapted to run off electric motors. The initial expense of installing the motors might be thought surprising for a man like Porrick. But it paid off in the long term as it meant that the box could be manned by a single operator: Max. This was fine by Max. He didn’t need any company other than the darkness. He resented every intruder.

  The Brockliss Motiograph was an imposing, double-headed machine. The twin li
ght boxes allowed for seamless dissolving transitions between reels. It was almost like having four projectors in there. Even more important was the efficiency of the shutter mechanism, which retained thirty or forty per cent more light than other kinematographic machines on the market. When you coupled this with an electric light source (as Porrick had) and fitted a Dallmeyer projection lens (as Porrick had) the intensity and quality of the image projected was second to none.

  Of course, all this was simply sound business sense on Porrick’s part. The Leicester Square Picture Palace was his showcase theatre, in the heart of the West End. It was essential that the picture-going experience he offered matched – or surpassed – that provided by his rivals. Gone were the days when you could get away with a flickering display of dim shapes viewed through a shifting fog.

  Whatever he laid out in projection equipment would be recouped in takings.

  But Max knew all about Porrick’s reputation. The rumours of fraud. The spell as a patent medicine salesman. Hair restorer, he had heard. Good God, how did you get from hair restorer to picture palaces! There was even a rumour that he had left America under a cloud and could never return. But you didn’t have to just listen to the rumours. The manslaughter charge was a matter of public record, even if he had got off. Well, a man like Porrick would get off, wouldn’t he? It stood to reason. He’d got to the witnesses, so it went. Max wouldn’t put it past him.

  On paper, everything about Porrick was flashy and fake. You could only expect a man like that to cut corners. But he hadn’t. You could see it in the uniforms of the attendants. They were as crisp and smart as any you would find on a railway guard. The tip-up seating was provided by Lazarus and Company, and the plush burgundy upholstery was regularly repaired. That time some idiot had taken a knife to the seat backs? Porrick hadn’t just settled for the gashes to be sewn up; he’d had the whole row reupholstered.

  He had spared no expense. Max had to give him that. Even splashed out on a Tyler vaporizer to refresh the air with disinfectant.