“I wanted her to come back to me. I couldn’t live without her. I pleaded and begged - and she wouldn’t listen. She laughed at me - she said there wasn’t a chance. She drove me to it - I killed her. I had to do it.”
“You killed her - with what?”
“With a knife I carried as one of the props in the play.”
“Where is it now?”
“I threw it into a swamp on my way to town.”
“You can lead me to the spot?”
“I can try.”
Chan turned away.
Alan Jaynes was on his feet. “Eleven-ten,” he cried. “I can just make the boat if I hurry, Inspector. Of course, you’re not going to hold me now.”
“But I do hold you,” Charlie answered. “Spencer, if this man makes another move, kindly place him beneath arrest.”
“Are you mad?” Jaynes cried. “You have your confession, haven’t you -“
“With regard to that,” said Charlie, “wait just a moment, please.” He turned back to Fyfe, who was standing quietly beside him. “You left the pavilion, Mr. Fyfe, at four minutes past eight?”
“I did.”
“You had already killed Shelah Fane?”
“I had.”
“You drove to the theater and were in the wings of same at twenty minutes past eight?”
“Yes - I told you all that.”
“The stage manager will swear that you were there at twenty minutes past eight?”
“Of course - of course.”
Chan stared at him. “Yet at twelve minutes past eight,” he said, “Shelah Fane was seen alive and well.”
“What’s that!” Tarneverro cried.
“Pardon - I am speaking with this other gentleman. At twelve minutes past eight, Mr. Fyfe, Shelah Fane was seen alive and well. How do you account for that?”
Fyfe dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
“I do not understand you,” Charlie said gently. “You wish me to believe you killed Shelah Fane. Yet, of all the people in this room, you alone have unshakable alibi.”
Chapter IX
EIGHTEEN IMPORTANT MINUTES
No one spoke. Outside what Jimmy Bradshaw had called the silken surf broke once again on the coral sand. The crash died away, and inside that crowded room there was no sound save the ticking of a small clock on a mantel beneath which fires were rarely lighted. With a gesture of despair, Alan Jaynes stepped to a table and, striking a match, applied it to one of his small cigars. Charlie crossed over and laid his hand on Fyfe’s shoulder.
“Why have you confessed to a deed you did not perform?” he asked. “That is something I warmly desire to know.”
The actor made no answer, nor did he so much as look up. Charlie turned to face Tarneverro.
“So Shelah Fane was seen alive at twelve minutes past eight?” the fortune-teller remarked suavely. “Would you mind telling me how long you have known that?”
Charlie smiled. “If only it happened you understood Chinese language,” he replied. “I would not find it necessary to elucidate.” He went to the door, and called Jessop. When the butler appeared, Chan asked that he send in Wu Kno-ching at once. “I am doing something now for your benefit alone, Mr. Tarneverro,” he added.
“You are a considerate man, Inspector,” the fortune-teller answered.
The old Chinese shuffled into the room; he was, evidently, in a rather peevish frame of mind. His carefully prepared dinner had been ruined by the events of this tragic evening, and he was in no mood to accept the philosophy of the patient K’ung-fu-tsze.
Chan talked with him for a moment, again in Cantonese, and then turned to Tarneverro. “I request that he verify story he told me in native language when I interrogated him in this room some while ago,” he explained. “Wu, you have said you lingered in kitchen with Jessop and Anna when clock was speaking the hour of eight. You fretted because dinner was seemingly movable feast, and also because bootlegger of your choice had not shown up and was causing you to lose much face. Am I correct so far?”
“Bootleggah velly late,” nodded Wu.
“But at ten minutes past hour, erring friend of yours makes panting appearance with hotly desired liquids. While Jessop begins task of making this poison palatable, you wander away in search of mistress.” Chan glanced at the fortune-teller. “Wu informal type servant who pops up anywhere on place with great bland look. Characteristic of the race.” He resumed his remarks to the Chinese. “You discover Miss Shelah Fane alone in pavilion. Vindicating your honor, you announce bootlegger friend has finally appeared. What did Missie say?”
