"Manton Pictures, hell!" In an instant Phelps exploded and the thin

veneer of politeness was gone. With a shaking finger he pointed to the

item which we had just been reading and discussing. "Did you read that!

Did you see the reference to stabilizing the industry? STABILIZING! It

ought to be spelled stable-izing, for they lead all the donkeys into

stalls and tie them up and let them kick." He stopped momentarily for

sheer inability to continue.

"I suppose you don't know Manton is behind this Fortune Features?"

"We were aware of the fact," Kennedy told him, quietly.

Phelps looked from one to the other of us keenly, as if he had thought

to surprise us and had been disappointed. Nervously he began to pace

the floor.

"Perhaps you know also that things haven't been going just right with

Manton Pictures?"

Kennedy straightened. "When I asked you at Tarrytown, just two mornings

ago, whether there was any trouble between Manton and yourself, you

answered that there was not."

Phelps flushed. "I didn't want to air my financial difficulties with

Manton. My--my answer was truthful, the way you meant your question.

Manton and I have had no words, no quarrel, no disagreement of a

personal nature."

"What is the trouble with Manton Pictures?"

"They are wasting money--throwing it right and left. That pay roll of

theirs is preposterous. The waste itself is beyond belief--sometimes

four and five cameras on a scene, retakes upon the slightest

provocation, even sets rebuilt because some minor detail fails to suit

the artistic eye of the director. Werner, supposed to watch all the

companies, doesn't half know his business. In the making of a five-reel

film they will overtake sometimes as much as eighty or a hundred

thousand feet of negative in each of two cameras, when twenty thousand

is enough overtake for anyone. That alone is five to ten thousand

dollars for negative stock, almost fifteen with the sample print and

developing. And the cost of stock, Mr. Kennedy, is the smallest item.

All the extra length is long additional weeks of pay roll and overhead

expense. I put an auditor and a film expert on the accounts of Stella

Lamar's last picture. By their figures just sixty-three thousand

dollars was absolutely thrown away."

Kennedy rose, folding the newspaper carefully while he collected his

thoughts. "My dear Mr. Phelps," he stated, finally, "that is simply

inefficiency. I doubt if it is anything criminal; certainly there is no

connection with the death of Stella Lamar, my only interest in Manton

Pictures."

Phelps was very grave. "There is every connection with the death of

Stella Lamar!"

"What do you mean?"

"Mr. Kennedy, what I'm going to say to you I cannot substantiate in any

court of law. Furthermore I'm laying myself open to action for libel,

so I must not be quoted. But I want you to understand that Stella was

inescapably wound up with all of Manton's financial schemes. His money

maneuvers determined her social life, her friends--everything. She was

then, as Enid Faye will be now, his come-on, his decoy. Manton has no

scruples of any sort whatsoever. He is dishonest, tricky, a liar, and a

cheat. If I could prove it I would tell him so, but he's too clever for

me. I do know, however, that he pulled the strings which controlled

every move Stella Lamar ever made. When she went to dinner with me it

was because Manton wished her to do so. She was his right hand, his

ears, almost his mouth. I have no doubt but that her death is the

direct result of some business deal of his--something directly to do

with his financial necessities."

Kennedy did not glance up. "Those are very serious assertions."

"It is a very serious matter. To show how unscrupulous Manton is, I can

demonstrate that he is wrecking Manton Pictures deliberately. I've told

you of the waste. Only the other day I came into the studio. Werner was

putting up a great ballroom set. You saw it? No, that isn't the one I

mean. I mean the first one. He had it all up; then some little thing

didn't suit him. The next day I came in again. All

struck--sloughed--every bit of it--and a new one started. 'Lloyd,' I

said, 'just think a minute--that's my money!' What good did it do? He

even began to alter the new set! He would only go on, encouraging

Werner and the other directors to change their sets, to lose time in

trying for foolish effects, anything at all to pad the expense.

"You think I am romancing, but you don't understand the film world,"

Phelps hurried on angrily. "Do you know that Enid Faye's contract is

not with Manton Pictures but with Manton himself? That means he can

take her away from me after he has made her a star with my money, at my

expense. Why should he wreck Manton Pictures, you ask? Do you know

that, bit by bit, on the pretext that he needed the funds for this

that, or the other thing, Manton has sold out his entire interest in

the company to me? It is all mine now. I tell you," complained Phelps,

bitterly, "he couldn't seem to wreck the company fast enough. Why? Do

you realize that there isn't room both for this older company and the

new Fortune Features? Can you see that if Manton Pictures fails the

Fortune company will be able to pick up the studio and all the

equipment for a song? I'm the fall guy!

"And yet, Kennedy, all the efforts to wreck Manton Pictures would have

failed, because 'The Black Terror' was too sure a success. In spite of

all the expense, in spite of every effort to wreck it, that picture

would have made half a million dollars. Stella's acting and Millard's

story and script would have put it over. But now Millard's contract has

expired and Manton has signed him for Fortune Features. Enid Faye will

be made a star by 'The Black Terror,' but she is not now the drawing

power to put it over big, as Stella would have done. I tell you,

Kennedy, the death of Stella Lamar has completed the wreck of Manton

Pictures!"

Kennedy jumped to his feet. There was a hard light in his eyes I had

never seen before.

"Do I understand you, Phelps?" he snapped. "Are you accusing Manton of

the cold-blooded murder of Stella Lamar to further various financial

schemes?"

"Hardly!" Phelps blanched a bit, and I thought that a shudder swept

over him. "I don't mean anything like that at all. What I mean is that

Manton, in encouraging various sorts of dissension to wreck the

company, inadvertently fanned the flames of passion of those about her,

and it resulted in her death."

"Who killed her?"

"I don't know!" Grudgingly I admitted that this seemed open and frank.

"At Tarrytown," Kennedy went on, "I asked you if Stella Lamar was

making any trouble, had threatened to quit Manton Pictures, and you

said no. Is that still your answer?"

"For several months she had been up-stage. That was not because she

wanted to make trouble, but because she had fallen in love. Manton

found he couldn't handle her as he had previously."

"Do you suspect Manton of killing her himself?"

"I don't suspect anyone. That is an honest answer, Mr. Kennedy."

"What do you know about Fortune Features?"

The banker's eye fell on the newspaper again. "I know who this new Wall

Street fellow is. I've got my scouts out working for me. It's

Leigh--that's who it is. And I'm sore; I have a right to be."

Phelps was getting more and more heated, by the moment. "I tell you,"

he almost shouted, "this fake movie business is the modern gold-brick

game, all right. Never again!"

I was amazed at the Machiavellian cleverness of Manton. Here he was, on

one hand openly working with, yet secretly ruining, the Manton

Pictures, while on the other hand he was covertly building up the

competing Fortune Features.

Kennedy paced out into the little hall of our suite and back. He faced

our visitor once more.

"Why did you come to see me this morning? At our last encounter, you

may recall you said you wished you could throw me down the steps."

Phelps smiled ruefully. "That was a mistake. It was the way I felt,

but--I'm sorry."

"Now--?"

Again the black clouds overshadowed the features of the financier. "Now

I want you to bring out and prove the things I've told you." The malice

showed in his voice plainly, for the first time. "I want it proved in

court that Manton is a cheap crook. When you uncover the murderer of

Stella Lamar you will find that the moral responsibility for her death

traces right back to Lloyd Manton. I want him driven out of the

business."

Kennedy's attitude changed. As he escorted Phelps to the door his tones

were self-controlled. "Anything of the sort is beyond my province. My

task is simply to find the person who killed the girl."

When the financier was gone I turned to Kennedy eagerly. "What do you

think?" I asked.

"I think, more than ever, that we should investigate Fortune Features.

Let's have a look at the telephone book."

There was no studio of the new corporation in New York, but we did find

one listed in New Jersey, just across the river, at Fort Lee. We walked

from the university down the hill and over to the ferry. On the other

side a ten minutes' street-car ride took us to our destination.

Facing us was a huge barn-like structure set down in the midst of a

little park. Inquiry for Manton brought no response whatever; rather,

surprise that we should be asking for him here. However, I reflected

that that was exactly what we ought to expect if Manton was working

under cover. The girl at the telephone switchboard, smiling at Kennedy,

had a suggestion.

"They're taking a storm exterior down in the meadow," she explained.

"Perhaps he's down there, among the visitors--or perhaps there's

someone who will be able to give you some information."

I glanced outdoors at the brightly shining sun. "A storm?" I repeated,

incredulously.

"Yes," she smiled. "It might interest you to see it."

Following her directions, we started across country, leaving the studio

building some distance behind and entering a broad expanse of meadow

beyond a thin clump of trees. At the farther end we could see a large

group of people and paraphernalia which, at the distance, we could not

make out.

However, it was not long after we emerged from the trees that we

perceived they were photographing squarely in our direction. Several

began waving their arms wildly at us and shouting. Kennedy and I,

understanding, turned and advanced, keeping well out of the camera

lines, along the edge of the field.

"Hello!" a voice greeted us as we approached the group standing back

and watching the action.

To my surprise it was Millard, with the spectators. I looked about for

Manton but did not see him, nor anyone else we knew.

"It's a storm and cyclone," said Millard, his attention rather on what

was going on than on us.

For the moment we said nothing.

The scene before us was indeed interesting. Half a dozen aeroplane

engines and propellers had been set up outside the picture, and

anchored securely in place. The wind from them was actually enough to

knock a man down. Rain was furnished by hose playing water into the

whirling blades, sending it driving into the scene with the fury of a

tropical storm. Back of the propellers half a dozen men were

frantically at work shoveling into them sand and dirt, creating an

amazingly realistic cyclone.

We arrived in the midst of the cyclone scene, as the dust storm was

ending and the torrential rain succeeded. For the storm, a miniature

village had been constructed in break-away fashion, partially sawed

through and tricked for the proper moment. Many objects were controlled

by invisible wires, including an actual horse and buggy which seemed to

be lifted bodily and carried away. Roofs flew off, walls crashed in,

actors and actresses were knocked flat as some few of them failed to

gain their cyclone cellars. Altogether, it was a storm of such

efficiency as Nature herself could scarcely have furnished, and all

staged with the streaming sunlight which made photography possible.

Pandemonium reigned. Cameras were grinding, directors were bawling

through megaphones, all was calculated chaos. Yet it took only a glance

to see that some marvelous effects were being caught here.

At the conclusion I recognized suddenly the little leading lady, It was

the girl we had seen with Manton at Jacques' cabaret.

"That's the way to take a picture," exclaimed Millard. "Everything

right--no expense spared. I came over to see it done. It's wonderful."

"Yes," was Kennedy's answer, "but it must be very costly."

