"No, Mr. Kennedy, we're out of luck again. When he jumped out he fell

to his hands and knees in a garden bed. The foot marks were ruined

because his feet slid and simply made two irregular gashes. The marks

of his hands indicated to me, anyhow, that he wore heavy gloves, rubber

probably."

"Any disturbance in the library?"

"Not that I could notice. That's why I phoned you at once. I'm hoping

you'll discover something."

"Well--" Kennedy sighed. "It was a wonderful opportunity to get to the

bottom of this."

"I haven't told you all yet, Mr. Kennedy," Mackay went on. "There was a

second man, and--"

"A second man?" Kennedy straightened, distinctly surprised. "I would

swear this whole thing was a one-man job."

"They weren't together," the district attorney explained. "That's why I

didn't mention them both at once. But my deputy says that when he was

thrown by the lash of the branch he was unable to move for a few

seconds, on account of the nerve shock I suppose, and that while he was

motionless, squatted in a sort of sitting position with hands braced

behind him, just as he fell, he was aware of a second stranger

concealed in the shrubbery.

"The second fellow was watching the first, without the question of a

doubt. While the deputy slowly rose to his feet this other chap started

to follow the man who had broken into the house. But at that moment

there was the sudden sound of a self-starter in a car, then the purr of

a motor and the clatter of gears. Number one spun off in the darkness

of the road as pretty as you please. Number two grunted, in plain

disgust.

"By this time my deputy had his wind. His revolver was gone, but he

jumped the second stranger with little enough hesitation and they

battled royally for several minutes in the dark. Unfortunately, it was

an unequal match. The intruder apparently was a stocky man, built with

the strength of a battleship. He got away also, without leaving

anything behind him to serve for identification."

"You have no more description than of the first man?"

"Unfortunately not. Medium height, a little inclined to be stocky,

strong as a longshoreman--that's all."

"Are you sure your deputy isn't romancing?"

"Positively! He's the son of one of our best families here, a sportsman

and an athlete. I knew he loved a lark, or a chance for adventure, and

so I impressed him and a companion as deputies when I met them on the

street on my way up to Phelps's house just after the tragedy."

Kennedy lapsed into thought. Who could the self-constituted watcher

have been? Who was interested in this case other than the proper

authorities? Apparently some one knew more than Mackay, more than

Kennedy. Whoever it was had made no effort to communicate with any of

us. This was a new angle to the mystery, a mystery which became deeper

as we progressed.

At the house Kennedy first made a careful tour of the exterior, but

found nothing. Mackay had doubled his guards and had sent Phelps's

servants away so that there could be no interference.

Once inside, I noticed that Kennedy seemed indisposed to make another

minute search of the library. He went over the frame of the French

window with his lens carefully, for fingerprints. Finding nothing, he

went back directly to the portieres.

For several moments he stood regarding them in thought. Then he began a

most painstaking inspection of the cloth with the pocket glass,

beginning at the library side.

I remembered that first scene in the manuscript which Kennedy had

insisted I read. I recalled the suspicion which had flashed to me

before the message from Mackay had disturbed both Kennedy's thoughts

and mine. Stella Lamar had thrust her bare arm through this curtain. A

needle, cleverly concealed in the folds, might easily have inflicted

the fatal scratch. It was for a trace of the poison point that Kennedy

searched. Of that I was sure, knowing his methods.

I glanced up and down the heavy hanging silk, looking for the glint of

fine sharp steel as Kennedy had done before starting his inspection

with the glass. The color of the silk, a beautiful heavy velour, was a

strange dark tint very close to the grained black-brown of the

woodwork. Both the thickness of the material and its dull shade made

the portieres serve ideally for the purpose assumed now both by Kennedy

and myself. A tiny needle might remain secreted within their folds for

days. Nothing, certainly, caught my naked eye.

At last a little exclamation from Kennedy showed us that he had

discovered something. I moved closer, as did Mackay.

"It's lucky none of us toyed with these curtains yesterday," he

remarked, with a slight smile of gratification. "There might have been

more than one lying where Stella Lamar lies at the present moment."

With wholesome respect neither Mackay nor myself touched the silk as

Kennedy pointed. There were two small holes, almost microscopic, in the

close-woven material. About the one there was the slightest

discoloration. Not a fraction of an inch away I saw two infinitesimal

spots of a dark brownish-red tinge.

"What does it mean?" I asked, although I could guess.

"The dark spots are blood, the discoloration the poison from the

needle."

"And the needle?"

He shrugged his shoulders. "That's where our very scientific culprit

has forestalled me, Walter! The needle was in these curtains all day

yesterday. Unfortunately, I did not study the manuscript, did not

attach any importance to Miss Lamar's scene at the portieres."

"The man who broke in last night--"

"Removed the needle, but"--almost amused--"not the traces of it. You

see, Walter, after all, the scientific detective cannot be forestalled

even by the most scientific criminal. There is nothing in the world

which does not leave its unmistakable mark behind, provided you can

read it. The hole in the cloth serves me quite as well as the needle

itself."

Very suddenly a voice from behind us interrupted.

"Find something?"

I turned, startled, to see Emery Phelps. There was a distinct eagerness

in the banker's expression.

"Yes!" Kennedy faced him, undisturbed, apparently not surprised. His

scrutiny of Phelps's face was frank and searching. "Yes," he repeated,

"bit by bit the guilty man is revealing himself to us."

XII

EMERY PHELPS

"There--there is something the matter with the curtains?" Phelps

suggested.

Kennedy pointed to the two holes and the spots. "Miss Lamar met her

death from poison introduced into her system through a tiny scratch

from a prepared needle."

"Yes?" Phelps was calm now, and cool. I wondered if it were pretense on

his part. "What have these little marks to do with that?"

"Don't you see?" rejoined Kennedy. "If some one had come here before

the scene in the picture was played; had thrust a small needle, perhaps

a hollow needle from a hypodermic syringe, through the heavy thickness

of this silk--thrust it in here, the point sticking out here--well,

there would be two holes left where the threads were forced apart, like

this!" Kennedy took his stickpin, demonstrating.

"How could that cause Stella's death?" Phelps, at first quite upset

apparently by Kennedy's discovery, now was lapsing again into his

hostile mood. His question was cynical.

"Try to recall Miss Lamar's actions," Kennedy went on, patiently. "What

was she supposed to do in the very first scene? 'The portieres move and

the fingers of a girl are seen on the edge of the silk. A bare and

beautiful arm is thrust through almost to the shoulder and it begins to

move the portieres aside, reaching upward to pull the curtains apart at

the rings.'"

"Do you mean to tell me--" Phelps's eyes were very wide as he paused,

grasping the scheme and yet disbelieving--unless it all were a bit of

fine acting--"do you mean to tell me it is possible to calculate a

thing like that? How would anyone know where her arm would be?"

"It is simpler than it sounds, Mr. Phelps." Kennedy was suddenly harsh.

"There is only one natural movement of an arm in that case. The culprit

was undoubtedly familiar with Miss Lamar's height and with her manner

of working. It is a bit of action which has to be repeated in both the

long shot and close-up scenes. Jameson here can tell you how many times

a scene is rehearsed. There probably were a dozen sure chances of the

needle striking the girl's bare flesh. You will see from the position

of the holes that it was arranged point downward and slightly turned

in, and on a particular fold of the curtain, too; showing that some one

placed it there only after a nice bit of calculation. Furthermore, it

was high enough so that there was little chance of anyone being pricked

except the star, whose death was intended."

Phelps either seemed convinced, or else he felt it inadvisable to

irritate Kennedy by a further pretense of skepticism.

A point occurred to me, however. "Listen, Craig!" I spoke in a low

voice. "Remember all the emphasis you placed upon the fact that she

would cry out. She was not supposed to cry out in that first scene."

"No, Walter, but if you'll read the second, the close-up, you'll see

that the script actually calls for a cry. Now suppose she makes an

exclamation in the first instead. Nobody would think anything of it.

They would assume that she had played her action a little in advance,

perhaps.

"And then consider this, too! Miss Lamar, receiving the scratch, would

cry out unquestionably. But she has been before the camera for years

and she is trained in the idea that film must not be wasted uselessly.

She would not interrupt her action for a little scratch because in

these circumstances any little startled movement would fit in with the

action. By the time the scene was over she would have forgotten the

incident. It would mean very little to her in the preoccupation of

bringing the mythical Stella Remsen into flesh-and-blood existence. The

poison, however, would be putting in its deadly work."

"Wouldn't it act before the thirteenth scene--" I began.

"Not necessarily. As a matter of fact, an actress, in the excitement of

her work, might resist the effects for a much longer period than some

one who realizes he is sick. Some day I'm going to write a book on

that. I'm going to collect hundreds of examples of people who keep

plugging along because they refuse to admit anything's the matter with

them. It's like Napoleon's courier who didn't drop until he'd delivered

his message and made his last precise military salute."

One other thought struck me. "The blood spots on the curtain cannot be

Miss Lamar's if, as you say, the scratch brought no blood."

"How about the nocturnal visitor who removed the needle in the dark?

Can't you imagine him pricking himself beautifully in his hurry."

"Good heavens!" I felt the chills travel up and down my spine. "There

may be another fatality, then!" I exclaimed.

Kennedy was noncommittal. "It would be too bad for justice to be

cheated in that fashion," he remarked.

Phelps meanwhile had been listening to us impatiently. Finally he

turned to Mackay.

"Was that all you called me out here for? Did you just want to show me

the pinholes in those portieres?"

