Michael shook his head slowly.
“No, thank you,” he said. “That is not my job. And as for the Headhunter”—he lit a cigarette and sent a ring of smoke to the ceiling—“I know who he is and I can lay my hands on him just when I want.”
XIV
Mendoza Makes a Fight
Jack stared at him in amazement.
“You’re joking!” he said.
“On the contrary, I am very much in earnest,” said Michael quietly. “But to know the Headhunter, and to bring his crimes home to him, are quite different matters.”
Jack Knebworth sat at his desk, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, a look of blank incredulity on the face turned to the detective.
“Is it one of my company?” he asked, troubled, and Michael laughed.
“I haven’t the pleasure of knowing all your company,” he said diplomatically, “but at any rate, don’t let the Headhunter worry you. What are you going to do about Mr. Reggie Connolly?”
The director shrugged.
“He doesn’t mean it, and I was a fool to get wild,” he said. “That kind of ninny never means anything. You wouldn’t dream, to see him on the screen, full of tenderness and love and manliness, that he’s the poor little jellyfish he is! As for Mendoza—” he swept his hands before him, and the gesture was significant.
Miss Stella Mendoza, however, was not accepting her dismissal so readily. She had fought her way up from nothing, and was not prepared to forfeit her position without a struggle. Moreover, her position was a serious one. She had money—so much money that she need never work again; for, in addition to her big salary, she enjoyed an income from a source which need not be too closely inquired into. But there was a danger that Knebworth might carry the war into a wider field.
Her first move was to go in search of Adele Leamington, who, she learnt that morning for the first time, had taken her place. Though she went in a spirit of conciliation, she choked with anger to discover that the girl was occupying the star’s dressing-room, the room which had always been sacred to Stella Mendoza’s use. Infuriated, yet preserving an outward calm, she knocked at the door. (That she, Stella Mendoza, should knock at a door rightfully hers was maddening enough!)
Adele was sitting at the bare dressing-table, gazing, a little awestricken, at the array of mirrors, lights and the vista of dresses down the long alleyway which served as a wardrobe. At the sight of Mendoza she went red.
“Miss Leamington, isn’t it?” asked Stella sweetly. “May I come in?”
“Do, please,” said Adele, hastily rising.
“Please do sit down,” said Stella. “It’s a very uncomfortable chair, but most of the chairs here are uncomfortable. They tell me you have been ‘doubling’ for me?”
“ ‘Doubling’?” said Adele, puzzled.
“Yes, Mr. Knebworth said he was ‘doubling’ you. You know what I mean: when an artiste can’t appear, they sometimes put in an understudy in scenes where she’s not very distinctly shown—long shots—”
“But Mr. Knebworth took me close up,” said the girl quietly. “I was only in one long shot.”
Miss Mendoza masked her anger and sighed.
“Poor old chap! He’s very angry with me, and really, I oughtn’t to annoy him. I’m coming back tomorrow, you know.”
The girl went pale.
“It’s fearfully humiliating for you, I realize, but, my dear, we’ve all had to go through that experience. And people in the studio will be very nice to you.”
“But it’s impossible,” said Adele. “Mr. Knebworth told me I was to be in the picture from start to finish.”
Mendoza shook her head smilingly.
“You can never believe what these fellows tell you,” she said. “He’s just told me to be ready to shoot tomorrow morning on the South Downs.”
Adele’s heart sank. She knew that was the rendezvous, though she was not aware of the fact that Stella Mendoza had procured her information from the disgruntled Mr. Connolly.
“It is humiliating,” Stella went on thoughtfully. “If I were you, I would go up to town and stay away for a couple of weeks till the whole thing has blown over. I feel very much to blame for your disappointment, my dear, and if money is any compensation—” She opened her bag and, taking out a wad of notes, detached four and put them on the table.
“What is this for?” asked Adele coldly.
“Well, my dear, you’ll want money for expenses—”
“If you imagine I’m going to London without seeing Mr. Knebworth and finding out for myself whether you’re speaking the truth—”
Mendoza’s face flamed.
“Do you suggest I’m lying?”
She had dropped all pretence of friendliness and stood, a veritable virago, her hands on her hips, her dark face thrust down into Adele’s.
“I don’t know whether you’re a liar or whether you are mistaken,” said Adele, who was less afraid of this termagant than she had been at the news she had brought. “The only thing I’m perfectly certain about is that for the moment this is my room, and I will ask you to leave it!”
She opened the door, and for a moment was afraid that the girl would strike her; but the broad-shouldered Irish dresser, a silent but passionately interested spectator and audience, interposed her huge bulk and good-humouredly pushed the raging star into the corridor.
“I’ll have you out of there!” she screamed across the woman’s shoulder. “Jack Knebworth isn’t everything in this company! I’ve got influence enough to fire Knebworth!”
The unrepeatable innuendoes that followed were not good to hear, but Adele Leamington listened in scornful silence. She was only too relieved (for the girl’s fury was eloquent) to know that she had not been speaking the truth. For one horrible moment Adele had believed her, knowing that Knebworth would not hesitate to sacrifice her or any other member of the company if, by so doing, the values of the picture could be strengthened.
Knebworth was alone when his ex-star was announced, and his
