 CHAPTER XV I BECOME A DETECTIVE Even as it was to watch Enid and Marilyn, Werner, and the rest, Kennedy decided that it was now much more important to hold to his expressed purpose of returning to the laboratory with our trophies of the day's crime hunt. For people to whom emotion ought to be an old story in their everyday stage life, I must say they feel and show plenty of it in real life, I remarked, as Enid set us down and drove off. It does not seem to Paul. I don't know why the movie people buy stories, remarked Quag, quaintly. They don't need to do it, they live them. When we were settled in the laboratory once more, Kennedy plunged with renewed vigor into the investigation he had dropped in the morning in order to make the hurried trip to the Phelps home in Tarrytown. I had hoped he would talk further of the probabilities of the connection of the various people with the crime, but he had no comment, even upon the admission of Enid, that she had known Millard for a period long and to dating the trouble with Stella Lamar. It seemed that, after all, he was quite excited at the discovery of the ampule and was anxious to begin the analysis of its scale-like contents. I was not sure, but it struck me that this might be the same substance which had spotted the towel or the porters. If that were so, the finding of it in this form had given him a new and tangible clue to its nature, accounting for his eagerness. I watched his elaborate and thorough preparations, wishing I could be of assistance, but knowing the limitations of my own chemical and bacteriological knowledge. I grasped, however, that he was concentrating his study upon the spots he had cut from the porters, in particular the stain where the point of the needle had been, and upon the incrustations of the inner surface of the tube. He made solutions of both of these and for some little time experimented with chemical reactions. Then he had recourse to several weighty technical books. Though bursting with curiosity, I dared not question him nor distract him in any way. Finally he turned to a cage where he kept on hand, always, a few of those useful martyrs to science, guinea pigs. Taking one of the little animals and segregating him from the others, he prepared to inoculate him with a tiny bit of the solution made from the stain on the piece cut from the portier. At that I knew it would be a long and tiresome analysis. It seemed a waste of time to wait idly for Kennedy to reach his conclusions, so I cast about in my mind for some sort of inquiry of my own which I could conduct meanwhile, perhaps collecting additional facts about those we were watching at the studio. Somehow I could not wholly lose my suspicions of the director, Werner, especially now as I marshaled the evidence against him. First of all he was the only person absolutely in control of the movements of Stella Lamar. If she did not bring up her arm against the curtains in a manner calculated to press the needle against her flesh, it certainly would not seem out of the way for him to ask her to do it over again or even for him to direct changes in her position. This he could do either in rehearsal or in retakes after the scene had actually been photographed. It was not proof, I knew, practically all of them were familiar with the action of the scene, could guess how Werner would handle it. The point was that the director, next to Millard, was the most thoroughly conversant with the scenes in the script, had to figure out everything down to the very location and angles of the camera. Another matter, of course, was the placing of the needle in the silk. For that purpose someone had to go to Tarretown ahead of the others, or at least had to proceed the others into the living-room. At hand I was compelled to admit that this was easiest for Phelps, Phelps, the man who had insisted that the scenes be taken in his library. At the same time I knew it was quite possible for the director to have entered ahead of anyone else, possible for him to have issued orders to his people which would keep them out of the way for the brief moment he needed. A third consideration was the finding of the ampulla in McGrawarty's car. Stella, Marilyn, Jack Gordon, Merle Shirley, and Werner had ridden out together. Werner had not returned. While this fact did not indicate definitely that he might have dropped it, coupled with the other considerations it pointed the suspicion of guilt at the director. Then there was the finding of the towel in the washroom of the office building at the studio. While Kennedy now said it was not used to wipe the needle, while we now knew that the needle remained in the portiers from the morning of Stella's death until late that night, yet Kennedy affirmed the connection of the towel with the crime in some subtle way. It was true that members of the cast sometimes used the washroom, yet it was evident that Manton, Millard, and Werner, who had rooms on the floor, were the more apt to be concerned in the attempt to dispose of it. Against Manton I could see no real grounds for suspicion. In a general way we had been compelled to eliminate Millard early in our investigation. Again I was brought, in this analysis of the mystery, to Werner. One other point remained the identity of the nocturnal visitor to Tarrytown. In connection with that I remembered the remark of Marilyn. Werner was acting as he always acted when he was out late the night before, she had said. While my theories offered no explanation of the second man, the watcher, I saw, with an inner feeling of triumph, that everything again pointed to the director. I determined not to tell my conclusion to Kennedy yet. I did not want to distract him, besides I felt he would disagree. What do you think of this, Craig? I suggested. Suppose I start out while you're busy, and try to dig up some more facts about these people. Excellent was his reply. I can't say how much longer my analysis will keep me. By all means do so, Walter. I shall be here, or if not I'll leave a note so you can find me. Accordingly I took up my search, determined to go slowly and carefully, not to be misled by any promising but fallacious clues. I knew that Werner would be working at the studio from all we had heard in the morning. I determined upon a visit to his apartment and his absence. From the telephone book I discovered that he lived at the Whistler Studios, not far from Central Park on the Middle West Side, a new building I remembered, inhabited almost entirely by artists and writers. As I hurried down on the subway, then turned and walked east toward the park, I racked my brain for an excuse to get in. Entering the lower reception hall, I learned from the boy that the director had a suite on the top floor, high enough to look over the roofs of the adjoining buildings directly into the wide expanse of green and road, of pond and trees beyond. Mr. Werner isn't in, though, the boy added, doubtfully, without bringing the apartment. I know it, I rejoined hastily. I told him I'd meet him here this afternoon, however. On a chance I went on with a knowing smile. I guess it was pretty late when he came in last night. I'll say so, grinned the youth, friendly all of a sudden. He had interpreted the remark, as I intended he should. He believed that Werner and I had been out together. I remember, he volunteered, because I had to do an extra shift of duty last night, worse luck. It must have been after four o'clock. I was almost asleep when I heard the taxi at the door. I wonder what company he got the taxi from, I remarked, casually. I tried to get one uptown. I paused. I didn't want to get into a maze of falsehood, from which I would be unable to extricate myself. I don't know, he replied. It looked like one of the maroon taxis from up at the Central Park Hotel on the next block, but I'm not sure. I think I won't go upstairs yet, I said finally. There's another call I ought to make. If Mr. Werner comes in, tell him I'll be back. I knew very well that Werner would not return, but I thought that the bluff might pave the way for getting upstairs and into the apartment a little later. Meanwhile I had another errand. The boy nodded at good-bye as I passed out through the grilled iron doors to the street. Less than five minutes afterward I was at the booth of the maroon taxi company at the side of the main entrance of the Central Park Hotel. Here the starter proved to be a loquacious individual and I caught him, fortunately, in the slowest part of the afternoon. Removing a pipe and pushing a battered cap to the back of a bald head, he pulled out the sheets of the previous day. Before me were recorded all the calls for taxicab service, with the names of drivers, addresses of calls, and destinations. Although the quarters in the booth were cramped and close, and made villainous by the reek of the man's pipe, I began to scan the lists eagerly. It had been a busy night, even down to the small hours of the morning, and I had quite a job. As I came nearer and nearer to the end, my hopes ebbed, however. When I was through I had failed to identify a single call that might have been Werner's. Local fares had been driven to and from the Grand Central Station, probably the means by which he made the trip to Tarrytown. In each case the record had shown the Central Park Hotel in the other column, not the Whistler's Studios. I was forced to give up this clue, and it hurt. I was not built for a detective, I guess, for I almost quit then and there, prepared to return to the laboratory and Kennedy. But I remembered my first intention, and made my way back to the Whistler's Studios. Anyhow, I reflected, Werner would hardly have summoned a car from a place so near his home had he wished to keep his trip a secret. It was more important for me to gain access to his quarters. There it was quite possible I might find something valuable. I wondered if I would be justified in breaking in, or if I would succeed if I attempted it. Things proved easier than I expected. My first visit unquestionably had prepared the way. The hallboy took me up in the elevator himself without telephoning, took me to Werner's door, rang the bell, and spoke to the colored valet who opened it. As I grasped the presence of the servant in the little suite, I was glad I had not tried my hand at forcing an entrance. I had quite anticipated an empty apartment. The darky, pleasant voice, polite, and well-trained, bowed me into a little den and proceeded to lay out a large box of cigarettes on the table beside me, as well as a humidor well filled with cigars of good quality. I took one of the latter, accepting a light and glassing about. Certainly this was in contrast with Manton's apartment. There was nothing garish or nate or spectacular here. Richly lavishly furnished, everything was in perfect taste, revealing the hand of an artist. It might have been a bit bizarre, reflecting the nervous temperament of its owner. Even the servant showed the touch of his master, hovering about to make sure I was comfortable, even to bringing a stack of the latest magazines. I hoped he didn't sense my thoughts, for I cursed him inwardly. I wanted to be alone. Ordinarily I would have enjoyed this, but now I had become a detective, and it was necessary to rummage about, and quickly. The sudden ringing of the telephone took the valet out into the tiny hall of the suite, and gave me the opportunity I wished. Phelps apparently was calling up to leave some message for Werner, which I could not get, as the valet took it. What I wondered was Phelps' telephoning here for. Why not at the studio? It looked strange. I lost no time in speculation over that, however. The moment I was left to myself, I jumped up and rushed to a riding-desk, a carved antique which had caught my eye upon my entrance, which I had studied from my place in the easy chair. It was unlocked, and I opened it without compunction. With an alert ear to warn me the moment the colored boy hung up, I first gazed rather helplessly at a huge pile of literary litter. Suddenly there was no time to go through all of that. I gave the papers a cursory inspection, without disturbing them, hoping to catch some name or something which might prove