The haunting hand
the person of Mrs. Bellew. In Margot’s room they found Quinlan and
Boyle, both on guard, with the landlady hovering about, babbling
theories that no one was interested in.
The policemen told Margot that a plainclothes detective from
headquarters had been there to interview her, and would shortly
return. A few minutes later he appeared, a cold, shrewd officer, who
answered to the top-heavy name of Cornelius Hart. He seemed like an
intelligent type, but intolerant. Evidently he had brushed aside all
second-hand reports, insisting upon getting Margot’s story from her
own lips.
For the fourth time she gave her narrative without embellishments.
Hart listened attentively and prodded her with occasional questions.
Finally he said:
“Miss Anstruther, I think you have a powerful imagination.”
It was what she might have expected, but she felt the same unreasoning
resentment which all skepticism regarding her experience seemed to
evoke. She said quietly:
“This policeman,” she glanced at Boyle, “saw what I saw.”
“Sure! Boyle’s an Irishman. He’ll see anything anybody else sees. They
believe in the Banshee, where _he_ comes from.”
Boyle growled an indignant but indistinguishable protest.
“Many mysterious happenings which have been explained in the end, have
appeared just as fantastic in the beginning as what I’ve told you.”
Margot tried logic on Hart, without success.
“The chief difficulty, Miss Anstruther, in accepting the arm and hand
you describe, is that they were attached to no body.”
“How do you _know_ that?” she came back at him quickly.
“Well, looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“All right, let it go at that, but don’t you think it’s a problem
worth at least _trying_ to solve, that an arm _apparently_ attached to
no body, nevertheless did certain definite things? Put it that way.”
Hart shrugged his thin shoulders. He glanced around the room.
“This place has been searched thoroughly, and more than once. There
are no traces of anyone having hidden under the bed.”
“How about the hollow in the nap of the rug where a finger-tip pressed
down the match?”
“Maybe. It’s fluffed out now. I can only say that there isn’t the
slightest evidence that a crime was committed or attempted. So it
doesn’t seem to concern the police department.”
Margot regarded him with serious eyes. He was as cold and impersonal
as a fish.
“Then you are finished with the case?”
“Not quite. Sleep somewhere else to-night. I’ll leave Quinlan to watch
this room. If there’s nothing to report by to-morrow, we’ll be
through.”
Hart left, and Boyle, heaving a great sigh of relief, went with him.
Margot asked Quinlan to wait downstairs for a half hour, as she had
something to talk over with her friend. She went down with the
policeman and asked Mrs. Bellew’s permission for him to remain in her
sitting-room. Quinlan’s expression of despair at the prospect of half
an hour of uninterrupted conversation with the landlady was comic. But
Mrs. Bellew smiled happily at the prospect, oblivious of Quinlan’s
unflattering scowl.
Alone with Gene in the brightly lighted room, Margot threw herself
with a sigh of relief, on the divan. She let him sit beside her, but
she refused even to let him hold her hand.
“Gene, old dear, my brain’s on the rampage. I haven’t an emotion
to-night capable of sitting up and taking notice of the love-making of
a veritable Valentino.” She laughed and patted his hand. “But I do
need your sympathy and advice--dreadfully.”
“I have a vision of you taking my _advice_.”
“Well--perhaps that isn’t exactly what I mean, but I want to talk
things over with you,--get a few trifles off my mind.”
She told him of Stoner’s peculiar behavior and comments on hearing of
her ghostly adventure. She repeated laughingly his warnings about
Corinne Delamar, but she omitted his avowals of devotion, and his
anger because she had refused to dine with him that night. It would be
unwise to give Gene any additional reason for suspicion and jealousy
of Stoner. She decided to refrain even from telling Gene of her
conclusions as to the director’s motives for begging her to drop the
matter of the mystery. Gene would be enraged at the bare idea of
Stoner having the impudence to be jealous where Margot was concerned.
And as to his motives,--she had begun to wonder if her conclusions
hadn’t carried her far afield of the truth. That was just what she
wanted to discuss with Gene--Stoner’s _motive_ in being apparently so
upset about her having publicity.
“Do you know,” she ended her recountal with a fixed stare across the
room; “at times I feel as if there were something queer about
Stoner--something vaguely sinister and disturbing. At other times I
laugh at myself for such an idea, especially when he’s in one of his
boyish, boisterous and entirely simple-minded moods.”
“What first gave you such an idea about Stoner? He seems to me the
crudest, most obvious type of male.”
“I guess it’s his eyes--mostly.” Margot’s own eyes looked full of the
enchantment of mystery. “They certainly have a weird expression at
times.”
“What do you mean by ‘weird’? The way he looks at _you_?”
She smiled at Gene’s quickly aroused suspicion and resentment.
“No, it’s nothing personal. That’s the odd thing about it. There are
moments when he looks at me but doesn’t really see me for a second.
And his eyes seem to be saying something that he’s unconscious of
saying and that I can’t understand. It’s happened more than once.”
Gene’s adoring smile was then a little quizzical.
“That’s a little trick of yours, Margot, darling, to read things in
eyes that are really quite without expression.”
“That’s where you’re all wrong, old dear,” she said quickly. “Often
when a person’s eyes look positively blank to others, they tell _me_
something in total contradiction to what their lips are saying. It’s
most embarrassing at times.”
