CHAPTER FIVE

The matinée was in progress at the Langhorn Cinema when Morgan drew his car up outside the entranceway. At the top of the four pseudo-marble steps Bradshaw stood muffled in his bottle-green greatcoat, peering through the snowflakes. A faint surprise registered on his beefy red face as Maria and Morgan emerged from the car and came up the steps towards him.

“Afternoon, Miss Black—Inspector. Turned out bad like.”

“Very,” Morgan agreed shortly. “Mr. Lincross in?”

“Aye—in his office.”

Bradshaw pushed open the swing doors and Maria led the way into the cosy foyer. From her position behind the ordinary pay-box grille, Mary Ibbetson watched the proceedings with lambent dark eyes. Things had never been so interesting since she had taken over the job of cashier.

Lincross was not surprised to see the Inspector, but his eyes widened at the vision of Maria, ample and commanding, shaking her coat lapels impatiently, She took the chair he proffered and sat down beside the desk. On top of it an electric fan was whirling gently. The draught was welcome. The little room was intolerably stuffy.

Morgan elected to stand by the big sash window of frosted glass. “I’ve decided to have that film Love on the Highway run through again,” he said, answering Lincross’s inquiring look. “I’ll have to leave to you the details of getting it back.”

“It won’t be easy to get Love on the Highway back, Inspector,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Shortage of copies. It was picked up last night by the film transport, of course, and was taken back to the London renters. It would then be sent out—probably this morning—to whoever has booked the film after us. There are probably no more than half a dozen copies in these days of raw stock shortage and all of them will be scattered across the country. So, with no spare copy and with other copies in use at various cinemas, I don’t see how....”

“In circumstances like these the law can demand the film,” Morgan pointed out. “And, sir, it is going to! I don’t want any copy, either: I want the self-same copy. Maybe you’d ring up the renters and see what you can do?”

Lincross shrugged and turned to the telephone. In a few minutes he was speaking to London. Maria and Morgan listened to the one-sided conversation, and gathered from it that while the self-same copy was still available, it was transport that presented the problem.

“I’ll call you back,” Lincross said finally. “Well, Inspector, there it is. They can’t spare a special transport to get the film here, and the railway is uncertain to a quiet spot like this—especially so if this snow gets very thick.”

Morgan scowled. “I suppose I could go and get it myself, but it would take up a lot of my time—”

“I think,” Maria interrupted him, “I have a suggestion! I have a friend staying in London at the moment—a Mr. Martin. He would bring it if I were to ask him.”

“You mean that American roughneck who helps you now and again?” Morgan asked doubtfully.

“The same,” Maria agreed, unabashed. She snapped open her handbag, took out a notebook and ran her fingers down a list of addresses. “Yes, I was right. His last address is in London. And I can reach him on the telephone—If you would allow me, Mr. Lincross?”

Presently she had the number she wanted, and a Cockney voice answered her. There was another brief pause, then the voice was replaced by one with a pronounced American accent.

“Yeah? Who wants what?”

“Mr. Martin? This is Black Maria speaking.”

Morgan glanced at Lincross and the manager shrugged helplessly.

“Maria, huh? Well, this is sure one prize smack across the kisser! Hiya, Maria! You started playin’ games again?”

“I never play games, Mr. Martin, though there are times when I apply my modest powers to a crime problem. Are you at liberty to lend a little hand?”

“Sure I am—right on the button. Lucky you got me squattin’ down in this joint ’cos I might ha’ been with the boys, else at Boiler-house Bessie’s. Well, what’s the dope?”

“I want you to call at the Sunrise Film Corporation in Back Wardour Street and go to the dispatch department. You will make yourself known as Mr. Martin—I’ll arrange the details—and you will bring away a film transit case containing a picture called Love on the Highway. Have you got that?”

“You betcha. Then what?”