to be a random clue, but I was less lucky than Kennedy had been in his casual look at Manton's Desk the afternoon before. Still able to hear the valet at the telephone, I reached down and opened the top door of the desk. Here perhaps I might be more fortunate. One glance and my heart gave a startled leap. There in a compartment of the drawer I saw a hypodermic needle, in fact two of them, and a bottle. On the desk was a fountain pen ink dropper, a new one which had never been used. I reached over, pressed its little bulb, uncorked the bottle, inserted it the glass point, sucked up some of the contents, placed the bulb right side up in my waistcoat pocket, and recorked the bottle. Next I took and pocketed one of the two needles, both of which were alike as far as I could see. Then I heard a goodbye in the hall. I closed the drawer and desk hastily, as I caught the click of the receiver of the telephone on its hook, I was halfway across the floor. Before the colored boy could enter again, I was back in my chair, my head literally in a whirl. What a stroke of good fortune! I had no expectation of proving Werner to be the guilty man, by so simple a method as this, however. If he were the slayer of the star, he would be too clever to leave anything so incriminating about. I have always quarreled with post-theory in the perloined letter, believing that the obvious is no place to hide anything outside of fiction. What I conceived, rather, was that Werner really was a dope fiend. The nature of the drug Kennedy would tell me very easily from the sample. Establishing Werner's possession of the needles was another point in my chain of presumptions, showing that he was familiar with their use. And added to that was the psychological effect upon him of the habit, a habit responsible in many other cases for murders, as skillfully carried out as that of Stella Lamar, often too without the slightest shred of real motive. I recalled Werner's habitually nervous manner, and was sure now that the needles actually were used by him. Was it due to the high pressure of his profession? Had that constant high tension forced him to find relief in the most violent relaxation? Elated, I was tempted at first to crowd my luck. I wondered if I could not discover another ampule, such as the chauffeur, Majority, had picked up in his car. When Werner's servant, almost apologetically, explained that the telephone message was from a nearby shop, and that he would have to leave me for a matter of ten or fifteen minutes, I assured him that it was all right and that I would occupy myself with the magazine. The moment he was out the door, I sprang to action and began a minute search of every nook and cranny of the rooms. But gradually a sense of growing fear and trepidation took hold of me. Because after all, Werner should return home unexpectedly. The colored boy did not seem surprised that I should wait—a slight indication that it was possible. Further, I could never tell when the Darkie might not return himself, breaking in upon me without warning and discovering me. At the best I was not a skillful investigator. I did not know just where to look for hidden evidences of poison, nor was I able to work fast, for fear of leaving two tangible marks of my actions behind me. A great perspiration stood out on my forehead. Gradually a trembling took hold of my limbs and communicated itself to my fingers. After all it was essential that Werner be kept in ignorance of my suspicions, granting they were correct. It would be fatal if I should frighten him inadvertently, so that he would take to flight. Realizing my foolhardiness, I returned to my chair at last, picking up a magazine at random. I did so not a moment too soon. A slight sound caught my ear, and I looked up to see the valet already half way into the room. His tread was so soft I never would have heard him. I don't think I'll wait any longer. I remarked, rising and stretching slightly as though I had been seated all the time. I'll ring up a little later, perhaps come back after I get in touch with Mr. Werner. Who shall I say was here, sir? The boy asked, with just a trace of darky dialect. Above all I didn't want to alarm Werner. I could not repeat the explanation I had allowed the attendant downstairs to assume from my remark, that I was a friend who had been out with the director the night before. I should have to take a chance that Werner's servant and the haul-boy would not compare notes, and that the latter would say nothing to the director upon his arrival. I'm an old friend from the coast, I explained, with the show of taking the negro into my confidence. I wanted to surprise him, and so I slipped a half-dollar into a willing palm. If you'll say nothing until I've seen him. He beamed. Yes, sir, you just count on George, sir. Downstairs I wondered if I could seal the tongue of the youth who had accommodated me before. Then I discovered that he had gone off duty. It would be extremely unlikely that he would be about until the following day. I smiled and hastened out to the street. Once in the open air again I realized the full extent of the risk I had taken. All at once it struck me that no amount of explanation from either Kennedy or myself would serve to mollify Werner if he were innocent and learned of my visit. I doubted, in this moment of afterthought, that I would escape censure from Kennedy, who surely would not want his case jeopardized by precipitate actions upon my part. I began to run to get away from the Whistler Studios as fast as possible. Then I saw I had grown panicky, and I checked myself. But I hurried to the subway and up to the university again and to the laboratory, eager to compare notes with Kennedy. If I were Alphonse Dupain, he remarked, calmly, grasping my excitement, I would deduce that you have discovered something. I would also deduce that you believe it important, and that you have no intention of withholding the information from me, whatever it is. Correct! I answered grinning in spite of myself. Then I handed him the needle, telling him in a few brief words of my visit to Werner's apartment, of the hallboy's confirmation of a nocturnal trip of some sort, of my search of the desk, and some other parts of the suite. I fixed it so that he won't hear of my visit, at least for some time. He won't suspect who it was, in any case. Kennedy examined the hypodermic. Not like the one used, he murmured. I thought that, I explained. It simply indicates he is a dope fiend, and is familiar with the use of a needle. Here! I produced the ink filler which I had used to bring a sample of the contents of the bottle. This seems to be what he uses. What is it? Kennedy sniffed, then looked closely at the liquid through the glass of the tube. It's a coca-preparation, he explained. If Werner uses this, he's unquestionably a regular drug addict. Well, I paused triumphantly. The case against the chief director of Manton Pictures grows stronger all the time. Not necessarily, contradicted Kennedy, perhaps to draw me out. He's familiar with the hypodermic's ringes, I repeated. Which doesn't prove that no one else would use one. Anyhow, he was out until 4 a.m. last night, and someone broke into Phelps's house to—you can't establish the fact that he went out there. There are plenty of other places he could have been until 4 in the morning. But I can assume, if you are going to assume anything, Walter, why not assume he was the second man, the man who watched the actual intruder? I turned away, despairing of my ability to convince Kennedy. As a matter of fact, I had forgotten the other parlor at Tarrytown. Then I noticed that the one guinea pig in the separate cage was dead. In an instant I was all curiosity to know the results of Kennedy's investigations. Did you make any progress? I asked. Yes. Now I noticed for the first time that he was in fine humor. I had quite finished the first stage of my analysis when you came in. Then what was it? What was the poison that killed Stella Lamar? I glanced at the stiff, prone figure of the little animal. Kennedy cleared his throat. Well, he replied, I began the study with the discovery I made, which I told you, that strange proteins were present. He picked up the ampula and regarded it thoughtfully. Then he fingered the bit of silk cut from the porters. It is a poison more deadly, more subtle, than any ever concocted by man, Walter. Yes, I was painfully eager. It is Snake Venom. End of Chapter 15 CHAPTER 16 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 Chris Jones. The Film Mystery by Arthur B. Reeve. CHAPTER 16 END ASSIST. A poison more subtle than any concocted by man, repeated Kennedy. It was a startling declaration, and left me quite speechless for the moment. We know next to nothing of the composition of the protein bodies in the Snake Venoms, which have such terrific and quick physiological effects on man, Kennedy went on. They have been studied, it is true, and studied a great deal. But we cannot say that there are any adequate tests by which the presence of these proteins can be recognized. However, everything points to the conclusion now that it was Snake Venom, and my physiological tests on the guinea pig seem to confirm it. I see no reason now to doubt that it was Snake Venom. The fact of the matter is that the Snake Venoms are about the safest of poisons for the criminal to use. For the reason of the difficulty they give in any chemical analysis. That is only another proof of the diabolical cleverness of our guilty person, whoever it may be. Later I'll identify the particular kind of Venom used. Just now I feel it is more important to discover the actual motive for the crime. In the morning I have a plan which may save me further work here in the laboratory. But for tonight I feel I have earned a rest, and a smile. I shall rest by searching out the motives of these temperamental movie-folk a little more. As he spoke he slipped out of his acid-stained smock. What do you mean? As often he rather baffled me. It's nearly dinner time, and we're going out together, Walter. Down to Jacques. Why Jacques? Because I phoned your friend Belle Balkam, and she informed me that that was the place where we would be apt to find the elite of the film-world dining. I acquiesced, of course. We hurried to the apartment first for a few necessary changes in preparations, then we started for the time-square section in a taxi. I never heard of the use of snake-venom before, I remarked, settling back in the cushions. That is, deliberately, by a criminal to poison any one. There are cases," replied Craig absently. Just how does the venom act? I believed it is generally accepted that there are two agents present in the secretion. One is a peptone, and the other a globulin. One is a neurotoxic, the other a hemolytic. Not only is the general nervous system attacked instantly, but the coagulability of the blood is destroyed. One agent in the venom attacks the nerve cells. The other destroys the red core puzzles. You suspected something of this kind, then, when you first examined Stella Lamar? Exactly! You see, the victim of the snake-bite often is unable to move or speak. Dr. Blake observed that in the case of the stricken star. Her nerves were affected, resulting in paralysis of the muscles of the heart and lungs and giving us some symptoms of suffocation. Then the blood, as a result of the attack of the venom, is always left dark and liquid. That, too, I observed in the samples sent to me from Tarrytown. The snake, Kennedy continued, administers the poison by fangs more delicate than any hypodermic. Nature's apparatus is more precise than the finest appliances devised for the use of the surgeon by our instrument makers. The fangs are like needles with obliquely cut points and slit-like outlets. The poison glands correspond to the bulb of a syringe. They are, in reality, highly modified salivary glands. From them, when the serpent strikes, is ejected a pale, straw-colored, half-oliogenous fluid. You might swallow it with impunity, but once in the blood, through a cut or wound, it is deadly. There could be no snake in this case, I remarked. The fangs of a serpent make two punctures, don't they? Well, here