THE FILM MYSTERY
ARTHUR B. REEVE
"The Soul Scar" "The Adventuress" and Other Craig Kennedy Scientific
I. A CAMERA CRIME
II. THE TINY SCRATCH
III. TANGLED MOTIVES
IV. THE FATAL SCRIPT
V. AN EMOTIONAL MAZE
VI. THE FIRST CLUB
VII. ENID FAYE
VIII. LAWRENCE MILLARD
IX. WHITE-LIGHT SHADOWS
X. CHEMICAL RESEARCH
XII. EMERY PHELPS
XIII. MARILYN LORING
XIV. ANOTHER CLUE
XV. I BECOME A DETECTIVE
XVI. ENID ASSISTS
XVII. AN APPEAL
XVIII. THE ANTIVENIN
XIX. AROUND THE CIRCLE
XX. THE BANQUET SCENE
XXI. MERLE SHIRLEY OVERACTS
XXII. THE STEM
XXIII. BOTULIN TOXIN
XXIV. THE INVISIBLE MENACE
XXV. ITCHING SALVE
XXVI. A CIGARETTE CASE
XXVII. THE FILM FIRE
XXVIII. THE PHOSPHORUS BOMB
XXIX. MICROSCOPIC EVIDENCE
XXX. THE BALLROOM SCENE
XXXII. CAMERA EVIDENCE
THE FILM MYSTERY
A CAMERA CRIME
Kennedy and I had been hastily summoned from his laboratory in the city
by District-Attorney Mackay, and now stood in the luxurious, ornate
library in the country home of Emery Phelps, the banker, at Tarrytown.
"Camera!—you know the call when the director is ready to shoot a scene
of a picture?—well—at the moment it was given and the first and
second camera men began to grind—she crumpled—sank to the
Hot and excited, Mackay endeavored to reenact his case for us with all
the histrionic ability of a popular prosecutor before a jury.
"There's where she dropped—they carried her over here to this
davenport—sent for Doctor Blake—but he couldn't do a thing for her.
She died—just as you see her. Blake thought the matter so serious, so
alarming, that he advised an immediate investigation. That's why I
called you so urgently."
Before us lay the body of the girl, remarkably beautiful even as she
lay motionless in death. Her masses of golden hair, disheveled, added
to the soft contours of her features. Her wonderfully large blue-gray
eyes with their rare gift for delicate shades of expression were
closed, but long curling lashes swept her cheeks still and it was hard
to believe that this was anything more than sleep.
It was inconceivable that Stella Lamar, idol of the screen, beloved of
millions, could have been taken from the world which worshiped her.
I felt keenly for the district attorney. He was a portly little man of
the sort prone to emphasize his own importance and so, true to type, he
had been upset completely by a case of genuine magnitude. It was as
though visiting royalty had dropped dead within his jurisdiction.
I doubt whether the assassination of a McKinley or a Lincoln could have
unsettled him as much, because in such an event he would have had the
whole weight of the Federal government behind him. There was no
question but that Stella Lamar enjoyed a country-wide popularity known
by few of our Presidents. Her sudden death was a national tragedy.
Apparently Mackay had appealed to Kennedy the moment he learned the
identity of Stella, the moment he realized there was any question about
the circumstances surrounding the affair. Over the telephone the little
man had been almost incoherent. He had heard of Kennedy's work and was
feverishly anxious to enlist his aid, at any price.
All we knew as we took the train on the New York Central was that
Stella was playing a part in a picture to be called "The Black Terror,"
that the producer was Manton Pictures, Incorporated, and that she had
dropped dead suddenly and without warning in the middle of a scene
being photographed in the library at the home of Emery Phelps.
I was singularly elated at the thought of accompanying Kennedy on this
particular case. It was not that the tragic end of a film star whose
work I had learned to love was not horrible to me, but rather because,
for once, I thought Kennedy actually confronted a situation where his
knowledge of a given angle of life was hardly sufficient for his usual
analysis of the facts involved.
"Walter," he had exclaimed, as I burst into the laboratory in response
to a hurried message, "here's where I need your help. You know all
about moving pictures, so—if you'll phone your city editor and ask him
to let you cover a case for the Star we'll just about catch a train at
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street."
Because the film world had fascinated me always I had made a point of
being posted on its people and their activities. I remembered the very
first appearance of Stella Lamar back in the days of General Film, when
pictures were either Licensed or Independent, when only two companies
manufactured worth-while screen dramas, when any subject longer than a
reel had to be of rare excellence, such as the art films imported from
France for the Licensed program. In those days, Stella rose rapidly to
prominence. Her large wistful eyes had set the hearts of many of us to
beating at staccato rate.
Then came Lloyd Manton, her present manager, and the first of a new
type of business man to enter the picture field. Manton was essentially
a promoter. His predecessors had been men carried to success by the
growth of the new art. Old Pop Belman, for instance, had been a
fifth-rate oculist who rented and sold stereopticons as a side line.
With blind luck he had grasped the possibilities of Edison's new
invention. Just before the break-up of General Film he had become many
times a millionaire and it was then that he had sent a wave of laughter
over the entire country by an actual cable to William Shakespeare,
address London, asking for all screen rights to the plays written by
Manton represented a secondary phase in film finance. Continent Films,
his first corporation, was a stockjobbing concern. Grasping the immense
popularity of Stella Lamar, he had coaxed her away from the old studio
out in Flatbush where all her early successes had been photographed.
With the magic of her name he sold thousands of shares of stock to a
public already fed up on the stories of the fortunes to be made in
moving pictures. When much of the money so raised had been dissipated,
when Continent's quotation on the curb sank to an infinitesimal
fraction, then it developed that Stella's contract was with Manton
personally. Manton Pictures, Incorporated, was formed to exploit her.
The stock of this company was not offered to outside investors.
Stella's popularity had in no way suffered from the business methods of
her manager. Manton, at the least, had displayed rare foresight in his
estimation of public taste. Except for a few attempts with established
stage favorites, photographed generally in screen versions of
theatrical classics and backed by affiliations with the producers of
the legitimate stage, Continent Films was the first concern to make the
five-reel feature. Stella, as a Continent player, was the very first
feature star. Under the banner of Manton Pictures, she had never
surrendered her position of pre-eminence.
Also, scandal somehow had failed to touch her. Those initiated to the
inner gossip of the film world, like myself, were under no illusions.
The relations between Stella and Manton were an open secret. Yet the
picture fans, in their blind worship, believed her to be as they saw
her upon the screen. To them the wide and wistful innocence of her
remarkably large eyes could not be anything but genuine. The
artlessness of the soft curves of her mouth was proof to them of the
reality of an ingenuous and very girlish personality.
Even her divorce had helped rather than harmed her. It seemed irony to
me that she should have obtained the decree instead of her husband, and
in New York, too, where the only grounds are unfaithfulness. The
testimony in the case had been sealed so that no one knew whom she had
named as corespondent. At the time, I wondered what pressure had been
exerted upon Millard to prevent the filing of a cross suit. Surely he
should have been able to substantiate the rumors of her association
with Lloyd Manton.
Lawrence Millard, author and playwright and finally scenario writer,
had been as much responsible for the success of his wife as Manton, and
in a much less spectacular way. It was Millard who had written her
first great Continent success, who had developed the peculiar type of
story best suited for her, back in the early days of the one reel and
It is commonly known in picture circles that an actress who screens
well, even if she is only a moderately good artist, can be made a star
with one or two or three good stories and that, conversely, a star may
be ruined by a succession of badly written or badly produced vehicles.
Those of us not blinded by an idolatrous worship for the girl condemned
her severely for throwing her husband aside at the height of her
success. The public displayed their sympathy for her by a burst of
renewed interest. The receipts at the box office whenever her films
were shown probably delighted both Manton and Stella herself.
I had wondered, as Kennedy and I occupied a seat in the train, and as
he left me to my thoughts, whether there could be any connection
between the tragedy and the divorce. The decree, I knew, was not yet
final. Could it be possible that Millard was unwilling, after all, to
surrender her? Could he prefer deliberate murder to granting her her
freedom? I was compelled to drop that line of thought, since it offered
no explanation of his previous failure to contest her suit or to start
Then my reflections had strayed away from Kennedy's sphere, the solving
of the mystery, to my own, the news value of her death and the events
following. The Star, as always, had been only too glad to assign me to
any case where Craig Kennedy was concerned; my phone message to the
city editor, the first intimation to any New York paper of Stella's
death, already had resulted without doubt in scare heads and an extra
The thought of the prominence given the personal affairs of picture
players and theatrical folk had disgusted me.
There are stars against whom there is not the slightest breath of
gossip, even among the studio scandal-mongers. Any number of girls and
men go about their work sanely and seriously, concerned in nothing but
their success and the pursuit of normal pleasures. As a matter of fact
it had struck me on the train that this was about the first time Craig
Kennedy had ever been called in upon a case even remotely connected
with the picture field. I knew he would be confronted with a tangled
skein of idle talk, from everybody, about everybody, and mostly without
justification. I hoped he would not fall into the popular error of
assuming all film players bad, all studios schools of immorality. I was
glad I was able to accompany him on that account.
The arrival at Tarrytown had ended my reflections, and
Kennedy's—whatever they may have been. Mackay himself had met us at
the station and with a few words, to cover his nervousness, had whisked
us out to the house.
As we approached, Kennedy had taken quick note of the surroundings, the
location of the home itself, the arrangement of the grounds. There was
a spreading lawn on all four sides, unbroken by plant or bush or
tree—sheer prodigality of space, the better to display a rambling but
most artistic pile of gray granite. Masking the road and the adjoining
grounds was thick, impenetrable shrubbery, a ring of miniature forest
land about the estate. There was a garage, set back, and tennis courts,
and a practice golf green. In the center of a garden in a far corner a
summerhouse was placed so as to reflect itself in the surface of a
glistening swimming pool.
As we pulled up under the porte-cochere Emery Phelps, the banker,
greeted us. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that
there was a repressed animosity in his manner, as though he resented
the intrusion of Kennedy and myself, yet felt powerless to prevent it.
In contrast to his manner was the cordiality of Lloyd Manton, just
inside the door. Manton was childishly eager in his welcome, so much so
that I was able to detect a shade of suspicion in Kennedy's face.
The others of the company were clustered in the living room, through
which we passed to reach the library. I found small opportunity to
study them in the rather dim light. Mackay beckoned to a man standing
in a window, presenting him to Kennedy as Doctor Blake. Then we entered
the long paneled chamber which had been the scene of the tragedy.
Now I stood, rather awed, with the motionless figure of Stella Lamar
before me in her last pitiable close-up. For I have never lost the
sense of solemnity on entering the room of a tragedy, in spite of the
long association I have had with Kennedy in the scientific detection of
crime. Particularly did I have the feeling in this case. The death of a
man is tragic, but I know nothing more affecting than the sudden and
violent death of a beautiful woman—unless it be that of a child.
I recalled a glimpse of Stella as I had seen her in her most recent
release, as the diaphragm opened on her receiving a box of chocolates,
sent by her lover, and playfully feeding one of them to her beautiful
collie, "Laddie," as he romped about upon a divan and almost smothered
her with affection. The vivacity and charm of the scene were in sad
contrast with what lay before me.
As I looked more carefully I saw now that her full, well-rounded face
was contorted with either pain or fear—perhaps both. Even through the
make-up one could see that her face was blotched and swollen. Also, the
muscles were contorted; the eyes looked as if they might be bulging
under the lids; and there was a bluish tinge to her skin. Evidently
death had come quickly, but it had not been painless.
"Even the coroner has not disturbed the body," Mackay hastened to
explain to Kennedy. "The players, the camera men, all were sent out of
the room the moment Doctor Blake was certain something more than a
natural cause lay behind her death. Mr. Phelps telephoned to me, and
upon my arrival I ordered the doors and windows closed, posted my
deputies to prevent any interference with anything in the room, left my
instructions that everyone was to be detained, then got in touch with
you as quickly as I could."
Kennedy turned to him. Something in the tone of his voice showed that
he meant his compliment. "I'm glad, Mackay, to be called in by some one
who knows enough not to destroy evidence; who realizes that perhaps the
slightest disarrangement of a rug, for instance, may be the only clue
to a murder. It's—it's rare!"
The little district attorney beamed. If he had found it necessary to
walk across the floor just then he would have strutted. I smiled
because I wanted Kennedy to show again his marvelous skill in tracing a
crime to its perpetrator. I was anxious that nothing should be done to
THE TINY SCRATCH
Kennedy, before his own examination of the body, turned to Doctor
Blake. "Tell me just what you found when you arrived," he directed.
The physician, whose practice embraced most of the wealthy families in
and around Tarrytown, was an unusually tall, iron-gray-haired man of
evident competency. It was very plain that he resented his unavoidable
connection with the case.
"She was still alive," he responded, thoughtfully, "although breathing
with difficulty. Nearly everyone had clustered about her, so that she
was getting little air, and the room was stuffy from the lights they
had been using in taking the scene. They told me she dropped
unconscious and that they couldn't revive her, but at first it did not
occur to me that it might be serious. I thought perhaps the heat—"
"You saw nothing suspicious," interrupted Kennedy, "nothing in the
actions or manner of anyone in the room?"
"No, when I first entered I didn't suspect anything out of the way. I
had them send everyone into the next room, except Manton and Phelps,
and had the doors and windows thrown open to give her air. Then when I
examined her I detected what seemed to me to be both a muscular and
nervous paralysis, which by that time had proceeded pretty far. As I
touched her she opened her eyes, but she was unable to speak. She was
breathing with difficulty; her heart action was weakening so rapidly
that I had little opportunity to apply restorative measures."
"What do you think caused the death?"
"So far, I can make no satisfactory explanation." The doctor shrugged
his shoulders very slightly. "That is why I advised an immediate
investigation. I did not care to write a death certificate."
"You have no hypothesis?"
"If she died from any natural organic disorder, the signs were lacking
by which I could trace it. Everything indicates the opposite, however.
It would be hard for me to say whether the paralysis of respiration or
of the heart actually caused her death. If it was due to poison—Well,
to me the whole affair is shrouded in mystery. The symptoms indicated
nothing I could recognize with any degree of certainty."
Kennedy stooped over, making a superficial examination of the girl. I
saw that some faint odor caught his nostrils, for he remained poised a
moment, inhaling reflectively, his eyes clouded in thought. Then he
went to the windows, raising the shades an additional few inches each,
but that did not seem to give him the light he wished.
In the room were the portable arcs used in the making of scenes in an
actual interior setting. The connections ran to heavy insulated
junction boxes at the ends of two lines of stiff black stage cable.
Near the door the circuits were joined and a single lead of the big
duplex cord ran out along the polished hardwood floor, carried
presumably to the house circuit at a fuse box where sufficient amperage
was available. Kennedy's eyes followed out the wires quickly. Then,
motioning to me to help, he wheeled one of the heavy stands around and
adjusted the hood so that the full strength of the light would be cast
upon Stella. The arc in place, he threw the switch, and in the
sputtering flood of illumination dropped to his knees, taking a
powerful pocket lens from his waistcoat and beginning an inch by inch
examination of her skin.
I gained a fresh realization of the beauty of the star as she lay under
the dazzling electric glow, and in particular I noticed the small
amount of make-up she had used and the natural firmness of her flesh.
She was dressed in a modish, informal dinner dress, of embroidered
satin, cut fairly low at front and back and with sleeves of some
gauzelike material reaching not halfway to her elbow, hardly sleeves at
all, in fact.
Kennedy with his glass went over her features with extreme care. I saw
that he drew her hair back, and that then he parted it, to examine her
scalp, and I wondered what infinitesimal clue might be the object of
his search. I had learned, however, never to question him while he was
With his eye glued to his lens he made his way about and around her
neck, and down and over her throat and chest so far as it remained
unprotected by the silk of her gown. With the aid of Mackay he turned
her over to examine her back. Next he returned the body to its former
position and began to inspect the arms. Very suddenly something caught
his eye on the inside of her right forearm. He grunted with
satisfaction, straightened, pulled the switch of the arc, wiped his
eyes, which were watering.
"Find anything, Mr. Kennedy?" Doctor Blake seemed to understand, to
some extent, the purpose of the examination.
Kennedy did not answer, probably preoccupied with theories which I
could see were forming in his mind.
The library was a huge room of greater length than breadth. At one end
were wide French windows looking out upon the garden and summer house.
The door to the hallway and living room was very broad, with heavy
sliding panels and rich portieres of a velours almost the tint of the
wood-work. Between the door, situated in the side wall near the
opposite end, and the windows, was a magnificent stone fireplace with
charred logs testifying to its frequent use. The couch where Stella lay
had been drawn back from its normal position before the fire, together
with a huge table of carved walnut. The other two walls were an
unbroken succession of shelves, reaching to the ceiling and literally
packed with books.
Facing the windows and the door, so as to include the fireplace and the
wide sweep of the room within range, were two cameras still set up, the
legs of their tripods nested, probably left exactly as they were at the
moment of Stella's collapse. I touched the handle of one, a Bell &
Howell, and saw that it was threaded, that the film had not been
disturbed. The lights, staggered and falling away from the camera
lines, were arranged to focus their illumination on the action of the
scenes. There were four arcs and two small portable banks of
Cooper-Hewitts, the latter used to cut the sharp shadows and give a
greater evenness to the photography. Also there were diffusers
constructed of sheets of white cloth stretched taut on frames. These
reflected light upward upon the faces of the actors, softening the
lower features, and so valuable in adding to the attractiveness of the
women in particular.
All this I had learned from visits to a studio with the Star's
photoplay editor. I was anxious to impress my knowledge upon Kennedy.
He gave me no opportunity, however, but wheeled upon Mackay suddenly.
"Send in the electrician," he ordered. "Keep everyone else out until
I'm ready to examine them."
While the district attorney hurried to the sliding doors, guarded on
their farther side by one of the amateur deputies he had impressed into
service, Kennedy swung the stand of the arc he had used back into the
place unaided. I noticed that Doctor Blake was nervously interested in
spite of his professional poise. I certainly was bursting with
curiosity to know what Kennedy had found.
The electrician, a wizened veteran of the studios, with a bald head
which glistened rather ridiculously, entered as though he expected to
be held for the death of the star on the spot.
"I don't know nothin'," he began, before anyone could start to question
him. "I was outside when they yelled, honest! I was seeing whether
m'lead was getting hot, and I heard 'em call to douse the glim, an'—"
"Put on all your lights"—Kennedy was unusually sharp, although it was
plain he held no suspicion of this man, as he added—"just as you had
As the electrician went from stand to stand sulkily, there was a
sputter from the arcs, almost deafening in the confines of the room,
and quite a bit of fine white smoke. But in a moment the corner of the
library constituting the set was brilliantly, dazzlingly lighted. To me
it was quite like being transported into one of the big studios in the
"Is this the largest portion of the room they used?" Kennedy asked.
"Did you have your stands any farther back?"
"This was the biggest lay-out, sir!" replied the man.
"Were all the scenes in which Miss Lamar appeared before her death in
this corner of the room?"
"And this was the way you had the scene lighted when she dropped
"Yes, sir! I pulled m'lights an'—an' they lifted her up and put her
right there where she is, sir!"
Kennedy paid no attention to the last; in fact, I doubt whether he
heard it. Dropping to hands and knees immediately, he began a search of
the floor and carpet as minutely painstaking as the inspection he had
given Stella's own person. Instinctively I drew back, to be out of his
way, as did Doctor Blake and Mackay. The electrician, I noticed, seemed
to grasp now the reason for the summons which undoubtedly had
frightened him badly. He gave his attention to his lights, stroking a
refractory Cooper-Hewitt tube for all the world as if some minor scene
in the story were being photographed. It was hard to realize that it
was not another picture scene, but that Craig Kennedy, in my opinion
the founder of the scientific school of modern detectives, was
searching out in this strange environment the clue to a real murder so
mysterious that the very cause of death was as yet undetermined.
I was hoping for a display of the remarkable brilliance Craig had shown
in so many of the cases brought to his attention. I half expected to
see him rise from the floor with some tiny something in his hand, some
object overlooked by everyone else, some tangible evidence which would
lead to the immediate apprehension of the perpetrator of the crime.
That Stella Lamar had met her death by foul means I did not doubt for
an instant, and so I waited feverishly for the conclusion of Kennedy's
As it happened, this was not destined to be one of his cases cleared up
in a brief few hours of intensive effort. He covered every inch of the
floor within the illuminated area; then he turned his attention to the
walls and furniture and the rest of the room in somewhat more
perfunctory, but no less skillful manner. Fully fifteen minutes
elapsed, but I knew from his expression that he had discovered nothing.
In a wringing perspiration from the heat of the arcs, but nevertheless
glad to have had the intense light at his disposal, he motioned to the
electrician to turn them off and to leave the room.
"Find anything, Mr. Kennedy?" queried the physician once more.
Kennedy beckoned all of us to the side of the ill-fated actress.
Lifting the right arm, finding the spot which had caused his
exclamation before, he handed his pocket lens to Doctor Blake. After a
moment a low whistle escaped the lips of the physician.
Next it was my turn. As I stooped over I caught, above the faint scent
of imported perfume which she affected, a peculiar putrescent odor.
This it was which had caught Kennedy's nostrils. Then through the glass
I could detect upon her forearm the tiniest possible scratch ending in
an almost invisible puncture, such as might have been made by a very
sharp needle or the point of an incredibly fine hypodermic syringe.
Drawing back, I glanced again at her face, which I had already noted
was blotched and somewhat swollen beneath the make-up. Again I thought
that the muscles were contorted, that the eyes were bulging slightly,
that there was a bluish tinge to her skin such as in cyanosis or
asphyxiation. It may have been imagination, but I was now sure that her
expression revealed pain or fear or both.
When I looked at her first I had been unable to forget my impression of
years. Before me there had been the once living form of Stella Lamar,
whom I had dreamed of meeting and whom I had never viewed in actual
life. I had lacked the penetration to see beneath the glamour. But to
Kennedy there had been signs of the poisoning at once. Doctor Blake had
searched merely for the evidences of the commoner drugs, or the usual
diseases such as cause sudden death. I recalled the cyanides. I thought
of curare, or woorali, the South American arrow poison with which
Kennedy once had dealt. Had Stella received an injection of some new
and curious substance?
Mackay glanced up from his inspection of the mark on the arm.
"It's an awfully tiny scratch!" he exclaimed.
Kennedy smiled. "Yet, Mackay, it probably was the cause of her death."
"That—that is the problem before us. When we learn just exactly how
she scratched herself, or was scratched—" Kennedy paced up and down in
front of the fireplace. Then he confronted each of us in turn, suddenly
serious. "Not a word of what I have discovered," he warned.
"Do you wish to examine the people now?" Mackay asked.
Kennedy hesitated. "First I want to make sure of the evidence
concerning her actual death. Can you arrange to have the clothes she
has on, and those she brought with her, all of them bundled up and sent
in to my laboratory, together with samples of her body fluids as soon
as the coroner can supply you?"
Mackay nodded. This pleased him. This seemed to be tangible action,
promising tangible results.
Again Kennedy glanced about in thought. I knew that the scratch was
worrying him. "Did she change her clothes out here?" he inquired.
The district attorney brightened. "She dressed in a small den just off
the living room. I have a man posted and the door closed. Nothing has
He started to lead the way without further word from Kennedy, proud to
have been able once more to demonstrate his foresight.
As we left the library, entering the living room, there was an
appreciable hush. Here were grouped the others of the party brought out
by the picture company, a constrained gathering of folk who had little
in common beyond the highly specialized needs of the new art of the
screen, an assembly of souls who had been forced to wait during all the
time required for the trip of Kennedy and myself out from New York, who
were compelled to wait now until he should be ready to examine them.
I picked out the electrician in the semi-gloom and with him his fellow
members of the technical staff needed in the taking of the scenes in
the library. The camera men I guessed, and a property boy, and an
assistant director. The last, at any event, of all those in the huge
room, had summoned up sufficient nonchalance to bend his mind to
details of his work. I saw that he was thumbing a copy of the scenario,
or detailed working manuscript of the story, making notations in some
kind of little book, and it was that which enabled me to establish his
identity at a glance.
In a different corner were the principals, two men and a girl still in
make-up, and with them the director, and Manton and Phelps. Apart from
everyone else, in a sort of social ostracism common to the studios, the
two five-dollar-a-day extras waited, a butler and a maid, also in
make-up. Oddly enough the total number of these material witnesses to
the tragedy was just thirteen, and I wondered if they had noticed the
Doctor Blake turned to Kennedy the moment we left the library.
"Do you feel it is necessary for me to remain any longer?" he asked. He
was apologetic, yet distinctly impatient. "I have neglected several
very important calls as it is."
Kennedy and Mackay both hastened to assure the physician that they
appreciated his co-operation and that they would spare him as much
notoriety and inconvenience as possible. Then the three of us hurried
across and to the little den which had been converted into a dressing
room for Stella's use.
Here were all the evidences of femininity, the little touches which a
woman can impart to the smallest corner in a few brief moments of
occupancy. It was a tiny alcove shut off from the rest of the living
room by heavy silk hangings, drawn now and pinned together so as to
assure her the privacy she wished. The one window was high and fitted
with leaded glass, but it was raised and afforded the maximum of light.
Stella's traveling bag sprawled wide open, with many of her effects
strewn about in attractive disarray. Her suit, in which she had made
the trip to Tarrytown, was thrown carelessly over the back of a chair.
Her mirror was fastened up ruthlessly, upon a handsome woven Oriental
hanging, with a long hatpin. Powder was spilled upon the couch cover,
another Oriental fabric, and her little box of rouge lay face downward
on the floor.
As we pulled the curtains aside I caught the perfume which still clung
to her clothes in the library beyond. As Mackay sniffed also, Kennedy
"Coty's Jacqueminot rose," he remarked.
With his usual swift and practiced certainty Kennedy then inspected the
extemporized dressing room. He seemed to satisfy himself that no subtle
attack had been made upon the girl here, although I doubt that he had
held any such supposition seriously in the first place. In my
association of several years with Kennedy, following our first intimacy
of college days, I had learned that his success as a scientific
detective was the result wholly of his thoroughness of method. To watch
him had become a never-ending delight, even in the dull preliminary
work of a case as baffling as this one. Mackay also seemed content just
to enact the role of spectator.
Kennedy thumbed through the delicate intimacies of her traveling bag
with the keen, impersonal manner which always distinguished him; then
he found her beaded handbag and proceeded to rummage through that.
Suddenly he paused as he unfolded a piece of note paper, and we
gathered around to read:
MY DEAR STELLA: Have something very important to tell you. Will you
lunch Tuesday at the P. G. tearoom? LARRY.
"Tuesday—" murmured Kennedy. "And this is Monday. Who—who is Larry, I
I hastened to answer the question for him. It was my first opportunity
to display my knowledge of the picture players. "Larry—that's
Lawrence, Lawrence Millard!" I exclaimed. Then I went on to tell him of
the divorce and the circumstances surrounding Stella's life as I knew
it. "It—it looks," I concluded, "as if they might have been on the
point of composing their differences, after all."
Kennedy nodded. I could see, however, that he made a mental note of his
intention to question the girl's former husband.
All at once another thought struck me and I became eager. It was a
possible explanation of the mystery.
"Listen, Craig," I began. "Suppose Millard wanted to make up and she
didn't. Suppose that she refused to see him or to meet him. Suppose
that in a jealous fit he—"
"No, Walter!" Kennedy headed me off with a smile. "This wasn't an
ordinary murder of passion. This was well thought out and well
executed. Not one medical examiner in a thousand would have found that
tiny scratch. It may be very difficult yet to determine the exact cause
of death. This, my dear Jameson"—it was playful irony—"is a
"Of course! Anyone may be the culprit. Yet you tell me Millard did not
contest her divorce and that it would have been very easy for him to
file a counter-suit because everyone knew of her relationship with
Manton. That, offhand, shows no ill-will on his part. And now we find
this note from him, which at least is friendly in tone—"
I shrugged my shoulders. It was the same blind alley in which my
thoughts had strayed upon the train on our way out.
"It's too early to begin to try to fasten the guilt upon anyone,"
Kennedy added, as we returned to the library through the living room.
Then he turned to Mackay. "Have you succeeded in gleaning any facts
about the life of Miss Lamar?" he asked. "Anything which might point to
a motive, so that I can approach the case from both directions?"
"If you ask me," the little district attorney rejoined, "it's a matter
of tangled motives throughout. I—I had no sword to cut the Gordian
knot and so"—graciously—"I sent for you."
"What do you mean by tangled motives?" Kennedy ignored the other's
"Well!" Mackay indicated me. "Mr. Jameson explained about her divorce.
No one heard whom she named as corespondent. That's an unknown woman in
the case, although it may not mean anything at all. Then there's Lloyd
Manton and all the talk about his affair with Miss Lamar. Some one told
one of my men that Manton's wife has left him on that account."
"Did you question Manton?"
"No, I thought I ought to leave all that to you. I was afraid I might
put them on their guard."
"Good!" Kennedy was pleased. "Did you learn anything else?"
"This deputy of mine obtained all these things by gossiping with the
girl who plays the maid, and so they may not be reliable. But among the
players it is reported that Werner, the director, was having an affair
with Stella also, and that Merle Shirley, the 'heavy' man, was seen
with her a great deal recently, and that Jack Gordon, the leading man,
who was engaged to marry her as soon as her decree was final, was
jealous as a consequence, and that Miss Loring, playing the vampire In
the story and engaged to Shirley, was even more bitter against the
deceased than Gordon, Miss Lamar's fiance.
"That made eight people with possible motives for the crime. When I got
that far I gave it up. In fact"—Mackay lowered his voice, suddenly—"I
don't like the attitude of Emery Phelps. This is his house, you know,
and he is the financial backer of Manton Pictures, yet there seems to
be an undercurrent of friction between Manton and himself. I—I wanted
him to show me some detail of the arrangement of things in the library,
but he wouldn't come into the room. He said he didn't want to look at
Miss Lamar. There—there was something—and, I don't know. If he is
concerned in any way—that would make nine."
"You think Miss Lamar and Phelps—"
Mackay shook his head. "I don't know."
Kennedy turned to me, expression really serious. "Is this the way they
carry on in the picture world, Walter?" he asked. "Is this the usual
thing or—or an exception?"
I flushed. "It's very much an exception," I insisted. "The film people
are just like other people, some good and some bad. Probably
three-quarters of all this is gossip."
"I hope so." He straightened. "The only thing to do is to go after them
one at a time and disentangle all the conflicting threads. It looks as
though there will be any number of possible false leads and so we must
be careful and deliberate. I think I'll question each in turn—here."
He walked over to the fireplace, stopping for just a moment to glance
at the body of Stella. Then he pulled the blinds down halfway, so that
the room seemed somber and gruesome. He drew a chair so that the
different individuals as he examined them, would be unable to lose
sight of the dead woman. His arrangements completed, he faced the
"Manton first," he directed.
In an instant I caught the psychology of it—the now darkened library,
the beautiful body still lying on the davenport, the quiet and quick
arrival of ourselves. If anything could be extracted from these people,
surely it would be betrayed under these surroundings.
THE FATAL SCRIPT
I had no real opportunity to study Manton when he greeted us upon our
arrival, and at that time neither Kennedy nor I possessed even a
passing realization of the problem before us. Now I felt that I was
ready to grasp at any possible motive for the crime. I was prepared to
suspect any or all of the nine people enumerated by Mackay, so far as I
could speak for myself, and at the very least I was certain that this
was one of the most baffling cases ever brought to Craig's attention.
Yet I was sure he would solve it. I waited most impatiently for the
outcome of his examination of Lloyd Manton.
The producer-promoter was a well-set-up man just approaching middle
age. About him was a certain impression of great physical strength, of
bulk without flabbiness, and in particular I noticed the formation of
his head, the square broad development which indicated his intellectual
power, and I found, too, a fascinating quality about his eyes, deeply
placed and of a warm dark gray-brown, which seemed to hold a
fundamental sincerity which, I imagined, made the man almost
irresistible in a business deal.
His weakness, so far as I could ascertain it, was revealed by his mouth
and chin, and by a certain nervousness of his hands, hands where a
square, practical palm was belied by the slight tapering of his
fingers, the mark of the dreamer. His mouth was unquestionably
sensuous, with the lips full and now and then revealing out of the
studied practiced calm of his face an almost imperceptible twitching,
as though to betray a flash of emotion, or fear. His chin was feminine,
softening his expression and showing that his feelings would
overbalance the cool calculation denoted by his eyes and the rather
heavy level brows above.
As he entered the room, taking the chair indicated by Kennedy, he
seemed perfectly cool and his glance, as it strayed to the lifeless
form of Stella, revealed his iron self-control. The little signs which
I have mentioned, which betrayed the real man beneath, were only
disclosed to me little by little as Kennedy's questioning progressed.
"Tell me just what happened?" Kennedy began.
"Well—" Manton responded quickly enough, but then he stopped and
proceeded as though he chose each word with care, as if he framed each
sentence so that there would be no misunderstanding, no chance of wrong
impression; all of which pleased Kennedy.
"In the scene we were taking," he went on, "Stella was crouched down on
the floor, bending over her father, who had just been murdered. She was
sobbing. All at once the lights were to spring up. The young hero was
to dash through the set and she was to see him and scream out in
terror. The first part went all right. But when the lights flashed on,
instead of looking up and screaming, Stella sort of crumpled and
collapsed on top of Werner, who was playing the father. I yelled to
stop the cameras and rushed in. We picked her up and put her on the
couch. Some one sent for the doctor, but she died without saying a
word. I—I haven't the slightest idea what happened. At first I thought
it was heart trouble."
"Did she have heart trouble?"
"No, that is—not that I ever heard."
Kennedy hesitated. "Why were you taking these scenes out here?"
It was on the tip of my tongue to answer for Manton. I knew that at one
time many fine interiors were actually taken in houses, to save
expense. I was sorry that Kennedy should draw any conclusion from a
fact which I thought was too well known to require explanation.
Manton's answer, however, proved a distinct surprise to me.
"Mr. Phelps asked us to use his library in this picture."
"Wouldn't it have been easier and cheaper in the long run to reproduce
it in the studio?"
Manton glanced up at Kennedy, echoing my thought. Had Kennedy, after
all, some knowledge of motion pictures stored away with his vast fund
of general and unusual information?
"Yes," replied the producer. "It would save the trip out here, the loss
of time, the inconvenience—why, in an actual dollars and cents
comparison, with overhead and everything taken into account, the
building of a set like this is nothing nowadays."
"Do you know Mr. Phelps's reason?"
Manton shrugged his shoulders. "Just a whim, and we had to humor it."
"Mr. Phelps is interested in the company?"
"Yes. He recently bought up all the stock except my own. He is in
absolute control, financially."
"What is the story you are making? I mean, I want to understand just
exactly what happened in the scenes you were photographing today. It is
essential that I learn how everyone was supposed to act and how they
did act. I must find out every trivial little detail. Do you follow me?"
Manton's mouth set suddenly, showing that it possessed a latent quality
of firmness. He glanced about the room, then rose, went to the farther
end of the long table, and returned with a thick sheaf of manuscript
bound at the side in stiff board covers. "This is the scenario, the
script of the detailed action," he explained.
As Kennedy took the binder, Manton opened it and turned past several
sheets of tabulation and lists, the index to the sets and exterior
locations, the characters and extras, the changes of clothes, and other
technical detail. "The scenes we are taking here," he went on, "are the
opening scenes of the story. We left them until now because it meant
the long trip out to Tarrytown and because it would take us away from
the studio while they were putting up the largest two sets, a banquet
and a ballroom which need the entire floor space of the studio." He
turned over two or three pages, pointing. "We had taken up to scene
thirteen; from scenes one to thirteen just as you have them in order
there. It—it was in the unlucky thirteenth that she"—was it my
imagination or did he tremble, for just an instant, violently?—"that
Kennedy started to read the script. I hurried to his side, glancing
over his shoulder.
THE BLACK TERROR
FEATURING STELLA LAMAH
LOCATION.—Remsen library. This is a modern, luxurious library set with
a long table in the center of the room, books around the walls, French
windows leading from the rear, and an entrance through a hallway to the
right through a pair of portieres. Note: E. P. wishes us to use his
library at Tarrytown.
ACTION.—Open diaphragm slowly on darkened set as a spot of light is
being played on the walls and French windows in the rear. As the
diaphragm opens slowly the light vanishes, leaving the scene dark at
times and then brightened until, as the diaphragm opens full, we
discover that the light is that of a burglar's flash light, traveling
over the walls of the library. When the diaphragm is fully opened we
discover also a faint line of light streaming through the almost closed
portieres leading to the hallway outside. This ray of light, striking
along the floor, pauses by the library table, just disclosing the edge
of it but not revealing anything else in the room. The spotlight in the
hands of a shadowy figure roves across the wall and to the portieres.
As it pauses there the portieres move and the fingers of a girl are
seen on the edge of the silk. A bare and beautiful arm is thrust
through the portieres almost to the shoulder, and it begins to move the
portieres aside, reaching upward to pull the curtains apart at the
LOCATION.—Remsen library. Close foreground of portieres.
ACTION.—Our heroine parts the portieres and stands revealed in the
spotlight's glare. She is in dinner gown and about her throat is a
peculiar locket of flashing jewels. She cries out and backs away,
closing the portieres. The spotlight retreats from the curtains,
leaving them dark.
LOCATION.—Hallway, Remsen house. Close foreground of portieres leading
to library. This hallway is lighted.
ACTION.—The girl holding the portieres shut screams for help.
LOCATION.—Foot of stairway, Remsen house.
ACTION.—The butler and maid are discovered talking. They hear the
girl's scream and start running.
LOCATION.—Hallway, Remsen house. Close foreground of portieres.
ACTION.—The girl hears help coming and glances off to indicate that
she sees the butler and the maid. She continues to cling to the closed
LOCATION.—Remsen library. Full shot.
ACTION.—The unknown drops the spotlight to the floor and we first see
his legs crossing the rays of light on the floor. Then the spotlight
rolls, revealing the body of an elderly man of the American millionaire
type, lying crumpled against the table. Finally it rolls a little
farther and stops, directing its rays into the fireplace.
LOCATION.—Remsen hallway, outside library.
ACTION.—The girl indicates determined resolve. She throws apart the
portieres with a quick motion of her arms and dashes inside. The
portieres close after her. The butler and maid come on running and
LOCATION.—Remsen library. Full shot.
ACTION.—The spotlight is showing into the fireplace when the girl
crosses quickly into its rays. She stoops into the light, revealing her
face and picking up the spotlight. She flashes it about the room,
pausing as it strikes the French windows and reveals the murderer
making his escape out on a balcony which is revealed in the background.
When the rays of light reach the murderer he deliberately turns.
LOCATION.—Remsen library. Close foreground of French windows.
ACTION.—The intruder, now in the close foreground, pauses as he is
about to shut the window and blinks deliberately into the rays of
light, then laughs and closes the French windows.
LOCATION.—Hallway, Remsen home. Close foreground of portieres to
ACTION.—The butler and maid look around hopelessly. A young man, the
exact counterpart of the man who in the previous scene looked into the
spotlight at the French windows, comes up to the butler and demands to
know what has happened. The butler explains hurriedly that he heard his
mistress cry out for help. The young man steps to the portieres and
LOCATION.—Remsen library. Full shot.
ACTION.—The girl, using the spotlight, flashes it about the room and
down on the floor, seeing for the first time the body of the American
LOCATION.—Exterior Remsen house. Night tint.
ACTION.—The murderer scrambles down a column from the upper porch and
leaps to the ground, darting across the lawn out of the picture.
LOCATION.—Remsen library. Full shot.
ACTION.—The spotlight on the floor reveals the girl sobbing over the
body of the millionaire and trying to revive him. She screams and cries
out. The portieres are parted and from the lighted hallway we see the
young man, the butler, and the maid, who enter. The young man switches
on the lights and the room is revealed. The three cry out in horror.
The young man, glancing about, leaps toward the partly opened French
windows, drawing a revolver. As the girl sees him she screams again and
Finishing the thirteenth scene, Kennedy closed the covers and handed
the script to me. Then he confronted Manton once more.
"What became of the locket about the girl's neck? In the manuscript
Miss Lamar is supposed to have a peculiar pendant at her throat. There
"Oh yes!" The promoter remained a moment in thought. "The doctor took
it off and gave it to Bernie, the prop. boy, who's helping the
"Is he outside?"
"Now try to remember, Mr. Manton." Kennedy leaned over very seriously.
"Just who approached closely to Miss Lamar in the making of that
thirteenth scene? Who was near enough to have inflicted a wound, or to
have subjected her, suppose we say, to the fumes of some subtle poison?"
"You think that—" Manton started to question Kennedy, but was given no
encouragement. "Gordon, the leading man, passed through the scene," he
replied, after a pause, "but did not go very near her. Werner was
playing the dead millionaire at her feet."
"Who is Werner?"
"He's my director. Because it was such a small part, he played it
himself. He's only in the two or three scenes in the beginning and I
was here to be at the camera."
While Kennedy was questioning Manton I had been glancing through the
script of the picture. My own connection with the movies had consisted
largely of three attempts to sell stories of my own to the producers.
Needless to remark I had not succeeded, in that regard falling in the
class with some hundreds of thousands of my fellow citizens. For
everybody thinks he has at least one motion picture in him. And so,
though I had managed to visit studios and meet a few of the players,
this was my very first shot at a manuscript actually in production. I
took advantage of Kennedy's momentary preoccupation to turn to Manton.
"Who wrote this script, Mr. Manton?" I asked.
"Millard! Lawrence Millard."
"Millard?" Kennedy and I exclaimed, simultaneously.
"Why, yes! Millard is still under contract and he's the only man who
ever could write scripts for Stella. We—we tried others and they all
"Is Millard here?"
Manton burst into laughter, somehow out of place in the room where we
still were in the company of death. "An author on the lot at the
filming of his picture, to bother the director and to change
everything? Out! When the scenario's done he's through. He's lucky to
get his name on the screen. It's not the story but the direction which
counts, except that you've got to have a good idea to start with, and a
halfway decent script to make your lay-outs from. Anyhow—" He sobered
a bit, perhaps realizing that he was going counter to the tendency to
have the author on the lot. "Millard and Stella weren't on speaking
terms. She divorced him, you know."
"Do you know much about the personal affairs of Miss Lamar?"
"Well"—Manton's eyes sought the floor for a moment—"Like everyone
else in pictures, Stella was the victim of a great deal of gossip.
That's the experience of any girl who rises to a position of prominence
"How were the relations between Miss Lamar and yourself?" interrupted
"What do you mean by that?" Manton flushed quickly.
"You have had no trouble, no disagreements recently?"
"No, indeed. Everything has been very friendly between us—in a
strictly business way, of course—and I don't believe I've had an
unpleasant word with her since I first formed Manton Pictures to make
her a star."
"You know nothing of her difficulties with her husband?"
"Naturally not. I seldom saw her except at the studio, unless it was
some necessary affair such as a screen ball here, or perhaps in Boston
or Philadelphia or some near-by city where I would take her for
Kennedy turned to Mackay. "Will you arrange to keep the people I have
yet to question separate from the ones I have examined already?"
As the district attorney nodded, Kennedy dismissed Manton rather
shortly; then turned again to Mackay as the promoter drew out of
"Bring in Bernie, the property-boy, before anyone can tell him to hide
or destroy that locket."
AN EMOTIONAL MAZE
Bernie proved to be as stupid a youth as any I had ever seen. He
possessed frightened semi-liquid eyes and overshot ears and hair which
might have been red beneath its accumulation of dust. Without doubt the
boy had been coached by the electrician, because he began to affirm his
innocence in similar fashion the moment he entered the door.
"I don't know nothin', honest I don't," he pleaded. "I was out in the
hall, I was, and I didn't come in at all until the doc. came."
"I suppose you were anxious to see if the cable was becoming hot,"
Kennedy suggested, gravely.
"That's it, sir! We was lookin' at it because it was on the varnish and
the butler he says—"
"Where's the locket?" interrupted Kennedy. "The one Miss Lamar wore in
"Oh!" in disdain, "that thing!" With some effort Bernie fished it from
the capacious depths of a pocket, disentangling the sharp corners from
the torn and ragged lining of his coat.
I glanced at it as Kennedy turned it over and over in his hands, and
saw that it was a palpable stage prop, with glass jewels of the
cheapest sort. Concealing his disappointment, Kennedy dropped it into
his own pocket, confronting the frightened Bernie once more.
"Do you know anything about Miss Lamar's death?"
"No! I don't know nothing, honest!"
"All right!" Kennedy turned to Mackay. "Werner, the director."
Of Stanley Werner I had heard a great deal, through interviews,
character studies, and other press stuff in the photoplay journals and
the Sunday newspaper film sections. Now I found him to be a high-strung
individual, so extremely nervous that it seemed impossible for him to
remain in one position in his chair or for him to keep his hands
motionless for a single instant. Although he was of moderate build,
with a fair suggestion of flesh, there were yet the marks of the artist
and of the creative temperament in the fine sloping contours of his
head and in his remarkably long fingers, which tapered to nails
manicured immaculately. Kennedy seemed to pay particular attention to
his eyes, which were dark, soft, and amazingly restless.
"Who was in the cast, Mr. Werner? What were they playing and just
exactly what was each doing at the time of Miss Lamar's collapse?"
