The Film Mystery | Page 6

impressed into service, Kennedy swung the stand of
the arc he had used back into the place unaided. I noticed that Doctor Blake was
nervously interested in spite of his professional poise. I certainly was bursting with
curiosity to know what Kennedy had found.
The electrician, a wizened veteran of the studios, with a bald head which glistened rather
ridiculously, entered as though he expected to be held for the death of the star on the spot.
"I don't know nothin'," he began, before anyone could start to question him. "I was
outside when they yelled, honest! I was seeing whether m'lead was getting hot, and I
heard 'em call to douse the glim, an'--"
"Put on all your lights"--Kennedy was unusually sharp, although it was plain he held no
suspicion of this man, as he added--"just as you had them."
As the electrician went from stand to stand sulkily, there was a sputter from the arcs,
almost deafening in the confines of the room, and quite a bit of fine white smoke. But in a
moment the corner of the library constituting the set was brilliantly, dazzlingly lighted.
To me it was quite like being transported into one of the big studios in the city.
"Is this the largest portion of the room they used?" Kennedy asked. "Did you have your
stands any farther back?"
"This was the biggest lay-out, sir!" replied the man.
"Were all the scenes in which Miss Lamar appeared before her death in this corner of the
room?"
"Yes, sir!"
"And this was the way you had the scene lighted when she dropped unconscious?"
"Yes, sir! I pulled m'lights an'--an' they lifted her up and put her right there where she is,
sir!"
Kennedy paid no attention to the last; in fact, I doubt whether he heard it. Dropping to
hands and knees immediately, he began a search of the floor and carpet as minutely
painstaking as the inspection he had given Stella's own person. Instinctively I drew back,
to be out of his way, as did Doctor Blake and Mackay. The electrician, I noticed, seemed
to grasp now the reason for the summons which undoubtedly had frightened him badly.
He gave his attention to his lights, stroking a refractory Cooper-Hewitt tube for all the

world as if some minor scene in the story were being photographed. It was hard to realize
that it was not another picture scene, but that Craig Kennedy, in my opinion the founder
of the scientific school of modern detectives, was searching out in this strange
environment the clue to a real murder so mysterious that the very cause of death was as
yet undetermined.
I was hoping for a display of the remarkable brilliance Craig had shown in so many of the
cases brought to his attention. I half expected to see him rise from the floor with some
tiny something in his hand, some object overlooked by everyone else, some tangible
evidence which would lead to the immediate apprehension of the perpetrator of the crime.
That Stella Lamar had met her death by foul means I did not doubt for an instant, and so I
waited feverishly for the conclusion of Kennedy's search.
As it happened, this was not destined to be one of his cases cleared up in a brief few
hours of intensive effort. He covered every inch of the floor within the illuminated area;
then he turned his attention to the walls and furniture and the rest of the room in
somewhat more perfunctory, but no less skillful manner. Fully fifteen minutes elapsed,
but I knew from his expression that he had discovered nothing. In a wringing perspiration
from the heat of the arcs, but nevertheless glad to have had the intense light at his
disposal, he motioned to the electrician to turn them off and to leave the room.
"Find anything, Mr. Kennedy?" queried the physician once more.
Kennedy beckoned all of us to the side of the ill-fated actress. Lifting the right arm,
finding the spot which had caused his exclamation before, he handed his pocket lens to
Doctor Blake. After a moment a low whistle escaped the lips of the physician.
Next it was my turn. As I stooped over I caught, above the faint scent of imported
perfume which she affected, a peculiar putrescent odor. This it was which had caught
Kennedy's nostrils. Then through the glass I could detect upon her forearm the tiniest
possible scratch ending in an almost invisible puncture, such as might have been made by
a very sharp needle or the point of an incredibly fine hypodermic syringe. Drawing back,
I glanced again at her face, which I had already noted was blotched and somewhat
swollen beneath the make-up. Again I thought that the muscles were contorted,