“It was so good of you to come over here,” Shelah told him.
“Not at all,” he replied evenly. “I started the day after I got your cable. I was due for a vacation - my work, you know, is not precisely restful. Then, too, you said you needed me. That was enough. That will always be - enough.”
Julie began to chatter about the islands: she mentioned the warm caressing waters of Waikiki, the thrill of haunting native music in the purple night, the foreign pageant of the streets.
“All of which,” smiled Shelah, “sounds very much to me like James Bradshaw in one of his more lyric moods.”
Julie laughed. “Yes, I guess I was quoting Jimmy. Did you meet him, Shelah?”
“I met him,” the star nodded.
“He’s really very nice,” Julie assured her. “Especially when he isn’t talking shop.”
The pink walls of the Grand Hotel appeared at that moment through a network of majestic palms, and Shelah directed the chauffeur to turn in at the gates.
“I must talk with you very soon,” she said to Tarneverro. “I have so much to ask you. You see -“
He raised a slim white hand. “Don’t tell me, please,” he smiled. “Let me tell you.”
She glanced at him, a little startled. “Oh - of course. I need your advice, Tarneverro. You must help me again, as you have helped me so often in the past.”
He nodded gravely. “I shall try. With what success - who knows? Come to my apartment at eleven o’clock - it is number nineteen, on the first floor. There is a short flight of stairs leading to my corridor just at the left of the hotel desk as you enter. I shall expect you.”
“Yes, yes.” Her voice was trembling. “I must settle this thing to-day. I’ll be there.”
Tarneverro bowed from the hotel steps, and as the car drove off Shelah was conscious of Julie’s frank young eyes fixed on her with a disapproval that was almost contempt.
The head bell-man touched Tarneverro’s sleeve. “Excuse. There is a man who waits to see you. This one.”
The fortune-teller turned to perceive a bulky Chinese who approached him with an amazingly light step. The ivory face was wearing a somewhat stupid expression; the black eyes were veiled and sleepy-looking. Not a very intelligent Chinese, Tarneverro thought, wondering vaguely what this visit presaged.
The oriental placed one hand on his broad chest, and achieved a grand bow despite his waist-line.
“A thousand pardons,” he remarked. “Have I the undisputable honor to address Tarneverro the Great?”
“I am Tarneverro,” answered the other bruskly. “What can I do for you?”
“Permit that I introduce myself,” continued the Chinese, “unworthy of your notice though I am. The name is Harry Wing, and I am humble business man of this island. Do I extend my remarks too far when I say I wish to see you alone?”
Tarneverro shrugged. “What for?”
“The matter is of pressing urgency. If I might suggest - your room -“
The fortune-teller gazed for a moment into that placid mask of a face, behind which life seemed nonexistent. He capitulated. “Come along,” he said. Obtaining his key at the desk, he led the way.
Once inside the door of number nineteen, he turned to confront his odd visitor, who had followed on noiseless feet. The curtains of the sitting-room were drawn back as far as they would go, and the place was flooded with light. With his customary forethought, Tarneverro had selected an apartment on the mountain side of the hotel, and a restless cool wind from the Koolau Range swept in at the window and stirred the papers lying on a desk.
The countenance of the Chinese was still without expression, even under the piercing scrutiny the fortune-teller now gave it.
“Well?” said Tarneverro.
“You are the famous Tarneverro,” began Harry Wing in a respectful singsong. “Among Hollywood people you have vast reputation as one who lifts dark veils and peers into uncertain future. Black as lacquer that future may be to ordinary eyes, but to yours, they say, it is clear as glass. Permit me to add this reputation pursues you even to Hawaii, dogging like shadow at your heels. The rumor of your mystic skill floods the street.”
“Yes?” put in Tarneverro shortly. “What of it?”
“I am, as I say, business man of small importance to everybody but myself. Now I begin to speak to you frankly that opportunity arouses itself in my path. I can amalgamate my business up together with that of my cousin from a north province. Future looks bright, but qualms assail me. Will the merge have success? Is my cousin honorable as cousin of mine should naturally be? Can I trust him? In fewer words, I desire dark veil lifted, and you are man to do the business. I stand ready to make generous payment for this lifting.”
