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Roy Glashan's Library
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Cosmopolitan, June 1918, with "The Film Murder"
Craig Kennedy uses one of the most recent devices of crime detection in his method of solving the mystery which is brought to his attention by his friend Burke, of the secret service, who suspects that treason is at the bottom of it.
"FROM the very beginning there has been a succession of efforts to hamper the making of this film—threats, delays, accidents—and now, finally, the death of the director, Cooper, under very suspicious circumstances."
Our friend Burke, of the secret service, had called on Kennedy accompanied by a man whom be introduced as Hale, an author of motion-picture stories and writer of scenarios.
"The picture," hastened to explain Hale, after Burkes opening, "is a new patriotic film-play, a seven-reel feature, 'The Superspy,' which is being taken at a studio up in the Bronx. Its theme is the exposure of German plots against America, and the picture itself has the backing of some powerful men down in Washington." He paused a moment as Burke nodded confirmation. "The trouble began," he resumed, "with the script itself—in the studio, between the producer, Philip Nolan, and Cooper, the director—changing the continuity, always trying to improve it to fit the stars better. But that's not the real trouble here. No; it's deeper and more sinister than that. Why, ever since they started work on this picture, it has been just one accident after another Now, finally, comes Cooper's death."
"How did it happen-" asked Kennedy.
"In the studio last night. Cooper must have been working late, cutting the film. The night-watchman found him dead in one of the big permanent sets for the picture early this morning. Evidently, Cooper had staggered out of the cutting-room and died trying to get to the street door. The circumstances are very suspicious. I think it was a poisoning—although they've found no evidence of it yet. There's nothing definite. That's what worries me about the whole affair—the cleverness of it, the ability of those who want to wreck the picture to keep under cover."
"But why would anyone go to so much trouble over a mere 'movie'-film?" I questioned skeptically.
"Easily enough," answered Hale quickly. "Why wouldn't the Germans try to prevent exposure of their plotting in this country? They'd stop at nothing to keep the facts from reaching the American people. They can't suppress my script—but they can butcher the story and the picture, cause the company to be bankrupted, and the film finally ruined. That's just as good."
I felt completely answered as Hale continued:
"Nolan, I think, is frantic over the delays, accidents, and the death of Cooper, ruin stares him in the face—and the picture is hardly half finished, for there are whole groups of scenes that they have to go abroad to take in Holland or some neutral country, where a good part of the action takes place."
"Who will direct now?" cut in Kennedy.
"Randolph, who was the assistant director."
There was something about the tone in which Hale said this that could not fail to convey his not entire satisfaction with the new director, yet he gave us to understand that he would say no more when he added: "He was once well known as a director himself. But he consented to take a minor part here, due to what he considered the importance of this film."
"Who is in the cast?" persisted Craig.
"The star is Yvette Everett," replied Hale. "I think she's well cast for the girl who risks everything to serve her country. She's pretty; she can do stunts and thrills; she's popular— everything. Then, Wallace Emery plays the hero. He has a big following among 'movie' fans. The heavy was being played by Cooper himself. Now all those scenes will have to be taken over. Randolph wants to play it. Then there's a little girl in the cast, Hilda Wier, who plays the vamp—a little adventuress and dancer from Paris in the story, the tool of the spies."
Hale considered a moment over the mention of Hilda; then his next remark explained it.
"Oh, there have been troubles enough with the cast—all kinds of friction and jealousies. The latest seems to have been that some one has evidently been fomenting jealousy between Yvette and Hilda. They hardly speak. I've begun to wonder whether Yvette may not be afraid that Hilda will take it away from her in the picture by playing her own part too well.
