Pattern of Murder

by John Russell Fearn

  “I don’t see for a single moment how they can. I don’t know what made the globe fall, but the experts will no doubt soon find out. Certainly I don’t see how you two can be accused of anything.”

  “To be hoped not,” Sid muttered. “It’d be manslaughter.”

  “Nothing to worry over, I’m sure,” Turner said. “Well, goodnight boys, and thanks for staying.”

  “Oh, Mr. Turner....” Sid spoke as though he had suddenly come to a decision. “I’ve been meaning to ask you....”

  “Yes?” Turner waited.

  “About the burglary,” Sid went on impulsively. “How far have the police got? I keep having this horrible feeling that they suspect me, though I’m innocent, God knows. There’s no other way I can interpret their silence. I can’t stand the thought of that possibility on top of knowing that Vera’s dead. What has happened?”

  Turner shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t know. These things take a good deal of time, you know, particularly when there isn’t much to go on. The police told me they’re going to continue their inquiry, and I suppose that’s what they are doing. That’s all I know, I’m afraid.”

  Turner turned back into his office and Sid and Terry glanced at each other. Then without speaking they turned away.

  * * * * * * *

  For Terry the night was tortured by hideous nightmares. Time and again he saw that globe dropping in the dim reflection cast by the projector beam. The throbbing of his bandaged hand made him live over again that frantic moment when he had snatched at the film and broken it rather than have the globe fall on Helen Prescott.

  Why had he done that? He asked himself the question over and over. He wanted to love Helen, but how could he if Mark Turner had got there before him? He did love her. Deep down in his heart he knew he did, and that was the main reason why he had risked so much in stopping the show.

  For it had been a risk. As time went on, Sid, morose at the death of Vera, might get to thinking. He knew the Fitzpatrick Travelogue film was a good copy—not a joint in it anywhere. So why had it broken, as it apparently had? Terry realized he mast be ready for this problem when it arose.

  What else was there? Terry recapitulated silently to himself.

  Apparently he had taken care of everything. Nothing had been left undone, and he had cleared up all the remains of his tests. Glass shreds, dust sheets, tumbler— Hell, that tumbler! He had not put another one in the washroom; forgotten all about it. Well, no harm done. He could easily say it had got broken and that would not raise any question he couldn’t deal with.

  There was no turning back now. Whatever happened, he had got to lie himself out of every difficulty in which he found himself.

  The one person to be wary of was Sid. Plodding, technically brilliant, and bereft of all interest in living at the moment because of the death of the girl he had loved. If he ever got the vaguest hint there would be no stopping him. He would plough on like a juggernaut until he had every detail. And then....

  The following morning the two experts would arrive to examine the houselight. Terry resolved to keep out of their way as much as possible—which was exactly what he did—or almost. He had to go into the Circle as it happened, and sit through the rehearsal programme for Sunday and the ensuing three days. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that they examined the fitting thoroughly, and the glass pieces which Harry had put aside in a separate box. Then the two men went up into the false roof and stayed there for a considerable time. After which Terry saw no more of them.

  The matter did not cone up again until the following—Monday—morning when the inquest was held, and Terry and Sid—despite it being Sid’s normal day off—found themselves amongst the witnesses along with Turner and three members of the audience who had seen the globe fall.

  The more the Coroner had to say the more Terry realized how far away he was from being suspected. It was the evidence of one of the experts that satisfied him that he had conceived and executed a perfect crime.

  “...and, Mr. Gray,” the Coroner said, addressing the expert, “you are perfectly satisfied that every normal precaution was taken in regard to that particular houselight in question?”

  “Perfectly,” Gray agreed. “My colleague and I have formed the only possible theory. The metal of the lamp fixture must, of course, have contracted after the heat of the bulb. The screws holding the underglobe were never made very tight—to which fact the chief projectionist has testified—since the expansion of the glass underneath might cause the glass to crack and fall. I believe there was a draught blowing on the lamp fixture from one of the wall ventilators. It is possible that the cool stream of air caused the metal to contract slightly more than usual so that as it tightened up the glass lip of the globe was bitten into by the screws. Consequently the glass lip broke and came down.”

