Читать книгу One Remained Seated: A Classic Crime Novel - John Russell Fearn - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

When Fred Allerton entered the winding-room at the top of the stone steps leading to the projection-room itself, he was still on edge. He came into the wide, stonewalled room filled with its electrical equipment and transit cases with the corners of his mouth dragged down.

He glanced about him to satisfy himself that the electricity rectifier for the arc lamps was working normally, and that the switch controlling the big fan in the auditorium ceiling was in the ‘On’ position. Then he looked to the far end of the room where, under a bright lamp, Dick Alcot was winding film from spool to spool with the tired air habitual to him.

“Everything okay, Dick?” Allerton asked; then he frowned as he looked at the workbench. “Say, where’s that old house telephone I had lying about here? Seen it?”

“Not for some time....” Dick Alcot turned and clamped lean hands down on each of the spools to stop them rotating. The film tightened between them and lay like a band of glass under the light.

“Funny,” Allerton mused. “Maybe I put it in the cupboard or somewhere....”

Alcot wiped his hands on a rag and then lounged forward. He was a fellow of average height, twenty years old, prided himself that he was devoid of emotion, and admitted his regret that he had married at nineteen. In appearance he was nondescript, with lank black hair which insisted on dropping a forelock over his left ear, rather prominent grey eyes, and a face deathly pale either from constant indoor work or incipient anaemia. As the second projectionist most of the work fell on him, but believing it was a sign of a weak mind to show annoyance, he never complained. Anyway, he and Fred Allerton were the best of friends.

“You don’t look too happy, Fred,” he commented. “That telephone will be knocking around somewhere....”

“’Tisn’t that,” Fred interrupted. “I’m afraid of some trouble that may bring in the police....”

“Hell! The police? Why? I thought our fire regulations had been approved.”

“Not that,” Allerton growled. “Something else.”

Without explaining further, he left the winding-room and slowly mounted the four stone steps into the projection-room itself. As usual it was gleaming cheerily, the concrete floor stained deep red and highly polished. It had a friendliness all its own. Valves glowed brightly on the sound-reproducing equipment, meter needles quivered on their graded scales. On the wall were two notices—one ordering NO SMOKING, and the other exhorting operators to save their carbon stub-sheathing for salvage.

Allerton looked about him absently, mechanically checked the silent projectors already threaded for the evening performance; then he walked the five-yard distance to the separate steel-lined enclosure where lay the record cabinets, slide-lantern, and floodlight controls.

In here sat Peter Canfield, his fingers playing over a small switchboard. At each movement the lights on the curtains in the auditorium changed colour. Peter Canfield had done this job for a year now, and being a youth of sixteen without any real ambition whatever, would probably go on doing it until the crack of doom.... Big for his age, his fresh-complexioned face covered in adolescent spots, he sat now controlling the floods with one hand and the reproduction equipment with the other. As the record of Sousa’s Il Capitan came to an end, he swung round the tuner to the twin turntable and faded in to the Blue Danube when he caught sight of Allerton looking at him.

“Hello, chief,” he said briefly.

Allerton nodded but did not speak. He was looking beyond Peter into the Circle, through the wide porthole. Down the white-edged steps a big man in a grey overcoat was descending. Presently he took his ticket from Nancy Crane and sat down in A-11.

“Same man!” Allerton whistled.

“Who?” Peter Canfield looked through the window. “Say, Nan Crane looks like a million tonight! If she wasn’t twenty years old, I could fall for her myself.”

“Shut up,” Allerton ordered, then he peered at the hall clock. “Half-past seven,” he murmured. “I might just be able to manage it.... You look after these records, Peter. I’ll be back in a minute or two.”

Allerton hurried across the projection-room, slapped open the swing door and fled down the flight of steps to the bottom. He stepped through the private doorway on to the Circle staircase angle halfway up to the Circle itself. People were flowing past him from below, toiling up the steps.

He went down the stairs until he came within view of the main foyer. Gerald Lincross was there in his usual place by his office door, his head and shoulders moving back and forth in perpetual greeting.

This was all Allerton wanted to see. Turning, he followed the people up the stairs and so into the Circle. When he got to the head of the stairs, he stepped aside and touched Nancy Crane on the arm.

“You’re on strange ground, Fred,” she murmured, taking tickets mechanically. “Better not let the boss see you here!”