"It is all of that," said Millard. "But what of it if the film makes a

big clean-up? I wouldn't have missed this for anything. Werner never

staged a spectacle like this in his life. Fortune Features are going to

set a new mark in pictures."

"But can they keep it up? Have they the money?"

Millard shrugged his shoulders. "Manton Pictures can't--that's a cinch.

Phelps has reached the end of his rope, I guess. I'm afraid the trouble

with him was that he was thinking of too many things besides pictures."

There was no mistaking the meaning of the remark. Millard was still cut

by Stella's desertion of him for the broker. I caught Kennedy's glance,

but neither of us cared to refer to her.

"Where can I find Manton now?" Kennedy asked.

"Did you try his office at seven hundred and twenty-nine?" was

Millard's suggestion.

"No; I wanted to see this place first."

"Well, you'll most likely find him there. I've got to go back to the

city myself-some scenes of 'The Black Terror' to rewrite to fit Enid

better. I'll motor you across the ferry and to the Subway."

At the Subway station, Millard left us and we proceeded to Manton's

executive offices in a Seventh Avenue skyscraper, built for and devoted

exclusively to the film business.

Manton's business suite was lavishly furnished, but not quite as ornate

and garish as his apartment. The promoter himself welcomed us, for no

matter how busy he was at any hour, he always seemed to have time to

stop and chat.

"Well, how goes it?" He pushed over a box of expensive cigars. "Have

you found out anything yet?"

"Had a visit from Phelps this morning." Kennedy plunged directly into

the subject, watching the effect.

Manton did not betray anything except a quiet smile. "Poor old Phelps,"

he said. "I guess he's pretty uneasy. You know he has been speculating

rather heavily in the market lately. There was a time when I thought

Phelps had a bank roll in reserve. But it seems he has been playing the

game on a shoestring, after all."

Manton casually flicked the ashes from his cigar into a highly polished

cuspidor as he leaned over. "I happen to have learned that, to make his

bluff good, he has been taking money from his brokerage business"--here

he nodded sagely--"his customers' accounts you know. Leigh knows the

inside of everybody's affairs in Wall Street. They say a quarter of a

million is short, at least. To tell you the truth, poor Stella took a

good deal of Phelps's money. Certainly his Manton Pictures holdings

wouldn't leave him in the hole as deep as all that."

I reflected that this was quite the way of the world--first framing up

something on a boob, then deprecating the ease with which he was

trimmed.

Was it blackmail Stella had levied on Phelps, I wondered? Was she

taking from him to give to Gordon? Had Stella broken him? Was she the

real cause of the tangle in his affairs? And had Phelps in insane

passion revenged himself on her?

In the conversation with Manton there was certainly no hint of answer

to my queries. With all his ease, Manton was the true picture promoter.

Seldom was he betrayed into a positive statement of his own. Always,

when necessary, he gave as authority the name of some one else. But the

effect was the same.

A hurried call of some sort took Manton away from us. Kennedy turned to

me with a whimsical expression.

"Let's go!" he remarked.

"What do you make of it, offhand?" I asked, outside.

"We're going about in a circle," he remarked. "Strange group of people.

Each apparently suspects the other."

"And, to cover himself, talks of the other fellow," I added.

Kennedy nodded, and we made our way toward the laboratory.

"I'll bet something happens before the day is over," I hazarded, for no

reason in particular.

Kennedy shrugged.

As we went, I cast up in my mind the facts we had learned. The

information from Manton was disconcerting, coming on top of what had

already been revealed about the inner workings of his game. If Phelps

had secretly "borrowed" from the trust accounts in his charge a quarter

of a million or so, I saw that his situation must indeed be desperate.

To what lengths he might go it was difficult to determine.

XX

THE BANQUET SCENE

For once I qualified as a prophet. We were hardly in our rooms when the

telephone rang for Kennedy. It was District-Attorney Mackay, calling in

from Tarrytown.

"My men have positive identification of one of the visitors to the

Phelps home the night after the murder," he reported.

"Fine!" exclaimed Kennedy. "Who was it? How did you uncover his trail?"

"You remember that my deputy heard the sound of a departing automobile?

Well, we have been questioning everyone. A citizen here, who returned

home late at just about that hour, remembers seeing a taxicab tearing

through the street at a reckless rate. He came in to see me this

morning. He made a mental note of the license number at the time, and

while nothing stuck with him but the last three figures, three sixes,

he was sure that it was a Maroon taxi. We got busy and have located the

driver who made the trip, from a stand at Thirty-third all the way out

and back. On the return he dropped his fare at the man's apartment. The

identification is positive."

"Who is it?" Kennedy became quite excited.

"Werner, the director."

"Werner!" in surprise. "What are you going to do?"

"Arrest him first--examine him afterward. I've sworn out the warrant

already, and I'm going to start in by car just as soon as we hang up. I

thought I'd phone you first in case you wanted to accompany me to the

studio."

"We'll hurry there," Kennedy replied, "and meet you."

"Outside?"

"No, up on the floor."

"You'll be there fifteen minutes to half an hour ahead of me. I hope

there is no way for anyone to tip him off so he can escape."

"We'll stop him if he attempts it."

"Good!"

The courtyard of the studio of Manton Pictures, Incorporated, was about

the same as upon the occasions of our previous visits except that I

detected a larger number of cars parked in the inclosure, including a

number of very fine ones. Also, it seemed to me that there was a

greater absence of life than usual, as though something of particular

interest had taken everyone inside the buildings.

The gateman informed us that Werner was working the large studio. We

made our way up through the structure containing the dressing rooms and

found the proper door without difficulty. When we passed through under

the big glass roof we grasped the reason for the lack of interest in

the other departments about the quadrangle. Here everyone was gathered

to watch the taking of the banquet scene for "The Black Terror." The

huge set was illuminated brightly, and packed, thronged with people.

It was a marvelous set in many ways. To carry out the illusion of size

and to aid in the deceptive additional length given by the mirrors at

the farther end, Werner had decided against the usual one large table

arranged horseshoe-like, but had substituted instead a great number of

individual smaller tables, about which he had grouped the various

guests. The placing of those nearest the mirrors had been so arranged

as to give no double images, thus betraying the trick. The waiters, all

the characters who walked about, were kept near the front toward the

cameras for the same reason. It seemed as if the banquet hall was at

least twice its actual size.

I saw that Millard had arrived ahead of us. Either the changing of the

scenes in his script to fit Enid had not taken him very long or else

the photographing of this particular bit of action had proved

sufficiently fascinating to draw him away from his work. I wondered at

first if he had come to the studio to use his office here, an

infrequent happening, from Manton's account. Then I realized that he

was in evening dress. Without doubt he planned to play a minor part in

the banquet. His presence was no accident.

Then I picked out Manton himself from our point of observation in a

quiet corner selected by Kennedy for that purpose. It was evident that

the promoter had cleared up his business at the office rapidly since we

had left him there to go to our quarters on the Heights and had

departed immediately from the latter place so as to precede the

District Attorney here.

Manton as well as Millard was in evening dress. A moment later I

recognized Phelps, and he, too, wore his formal clothes. In an instant

I grasped that Werner actually was saving money. Not only were these

officials of the company present to help fill up the tables, but I was

able now to pick out a number of the guests who were uneasy in their

make-up and more or less out of place in full-dress attire. They

certainly were not actors. One girl I definitely placed as the

stenographer from Manton's waiting room at the studio; then other

things caught my attention. I could not help but doubt the stories of

waste told us by Phelps as I looked over the scene before me. The use

of the mirrors to avoid building the full length of the floor did not

seem to fit in with the theory that Manton and Werner were making every

effort to wreck the company deliberately.

I watched the financier for several moments, but did not detect

anything from his manner except that he seemed to feel ill at ease and

awkward in make-up. I picked out Millard again and this time found him

talking with Enid Faye and Gordon. Immediately I sensed a dramatic

conflict, carefully suppressed, but having too many of the outward

indications to fool anyone. In fact, a child would have observed that

Lawrence Millard and the leading man needed little urging to engage in

a scuffle then and there. Though Stella Lamar was dead, this was the

heritage she had left. Her touch had embittered two men beyond the

point of reconciliation--the husband who had been, and the husband who

was to be. Of the two, Millard had far the better control of himself,

however.

After a brief word or so Gordon left them. At once I could see the

relief in the expressions of both the others. Again I wondered just

what might be between these two. It was an easy familiarity which might

have been as casual as it seemed to be, no more, or which might have

been a mask for something far deeper and more enduring, the schooled

outer cloak of an inner perfect understanding.

Werner was by far the busiest of those waiting in the stifling heat

beneath the glass roof. He was in evening dress, prepared to take his

own place before the camera, and in straight make-up, so that he looked

nothing like the slain millionaire, the part he had played in the

opening scenes. I saw that he was a master in the art of make-up. I was

sure that he was more nervous than usual. It struck me that he needed

the stimulus of the drug he used, although later I knew that he must

have felt, intuitively, the coming of events which followed close upon

the attempt to photograph the action.

As more of the people hurried up from the offices and around from the

manuscript and other departments, very conscious of their formal

attire, and as the regular players changed and adjusted the make-ups of

these amateurs, the banquet took on the proportions of a real affair.

The members of the cast were placed at the table in the foreground.

Enid, Gordon, Marilyn, and a fourth man were assigned locations; after

which Werner proceeded to fill the seats in the rear. With the

exception of Millard and Phelps, none of the inexperienced people were

allowed to face the camera. Manton, whose features were familiar

through published interviews in many publicity campaigns, was placed to

one side opposite Phelps. Millard was given charge of a group

containing a number of giddy extra girls in somewhat diaphanous

costume, and seemed to be in his element.

The tables themselves were prepared with perfect taste. I could see

that real food was being used, in order to achieve a greater degree of

realism, for a caterer had set up a buffet some distance out of the

scene from which to serve the courses called for in the script. Many of

the dishes were being kept hot, the steam curling from beneath the

covers in appetizing wisps. The wine, supposed to be champagne, was

sparkling apple juice of the best quality, and I don't doubt but that

before the days of prohibition Werner would have insisted upon the real

fizz water. In details such as these the director was showing no

economy.

"All ready now?" Werner called, stepping back to a place at a table

which he had reserved for himself. "All set? Remember the action of the

script?"

Instantly the buzz of conversation died and everyone turned to him.

"No, no, no!" he exclaimed in vexation. "Don't go dead on your feet.

This is a banquet. You are having a good time. It's not a funeral! You

were all in just the right state of mind before, and you don't have to

stop and gape to listen to me. Keep right on talking and laughing. My

voice will carry and you can hear without getting out of your parts."

