Chapter IV: Mounting Mystery

Dawn streaked the eastern sky with orange and gold. A crispness in the air made Margot draw her cape closer about her. She and Gene had spent the intervening hour in Mrs. Bellew’s basement room, and now they stood on her own roof-garden, reveling in fresh air after the stuffy atmosphere below, and watching the beauty of the dawn through an open space between two houses to the east of them.

Margot had more than a stuffy atmosphere to get rid of. She wanted, for a brief moment, to shake off the memory of nerve-racking hours, first in the room with the creature of the hand and arm, and, since Boyle’s sensational climax, the bored depression of listening patiently to Mrs. Bellew’s wailings, and warnings of still more trouble to come. The landlady could conceive of no human agency in the appearance of the ghostly hand and arm. No speculation as to human motives or mystery were of interest to her. The only explanation that seemed to fit the case for Mrs. Bellew, was a spiritual one. In plain simple vernacular, the house was “haunted,” and would continue to be haunted, therefore bad luck would attend it and her. She had a ten-year lease and the law would not release her because of ghostly visitations. It was equally certain that no tenants would remain with her once the truth should become known.

Margot had always been interested in psychic phenomena, and was too open-minded to be skeptical as regards any psychic manifestation. But in this instance she stuck to her belief that the amazing hand belonged to the body of a living--a sinister--human criminal.

Quinlan and Boyle were at this moment prowling heavily about Margot’s room, and wrangling as to whether anyone had seen anything come out from under the bed. They had reported to the station house by telephone, after Boyle had steadied his shaken nerves, and had been ordered to remain where they were and get to the bottom of the matter if possible.

Margot turned from the narrowed but close view of the East River, glistening in the first sun-rays of early morning, and motioned to Gene to listen to the policemen inside the room.

“Listen to them, Gene! They’re awfully amusing.”

Argument and rehearsal of the night’s drama, ended each time with something like this:

“The young lady maybe was dreaming, as you say, Quinlan, and maybe she _wasn’t_ dreaming. All _I_ know about it is that _I_ seen it with me mortal--me wakin’--eyes,--a thin, white hand it was,--the hand of a ghost, God have mercy on us!”

“Ghosts!” Margot gave a low chuckle as she heard the disgust and scorn in Quinlan’s voice. “Ghosts, is it? Ain’t ye ashamed to have such a heathen thought!”

“Heathen, am I? Well, tell me this, if ye’re so smart ye are! The young lady saw a hand put out a match she had dropped on the floor. The light she saw was a match burning. Get that don’t ye? How about the flame of light I seen with me own eyes? It wasn’t a match, I’ll tell ye that, for I hadn’t lighted no match, and that ye know as well as I do.”

Quinlan’s reply was a grunt that scorned further argument. Margot’s smile faded as she turned serious eyes to Gene.

“That’s just it, Gene! Even that ignorant man in there, sees something there that can’t be explained by ordinary theories. That’s what would make almost any intelligent person feel sure that the mystery has a psychic meaning. But nevertheless, I’m sure it’s something else.”

“See here, Margot darling. Don’t be angry with me if I say--what it’s easier to say in the cold light of morning--that you _may_ have had a sort of waking dream--a realistic staging of your imagination which fooled you into thinking that--well, that it wasn’t your imagination at all. I happen to know that such things have occurred even to unimaginative persons.”

“All right, old dear, granted, for the sake of argument.” Her smile accepted his skepticism without the resentment she had felt a few hours before. “And granting that, of course it’s quite simple to explain what Boyle experienced as the fevered imagination of a superstitious Irishman. But there still remains the smudge on the rug. You can’t suppose that I got out of bed, terrorized as I was, before you got there, and it is certain that neither of us made that mark _after_ your arrival.”

“Dearest, that match might have fallen there before you went to bed, and been stepped on by you, unobserved.”

“Now, see here, Gene! I know that ‘evening thoughts grow cold at night,’ to quote some philosopher, or, to paraphrase him, midnight thoughts freeze up entirely before daylight. Before you called the police you were ready to concede that I wasn’t _imagining_ things. And you agreed to help me get to the bottom of what I consider a mystery--a human mystery, not a psychic one. Now, are you going back on your offer?”

