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Page 49
"That's talk!" she rejoined, with a show of feeling. "That's the
thing I hate about pictures. It's always talk, talk, talk! I'm
not saying Stella and old Papa Lloyd, as we used to call him,
never were mixed up with each other, but it's one thing to repeat
a bit of gossip and quite another thing to prove it. I'm not one
to help give currency to any rumor of immoral relationship until
I'm pretty dog-gone sure it's true."
"You think Miss Lamar wasn't as bad as painted?" asked Kennedy.
"I'm sure of it, Mr. Kennedy. I've known Stella and I've known
others of her type. Fundamentally they're the kindest, truest,
biggest-hearted people on earth. When Stella and I shared a
dressing room I often caught her giving away this or that--
frequently things she needed herself. I've known her to draw
against her salary to lend money to some actor or actress whom
she well knew would never repay her. Stella's biggest fault was
an overbalancing quality of sympathy. If she ever did get mixed
up with anyone you may bet it was because that person played upon
her feelings."
"Have you any theory as to who killed her?" It was a direct
question.
"No!" The answer was quick, but then an amazing thing happened.
Marilyn suddenly colored, a flush which gathered up around her
eyes above the make-up and made me think of a country girl. She
started to say something else and then bit her tongue. Her
confusion was surprising, due, probably, to the unexpectedness of
Kennedy's query.
Kennedy seemed to wish to spare her. Undoubtedly her prompt
negative had been the truth. Some afterthought had robbed her of
her self-control. "Tell me why you said Miss Faye was a clever
girl," he directed.
"Just because she puts her ambition above everything else and
works hard and honestly and sincerely, and will get there. That's
what people call being clever."
"I see."
Werner's voice, roaring through a megaphone, announced an
interval for lunch. Marilyn rose, laughing now, but still in a
high color, conscious perhaps that she had revealed some strong
undercurrent of feeling.
"If you'll escort me to my dressing room," she said, coaxingly,
"and wait until I slip into a skirt and waist, I'll initiate both
of you to McCann's across the street. We all eat there, players,
stage hands, chauffeurs--all but the stars, who have machines to
take them elsewhere."
Kennedy glanced at me. "Delighted!" said I.
"We haven't much time," she went on, leading the way. "Werner's
on a rampage to-day."
"He isn't usually that way?"
"It's Stella's death, I guess." She opened one of the steel fire
doors. "He's always that way, though, when he's been out the
night before."
I flashed a look at Kennedy. Could Werner have been at Tarrytown?
In the long hallway of dressing rooms Marilyn stopped, grasping
the knob of her door. "It'll only take me--" she began.
Then her face went white as the concrete of the floor, and that
was immaculate. An expression which might have been fear, or
horror, or hate--or all three, spread over her features,
transforming her.
Following the direction of her stare, I saw Shirley down the
hall, just as he stopped at his own door. He caught her glance
suddenly, and his own face went red. I thought that his hands
trembled.
Marilyn wheeled about, lips pressed tightly together. Throwing
open the door, she dashed into her room, slamming it with a bang
which echoed and re-echoed up and down the little hall. She had
forgotten our presence altogether.
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