One Remained Seated: A Classic Crime Novel. John Russell Fearn
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