“Do me a favour, Nan! You see that fellow over there in the front row? One with the grey overcoat? Ask him to come here a moment. It’s very important I see him. If I don’t it may cost me my job.... Be a sweetheart and help me out. I’ll take the tickets while you go.”

Nancy looked at his uncommonly earnest face, then she hurried down the steps to the front row. Allerton could not hear what she said, but at last the big man got up, snatched up his hat, and wormed his way out of the row while the remaining tenants of Row A stood at indifferent attention to let him pass.

Allerton took tickets mechanically as he watched the big man climb the steps with Nancy bobbing urgently behind him.

“This—this gentleman wants to see you,” Nancy explained hastily, nodding to Allerton.

He handed the ticket-string back to the girl and looked at the big man a little uncertainly. “Sorry to bother you, sir—but I’d like a word with you. If you’d come this way....”

“I came here to see a picture, not you,” the man growled.

“I know—but this won’t take a moment. There’s time.” Insistently Allerton caught hold of the big fellow’s arm and led him down the steps until they came to the private door at the base of the projection-room staircase. Allerton opened it and motioned the stranger inside—then he closed the door again. Between the cool stonewalls under the single electric light they stood facing each other.

“I’m the man who knocked you down tonight in the High Street,” Allerton said abruptly. “I’m—”

“I know who you are—the chief projectionist here. You told me that. What do you want?”

“I want to appeal to your sense of decency. Don’t report me to the police.”

The big man looked surprised. “And you have raked me out of my seat just to ask me that?”

“I’m scared of losing this job. You see, I’ve got a boss who at the mere mention of police goes off in a tantrum. He always avoids them even when they call about the fire regulations, and leaves it all to me. If he found I’d been mixed up with them, even for such a trifling offence as a bad bicycle lamp, he’d fire me on the spot. So, if you’ll promise me....”

A faint smile twitched the comers of the stranger’s powerful mouth. “All right,” he said finally. “I’ll not say anything. I was furious at the time, I admit—but I really never had any intention of reporting it.”

“Thanks!” Allerton breathed in relief. “Thanks indeed!”

He opened the door, and the stranger walked out towards the staircase—just as Gerald Lincross came up from the foyer. For a moment he paused and stared fixedly at the stranger. The stranger too paused and looked back at him—just as if he were measuring him—then with a slight shrug of his big shoulders he went on up the stairs.

“What’s the idea, Fred?” Lincross’s voice was acid. “Since when have you taken to inviting outsiders into the projection department?”

“I haven’t, sir,” Allerton answered quickly. “I just asked him in here, at the bottom of the stairs, so I could say a few words to him.”

“What sort of words? What the devil are you talking about?”

“It’s—it’s private, Mr. Lincross.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” Lincross snapped, looking at his wristwatch. “Better get back on your job. Time’s nearly up.”

Fred Allerton watched Lincross’s black-suited figure hurry up the stairs into the Circle, then he turned back again into his own department and closed the door and locked it according to regulations. His emotions exploded in one word,

“Damn!”

* * * *

True to tradition, Gerald Lincross stood just at the top of the Circle steps as the lights in the auditorium began to dim gently. He always did so at this time, with Nancy Crane standing very quietly beside him. She presumed he made his survey to assess takings for the performance and to be sure that everybody was comfortable—but she could not help but notice that this time he did not look around as much as usual. Instead seemed to be looking straight in front of him to where the big man in the grey overcoat was just settling in his seat once more....

Then on the screen the news flashed into being, transforming Lincross’s white shirt front into a dully gleaming shield. The audience was picked out in dim silhouette and the red lights in the ceiling sprang into being together with the clock-light.... That first tension had gone. The performance was on its way.

Lincross turned away and went down the steps from the Circle. Nancy Crane relaxed on to the little stool fitted to the wall and waited for latecomers.

Over in A-11 the man in grey sat watching the screen, but with some boredom. Obviously he waited only for the feature picture. Three rows behind him on the left Maria Black still held her umbrella and watched the parade of daily events....

Up in the projection-room Fred Allerton was checking his power meters and looking more depressed than ever. Dick Alcot stood half leaning on No. l projector, half leaning on it, his pallid face illumined by bright purple light as the glare of the arc light passed through the mauve inspection shield in the lamphouse. The projector whirred steadily, its intermittent sprocket keeping up an incessant staccato. From the monitor speaker in the concrete ceiling came the voice of the commentator recounting the news of the day.

“Something biting you, Fred?” Peter Canfield came out of the record room and looked at Allerton’s troubled face.

