“That’s something,” nodded the Chief, lighting a cigar.
Chan shrugged. “Something we do not possess,” he pointed out. He went on to repeat Shelah Fane’s story of her presence at the murder of Denny Mayo - the tale she had told Tarneverro, according to the fortune-teller, that morning.
“Fine - fine,” cried the Chief. “That gives you the motive, Charlie. Now if she had only written down the name, as this Tarneverro wanted her to -“
With acute distaste, Charlie added the incident of the letter’s loss. His Chief looked at him with surprise and a marked disapproval.
“Never knew anything like that to happen to you before. Losing your grip, Charlie?”
“For a moment, I certainly lost grip and letter too,” Chan replied ruefully. “As the matter turned out, it did not have much importance.” His face brightened as he added the later discovery of the letter under the rug, proving that it was of no value save as a corroboration of Tarneverro’s story. He went on to the destruction of the portrait over which Shelah Fane had been seen weeping bitterly in the afternoon.
“Some one didn’t want you to see it,” frowned the Chief.
“I arrived at the same deduction myself,” Charlie admitted. He pictured the arrival of Robert Fyfe on what was obviously his second visit to Waikiki within a few hours, and then turned to the subject of the beachcomber.
“We took his fingerprints and let him go,” put in the Chief. “He hasn’t nerve enough to kill a fly.”
Chan nodded. “You are no doubt correct in such surmise.” His report of Fyfe’s subsequent, easily punctured confession, evidently puzzled his superior. He mentioned the handkerchief with the telltale slivers of glass found in Martino’s pocket, and Jimmy Bradshaw’s somewhat belated claim to its ownership. He was by this time rather out of breath. “So matter stands at present,” he finished.
His Chief was looking at him with an amused smile. “Well, Charlie, sometimes I’ve thought you weren’t entirely satisfied here since your return from the mainland,” he said. “Pretty quiet, you thought it. No big cases like over there. Just chasing a few scared gamblers down an alley - not very thrilling, was it? Honolulu didn’t seem to be big enough for you any more. I guess it’s big enough tonight.”
“I experience uncomfortable feeling maybe it is too big,” Chan admitted. “How will I come out of this? Considerable puzzle, if inquiry is made of me.”
“We mustn’t let it stump us,” replied the Chief briskly. He was an intelligent man, and he knew where to lean. He foresaw that he was going to do some heavy leaning in the next few days. With an appraising glance, he surveyed his assistant. Charlie looked sleepy and somewhat worn - nothing alert, nothing clever in his appearance now. The Chief consoled himself with memories. Chan, he reflected, was ever keener than he looked.
He considered. “This Tarneverro, Charlie, - what sort of fellow is he?”
Chan brightened. “Ah, perhaps you go to heart of the matter. Tarneverro appears dark as rainy night, but it is his business to act so. He owns a quick mind. And he seems fiercely eager to assist poor policeman like me.”
“A bit too eager, maybe?”
Charlie nodded. “I have thought of that. But consider - he offers to produce testimony of old couple with whom he sat until moment murder was discovered. Truth of that will be examined tomorrow, but I do not doubt it. No - I am plenty certain he did not visit house of Shelah Fane until I took him there. Other points absolve him.”
“What, for example?”
“I have told you he spoke to me before murder was done, hinting we would tonight make arrest in famous case. That would have been strangely foolish move if he contemplated murder himself. And Tarneverro is not foolish - he goes far the other way. Then, too, indicating he has earnest desire to assist he points out the matter of the watch. It was bright act - not very necessary since I already knew facts from Wu Kno-ching - but all same plenty good proof he sincerely aims to help. No, I do not believe him guilty killer, and yet -“
“Yet what, Charlie?”
“I prefer to hold that safe in mind for the present. It may mean much, and it may mean nothing.”
“You’ve got something on Tarneverro?” asked the Chief, looking at him keenly.
“With regard to killing - not one solitary thing. At moment when that took place, I believe he was most decidedly elsewhere. Gazing in another direction - kindly permit that I gaze that way a few hours longer before I divulge my thoughts.” The plump detective put one hand to his head. “Haie, just now I wander, lost in maze of doubts and questionings.”
