 CHAPTER XXII. 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 towards 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 McKay in a 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, McKay 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 added. Kennedy turned to me. You've got, in my pocket, I interrupted. Then rather breathlessly I repeated the conversation I had overheard. Good lord, McKay 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 McKay. Because I don't think he's guilty. At least Kennedy as always was cautious in his statements. Not so far as anything we know would indicate. But his anger at Stella I protested and Marilyn's remark. Miss Lamar's death was the result of a cool, unfeeling plan, not peak or anger. The same cruel, careful brain executed this second crime. McKay I saw was three quarters convinced by Kennedy. How do you account for the dialogue Jamieson overheard? He asked. Miss Loring told us that Shirley suspected someone 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 McKay. 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 competence 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, McKay murmured, picking up the food samples he had wrapped and crowding the bulky packet into his pocket. 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 that 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 it 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 in 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 a 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 McKay. Look, quick! Someone 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 saved 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? McKay 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. McKay 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 he had found it. Unquestionably, we had a sample of the actual wine quaffed by the unfortunate Werner. Related, 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 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 someone 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 the witnesses and in the care with which they recorded names and facts and made sure that no one had slipped away to avoid notoriety. The actors and actresses who had stood rather in awe of Kennedy, both here and in Kennedy's investigation in 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 a doctor. His glance, including McCain 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 dictionary. 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 pockets 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, Kennedy replied. 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 right. Still, there is 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 someone 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 McKay. Walter and I will have to hurry to the laboratory. Would you like to come along? 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 today, 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. Jamison 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 check. 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 I witnesses. The end of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 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 the 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 adoring to the stem of the broken champagne glass. The entire chemical procedure seemed to be incomprehensible to McKay, 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. He was doing 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, McKay 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 hour's lengthened, and when McKay grew tired of watching with intense admiration, he joined me in the patient consumption of innumerable cigarettes. 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 the test tube and turned to us. What is it? I asked. Some other poison is 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 Baccholus botulinus. Germs, McKay inquired. Kennedy shook his head. Not germs, but the pure toxin. The poison secreted by this baccholus. 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. Baccholus botulinus produces a toxin that is extremely virulent. Hardly more than a 10,000th of a cubic centimeter would kill a guinea pig. This was botulinus salt, the pure toxin, an alkaloid, just like that, which is formed in meat and other food products in cases of botulism. The idea might 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 hesitated. Kennedy paced up and down the laboratory several times in thought. To me, Walker, 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 Snape 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. Siffering from the 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 never appeared its discovery under ordinary circumstances, or its association with the girl's death. If someone 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 realise, 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 personnel, 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 without feeling or scruple. After the death of Miss Lamar, I was not so sure, but that the selection of the safe 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 realise 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 a 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 13th 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 crotallon which had killed Miss Lamar. But let us analyse the method used in slaying the director. If he had been Blackjack, 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, that might talk and give a description of his assailant, or even survive, much the same objections from the criminal standpoint, obtained 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 theme, fully aware of the potency of a tiny skin puncture, a 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 standpoint. It was invisible and assure in its action as the venom, also it was as rare and as difficult to trace. Or 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 analyse the stomach contents. That is why I say we are confronted by an arc scoundrel of highest intelligence and downright cleverness. More, Kennedy paused the emphasis. I realise now the presence of a grim, invisible menace. It has just now been driven home to me. The botulism, with its deadly paralyzing power, sealed Werner's tongue, even while he tried to tell me what he knew. McCay 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 someone else to carry out the actual killing. A hypothesis I do not take seriously. Or again he paused. This may be a case of someone with intelligence starting out upon his career of crime intelligently by reading up on his subject. It is simply to learn how to use crotchelin 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 that the