The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914

by R. N. Morris

  ‘And yet you have consented, once again, to lie down on my couch.’

  ‘I did not want to. I did it to please you.’

  ‘Are you often driven to do things to please others?’

  ‘Far from it. Those who know me would find that rather amusing.’

  ‘Do you feel the need to earn the approval of your father?’

  ‘How can I? He’s dead.’

  ‘But that need may still be there. Especially as he died unexpectedly, when you were a young man. What will happen is that you will transfer these feelings on to other men, older men, father figures, we might call them. That is why you lay down to please me. There is someone in your life whom you would describe as a father figure? Your superior at your work, for example?’

  ‘Sir Edward.’

  ‘You work hard to please him. You sometimes go too far, in fact. That is why people die. It is all because you are trying to please Sir Edward, and through him your father.’

  ‘But Sir Edward frequently disapproves of my methods, or so he says.’

  ‘The eternal tension between father and son is played out. You seek his approval, which he perpetually withholds.’

  Quinn shook his head impatiently. An invisible gesture in the darkness. ‘I did not come here for this. Doctor, have you any experience in the psychology of murderers?’

  ‘I have had the privilege to speak to a number of murderers in my career.’

  ‘The privilege?’

  ‘Murder is an act of wish-fulfilment. Wish-fulfilment is the cornerstone of Freudian dream analysis. Anyone who has lived out an impulse of wish-fulfilment to such an extent is naturally of interest to a doctor of the mind.’

  ‘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 woul
d 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.’

  ‘But is he a killer?’

  ‘On the evidence of this?’ There was a shifting of shoulders in the darkness. ‘He is a poet.’

  ‘Funny kind of poet,’ said Macadam, as the violin case containing the damned tailor was carried off to Hell. The film flapped and clattered out its last few feet.

  There was a brief interlude during which Macadam rewound the film and set up the next.

  It was another short. The title again appeared in German: Totentanz.

  Dr Casaubon translated: ‘The Dance of Death. Or Danse Macabre.’

  The film appeared to be a light comedy about madness and death. It concerned a man, again played by Berenger, who took pleasure in dressing up as Death in order to play pranks on his neighbours. He donned a black costume and hood, on to which a luminous white skeleton and skull had been painted.

  The first neighbour he called on dropped down dead from a heart attack. The second victim was so frightened that he ran upstairs and threw himself out of a first-storey window. He broke his neck in the fall and died. When the prankster knocked on the third door, he was met by a figure dressed exactly the same as him, also carrying a scythe over his shoulder. The two Deaths confronted one another. The practical joker held his sides and mimed laughing, punching his counterpart on the shoulder, joshingly.

  There was an inter-title in German, which Dr Casaubon was good enough to translate for them: ‘I see you have had the same idea as me!’

  The prankster then pulled off his mask, inviting the other Death to do the same with a merry laugh. But the neighbour refused. The practical joker made a grab for the supposed hood of the other figure. His fingers sank into the empty eye sockets of a real skull. A pile of bones collapsed on the floor, together with an empty cloak and discarded scythe. The practical joker’s hilarity turned to terror. He began to scream.

  The next scene showed him confined in a lunatic asylum, surrounded by other lunatics.

  Quinn was aware
of a sense of premonition. Perhaps he had seen something in the background of the scene that prepared him subconsciously for what was to come: the entrance of a man he recognized as the first Dr Casaubon, the very same man who had whisked away the wounded woman a few nights ago in Cecil Court. A moment later, he saw her too. She was there as one of the lunatics closing in on Berenger’s character. In a final coup of trick photography, all the inmates and medical staff of the asylum peeled away the masks of their faces, revealing their death’s head skulls beneath.

  The prankster was not in an asylum. He had died and gone to Hell. The director of the asylum – the first Dr Casaubon – was the Devil.

  FORTY-TWO

  Konrad Waechter looked up at the vast concave entrance to the Islington Porrick’s Palace, a kind of gigantic gilded conch shell set into the black, soot-grimed facade of Upper Street. He could not suppress a smile at the sheer visual splendour of it. It seemed to promise as much as it presented, leading kinema viewers into a grotto of fantasy and spectacle, away from the grim sordid reality of their lives. Indeed, it would make an attractive location for a scene in a motion picture. He closed his eye on the vision, as if overwhelmed by it. The darkness that overtook him was filled with the abstract, teeming shapes created by a film of living flesh drawn over a bright day. His mind began inventing scenarios.

  Perhaps he had underestimated Porrick. He began to think this was a man he could go into partnership with, after all. And at least he had stopped trying to push that nasty little dog on him.

  He heard Porrick’s voice. ‘At night we switch on the lights and the whole thing lights up like a beacon for kinema-goers.’

  Waechter kept his eye closed, imagining rather than contemplating the countless electric bulbs that ran around the edge of the entrance. He always preferred his vision of a subject to the reality of it. ‘Und this is vere you intend to hold der Waechterfest?’

  ‘It’s actually the largest capacity of my theatres. Seats eight hundred. I am sure we will be able to fill it, given the … well, given the circumstances.’