The footsteps on the stairs stopped. After a pause they resumed again, becoming louder as the intruder returned slowly to the foyer. Terry gave a wild glance about him. He saw a dim figure. He did not wait to ask questions but lunged out with the extinguished torch he was gripping. Just in time the figure jerked back and he missed. He tripped over the fallen cash box and fell sprawling. The impact as he hit the floor snapped the torch into brilliance.
Cursing to himself he swung the beam round and it glared on to Vera Holdsworth, narrowing her eyes in the radiance. She was dressed just as she had been on leaving the cinema with Sid, in her light topcoat and silk scarf, her fluffy blonde hair uncovered.
“Well, if it isn’t Terry!” she commented cynically, as at length she was able to distinguish him.
He got to his feet and the girl glanced down as her foot caught against the cash box on the rubberoid. She stooped to pick the box up but Terry snatched it first.
“Get in that office!” he breathed. “Go on, damn you—get in!”
Vera hesitated, but a savage thrust of Terry’s hand sent her stumbling backwards through the doorway. She brought up sharp, gasping, as she struck the roll top desk. There was fear on her face now, and Terry thrilled to it. He hated this girl, hated her more than anybody on earth. He was convinced that she was somehow responsible for all the troubles that seemed to be besetting him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Terry demanded.
“That cuts both ways, doesn’t it?” Vera snapped back at him. “What’s going on in here? You’re— You’re a thief!” she cried. “You’ve stolen the cash box out of the safe!”
“I said: why are you here?”
“I came for my cigarette case.”
“You what?”
“Cigarette case! You deaf? I forgot it—left it in my uniform.”
Terry reflected over something; then he went to the safe door and closed it, spun the combination knob rapidly.
“You’re stealing money, aren’t you?” Vera asked, in vicious satisfaction. “Kind of thing you would do! You’ve even got rubber gloves on to prevent fingerprints!”
Terry picked up the cash box and jammed it inside his jacket once more. Then he went close to the girl.
“Listen to me, Vera....” His voice was quiet, deadly. “You’ve caught me red-handed, and I’m not mug enough to deny it—but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll never say a word.”
“Likely, isn’t it? Why, this is just the sort of chance I’ve been waiting for! To pay you for the way you hit me! I’ll tell the boss when he gets back tomorrow—”
“Oh, no you won’t! You see, nobody except you knows that I’ve come back here tonight. There’s not a single clue to prove that I’ve had anything to do with this burglary. You have a passkey to the building; you’re the head usherette with every opportunity to know the takings at the box office—and, if it comes to that, the combination of the safe. In a word, only one person is known to have come back here...you!”
Vera was silent, wrestling with the obvious truth.
“If you spill the beans and say you saw me, I’ll deny it,” Terry went on. “And you’ve no witnesses to prove what you say!”
“What you mean is, you’re going to let me take the blame for this in any case?” Vera demanded.
“No. If you keep your mouth shut you’ve nothing to be afraid of. I’ve fixed everything so it looks like an outside job.”
Vera bit her lip. Then, “what on earth did you want to steal the money for, anyway?”
“I’m not answerable to you for—”
Terry held up his hand sharply at a sudden commotion at the front doors. There was the sound of heavy feet, the crash of transport cases, and the unmusical strains of the latest rock ’n’ roll.
“Transport men,” Terry whispered, leaving a slight crack down the office door as he listened. “Not a word! You’re in this as much as I am—”
“But you’ve got the cash box. It’s my one chance to—”
Terry jumped, smothering the girl’s efforts to cry out. He clamped his hand with savage force over her mouth. He held on to her with savage tenacity as she fought and struggled. He only released her when the front doors had slammed and the men had gone. A moment or two afterwards there was the sound of their lorry grinding away up the street in first gear.
“Don’t try and get smart!” Terry snapped. “It won’t do you any good.... Now we’re going upstairs and get that cigarette case of yours.”