"For instance, our greatest trouble in the picture just now seems to be with some scenes we are taking out where Cooper located his exteriors, at Southwark, Connecticut. This is a raid on a road-house which, in the plot, is the head-quarters of the spies here in America. They picked out a place there called the Red Eagle, run by a German, Paul Grube. Whether it's Yvette or Hilda, there has been a lot of dissatisfaction with what has been taken out there. It doesn't suit Nolan, and when it suits Nolan, it doesn't suit Randolph. They say it lacks 'pep.' Yet they can't blame me. It must be in the direction. The script is beautiful. I'll show it to you sometime——"
"Here's the thing that impresses me," interrupted Burke, in a quiet tone: "You know that, out there at Southwark, there are big munition plants. One of the largest has a new order for fifty thousand new Mallet machine guns, the very last word, they say, in rapid-fire arms. If there's any funny business in this film-game, perhaps it may have something to do with what might be learned out there at the Red Eagle. That's my interest in the case."
As Hale had poured out the story, I could see that Kennedy was more than ordinarily interested. Burke's remarks were a finishing touch in deciding him.
"I'd like to go out and look over the studio," he said.
"Very well," replied Hale. "How about this afternoon?"
"Fine!"
"I'll meet you all with my car," offered Hale.
Burke considered.
"I think you'd better take them alone," he concluded. "If there is anything wrong, some one might recognize me."
Kennedy agreed, and it was not hard to convince Hale.
THAT afternoon, with the picture-playwright, we paid a visit
to the studio in the Bronx. We were introduced first to Nolan,
who seemed to be a very nervous, high-strung individual.
Given the freedom of the place with Hale, we strolled over sets and cables lying on the floor to a part of the studio where, in the glare of mercury-vapor lights, Randolph was taking a ballroom scene at an embassy, in which Yvette and Emery were the central figures. Over and over they rehearsed the scene, to get the action down smoothly. Finally, Randolph clapped his hands.
"All set now—shoot!"
Camera-men began grinding until the action was completed. Then a boy ran forward with the number of the scene chalked on a slate, and that was photographed in, while Randolph noted the amount of footage consumed.
It seemed that the next thing was a close-up of Hilda in another part of the studio floor. As we sauntered over to watch, I saw that she was really a very fascinating type, somewhat younger than Yvette. I wondered whether that might be the cause of friction. It seemed that Nolan himself took great interest in Hilda. Was Yvette jealous of that?
Randolph was endeavoring to get the proper backlighting on Wilda's wavy blond hair, and I fancied that he, too, was uncommonly interested in Hilda and her work.
As he worked to get the proper lighting. I noticed that one of the men, as if directed by somebody, moved up an extra bank of lights. A few moments later, while the cameras were being placed, I saw Kennedy eying the mercury-vapor tubes.
"That bank of tubes looks pretty battered, as though it had been repaired," remarked Kennedy aside. "Yet it's a very powerful light it throws."
"Cooper had great difficulty getting her with the proper back-lighting to suit," replied Hale. "I suppose Randolph is having the same trouble."
They started to take, and I thought no more of the incident, for, finally, the close-up finished, we were introduced to Randolph. He was a nervous, wiry fellow, though he seemed to be quite athletic, and I learned later from Hale that he was famous in the film business as an actor as well as director, having often doubled for his characters when a stunt was too difficult or dangerous for them to attempt.
"Let me introduce Miss Wier," said Hale, a few moments later, as he led us over to the little actress.
The lights were shut off by this time, and we stood in the set itself, near a table, talking with Hilda, a vivacious little creature whom one could not help but admiring. The conversation wandered over many topics.
"What was the matter with the raid scene?" asked Hale, at length.
"I don't know," she replied. "Not enough 'pep' in the light, they said." She ended with a little jerky, nervous laugh.
As Wilda's hand rested on the table, I looked at it, for I had caught Kennedy's eyes looking, too. Yet all I could see was a slight peculiarity of the nails. They were long and tapering, narrow, and on them, near the base, I saw several white spots.
"Did you notice that woman's hands?" asked Kennedy, as we moved along, after he had contrived to get a closer view of the repaired bank of lights.
"You mean the white spots on the nails?" I asked.
