The Daffodil Mystery

by Edgar Wallace

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE MISSING REVOLVER

  Tarling walked out of Scotland Yard on to the sunlit Embankment, troublein his face. He told himself that the case was getting beyond him andthat it was only the case and its development which worried him. Thequeer little look which had dawned on the Commissioner's face when helearnt that the heir to the murdered Thornton Lyne's fortune was thedetective who was investigating his murder, and that Tarling's revolverhad been found in the room where the murder had been committed, arousednothing but an inward chuckle.

  That suspicion should attach to him was, he told himself, poetic justice,for in his day he himself had suspected many men, innocent or partlyinnocent.

  He walked up the stairs to his room and found Ling Chu polishingthe meagre stock of silver which Tarling possessed. Ling Chu was athief-catcher and a great detective, but he had also taken upon himselfthe business of attending to Tarling's personal comfort. The detectivespoke no word, out went straight to the cupboard where he kept hisforeign kit. On a shelf in neat array and carefully folded, were the thinwhite drill suits he wore in the tropics. His sun helmet hung on a peg,and on the opposite wall was a revolver holster hanging by a strap. Helifted the holster. It was empty. He had had no doubts in his mind thatthe holster would be empty and closed the door with a troubled frown.

  "Ling Chu," he said quietly.

  "You speak me, Lieh Jen?" said the man, putting down the spoons andrubber he was handling.

  "Where is my revolver?"

  "It is gone, Lieh Jen," said the man calmly.

  "How long has it been gone?"

  "I miss him four days," said Ling Chu calmly;

  "Who took it?" demanded Tarling.

  "I miss him four days," said the man.

  There was an interval of silence, and Tarling nodded his head slowly.

  "Very good, Ling Chu," he said, "there is no more to be said."

  For all his outward calm, he was distressed in mind.

  Was it possible that anybody could have got into the room in Ling Chu'sabsence--he could only remember one occasion when they had been outtogether, and that was the night he had gone to the girl's flat and LingChu had shadowed him.

  What if Ling Chu----?

  He dismissed the thought as palpably absurd. What interest could Ling Chuhave in the death of Lyne, whom he had only seen once, the day thatThornton Lyne had called Tarling into consultation at the Stores?

  That thought was too fantastic to entertain, but nevertheless it recurredagain and again to him and in the end he sent his servant away with amessage to Scotland Yard, determined to give even his most fantastictheory as thorough and impartial an examination as was possible.

  The flat consisted of four rooms and a kitchen. There was Tarling'sbedroom communicating with his dining and sitting-room. There was aspare-room in which he kept his boxes and trunks--it was in this roomthat the revolver had been put aside--and there was the small roomoccupied by Ling Chu. He gave his attendant time to get out of thehouse and well on his journey before he rose from the deep chair wherehe had been sitting in puzzled thought and began his inspection.

  Ling Chu's room was small and scrupulously clean. Save for the bed anda plain black-painted box beneath the bed, there was no furniture. Thewell-scrubbed boards were covered with a strip of Chinese matting and theonly ornamentation in the room was supplied by a tiny red lacquer vasewhich stood on the mantelpiece.

  Tarling went back to the outer door of the flat and locked it beforecontinuing his search. If there was any clue to the mystery of the stolenrevolver it would be found here, in this black box. A Chinaman keeps allhis possessions "within six sides," as the saying goes, and certainly thebox was very well secured. It was ten minutes before he managed to find akey to shift the two locks with which it was fastened.

  The contents of the box were few. Ling Chu's wardrobe was not anextensive one and did little more than half fill the receptacle. Verycarefully he lifted out the one suit of clothes, the silk shirts, theslippers and the odds and ends of the Chinaman's toilet and came quicklyto the lower layer. Here he discovered two lacquer boxes, neither ofwhich were locked or fastened.

  The first of these contained sewing material, the second a small packagewrapped in native paper and carefully tied about with ribbon. Tarlingundid the ribbon, opened the package and found to his surprise a smallpad of newspaper cuttings. In the main they were cuttings from colloquialjournals printed in Chinese characters, but there were one or twoparagraphs evidently cut from one of the English papers published inShanghai.

