DEATH ON THE SET

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 139, 13 June 1936, Page 13 (Supplement)

DEATH ON THE SET

lu

(Author of "Ultimatum," "The Secret Fool," Gambletown," "Death Behind the Door," etc., etc.)

SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. CAYLEY MORDEN, a film producer, has been found dead in his office. Four people are known to have been incensed with him: BERTIE VANDYCK, the publicity man; .CONSTANCE LYON, the leading lady; JIMMY FRAYLE, tiie juvenile lead; and LADY BLANCHE AMBRAGE. once his mistress, and an actress in the film. The night watchman, who found the body, said it looked uncommonly like murder. CHAPTER THREE. Enter Inspector Burford. ' Superintendent Greenlea of the "Centre," Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard, put a leaden weight on the papers lie had been scanning through his gold-rimmed spectacles, and nodded to the elegantly-clad young man who apparently had the privilege of seating himself on the superintendent's desk. "Yes, Archie," he conceded, referring to the case made concrete in the notes under the paper-weight, "it's in the bag all right. A neat job, son." Chief Inspector Detective Archibald Burford patted the silk-covered ankle that rested 011 his knee, and emitted a stream of fragrant cigarette smoke at the toe of his neat brown shoe. "I had an idea it was water-tight, sir," he said quietly. "Do I move, then?" "No," said his superior. "Leave the rest to Lowndes. There's another thing you had better have a look at. Came in this morning." He picked up a paper from a pile in front of him and slid it with a flick of his finger-nail across the polished surface of his desk to Burford. Burford took it up with 110 great show of interest, but as he sciwined the contents his scalp moved back on his skull and his ears twitched. The movement had the effect of making him look somewhat scared. "Cavley Morden, by jove!" he murmured. "Know him, then?" asked Greenlea. "Know of him," Burford returned, and something in the tone of his voice made his superior give a little grunt. "Yes — it might be interesting. But why me, sir?" he asked. " —if the question isn't impertinent. This is Growcott's area, isn't it?"

"Growcott's got measles. The D.D.l.'s a bit too dithery for my liking, and the surgeon's report is confused. If there 3 anything in it there's probably a lot. Safer to be on the job from the start." "Right, sir!" Burford said briskly, and stood up. "I'll make for Hendon at once. I may have Crowther,(".l sup-

"I shall be most grateful," Burford assured him. The police party were met in the chromium-plated entrance to the Titan building- —a cross-lined edifice in the bare neo-Germanic style—by a stalwart commissionaire, much bemedalled. "Studio manager would like to see you," he announced. "If you'll wait I'll get a messenger to conduct you." And he made a still movement indicating the waiting room. "That's all right, sergeant," said the inspector. "I know the way. Perhaps Chief-Inspector Burford will find time to see the studio manager later." Fortunately for the commisionaire's peace of mind, the studio manager himself appeared at that moment from the inner sanctuaries. He was a spry littie man of obvious Transjordanic ancestry. At the sight of the police he began to dance from foot to foot, preparatory to fussing fly-like about its skirts. "Dear—oh, dear! My —oh, my!" he pleaded. "P'leece, ain'tchew. Vitcli is the 'cad officer? Vitch is the boss? My— oh, my! This is a terrible biznis! Vitch of you's the 'cad one? Dear—oh, dear!" He exhibited a tendency to fix on the surgeon, but was reorientated by a jerk of the local inspector's thumb towards Burford. "Chief-Inspector Burford, Scotland Yard." "llow are you, inspector? Pleased to meecliew —well, not pleased —but you know what I mean. I'm Jake Koscnbaum, the stoodio manager 'ere. This is a terrible biznis, inspector. 'Ere's Mr. Morden gone an' susarisided ,'imself or bin moidid—an' all the stoodio work 'eld up! Pounce an' pounce goin' down the drain! Can't shew do somethink? Not that I ain't sorry for Mr. Morden —'e's our star p'doocer—but 'ere's all the stoodio work 'eld up —!" The group passed into ail inner corridor, following the lead of the local inspector.

