“I thought I’d have to appear in an evening gown,” she smiled. “But Cecile saved the situation. She’s really a brick.” She turned upon her heel for inspection. “What do you think of it?”
She was referring to the morning frock in which she was garbed. Evidently it met with their approval.
“I think it’s cute,” the girl went on. “But why shouldn’t it be? Cecile is French. Of course, there’s not enough of me to fill it, quite. But I’m so hungry, I’m sure there will be - after breakfast.” When she was seated, she looked suddenly at Chan. “I’ll simply have to go over to Reno today and get my things -“
“That,” said Charlie, “depends on the sheriff. Do not, I beg of you, squander such a charming smile on me.”
“Oh, I have others,” she assured him. “Plenty for the sheriff, too.” For the first time, the shadow of the night before crossed her face. “Must - must we really stay here?”
“Come, come,” said Ward with forced gaiety. “That’s not exactly complimentary to me. And I’m trying so hard to be the perfect host.”
“Succeeding, too,” the girl replied. “But the conditions - they are unusual. One can’t help feeling that underneath you may be - for all your kindness - an unwilling host.”
“Never - to you,” Ward murmured. And as Sing appeared at his elbow, he added: “What fruit will you have? We have all kinds - of oranges.”
“I’ll have the nicest kind,” said the girl. “Good morning, Sing. Why - the poor man! He’s hurt his face.”
Chan had already noted that the left jaw of the servant was swollen and discolored. Sing shrugged his shoulders and departed.
“Sh,” said Ward. “He’s had an accident. We won’t say anything about it - he’s rather sensitive, you know.”
“He’s limping, too,” the girl went on.
“It was rather a bad accident,” Ward explained. “He fell on the stairs, you see.”
“Poor Sing’s getting old,” Ryder remarked. “I was noticing it last night. He doesn’t see very well. Shouldn’t he have glasses, Dudley?”
Ward grimaced. “Of course he should - and has. Or had, rather. But he broke them about a month ago - and you know how stubborn he is. I’ve been pleading with him ever since to get them fixed - by George, I’ll take them over to Reno with me this morning. An optician over there has his prescription.”
Hugh Beaton came in, glum and in the mood of genius at breakfast. The repast continued, to the accompaniment of a conversation that was surprisingly cheerful, all things considered.
But in this Charlie took no part. He had several new facts to marshal in the storehouse of his mind. So Sing was limping this morning? It seemed impossible he could have hurt his leg in the fall that resulted from an encounter with an unknown fist. He had given no indication of such an injury at the time. And - there was the overturned dressing-table bench in the old sitting-room next to the study upstairs.
And Sing needed glasses. Usually wore them, in fact. Well, that fitted in, too. The confusion of the box lids. For a moment Charlie’s appetite lost some of its keenness. But no - too early yet, he decided. Get all the facts in mind. Wait until you reach the river before you start to unlace your shoes.
After breakfast, Charlie visited the kitchen for a brief call on Mrs. O’Ferrell and Trouble. He spoke enthusiastically of the former’s coffee - so much so she never dreamed that he greatly preferred tea. The dog romped in a friendly fashion at his feet.
“Look at him - the little darlin’,” Mrs. O’Ferrell remarked. “Sure, I’ve only knowed him a few hours, an’ he’s like an old friend.”
Charlie picked up the dog and stroked it musingly. “I have known him but a brief time myself,” he said, “and yet I have for him a deep affection.”
“I been thinkin’,” the cook continued. “If no wan else wants him, couldn’t you leave him here, Mr. Chan? What with the lady gone, an’ no wan to take care iv him -“
“As to that,” Chan replied, “I can not say. I can only tell you that at least once - Trouble must go back to Reno.” He put the dog on the floor, gave it a final pat and moved to the door. “Yes,” he repeated firmly. “Trouble must make that journey to Reno. And he must make it - by airplane.”
Leaving Mrs. O’Ferrell deeply mystified by this cryptic statement, he returned to the big living-room. Most of the guests were there, and in the center of the room stood Don Holt, the sheriff. Beside him was a man who would have been a figure of distinction in any company, tall, erect, with snow-white hair. Chan’s heart was touched as he noted the sightless eyes.