“Nothing you can help,” Fred responded. “Get below and fix up those trailers for tomorrow....”

Peter nodded and went out whistling. Allerton stood thinking, then as Alcot glanced at the decreasing film in his top spoolbox. Allerton took up his position beside the second machine and switched on the arc. As the news came to an end he opened up and Love on the Highway flashed on to the screen.

“One thing I don’t understand about this film,” he said, as Alcot methodically threaded up his own now motionless machine. “This Lydia Fane. She doesn’t do half as much as that other girl in it—Betty Joyce—and yet she’s billed as the star on our posters. Seems cock-eyed.”

“Whole darned film is cock-eyed if you ask me,” Alcot summed up, and snapped the sound-gate shut with an air of finality.

“Seems to me—” Fred Allerton broke off as the service telephone buzzed beside his elbow. He picked it up and pressed the button. “Yes?”

The voice, presumably speaking from the back of the stalls below, was indistinct. This was usual with a service telephone, and the noise in the projection-room from the monitor speaker together with the clicking machinery made Fred Allerton shout twice for a repetition.

“...hall speaker rattling. You’d better fix it.”

“Okay,” Allerton responded, and hung up.

“Trouble?” Alcot inquired.

“Near as I can make out one of the hall speakers is rattling. I’d better hop down and see to it. Take over for me, will you? Oh—don’t forget to step the sound up three faders when she fires that revolver. There are three shots, remember. We might as well wake ’em up outside.”

Alcot nodded and walked over to the twin machine. Allerton hurried downstairs, passed Peter Canfield cementing trailers together in the winding-room amidst an overpowering odour of amyl-acetate, and so finally let himself out on to the Circle staircase.

Soon he was in the foyer. Nobody was in sight, not even the doorman or manager. He hurried to the door of the Stalls, swung it open and passed into the smoky warmth and red-lit gloom beyond.

“Who rang?” he asked one of the two usherettes standing at the back of the Stalls.

“Rang what?” Violet Thompson asked, her face dimly visible.

“Somebody rang and said the speakers were rattling.” Allerton kept his voice low, “Who was...?” He broke off and looked towards the screen where Lydia Fane had just appeared in the dressing room scene. Her voice as she screamed out a sentence quivered unbearably.

“It does rattle!” Allerton breathed. “I’ll settle it!”

He went hurrying off down the blank abyss of gangway, and the two usherettes saw a dim rectangle of light become visible low down on the right-hand side of the screen as Allerton switched on the backstage light. Then as he closed the door the light blanked out.

He was absent five minutes—then ten, but gradually the rattle in the voices of the players began to disappear. Then presently the half-somnolent audience was jerked into momentary life by the resounding triple bang of Lydia Fane’s revolver. The oily-looking gentleman who had been trying to foul her reputation collapsed most realistically.

Another seven minutes went by, then Allerton came hurrying like a ghost from the remoteness of the theatre.

“That fixed it!” he whispered, as he went past Violet Thompson. She had not the vaguest idea what he was talking about, for her unaccustomed ear was not attuned to variations in decibels or purity of reproduction—so she just gazed blankly as Allerton hurried out into the foyer and across to the manager’s office.

He tapped, and peered in. Lincross was there, looking unusually flushed and not in the best of tempers.

“Well?” he asked curtly.

“I fixed that rattle, sir,” Fred explained.

Lincross looked at him as though he wondered what he was talking about.

“The hall speakers were rattling. One of the chains had worked loose and the vibration from the voices made it rattle against the metal hornwork.”

“All right. And don’t forget I want a word with you before you go home.”

Allerton nodded dubiously, took a final look at those childlike and yet threatening blue eyes, then he closed the office door behind him. Troubled, he went up the stairs to resume his duties in the projection-room.... As he passed the stair room door at the staircase angle it opened suddenly and Molly Ibbetson came out. Plump and easy-going, she did not often look worried—but she did now.

“Anything wrong?” Allerton paused and looked at her creased brow.

“No....” The dark eyes glanced away from him. “No, Fred, there’s nothing wrong. I’m just a bit puzzled, that’s all.”

Without elaborating, she closed the staff-room door and went off slowly down the stairs into the foyer. As Allerton looked after her, he had the oddest feeling that Molly Ibbetson had been up to something....

