I thought that Manton was very frank and accommodating. Surely he had

made no effort to conceal his knowledge of this film made with Doctor

Nagoya, and he had even mentioned the poison of the rattlesnakes.

Though it had confused him for a brief moment, that had not struck me

as a very decisive indication of guilty knowledge. After all, no one

knew of the use of crotalin to kill Stella Lamar except the murderer

himself, and Kennedy and those of us in his confidence. The murderer

might not guess that Kennedy had identified the venom. Yet if Manton

were that man he had covered his feelings wonderfully in telling us

about the film.

My thoughts strayed to the towel upstairs. Had an attempt been made yet

to steal it from the locker? It seemed to me that we were losing too

much time down here if we hoped to notice anyone with itching hands.

I realized that Kennedy had been very clever in including all our

suspects in hearing at the time he revealed the importance of the clue.

Of the original nine listed by Mackay, Werner was dead and Mrs. Manton

had never entered the case. Enid we had assumed to be the mysterious

woman in Millard's divorce, however, and the other six had all been

upon the floor in contact with Kennedy. First there was Marilyn, the

woman. Then the five men in order had displayed a lively interest in

the towel--Shirley, Gordon, Millard, Phelps, and Manton.

Kennedy's voice roused me from my reverie.

"Does this door lead through to the other vaults, Mr. Manton?"

"Yes." The promoter straightened, after replacing the records of the

negative. "I designed this system of storage myself and superintended

every detail of construction. It is--" He checked himself with an

exclamation, noticing that the door was open. With a flush of anger he

slammed it shut.

"I should think the connecting doors would be kept shut all the time,"

Kennedy remarked. "In case of fire only one compartment would be a

loss."

"That's the idea exactly! That's why I was on the point of swearing.

The boys down here are getting lax and I'm going to make trouble."

Manton turned back and called to the boy outside. "Where did you say

Wagnalls went?"

"I don't know, sir! Sometimes he goes across to McCann's for a cup of

coffee, or maybe he went up to the printing department."

Manton faced us once more. "If you'll excuse me just a moment I'm going

to see who's responsible for this. Why," he sputtered, "if you hadn't

called me around the rack I wouldn't have noticed that the door was

open and then, if there had been a fire--I--I'll be right back!"

As Manton stormed off Kennedy smiled slightly, then nodded for me to

follow. We passed through into the rooms for positive storage. These in

turn had fireproof connecting doors, all of which were open. In each

case Kennedy closed them. Eventually we emerged into the main part of

the basement through the farther vault door. Nothing of a suspicious

nature had caught our attention. I guessed that Kennedy simply had

wished to cover the carelessness of the vault man in leaving the inner

doors wide open.

At the entrance which had first admitted us to the negative room,

however, Kennedy stooped suddenly. At the very moment he bent forward I

caught the glint of something bright behind the heavy steel door, and

in the shadow so that it had escaped us before. As he rose I leaned

over. It was a cigarette case, a very handsome one with large initials

engraved with deep skillful flourish.

"Who is 'J. G.'?" Kennedy asked.

I felt a quiver of excitement. "Jack Gordon, the leading man."

"What's an actor doing down in the film vaults?" he muttered.

Slipping the case into his pocket, he glanced about on the floor and

something just within the negative room caught his eye. Once more he

bent down. With a speculative expression he picked up the cork-tipped

stub of a cigarette.

At this instant Manton returned, breathing hard as though his pursuit

of the missing Wagnalls had been very determined. The butt in Kennedy's

fingers attracted his attention at once.

"Did--did you find that here?" he demanded.

Kennedy pointed. "Right there on the floor."

"The devil!" Manton flushed red. "This is no place to smoke. By--by all

the wives of Goodwin and all the stars of Griffith I'm going to start

firing a few people!" he sputtered. "Here, sonny!" He jumped at the

boy, frightening him. "Close all these doors and turn the combinations.

Tell Wagnalls if he opens them before he sees me I'll commit battery on

his nose."

Kennedy continued to hold the stub, and as Manton preceded us up the

stairs he hung back, comparing it with the few cigarettes left in the

case. Unquestionably they were of the same brand.

On the studio floor Mackay was waiting for us. Under his arm was a reel

of film in a can. He clutched it almost fondly.

"All ready!" he remarked, to Kennedy.

Kennedy's face was unrevealing as he faced Manton. "This bit of film is

valuable evidence also. I think perhaps it would be safer in that

locker."

"Anything at all we can do to help," stated Manton, promptly. "Shall I

show you the way again?"

I produced the key, handing it to Kennedy as the four of us arrived in

the corridor by the property room. Kennedy slipped the bit of metal

into the lock; then simulated surprise very well indeed.

"The lock is broken!" he exclaimed. "Some one has been here."

Apparently the traveling bag had been undisturbed as we took it out.

Nevertheless, the paper containing the towel was gone.

"This is no joke, Mr. Kennedy," protested Manton, in indignation.

"Where can I hire about a dozen good men to hang around and

watch--and--and help you get to the bottom of this?"

Mackay, without releasing his grasp of the film, had been inspecting

the broken lock.

"Look at the way this was done!" he murmured, almost in admiration.

"This wasn't the work of any roughneck. It--it was a dainty job!"

XXVII

THE FILM FIRE

The bag lay open at my feet. The microscope and other paraphernalia

brought by Kennedy were untouched. Taking the film from Mackay and

placing the can in with the other things, Kennedy snapped the catch and

turned to me as he straightened.

"I think our evidence is safest in plain sight, Walter. We'll carry it

about with us."

Lloyd Manton seemed to be a genuinely unhappy individual. After some

moments he excused himself, nervously anxious about the turn of affairs

at the studio. Immediately I faced Kennedy and Mackay.

"Manton's the only one who knew just where we put the bag," I remarked.

"When he left us in the basement he had plenty of time to run up and

steal the towel and return."

"How about the itching salve?"

"In his hurry he might have left the towel in the paper, intending to

destroy it later."

Kennedy frowned. "That's possible, Walter. I had not thought of that.

Still"--he brightened--"I'm counting on human nature. I don't believe

anyone guilty of the crime could have that towel in his possession,

after the hints I have thrown out, without examining it so as to see

what telltale mark or stain would be apt to betray his identity."

"You can see that Manton's the logical man?"

"It would be easy for anyone else to follow and observe us."

"Then--?"

"First of all we must keep an eye out for any person showing signs of

the itching concoction. We must observe anyone with noticeably clean

hands. Principally, however, another thing worries me."

"What's that, Mr. Kennedy?" asked Mackay.

"Walter and I found a cigarette case belonging to Jack Gordon in the

basement; also a butt smoked three-quarters of the way down and left

directly in the negative room. The fire doors between the different

film vaults, which are arranged like the safety compartments in a ship,

were all open. I want to know why Gordon was down there and--well, I

seem to sense something wrong."

"Good heavens! Craig," I interposed. "You don't attach any importance

to the fact that those doors were open!"

"Walter, in a case of real mystery the slightest derangement of matters

of ordinary routine is a cause for suspicion."

I had no answer, and as we re-entered the studio I devoted my attention

to the various people we had tabulated as possible suspects, noticing

that Kennedy and Mackay did likewise.

Jack Gordon was in the ballroom scene in make-up. Kauf still was

concerned with technical details of the set and lighting, and, although

the cameras were set up, they were not in proper place, nor was either

camera man in evidence. With Gordon was Enid. From a distance they

seemed to be engaged in an argument of real magnitude. There was no

mistaking the dislike on the part of each for the other.

Marilyn was the most uneasy of all of the principals. She was pacing up

and down, glancing about in frank distress of mind. I looked at her

hands and saw that she had crushed a tube of grease paint in her

nervousness. Not only her fingers were soiled, but there were streaks

on her arms where she had smeared herself unconsciously. As we watched

she left the studio, hurrying out the door without a backward glance.

Marilyn, at least, showed no indications of the salve, nor of painfully

recent acquaintance with water.

Both Manton and Phelps were in evidence, decidedly so, I imagined,

from, the viewpoint of poor Kauf. Manton, at the heels of his new

director, was doing all he could to help. Phelps, following Manton

about, seemed to be urging haste upon the promoter. The result was far

from advantageous to picture making; it was concentrated distraction.

Millard was poring over the manuscript, perched upon a chair the wrong

way so that its back would serve as a desk, engaged busily in making

changes here and there in the pages with a pencil. Like any author, it

was never too late for minor improvements and suggestions. I don't

doubt but that if Manton had permitted it, Millard would have been

quite apt to interrupt a scene in the taking in order to add some

little touch occurring to him as his action sprang to life in the

interpretation of players and director. At any rate, his hands seemed

more clean than those of either Manton or Phelps, proving nothing

because he was at a task not so apt to bring him into contact with dirt.

"Shirley is missing," observed the district attorney, in an undertone.

Kennedy faced me. "Give the bag to Mackay, Walter. While he keeps an

eye on the people up here we'll pay a visit to Shirley's dressing room,

and after that go down to the basement again. I can't account for

it--intuition, perhaps--but I'm sure something's wrong."

The heavy man's dressing room, pointed out to us by some employee

passing through the hall, was empty. I led the way into Marilyn's

quarters, but again no one was about. In each case Kennedy made a quick

visual search for the towel, without result. We did not dare linger and

run the risk of giving away our trick; then, too, Kennedy was nervously

anxious to look through the basement once more.

"I don't understand your suspicion of the state of affairs in the film

vaults," I confessed.

"Why should Jack Gordon, the leading man, be down there?" he countered.

"That--that really is a cause for suspicion, isn't it."

"Now, Walter, think a bit!" We were crossing the yard, and so not apt

to be overheard. "Granting that Gordon actually had been down there,

why should the fact concern us? Manton explained that no negative or

positive can be given out except upon order. There is nothing down

there but film and so no other errand to bring the leading man to the

vault except to get some scenes or pieces showing his own work, and

that isn't likely."

"Unless," I interrupted, "Gordon is the guilty man and wanted to get

the snake film before we did."

"How could that be? When we asked Manton about the Doctor Nagoya

subject we went right down with him and procured it. I doubt anyone

could have overheard us as we talked about it, in any case."

"Remember, Craig, we went to the locker first and it was some little

time before that fellow came out to unlock it and give us the key. And

when you questioned Manton we were passing right by all of them. Any

one could have heard the mention of the snake film."

