The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914 (10 page)

Macadam cried out, and recoiled from the attack, falling back into Inchball, whose reaction was characteristically profane. The boy started to laugh. His laughter was an ugly, jagged sound, every bit as angry as his expression.

‘Wha' is it? Wha' the fuck is it?' demanded one of his fellows.

‘There's some dirty geezer in here. Some dirty fuckin' peepin' Tom.'

Macadam groaned.

Someone banged on the side of the van. Presumably the boy. Immediately, the rest of the gang joined in.

Uncharacteristically, Macadam cursed under his breath. It felt as though they were trapped inside a kettle drum.

All at once, the drumming stopped.

An accented man's voice addressed them. ‘What is going on, you children?'

‘A German!' whispered Inchball. He pushed Macadam out of the way to peer out of the peephole.

‘There's some fuckin' geezer in there.'

‘I see. Here. Money for you all. Now leave. I will sort this. You children go and play now.'

Whatever largesse the German had bestowed was met with approval. ‘Ta, mister. You're alrigh', you are! A proper gent.'

The children's unruly hilarity scattered. The alley fell suddenly quiet. Macadam could hear the German's footsteps as he paced round the van. And then, without a further word, the footsteps went away.

O
nly one vertical wall extended to the full height of the department. Usually, in the middle of an investigation, it was covered in photographs of victims, maps, crime-scene diagrams, as well as lists of suspects' names, together with photographs if available, and any other relevant notes. It was blank now, dully reflecting the wan sunlight from the window opposite, and reflecting also their lack of a case.

Since the fiasco in the van, it had naturally been difficult to continue the surveillance of the barbershop. Inchball had gone through his repertoire of disguises, before settling on the identity of a vagrant and taking up residence in a doorway opposite the shop. He had fallen into a turf war with the other tramp in the street, but had succeeded in seeing the fellow off thanks to his superior physical strength and sobriety. He had only had to tap the man once to knock him to the ground. A blow from which he did not immediately get up. For one sickening moment, Inchball thought he had killed the man. Not that he would regret his passing, simply that it would be another inconvenient distraction. What on earth would he do with the body? Fortunately, Inchball's brusque encouragements – ‘Come on, ya bastard! On ya feet, ya louse!' – coupled with a mild toeing, succeeded in rousing him.

As well as taking over the tramp's patch, he also inherited the attentions of the pissing dog, who seemed to exist solely to add misery to the lives of the abject.

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.

‘D
o 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.