"Not exactly," Mackay replied, eyeing him sharply. "Some one forced his

way into this library last night. My guard saw him, and also saw a

second man who remained out in the shrubbery and seemed to be watching

the first. One shot was fired, but both men got away. An automobile was

waiting, perhaps two of them."

"How does this concern me?" Phelps's voice rose in anger. He strode

into the library and over to the French windows, inspecting the damage

to the fine woodwork with steadily rising color. Then he hurried back

to the side of Mackay.

"It's up to you, District-Attorney Mackay," he said, with a great show

of his ill feeling. "You practically forced me out of my own house. You

sent my servants away. You put your own guards in charge, young,

inexperienced deputies who don't know enough to come in when it's wet.

Now you have me make this trip out here in business hours just to show

me where a needle has been stuck in a curtain and where a pair of

imported window sashes have been ruined."

Mackay was unruffled. "It is necessary, Mr. Phelps, that you look over

this room and see that nothing else has been disturbed; that there is

no further damage. Moreover, I thought you might be interested, might

wish to help us determine the identity of the intruder."

"If there's any way I can really help you to do

that"--sarcastically--"I'll be delighted."

"Were you here the night before the murder?" Mackay asked.

"You know I seldom spend the night in Tarrytown. I have quarters in New

York, at the club, and recently I have been spending all my time in New

York, on account of the situation in the picture business."

"You were not here the night before the murder, then?"

"No!"

"But you were out here yesterday before the actors arrived, before

Manton or any of his technical staff and crew came?"

"I was out very early, to make sure the servants had the house ready."

Phelps was red now. "Are you insinuating anything, Mackay?"

The little district attorney was demonstrating a certain quality of

dogged perseverance. "Some one put the needle in the curtain before the

company arrived. You probably were in the house at the time; or at the

least your servants were. Whoever did was the one who murdered Stella

Lamar."

"And also," rejoined Phelps, tartly, "was the intruder who broke in

here last night and ruined my window sash. If you had had better guards

you might have caught him, too!"

"Are you sure of your servants? Are they reliable--"

"I never anticipated a murder and so I didn't question them as to their

poisoning proclivities when I engaged them. But you know where they are

and you can examine them. If I were you, Mackay--"

"Gentlemen!" Kennedy hastened to stop the colloquy before it became an

out-and-out quarrel. Then he faced the banker.

"Mr. Phelps," Kennedy's voice was soft, coaxing, "I don't think Mr.

Mackay quite understands. It would be a great service to me if you

would give the house a quick general inspection. You are familiar with

the things here, enough to state whether they have been disturbed to

any appreciable degree. You see, we do not know the interior

arrangements as they were before this unfortunate happening."

With rather ill grace Phelps stalked up the steps, acceding to

Kennedy's request, but disdaining to answer.

Kennedy turned to Mackay as the banker disappeared out of earshot.

"That's just to cool him off a bit. I have everything I came to get

right here." Producing a pair of pocket scissors, he cut the pierced

and spotted bit of silk from the portieres, ruthlessly. It was

necessary vandalism.

"What was the poison, Mr. Kennedy?" Mackay asked, in a low voice.

"I think that it was closely allied to the cyanide groups in its

rapacious activity."

"But you haven't identified it yet?"

"No. So far I haven't the slightest idea of its true nature. It seems

to have a powerful affinity for important nerve centers of respiration

and muscular co-ordination, as well as possessing a tendency to

disorganize the blood. I should say that it produces death by

respiratory paralysis and convulsions. To my mind it is an exact,

though perhaps less active, counterpart of hydrocyanic acid. But that

is not what it is or I would have been able to prove it before this."

Mackay nodded, listening in silence.

"You'll say nothing of this?" Kennedy added.

"I'll be silent, of course."

Heavy footsteps from the rear marked the return of Phelps, who had

covered the upper floors, descending by the back stairs so as to have a

look at the kitchen.

"Everything seems to be all right," he remarked, half graciously.

Kennedy led the way to the front porch. There he seemed more interested

in the weather than in the case, for he studied the sky intently.

Glancing up, I saw that the morning was still gray and cloudy, with no

promise that the sun would be able to struggle through the overhanging

moisture.

"I don't think we'll go back to the city--that is, all the way in," he

remarked, speaking for both of us. "I want to go to the Manton studio

first. This is no day for exteriors and so they'll probably be working

there." He smiled at Phelps. "I want to see if any of our possible

suspects look as though they had been engaging in nocturnal journeys."

Phelps had been rubbing his eyes. He dropped his hand so quickly that I

wanted to smile; then to cover his confusion he promptly offered to

drive us in. Mackay at the same time volunteered his car.

Kennedy accepted the latter offer. As he thanked the banker I wondered

if any suspicion of that individual lurked in the back of his mind.

Phelps certainly had made a very bad impression upon me with his

antagonistic attitude, with his readiness to transform every question

into a personal affront.

"Just one other thing, Mr. Phelps," exclaimed Kennedy, as we were about

to descend to Mackay's car. "Why did you wish the scenes in 'The Black

Terror' actually taken in your library?"

Kennedy had asked the question before. Had he forgotten? I glanced at

the banker and read the same thought in his expression.

"I--I'm proud of my library and I wanted to see it in pictures," he

replied, after some hesitation and with a little rancor.

"Not to save money?"

"It would be no appreciable saving."

"I see." Kennedy was tantalizingly deliberate. "How long have you held

the controlling interest in Manton Pictures, Mr. Phelps?"

"Uh"--in surprise--"nearly a year."

"You could have had your library photographed at any time, then, simply

by stating your request as you did in this case. In that year there

have been pictures which would have served the purpose as well as this;

better, in fact, because in this picture the library seems to be dark

almost altogether. In other stories there probably were infinitely

better chances for the exhibition of the room. Why did you wait for

'The Black Terror'?"

As a clear understanding of Kennedy's question and all it entailed

filtered into the mind of Phelps he became so red and flushed with

anger that I felt sure he was going to explode on the spot.

"Because I didn't think of it before," he sputtered.

"You said the situation in the picture business made it necessary for

you to stay in town. Is there any trouble between Manton and yourself?"

"Not a bit!"

"Was Stella Lamar making any trouble, of a business nature, such as

threatening to quit Manton Pictures?"

"No!" Phelps' eyes now were narrowed to slits.

"Are you sure?"

With a great effort Phelps achieved a degree of self-control. He forced

a smile. His remark, presumed to be a pleasantry, I knew masked the

true state of his feelings.

"As sure, Mr. Kennedy," he rejoined, awed by Kennedy's reputation even

in the full flood of his anger, "as sure as I am that I'd like to throw

you down these steps!"

XIII

MARILYN LORING

The magic of Manton's name admitted us to the studio courtyard, and at

once I was struck by the change since the day before. Now the tank was

a dry, empty, shallow depression of concrete. The scenery, all the

paraphernalia assembled for the taking of water stuff, was gone. Except

for the parked automobiles in one corner and a few loitering figures

here and there the big quadrangle seemed absolutely deserted.

In the general reception room Kennedy asked for Millard, but was told

he had not been out since the previous day. That was to be expected.

But Manton, it developed, was away also. He had telephoned in that he

would be detained until late afternoon on important business. I know

that I, for one, wondered if it were connected with Fortune Features.

"It's just as well," Kennedy remarked, after convincing the boy at the

desk it was Manton's wish that we have the run of the place. "My real

object in coming was to watch the cast at work."

We found our way to the small studio, called so in comparison with the

larger one where the huge ballroom and banquet sets were being built.

In reality it possessed a tremendous floor space. Now all the other

companies had been forced to make room for "The Black Terror" on

account of the emergency created by the death of Stella Lamar, and

there were any number of sets put up hastily for the retakes of the

scenes in which Stella had appeared. The effect of the whole upon a

strange beholder was weird. It was as though a cyclone had swept

through a town and had gathered up and deposited slices and corners and

sections of rooms and hallways and upper chambers, each complete with

furniture and ornaments, curtains, rugs, and hangings. Except for the

artistic harmony of things within the narrow lines of the camera's

view, nothing in this great armory-like place had any apparent relation

to anything else. Some of the sets were lighted, with actors and

technical crews at work. Others were dark, standing ready for use.

Still others were in varying states of construction or demolition.

Rising above every other impression was the noise. It was pandemonium.

We saw Werner at work in a distant corner and strolled over. The

director was bustling about feverishly. I do not doubt that the grim

necessity of preparing the picture for a release date which was already

announced had resulted in this haste, without even a day of idleness in

respect for the memory of the dead star, yet it seemed cold-blooded and

mercenary to me. I thought that success was not deserved by an

enterprise so callous of human life, so unappreciative of human effort.

Most of the cast were standing about, waiting. The scenes were being

taken in a small room, fitted as an office or private den, but

furnished luxuriously. Later I learned it was in the home of the

millionaire, Remsen, close off the library for which the actual room in

Phelps's home was photographed.

Shirley and Gordon, I noticed, kept as far apart as possible. It was

quite intentional and I again caught belligerent glances between them.

On the other hand, both Enid and Marilyn Loring were calm and

self-possessed. Yet between these two I caught a coolness, a sort of

armed truce, in which each felt it would be a sign of weakness to admit

consciously even the near presence of the other.

Werner was irascible, swearing roundly at the slightest provocation,

raging up and down at every little error.

"Come now," he shouted, as we approached, "let's get this scene

now--number one twenty-six. Loring--Gordon! Shake a leg--here, I'll

read it again. 'Daring enters. He is scarcely seated at the desk,

examining papers, when Zelda enters in a filmy negligee. Daring looks

up amazed and Zelda pretends great agitation. Daring is not unkind to

her. He tells her he has not discovered the will as yet. Spoken title:

"I am sure that I can find a will and that you are provided for."

