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

by R. N. Morris

  TWENTY-ONE

  Max stood in the light. He was not going to hide away. He was not going to join the others in the darkness. Let them indulge in their wanton acts of revelry, cloaked by the shadows, hiding their faces from him. Well they might.

  Only let them see him. Let them see his stern outrage. And be shamed by him.

  But you could not shame these people. Did they have no human feelings? Were they incapable of sympathy, or respect?

  Did they have no conscience? He would stand at the top of the stairs, his body haloed by the glowing white panels that led down to the basement; he would stand like an avenging angel. He would stand as their conscience.

  Of course, Porrick was the worst of them. His crass reaction to the attack on the girl was typical of the man. All he cared about was the effect it would have on his box office. He had been delighted when he thought that the sensational news might serve to publicize the film. But outraged when his chance to profit from it was under threat.

  Max had noticed two others who stood apart from the unseemly festivities. The small blackavised man from South America, and the equally swarthy long-haired youth who was almost always in his company. They watched the proceedings impassively. It was difficult to say what they made of it all. But when he had caught the eye of one or other of them, he thought he had seen sorrow there, pity even. It was as if they were saddened rather than outraged by the antics of the shallow, self-obsessed creatures around them.

  When the man – Diaz, he thought he had heard him called – walked by, Max took the opportunity to vent his feelings. ‘It was the same when my pal got killed. Ted. Ted Lapidus. Perhaps you have heard about it? You being in the business and all. It was in the newspapers at the time. A terrible blazing conflagration. It was a wonder that more weren’t killed. Porrick was the same then. He didn’t give a jot about Ted, or his widow. Or his three little ones. All he cared about was his precious Porrick’s Palace. And the box office. I still remember now what he said when he heard about the fire. “How soon can we start showing pictures again?” A man had died then! Because of him. Make no mistake. It was all Porrick’s fault, though he got off. A man like Porrick will always get off.’

  Diaz looked steadily into Max’s eyes. He at least was not afraid to meet his gaze. ‘It is better not to dwell on the wrongs of the past. This is what I say to Inti.’

  ‘Inti?’

  Diaz indicated the youth, who was staring at a couple whose love-making had progressed almost beyond public decency. His interest in them seemed to be rather unwholesome, but it was perhaps to be expected given his age. ‘My nephew. But it is easy for me to say. I have not suffered as Inti has suffered.’

  ‘How has he suffered?’

  Diaz squinted. His shoulders heaved. ‘One day I tell the story of his sufferings. I tell it to the world. That is my dream. I work for Señor Waechter making his … fantastical dramas. But all the time I save money. One day I make my own film. It will tell the truth to the world. It will tell the story of what happen to Inti and his people. That is my dream. One day you come to see my film. One day you understand.’

  ‘I will do better than that, my friend. I will show it. I will operate the machine that projects it. And I will consider it an honour.’

  Diaz looked back towards his nephew, his expression glazed with sadness. Max followed his gaze. At just that moment the couple Inti was watching pulled apart. Max recognized the woman as the tart from the film. She was married to some Yank, who was also an actor, and also there. Max felt sick to his core. The situation epitomized everything that was wrong with these people.

  The woman led the man out. Max would have said she led him by the hand. But it was clearly some other part of his anatomy that he was following.

  Inti passed his uncle, hurrying in the wake of the couple. Diaz put a hand out to detain him and spoke some firm but gentle words in a language Max did not recognize. Inti shook his head and pulled away sharply from his uncle’s grip. His words exploded angrily in his uncle’s face. And then he was gone.

  Diaz met Max’s questioning gaze with a look of mild self-reproach. ‘He is good boy, really. But young.’

  ‘Ah yes. What is a youth? Impetuous fire.’

  Diaz frowned. ‘I must go after him. This I promise my brother.’

  ‘Of course.’

  It seemed like the party was breaking up. A moment later, Porrick himself was carried out, more than a little worse for wear. He was leaning on the shoulder of the Yank. They were belting out the words to one of the songs that had been playing earlier.