Using his torch, they went up the staircase together. He cast a light for her as she went into the staff room and across to the uniform she wore when on duty. In another moment she had brought the cigarette case into view. A powder compact, keys, and a wallet fell out onto the floor, mainly because Vera, flustered, whipped the uniform wrong way up in grabbing at it. Immediately she dived for the fallen articles, but Terry pushed her away.
“Just a minute!” he said slowly, turning the torch beam on the assortment. He stooped and picked up the wallet, looked inside it, and ran his thumb down a wad of notes. His eyes moved slowly to where Vera was standing, breathing hard.
“All right, it’s your wallet!” she snapped, tossing her head.
“Yes, my wallet. And about fifty pounds here! And you had the blasted nerve to call me a thief!” Terry’s voice mounted into fury. “Why, you cheap little liar, this money is mine, and the wallet! I thought some wide boy had done the stealing, although I couldn’t fathom how anybody else but you could have known how much money I’d got. You were the only one who did know: I took good care of that. I once thought it was you and then I decided you couldn’t be that rotten—I was wrong! Five of these notes have got pencilled initials in one corner; I marked them myself to know how much money I’d got.”
Vera said nothing, but she was breathing hard.
“Where’s the rest of it?” Terry blazed. Then as she did not answer he seized her arm and shook her violently. “Where’s the rest of it?”
“I...spent it.” Her reply was sullen, after a long interval. “All right, I admit I took it, after the horse had lost. It was when you were lying on the grass with your back to me. The wallet was sticking out of your hip pocket. I knew the money would only go to the bookie, and I could think of lots of better uses for it. I put the money down for a fur coat.... And what do you suppose you’re going to do about it?”
“Nothing,” Terry answered slowly. “Just nothing. In fact the position’s perfect. If anything makes certain you’ll keep your mouth shut, this does. In this cash box I’ve stolen there are about two hundred pounds—to make up for the two hundred you stole. I’ve got to pay that bookie, or take a beating, which I don’t intend to do. I can’t get back the money you’ve used, or prove anything. But, if the police find you’ve spent about one hundred and fifty quid on a fur coat and still have this fifty left they’ll ask a few questions, won’t they?”
Vera was silent. Terry hurled the wad of notes at her and they spewed in a shower at her feet.
“Take them, my bright one,” he sneered. “One lot of two hundred pounds is the same as another, far as I’m concerned. I’ve got all I want and a guarantee of your silence.... Incidentally, how do you intend to explain your fur coat to your mother and father?”
“I shan’t until the winter. Its actual price is about three hundred pounds. All I’ve done is put a down payment.... I’ll have thought of an excuse when the dark weather gets here. I’ll tell them I won a bet. They won’t be too fussy.”
Terry was thoughtful for a moment or two, then he squatted down and scooped the money and odds and ends together.
“Time we got out of here,” he said curtly.
Vera collected her belongings and went in front of him down the staircase. In the manager’s office he rid himself of the torch and left the damaged door swinging. In darkness he and Vera crossed the foyer and passed out by the front doors. Terry took off his rubber gloves as they came to the street.
“Better wat
ch your step,” he warned, then without another word he went on his way.
CHAPTER THREE
POLICE INVESTIGATION
As Terry had expected, Mrs. Gordon, his landlady, when he met her and her husband at breakfast the following morning, fully believed him when he said he had come in about half past ten the previous night after seeing Helen Prescott home.
No reason why they should not believe him. Though it was not a cast-iron alibi he considered it was perhaps good enough, if one should be needed. He did not even anticipate such an eventuality.
When he had had breakfast he went upstairs for the cash box he had smashed open and, whilst he knew Mr. and Mrs. Gordon were still at breakfast, he lowered the box by a piece of string into the back yard. This done, he left the house in the usual way, looking in on the old couple before he left—if only to reveal that he was not padded out by a large, concealed object.
