Chapter Text
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The thief’s eyes have adjusted well to the darkness. There is a tiny amount of light coming from the emergency exit door signs that tints parts of the vast hall an eerie shade of pale green. But he knows his way around and silently picks the lock of the box that holds the leverage mechanism. The thief presses a button and the chandelier lowers in utter silence. The ancient monstrosity is heavy but the mechanism works smoothly. It is so quiet that the thief’s own breathing is loud in his ears, so he stops immediately when he hears the staircase creaking. Cursing under his breath, he quickly pushes the “up” button, hoping the mechanism will move fast enough to get the chandelier back up. He closes and locks the box again. Someone taps the light switch in the foyer and groans annoyed when it doesn’t work. Steps echo faintly in the short corridor leading towards the movie hall. Just in time the thief ducks between the rows of seats when suddenly the lights in the movie hall flash on. Peaking around an arm rest, the thief sees the old geezer staring up at the chandelier that hangs unmoving under the ceiling just like before. “Time to vanish for now”, the thief thinks, “Just my dumb luck to be interrupted. I’ve been so close! Now I need to come back another night.”
*************
“Sherlock, Sherlock!”
John called out while bounding up the stairs to their flat. Albeit being a bit out of breath, his voice was loud enough to carry up all the way into the living room where John was sure Sherlock would still be sulking on the sofa and only wrapped in a sheet. Exactly like John had left him four hours ago.
“I’ve got a case for you, Sherlock!”
John expected to hear some “excited detective noises” as he called Sherlock’s joyous exclamations when he learned about mutilated corpses and locked-room conundrums but everything remained silent.
Odd.
Had Sherlock gone out after all?
John’s flatmate had been in an awful mood this Sunday morning, partly due to lack of sleep but mostly due to lack of cases. In his desperation to find some entertainment for his volatile brain and to avoid being bored to death, Sherlock had resorted to another series of his ludicrous mould culture experiments yesterday.
Or in this case – John chuckled over the involuntary pun – rather luminous experiments with a bioluminescent slime mould Sherlock had collected near Dewer’s Hollow the day after they had solved the case of the “Hounds of Baskerville” and had also convicted Dr Frankland of murder. Or rather would have convicted if Dr Frankland had not gotten himself blown up in the Baskerville mine field.
Sherlock had claimed the mould was a novel species and likely to have developed after being continually exposed to the hallucinogenic gas Dr Frankland had used in the hollow to drive Henry Knight mad.
John had had very ambiguous feelings about taking a likely mutant and potentially dangerous new species home to 221b without taking any steps to prevent biohazard risks but – after some token grumbling - had relented.
John also had preferred not to think about the actual reason why he had relented so quickly as well. Whether it had been for Sherlock’s plea “Can I take a sample home, John? Please?” knowing full well that he was unabashedly being manipulated by Sherlock’s wetly glistening puppy eyes. Or whether it had been the siren call of potential danger lurking on the kitchen table.
Anyway, it had been Sherlock lurking about the kitchen last night, conducting all sorts of measurements in the dark. “You’ll ruin your eyes, Sherlock, staring into the microscope like that.” John had dared to mention but Sherlock had banned him from entering the kitchen last evening.
“But bioluminescence!” Sherlock had shouted, full of excitement. “My eyes just need to adjust! Final proof if they’re a new species of Eumycetozoa this night!”
The way Sherlock had spoken in exclamation marks only had told John to better leave him to his slime mould for the big reveal.
Sherlock had been able to occupy himself an astonishingly long period of five days with getting the mould to grow and reading up about the latest developments in mycology and slime mould genetics. A topic which in John’s opinion was so boring it could make him cry. But Sherlock had been brimming with positive energy even when there had been no new case to solve in the meantime, so all had been fine.
Until this very Sunday morning.
It had taken John exactly one glance at Sherlock being slumped on the sofa and haphazardly wrapped in a sheet to know that the discovery of a new species had not happened.
“The mould betrayed me, John!” Sherlock had whined as soon as John had turned up in the living room, contorting in a snake-like way to be able to look at John with the expression of a toddler whose ice lolly had just fallen into the sandpit.
John had heroically fought his urge to laugh at the sight and managed to choke out “Such a shame, really!” while quickly turning away to hide his face and the grin he could no longer repress from spreading.
“It’s already been found in the New Forest three years ago!”
Judging from the muffled sound of Sherlock’s voice, he had turned back around and was facing the cushions. Which was an undoubtful sign about an epic sulk to have set in.
“Is the kitchen safe to make tea?”