  He thought at first that these were records of cases in which Ling Chuhad been engaged, and though he was surprised that the Chinaman shouldhave taken the trouble to collect these souvenirs--especially the Englishcuttings--he did not think at first that there was any significance inthe act. He was looking for some clue--what he knew not--which wouldenable him to explain to his own satisfaction the mystery of the filchedpistol.

  He read the first of the European cuttings idly, but presently his eyesopened wide.

  "There was a fracas at Ho Hans's tea-room last night, due apparently to the too-persistent attentions paid by an English visitor to the dancing girl, the little Narcissus, who is known to the English, or such as frequent Ho Hans's rooms, as The Little Daffodil----"

  He gasped. The Little Daffodil! He let the cutting drop on his knee andfrowned in an effort of memory. He knew Shanghai well. He knew itsmysterious under-world and had more than a passing acquaintance with HoHans's tea-rooms. Ho Hans's tea-room was, in fact, the mask which hid anopium den that he had been instrumental in cleaning up just before hedeparted from China. And he distinctly remembered the Little Daffodil. Hehad had no dealings with her in the way of business, for when he had hadoccasion to go into Ho Hans's tea-rooms, he was usually after bigger gamethan the graceful little dancer.

  It all came back to him in a flash. He had heard men at the club speakingof the grace of the Little Daffodil and her dancing had enjoyed somethingof a vogue amongst the young Britishers who were exiled in Shanghai.

  The next cutting was also in English and ran:

  "A sad fatality occurred this morning, a young Chinese girl, O Ling, the sister of Inspector Ling Chu, of the Native Police, being found in a dying condition in the yard at the back of Ho Hans's tea-rooms. The girl had been employed at the shop as a dancer, much against her brother's wishes, and figured in a very unpleasant affair reported in these columns last week. It is believed that the tragic act was one of those 'save-face' suicides which are all too common amongst native women."

  Tarling whistled, a soft, long, understanding whistle.

  The Little Daffodil! And the sister of Ling Chu! He knew something of theChinese, something of their uncanny patience, something of theirunforgiving nature. This dead man had put an insult not only upon thelittle dancing girl, but upon the whole of her family. In China disgraceto one is a disgrace to all and she, realising the shame that thenotoriety had brought upon her brother, had taken what to her, as aChinese girl, had been the only way out.

  But what was the shame? Tarling searched through the native papers andfound several flowery accounts, not any two agreed save on one point,that an Englishman, and a tourist, had made public love to the girl, novery great injury from the standpoint of the Westerner, a Chinaman hadinterfered and there had been a "rough house."

  Tarling read the cuttings through from beginning to end, then carefullyreplaced them in the paper package and put them away in the littlelacquer box at the bottom of the trunk. As carefully he returned all theclothes he had removed, relocked the lid and pushed it under the ironbedstead. Swiftly he reviewed all the circumstances. Ling Chu had seenThornton Lyne and had planned his vengeance. To extract Tarling'srevolver was an easy matter--but why, if he had murdered Lyne, wouldhe have left the incriminating weapon behind? That was not like LingChu--that was the act of a novice.

  But how had he lured Thornton Lyne to the fla
t? And how did he know--athought struck him.

  Three nights before the murder, Ling Chu, discussing the interview whichhad taken place at Lyne's Stores, had very correctly diagnosed thesituation. Ling Chu knew that Thornton Lyne was in love with the girl anddesired her, and it would not be remarkable if he had utilised hisknowledge to his own ends.

  But the telegram which was designed to bring Lyne to the flat was inEnglish and Ling Chu did not admit to a knowledge of that language. Hereagain Tarling came to a dead end. Though he might trust the Chinaman withhis life, he was perfectly satisfied that this man would not reveal allthat he knew, and it was quite possible that Ling Chu spoke English aswell as he spoke his own native tongue and the four dialects of China.

  "I give it up," said Tarling, half to himself and half aloud.