Satisfied that the morning newspaper and the marmalade would keep the couple absorbed for at least another ten minutes, Terry dodged round to the back of the house, collected the cash box, and with it under his raincoat—which he carried on his arm—he made his way swiftly down the back entry which led to an old building site. Here he polished all fingerprints from the box and then buried it under a pile of brick ends and rubbish. Smiling to himself he continued on way, arriving at the Cosy Cinema about nine o’clock.
That which he had anticipated had happened. He was met in the foyer by an excited doorman, and the staff of girls and cleaners was drifting up and down, talking or crowding about the smashed door of the manager’s office.
“What goes on?” Terry asked in surprise, flattening down his unruly black hair.
“Burglary, that’s what,” the doorman answered, his wind-inflamed eyes unusually bright. “I found it first thing this morning when I got ’ere to open the place up. Lav’try window’s bust in upstairs and the gaffer’s door has bin broken down.”
“Oh?”
Terry allowed urgency into his movements. He hurried over to where the staff was crowding round the smashed door of the office.
“All right, all right, so there’s been a burglary,” he said. “Nothing we can do about it except call the police. Have you done that, Harry?”
The doorman shook his head. “No. I waited to see what you said. Else the gaffer. ’E’ll be back this morning, won’t he?”
“Should be, but we’d better advise the police just the same. They can start looking round— Oh, wait a minute! We’d better be sure first if anything’s been stolen. The safe doesn’t look any different and nothing else seems to have been taken. We’d better wait until Madge Tansley gets here. She’s got the safe combination.”
An air of indecision settled on the group. Terry looked about him.
“We’ll act fast enough when Madge comes,” he said. “In the meantime don’t forget you’ve got work to do— The cleaning goes on even if the place has been rifled.”
Terry caught a look from Vera Holdsworth.... It was cold and cynical. She lighted a cigarette and turned away, duster in hand. Helen Prescott lingered behind for a moment, tightening the scarf about her black hair—then she went on her way.
Terry glanced down the foyer as Sid Eldridge and Billy arrived together. They paused by the doorway, heaved the waiting transit cases on their shoulders, and then continued the journey inwards.
“Rehearsal as usual, Terry?” Sid asked.
“You’d better run it yourselves,” Terry instructed. “Keep a check on it and note the cues, changeovers, and any bad recording. I’m likely to be kept down here. I have to see the boss about a burglary.”
“Burglary!” Billy exclaimed.
“Boss’s office, during the night. Somebody got in through the lavatory window.”
Sid and Billy exchanged wondering looks, then they went on up the staircase. The doorman came back across the foyer, trailing the vacuum suction pipe.
“Not much of a greeting for the gaffer, eh?” he reflected, scratching his chin. Grumbling to himself he went on his way; then Terry turned to Madge Tansley as she came in at the front door.
“Just a minute, Madge...,” Terry motioned her. “There’s been some trouble during the night. You’d better open the safe.”
“Trouble? Safe?” Just for the moment Madge Tansley looked anything but efficient. She seemed positively vacant.
Terry made the facts plain to her and it was sufficient to set her hurrying across the foyer into the manager’s office. She opened the safe from the combination record in her notebook and then started back.
“Good heavens, the cash box has gone!”
“How much was there in it?” Terry demanded.
“About two hundred pounds— Here! Here’s the return sheet.” Madge picked it up from the shelf below. “Exactly two hundred and five pounds and ten shillings.”
“Mmm—that’s bad.” Terry looked suitably troubled.
“But who on Earth could have done it?” the girl demanded. “It’s a combination safe and nobody knows the combination outside the boss and me.”
At her look of growing anxiety Terry patted her arm gently. “Don’t start getting steamed up, Madge! Take it easy.”
Terry stopped and turned as Mark Turner, the owner-manager, suddenly appeared from the foyer. He was a short, impeccably dressed man who gave the impression of being an expert with an electric razor.