there was just the one scratch. Of course there were no fangs when the deed was actually done, he rejoined impatiently. We've traced everything to the needle in the portiers, and it is my belief that it was part of an all-glass hypodermic with a platinum iridium point. It could hardly have been anything like the courses syringe used by Werner, nor do I think it possible that the point of an ordinary needle would hold sufficient venom, since it would dry and form a coating like the incestation on the inside of the ampula Macrody found. That was the venom, I asked? Yes. I found it in the ampula and in the stain on the portiers where the needle had pierced through. The towel, though, is something else. First thing in the morning will follow that up as I promised you. Meanwhile let's concentrate on motifs. A long line of private cars and taxicabs outside jocks testified to the popularity of the restaurant. At the door stood a huge bulking negro, resplendent in the glaring finery of his uniform. It seemed to me that people literally were thronging into the place, for it was cleverly advertised as a centre of nightlife. Inside the famous darky jazz band was in full swing. There was lilt and rhythm to the melody produced by the grinning blacks, and not a free arm or foot or shoulder or head of any of them, but did not sway in time to their syncopated music. We were shown to a table on a sort of gallery or mezzanine floor, which extended around three sides of the interior. Below in the centre was the space for dancing, surrounded by groups and pairs of diners. Stairs led to the balcony on both sides, as though the management expected none of their guests to resist the lure of the dance between courses. The band, I noticed, was at the farther end on an elevated dais so that the contortions of the various players could be seen above the heads of those on the floor. We were at the rail so that we commanded a view of the entire place. A location, I guess, had been manoeuvred by Kennedy with a word to the head waiter. The only tables invisible to us were those directly beneath, but it would be a simple matter to cross around during any dance number to view them. As we took our seats, the lights were dimmed suddenly. I realised that we had arrived in the midst of the cabaret and that it was the turn of one of the performers. Kennedy, however, seemed to enjoy the entertainment. An example of his ability to gain recreation whenever and however he wished. To find relaxation under the oddest or most casual circumstances, out of anything from people passing on the street to an impromptu concert of a street band. In scanty garments, in the glare of a multi-coloured spotlight, the girl danced a hybrid of every dance, from the earliest Grecian Bacchanal to the latest alleged Apache importation from Paris. I have often wondered at jocks in places of the sort. The intermingling of eating and drinking and dancing was curious. What possible bearing this terpsichorean monstrosity might have upon the gastronomic inclinations of the audience it would have been difficult to fathom. The lights flashed bright again, and Kennedy gave our order. Meanwhile I glanced about at the people below us. There was no one inside I knew until I leaned well over the rail. But upon doing that I felt little chills of excitement run from the top to the bottom of my spine, for I discovered in a very prominent situation at the very edge of the dance floor a party of four of whom three very much concerned us. Lloyd Manton, back to the polished space behind him, was unmistakable in evening clothes. This bunched at his neck and revealed his habitual stoop as impartially as his business suits. Across from him, lounging upon the table likewise, but more immaculately and skillfully tailored, was Lawrence Millard. The rider, I noticed, flourished his cigarette-holder, full of foot and length, and emphasized his remarks to the girl on his right, with a rather characteristic gesture made with the second finger of his left hand. The girl was Enid, quite mistress of herself in a gown little more than no gown, and the remarks were obviously confidential. The other girl, engrossed in Manton, seemed a dangerously youthful and self-conscious young lady. Her hair-flamed, Titian red, and her neck, of which she displayed not half as much as Enid, gave her much concern. �Kennedy, look!� I reached over to attract his attention. �Who's the second girl, I wonder?� He became as interested as I was. With a blatant flourish of saxophone and cornet and traps the band began a jazzy foxtrot. Instantly there was a rush from the tables for the floor. Enid jumped to her feet, moving her bare shoulders in the rhythm of the music. Then Millard took firm hold of her and they wove their way into the crush. It seemed to me that the little star was the very incarnation of the dance. I envied her partner more than I dared admit to myself. Enid and his companion rose also, but more leisurely. On her feet the girl did not seem so young, although the second impression may have been the result of the length of her skirt and the long, slim lines of her gown. We watched both couples through the number, then gave our attention to the food we had ordered. Another dance, a modified waltz, revealed Enid in the arms of Matton. I tried to determine from her actions, as she felt any preference for the producer or for Millard when again she took the floor with him. It was an idle effort, of course. The people surged out perhaps three or four times while we were at our meal. Each time the party below jumped up in response to the music. At our cigars finally. I took to observing the other diners, wondering what we had gained by coming here. Suddenly I realized that Kennedy was rising to greet someone approaching our table. Turning rising also I went through all the miseries of the bashful lover. It was Enid herself. I caught sight of you looking over the rail while I was dancing. She told Kennedy, accepting a chair pulled round by the waiter. I knew you saw me. Also I glanced up and found that you were perfectly well aware of the location of our table. So, engagingly, unsociable creature, why didn't you come down and say hello or ask me for a dance? Perhaps I intended to a little later. Yes, she exclaimed in mockery. You see, since Mecca won't go to the pilgrim, the pilgrim has to come to Mecca. Did you ever hear of Mohamed and the mountain, Miss Faye? Kennedy asked. Of course, that's the regular expression. But I agree with Barnum. As he said, some people can be original some of the time, and some people can be original all of the time, and I propose to be original always, like a baby with molasses. Kennedy laughed, for indeed she was irresistible. Then she turned to me, placing one of her warm little hands upon mine. And Jane me, she purred. Have you forgotten little Enid altogether? Won't you come down and dance? I can't. I exploded in agony. I don't know how. And I thought I would never dare trust myself with her glistening shoulders clasps close to me, with her slim bare arm placed around my neck, as I had watched it slip around the collar of Millard. Now that the pilgrim is at Mecca, Kennedy suggested, interrupting cruelly, as I thought. Oh! In an instant I sensed that I was forgotten, and I was hurt. There's something which came out this afternoon at the studio, she began. And I wonder if you know. Larry, that's Mr. Millard, assures me it is true, and I think you ought to hear about it. I want to assist all I can in solving the mystery of Stella Lamar's death, even though Stella's unfortunate end has meant my opportunity. What is it, Miss Faye? Kennedy was studying her. It's about Jack Gordon. He's been trying to hold up the company for fifteen hundred a week, which would double his salary. Perhaps you've heard that. Kennedy nodded, although it was news to him. I've been thinking about Gordon, he murmured. Anyway, she went on, is gone around that he's desperately in need of money, and that that is why he's so insistent upon the increase. It seems he owes everyone. In particular he owes Phelps some huge sums, and old Phelps is on his tail, hollering and raising ned. Phelps, you know, has uses for money himself just now. Have you heard? Again Kennedy evaded a direct answer. Money is frightfully tight, of course, he remarked, encouraging her to continue. Yes, she repeated. Phelps is terribly hard up and after Gordon, and that's not all about our handsome leading man, Mr. Kennedy. She leaned forward. A certain intensity crept into her voice. She began to toy with his sleeve with the slender fingers of one hand, as though in that manner to compel his greater attention. I know Stella Lamar really was in love with Jack Gordon. In fact, she was daffy over him. And now I've found out that he was borrowing money from her, was taking nearly every cent she earned to sink in his speculations. Do you get that? Enid's eyes snapped. Most certainly I understood. I knew well the type of Stella. She had made many men give up to her motor-cars, expensive furs, jewellery, all manner of presents. But in the end she had found one man to whom she in turn was willing to yield all. But what of him? In the last few weeks, they tell me, poor Stella disposed of many of her handsome presents from men like Matten and Phelps and others, all to get money to give to him. At the end she even raised money on her jewellery. I think you'll find it all in the pond now if you'll investigate. I don't doubt but that poor Stella died without a penny to her name. I was so surprised at this information that I failed to study Kennedy's face. I was completely jolting from my own wrapped contemplation of the very soft curves of Enid's back. For here was a motive at last. Gordon was a possible suspect I had failed to even take halfway seriously. Yet the leading man was desperately pressed for money, had had a disgraceful fight with Phelps as we already knew, and not only owed huge sums to his fiancée as Enid now explained, but had quarreled with her just prior to her death, according to his own admission in the investigation at Tarrytown. Suddenly the music struck up once more. Enid rose adjusting the straps of her gown. There, she exclaimed, smiling abruptly, I thought you ought to know that, though I hate to peddle gossip. Now I must hurry back. I've been away long enough, but come down later and dance. She swept off without further formality. An instant afterward we saw her in the clasp of Millard once again. We watched during the number and encore. Then Kennedy called for the check. Let's go up to the apartment, he suggested. I'd like to talk some of these things out with you. It'll help me clarify my own impressions. Underneath the balcony I noticed Kennedy turned for a last glance at Matton's party. I paused to look also. Enid was leaning forward talking to Millard earnestly, emphasizing what she had to say with characteristic movements of her head. She's pumping Millard for more information about Stella Lamar, I remarked. She had no comment. An appeal. We strolled up Broadway, resisting the attraction of a garish new motion picture palace at which Manton's previous release with Stella Lamar was now showing to capacity, much to the delight of the exhibitor who greatly complimented himself on his good fortune in being able to take advantage of the newspaper sensation over the affair. When we walked Kennedy mostly in silent deduction, I knew until we came to the upper regions of the great therapy turned off and headed toward our apartment on the heights, not far from the university. We had scarcely settled ourselves for a quiet hour in our quarters when the telephone rung. I answered. To my amazement, I found that it was Marilyn Lawring. Is Professor Kennedy in? She asked. Yes, Miss Lawring, just a never mind calling him to the phone, Mr. Jameson. I've been trying to find him all evening. He was not at the laboratory, although I waited over an hour. Just tell him that there's something I'm very anxious to consult him about. Ask him if it will be all right for me to run up to see him just a few minutes. I explained to Kennedy. Let her come along, he said, as surprised as I was. Then he added