Charlie Chan [4] The Black Camel

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Shelah Fane had cabled me from the ship, asking me to meet her here. It seems that this fellow Jaynes had proposed to her, and she wanted my advice. For some time past she had been in the habit of coming to me with all her problems. She loved Jaynes, she wanted to marry him - but she was afraid of what the future might hold in store. She feared that at any moment the world might discover that for three years or more she had gone about burdened with a terrible secret.”

  “What secret?” Charlie inquired.

  “This morning,” Tarneverro continued, “you spoke of Denny Mayo, who was found dead in his home in Los Angeles some three years ago. The police have been at sea on the case from the start. But Shelah Fane - she knew who murdered Denny Maro. She was in Mayo’s house, paying a harmless call, on the night of the murder. The door-bell rang, and she foolishly hid in another room. She saw the thing done. All this she confessed to me this morning. What is more, she told me that Denny Mayo’s murderer is at this moment in Honolulu.”

  Charlie’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “She told you the name?”

  Tarneverro shook his head. “I’m sorry. She didn’t want to, and I made no effort to press her. Her reason, of course, for not revealing her connection with this affair at the time, was that to do so would ruin her career. She has kept silent all these years, but she hesitated to marry a man of whom she was really fond and perhaps drag him through some very unpleasant publicity later on.”

  “A natural hesitation,” Chan approved. “You encouraged it?” He had stopped the car in the drive of Shelah’s house, but he made no move to alight.

  “I did, of course,” Tarneverro said. “More than that, I strongly advised her to lift this burden from her mind and find peace at last. I assured her that if she revealed the name of the guilty person of her own accord, no police in the world would be inclined to punish her for her long silence. I trust I was right in that?”

  “Speaking for myself only, yes,” nodded Charlie.

  “I suggested she refuse Jaynes for the present, and go through with this unpleasant duty which I felt she owed to society. I said I thought it would be extremely foolish for her to marry any man with such a threat hanging over her happiness. If he really cared for her, I pointed out, Jaynes would marry her in the end. If he didn’t care that much, then it was better to discover it now.”

  They alighted and stood under the banyan tree. Charlie peered into the fortune-teller’s face. “And if Jaynes did not marry her -” he suggested.

  Tarneverro shrugged. “You are on the wrong track there,” he said. “I had no sentimental interest in Shelah Fane. But I didn’t fancy my role - the secret she confided in me was a bit more than I’d bargained for. I felt, too, that for the sake of her own happiness she ought to get rid of this burden at last. So I pleaded with her to make public the name of the guilty person in the Mayo case.”

  “And she agreed?” Charlie asked.

  “Not precisely. The idea rather frightened her. She said she would think it over, and give me her decision tonight. ‘Write me a brief statement, with that name included,’ I told her, ‘give it to me at dinner this evening, and I will make everything as easy for you as possible.’ I was confident of gaining my point, or I would never have spoken to you about it. Yes, I would have gained it - but now - now -“

  “Now,” Chan said, “the killer of Denny Mayo has silenced this woman for ever.”

  “Precisely.”

  “But in what manner did this person discover she was hovering on a point of revealment?”

  “I can’t tell you,” Tarneverro replied. “There is a balcony outside my room. That’s a possibility, but not a likely one, I fear. Or it may be that Shelah consulted the killer, told him - or her - that she could no longer remain silent. It would have been like her. She was indiscreet, impulsive.” They moved toward the steps. “I hope that what I have told you will prove helpful, Inspector. It gives you the motive, at least, and it narrows your search. Believe me, I shall be at your side through this investigation. You are going to have all the help I can possibly give you. I want, even more than you, the name of Shelah’s murderer.”

  “Your help will be valuable indeed,” Chan told him. “What did I say to you this morning - you are number one detective yourself. I did not dream that so soon we would be working side by side.”

  Jessop admitted them, and they went into the living-room where the two Ballous and Van Horn sat in gloomy silence. Charlie stood gazing at this small group with thoughtful deliberation. Jimmy Bradshaw entered behind him, his bathing-suit abandoned for dinner clothes.