Tarneverro’s eyes narrowed, and for a long time he stood staring at this unexpected customer for his wares. The Chinese waited motionless as a Buddha, with his hands in his trousers pockets, his coat thrown back. The fortune-teller’s glance rested for a moment at a point just below the fountain-pen pocket on his visitor’s waistcoat.
“Impossible,” he said, with sudden decision. “I am here on a vacation, not to practice my profession.”
“But rumor remarks,” objected the other, “that you have already done work with crystal -“
“For one or two of the hotel managers - as a friendly gesture,” Tarneverro cut in. “I received no fee of any sort. I will not do this kind of thing for the general public.”
Harry Wing shrugged. “The matter then becomes sad disappointment for me,” he answered.
A grim smile spread over the seer’s dark face. “Sit down,” he said. “I have spent some time in China, and I understand how great is the interest of your people in fortune-tellers. So for a moment, while you were telling me why you came, I thought you were speaking the truth.”
The visitor frowned. “I am now rapidly failing to understand you.”
Still smiling, Tarneverro dropped into a chair facing the oriental. “Yes, Mr. - ah - er - Wing, I believe you said - momentarily I was deceived. And then a certain little gift of mine came to my aid. You have been kind enough to speak of my success. I have succeeded - why? Because I happen to be psychic, Mr. Wing -“
“Chinese people are psychic, too.”
“Just a moment. As I stood there listening to you, a psychic wave swept over me. I had a feeling - a feeling of - what? Of stern men who sit in police stations and are sworn to enforce the laws. Of detectives pursuing evildoers, landing them at last - and then, a court of justice, so-called, a learned judge. That, my friend, is the feeling I had. Rather amazing, don’t you think?”
His visitor’s expression had lost suddenly all its stupidity. The little black eyes snapped with admiration.
“Amazing smart act on your part, yes. But as for me, I do not think it was psychic feeling. A moment ago I beheld your eyes resting with fierce understanding on locality of my own waistcoat from which detective badge was recently removed. The pin has left indelible marks. You are number one detective yourself, and I congratulate you.”
Tarneverro threw back his head and laughed. “Touche!” he cried. “So you are a detective, Mr. - er -“
“The name is Chan,” said the bulky Chinese, grinning broadly. “Inspector Chan, of the Honolulu police - former times Sergeant, but there hag been upheaval in local police department, and I am rewarded far beyond my humble merits. Trap which has just failed so flatly, I add in justice to me personally, was not my idea. I informed Chief it would not work unless you happened to be extreme dull-wit. Since you turn out clever beyond expectation, it did not. No bitter feelings. I pause only to call attention to local ordinance which says men like you must not practice dark arts in this town without obtaining permission. A word being spoken to the wise, I rise to accomplish my exit.”
Tarneverro also stood up. “I am not going to practice among your townspeople,” he announced. He had dropped the tense air of mystery which he evoked for the benefit of film stars, and seemed quite human and not unl
ikable. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Inspector. As for my own detective prowess, I may say in confidence that it is rather useful in my work.”
“Must be so,” returned Chan. “But such skill as yours should be at service of public. Frequently in Los Angeles murder mystery leaps into print and never gets solved. I study them all with fiery interest. The Taylor case - what an amazing happening was there - haie, it is still mystery. And case of Denny Mayo, famous actor of handsome countenance, dead in his home at night. How many years - three and more - and Denny Mayo is still unavenged by Los Angeles police.”
“And never will be,” added the fortune-teller. “No, Inspector, that is not in my line. I find it safer to dwell on the future and soft-pedal Hollywood’s past.”
“In such course, wisdom may abide,” agreed Chan. “None the less, how happily I would welcome your aid if some such worrisome puzzle stared into my face. I will say good-by, Mr. Tarneverro. Memory of your cleverness will linger in my poor mind for long time to come.”
