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Page 112
Then came the familiar order. "Camera!"
At the start of this episode the orchestra was playing and the
dancers were in motion. Suddenly Gordon, as the hero, strode up
to Shirley and unmasked him with a few bitter words which later
would be flashed upon the screen in a spoken title. Instantly a
crowd gathered about, but in such a way as not to obstruct the
camera view.
Cornered, seeing that flight was impossible unless he became the
Black Terror and possessed the strength and fearlessness of that
strange other self, Shirley drew a little vial from his breast
pocket and drank the contents. Evidently he knew his Mansfield
well. Slowly he began to act out the change in his appearance
which corresponded with the assumption of control by the evil
within. His body writhed, went through contortions which were
horrible yet fascinating. It was almost as though a new fearful
being was created within sight of the onlookers. Not only was the
face altered, but the man's stature seemed to shrink, to lose
actual inches. I thought it a wonderful exhibition.
The very next instant there came a groan from Shirley, something
which at once indicated pain and realization and fear. He lost
all control of himself and in a moment pitched forward upon the
floor, sputtering and clutching at the empty air. Another cry
broke from between his lips, a ghastly contracted shriek as
treble as though from the throat of a woman.
This was no part of the story, no skillful bit of acting! It was
real! Even before I had grasped the full significance of the
happening Kennedy had dashed forward. The cameras still were
grinding and they caught him as he kneeled at the side of the
stricken man. Hardly a second afterward Mackay and I followed and
were at Kennedy's side. Kauf and the others, their faces weirdly
ashen, clustered about in fright.
A third time the invisible hand had struck at a member of the
company. "The Black Terror," with all the horror written into
that story, contained nothing as fearful as the menace to the
people engaged in its production.
Shirley's skin was cold and clammy, his face almost rigid. While
conscious, he was helpless. Kennedy found the little vial and
examined it.
"Atropin!" he ejaculated. "Walter!" He turned to me. "Get some
physostigmin, quick! Have Mackay drive you! It's--it's life or
death! Here--I'll write it down! Physostigmin!"
As I raced madly out and down the stairs, Mackay at my heels, I
heard a woman's scream. Marilyn! Did she think him dead?
Once in the car, headed for the nearest drug store, grasping
wildly at the side or at the back of the seat every few moments
as the district attorney skidded around curves and literally
hurdled obstacles, I remembered a forgotten fact.
Atropin! That was belladonna, simply another name for the drug.
Shirley had procured the stuff for use in his eyes. Nevertheless,
he had been aware, undoubtedly, of its deadly nature. Passing by
Kennedy and the rest of us, he had overheard Kennedy state that
the murderer would be identified as soon as all could be
assembled in the projection room. The heavy man had not cared to
face justice in so prosaic a manner. With the same sense of the
melodramatic which had led him to slay Stella Lamar in the taking
of a scene, Werner in the photographing of another, he had
preferred suicide and had selected the most spectacular moment
possible for his last upon earth.
Yes, Shirley was guilty. Rather than wait the slow processes of
legal justice he had attempted suicide. Now we raced to save his
life, to preserve it for a more fitting end in the electric
chair.
XXXI
PHYSOSTIGMIN
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