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Below his breath Mr Leadbetter uttered a grunt of impatience as his next-door neighbour got up and stumbled clumsily past him, dropping his hat over the seat in front, and leaning over to retrieve it.
All this at the culminating moment of Not a Sparrow, that all-star, thrilling drama of pathos and beauty that Mr Leadbetter had been looking forward to seeing for a whole week.
The golden-haired heroine, played by Katherine Royal (in Mr Leadbetter’s opinion the leading film actress in the world), was just giving vent to a hoarse cry of indignation:
‘Never. I would sooner starve. But I shan’t starve. Remember those words: not a sparrow falls —’
Mr Leadbetter moved his head irritably from right to left. People! Why on earth people couldn’t wait till the end of a film… And to leave at this soul-stirring moment.
Ah, that was better. The annoying gentleman had passed on and out. Mr Leadbetter had a full view of the screen and of Katherine Royal standing by the window in the Van Schreiner Mansion in New York.
And now she was boarding the train—the child in her arms… What curious trains they had in America—not at all like English trains.
Ah, there was Steve again in his shack in the mountains…
The film pursued its course to its emotional and semireligious end.
Mr Leadbetter breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the lights went up.
He rose slowly to his feet, blinking a little.
He never left the cinema very quickly. It always took him a moment or two to return to the prosaic reality of everyday life.
He glanced round. Not many people this afternoon— naturally. They were all at the races. Mr Leadbetter did not approve of racing nor of playing cards nor of drinking nor of smoking. This left him more energy to enjoy going to the pictures.
Everyone was hurrying towards the exit. Mr Leadbetter prepared to follow suit. The man in the seat in front of him was asleep—slumped down in his chair. Mr Leadbetter felt indignant to think that anyone could sleep with such a drama as Not a Sparrow going on.
An irate gentleman was saying to the sleeping man whose legs were stretched out blocking the way:
‘Excuse me, sir.’
Mr Leadbetter reached the exit. He looked back.
There seemed to be some sort of commotion. A commissionaire… a little knot of people… Perhaps that man in front of him was dead drunk and not asleep…
He hesitated and then passed out—and in so doing missed the sensation of the day—a greater sensation even than Not Half winning the St Leger at 85 to 1.
The commissionaire was saying:
‘Believe you’re right, sir… He’s ill… Why—what’s the matter, sir?’
The other had drawn away his hand with an exclamation and was examining a red sticky smear.
‘Blood…’
The commissionaire gave a stifled exclamation.
He had caught sight of the corner of something yellow projecting from under the seat.
‘Gor blimey!’ he said. ‘It’s a b—А В C.’
Mr Cust came out of the Regal Cinema and looked up at the sky.
A beautiful evening… A really beautiful evening…
A quotation from Browning came into his head.
‘God’s in His heaven. All’s right with the world.’
He had always been fond of that quotation.
Only there were times, very often, when he had felt it wasn’t true…
He trotted along the street smiling to himself until he came to the Black Swan where he was staying.
He climbed the stairs to his bedroom, a stuffy little room on the second floor, giving over a paved inner court and garage.
As he entered the room his smile faded suddenly. There was a stain on his sleeve near the cuff. He touched it tentatively—wet and red—blood…
His hand dipped into his pocket and brought out something—a long slender knife. The blade of that, too, was sticky and red…
Mr Cust sat there a long time.
Once his eyes shot round the room like those of a hunted animal.
His tongue passed feverishly over his lips…
‘It isn’t my fault,’ said Mr Cust.
He sounded as though he were arguing with somebody—a schoolboy pleading to his headmaster.
He passed his tongue over his lips again…
Again, tentatively, he felt his coat sleeve.
His eyes crossed the room to the wash-basin.
A minute later he was pouring out water from the old-fashioned jug into the basin. Removing his coat, he rinsed the sleeve, carefully squeezing it out…
Ugh! The water was red now…
A tap on the door.
He stood there frozen into immobility—staring.
The door opened. A plump young woman—jug in hand.
‘Oh, excuse me, sir. Your hot water, sir.’
He managed to speak then.
‘Thank you… I’ve washed in cold…’
Why had he said that? Immediately her eyes went to the basin.