“You’ll have to cut that out, Charlie,” his Chief told him in a kindly but somewhat worried tone. “The honor of the force is at stake. If these people are going to come over here to our quiet little city and murder each other at Waikiki, we’ve got to prove to them that they can’t get away with it. I rely on you.”
Chan bowed. “I’m afraid you do. Appreciate the distinction, and will do all my humble talents permit. Now I will wish you good night. The evening has worn on me like some prolonged dispute.”
He went out into the battered old hall, just as Spencer entered from the street. Chan looked at his watch.
“The Oceanic has sailed?” he inquired.
“Yeah - she’s out.”
“With none of our friends aboard, I trust?” Chan said.
“None that I saw goin’ aboard - and I guess I was there first. One of ‘em showed up, though.”
“Which one?”
“That Alan Jaynes. He came in a car from the Grand Hotel, an’ collected his baggage. I heard him swearin’ under his breath when the ship backed away from the pier. I helped him load up, an’ he went back to the beach. He give me a message for you.”
“What was that?”
“He said he was sailing on the next ship, and all hell couldn’t stop him.”
Charlie smiled. “None the less, I shall see that the province he mentions breaks loose at the dock if he tries it.”
He went down the flight of steps to the street. Through the moonlight he saw approaching him the jaunty figure of Smith, the beachcomber.
“This is a pretty idea, officer,” that gentleman said. “You give me a nice ride down to the station, and then you kick me out. How am I going to get back to my bedroom? I’ve walked it once tonight.”
Charlie reached into his pocket and held out one hand in which lay a small coin. “You may make the distance by trolley,” he suggested.
Smith looked down at the coin. “A dime,” he remarked. “Ten cents. I can’t get on a street-car and offer the conductor a dime. A gentleman has to have the prestige of a dollar.”
Tired as he was, Chan laughed. “So sorry,” he answered. “There may be much in what you say. But I believe it wiser at this time to proffer you the ride and no more. The hour is late, and you should be able to maintain your dignity on very little prestige tonight.”
Stubbornly Smith shook his head. “I’ve got to have the prestige of a dollar,” he insisted.
“You mean you’ve got to have a drink,” shrugged Chan. “If the coin is unsatisfactory, I regretfully withdraw it.” He moved toward his car. “So sorry that I travel in opposite direction from your couch beneath the palm.”
Smith followed him. “Oh, well,” he said, “perhaps I’m a bit too sensitive. I’ll take the dime.” Charlie gave it to him. “Just a loan, Inspector. I’ll make a note of it.”
He hurried away down Bethel Street in the direction of King. With one foot on the running-board of his little car, Charlie stared after him. Finally he abandoned the flivver and followed. The empty streets were as bright as day, the risk was great, but Chan was an old hand at the game. Smith’s battered shoes flopped noisily on the deserted sidewalk, but the detective moved as though on velvet slippers.
The beachcomber turned to the right on King Street and, dodging in and out of doorways, Chan followed. As his quarry neared the corner of Port, Charlie waited anxiously in a shadowed nook.
Would Smith pause at that corner for a Waikiki car? If he did, this pursuit came to nothing.
But Smith did not stop. Instead he crossed over and hastened down Fort Street. The moon shone brightly on his enormous flapping hat, on the shoulders of his absurd velvet coat. Charlie’s interest revived at once. On what errand did the beachcomber set forth at this hour of the night?
Selecting the opposite side of the thoroughfare from that which Smith traveled - it was darker and better suited to his purpose - Chan trailed his man down Fort. Past the principal shops of Honolulu, in each of which a dim light burned, they moved along. Smith came to the entrance of the Waioli Hotel, and stopped there. Hiding in a dark doorway across the street, Chan saw him peer into the hotel lobby. The place was deserted save for a watchman who dozed in a chair behind the great glass window. For a moment the beachcomber hesitated and then, as though changing his mind, turned and retraced his steps. Charlie squeezed his great bulk against the door behind him, in a panic lest he be discovered.
