Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Shall we find the landing field?” Charlie suggested.

  “Not for me,” Swan shivered. “It’s somewhere at the back, God knows where. I’m going to get my things - I want to start for the Tavern as soon as Ellen has made her grand exit.” He ran up the steps to the house.

  Michael Ireland, it appeared, was planning a few stunts. Despite the tallness of the pines, he swept down on the house, dangerously near. Hurrying through the snow to the rear, Charlie was conscious that the plane was circling about above the roof of Pineview. Aviators never could resist the spectacular. Presently Chan came upon a cleared place, flooded with lights, and there, when the pilot had completed his exhibition, he finally brought the plane down, in a skillful landing.

  “Pretty work,” cried a voice at Chan’s elbow. It was Dudley Ward. “By gad, that lad knows how to drive his old two-seater.”

  He hurried out to meet Ireland on the field, and led him back to where Charlie stood. All three went up the narrow path to the back door, and entered a long passage that led to the front of the house. As they passed the open door of the kitchen Chan saw a large woman, evidently the cook. With her was Landini’s dog, whining and still shivering from its chill. Ward led on to the living-room.

  “Nice night for it,” he was saying to Ireland, a husky red-cheeked man of thirty or so. “I envy you - the way you brought her down.” Dinsdale and Beaton rose to greet them, and the aviator, pulling off a huge glove, shook hands all round. “Sit down a minute,” Ward continued. “You’ll want a drink before you start back.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ireland replied. “And maybe I’d better be havin’ a word with my wife -“

  Ward nodded. “I fancy you had,” he smiled. “I’ll arrange that. But first of all - what will it be? A highball?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ireland answered. He looked a bit apprehensive and ill at ease. “Not too much, Mr. Ward, please -“

  Ryder appeared on the stairs, lighting a cigarette. Half-way down, he paused. “Has Landini gone?” he inquired.

  “Come along, John,” Ward said genially. “Just in time for another little drink. Is that right for you, Ireland?”

  “Just, thank you,” the aviator replied.

  From somewhere upstairs came a sharp report that sounded unpleasantly like the firing of a pistol.

  “What was that?” asked Ryder, now at the foot of the stairs.

  Ward set down the bottle he was holding and looked toward Charlie Chan. “I wonder,” he said.

  Charlie did not pause to wonder. Pushing Ryder aside, he ran up the stairs. He was conscious of figures in the upper hall as he passed, figures he did not pause to identify. Chinese, he had always contended, were psychic people, but he did not have to be particularly psychic on this occasion to know which door to seek. It was closed. He pushed it open.

  The lights in the study were out, but for a first glance the moonlight sufficed. Landini was Iying just inside the French windows that led on to the balcony. Charlie leaped across her and peered out the open window. He saw no one.

  Black shapes crowded the doorway. “Turn on the lights,” Charlie said. “And do not come too close, please.”

  The lights flashed on, and Dudley Ward pushed forward. “Ellen!” he cried. “What’s happened here -“

  Chan intercepted him and laid his hand on the host’s arm. Beyond Ward he saw frightened faces - Romano, Swan, Beaton, Dinsdale, Ireland, Cecile. “You are psychic, Mr. Ward,” Charlie said gravely. “All same Chinese race. Three days before the crime, you summon detective.”

  “Crime!” repeated Ward. He sought to kneel beside the singer, but again Chan restrained him.

  “Permit me, please,” the Chinese continued. “For you, it means pain. For me, alas, a customary duty.” With some difficulty, he knelt upon the floor, and placed his fingers gently on Landini’s wrist.

  “Doctor Swan is here,” Ward said. “Perhaps - can nothing be done?”

  Chan struggled back to his feet. “Can the fallen flower return to the branch again?” he asked softly.

  Ward turned quickly away, and there was silence in the room. Charlie stood for a moment, staring down at the body. Landini lay on her back, those evening shoes whose dampness had so distressed Romano were but a few inches away from the threshold of the open windows. In her dead hands was loosely held a chiffon scarf, bright pink in color, contrasting oddly with her green gown. And just inside the windows, close to her feet, lay a dainty, snub-nosed revolver.

