Pattern of Murder

by John Russell Fearn

  “Are you going to call the police?” Dixon asked. “I’ll tell them what I’ve told you if you like.”

  “I prefer to think the business over first, Cliff,” Turner answered, catching a look from Sid. “You’ve been a mighty big help to us, and I’m very much obliged.”

  “You’re welcome.” Dixon gave a shrug, then shook his head.

  “I would never thought such a thing of Terry. Only goes to show—you can’t trust anybody. Well, that being all I’d better be on my way. I’ll get my bag from the Circle.”

  “I’ll see you out and lock the doors,” Turner said, and followed behind the engineer as he left the winding room.

  In five minutes Turner was back. He found Sid steadily winding up the film, his face grimly set.

  “Well, Sid, what’s next? Nothing for it but the police, is there? I think I ought to call them and let them see the evidence we’ve accumulated.”

  “And suppose, legally, there isn’t a way to prove that Terry is behind everything?” Sid questioned. “I’m a projectionist, too, and I rethreaded the film which brought down the globe. I might even get into a spot myself.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!” Turner protested.

  Sid finished winding up the film and tucked the leader end into the spool. “I’m a cautious bloke, sir. I’d feel a whole lot safer if Terry confessed, before witnesses. Then there wouldn’t be any doubt as to the guilty party. The material evidence could be added afterwards.”

  “Well, I—”

  “A few hours can’t make much difference now,” Sid insisted. “I want to feel secure. The law’s a funny thing.”

  “How,” Turner asked, “do you propose to make Terry confess?”

  “There are ways and means. Criminals are always cowards at heart. I’ll break him down, if you’ll leave it to me to handle. I’ve a special stake in this, remember— Vera was the girl I loved, and the one I intended to marry.”

  After a moment of thought Turner made up his mind.

  “Very well, but you’ve got to act fast. Now all these facts are in hand I want action. The longer I delay the more the police will wonder why when they’re called in.”

  “I’ll have action before the show ends tomorrow night,” Sid promised. “Or rather tonight: I’d forgotten it’s early morning.” He handed the reel of film over. “You’d better take this, sir. It’ll be wanted for examination by the police.”

  Turner took it. “I’ll take it home with me. I don’t trust that safe of mine anymore.”

  “I’ll start cleaning up,” Sid decided, going out of the winding room. “There’s glass and stuff to be cleared away and the houselights to be fixed up—old houselight to be taken down.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RETRIBUTION

  Terry arrived at the cinema the following morning with the conviction that there was something wrong somewhere. It was not that there was anything tangible to make him suspicious: it was an abstract thing, though how much of it was due to his own conscience and how much to the power of thought ranged against him he could not decide. He was brooding over it, ascending the stairs to the Circle, when a girl’s voice gave him pause.

  “And what’s the matter with you, sourpuss?”

  Terry came back to the world of reality. It was Kathleen Gatty who had spoken. She was sharp-nosed, keen eyed, and the kind of girl Terry did not particularly like.

  “Nothing’s the matter with me,” he retorted. “Satisfied?”

  “Just thought you looked as though you needed a liver pill,” Kathleen said, getting busy again with her duster.

  Terry weighed her up. She was attractive enough, in a way. He had lost two girls and had made up his mind that no girl is really worth bothering about—but primitive urge is not stifled that easily.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Kathleen asked, looking up in surprise. “Am I coming apart somewhere, or what?”

  “I was just thinking.... We haven’t seen much of each other in the time you’ve been here.”

  “So what?”

  Terry reflected, a memory crossing his mind. It would help to make conversation, anyway.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Kath. What did you mean by telling Sid that our hall speakers had resonance? A few days ago.”

  “Someday I’ll perhaps understand what you’re talking about,” Kathleen responded. “Matter of fact I hardly ever see Sid—more’s the pity.”

  Terry’s expression changed. “You mean you didn’t say anything to him about the speakers?”

  “Why on earth should I? No business of mine, is it? I’m an usherette, not an operator.... And as for us not seeing much of each other—you and I, I mean—I’m not shedding any tears.”