I turned to Kennedy, to see how the picture-making struck him. I saw

that he was watching the two girls at the forward table closely and so

I faced about to follow his glance. Marilyn's face was red with anger,

while Enid, calm and rather malicious, was ignoring her to devote all

attention to Gordon. The leading man, bored and irritated, made no

effort to conceal a heavy scowl. In the momentary interval following

Werner's instructions, Marilyn lost all control of herself.

"If you will pardon me, MISS Faye," she cried out in a voice which

carried over to us and with cutting accent upon the "Miss," "I think

that in this scene at least we should BOTH be facing the camera. If I

understand the scene in the script at all it is intended to show the

conflict between the two women over the one man seated between them.

Jack Daring is to be swayed first by Stella Remsen, then by Zelda. At

least this once I think the daughter of old Remsen and his ward are

playing roles of equal importance."

For a moment I smiled, realizing that Marilyn was not going to let Enid

"take the picture away" from her as we had seen the new star do in one

of her first scenes with the leading man. Then I sobered, realizing

that it was the outer reflection of the deep-running passion of these

people. The cloud of Stella's death was over them still.

Enid responded, but in tones too low for us to hear. A new flush of red

in Marilyn's face, however, demonstrated the power in the lash of the

other girl's tongue. Werner hurried over to them, not masking his own

irritation any too well. Without a word he began rearranging the table,

moving it slightly so that while there was no great difference in its

position he had yet made a show of satisfying Marilyn. In effect he

pleased neither. The two pretty faces closest to the camera were a

study in discontent.

"I don't wonder that moving-picture directors are nervous," Kennedy

remarked. "Film manufacture must keep everyone under constant tension."

"What do you make of the feeling between the different people?" I

asked. "Did you notice Millard and Gordon, and now Enid and Marilyn?"

"There's something under cover," he rejoined; "something behind all

this. I get the impression that our suspects are watching one another,

like as many hawks. At various times most of them have glanced over at

us. They know we are here and are conscious they may be under

suspicion. Therefore I particularly want to see how those two girls act

when Mackay arrives to arrest Werner."

The director, stepping back to his place, took a megaphone from his

assistant for use in the rehearsal.

"Now you must act just as though this were a real banquet," he shouted.

"Try to forget that the Black Terror is lurking outside the window,

that an attack is coming from him. Remember, when the shot is fired you

must all leap up as though you meant it. Here! You--you--you--"

designating certain extra girls, "faint when it happens. That's not

until after the toast is proposed. I'll propose the toast from my table

and it will be the cue for Shirley, outside. Now don't get ahead of the

action. You amateurs, don't turn around to see if the camera is

working. We'll go through the action up to the moment I propose the

toast." The buzz of conversation rose slightly as though an effort was

being put into the gayety. I glanced about at some of the people who

were cast for only this one scene, wishing I could read lips, because I

was sure many of them talked of matters wholly out of place in this

setting. At the same time I kept an eye on the principals and upon

Werner.

Finally the director was satisfied, after a second rehearsal.

"All right," he bellowed, throwing the megaphone from the scene.

"Shoot!"

At the same instant he dropped to his place and apparently was a guest

with no interest but in the food and wine before him.

At the cameras-there were three of them-the assistant director kept a

careful watch of the general action. In actual time by the watch the

whole was very short, a second measuring to sixteen pictures or a foot

of film as I explained afterward to Kennedy. The entire scene perhaps

ran one hundred or one hundred and fifty feet.

But on the screen, even to the spectators in the studio, the illusion

in a scene of the kind would be the duration of half an hour or even

more. This would be helped by close-ups of the individual action,

especially by the byplay between the principals, taken later and

inserted into the long shot by the film cutter.

I know I was carried away by a sense of reality. It seemed to me that

waiters made endless trips to and fro, that here and there pretty girls

broke into laughter constantly or that men leaned forward every other

moment to make witty remarks; in fact I felt genuinely sorry I could

not take part in the festivities. I knew that danger, in the person of

the Black Terror as played by Shirley, lurked just out the window. I

felt delicious anticipatory thrills of fear, so thoroughly was I in the

spirit of the thing. Then I saw that Werner was about to propose the

toast, about to give the cue for the big action.

"Watch him" whispered Kennedy. "He's an actor. He's taking that drink

just as though he meant every drop of it."

Werner had raised his delicately stemmed glass as though to join his

neighbor in some pledge when a new idea seemed to strike him. He leaped

to his feet.

"Let's drink together! Let's drink to our hero and heroine of the

evening!"

Other voices rose in acclamation. The wine had been poured lavishly.

Glasses clinked and we could hear laughter.

Suddenly at the window, back of everyone, appeared the evil,

black-masked figure of Shirley, eyes glittering menacingly from their

slits, two weapons glistening blue in his hands.

At the same moment there was a terrible groan, followed by a scream of

agony. Werner staggered back, his left hand clutched at his breast.

From his right hand the glass which he had drained fell to the canvas

covered floor with an ominous dull crash.

This was not in the script! Practically everybody realized the fact,

for the scene instantly was in an uproar. In the general consternation

no one seemed to know just what to do.

Shirley was the first to act, the first to realize what had happened.

Dropping his weapons, reaching the side of the stricken director in one

leap, he supported him as he reeled drunkenly, then eased him to the

floor. Behind us, before I could look to Kennedy to see what he would

do, there was the gasp of a man out of breath from hurrying upstairs. I

turned, startled. It was Mackay.

"Shall I make the collar?" he wheezed. At the same instant he saw the

gathering crowd in the set. "What--what's happened?" he asked.

Kennedy had bounded forward only a few seconds after Shirley. As I

pushed through after him, Mackay following, I discovered him kneeling

at the side of Werner.

"Some one send for a doctor, quick," he commanded, taking charge of

things as a matter of course. "Hurry!" he repeated. "He's gasping for

air and it'll be too late in a minute."

Then he saw us. "Walter--Mackay"--he raised Werner's head--"push

everyone back, please! Give him a chance to breathe!"

A thousand thoughts flashed through my head as politely but firmly I

widened the space about Kennedy and the director. Was this a case of

suicide? Had Werner known we were coming for him? Had he thought to

bring about his own end in the most spectacular fashion possible? Was

this the fancy of a drug-weakened brain?

Suddenly I realized that Werner was trying to speak. One of the camera

men had helped Kennedy lift him to the top of a table, swept of its

dishes and linen, so as to make it easier for him to breathe.

"Out in Tarrytown," he muttered, weakly, "that night--I

suspected--and--saw--" His voice trailed off into nothingness. Even the

motion of his lips was too feeble to follow.

In an instant I grasped the cruel injustice I had done this man in my

mind. It was now that I remembered, in a flash, Kennedy's attitude and

was glad that Kennedy had not suspected him.

"See!" I faced Mackay, speaking in quick, low tones so the others could

not hear. "I--we--have been totally and absolutely wrong in suspecting

Werner. Instead, it was he who has been playing our game--trying to

confirm his own suspicions. I've been entirely wrong in my deductions

from the discovery of his dope and needles."

"What do you mean, Jameson?" The district attorney had been taken

completely off his feet by the unexpected developments. His eyes were

rather dazed, his expression baffled. "What do you mean?"

"Why he was out at Tarrytown that night, all right, don't you

see--but--but he was the second man, the man who watched!"

Mackay still seemed unable to comprehend.

"There were two men," I went on, excitedly; covering my own chagrin in

my impatience at the little district attorney. "The one your deputy

struggled with was short, rather than tall, and very strong. That's

Werner! Can't you see it? Haven't you noticed how stockily and

powerfully the director is built?"

"Werner must really have had some clue," murmured Mackay, dazed.

It left me wondering whether the stimulation of the dope might not have

heightened Werner's imagination and urged him on in following something

that our more sluggish minds had never even dreamed.

Meanwhile I saw that the doctor had arrived and that Kennedy had helped

carry Werner to a dressing room where first aid could be given more

conveniently. Now Kennedy hurried back into the studio, glancing

quickly this way and that, as though to catch signs of confusion or

guilt upon the faces of those about us.

I colored. Instead of making explanations to Mackay, explanations which

could have waited, I might have used what faculties of observation I

possessed to aid Kennedy while he was giving first consideration to the

life of a man. As it was, I didn't know what had become of any of the

various people upon our list of possible suspects. As far as I was

concerned, any or every sign and clue to the attack upon Werner might

have been removed or destroyed.

A sudden hush caused all of us to turn toward the door leading to the

dressing rooms. It was the physician. He raised a hand for attention.

His voice was low, but it carried to every corner of the studio:

"Mr. Werner is dead," he announced.

XXI

MERLE SHIRLEY OVERACTS

Appalled, I wondered who it was who had, to cover up one crime,

committed another? Who had struck down an innocent man to save a guilty

neck?

Kennedy hurried to the side of the physician and I followed.

"What symptoms did you observe?" asked Kennedy, quickly, seeking

confirmation of his own first impressions.

"His mouth seemed dry and I should say he suffered from a quick

prostration. There seemed to be a complete loss of power to swallow or

speak. The pupils were dilated as though from paralysis of the eyes.

Both pharynx and larynx were affected. There was respiration paralysis.

It seemed also as though the cranial nerves were partially paralyzed.

It was typically a condition due to some toxic substance which

paralyzed and depressed certain areas of the body."

Kennedy nodded. "That fits in with a theory I have."

I thought quickly, then inquired; "Could it be the snake venom again?"

"No," Kennedy replied, shaking his head; "there's a difference in the

symptoms and there is no mark on any exposed part of the body, as near

as I could see in a superficial examination."

He turned to the physician. "Could you give me blood smears and some of

the stomach contents, at once? Twice, now, some one has been stricken

down before the very eyes of the actors. This thing has gone too far to

trifle with or delay a moment."

The doctor hurried off toward the dressing room, anxious to help

Kennedy, and as excited, I thought, as any of us. Next Kennedy faced me.

"Did you watch the people at all, Walter?"

"I--I was too upset by the suddenness of it," I stammered.

All seemed to have suspicion of some one else, and there was a general

constraint, as though even the innocent feared to do or say something

that might look or sound incriminating.

I turned. All were now watching every move we made, though just yet

none ventured to follow us. It was as though they felt that to do so

was like crossing a dead line. I wondered which one of them might be

looking at us with inward trepidation--or perhaps satisfaction, if

there had been any chance to remove anything incriminating.

Kennedy strode over toward the ill-fated set, Mackay and I at his

heels. As we moved across the floor I noticed that everyone clustered

as close as he dared, afraid, seemingly, of any action which might

hinder the investigation, yet unwilling to miss any detail of Kennedy's

method. In contrast with the clamor and racket of less than a half hour

previously there was now a deathlike stillness beneath the arched

ground-glass roof. The heat was more oppressive than ever before. In

the faces and expressions of the awed witnesses of death's swift hand

there was horror, and a growing fear. No one spoke, except in whispers.