“Missie look-see watch, say twelve minutes aftah eight plitty muchee time bootleggah come. I say plitty muchee time dinnah gets on table. Mebbe that can happen now if not new cook needed heah wikiwiki.”
“Yes. Then she ordered you to get out and not annoy her with your bothers. So you went back to kitchen. That’s what you told me before, isn’t it?”
“Yes, boss.”
“All same true, eh, Wu?”
“Yes, boss. Wha’ foah my tell lie to you?”
“All right. You can go now.”
“My go, boss.”
As the old man moved silently away on his velvet slippers, Charlie turned to meet the penetrating gaze of Tarneverro. “All of which is very interesting,” the fortune-teller said coldly. “I perceive that when I pointed out to you the matter of the watch, I was merely wasting my breath. You already knew that Shelah Fane had not been murdered at two minutes past eight.”
Charlie laid a conciliatory hand on Tarneverro’s arm. “Pray do not take offense. I knew Miss Fane had been seen at that later hour, yes; but I was still uncertain of how watch had been manipulated. I listened, curious and then entranced, to your logical explanation. Could I, at its finish, rudely cry thanks for nothing? A gentleman is always courteous. Much better I shower you with well-deserved words of praise, so you go forward with vigorous and triumphant mood of heart.”
“Is that so?” remarked Tarneverro, moving off.
Charlie stepped up to the beachcomber. “Mr. Smith,” he said.
“Right here, officer,” Smith answered. “I was afraid you were going to forget me. What can I do for you now?”
“A moment ago you began interesting recital of conversation overheard between this gentleman with ribbon-bedecked shirtfront and lady he met in pavilion tonight. At crucial point you suffered very blunt interruption. I am most eager that you return to subject at once.”
Fyfe rose to his feet, and stared hard at the derelict in the velvet coat. Smith looked back at him, and a speculative, cunning look flashed into his pale gray eyes.
“Oh, yes,” he said slowly. “I was interrupted, wasn’t I? But I’m used to that. Sure - sure, I was telling you that I heard them talking together. Well, there’s no need to go on with it now. I’ve nothing to add to what the gentleman has already told you.” Fyfe turned away. “He was pleading with her to come back to him - said he loved her, and all that. And she wouldn’t listen to him. I felt rather sorry for him - I’ve been in that position myself. I heard her say: ‘Oh, Bob - what’s the use?’ He went on insisting. Every now and then he looked at his watch. ‘My time’s up,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got to go. We’ll thrash this out later.’ I heard the slam of the door -“
“And the woman was alone in the room - alive and well. You are sure of that?”
“Yes - the curtain was flapping - I saw her after he left. She was there alone - moving about.”
With a puzzled frown, Charlie glanced at Robert Fyfe. “You are not content with one alibi. You have now a second. I do not understand you, Mr. Fyfe.”
The actor shrugged. “I find it hard to understand myself, Inspector. A fit of temperament, perhaps. We stage people are inclined to be overly dramatic.”
“Then you withdraw your confession?”
“What else can I do?” Chan did not overlook the glance that passed between the immaculate actor and the battered be
achcomber. “Others have withdrawn it for me. I did not kill Shelah - that’s quite true. But I thought it would be better if -“
“If what?”
“Nothing.”
“You thought it would be better if my investigation went no further.”
“Oh, not at all.”
“Something came out in that conversation with your ex-wife which you feared this man had overheard. Something you want suppressed.”
“You have a keen imagination, Inspector.”
“Also, I have a custom to discover facts which some people want to hide. Your move has been to this moment successful - but you and I have not finished with each other, Mr. Fyfe.”
“I am at your service at any time, sir.”
“Thank you so much, but I hope the next time we meet your service will be of more value to my humble self.” He looked at Smith. “As for you, though I am desolated by acute pain to make so rude a remark, I believe you mix plenty falsehood with your truth.”
The beachcomber shrugged. “There you go - judging a man by his clothes again.”
“Not by your clothes, which are silent, but by your tongue, which speaks,” Charlie told him. “Mr. Spencer, will you kindly take this man to station house and make record of his fingerprints.”