  I want some love that’s true … yes I do … indeed I do … you know I do …

  As he drew level with Max, Porrick turned to his projectionist. The milky glow from the stairs gave the kinema showman a ghostly aura. A look of sudden seriousness seemed to descend upon Porrick’s face, and for one mad moment Max thought he was about to make some admission of responsibility, or expression of contrition. But all he did was give his hoarse, drunken rendition of the next line: ‘Gimme gimme gimme what I cry for …’

  His companion joined in: ‘You know you got the kind of kisses that I’d die for!’

  Of course, the two drunks fell about at that. They were like some two-headed braying beast, staggering on hobbled legs. In that moment, Max hated them both. His hatred for the Yank was a passing thing. But the hatred he had for Porrick was of a different kind. It pre-existed the moment, and would continue long after it. Its roots went deep into his heart. And like a cancer, as it strangled his heart, it changed the sinews of that muscle into its own poisonous material. The hatred would kill him, unless he found a way to expunge it from his being.

  TWENTY-TWO

  At first Porrick had little sense of where he was or whither he was being led. Only, always, deeper into the London night. The air crackled with a fierce laughter. Faces came out of the darkness to leer at him. Rowdy men and blowzy women.

  But gradually, the cool night air, and the imposed break from consuming alcohol, began to have a sobering effect.

  The thoughts that he had sought to escape, first in getting drunk, and then in fleeing the party, began to make their presence felt again. He felt as if his body was about to liquefy into a pool of fetid matter. So, this was how it felt to be staring financial ruin in the face.

  All that kept him upright was the support of a man he detested. And this was how it felt to be friendless.

  But no. He would show them. He would show them all. He was not beaten yet.

  Edna’s vocal disapproval of his behaviour came close to a public humiliation. Black bitter thoughts curdled in the dark. He would teach her a lesson. He had hidden reserves she knew nothing about. He would leave her high and dry; cut her off without a penny. Hurt her where she would feel it most. And he needn’t worry. He was Magnus Porrick, for heaven’s sake! Hadn’t Magnus Porrick been in a tight corner before? And always come out fighting?

  No, he wasn’t beaten yet. The film would be a great success. And even if it wasn’t – even if that fool of a policeman had his way – there was still the other business with Hartmann. That was a stroke of genius. He had to hand it to Hartmann, he was pretty deep when it came to financial matters. It had been the luckiest day of his life when he fell in with the German.

  When all was said and done, there was no reason to be despondent. It was too early to write off Magnus Porrick. And if Edna did cut and run – well, then, good riddance to her, that’s what he said. ‘Good riddance to her!’ he even cried out, giving voice to his thoughts.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Novak.

  ‘Edna. She’s a damn bitch!’

  ‘Language, Porrick! That’s not the language of a gentleman! You wouldn’t let another man speak that way about your wife, so y’ought not do it yourself.’

  The momentary up-turn in Porrick’s mood was suddenly dispelled. A soggy, faintly nauseous depression settled on him. How had he got himself saddled with this detestable fellow? He tried to pull away from Nova
k’s arm around his neck, but the Yank clung on to him, as if refusing to let him out of his clutches.

  ‘You stick with me, Porrick! I’ll look after you. I know a place we can go. Girls there will help you forget about Edna. Do whatever you say and never answer back. Whatever you say! You understand me, Porrick?’

  ‘Where’s your wife? Didn’t I see her leave with Lord Whassisname?’

  Novak waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘We’re all grown-ups, ain’t we? Marriage is all very well, but monogamy … She don’t expect it of me and I don’t expect it of her.’

  Porrick shook his head dubiously.

  ‘You’re telling me you’ve never been unfaithful to Edna?’ cried Novak incredulously.

  ‘There have been … occasions. But I would never dream of telling her about them.’

  ‘That’s double standards, Porrick. Dolores and me, we believe in being honest with each other. We’re partners, see. In life’s great … you know …’ Novak’s hand described spirals in the night air. To compensate for his inability to conjure up the mot juste, he began whistling. The blasted Al Jolson song again.

