Pattern of Murder

by John Russell Fearn

  * * * * * * *

  Sid arrived at the cinema the following morning to find everything apparently normal. There was the stale smell of the morning after; the doorman cracking doubtful jokes; the usherettes with their dusters; and Billy as impudent as ever. In fact there seemed to be only one change in the humdrum procedure, and Sid discovered it in mid-morning when the need for some blank slides took him to Mark Turner’s office. He tried not to look surprised at finding Helen there, laboriously typing out letters with Turner seated at the other end of the roll-top desk.

  “Morning, Sid,” Turner greeted genially. “Something wanted?”

  “Er—yes.” Sid rubbed the back of his untidy head and glanced at Helen. “Just some blank slides, please.”

  Turner handed some over from a cubbyhole on his desk, and then he said,

  “Helen is my secretary, pro tem, Sid—and Kathleen Gatty will become head usherette. I’ll be getting some more usherettes soon, I hope.... Helen and I are going to be married. No reason why you shouldn’t know about it.”

  Sid’s big, plain face lighted in genuine pleasure. “You are? Well, that’s fine! I’m really glad, sir—and for you, Helen. Is it in order to shake hands and congratulate you both?”

  Turner laughed. “Of course!”

  Sid’s big red paw came forth and he shook hands vigorously. Then he caught a thoughtful glance from Turner.

  “Sid, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. What repairs did Terry make to the projector on those two nights he stayed behind?”

  The question caught Sid off balance, and as usual he betrayed the fact. He looked definitely uncomfortable.

  “It’s some little time ago now, sir. I hardly remember.”

  “You must try to. You see, I’m paying a bill for fifty-two pounds odd for a ruined Fitzpatrick film. I told Terry about it at the time and he said he thought he’d cured the fault on the machine that caused the trouble. The sound track was scratched from end to end.”

  “Was it?” Sid asked vaguely.

  “It was.” Turner looked at him steadily. “What I can’t understand is why Terry spent two nights—for what period of time I don’t know—making the machine right and then a fault turns up, which ruins the sound track and costs me fifty pounds! I’m asking you for your opinion because you’re a good technician. What could cause the track to be ruined in that way?”

  “As far as I can see, nothing,” Sid answered. “That is, I’d say that off hand. I’d have to look to make sure. I’ll do that if you like—but we haven’t been having any trouble lately.”

  “And there wasn’t any trouble before, either. All the upset seemed to be centred on that Travelogue film.”

  “I—I didn’t know there was anything wrong with it,” Sid said, reddening a little.

  “There was—a good deal.” Turner sat back in his chair. “I have been having a word with Cliff Dixon, the service engineer, this morning. My own lack of technical knowledge doesn’t signify when I have him to call on.”

  Sid was silent—and alarmed. Clifford Dixon, the service engineer, knew all there was to know about projectors and sound equipment, and a good deal more besides.

  “He tells me,” Turner continued, “that a film which sounded perfect in the hall could not become severely scratched afterwards—unless it were caused deliberately. He assures me that there is no fixture or sprocket on the machine which could ruin a film in the manner that Travelogue was ruined.”

  Sid looked at Helen, at the desk, and then rubbed his neck.

  “You know that Dixon is right, don’t you?” Turner asked.

  “Yes, sir—he’s right. But I didn’t have anything to do with damaging the film.”

  “I’m sure of that. Dixon says that a film could only have been ruined in that way by deliberately scratching it as it ran through the projector below the sound gate. You were not running that particular machine at the time, so obviously you had nothing to do with it.”

  “You mean, sir, that you think Terry ruined it? That it?”

  Turner did not answer the question. “Listen, Sid. Terry damaged his fingers pretty badly in snatching at that Travelogue, didn’t he? It looks to me as though he broke the film on purpose. I’d like to know exactly what did happen.”

  Sid thought for a moment, then: “To get the timing absolutely accurate, sir, he snatched at the film just after I had remarked that you, Helen, were seated on the tip-up instead of Vera, who usually was seated there.”