“I don’t want tea.”
John huffed. “Yes, I know, but I want some. So?”
“So what?”
Dear God, John thought, Sherlock is absolutely insufferable when he’s in sulking mode. He decided to head to Speedy’s instead.
“So, I’m off to Speedy’s for breakfast and then I’ll watch the Sunday matinee.”
“How boring.”
Suit yourself, John pondered, just sulk away and maybe when I’m back from the cinema at noon you’ll be in a better mood. There’s still hope.
“Sherlock, you there?”
John called out once again when he arrived at the door to the living room. Still no answer. But there on the sofa was the familiar heap of a sulking sheet-clad Sherlock. His wild curls were pressed against his scalp from wearing the headphones that usually adorned the bison’s head on the wall, his eyes were closed and his chest moved in the peaceful way of someone being sound asleep.
John smiled at the endearing sight and then took a careful peek into the kitchen. He gasped out loud. Expecting to be confronted by utter chaos on the kitchen table, John opened the sliding door further to look dumbfounded at a clinically sanitized kitchen. No experiment devices were to be seen anywhere, even the microscope had been put away under its hood onto one of the cupboards.
Apparently, Sherlock had taken full vengeance on the slime moulds for their irredeemable betrayal of being an already known species by eradicating every last shred of their boring existence.
The mould had had its good cause after all. John chuckled.
He’ll simply let Sherlock sleep, the man – Sherlock would say his transport - definitely needed the break. The case could wait that long, nothing time sensitive had ensued. John mused how he would name it for his blog. “The Casablanca Conundrum” maybe?
Given that Sherlock would deign to take the case in the first place. John had only promised Peter that he would talk to his detective flatmate about the break-in in a locked room. Locked cinema. Maybe the lack of a corpse would make it to pedestrian for Sherlock. As well as the lack of anything having been stolen. But the circumstances of what had happened were rather mysterious.
Making tea in a perfectly clean kitchen proved to be a whole new experience. While John let the tea steep, he hummed the title melody of Live and Let Die, the movie he had seen at the Casablanca. The repertory cinema had specialised in showing old classics and the Sunday matinees were currently dedicated to the James Bond series. A rare treat that John could not refuse. Watching the movies on telly was fine but seeing them on the big screen was on a completely different level of enjoyment.
When he had dated Sarah, she had introduced John to this cinema. It was an insider’s tip, but very successful and well-known in its own happy bubble of dedicated cinema-goers and movie enthusiasts.
John poured himself a cuppa and sat down at the table. He opened the Sunday newspaper he had bought on his way back and delved into the sports headlines.
Two cups of tea and about 45 minutes later, a creased and bleary-eyed Sherlock entered the kitchen. He dragged part of the sheet behind him like a bridal’s train, padding along on naked feet and throwing an envious glance at John’s empty mug.
“You’re back,” Sherlock sniffed, “without waking me.”
John hummed an affirmative.
“You made tea.” A petulant cadence crept into Sherlock’s voice.
John looked up from his paper and deadpanned, “Three brilliant deductions in one minute already. The nap clearly did you a lot of good.”
Sherlock huffed and flopped down onto a chair. He raked both hands through his tangled curls, yawning heavily and pulling a sour face when his stomach suddenly emitted a profound rumble.
“I’m bored, John.”
“You’re hungry,” John corrected.
“And bored.”
“Good thing then that I have a case for you.”
John grinned when Sherlock’s whole body language changed in a millisecond from pissed-off toddler into fully alert detective mode. He could literally see the tiny wheels in Sherlock’s brain starting to move, cogs gearing into each other and levers switching to boot the Mind Palace. When Sherlock’s piercing stare lit upon John’s face, he knew his friend was ready to listen, already vibrating slightly on the kitchen chair.
“There’s been a break-in at Casablanca.”
Sherlock groaned, frowning in disappointment. “In! There are always break-ins happening in Casablanca. It’s a huge city in Morocco, John.”
“No, you git! Casablanca’s owner has seen somebody break in who could not have been there.”
“Casablanca can’t be owned, John. It’s a city.”
“Dear God, Sherlock, I’ve told you at least a dozen times about the cinema named Casablanca and…” John interrupted his own rant when he saw the mischievous twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes. Sighing and putting a hand against his forehead, John took one deep breath before he continued. “You’re pulling my leg.”
Sherlock chuckled. “I’d never do such a thing.”
“Liar.”
“It’s so tempting since your legs are so short and therefore easy to pull.”