"Yes," he nodded. "That has a scientific name—leuconychia— what is called 'marbled nails.' That is a symptom much neglected nowadays by doctors. But we know that it indicates a pathological condition. In this case, I think it may point to neurasthenia."
There was so much activity in the studio that I had no further chance to talk with Kennedy, whom Hale carried away to look at another scene and meet others of the cast.
I HAD been impressed by the strangeness of Cooper's death,
and, finding myself left alone for a moment, determined to do a
little scouting on my own responsibility.
At one end of the studio I heard a queer, humming noise, and therefore, while Kennedy was talking with Hale, I wandered off in search of whatever might turn up.
Slowly I made my way through the props and the litter made by the stage-carpenters, until finally I traced the noise to a little room. I looked in. There I saw an operator winding a film from one huge spool to another, letting it run through his fingers for a while very rapidly, then stopping it, examining it, holding it up to the light, cutting out a section, then piecing the ends together again, running some more, and repeating the process as he inserted other scenes that had been taken.
"What is this?" I asked.
"The cutting-room," he replied, "where we cut and trim the negative."
I congratulated myself. This, then, was the room in which Cooper had been at work when he died.
About it I now noticed a peculiar odor. I sniffed to make sure. There was the unmistakable smell of bananas. My experiences with Kennedy and strange poisons had taught me to recognize the peach-pit odor of the cyanides.
"What was Mr. Cooper cutting when he was—when he died?" I asked, by way of prolonging the conversation.
"Some of the raid stuff," replied the operator, and as he said it, he jerked his hand away from the film and tapped a closed flat tin can which lay on the table near him. "We've had trouble enough with both the cutting and titling of it."
Just then we were interrupted by a messenger.
"Mr. Nolan wants to see you about those inserted scenes in the third reel," he reported.
The film-cutter stopped his work, excused himself, and left with the boy. It was just the chance I wanted. I seized the flat round can and hurried with it to Craig.
He was alone for the moment, and looking for me.
"Smell that," I whispered. "It is the film Cooper was cutting. Do you get that banana odor?"
Kennedy sniffed at it; then his face broke out in an indulgent smile.
"Banana oil, Walter," he remarked. "It is used a great deal in the industry."
He opened the can and looked down on the film. "Hm," he murmured to himself, looking at it sharply. I looked, too, and saw that the edges of the negative were jagged, not smooth like others I had seen.
"Some one has roughened this edge—for a purpose," muttered Craig. He closed the can quickly and wrapped it closely in the coat he was wearing.
We hung about for some time longer, but Hale showed no disposition to go, although I saw that Kennedy was eager to do so. Finally, we managed to make our excuses and promised to come again.
Outside, Kennedy paused a moment to put on his coat, since no one now was likely to notice or care that he was carrying a can of film. As he did so, he drew from his vest pocket a small vial to which was attached, by an elastic band, a very fine camel's-hair brush.
"Something I picked up on a rug in one of the rooms," he remarked, showing it to me. The vial contained a colorless liquid.
"What is it?" I asked, puzzled.
"I can tell you when I have analyzed it," he replied, dropping it back into his pocket, as, with the film under his arm, he headed for the nearest subway station.
It took us some time to get back to the city, but Kennedy evidently preferred to go alone, rather than in a car with anyone, and, at last, when we arrived at the laboratory, he plunged into a long series of tests, using both the vial and the film.
RATHER than interrupt him, I took a turn about the campus,
trying to figure the case out, and, coming again to the chemistry
building. I was surprised to see Burke entering.
I hurried and caught him in the hall, telling him of our visit, and together we entered the laboratory.
"Have you found anything about the negative yet?" I asked. "Why were the edges roughened?"
"It's very strange," Craig returned quickly. "Burke, your suspicions were right when you took up Hale's story. Take this negative Walter speaks of. Don't you see what it is? As it ran through the fingers of the person cutting the film, the jagged edge would cause a deep scratch. On the edge of that film I have found ricin, a poison more deadly than cyanide when injected."
"Then it was a murder?" queried Burke.