“Morning, Mr. Chan,” cried Don Holt. “Great day, ain’t it? I brought my Dad along - want you to know him. Father - Inspector Chan, of Honolulu.”
Chan took the groping hand in his. “To meet an old-time sheriff of the mining camps,” he said. “An honor I have always longed for, but never dreamed should encounter.”
“Old-time is right, Inspector,” replied Sam Holt, with a grim smile. “And the old times - they don’t come back. I sure am glad that you’re on hand to give my boy a lift.”
“I am plenty happy, too,” Chan assured him.
“Well, we’re all ready for business, I reckon,” Don Holt said. “Miss Beaton here has just been telling me that she’s got to go to Reno to get her tooth-brush - and - and - I said I guessed we’d better let you decide.”
Charlie smiled. “A diplomatic reply. You put all the young lady’s disfavor on me.”
“Then you don’t think -“
“There were, you recall,” Chan continued, “five - no, six - people not in view at a certain fatal moment last night. None of the six must cross state line -“
Swan pushed forward. “What about me? I’ve got a dozen appointments to-day. And not so much as a clean collar on this side of the line.”
“What a pity,” Chan shrugged. “Give us a list of what you desire from your residence - and the location of same. Also - if you so desire - the key.” Swan hesitated. “We go there in any case,” Chan added meaningly.
“Oh, very well,” Swan agreed.
“Say - that’s an idea,” young Holt said. “Miss Beaton - if you’ll give me a list -“
“Not quite the same,” she smiled.
“Well - ah - er - maybe not, come to think of it,” he admitted, suddenly embarrassed.
“We will take Miss Beaton’s brother with us,” Chan suggested. “He may be given the list.”
“That’s a fine idea,” Holt cried. The girl shrugged and turned away. “Now” - the young sheriff turned to Chan - “before we go, I guess we better have a talk. Upstairs - what do you say?”
Ah Sing suddenly appeared from the dining-room. He stood for a moment, staring at Sam Holt, then hurried over and grasped the old man’s hand.
“Hello, Shef,” he cried. “Haply see you.”
“Hello, Sing,” Sam Holt answered. “I’m happy to - er - to see you, too. But I ain’t sheriff no more. Things change, boy. We’re old men now.”
“You go on being shef fo’ me,” Sing insisted. “Always shef fo’ me.”
On the handsome face of Sam Holt appeared an expression that was a mixture of regret and resignation. He patted his ancient friend on the back affectionately, then put his arm about the other’s shoulder.
“Take me upstairs, boy,” he said. “I want to see that there study. Used to know my way about this house so well - I could travel it in - in the dark. But now - I sort of forgit. Lead the way, Sing.”
With loving solicitude the servant helped him up the stairs, and his son and Charlie followed. When they all reached the study, Sam Holt turned to Sing.
“More better you run along now,” he remarked. “I see you later. Wait a minute. You catch ‘um Dudley Ward - tell him Sam Holt’s up here.”
Sing departed, and the old man began to move slowly, feeling his way about the room. His son stepped forward to assist him. “This is the desk, Dad,” he said. “Where we found the loose tobacco - and the boxes with the j
umbled cigarettes.” He added aside to Chan: “I’ve been all over the case with him this morning.”
“An excellent course,” nodded Charlie heartily.
“And here,” the boy went on, “these are the windows, Dad.”
“There used to be a balcony out there.”
“There skill is. That was one of the last places Landini was seen alive. By the aviator, you know.”
“Oh, yes - by the aviator. But Sing - Sing saw her last?”
“Yes - when she sent him to bring the blanket.”
“Needn’t go all over it again,” his father objected. “My memory’s as good as yours, I reckon. Give me a chair, son.” He sat down in a velvet-covered chair before the fire. “Poor Ellen Landini. Mighty curious, Mr. Chan, that she had to come way back to this house to hand in her chips. Knew her, long ago. Beautiful. Beautiful girl. Somebody’s comin’ down the hall.”
Dudley Ward appeared in the doorway and greeted the old sheriff cordially.
“Jes’ wanted to pay my respects, Dudley,” Sam Holt said. “Tell you I’m sorry about - all this. Poor Ellen - I was jes’ sayin’. Kyards always seemed stacked against her, somehow. You too, boy, you too.” He lowered his voice. “Don was tellin’ me that story - mebbe a son - a kid somewhere -“
“Maybe,” Ward said.