“Hallo, Terry—morning, Miss Tansley.” He put his brief case on top of the roll top desk and drew off his wash-leather gloves. “Is there—anything wrong?” he asked, in some curiosity.
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid there is.” With perfect calm Terry gave the facts. When be had all the details Turner frowned thoughtfully.
“That makes the fourth burglary we’ve had here,” he said, sighing. “Apparently nothing is safe anymore. All right, I’ll get the police. It’s for them to deal with, not us....”
He picked up the telephone and Terry followed the cashier into the foyer. Thoughtfully, Terry went on his way up the staircase.
“Anything doing?” Helen Prescott asked him, as she dusted. “I mean about the burglary.”
“Police are coming,” Terry answered her. “And the boss is back to look after things.”
Terry went on his way to the winding room, content again in his own mind that his £205 was perfectly safe in his hip pocket. Just the same, when he had put his mackintosh on the peg he did not remove his jacket as be usually did. The tail of it covered his hip pocket, and the bulge therein.
“The thing now,” he murmured, “is to show complete disinterest in the burglary. Never even mention it and pay complete attention to normal work. Right!”
He nodded to himself and went up the steps into the projection room. Sid was in the midst of rehearsal, running No. 2 machine and watching the screen in the cinema. He glanced round as Terry came in. Billy glanced up from lacing film into No. 1.
“Any news, Terry?” the youth asked eagerly. “Have the flat-foots caught anybody yet?”
“They’re not even here yet,” Terry answered. “And anyway, we’ve more important things to do than bother about burglaries. How’s it going, Sid?”
“Oh, not bad. Nice copy. Pretty long programme, though.”
Terry glanced about him. “I’ll go down in the Circle and see how it sounds. You know where I sit. If I’m wanted at all send Billy down.”
Terry departed. In a few moments he was on the front row of the Circle and appeared to be watching the screen and making the usual notes for the programme run. In truth, his thoughts were miles away, debating the £205 and the activities of the police, which would shortly commence.... Before long his expectations were realized. The manager came up into the Circle, looking even shorter than usual beside the tall, powerfully-built Superintendent Standish of the local force, resplendent in his official uniform. Terry knew him well enough; He was hot stuff on fire regulations and had a gift for arriving at moments when films were in places where they shouldn’t be.
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“As you can see, Super,” Mark Turner said, “there’s no possible way in which a burglar could have got in up here. That lavatory window is the spot. No doubt of it.”
“Yes, so it seems,” the Superintendent agreed, looking around him. “I just wondered, that’s all. Sometimes an inside job can be faked to look like an outside one— Oh hello, chief! I didn’t notice you sitting there.”
Terry glanced round and smiled. “Good morning, Super. Just in the midst of a rehearsal.”
The manager glanced at the screen. “Better let Sid do it, Terry,” he said. “I want a word with you down in my office. The Superintendent would like to ask you a few questions.”
Terry felt his heart quicken, but he nodded calmly enough and got to his feet.
“Just as you wish, Mr. Turner.”
He followed the small and large figures down the wide staircase, passing Helen Prescott on the way. Though they exchanged glances, Terry hardly noticed her. He was wondering what on earth there could be to talk about. There was no clue he had left, nothing for the police to seize on to—
“Just a check up, chief,” the Super said, when they were in the office with the damaged door pushed to. “I believe you’ve been in charge here during Mr. Turner’s absence?”
“That’s right,” Terry assented.
“And nobody else has ever been in this office without your being aware of it?”
“Why, no.” Terry’s surprise was genuine. “Usherettes have been in, of course, for torches and new batteries—but only when I’ve been here. And yesterday our head cashier came in to—”
“Yes, yes, to put money in the safe,” the Super interrupted. “I’ve already taken a statement from Miss—er—”
“Tansley,” Turner said, leaning against the desk.
“Tansley. That’s it. Anyway,” the Super went on, “there’s another point I want to take up. Namely—this.”
Pattern of Murder Page 4
