by R. N. Morris
But most importantly, you could see the level of investment out there on the screen.
The condenser of the Brockliss Motiograph threw the trapped light forward, gathering up the tiny shadow-dances in the gate, shooting them through the projection lens and out over the heads of the audience. Motes spun in the beam, dizzied and dazzled by its passage through them. And where the beam touched the far wall, silent, shimmering beings sprang into life, luminous spirits conjured out of the darkness.
Why, though? Why had a fraudster and snake-oil salesman gone to all this expense? There were cheaper machines than the Motiograph. And he needn’t have paid extra to fit a Dallmeyer projection lens. He could have simply painted the screen on the wall with whitewash, instead of using the patented Whitisto screen paint at 7/6d a gallon.
There could only be one explanation. And you could hear the answer in the urgent impatience of his enquiry about the missing print, and see it in his eyes, in the jealous, coveting gleam that shone as he handled the cans of film when they came in. Magnus Porrick had got the bug. He had fallen in love with moving pictures. No doubt he had been drawn into the business with the intention of turning a quick profit. Riding the fad until it ran out of steam, at which time he would move on to some other way of duping the public – and investors – out of their cash. But something unexpected had happened. He had taken the trouble to look up at the screen. And what he had seen had transfixed, and then transformed him.
There was a quiet knock at the door. Won’t they leave him alone! At least this time, the intruder had had the courtesy to knock, and was waiting for Max to admit him.
‘Yes?’
He heard the door open. ‘Herr Maxvell?’
Max turned to see the half-silhouetted form of Konrad Waechter in the doorway; his upright, almost military bearing was unmistakable. As always, he was dressed in a cream silk shirt with a mandarin collar, jodhpurs and riding boots. And, of course, the black patch was in place over one eye. The right eye, he could see. Was it always the right? He doubted it. He was sure Waechter wore the patch for effect and liked to alternate the eye he wore it over, presumably because it amused him to do so.
Waechter was clutching a small film can to his chest. Max was a little surprised at the size of the singular can. ‘Is that it?’
Waechter frowned.
‘The print for this evening’s screening?’
‘This?’ Waechter tapped the can. ‘Nein. Diaz is bringing the film. He vill be here presently. I have just now left him in Cecil Court making the final touchings. I have come only to tell you not to vah-rry. You vill have the film presently.’ Waechter’s accent was heavy, almost incomprehensible at times.
‘I wasn’t worried. Don’t make no difference to me, one way or the other. I get paid whether there’s a film to show or not. And besides, I’d just rerun today’s programme.’
Waechter’s eye bulged in alarm at this prospect.
‘Nah.’ Max turned to check on the rods of the arc lamp. ‘It’s Porrick you need to worry about. He was looking for you, by the way. He had some dog with him. Wanted to show it to you.’
‘A daw-g-g?’
‘That’s right. Horrible little blighter.’
‘Vy does he vant to show me a daw-g-g?’
‘Why does Porrick do anything? He must think there’s money in it.’
‘Mah-ney? But how could there be mah-ney in a daw-g-g?’
Max shrugged. ‘Ain’t you seen Rescued By Rover? A very popular title, that is. Everybody knows Porrick has ambitions to go into the motion picture production business. He’s been in his element, hobnobbing with all you motion picture types. And it makes sense, don’t it? If he can make the films and show the films …’
‘But vy does he vant to show the daw-g-g to me?’
‘Look, I don’t know. You’d better talk to him yourself. But the way I see it, he’s gonna need someone to direct these films, ain’t he?’
‘No! No! I do not make films with daw-g-gs! Ich bin ein Künstler!’
Max put his finger to his lips. ‘Sshh! There’s no need for language like that. They’ll hear you out there.’
‘But I am an artist! You understand?’
Max glanced uneasily at the film counter. It was getting near the end of the current reel. There was a possibility that he had left it too late and there would be a gap in the programme.
‘Listen, I’ve got work to do here. So, if you don’t mind …’ He put his eye level with the arc light in the second projector, turning the screws to close the gap in the rods in preparation for striking.