“Absolutely not! I’ll do anything you want, and not express a doubt to anyone.”

“Righto! Then stop expressing them to me, from now on. And now let’s go out and rustle some breakfast. After I’ve braced up with some strong coffee I’ll come back here and dress to go to the studio.”

“And by the way,” she added, “if you get to the shop before me, don’t you breathe a word to anyone! It’s _my_ story and I want the fun of telling it.”

When Margot returned to her room a half hour later, she found Quinlan a trifle dubious about leaving her alone in the room. She told him that she had to dress for the day--bathe, etc.--and asked them to wait on the landing, if they absolutely wouldn’t go down stairs.

Daylight--sunlight--made of her room so cheerful and normal, even so commonplace a setting--so absurd a setting for mystery and mystic marauders--that she laughed at the notion of keeping two policemen there all day on guard. Of course there was nothing queer or inimical lurking about now in broad daylight! Time enough to watch the room after nightfall.

She felt weary, utterly let down, now that the excitement of her midnight adventure had abated. Young as she was, and pretty, she could not afford to go to the studio looking fagged, with unbecoming shadows beneath the eyes and the iris clouded from lack of sleep. A hot tub, a cold shower, setting-up exercises, and a moderate disposal of rouge and powder over her clear skin, and she was ready for the fray. Instinctively she always half expected it to be some sort of a fray with Stoner as director and would-be lover.

Arriving at Astoria about nine o’clock, she hurried to the main production floor. Her big scene in _A Toreador’s Love_, was to be shot to-day, she remembered, with a faint thrill of anticipation. She couldn’t possibly, in the present circumstances, feel more than a mild thrill over anything unrelated to the mystery she was so eager to unravel. However--it behooved her to forget it for a while, charm Stoner if need be, and certainly to fulfill the promise she had shown in previous scenes of making good in her big scene.

Tall scenic creations--the sides of buildings, garden walls embowered in greenery, the prows of ships--were jumbled together, leaned against each other in stacks. The place suggested that mysterious region behind the curtain, stage and backstage, of many opera houses thrown into one fantastic whole. Carpenters and mechanics hammered and hauled. In the midst of the confusion, here and there, were completed sets where scenes were being shot; rooms furnished to the last detail, with only one or two walls apiece, rooms where actors strolled and mimed, and upon which blazed the batteries of assembled Kleig lights.

Margot knew that the movies have a doctrine of efficiency to which they seldom adhere. Promptness was an unwritten law, but when you were told to be on hand at nine o’clock sharp for the filming of a scene prepared the day before, if you were in costume by eleven it would be too early because the cast would probably have luncheon before settling down to work. The amount of time wasted throughout the day was truly remarkable. Margot knew her set was not even ready, and that the instructions given her to be on time were little more than an official gesture.

However--might as well be ready! She changed her clothes then picked her way through the tangle of props to where May Cheshire, Lulu Leinster and other girls were chatting. They were all in their street clothes, Margot observed with a smile. Through the slats of a cabin on wheels--Corinne Delamar’s dressing-room--shone electric lights indicating that the star was “making-up.” Frederick Stoner, for once, lounged silently, while the stage hands adjusted a Spanish balcony. What was the matter with Stoner, Margot wondered, with amused indifference! She had never before seen him so restfully quiescent--restful for all the rest of them.

A quick glance at the incurious faces of the girls assured her that Gene had kept silent as to what had happened. But of course Gene would, even if he hadn’t promised her to do so. Gene, who had maneuvered to be the camera man on this particular job, stood apart from the crowd, tinkering with his camera. His back was turned to her. Margot had a sudden impulse to go up and speak to him. It would be incautious, perhaps, to indicate the very faintest friendly interest in Gene while they were in the shop. It might irritate Stoner but--to perdition with Stoner! She’d do what she wanted to, such a little thing anyway. And Gene was _such_ a brick!

She approached him with a gentle:

“Hello, Gene!”