“You will take the train from London to Langhorn here—you know the way from your last visit—and will deliver the film at the Langhorn Cinema in the High Street. Then you will telephone me from this cinema to the college to say that you have arrived. I in turn will advise the police.”

“Okay. Look, Maria, you workin’ on that cinema bumpin’ off? I read something in the morning paper about the police wantin’ any relations of the dead man to show their pusses. Don’t the flatfoots know who he is?”

“I will go into that when I see you, Mr. Martin,” Maria answered. “Tell me, how are you fixed for money? Should I wire some to you?”

“No need! A guy like me ain’t without a spot o’ nickel in his pocket.... I’ll be seein’ you, with Love on the Highway—else I’ll bust me belt.”

“Hmm! I trust no such embarrassment will occur. Thank you again, Mr. Martin, and goodbye.” Maria rang off.

“Can we trust him?” Morgan asked dubiously.

“Implicitly, Inspector. Flamboyant, even vulgar, but a man of sterling worth.”

“Unorthodox, anyway,” Lincross commented, taking the chair Maria vacated and reaching for the phone. “I’d better tell the renters they’ll have a visitor.”

After making matters clear to them, he hung up and glanced at Morgan. “Anything else, Inspector?”

“Yes, I’d like another word with your chief projectionist.”

Lincross got up and left the office. Through the open doorway Morgan and Maria watched him enter the Stalls’ entrance, presumably on his way to the service-telephone. Then the doors swung shut behind him.

On the desk top the fan whirred monotonously, rustling its paper streamers and setting the electric light swinging gently on its flex. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the snowy December day was rapidly closing in.

After a while Lincross reappeared and resumed his seat at the desk. Only a moment after him Fred Allerton came in.

“Something wrong, sir?” His voice was more or less steady—until he caught sight of Maria and Inspector Morgan.

“Only a question, Mr. Allerton,” Morgan said. “I believe that during the run of the film Love on the Highway you put up the sound of the revolver shots. Why was that?”

“Simply a matter of editing,” Allerton shrugged, his hand on the doorknob as though poised for quick departure. “It is left to the chief projectionist’s discretion to edit a film if he wishes. If he thinks he can get a better result by raising or lowering sound during certain sequences in the picture, he does just that. I always put the sound up two or three faders during songs, exclamations of amazement, revolver shots, slaps in the face, and, so on. It heightens the realism. Anyway, this film was pretty dull until the revolver shots, so I thought I’d awaken anybody who might be dozing.”

Allerton’s weak smile faded away as Morgan remained coldly unresponsive. Then Lincross cleared his throat.

“Fred is quite right, Inspector, This ‘editing’ business is done all the time in most cinemas.”

“I see.... I was just thinking that in this case it was most convenient.... Did you do this editing yourself, Mr. Allerton?”

“No—I was backstage repairing that faulty speaker. I left instructions with my second, Dick Alcot, to step the sound up on the revolver shots.”

A faint gleam came and went in Morgan’s eyes; “All right, Mr. Allerton—thanks. That’s all I wanted to know.”

Allerton seemed as though he were about to say something more—then evidently reconsidering, he gave a nod and went out, closing the door behind him.

“I suppose,” Lincross said, “that you are thinking that the stepped-up revolver shots in the film synchronised with the actual shooting of the weapon which killed the man in A-11?”

“I am,” Morgan agreed; “but that doesn’t prove anything, even though it is significant. One of the biggest stumbling blocks is to decide where went the rifle that fired the slug. You can’t put a weapon that size in your pocket.... I’ve a few other details to attend to, so I’ll leave you for now, sir, and see you again when this American fellow brings the film.”

“You wish him to phone you when he gets here, Miss Black?” Lincross asked.

“I think it would be best—if the Inspector is agreeable? I am afraid Mr. Martin will not—er—have any ‘truck with a flatfoot’, as he puts it.”

“All right,” Morgan growled. “It’s as broad as long, anyway. ’Afternoon, Mr. Lincross.”

