The Man Who Killed by Fraser Nixon Page A

“Closed.”
    He was the same barman I’d tipped the night before. In this world it proved impossible to have anything done without laying out the rhino. I held up a dollar bill. “A question.”
    The door unbolted and the barman looked up and down the street, then hustled me in. He was bald and stank of rum.
    â€œIs there a message for Sam, from Pete?” I asked.
    He nodded, went behind the bar, and handed over an envelope. It was the kind used for bank deposits. I tossed him the buck.
    â€œWay out back?”
    He pointed a wavering finger to the kitchen where I pushed my way through piles of dirty plates and empty bottles and opened a gummy door onto an alley filled with rubbish. Outside once more, I tore open the envelope to read: “Loew’s, last show tonight,” written in Jack’s hand.
    Walking in the direction of the theatre I felt elation. He was alive. He’d made it out somehow and was back to his old tricks. There was a chance this could play out. By the time I reached the cinema I was wet through. The marquee advertised The Trap with Lon Chaney, and I blanched. What was I walking into? There was no one at the entrance so I quietly slid into an empty lobby filled with the smell of burnt popcorn. It was eerie. No ticket-tearer or usher. From the atrium I could hear a piano playing. I climbed the stairs to the balcony for a better viewpoint. I’d seen the picture when it first came out. Not nearly as good as The Unholy Three.
    Through thick smoke the projector cast its light. A piano player laboured over suspense. There was quite a bit left to go, another reel or two. Two miners competed over rival claims, the scenario a pastiche out of Jack London or Robert Service. My mind wandered until a woman gasped as Chaney fought a wolf. The finale treated us to a tender moment with a baby and it all ended happily and for the best. With a flourish the house lights raised. Women fingered on gloves and the murmuring audience unclotted. There: down and to the left, two men in hats seated together, smoking. I gave a low Scout whistle. Jack turned around and pointed a finger at me, a cocked gun. With him this second, younger fellow. They came up through the thinning crowd and we met in the aisle.
    â€œThis way,” said Jack.
    We took a short stairwell leading to the projection booth and Jack opened the door to what turned out to be a janitor’s cubby stuffed with torn publicity sheets, creased photographs of movie stars, ripped bunting.
    â€œDo you have a handkerchief?” Jack asked once we’d fought our way in.
    I shook my head.
    â€œThen take mine. I’ll employ another principle.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” asked the other man. He was a pretty blond, shorter than me.
    â€œThe memorable distracting detail,” Jack said.
    The stranger began tying a cloth over his nose and mouth.
    â€œWhat’s the gag?” I asked.
    â€œMoney,” Jack said. “You want some? Bob here does.”
    The third man nodded.
    â€œBob, Mick. Mick, Bob.”
    I looked from Jack to this Bob and back again, reeling my Irish in, that hot surge of fury. Without a by-your-leave or a word of explanation, as though my sentiments or any possible objections were not even in consideration. But it was too late. I couldn’t lose face. I was worse than any Chinaman. Jack handed me the disguise, and I put it on.
    â€œWhat’d I tell you?” Jack said to Bob. “Mick’s our man.”
    â€œI still say it’s a two-man job,” brayed Bob.
    â€œThree’s safer. It’s my caper. Equal shares.”
    Bob gave me a dirty look. I was cutting into his portion. Already I didn’t like him much.
    â€œThere’s the watchman, the manager, and a girl,” Jack said. “Three’s best.”
    â€œThird murderer,” I said.
    â€œNo rough stuff if we can help it. You still have your cannon?”
    I opened my coat.
    â€œHow much