average criminal is often clever, but almost never truly scientific. Unfortunately, we have to combat one who possesses the later 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? When it 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 soberly. Surely? Exactly. And there is still another possibility. What is that? Here in this laboratory I have blood spots made on the porters at the house of Phelps by the man who removed the needle. Possibly the unknown himself, possibly his or her agent. In any case, it is a clue and the only direct and infallible clue in the 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 him. I grew pale. You mean, then, that you may be attacked yourself, that even I, Kennedy, smiled unafraid. But from the expression in his eyes, I knew that he took the thought of our possible danger very seriously. End of chapter 23. CHAPTER 24 The Invisible Menace McKay and I exchanged glances. Kennedy busied himself putting away some of the more important bits of evidence in the case, placing 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. McKay had been fidgeting considerably since Kennedy's explanation of the possible danger to Shirley, as well as to ourselves or even to others. 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, McKay 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 a 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. Only everyone knows that no two men have the same markings, that the same man displays a pattern which is unchangeable 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 porchier by the man who took the needle the night following the murder. Next in importance is the fact, demonstrated by me, that someone 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 someone 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 porchier, 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 porchier, and much the easier to 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 narrowed the field of suspicion. Now that there is the menace of another attempt to take a life, I am forced to act. Tomorrow 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. Well, tonight 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 his 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 McKay. Manton? Phelps? suggested the district attorney. The promoter, Kennedy rejoined, is the typical man of the business world beneath the eccentricity of the manor which seems to cling to everyone in the picture field. Usually his type, thinking in millions of dollars and juggling nickel and diamond missions or other routine of commercial detail, is apart from the finer, subtle passions of life. When a businessman 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, McKay 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 businessman. 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 clearly his own. 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 hypothesis the use of venom and toxin is too cold-bloodily 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 makeup 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? McKay 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 has been speculating, not just now and then, but desperately, doggedly. Clever men speculate, but scientific men never. Our unknown criminal is both clever and intelligent. That brings you to the girls then, McKay 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 handy work of a man. But now the women are in everything. Young girls, particularly, he shrugged his shoulders. McKay had one more suggestion. The cameramen, the extras, the technical and studio staffs—they are not worthy of consideration, are they? Kennedy shook his head. The odor of coffee struck my nostrils and I turned to find the percolators steaming. Kennedy leaned over to take a whiff. McKay 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 everything. 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 evidence. For once I rose with Kennedy. He proceeded me to the laboratory after breakfast, however, leaving me to wait for McKay. When the little district attorney arrived, I noticed that he carried a package which looked as though it might contain a one real 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 today. 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 marshalling the evidence, or maybe betray himself by some scientific device. It's wonderful, McKay. And do you think he planned something of this 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 evidence of Stella's death, the scene where she scratched herself. Let's hurry, I interrupted. When we entered the laboratory, we found Kennedy vigorously fanning a towel which he'd hung up to draw. I recognized it as the one I had discovered in the studio washroom immediately following the murder. This will serve me better as bait than as evidence, he laughed. I have impregnated it with a colourless chemical that will cling to the fibres 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're there into the cloths. 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 colour. 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, Sav Walter. The cuticle pads at your fingertips 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 all over again. At the base, I thought I'd 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 was unnecessary to reply to me. Why couldn't you just put it somewhere without all the preparation? I think I suggested. And watch to see who came after it. Because our criminals too clever, Kennedy rejoined, our only chance to get it stolen is to make it very plain that he is not being watched. Whoever steals it, however, possibly will reveal himself on account of the itching, Sav. In any case, I expect to be able to trace the towel to the thief no matter what efforts are made to destroy it. A 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 roadstone, we soon were speeding towards the studio. Will you be able to help me to stay with Jamison 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 and thought. The film you brought in with you consists of a scene on the rolls of a 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 surfaces of a cutter and for the delivery to me of any negative or positive overlooked by us when we have 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 the 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 and tangible 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 gate men eyed us with undisguised uneasiness as we drove through the archway into the yard. In that enclosure there were only two cars, mountains, and the 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 a cough 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 it 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 thought. 