As they left the cinema Maria and Morgan found that the snow was fast transforming the High Street and pavement into a deepening valley of cotton wool. It came down in silent, scurrying whirlpools as they climbed into the car.

“I’ll run on to Roseway,” he said briefly. “Too bad for walking....”

“Most generous of you, Inspector.”

In about ten minutes Morgan drew up outside the college gates. “You’ll come to the midnight matinée, of course?” he asked, as Maria climbed out.

“Naturally, Inspector. And you will bring that double photograph?”

He patted his breast pocket reassuringly.

“One last thought, Inspector....” Maria peered in at him with snowflakes clinging to her hair and nose. “What was Allerton’s motive? Is there any man alive who would kill a man because of his fear of the police over such a trifle as an unlighted bicycle lamp? And, secondly, since the incident only happened on the same night, whence came the rifle so conveniently?”

The car door closed sharply and Morgan was left watching that heavy figure in the camelhair coat moving through the drifts in the school gateway....

Maria discovered that it was twenty to four when she re-entered the warmth of her study, and upon the blotting pad were various papers awaiting her attention. She put the electric kettle on to boil and then settled herself to deal with essentials before freeing her mind for exploration of the problem absorbing her.

At four-thirty she relaxed and pushed the finished reports on one side, and brought out her black book and began writing:

Glad to say that I am involved in the puzzling Langhorn Cinema murder case. The identity of the dead man is still not known, but I derive interest from the fact that he had apparently destroyed every scrap of evidence about himself. Why?

Had he expected to be murdered he would have left clues as to his identity in order to bring his killer to justice. True, he is registered in the name of Douglas Farrington, but because of the lack of any clue regarding his occupation or intentions, it seems possible the name is purely fictitious.

Fred Allerton, the chief projectionist, is much involved in this. But there are certain irreconcilable facts.... If he only met the man yesterday evening (the evening of the murder) through the medium of a bicycle mishap—which I saw myself from a distance—how was Allerton able to provide the necessary reason for attending to a hall speaker? How did he get an air rifle so conveniently? How would he get one into the building without being seen? Had he hidden it down the leg of his trousers, then he could not have cycled.

Since he was on his way to work when he collided with the stranger, he had no chance whatever to decide on a sudden scheme of murder. And the motive of his fear of losing his job through police proceedings—since I understand the manager dismisses anybody who becomes involved with the law—is decidedly weak.

I incline to the belief that Allerton is the victim of circumstances, unless possibly he was acquainted with the stranger before last night’s mishap and actually had had time to plan everything. However, in the words of Sherlock Holmes—“it is dangerous to state the facts of an accusation before one has all the data.”

Nor is Allerton the only one under suspicion. I also have my eye on Gerald Lincross, the manager-owner; Bradshaw, the doorman.... Yes, even Nancy Crane, the supervising usherette. A girl who is outwardly somewhat scatterbrained and extremely pretty, and yet evidently has enough intelligence to direct the other usherettes in their duttes. This girl is something of an anomaly. On the other hand, I may be doing her a grave injustice....

Shall determine matters more clearly when Love on the Highway is run privately late this evening....

The time is 5:02 p.m

* * * *

Towards six o’clock the snow ceased, but it had left a white blanket over Langhorn to a depth of two inches. The broad-shouldered man in the hideous check overcoat and green pork-pie hat blew out his cheeks expressively as he descended from the London train on to Langhorn Station platform.

He carried a big square steel transit case on his shoulder. His solitary travelling companion handed out a suitcase—then placing his yellow brogued feet carefully in the snow he padded towards the station exit.

“Say, feller, where’s a good place for a guy to park himself round here?”

The ticket collector looked up at the red face and inquiring blue eyes. “Matter o’ fact, I’m a bit windy of telling you. A man asked me that last Monday and then I find in the papers that he got murdered. Same fellow: I recognised the description. It sorts of makes one—uneasy.”

