Sixpence for a Slaughter (eBook) (Illustrated Cover)

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Chapter 1
Wednesday, 15th October 1930

Silver light flickered across Roy Grainger’s pudgy face as he surveyed the auditorium of the Regal Picture Palace. He allowed himself a small smile, released now the panic was over.

The day had been going well until the late afternoon show when the final reel of The Broadway Melody got mangled in the machine ten minutes before the end of the picture. Grainger had had to refund the grumbling patrons and then scramble to find another film to show for the evening trade. He’d telephoned around the local cinemas to see if he could borrow a recent release but to no avail. So, he’d resorted to searching the old stock racks in the projection room, much to the chagrin of Ivor Topling, the projectionist, who complained he messed up his film tins. Together, they’d dug out an old Chaplin picture, and Grainger had pasted a ‘CANCELLED’ banner over The Broadway Melody poster on the front of the cinema. And then he’d had the unenviable job of rooting through all the junk in the alley, thrown out a few years before and never cleared away, searching desperately for a Chaplin film poster that hadn’t been reduced to pulp.

It had turned out all right in the end, he thought, as he ran his eyes over the seats. The house was about a third full, a big improvement on recent weeks when the films had been playing to an almost empty auditorium. His pleasure had diminished when he’d overheard a few patrons say they’d tried to get in at the Majestic in Craynebrook only to be turned away because the house was full. That was what the Regal had become, Grainger mused. A second choice. A last resort. Oh, how he wished he had the Majestic to manage. Then he’d show the bosses what he could really do. The Majestic seated two hundred and fifty, and he’d fill it every night, he was sure of it. He’d have the latest films as soon as they came over from America, and all the big star vehicles, too, not the third-rate pictures he had to show starring actors no one had ever heard of.

Grainger sighed as he toed the carpet at his feet, catching the rim of his sole in a hole that was just one of many. The Majestic wasn’t a fleapit like the Regal, either. It didn’t have damp in the walls or dodgy plumbing in the lavatories. It didn’t have plaster falling off the ceiling or carpeting fit only for the rubbish heap. The basic refurbishment of the Regal two years earlier hadn’t included replacing the carpet, the owners of the cinema deeming it good for another five years at least. But when the lights were on, it was all too obvious how frayed and filthy it was. Even the pattern was disappearing beneath the dirt. It smelt too, especially when it was damp, and he’d taken to spraying eau de toilette around the auditorium before opening in an effort to disguise the smell. He shook his head, remembering the telephone conversation the week before when he’d asked for the carpet to be replaced. ‘There’s no money for new carpets, Grainger,’ his boss had told him. ‘Especially not with the takings down this last quarter.’

‘That’s not my fault,’ Grainger had felt like saying, but held his tongue, knowing he’d only land himself in the muck if he told his boss the truth as to why the takings were down. It wasn’t just that the Regal was most people’s second choice of cinema. The takings were also down because kids had been letting their friends in through the side door when the staff weren’t looking, so it could be that as many as five children had been getting in for the price of one. He’d soon put a stop to this thievery, ordering the staff to be on the lookout for kids trying it on. But now that the kids knew they couldn’t get in free, they were turning their backs on the Regal completely and going over to Craynebrook where they could see the latest films. Time was when Grainger could fill the Regal all day long on a Saturday with children, but those days were long gone.

His mood didn’t improve as he contemplated what the absence of the usherette in the auditorium would do for the night’s takings. Lucy Simpson had telephoned fifteen minutes before the doors opened to say she was ill and couldn’t come in to work. Grainger had done his best to be sympathetic as the young woman coughed and spluttered down the line, but all he could think of was how few chocolates and cigarettes were likely to sell without Lucy’s persuasive smile and patter. The cinema needed all the extra money it could get, and she usually managed to empty her tray by the end of the evening, topping up the cinema’s coffers considerably. He hoped Lucy would be well enough to return to work tomorrow.

Grainger pulled open one of the auditorium doors by its brass handle and stepped out into the foyer. He tutted in annoyance when he saw it was empty, and with a determined jutting forward of his shoulders, made his way into the private area of the cinema.

Yanking open the door to the staffroom, Grainger glared at a man in a doorman’s coat slouching in a low armchair. A cigarette jutted out from the corner of his mouth, and he barely looked up from the horse-racing periodical he was reading. A dark-haired woman dressed in a plain blouse and checked skirt stirred a cup of tea at a small wobbly table and looked at Grainger enquiringly.

