‘Dunwich, if she was trying to blackmail him. Novak, if he was jealous of her with his lordship.’ Macadam was keen to develop his theory. He adjusted the tension on the receiving spool. The first film was in place, ready to begin showing.

‘What about Porrick?’ said Quinn. It was as if his voice was coming from someone else in the darkness. And yet he was aware of an impulse to keep the voice going. There was safety, recourse, in speech. If he talked about the investigation, he did not have to think about Miss Dillard. ‘When I spoke to him, he failed to mention that he had gone back with Novak. It is rather too convenient that he claims to remember nothing of what happened after he left the festivities in Cecil Court. He is a blank. And I am always suspicious of blanks.’ Quinn acknowledged a sense of surprise at discovering his suspicion of blanks.

‘Perhaps he’s in on the blackmail racket with the Novaks.’ Despite his natural inclination to oppose Macadam, Inchball was evidently warming to the idea that one of the three men they could link to the crime scene was the murderer. ‘Perhaps they fell out over it. Maybe he done for them both. That’s why Novak’s disappeared, ’cos Porrick’s stiffed him and dumped his body somewhere.’

‘A lot to accomplish in one night.’ And now it was Macadam arguing broadly against the position to which he had led them. ‘And why is he doing this?’

‘I dunno,’ admitted Inchball. ‘Maybe he offered to get rid of them for Lord Dunwich.’ Inchball rubbed his thumb and forefinger together: money.

‘We will have to have another chat with Mr Porrick.’ Quinn wondered how his two sergeants would react if he had told them about Miss Dillard and had tried to explain to them how her suicide had affected him. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea. ‘Also, we should talk to his associates. Find out more about his business affairs. He seems an affluent and successful fellow, but we know that he argued with Mrs Porrick at the party. What was that about? Perhaps he had had his own dalliance with Dolores Novak. Alternatively, if the business was running into trouble, that might provide a motive for him to join the Novaks in trying to extort money out of Lord Dunwich.’

‘You don’t need the business to be strugglin’,’ said Inchball with a grim, cynical sneer. ‘’Is type don’ need any excuse. It’s second nature, innit. If they see an opportunity for makin’ some readies, they’ll take it. It don’t matter how.’

A fourth voice, tinged by a soft Edinburgh brogue, reminded Quinn of the presence of their guest. ‘Fascinating. You gentlemen are, I would venture to say, veritable psychologists.’

‘Are you ready to show the first film, Macadam?’

The answer was the click and pitter-patter of the projector, the forward rush of light, bearing shape and tone and movement in its blazing van.

The title came up in German.

‘The Tailor’s Dream,’ translated Dr Casaubon. ‘An eternal theme, that of a pact with the Devil.’

The title faded. The first scene showed Berenger, the same mournful-faced tragi-comedian who had played the jilted cavalry officer in Waechter’s most recent film, sitting cross-legged on the floor of an artisan’s workshop, stitching together a coat. An inter-title in German was again translated by Dr Casaubon. ‘A simple tailor dreams of fame as a musician.’

The tailor seemed to prick his ears. He rose to his feet, as if in response to some auditory signal that they of course could not hear. He was shown looking out of the window of his workshop. The scene then switched to a band of troubadours parading through the streets of a medieval city, followed by an appreciative crowd. At the head of the musicians was a kindly looking old man in motley, playing the fiddle. ‘Ah, yes,’ continued Dr Casaubon. ‘The fiddler there, you see. He is the Devil.’

The scene switched back to the tailor’s workshop. He threw down the coat he was working on and rushed out.

‘If I remember rightly, for it is some years since I saw the film, our tailor enters into a contract with the Devil, surrendering his soul in return for musical talent. The devil gives him a magical violin which he is able to play as a virtuoso. He becomes a famous concert violinist, performing to packed houses at the greatest concert halls in the world. Beautiful women fall at his feet. Inevitably, the time comes for the Devil to collect on his side of the deal. And just as inevitably, the tailor tries to escape. The Devil pursues him to a strange castle. The tailor finds himself in a room containing giant musical instruments, including an enormous violin. He hides in the case for this instrument, the inside of which is curiously cushioned, in a manner reminiscent of a coffin. The Devil, who up until this point had appeared as the mild old gentleman you see now, is suddenly a beast of colossal size. He lifts up the violin case with the tailor inside and carries it easily down to the dungeon of the castle, where the door to Hell is located.’

‘Lumme, he’s spoilt it now!’ cried Inchball. ‘We know what happens!’

‘We are not watching the films for entertainment,’ said Quinn. ‘But in an effort to understand better the mind of the man who created them.’

‘And what does this tell us about his mind?’ wondered Macadam.

‘Doctor?’

‘The Faustian figure is one in which driving ambition overrides any moral considerations. The ambition may be said to be pathological. It is interesting that in Waechter’s version of the story, his hero seeks fame as a creative artist – a musician – rather than as a scientist seeking knowledge, as in the original myth. There is perhaps something autobiographical about his choice of subject. It seems to suggest that Waechter is prepared to do anything in order to further his career as an artist.’

‘And could doing anything include murder?’

‘That’s an interesting question, Inspector. This could be a coded message from a conflicted psyche. A kind of warning. Or it could, in fact, represent the exorcism of the drives that it portrays – which are by the very act of expression rendered safe. If he tells the story of Faust, he has no need to be Faust.’

The film was a one-reeler. It raced through the action Dr Casaubon had already described. They were now at the moment where the mild old gentleman presented himself at the successful musician’s dressing room, after a triumphant performance. The Devil picked up the violin he had given the tailor and smiled. An inter-title appeared, which Dr Casaubon translated: ‘Ah! The trusty Stradivarius! What would you be without it?’

The old man’s expression became mysteriously threatening. It seemed to suggest that he could take the other man’s talent away from him as easily as he had granted it. The tailor tried to wrestle the violin from the Devil’s hands. In the process, the delicate instrument shattered. The tailor ran from his own dressing room. The old man threw back his head and laughed.

‘Of course, an alternative interpretation,’ continued Dr Casaubon, ‘and one which had not occurred to me until now, is that Waechter in fact identifies himself with the Devil in this story. As a film director, he controls and directs the lives of his characters. He decides who lives and who dies. Perhaps … perhaps he has sought to exercise the same power in the real world.’

‘Ain’t that a lot of help!’ Inchball gave a humourless chuckle. ‘Either he’s the poor feller who sells his soul to the Devil, or he’s the Devil who buys it.’

‘Your sergeant has made a very astute psychological observation, Inspector. In psychology, it is perfectly possible for opposing characteristics to exist in the same personality. A coin has two sides, does it not? As does the psyche. Waechter may well see himself as both the soul facing damnation and the Devil carrying the condemned soul off to Hell. He is both the tortured and the torturer.’