* * * *

When the National Anthem was played and the lights began to glimmer back into being in the auditorium, Nancy Crane relaxed happily. Standing to one side of the main flow of people leaving the Circle she nodded to them cheerfully as they wished her a good night. Towards the close of the exodus came Maria Black, umbrella in hand, her face wearing an expression both of boredom and annoyance.

“Did you enjoy it, Miss Black?” Nancy murmured.

“No, young lady, I did not! If I can find Mr. Lincross in the foyer I shall tell him exactly what I think of Love on the Highway! A glaring case of taking money under false pretences...!”

Nancy laughed and watched Maria go purposefully down the stairs; then she followed her, branching off into the staff room to sweep up an armful of neatly folded dustsheets. Humming to herself she hurried up into the Circle again, to commence the job of covering the seats for the night—then she paused and glanced in surprise at the front row. The big-shouldered man in the grey coat to whom she had spoken earlier in the evening on Fred Allerton’s behalf was still in his seat, head drooping forward, his hat on the plush balustrade in front of him.

Nancy Crane sighed and put down her dustsheets. She knew the picture had been pretty boring, but it didn’t warrant a patron sleeping on beyond the end of the performance, surely? She sped nimbly down the steps and hurried along the row, shook the man by the shoulder.

“Sorry, sir, but it’s time to go....”

The man in A-11 still sat on, chin on chest, hands in the pockets of his coat. Nancy felt a vague thrill go down her spine. She shook him again, more forcibly.

“The show’s over, sir!” she shouted.

Still there was still no response, so she took the risk of stooping and peering into the man’s face.... Almost instantly she jerked her eyes away, her heart thumping furiously. The man’s eyes were partly open and staring fixedly at the base of the barrier in front of him—but in the centre of his forehead, just above the dent made by his undivided eyebrows, was a small, neatly drilled hole and the merest trickle of blood.

“Oh!” Nancy’s eyes widened; then the full shock of her discovery dawned on her. “Oh—God!” she gasped hoarsely.

Twisting round, she blundered out of the row, half fell up the white-edged steps, and then went racing for the Circle exit.

“Mr. Lincross!” She shouted the manager’s name as she ran. “Where are you, sir?”

As she tumbled down the last steps into the foyer, she saw Lincross in his gleaming shirt front standing talking to Maria Black. Except for them and Molly Ibbetson in her pay-box preparing for departure, there was nobody else in view.

“What’s the matter, Miss Crane?” Lincross asked, as the girl came hurrying to him with a pink face and startled eyes.

“Upstairs, sir—in the Circle. A man’s still there—I think he’s dead!”

“Dead?” Lincross gave a start then glanced at Maria Black in wonder. “Dead?” he repeated, looking at Nancy again. “What in the world are you talking about, miss?”

“He’s in A-11....” Nancy Crane fought hard to control herself. “I thought he was asleep, but when I looked at him closely I saw that he wasn’t. There’s a little hole in his forehead and—and some blood!”

Maria reached forward and grasped the girl firmly by the arm as she stood shuddering with reaction. “Try and be calm, Nancy,” she murmured. “It must have been a shock—but don’t get hysterical. I’ll stay beside you.”

“Th-thanks.” Nancy flushed redly. “It’s true, though!” She glanced at Lincross. “Go and look for yourself, sir....”

“It would be as well,” Maria agreed, and still holding Nancy by the arm, led the way up the Circle stairs.

As they came into the Circle, Nancy detached herself and pointed to the front row where the man in grey sat. Lincross, coming up behind, looked too. His flat mouth set tightly.

“Come,” Maria murmured, and went forward slowly, then when she reached Row A, she stood aside as Lincross went along past the seats, put a hand under the man’s jaw and tilted his face upwards. There was no longer any room for doubt: Nancy Crane had not exaggerated.

“Definitely dead,” Maria commented, from the row behind, and she released the man’s pulse. “Apparently shot in the head from a distance, which at least excludes his neighbours in the audience.”

“Why...a distance?” Lincross asked, complete bewilderment at the situation registered on his face.

“No powder marks, no tattooing, no scorching. So evidently this is not a suicide, Mr. Lincross, nor a murder by a neighbour close at hand.... However, my theories don’t signify. You must send for the police and leave this man exactly as he is.”

Lincross nodded, his childlike blue eyes still reflecting amazement that such a thing had happened in his cinema; then he forced himself to deal with the situation and headed towards the Circle exit. Maria Black looked back at the dead man thoughtfully, glanced about and above her, then she too climbed steadily up to the exit. Nancy Crane was standing there, moving uncertainly from one dainty foot to the other.