humorously. I seemed to be father confessor tonight. After sinking back in my seat in comfort once more, I observed a quiet elation in Kennedy's manner. All at once it struck me what he was doing. The multitude of considerations in this case, the many cross leads to be followed, had confused me. But now I realize that, after all, this was only the approved Kennedy method, the mode of procedure, which had never failed to produce results for him. Without allowing himself to be disturbed by the great number of people concerned, he had calmly started to pick them one against the other, encouraging each to talk about the rest, making a show of his apparent inaction and lack of haste so that they, in turn, would shake off the excitement immediately following the death of the girl and thereby reveal their normal selves to his keen observation. Not five minutes past before Marilyn was announced. Evidently she had been seeking us eagerly, for she had probably telephoned from a nearby pay station. Mr. Kennedy, she began, I am going to find this very hard to say. Really, he assured her, there is no reason why you should not repose your confidence in me. My only interest is to solve the mystery and to see that justice is satisfied. Beyond that nothing would give me greater happiness than to be of service to you. It's about Meryl Shirley. She started bravely. Then all at once she broke down. The strain of two days had been too much for her. Kennedy lighted a fresh cigar, realizing that he could best aid her to recover her composure by making no effort to do so. For several moments, she sobbed silently, a handkerchief at her eyes. Then she straightened with a half smile, dabbing at the drops of moisture remaining. With her wet eyes and flushed cheeks, she was revealed to me again as a very genuine girl, wholly unspoiled by her outward mask of sophistication. Furthermore, at this instant, she was gloriously pretty. Again, why do you play vampire roles, Miss Lauren? I asked as quickly as the thought flashed to me. I think it'd be an ideal ingenue. About a thousand people have told me that she rejoined. As she replied, her smile took full possession of her features. My idiotic repetition, entirely out of place, had served to restore her self control to her. No, the public won't stand for it. They've been trained to know me as a vamp, and a vamp I remain. Facing Kennedy, she sobbed. Mill Shirley and I were engaged. She went on. That you know, then poor Stullock made a fool of him. She didn't mean any harm, any real harm, but I don't think she knew how deep he feels or just what a fiery temper he has. Finally, he found out that she was only playing with him. He was perfectly terrible. At first, I thought he had killed her in a burst of passion. I really thought that. Yes, Kennedy was interested. He needed no pretense. When I asked him point flank, if he said he didn't, a very wonderful light came into Marilyn Loring's eyes at this instant. Whatever else he would do, Professor Kennedy, he wouldn't lie to me. That I know. He would tell me the truth because he knows I would kill him, no matter what the cost. You simply want to assure me that his innocence suggested Kennedy. No, there was a touch of scorn to the little negative. You don't believe him guilty. You didn't even when I did. Then, but he knows something, something about the murder of Stullock, and he won't tell me what it is. I'm afraid for him. He isn't sleeping at night, and I believe he's watching somebody at the studio, and I know it's the woman's intuition. Professor, she emphasised the word and paused. He's in danger. He's in some great threatening danger. What do you wish me to do, Ms Loring? I want you to protect him, and slowly she coloured, up and around about her eyes, as she always did, until she wasn't unlike an Indian maid. And no one must know I've been up to see you. Gravely Kennedy bowed her to the door, assuring her he would do all that lay in his power. When he returned, I was ready for him. Now, I exclaimed, now say it isn't Werner. Here is Mel Shirley watching someone at the studio. Isn't that likely to be the director? And if Shirley is watching Werner, you have the explanation for the second intruder at Tarotown last night. Shirley is big enough and strong enough to have given the deputy a nice swift tussle. A little tall, I'm afraid, Kennedy remarked. You can't go by the deputy's impressions. He didn't really remember much of anything. Certainly he was unobserving. Perhaps you're right, Walter. Kennedy smiled. But how about Gordon? He added. There's genuine motive, money. Or Shirley himself. I attempted to be sarcastic. There's genuine motive. Stella made a fool out of him. It wasn't a murder of passion. Kennedy reminded me. No one in a white heat of rage would study up on snake venoms. If it were a slow smoldering, Shirley's anger wasn't that kind. But good heavens. As usual, I arrived nowhere in an argument with Kennedy. Circumstantial evidence points to Werner almost all together. You've forgotten one point in your chain, Walter. Watch that. Whoever took the needle from the curtain last night scratched himself on it and left blood spots on the porthias. Tiny ones. That real blood spots, nevertheless. That means the intruder inoculated himself with venom. I doubt that the poison was so dry as to be ineffectual. If it was Werner, how do you account for the fact that he is still alive? Do you? I guess my eyes went wide. Do you expect to dig up a dead man somewhere? Is there someone we suspect and haven't seen since yesterday? He didn't answer, preferring to tantalize me. How do you account for it yourself? I demanded. Somewhat hotly. Let's call it a day, Walter. Here we join. Let's go to bed. I slept late in the morning so that Kennedy had to wake me. When we had finished breakfast he led the way to the laboratory, all without making any effort to satisfy my curiosity. There he started packing up the tubes and materials he had been studying in the case, rather than resuming his investigations. What's the idea? I asked, finally unable to contain myself any longer. You carry this package, he directed. I'll take the other. I obeyed, somewhat soakly, I'm afraid. You see, he added, as we left the building and hurried to the taxi stand near the campus. The next problem is to identify the particular kind of venom that was used. Besides, I want to know the nature of the spots on the towel you found. They certainly were not a venom. I have my suspicions what they really are. He paused while we selected a vehicle and made ourselves comfortable. To save time, he went on, I thought I'd just go over to the Castleton Institute. You know, in their laboratories the famous Japanese investigator, Dr. Nagoya, has made some marvelous discoveries concerning the venom of snakes. It is his specialty, a matter to which he has practically devoted his life. Therefore I expect that he will be able to confirm certain suspicions of mine very quickly, or, a shrug, explode a theory which has slowly been taking form in the back of my head. When we dismissed the taxi in front of the Institute, I realized that this would be my first visit to this institution so lavishly endowed by the multimillionaire, Castleton, for the advancement of experimental science. Kennedy's card, sent in to Dr. Nagoya, brought that eminent investigator out personally to see us. He was the very finest type of oriental savant, a member of the intellectual nobility of the strange eastern land, only recently made receptive to the civilization of the West. When he and Kennedy chatted together in low tones for a few moments, it was hard for me to grasp that each belonged to a basic race strain fundamentally different from the other. East and West had met upon the plane of modern science. The two were simply men of specialized knowledge, the Japanese preeminent in one field, Kennedy in another. Carefully and thoroughly Kennedy and Nagoya went over the results which Kennedy had already obtained. After a moment Dr. Nagoya conducted us to his research room. Now let me show you, said the oriental. In a moment they were deep in the mysteries of an even more minute analysis than Kennedy had made before. I took a turn about the room, finding nothing more understandable than the study holding Kennedy's interest. Though I could not grasp it, curiosity kept me hovering close. You see, Nagoya spoke as she finished the test he was making at the moment. Without a doubt it is Crotolin, the venom of the rattlesnake, Crotolis horridus. There was no snake actually present, I hasten to explain, breaking in. Then at a glance from Kennedy I stopped, abashed, for all this had been made clear to the scientist. It is not necessary, Nagoya replied, turning to me with the politeness characteristic of the East. Crotolin could be obtained now with fair ease. It is a drug used in a new treatment of epilepsy which is being tried out at many hospitals. I nodded my thanks, not wanting to interrupt again. Kennedy pressed on to the next point he wished established. That was the spot on the portiers, now the ampula. Also Crotolin, Dr. Nagoya spoke positively. How about this solution? Kennedy took from my package the tube with the liquid made from the faint spots on the towel which I had found and which had been our first clue. It is not Crotolin. The Japanese turned to his laboratory table. Kennedy muttered some vague suggestions which were too technical for me, but which seemed to enable Nagoya to eliminate a great deal of work. The test progressed rapidly. Finally the savant stepped back, regarding the solution with a very satisfied smile. It is, he explained carefully, some of the very antichrotolous venin which we have perfected right here in the Institute. Kennedy nodded. I suspected as much. There was great elation in his manner. You see, I had heard all about your wonderful work. Yes, Nagoya waved his hand around at the wonderfully equipped room, only one detail in the many arrangements for medical research made possible by the generosity of Castleton. Yes, he repeated, proud of his laboratory, as well he might be. We have made a great deal of progress in the development of protective sera, anti-venin, we call them. Are they distributed widely? Kennedy asked thoughtfully. All over the world, we are practically the only sources supply. How do you obtain the serum in quantity? From horses treated with increasing doses of the snake venom. A question struck me as I remembered the peculiar double action of the poison. Can you tell me just how the anti-venin counteracts the effects of the venom? I inquired of the savant. Surely, he replied, it neutralizes one of the two elements in the venom, the nervous poison, thus enabling the individual to devote all his vitality to overcoming the irritant poison. It is the nervous poison that is the chief death-dealing agent, producing paralysis of the heart and respiration. We advise all travelers to carry the protective serum if they are likely to be exposed to snake bites. Kennedy picked up the tube containing the solution made from the towel-spots. This anti-venin was your product, doctor? Probably so, was the precise answer. Then the purchasers can be identified, I suggested. We have no record of ordinary purchasers, Nagoya explained slowly. Kennedy was keenly disappointed at that and showed it. However, he thanked the scientist cordially and we departed. Outside he turned to me. Do you understand now why the night intruder at Terrytown did not die, if he is one of our suspects, from the scratch of the needle? You mean he had taken an injection of anti-venin before? Exactly. We are dealing with a criminal, diabolical cleverness. Not only did he make all his plans to kill Miss Lamar with the greatest possible care, but he prepared against accident to himself. He was taking no chances. He inoculated himself with a protective serum. The needle of the syringe he used for that purpose he wiped upon the towel you discovered in the washroom. END OF CHAPTER XVIII I would like to have another talk with Millard about that Fortune Features affair, remarked Kennedy. It was the third morning after the death of Stella Lamar, and I found him half through breakfast