  “Hello, Charlie,” he said in a low voice. “You’re needed here, all right. In the pavilion - clear over to the right on the lawn. I locked the door as soon as we found what had happened. Here’s the key.”

  “You are bright boy,” said Charlie, pleased. “That fact has long been apparent as the morning sun.” He turned to the others. “It will naturally be understood that no one leaves this house until I grant permission. Mr. Tarneverro, will you kindly accompany me?”

  He walked with the fortune-teller in silence across the lawn, white now under the rising moon. Chan went up the steps first, and unlocked the door. With marked reluctance, Tarneverro followed.

  Charlie went over and dropped down on one knee beside Shelah Fane. Slowly he looked from her to the fortune-teller. “Long time I have been in present business,” he said softly, “but rough blunt feelings do not come natural to me yet. I am sorry for this lady. Never before this moment have I seen her - yet I am so very sorry.” He stood up. “The black camel has knelt at plenty famous gate tonight,” he added.

  Tarneverro remained some distance from the body. He seemed to control himself with an effort. “Poor Shelah!” he muttered. “Life was very sweet to her.”

  “It is sweet to all of us,” Charlie nodded. “Even the beggar hesitates to cross a rotting bridge.”

  “I can never forgive myself,” the other continued. “What you see here began this morning in my apartment.”

  “What is to be, will be,” Chan comforted. “We will not move unfortunate one until arrival of coroner. I have already telephoned the station. But we will look about, Mr. Tarneverro. Do not forget - you are to help.” He knelt again, and lifted Shelah Fane’s left arm. “Here is already some evidence. There has been a struggle, and wrist-watch was smashed in process. Crystal is broken, and” - he placed the watch to his ear - “the working of the timepiece immediately ceased to function. The hands remain stationary at two minutes past eight. So soon, without an effort, we know exact moment of tragedy. That is indeed something.”

  “Two minutes after eight,” Tarneverro said. “At that moment, Jaynes, Martino, Van Horn, you and I were in the lounge of the hotel. Remember - Van Horn looked at his watch, remarked it was eight o’clock, and said he was starting down here.”

  “Of course,” Chan nodded. “The alibis arrive in one huge flock.” He pointed to the orchids, crushed on the floor. “Further evidence of the struggle. Bouquet was torn off, trampled under foot.”

  “All of which looks a bit like jealousy,” responded Tarneverro, frowning. “Can we be wrong about the motive, after all? No - it might be anger, too.”

  Charlie was crawling about the rug. “Peculiar thing,” he remarked. “Flowers were fastened by pin - you may note the shoulder-strap is torn - but no pin is here now.” He examined the orchids, and made a thorough search of the floor, while Tarneverro watched him. “It is true,” he added, standing up, “the pin which fastened flowers is strangely missing.”

  He stepped to an old mahogany dressing-table, a handsome piece in its day, but now banished to the beach house. The table had a glass top, and leaning over, he studied this with a microscope he had taken from his pocket. “One more point,” he said. “This corner here has lately received fierce nick. What can that mean?”

  Tarneverro had picked up an expensive gold mesh bag that was lying on the table, and was studying the contents. “No use,” he said.
“The usual compact, and a few dollars. For a moment I had a crazy thought that perhaps Shelah had already written down for me that name we want. It would have been a very happy chance. The case would have been over before it started.”

  “Cases do not permit themselves the luxury of such easy solution,” sighed Chan. “If letter such as you warmly desire had been in this room, murderer would have it now. No - fate is never so kind. We must take long way round. Come - we have finished here for the present. Much more to be done later.”

  They went out, and Charlie locked the door. As they moved across the lawn, he enumerated the clues. “A watch stopped at two minutes past eight in fierce struggle. A bouquet of orchids crushed in same, the pin that held them in place oddly lost. A fresh nick on glass corner of dressing-table. Enough for the moment, maybe.”