“So many attentions,” Smith put in. “I only hope they don’t turn my head.”
“After which,” Chan continued, “you may release him - for time being.”
“All right, Charlie,” Spencer said.
“One other thing. Pause a moment while I introduce to you all people in this room.” Gravely he went through that somewhat lengthy ceremony. “You have also seen butler and cook. There is in addition a maid, whom I ask that you pause and make note of on your way out. You will speed from station without delay to Pier Seven, from which the boat Oceanic sails for coast at midnight. No person you have seen in this house is to sail on that boat. You understand?”
“Sure, Charlie - I’ll attend to it,” Spencer nodded.
Jaynes stepped forward. “I’d like to remind you that my luggage is aboard that ship - some of it in the hold -“
Charlie nodded. “How fortunate you spoke of that. Mr. Spencer, kindly see that all effects in stateroom belonging to Mr. Jaynes are put ashore in your care. Arrange for such as lie in hold to be guarded for the gentleman at San Francisco dock. Explain he is detained by important business and may be in Honolulu for some time. Is that satisfactory, Mr. Jaynes?”
“It’s damned unsatisfactory,” the Britisher growled, “but I presume I shall have to make the best of it.”
“All you can do,” nodded Charlie. “Kashimo, you will accompany Mr. Spencer downtown. Your passionate labors in this house are ended for the night. You retire in glory - and if you come back through unexpected window, you retire for ever. Keep same in mind.”
The apprentice detective nodded, and went out after Spencer and the beachcomber. Robert Fyfe stepped forward.
“Is there any necessity for my staying any longer?” he inquired.
Charlie studied him thoughtfully. “I think not. You may go along. You and I will talk together when I have more leisure.”
“Any time, Inspector.” Fyfe went to the curtains, and held them open. “I am stopping at the Waioli Hotel, on Fort Street,” he added. “Drop in at your convenience, won’t you? Good night.” He went into the hall, where Spencer could be heard talking with the maid. The door slammed behind him, and a second later, the two policemen and Smith also departed.
Charlie stood regarding the tired group in the living-room. “Accept my advice and take heart,” he said. “We give Mr. Spencer generous handicap on journey to pier, and then I find great joy releasing this company at last. While we are waiting, there are one or two matters. Since first I spoke with you, it has been found necessary to alter views. Then hour of tragedy was thought certain at two minutes past eight. Now we must advance and say, dreadful event happened some time between twelve minutes past eight and the half-hour. Eighteen minutes there - eighteen important minutes. Each of us must ask himself: What was I doing in those eighteen minutes?”
He paused. His eyes were bright, his manner quite keen and alive - for him. The Chinese are at their best at night; it is their favorite time. But he was alone in his vigor, the others were exhausted and drooping, the makeup of the women stood out, unnatural and far from pleasing, against the pallor of their weariness.
“Eighteen important minutes,” Chan repeated. “Miss Dixon, Miss Julie and Mr. Bradshaw disported gaily in breakers, visiting beach occasionally. On that beach Mrs. Ballou sat and idly passed time until dinner. For final ten of those minutes, Mr. Ballou wandered about, no one can say where -“
“I can say where,” Ballou cut in. “I came into this room - the butler will verify that. I strolled in here and smoked a cigarette he gave me.”
“He remained with you while you smoked it?”
“No - he didn’t. He lighted it for me, and went out. When he returned, I was sitting in the same chair -“
“You wish me to note that, eh?” Charlie smiled.
“I don’t care whether you note it or not.”
Charlie took out a handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his brow. The tropic night was beginning to live up to its reputation.
“I turn now to the four gentlemen whose alibis have been so rudely shattered. I know where they were at two minutes past eight, but after that -“
“Take me first,” said Tarneverro. “You saw me go to join those two people in the lounge of the hotel - they are old friends of mine from Australia. We remained there for a few minutes after you left, and then I suggested that we go out on the lanai that faces the palm court. We did so, and for a time sat and chatted. When I finally looked at my watch, it was precisely eight-thirty. I remarked on the hour and said I was sorry, but I had to go along. We all went inside, I ran up to get my hat, and when I came back to the lobby, I happened on you near the door.”
