‘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.
The trees in the centre of Leicester Square bore white glimmering fruit, light bulbs strung on wires through the branches. The restaurants and theatres around the outside blazed with a gaudy allure: pushy, self-confident, alive with a shallow glitter.
Electricity still had the power to take his breath away, as well as the power to turn night to day. It created a world in which there was nowhere to hide. As a policeman, Quinn might have been expected to welcome this. But Quinn’s peculiarities of temperament were such that often he found himself in sympathy with those who sought out the shadows.
The luminaries milling in the square seemed to crackle and buzz, as if an electric charge was passing through them. Or perhaps they generated their own energy. The men were, for the most part, in evening dress – top-hatted and tailed; the women, furred and bejewelled. Quinn had come straight from the Yard in his Ulster. Eyes were turned on him with something that he took for mockery. He was pointed out, his name – or rather his nickname – confidentially imparted behind the backs of hands.
It was all intensely embarrassing, though Macadam and Inchball seemed to be enjoying themselves well enough.
‘We should have dressed,’ muttered Quinn.
‘With respect an’ all that, guv, that’s a load of eyewash, an’ you know it. They would ’ave been disappointed if you ’adn’t come as you are.’
‘But people are laughing at us.’
‘They ain’t larfin’ … not as such. Seems to me, guv, more like they’re … delighted! They wanted Quick-Fire Quinn, an’ they got Quick-Fire Quinn.’
‘You’re not making this any easier, Inchball.’
‘I wonder who’s paying for all this electricity?’ said Macadam, gazing up at the luminous spots on the trees with a look of mingled incredulity and admiration. ‘It must cost a tidy fortune to keep this lot burning. It’s not as if it has gone dark yet, is it? And had it done so, the lights in the trees would hardly afford the most effective illumination.’ Macadam shook his head in disapproval. ‘They are merely for decoration!’ The realization struck him with the force of a scandal.
‘Get out of it!’ scoffed Inchball. ‘You love it. ’Ere, Mac, what did Mrs Macadam say to your comin’ to the picture palace without her?’
Macadam appeared shame-faced. ‘I … err … thought it best not to tell her the precise nature of our operation.’
‘I betcha din’!’
‘You fellows would be well-advised to remember that we are indeed here on an operation,’ put in Quinn. ‘Inchball, keep your eyes open. If you see that Hartmann fellow, or the barber, Dortmunder, don’t let them out of your sight.’
‘What if Dortmunder sees me, guv? He’ll recognize me and give the game away. I don’t reckon Hartmann will know me, seeing as ’ow I was all wrapped up in a towel when ’e came in.’
‘Feign surprise. You’re entitled to be here in a public place, I think. There need not be anything suspicious in it.’
‘Do I express my admiration for the Bismarckian system yet, sir?’
‘No, but it would be a good opportunity to express your admir-ation for German motion pictures.’
Quinn drew himself up and looked around. The half-inquisitive, half-mocking gazes had settled down, the novelty of his presence there having apparently worn off.
It is strange to find people you are not looking for, in a context you do not expect to find them. So disconcerting was it for Quinn to see Miss Ibbott in the crowd that he did not acknowledge her.
Mr Timberley saw him first and pointed him out to Mr Appleby and Miss Ibbott with a kind of shy, evasive grin. The two men waved cheerily, though a sour expression settled over Miss Ibbott and her hands remained firmly by her sides. It was Mr Appleby who pushed his way through the crowd to speak to Quinn (taking some risk, Quinn thought, leaving Miss Ibbott alone with his rival).
‘I say, Mr Quinn! Fancy seeing you here!’
‘Good evening to you, Mr Appleby.’
‘Are you here on a mission?’
‘Good heavens! Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘That was not a denial. I therefore deduce that you are here on a mission!’
‘I most certainly do deny it. I am here to see the moving picture presentation at Porrick’s Palace.’