  As they entered the living-room, Jessop was ushering in Martino and Alan Jaynes. The latter’s face was pale beneath its bronze, and he was obviously much upset.

  “We will all acquire chairs,” Chan suggested. “Many questions must now be asked.”

  Jessop came forward and faced Tarneverro. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “With all the excitement, I quite forgot it.”

  “Forgot what?” asked Tarneverro, surprised.

  “This letter, sir.” He took a large elaborate envelope from his pocket. “Miss Fane requested me to give it to you the moment you arrived.”

  Tarneverro stretched forth his hand, but Charlie stepped quickly between them. He took the envelope. “So sorry. But the police are in charge here now.”

  “Naturally, sir,” Jessop bowed, and backed away.

  Chan stood there, a rather helpless-looking figure, holding the letter in his hand. Could it be true? Was the answer to this puzzle so soon within his grasp? A long understanding look passed between him and Tarneverro. The room seemed filled with people, milling about, seeking chairs. Charlie lifted his right hand to slit the envelope.

  The floor lamp furnished the only illumination in the room. Chan took a step nearer it; he had the envelope open now, and was about to remove the contents. Suddenly the lamp went out, and the room was plunged into darkness. There followed the sound of a blow, then another, a cry and the fall of a rather solid body.

  The place was in an uproar. Out of the blackness came an insistent demand for lights. The lamps in the wall brackets flashed on revealing Jessop at the switch.

  Charlie was slowly rising from the floor. He rubbed his right cheek, which was bleeding slightly.

  “Overwhelmed with regret,” he said, glancing at Tarneverro. “Famous god Jove, I hear, nodded on occasion. For myself, I fear I have just taken most unfortunate nap.” He held out his left hand, in which was a tiny fragment of envelope. “Vital portion of letter,” he added, “seems to have traveled elsewhere.”

  Chapter V

  THE MAN IN THE OVERCOAT

  For a long moment Chan stood with that fragment of letter in his hand. His expression was calm and unruffled, a very inaccurate indication of what was going on in his heart. Before a room filled with people some person had tricked and therefore disgraced the famous detective of the Honolulu police.

  Charlie Chan had lost face in the presence of seven witnesses. Though he had lived many years in Hawaii, he was still Oriental enough to feel a hot bitter anger that startled even himself.

  He sought to conquer that feeling immediately. Anger, he had been taught, is a poison that destroys the mind, and he would have need of all his faculties in the ordeal that impended. In this affair he was face to face with an adversary who was not only in a desperate mood, but who was also clever and quick to act. Well, so much the better, Charlie told himself; he would find all the more satisfaction in defeating such an opponent in the end. For he would win out; on that he was fiercely determined. The unknown person who had killed, first Denny Mayo, and then, to protect that secret, Shelah Fane, would be brought to justice at last, or Inspector Chan could never find peace again.

  Tarneverro was glaring at him with ill-concealed indignation. “So sorry,” he remarked coldly, “but the police are in charge here now.”

  Chan nodded. “You are eminently correct in that sneer. Never before in my life has such a happening aroused itself in my path. But I give you my word” - he looked slowly around the little group - “the person who struck that blow will pay. I am in no mood that turns the other cheek tonight.”

  He took out his handkerchief and applied it to the cheek that had, unfortunately, been already turned. It did not need the trace of red on the white linen to tell him that the hand that had hit him wore a ring. His right cheek - then the blow had probably come from some one’s left hand. On the left hand of Van Horn, he noted a large seal ring; he turned to Wilkie Ballou, and on that gentleman’s left hand he caught the glint of a diamond. Covertly he pursued his study; Bradshaw, Martino, Tarneverro and Jaynes were all innocent of jewelry.

  Tarneverro held his arms aloft. “You may start with me,” he said. “You are, of course, going to search every one in this room.”

  Charlie smiled. “I am not quite such fool as that. Person who favored me with vigorous blow is not likely to hold incriminating letter in guilty possession. Besides,” he added casually, as he walked away, “the matter is of small importance anyhow.”