“When did you first notice this _weird_ expression in Stoner’s eyes?”
Gene looked as if Stoner as a subject for conversation might be
improved upon.
“Oh,” she said eagerly, “that reminds me. I’ve never told you about
the day I first went to the Superfilm studio for a job. Maybe after
I’ve told you certain things, you may be clever enough to throw light
on Stoner’s pale eyes.”
She laughed at Gene’s exclamation of disgust, and began her narrative.
She told him of her embarrassed entry into the waiting-room of the
casting director, when she had run the gauntlet of rows of feminine
eyes--eyes of the other girls on the same errand as herself, and
waiting in various degrees of irritation and boredom. She laughed in
amused reminiscence.
“Every head in the room bobbed--including my own. Just a difference in
color and cut. Lipsticks, powder-pads, tiny mirrors--rows of them. And
their poor, pathetic little faces, Gene. Vacuous smiles on carefully
painted lips, and hardened eyes that should have been young and
weren’t. And pair after pair of flesh-colored silk stockings--mine
were tan that day, and I was glad of it. And their attenuated skirts
adjusted modestly an inch or two above the knee. I wanted to scream
with laughter, but suddenly I wanted to cry, they were so pathetic.”
Gene interrupted her with a quick pressure of her hand.
“Just like you, Margot. Your sense of humor gets a good fillip out of
something, then suddenly your desire to be helpful comes uppermost.”
“Oh, it wasn’t that. Don’t sentimentalize about me, Gene. It was only
that I felt that those girls, with their stereotyped prettiness and
vacuous vanity, probably needed work and money, far more than I did.
Then I laughed at myself realizing that they’d stand a better chance
of getting it in that place than I would. Then, my dear, we all got a
shock. Lulu Leinster, with that wonderful little head and body of
hers, walked into the room. _Her_ hair _wasn’t_ bobbed, and it was
glorious, hanging in two huge braids. Primitive hair, hurled at one’s
vision that way, was provocative--almost indecent.” Margot laughed
again, and stroked her own shorn locks.
“It’s a wonder, with your excessive modesty, that you didn’t depart at
once, leaving Lulu without a competitor.” Gene teased her with his
broad grin.
“My dear, that’s _just_ what I was on the point of doing, while Sam,
Stoner’s bodyguard, was flinging his questions at her, and she coolly
informed him that she’d been sent by a beauty contest committee in
Texas, she having won the prize. Then, before I knew it, Sam stood in
front of _me_, asking the same fool questions. The next thing I knew,
every girl in the room, except Lulu and me, was marching out, having
been told by Sam that they needn’t wait. He was so suave I wanted to
kick him. And the girls filed out, tossing their heads and clicking
their heels, and curling their angry lips. A few minutes later Sam
ushered us into Stoner’s august presence.”
Margot interrupted her story to let Gene light a cigarette for her.
She took a few abstracted puffs, the smoke winding slowly upward from
her parted lips, then she told Gene how the director stood by his
desk, frowning at the two girls as they entered his sanctum. How he
then sat before his desk and addressed himself first to Lulu, asking
her name and address. How he disposed of Lulu and turned to Margot
with the same questions. Margot’s eyes darkened with excitement as she
stressed this part of her narrative.
“I gave him my name, then my address. The minute I said 809 East
Forty-ninth Street, Stoner’s head jerked up, and his light blue eyes
looked straight into mine. He repeated the number of the house--not
the street--and his face was impassive, but suddenly I noticed his
eyes. The pupil dilated, and a sort of yellowish shadow darkened the
iris. I caught a strange shimmer in the eyeball, like dust specks seen
in a sunbeam. Of course I may have imagined it all, but that was the
very first time when I seemed to dread something in his eyes that
confused and mystified me.”
Gene studied her reflectively. “What did he say after that?”
“Oh, he looked down at his desk, then up again at me, quickly, then he
remarked that I must have one foot in the East River. His eyes were as
blank as pale blue eyes can be, even in an intelligent head. I told
him that it was an easy step down, but not quite over. Then he stood
up and calmly told us that they only needed one more girl and that he
couldn’t decide which of us would screen the best without a test. He
told us to come back the following day. And oh, Gene, I never told you
what Lulu said to me.” Margot chuckled in gleeful remembrance. “When
we parted in New York she announced that she’d probably not see me
again. For a second I didn’t get it. I looked my surprise, then she
said: ‘Why--er--you ain’t going back there to-morrow?’ Then I
understood, and I asked her why not. She got a bit rattled and said
that she didn’t suppose I’d want to go to the bother. I smiled and
remarked that it wouldn’t be any more bother for me than for her. She
had the grace to stumble as she said: ‘Maybe my funny face is more
what they want than yours.’ I remarked that that fine point remained
to be proved, and that perhaps we’d _both_ be chosen and become rival
stars. Poor little Lulu is short on humor. She didn’t see the joke.
Anyway, we met in the studio next day, and now, my dear Gene, I’ve
come to the really interesting part of my story.”
“Tell me first, Margot, if you got the impression from the way Stoner
looked at you, that he admired you personally?”
“Oh,” Margot shrugged indifferently. “I don’t suppose he regarded me
as a piece of bric-a-brac, but what I mean had nothing to do with me
as a woman or an actress. Of course the impression faded and I felt,
afterwards, that I’d been over psychic or suspicious, as usual. But