Terry’s impulse was to swing round in outraged fury. Then he checked himself and said quietly, “Don’t get such damned silly ideas, man!”
“Sorry.” Sid rubbed the back of his thick neck. “Just occurred to me that you had motive and opportunity. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Being in a spot goads one to queer antics sometimes.”
Terry turned, facing Sid squarely. “You sound as though you think I did do it!”
“Not now.” Sid gave an awkward grin. “Thanks for taking it the right way. That’s the worst of me—I speak on impulse.”
“You like Vera quite a lot, don’t you?” Terry asked.
“You bet I do! She’s got everything I look for in a girl. Looks, spirit, and she’s as straight and outspoken as the day.”
Terry spat casually over the iron rail to the concrete path far below.
* * * * * * *
The matinee was half over when Superintendent Standish came back to the cinema, to become immediately closeted with Turner.
“Well?” Turner asked, when cigarettes had been lighted.
“Obviously the theft was an inside job. That broken window is just so much eyewash. Further, no thief in his right senses—and having the delicacy of touch to open this safe—would ignore the booking office in which, as we know, there was about eighty pounds. That money was only in a flimsy drawer and the door of the booking office wouldn’t worry a thief after this office door. Further, if we assume for one moment that Elbridge was the inside worker, we can be certain that he wouldn’t be such an idiot as to smoke a Turkish cigarette and leave it in the ashtray. I know criminals make mistakes, but not such blatant ones as that.”
“Sid Elbridge is a quiet, steady worker,” Turner said. “A bit blundering in some things, perhaps, and quick tempered—but I’d trust him with thousands if I had to. He didn’t do this job, Super.”
“You merely anticipate me,” the Super smiled. “I’m quite sure he didn’t, having weighed him up. To my mind, there isn’t the slightest doubt that the thief is Terry Lomond.”
Turner knocked the ash of his cigarette gently into the brass tray. He looked up to meet Standish’s grim eyes.
“You think so, eh? I’m not saying that I’m surprised. Not because I think that Terry has criminal tendencies—but he is rather a queer chap to assess, you know. He seems very quiet, and I imagine he thinks I’m completely fooled by it. But I’m not.”
Standish nodded slowly. “For the moment, Mr. Turner, it looks as though he has committed the perfect crime, in that so far there isn’t any real evidence against him. As you know, there isn’t a clue in this office to show he’s the culprit. The fingerprint men were here in the lunch hour, but their findings simply gave us a blur of prints of all shapes and sizes. Technically, no use at all. Whether Lomond used gloves or not we don’t know, but we do know that his fingerprints are no more in evidence than anybody else’s.”
“Knowing Terry, I think he would wear gloves,” Turner said.
“Further,” the Super continued, “from Miss Tansley’s statement I consider it quite possible that the thief could have watched her open the safe, and made a note of the combination whilst she did so. She told him how much money there was before putting it in the safe. By that time he could have realized it might be worth his while to steal the cash. Miss Tansley was not accustomed to the combination: for that reason she would operate slowly, which suited Lomond perfectly. And lastly, there is the exceedingly damning point that at the races on Tuesday, as we know, Lomond lost two hundred pounds, about the same amount as that which was stolen.”
“True enough,” Turner agreed, pondering.
“You will recall that I asked him the name of his bookie. I went to see George Naylor this afternoon. At noon today Lomond paid him two hundred pounds and—note this!—Lomond could not pay up on the day of the race because he had had his wallet stolen. There we have our motive! Two hundred pounds lost, so he stole two hundred to make up the loss rather than have the bookie start hounding him. Unfortunately, the notes were not specially marked, so whether or not they came from here we’ll never know. I went to the chief’s lodgings, which address you gave me, and his landlady insisted at first that he came in at his usual time last night. When I pressed her, however, it seems she merely assumed that he did. She did not actually see him come in since she and her husband had retired.”
The Superintendent sat back in his chair. He considered for a moment.