“I don’t kill quick,” Pulp Martin grinned. “Tell me.”

“Best place is the ‘Golden Saddle’. But I’m not taking any responsibility for saying it.... Straight up High Street, left-hand side, nearly opposite Lang’orn Cinema.”

“A natural!” Pulp murmured under his breath. “Right opposite the old murder joint. Okay, pal—thanks a lot.”

With the freshly fallen snow the town looked even more back-to-front than normally, the only lights coming from the scarce street lamps, the ‘Golden Saddle’s’ entranceway, and the bulbs under the canopy of the Langhorn Cinema.

Pulp crunched through the snow past the closed shops, glanced momentarily into dark windows and saw confectionery offerings in the streetlamp glow—went past an ironmonger’s, a second-hand stores, a dry cleaner’s, and a newsagents. Then he came to the synthetic steps of the cinema and mounted them to find the doors locked. Putting down the transit case, he thumped the glass.

“What’s the idea?” demanded a girl’s voice.

Pulp turned and saw that what seemed to be a bellying pillar at the side of the steps had opened into a lighted rectangle. A ginger-haired girl was looking out at him, her sharply intelligent face lined by a golden grille.

Pulp came back down the steps, stooped and grinned at her. “So you’re the bird in the gilded cage! Hiya, sugar!”

“What—do you want?” Mary Saunders asked deliberately.

“I’m looking for a big shot named Lincross. I’ve got a film here making a dent in my shoulder. Open up the joint....”

“Oh, you’ll be Mr. Martin! Mr. Lincross said you might arrive while everybody was at tea—except me. That’s why he had the canopy lights left on to guide you. I’ll let you in.” Mary slammed the shield back over the pay-box window.

Pulp waited, the case back on his shoulder, and presently Mary’s slender figure appeared through the glass. She snapped back bolts and stood aside as Pulp came in, towering head and shoulders above her in his revolting overcoat, dropping little hummocks of snow from his shoes.

“Where do I dump this darned case?” he demanded.

Mary looked about her and finally pointed to an alcove. “Drop it there. I’ll tell the manager when he comes back.”

“Okay.” Pulp lowered the case. Then he pushed up his hat on his carroty hair. “Where do I grab a phone, sister? I’ve Black Maria to contact.”

Mary looked up at him blankly. “Who?”

“Black Maria, the detective, who runs Roseway College for Nice Pieces.”

“Good Lord! Miss Black—! I see. You can phone from my pay box there.”

Pulp nodded and squeezed into the little area with some difficulty.

“Maria?” he asked finally. “Yeah—this is Pulp.... I got it here, just like you said. What...? Tell Lincross to phone you when you can start the show? Oke! Me—? I’ll park myself at the ‘Golden Saddle’ across the road.... Huh?”

Mary observed Pulp leaning forward attentively.

“Yeah, I’ll try, Maria. So the guy stopped there, did he? Ticket collector told me that too—an’ I read it in the noospaper.... Find out about him? Okay. You’ll ring me when to join you here? Oke! Be seein’ you.”

Pulp rang off and wriggled himself to his feet. “That’s that, Sugar. When this guy Lincross blows in tell him to phone Maria and say when he can fix a show for that film I’ve dumped. Get it? I’m goin’ over to that joint across the road.”

“I’ll tell him,” Mary promised.

Pulp nodded, his bright blue eyes going up and down the girl’s attractive lines.

“You an’ me should have rung doorbells long ago,” he said ambiguously, then he turned and went out. In three minutes he was ringing for attention at the reception desk of the ‘Golden Saddle’, his travelling case beside him.

An immense woman in black silk appeared presently.

“Can a guy park here, lady?” Pulp asked her briefly.

“Do you mean a car, sir—or yourself?” Mrs. Janet Ainsworth was accustomed to peculiar visitors.