"Yes. Like all the alkaloids of this nature, ricin leaves traces almost impossible to discover. That was why they couldn't be sure that Cooper was murdered. As it is, I won't even need to see the body to be sure in my own mind—though you had better get some one to carry out that end of the investigation when you work up the government's case."
"I understand," nodded Burke. "Some one would terrorize everyone who had anything to do with this picture. Even the handling of the actual film itself was to be made fatal."
I gazed at the innocent-looking film, aghast at this new kind of frightfulness.
"What was in the vial?" I asked Kennedy.
"Sympathetic ink of some kind," he replied. "I think it is what they call 'skin-ink.' Messages, to escape the censorship, are sometimes written on the back of a person in this ink. It is impossible to see them on the skin, and almost impossible for the person to erase them. There are several kinds of skin-ink and, of course, as many kinds of developers. Ordinarily, the one who uses the ink is not told what the developer is."
As he spoke, I thought of the munitions plant out at Southwark and of the new Mallet gun. Was some one preparing to send copies of the plans abroad?
"Then there are spies about," hastened Burke.
"Evidently." returned Kennedy. "You guessed right again. They must be seeking information—perhaps a plan of the munitions works to blow it up—more likely the design of the Mallet gun. The company is going abroad to take scenes, you know."
"I wonder who is using the ink," said Burke keenly.
"What do you think of Hale?" I asked.
"Oh, he's all right," vouchsafed Burke.
"To-night I think we'll run out to the Red Eagle," decided Kennedy. "It will be lively, and perhaps we may pick up some evidence. I suppose you don't want to come along, Burke?"
Burke shook his head.
"Not unless I camouflage myself," he said. "I want to lie low—for the present. They won't suspect you two. At the worst, you're only friends of Hale. When you're out there, watch Grube, the proprietor. I've had men cover him, but we can't seem to get anything on him."
ACCORDINGLY, as it was now late in the afternoon, Craig and I
motored out to the Red Eagle, where we arrived just as the place
was springing into night life after dinner.
The Red Eagle was a well-known road-house and, as we drew up to it, we saw that there were many cars there. For the most part, the visitors were from Southwark, for that town was really suffering from an excess of prosperity due to munition work, and many who had made more money than they had ever dreamed of frequented the Red Eagle as the gayest place for miles about in which to spend it.
It was a quaint old place of a past generation of stage-coach days which the automobile had temporarily revived. However, in the topsy-turvy times due to the war conditions in the neighboring mill-town, it was soon evident to us that it was fast becoming a none-too-reputable dance-hall.
There was both a stage and dancing-floor. Many girls were in the dance-hall and with them were numbers of munition workers.
We entered and selected a quiet table, where we could see more than be seen. Before long we spotted the portly Paul Grube, circulating freely among his guests, known by his first name to all, and altogether a genial host. Personally, I felt that he was a man to watch, if for no other reason than his name.
From where we were sitting, we could catch a glimpse of a hall, and it was not long before Kennedy jogged my elbow. I turned, and, to my surprise, out in the hall, I saw that Hilda Wier had just arrived and was taking off her motor-wraps while she chatted gaily and familiarly with Grube. A moment later, Randolph entered, and it was apparent that they had motored out together.
There was no use in concealment out here; in fact, it would have been impossible. Hilda, leaving Grube, entered and almost immediately caught sight of us. She greeted us and stopped at our table with Randolph, and I could not escape the observation that the latter seemed to be watching us. As for Hilda, I sought to keep my eye on her to detect any symptoms of nervousness such as Kennedy had hinted at. As the evening progressed, Hilda exhibited a forced gaiety. As for Randolph, he was an enigma to me. I could not "make" him at all.
To our surprise, we next found that, in an alcove which we had completely overlooked when we entered, was another party of four—Yvette Everett, another girl from the film whom we had not met, Emery, and Nolan. Several times, on one pretext or another, either Kennedy or I left our table, always passing in such a way as to get a glimpse of the various parties.
