Pattern of Murder

by John Russell Fearn

  “It’s a chance,” he whispered finally. “We never use this escape after dark. People might suspect, but they’d never be able to prove. If it doesn’t kill him it’ll lay him out and anything he says won’t be worth considering as evidence....”

  * * * * * * *

  Throughout the remainder of the morning, and all through the afternoon, there was nothing in Sid’s manner to suggest that he was waiting for a moment to strike. He talked and grinned and ragged young Billy. He behaved indeed in such a normal way that once or twice Terry found himself wondering if he had not been wrong in his judgment, if there were not some other explanation for the burned carbons and broken glass.

  “Stop lulling yourself into false security,” he told himself, when the matinee was over. “Act first—and be sure!”

  After tea, Sid was back first, and Billy a moment or two after him. The youth had the expression of one forced to work with lunatics.

  “Y’know something?” he asked, hanging up his jacket.

  “What?” Sid rolled up his shirtsleeves to display powerful forearms.

  “I think Terry’s going off it!”

  Sid grinned. “Taken you a long time to arrive at that conclusion, hasn’t it?”

  “Honest, apeman, I’m not kidding. He’s behaved more queerly today than at any time before. Wonder if the work’s getting on his nerves, or something? For instance—this morning he played heck with me for not carboning up No. 1 machine last night when we’d finished, and I know I did! I’m darned sure you don’t love this place so much that you’d come back after hours and try out a show, so the only thing I can think of is that he put two old bits of carbon in the arc for himself so as to find an excuse to play old Harry with me.”

  Sid compressed his lips and swore softly to himself. Then he asked, “What did he do finally?”

  “Nothing. I thought he was going to flay me alive. Instead he told me to get back to my work and that he’d carbon up for himself. That was crazy enough, but this afternoon he came down here when you were running your machine and landed a real beauty.”

  Sid stared fixedly at the winding bench. So Terry had found out that the carbons had been used. He must know, or at least have formed an assumption—

  “Do you want to listen or not?” Billy demanded, and Sid gave a start.

  “Huh? Oh, sorry, kid.... You were saying?”

  “He gave me strict orders to lock this outer winding room door the moment it gets dark tonight—in case of burglars. I’m not to go outside on any account, and when I leave it’s to be by the front door. Can’t think why he needs to tell me that since it’s too dangerous to use the fire escape after dark in any case. I tell you straight—he’s barmy!”

  Sid gave a shrug. He was hardly interested in the youth’s vapourings. He took the first reel out of the bin and went up to the projection room to lace up.

  “Better be on my guard,” he told himself. “He may try and pull something, and one more murder won’t make any difference since he’s already a killer. I don’t doubt for a minute that he’d try to dispose of me if he has any suspicions....”

  He assumed a casual air ten minutes later when Terry came to do his share of the work, but throughout the evening he and Sid hardly spoke to each other.

  Outside, the late summer night began to draw in, even earlier than usual with the approach of rainclouds. In the intervals when he was not at his machine Terry lounged out on to the fire escape and smoked. The last reel of the feature picture was on Sid’s machine, which left Terry to lounge about as he chose. He spent a while outside and Sid assumed he was having a smoke—then he came back into the box again.

  It was night outside now, with wet, rising wind. Sid looked at his reel in the top spool box. Three quarters of it to go yet.

  “Sid!”

  Sid gave a start and looked round the end of the projector’s lamphouse. Terry was standing in the black oblong of open doorway, staring into the night.

  “You say something?” Sid asked.

  “Yes.” Terry turned and came back into the bright light. “Somebody is in the entry outside, calling you. Sounds like a girl’s voice.”

  “Calling me?” Sid looked mystified. “Can’t be!”

  “It sound to me like Kath Gatty. You’re a bit thick with her these days, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I dunno about that....” Sid frowned and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “You’d better look,” Terry said. “Perhaps it’s her early night and she’s got a message for you. Go on—I’ll take over your machine.”

  Sid shrugged and walked across to the doorway. He gripped the fire-escape rail and stared into the dark.

