“You’ve mentioned that before. But you didn’t do it, did you?”
“Do it?” Terry gave an indignant glare. “Of course not!”
“Then what is it? And anyway, I don’t think it’s just that that’s bothering you. You’re not the kind of chap to worry over such a thing. It’s something else. Perhaps domestic or maybe money troubles....” Helen’s hand suddenly reached across the table and gripped Terry’s firmly. “Terry, I’m in earnest. I do want to know you better, and I’d do anything if I could.”
“Of course.” Terry smiled. “It’s nothing, Helen. And the sooner you stop psychoanalyzing me and go back to the boss, the better.”
The outburst only made Helen smile. Quite undisturbed, she went on with her tea.
“You gave yourself away, you know,” she said presently. “There must be something on your mind or you wouldn’t have flared up like that! Don’t tell me if you don’t want to: I don’t want to pry.”
Helen meditated for a long time as she ate, her eyes on Terry’s morose face and averted eyes. Finally she sighed.
“All right, if that’s how you feel about it. In the meantime, if your troubles get you down, don’t forget that I’m your friend.”
She did not press matters any further. When she and Terry left the café together it was she who did most of the talking. Terry for his part was measuring the minutes. At 7:55 that globe would drop. He found it enormously difficult to sound natural as he spoke, and he hoped that Helen would not notice his preoccupation. But she did. Once or twice he found her eyes fixed on him in complete wonder....
He was glad to part from her when they reached the cinema. Though he had not admitted a single fact that might be construed as a clue to his intentions, he felt just as though he had told everything, that Helen knew every detail. Naturally, she did not, but that did not prevent her carrying her wonderment with her as she entered the staff dressing room to change into her uniform.
For Terry, everything was mechanical. Sid was mainly silent and moody. Billy, as usual, was an infernal nuisance with his piercing whistling and decidedly doubtful jokes.
At 7:50 to the minute Terry dimmed the houselights and gazed out onto to the Circle as he did so. Being Saturday night the house was packed to the last seat. He had banked on that. It meant that Vera would not have so much running about to do once the first ten minutes had passed. Patrons rarely arrived vary late at the Cosy; it was a family cinema to which everybody contrived to arrive on time.
At the moment Vera was busy with her torch, showing a man and woman into Row C. Then the lights expired and the news began. It finished. Sid ran the comedy. His big, heavy face was quite expressionless as he stared through the porthole at the screen.
At this distance it looked like a postage stamp. Billy came in and brought the Travelogue spool. Terry took it from him.
“I’ll lace up,” Terry said briefly. “Get the news stripped off, Billy.”
“Okay.”
The door slammed on its springs. Terry found himself sweating. He put the spool in the top fireproof box with a noisy rattle, whirled the spool round to free a length of leader film for lacing.
“Fitz,” he said curtly.
“Fitz—check,” Sid acknowledged.
Terry’s hands were shaking as he laced up. He even wondered once if he had a dream or something. Had he really prepared the film the night before? Yes. He had prepared it all right. When he ran the film down to the censor’s certificate he could see the title just above it, and the start of the sound track. The punctures were there all right.
He finished lacing, re-carboned the arc, then leaned on the projector to watch the comedy. It did not strike him as at all funny.... Gently, from the lining of his waistcoat, he pulled out a sharp needle and concealed it in his palm.
7:45.... At 7:50 Sid nodded and glanced round from his machine.
“Nearly off, Terry. Strike up.”
Terry hesitated; then he set his mouth, and struck the arc. The carbons sizzled and flared. White light gushed blindingly on the white coat inside of the arc chimney. He looked down at the Circle.
Vera was there, seated on the tip-up, just as he had expected.
“Motor!” Sid called, and Terry snapped the motor switch.
His projector gathered speed and opened up as Sid’s machine closed down. The certificate flashed through briefly and the musical accompaniment to James Fitzpatrick’s Travelogue began. On the screen was the familiar Technicolour face of the world with rays radiating from it.
