She gave me a friendly smile. “You don’t look a bit like a detective,” she answered, “you look like a college boy.”
Just to put her in her place I said: “And you don’t look a bit like a screen star, you look like a little girl in grade school, rigged up for the school play.”
Just then a colored woman, her maid I guess, looked in and started to say, “Honey lamb, is you nearly—” Then when she saw me she changed to: “Look here, man, don’t you bring that cig-ret in here, you want to bum that child up?” I didn’t know what she meant for a minute, I wasn’t anywhere near Meadows.
“Hush up, Nellie,” Martha Meadows ordered with a smile. “She means this,” Meadows explained, and pointed to her dress. “It has celluloid underneath, to stiffen it. If a spark gets on it—” She was dressed as a Civil War belle, with a wide hoopskirt the size of a balloon. I pinched the cigarette out between my fingers in a hurry.
“Just cause it ain’t happen’, don’t mean it can’t happen,” snapped the ferocious Nellie, and went about her business muttering darkly to herself The dressing-room telephone rang and Meadows said: “Alright, I’m ready whenever you are.” She turned to me. “I have to go back on the set now. We’re shooting the big scene this afternoon.”
“Sorry,” I said, “but I’ll have to go with you, those are my orders.”
“It’s agreeable to me,” she said, “but the director mayn’t like outsiders watching him. He’s very temperamental, you know.”
I wasn’t even sure what the word meant, so I looked wise and said: “He’ll get over it.”
She started up and the three of us left the bungalow. I let the maid and her go in front and followed close behind them. They walked along a number of lanes between low one-story studio buildings and finally came to a big barn of a place that had sliding doors like a garage and a neat little sign up: Set VIII, Meadows, Civil War Picture. People were hanging around outside, some in costume and some not. They made way for her respectfully and she passed through them and went in. She bowed slightly to one or two and they nearly fell over themselves bowing back.
Inside, the place had a cement floor criss-crossed over with a lot of little steel rails like baby train tracks. They were for moving heavy camera trucks back and forth, and cables and ropes and wires and pulleys galore were dangling from the rafters. Canvas back-drops were stacked, like cards, up against the walls. But it wasn’t out here they were going to shoot the scene at all. There was a sound-proof door with a red light over it leading in to the “stage” itself, where the action was to take place.
Before we got to it, though, a bald-headed man in a pullover sweater came up to Meadows. He was about five feet tall and with a beak like an eagle’s. A girl carrying a thick notebook, like a stenographer’s dictation pad, was following him around wherever he went. I had him spotted for the director as soon as I looked at him,
“Who is this man?” he asked—meaning me. Then, when she told him, he raised both hands to his head and would have torn out some hair, only, as I said before, he was bald. “No,” he said, “I cannot work! There are too many people hanging around the stage already! First it was your colored maid. Now a detective! Who will it be next?”
A big argument started in then and there about whether I was to go in or stay out, with Meadows taking my part and the script-girl trying to calm the director down. “Now, Stormy,” she kept saying, “please don’t excite yourself, this isn’t good for you, remember how sensitive you are!” Finally I cut the whole thing short by saying I’d phone the chief and leave it up to him, as he was the one who had given me the assignment. But there was no telephone in the place and I had to go outside and call up headquarters fromthe studio cafeteria next door.
The chief went off like a firecracker. “What’s the matter with them anjrway? First they ask me for a bodyguard for her, then they start shooing him away. You go in there. Gal, and if they try to keep you out, quit the case cold and report back here to me. I’ll wash my hands of all responsibility for her safety!” Which was music to my ears, as I hadn’t liked the job from the start.
Sure enough, when I got back, the sound-proof door was already closed, the red light was on above it to warn that “shooting” was going on, and they had all gone in without waiting. There was a guard stationed outside the door to keep people from opening it by accident.
“She left word for you to wait out here,” he told me. “Stormann bullied her into going in without you.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” I burned. “The little shrimp! Who does he think he is? He may be the whole limburger around here but he isn’t even a bad smell to us down at headquarters!” The chief had told me what to do, but Stormann’s opposition somehow got my goat so beautifully that instead of quitting I hung around, just for the pleasure of telling him a thing or two when he came out. To crash in now would have ruined the scene, cost the company thousands of dollars, and maybe gotten Meadows in bad with her bosses; so I didn’t have the heart to do it.
“They’ll be through about four,” the guard told me. It was now a little before two.
Whether I would have stuck it out for two whole hours, outside that door, just to bawl Stormann out—I don’t know. I never will know. At 2:10 or thereabouts the door suddenly opened from the inside without any warning and through it came the horrible unearthly screams of the dying. Nothing could scream like that and live very long.
“Something’s happened!” he blurted. “That’s not in the scene! I know, because they were rehearsing it all morning—”
It was Meadows’ maid. Only she was almost white now. Her voice was gone from fright. “Oh, somebody—quick, somebody!” she panted. “I’ve been hammering on this door—” But she wasn’t the victim. The screaming went right on behind her.
