The haunting hand
there all day on guard. Of course there was nothing queer or inimical
lurking about now in broad daylight! Time enough to watch the room
after nightfall.
She felt weary, utterly let down, now that the excitement of her
midnight adventure had abated. Young as she was, and pretty, she could
not afford to go to the studio looking fagged, with unbecoming shadows
beneath the eyes and the iris clouded from lack of sleep. A hot tub, a
cold shower, setting-up exercises, and a moderate disposal of rouge
and powder over her clear skin, and she was ready for the fray.
Instinctively she always half expected it to be some sort of a fray
with Stoner as director and would-be lover.
Arriving at Astoria about nine o’clock, she hurried to the main
production floor. Her big scene in _A Toreador’s Love_, was to be shot
to-day, she remembered, with a faint thrill of anticipation. She
couldn’t possibly, in the present circumstances, feel more than a mild
thrill over anything unrelated to the mystery she was so eager to
unravel. However--it behooved her to forget it for a while, charm
Stoner if need be, and certainly to fulfill the promise she had shown
in previous scenes of making good in her big scene.
Tall scenic creations--the sides of buildings, garden walls embowered
in greenery, the prows of ships--were jumbled together, leaned against
each other in stacks. The place suggested that mysterious region
behind the curtain, stage and backstage, of many opera houses thrown
into one fantastic whole. Carpenters and mechanics hammered and
hauled. In the midst of the confusion, here and there, were completed
sets where scenes were being shot; rooms furnished to the last detail,
with only one or two walls apiece, rooms where actors strolled and
mimed, and upon which blazed the batteries of assembled Kleig lights.
Margot knew that the movies have a doctrine of efficiency to which
they seldom adhere. Promptness was an unwritten law, but when you were
told to be on hand at nine o’clock sharp for the filming of a scene
prepared the day before, if you were in costume by eleven it would be
too early because the cast would probably have luncheon before
settling down to work. The amount of time wasted throughout the day
was truly remarkable. Margot knew her set was not even ready, and that
the instructions given her to be on time were little more than an
official gesture.
However--might as well be ready! She changed her clothes then picked
her way through the tangle of props to where May Cheshire, Lulu
Leinster and other girls were chatting. They were all in their street
clothes, Margot observed with a smile. Through the slats of a cabin on
wheels--Corinne Delamar’s dressing-room--shone electric lights
indicating that the star was “making-up.” Frederick Stoner, for once,
lounged silently, while the stage hands adjusted a Spanish balcony.
What was the matter with Stoner, Margot wondered, with amused
indifference! She had never before seen him so restfully
quiescent--restful for all the rest of them.
A quick glance at the incurious faces of the girls assured her that
Gene had kept silent as to what had happened. But of course Gene
would, even if he hadn’t promised her to do so. Gene, who had
maneuvered to be the camera man on this particular job, stood apart
from the crowd, tinkering with his camera. His back was turned to her.
Margot had a sudden impulse to go up and speak to him. It would be
incautious, perhaps, to indicate the very faintest friendly interest
in Gene while they were in the shop. It might irritate Stoner but--to
perdition with Stoner! She’d do what she wanted to, such a little
thing anyway. And Gene was _such_ a brick!
She approached him with a gentle:
“Hello, Gene!”
He swung around at the sound of her voice, almost dropping what he
held in his hand. His eager eyes swept her from head to foot. He
hadn’t seen her in this Spanish rig before.
“By the Lord, Margot, you’re stunning! Beautiful Andalusian, except
for that glimpse of your hair.” He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“You’re as fresh and lovely as if you hadn’t been up all night.”
“All depends, you know, what you’re about, when you’re up all night.
They say that when you’re keenly interested in something or somebody,
you don’t show fatigue, and you’ll have to admit that I was keenly
interested in _something_--_and somebody_!” She laughed, looking at
him out of the corners of her roguish eyes.
“I suppose you’re endowing a myth--an apparition--with personality,”
he said a little somberly.
“Take care!” She shook a finger at him. “You promised not to express
the least doubt in future, even to me. But, as a matter of fact, old
dear, when I used the word ‘somebody,’ I really _meant_ you.”
The sudden light in his eyes warned her that it was no place in which
to play with fire, the fire being in Gene’s eyes. She whispered that
she’d see him later in the day, and turned to join the other girls.
Just then Stoner saw her. He stood only a few feet away, but he
approached nearer, where she stood next to Lulu Leinster.
“Hello!” he greeted her, appraising her with his quick, shrewd eyes.
“Top of the morning! Sleep well, after that grand little party of
yours?”
“Not a wink!” Her bright glance was friendly enough, but she did not
smile. She often gave the impression of smiling when actually her
mobile lips remained closed.
“What on earth--” he began, sincerely mystified. “You don’t mean that
the mild drinks and our milder society, made you as wakeful as all
that?”
“Oh no, I don’t mean that!” Her smile was vaguely irritating to him.
“I didn’t sleep a wink because I was rehearsing the first scene in New
York’s greatest detective mystery.”
For a second his eyes narrowed, or she thought they did, and seemed to
probe back of her words. Then his expression changed swiftly to an
amused understanding of her light mood. A mere jest, of course, he
seemed to say with the smile on his full lips.