“Who knew about that, Dudley?” the old man continued. “Of course, Mr. Chan - and that other three - Swan, Romano, Ryder? And Sing, I reckon. Of course, you’d tell Sing. But who else?”
“Why - nobody, Sam. Just this woman - this Cecile. The woman who told me the story first.”
“Nobody else, boy?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well - ‘taint important. Don tells me you’re all goin’ off to Reno - you run along an’ git ready. Don’t let me keep you.”
When Ward had gone, Don Holt got up and shut the door. “Anything happen last night?” he inquired of Charlie.
Quickly Chan reported the assault on Sing. Both men received the account with rising indignation. Charlie ended with the information that Sing was limping this morning.
“Oh, yes - that bench in the next room,” Don Holt said. “Still - maybe that’s not the tie-up. Might have cracked it when this guy hit him and he fell. No - Sing’s got nothing to do with this - we can bank on that. I ain’t going to waste any time on Sing.”
Sam Holt was idly plucking with his thin old hand at the arm of his chair. “Ain’t it about time Cash Shannon showed up, son?” he inquired.
“Ought to be,” the boy agreed. “Cash is a cowboy down at the stables,” he explained to Charlie, “and a deputy of mine. I’m havin’ him up here to-day to keep an eye on things while we’re all away. I’ll go down an’ see if he’s got here yet.”
“Shet the door when you go out,” Sam Holt suggested. When he heard it close, he said: “Mr. Chan, I’m sure glad you’re with us on this case. I reckon, from what Don tells me about ye, you an’ me would sort of think along the same lines. I ain’t never had no use for science - the world was gittin’ along a whole lot better before science was discovered.”
Charlie smiled. “You mean fingerprints, laboratory tests, blood analysis - all that. I agree, Mr. Holt. In my investigations of murder I have thought, always, of the human heart. What passions have been at work - hate, greed, envy, jealousy? I study always - people.”
“Always people - you said it, Mr. Chan. The human heart.”
“Yes - though even there, one meets difficulties. As a philosopher of my race has said: ‘The fishes, though deep in the water, may be hooked; the birds, though high in the air, may be shot; but man’s heart only is out of our reach.’”
Sam Holt shook his head. “Mighty purty language, that is, but man’s heart ain’t always out of our reach. If it was, you an’ me wouldn’t of made no record on our jobs, Mr. Chan.”
“Your statement has truth,” Chan nodded.
For a long time the former sheriff of the mining camps did not speak. His sightless eyes were turned toward the fire, but his hands were busy. He seemed to be gathering some invisible substance from the arm of his chair with his right hand, and depositing it in his left.
“Mr. Chan,” he said suddenly, “how close kin you git to the heart of Ah Sing?”
“It overwhelms me with sadness to admit it,” Charlie answered, “for he is of my own origin, my own race, as you know. But when I look into his eyes I discover that a gulf like the heaving Pacific lies between us. Why? Because he, though among Caucasians many more years than I, still remains Chinese. As Chinese to-day as in the first moon of his existence. While I - I bear the brand - the label - Americanized.”
Holt nodded. “You’ve stated the case. These old Chinese in this stretch of the state ain’t never been anything else. Maybe they didn’t admire the ways of the stranger - I dunno. Which I wouldn’t of blamed ‘em. But they was born Chinese, an’ they stayed that way.”
Chan bowed his head. “I traveled with the current,” he said softly. “I was ambitious. I sought success. For what I have won, I paid the price. Am I an American? No. Am I, then, a Chinese? Not in the eyes of Ah Sing.” He paused for a moment, then continued: “But I have chosen my path, and I must follow it. You are sitting there as one about to tell me something.”
“I’m sitting here wondering,” Sam Holt replied. “Can I make you understand what Ah Sing’s been to me - a friend fer fifty years? I used to take the Ward boys an’ him camping, up where it’s really high. We used to lay out under the stars - why, I’d ruther cut out my tongue - than say a word - but duty’s duty - an’ this is my boy’s first big case -” He stopped, and held something out to Chan. “Mr. Chan - what is this I been pulling from the arm of my chair?”
