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