Kennedy frowned. "I believe you're right, Walter. Or it is possible

that the guilty person believed that the scenes taken out at Tarrytown,

or those taken when Werner died, revealed something and so would have

to be stolen or destroyed, and that they were kept in the vault. It is

even possible"--a gleam came into Kennedy's eyes--"it is even possible

that the mind smart enough to reason out the damaging nature of the

chemical analyses I was making, and clever enough to utilize an

explosive bullet in an effort to destroy the fruits of my work, would

also have the foresight to anticipate me and to realize that I might

guess the existence of a film showing snakes and suggesting the use of

venom."

"It's damning to Gordon, all right," I said.

"On the contrary, Walter." Kennedy lowered his voice as we entered the

building across the quadrangle and descended stairs leading directly

into the basement. "We have mentioned over and over again the

cleverness of our unknown criminal. That man, or woman, never would

drop a cigarette case with his or her initials and leave without it,

nor smoke a cigarette in a place he, or she, was not supposed to be."

"What then?"

"It's a plant; a deliberate plant to throw suspicion upon Gordon."

"Why upon Gordon?"

"I don't know that, unless because Gordon is supposed to have the best

possible motive for killing Miss Lamar--his money troubles--and so

becomes the logical man to throw the guilt upon."

"As a matter of fact, Craig, why should the finding of that cigarette

case be a cause for suspicion at all? That's what I didn't understand

before."

"Ordinarily it wouldn't be. But those open inner doors, the absence of

the man in charge--isn't it possible that we interrupted an attempt not

only to search for the particular damaging pieces of film, but perhaps

to destroy the whole? If some one acted between the time I asked

Manton about the snake film and the moment we arrived in the basement

to get it, that some one had to move very fast."

"In which case it might have been Gordon, after all. The cigarette stub

may have been thrown in lighted to start a fire. He may not have had

time to pick up the case, not knowing just where he dropped it."

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders. "It all shows the futility of trying to

arrive at a conclusion without definite facts. That is where science is

superior to deduction."

"It's all a maze to me just now," I agreed.

We made our way to the vaults in silence, and, to our surprise, found

that they were closed and that even the boy was gone now. The cellar,

as a whole, probably for the purpose of fire protection on a larger

scale, was divided into sections corresponding to the units of the

buildings above, and this time I noticed that the door through which we

had arrived before was closed also. Had Manton taken fright in earnest

at the possibility of fire, or had he given his employees a genuine

scare?

We retraced our steps to the yard, and there the alert eye of Kennedy

detected a slinking figure just as a man darted into the protection of

a doorway. It was Shirley. Had he been watching us? Was he connected in

some way with the vague mystery Kennedy seemed to sense in connection

with the basement and the film vaults?

Kennedy led the way to the entrance where Shirley had disappeared. Here

there was no sign of him; only steps leading up and down and the open

door to a huge developing room. Returning to the yard, we caught a

gesture from the chauffeur of a car standing near by and recognized

McGroarty, the driver who had found the ampulla a few days previously.

"Excuse me, Mr. Kennedy," he apologized, as we approached. "I should

have come to you instead of making you two walk over to me, but it's

less suspicious this way."

"What do you mean?"

"You recognize me, McGroarty, the chauffeur as found the little bottle?"

Kennedy nodded.

"Well, I says to myself I ought to tell you, but I don't like to

because it might be nothing, you know!"

"It might prove very valuable, McGroarty." Kennedy wanted to encourage

him.

"Well, I've been sitting here for an hour, I guess. One of the other

directors is going out to-day and his people are late and so here I am.

Well, I don't like the way the heavy man Mr. Werner had--"

"Shirley? Merle Shirley?" I spoke up.

"That's him! Well, he's been, hanging and snooping around that building

over there, where you just saw him, for twenty minutes or more. I guess

he's gone in and out of that basement a dozen times. I says to myself,

maybe he's up to something. You know how it is?"

Kennedy glanced at me significantly. Then he extended his hand to the

chauffeur. "Again I thank you, McGroarty. As I said before, I won't

forget you."

"Now what?" I asked, as we drew away.

"Shirley's dressing room, and the studio floor and Mackay."

As we rather expected, the heavy man's quarters were deserted. I

thought that Kennedy would stop now to make a careful search, but he

seemed anxious to compare notes with the district attorney.

"Nothing here," reported Mackay.

"Shirley?"

"Hasn't been a sign of him."

I looked about the moment we arrived under the big glass roof. "Marilyn

Loring?" I inquired.

"She's been missing, too!" All at once Mackay grinned broadly. "You

know, either there's no efficiency in making moving pictures at all, or

these people have all gone more or less out of their heads as the

result of the two tragedies. Look!" He pointed. "When you left me

Phelps and Manton were stepping on each other's toes, trying to help

that new director and about half driving him crazy; and now Millard

seems to have figured out some new way of handling the action and he's

over in the thick of it. It's worse than Bedlam, and better than a

Chaplin comedy."

I was compelled to smile, although I knew that this was not uncommon in

picture studios. Manton, Phelps, Millard, and Kauf were in the center

of the group, all talking at once. Clustered about I saw Enid and

Gordon, both camera men, and a miniature mob of extra people. But as I

looked little Kauf seemed to come to the end of his patience. In an

instant or two he demonstrated real generalship. Shutting up Manton and

the banker and Millard with a grin, but with sharp words and a quick

gesture which showed that he meant it, he called to the others gathered

about, clearing the set of all but Enid and Gordon. He sent the camera

men to their places; then confronted Phelps and Manton and the scenario

writer once more. We could not hear his words, but could see that he

was asserting himself, was forcing a decision so that he could proceed

with his work.

This seemed uninteresting to me. I remembered my success in my visit to

Werner's apartment, when I had essayed the role of detective.

"Listen, Kennedy!" I suggested. "Suppose I go out by myself and see if

I can locate Shirley or Marilyn. Everyone else is right here where you

can--"

At that instant a deafening explosion shook the studio and every

building about the quadrangle, the sound echoing and re-echoing with

the sharpness of a terrific thunderclap.

Mixed with the reverberations, which were intensified by the high arch

of the studio roof, were the screams of women and the frightened calls

of men. Following immediately upon the first roar were the muffled

sounds of additional explosions, persisting for a matter of ten to

fifteen seconds.

With every detonation the floor beneath our feet trembled and rocked.

Several flats of scenery stacked against a wall at our rear toppled

forward and struck the floor with a resounding whack, not unlike some

gigantic slap-stick. One entire side of the banquet set, luckily

unoccupied, fell inward and I caught the sound as the dainty gold

chairs and fragile tables snapped and were crushed as so much kindling

wood.

Then--a fitting climax of destruction, withheld until this

moment--there followed the terrifying snap of steel from above. An

entire section of roof literally was popped from place, the result of

false stresses in the beams created by the explosion. Upon the heads of

the unlucky group in the center of the ballroom set came a perfect

hailstorm of broken and shattered bits of heavy ground glass.

For an instant, an exceedingly brief instant, there was the illusion of

silence. The next moment the factory siren rose to a shrill shriek,

with a full head of steam behind it--the fire call!

Kennedy dashed over to the scene where those beneath the shower of

glass lay, dazed and uncertain of the extent of their own injuries.

"Where are the first-aid kits?" he shouted. "Bring cotton and bandages,

and--and telephone for a doctor, an ambulance!"

It seemed to me that Kennedy had never been so excited. Mackay and I,

at his heels, and some of the others, unhurt, hurriedly helped the

various victims to their feet.

Then we realized that by some miracle, some freak of fate, no one had

been hurt seriously. Already a property boy was at Kennedy's side with

a huge box marked prominently with the red cross. Inside was everything

necessary and Kennedy started to bind up the wounds with all the skill

of a professional physician.

"Mackay," he whispered, "hurry and get me some envelopes, or some

sheets of paper, anything--quick!" And to me, before I could grasp the

reason for that puzzling request: "Don't let anyone slip away, Walter.

No matter what happens, I must bind up these wounds myself."

A few moments later I understood what Kennedy was up to. As he finished

with each victim he took some bit of cotton or gauze with which he had

wiped their cuts, enough blood to serve him in chemical analysis, and

handed it to Mackay. The district attorney, very unobtrusively, slipped

each sample into a separate envelope, sealing it, and marking it with a

hieroglyph which he would be able to identify later. In this fashion

Kennedy secured blood smears of Manton and Phelps, Millard and Kauf and

Enid, Gordon, the two camera men, and a scene shifter. I smiled to

myself.

Meanwhile a bitter, acrid odor penetrated through the windows and to

every part of the structure, the odor of burning film, an odor one

never forgets to fear. All those uninjured in the explosions had rushed

out to see the fire, or else to escape from any further danger, the

moment they recovered their wits. Manton, only cut at the wrist, and

impatient as Kennedy cleaned, dusted, and bound the wound, was the

first to receive attention.

"The vaults!" he called, to the men who seemed disposed to linger

about. "For God's sake get busy!" The next instant he was gone himself.

Enid was cut on the head. Tears streamed from her eyes as she clung to

Kennedy's coat, trembling. "Will it make a scar?" she sobbed. "Will I

be unable to act before the camera any more?"

He reassured her. In the case of Millard, who had several bad scalp

wounds, he advised a trip to a doctor, but the scenario writer laughed.

Phelps was yellow. It seemed to me that he whimpered a bit. Gordon was

disposed to swear cheerfully, although a point of glass had penetrated

deep in his shoulder and another piece had gashed him across the

forehead.

Finally Kennedy was through. He packed the little envelopes in the bag,

still in the possession of Mackay, and added the two rolls of film from

his pocket. Then, for the first time, he locked it.

As he straightened, his eyes narrowed.

"Now for Shirley," he muttered.

"And Marilyn," I added.

XXVIII

THE PHOSPHORUS BOMB

We rushed out into the courtyard, Kennedy in the lead, Mackay trailing

with the bag. Here there were dense clouds of fine white suffocating

smoke mixed with steam, and signs of the utmost confusion on every

hand. Because Manton, fortunately, had trained the studio staff through

frequent fire drills, there was a semblance of order among the men

actually engaged in fighting the spread of the blaze. Any attempt to

extinguish the conflagration in the vault itself was hopeless, however,

and so the workers contented themselves with pouring water into the

basement on either side, to keep the building and perhaps the other

vaults cool, and with maintaining a constant stream of chemical mixture

from a special apparatus down the ventilating system into and upon the

smoldering film.

The studio fire equipment seemed to be very complete. There was water

at high pressure from a tank elevated some twenty to thirty feet above

the uppermost roof of the quadrangle. In addition Manton had invested

in the chemical engine and also in sand carts, because water aids

rather than retards the combustion of film itself. I noticed that the

promoter was in direct charge of the fire-fighters, and that he moved

about with a zeal and a recklessness which ended for once and all in my

mind the suspicion that Phelps might be correct and that Manton sought

to wreck this company for the sake of Fortune Features.