  “Then what happened?” Turner asked quietly.

  “Well, I— Terry’s hand was in such a mess I laced the film up for him and I was going to run it, but instead he elbowed me out of the way and said he’d do it himself.... Frankly, sir, I don’t quite see what you’re getting at.”

  “You wouldn’t prefer to be absolutely frank with me, Sid, would you?”

  “Frank? About what? Sid began to bluster. “I don’t know anything about that film! Honest I don’t! You’ve just admitted that fact yourself, and—”

  Sid stopped. Turner had picked up a letter from his desk. Without a word he handed it over. Sid read it, a frown creeping onto his forehead. It was from the Zenith Film Distributors and marked ‘Confidential.’

  Dear Mr. Turner,

  In confidence, your second projectionist, Mr. Sidney Elbridge, called here yesterday with a request to borrow the Fitzpatrick Travelogue recently damaged by one of your projectors. He said he wished to test it to find out the cause of the trouble. He also said that the defect was probably his responsibility, and on that account he would be glad if I would repress all information. Nevertheless, as manager, I think you should know the peculiar circumstances.

  Truly yours,

  Arthur Bennet

  “Oh, Lord!” Sid muttered, and handed the letter back.

  “You admit it, then?” Turner asked.

  “Yes, sir, I admit it. I have the film at home now—but I didn’t ruin it. And I had nothing to do with it. I only said that to Mr. Bennet because I couldn’t think of any other way to keep the business private.”

  Turner nodded. “All right, I believe you. But how did you know the film had been damaged? Since I never mentioned it I assume it was Terry who told you?”

  “No. That day when I came down here for a slide I saw the letter on your desk referring to the damage. I read it, hardly meaning to, while you were telephoning.”

  “Mmmm. And what do you want the film for, anyway? What do you hope to do about it?”

  The placid atmosphere was too much for Sid. Suddenly he brought his fist down on the desk vehemently.

  “Think what you like—fire me out on my ear if you want to—but I believe Vera Holdsworth was murdered! I believe it was Terry who murdered her, and I further believe that the Travelogue film was somehow responsible for it.” Sid stopped and rubbed the back of his thick neck. “Well, there it is. I’ve said it. When do I quit?”

  Turner got to his feet and gripped Sid’s powerful arm.

  “You don’t quit, Sid: you stay. You stay until you’ve got to the bottom of this business. I thought you’d tell me everything of your own volition, but I had to prompt you into it.... You believe Vera Holdsworth was murdered. All right, so do I! And so, too, does Helen.”

  Helen nodded slowly as Sid glanced in her direction. Then he looked back at the manager.

  “You do? But what evidence have you got, sir?”

  “None that will hold water. What about you?”

  “Lots of things!” Sid snapped. “I’ve worked mighty hard to scrape facts together. I got my first clue by a technical—”

  “That’s the point,” Turner interrupted. “You’re a good technician, Sid, and this murder—if murder it was—was technically brilliant. I can’t call in the police on flimsy evidence, therefore the whole onus relies on you. If you can solve how it was done, let me know. I thought, however, that you should know where I stand, and Helen too.”

  Sid was silent for a long time, then he looked at Turner
seriously.

  “Well, sir, I’ve got plans—and I want to work them out in my own way. I can so handle things that Terry will never suspect what I’m up to.”

  “Then, go to it,” Turner said promptly. “I don’t want to know what you’re doing, and I probably wouldn’t understand one half of it if you told me. Go right ahead.”

  “You mean I have your full support in everything?”

  “You have the support of both of us. You don’t think I’m going to put anything in the way of you proving murder, do you?”

  “I’ll go on to the bitter end,” Sid vowed. “Vera meant a great deal to me, and I don’t care how long I work or how complicated a job it is, just as long as I finally prove she was cold-bloodedly murdered....” Sid paused, reflected, then seemed to come to a decision. “I believe, sir, it was Terry who burgled this office—in spite of the fact that the case seems to have been dropped.”

