‘It is a strange word to use.’
‘Do you not find yourself drawn to murderers? Could that not be why you have chosen this unusual profession? Is it not a privilege for you to be able to hunt them down and kill them?’
‘I do not always kill them. That is certainly not my intention when I begin an investigation. Sometimes it is necessary to take steps to protect myself and the public. But I have not come here to justify myself to you.’
‘You have so far told me several reasons why you did not come here today. You have yet to tell me why you did.’
‘I have come to ask for your assistance in an investigation.’
‘My assistance?’
‘If you were to look at the work of a particular artist, would you be able to tell if that artist had a predisposition to murder?’
‘A lot would depend on the nature of the work. Are these paintings?’
‘Not paintings. Motion picture films. The subject is a film director.’
‘You have piqued my interest, Inspector. However, I cannot promise any definite results, and it might be rash in any event to offer firm pronouncements, especially if there is a danger you might act upon them.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I wouldn’t want to be the reason you killed someone.’
‘I would not act solely on the basis of your opinion. I would only make an arrest if there were also material evidence against the suspect. And as I said before, it is not my intention to kill anyone.’
‘I confess, it is an intriguing proposal.’
‘My sergeant is waiting outside in a car. Would it be possible for you to accompany me to the Yard now? We have the films there. And a projector with which to view them.’
‘Very well. You have come at a good time. I have finished my appointments for the morning.’ Dr Casaubon began to draw back the drapes. ‘But tell me, Inspector, what is the name of this director? I am quite an aficionado of the kinema.’
‘Konrad Waechter.’
There was a beat. ‘Of course!’
‘By that, do you mean that you think it is possible, after all?’
‘Let us watch the films, Inspector. Then I will be able to offer a more informed opinion.’
A rectangle of light shimmered and fluctuated, as if trying to latch itself on to something solid in the darkness. Its edges sharpened and softened. Swirling flecks and particles swam across it, as it shrank and expanded, jerking itself into its ideal size.
Macadam positioned the projector to shine its beam on to the one vertical wall in the department, the wall that usually used held the photographs of victims, sketches of crime scenes, biographic details of suspects and other notes and documents relevant to the investigation. This was no ordinary wall, it was the wall.
That morning, Tuesday, after a day of prompting, Waechter’s back catalogue of films had finally arrived from Visionary Productions. It was at that point, when he realized that he had no real idea what he was looking for, that Quinn decided to involve Dr Casaubon of Harley Street.
And so they were now about to cast upon the wall the product of a man’s imagination. A man who had the power and the habit to give his dreams form and to make them move and dance across the dark.
They stared at the blank rectangle of light waiting for these dreams to form. As long as Quinn kept his focus on that luminescent area, he could keep whatever horrors the darkness contained at bay. The darkness held the memory of her trembling body, the constricted rasp in the back of her throat, her pupils dilated to the full.
‘So, do you fancy him for Dolores Novak, guv?’ asked Inchball.
Quinn felt a strange disconnectedness, almost a disembodiment. It felt like he was cast under a spell he was reluctant to break.
Macadam answered the question for him, as he made his final adjustments to the projecting lens. ‘You know there is nothing to place him at the scene of her murder, sir.’
‘Nuffin’ to say he was there. Nuffin’ to say he wasn’t,’ argued Inchball.
‘The only men we know were there were her husband, Porrick and Lord Dunwich,’ countered Macadam, laying the ground for a theory. He closed the shutter between the arc lamp and the projector, plunging them into near darkness. He worked the end of the film through and into place on the sprockets. It was an operation he had practised many times since the projector had arrived.
Quinn was generally content to let his sergeants argue it out. In the past their back and forth bickering had often led to new insights. But now he felt compelled to intervene, as much to prove to himself – as well as his men – that he was present in the semi-darkness. ‘And who of them has a motive?’ He felt his lips tremble in the aftermath of the question.
‘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.’