when I rose. About him were piled moving pictures and theatrical publications, daily, weekly, and monthly. At the moment I caught him he had spread wide open the inner page of the Daily Metropolitan, a sheet devoted almost exclusively to sports and the amusement fields. I went around to glance over his shoulder. He pointed to a small item under a heading of recent plans and changes. FORTUNE FEATURES It is hinted to the Metropolitan man about Broadway by those in a position to know, but who cannot yet be quoted, that Fortune Features is about to absorb a number of the largest competing companies. Rumors of great changes in the picture world have been current for some weeks, and this is the first reliable information to be given out. It is premature to give details of the new combination or to mention names, but Fortune's strong backing in Wall Street will, we are assured, have a stabilizing influence at a critical time in the industry. Seems to be a lot of hot air, I said. There isn't a name mentioned. Everything is, by those in a position to know, and rumors of, and it is premature to give details or mention names. Kennedy turned to places he had marked in several of the other periodicals and papers, and I read them. Each was substantially to the effect of the note in the Metropolitan, although worded differently, and generally printed as a news item. It's a feeler, Kennedy stated. There's something back of it. When I caught the reference to Fortune Features in the Metropolitan, which I've been reading the past two days, I sent the boy out for every movie publication he could find. Result? Half a dozen repetitions of the hint that Fortune is expanding. That means that it is deliberate publicity. You think this has something to do with the case? I don't see the name of Manton mentioned once. Manton is a man who seeks the front page on every opportunity. You remember, of course, what Millard told us. Somehow I smell a rat. If nothing else develops for this morning, I want to find Millard and talk to him again. I believe Manton is up to something. The sharp sound of our buzzer interrupted us. Because I was on my feet, I went to the door. To my amazement, I found it was Phelps, who was our very early visitor. I hope he'll excuse this intrusion, he apologized to Kennedy, pushing by me with the rudeness which seemed inherent in the man. Then he recognized the sheet still spread out on the table. I see you, too, have been reading the Metropolitan. Yes, Kennedy admitted languidly. There's nothing about Manton Pictures, though. Manton Pictures, hell! In an instant, Phelps exploded, and the thin veneer of politeness was gone. With a shaking finger, he pointed to the item which we had just been reading and discussing. Did you read that? Did you see the reference to stabilizing the industry? Stabilizing? It ought to be spelled S-T-A-B-L-E-I-Z-ing. For they lead all the donkeys into stalls and tie them up and let them kick. He stopped momentarily for sheer inability to continue. I suppose you don't know Manton is behind this fortune features. We were aware of the fact, Kennedy told him quietly. Phelps looked from one to the other of us keenly, as if he had thought to surprise us and had been disappointed. Nervously he began to pace the floor. Perhaps you know also that things haven't been going just right with Manton Pictures. Kennedy straightened. When I asked you at Tarrytown just two mornings ago whether there was any trouble between Manton and yourself, you answered that there was not. Phelps flushed. I didn't want to air my financial difficulties with Manton. My answer was truthful the way you meant your question. Manton and I have had no words, no quarrel, no disagreement of a personal nature. What is the trouble with Manton Pictures? They are wasting money, throwing it right and left. That payroll of theirs is preposterous. The waste itself is beyond belief. Sometimes four and five cameras on a scene retakes upon the slightest provocation, even sets rebuilt because some minor detail fails to suit the artistic eye of the director. Werner, supposed to watch all the companies, doesn't know half his business. In the making of a five-reel film they will overtake sometimes as much as 80 or 100,000 feet of negative in each of two cameras, when 20,000 is enough overtake for anyone. That alone is $5,000 to $10,000 for negative stock, almost $15,000 with the sample print and developing. And the cost of stock, Mr. Kennedy, is the smallest item. All the extra length is long additional weeks of payroll and overhead expense. I put an auditor and a film expert on the accounts of Stella Lamar's last picture. By their figures, just $63,000 was absolutely thrown away. Kennedy rose, folding the newspaper carefully while he collected his thoughts. My dear Mr. Phelps, he stated finally, that is simple inefficiency. I doubt if it is anything criminal. Certainly there is no connection with the death of Stella Lamar, my only interest in manton pictures. Phelps was very grave. There is every connection with the death of Stella Lamar. What do you mean? Mr. Kennedy, what I am going to say to you, I cannot substantiate in any court of law. Furthermore, I am laying myself open to action for libel, so I must not be quoted. But I want you to understand that Stella was inescapably wound up with all of Manton's financial schemes. His money maneuvers determined her social life, her friends, everything. She was then, as Enid Fay will be now, his come on, his decoy. Manton has no scruples of any sort whatsoever. He is dishonest, tricky, a liar, and a cheat. If I could prove it, I would tell him so. But he's too clever for me. I do know, however, that he pulled the strings which controlled every move Stella Lamar ever made. When she went to dinner with me, it was because Manton wished her to do so. She was his right hand, his ears, almost his mouth. I have no doubt that her death is the direct result of some business deal of his, something directly to do with his financial necessities. Kennedy did not glance up. Those are very serious assertions. It is a very serious matter. To show how unscrupulous Manton is, I can demonstrate that he is wrecking Manton pictures deliberately. I've told you of the waste. Only the other day I came into the studio. Werner was putting up a great ballroom set. You saw it? No, that isn't the one I mean. I mean the first one. He had it all up. Then some little thing didn't suit him. The next day I came in again. All struck, sloughed, every bit of it, and a new one started. Lloyd, I said, just think a minute. That's my money. What good did it do? He even began to alter the new set. He would only go on encouraging Werner and the other directors to change their sets, to lose time in trying for foolish effects, anything at all, to pad the expenses. You think I'm romancing, but you don't understand the film world Phelps hurried on angrily. Do you know that Enid Faye's contract is not with Manton pictures, but with Manton himself? That means he can take her away from me after he has made her a star with my money at my expense. Why should he wreck Manton pictures, you ask? Do you know that bit by bit on the pretext that he needed the funds for this, that, or the other thing Manton has sold out his entire interest in the company to me? It is all mine now. I tell you, complained Phelps bitterly, he couldn't seem to wreck the company fast enough. Why do you realize that there isn't room both for this older company and the new fortune features? Can you see that if Manton pictures fails, the fortune company will be able to pick up the studio and all the equipment for a song? I'm the fall guy. And yet, Kennedy, all the efforts to wreck Manton pictures would have failed because the Black Terror was too sure a success. In spite of all the expense, in spite of every effort to wreck it, that picture would have made half a million dollars. Stella's acting and Millard's story and script would have put it over. But now Millard's contract has expired and Manton has signed him for fortune features. Enid Faye will be made a star by the Black Tower, but she is not now the drawing power to put it over big as Stella would have done. I tell you, Kennedy, the death of Stella Lamar has completed the wreck of Manton pictures. Kennedy jumped to his feet. There was a hard light in his eyes I had never seen before. Do I understand you, Phelps? He snapped. Are you accusing Manton of the cold blooded murder of Stella Lamar to further various financial schemes? Hardly, Phelps blanched a bit and I thought that a shutter swept over him. I don't mean anything like that at all. What I mean is that Manton, encouraging various sorts of dissension to wreck the company, inadvertently fanned the flames of passion of those about her and it resulted in her death. Who killed her? I don't know. Grudgingly, I admitted that this seemed open and frank. At Tarrytown, Kennedy went on, I asked you if Stella Lamar was making any trouble, had threatened to quit Manton pictures, and you said no. Is that still your answer? For several months she had been upstage. That was not because she wanted to make trouble, but because she had fallen in love. Manton found he couldn't handle her as he had previously. Do you suspect Manton of killing her himself? I don't suspect anyone. That's an honest answer, Mr. Kennedy. What do you know about fortune features? The banker's eye fell on the newspaper again. I know who this new Wall Street fellow is. I've got my scouts out working for me. It's Lee. That's who it is. And I'm sore. I have a right to be. Phelps was getting more and more heated by the moment. I tell you, he almost shouted, this fake movie business is the modern Goldbrick game, all right? Never again. I was amazed at the Machiavellian cleverness of Manton. Here he was, on one hand openly working with, yet secretly ruining, the Manton pictures. While on the other hand, he was covertly building up the competing fortune features. Kennedy paced out into the little hall of our suite and back. He faced our visitor once more. Why did you come to see me this morning? At our last encounter, you may recall, you said you wished you could throw me down the steps. Phelps smiled ruefully. That was a mistake. It was the way I felt, but I'm sorry. Now, again the black clouds overshadowed the features of the financier. Now I want you to bring out and prove the things I've told you. The malice showed in his voice plainly for the first time. I want it proved in court that Manton is a cheap crook. When you uncover the murderer of Stella Lamar, you will find that the moral responsibility for her death traces right back to Lloyd Manton. I want him driven out of the business. Kennedy's attitude changed. As he escorted Phelps to the door, his tones were self-controlled. Anything of the sort is beyond my province. My task is simply to find the person who killed the girl. When the financier was gone, I turned to Kennedy eagerly. What do you think? I asked. I think, more than ever, that we should investigate fortune features. Let's have a look at the telephone book. There was no studio of the new corporation in New York, but we did find one listed in New Jersey, just across the river at Fort Lee. We walked from the university down the hill and over to the ferry. On the other side, a ten-minute street-car ride took us to our destination. Facing us was a huge, barn-like structure set down in the midst of a little park. Inquiry for Manton brought no response whatsoever. Rather surprised that we should be asking for him here. However, I reflect that that was exactly what we ought to expect if Manton was working under cover. The girl at the telephone switchboard, smiling at Kennedy, had a suggestion. They're taking a storm exterior down in the meadow, she explained. Perhaps he's down there, among the visitors, or perhaps there's someone who will be able to give you some information. I glanced outdoors at the brightly shining sun. A storm? I repeated incredulously. Yes, she smiled. It might interest you to see it. Following her directions, we started across country, leaving the studio building some distance behind and entering a broad expanse of meadow beyond