The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914 (19 page)

Waechter must have sensed it too. He became suddenly solemn. ‘I voz werry sorry to hear about your fiancé.'

‘Let's not talk about it now, sweetie.'

Harry Lennox shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was evidently struggling with some dilemma, sensitive to his daughter's reluctance to dwell on the past, but nevertheless eager to get something off his chest. In the end his dominant nature prevailed. He was a man who spoke his mind, or he was nothing. ‘Did you see him? Here! Quinn?'

‘Don't mention that man to me, Daddy.'

‘He has a lot to answer for, that's for sure. Bittlestone, do you not agree?'

‘Oh, I do, Mr Lennox. I most certainly do.' If in doubt, agree.

‘And will the
Clarion
be the paper to hold him to account?'

‘Of that you can rest assured, sir.'

‘What's our angle on this eye attack business? Have you filed your story yet?'

Lennox's eyes were piercing and expectant. This was a sensational story. The
Clarion
had been first on the scene. If they could not capitalize on it, they did not deserve to be newspapermen. ‘I was just about to, sir. I thought I might garner a few quotes from the film people first. Herr Hartmann has kindly allowed me to use the company's telephone to call through the story when I'm ready.'

‘Do you have a headline for me?'

‘I was thinking of …' Bittlestone hesitated. In point of fact, he had not given a thought to the headline. Inspiration came to him suddenly: ‘
Eyeless in Cecil Court.
There is a strange irony about it, given that this alleyway happens to be the centre of the English film industry.' Bittlestone broke off anxiously. It might have been too ‘clever' for Lennox, too intellectual. Literary, even.

‘Can't you give me something snappier?'

Jane Lennox's head assumed an angle that infuriated Bittlestone. It seemed to express the conviction of her father's infallibility – more than that, of his genius. She certainly took her father's interference as a cue for her own critiquing of his work. She blew out more smoke and subjected him to a look of slow, bovine scrutiny. ‘She's not
eyeless
,' she said, at last. ‘She still has one eye left.
Eyeless
would be if she had lost them both.'

‘She has
one … eye … less
,' insisted Bittlestone with slow, deliberate emphasis. His irritation was heightened by the suspicion that she might have a point.

Jane Lennox shrugged. It didn't matter to her in the slightest. In fact, it bored her. Her face spasmed into a grimace of a smile for Waechter's benefit.

Lennox was on the attack again. ‘Who's the girl? That's the question. For crying out loud, Bittlestone! What are you doing here, when you should be out tracking her down? You could be the first to get her story!'

‘But even the police don't know who she is.'

‘Don't you worry about the
po
-lice! Find out which hospital she was taken to. Get to see her, man. Get her story.'

‘I rather thought she might need some time to recuperate from her experience. Besides, the hospital won't let me see her at this hour, I'm sure.'

‘Do you have no gumption, man? To be sure, when I was a cub reporter such lily-livered, weasel-minded equivocations never got in my way!'

His daughter confirmed this with a terse nod, as if she had been there to witness her father's early reporting triumphs.

Bittlestone produced his notebook and pencil. ‘Very well, if that is what you wish me to do. However, if you have no objection, sir, I think it wise first to file an intermediate account based on what we know already. That way, we will have something in the morning edition. While I'm here, I will take some statements. Herr Waechter, how do you feel about this bizarre attack happening so soon after the showing of your film? Given the fact that, according to the police, she attended the screening.'

‘My film is proven to be
ein Werk
of prophecy.'

‘There, Bittlestone, you have your film people quote. Now find the girl.
Cherchez la femme!
That's the thing!'

Jane Lennox blinked her eyelids rapidly before turning on Bittlestone a look of focused contempt.

M
ax 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.

A
t 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 Novak'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?