by R. N. Morris
Quinn gave voice to his thoughts: ‘Was she an actress or a prostitute?’ He scanned the room, as if he would find the answer nailed to the wall. ‘Or a little of both, perhaps?’ He remembered the interest the couple had seemed to be taking in Lord Dunwich. ‘Macadam, you stay here and look the crime scene over. You might also see if you can get anything else out of the neighbours.’
‘What am I looking for in particular, sir?’
‘Any evidence of her visitors would be helpful. If someone left in a hurry, there is a chance they might have left something behind.’
Macadam’s ruthless eye was already taking in the room. From his bearing, it was clear that he would consider it a matter of pride to come up with something.
Before he left, Quinn allowed himself one last glance at that centre of darkness in her face. In the dim obscurity of the curtained room it was hard to know what he could see and what he was imagining. The impossible depths of blackness that he had seen in the other cavity came back to him. In truth, they had never been far away. Last night, he had told himself that he never wanted to see that blackness again. Now he realized that was another of his self-deceptions. There was nothing he wanted more than to stare into it. It was with some effort of will that he tore himself away.
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 a
re 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 …’
‘You did not see her leave?’
‘I am not sure.’
‘And what of you, Mr Porrick?’
Porrick shook his head.
‘Neither of you gentlemen saw her leave?’
The two men did nothing to confirm or deny this proposition.
‘What about her husband, Mr Novak? We are anxious to locate him.’
‘Porrick left with Novak,’ said Waechter quickly.
‘I see. Mr Porrick, is this true?’
‘I don’t … I was very drunk. I can’t remember much about last night.’
‘But did you leave with Mr Novak?’
‘I suppose I might have done.’
‘And was Mrs Novak with you?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t remember much about last night, but you can say that with certainty?’
‘I remember now,’ said Waechter. ‘He is right. Dolores was not with them. Dolores left earlier.’
‘Alone?’ Quinn had a strong sense what the answer would be.
‘Nein.’
Waechter and Porrick exchanged a look that was so conspiratorial it was almost comic.
‘Did she leave with a man who was not her husband?’ prompted Quinn. ‘Are you trying to protect the reputation of this gentleman? I understand the instinct that motivates this behaviour. However, it will be better for the gentleman concerned if we are able to talk to him at the soonest possible opportunity in order to eliminate him from our enquiries.’
‘She left mit Lord Dunsch.’
‘Lord Dunwich?’ insisted Quinn pedantically, as if there could have been two lords at the party with such similar names.
‘Ja, Lord Dunsch.’
‘Mr Porrick, where did you go with Mr Novak after you left the party?’
‘I’m afraid to say I was very drunk. It is all rather hazy. All I know for sure is that I slept in the auditorium of the Leicester Square Palace.’
‘Why did you not go home?’
‘I had had a row with my wife.’
‘This is true,’ confirmed Waechter, as if everything hinged upon the settling of this point.
‘You did not see Lord Dunwich with Mrs Novak after you left here?’
‘What kind of a question is that?’
‘It is a perfectly reasonable question, and one by which I hope to establish the truth of what happened to Mrs Novak.’
‘It was all a bit of a blur. All I can say with any certainty is that I was exceedingly drunk.’
‘Mr Waechter, you must accept now that the parallels between what has happened and the incidents portrayed in your film are striking.’
‘My film is a poem. A poem expresses a truth. A truth of the soul. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of a madman. He has twisted the truth of my poem. It is not my doing.’
‘Dolores Novak had a part in your film, did she not? What was your impression of her? Did you enjoy working with her?’
‘Dolores cannot act. But I do not ask her to act. I ask her to dahhnsse.’ Waechter rippled his arms in a balletic swaying motion. ‘It is vot der men come to see, ja? You like to watch her dahhnsse, Inspector?’
Quinn did not like Waechter’s lascivious tone. It almost sounded as if Waechter was accusing him of some culpability in what had happened to Dolores.
‘What happened to your eye?’ Quinn realized this was a question he had wanted to ask for a long time – from the first moment he saw Waechter in fact.
‘It … kaputt …’ Waechter made a popping sound. ‘Doctors take it out. Say it no good any more.’
‘You lost an eye?’ Perhaps it sounded as if Quinn believed this had been very careless of Waechter. But really the involuntary emphasis came from his excitement at learning the true nature of Waechter’s impairment.
‘Were you duelling with pistols or swords?’