the thin clump of trees. At the farther end we could see a large group of people in paraphernalia which, at the distance, we could not make out. However, it was not long after we emerged from the trees that we perceived they were photographing squarely in our direction. Several began waving their arms wildly at us and shouting. Kennedy and I, understanding, turned and advanced, keeping a well out of the camera lines along the edge of the field. Hello! a voice greeted us as we approached the group standing back and watching the action. To my surprise it was Millard with the spectators. I looked about for Manton, but did not see him, nor anyone else we knew. It's a storm and cyclone, said Millard, his attention rather on what was going on than on us. For the moment we said nothing. The scene before us was indeed interesting. Half a dozen airplane engines and propellers had then set up outside the picture and anchored securely in place. The wind from them was actually enough to knock a man down. Rain was furnished by hose playing water into the whirling blades, sending it driving into the scene with the fury of a tropical storm. Back of the propellers, half a dozen men were frantically at work shoveling into them sand and dirt, creating an amazingly realistic cyclone. We arrived in the midst of the cyclone scene as the dust storm was ending and the torrential rain succeeded. For the storm, a miniature village had been constructed in breakaway fashion, partially sawed through and tricked for the proper moment. Many objects were controlled by invisible wires, including an actual horse and buggy which seemed to be lifted bodily and carried away. Roofs fell off, walls crashed in, actors and actresses were knocked flat as some few of them failed to gain their cyclone sellers. Altogether it was a storm of such efficiency as nature herself could scarcely have furnished, and all staged with the streaming sunlight which made photography possible. Pandemonium rained, cameras were grinding, directors were balling through megaphones, all was calculated chaos, yet it took only a glance to see that some marvellous effects were being caught here. At the conclusion I recognized suddenly the little leading lady. It was the girl we had seen with Manton and Jack's cabaret. That's the way to take a picture, exclaimed Millard. Everything right, no expense spared. I came over to see it done. It's wonderful. Yes was Kennedy's answer, but it must be very costly. It is all of that, said Millard, but what of it if the film makes a big cleanup? I wouldn't have missed this for anything. Warner never staged a spectacle like this in his life. Fortune features are going to set a new mark in pictures. But can they keep it up? Have they the money? Millard shrugged his shoulders. Manton pictures can't. That's a cinch. Phelps has reached the end of his rope, I guess. I'm afraid the trouble with him was that he was thinking of too many things besides pictures. There was no mistaking the meaning of the remark. Millard was still cut by Stella's desertion of him for the broker. I caught Kennedy's glance, but neither of us cared to refer to her. Where can I find Manton now? Kennedy asked. Did you try his office at 729? Was Millard's suggestion? No. I wanted to see this place first. Well, you'll most likely find him there. I've got to go back to the city myself. Some scenes of the black tower to rewrite to fit Enid better. I'll order you across the ferry into the subway. At the subway station, Millard left us, and we proceeded to Manton's executive offices in a Seventh Avenue skyscraper built for and devoted exclusively to the film business. Manton's business suite was lavishly furnished, but not quite as ornate and garish as his apartment. The promoter himself welcomed us, for no matter how busy he was at any hour, he always seemed to have time to stop and chat. Well, how goes it? He pushed over a box of expensive cigars. Have you found out anything yet? Had a visit from Phelps this morning. Kennedy plunged directly into the subject, watching the effect. Manton did not betray anything, except a quiet smile. Poor old Phelps, he said. I guess he's pretty uneasy. You know, he has been speculating rather heavily in the market lately. There was a time when I thought Phelps had a bankroll on reserve, but it seems he's been playing the game on a shoestring after all. Manton casually flicked the ashes from his cigar into a highly polished cuspador as he leaned over. I happen to have learned that to make his bluff good, he has been taking money from his brokerage business. Here he nodded sagely. His customer's accounts, you know. Lee knows the inside of everybody's affairs in Wall Street. They say a quarter of a million is short, at least. To tell you the truth, poor Stella took a good deal of Phelps's money. Certainly his Manton pictures-holdings wouldn't leave him in the hole as deep as all that. I reflected that this was quite the way of the world, first framing up something on a boob, then deprecating the ease with which he was trimmed. Was it blackmail Stella had levied on Phelps, I wondered? Was she taking from him to give to Gordon? Had Stella broken him? Was she the real cause of the tangle in his affairs? And had Phelps, in insane passion, revenged himself on her? In the conversation with Manton there was certainly no hint of answer to my queries. With all his ease Manton was the true picture promoter. Seldom was he betrayed into a positive statement of his own. Always when necessary he gave his authority the name of someone else, but the effect was the same. A hurried call of some sort took Manton away from us. Kennedy turned to me with a whimsical expression. Let's go, he remarked. What do you make of it offhand, I asked outside. We're going about in a circle, he remarked. Strange group of people, each apparently suspects the other. And to cover himself, talks of the other fellow, I added. Kennedy nodded, and we made our way toward the laboratory. I'll bet something happens before the day is over, I hazarded, for no reason in particular. Kennedy shrugged. As we went, I cast up in my mind the facts we had learned. The information for Manton was disconcerting, coming on top of what had already been revealed about the inner workings of his game. If Phelps had secretly borrowed from the trust accounts and his charge a quarter of a million or so, I saw that his situation must indeed be desperate. To what lengths he might go it was difficult to determine. CHAPTER XXI. THE BANKWIT SCENE. For once I qualified as a prophet. We were hardly in our rooms when the telephone rang for Kennedy. It was District Attorney McKay calling in from Tarrytown. My men have positive identification on one of the visitors to the Phelps home the night after the murder, he reported. Fine! exclaimed Kennedy. Who was it? How did you uncover his trail? You remember that my deputy heard the sound of a departing automobile? Well, we have been questioning everyone. A citizen here, who returned home late at just about that hour, remembers seeing a taxi cab tearing through the street at a reckless rate. He came in to see me this morning. He made a mental note of the license number at the time, and, while nothing stuck with him but the last three figures, three sixes, he was sure that it was a maroon taxi. We got busy and have located the driver, who made the trip from a stand at thirty-third all the way out and back. On the return he dropped his fare at the man's apartment. The identification is positive. Who is it? Kennedy became quite excited. Werner, the director. Werner! In surprise. What are you going to do? Arrest him first, examine him afterwards. I've sworn out the warrant already, and I'm going to start in by car just as soon as we hang up. I thought I'd phone you first in case you wanted to accompany me to the studio. We'll hurry there, Kennedy replied, and meet you. Outside? No, up on the floor. You'll be there fifteen minutes to half an hour ahead of me. I hope there's no way for anyone to tip him off so he can escape. We'll stop him if he attempts it. Good. The courtyard of the studio at Manton Pictures Incorporated was about the same as upon the occasions of our previous visits, except that I detected a larger number of cars parked in the enclosure, including a number of very fine ones. Also, it seemed to me that there was a greater absence of life than usual, as though something of particular interest had taken everyone inside the buildings. The gate man informed us that Werner was working in a large studio. We made our way up through the structure containing the dressing rooms, and found the proper door without difficulty. When we passed through under the big glass roof, we grasped the reason for the lack of interest in the other departments about the quadrangle. Here everyone was gathered to watch the taking of the banquet scene for the Black Terror. The huge set was illuminated brightly and packed, thronged with people. It was a marvelous set in many ways, to carry out the illusion of size, and to aid in the deceptive additional length given by the mirrors at the farther end. Werner had decided against the usual one large table arranged horseshoe-like, but had substituted instead a great number of individual smaller tables, about which he had grouped the various guests. The placing of those nearest mirrors had been so arranged as to give no double images, thus betraying the trick. The waiters, all the characters who walked about, were kept near the front toward the cameras for the same reason. It seemed as if the banquet hall was at least, twice, its actual size. I saw that Millard had arrived ahead of us. Either the changing of the scenes in his script to fit Enid had not taken him very long, or else the photographing of this particular bit of action had proved sufficiently fascinating to draw him away from his work. I wondered if first if he had come to the studio to use his office here, and infrequent happening, from Manton's account. Then I realized that he was an evening dress. Without doubt he planned to play a minor part in the banquet. His presence was no accident. Then I picked out Manton himself from our point of observation in a quiet corner selected by Kennedy for that purpose. It was evident that the promoter had cleared up his business at the office rapidly, since we had left him there to go to our quarters on the heights, and had departed immediately from the latter place so as to proceed the district attorney here. Manton, as well as Millard, was an evening dress. A moment later I recognized Phelps, and he too wore his formal clothes. In an instant I grasped that Werner actually was saving money. Not only were these officials of the company present to help fill up the tables, but I was able now to pick out a number of the guests who were uneasy in their makeup, and more or less out of place in full dress attire. They certainly were not actors. One girl I definitely placed as the stenographer for Manton's waiting room at the studio. Then other things caught my attention. I could not help but doubt the stories of waste told us by Phelps as I looked over the scene before me. The use of the mirrors to avoid building the full length of the floor did not seem to fit in with the theory that Manton and Werner were making every effort to wreck the company deliberately. I watched the financier for several moments, but did not detect anything from his manner, except that he seemed to feel ill at ease and awkward in makeup. I picked out Millard again, and this time found him talking with Enid Faye and Gordon. Immediately I sensed a dramatic conflict, carefully suppressed, but having too many of the outward indications to fool anyone. In fact, a child would have observed that Lawrence Millard and the leading man needed little urging to engage in a scuffle then and there. Though Stella Lamar was dead, this was the heritage she had left. Her touch had embittered two men beyond the point of reconciliation. The husband who had been, and the husband who was to be. Of the two, Millard had far the better control of himself, however. After a brief word or so, Gordon left them. At once I could see the relief in the