“What the devil has happened to you?” I asked. “Listen, Jack, you can’t
bluff me or lie to me. You know that. I’ve straightened you out enough
times in the past, and I can do it again. Let me in on it.”
His ruined face softened. He reached up and took away my hands. His own
were ice-cold, like the hands of the Chevalier Futaine.
“No,” he said. “No use, Mart. There’s nothing you can do. I’m all right,
really. Just—overstrain. I had too good a time in Paris.”
I was up against a blank wall. Suddenly, without volition, a thought
popped into my mind and out of my mouth before I knew it.
“What’s the matter with your neck?” I asked abruptly.
He didn’t answer. He just frowned and shook his head.
“I’ve a throat infection,” he told me. “Caught it on the steamer.”
His hand went up and touched the black scarf.
There was a croaking, harsh sound from behind us—a sound that didn’t
seem quite human. I turned. It was Hess Deming. He was swaying in the
portal, his eyes glaring and bloodshot, a little trickle of saliva
running down his chin.
He said in a dead, expressionless voice that was somehow dreadful,
“Sandra died of a throat infection, Hardy.”
Jack didn’t answer. He stumbled back a step. Hess went on dully.
“She got all white and died. And the doctor didn’t know what it was,
although the death certificate said anemia. Did you bring back some
filthy disease with you, Hardy? Because if you did I’m going to kill
you.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “A throat infection? I didn’t know——”
“There was a wound in her throat—two little marks, close together. That
couldn’t have killed her, unless some loathsome disease——”
“You’re crazy, Hess,” I said. “You know you’re drunk. Listen to me: Jack
couldn’t have had anything to do with—that.”
Hess didn’t look at me. He watched Jack Hardy out of his bloodshot eyes.
He went on in that low, deadly monotone:
“Will you swear Mart’s right, Hardy? Will you?”
Jack’s lips were twisted by some inner agony. I said, “Go on, Jack. Tell
him he’s wrong.”
Hardy burst out, “I haven’t been near your wife! I haven’t seen her
since I got back. There’s——”
“That’s not the answer I want,” Hess whispered. And he sprang for the
other man—reeled forward, rather.
Hess was too drunk, and Jack too weak, for them to do each other any
harm, but there was a nasty scuffle for a moment before I separated
them. As I pulled them apart, Hess’s hand clutched the scarf about
Jack’s neck, ripped it away.
And I saw the marks on Jack Hardy’s throat. Two red, angry little pits,
white-rimmed, just over the left jugular.
_2. The Cremation of Sandra_
It was the next day that Jean telephoned me.
“Mart,” she said, “we’re going to run over a scene for _Red Thirst_
tonight at the studio—Stage 6. You’ve been assigned as assistant
director on the pic, so you should be there. And—I had an idea Jack
might not tell you. He’s been—so odd lately.”
“Thanks, honey,” I said. “I’ll be there. But I didn’t know you were in
the flicker.”
“Neither did I, but there’s been some wire-pulling. Somebody wanted me
in it—the Chevalier, I think—and the big boss phoned me this morning
and let me in on the secret. I don’t feel up to it, though. Had a bad
night.”
“Sorry,” I sympathized. “You were okay when I left you.”
“I had a—nightmare,” she said slowly. “It was rather frightful, Mart.
It’s funny, though, I can’t remember what it was about. Well—you’ll be
there tonight?”
I said I would, but as it happened I was unable to keep my promise. Hess
Deming telephoned me, asking if I’d come out to his Malibu place and
drive him into town. He was too shaky to handle a car himself, he said,
and Sandra’s cremation was to take place that afternoon. I got out my
roadster and sent it spinning west on Sunset. In twenty minutes I was at
Deming’s beach house.
The house-boy let me in, shaking his head gravely as he recognized me.
“Mist’ Deming pretty bad,” he told me. “All morning drinking gin
straight——”
From upstairs Hess shouted, “That you, Mart? Okay—I’ll be down right
away. Come up here, Jim!”
The Japanese, with a meaning glance at me, pattered upstairs.
I wandered over to a table, examining the magazines upon it. A little
breath of wind came through the half-open window, fluttering a scrap of
paper. A word on it caught my eye, and I picked up the note. For that’s
what it was. It was addressed to Hess, and after one glance I had no
compunction about scanning it.
“Hess dear,” the message read. “I feel I’m going to die very soon. And I
want you to do something for me. I’ve been out of my head, I know,
saying things I didn’t mean. Don’t cremate me, Hess. Even though I were
dead I’d feel the fire—I know it. Bury me in a vault in Forest
Lawn—and don’t embalm me. I shall be dead when you find this, but I
know you’ll do as I wish, dear. And, alive or dead, I’ll always love
you.”