Tense, completely silent, Terry stood by his machine. The point of the needle he was holding was relentlessly scraping the film track below the sound gate. The fact that he was doing this could not be detected. His body hid his hand as it lay in the sound gate box.
It was eight minutes to eight. In three minutes, according to plan, Vera would be in—
“Huh!” Sid exclaimed, peering through his own porthole into the Circle. “Wonder what happened to Vera?”
“Eh?” Terry gave a start. He stood up straight. He had been looking at the screen and clock. He had to peer downwards to see the tip-up. There was somebody seated there, quite distinct in the reflected glow from the picture beam.
“That’s Helen Prescott,” Sid said, taking the spool out of the bottom of his machine. “Not often Vera gets called away— Say, I wonder if something has developed about the burglary? She may be down with the boss....”
Helen! There! And only one minute to go!
Terry did not even stop to think. He made a wild grab at the speeding film as it came out of the box to the top sprocket. The wrench snapped the film in two. There was a dull crack from the monitor-speaker and a blaze of white light on the screen. Then Terry slammed down the shutter, switched off, and swore.
“What the hell?” Sid stared at him. “What’s up? A break? I’ll skin Billy’s hide when I get him. Saturday night, too!” He raced round to Terry’s side. “Hang it man, why don’t you lace up...?”
Terry shook his head stupidly. His face was white. He did not speak or think. Then he looked at the first and second finger of his right hand. They were streaming with blood. In his dive at the film his fingers had been carried through the sharp teeth of the sprocket.
“Okay,” Sid said curtly, who had seen and experienced such mishaps before. “I’ll lace. You can’t.”
“But look—”
“Out of the way, man!” Sid roared. “The show’s being held up! There—listen!”
The buzzer, actuated from the stalls, was sounding sharply. Evidently Mark Turner was getting impatient. If the audience was indulging in any of its inane clapping and foot stamping it could not be heard up here through the immensely thick walls.
Dazed, wrapping a handkerchief round his lacerated fingers, Terry watched as with experienced hands Sid re-laced the machine at top speed and then started it up again.
“Okay, I’ll run it,” he said.
Terry shook his head stubbornly. He almost elbowed Sid out of the way and took over the machine again. He stared into Circle—then drew a deep breath. Helen was gone and Vera was back on the tip-up seat. His left hand was shaking as he put the needle point back on the speeding film and held it there. Through the handkerchief on his right hand blood was seeping through.
The clock said three minutes to eight. Two minutes lost. Terry’s eyes strayed to the faintly visible globe. It was still intact.
Two minutes to eight, and James Fitzpatrick was getting well into his stride— Then Terry saw it happen. Silently the lower hemisphere of the globe dropped downwards and vanished.
Nothing. He could not hear a sound through the walls, but he was shaking so violently he could hardly stand. Sid noticed his distress and assumed it was because of his injured hand.
“Say,” he remarked, as Billy handed in the first two reels of the feature, “you ought to get down to the first aid kit with that hand, Terry. You’ve chewed it to hell and you’re as white as a ghost.”
Terry could not answer: his mouth was too dry. He jumped at a sudden saving buzzing on the interphone. With his bandaged hand he reached out and picked the phone up.
“Yes?” His voice was husky. “Terry speaking.”
“Kill the show, Terry.” It was Turner’s voice, shaken for once. “Been a bad accident. Put the lights up.”
“Accident?” Terry repeated, and he was so worked up he did not need to act to sound horrified. “What’s happened?”
“A houselight globe’s come down—hit Miss Holdsworth. Hurry up with the lights, man!”
Terry closed the shutter of the projector and cut off the hall sound. He put up the houselights and left his machine running, with his hand guiding the ruinous needle. With. Sid he looked out onto the Circle.
“What’s happened?” Sid demanded, puzzled. “I can’t see anything for people.”
Terry said nothing. The audience was moving—a shifting throng about the top of the steps and the tip-up seat. In other directions people were standing up and craning their necks. The screen was a blank oblong, hazed by the blue of tobacco smoke.