expressions of both the others. Again I wondered just what might have been between these two. It was an easy familiarity which might have been as casual as it seemed to be, no more, or which might have been a mask for something far deeper and more enduring. The schooled outer cloak of an inner perfect understanding. Warner was by far the busiest of those waiting in the stifling heat beneath the glass roof. He was an evening dress, prepared to take his own place before the camera, and in straight makeup, so that he looked nothing like the slain millionaire, the part he had played in the opening scenes. I saw that he was a master in the art of makeup. I was sure that he was more nervous than usual. It struck me that he needed the stimulus of the drug he used, although later I knew that he must have felt intuitively the coming of events which followed close upon the attempt to photograph the action. As more of the people hurried up from the offices and around from the manuscript and other departments, very conscious of their formal attire, and as the regular players changed and adjusted the make-ups of these amateurs, the banquet took on the proportions of a real affair. The members of the cast were placed at the table in the foreground. Enid, Gordon, Marilyn, and a fourth man were assigned locations, after which Werner proceeded to fill the seats in the rear. With the exception of Millard and Phelps, none of the inexperienced people were allowed to face the camera. Manton, whose features were familiar through published interviews in many publicity campaigns, was placed to one side opposite Phelps. Millard was given charge of a group containing a number of giddy extra girls in somewhat diaphanous costume, and seemed to be in his element. The tables themselves were prepared with perfect taste. I could see that real food was being used in order to achieve a greater degree of realism. For a caterer had set up a buffet some distance out of the scene from which to serve the courses called for in the script. Many of the dishes were being kept hot, the steam curling from beneath the covers and appetizing wisps. The wine, supposed to be champagne, was sparkling apple juice of the best quality, and I don't doubt but that before the days of prohibition Werner would have insisted upon the real fizz water. In details such as these the director was showing no economy. All ready now, Werner called, stepping back to a place at a table which he had reserved for himself. All set? Remember the action of the script. Instantly the buzz of conversation died, and everyone turned to him. No, no, no, he exclaimed in vexation. Don't go dead on your feet. This is a banquet. You are having a good time. It's not a funeral. You are all in just the right state of mind before, and you don't have to stop and gape just to listen to me. Keep right on talking and laughing. My voice will carry and you can hear without getting out of your parts. I turned to Kennedy to see how the picture-making struck him. I saw that he was watching the two girls at the forward table closely, and so I faced about to follow his glance. Marilyn's face was red with anger, while Enid, calm and rather malicious, was ignoring her to devote all attention to Gordon. The leading man, bored and irritated, made no effort to conceal a heavy scowl. In the momentary interval following Werner's instructions, Marilyn lost all control of herself. If you will pardon me, Miss Faye, she cried out, in a voice which carried over to us and with cutting accent upon the miss. I think that in this scene at least we should both be facing the camera. If I understand the scene in the script at all, it is intended to show the conflict between the two women over the one man seated between them. Jack Daring is to be swayed first by Stella Remsen, then by Zelda. At least this once I think the daughter of old Remsen and his ward are playing roles of equal importance. For a moment I smiled, realizing that Marilyn was not going to let Enid take the picture away from her as we had seen the new Stardew in one of her first scenes with the leading man. Then I sobered, realizing that it was the outer reflection of the deep running passion of these people. The cloud of Stella's death was over them still. Enid responded but in tones too low for us to hear. A new flush of red in Marilyn's face, however, demonstrated the power in the lash of the other girl's tongue. Werner hurried over to them, not masking his own irritation any too well. Without a word he began rearranging the table, moving it slightly so that while there was no great difference in its position, he had yet made a show of satisfying Marilyn. In effect he pleased neither. The two pretty faces closest to the camera were study and discontent. I don't wonder that moving picture directors are nervous, Kennedy remarked. Film manufacturer must keep everyone under constant tension. What do you make of the feeling between the different people? I asked. Did you notice Millard and Gordon and now Enid and Marilyn? There's something under cover, he rejoined. Something behind all this. I get the impression that our suspects are watching one another, like as many hawks. At various times most of them have glanced over at us. They know we are here and are conscious they may be under suspicion. Therefore I particularly want to see how those two girls act when McKay arrives to arrest Werner. The director, stepping back to his place, took a megaphone from his assistant for use in the rehearsal. Now you must act just as though this were a real banquet, he shouted. Try to forget that the black terror is lurking outside the window, that an attack is coming from him. Remember when the shot is fired you must all leap up as though you meant it. Here, you, you, you. Designating certain extra girls. Faint when it happens. That's not until after the toast is proposed. I'll propose the toast from my table and it will be the cue for Shirley outside. Now, don't get ahead of the action. You amateurs, don't turn around to see if the camera is working. We'll go through the action up to the moment I propose the toast. The buzz of conversation rose slightly as though an effort was being put into the gaiety. I glanced about as some of the people who were cast for only this one scene, wishing I could read lips, because I was sure many of them talked of matters wholly out of place in this setting. At the same time, I kept an eye on the principles and upon Werner. Finally, the director was satisfied after a second rehearsal. All right! he bellowed, throwing the megaphone from the scene. Shoot! At the same instant, he dropped into his place and apparently was a guest with no interest but in the food and wine before him. At the cameras, there were three of them. The assistant director kept a careful watch of the general action. In actual time by the watch, the whole was very short. A second, measuring to sixteen pictures or a foot of film, as I explained afterward to Kennedy. The entire scene perhaps ran one hundred or one hundred and fifty feet. But, on the screen, even to the spectators in the studio, the illusion and the scene of the kind would be the duration of half an hour or even more. This would be helped by close-ups of the individual action, especially by the bi-play between the principles taken later and inserted into the long shot by the film-cutter. I know I was carried away by a sense of reality. It seemed to me that waiters made endless trips, to and fro, that here and there pretty girls broke into laughter constantly, or that men leaned forward every other moment to make woody remarks. In fact, I felt genuinely sorry I could not take part in the festivities. I knew that danger, in the person of the black terror, played by Shirley, lurked just out the window. I felt delicious anticipatory thrills of fear, so thoroughly was I in the spirit of the thing. Then I saw that Warner was about to propose the toast, about to give the cue for the big action. Watch him, whispered Kennedy. He's an actor. He's taking that drink just as though he meant every drop of it. Warner had raised his delicately stemmed glass, as though to join his neighbor in some pledge, when a new idea seemed to strike him. He leapt to his feet. Let's drink together. Let's drink to our hero and heroine of the evening. Other voices rose in acclamation. The wine had been poured lavishly. Glasses clinked and we could hear laughter. Suddenly, at the window, back of everyone, appeared the evil black masked figure of Shirley. Eyes glittering menacingly from their slits. Two weapons glistening blue in his hands. At the same moment, there was a terrible groan, followed by a scream of agony. Warner staggered back. His left hand clutched to his breast. From his right hand, the glass which he had drained, fell to the canvas-covered floor with an ominous dull crash. This was not in the script. Practically, everybody realized the fact for the scene instantly was in an uproar. In the general consternation, no one seemed to know just what to do. Shirley was the first to act, the first to realize what had happened. Dropping his weapons, reaching the side of the stricken director in one leap, he supported him as he reeled drunkenly, then eased him to the floor. Behind us, before I could look to Kennedy to see what to do, there was the gasp of a man out of breath from hurrying upstairs. I turned, startled. It was McKay. Shall I make the collar? he wheezed. At the same instant, he saw the gathering crowd in the set. What—what's happened, he asked? Kennedy had bounded forward only a few seconds after Shirley. As I pushed through after him, McKay following, I discovered him kneeling at the side of Werner. Someone sent for a doctor quick, he commanded, taking charge of things as a matter of course. Hurry! he repeated. He's gasping for air, and it'll be too late in a minute. Then he saw us. Walter, McKay! he raised Werner's head. Push everyone back, please. Give him a chance to breathe. A thousand thoughts flashed through my head as politely but firmly I widened the space about Kennedy and the director. Was this a case of suicide? Had Werner known we were coming for him? Had he thought to bring about his own end in the most spectacular fashion possible? Was this the fancy of a drug weakened brain? Suddenly I realized that Werner was trying to speak. One of the cameramen had helped Kennedy lift him to the top of a table swept of its dishes and linen so as to make it easier for him to breathe. Out in Tarrytown, he muttered weakly. That night I suspected and saw his voice trailed off into nothingness. Even the motion of his lips was too feeble to follow. In an instant I grasped the cruel injustice I had done this man in my mind. It was now that I remembered in a flash Kennedy's attitude and was glad that Kennedy had not suspected him. See, I faced McKay speaking in quick low tones so the others could not hear. I, we have been totally and absolutely wrong in suspecting Werner. Instead, it was he who had been playing our game, trying to confirm his own suspicions. I've been entirely wrong in my deductions from the discovery of his dope and needles. What do you mean, Jameson? The district attorney had been taken completely off his feet by the unexpected developments. His eyes were rather dazed, his expression baffled. What, what do you mean? Why, he was out at Tarrytown that night, all right? Don't you see? But, but he was the second man, the man who watched. McKay still seemed unable to comprehend. There were two men, I went on excitedly, covering my own chagrin in my impatience at the little district attorney. The one your deputy struggled with was short rather than tall and very strong. That's Werner, can't you see it? Haven't you noticed how stockily and powerfully the director is built? Werner must really have had some clue, murmured McKay, dazed. It left me wondering whether the stimulation of the dope might not have heightened Werner's imagination and urged him on in following something that our more sluggish minds had never even dreamed. Meanwhile I saw that the doctor had arrived and that Kennedy had helped carry Werner to a dressing room where first aid could be given more