  Turner smiled a little. “You’re right, Sid: Terry was the thief. Even the police know that, but there’s no proof.”

  “I’m glad to know that I was right,” Sid muttered. “What is more, I know why he burgled. It probably looked as though he did it to pay his bookie—but there was another reason. He was afraid, I think, that you might question him as to where he had obtained two hundred pounds to bet with. I can tell you where he got it, and about another hundred pounds as well. He’s been using plant equipment, intended for replacements, and converting it to use for sub-standard projectors, which he sells to amateurs for a good profit.”

  Turner’s expression changed. “He has, eh? Consistent theft, you mean?”

  “That’s about the size of it. Going back some three years.”

  “Is there enough evidence to make a charge against him?”

  “I don’t know enough about the law to say, sir—but he’d certainly have a hard time explaining where everything has gone if you decided to tackle him about it. Unless, of course, he has the stuff at home and could replace it; but I hardly think that is the case.... As far as I’m concerned I’m more interested in finding out by what method he brought the houselight down on Vera. What thieving he has done is trivial beside that.”

  “Yes, Sid, you’re right. If I were to charge him with theft he’d be wary of never saying a word that might convict him of murder. On the other hand, if we let him be and don’t show him that we think anything is wrong he might, in the presence of witnesses, say something to give himself away. As he did last night to Helen.”

  “He did?” Sid repeated.

  Turner related what had occurred. Sid stood thinking, a gleam in his eyes.

  “Couldn’t be anything more conclusive than that,” he said finally. “He did do it. The one thing now is to try and find out how.”

  “Exactly,” Turner agreed. “I’d thought of having a shot at it myself, which is why I tackled Cliff Dixon. Then, from some of the things Helen told me I realized that you might already be trying to do something about the business. Since you are, and are a trained technician, I’ll retire and see what happens.”

  “I’m stuck for motive, as a matter of fact,” Sid confessed. “I can’t think why Terry committed the crime. Eliminating every other angle I can only think that perhaps Vera caught him stealing and that she held it over his head. So he had to get rid of her. That would make the whole thing logical. She did come back to the cinema on the night of the burglary, because her parents told me as much...or at any rate her mother told me.”

  “If she did come back,” Helen said, “it would probably be for her cigarettes.”

  Sid and Turner looked at her in surprise.

  “How did you know?” Sid asked.

  “She told me to remind her to take her cigarettes out of her uniform pocket when the show was over. I forgot all about it. If she came back I’ll bet it was to get them. She smoked like a flue remember, and she had a passkey to the building, too.”

  “That satisfies me!” Sid said, clenching his fist. “At first, when I knew Vera had come back here, I got the impression that she had perhaps committed the theft herself, then it occurred to me she would never have told her parents she was coming back here if she intended robbing the place. Since she told you about the cigarettes as well, Helen, we can be pretty sure that she came back solely for that reason, and caught Terry on the job.”

  “I suppose,” Helen said thoughtfully, “there isn’t any way of tricking Terry into a confession? Or at least a statement?”

  Sid shook his head. “Not a chance! He’s too wary—but this I do know: once I have all the facts I’ll make him talk. Don’t worry about that.”

  “Then I think we can leave it at that,” Turner said quietly. “Go ahead, Sid, and do what you can. If you need any help at all I will—”

  “As a matter of fact, I do need help. I was going to slide into the building tomorrow night when the transport men come, since I’ve got no key—but if you can let me have a key I’ll return tonight and try my experiment.”

  “Experiment?”

  “An experiment with the Travelogue film. It’ll be highly technical, but maybe you’d like to watch me and see what I’m driving at?”

