The haunting hand
“Think she’d like to see _you_ head-lined, when _she_ hasn’t been able
to make the papers in a big way since we started this picture?”
“Why--I hadn’t thought of her at all.”
“Well, girlie, you’ve got a think coming. She’d be sore as hell, take
it from me. I know her.”
“Of course,” Margot began doubtfully, “I don’t wish to antagonize Miss
Delamar. But how do you know she wouldn’t get interested herself, if
she knew what a strange experience I’ve had! Suppose I tell her about
it?”
“No! Drop the whole business--please!” Stoner’s face was flushed and
there was sharp command in his voice.
More annoyed with him than she had ever been before, Margot flashed
angry rebellion at him, then she turned away with brusque indifference
to appearances, walked off the floor and went upstairs to the dressing
room she shared with a few other girls.
She was more than annoyed at Stoner’s unsympathetic attitude, and what
struck her as an attempt to bully her. The more she pondered the
matter, the more puzzled she grew. If he were sincere in his stand
regarding publicity, why had he vacillated in argument? First he had
warned her against the harm of freakish notoriety, then he had
switched to the possibility of arousing the star’s hostility.
Suddenly the absurdity of it all struck her--her own absurdity above
all, for it _was_ ridiculous of her to have taken Stoner so seriously,
and not seen below the surface to his real motive. The simple truth,
so she felt, was that Stoner was indulging unreasoning and petty
jealousy of Gene. He hated the thought that Gene and not himself had
been associated with her in an adventure. He hated still more the idea
of this association becoming public news. She recalled his glum
demeanor when she had told of Gene coming to her supposed rescue.
Obviously, Stoner would go far to prevent a sensational sequel to the
adventure, which would bracket her name with that of the man whom he
regarded as an impudent rival. It would be most galling to a man of
Stoner’s character.
Finally she resolved that nothing should induce her to discuss the
matter in the studio again that day--or any other day, for that
matter! And she stuck to her decision in the face of a regular
bombardment of feminine questions. Stoner was less easy to avoid. He
had more approaches than one. He led her aside about an hour after she
had reappeared on the set. His first remark was so blunt and
apparently sincere, that it took her off guard.
“So you won’t credit me with being in love for the first time in my
life?”
Her stare of surprise was as frank as his question.
“Why--really,” she stalled, with a faint smile. “I never consider such
things in working hours.”
“Be serious!” he commanded frowning. “You’d better understand, first
as last, that we’re both in a game where love and work are often mixed
up, pretty close sometimes.”
She loathed him for his implication of favoritism at a price. With a
cool little smile, she said:
“I’ve told you several times, Mr. Stoner, that I’m not the least
interested in the game of love, just at present, with you or any other
man. I mean what I say. Why insist?”
“Because I want to get it well into your head that I really am
seriously in love with you. I’d like you to believe in me, even if you
can’t love me--yet. Now, take that question of my advice about
publicity. You acted as if you thought I was trying to injure you.”
“Oh, no,” she said sweetly. “I’m quite willing to acknowledge your
good intentions.” She could not control the touch of sarcasm in her
smile. But he seemed not to notice it, which was as well.
He grew more cheerful. His smile was ingratiating.
“I’ve been thinking that it mightn’t do any harm to make a cautious
investigation of your spook. Suppose we go over it together. Have
dinner with me, then, afterwards, we could look through your quarters
for clues.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Stoner, and thank you very much, but I have an
engagement to-night.”
His face clouded instantly. “As usual,” he growled.
She passed that up, then said gently:
“Even if I could dine with you, to-night, Mr. Stoner, my mystery
wouldn’t form part of your entertainment. Second thoughts are not
always best. Not in this case anyway. You told me emphatically to drop
my mystery--not investigate it. And that’s that!”
They stood looking at each other, Margot serene and smiling, Stoner
scowling and affronted. Then, her eyes, with their uncanny power to
detect thought or emotion in other eyes superficially inexpressive,
witnessed for the third time since she had first met him, that strange
dilating of the small pupil; that queer overtone as of a yellowish
shadow darkening the pale blue of the iris; that shimmer in the
eyeball, like dust specks seen in a sunbeam. She had once more that
sensation of hearing something she could not understand; something
that he was unconscious of saying.
Then Stoner walked away, and Margot stood motionless, with an
intangible, vague wonder in her groping mind.
Hours later, Margot, standing on the side lines, dressed as
_Conchita_, felt no surprise that her director had so manipulated
matters during the balance of the day, that her scene was not called.
As she watched the filming of secondary shots, she felt relief that
her first important scene had been postponed. She was in no mood to do
herself credit, and she was glad that Stoner’s petty resentment had
given her such a good chance to rest and wait. If he had intended to
make her regret her treatment of him, how disappointed he would be, if
he knew the truth.
Suddenly she was aware of Corinne Delamar’s rather arrogant stare from
across the lot. A scene had just been finished, and the star stood at
ease, smoking a cigarette. For the moment Stoner was busy and
unobservant. Margot stared back, but without impudence. It was rather
as if she said to Corinne: Well, sorry you don’t like me. Suppose you
tell me why!
The unspoken challenge reached perhaps to the brain of Miss Delamar.
