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Page 76
I know I was carried away by a sense of reality. It seemed to me
that waiters made endless trips to and fro, that here and there
pretty girls broke into laughter constantly or that men leaned
forward every other moment to make witty remarks; in fact I felt
genuinely sorry I could not take part in the festivities. I knew
that danger, in the person of the Black Terror as played by
Shirley, lurked just out the window. I felt delicious
anticipatory thrills of fear, so thoroughly was I in the spirit
of the thing. Then I saw that Werner was about to propose the
toast, about to give the cue for the big action.
"Watch him" whispered Kennedy. "He's an actor. He's taking that
drink just as though he meant every drop of it."
Werner had raised his delicately stemmed glass as though to join
his neighbor in some pledge when a new idea seemed to strike him.
He leaped to his feet.
"Let's drink together! Let's drink to our hero and heroine of the
evening!"
Other voices rose in acclamation. The wine had been poured
lavishly. Glasses clinked and we could hear laughter.
Suddenly at the window, back of everyone, appeared the evil,
black-masked figure of Shirley, eyes glittering menacingly from
their slits, two weapons glistening blue in his hands.
At the same moment there was a terrible groan, followed by a
scream of agony. Werner staggered back, his left hand clutched at
his breast. From his right hand the glass which he had drained
fell to the canvas covered floor with an ominous dull crash.
This was not in the script! Practically everybody realized the
fact, for the scene instantly was in an uproar. In the general
consternation no one seemed to know just what to do.
Shirley was the first to act, the first to realize what had
happened. Dropping his weapons, reaching the side of the stricken
director in one leap, he supported him as he reeled drunkenly,
then eased him to the floor. Behind us, before I could look to
Kennedy to see what he would do, there was the gasp of a man out
of breath from hurrying upstairs. I turned, startled. It was
Mackay.
"Shall I make the collar?" he wheezed. At the same instant he saw
the gathering crowd in the set. "What--what's happened?" he
asked.
Kennedy had bounded forward only a few seconds after Shirley. As
I pushed through after him, Mackay following, I discovered him
kneeling at the side of Werner.
"Some one send for a doctor, quick," he commanded, taking charge
of things as a matter of course. "Hurry!" he repeated. "He's
gasping for air and it'll be too late in a minute."
Then he saw us. "Walter--Mackay"--he raised Werner's head--"push
everyone back, please! Give him a chance to breathe!"
A thousand thoughts flashed through my head as politely but
firmly I widened the space about Kennedy and the director. Was
this a case of suicide? Had Werner known we were coming for him?
Had he thought to bring about his own end in the most spectacular
fashion possible? Was this the fancy of a drug-weakened brain?
Suddenly I realized that Werner was trying to speak. One of the
camera men had helped Kennedy lift him to the top of a table,
swept of its dishes and linen, so as to make it easier for him to
breathe.
"Out in Tarrytown," he muttered, weakly, "that night--I
suspected--and--saw--" His voice trailed off into nothingness.
Even the motion of his lips was too feeble to follow.
In an instant I grasped the cruel injustice I had done this man
in my mind. It was now that I remembered, in a flash, Kennedy's
attitude and was glad that Kennedy had not suspected him.
"See!" I faced Mackay, speaking in quick, low tones so the others
could not hear. "I--we--have been totally and absolutely wrong in
suspecting Werner. Instead, it was he who has been playing our
game--trying to confirm his own suspicions. I've been entirely
wrong in my deductions from the discovery of his dope and
needles."
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