The Man Who Killed by Fraser Nixon Page B

do you reckon?” I asked.
    â€œThere’s a whole week’s receipts on a Sunday. Maybe more. We’ll see. You ready? I’m Pete, you’re Sam and Ed. Got the rope?”
    Bob took a big coil out from his coat and looped it over his shoulder. Jack checked his wristwatch.
    â€œHalf-past ten.”
    He opened the door to near-blackness softened only by the red of an exit sign. I went cold with fear. This had the taste of desperation to it, that familiar flavour of fear. My hair steamed as we made our way down a steep flight. Ahead of us was an illumination, a door ajar. Jack eased it open, revealing a man in sleeve garters and a bowtie dipping a pen nib into a bottle of ink. Before him sat a ledger. Jack clucked his tongue and the man looked up.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    Jack raised a finger to his lips.
    â€œWho are you, sir? This theatre’s closed.”
    Bob and I entered the office, guns in hands.
    â€œGood Lord. What is the meaning of this?”
    The man snatched off his pince-nez and began to stand. He had pluck, I’d give him that.
    â€œDo not test our resolve, sir. We are here to relieve you of your pecuniaries.”
    Jack parodied the manager’s Southern drawl creditably.
    â€œBut sir, you cannot. I must insist you disengage!”
    â€œI will ask you to be so kind as to hold your tongue. We desire the contents of the safe,” Jack said. “Samuel, Edward, locate the watchman and the lady. Take care that the doors have been locked and search for any telephones, like so.” Jack picked up the Bakelite machine on the manager’s desk and ripped the cord from the wall, then dumped the disabled works on the floor. At this, the manager stood a moment, then sat again suddenly, pale, confused. Bob left the office and I followed.
    â€œI’ll check the lobby,” I said. “Try the back exit for the guard.”
    Bob slipped off, saying nothing. I headed down a passageway, my stomach sinking away, bowels frozen. The hall opened on the shadowy lobby, where an older woman in a cardigan fussed behind the candy counter. I walked to the doors and checked that they were locked from within. Turning my way, the woman went saucer-eyed. I caught my own reflection in a dark mirror, a menacing masked figure with a gun. I’d do whatever I said, for fear of worse.
    â€œCome with me, madam,” said I.
    Some of Jack’s mock gallantry had worn off on me. At present Bob was an unknown factor but seemed a cold, bloodthirsty, greedy little bastard. What we were engaged in was a felony. Should something go wrong, it would be the rope for us. Trust Jack, I reminded myself. Why? Because you always have, you fool.
    â€œWhere’s the ’phone?” I growled.
    Nothing. She was frozen. Get her out of here. I grabbed at her elbow and steered her backstage towards the office. My captive moved jerkily, like an automaton. We ran into Bob, lashing a uniformed geezer’s hands to a ladder. He stuffed a wadded playbill into the watchman’s mouth. Quid ipsos custodes custodiet indeed. Pre-medical grounding in the Classics is a requisite. Some Latin, less Greek, like the Bard. Remembered peppering my Juvenal with accents, playing the Eton swot for the Pater. He watched, bearded and severe as Jehovah, never sparing the rod as I tripped over the dative case. Jack slung the bat with ease, another of his gifts, beaming at our schoolmaster, never an apple polisher but genuinely likeable. People took a shine to Jack, I never knew why. The manager had probably already opened a bottle of sourmash, the two damning reconstruction and toasting the immortal memory of Robert E. Lee. I poked the woman into the room and Bob followed. The woman cried: “John!”
    â€œMary?”
    Bob sniggered. I almost agreed. Who were these people?
    â€œMay I assume that you two enjoy the sanctity of the marital bond?” asked Jack.
    The manager choked.
    â€œNow see here, you