  “Oh! You’re not!”

  “If I’ve any boy friend at all it’s Sid.”

  Terry hesitated, then without another word he turned and continued his journey up the stairs. He entered the winding room to find Billy leaning on the bench. The fact that Billy was thinking hard about something made him look vacant: to Terry it appeared just as though Billy were standing there waiting for him.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Terry blazed at him. “What’s the idea of staring at me like that?”

  “Eh?” Billy straightened up. “Sorry, Terry, I was just thinking. What’s the matter? Not feeling so good?”

  Terry tugged off his jacket and hung it up. “Women make me sick!” he declared. “I never want to look at another woman as long as I live!”

  “Get the brush off?” Billy asked; then without waiting for an answer he added, “I know just how you feel. My girl friend’s given me the air too. I wanted to kiss her last night and she socked me one! Now it’s all over. I’ve decided to become a lifelong bachelor.”

  Terry said nothing. He had not even heard. He was standing gazing morosely at the concrete floor, hands dug in his trousers pockets.

  “Who walked out on you this time?” Billy inquired curiously. “It couldn’t have been Vera for obvious reasons.”

  “Keep Vera’s name out of it!” Terry snapped. “Understand? Damn well shut up about Vera!”

  “Okay,” Billy muttered, half frightened and half puzzled. “No need to get sore at me.”

  He turned his back and began to rewind the last reel from the performance the previous night. Terry watched him for a moment or two, then he went up the steps into the projection room. He expected to find Sid there, tidying up, but there was no sign of him. Even the fireproof shutters across the portholes had not been raised.

  Scowling, Terry opened the spring door and shouted down:

  “Hey! Where’s Sid this morning?”

  “Dunno, Terry. Ain’t come yet. Mebbe he’s scared that I’ll beat him up when he comes. He gave me a trouncing yesterday.”

  Terry let the spring door slam back into place. Unusual for Sid to be late. In fact he had never been behind time before. As for being ill, that was an impossible thought as far as the husky Sid was concerned. Terry looked at his watch. It was 9:30. So far, Sid was half an hour late.

  “So Kath didn’t mention anything about resonance, eh?” Terry muttered to himself, his face grim. “Sid invented that as an excuse so he could go back stage. I just wonder why....”

  He put up the fireproof shutters and opened the door that led on to the fire escape. The electric-lit gloom was lightened somewhat but not entirely dissipated by the slanting morning sunshine. The stray lingering odour of carbon fumes vanished before the fresh stirring of the air.

  “Have to do his work for him, I suppose,” Terry told himself. “Wonder what game he’s got on?”

  He turned to No. 2 machine and dusted it, then he looked inside the lamphouse. The carbons were in place in readiness for the matinee. It was a rule he insisted upon: the carboning-up should be done the night before to save time. With a small scoop and brush he cleaned out the carbon crumbs and then moved on to Machine No. 1, the projector he usually ran himself.

  He still had that
odd conviction that something was wrong somewhere. It was made all the more potent by the fact that Sid was not here to time. Where was the man? What was he up to? Why hadn’t he came—

  Terry’s thoughts came to a dead stop. He had raised the heavy asbestos-lined side of the lamphouse of his machine to clean out the bits as he had with the twin projector. He stared at the carbons. Contrary to his ruling, no carboning-up had been done. The positive and negative jaws were tight together with two burned-out stubs of electrode half an inch apart.

  “Some use giving orders,” he sighed, then he strode to the swing door, dragged it open, and bawled for Billy. That youth, already somewhat jittery, came hurrying to obey.

  “What’s the use of my giving orders if you’re going to ignore them?” Terry demanded. “Look at that arc!”

  Billy looked. Terry came over to him.

  “I’ve told you time and again, Billy, that you should carbon-up the night before. You’ve done the other machine, but not this one. Sliding out of your work because it happened to be my day off yesterday, eh?”

  “Course I didn’t.” Billy defiantly pushed out his lips. “I carboned-up this arc last night when the show was over, same as I always do. I put two new carbons in, too!”