  Porrick’s mood sank further. The tune brought back to mind the business with Max Maxwell. That had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth all right. Porrick knew very well the grounds of Maxwell’s resentment. But hadn’t the court exonerated him? Charges had been brought and he had been acquitted. From a strictly legal point of view, Porrick was in the clear. As far as the Old Bailey was concerned, that fellow’s death all those years ago was not on his conscience. So what right did Maxwell have to look at him like that?

  The thing was the fellow was dead and it was a terrible, unfortunate accident. But there was nothing he could do about it now. And no amount of soul-baring and hair-shirt-wearing was going to bring him back.

  So why did he still wake in a cold sweat from dreams of crackling flames and choking smoke?

  Once, waking in the grey dawn, with the din of the morning chorus chiding him, he had seen Ted Lapidus’s charred body lying across the foot of his bed. The image had quickly resolved itself into the crumpled sheets kicked down to the bottom of the bed. But that first vision had printed itself indelibly on to his memory. It was with him always, now. A dim shadow lurking behind more pressing preoccupations: the need to keep the punters coming in, to raise cash, to ward off the City regulators, to get the new production with Waechter under way, at all costs to keep the celluloid frames flying through the gate of his projection machines … But no matter how many distractions he sought, no matter how many other flickering images he layered over it, it was always there. The dark inert shape of a man’s flame-blackened body.

  The thing was … the only thing was … A drink. He needed another drink. ‘How much further, Novak?’

  ‘Not far now, Porrick, old chap.’

  One of the things Porrick hated about the Yank was his phony way of affecting an English accent.

  ‘I just want to make a quick stop at our little pied à terre.’

  And now he was indulging in phony French. ‘You have a pied à terre?’

  ‘We do. We find it awfully convenient.’

  ‘And where is your country seat?’

  ‘Haw haw! Very funny, Porrick. You got me there, all right! Country seat … I like it. All right, you got me. This ain’t so much a pied à terre as a bolt hole. We all need a place to lie doggo from time to time.’

  ‘Who do you need to hide from, Novak?’

  ‘You got me wrong, Porrick, old bean. But sometimes you need a place to do some thinking … You unnerstand? You might find yourself in a tight situation one day. I’d be more than happy to put the place at your disposal.’

  Porrick was beginning to have more of a sense of his surroundings. He realized that they had just turned into Dean Street. The window of an Italian restaurant drew his interest. The diners inside appeared happy in the candle glow. A warm smell of food seeped from the open door, where a waiter stood enticing passersby with a wide smile and a constant stream of patter. He offered a rose to every woman that passed.

  ‘I say, Novak, what about a bite to eat?’

  ‘Of course, yes. But first … it’s just here, old chap. Come up for a moment and have a snifter. I just need to pick up some money, then I’ll stand you some dinner.’

  They came to a door a few paces on from the restaurant.

  Novak grinned sheepishly as he put his key in the lock. ‘I say, you’re not going to be a prude, are you, old chap? If you’re going to be a prude, we won’t have any fun at all.’

  The narrow stairwell smelled of every variety of fungal rot. Porrick stumbled in the dark. He heard a sharp hiss from Novak, shushing him urgently. It struck him as odd that the Yank should be so considerate of his neighbours. But he did not have time to draw any definite conclusions as to why it should be.

  It struck him as odd, too, that the door had been left open, as if there was someone already inside the flat, someone who was expecting them.

  TWENTY-THREE

  As soon as the lights went on, and the heaving naked male arse was revealed in the blazing glare of electricity, Porrick understood everything.

  The arse carried on pumping for a moment. It was an ugly, dispiriting sight. A stark, pale obscenity moving with brutal energy in the shabbiest rented room imaginable.

  Novak’s startled oath – ‘What the devil?’ – was enough to bring Lord Dunwich (Porrick remembered his name as soon as he saw his face) to his feet, his sorry aristocratic member bobbing disconsolately, before drooping and shrinking rapidly. His lordship grabbed a cushion and held it in front of him.