Continuing scene, Daring speaks the above. Zelda thanks him and

undulates toward the door with the well-known swaying walk of the

vampire. Daring turns to his papers and does not watch her further. She

looks over her shoulder, then exits, registering that she will get him

yet.'" Werner dropped his copy of the script. "Understand?" he barked.

"Make it fast now. We shouldn't do this over, but you were lousy

before, both of you!" Gordon extinguished a cigarette and entered the

set with a scowl. Marilyn rose and slipped out of a dressing gown

spotted with make-up and dark from its long service in the studios.

Underneath the wrapper the finest of silken draperies clung to her,

infinitely more intimate here in actuality and in the bright studio

lights than it would be upon the screen. I noticed the slim trimness of

her figure--could not help myself, in fact. And I saw also that she

shrank back just the least little bit before stepping to her place at

the door. It was modesty, a genuine girlish diffidence. In a moment I

revised my conception of her. Before, I had not been able to decide

whether Marilyn Loring was a woman with a gift for looking young, or a

flapper with the baffling sophistication affected these days by so many

of them. Now I knew somehow that she was just all girl, probably in her

early twenties. The brief instant of shyness had betrayed her.

In the scene she changed. Marilyn Loring was an actress. The moment she

caught the click of the camera's turn there was a hardness about her

mouth, a faint dishonest touch to the play of her eye, a shameless

boldness to her movements concealed without concealment. In the flash

of a second she was Marilyn no longer, but Zelda, the ward of old

Remsen, an unscrupulous and willing ally of the "Black Terror."

Werner damned the amount of footage used in the scene, then turned to

the next, with Enid and Gordon, in the same set, one of the necessary

retakes for which the room had been put up again.

Enid had not noticed me and I somehow failed to shake off the feeling

of fear that the glance of Millard had given me. Faint heart I was, and

the answer was that I had yet to win the fair lady. To excuse myself I

pretended she was different under the lights. It was really true that,

as Zelda Remsen, Enid was not the fascinating creature I had met in

Werner's office. There was too much Mascaro on her lashes, too great an

amount of red and blue and even bright yellow in her make-up. In

striking contrast was the little coloring used by Stella Lamar, or even

Marilyn Loring.

Enid's scene was a close-up in which the beginning of the love interest

in the story was shown. I noticed that as the cameras turned upon the

action the girl inch by inch shifted her position, almost

imperceptibly, until she was practically facing the lens. The

consequence was that Gordon, playing the lover, was forced to move also

in order to follow her face, and so was brought with his back toward

the camera. It was the pleasant little film trick known as "taking the

picture away" from a fellow actor. Enid was a "lens hog."

The moment the scene was over Gordon rushed to Werner to protest. The

director, irritated and in a hurry, gave him small satisfaction. Both

players were called back under the lights for the next "take." As

Werner's back was turned Enid favored Gordon with a mischievous,

malicious glance. The leading man possessed very few friends, from what

I had heard. The new star evidently did not propose to become one of

them.

"Let's pay our respects, socially," suggested Kennedy, at my elbow.

I followed his glance and saw that Marilyn was seated alone, away from

the others, apparently forlorn. As we approached she drew her dressing

robe about her, smiling. With the smile her face lighted. It was in the

rare moments, just as her smile broke and spread, that she was pretty,

strikingly so.

"Professor Kennedy," she exclaimed. "And Mr. Jameson, too! Sit down and

watch our new star."

"What do you think of her?" Kennedy asked.

"Enid?" Marilyn's expression became quizzical. "I think she's a clever

girl."

"You mean something by that, don't you?" prompted Kennedy.

She sobered. "No! Honestly!" For an instant she studied him with a

directness of gaze which I would have found disconcerting. "Don't tell

me"--she teased, again allowing the flash of a smile to illuminate her

features--"don't tell me the renowned and celebrated Professor Kennedy

suspects Enid Faye of murdering poor Stella to get her position."

Kennedy laughed, turning to me. "There's the woman," he remarked. "We

may deduce and analyze and catalogue all the facts of science, but"--he

spread his palms wide, expressly--"it is as nothing against a woman's

intuition." Facing Marilyn again, he became frank. "You caught my

thought exactly, although it was not as bad as all that. I simply

wondered if Miss Faye might not have had something to do with the case."

"Why?" I realized now that this Miss Loring, in addition to

considerable skill as an actress, in addition to rare beauty on the

screen, possessed a brain and the power to use it. She followed Kennedy

with greater ease than I, who knew him.

"Why?" she repeated.

"Perhaps it's the intuition of the male," he began, hesitatingly.

She shook her head. "A man's intuition is not dependable. You see, a

woman gets her intuition first and fits her facts to it, while a man

takes a fact and then has an intuitive burst of inspiration as a

result. The woman puts her facts last and so is not thrown out when

they're wrong, as they usually are. But the man--I think, Professor

Kennedy, that you have some facts about Enid stored away and that

that's why you put a double meaning in my remark. Am I right?"

He smiled. "I surrender, Miss Loring. You are right."

"What is the little fact? Perhaps I can help you."

"Miss Faye and Lawrence Millard seem to be old friends."

"Oh! Maybe you wonder at the contents of the sealed testimony in the

case of Millard VS. Millard?"

Kennedy nodded.

"Do you want to know what I think?" she asked.

"Please."

"Well, I've worked with Stella nearly a year. It's my opinion she

divorced Millard because he asked her to do so."

"No, no!" I balked at that, interrupting. "He could have obtained the

divorce himself if he had wanted it. Stella Lamar and Manton--"

"That's talk!" she rejoined, with a show of feeling. "That's the thing

I hate about pictures. It's always talk, talk, talk! I'm not saying

Stella and old Papa Lloyd, as we used to call him, never were mixed up

with each other, but it's one thing to repeat a bit of gossip and quite

another thing to prove it. I'm not one to help give currency to any

rumor of immoral relationship until I'm pretty dog-gone sure it's true."

"You think Miss Lamar wasn't as bad as painted?" asked Kennedy.

"I'm sure of it, Mr. Kennedy. I've known Stella and I've known others

of her type. Fundamentally they're the kindest, truest, biggest-hearted

people on earth. When Stella and I shared a dressing room I often

caught her giving away this or that--frequently things she needed

herself. I've known her to draw against her salary to lend money to

some actor or actress whom she well knew would never repay her.

Stella's biggest fault was an overbalancing quality of sympathy. If she

ever did get mixed up with anyone you may bet it was because that

person played upon her feelings."

"Have you any theory as to who killed her?" It was a direct question.

"No!" The answer was quick, but then an amazing thing happened. Marilyn

suddenly colored, a flush which gathered up around her eyes above the

make-up and made me think of a country girl. She started to say

something else and then bit her tongue. Her confusion was surprising,

due, probably, to the unexpectedness of Kennedy's query.

Kennedy seemed to wish to spare her. Undoubtedly her prompt negative

had been the truth. Some afterthought had robbed her of her

self-control. "Tell me why you said Miss Faye was a clever girl," he

directed.

"Just because she puts her ambition above everything else and works

hard and honestly and sincerely, and will get there. That's what people

call being clever."

"I see."

Werner's voice, roaring through a megaphone, announced an interval for

lunch. Marilyn rose, laughing now, but still in a high color, conscious

perhaps that she had revealed some strong undercurrent of feeling.

"If you'll escort me to my dressing room," she said, coaxingly, "and

wait until I slip into a skirt and waist, I'll initiate both of you to

McCann's across the street. We all eat there, players, stage hands,

chauffeurs--all but the stars, who have machines to take them

elsewhere."

Kennedy glanced at me. "Delighted!" said I.

"We haven't much time," she went on, leading the way. "Werner's on a

rampage to-day."

"He isn't usually that way?"

"It's Stella's death, I guess." She opened one of the steel fire doors.

"He's always that way, though, when he's been out the night before."

I flashed a look at Kennedy. Could Werner have been at Tarrytown?

In the long hallway of dressing rooms Marilyn stopped, grasping the

knob of her door. "It'll only take me--" she began.

Then her face went white as the concrete of the floor, and that was

immaculate. An expression which might have been fear, or horror, or

hate--or all three, spread over her features, transforming her.

Following the direction of her stare, I saw Shirley down the hall, just

as he stopped at his own door. He caught her glance suddenly, and his

own face went red. I thought that his hands trembled.

Marilyn wheeled about, lips pressed tightly together. Throwing open the

door, she dashed into her room, slamming it with a bang which echoed

and re-echoed up and down the little hall. She had forgotten our

presence altogether.

XIV

ANOTHER CLUE

Kennedy looked at me quizzically. "I guess we'd better not wait for

Miss Loring to initiate us to McCann's," he remarked.

We found our way to the courtyard, and were headed for the gate when a

young man in chauffeur's cap and uniform intercepted us. I had noticed

him start forward from one of the cars parked in the inclosure, but did

not recognize him.

"May I speak to you a moment, Professor Kennedy--alone?"

"Mr. Jameson here is associated with me, is assisting me in this case,

if it is something concerning the death of Miss Lamar."

"It is, sir. I saw you out at Tarrytown yesterday. McGroarty is my name

and I drove one of the cars the company went in. They were pointing you

out to me, and I'd read about you, and just now I says to myself

there's something I ought to tell you."

"That's right." Kennedy lighted a cigar, offering one to the chauffeur.

