Pattern of Murder. John Russell Fearn

just started a journey. The responsibility for perfection of presentation lay with him.

      This evening his interest in his work kept wandering. He wanted the show over and done with, so that he could hurry on with his plan. Mechanically, he ran his machine and, without a hitch, the show finished at its scheduled time of 9:50.

      Terry did not waste a moment. He had Helen to meet, and then a job to do. He only stayed in the projection room long enough to make sure the fireproof shutters were down, then he hurried into the winding room. Whistling piercingly, Billy had flung the last film can into its transit case and Sid was scrambling into his dirty old mackintosh.

      “Okay?” Terry asked, putting on his suit jacket.

      “Except for the apeman,” Billy replied.

      Sid glared ferociously and then straddled a heavy transit case. He heaved it up on to his broad shoulder. All three went down the stone stairs one after the other and emerged into the wet, steamy humidity of the cinema proper.

      “See you tomorrow, Terry,” Sid called back, from lower down the staircase.

      “Fair enough, Sid. Good night.”

      Terry deliberately lagged behind. He saw Sid plant the transit case near the front door, take the news-can from Billy, and then check up the transport logbook and put it down on the larger case. This done, Billy departed, just missing a well-aimed kick at his rear. Sid hung about until Vera came hurrying down the staircase from the staff room.

      “What about tonight’s cash, Terry?” Madge Tansley called. “Shall I put it in the safe?”

      “Er—” Terry demurred, anxious to be on his way. “How much is there?”

      “About eighty-two pounds with advance bookings.”

      “Lock it in your cash desk for tonight. I’m in a hurry.”

      Madge nodded, did as ordered, and then departed.

      “So ends our day,” murmured Helen Prescott, coming into view drawing on her gloves. “Ready, Terry?”

      “Sure thing. Let’s go.”

      They crossed the foyer. Terry switched off the lights and then the main switch. He held the front doors open for the girl to pass. He locked them securely on the outside and he and Helen went down the steps into the cool dark of the summer night. There were still quite a few people strolling about.

      “Terry,” Helen said seriously, “I wouldn’t be playing fair if I didn’t warn you that this isn’t going to get us anywhere. You’d rather have me frank about it, wouldn’t you?

      Terry glanced at her. “I maintain that you can’t be frank about it when you’ve never even talked to me for above five minutes at a time. We’ve known each other for years, but for some reason you’ve always gone out of your way to turn the power off just when we’re getting warmed up. I don’t see any earthly reason why we can’t make a go of it.”

      “That’s one trouble with you, Terry: you see things too much from your own viewpoint. Don’t get sore at me for telling you, will you? I don’t know whether you do it intentionally or whether you’ve never realized it. I don’t think you do it with your own sex: certainly I’ve never heard the boys complain in that respect. But all the girls think you’re too possessive.”

      “And Vera Holdsworth in particular thinks so, I suppose?”

      “All of them! It never seems to occur to you that us girls might have notions of our own. For instance—you can’t see why you and I shouldn’t make a go of it. Doesn’t it occur to you that I might see why we can’t?”

      “Just can’t be a reason,” Terry said calmly. “I know all about you, and there’s no apparently logical reason for you turning me down.”

      Helen came a stop as they reached the end of the road in which her home stood. She looked at him seriously in the glow of the street lamp.

      “Honestly, Terry, you do take too much for granted. I’m glad to have had this chance to talk to you if only to try and show you that you’re a bighead. I like you, and I think you’re a good chap to work with, but because I believe in being honest about my emotions I’m telling you that we’ll not get anywhere together.”

      “I suppose,” Terry said slowly, “that this is a polite way of telling me that there’s another chap somewhere?”

      Helen hesitated. “Well, not necessarily.”

      “What about the boss? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you are his favourite usherette.”

      Helen laughed shortly. “You don’t ever give a girl a fair chance, do you? Flare up at the slightest provocation! I’m not surprised that Vera got swiped for something you didn’t quite like.... Anyway, thanks for seeing me home. See you tomorrow.”

      Terry tightened his lips, swung on his heel, and departed up the street. After a while he stopped under a lamp and checked his watch. He had half an hour to kill before he put his plan into action. By then it would be completely dark. He began walking back down the high street, thinking as he went....

      He continued wandering for thirty minutes and by this time had come back to the cinema again. A brief glance up and down the street satisfied him that it was deserted. Quickly he drew out his keys, opened the doors, and glided into the foyer. He locked the doors again behind him.

      With complete familiarity he walked swiftly through the dark, warm expanse until he reached the manager’s door. Here he again fumbled with his keys. By touch he selected the one he wanted. Next he tugged a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket—with which he normally did most of his electrical work—and snapped them on his hands.

      Opening the door gently he glided into the office and went over to the cupboard where the spare torches were kept. He found one and switched it on. Masking the glow with his hand he left the office and sped swiftly up the Circle staircase to a lavatory. With a strong thrust of his hand he pushed the double-sashed window outwards. The single clamp across both frames gave way at the screws, just as he had expected it would. The frame needed new timber, really.

      The job done, Terry tugged out his penknife and made scratches on the window frame, such as boots might make; then he returned downstairs again to the manager’s office. Propping up the torch and covering its glow with a sheet of pink blotting paper, he set to work on the oak door, deliberately chipping and scraping at the woodwork round the area of the lock. With his pocket screwdriver he loosened the screws on the lock clamp, closed the door, then hurled himself at it from the outside. The door smashed open, tearing the clamp half off in the process.

      “So far, so good,” Terry murmured, glancing at his watch.

      It was 11:15. He had to finish off as quickly as possible. Around midnight the transport men would arrive to take away the used films and deliver a new programme. As a rule they never went much beyond the front doors—they had a key to the building and were entirely trustworthy—but Terry did not intend to be anywhere in the building when they came, if he could help it.

      He almost closed the door and went over to the safe, pulling out the note he had made of the combination. His rubber-gloved fingers caressed the knob gently. 5-R, 6-L, 2-R, 7-L. And at last a click. He pulled the heavy door open and smiled at the cash box perched on the top shelf where Madge Tansley had placed it. It was locked, of course, but it would not be so for long once Terry got it to his rooms—

      A sound!

      Terry jerked up his head, his pulses racing. It was a key in the front door lock! The transport men must have come long before time. Well, nothing to worry about. They would never come this far into the building: they had no need to.

      Terry snapped out the torch and pushed the cash box into his jacket as best he could, working the lowest button into its hole. He got up, glided to the slightly open door, and listened.... Queer. No sound of transit cases being dumped on the floor. No sounds at all, in fact.

      Then