‘Ah, there you are, Waechter!’ It was the very worst moment for Porrick to return with his yapping dog. The loathsome animal must have run between Waechter’s legs. It skittered into the operating box and ran in and out of the iron stands of the projectors. It looked to Max like nothing so much as a wig pulled along on a wire.
‘Get that animal out of here!’ cried Max, trying to fend it away from the delicate, combustible machinery.
Fortunately, for some reason, the dog became suddenly very interested in Konrad Waechter, jumping up at him and snapping excitedly.
‘You’ve met Scudder, I see!’ said Porrick, cheerfully. ‘Down, Scudder, down … good boy!’
Waechter’s eye glared imposingly. Evidently fearing that the dog’s purpose was to rob him of his precious film can, he held it up over his head.
Max saw that the film counter on the Motiograph that was in operation was getting dangerously close to the end. The reel was about to run out any moment. And with all the interruptions, he hadn’t got round to setting up another film on the second projector.
Waechter’s hand holding the film can dropped a little. It seemed as though he was handing it to Max.
In his confusion and panic, Max reached out to take the can. ‘Do you want me to play that? What is it, a preview?’
Waechter’s reaction was as fast as it was shocking. He swung his hand out wildly, catching Max on the side of the head with the edge of the can. The blow was sharp and painful, as well as unexpected. It threw Max off balance. Luckily he didn’t fall on to either of the Motiographs. Instead, he crashed into the winding table, causing empty spools to fly up and scatter.
The voice of the darkness changed subtly. The mechanical stutter ceased. A high, free-wheeling whine took its place. The film passing through the projector had now run out. The motor whirred without resistance. There was a rhythmic click as the full spool raced round inside the covered take-up.
Cries of derision could be heard from the auditorium as the screen went blank.
Waechter clutched the can to his chest protectively. ‘It is not for you. Do you understand?’
The director darted from the operating box, the unwanted dog yap-yapping eagerly after him.
‘You’d better get the next film on, quick,’ said Porrick, dashing out after his latest investment.
FIFTEEN
The days were longer now. There was an expansive feeling to the evenings, as if they were being spun out of a weightless, elastic material. A net to keep the night at bay forever. Quinn was reminded of a springtime long ago.
The trees in the centre of Leicester Square bore white glimmering fruit, light bulbs strung on wires through the branches. The restaurants and theatres around the outside blazed with a gaudy allure: pushy, self-confident, alive with a shallow glitter.
Electricity still had the power to take his breath away, as well as the power to turn night to day. It created a world in which there was nowhere to hide. As a policeman, Quinn might have been expected to welcome this. But Quinn’s peculiarities of temperament were such that often he found himself in sympathy with those who sought out the shadows.
The luminaries milling in the square seemed to crackle and buzz, as if an electric charge was passing through them. Or perhaps they generated their own energy. The men were, for the most part, in evening dress – top-hatted and tailed; the women, furred and bejewelled. Quinn had come straight f
rom the Yard in his Ulster. Eyes were turned on him with something that he took for mockery. He was pointed out, his name – or rather his nickname – confidentially imparted behind the backs of hands.
It was all intensely embarrassing, though Macadam and Inchball seemed to be enjoying themselves well enough.
‘We should have dressed,’ muttered Quinn.
‘With respect an’ all that, guv, that’s a load of eyewash, an’ you know it. They would ’ave been disappointed if you ’adn’t come as you are.’
‘But people are laughing at us.’
‘They ain’t larfin’ … not as such. Seems to me, guv, more like they’re … delighted! They wanted Quick-Fire Quinn, an’ they got Quick-Fire Quinn.’
‘You’re not making this any easier, Inchball.’
‘I wonder who’s paying for all this electricity?’ said Macadam, gazing up at the luminous spots on the trees with a look of mingled incredulity and admiration. ‘It must cost a tidy fortune to keep this lot burning. It’s not as if it has gone dark yet, is it? And had it done so, the lights in the trees would hardly afford the most effective illumination.’ Macadam shook his head in disapproval. ‘They are merely for decoration!’ The realization struck him with the force of a scandal.