When anybody moved it was on tiptoe, cautiously. Millard's creation,

"The Black Terror," could have inspired no dread greater than this.

Of the people we wished to study, Phelps caught our eyes the first.

Dejected, crushed, utterly discouraged, he was slouched down in a chair

just at the edge of the supposed banquet hall. I had no doubt of the

nature of his thoughts. There was probably only the most perfunctory

sympathy for the stricken director. Without question his mind ran to

dollars. The dollar-angle to this tragedy was that the death of Werner

was simply another step in the wrecking of Manton Pictures. Kennedy, I

saw, hardly gave him a passing glance.

Manton we observed near the door. With the possible exception of

Millard he seemed about the least concerned. The two, scenario writer

and producer, had counterfeited the melodrama of life so often in their

productions that even the second sinister chapter in this film mystery

failed to penetrate their sang-froid. Inwardly they may have felt as

deeply as any of the rest, but both maintained their outward composure.

On Manton's shoulders was the responsibility for the picture. I could

see that he was nervous, irritable; yet, as various employees

approached for their instructions in this emergency he never lost his

grasp of affairs. In the vibrant quiet of this studio chamber, still

under the shadow of tragedy, we witnessed as cold-blooded a bit of

business generalship as has ever come to my knowledge. We overheard,

because Manton's voice carried across to us in the stillness.

"Kauf!" The name I remembered as that of the technical, or art,

director under Werner, responsible for the sets of "The Black Terror."

"Yes, Mr. Manton!" Kauf was a slim, stoop-shouldered man, gray, and a

dynamo of energy in a quiet, subservient way. He ran to Manton's side.

"Remember once telling me you wanted to become a director, that you

wanted to make pictures for me?"

"Yes, sir!"

"You are familiar with the script of 'The Black Terror,' aren't you?

You know the people and how they work and you have sets lined up. How

would you like to finish the direction?"

"But--but--" To the credit of the little man he dabbed at his eyes. I

guess he had been fond of his immediate superior. "Mr.--Mr. Werner is

d-dead--" he stammered.

"Of course!" Manton's voice rose slightly. "If Werner wasn't dead I

wouldn't need another director at a moment's notice. Some one has to

complete 'The Black Terror.' We have all these people on salary, and

all the studio expense, and the release date's settled, so that we

can't stop. It's your chance, Kauf! Do you want it?"

"Y-yes, sir!"

"Good! I'll double your salary, including all this week. Now can you

finish this banquet set to-night, while you have the people--"

"To-night!" Kauf's eyes went wide, then he started to flush.

"Well, to-morrow, then! We simply can't lay off a day, Kauf!"

"All--all right, sir!"

It seemed to me that everyone in the place sensed the horror of this.

Literally, actually, Werner's body could not be cold. Even the police,

the medical examiner, had not had sufficient time to make the trip out

for their investigation. Yet the director's successor had been

appointed and told to hurry the production.

I glanced at Phelps. He raised his head slowly, his expression lifting

at the thought that production was to continue without interruption. In

another moment, however, there was a change in his face. His eyes

sought Manton and hardened. His mouth tightened. Hate, a deep,

unreasoning hate, settled into his features.

Kennedy, pausing just long enough to observe the promoter's appointment

of Kauf to Werner's position, continued on toward the set. Now as I

looked about I saw that Jack Gordon was missing, as well as Marilyn

Loring. Presumably they had gone to their dressing rooms. All the other

actors and actresses were waiting, ill at ease, wondering at the

outcome of the tragedy.

Suddenly Kennedy stopped and I grasped that it was the peculiar actions

of Merle Shirley which had halted him.

The heavy man was the only one of the company actually in the

fabricated banquet hall itself. Clinging to him still were the grim

flowing robes of the Black Terror. As though he were some old-fashioned

tragedian, he was pacing up and down, hands behind his back, head

bowed, eyes on the floor. More, he was mumbling to himself. It was

evident, however, that it was neither a pose nor mental aberration.

Shirley was searching for something, out in the open, without attempt

at concealment, swearing softly at his lack of success.

Kennedy pushed forward. "Did you lose something, Mr. Shirley?"

"No!" The heavy man straightened. As he drew himself up in his sinister

garb I thought again of the cheap actors of a day when moving pictures

had yet to pre-empt the field of the lurid melodrama. It seemed to me

that Merle Shirley was overacting, that it was impossible for him to be

so wrought up over the slaying of a man who, after all, was only his

director, certainly not a close nor an intimate relationship.

"Mr. Kennedy," he stated, ponderously, "there has been a second death,

and at the hand which struck down Stella Lamar in Tarrytown. Somewhere

in this banquet hall interior there is a clue to the murderer. I have

kept a careful watch so that nothing might be disturbed."

"Do you suspect anyone?" Kennedy asked. Shirley glanced away and we

knew he was lying. "No, not definitely."

"Who has been in the set since I left with the doctor?"

"No one except myself, that is"--Shirley wanted to make it clear--"no

one has had any opportunity to hide or move or take or change a thing,

because I have been right here all the time."

"I see! Thanks, and"--Kennedy seemed genuinely apologetic--"if you

don't mind--I would prefer to make my investigation alone."

Shirley turned on his heel and made for his dressing room.

Meanwhile I had noticed a bit of by-play between Enid Faye and Lawrence

Millard, the only others of our possible suspects about. Enid first had

caught my eye because she seemed to be pleading with the writer, trying

to hold him. I gathered from the look of disgust on Millard's face that

he wanted to get Shirley out of the set before Kennedy should observe

the heavy man's odd reaction to the tragedy. While I had never seen

Millard and Shirley together, so as to establish in mind the state of

their feelings toward each other, this would seem to indicate that they

were friendly. Certainly Shirley was making a fool of himself. Enid

acted, I guessed, so as to prevent Millard's interference, probably

with the idea that Millard in some fashion might bring suspicion upon

himself. It struck me that Enid had a wholesome respect for Kennedy.

At any rate, Millard watched the little scene between Kennedy and

Shirley with a quizzical expression. As Shirley left he shrugged his

shoulders, then he gave Enid's cheeks a playful pinch each and started

out after the heavy man in leisurely fashion.

Just about the same moment Kennedy called me to his side.

"Walter," he pleaded, in a low voice, "will you hurry out to the

dressing room where the doctor and I took Werner and get the blood

smears and sample of the stomach contents? I don't want to leave this,

because we must work fast and get all the data we need before the

police arrive. With perhaps a hundred people to question they'll be apt

to make a fine mess of everything. This is an outlying precinct where

we'll draw the amateurs, you know."

I saw that Mackay was helping him and so I left cheerfully, making my

way as fast as I could toward the door through which both Shirley and

Millard had passed.

In the hallway of the building devoted to dressing rooms I found that I

did not know which one contained Werner's body. This corridor was

familiar. Here Kennedy and I had waited for Marilyn Loring and had

witnessed the scene between Shirley and herself. Now I did not even

remember the location of her room.

At last, on a chance, I tried a door softly. From within came whispered

voices of deep intensity. About to close it quickly, I realized

suddenly that I recognized the speakers in spite of the whispers. It

was Marilyn and Shirley. They were together. Now I recollected the

figured chintz which covered the wall and was to be seen through the

crack made by the open door. It was her room. They had not heard my

hand on the knob, nor the catch, did not know that anyone could

eavesdrop.

"You see!" Her tones were the more vibrant "You waited!"

"I had to!"

"No! I advised you to act at once."

"I couldn't! I can't even now!"

"All right!" Her tone became bitter. "Go ahead, your own way. But you

must count the cost. You may lose me again, Merle Shirley."

"How do you mean?"

Her answer, in the faintest of whispers, staggered me.

"If you have the blood of another man on your hands I'm through."

XXII

THE STEM

Though my hands trembled so that I could hardly control them, I managed

to close the door softly and to back away down the hall without being

discovered. My head was spinning and I was dizzy. With my own ears I

had heard Marilyn Loring virtually betray the guilt of the man she

loved and whom therefore she had tried to shield. "If you have the

blood of another man on your hands--" What more could Kennedy want?

I started to run toward the studio. Then recollection of my errand

stopped me. Kennedy wished the blood smears and stomach contents and

was anxious to get them before the arrival of the police. At first I

thought that all such evidence would be unnecessary now, after the

dialogue I had overheard, but it struck me as an afterthought that it

might be necessary still to prove Shirley's guilt to the satisfaction

of a court and jury, and so I rushed to the next dressing room and to

another, until I located the doctor and the body of the dead man.

With the little package for Kennedy safely in my pocket I hurried out

again into the sweltering heat beneath the glass of the big studio, and

to the side of Kennedy and Mackay in the banquet-hall set.

"You have a sample of each article of food now?" he was asking the

district attorney. "You are sure you have missed nothing?"

"As far as possible I took my samples from the table where Werner sat,"

Mackay explained. "When the prop. boy gets here with an empty bottle

and cork I'll have a sample of the wine. I think it's the wine," he

added.

Kennedy turned to me. "You've got--"

"In my pocket!" I interrupted. Then, rather breathlessly, I repeated

the conversation I had overheard.

"Good Lord!" Mackay flushed. "There it is! Shirley's the man, and I'll

take him now, quick, without waiting for a warrant."

"See!" I ejaculated, to Kennedy. "He killed Stella because she made a

fool of him and then, when Werner discovered that and followed him to

Tarrytown the other night, it probably put him in a panic of fear, and

so, to keep Werner from talking--"

"Easy, Walter! Not so fast! What you overheard is insufficient ground

for Shirley's conviction, unless you could make him confess, and I

doubt you could make him do that."

"Why?" This was Mackay.

"Because I don't think he's guilty. At least"--Kennedy, as always, was

cautious in his statements, "not so far as anything we now know would

indicate."

"But his anger at Stella," I protested, "and Marilyn's remark--"'

"Miss Lamar's death was the result of a cool, unfeeling plan, not pique

or anger. The same cruel, careful brain executed this second crime."

Mackay, I saw, was three-quarters convinced by Kennedy. "How do you

account for the dialogue Jameson overheard?" he asked.

"Miss Loring told us that Shirley suspected some one and was watching,

and would not tell her or anyone else who it was. It seems most likely

to me that it is the truth, Mackay. In that case her remark means that

she believes his silence in a way is responsible for Werner's death."

"Oh! If Shirley had taken you into his confidence, for instance--?"