"I'm not supernatural and often I'm able to solve a mystery only with

the help of all those who, like myself, want justice done."

"Yes, sir! That's my way of looking at it. Well"--McGroarty blew a

cloud of smoke, appreciatively--"I do a good bit of driving for these

people, and this morning it was cloudy and dull, no good for exteriors,

but yet sort of so it might clear at any moment, and so I was ordered.

I brought my car and left it standing here in the yard while I went

over to McCann's--the lunch room, you know--for a cup of coffee. When I

came back"--again the cigar--"there still was nothing doing, and so I

thought--you know how it is--I thought I'd clean up the back of the old

boat, to kill time, not saying it wasn't needed. So I took out the

cocoa mat to beat it and what do I find on the floor--between the mat

and the rear seat it was, I guess--but this."

He handed Kennedy some small object which glinted in the light. Looking

closely, I saw that it was a peculiarly shaped little glass tube.

"An ampulla," Kennedy explained. "It's the technical name the doctors

have for such a container."

"It must have been between the mat and the rear seat," the chauffeur

repeated. Then he discovered that his cigar was out. He struck a match.

Kennedy turned the bit of glass over and over in his hand, examining it

carefully. I felt rather fearful, wondering if it might not contain

some trace of the deadly poison which had so quickly killed Stella

Lamar. I even half expected to see Kennedy find some infinitesimal

jagged edge or point which could have inflicted the fatal scratch. Then

I realized that McGroarty had handled the thing with impunity, perhaps

had carried it about half a day.

Kennedy took his scarf pin. On the outside of the little tube there was

no trace of a label or marking of any sort. All about, on the inside,

however, the glass was spotted with dried light-yellow incrustations,

resembling crystals and at first apt to escape even the sharpest

scrutiny. With the pin Kennedy scaled off one of these and put it under

his pocket lens. But he came to no conclusion. Rather puzzled and

nettled, he dropped the tiny bit of substance back into the tube, then

replaced his pin in his scarf, and stowed this latest bit of possible

evidence in his pocket carefully.

"How do you suppose it got in the car?" he asked.

"Some one must have dropped it and it must have rolled in that space by

the edge of the mat," replied the chauffeur. "There was just room for

it, too! I never would have noticed it without taking up the mat."

"It couldn't be broken, by being trampled on?"

"Nope! Not a chance!"

"How long could it have been there?"

"Two or three or four days--since I cleaned up last."

I remembered the cleverness shown by the guilty person in placing the

needle in the curtain. It seemed unlikely that this could be an

accident. "Isn't it possible," I suggested, "that this is a plant; that

the tube was put there deliberately, to throw us off the track?"

"It's quite likely," he admitted. "On the other hand, Walter, the very

smartest criminal will do some foolish little thing, enough to ruin the

most careful plans and preparations." He turned to McGroarty. "Who rode

in your car yesterday?"

"Mine's the principals' car," boasted McGroarty. "Going out I had Miss

Lamar, Miss Loring, Mr. Gordon, Mr. Shirley, and Mr. Werner. Coming

back Mr. Werner was with you, and Miss Lamar--well, there was only Miss

Loring and Mr. Gordon and Mr. Shirley."

"Did you notice how they acted?"

"They never says a word to each other on all the trip back, but I

didn't think it strange after what happened, although usually they're

always joking and laughing."

"You brought the three to the studio here?"

"Yes. They had to get out of make-up."

"Did you leave the car then?"

"No, I hit it right for the garage."

"Were you away from the car at Tarrytown?"

"Sure! That was a long wait. Peters, Manton's chauffeur, and I found a

couple of horseshoes and we were throwing them most of the time."

"How long was the machine alone here in the yard this morning?"

"A couple of hours, maybe. I knew the old boiler was safe enough, and

that if they wanted me they'd look over in McCann's."

"Well," Kennedy extended his hand, "I thank you, and I won't forget

you, McGroarty."

As soon as the chauffeur was out of earshot I faced Kennedy rather

eagerly, to forestall him if he had arrived at the same conclusion as

myself.

"See! It's just as I thought yesterday!"

"How's that, Walter?"

"Werner! He rode out in that machine, but not back. In Manton's car he

was worried all the time. He probably knew he had dropped the tube.

Then he hurried up ahead of us and wiped the needle--" I stopped,

lamely.

Kennedy smiled. "See, you're jumping at conclusions too fast. You

remember now that we decided that the towel has nothing directly to do

with the poison. In a way you cannot assume that this ampulla has,

either, although I myself feel sure on that point. But in any case no

one is eliminated. It is true Werner did not return in the same

automobile. It is also true that he had little opportunity to drop it

while others were in the car with him. When McGroarty was away from the

car anyone could have lost it, or--as you suggested a moment

ago--planted it there deliberately to divert suspicion."

I felt the beginnings of a headache from all these confused threads of

the mystery. "Can't--Isn't there anyone we can say is innocent, at

least, even if we cannot begin to fasten the guilt upon somebody?" I

pleaded.

Kennedy shook his head. "At this stage the one is as hard as the other.

I consider myself lucky to have collected as much material as I have

for the analysis of the poison." He tapped his pocket significantly.

"Yoo-hoo!" A frankly shrill call in a feminine voice interrupted. We

both turned, to see Marilyn Loring hastening toward us.

"Did you think I was going to forget you?" she asked, almost

reproachfully and much out of breath. "Let's hurry," she added. "This

is roast beef day."

We started toward the gate once more, Marilyn between us, vivacious and

rather charming. I noticed that she made no reference to the incident

in the hallway, the precipitate manner in which she left us and the

very evident confusion of Merle Shirley. Kennedy, too, seemed disposed

to drop the matter, although it was obviously significant. For some

reason his mind was elsewhere, so that the girl was thrown upon my

hands.

It struck me that, after all, she was attractive. At this moment I

found her distinctly good-looking.

"Why do you 'vamp'?" I asked, innocently. "You don't seem to me, if

you'll pardon the personal remark, at all that type."

She laughed. "It's all the fault of the public. They insist that I

vamp. I want to play girly-girly parts, but the public won't stand for

it; they won't come to see the picture. They tell the exhibitor, and he

tells the producer, and back I am at the vamping again. Isn't it

funny?" She paused a moment. "Take Gordon. Doesn't it make you laugh,

what the public think he is--clean-cut, hero, and all that sort of

thing? Little do they know!"

All at once Kennedy stopped abruptly. We were close to the entrance,

just where a smart little speedster of light blue lined with white was

parked at the edge of the narrow sidewalk. The sun, after a morning of

uncertainty, had just struck through the haze, and it illuminated

Marilyn's face and hair most delightfully as we both turned, somewhat

in surprise.

"I know you'll never forgive me, Miss Loring," Kennedy began, "but the

fact is that just before you came out we stumbled into a new bit of

evidence in the case and I believe that Jameson and I will have to

hurry in to the laboratory. Much as I would like to lunch with you, and

perhaps chat some more during scene-taking this afternoon--"

It seemed to me that her eyes widened a bit. Certainly there was a

perceptible change in her face. It was interest, but it was also

certainly more than that. I felt that she would have liked to penetrate

the mask of Kennedy's expression, perhaps learn just what facts and

theories rested in his mind.

"Is it--" Suddenly she smiled, realizing that Kennedy would reveal only

the little which suited his purpose. "Is it something you can tell me?"

she finished.

He shook his head. His answer was tantalizing, his glance searching and

without concealment. "Only another detail concerning the chemical

analysis of the poison."

"I see!" If she knew of the ampulla the answer would have been

intelligible to her. As it was, her face betrayed nothing. "I guess

I'll hurry on over alone, then," she added. She extended a hand to each

of us. Her grasp was warm and friendly and frank. "So long, and--and

good luck, for Stella's sake!"

"Hello, folks!"

The dancing bantering voice from behind us, with silvery cadence to its

laughter, could belong to no one but Enid Faye. I grasped that it was

her car which Kennedy leaned upon. I gasped a bit as I saw her directly

at my side, her dainty chamois motoring coat brushing my sleeve, the

sun which grew in strength every moment casting mottled shadows upon

her face through the transparent brim of her bobbing hat, in mocking

answer to the mirth in her eyes.

For an instant she gazed after the retreating Marilyn.

"Good-by, Marilyn! DEAR," she called, mega-phoning her hands.

The other girl made no response. Laughing, Enid slipped a hand under my

arm, the firm pressure of her fingers thrilling me. She addressed

Kennedy, however.

"Do you want a ride in to the city, both of you?"

Kennedy brightened. "That would be fine! How far are you going?"

"The Burrage. I have a luncheon engagement. That's Forty-fourth."

"Can you drop us off at the university?"

"Surely! Climb in. It's a tight fit, three in the seat, but fun.

And"--facing me--"I want Jamie between us, next to me!"

As we rolled out of the studio inclosure she leaned forward on the

wheel to question Kennedy.

"What did Marilyn Loring want? You seemed in deep confab!"

"She volunteered to initiate us to McCann's, across the street."

"Oh!" She skidded about a corner skillfully. "And--"

"Well, we bumped into an additional piece of evidence and I thought

Jameson and I ought to hurry in to my laboratory instead."

"I bet"--Enid giggled, readjusting her hat in the breeze--"I bet she

wanted to know what you'd found, right away. Didn't she?"

"Yes!" Kennedy's face was noncommittal, "Why do you say that?"