‘Get out of it!’ scoffed Inchball. ‘You love it. ’Ere, Mac, what did Mrs Macadam say to your comin’ to the picture palace without her?’
Macadam appeared shame-faced. ‘I … err … thought it best not to tell her the precise nature of our operation.’
‘I betcha din’!’
‘You fellows would be well-advised to remember that we are indeed here on an operation,’ put in Quinn. ‘Inchball, keep your eyes open. If you see that Hartmann fellow, or the barber, Dortmunder, don’t let them out of your sight.’
‘What if Dortmunder sees me, guv? He’ll recognize me and give the game away. I don’t reckon Hartmann will know me, seeing as ’ow I was all wrapped up in a towel when ’e came in.’
‘Feign surprise. You’re entitled to be here in a public place, I think. There need not be anything suspicious in it.’
‘Do I express my admiration for the Bismarckian system yet, sir?’
‘No, but it would be a good opportunity to express your admir-ation for German motion pictures.’
Quinn drew himself up and looked around. The half-inquisitive, half-mocking gazes had settled down, the novelty of his presence there having apparently worn off.
It is strange to find people you are not looking for, in a context you do not expect to find them. So disconcerting was it for Quinn to see Miss Ibbott in the crowd that he did not acknowledge her.
Mr Timberley saw him first and pointed him out to Mr Appleby and Miss Ibbott with a kind of shy, evasive grin. The two men waved cheerily, though a sour expression settled over Miss Ibbott and her hands remained firmly by her sides. It was Mr Appleby who pushed his way through the crowd to speak to Quinn (taking some risk, Quinn thought, leaving Miss Ibbott alone with his rival).
‘I say, Mr Quinn! Fancy seeing you here!’
‘Good evening to you, Mr Appleby.’
‘Are you here on a mission?’
‘Good heavens! Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘That was not a denial. I therefore deduce that you are here on a mission!’
‘I most certainly do deny it. I am here to see the moving picture presentation at Porrick’s Palace.’
‘The premiere? Do you have a ticket?’
‘I do.’
‘Lucky blighter. I wish I had a couple of tickets. You can’t get them for love nor money, now, I believe.’
‘Are there not three in your party?’
‘What of it?’
‘You said you wanted a couple of tickets. I am wondering whom of your companions you would abandon.’
‘Need you ask? I say, has Miss Ibbott ever said anything to you … you know, about myself or Timberley? About where her preference might lie?’
‘You will hardly be surprised to learn that I am not in Miss Ibbott’s confidence.’
‘What about Miss Dillard? Perhaps Miss Ibbott said something to her and she confided it to you?’
‘I am no more in Miss Dillard’s confidence than Miss Ibbott’s.’ Quinn had a vision of Miss Dillard’s grey eyes, looking searchingly, sadly, into his. As if to say, And whose fault is that?
‘At any rate, it is pleasant to promenade the square, rubbing shoulders with famous celebrities such as yourself.’ Appleby made this comment without any real enthusiasm. He looked morosely over to where Timberley had succeeded in provoking uncontrolled – and unladylike – guffaws from Miss Ibbott. The young man nodded decisively. ‘Enjoy the show, Mr Quinn.’ He pushed his way back to rejoin his companions, his face resolutely set.
A fresh charge of energy passed through the crowd. There were cheers and applause. Flash powder explosions signalled the presence of the press.
As far as Quinn could gather, it was all in honour of a small group who had just come out of the entrance to Porrick’s Palace. The three policemen found themselves unconsciously pulled along with the crowd towards this group, until they were just a few feet away from them. There was a strange and impressive intensity to the physical presence of these individuals. They were no larger than ordinary mortals, and there was nothing abnormal about the surfaces of their beings – that’s to say, they did not glisten or pulsate, and were not fashioned from burnished steel. But there was no denying that they exercised an inordinate hold over the gathering.