"I might possibly have succeeded in gaining sufficient evidence for an

arrest, thus averting this tragedy. But it is only a theory of mine."

I scowled. It seemed to me that Kennedy was minimizing things in a way

unusual for him. I wondered if he really thought the heavy man innocent.

"It's still my belief that Shirley is guilty," I asserted.

A sound of confusion from the courtyard beneath the heavy studio

windows caught Kennedy's ear and ended the colloquy. From some of those

near enough to look out we received the explanation. The police had

arrived, fully three-quarters of an hour after Werner's death.

"I'll get the little bottle of wine, sure," Mackay murmured, picking up

the food samples he had wrapped and crowding the bulky package into a

pocket.

"I don't see why that would have been any easier to poison than the

food," was my objection. "Everyone was looking."

"Very simple. The food was brought in quite late. Besides, it was

dished out by the caterer before the eyes of forty or fifty people or

more and there was no telling which plate would go to Werner's place.

The drinks were poured last of all. I remember seeing the bubbles rise

and wondering whether they would register at the distance."

Kennedy did not look at me. "Did it ever occur to you," he went on,

casually, "that the glasses were all set out empty at the various

places long before, and that there might easily have been a few drops

of something, if it were colorless, placed in the bottom of Werner's

glass, with scarcely a chance of its being discovered, especially by a

man who had so much on his mind at the time as Werner had? He must have

indicated where he would sit when he arranged the camera stands and the

location of the tables."

I had not thought of that.

Kennedy frowned. "If only I could have located more of that broken

glass!" As he faced me I could read his disappointment. "Walter, I've

made a most careful search of his chair and the table and everything

about the space where he dropped. The poison must have been in the

wine, but there's not a tiny sliver of that glass left, nothing but a

thousand bits ground into the canvas, too small to hold even a drop of

the liquid. Just think, a dried stain of the wine, no matter how tiny,

might have served me in a chemical analysis."

Very suddenly there was a low exclamation from Mackay. "Look! Quick!

Some one must have kicked it way over here!"

Fully twenty feet from Werner's place in the glare of the lights was

the hollow stem of a champagne glass, its base intact save for a narrow

segment. In the stem still were a couple of drops of the wine, as if in

a bulb or tube.

"Can it be the director's glass?" Mackay asked, handing it to Kennedy.

Kennedy slipped it into his pocket, fussing with his handkerchief so

that the precious contents would not drip out. "I think so. I doubt

whether any other glass was broken. Verify it quickly."

The police were entering now with Manton. Following them was the

physician. Mackay and I ascertained readily that no other glass had

been shattered, while Kennedy searched the floor for possible signs

that the stem was part of a glass broken where we had found it.

Unquestionably we had a sample of the actual wine quaffed by the

unfortunate Werner. Elated we strolled to a corner so as to give the

police full charge.

"They'll waste time questioning everyone," Kennedy remarked. "I have

the real evidence." He tapped his pocket.

The few moments that he had had to himself had been ample for him to

obtain such evidence as was destroyed in so many cases by the time he

was called upon the scene.

A point occurred to me. "You don't think the poison was planted later

during the excitement?"

"Hardly! Our criminal is too clever to take a long chance. In such a

case we would know it was some one near Werner and also there would be

too many people watching. Foolhardiness is not boldness."

I took to observing the methods of the police, which were highly

efficient, but only in the minuteness of the examination of witnesses

and in the care with which they recorded names and facts and made sure

that no one had slipped away to avoid the notoriety.

The actors and actresses who had stood rather in awe of Kennedy, both

here and in Kennedy's investigation at Tarrytown, developed nimble

tongues in their answers to the city detectives. The result was a

perfect maze of conflicting versions of Werner's cry and fall. In fact,

one scene shifter insisted that Shirley, as the Black Terror, had

reached Werner's side and had struck him before the cry, while an extra

girl with a faint lisp described with sobering accuracy the flight of a

mysterious missile through the air. I realized then why Kennedy had

made no effort to question them. Under the excitement of the scene, the

glamour of the lights, the sense of illusion, and the stifling heat, it

would have been strange for any of the people to have retained correct

impressions of the event.

The police sergeant knew Kennedy by reputation and approached him after

a visit to the dead man's body with the doctor. His glance, including

Mackay and myself, was frankly triumphant.

"Well," he exclaimed, "I don't suppose it occurred to any of you

SCIENTIFIC guys to search the fellow, now did it?"

Kennedy smiled, in good humor. "Searching a man isn't always the

scientific method. You won't find the word 'frisk' in any scientific

dictionary."

"No?" The police officer's eyes twinkled. There was enough of the Irish

in him to enjoy an encounter of this kind. "Maybe not, but you might

find things in a chap's pocket which is better." With a flourish he

produced a hypodermic syringe, the duplicate of the one I had

appropriated, and a tiny bottle. "The man's a dope," he added.

"I knew that," replied Kennedy. "I examined his arm, where he usually

took his shots, and found no fresh mark of the needle."

"That doesn't prove anything. Wait until the medical examiner gets

here. He'll find the fellow's heart all shot full of hop, or something.

I guess it isn't so complicated, after all. He was a hop fiend, all

right."

"Still, there's nothing to indicate that he was a suicide."

"Not suicide; accident-overdose," was the sergeant's reply.

"How could he have died from an overdose of the drug, when he hasn't

taken any recently?"

"Well"--unabashed--"then he croaked because he hadn't had a shot--the

same thing. Heart failure, either way. Excited, and all, you know,

making the scene. Maybe he forgot to use the needle at that."

"Perhaps you're right." Kennedy shrugged calmly. What was the use of

disputing the matter?

I started to protest against the detective's hypothesis. The idea of

any drug addict ever forgetting to take his stimulant was too

preposterous. But Kennedy checked me. All were now keenly listening to

the argument. Better, perhaps, to let some one think that nothing was

suspected than to disclose the cards in Craig's hand. I saw that he

wished to get away and had not spoken seriously. He turned to Mackay.

"Walter and I will have to hurry to the laboratory. Would you like to

come along?"

"You bet I would!" The district attorney showed his delight. "I was

just going to ask if I might do so. There's nothing for me in Tarrytown

to-day and this is out of my jurisdiction."

As we turned away the police sergeant saw us and called across the

floor, not quite concealing a touch of professional jealousy.

"The three of you were here at the time, weren't you?"

"No," Kennedy answered. "Mr. Jameson and myself."

"Well, you two, then! You're witnesses and I'll ask you to hold

yourself in readiness to appear at the hearing."

I thought that the policeman was particularly delighted at his position

to issue orders to Kennedy, and I was angered. Again Craig held me in

check!

"We'll be glad to tell anything we know," he replied, then added a

little fling, a bit of sarcasm which almost went over the other's head.

"That is," he amended, "as eye-witnesses!"

XXIII

BOTULIN TOXIN

Mackay drove us to the laboratory in his little car and it was dark and

we were dinnerless when we arrived. Knowing Kennedy's habits, I sent

out for sandwiches and started in to make strong coffee upon an

electric percolator. The aroma tingled in my nostrils, reminding me

that I was genuinely hungry. The district attorney, too, seemed more or

less similarly disposed.

As for Kennedy, he was interested in nothing but the problem before

him. He had been strangely quiet on the way, growing more and more

impatient and nervous, as though the element of time had entered into

the case, as though haste were suddenly imperative. Once the lights

were on in the laboratory he hurried about his various preparations.

The food samples he laid out, but he gave them no attention. The blood

smears and stomach contents he put aside for future reference. His

attack was upon the drop or two of liquid adhering to the stem of the

broken champagne glass.

The entire chemical procedure seemed to be incomprehensible to Mackay

and he was fascinated, so that he had considerable trouble at times

keeping out of the way of Kennedy's elbow. Kennedy first washed the

stem out carefully with a few drops of distilled water, then he studied

the resulting solution. One after another he tried the things that

occurred to him, making tests wholly unproductive of results. Slowly

the laboratory table became littered completely with chemicals and

apparatus of all sorts, a veritable arsenal of glass.

The sandwiches arrived, but Kennedy refused to drop his investigation

for a moment. I did succeed in making him take a cup of strong coffee,

and that was all. Over in a corner Mackay and I did full justice to the

food, finishing the hot and welcome coffee and then refilling the

percolator and starting it on the making of a second brew. The hours

lengthened, and when Mackay grew tired of watching with intense

admiration he joined me in the patient consumption of innumerable

cigarettes.

Kennedy was filled with the joy of discovery. I noticed that he did not

stop even for the solace of tobacco. It seemed to me that at times his

nostrils dilated exactly like those of a hound on the scent. Finally he

held up a test tube and turned to us.

"What is it?" I asked. "Some other poison as rare and little known as

the snake venom?"

"No--something much more curious. In the stem of the glass I find the

toxin of the Bacillus botulinus."

"Germs?" Mackay inquired.

Kennedy shook his head. "Not germs, but the pure toxin, the poison

secreted by this bacillus."

"What does it do?" was my question.

"Well," thoughtfully, "botulism may be ranked easily among the most

serious diseases known to medical science. It is hard to understand why

it is not a great deal more common. It is one of the most dangerous

kinds of food poisoning."

"Then the apple juice they used for the wine was bad, spoiled?"

"No, not that. Werner was the only one stricken. Somebody put the pure

toxin in his glass. It was, as I suspected, deliberate murder, as in

the case of Miss Lamar. Bacillus botulinus produces a toxin that is

extremely virulent. Hardly more than a ten-thousandth of a cubic

centimeter would kill a guinea pig. This was botulin itself, the pure

toxin, an alkaloid just like that which is formed in meat and other

food products in cases of botulism. The idea might also have been to

make the death seem natural--due solely to bad food."

"Do you suppose it was used because it was quick and was colorless, so

as not to be noticed in the glass?" I hazarded.

Kennedy paced up and down the laboratory several times in thought. "To

me, Walter, this is another indication of the satanic cleverness of the

unknown criminal in the case. First Miss Lamar is to be killed. For

that purpose something was sought, probably, which could not be traced

easily to the perpetrator. In snake venom an agent was employed which

may be said to be almost ideal for the grim business of murder. It is

extremely difficult to identify in its results, it is comparatively

unknown, yet it is swift in action and to be obtained with fair ease.

"Differing from most poisons, it may be inflicted through a prick so

slight as to be almost unnoticed by the victim. The scheme of fixing

the needle in the curtain was so simple and yet so effective that the

guilty person need never have feared its discovery under ordinary

circumstances, or its association with the girl's death, if some one

stumbled upon it accidentally. The idea of returning for the

death-dealing point was only one of the many details of a precautionary

measure upon which we have stumbled. Had I found it the next morning I

would have been unable, in all probability, to identify it as belonging

to or as obtained by any of our suspects.

