Charlie Chan [4] The Black Camel

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “I attend Rotary Club banquet in this hotel,” Chan explained.

  “Good. You’ll be here some time?”

  Chan nodded. “I fear so. It happens very few after-dinner speeches are equipped with self-stopper.”

  “Until eleven, perhaps?”

  “It seems terribly possible.”

  “I am dining at a friend’s house down the beach,” Tarneverro said. “At the house of Miss Shelah Fane, in fact. Some time between now and eleven o’clock I may have a very important message for you, Inspector.”

  Chan’s eyes opened slowly. “A message? Of what nature?”

  Tarneverro hesitated. “This morning you happened to speak of certain murder cases in Los Angeles that remain unsolved. I told you then that I preferred to keep out of that sort of thing. We are not always able to follow our preferences, Inspector.” He moved away.

  “One moment,” said Chan. “You have sought to quench the fire of my curiosity by tossing upon it a handful of straw. May I repeat my question - what sort of message?”

  The fortune-teller gave him a long look. “A message calling upon you to arrest the murderer of - but there, I mustn’t say too much. There’s many a slip, as you have no doubt learned from your own experience. I shall be happy to have you so near - until eleven, at least. After that I presume I can reach you at your home?”

  “With ease,” Charlie told him.

  “Let us hope for success,” smiled Tarneverro cryptically, and went to rejoin his elderly acquaintances in the center of the lounge. For a second Chan looked after him. Then, shrugging his broad shoulders, he turned to find the banquet room.

  Chapter III

  FLOWERS FOR SHELAH FANE

  Huntley Van Horn strolled down Kalakaua Avenue in the direction of Shelah Fane’s house. On this tiny island in the midst of the rolling Pacific, few outward signs of a romantic past survived. He might have been on Hollywood Boulevard: the parade of automobiles along that stretch of American asphalt was constant, a trolley clattered by, he walked on a concrete sidewalk under the soft yellow glow of modern street-lamps. Yet, beyond the range of those lamps, he was conscious of the black velvet of a tropic night. He caught the odor of ginger blossoms and plumeria, a croton hedge gave way to one of hibiscus, topped with pale pink flowers that were doomed to die at midnight.

  He came to the number Shelah had impressed on his memory and turned in through the gates on to a broad drive that curved before a wide front door. Passing beneath a prolific banyan tree, two centuries older than the motion pictures, he rang the bell. Jessop admitted him.

  “Oh, Mr. Van Horn,” the butler said. “I’m happy to see you again.”

  “How have you been?” the actor inquired.

  “In splendid health, sir. I trust you enjoyed your little jaunt to Tahiti?”

  Van Horn tossed down the straw hat he had substituted for the silk topper in which he had won the approval of several million women. “A primitive country, Tahiti,” he smiled. “It would have reminded you of Hollywood, Jessop.”

  The butler permitted himself a discreet smite. Van Horn pushed on into the living-room, and Jessop followed.

  “No one here?” the actor cried. “Lord - am I as early as all that?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Van Horn. Some of the guests are enjoying the bathing, which I understand is rather famous in certain quarters. A few, I believe, are on the beach. Would you care to join the - er - the other young people in the water, sir?”

  Van Horn grinned. “The diplomatic service lost a good man in you. No - much as I am tempted to classify myself with youth, the matter involves too damn much dressing and undressing. I shall remain, high and dry, on the shore.”

  “Just as well, sir,” nodded Jessop. “It is already eight-fifteen, and the dinner hour is rapidly approaching. I shall be forced to summon them in shortly.”

  Van Horn stared about the room. “What - no cocktails?”

  “There has been a slight delay, sir. The gentleman who was to supply us with the raw material - the very raw material, between you and me, sir - has only just come. I was busy with the shaker when you rang.” He went over and stood by the French window opening on to the lanai. “You will find the ocean just out here, sir,” he explained.

  Van Horn laughed, and stepped on to the lanai. The butler followed him to the screen door, and held it open.

  “Ah, yes,” said the actor. “I hear the roar of surf. No doubt I shall find the sea in that same general neighborhood.” He paused in the doorway, and indicated a light gleaming through the trees some distance to the right. “What’s over there?”