Leading them out, with a high-stepping, almost prancing gait, was a tall, fair-haired man wearing an eye patch. Quinn recognized Waechter from his photograph. He reached a point in front of the theatre and held himself excessively upright, almost bending over backwards in his desire to reach the perpendicular. There was something defiant about this stance, his chest pushed aggressively forwards. It was as if he believed that people expected him to be cowed and defensive, and he was determined to prove them wrong.
Waechter held out his right arm towards a woman so petite she might almost be described as a midget. And yet she was compellingly attractive. Her physical beauty, as well as Waechter’s strange air of authority, had been part of what had drawn them towards the group. This was magnetism, Quinn realized. He believed she was the first truly gorgeous woman he had ever seen. His heart quickened at her proximity. The evening sun seemed to lavish its last rays on her alone, glinting in the golden bed of hair in which her pretty pillbox hat was settled, twinkling in her cornflower-blue eyes, burnishing her perfect cheeks with a gentle glow. As if this moment, and her loveliness, was the whole focus of its existence.
Her smile was serene but, more than that, it was generous. You felt, when it was directed towards you, that a blessing had been bestowed. And yet, there was no element of condescension in it. It made you believe that you were worthy of it. That you had some share in it. It was as much your smile as hers.
‘Who is she?’ asked Quinn.
‘Don’t you know?’ said Macadam.
‘An actress?’ Quinn knew as he asked the question that she could be nothing else.
‘She’s more than an actress, sir. She’s a star. She’s Eloise.’
‘She has beautiful eyes,’ observed Quinn.
His two sergeants nodded in agreement, but said nothing.
‘She is … French?’ asked Quinn.
‘Yes.’
Quinn thought back to his last case. He had believed the girls working as professional mannequins at Blackley’s department store to be attractive. Certainly they were youthful and bold and female enough to thoroughly discomfit him. But not one of them, he saw now, could hold a candle to this Eloise. Except perhaps the girl whose death had sparked that last investigation. He could not say for sure, however, because by the time he got to see her, she was beyond such considerations. Ironically, she had been French too, the only one of Blackley’s fashion mannequins who really was.
He wondered whether Eloise would turn
out to be genuinely French. This was a business based on illusion and pretence. It was possible that no one was who they seemed to be.
The thought brought him back to the reason they were there. ‘All right, you men. Time to find our Germans, if they’re here.’
But neither sergeant could take his eyes off the actress.
There was some mute buffoonery with a stout man whose deep-set eyes gave his face a mournful but slightly seedy cast. The crowd responded with far more hilarity than the dumb show warranted. Quinn understood that their laughter was not for the mournful comedian. It was for her, Eloise, to reciprocate the generosity of her smile. She brought out the best in them.
Quinn studied the rapt expressions of some of those watching. Mouths open, hanging on every gesture: for there were no words, as if the actors really were mutes, and it was for that reason that all the films they appeared in were silent. But, of course, what they were doing was playfully showing their commitment to their chosen medium. They were bringing the voiceless world of the film out into the lively bustling clamour of Leicester Square. And in so doing, they were beginning the enchantment.
As Quinn scanned the faces, he had a premonition that he would see someone else that he recognized. A moment later, he caught sight of Lord Dunwich, standing to one side of the group of film people.
It was an electrifying discovery.
Quinn tracked Dunwich’s gaze back towards the troupe of performers. In among them, he spotted a couple who seemed strangely awkward and ill at ease considering they were presumably actors. They stood slightly back from the play-acting, distancing themselves from it. Their expressions of hilarity were disengaged and forced. Perhaps they were simply bad actors, amateurs essentially, who had been roped in to take on walk-on parts as servants or bystanders. Or perhaps they were the sort of people who had more ambition than talent, and had been drawn into the motion picture business because they thought it would be an easy way to make their fortune. Whatever the reason, they seemed to be connected, in their shared contempt for the activity in which they were engaged.