But he was safe. All unsuspecting, Smith hurried back to the corner of King, there to await the Waikiki car. Charlie remained in hiding until the car arrived. He saw the beachcomber mount to a seat and ride away - without the prestige of a dollar.
Slowly Chan walked back to the station house. What did this mean? Evidently when Robert Fyfe announced his address to the detective, he was also proclaiming it to the battered Mr. Smith. And Smith desired to see the actor at once, on urgent business.
Charlie was getting into his flivver when the Chief came down the steps of Halekaua Hale.
“Thought you’d gone home, Charlie,” he said.
“I was for a moment delayed,” Chan explained.
His superior came up eagerly. “Anything new?”
“I remain just where I always have been,” the detective sighed.
“You’re not really as much in the dark on this case as you say you are?” asked the Chief anxiously.
Chan nodded. “The man who sits in a well, sees little of the sky.”
“Well, climb out, Charlie, climb out.”
“I am planning swift ascent,” the detective answered, and starting his engine, sped off at last in the direction of his house on Punchbowl Hill.
Chapter XII
NOBODY’S FOOL
The night was breaking, and a gray mist lay over Waikiki. Smith, the beachcomber, shivered slightly and stirred on his bed of sand. He put out his hand, as though to draw up over his thin ill-clad body a blanket that was not there. Turning over, he muttered in his sleep, then lay motionless again.
The gray mist turned to pink. Above the mountains to the east a small segment of sky became a deep gold in color, against which a few scattered clouds stood out, black as the recent night. Smith opened his eyes, and gradually came back to a recognition of his surroundings. He did not choose to sleep on the beach, but for some reason the usual bitterness with which he awoke to the realization that he was broke again was missing to-day. Something pleasant had happened - or was about to happen. Ah, yes. He smiled at the hau tree above him, and the tree showered him with mahogany-red blossoms that had been yellow when he retired for the night. He would have preferred grapefruit and coffee, but flowers were more in keeping with the scene.
He sat up. The gold in the eastern sky was spreading, and now the rim of the sun appeared. The snow-white beach was lapped by water that had in it a glint of gold to match the sky. At his left stood Diamond Head, that extinct volcano. He had always a sort of fellow feeling for Diamond Head, being a bit on the extinct side himself. His mind went back to the events of the preceding night. Good fortune had taken him by the hand and led him to that pavilion window. Too often in these last years he had been blind to opportunity. He was resolved that he would not be blind now.
He got to his feet and, removing his scanty clothing, revealed underneath a frayed pair of bathing trunks. Gathering all his courage, he ran down to the water and plunged in. The shock revivified him. He struck out boldly; one thing at least he had learned on tropic beaches, and that was the art of the swimmer. As he cut through the water the wasted years fell away from him, old ambitions returned, he made plans for the future. He would win back to his former self, he would leave this languorous spot where he had never intended to stay anyhow, he would be a man again. The money that would put his feet back on the highroad was finally within his grasp.
The sun, warm and friendly, crept up the eastern sky. Smith plunged far under the waves, swam there, felt more energetic with every exploit. Finally he returned to shallow water, and walking carefully to avoid the coral, came from his bath back to his bedroom. For a time he sat, leaning against the abandoned hulk of a boat in the shelter of which he had spent the night. The hot sun served as his towel, and he rested, at peace with the world. A delicious feeling of laziness spread over him. But no, no - this wouldn’t do.
He donned his clothes, took a broken piece of comb from his pocket, and applied it to his yellow beard and hair. His toilet was completed, and breakfast was now the order of the day. Above him hung clusters of coconuts; often these had been forced to serve. But not this morning, he told himself with a smile. Through a scene of brightness and beauty, he walked slowly toward the Moana Hotel. It was a scene that had, in its way, contributed to Mr. Smith’s downfall, for every time he sought to paint it, he threw down his brush in disgust and bemoaned the inadequacy of his talent.
On the sand outside the hotel, an early beach-boy lay strumming a steel guitar and singing a gentle song. Smith went promptly to join him.