The note was signed by Sandra Colter, Hess’s wife. This was odd. I
wondered whether Hess had seen it yet.
There was a little hiss of indrawn breath from behind me. It was Jim,
the house-boy. He said, “Mist’ Prescott—I find that note last night.
Mist’ Hess not seen it. It Mis’ Colter’s writing.”
He hesitated, and I read fear in his eyes—sheer, unashamed fear. He put
a brown forefinger on the note.
“See that, Mist’ Prescott?”
He was pointing to a smudge of ink that half obscured the signature. I
said, “Well?”
“I do that, Mist’ Prescott. When I pick up the note. The ink—not dry.”
I stared at him. He turned hastily at the sound of footsteps on the
stairs. Hess Deming was coming down, rather shakily.
I think it was then that I first realized the horrible truth. I didn’t
believe it, though—not then. It was too fantastic, too incredible; yet
something of the truth must have crept into my mind, for there was no
other explanation for what I did then.
Hess said, “What have you got there, Mart?”
“Nothing,” I said quietly. I crumpled the note and thrust it into my
pocket. “Nothing important, anyway. Ready to go?”
He nodded, and we went to the door. I caught a glimpse of Jim staring
after us, an expression of—was it relief?—in his dark, wizened face.
* * * * *
The crematory was in Pasadena, and I left Hess there. I would have
stayed with him, but he wouldn’t have it. I knew he didn’t want anyone
to be watching him when Sandra’s body was being incinerated. And I knew
it would be easier for him that way. I took a short cut through the
Hollywood hills, and that’s where the trouble started.
I broke an axle. Recent rains had gullied the road, and I barely saved
the car from turning over. After that I had to hike miles to the nearest
telephone, and then I wasted more time waiting for a taxi to pick me up.
It was nearly eight o’clock when I arrived at the studio.
The gateman let me in, and I hurried to Stage 6. It was dark. Cursing
under my breath, I turned away, and almost collided with a small figure.
It was Forrest, one of the cameramen. He let out a curious squeal, and
clutched my arm.
“That you, Mart? Listen, will you do me a favor? I want you to watch a
print——”
“Haven’t time,” I said. “Seen Jean around here? I was to——”
“It’s about that,” Forrest said. He was a shriveled, monkey-faced little
chap, but a mighty good cameraman. “They’ve gone—Jean and Hardy and the
Chevalier. There’s something funny about that guy.”
“Think so? Well, I’ll phone Jean. I’ll look at your rushes tomorrow.”
“She won’t be home,” he told me. “The Chevalier took her over to the
Grove. Listen, Mart, you’ve _got_ to watch this. Either I don’t know how
to handle a grinder any more, or that Frenchman is the damnedest thing
I’ve ever shot. Come over to the theater, Mart—I’ve got the reel ready
to run. Just developed the rough print myself.”
“Oh, all right,” I assented, and followed Forrest to the theater.
I found a seat in the dark little auditorium, and listened to Forrest
moving about in the projection booth. He clicked on the amplifier and
said, “Hardy didn’t want any pictures taken—insisted on it, you know.
But the boss told me to leave one of the automatic cameras going—not to
bother with the sound—just to get an idea how the French guy would
screen. Lucky it wasn’t one of the old rattler cameras, or Hardy would
have caught on. Here it comes, Mart!”
I heard a click as the amplifier was switched off. White light flared on
the screen. It faded, gave place to a picture—the interior of Stage 6.
The set was incongruous—a mid-Victorian parlor, with overstuffed plush
chairs, gilt-edged paintings, even a particularly hideous what-not. Jack
Hardy moved into the range of the camera. On the screen his face seemed
to leap out at me like a death’s-head, covered with sagging, wrinkled
skin. Following him came Jean, wearing a tailored suit—no one dresses
for rehearsals—and behind her——
I blinked, thinking that my eyes were tricking me. Something like a
glowing fog—oval, tall as a man—was moving across the screen. You’ve
seen the nimbus of light on the screen when a flashlight is turned
directly on the camera? Well—it was like that, except that its source
was not traceable. And, horribly, it moved forward at about the pace a
man would walk.
The amplifier clicked again. Forrest said, “When I saw it on the
negative I thought I was screwy, Mart. I saw the take—there wasn’t any
funny light there. Look——” The oval, glowing haze was motionless
beside Jean, and she was looking directly at it, a smile on her lips.
“Mart, when that was taken, Jean was looking right at the French guy!”