Charlie studied his face. “Your old friends will be willing to swear to all this?”
“I can see no reason why they shouldn’t. They know it’s true.”
Chan smiled. “I congratulate you, Mr. Tarneverro.”
“I congratulate myself, Inspector. You may recall that I told you I had another tree.”
“Mr. Jaynes,” said Chan, turning to the Britisher.
Jaynes shrugged hopelessly. “I have no alibi,” he said. “During those eighteen minutes, I was wandering along the beach, alone. Make what you wish of it. I didn’t come down here.”
“Mr. Van Horn - you did come down here?” Charlie addressed the picture actor.
“I did, worse luck,” shrugged Van Horn. “The first time in a long and honorable career that I ever got to a party ahead of the hour set. It will be a lesson to me - I can tell you that.”
“It was, I believe, eight-fifteen when Jessop admitted you?”
“About that time - yes. He told me that the party - or what there was of it - had moved to the beach. I went out on the lawn. I saw a light in a building which Jessop told me was a summer-house, and I thought of going there. I wish to heaven I had. But I heard voices down by the water, so I went there instead. I sat down by Rita Ballou - but you know all that.”
Chan nodded. “Only one remains. Mr. Martino?”
The director frowned. “Like Huntley and Mr. Jaynes,” he said, “I have no alibi worth mentioning. You wrecked me along with them when you smashed that eight-two theory.” He took a handkerchief from a side pocket and mopped his forehead. “After Jaynes left me and started down the beach, I sat in one of the hotel swings near the water. I should have been busy getting myself a good alibi, I suppose, but I’m not so clever as Mr. Tarneverro here.” He gave the fortune-teller an unfriendly look. “So I just sat alone - the scene looked rather good to me. I wished I could get it into a picture - the purple starry sky, the yellow lamps along the waterfront, the black hulk of Diamond Head. A picture in color - we’ll have ‘em that way b
efore long. I amused myself thinking up a possible story - you can’t depend on authors for anything. Presently I looked at my watch. It was eight-twenty-five, so I went to my room to brush up and get my hat. When I came down I met you and Tarneverro here, and heard the news of Miss Fane’s murder.”
Charlie stood looking thoughtfully at the director. Suddenly he was pushed aside as Tarneverro strode forward.
“That’s a nasty scratch on your forehead, Martino,” the fortune-teller cried.
Startled, the director put his hand to his brow, and on one finger, as he took it away, he noted a trace of red.
“By jove,” he said, “that’s odd -“
“You’d better turn over to Inspector Chan the handkerchief you just replaced in your pocket.”
“What handkerchief?” Martino produced the one which he had recently passed across his forehead. “Oh, this!”
“I will take it, please,” said Charlie. He spread the white square of silk on a table and brought out his magnifying-glass. For a moment he studied the center of the square, then ran his fingers lightly across it. He looked up.
“A queer thing, Mr. Martino,” he remarked. “There exist, caught in mesh of this cloth, a few thin splinters of glass. How would you explain that?”
Martino rose quickly, and with a serious face bent over the table. “I can’t explain it,” he said. “I can’t even explain how that handkerchief came to be in my pocket.”
Chan regarded him intently. “It is not your property?” he inquired.
“It certainly isn’t,” the director replied. “I carry two handkerchiefs with my evening clothes. One here” - he indicated his breast pocket above which the ends of a handkerchief were showing - “and another in my hip pocket.” He produced a second. “Certainly I’d have no use for a third. I just happened to reach into my side pocket, my hand touched this, and I used it. But I never put it there, and it isn’t mine.”
“A likely story,” Tarneverro sneered.
“My dear Tarneverro,” the director said, “when you’ve made as many pictures as I have, you’ll realize that the truth often sounds less probable than fiction.” He picked up the little square of silk and handed it to Charlie. “By the way, there’s a laundry mark in one corner of that.”
Charlie Chan [4] The Black Camel Page 10