“Good morning, Frank,” he said.
Frank turned his head. “Hello,” he answered dreamily. The beachcomber sat down beside him. Suddenly Frank looked at him, his dark eyes wide and earnest. “I’m not going to sing for tourists to-day,” the beach-boy announced. “I’m just going to sing for the blue sky.”
Smith nodded. Coming from any other race, this would have been a stilted and theatrical remark, but the beachcomber knew his Hawaiians better than that. He had watched them arrive each morning on their beloved beach, staring at it as though its beauty were brought to their attention for the first time, diving into its familiar waters with cries of delight that betokened a happiness rare in this modern world.
“That’s the ticket,” Frank Smith nodded approvingly. He suddenly introduced a more practical note. “Got any money?” he inquired.
The boy frowned. What was this money all the haoles seemed so interested in, so vocal about? It meant nothing to him, and never would.
“I guess so,” he replied casually. “Dollar in my coat, I think.”
Smith’s eyes glittered. “Lend it to me. I’ll pay it back before night. All the rest I owe you, too. How much do I owe you, anyhow?”
“Can’t remember,” Frank answered, and sang again.
“I’ll have lots of money before the day’s out,” Smith continued, a note of excitement in his voice.
Frank sang softly. A queer thing to get excited about, money, when the sky was so blue, the water so warm, and there was such a deep satisfaction just in lying on the white beach and humming a song.
“In your coat, you say?” Smith persisted.
Frank nodded. “Go and get it. The locker door’s open.”
Smith went at once. When he returned he held a dollar bill in one hand, and in the other a small canvas.
“I’m taking that picture I left with you, Frank,” he explained. “Something tells me there’s a market for my work at last.” He stared at the painting critically. A dark-skinned, black-eyed girl stood against a background of cool green. She held a crimson flower between her lips, and she had the look of the tropics, of lazy islands lost in southern seas. “You know,” the beachcomber added with almost reluctant admiration, “that’s not half bad.”
“Yeah,” said Frank.
“Not bad at all,” Smith continued. “But then, they told me I had talent, Frank. I heard it in New York - and in Paris too. Talent - maybe a touch of genius - but no
t much else. No backbone - no character - nothing to back it up. You’ve got to have character, my boy.”
“Yeah,” repeated Frank idly.
“You know, Frank, painters without half my skill - oh, hell, what’s the use? Why should I complain? Look at Corot, Frank. Not one of his pictures was sold during his lifetime. Look at Manet. You know what the critics did to Manet? They laughed at him.”
“Yeah,” continued Frank. He threw down his guitar, leaped to his feet and, running across the sand, dove like a fish into two feet of water. Smith looked after him. He shook his head.
“No interest in painting,” he muttered. “Just music. Well, that’s something.” He put the bill in his pocket, tucked the canvas under his arm, and went out to the street.
A trolley was approaching, bound for the city, and Smith swung aboard. He offered the dollar proudly - after this, perhaps, the conductor would not judge every one by his clothes. Once or twice, on the way into town, he looked again at his painting. His opinion of it grew even better.
At a lunch room in town he treated himself to a breakfast such as he had not known in several days, then moved on to the Waioli Hotel. His entrance there evoked no great enthusiasm. The clerk stared at him with open disapproval. “What do you want?” he inquired coldly.
“Mr. Fyfe stopping here?” the beachcomber asked.
“He is - but he sleeps late. I can’t disturb him.”
“You’d better disturb him.” There was a sudden note of authority in Smith’s voice. “I’ve an appointment - very important. Mr. Fyfe wants to see me more than I want to see him.”
The clerk hesitated, and then took up a telephone. In a moment he turned to the beachcomber. “Be down right away,” he announced.
Boldly Smith dropped into a chair and waited. Fyfe appeared almost at once; evidently he had not slept late today. There was a worried look in his eyes. He came over to the beachcomber. “You wanted to see me?” he said. “I’m on my way to the theater. Come along.”
Charlie Chan [4] The Black Camel Page 12
