Pattern of Murder. John Russell Fearn

Trent grandiloquently called himself ‘the third projectionist’. To the staff and trade he was simply a re-wind boy. Just sixteen, he had untidy fair hair and the kind of blue eyes and delicate complexion that any girl would have been proud to possess.

      Moodily, Terry departed for the projection room overhead, and presently Sid arrived and began to get busy with the mop. Terry glanced at him, then gazed absently through the porthole of Machine No. 1 into the great, pale-lit void of the cinema.... No sense in keeping up the squabble, he told himself. He, Sid, and Billy were compelled to live their working lives on top of one another.

      “I’m sorry, Sid.” Terry turned finally and shrugged. “I’m just that way out this morning. You see, as far as Vera’s concerned, I thought she meant everything she said. I honestly got the shock of my life when I found she’s as good as engaged to you. You might have let me have some hint.”

      Sid relaxed. Normally good-natured, he took instant advantage of the break in the storm clouds.

      “I couldn’t do that, Terry. We’re not officially engaged. I haven’t the cash yet to buy a ring—but we certainly mean a lot to each other. You can’t blame me for demanding an explanation when she said you’d hit her across the face.”

      “No, I suppose not,” Terry admitted. “There’s something I can’t understand, though. What do you see in the girl?”

      “You saw enough in her to go out with her, didn’t you? In fact you’ve been out with her quite a lot of times. She told me so.”

      “Yes, but...,” Terry mused. “Funny thing, but I never really got to know her until yesterday. I’d always thought of her as a pretty decent girl, though on the lookout for number one just the same. Then yesterday I sort of saw her for the first time. What few virtues she has—and they are few—all seemed to vanish. It was quite a surprise to me.”

      “Vera,” Sid said doggedly, “is one of the best! The trouble is that she’s had a poor upbringing, and her home life is nothing to shout about. She’s all right if you understand her—as I do. I’ve made it my business to.”

      Terry was silent for a moment, and then he shrugged.

      “All right, let’s forget all about it. You can be sure I shan’t bother to go out with her again.... I know I’d better hop down to the boss’s office and see what’s doing. I’d almost forgotten for the moment that I’m his deputy.”

      The owner-manager’s office was at the base of the Circle staircase, marked by a shiny door inscribed Private. Terry pulled out the duplicate key that Turner had given him and turned it in the lock. In the office, bright morning sunlight streamed through a window barred on the outside. Burglaries had led the owner-manager to adopt this precaution.

      Terry sat down in the swivel chair and pondered. Two hundred pounds! The fracas with Sid had been as nothing compared to this major worry. Absently Terry’s eyes moved to the massive safe by the window. It was an old safe, combination locked, and perched on a brick foundation. Terry pushed a hand slowly through his unruly hair.

      “Come in,” he called, at a knock on the door.

      Madge Tansley, the head cashier, entered. In one hand she had a steel cash box, and under her arm was a booking plan on a square of boarding. She was tall, dark, and unemotional.

      “I want my booking-plan sheet for today,” she said.

      Terry eyed her and then went to the cupboard where the booking plans were kept. He handed her a new one.

      “I’ll put this cash box in the safe whilst I’m here” she added. “Must be about two hundred pounds in it. That last picture did extremely well.”

      “Glad to hear it.” Terry said. “Usually we take a beating these days, thanks to television.... However, I can’t open the safe. I don’t know the combination.”

      “But I do. Mr. Turner gave it to me before he went away.”

      Terry did not answer. The mention of £200 had stirred his mind into action again. He watched as Madge Tansley took a slip of paper from her pocket, and afterwards he watched every detail. Five right, six left, two right, seven left. The lock clicked.

      When Madge looked again Terry was examining a batch of stills for the next feature picture.

      “That’s that,” Madge Tansley said—and departed.

      Terry looked at the inscriptions in the light dust on top of the desk. He had traced them with his finger...5-R, 6-L 2-R, 7-L. He transferred the information to a slip of paper and put it in his pocket, then he wiped the dust with the sleeve of his coat.

      Two hundred pounds! Enough to pay off Naylor in one sweep. He could lay his hands on it right now—but that would never do. Too bald—too blatant, and no chance of getting away with it. Careful thought was needed. He sank down in the swivel chair and lighted a cigarette absently. He had been smoking it for a few moments before he realized it was a Turkish one that Sid had given him. Sid had a curious liking for them.

      Taking it out of his mouth, Terry made a wry face, stubbed the Turkish in the ashtray, then lighted one of his own brand. It occurred to him suddenly that to remain in the office when there was obviously nothing for him to do might look suspicious—so he left, locking the door.

      Harry, the doorman, came in from the stalls as Terry emerged.

      “Can I order some more Coke, Terry, or do I have to wait for the boss’s okay?”

      “Order it,” Terry answered briefly.

      He turned to the staircase. Helen Prescott was coming down it backwards, dusting the gilded balustrade supports as she came.

      Terry went slowly down the stairs until he was level with her.

      “Hallo, Helen,” he said quietly.

      She turned from her job of dusting to look at him. “Oh, hello, Terry. Anything I can do?”

      “Do? Not particularly. Why?”

      “Well, since you’re the deputy manager you can give orders.”

      “Oh, forget that! If there’s anything at all I do want, it is to explain something to you.”

      Helen inspected her duster and then raised her eyes. “It wouldn’t be about Vera, would it? You hitting her?”

      “You don’t have to put it that way,” Terry protested.

      “In that case,” Helen said, “why should you want to explain it all over again? You did that pretty effectively earlier on, didn’t you?”

      “That’s just the point; I did not. That wasn’t the whole story by a long shot, Helen. I want you in particular to know that the whole thing was a ghastly mistake. I found that Vera had been leading me up the garden and it made me see red. I’d hit her before I knew it.”

      “What about it?” Helen asked coolly. “Why justify yourself to me?”

      “Because.... Because I really am concerned as to what you think about me. You’ve known for months that I’m fond of you. I’ve tried in every possible way to show you as much—what bit of time we’ve had to see each other. Why can’t you break down and give me a bit of encouragement?”

      “I just don’t know,” Helen admitted frankly. “Can’t be because you’re repulsive. You’re not that.”

      “Then why don’t you give me a chance?” Terry insisted.

      “Mmm, maybe I will,” Helen reflected. “All right, I’ll wait for you after the show tonight.”

      “Do that!” Terry’s face brightened. “I’ll be a bit late because it’s film stripping night and the programme has to be put ready to go back. Always the same on Wednesday night with the half weekly change. Anyway, I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes behind.”

      “’Struth,