“Right enough,” Billy agreed promptly. “I remember that bit, too. Crafty bit of work. The track didn’t speak. It just made itself up into all sorts of designs, and each design was meant to be a word—”
“That is partly right,” Sid assented slowly, his technical mind sorting things out. “What really happened was that the sound track was photographed down the middle of the film as well as being at the side in the ordinary way. Every note or sibilance of the voice makes a design in the track, and every one is different. They look like flowers, trees, branches, zigzags of all sorts. Yes...that’s right.”
The faraway look returned to Sid’s face. Billy’s expression was puzzled, but interested.
“Might I say so what?” he asked presently.
“Never mind—just a thought I got.” Sid was still pondering. “Just get on with your job, you, little loafer. I’ll go and carbon up ready for this afternoon.”
“I’ve done that already.”
“You have? Oh well, I’ll go up into the box anyway.”
Sid left the winding room with his heavy, ungainly movements. When he reached the projection room he went into the separate steel-walled non-sync department. From the cupboard where spare valves were kept he took out one of a number of textbooks. They were his own property, the study of which at odd times had made him such a good technician. Ultimately he had hopes of becoming a chief projectionist in a really lush cinema.
“Sounds make patterns,” he muttered, his brows down. “No doubt of that. And if that pattern I found in the dust was not made by sound I’ll chuck myself off the fire escape!”
He turned the pages of the textbook and stopped when he came to the chapter on Patterns Made By Sound. There was a full page of geometrical designs, some of them looking rather like snowflakes. He read the context carefully:
The varied designs can all be produced by drawing a violin bow across the edge of a fixed plate on which some fine powder or sand has been sprinkled. The plate is of thin metal. Each plate is attached at its centre to a stand, and when the bow is drawn rapidly across the edge, parts of the sand vibrate into the designs shown. The higher the vibrations per second, the more intricate—and often the more lovely—becomes the resultant design. Even a bell ringing near the sand can produce designs, without recourse to a violin bow.1
Sid scratched the back of his thick neck and contemplated the designs again. None of them resembled the design he had seen. These, by comparison, were simple. The intricacy of the dust designs had been the main thing that had impressed him.
“But how?” he asked himself, putting the book back in the cupboard. “The still-frame hasn’t been in here for more than a fortnight, and in that time we haven’t had any film which contained any particularly loud music, the only thing likely to produce a design like that. No musicals...or anything.”
His memory returned to the screws, which had moved from one end of the frame to the other and left a trail in the designed dust as they had travelled. His perplexity deepened.
“Must have been vibration...somehow,” he mused. “But there just isn’t vibration up here—not that intense, anyway.”
He gave up thinking about it for the time being, bat the: matter returned to his mind during the matinee.
“Vibration,” he repeated to himself. “Vibration which moved screws and drew complicated designs in the dust. Same sort of vibration might have brought down that globe that hit and killed Vera....”
At the moment be was absorbed by the pure mechanics. The thought of a deliberately produced vibration had not even occurred to him. But he certainly had not been satisfied with the opinion of the experts at the inquest, and he felt that quite by chance he had happened on a new line of enquiry. In fact he—
“I say,” Billy interrupted, lacing the machine that Terry usually ran. “What’s supposed to be the matter with this machine?”
“Matter?” Sid sounded vague. He found it hard to bring his thoughts back to everyday things.
“Yes—matter! Terry’s been messing about with this old cement mixer for two nights, hasn’t he? What’s he supposed to have done with it? Anyway, what was wrong with it in the first place—or is it a top secret?”
“I never really asked him,” Sid answered, shrugging. “He said something about the take-up being wrong. Seems to be okay now so he must have fixed it.”
Billy muttered something, but Sid did not hear him. His thoughts had been deflected on to something else. A take-up repair would not demand two nights’ work. Hardly more than ten minutes. Must have been something much more complicated wrong with the machine. Anyway, it seemed to be running all right now.
“Billy....” Sid looked at the youth as he carboned up the arc. “Have we had any particularly noisy films during the last fortnight? Advertisements or features? Brassy noisy interval or overture music?”
“Not as far as I know.” Billy did not even hesitate. “Most of the stuff we’ve been running has been all talk and no sense. Only decent thing I’ve seen in the last fortnight was that reel about the bathing beauties. There was one shot which—”
“Can you remember,” Sid interrupted, “if the sound has been extra loud at any time?”
“I’m not up here much to be able to judge.”
“Mmm, I forgot that.”
“As far as I know,” Billy added, “the sound has been stuck around fifty Jezebels.”
“Decibels you dimwit! Get yourself educated!”
“Okay, I’ll consider it— Where’s all this leading, anyhow? Who the heck cares what sort of films we’re running so long as we’re paid for ’em?”
“I care. I’ve something on my mind.”
“First time, I’ll bet.” Then Billy hopped out and slammed the spring door before reprisals could be taken.
“The vibration couldn’t come from one of the pictures we’ve had,” Sid said, recapitulating to himself. “Yet, if it was a vibration it’s possible that it might have happened at the same time as that globe dropping on Vera. Nothing like vibration to bring down a globe.... What were we running at the time?”