Deliberately and slowly she crossed to where Margot stood. She went
close to her before she spoke. Then she said:
“I want to talk with you, Miss Anstruther. Will you come to my
dressing-room?”
Surprised, but not averse to an encounter--she felt vaguely that it
would be that--with the star, Margot smiled her willingness to follow
Corinne to her dressing-room. A couple of uncomfortable chairs, two
cigarettes, a slight pause over the ponderous matter of lighting them,
and then:
“What’s your little game?” drawled Corinne, lazily puffing and
inhaling and blowing smoke through her small nose.
Margot, with a gasp and the flashing thought that never would she
learn to cope with women of the star’s type, said gently:
“I’m sorry if I’m stupid, Miss Delamar, but I’m afraid I don’t
understand what you mean.”
“Oh--_don’t_ you?”
Vague suggestion of insolence made the blood mount swiftly in Margot’s
face. It showed through her make-up.
“Frankly, I don’t,” she repeated gently. “I might imagine many things,
but I prefer not to.”
“Well, I’d hate to have you overwork your imagination, so I’ll help
you out. Are you playing Frederick Stoner just on general business
principles, or is it something more--personal?”
Quick resentment flamed into Margot’s gray eyes, but she controlled
herself to say gently:
“Will you tell me what right you have, Miss Delamar, to assume that
I’m ‘playing’--as you call it--the director, from any motive
whatsoever?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, please! Try to talk as if you gave me credit for
having at _least_ as much intelligence as yourself.”
Margot half rose from her chair, on the impulse to leave Corinne
forthwith, not condescending to give her a reply, rude or courteous.
But another impulse followed and held her in her chair. For some
reason too vague to analyze, she wanted to conciliate Corinne, if this
could be done without loss of dignity.
“Miss Delamar, please try to believe me when I tell you that I am
_not_ making use of the director, either for professional purposes or
personal ones. I’ve tried, of course, to be friendly with him. Who
doesn’t? I’m quite sure that a girl can’t expect to get very far in
pictures, without favoritism or some sort of pull or backing, unless
maybe she has extraordinary talent.”
“Tell me--which of us two--you or I--has ‘extraordinary talent’?”
Corinne’s pretty lips twisted in a smile of malice and irony.
Margot detested flattery, but she caught the implication in Corinne’s
question--unexpectedly clever of Corinne!--and realized that she was
treading on thin ice. Corinne was a violent little thing. Better not
arouse her.
“Well, I’m fairly sure _I_ haven’t got extraordinary talent,
nevertheless I have hopes of getting on without influence, so I’ll
modify what I said. A girl _may_ get on if she’s fairly good-looking,
screens well, can act pretty well, and has a personality that helps to
get her over.”
Corinne gave her a grudging smile.
“You’re smarter than I thought you were. You’ve summed up things
flatteringly for both of us. I have all the assets you mention, so
that lets _me_ out. No suggestion that _I’ve_ had any favoritism to
boost me. And it lets you out too! Miss Anstruther, if I didn’t
dislike you so much, I could almost find it in my heart to love you.”
Her smile was not unamiable.
Frankly surprised, Margot said quickly:
“Why do you dislike me so much? I know you’ve avoided me, and I know
that you think I’ve flirted with Stoner and--and--all that,” she
fumbled with slight confusion, remembering the ridicule in the remarks
of girls who had told her that the star was jealous of her and Stoner.
“Well, I’ll take your word for it. I kind of thought I saw signs of
your having come over into my yard to play--when I haven’t been
around. Understand, my dear? But if you say you’ve just kind of
wandered in by mistake, and if you’ll agree to sort of leave my--my
yard alone, why I guess I won’t hate you.”
If Corinne had used the word “property” instead of “yard,” her meaning
could not have been clearer, Margot reflected, with eyes lowered to
conceal her reflection. She rose and tried to smile cordially.
“I hope that you and I will be friends before this picture’s finished.
I admire Mr. Stoner for his ability and for his jolly good nature
which doesn’t often get spoiled. But, frankly, Miss Delamar, he isn’t
at all my type, nor am I his. He’s interested, of course, in the
talent he believes I have, but naturally--and _obviously_--he’s far
more interested in _your_ talent.”
That ended the strange little interview, but not Margot’s reflections
upon it. Late that afternoon Gene contrived hurriedly to make an
appointment with her for dinner. They left the studio separately and
met in New York at a specified restaurant. Afterwards they went to
what Margot facetiously called the house of mystery.
CHAPTER V.
WEIRD SUSPICIONS
During dinner Gene had made several attempts to swing Margot into a
mood which would be at least gracious to his love-making, but she had
been distrait, which was more disconcerting than a frank rebuff. On
the way home he held her arm with a pressure that evoked only a light
laugh.
“Funny old dear,” she said teasingly. “You’re determined to be amorous
to-night, but really, Gene, I can’t take my mind off my mystery, even
for a minute. Do you know, I haven’t telephoned home all day, just
because I didn’t want to take the edge off my return. Let’s hurry and
see if there have been any new developments.”
Gene followed her lead, but took a silent oath to kiss her before the
evening should be over, mystery or no mystery.
Once over the threshold of the house on Forty-ninth Street, they felt
at once the atmosphere of suspicion and jangled nerves, as embodied in