"You must realize, Walter, that with all the scientific aids I have

been able to bring to bear we possess almost no direct evidence. There

are no fingerprints, no cigarette stubs, no array of personal, intimate

clues of any sort to this criminal. These are the threads which lead

the detective to his quarry in fiction and on the stage. Here we lack

even the faintest description of the man, or woman if that is her sex.

It is murder from a distance, planned with almost meticulous care,

executed coolly and without feeling or scruple.

"After the death of Miss Lamar I was not so sure but that the selection

of the snake venom was simply the inspiration of a perverted brain, the

evolution of the detailed method of killing her--an outgrowth of

someone's familiarity with studio life in general, with the script of

'The Black Terror' in particular. Now I realize that we are face to

face with the studied handiwork of a skilled criminal. These two deaths

may be his--or her--first departure into the realm of crime. But

potentially we have a super-villain.

"I make that statement because of the manner of Werner's demise. It is

evident that the director stumbled on a clue to the murderer. If my

first hypothesis had been correct, if the use of snake venom and the

unlucky thirteenth scene had been largely a matter of blind chance in

the selection of poison and method, then we might have expected Werner

to be struck down in some dark street, or perhaps decoyed to his

death--at the best, inoculated with the same crotalin which had killed

Miss Lamar.

"But let us analyze the method used in slaying the director. If he had

been blackjacked there would be the clue of the weapon, always likely

to turn up, the chance of witnesses, and also the likelihood in an

extreme case that Werner might not die at once, but might talk and give

a description of his assailant, or even survive. Much the same

objections--from the criminal's standpoint--obtain in nearly all the

accepted modes of killing a man. Even the use of venom a second time

possesses the disadvantage of a certain alertness against the very

thing on the part of the victim. Werner was a dope fiend, fully aware

of the potency of a tiny skin puncture. I'll wager he was on constant

guard against any sort of scratch.

"On the other hand, the few drops of toxin in the glass possessed every

advantage from the unknown's standpoint. It was invisible, and as sure

in its action as the venom. Also it was as rare and as difficult to

trace. For, remember this. Botulism is food poisoning. If I had not

found the stem of that glass it would be absolutely impossible to show

that Werner died from anything on earth but bad food. That is why I do

not even take time to analyze the stomach contents. That is why I say

we are confronted by an archscoundrel of highest intelligence and

downright cleverness. More"--Kennedy paused for emphasis--"I realize

now the presence of a grim, invisible menace. It has just now been

driven home to me. The botulin, with its deadly paralyzing power,

sealed Werner's tongue even while he tried to tell me what he knew."

Mackay was tremendously impressed by Kennedy's explanation. "Does this

mean," he asked, "that the guilty man or woman is some outsider? Those

we have figured as possible suspects would hardly have this detailed

knowledge of poisons."

"There are two possibilities," Kennedy answered. "The real person

behind the two murders may have employed some one else to carry out the

actual killing, a hypothesis I do not take seriously, or"--again he

paused--"this may be a case of some one with intelligence starting out

upon his career of crime intelligently by reading up on his subject. It

is as simple to learn how to use crotalin or botulin toxin or any

number of hundreds of deadly substances as it is to obtain the majority

of them. In fact, if people generally understood the ease with which

whole communities could be wiped out, and grasped that it could be done

so as to leave virtually no clue to the author of the horror, they

might not sleep as soundly at night as they do. The saving grace is

that the average criminal is often clever, but almost never truly

scientific. Unfortunately, we have to combat one who possesses the

latter quality to a high degree."

"What is the invisible menace of which you spoke, Craig?" I inquired.

"The possibility of another murder before we can apprehend the guilty

person or gain the evidence we need."

"Good heavens!" I imagine I blanched. "You mean--"

"Werner was struck down, apparently, for no reason but that he had

guessed the identity of the villain. There is a second man in the

company who has certain suspicions and is acting upon them. If he is on

the right trail, by any chance--" Kennedy shrugged his shoulders

soberly.

"Shirley?"

"Exactly! And there is still another possibility."

"What is that?"

"Here in this laboratory I have blood spots made on the portieres at

the house of Phelps by the man who removed the needle, probably the

unknown himself, possibly his--or her--agent. In any case it is a clue

and--THE ONLY DIRECT AND INFALLIBLE CLUE IN EXISTENCE TO THE CRIMINAL!

Also I have the evidence of the snake venom and of the botulin toxin

here. Sooner or later the person who killed Werner because he suspected

things will wake up to the fact that we possess tangible proof against

him."

I grew pale. "You mean, then, that you may be attacked yourself? That

even I--"

Kennedy smiled, unafraid. But from the expression in his eyes I knew

that he took the thought of our possible danger very seriously.

XXIV

THE INVISIBLE MENACE

Mackay and I exchanged glances. Kennedy busied himself putting away

some of the more important bits of evidence in the case, placing the

tiny tubes of solution, the blood smears, and other items together in a

cabinet at the farther corner of the laboratory. The vast bulk of his

paraphernalia, the array of glass and chemicals and instruments, he

left on the table for the morning. Then he faced us again, with a smile.

"Suppose you start up the percolator once more, Walter!" He took a

cigar and lighted it from the match I struck. "I believe I've earned

another cup of coffee," he added.

Mackay had been fidgeting considerably since Kennedy's explanation of

the possible danger to Shirley, as well as to ourselves or even to

others.

"Isn't there something we can do, Kennedy?" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Is

it necessary to sit back and wait for this unknown to strike again?"

"Ordinarily," Kennedy replied, "on a case like this it has been my

custom to permit the guilty parties to betray themselves, as they will

do inevitably--especially when I call to my aid the recent discoveries

of science for the detection and measurement of fine and almost

imperceptible shades of emotion. But now that I realize the presence of

this menace I shall become a detective of action; in fact, I shall not

stop at any course to hurry matters. The very first thing in the

morning I shall go to the studio and I want you and Jameson along.

I"--his eyes twinkled; it was the excitement at the prospect--"I may

need considerable help in getting the evidence I wish."

"Which is--?" It was I who interposed the question.

Kennedy blew a cloud of smoke. "There are three ways of tracing down a

crime, aside from the police method of stool pigeons to betray the

criminals and the detective bureau method of cross-examination under

pressure, popularly known as the third degree."

"What are they?" Mackay asked, unaware that Kennedy needed little

prompting once he felt inclined to talk out some matter puzzling him.

"One is the process of reasoning from the possible suspects to the act

itself--in other words, putting the emphasis on the motive. A second is

the reverse of the first, involving a study of the crime for clues and

making deductions from the inevitable earmarks of the person for the

purpose of discovering his identity. The third method, except for some

investigations across the water, is distinctly my own, the scientific.

"In all sciences," Kennedy went on, warming to his subject, "progress

is made by a careful tabulation of proved facts. The scientific method

is the method of exact knowledge. Thus, in crime, those things are of

value to us which by an infinite series of empiric observations have

been established and have become incontrovertible. The familiar

example, of course, is fingerprints. Nearly everyone knows that no two

men have the same markings; that the same man displays a pattern which

is unchanging from birth to the grave.

"No less certain is the fact that human blood differs from the blood of

animals, that in faint variations the blood of no two people is alike,

that the blood of any living thing, man or beast, is affected by

various things--an infinite number almost--most of which are positively

known to modern medical investigators.

"In this case my principal scientific clue is the blood left upon the

portiere by the man who took the needle the night following the murder.

Next in importance is the fact, demonstrated by me, that some one at

the studio wiped a hypodermic on a towel after inoculating himself with

antivenin. Of course I am presuming that this latter man inoculated

himself and not some one else, because it is obvious. If necessary I

can prove it later, however, by analyzing the trace of blood. That is

not the point. The point is that whoever removed the needle pricked

himself and yet did not die of the venom--unless it was a person not

under our observation, an unlikely premise. Therefore, because of this

last fact, and because again it is obvious, I expect to find that the

same individual inoculated himself with antivenin and removed the

needle from the portiere; and I expect to prove it beyond possibility

of doubt by an analysis of his blood. A sample of the blood from this

person will be identical with the spot on the portiere, and--much the

easier test--will contain traces of the antitoxin.

"With that much accomplished, a little of the, well--third degree, will

bring about a confession. It is circumstantial evidence of the

strongest sort. Not only does a man take precautions against a given

poison, but he is proved to be the one who removed the needle actually

responsible for Miss Lamar's death.

"My handicap, however, is that I have no justifiable excuse for taking

a sample of blood from each of the people we suspect, or feel we might

suspect. For that reason I was waiting until one of the other detective

methods should narrow the field of suspicion. Now that there is the

menace of another attempt to take a life I am forced to act. To-morrow

we will get samples of blood from everyone by artifice--or force!

"Meanwhile--" He hastened to continue, as though afraid we might

interrupt to break his train of thought. "Meanwhile, to-night, let us

see if it is possible to accomplish something by the deductive method.

"Already I have gone into an analysis starting from the nature of the

crime and reasoning to the type of criminal responsible. The guilty

man--or woman--is a person of high intelligence, added to genuine

cleverness. But for the results accomplished in this laboratory we

would be without a clue; our hands would be tied completely. Both Miss

Lamar and Werner were killed by unusual poisons; deadly, and almost

impossible to trace. There was a crowd of people about in each case;

yet we have no witnesses. Now who, out of all our people with possible

motives, are intelligent enough and clever enough to be guilty?"

Kennedy glanced first at me, then at Mackay.

"Manton? Phelps?" suggested the district attorney.

"The promoter," Kennedy rejoined, "is the typical man of the business

world beneath the eccentricity of manner which seems to cling to

everyone in the picture field. Ordinarily his type, thinking in

millions of dollars and juggling nickel and dime admissions or other

routine of commercial detail is apart from the finer subtle passions of

life. When a business man commits murder he generally uses a pistol

because he is sure it is efficient--he can see it work. The same

applies to Phelps."

"Millard?" Mackay hesitated now to face the logic of Kennedy's keen

mind. "He was Stella Lamar's husband!"

"Millard is a scenario writer and so apt to have a brain cluttered with

all sorts of detail of crime and murder. At the same time an author is

so used to counterfeiting emotion in his writings that he seldom takes

things seriously. Life becomes a joke and Millard in particular is a

butterfly, concerned more with the smiles of extra girls and the favor

of Miss Faye than the fate of the woman whose divorce from him was not

yet complete. A writer is the other extreme from the business man. The

creator of stories is essentially inefficient because he tries to feel

rather than reason. When an author commits murder he sets a stage for

his own benefit. He is careful to avoid witnesses because they are

inconvenient to dispose of. At the same time he wants the victim to

understand thoroughly what is going to happen and so he is apt to

accompany his crime with a speech worded very carefully indeed. Then he

may start with an attempt to throttle a person and end up with a

hatchet, or he may plan to use a razor and at the end brain his quarry

with a chair. He lives too many lives to follow one through

clearly--his own."

