"The man?" "Only a man—with the strength of a brute— could inflict such a wound," vigorously asserted the examiner. "It's demoniacal!"
"Then that lets the women out," said Corot, with a short laugh. "Except as accessories. Can you figure out anything about the size of the knife, Doctor?"
An unusual one," was the startling answer. "If I were back in the Philippines, on my old job, I'd swear it was made by a bolo."
"A bolo!" repeated the head of the Homicide Squad.
"A. terrible weapon," explained the physician. "Really a cane-knife, but used by the Igorottes in war—and head-hunting!"
"Then it was not a knife that one ordinarily would carry?"
"Lord, no! The blade was more than a foot long—that I'd swear!"
Inspector Corot appeared to be mentally mulling over the words of the Medical Examiner. Then he turned abruptly and made for the room where the members of the cast awaited him.
"Circulate about the studio," he said to the reporter who strode after him, "and see what you can learn about the Storme woman's past."
LITTLE had ever been known about the strange young leading woman who called herself Helene Storme. Tad Boone had spotted her in the cashier's cage of a side-street cafeteria in New York. She was the very type he was seeking for his new picture. So it was that the young woman, without previous experience, had found herself under contract, and in the Ajax Studios in Astoria.
Stony-faced, some had called her at her first appearance upon the lot. But under the magic touch of the director, some spark of life had kindled, to make of her a creature of flame and passion. However, when not acting, she was passive, unresponsive, like a woman buried within herself. But she had vindicated the judgment of her discoverer.
However, they were salty details of the girl's life that Inspector Corot looked for—marriages, men, morals! So the Blade man headed for the publicity department. But even Don Clark, its head, knew nothing more of Helene Storme.
"She's a mystery woman, I tell you, Dawson," he wailed. "No one, not even Tad, knows anything about her past—Lord, feller, I tried the old-home-town and mother-dear blab on her to get a story of her life, but I drew a blank, a blankety-blank. Poor sister, she's dead now, and can't help it, but she's making the first page."
Pandemonium reigned in the executive offices, as on the lot. Only one stage—Stage B— the one next to Tad Boone's—was in service, where a "western" was being made. But from the distraught attitude of the performers, it was plain that little would be accomplished that day.
The men of the company were being questioned as the Blade man rejoined Inspector Corot in the small room to which the witnesses were being admitted one at a time. However, the police learned little in the beginning. The stories of the players were as alike as two peas, only differing in their emotional points of view. That is, so far as the male performers were concerned.
The examination of the women was saved to the last. Before they were led in, Inspector Corot turned to the reporter.
"You might run out now," he suggested, with a meaningful look, "and see what Moody is about."
THE detective-sergeant was on his hands and knees behind the set of Stage A.
"No one crawled out through the left—or the back—as that Foye dame thinks," he grunted, as he scrambled to his feet. "There's no tracks below those dummy windows. The getaway was through that door on the right or the open stage front."
"It must have been the door, then," said Dawson quickly. "For the director and his assistants are certain no one could have passed between them and the players."
WELL, I don't know about that," Moody rumbled. "There was two actors in front of that door, and they're just as certain that nobody passed them in the dark. If everybody's right, then the murderer didn't lam. He's still with us!"
"How about the knife?" "Yeah!" said the detective-sergeant weakly. "Of course we've still got to find that. But once we dig it up—"
"Well, Tom," intruded the quiet voice of the inspector, unexpectedly. "Anything doing?"
"The search was a frost," admitted the assistant. "Not so much as a penknife on any of those babies, though there were plenty of corkscrews."
"Well, well," came from Corot impatiently. "What else?"
Moody hurriedly repeated his conclusions in regard to the escape of the murderer from the stage: "It looks as if he's sticking around," he said, then burst out: "Say, to hear that Miriam Foye talk, half the men around the studio were nuts about this dead woman. It's pretty sure some of 'em hated her because she wouldn't give 'em a tumble."
"Yes, I've heard about all she had to say on that score," remarked the inspector wearily, and added the gist of what Miriam Foye had told him. "But of course you realize that a lady scorned is not to be trusted too implicitly. However, I am sure that her tongue is her only weapon, and—" He wheeled as Tad Boone hurried up.
"It's okay, Inspector," panted the director. "All arrangements are made to re-enact th—er— that scene for you this evening. Of course the timing of the lights will be mere guesswork, but—"
"We may work that out—through a consensus of opinion," nodded the inspector. "By the way," he added, casually, "I've been listening to a little scandal. About this Clifford Holmes, for example—"
The director reddened, then paled. "There is Holmes, himself," he said. "Why not—"
"Let me talk to him!" blurted Moody, shoving out his jaw. "I'll tell him."
It was known that Corot used his sergeant for the rough stuff, but even the reporter was astonished at the latitude allowed the big detective-sergeant by the head of the Homicide Squad as Moody accosted the leading man of the Ajax Company.
"Look here, Holmes!" he bellowed, as he burst into the man's dressing room. "You threatened to kill Miss Storme, didn't you? We got the goods on you! What've you got to say?"
The slender, light-hearted actor appeared about to collapse.
"God!" he moaned, his face twisting. "To think I should be accused of that! Why—why— Helene meant—"
His voice died away and he slumped down onto a chair.
COROT touched his sergeant lightly on the arm, then drew a chair up in front of the agitated actor.
"Now, Mr. Holmes," he said softly, "no one is accusing you. The police have to tar that way at times to obtain information. But you can help me by answering a few questions... You were fond of Miss Storme, I believe, but quarreled with her recently."
"Good Lord, yes," Holmes half gasped. "I was in love with her, but she wouldn't take me seriously. I—I—maybe I did say some things—I never meant... Damn that little she-devil, Miriam Foye!" he burst out. "She said she would get me—when she heard—Listen Inspector, I—"
THE inspector arose and turned away with a shrug. "We may have some more to say later," he remarked coldly, "about—that lover's quarrel."