“Meself. I want to grab a site to lie on for a few nights. What’ve you got?”

“I have only one room, sir, I’m afraid. Vacated rather tragically, I’m sorry to say.”

Pulp grinned. “You mean that the guy who had it got bumped off in the movie house across the street, huh? That don’t worry me: I’ll take it.”

While he congratulated himself on his stroke of luck, he signed his name in the register—then he looked at the name above with the same room number. A red ink line was through it.

“Douglas Farrington, eh? That the guy?”

“Yes, Mr.—er—Martín.” Mrs. Ainsworth peered sideways at the register. “The room is quite at liberty now, though. Here is the key. The police have removed all Mr. Farrington’s belongings.... I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all, you know, only you seem to know all about it.”

“You betcha,” Pulp assented, and gave nothing away. “When do we eat?”

“Dinner will be at seven, in the dining-room across there. Mrs. Ainsworth nodded to mahogany doors. “You’ll just have time.”

“Look, lady....” Pulp tuned back to the desk confidentially. “What sort of a guy was this Douglas Farrington? I’ve only read the papers and they don’t tell much. I’m sort of interested, on account of havin’ the same room.”

“I knew very little about him. He went out a great deal. In fact, I believe he only asked two questions while he stayed here. One was to inquire the whereabouts of Millington Terrace—which is about half-a-mile from here—and the other was the whereabouts of Greystone Avenue. That’s about ten minutes’ walk away.”

“Heck!” Pulp picked up his travelling case. “Maybe he was going to print a street guide.... Okay, lady, I’ll be seeing you around....”

* * * *

At ten-thirty that same evening Inspector Morgan called for Maria in his car and drove to the Langhorn Cinema through powdery frozen snow. Entering the foyer together, they found Lincross lounging by the ordinary pay-box, and Pulp Martin smoking an atrociously strong cigarette, prowling up and down in his outsize overcoat.

“Hiya, Maria!” he greeted her, as she came through the doorway. “How’s tricks?”

“Splendid, Mr. Martin, thank you. I see you have already made yourself known to Mr. Lincross— This is Inspector Morgan of the Langhorn Police Force. Inspector, my assistant—Mr. Martin.”

“I don’t reckon to have no deals with the dicks,” Pulp said dubiously, shaking hands nevertheless. “But since Maria thinks you’re on the level it’s okay by me.”

“Thanks....” Morgan gave a grave smile. “Your choice in assistants surprises me, Miss Black,” he murmured.

“Then it needn’t!” Pulp declared flatly. “Maria and me met up in New York together, see—when she figured out a murder—an’ we’ve sort of stayed together on problems ever since. I helped her figger that mystery when that dame got bumped off in her school. An’ I’ll help her again, see!”

Maria gave a little cough and loosened her heavy coat. “Now, about this film—”

“There it is, Miss Black,” Lincross pointed to it. “I’m having Fred Allerton and Dick Alcot come back after they have had some supper to run it for you. They’ll be here shortly.”

“Splendid! Then we can adjourn to the Circle and take our seats in readiness. And incidentally, Mr. Martin, do not forget to remind me about your expenses....”

Lincross led the way up the Circle staircase. “I take it,” he turned to Maria as they came to the summit of the stairs, “that you wish to occupy the same seat as our—unfortunate patron?”

“That is our intention, Inspector, is it not?”

“Be as well,” Morgan agreed heavily, as though he were anxious to avoid argument.

So they filed into Row A, Maria herself taking tbe fatal seat. There was a warm, tobacco-laden haze brooding in the hall, a mephitic hangover from the evening performance. The place had a drab, uninteresting appearance with all the main ceiling lights off and only a single three-hundred-watt bulb giving illumination. Down below the red safety lights were out too.

Maria’s eyes moved gradually to the ornate ventilator spanning the width of the ceiling over her head. Pulp, seated next to her, craned his head back and gazed also.