In an amazingly quick space of time the thing was over. When the city

apparatus arrived, after a run of nearly three miles, there was nothing

for them to do. The chief sought out Manton, to accompany him upon an

inspection of the damage and to make sure that the fire was out. The

promoter first beckoned to Kennedy.

"This is unquestionably of incendiary origin," he explained to the

chief. "I want Mr. Kennedy to see everything before it is disturbed, so

that no clue may be lost or destroyed."

The fire officer brightened. "Craig Kennedy?" he inquired. "Gee! there

must be some connection between the blaze and the murder of Stella

Lamar and her director. I've been reading about it every day in the

papers."

"Mr. Jameson of the Star," Kennedy said, presenting me.

We found we could not enter the basement immediately adjoining the

vaults--that is, directly from the courtyard--because it seemed

advisable to keep a stream of water playing down the steps, and a

resulting cloud of steam blocked us. Manton explained that we could get

through from the next cellar if it was not too hot, and so we hurried

toward another entrance.

Mackay, who had remained behind to protect the bag from the heat,

joined us there.

"I've put the bag in charge of that chauffeur, McGroarty, and armed him

with my automatic," he explained. He paused to wipe his eyes. The fumes

from the film had distressed all of us. "Shirley and Marilyn Loring are

both missing still," he added. "I've been asking everyone about them.

No one has seen them."

The fire chief looked up. "Everyone is out? You are sure everybody is

safe?"

"I had Wagnalls at my elbow with a hose," Manton replied. "I saw the

boy around, also. No one else had any business down there and the

vaults were closed and the cellar shut off."

The door leading from the adjoining basement was hot yet, but not so

that we were unable to handle it. However, the catch had stuck and it

took considerable effort to force it in. As we did so a cloud of acrid

vapor and steam drove us back.

Then Kennedy seemed to detect something in the slowly clearing

atmosphere. He rushed ahead without hesitation. The fire chief

followed. In another instant I was able to see also.

The form of a woman, dimly outlined in the vapor, struggled to lift the

prone figure of a man. After one effort she collapsed upon him. I

dashed forward, as did Mackay and Manton. Two of them carried the girl

out to the air; the other three of us brought her unconscious

companion. It was Marilyn and Shirley.

The little actress was revived easily, but Shirley required the

combined efforts of Kennedy and the chief, and it was evident that he

had escaped death from suffocation only by the narrowest of margins.

How either had survived seemed a mystery. Their clothes were wet, their

faces and hands blackened, eyebrows and lashes scorched by the heat.

But for the water poured into the basement neither would have been

alive. They had been prisoners during the entire conflagration, the

burning vault holding them at one end of the basement, the door in the

partition resisting their efforts to open it.

"Thank heaven he's alive!" were Marilyn's first words.

"How did you get in the cellar?" Kennedy spoke sternly.

"I thought he might be there." Now that the reaction was setting in,

the girl was faint and she controlled herself with difficulty. "I was

looking for him and as soon as I heard the first explosion I ran down

the steps into the film-vault entrance--I was right near there--and I

found him, stunned. I started to lift him, but there were other

explosions almost before I got to his side. The flames shot out through

the cracks in the vault door and I--I couldn't drag him to the steps; I

had to pull him back where you found us." She began to tremble. "It--it

was terrible!"

"Was there anyone else about, anyone but Mr. Shirley?"

"No. I--I remember I wondered about the vault man."

"What was Mr. Shirley down there for, Miss Loring?"

"He"--she hesitated--"he said he had seen some one hanging around

and--and he didn't want to report anything until he was sure. He--he

thought he could accomplish more by himself, although I told him he

was--was wrong."

"Whom did he see hanging around?"

"He wouldn't tell me."

Shirley was too weak to question and the girl too unstrung to stand

further interrogation. In response to Manton's call several people came

up and willingly helped the two toward the comfort of their dressing

rooms.

At the fire chief's suggestion the stream of water into the basement

was cut off. Manton led the way, choking, eyes watering, to the front

of the vaults. Feverishly he felt the steel doors and the walls. There

was no mistaking the conclusion. The negative vault was hot, the others

cold.

"The devil!" Manton exclaimed. A deep poignancy in his voice made the

expression childishly inadequate. "Why couldn't it have been the

prints!" Suddenly he began to sob. "That's the finish. Not one of our

subjects can ever be worked again. It's a loss of half a million

dollars."

"If you have positives," Kennedy asked, "can't you make new negatives?"

"Dupes?" Manton looked up in scorn. "Did you ever see a print from a

dupe negative? It's terrible. Looks like some one left it out in the

wet overnight."

"How about the 'Black Terror'?" I inquired.

"All of that's in the safe in the printing room; that and the two

current five reelers of the other companies. We won't lose our

releases, but"--again there was a catch in his voice--"we could have

cleared thousands and thousands of dollars on reissues. All--all of

Stella's negative is gone, too!" To my amazement he began to cry,

without attempt at concealment. It was something new to me in the way

of moving-picture temperament. "First they kill her and now--now they

destroy the photographic record which would have let her live for those

who loved her. The"--his voice trailed away to the merest whisper as he

seemed to collapse against the hot smoked wall--"the devil!"

The fire chief took charge of the job of breaking into the vault. First

Wagnalls attempted to open the combination of the farther door, but the

heat had put the tumblers out of commission. Returning to the entrance

of the negative vault itself, the thin steel, manufactured for fire

rather than burglar protection, was punctured and the bolts driven

back. A cloud of noxious fumes greeted the workers and delayed them,

but they persisted. Finally the door fell out with a crash and men were

set to fanning fresh air into the interior while a piece of chemical

apparatus was held in readiness for any further outbreak of the

conflagration.

Manton regained control of himself in time to be one of the first to

enter. Mackay held back, but the fire chief, the promoter, Kennedy, and

myself fashioned impromptu gasmasks of wet handkerchiefs and braved the

hot atmosphere inside the room.

The damage was irremediable. The steel frames of the racks, the cheaper

metal of the boxes, the residue of the burning film, all constituted a

hideous, shapeless mass clinging against the sides and in the corners

and about the floor. Only one section of the room retained the

slightest suggestion of its original condition. The little table and

the boxes of negative records, the edges of the racks which had stood

at either side, showed something of their former shape and purpose.

This was directly beneath the ventilating opening. Here the chemical

mixture pumped in to extinguish the fire had preserved them to that

extent.

All at once Kennedy nudged the fire chief. "Put out your torch!" he

directed, sharply.

In the darkness there slowly appeared here and there on the walls a

ghostly bluish glow persisting in spite of the coating of soot on

everything.

Kennedy's keen eye had caught the hint of it while the electric torch

had been flashed into some corner and away for a moment.

"Radium!" I exclaimed, entirely without thought.

Kennedy laughed. "Hardly! But it is phosphorus, without question."

"What do you make of that?" The fire chief was curious.

"Let's get out!" was Kennedy's reply.

Indeed, it was almost impossible for us to keep our eyes open, because

of the smarting, and, more, the odor was nauseating. A guard was posted

and in the courtyard, disregarding the curious crowd about, Kennedy

asked for Wagnalls and began to question him.

"When did you close the vaults?"

"About two hours before the fire. Mr. Manton sent for me."

"Was there anything suspicious at that time?"

"No, sir! I went through each room myself and fixed the doors. That's

why the fire was confined to the negatives."

"Have you any idea why the doors were open when we went through?"

"No, sir! I left them shut and the boy I put there while I went over to

McCann's said no one was near. He"--Wagnalls hesitated. "Once he went

to sleep when I left him there. Perhaps he dozed off again."

"Why did you leave? Why go over to McCann's in business hours?"

"We'd worked until after midnight the night before. I had to open up

early and so I figured I'd have my breakfast in the usual morning slack

time--when nothing's doing."

"I see!" Kennedy studied the ground for several moments. "Do you

suppose anyone could have left a package in there--a bomb, in other

words?"

Wagnalls's eyes widened, but he shook his head. "I'd notice it, sir! If

I do say it, I'm neat. I generally notice if a can has been touched.

They don't often fool me."

"Well, has any regular stuff been brought to you to put away; anything

which might have hidden an explosive?"

Again Wagnalls shook his head. "I put nothing away or give nothing out

except on written order from Mr. Manton. Anything coming in is negative

and it's in rolls, and I rehandle them because they're put away in the

flat boxes. I'd know in a minute if a roll was phony."

"You're sure nothing special--"

"Holy Jehoshaphat!" interrupted Wagnalls. "I'd forgotten!" He faced

Manton. "Remember that can of undeveloped stuff, a two-hundred roll?"

He turned to Kennedy, explaining. "When negative's undeveloped we keep

it in taped cans. Take off the tape and you spoil it--the light, you

know. Mr. Manton sent down this can with a regular order, marking on it

that some one had to come to watch it being developed--in about a week.

Of course I didn't open the can or look in it. I put it up on top of a

rack."

"When was this?"

"About four days ago--the day Miss Lamar was killed."

The expression on Manton's face was ghastly. "I didn't send down any

can to you, Wagnalls," he insisted.

"It was your writing, sir!"

Kennedy rose. "What did you do with orders like that, such as the one

you claim came with the can of undeveloped negative?"

"Put them on the spindle on that table in the vault."

"Wet your handkerchief and come show me."

When they returned Kennedy had the spindle in his hand, the charred

papers still in place. This was one of the items preserved in part by

the chemical spray through the ventilating opening above.

"Can you point out which one it is?" Kennedy asked.

"Let's see!" Wagnalls scratched his head. "Next to the top," he

replied, in a moment. "Miss Lamar's death upset everything. Only one

order came down after that."

With extreme care Kennedy took his knife and lifted the ashy flakes of

the top order. "Get me some collodion, somebody!" he exclaimed.

Wagnalls jumped up and hurried off.

The fire chief leaned forward. "Do you think, Mr. Kennedy, that the

little can he told you about started the fire?"

"I'm sure of it, although I'll never be able to prove it."

"How did it work?"

"Well, I imagine a small roll of very dry film was put in to occupy a

part of the space. Film is exceedingly inflammable, especially when old

and brittle. In composition it is practically guncotton and so a high

explosive. In this recent war, I remember, the Germans drained the

neutral countries of film subjects until we woke up to what they were

doing, while in this country scrap film commanded an amazing price and

went directly into the manufacture of explosives. Then I figure that a

quantity of wet phosphorus was added, to fill the can, and that then

the can was taped. The tape, of course, is not moisture proof entirely.