‘I thought so,’ Grainger said, nodding vigorously as his fists curled on his hips. ‘I’ve told you two about this before. You’re not to leave the foyer unattended.’

‘But the picture’s started, Mr Grainger,’ Rita Amstell protested with a careless shrug of her shoulders.

‘That’s no excuse. Customers could still come in.’

George Cordell puffed out a cloud of smoke and turned a page in his magazine. ‘No one comes in this late.’

His nonchalance infuriated Grainger. ‘It’s this kind of laxity which meant those brats could let their friends in for free. Do you have any idea how much money was lost through that little caper of theirs?’

George didn’t know and didn’t care. ‘They can’t do that anymore, not now the side door’s locked. And anyone coming in the front is going to pay for their ticket.’

‘Even so,’ Grainger sighed, the inclination of his head acknowledging the truth of this, ‘I’d appreciate it if you would return to your posts.’ He gestured towards the door.

‘All right, Mr Grainger,’ George smiled. ‘When I’ve finished my smoke.’

Grainger glared at him, aware of Rita trying to hide a smile behind her teacup. ‘Very well. But don’t take too long about it.’ He turned on his heel and strode out, knowing, just knowing, they were laughing at him behind his back.

He thundered up the foyer stairs to his office, but halted on the landing outside the Projection Room door and sniffed. With an annoyed pursing of his thin lips, he threw the door open.

‘Good grief!’ he cried, waving his hand in front of his face. ‘How many times must I tell you, you cannot smoke in here?’

A scrawny man in his early forties twisted on his stool beside one of the two projector machines that took up most of the room. ‘It’s just the one, Mr Grainger,’ Ivor Topling said, showing him his smouldering cigarette.

‘I don’t care if it’s one or a hundred. Don’t you realise how dangerous a naked flame is in here? What does that say?’ Grainger pointed to the words painted in red block capitals on the wall above the projector windows. ‘No Smoking. That’s not there just for fun, Ivor. The celluloid is highly flammable. Just one little spark and the whole place could go up in flames.’

‘There’s no need to worry about that. I’m very careful.’

‘You can never be careful enough. If I catch you smoking in here again, you’ll be out. Is that clear? There’s plenty who would be glad of this job, I can tell you.’

‘It won’t happen again, Mr Grainger,’ Ivor said resignedly and nodded at the nearest machine. ‘The reel will need changing in a minute. I better get it ready.’

‘Yes, you better had.’ Grainger gave one last demonstrative wave of his hand to clear the smoke, tugged his suit jacket down in a show of annoyance and left the projection room, closing the door behind him and climbing the last few stairs up to his office.

Sitting down at his desk, Grainger took a letter out from the top drawer, set it down on the blotter and studied it with unease. He had been wondering how to respond to it for most of the day, ever since it had arrived that morning. What could he say to the writer? Grainger wondered unhappily. He understood the difficulty his friend was in – he didn’t imagine it was easy to face unexpected unemployment – and although he didn’t like to let a friend down, he was at a loss as to how he could help. There weren’t any vacancies at the Regal, and though he may threaten Ivor with the sack, there was no denying the projectionist was very good at his job and that he’d be difficult to replace with someone as experienced with the machines. There was nothing for it; he had to reply saying he was sorry but there was nothing he could do.

Grainger took a pad of writing paper from his drawer and picked up his fountain pen, slowly unscrewing the cap as he considered how to begin. He decided on the usual pleasantries, then moved on to the meat of the matter.

You have my sincerest sympathies for the predicament you find yourself in and I wish I could be of some help. But unfortunately, I have no vacancies, nor am likely to have. And besides, for a man of your undoubted talents, I’m sure you will be able to find much more suitable work elsewhere. As my wife is always saying to me, something will turn up.

Grainger nibbled the end of his pen. He supposed that would be enough – he didn’t want the letter to be a long one – but he ought to make a propitiatory gesture, soften the blow, so to speak. A thought struck him, and he set his pen to the paper once more.

But I do want to do what I can for you, so from now on, wherever you want to sit in the house, you can have the seats at the lowest ticket price. I hope this helps even a little.

Grainger signed his name with a flourish, blotted the ink, folded the page, and stuffed it into an envelope. Adding the address, he set it aside for posting later.
He nodded in satisfaction. It was done, and now he thought about it, he’d been more than generous, especially with the takings being down. Grainger reached for his pipe and lit it, listening to the muffled sounds of the film’s musical accompaniment coming through the carpeted floorboards.