“What—what am I supposed to do, sir?” she asked Lincross, as he came past. “Shall I cover the seats or...?”

“Certainly not! Have a bit of sense, girl! Find those usherettes still in the cinema and tell them to come into the foyer. And the cashiers. The police will be here shortly.”

“If I’m home not so early I’m likely to get into trouble,” Nancy objected.

“Can’t be helped.” Lincross continued down the stairs. Just as he passed the projection-room’s main doorway, Fred Allerton opened it and came into view with a transit case on his shoulder. Within it Love on the Highway was packed in its humidor tins ready for the collection by the film transport at midnight.

Behind Allerton came Alcot, then Peter Canfield.

“Just a minute, you three....” Lincross turned to them. “You can’t leave yet. A man has been shot dead. We found him in the Circle. I’m sending for the police. It’s the man you spoke to, Fred.”

There was a grim silence for a moment and every spark of colour went out of Allerton’s cheeks. Lincross nodded towards the foyer and went on his way.

“And a dead man queers my supper,” growled Alcot.

“Not just dead, Dick—murdered,” Allerton said pointedly.

“Either way it has nothing to do with us,” Alcot insisted.

“But we stay just the same—because the boss says so,” Peter Canfield observed, locking the projection-room door and handing Allerton the key. They went down the stairs into the foyer. Behind them, her face pensive, came Maria Black. Then Nancy Crane came down to her side.

“‘I suppose, Miss Black, this is right up your street? Everybody round here knows you’re a detective—not official though. You got a lot of publicity when you solved how that girl who came to your school was hanged. Remember?”

“You’d better find the usherettes,” Maria murmured. “Join me afterwards.”

Nancy nodded and hurried ahead. Once in the foyer Maria picked a plush armchair for herself and settled in it calmly. Presently Nancy came back, her work of rounding-up completed.

She settled in the chair close to Maria and looked at her earnestly. “It must be exciting to be a detective, Miss Black!”

“It has its moments, Nancy,” Maria admitted. “However, don’t forget that I am a Headmistress. Criminology is merely a hobby. In any case I cannot upset police procedure.... Yet,” she finished, smiling inscrutably, “here am I sitting here, when I could be on my way home if I chose. As a member of the audience and seated behind the dead man, I am not at all suspect. It is a fact that a criminal puzzle draws me irresistibly, Nancy.”

The girl nodded and looked about her as the staff began to assemble in the foyer. Fred Allerton, Alcot, and Peter Canfield kept in a tight little group by the pay-box. Violet Thompson and Sheila Brant, the two Stalls usherettes, fully dressed in overcoats and with scarves wrapped over their heads, hesitated by the exit doorway. Bradshaw the doorman was upstairs as yet, changing into his ordinary clothes.... Mary Saunders was touching up her auburn hair before the mirror near the Circle stairway. Molly Ibbetson was seated on a distant chair, swinging her short chubby legs and adjusting the bandeau round her ebon hair.

From her position at the far end of the foyer Maria Black could study each one of them under the bright lights—and she did, quite impartially, as though surveying a class of girls at Roseway...then she glanced round as Lincross came hurrying out of his office, beads of perspiration on top of his bald head.

From the centre of the foyer he looked round on the assembly.

“I’ve phoned Inspector Morgan,” he announced. “He’ll be here soon—and until then I’m afraid you will have to stay. Except you, Miss Black. There is no reason why....”

“I am here from choice, Mr. Lincross,” Maria smiled. “I know Inspector Morgan very well—a most worthy representative of the local constabulary. I’ll be quite interested to see what he does.”

Lincross shrugged, then he glanced towards the stairs as Bradshaw came down them in mackintosh and cap. “Afraid you can’t leave, Bradshaw,” Lincross said.

“I know,” Bradshaw grunted. “And this means I’ll be late for my goodnight drink.... Rotten do, I call it “

He sat down in a chair and lighted a cigarette. Sensing he was conspicuous standing in the centre of the assembly, Lincross too found a seat. The uneasy silence that enfolds employer and employee when circumstances bring them into close proximity dropped....

At ten-fifteen by the foyer clock, ten minutes after Lincross’s phone call, there came the noise of a car stopping near the outside entrance. A few seconds the glass doors swung apart to admit the persevering Inspector Morgan and Sergeant Claythorne of the local constabulary.