With the dampness from within it would soften, might possibly fall off.

In a relatively short time the phosphorus would dry and burn.

Immediately the film in the can would ignite. As happened, it blew up,

a minor explosion, but enough to scatter phosphorus everywhere. That,

in the fume-laden air of the vault--there are always fumes in spite of

the best ventilation system made--caused the first big blast and

started all the damage."

Mackay had rejoined us in time to hear the explanation. "Ingenious," he

murmured. "As ingenious as the methods used to murder the girl and her

director."

Breathless, Wagnalls returned with the collodion. We watched curiously

as Kennedy poured it over the charred remains of the second order on

the spindle. It seemed almost inconceivable that the remnants of the

charred paper would even support the weight of the liquid, yet Kennedy

used it with care, and slowly the collodion hardened before us,

creating a tough transparent coating which held the tiny fibers of the

slip together. At the same time the action of the collodion made the

letters on the order faintly visible and readable.

"A little-known bank trick!" Kennedy told us.

Then he held the slip up to the light and the words were plain.

Wagnalls had been correct. The order from Manton was unmistakable. The

can was to be kept in the negative vault for a week without being

opened, until a certain party unnamed was to come to watch the

development of the film.

The promoter wet his lips, uneasily. "I--I never wrote that! It--it's

my writing, all right, and my signature, but it's a forgery!"

XXIX

MICROSCOPIC EVIDENCE

Kennedy made some efforts to preserve the forged order which he had

restored with the collodion, but I could see that he placed no great

importance upon its possession. Gradually the yard of the studio had

cleared of the employees, who had returned to their various tasks.

Under the direction of one stout individual who seemed to possess

authority the fire apparatus had been replaced in a portable steel

garage arranged for the purpose in a farther corner, and now several

men were engaged in cleaning up the dirt and litter caused in the

excitement.

Except in the basement there were few signs of the blaze. Manton

accompanied the fire chief to his car, then hurried up into the

building without further notice of us. Mackay went to McGroarty's

machine to claim the traveling bag containing our evidence. Kennedy and

I started for the dressing rooms.

"I want to get blood smears of Shirley and Marilyn," he confided in a

low voice. "I shall have to think of some pretext."

Neither of the two we sought were in their quarters and so we continued

on into the studio. Here we found Kauf at work; at least he was engaged

in a desperate attempt to get something out of his people.

"Ye gods, Gordon!" we heard him exclaim, as we made our way through the

debris of the banquet set to the ballroom now dazzlingly bright under

the lights. "What if you do have to wear a bandage around your head?

It's a masked ball, isn't it? You've got a monk's cowl over everything

but your features, haven't you?"

It struck me that the faces had never been more ghastly, although my

reason convinced me it was simply the usual effect of the Cooper-Hewitt

tubes. But there was no question but that the explosion had given

everyone a bad fright, that not an actress or actor but would have

preferred to have been nearly anywhere else but under the heat of the

glass roof, now a constant reminder of the accident because of the

gaping hole directly above them.

Marilyn was in the center of the revelers in the set, already in

costume. Shirley I saw close to the camera men, standing uneasily on

shaky legs, shielding his eyes with one hand while he clung to a

massive sideboard for support with the other. He had not yet donned his

carnival clothes, nor essayed to put on a make-up.

Enid Faye, the only one in sight whose spirits seemed to have rallied

at all, was offering him comfort of a sort.

"You'll get by, all right, Merle, if you can keep on your pins, and

I'll say you deserve credit for trying it. There's"--she stepped back a

bit to study him--"there's just one thing. Your eyes show the result of

all that smoke and vapor--no color or luster at all. I--I wonder if

belladonna wouldn't brighten them up a bit and--well, get you by, for

to-day?"

"I'll go out and get some at lunch." He smiled weakly. "I'll try

anything once."

"That's the spirit!" She patted him on the shoulder, then danced on

into the center of the set, stopping to direct some barbed remark at

Marilyn.

Kauf took his megaphone to call his people around him. There seemed to

be a certain essential competence about the little man, now that Manton

and Phelps and Millard were not about to bother him. While we watched

he succeeded in photographing one of the full shots of the general

action or atmosphere of the dance. Then he hurried to the side of

Shirley, to see if the heavy man felt equal to the task of resuming his

make-up once more.

I found the time dragging heavy on my hands and I wished that Kennedy

would return to the laboratory or decide upon some definite action.

Though I racked my brain, I failed to think of a device whereby Kennedy

could get blood smears of Shirley or Marilyn without their knowledge.

Once more my reflections veered around to the matter of the stolen

towel and I wondered if that had been wasted effort on Kennedy's part;

if the fire had thrown out his carefully arranged plans to trap whoever

took it.

Suddenly I realized that Kennedy was following a very definite

procedure, that his seeming indifference, his apparent idle curiosity

concerning the scene taking, masked a settled purpose. When Phelps

entered he approached him casually and turned to him with skilled

nonchalance, holding up a finger.

"Will you lend me a pocket knife for a moment?" he asked, "to get a

hang-nail?"

Phelps produced one, rather grudgingly. Kennedy promptly went over to

the window, as though seeking better light. Thereafter he avoided

Phelps. Soon the banker had forgotten the incident.

Some time later Manton rushed in from the office. Kennedy maneuvered

his way to the promoter's side and waited his chance to borrow that

man's pocket knife under conditions when Manton would be the least apt

to remember it. Then he made his way around to Mackay and I saw that

both the acquisitions went into little envelopes of the sort used to

take the blood smears after the explosion and falling glass.

Kennedy now seemed rather elated. Millard entered and he borrowed the

scenario writer's knife in exactly the same fashion as the others. No

one of the three men noticed his loss. I thought it lucky that all

three carried the article, and tried to guess how far Kennedy intended

to carry this little scheme.

Kauf's announcement of lunch gave me my answer. It seemed that there

would be just half an hour and that the entire cast was expected to

make shift at McCann's rather than attempt to go to any better place at

a greater distance. Immediately Kennedy turned to me.

"Hurry, Walter! Twenty minutes' quick work and then it's the laboratory

and the solution of this mystery."

With Mackay and the bag we stole to the dressing rooms, waiting until

sure that everyone was downstairs. In Enid's chamber Kennedy glanced

about carefully but swiftly. When nothing caught his attention he

picked up her finger-nail file, gingerly, from the blunt end, slipping

it into one of the little envelopes which Mackay held open. Thereupon

the district attorney put his identifying mark upon the outside and we

went to the next room.

It proved to be Gordon's. The general search was barren of result, but

the dressing table yielded another finger-nail file, handled in the

same manner as before. Then we entered Marilyn's room and left with the

file from her dressing stand. In Shirley's quarters, the last we

visited, we were in greater luck, however. While Kennedy and Mackay

abstracted the usual file, I discovered some bits of tissue paper used

in shaving. There was caked soap left to dry just as it had been wiped

from the razor. More, there was a blood stain of fair proportions.

"Here's your smear, Kennedy," I exclaimed.

"Good! Fine!" He faced Mackay. "Now I lack just one thing, a sample of

the blood of Miss Loring."

"Is that all?" The district attorney brightened. "Let me try to get it!

I--I'll manage it in some way!"

"All right!" Kennedy took the bag. "Explain your marks so I'll know--"

He stopped suddenly. "No, don't tell me anything. I'll make my chemical

analyses and microscopic examinations without knowing the identity in

the case either of the blood samples or the finger-nail files. If I

obtain results by both methods, and they agree, I'll return armed with

double-barreled evidence. Meanwhile, Mackay, you get a smear from Miss

Loring and follow us to the laboratory. I'll coax McGroarty to drive us

down, so you'll have your car and you can bring us back."

The district attorney nodded. "Me for McCann's," he muttered. "That's

where she went to eat." He rushed off eagerly.

Kennedy had no difficulty persuading McGroarty to put his particular

studio car at our disposal without an order from Manton or from the

director who had called him. In a very brief space of time we were at

the laboratory.

"You expect to find the blood of one of those people showing traces of

the antivenin?" I grasped Kennedy's method of procedure, but wanted to

make sure I understood it correctly. Already I was blocking out the

detailed article for the Star, the big scoop which that paper should

have as a result of my close association with Kennedy on the case. "One

of those samples should correspond, I suppose, to the trace of blood on

the portieres?"

"Exactly!" He answered me rather absently, being concerned in setting

out the apparatus he would need for a hasty series of tests.

"Will the antivenin show in the blood after four, perhaps five days?"

"I should say so, Walter. If it does not, by any chance, I will be able

to identify the blood, but that is much more involved and tedious--a

great deal more actual work."

"I've got it straight, then. Now--" I paced up and down several times.

"The finger-nail files should show a trace of the itching salve? Is

that correct, Craig?"

For a moment he didn't answer, as his mind was upon his paraphernalia.

Then he straightened. "Hardly, Walter! The salve is soluble in water.

What I shall find, if anything, is some of the fibers of the towel. You

see, a person's finger nails are great little collectors of bits of

foreign matter, and anyone handling that rag is sure to show some

infinitesimal trace for a long while afterward. If the person stealing

the towel filed or cleaned his nails there will be evidence of the

fibers on his pocket knife or finger-nail file. I impregnated the towel

with that chemical so that I would be able to identify the fibers

positively."

"The use of the itching salve was unnecessary?"

A quizzical smile crept across Kennedy's face. "Did you think I

expected some one to go walking around the studio scratching his hands?

Did you imagine I thought the guilty party would betray his or her

identity in such childish fashion, after all the cleverness displayed

in the crimes themselves?"

"But you were insistent that I rub in the--"

"To force them to wash their hands after touching the towel, Walter."

"Oh!" I felt rather chagrined. "Wouldn't some pigment, some color, have

served the purpose better?"

"No, because anyone would have understood that and would have taken the

proper measures to remove all traces. But the itching salve served two

purposes. It was misleading, because obviously a trap upon reflection,

and so it would distract attention from the impregnated fibers, my real

scheme. Then it was the best device of all I could think of, for it set

up a local irritation of the sort most calculated to make a person

clean his finger nails. The average man and woman is not very neat,

Walter. I was not sure but a scientific prodding was necessary to

transfer my evidence to some object I could borrow and examine under a

microscope."

Meanwhile Kennedy's long fingers were busy at the preliminary

operations in his tests. He turned away and I asked no more questions,

not wishing to delay him.

I noticed that first he examined the blood samples under the

microscope. Afterward he employed a spectroscope. But none of the

operations took any great amount of time, since he seemed to anticipate

his results.

