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

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....”