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.
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 …’