"Well"—Werner's eyes shifted to mine, then to Mackay's, and there was
a subtle lack of ease in his manner which I was hardly prepared to
classify as yet—"Stella Lamar was playing the part of Stella Remsen,
the heroine, and—uh, I see your associate has the script—"
He paused, glancing at me again. When Kennedy said nothing, Werner went
on, growing more and more nervous. "Jack Gordon plays Jack Daring, the
hero—the handsome young chap who runs down the steps and encounters
the butler and the maid in the hall just outside the library—"
"Wasn't it his face in the French windows of the library at the same
time?" Kennedy asked. "Wasn't he the murderer of the father, also?"
"No!" Werner smiled slightly, and there was an instant's flash of the
man's personality, winning and, it seemed to me, calculated to inspire
confidence. "That is the mystery; it is a mystery plot. While the parts
are played by Jack in both cases now, we explain in a subtitle a little
later that the criminal himself, the 'Black Terror,' is a master of
scientific impersonation, and that he changes the faces of his
emissaries by means of plastic surgery and such scientific things, so
that they look like the characters against whom he wishes to throw
suspicion. So while Jack plays the part it is really an accomplice of
the 'Black Terror' who kills old Remsen."
Kennedy turned to me. "A new idea in the application of science to
crime!" he remarked, dryly. "Just suppose it were practicable!"
"The 'Black Terror'" Werner continued, "is played by Merle Shirley.
You've heard of him, the greatest villain ever known to the films? Then
there's Marilyn Loring, the vampire, another good trouper, too. She
plays Zelda, old Remsen's ward, and it's a question whether Zelda or
Stella will be the Remsen heir. Marilyn herself is an awfully nice
girl, but, oh, how the fans hate her!" The director chuckled. "No
Millard story is ever complete without a vamp and Marilyn's been eating
them up. She's been with Manton Pictures for nearly a year."
"You played the millionaire yourself?"
"Yes, I did old Remsen."
I realized suddenly, for the first time, that Werner was still in the
evening clothes he had donned for the part. On his face were streaks in
the little make-up that remained after his frequent mopping of his
features with his handkerchief. Too, his collar was melted. I could
imagine his discomfort.
"Did you have any business with Stella?" Kennedy asked, using the stage
term for the minor bits of action in the playing of a scene. "Did you
move at all while she was going through her part?"
"No, Mr. Kennedy, I was 'dead man' in all the scenes."
"Show me how you lay, if you will."
Obligingly, Werner stretched out on the carpet, duplicating his
positions even to the exact manner in which he had placed his hands and
arms. Rather to my own distaste, Kennedy impressed me to represent, I
am sure in clumsy fashion, the various positions of Stella Lamar. Most
painstakingly Kennedy worked back from the thirteenth scene to the
first, referring to the script and coaxing details of memory from the
mind of Werner.
I grasped Kennedy's purpose almost at once. He was endeavoring to
reproduce the action which had been photographed, so as to determine
just how the poison had been administered. Of course he made no
reference to the tiny scratch and Mackay and I were careful to give no
hint of it to Werner. The director, however, seemed most willing to
assist us. I certainly felt no suspicion of him now. As for Kennedy,
his face was unrevealing.
"When the film in the camera is developed—" I suggested to Kennedy,
He silenced me with a gesture. "I haven't overlooked that, but the
scenes will be from one angle only and in a darkened set. I can
determine more this way."
Somewhat crestfallen, I continued my impersonation of the slain star
not altogether willingly. Soon Kennedy had completed his reconstruction
of the action.
"Who else entered the scene besides Gordon?" he asked.
"The butler and the maid, after the lights were flashed on."
"I'll question the camera men," he announced. "Who are they?"
"Harry Watkins is the head photographer," Werner explained. "He's a
crackerjack, too! One of the best lighting experts in the country. Al
Penny's grinding the other box."
"Let's have Watkins first." Kennedy nodded to Mackay to escort the
director from the room.
Neither Watkins nor Penny were able to add anything to the facts which
Kennedy had gleaned from Manton and Werner. When he had finished his
patient examination of the junior camera man he recalled Watkins and
had both, under his eyes, close and seal the film cartridges which
contained the photographic record of the thirteen scenes. Dismissing
the men, he handed the two black boxes to Mackay.
"Can you arrange to have these developed and printed, quickly, but in
some way so neither negative nor positive will be out of your sight at
Mackay nodded. "I know the owner of a laboratory in Yonkers."
"Good! Now let's have the leading man."
Jack Gordon immediately impressed me very unfavorably. There was
something about him for which I could find no word but "sleek."
Learning much from my long association with Kennedy I observed at once
that he had removed the make-up from his face and that he had on a
clean white collar. Since the linen worn before the camera is dyed a
faint tint to prevent the halation caused by pure white, it was a sure
sign to me that he had spruced up a bit. I knew that he was engaged to
Stella. Here in this room she lay dead, under the most mysterious
circumstances. There was little question, in fact, that she had been
murdered. How could he, really loving her, think of such things as the
make-up left on his face, or his clothes?
I had to admit that he was a handsome individual. Perhaps slightly less
than average in height, and very slender, he had the close-knit build
of an athlete. The contour of his head and the perfect regularity of
rather large features made him an ideal type for the screen at any
angle; in close-ups and foregrounds as well as full shots. In actual
life there were little things covered by make-up in his work, such as
the cold gray tint of his eyes and the lines of dissipation about his
Kennedy questioned him first about his movements in the different
scenes, then asked him if he had seen or noticed anything suspicious
during the taking of any of them or in the intervals between.
"I had several changes, Mr. Kennedy," he replied. "Part of the time I
was Jack Daring, my regular role, but I was also the emissary who
looked like Daring. I went out each time because I make up the emissary
to look hard. Werner wanted to fool the people a little bit, but he
didn't want them to be positive the emissary was Daring, as would
happen if both make-ups were the same."
"Did you have any opportunity to talk to Miss Lamar?"
"None at all. Werner was pushing us to the limit."
"Did she seem her usual self at the start of the scene?"
"No, she seemed a little out of sorts. But"—Gordon
hesitated—"something had been troubling her all day. She hardly would
talk to me in the car on the way out at all. It didn't strike me that
she acted any different when she went in to take the scene."
"You were engaged to her?"
"Yes." Gordon's eyes caught the body on the davenport before him. He
glanced away hastily, taking his lower lip between his teeth.
"Had you been having any trouble?"
"No—that is, nothing to amount to anything."
"But you had a quarrel or a misunderstanding."
His face flushed slowly. "She was to obtain her final decree early next
week. I wanted her to marry me then at once. She refused. When I
reproached her for not considering my wishes she pretended to be cool
and began an elaborate flirtation with Merle Shirley."
"You say she only pretended to be cool?"
For a few moments Gordon hesitated. Then apparently his vanity loosened
his tongue. He wished it to be understood that he had held the love of
Stella to the last.
"Last night," he volunteered, "we made everything up and she was as
affectionate as she ever had been. This morning she was cool, but I
could tell it was pretense and so I let her alone."
"There has been no real trouble between you?"
The leading man met Kennedy's gaze squarely. "Not a bit!"
Kennedy turned to Mackay. "Mr. Shirley," he ordered.
By a miscalculation on the part of the little district attorney the
heavy man entered the room a moment before Gordon left. They came face
to face just within the portieres. There was no mistaking the
hostility, the open hate, between the two men. Both Kennedy and I
caught the glances.
Then Merle Shirley approached the fireplace, taking the chair indicated
"I wasn't in any of the opening scenes," he explained. "I remained out
in the car until I got wind of the excitement. By that time Stella was
"Do you know anything of a quarrel between Miss Lamar and Gordon?"
Shirley rose, clenching his fists. For several moments he stood gazing
down at the star with an expression on his face which I could not
analyze. The pause gave me an opportunity to study him, however, and I
noticed that while he had heavier features than Gordon, and was a
larger man in every way, ideally endowed for heavy parts, there was yet
a certain boyish freshness clinging to him in subtle fashion. He wore
his clothes in a loose sort of way which suggested the West and the
open, in contrast to Gordon's metropolitan sophistication and
immaculate tailoring. He was every inch the man, and a splendid
actor—I knew. Yet there was the touch of youth about him. He seemed
incapable of a crime such as this, unless it was in anger, or as the
result of some deep-running hidden passion.
Now, whether he was angry or in the clutch of a broad disgust, I could
not tell. Perhaps it was both. Very suddenly he wheeled upon Kennedy.
His voice became low and vibrant with feeling. Here was none of the
steeled self-control of Manton, the deceptive outer mask which Werner
used to cover his thoughts, the nonchalant, cold frankness of Gordon.
"Mr. Kennedy," the actor exclaimed, "I've been a fool, a fool!"
"How do you mean?"
"I mean that I allowed Stella to flatter my vanity and lead me into a
flirtation which meant nothing at all to her. God!"
"You are responsible for the trouble between Miss Lamar and Gordon,
"Never!" Shirley indicated the body of the star with a quick,
passionate sweep of his hand. Now I could not tell whether he was
acting or in earnest. "She's responsible!" he exclaimed. "She's
responsible for everything!"
"No!" Shirley sobered suddenly, as if he had forgotten the mystery
altogether. "I don't know anything at all about that, nor have I any
idea unless—" But he checked himself rather than voice an empty
"Just what do you mean, then?" Kennedy was sharp, impatient.
"She made a fool of me, and—and I was engaged to Marilyn Loring—"
"Were engaged? The engagement—"
"Marilyn broke it off last night and wouldn't listen to me, even though
I came to my senses and saw what a fool I had been."
"Was"—Kennedy framed his question carefully—"was your infatuation for
Miss Lamar of long duration?"
"Just a few weeks. I—I took her out to dinner and to the theater
and—and that was all."
"I see!" Kennedy walked away, nodding to Mackay.
"Will you have Miss Loring next?" asked the district attorney.
Marilyn Loring was a surprise to me. Stella Lamar both on the screen
and in real life was a beauty. In the films Marilyn was a beauty also,
apparently of a cold, unfeeling type, but in the flesh she was
disclosed as a person utterly different from all my preconceived
notions. In the first place, she was not particularly attractive except
when she smiled. Her coloring, hair frankly and naturally red, skin
slightly mottled and pale, produced in photography the black hair and
marble, white skin which distinguished her. But as I studied her, as
she was now, before she had put on any make-up and while she was still
dressed in a simple summer gown of organdie, she looked as though she
might have stepped into the room from the main street of some
mid-Western town. In repose she was shy, diffident in appearance. When
she smiled, naturally, without holding the hard lines of her vampire
roles, there was the slight suggestion of a dimple, and she was
essentially girlish. When a trace of emotion or feeling came into her
face the woman was evident. She might have been seventeen or
To my surprise, Kennedy made no effort to elicit further information
concerning the personal animosities of these people. Perhaps he felt it
too much of an emotional maze to be straightened out in this
preliminary investigation. When he found Marilyn had watched the taking
of the scenes he compared her account with those which he had already
obtained. Then he dismissed her.
In rapid succession, for he was impatient now to follow up other
methods of investigation, he called in and examined the remaining
possible witnesses of the tragedy. These were the two extra
players—the butler and the maid, the assistant director, Phelps's
house servants, and Emery Phelps himself. For some unknown reason he
left the owner of the house to the very last.
"Why did you wish these scenes photographed out here?" he asked.
"Because I wanted to see my library in pictures."
"Were you watching the taking of the scenes?"
"Will you describe just what happened?"
Phelps flushed. He was irritated and in no mood to humor us any more
than necessary. A man of perhaps forty, with the portly flabbiness
which often accompanies success in the financial markets, he was
accustomed to obtaining rather than yielding obedience. A bachelor, he
had built this house as a show place merely, according to the gossip
among newspaper men, seldom living in it.
"Haven't about a dozen people described it for you already?" he asked,
Kennedy smiled. "Did you notice anything particularly out of the way,
anything which might be a clue to the manner in which Miss Lamar met
Phelps's attitude became frankly malicious. "If I had, or if any of us
had, we wouldn't have found it necessary to send for Prof. Craig
Kennedy, or"—turning to me—"the representative of the New York Star."
Kennedy, undisturbed, walked to the side of Mackay. "I'll leave Mr.
Phelps and his house in your care," he remarked, in a low voice.
Mackay grinned. I saw that the district attorney had little love for
the owner of this particular estate in Tarrytown.
Kennedy led the way into the living room. Immediately the various
people he had questioned clustered up with varying degrees of anxiety.
Had the mystery been solved?
He gave them no satisfaction, but singled out Manton, who seemed eager
to get away.
"Where is Millard? I would like to talk to him."
"I'll try to get him for you. Suppose—" Manton looked at his watch. "I
should be in at the studio," he explained. "Everything is at a
standstill, probably, and—and so, suppose you and Mr. Jameson ride in
with me in my car. Millard might be there."
Kennedy brightened. "Good!" Then he looked back to catch the eye of
Mackay. "Let everyone go now," he directed. "Don't forget to send me
the samples of the body fluids and"—as an afterthought—"you'd better
keep a watch on the house."
THE FIRST CLUE
Manton's car was a high-powered, expensive limousine, fitted inside
with every luxury of which the mind of even a prima donna could
conceive, painted a vivid yellow that must have made it an object of
attention even on its familiar routes. It was quite characteristic of
its owner, for Manton, as we learned, missed no chance to advertise
In the back with us was Werner, while the rest of the company were left
to return to the city in the two studio cars which had brought them out
in the morning. The director, however, seemed buried with his
reflections. He took no part in the conversation; paid no attention to
us upon the entire trip.
Manton's mind seemed to dwell rather upon the problems brought up by
the death of Stella than upon the tragedy itself. The Star's photoplay
editor once had remarked to me that the promoter was 90 per cent
"bull," and 10 per cent efficiency. I found that it was an unfair
estimation. With all his self-advertisement and almost obnoxious
personality, Manton was a more than capable executive in a business
where efficiency and method are rare.
"This has been a hoodoo picture from the start," he exclaimed,
suddenly. "We have been jinxed with a vengeance. Some one has held the
Indian sign on us for sure."
Kennedy, I noticed, listened, studying the man cautiously from the
corners of his eyes, but making no effort to draw him out.
"First there were changes to be made in the script, and for those
Millard took his own sweet time. Then we were handed a lot of negative
which had been fogged in the perforator, a thing that doesn't happen
once in a thousand years. But it caught us just as we sent the company
down to Delaware Water Gap. A whole ten days' work went into the
developer at once. Neither of the camera men caught the fog in their
tests because it came in the middle of the rolls. Everything had to be
done over again.
"And accidents! We carefully registered the principal accomplice of the
'Black Terror,' a little hunchback with a face to send chills down your
back. After we had him in about half the scenes of a sequence of action
he was taken sick and died of influenza. First we waited a few days;
then we had to take all that stuff over again.
"Our payroll on this picture is staggering. Stella's three thousand a
week is cheap for her, the old contract, but it's a lot of money to
throw away. Two weeks when she was under the weather cost us six
thousand dollars salary and there was half a week we couldn't do any
work without her. Gordon and Shirley and Marilyn Loring draw down
seventeen hundred a week between them. The director's salary is only
two hundred short of that. All told 'The Black Terror' is costing us a
hundred thousand dollars over our original estimate.
"And now"—it seemed to me that Manton literally groaned—"with Stella
Lamar dead—excuse me looking at it this way, but, after all, it is
business and I'm the executive at the head of the company—now we must
find a new star, Lord knows where, and we must retake every scene in
which Stella appeared. It—it's enough to bankrupt Manton Pictures for
once and all."
"Can't you change the story about some way, so you won't lose the value
of her work?" asked Kennedy.
"Impossible! We've announced the release and we've got to go ahead.
Fortunately, some of the biggest sets are not taken yet."
The car pulled up with a flourish before the Manton studio, which was
an immense affair of reinforced concrete in the upper Bronx. Then, in
response to our horn, a great wide double door swung open admitting us
through the building to a large courtyard around which the various
departments were built.
Here, there was little indication that the principal star of the
company had just met her death under mysterious and suspicious
circumstances. Perhaps, had I been familiar with the ordinary bustle of
the establishment, I might have detected a difference. Indeed, it did
strike me that there were little knots of people here and there
discussing the tragedy, but everything was overshadowed by the aquatic
scene being filmed in the courtyard for some other Manton picture. The
cramped space about the concrete tank was alive with people, a mob of
extras and stage hands and various employees, a sight which held
Kennedy and me for some little time. I was glad when Manton led the way
through a long hall to the comparative quiet of the office building. In
the reception room there was a decided hush.
"Is Millard here?" he asked of the boy seated at the information desk.
"No, sir," was the respectful reply. "He was here this morning and for
a while yesterday."
"You see!" Manton confronted Kennedy grimly. "This is only one of the
things with which we have to contend in this business. I give Millard
an office but he's a law unto himself. It's the artistic temperament.
If I interfere, then he says he cannot write and he doesn't produce any
manuscript. Ordinarily he cannot be bothered to work at the studio.
But"—philosophically—"I know where to get him as a general thing. He
does most of his writing in his rooms downtown; says there's more
inspiration in the confusion of Broadway than in the wilds of the
Bronx. I'll phone him."
We followed the promoter up the stairs to the second and top floor.
Here a corridor gave access to the various executive offices. Its
windows at frequent intervals looked down upon the courtyard and the
Werner, who had preceded us into the building, now came up. As Manton
bustled into his own office to use the telephone the director turned to
Kennedy, indicating the next doorway.
"This is my place," he explained. "It connects with Manton, on one
side, through his reception room. You see, in addition to directing
Stella Lamar I have been in general charge of production and most of
the casting is up to me."
Kennedy entered after Werner, interested, and I followed. The door
through to the reception room stood open and beyond was the one to
Manton's quarters. I could see the promoter at his desk, receiver at
his ear, an impatient expression upon his face. In the reception room a
rather pretty girl, young and of a shallow-pated type I thought, was
busy at a clattering typewriter. She rose and closed the door upon
Manton, so as not to disturb him.
"The next office on this side is Millard's," volunteered Werner. "He's
the only scenario writer dignified with quarters in this building."
"Manton has other writers, hasn't he?" Kennedy asked.
"Yes, the scenario department is on the third floor across the court,
above the laboratory and cutting rooms."
"Who else is in the building here?"
"There are six rooms on this floor," Werner replied. "Manton, the
waiting room, myself, Millard, and the two other directors. Below is
the general reception room, the cashier, the bookkeepers and
As Manton probably was having trouble obtaining his connection, and as
Kennedy continued to question Werner concerning the general arrangement
of the different floors in the different buildings about the
quadrangle, all uninteresting to me, I determined to look about a bit
on my own hook. I was still anxious to be of genuine assistance to
Kennedy, for once, through my greater knowledge of the film world.
Strolling out into the corridor, I went to the door of Millard's room.
To my disappointment, it was locked. Continuing down the hall, I stole
a glance into each of the two directors' quarters but saw nothing to
awaken my suspicion or justify my intrusion. Beyond, I discovered a
washroom, and, aware suddenly of the immense amount of dust I had
acquired in the ride in from Tarrytown, I entered to freshen my hands
and face at the least. It was a stroke of luck, a fortunate impulse.
The amount of money to be made in the movies had resulted, in the case
of Manton, in luxurious equipment for all the various departments of
his establishment. I had noticed the offices, furnished with a richness
worthy of a bank or some great downtown institution. Now, in the
lavatory, immaculate with its white tile and modern appointments, I saw
a shelf literally stacked, in this day of paper, with linen towels of
the finest quality.
As I drew the water, hot instantly, my eye caught, half in and half out
of the wire basket beneath the stand, one of the towels covered with
peculiar yellow spots. Immediately my suspicions were awakened. I
picked it up gingerly. At close range I saw that the spots were only
chrome yellow make-up, but there were also spots of a different nature.
I did not stop to think of the unlikeliness of the discovery of a real
clue under these circumstances, analyzed afterward by Kennedy. I folded
the towel hastily and hurried to rejoin him, to show it to him.
I found him with Werner, waiting for the results of Manton's efforts to
locate Millard. Almost at the moment I rejoined the two a boy came to
summon Werner to one of the sets out on the stage itself. Kennedy and I
were alone. I showed him the towel.
At first he laughed, "You'll never make a detective, Walter," he
remarked. "This is only simple coloring matter-Chinese yellow, to be
exact. And will you tell me, too"—he became ironical—"how do you
expect to find clues of this sort here for a murder committed in
Tarrytown when all the people present were held out there and examined,
when we are the first to arrive back here?
"Yellow, you know, photographs white. Chinese yellow is used largely in
studios in place of white in make-up because it does not cause
halation, which, to the picture people, is the bane of their existence.
White is too glaring, reflects rays that blur the photography sometimes.
"If you will notice, the next time you see them shooting a scene, you
will find the actors' faces tinged with yellow. Even tablecloths and
napkins and 'white' dresses are frequently colored a pale yellow,
although pale blue has the actinic qualities of white for this purpose,
and is now perhaps more frequently used than yellow."
I was properly chastened. In fact, though I did not say much, I almost
determined to let him conduct his case himself.
Kennedy saw my crestfallen expression and understood. He was about to
say something encouraging, as he handed back the towel, when his eye
fell on the other end of it, which, indeed, I myself had noticed.
He sobered instantly and studied the other spots. Indeed, I had not
examined them closely myself. They were the very faint stains of some
other yellow substance, a liquid which had dried and did not rub off as
the make-up, and there were also some small round drops of dark red,
almost hidden in the fancy red scrollwork of the lettering on the
towel, "Manton Pictures, Inc." The latter had escaped me altogether.
"Blood!" Kennedy exclaimed. Then, "Look here!" The marks of the pale
yellow liquid trailed into a slender trace of blood. "It looks as if
some one had cleaned a needle on it," he muttered, "and in a hurry."
I remembered his previous remark. The murder had been in Tarrytown. We
had just arrived here.
"Would anyone have time to do it?" I asked.
"Whoever used the towel did so in a hurry," he reiterated, seriously.
"It may have been some one afraid to leave any sort of clue out there
at Phelps's house. There were too many watchers about. It might have
seemed better to have run the risk of a search. With no sign of a wound
on Miss Lamar's person, it was pretty certain that neither Mackay nor I
would attempt to frisk everyone. It was not as though we were looking
for a revolver, if she were shot, or a knife, if she had been stabbed.
And"—he could not resist another dig at me—"and that we should look
in a washroom here for a towel was, well, an idea that wouldn't occur
to anyone but the most amateur and blundering sort of sleuth. It's
beginner's luck, Walter, beginner's luck."
I ignored the uncomplimentary part of his remarks. "Who could have been
in the washroom just before me?" I asked.
Suddenly he hurried through the waiting room to the door to Manton's
office, opening it without ceremony. Manton was gone. We exchanged
glances. I remembered that Werner had preceded us upstairs. "It means
Werner or Manton himself," I whispered, so the girl just behind us
would not hear.
Kennedy strode out to the hall, and to a window overlooking the court.
After a moment he pointed. I recognized both the cars used to transport
the company to the home of Emery Phelps. There was no sign that either
had just arrived, for even the chauffeurs were out of sight, perhaps
melted into the crowd about the tank in the corner.
"They must have arrived immediately behind us," Kennedy remarked. "We
wasted several valuable minutes looking at that water stuff ourselves."
At that moment Werner's voice rose from the reception room below. It
was probable that he would be up to rejoin us again. I remembered that
he had not been at all at ease while Kennedy questioned him in
Tarrytown; that here at the studio he had been palpably anxious to
remain close at our heels. I felt a surge of suspicion within me.
"Listen, Craig," I muttered, in low tones. "Manton had no opportunity
to steal down the hall after the girl closed the door, and—"
"Why not!" he interrupted, contradicting me. "We had our backs to the
door while we were talking with Werner."
"Well, anyhow, it narrows down to Manton and Werner because that is the
washroom for these offices—"
"'Sh!" Kennedy stopped me as Werner mounted the stairs. He turned to
the director with assumed nonchalance. "How long have the other cars
been here?" he asked. "I thought we came pretty fast."
Werner smiled. "I guess those boys had enough of Tarrytown. They rolled
into the yard, both of them, while you and Mr. Jameson and Manton were
stopping to watch the people in the water."
"I see!" Kennedy gave me a side glance. "Where are the dressing rooms?"
he inquired. It was a random shot.
Werner pointed to the end of the hall, toward the washroom. "In the
next building, on this floor—that is, the principals'. It's a rotten
arrangement," he added. "They come through sometimes and use our
lavatory, because it's a little more fancy and because it saves a trip
down a flight of stairs. Believe me, it gets old Manton on his ear."
Behind Werner was the assistant director, to whom I had given little
attention at the time of the examination of the various people in the
Phelps library. Even now he impressed me as one of those rare,
unobtrusive types of individuals who seem, in spite of the possession
of genuine ability and often a great deal of efficiency, to lack,
nevertheless, any outstanding personal characteristics. As a class they
are human machines, to be neither liked nor disliked, never intruding
and yet always on hand when needed.
"This is Carey Drexel, my assistant," Werner stated, forgetting that
Kennedy had questioned him at Tarrytown, and so knew him. "There are a
few people I simply must see and I'm tied up, therefore, for perhaps
half an hour; and Manton's downstairs still trying to locate Millard
for you. But Carey's at your disposal, Mr. Kennedy, to show you the
arrangement of the studio and to cooperate with you in any way if you
think there's any possible chance of finding anything to bear upon
Stella's death here."
If Werner was the man who had used the towel, I could see that he was
an actor and a cool villain. Of course no one could know, yet, that we
had discovered it, but the very nonchalance with which it had been
thrown into the basket was a mark of the nerve of the guilty man. It
was more than carelessness. Nothing about the crime had been haphazard.
Kennedy thanked Werner and asked to be shown the studio floor used in
the making of "The Black Terror." Carey led the way, explaining that
there were actually two studios, one at each end of the quadrangle,
connected on both sides by the other buildings; offices and dressing
rooms and the costume and property departments at the side facing the
street; technical laboratories and all the detail of film manufacture
in a four-story structure to the rear. Most of Werner's own picture was
being made in the so-called big studio, reached through the dressing
rooms from the end of the corridor where we stood.
I had been in film plants before, but when we entered the huge
glass-roofed inclosure beyond the long hallway of dressing rooms I was
impressed by the fact that here was a place of genuine magnitude, with
more life and bustle than anything I had ever imagined. The glass had,
however, been painted over, because of late years dark stages, with the
even quality of artificial light, had come into vogue in the Manton
studios in place of stages lighted by the uneven and undependable
The two big sets mentioned by Manton, a banquet hall and a ballroom,
were being erected simultaneously. Carpenters were at work sawing and
hammering. Werner's technical director was shouting at a group of stage
hands putting a massive mirror in position at the end of the banquet
hall, a clever device to give the room the appearance of at least
double its actual length. In one corner several electricians and a
camera man were experimenting with a strange-looking bank of lights. In
the ballroom set, where the flats or walls were all in place, an
unexcited paperhanger was busy with the paraphernalia of his craft,
somehow looking out of his element in this reign of pandemonium.
It seemed hard indeed to believe that any sort of order or system lay
behind this heterogeneous activity, and the incident which took Carey
Drexel away from us only added to the wonder in my mind, a wonder that
anything tangible and definite could be accomplished.
"Oh, Carey!" Another assistant director, or perhaps he was only a
property boy, rushed up frantically the moment he saw Drexel. "Miss
Miller's on a rampage because the grand piano you promised to get for
her isn't at her apartment yet, and Bessie Terry's in tears because she
left her parrot here overnight, as you suggested, and some one taught
the bird to swear." The intruder, a youth of perhaps eighteen, was in
deadly earnest. "For the love of Mike, Carey," he went on, "tell me how
to unteach that screeching thing of Bessie's, or we won't get a scene
Carey Drexel looked at Kennedy helplessly.
With all these troubles, how could he pilot us about? Later we learned
that this was nothing new, once one gets on the inside of picture
making. Props., or properties, particularly the living ones, cause
almost as much disturbance as the temperamental notions of the actors
and actresses. Sometimes it is a question which may become the most
Kennedy seemed to be satisfied with his preliminary visit to this
"We can get back to Manton's office alone," he told Drexel. "We will
just keep on circling the quadrangle."
Relieved, the assistant director pointed to the door of the
manufacturing building, as the four-story structure in the rear was
called. Then he bustled off with the other youth, quite unruffled
When we passed through the heavy steel fire door we found ourselves in
another long hallway of fire-brick and reinforced-concrete
construction. Unquestionably there was no danger of a serious
conflagration in any part of Manton's plant, despite the high
inflammability of the film itself, of the flimsy stage sets, of
practically everything used in picture manufacture.
Immediately we entered this building I detected a peculiar odor, at
which I sniffed eagerly. I was reminded of the burnt-almond odor of the
cyanides. Was this another clue?
I turned to Kennedy but he smiled, anticipating me.
"Banana oil, Walter," he explained, with rather a superior manner. "I
imagine it's used a great deal in this industry. Anyway"—a
chuckle—"don't expect chance to deliver clues to you in wholesale
quantities. You have done very well for today."
A sudden whirring noise, from an open door down the hall, attracted us,
and we paused. This, I guessed, was a cutting room. There were a number
of steel tables, with high steel chairs. At the walls were cabinets of
the same material. Each table had two winding arrangements, a handle at
the operator's right hand and one at his left, so that he could wind or
unwind film from one reel to another, passing it forward or backward in
front of his eyes.
There were girls at the tables except nearest the hall. Here a man
stopped now and then to glance at the ribbon of film, or to cut out a
section, dropping the discarded piece into a fireproof can and splicing
the two ends of the main strip together again with liquid film cement
from a small bottle. He looked up as he sensed our presence.
"Isn't it hell?" he remarked, in friendly fashion. "I've got to cut all
of Stella Lamar out of 'The Black Terror,' so they can duplicate her
scenes with another star, and meanwhile we had half the negative
matched and marked for colors and spliced in rolls, all ready for the
Without waiting for an answer from us, or expecting one, he gave one of
his reels a vicious spin, producing the whirring noise; then grasping
both reels between his fingers and bringing them to an abrupt stop, so
that I wondered he did not burn himself from the friction, he located
the next piece to be eliminated.
We followed the hall into the smaller studio and there found a comedy
company at work. Without stopping to watch the players, ghastly under
the light from the Cooper-Hewitts and Kliegel arcs, we found a
precarious way back of the set around and under stage braces, to the
covered bridge leading once more to the corridor outside Manton's
Now the girl was absent from her place in the little waiting room.
Manton's door stood open. Without ceremony Kennedy led the way in and
dropped down at the side of the promoter's huge mahogany desk.
"I'm tired, Walter," he said. "Furthermore, I think this picture world
of yours is a bedlam. We face a hard task."
"How do you propose to go about things?" I asked.
"I'm afraid this is a case which will have to be approached entirely
through psychological reactions. You and I will have to become familiar
with the studio and home life of all the long list of possible
suspects. I shall analyze the body fluids of the deceased and learn the
cause of death, and I will find out what it is on the towel,
but"—sighing—"there are so many different ramifications, so many—"
Suddenly his eye caught the corner of a piece of paper slid under the
glass of Manton's desk. He pulled it out; then handed it to me.
MEMORANDUM FOR MR. MANTON
Have learned Enid Faye is out of Pentangle and can be engaged for about
twelve hundred if you act quickly. Why not cancel Lamar contract after
"Black Terror," if she continues up-stage?
"I caught the name Lamar," Kennedy explained. Then an expression of
gratification crept into his face. "Miss Lamar was 'up-stage'?" he
mused. "That's a theatrical word for cussedness, isn't it?"
I paid little attention. The name of Enid Faye had attracted my own
interest. This was the little dare-devil who had breezed into the
Pacific Coast film colony and had swept everything before her. Not only
had she displayed amazing nerve for her sex and size, but she had been
pretty and beautifully formed, had been as much at home in a ballroom
as in an Annette Kellermann bathing suit. In less than six months she
had learned to act and had been brought to the Eastern studios of
Pentangle. Now it was possible that she would be captured by Manton,
would be blazoned all over the country by that gentleman, would become
another star of his making.
"Let's go, Walter!" Kennedy, impatient, rose. I noticed that he folded
the little note, slipping it into his pocket.
Out in the hall voices came to us from Werner's office. After some
little hesitation Kennedy opened the door unceremoniously. At the
table, littered with blue prints and drawings and colored plates of
famous home interiors, was the director. With him was Manton. Seated
facing them, in rare good humor, was a fascinating little lady.
The promoter rose. "Professor Kennedy, I want you to meet Miss Enid
Faye, one of our real comers. And Mr. Jameson, Enid, of the New York
She acknowledged the introduction to Kennedy gracefully. Then she
turned, rising, and rushed to me most effusively, leading me to a
leather-covered couch and pulling me to a seat beside her.
"Mr. Jameson," she purred. "I just love newspaper men; I think they're
perfectly wonderful always. Tell me, do you like little Enid?"
I nodded, confused and unhappy, and as red as a schoolboy.
"That's fine," she went on, in the best modulated and most wonderful
voice I thought I had ever heard. "I like you and I know we're going to
be the best of friends. Tell me, what's your first name?"
"Now, Enid," reproved Manton, in fatherly tones, "you'll have plenty of
time to vamp your publicity later. For the present, please listen to
me. We're talking business."
"Shoot every hair of this old gray head!" she directed, pertly.
She did not move away, however, I could feel the warmth of her, could
catch the delicacy of the perfume she used. I noted the play of her
slender fingers, the trimness of her ankle, the piquancy of a nose
revealed to me in profile—and nothing else.
"This is your chance, Enid," Manton continued, earnestly and rather
eagerly. "You know the film will be the most talked about one this
year. We've got the Merritt papers lined up and that's the best
advertising in the world. Everyone will know you took Stella's place,
and—well, you'll step right in."
She studied the tips of her boots, stretching boyish limbs straight in
front of her, then smoothing the soft folds of her skirt.
"Talk money to me, Mr. Man!" she exclaimed. "Talk the shekels, the
"We're broke," he protested. "A thousand—"
She shook her head.
Werner broke in, suddenly anxious. "Don't pass up the chance, Enid," he
pleaded. "What can Pentangle do for you? And I've always wanted to
direct you again—"
"I'll make it twelve hundred," Manton interrupted, "if you'll make the
contract personally with me. Then if Manton Pictures—"
"All right!" She jumped to her feet, extending a hand straight forward
to each, the right to Manton, the left to Werner. "You're on!"
I thought that I was forgotten. A wave of jealousy swept over me. After
all, she simply wanted me to write her up. In a daze I heard Manton.
"You're a wise little girl, Enid," he told her. "Play the game right
with me and you'll climb high. The sky's the limit, now. I'll make
you—make you big!"
With a full, warm smile she swung around to me and I knew I was not
being slighted, after all.
"That's what Longfellow said, isn't it, Mr. Jameson?"
"What?" My heart began to beat like a trip hammer.
"Excelsior! Excelsior! It packs them in!"
She laughed so infectiously that we all joined in. Then Manton turned
"I've located Millard for you. He's to meet us at my apartment at
seven. It's six-thirty now. And you, Enid"—facing her—"if you'll
come, too, there's another man I want you to meet, and Larry, of
course, will be there—"
Enid studied Kennedy. He was hesitating as though not sure whether to
accompany Manton or not. I never did learn what other course of action
had occurred to him.
But I did notice that the little star, with her pert, upturned face,
seemed more anxious to have Kennedy go along than she was to meet the
mysterious individual mentioned without name by Manton. For an instant
she was on the point of addressing him, flippantly, no doubt. Then, I
think she was rather awed at Craig's reputation.
All at once she shrugged her shoulders and turned to me, plucking my
sleeve, her expression brightening irresistibly. "You'll come,
It struck me on the trip to Manton's apartment that the film people
were wholly unfeeling, were even uninterested in the death of Stella
Lamar except where it interfered with their business arrangements.
Werner excused himself and did not accompany us, on the score of the
complete realignment of production necessary to place Enid in Stella's
part. It seemed to me that he felt a certain relish in the problem,
that he was almost glad of the circumstances which brought Enid to him.
His last words to Manton were, to be sure to have Millard recast the
action of the scenes wherever possible, so as to give Enid the better
chance to display her own personality.
I marveled as I realized that the remains of Stella Lamar were scarcely
cold before these people were figuring on the star to take her place.
As Manton talked, the thought crossed my mind that such a man needed no
publicity manager. I dismissed the idea that he might be capable even
of murder for publicity. But at least it was an insight into some
methods of the game.
As our car mounted to the Concourse and turned Manhattanward I was
distinctly unhappy. Manton monopolized Enid completely, insisting upon
talking over everything under the sun, from the wardrobe she would need
in Stella's part and the best sort of personal advertising campaign for
her, to the first available evening when she could go to dinner with
She sat in the rear seat, between Kennedy and the promoter, which did
not add to my sense of comfort. The only consoling feature from my
viewpoint was that I was admirably placed to study her, and that Manton
held her so engrossed that I had every opportunity to do so unnoticed.
Because she had overwhelmed me so completely I did nothing of the kind.
I knew we were riding with the most beautiful woman in New York, but I
did not know the color of her hair or eyes, or even the sort of hat or
dress she wore. In short I was movie-struck.
We stopped at last at a huge, ornate apartment house on Riverside Drive
and Manton led the way through the wide Renaissance entrance and the
luxurious marble hall to the elevator. His quarters, on the top floor,
facing the river, were almost exotic in the lavishness and barbaric
splendor of their furnishings. My first impression as we entered the
place was that Manton had purposely planned the dim lights of rich
amber and the clinging Oriental fragrance hovering about everything so
as to produce an alluring and enticing atmosphere. The chairs and wide
upholstered window seats, the soft, yielding divans in at least two
corners, with their miniature mountains of tiny pillows, all were
comfortable with the comfort one associates with lotus eating and that
homeward journey soon to be forgotten. There was the smoke of incense,
unmistakably. On a taboret were cigarettes and cigars and through heavy
curtains I caught a glimpse of a sideboard and decanters, filled and
set out very frankly.
A Japanese butler, whom Manton called Huroki, took our hats and
retreated with a certain emanating effluvium of subtlety such as I had
known only once before, when the Oriental attendant left me on the
occasion of my only visit to an opium den in Chinatown.
A moment later Millard, who had been waiting, rose to greet us.
I would have guessed him to be an author, I believe, had I met him at
random anywhere in the city. He affected all the professional marks and
mannerisms, and yet he did so gracefully. I noticed, in the little hall
where Huroki placed our headgear, a single-jointed Malacca stick, a
dark-colored and soft-brimmed felt hat, and a battered brief-case. That
was Millard, unquestionably. The man himself was tall and loose-limbed,
heavy with an appearance of slenderness. His face was handsome, rather
intellectual in spite of rather than because of large horn-rimmed
glasses. His mouth and chin showed strength and determination, which
was a surprise to me. In fact, in no way did he seem to reveal the
artist. Lawrence Millard was a commercial writer, a dreamer never.
First he greeted Enid, taking both of her hands in his. In this one
brief moment all my own little romance went glimmering, for I could not
blind myself to the softening of his expression, the welcoming light in
hers, the long interval in which their fingers remained interlaced.
And then another thought came to me, hastened, fed and fattened upon my
jealousy. The sealed testimony in the case of Millard vs. Millard!
Could Enid, by any chance, be concerned in that?
The next moment I dismissed the thought, or at least I thought I did
so. I tried to picture Enid's work on the Coast, to remember the short
time she had been in the East. It was possible Millard had known her
before she went to Los Angeles, but unlikely.
Millard next turned to Kennedy.
"I just learned of the tragedy a short while ago, Professor," he
exclaimed. "It is terrible, and so amazingly sudden, too! It—it has
upset me completely. Tell me, have you found anything? Have you
discovered any possible clue? Is there anything at all I can do to
"I would like to ask a few questions," Kennedy explained.
"By all means!"
He extended a hand to me and I found it damp and flabby, as though he
were more concerned than his manner betrayed. He faced Kennedy again,
"Stella and I didn't make a go of our married life at all," he went on,
frankly enough. "I was very sorry, too, because I was genuinely fond of
"How recently have you seen her?"
"Stella? Not for over a month—perhaps longer than that."
Manton took Enid by the arm. It was evidently her first visit to the
apartment and he was anxious to show her his various treasures.
Millard, Kennedy, and I found a corner affording a view out over the
Hudson. After Kennedy had described, briefly, the circumstances of
Stella's death, at Millard's insistence, he produced the note he had
found in her handbag. The author recognized it at once, without reading
"Yes, I wrote that!" Then just a trace of emotion crept into his voice.
"I was too late," he murmured.
"What was it you wanted to say?" Kennedy inquired.
Millard's glance traveled to Manton and Enid, a troubled something in
his expression. I could see that the promoter was making the most of
his tete-a-tete with the girl, but she seemed perfectly at ease and
quite capable of handling the man, and I, certainly, was more disturbed
at the interest of Millard.
"I thought there was something about the business I ought to tell
Stella," he answered, finally. "Manton Pictures is pretty shaky."
"Oh! Then Manton wasn't talking for effect when he told Miss Faye that
the company was broke?"
"No, indeed! In fact, didn't Enid make her agreement with Manton
personally? That's what I advised her to do."
Kennedy nodded. "But is Manton himself financially sound?"
Millard laughed. "Lloyd Manton always has a dozen things up his sleeve.
He may have a million or he may owe a million." In the author's voice
was no respect for his employer. A touch of malice crept into his tone.
"Manton will make money for anyone who can make money for him," he
added, "that is, provided he has to do it."
Kennedy and I exchanged glances. This was close to an assertion of
downright dishonesty. At that moment Huroki stole in on padded feet, as
noiseless as a wraith.
"Yes, Huroki?" His master turned, inquiringly.
"Mr. Leigh," was the butler's announcement.
"Show him in," said Manton; then he hurried over to us. "Courtlandt
Leigh, the banker, you know."
I imagine I showed my surprise, for Kennedy smiled as he caught my
face. Leigh was a bigger man than Phelps, of the highest standing in
downtown financial circles. If Manton had interested Courtlandt Leigh
in moving pictures he was a wizard indeed.
It seemed to me that the banker was hardly in the apartment before he
saw Enid, and from that moment the girl engrossed him to the exclusion
of everything else. For Enid, I will say that she was a wonder. She
seemed to grasp the man's instant infatuation and immediately she set
about to complete the conquest, all without permitting him so much as
to touch her.
"You'll excuse us?" remarked Manton, easily, as he drew Phelps and Enid
"See!" exclaimed Millard, in a low voice, frowning now as he watched
the girl. "Manton's clever! I've never known him unable to raise money,
and that's why I wanted Enid to have her contract with him personally.
If Manton Pictures blows up he'd put her in some other company."
"He has more than one?" This seemed to puzzle Kennedy.
"He's been interested in any number on the side," Millard explained.
"Now he's formed another, but it's a secret so far. You've heard of
Fortune Features, perhaps?"
Kennedy looked at me, but I shook my head.
"What is 'Fortune Features'?" Kennedy asked the question of Millard.
"Just another company in which Manton has an interest," he replied,
casually. "That was why I said I advised that Enid make her contract
personally with Manton. If Manton Pictures goes up, then he will have
to swing her into Fortune Features—the other Manton enterprise, don't
you see?" He paused, then added: "By the way, don't say anything
outside about that. It isn't generally known—and as soon as anyone
does hear it, everybody in the film game will hear it. You don't know
how gossip travels in this business."
Kennedy asked a few personal questions about Stella, but Millard's
answers indicated that he had not contemplated or even hoped for a
reconciliation, that his interest in his former wife had become
thoroughly platonic. Just now, however, he seemed unable to keep Manton
out of his mind.
"Oh, Manton's clever!" he said, confidentially to Kennedy, as he
watched the promoter deftly maneuvering Leigh and Enid into a position
side by side.
And indeed, as Millard talked, I began to get some inkling of how
really clever was the game which Manton played.
"Why," continued Millard, warming up to his story—for, to him, above
all, a good story was something that had to be told, whatever might
result from it—"I have known him to pay a visit some afternoon to Wall
Street—go down there to beard the old lions in their den. He always
used to show up about the closing time of the market.
"I've known him to get into the office of some one like Leigh or
Phelps. Then he'll begin to talk about his brilliant prospects in the
company he happens to be promoting at the time. If you listen to Manton
you're lost. I know it—I've listened," he added, whimsically.
"Well," he continued, "the banker will begin to get restless after a
bit—not at Manton, but at not getting away. 'My car is outside,'
Manton will say. 'Let me drive you uptown.' Of course, there's nothing
else for the banker to do but to accept, and when he gets into Manton's
car he's glad he did. I don't know anyone who picks out such luxurious
things as he does. Why, that man could walk right out along Automobile
Row, broke, and some one would GIVE him a car."
"How does he do it?" I put the question to him.
"How does a fish swim?" said Millard, smiling. "He's clever, I tell
you. Once he has the banker in the car, perhaps they stop for a few
moments at a club. At any rate, Manton usually contrives it so that, as
they approach his apartment, he has his talk all worked up to the point
where the banker is genuinely interested. You know there's almost
nothing people will talk to you longer about than moving pictures.
"Well, on one pretext or another, Manton usually persuades the banker
to step up here for a moment. Poor simp! It's all over with him then.
I'll never forget how impressed Phelps was with this place the first
time. There, now, watch this fellow, Leigh. He thinks this looks like a
million dollars. We're all here, playing Manton's game. We're his
menagerie—he's Barnum. I tell you, Leigh's lost, lost!"
I did not know quite what to make of Millard's cynicism. Was he trying
to be witty at Manton's expense? I noticed that he did not smile
himself. Although he was talking to us, his attention was not really on
us. He was still watching Enid.