"How about Shirley?" I put in.

"At first glance Shirley and Gordon suggest themselves because both

murders were highly spectacular, and the actor, above everything else,

enjoys a big scene. After Werner's death, for instance, Shirley

literally strutted up and down in that set. He was so full of the

situation, so carried away by the drama of the occasion, that he failed

utterly to realize how suspicious his conduct would seem to an

observer. Unfortunately for our hypotheses, the use of venom and toxin

is too cold-bloodedly efficient. The theatrical temperament must have

emotion. An actor cruel and vicious enough to strike down two people as

Miss Lamar and Werner were stricken, of sufficient dramatic make-up to

conceive of the manner of their deaths, would want to see them writhe

and suffer. He would select poisons equally rare and effective, but

those more slow and painful in their operation. No, Walter, Shirley is

not indicated by this method of reasoning. The arrangement of the

scenes for the murders was simply another detail of efficiency, not due

to a wish to be spectacular. The crowd about in each case has added

greatly to the difficulty of investigation."

"Do you include Gordon in that?" Mackay asked.

"Yes, and in addition"--Kennedy smiled slightly--"I believe that Gordon

is rather stupid. For one thing, he has had several fights in public,

at the Goats Club and at the Midnight Fads and I suppose elsewhere.

That is not the clever rogue. Furthermore, he had been speculating, not

just now and then, but desperately, doggedly. Clever men speculate, but

scientific men never. Our unknown criminal is both clever and

intelligent."

"That brings you to the girls, then," Mackay remarked.

Kennedy's face clouded and I could see that he was troubled. "To be

honest in this one particular method of deduction," he stated, "I must

admit that both Miss Faye and Miss Loring are worthy of suspicion. The

fact of their rise in the film world, the evidences of their

popularity, is proof that they are clever. Miss Loring, in my few brief

moments of contact with her on two occasions, showed a grasp of things

and a quickness which indicate to me that she possesses a rare order of

intelligence for a woman. As for Miss Faye"--again he hesitated--"one

little act of hers demonstrated intelligence. When Shirley was standing

guard in the set after Werner's death, and making a fool of himself,

Millard evidently wanted to get over and speak to him, perhaps to tell

him not to let me find him searching the scene as though his life

depended upon it, perhaps something else. But Miss Faye stopped him.

Unquestionably she saw that anyone taking an interest in the remains of

the banquet just then would become an object of suspicion."

"Do you really suspect Marilyn or Enid?" I inquired.

"If this were half a generation ago I would say without hesitation that

the crime was the handiwork of a man. But now the women are in

everything. Young girls particularly--" He shrugged his shoulders.

Mackay had one more suggestion. "The camera men, the extras, the

technical and studio staffs--they are not worthy of consideration, are

they?"

Kennedy shook his head.

The odor of coffee struck my nostrils and I turned to find the

percolator steaming. Kennedy leaned over, to take a whiff. Mackay rose.

At that moment there was a sudden crash and the window-pane was

shattered. Simultaneously a flash of light and a deafening explosion

took place in the room, scattering broadcast tiny bits of glass from

the laboratory table, splashing chemicals, many of them dangerous, over

everything.

Kennedy hurried to the wreck of his paraphernalia. In an instant he

held up a tiny bit of jagged metal.

"An explosive bullet!" he exclaimed. "An attempt to destroy my

evidence!"

XXV

ITCHING SALVE

For once I rose with Kennedy. He preceded me to the laboratory after

breakfast, however, leaving me to wait for Mackay. When the little

district attorney arrived I noticed that he carried a package which

looked as though it might contain a one-reel film can.

"The negative we took from the cameras at Tarrytown," he explained.

"Also a print from each roll, ready to run. I've been holding this as

evidence. Mr. Kennedy wanted me to bring it with me to-day."

"He's waiting for us at the laboratory," I remarked.

"He'll straighten everything up in a hurry, won't he?"

"Kennedy's the most high-handed individual I ever knew," I laughed, "if

he sees a chance of getting his man." Then I became enthusiastic.

"Often I've seen him gather a group of people in a room, perhaps

without the faintest shred of legal right to do so, and there make the

guilty person confess simply by marshaling the evidence, or maybe

betray himself by some scientific device. It's wonderful, Mackay."

"Do you think he plans something of that kind this morning?"

I led the way to the door. "After what happened last night I know that

Kennedy will resort to almost anything."

The district attorney fingered the package under his arm. "He might get

everyone in the projection room then, and make them watch the actual

photographic record of Stella's death--the scene where she scratched

herself--"

"Let's hurry!" I interrupted.

When we entered the laboratory we found Kennedy vigorously fanning a

towel which he had hung up to dry. I recognized it as the one I had

discovered in the studio washroom immediately following the first

murder.

"This will serve me better as bait than as evidence," he laughed. "I

have impregnated it with a colorless chemical which will cling to the

fibers and enable me to identify the most infinitesimal trace of it. We

shall get up to the studio and start, well--I guess you could call it

fishing for the guilty man." He fingered the folds, then jerked the

towel down and flung it to me. "Here, Walter! It's dry enough. Now I

want you to rub the contents of that tiny can of grease, open before

you there, into the cloth."

He hurried over to wash his hands. I spread the towel out on the table

and began to work in the stuff indicated by Kennedy. There was no odor

and it seemed like some patent ointment in color. At first I was

puzzled. Then, absently, I touched the back of one hand with the greasy

fingers of the other and immediately an itching set up so annoying that

I had to abandon my task.

Kennedy chuckled. "That's itching salve, Walter. The cuticle pads at

your finger tips are too thick, but touch yourself anywhere else!--" He

shrugged his shoulders. "You'd better use soap and water if you want

any relief. Then you can start over again."

At the basin I thought I grasped his little plot.

"You're going to plant the towel," I asked, "so that the interested

party will try to get hold of it?"

Evidently he thought it unnecessary to reply to me.

"Why couldn't you just put it somewhere without all the preparation,"

Mackay suggested, "and watch to see who came after it?"

"Because our criminal's too clever," Kennedy rejoined. "Our only chance

to get it stolen is to make it very plain that it is not being watched.

Whoever steals it, however, possibly will reveal himself on account of

the itching salve. In any case I expect to be able to trace the towel

to the thief, no matter what efforts are made to destroy it."

The towel was wrapped in a heavy bit of paper; then placed with a

microscope and some other paraphernalia in a small battered traveling

bag. Climbing into Mackay's little roadster, we soon were speeding

toward the studio.

"Will you be able to help me, to stay with Jameson and myself all day?"

Kennedy asked the district attorney, after perhaps a mile of silence.

"Surely! It's what I was hoping you'd allow me to do. I have no

authority down here, though."

"I understand. But the police, or an outsider, might allow some of my

plans to become known." He paused a moment in thought. "The film you

brought in with you consists of the scenes on the rolls of negative in

use at the time of Miss Lamar's collapse. It may or may not include the

action where she scratched herself. Now I want the scenes up to

thirteen put together in proper order, first as photographed by one

camera, then as caught by the other. I'll arrange for the services of a

cutter, and for the delivery to me of any other negative or positive

overlooked by us when we had the two boxes sealed and given into your

custody at Tarrytown. Will you superintend the assembly of the scenes,

so that you can be sure nothing is taken out or omitted?"

"Of course! I want to do anything I can."

Upon arrival at the studio we detected this time all the signs of a

complete demoralization. The death of Werner, the fact that he had been

stricken down during the taking of a scene and on the very stage, had

served to bring the tragedy home to the people. More, it was a second

murder in four days, apparently by the same hand as the first. A sense

of dread, a nameless, intangible fear, had taken form and found its way

under the big blackened glass roofs and around and through the

corridors, into the dressing rooms, and back even to the manufacturing

and purely technical departments. The gateman eyed us with undisguised

uneasiness as we drove through the archway into the yard. In that

inclosure there were only two cars--Manton's, and one we later learned

belonged to Phelps. The sole human being to enter our range of vision

was an office boy. He skirted the side of the building as though the

menace of death were in the air, or likely to strike out of the very

heavens without warning.

We found Kauf in the large studio, obviously unhappy in the shoes of

the unfortunate Werner. Probably from half-reasoned-out motives of

efficiency in psychology the new director had made no attempt to resume

work at once in the ill-fated banquet set, but had turned to the

companion ballroom setting, since both had been prepared and made ready

at the same time.

Kennedy explained our presence so early in the morning very neatly, I

thought.

"I would appreciate it," he began, "if you could place a cutter at the

disposal of Mr. Mackay. He has the scenes taken from the camera and

sealed at the time of Miss Lamar's death. I would like to have any

other film taken out there delivered to him and the whole joined in

proper sequence. Then, Mr. Kauf, if you could arrange to have the same

cutter take the film exposed yesterday when Mr. Werner--"

"You think you might be able to see something, to discover something on

the screen?"

"Exactly!"

Kauf beamed. "Mr. Manton gave me orders to assist you in every way I

could, or to put any of my people at your disposal. More than that, Mr.

Kennedy, he anticipated you. He thought you might want to look at the

scenes taken yesterday and he rushed the laboratory and the printing

room. We'll be able to fix you up very quickly."

"Good!" Kennedy nodded to Mackay and the district attorney hurried off

with Kauf. "Now, Walter!" he exclaimed, sobering.

I picked up the traveling bag and together we strolled toward the

ballroom set. There most of the players were gathered already--in

make-up and evening clothes of a fancier sort even than those demanded

for the banquet. I saw that Kennedy singled out Marilyn.

"Good morning," she said, cheerfully, but with effort. It was obvious

she had spent a nervous night. There were circles under her eyes ill

concealed by the small quantity of cosmetic she used. Her hands,

shifting constantly, displayed the loss of her usual poise. "You are

out bright and early," she added.

"We've stumbled into a very important clue," Kennedy told her, with a

show of giving her his confidence. "In that bag in Walter's hand is one

of the studio towels. It contains a hint of the poison used to kill

Miss Lamar and--of utmost consequence--it has provided me with an

infallible clue to the identity of the murderer himself--or herself."

It seemed to me that Marilyn blanched. "Where--where did you find it?"

she demanded, in a very awed voice.

"In one of the studio washrooms."

"It has been--it has been in the washroom ever since poor Stella's

death?"