He swung around at the sound of her voice, almost dropping what he held in his hand. His eager eyes swept her from head to foot. He hadn’t seen her in this Spanish rig before.

“By the Lord, Margot, you’re stunning! Beautiful Andalusian, except for that glimpse of your hair.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You’re as fresh and lovely as if you hadn’t been up all night.”

“All depends, you know, what you’re about, when you’re up all night. They say that when you’re keenly interested in something or somebody, you don’t show fatigue, and you’ll have to admit that I was keenly interested in _something_--_and somebody_!” She laughed, looking at him out of the corners of her roguish eyes.

“I suppose you’re endowing a myth--an apparition--with personality,” he said a little somberly.

“Take care!” She shook a finger at him. “You promised not to express the least doubt in future, even to me. But, as a matter of fact, old dear, when I used the word ‘somebody,’ I really _meant_ you.”

The sudden light in his eyes warned her that it was no place in which to play with fire, the fire being in Gene’s eyes. She whispered that she’d see him later in the day, and turned to join the other girls. Just then Stoner saw her. He stood only a few feet away, but he approached nearer, where she stood next to Lulu Leinster.

“Hello!” he greeted her, appraising her with his quick, shrewd eyes. “Top of the morning! Sleep well, after that grand little party of yours?”

“Not a wink!” Her bright glance was friendly enough, but she did not smile. She often gave the impression of smiling when actually her mobile lips remained closed.

“What on earth--” he began, sincerely mystified. “You don’t mean that the mild drinks and our milder society, made you as wakeful as all that?”

“Oh no, I don’t mean that!” Her smile was vaguely irritating to him. “I didn’t sleep a wink because I was rehearsing the first scene in New York’s greatest detective mystery.”

For a second his eyes narrowed, or she thought they did, and seemed to probe back of her words. Then his expression changed swiftly to an amused understanding of her light mood. A mere jest, of course, he seemed to say with the smile on his full lips.

He stepped a little closer to her, but did not raise his voice.

“Trying to call attention to your youth and beauty by pretending that they’re proof even against a sleepless night? You don’t need to, my dear.” His bold glance was like an unwelcome caress.

The unexpected twist he had given her remark, annoyed her, and his glance was an affront.

“Nothing of the sort! I _was_ awake all night, and it _did_ concern a mystery.”

Again he studied her, a little puzzled.

“Guess it would take a good live mystery to keep _you_ awake, Margot. You couldn’t work yourself up to such a pitch just by telling or listening to a tale like the one you gave us about that girl who disappeared, and the old fellow.”

She had almost forgotten the story about Stella Ball and the man Murchison. Odd, too, because she recalled that when Mrs. Bellew had nearly gone into hysterics when the policemen were examining the room, it had struck her as remotely possible that there might be a connection between the old and the new mystery. Now, she felt suddenly, with a little shudder, that it might be more than remotely possible.

“You’ve said it, Mr. Stoner! That’s just what it was and is--‘a good, live mystery.’ And something new to fact and fiction. A creature without a body or a face. It was in my room for hours.”

The other girls were crowding around her, pushing and buzzing like a swarm of insects. She smiled at one and the other, then, with another glance at the director, she said calmly:

“A policeman saw it, too!”

In the midst of the chirping and excited cries of the girls, she distinguished Stoner’s low exclamation of astonishment.

“A policeman! What on earth were you doing with a policeman?”

“Nothing wrong, I trust.” She could not resist the facetious retort, nor control the smile of amusement that almost broke into a laugh at Stoner’s angry dignity. The girls, at least, had the sense to giggle, but that only made Stoner more indignant.

“See here, my dear young friend, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me, and so have you. Can’t waste time with foolish cracks. You made a statement regarding a policeman. Was that your little joke?”

“No it wasn’t!” she snapped, her eyes suddenly flashing. Stoner annoyed her. “Something darn queer happened last night--_so_ darn queer, that I called Gene Valery on the phone, because, frankly, I was frightened out of my wits, then we called the police.”