  “In other words,” the Coroner said, “the screws were a trifle too tight and the unhappy chance of cold air caused an extreme instead of a normal contraction?”

  “That I believe to be the case, sir. It is quite possible, as it has happened before in theatres and cinemas. Because of that chance most cinemas and theatres have done away with the screw-type globe and instead are using fixtures imbedded in the ceiling—or else concealed lighting, which is safest of all.”

  There seemed to be nothing more to be said. A verdict of “Death from Misadventure” was returned and Turner was advised to replace the clumsy old houselights with something less heavy and more modern, to which he promptly agreed. After that, beyond condolences to the relatives and friends of the deceased, the matter was done with....

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SID INVESTIGATES

  Terry felt as though tons of weight had been lifted from his mind. He had got away with the perfect burglary and the perfect murder. Only some slip on his part could ever bring the truth to light and he was firmly determined that no such slip should ever take place.

  He went back to the cinema and Sid accompanied him—not to work, for he intended using what remained of his day off, but to talk.

  When they returned to the cinema they found Turner had already arrived ahead of them in his car. He promptly called Terry into his office.

  “I don’t care what you spend, Terry,” he said, “but get new fixtures ordered and put them up the moment they arrive.”

  “I’ll see right away what we want, sir,” Terry promised. “Then I’ll let you have the order to sign and dispatch.”

  “Right— Oh, one minute. There’s one other thing. The staff is getting up a subscription for a wreath for Miss Holdsworth. The funeral will be on Wednesday. Naturally you’ll want to subscribe?”

  “Of course....” Terry fished out a handful of coins and put them on the desk. “All the change I have sir, I’m afraid.”

  “Entirely up to you. Send in Sid, will you?”

  Terry nodded and left the office. He waited until Sid came into view again after his brief discourse with Turner.

  “How much did you contribute to the wreath?” Sid asked gloomily.

  “Four shillings. All the change I’ve got.”

  “Four shillings! You don’t rate Vera’s wreath very highly, do you?”

  “Matter of fact, no,” Terry shrugged. “You know how I felt about her. No reason why I should start feeling affectionate towards her memory.”

  Sid did not say anything. He and Terry came to the halfway point of the Circle stairway. They turned in at their own private doorway.

  “I still don’t see how it happened,” Sid muttered, half to himself.

  “It was made plain enough at the inquest, wasn’t it? The experts explained exactly what took place.”

  “You mean they tried to explain. It didn’t sound at all convincing to me. They had to say something, so they said that.”

  At noon, Sid departed to take the rest of the day off—and Terry, to his surprise, found Helen waiting for him at the front of the building. It was quite unexpected, and he gave her a questioning look.

&nb
sp; “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she explained. “As we walk along I thought I could tell you about it.”

  “By all means,” Terry agreed, taking her arm.

  “You seem remarkably cheerful all of a sudden.” Helen gave him a quick glance. “I haven’t seen you in such a good humour for many a long day. What’s happened? And after the inquest, too!”

  Terry looked at her seriously. She gave a little sigh.

  “All right, it wasn’t funny,” she confessed. “Bad taste on my part.... Honest, though, I can’t work up any deep sorrow for Vera. I never liked her, as you know.”

  “That I’m cheerful has nothing to do with, her, or the inquest,” Terry said, then he corrected himself. “Well, maybe the inquest has something to do with it. The experts proved that Sid and I are quite guiltless in the matter, so naturally it’s a load off my mind.”

  Helen looked vaguely mystified. “What else did you expect, anyway? You surely didn’t think anybody did have anything to do with the accident, did you?”

  “No, but they might have found a way to prove negligence, and that might have meant manslaughter.... Oh, let’s forget it! What is it you’ve been thinking about?”

  “It concerns you and I. I’ve spent some time wondering, and maybe we could make something of our lives if we teamed up.”