Morgan was of medium height, but packed as solidly as a West Highland bull; and he was very nearly as pugnacious. His eyebrows were the most obvious thing about him—black, astonishingly bushy, overhanging eyes of sapphire blue. A short nose and a prominent chin completed a face that typified dogged persistency rather than actual keenness. From under the edges of his official cap hair peeped in close-cropped bristles

Sergeant Claythome was very different—tall and twenty-six, with the delicate complexion of a girl. His height and by no means dull intellect were the sole qualifications that had shoe-horned him into the local force. Maria Black could still recall the day when he had been a highly sensitive schoolboy.

“Evening, sir....” Morgan directed his attention to Lincross after his gaze had encompassed the assembly; then he glanced for the second time towards the figure in a distant comer and added with emphasis, “And good evening, Miss Black!”

Maria nodded imperceptibly and Morgan cleared his throat.

“Sergeant, you’d better wait outside the front doors there.”

“Right, sir.”

The doors opened and shut behind Claythorne’s lanky figure; then Morgan tugged out a notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform and looked at Lincross.

“Man dead in the Circle, you said? Where is he?”

“Still in the Circle,” Maria remarked dryly, getting to her feet.

“I meant, has he been moved?” Morgan’s voice was bitter.

“No, Inspector—he’s just where he was,” Lincross answered.

Morgan nodded and cast a disapproving blue eye at Maria Black, then he followed Lincross up the staircase to the Circle then down to Row A. The Inspector came to a stop before the motionless man in seat 11 and looked at him critically. After a long scrutiny of the puncture in the man’s forehead, he gazed across the cinema towards the dusty, closed curtains covering the screen—then up above at the ceiling with its big ventilator arch and the fan-grids over the stalls.

“Interesting business, Inspector, isn’t it?”

Morgan turned sharply as he saw Maria Black seated with her umbrella at the end of row B watching him. Morgan could have sworn that in an indirect way she was laughing at him.

“Yes,” he answered briefly, feeling that her forbidding presence upset his authority. Then he glanced at Lincross standing beside the balustrade. “I’ve got fingerprint and photograph men on the way from Lexham. Be here any time—though I don’t see a fingerprint man is much use with no weapon in sight. Dr. Roberts won’t be long, either.... For the moment I think we’ll go back into the foyer.”

The two men and Maria returned below to find the assembly talking among themselves impatiently.

“This won’t take long,” Morgan told them, looking round. “I just want a few questions answered, that’s all. Who found the body?”

“I did.” Nancy Crane stood up nervously.

“You did. And you’ll be—an usherette?”

“Miss Nancy Crane is my supervising usherette,” Lincross explained. “She takes her instructions from me and sees to it that the other girls follow them out. That is, excepting the cashiers.”

“I see.” Morgan made a note. “And your address. Miss Crane?”

“26, Wellington Crescent. In Langhorn here, of course.”

“Well, young lady, just tell me exactly how you found him. What were you doing?”

“I was going to cover the seats up as I do at nights most times—then I saw that man, just sitting. I thought maybe he wasn’t awake and so I tried to shake him up. When I saw that hole in his head, I told Mr. Lincross.”

Morgan stared hard. “Do you always talk in that back-to-front sort of way, Miss Crane?”

“Al-always,” she stammered. “Ever since I was ill as a child....”

“What about the rest of the people in Row A,” Morgan asked. “Was that row full?”

“Yes,” Nancy agreed, and Lincross nodded his semi-bald head in confirmation.

“Then how on earth did the row empty with that man seated dead in the centre of it?” Morgan asked blankly.

“I can answer that question,” Maria Black remarked, strolling forward. “I was seated three rows back from Row A on the left, and I noticed that that row, in common with many others, practically emptied itself before the end of the performance. The film was decidedly mediocre. What few people there were left on Row A at the end of the show found it easier to leave by the ends instead of passing the man whom they assumed was asleep.”

“Ah-ha,” Morgan said, scribbling again. Then he looked once more at Nancy. “All right, miss, that’s all I need to know from you—except for one thing. Had you ever seen this man before?”

“Twice, sir. He came Monday night, and again last night.”

Morgan’s eyebrows rose. “He must have enjoyed the picture if nobody else seemed to....”

“Couldn’t be that, Inspector,” remarked Mary Saunders from the far end of the foyer—and Mary was a girl who had her wits about her. “You see, he booked for all three nights before he had even seen the picture. I know, because I gave him the tickets.”