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 joint improper sequence. Then Mr. Cough, if you could arrange to have the same cut and take the film exposed yesterday with Mr. Werner, you think you might be able to see something to discover something on the screen. Exactly, Cough 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 will be able to fix you up very quickly. Good, Kennedy nodded to Mackay and the district attorney hurried off with Cough. Now, Walter, he exclaimed, sobering. I picked up the travelling bag and together we strolled toward the ballroom set. There, most of the players were gathered already in makeup and evening clothes of a fancier sort even than those demanded for the banquet. I saw that Kennedy singled out a marion. Good morning, she said cheerfully, but with effort. It was obvious she had spent a nervous night with her circles under her eyes ill-concealed by the small quantity of cosmetics she used. Her hands, shifting constantly, displayed the loss of her usual poise. You're 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 odd voice in one of the studio washrooms. It has been, it has been in the washroom ever since poor Stella's death. 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 Fay, 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 through and through. Has the wonderful Craig Kennedy discovered something? It was not sarcasm that 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 threw herself up and her eyes narrowed. Now she faced Kennedy. How can the towel be a clue to the crime, she protested. Stella was murdered way out in Tarrytown. Mr. Jameson found the towel here. Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. I can't tell you that just yet. He paused deliberately. You see, he lied, I have yet to make my analysis. 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 someone 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 chemical analysis. One by one, 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 cameraman, and his associate. Lawrence Millard came in and hastened to the side of Enid. As he drew her way to ask the cause of the gathering, I wondered at his early presence. The scenario writer was typical of them all, a 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. Disdating to join the other group, he approached us to ask the cause for the excitement. A 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, and stopped as if realizing suddenly the inadvisability of vague accusations. Don't you want to see 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 especially delegated to obtain this information. I wondered how Kennedy would evade a direct answer. To my surprise, he made no attempt to conceal it. The one on the second floor of the office building. Millard laughed. That puts it on myself for the big boss. 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 side of the big enclosure. Good morning, the promoter explained, somewhat breathless. I just learned you were here. 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 and early. A shadow crept into Manton's face. It seems almost as cold-blooded 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 sobed a bit at his superior's confusion. I have a 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 locking 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. Oh, Millard, go over and tell Koff 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 question with great care. Do you ever use snakes in films, Mr. Manton? He asked. I know. The promoter stopped in his surprise. That is not if we ever can help it. I mean, the censorship won't pass anything with snakes. You have used them though. Yes, 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 cooperation and supervision of the greatest authority on poisonous snakes in the country, Dr. Nagoya of Castleton Institute. End of chapter 25, read by Lisa Wilson, www.lisawilson-voices.com Chapter 26 of the film mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The film mystery by Arthur B. Reeve. Chapter 26, A Cigarette Case. Kennedy's face betrayed only a remote interest. Have you any copies of that particular film? Just a negative, I believe. Could I have that for a few days? Of course. Manton seemed to wish to give us every possible amount of cooperation. Yet this request puzzled him. Would you care to go down to the negative vaults with me? Kennedy nodded. 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 a 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-ceiling 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, et cetera, we have located them in the most distant quarter 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 a redoubled force as we made our way around 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 airspace 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 boy. Where's Wagnall's demanded Manton? He went out, sir, the boy replied respectfully enough, said he would be right back and for me to watch and not let anything get out. 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 200 foot pieces at a time or approximate fifths of a reel, the size of a roll of raw positive film stock. Then, whenever there's a changing color as from amber day 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 real lengths and so are kept in the round boxes in which they were shipped. 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 large. This was a split reel the promoter began. It was approximately 400 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 slapstick. We never made money on it. But this stuff was mighty good, Mr. Kennedy. We practically wrote a scenario for those reptiles. Dr. 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? All together I think. The little jab 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 finished lamely. I may keep these for a little bit, Kennedy asked. Of course, I can have the two rolls printed and developed 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 Dr. 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 Crow Talon 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 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 McKay, 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 loss. 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 Wagnos went? 