He slipped quietly out, and Tarneverro glanced at his watch. With a leisurely air, he placed a small table in the middle of the room, and taking from a bureau drawer a gleaming crystal, stood it thereon. Then he stepped to the window and drew the curtains part way across, shutting out a goodly portion of the bright light outside. Glancing about the darkened room, he shrugged his shoulders. Not such an impressive stage-setting as his studio in Los Angeles, but it would have to serve. Sitting down by the window, he took out of his pocket a bulky letter and, slitting the flap of the envelope, began to read. The curtains, caught in the fierce grip of the trade-wind, swirled about his head.
At eleven o’clock Shelah Fane knocked on the door, and he ushered her into his sitting-room. She was gowned in white and appeared younger than she had at the dock, but her eyes were clouded with worry. Tarneverro’s manner was professional now, he was cold, remote, unsympathetic. He seated her at the table behind the crystal; then, drawing the curtains all the way, plunged the room into almost complete darkness.
“Tarneverro - you must tell me what to do,” she began. He sat down opposite her.
“Wait,” he commanded. He looked fixedly into the crystal. “I see you standing at the rail on the boat deck of a steamer, under a brilliant moon. You are wearing a dinner gown - it is gold and matches your hair. There is a scarf of the same color about your shoulders. A man is standing at your side; he points, and offers you a pair of glasses. You raise them to your eyes - you catch the last faint glimmer of the lights along the front at Papeete, the port from which you sailed a few brief hours ago.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured Shelah Fane. “Oh, Tarneverro - how do you know -“
“The man turns. I can see him only dimly, but I recognize him. To-day, on the pier - Alan Jaynes - was that his name? He has asked you a question - marriage, perhaps - but you shake your head. Reluctantly. You want to say yes - yet you don’t. You put him off. Why? I feel you love this man.”
“I do,” the star cried. “Oh, Tarneverro - I really do. I knew him first at Papeete - only a week - but in a place like that - The first night out - it was just as you say - he proposed to me. I haven’t given him my answer yet. I want to say yes - to have a little happiness now - I’ve earned it, I think. But I - I’m afraid -“
He lifted, his piercing eyes from the crystal. “You’re afraid. Something in your past - you fear it will return to haunt you -“
“No, no,” the woman cried.
“Something that happened long ago.”
“No, no - it isn’t true.”
“You can not deceive me. How long ago? I can not quite determine, and it is necessary that I know.”
The trade-wind mumbled at the curtains. Shelah Fane’s eyes wandered helplessly about the darkened room, then came back to Tarneverro’s.
“How long ago?” the man demanded again.
She sighed. “Three years ago last month,” she said in a voice so low he had to strain to hear.
He was silent for a moment, his mind racing like an engine. June - three years ago. He gazed fixedly into the crystal; his lips moved. “Denny Mayo,” he said softly. “Something about Denny Mayo. Ah, yes - I see it now.”
The wind tore the curtains apart, and a wide strip of dazzling light fell across Shelah Fane’s face. Her eyes were staring, frightened.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she moaned.
“What about Denny Mayo?” Tarneverro went on relentlessly. “Shall I tell you - or will you tell me?”
She pointed to the window. “A balcony. There’s a balcony out there.”
As one who humors a child, he rose and looked outside. He came back to the table. “Yes, there’s a balcony - but no one is on it.”
He sat down again, and his bold commanding eyes sought hers. She was trapped, and helpless.
“Now!” said Tarneverro the Great.
Chapter II
THE HOUSE ON THE BEACH
After a brief twilight, the dark sweeps over Waikiki Beach like old Man Mystery himself. In the hours before the moon, like a climbing torch, ascends the purple sky, the sense of hearing comes into its own. Blackness covers the coco-palms, yet they may be heard rustling at the trade-wind’s touch; the white line of the breakers is blotted out, yet they continue to crash on that unseen shore with what seems an added vigor. This is night in the real sense of the word, intriguing, awe-inspiring, but all too short, for the moon is waiting an early cue.
A solitary floor lamp was burning in the huge living-room of the house Shelah Fane had rented at Waikiki. The paneled walls, the furniture and the floor, all fashioned of rare native woods, gleamed faintly in the half-light; the green of exotic plants was everywhere. The French windows that faced the street were closed, but those on the ocean side, leading on to a great screened lanai, stood wide, and through them at regular intervals came the roar of the surf, which was running high.