  “Looks like it, doesn’t it?” Terry asked sourly. “Burned down to the limit, just as they must have been when the show finished last night.”

  “Honest, Terry, I did carbon-up.”

  Terry looked at the youth intently, a frown gathering.

  “That’s the honest truth, Billy?”

  “Cross my heart! I’ve never forgotten yet. I do my job properly, and you know it.” Billy looked again at the carbons and then scratched his head. “I just don’t understand this one bit. It looks as though the arc has been used since I left it last night—but I don’t see how that could be. Sid isn’t here, so he couldn’t have the machine this morning for anything—and I’m darned sure I haven’t. What’ll I do? Re-carbon it?”

  “Never mind. I’ll do it. Get back to your winding.”

  “I’ll do it if you like. It’s my job.”

  “Get back to your winding!” Terry shouted.

  Billy stared and then went. He was a deeply puzzled youth by the time he got back to the winding room. He did not even whistle.

  In the projection room, Terry remained quite still for several moments, staring at the carbon stubs; then he fitted new carbons and swept up the bits. He threw the stubs in the waste bin and stood pondering. He had no doubts whatever that Billy had spoken the truth. There was no reason why he should not have carboned-up as usual, for he was an industrious worker and loved his job.

  Yes, he had spoken the truth—but the machine had been used afterwards, and nobody but Sid could be responsible for that.

  Why had it been used?

  Terry looked up sharply at the sound of heavy feet coming up the iron steps of the fire escape. With an effort he tried to cast the look of bitter suspicion from his face. A shadow fell across the polished stone floor of the projection room and Sid’s big, ungainly figure came into view. He was in old flannel trousers and an open-necked shirt, his sandy hair sprouting untidily as usual. He was not even shaved.

  “All right, slang me,” he invited, seeing Terry looking at him. “For some reason or other I overslept. Can’t remember when I did that. Sorry. I’ll soon catch up.”

  “There’s nothing on which to catch up. I’ve done your work for you, including the arcs.”

  Sid shrugged. “Okay—thanks. Then I’d better get down to the winding room and see about spooling up the programme for tomorrow morning’s rehearsal.”

  Terry stared at him. The remark about the arcs had evidently not made the least impression. In truth it had not. The fact that he had left the burned-down stubs of carbon in the jaws had not even occurred to Sid. It being out of his usual routine he had never given it a thought.

  Leaving the projection room he went down below to commence his ordinary work. Terry reflected for a while, then he too went below. He glanced in the winding room—saw Sid and Billy both at their jobs and slanging each other—then he continued his journey into the Circle.

  The doorman was there, examining seats, and so were two of the cleaning women with their buckets and mops. Terry nodded to them but said nothing. With apparent casualness he went to the back of the Circle and sat down. From here he could not be seen from the portholes of the projection room, being below the line of vision.

  Taking out a cigarette he lighted it and then gazed around him. For some reason a show had been run after the normal performance on the previous night—or at any rate a film had. His only hope lay in finding a clue somewhere as to what had been happening.

  The florid face of one of the cleaning women looked across at him.

  “Wish I ’ad your job, Terry m’lad! Nothin’ to do but sit on your backside and smoke! Money for old rope. What are you supposed to be doin’? Waitin’ for a rehearsal?”

  “Get on with your job, Clara, and I’ll get on with mine,” Terry answered shortly.

  “’Ark at ’im!” exclaimed the doorman, staring. “Getting’ real ’igh brow, ain’t he?”

  Terry gave a glance of contempt and then resumed his seemingly idle survey of the Circle. He looked up at the new houselights.

  Nothing wrong there: they were just as they had been—the vellum shades and the 300-watt lamps, screwed into the sockets. He lowered his gaze to the floor. He dared not look too closely for fear of attracting attention. As far as he could tell there was nothing lying about which might help him to understand why Machine No. 1 had been run after the performance.

