‘What?’ Porrick’s distress was such that he was evidently finding it hard to concentrate.

‘Last night. Just here, outside. You must remember?’

‘Oh, yes … yes.’ Porrick suddenly looked at Quinn with staring, accusatory eyes. ‘You were the man who was going to shoot him! What have you done with him?’

‘I have done nothing with him, I assure you.’

‘You’re a policeman, aren’t you? You have to help me find him.’

‘I’m afraid I have rather more pressing duties. However, I am sure your dog will turn up. Or if not, it has probably met with some fatal road accident. A dog like that can have little road sense, and from what I saw, you had no control over it last night. Either way, it is not a matter for me.’

‘Do you think Scudder could be dead?’

‘I really don’t know. Mr Porrick, will you come back inside with me? I have some questions.’ Quinn was about to impress upon Porrick the seriousness of the situation, given Dolores Novak’s death. However, another thought occurred to him. ‘We may be able to throw some light on the whereabouts of your dog.’

Porrick’s gaze became pathetically fixed on Quinn. Docile and trusting, he allowed himself to be turned back.

The offices of the Visionary Production Company had the stale, dead air of the morning after. The gloom of Cecil Court permeated the interior, depressive and grey, like a hangover waiting to be claimed. Empty champagne bottles littered the floor and furniture. Cigarette stubs had not always found their way into ashtrays. The white of the decor seemed dingy and weak, unable to hold its own against the negative power of the black. The black sucked the energy out of everything.

Konrad Waechter was sitting at a desk, tapping away at a typewriter. He barely looked up when Quinn and Porrick came into the room. Quinn gestured for Porrick to sit down, but his own attention was now drawn by the director. In particular, he found that he was fascinated by the patch over Waechter’s eye; or more accurately, by speculations as to what lay behind it. ‘Mr Waechter?’

Waechter grunted but did not look up.

‘I would like to speak to you too. Something has happened. I am afraid it is my duty to tell you both of a very great tragedy that has occurred.’

It seemed Quinn had said enough to get the man’s attention. Though judging by his questioning frown, he did not fully understand the detective’s words. He had clearly been impressed by his tone, however.

‘Last night, as you know, a woman was attacked just outside these offices. We have reasons to believe that she attended the screening of your moving picture film at this gentleman’s picture palace in Leicester Square.’

‘Picture Palace is another chain. Mine are Porrick’s Palaces.’

‘It has now come to light that a second woman was attacked last night. Dolores Novak.’

Quinn paused to observe the effect of the name on the two men.

Magnus Porrick leaned slightly – almost imperceptibly – backwards, as if recoiling from a blow. The speed of the reaction suggested that Porrick’s shock was genuine. If anything, it seemed that Porrick was trying to minimize it, although he could not control the colour draining from his face. Maybe Porrick had not known that Dolores Novak was dead. But he did know something – something that he was at pains to keep to himself.

Waechter seemed to draw energy from the news. His visible eye widened, as if the entrance to his inner self was opening up, so that he could drink in all the horror of this sensational revelation.

Quinn reminded himself that he was dealing here with film people. Waechter no doubt came from a theatrical background. If he had not been an actor himself, he had certainly spent a lot of time in the company of actors. He understood the techniques they used and was probably adept in them himself.

He wondered whether behind the patch was an eye that Waechter could not control, that on the contrary would always betray his true feelings. And that was the reason it had to be kept hidden away.

‘There are similarities between the two assaults. Both victims were subject to the removal of one eye.’

Waechter thumped the desk excitedly and let out a stream of German.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that. What did you say?’

‘I do not believe … Vot you say is not possible!’

‘Why do you say that?’

Waechter merely shook his head.

Porrick at last was prompted to ask the question. ‘And how is she? Mrs Novak?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘No!’

Again Waechter gave vent to his thoughts in his native language.

‘I am naturally interested to recreate Mrs Novak’s movements after the party last night. Did either of you gentlemen see her leave?’

‘It is hard to say,’ said Waechter.

Porrick concentrated on avoiding Quinn’s scrutiny.

‘Hard to say? I don’t see why it should be particularly hard to say. If you saw her leave, you simply say yes. If you did not, then you say no.’

‘There were many peoples here. Many peoples coming and going …’

‘You did not see her leave?’

‘I am not sure.’

‘And what of you, Mr Porrick?’

Porrick shook his head.

‘Neither of you gentlemen saw her leave?’

The two men did nothing to confirm or deny this proposition.

‘What about her husband, Mr Novak? We are anxious to locate him.’

‘Porrick left with Novak,’ said Waechter quickly.

‘I see. Mr Porrick, is this true?’

‘I don’t … I was very drunk. I can’t remember much about last night.’

‘But did you leave with Mr Novak?’

‘I suppose I might have done.’

‘And was Mrs Novak with you?’

‘No.’

‘You don’t remember much about last night, but you can say that with certainty?’

‘I remember now,’ said Waechter. ‘He is right. Dolores was not with them. Dolores left earlier.’

‘Alone?’ Quinn had a strong sense what the answer would be.

‘Nein.’

Waechter and Porrick exchanged a look that was so conspiratorial it was almost comic.

‘Did she leave with a man who was not her husband?’ prompted Quinn. ‘Are you trying to protect the reputation of this gentleman? I understand the instinct that motivates this behaviour. However, it will be better for the gentleman concerned if we are able to talk to him at the soonest possible opportunity in order to eliminate him from our enquiries.’

‘She left mit Lord Dunsch.’

‘Lord Dunwich?’ insisted Quinn pedantically, as if there could have been two lords at the party with such similar names.

‘Ja, Lord Dunsch.’

‘Mr Porrick, where did you go with Mr Novak after you left the party?’

‘I’m afraid to say I was very drunk. It is all rather hazy. All I know for sure is that I slept in the auditorium of the Leicester Square Palace.’

‘Why did you not go home?’

‘I had had a row with my wife.’

‘This is true,’ confirmed Waechter, as if everything hinged upon the settling of this point.

‘You did not see Lord Dunwich with Mrs Novak after you left here?’

‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘It is a perfectly reasonable question, and one by which I hope to establish the truth of what happened to Mrs Novak.’

‘It was all a bit of a blur. All I can say with any certainty is that I was exceedingly drunk.’

‘Mr Waechter, you must accept now that the parallels between what has happened and the incidents portrayed in your film are striking.’

‘My film is a poem. A poem expresses a truth. A truth of the soul. I cannot be held responsible for the actions of a madman. He has twisted the truth of my poem. It is not my doing.’

‘Dolores Novak had a part in your film, did she not? What was your impression of her? Did you enjoy working with her?’

‘Dolores cannot act. But I do not ask her to act. I ask her to dahhnsse.’ Waechter rippled his arms in a balletic swaying motion. ‘It is vot der men come to see, ja? You like to watch her dahhnsse, Inspector?’