Open-mouthed and speechless interest greeted her on the part of the girls, and a few men standing by now, on the edge of the circle around her. To her surprise, Stoner also was silent, watching her intently out of half-closed eyes. She gave them the story from beginning to end, repeating the high spots for the emotional avidity of the May and Lulu types of mind. She hardly expected very intelligent or constructive comment from any of them, but Stoner’s first remark surprised her. She had counted on him for a bit of racy skepticism. But he said, with a dark frown:

“Rotten thing to have happened--rotten!”

“Why rotten?” Her sense of irritation with him increased. “I may have to wait a long time for another such break in the monotony of my life.”

“Should think you’d rather have some other kind of diversion than a low-down burglar sneaking in and out of your room at night.”

“Who said it was a burglar?” Again she snapped at him. “Nothing so commonplace as that, I assure you, or I shouldn’t have taken the trouble to talk about it.” She caught Gene’s eyes over the heads of the excited girls. He had approached and stood outside the circle. She addressed him directly.

“I’d call it an extraordinary mystery, wouldn’t you, Gene?”

“Decidedly extraordinary,” he said quietly.

Stoner’s quick glance at Gene warned her that she might dare much in personal encounters with the director, but that for Gene’s sake and her own, she must be more cautious where he was concerned. She contrived to smile more pleasantly at Stoner.

“Yes, it’s a mystery, and what’s more, _I’m_ going to solve it!”

“Want to be a female Sherlock Holmes, eh?” he said sullenly. “Well, I’d advise you not to. There’s danger, meddling with that sort of thing.”

Something in his tone and manner warned the girls that their director would prefer to talk alone with Margot. They faded away regretfully, their curiosity by no means sated. The men strolled off and Margot found herself facing Stoner’s eyes in which there lurked, or she fancied it, a faint menace--the menace of a will opposed to her own. She took up the gauntlet.

“What do you mean by danger, Mr. Stoner?”

“Danger of your melodramatic story breaking into the newspapers.”

“I don’t understand,” she frowned at him. “What if it did? I’m neither a society bud nor a sister of mercy. I am--or trying to be--a motion picture actress. If publicity ever hurt any woman in _this_ profession, it’s news to me.” Her smile was a little mocking.

“See here, Margot!” He threw off suddenly his aggressive manner. “You know I’ve done all I could to give you a chance,--shove you ahead. I’ve no object in giving you a wrong lead. When I advise you to lay off of freakish publicity, it’s only for your own good.”

Mollified, but still dubious and puzzled, she said:

“But I’m not planning to do _anything_ just for the sake of a write-up. My investigation of my little mystery is going to be dead serious. If the papers get hold of it and send reporters to me, I’ll give them a straight story. What’s wrong about that? They make up what you don’t tell them, anyway.”

Stoner seemed to hesitate, then he said quietly:

“I see I’ve got to be frank with you, Margot. You’re not a star _yet_, my dear girl, and you can’t afford to pull front page stuff that would make the leading lady sore.”

Taken by surprise, Margot stared at him.

“You mean--Corinne Delamar?”

“Think she’d like to see _you_ head-lined, when _she_ hasn’t been able to make the papers in a big way since we started this picture?”

“Why--I hadn’t thought of her at all.”

“Well, girlie, you’ve got a think coming. She’d be sore as hell, take it from me. I know her.”

“Of course,” Margot began doubtfully, “I don’t wish to antagonize Miss Delamar. But how do you know she wouldn’t get interested herself, if she knew what a strange experience I’ve had! Suppose I tell her about it?”

“No! Drop the whole business--please!” Stoner’s face was flushed and there was sharp command in his voice.

More annoyed with him than she had ever been before, Margot flashed angry rebellion at him, then she turned away with brusque indifference to appearances, walked off the floor and went upstairs to the dressing room she shared with a few other girls.

She was more than annoyed at Stoner’s unsympathetic attitude, and what struck her as an attempt to bully her. The more she pondered the matter, the more puzzled she grew. If he were sincere in his stand regarding publicity, why had he vacillated in argument? First he had warned her against the harm of freakish notoriety, then he had switched to the possibility of arousing the star’s hostility.

