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1

The receptionist’s black leather pumps echoed on the marble floor of the foyer. She escorted Alex Whitman past an ornamental fountain until they reached a bulky oakwood door at the end of a granite-­paneled hallway.

Andrew Valdano turned his leather chair to face Whitman.

“Mr. Whitman. Please.” He motioned at the chair for guests across the desk. Whitman had already sat himself into it.

Valdano could have been between fifty and sixty-­five years of age. His mustache, a lead gray; his ink-­black hair retained its color. His dusty complexion peered out beneath custom-­made silk.

Valdano’s desk was a carved brown mahogany with four seated winged griffins surrounding its base. Behind him, the window looked out on a Los Angeles autumn afternoon. Outside on the building’s Gothic façade, granite gargoyles peered out over the city, their claws clasping their grotesque heads.

On the room’s walls, framed film posters mounted on duck canvas, reminders of elegant works of the past: Intolerance: Love’s Struggle Throughout the Ages; The Birth of a Nation; M; The Big Parade. Photographs hung on the walls, of figures who had directed these masterpieces: D. W. Griffith; King Vidor; Josef von Sternberg; F. W. Murnau.

Valdano broke the silence. “Where is it?” He had the tone of someone used to getting what he wanted.

“By all means, skip the opening titles,” Whitman said.

Whitman had been hired to track down a copy of The Cat Creeps. In this film, an heiress (Helen Twelvetrees) arrives at a remote mansion to claim her fortune and, once there, is terrorized by an escaped maniac (“The Cat”) and the predatory would-­be heirs, who are also her relatives. Hardly an admirable film; another take on the “old dark house” motif trying to capitalize on the success of Paul Leni’s The Cat and the Canary, of which Creeps was a talkie remake. However, The Cat Creeps had been considered lost for decades, and that made it a desirable acquisition, especially for private collectors.

Alex Whitman was part archaeologist, part detective for anything related to film. Whitman had to get himself to the right place at the right time. His almost photographic memory of catalogs, locations, and specifications allowed him to beat out collectors and dealers who wagered thousands of dollars depending on whether a film poster was three-­sheet or one-­sheet, whether a film reel found in the depths of a dank basement contained a lost scene or undesirable splices. Such pieces, auctioned at Sotheby’s or Bonhams, or even privately, were bombarded with bids.

“I left the film cans with your secretary. Eight reels of nitrate film in all,” Whitman said. “Let’s hope she doesn’t blow up.”

“Condition?”

“Projectable, given the date. I’m sure your cronies can get rid of the few tears and the unsteadiness of the image in some frames. There are no deep emulsion scratches anyway.”

“So you’ve seen it?”

“I projected it on my living room wall, then decided the wall looked better as it is.”

Whitman reached into the pocket of his overcoat and took out a crumpled rolled cigarette.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

Whitman fished out his lighter and lit the cigarette. He exhaled blue smoke over the desk space between them. A piece of tobacco got caught between his lips and he spat it over the desk, without losing eye contact with Valdano.

Valdano rose from his chair and approached the cabinet to his left, which was flanked by swing-­arm lamps. He took out a cut-­crystal decanter, turned around, and handed him a glass. Whitman noted the man’s pink, ornate nails, manicured to perfection.

“You’re good at finding things,” Valdano said.

“Only because the film industry has been good at losing things for years.”

Valdano ignored him. “Take this piece, for instance. Care to tell me what you know about it, Mr. Whitman?” He motioned to a mounted film poster at the center of the wall to his right. On the poster, towering skyscrapers and magnificent giant structures dominated a sepia-­colored landscape. The sharp, jagged lines reinforced its futuristic tones.

“Berlin, 1927,” Whitman said. “Originally designed by Heinz Schulz-­Neudamm, issued in connection with the release of Metropolis, January 10 of that year. The original three-­sheet poster was produced by UFA’s film studio in Germany. Most of them were destroyed or thrown away after being hung on billboards. Four original copies remain. You own one of the only two existing in private hands.”

“An extremely effective and alarming work of art, as is the film, of course,” Valdano said.

“Naturally, this is a fake. As is every poster in this room,” Whitman replied.

Valdano gave him a mischievous, conspiratorial smile. “How is that so?”

“The size doesn’t feel right. Nice framing, by the way. Where did you steal it from, a flea market?”

In fact, the size did seem right. But Whitman reasoned that Valdano was not a fool; he would not leave a film poster valued at more than half a million dollars hanging in his office.