"Then, along would happen Stella, as if by chance."
Millard paused bitterly, as though he did not quite relish the telling
it, but felt that Kennedy would pry it out of him or some one else
finally, and he might as well have it over with frankly.
"Yes," he said, thoughtfully, "but it all wasn't really Manton's fault,
after all. Stella liked the Bohemian sort of life too much—and Manton
does the Bohemian up here wonderfully. It was too much for Stella.
Then, when Phelps came along and was roped in, she fell for him. It was
good-by, poor Millard! I wasn't rapid enough for that crowd."
I almost began to sympathize with Millard in the association into
which, for his living's sake, his art had forced him. I realized, too,
that really the banker, the wise one from Wall Street, was the sucker.
Indeed, as Millard told it, I could easily account for the temptation
of Stella. To a degree, I suppose, it was really her fault, for she
ought to have known the game, shown more sense than to be taken in by
the thing. I wondered at the continued relations of Millard with
Manton, under the circumstances. However, I reflected, if Stella had
chosen to play the little fool, why should Millard have allowed that to
ruin his own chances?
What interested me now was that Millard did not seem to relish the
attentions which the banker was paying to Enid. Was Manton framing up
the same sort of game again on Leigh?
However, when Enid shot a quick glance at Millard in an aside of the
conversation, accompanied by a merry wink, I saw that Millard, though
still doubtful, was much more at ease.
Evidently there was a tacit understanding between the two.
Kennedy glanced over at me. Bit by bit the checkered history of Stella
Lamar's life was coming to light.
I began to see more clearly. Deserting Millard and fascinated by Manton
and his game, she had been used to interest Phelps in the company. In
turn she had been dazzled by the glitter of the Phelps gold. She had
not proved loyal even to the producer and promoter.
Perhaps, I reflected, that was why Millard was so apparently
complacent. One could not, under the circumstances, have expected him
to display wild emotion. His attitude had been that of one who thought,
"She almost broke me; let her break some one else."
That, however, was not his attitude toward Enid now. Indeed, he seemed
genuinely concerned that she should not follow in the same steps.
Later, I learned that was not all of the history of Stella. Fifteen
hundred dollars a week of her own money, besides lavish presents, had
been too much for her. Even Phelps's money had had no over-burdening
attraction for her. The world—at least that part of it which spends
money on Broadway, had been open to her. Jack Daring had charmed her
for a while—hence the engagement. Of Shirley, I did not even know.
Perhaps the masterful crime roles he played might have promised some
new thrill, with the possibility that they expressed something latent
in his life. At any rate, she had dilettanted about him, to the
amazement and dismay of Marilyn. That we knew.
The dinner hour was approaching, and, in spite of the urgent invitation
of Manton, Leigh was forced to excuse himself to keep a previous
appointment. I felt, though, that he would have broken it if only Enid
had added her urging. But she did not, much to the relief of Millard.
Manton took it in good part. Perhaps he was wise enough to reflect that
many other afternoons were in the lap of the future.
"What is Manton up to?" Kennedy spoke to Millard. "Is it off with the
old and on with the new? Is Phelps to be cast aside like a squeezed-out
lemon, and Leigh taken on for a new citrus fruit?"
Millard smiled. He said nothing, but the knowing glance was
confirmation enough that in his opinion Kennedy had expressed the state
of affairs correctly.
Millard hastened to the side of Enid at once and we learned then that
they had a theater engagement together and that Millard had the tickets
in his pocket. Once more I realized it was no new or recent
acquaintanceship between these two. Again I wondered what woman had
been named in Stella Lamar's divorce suit, and again dismissed the
thought that it could be Enid.
Kennedy took his hat and handed me mine. "We must eat, Walter, as well
as the rest of them," he remarked, when Manton led the way to the door.
I was loath to leave and I suppose I showed it. The truth was that
little Enid Faye had captivated me. It was hard to tear myself away.
In the entrance I hesitated, wondering whether I should say good-by to
her. She seemed engrossed with Millard.
A second time she took me clean off my feet. While I stood there,
foolishly, she left Millard and rushed up, extending her little hand
and allowing it to rest for a moment clasped in mine.
"We didn't have a single opportunity to get acquainted, Mr. Jameson,"
she complained, real regret in the soft cadences of her voice. "Won't
you phone me sometime? My name's in the book, or I'll be at the
I was tongue-tied. My glance, shifting from hers because I was suddenly
afraid of myself, encountered the gaze of Millard from behind. Now I
detected the unmistakable fire of jealousy in the eyes of the author. I
presume I was never built to be a heavy lover. Up and down my spine
went a shiver of fear. I dropped Enid's hand and turned away abruptly.
"What do you think of it?" I asked Kennedy, when we were half through
our meal at a tiny restaurant on upper Broadway.
"We're still fumbling in the dark," he replied.
"There's the towel—"
"Yes, and almost any one on Mackay's list of nine suspects could have
placed it in that washroom."
"Well—" I was determined to draw him out. My own impressions, I must
confess, were gloriously muddled. "Manton heads the list," I suggested.
"Everyone says she was mixed up with him."
"Manton may have philandered with her; undoubtedly he takes a personal
interest in all his stars." Kennedy, I saw, remembered the promoter's
close attentions to Enid Faye. "Nevertheless, Walter, he is first and
foremost and all the time the man of business. His heart is in his
dollars and Millard even suggests that he is none too scrupulous."
"If he had an affair with Stella," I rejoined, "and she became
up-stage—the note you found suggested trouble, you know—then Manton
in a burst of passion—"
"No!" Kennedy stopped me. "Don't forget that this was a cold-blooded,
calculated crime. I'm not eliminating Manton yet, but until we find
some tangible evidence of trouble between Stella and himself we can
hardly assume he would kill the girl who's made him perhaps a million
dollars. Every motive in Manton's case is a motive against the crime."
"That eliminates Phelps, then, too. He nearly owned the company."
"Yes, unless something happened to outweigh financial considerations in
his mind also."
"But, good heavens! Kennedy," I protested. "If you go on that way
you'll not eliminate anyone."
"I can't yet," he explained, patiently. "It's just as I said. We're
fishing in the dark, absolutely. So far we haven't a single basic fact
on which to build any structure of hypothesis. We must go on fishing. I
expect you to dig up all the facts about these people; every odd bit of
gossip or rumor or anything else. I'll bring my science to play, but
there's nothing I can do except analyze Stella's stomach contents and
the spots on the towel; that is, until we've got a much more tangible
lead than any which have developed so far."
"Is there anything I can do to-night?"
"Yes!" He looked at his watch. "There are two men who were very close
to Miss Lamar. Jack Gordon was engaged to her, Merle Shirley seemed to
have been mixed up with her seriously. All the picture people have
night haunts. See what you can find about these two men."
"But I don't know where to find them offhand, and—"
"Both belong to the Goats Club, probably. Try that as a start."
I nodded and began to hurry my dessert. But I could not resist
"You think they are the most likely suspects?"
"No, but they were intimately associated with Miss Lamar in her daily
life and they are the two we have learned the least about."
"Oh!" I was disappointed. Then I rallied to the attack for a final
time. "Who is the most likely one. Just satisfy my curiosity, Craig."
He took a folded note from his pocket, opening it. It was the
memorandum from Manton's desk which I had mentioned. In a flash I
"Werner!" I exclaimed. "They said he was mixed up with her, too. He was
the first back and out of the car and he had time to clean a needle on
the towel, had a better opportunity than anyone else. More"—I began to
get excited—"he was lying on the floor close to her in the scene and
could have jabbed her with a needle very easily, and—and he was
extremely nervous when you questioned him, the most nervous of all,
and—and, finally, he had a motive, he wanted to get Enid Faye with
Manton Pictures, as this note shows."
"Very good, Walter." Kennedy's eyes were dancing in amusement. "It is
true that Werner had the best motive, so far as we know now, but it's a
fantastic one. Men don't commit cold-blooded murder just to create a
vacancy for a movie star. If Werner was going to kill Miss Lamar he
never would have written this note about Miss Faye."
"Unless to divert suspicion," I suggested.
He shook his head. "The whole thing's too bizarre."
"Werner was close to her in the dark. All the other things point to
him, don't they?"
"It's too bad everyone wasn't searched, at that," Kennedy admitted.
"Nevertheless, at the time I realized that Werner had had the best
opportunity for the actual performance of the crime and I watched him
very closely and made him go through every movement just so I could
study him. I believe he's innocent—at least as far as I've gone in the
I determined to stick to my opinion. "I believe it's Werner," I
"By the time you've dug up all the gossip about Gordon and Shirley you
won't be so sure, Walter."
I was, however. Kennedy was not as familiar with the picture world as
I. I had heard of too many actual happenings more strange and bizarre
and wildly fantastic than anything conceivable in other walks of life.
People in the film game, as they call it, live highly seasoned lives in
which everything is exaggerated. The mere desire to make a place for
Enid might not have actuated Werner, granting he was the guilty man.
Nevertheless it could easily have contributed. And it struck me
suddenly, an additional argument, that Werner, of all of them, was the
most familiar with the script. He had been able to cast himself for the
part of old Remsen. There was not a detail which he could not have
arranged very skillfully.
At the Goats Club I was lucky to discover a member whom I knew well
enough to take into my confidence by stating my errand. He was one of
the Star's former special writers and an older classman of the college
which had graduated Kennedy and myself.
"Merle Shirley is not a member here," he said. "As a matter of fact,
I've only just heard the name. But Jack Gordon's a Goat, worse luck.
That fellow's a bad actor—in real life—and a disgrace to us."
"Tell me all you know about him?" I asked.
"Well, to give you an example, he was in here just about a week ago. I
was sitting in the grill, eating an after-theater supper, when I heard
the most terrible racket. He and Emery Phelps, the banker, you know,
were having an honest-to-goodness fight right out in the lobby. It took
three of the men to separate them."
"What was it all about."
"Well, Gordon owes money right and left, not a few hundred or some
little personal debts like that, but thousands and thousands of
dollars. I got it from some of the other men here that he has been
speculating on the curb downtown, losing consistently. More than that,
he's engaged to Stella Lamar—you knew that?—and he's been blowing
money on her. Then they tell me his professional work is suffering,
that his recent screen appearances are terrible; the result of late
hours and worry, I suppose."
"The fight with Phelps was over money?"
"Of course! I figure that he kept drawing against his salary at the
studio until the film company shut down on him. Then probably he began
to borrow from Phelps, who's Manton's backer now, until the banker shut
down on him also. At any rate, Phelps had begun to dun him and it led
to the fight."
"That's all you know about Gordon?"
"Lord! Isn't it enough?"
I walked out of the club and toward Broadway, reflecting upon this
information. Could Gordon's debts have any bearing upon the case? All
at once one possibility struck me. He had been borrowing from Phelps.
Perhaps he had borrowed from Stella also. Perhaps that was the cause of
their quarrel. Perhaps she had threatened to make trouble—it was a
slender motive, but worth bringing to the attention of Kennedy.
My immediate problem, however, was to obtain some information about
Merle Shirley. At first I thought I would make the rounds of some of
the better-known cafes, but that seemed a hopeless task. Suddenly I
remembered Belle Balcom, formerly with the Star. I recollected a
previous case of Kennedy's where she and I had been great rivals in the
quest of news. I recalled a trip we had made to Greenwich Village
together. Belle knew more people about town than any other newspaper
woman. Now, for some months, she had been connected with Screenings, a
leading cinema "fan" magazine, and would unquestionably be posted upon
Luckily, I caught her at home.
"Bless your soul," she told me over the phone, in delight, "I've just
been aching for some one to take me out to-night. We'll go to the
Midnight Fads and if Shirley isn't there the head waiter will tell you
all I don't remember. It was a glorious fight."
She wouldn't say any more over the phone, but I was hugely curious. Had
there been another encounter with fists? And who had been involved?
When she met me finally, at the Subway station, and when we obtained an
out-of-the-way table at the Fads, she explained. It seemed that Shirley
had met Stella there a number of times and that Gordon, at last, had
got wind of it. Gordon first had come up himself, quietly, pleading
with Stella. She had been in a high humor and had refused even to
listen to him. Then he had become insulting. At that Shirley knocked
The head waiter, a witness of the affair, ordered Gordon put out, but
did not request Shirley or Stella to leave, because the other man had
been the aggressor without any question. After more than an hour Gordon
returned, quietly and unobtrusively, with another girl. From Belle's
description I knew it was Marilyn Loring. Taking another table, Marilyn
had stared at Shirley reproachfully while Gordon had glared at Stella.
Shirley put up with this for just about so long. As Belle described it,
his face gradually became more and more red and he controlled himself
with increasing difficulty. Stella, seeing the coming of the storm,
tried to get him to go. He refused. She threatened to leave him. He
paid no attention. All at once he boiled over and with great strides
walked over to Gordon and mauled him all over the place. The leading
man had no chance whatever in the hands of the irate Westerner. Several
waiters, attempting to intervene, were flung aside. Only when Shirley
began to cool off were they able to eject the two men. Both Stella and
Marilyn had left, separately, before that. Neither of the men or women
had been at the Fads since, or at least the head waiter, called over by
Belle, so informed us.
Unable to obtain any other facts of interest, I returned finally to the
apartment shared by Kennedy and myself. First he listened to my
account, plainly interested. Then, when I had concluded, he rose and
faced me rather gravely.
"It's getting more and more complicated, Walter," he exclaimed. "After
you left I remembered that there was one point of investigation I had
failed to cover—Miss Lamar's home here in the city. I got our old
friend, First-Deputy O'Connor, on the wire and learned that at the
request of Mackay, from Tarrytown, they had sent a man up to the place
and that just an hour or less before I called they had located and were
holding her colored maid. I hurried down to headquarters and questioned
"Yes?" To me it sounded promising.
"The negress didn't know a thing so far as the crime is concerned,"
Kennedy went on, "but I gained quite an insight into the private life
of the star."
"I mean I know the men who went to Miss Lamar's apartment, although
beyond the fact of her receiving them I can tell nothing, for she sent
the maid home at night; there were no maid's quarters."
"Their visits may have been perfectly innocent?"
"Of course! We can only draw conclusions."
"Who were the various callers?"
"Shirley admitted it when you questioned him."
"Everyone knows that!"
"Werner—" A side glance at me.
I said nothing. My expression spoke for me.
"And Emery Phelps!"
At that I did show surprise. Although Mackay had hinted at something of
the kind, I, for one, had not considered the banker seriously.
"Good heavens! Kennedy," I exploded. "She was mixed up with just about
every man connected with the company."
"Exactly!" As usual, he seemed calm and unconcerned.
I could regard the case only with increasing amazement—the bitter,
conflicting emotions of Manton and Phelps, of Daring, Shirley, and
Millard. With them all Stella had been the pretty trouble maker.
"How do you suppose they could all remain in the same company?" I
showed my surprise at the situation.
Kennedy pondered a moment, then replied:
"A moment's reflection ought to give you one answer. I think, Walter,
they were either under contract or they had their money in the company.
They couldn't break."
"I suppose so. What I wonder is, was Marilyn as jealous of Stella as
her screen character would make her in a story? She's the only one we
don't hear much about."
Kennedy did not seem, at least at present, to give this phase of it
anything like the weight he credited to the frenzied financial
relations the case was uncovering.
It was true, as I learned later, that Manton was at that very moment
doing perhaps as much as anyone else ever did to discredit the picture
game in Wall Street.
The following morning I found Kennedy up ahead of me, and I felt
certain that he had gone to the laboratory. Sure enough, I found him at
work in the midst of the innumerable scientific devices which he had
gathered during years of crime detection of every sort.
As usual, he was surrounded by a perfect litter of test tubes, beakers,
reagents, microscopes, slides, and culture tubes. He had cut out the
curious spots from the towel I had discovered and was studying them to
determine their nature. From the mass of paraphernalia I knew he was
neglecting no possibility which might lead to the hidden truth or
produce a clue to the crime.
"Have you learned anything yet?" I asked.
"Those brownish spots were blood, of course," was his reply as he
stopped a moment in his work. "In the blood I discovered some other
substance, though I can't seem to identify it yet. It will take time. I
thought it might be a drug or poison, but it doesn't seem to be—at
least nothing one might ordinarily expect."
"How about the other spots, not the Chinese yellow?"
"Another problem I haven't solved. I dissolved enough of them so that I
have plenty of material to study if I don't waste it. But so far I
haven't been able to identify the substance with anything I know.
There's a lot more work of elimination, Walter, before we're on the
road to the solution of this case. Whatever stained the towel was very
unusual. As near as I can make out the spots are of some protein
composition. But it's not exactly a poison, although many proteins may
be extremely poisonous and extremely difficult to identify because they
are of organic nature."
I was disappointed. It seemed to me that he had made comparatively
little progress so far.
"There's one thing," he added. "Samples of the body fluids of the
victim have been sent down by the coroner at Tarrytown and I have
analyzed them. While I haven't decided what it was that killed Stella
Lamar, I am at least convinced that it has something to do with these
towel spots. They are not exactly the same—in fact, I should say they
were complementary, or, perhaps better, antithetical."
"The mark wasn't made by the needle which scratched her, then?"
"That's what I thought at first, that the point used had been wiped off
on the towel. Then I decided that the spots had nothing to do with the
case at all. Now I believe there is some connection, after all."
"I—I don't understand it," I protested.
"It's very baffling," he agreed, absent-mindedly.
"If the towel wasn't used to clean the fatal needle," I went on, "then
it may have been used before they went out instead of afterward."
"Exactly. As a matter of fact, if I had not been so confused yesterday
by all the details of the case, by the many people involved, I would
have noticed at a glance that the blood spots on the towel could not
come from some one using it to wipe the needle. And any hypothesis that
it had been used out in Tarrytown was ridiculous, because Miss Lamar
was only scratched faintly and lost no blood. If I had been a little
more clever I might have been altogether too clever. I might possibly
have thrown the towel away, because there certainly was no logical
reason for connecting it with the crime."
"Just when do you suppose Stella was pricked?" I asked.
"That's a vital consideration. Just now I do not know the poison and so
cannot tell how quickly it acted." He began to put aside his various
paraphernalia. "Suppose we go at this thing by a process of deduction
rather than from the end of scientific analysis." He sat on a corner of
the bench. "What do we find?" he began.
"While I've been working here with the test tubes and the microscope
I've been trying to reconstruct what must have happened, trying to
trace out every action of Stella Lamar as nearly as it is possible for
us to do so. I don't think we need to go back of their arrival at the
house, for the present. They seem to have been there a long while
before the taking of the particular scene, since there were twelve
other scenes preceding and since it requires time to put up the
electric lights and make the connections, as well as to set the
cameras, take tests, rearrange the furniture, and all the rest of it.
"They arrived at the house in two automobiles; with the exception of
Phelps, who was there already, and Manton, who came in his own
limousine. That means that Miss Lamar had company on the trip out, the
principals probably riding with each other in one car. At the house
they were all more or less together. There were people about constantly
and it would seem as if there was small opportunity for anyone to
inflict the scratch which caused her death. I don't mean that it would
have been impossible to prick her. I mean that she would have felt the
jab of the point. In all likelihood she would have cried out and
glanced around. Take a needle yourself, sometime, Walter, and try to
duplicate the scratch on your own arm in such a way that you would not
be aware of it.
"So you see I'm counting upon some sort of exclamation from Miss Lamar.
If she were inoculated with the poison with other folks about, it is
sure some one would have remembered a cry, a questioning glance, a
quick grasp of the forearm—for the nerves are very sensitive in the
"No one did recall anything of the kind," I interrupted.
"It is from that fact that I hope to deduce something. Now let's follow
her, figuratively, to her little dressing room. This was a part of the
living room where the rest waited. It is not a certainty, but yet
rather a sure guess, that if she had received a scratch behind those
thin silk curtains her cry would have been heard. What is even more
plausible is that she would have hurried out, or at least put her head
out, to see who had pricked her.
"I made a very careful examination of that little alcove with the idea
that some artifice might have been used. It occurred to me that a
poisoned point could have been inserted in her belongings in some way
so that she would have brought about her own death, directly. To have
caught herself on a needle point in her bag, for instance, would not
have impressed her to the point of making a disturbance. She might have
checked her exclamation, in that case, because she would be blaming
"But I found nothing in her things, nor did I discover anything in the
library. It seems to me, therefore, that we must look for a direct
A thought struck me and I hastened to suggest it. "Could some device
have been arranged in her clothes, Craig; something like the poison
rings of the Middle Ages, a tiny metal thing to spring open and expose
its point when pressed against her in the action of the scenes?"
"That occurred to me at the time. That's why I asked Mackay to send all
her clothes down here, every stitch and rag of them. I've gone over
everything already this morning. Not only have I examined the various
materials for stains, but I've tested each hook and eye and button and
pin. I've been very careful to cover that possibility."
"You think, then, she was scratched deliberately by some one during the
taking of the scenes?"
"If you've followed my line of reasoning you will see that we are
driven to that assumption. Perhaps later I will make tests on a given
number of girls of Stella's general age and type and temperament to
show that they will cry out at the unexpected prick of a fine needle.
It's illogical to expect that a cry from Miss Lamar, even an
exclamation, would have passed unnoticed except during the excitement
of actual picture taking."
Another inspiration came to me, but I was almost afraid to voice it. It
seemed a daring theory. "Could death have resulted from poison
administered in some other fashion, by something she had eaten, for
instance?" I ventured. "Couldn't the scratch be coincidental?"
Kennedy shook his head. "There's the value of our chemical analysis and
scientific tests. Her stomach contents showed nothing except as they
might have been affected by her weakened condition. From Doctor Blake's
report—and he found no ordinary symptoms, remember—and from my own
observation, too, I can easily prove in court that she was killed by
the mark which was so small that it escaped the physician altogether."
I turned away. Once more Kennedy's reasoning seemed to be leading into
a maze of considerations beyond me. How could the deductive method
produce results in a case as mysterious as this?
"Having determined that Miss Lamar received the inoculation during the
making of one of the scenes, as nearly as we can do so," Kennedy went
on, "suppose we take the scenes in order, one at a time, from the last
photographed to the first, analyzing each in turn. Remember that we
seek a situation where there is not only an opportunity to jab her with
a needle, but one in which an outcry would be muffled or inaudible."
I now saw that Kennedy had brought in the bound script of the story,
"The Black Terror," and I wondered again, as I had often before, at his
marvelous capacity for attention to detail.
"'The spotlight on the floor reveals the girl sobbing over the body of
the millionaire,'" he read, aloud, musingly. "H'mm! 'She screams and
cries out.' Then the others rush in."
For several moments Kennedy paced the floor of the laboratory, the
manuscript open in his hands.
"We rehearsed that, with Werner; and we questioned everyone, too. And
remember! Miss Lamar, instead of crying out as she was supposed to do,
just crumpled up silently. So"—thumbing over a page—"we work back to
scene twelve. She—she was not in that at all. Scene eleven—"
Slowly, carefully, Kennedy went through each scene to the beginning.
"Certainly a dramatic opening for a mystery picture," he remarked,
suddenly, as though his mind had wandered from his problem to other
things. "We must admit that Millard can handle a moving-picture
scenario most beautifully."
Whether it was professional jealousy or the thought of Enid, rather
than the memory of my own poor attempts at screen writing, I certainly
was in no mood to agree with Kennedy, for all that I knew he was
"Here!" He thrust the binder in my hands. "Read that first scene," he
directed. "Meanwhile I am going to phone Mackay to make sure he has had
the house guarded and to make double sure no one goes near the library.
We're going out to Tarrytown again, Walter, and in the biggest kind of
"What's the idea, Craig?" Kennedy's occasional bursts of
mysteriousness, characteristic of him and often necessary when his
theories were only half formed and too chaotic for explanations, always
He did not seem to hear. Already he was at the telephone, manipulating
the receiver hook impatiently. "What a dummy I am!" he exclaimed, with
genuine feeling. "What—what an awful dummy!"
Knowing I would get nothing out of him just yet, I turned to the scene,
reading as he told me. At first I could not see where the detail
concerned Stella Lamar in any way. Then I came to the description of
her introductory entrance, the initial view of her in the film. The
lines of typewriting suddenly stood out before me in all their
The spotlight in the hands of a shadowy figure roves across
the wall and to the portieres. As it pauses there the
portieres move and the fingers of a girl are seen on the
edge of the silk. A bare and beautiful arm is thrust through
almost to the shoulder and it begins to move the portieres
aside, reaching upward to pull the curtains apart at the
"You think there's something about the portieres—" I began.
Then I saw that Kennedy had his connection, that something disturbed
him, that some intelligence from the other end had caught him by
"You say you were just trying to get me, Mackay? You've something to
tell me and you want me to come right out—you have summoned Phelps and
he's on his way from the city also—?"
"What happened?" I asked, as Kennedy hung up.
"I don't know, Walter. Mackay said he didn't want to talk over the
phone and that we had just time to catch the express."
"Hurry!" He glanced about as if wondering whether any of his scientific
instruments would help him.
On the train Kennedy left me, to look through the other cars, having
the idea that Phelps might be aboard also. But there were no signs of
the banker. We would reach Tarrytown first unless he had chosen to
Mackay was waiting at the station to meet us and to take us to the
house. The little district attorney was obviously excited.
"Was the place guarded well last night?" asked Kennedy, almost before
we had shaken hands.
"Yes—that is, I thought it was. That's what I want to tell you. After
you left with Manton and Werner the rest of the company packed up and
pulled out in the two studio cars. I was a little in doubt what to do
about Phelps, but he settled it himself by announcing that he was going
to town. The coroner came and issued the permit to remove the body and
that was taken away. I think the house and the presence of the dead
girl and all the rest of it got on Phelps's nerves, because he was
irritable and impatient, unwilling to wait for his own car, until
finally I drove him to the station myself."
"Was anyone, any of those on our list of possible suspects at least,
alone in the room—or in the house?"
"Not while I was there," Mackay replied. "I took good care of that.
Then, when everyone was gone and while Phelps was waiting for me, I
detailed two of my deputies to stay on guard—one inside and one
outside—for the night. I thought it sufficient precaution, since you
had made your preliminary examination."
"And—" Kennedy nodded, seeking to hurry the explanation.
"And yet," added Mackay, "some one entered the house last night in
spite of us."
Kennedy fairly swore under his breath. He seemed to blame himself for
some omission in his investigation the previous afternoon.
"How did it happen?" I asked, rather excitedly.
"It was about three o'clock, the guards tell me. The man inside was
dozing in a chair before the living-room fireplace. He was placed so he
could command a view of the doorway to the library as well as the
stairs and reception hall. All at once he was awakened by a shot and a
cry from outside. He jumped up and ran toward the library. As he did so
the portieres bellied in toward him, as if in stiff sudden draught, or
as if some one had darted into their folds quickly, then out. With no
hesitation he drew his own weapon, rushing the curtains. There was no
one secreted about them. Then, with the revolver in one hand, he
switched on the lights. The room was empty. But one pair of French
windows at the farther end were wide open and it was that which had
caused the current of air. He ran over and found the lock had been
forced. It was not even an artistic job of jimmying."
"What about the deputy posted outside?" prompted Kennedy.
"That's the strange part of it. He was alert enough, but it's a big
house to watch. He swears that the first thing he knew of any trouble
was the sharp metallic click which he realized later was the sound made
by the intruder in forcing the catch of the French window. It was
pretty loud out in the quiet of a Tarrytown night.
"He started around from the rear and then the next thing he caught was
the outline of a shadowy slinking figure as a man dropped out of the
library. He called. The intruder broke into a run, darting across the
open space of lawn and crashing through the shrubbery without any
further effort at concealment. My man called again and began to chase
the stranger, finally firing and missing. In the shrubbery a sharp
branch whipped him under the chin just as he obtained a clear view of
the outlined figure of his quarry and as he raised his weapon to shoot
again. The revolver was knocked from his hand and he was thrown back,
falling to the ground and momentarily stunned. Whoever broke into the
library got away, of course."
"What did the intruder look like?" There was an eagerness in Kennedy's
manner. I grasped that the case was beginning to clarify itself in his
Mackay shook his head. "There was no moon, you know, and everything
"But was he tall or short or slender or stout—the deputy must have got
some vague idea of him at least."
"It was one of my amateur deputies," Mackay admitted, reluctantly. "He
thought the man was hatless, but couldn't even be sure of that."
"Were there footprints, or fingerprints—"
"No, Mr. Kennedy, we're out of luck again. When he jumped out he fell
to his hands and knees in a garden bed. The foot marks were ruined
because his feet slid and simply made two irregular gashes. The marks
of his hands indicated to me, anyhow, that he wore heavy gloves, rubber
"Any disturbance in the library?"
"Not that I could notice. That's why I phoned you at once. I'm hoping
you'll discover something."
"Well—" Kennedy sighed. "It was a wonderful opportunity to get to the
bottom of this."
"I haven't told you all yet, Mr. Kennedy," Mackay went on. "There was a
second man, and—"
"A second man?" Kennedy straightened, distinctly surprised. "I would
swear this whole thing was a one-man job."
"They weren't together," the district attorney explained. "That's why I
didn't mention them both at once. But my deputy says that when he was
thrown by the lash of the branch he was unable to move for a few
seconds, on account of the nerve shock I suppose, and that while he was
motionless, squatted in a sort of sitting position with hands braced
behind him, just as he fell, he was aware of a second stranger
concealed in the shrubbery.
"The second fellow was watching the first, without the question of a
doubt. While the deputy slowly rose to his feet this other chap started
to follow the man who had broken into the house. But at that moment
there was the sudden sound of a self-starter in a car, then the purr of
a motor and the clatter of gears. Number one spun off in the darkness
of the road as pretty as you please. Number two grunted, in plain
"By this time my deputy had his wind. His revolver was gone, but he
jumped the second stranger with little enough hesitation and they
battled royally for several minutes in the dark. Unfortunately, it was
an unequal match. The intruder apparently was a stocky man, built with
the strength of a battleship. He got away also, without leaving
anything behind him to serve for identification."
"You have no more description than of the first man?"
"Unfortunately not. Medium height, a little inclined to be stocky,
strong as a longshoreman—that's all."
"Are you sure your deputy isn't romancing?"
"Positively! He's the son of one of our best families here, a sportsman
and an athlete. I knew he loved a lark, or a chance for adventure, and
so I impressed him and a companion as deputies when I met them on the
street on my way up to Phelps's house just after the tragedy."
Kennedy lapsed into thought. Who could the self-constituted watcher
have been? Who was interested in this case other than the proper
authorities? Apparently some one knew more than Mackay, more than
Kennedy. Whoever it was had made no effort to communicate with any of
us. This was a new angle to the mystery, a mystery which became deeper
as we progressed.
At the house Kennedy first made a careful tour of the exterior, but
found nothing. Mackay had doubled his guards and had sent Phelps's
servants away so that there could be no interference.
Once inside, I noticed that Kennedy seemed indisposed to make another
minute search of the library. He went over the frame of the French
window with his lens carefully, for fingerprints. Finding nothing, he
went back directly to the portieres.
For several moments he stood regarding them in thought. Then he began a
most painstaking inspection of the cloth with the pocket glass,
beginning at the library side.
I remembered that first scene in the manuscript which Kennedy had
insisted I read. I recalled the suspicion which had flashed to me
before the message from Mackay had disturbed both Kennedy's thoughts
and mine. Stella Lamar had thrust her bare arm through this curtain. A
needle, cleverly concealed in the folds, might easily have inflicted
the fatal scratch. It was for a trace of the poison point that Kennedy
searched. Of that I was sure, knowing his methods.
I glanced up and down the heavy hanging silk, looking for the glint of
fine sharp steel as Kennedy had done before starting his inspection
with the glass. The color of the silk, a beautiful heavy velour, was a
strange dark tint very close to the grained black-brown of the
woodwork. Both the thickness of the material and its dull shade made
the portieres serve ideally for the purpose assumed now both by Kennedy
and myself. A tiny needle might remain secreted within their folds for
days. Nothing, certainly, caught my naked eye.
At last a little exclamation from Kennedy showed us that he had
discovered something. I moved closer, as did Mackay.
"It's lucky none of us toyed with these curtains yesterday," he
remarked, with a slight smile of gratification. "There might have been
more than one lying where Stella Lamar lies at the present moment."
With wholesome respect neither Mackay nor myself touched the silk as
Kennedy pointed. There were two small holes, almost microscopic, in the
close-woven material. About the one there was the slightest
discoloration. Not a fraction of an inch away I saw two infinitesimal
spots of a dark brownish-red tinge.
"What does it mean?" I asked, although I could guess.
"The dark spots are blood, the discoloration the poison from the
"And the needle?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "That's where our very scientific culprit
has forestalled me, Walter! The needle was in these curtains all day
yesterday. Unfortunately, I did not study the manuscript, did not
attach any importance to Miss Lamar's scene at the portieres."
"The man who broke in last night—"
"Removed the needle, but"—almost amused—"not the traces of it. You
see, Walter, after all, the scientific detective cannot be forestalled
even by the most scientific criminal. There is nothing in the world
which does not leave its unmistakable mark behind, provided you can
read it. The hole in the cloth serves me quite as well as the needle
Very suddenly a voice from behind us interrupted.
I turned, startled, to see Emery Phelps. There was a distinct eagerness
in the banker's expression.
"Yes!" Kennedy faced him, undisturbed, apparently not surprised. His
scrutiny of Phelps's face was frank and searching. "Yes," he repeated,
"bit by bit the guilty man is revealing himself to us."
"There—there is something the matter with the curtains?" Phelps
Kennedy pointed to the two holes and the spots. "Miss Lamar met her
death from poison introduced into her system through a tiny scratch
from a prepared needle."
"Yes?" Phelps was calm now, and cool. I wondered if it were pretense on
his part. "What have these little marks to do with that?"
"Don't you see?" rejoined Kennedy. "If some one had come here before
the scene in the picture was played; had thrust a small needle, perhaps
a hollow needle from a hypodermic syringe, through the heavy thickness
of this silk—thrust it in here, the point sticking out here—well,
there would be two holes left where the threads were forced apart, like
this!" Kennedy took his stickpin, demonstrating.
"How could that cause Stella's death?" Phelps, at first quite upset
apparently by Kennedy's discovery, now was lapsing again into his
hostile mood. His question was cynical.
"Try to recall Miss Lamar's actions," Kennedy went on, patiently. "What
was she supposed to do in the very first scene? 'The portieres move and
the fingers of a girl are seen on the edge of the silk. A bare and
beautiful arm is thrust through almost to the shoulder and it begins to
move the portieres aside, reaching upward to pull the curtains apart at
"Do you mean to tell me—" Phelps's eyes were very wide as he paused,
grasping the scheme and yet disbelieving—unless it all were a bit of
fine acting—"do you mean to tell me it is possible to calculate a
thing like that? How would anyone know where her arm would be?"
"It is simpler than it sounds, Mr. Phelps." Kennedy was suddenly harsh.
"There is only one natural movement of an arm in that case. The culprit
was undoubtedly familiar with Miss Lamar's height and with her manner
of working. It is a bit of action which has to be repeated in both the
long shot and close-up scenes. Jameson here can tell you how many times
a scene is rehearsed. There probably were a dozen sure chances of the
needle striking the girl's bare flesh. You will see from the position
of the holes that it was arranged point downward and slightly turned
in, and on a particular fold of the curtain, too; showing that some one
placed it there only after a nice bit of calculation. Furthermore, it
was high enough so that there was little chance of anyone being pricked
except the star, whose death was intended."
Phelps either seemed convinced, or else he felt it inadvisable to
irritate Kennedy by a further pretense of skepticism.
A point occurred to me, however. "Listen, Craig!" I spoke in a low
voice. "Remember all the emphasis you placed upon the fact that she
would cry out. She was not supposed to cry out in that first scene."
"No, Walter, but if you'll read the second, the close-up, you'll see
that the script actually calls for a cry. Now suppose she makes an
exclamation in the first instead. Nobody would think anything of it.
They would assume that she had played her action a little in advance,
"And then consider this, too! Miss Lamar, receiving the scratch, would
cry out unquestionably. But she has been before the camera for years
and she is trained in the idea that film must not be wasted uselessly.
She would not interrupt her action for a little scratch because in
these circumstances any little startled movement would fit in with the
action. By the time the scene was over she would have forgotten the
incident. It would mean very little to her in the preoccupation of
bringing the mythical Stella Remsen into flesh-and-blood existence. The
poison, however, would be putting in its deadly work."
"Wouldn't it act before the thirteenth scene—" I began.
"Not necessarily. As a matter of fact, an actress, in the excitement of
her work, might resist the effects for a much longer period than some
one who realizes he is sick. Some day I'm going to write a book on
that. I'm going to collect hundreds of examples of people who keep
plugging along because they refuse to admit anything's the matter with
them. It's like Napoleon's courier who didn't drop until he'd delivered
his message and made his last precise military salute."
One other thought struck me. "The blood spots on the curtain cannot be
Miss Lamar's if, as you say, the scratch brought no blood."
"How about the nocturnal visitor who removed the needle in the dark?
Can't you imagine him pricking himself beautifully in his hurry."
"Good heavens!" I felt the chills travel up and down my spine. "There
may be another fatality, then!" I exclaimed.
Kennedy was noncommittal. "It would be too bad for justice to be
cheated in that fashion," he remarked.
Phelps meanwhile had been listening to us impatiently. Finally he
turned to Mackay.
"Was that all you called me out here for? Did you just want to show me
the pinholes in those portieres?"
"Not exactly," Mackay replied, eyeing him sharply. "Some one forced his
way into this library last night. My guard saw him, and also saw a
second man who remained out in the shrubbery and seemed to be watching
the first. One shot was fired, but both men got away. An automobile was
waiting, perhaps two of them."
"How does this concern me?" Phelps's voice rose in anger. He strode
into the library and over to the French windows, inspecting the damage
to the fine woodwork with steadily rising color. Then he hurried back
to the side of Mackay.
"It's up to you, District-Attorney Mackay," he said, with a great show
of his ill feeling. "You practically forced me out of my own house. You
sent my servants away. You put your own guards in charge, young,
inexperienced deputies who don't know enough to come in when it's wet.
Now you have me make this trip out here in business hours just to show
me where a needle has been stuck in a curtain and where a pair of
imported window sashes have been ruined."
Mackay was unruffled. "It is necessary, Mr. Phelps, that you look over
this room and see that nothing else has been disturbed; that there is
no further damage. Moreover, I thought you might be interested, might
wish to help us determine the identity of the intruder."
"If there's any way I can really help you to do
that"—sarcastically—"I'll be delighted."
"Were you here the night before the murder?" Mackay asked.
"You know I seldom spend the night in Tarrytown. I have quarters in New
York, at the club, and recently I have been spending all my time in New
York, on account of the situation in the picture business."
"You were not here the night before the murder, then?"
"But you were out here yesterday before the actors arrived, before
Manton or any of his technical staff and crew came?"
"I was out very early, to make sure the servants had the house ready."
Phelps was red now. "Are you insinuating anything, Mackay?"
The little district attorney was demonstrating a certain quality of
dogged perseverance. "Some one put the needle in the curtain before the
company arrived. You probably were in the house at the time; or at the
least your servants were. Whoever did was the one who murdered Stella
"And also," rejoined Phelps, tartly, "was the intruder who broke in
here last night and ruined my window sash. If you had had better guards
you might have caught him, too!"
"Are you sure of your servants? Are they reliable—"
"I never anticipated a murder and so I didn't question them as to their
poisoning proclivities when I engaged them. But you know where they are
and you can examine them. If I were you, Mackay—"
"Gentlemen!" Kennedy hastened to stop the colloquy before it became an
out-and-out quarrel. Then he faced the banker.
"Mr. Phelps," Kennedy's voice was soft, coaxing, "I don't think Mr.
Mackay quite understands. It would be a great service to me if you
would give the house a quick general inspection. You are familiar with
the things here, enough to state whether they have been disturbed to
any appreciable degree. You see, we do not know the interior
arrangements as they were before this unfortunate happening."
With rather ill grace Phelps stalked up the steps, acceding to
Kennedy's request, but disdaining to answer.
Kennedy turned to Mackay as the banker disappeared out of earshot.
"That's just to cool him off a bit. I have everything I came to get
right here." Producing a pair of pocket scissors, he cut the pierced
and spotted bit of silk from the portieres, ruthlessly. It was
"What was the poison, Mr. Kennedy?" Mackay asked, in a low voice.
"I think that it was closely allied to the cyanide groups in its
"But you haven't identified it yet?"
"No. So far I haven't the slightest idea of its true nature. It seems
to have a powerful affinity for important nerve centers of respiration
and muscular co-ordination, as well as possessing a tendency to
disorganize the blood. I should say that it produces death by
respiratory paralysis and convulsions. To my mind it is an exact,
though perhaps less active, counterpart of hydrocyanic acid. But that
is not what it is or I would have been able to prove it before this."
Mackay nodded, listening in silence.
"You'll say nothing of this?" Kennedy added.
"I'll be silent, of course."
Heavy footsteps from the rear marked the return of Phelps, who had
covered the upper floors, descending by the back stairs so as to have a
look at the kitchen.
"Everything seems to be all right," he remarked, half graciously.
Kennedy led the way to the front porch. There he seemed more interested
in the weather than in the case, for he studied the sky intently.
Glancing up, I saw that the morning was still gray and cloudy, with no
promise that the sun would be able to struggle through the overhanging
"I don't think we'll go back to the city—that is, all the way in," he
remarked, speaking for both of us. "I want to go to the Manton studio
first. This is no day for exteriors and so they'll probably be working
there." He smiled at Phelps. "I want to see if any of our possible
suspects look as though they had been engaging in nocturnal journeys."
Phelps had been rubbing his eyes. He dropped his hand so quickly that I
wanted to smile; then to cover his confusion he promptly offered to
drive us in. Mackay at the same time volunteered his car.
Kennedy accepted the latter offer. As he thanked the banker I wondered
if any suspicion of that individual lurked in the back of his mind.
Phelps certainly had made a very bad impression upon me with his
antagonistic attitude, with his readiness to transform every question
into a personal affront.
"Just one other thing, Mr. Phelps," exclaimed Kennedy, as we were about
to descend to Mackay's car. "Why did you wish the scenes in 'The Black
Terror' actually taken in your library?"
Kennedy had asked the question before. Had he forgotten? I glanced at
the banker and read the same thought in his expression.
"I—I'm proud of my library and I wanted to see it in pictures," he
replied, after some hesitation and with a little rancor.
"Not to save money?"
"It would be no appreciable saving."
"I see." Kennedy was tantalizingly deliberate. "How long have you held
the controlling interest in Manton Pictures, Mr. Phelps?"
"Uh"—in surprise—"nearly a year."
"You could have had your library photographed at any time, then, simply
by stating your request as you did in this case. In that year there
have been pictures which would have served the purpose as well as this;
better, in fact, because in this picture the library seems to be dark
almost altogether. In other stories there probably were infinitely
better chances for the exhibition of the room. Why did you wait for
'The Black Terror'?"
As a clear understanding of Kennedy's question and all it entailed
filtered into the mind of Phelps he became so red and flushed with
anger that I felt sure he was going to explode on the spot.
"Because I didn't think of it before," he sputtered.
"You said the situation in the picture business made it necessary for
you to stay in town. Is there any trouble between Manton and yourself?"
"Not a bit!"
"Was Stella Lamar making any trouble, of a business nature, such as
threatening to quit Manton Pictures?"
"No!" Phelps' eyes now were narrowed to slits.
"Are you sure?"
With a great effort Phelps achieved a degree of self-control. He forced
a smile. His remark, presumed to be a pleasantry, I knew masked the
true state of his feelings.
"As sure, Mr. Kennedy," he rejoined, awed by Kennedy's reputation even
in the full flood of his anger, "as sure as I am that I'd like to throw
you down these steps!"
The magic of Manton's name admitted us to the studio courtyard, and at
once I was struck by the change since the day before. Now the tank was
a dry, empty, shallow depression of concrete. The scenery, all the
paraphernalia assembled for the taking of water stuff, was gone. Except
for the parked automobiles in one corner and a few loitering figures
here and there the big quadrangle seemed absolutely deserted.
In the general reception room Kennedy asked for Millard, but was told
he had not been out since the previous day. That was to be expected.
But Manton, it developed, was away also. He had telephoned in that he
would be detained until late afternoon on important business. I know
that I, for one, wondered if it were connected with Fortune Features.
"It's just as well," Kennedy remarked, after convincing the boy at the
desk it was Manton's wish that we have the run of the place. "My real
object in coming was to watch the cast at work."
We found our way to the small studio, called so in comparison with the
larger one where the huge ballroom and banquet sets were being built.
In reality it possessed a tremendous floor space. Now all the other
companies had been forced to make room for "The Black Terror" on
account of the emergency created by the death of Stella Lamar, and
there were any number of sets put up hastily for the retakes of the
scenes in which Stella had appeared. The effect of the whole upon a
strange beholder was weird. It was as though a cyclone had swept
through a town and had gathered up and deposited slices and corners and
sections of rooms and hallways and upper chambers, each complete with
furniture and ornaments, curtains, rugs, and hangings. Except for the
artistic harmony of things within the narrow lines of the camera's
view, nothing in this great armory-like place had any apparent relation
to anything else. Some of the sets were lighted, with actors and
technical crews at work. Others were dark, standing ready for use.
Still others were in varying states of construction or demolition.
Rising above every other impression was the noise. It was pandemonium.