  Charlie removed his handkerchief from his pocket and stooping over, picked up the weapon. It was still warm, he noted through the handkerchief. One cartridge had been fired. He carried it over and deposited it on the desk.

  There for a long moment he stood staring, behind him the murmur of many voices. He appeared to be lost in thought, and indeed he was. For an odd thing had suddenly occurred to him. When he had last seen Landini sitting at this desk, the two boxes containing cigarettes had been close at her elbow, both open. Now they had been restored to their places, farther back on the desk. But on the crimson box rested the yellow lid - and on the yellow box, the crimson.

  Chapter IV

  UPWARD NO ROAD

  As Charlie stood, silently regarding those boxes whose lids had become so strangely confused, he was conscious that some newcomer had pushed his way into the room. He swung around and beheld the shrunken figure of Ah Sing. The old Chinese held a blue bundle under his arm, which he now proffered to the room at large.

  “Blanket,” he announced, his high shrill voice sounding oddly out of place at that moment. “Blanket fo’ lil dog.”

  Chan watched him closely as his beady eyes fell on the silent figure by the window. “Wha’s mallah heah?” the old man inquired. His expression did not change.

  “You can see what’s the matter,” Charlie replied sharply. “Madame Landini has been murdered.”

  The dim old eyes turned to Chan with what was almost a look of insolence. “P’liceman him come,” he muttered complainingly. “Then woik fo’ p’liceman him come plitty soon too.” He glanced at Ward accusingly. “What my tell you, Boss? You crazy invite p’liceman heah. Mebbe some day you lissen to Ah Sing.”

  Somewhat nettled, Chan pointed to the blanket. “What are you doing with that? Who asked you to bring it?”

  “Missie ask me,” the old man nodded toward the figure on the floor. “Missie say she send Cecile fo’ blanket, no catch ‘um. She say, Sing, you catch ‘um like goo’ boy.”

  “When was this?”

  “Mebbe half past nine, between ten.”

  “Where was the airplane at that time? Over the house?”

  “Not ovah house no moah. Mebbe on field.”

  “I see,” Chan nodded. “The blanket is no longer required. Take it away.”

  “Allight, p’liceman,” nodded the old man, and did so.

  Charlie turned back and addressed Dinsdale. “I have really no authority in this place,” he remarked. “Those who are out of office should not meddle with the government. There is, I presume, a sheriff?”

  “Bygad, yes,” Dinsdale said. “Young Don Holt - this will be a whale of a job for him. He was elected less than a year ago. His dad, old Sam Holt, has been sheriff of this county for fifty years but he went blind a while back, and as a sort of tribute to him, they put up young Don. He’ll be a puzzled kid over this. Horses are his specialty.”

  “Does it chance that he lives near by?” Charlie inquired.

  “He lives down at the county-seat,” Dinsdale answered, “but he has charge of the riding stables at the Tavern during the summer, and it happens he’s over there tonight. I’ll get him on the telephone, and he can reach here inside of twenty minutes by boat.”

  “If you will be so good,” Charlie said, and Dinsdale went quickly out.

  For a moment Charlie stared at the varied group gathered in that little room. How unfortunate, he reflected, that he could not have announced this killing to them suddenly, and watched their faces at the
news. But alas, they had come upon him in the dark, they had known of the tragedy almost as soon as he, and whatever their reception of this knowledge, he was never to learn it now.

  Nevertheless, their faces were an interesting study. That of Romano, the emotional, was pale and drawn, and there were tears in his brown eyes. Doctor Swan’s was taut and excited. Dudley Ward had dropped into a chair beside the fire, and was shading his eyes with his hand. Beaton and his sister stood as far from the body as possible, the girl was crying, and the young man comforted her. The look on the face of Cecile was a mixture of fright and sullenness, while Michael’s expression was dazed and puzzled, bespeaking an honest but somewhat stupid simplicity. As for John Ryder, his blue eyes were cold as usual, and they looked at the woman who had once been his wife with no sign of pity or regret.

  “I think it much better” Chan said, “if you all returned to the living-room below. You understand, naturally, sad state of affairs which makes it necessary you do not take departure now.”