Nolan particularly interested me, for, with Emery, he seemed to be a bit ill at ease and nervous. I was not surprised, for evidently he had enough to worry about. At all times he kept a sharp eye upon the other members of his company. Well he might, for, in the enticement of this atmosphere, much might happen. Finally, he excused himself, and a moment later I saw him at the table with Hilda and Randolph. Hilda welcomed him, and I saw many an interchange of glances at other tables at seeing the well-known producer so attentive to his popular "vampire."
As the evening wore along, things became more unconventional. And it was an opportunity not to be missed. Quite full now of the zest of the adventure, I was determined to add to my fortunate discovery of the afternoon. In fact, I was quite proud of myself, and determined to show Craig that he had no monopoly of brains.
Accordingly, when, on one excursion through the dance-hall, I heard a chance remark of one of the waiters about the properties of the picture company that were stored in room Ten. I determined to wait for a chance to look them over, without telling Craig unless I found something.
The life of the place was now so fast and furious that I found I might go and come as I pleased, and I lost no time in mounting the stairs and seeking out room Ten. The door was locked, but I managed to creep out on the porch-roof, force the window, and enter.
As I cautiously flashed about with a pocket-light, I saw a miscellaneous collection of paraphernalia, none of which presented an earthly idea to me. I began poking about in it, fearful of being discovered. Several times I realized my helplessness, and wished that I had taken Kennedy into my confidence, for it was almost criminal to have such a chance and miss anything that might be of value to him.
I had about made up my mind to return and make a clean breast of my foolish pride when my eye fell upon a sort of cape which had been thrown carelessly into the corner of a closet. I poked at it sharply, perhaps with a vague idea that it might shelter some one observing me. Then, in the light, I caught a glimpse of several peculiar spots of a yellowish powder on it. I looked at them more closely. One of them brushed off. What might they be? Certainly they looked queer to me. And, although I had no more idea than the man in the moon of what use the thing was, I continued to examine it. Just then, I heard a footstep in the hall. With the cape in my hands, I retreated through the window as the footsteps approached, halted, then seemed to pass by. However, I could not be sure, and I felt that I had better return to Kennedy. Besides, what were the yellow spots? I crawled back into the hall and sneaked guiltily downstairs to our table.
"What have you there?" asked Kennedy, as I sat down with the cape under the arm which was toward a window.
His half-amused attitude toward my gum-shoeing nettled me.
"What do you suppose those spots are?" I asked, passing over the cape in the shadow.
Kennedy took it, examined it, then scraped off some powder and turned to the light with it. As he did so, his face broke into a smile, and I could have left him with the whole evening's check to pay alone as he observed:
"Very simple. At first, I thought it might be some weird poison. But it is only a simple coloring matter. In fact, it is Chinese yellow."
"Well," I retorted, "how about Paris green and Prussian blue— they're poisonous enough, aren't they?"
"Quite true," admitted Kennedy, with exasperating coolness. "Yellow, as you know, photographs white. It is largely used now in studios in place of white, because it does not cause halation which, to the picture people, is the bane of their existence. White is too glaring, reflects rays that blur the photography. If you will look round the next time you are in the studio, you will find the actors' faces tinged with this yellow. Even the tablecloths and napkins and 'white' dresses are frequently colored a pale yellow."
I took back the cape, somewhat chagrined and wondering how I was going to return it without getting caught, I continued to look at it covertly. I had turned it over for the tenth time, when Kennedy suddenly reached forward on the floor and picked up something.
"I beg your pardon, Walter," he murmured sincerely; "I shouldn't have tried to 'kid' you. Really, old fellow, I believe you have hit on something very important."
I looked into his hand and saw that he had picked up from the floor, where it had dropped from the pocket of the cape, a fine camel's-hair brush. It was stiff, as though something had dried in it. As I looked at it, Kennedy reached again for the cape and began examining it more seriously.