  “It’s a sort of summer-house, or pavilion, sir,” Jessop explained. “At least, it would be a summer-house in England, where we have summers. It may be a few of the guests are in there.”

  Van Horn went out on the lawn, and started across it in the direction of the light. Suddenly he heard, above the pounding of the breakers, voices on the beach. He stood for a moment, undecided which way to go.

  Jessop, meanwhile, returned to the living-room. An old bent Chinese came shuffling in.

  “My dear Wu Kno-ching,” the butler protested, “in a well-run house, the cook’s place is in the kitchen.”

  The old man blandly ignored the rebuke. “What time dinnah?” he asked.

  “As I have told you, the dinner is set for eight-thirty,” replied Jessop. “It may, however, be somewhat delayed.”

  Wu Kno-ching shrugged. “Wha’ kin’ house this is? Dinnah mebbe sometime plitty soon aftah while. I get dinnah ready - boss say wait - dinnah goes to hell.” He departed, murmuring further reproof.

  The screen door slammed behind Wilkie Ballou; he crossed the lanai aimlessly and entered the living-room.

  “I fear this idea of a swim is going to delay dinner, sir,” Jessop said to him.

  “What? Oh, yes - I suppose so. Have you any cigarettes here? My case is empty.”

  Jessop proffered a box containing cigarettes, and taking one, Ballou dropped into a chair. The butler officiated with a match, then retired to the kitchen.

  Returning fifteen minutes later, he found the Honolulu man sitting just as he had left him.

  “Things are getting rather serious, sir,” Jessop remarked. He carried a large dinner gong. “I had always supposed, from my reading, that the Chinese are a notably patient race.”

  “They have that reputation, yes,” nodded Ballou.

  “Their representative in our kitchen, sir, is doing nothing to sustain it,” Jessop sighed. “He informs me with great passion that dinner is waiting. I’ll just go down to the shore and see what this will do.” He nodded toward the gong and disappeared. Presently he could be heard in the distance, beating a not unmusical tattoo.

  Ballou lighted a fresh cigarette. Jessop returned, and at his heels came Rita Ballou and Van Horn.

  “You should have stayed, Wilkie,” Rita said. “I’ve just been getting all the latest Hollywood gossip.”

  “I’m not interested,” Ballou growled.

  “Poor Wilkie,” his wife smiled. “It’s close to his bedtime, and he hasn’t even had his dinner. Cheer up. It won’t be long now.”

  Diana Dixon arrived, quite out of breath. “I suppose we’re late,” she cried. “You should have been in with us. It was glorious - but not half long enough. I could have stayed for hours. Cocktails - that’s an idea.”

  She took one from the tray which Jessop held before her. The other guests likewise needed no urging. Huntley Van Horn lifted his glass.

  “To our hostess, if any,” he remarked.

  “That’s right - what’s become of Shelah?” Rita Ballou said. “We saw her for a moment when we came -“

  “Shelah,” said Van Horn, with a cynical smile, “is no doubt lurking in the background waiting to make a grand and impressive entrance. She will ride in on a white charger, or descend on us from a balloon. You know, she goes in for that sort of thing -“

  Julie and Jimmy Bradshaw rushed in, glowing and in high spirits.
“Hello, Mr. Van Horn,” the girl cried. “Are you all that’s come?”

  “To think,” he groaned, “that you could be so rude to me.”

  “Oh, you know what I mean,” she laughed. “Where are all our other guests? Val Martino, Mr. Jaynes, Tarneverro -“

  “Tarneverro coming?” Van Horn lifted his eyebrows. “In that case, I will have a second cocktail. Thanks so much.”

  Quite unexpectedly there was the sound of steel guitars at the front door, and of many fresh young voices singing a Hawaiian song. Julie cried out with delight.

  “A serenade from Shelah’s admirers,” she said. “Isn’t that sweet? She will be pleased.” Her beach robe streaming behind her, she ran to the door and threw it open. She stood gazing out at a vast throng of high-school girls, laden with flowers. They stopped their song, and a young Japanese girl stepped forward. “We would like to see Shelah Fane, please.”