  “Ahoy there! Somebody call?”

  There was no answer. He half turned to descend the fire escape and shout again. Might be an answer from the lower position where his voice would carry better—then suddenly he caught a glimpse of Terry’s face as he stood in the projection room. He was not watching the running machine, nor was he looking through the porthole. He was gazing towards the projection room’s open outer door with a malignant, homicidal stare. It was so malevolent that it checked Sid in mid-action.... A premonition of danger crossed his mind, and passed.

  Slowly he came back into the projection room and Terry’s strange look relaxed. He appeared ghastly pale and his face glistened in the reflected blue-white glare of the arclight.

  “Nobody there,” Sid said simply. “You’re imagining things.”

  Terry shrugged. “I could have sworn.... I must have been mistaken.”

  Sid opened the top spool box of his machine. There was ten minutes running time left. He nodded to himself, passed close beside the amplifier rack, and then looked at Terry intently.

  Terry looked back, a startled light kindling in his eyes. He had never seen Sid’s face quite so mercilessly hard before.

  “Anything the matter?” Terry burst out abruptly.

  “Talking of mistakes,” Sid answered deliberately, “you made quite a few, didn’t you? When you murdered Vera with that falling houselight trick?”

  Terry, leaning against the wall, straightened up. The moment he had so long feared had come. Sid had worked out the business to the last detail and was ready for action. And what defence was there against him?

  “Vera? Murdered her?” Terry stumbled over his own words. “I never did anything of the sort!”

  “I know differently. The only thing to make it conclusive is your own admission of the fact. That I mean to get.”

  “Don’t be a damned idiot!” Terry snapped. “And have you forgotten that we’re running a show? Look to your machine—”

  “The machine’s all right.” Sid was dead calm. “The automatic feed’s on and there are ten minutes to run. In that ten minutes we’re going to be busy....” He swung, slammed the bolt across the spring door. Billy, therefore, could not now enter.

  Terry looked about him desperately.

  “Well?” Sid asked deliberately. “Do I get the truth?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Terry yelled. “Even if I had anything to confess to—which I haven’t—it wouldn’t do you any good without witnesses! But you’re too blasted dumb to realize that, I suppose?”

  Sid reached out his hand to the interphone as it buzzed sharply. He snapped over the switch that stopped the buzzing.

  “That—that may be the boss!” Terry gasped, beginning to sweat. “I’d better answer it—”

  “You’ll answer me! Never mind the boss!”

  “But—” Terry’s words were hurled down his throat as Sid’s right fist lashed up and slammed into his face. With dizzying impact Terry struck the wall and half fell down beside it. Sid yanked him up, hit him again, and yet again, finally sending him stumbling into the corner between the wall and the closed spring door.

  Terry crouched, watching his chance, his lip bleeding. His eyes followed the movement of Sid’s right hand. Sid snatched the pliers from the rack and then pulled open the door of the a
rc lamphouse. The blinding white light fell on Terry and he jerked his eyes away. Grim-faced, Sid switched off the arc and then turned the houselight dimmer up slightly so the audience outside was not in total darkness.

  The machine ran on, the monitor-speaker chattering.

  “What are you doing?” Terry screamed. “You’re killing the show, you madman!”

  He stopped, staring in horror. With the pliers Sid snapped off the red-hot positive carbon and swung it round. With his massive right arm he crushed Terry into the corner. With his left hand he lowered the glowing carbon towards him.

  “You’d better speak up!” Sid breathed, fury making his voice hardly audible. “So help me, I’ll burn every inch of hide off your rotten bones if you don’t—”

  “I didn’t do anything!” Terry screamed, and his scream broke in a shriek as the point of the searing carbon bit into his cheek.

  “Out with it!” Sid bellowed, and jabbed the carbon again—this time on Terry’s neck.

  The pain was too much—Sid’s strength too great. Terry writhed and squirmed desperately.

  “Not again!” he shouted desperately. “All right, I did it! I made the houselight come down—”

  “With a Travelogue film and vibration?”