"Because she came into my room, just as we were getting ready for work

this morning. Perhaps I'm wrong, but from the way she kept asking me

questions about everyone from Manton down I got the idea she was

quizzing me, to see how much I knew. Of course this is only my first

day, but it seems to me that Marilyn is talking a great deal, without

saying very much. I've come to the conclusion she knows a good deal

more than she is telling anyone, and that she'd like to find out just

how much everyone else knows."

Kennedy nodded almost absent-mindedly, without responding further.

"Well"--Enid speeded up a bit--"not to change connections on the

switchboard, I think I'm going to like it with Manton Pictures."

"Will they do justice to your work," Kennedy inquired, "putting you in

a partially finished picture in this way?"

"That's where I'm in luck, real bang-up luck. Werner has directed me

before and knows just exactly how to handle me."

"What about the story? That was built for Stella, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but they're changing it here and there to fit me. Larry knows my

work, too! That's luck again for little Enid."

"How long have you known Millard?" In a flash I realized Kennedy's

cleverness. This was the fact he had wished to unearth. The question

was as natural as could be. He had led up to it deliberately. I was

sure of that.

"Four, nearly five years," she replied, unsuspiciously. Then suddenly

she bit her lip, although her expression was well masked. "That is,"

she added, somewhat lamely--"that is, in a casual way, like nearly

everyone knows nearly everyone else in the film game."

"Oh!" murmured Kennedy, lapsing into silence.

XV

I BECOME A DETECTIVE

Important as it was to watch Enid and Marilyn, Werner and the rest,

Kennedy decided that it was now much more important to hold to his

expressed purpose of returning to the laboratory with our trophies of

the day's crime hunt.

"For people to whom emotion ought to be an old story in their everyday

stage life, I must say they feel and show plenty of it in real life," I

remarked, as Enid set us down and drove off. "It does not seem to pall."

"I don't know why the movie people buy stories," remarked Craig,

quaintly. "They don't need to do it--they live them."

When we were settled in the laboratory once more Kennedy plunged with

renewed vigor into the investigation he had dropped in the morning in

order to make the hurried trip to the Phelps home in Tarrytown.

I had hoped he would talk further of the probabilities of the

connection of the various people with the crime, but he had no comment

even upon the admission of Enid that she had known Millard for a period

long antedating the trouble with Stella Lamar.

It seemed that, after all, he was quite excited at the discovery of the

ampulla and was anxious to begin the analysis of its scale-like

contents. I was not sure, but it struck me that this might be the same

substance which had spotted the towel or the portieres. If that were

so, the finding of it in this form had given him a new and tangible

clue to its nature, accounting for his eagerness.

I watched his elaborate and thorough preparations, wishing I could be

of assistance, but knowing the limitations of my own chemical and

bacteriological knowledge. I grasped, however, that he was

concentrating his study upon the spots he had cut from the portieres,

in particular the stain where the point of the needle had been, and

upon the incrustations on the inner surface of the tube. He made

solutions of both of these and for some little time experimented with

chemical reactions. Then he had recourse to several weighty technical

books. Though bursting with curiosity, I dared not question him, nor

distract him in any way.

Finally he turned to a cage where he kept on hand, always, a few of

those useful martyrs to science, guinea pigs. Taking one of the little

animals and segregating him from the others, he prepared to inoculate

him with a tiny bit of the solution made from the stain on the piece

cut from the portiere.

At that I knew it would be a long and tiresome analysis. It seemed a

waste of time to wait idly for Kennedy to reach his conclusions, so I

cast about in my mind for some sort of inquiry of my own which I could

conduct meanwhile, perhaps collecting additional facts about those we

were watching at the studio.

Somehow I could not wholly lose my suspicions of the director, Werner;

especially now as I marshaled the evidence against him. First of all he

was the only person absolutely in control of the movements of Stella

Lamar. If she did not bring up her arm against the curtains in a manner

calculated to press the needle against her flesh it certainly would not

seem out of the way for him to ask her to do it over again, or even for

him to direct changes in her position. This he could do either in

rehearsal or in retakes after the scene had actually been photographed.

It was not proof, I knew. Practically all of them were familiar with

the action of the scene, could guess how Werner would handle it. The

point was that the director, next to Millard, was the most thoroughly

conversant with the scenes in the script, had to figure out everything

down to the very location and angles of the camera.

Another matter, of course, was the placing of the needle in the silk.

For that purpose some one had to go to Tarrytown ahead of the others,

or at least had to precede the others into the living room. Offhand I

was compelled to admit that this was easiest for Phelps--Phelps, the

man who had insisted that the scene be taken in his library. At the

same time, I knew it was quite possible for the director to have

entered ahead of anyone else, possible for him to have issued orders to

his people which would keep them out of the way for the brief moment he

needed.

A third consideration was the finding of the ampulla in McGroarty's

car. Stella, Marilyn, Jack Gordon, Merle Shirley, and Werner had ridden

out together. Werner had not returned. While this fact did not indicate

definitely that he might have dropped it, coupled with the other

considerations it pointed the suspicion of guilt at the director.

Then there was the finding of the towel in the washroom of the office

building at the studio. While Kennedy now said it was not used to wipe

the needle, while we now knew that the needle remained in the portieres

from the morning of Stella's death until late that night, yet Kennedy

affirmed the connection of the towel with the crime in some subtle way.

It was true that members of the cast sometimes used the washroom, yet

it was evident that Manton, Millard, and Werner, who had rooms on the

floor, were the more apt to be concerned in the attempt to dispose of

it. Against Manton I could see no real grounds for suspicion. In a

general way we had been compelled to eliminate Millard early in our

investigation. Again I was brought, in this analysis of the mystery, to

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 in 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

ringing the apartment.

"I know it," I rejoined, hastily. "I told him I'd meet him here this

afternoon, however." On a chance I went on, with a knowing smile, "I

guess it was pretty late when he came in last night?"

"I'll say so," grinned the youth, friendly all of a sudden. He had

interpreted the remark as I intended he should. He believed that Werner

and I had been out together. "I remember," he volunteered, "because I

had to do an extra shift of duty last night, worse luck. It must have

been after four o'clock. I was almost asleep when I heard the taxi at

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 a good-by

as I passed out through the grilled iron doors to the street. Less than

five minutes afterward I was at the booth of the Maroon Taxi Company,

at the side of the main entrance of the Central Park Hotel.

Here the starter proved to be a loquacious individual, and I caught

him, fortunately, in the slowest part of the afternoon. Removing a pipe

and pushing a battered cap to the back of a bald head, he pulled out

the sheets of the previous day. Before me were recorded all the calls

for taxicab service, with the names of drivers, addresses of calls, and

destinations. Although the quarters in the booth were cramped and close

and made villainous by the reek of the man's pipe, I began to scan the

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. Several fares had been driven to

and from the Grand Central Station, probably the means by which he made

the trip to Tarrytown. In each case the record had shown the Central

Park Hotel in the other column, not the Whistler Studios. I was forced

to give up this clue, and it hurt. I was not built for a detective, I

guess, for I almost quit then and there, prepared to return to the

laboratory and Kennedy.

But I remembered my first intention and made my way back to the

Whistler Studios. Anyhow, I reflected, Werner would hardly have

summoned a car from a place so near his home had he wished to keep his

trip a secret. It was more important for me to gain access to his

quarters. There it was quite possible I might find something valuable.

I wondered if I would be justified in breaking in, or if I would

succeed if I attempted it.

Things proved easier than I expected. My first visit unquestionably had

prepared the way. The hallboy took me up in the elevator himself

without telephoning, took me to Werner's door, rang the bell, and spoke

to the colored valet who opened it. As I grasped the presence of the

servant in the little suite I was glad I had not tried my hand at

forcing an entrance. I had quite anticipated an empty apartment.

The darky, pleasant voiced, polite, and well trained, bowed me into a

little den and proceeded to lay out a large box of cigarettes on the

table beside me, as well as a humidor well filled with cigars of good

quality. I took one of the latter, accepting a light and glancing about.

Certainly this was in contrast with Manton's apartment. There was

nothing garish, ornate, or spectacular here. Richly, lavishly

furnished, everything was in perfect taste, revealing the hand of an

artist. It might have been a bit bizarre, reflecting the nervous

temperament of its owner. Even the servant showed the touch of his

master, hovering about to make sure I was comfortable, even to bringing

a stack of the latest magazines. I hope he didn't sense my thoughts,

for I cursed him inwardly. I wanted to be alone. Ordinarily I would

have enjoyed this, but now I had become a detective, and it was

necessary to rummage about, and quickly.

The sudden ringing of the telephone took the valet out into the tiny

hall of the suite and gave me the opportunity I wished.

Phelps apparently was calling up to leave some message for Werner,

which I could not get, as the valet took it. What, I wondered, was

Phelps telephoning here for? Why not at the studio? It looked strange.

I lost no time in speculation over that, however. The moment I was left

to myself I jumped up and rushed to a writing desk, a carved antique

which had caught my eye upon my entrance, which I had studied from my

place in the easy chair. It was unlocked, and I opened it without

compunction. With an alert ear, to warn me the moment the colored boy

hung up, I first gazed rather helplessly at a huge pile of literary

litter. Clearly there was no time to go through all of that.

I gave the papers a cursory inspection, without disturbing them, hoping

to catch some name or something which might prove to be a random clue,

but I was less lucky than Kennedy had been in his casual look at

Manton's desk the afternoon before. Still able to hear the valet at the

telephone, I reached down and opened the top drawer of the desk. Here

perhaps I might be more fortunate. One glance and my heart gave a

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 the glass point, sucked

up some of the contents, placed the bulb right side up in my waistcoat

pocket, and recorked the bottle. Next I took and pocketed one of the

two needles, both of which were alike as far as I could see.