  Terry’s eyes brightened, though his voice was hesitant.

  “Well, that’s fine! Something I’ve always dreamed about.... One thing you must try and do, though—change your day off to Tuesday, same as mine.”

  “I can try.” Helen sounded none too hopeful. “The only snag is that the boss knows it’s your day and he may refuse to let me have mine then for that very reason. It isn’t usual to give a rival every advantage, is it?”

  “Definitely not.” Terry gave a sigh. “Try, anyway.”

  “You bet I will. I’ll try with everything I’ve got!”

  Terry had arrived at the conclusion that this was his lucky day. The inquest had proved him innocent, and the girl he really loved was at last coming round to his way of thinking. As they talked and wandered along he mentally made plans to press home his advantage. Helen was young, pretty, and loyal. A girl of her type, after the Vera Holdsworth variety, might make all the difference to one’s outlook, Terry decided....

  The following day, Tuesday—Terry’s day off—Sid was automatically in charge of the projection department. He did not take it as an opportunity to be officious: in fact he would hardly have known how. Swank and authority were two traits that didn’t exist in his downright, earthy nature.

  When he arrived in the morning he gave a few orders to Billy, made sure everything was ready for the matinee, and then he went into the Circle to carry on with the task of erecting the still-frame on the Circle wall. He was still feeling the hurt of Vera’s death, but perhaps not quite so keenly. By very slow degrees it was dawning on him that life goes on just the same for other people even when one is removed.

  “Vera was somehow different, though,” he muttered, putting the ladder in place against the wall. “Not many other girls I’d trust. They fly off the handle for no reason at all—and one half of ’em don’t mean what they say. Whole world’s crazy,” he added, half aloud.

  “You can say that again!” observed the doorman, and he rose unexpectedly from behind a seat he was repairing.

  Sid lighted a Turkish cigarette and looked at him.

  “So that’s it? Sneaking up on me, eh?”

  Harry only grinned. He held up a small, curved sliver of glass, which caught the cleaning light from the ceiling.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” he asked sourly. “Nearly cut me blasted ’and on it. Lucky one of the patrons didn’t get it in ’im, or there’d ’ave been ’ell to pop.”

  Sid looked at it and frowned. “Where did it come from, anyway? Looks like part of a bulb, but I don’t see how it can be.”

  He came over and examined the fragment carefully. The doorman scratched his chin thoughtfully.

  “It ain’t part of a bulb, Sid,” he decided. “It’s part of a tumbler. Look, one edge is blunt. The part y’shove in yer mouth....”

  “Mmmm, so it is.” Sid’s eyes were faintly perplexed. “Any more bits lying about?”

  “I ’aven’t seen any—an’ I wouldn’t ’ave found this except for two reasons. Repairin’ this seat for one thing—and them lasses ’aven’t cleaned up as well as they should. Not as I blame ’em, mind you—rottin’ their young lives away in this dump—”

  “Dump my foot!” Sid objected. “They get good wages and the union looks after their hours. They might do a damned sight worse.”

  “All right, all right, don’t get excited. I ain’t a girl, and I ain’t young any more. I’ve got my own ideas about this place, I ’ave.”

  Muttering to himself, the doorman went along the row of seats with the glass sliver in his hand. Sid watched him go, trying to imagine how a piece of glass had ever got on the floor of the Circle in the first place.

  “Must be from lemonade refreshments,” he muttered at last. “Somebody bust a glass, picked the bits up, but missed that chunk. Quite possible....”

  It had been some time, though, since lemonade had been served, and even then it was it was usually in bottles with a straw. But there must have been a glass at some period, and the odd piece had been overlooked by the none-too-industrious girls.

  Sid gave up thinking about the business and mounted the ladder to the top of the still-case. Smoking vigorously, he felt in his pocket for the screwdriver—then in mid-action he paused. Utter perplexity settled on his face.

  “By all that’s weird!” he exclaimed.