I rushed in, the guard with me. The sight that met us was ghastly. Martha Meadows, with the cameras still playing on her, was burning to death there before everyone’s eyes. She was a living torch, a funnel of fire from head to foot, and screaming her life away. She was running blindly here and there, like some kind of a horrible human pin wheel, and they were all trying to overtake her and catch her to throw something over her and put the flames out. But she was already out of her head, mad with agony, and kept eluding them, ducking and doubling back and forth with hellish agility. What kept her going like that, with her life going up in blazing yellow-white gushes, I don’t understand. I’ll see that scene for years to come.
But I didn’t stand there watching. I flung myself at her bodily, head first right into the flames in a football tackle. With stinging hands I grasped something soft and quivering behind that glow that had once been cool, human flesh. The pillar of fire toppled over and lay horizontal along the ground, with the flames foreshortened now and just licking upward all around it like bright scallops. With that, a blanket or something was thrown over her, and partly over me, too. As it fell with a puff of horrid black smoke spurting out all around the edges, the last scream stopped and she was still.
I held my breath, so as not to inhale any of the damned stuff. I could feel rescuing hands beating all around the two of us through the blanket. After a minute I picked myself up. My hands were smarting, my shirt cuffs were scorched brown in places and peeling back, and sparks had eaten into the front of my suit. Otherwise I was alright. But what lay under the blanket didn’t move. Five minutes ago one of the most beautiful girls in America, and now something it was better not to look at if you had a weak stomach.
As if in gruesome jest, the winking eyes of the cameras were still turned upon her and, in the deathly silence that had now fallen, you could hear the whirring noise that meant they were still grinding away. No one had thought of signalling them to stop.
The guard who had been outside the door, though, had had the presence of mind to send in a call for help even before the flames had been beaten out. The studio had a first-aid station of its own a door or two away, and two men arrived with a stretcher and carried her out with them, s
till under the blanket. Nellie went with them, bellowing like a wounded steer and calling: “Oh, Lawd, oh Lawd, don’t do this to my lamb! Change yo’ mind, change yo’ mind!”
Stormann was shaking like a leaf and incoherent with shock, and had to be fed whiskey by one of the electricians. The girl with the notebook, the script-girl, was the only one there who seemed to have kept her head about her. I went up to her, dabbing some oil they’d given me onto the red patches on the back of my hands and wrists, and asked: “How’d it happen?”
It turned out she wasn’t as bright as I thought she’d be. “It happened right here,” she said. “I was following very closely, the way I’m supposed to—that’s my job.” I looked to find out where “here” was, but instead of pointing any place on the set, she was pointing at her book.
“See—where it says ‘Oh won’t he ever come?’ That’s her line. She’s supposed to be waiting by the window for her lover. Well, she spoke it alright, and then the next thing I knew, there was a funny flickering light on the pages of my book. When I looked up, I saw that it was coming from her. She had flames all over her. Well, just from force of habit, I quickly looked back at the book to find out whether or not this was part—”
I gave her up as a complete nut. Or at least a very efficient script-girl but a washout otherwise. I tackled Stormann next. He was on his third or fourth bracer by now and wringing his hands and moaning something about: “My picture, my beautiful picture—”
“Pull yourself together,” I snapped. “Isn’t there anyone around here who has a heart? She’s thinking about her book, you’re thinking about your picture. Well, I’m thinking about that poor miserable girl. Maybe you can tell me how it happened. You’re the director and you’re supposed to have been watching what went on!”
Probably no one had ever spoken to him that way in years. His mouth dropped open. I grabbed him by the shoulder, took his snifter away from him, and gave him a shake. “Let me have it, brother, before I go sour on you. I’m asking you for your testimony—as a witness. You can consider this a preliminary inquest.”
I hadn’t forgotten that it was his doing I’d been kept out of here earlier, either. Seeing that he wasn’t up against one of his usual yes-men, he changed his mind and gave until it hurt. “No one was near her at the time, I can’t understand what could have caused it. I was right here on the side-lines where I always sit, she was over there by that win—”
“Yeah, I know all that. Here’s what I’m asking you. Did you or did you not see what did it?” Not liking him, I got nasty with him and tapped him ten times on the chest with the point of my finger, once for each word, so it would sink in. The idea of anyone doing that to him was so new to him he didn’t dare let out a peep. “No,” he said, like a little kid in school.
“You didn’t. Well, was anyone smoking a cigarette in here?”
“Absolutely not!” he said. “No director allows it, except when the scene calls for it. The lenses would pick up the haze—”
“Did she touch any wires, maybe?”
“There aren’t any around, you can see for yourself. This whole thing’s supposed to be the inside of an old mansion.”
“What about this thing?” I picked up a lighted oil lamp that was standing on the fake window sill, but when I looked, I saw that it had an electric pocket-torch hidden in it. I put it down again. “Who was playing the scene with her? She wasn’t alone in it, was she?”
“Ruth Tobias. That girl crying over there.” I let him go back to his pain-killer and went over to tackle her. She was having grade-A hysterics across the back of a chair, but, as I might have known, on her own account, not poor Meadows’.
“Two whole years—” she gurgled, “two whole years to make a come back. I’ve waited—and now, look! They won’t hire me again. I’m getting older—”
“Alright sis, turn off the faucets,” I said. “Uncle wants to ask you something. What happened to her?”