Then I heard a good-by in the hall. I closed drawer and desk hastily.

As I caught the click of the receiver of the telephone on its hook I

was halfway across the floor. Before the colored boy could enter again

I was back in my chair, my head literally in a whirl.

What a stroke of good fortune! I had no expectation of proving Werner

to be the guilty man by so simple a method as this, however. If he were

the slayer of the star he would be too clever to leave anything so

incriminating about. I have always quarreled with Poe's theory in The

Purloined Letter, believing that the obvious is no place to hide

anything outside of fiction. What I conceived, rather, was that Werner

really was a dope fiend. The nature of the drug Kennedy would tell me

very easily, from the sample. Establishing Werner's possession of the

needles was another point in my chain of presumptions, showing that he

was familiar with their use; and added to that was the psychological

effect upon him of the habit, a habit responsible in many other cases

for murders as skillfully carried out as that of Stella Lamar, often,

too, without the slightest shred of real motive.

I recalled Werner's habitually nervous manner and was sure now that the

needles actually were used by him. Was it due to the high pressure of

his profession? Had that constant high tension forced him to find

relief in the most violent relaxation?

Elated, I was tempted at first to crowd my luck. I wondered if I could

not discover another ampulla such as the chauffeur, McGroarty, had

picked up in his car. When Werner's servant, almost apologetically,

explained that the telephone message was from a near-by shop and that

he would have to leave me for a matter of ten or fifteen minutes, I

assured him that it was all right and that I would occupy myself with a

magazine. The moment he was out the door I sprang to action and began a

minute search of every nook and cranny of the rooms.

But gradually a sense of growing fear and trepidation took hold of me.

Suppose, after all, Werner should return home unexpectedly? The colored

boy did not seem surprised that I should wait, a slight indication that

it was possible. Further, I could never tell when the darky might not

return himself, breaking in upon me without warning and discovering me.

At the best I was not a skillful investigator. I did not know just

where to look for hidden evidences of poison, nor was I able to work

fast, for fear of leaving too tangible marks of my actions behind me. A

great perspiration stood out on my forehead. Gradually a trembling took

hold of my limbs and communicated itself to my fingers.

After all, it was essential that Werner be kept in ignorance of my

suspicions, granting they were correct. It would be fatal if I should

frighten him inadvertently, so that he would take to flight. Realizing

my foolhardiness, I returned to my chair at last, picking up a magazine

at random. I did so not a moment too soon. A slight sound caught my ear

and I looked up to see the valet already halfway into the room. His

tread was so soft I never would have heard him.

"I don't think I'll wait any longer," I remarked, rising and stretching

slightly, as though I had been seated all the time. "I'll ring up a

little later; perhaps come back after I get in touch with Mr. Werner."

"Who shall I say was here, sah?" the boy asked, with just a trace of

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 hallboy would not compare notes, and that the latter would say

nothing to the director upon his arrival.

"I'm an old friend from the Coast," I explained, with a show of taking

the negro into my confidence. "I wanted to surprise him and so"--I

slipped a half dollar into a willing palm--"if you'll say nothing until

I've seen him--"

He beamed. "Yes, sah! You jus' count on George, sah!"

Downstairs I wondered if I could seal the tongue of the youth who had

accommodated me before. Then I discovered that he had gone off duty. It

would be extremely unlikely that he would be about until the following

day. I smiled and hastened out to the street.

Once in the open air again, I realized the full extent of the risk I

had taken. All at once it struck me that no amount of explanation from

either Kennedy or myself would serve to mollify Werner if he were

innocent and learned of my visit. I doubted, in this moment of

afterthought, that I would escape censure from Kennedy, who surely

would not want his case jeopardized by precipitate actions upon my

part. I began to run, to get away from the Whistler Studios as fast as

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 Dupin," he remarked, calmly, grasping my

excitement, "I would deduce that you have discovered something. I would

also deduce that you believe it important and that you have no

intention of withholding the information from me, whatever it is."

"Correct," I answered, grinning in spite of myself.

Then I handed him the needle, telling him in a few brief words of my

visit to Werner's apartment, of the hallboy's confirmation of a

nocturnal trip of some sort, of my search of the desk and some other

parts of the suite. "I fixed it so that he won't hear of my visit, at

least for some time. He won't suspect who it was, in any case."

Kennedy examined the hypodermic.

"Not like the one used," he murmured.

"I thought that," I explained. "It simply indicates he is a dope fiend

and is familiar with the use of a needle. Here!" I produced the ink

filler which I had used to bring a sample of the contents of the

bottle. "This seems to be what he uses. What is it?"

Kennedy sniffed, then looked closely at the liquid through the glass of

the tube. "It's a coca preparation," he explained. "If Werner uses

this, he's unquestionably a regular drug addict."

"Well," I paused, triumphantly, "the case against the chief director of

Manton Pictures grows stronger all the time."

"Not necessarily," contradicted Kennedy, perhaps to draw me out.

"He's familiar with hypodermic syringes," I repeated.

"Which doesn't prove that no one else would use one."

"Anyhow, he was out until four A.M. last night and some one broke into

Phelps's house to--"

"You can't establish the fact that he went out there. There are plenty

of other places he could have been until four in the morning."

"But I can assume--"

"If you are going to assume anything, Walter, why not assume he was the

second man, the man who watched the actual intruder?"

I turned away, despairing of my ability to convince Kennedy. As a

matter of fact I had forgotten the other prowler at Tarrytown.

Then I noticed that the one guinea pig in the separate cage was dead.

In an instant I was all curiosity to know the results of Kennedy's

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 ampulla and regarded it thoughtfully. Then

he fingered the bit of silk cut from the portieres. "It is a poison

more deadly, more subtle, than any ever concocted by man, Walter."

"Yes?" I was painfully eager.

"It is snake venom!"

XVI

ENID ASSISTS

"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 to-night I feel I have earned a rest and"--a

smile--"I shall rest by searching out the motives of these

temperamental movie folk a little more." As he spoke he slipped out of

his acid-stained smock.

"What do you mean?" As often, he rather baffled me.

"It's nearly dinner time and we're going out together, Walter, down to

Jacques'."

"Why Jacques'?"

"Because I phoned your friend Belle Balcom and she informed me that

that was the place where we would be apt to find the elite of the film

world dining."

I acquiesced, of course. We hurried to the apartment first for a few

necessary changes and preparations, then we started for the Times

Square section in a taxi.

"I never heard of the use of snake venom before," I remarked, settling

back in the cushions--"that is, deliberately, by a criminal, to poison

anyone."

"There are cases," replied Craig, absently.

"Just how does the venom act?"

"I believe it is generally accepted that there are two agents present

in the secretion. One is a peptone and the other a globulin. One is

neurotoxic, the other hemolytic. Not only is the general nervous system

attacked instantly, but the coagulability of the blood is destroyed.

One agent in the venom attacks the nerve cells; the other destroys the

red corpuscles."

"You suspected something of this kind, then, when you first examined

Stella Lamar?"

"Exactly! You see, the victim of a snake bite often is unable to move

or speak. Doctor Blake observed that in the case of the stricken star.

Her nerves were affected, resulting in paralysis of the muscles of the

heart and lungs and giving us some symptoms of suffocation. Then the

blood, as a result of the attack of the venom, is always left dark and

liquid. That, too, I observed in the sample sent me from Tarrytown.

"The snake," Kennedy continued, "administers the poison by fangs more

delicate than any hypodermic. Nature's apparatus is more precise than

the finest appliances devised for the use of a surgeon by our

instrument makers. The fangs are like needles with obliquely cut points

and slit-like outlets. The poison glands correspond to the bulb of a

syringe. They are, in reality, highly modified salivary glands. From

them, when the serpent strikes, is ejected a pale straw-colored

half-oleaginous fluid. You might swallow it with impunity. But once in

the blood, through a cut or wound, it is deadly."

"There could be no snake in this case," I remarked. "The fangs of a

serpent make two punctures, don't they; while here there was just the

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

portieres and it is my belief that it was part of an all-glass

hypodermic with a platinum-iridium point. It could hardly have been

anything like the coarser syringe used by Werner, nor do I think it

possible that the point of an ordinary needle would hold sufficient

venom, since it would dry and form a coating like the incrustation on

the inside of the ampulla McGroarty found."

"That was the venom?" I asked.

"Yes, I found it in the ampulla and in the stain on the portiere where

the needle had pierced through."

"The towel, though--"

"Is something else. First thing in the morning we'll follow that up, as

I promised you. Meanwhile let's concentrate on motives."

A long line of private cars and taxicabs outside Jacques' testified to

the popularity of the restaurant. At the door stood a huge, bulking

negro resplendent in the glaring finery of his uniform. It seemed to me

that people literally were thronging into the place, for it was

cleverly advertised as a center of night life.

Inside, the famous darky jazz band was in full swing. There was lilt

and rhythm to the melody produced by the grinning blacks, and not a

free arm or foot or shoulder or head of any of them but did not sway in

time to their syncopated music.

We were shown to a table on a sort of gallery or mezzanine floor which

extended around three sides of the interior. Below, in the center, was

the space for dancing, surrounded by groups and pairs of diners. Stairs

led to the balcony on both sides, as though the management expected

none of their guests to resist the lure of the dance between courses.

The band, I noticed, was at the farther end, on an elevated dais, so

that the contortions of the various players could be seen above the

heads of those on the floor.

