The Man Who Killed. Fraser Nixon

steamed with human exhalation. Neon reflected off the empty wet pavement. My boots filled with icewater, my bare head soaked. I’ll catch pneumonia and die, came the thought. A right on Metcalfe to the Dominion, which was closed. Damnation. All lights out, the dark window advertising a plate supper of pork knuckles for a quarter-dollar. I pounded on the door. A black figure came towards me. Through the pane I heard: “Closed.”

      He was the same barman I’d tipped the night before. In this world it proved impossible to have anything done without laying out the rhino. I held up a dollar bill. “A question.”

      The door unbolted and the barman looked up and down the street, then hustled me in. He was bald and stank of rum.

      “Is there a message for Sam, from Pete?” I asked.

      He nodded, went behind the bar, and handed over an envelope. It was the kind used for bank deposits. I tossed him the buck.

      “Way out back?”

      He pointed a wavering finger to the kitchen where I pushed my way through piles of dirty plates and empty bottles and opened a gummy door onto an alley filled with rubbish. Outside once more, I tore open the envelope to read: “Loew’s, last show tonight,” written in Jack’s hand.

      Walking in the direction of the theatre I felt elation. He was alive. He’d made it out somehow and was back to his old tricks. There was a chance this could play out. By the time I reached the cinema I was wet through. The marquee advertised The Trap with Lon Chaney, and I blanched. What was I walking into? There was no one at the entrance so I quietly slid into an empty lobby filled with the smell of burnt popcorn. It was eerie. No ticket-tearer or usher. From the atrium I could hear a piano playing. I climbed the stairs to the balcony for a better viewpoint. I’d seen the picture when it first came out. Not nearly as good as The Unholy Three.

      Through thick smoke the projector cast its light. A piano player laboured over suspense. There was quite a bit left to go, another reel or two. Two miners competed over rival claims, the scenario a pastiche out of Jack London or Robert Service. My mind wandered until a woman gasped as Chaney fought a wolf. The finale treated us to a tender moment with a baby and it all ended happily and for the best. With a flourish the house lights raised. Women fingered on gloves and the murmuring audience unclotted. There: down and to the left, two men in hats seated together, smoking. I gave a low Scout whistle. Jack turned around and pointed a finger at me, a cocked gun. With him this second, younger fellow. They came up through the thinning crowd and we met in the aisle.

      “This way,” said Jack.

      We took a short stairwell leading to the projection booth and Jack opened the door to what turned out to be a janitor’s cubby stuffed with torn publicity sheets, creased photographs of movie stars, ripped bunting.

      “Do you have a handkerchief?” Jack asked once we’d fought our way in.

      I shook my head.

      “Then take mine. I’ll employ another principle.”

      “What’s that?” asked the other man. He was a pretty blond, shorter than me.

      “The memorable distracting detail,” Jack said.

      The stranger began tying a cloth over his nose and mouth.

      “What’s the gag?” I asked.

      “Money,” Jack said. “You want some? Bob here does.”

      The third man nodded.

      “Bob, Mick. Mick, Bob.”

      I looked from Jack to this Bob and back again, reeling my Irish in, that hot surge of fury. Without a by-your-leave or a word of explanation, as though my sentiments or any possible objections were not even in consideration. But it was too late. I couldn’t lose face. I was worse than any Chinaman. Jack handed me the disguise, and I put it on.

      “What’d I tell you?” Jack said to Bob. “Mick’s our man.”

      “I still say it’s a two-man job,” brayed Bob.

      “Three’s safer. It’s my caper. Equal shares.”

      Bob gave me a dirty look. I was cutting into his portion. Already I didn’t like him much.

      “There’s the watchman, the manager, and a girl,” Jack said. “Three’s best.”

      “Third murderer,” I said.

      “No rough stuff if we can help it. You still have your cannon?”

      I opened my coat.

      “How much do you reckon?” I asked.

      “There’s a whole week’s receipts on a Sunday. Maybe more. We’ll see. You ready? I’m Pete, you’re Sam and Ed. Got the rope?”

      Bob took a big coil out from his coat and looped it over his shoulder. Jack checked his wristwatch.

      “Half-past ten.”

      He opened the door to near-blackness softened only by the red of an exit sign. I went cold with fear. This had the taste of desperation to it, that familiar flavour of fear. My hair steamed as we made our way down a steep flight. Ahead of us was an illumination, a door ajar. Jack eased it open, revealing a man in sleeve garters and a bowtie dipping a pen nib into a bottle of ink. Before him sat a ledger. Jack clucked his tongue and the man looked up.

      “What’s this?”

      Jack raised a finger to his lips.

      “Who are you, sir? This theatre’s closed.”

      Bob and I entered the office, guns in hands.

      “Good Lord. What is the meaning of this?”

      The man snatched off his pince-nez and began to stand. He had pluck, I’d give him that.

      “Do not test our resolve, sir. We are here to relieve you of your pecuniaries.”

      Jack parodied the manager’s Southern drawl creditably.

      “But sir, you cannot. I must insist you disengage!”

      “I will ask you to be so kind as to hold your tongue. We desire the contents of the safe,” Jack said. “Samuel, Edward, locate the watchman and the lady. Take care that the doors have been locked and search for any telephones, like so.” Jack picked up the Bakelite machine on the manager’s desk and ripped the cord from the wall, then dumped the disabled works on the floor. At this, the manager stood a moment, then sat again suddenly, pale, confused. Bob left the office and I followed.

      “I’ll check the lobby,” I said. “Try the back exit for the guard.”

      Bob slipped off, saying nothing. I headed down a passageway, my stomach sinking away, bowels frozen. The hall opened on the shadowy lobby, where an older woman in a cardigan fussed behind the candy counter. I walked to the doors and checked that they were locked from within. Turning my way, the woman went saucer-eyed. I caught my own reflection in a dark mirror, a menacing masked figure with a gun. I’d do whatever I said, for fear of worse.

      “Come with me, madam,” said I.

      Some of Jack’s mock gallantry had worn off on me. At present Bob was an unknown factor but seemed a cold, bloodthirsty, greedy little bastard. What we were engaged in was a felony. Should something go wrong, it would be the rope for us. Trust Jack, I reminded myself. Why? Because you always have, you fool.

      “Where’s the ’phone?” I growled.

      Nothing. She was frozen. Get her out of here. I grabbed at her elbow and steered her backstage towards the office. My captive moved jerkily, like an automaton. We ran into Bob, lashing a uniformed geezer’s hands to a ladder. He stuffed a wadded playbill into the watchman’s mouth. Quid ipsos custodes custodiet indeed. Pre-medical grounding in the Classics is a requisite. Some Latin, less Greek, like the Bard. Remembered peppering my Juvenal with accents, playing the Eton swot for the Pater. He watched, bearded and severe as Jehovah, never sparing the rod as I tripped