  Tarneverro lowered his arms. It was quite evident from his expression that he heartily disapproved Charlie’s omission of what he considered an essential move. But Chan ignored him. The detective was making a swift examination of the cord which stretched from the lamp to an electrical socket a few inches above the floor. The plug, wrenched from its place, lay before him, its two protruding prongs mute evidence that its removal had been a simple matter. It had only been necessary to step on the cord anywhere along its length, move the foot a short distance away from the wall, and the thing was done. Simple, yes, but a bit of quick thinking on some one’s part. Charlie restored the plug, and the lamp flashed on again.

  He came back to the center of the room. “We waste no time in fruitless search for letter now,” he remarked. “I propose instead to fix in my mind our little group of characters, and perhaps learn from their lips just what they were engaged in doing at two minutes past eight tonight.” He stood gazing at them thoughtfully. “I have some hesitation where to begin. Mr. Ballou, yours is familiar face, so I will start in your vicinity. Will you kindly state position in this house of yourself and Mrs. Ballou?”

  The millionaire looked at him with all the arrogance of the white man who has lived for a long time among what he considers inferior races. “Why should I do that?” he inquired carelessly.

  “Murder has been committed,” replied Charlie sternly. “I recognize your high position on this island, but you are not above question. Will you deign to reply, please?”

  “We came here as dinner guests,” Ballou said. “We are - we were old friends of Miss Fane.”

  “You knew her in Hollywood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Ballou was, before her marriage to you, herself actress on famous silver screen?”

  “What if she was?” flared Ballou.

  “Why not be polite, Wilkie?” rebuked his wife. “Yes, Inspector, I was in the pictures, under the name of Rita Montaine. And if I do say it, I was rather well known.”

  Chan bowed. “Could one of your charm be otherwise? May I inquire, please, how long you have been married?”

  “Three years this month,” she told him amiably.

  “You resided, perhaps, in Hollywood up to moment of your marriage?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Do you recall - was Mr. Ballou in Hollywood for some time previous to that marriage?”

  “Yes - he hung around for several months, pleading with me to give up my career and take him.” Her husband snorted. “You may not recall it now, Wilkie, but you did.”

  “What the devil,” cried Ballou irritably, “has all that got to do with the murder of Shelah Fane? I believe, Inspector, that you are exceeding your
authority. You’d better be careful - I’m not without influence -“

  “So sorry,” said Chan soothingly. “I will come at once to the present. You arrived here tonight at what hour?”

  “At seven-thirty,” he answered. “The dinner was not until eight-thirty, but Mrs. Ballou got the invitation over the telephone, and as usual” - he glared at his wife - “she balled things up.”

  “At seven-thirty,” put in Chan hastily, cutting off Rita’s reply. “Describe actions down to present moment, please.”

  “What are you getting at?” objected Ballou roughly. “You don’t think I killed Shelah Fane, do you? By gad, I’ll speak to some one down at the station about this. Do you know who I am -“

  “Oh, who are you, anyhow, Wilkie?” his wife put in wearily. “Why not tell the Inspector what he wants to know and have done with it?” She turned to Chan. “We arrived about seven-thirty, and after a little chat with Miss Fane, stepped out on the beach to watch the bathers. It was about a quarter to eight when we went out there, I imagine.”

  “You were engaged in this manner how long?”

  “Answering for myself, I was on the beach until Jessop came out at eight-thirty. About ten minutes before that, Mr. Van Horn joined us and my husband got up and strolled toward the house.”

  “At two minutes past eight, then, yourself and husband were seated side by side on sand. You heard no cry or other indication of disturbance?”

  “None at all. The two girls in the water were doing more or less screaming - you know how people will. But that’s not the sort of thing you mean?”

  “Not precisely,” replied Chan. “Thank you so much. We drop you for the present.”

  Julie O’Neill came slowly into the room. The new pink evening gown she had looked forward to wearing at the party was back on its hangar, and she had donned a simple little dress of gray chiffon. Her face was still decidedly pale, but she seemed calm and collected now. Chan turned to her.