We saw Werner at work in a distant corner and strolled over. The
director was bustling about feverishly. I do not doubt that the grim
necessity of preparing the picture for a release date which was already
announced had resulted in this haste, without even a day of idleness in
respect for the memory of the dead star, yet it seemed cold-blooded and
mercenary to me. I thought that success was not deserved by an
enterprise so callous of human life, so unappreciative of human effort.
Most of the cast were standing about, waiting. The scenes were being
taken in a small room, fitted as an office or private den, but
furnished luxuriously. Later I learned it was in the home of the
millionaire, Remsen, close off the library for which the actual room in
Phelps's home was photographed.
Shirley and Gordon, I noticed, kept as far apart as possible. It was
quite intentional and I again caught belligerent glances between them.
On the other hand, both Enid and Marilyn Loring were calm and
self-possessed. Yet between these two I caught a coolness, a sort of
armed truce, in which each felt it would be a sign of weakness to admit
consciously even the near presence of the other.
Werner was irascible, swearing roundly at the slightest provocation,
raging up and down at every little error.
"Come now," he shouted, as we approached, "let's get this scene
now—number one twenty-six. Loring—Gordon! Shake a leg—here, I'll
read it again. 'Daring enters. He is scarcely seated at the desk,
examining papers, when Zelda enters in a filmy negligee. Daring looks
up amazed and Zelda pretends great agitation. Daring is not unkind to
her. He tells her he has not discovered the will as yet. Spoken title:
"I am sure that I can find a will and that you are provided for."
Continuing scene, Daring speaks the above. Zelda thanks him and
undulates toward the door with the well-known swaying walk of the
vampire. Daring turns to his papers and does not watch her further. She
looks over her shoulder, then exits, registering that she will get him
yet.'" Werner dropped his copy of the script. "Understand?" he barked.
"Make it fast now. We shouldn't do this over, but you were lousy
before, both of you!" Gordon extinguished a cigarette and entered the
set with a scowl. Marilyn rose and slipped out of a dressing gown
spotted with make-up and dark from its long service in the studios.
Underneath the wrapper the finest of silken draperies clung to her,
infinitely more intimate here in actuality and in the bright studio
lights than it would be upon the screen. I noticed the slim trimness of
her figure—could not help myself, in fact. And I saw also that she
shrank back just the least little bit before stepping to her place at
the door. It was modesty, a genuine girlish diffidence. In a moment I
revised my conception of her. Before, I had not been able to decide
whether Marilyn Loring was a woman with a gift for looking young, or a
flapper with the baffling sophistication affected these days by so many
of them. Now I knew somehow that she was just all girl, probably in her
early twenties. The brief instant of shyness had betrayed her.
In the scene she changed. Marilyn Loring was an actress. The moment she
caught the click of the camera's turn there was a hardness about her
mouth, a faint dishonest touch to the play of her eye, a shameless
boldness to her movements concealed without concealment. In the flash
of a second she was Marilyn no longer, but Zelda, the ward of old
Remsen, an unscrupulous and willing ally of the "Black Terror."
Werner damned the amount of footage used in the scene, then turned to
the next, with Enid and Gordon, in the same set, one of the necessary
retakes for which the room had been put up again.
Enid had not noticed me and I somehow failed to shake off the feeling
of fear that the glance of Millard had given me. Faint heart I was, and
the answer was that I had yet to win the fair lady. To excuse myself I
pretended she was different under the lights. It was really true that,
as Zelda Remsen, Enid was not the fascinating creature I had met in
Werner's office. There was too much Mascaro on her lashes, too great an
amount of red and blue and even bright yellow in her make-up. In
striking contrast was the little coloring used by Stella Lamar, or even
Enid's scene was a close-up in which the beginning of the love interest
in the story was shown. I noticed that as the cameras turned upon the
action the girl inch by inch shifted her position, almost
imperceptibly, until she was practically facing the lens. The
consequence was that Gordon, playing the lover, was forced to move also
in order to follow her face, and so was brought with his back toward
the camera. It was the pleasant little film trick known as "taking the
picture away" from a fellow actor. Enid was a "lens hog."
The moment the scene was over Gordon rushed to Werner to protest. The
director, irritated and in a hurry, gave him small satisfaction. Both
players were called back under the lights for the next "take." As
Werner's back was turned Enid favored Gordon with a mischievous,
malicious glance. The leading man possessed very few friends, from what
I had heard. The new star evidently did not propose to become one of
"Let's pay our respects, socially," suggested Kennedy, at my elbow.
I followed his glance and saw that Marilyn was seated alone, away from
the others, apparently forlorn. As we approached she drew her dressing
robe about her, smiling. With the smile her face lighted. It was in the
rare moments, just as her smile broke and spread, that she was pretty,
"Professor Kennedy," she exclaimed. "And Mr. Jameson, too! Sit down and
watch our new star."
"What do you think of her?" Kennedy asked.
"Enid?" Marilyn's expression became quizzical. "I think she's a clever
"You mean something by that, don't you?" prompted Kennedy.
She sobered. "No! Honestly!" For an instant she studied him with a
directness of gaze which I would have found disconcerting. "Don't tell
me"—she teased, again allowing the flash of a smile to illuminate her
features—"don't tell me the renowned and celebrated Professor Kennedy
suspects Enid Faye of murdering poor Stella to get her position."
Kennedy laughed, turning to me. "There's the woman," he remarked. "We
may deduce and analyze and catalogue all the facts of science, but"—he
spread his palms wide, expressly—"it is as nothing against a woman's
intuition." Facing Marilyn again, he became frank. "You caught my
thought exactly, although it was not as bad as all that. I simply
wondered if Miss Faye might not have had something to do with the case."
"Why?" I realized now that this Miss Loring, in addition to
considerable skill as an actress, in addition to rare beauty on the
screen, possessed a brain and the power to use it. She followed Kennedy
with greater ease than I, who knew him.
"Why?" she repeated.
"Perhaps it's the intuition of the male," he began, hesitatingly.
She shook her head. "A man's intuition is not dependable. You see, a
woman gets her intuition first and fits her facts to it, while a man
takes a fact and then has an intuitive burst of inspiration as a
result. The woman puts her facts last and so is not thrown out when
they're wrong, as they usually are. But the man—I think, Professor
Kennedy, that you have some facts about Enid stored away and that
that's why you put a double meaning in my remark. Am I right?"
He smiled. "I surrender, Miss Loring. You are right."
"What is the little fact? Perhaps I can help you."
"Miss Faye and Lawrence Millard seem to be old friends."
"Oh! Maybe you wonder at the contents of the sealed testimony in the
case of Millard VS. Millard?"
"Do you want to know what I think?" she asked.
"Well, I've worked with Stella nearly a year. It's my opinion she
divorced Millard because he asked her to do so."
"No, no!" I balked at that, interrupting. "He could have obtained the
divorce himself if he had wanted it. Stella Lamar and Manton—"
"That's talk!" she rejoined, with a show of feeling. "That's the thing
I hate about pictures. It's always talk, talk, talk! I'm not saying
Stella and old Papa Lloyd, as we used to call him, never were mixed up
with each other, but it's one thing to repeat a bit of gossip and quite
another thing to prove it. I'm not one to help give currency to any
rumor of immoral relationship until I'm pretty dog-gone sure it's true."
"You think Miss Lamar wasn't as bad as painted?" asked Kennedy.
"I'm sure of it, Mr. Kennedy. I've known Stella and I've known others
of her type. Fundamentally they're the kindest, truest, biggest-hearted
people on earth. When Stella and I shared a dressing room I often
caught her giving away this or that—frequently things she needed
herself. I've known her to draw against her salary to lend money to
some actor or actress whom she well knew would never repay her.
Stella's biggest fault was an overbalancing quality of sympathy. If she
ever did get mixed up with anyone you may bet it was because that
person played upon her feelings."
"Have you any theory as to who killed her?" It was a direct question.
"No!" The answer was quick, but then an amazing thing happened. Marilyn
suddenly colored, a flush which gathered up around her eyes above the
make-up and made me think of a country girl. She started to say
something else and then bit her tongue. Her confusion was surprising,
due, probably, to the unexpectedness of Kennedy's query.
Kennedy seemed to wish to spare her. Undoubtedly her prompt negative
had been the truth. Some afterthought had robbed her of her
self-control. "Tell me why you said Miss Faye was a clever girl," he
"Just because she puts her ambition above everything else and works
hard and honestly and sincerely, and will get there. That's what people
call being clever."
Werner's voice, roaring through a megaphone, announced an interval for
lunch. Marilyn rose, laughing now, but still in a high color, conscious
perhaps that she had revealed some strong undercurrent of feeling.
"If you'll escort me to my dressing room," she said, coaxingly, "and
wait until I slip into a skirt and waist, I'll initiate both of you to
McCann's across the street. We all eat there, players, stage hands,
chauffeurs—all but the stars, who have machines to take them
Kennedy glanced at me. "Delighted!" said I.
"We haven't much time," she went on, leading the way. "Werner's on a
"He isn't usually that way?"
"It's Stella's death, I guess." She opened one of the steel fire doors.
"He's always that way, though, when he's been out the night before."
I flashed a look at Kennedy. Could Werner have been at Tarrytown?
In the long hallway of dressing rooms Marilyn stopped, grasping the
knob of her door. "It'll only take me—" she began.
Then her face went white as the concrete of the floor, and that was
immaculate. An expression which might have been fear, or horror, or
hate—or all three, spread over her features, transforming her.
Following the direction of her stare, I saw Shirley down the hall, just
as he stopped at his own door. He caught her glance suddenly, and his
own face went red. I thought that his hands trembled.
Marilyn wheeled about, lips pressed tightly together. Throwing open the
door, she dashed into her room, slamming it with a bang which echoed
and re-echoed up and down the little hall. She had forgotten our
Kennedy looked at me quizzically. "I guess we'd better not wait for
Miss Loring to initiate us to McCann's," he remarked.
We found our way to the courtyard, and were headed for the gate when a
young man in chauffeur's cap and uniform intercepted us. I had noticed
him start forward from one of the cars parked in the inclosure, but did
not recognize him.
"May I speak to you a moment, Professor Kennedy—alone?"
"Mr. Jameson here is associated with me, is assisting me in this case,
if it is something concerning the death of Miss Lamar."
"It is, sir. I saw you out at Tarrytown yesterday. McGroarty is my name
and I drove one of the cars the company went in. They were pointing you
out to me, and I'd read about you, and just now I says to myself
there's something I ought to tell you."
"That's right." Kennedy lighted a cigar, offering one to the chauffeur.
"I'm not supernatural and often I'm able to solve a mystery only with
the help of all those who, like myself, want justice done."
"Yes, sir! That's my way of looking at it. Well"—McGroarty blew a
cloud of smoke, appreciatively—"I do a good bit of driving for these
people, and this morning it was cloudy and dull, no good for exteriors,
but yet sort of so it might clear at any moment, and so I was ordered.
I brought my car and left it standing here in the yard while I went
over to McCann's—the lunch room, you know—for a cup of coffee. When I
came back"—again the cigar—"there still was nothing doing, and so I
thought—you know how it is—I thought I'd clean up the back of the old
boat, to kill time, not saying it wasn't needed. So I took out the
cocoa mat to beat it and what do I find on the floor—between the mat
and the rear seat it was, I guess—but this."
He handed Kennedy some small object which glinted in the light. Looking
closely, I saw that it was a peculiarly shaped little glass tube.
"An ampulla," Kennedy explained. "It's the technical name the doctors
have for such a container."
"It must have been between the mat and the rear seat," the chauffeur
repeated. Then he discovered that his cigar was out. He struck a match.
Kennedy turned the bit of glass over and over in his hand, examining it
carefully. I felt rather fearful, wondering if it might not contain
some trace of the deadly poison which had so quickly killed Stella
Lamar. I even half expected to see Kennedy find some infinitesimal
jagged edge or point which could have inflicted the fatal scratch. Then
I realized that McGroarty had handled the thing with impunity, perhaps
had carried it about half a day.
Kennedy took his scarf pin. On the outside of the little tube there was
no trace of a label or marking of any sort. All about, on the inside,
however, the glass was spotted with dried light-yellow incrustations,
resembling crystals and at first apt to escape even the sharpest
scrutiny. With the pin Kennedy scaled off one of these and put it under
his pocket lens. But he came to no conclusion. Rather puzzled and
nettled, he dropped the tiny bit of substance back into the tube, then
replaced his pin in his scarf, and stowed this latest bit of possible
evidence in his pocket carefully.
"How do you suppose it got in the car?" he asked.
"Some one must have dropped it and it must have rolled in that space by
the edge of the mat," replied the chauffeur. "There was just room for
it, too! I never would have noticed it without taking up the mat."
"It couldn't be broken, by being trampled on?"
"Nope! Not a chance!"
"How long could it have been there?"
"Two or three or four days—since I cleaned up last."
I remembered the cleverness shown by the guilty person in placing the
needle in the curtain. It seemed unlikely that this could be an
accident. "Isn't it possible," I suggested, "that this is a plant; that
the tube was put there deliberately, to throw us off the track?"
"It's quite likely," he admitted. "On the other hand, Walter, the very
smartest criminal will do some foolish little thing, enough to ruin the
most careful plans and preparations." He turned to McGroarty. "Who rode
in your car yesterday?"
"Mine's the principals' car," boasted McGroarty. "Going out I had Miss
Lamar, Miss Loring, Mr. Gordon, Mr. Shirley, and Mr. Werner. Coming
back Mr. Werner was with you, and Miss Lamar—well, there was only Miss
Loring and Mr. Gordon and Mr. Shirley."
"Did you notice how they acted?"
"They never says a word to each other on all the trip back, but I
didn't think it strange after what happened, although usually they're
always joking and laughing."
"You brought the three to the studio here?"
"Yes. They had to get out of make-up."
"Did you leave the car then?"
"No, I hit it right for the garage."
"Were you away from the car at Tarrytown?"
"Sure! That was a long wait. Peters, Manton's chauffeur, and I found a
couple of horseshoes and we were throwing them most of the time."
"How long was the machine alone here in the yard this morning?"
"A couple of hours, maybe. I knew the old boiler was safe enough, and
that if they wanted me they'd look over in McCann's."
"Well," Kennedy extended his hand, "I thank you, and I won't forget
As soon as the chauffeur was out of earshot I faced Kennedy rather
eagerly, to forestall him if he had arrived at the same conclusion as
"See! It's just as I thought yesterday!"
"How's that, Walter?"
"Werner! He rode out in that machine, but not back. In Manton's car he
was worried all the time. He probably knew he had dropped the tube.
Then he hurried up ahead of us and wiped the needle—" I stopped,
Kennedy smiled. "See, you're jumping at conclusions too fast. You
remember now that we decided that the towel has nothing directly to do
with the poison. In a way you cannot assume that this ampulla has,
either, although I myself feel sure on that point. But in any case no
one is eliminated. It is true Werner did not return in the same
automobile. It is also true that he had little opportunity to drop it
while others were in the car with him. When McGroarty was away from the
car anyone could have lost it, or—as you suggested a moment
ago—planted it there deliberately to divert suspicion."
I felt the beginnings of a headache from all these confused threads of
the mystery. "Can't—Isn't there anyone we can say is innocent, at
least, even if we cannot begin to fasten the guilt upon somebody?" I
Kennedy shook his head. "At this stage the one is as hard as the other.
I consider myself lucky to have collected as much material as I have
for the analysis of the poison." He tapped his pocket significantly.
"Yoo-hoo!" A frankly shrill call in a feminine voice interrupted. We
both turned, to see Marilyn Loring hastening toward us.
"Did you think I was going to forget you?" she asked, almost
reproachfully and much out of breath. "Let's hurry," she added. "This
is roast beef day."
We started toward the gate once more, Marilyn between us, vivacious and
rather charming. I noticed that she made no reference to the incident
in the hallway, the precipitate manner in which she left us and the
very evident confusion of Merle Shirley. Kennedy, too, seemed disposed
to drop the matter, although it was obviously significant. For some
reason his mind was elsewhere, so that the girl was thrown upon my
It struck me that, after all, she was attractive. At this moment I
found her distinctly good-looking.
"Why do you 'vamp'?" I asked, innocently. "You don't seem to me, if
you'll pardon the personal remark, at all that type."
She laughed. "It's all the fault of the public. They insist that I
vamp. I want to play girly-girly parts, but the public won't stand for
it; they won't come to see the picture. They tell the exhibitor, and he
tells the producer, and back I am at the vamping again. Isn't it
funny?" She paused a moment. "Take Gordon. Doesn't it make you laugh,
what the public think he is—clean-cut, hero, and all that sort of
thing? Little do they know!"
All at once Kennedy stopped abruptly. We were close to the entrance,
just where a smart little speedster of light blue lined with white was
parked at the edge of the narrow sidewalk. The sun, after a morning of
uncertainty, had just struck through the haze, and it illuminated
Marilyn's face and hair most delightfully as we both turned, somewhat
"I know you'll never forgive me, Miss Loring," Kennedy began, "but the
fact is that just before you came out we stumbled into a new bit of
evidence in the case and I believe that Jameson and I will have to
hurry in to the laboratory. Much as I would like to lunch with you, and
perhaps chat some more during scene-taking this afternoon—"
It seemed to me that her eyes widened a bit. Certainly there was a
perceptible change in her face. It was interest, but it was also
certainly more than that. I felt that she would have liked to penetrate
the mask of Kennedy's expression, perhaps learn just what facts and
theories rested in his mind.
"Is it—" Suddenly she smiled, realizing that Kennedy would reveal only
the little which suited his purpose. "Is it something you can tell me?"
He shook his head. His answer was tantalizing, his glance searching and
without concealment. "Only another detail concerning the chemical
analysis of the poison."
"I see!" If she knew of the ampulla the answer would have been
intelligible to her. As it was, her face betrayed nothing. "I guess
I'll hurry on over alone, then," she added. She extended a hand to each
of us. Her grasp was warm and friendly and frank. "So long, and—and
good luck, for Stella's sake!"
The dancing bantering voice from behind us, with silvery cadence to its
laughter, could belong to no one but Enid Faye. I grasped that it was
her car which Kennedy leaned upon. I gasped a bit as I saw her directly
at my side, her dainty chamois motoring coat brushing my sleeve, the
sun which grew in strength every moment casting mottled shadows upon
her face through the transparent brim of her bobbing hat, in mocking
answer to the mirth in her eyes.
For an instant she gazed after the retreating Marilyn.
"Good-by, Marilyn! DEAR," she called, mega-phoning her hands.
The other girl made no response. Laughing, Enid slipped a hand under my
arm, the firm pressure of her fingers thrilling me. She addressed
"Do you want a ride in to the city, both of you?"
Kennedy brightened. "That would be fine! How far are you going?"
"The Burrage. I have a luncheon engagement. That's Forty-fourth."
"Can you drop us off at the university?"
"Surely! Climb in. It's a tight fit, three in the seat, but fun.
And"—facing me—"I want Jamie between us, next to me!"
As we rolled out of the studio inclosure she leaned forward on the
wheel to question Kennedy.
"What did Marilyn Loring want? You seemed in deep confab!"
"She volunteered to initiate us to McCann's, across the street."
"Oh!" She skidded about a corner skillfully. "And—"
"Well, we bumped into an additional piece of evidence and I thought
Jameson and I ought to hurry in to my laboratory instead."
"I bet"—Enid giggled, readjusting her hat in the breeze—"I bet she
wanted to know what you'd found, right away. Didn't she?"
"Yes!" Kennedy's face was noncommittal, "Why do you say that?"
"Because she came into my room, just as we were getting ready for work
this morning. Perhaps I'm wrong, but from the way she kept asking me
questions about everyone from Manton down I got the idea she was
quizzing me, to see how much I knew. Of course this is only my first
day, but it seems to me that Marilyn is talking a great deal, without
saying very much. I've come to the conclusion she knows a good deal
more than she is telling anyone, and that she'd like to find out just
how much everyone else knows."
Kennedy nodded almost absent-mindedly, without responding further.
"Well"—Enid speeded up a bit—"not to change connections on the
switchboard, I think I'm going to like it with Manton Pictures."
"Will they do justice to your work," Kennedy inquired, "putting you in
a partially finished picture in this way?"
"That's where I'm in luck, real bang-up luck. Werner has directed me
before and knows just exactly how to handle me."
"What about the story? That was built for Stella, wasn't it?"
"Yes, but they're changing it here and there to fit me. Larry knows my
work, too! That's luck again for little Enid."
"How long have you known Millard?" In a flash I realized Kennedy's
cleverness. This was the fact he had wished to unearth. The question
was as natural as could be. He had led up to it deliberately. I was
sure of that.
"Four, nearly five years," she replied, unsuspiciously. Then suddenly
she bit her lip, although her expression was well masked. "That is,"
she added, somewhat lamely—"that is, in a casual way, like nearly
everyone knows nearly everyone else in the film game."
"Oh!" murmured Kennedy, lapsing into silence.
I BECOME A DETECTIVE
Important as it was to watch Enid and Marilyn, Werner and the rest,
Kennedy decided that it was now much more important to hold to his
expressed purpose of returning to the laboratory with our trophies of
the day's crime hunt.
"For people to whom emotion ought to be an old story in their everyday
stage life, I must say they feel and show plenty of it in real life," I
remarked, as Enid set us down and drove off. "It does not seem to pall."
"I don't know why the movie people buy stories," remarked Craig,
quaintly. "They don't need to do it—they live them."
When we were settled in the laboratory once more Kennedy plunged with
renewed vigor into the investigation he had dropped in the morning in
order to make the hurried trip to the Phelps home in Tarrytown.
I had hoped he would talk further of the probabilities of the
connection of the various people with the crime, but he had no comment
even upon the admission of Enid that she had known Millard for a period
long antedating the trouble with Stella Lamar.
It seemed that, after all, he was quite excited at the discovery of the
ampulla and was anxious to begin the analysis of its scale-like
contents. I was not sure, but it struck me that this might be the same
substance which had spotted the towel or the portieres. If that were
so, the finding of it in this form had given him a new and tangible
clue to its nature, accounting for his eagerness.
I watched his elaborate and thorough preparations, wishing I could be
of assistance, but knowing the limitations of my own chemical and
bacteriological knowledge. I grasped, however, that he was
concentrating his study upon the spots he had cut from the portieres,
in particular the stain where the point of the needle had been, and
upon the incrustations on the inner surface of the tube. He made
solutions of both of these and for some little time experimented with
chemical reactions. Then he had recourse to several weighty technical
books. Though bursting with curiosity, I dared not question him, nor
distract him in any way.
Finally he turned to a cage where he kept on hand, always, a few of
those useful martyrs to science, guinea pigs. Taking one of the little
animals and segregating him from the others, he prepared to inoculate
him with a tiny bit of the solution made from the stain on the piece
cut from the portiere.
At that I knew it would be a long and tiresome analysis. It seemed a
waste of time to wait idly for Kennedy to reach his conclusions, so I
cast about in my mind for some sort of inquiry of my own which I could
conduct meanwhile, perhaps collecting additional facts about those we
were watching at the studio.
Somehow I could not wholly lose my suspicions of the director, Werner;
especially now as I marshaled the evidence against him. First of all he
was the only person absolutely in control of the movements of Stella
Lamar. If she did not bring up her arm against the curtains in a manner
calculated to press the needle against her flesh it certainly would not
seem out of the way for him to ask her to do it over again, or even for
him to direct changes in her position. This he could do either in
rehearsal or in retakes after the scene had actually been photographed.
It was not proof, I knew. Practically all of them were familiar with
the action of the scene, could guess how Werner would handle it. The
point was that the director, next to Millard, was the most thoroughly
conversant with the scenes in the script, had to figure out everything
down to the very location and angles of the camera.
Another matter, of course, was the placing of the needle in the silk.
For that purpose some one had to go to Tarrytown ahead of the others,
or at least had to precede the others into the living room. Offhand I
was compelled to admit that this was easiest for Phelps—Phelps, the
man who had insisted that the scene be taken in his library. At the
same time, I knew it was quite possible for the director to have
entered ahead of anyone else, possible for him to have issued orders to
his people which would keep them out of the way for the brief moment he
A third consideration was the finding of the ampulla in McGroarty's
car. Stella, Marilyn, Jack Gordon, Merle Shirley, and Werner had ridden
out together. Werner had not returned. While this fact did not indicate
definitely that he might have dropped it, coupled with the other
considerations it pointed the suspicion of guilt at the director.
Then there was the finding of the towel in the washroom of the office
building at the studio. While Kennedy now said it was not used to wipe
the needle, while we now knew that the needle remained in the portieres
from the morning of Stella's death until late that night, yet Kennedy
affirmed the connection of the towel with the crime in some subtle way.
It was true that members of the cast sometimes used the washroom, yet
it was evident that Manton, Millard, and Werner, who had rooms on the
floor, were the more apt to be concerned in the attempt to dispose of
it. Against Manton I could see no real grounds for suspicion. In a
general way we had been compelled to eliminate Millard early in our
investigation. Again I was brought, in this analysis of the mystery, to
One other point remained—the identity of the nocturnal visitor to
Tarrytown. In connection with that I remembered the remark of Marilyn.
Werner was acting as he always acted when he was out late the night
before, she had said. While my theories offered no explanation of the
second man, the watcher, I saw—with an inner feeling of triumph—that
everything again pointed to the director.
I determined not to tell my conclusion to Kennedy, yet. I did not want
to distract him. Besides, I felt he would disagree.
"What do you think of this, Craig?" I suggested. "Suppose I start out
while you're busy and try to dig up some more facts about these people?"
"Excellent!" was his reply. "I can't say how much longer my analysis
will keep me. By all means do so, Walter. I shall be here, or, if not,
I'll leave a note so you can find me."
Accordingly, I took up my search, determined to go slowly and
carefully, not to be misled by any promising but fallacious clues. I
knew that Werner would be working at the studio, from all we had heard
in the morning. I determined upon a visit to his apartment in his
From the telephone book I discovered that he lived at the Whistler
Studios, not far from Central Park on the middle West Side—a new
building, I remembered, inhabited almost entirely by artists and
writers. As I hurried down on the Subway, then turned and walked east
toward the Park, I racked my brain for an excuse to get in. Entering
the lower reception hall, I learned from the boy that the director had
a suite on the top floor, high enough to look over the roofs of the
adjoining buildings directly into the wide expanse of green and road,
of pond and trees beyond.
"Mr. Werner isn't in, though," the boy added, doubtfully, without
ringing the apartment.
"I know it," I rejoined, hastily. "I told him I'd meet him here this
afternoon, however." On a chance I went on, with a knowing smile, "I
guess it was pretty late when he came in last night?"
"I'll say so," grinned the youth, friendly all of a sudden. He had
interpreted the remark as I intended he should. He believed that Werner
and I had been out together. "I remember," he volunteered, "because I
had to do an extra shift of duty last night, worse luck. It must have
been after four o'clock. I was almost asleep when I heard the taxi at
"I wonder what company he got the taxi from?" I remarked, casually. "I
tried to get one uptown—" I paused. I didn't want to get into a maze
of falsehood from which I would be unable to extricate myself.
"I don't know," he replied. "It looked like one of the Maroon taxis,
from up at the Central Park Hotel on the next block, but I'm not sure."
"I think I won't go upstairs yet," I said, finally. "There's another
call I ought to make. If Mr. Werner comes in, tell him I'll be back."
I knew very well that Werner would not return, but I thought that the
bluff might pave the way for getting upstairs and into the apartment a
little later. Meanwhile I had another errand. The boy nodded a good-by
as I passed out through the grilled iron doors to the street. Less than
five minutes afterward I was at the booth of the Maroon Taxi Company,
at the side of the main entrance of the Central Park Hotel.
Here the starter proved to be a loquacious individual, and I caught
him, fortunately, in the slowest part of the afternoon. Removing a pipe
and pushing a battered cap to the back of a bald head, he pulled out
the sheets of the previous day. Before me were recorded all the calls
for taxicab service, with the names of drivers, addresses of calls, and
destinations. Although the quarters in the booth were cramped and close
and made villainous by the reek of the man's pipe, I began to scan the
It had been a busy night even down to the small hours of the morning
and I had quite a job. As I came nearer and nearer to the end my hopes
ebbed, however. When I was through I had failed to identify a single
call that might have been Werner's. Several fares had been driven to
and from the Grand Central Station, probably the means by which he made
the trip to Tarrytown. In each case the record had shown the Central
Park Hotel in the other column, not the Whistler Studios. I was forced
to give up this clue, and it hurt. I was not built for a detective, I
guess, for I almost quit then and there, prepared to return to the
laboratory and Kennedy.
But I remembered my first intention and made my way back to the
Whistler Studios. Anyhow, I reflected, Werner would hardly have
summoned a car from a place so near his home had he wished to keep his
trip a secret. It was more important for me to gain access to his
quarters. There it was quite possible I might find something valuable.
I wondered if I would be justified in breaking in, or if I would
succeed if I attempted it.
Things proved easier than I expected. My first visit unquestionably had
prepared the way. The hallboy took me up in the elevator himself
without telephoning, took me to Werner's door, rang the bell, and spoke
to the colored valet who opened it. As I grasped the presence of the
servant in the little suite I was glad I had not tried my hand at
forcing an entrance. I had quite anticipated an empty apartment.
The darky, pleasant voiced, polite, and well trained, bowed me into a
little den and proceeded to lay out a large box of cigarettes on the
table beside me, as well as a humidor well filled with cigars of good
quality. I took one of the latter, accepting a light and glancing about.
Certainly this was in contrast with Manton's apartment. There was
nothing garish, ornate, or spectacular here. Richly, lavishly
furnished, everything was in perfect taste, revealing the hand of an
artist. It might have been a bit bizarre, reflecting the nervous
temperament of its owner. Even the servant showed the touch of his
master, hovering about to make sure I was comfortable, even to bringing
a stack of the latest magazines. I hope he didn't sense my thoughts,
for I cursed him inwardly. I wanted to be alone. Ordinarily I would
have enjoyed this, but now I had become a detective, and it was
necessary to rummage about, and quickly.
The sudden ringing of the telephone took the valet out into the tiny
hall of the suite and gave me the opportunity I wished.
Phelps apparently was calling up to leave some message for Werner,
which I could not get, as the valet took it. What, I wondered, was
Phelps telephoning here for? Why not at the studio? It looked strange.
I lost no time in speculation over that, however. The moment I was left
to myself I jumped up and rushed to a writing desk, a carved antique
which had caught my eye upon my entrance, which I had studied from my
place in the easy chair. It was unlocked, and I opened it without
compunction. With an alert ear, to warn me the moment the colored boy
hung up, I first gazed rather helplessly at a huge pile of literary
litter. Clearly there was no time to go through all of that.
I gave the papers a cursory inspection, without disturbing them, hoping
to catch some name or something which might prove to be a random clue,
but I was less lucky than Kennedy had been in his casual look at
Manton's desk the afternoon before. Still able to hear the valet at the
telephone, I reached down and opened the top drawer of the desk. Here
perhaps I might be more fortunate. One glance and my heart gave a
There in a compartment of the drawer I saw a hypodermic needle—in
fact, two of them—and a bottle. On the desk was a fountain pen ink
dropper, a new one which had never been used. I reached over, pressed
its little bulb, uncorked the bottle, inserted the glass point, sucked
up some of the contents, placed the bulb right side up in my waistcoat
pocket, and recorked the bottle. Next I took and pocketed one of the
two needles, both of which were alike as far as I could see.
Then I heard a good-by in the hall. I closed drawer and desk hastily.
As I caught the click of the receiver of the telephone on its hook I
was halfway across the floor. Before the colored boy could enter again
I was back in my chair, my head literally in a whirl.
What a stroke of good fortune! I had no expectation of proving Werner
to be the guilty man by so simple a method as this, however. If he were
the slayer of the star he would be too clever to leave anything so
incriminating about. I have always quarreled with Poe's theory in The
Purloined Letter, believing that the obvious is no place to hide
anything outside of fiction. What I conceived, rather, was that Werner
really was a dope fiend. The nature of the drug Kennedy would tell me
very easily, from the sample. Establishing Werner's possession of the
needles was another point in my chain of presumptions, showing that he
was familiar with their use; and added to that was the psychological
effect upon him of the habit, a habit responsible in many other cases
for murders as skillfully carried out as that of Stella Lamar, often,
too, without the slightest shred of real motive.
I recalled Werner's habitually nervous manner and was sure now that the
needles actually were used by him. Was it due to the high pressure of
his profession? Had that constant high tension forced him to find
relief in the most violent relaxation?
Elated, I was tempted at first to crowd my luck. I wondered if I could
not discover another ampulla such as the chauffeur, McGroarty, had
picked up in his car. When Werner's servant, almost apologetically,
explained that the telephone message was from a near-by shop and that
he would have to leave me for a matter of ten or fifteen minutes, I
assured him that it was all right and that I would occupy myself with a
magazine. The moment he was out the door I sprang to action and began a
minute search of every nook and cranny of the rooms.
But gradually a sense of growing fear and trepidation took hold of me.
Suppose, after all, Werner should return home unexpectedly? The colored
boy did not seem surprised that I should wait, a slight indication that
it was possible. Further, I could never tell when the darky might not
return himself, breaking in upon me without warning and discovering me.
At the best I was not a skillful investigator. I did not know just
where to look for hidden evidences of poison, nor was I able to work
fast, for fear of leaving too tangible marks of my actions behind me. A
great perspiration stood out on my forehead. Gradually a trembling took
hold of my limbs and communicated itself to my fingers.
After all, it was essential that Werner be kept in ignorance of my
suspicions, granting they were correct. It would be fatal if I should
frighten him inadvertently, so that he would take to flight. Realizing
my foolhardiness, I returned to my chair at last, picking up a magazine
at random. I did so not a moment too soon. A slight sound caught my ear
and I looked up to see the valet already halfway into the room. His
tread was so soft I never would have heard him.
"I don't think I'll wait any longer," I remarked, rising and stretching
slightly, as though I had been seated all the time. "I'll ring up a
little later; perhaps come back after I get in touch with Mr. Werner."
"Who shall I say was here, sah?" the boy asked, with just a trace of
Above all I didn't want to alarm Werner. I could not repeat the
explanation I had allowed the attendant downstairs to assume from my
remark, that I was a friend who had been out with the director the
night before. I should have to take a chance that Werner's servant and
the hallboy would not compare notes, and that the latter would say
nothing to the director upon his arrival.
"I'm an old friend from the Coast," I explained, with a show of taking
the negro into my confidence. "I wanted to surprise him and so"—I
slipped a half dollar into a willing palm—"if you'll say nothing until
I've seen him—"
He beamed. "Yes, sah! You jus' count on George, sah!"
Downstairs I wondered if I could seal the tongue of the youth who had
accommodated me before. Then I discovered that he had gone off duty. It
would be extremely unlikely that he would be about until the following
day. I smiled and hastened out to the street.
Once in the open air again, I realized the full extent of the risk I
had taken. All at once it struck me that no amount of explanation from
either Kennedy or myself would serve to mollify Werner if he were
innocent and learned of my visit. I doubted, in this moment of
afterthought, that I would escape censure from Kennedy, who surely
would not want his case jeopardized by precipitate actions upon my
part. I began to run, to get away from the Whistler Studios as fast as
Then I saw I had grown panicky and I checked myself. But I hurried to
the Subway and up to the university again, and to the laboratory, eager
to compare notes with Kennedy.
"If I were Alphonse Dupin," he remarked, calmly, grasping my
excitement, "I would deduce that you have discovered something. I would
also deduce that you believe it important and that you have no
intention of withholding the information from me, whatever it is."
"Correct," I answered, grinning in spite of myself.
Then I handed him the needle, telling him in a few brief words of my
visit to Werner's apartment, of the hallboy's confirmation of a
nocturnal trip of some sort, of my search of the desk and some other
parts of the suite. "I fixed it so that he won't hear of my visit, at
least for some time. He won't suspect who it was, in any case."
Kennedy examined the hypodermic.
"Not like the one used," he murmured.
"I thought that," I explained. "It simply indicates he is a dope fiend
and is familiar with the use of a needle. Here!" I produced the ink
filler which I had used to bring a sample of the contents of the
bottle. "This seems to be what he uses. What is it?"
Kennedy sniffed, then looked closely at the liquid through the glass of
the tube. "It's a coca preparation," he explained. "If Werner uses
this, he's unquestionably a regular drug addict."
"Well," I paused, triumphantly, "the case against the chief director of
Manton Pictures grows stronger all the time."
"Not necessarily," contradicted Kennedy, perhaps to draw me out.
"He's familiar with hypodermic syringes," I repeated.
"Which doesn't prove that no one else would use one."
"Anyhow, he was out until four A.M. last night and some one broke into
Phelps's house to—"
"You can't establish the fact that he went out there. There are plenty
of other places he could have been until four in the morning."
"But I can assume—"
"If you are going to assume anything, Walter, why not assume he was the
second man, the man who watched the actual intruder?"
I turned away, despairing of my ability to convince Kennedy. As a
matter of fact I had forgotten the other prowler at Tarrytown.
Then I noticed that the one guinea pig in the separate cage was dead.
In an instant I was all curiosity to know the results of Kennedy's
"Did you make any progress?" I asked.
"Yes!" Now I noticed for the first time that he was in fine humor. "I
had quite finished the first stage of my analysis when you came in."
"Then what was it? What was the poison that killed Stella Lamar?" I
glanced at the stiff, prone figure of the little animal.
Kennedy cleared his throat. "Well," he replied, "I began the study with
the discovery I made, which I told you, that strange proteins were
present." He picked up the ampulla and regarded it thoughtfully. Then
he fingered the bit of silk cut from the portieres. "It is a poison
more deadly, more subtle, than any ever concocted by man, Walter."
"Yes?" I was painfully eager.
"It is snake venom!"
"A poison more subtle than any concocted by man!" repeated Kennedy.
It was a startling declaration and left me quite speechless for the
"We know next to nothing of the composition of the protein bodies in
the snake venoms which have such terrific and quick physiological
effects on man," Kennedy went on. "They have been studied, it is true,
and studied a great deal, but we cannot say that there are any adequate
tests by which the presence of these proteins can be recognized.
"However, everything points to the conclusion now that it was snake
venom, and my physiological tests on the guinea pig seem to confirm it.
I see no reason now to doubt that it was snake venom. The fact of the
matter is that the snake venoms are about the safest of poisons for the
criminal to use, for the reason of the difficulty they give in any
chemical analysis. That is only another proof of the diabolical
cleverness of our guilty person, whoever it may be.
"Later I'll identify the particular kind of venom used. Just now I feel
it is more important to discover the actual motive for the crime. In
the morning I have a plan which may save me further work here in the
laboratory, but for to-night I feel I have earned a rest and"—a
smile—"I shall rest by searching out the motives of these
temperamental movie folk a little more." As he spoke he slipped out of
his acid-stained smock.
"What do you mean?" As often, he rather baffled me.
"It's nearly dinner time and we're going out together, Walter, down to
"Because I phoned your friend Belle Balcom and she informed me that
that was the place where we would be apt to find the elite of the film
I acquiesced, of course. We hurried to the apartment first for a few
necessary changes and preparations, then we started for the Times
Square section in a taxi.
"I never heard of the use of snake venom before," I remarked, settling
back in the cushions—"that is, deliberately, by a criminal, to poison
"There are cases," replied Craig, absently.
"Just how does the venom act?"
"I believe it is generally accepted that there are two agents present
in the secretion. One is a peptone and the other a globulin. One is
neurotoxic, the other hemolytic. Not only is the general nervous system
attacked instantly, but the coagulability of the blood is destroyed.
One agent in the venom attacks the nerve cells; the other destroys the
"You suspected something of this kind, then, when you first examined
"Exactly! You see, the victim of a snake bite often is unable to move
or speak. Doctor Blake observed that in the case of the stricken star.
Her nerves were affected, resulting in paralysis of the muscles of the
heart and lungs and giving us some symptoms of suffocation. Then the
blood, as a result of the attack of the venom, is always left dark and
liquid. That, too, I observed in the sample sent me from Tarrytown.
"The snake," Kennedy continued, "administers the poison by fangs more
delicate than any hypodermic. Nature's apparatus is more precise than
the finest appliances devised for the use of a surgeon by our
instrument makers. The fangs are like needles with obliquely cut points
and slit-like outlets. The poison glands correspond to the bulb of a
syringe. They are, in reality, highly modified salivary glands. From
them, when the serpent strikes, is ejected a pale straw-colored
half-oleaginous fluid. You might swallow it with impunity. But once in
the blood, through a cut or wound, it is deadly."
"There could be no snake in this case," I remarked. "The fangs of a
serpent make two punctures, don't they; while here there was just the
"Of course there were no fangs when the deed was actually done," he
rejoined, impatiently. "We've traced everything to the needle in the
portieres and it is my belief that it was part of an all-glass
hypodermic with a platinum-iridium point. It could hardly have been
anything like the coarser syringe used by Werner, nor do I think it
possible that the point of an ordinary needle would hold sufficient
venom, since it would dry and form a coating like the incrustation on
the inside of the ampulla McGroarty found."
"That was the venom?" I asked.
"Yes, I found it in the ampulla and in the stain on the portiere where
the needle had pierced through."
"The towel, though—"
"Is something else. First thing in the morning we'll follow that up, as
I promised you. Meanwhile let's concentrate on motives."
A long line of private cars and taxicabs outside Jacques' testified to
the popularity of the restaurant. At the door stood a huge, bulking
negro resplendent in the glaring finery of his uniform. It seemed to me
that people literally were thronging into the place, for it was
cleverly advertised as a center of night life.
Inside, the famous darky jazz band was in full swing. There was lilt
and rhythm to the melody produced by the grinning blacks, and not a
free arm or foot or shoulder or head of any of them but did not sway in
time to their syncopated music.
We were shown to a table on a sort of gallery or mezzanine floor which
extended around three sides of the interior. Below, in the center, was
the space for dancing, surrounded by groups and pairs of diners. Stairs
led to the balcony on both sides, as though the management expected
none of their guests to resist the lure of the dance between courses.
The band, I noticed, was at the farther end, on an elevated dais, so
that the contortions of the various players could be seen above the
heads of those on the floor.
We were at the rail so that we commanded a view of the entire place, a
location I guessed had been maneuvered by Kennedy with a word to the
head waiter. The only tables invisible to us were those directly
beneath, but it would be a simple matter to cross around during any
dance number to view them.
As we took our seats the lights were dimmed suddenly. I realized that
we had arrived in the midst of the cabaret and that it was the turn of
one of the performers. Kennedy, however, seemed to enjoy the
entertainment, an example of his ability to gain recreation whenever
and however he wished, to find relaxation under the oddest or most
casual circumstances, out of anything from people passing on the street
to an impromptu concert of a street band. In scanty garments, in the
glare of a multi-colored spotlight, the girl danced a hybrid of every
dance from the earliest Grecian bacchanal to the latest alleged Apache
importation from Paris.
I have often wondered at Jacques' and places of the sort. The
intermingling of eating and drinking and dancing was curious. What
possible bearing this terpsichorean monstrosity might have upon the
gastronomic inclinations of the audience it would have been difficult
The lights flashed bright again and Kennedy gave our order. Meanwhile I
glanced about at the people below us. There was no one in sight I knew
until I leaned well over the rail, but upon doing that I felt little
chills of excitement run from the top to the bottom of my spine, for I
discovered in a very prominent situation at the very edge of the dance
floor a party of four, of whom three very much concerned us. Lloyd
Manton, back to the polished space behind him, was unmistakable in
evening clothes. These bunched at his neck and revealed his habitual
stoop as impartially as his business suits. Across from him, lounging
upon the table likewise, but more immaculately and skillfully tailored,
was Lawrence Millard. The writer, I noticed, flourished his cigarette
holder, fully a foot in length, and emphasized his remarks to the girl
on his right with a rather characteristic gesture made with the second
finger of his left hand. The girl was Enid, quite mistress of herself
in a gown little more than no gown; and the remarks were obviously
confidential. The other girl, engrossed in Manton, seemed a dangerously
youthful and self-conscious young lady. Her hair flamed Titian red and
her neck, of which she displayed not half as much as Enid, gave her
"Kennedy! Look!" I reached over to attract his attention.
"Who's the second girl, I wonder?" He became as interested as I was.
With a blatant flourish of saxophone and cornet and traps the band
began a jazzy fox-trot. Instantly there was a rush from the tables for
the floor. Enid jumped to her feet, moving her bare shoulders in the
rhythm of the music. Then Millard took firm hold of her and they wove
their way into the crush. It seemed to me that the little star was the
very incarnation of the dance. I envied her partner more than I dared
admit to myself.
Manton and his companion rose also, but more leisurely. On her feet the
girl did not seem so young, although the second impression may have
been the result of the length of her skirt and the long slim, lines of
her gown. We watched both couples through the number, then gave our
attention to the food we had ordered. Another dance, a modified waltz,
revealed Enid in the arms of Manton. I tried to determine from her
actions if she felt any preference for the producer, or for Millard
when again she took the floor with him. It was an idle effort, of
course. The people surged out perhaps three or four times while we were
at our meal. Each time the party below jumped up in response to the
music. At our cigars, finally, I took to observing the other diners,
wondering what we had gained by coming here.
Suddenly I realized that Kennedy was rising to greet some one
approaching our table. Turning, rising also, I went through all the
miseries of the bashful lover. It was Enid herself.
"I caught sight of you looking over the rail while I was dancing," she
told Kennedy, accepting a chair pulled around by the waiter. "I knew
you saw me. Also I glanced up and found that you were perfectly well
aware of the location of our table. So"—engagingly—"unsociable
creature! Why didn't you come down and say 'Hello!' or ask me for a
"Perhaps I intended to a little later."