Mackay burst in upon us, very elated, and produced a handkerchief with

a bit of blood upon it.

"I scratched her deliberately with the sharp point of my ring," he

chuckled. "I found her in the restaurant and the seat beside her was

empty. I--I talked about everything under the sun and I guess she

thinks I'm a clumsy boob! Anyhow she cried out when I did it, and got

red in the face for a moment; but she suspects nothing."

Kennedy cut the spot from the handkerchief, put it in an envelope, and

turned back to his table. I drew Mackay into the corner.

As the minutes sped by and Craig worked in absorbed concentration,

Mackay grew more and more impatient to get back to the studio.

"Did you find anything?" repeated Mackay, for the tenth time.

With a gesture of annoyance, Kennedy reached out for the nail files.

"This is a grave matter," he frowned. "I must check it up--and double

check it--then I'm going back to the studio to triple check it. Let me

see what the nail files reveal. It will be a bare ten minutes more."

Insisting that we remain back in the corner, he spread out the four

nail files and the open blades of the three pocket knives, setting each

upon the envelope which identified it.

The next quarter of an hour seemed interminable. Finally Kennedy

started replacing the files and the pocket knives in their envelopes,

his face still wearing the inscrutable frown. Next he packed the blood

samples and other evidence in the traveling bag once more.

Mackay was bursting with impatience, but Craig still refused to betray

his suspicions.

"I must get back there--quick," he hastened. "I want everybody in the

projection room. In court, a jury might not grasp the infallibility of

the methods I've used. There would be a great deal of medical and

expert testimony required--and you know, Mackay, what that means."

"Is it a man--or a woman you suspect?" persisted the district attorney.

"Three of the men had pocket knives and--"

Kennedy led the way to the door without answering, and Mackay cut short

his hopeless quizzing as Craig nodded to me to carry the bag.

XXX

THE BALLROOM SCENE

Sounds of music caught our ears as we entered the studio courtyard of

Manton Pictures. Carrying the bag with its indisputable proof of some

person's guilt, we made our way through the familiar corridor by the

dressing rooms, out under the roof of the so-called large studio. There

a scene of gayety confronted us, in sharp contrast with the gloomy

atmosphere of the rest of the establishment.

Kauf, however, had thoroughly demonstrated his genius as a director. To

counteract the depression caused by all the recent melodramatic and

tragic happenings, he had brought in an eight-piece orchestra,

establishing the men in the set itself so as to get full photographic

value from their jazz antics. Where Werner and Manton had dispensed

with music, in a desperate effort at economy, Kauf had realized that

money saved in that way was lost through time wasted with dispirited

people. It was a lesson learned long before by other companies. In

other studios I had seen music employed in the making of soberly

dramatic scenes, solely as an aid to the actors, enabling them to get

into the atmosphere of their work more quickly and naturally.

Under the lights the entire set sparkled with a tawdry garishness apt

to fool those uninitiated into the secrets of photography. On the

screen, colors which now seemed dull and flat would take on a soft

richness and a delicacy characteristic of the society in which Kauf's

characters were supposed to move. Obviously fragile scenery would seem

as heavy and substantial as the walls and beams of the finest old

mansion. Even the inferior materials in the gowns of most of the girls

would photograph as well as the most expensive silk; in fact, by long

experience, many of the extra girls had learned to counterfeit the

latest fashions at a cost ridiculous by comparison.

Kennedy approached Kauf, then returned to us.

"He asks us to wait until he gets this one big scene. It's the climax

of the picture, really, the unmasking of the 'Black Terror.' If we

interrupt now he loses the result of half a day of preparation."

"He may lose more than that!" muttered Mackay; and I wondered just whom

the district attorney suspected.

"Is everyone here?" I asked. "All seven?"

Gordon and Shirley, of the men, and Marilyn and Enid, of course, were

out on the floor of the supposed ballroom. Gordon I recognized because

I remembered that he was to wear the garb of a monk. Marilyn was easily

picked out, although the vivacity she assumed seemed unnatural now that

we knew her as well as we did. Her costume was a glorious Yama Yama

creation, of a faint yellow which would photograph dazzling white,

revealing trim stockinged ankles and slender bare arms, framing face

and eyes dancing with merriment and maliciousness. Unquestionably she

was the prettiest girl beneath the arcs, never to be suspected as the

woman who had braved the terrors of a film fire to rescue the man she

loved. Enid was stately and serene in the gown of Marie Antoinette. In

the bright glare her features took on a round innocence and she was as

successful in portraying sweetness as Marilyn was in the simulation of

the mocking evil of the vampire.

Shirley interested me the most, however. I wondered if Kennedy still

eliminated him in guessing at the identity of the criminal. I called to

mind the heavy man's presence in the basement at the time of the

explosion and McGroarty's information that he had been hanging about

that part of the studio for some time previously. Some one had planted

a cigarette case and stub to implicate Gordon, according to Kennedy's

theory. Shirley certainly had had opportunity to steal the towel from

the locker as well as to point suspicion toward the leading man.

In the midst of my reverie Shirley approached and passed us. He was in

the garb of Mephisto. Like the others, he had not yet masked his face.

A peculiar brightness in his eyes struck me and I nudged Kennedy.

"Belladonna," Kennedy explained when he was beyond earshot.

"Oh!" I remembered. "Enid told him to use it."

"What?"

I repeated the conversation as near as I could reconstruct it.

"H-m! That's a new cure for smoke-burned eyes; no cure at all."

I was unable to get any more out of Kennedy, however.

Manton I detected in the background with Phelps. The two men were

arguing, as always, and it was evident that the banker was

accomplishing nothing by this constant hanging about the studio. Where

previously my sympathy had been with Phelps entirely, now I realized

that the promoter had won me. Indeed, Manton's interest in all the

affairs of picture making at this plant had been far too sincere and

earnest to permit the belief that he was seeking to wreck the company

or to double-cross his backer.

Millard entered the studio as I glanced about for him. He handed some

sheets to Kauf, then turned to leave. I attracted Kennedy's attention.

"You don't want Millard to get away," I whispered.

Kennedy sent Mackay to stop him. The author accompanied the district

attorney willingly.

"Yes, Mr. Kennedy?"

"As soon as this scene is over we're going down to the projection room;

everyone concerned in the death of Miss Lamar and of Mr. Werner."

The scenario writer looked up quickly. "Do you--do you know who it is?"

he asked, soberly.

"Not exactly, but I will identify the guilty person just as soon as we

are assembled down in front of the screen."

Shirley had left the studio floor, apparently to go to his dressing

room. Now I noticed that he returned and passed close just in time to

hear Millard's question and Kennedy's answer. His eyes dilated. As he

turned away his face fell. He went on into the set, but his legs seemed

to wabble beneath him. I was sure it was more than the weakness

resulting from his experience in the fire.

Kauf's voice, through the megaphone, echoed suddenly from wall to wall,

reverberating beneath the roof.

"All ready! Everyone in the set! Masks on! Take your places!"

At a signal the orchestra struck up and the couples started to dance.

It was a wonderfully colorful scene and I saw that Kauf proposed to

rehearse it thoroughly, doing it over and over without the cameras

until every detail reached a practiced perfection. In this I was

certain he achieved results superior to Werner's slap, dash, and bang.

Then came the call for action.

"Camera!" Kauf began to bob up and down. "Into it, everybody!"

For fascination and charm this far exceeded the banquet scene which we

had witnessed in the taking previously. The music was surprisingly

good, so that it was impossible for the people not to get into the

swing, and the result was a riotous swirling of gracefully dancing

pairs; the girls, selected for their beauty, flashing half-revealed

faces toward the camera, displaying eyes which twinkled through their

masks in mockery at a wholly ineffectual attempt at concealment.

Enid maintained her stately carriage, but made full use of the dazzling

whiteness of her teeth. Early she permitted the attentions of the

cowled monk whom she knew to be her lover. Marilyn was everywhere,

making mischief the best she could. Shirley stalked about in his

satanic red, which would photograph black and appear even more somber

on the screen.

Of course the whole was not photographed in a continuous strip from one

camera position. I saw that Kauf made several long shots to catch the

general atmosphere. Then he made close-up scenes of all the principals

and of some of the best appearing extras. At one time he ordered a

panorama effect, in which the cameras "panned," swept from one side to

the other, giving a succession of faces at close range.

Finally everything was ready for the climax. Shirley had been playing a

sort of Jekyll and Hyde role in which he was at once the young lawyer

friend of Enid and the Black Terror. Unmasked and cornered at this

function of a society terrified by the dread unknown menace, he was to

make the transformation directly before the eyes of everyone, using the

mythical drug which changed him from a young man of good appearance and

family to the being who was a very incarnation of evil.

For once Kauf did not rehearse the scene. Shirley was obviously

weakened from his experience and the director wished to spare him. All

the details were shouted out through the megaphone, however, and I

grasped that the action of this part of the dance was familiar to

everyone; it was the big scene of the story toward which all other

events had built.

Then came the familiar order. "Camera!"

At the start of this episode the orchestra was playing and the dancers

were in motion. Suddenly Gordon, as the hero, strode up to Shirley and

unmasked him with a few bitter words which later would be flashed upon

the screen in a spoken title. Instantly a crowd gathered about, but in

such a way as not to obstruct the camera view.

Cornered, seeing that flight was impossible unless he became the Black

Terror and possessed the strength and fearlessness of that strange

other self, Shirley drew a little vial from his breast pocket and drank

the contents. Evidently he knew his Mansfield well. Slowly he began to

act out the change in his appearance which corresponded with the

assumption of control by the evil within. His body writhed, went

through contortions which were horrible yet fascinating. It was almost

as though a new fearful being was created within sight of the

onlookers. Not only was the face altered, but the man's stature seemed

to shrink, to lose actual inches. I thought it a wonderful exhibition.

The very next instant there came a groan from Shirley, something which

at once indicated pain and realization and fear. He lost all control of

himself and in a moment pitched forward upon the floor, sputtering and

clutching at the empty air. Another cry broke from between his lips, a

ghastly contracted shriek as treble as though from the throat of a

woman.

This was no part of the story, no skillful bit of acting! It was real!

Even before I had grasped the full significance of the happening

Kennedy had dashed forward. The cameras still were grinding and they

caught him as he kneeled at the side of the stricken man. Hardly a

second afterward Mackay and I followed and were at Kennedy's side. Kauf

and the others, their faces weirdly ashen, clustered about in fright.

A third time the invisible hand had struck at a member of the company.

"The Black Terror," with all the horror written into that story,

contained nothing as fearful as the menace to the people engaged in its

production.