"There are spots of something else besides Chinese yellow here," he whispered excitedly. "The dye is only very slightly discolored, but I can tell more by the feel."
Quickly, lest anyone might see us, he rolled the cape up so that we could carry it away unnoticed, while into his pocket he dropped the brush. What it was I, or rather he, had discovered, I had no idea. But the hour was getting late, and if we were to be at work again the next day after the long ride back to the city, it was necessary that we should be going.
I noted also that Nolan was trying to cut short the gaieties of his picture-cast. Hilda, quite excited by the dancing and refreshments, did not seem at all disposed to leave, but finally joined the rest when Randolph urged her. We were off first, and I think we beat them all in, for we passed everything on the road.
THE air must have made Kennedy drowsy, for he did not propose
sitting up all night in the laboratory, as was often his habit
when on a case. Instead, he tossed the cape into a drawer, and we
had a good sleep over our deductions.
We were, however, early at the laboratory, and I soon saw that there had been reason in Kennedy's lack of anxiety to get busy. The fact was that he already had a pretty accurate idea of what he would find on the cape. The test in the laboratory merely confirmed it.
"No blood or poison—no ricin on it?" I queried at length.
He shook his head.
"No; but there are unmistakable traces of that sympathetic skin-ink. If I could only trace the ownership and user of this cape, I might learn something."
The telephone-bell rang, and he answered it. Though I could not hear what was said, I gathered at once that it was from Hale and that he was at the studio, that there was some more trouble over scenes that had been taken, and that he wanted to know whether Kennedy would like to see them.
"They'll be run off in the projection-room in the studio in half an hour," explained Craig. "I think I'll go over."
He paused only long enough to take a wooden case from his cabinet and make a separate package of the cape I had purloined the night before.
HALF an hour later, we entered the projection-room with Hale.
It was a small room, with chairs fastened to the floor and
arranged on a succession of low platforms, one above the other,
like a clinic. Most of the company was there when we entered, for
it was the first showing of many of the scenes.
Of course I could not follow perfectly, for many titles were missing, but I got a good-enough idea of the thing, and I did not think it bad. We came, however, at last to the scenes taken out at the Red Eagle, which concerned the round-up of the spies at their supposed headquarters. The fight was rather thrilling, I thought.
"What is it—a jazz?" interrupted some one in the back.
"Rotten!"
"Out!"
"Lights up!"
The last in the remarks was from Randolph. The operator threw a switch, stopping the film and, at the same time, lighting the projection-room. Randolph faced the audience, as much as to ask what the verdict was. Everybody seemed to be talking at once. Hale was really angry.
"That's how it's been ever since the start," he muttered. "Why isn't it done the way I write it?"
"I guess we'll have to take it again," drawled Nolan, in an exasperated tone. "This afternoon, too."
Randolph accepted the verdict calmly, and began issuing orders for the company to get ready to retake the scenes that afternoon. We sauntered off with Hale, and Kennedy found a locker to leave his wooden case in, while he determined to carry the cape in the package out to the Red Eagle, where we were to watch the retaking of the scenes.
On the train to Southwark, Hale produced a copy of the original script of the scenes in question and read it to us, while Kennedy and I listened with interest.
"The location of the scenes," he began, as nearly as I can remember, "is a road-house of the spy-gang, and the action centers about Yvette, who is being held a prisoner by the spies. Emery has traced her there and is coming to the rescue, having already notified the secret service. As he approaches the place, he is surprised at the appearance of it. Here there is a subtitle showing that they have been tipped off. The result is that Emery must do something single-handed to rescue Yvette before it is too late.
"Here's the big scene. With caution, he tries the door, careful not to get in range of any possible bullets fired through it. He finally surprises them by breaking in a window. There is a rush and a fight in the dance-hall. About that, I have written in, 'Make this a good fight,' and gone into the details— close-ups, everything.