“What did the boss say?” Sid insisted. “Somebody passed out?”
With a rattle and snap the Travelogue came to an end and its leader length clattered into the bottom spool-box. Terry switched off and jabbed the needle in the hem of his waistcoat. When the noisy machine had whined into quietness the silence seemed appalling.
“What happened?” Sid repeated, mystified. “Is— Say!”
His voice changed. “There’s a houselight underglobe missing up there! Has it— By God, don’t tell me it dropped on...on Vera!”
“Yes. That’s what the boss said.” Terry spoke quietly, and with considerable effort. “I didn’t dare tell you, knowing how fond you are of Vera—”
Sid swung and dived across the projection room. Terry whirled him back as he reached the spring door.
“Wait a minute!” Terry snapped. “Where are you going?”
“To see what’s happened to Vera, of course! She’s my girl, isn’t she?”
“There’s nothing you can do, and your job’s up here. Get a hold on yourself, man!”
Terry looked through the porthole and then turned away. He had caught one glimpse of what had really happened as, for a moment, the people surged apart. Chunks of white globe lay in various directions. Vera was stretched full length on the floor, her head invisible with the amount of rough wadding and bandages, which had been wrapped about it.
For a moment Terry thought he was going to faint.
It seemed an interminable time to him before uniformed ambulance men appeared with a stretcher and the motionless girl was down the steps and out of view. Terry waited with arid lips. Harry, the doorman, appeared and began brushing up the chunks of opal glass.
He had just finished when the interphone buzzed.
“Carry on,” Turner said, in possession of himself again. “Leave out the interval and go right on with the feature.”
“Yes, sir,” Terry said mechanically, and glanced at Sid. “Get started, Sid. No interval.”
Obviously stupefied, Sid switched on his machine and the feature began. Slowly Terry dimmed the houselights to extinction.
“How can they go on with this show when Vera’s hurt—maybe even dead?” Sid demanded in sudden anger. “It’s—inhuman!”
“A show’s a show, Vera or no Vera,” Terry replied. “The people have paid their money and they have to be given an entertainment. You carry on: I’ll go down and see what really happened.”
Terry was quite calm again now. The thing was done and he even felt less guilty than he had expected because he had made an effort to stop the crime. Sid had insisted on re-threading the film: that had left no other course than to go straight on.
Terry called for Billy and had him do the lacing; then Terry hurried down to the winding room and unwrapped the blood-spattered handkerchief from about his fingers. They were badly chopped up—no doubt about it—with sprocket teeth marks across them. Set-faced, Terry bound them up with lint and bandaging after washing them under the cold water tap, then he went downstairs to find Mark Turner.
Turner was in his office, immaculate as usual in his ‘monkey suit’, but his face showed he was considerably shaken.
“What happened, sir?” Terry asked, and his strained voice sounded like genuine anxiety.
“Horrible business, Terry.” Turner pressed finger and thumb to his ayes and gave his head a little shake. “I’ve heard of such things happening in other theatres and cinemas, but that it should have to happen here! That poor girl....”
“I—I noticed a houselight underglobe had gone,” Terry said. “Then I saw Vera with her head wrapped up lying on the floor—”
“She lived for a few minutes,” Turner said, in a colourless voice, staring before him. “It’s the worst accident I’ve ever seen. I’ve sent Harry to advise her parents, and the police will be here soon. The coroner will be advised, of course. The police will want to examine the lamp when the show’s over.”
Terry nodded slowly. This was no more than he had expected.
“I’ll have to ring my solicitor and find out if I’m liable,” Turner added. “Or it may come under her union. Soon find out. And you and Sid must stay after the show. You two are responsible for the houselights—cleaning them and so on. The police will want to ask you a question or two.”
“Yes, of course,” Terry agreed. “Frankly, sir, I just don’t understand it. Seems no reason why a globe should fall like that.”
