‘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.

FOURTEEN

‘Do 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.

It was a painstaking task. His back ached with the effort of it, crouched over the illuminant, keeping his eye on the arc light, always ready to turn the handles and draw the imperceptibly diminishing rods together. It required skill and precision, to strike the rods and then draw them apart to the perfect distance for the spark to leap and burn the carbon. It required application, to maintain the optimum gap. It required concentration, to stay watchful for the ever-present threat of conflagration.

‘Max?’

The urgency in Porrick’s voice was echoed by a high-pitched yelp. This was something new. Despite his determination to keep his boss waiting, Max could hold out no longer. He risked a quick backward glance to discover the source of the animal sound. A small, wiry-haired dog stirred restlessly in Porrick’s arms.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘What? Oh … this is Scudder.’

At the mention of his name, the dog gave another highly strung yelp and redoubled its efforts to free itself from Porrick’s restraining hold.

‘Why have you brought a dog into my box? A Yorkshire terrier at that!’

‘Don’t you like Yorkies?’

‘I hate them. They’re so … nervy. The operator’s box is no place for an animal like that. For any animal! Have you any idea what would happen if it ran amok and knocked the machine over?’

The nitrate film stock was the most flammable material imaginable. It was as if this was the price that had to be paid for the revelations it effected – some kind of secret compact between the film and the darkness. And Max knew better than anyone what could happen if you allowed your vigilance to slip. He’d seen his mate Ted’s charred body after they’d dragged it out of the basement of Porrick’s Palace, Islington. The flames had been so hot and fierce they had lifted the paving stones outside.

Surely Porrick would have had no desire to repeat that experience? But it seemed that Porrick was incapable of learning from his mistakes. He truly had a genius for irresponsibility.

‘Are you insane?’

‘I wanted to show him to Waechter.’

‘Waechter?’

‘Have you seen him? He was supposed to be delivering the final print for tonight.’

‘He’s not here. He hasn’t been. I don’t have the print.’

‘You don’t have it?’

‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’

‘You shouldn’t talk to me like that. You ought to remember …’

‘What?’

‘Your position. You ought to show me more respect. I could …’

‘You could fire me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Well, I just want you to show me more respect. That’s all.’

‘If that’s all … I have a job to do here. If you will be so kind as to bugger off and leave me alone, Mister Porrick, sir. And take your nasty little dog with you.’

Max was bent over the rods again, as if his own words had spurred him back to vigilance. He heard the door shut as Porrick left him to his asbestos-lined brick box.

His whole body ached with the strain of watching the fierce white glow that he kindled just inches from the running film. He thought of a caveman nurturing the precious spark of fire. Like the audience in the kinema gathering in front of the glowing screen, the members of the tribe would huddle around the source of warmth and light, as the fire-bearer span tales to ease their fears. He thought of the honour in which such a man would be held. He would be seen as a magician or a priest; he might even be considered the tribal chief, Max reflected ruefully.

They ran films on a continuous programme at Porrick’s Palaces, which put a strain on Max’s back all right. Audience members came and went as they wished. It made sense when all the films they showed were single-reel shorts. But nowadays the trend was for longer films, with advertised starting times. And if there was any technical problem that delayed the start of the main feature, it was Max who got it in the neck.

For all this, for the long hours, the back ache, the physical danger, for all his skill and expertise, his facility at operating the projector, his calm and expert handling of the film, his knowledge of the mysteries of electricity (who else there understood how the rheostat worked – or even what it was?) he was paid sixty shillings a week. True, it was more than any other member of the staff, but it was nothing when you compared it to Porrick’s box office takings. And it was a long way short of the respect that the prehistoric fire-bearer had received.

One thing he would say for Porrick: he had not skimped on the machinery. The operating box was equipped with two Brockliss Motiographs, each adapted to run off electric motors. The initial expense of installing the motors might be thought surprising for a man like Porrick. But it paid off in the long term as it meant that the box could be manned by a single operator: Max. This was fine by Max. He didn’t need any company other than the darkness. He resented every intruder.

The Brockliss Motiograph was an imposing, double-headed machine. The twin light boxes allowed for seamless dissolving transitions between reels. It was almost like having four projectors in there. Even more important was the efficiency of the shutter mechanism, which retained thirty or forty per cent more light than other kinematographic machines on the market. When you coupled this with an electric light source (as Porrick had) and fitted a Dallmeyer projection lens (as Porrick had) the intensity and quality of the image projected was second to none.

Of course, all this was simply sound business sense on Porrick’s part. The Leicester Square Picture Palace was his showcase theatre, in the heart of the West End. It was essential that the picture-going experience he offered matched – or surpassed – that provided by his rivals. Gone were the days when you could get away with a flickering display of dim shapes viewed through a shifting fog.

Whatever he laid out in projection equipment would be recouped in takings.

But Max knew all about Porrick’s reputation. The rumours of fraud. The spell as a patent medicine salesman. Hair restorer, he had heard. Good God, how did you get from hair restorer to picture palaces! There was even a rumour that he had left America under a cloud and could never return. But you didn’t have to just listen to the rumours. The manslaughter charge was a matter of public record, even if he had got off. Well, a man like Porrick would get off, wouldn’t he? It stood to reason. He’d got to the witnesses, so it went. Max wouldn’t put it past him.