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Page 55
A third consideration was the finding of the ampulla in
McGroarty's car. Stella, Marilyn, Jack Gordon, Merle Shirley, and
Werner had ridden out together. Werner had not returned. While
this fact did not indicate definitely that he might have dropped
it, coupled with the other considerations it pointed the
suspicion of guilt at the director.
Then there was the finding of the towel in the washroom of the
office building at the studio. While Kennedy now said it was not
used to wipe the needle, while we now knew that the needle
remained in the portieres from the morning of Stella's death
until late that night, yet Kennedy affirmed the connection of the
towel with the crime in some subtle way. It was true that members
of the cast sometimes used the washroom, yet it was evident that
Manton, Millard, and Werner, who had rooms on the floor, were the
more apt to be concerned in the attempt to dispose of it. Against
Manton I could see no real grounds for suspicion. In a general
way we had been compelled to eliminate Millard early in our
investigation. Again I was brought, in this analysis of the
mystery, to Werner.
One other point remained--the identity of the nocturnal visitor
to Tarrytown. In connection with that I remembered the remark of
Marilyn. Werner was acting as he always acted when he was out
late the night before, she had said. While my theories offered no
explanation of the second man, the watcher, I saw--with an inner
feeling of triumph--that everything again pointed to the
director.
I determined not to tell my conclusion to Kennedy, yet. I did not
want to distract him. Besides, I felt he would disagree.
"What do you think of this, Craig?" I suggested. "Suppose I start
out while you're busy and try to dig up some more facts about
these people?"
"Excellent!" was his reply. "I can't say how much longer my
analysis will keep me. By all means do so, Walter. I shall be
here, or, if not, I'll leave a note so you can find me."
Accordingly, I took up my search, determined to go slowly and
carefully, not to be misled by any promising but fallacious
clues. I knew that Werner would be working at the studio, from
all we had heard in the morning. I determined upon a visit to his
apartment in his absence.
From the telephone book I discovered that he lived at the
Whistler Studios, not far from Central Park on the middle West
Side--a new building, I remembered, inhabited almost entirely by
artists and writers. As I hurried down on the Subway, then turned
and walked east toward the Park, I racked my brain for an excuse
to get in. Entering the lower reception hall, I learned from the
boy that the director had a suite on the top floor, high enough
to look over the roofs of the adjoining buildings directly into
the wide expanse of green and road, of pond and trees beyond.
"Mr. Werner isn't in, though," the boy added, doubtfully, without
ringing the apartment.
"I know it," I rejoined, hastily. "I told him I'd meet him here
this afternoon, however." On a chance I went on, with a knowing
smile, "I guess it was pretty late when he came in last night?"
"I'll say so," grinned the youth, friendly all of a sudden. He
had interpreted the remark as I intended he should. He believed
that Werner and I had been out together. "I remember," he
volunteered, "because I had to do an extra shift of duty last
night, worse luck. It must have been after four o'clock. I was
almost asleep when I heard the taxi at the door."
"I wonder what company he got the taxi from?" I remarked,
casually. "I tried to get one uptown--" I paused. I didn't want
to get into a maze of falsehood from which I would be unable to
extricate myself.
"I don't know," he replied. "It looked like one of the Maroon
taxis, from up at the Central Park Hotel on the next block, but
I'm not sure."
"I think I won't go upstairs yet," I said, finally. "There's
another call I ought to make. If Mr. Werner comes in, tell him
I'll be back."
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