“Figgerin’ somethin’?” he murmured.

“Yes.” Maria kept her voice low. “I was just thinking how much easier it would be to kill a man by firing from above, through that grating, than it would be to hit him from the screen.”

“You mean to say a guy shot from as far away as the screen and hit the guy in A-11 here? Just like that?”

“It sounds impossible, Mr. Martin, but that is the position as it appears at the moment. But had anybody shot from above, the slug would have entered the top of the man’s skull and not his forehead. However, I am bearing in mind possible amendments to the obvious. As Smith and Glaister remark in their Recent Advances in Forensic Medicine—‘there are a considerable number of variables to be taken into consideration when dealing with wounds caused by projectiles’.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right. But don’t the sawbones who examined the body know the difference in speed between a slug from that screen and one from above?”

“Assuredly—and that is where the ‘variables’ come into it. A slug, or any projectile, can be misleading when it is impeded in its path upon entering the body—as it was here by the skull-bone. Sometimes it is not easy to compute distance from velocity. Anyhow, we’ll deal with that later. Tell me, you are fixed up satisfactorily at the ‘Golden Saddle’?”

“In the dead guy’s very room.”

“Excellent! And have you found anything?”

Pulp shrugged. “Not yet—but I haven’t given it the real cold prowl yet. I will later.” Pulp crushed out his strong-smelling cigarette in the ashtray in front of him. Then there were sounds at the top of the Circle steps and Fred Allerton came hurrying down them.

“We’ll be starting in five minutes, sir,” he said to Lincross. “We’re spooling the film up now.”

“Right,” Lincross assented.

“And remember,” Morgan added, “to start on the exact minute to help timing. Put your sound up on the revolver shots.... Do everything just as you did it last night.”

As Allerton hurried away again, Maria found Pulp whispering in her right ear. “Of course, there’s one thing I found out, only I don’t see that it matters much.” He tugged out a notebook and consulted it. “The dame who runs that hotel said that A-11 had asked two questions while he was there—the quickest way to get to Millington Terrace and Greystone Avenue.”

Maria frowned. “That is most interesting, even though it does not present any profound significance at the moment—”

The light went off suddenly, uncontrolled by the usual slow dimming resistance. There came the soft whine of the electric motor drawing back the curtains in front of the screen, then Love on the Highway boomed forth.

Pulp Martin glanced down at his luminous wristwatch: it read exactly ten to eleven.

Gradually, the story struggled to unfold itself. Apparently it was the history of a local girl making good, Betty Joyce as the local girl essaying a gallant effort with impossible material. In fact she did her best to make good for exactly thirty-five minutes of the film’s running time—then in came the glamorous, streamlined Lydia Fane, amazingly blonde, as the unwelcome lady in the case. At exactly eleven-thirty she shot the hero—with three shots that rang sharply through the theatre as the sound was raised on the projection-room fader.

“So,” Maria said from the gloom, “the man in this seat was shot at exactly eight twenty-five, since—”

“No,” Lincross interrupted. “You are forgetting that we ran the news and trailers first. They took up twelve minutes.”

“Of course!” Maria sounded quite annoyed with herself.

“Then he was shot at eight thirty-seven,” Morgan said deliberately. “That’s all we need to know. We don’t have to suffer this ham acting any more, do we?”

“I think we should....” Maria was watching the picture intently as a close-up of Lydia Fane came into view. “At least until Lydia has finished her little performance. She does not appear again after concluding this scene.”

“For a star,” Morgan commented, “it is a pretty meagre part. I’ll stake my boots that Lydia Fane was billed outside as the star—and inside, too, for that matter.”

“Quite correct, Inspector,” Lincross agreed. “Due to a mix-up in publicity I got her name as top star instead of Betty Joyce. It does happen sometimes. As a matter of fact this film was sent in a hurry, anyway, so it’s no wonder something went wrong.”