John huffed and put the kettle on once more, working in silence to make tea and toast as breakfast for Sherlock while fixing a sandwich for himself. He could sense Sherlock’s curiosity about the promised case exuding in thick waves but decided to let Sherlock wait and have him ask for the facts instead. Served him right for teasing. At least Sherlock’s sulky mood had evaporated.
John put the food and two mugs of steaming tea on the table and nodded demonstratively at Sherlock’s plate.
Sherlock’s stomach growled once again.
“Brilliant. First the mould betrays me and now my transport follows suit.” He reluctantly took a bite out of the toast, started to chew and after he washed it down with a sip of tea and nearly burning his tongue in the process, Sherlock finally asked.
“John?”
Here we go, John thought, didn’t last long.
“What do you remember about the cinema?”
Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled while he searched his mind palace for the appropriate information. “That it shows old-fashioned movies for nerds and that the historic building is listed.” He absent-mindedly chewed another bite. “Oh, and that the whole business is run by one man only.”
Proud of himself, Sherlock glanced up at John who made an approving face.
“That was unexpected. I’d have bet that you wouldn’t remember anything at all.”
“It may not seem like it but I always listen when you speak to me, John.”
“Erm, thanks. Okay. I’ll fill you in with what I know.” John finished his sandwich and began to explain.
“So, I’ve been several times to see movies at the ‘Casablanca’ and made the acquaintance of Peter Gilbert Tipsley. He is the one who’s running the repertory cinema. We talked a bit now and then after the Sunday matinees since he is also a big fan of the James Bond movies. Which are not old-fashioned, by the way. They are modern classics and very popular, not only with Peter’s usual clientele who are not nerds either.”
“Yes, yes, you don’t have to defend your taste in such drivel produced by the entertainment industry.” Sherlock made impatient shooing movements with his hands. “Tell me about the case!”
John rolled his eyes, a skill he had first copied from Sherlock and then perfected in the time he had lived with his oftentimes annoying flatmate. He decided it was useless to go on about defending James Bond and continued his narrative.
“You have to know that Peter and I get along quite well and that he knows who I live with and what you do. He came to me after the matinee this morning, hemming and hawing before he told me about the silent burglar alarm that went off last night. Peter lives in the flat located above the entrance area of the cinema, it occupies about half of the first floor. The other half of the first floor is open space, taken by the historic cinema hall which has a very high ceiling that reaches right up to the top of the first floor.
The alarm buzzer in his flat woke Peter about 4AM, three hours before he usually gets up on a Sunday. He sneaked downstairs to take a look. The light switch in the foyer did not work so he walked through the dark corridor into the movie hall. There, the lights turned on. He saw nothing suspicious and the cinema was empty. There is a huge antique chandelier hanging down from the ceiling which is secured by the motion detector. It triggered the silent alarm. Peter walked in between the rows of seats to look up at the chandelier but everything was just fine.”
“Why didn’t he simply stay in the safety of his flat and immediately contacted the police about the alarm?”
“That’s what I asked him first as well.” John beamed at Sherlock’s delighted expression. “Peter was insecure and thought that it might have been another false alarm. Several weeks ago, a blackbird got trapped in the theatre hall and set off the motion alarm with its frantic flapping around and trying to sit down on the chandelier. Peter had called the police and was deadly embarrassed when they just found the bird.”
“I understand. He wanted to be certain that this time it was a real alarm.” Sherlock hummed and steepled the hands in front his chin in his typical thinking position. “Go on, John.”
“Okay. Peter already wanted to go back to bed and forget about just another false alarm when he heard a shuffling noise behind him. Turning around, he saw a man vanishing through the corridor that connects the theatre with the entrance hall.”
Sherlock interrupted the narrative by holding up his index finger. “Wait! Is there no other alarm system in place at the cinema?”
“Yes, there is one securing the ground and first floor windows and the emergency fire exit doors in the theatre hall that also triggers a loud klaxon. But there had been no alarm. Also, Peter told me this morning that he has a surveillance camera in the entrance hall which records anyone who enters via the main door to the cinema which is actually the only way to get into the building from street level. Peter watched last night’s video recording during the matinee show and there was no one to be seen.”
“The recording had been intact? Nothing’s been tampered with?”
“Peter said he could find nothing untoward.”
“What about the fire exits?”
“They are panic doors and designed only to let people out. Also, like I said, this alarm did not go off.”
Sherlock resumed his thinking pose. “So, someone managed to sneak into a sort-of locked cinema without triggering an alarm or getting caught on camera. But somehow the man triggered the motion detector on the antique chandelier which is left unscathed.” Suddenly snapping out of it, Sherlock sharply looked up at John. “Why is there a motion triggered alarm on this chandelier?”