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 the door was open. And then, if there'd been a fire, 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 guess that Kennedy simply had wished to cover the carelessness of the vault man and leaving the inner doors wide open. At the entrance which had first admitted us to the negative room, however, Kennedy stooped suddenly. In the very moment he bent forward, I caught the glint of something bright behind the heavy steel door and in the shadows 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 vault, 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 a quirk-tipped stub of a cigarette. At this instant, Manton returned, breathing hard, as though his pursuit of the missing waggles 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 here on the floor. A devil, Manton flushed red. This is no place to smoke. By all the wives of Goodwin and all the stars of Griffin, 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 Waggles if he opens them before he sees me, I'll commit battery on his nose. Kennedy continued to hold the stub and as Manton proceeded 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, McKay was waiting for us. Under his arm was a reel of film in a can. He clutched it almost fondly. Already, 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 locker. 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 a bit of metal into the lock, then simulated surprise very well indeed. The lock is broken, he exclaimed. Someone has been here. Apparently the travel 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 watchin' and help you get to the bottom of this? McKay, 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 was a dainty job. The end of Chapter 26. Read by Brian Hoos. Chapter 27 of the film Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, reading by Lisa Wilson. The film Mystery by Arthur B. Reeve. Chapter 27, The Film Fire. The bag lay open at my feet. Microscope and other paraphernalia brought by Kennedy were untouched. Taking the film from McKay 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 in return. How about the itching serve? 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'd thrown out without examining it so as to see what tell-tale 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 to follow and observe us. Then, 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? Ask Mackay. Walter and I found a cigarette case belonging to Jack Gordon in the basement. Also, a butt smoked three quarters 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 seemed to sense something wrong. Good heavens, Craig, I interposed. You don't attach any importance to the fact that these doors were open. Walter, in a case of real mystery, the slightest derangement of matters of ordinary routine is 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 makeup. Koff 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 cameraman in evidence. With Gordon was Eamon. 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 the principles. She was pacing up and down, glancing about in frantic 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 of water. And both Manton and Phelps were in evidence, and decidedly so I imagined from the viewpoint of poor Koff. 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 pouring over the manuscript, perched upon a chair the wrong way so that its back would serve as a desk, engaged visibly in making changes here and there in the pages of the 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 actions sprang to life in the interpretation of players and director. At any rate, his hand 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's missing, observed the district attorney in an undertone. Kennedy faced me, give the bag to Mackaywater. 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 men's dressing room pointed out to us by some employee passing through the hall was empty. I led the way into Maryland'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 doubted to stand 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 really is a cause for suspicion, isn't it? No, Walter, think a bit. We were crossing the yard and not so apt to be overheard. Granting that Gordon actually had been down there, why should that 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 Dr. 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. Anyone could have heard the mention of the snake film. Kennedy frowned. I believe you're right, Walter. Or is it possible that the guilty person believed that the scenes taken out at Territown 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? Is it 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 realize that I might guess the existence of a film showing snakes and suggesting the use of venom. 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 the stairs 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. What then? 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 before. 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 someone acted between the time I asked Matan about the snake film and the moment we arrived in the basement to get it, that someone 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 amazed to me just now, I agreed. We made our way up 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 scare. 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 the gesture from the chauffeur of a car standing nearby and recognized McGrawty, the driver who'd found the ampoule 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 McGrawty, the chauffeur has found the little bottle? Kennedy nodded. Well, I say this to myself, I ought to tell you but I don't like to because it might mean nothing, you know? It might prove very valuable, McGrawty. Kennedy wanted to encourage him. Well, I've been sitting here for an hour, I guess. One of the other directors is going out today and his people are late and so am I. Well, I don't like the way the heavy man, Mr. Werner, had... Shirley? Murrell? 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 20 minutes or more. I guess he's gone in and out of that basement a dozen times. I say 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, McGrawty. As I said before, I won't forget you. Now what, I ask, 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 the Kennedy should stop now to make a careful search, but he seemed anxious to compare notes with the District Attorney. Nothing here, reported Mackay. Shirley has met 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 gone more or less out of their heads as a result of these two tragedies. Look, he pointed. When you left me, Phelps and Mantum 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 chaplain comedy. I was compelled to smile, although I knew that this was not uncommon in pictures studios. Mantum, Phelps, Millard and Corf were in the center of the group all talking at once. Clustered about, I saw Enid and Gordon, both cameramen, and a mini tour mob of extra people. But, as I looked, little Corf seemed to come to the edge of his patience. In an instant or two, he demonstrated real generalship, shutting up Mantum and the banker and Millard with a grin. But with sharp words and a quick gesture which showed that he meant it. He called the others gathered about, clearing a set of all, but Enid and Gordon. He sent the cameramen to their places, then confronted Phelps and Mantum and the scenario writer once more. We could not hear his words, but could see that he was asserting himself. He was forcing a decision so that he could proceed with his work. This seemed interesting to me. I remembered my success in my visit to Werner's apartment when I had assayed 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's right here where you can, at that instant, a deafening explosion shook the studio in every building about the quadrangle, the sound echoing and re-echoing with the sharpness of a terrifying thunderclap. Mixed with the reverberations which were intensified by the high arch of the studio roof, with the screams of women in the frightened calls of men, following immediately upon the first roar with the muffled sounds of additional explosions, persisting for a matter of 10 to 15 seconds. 