"Well, when they almost have him, Emery whips out two guns and holds the whole gang at bay, after Yvette has broken away and fled to him. We cut away, of course, to the secret-service men coming down the road, and all that sort of thing. Slowly he backs the gang out of the dance-hall toward the door. Suddenly we see him turn one gun sideways, keeping the other and his eye on the gang. He fires the sidewise gun—bing! There is a crash, and in a close-up is shown an oil-lamp hanging from the wall, shattered. It falls in a close foreground, blazing, on the floor.
"Next, a full shot of Emery, backing the gang out and protecting Yvette as the shattered oil-lamp blazes on the floor. Then follow other scenes, tinted in red, with smoke-pots, as the room goes afire, while slowly Emery backs the spies toward the door.
"On he backs them. Bing! Another light. The blaze is all over the room now. A flash of the secret-service men arriving outside. Onrush of the secret-service men. Final fight, in which Hilda and Randolph are captured, and the whole gang is backed right into the arms of the secret service."
WE arrived at last at the Red Eagle, and Randolph set to
work.
Kennedy, while no one was looking, unwrapped the package with the cape and was about to place it over a chair in tho dance-hall when I protested against giving it back to some one who, by this time, most probably wanted it badly.
But he overruled me, and I was forced to acquiesce in his plan.
The necessary scenes were run through while we watched with interest. Finally, the time came for the scene of the big fight. In the midst of it, there was a crash and a cry. One of the secret-service men had picked up Hilda and had literally flung her through a pair of French windows. There she lay on the floor—limp and white.
"Did you get it?" I heard Nolan ask, nervously of one of the camera-men.
I thought the whole action heartless, but then that was realism in pictures as I knew it. Hale, however, was raging.
"Now, what are we going to do?" he stormed. "Another one 'out!' By George, I believe some one was trying to 'get' her!"
Randolph was furious, dividing his attention between the reviving of Hilda and blaspheming the overzealous five-dollar-a-day super who had caused the accident. At any rate, work was over for the day.
In the confusion, I had forgotten the cape on the chair. Not so Kennedy, however. It was gone! Craig was elated, but evidently not even yet ready for action.
Still mystified. I returned with the rest to the city, Hilda gamely refusing to be left behind under the care of a physician.
THUS, it was late in the afternoon that we saw the company,
minus Hilda, again assembled for work in the studio.
"They've got to clear up this stuff before they go abroad to take the Holland scenes," explained Hale.
Kennedy had been on the telephone the moment we returned to the city, and since had been waiting about, rather bored.
Randolph had hardly begun to rehearse the company in the embassy set when, to my surprise, in stalked Burke. Kennedy now gave an order, to which the director started to object.
"Never mind," returned Burke, to Randolph's protests; "if Professor Kennedy wants you all in the projection-room, into the projection-room you go. I'm boss here—for the present."
Quickly, before the first surprise of federal interference was over, Craig gathered the whole company in the little room, a picturesque group now in their make-up for the embassy ball.
Yvette, in a very low-cut ball gown was stunning. Hilda, her head bound up from the cuts she had received, now came in, still pale and shaky, but watchful of everyone, especially Craig. Randolph fumed and fretted a bit over the delay, but soon calmed down as Burke pacified him with a tart remark or two. Nolan, nervous and high-keyed as usual, but with an eye to business, summoned his press-agent from the office. If there was any good copy, he would not miss it.
Craig stepped back of a writing-desk before the first row of seats in the projection-room.
"To-day, out at the Red Eagle, a cape was stolen," he began. "However, it is really of no use. I found some spots on it— first, some of Chinese yellow—later, others which, by analysis, I have found were really traces of what is known as 'sympathetic skin-ink,' of which I have a vial picked up here in this very studio the other day." He held up the vial between his finger and thumb as he resumed. "To cut a long story short, some one in this room, I believe, is preparing to carry the design of the new Mallet gun abroad. If the drawing were placed on paper, the censor would most certainly discover it—either here or at a certain port in Great Britain. The design, learned from workers in the plant at Southwark, has been drawn, part by part, on the skin of some one who is an animated blue-print—or, rather, colorless print. In Holland, a neutral country where scenes of this picture are to be taken, the design could be developed and sent across the frontier into Germany, For, as I said, this ink is of the 'sympathetic' kind. I have analyzed it, and have discovered that the developer is plain citric acid."