“It is light, airy fuzz,” Chan told him. “Sort of fuzz readily yielded by wool blanket in contact with velvet.”
“And the color, man - the color?”
“It - it appears to be blue.”
“Blue. Landini sent Sing fer a blanket. He came back with it after you found the body. Came back with - a blue blanket. You sent him away with it. Yes, Don was tellin’ me. He took it and went out - he never laid it down?”
“That is quite true,” said Chan gravely.
“He never laid it down - that time,” the old sheriff continued, his voice trembling, “but - God help me - that blanket had been in this room before.”
Neither spoke. Chan regarded the old man with silent admiration.
Sam Holt rose, and began to stumble about the room. He found an unobstructed path, and started to pace it.
“It’s all clear. Mr. Chan. He was sent fer that blanket - he came back with it - Landini was here alone - he threw the blanket over that chair - he shot Landini with her own revolver. Then he snatched up the blanket, tidied up that desk, went through the room next door - open because he’d planned it all - and when the stage was clear, walked calm-like on to the scene with the blanket he’d been sent fer. As simple as that. And do I have to tell you why he killed her, Mr. Chan?”
Charlie had listened to this with growing conviction. Now his eyes narrowed. “I was wondering why you asked Dudley Ward whether or not Sing knew about the child. You did it most adroitly.”
“The kid,” said old Sam Holt. “The kid - there’s our answer.” He offered Charlie the collection of fuzz. “Put it in an envelope, please. We’ll compare it with that blanket later - but it ain’t really necessary. Yes, Mr. Chan - that lost boy of Dudley Ward’s was the first thing I thought of when Don told me the story of the murder.” He stumbled back to his chair and dropped into it.
“You see, sir, I knew the way of these old Chinese servants with the boys of the family. They love ‘em. Year after year I seen old Sing cookin’ an’ slavin’ fer Dudley Ward an’ his brother - takin’ care of ‘em since they left the cradle - lovin’ an’ scoldin’ ‘em an’ treatin’ ‘em always like babies. An’ I knew what it must have meant to Sing that they was no little boys in this house, or in the big house down in �
��Frisco. Jes’ loneliness in the kitchen, no kids beggin’ fer rice an’ gravy. An’ then he hears that there was a kid - only Landini kept it dark - never let its father know - never brought it out here where it belonged. He hears that, Mr. Chan, en’ whet happens? He sees red. He hates. He hates Ellen Landini - an’ I kain’t say I blame him.
“Even Dudley Ward doesn’t suspect what’s in the old man’s heart. He invites Landini over here. An’ Sing gits his chance. Yes, Mr. Chan - it was Sing who came into this room last night an’ killed Landini - an’ I would ruther be hung myself than say it.”
“I have somewhat similar feeling,” Charlie admitted.
“But you reckon I’m right.”
Chan glanced toward the envelope into which he had put the wool from the blue blanket. “I very much fear you are.”
The door opened, and Don Holt entered. “Come along,” he said. “Cash is here, an’ we’re off to Reno. Why - what you two looking so solemn about?”
“Shet the door, son,” said Sam Holt. He rose and moved toward his boy. “You know what I said to you this morning - about Sing?”
“Oh, but you’re all wrong, Dad,” the boy assured him.
“Jest a minute. You know how Sing appeared in this room right after the murder, with a blue blanket under his arm?”
“Sure I do.”
“Well - if I was to tell you I found blue fuzz from a blanket on the arm of that thar chair over there - what would you say? You’d say the blanket had been in this room before Sing appeared with it, wouldn’t you?”
Don Holt considered. “I might,” he admitted. “And then again - I might say that it had come back here later - after the murder.”
“What do you mean by that?” his father asked.
“Why, when we carried Landini out of the house last night, we wrapped her in blankets. Sing brought them to us here. Blue blankets they were, too. And while I don’t exactly recall, we may have laid ‘em across that chair before we used ‘em.”
A delighted smile spread over Sam Holt’s face. “Boy,” he said, “I ain’t never been so proud of you before. Mr. Chan, I reckon I’ve gone and wandered into the wrong pew. What do you think?”
Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys Page 10