We were at the rail so that we commanded a view of the entire place, a

location I guessed had been maneuvered by Kennedy with a word to the

head waiter. The only tables invisible to us were those directly

beneath, but it would be a simple matter to cross around during any

dance number to view them.

As we took our seats the lights were dimmed suddenly. I realized that

we had arrived in the midst of the cabaret and that it was the turn of

one of the performers. Kennedy, however, seemed to enjoy the

entertainment, an example of his ability to gain recreation whenever

and however he wished, to find relaxation under the oddest or most

casual circumstances, out of anything from people passing on the street

to an impromptu concert of a street band. In scanty garments, in the

glare of a multi-colored spotlight, the girl danced a hybrid of every

dance from the earliest Grecian bacchanal to the latest alleged Apache

importation from Paris.

I have often wondered at Jacques' and places of the sort. The

intermingling of eating and drinking and dancing was curious. What

possible bearing this terpsichorean monstrosity might have upon the

gastronomic inclinations of the audience it would have been difficult

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 in sight I knew

until I leaned well over the rail, but upon doing that I felt little

chills of excitement run from the top to the bottom of my spine, for I

discovered in a very prominent situation at the very edge of the dance

floor a party of four, of whom three very much concerned us. Lloyd

Manton, back to the polished space behind him, was unmistakable in

evening clothes. These bunched at his neck and revealed his habitual

stoop as impartially as his business suits. Across from him, lounging

upon the table likewise, but more immaculately and skillfully tailored,

was Lawrence Millard. The writer, I noticed, flourished his cigarette

holder, fully a foot in length, and emphasized his remarks to the girl

on his right with a rather characteristic gesture made with the second

finger of his left hand. The girl was Enid, quite mistress of herself

in a gown little more than no gown; and the remarks were obviously

confidential. The other girl, engrossed in Manton, seemed a dangerously

youthful and self-conscious young lady. Her hair flamed Titian red and

her neck, of which she displayed not half as much as Enid, gave her

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 fox-trot. Instantly there was a rush from the tables for

the floor. Enid jumped to her feet, moving her bare shoulders in the

rhythm of the music. Then Millard took firm hold of her and they wove

their way into the crush. It seemed to me that the little star was the

very incarnation of the dance. I envied her partner more than I dared

admit to myself.

Manton and his companion rose also, but more leisurely. On her feet the

girl did not seem so young, although the second impression may have

been the result of the length of her skirt and the long slim, lines of

her gown. We watched both couples through the number, then gave our

attention to the food we had ordered. Another dance, a modified waltz,

revealed Enid in the arms of Manton. I tried to determine from her

actions if she felt any preference for the producer, or for Millard

when again she took the floor with him. It was an idle effort, of

course. The people surged out perhaps three or four times while we were

at our meal. Each time the party below jumped up in response to the

music. At our cigars, finally, I took to observing the other diners,

wondering what we had gained by coming here.

Suddenly I realized that Kennedy was rising to greet some one

approaching our table. Turning, rising also, I went through all the

miseries of the bashful lover. It was Enid herself.

"I caught sight of you looking over the rail while I was dancing," she

told Kennedy, accepting a chair pulled around by the waiter. "I knew

you saw me. Also I glanced up and found that you were perfectly well

aware of the location of our table. So"--engagingly--"unsociable

creature! Why didn't you come down and say 'Hello!' or ask me for a

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 Mohammed 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 Jamie!" she purred. "Have you forgotten little Enid altogether?

Won't--won't YOU come down and dance?"

"I--I can't!" I exploded, in agony. "I don't know how!" And I thought

that I would never dare trust myself with her glistening shoulders

clasped close to me, with her slim bare arm placed around my neck as I

had watched it slip about the collar of Millard.

"Now that the pilgrim is at Mecca--" Kennedy suggested, interrupting

cruelly, as I thought.

"Oh!" In an instant I sensed that I was forgotten, and I was hurt.

"There's something which came out this afternoon at the studio," she

began, "and I wonder if you know. Larry--that's Mr. Millard--assures me

it is true, and--and I think you ought to hear about it. I--I want to

assist all I can in solving the mystery of Stella Lamar's death, even

though Stella's unfortunate end has meant my opportunity."

"What is it, Miss Faye?" Kennedy was studying her.

"It's about Jack Gordon. He's been trying to hold up the company for

fifteen hundred a week, which would double his salary--perhaps you've

heard that?"

Kennedy nodded, although it was news to him. "I've been thinking about

Gordon," he murmured.

"Anyway," she went on, "it's gone around that he's desperately in need

of money and that that is why he's so insistent upon the increase. It

seems he owes everyone. In particular he owes Phelps some huge sums and

old Phelps is on his tail, hollering and raising Ned. Phelps, you know,

has uses for money himself just now. You had heard?"

Again Kennedy evaded a direct answer. "Money is fearfully tight, of

course," he remarked, encouraging her to continue.

"Yes," she repeated, "Phelps is terribly hard up and after Gordon. And

that's not all about our handsome leading man, Mr. Kennedy." She leaned

forward. A certain intensity crept into her voice. She began to toy

with his sleeve with the slender fingers of one hand, as though in that

manner to compel his greater attention. "You know Stella Lamar really

was in love with Jack Gordon. In fact she was daffy over him. And now

I've found out that he was borrowing money from her, was taking nearly

every cent she earned to sink in his speculations. Do you get that?"

Enid's eyes snapped.

Most certainly I understood. I knew well the type of Stella. She had

made many men give up to her motor cars, expensive furs, jewelry, all

manner of presents. But in the end she had found one man to whom she in

turn was willing to yield all. But what of him?

"In the last few weeks, they tell me, poor Stella disposed of many of

her handsome presents from men like Manton and Phelps and others, all

to get money to give to him. At the end she even raised money on her

jewelry. I--I think you'll find it all in pawn now, if you'll

investigate. I don't doubt but that poor Stella died without a penny to

her name."

I was so surprised at this information that I failed to study Kennedy's

face. I was completely jolted from my own rapt contemplation of the

very soft curves of Enid's back. For here was a motive at last! Gordon

was a possible suspect I had failed to take even halfway seriously. Yet

the leading man was desperately pressed for money, had had a

disgraceful fight with Phelps as we already knew; and not only owed

huge sums to his fiancee as Enid now explained, but had quarreled with

her just prior to her death, according to his own admission in the

investigation at Tarrytown.

Suddenly the music struck up once more. Enid rose, adjusting the straps

of her gown.

"There!" she exclaimed, smiling abruptly. "I thought you ought to know

that, though I hate to peddle gossip. Now I must hurry back. I've been

away long enough. But come down later and dance."

She swept off without further formality. An instant afterward we saw

her in the clasp of Millard once again. We watched during the number

and encore; then Kennedy called for the check.

"Let's go up to the apartment," he suggested. "I'd like to talk some of

these things out with you. It will help me clarify my own impressions."

Underneath the balcony I noticed Kennedy turn for a last glance at

Manton's party. I paused to look, also. Enid was leaning forward,

talking to Millard earnestly, emphasizing what she had to say with

characteristic movements of her head.

"She's pumping Millard for more information about Stella Lamar," I

remarked.

Kennedy had no comment.

XVII

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.

On we walked, Kennedy mostly in silent deduction, I knew, until we came

to the upper regions of the great thoroughfare, turned off, and headed

toward our apartment on the Heights, not far from the university.

We had scarcely settled ourselves for a quiet hour in our quarters when

the telephone rang. I answered. To my amazement I found that it was

Marilyn Loring.

"Is Professor Kennedy in?" she asked.

"Yes, Miss Loring. Just a--"

"Never mind calling him to the phone, Mr. Jameson. I've been trying to

find him all evening. He was not at the laboratory, although I waited

over an hour. Just tell him that there's something I am very anxious to

consult him about. Ask him if it will be all right for me to run up to

see him just a few minutes."

I explained to Kennedy.

"Let her come along," he said, as surprised as I was. Then he added,

humorously, "I seem to be father confessor to-night."

After sinking back in my seat in comfort once more I observed a quiet

elation in Kennedy's manner. All at once it struck me what he was

doing. The multitude of considerations in this case, the many cross

leads to be followed, had confused me. But now I realized that, after

all, this was only the approved Kennedy method, the mode of procedure

which had never failed to produce results for him. Without allowing

himself to be disturbed by the great number of people concerned, he had

calmly started to pit them one against the other, encouraging each to

talk about the rest, making a show of his apparent inaction and lack of

haste so that they, in turn, would shake off the excitement immediately

following the death of the girl and thereby reveal their normal selves

to his keen observation.

Not five minutes passed before Marilyn was announced. Evidently she had

been seeking us eagerly, for she had probably telephoned from a near-by

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--it's about Merle Shirley--" she started, bravely. Then all at

once she broke down. The strain of two days had been too much for her.

Kennedy lighted a fresh cigar, realizing that he could best aid her to

recover her composure by making no effort to do so. For several moments

she sobbed silently, a handkerchief at her eyes. Then she straightened,

with a half smile, dabbing at the drops of moisture remaining. With her

wet eyes and flushed cheeks she was revealed to me again as a very

genuine girl, wholly unspoiled by her outward mask of sophistication.

Furthermore, at this instant she was gloriously pretty.

"Again--why do you play vampire roles, Miss Loring?" I asked, as

quickly as the thought flashed to me. "I think you'd be an ideal

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 sobered. "Merle Shirley and I were engaged," she

went on. "That you know. Then poor Stella made a fool of him. She

didn't mean any harm, any real harm, but I don't think she knew how

deep he feels or just what a fiery temper he has. Finally he found out

that she was only playing with him. He was perfectly terrible. At first

I thought he had killed her in a burst of passion. I really thought

that."