  He was undecided as to whether he should wait for his subordinate'sreturn from Scotland Yard and tax him with the crime, or whether heshould let matters slide for a day or two and carry out his intention tovisit Odette Rider. He took that decision, leaving a note for theChinaman, and a quarter of an hour later got out of his taxi at thedoor of the West Somerset Hotel.

  Odette Rider was in (that he knew) and waiting for him. She looked paleand her eyes were tired, as though she had slept little on the previousnight, but she greeted him with that half smile of hers.

  "I've come to tell you that you are to be spared the ordeal of meetingthe third degree men of Scotland Yard," he said laughingly, and her eyesspoke her relief.

  "Haven't you been out this beautiful morning?" he asked innocently, andthis time she laughed aloud.

  "What a hypocrite you are, Mr. Tarling!" she replied. "You know very wellI haven't been out, and you know too that there are three Scotland Yardmen watching this hotel who would accompany me in any constitutional Itook."

  "How did you know that?" he asked without denying the charge.

  "Because I've been out," she said naively and laughed again. "You aren'tso clever as I thought you were," she rallied him. "I quite expectedwhen I said I'd not been out, to hear you tell me just where I'd been,how far I walked and just what I bought."

  "Some green sewing silk, six handkerchiefs, and a tooth-brush," saidTarling promptly and the girl stared at him in comic dismay.

  "Why, of course, I ought to have known you better than that," she said."Then you do have watchers?"

  "Watchers and talkers," said Tarling gaily. "I had a little interviewwith the gentleman in the vestibule of the hotel and he supplied me withquite a lot of information. Did he shadow you?"

  She shook her head.

  "I saw nobody," she confessed, "though I looked most carefully. Now whatare you going to do with me, Mr. Tarling?"

  For answer, Tarling took from his pocket a flat oblong box. The girllooked wonderingly as he opened the lid and drew forth a slip ofporcelain covered with a thin film of black ink and two white cards.His hand shook as he placed them on the table and suddenly the girlunderstood.

  "You want my finger prints?" she asked and he nodded.

  "I just hate asking you," he said, "but----"

  "Show me how to do it," she interrupted and he guided her.

  He felt disloyal--a very traitor, and perhaps she realised what he wasthinking, for she laughed as she wiped her stained finger tips.

  "Duty's duty," she mocked him, "and now tell me this--are you going tokeep me under observation all the time?"

  "For a little while," said Tarling gravely. "In fact, until we get thekind of information we want."

  He put away the box into his pocket as she shook her head.

  "That means you're not going to tell us anything," said Tarling. "I thinkyou are making a very great mistake, but really I am not depending uponyour saying a word. I depend entirely upon----"

  "Upon what?" she asked curiously as he hesitated.

  "Upon what others will tell me," said Tarling

  "Others? What others?"

  Her steady eyes met his.

  "There was once a famous politician who said 'Wait and see,'" saidTarling, "advice which I am going to ask you to follow. Now, I will tellyou something, Miss Rider," he went on. "To-morrow I am going to takeaway your watchers, though I should advise you to remain at this hotelfor a while. It is obviously impossible for you to go back to your flat."

  The girl shivered.

  "Don't talk about that," she said in a low voice. "But is it necessarythat I should stay here?"

  "There is an alternative," he said, speaking slowly, "an alternative," hesaid looking at her steadily, "and it is that you should go to yourmother's place at Hertford."

  She looked up quickly.

  "That is impossible," she said.

  He was silent for a moment.

  "Why don't you make a confidant of me, Miss Rider?" he said. "I shouldnot abuse your trust. Why don't you tell me something about your father?"

  "My father?" she looked at him in amazement. "My father, did you say?"

  He nodded.

  "But I have no father," said the girl.

  "Have you----" he found a difficulty in framing his words and it seemedto him that she must have guessed what was coming. "Have you a lover?"he asked at length.

  "What do you mean?" she countered, and there was a note of hauteur in hervoice.

  "I mean this," said Tarling steadily. "What is Mr. Milburgh to you?"

  Her hand went up to her mouth and she looked at him in wide-eyeddistress, then:

  "Nothing!" she said huskily. "Nothing, nothing!"