"Yes!" she exclaimed, in mockery. "You see, since Mecca won't go to the
pilgrim, the pilgrim has to come to Mecca."
"Did you ever hear of Mohammed and the mountain, Miss Faye?" Kennedy
"Of course! That's the regular expression. But I agree with Barnum. As
he said, some people can be original some of the time and some people
can be original all of the time, and I propose to be original always,
like a baby with molasses."
Kennedy laughed, for indeed she was irresistible. Then she turned to
me, placing one of her warm little hands upon mine.
"And Jamie!" she purred. "Have you forgotten little Enid altogether?
Won't—won't YOU come down and dance?"
"I—I can't!" I exploded, in agony. "I don't know how!" And I thought
that I would never dare trust myself with her glistening shoulders
clasped close to me, with her slim bare arm placed around my neck as I
had watched it slip about the collar of Millard.
"Now that the pilgrim is at Mecca—" Kennedy suggested, interrupting
cruelly, as I thought.
"Oh!" In an instant I sensed that I was forgotten, and I was hurt.
"There's something which came out this afternoon at the studio," she
began, "and I wonder if you know. Larry—that's Mr. Millard—assures me
it is true, and—and I think you ought to hear about it. I—I want to
assist all I can in solving the mystery of Stella Lamar's death, even
though Stella's unfortunate end has meant my opportunity."
"What is it, Miss Faye?" Kennedy was studying her.
"It's about Jack Gordon. He's been trying to hold up the company for
fifteen hundred a week, which would double his salary—perhaps you've
Kennedy nodded, although it was news to him. "I've been thinking about
Gordon," he murmured.
"Anyway," she went on, "it's gone around that he's desperately in need
of money and that that is why he's so insistent upon the increase. It
seems he owes everyone. In particular he owes Phelps some huge sums and
old Phelps is on his tail, hollering and raising Ned. Phelps, you know,
has uses for money himself just now. You had heard?"
Again Kennedy evaded a direct answer. "Money is fearfully tight, of
course," he remarked, encouraging her to continue.
"Yes," she repeated, "Phelps is terribly hard up and after Gordon. And
that's not all about our handsome leading man, Mr. Kennedy." She leaned
forward. A certain intensity crept into her voice. She began to toy
with his sleeve with the slender fingers of one hand, as though in that
manner to compel his greater attention. "You know Stella Lamar really
was in love with Jack Gordon. In fact she was daffy over him. And now
I've found out that he was borrowing money from her, was taking nearly
every cent she earned to sink in his speculations. Do you get that?"
Enid's eyes snapped.
Most certainly I understood. I knew well the type of Stella. She had
made many men give up to her motor cars, expensive furs, jewelry, all
manner of presents. But in the end she had found one man to whom she in
turn was willing to yield all. But what of him?
"In the last few weeks, they tell me, poor Stella disposed of many of
her handsome presents from men like Manton and Phelps and others, all
to get money to give to him. At the end she even raised money on her
jewelry. I—I think you'll find it all in pawn now, if you'll
investigate. I don't doubt but that poor Stella died without a penny to
I was so surprised at this information that I failed to study Kennedy's
face. I was completely jolted from my own rapt contemplation of the
very soft curves of Enid's back. For here was a motive at last! Gordon
was a possible suspect I had failed to take even halfway seriously. Yet
the leading man was desperately pressed for money, had had a
disgraceful fight with Phelps as we already knew; and not only owed
huge sums to his fiancee as Enid now explained, but had quarreled with
her just prior to her death, according to his own admission in the
investigation at Tarrytown.
Suddenly the music struck up once more. Enid rose, adjusting the straps
of her gown.
"There!" she exclaimed, smiling abruptly. "I thought you ought to know
that, though I hate to peddle gossip. Now I must hurry back. I've been
away long enough. But come down later and dance."
She swept off without further formality. An instant afterward we saw
her in the clasp of Millard once again. We watched during the number
and encore; then Kennedy called for the check.
"Let's go up to the apartment," he suggested. "I'd like to talk some of
these things out with you. It will help me clarify my own impressions."
Underneath the balcony I noticed Kennedy turn for a last glance at
Manton's party. I paused to look, also. Enid was leaning forward,
talking to Millard earnestly, emphasizing what she had to say with
characteristic movements of her head.
"She's pumping Millard for more information about Stella Lamar," I
Kennedy had no comment.
We strolled up Broadway, resisting the attraction of a garish new
motion-picture palace at which Manton's previous release with Stella
Lamar was now showing to capacity—much to the delight of the exhibitor
who greatly complimented himself on his good fortune in being able to
take advantage of the newspaper sensation over the affair.
On we walked, Kennedy mostly in silent deduction, I knew, until we came
to the upper regions of the great thoroughfare, turned off, and headed
toward our apartment on the Heights, not far from the university.
We had scarcely settled ourselves for a quiet hour in our quarters when
the telephone rang. I answered. To my amazement I found that it was
"Is Professor Kennedy in?" she asked.
"Yes, Miss Loring. Just a—"
"Never mind calling him to the phone, Mr. Jameson. I've been trying to
find him all evening. He was not at the laboratory, although I waited
over an hour. Just tell him that there's something I am very anxious to
consult him about. Ask him if it will be all right for me to run up to
see him just a few minutes."
I explained to Kennedy.
"Let her come along," he said, as surprised as I was. Then he added,
humorously, "I seem to be father confessor to-night."
After sinking back in my seat in comfort once more I observed a quiet
elation in Kennedy's manner. All at once it struck me what he was
doing. The multitude of considerations in this case, the many cross
leads to be followed, had confused me. But now I realized that, after
all, this was only the approved Kennedy method, the mode of procedure
which had never failed to produce results for him. Without allowing
himself to be disturbed by the great number of people concerned, he had
calmly started to pit them one against the other, encouraging each to
talk about the rest, making a show of his apparent inaction and lack of
haste so that they, in turn, would shake off the excitement immediately
following the death of the girl and thereby reveal their normal selves
to his keen observation.
Not five minutes passed before Marilyn was announced. Evidently she had
been seeking us eagerly, for she had probably telephoned from a near-by
"Mr. Kennedy," she began, "I am going to find this very hard to say."
"Really," he assured her, "there is no reason why you should not repose
your confidence in me. My only interest is to solve the mystery and to
see that justice is satisfied. Beyond that nothing would give me
greater happiness than to be of service to you."
"It's—it's about Merle Shirley—" she started, bravely. Then all at
once she broke down. The strain of two days had been too much for her.
Kennedy lighted a fresh cigar, realizing that he could best aid her to
recover her composure by making no effort to do so. For several moments
she sobbed silently, a handkerchief at her eyes. Then she straightened,
with a half smile, dabbing at the drops of moisture remaining. With her
wet eyes and flushed cheeks she was revealed to me again as a very
genuine girl, wholly unspoiled by her outward mask of sophistication.
Furthermore, at this instant she was gloriously pretty.
"Again—why do you play vampire roles, Miss Loring?" I asked, as
quickly as the thought flashed to me. "I think you'd be an ideal
"About a thousand people have told me that," she rejoined. As she
replied her smile took full possession of her features. My idiotic
repetition, entirely out of place, had served to restore her
self-control to her. "No, the public won't stand for it. They've been
trained to know me as a vamp, and a vamp I remain."
Facing Kennedy, she sobered. "Merle Shirley and I were engaged," she
went on. "That you know. Then poor Stella made a fool of him. She
didn't mean any harm, any real harm, but I don't think she knew how
deep he feels or just what a fiery temper he has. Finally he found out
that she was only playing with him. He was perfectly terrible. At first
I thought he had killed her in a burst of passion. I really thought
"Yes?" Kennedy was interested. He needed no pretense.
"When I asked him point blank he said he didn't." A very wonderful
light came into Marilyn Loring's eyes at this instant. "Whatever else
he would do, Professor Kennedy, he wouldn't lie to me; that I know. He
would tell me the truth because he knows I would shield him, no matter
what the cost."
"You simply want to assure me of his innocence?" suggested Kennedy.
"No!" There was a touch of scorn to the little negative. "You don't
believe him guilty; you didn't even when I did."
"But he knows something—something about the murder of Stella—and he
won't tell me what it is. I—I'm afraid for him. He isn't sleeping at
night, and I believe he's watching somebody at the studio, and I
know—it's the WOMAN'S intuition, Professor"—she emphasized the word,
and paused—"he's in danger. He's in some great threatening danger!"
"What do you wish me to do, Miss Loring?"
"I want you to protect him and"—slowly she colored, up and around and
about her eyes as she always did, until she wasn't unlike an Indian
maid—"and no one must know I've been up to see you."
Gravely Kennedy bowed her to the door, assuring her he would do all
that lay in his power. When he returned I was ready for him.
"Now!" I exclaimed. "Now say it isn't Werner! Here is Merle Shirley
watching some one at the studio. Isn't that likely to be the director?
And if Shirley is watching Werner you have the explanation for the
second intruder at Tarrytown last night. Shirley is big enough and
strong enough to have given the deputy a nice swift tussle."
"A little tall, I'm afraid," Kennedy remarked.
"You can't go by the deputy's impressions. He didn't really remember
much of anything. Certainly he was unobserving."
"Perhaps you're right, Walter." Kennedy smiled. "But how about Gordon?"
he added. "There's genuine motive—money!"
"Or Shirley himself!" I attempted to be sarcastic. "There's genuine
motive. Stella made a fool out of him."
"It wasn't a murder of passion," Kennedy reminded me. "No one in a
white heat of rage would study up on snake venoms."
"If it were a slow-smoldering—"
"Shirley's anger wasn't that kind."
"But good heavens!" As usual I arrived nowhere in an argument with
Kennedy. "Circumstantial evidence points to Werner almost altogether—"
"You've forgotten one point in your chain, Walter."
"Whoever took the needle from the curtain last night scratched himself
on it and left blood spots on the portieres, tiny ones, but real blood
spots, nevertheless. That means the intruder inoculated himself with
venom. I doubt that the poison was so dry as to be ineffectual. If it
was Werner, how do you account for the fact that he is still alive?"
"Do you"—I guess my eyes went wide—"do you expect to dig up a dead
man somewhere? Is there some one we suspect and haven't seen since
He didn't answer, preferring to tantalize me.
"How do you account for it yourself?" I demanded, somewhat hotly.
"Let's call it a day, Walter," he rejoined. "Let's go to bed!"
I slept late in the morning, so that Kennedy had to wake me. When we
had finished breakfast he led the way to the laboratory, all without
making any effort to satisfy my curiosity. There he started packing up
the tubes and materials he had been studying in the case, rather than
resuming his investigations.
"What's the idea?" I asked, finally, unable to contain myself any
"You carry this package," he directed. "I'll take the other."
I obeyed, somewhat sulkily I'm afraid.
"You see," he added, as we left the building and hurried to the taxi
stand near the campus, "the next problem is to identify the particular
kind of venom that was used. Besides, I want to know the nature of the
spots on the towel you found. They certainly were not of venom. I have
my suspicions what they really are."
He paused while we selected a vehicle and made ourselves comfortable.
"To save time," he went on, "I thought I'd just go over to the
Castleton Institute. You know in their laboratories the famous Japanese
investigator, Doctor Nagoya, has made some marvelous discoveries
concerning the venom of snakes. It is his specialty, a matter to which
he has practically devoted his life. Therefore I expect that he will be
able to confirm certain suspicions of mine very quickly, or"—a
shrug—"explode a theory which has slowly been taking form in the back
of my head."
When we dismissed the taxi in front of the institute I realized that
this would be my first visit to this institution so lavishly endowed by
the multi-millionaire, Castleton, for the advancement of experimental
science. Kennedy's card, sent in to Doctor Nagoya, brought that eminent
investigator out personally to see us. He was the very finest type of
Oriental savant, a member of the intellectual nobility of the strange
Eastern land only recently made receptive to the civilization of the
West. When he and Kennedy chatted together in low tones for a few
moments it was hard for me to grasp that each belonged to a basic race
strain fundamentally different from the other. East and West had met,
upon the plane of modern science. The two were simply men of
specialized knowledge, the Japanese pre-eminent in one field, Kennedy
Carefully and thoroughly Kennedy and Nagoya went over the results which
Kennedy had already obtained. After a moment Doctor Nagoya conducted us
to his research room.
"Now let me show you," said the Oriental.
In a moment they were deep in the mysteries of an even more minute
analysis than Kennedy had made before. I took a turn about the room,
finding nothing more understandable than the study holding Kennedy's
interest. Though I could not grasp it, curiosity kept me hovering close.
"You see"—Nagoya spoke as he finished the test he was making at the
moment—"without a doubt it is crotalin, the venom of the rattlesnake,
"There was no snake actually present," I hastened to explain, breaking
in. Then at a glance from Kennedy I stopped, abashed, for all this had
been made clear to the scientist.
"It is not necessary," Nagoya replied, turning to me with the
politeness characteristic of the East. "Crotalin can be obtained now
with fair ease. It is a drug used in a new treatment of epilepsy which
is being tried out at many hospitals."
I nodded my thanks, not wanting to interrupt again.
Kennedy pressed on to the next point he wished established. "That was
the spot on the portieres. Now the ampulla."
"Also crotalin." Doctor Nagoya spoke positively.
"How about this solution?" Kennedy took from my package the tube with
the liquid made from the faint spots on the towel which I had found and
which had been our first clue. "It is not crotalin."
The Japanese turned to his laboratory table.
Kennedy muttered some vague suggestions which were too technical for me
but which seemed to enable Nagoya to eliminate a great deal of work.
The test progressed rapidly. Finally the savant stepped back, regarding
the solution with a very satisfied smile.
"It is," he explained, carefully, "some of the very anticrotalus venin
which we have perfected right here in the institute."
Kennedy nodded. "I suspected as much." There was great elation in his
manner. "You see, I had heard all about your wonderful work."
"Yes!" Nagoya waved his hand around at the wonderfully equipped room,
only one detail in the many arrangements for medical research made
possible by the generosity of Castleton. "Yes," he repeated, proud of
his laboratory, as he well might be, "we have made a great deal of
progress in the development of protective sera—antivenins, we call
"Are they distributed widely?" Kennedy asked, thoughtfully.
"All over the world. We are practically the only source of supply."
"How do you obtain the serum in quantity?"
"From horses treated with increasing doses of the snake venom."
A question struck me as I remembered the peculiar double action of the
poison. "Can you tell me just how the antivenin counteracts the effects
of the venom?" I inquired of the savant.
"Surely," he replied. "It neutralizes one of the two elements in the
venom, the nervous poison, thus enabling the individual to devote all
his vitality to overcoming the irritant poison. It is the nervous
poison that is the chief death-dealing agent, producing paralysis of
the heart and respiration. We advise all travelers to carry the
protective serum if they are likely to be exposed to snake bites."
Kennedy picked up the tube containing the solution made from the towel
spots. "This antivenin was your product, doctor?"
"Probably so," was the precise answer.
"Then the purchasers can be identified," I suggested.
"We have no record of ordinary purchasers," Nagoya explained, slowly.
Kennedy was keenly disappointed at that, and showed it. However, he
thanked the scientist cordially, and we departed. Outside, he turned to
"Do you understand now why the night intruder at Tarrytown did not
die—if he is one of our suspects—from the scratch of the needle?"
"You mean he had taken an injection of antivenin before—"
"Exactly! We are dealing with a criminal of diabolical cleverness. Not
only did he make all his plans to kill Miss Lamar with the greatest
possible care, but he prepared against accident to himself. He was
taking no chances. He inoculated himself with a protective serum. The
needle of the syringe he used for that purpose he wiped upon the towel
you discovered in the washroom."
AROUND THE CIRCLE
"I'd like to have another talk with Millard about that Fortune Features
affair," remarked Kennedy.
It was the third morning after the death of Stella Lamar, and I found
him half through breakfast when I rose. About him were piled moving
picture and theatrical publications, daily, weekly, and monthly. At the
moment I caught him he had spread wide open the inner page of the Daily
Metropolitan, a sheet devoted almost exclusively to sports and the
I went around to glance over his shoulder. He pointed to a small item
under a heading of recent plans and changes.
It is hinted to the Metropolitan Man-about-Broadway, by those
in a position to know but who cannot yet be quoted, that
Fortune Features is about to absorb a number of the largest
competing companies. Rumors of great changes in the picture
world have been current for some weeks, and this is the first
reliable information to be given out. It is premature to give
details of the new combination, or to mention names, but
Fortune's strong backing in Wall Street will, we are assured,
have a stabilizing influence at a critical time in the
"Seems to be a lot of hot air," I said. "There isn't a name mentioned.
Everything is 'by those in a position to know' and 'rumors of and 'it
is premature to give details… or mention names'—Bah!"
Kennedy turned to places he had marked in several of the other
periodicals and papers and I read them. Each was substantially to the
effect of the note in the Metropolitan, although worded differently and
generally printed as a news item.
"It's a feeler," Kennedy stated. "There's something back of it. When I
caught the reference to Fortune Features in the Metropolitan, which
I've been reading the past two days, I sent the boy out for every movie
publication he could find. Result: half a dozen repetitions of the hint
that Fortune is expanding. That means that it is deliberate publicity."
"You think this has something to do with the case?"
"I don't see the name of Manton mentioned once. Manton is a man who
seeks the front page on every opportunity. You remember, of course,
what Millard told us. Somehow I smell a rat. If nothing else develops
for this morning, I want to find Millard and talk to him again. I
believe Manton is up to something."
The sharp sound of our buzzer interrupted us. Because I was on my feet
I went to the door. To my amazement I found it was Phelps who was our
very early visitor.
"I hope you'll excuse this intrusion," he apologized to Kennedy,
pushing by me with the rudeness which seemed inherent in the man. Then
he recognized the sheet still spread out on the table. "I see you, too,
have been reading the Metropolitan."
"Yes," Kennedy admitted, languidly. "There is nothing about Manton
"Manton Pictures, hell!" In an instant Phelps exploded and the thin
veneer of politeness was gone. With a shaking finger he pointed to the
item which we had just been reading and discussing. "Did you read that!
Did you see the reference to stabilizing the industry? STABILIZING! It
ought to be spelled stable-izing, for they lead all the donkeys into
stalls and tie them up and let them kick." He stopped momentarily for
sheer inability to continue.
"I suppose you don't know Manton is behind this Fortune Features?"
"We were aware of the fact," Kennedy told him, quietly.
Phelps looked from one to the other of us keenly, as if he had thought
to surprise us and had been disappointed. Nervously he began to pace
"Perhaps you know also that things haven't been going just right with
Kennedy straightened. "When I asked you at Tarrytown, just two mornings
ago, whether there was any trouble between Manton and yourself, you
answered that there was not."
Phelps flushed. "I didn't want to air my financial difficulties with
Manton. My—my answer was truthful, the way you meant your question.
Manton and I have had no words, no quarrel, no disagreement of a
"What is the trouble with Manton Pictures?"
"They are wasting money—throwing it right and left. That pay roll of
theirs is preposterous. The waste itself is beyond belief—sometimes
four and five cameras on a scene, retakes upon the slightest
provocation, even sets rebuilt because some minor detail fails to suit
the artistic eye of the director. Werner, supposed to watch all the
companies, doesn't half know his business. In the making of a five-reel
film they will overtake sometimes as much as eighty or a hundred
thousand feet of negative in each of two cameras, when twenty thousand
is enough overtake for anyone. That alone is five to ten thousand
dollars for negative stock, almost fifteen with the sample print and
developing. And the cost of stock, Mr. Kennedy, is the smallest item.
All the extra length is long additional weeks of pay roll and overhead
expense. I put an auditor and a film expert on the accounts of Stella
Lamar's last picture. By their figures just sixty-three thousand
dollars was absolutely thrown away."
Kennedy rose, folding the newspaper carefully while he collected his
thoughts. "My dear Mr. Phelps," he stated, finally, "that is simply
inefficiency. I doubt if it is anything criminal; certainly there is no
connection with the death of Stella Lamar, my only interest in Manton
Phelps was very grave. "There is every connection with the death of
"What do you mean?"
"Mr. Kennedy, what I'm going to say to you I cannot substantiate in any
court of law. Furthermore I'm laying myself open to action for libel,
so I must not be quoted. But I want you to understand that Stella was
inescapably wound up with all of Manton's financial schemes. His money
maneuvers determined her social life, her friends—everything. She was
then, as Enid Faye will be now, his come-on, his decoy. Manton has no
scruples of any sort whatsoever. He is dishonest, tricky, a liar, and a
cheat. If I could prove it I would tell him so, but he's too clever for
me. I do know, however, that he pulled the strings which controlled
every move Stella Lamar ever made. When she went to dinner with me it
was because Manton wished her to do so. She was his right hand, his
ears, almost his mouth. I have no doubt but that her death is the
direct result of some business deal of his—something directly to do
with his financial necessities."
Kennedy did not glance up. "Those are very serious assertions."
"It is a very serious matter. To show how unscrupulous Manton is, I can
demonstrate that he is wrecking Manton Pictures deliberately. I've told
you of the waste. Only the other day I came into the studio. Werner was
putting up a great ballroom set. You saw it? No, that isn't the one I
mean. I mean the first one. He had it all up; then some little thing
didn't suit him. The next day I came in again. All
struck—sloughed—every bit of it—and a new one started. 'Lloyd,' I
said, 'just think a minute—that's my money!' What good did it do? He
even began to alter the new set! He would only go on, encouraging
Werner and the other directors to change their sets, to lose time in
trying for foolish effects, anything at all to pad the expense.
"You think I am romancing, but you don't understand the film world,"
Phelps hurried on angrily. "Do you know that Enid Faye's contract is
not with Manton Pictures but with Manton himself? That means he can
take her away from me after he has made her a star with my money, at my
expense. Why should he wreck Manton Pictures, you ask? Do you know
that, bit by bit, on the pretext that he needed the funds for this
that, or the other thing, Manton has sold out his entire interest in
the company to me? It is all mine now. I tell you," complained Phelps,
bitterly, "he couldn't seem to wreck the company fast enough. Why? Do
you realize that there isn't room both for this older company and the
new Fortune Features? Can you see that if Manton Pictures fails the
Fortune company will be able to pick up the studio and all the
equipment for a song? I'm the fall guy!
"And yet, Kennedy, all the efforts to wreck Manton Pictures would have
failed, because 'The Black Terror' was too sure a success. In spite of
all the expense, in spite of every effort to wreck it, that picture
would have made half a million dollars. Stella's acting and Millard's
story and script would have put it over. But now Millard's contract has
expired and Manton has signed him for Fortune Features. Enid Faye will
be made a star by 'The Black Terror,' but she is not now the drawing
power to put it over big, as Stella would have done. I tell you,
Kennedy, the death of Stella Lamar has completed the wreck of Manton
Kennedy jumped to his feet. There was a hard light in his eyes I had
never seen before.
"Do I understand you, Phelps?" he snapped. "Are you accusing Manton of
the cold-blooded murder of Stella Lamar to further various financial
"Hardly!" Phelps blanched a bit, and I thought that a shudder swept
over him. "I don't mean anything like that at all. What I mean is that
Manton, in encouraging various sorts of dissension to wreck the
company, inadvertently fanned the flames of passion of those about her,
and it resulted in her death."
"Who killed her?"
"I don't know!" Grudgingly I admitted that this seemed open and frank.
"At Tarrytown," Kennedy went on, "I asked you if Stella Lamar was
making any trouble, had threatened to quit Manton Pictures, and you
said no. Is that still your answer?"
"For several months she had been up-stage. That was not because she
wanted to make trouble, but because she had fallen in love. Manton
found he couldn't handle her as he had previously."
"Do you suspect Manton of killing her himself?"
"I don't suspect anyone. That is an honest answer, Mr. Kennedy."
"What do you know about Fortune Features?"
The banker's eye fell on the newspaper again. "I know who this new Wall
Street fellow is. I've got my scouts out working for me. It's
Leigh—that's who it is. And I'm sore; I have a right to be."
Phelps was getting more and more heated, by the moment. "I tell you,"
he almost shouted, "this fake movie business is the modern gold-brick
game, all right. Never again!"
I was amazed at the Machiavellian cleverness of Manton. Here he was, on
one hand openly working with, yet secretly ruining, the Manton
Pictures, while on the other hand he was covertly building up the
competing Fortune Features.
Kennedy paced out into the little hall of our suite and back. He faced
our visitor once more.
"Why did you come to see me this morning? At our last encounter, you
may recall you said you wished you could throw me down the steps."
Phelps smiled ruefully. "That was a mistake. It was the way I felt,
Again the black clouds overshadowed the features of the financier. "Now
I want you to bring out and prove the things I've told you." The malice
showed in his voice plainly, for the first time. "I want it proved in
court that Manton is a cheap crook. When you uncover the murderer of
Stella Lamar you will find that the moral responsibility for her death
traces right back to Lloyd Manton. I want him driven out of the
Kennedy's attitude changed. As he escorted Phelps to the door his tones
were self-controlled. "Anything of the sort is beyond my province. My
task is simply to find the person who killed the girl."
When the financier was gone I turned to Kennedy eagerly. "What do you
think?" I asked.
"I think, more than ever, that we should investigate Fortune Features.
Let's have a look at the telephone book."
There was no studio of the new corporation in New York, but we did find
one listed in New Jersey, just across the river, at Fort Lee. We walked
from the university down the hill and over to the ferry. On the other
side a ten minutes' street-car ride took us to our destination.
Facing us was a huge barn-like structure set down in the midst of a
little park. Inquiry for Manton brought no response whatever; rather,
surprise that we should be asking for him here. However, I reflected
that that was exactly what we ought to expect if Manton was working
under cover. The girl at the telephone switchboard, smiling at Kennedy,
had a suggestion.
"They're taking a storm exterior down in the meadow," she explained.
"Perhaps he's down there, among the visitors—or perhaps there's
someone who will be able to give you some information."
I glanced outdoors at the brightly shining sun. "A storm?" I repeated,
"Yes," she smiled. "It might interest you to see it."
Following her directions, we started across country, leaving the studio
building some distance behind and entering a broad expanse of meadow
beyond a thin clump of trees. At the farther end we could see a large
group of people and paraphernalia which, at the distance, we could not
However, it was not long after we emerged from the trees that we
perceived they were photographing squarely in our direction. Several
began waving their arms wildly at us and shouting. Kennedy and I,
understanding, turned and advanced, keeping well out of the camera
lines, along the edge of the field.
"Hello!" a voice greeted us as we approached the group standing back
and watching the action.
To my surprise it was Millard, with the spectators. I looked about for
Manton but did not see him, nor anyone else we knew.
"It's a storm and cyclone," said Millard, his attention rather on what
was going on than on us.
For the moment we said nothing.
The scene before us was indeed interesting. Half a dozen aeroplane
engines and propellers had been set up outside the picture, and
anchored securely in place. The wind from them was actually enough to
knock a man down. Rain was furnished by hose playing water into the
whirling blades, sending it driving into the scene with the fury of a
tropical storm. Back of the propellers half a dozen men were
frantically at work shoveling into them sand and dirt, creating an
amazingly realistic cyclone.
We arrived in the midst of the cyclone scene, as the dust storm was
ending and the torrential rain succeeded. For the storm, a miniature
village had been constructed in break-away fashion, partially sawed
through and tricked for the proper moment. Many objects were controlled
by invisible wires, including an actual horse and buggy which seemed to
be lifted bodily and carried away. Roofs flew off, walls crashed in,
actors and actresses were knocked flat as some few of them failed to
gain their cyclone cellars. Altogether, it was a storm of such
efficiency as Nature herself could scarcely have furnished, and all
staged with the streaming sunlight which made photography possible.
Pandemonium reigned. Cameras were grinding, directors were bawling
through megaphones, all was calculated chaos. Yet it took only a glance
to see that some marvelous effects were being caught here.
At the conclusion I recognized suddenly the little leading lady, It was
the girl we had seen with Manton at Jacques' cabaret.
"That's the way to take a picture," exclaimed Millard. "Everything
right—no expense spared. I came over to see it done. It's wonderful."
"Yes," was Kennedy's answer, "but it must be very costly."
"It is all of that," said Millard. "But what of it if the film makes a
big clean-up? I wouldn't have missed this for anything. Werner never
staged a spectacle like this in his life. Fortune Features are going to
set a new mark in pictures."
"But can they keep it up? Have they the money?"
Millard shrugged his shoulders. "Manton Pictures can't—that's a cinch.
Phelps has reached the end of his rope, I guess. I'm afraid the trouble
with him was that he was thinking of too many things besides pictures."
There was no mistaking the meaning of the remark. Millard was still cut
by Stella's desertion of him for the broker. I caught Kennedy's glance,
but neither of us cared to refer to her.
"Where can I find Manton now?" Kennedy asked.
"Did you try his office at seven hundred and twenty-nine?" was
"No; I wanted to see this place first."
"Well, you'll most likely find him there. I've got to go back to the
city myself-some scenes of 'The Black Terror' to rewrite to fit Enid
better. I'll motor you across the ferry and to the Subway."
At the Subway station, Millard left us and we proceeded to Manton's
executive offices in a Seventh Avenue skyscraper, built for and devoted
exclusively to the film business.
Manton's business suite was lavishly furnished, but not quite as ornate
and garish as his apartment. The promoter himself welcomed us, for no
matter how busy he was at any hour, he always seemed to have time to
stop and chat.
"Well, how goes it?" He pushed over a box of expensive cigars. "Have
you found out anything yet?"
"Had a visit from Phelps this morning." Kennedy plunged directly into
the subject, watching the effect.
Manton did not betray anything except a quiet smile. "Poor old Phelps,"
he said. "I guess he's pretty uneasy. You know he has been speculating
rather heavily in the market lately. There was a time when I thought
Phelps had a bank roll in reserve. But it seems he has been playing the
game on a shoestring, after all."
Manton casually flicked the ashes from his cigar into a highly polished
cuspidor as he leaned over. "I happen to have learned that, to make his
bluff good, he has been taking money from his brokerage business"—here
he nodded sagely—"his customers' accounts you know. Leigh knows the
inside of everybody's affairs in Wall Street. They say a quarter of a
million is short, at least. To tell you the truth, poor Stella took a
good deal of Phelps's money. Certainly his Manton Pictures holdings
wouldn't leave him in the hole as deep as all that."
I reflected that this was quite the way of the world—first framing up
something on a boob, then deprecating the ease with which he was
Was it blackmail Stella had levied on Phelps, I wondered? Was she
taking from him to give to Gordon? Had Stella broken him? Was she the
real cause of the tangle in his affairs? And had Phelps in insane
passion revenged himself on her?
In the conversation with Manton there was certainly no hint of answer
to my queries. With all his ease, Manton was the true picture promoter.
Seldom was he betrayed into a positive statement of his own. Always,
when necessary, he gave as authority the name of some one else. But the
effect was the same.
A hurried call of some sort took Manton away from us. Kennedy turned to
me with a whimsical expression.
"Let's go!" he remarked.
"What do you make of it, offhand?" I asked, outside.
"We're going about in a circle," he remarked. "Strange group of people.
Each apparently suspects the other."
"And, to cover himself, talks of the other fellow," I added.
Kennedy nodded, and we made our way toward the laboratory.
"I'll bet something happens before the day is over," I hazarded, for no
reason in particular.
As we went, I cast up in my mind the facts we had learned. The
information from Manton was disconcerting, coming on top of what had
already been revealed about the inner workings of his game. If Phelps
had secretly "borrowed" from the trust accounts in his charge a quarter
of a million or so, I saw that his situation must indeed be desperate.
To what lengths he might go it was difficult to determine.
THE BANQUET SCENE
For once I qualified as a prophet. We were hardly in our rooms when the
telephone rang for Kennedy. It was District-Attorney Mackay, calling in
"My men have positive identification of one of the visitors to the
Phelps home the night after the murder," he reported.
"Fine!" exclaimed Kennedy. "Who was it? How did you uncover his trail?"
"You remember that my deputy heard the sound of a departing automobile?
Well, we have been questioning everyone. A citizen here, who returned
home late at just about that hour, remembers seeing a taxicab tearing
through the street at a reckless rate. He came in to see me this
morning. He made a mental note of the license number at the time, and
while nothing stuck with him but the last three figures, three sixes,
he was sure that it was a Maroon taxi. We got busy and have located the
driver who made the trip, from a stand at Thirty-third all the way out
and back. On the return he dropped his fare at the man's apartment. The
identification is positive."
"Who is it?" Kennedy became quite excited.
"Werner, the director."
"Werner!" in surprise. "What are you going to do?"
"Arrest him first—examine him afterward. I've sworn out the warrant
already, and I'm going to start in by car just as soon as we hang up. I
thought I'd phone you first in case you wanted to accompany me to the
"We'll hurry there," Kennedy replied, "and meet you."
"No, up on the floor."
"You'll be there fifteen minutes to half an hour ahead of me. I hope
there is no way for anyone to tip him off so he can escape."
"We'll stop him if he attempts it."
The courtyard of the studio of Manton Pictures, Incorporated, was about
the same as upon the occasions of our previous visits except that I
detected a larger number of cars parked in the inclosure, including a
number of very fine ones. Also, it seemed to me that there was a
greater absence of life than usual, as though something of particular
interest had taken everyone inside the buildings.
The gateman informed us that Werner was working the large studio. We
made our way up through the structure containing the dressing rooms and
found the proper door without difficulty. When we passed through under
the big glass roof we grasped the reason for the lack of interest in
the other departments about the quadrangle. Here everyone was gathered
to watch the taking of the banquet scene for "The Black Terror." The
huge set was illuminated brightly, and packed, thronged with people.
It was a marvelous set in many ways. To carry out the illusion of size
and to aid in the deceptive additional length given by the mirrors at
the farther end, Werner had decided against the usual one large table
arranged horseshoe-like, but had substituted instead a great number of
individual smaller tables, about which he had grouped the various
guests. The placing of those nearest the mirrors had been so arranged
as to give no double images, thus betraying the trick. The waiters, all
the characters who walked about, were kept near the front toward the
cameras for the same reason. It seemed as if the banquet hall was at
least twice its actual size.
I saw that Millard had arrived ahead of us. Either the changing of the
scenes in his script to fit Enid had not taken him very long or else
the photographing of this particular bit of action had proved
sufficiently fascinating to draw him away from his work. I wondered at
first if he had come to the studio to use his office here, an
infrequent happening, from Manton's account. Then I realized that he
was in evening dress. Without doubt he planned to play a minor part in
the banquet. His presence was no accident.
Then I picked out Manton himself from our point of observation in a
quiet corner selected by Kennedy for that purpose. It was evident that
the promoter had cleared up his business at the office rapidly since we
had left him there to go to our quarters on the Heights and had
departed immediately from the latter place so as to precede the
District Attorney here.
Manton as well as Millard was in evening dress. A moment later I
recognized Phelps, and he, too, wore his formal clothes. In an instant
I grasped that Werner actually was saving money. Not only were these
officials of the company present to help fill up the tables, but I was
able now to pick out a number of the guests who were uneasy in their
make-up and more or less out of place in full-dress attire. They
certainly were not actors. One girl I definitely placed as the
stenographer from Manton's waiting room at the studio; then other
things caught my attention. I could not help but doubt the stories of
waste told us by Phelps as I looked over the scene before me. The use
of the mirrors to avoid building the full length of the floor did not
seem to fit in with the theory that Manton and Werner were making every
effort to wreck the company deliberately.
I watched the financier for several moments, but did not detect
anything from his manner except that he seemed to feel ill at ease and
awkward in make-up. I picked out Millard again and this time found him
talking with Enid Faye and Gordon. Immediately I sensed a dramatic
conflict, carefully suppressed, but having too many of the outward
indications to fool anyone. In fact, a child would have observed that
Lawrence Millard and the leading man needed little urging to engage in
a scuffle then and there. Though Stella Lamar was dead, this was the
heritage she had left. Her touch had embittered two men beyond the
point of reconciliation—the husband who had been, and the husband who
was to be. Of the two, Millard had far the better control of himself,
After a brief word or so Gordon left them. At once I could see the
relief in the expressions of both the others. Again I wondered just
what might be between these two. It was an easy familiarity which might
have been as casual as it seemed to be, no more, or which might have
been a mask for something far deeper and more enduring, the schooled
outer cloak of an inner perfect understanding.
Werner was by far the busiest of those waiting in the stifling heat
beneath the glass roof. He was in evening dress, prepared to take his
own place before the camera, and in straight make-up, so that he looked
nothing like the slain millionaire, the part he had played in the
opening scenes. I saw that he was a master in the art of make-up. I was
sure that he was more nervous than usual. It struck me that he needed
the stimulus of the drug he used, although later I knew that he must
have felt, intuitively, the coming of events which followed close upon
the attempt to photograph the action.
As more of the people hurried up from the offices and around from the
manuscript and other departments, very conscious of their formal
attire, and as the regular players changed and adjusted the make-ups of
these amateurs, the banquet took on the proportions of a real affair.
The members of the cast were placed at the table in the foreground.
Enid, Gordon, Marilyn, and a fourth man were assigned locations; after
which Werner proceeded to fill the seats in the rear. With the
exception of Millard and Phelps, none of the inexperienced people were
allowed to face the camera. Manton, whose features were familiar
through published interviews in many publicity campaigns, was placed to
one side opposite Phelps. Millard was given charge of a group
containing a number of giddy extra girls in somewhat diaphanous
costume, and seemed to be in his element.
The tables themselves were prepared with perfect taste. I could see
that real food was being used, in order to achieve a greater degree of
realism, for a caterer had set up a buffet some distance out of the
scene from which to serve the courses called for in the script. Many of
the dishes were being kept hot, the steam curling from beneath the
covers in appetizing wisps. The wine, supposed to be champagne, was
sparkling apple juice of the best quality, and I don't doubt but that
before the days of prohibition Werner would have insisted upon the real
fizz water. In details such as these the director was showing no
"All ready now?" Werner called, stepping back to a place at a table
which he had reserved for himself. "All set? Remember the action of the
Instantly the buzz of conversation died and everyone turned to him.
"No, no, no!" he exclaimed in vexation. "Don't go dead on your feet.
This is a banquet. You are having a good time. It's not a funeral! You
were all in just the right state of mind before, and you don't have to
stop and gape to listen to me. Keep right on talking and laughing. My
voice will carry and you can hear without getting out of your parts."
I turned to Kennedy, to see how the picture-making struck him. I saw
that he was watching the two girls at the forward table closely and so
I faced about to follow his glance. Marilyn's face was red with anger,
while Enid, calm and rather malicious, was ignoring her to devote all
attention to Gordon. The leading man, bored and irritated, made no
effort to conceal a heavy scowl. In the momentary interval following
Werner's instructions, Marilyn lost all control of herself.
"If you will pardon me, MISS Faye," she cried out in a voice which
carried over to us and with cutting accent upon the "Miss," "I think
that in this scene at least we should BOTH be facing the camera. If I
understand the scene in the script at all it is intended to show the
conflict between the two women over the one man seated between them.
Jack Daring is to be swayed first by Stella Remsen, then by Zelda. At
least this once I think the daughter of old Remsen and his ward are
playing roles of equal importance."
For a moment I smiled, realizing that Marilyn was not going to let Enid
"take the picture away" from her as we had seen the new star do in one
of her first scenes with the leading man. Then I sobered, realizing
that it was the outer reflection of the deep-running passion of these
people. The cloud of Stella's death was over them still.
Enid responded, but in tones too low for us to hear. A new flush of red
in Marilyn's face, however, demonstrated the power in the lash of the
other girl's tongue. Werner hurried over to them, not masking his own
irritation any too well. Without a word he began rearranging the table,
moving it slightly so that while there was no great difference in its
position he had yet made a show of satisfying Marilyn. In effect he
pleased neither. The two pretty faces closest to the camera were a
study in discontent.
"I don't wonder that moving-picture directors are nervous," Kennedy
remarked. "Film manufacture must keep everyone under constant tension."
"What do you make of the feeling between the different people?" I
asked. "Did you notice Millard and Gordon, and now Enid and Marilyn?"
"There's something under cover," he rejoined; "something behind all
this. I get the impression that our suspects are watching one another,
like as many hawks. At various times most of them have glanced over at
us. They know we are here and are conscious they may be under
suspicion. Therefore I particularly want to see how those two girls act
when Mackay arrives to arrest Werner."
The director, stepping back to his place, took a megaphone from his
assistant for use in the rehearsal.
"Now you must act just as though this were a real banquet," he shouted.
"Try to forget that the Black Terror is lurking outside the window,
that an attack is coming from him. Remember, when the shot is fired you
must all leap up as though you meant it. Here! You—you—you—"
designating certain extra girls, "faint when it happens. That's not
until after the toast is proposed. I'll propose the toast from my table
and it will be the cue for Shirley, outside. Now don't get ahead of the
action. You amateurs, don't turn around to see if the camera is
working. We'll go through the action up to the moment I propose the
toast." The buzz of conversation rose slightly as though an effort was
being put into the gayety. I glanced about at some of the people who
were cast for only this one scene, wishing I could read lips, because I
was sure many of them talked of matters wholly out of place in this
setting. At the same time I kept an eye on the principals and upon
Finally the director was satisfied, after a second rehearsal.
"All right," he bellowed, throwing the megaphone from the scene.
At the same instant he dropped to his place and apparently was a guest
with no interest but in the food and wine before him.
At the cameras-there were three of them-the assistant director kept a
careful watch of the general action. In actual time by the watch the
whole was very short, a second measuring to sixteen pictures or a foot
of film as I explained afterward to Kennedy. The entire scene perhaps
ran one hundred or one hundred and fifty feet.
But on the screen, even to the spectators in the studio, the illusion
in a scene of the kind would be the duration of half an hour or even
more. This would be helped by close-ups of the individual action,
especially by the byplay between the principals, taken later and
inserted into the long shot by the film cutter.
I know I was carried away by a sense of reality. It seemed to me that
waiters made endless trips to and fro, that here and there pretty girls
broke into laughter constantly or that men leaned forward every other
moment to make witty remarks; in fact I felt genuinely sorry I could
not take part in the festivities. I knew that danger, in the person of
the Black Terror as played by Shirley, lurked just out the window. I
felt delicious anticipatory thrills of fear, so thoroughly was I in the
spirit of the thing. Then I saw that Werner was about to propose the
toast, about to give the cue for the big action.
"Watch him" whispered Kennedy. "He's an actor. He's taking that drink
just as though he meant every drop of it."
Werner had raised his delicately stemmed glass as though to join his
neighbor in some pledge when a new idea seemed to strike him. He leaped
to his feet.
"Let's drink together! Let's drink to our hero and heroine of the
Other voices rose in acclamation. The wine had been poured lavishly.
Glasses clinked and we could hear laughter.
Suddenly at the window, back of everyone, appeared the evil,
black-masked figure of Shirley, eyes glittering menacingly from their
slits, two weapons glistening blue in his hands.
At the same moment there was a terrible groan, followed by a scream of
agony. Werner staggered back, his left hand clutched at his breast.
From his right hand the glass which he had drained fell to the canvas
covered floor with an ominous dull crash.
This was not in the script! Practically everybody realized the fact,
for the scene instantly was in an uproar. In the general consternation
no one seemed to know just what to do.
Shirley was the first to act, the first to realize what had happened.
Dropping his weapons, reaching the side of the stricken director in one
leap, he supported him as he reeled drunkenly, then eased him to the
floor. Behind us, before I could look to Kennedy to see what he would
do, there was the gasp of a man out of breath from hurrying upstairs. I
turned, startled. It was Mackay.
"Shall I make the collar?" he wheezed. At the same instant he saw the
gathering crowd in the set. "What—what's happened?" he asked.
Kennedy had bounded forward only a few seconds after Shirley. As I
pushed through after him, Mackay following, I discovered him kneeling
at the side of Werner.
"Some one send for a doctor, quick," he commanded, taking charge of
things as a matter of course. "Hurry!" he repeated. "He's gasping for
air and it'll be too late in a minute."
Then he saw us. "Walter—Mackay"—he raised Werner's head—"push
everyone back, please! Give him a chance to breathe!"
A thousand thoughts flashed through my head as politely but firmly I
widened the space about Kennedy and the director. Was this a case of
suicide? Had Werner known we were coming for him? Had he thought to
bring about his own end in the most spectacular fashion possible? Was
this the fancy of a drug-weakened brain?
Suddenly I realized that Werner was trying to speak. One of the camera
men had helped Kennedy lift him to the top of a table, swept of its
dishes and linen, so as to make it easier for him to breathe.
"Out in Tarrytown," he muttered, weakly, "that night—I
suspected—and—saw—" His voice trailed off into nothingness. Even the
motion of his lips was too feeble to follow.
In an instant I grasped the cruel injustice I had done this man in my
mind. It was now that I remembered, in a flash, Kennedy's attitude and
was glad that Kennedy had not suspected him.
"See!" I faced Mackay, speaking in quick, low tones so the others could
not hear. "I—we—have been totally and absolutely wrong in suspecting
Werner. Instead, it was he who has been playing our game—trying to
confirm his own suspicions. I've been entirely wrong in my deductions
from the discovery of his dope and needles."
"What do you mean, Jameson?" The district attorney had been taken
completely off his feet by the unexpected developments. His eyes were
rather dazed, his expression baffled. "What do you mean?"
"Why he was out at Tarrytown that night, all right, don't you
see—but—but he was the second man, the man who watched!"
