The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914 (16 page)

They appeared intent on revelry. Quinn could only assume that they had not heard about the attack.

He had less than a second to take all this in. For in less than a second Porrick had collided with him, pushing him into the woman he was guiding. She let out a sharp scream, more of surprise than pain. He felt her grip relax. Something passed from her hand to his.

In the commotion, the dog jumped out of its master's arms and ran off, with a blast of high-pitched yelps that sounded like the canine equivalent of bad language. ‘Scudder! Scudder!' cried Porrick. ‘Heel! Heel now! Come on, boy.'

Quinn glanced quickly into his hand. A piece of card lay crumpled and balled in his palm, damp and flaky with sweat. He looked up to see Waechter considering the wounded woman with a look that was, for the time being, impossible to interpret. It seemed to hint at some kind of affinity – a recognition of kindred bonds. But perhaps there was more to it than that.

Some instinct made Quinn watch the dog. The animal ignored all commands, but did at least stop barking. He was sniffing the air with the serious concentration of a concert pianist about to perform, having apparently picked up a scent. After a moment, he trotted away purposefully, oblivious to what was expected of him, aware only of the scent, and his own need to get to the bottom of it.

Just then the lights in the shop came back on. The dog's pace quickened, he gave one happy yelp and then pounced on something. He turned proudly, his head high to show what he had caught.

Held between his jaws, pointed out at them, was a single human eye.

There were screams. A woman fainted. Someone else was sick.

Quinn rushed towards the dog. ‘Come on now. Drop it. There's a good boy!'

But the dog just curdled a snarl in the back of his throat.

Quinn appealed to the owner. ‘You – Mr Porrick, isn't it?'

‘Yes?'

‘Can you get him to surrender it?'

‘I don't know … I … He is a very wilful creature.'

‘You must have some control over him!'

‘He likes his treats.' Porrick held out a dog biscuit. ‘Come on, Scud. Drop it now. There's a good Scudder boy.'

The dog cocked his head from one side to the other as he made his calculations. He evidently realized that the man very much wanted the interesting object he had in his mouth. More than he himself wanted a dog treat. And for that reason, he decided to hold on to the object. This was power beyond his size. He was not going to give it up easily.

Quinn drew his revolver and pointed it at the dog. ‘If he will not give up the eye, I will be forced to put him down.' There were cries of horror. ‘I am a policeman,' he added, somewhat superfluously.

Porrick pleaded with his dog. ‘Come on, old chap. Give it up, give it up now.'

Quinn released the safety catch on his gun.

‘You can't! You can't do that!' cried Porrick. He desperately scattered a handful of dog treats on the ground in front of Scudder. ‘Look boy! Delicious treats!'

It took the intervention of a third party to induce the dog to comply. Eloise startled them all by bending down and inserting a finger behind the eye, which was held at the front of the animal's jaws. The finger induced the gag reflex, releasing the eye. She deftly seized the dog and handed it back to Porrick, leaving Quinn to retrieve the valuable piece of evidence, which he wrapped in his handkerchief.

When he turned back to face the Charing Cross Road end of the alley, he noticed that the waiting hansom was no longer there. The woman whose eye he was holding had gone, together with the mysterious Dr Casaubon and the man who had first raised the alarm.

‘M
ust you insist on carryin' that
blarsted
thing around with you?' The question was asked by the lady with the spreading bosom. Porrick's wife, Edna, it turned out. Her manner was naturally imperious, though her accent betrayed her origins. She had the look of a woman who believed that everyone else in the world was there to facilitate her comfort and convenience. It would not be long before she started giving him orders. She could not be an easy woman to be married to, he speculated. Uppity, was the word that came to mind.

They were in the offices of Visionary Pictures, the premises next to the kinematographic equipment shop. They had been admitted by a bald man with a drooping handlebar moustache, who had turned up shortly after the main group of film people. Soon after his arrival on the scene, Quinn spotted Inchball walk past the end of Cecil Court. His sergeant gave the most minimal of signals in the direction of the newcomer.