conveniently. Now Kennedy hurried back into the studio, glancing quickly this way and that as though to catch signs of confusion or guilt upon the faces of those about us. I colored. Instead of making explanations to McKay, explanations that could have waited, I might have used what faculties of observation I possessed to aid Kennedy while he was giving first consideration to the life of a man. As it was, I didn't know what had become of any of the various people upon our list of possible suspects. As far as I was concerned, any or every sign and clue to the attack upon Werner might have been removed or destroyed. A sudden hush caused all of us to turn toward the door leading to the dressing rooms. It was the physician. He raised a hand for attention. His voice was low, but it carried to every corner of the studio. Mr. Werner is dead, he announced. End of Chapter 20. Chapter 21 of The Film Mystery. Appalled, I wondered who it was who had, to cover up one crime, committed another. Who had struck down an innocent man to save a guilty neck? Kennedy hurried to the side of the physician, and I followed. What symptoms did you observe? asked Kennedy quickly, seeking confirmation of his own first impressions. His mouth seemed dry, and I should say he suffered from a quick prostration. There seemed to be a complete loss of power to swallow or speak. The pupils were dilated as though from paralysis of the eyes. Both pharynx and larynx were affected. There was respiration paralysis. It seemed also as though the cranial nerves were partially paralyzed. It was typically a condition due to some toxic substance which paralyzed and depressed certain areas of the body. Kennedy nodded. That fits in with a theory I have. I thought quickly, then inquired. Could it be the snake venom again? No, Kennedy replied, shaking his head. There is a difference in the symptoms, and there is no mark on any exposed part of the body as near as I could see in a superficial examination. He turned to the physician. Could you give me blood smears and some of the stomach contents at once? Twice now, someone has been stricken down before the very eyes of the actors. This thing has gone too far to trifle with or delay a moment. The doctor hurried off toward the dressing room, anxious to help Kennedy and as excited I thought as any of us. Next Kennedy faced me. Did you watch the people at all, Walter? I was too upset by the suddenness of it, I stammered. All seemed to have suspicion of someone else, and there was a general constraint as though even the innocent feared to do or say something that might look or sound incriminating. I turned. All were now watching every move we made. Though just yet, none ventured to follow us. It was as though they felt that to do so was like crossing a dead line. I wondered which one of them might be looking at us with inward trepidation or perhaps satisfaction if there had been any chance to remove anything incriminating. Kennedy strode over toward the ill-fated set, McKay and I at his heels. As we moved across the floor, I noticed that everyone clustered as close as he dared, afraid seemingly of any action which might hinder the investigation, yet unwilling to miss any detail of Kennedy's method. In contrast with the clamour and racket of less than a half hour previously, there was now a death-like stillness beneath the arched ground-glass roof. The heat was more oppressive than ever before. In the faces and expressions of the odd witnesses of death's swift hand, there was horror and a growing fear. No one spoke except in whispers. When anybody moved, it was on tiptoe cautiously. Millard's creation, the black terror, could have inspired no dread greater than this. Of the people we wished to study, Phelps caught our eyes the first. Dejected, crushed, utterly discouraged, he was slouched down in a chair just at the edge of the supposed banquet hall. I had no doubt of the nature of his thoughts. There was probably only the most perfunctory sympathy for the stricken director, without question his mind ran to dollars. The dollar angle to this tragedy was that the death of Warner was simply another step in the wrecking of Manton pictures. Kennedy, I saw, hardly gave him a passing glance. Manton we observed near the door. With the possible exception of Millard, he seemed about the least concerned. The two, scenario writer and producer, had counterfeited the melodrama of life so often in their productions, that even the second sinister chapter in this film mystery failed to penetrate their sancteroid. Inwardly they may have felt as deeply as any of the rest, but both maintained their outward composure. On Manton's shoulders was the responsibility for the picture. I could see that he was nervous, irritable, yet, as various employees approached for their instructions in this emergency, he never lost his grasp of affairs. In the vibrant quiet of the studio chamber, still under the shadow of tragedy, we witnessed as cold blooded a bit of business generalship as has ever come to my knowledge. We overheard because Manton's voice carried across to us in the stillness. Cough! The name I remembered is that of the technical or art director under Werner, responsible for the sets of the Black Terror. Yes, Mr. Manton. Cough was a slim, stoop-shouldered man, gray, and a dynamo of energy in a quiet, subservient way. He ran to Manton's side. Remember once telling me you wanted to become a director that you wanted to make pictures for me? Yes, sir. You're familiar with the script of the Black Terror, aren't you? You know the people and how they work, and you have sets lined up. How would you like to finish the direction? But to the credit of the little man, he dabbed his eyes. I guess he had been fond of his immediate superior. Mr. Werner is dead, he stammered. Of course! Manton's voice rose slightly. If Werner wasn't dead, I wouldn't need another director at a moment's notice. Someone has to complete the Black Terror. We have all these people on salary and all the studio expense, and the release date settled, so that we can't stop. It's your chance, Cough. Do you want it? Yes, sir. Good. I'll double your salary, including all this week. Now, can you finish this banquet set tonight while you have the people's— Tonight! Cough's eyes went wide, then he started to flush. Well, tomorrow then. We simply can't lay off a day, Cough. All right, sir. It seemed to me that everyone in the place sensed the horror of this. Literally, actually, Werner's body could not be cold. Even the police, the medical examiner, had not had sufficient time to make the trip out for their investigation. Yet the director's successor had been appointed and told to hurry the production. I glanced at Phelps. He raised his head slowly, his expression lifting at the thought that production was to continue without interruption. In another moment, however, there was a change in his face. His eyes saw Manton and hardened. His mouth tightened. Hate. A deep unreasoning hate, settled into his features. Kennedy, pausing just long enough to observe the promoter's appointment of Cough to Werner's position, continued on toward the set. Now, as I looked about, I saw that Jack Gordon was missing, as well as Marilyn Loring. Presumably, they had gone to their dressing rooms. All the other actors and actresses were waiting, ill at ease, wondering at the outcome of the tragedy. Suddenly, Kennedy stopped, and I grasped that it was the peculiar actions of Meryl Shirley which had halted him. The heavy man was the only one of the company actually in the fabricated banquet hall itself. Clinging to him still were the grim, flowing robes of the black terror. As though he were some old-fashioned tragedy in, he was pacing up and down, hands behind his back, head bowed, eyes on the floor. More, he was mumbling to himself. It was evident, however, that it was neither a pose nor mental aberration. Shirley was searching for something, out in the open, without attempt at concealment, swearing softly at his lack of success. Kennedy pushed forward. Did you lose something, Mr. Shirley? No. The heavy man straightened. As he drew himself up in his sinister garb, I thought again of the cheap actors of the day when moving pictures had yet to preempt the field of the lurid melodrama. It seemed to me that Meryl Shirley was overacting, that it was impossible for him to be so wrought up over the slaying of a man who, after all, was only his director, certainly not a close nor an intimate relationship. Mr. Kennedy, he stated ponderously, there has been a second death and at the hand which struck down Stella Lamar in Tarrytown, somewhere in this banquet hall interior, there is a clue to the murderer. I have kept a careful watch so that nothing might be disturbed. Do you suspect anyone, Kennedy asked? Shirley glanced away and we knew he was lying. No, not definitely. Who has been in the set since I left with the doctor? No one except myself. That is, Shirley wanted to make it clear. No one has had any opportunity to hide or move or take or change a thing because I have been right here all the time. I see. Thanks! and Kennedy seemed genuinely apologetic. If you don't mind, I would prefer to make my investigation alone. Shirley turned on his heel and made for his dressing-room. Meanwhile I had noticed a bit of bi-play between Enid Faye and Lawrence Millard, the only others of our possible suspects about. Enid first caught my eye because she seemed to be pleading with the writer trying to hold him. I gathered from the look of disgust on Millard's face that he wanted to get Shirley out of the set before Kennedy should observe the heavy man's odd reaction to the tragedy. While I had never seen Millard and Shirley together, so as to establish in mind the state of their feelings toward each other, this would seem to indicate that they were friendly. Certainly Shirley was making a fool of himself. Enid acted eye-gassed so as to prevent Millard's interference, probably with the idea that Millard in some fashion might bring suspicion upon himself. It struck me that Enid had a wholesome respect for Kennedy. At any rate, Millard watched the little scene between Kennedy and Shirley with a quizzical expression. As Shirley left he shrugged his shoulders, then he gave Enid's cheeks a playful pinch each and started out after the heavy man in leisurely fashion. Just about the same moment Kennedy called me to his side. Walter, he pleaded in a low voice, will you hurry out to the dressing-room where the doctor and I took Werner and get the blood smears and sample of the stomach contents? I don't want to leave this because we must work fast and get all the data we need before the police arrive. With perhaps a hundred people to question, they'll be apt to make a fine mess of everything. This is an outlying precinct where we'll draw the amateurs, you know. I saw that McKay was helping him and so I left cheerfully, making my way as fast as I could toward the door through which both Shirley and Millard had passed. In the hallway of the building devoted to dressing-rooms, I found that I did not know which one contained Werner's body. This corridor was familiar. Here, Kennedy and I had waited for Marilyn Loring and had witnessed the scene between Shirley and herself. Now I did not even remember the location of her room. At last, on a chance, I tried to door softly. From within came whispered voices of deep intensity. About to close it quickly, I realized suddenly that I recognized the speakers in spite of the whispers. It was Marilyn and Shirley. They were together. Now I recollected the figured chints which covered the wall, and was to be seen through the crack made by the open door. It was her room. They had not heard my hand on the knob, nor the catch. Did not know that anyone could eavesdrop. You see! Her tone was the more vibrant. You waited! I had to. No, I advised you to act at once. I couldn't. I can't even now. All right. Her tone became bitter. Go ahead your own way. But you must count the cost. You may lose me again, moral Shirley. How do you mean? Her answer in the faintest of whispers staggered me. If you have the blood of another man on your hands, I'm through. End of Chapter 21