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 slapstick. One entire side of the banquet set, luckily unoccupied, fell inward, and I caught the sound as the dainty, cold chairs and fragile tables snapped and were crushed as so much kindling wood. 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 centre of the ballroom set came a perfect hail storm 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 telephone for a doctor and 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 realised 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, hurried and gave me some envelopes and some sheet 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 felts, millard and cough and enid, Gordon, the two cameramen and a scene shifter. I smiled at myself. Meanwhile, a bitter, acrid odor penetrated through the windows into every part of the structure, the odor of burning film and 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 gold 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 said, will I be unable to act before the camera anymore? He reassured her. In the case of millard who had several bad scalp wounds, he advised a trip to the 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 pointed glass had penetrated deep in his shoulder and another piece had gashed him across the forehead. 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 looked at it. As he straightened, his eyes narrowed. Now for surely, he muttered. And Marilyn, I added. End of Chapter 27. Read by Lisa Wilson. www.LisaWilson-voices.com Chapter 28 of the film mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The film mystery by Arthur B. Reeve. Chapter 28. 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 smoldering film. The studio fire equipment seemed to be very complete. There was water at high pressure from a tank elevated some 20 to 30 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 proponent was in direct charge of the firefighters and that he moved about with a zeal and 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 in questionably 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 papers. 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. McKay, who had remained behind to protect the bag from the heat, joined us there. I've put the bag in charge of that show firm, a grorty, 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 safe? I had waggles 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 McKay 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 couldn't drag him to the steps. I had to pull him back where you found us. She began to tremble. It was terrible. Was there anyone else about? Anyone but Mr. Shirley? No, I remember I wondered about the vault man. What was Mr. Shirley down there for Ms. Loring? He, she hesitated. He said he had seen someone hanging around and he didn't want to report anything until he was sure. He thought he could accomplish more by himself, although I told him he was wrong. Whom did he see hanging around? He wouldn't tell me. Shirley was too weak to question and the girl was too unstrung to stand further interrogation. In response to Manton's calls, several people came up and willingly helped the two toward the comfort of their dressing rooms. 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 in the wall. There was no mistaking the conclusion. The negative vault was hot, the others cold. The devil, Manton exclaimed. A deep poignancy in his voice made the expression childishly inadequate. Why couldn't it have been the prince? 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 dollars. If you have positives, Kennedy asked, can't you make new negatives? Dupes? Manton looked up and scorned. Did you ever see a print from a dupe negative? It's terrible. Looks like someone left it out in the wet overnight. How about the black terror, I inquired. All of that's in the safe in the printing room. That and the two current five realers of the other two 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 an attempt at concealment. It was something new to question. 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 mirrors 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, Wagnall's 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 conflagration. Manton regained control of himself in time to be one of the first to enter. McKay held back, but the fire chief, the promoter, Kennedy and myself fashioned impromptu gas masks 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 into extinguish the fire had preserved them to that extent. All at once, Kennedy nudged the fire chief. Put out your torch, he directed sharply. 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 everything. Kennedy's keen eye had caught the hint of it while the electric torch had been flashed into some corner away for a moment. Radiom, 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 waggles 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 the 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 said no one was near. He, Waggles, 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 worked until after midnight the night before, I had to open up early and so I figured I would 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 words? Waggles' 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, Waggles shook his head. I've put nothing away or give nothing out except on written order for 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's special. Holy Jehoza fat interrupted Waggles. I'd forgotten. He faced Manton. Remember that can of undeveloped stuff? A 200 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 someone 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 rack. 