Suddenly the absurdity of it all struck her--her own absurdity above all, for it _was_ ridiculous of her to have taken Stoner so seriously, and not seen below the surface to his real motive. The simple truth, so she felt, was that Stoner was indulging unreasoning and petty jealousy of Gene. He hated the thought that Gene and not himself had been associated with her in an adventure. He hated still more the idea of this association becoming public news. She recalled his glum demeanor when she had told of Gene coming to her supposed rescue. Obviously, Stoner would go far to prevent a sensational sequel to the adventure, which would bracket her name with that of the man whom he regarded as an impudent rival. It would be most galling to a man of Stoner’s character.

Finally she resolved that nothing should induce her to discuss the matter in the studio again that day--or any other day, for that matter! And she stuck to her decision in the face of a regular bombardment of feminine questions. Stoner was less easy to avoid. He had more approaches than one. He led her aside about an hour after she had reappeared on the set. His first remark was so blunt and apparently sincere, that it took her off guard.

“So you won’t credit me with being in love for the first time in my life?”

Her stare of surprise was as frank as his question.

“Why--really,” she stalled, with a faint smile. “I never consider such things in working hours.”

“Be serious!” he commanded frowning. “You’d better understand, first as last, that we’re both in a game where love and work are often mixed up, pretty close sometimes.”

She loathed him for his implication of favoritism at a price. With a cool little smile, she said:

“I’ve told you several times, Mr. Stoner, that I’m not the least interested in the game of love, just at present, with you or any other man. I mean what I say. Why insist?”

“Because I want to get it well into your head that I really am seriously in love with you. I’d like you to believe in me, even if you can’t love me--yet. Now, take that question of my advice about publicity. You acted as if you thought I was trying to injure you.”

“Oh, no,” she said sweetly. “I’m quite willing to acknowledge your good intentions.” She could not control the touch of sarcasm in her smile. But he seemed not to notice it, which was as well.

He grew more cheerful. His smile was ingratiating.

“I’ve been thinking that it mightn’t do any harm to make a cautious investigation of your spook. Suppose we go over it together. Have dinner with me, then, afterwards, we could look through your quarters for clues.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stoner, and thank you very much, but I have an engagement to-night.”

His face clouded instantly. “As usual,” he growled.

She passed that up, then said gently:

“Even if I could dine with you, to-night, Mr. Stoner, my mystery wouldn’t form part of your entertainment. Second thoughts are not always best. Not in this case anyway. You told me emphatically to drop my mystery--not investigate it. And that’s that!”

They stood looking at each other, Margot serene and smiling, Stoner scowling and affronted. Then, her eyes, with their uncanny power to detect thought or emotion in other eyes superficially inexpressive, witnessed for the third time since she had first met him, that strange dilating of the small pupil; that queer overtone as of a yellowish shadow darkening the pale blue of the iris; that shimmer in the eyeball, like dust specks seen in a sunbeam. She had once more that sensation of hearing something she could not understand; something that he was unconscious of saying.

Then Stoner walked away, and Margot stood motionless, with an intangible, vague wonder in her groping mind.

Hours later, Margot, standing on the side lines, dressed as _Conchita_, felt no surprise that her director had so manipulated matters during the balance of the day, that her scene was not called. As she watched the filming of secondary shots, she felt relief that her first important scene had been postponed. She was in no mood to do herself credit, and she was glad that Stoner’s petty resentment had given her such a good chance to rest and wait. If he had intended to make her regret her treatment of him, how disappointed he would be, if he knew the truth.

Suddenly she was aware of Corinne Delamar’s rather arrogant stare from across the lot. A scene had just been finished, and the star stood at ease, smoking a cigarette. For the moment Stoner was busy and unobservant. Margot stared back, but without impudence. It was rather as if she said to Corinne: Well, sorry you don’t like me. Suppose you tell me why!

The unspoken challenge reached perhaps to the brain of Miss Delamar. Deliberately and slowly she crossed to where Margot stood. She went close to her before she spoke. Then she said:

“I want to talk with you, Miss Anstruther. Will you come to my dressing-room?”