“Well, that’s very interesting. All right, I’ll come to you later. Thanks, Miss Crane, that’s all—unless you have some information you would care to volunteer?”

Nancy hesitated slightly and glanced across towards Fred Allerton as he lounged beside Alcot and young Canfield. She caught an expression from him and then looked back to the Inspector.

“No, Inspector—there’s nothing else.”

“All right,” Morgan said briefly. “You can go home if you wish.”

Nancy turned towards the Circle staircase on her way to the staff room. Maria’s cold blue eyes followed her shapely young figure out of sight, then they strayed across to Fred Allerton—and so finally back to Inspector Morgan as he went over to Mary Saunders,

“So, miss,” he remarked, after taking down her name and address, “the man booked three seats without seeing the picture, did he? When was this?”

“About half-past six on Monday evening. I’d never seen him before. I noticed him looking through the glass doors into the foyer—we were closed then, of course. He seemed to be looking at the placards we have in here. When I asked him if he were looking for somebody, he asked me a question instead.”

“Which was?” Morgan prompted.

“It was something about Love on the Highway. He asked me if it was showing that night—Monday night. I told him it was. Then I showed him the streamer poster we have hanging under the canopy. He booked three tickets—A-11, for Monday, Tuesday, and tonight.”

“Did he ask for A-11, or did you give it to him?”

“He asked for the best seat in the front row, which we usually consider is A-11.”

“He didn’t give his name?”

“No,” Mary said. “But I think you might get it from the ‘Golden Saddle’ Hotel across the road. I think he was staying there. I can see across the road from my advance booking box, you know. I saw him come out of there once or twice.”

“Good!” Morgan seemed relieved at finding something tangible to seize. “Thank you, Miss Saunders. You may get off home, too, any time you wish.”

Mary Saunders got up and headed for the swing doors with a brief “Good night!” Moments later Nancy Crane came hurrying into sight, her trim overcoat neatly belted in to her waist and a woollen pixie-hood framing her pretty face.

“Good night,” she murmured, glancing round under her eyes, and then she followed Mary Saunders into the blustering wind outside.

Morgan was about to say something, when there was the sound of a car at the front entrance. In a moment or so two men entered, one of them carrying equipment and a mackintosh-covered collapsible tripod under his arm.

“Upstairs, boys—Circle,” Morgan ordered. “See you later.”

The two nodded and went on their way through the foyer.

“Fingerprint and photograph men,” Morgan explained, looking round the group.

“Without me questioning each one of you individually, do any of you know anything about this dead man which might help me? We know he has been here three times, presumably to see Love on the Highway, but is there anything else? You....” The doorman found himself under scrutiny. “Did he speak to you at all?”

“Not a word,” Bradshaw said. “I saw ’im come in each time, though.”

“Did he look as though he wanted to see the picture?” Morgan asked. “Did he—look eager?”

“Like ’ell he did!” Bradshaw was candid. “’E looked as though he wanted to shoot somebody! Big, ’eavy face with tight lips. Grim-like.”

“He was not a regular patron?”

“Never seen him before,” Lincross remarked.

“All right,” Morgan decided. “That’s as far as we can move now. Those of you who wish to go can do so—and give your names and addresses to Sergeant Claythorne as you leave.... I’d like a few words with you, though, Mr. Lincross.”

“With pleasure,” Lincross assented, then he waited while Morgan opened the glass doors and called Claythorne inside to take the names and addresses. The youthful sergeant had just started on his task when the doors swung open to admit a small man in a big overcoat and bowler hat, carrying a medical bag. He was sallow, harassed-looking. Maria Black recognised him as Dr. Roberts from farther up the High Street, the Langhorn G.P. who acted as police-surgeon in addition to his own practice.

“Came as soon as I could,” he said cryptically, nodding to the Inspector. “Where’s the body?”

“In the Circle—A-11.”

“Thanks. Evening, everybody. Cold night....” Roberts went on his way towards the staircase, and the fingerprint and photograph men passed him on the way. They came to a halt beside Morgan.

“Waste of my time, Inspector,” the fingerprint man said, with a hint of reproof. “Nothing for me to do—and only blurs on the chair arms. Find the weapon that killed him and then we’ve got something.”

“As if I didn’t know,” Morgan growled. “All right, thanks. And let me have those pictures first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” the photographer nodded, and headed for the doors with his companion.