Shelah Fane came into the room. She walked with a quick nervous step, and in her eyes was a look of apprehension - almost of terror. It was a look that had been there ever since her return from that interview with Tarneverro in his apartment at the Grand Hotel. What had she done? She asked this of herself over and over. What had she done? What was the secret of this dark man’s power that he had so easily dragged from the inner recesses of her mind a story she had thought safely buried for ever? Once away from the strange influence of his presence she had been appalled at her own indiscretion. But it was too late then for anything save regret.
With her unerring instinct for the spotlight, she sat down under the single lamp. Many cameras had clicked in Hollywood since that distant time when, like a rocket, she had flashed into the picture sky, and nowadays the spotlight was none too kind to her. Kind to her hair, yes, which seemed to spring into flame, but not so considerate of the lines of worry about her eyes, about her small tense mouth. Did she know? Longer than most rockets she had hung blazing in the sky; now she must endure the swift lonely drop in the dark.
Her butler, Jessop, came in, a spare elderly Englishman who had also found in Hollywood the promised land. He carried a florist’s box. Shelah looked up.
“Oh, Jessop,” she said. “Did Miss Julie tell you? The dinner hour is eight-thirty.”
“I understand, madam,” he answered gravely.
“A few of the young people are going for a dip before we dine. Mr. Bradshaw for one. You might show him to the blue bedroom to dress. The bath-houses are dark and need cleaning. Miss Julie and Miss Diana will dress in their rooms.”
Jessop nodded, as Julie came in. The girl wore an afternoon gown, and her face was innocent of make-up. She was enthusiastic, happy, young - a touch of envy darkened the star’s fine eyes.
“Don’t you worry, Shelah,” Julie said. “Jessop and I have planned everything. It will be like all your parties - a knockout. What’s that, Jessop? Flowers?”
“For Miss Fane,” explained the butler, and handing the box to the girl, left the room.
Shelah F
ane was looking about her, a frown on her face. “I’ve been wondering, Julie. How in the world can I arrange a good entrance on the party, in a place like this? If only there were a balcony, or at least a broad flight of stairs.”
Julie laughed. “You might come suddenly through the lanai, strumming a ukulele and singing a Hawaiian song.”
The star took her seriously. “No good, my dear. I’d be entering on the same level with the guests, and that is never effective. To make the proper impression, one must appear suddenly from above - always remember that, darling. Now, in Hollywood -“
The girl shrugged. “Oh, just come in naturally for once, Shelah. There’s a lot in novelty, you know.” She had torn the cord from the box of flowers, and now she lifted the lid. “Lovely,” she cried. “Orchids, Shelah.”
The star turned, without interest. Orchids were nothing new in her life. “Nice of Alan,” she said languidly.
But Julie shook her head. “No,” she announced, “they’re not from Mr. Jaynes, evidently.” She read the card aloud. “‘With love from one you have forgotten.’ Who could that be, Shelah?”
“Who couldn’t it be?” smiled the star a bit wistfully. She rose with sudden interest. “I wonder - let me see the card.” She glanced at it. “‘With love from one -’” Her eyes lighted with quick understanding. “Why, it’s Bob’s writing. Dear old Bob! Just fancy - with love - after all these years.”
“Bob?” inquired the girl.
Shelah nodded. “Bob Fyfe - my first and only husband, dear. You never knew him - it was long ago. I was just a kid, in the chorus of a musical show in New York, and Bob was an actor, a legitimate actor - such a good one, too. I adored him then, but along came Hollywood, and our divorce. And now - with love - I wonder? Can it be true?”
“What’s he doing in Honolulu?” Julie asked.
“Playing in stock,” Shelah replied. “Leading man at some theater here. Rita Ballou told me all about him, this morning when I called her up.” She took the orchids. “I shall wear these tonight,” she announced. “I never dreamed he would even speak to me. I - I’m touched. I’d like to see Bob again.” A thoughtful look crossed her face. “I’d like to see him at once. He was always so kind, so clever. What time is it - oh, yes -” She glanced at a watch on her wrist. “Seven-twenty. What was the name of that theater? Rita told me. The Royal, I think she said -“
Charlie Chan [4] The Black Camel Page 2