He stepped a little closer to her, but did not raise his voice.
“Trying to call attention to your youth and beauty by pretending that
they’re proof even against a sleepless night? You don’t need to, my
dear.” His bold glance was like an unwelcome caress.
The unexpected twist he had given her remark, annoyed her, and his
glance was an affront.
“Nothing of the sort! I _was_ awake all night, and it _did_ concern a
mystery.”
Again he studied her, a little puzzled.
“Guess it would take a good live mystery to keep _you_ awake, Margot.
You couldn’t work yourself up to such a pitch just by telling or
listening to a tale like the one you gave us about that girl who
disappeared, and the old fellow.”
She had almost forgotten the story about Stella Ball and the man
Murchison. Odd, too, because she recalled that when Mrs. Bellew had
nearly gone into hysterics when the policemen were examining the room,
it had struck her as remotely possible that there might be a
connection between the old and the new mystery. Now, she felt
suddenly, with a little shudder, that it might be more than remotely
possible.
“You’ve said it, Mr. Stoner! That’s just what it was and is--‘a good,
live mystery.’ And something new to fact and fiction. A creature
without a body or a face. It was in my room for hours.”
The other girls were crowding around her, pushing and buzzing like a
swarm of insects. She smiled at one and the other, then, with another
glance at the director, she said calmly:
“A policeman saw it, too!”
In the midst of the chirping and excited cries of the girls, she
distinguished Stoner’s low exclamation of astonishment.
“A policeman! What on earth were you doing with a policeman?”
“Nothing wrong, I trust.” She could not resist the facetious retort,
nor control the smile of amusement that almost broke into a laugh at
Stoner’s angry dignity. The girls, at least, had the sense to giggle,
but that only made Stoner more indignant.
“See here, my dear young friend, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me, and
so have you. Can’t waste time with foolish cracks. You made a
statement regarding a policeman. Was that your little joke?”
“No it wasn’t!” she snapped, her eyes suddenly flashing. Stoner
annoyed her. “Something darn queer happened last night--_so_ darn
queer, that I called Gene Valery on the phone, because, frankly, I was
frightened out of my wits, then we called the police.”
Open-mouthed and speechless interest greeted her on the part of the
girls, and a few men standing by now, on the edge of the circle around
her. To her surprise, Stoner also was silent, watching her intently
out of half-closed eyes. She gave them the story from beginning to
end, repeating the high spots for the emotional avidity of the May and
Lulu types of mind. She hardly expected very intelligent or
constructive comment from any of them, but Stoner’s first remark
surprised her. She had counted on him for a bit of racy skepticism.
But he said, with a dark frown:
“Rotten thing to have happened--rotten!”
“Why rotten?” Her sense of irritation with him increased. “I may have
to wait a long time for another such break in the monotony of my
life.”
“Should think you’d rather have some other kind of diversion than a
low-down burglar sneaking in and out of your room at night.”
“Who said it was a burglar?” Again she snapped at him. “Nothing so
commonplace as that, I assure you, or I shouldn’t have taken the
trouble to talk about it.” She caught Gene’s eyes over the heads of
the excited girls. He had approached and stood outside the circle. She
addressed him directly.
“I’d call it an extraordinary mystery, wouldn’t you, Gene?”
“Decidedly extraordinary,” he said quietly.
Stoner’s quick glance at Gene warned her that she might dare much in
personal encounters with the director, but that for Gene’s sake and
her own, she must be more cautious where he was concerned. She
contrived to smile more pleasantly at Stoner.
“Yes, it’s a mystery, and what’s more, _I’m_ going to solve it!”
“Want to be a female Sherlock Holmes, eh?” he said sullenly. “Well,
I’d advise you not to. There’s danger, meddling with that sort of
thing.”
Something in his tone and manner warned the girls that their director
would prefer to talk alone with Margot. They faded away regretfully,
their curiosity by no means sated. The men strolled off and Margot
found herself facing Stoner’s eyes in which there lurked, or she
fancied it, a faint menace--the menace of a will opposed to her own.
She took up the gauntlet.
“What do you mean by danger, Mr. Stoner?”
“Danger of your melodramatic story breaking into the newspapers.”
“I don’t understand,” she frowned at him. “What if it did? I’m neither
a society bud nor a sister of mercy. I am--or trying to be--a motion
picture actress. If publicity ever hurt any woman in _this_
profession, it’s news to me.” Her smile was a little mocking.
“See here, Margot!” He threw off suddenly his aggressive manner. “You
know I’ve done all I could to give you a chance,--shove you ahead.
I’ve no object in giving you a wrong lead. When I advise you to lay
off of freakish publicity, it’s only for your own good.”
Mollified, but still dubious and puzzled, she said:
“But I’m not planning to do _anything_ just for the sake of a
write-up. My investigation of my little mystery is going to be dead
serious. If the papers get hold of it and send reporters to me, I’ll
give them a straight story. What’s wrong about that? They make up what
you don’t tell them, anyway.”
Stoner seemed to hesitate, then he said quietly:
“I see I’ve got to be frank with you, Margot. You’re not a star _yet_,
my dear girl, and you can’t afford to pull front page stuff that would
make the leading lady sore.”
Taken by surprise, Margot stared at him.
“You mean--Corinne Delamar?”