Mackay still seemed unable to comprehend.
"There were two men," I went on, excitedly; covering my own chagrin in
my impatience at the little district attorney. "The one your deputy
struggled with was short, rather than tall, and very strong. That's
Werner! Can't you see it? Haven't you noticed how stockily and
powerfully the director is built?"
"Werner must really have had some clue," murmured Mackay, dazed.
It left me wondering whether the stimulation of the dope might not have
heightened Werner's imagination and urged him on in following something
that our more sluggish minds had never even dreamed.
Meanwhile I saw that the doctor had arrived and that Kennedy had helped
carry Werner to a dressing room where first aid could be given more
conveniently. Now Kennedy hurried back into the studio, glancing
quickly this way and that, as though to catch signs of confusion or
guilt upon the faces of those about us.
I colored. Instead of making explanations to Mackay, explanations which
could have waited, I might have used what faculties of observation I
possessed to aid Kennedy while he was giving first consideration to the
life of a man. As it was, I didn't know what had become of any of the
various people upon our list of possible suspects. As far as I was
concerned, any or every sign and clue to the attack upon Werner might
have been removed or destroyed.
A sudden hush caused all of us to turn toward the door leading to the
dressing rooms. It was the physician. He raised a hand for attention.
His voice was low, but it carried to every corner of the studio:
"Mr. Werner is dead," he announced.
MERLE SHIRLEY OVERACTS
Appalled, I wondered who it was who had, to cover up one crime,
committed another? Who had struck down an innocent man to save a guilty
Kennedy hurried to the side of the physician and I followed.
"What symptoms did you observe?" asked Kennedy, quickly, seeking
confirmation of his own first impressions.
"His mouth seemed dry and I should say he suffered from a quick
prostration. There seemed to be a complete loss of power to swallow or
speak. The pupils were dilated as though from paralysis of the eyes.
Both pharynx and larynx were affected. There was respiration paralysis.
It seemed also as though the cranial nerves were partially paralyzed.
It was typically a condition due to some toxic substance which
paralyzed and depressed certain areas of the body."
Kennedy nodded. "That fits in with a theory I have."
I thought quickly, then inquired; "Could it be the snake venom again?"
"No," Kennedy replied, shaking his head; "there's a difference in the
symptoms and there is no mark on any exposed part of the body, as near
as I could see in a superficial examination."
He turned to the physician. "Could you give me blood smears and some of
the stomach contents, at once? Twice, now, some one has been stricken
down before the very eyes of the actors. This thing has gone too far to
trifle with or delay a moment."
The doctor hurried off toward the dressing room, anxious to help
Kennedy, and as excited, I thought, as any of us. Next Kennedy faced me.
"Did you watch the people at all, Walter?"
"I—I was too upset by the suddenness of it," I stammered.
All seemed to have suspicion of some one else, and there was a general
constraint, as though even the innocent feared to do or say something
that might look or sound incriminating.
I turned. All were now watching every move we made, though just yet
none ventured to follow us. It was as though they felt that to do so
was like crossing a dead line. I wondered which one of them might be
looking at us with inward trepidation—or perhaps satisfaction, if
there had been any chance to remove anything incriminating.
Kennedy strode over toward the ill-fated set, Mackay and I at his
heels. As we moved across the floor I noticed that everyone clustered
as close as he dared, afraid, seemingly, of any action which might
hinder the investigation, yet unwilling to miss any detail of Kennedy's
method. In contrast with the clamor and racket of less than a half hour
previously there was now a deathlike stillness beneath the arched
ground-glass roof. The heat was more oppressive than ever before. In
the faces and expressions of the awed witnesses of death's swift hand
there was horror, and a growing fear. No one spoke, except in whispers.
When anybody moved it was on tiptoe, cautiously. Millard's creation,
"The Black Terror," could have inspired no dread greater than this.
Of the people we wished to study, Phelps caught our eyes the first.
Dejected, crushed, utterly discouraged, he was slouched down in a chair
just at the edge of the supposed banquet hall. I had no doubt of the
nature of his thoughts. There was probably only the most perfunctory
sympathy for the stricken director. Without question his mind ran to
dollars. The dollar-angle to this tragedy was that the death of Werner
was simply another step in the wrecking of Manton Pictures. Kennedy, I
saw, hardly gave him a passing glance.
Manton we observed near the door. With the possible exception of
Millard he seemed about the least concerned. The two, scenario writer
and producer, had counterfeited the melodrama of life so often in their
productions that even the second sinister chapter in this film mystery
failed to penetrate their sang-froid. Inwardly they may have felt as
deeply as any of the rest, but both maintained their outward composure.
On Manton's shoulders was the responsibility for the picture. I could
see that he was nervous, irritable; yet, as various employees
approached for their instructions in this emergency he never lost his
grasp of affairs. In the vibrant quiet of this studio chamber, still
under the shadow of tragedy, we witnessed as cold-blooded a bit of
business generalship as has ever come to my knowledge. We overheard,
because Manton's voice carried across to us in the stillness.
"Kauf!" The name I remembered as that of the technical, or art,
director under Werner, responsible for the sets of "The Black Terror."
"Yes, Mr. Manton!" Kauf was a slim, stoop-shouldered man, gray, and a
dynamo of energy in a quiet, subservient way. He ran to Manton's side.
"Remember once telling me you wanted to become a director, that you
wanted to make pictures for me?"
"You are familiar with the script of 'The Black Terror,' aren't you?
You know the people and how they work and you have sets lined up. How
would you like to finish the direction?"
"But—but—" To the credit of the little man he dabbed at his eyes. I
guess he had been fond of his immediate superior. "Mr.—Mr. Werner is
d-dead—" he stammered.
"Of course!" Manton's voice rose slightly. "If Werner wasn't dead I
wouldn't need another director at a moment's notice. Some one has to
complete 'The Black Terror.' We have all these people on salary, and
all the studio expense, and the release date's settled, so that we
can't stop. It's your chance, Kauf! Do you want it?"
"Good! I'll double your salary, including all this week. Now can you
finish this banquet set to-night, while you have the people—"
"To-night!" Kauf's eyes went wide, then he started to flush.
"Well, to-morrow, then! We simply can't lay off a day, Kauf!"
"All—all right, sir!"
It seemed to me that everyone in the place sensed the horror of this.
Literally, actually, Werner's body could not be cold. Even the police,
the medical examiner, had not had sufficient time to make the trip out
for their investigation. Yet the director's successor had been
appointed and told to hurry the production.
I glanced at Phelps. He raised his head slowly, his expression lifting
at the thought that production was to continue without interruption. In
another moment, however, there was a change in his face. His eyes
sought Manton and hardened. His mouth tightened. Hate, a deep,
unreasoning hate, settled into his features.
Kennedy, pausing just long enough to observe the promoter's appointment
of Kauf to Werner's position, continued on toward the set. Now as I
looked about I saw that Jack Gordon was missing, as well as Marilyn
Loring. Presumably they had gone to their dressing rooms. All the other
actors and actresses were waiting, ill at ease, wondering at the
outcome of the tragedy.
Suddenly Kennedy stopped and I grasped that it was the peculiar actions
of Merle Shirley which had halted him.
The heavy man was the only one of the company actually in the
fabricated banquet hall itself. Clinging to him still were the grim
flowing robes of the Black Terror. As though he were some old-fashioned
tragedian, he was pacing up and down, hands behind his back, head
bowed, eyes on the floor. More, he was mumbling to himself. It was
evident, however, that it was neither a pose nor mental aberration.
Shirley was searching for something, out in the open, without attempt
at concealment, swearing softly at his lack of success.
Kennedy pushed forward. "Did you lose something, Mr. Shirley?"
"No!" The heavy man straightened. As he drew himself up in his sinister
garb I thought again of the cheap actors of a day when moving pictures
had yet to pre-empt the field of the lurid melodrama. It seemed to me
that Merle Shirley was overacting, that it was impossible for him to be
so wrought up over the slaying of a man who, after all, was only his
director, certainly not a close nor an intimate relationship.
"Mr. Kennedy," he stated, ponderously, "there has been a second death,
and at the hand which struck down Stella Lamar in Tarrytown. Somewhere
in this banquet hall interior there is a clue to the murderer. I have
kept a careful watch so that nothing might be disturbed."
"Do you suspect anyone?" Kennedy asked. Shirley glanced away and we
knew he was lying. "No, not definitely."
"Who has been in the set since I left with the doctor?"
"No one except myself, that is"—Shirley wanted to make it clear—"no
one has had any opportunity to hide or move or take or change a thing,
because I have been right here all the time."
"I see! Thanks, and"—Kennedy seemed genuinely apologetic—"if you
don't mind—I would prefer to make my investigation alone."
Shirley turned on his heel and made for his dressing room.
Meanwhile I had noticed a bit of by-play between Enid Faye and Lawrence
Millard, the only others of our possible suspects about. Enid first had
caught my eye because she seemed to be pleading with the writer, trying
to hold him. I gathered from the look of disgust on Millard's face that
he wanted to get Shirley out of the set before Kennedy should observe
the heavy man's odd reaction to the tragedy. While I had never seen
Millard and Shirley together, so as to establish in mind the state of
their feelings toward each other, this would seem to indicate that they
were friendly. Certainly Shirley was making a fool of himself. Enid
acted, I guessed, so as to prevent Millard's interference, probably
with the idea that Millard in some fashion might bring suspicion upon
himself. It struck me that Enid had a wholesome respect for Kennedy.
At any rate, Millard watched the little scene between Kennedy and
Shirley with a quizzical expression. As Shirley left he shrugged his
shoulders, then he gave Enid's cheeks a playful pinch each and started
out after the heavy man in leisurely fashion.
Just about the same moment Kennedy called me to his side.
"Walter," he pleaded, in a low voice, "will you hurry out to the
dressing room where the doctor and I took Werner and get the blood
smears and sample of the stomach contents? I don't want to leave this,
because we must work fast and get all the data we need before the
police arrive. With perhaps a hundred people to question they'll be apt
to make a fine mess of everything. This is an outlying precinct where
we'll draw the amateurs, you know."
I saw that Mackay was helping him and so I left cheerfully, making my
way as fast as I could toward the door through which both Shirley and
Millard had passed.
In the hallway of the building devoted to dressing rooms I found that I
did not know which one contained Werner's body. This corridor was
familiar. Here Kennedy and I had waited for Marilyn Loring and had
witnessed the scene between Shirley and herself. Now I did not even
remember the location of her room.
At last, on a chance, I tried a door softly. From within came whispered
voices of deep intensity. About to close it quickly, I realized
suddenly that I recognized the speakers in spite of the whispers. It
was Marilyn and Shirley. They were together. Now I recollected the
figured chintz which covered the wall and was to be seen through the
crack made by the open door. It was her room. They had not heard my
hand on the knob, nor the catch, did not know that anyone could
"You see!" Her tones were the more vibrant "You waited!"
"I had to!"
"No! I advised you to act at once."
"I couldn't! I can't even now!"
"All right!" Her tone became bitter. "Go ahead, your own way. But you
must count the cost. You may lose me again, Merle Shirley."
"How do you mean?"
Her answer, in the faintest of whispers, staggered me.
"If you have the blood of another man on your hands I'm through."
Though my hands trembled so that I could hardly control them, I managed
to close the door softly and to back away down the hall without being
discovered. My head was spinning and I was dizzy. With my own ears I
had heard Marilyn Loring virtually betray the guilt of the man she
loved and whom therefore she had tried to shield. "If you have the
blood of another man on your hands—" What more could Kennedy want?
I started to run toward the studio. Then recollection of my errand
stopped me. Kennedy wished the blood smears and stomach contents and
was anxious to get them before the arrival of the police. At first I
thought that all such evidence would be unnecessary now, after the
dialogue I had overheard, but it struck me as an afterthought that it
might be necessary still to prove Shirley's guilt to the satisfaction
of a court and jury, and so I rushed to the next dressing room and to
another, until I located the doctor and the body of the dead man.
With the little package for Kennedy safely in my pocket I hurried out
again into the sweltering heat beneath the glass of the big studio, and
to the side of Kennedy and Mackay in the banquet-hall set.
"You have a sample of each article of food now?" he was asking the
district attorney. "You are sure you have missed nothing?"
"As far as possible I took my samples from the table where Werner sat,"
Mackay explained. "When the prop. boy gets here with an empty bottle
and cork I'll have a sample of the wine. I think it's the wine," he
Kennedy turned to me. "You've got—"
"In my pocket!" I interrupted. Then, rather breathlessly, I repeated
the conversation I had overheard.
"Good Lord!" Mackay flushed. "There it is! Shirley's the man, and I'll
take him now, quick, without waiting for a warrant."
"See!" I ejaculated, to Kennedy. "He killed Stella because she made a
fool of him and then, when Werner discovered that and followed him to
Tarrytown the other night, it probably put him in a panic of fear, and
so, to keep Werner from talking—"
"Easy, Walter! Not so fast! What you overheard is insufficient ground
for Shirley's conviction, unless you could make him confess, and I
doubt you could make him do that."
"Why?" This was Mackay.
"Because I don't think he's guilty. At least"—Kennedy, as always, was
cautious in his statements, "not so far as anything we now know would
"But his anger at Stella," I protested, "and Marilyn's remark—"'
"Miss Lamar's death was the result of a cool, unfeeling plan, not pique
or anger. The same cruel, careful brain executed this second crime."
Mackay, I saw, was three-quarters convinced by Kennedy. "How do you
account for the dialogue Jameson overheard?" he asked.
"Miss Loring told us that Shirley suspected some one and was watching,
and would not tell her or anyone else who it was. It seems most likely
to me that it is the truth, Mackay. In that case her remark means that
she believes his silence in a way is responsible for Werner's death."
"Oh! If Shirley had taken you into his confidence, for instance—?"
"I might possibly have succeeded in gaining sufficient evidence for an
arrest, thus averting this tragedy. But it is only a theory of mine."
I scowled. It seemed to me that Kennedy was minimizing things in a way
unusual for him. I wondered if he really thought the heavy man innocent.
"It's still my belief that Shirley is guilty," I asserted.
A sound of confusion from the courtyard beneath the heavy studio
windows caught Kennedy's ear and ended the colloquy. From some of those
near enough to look out we received the explanation. The police had
arrived, fully three-quarters of an hour after Werner's death.
"I'll get the little bottle of wine, sure," Mackay murmured, picking up
the food samples he had wrapped and crowding the bulky package into a
"I don't see why that would have been any easier to poison than the
food," was my objection. "Everyone was looking."
"Very simple. The food was brought in quite late. Besides, it was
dished out by the caterer before the eyes of forty or fifty people or
more and there was no telling which plate would go to Werner's place.
The drinks were poured last of all. I remember seeing the bubbles rise
and wondering whether they would register at the distance."
Kennedy did not look at me. "Did it ever occur to you," he went on,
casually, "that the glasses were all set out empty at the various
places long before, and that there might easily have been a few drops
of something, if it were colorless, placed in the bottom of Werner's
glass, with scarcely a chance of its being discovered, especially by a
man who had so much on his mind at the time as Werner had? He must have
indicated where he would sit when he arranged the camera stands and the
location of the tables."
I had not thought of that.
Kennedy frowned. "If only I could have located more of that broken
glass!" As he faced me I could read his disappointment. "Walter, I've
made a most careful search of his chair and the table and everything
about the space where he dropped. The poison must have been in the
wine, but there's not a tiny sliver of that glass left, nothing but a
thousand bits ground into the canvas, too small to hold even a drop of
the liquid. Just think, a dried stain of the wine, no matter how tiny,
might have served me in a chemical analysis."
Very suddenly there was a low exclamation from Mackay. "Look! Quick!
Some one must have kicked it way over here!"
Fully twenty feet from Werner's place in the glare of the lights was
the hollow stem of a champagne glass, its base intact save for a narrow
segment. In the stem still were a couple of drops of the wine, as if in
a bulb or tube.
"Can it be the director's glass?" Mackay asked, handing it to Kennedy.
Kennedy slipped it into his pocket, fussing with his handkerchief so
that the precious contents would not drip out. "I think so. I doubt
whether any other glass was broken. Verify it quickly."
The police were entering now with Manton. Following them was the
physician. Mackay and I ascertained readily that no other glass had
been shattered, while Kennedy searched the floor for possible signs
that the stem was part of a glass broken where we had found it.
Unquestionably we had a sample of the actual wine quaffed by the
unfortunate Werner. Elated we strolled to a corner so as to give the
police full charge.
"They'll waste time questioning everyone," Kennedy remarked. "I have
the real evidence." He tapped his pocket.
The few moments that he had had to himself had been ample for him to
obtain such evidence as was destroyed in so many cases by the time he
was called upon the scene.
A point occurred to me. "You don't think the poison was planted later
during the excitement?"
"Hardly! Our criminal is too clever to take a long chance. In such a
case we would know it was some one near Werner and also there would be
too many people watching. Foolhardiness is not boldness."
I took to observing the methods of the police, which were highly
efficient, but only in the minuteness of the examination of witnesses
and in the care with which they recorded names and facts and made sure
that no one had slipped away to avoid the notoriety.
The actors and actresses who had stood rather in awe of Kennedy, both
here and in Kennedy's investigation at Tarrytown, developed nimble
tongues in their answers to the city detectives. The result was a
perfect maze of conflicting versions of Werner's cry and fall. In fact,
one scene shifter insisted that Shirley, as the Black Terror, had
reached Werner's side and had struck him before the cry, while an extra
girl with a faint lisp described with sobering accuracy the flight of a
mysterious missile through the air. I realized then why Kennedy had
made no effort to question them. Under the excitement of the scene, the
glamour of the lights, the sense of illusion, and the stifling heat, it
would have been strange for any of the people to have retained correct
impressions of the event.
The police sergeant knew Kennedy by reputation and approached him after
a visit to the dead man's body with the doctor. His glance, including
Mackay and myself, was frankly triumphant.
"Well," he exclaimed, "I don't suppose it occurred to any of you
SCIENTIFIC guys to search the fellow, now did it?"
Kennedy smiled, in good humor. "Searching a man isn't always the
scientific method. You won't find the word 'frisk' in any scientific
"No?" The police officer's eyes twinkled. There was enough of the Irish
in him to enjoy an encounter of this kind. "Maybe not, but you might
find things in a chap's pocket which is better." With a flourish he
produced a hypodermic syringe, the duplicate of the one I had
appropriated, and a tiny bottle. "The man's a dope," he added.
"I knew that," replied Kennedy. "I examined his arm, where he usually
took his shots, and found no fresh mark of the needle."
"That doesn't prove anything. Wait until the medical examiner gets
here. He'll find the fellow's heart all shot full of hop, or something.
I guess it isn't so complicated, after all. He was a hop fiend, all
"Still, there's nothing to indicate that he was a suicide."
"Not suicide; accident-overdose," was the sergeant's reply.
"How could he have died from an overdose of the drug, when he hasn't
taken any recently?"
"Well"—unabashed—"then he croaked because he hadn't had a shot—the
same thing. Heart failure, either way. Excited, and all, you know,
making the scene. Maybe he forgot to use the needle at that."
"Perhaps you're right." Kennedy shrugged calmly. What was the use of
disputing the matter?
I started to protest against the detective's hypothesis. The idea of
any drug addict ever forgetting to take his stimulant was too
preposterous. But Kennedy checked me. All were now keenly listening to
the argument. Better, perhaps, to let some one think that nothing was
suspected than to disclose the cards in Craig's hand. I saw that he
wished to get away and had not spoken seriously. He turned to Mackay.
"Walter and I will have to hurry to the laboratory. Would you like to
"You bet I would!" The district attorney showed his delight. "I was
just going to ask if I might do so. There's nothing for me in Tarrytown
to-day and this is out of my jurisdiction."
As we turned away the police sergeant saw us and called across the
floor, not quite concealing a touch of professional jealousy.
"The three of you were here at the time, weren't you?"
"No," Kennedy answered. "Mr. Jameson and myself."
"Well, you two, then! You're witnesses and I'll ask you to hold
yourself in readiness to appear at the hearing."
I thought that the policeman was particularly delighted at his position
to issue orders to Kennedy, and I was angered. Again Craig held me in
"We'll be glad to tell anything we know," he replied, then added a
little fling, a bit of sarcasm which almost went over the other's head.
"That is," he amended, "as eye-witnesses!"
Mackay drove us to the laboratory in his little car and it was dark and
we were dinnerless when we arrived. Knowing Kennedy's habits, I sent
out for sandwiches and started in to make strong coffee upon an
electric percolator. The aroma tingled in my nostrils, reminding me
that I was genuinely hungry. The district attorney, too, seemed more or
less similarly disposed.
As for Kennedy, he was interested in nothing but the problem before
him. He had been strangely quiet on the way, growing more and more
impatient and nervous, as though the element of time had entered into
the case, as though haste were suddenly imperative. Once the lights
were on in the laboratory he hurried about his various preparations.
The food samples he laid out, but he gave them no attention. The blood
smears and stomach contents he put aside for future reference. His
attack was upon the drop or two of liquid adhering to the stem of the
broken champagne glass.
The entire chemical procedure seemed to be incomprehensible to Mackay
and he was fascinated, so that he had considerable trouble at times
keeping out of the way of Kennedy's elbow. Kennedy first washed the
stem out carefully with a few drops of distilled water, then he studied
the resulting solution. One after another he tried the things that
occurred to him, making tests wholly unproductive of results. Slowly
the laboratory table became littered completely with chemicals and
apparatus of all sorts, a veritable arsenal of glass.
The sandwiches arrived, but Kennedy refused to drop his investigation
for a moment. I did succeed in making him take a cup of strong coffee,
and that was all. Over in a corner Mackay and I did full justice to the
food, finishing the hot and welcome coffee and then refilling the
percolator and starting it on the making of a second brew. The hours
lengthened, and when Mackay grew tired of watching with intense
admiration he joined me in the patient consumption of innumerable
Kennedy was filled with the joy of discovery. I noticed that he did not
stop even for the solace of tobacco. It seemed to me that at times his
nostrils dilated exactly like those of a hound on the scent. Finally he
held up a test tube and turned to us.
"What is it?" I asked. "Some other poison as rare and little known as
the snake venom?"
"No—something much more curious. In the stem of the glass I find the
toxin of the Bacillus botulinus."
"Germs?" Mackay inquired.
Kennedy shook his head. "Not germs, but the pure toxin, the poison
secreted by this bacillus."
"What does it do?" was my question.
"Well," thoughtfully, "botulism may be ranked easily among the most
serious diseases known to medical science. It is hard to understand why
it is not a great deal more common. It is one of the most dangerous
kinds of food poisoning."
"Then the apple juice they used for the wine was bad, spoiled?"
"No, not that. Werner was the only one stricken. Somebody put the pure
toxin in his glass. It was, as I suspected, deliberate murder, as in
the case of Miss Lamar. Bacillus botulinus produces a toxin that is
extremely virulent. Hardly more than a ten-thousandth of a cubic
centimeter would kill a guinea pig. This was botulin itself, the pure
toxin, an alkaloid just like that which is formed in meat and other
food products in cases of botulism. The idea might also have been to
make the death seem natural—due solely to bad food."
"Do you suppose it was used because it was quick and was colorless, so
as not to be noticed in the glass?" I hazarded.
Kennedy paced up and down the laboratory several times in thought. "To
me, Walter, this is another indication of the satanic cleverness of the
unknown criminal in the case. First Miss Lamar is to be killed. For
that purpose something was sought, probably, which could not be traced
easily to the perpetrator. In snake venom an agent was employed which
may be said to be almost ideal for the grim business of murder. It is
extremely difficult to identify in its results, it is comparatively
unknown, yet it is swift in action and to be obtained with fair ease.
"Differing from most poisons, it may be inflicted through a prick so
slight as to be almost unnoticed by the victim. The scheme of fixing
the needle in the curtain was so simple and yet so effective that the
guilty person need never have feared its discovery under ordinary
circumstances, or its association with the girl's death, if some one
stumbled upon it accidentally. The idea of returning for the
death-dealing point was only one of the many details of a precautionary
measure upon which we have stumbled. Had I found it the next morning I
would have been unable, in all probability, to identify it as belonging
to or as obtained by any of our suspects.
"You must realize, Walter, that with all the scientific aids I have
been able to bring to bear we possess almost no direct evidence. There
are no fingerprints, no cigarette stubs, no array of personal, intimate
clues of any sort to this criminal. These are the threads which lead
the detective to his quarry in fiction and on the stage. Here we lack
even the faintest description of the man, or woman if that is her sex.
It is murder from a distance, planned with almost meticulous care,
executed coolly and without feeling or scruple.
"After the death of Miss Lamar I was not so sure but that the selection
of the snake venom was simply the inspiration of a perverted brain, the
evolution of the detailed method of killing her—an outgrowth of
someone's familiarity with studio life in general, with the script of
'The Black Terror' in particular. Now I realize that we are face to
face with the studied handiwork of a skilled criminal. These two deaths
may be his—or her—first departure into the realm of crime. But
potentially we have a super-villain.
"I make that statement because of the manner of Werner's demise. It is
evident that the director stumbled on a clue to the murderer. If my
first hypothesis had been correct, if the use of snake venom and the
unlucky thirteenth scene had been largely a matter of blind chance in
the selection of poison and method, then we might have expected Werner
to be struck down in some dark street, or perhaps decoyed to his
death—at the best, inoculated with the same crotalin which had killed
"But let us analyze the method used in slaying the director. If he had
been blackjacked there would be the clue of the weapon, always likely
to turn up, the chance of witnesses, and also the likelihood in an
extreme case that Werner might not die at once, but might talk and give
a description of his assailant, or even survive. Much the same
objections—from the criminal's standpoint—obtain in nearly all the
accepted modes of killing a man. Even the use of venom a second time
possesses the disadvantage of a certain alertness against the very
thing on the part of the victim. Werner was a dope fiend, fully aware
of the potency of a tiny skin puncture. I'll wager he was on constant
guard against any sort of scratch.
"On the other hand, the few drops of toxin in the glass possessed every
advantage from the unknown's standpoint. It was invisible, and as sure
in its action as the venom. Also it was as rare and as difficult to
trace. For, remember this. Botulism is food poisoning. If I had not
found the stem of that glass it would be absolutely impossible to show
that Werner died from anything on earth but bad food. That is why I do
not even take time to analyze the stomach contents. That is why I say
we are confronted by an archscoundrel of highest intelligence and
downright cleverness. More"—Kennedy paused for emphasis—"I realize
now the presence of a grim, invisible menace. It has just now been
driven home to me. The botulin, with its deadly paralyzing power,
sealed Werner's tongue even while he tried to tell me what he knew."
Mackay was tremendously impressed by Kennedy's explanation. "Does this
mean," he asked, "that the guilty man or woman is some outsider? Those
we have figured as possible suspects would hardly have this detailed
knowledge of poisons."
"There are two possibilities," Kennedy answered. "The real person
behind the two murders may have employed some one else to carry out the
actual killing, a hypothesis I do not take seriously, or"—again he
paused—"this may be a case of some one with intelligence starting out
upon his career of crime intelligently by reading up on his subject. It
is as simple to learn how to use crotalin or botulin toxin or any
number of hundreds of deadly substances as it is to obtain the majority
of them. In fact, if people generally understood the ease with which
whole communities could be wiped out, and grasped that it could be done
so as to leave virtually no clue to the author of the horror, they
might not sleep as soundly at night as they do. The saving grace is
that the average criminal is often clever, but almost never truly
scientific. Unfortunately, we have to combat one who possesses the
latter quality to a high degree."
"What is the invisible menace of which you spoke, Craig?" I inquired.
"The possibility of another murder before we can apprehend the guilty
person or gain the evidence we need."
"Good heavens!" I imagine I blanched. "You mean—"
"Werner was struck down, apparently, for no reason but that he had
guessed the identity of the villain. There is a second man in the
company who has certain suspicions and is acting upon them. If he is on
the right trail, by any chance—" Kennedy shrugged his shoulders
"Exactly! And there is still another possibility."
"What is that?"
"Here in this laboratory I have blood spots made on the portieres at
the house of Phelps by the man who removed the needle, probably the
unknown himself, possibly his—or her—agent. In any case it is a clue
and—THE ONLY DIRECT AND INFALLIBLE CLUE IN EXISTENCE TO THE CRIMINAL!
Also I have the evidence of the snake venom and of the botulin toxin
here. Sooner or later the person who killed Werner because he suspected
things will wake up to the fact that we possess tangible proof against
I grew pale. "You mean, then, that you may be attacked yourself? That
Kennedy smiled, unafraid. But from the expression in his eyes I knew
that he took the thought of our possible danger very seriously.
THE INVISIBLE MENACE
Mackay and I exchanged glances. Kennedy busied himself putting away
some of the more important bits of evidence in the case, placing the
tiny tubes of solution, the blood smears, and other items together in a
cabinet at the farther corner of the laboratory. The vast bulk of his
paraphernalia, the array of glass and chemicals and instruments, he
left on the table for the morning. Then he faced us again, with a smile.
"Suppose you start up the percolator once more, Walter!" He took a
cigar and lighted it from the match I struck. "I believe I've earned
another cup of coffee," he added.
Mackay had been fidgeting considerably since Kennedy's explanation of
the possible danger to Shirley, as well as to ourselves or even to
"Isn't there something we can do, Kennedy?" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Is
it necessary to sit back and wait for this unknown to strike again?"
"Ordinarily," Kennedy replied, "on a case like this it has been my
custom to permit the guilty parties to betray themselves, as they will
do inevitably—especially when I call to my aid the recent discoveries
of science for the detection and measurement of fine and almost
imperceptible shades of emotion. But now that I realize the presence of
this menace I shall become a detective of action; in fact, I shall not
stop at any course to hurry matters. The very first thing in the
morning I shall go to the studio and I want you and Jameson along.
I"—his eyes twinkled; it was the excitement at the prospect—"I may
need considerable help in getting the evidence I wish."
"Which is—?" It was I who interposed the question.
Kennedy blew a cloud of smoke. "There are three ways of tracing down a
crime, aside from the police method of stool pigeons to betray the
criminals and the detective bureau method of cross-examination under
pressure, popularly known as the third degree."
"What are they?" Mackay asked, unaware that Kennedy needed little
prompting once he felt inclined to talk out some matter puzzling him.
"One is the process of reasoning from the possible suspects to the act
itself—in other words, putting the emphasis on the motive. A second is
the reverse of the first, involving a study of the crime for clues and
making deductions from the inevitable earmarks of the person for the
purpose of discovering his identity. The third method, except for some
investigations across the water, is distinctly my own, the scientific.
"In all sciences," Kennedy went on, warming to his subject, "progress
is made by a careful tabulation of proved facts. The scientific method
is the method of exact knowledge. Thus, in crime, those things are of
value to us which by an infinite series of empiric observations have
been established and have become incontrovertible. The familiar
example, of course, is fingerprints. Nearly everyone knows that no two
men have the same markings; that the same man displays a pattern which
is unchanging from birth to the grave.
"No less certain is the fact that human blood differs from the blood of
animals, that in faint variations the blood of no two people is alike,
that the blood of any living thing, man or beast, is affected by
various things—an infinite number almost—most of which are positively
known to modern medical investigators.
"In this case my principal scientific clue is the blood left upon the
portiere by the man who took the needle the night following the murder.
Next in importance is the fact, demonstrated by me, that some one at
the studio wiped a hypodermic on a towel after inoculating himself with
antivenin. Of course I am presuming that this latter man inoculated
himself and not some one else, because it is obvious. If necessary I
can prove it later, however, by analyzing the trace of blood. That is
not the point. The point is that whoever removed the needle pricked
himself and yet did not die of the venom—unless it was a person not
under our observation, an unlikely premise. Therefore, because of this
last fact, and because again it is obvious, I expect to find that the
same individual inoculated himself with antivenin and removed the
needle from the portiere; and I expect to prove it beyond possibility
of doubt by an analysis of his blood. A sample of the blood from this
person will be identical with the spot on the portiere, and—much the
easier test—will contain traces of the antitoxin.
"With that much accomplished, a little of the, well—third degree, will
bring about a confession. It is circumstantial evidence of the
strongest sort. Not only does a man take precautions against a given
poison, but he is proved to be the one who removed the needle actually
responsible for Miss Lamar's death.
"My handicap, however, is that I have no justifiable excuse for taking
a sample of blood from each of the people we suspect, or feel we might
suspect. For that reason I was waiting until one of the other detective
methods should narrow the field of suspicion. Now that there is the
menace of another attempt to take a life I am forced to act. To-morrow
we will get samples of blood from everyone by artifice—or force!
"Meanwhile—" He hastened to continue, as though afraid we might
interrupt to break his train of thought. "Meanwhile, to-night, let us
see if it is possible to accomplish something by the deductive method.
"Already I have gone into an analysis starting from the nature of the
crime and reasoning to the type of criminal responsible. The guilty
man—or woman—is a person of high intelligence, added to genuine
cleverness. But for the results accomplished in this laboratory we
would be without a clue; our hands would be tied completely. Both Miss
Lamar and Werner were killed by unusual poisons; deadly, and almost
impossible to trace. There was a crowd of people about in each case;
yet we have no witnesses. Now who, out of all our people with possible
motives, are intelligent enough and clever enough to be guilty?"
Kennedy glanced first at me, then at Mackay.
"Manton? Phelps?" suggested the district attorney.
"The promoter," Kennedy rejoined, "is the typical man of the business
world beneath the eccentricity of manner which seems to cling to
everyone in the picture field. Ordinarily his type, thinking in
millions of dollars and juggling nickel and dime admissions or other
routine of commercial detail is apart from the finer subtle passions of
life. When a business man commits murder he generally uses a pistol
because he is sure it is efficient—he can see it work. The same
applies to Phelps."
"Millard?" Mackay hesitated now to face the logic of Kennedy's keen
mind. "He was Stella Lamar's husband!"
"Millard is a scenario writer and so apt to have a brain cluttered with
all sorts of detail of crime and murder. At the same time an author is
so used to counterfeiting emotion in his writings that he seldom takes
things seriously. Life becomes a joke and Millard in particular is a
butterfly, concerned more with the smiles of extra girls and the favor
of Miss Faye than the fate of the woman whose divorce from him was not
yet complete. A writer is the other extreme from the business man. The
creator of stories is essentially inefficient because he tries to feel
rather than reason. When an author commits murder he sets a stage for
his own benefit. He is careful to avoid witnesses because they are
inconvenient to dispose of. At the same time he wants the victim to
understand thoroughly what is going to happen and so he is apt to
accompany his crime with a speech worded very carefully indeed. Then he
may start with an attempt to throttle a person and end up with a
hatchet, or he may plan to use a razor and at the end brain his quarry
with a chair. He lives too many lives to follow one through
"How about Shirley?" I put in.
"At first glance Shirley and Gordon suggest themselves because both
murders were highly spectacular, and the actor, above everything else,
enjoys a big scene. After Werner's death, for instance, Shirley
literally strutted up and down in that set. He was so full of the
situation, so carried away by the drama of the occasion, that he failed
utterly to realize how suspicious his conduct would seem to an
observer. Unfortunately for our hypotheses, the use of venom and toxin
is too cold-bloodedly efficient. The theatrical temperament must have
emotion. An actor cruel and vicious enough to strike down two people as
Miss Lamar and Werner were stricken, of sufficient dramatic make-up to
conceive of the manner of their deaths, would want to see them writhe
and suffer. He would select poisons equally rare and effective, but
those more slow and painful in their operation. No, Walter, Shirley is
not indicated by this method of reasoning. The arrangement of the
scenes for the murders was simply another detail of efficiency, not due
to a wish to be spectacular. The crowd about in each case has added
greatly to the difficulty of investigation."
"Do you include Gordon in that?" Mackay asked.
"Yes, and in addition"—Kennedy smiled slightly—"I believe that Gordon
is rather stupid. For one thing, he has had several fights in public,
at the Goats Club and at the Midnight Fads and I suppose elsewhere.
That is not the clever rogue. Furthermore, he had been speculating, not
just now and then, but desperately, doggedly. Clever men speculate, but
scientific men never. Our unknown criminal is both clever and
"That brings you to the girls, then," Mackay remarked.
Kennedy's face clouded and I could see that he was troubled. "To be
honest in this one particular method of deduction," he stated, "I must
admit that both Miss Faye and Miss Loring are worthy of suspicion. The
fact of their rise in the film world, the evidences of their
popularity, is proof that they are clever. Miss Loring, in my few brief
moments of contact with her on two occasions, showed a grasp of things
and a quickness which indicate to me that she possesses a rare order of
intelligence for a woman. As for Miss Faye"—again he hesitated—"one
little act of hers demonstrated intelligence. When Shirley was standing
guard in the set after Werner's death, and making a fool of himself,
Millard evidently wanted to get over and speak to him, perhaps to tell
him not to let me find him searching the scene as though his life
depended upon it, perhaps something else. But Miss Faye stopped him.
Unquestionably she saw that anyone taking an interest in the remains of
the banquet just then would become an object of suspicion."
"Do you really suspect Marilyn or Enid?" I inquired.
"If this were half a generation ago I would say without hesitation that
the crime was the handiwork of a man. But now the women are in
everything. Young girls particularly—" He shrugged his shoulders.
Mackay had one more suggestion. "The camera men, the extras, the
technical and studio staffs—they are not worthy of consideration, are
Kennedy shook his head.
The odor of coffee struck my nostrils and I turned to find the
percolator steaming. Kennedy leaned over, to take a whiff. Mackay rose.
At that moment there was a sudden crash and the window-pane was
shattered. Simultaneously a flash of light and a deafening explosion
took place in the room, scattering broadcast tiny bits of glass from
the laboratory table, splashing chemicals, many of them dangerous, over
Kennedy hurried to the wreck of his paraphernalia. In an instant he
held up a tiny bit of jagged metal.
"An explosive bullet!" he exclaimed. "An attempt to destroy my
For once I rose with Kennedy. He preceded me to the laboratory after
breakfast, however, leaving me to wait for Mackay. When the little
district attorney arrived I noticed that he carried a package which
looked as though it might contain a one-reel film can.
"The negative we took from the cameras at Tarrytown," he explained.
"Also a print from each roll, ready to run. I've been holding this as
evidence. Mr. Kennedy wanted me to bring it with me to-day."
"He's waiting for us at the laboratory," I remarked.
"He'll straighten everything up in a hurry, won't he?"
"Kennedy's the most high-handed individual I ever knew," I laughed, "if
he sees a chance of getting his man." Then I became enthusiastic.
"Often I've seen him gather a group of people in a room, perhaps
without the faintest shred of legal right to do so, and there make the
guilty person confess simply by marshaling the evidence, or maybe
betray himself by some scientific device. It's wonderful, Mackay."
"Do you think he plans something of that kind this morning?"
I led the way to the door. "After what happened last night I know that
Kennedy will resort to almost anything."
The district attorney fingered the package under his arm. "He might get
everyone in the projection room then, and make them watch the actual
photographic record of Stella's death—the scene where she scratched
"Let's hurry!" I interrupted.
When we entered the laboratory we found Kennedy vigorously fanning a
towel which he had hung up to dry. I recognized it as the one I had
discovered in the studio washroom immediately following the first
"This will serve me better as bait than as evidence," he laughed. "I
have impregnated it with a colorless chemical which will cling to the
fibers and enable me to identify the most infinitesimal trace of it. We
shall get up to the studio and start, well—I guess you could call it
fishing for the guilty man." He fingered the folds, then jerked the
towel down and flung it to me. "Here, Walter! It's dry enough. Now I
want you to rub the contents of that tiny can of grease, open before
you there, into the cloth."
He hurried over to wash his hands. I spread the towel out on the table
and began to work in the stuff indicated by Kennedy. There was no odor
and it seemed like some patent ointment in color. At first I was
puzzled. Then, absently, I touched the back of one hand with the greasy
fingers of the other and immediately an itching set up so annoying that
I had to abandon my task.
Kennedy chuckled. "That's itching salve, Walter. The cuticle pads at
your finger tips are too thick, but touch yourself anywhere else!—" He
shrugged his shoulders. "You'd better use soap and water if you want
any relief. Then you can start over again."
At the basin I thought I grasped his little plot.
"You're going to plant the towel," I asked, "so that the interested
party will try to get hold of it?"
Evidently he thought it unnecessary to reply to me.
"Why couldn't you just put it somewhere without all the preparation,"
Mackay suggested, "and watch to see who came after it?"
"Because our criminal's too clever," Kennedy rejoined. "Our only chance
to get it stolen is to make it very plain that it is not being watched.
Whoever steals it, however, possibly will reveal himself on account of
the itching salve. In any case I expect to be able to trace the towel
to the thief, no matter what efforts are made to destroy it."
The towel was wrapped in a heavy bit of paper; then placed with a
microscope and some other paraphernalia in a small battered traveling
bag. Climbing into Mackay's little roadster, we soon were speeding
toward the studio.
"Will you be able to help me, to stay with Jameson and myself all day?"
Kennedy asked the district attorney, after perhaps a mile of silence.
"Surely! It's what I was hoping you'd allow me to do. I have no
authority down here, though."
"I understand. But the police, or an outsider, might allow some of my
plans to become known." He paused a moment in thought. "The film you
brought in with you consists of the scenes on the rolls of negative in
use at the time of Miss Lamar's collapse. It may or may not include the
action where she scratched herself. Now I want the scenes up to
thirteen put together in proper order, first as photographed by one
camera, then as caught by the other. I'll arrange for the services of a
cutter, and for the delivery to me of any other negative or positive
overlooked by us when we had the two boxes sealed and given into your
custody at Tarrytown. Will you superintend the assembly of the scenes,
so that you can be sure nothing is taken out or omitted?"
"Of course! I want to do anything I can."
Upon arrival at the studio we detected this time all the signs of a
complete demoralization. The death of Werner, the fact that he had been
stricken down during the taking of a scene and on the very stage, had
served to bring the tragedy home to the people. More, it was a second
murder in four days, apparently by the same hand as the first. A sense
of dread, a nameless, intangible fear, had taken form and found its way
under the big blackened glass roofs and around and through the
corridors, into the dressing rooms, and back even to the manufacturing
and purely technical departments. The gateman eyed us with undisguised
uneasiness as we drove through the archway into the yard. In that
inclosure there were only two cars—Manton's, and one we later learned
belonged to Phelps. The sole human being to enter our range of vision
was an office boy. He skirted the side of the building as though the
menace of death were in the air, or likely to strike out of the very
heavens without warning.
We found Kauf in the large studio, obviously unhappy in the shoes of
the unfortunate Werner. Probably from half-reasoned-out motives of
efficiency in psychology the new director had made no attempt to resume
work at once in the ill-fated banquet set, but had turned to the
companion ballroom setting, since both had been prepared and made ready
at the same time.
Kennedy explained our presence so early in the morning very neatly, I
"I would appreciate it," he began, "if you could place a cutter at the
disposal of Mr. Mackay. He has the scenes taken from the camera and
sealed at the time of Miss Lamar's death. I would like to have any
other film taken out there delivered to him and the whole joined in
proper sequence. Then, Mr. Kauf, if you could arrange to have the same
cutter take the film exposed yesterday when Mr. Werner—"
"You think you might be able to see something, to discover something on
Kauf beamed. "Mr. Manton gave me orders to assist you in every way I
could, or to put any of my people at your disposal. More than that, Mr.
Kennedy, he anticipated you. He thought you might want to look at the
scenes taken yesterday and he rushed the laboratory and the printing
room. We'll be able to fix you up very quickly."
"Good!" Kennedy nodded to Mackay and the district attorney hurried off
with Kauf. "Now, Walter!" he exclaimed, sobering.
I picked up the traveling bag and together we strolled toward the
ballroom set. There most of the players were gathered already—in
make-up and evening clothes of a fancier sort even than those demanded
for the banquet. I saw that Kennedy singled out Marilyn.
"Good morning," she said, cheerfully, but with effort. It was obvious
she had spent a nervous night. There were circles under her eyes ill
concealed by the small quantity of cosmetic she used. Her hands,
shifting constantly, displayed the loss of her usual poise. "You are
out bright and early," she added.
"We've stumbled into a very important clue," Kennedy told her, with a
show of giving her his confidence. "In that bag in Walter's hand is one
of the studio towels. It contains a hint of the poison used to kill
Miss Lamar and—of utmost consequence—it has provided me with an
infallible clue to the identity of the murderer himself—or herself."
It seemed to me that Marilyn blanched. "Where—where did you find it?"
she demanded, in a very awed voice.
"In one of the studio washrooms."
"It has been—it has been in the washroom ever since poor Stella's
"No, not that! Jameson discovered it the same day but"—the very slight
pause was perceptible to me; Kennedy hated to lie—"I haven't realized
its importance until just this morning."
Enid Faye, seeing us from a distance, conquered her dislike of Marilyn
sufficiently to join us. She was very erect and tense. Her eyes, wide
and sober and searching, traveled from my face to Kennedy's and back.
Then she dissembled, softening as she came close to me, laying a hand
on my shoulder and allowing her skirt to brush my trousers.
"Tell me, Jamie," she whispered, her warm breath thrilling me through
and through. "Has the wonderful Craig Kennedy discovered something?" It
was not sarcasm, but assumed playfulness, masking a throbbing curiosity.
"I found a towel in one of the studio washrooms," I answered, "and
Craig has demonstrated that it is a clue to the poison which killed
Stella Lamar as well as to the person who did it."