So, as he suspected, this was Hartmann.

Hartmann spoke impeccable English and seemed to be on good terms with everyone, particularly Lord Dunwich, who was also attached to the party.

Quinn gave no answer to Edna Porrick's question, except to pocket the eye. He had got everything he was going to get from the feel of it in his hand. And yet, he could not quite give up all claim to the potent relic. His hand stayed in his pocket with it, feeling its springy rotundity through the fabric of his handkerchief.

As soon as he got in, Hartmann went round switching on all the electric lights. He seemed to be acting under some kind of compulsion.

Some of the lights were contained behind frosted-glass panels which lined the stairs down to the basement. An ethereal milky-white glow enticed the eye downward, as if inviting subterranean thoughts. It was of a piece with the office's self-consciously modern style. Quinn noticed that the only two colours used anywhere were black and white. For example, the place was furnished with slightly uncomfortable-looking lounge chairs, perched on black wooden legs, upholstered in black and white zebra-striped fabric.

The walls were decorated with framed posters of the company's various productions, including one for the film they had just seen. Beneath the title, a pair of isolated eyes looked out from a black background. The eyes were wide open, as if in terror, the enlarged whites gleaming starkly.

Quinn squeezed the eye in his pocket. It was almost as if it had become a talisman. And he hoped to absorb some of its power through touch.

He looked around at the crowd crammed into the office. The mood struck him as sullen, as if they resented the attack on the girl, not because of the injury perpetrated on the victim, but because it had curtailed their festivities. Glasses of champagne had already been poured and laid out on tables in readiness for their arrival. But there was a reluctance to be the first to take a drink. Quinn had the sense that they wanted him out of the way so that they could get on with their party.

The first thing to do was to establish the girl's identity. He peeled open the crumpled card. As he had suspected, it was an invitation to the premiere. But there was no name written on it, whether in green ink or any other.

Quinn climbed on to one of the zebra-print chairs. There was a scandalized gasp. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. I am Detective Inspector Quinn. I believe many of you saw the girl who was attacked tonight. I have reason to believe that she attended this evening's screening. Can any of you tell me who she is?'

All that his enquiry prompted was a bemused and faintly outraged rumbling, with much head-shaking. It seemed that his ploy to gain their attention by elevating himself had served only to arouse their indignation. After the attack on the young woman, this was insult added to her injury. Also, his behaviour seemed to give them licence to begin drinking, as if that transgression opened the door to others. There was a sudden crush at the champagne tables, a rise in the general hubbub, an unseemly sense of release.

Quinn jumped down. He was approached immediately by Lord Dunwich. ‘Good heavens, Quinn! Was that strictly necessary? These chairs are genuine Viennese Jugendstil. Have you any idea how much they cost?'

‘And have
you
any idea who that man is?' Quinn kept his voice down as he nodded towards Hartmann.

‘Yes. I know full well who he is.'

‘He is German.'

‘I know that.'

‘I thought you wanted us to investigate Germans.'

‘Not all Germans are spies, Quinn.'

‘We believe
he
is. Indeed, we believe he is the head of a spy network.'

‘Nonsense. Oskar Hartmann is a businessman. In fact, he is a business associate of mine. I have invested in several of his companies, including Visionary Productions. We do have some friends in Germany, you know, Quinn. And we must foster and strengthen those links that do exist. It is not too late to avert the thing that we all fear. War can be avoided if we can forge an alliance of well-intentioned men on both sides.'

‘You might avoid war if you contrive to deliver England over to the Germans without a fight.'

‘What are you suggesting?'

‘That man, Hartmann, was seen at Dortmunder's barbershop …'

‘I expressly instructed you not to investigate the barbershop.'

‘Yes, and now I am wondering why.'

‘You impertinent fool!'

‘Hartmann was witnessed by one of my officers handing over secret materials to the barber.'

‘What secret materials?'

‘We do not know the precise nature of the materials in question.'

‘Then how do you know they are secret?'