“I had no warrant to search his bedroom, but I asked the good lady if I might look round. She was quite willing and told me that the chief had said we might call. I looked, but there was no sign of the cash-box. It may turn up somewhere: I’ve got men looking—but even if it does I doubt if it will do us any good.”
“And that’s the whole story?” Turner asked.
“As near as I can piece it together, yes. Motive, opportunity, and the brains to carry the thing through.”
“About that Turkish stun— Do you suppose Terry planted it there to involve the second?”
“Do you?” the Superintendent asked deliberately.
“No, I don’t. I don’t think Terry would do a thing like that. He may be erratic—and in this case even criminal—but he is not a sneak. I think that is why he came down and said the cigarette is his responsibility. Either that, or else Sid made him come down and admit it.”
“Well, there it is,” Standish said, sighing. “You can’t very well prefer charges because there’s no evidence—but that doesn’t mean that there won’t be. We’ll watch him constantly.”
Turner sat musing for a few moments. “I wonder,” he said finally, “why Terry resorted to theft? I can only assume it was because gambling was involved, and he knows how I feel about that sort of thing....”
He came to a decision. “I shan’t fire him, Super. I shan’t say anything at all. There are other considerations to this business. If be left me I’d be in quite a mess. He knows every trick and twist on the technical side—far more than Sid. If I lost him I’d lose far more than two hundred pounds in bookings from dissatisfied patrons. You see my point?”
“Up to you,” Standish said, picking up his uniform cap. “The moment I alight on anything satisfactory I’ll get in touch with you!”
* * * * * * *
If the genial, easy-going Mark Turner had wanted to devise the finest form of needle-pointed torture he could not have done better than choose the silence on which he had decided.
To Terry and Sid, both of them desperately anxious to know how events were working out during the hours they were chained to the running of the show, the lack of information was sheer anguish....
Terry did everything mechanically. In his mind’s eye he pictured the manager’s office. He saw the Superintendent and Turner talking together, no doubt discussing information gained.
“Reel five and six,” Sid announced, lacing up.
“Five and six, check,” Terry muttered.
Somewhere out there in the Circle, no doubt on that confounded tip-up seat with her back against the handrail, would be Vera. Terry peered through the porthole at an angle and could faintly see her in the red safety light. She was seated exactly as he had expected. The dirty little—!
His task done for the moment, Sid mooched out on to the fire escape, went down the four steps to the ‘bridge,’ and lighted a Turkish. After a while Billy sneaked out of the winding room emergency door and came to join him.
“Gimme a light,” he said, and pulled out a crumbly fag end which smelled of amyl-acetate.
Sid contemplated the youngster and smiled enviously to himself.
Billy was hot, cheerful, and filthy dirty. He always was when at work—but he had not a care in the world, except how large his tea would be. After a moment, Billy eased himself on to the top rail and locked his toes under the middle rail. He smoked contentedly, oblivious to his precarious position.
“You’re a confounded little idiot,” Sid said critically, after a moment or two.
“If you got dizzy for a moment and your foot slipped you’d drop a hundred and fifty feet to that concrete down there. We’d need a shovel to scrape you up.”
“Wouldn’t matter,” Billy shrugged. “I wouldn’t have to keep washing my neck if I broke it.”
“When did you start washing it?” Sid asked dryly.
They were both silent for a while. From inside the projection room the monitor speaker recording the sound chattered noisily.
“No, no, you mustn’t do that! I won’t let you.”
“Dearest, I must. Don’t you realize that I’ve waited years for this moment? You and I are together—at last.”
“Aw, nuts,” Billy scowled, making a disrespectful noise. “It stinks!” Then, caught by a sudden thought, he looked pensively at the cast iron grating which formed the floor of this turn in the fire escape—a turn better known as the ‘bridge.’ Through the latticed metalwork the entry far below was visible.
“Know something?” Billy asked.
“What?”
“The floor of this bridge is in two sections. Two squares of grating.”
