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Page 79
"Of course!" Manton's voice rose slightly. "If Werner wasn't dead
I wouldn't need another director at a moment's notice. Some one
has to complete 'The Black Terror.' We have all these people on
salary, and all the studio expense, and the release date's
settled, so that we can't stop. It's your chance, Kauf! Do you
want it?"
"Y-yes, sir!"
"Good! I'll double your salary, including all this week. Now can
you finish this banquet set to-night, while you have the people--s"
"To-night!" Kauf's eyes went wide, then he started to flush.
"Well, to-morrow, then! We simply can't lay off a day, Kauf!"
"All--all right, sir!"
It seemed to me that everyone in the place sensed the horror of
this. Literally, actually, Werner's body could not be cold. Even
the police, the medical examiner, had not had sufficient time to
make the trip out for their investigation. Yet the director's
successor had been appointed and told to hurry the production.
I glanced at Phelps. He raised his head slowly, his expression
lifting at the thought that production was to continue without
interruption. In another moment, however, there was a change in
his face. His eyes sought Manton and hardened. His mouth
tightened. Hate, a deep, unreasoning hate, settled into his
features.
Kennedy, pausing just long enough to observe the promoter's
appointment of Kauf to Werner's position, continued on toward the
set. Now as I looked about I saw that Jack Gordon was missing, as
well as Marilyn Loring. Presumably they had gone to their
dressing rooms. All the other actors and actresses were waiting,
ill at ease, wondering at the outcome of the tragedy.
Suddenly Kennedy stopped and I grasped that it was the peculiar
actions of Merle Shirley which had halted him.
The heavy man was the only one of the company actually in the
fabricated banquet hall itself. Clinging to him still were the
grim flowing robes of the Black Terror. As though he were some
old-fashioned tragedian, he was pacing up and down, hands behind
his back, head bowed, eyes on the floor. More, he was mumbling to
himself. It was evident, however, that it was neither a pose nor
mental aberration. Shirley was searching for something, out in
the open, without attempt at concealment, swearing softly at his
lack of success.
Kennedy pushed forward. "Did you lose something, Mr. Shirley?"
"No!" The heavy man straightened. As he drew himself up in his
sinister garb I thought again of the cheap actors of a day when
moving pictures had yet to pre-empt the field of the lurid
melodrama. It seemed to me that Merle Shirley was overacting,
that it was impossible for him to be so wrought up over the
slaying of a man who, after all, was only his director, certainly
not a close nor an intimate relationship.
"Mr. Kennedy," he stated, ponderously, "there has been a second
death, and at the hand which struck down Stella Lamar in
Tarrytown. Somewhere in this banquet hall interior there is a
clue to the murderer. I have kept a careful watch so that nothing
might be disturbed."
"Do you suspect anyone?" Kennedy asked. Shirley glanced away and
we knew he was lying. "No, not definitely."
"Who has been in the set since I left with the doctor?"
"No one except myself, that is"--Shirley wanted to make it clear--
"no one has had any opportunity to hide or move or take or
change a thing, because I have been right here all the time."
"I see! Thanks, and"--Kennedy seemed genuinely apologetic--"if
you don't mind--I would prefer to make my investigation alone."
Shirley turned on his heel and made for his dressing room.
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