His mind went back over the fatal evening and he frowned more than ever.
“That reminds me!” He pressed the button that rang the bell in the winding room below. Billy poked his head round the door in a moment or two.
“No you don’t, apeman!” he said warily. “You’ve only sent for me so you can beat the tar out of me! I’m not that crazy!”
“Stop clowning for a moment and come here,” Sid ordered. “I want to ask you something.”
Billy shuffled in and kept his distance. Sid eyed him.
“Was that Fitz Travelogue we had at the back of last week a good copy?” Sid asked.
“Good? Sure it was! Technicolor usually is. Why?”
“I’m wondering why it broke on Saturday night.”
Billy rubbed the end of his nose. “Hmm, so it did, now you come to mention it. Terry played heck with me for not checking the film properly. Queer ain’t the word for it. There wasn’t anything to check with no joints in it. It was a plain whiz through, as far as I was concerned.”
Billy left the box again as Sid made no answer. Mechanically, Sid opened the top spool-box and looked at the turning reel. It had only travelled half way yet: he had plenty of time to think before the changeover.
And the harder he thought the more complicated the problem seemed to become. Billy had been right, of course. A film without a joint in it could not break—and certainly not before it got to the top sprocket. Lower down—well, perhaps, but even then it was unlikely.
Yet Terry had said it had broken. He had made a grab at it and so avert trouble—so he had said—and he had mashed his first and second fingers in the process. It had been a fool thing to do. A projectionist of Terry’s experience must have known that grabbing at a film when it had apparently broken could do no earthly good, not with the break so high up. Once snapped above the top sprocket the film had no chance of rethreading itself. A tem
porary shutdown was the only answer.
Yet Terry had said....
“Something queer,” Sid muttered, shaking his head.
And that broken piece of tumbler? Had it been the remains of a lemonade glass? If not, there remained one alternative—and after the matinee Sid looked for the alternative. He went into the washroom and looked for the tumbler that was usually on the shelf over the washbowl.
When he found it was missing his thoughts came to a full stop. They had to, mainly because he did not dare to believe the disquieting speculation that was trying to take shape in his mind.
* * * * * * *
When Sid arrived at the cinema next morning he found Terry looking extremely cheerful after his day off in the fresh air.
“There might be some news about those new houselight fixtures this morning,” he said. “Once they come we’ve a long job on our hands, Sid, changing the old fixtures. Be a good thing done, though. Funny how a life has to be lost before anything sensible is arrived at. I’ve given warning about those heavy fixtures dozens of times.”
“Seems to me,” Sid said slowly, “that there’s nothing particularly funny about a life being lost, no matter how you look at it.”
Terry glanced at him curiously. “Still got Vera on your mind, eh? Well, I can’t say I blame you. Incidentally, it’s her funeral this morning isn’t it? What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“But—”
“I said nothing!” Sid snapped, his eyes brightening. “I just couldn’t bear seeing her put down.”
He was silent for a moment or two, then he played the first move in a game he had thought out for himself. He said:
“Kathy Gatty told me yesterday that we’ve got resonance in the hall speakers.”
In actual fact Kathy Gatty had never said anything of the sort, but since this was her day off she couldn’t be asked for verification. Sid knew it. His main wish was to examine the loudspeakers behind the screen and see if there was any possible reason for a mysterious vibration. He could not investigate without a plausible reason and his chief’s sanction, so—
“Resonance?” Terry repeated, frowning. “Queer! There ought not to be, unless a chain’s come loose.”
“I thought of having a look this morning,” Sid said.
“Okay. Go to it.”
Sid turned to go, then he hesitated. “Oh, by the way. Do you know where the tumbler is out of the washroom? I had to make a paper cup yesterday when I wanted a drink.”
“Tumbler?” Terry stared for a moment, then he gave a start. “Oh yes, the tumbler! I broke it a while back—on the bowl. I intended to replace it and then forgot. Sorry about that.”
“Okay. Just as long as we know....” Sid went on his way, satisfied on one point at least. Terry had been responsible for the missing tumbler, and had admitted it. But had it been broken on the bowl of the washroom? That piece of glass in the Circle....
Terry stood frowning for a moment or two after Sid had gone. The bit about the tumbler had caught him off guard, yet he felt that his reply had been adequate. His mind veered off into speculations for a moment, then returned to the everyday. He glanced at Billy, industriously checking a trailer film.
“Have good shows yesterday?” Terry inquired.
“Oh, sure! Couldn’t be anything else with me rewinding, could there? Only thing was, I couldn’t get much out of Sid.” Billy gave a sigh. “He was about as cheerful as a duck waiting for a cloudburst.”
“That’s normal with him, and he’s been worse since Vera was killed.”
Billy tested a film joint and nodded to himself. Then he went on talking.
“I don’t think it was Vera he was bothering about,” he said. “He hardly mentioned her. He seemed to be thinking a lot about Walt Disney’s Fantasia.”
Terry gazed blankly. “Fantasia? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Search me! You’d better ask Sid. I always thought he was a bit mental: now I’m sure of it.”