Sid stared. “So what? I’ve known that for years.”
“I was just thinking. Be a bit tough if somebody took ’em away one night and we came barging down in the dark to find there just wasn’t any floor! Blimey! We’d look like fried eggs when we hit the concrete.”
“Hey, you out there!” yelled Terry’s voice. “Strike up!”
Sid dived up the steps to the projection room. He just caught the machine change-over in time, then he gave Terry a queer look.
“Didn’t allow me much time, did you?”
“Sorry,” Terry apologized. “I must have been day dreaming.”
Without doubt Vera would speak if things got tough for Sid. In that case, what was the way out? There was none except—
Terry started lacing film, into his machine.
“Reel seven and eight,” he called out mechanically.
“Seven and eight. Check.”
Even removing Vera before she had a chance to speak!
Terry paused in the act of threading film over the top sprocket. He was startled for a moment that such a thought had never occurred to him. One just couldn’t remove a girl as casually as that.... Terry stopped with the loop of film in his fingers.... He racked the frame into position and snapped the gate shut.
Removal meant only one thing.... Murder!
“You’re going nuts,” he told himself, and whilst he recarboned the arc he thought further.
Murder and accidental death, are two different things. Naturally, he could not go out into the Circle with a knife and bury it in Vera’s heart. That was only the first and rather ludicrous thought. A thing like killing isn’t done straight off like that if you expect to get away with it. Planning—like the burglary. Great care! So nobody could ever tell....
Terry finished carboning and went out on to the fire escape, to think—hard. He was surprised to find that he was perspiring freely. Could only be the reaction from his thoughts. The box wasn’t above seventy with its fan cooling.
Murder! Well, death, anyway. That didn’t sound quite so bad. But was it worth the risk? He did not know even now what the police were going to do about the burglary. They might accuse Sid, in which case Vera would start talking. They might even accuse him—Terry—which would be just as bad. But how could they accuse him? He had not left behind a single clue.
Sid, on the other hand, had said he wanted money. He had no alibi. There was the Turkish cigarette—
“They must be getting the evidence ranged against him!” Terry beat his fist gently on the rail. “That’s what they’re doing. That’s why they’re so quiet. Once they’ve got it they’ll arrest him, and I’ll be in a jam. But only if Vera speaks! She just hasn’t got to speak. She’s the only one who knows. With her out of the way there isn’t a soul who can prove a thing....”
When the matinee was over Sid and Billy left for their tea by the fire escape route. It was quicker and saved them having to wait for the patrons to get clear before they could leave by the front entrance.
Terry, though, was in no hurry. For one thing he usually had tea at the café across the road, and for another before he dared to contemplate such a thing as murder—no, accidental death—he wanted to meditate and be sure if the act was justified. He must try and find out something, try and find how the police were faring—and now seemed to be as good a time as any.
He came down into the foyer by the main staircase from the Circle, moving with the scattering of patrons who had been at the matinee. As he had expected, Turner was in position at a corner of the foyer, immaculate in his lounge suit, beaming and bowing like a mechanical toy. Terry waited until the last patron had departed, then he went across to where Turner was standing.
“Not a bad turn up for a hot day,” Turner commented, smiling, and if he read anything in Terry’s taut, handsome face he gave no indication of it.
“No, sir, not at all bad,” Terry agreed. “Something I wanted to ask you. About the burglary—”
“Yes?” Turner waited.
“Did the police get any further?”
“I had the Superintendent here this afternoon.”
“Oh.... How far has he got?”
“I suppose,” Turner said, smiling, “that you’re uneasy because of the suspicion cast on the staff? I shouldn’t worry, if I were you—Oh, Miss Gatty, I’ll take the torches.”
Turner walked across to where Kathleen Gatty was standing with an armful of flashlamps. Terry looked after him hotly.
“I nearly mistook you for a cutout for next week’s show!”