Burford reduced his own party a little, leaving two officers at vantage points to ward off intruders, and with the surgeon, the local inspector and Crowther followed the studio-manager. Mr. Kosenbaum conducted the party along some passages and by a door or two into a set. "'Ere you are, Inspector. This is what I mean," said Mr. Rosenbaum. "Stoodio number two. This is the very set what Mr. Morden was pcrdoocin' in las' night—or this mornin', I should say. With some alterations to it a new picture was to be started 'ere this mornin'—at ten. An' look at it! Notliin' done—not a blinkin' thing! Empty! Should be an 'ive of industry. Not that I ain't sorry for poor old Cayley. 'E was one of my bes' frien's——" "Where is Morden's room?" Burford interrupted. "Over on the other side " "I can't see any reason for shutting up more than the actual room, Mr. Rosenbaum," Burford soothed him. "I shall be able to tell in a few minutes. They you may be able to get ahead with the day's work —if you want to." Tlicy crossed the set, and came to a passage on the other side. "It ain't properly a perdoocer's office, Cayley's room wasn't," Rosenbaum explained as they turned into the passage. "It's an extra star's dressin'-roorn, actually spcakin'. But Cayley took a fancy for it,- an' wouldn't 'ave 'no' for an answer " A uniformed constable standing outside the door indicated the room in question. At the sight of the local inspector he saluted and produced a key. The inspector unlocked the door, threw it open, and stood aside to let Burford pass in. Burford, however, stood on the threshold. He felt Mr. Rosenbaum press eagerly at his elbow, curious to look into the room. Burford stepped aside, but held the little Jew by the shoulder so that he could not pass further than the door.

pose 1" "Of course, Archie. Phone me your notion of the thing as soon as you can."

"Very well, sir." Burford strode along the passage from the superintendent's oflicc, went down some stairs and looked into another room. With his head round the edge of the door he crooked a finger and said, "0i!" to a tall and heavily-built man of stolid countenance. The big fellow, clad in tweeds that had the appea.ancc of being cast in iron, rose from his seat at once and donned a bowler hat, which looked as iron-clad as iiis suit. He came lumbering across t-j the door. His agate eyes scanned Burford's face for the fraction of a second, and he grunted. "Doings 1" he asked. "Doings, Joe," Burford assured him. "Far afield?" "Not very. Hendon way." "Mp!" noddei Sergeant Detective Joseph Crowther, thereby informing Burford that rumour of the death in the Titan studio had already reached his ears, that he thought the case might prove interesting, and that he was glad to be in it with the right man for the job. They were old cronies, this seemingly ill-assorted pair. Beside the burly and big sergeant in his solidly cylindrical clothing, Burford, with his elegance and slim good looks, appeared dilettantish. Closer observation, however, revealed the fact that though Joe Crowther was tall, Burford was very little shorter, and that there was very Tittle difference between them in breadth of shoulder. Under Burford's graceful raiment there was, to seeing eyes, a splendid physique kept in condition by exercise and abstemious habit. Crowther settled himself next Burford in the passenger's scat of the latter's two-seater Bentley. His air of stolidity became somewhat more congealed, for he knew that there would be hardly a constable on all the road to Hendon but would recognise the car and realise that the most famous combination of detective-officers known was off on a case. He had to show young officers an example of official calm. Where traffic control was in charge of officers as distinct from automatic signalling, a jerk of Crowther's adamantine bowler secured quick passage for the Bentley. In very little time the two C.I.D. men were outside Station 0 of the "S" Division. They found the police eurgeon and several of the divisional detectives waiting for them. "What time was it when you examined the body, doctor? was Buiford's first inquiry. "About ten minutes to nine o clock. "Any opinion as to when death had occurred?" , . "Impossible to form an opinion with any accuracy," said the surgeon. "The room was warm. The body bad lost, little heat. It was, however, rigid. This would be due to the suddenness and violence of the death—not to ordinary rigor." „ Burford nodded. He knew very well how greatly medical opinion could vary in calculating the time of death in the violently slain, but the question was not put idly. Its answer gave him a gauge whereby to value the surgeon's" deductions from facts of greater importance which, Burford imagined, would be come upon later. , . . "Has the body been moved? Burford flfllcGCle "Not yet," the local detective-inspector replied. "We were going to move it to the mortuary, but Central Office said not to until you had seen it." "Why, then," said Burford, "we might as well go over to the studios right away. Have you time to spare for another look, doctor ?" The surgeon glanced at his watch. "I'll spare the time if you think it necessary, inspector —" lie said, doubtfully.