Turner shrugged. “Just one of those things, I suppose. I understand it caught Miss Holdsworth at an angle, with such force that the glass splintered. She was terribly hurt.... That’s all for now, Terry. Try and keep your mind on the show— What’s happened to your hand?” Turner broke off, staring at it.
“This?” Terry looked at his bandaged fingers. “Oh, nothing. The Travelogue film broke, as you know. I was using too many fingers in trying to save it and I got mixed up with the gears.”
“Serious?” Turner questioned, having the feeling that fresh liabilities were piling up.
“No, sir; it’ll be all right. This must be one of those nights. It isn’t the first time I’ve done it, anyway.” Terry lowered his hand and shook his head gloomily. “I just can’t get over this awful business. Come to think of it, had it been a minute or two sooner Helen might have got it.”
Vague surprise kindled in Turner’s ayes. “Helen Prescott, you mean? Mmm—yes. She relieved Vera for a moment or two while Vera came down here for a new torch battery.”
So that had been it! Nothing more than that.
“How did you notice?” Turner asked.
“About Helen?” Terry hesitated briefly and then gave a shrug. “I didn’t: it was Sid. He’s crazy about Vera, you know—or I should say was. He soon noticed that she’d gone from the tip-up. I think her sitting down there sort of gave him moral support, or something.”
Turner nodded absently and then turned back to his desk. Terry went out silently and closed the door.... And by the time he returned upstairs he had got completely over his jitters. Vera was dead! There was no longer a witness who could prove he was a thief, and certainly there was no clue to show he was a murderer as well. The police wouldn’t find a thing to pin on him.
Entering the winding-room, he made sure that Billy had duly stripped off the Travelogue film and that it was safely in its transit case. Naturally, Billy would have repaired the break that had been made. At midnight the transport man would come and take the film away with the rest of the finished programme. Then the renters would write and complain of damage. Terry knew to the last detail just how things would work out.
He went up into the projection room and for the rest of the show had his time fully occupied in dealing with Sid. For Sid, to the strain of thinking that he might at any moment be arrested for a theft he had not committed, there was now added the crushing blow of bereavement. He had really been fond of Vera; there was
no doubt about that now.
First he raved, then he wept—but he kept at his job through a sheer dogged sense of duty. Young Billy got the facts in bits and pieces, and the knowledge that Vera had been killed left him round-eyed and quiet—for a time. Then towards the end of the evening he was whistling again, a sure sign that he had absorbed the shock and cast it on one side as of no consequence.
As instructed, Terry and Sid stayed behind after the show. They hung about the foyer long after the rest of the staff had gone, whilst the police—under the direction of Superintendent Standish once again—had the offending houselight lowered and examined. During this task Turner was upstairs in the Circle, too, then at length he, the Superintendent, and a detective-sergeant, came down into the foyer.
Terry was perfectly calm. Sid was the more worked up. He had not Terry’s frigid mastery of his emotions.
“Evening, chief,” the superintendent said. “I don’t have to tell you what happened, I just want a few particulars for the inquest.... The houselights are your responsibility, I understand?”
“That’s right,” Terry agreed—and thus began a routine of questions, which he answered truthfully, with verification from Sid when necessary.
“Thanks very much,” the Super said finally, and turned to the manager. “We’ll leave the houselight where it is for tonight, lowered to the floor of the Circle. First thing tomorrow I’ll have experts over from Farnington to give their opinion. I’m not an expert—just a police official. You’re open Sundays, aren’t you?”
“Morning and evening,” Turner answered. “No matinee. We’ll be here as usual in the morning.”
“Good. You’ve advised the girl’s parents?”
“Yes, and informed her union secretary. The liability is theirs, not mine.”
In a few moments the Super and detective-sergeant took their departure. Terry watched the foyer doors close on them, and then he glanced at Turner. “How do you suppose I’ll get on, sir?” he asked. “Do you think the police can prove negligence on my part, or Sid’s?”
Pattern of Murder Page 9