“That’s what I like about you, Mr. Whitman. You have an eye for detail. It’s a nice facsimile, of course. Faithful, even in size, to the original, which you are correct to assume I keep elsewhere.” It was rumored he kept a vaulted storage room inside his house, accessed by fingerprint technology and controlled for temperature and humidity. It contained the rarest of film pieces. Valdano continued to look at the poster. “I suppose you, of all people, should realize it was a copy by mere glance.”

Whitman yawned. “Did you bring me here to talk about business or . . .”

The collector pointed to the portrait above the Windsor stone fireplace. The picture was a black-­and-­white image of a man in his forties, with small ears and kind, wise eyes. The rest of his face was covered in muttonchop side-­whiskers and a beard. He was holding a white top hat, a cigarette burning between the fingers of his other hand.

“Do you recognize this man, Mr. Whitman?”

Whitman ran a hand through his beard. “That’s Augustin Sekuler, isn’t it? The French inventor.”

Alex Whitman’s father, a film memorabilia dealer at a time when the profession had not yet been defined, had Sekuler’s picture in their living room. His father didn’t have a picture of his wife or his son, but he did have the Lumière brothers, Thomas Alva Edison, and Eadweard Muybridge.

“Sure,” Whitman said. “Sekuler is thought to be the first person to have recorded moving images on film. In fact, his ‘Princes Street Gardens Scene’ is considered the world’s first motion picture film. The images were recorded in 1888 in Edinburgh, Scotland, years before Edison or the Lumière brothers.”

“Do you know what happened to him, Mr. Whitman?”

“Nobody does. He was never able to perform a planned public demonstration, because he mysteriously vanished from a train in 1890. His body and luggage were never retrieved. Detectives from three countries were employed to search for him. No trace was ever found. I think at the time of his disappearance he was on a train to Paris.”

“That is correct,” Valdano said, still lost in Sekuler’s eyes. “He was visiting his brother in Dijon. The plan was to meet with friends in Paris before continuing to New York in time for his scheduled exhibition. It would have been the first public demonstration of moving images.”

“But Sekuler never arrived in Paris. In fact, he was never seen again. Sounds like a twenties Hitchcock gone bad.”

“It’s right up your alley,” Valdano said. “Have you seen any of his work?”

“I’ve seen ‘Princes Street Gardens Scene.’ ” He grinned. “All two seconds of it.” He adjusted himself in the chair. “The catalogs state his remaining work also includes ‘Traffic on South Bridge,’ ‘The Man Walking Around the Corner,’ and ‘Accordion Player.’ ”

Valdano looked at him again with that conspiratorial smile. “That is not entirely correct.”

“That’s what the catalogs say.”

“Of course, your sources are informed, but hardly precise.” He pulled out one of the drawers of his desk and revealed two loose pages, which he extended to Whitman.

“I recently acquired these from a New York–­based bookseller.” As if reading Whitman’s mind, he added: “Letters from Carlyle Eistrowe to a friend.”

“Carlyle Eistrowe? The occultist?”

“Occultist, writer, mountaineer, philosopher, chess player, painter, and social critic, among other traits.”

“Also black magician, drug fiend, sex addict. I remember him on the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. He bore a heavy influence on many musicians, like Jimmy Page, who bought his former castle in Scotland.”

Valdano smiled. “He’s the second one from the left—­situated in between Mae West and Sri Yukteswar.”

Obsessed with finding the secret to immortality, Carlyle Eistrowe had traveled the world conducting occult rituals and writing “how to” manuals on the esoteric and magic (or “Magick,” as he called it) and befriending some of the most significant artists and thinkers of his time, including Augustin Sekuler.

Whitman asked how the letter was related to the French inventor.

“See for yourself.”

He steadied his steel-­rimmed glasses and gently handled the document. It was a two-­page typed letter with two small holes where the pages had once been pinned together. Both pages were discolored by age, and there were light creases from their having been in an envelope. The handwriting was in black ink and seemed slanted, with spikes and troughs. The letter was dated August 16, 1890, and was headed “Blue Claridge’s Hotel.” The occultist author had crossed out the header and written what appeared to be his own address at the time:

Blue Claridge’s Hotel

xxxxx—­illegible address—­xxxxx

August 16, 1889

Kathryn Longhorn

12 West Saville Terrace

Edinburgh EH9 3DX

U.K.