The scene faded out and opened into a dance-hall shot. Maria stirred: “If you have had enough, Inspector—?”

“I had enough long ago! Have them finish it, Mr. Lincross.”

Lincross ascended the Circle steps. In a few moments the film suddenly stopped and a solitary light blazed back into being in the ceiling. The curtains returned to their position across the screen.

“Well, we have at least established the time,” Morgan said. “But precious little else!”

“But we did!” Maria protested. “Did you not notice something interesting about Lydia Fane?” She got to her feet as Lincross came down the steps again.

“Mr. Lincross, do you happen to have any publicity stills from this film?”

“Sorry, no,” he apologised. “I returned them this morning—as I always do after a film has finished its run.”

“Then we must examine the film itself—that close-up of Lydia Fane in particular. You see, Inspector, I have now seen this picture twice, and so I have perhaps noted more about it. I think there is a distinct resemblance in the girl’s features to those of the man who died.... You have the photographs of the man with you?”

“So that’s what you wanted them for!”

“Correct. I recalled a similarity of features. And there is something about the right ear....”

“I’ll show you to the winding-room,” Lincross offered, and led the way up the projection-room stairs to where Dick Alcot was just about to run the picture’s most recent reel on to the stripping plate.

“A moment!” Morgan restrained him. “Is this the reel we told you to stop showing? The last one?”

“It is,” Alcot said evenly, and stood aside.

Morgan took the slack up between the wound and unwound portions and held it to the light. Gradually he began to wind until he came to the close-up frames of Lydia Fane. Maria watched him keenly, then searched in her handbag for a strong lens. In silence Lincross and Pulp Martin looked on, then in a few moments Fred Allerton came down from the projection-room and joined the party. His features seemed to tense a little as he saw the examination in progress.

“Here!” Morgan exclaimed suddenly. “Here’s a shot showing her right ear and part of her face....”

He felt in his pocket hurriedly and brought out the dual print of the dead man, one of the photographs taken from almost the same angle.... Maria screwed a watchmaker’s lens into her eye and looked at the film.

Slowly she and Morgan looked first at the film, then at the print, until gradually it became forced on them that there were remarkably similar features in both faces. The noses had the same unusual length and high bridge, the lips the same strength of purpose.

“You notice the right ear, Inspector?” Maria breathed. “The long, narrow lobe and very clear sulcus curve?”

“Right enough.” Morgan lowered the film back to the bench. “It does look as though this girl is some relation of the dead man’s.”

“Of course,” Maria observed, “no two people in the world, not even twins, have identical ears, any more than fingerprints—but certain oddities do reproduce themselves now and again, usually in similar noses, colour of eyes, or similar ears. Here the ear and nose in each case might even belong to the same person, making allowance for smaller size on the part of the woman.”

“Which proves what?” asked Lincross.

“According to Mendel, the biologist,” Maria said, “the characteristics of a father are more often handed down to a daughter than to a son—and, conversely, the same with mother and male offspring. From this I inference that Lydia Fane is the daughter of the man in A-11.”

“It would explain the guy’s anxiety to see the picture, anyway,” Pulp Martin decided. “Can’t think of any other. As a work of art it stank.”

“And since we have no proof that Douglas Farrington was the dead man’s right name—and ‘Lydia Fane’ is probably a stage name anyway—we’ve no clue that way,” Morgan remarked. “I’ll get in touch with the Sunrise Film Corporation and see what can be found out about this girl. A few words with her should give us a shortcut to the killer, eh, Mr. Lincross?”

“Yes...indeed.” He started from a preoccupation. “I was just thinking—what about the weapon which killed the man? Or aren’t you interested in finding it, Inspector?”

“One thing at a time, sir. I’m moving as fast as I can. If there is a weapon it will be found. And so will the motive.”

“You know the motive, Inspector!” Fred Allerton burst out fiercely. “Because I was afraid of that man talking to the police and causing me to lose my job! That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”