"Yes?" Kennedy was interested. He needed no pretense.

"When I asked him point blank he said he didn't." A very wonderful

light came into Marilyn Loring's eyes at this instant. "Whatever else

he would do, Professor Kennedy, he wouldn't lie to me; that I know. He

would tell me the truth because he knows I would shield him, no matter

what the cost."

"You simply want to assure me of his innocence?" suggested Kennedy.

"No!" There was a touch of scorn to the little negative. "You don't

believe him guilty; you didn't even when I did."

"Then--"

"But he knows something--something about the murder of Stella--and he

won't tell me what it is. I--I'm afraid for him. He isn't sleeping at

night, and I believe he's watching somebody at the studio, and I

know--it's the WOMAN'S intuition, Professor"--she emphasized the word,

and paused--"he's in danger. He's in some great threatening danger!"

"What do you wish me to do, Miss Loring?"

"I want you to protect him and"--slowly she colored, up and around and

about her eyes as she always did, until she wasn't unlike an Indian

maid--"and no one must know I've been up to see you."

Gravely Kennedy bowed her to the door, assuring her he would do all

that lay in his power. When he returned I was ready for him.

"Now!" I exclaimed. "Now say it isn't Werner! Here is Merle Shirley

watching some one at the studio. Isn't that likely to be the director?

And if Shirley is watching Werner you have the explanation for the

second intruder at Tarrytown last night. Shirley is big enough and

strong enough to have given the deputy a nice swift tussle."

"A little tall, I'm afraid," Kennedy remarked.

"You can't go by the deputy's impressions. He didn't really remember

much of anything. Certainly he was unobserving."

"Perhaps you're right, Walter." Kennedy smiled. "But how about Gordon?"

he added. "There's genuine motive--money!"

"Or Shirley himself!" I attempted to be sarcastic. "There's genuine

motive. Stella made a fool out of him."

"It wasn't a murder of passion," Kennedy reminded me. "No one in a

white heat of rage would study up on snake venoms."

"If it were a slow-smoldering--"

"Shirley's anger wasn't that kind."

"But good heavens!" As usual I arrived nowhere in an argument with

Kennedy. "Circumstantial evidence points to Werner almost altogether--"

"You've forgotten one point in your chain, Walter."

"What's that?"

"Whoever took the needle from the curtain last night scratched himself

on it and left blood spots on the portieres, tiny ones, but real blood

spots, nevertheless. That means the intruder inoculated himself with

venom. I doubt that the poison was so dry as to be ineffectual. If it

was Werner, how do you account for the fact that he is still alive?"

"Do you"--I guess my eyes went wide--"do you expect to dig up a dead

man somewhere? Is there some one we suspect and haven't seen since

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," he rejoined. "Let's go to bed!"

XVIII

THE ANTIVENIN

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 sulkily I'm afraid.

"You see," he added, as we left the building and hurried to the taxi

stand near the campus, "the next problem is to identify the particular

kind of venom that was used. Besides, I want to know the nature of the

spots on the towel you found. They certainly were not of venom. I have

my suspicions what they really are."

He paused while we selected a vehicle and made ourselves comfortable.

"To save time," he went on, "I thought I'd just go over to the

Castleton Institute. You know in their laboratories the famous Japanese

investigator, Doctor Nagoya, has made some marvelous discoveries

concerning the venom of snakes. It is his specialty, a matter to which

he has practically devoted his life. Therefore I expect that he will be

able to confirm certain suspicions of mine very quickly, or"--a

shrug--"explode a theory which has slowly been taking form in the back

of my head."

When we dismissed the taxi in front of the institute I realized that

this would be my first visit to this institution so lavishly endowed by

the multi-millionaire, Castleton, for the advancement of experimental

science. Kennedy's card, sent in to Doctor Nagoya, brought that eminent

investigator out personally to see us. He was the very finest type of

Oriental savant, a member of the intellectual nobility of the strange

Eastern land only recently made receptive to the civilization of the

West. When he and Kennedy chatted together in low tones for a few

moments it was hard for me to grasp that each belonged to a basic race

strain fundamentally different from the other. East and West had met,

upon the plane of modern science. The two were simply men of

specialized knowledge, the Japanese pre-eminent in one field, Kennedy

in another.

Carefully and thoroughly Kennedy and Nagoya went over the results which

Kennedy had already obtained. After a moment Doctor Nagoya conducted us

to his research room.

"Now let me show you," said the Oriental.

In a moment they were deep in the mysteries of an even more minute

analysis than Kennedy had made before. I took a turn about the room,

finding nothing more understandable than the study holding Kennedy's

interest. Though I could not grasp it, curiosity kept me hovering close.

"You see"--Nagoya spoke as he finished the test he was making at the

moment--"without a doubt it is crotalin, the venom of the rattlesnake,

Crotalus horridus."

"There was no snake actually present," I hastened to explain, breaking

in. Then at a glance from Kennedy I stopped, abashed, for all this had

been made clear to the scientist.

"It is not necessary," Nagoya replied, turning to me with the

politeness characteristic of the East. "Crotalin can be obtained now

with fair ease. It is a drug used in a new treatment of epilepsy which

is being tried out at many hospitals."

I nodded my thanks, not wanting to interrupt again.

Kennedy pressed on to the next point he wished established. "That was

the spot on the portieres. Now the ampulla."

"Also crotalin." Doctor Nagoya spoke positively.

"How about this solution?" Kennedy took from my package the tube with

the liquid made from the faint spots on the towel which I had found and

which had been our first clue. "It is not crotalin."

The Japanese turned to his laboratory table.

Kennedy muttered some vague suggestions which were too technical for me

but which seemed to enable Nagoya to eliminate a great deal of work.

The test progressed rapidly. Finally the savant stepped back, regarding

the solution with a very satisfied smile.

"It is," he explained, carefully, "some of the very anticrotalus venin

which we have perfected right here in the institute."

Kennedy nodded. "I suspected as much." There was great elation in his

manner. "You see, I had heard all about your wonderful work."

"Yes!" Nagoya waved his hand around at the wonderfully equipped room,

only one detail in the many arrangements for medical research made

possible by the generosity of Castleton. "Yes," he repeated, proud of

his laboratory, as he well might be, "we have made a great deal of

progress in the development of protective sera--antivenins, we call

them."

"Are they distributed widely?" Kennedy asked, thoughtfully.

"All over the world. We are practically the only source of supply."

"How do you obtain the serum in quantity?"

"From horses treated with increasing doses of the snake venom."

A question struck me as I remembered the peculiar double action of the

poison. "Can you tell me just how the antivenin counteracts the effects

of the venom?" I inquired of the savant.

"Surely," he replied. "It neutralizes one of the two elements in the

venom, the nervous poison, thus enabling the individual to devote all

his vitality to overcoming the irritant poison. It is the nervous

poison that is the chief death-dealing agent, producing paralysis of

the heart and respiration. We advise all travelers to carry the

protective serum if they are likely to be exposed to snake bites."

Kennedy picked up the tube containing the solution made from the towel

spots. "This antivenin was your product, doctor?"

"Probably so," was the precise answer.

"Then the purchasers can be identified," I suggested.

"We have no record of ordinary purchasers," Nagoya explained, slowly.

Kennedy was keenly disappointed at that, and showed it. However, he

thanked the scientist cordially, and we departed. Outside, he turned to

me.

"Do you understand now why the night intruder at Tarrytown did not

die--if he is one of our suspects--from the scratch of the needle?"

"You mean he had taken an injection of antivenin before--"

"Exactly! We are dealing with a criminal of diabolical cleverness. Not

only did he make all his plans to kill Miss Lamar with the greatest

possible care, but he prepared against accident to himself. He was

taking no chances. He inoculated himself with a protective serum. The

needle of the syringe he used for that purpose he wiped upon the towel

you discovered in the washroom."

XIX

AROUND THE CIRCLE

"I'd like to have another talk with Millard about that Fortune Features

affair," remarked Kennedy.

It was the third morning after the death of Stella Lamar, and I found

him half through breakfast when I rose. About him were piled moving

picture and theatrical publications, daily, weekly, and monthly. At the

moment I caught him he had spread wide open the inner page of the Daily

Metropolitan, a sheet devoted almost exclusively to sports and the

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'--Bah!"

Kennedy turned to places he had marked in several of the other

periodicals and papers and I read them. Each was substantially to the

effect of the note in the Metropolitan, although worded differently and

generally printed as a news item.

"It's a feeler," Kennedy stated. "There's something back of it. When I

caught the reference to Fortune Features in the Metropolitan, which

I've been reading the past two days, I sent the boy out for every movie

publication he could find. Result: half a dozen repetitions of the hint

that Fortune is expanding. That means that it is deliberate publicity."

"You think this has something to do with the case?"

"I don't see the name of Manton mentioned once. Manton is a man who

seeks the front page on every opportunity. You remember, of course,

what Millard told us. Somehow I smell a rat. If nothing else develops

for this morning, I want to find Millard and talk to him again. I

believe Manton is up to something."

The sharp sound of our buzzer interrupted us. Because I was on my feet

I went to the door. To my amazement I found it was Phelps who was our

very early visitor.

"I hope you'll excuse this intrusion," he apologized to Kennedy,

pushing by me with the rudeness which seemed inherent in the man. Then

he recognized the sheet still spread out on the table. "I see you, too,

have been reading the Metropolitan."

"Yes," Kennedy admitted, languidly. "There is nothing about Manton

Pictures, though."