  “Yes! Anyway, she deserved to die! She was rotten! She stole my money—”

  Sid flung the pliers away from him. The carbon clinked on the stone floor.

  “So that was how you got your wallet back?” he demanded. “And she caught you thieving, didn’t she? Didn’t she?”

  “Yes. I was—”

  A blow in the jaw hurled Terry across the projection room to the outer door. Sid hurried forward, his fists bunched, ready to follow up his advantage. He ignored a violent pounding on the spring door.

  Terry staggered up, dishevelled, blood streaming from his cut mouth.

  “What more do you want?” he shouted. “Leave me alone! We can’t argue out here— Not out here! Sid—”

  With the impact of a pile-driver Sid’s fist slammed up again. Terry spun round, clutched the fire escape rail dizzily, and then slipped backwards down the rain-greased steps. He gave a wild cry that abruptly stopped and then ended in a thud. Puzzled, Sid blundered down the iron four steps to drag Terry back—

  Abruptly the world vanished and Sid found himself swinging with one hand to an iron step, drizzle soaking into his face. Savagely he fought his way back, the horrifying truth biting into his mind. The two plates which formed the floor of the escape turning had been raised edgewise against the rail so there was no longer any floor! Then, somewhere down there...!

  “The devil!” Sid breathed, rubbing his grazed arms. “So that was why he said somebody was calling me. He thought I’d blunder down here and drop. And I would have too—but for that look on his face which stopped me. No wonder he didn’t want to fight out here! No wonder he told Billy to keep inside after dark...!”

  He seized the plates and lowered them back into place. He had just finished the task when the outer door of the winding room flew open. Light gushed into the night. Turner, Billy, and the doorman came into view.

  Turner clattered up the steps and gripped Sid’s arm.

  “Sid, are you all right? We couldn’t get in by the inner door of the box.”

  “I’m all right,” Sid acknowledged. “Terry’s down there in the entry somewhere. He—he made a dash for it, and jumped.”

  “Get down there, Harry—and quick!” Turner snapped to the doorman—and the doorman went, his torch waving.

  “Who did what?” Billy asked incredulously.

  “Shut up, kid,” Sid retorted. “Get back to the winding room. You’ll know everything before long.”

  Puzzled, Billy obeyed. Sid mounted the steps back to the projection room, went over to the amplifier bank and cut off the sound; then he turned to Turner.

  “What did you do?” Turner demanded. “Suddenly the sound went off and instead everybody heard you and Terry arguing—and then came his confession. What happened?”

  “We needed witnesses,” Sid said doggedly. “And we got ’em! Everybody in the theatre heard that confession. Without Terry noticing, I switched the button on the amplifier bank. It cut out the sound on the film and instead livened the mike. I did it deliberately. Terry didn’t know. The film sound was running, on the monitor as usual, and you can’t hear the hall speakers in here. When I cut off the projector arc I put up the houselights so as to prevent any panic in the audience.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have been more thorough. I couldn’t understand the set-up, and that was why I buzzed you.... And you say Terry jumped for it?”

  Sid gave a slow nod, then he and Turner glanced round as the doorman came in by the emergency doorway. His plum coloured uniform was soiled and muddy.

  “I want an ’and to get the body out of sight, sir,” he said, looking at Turner. “Before the audience comes out and finds it. It might happen at any moment if any of them girls open the side exits.”

  Sid swung to the microphone and switched it on again.

  “Keep your seats, ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned. “There has been a slight mix-up in the sound. We’ll run the last reel again and at the close of the performance the manager will explain from the stage. Thank you.”

  Sid switched off, pulled the film free of the projector, and then began to spin it back to the start.

  “I’ll give you a hand, Harry,” Turner said, looking at the doorman. “You said—the body?”

  “Yes, sir. ’E’s dead, sir.” The doorman licked his dry lips. “Looks to me like a broken neck....”

  Turner met Sid’s eyes. Then Sid snapped the gate of the projector and began to rearrange the arc carbons. Without another word Turner left the projection room and Sid could hear his feet and the doorman’s receding into distance down the steps of the fire escape.