Shirley's skin was cold and clammy, his face almost rigid. While

conscious, he was helpless. Kennedy found the little vial and examined

it.

"Atropin!" he ejaculated. "Walter!" He turned to me. "Get some

physostigmin, quick! Have Mackay drive you! It's--it's life or death!

Here--I'll write it down! Physostigmin!"

As I raced madly out and down the stairs, Mackay at my heels, I heard a

woman's scream. Marilyn! Did she think him dead?

Once in the car, headed for the nearest drug store, grasping wildly at

the side or at the back of the seat every few moments as the district

attorney skidded around curves and literally hurdled obstacles, I

remembered a forgotten fact.

Atropin! That was belladonna, simply another name for the drug. Shirley

had procured the stuff for use in his eyes. Nevertheless, he had been

aware, undoubtedly, of its deadly nature. Passing by Kennedy and the

rest of us, he had overheard Kennedy state that the murderer would be

identified as soon as all could be assembled in the projection room.

The heavy man had not cared to face justice in so prosaic a manner.

With the same sense of the melodramatic which had led him to slay

Stella Lamar in the taking of a scene, Werner in the photographing of

another, he had preferred suicide and had selected the most spectacular

moment possible for his last upon earth.

Yes, Shirley was guilty. Rather than wait the slow processes of legal

justice he had attempted suicide. Now we raced to save his life, to

preserve it for a more fitting end in the electric chair.

XXXI

PHYSOSTIGMIN

The first drug store we found was unable to supply us. At a second we

had better luck. All in all, we were back at the Manton Pictures plant

in a relatively few minutes, a remarkable bit of driving on the part of

the district attorney.

Shirley was still in the set. Kennedy at once administered the

physostigmin, I thought with an air of great relief.

"This is one of the rare cases in which two drugs, both highly

poisonous, are definitely antagonistic," he explained. "Each,

therefore, is an antidote for the other when properly administered."

Marilyn was chafing Shirley's cold hands, tears resting shamelessly

upon her lids, a look of deep inexpressible fear in her expression.

"Will--will you be able to save him, Professor?" she asked, not once,

but a dozen different times.

None of the rest of us spoke. We waited anxiously for the first signs

of hope, the first indication that the heavy man's life might be

preserved. It was wholly a question whether the physostigmin had been

given to him quickly enough.

Kennedy straightened finally, and we knew that the crisis was over.

Marilyn broke down completely and had to be supported to a chair.

Strong, willing arms lifted Shirley to take him to his dressing room.

At that moment Kennedy stood up, raising his voice so as to demand the

attention of everyone, taking charge of matters through sheer force of

personality.

"I have come here this afternoon," he began, "to apprehend the man or

woman responsible for the death of Miss Lamar and Mr. Werner, for the

fire in the negative vault, and now for this attempt upon the life of

Mr. Shirley."

Not a sound was evident as he paused, no movement save a vague, uneasy

shifting of position on the part of some of those who had been on the

point of leaving.

"I have indisputable evidence of the guilty person's identity, but,

nevertheless, for reasons which I will explain to you I have not yet

completed my identification. To do so it is necessary that certain

photographed scenes be projected on the screen and that certain other

matters be made perfectly clear. I am very anxious, you see, to

eliminate the slightest possibility of error.

"Mr. Mackay here"--Kennedy smiled, very slightly--"is the district

attorney with jurisdiction at Tarrytown. At my request, since

yesterday--or, to be exact, since the death of Mr. Werner warned us

that no time could be lost--he has carried a 'John Doe' warrant.

Immediately following my identification of the guilty person he--or

she--will be placed under arrest. The charge will be the murder of

Stella Lamar by the use of poison in a manner which I will explain to

you. The trial will take place at White Plains, the county seat of

Westchester County, where the murder occurred. Mr. Mackay informs me

that the courts there are not crowded; in fact, he personally has been

able to devote most of his time to this case. Therefore the trial will

be speedy and I am sure that the cold-blooded methods used by this

criminal will guarantee a quick sentence and an early trip to the

electric chair at Ossining. Now"--suddenly grim--"if everyone will go

down to the projection room, the larger one, we will bring matters to

their proper conclusion."

I imagined that Kennedy's speech was calculated to spread a little

wholesome fear among the people we had considered suspects. In any case

that was the result, for an outsider, from the expressions upon the

various faces, might have concluded that several of them were guilty.

Each seemed to start off across the studio floor reluctantly, as though

afraid to obey Kennedy, yet unable to resist the fascination of

witnessing the identification of the criminal, as though feeling that

he or she individually might be accused, and yet unwilling to seek

safety at the expense of missing Kennedy's revelation of his methods

and explanation of their result.

I drew him aside as quickly as I could.

"Craig," I started, eagerly, "isn't this all unnecessary? Can't you see

that Shirley is the guilty man? If you will hurry into his room with

paper and pencil and get his confession before he recovers from his

fright and regains his assurance--"

"What on earth, Walter!" Kennedy interrupted me with a look of surprise

which I did not miss even in my excitement. "What are you driving at,

anyway?"

"Why, Shirley is the criminal. He--"

"Nonsense! Wasn't an attempt made to kill him just now? Wasn't it

evident that he was considered as dangerous to the unknown as Werner,

the director? Hasn't he been eliminated from our calculations as surely

as the man slain yesterday?"

"No!" I flushed. "Not at all, Craig! This was not an attempt at murder.

There were none of the criminal's earmarks noticeable at Tarrytown or

in the banquet scene."

"How do you mean, Walter?" For once Kennedy regarded me seriously.

"Why, you pointed out yourself that this unknown was exceptionally

clever. The attempt on Shirley, if it were an attempt, was not clever

at all."

"Why?"

"Why?" I was a little sarcastic, because I was sure of myself. "Because

the poison was atropin--belladonna. That is common. I've read of any

number of crimes where that was used. Do you think for a moment that

the mind which figured out how to use snake venom, and botulin toxin,

would descend to anything as ordinary as all this?"

"Well, if it was not an attempt at murder, what was it?"

"Suicide! It's as plain as the nose on your face. Shirley was passing

us as we were standing with Millard and as you told Millard we all were

to go to the projection room to identify the criminal. Therefore

Shirley knew he was at the end of his rope. With the theatrical

temperament, he took the poison just as he finished playing his last

great scene. It--it was a sort of swan song."

"Quite a theory, Walter!" Now I knew Kennedy was unimpressed. "But,

where did he get the belladonna?"

"For his eyes. After the smoke smart."

"The drug is of no use against such inflammation."

"No, but it served to brighten his eyes. Enid suggested it to him and

he went out and got it. It helped him play his scenes. It gave him the

glittering expression he needed in his characterization."

Again Kennedy seemed to grasp my view. He hesitated for several

moments. Finally he looked up.

"If Shirley is the criminal, and if he is above using as common a drug

as atropin for killing another man, then--then why isn't he above using

it upon himself?"

That struck me as easy to answer. "Because if he is killing himself it

is not necessary for him to cover his tracks, or to do it cleverly, and

besides"--it was my big point--"he probably didn't decide to try to do

it until he overheard us and realized the menace. At that time he had

the belladonna in his pocket. He did not have an opportunity to procure

anything else."

Kennedy grinned. "You're all wrong, Walter, and I'll show you where

your reasoning is faulty. In the first place if this criminal was the

type to commit suicide at the moment he thought he was about to be

caught he would be the type who would reflect upon that idea

beforehand. As his crimes show a great deal of previous preparation, so

we may assume that he would prepare for suicide, or rather for the

possibility that he might wish to attempt it. Therefore he would have

something better for that purpose than atropin."

I shook my head, but Kennedy continued.

"As a matter of fact, the use of that drug is not less clever than the

use of the venom or the toxin; it is more so. Stop and think a minute!

The snake venom was employed in the case of Miss Lamar's death because

it offered about the least possible chance of leaving telltale clues

behind. The snake poison could be inflicted with a tiny scratch, and in

such a way that an outcry from the girl would never be noticed. Nothing

but my pocket lens caught the scratch; only the great care I used in my

examination put us on the trail at all.

"Now remember how Werner met his death. The toxin gave every symptom of

food poisoning. Except that we discovered the broken stem of the

wineglass we would never have been able to prove the tragedy anything

but accident. Very possibly we have Shirley to thank for the fact that

our one clue there was not removed or destroyed.

"In both cases the selection of the poison was suited to the

conditions. Therefore, if an attempt was made to kill Shirley--and of

the fact I am sure--we might expect that the agent likewise would be

one least apt to create suspicion. There are no portieres, no

opportunity for the use of another venom; and besides, that has lost

its novelty, and so its value. Similarly there is no use of food or

wine in the scene, precluding something else along the toxin order.

"Our unknown realizes that the safest place to commit murder is where

there is a crowd. He has followed that principle consistently. In the

case of the heavy man, who has a bit of business before the camera

where he drinks the contents of a little bottle, the very cleverest

thing is to use belladonna, because Shirley has employed it for his

eyes, and because"--maliciously, almost--"it leads immediately to the

hypothesis of suicide."

"Ye gods, Craig!" A sudden thought struck me and rather terrified me.

"Do you suppose Enid Faye suggested the use of the drug to Shirley as

part of the scheme to kill him? Is she--"

"I prefer," Kennedy interrupted--"I prefer to suppose that the guilty

person overheard her, or perhaps saw him buy it or learned in some

other way that he was going to use it."

Completely taken up with this new line of thought, I failed to question

Kennedy further, and it was just as well because most of the people

were on their way down to the projection room, not only those we wished

present, but practically everyone of sufficient importance about the

studio to feel that he could intrude.

Kennedy turned to Mackay, who had taken no part in our discussion,

although an interested listener. "You have the bag and all the

evidence?"

"Yes!" Mackay picked it up. "Watkins, the camera man, watched it for me

while Jameson and I went after that drug."

Kennedy stooped down quickly, but it was locked and had not been

tampered with.

In the corridor by the dressing rooms we met Kauf, and Kennedy stopped

him.

"How long would it take to make a print from the scene where Shirley

took the poison?"

"We could have it ready in half an hour, in a case of grim necessity."

"Half an hour?" I exclaimed at that, in disbelief. "You couldn't begin

to dry the negative in that time, Kauf."

He glanced at me tolerantly. "We make what is called a wet print; that

is, we print from the negative while it is still wet and so we only

have the positive to dry. Then we put it on drums in a forced draught

of hot air. The result is not very good, but it's a fine thing

sometimes to get a picture of a parade or some accident in a theater

right after it happens."