From the wooden case he had brought from the locker, Kennedy drew what looked like a plain nail-file and knife.
"There is just one thing, though, that I want to do before I go a step further."
Without a word of by-your-leave, Kennedy began a hasty examination of the finger nails of each person in the room, beginning with Hilda, transferring scrapings from the nails of each to small glass microscope-slides.
What was it he was looking for, I wondered. I recalled the marbled nails of Hilda. As I watched, I saw, though, that it was something more that Craig sought.
From the wooden case he now took a microscope. Bending over it, he resumed his speaking.
"Study of finger-nail deposits is one of the newest detective devices," he remarked casually, as, from time to time, he examined one slide after another.
He seemed in no hurry. Rather did it seem that he hoped his very deliberation might have its effect. Again and again he bent over the microscope until he had used up all the slides.
"Some one," he remarked finally, "when it was learned that that cape was missing, wanted it badly enough to steal it. I placed a chance in the way of that person, knowing that the chance would be taken. Here, in these finger-nail deposits, I now find threads which must have come from the cloth of that cape, of which I was careful to preserve samples.
"But, more important yet," he added, lowering his voice, "in the finger-nail deposits of this same person are traces of some chemicals, fresh, the same that make up this sympathetic skin-ink."
Kennedy paused. If he had had a blasé audience, now it was more tense than it had ever been over one of its own thrillers. Not a sound broke the stillness of the projection-room.
"I won't attempt to trace, in the light of my theory—now more than a theory—the unfortunate history of this picture. Failing to wreck it by garbling the script and ditching the scenes, some one determined to remove all those who might make for the assured success of the picture. Thus, first of all, Cooper, a great and conscientious director, was murdered, literally murdered, as we shall show when this thing comes to trial. To-day, we saw another attempt at removal. Some one else in the company was discovering more than was comfortable."
I saw Hilda, just a trace of color in her pale cheek, lean forward eagerly. As a huge hand reached out and patted her on the shoulder, she suppressed a little scream.
"You did well, little girl," complimented Burke, in a softened tone of his rough voice. "Only, why didn't the Department of Justice let us know who you were?"
"How did we know the secret service was interested?" cut in Randolph. "I didn't know till I saw you here to-day—no; not even when Kennedy was here yesterday."
"No," interrupted Kennedy; "and you don't know even now how some secret agent was using ultra-violet rays of a powerful nature in those broken and reset tubes in the particular bank of lights that was drawn up whenever you were shooting those close-ups of Hilda against black velvet and never used for anybody else. She was clever, and the ultra-violet ray attack, though it was undermining her nervous system, was too slow. Something had to be done. A blow was much quicker to get her out. It was given, under orders, I suppose, in that raid scene this afternoon. Hilda—perhaps you would have been the next."
As he spoke. Kennedy had been slowly squeezing into a beaker the juice of several lemons. I knew what he was up to. It was some form of citric acid which he wanted—in a hurry, too.
With the beaker, he started up the aisle between the rows of seats and, as he did so, he stumbled forward on the very first step.
There was a scream and a flurry of silks. Almost all the lemon juice had spilled over the back and gown of Yvette.
If she had expected an apology, she was vastly mistaken. Kennedy merely stood and smiled. He had intended to fall, and to fall in just that way.
"Look!" cried Hilda.
There, on Yvette's white shoulders, appeared now, faintly, some lines—the design of the Mallet gun!
From the front row a man lurched toward the door. But Kennedy turned swiftly and seized his collar before he knew it.
"Not so fast," he ground out. "So—you would repeat the old cutthroat film-company trick—wreck your own company for another—to earn German gold. The fibers of the cloth of the cape and the traces of the ink were in your nail-deposits, Nolan."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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