|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 3
I had wondered, as Kennedy and I occupied a seat in the train,
and as he left me to my thoughts, whether there could be any
connection between the tragedy and the divorce. The decree, I
knew, was not yet final. Could it be possible that Millard was
unwilling, after all, to surrender her? Could he prefer
deliberate murder to granting her her freedom? I was compelled to
drop that line of thought, since it offered no explanation of his
previous failure to contest her suit or to start counter action.
Then my reflections had strayed away from Kennedy's sphere, the
solving of the mystery, to my own, the news value of her death
and the events following. The Star, as always, had been only too
glad to assign me to any case where Craig Kennedy was concerned;
my phone message to the city editor, the first intimation to any
New York paper of Stella's death, already had resulted without
doubt in scare heads and an extra edition.
The thought of the prominence given the personal affairs of
picture players and theatrical folk had disgusted me.
There are stars against whom there is not the slightest breath of
gossip, even among the studio scandal-mongers. Any number of
girls and men go about their work sanely and seriously, concerned
in nothing but their success and the pursuit of normal pleasures.
As a matter of fact it had struck me on the train that this was
about the first time Craig Kennedy had ever been called in upon a
case even remotely connected with the picture field. I knew he
would be confronted with a tangled skein of idle talk, from
everybody, about everybody, and mostly without justification. I
hoped he would not fall into the popular error of assuming all
film players bad, all studios schools of immorality. I was glad I
was able to accompany him on that account.
The arrival at Tarrytown had ended my reflections, and Kennedy's
--whatever they may have been. Mackay himself had met us at the
station and with a few words, to cover his nervousness, had
whisked us out to the house.
As we approached, Kennedy had taken quick note of the
surroundings, the location of the home itself, the arrangement of
the grounds. There was a spreading lawn on all four sides,
unbroken by plant or bush or tree--sheer prodigality of space,
the better to display a rambling but most artistic pile of gray
granite. Masking the road and the adjoining grounds was thick,
impenetrable shrubbery, a ring of miniature forest land about the
estate. There was a garage, set back, and tennis courts, and a
practice golf green. In the center of a garden in a far corner a
summerhouse was placed so as to reflect itself in the surface of
a glistening swimming pool.
As we pulled up under the porte-cochere Emery Phelps, the banker,
greeted us. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me
that there was a repressed animosity in his manner, as though he
resented the intrusion of Kennedy and myself, yet felt powerless
to prevent it. In contrast to his manner was the cordiality of
Lloyd Manton, just inside the door. Manton was childishly eager
in his welcome, so much so that I was able to detect a shade of
suspicion in Kennedy's face.
The others of the company were clustered in the living room,
through which we passed to reach the library. I found small
opportunity to study them in the rather dim light. Mackay
beckoned to a man standing in a window, presenting him to Kennedy
as Doctor Blake. Then we entered the long paneled chamber which
had been the scene of the tragedy.
Now I stood, rather awed, with the motionless figure of Stella
Lamar before me in her last pitiable close-up. For I have never
lost the sense of solemnity on entering the room of a tragedy, in
spite of the long association I have had with Kennedy in the
scientific detection of crime. Particularly did I have the
feeling in this case. The death of a man is tragic, but I know
nothing more affecting than the sudden and violent death of a
beautiful woman--unless it be that of a child.
I recalled a glimpse of Stella as I had seen her in her most
recent release, as the diaphragm opened on her receiving a box of
chocolates, sent by her lover, and playfully feeding one of them
to her beautiful collie, "Laddie," as he romped about upon a
divan and almost smothered her with affection. The vivacity and
charm of the scene were in sad contrast with what lay before me.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|