Enid gasped. Then she drew herself up and her eyes narrowed. Now she
"How can the towel be a clue to the crime?" she protested. "Stella
was—was murdered way out in Tarrytown! Mr. Jameson found the towel
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot tell you that—just yet." He
paused deliberately. "You see," he lied. "I have yet to make my
"But you know it's a clue to the—"
"That towel"—he raised his voice, as though in elation—"that towel
will lead me to the murderer—infallibly!"
Merle Shirley had come up in time to hear most of the colloquy between
Enid and Kennedy. At the last he flushed, clenching his fists.
"If you can prove who the murderer is, Mr. Kennedy," he exploded, "why
don't you apprehend him before some one else meets the fate of Werner?"
"I can do nothing until I return to my laboratory this afternoon. I
will not know the identity of the guilty person until I complete a
One by one the various people possibly concerned in the two crimes
joined the group. This morning all the faces were serious; most of them
showed the marks of sleeplessness following the second murder. Kennedy
walked away, but I saw that Jack Gordon hastened to question both the
girls, ignoring their evident dislike for him. Among the others I
recognized Watkins, the camera man, and his associate. Lawrence Millard
came in and hastened to the side of Enid. As he drew her away to ask
the cause of the gathering I wondered at his early presence. The
scenario writer was typical of them all. The strange and unusual nature
of the crimes, the evident relationship between them, had drawn the
employees of Manton Pictures to the studio as a crowd of baseball fans
collects before a public bulletin board. Not one of them but was afraid
of missing some development in the case. In no instance could the
interest of a particular individual be taken as an indication of guilt.
Phelps entered the studio from the door to the dressing rooms.
Disdaining to join the other group, he approached us to ask the cause
for the excitement. Kennedy explained, patiently, and I saw that Phelps
looked at the black bag uneasily.
"I hope the guilty party is not a member of the company," he muttered.
"Why?" Kennedy's mouth tightened.
The financier grew red. "Because this picture has been crippled enough.
First a new star; now a new director—if it wasn't so preposterous I'd
believe that it was all part of a deliberate—" He stopped as if
realizing suddenly the inadvisability of vague accusations.
"Don't you want justice done?" Kennedy inquired.
"Of course!" Phelps tugged at his collar uncomfortably. "Of course, Mr.
Kennedy." Then he turned and hurried away, out of the studio.
Gordon and Millard detached themselves from the others, coming over.
"In which washroom was the towel found, Mr. Kennedy?" Gordon put the
question as though he felt himself specially delegated to obtain this
I wondered how Kennedy would evade a direct answer. To my surprise he
made no attempt at concealment.
"The one on the second floor of the office building."
Millard laughed, facing Gordon. "That puts it on myself—or the big
It struck me that the leading man was uneasy as he hurried back to the
others. Millard, still smiling, turned to say something to us, but we
were joined by Manton, entering from the other end of the big inclosure.
"Good morning," the promoter exclaimed, somewhat breathless. "I just
learned you were here. Is—is there some new development. Is there
something I can do?"
"I see you are not allowing anything to interfere with the making of
the picture," Kennedy remarked. "All the people seem to be here bright
A shadow crept into Manton's face. "It seems almost as cold-blooded
as—as war," he admitted. "But I can't help myself, Mr. Kennedy. The
company has no money and if we don't meet this release we're busted."
All at once he lowered his voice eagerly. "Tell me, have you discovered
something? Is there some clue to the guilty man?"
"He's found a towel," Millard put in, an expression of half amusement
on his face as he faced the promoter. "In some way it's a clue to the
identity of the murderer, an infallible clue, he says. He found it in
the washroom by our offices. Since Werner is dead, that points the
finger of suspicion at you or me."
Manton's jaw dropped. His expression became almost ludicrous, as if the
thought that he could possibly be suspected himself was new to him.
Millard's eyes sobered a bit at his superior's confusion.
"There's a door from the dressing rooms," Kennedy suggested. "Any of
the actors or actresses could have used the place."
"Of course!" Manton grasped at the straw. "I had forgotten. There have
been complaints to me about the players using that room."
"I have the towel with me, wrapped up in a paper in this grip," Kennedy
went on. "It's so very valuable as a bit of evidence—I wonder if I
could borrow a locker so as to keep it under lock and key until we're
ready to return to the laboratory?"
"Sure! Of course!" Manton glanced about and saw the little knot of
people still gathered in the set. "Millard! Go over and tell Kauf to
get busy. He's losing time." Then he turned to us again. "Come on, Mr.
Kennedy, we have some steel lockers out by the property room."
As we started across the floor I could see that Kennedy was framing a
question with great care.
"Do you ever use snakes in films, Mr. Manton?" he asked.
"Why, no!" The promoter stopped in his surprise. "That is, not if we
ever can help it. The censorship won't pass anything with snakes."
"You have used them, though?"
"Yes. Once we made a short-length special subject, nothing but snakes."
Manton became enthusiastic. "It was a wonder, too; a pet film of mine.
We made it with the direct co-operation and supervision of the greatest
authority on poisonous snakes in the country, Doctor Nagoya of
A CIGARETTE CASE
Kennedy's face betrayed only a remote interest. "Have you any copies of
that particular film?"
"Just the negative, I believe."
"Could I have that for a few days?"
"Of course!" Manton seemed to wish to give us every possible amount of
co-operation; yet this request puzzled him. "Would you care to go down
to the negative vaults with me?"
First we stopped in a lengthy corridor in the rear building, where
there were no great signs of life. Through a door I could see a long
room filled with ornaments, pictures, furniture, rugs, and all the vast
freak collections of a property room. Along the side of the hallway
itself was a line of steel lockers of recent design.
Manton called out to an employee and he appeared after a long wait and
unlocked one of them. At Kennedy's direction I put the traveling bag in
the lower compartment, pocketing the key. Then we retraced our steps to
broad steel stairs leading up and down. We descended to the basement
and found ourselves in a high-ceilinged space immaculately clean and
used generally for storage purposes.
"The film vaults," Manton explained, "are at the corner of the west
wing. They have to be ventilated specially, on account of the high
inflammability of the celluloid composition. Since the greatest fire
risk, otherwise, is the laboratory and printing departments, and next
to that the studios themselves with the scenery, the heat of the
lights, the wires, etc., we have located them in the most distant
corner of the quadrangle. The negative, you see, represents our actual
invested capital to a considerable extent. The prints wear out and
frequently large sections are destroyed and have to be reprinted. Then
sometimes we can reissue old subjects. All in all we guard the negative
with the care a bank would give actual funds in its vaults."
In our many visits to the Manton studios I had been struck by the
scrupulous cleanliness of every part of the place. The impression of
orderliness came back to me with redoubled force as we made our way
around in the basement. Nothing seemed out of its proper position,
although a vast amount of various material for picture making was
stored here. We passed two projection rooms, one a miniature theater
with quite a bit of comfort, the other small and bare for the use of
directors and cutters.
Finally we saw the vaults ahead of us. The walls were concrete,
matching the actual walls of the basement. There were two entrances and
the doors were double, of heavy steel, arranged so that an air space
would give protection in case of fire. At a roll-top desk, arranged for
the use of the clerk in charge of the negatives and prints, was a young
"Where's Wagnalls?" demanded Manton.
"He went out, sir," the boy replied, respectfully enough. "Said he
would be right back and for me to watch and not to let anything get
The promoter led the way into the first room. Here on all four sides
and in several rows down the center, like the racks in a public
library, were shelves supporting stacks of square thin metal boxes or
trays with handles and tightly fitting covers. Cards were secured to
the front of each, by clamps, giving the name of the picture and the
number under which the film was filed. I was surprised because I
expected to find everything kept in ordinary round film cans.
"These are the negatives," Manton explained. He pulled out a box at
random, opening it. "The negative is not all spliced together, the same
length as the reels of positive, because the printing machines are
equipped to take two-hundred-foot pieces at a time, or approximate
fifths of a reel, the size of a roll of raw positive film stock. Then
whenever there is a change in color, as from amber day that to blue
tint for night, the negative is broken because pieces of different
coloring have to go through different baths, and that also determines
the size of the rolls. The prints, or positives, in the other vaults,
are in reel lengths and so are kept in the round boxes in which they
Kennedy glanced about curiously. "The negative of that snake picture is
here, you said?"
Manton went to a little desk where there was a card index. Thumbing
through the records, he found the number and led us to the proper place
in the rack. In the box were only two rolls of negative, both were
"This was a split reel," the promoter began. "It was approximately four
hundred feet and we used it to fill out a short comedy, a release we
had years ago, a reel the first part of which was educational and the
last two-thirds or so a roaring slap-stick. We never made money on it.
"But this stuff was mighty good, Mr. Kennedy. We practically wrote a
scenario for those reptiles. Doctor Nagoya was down himself and for the
better part of a day it wasn't possible to get a woman in the studio,
for fear a rattler or something might get loose."
"Were there rattlers in the film?"
"Altogether, I think. The little Jap was interesting, too. Between
scenes he told us all about the reptiles, and how their poison—"
Manton checked himself, confused. Was it because the thought of poison
reminded him of the two deaths so close to him, or was it from some
more potent twinge of conscience? "You'll see it all in the film," he
"I may keep these for a little bit?" Kennedy asked.
"Of course! I can have the two rolls printed and developed and dry
sometime this afternoon, if you wish."
"No, this will do very well."
Kennedy slipped a roll in each pocket, straining the cloth to get them
in. Manton opened a book on the little table, making an entry of the
delivery of the rolls and adding his own initials.
"I have to be very careful to avoid the loss of negative," he told us.
"Nothing can be taken out of here except on my own personal order."
I thought that Manton was very frank and accommodating. Surely he had
made no effort to conceal his knowledge of this film made with Doctor
Nagoya, and he had even mentioned the poison of the rattlesnakes.
Though it had confused him for a brief moment, that had not struck me
as a very decisive indication of guilty knowledge. After all, no one
knew of the use of crotalin to kill Stella Lamar except the murderer
himself, and Kennedy and those of us in his confidence. The murderer
might not guess that Kennedy had identified the venom. Yet if Manton
were that man he had covered his feelings wonderfully in telling us
about the film.
My thoughts strayed to the towel upstairs. Had an attempt been made yet
to steal it from the locker? It seemed to me that we were losing too
much time down here if we hoped to notice anyone with itching hands.
I realized that Kennedy had been very clever in including all our
suspects in hearing at the time he revealed the importance of the clue.
Of the original nine listed by Mackay, Werner was dead and Mrs. Manton
had never entered the case. Enid we had assumed to be the mysterious
woman in Millard's divorce, however, and the other six had all been
upon the floor in contact with Kennedy. First there was Marilyn, the
woman. Then the five men in order had displayed a lively interest in
the towel—Shirley, Gordon, Millard, Phelps, and Manton.
Kennedy's voice roused me from my reverie.
"Does this door lead through to the other vaults, Mr. Manton?"
"Yes." The promoter straightened, after replacing the records of the
negative. "I designed this system of storage myself and superintended
every detail of construction. It is—" He checked himself with an
exclamation, noticing that the door was open. With a flush of anger he
slammed it shut.
"I should think the connecting doors would be kept shut all the time,"
Kennedy remarked. "In case of fire only one compartment would be a
"That's the idea exactly! That's why I was on the point of swearing.
The boys down here are getting lax and I'm going to make trouble."
Manton turned back and called to the boy outside. "Where did you say
"I don't know, sir! Sometimes he goes across to McCann's for a cup of
coffee, or maybe he went up to the printing department."
Manton faced us once more. "If you'll excuse me just a moment I'm going
to see who's responsible for this. Why," he sputtered, "if you hadn't
called me around the rack I wouldn't have noticed that the door was
open and then, if there had been a fire—I—I'll be right back!"
As Manton stormed off Kennedy smiled slightly, then nodded for me to
follow. We passed through into the rooms for positive storage. These in
turn had fireproof connecting doors, all of which were open. In each
case Kennedy closed them. Eventually we emerged into the main part of
the basement through the farther vault door. Nothing of a suspicious
nature had caught our attention. I guessed that Kennedy simply had
wished to cover the carelessness of the vault man in leaving the inner
doors wide open.
At the entrance which had first admitted us to the negative room,
however, Kennedy stooped suddenly. At the very moment he bent forward I
caught the glint of something bright behind the heavy steel door, and
in the shadow so that it had escaped us before. As he rose I leaned
over. It was a cigarette case, a very handsome one with large initials
engraved with deep skillful flourish.
"Who is 'J. G.'?" Kennedy asked.
I felt a quiver of excitement. "Jack Gordon, the leading man."
"What's an actor doing down in the film vaults?" he muttered.
Slipping the case into his pocket, he glanced about on the floor and
something just within the negative room caught his eye. Once more he
bent down. With a speculative expression he picked up the cork-tipped
stub of a cigarette.
At this instant Manton returned, breathing hard as though his pursuit
of the missing Wagnalls had been very determined. The butt in Kennedy's
fingers attracted his attention at once.
"Did—did you find that here?" he demanded.
Kennedy pointed. "Right there on the floor."
"The devil!" Manton flushed red. "This is no place to smoke. By—by all
the wives of Goodwin and all the stars of Griffith I'm going to start
firing a few people!" he sputtered. "Here, sonny!" He jumped at the
boy, frightening him. "Close all these doors and turn the combinations.
Tell Wagnalls if he opens them before he sees me I'll commit battery on
Kennedy continued to hold the stub, and as Manton preceded us up the
stairs he hung back, comparing it with the few cigarettes left in the
case. Unquestionably they were of the same brand.
On the studio floor Mackay was waiting for us. Under his arm was a reel
of film in a can. He clutched it almost fondly.
"All ready!" he remarked, to Kennedy.
Kennedy's face was unrevealing as he faced Manton. "This bit of film is
valuable evidence also. I think perhaps it would be safer in that
"Anything at all we can do to help," stated Manton, promptly. "Shall I
show you the way again?"
I produced the key, handing it to Kennedy as the four of us arrived in
the corridor by the property room. Kennedy slipped the bit of metal
into the lock; then simulated surprise very well indeed.
"The lock is broken!" he exclaimed. "Some one has been here."
Apparently the traveling bag had been undisturbed as we took it out.
Nevertheless, the paper containing the towel was gone.
"This is no joke, Mr. Kennedy," protested Manton, in indignation.
"Where can I hire about a dozen good men to hang around and
watch—and—and help you get to the bottom of this?"
Mackay, without releasing his grasp of the film, had been inspecting
the broken lock.
"Look at the way this was done!" he murmured, almost in admiration.
"This wasn't the work of any roughneck. It—it was a dainty job!"
THE FILM FIRE
The bag lay open at my feet. The microscope and other paraphernalia
brought by Kennedy were untouched. Taking the film from Mackay and
placing the can in with the other things, Kennedy snapped the catch and
turned to me as he straightened.
"I think our evidence is safest in plain sight, Walter. We'll carry it
about with us."
Lloyd Manton seemed to be a genuinely unhappy individual. After some
moments he excused himself, nervously anxious about the turn of affairs
at the studio. Immediately I faced Kennedy and Mackay.
"Manton's the only one who knew just where we put the bag," I remarked.
"When he left us in the basement he had plenty of time to run up and
steal the towel and return."
"How about the itching salve?"
"In his hurry he might have left the towel in the paper, intending to
destroy it later."
Kennedy frowned. "That's possible, Walter. I had not thought of that.
Still"—he brightened—"I'm counting on human nature. I don't believe
anyone guilty of the crime could have that towel in his possession,
after the hints I have thrown out, without examining it so as to see
what telltale mark or stain would be apt to betray his identity."
"You can see that Manton's the logical man?"
"It would be easy for anyone else to follow and observe us."
"First of all we must keep an eye out for any person showing signs of
the itching concoction. We must observe anyone with noticeably clean
hands. Principally, however, another thing worries me."
"What's that, Mr. Kennedy?" asked Mackay.
"Walter and I found a cigarette case belonging to Jack Gordon in the
basement; also a butt smoked three-quarters of the way down and left
directly in the negative room. The fire doors between the different
film vaults, which are arranged like the safety compartments in a ship,
were all open. I want to know why Gordon was down there and—well, I
seem to sense something wrong."
"Good heavens! Craig," I interposed. "You don't attach any importance
to the fact that those doors were open!"
"Walter, in a case of real mystery the slightest derangement of matters
of ordinary routine is a cause for suspicion."
I had no answer, and as we re-entered the studio I devoted my attention
to the various people we had tabulated as possible suspects, noticing
that Kennedy and Mackay did likewise.
Jack Gordon was in the ballroom scene in make-up. Kauf still was
concerned with technical details of the set and lighting, and, although
the cameras were set up, they were not in proper place, nor was either
camera man in evidence. With Gordon was Enid. From a distance they
seemed to be engaged in an argument of real magnitude. There was no
mistaking the dislike on the part of each for the other.
Marilyn was the most uneasy of all of the principals. She was pacing up
and down, glancing about in frank distress of mind. I looked at her
hands and saw that she had crushed a tube of grease paint in her
nervousness. Not only her fingers were soiled, but there were streaks
on her arms where she had smeared herself unconsciously. As we watched
she left the studio, hurrying out the door without a backward glance.
Marilyn, at least, showed no indications of the salve, nor of painfully
recent acquaintance with water.
Both Manton and Phelps were in evidence, decidedly so, I imagined,
from, the viewpoint of poor Kauf. Manton, at the heels of his new
director, was doing all he could to help. Phelps, following Manton
about, seemed to be urging haste upon the promoter. The result was far
from advantageous to picture making; it was concentrated distraction.
Millard was poring over the manuscript, perched upon a chair the wrong
way so that its back would serve as a desk, engaged busily in making
changes here and there in the pages with a pencil. Like any author, it
was never too late for minor improvements and suggestions. I don't
doubt but that if Manton had permitted it, Millard would have been
quite apt to interrupt a scene in the taking in order to add some
little touch occurring to him as his action sprang to life in the
interpretation of players and director. At any rate, his hands seemed
more clean than those of either Manton or Phelps, proving nothing
because he was at a task not so apt to bring him into contact with dirt.
"Shirley is missing," observed the district attorney, in an undertone.
Kennedy faced me. "Give the bag to Mackay, Walter. While he keeps an
eye on the people up here we'll pay a visit to Shirley's dressing room,
and after that go down to the basement again. I can't account for
it—intuition, perhaps—but I'm sure something's wrong."
The heavy man's dressing room, pointed out to us by some employee
passing through the hall, was empty. I led the way into Marilyn's
quarters, but again no one was about. In each case Kennedy made a quick
visual search for the towel, without result. We did not dare linger and
run the risk of giving away our trick; then, too, Kennedy was nervously
anxious to look through the basement once more.
"I don't understand your suspicion of the state of affairs in the film
vaults," I confessed.
"Why should Jack Gordon, the leading man, be down there?" he countered.
"That—that really is a cause for suspicion, isn't it."
"Now, Walter, think a bit!" We were crossing the yard, and so not apt
to be overheard. "Granting that Gordon actually had been down there,
why should the fact concern us? Manton explained that no negative or
positive can be given out except upon order. There is nothing down
there but film and so no other errand to bring the leading man to the
vault except to get some scenes or pieces showing his own work, and
that isn't likely."
"Unless," I interrupted, "Gordon is the guilty man and wanted to get
the snake film before we did."
"How could that be? When we asked Manton about the Doctor Nagoya
subject we went right down with him and procured it. I doubt anyone
could have overheard us as we talked about it, in any case."
"Remember, Craig, we went to the locker first and it was some little
time before that fellow came out to unlock it and give us the key. And
when you questioned Manton we were passing right by all of them. Any
one could have heard the mention of the snake film."
Kennedy frowned. "I believe you're right, Walter. Or it is possible
that the guilty person believed that the scenes taken out at Tarrytown,
or those taken when Werner died, revealed something and so would have
to be stolen or destroyed, and that they were kept in the vault. It is
even possible"—a gleam came into Kennedy's eyes—"it is even possible
that the mind smart enough to reason out the damaging nature of the
chemical analyses I was making, and clever enough to utilize an
explosive bullet in an effort to destroy the fruits of my work, would
also have the foresight to anticipate me and to realize that I might
guess the existence of a film showing snakes and suggesting the use of
"It's damning to Gordon, all right," I said.
"On the contrary, Walter." Kennedy lowered his voice as we entered the
building across the quadrangle and descended stairs leading directly
into the basement. "We have mentioned over and over again the
cleverness of our unknown criminal. That man, or woman, never would
drop a cigarette case with his or her initials and leave without it,
nor smoke a cigarette in a place he, or she, was not supposed to be."
"It's a plant; a deliberate plant to throw suspicion upon Gordon."
"Why upon Gordon?"
"I don't know that, unless because Gordon is supposed to have the best
possible motive for killing Miss Lamar—his money troubles—and so
becomes the logical man to throw the guilt upon."
"As a matter of fact, Craig, why should the finding of that cigarette
case be a cause for suspicion at all? That's what I didn't understand
"Ordinarily it wouldn't be. But those open inner doors, the absence of
the man in charge—isn't it possible that we interrupted an attempt not
only to search for the particular damaging pieces of film, but perhaps
to destroy the whole? If some one acted between the time I asked
Manton about the snake film and the moment we arrived in the basement
to get it, that some one had to move very fast."
"In which case it might have been Gordon, after all. The cigarette stub
may have been thrown in lighted to start a fire. He may not have had
time to pick up the case, not knowing just where he dropped it."
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "It all shows the futility of trying to
arrive at a conclusion without definite facts. That is where science is
superior to deduction."
"It's all a maze to me just now," I agreed.
We made our way to the vaults in silence, and, to our surprise, found
that they were closed and that even the boy was gone now. The cellar,
as a whole, probably for the purpose of fire protection on a larger
scale, was divided into sections corresponding to the units of the
buildings above, and this time I noticed that the door through which we
had arrived before was closed also. Had Manton taken fright in earnest
at the possibility of fire, or had he given his employees a genuine
We retraced our steps to the yard, and there the alert eye of Kennedy
detected a slinking figure just as a man darted into the protection of
a doorway. It was Shirley. Had he been watching us? Was he connected in
some way with the vague mystery Kennedy seemed to sense in connection
with the basement and the film vaults?
Kennedy led the way to the entrance where Shirley had disappeared. Here
there was no sign of him; only steps leading up and down and the open
door to a huge developing room. Returning to the yard, we caught a
gesture from the chauffeur of a car standing near by and recognized
McGroarty, the driver who had found the ampulla a few days previously.
"Excuse me, Mr. Kennedy," he apologized, as we approached. "I should
have come to you instead of making you two walk over to me, but it's
less suspicious this way."
"What do you mean?"
"You recognize me, McGroarty, the chauffeur as found the little bottle?"
"Well, I says to myself I ought to tell you, but I don't like to
because it might be nothing, you know!"
"It might prove very valuable, McGroarty." Kennedy wanted to encourage
"Well, I've been sitting here for an hour, I guess. One of the other
directors is going out to-day and his people are late and so here I am.
Well, I don't like the way the heavy man Mr. Werner had—"
"Shirley? Merle Shirley?" I spoke up.
"That's him! Well, he's been, hanging and snooping around that building
over there, where you just saw him, for twenty minutes or more. I guess
he's gone in and out of that basement a dozen times. I says to myself,
maybe he's up to something. You know how it is?"
Kennedy glanced at me significantly. Then he extended his hand to the
chauffeur. "Again I thank you, McGroarty. As I said before, I won't
"Now what?" I asked, as we drew away.
"Shirley's dressing room, and the studio floor and Mackay."
As we rather expected, the heavy man's quarters were deserted. I
thought that Kennedy would stop now to make a careful search, but he
seemed anxious to compare notes with the district attorney.
"Nothing here," reported Mackay.
"Hasn't been a sign of him."
I looked about the moment we arrived under the big glass roof. "Marilyn
Loring?" I inquired.
"She's been missing, too!" All at once Mackay grinned broadly. "You
know, either there's no efficiency in making moving pictures at all, or
these people have all gone more or less out of their heads as the
result of the two tragedies. Look!" He pointed. "When you left me
Phelps and Manton were stepping on each other's toes, trying to help
that new director and about half driving him crazy; and now Millard
seems to have figured out some new way of handling the action and he's
over in the thick of it. It's worse than Bedlam, and better than a
I was compelled to smile, although I knew that this was not uncommon in
picture studios. Manton, Phelps, Millard, and Kauf were in the center
of the group, all talking at once. Clustered about I saw Enid and
Gordon, both camera men, and a miniature mob of extra people. But as I
looked little Kauf seemed to come to the end of his patience. In an
instant or two he demonstrated real generalship. Shutting up Manton and
the banker and Millard with a grin, but with sharp words and a quick
gesture which showed that he meant it, he called to the others gathered
about, clearing the set of all but Enid and Gordon. He sent the camera
men to their places; then confronted Phelps and Manton and the scenario
writer once more. We could not hear his words, but could see that he
was asserting himself, was forcing a decision so that he could proceed
with his work.
This seemed uninteresting to me. I remembered my success in my visit to
Werner's apartment, when I had essayed the role of detective.
"Listen, Kennedy!" I suggested. "Suppose I go out by myself and see if
I can locate Shirley or Marilyn. Everyone else is right here where you
At that instant a deafening explosion shook the studio and every
building about the quadrangle, the sound echoing and re-echoing with
the sharpness of a terrific thunderclap.
Mixed with the reverberations, which were intensified by the high arch
of the studio roof, were the screams of women and the frightened calls
of men. Following immediately upon the first roar were the muffled
sounds of additional explosions, persisting for a matter of ten to
With every detonation the floor beneath our feet trembled and rocked.
Several flats of scenery stacked against a wall at our rear toppled
forward and struck the floor with a resounding whack, not unlike some
gigantic slap-stick. One entire side of the banquet set, luckily
unoccupied, fell inward and I caught the sound as the dainty gold
chairs and fragile tables snapped and were crushed as so much kindling
Then—a fitting climax of destruction, withheld until this
moment—there followed the terrifying snap of steel from above. An
entire section of roof literally was popped from place, the result of
false stresses in the beams created by the explosion. Upon the heads of
the unlucky group in the center of the ballroom set came a perfect
hailstorm of broken and shattered bits of heavy ground glass.
For an instant, an exceedingly brief instant, there was the illusion of
silence. The next moment the factory siren rose to a shrill shriek,
with a full head of steam behind it—the fire call!
Kennedy dashed over to the scene where those beneath the shower of
glass lay, dazed and uncertain of the extent of their own injuries.
"Where are the first-aid kits?" he shouted. "Bring cotton and bandages,
and—and telephone for a doctor, an ambulance!"
It seemed to me that Kennedy had never been so excited. Mackay and I,
at his heels, and some of the others, unhurt, hurriedly helped the
various victims to their feet.
Then we realized that by some miracle, some freak of fate, no one had
been hurt seriously. Already a property boy was at Kennedy's side with
a huge box marked prominently with the red cross. Inside was everything
necessary and Kennedy started to bind up the wounds with all the skill
of a professional physician.
"Mackay," he whispered, "hurry and get me some envelopes, or some
sheets of paper, anything—quick!" And to me, before I could grasp the
reason for that puzzling request: "Don't let anyone slip away, Walter.
No matter what happens, I must bind up these wounds myself."
A few moments later I understood what Kennedy was up to. As he finished
with each victim he took some bit of cotton or gauze with which he had
wiped their cuts, enough blood to serve him in chemical analysis, and
handed it to Mackay. The district attorney, very unobtrusively, slipped
each sample into a separate envelope, sealing it, and marking it with a
hieroglyph which he would be able to identify later. In this fashion
Kennedy secured blood smears of Manton and Phelps, Millard and Kauf and
Enid, Gordon, the two camera men, and a scene shifter. I smiled to
Meanwhile a bitter, acrid odor penetrated through the windows and to
every part of the structure, the odor of burning film, an odor one
never forgets to fear. All those uninjured in the explosions had rushed
out to see the fire, or else to escape from any further danger, the
moment they recovered their wits. Manton, only cut at the wrist, and
impatient as Kennedy cleaned, dusted, and bound the wound, was the
first to receive attention.
"The vaults!" he called, to the men who seemed disposed to linger
about. "For God's sake get busy!" The next instant he was gone himself.
Enid was cut on the head. Tears streamed from her eyes as she clung to
Kennedy's coat, trembling. "Will it make a scar?" she sobbed. "Will I
be unable to act before the camera any more?"
He reassured her. In the case of Millard, who had several bad scalp
wounds, he advised a trip to a doctor, but the scenario writer laughed.
Phelps was yellow. It seemed to me that he whimpered a bit. Gordon was
disposed to swear cheerfully, although a point of glass had penetrated
deep in his shoulder and another piece had gashed him across the
Finally Kennedy was through. He packed the little envelopes in the bag,
still in the possession of Mackay, and added the two rolls of film from
his pocket. Then, for the first time, he locked it.
As he straightened, his eyes narrowed.
"Now for Shirley," he muttered.
"And Marilyn," I added.
THE PHOSPHORUS BOMB
We rushed out into the courtyard, Kennedy in the lead, Mackay trailing
with the bag. Here there were dense clouds of fine white suffocating
smoke mixed with steam, and signs of the utmost confusion on every
hand. Because Manton, fortunately, had trained the studio staff through
frequent fire drills, there was a semblance of order among the men
actually engaged in fighting the spread of the blaze. Any attempt to
extinguish the conflagration in the vault itself was hopeless, however,
and so the workers contented themselves with pouring water into the
basement on either side, to keep the building and perhaps the other
vaults cool, and with maintaining a constant stream of chemical mixture
from a special apparatus down the ventilating system into and upon the
The studio fire equipment seemed to be very complete. There was water
at high pressure from a tank elevated some twenty to thirty feet above
the uppermost roof of the quadrangle. In addition Manton had invested
in the chemical engine and also in sand carts, because water aids
rather than retards the combustion of film itself. I noticed that the
promoter was in direct charge of the fire-fighters, and that he moved
about with a zeal and a recklessness which ended for once and all in my
mind the suspicion that Phelps might be correct and that Manton sought
to wreck this company for the sake of Fortune Features.
In an amazingly quick space of time the thing was over. When the city
apparatus arrived, after a run of nearly three miles, there was nothing
for them to do. The chief sought out Manton, to accompany him upon an
inspection of the damage and to make sure that the fire was out. The
promoter first beckoned to Kennedy.
"This is unquestionably of incendiary origin," he explained to the
chief. "I want Mr. Kennedy to see everything before it is disturbed, so
that no clue may be lost or destroyed."
The fire officer brightened. "Craig Kennedy?" he inquired. "Gee! there
must be some connection between the blaze and the murder of Stella
Lamar and her director. I've been reading about it every day in the
"Mr. Jameson of the Star," Kennedy said, presenting me.
We found we could not enter the basement immediately adjoining the
vaults—that is, directly from the courtyard—because it seemed
advisable to keep a stream of water playing down the steps, and a
resulting cloud of steam blocked us. Manton explained that we could get
through from the next cellar if it was not too hot, and so we hurried
toward another entrance.
Mackay, who had remained behind to protect the bag from the heat,
joined us there.
"I've put the bag in charge of that chauffeur, McGroarty, and armed him
with my automatic," he explained. He paused to wipe his eyes. The fumes
from the film had distressed all of us. "Shirley and Marilyn Loring are
both missing still," he added. "I've been asking everyone about them.
No one has seen them."
The fire chief looked up. "Everyone is out? You are sure everybody is
"I had Wagnalls at my elbow with a hose," Manton replied. "I saw the
boy around, also. No one else had any business down there and the
vaults were closed and the cellar shut off."
The door leading from the adjoining basement was hot yet, but not so
that we were unable to handle it. However, the catch had stuck and it
took considerable effort to force it in. As we did so a cloud of acrid
vapor and steam drove us back.
Then Kennedy seemed to detect something in the slowly clearing
atmosphere. He rushed ahead without hesitation. The fire chief
followed. In another instant I was able to see also.
The form of a woman, dimly outlined in the vapor, struggled to lift the
prone figure of a man. After one effort she collapsed upon him. I
dashed forward, as did Mackay and Manton. Two of them carried the girl
out to the air; the other three of us brought her unconscious
companion. It was Marilyn and Shirley.
The little actress was revived easily, but Shirley required the
combined efforts of Kennedy and the chief, and it was evident that he
had escaped death from suffocation only by the narrowest of margins.
How either had survived seemed a mystery. Their clothes were wet, their
faces and hands blackened, eyebrows and lashes scorched by the heat.
But for the water poured into the basement neither would have been
alive. They had been prisoners during the entire conflagration, the
burning vault holding them at one end of the basement, the door in the
partition resisting their efforts to open it.
"Thank heaven he's alive!" were Marilyn's first words.
"How did you get in the cellar?" Kennedy spoke sternly.
"I thought he might be there." Now that the reaction was setting in,
the girl was faint and she controlled herself with difficulty. "I was
looking for him and as soon as I heard the first explosion I ran down
the steps into the film-vault entrance—I was right near there—and I
found him, stunned. I started to lift him, but there were other
explosions almost before I got to his side. The flames shot out through
the cracks in the vault door and I—I couldn't drag him to the steps; I
had to pull him back where you found us." She began to tremble. "It—it
"Was there anyone else about, anyone but Mr. Shirley?"
"No. I—I remember I wondered about the vault man."
"What was Mr. Shirley down there for, Miss Loring?"
"He"—she hesitated—"he said he had seen some one hanging around
and—and he didn't want to report anything until he was sure. He—he
thought he could accomplish more by himself, although I told him he
"Whom did he see hanging around?"
"He wouldn't tell me."
Shirley was too weak to question and the girl too unstrung to stand
further interrogation. In response to Manton's call several people came
up and willingly helped the two toward the comfort of their dressing
At the fire chief's suggestion the stream of water into the basement
was cut off. Manton led the way, choking, eyes watering, to the front
of the vaults. Feverishly he felt the steel doors and the walls. There
was no mistaking the conclusion. The negative vault was hot, the others
"The devil!" Manton exclaimed. A deep poignancy in his voice made the
expression childishly inadequate. "Why couldn't it have been the
prints!" Suddenly he began to sob. "That's the finish. Not one of our
subjects can ever be worked again. It's a loss of half a million
"If you have positives," Kennedy asked, "can't you make new negatives?"
"Dupes?" Manton looked up in scorn. "Did you ever see a print from a
dupe negative? It's terrible. Looks like some one left it out in the
"How about the 'Black Terror'?" I inquired.
"All of that's in the safe in the printing room; that and the two
current five reelers of the other companies. We won't lose our
releases, but"—again there was a catch in his voice—"we could have
cleared thousands and thousands of dollars on reissues. All—all of
Stella's negative is gone, too!" To my amazement he began to cry,
without attempt at concealment. It was something new to me in the way
of moving-picture temperament. "First they kill her and now—now they
destroy the photographic record which would have let her live for those
who loved her. The"—his voice trailed away to the merest whisper as he
seemed to collapse against the hot smoked wall—"the devil!"
The fire chief took charge of the job of breaking into the vault. First
Wagnalls attempted to open the combination of the farther door, but the
heat had put the tumblers out of commission. Returning to the entrance
of the negative vault itself, the thin steel, manufactured for fire
rather than burglar protection, was punctured and the bolts driven
back. A cloud of noxious fumes greeted the workers and delayed them,
but they persisted. Finally the door fell out with a crash and men were
set to fanning fresh air into the interior while a piece of chemical
apparatus was held in readiness for any further outbreak of the
Manton regained control of himself in time to be one of the first to
enter. Mackay held back, but the fire chief, the promoter, Kennedy, and
myself fashioned impromptu gasmasks of wet handkerchiefs and braved the
hot atmosphere inside the room.
The damage was irremediable. The steel frames of the racks, the cheaper
metal of the boxes, the residue of the burning film, all constituted a
hideous, shapeless mass clinging against the sides and in the corners
and about the floor. Only one section of the room retained the
slightest suggestion of its original condition. The little table and
the boxes of negative records, the edges of the racks which had stood
at either side, showed something of their former shape and purpose.
This was directly beneath the ventilating opening. Here the chemical
mixture pumped in to extinguish the fire had preserved them to that
All at once Kennedy nudged the fire chief. "Put out your torch!" he
In the darkness there slowly appeared here and there on the walls a
ghostly bluish glow persisting in spite of the coating of soot on
Kennedy's keen eye had caught the hint of it while the electric torch
had been flashed into some corner and away for a moment.
"Radium!" I exclaimed, entirely without thought.
Kennedy laughed. "Hardly! But it is phosphorus, without question."
"What do you make of that?" The fire chief was curious.
"Let's get out!" was Kennedy's reply.
Indeed, it was almost impossible for us to keep our eyes open, because
of the smarting, and, more, the odor was nauseating. A guard was posted
and in the courtyard, disregarding the curious crowd about, Kennedy
asked for Wagnalls and began to question him.
"When did you close the vaults?"
"About two hours before the fire. Mr. Manton sent for me."
"Was there anything suspicious at that time?"
"No, sir! I went through each room myself and fixed the doors. That's
why the fire was confined to the negatives."
"Have you any idea why the doors were open when we went through?"
"No, sir! I left them shut and the boy I put there while I went over to
McCann's said no one was near. He"—Wagnalls hesitated. "Once he went
to sleep when I left him there. Perhaps he dozed off again."
"Why did you leave? Why go over to McCann's in business hours?"
"We'd worked until after midnight the night before. I had to open up
early and so I figured I'd have my breakfast in the usual morning slack
time—when nothing's doing."
"I see!" Kennedy studied the ground for several moments. "Do you
suppose anyone could have left a package in there—a bomb, in other
Wagnalls's eyes widened, but he shook his head. "I'd notice it, sir! If
I do say it, I'm neat. I generally notice if a can has been touched.
They don't often fool me."
"Well, has any regular stuff been brought to you to put away; anything
which might have hidden an explosive?"
Again Wagnalls shook his head. "I put nothing away or give nothing out
except on written order from Mr. Manton. Anything coming in is negative
and it's in rolls, and I rehandle them because they're put away in the
flat boxes. I'd know in a minute if a roll was phony."
"You're sure nothing special—"
"Holy Jehoshaphat!" interrupted Wagnalls. "I'd forgotten!" He faced
Manton. "Remember that can of undeveloped stuff, a two-hundred roll?"
He turned to Kennedy, explaining. "When negative's undeveloped we keep
it in taped cans. Take off the tape and you spoil it—the light, you
know. Mr. Manton sent down this can with a regular order, marking on it
that some one had to come to watch it being developed—in about a week.
Of course I didn't open the can or look in it. I put it up on top of a
"When was this?"
"About four days ago—the day Miss Lamar was killed."
The expression on Manton's face was ghastly. "I didn't send down any
can to you, Wagnalls," he insisted.
"It was your writing, sir!"
Kennedy rose. "What did you do with orders like that, such as the one
you claim came with the can of undeveloped negative?"
"Put them on the spindle on that table in the vault."
"Wet your handkerchief and come show me."
When they returned Kennedy had the spindle in his hand, the charred
papers still in place. This was one of the items preserved in part by
the chemical spray through the ventilating opening above.
"Can you point out which one it is?" Kennedy asked.
"Let's see!" Wagnalls scratched his head. "Next to the top," he
replied, in a moment. "Miss Lamar's death upset everything. Only one
order came down after that."
With extreme care Kennedy took his knife and lifted the ashy flakes of
the top order. "Get me some collodion, somebody!" he exclaimed.
Wagnalls jumped up and hurried off.
The fire chief leaned forward. "Do you think, Mr. Kennedy, that the
little can he told you about started the fire?"
"I'm sure of it, although I'll never be able to prove it."
"How did it work?"
"Well, I imagine a small roll of very dry film was put in to occupy a
part of the space. Film is exceedingly inflammable, especially when old
and brittle. In composition it is practically guncotton and so a high
explosive. In this recent war, I remember, the Germans drained the
neutral countries of film subjects until we woke up to what they were
doing, while in this country scrap film commanded an amazing price and
went directly into the manufacture of explosives. Then I figure that a
quantity of wet phosphorus was added, to fill the can, and that then
the can was taped. The tape, of course, is not moisture proof entirely.
With the dampness from within it would soften, might possibly fall off.
In a relatively short time the phosphorus would dry and burn.
Immediately the film in the can would ignite. As happened, it blew up,
a minor explosion, but enough to scatter phosphorus everywhere. That,
in the fume-laden air of the vault—there are always fumes in spite of
the best ventilation system made—caused the first big blast and
started all the damage."
Mackay had rejoined us in time to hear the explanation. "Ingenious," he
murmured. "As ingenious as the methods used to murder the girl and her
Breathless, Wagnalls returned with the collodion. We watched curiously
as Kennedy poured it over the charred remains of the second order on
the spindle. It seemed almost inconceivable that the remnants of the
charred paper would even support the weight of the liquid, yet Kennedy
used it with care, and slowly the collodion hardened before us,
creating a tough transparent coating which held the tiny fibers of the
slip together. At the same time the action of the collodion made the
letters on the order faintly visible and readable.
"A little-known bank trick!" Kennedy told us.
Then he held the slip up to the light and the words were plain.
Wagnalls had been correct. The order from Manton was unmistakable. The
can was to be kept in the negative vault for a week without being
opened, until a certain party unnamed was to come to watch the
development of the film.
The promoter wet his lips, uneasily. "I—I never wrote that! It—it's
my writing, all right, and my signature, but it's a forgery!"
Kennedy made some efforts to preserve the forged order which he had
restored with the collodion, but I could see that he placed no great
importance upon its possession. Gradually the yard of the studio had
cleared of the employees, who had returned to their various tasks.
Under the direction of one stout individual who seemed to possess
authority the fire apparatus had been replaced in a portable steel
garage arranged for the purpose in a farther corner, and now several
men were engaged in cleaning up the dirt and litter caused in the
Except in the basement there were few signs of the blaze. Manton
accompanied the fire chief to his car, then hurried up into the
building without further notice of us. Mackay went to McGroarty's
machine to claim the traveling bag containing our evidence. Kennedy and
I started for the dressing rooms.
"I want to get blood smears of Shirley and Marilyn," he confided in a
low voice. "I shall have to think of some pretext."
Neither of the two we sought were in their quarters and so we continued
on into the studio. Here we found Kauf at work; at least he was engaged
in a desperate attempt to get something out of his people.
"Ye gods, Gordon!" we heard him exclaim, as we made our way through the
debris of the banquet set to the ballroom now dazzlingly bright under
the lights. "What if you do have to wear a bandage around your head?
It's a masked ball, isn't it? You've got a monk's cowl over everything
but your features, haven't you?"
It struck me that the faces had never been more ghastly, although my
reason convinced me it was simply the usual effect of the Cooper-Hewitt
tubes. But there was no question but that the explosion had given
everyone a bad fright, that not an actress or actor but would have
preferred to have been nearly anywhere else but under the heat of the
glass roof, now a constant reminder of the accident because of the
gaping hole directly above them.
Marilyn was in the center of the revelers in the set, already in
costume. Shirley I saw close to the camera men, standing uneasily on
shaky legs, shielding his eyes with one hand while he clung to a
massive sideboard for support with the other. He had not yet donned his
carnival clothes, nor essayed to put on a make-up.
Enid Faye, the only one in sight whose spirits seemed to have rallied
at all, was offering him comfort of a sort.
"You'll get by, all right, Merle, if you can keep on your pins, and
I'll say you deserve credit for trying it. There's"—she stepped back a
bit to study him—"there's just one thing. Your eyes show the result of
all that smoke and vapor—no color or luster at all. I—I wonder if
belladonna wouldn't brighten them up a bit and—well, get you by, for
"I'll go out and get some at lunch." He smiled weakly. "I'll try
"That's the spirit!" She patted him on the shoulder, then danced on
into the center of the set, stopping to direct some barbed remark at
Kauf took his megaphone to call his people around him. There seemed to
be a certain essential competence about the little man, now that Manton
and Phelps and Millard were not about to bother him. While we watched
he succeeded in photographing one of the full shots of the general
action or atmosphere of the dance. Then he hurried to the side of
Shirley, to see if the heavy man felt equal to the task of resuming his
make-up once more.
I found the time dragging heavy on my hands and I wished that Kennedy
would return to the laboratory or decide upon some definite action.
Though I racked my brain, I failed to think of a device whereby Kennedy
could get blood smears of Shirley or Marilyn without their knowledge.
Once more my reflections veered around to the matter of the stolen
towel and I wondered if that had been wasted effort on Kennedy's part;
if the fire had thrown out his carefully arranged plans to trap whoever
Suddenly I realized that Kennedy was following a very definite
procedure, that his seeming indifference, his apparent idle curiosity
concerning the scene taking, masked a settled purpose. When Phelps
entered he approached him casually and turned to him with skilled
nonchalance, holding up a finger.
"Will you lend me a pocket knife for a moment?" he asked, "to get a
Phelps produced one, rather grudgingly. Kennedy promptly went over to
the window, as though seeking better light. Thereafter he avoided
Phelps. Soon the banker had forgotten the incident.
Some time later Manton rushed in from the office. Kennedy maneuvered
his way to the promoter's side and waited his chance to borrow that
man's pocket knife under conditions when Manton would be the least apt
to remember it. Then he made his way around to Mackay and I saw that
both the acquisitions went into little envelopes of the sort used to
take the blood smears after the explosion and falling glass.
Kennedy now seemed rather elated. Millard entered and he borrowed the
scenario writer's knife in exactly the same fashion as the others. No
one of the three men noticed his loss. I thought it lucky that all
three carried the article, and tried to guess how far Kennedy intended
to carry this little scheme.