Billy finished his job and then went clattering up the steps to clean out the projection room. Terry stood where he was, his eyes hard as be pondered.
Fantasia? What conceivable reason could Sid have for remembering a film as old as that?
Finally, Terry threw the matter on one side. Did not signify anyway. Sid must have been talking ‘shop’. Nothing more in it than that—
“You there, Terry?” It was the voice of Mark Turner at the base of the projection room steps.
“Yes, Mr. Turner.” Terry moved quickly. “Coming.”
He hurried from the winding room and caught Mark Turner as he descended the main staircase. In silence they both went into the office. As a rule, Turner was calm and pleasant, with a friendly smile. Today there was a difference. He looked exceptionally annoyed.
“Terry, I’ve had a letter from the Zenith Distributors,” tie said curtly, sitting down at his roll top desk. “They’ve sent me a complaint that that Fitzpatrick Travelogue we ran in the latter half of last week is ruined. They say the sound track is one mass of scratches and it’s impossible to run it at any cinema again.... What’s the explanation?”
Turner indicated the letter in question. It lay in the centre of the blotter. Terry remained calm though be looked worried. Things were working out just as be had anticipated they would.
“You mean ruined all through?” he asked, conveying the impression that he was trying to think of a reason for the mishap.
“From start to finish, so they say. It’s going to cost me something like fifty pounds to have a new copy made—or rather the renters will get it made and charge it to me. That sort of thing doesn’t improve one’s profits, Terry. What have you to say about it?”
“There’s only one thing I can think of,” Terry replied at length. “As you know, I stayed behind for a couple of nights last week to try and fix up my machine—Number One. It’s been running badly on the take-up. I thought I’d fixed it since the matinee ran okay on Saturday, and there seemed to be no trouble on the Saturday night—except for that break. But the sound was okay—”
“It was all right in the hall, certainly,” Turner agreed. “I was listening to it. You remember I buzzed you when the Travelogue broke. How did that happen, by the way?”
“I’ve no idea. I imagine it was a mechanical defect.” Terry contemplated the plaster on his damaged fingers. “I can only think the machine needs an overhaul, or something. Since the sound was all right in the hall when we ran the film, it can only mean that the track got scratched once it had got below the sound gate. That’s perfectly obvious. And that seems to me like take-up trouble.”
“I see.” Turner wished he were more familiar with the technicalities. “Well, you’re the chief. What’s the answer?”’
“I’m afraid there isn’t one,”’ Terry said deliberately. “The renters are in the right, of course, and our trouble is mechanical.”
“What about Dixon, the service engineer? Why don’t we get him to look at the machine? This trouble may happen again and then we’ll be in a real mess—”
“I’m pretty sure it won’t happen again, sir. Whatever the trouble was, it hasn’t recurred. We’ve run perfect shows since Sunday night.”
Turner thought it out, stroking his underlip.
“Queer,” he muttered. “Decidedly queer. There have been no complaints about the feature picture, which ran after the Travelogue. Seems that the trouble was just on that one Travelogue film. In fact, we seemed to pick up a whole load of trouble about that time. What with the film breaking, then the houselight coming down and killing Miss Holdsworth....”
“Yes, sir,” Terry agreed, his face rather gaunt. He vaguely wondered if Mark Turner were piecing things together.
Evidently he was not. He was merely recanting. In any case, he had not the technical knowledge to fit things into place.
“All right, I’ll have to pay,” he said finally. “And for heavens’ sake be more careful in future.”
“Walking home with me at lunchtime?” she asked, smiling.
“Sure—be glad to. Seen Sid?”
“Sid? Why, yes.” Helen jerked her head. “He went down the gangway to go backstage. About fifteen minutes ago. Haven’t seen him since.”
“Thanks.”
Terry’s mouth tightened at the corners. It ought not to take anything like fifteen minutes to discover if the speakers had a loose chain. Irritated, he strode down the gangway and finished his journey at the little door low down on the right hand side of the proscenium.
At the end of the backstage passage were the four steps leading to the stage behind the screen. Here, amidst swinging electric bulbs, surrounded by iron scaffolding, huge speakers, felting, and fuse-boxes, Sid was poking around with his torch. At every movement dust rose in fine clouds.
“What the hell are you doing all this time?” Terry demanded. “Takes you long enough to locate the fault, doesn’t it!”
“I haven’t found it, and it’s got me worried,” Sid replied, not in the least disturbed.
“You’re not likely to find it, either,” Terry snapped. “Kathy Gatty must have been imagining things. I can tell you right now that there’s nothing wrong behind here. Come on upstairs; we’ve work to do.”
“Okay. You’re the boss.”
Sid had no objections to leaving. He had satisfied himself that there was not the remotest sign here of anything that could have produced vibration. Since that was so, it meant that the vibration had somehow been produced when the show was running. He had not the vaguest idea how: the thought was simply there, awaiting development.
1. With acknowledgements to Charles Ray’s Popular Science.
CHAPTER EIGHT
VISIT TO LONDON
Moving clumsily, Sid followed Terry’s tall figure out of the narrow passage and into the theatre. They walked up the gangway side by side.
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