"Your men was in possession by tlie time I got 'ere this inornin'," ttosenbaum began to explain, then broke olf. "Oh, my Gawd!" lie exclaimed. "Oh, my Gawd —wot an' 'orriblo eight! Poor —ole —Cay ley!" The dead man was sitting slumped in a chair facing the door. '1 he chair stood at the end of a big flat-topped desk which held almost the centre of the room. On the other side of the desk from the door was a window on which the blinds were down, and in the centre of the desk, but turned half away from the knee-hole, a second chair faced the window. The dead man's left arm lay ovfcr the chair-arm with his hand half-clenched and rigid on the desk. His ri"lit elbow rested on the other chairarm, the hand raised slightly with fingers nearly clenched and rigid in the manner of those of the left. The body was slumped in the chair, somewhat with a slight inclination towards the desk, but there was a definite tensity in it, and the head, though forward, was still supported by the neck muscles rather than sunk on to its chin. There was a gaping hole to one side of the nose, the left, somewhere under the cheekbone. Blood had streamed from this over mouth and chin to stain, collar, shirt and tie, and parts of the coat and waistcoat. The eyes were half open with lids puckered as though in pain. Burford patted the shoulder under his hand. , "In spite of that disfiguration, and of the puckering of bow and eyelids, lie said to Kosenbaum, "you recognise the dead man as Cayley Mordcn! "It's Cayley all right. My Gawdfancv him shootin' 'imsclf through the face like that! Look at the pistol on the floor! What did 'e go an' do that for?" . . Burford knew from experience that the wound in the face had been made by the exit of the bullet, but he did not cornet the studio-manager. "Don't wait, Mr. Rosenbaum, he advised the little man. "I shall want to see you later, I fancy—but don t stay around here." "I don't want to. No. I seen enough, thanks. You let me know when you're likely to clear your men out of Number Two Stoodio." The officers conducting the preliminary investigation of the room had spread newspapers over parts of the floor, a precaution against oblitciating any footprints which might appear on its polished surface. Burford stepped carefully over towards the body, then beckoned the doctor to join him alone. "I understand, Doctor," he said, "that though you have doubts, you do not rule out the idea of suicide altogether."

"Not altogether, no. The muzzle of the weapon obviously was hcl I close to the head—almost in contact, I'd say, from the nature of the singeing round the entrance wound —and though a more easy H posture for firing could have been chosen, it is not impossible that the dead man fired the revolver himself."

"Not impossible," Burford agreed. "But do you think it probable?" "No," the surgeon said bluntly. "Why not?" "From the position in which cadaveric spasm has fixed the head. It is facing almost straight forward. Now the bullet entered here, just behind the right ear, and came out by the left nostril. Let me give you the line with this pencil laid across the head. The pistol, when fired, must have continued that line, so that, taking into consideration the distance from the muzzle to the grip, the firing hand must have been seven to eight inches behind the head— and pointing almost forward," _ the surgeon emphasised, "when the trigger | was pulled." "A not impossible posture for a man of Morden's build," Burford suggested, drawing attention to the length of the dead man's arms, "but still one involving a certain amount of strain. But, supposing for some obscure reason he did wish to kill himself by a shot through the base of the skull —selecting just this spot at the point of entry — wouldn't it have been natural for him to have turned his head aside? And supposing he did turn his head aside, wouldn't the instantaneous spasm of the body have fixed the head sideways? Or is the spasm not exactly instantaneous, Doctor?" "The few cases I've seen for myself have been instantaneous, and, as far as I remember, any I have road of. With the body rigid like this, I certainly would expect to see the head turned sideways, Inspector. You've taken my point exactly." "Then there must be other implications," said Burford. "Since the rigidity you found on first examination was due to cadaveric spasm rather than to rigor mortis, wouldn't it be within your expectation to see the hand fixed behind the head, and even the revolver still in the hand?" "Yes." "Well, I don't want to give you a lead, doctor," said Burford, "and I won't ask you to keep to the opinion if on longer consideration you think to alter your mind, but don't you think that the attitude of the body makes it look more likely that someone shot Morden suddenly, quickly, from behind, than that he shot himself so awkwardly?" "I certainly do think so. All the probability is in that direction." Burford nodded. He took a pencil from his pocket and dropped on his knee to look at the revolver which lay on the floor beside the chair. "You've taken your photographs?" he asked tho local inspector over his shoulder. The inspector said he had done so. Burford pencilled the position of the muzzle and grip, then put his pencil into the muzzle. By this means lie lifted the weapon without handling it. H© rose and carried the revolver closer to the light to examine it. "Um!" he said doubtfully. "Don't think we'll get anything much off this. Looks to me as if it had been wiped. Have a look at it, Joe, and see what you can do." Crowther placed the revolver on a piece of paper taken from his pocket for the purpose, pulled the pencil out of tho muzzle and handed it back to Burford. Then he peered at the smooth surfaces of the weapon, and ho too looked doubtful. (To bo continued Saturday next.)