He said frenziedly: ‘I—I’ve cut my hand…’
There was a pause—yes, surely a very long pause—before she said: ‘Yes, sir.’
She went out, shutting the door.
Mr Cust stood as though turned to stone.
He listened.
It had come—at last…
Were there voices—exclamations—feet mounting the stairs?
He could hear nothing but the beating of his own heart…
Then, suddenly, from frozen immobility he leaped into activity.
He slipped on his coat, tiptoed to the door and opened it. No noises as yet except the familiar murmur arising from the bar. He crept down the stairs…
Still no one. That was luck. He paused at the foot of the stairs. Which way now?
He made up his mind, darted quickly along a passage and out by the door that gave into the yard. A couple of chauffeurs were there tinkering with cars and discussing winners and losers.
Mr Cust hurried across the yard and out into the street.
Round the first corner to the right—then to the left— right again…
Dare he risk the station?
Yes—there would be crowds there— special trains— if luck were on his side he would do it all right…
If only luck were with him…
Inspector Crome was listening to the excited utterances of Mr Leadbetter.
‘I assure you, inspector, my heart misses a beat when I think of it. He must actually have been sitting beside me all through the programme!’
Inspector Crome, completely indifferent to the behaviour of Mr Leadbetter’s heart, said:
‘Just let me have it quite clear? This man went out towards the close of the big picture —’
‘Not a Sparrow—Katherine Royal,’ murmured Mr Leadbetter automatically.
‘He passed you and in doing so stumbled —’
‘He pretended to stumble, I see it now. Then he leaned over the seat in front to pick up his hat. He must have stabbed the poor fellow then.’
‘You didn’t hear anything? A cry? Or a groan?’
Mr Leadbetter had heard nothing but the loud, hoarse accents of Katherine Royal, but in the vividness of his imagination he invented a groan.
Inspector Crome took the groan at its face value and bade him proceed.
‘And then he went out —’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘He was a very big man. Six foot at least. A giant.’
‘Fair or dark?’
‘I—well—I’m not exactly sure. I think he was bald. A sinister-looking fellow.’
‘He didn’t limp, did he?’ asked Inspector Crome.
‘Yes—yes, now you come to speak of it I think he did limp. Very dark, he might have been some kind of half-caste.’
‘Was he in his seat the last time the lights came up?’
‘No. He came in after the big picture began.’
Inspector Crome nodded, handed Mr Leadbetter a statement to sign and got rid of him.
‘That’s about as bad a witness as you’ll find,’ he remarked pessimistically. ‘He’d say anything with a little leading. It’s perfectly clear that he hasn’t the faintest idea what our man looks like. Let’s have the commissionaire back.’
The commissionaire, very stiff and military, came in and stood to attention, his eyes fixed on Colonel Anderson.
‘Now, then, Jameson, let’s hear your story.’
Jameson saluted.
‘Yes sir. Close of the performance, sir. I was told there was a gentleman taken ill, sir. Gentleman was in the two and fourpennies, slumped down in his seat like. Other gentlemen standing around. Gentleman looked bad to me, sir. One of the gentlemen standing by put his hand to the ill gentleman’s coat and drew my attention. Blood, sir. It was clear the gentleman was dead—stabbed, sir. My attention was drawn to an А В C railway guide, sir, under the seat. Wishing to act correctly, I did not touch same, but reported to the police immediately that a tragedy had occurred.’
‘Very good. Jameson, you acted very properly.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Did you notice a man leaving the two and fourpennies about five minutes earlier?’
‘There were several, sir.’
‘Could you describe them?’
‘Afraid not, sir. One was Mr Geoffrey Parnell. And there was a young fellow, Sam Baker, with his young lady. I didn’t notice anybody else particular.’
‘A pity. That’ll do, Jameson.’
‘Yes sir.’
The commissionaire saluted and departed.
‘The medical details we’ve got,’ said Colonel Anderson. ‘We’d better have the fellow that found him next.’
A police constable came in and saluted.
‘Mr Hercule Poirot’s here, sir, and another gentleman.’ Inspector Crome frowned.
‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘Better have ‘em in, I suppose.’
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