Hartmann’s doom-laden voice cut in. ‘Perhaps it’s too soon to celebrate, Porrick. If that policeman gets his way, Waechter’s masterpiece will be withdrawn from public exhibition.’

‘What? He can’t do that! I have a two-week exclusive! I’m relying on this dear lady’s eyes to fill my Palaces for the next two weeks. I have nothing else to show if I can’t show that!’

Porrick sensed the rabbit twitch of his accountant’s nose, scenting disaster. ‘The business can’t sustain a loss of revenue on that scale. Coming on top of everything else, this could spell the end.’

Porrick shook his head. ‘You ought to be glad you don’t have Kirkwood as your accountant, Hartmann. He’s a proper Cassandra.’

‘I will remind you that Cassandra always prophesied the truth. It wasn’t her fault if no one ever believed her.’

‘I say, there’s a film scenario idea in that! Waechter, why don’t we make a film about Cassandra? We could give her Scudder as a lap dog. Eloise could play Cassandra. She’s never believed but her faithful lapdog proves that she was telling the truth. Somehow. You’ll make it work.’

There was no comment from the Austrian director on Porrick’s impromptu outline.

‘I am not sure, given the difficulties you face already, that you should still be considering a move into production, Mr Porrick.’

‘Nonsense, Kirkwood. Fortune favours the brave, and all that. With Eloise and Scudder together in a film – no, let’s think big! In a series of films – what’s stopping us? We can’t fail, I tell you!’

‘I should tell you I had a letter from the City regulators this morning, Mr Porrick. They are intending to instigate an investigation. They are claiming certain irregularities concerning the raising of funds. They say that you are over-capitalized. That the dividends you have paid have not been earned. That the whole business is a sham, in other words.’

Novak gave a low whistle. Then his odious cackle cut through over Al Jolson’s emotional pleading: Gimme gimme gimme what I cry for. You’ve got the kind of kisses that I die for. ‘I don’t know much about finance, Porrick, but it sounds to me like you’re in a bit of a pickle, old chum.’ The American put on a phony English accent that made his words even more unwelcome.

Edna loomed up, an immense, inescapable silhouette of doom. ‘Porrick? What are they talking about?’

‘Nothing, my dear. Pay them no heed. It’s just Novak trying to be funny.’

Kirkwood bristled. ‘But I wasn’t trying to be funny.’

‘I’m sure you weren’t.’

‘I will never forgive you if we lose the house, Porrick.’

‘There’s no danger of that, my dear.’

‘On the contrary, there is every danger of that, Mr Porrick.’ As well as having no sense of humour, Kirkwood was unable to tell a lie.

‘Enough of this … pessimism. I’ll sort the finances out tomorrow. Tonight, however, I fully intend to get blind drunk on Hartmann’s champagne!’

‘Typical!’ concluded Edna. ‘Well, you needn’t think I’m going to stay around watching that unedifying spectacle.’

‘Edna, don’t go, love! The party’s just getting going!’

Al Jolson was at that moment coming to the end of his emotional confession with an emphatic, rousing Ritardando. You … know … you … made me … love yoooooouuuu.

‘You can come with me now, Porrick. Or don’ bother comin’ home at all.’

‘Edna!’

But it was too late.

‘Hell hath no fury like a woman whose husband is about to be declared bankrupt.’ Porrick could hear the sly grin in Novak’s observation.

‘Mrs Porrick has been my staff and my support – my rock – over the years. I am sure she will not abandon me now.’

‘She sure looks like she’s abandoning you, Porrick, old chum.’

‘She’ll see things differently in the morning.’

‘And if you lose the house?’

‘I’m not going to lose the house! Am I, Kirkwood?’

‘Taking into consideration the very latest box office from all your theatres, and allowing for a highly optimistic forecast regarding the expected box office from your exclusive deal with Visionary Productions – taking all that into account, I do not see any prospect of your being able to turn around your fortunes. My honest opinion is that you will not only lose your Mayfair property; there is every chance that you can look forward to a short spell of being detained at His Majesty’s Pleasure. I’m afraid the City regulators take a dim view of fraud, Mr Porrick.’

‘You’re my bloody accountant, Kirkwood! Can’t you do anything?’

‘I am professionally bound to cooperate with the investigators in any way I can.’

‘Marvellous. First my wife deserts me, then my accountant.’

‘Haven’t seen that dog of yours recently, either,’ quipped Novak.

In the darkness, they had kissed. Indeed, it was as if the darkness had grown lips and his mouth had latched on to them.

And all the while Will Oakland sang about the curse of an aching heart.

There were other things the darkness had grown too. Soft, yielding, female things. And it had become scented with a hot, intoxicating breath that left him hollowed out and weightless, as if he had been filled with helium.

All this was to say, she had permitted him a certain licence. His hands had strayed, first tentatively, and then with more confidence when no resistance had been met.

His hollowed out, weightless heart hammered at the wickedness of it. This was a progression from the prostitutes he usually favoured. She was an actress, a dancer. And more to the point, another man’s wife.

He found the thought of it simply exhilarating; deliciously wicked. Especially considering that her husband was there in the same room, and had even seemed to connive in his wife’s blatant infidelity. There had been the barest, most minimal of nods. A granting of consent, if not approval. A strange fellow, that Novak. He seemed to take as much delight from their liaison as Dunwich himself did.

They were a racy set, all right, these film people. No wonder his heart was pounding.

And besides, the sound of Will Oakland’s high, vibrating counter-tenor voice disturbed him. It sounded harsh and accusatory to his ear. A bleat rather than a lament. As if the voice itself was the curse that had been visited upon the singer. If there was a warning in the lyrics, the sound repelled him so much that he could not hear it. He preferred to focus his senses on the darkness.

The darkness had a name. Dolores. And a voice. A voice that rode on hot, scented breath and filled his tingling ear with sensation. A voice that touched him like a gentle stroke of passion on the inside of his flesh. A voice that had fingers that stirred and stiffened his cock.

He gasped at the sharpness of his lust. And groaned at the frustration of it. He wanted her now. He would not wait to have her. The darkness would yield completely to him, or he would go mad.

‘No … not here. Not yet,’ the darkness murmured. And in that ‘not yet’ was a promise of fulfilment that would sustain him.

Dunwich could relax now, though there was no relenting in the fierce ache in his trousers. He was sure now where the evening would end. The particular hotel had yet to be decided. Or perhaps they would go to one of the restaurants he knew that were discreetly furnished with private rooms.

The details didn’t matter. What was important was that he knew now how it would end. She had said, ‘Not yet.’

The lyrics of Oakland’s song grew darker and darker. The singer was the victim of a vicious woman who had somehow dragged him down – to Hell, it seemed. There was no wit or charm to the litany of accusations. It was a bitter, self-pitying complaint warbled out by a freakishly high voice.

The darkness withdrew its lips. ‘I have to talk to Novak.’

‘Novak?’

‘My husband.’

While she was gone, he sensed someone looking at him. The indirect glow from the illuminated panels picked out a diminutive form, standing on its own against the wall. It was one of those midget wogs. The one with long hair, the boy. Dunwich shuddered. There was something peculiar about that child.