‘The lettering on the envelope was written in green ink.' Some instinct persuaded Quinn that this was the one detail that would make Lord Dunwich take his suspicions seriously. Even so, the reaction was far in excess of what he had expected. Lord Dunwich's eyes widened in fear. The colour went from his face.

‘What is it?' Quinn's voice became an urgent whisper. ‘There is something you are not telling me, I know it.'

‘Nothing. I … what happened to that girl has set my nerves on edge …' Lord Dunwich's gaze flitted wildly. His aggressive super-iority had abandoned him. He was afraid.

‘I cannot do my job if you're not completely frank with me.'

‘You don't know what you ask.'

‘Did something happen, Lord Dunwich?'

‘I was sent something. A package. The address was written in green ink. That's all.'

‘What was it?'

‘Now is not the time, Quinn. It has nothing to do with Herr Hartmann, I am sure. It was just someone's idea of a joke.'

‘What were you sent?'

‘Just … a billiard ball.'

‘Why would anyone send you a billiard ball?'

‘I don't know. There was no explanation. No name. Just a billiard ball. It had been painted to look like an eye, that was all.'

Quinn's hand tightened on the eye concealed in the darkness of his pocket. ‘A rather significant detail, don't you think? Do you have any idea who sent it?'

‘No … I can't imagine.'

‘Do you still have it? And the packaging it came in? The writing in green ink?'

‘Yes. I have kept it. It's locked in a drawer at the Admiralty. For some reason I didn't like the idea of throwing it away.'

‘Will you kindly have it sent round to me at the Special Crimes Department at your soonest convenience. Were you intending to go into the Admiralty tomorrow, for example?'

‘Yes. We're frightfully busy at the moment. Between you and me, Quinn, the country is not far from a war footing. If things deteriorate much further, you will see us move to Total War as soon as May.'

Quinn nodded grimly. ‘That makes it all the more urgent that I see this … object.'

‘Do you really think it could be important?'

‘You are a minister in a department that plays a vital role in our country's defence. You may well be a target for our enemies. I would not be surprised to discover that this bizarre package has some sinister significance. The green ink is very telling, I believe.' He lifted the handkerchief with its gruesome contents out of his pocket and looked down at it. ‘What colour was the eye you were sent?'

‘Blue, I seem to remember.'

Quinn realized that he had not registered the colour of the eye in his hand. He knew that he had looked into the iris, as he had into the iris of the eye that remained in place. But he could not remember the colour of her eyes. It became suddenly important for him to check this detail. He folded back the flap of the handkerchief and turned the object it contained. It was already beginning to shrivel and the white of the sclera was turning a dull grey. The iris, he saw, was brown.

‘Good God, man! Do you have to?'

Quinn regarded Lord Dunwich with an expression of mild, absent-minded curiosity. He frowned and folded the handkerchief back over, restoring the eye to his pocket.

‘And then there's the fact that you were sent a package containing an eye – or something that was made to look like an eye. That links it with what has happened tonight. Although the colours of the eyes are different. At any rate, what has happened tonight is connected with your friend Hartmann. It happened outside his company, following the showing of a motion picture made by his company. And Hartmann is linked with another package addressed in green ink – the one that my sergeant saw at the barbershop.' Quinn glanced over to Hartmann, who was now in earnest conversation, sotto voce, with Waechter. ‘What do you know about the fellow he's talking to? The one with the eye patch?'

‘Waechter? I know that many believe him to be a genius.'

‘He killed a man, I believe.'

‘It was in a duel, Inspector. And it did happen in Austria.'

‘Does that make it acceptable?'

‘It makes it no concern of mine.'

‘He cannot go back to Austria, I hear.'

‘I believe that is the case.'

‘Perhaps he is looking for a powerful ally to intercede on his behalf? To facilitate his return to his homeland? If he were to prove himself in the service of this ally, things might go better for him at home?'

‘Interesting. At the time of his duel he was an officer in the Landwehr. But he was dishonourably discharged.'