Pattern of Murder. John Russell Fearn
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BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN RUSSELL FEARN
1,000-Year Voyage: A Science Fiction Novel
Black Maria, M.A.: A Classic Crime Novel
The Crimson Rambler: A Crime Novel
Don’t Touch Me: A Crime Novel
Dynasty of the Small: Classic Science Fiction Stories
The Empty Coffins: A Mystery of Horror
The Fourth Door: A Mystery Novel
From Afar: A Science Fiction Mystery
The G-Bomb: A Science Fiction Novel
Here and Now: A Science Fiction Novel
Into the Unknown: A Science Fiction Tale
The Man from Hell: Classic Science Fiction Stories
The Man Who Was Not: A Crime Novel
One Way Out: A Crime Novel (with Philip Harbottle)
Pattern of Murder: A Classic Crime Novel
Reflected Glory: A Dr. Castle Classic Crime Novel
Robbery Without Violence: Two Science Fiction Crime Stories
Shattering Glass: A Crime Novel
The Silvered Cage: A Scientific Murder Mystery
Slaves of Ijax: A Science Fiction Novel
The Space Warp: A Science Fiction Novel
The Time Trap: A Science Fiction Novel
Vision Sinister: A Scientific Detective Thriller
What Happened to Hammond? A Scientific Mystery
Within That Room!: A Classic Crime Novel
PATTERN OF MURDER
JOHN RUSSELL FEARN
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Copyright © 2006 by Philip Harbottle
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
For Val and Joe Armstrong
CHAPTER ONE
BAD DAY AT THE RACES
IT was Tuesday afternoon at the Bartonwick Racecourse. For a brief time Vera Holdsworth was released from the dark abyss of the Cosy Cinema in the town’s main street, where she worked as a head usherette.
“I have the feeling,” said the young man accompanying her, “that I’m going to be lucky today. Not beginner’s luck, either! Just to counter any wrong impressions you may have got, I might as well tell you that I’ve other interests besides running those blasted films in the Cosy Cinema.”
Vera glanced at him quickly. The statement had come as something of a surprise to her. She had always thought of Terry Lomond as a quiet worker with few ambitions outside of his job as chief projectionist.
“You mean you bet a lot, Terry?” she asked.
“Of course I do! I’m not the kind of dope who sits around waiting for pennies from heaven. Since, however, I’m nailed down in the projection room most of my life I do my betting over the phone.”
“So that’s how you make your money! I’ve often noticed that you don’t seem to be very short.”
Terry Lomond smiled.
“When do you start betting—or whatever it is?” Vera asked, as with Terry she made her way through the moving crowds and the late August sunshine.
“Soon. Keep going.”
“All right. Give me a cig, will you? I’m dying for one.”
Terry complied and the girl inhaled deeply after he had lighted it for her. Then she went on again. She did not argue about his directions. He had a determined way with him. Though he was invariably genial, it was somehow superficial: it never seemed to truly mirror the man. Certainly, Terry’s face was not that of a genuinely cordial person. It was cast in a strong, cynical mould, with sharply defined mouth and jaw. The long nose and grey-blue eyes lent him qualities that made him quite handsome. The worst feature was his hair—black and unruly, sticking out in bangs and tufts. It was the penalty for working most of his life in the midst of electrical static.
With Vera Holdsworth, Nature had been even less generous. What attractiveness she possessed lay in the subtle grace of her figure, becomingly revealed in the summer frock she was wearing. Otherwise, she was plain ordinary. Her nose was short, her chin self-indulgent—yet her clear blue eyes and carefully applied makeup did a great deal to balance Nature’s omissions.... Vera was the kind of girl who, given a decent chance, might have amounted to something. As it was, her virtues—which she only used when it suited her—were constantly overshadowed by her background. Her home life had never contributed anything towards developing the better side of her character.
“Just why haven’t we been here before and had fun?” Vera looked about her interestedly. “That’s what I want to know. You’ve been holding out on me, Terry!”
He looked at her with cynical amusement. “Do it well, don’t you?” he asked.
“Do it well? What in the world do you mean?”
“Why not be yourself?” Terry suggested. “You don’t have to come the nice little girl stuff with me, you know. I’m no angel. If I were I wouldn’t want you for a companion.... And it cuts both ways,” he added. “You wouldn’t have picked me for a boy friend had you thought me a saint.”
“Well, I....” Vera hesitated and fumbled in her mind. “I’m no prude, if that’s what you mean. Not like Helen Prescott, for instance, with her frightfully honourable ideas.”
Terry was silent. A grim look had crossed his handsome face for a moment, then it faded just as quickly. He had a profound inner liking for Helen Prescott, another of the Cosy Cinema’s usherettes—but somehow that pretty young lady always seemed to keep him at arm’s length ever since she had started work at the cinema in 1952. Even now, five years later, his charm had still completely failed to impress her. And the cinema staff knew it, even to the extent of making sarcastic comment. Terry knew she had no other knowledge of him except that he was a quiet, steady worker, respectful to his employer and always a gentleman as far as the opposite sex was concerned.
“We’ll leave Helen out of this,” Terry said presently, thinking.
Vera plumed smoke through her nostrils. “All right with me, I’m sure. I’ve no time for her anyway, particularly as I seem to understand you a good deal better than she does.”
“Which is why you fixed your day off to coincide with mine?” Terry questioned dryly.
“Well—er—” Vera hesitated. “Could be.”
Again Terry was silent. He was finding it quite agreeable to discover, after all the rebuffs he had received from Helen Prescott, that at least one girl had gone out of her way to seek his company. Not that he had any real regard for Vera Holdsworth, but at least she was attractively female and therefore better than nothing at all. Since he would have the task of settling down one day he might as well get started.
“I wish I had a fur coat,” Vera said unexpectedly—and Terry gave her a startled glance.
“What! On a day like this? It must be nearly eighty—”
“Not for today: I’m thinking about the winter. I get the most frightful colds leaving that hot cinema and charging out into the frost. One day it’ll be pneumonia. Besides,” Vera added wistfully, “I am the head usherette, after all.”
Terry seemed about to comment, and then he stopped. Vera looked surprised for a moment, than she understood the reason as the voices of two men, walking by, drifted clearly.
“...not a chance of it losing, Bob. Got it from the owner himself. ‘Pirate’s