Other editions of book The Cinema Murder: A Novel

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The Cinema Murder is a mystery novel written in 1917 by E. Phillips Oppenheim. Two years later, the book was made into a blockbuster movie by Paramount Studios. Critics of the time, especially those of Variety Magazine, 14 Jan 1920, mentioned that this particular movie, which opened at the Rialto, was so packed that at 10:00 PM the movie house owner had to turn people away after an entire day when people had been lined up around the block just to try to get in. They really felt that the director, George D. Baker, had done a wonderful job with the adaptation. The book remains a classic that is still enjoyed by readers around the world.

Phillip Romilly is a poor art teacher in London. He finds out that his wealthy cousin Douglas has been seeing his girl friend Beatrice behind his back. He strangles Douglas, throws him in the canal, and assumes his identity. Douglas had booked passage to America for the next day, so after a pleasant sea voyage Phillip arrives at the Waldorf Hotel in New York as Douglas Romilly. An hour after checking in he disappears again, and assumes yet another identity, one that his cousin had set up for himself. Douglas was facing massive financial problems, and he, too, had planned to avoid his problems by getting lost in the crowd in New York. Now, in chapter two….

Philip Romilly is a young art student, half starved, both mentally and physically and without prospect. His cousin, Douglas, has everything and even buys beatrice, Philip's fiancée. The two cousins meet under an English railroad bridge and Philip emerges alone. A day or two later he sails for America, under the name Douglas Romilly and wearing his cousin's clothes. Philip's career in New York is filled with incident.

With a somewhat prolonged grinding of the brakes and an unnecessary amount of fuss in the way of letting off steam, the afternoon train from London came to a standstill in the station at Detton Magna. An elderly porter, putting on his coat as he came, issued, with the dogged aid of one bound by custom to perform a hopeless mission, from the small, redbrick lamp room. The station master, occupying a position of vantage in front of the shed which enclosed the booking office, looked up and down the lifeless row of closed and streaming windows, with an expectancy dulled by daily disappointment, for the passengers who seldom alighted. On this occasion no records were broken. A solitary young man stepped out on to the wet and flinty platform, handed over the half of a third-class return ticket from London, passed through the two open doors and commenced to climb the long ascent which led into the town. He wore no overcoat, and for protection against the inclement weather he was able only to turn up the collar of his well-worn blue serge coat. The damp of a ceaselessly wet day seemed to have laid its cheerless pall upon the whole exceedingly ugly landscape. The hedges, blackened with smuts from the colliery on the other side of the slope, were dripping also with raindrops. The road, flinty and light grey in colour, was greasy with repellent-looking mud—there were puddles even in the asphalt-covered pathway which he trod. On either side of him stretched the shrunken, unpastoral-looking fields of an industrial neighbourhood. The town-village which stretched up the hillside before him presented scarcely a single redeeming feature. The small, grey stone houses, hard and unadorned, were interrupted at intervals by rows of brand-new, red-brick cottages. In the background were the tall chimneys of several factories; on the left, a colliery shaft raised its smoke-blackened finger to the lowering clouds.

With a somewhat prolonged grinding of the brakes and an unnecessary amount of fuss in the way of letting off steam, the afternoon train from London came to a standstill in the station at Detton Magna. An elderly porter, putting on his coat as he came, issued, with the dogged aid of one bound by custom to perform a hopeless mission, from the small, redbrick lamp room. The station master, occupying a position of vantage in front of the shed which enclosed the booking office, looked up and down the lifeless row of closed and streaming windows, with an expectancy dulled by daily disappointment, for the passengers who seldom alighted. On this occasion no records were broken. A solitary young man stepped out on to the wet and flinty platform, handed over the half of a third-class return ticket from London, passed through the two open doors and commenced to climb the long ascent which led into the town. He wore no overcoat, and for protection against the inclement weather he was able only to turn up the collar of his well-worn blue serge coat. The damp of a ceaselessly wet day seemed to have laid its cheerless pall upon the whole exceedingly ugly landscape. The hedges, blackened with smuts from the colliery on the other side of the slope, were dripping also with raindrops. The road, flinty and light grey in colour, was greasy with repellent-looking mud—there were puddles even in the asphalt-covered pathway which he trod. On either side of him stretched the shrunken, unpastoral-looking fields of an industrial neighbourhood. The town-village which stretched up the hillside before him presented scarcely a single redeeming feature. The small, grey stone houses, hard and unadorned, were interrupted at intervals by rows of brand-new, red-brick cottages. In the background were the tall chimneys of several factories; on the left, a colliery shaft raised its smoke-blackened finger to the lowering clouds.

With a somewhat prolonged grinding of the brakes and anunnecessary amount of fuss in the way of letting offsteam, the afternoon train from London came to astandstill in the station at Detton Magna. An elderly porter,putting on his coat as he came, issued, with the doggedaid of one bound by custom to perform a hopelessmission, from the small, redbrick lamp room. The stationmaster, occupying a position of vantage in front of theshed which enclosed the booking office, looked up anddown the lifeless row of closed and streaming windows,with an expectancy dulled by daily disappointment, for thepassengers who seldom alighted. On this occasion norecords were broken. A solitary young man stepped out onto the wet and flinty platform, handed over the half of athird-class return ticket from London, passed through thetwo open doors and commenced to climb the long ascentwhich led into the town.