Surprised, but not averse to an encounter--she felt vaguely that it would be that--with the star, Margot smiled her willingness to follow Corinne to her dressing-room. A couple of uncomfortable chairs, two cigarettes, a slight pause over the ponderous matter of lighting them, and then:

“What’s your little game?” drawled Corinne, lazily puffing and inhaling and blowing smoke through her small nose.

Margot, with a gasp and the flashing thought that never would she learn to cope with women of the star’s type, said gently:

“I’m sorry if I’m stupid, Miss Delamar, but I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Oh--_don’t_ you?”

Vague suggestion of insolence made the blood mount swiftly in Margot’s face. It showed through her make-up.

“Frankly, I don’t,” she repeated gently. “I might imagine many things, but I prefer not to.”

“Well, I’d hate to have you overwork your imagination, so I’ll help you out. Are you playing Frederick Stoner just on general business principles, or is it something more--personal?”

Quick resentment flamed into Margot’s gray eyes, but she controlled herself to say gently:

“Will you tell me what right you have, Miss Delamar, to assume that I’m ‘playing’--as you call it--the director, from any motive whatsoever?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, please! Try to talk as if you gave me credit for having at _least_ as much intelligence as yourself.”

Margot half rose from her chair, on the impulse to leave Corinne forthwith, not condescending to give her a reply, rude or courteous. But another impulse followed and held her in her chair. For some reason too vague to analyze, she wanted to conciliate Corinne, if this could be done without loss of dignity.

“Miss Delamar, please try to believe me when I tell you that I am _not_ making use of the director, either for professional purposes or personal ones. I’ve tried, of course, to be friendly with him. Who doesn’t? I’m quite sure that a girl can’t expect to get very far in pictures, without favoritism or some sort of pull or backing, unless maybe she has extraordinary talent.”

“Tell me--which of us two--you or I--has ‘extraordinary talent’?” Corinne’s pretty lips twisted in a smile of malice and irony.

Margot detested flattery, but she caught the implication in Corinne’s question--unexpectedly clever of Corinne!--and realized that she was treading on thin ice. Corinne was a violent little thing. Better not arouse her.

“Well, I’m fairly sure _I_ haven’t got extraordinary talent, nevertheless I have hopes of getting on without influence, so I’ll modify what I said. A girl _may_ get on if she’s fairly good-looking, screens well, can act pretty well, and has a personality that helps to get her over.”

Corinne gave her a grudging smile.

“You’re smarter than I thought you were. You’ve summed up things flatteringly for both of us. I have all the assets you mention, so that lets _me_ out. No suggestion that _I’ve_ had any favoritism to boost me. And it lets you out too! Miss Anstruther, if I didn’t dislike you so much, I could almost find it in my heart to love you.” Her smile was not unamiable.

Frankly surprised, Margot said quickly:

“Why do you dislike me so much? I know you’ve avoided me, and I know that you think I’ve flirted with Stoner and--and--all that,” she fumbled with slight confusion, remembering the ridicule in the remarks of girls who had told her that the star was jealous of her and Stoner.

“Well, I’ll take your word for it. I kind of thought I saw signs of your having come over into my yard to play--when I haven’t been around. Understand, my dear? But if you say you’ve just kind of wandered in by mistake, and if you’ll agree to sort of leave my--my yard alone, why I guess I won’t hate you.”

If Corinne had used the word “property” instead of “yard,” her meaning could not have been clearer, Margot reflected, with eyes lowered to conceal her reflection. She rose and tried to smile cordially.

“I hope that you and I will be friends before this picture’s finished. I admire Mr. Stoner for his ability and for his jolly good nature which doesn’t often get spoiled. But, frankly, Miss Delamar, he isn’t at all my type, nor am I his. He’s interested, of course, in the talent he believes I have, but naturally--and _obviously_--he’s far more interested in _your_ talent.”

That ended the strange little interview, but not Margot’s reflections upon it. Late that afternoon Gene contrived hurriedly to make an appointment with her for dinner. They left the studio separately and met in New York at a specified restaurant. Afterwards they went to what Margot facetiously called the house of mystery.