blinked, thinking that my eyes were tricking me. Something like a glowing fog—oval, tall as a man—was moving across the screen. You’ve seen the nimbus of light on the screen when a flashlight is turned directly on the camera? Well—it was like that, except that its source was not traceable. And, horribly, it moved forward at about the pace a man would walk.
The amplifier clicked again. Forrest said, “When I saw it on the negative I thought I was screwy, Mart. I saw the take—there wasn’t any funny light there—”
The oval, glowing haze was motionless beside Jean, and she was looking directly at it, a smile on her lips. “Mart, when that was taken, Jean was looking right at the French guy!”
I said, somewhat hoarsely, “Hold it, Forrest. Right there.”
The images slowed down, became motionless. Jean’s profile was toward the camera. I leaned forward, staring at something I had glimpsed on the girl’s neck. It was scarcely visible save as a tiny, discolored mark on Jean's throat, above the jugular—but unmistakably the same wound I had seen on the throat of Jack Hardy the night before!
I heard the amplifier click off. Suddenly the screen showed blindingly white, and then went black.
I waited a moment, but there was no sound from the booth.
“Forrest,” I called. “You okay?”
There was no sound. The faint whirring of the projector had died. I got up quickly and went to the back of the theater. There were two entrances to the booth, a door which opened on stairs leading down to the alley outside, and a hole in the floor reached by means of a metal ladder. I went up this swiftly, an ominous apprehension mounting within me.
Forrest was still there. But he was no longer alive. He lay sprawled on his back, his wizened face staring up blindly, his head twisted at an impossible angle. It was quite apparent that his neck had been broken almost instantly.
I sent a hasty glance at the projector. The can of film was gone! And the door opening on the stairway was ajar a few inches.
I stepped out on the stairs, although I knew I would see no one. The white-lit broad alley between Stages 6 and 4 was silent and empty.
The sound of running feet came to me, steadily growing louder. A man came racing into view. I recognized him as one of the publicity gang. I hailed him.
“Can’t wait,” he gasped, but slowed down nevertheless.
I said, “Have you seen anyone around here just now? The—Chevalier Futaine?”
He shook his head. “No, but—” His face was white as he looked up at me. “Hess Deming’s gone crazy. I’ve got to contact the papers.”
Ice gripped me. I raced down the stairs, clutched his arm.
“What do you mean?” I snapped. “Hess was all right when I left him. A bit tight, that’s all.”
His face was glistening with sweat. “It’s awful—I’m not sure yet what happened. His wife—Sandra Colter—came to life while they were cremating her. They saw her through the window, you know—screaming and pounding at the glass while she was being burned alive. Hess got her out too late. He went stark, raving mad. Suspended animation, they say—I’ve got to get to a phone, Mr. Prescott!”
He tore himself away, sprinted in the direction of the administration buildings.
I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper. It was the note I had found in Hess Deming’s house. The words danced and wavered before my eyes. Over and over I was telling myself, “It can’t be true! Such things can’t happen!”
I didn’t mean Sandra Colter’s terrible resurrection during the cremation. That, alone, might be plausibly explained—catalepsy, perhaps. But taken in conjunction with certain other occurrences, it led to one definite conclusion—and it was a conclusion I dared not face.
What had poor Forrest said? That the chevalier was taking Jean to the Cocoanut Grove? Well—
The taxi was still waiting. I got in.
“The Ambassador,” I told the driver grimly. “Twenty bucks if you hit the green lights all the way.”
CHAPTER III.
THE BLACK COFFIN
All night I had been combing Hollywood—without success. Neither the Chevalier Futaine nor Jean had been to the Grove, I discovered. And no one knew the Chevalier’s address. A telephone call to the studio, now ablaze with the excitement over the Hess Dcming disaster and the Forrest killing, netted me exactly nothing. I went the rounds of Hollywood night life vainly. The Trocadero, Sardi’s, all three of the Brown Derbies, the smart, notorious clubs of the Sunset eighties—nowhere could I find my quarry. I telephoned Jack Hardy a dozen times, but got no answer. Finally, in a “private club” in Culver City, I met with my first stroke of good luck.
“Mr. Hardy’s upstairs,” the proprietor told me, looking anxious. “Nothin’ wrong, I hope, Mr. Prescott? I heard about Deming.”
“Nothing,” I said. “Take me up to him.”
“He’s sleeping it off,” the man admitted. “Tried to drink the place dry, and I put him upstairs where he’d be safe.”
“Not the first time, eh?” I said, with an assumption of lightness. “Well, bring up some coffee, will you? Black. I’ve got to—talk to him.”
But it was half an hour before Hardy was in any shape to understand what I was saying. At last he sat up on the couch, blinking, and a gleam of realization came into his sunken eyes.
“Prescott,” he said, “can’t you leave me alone?”
I leaned close to him, articulating carefully so he would be sure to understand me. “I know what the Chevalier Futaine is,” I said.
And I waited for the dreadful, impossible confirmation, or for the words which would convince me that I was an insane fool.
Hardy looked at me dully. “How did you find out?” he whispered.
An icy shock went through me. Up to that moment I had not really believed, in spite of all the evidence. But now Hardy was confirming the suspicions which I had not let myself believe.
I didn’t answer his question. Instead, I said, “Do you know about Hess?" He nodded, and at sight of the agony in his face I almost pitied him. Then the thought of Jean steadied me.
“Do you know where he is now?” I asked.
“No. What are you talking about?” he flared suddenly. “Are you mad, Mart? Do you—”
“I’m not mad. But Hess Deming is.”
He looked at me like a cowering, whipped dog.
I went on grimly: “Are you going