  He could not quite understand what he saw. When he had left the still-case on the previous occasion he had placed two large, flat-headed screws on top of the case ready for the next operation this morning. Their heads had been resting on the polished wood, their points in the air. Beyond the slightest shadow of doubt Sid knew he had placed those screws at the right hand end of the case top. He was always methodical in such matters.

  Now they were at the left hand and—and widely separated.

  Nor, puzzling though it was, was this all. On the surface of the polished wood a good deal of light dust had settled, and in the midst of it lay a distinct trail, zigzagging, where the screws had made their journey from one end of the wood top to the other, until the quarter-inch beading had prevented them from falling off altogether. Finally—quite the most surprising thing Sid had ever seen—the dust was not so smooth as it ought to be. It was patterned, somehow. It even had a queer beauty of circles, whirligigs, and crescents, all perfectly formed. In places it banked up into tiny ridges, each ridge forming a remarkable design.

  “What the devil?” Sid asked himself, utterly perplexed. “How did this happen? Nobody could get up here without ladders—and even if they could they wouldn’t want to move the screws and shift the dust into fancy shapes. I’ll be hanged if anybody could draw designs as perfectly as these are drawn, outside of a professional artist.”

  And there were certainly no artists in the Cosy Cinema.

  For a long time Sid was stumped. The designs in the dust reminded him of something he had seen somewhere. A film it had been. Years ago. For the life of him he could not at the moment recall the connection.

  “Beyond me,” he growled at length, and with a shrug he went on with his job for a while, using the two screws to secure the frame more solidly to the plugs already driven in the wall. Nevertheless, as he worked, the problem bothered him. Yes, he had seen a design like this somewhere.

  When he had finished his work—and the puzzle in the dust intrigued him so much that he did his job mechanically and without any special interest—he returned to the winding room and sat down on a transit case to think. Billy gave him a curious glance.

  “What’s the matter, apeman? Belly ache?”

  Sid glared. “Of course not, you little twerp! And stop calling me ‘apeman’ or I’ll pin your ears back!
If you must know, I’m thinking.”

  Billy grinned and went on with his film winding. “Mind something doesn’t bust. You’re not used to it, remember.”

  Ordinarily, for this piece of impudence, Billy would have found himself dumped in the fire bucket—but this time nothing happened. And the fact profoundly susprised him. He stole a glance at Sid’s faraway expression, and wondered.

  “Look,” Sid said abruptly, ”I’m trying to remember something, and I don’t seem to be doing too well. I’ve seen a film somewhere that was all designs and whirligigs. I seem to think it had prehistoric monsters in it, too.”

  “Eh?” Billy gasped, staring. “What did you have for breakfast?”

  “I’m not kidding. Honest!” There was dogged earnestness in Sid’s face. “There was such a film. I saw it. In fact we ran it here when I was a rewind boy. It was an old film we were reviving.”

  Billy’s expression changed. He was proud of his cinematic knowledge.

  “How long ago?”

  “Oh, a long time. Maybe seven or eight years.”

  “I’d be about ten then.” Billy did not seem to think that this was any deterrent. He had been going to pictures ever since he could remember. “Prehistoric monsters?” he repeated. “How about ‘King Kong’?”

  “No. It wasn’t ‘King Kong’.”

  “Well, then, what about the ‘Lost World’? That had a whole flock of prehistoric monsters in it.”

  Sid shook his head. “It wasn’t the ‘Lost World’ either. And there were no whirligigs in those two pictures—the film I saw was in colour. I remember that much.”

  There was a long silence, then Billy’s eyes brightened.

  “I know! Would it be Walt Disney’s Fantasia? That was all colours, whirligigs, and monsters. Smashing film, even if I didn’t know what it was all about. I remember that I—”

  “That’s it!” Sid sat up, an alert look on his face. ‘Fantasia’! There were two reels all about an excursion into the film’s sound track. I remember it fascinated me. The sound track was invited to come out from the side of the film and talk to the audience.”