  If it had been run. His mind strayed for a moment to Mark Turner; then he remembered that the boss hardly knew the difference between a spool and a lens. No, if anybody had run that machine it had been Sid.... Sid.

  Troubled by his inability to discover anything to confirm his suspicions, Terry got to his feet at last and stood thinking what he could do next. He raised his eyes as Kathleen Gatty came into the Circle and looked about her.

  “Anybody here seen Harry?” she called.

  “’ere,” the doorman growled, rising from behind a seat. “What d’you want, lass?”

  “I’ve two buckets of rubbish to empty—cigarette ends, ice cream cartons, papers, and such. I want to know which dustbin they go in. I’m new to this part of my job, remember. There are two bins outside—one with glass in and one with clinkers. Which is it?”

  “Not the one with the clinkers in: that’s the cellar bin. And don’t keep bothering me. I’m busy.”

  Kathleen went off actively and Terry frowned. Glass? He knew which two bins had been referred to, and Kathleen was not the first usherette transferred to new cleaning duties who and asked which bin to use. Glass? Queer for there to be glass. Lemonade had not been served recently: only ice cream cartons.

  Terry left the Circle and strolled downstairs. He went into the stalls, apparently on a technical mission, and spent some time examining the extinguished safety lights on the side walls as though to be certain they were in order. He waited until Kathleen came in again from the yard at the back of the cinema. When he was satisfied that she was once more at work cleaning the foyer he slid out by an emergency door and hurried over to the waste bins.

  He ignored the bin containing clinkers and lifted the lid off its neighbour. He gazed down on a mass of glass fragments, most of them thin and curved. He picked up a piece and examined it.

  It was not tumbler glass: it was much too fine.

  With an increasing urgency he raked amongst the debris with the end of a pencil and then selected one large javelin with a distinct bow shape. He read the clearly visible wording on the glass—

  200 Volt. 300-watt. Triple Coiled.

  “From a houselight bulb,” he breathed, staring in front of him and letting the glass drop from his fingers. “One of the new bulbs we put up recently. And all this glass too! Must have been more than one bulb gone west.”

&
nbsp; Instinctively he snatched at the implications. His machine had been run after the performance. Sid had arrived late due to oversleeping, evidently because he had worked on into the night—and now these shattered remains of bulbs! With savage urgency Terry searched further, and before long, lower down in the general rubbish of cartons and papers, he came to the remains of the bulbs themselves—two of them, their filaments twisted and broken but the brass screwcaps still new.

  “He knows....” Terry put the lid slowly back on the dustbin. “If he does he can’t have told anybody else yet or I’d probably have been arrested by this time. He must have got hold of the film somehow, or duplicated the effect, and proved for himself what I did. If I run for it I’ll stand convicted. On the other hand, if I can find a way to take care of him before he starts to shoot off his big mouth....”

  He re-entered the cinema slowly, musing. Sid was a grim danger. He had always been the trouble spot. Perhaps he had a lot more investigating to do before he accumulated the final evidence. Before that happened he had got to be taken care of...completely.

  Terry returned upstairs and glanced in the winding room. Sid and Billy were both busy preparing the programme for the following day.... With apparent unconcern Terry took the film book from the shelf, made his usual entries, and then lounged up to the projection room.

  There ought to be some way to deal with Sid. Some kind of accident, electrical perhaps. He no longer cared if it meant another murder. If he did not act quickly he was finished.

  Electrical? Hardly. Sid was an expert and he would not be likely to fall for any electrical trick that might wipe him out. He was always wary.

  “Must be some way,” Terry insisted to himself.

  He wandered out on to the fire escape and stood gazing over the yards below. The morning sunlight was brilliant, the wind fresh. He walked down the four steps to the main grid where the fire escape took a sharp turn. He stood pondering.

  “Don’t do much work, do you?” called a voice from below.

  He glanced down. Kathleen Gatty was down there, foreshortened by the hundred-and-fifty-foot drop. She was busily cleaning the brass bars of the side emergency door. Terry did not answer her. His expression changed slowly and a gleam came into his eyes.