Kauf's announcement of lunch gave me my answer. It seemed that there
would be just half an hour and that the entire cast was expected to
make shift at McCann's rather than attempt to go to any better place at
a greater distance. Immediately Kennedy turned to me.
"Hurry, Walter! Twenty minutes' quick work and then it's the laboratory
and the solution of this mystery."
With Mackay and the bag we stole to the dressing rooms, waiting until
sure that everyone was downstairs. In Enid's chamber Kennedy glanced
about carefully but swiftly. When nothing caught his attention he
picked up her finger-nail file, gingerly, from the blunt end, slipping
it into one of the little envelopes which Mackay held open. Thereupon
the district attorney put his identifying mark upon the outside and we
went to the next room.
It proved to be Gordon's. The general search was barren of result, but
the dressing table yielded another finger-nail file, handled in the
same manner as before. Then we entered Marilyn's room and left with the
file from her dressing stand. In Shirley's quarters, the last we
visited, we were in greater luck, however. While Kennedy and Mackay
abstracted the usual file, I discovered some bits of tissue paper used
in shaving. There was caked soap left to dry just as it had been wiped
from the razor. More, there was a blood stain of fair proportions.
"Here's your smear, Kennedy," I exclaimed.
"Good! Fine!" He faced Mackay. "Now I lack just one thing, a sample of
the blood of Miss Loring."
"Is that all?" The district attorney brightened. "Let me try to get it!
I—I'll manage it in some way!"
"All right!" Kennedy took the bag. "Explain your marks so I'll know—"
He stopped suddenly. "No, don't tell me anything. I'll make my chemical
analyses and microscopic examinations without knowing the identity in
the case either of the blood samples or the finger-nail files. If I
obtain results by both methods, and they agree, I'll return armed with
double-barreled evidence. Meanwhile, Mackay, you get a smear from Miss
Loring and follow us to the laboratory. I'll coax McGroarty to drive us
down, so you'll have your car and you can bring us back."
The district attorney nodded. "Me for McCann's," he muttered. "That's
where she went to eat." He rushed off eagerly.
Kennedy had no difficulty persuading McGroarty to put his particular
studio car at our disposal without an order from Manton or from the
director who had called him. In a very brief space of time we were at
"You expect to find the blood of one of those people showing traces of
the antivenin?" I grasped Kennedy's method of procedure, but wanted to
make sure I understood it correctly. Already I was blocking out the
detailed article for the Star, the big scoop which that paper should
have as a result of my close association with Kennedy on the case. "One
of those samples should correspond, I suppose, to the trace of blood on
"Exactly!" He answered me rather absently, being concerned in setting
out the apparatus he would need for a hasty series of tests.
"Will the antivenin show in the blood after four, perhaps five days?"
"I should say so, Walter. If it does not, by any chance, I will be able
to identify the blood, but that is much more involved and tedious—a
great deal more actual work."
"I've got it straight, then. Now—" I paced up and down several times.
"The finger-nail files should show a trace of the itching salve? Is
that correct, Craig?"
For a moment he didn't answer, as his mind was upon his paraphernalia.
Then he straightened. "Hardly, Walter! The salve is soluble in water.
What I shall find, if anything, is some of the fibers of the towel. You
see, a person's finger nails are great little collectors of bits of
foreign matter, and anyone handling that rag is sure to show some
infinitesimal trace for a long while afterward. If the person stealing
the towel filed or cleaned his nails there will be evidence of the
fibers on his pocket knife or finger-nail file. I impregnated the towel
with that chemical so that I would be able to identify the fibers
"The use of the itching salve was unnecessary?"
A quizzical smile crept across Kennedy's face. "Did you think I
expected some one to go walking around the studio scratching his hands?
Did you imagine I thought the guilty party would betray his or her
identity in such childish fashion, after all the cleverness displayed
in the crimes themselves?"
"But you were insistent that I rub in the—"
"To force them to wash their hands after touching the towel, Walter."
"Oh!" I felt rather chagrined. "Wouldn't some pigment, some color, have
served the purpose better?"
"No, because anyone would have understood that and would have taken the
proper measures to remove all traces. But the itching salve served two
purposes. It was misleading, because obviously a trap upon reflection,
and so it would distract attention from the impregnated fibers, my real
scheme. Then it was the best device of all I could think of, for it set
up a local irritation of the sort most calculated to make a person
clean his finger nails. The average man and woman is not very neat,
Walter. I was not sure but a scientific prodding was necessary to
transfer my evidence to some object I could borrow and examine under a
Meanwhile Kennedy's long fingers were busy at the preliminary
operations in his tests. He turned away and I asked no more questions,
not wishing to delay him.
I noticed that first he examined the blood samples under the
microscope. Afterward he employed a spectroscope. But none of the
operations took any great amount of time, since he seemed to anticipate
Mackay burst in upon us, very elated, and produced a handkerchief with
a bit of blood upon it.
"I scratched her deliberately with the sharp point of my ring," he
chuckled. "I found her in the restaurant and the seat beside her was
empty. I—I talked about everything under the sun and I guess she
thinks I'm a clumsy boob! Anyhow she cried out when I did it, and got
red in the face for a moment; but she suspects nothing."
Kennedy cut the spot from the handkerchief, put it in an envelope, and
turned back to his table. I drew Mackay into the corner.
As the minutes sped by and Craig worked in absorbed concentration,
Mackay grew more and more impatient to get back to the studio.
"Did you find anything?" repeated Mackay, for the tenth time.
With a gesture of annoyance, Kennedy reached out for the nail files.
"This is a grave matter," he frowned. "I must check it up—and double
check it—then I'm going back to the studio to triple check it. Let me
see what the nail files reveal. It will be a bare ten minutes more."
Insisting that we remain back in the corner, he spread out the four
nail files and the open blades of the three pocket knives, setting each
upon the envelope which identified it.
The next quarter of an hour seemed interminable. Finally Kennedy
started replacing the files and the pocket knives in their envelopes,
his face still wearing the inscrutable frown. Next he packed the blood
samples and other evidence in the traveling bag once more.
Mackay was bursting with impatience, but Craig still refused to betray
"I must get back there—quick," he hastened. "I want everybody in the
projection room. In court, a jury might not grasp the infallibility of
the methods I've used. There would be a great deal of medical and
expert testimony required—and you know, Mackay, what that means."
"Is it a man—or a woman you suspect?" persisted the district attorney.
"Three of the men had pocket knives and—"
Kennedy led the way to the door without answering, and Mackay cut short
his hopeless quizzing as Craig nodded to me to carry the bag.
THE BALLROOM SCENE
Sounds of music caught our ears as we entered the studio courtyard of
Manton Pictures. Carrying the bag with its indisputable proof of some
person's guilt, we made our way through the familiar corridor by the
dressing rooms, out under the roof of the so-called large studio. There
a scene of gayety confronted us, in sharp contrast with the gloomy
atmosphere of the rest of the establishment.
Kauf, however, had thoroughly demonstrated his genius as a director. To
counteract the depression caused by all the recent melodramatic and
tragic happenings, he had brought in an eight-piece orchestra,
establishing the men in the set itself so as to get full photographic
value from their jazz antics. Where Werner and Manton had dispensed
with music, in a desperate effort at economy, Kauf had realized that
money saved in that way was lost through time wasted with dispirited
people. It was a lesson learned long before by other companies. In
other studios I had seen music employed in the making of soberly
dramatic scenes, solely as an aid to the actors, enabling them to get
into the atmosphere of their work more quickly and naturally.
Under the lights the entire set sparkled with a tawdry garishness apt
to fool those uninitiated into the secrets of photography. On the
screen, colors which now seemed dull and flat would take on a soft
richness and a delicacy characteristic of the society in which Kauf's
characters were supposed to move. Obviously fragile scenery would seem
as heavy and substantial as the walls and beams of the finest old
mansion. Even the inferior materials in the gowns of most of the girls
would photograph as well as the most expensive silk; in fact, by long
experience, many of the extra girls had learned to counterfeit the
latest fashions at a cost ridiculous by comparison.
Kennedy approached Kauf, then returned to us.
"He asks us to wait until he gets this one big scene. It's the climax
of the picture, really, the unmasking of the 'Black Terror.' If we
interrupt now he loses the result of half a day of preparation."
"He may lose more than that!" muttered Mackay; and I wondered just whom
the district attorney suspected.
"Is everyone here?" I asked. "All seven?"
Gordon and Shirley, of the men, and Marilyn and Enid, of course, were
out on the floor of the supposed ballroom. Gordon I recognized because
I remembered that he was to wear the garb of a monk. Marilyn was easily
picked out, although the vivacity she assumed seemed unnatural now that
we knew her as well as we did. Her costume was a glorious Yama Yama
creation, of a faint yellow which would photograph dazzling white,
revealing trim stockinged ankles and slender bare arms, framing face
and eyes dancing with merriment and maliciousness. Unquestionably she
was the prettiest girl beneath the arcs, never to be suspected as the
woman who had braved the terrors of a film fire to rescue the man she
loved. Enid was stately and serene in the gown of Marie Antoinette. In
the bright glare her features took on a round innocence and she was as
successful in portraying sweetness as Marilyn was in the simulation of
the mocking evil of the vampire.
Shirley interested me the most, however. I wondered if Kennedy still
eliminated him in guessing at the identity of the criminal. I called to
mind the heavy man's presence in the basement at the time of the
explosion and McGroarty's information that he had been hanging about
that part of the studio for some time previously. Some one had planted
a cigarette case and stub to implicate Gordon, according to Kennedy's
theory. Shirley certainly had had opportunity to steal the towel from
the locker as well as to point suspicion toward the leading man.
In the midst of my reverie Shirley approached and passed us. He was in
the garb of Mephisto. Like the others, he had not yet masked his face.
A peculiar brightness in his eyes struck me and I nudged Kennedy.
"Belladonna," Kennedy explained when he was beyond earshot.
"Oh!" I remembered. "Enid told him to use it."
I repeated the conversation as near as I could reconstruct it.
"H-m! That's a new cure for smoke-burned eyes; no cure at all."
I was unable to get any more out of Kennedy, however.
Manton I detected in the background with Phelps. The two men were
arguing, as always, and it was evident that the banker was
accomplishing nothing by this constant hanging about the studio. Where
previously my sympathy had been with Phelps entirely, now I realized
that the promoter had won me. Indeed, Manton's interest in all the
affairs of picture making at this plant had been far too sincere and
earnest to permit the belief that he was seeking to wreck the company
or to double-cross his backer.
Millard entered the studio as I glanced about for him. He handed some
sheets to Kauf, then turned to leave. I attracted Kennedy's attention.
"You don't want Millard to get away," I whispered.
Kennedy sent Mackay to stop him. The author accompanied the district
"Yes, Mr. Kennedy?"
"As soon as this scene is over we're going down to the projection room;
everyone concerned in the death of Miss Lamar and of Mr. Werner."
The scenario writer looked up quickly. "Do you—do you know who it is?"
he asked, soberly.
"Not exactly, but I will identify the guilty person just as soon as we
are assembled down in front of the screen."
Shirley had left the studio floor, apparently to go to his dressing
room. Now I noticed that he returned and passed close just in time to
hear Millard's question and Kennedy's answer. His eyes dilated. As he
turned away his face fell. He went on into the set, but his legs seemed
to wabble beneath him. I was sure it was more than the weakness
resulting from his experience in the fire.
Kauf's voice, through the megaphone, echoed suddenly from wall to wall,
reverberating beneath the roof.
"All ready! Everyone in the set! Masks on! Take your places!"
At a signal the orchestra struck up and the couples started to dance.
It was a wonderfully colorful scene and I saw that Kauf proposed to
rehearse it thoroughly, doing it over and over without the cameras
until every detail reached a practiced perfection. In this I was
certain he achieved results superior to Werner's slap, dash, and bang.
Then came the call for action.
"Camera!" Kauf began to bob up and down. "Into it, everybody!"
For fascination and charm this far exceeded the banquet scene which we
had witnessed in the taking previously. The music was surprisingly
good, so that it was impossible for the people not to get into the
swing, and the result was a riotous swirling of gracefully dancing
pairs; the girls, selected for their beauty, flashing half-revealed
faces toward the camera, displaying eyes which twinkled through their
masks in mockery at a wholly ineffectual attempt at concealment.
Enid maintained her stately carriage, but made full use of the dazzling
whiteness of her teeth. Early she permitted the attentions of the
cowled monk whom she knew to be her lover. Marilyn was everywhere,
making mischief the best she could. Shirley stalked about in his
satanic red, which would photograph black and appear even more somber
on the screen.
Of course the whole was not photographed in a continuous strip from one
camera position. I saw that Kauf made several long shots to catch the
general atmosphere. Then he made close-up scenes of all the principals
and of some of the best appearing extras. At one time he ordered a
panorama effect, in which the cameras "pammed," swept from one side to
the other, giving a succession of faces at close range.
Finally everything was ready for the climax. Shirley had been playing a
sort of Jekyll and Hyde role in which he was at once the young lawyer
friend of Enid and the Black Terror. Unmasked and cornered at this
function of a society terrified by the dread unknown menace, he was to
make the transformation directly before the eyes of everyone, using the
mythical drug which changed him from a young man of good appearance and
family to the being who was a very incarnation of evil.
For once Kauf did not rehearse the scene. Shirley was obviously
weakened from his experience and the director wished to spare him. All
the details were shouted out through the megaphone, however, and I
grasped that the action of this part of the dance was familiar to
everyone; it was the big scene of the story toward which all other
events had built.
Then came the familiar order. "Camera!"
At the start of this episode the orchestra was playing and the dancers
were in motion. Suddenly Gordon, as the hero, strode up to Shirley and
unmasked him with a few bitter words which later would be flashed upon
the screen in a spoken title. Instantly a crowd gathered about, but in
such a way as not to obstruct the camera view.
Cornered, seeing that flight was impossible unless he became the Black
Terror and possessed the strength and fearlessness of that strange
other self, Shirley drew a little vial from his breast pocket and drank
the contents. Evidently he knew his Mansfield well. Slowly he began to
act out the change in his appearance which corresponded with the
assumption of control by the evil within. His body writhed, went
through contortions which were horrible yet fascinating. It was almost
as though a new fearful being was created within sight of the
onlookers. Not only was the face altered, but the man's stature seemed
to shrink, to lose actual inches. I thought it a wonderful exhibition.
The very next instant there came a groan from Shirley, something which
at once indicated pain and realization and fear. He lost all control of
himself and in a moment pitched forward upon the floor, sputtering and
clutching at the empty air. Another cry broke from between his lips, a
ghastly contracted shriek as treble as though from the throat of a
This was no part of the story, no skillful bit of acting! It was real!
Even before I had grasped the full significance of the happening
Kennedy had dashed forward. The cameras still were grinding and they
caught him as he kneeled at the side of the stricken man. Hardly a
second afterward Mackay and I followed and were at Kennedy's side. Kauf
and the others, their faces weirdly ashen, clustered about in fright.
A third time the invisible hand had struck at a member of the company.
"The Black Terror," with all the horror written into that story,
contained nothing as fearful as the menace to the people engaged in its
Shirley's skin was cold and clammy, his face almost rigid. While
conscious, he was helpless. Kennedy found the little vial and examined
"Atropin!" he ejaculated. "Walter!" He turned to me. "Get some
physostigmin, quick! Have Mackay drive you! It's—it's life or death!
Here—I'll write it down! Physostigmin!"
As I raced madly out and down the stairs, Mackay at my heels, I heard a
woman's scream. Marilyn! Did she think him dead?
Once in the car, headed for the nearest drug store, grasping wildly at
the side or at the back of the seat every few moments as the district
attorney skidded around curves and literally hurdled obstacles, I
remembered a forgotten fact.
Atropin! That was belladonna, simply another name for the drug. Shirley
had procured the stuff for use in his eyes. Nevertheless, he had been
aware, undoubtedly, of its deadly nature. Passing by Kennedy and the
rest of us, he had overheard Kennedy state that the murderer would be
identified as soon as all could be assembled in the projection room.
The heavy man had not cared to face justice in so prosaic a manner.
With the same sense of the melodramatic which had led him to slay
Stella Lamar in the taking of a scene, Werner in the photographing of
another, he had preferred suicide and had selected the most spectacular
moment possible for his last upon earth.
Yes, Shirley was guilty. Rather than wait the slow processes of legal
justice he had attempted suicide. Now we raced to save his life, to
preserve it for a more fitting end in the electric chair.
The first drug store we found was unable to supply us. At a second we
had better luck. All in all, we were back at the Manton Pictures plant
in a relatively few minutes, a remarkable bit of driving on the part of
the district attorney.
Shirley was still in the set. Kennedy at once administered the
physostigmin, I thought with an air of great relief.
"This is one of the rare cases in which two drugs, both highly
poisonous, are definitely antagonistic," he explained. "Each,
therefore, is an antidote for the other when properly administered."
Marilyn was chafing Shirley's cold hands, tears resting shamelessly
upon her lids, a look of deep inexpressible fear in her expression.
"Will—will you be able to save him, Professor?" she asked, not once,
but a dozen different times.
None of the rest of us spoke. We waited anxiously for the first signs
of hope, the first indication that the heavy man's life might be
preserved. It was wholly a question whether the physostigmin had been
given to him quickly enough.
Kennedy straightened finally, and we knew that the crisis was over.
Marilyn broke down completely and had to be supported to a chair.
Strong, willing arms lifted Shirley to take him to his dressing room.
At that moment Kennedy stood up, raising his voice so as to demand the
attention of everyone, taking charge of matters through sheer force of
"I have come here this afternoon," he began, "to apprehend the man or
woman responsible for the death of Miss Lamar and Mr. Werner, for the
fire in the negative vault, and now for this attempt upon the life of
Not a sound was evident as he paused, no movement save a vague, uneasy
shifting of position on the part of some of those who had been on the
point of leaving.
"I have indisputable evidence of the guilty person's identity, but,
nevertheless, for reasons which I will explain to you I have not yet
completed my identification. To do so it is necessary that certain
photographed scenes be projected on the screen and that certain other
matters be made perfectly clear. I am very anxious, you see, to
eliminate the slightest possibility of error.
"Mr. Mackay here"—Kennedy smiled, very slightly—"is the district
attorney with jurisdiction at Tarrytown. At my request, since
yesterday—or, to be exact, since the death of Mr. Werner warned us
that no time could be lost—he has carried a 'John Doe' warrant.
Immediately following my identification of the guilty person he—or
she—will be placed under arrest. The charge will be the murder of
Stella Lamar by the use of poison in a manner which I will explain to
you. The trial will take place at White Plains, the county seat of
Westchester County, where the murder occurred. Mr. Mackay informs me
that the courts there are not crowded; in fact, he personally has been
able to devote most of his time to this case. Therefore the trial will
be speedy and I am sure that the cold-blooded methods used by this
criminal will guarantee a quick sentence and an early trip to the
electric chair at Ossining. Now"—suddenly grim—"if everyone will go
down to the projection room, the larger one, we will bring matters to
their proper conclusion."
I imagined that Kennedy's speech was calculated to spread a little
wholesome fear among the people we had considered suspects. In any case
that was the result, for an outsider, from the expressions upon the
various faces, might have concluded that several of them were guilty.
Each seemed to start off across the studio floor reluctantly, as though
afraid to obey Kennedy, yet unable to resist the fascination of
witnessing the identification of the criminal, as though feeling that
he or she individually might be accused, and yet unwilling to seek
safety at the expense of missing Kennedy's revelation of his methods
and explanation of their result.
I drew him aside as quickly as I could.
"Craig," I started, eagerly, "isn't this all unnecessary? Can't you see
that Shirley is the guilty man? If you will hurry into his room with
paper and pencil and get his confession before he recovers from his
fright and regains his assurance—"
"What on earth, Walter!" Kennedy interrupted me with a look of surprise
which I did not miss even in my excitement. "What are you driving at,
"Why, Shirley is the criminal. He—"
"Nonsense! Wasn't an attempt made to kill him just now? Wasn't it
evident that he was considered as dangerous to the unknown as Werner,
the director? Hasn't he been eliminated from our calculations as surely
as the man slain yesterday?"
"No!" I flushed. "Not at all, Craig! This was not an attempt at murder.
There were none of the criminal's earmarks noticeable at Tarrytown or
in the banquet scene."
"How do you mean, Walter?" For once Kennedy regarded me seriously.
"Why, you pointed out yourself that this unknown was exceptionally
clever. The attempt on Shirley, if it were an attempt, was not clever
"Why?" I was a little sarcastic, because I was sure of myself. "Because
the poison was atropin—belladonna. That is common. I've read of any
number of crimes where that was used. Do you think for a moment that
the mind which figured out how to use snake venom, and botulin toxin,
would descend to anything as ordinary as all this?"
"Well, if it was not an attempt at murder, what was it?"
"Suicide! It's as plain as the nose on your face. Shirley was passing
us as we were standing with Millard and as you told Millard we all were
to go to the projection room to identify the criminal. Therefore
Shirley knew he was at the end of his rope. With the theatrical
temperament, he took the poison just as he finished playing his last
great scene. It—it was a sort of swan song."
"Quite a theory, Walter!" Now I knew Kennedy was unimpressed. "But,
where did he get the belladonna?"
"For his eyes. After the smoke smart."
"The drug is of no use against such inflammation."
"No, but it served to brighten his eyes. Enid suggested it to him and
he went out and got it. It helped him play his scenes. It gave him the
glittering expression he needed in his characterization."
Again Kennedy seemed to grasp my view. He hesitated for several
moments. Finally he looked up.
"If Shirley is the criminal, and if he is above using as common a drug
as atropin for killing another man, then—then why isn't he above using
it upon himself?"
That struck me as easy to answer. "Because if he is killing himself it
is not necessary for him to cover his tracks, or to do it cleverly, and
besides"—it was my big point—"he probably didn't decide to try to do
it until he overheard us and realized the menace. At that time he had
the belladonna in his pocket. He did not have an opportunity to procure
Kennedy grinned. "You're all wrong, Walter, and I'll show you where
your reasoning is faulty. In the first place if this criminal was the
type to commit suicide at the moment he thought he was about to be
caught he would be the type who would reflect upon that idea
beforehand. As his crimes show a great deal of previous preparation, so
we may assume that he would prepare for suicide, or rather for the
possibility that he might wish to attempt it. Therefore he would have
something better for that purpose than atropin."
I shook my head, but Kennedy continued.
"As a matter of fact, the use of that drug is not less clever than the
use of the venom or the toxin; it is more so. Stop and think a minute!
The snake venom was employed in the case of Miss Lamar's death because
it offered about the least possible chance of leaving telltale clues
behind. The snake poison could be inflicted with a tiny scratch, and in
such a way that an outcry from the girl would never be noticed. Nothing
but my pocket lens caught the scratch; only the great care I used in my
examination put us on the trail at all.
"Now remember how Werner met his death. The toxin gave every symptom of
food poisoning. Except that we discovered the broken stem of the
wineglass we would never have been able to prove the tragedy anything
but accident. Very possibly we have Shirley to thank for the fact that
our one clue there was not removed or destroyed.
"In both cases the selection of the poison was suited to the
conditions. Therefore, if an attempt was made to kill Shirley—and of
the fact I am sure—we might expect that the agent likewise would be
one least apt to create suspicion. There are no portieres, no
opportunity for the use of another venom; and besides, that has lost
its novelty, and so its value. Similarly there is no use of food or
wine in the scene, precluding something else along the toxin order.
"Our unknown realizes that the safest place to commit murder is where
there is a crowd. He has followed that principle consistently. In the
case of the heavy man, who has a bit of business before the camera
where he drinks the contents of a little bottle, the very cleverest
thing is to use belladonna, because Shirley has employed it for his
eyes, and because"—maliciously, almost—"it leads immediately to the
hypothesis of suicide."
"Ye gods, Craig!" A sudden thought struck me and rather terrified me.
"Do you suppose Enid Faye suggested the use of the drug to Shirley as
part of the scheme to kill him? Is she—"
"I prefer," Kennedy interrupted—"I prefer to suppose that the guilty
person overheard her, or perhaps saw him buy it or learned in some
other way that he was going to use it."
Completely taken up with this new line of thought, I failed to question
Kennedy further, and it was just as well because most of the people
were on their way down to the projection room, not only those we wished
present, but practically everyone of sufficient importance about the
studio to feel that he could intrude.
Kennedy turned to Mackay, who had taken no part in our discussion,
although an interested listener. "You have the bag and all the
"Yes!" Mackay picked it up. "Watkins, the camera man, watched it for me
while Jameson and I went after that drug."
Kennedy stooped down quickly, but it was locked and had not been
In the corridor by the dressing rooms we met Kauf, and Kennedy stopped
"How long would it take to make a print from the scene where Shirley
took the poison?"
"We could have it ready in half an hour, in a case of grim necessity."
"Half an hour?" I exclaimed at that, in disbelief. "You couldn't begin
to dry the negative in that time, Kauf."
He glanced at me tolerantly. "We make what is called a wet print; that
is, we print from the negative while it is still wet and so we only
have the positive to dry. Then we put it on drums in a forced draught
of hot air. The result is not very good, but it's a fine thing
sometimes to get a picture of a parade or some accident in a theater
right after it happens."
"Will you do it for me, Kauf?" Kennedy broke in, impatiently. "This is
a case of grim necessity," he added.
Kauf hurried off and we made our way across the yard to the stairs
leading down into the basement and to the projection room specified by
Kennedy. Here Manton was waiting, uneasy, flushed, his face gathered in
a frown and his hands clenching and unclenching in his nervousness.
"Do you—do you know who it is?" he demanded.
"Not yet," Kennedy replied. "First I must marshal all my evidence."
"Who—who do you want present in the projection room?"
"Mr. Phelps, Mr. Millard, and—yourself, Mr. Manton. Miss Loring and
Miss Faye. Mr. Gordon. Anyone else who wishes, if there is room."
"Phelps, Millard, Gordon, and the two girls are inside already."
"Good! We will start at once."
Manton turned, to lead the way in. At that moment there was a call from
the yard. We stopped, looking up. It was Shirley.
"Wait just a minute," he cried. He was so weak that the two extra men
who were helping him virtually supported his weight. On his face was a
look of desperate determination. "I—I must see this too!" he gasped.
Coming in from the bright light of open day, the projection room seemed
a gloomy, forbidding place, certainly well calculated to break down the
reserve of perhaps the cleverest criminal ever pitting his skill
against the science of Craig Kennedy.
It was a small room, long and not so wide, with a comparatively low
ceiling. In order to obviate eye strain the walls were painted somberly
and there were no light colors in evidence except for a nearly square
patch of white at the farther end, the screen upon which the pictures
were projected. The illumination was very dim. This was so that there
would be no great contrast between the light reflected from the images
cast upon the screen during pictures and the illumination in the room
itself between reels; again designed to prevent strain upon the eyes of
the employees whose work was the constant examination of film in
various stages of its assembly.
The chairs were fastened to the floor, arranged in tiny crescents and
placed so as not to interfere with the throw of the pictures from
behind. The projection machines themselves, two in number in order to
provide continuous projection by alternating the reels and so threading
one machine while running the other, were in a fireproof booth or
separate room, connected with the tiny auditorium only by slits in the
wall and a sort of porthole through which the operator could talk or
take his instructions.
Directly beneath the openings to the booth were a table equipped with a
shaded lamp, a stand for manuscripts, and a signal button. Here the
film cutters and editors sat, watching the subject upon which they
worked and making notes for changes, for bits of superfluous action to
be cut out, or for titles or spoken inserts to be moved. At a signal
the operator could be instructed to stop at any point, or to start, or
to wind back and run some given piece over again. The lights in the
room were controlled from within the booth and also by a switch just at
the side of the door. A telephone on the table offered a connection
with any part of the studio or with the city exchanges, so that an
official of the company could be reached while viewing a picture.
As we entered I tried to study the different faces, but found it a
hopeless task on account of the poor light. Kennedy took his place at
the little table, switching on the little shaded lamp and motioning for
Mackay to set the traveling bag so he could open it and view the
contents. Then Mackay took post at the door, a hand in his pocket, and
I realized that the district attorney clasped a weapon beneath the
cover of his clothing, and was prepared for trouble. I moved over to be
ready to help Kennedy if necessary. As Kennedy took his key, unlocking
the bag, it would have been possible to have heard the slightest
movement of a hand or foot, the faintest gasp of breath, so tense was
First Kennedy took out the various rolls of film. Looking up, he caught
the face of the operator at the opening in the wall and handed them to
him one by one.
"Here are two sections of the opening of the story, scenes one to
thirteen of 'The Black Terror' put together in order, but without
subtitles. One is printed from the negative of the head camera man,
Watkins. The other is exactly the same action as taken by the other
photographer. We will run both, but wait for my signal between each
"Now I am giving you two rolls which contain prints of the negative
from both cameras of the action at the moment of Werner's death. Those
are to be projected in the same way when I give you the signal.
Following that there will be two very short pieces which show the
attempt upon the life of Mr. Shirley. They are being rushed through the
laboratory at this moment and will be brought to you by the time we are
ready for them. Finally"—Kennedy paused and as he took the rolls of
negative of the snake film I could see that he hesitated to allow them
out of his hands even for a few moments—"here is some negative which
will be my little climax. It—it is very valuable indeed, so please be
"You—you want to project the NEGATIVE?" queried the operator.
"Yes. They tell me it can be done, even with negative as old and
brittle as this, if you are careful."
"I'll be careful, sir! You punch the button there once to stop and two
to go. I'll be ready in a moment." As he spoke he disappeared and soon
we heard the unmistakable hiss of the arcs in his machines.
Kennedy stooped and from the bag produced the little envelopes with the
pocket knives and nail files, the set of envelopes with the samples of
blood, the piece of silk he had cut from the portiere at Tarrytown, the
tiny bits he had cut from the towel found by me in the washroom of this
studio, and a microscope—the last, I guessed, for effect.
Around in the semidarkness I could see the faces as necks were craned
to watch us. Kennedy's deliberateness, his air of certainty, must have
struck terror home to some one person in the little audience. Often
Kennedy depended upon hidden scientific instruments to catch the faint
outward signs of the emotions of his people in a seance of this sort,
to allow the comparison of their reactions in the course of his review
of the evidence, to give him what amounted to a very sure proof of the
one person's guilt. The very absence of some such preparation indicated
to me the extent of his confidence.
At length he began his little lecture, for all the world as though this
were one of his classes at the University, as though there were at
stake some matter of chemical reaction.
"I need not tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that this is a highly
scientific age in which we live." His tones were leisurely,
businesslike, cool. "Your own profession, the moving picture, with all
its detail of photography and electricity, its blending of art and
drama and mechanics, is indicative of that, but"—a pause for
emphasis—"it is of my own profession I wish to talk just now, the
detection and prevention of crime.
"Criminals as a whole were probably the very first class of society to
realize the full benefit of modern science. Banks and business
institutions, the various detective and police forces, all grades and
walks of life have been put to it to keep abreast of the development of
scientific crime. So true has this been that it is a matter of common
belief with many people that the hand of the law may be defied with
impunity, that justice may be cheated with absolute certainty, just so
long as a guilty man or woman is sufficiently clever and sufficiently
"Fortunately, the real truth is quite the reverse. Science has extended
itself in many dimensions of space. With the use of a microscope, for
instance, a whole new world is opened up to the trained detective.
"Everyone knows now that the examination of hands and fingers is an
infallible aid in the identification of criminals and in the proof of
the presence of a suspect at the scene of a crime—I refer to
fingerprints, of course. But fingerprints are only one small detail in
this department of investigation. Our criminals know that gloves must
be worn, or any smooth surface wiped so as to remove the prints. In
that way they believe they cheat the microscope or the pocket lens.
"As a matter of fact few people have thought of another way of gaining
evidence from the finger tips, but it is a method possible to the
scientist, and is not only practicable but exceedingly effective. In
time it will be recognized by all specialists in crime. Now I refer to
the deposits under the finger nail.
"Indeed, it is surprising how many things find their way under the nail
and into the corners of the cuticle." Kennedy indicated the files and
pocket knives visible in the shaded square of light before him. "The
value of examining finger-nail deposits becomes evident when we realize
that everyone carries away in that fashion a sample of every bit of
material he handles. To touch a piece of cloth, even lightly, will
result in the catching of a few of its fibers. Similarly, the finger
nails will deposit either a small or large portion of their
accumulation upon such things as the knife blades or files used to
clean them; and there identification still is possible. Nothing in the
world is too infinitesimal for use as evidence beneath the microscope.
"In classifying these accumulations"—Kennedy paused and the silence in
the little room was death-like—"we may say that there are some which
are legitimate and some which are not. It is the latter which concern
us now. The first day we were here at the studio, just four days ago
now, and immediately following the murder of Miss Lamar, Mr. Jameson
discovered a towel in the washroom on the second floor of the office
building. On that towel there were spots of Chinese yellow, make-up, as
though it had been used to wipe a face or hands by some actor or
actress. Those spots were unimportant. There were others, however, of
an entirely different nature, together with the mark of blood and a
stain which showed that a hypodermic needle had been cleaned upon the
towel before it was thrown in the basket."
Kennedy leaned forward. His eyes traveled from face to face. "That
towel was a dangerous clue." Now there was a new grim element in his
voice. "That towel alone has given me the evidence on which I shall
obtain a conviction in this case. To-day I let it be known that it was
in my possession and the guilty man or woman understood at once the
value it would be to me. In order to gain additional clues I purposely
gave the impression that I had yet to analyze either the spots or the
trace of blood. I wanted the towel stolen, and for that purpose I
placed the bag containing it in a locker and left the locker unguarded.
I coated the towel with a substance which would cause discomfort and
alarm—itching salve—not with the idea that anyone would be foolish
enough to go about scratching before my eyes, but with the idea of
making that person believe that such was my purpose and with the idea
of driving him—or her—to washing his hands at once and, more, with
the idea of forcing him or scaring him into cleaning his fingernails.
"I succeeded. On one of these files or knife blades I have found and
identified the fibers of that towel. I do not yet know the person, but
I know the mark placed by Mackay on the outside of the little envelope,
and when I tell Mackay the mark he will name the guilty person."
"Mr. Kennedy!" Manton spoke up, impulsively, "every towel in the studio
is the same. I bought them all at the same time. The fibers would all
be alike. You have named seven people to me, including myself, as
possibly guilty of these—these murders. Your conclusions may be very
unjust—and may lead to a serious miscarriage of justice."
Kennedy was unperturbed. "This particular towel, in addition to the
itching salve, was thoroughly impregnated with a colorless chemical
which changed the composition of the fibers in a way easily
distinguishing them from the others under the microscope. Do you see,
The promoter had no more to say.
"Now what connection has the towel with the case? Simply this!" Kennedy
picked up one of the tiny pieces he had cut out of it. "The poison used
to kill Miss Lamar was snake venom." He paused while a little murmur
went through his audience, the first sound I had detected. "These spots
on the towel are antivenin. The venom itself is exceedingly dangerous
to handle. The guilty man—or woman—took no chances, but inoculated
himself with antivenin, protection against any chance action of the
poison. The marks on the towel are the marks made by the needle used by
that person in taking the inoculation.
"If you will follow me closely you will understand the significance of
this. Miss Lamar was killed by the scratch of a needle secreted in the
portieres through which she came, playing the scene in Mr. Phelps's
library. That I will prove to you when I show you the film. The night
following her death some one broke into the room there at Tarrytown and
removed the needle. In removing the needle that person scratched
himself, or herself. On the portieres I found some tiny spots of
blood." Kennedy paused to hold up the bit of heavy silk. "I analyzed
them and found that the blood serum had changed in character very
subtly. I demonstrated that the blood of the person who took the needle
contained antivenin, and if necessary I can prove the blood to come
from the same individual who wiped the needle on the towel in the
Kennedy pressed the button before him, twice. "Now I want you to see,
actually see Miss Lamar meet her death."
The lights went out, then the picture flashed on the screen before us,
revealing the gloom and mystery of the opening scene of "The Black
Terror." We saw the play of the flashlight, finally the fingers and
next the arm of Stella as she parted the curtains. In the close-up we
witnessed the repetition of her appearance, since the film was simply
spliced together, not "matched" or trimmed. Following came all the
action down to the point where she collapsed over the figure of Werner
on the floor. Before the camera man stopped, Manton rushed in and was
photographed bending over her.
Kennedy's voice was dramatically tense, for not one of us but had been
profoundly affected by the reproduction of the tragedy.
"Did you notice the terror in her face when she cried out? Was that
terror, really? If you were watching, you would have detected a slight
flinch as she brushed her arm up against the silk. For just a moment
she was not acting. It was pain, not pretended terror, which made her
scream. The devilish feature to this whole plot was the care taken to
cover just that thing-her inevitable exclamation. Now watch closely as
I signal the operator to run the same action from the other camera.
Notice the gradual effect of the poison, how she forces herself to keep
going without realization of the fact that death is at hand, how she
collapses finally through sheer inability to maintain her control of
herself a moment longer."
During the running of the second piece the tense silence in the room
was ghastly. Who was the guilty person? Who possessed such amazing
callousness that an exhibition of this sort brought no outcry?
"Now"—Kennedy glanced around in the dim light, switched on between the
running of the different strips—"I'm going to project the banquet
scenes and show you the manner of Werner's death."
Scene after scene of the banquet flashed before us. Here the cutter had
not been sure just what Kennedy wanted and had spliced up everything.
We saw the marvelous direction of Werner, who little realized that it
was to be his last few moments on earth, and we grasped the beauty and
illusion of the set caused by the mirrors and the man's skill in
placing his people. Yet there was not a sound, because we knew that
this was a tragedy, a grim episode in which there was no human
Werner rose at his place. He proposed his toast. He drank the contents
of his glass. Then, his expression changed to wonderment and from that
to fear and realization, and he dropped to the floor.
Kennedy's voice, interrupting, seemed to me to come from a great
distance, so powerfully was I affected by the bit of film.
"The poison used to kill Mr. Werner was botulin toxin, selected because
its effects could not be diagnosed as anything other than ordinary food
poisoning. When we look at the print from the second camera's negative
you will notice how quickly it acted. It was the pure toxin, placed in
his glass before the wine was poured."
Once more the unfortunate director's death was reproduced before us.
"Struck down," exclaimed Craig, "as though by some invisible lightning
bolt, without mercy, without a chance, without the slightest bit of
compunction! Why? I'll tell you. Because he suspected, in fact knew,
who the guilty person was. Because he followed that person out to
Tarrytown the night the needle was removed from the portieres. Because
he was a menace to that person's life!"
Kennedy turned to the operator. "Have those other scenes come down?"
"All right!" Kennedy faced the rest of us again. "There was, or rather
is, another person who suspects the identity of the criminal. To-day an
attempt was made upon the life of Shirley. Shirley will not tell whom
he suspects because he has no definite proof, yet for the mere fact
that he suspects he narrowly escaped the fate of Stella Lamar and
Werner." Kennedy pressed the button. "Witness the effort to kill the
man playing the part of the Black Terror."
The print was terribly bad, in appearance almost a "dupe," due to the
speed with which it had been made. Nevertheless the two very brief
scenes rushed through for this showing were more absorbingly thrilling,
more graphic than anything ever to be seen even in a news reel at a
"Notice!" Kennedy exclaimed. "He puts his hand in one pocket, he
fumbles, hesitates, then finds the bottle in the other. Whoever put the
poison in the vial replaced it in the wrong pocket. The film shows that
very clearly. The camera proves that it was not an attempt at suicide.
Yet the poison used was belladonna, selected because this victim had
purchased some and because it would seem sure, therefore, that he had
We sat in silence, listening, horrified.
"There is still another matter," Kennedy went on, after a moment. "The
fire in the negative vault this morning was incendiary. I have proved
to the satisfaction of several of us that a bomb was constructed of wet
phosphorus and old film and placed in the vault by trickery four days
ago, the same day Stella Lamar was killed. Through a miscalculation the
phosphorus was slow in drying and the fire did not occur until to-day.
Thanks to that fact I have in my possession a bit of negative which the
murderer very likely wished to have destroyed; in fact, I believe its
destruction to be the motive in planning the fire in the vault." He
faced the operator. "Ready to run the negative?"
Kennedy pressed the button and when the projection machine threw its
picture upon the screen I saw something such as I had never imagined
before. Everything was black which should have been white and
everything white which should have been black. The two extremes shaded
into each other in weird fashion. In fact it was uncanny to watch a
negative projected and I followed, fascinated.
"This is a film made with the co-operation of Doctor Nagoya of the
Castleton Institute and I am told by Mr. Manton that it is one of the
finest snake pictures ever made." Kennedy spoke fast, so that we would
get the full benefit of his explanation and so that it would not be
necessary to subject the negative to the wear and tear of the sprocket
wheels in the projection machine again. "I am running this for you to
show you the action of the rattlesnake, whose venom was used to kill
Miss Lamar, and to give you an idea of the source of the murderer's
knowledge of snake poison."
At this moment Doctor Nagoya, whom I could barely recognize in the
inverted photography, seized one of the rattlers. It was a close-up and
we could see the reptile dart out its forked tongue, seeking to get at
the hands of the Japanese, locked firmly about its neck. Then another
man walked into the picture, holding a jar. At once the snake struck at
the glass. As it did so it was possible to see drops of the venom
projected into the jar.
Other details followed and there were views of other sorts and breeds
of snakes, from the poisonous to the most harmless. The principal
scene, however, had been the one showing the venom.
The operator threw the switch again, stopping the film and at the same
time lighting the projection room. Kennedy stepped forward and turned
to face us.
"There was this negative in the vaults." He spoke rapidly. "It bore a
certain name on the film, as editor. Some one knew that proof of the
possession of this knowledge of snakes might prove a powerful link in
the chain against him. If that had been a positive instead of a
negative, you would have recognized Doctor Nagoya's 'assistant.' There
was a double motive in blowing that vault—to destroy the company and
to protect himself. In fact, all the rest of the negative was
destroyed. Only by chance I saved this piece—the very one that he
wanted to destroy."
Everyone waited breathlessly for Kennedy's next move. Suddenly Kennedy
flushed. I could see that he became genuinely angry.
"In this room," he exclaimed, "there sits the most unscrupulous,
cold-blooded, inhuman being I have ever known. Yet he maintains
silence, believing still that he can defy the scientific evidence of
his crimes. I have not yet mentioned, however, the real proof of his
Kennedy picked up one of the little envelopes, one which contained a
blood smear. "During the explosion this morning a number of you were
cut by falling glass. You will remember that I bound up your cuts,
carefully cleansing each one and wiping away the blood. That gave me a
sample of the blood of everyone but Miss Loring and Mr. Shirley.
Subsequently, without their knowledge, I obtained a sample from each of
them. Thus I have a specimen from everyone concerned, or possibly
concerned in the murders."
He glanced about, but even now there was no telltale revelation.
"I have analyzed these and one shows that the person from whom I
obtained the sample has been inoculated with antivenin. The mark on the
envelope is the same as the mark on the envelope containing the towel
fibers, a double proof. Furthermore, I am prepared to show that it is
the same blood as the blood upon the portiere." He faced me. All at
once his voice carried the sharpness of a whip. "Walter, relieve Mackay
at the door and take his weapon. Let no one out. Mackay, come here!"
An instant later the district attorney leaned over. He glanced at the
mark indicated by Kennedy, then whispered a name. The next instant
Kennedy rose. "I thought so," he muttered.
Raising his voice, he addressed all of us.
"Here is a man who thought crime so long that he believed he could get
away with—murder! Not only did he commit a second murder and plan a
third to cover the first, but he planted evidence against nearly all of
you. He dropped the ampulla in McGroarty's car to implicate any one of
four people. He coolly stole a cigarette case to put it where it would
be found after the film fire and clinch suspicion.
"For all this, what justification has he had? Jealousy, jealousy of the
narrowest, most primitive, sort actuated him. Not only was he willing
to kill Stella Lamar, but he sought to destroy every foot of negative
in which she had appeared. He was jealous of her success, greater than
his, jealous of her interest in other men, greater than her interest in
him. Her divorce was maneuvered directly by him simply because he
thought it would hurt and humiliate her, and for no other reason.
"When nothing seemed to stop her, on her upward climb, when he realized
that she was as ambitious as he was and that her position in the
picture world alone interested her, he sought by devious means, by
subtle schemes, by spreading dissatisfaction and encouraging
dissension, to wreck the company which had made her. At the end—he
killed her—waiting craftily until she was at the very climax of her
finest piece of work, the opening scenes of 'The Black Terror.'"
There was bitterness in Kennedy's tones. "Before, I would not believe
that a man—"
Suddenly the projection room was plunged into darkness. Some one had
pushed the wall switch close by me. I backed into the doorway, raising
my weapon to resist any attempt to escape.
Almost at the same instant there were the sounds of a struggle. Kennedy
had dashed forward in the darkness, sure of the position of his man,
A scream I recognized from the throat of Enid. I groped for the switch,
but the operator in the booth anticipated me. In the first burst of
illumination I saw that Kennedy had forced his antagonist back over the
front row of chairs. Almost I heard the crack of the man's spine.
I caught a glimpse of the man's face and gasped at the murderous rage
as he struggled and strove to break Kennedy's iron grip.
Enid was the first at Kennedy's side. With an expression I failed to
analyze until long afterward she sought to claw at the murderer's
unprotected features, twitching now in impotent fury.
"You wrote that note for her to meet you at the tearoom," Kennedy
muttered, eyes narrowing grimly, "knowing she would be dead before that
time. You protected yourself against the poisoned needle in the
portieres—but—your own blood convicts you—Millard!"