Terry gave a start. He had hardly noticed that Helen Prescott had come up behind him, changed from her cinema uniform into a summer frock.
“I’m having tea across the way today,” she said. “Mother and dad are out, and sis is going out with the boy friend—so there’s no point in my going home. You have tea across there, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Terry assented absently.
Helen looked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter? Don’t you want your tea? I know I do.”
“I—er—” Terry forced himself to grin. “I’m sorry, Helen. I wasn’t with you, for the moment— But surely you don’t want to have tea with me? I thought you’d sworn off me.”
“I never said we weren’t still friendly, did I?”
Terry took her arm. “Okay, what are we waiting for?”
They left the cinema together and crossed the road to the café—a small and by no means tidy place where the surroundings were drab, but the food was good and plentiful.
Helen insisted on talking, so Terry was compelled to answer.
“What’s the matter with you today?” she asked at length, puzzled. “What are you looking solemn about? Here am I giving you the chance to get to know me better—and vice versa and you haven’t answered above three of my questions!”
“I apologize. I’ve got things on my mind—chiefly the burglary.”
Terry glanced sharply towards the café window. There was a constable outside, looking in. Terry watched him intently. When at last the constable moved Terry felt a little trickle of perspiration starting from his forehead.
“Now what?”’ Helen demanded. “Why on earth should that bobby looking in here give you goose-pimples?”
“Just nerves,” Terry said.
Throughout the remainder of the meal he took good care to be more attentive, and during the walk afterwards, before they returned to the cinema for the evening performance, he was in a good humour.
The mood faded somewhat when, upon entering the foyer with Helen, Terry saw Mark Turner standing there. He must have come back unusually early from tea. He motioned Helen towards him and good manners forbade Terry lingering. He went on his way, frowning.
“Does Terry mean anything to you, Helen?” Turner asked.
“Did you say—Helen?” She looked surprised for the moment.
“Forg
ive the liberty, but this is off-duty time. I came back early. Miss Gatty told me you were not going home to tea today when I asked which girl would be back first. I’d have liked to have taken you to the Silver Grill, but when I came out of the office after putting away the torches you’d gone.”
“You’re—you’re very kind.” Helen coloured slightly.
“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Turner smiled. “After all, we’ve been very good friends ever since you first came here.”
“I’m sure we have,” Helen responded, finding it rather difficult to know what to say.
“Spend much time with Terry?” Turner asked casually.
Helen shrugged. “Very little. Today it just happened that both of as were going to the same café for tea.”’
“I see.”
In the meantime, Terry had reached the winding room, and he was in a sullen mood. He tugged off his jacket impatiently and stood scowling thoughtfully at the rewinding bench.
“No doubt of it, I’d be a damned fool to try and blink the fact,” he muttered. “Turner’s crazy about Helen, just as I’ve always suspected. Vera turned out to be a two-timing thief, and Helen’s stringing me along as well as the boss.”
He felt in a reckless, bitter mood. The remembrance of Vera returned to him. For the time being he had pushed into the back of his mind the realization that he was going to ‘remove’ her. Now he recalled it, and he bit his lip as he tried to think of a way.
“There isn’t anything that’s safe,” he told himself, still staring at the bench. “And I certainly can’t deal with her in the cinema. If I tried anything outside it would simply be common murder and the police would get me, sure as fate. But if she talks, which she will....”
Impatiently he broke off his speculations as Sid and Billy returned from tea.
“Find out anything about the burglary?” Sid asked.
“Nothing that helps,” Terry answered.
He did not refer to the matter again, and because of his own sobering speculations Sid did not speak much either. For the next half hour both he and Terry attended to routine matters and, promptly at 7:30, the show began.
Terry opened with the news and watched it moodily. He merely had the interest of a technician in his performance. In the reflection from the projector beam stabbing across the darkened cinema he could see Vera sitting on the tip-up seat, her back wedged against the handrail, her face turned towards the screen.
Pattern of Murder Page 6