She had on one of the same wide dresses as the kid had, but she was gotten up to look older—black gloves and a lorgnette with her hair in a cranky knot. At that, she wasn’t out of her twenties yet, but looked as though she’d been used as a filling-station for a bootlegger while she was out of work the last few years.
“I played her older sister,” she sniffled, “although they really had a nerve to cast me in an older part like that. I had to take anything I could get. I was in that rocker there on the set, facing her way. I’m supposed not to approve of the fellow she’s intending to run off with, but all I do to show it is to keep rocking back and forth. She had her back to me, over at the window— I tell you I was looking right at her and all of a sudden, fffi, she was on fire from head to foot! As quickly as that, and for no earthly reason that I could make out! All I had time to do was jump back out of the way myself—”
“You would,” I thought, but without saying so.
She gave me a sort of a come-on smile and said: “You’re not a bad-looking guy at all for a detective.”
“That’s what my wife and eighteen kids tell me,” I squelched her.
“Hmf” she said, and went over to chisel a drink from Stormann.
Just then they sent word in that, impossible as it sounded, Meadows was still breathing. She was going fast, though—just a matter of minutes now. They’d given her morphine to kill the pain.
“Is she conscious or out?” I asked.
“Semi-conscious.”
“Quick then, let me have a look at her before she goes!”
It was a slim chance, but maybe she, herself, knew what or who had done it. Maybe she, alone, of all of them, had seen what caused it and hadn’t been able to prevent it in time to save herself.
On my way out, I collared the guard, who was back at the door again keeping out the crowd of extras and employees who had heard the news.
“Consider yourself a deputy,” I said to him in an undertone. “See that they all stay where they are until I get back. Whatever you do, see that nothing’s touched on that set—not even a match stick. Keep everything just the way it is—”
It was a monstrous thing they showed me in that bed, dark as the room was. Without eyes, without ears, without nose, without any human attribute. An oversized pumpkin-head, a Hallowe’en goblin, made of yards and yards of interlaced gauze bandaging. It stood out whitely in the greenish dimness cast by the lowered shades. A crevice between the bandages served as a mouth. Atop the sheets were two bandaged paws. She was conscious, but partly delirious from the heat of the burns and “high” from the morphine that kept her from feeling the pain in her last moments. The faithful Nellie was there beside her, silent now and with her forehead pressed to the wall.
I bent close to the muffled figure, put my face almost up against the shapeless mound that was Martha Meadows, to try to catch the garbled muttering which came through the bandages. I couldn’t make it out. “Martha Meadows,” I begged, “Martha Meadows, what caused the accident?”
The muttering stopped, broke off short. I couldn’t tell whether she’d heard me or not. I repeated the question. Then suddenly I saw her head move slowly from side to side, slowly and slightly. “No—accident,” she mumbled. Then she repeated it a second time, but so low I couldn’t catch it any more. A minute later her head had lolled loosely over to the side again and stayed that way. She’d gone.
I went outside and stood there, lost in thought. I hadn’t found out what I’d come to find out—what did it—but I’d found out something else, much more important. “No—accident” meant it had been done purposely. What else could it mean? Or was I building myself a case out of thin air? Delirium, morphine—and a shaking of the head in her death-throes that I’d mistaken for “no”? I tried to convince myself I was just looking for trouble. But it wouldn’t work. I had an answer for every argument. She’d known what I was asking her just now. She hadn’t been out of her mind.
Death will strike during unconsciousness or sleep, maybe, but never during delirium. The mind will al
ways clear just before it breaks up, even if only an instant before. And hadn’t she gotten threatening letters and asked for protection? Anyway, I told myself, as long as there was a doubt in my mind, it was up to me to track it down until there wasn’t any doubt left—either one way or the other. That was my job. I was going to sift this thing down to the bottom,
Nellie came out. She wasn’t bellowing now any more like she had been on the set. “They musta been casting her in heaven today, but they sure picked a mis’able way to notify her,” she said with a sort of suppressed savagery. “I’m gonna buy me a bottle a’ gin and drink it down straight. If it don’t kill me the fust time, I’ll keep it up till it do. She’ll need a maid on the set up there fust thing and I ain’t gonna leave her flat!” She shuffled off, shaking her head.
I was hard-hearted enough to go after her and stop her. “That’s all right about heaven, auntie, but you don’t happen to know of anyone down below here who had a grudge against her, do you?”
She shook her head some more. “Stop yo’ mouth. She was everybody’s honey. Didn’t she even go to the trouble of axing ‘em and coazing ‘em to give that Miss Tobias a job in her picher on account of she felt sorry for her cause she was a back-number and nobody wanted her no-how?”
“What about those threats she got, where are they?”
“She turned ‘em over to her supe’visor. They weren’t nothing, everybody in the business gets ‘em. It means you a big-shot, that’s all.”
“You were there when it happened. What’d you see?”
“Weren’t nothing to see. ‘Pears like it musta been some of this here sponchaneous combusting.”
Darkness at dawn : early suspense classics Page 7