  “You bet I would!” Turner exclaimed. “Tonight all three of us will leave in the ordinary way, so the rest of the staff will not be in any way suspicious. We’ll have supper in town, then you and I, Sid, will come back here.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  DEMONSTRATION

  Now that he had Mark Turner and Helen on his side, and knew that as far as they were concerned secrecy was no longer necessary, Sid felt vastly relieved. He was even cheerful throughout the rest of the day and proved it by ragging young Billy unmercifully.

  That evening, Sid closed down in the ordinary way and left the cinema ahead of Helen and Turner, waiting for them outside. After about ten minutes, when the rest of the staff had departed, they joined him under the street lamps.

  “Everything prepared, Sid?” Turner questioned.

  “Yes, sir. Nobody knows a thing about the intended experiment, except you and Helen.”

  Turner nodded. “Let’s get along and have some supper. We may have a long night before us.”

  “I wish I could watch the experiment too,” Helen said regretfully. “But I suppose it would hardly do to land home about three in the morning and be unable to explain myself.”

  “Hardly,” Turner agreed. “But you’re going to have supper with us. On that I’m determined.”

  He carried his intention through and towards 11:15 he saw Helen to her home, stayed for a few moments, and then returned to the corner of the street where Sid was waiting for him.... Together they re-entered the cinema’s dark, warm expanse.

  “I have the feeling, sir,” Sid said, as they went up the black abyss of staircase, “that we’re dealing with something which is a problem in sound—ultrasonics, in fact. Which is just the sort of smart idea that Terry would think of. I got the notion first when I found a design in the dust on top of that still-frame I’m fixing in the Circle.”

  “Design in the dust?” Turner repeated, puzzled—then he gave himself up to listening as Sid explained in detail what he had discovered so far. By the time he had finished, he and Turner were together in the brightly lighted winding room, and Sid was stripping off his shirt. Turner watched him uncoil the film wrapped round and round his body over his singlet.

  “So we’re getting into ultrasonics, eh?” Turner mused. “And you’ve tested this film at home on your own apparatus and got designs in cocoa powder? Well, what does that prove?”

  “As I tell you, sir, I’m stumped,” Sid confessed. “I know the film causes the weird designs, but I don’t know why.... I’ve examined it, and I can’t find the reason. It isn’t the scratching itself: it’s something else. That’s why I want to see what happens—if anything—when I run it on the ordinary projector and sound apparatus.”

  He finished the job of spooling the film, put his shirt on again, and then led the way up the steps to the projecti
on room. To thread the film on to No. 1 machine was only the work of a moment. Turner lounged against the amplifier rack, watching interestedly. Very rarely did he come into this region of machines and electricity. He moved presently and stared through the portholes into the blank darkness of the hall.

  “So far, so good,” Sid announced. “Now I want some sand to put on top of the still case. We’ll want the cleaning light on too, so I’ll—”

  “I’ll fix it,” Turner said, and hurried off down the steps.

  He met Sid again in the Circle as Sid brought the ladder and propped it against the wall. A heavy sand-bucket in his hand Sid ascended the ladder and carefully covered the top of the still case with fine sand. Then he descended again and gave a nod.

  “If you’ll wait here, sir, I’ll come back and join you,” he said. “Then we’ll see what happens.”

  Turner lighted a cigarette and settled himself on the back row of the Circle, the wall of which was the outer wall of the projection room. He glanced about him thoughtfully. The amber satin curtains swept back from the screen and Fitzpatrick’s Travelogue came into view with its ‘Voice of the Globe’ title. Turner began to wince at the appalling noise that roared from the speakers, blotting out the normal overture music.

  Sid returned again, lighted a Turkish, and settled at Turner’s side.

  “I put the arc on, sir, so we can see it as well,” Sid explained. “I remember the approximate time when the globe fell. Picture of a bay, I think it was.”

  “The arc will be all right, I suppose? Won’t the carbons burn down?”

  “Automatic feed is on, sir. The light will be all right.”

  They both sat listening to the awful cacophony. Not a single word of the commentary was intelligible, and the amplified concussions smote up here with an almost physical force.