Then he looked at the newspaperman and smiled slowly, "Got our man!" he said, like one who relieved suffering. "All but the collar."
"Who—what—how—?" Dawson spluttered. "You—you—"
But already Corot was on his feet and donning topcoat and hat. In the police car, Moody and Carroll were waiting. "Studio!" clipped Corot.
As they drew up in front of the Ajax Studios a long extension ladder was being carried to a fire department truck at the corner.
"Fire?" inquired Dawson of Carroll, at his side.
"Naw! That was my night's exercise," the detective husked in a tired voice. "That bloody knife was sticking in a rafter—you had to be an eagle to find the damned thing!"
A plainclothesman spoke to Corot. "All surrounded, Inspector."
Quickly they passed through the long hallway of the administration building into the darkened interior of the studio.
"You and Carroll know your stuff," the head of detectives said, as they neared the door to the big lot. "So be on your toes." He passed through the door, and paused to watch the activities of the Western pictures company on outside location.
ADIRECTOR on a platform was megaphoning directions to a group of bandit- like figures on horseback. Cameras and a sound- truck were being moved in the foreground. Far to one side stood Ned Lane, beside the beautiful white steed that was as much a part of his pictures as himself.
Corot appeared aimless in his movements, but presently Dawson became aware that he had an objective. This became more evident as he saw that Moody and Carroll, too, were approaching in a similar manner from different directions. They were closing in on someone. Walter Dawson caught his breath in quick discovery. For the only person within the triangle formed by the man- hunters was Ned Lane!
So intent was the new screen-hero on the action in the foreground that he was unaware of the approach of the detectives. A minute later, the two-gun actor wheeled around and faced an accosting officer.
"Lane," Corot asked peremptorily, without any preamble, "where were you when that murder occurred on Stage A?"
Though the player's face whitened, his voice was steady enough as he answered: "Snatching a bite beside the set."
"Oh, no, you weren't," said the inspector softly. "Your dog never leaves your side—he was rushing around in the dark trying to smell you out."
"I deny that," said Lane, and his smile was cool.
Corot's voice became as hard as his eyes. "Perhaps you'll deny that the slain woman was your abandoned wife?" he rasped.
A startling change came over the actor. His eyes dilated with fear, the hand that rested on the neck of the horse trembled and caused the animal to move unsteadily.
"You married Helen Schneider all right," the inspector relentlessly continued, "and you murdered her—with this!"
Like one paralyzed, the motion picture actor stared at the curious knife that was thrust under his eyes. He slumped back against the horse, his hand frantically clutching at its mane. As though his fear had communicated itself to the animal, it suddenly leaped forward, dragging its master at its side. But the next moment, Lane's other hand had obtained a hold and he vaulted into the saddle as the frantic animal headed up the runway to the imitation cliff some fifty feet above the heads of those breathlessly watching.
A few more wild leaps and the horse gained the top and faced the open space that separated it from the cliff opposite. Then, as the detectives' guns barked, the horse was hurtling himself across the chasm that had been lightly dubbed "the leap of death."
IN mid-air, horse and rider, unhit, appeared suspended for a long moment, silhouetted against the sky. Then the actor put spurs to his mount and deliberately pulled at the reins. The gallant steed quivered and jerked its head back. Strong men closed their eyes as it stopped in that graceful parabola, to drop like a plummet to the earth beneath. They knew it truly had been a leap of death!
Back in the small chop house, Walter Dawson was hurriedly scribbling as Inspector Corot talked.
"You know," observed the veteran detective, "I can't forgive that fellow Lane for sacrificing such a noble animal. It was so needless; he could have jumped off himself." He paused to light a cigar. "I wonder what will become of the dog?"
"Funny I didn't get that crack about my subconscious mind," chuckled Dawson. "It was the propertyman's talk that set you on the track."
"Only in a way," confessed Corot. "The trick of the murder was responsible for its own solution. Guess I'd better give it to you in sequence, though, for your sensational yarn. Well, Ned Lane's name was really Nate Lavie, and under it he married Helen Schneider, a country girl, in Wisconsin. At the time he was working with a fly-by-night circus as a ballyhoo for the side-show, and a knife-thrower. The circus collapsed in Pennsylvania, where Lane abandoned his girl-wife, who was about to give birth to a child. Eventually he drifted to California and hung about the movie lots. It was his ability as a knife thrower when he was an extra playing a Mexican bandit that brought him to the attention of the director. That, and the acquisition of a performing horse from his old circus boss, and the fact that he had been a cowboy of sorts, put him over. That act that I saw in that two-year-old film was the clue that broke the mystery! It sent me to the old circus owner and along the long trail to the murder on Stage A.
THE young woman, who was known to us as Helene Storme, was left adrift and penniless. Her infant was born under the most pitiful circumstances, and after a long illness, she made her way to New York. There Tad Boone found her, working as a cashier.
"Then the Ajax Company brought Ned Lane on from Hollywood. Helene recognized him and resolved to expose him. From what her colored maid said, he must have offered her money, which she refused. She could ruin him with that pitiful story—and he knew it. So he contrived a trick murder, based on his old knife-throwing act. From the mezzanine gallery he watched his chance when no one was near, to switch out the lights, threw the knife with deadly accuracy, pulled it back by means of a strong Jap fishing line, and with another throw buried the murderous blade in the rafters above him. Almost simultaneously with that last act, he switched the lights on, the entire episode taking less time than it takes to tell it. Of course it was an easy matter for him to drop to the main floor—he was used to such stunts—in the midst of the excitement."
Dawson looked up at Corot as he finished
jotting down his notes. "It's a whale of a story, Inspector," he said. "While I never thought of Lane, my judgment told me Tad Boone could never have committed the crime, and Holmes was too putty-legged."
The police officer treated the reporter to one of his quizzical smiles.
"You never can tell," he observed drily. "The instinct to murder finds itself into brains of all types—sometime or other."