Dear Kathryn,

I have long foreseen the Alice in Wonderland conclusion of my labours, but I hasten to add this was a signal for the awakenings to the beauty of life.

I do not know of the Diorama you write of. My involvement with the medium came to an end as soon as it had commenced, when an old friend was dear enough to share what are arguably the first moving pictures ever captured. I vividly recall one of these being set in the gardens of Edinburgh’s Princes Street. But another, most ingenious one is in preparation; it is called “Séance Infernale,” depicting the Fall of Man. I am certain that moving pictures contain the Magickal truth.

The letter went on to discuss Eistrowe’s inventory of books and publishing plans, clearly with the intention of enticing the recipient with some involvement. It was signed “Fraternally yours, Carlyle.”

Whitman looked up from the manuscript, meeting Valdano’s impatient eyes.

“Well? What do you think?”

“You think he’s talking about Sekuler. Another film. The ‘Séance Infernale.’ ”

“But of course. What else could it be?”

Whitman remained silent, his calm gaze working along the lines of the letter.

Valdano interrupted his thoughts. “It’s safe to say the first of the two specimens Eistrowe writes about is ‘Princes Street Gardens Scene.’ ”

“But it’s not clear if he’s referring to the same person,” Whitman said. “We don’t even know if he’s talking about a real film. Maybe he’s just trying to get it on with this Kathryn woman. Eistrowe was a trickster, wasn’t he? Always trying to manipulate people to have his own way.”

“I thought you would appreciate that, seeing a little of yourself in his tactics,” Valdano said.

Whitman shrugged. “We’re all given some sort of skill in life.” The blue haze of his cigarette drifted over Valdano’s desk. “What do you want from me, then?”

“I want you to find this film for me, Mr. Whitman.”

“I’m not interested.”

Valdano drummed his fingers on the desk.

“I thought you weren’t interested in Victorian cinema anyway. How come you’re so keen on this wild-goose chase?”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder. It will be a remarkable addition to my collection.”

“Just give me my money for the Twelvetrees picture and I’ll be on my way. I told you The Cat Creeps would be my final job for you.”

“It was kind of you to let me know. Yet you keep coming back.” He sighed. There was impatience even in his sighing. “You’ve never disappointed me in the past, Mr. Whitman. Except for the Frankenstein poster I hired you to find ten years ago. You never did find it for me. However, in light of the circumstances surrounding your life at that time, I am willing to forget about it. Besides, I have no interest in Mr. Whale’s works anymore.” His eyes hardened for a second. “Even though I can’t help thinking you did indeed find a copy, which you kept from me.”

Whitman blinked at him, unnerved.

He’s bluffing. He doesn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know.

“I didn’t take you for a man bound by family and the unnecessary misfortunes surrounding it, Mr. Whitman.”

“And I thought you were a family-­oriented guy yourself. I bet you’ve wrecked four or five this month alone.”

In response to this, Valdano pressed a button on the edge of his desk and the electric Windsor fireplace below Sekuler’s picture crackled to life. Whitman fidgeted in his chair. He started to sweat. A sense of nausea washed over him as memories of fire fleshed out from the corners of his mind.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Whitman?” the film collector asked, in a grin as wide as that of The Man Who Laughs. Whitman swallowed hard, trying to conceal his uneasiness. He avoided looking at the fireplace for fear of going into a state of panic, but he could feel the flames dancing in there, licking their way into the air.

“I’m not sure I’m the man for this job,” he managed to say.

The film collector took a checkbook out of the bottom drawer and placed it on the desk. “You didn’t cash the check from my Frankenstein request. So why do it? Why haggle your way every time we meet to a higher fee when you’re not going to cash in on it? You think this is blood money, don’t you?” He laughed as if the prospect amused him. “Like you’ve sold your soul to the devil.”

“Maybe I just don’t want this job.”

“You’re lying. The cards are being dealt and your fingers are itching to play.” He filled in the check, signed, tore it out, and folded it on the table. “Actions lie louder than words, Mr. Whitman. You see, if you are willing to sit here listening to my rant while perhaps your sole fear in life springs from my fireplace, I bet you’d take this job for free. You would even betray your family for it, if you still had them around.”

“Go to hell.”

Valdano laughed. “This should pay for your advance, plus all traveling and other expenses.” He pushed the slip of paper toward Whitman. “Just another check for you not to cash.” He pressed the button on his desk again and the fire retreated to charcoals.