  The woman, Novak’s wife of course, pulled her skirt down and sat up in the bed. Her expression might have puzzled an observer who didn’t fully grasp the situation. A mixture of annoyance and boredom. She all but rolled her eyes at her husband.

  She retrieved a cigarette from the bedside table and lit it. Soon, she was wholly preoccupied by the pleasures of smoking.

  ‘Now, it’s not what it seems!’ pleaded Lord Dunwich. Porrick had to laugh at that. Despite his loathing for Novak and his wife, he had little sympathy for Dunwich.

  ‘On the contrary, Lord Dunwich, it’s crystal clear what’s going on here,’ said Novak.

  ‘I didn’t know …’

  ‘You didn’t know she was my wife?’

  Porrick noticed a flicker of a smile on Dolores Novak’s face. Lord Dunwich had his back to the woman, so he missed this hint of collusion between husband and wife.

  Novak showed no sign of registering his wife’s amusement. ‘Please, Lord Dunwich, don’t insult me. Don’t add a lie to the offence you’ve already committed.’

  ‘No, no. I wasn’t going to say that. I knew. I admit I knew. It’s just that I didn’t think you minded, you see.’

  ‘Not mind? Why would you think I wouldn’t mind? Because you’re an aristocrat? You forget, I’m an American. We don’t acknowledge droit du seigneur in America.’

  Mrs Novak tossed her hair appreciatively.

  ‘I honestly thought you film people were more lax about these things. I thought you and Dolores had an understanding. Look … may I put my trousers back on? I feel that I’m at something of a disadvantage.’

  ‘You shoulda oughta thoughta that before you took ’em off!’

  His wife’s tongue licked out, as if to taste the acrid flavour of her husband’s histrionic ire.

  Porrick had had enough of this. ‘Let him put his trousers on, Novak. I for one am not very comfortable with him undressed like that. In fact, I think I should step outside.’

  ‘Now look what you done! You’ve upset my friend, Mr Porrick!’ Porrick felt his lip curl at Novak’s bogus protests. He resented being dragged into the sordid affair.

  ‘Actually, come to think about it … it’s probably time for me to go home.’

  ‘You stay where you are, Porrick. I want you to bear witness to this man’s … depravity!’ />
  Dolores Novak lifted her head self-righteously, as if she were the innocent party.

  ‘Steady on, Novak. You’re rather overdoing it, you know. After all, didn’t you say to me …’

  Novak cut him off with hasty indignation. ‘Overdoing it? Would you say that if you caught some bounder in flagrante delicto with Mrs Porrick?’

  Porrick was momentarily distracted by the unlikelihood of this possibility.

  ‘My dear fellow.’ The smooth, soothing confidence in Lord Dunwich’s voice was the sound of a man mentally reaching for his wallet. ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry about this whole unfortunate misunderstanding. I quite, quite understand your being in a funk about it.’ It was also the voice of a man used to paying for his pleasures – not to mention buying his way out of trouble.

  ‘I ought to whip you like a dog.’ Novak turned his stagy ire on his wife. ‘And as for you, you she-devil …’

  Her eyes widened theatrically. She snarled back at him. She was evidently enjoying herself greatly.

  ‘Now listen here, you mustn’t take it out on Mrs Novak. Do what you must to me, but please, leave Dolores out of it.’

  ‘I’m an American!’ declared Novak proudly. ‘You can’t tell me what to do!’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to do. But perhaps we can find some way to … effect a suitable form of restitution.’

  It had all been engineered with the utmost skill, Porrick had to give the Yank that. But it was despicable all the same. He’d been responsible for a few windy schemes himself over the years. But nothing as blackguardly as this. He was in two minds whether or not to blow the gaff. He did not care to look too closely into what prevented him. He discounted a dim presentiment that the situation might turn out to be to his advantage. If that did turn out to be the case, he could at least excuse himself by arguing that he had done nothing to bring it about. He was not actively complicit in Novak’s blackmail scheme. (Oh, it was pretty clear to him that this was something Novak and his wife had cooked up between them.) And as far as he was concerned, Lord Dunwich had brought it on himself.