John grinned. “Apparently it’s really old and quite valuable, dating back to the 1920’s. You know, like sporting multiple gilded arms and hung over and over with hand-made crystals cut from Bohemian glass.”
“Ah. Worth?”
“According to Peter, the sum insured aggregates to 250 thousand pounds.”
Sherlock whistled while raising an eyebrow. “Summing up. Someone sneaks into the locked cinema, manages to stay invisible but triggers the silent alarm on the valuable chandelier he most likely does not know has been installed or he would otherwise have disabled or bypassed as well as he has expertly managed to fool the security camera. Peter, insecure if it’s not just another blackbird incident, goes down to take a look. He sees the chandelier unharmed but notices a man disappearing into the entrance hall.”
John nodded, confirming Sherlock’s summary.
“And he does what?”
“Hm?”
“The man, John! What did he do? Where did he go? What did Peter do? Follow him? Why did Peter not call the police when it was clear that someone broke into the cinema and fiddled with the valuable chandelier?”
“I never said he did not call…”
“Please John, it’s obvious! You said Peter hemmed and hawed, reluctant to confide in you, the consultant detective’s flatmate. Which is me. Ergo, no police involved. Peter was embarrassed by the break-in. What happened after Peter saw the man vanishing through the corridor?”
John swallowed. “Well. That’s the weird part. You’re right, of course. Peter did not call the police or the security company. For once, nothing had been stolen. But the main reason was that Peter clearly recognized the burglar.”
Sherlock perked up. “Who was it?”
“It was Humphrey Bogart.”
“Who?”
“Humphrey Bogart is an actor who played one of the main characters named ‘Rick Blaine’ in the famous movie ‘Casablanca’ which gave the cinema its name.”
Sherlock looked confused. “So what? This Bogart actor bloke broke into Peter’s cinema. What is there to be embarrassed about?”
John was once again surprised by Sherlock’s vast lack of knowledge concerning modern entertainment culture such as classic movies.
“First of all, the real Humphrey Bogart died in 1957. Second, Peter owns life-sized wax puppets dressed exactly as the three main characters featured in the movie named ‘Casablanca’. They are standing in the foyer as decoration on a pedestal. One of them is the fictional ‘Rick Blaine’, who has been played by Bogart. And third, Peter saw the very ‘Rick Blaine’ vanishing through the corridor. Clad exactly like the wax figure in the hall. “
“I still don’t see…”
John presses on. “The wax puppet which was missing on the display pedestal in the foyer when Peter took a first look and that afterwards had miraculously returned and morphed back into a puppet.”
“You need to explain this much better, John. In coherent sentences, please!”
John sighed and rubbed his chin. “Peter saw the ‘Rick Blaine’ wax puppet walking around his cinema, triggering the alarm on the chandelier and then vanishing into nothing. Peter was absolutely stunned. He could not believe his eyes, thinking he maybe had just imagined it all and definitely did not want to call the police and make a complete fool of himself. Peter went back upstairs to fetch a torch because the light in the foyer did not work and he needed to take a closer look at the pedestal with the missing puppet. But when Peter returned to the foyer the wax puppet was back at its place, just standing there as if nothing had happened and on top of all the light switch had also worked again.”
Sherlock’s eyes lit up with fascination. “I see. Peter watched the night’s surveillance video of the camera in the entrance hall and it showed nothing at all? It ran the whole night long?”
John nodded. “Yes, to both. Peter was so rattled about the incident that he decided to tell me about the mystery sighting. He swears he has not hallucinated seeing Rick Blaine walking around even if there’s no evidence that someone, especially not a walking wax puppet, has been there.”
“Intriguing.”
John smiled, delighted and feeling relieved on behalf of Peter Tipsley. “So, you’ll take his case?”
Sherlock jumped up so quickly that he nearly toppled over the kitchen chair, startling John who flinched a bit in surprise although he should by now know to expect such abrupt bursts of activity with Sherlock.
“Yes, for the time being. I’ll shower and dress and then we’ll visit this Peter and his Casablanca cinema to discern if he is a delusional nerd who’s simply seen too many movies or if an elaborately planned but interrupted break-in has occurred.”
Sherlock whooshed out of the kitchen. Shortly after, John heard the shower and he occupied himself with cleaning the kitchen while waiting for Sherlock to finish with his grooming. John called Peter to announce that they would show up in about an hour and implored him to please be patient with Sherlock who just might be a right arse about Peter’s movie enthusiasm.