  “But I’ve got to get back to Reno,” Swan cried.

  Charlie shrugged. “You must not place blame on me. Place it on guilty shoulders of one who fired this recent shot.”

  Dinsdale returned. “I got hold of the sheriff,” he announced. “He’s on his way.”

  “Thank you so much,” Charlie said. “Mr. Dinsdale, you will remain here with Mr. Ward and myself, but I am inviting the others downstairs. Before you go,” he added, as they started to file out, “I must inquire - though there is no stern necessity to answer, for I am stranger here myself - has any one of you seen this before?” He lifted the snub-nosed revolver from the desk, and held it high in the handkerchief.

  “I have,” said Dinsdale promptly. “I saw it once before, only tonight.”

  “Where was that?” Charlie asked.

  “At the Tavern,” the hotel man continued. “Ellen Landini and I were engaged in a small financial transaction, and that revolver fell from her bag when she opened it. I picked it up, and handed it back -“

  “Quite true,” nodded Luis Romano, coming close and staring at the weapon. “It is Ellen’s property. Some years ago there was an attempt to hold her up in a hotel room and always since she has insisted on carrying that with her. I pleaded with her - I did not approve - and now she has been killed with her own revolver.”

  “Others, then, must have known she carried it,” mused Chan. “Mr. Beaton?”

  The young man nodded. “Yes - I’ve seen it many times. It’s hers, all right.”

  Suddenly, Charlie swung on the girl at Beaton’s side. “And you, Miss Beaton?”

  She shrank away from him as he held the weapon close. “Yes - yes - I’ve seen it too.”

  “You have known it was always in Madame Landini’s bag?”

  “I have known it - yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Ever since I met her - a week ago.”

  Chan’s voice softened to its customary tone. “What a pity,” he said. “You are trembling. It is too cold for you here, with these windows open.” He restored the revolver to the desk. “You should have a scarf,” he continued. “A pretty pink scarf to match that gown of yours.”

  “I - I have,” she said. She was on her way toward the door.

  “This one, perhaps,” Charlie cried. He stepped to the side of the dead woman and lifted one corner of the chiffon scarf that lay in her lifeless hands. “This, perhaps, belongs to you,” he continued. The girl’s eyes had followed him, fascinated, and now her scream rang out sharply in the room. Her brother put his arm about her.

  “My scarf,” she cried. “What is it doing - there?”

  Chan’s eyebrows rose. “You had not noticed it before?”

  “No - no, I hadn’t. It was dark when I came in here - and after the lights went on - I never really looked in this direction.”

  “You never really looked,” Chan went on thoughtfully. He dropped the corner of the scarf and rose. His eyes strayed to the boxes on the table. “I am so sorry - I can not return your property just at this moment. Later, perhaps - when the sheriff of the county has beheld it - in a dead woman’s hands. You will all go now - thank you so much.”

  When the last one had left, he closed the door and turned to Dinsdale and Ward. The latter had risen, and was anxiously pacing the floor.

  “Confound it, Inspector,” he cried. “That young woman is my guest. You don’t for a moment think -” He paused.

  “I think,” said Chan slowly, “that one of your guests has tonight stooped to murder.”

  “Evidently. But a woman - a charming girl -“

  Chan shrugged. “There is no such poison in the green snake’s mouth as in a woman’s heart.”

  “I don’t know who said that first,” Ward replied, “but I don’t agree with him. No - not even after all that has - that I’ve been through.” He stood for a moment, staring down at the dead woman on the floor. “Poor Ellen - she deserved better than this. I’ll never forgive myself for inviting her over here. But I thought we might induce her to tell -” He stopped. “By heaven - I hadn’t thought of it until now. Shall we ever find the truth about my boy - after this? Ellen was our best chance - perhaps, in the final analysis, our only one.” He stared hopelessly at Charlie.

  “Do not despair.” Charlie patted his shoulder pityingly. “We will persevere - and we will succeed, I am sure. This event may really speed our search - for among the papers and effects of this lady we may find our answer. However, matter of even fiercer importance now intrudes itself. Who killed Ellen Landini?”

