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MYSTERY
There was nothing to be done without Denis. The actors and electricians and studio helpers sat around helplessly. By two o'clock everybody was quarreling and Fishbein was ready to fire Denis.
"That baldheaded fish is the worst director in Hollywood!" mourned Kenny.
"Oh, Kenny," breathed Joyce, "if only you had been given the job! I could have done wonderful work! Much better than I can with Denis."
"Well," said Kenny, "they would have old Denis. He'll take that marvelous scenario and turn out the dullest continuity you ever saw. And this was my big chance!"
But Kenny was wrong. Old Denis didn't turn out a dull picture. In fact, he didn't turn out any kind of a picture at all.
Late that afternoon, when the recording equipment had been installed on the interior set, and the opening scene rehearsed and recorded, Harlin Denis got up from his director's campchair without .i word of goodbye to anyone, jumped into his P.n kard sedan and roared throuL^h rhe gaios of the studios.
HE DROVE up Sunset Boulevard to Cahuenga, turned up Cahuenga two blocks and swung into the seething Hollywood Boulevard. It was just approaching the dinner hour and the sidewalks were crowded with smartly gowned women and handsome men in sport clothes, making a scene both charming and colorful.
Harlin Denis was heading for Beverly Hills, where he had his home. He was late for dinner and cross; he hated the new talkies and did not like to direct them. But the money was big, and the silents were going out, so what could he do ?
As he got in front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre, where the footprints of Mary Pickford, Douglas Fairbanks -and Charlie Chaplin are encased in cement for all the yokels to stare at, he was stopped by the matinee traffic. He cursed his ill luck aloud, and as he did so, three men stepped from a black car that was standing alongside of the curb, and opened the front and rear doors of Denis' machine.
Two of them got into the back, and one slid into the front seat alongside of Denis. The men then closed the doors of
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