On paper, everything about Porrick was flashy and fake. You could only expect a man like that to cut corners. But he hadn’t. You could see it in the uniforms of the attendants. They were as crisp and smart as any you would find on a railway guard. The tip-up seating was provided by Lazarus and Company, and the plush burgundy upholstery was regularly repaired. That time some idiot had taken a knife to the seat backs? Porrick hadn’t just settled for the gashes to be sewn up; he’d had the whole row reupholstered.

He had spared no expense. Max had to give him that. Even splashed out on a Tyler vaporizer to refresh the air with disinfectant.

But most importantly, you could see the level of investment out there on the screen.

The condenser of the Brockliss Motiograph threw the trapped light forward, gathering up the tiny shadow-dances in the gate, shooting them through the projection lens and out over the heads of the audience. Motes spun in the beam, dizzied and dazzled by its passage through them. And where the beam touched the far wall, silent, shimmering beings sprang into life, luminous spirits conjured out of the darkness.

Why, though? Why had a fraudster and snake-oil salesman gone to all this expense? There were cheaper machines than the Motiograph. And he needn’t have paid extra to fit a Dallmeyer projection lens. He could have simply painted the screen on the wall with whitewash, instead of using the patented Whitisto screen paint at 7/6d a gallon.

There could only be one explanation. And you could hear the answer in the urgent impatience of his enquiry about the missing print, and see it in his eyes, in the jealous, coveting gleam that shone as he handled the cans of film when they came in. Magnus Porrick had got the bug. He had fallen in love with moving pictures. No doubt he had been drawn into the business with the intention of turning a quick profit. Riding the fad until it ran out of steam, at which time he would move on to some other way of duping the public – and investors – out of their cash. But something unexpected had happened. He had taken the trouble to look up at the screen. And what he had seen had transfixed, and then transformed him.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Won’t they leave him alone! At least this time, the intruder had had the courtesy to knock, and was waiting for Max to admit him.

‘Yes?’

He heard the door open. ‘Herr Maxvell?’

Max turned to see the half-silhouetted form of Konrad Waechter in the doorway; his upright, almost military bearing was unmistakable. As always, he was dressed in a cream silk shirt with a mandarin collar, jodhpurs and riding boots. And, of course, the black patch was in place over one eye. The right eye, he could see. Was it always the right? He doubted it. He was sure Waechter wore the patch for effect and liked to alternate the eye he wore it over, presumably because it amused him to do so.

Waechter was clutching a small film can to his chest. Max was a little surprised at the size of the singular can. ‘Is that it?’

Waechter frowned.

‘The print for this evening’s screening?’

‘This?’ Waechter tapped the can. ‘Nein. Diaz is bringing the film. He vill be here presently. I have just now left him in Cecil Court making the final touchings. I have come only to tell you not to vah-rry. You vill have the film presently.’ Waechter’s accent was heavy, almost incomprehensible at times.

‘I wasn’t worried. Don’t make no difference to me, one way or the other. I get paid whether there’s a film to show or not. And besides, I’d just rerun today’s programme.’

Waechter’s eye bulged in alarm at this prospect.

‘Nah.’ Max turned to check on the rods of the arc lamp. ‘It’s Porrick you need to worry about. He was looking for you, by the way. He had some dog with him. Wanted to show it to you.’

‘A daw-g-g?’

‘That’s right. Horrible little blighter.’

‘Vy does he vant to show me a daw-g-g?’

‘Why does Porrick do anything? He must think there’s money in it.’

Mah-ney? But how could there be mah-ney in a daw-g-g?’

Max shrugged. ‘Ain’t you seen Rescued By Rover? A very popular title, that is. Everybody knows Porrick has ambitions to go into the motion picture production business. He’s been in his element, hobnobbing with all you motion picture types. And it makes sense, don’t it? If he can make the films and show the films …’

‘But vy does he vant to show the daw-g-g to me?’

‘Look, I don’t know. You’d better talk to him yourself. But the way I see it, he’s gonna need someone to direct these films, ain’t he?’

‘No! No! I do not make films with daw-g-gs! Ich bin ein Künstler!

Max put his finger to his lips. ‘Sshh! There’s no need for language like that. They’ll hear you out there.’

‘But I am an artist! You understand?’

Max glanced uneasily at the film counter. It was getting near the end of the current reel. There was a possibility that he had left it too late and there would be a gap in the programme.

‘Listen, I’ve got work to do here. So, if you don’t mind …’ He put his eye level with the arc light in the second projector, turning the screws to close the gap in the rods in preparation for striking.

‘Ah, there you are, Waechter!’ It was the very worst moment for Porrick to return with his yapping dog. The loathsome animal must have run between Waechter’s legs. It skittered into the operating box and ran in and out of the iron stands of the projectors. It looked to Max like nothing so much as a wig pulled along on a wire.

‘Get that animal out of here!’ cried Max, trying to fend it away from the delicate, combustible machinery.

Fortunately, for some reason, the dog became suddenly very interested in Konrad Waechter, jumping up at him and snapping excitedly.

‘You’ve met Scudder, I see!’ said Porrick, cheerfully. ‘Down, Scudder, down … good boy!’

Waechter’s eye glared imposingly. Evidently fearing that the dog’s purpose was to rob him of his precious film can, he held it up over his head.

Max saw that the film counter on the Motiograph that was in operation was getting dangerously close to the end. The reel was about to run out any moment. And with all the interruptions, he hadn’t got round to setting up another film on the second projector.

Waechter’s hand holding the film can dropped a little. It seemed as though he was handing it to Max.

In his confusion and panic, Max reached out to take the can. ‘Do you want me to play that? What is it, a preview?’

Waechter’s reaction was as fast as it was shocking. He swung his hand out wildly, catching Max on the side of the head with the edge of the can. The blow was sharp and painful, as well as unexpected. It threw Max off balance. Luckily he didn’t fall on to either of the Motiographs. Instead, he crashed into the winding table, causing empty spools to fly up and scatter.

The voice of the darkness changed subtly. The mechanical stutter ceased. A high, free-wheeling whine took its place. The film passing through the projector had now run out. The motor whirred without resistance. There was a rhythmic click as the full spool raced round inside the covered take-up.

Cries of derision could be heard from the auditorium as the screen went blank.

Waechter clutched the can to his chest protectively. ‘It is not for you. Do you understand?’

The director darted from the operating box, the unwanted dog yap-yapping eagerly after him.

‘You’d better get the next film on, quick,’ said Porrick, dashing out after his latest investment.

FIFTEEN

The days were longer now. There was an expansive feeling to the evenings, as if they were being spun out of a weightless, elastic material. A net to keep the night at bay forever. Quinn was reminded of a springtime long ago.


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