  There was a pause. The film started up again and Sid put out the houselights. Then Billy was hammering on the spring door. He looked pale and scared as Sid opened it.

  “What happened?” he asked huskily. “Something—to Terry?”

  “Yes.” Sid was coldly deliberate. “He fell off the fire escape. Greasy steps in the rain. He always knew a thing like that might happen, which was why he warned you to keep off the escape after darkness.”

  “You—you mean he’s dead?” Billy’s eyes were round.

  “Yes, kid—he’s dead. Looks like you’ll have me for a chief from now on.... Now get back to your work. The show’s got to go on, remember.”

  The spring door closed again. Sid inspected his machine and then looked towards the long oblong of outer doorway, through which the rain was drifting....

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Worsley, England, in 1908, John Russell Fearn began his career as a fiction writer by writing science fiction novels for the then-leading American pulp magazine Amazing Stories. His first two novels, THE INTELLIGENCE GIGANTIC and LINERS OF TIME, had been serialized in the magazine in 1933 and 1935 respectively. Both these early classics were restored to print a few years ago by Wildside Press.

  After his debut in Amazing Stories, Fearn had continued to write magazine science fiction, but by 1937 the market had expanded—and changed. Amazing Stories had been overtaken by Astounding Stories as the leading sf magazine, and had been joined by Thrilling Wonder Stories. The magazine field was in a state of continuing flux.

  Fearn became a leading contributor to all three magazines, but had discovered that in order to continue to sell to constantly changing markets, he needed to be able to change his style, and to be versatile. With the encouragement of his American agent, Julius Schwartz, Fearn created several pseudonyms, which greatly facilitated his experimenting with different styles, and increased his sales chances.

  Then in July 1937, Fearn wrote to his friend Walter Gillings (editor of Britain’s first sf magazine Tales of Wonder, to which Fearn was also a contributor) to reveal that he was planning to switch from science fiction to the wider detect
ive story market:

  “I’m turning my scientific angles to account in the production of a scientific detective for England. A book, by the way. Be two years in the making, I expect. Chief guy is a scientist, and solves all kinds of things that puzzle Scotland Yard. I’m trying to get out of the rut of Frenchman, Chinamen and what-have-you with this yarn. Guy will be something like Nero Wolfe, only he drinks tea, not beer.”

  In 1938, Fearn successfully introduced detective and mystery elements into science fiction, writing under the pseudonym of ‘Thornton Ayre’. The new technique (which Fearn called ‘webwork’) involved connecting seemingly unrelated elements together to unravel a complex mystery. The method was already known in the detective field, the leading exponent being U.S. writer Harry Stephen Keeler.

  By 1939, Fearn was expressing to friends his liking for crime mysteries, in preference to sf writing, but commercial exigencies dictated that, as a full-time writer, he had to continue to concentrate on science fiction during the early years of the war.

  However, the American sf magazine market continued to expand, and so Fearn—as a full-time professional writer with a widowed mother to support—was obliged to continue writing mainly science fiction, with only occasional forays into detective and crime short stories for the American pulp magazine Thrilling Mystery Stories (the best of which are to be found in another Wildside title, LIQUID DEATH AND OTHER STORIES). Fearn’s proposed book for English publishers, featuring his tea-drinking scientist detective, remained unwritten.

  In November 1939, Fearn sent a letter to one of his regular correspondents, tyro-author (and cinema buff) William F. Temple, in which he referred to Amazing Stories editor Ray Palmer’s acceptance of his story, “The Man Who Saw Two Worlds.” Fearn wrote:

  “In this I introduce Brutus Lloyd, the first genuine criminologist who dabbles in scientific riddles, who is conceited, masterful and breezy. Palmer seems to like him immensely and requires more. I called him Alka Lloyd, but Palmer refused to be sold on it! The story is actually Wells’ “The Plattner Story” brought bang up to date, and Lloyd is based on Ernest Truex in the film Ambush (starring Lloyd Nolan).”