"No, not that! Jameson discovered it the same day but"--the very slight

pause was perceptible to me; Kennedy hated to lie--"I haven't realized

its importance until just this morning."

Enid Faye, seeing us from a distance, conquered her dislike of Marilyn

sufficiently to join us. She was very erect and tense. Her eyes, wide

and sober and searching, traveled from my face to Kennedy's and back.

Then she dissembled, softening as she came close to me, laying a hand

on my shoulder and allowing her skirt to brush my trousers.

"Tell me, Jamie," she whispered, her warm breath thrilling me through

and through. "Has the wonderful Craig Kennedy discovered something?" It

was not sarcasm, but assumed playfulness, masking a throbbing curiosity.

"I found a towel in one of the studio washrooms," I answered, "and

Craig has demonstrated that it is a clue to the poison which killed

Stella Lamar as well as to the person who did it."

Enid gasped. Then she drew herself up and her eyes narrowed. Now she

faced Kennedy.

"How can the towel be a clue to the crime?" she protested. "Stella

was--was murdered way out in Tarrytown! Mr. Jameson found the towel

here!"

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "I cannot tell you that--just yet." He

paused deliberately. "You see," he lied. "I have yet to make my

analysis."

"But you know it's a clue to the--"

"That towel"--he raised his voice, as though in elation--"that towel

will lead me to the murderer--infallibly!"

Merle Shirley had come up in time to hear most of the colloquy between

Enid and Kennedy. At the last he flushed, clenching his fists.

"If you can prove who the murderer is, Mr. Kennedy," he exploded, "why

don't you apprehend him before some one else meets the fate of Werner?"

"I can do nothing until I return to my laboratory this afternoon. I

will not know the identity of the guilty person until I complete a

chemical analysis."

One by one the various people possibly concerned in the two crimes

joined the group. This morning all the faces were serious; most of them

showed the marks of sleeplessness following the second murder. Kennedy

walked away, but I saw that Jack Gordon hastened to question both the

girls, ignoring their evident dislike for him. Among the others I

recognized Watkins, the camera man, and his associate. Lawrence Millard

came in and hastened to the side of Enid. As he drew her away to ask

the cause of the gathering I wondered at his early presence. The

scenario writer was typical of them all. The strange and unusual nature

of the crimes, the evident relationship between them, had drawn the

employees of Manton Pictures to the studio as a crowd of baseball fans

collects before a public bulletin board. Not one of them but was afraid

of missing some development in the case. In no instance could the

interest of a particular individual be taken as an indication of guilt.

Phelps entered the studio from the door to the dressing rooms.

Disdaining to join the other group, he approached us to ask the cause

for the excitement. Kennedy explained, patiently, and I saw that Phelps

looked at the black bag uneasily.

"I hope the guilty party is not a member of the company," he muttered.

"Why?" Kennedy's mouth tightened.

The financier grew red. "Because this picture has been crippled enough.

First a new star; now a new director--if it wasn't so preposterous I'd

believe that it was all part of a deliberate--" He stopped as if

realizing suddenly the inadvisability of vague accusations.

"Don't you want justice done?" Kennedy inquired.

"Of course!" Phelps tugged at his collar uncomfortably. "Of course, Mr.

Kennedy." Then he turned and hurried away, out of the studio.

Gordon and Millard detached themselves from the others, coming over.

"In which washroom was the towel found, Mr. Kennedy?" Gordon put the

question as though he felt himself specially delegated to obtain this

information.

I wondered how Kennedy would evade a direct answer. To my surprise he

made no attempt at concealment.

"The one on the second floor of the office building."

Millard laughed, facing Gordon. "That puts it on myself--or the big

boss!"

It struck me that the leading man was uneasy as he hurried back to the

others. Millard, still smiling, turned to say something to us, but we

were joined by Manton, entering from the other end of the big inclosure.

"Good morning," the promoter exclaimed, somewhat breathless. "I just

learned you were here. Is--is there some new development. Is there

something I can do?"

"I see you are not allowing anything to interfere with the making of

the picture," Kennedy remarked. "All the people seem to be here bright

and early."

A shadow crept into Manton's face. "It seems almost as cold-blooded

as--as war," he admitted. "But I can't help myself, Mr. Kennedy. The

company has no money and if we don't meet this release we're busted."

All at once he lowered his voice eagerly. "Tell me, have you discovered

something? Is there some clue to the guilty man?"

"He's found a towel," Millard put in, an expression of half amusement

on his face as he faced the promoter. "In some way it's a clue to the

identity of the murderer, an infallible clue, he says. He found it in

the washroom by our offices. Since Werner is dead, that points the

finger of suspicion at you or me."

Manton's jaw dropped. His expression became almost ludicrous, as if the

thought that he could possibly be suspected himself was new to him.

Millard's eyes sobered a bit at his superior's confusion.

"There's a door from the dressing rooms," Kennedy suggested. "Any of

the actors or actresses could have used the place."

"Of course!" Manton grasped at the straw. "I had forgotten. There have

been complaints to me about the players using that room."

"I have the towel with me, wrapped up in a paper in this grip," Kennedy

went on. "It's so very valuable as a bit of evidence--I wonder if I

could borrow a locker so as to keep it under lock and key until we're

ready to return to the laboratory?"

"Sure! Of course!" Manton glanced about and saw the little knot of

people still gathered in the set. "Millard! Go over and tell Kauf to

get busy. He's losing time." Then he turned to us again. "Come on, Mr.

Kennedy, we have some steel lockers out by the property room."

As we started across the floor I could see that Kennedy was framing a

question with great care.

"Do you ever use snakes in films, Mr. Manton?" he asked.

"Why, no!" The promoter stopped in his surprise. "That is, not if we

ever can help it. The censorship won't pass anything with snakes."

"You have used them, though?"

"Yes. Once we made a short-length special subject, nothing but snakes."

Manton became enthusiastic. "It was a wonder, too; a pet film of mine.

We made it with the direct co-operation and supervision of the greatest

authority on poisonous snakes in the country, Doctor Nagoya of

Castleton Institute."

XXVI

A CIGARETTE CASE

Kennedy's face betrayed only a remote interest. "Have you any copies of

that particular film?"

"Just the negative, I believe."

"Could I have that for a few days?"

"Of course!" Manton seemed to wish to give us every possible amount of

co-operation; yet this request puzzled him. "Would you care to go down

to the negative vaults with me?"

Kennedy nodded.

First we stopped in a lengthy corridor in the rear building, where

there were no great signs of life. Through a door I could see a long

room filled with ornaments, pictures, furniture, rugs, and all the vast

freak collections of a property room. Along the side of the hallway

itself was a line of steel lockers of recent design.

Manton called out to an employee and he appeared after a long wait and

unlocked one of them. At Kennedy's direction I put the traveling bag in

the lower compartment, pocketing the key. Then we retraced our steps to

broad steel stairs leading up and down. We descended to the basement

and found ourselves in a high-ceilinged space immaculately clean and

used generally for storage purposes.

"The film vaults," Manton explained, "are at the corner of the west

wing. They have to be ventilated specially, on account of the high

inflammability of the celluloid composition. Since the greatest fire

risk, otherwise, is the laboratory and printing departments, and next

to that the studios themselves with the scenery, the heat of the

lights, the wires, etc., we have located them in the most distant

corner of the quadrangle. The negative, you see, represents our actual

invested capital to a considerable extent. The prints wear out and

frequently large sections are destroyed and have to be reprinted. Then

sometimes we can reissue old subjects. All in all we guard the negative

with the care a bank would give actual funds in its vaults."

In our many visits to the Manton studios I had been struck by the

scrupulous cleanliness of every part of the place. The impression of

orderliness came back to me with redoubled force as we made our way

around in the basement. Nothing seemed out of its proper position,

although a vast amount of various material for picture making was

stored here. We passed two projection rooms, one a miniature theater

with quite a bit of comfort, the other small and bare for the use of

directors and cutters.

Finally we saw the vaults ahead of us. The walls were concrete,

matching the actual walls of the basement. There were two entrances and

the doors were double, of heavy steel, arranged so that an air space

would give protection in case of fire. At a roll-top desk, arranged for

the use of the clerk in charge of the negatives and prints, was a young

boy.

"Where's Wagnalls?" demanded Manton.

"He went out, sir," the boy replied, respectfully enough. "Said he

would be right back and for me to watch and not to let anything get

out."

The promoter led the way into the first room. Here on all four sides

and in several rows down the center, like the racks in a public

library, were shelves supporting stacks of square thin metal boxes or

trays with handles and tightly fitting covers. Cards were secured to

the front of each, by clamps, giving the name of the picture and the

number under which the film was filed. I was surprised because I

expected to find everything kept in ordinary round film cans.

"These are the negatives," Manton explained. He pulled out a box at

random, opening it. "The negative is not all spliced together, the same

length as the reels of positive, because the printing machines are

equipped to take two-hundred-foot pieces at a time, or approximate

fifths of a reel, the size of a roll of raw positive film stock. Then

whenever there is a change in color, as from amber daylight to blue

tint for night, the negative is broken because pieces of different

coloring have to go through different baths, and that also determines

the size of the rolls. The prints, or positives, in the other vaults,

are in reel lengths and so are kept in the round boxes in which they

are shipped."

Kennedy glanced about curiously. "The negative of that snake picture is

here, you said?"

Manton went to a little desk where there was a card index. Thumbing

through the records, he found the number and led us to the proper place

in the rack. In the box were only two rolls of negative, both were

large.

"This was a split reel," the promoter began. "It was approximately four

hundred feet and we used it to fill out a short comedy, a release we

had years ago, a reel the first part of which was educational and the

last two-thirds or so a roaring slap-stick. We never made money on it.

"But this stuff was mighty good, Mr. Kennedy. We practically wrote a

scenario for those reptiles. Doctor Nagoya was down himself and for the

better part of a day it wasn't possible to get a woman in the studio,

for fear a rattler or something might get loose."

"Were there rattlers in the film?"

"Altogether, I think. The little Jap was interesting, too. Between

scenes he told us all about the reptiles, and how their poison--"

Manton checked himself, confused. Was it because the thought of poison

reminded him of the two deaths so close to him, or was it from some

more potent twinge of conscience? "You'll see it all in the film," he

finished, lamely.

"I may keep these for a little bit?" Kennedy asked.

"Of course! I can have the two rolls printed and developed and dry

sometime this afternoon, if you wish."

"No, this will do very well."

Kennedy slipped a roll in each pocket, straining the cloth to get them

in. Manton opened a book on the little table, making an entry of the

delivery of the rolls and adding his own initials.

"I have to be very careful to avoid the loss of negative," he told us.

"Nothing can be taken out of here except on my own personal order."