  “Of course,” said Julie. “Just wait, and I’ll get her. While you’re waiting, if you don’t mind - will you sing The Song of the Islands? It’s Miss Fane’s favorite, you know.”

  She left the door open and returned to the living-room. “Come on, Jimmy - we’ll find Shelah. I think she’s in the pavilion.”

  “Sure,” said Jimmy. They went out on the lawn.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Julie cried. “For Shelah’s entrance on the party, I mean. That crowd outside serenading her as she comes in - she’d love it.”

  “Good lord,” said Bradshaw, disapproval in his voice.

  “Oh, I know,” the girl answered. “It’s silly, but poor Shelah’s what she is. Her life has made her so, and she can’t change.” They went on across the soft lawn under the hau trees and the algarobas. The sweet haunting strains of The Song of the Islands came to them on the evening breeze. “Hurry,” Julie said, “Shelah must get in there before that song ends.”

  She ran up the steps of the pavilion, with Bradshaw close behind. He pushed open the door of the single room. For a second he stood there, then he turned swiftly and caught the girl in his arms.

  “No, no,” he cried. “Don’t go any farther.”

  His tone frightened her. “What do you mean?”

  “Turn around and go back,” he pleaded, but she tore away from him and ran inside.

  “You’ll be sorry,” he warned.

  And she was sorry, it seemed, for above the voices of the serenaders and the distant whine of steel guitars, her own voice rose in a sharp cry of fright and terror.

  Shelah Fane lay on the floor beside a small straight-backed chair. She had been stabbed through the heart; her priceless ivory gown was stained with crimson. Outside, that little group of her admirers continued to sing fervently their serenade.

  Julie knelt by the star’s side, and Bradshaw looked away. In a moment he went over and lifted the girl to her feet. “We’d better go,” he said gently. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  He led her to the door. She looked up at him through her tears. “But who - who -” she murmured.

  “Ah, yes -” he answered. “That, I’m afraid, is the big question now.”

  He found, on the inside of the pavilion door, an unexpected key. They went outside, and the boy locked the door, putting the key in his pocket. Slowly they walked back to the house. Huntley Van Horn greeted them.

  “Did you tell Shelah?” he said. “The stage is all set. Her guests are gathered in the living-room, her great public is singing lustily at the door - it’s a grand entrance -” He stopped at sight of Julie’s face.

  “What’s happened?” cried Rita Ballou shrilly.

  Bradshaw stood looking about the little group. Jessop came in and, picking up the silver tray on which he had served the cocktails, prepared to collect the empty glasses. Outside the door, The Song of the Islands trailed off into silence.

  “Shelah Fane has been murdered in the pavilion,” said the boy in a low voice.

  There was a sudden crash. Jessop had been guilty of his first error in forty years of service. He had dropped the silver tray.

  “I beg pardon,” he said to no one in particular.

  Outside, Shelah Fane’s admirers began another song. Bradshaw dashed through the curtains to the front door.

  “Please,” he cried. “Please - no more tonight. You must go away now. Miss Fane can’t see you. She is - she is ill.”

  “We are so sorry,” said the girl who seemed to be the leader. “Will you give her the flowers, please?”

  They began to load him down with fragrant blossoms. Presently he staggered back into the hallway, his arms filled with a riot of color. Julie was standing there, her eyes wide, her face deathly pale.

  “Flowers,” said Bradshaw. “Flowers for Shelah Fane.”

  With a choking cry, Julie fell in a heap at his feet.

  Chapter IV

  THE CAMEL AT THE GATE

  Down at the Grand Hotel, Charlie Chan was well started on what he perceived was going to be an excellent dinner. The hour of Rotarian oratory was not near enough to worry him, the food was good and he felt at peace with the world. He did not know the name of the small fish that lay on the plate before him, but one taste had led him to approve most heartily of its quality. He was leaning forward to apply himself with increased diligence to the task at hand, when a bell-boy touched him on the shoulder.

  “You are wanted on telephone very quick,” said the boy.

  A sense of vague unrest troubled him as he walked down the long lobby to the telephone booth. He would have preferred a life of quiet meditation, but a ruthless fate was always breaking in upon him with some new problem that must be solved. What now, he wondered, as he entered the booth and pulled the door to behind him.