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 candy, you waggles, he insisted. It was your writing, sir. Kennedy rose. What did you do with orders like that, such as the one you claimed 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 paper 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, Waggles scratched his head. Next to the top, he replied in a moment. Miss Lamar's death upset everything. Only one order came down that day. With extreme care, Kennedy took his knife and lifted the ashy flakes of the top order. Get me some collody on somebody, he exclaimed. Waggles 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 into Occupy a part of the space. Film is exceedingly inflammable, especially when old and brittle. In composition, it is practically gun-cotton 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 figured 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, it would soften, might possibly fall off. In a relatively short time, the phosphorus would dry and burn. Immediately, the film and 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. McKay had rejoined us in time to hear the explanation. Ingenious, he murmured, as ingenious as the methods used to murder the girl and her director. Breathless, Wagnall's 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. Wagnall said, 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's my writing all right, and my signature, but it's a forgery. The end of Chapter XXVIII. CHAPTER XXIX. OF THE FILM MYSTERY. CHAPTER XXIX. 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 excitement. 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. McKay went to McGroority'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 when he confided in a low voice. I still 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. Surely I saw close to the cameraman 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 done his carnival clothes nor essay to put on a makeup. Enid Faye, the only one in sight whose spirit 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 wonder if Belladonna wouldn't brighten them up a bit and, well, get you by for today. I'll go out and get some lunch, he smiled wiggly. I'll try anything once. That's the spirit. She patted him on the shoulder then danced on into the center of the set, stopping to direct some barb remarks at Marilyn. Kauff 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 gather 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 makeup 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 that 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 took it. Suddenly, I realized that Kennedy was following a very definite procedure that his seeming indifference, his apparent idle curiosity concerning 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 hangnail? 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. Sometime 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 McKay 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. Kauff'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 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 McKay and the bag we stole to the dressing rooms waiting until sure that everyone was downstairs. In Eden's chamber Kennedy glanced about carefully but swiftly. When nothing caught his attention he picked up her little fingernail file gingerly from the blunt end slipping it into one of the little envelopes which McKay held open. There upon 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 fingernail file handled in the same manner as before. Then we entered Maryland'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 McKay abstracted the usual file I discovered some bits of tissue paper used in shaving. There was cake soap left dry just as it had been wiped from the razor. More there was a blood stain of fair size. Here's your smear Kennedy I exclaimed. Good, fine. He faced McKay. Now I just lack one thing a sample of the blood of Miss Loring. Is that all? The district attorney brightened. Let me try to get it. I'll manage 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 fingernail files. If I obtain results by both methods and they agree I'll learn armed with double-barreled evidence. Meanwhile, McKay, you get a smear for Miss Loring and follow us to the laboratory. I'll coax McGrory to drive us down so you'll have your car and you can bring us back. The district attorney nodded. Me for McCanns, he muttered. That's where she went to eat. He rushed off eagerly. Kennedy had no difficulty persuading McGrory to put his particular studio car at our disposal or from the director who had called him. In a very brief space of time we were at the laboratory. You expect to find the blood of one of those people showing traces of the antivenom? I grasped Kennedy's method of procedure that 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 would have 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 the portiers. Exactly. He answered me rather absently, being concerned in setting out the apparatus he would need for a hasty series of tests. Will the antivenom 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've paced up and down several times. The fingernail file should show a trace of the itching sav. Is that correct, Craig? For a moment he didn't answer. As his mind was upon his paraphernalia, then he straightened. Hardly, Walter, the sav is soluble in water. What I shall find, if anything, is some of the fibers of the towel. You see, a person's fingernails 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 fingernail file. I impregnated the towel with that chemical so I would be able to identify the fibers positively. The use of the itching sav was unnecessary. A quizzical smile crept across Kennedy's face. Did you think I expected someone 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 a 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 sav 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 fingernails. 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 that could borrow and examine under a microscope. 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 and seemed to anticipate his results. McCabe burst in upon us very elated and produced a handkerchief with a bit of blood on it. I scratched her deliberately with a sharp point of my ring he chuckled. I found her in the restaurant and the seat beside her was empty. 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 McCabe into the corner. As the minutes sped by and Craig worked in absorbed concentration McCabe grew more and more impatient to get back to the studio. Did you find anything? repeated McCabe 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 opened 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 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. McCabe was bursting with impatience but Craig still refused to betray his suspicions. 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 McCabe 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 McCabe cut short his hopeless quizzing as Craig nodded to me to carry the bag.