  “What’s your guess, Mr. Chan?” Dinsdale inquired.

  Charlie smiled. “Guessing is cheap, but wrong guess expensive. I can not afford it, myself.”

  “Well, I’m a spendthrift. Sleuth all you like, but I can tell you now - Romano killed her.”

  “You have evidence, perhaps -“

  “The evidence of my eyes - I noticed he was sore at her about something. Money, I imagine. He’s Latin, excitable -“

  Charlie shook his head. “Ah, yes. But Latins do not become so excitable they forget where financial advantage lies. Landini alive was worth money to him, but with Landini dead - unless - unless -“

  “Unless what?”

  “No matter. We will look into that later. There is long tortuous path to climb, and the wise man starts slowly, conserving his strength for a swift finish. By the way, you spoke of moment at Tavern tonight when Landini opened bag to pay you money?”

  “Yes, so I did,” Dinsdale replied. “I meant to explain it. Last week I called on Ellen in Reno to invite her over to the Tavern for dinner. While I was there, a C. O. D. package arrived - there was the usual wild hunt for cash, which ended in her borrowing twenty dollars from me. Tonight she insisted on repaying it - and that was when the revolver dropped out of her bag.”

  “She did repay it?”

  “Yes, with a brand-new bill which she peeled from a great roll of them in her purse.”

  “Odd,” Charlie said. “There are no bills in her purse now.”

  “Good lord,” cried Ward. “Not only a murderer but a petty thief. I’m afraid I’ve carried hospitality too far.”

  “What did I tell you?” the hotel man said. “Romano.”

  Charlie rose. “When I came to mainland,” he remarked, “I was engaged deep in puzzling case. Remnant of that effort, I have in my baggage lampblack and camel’s-hair brush. Same are useful in matter of fingerprints, and while we await the sheriff, I may as well obtain them.”

  He went to his room. While he searched his luggage for the tools of his trade, he heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Presently he found what he was looking for, and returned to the study. A tall, black-haired young westerner in riding boots, breeches and leather coat was standing in the center of the room.

  “Inspector Chan,” said Dinsdale, “meet Don Holt.”

  “Hello, Inspector,” the young man cried, and seized the hand of the Chinese in a grip that almost
lifted him from the floor. “Pleased to meet you - and I’m telling you I never meant that so heartfelt before in all my born days.”

  “You have grasped situation?” inquired Charlie. He set down his burden and caressed his right hand with his left, seeking to restore the circulation.

  “Well - in a way - at least I’ve gathered there is a situation. Coroner lives over to the county-seat, so he won’t be able to see this lady till tomorrow. But I got a Tahoe doctor on the way to make a preliminary examination, and after that I guess we can move her down to town - what town there is. So far - am I right?”

  “So far you appear to act with most commendable speed,” Chan assured him.

  “I know, but this is my first case of this - this sort of thing, and I can assure you, Inspector, I’m trembling all over like a roped yearling. Mr. Ward was just telling me you was here, on a visit to him. He says he’s got a little job for you, but it can wait while you give the county and me a helping hand. How’s that sound to you?”

  Charlie looked at Ward. “We are, of course, very lucky to be able to enlist the inspector’s services,” his host remarked. “My affair can wait.”

  “In which case,” Charlie said, “my very slight talents are yours to command, Mr. Holt.”

  “Fine,” Holt answered. “I could speak a couple of volumes on the way that makes me feel, but action, not words, is my specialty. Let’s get down to brass tacks. What happened here tonight, anyhow? Who was all them people downstairs? Where do we start, and how soon?”

  They all looked at Charlie, and patiently he went over the events of the evening, up to the firing of the shot and the discovery of Landini’s dead body. The young man nodded.

  “I get you. At the time the shot was fired, who was unaccounted for?”

  “Quite a number,” Charlie told him. “Of the guests, Miss Leslie Beaton, whose scarf, oddly enough, is clutched in dead woman’s hands. Also, Dr. Frederic Swan and Mr. Luis Romano. Of the servants, Cecile and - er - Ah Sing.”