"Will you do it for me, Kauf?" Kennedy broke in, impatiently. "This is

a case of grim necessity," he added.

Kauf hurried off and we made our way across the yard to the stairs

leading down into the basement and to the projection room specified by

Kennedy. Here Manton was waiting, uneasy, flushed, his face gathered in

a frown and his hands clenching and unclenching in his nervousness.

"Do you--do you know who it is?" he demanded.

"Not yet," Kennedy replied. "First I must marshal all my evidence."

"Who--who do you want present in the projection room?"

"Mr. Phelps, Mr. Millard, and--yourself, Mr. Manton. Miss Loring and

Miss Faye. Mr. Gordon. Anyone else who wishes, if there is room."

"Phelps, Millard, Gordon, and the two girls are inside already."

"Good! We will start at once."

Manton turned, to lead the way in. At that moment there was a call from

the yard. We stopped, looking up. It was Shirley.

"Wait just a minute," he cried. He was so weak that the two extra men

who were helping him virtually supported his weight. On his face was a

look of desperate determination. "I--I must see this too!" he gasped.

XXXII

CAMERA EVIDENCE

Coming in from the bright light of open day, the projection room seemed

a gloomy, forbidding place, certainly well calculated to break down the

reserve of perhaps the cleverest criminal ever pitting his skill

against the science of Craig Kennedy.

It was a small room, long and not so wide, with a comparatively low

ceiling. In order to obviate eye strain the walls were painted somberly

and there were no light colors in evidence except for a nearly square

patch of white at the farther end, the screen upon which the pictures

were projected. The illumination was very dim. This was so that there

would be no great contrast between the light reflected from the images

cast upon the screen during pictures and the illumination in the room

itself between reels; again designed to prevent strain upon the eyes of

the employees whose work was the constant examination of film in

various stages of its assembly.

The chairs were fastened to the floor, arranged in tiny crescents and

placed so as not to interfere with the throw of the pictures from

behind. The projection machines themselves, two in number in order to

provide continuous projection by alternating the reels and so threading

one machine while running the other, were in a fireproof booth or

separate room, connected with the tiny auditorium only by slits in the

wall and a sort of porthole through which the operator could talk or

take his instructions.

Directly beneath the openings to the booth were a table equipped with a

shaded lamp, a stand for manuscripts, and a signal button. Here the

film cutters and editors sat, watching the subject upon which they

worked and making notes for changes, for bits of superfluous action to

be cut out, or for titles or spoken inserts to be moved. At a signal

the operator could be instructed to stop at any point, or to start, or

to wind back and run some given piece over again. The lights in the

room were controlled from within the booth and also by a switch just at

the side of the door. A telephone on the table offered a connection

with any part of the studio or with the city exchanges, so that an

official of the company could be reached while viewing a picture.

As we entered I tried to study the different faces, but found it a

hopeless task on account of the poor light. Kennedy took his place at

the little table, switching on the little shaded lamp and motioning for

Mackay to set the traveling bag so he could open it and view the

contents. Then Mackay took post at the door, a hand in his pocket, and

I realized that the district attorney clasped a weapon beneath the

cover of his clothing, and was prepared for trouble. I moved over to be

ready to help Kennedy if necessary. As Kennedy took his key, unlocking

the bag, it would have been possible to have heard the slightest

movement of a hand or foot, the faintest gasp of breath, so tense was

the silence.

First Kennedy took out the various rolls of film. Looking up, he caught

the face of the operator at the opening in the wall and handed them to

him one by one.

"Here are two sections of the opening of the story, scenes one to

thirteen of 'The Black Terror' put together in order, but without

subtitles. One is printed from the negative of the head camera man,

Watkins. The other is exactly the same action as taken by the other

photographer. We will run both, but wait for my signal between each

piece. Understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Now I am giving you two rolls which contain prints of the negative

from both cameras of the action at the moment of Werner's death. Those

are to be projected in the same way when I give you the signal.

Following that there will be two very short pieces which show the

attempt upon the life of Mr. Shirley. They are being rushed through the

laboratory at this moment and will be brought to you by the time we are

ready for them. Finally"--Kennedy paused and as he took the rolls of

negative of the snake film I could see that he hesitated to allow them

out of his hands even for a few moments--"here is some negative which

will be my little climax. It--it is very valuable indeed, so please be

careful."

"You--you want to project the NEGATIVE?" queried the operator.

"Yes. They tell me it can be done, even with negative as old and

brittle as this, if you are careful."

"I'll be careful, sir! You punch the button there once to stop and two

to go. I'll be ready in a moment." As he spoke he disappeared and soon

we heard the unmistakable hiss of the arcs in his machines.

Kennedy stooped and from the bag produced the little envelopes with the

pocket knives and nail files, the set of envelopes with the samples of

blood, the piece of silk he had cut from the portiere at Tarrytown, the

tiny bits he had cut from the towel found by me in the washroom of this

studio, and a microscope--the last, I guessed, for effect.

Around in the semidarkness I could see the faces as necks were craned

to watch us. Kennedy's deliberateness, his air of certainty, must have

struck terror home to some one person in the little audience. Often

Kennedy depended upon hidden scientific instruments to catch the faint

outward signs of the emotions of his people in a seance of this sort,

to allow the comparison of their reactions in the course of his review

of the evidence, to give him what amounted to a very sure proof of the

one person's guilt. The very absence of some such preparation indicated

to me the extent of his confidence.

At length he began his little lecture, for all the world as though this

were one of his classes at the University, as though there were at

stake some matter of chemical reaction.

"I need not tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that this is a highly

scientific age in which we live." His tones were leisurely,

businesslike, cool. "Your own profession, the moving picture, with all

its detail of photography and electricity, its blending of art and

drama and mechanics, is indicative of that, but"--a pause for

emphasis--"it is of my own profession I wish to talk just now, the

detection and prevention of crime.

"Criminals as a whole were probably the very first class of society to

realize the full benefit of modern science. Banks and business

institutions, the various detective and police forces, all grades and

walks of life have been put to it to keep abreast of the development of

scientific crime. So true has this been that it is a matter of common

belief with many people that the hand of the law may be defied with

impunity, that justice may be cheated with absolute certainty, just so

long as a guilty man or woman is sufficiently clever and sufficiently

careful.

"Fortunately, the real truth is quite the reverse. Science has extended

itself in many dimensions of space. With the use of a microscope, for

instance, a whole new world is opened up to the trained detective.

"Everyone knows now that the examination of hands and fingers is an

infallible aid in the identification of criminals and in the proof of

the presence of a suspect at the scene of a crime--I refer to

fingerprints, of course. But fingerprints are only one small detail in

this department of investigation. Our criminals know that gloves must

be worn, or any smooth surface wiped so as to remove the prints. In

that way they believe they cheat the microscope or the pocket lens.

"As a matter of fact few people have thought of another way of gaining

evidence from the finger tips, but it is a method possible to the

scientist, and is not only practicable but exceedingly effective. In

time it will be recognized by all specialists in crime. Now I refer to

the deposits under the finger nail.

"Indeed, it is surprising how many things find their way under the nail

and into the corners of the cuticle." Kennedy indicated the files and

pocket knives visible in the shaded square of light before him. "The

value of examining finger-nail deposits becomes evident when we realize

that everyone carries away in that fashion a sample of every bit of

material he handles. To touch a piece of cloth, even lightly, will

result in the catching of a few of its fibers. Similarly, the finger

nails will deposit either a small or large portion of their

accumulation upon such things as the knife blades or files used to

clean them; and there identification still is possible. Nothing in the

world is too infinitesimal for use as evidence beneath the microscope.

"In classifying these accumulations"--Kennedy paused and the silence in

the little room was death-like--"we may say that there are some which

are legitimate and some which are not. It is the latter which concern

us now. The first day we were here at the studio, just four days ago

now, and immediately following the murder of Miss Lamar, Mr. Jameson

discovered a towel in the washroom on the second floor of the office

building. On that towel there were spots of Chinese yellow, make-up, as

though it had been used to wipe a face or hands by some actor or

actress. Those spots were unimportant. There were others, however, of

an entirely different nature, together with the mark of blood and a

stain which showed that a hypodermic needle had been cleaned upon the

towel before it was thrown in the basket."

Kennedy leaned forward. His eyes traveled from face to face. "That

towel was a dangerous clue." Now there was a new grim element in his

voice. "That towel alone has given me the evidence on which I shall

obtain a conviction in this case. To-day I let it be known that it was

in my possession and the guilty man or woman understood at once the

value it would be to me. In order to gain additional clues I purposely

gave the impression that I had yet to analyze either the spots or the

trace of blood. I wanted the towel stolen, and for that purpose I

placed the bag containing it in a locker and left the locker unguarded.

I coated the towel with a substance which would cause discomfort and

alarm--itching salve--not with the idea that anyone would be foolish

enough to go about scratching before my eyes, but with the idea of

making that person believe that such was my purpose and with the idea

of driving him--or her--to washing his hands at once and, more, with

the idea of forcing him or scaring him into cleaning his fingernails.

"I succeeded. On one of these files or knife blades I have found and

identified the fibers of that towel. I do not yet know the person, but

I know the mark placed by Mackay on the outside of the little envelope,

and when I tell Mackay the mark he will name the guilty person."

"Mr. Kennedy!" Manton spoke up, impulsively, "every towel in the studio

is the same. I bought them all at the same time. The fibers would all

be alike. You have named seven people to me, including myself, as

possibly guilty of these--these murders. Your conclusions may be very

unjust--and may lead to a serious miscarriage of justice."

Kennedy was unperturbed. "This particular towel, in addition to the

itching salve, was thoroughly impregnated with a colorless chemical

which changed the composition of the fibers in a way easily

distinguishing them from the others under the microscope. Do you see,

Mr. Manton?"

The promoter had no more to say.

"Now what connection has the towel with the case? Simply this!" Kennedy

picked up one of the tiny pieces he had cut out of it. "The poison used

to kill Miss Lamar was snake venom." He paused while a little murmur

went through his audience, the first sound I had detected. "These spots

on the towel are antivenin. The venom itself is exceedingly dangerous

to handle. The guilty man--or woman--took no chances, but inoculated

himself with antivenin, protection against any chance action of the

poison. The marks on the towel are the marks made by the needle used by

that person in taking the inoculation.