  He was greeted by an excited young voice. “Say, Charlie, - this is Jim Bradshaw of the Tourist Bureau. Huntley Van Horn told me I could find you at the hotel.”

  “Yes - and now you have found me. What is it that has brought you to this state of high disturbance?”

  In jumbled phrases Bradshaw poured out his story. Charlie listened calmly.

  “Shelah Fane,” the boy was saying. “You know what that means, Charlie. This news of mine will be cabled all over the world tonight. You’re going to be in the limelight as you never were before. Better get down here as fast as you can.”

  “I will arrive at once,” Charlie answered. Was that a sigh, Bradshaw wondered, that came over the wire? “Let nothing be touched until I touch it,” the detective added.

  He hung up, then called the police station and gave certain directions. At last he came from the booth, mopping his perspiring brow with his handkerchief. For a moment he stood motionless, as though gathering his strength for the task that lay before him. Another case, another murder, and he knew that what the boy had said was true: this time he would work in a bright spotlight indeed. Shelah Fane! Not for nothing did he have numerous children who, as he often said, were movie crazed. He knew only too well the interest that had always centered about the woman who now lay dead a short distance down the beach.

  “A thousand-mile journey begins with one step,” he sighed, and took it - in the direction of his hat.

  When he returned to the door of the hotel, he encountered Tarneverro. The fortune-teller also carried a hat, and seemed on the point of going out. “Hello, Inspector,” he said. “You haven’t finished your dinner already?”

  “I have not,” Charlie answered. “I am rudely wrenched away by important business. The most important I have encountered for some time.”

  “Yes?” returned Tarneverro lightly.

  Charlie’s small eyes were fixed upon the other’s face with a fierce intensity. Not too soon to collect impressions, to weigh, to measure, to study.

  “Miss Shelah Fane,” he said slowly, “is just now found murdered at her home.”

  For hours afterward he was to speculate upon the look that crossed that dark mysterious face.

  “Shelah!” Tarneverro cried. “Good God!”

  “You were on yo
ur way there, perhaps?” Charlie continued.

  “I - I - yes - of course -“

  “Do me the honor to ride with me. I desire to ask questions.”

  Val Martino hurried up. “I say, Tarneverro - are you going down the beach?”

  Tarneverro told him the news. The director heard it with surprising calmness.

  “Too bad,” he said evenly. He was thoughtful. “Well, there goes six months’ hard work. That picture’s ruined. I’ll never find anybody to double for her - I’ve tried it -“

  “Good lord, man!” cried Tarneverro angrily. “Shelah is dead, and you babble about your picture.”

  “Sorry,” said Martino. “Sorry for poor Shelah. But even in the movies, the show must go on.”

  “What became of that fellow Jaynes?” Tarneverro asked suddenly.

  “Right after we left you, he shook me off and strolled down the beach. He was in a state of mind - well, you saw that. Wasn’t coming to the dinner - but I fancy I’d better find him and bring him down, eh?”

  “Yes, yes,” Chan said hurriedly. “I must see him. Come, Mr. Tarneverro. Speed is necessary.” He led the fortune-teller out to the drive, where his battered flivver was waiting. “The vehicle is none too grand,” he apologized, “but it moves. Will you kindly leap inside?”

  Silently Tarneverro climbed into the little two-seater. Charlie started the car.

  “This is a terrible thing,” the fortune-teller said. “Poor Shelah - I can scarcely realize it.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Time to be philosophical,” he suggested. “You have perhaps heard old Eastern saying. ‘Death is the black camel that kneels unbid at every gate.’ Sooner or later - does it matter which?”

  “I know, I know,” Tarneverro continued. “But, in a way, I’m afraid I’m responsible for this. Oh, lord, the more I think about it, the clearer it becomes. Poor Shelah’s blood is on my head.”

  “Your remarks have interesting sound,” Charlie remarked, as the car moved through the hotel gates on to the avenue. “Explain, if you will be so kind.”

  “This evening,” the fortune-teller went on, “I told you I might call on you to make an arrest in a very important murder case. I fully expected to do so. I’ll tell you what I meant by that, as briefly as possible.