Waechter looked at Quinn without speaking for some time. ‘Ein kleiner … Splitter – ja? Splitter?’
‘Splinter?’
‘Ja, ein splitter. Man shoot me. Ja? Shot – woo!’ Waechter signalled the shot flying past his head. ‘But ein splitter … ein splitter go in my eye.’
‘Why did the man shoot you?’
Waechter shrugged.
‘And what happened to him?’
‘I shoot him. I not miss. The man … dead.’
‘How long have you known Dolores Novak?’
‘I use her in my films. One times. Two times.’
‘Have you ever had intimate relations with her?’
‘Nein.’ It seemed to Quinn that Waechter gave a small private grin.
‘What about you, Mr Porrick?’
‘I never really knew the woman.’
‘Are all your films about eyes, Mr Waechter?’
Waechter answered in German.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Philister.’
‘Is this another of your films?’
‘My films are about many things. But always they are about …’ Waechter pounded himself on the chest. ‘Vot is in der human heart. I create poems, visual poems, that express what is in der heart. Ja?’
‘I would like to see all of your films. In fact, it is necessary that I do.’
Porrick’s eyes widened in an expression of surprise. He mouthed something quietly and nodded to himself, as if some inner thought had just received confirmation.
‘You will arrange for copies of all your films to be sent to me, Detective Inspector Silas Quinn, Special Crimes Department, New Scotland Yard.’
‘This vill take time. I do not have prints. I must speak to Herr Hartmann.’
‘But it can be done?’
‘Ja.’
‘Good, now do either of you two gentlemen have information regarding the whereabouts of Mr Novak?’
‘Do you think Novak did it?’ Porrick leaned forward now. He seemed eager to push this hypothesis on Quinn.
‘Why would you say that?’
‘I don’t know … you’re looking for him.’
‘We are naturally anxious to speak to him. If either of you hear from Mr Novak, you must urge him to contact the police, so that we may eliminate him from our enquiries. And in any event …’ Quinn handed out business cards. ‘Please let me know.’ Quinn thought back to the scene he had witnessed outside the kinematograph theatre. ‘How would you describe the relationship between Mr and Mrs Novak?’
‘It was … unusual,’ admitted Porrick. ‘She was with Lord Dunwich at the party. They were getting pretty familiar. Novak didn’t seem to mind at all.’
‘He’s a foreigner,’ remarked Quinn.
‘A Yank.’
‘His name, though – Novak?’
‘Serbisch.’
‘Serbian?’
‘Ja.’
‘And you are Austrian? Not German?’
‘I am citizen of der Republic of Art.’
/>
‘I understand you cannot go back to Austria. Or dare not. There are tensions, are there not, between Austria and the Serbians? The Serbians resent the Austrian yoke. Perhaps there is some bad blood between yourself and Mr Novak?’
‘Bad blood? No. I don’t care he is Serbian. I only care he acts.’
Quinn moved closer to Waechter’s desk and looked down at the pages spread out around the typewriter. He saw that the typescript had been annotated by hand in green ink. ‘I will need a sample of your handwriting.’
‘Vy?’
‘I am not at liberty to say.’
‘Did the killer write a note?’ wondered Porrick.
‘You do not suspect me in this maurtter?’ It was unclear whether Waechter’s last word was murder or matter.
‘It is to do with another aspect of the investigation.’
‘Vot about him?’
‘Yes, Mr Porrick too. If you could both use that pen, please. Mr Waechter’s pen.’
‘Vot do you vant me to write?’
‘I would like you to write the name of the man who left with Dolores Novak.’
Waechter’s single eye bulged with something between indignation and amazement as he regarded Quinn. ‘Vot game is this?’
‘It is not a game, Mr Waechter. I assure you I am deadly serious.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Quinn was shown into the same room in the Admiralty Extension as before. The blinds were again drawn on the day, and on any prying eyes outside. Lord Dunwich nodded to him without speaking, unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a small package loosely wrapped in brown paper. ‘Come with me.’
Lord Dunwich led him down into the basement of the building, and opened a door to a small, windowless room furnished with a round table and no chairs. The room was lit by a bare, flickering electric light bulb, like lightning in the night until the bulb gave out completely. With the door closed, they were plunged into darkness.
The darkness was filled with Lord Dunwich’s tense, urgent whisper. ‘I have the object we discussed last night.’
Quinn felt something pushed into his hands.
‘You may take it away and examine it at the Yard.’
‘Has anyone other than you handled the object?’
‘No. Of course not.’