"If you will follow me closely you will understand the significance of

this. Miss Lamar was killed by the scratch of a needle secreted in the

portieres through which she came, playing the scene in Mr. Phelps's

library. That I will prove to you when I show you the film. The night

following her death some one broke into the room there at Tarrytown and

removed the needle. In removing the needle that person scratched

himself, or herself. On the portieres I found some tiny spots of

blood." Kennedy paused to hold up the bit of heavy silk. "I analyzed

them and found that the blood serum had changed in character very

subtly. I demonstrated that the blood of the person who took the needle

contained antivenin, and if necessary I can prove the blood to come

from the same individual who wiped the needle on the towel in the

studio."

Kennedy pressed the button before him, twice. "Now I want you to see,

actually see Miss Lamar meet her death."

The lights went out, then the picture flashed on the screen before us,

revealing the gloom and mystery of the opening scene of "The Black

Terror." We saw the play of the flashlight, finally the fingers and

next the arm of Stella as she parted the curtains. In the close-up we

witnessed the repetition of her appearance, since the film was simply

spliced together, not "matched" or trimmed. Following came all the

action down to the point where she collapsed over the figure of Werner

on the floor. Before the camera man stopped, Manton rushed in and was

photographed bending over her.

Kennedy's voice was dramatically tense, for not one of us but had been

profoundly affected by the reproduction of the tragedy.

"Did you notice the terror in her face when she cried out? Was that

terror, really? If you were watching, you would have detected a slight

flinch as she brushed her arm up against the silk. For just a moment

she was not acting. It was pain, not pretended terror, which made her

scream. The devilish feature to this whole plot was the care taken to

cover just that thing-her inevitable exclamation. Now watch closely as

I signal the operator to run the same action from the other camera.

Notice the gradual effect of the poison, how she forces herself to keep

going without realization of the fact that death is at hand, how she

collapses finally through sheer inability to maintain her control of

herself a moment longer."

During the running of the second piece the tense silence in the room

was ghastly. Who was the guilty person? Who possessed such amazing

callousness that an exhibition of this sort brought no outcry?

"Now"--Kennedy glanced around in the dim light, switched on between the

running of the different strips--"I'm going to project the banquet

scenes and show you the manner of Werner's death."

Scene after scene of the banquet flashed before us. Here the cutter had

not been sure just what Kennedy wanted and had spliced up everything.

We saw the marvelous direction of Werner, who little realized that it

was to be his last few moments on earth, and we grasped the beauty and

illusion of the set caused by the mirrors and the man's skill in

placing his people. Yet there was not a sound, because we knew that

this was a tragedy, a grim episode in which there was no human

justification whatever.

Werner rose at his place. He proposed his toast. He drank the contents

of his glass. Then, his expression changed to wonderment and from that

to fear and realization, and he dropped to the floor.

Kennedy's voice, interrupting, seemed to me to come from a great

distance, so powerfully was I affected by the bit of film.

"The poison used to kill Mr. Werner was botulin toxin, selected because

its effects could not be diagnosed as anything other than ordinary food

poisoning. When we look at the print from the second camera's negative

you will notice how quickly it acted. It was the pure toxin, placed in

his glass before the wine was poured."

Once more the unfortunate director's death was reproduced before us.

"Struck down," exclaimed Craig, "as though by some invisible lightning

bolt, without mercy, without a chance, without the slightest bit of

compunction! Why? I'll tell you. Because he suspected, in fact knew,

who the guilty person was. Because he followed that person out to

Tarrytown the night the needle was removed from the portieres. Because

he was a menace to that person's life!"

Kennedy turned to the operator. "Have those other scenes come down?"

"Yes, sir!"

"All right!" Kennedy faced the rest of us again. "There was, or rather

is, another person who suspects the identity of the criminal. To-day an

attempt was made upon the life of Shirley. Shirley will not tell whom

he suspects because he has no definite proof, yet for the mere fact

that he suspects he narrowly escaped the fate of Stella Lamar and

Werner." Kennedy pressed the button. "Witness the effort to kill the

man playing the part of the Black Terror."

The print was terribly bad, in appearance almost a "dupe," due to the

speed with which it had been made. Nevertheless the two very brief

scenes rushed through for this showing were more absorbingly thrilling,

more graphic than anything ever to be seen even in a news reel at a

movie theater.

"Notice!" Kennedy exclaimed. "He puts his hand in one pocket, he

fumbles, hesitates, then finds the bottle in the other. Whoever put the

poison in the vial replaced it in the wrong pocket. The film shows that

very clearly. The camera proves that it was not an attempt at suicide.

Yet the poison used was belladonna, selected because this victim had

purchased some and because it would seem sure, therefore, that he had

committed suicide."

We sat in silence, listening, horrified.

"There is still another matter," Kennedy went on, after a moment. "The

fire in the negative vault this morning was incendiary. I have proved

to the satisfaction of several of us that a bomb was constructed of wet

phosphorus and old film and placed in the vault by trickery four days

ago, the same day Stella Lamar was killed. Through a miscalculation the

phosphorus was slow in drying and the fire did not occur until to-day.

Thanks to that fact I have in my possession a bit of negative which the

murderer very likely wished to have destroyed; in fact, I believe its

destruction to be the motive in planning the fire in the vault." He

faced the operator. "Ready to run the negative?"

"Yes, sir!"

Kennedy pressed the button and when the projection machine threw its

picture upon the screen I saw something such as I had never imagined

before. Everything was black which should have been white and

everything white which should have been black. The two extremes shaded

into each other in weird fashion. In fact it was uncanny to watch a

negative projected and I followed, fascinated.

"This is a film made with the co-operation of Doctor Nagoya of the

Castleton Institute and I am told by Mr. Manton that it is one of the

finest snake pictures ever made." Kennedy spoke fast, so that we would

get the full benefit of his explanation and so that it would not be

necessary to subject the negative to the wear and tear of the sprocket

wheels in the projection machine again. "I am running this for you to

show you the action of the rattlesnake, whose venom was used to kill

Miss Lamar, and to give you an idea of the source of the murderer's

knowledge of snake poison."

At this moment Doctor Nagoya, whom I could barely recognize in the

inverted photography, seized one of the rattlers. It was a close-up and

we could see the reptile dart out its forked tongue, seeking to get at

the hands of the Japanese, locked firmly about its neck. Then another

man walked into the picture, holding a jar. At once the snake struck at

the glass. As it did so it was possible to see drops of the venom

projected into the jar.

Other details followed and there were views of other sorts and breeds

of snakes, from the poisonous to the most harmless. The principal

scene, however, had been the one showing the venom.

"Lights up!"

The operator threw the switch again, stopping the film and at the same

time lighting the projection room. Kennedy stepped forward and turned

to face us.

"There was this negative in the vaults." He spoke rapidly. "It bore a

certain name on the film, as editor. Some one knew that proof of the

possession of this knowledge of snakes might prove a powerful link in

the chain against him. If that had been a positive instead of a

negative, you would have recognized Doctor Nagoya's 'assistant.' There

was a double motive in blowing that vault--to destroy the company and

to protect himself. In fact, all the rest of the negative was

destroyed. Only by chance I saved this piece--the very one that he

wanted to destroy."

Everyone waited breathlessly for Kennedy's next move. Suddenly Kennedy

flushed. I could see that he became genuinely angry.

"In this room," he exclaimed, "there sits the most unscrupulous,

cold-blooded, inhuman being I have ever known. Yet he maintains

silence, believing still that he can defy the scientific evidence of

his crimes. I have not yet mentioned, however, the real proof of his

guilt."

Kennedy picked up one of the little envelopes, one which contained a

blood smear. "During the explosion this morning a number of you were

cut by falling glass. You will remember that I bound up your cuts,

carefully cleansing each one and wiping away the blood. That gave me a

sample of the blood of everyone but Miss Loring and Mr. Shirley.

Subsequently, without their knowledge, I obtained a sample from each of

them. Thus I have a specimen from everyone concerned, or possibly

concerned in the murders."

He glanced about, but even now there was no telltale revelation.

"I have analyzed these and one shows that the person from whom I

obtained the sample has been inoculated with antivenin. The mark on the

envelope is the same as the mark on the envelope containing the towel

fibers, a double proof. Furthermore, I am prepared to show that it is

the same blood as the blood upon the portiere." He faced me. All at

once his voice carried the sharpness of a whip. "Walter, relieve Mackay

at the door and take his weapon. Let no one out. Mackay, come here!"

An instant later the district attorney leaned over. He glanced at the

mark indicated by Kennedy, then whispered a name. The next instant

Kennedy rose. "I thought so," he muttered.

Raising his voice, he addressed all of us.

"Here is a man who thought crime so long that he believed he could get

away with--murder! Not only did he commit a second murder and plan a

third to cover the first, but he planted evidence against nearly all of

you. He dropped the ampulla in McGroarty's car to implicate any one of

four people. He coolly stole a cigarette case to put it where it would

be found after the film fire and clinch suspicion.

"For all this, what justification has he had? Jealousy, jealousy of the

narrowest, most primitive, sort actuated him. Not only was he willing

to kill Stella Lamar, but he sought to destroy every foot of negative

in which she had appeared. He was jealous of her success, greater than

his, jealous of her interest in other men, greater than her interest in

him. Her divorce was maneuvered directly by him simply because he

thought it would hurt and humiliate her, and for no other reason.

"When nothing seemed to stop her, on her upward climb, when he realized

that she was as ambitious as he was and that her position in the

picture world alone interested her, he sought by devious means, by

subtle schemes, by spreading dissatisfaction and encouraging

dissension, to wreck the company which had made her. At the end--he

killed her--waiting craftily until she was at the very climax of her

finest piece of work, the opening scenes of 'The Black Terror.'"

There was bitterness in Kennedy's tones. "Before, I would not believe

that a man--"

Suddenly the projection room was plunged into darkness. Some one had

pushed the wall switch close by me. I backed into the doorway, raising

my weapon to resist any attempt to escape.

Almost at the same instant there were the sounds of a struggle. Kennedy

had dashed forward in the darkness, sure of the position of his man,

unafraid.

A scream I recognized from the throat of Enid. I groped for the switch,

but the operator in the booth anticipated me. In the first burst of

illumination I saw that Kennedy had forced his antagonist back over the

front row of chairs. Almost I heard the crack of the man's spine.

I caught a glimpse of the man's face and gasped at the murderous rage

as he struggled and strove to break Kennedy's iron grip.

Enid was the first at Kennedy's side. With an expression I failed to

analyze until long afterward she sought to claw at the murderer's

unprotected features, twitching now in impotent fury.

"You wrote that note for her to meet you at the tearoom," Kennedy

muttered, eyes narrowing grimly, "knowing she would be dead before that

time. You protected yourself against the poisoned needle in the

portieres--but--your own blood convicts you--Millard!"

THE END