Morgan stood watching as Sergeant Claythorne came to the end of his name and address collecting, then he studied each of the staff as they began to file out—until it came to Fred Allerton’s turn. As it happened, he was the last on the list, but before he could leave, Lincross spoke.

“I think if anybody can tell you about the dead man, Inspector, he can!” he said.

There was no vicious satisfaction in his tone, no veiled suggestion that he was making an accusation. It sounded just like a plain statement of fact. In any event Allerton paused and turned round, looking at the manager very directly.

“Oh?” Inspector Morgan brisked up suddenly. “Well, what about it, Mr.—er—?”

“Allerton,” Fred said quietly, walking slowly back into the foyer centre. “I’m the chief projectionist.”

“And you knew that man in the Circle?”

“Only by sight—”

“Enough to take him into privacy behind the projection-room door and have a talk with him before the show,” Lincross pointed out. “I saw that for myself. In fact, Inspector, I asked Fred here why be did it, and he told me it was a private matter.”

“So it was!” Allerton snapped, on the defensive. “I give you my word that I don’t know the man’s name or anything at all about his murder.”

“Yet you went out of your way to talk to him?” Morgan insisted.

“Yes....” Allerton could sense the cold suspicion in the Inspector’s voice. For a reason he could hardly explain he found himself thinking about plump Molly Ibbetson, looking so surprised, creeping out of that staff-room door. Why did they have to pick on him? They had let the girl go with nothing more than a name and address—

“You went out of your way—to talk to him!” Morgan’s emphatic voice came out of fast-running speculations.

“It was personal,” Fred Allerton said, forcing himself to be attentive.

“I see. Just personal.” Morgan nodded slowly. “All right, Mr. Allerton, I’ll not detain you now. Perhaps we’ll have another little chat in the morning.... You can go if you want.”

Allerton tightened his lips, wondering if he ought to go and get his bicycle from the disused sweet-stall, and decided against it. So with an almost inaudible good night he turned and left. Morgan looked after him thoughtfully, then at the sound of hurrying feet across the foyer he turned to find Dr. Roberts approaching.

“Death caused by a small slug,” he pronounced. “I’ll remove it in the morning. Apparently it has gone straight through into the brain and caused instant death. As to the direction of the slug—which I’m judging by the size of the entrance wound—the possible speed of entry, and so forth, I’ll go to work on it tomorrow. No time now. Probably need the X-ray to trace it.... Well, night, everybody.”

“Night, and thanks,” Morgan responded, as the doctor hurried out. Then, turning to Lincross:

“I’ve nothing more to ask you—unless you’ve anything to add to your statement about that fellow Allerton which might help me?”

“Afraid I haven’t, Inspector. I’ve said my little piece.”

“Altogether,” Maria remarked, in the momentary hush, “a most intriguing business, Inspector.”

He looked at her doubtfully as she stood blandly smiling. “Precious little to go on, though, except the fact that the dead man was apparently staying at the hotel across the road; I’ll be over there to make inquiry first thing in the morning....” Morgan paused at a sudden thought. “Shot with a slug!” he whistled. “That probably means either an air-rifle or an air-pistol—and it would be bound to make a noise in a quiet cinema even if a silencer were fitted.... Miss Black, you were in the audience. Did you hear anything?”

“Nothing unusual,” Maria answered. “As to that, there is possibly one probable explanation—but of course it is not for me to interfere.... There is, however, one thing very much in your favour, Inspector—and that is the time of death. If that film Love on the Highway were to be run through again you would see exactly what I mean.”

“I would?” A sense of suspicion that he was being taught his own business welled up in Morgan’s mind. “I’ll think about it,” he promised stiffly.

Maria smiled faintly. “I shall hope to have the chance of seeing you again, Inspector. Good night—and to you, Mr. Lincross.”

“Good night, madam,” Lincross murmured, bowing from the waist in that automatic fashion he had—and Inspector Morgan noticed that he never took his eyes from Maria’s heavy, retreating figure until she passed beyond the glass doors....

Then he seemed to relax. “Rather—er—eccentric lady,” he commented, glancing at the Inspector.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say eccentric. Eccentrics aren’t given the job of ruling a girls’ college, sir. She’s deep as the sea—that’s what it is. I’m wondering just how much she has dug out of this business already.”

“Oh?” Lincross affected surprise.

“She’s a criminologist—on the q.t. Sort of hobby....”