“Forrest,” I called. “You okay?”
There was no sound. The faint whirring of the projector had died. I got
up quickly and went to the back of the theater. There were two entrances
to the booth, a door which opened on stairs leading down to the alley
outside, and a hole in the floor reached by means of a metal ladder. I
went up this swiftly, an ominous apprehension mounting within me.
* * * * *
Forrest was still there. But he was no longer alive. He lay sprawled on
his back, his wizened face staring up blindly, his head twisted at an
impossible angle. It was quite apparent that his neck had been broken
almost instantly.
I sent a hasty glance at the projector. The can of film was gone! And
the door opening on the stairway was ajar a few inches.
I stepped out on the stairs, although I knew I would see no one. The
white-lit, broad alley between Stages 6 and 4 was silent and empty.
The sound of running feet came to me, steadily growing louder. A man
came racing into view. I recognized him as one of the publicity gang. I
hailed him.
“Can’t wait,” he gasped, but slowed down nevertheless.
I said, “Have you seen anyone around here just now? The—Chevalier
Futaine?”
He shook his head. “No, but——” His face was white as he looked up at
me. “Hess Deming’s gone crazy. I’ve got to contact the papers.”
Ice gripped me. I raced down the stairs, clutched his arm.
“What do you mean?” I snapped. “Hess was all right when I left him. A
bit tight, that’s all.”
His face was glistening with sweat. “It’s awful—I’m not sure yet what
happened. His wife—Sandra Colter—came to life while they were
cremating her. They saw her through the window, you know—screaming and
pounding at the glass while she was being burned alive. Hess got her out
too late. He went stark, raving mad. Suspended animation, they say—I’ve
got to get to a phone, Mr. Prescott!”
He tore himself away, sprinted in the direction of the administration
buildings.
I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. It was the
note I had found in Hess Deming’s house. The words danced and wavered
before my eyes. Over and over I was telling myself, “It can’t be true!
Such things can’t happen!”
I didn’t mean Sandra Colter’s terrible resurrection during the
cremation. That, alone, might be plausibly explained—catalepsy,
perhaps. But taken in conjunction with certain other occurrences, it led
to one definite conclusion—and it was a conclusion I dared not face.
What had poor Forrest said? That the Chevalier was taking Jean to the
Cocoanut Grove? Well——
The taxi was still waiting. I got in.
“The Ambassador,” I told the driver grimly. “Twenty bucks if you hit the
green lights all the way.”
_3. The Black Coffin_
All night I had been combing Hollywood—without success. Neither the
Chevalier Futaine nor Jean had been to the Grove, I discovered. And no
one knew the Chevalier’s address. A telephone call to the studio, now
ablaze with excitement over the Hess Deming disaster and the Forrest
killing, netted me exactly nothing. I went the rounds of Hollywood night
life vainly. The Trocadero, Sardi’s, all three of the Brown Derbies, the
smart, notorious clubs of the Sunset eighties—nowhere could I find my
quarry. I telephoned Jack Hardy a dozen times, but got no answer.
Finally, in a “private club” in Culver City, I met with my first stroke
of good luck.
“Mr. Hardy’s upstairs,” the proprietor told me, looking anxious.
“Nothing wrong, I hope, Mr. Prescott? I heard about Deming.”
“Nothing,” I said. “Take me up to him.”
“He’s sleeping it off,” the man admitted. “Tried to drink the place dry,
and I put him upstairs where he’d be safe.”
“Not the first time, eh?” I said, with an assumption of lightness.
“Well, bring up some coffee, will you? Black. I’ve got to—talk to him.”
But it was half an hour before Hardy was in any shape to understand what
I was saying. At last he sat up on the couch, blinking, and a gleam of
realization came into his sunken eyes.
“Prescott,” he said, “can’t you leave me alone?”
I leaned close to him, articulating carefully so he would be sure to
understand me. “I know what the Chevalier Futaine is,” I said.
And I waited for the dreadful, impossible confirmation, or for the words
which would convince me that I was an insane fool.
Hardy looked at me dully. “How did you find out?” he whispered.
An icy shock went through me. Up to that moment I had not really
believed, in spite of all the evidence. But now Hardy was confirming the
suspicions which I had not let myself believe.