Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “The wrong pew, perhaps,” Charlie replied politely, “but maybe correct church. Who can say?”

  Chapter VIII

  THE STREETS OF RENO

  When they came downstairs, Doctor Swan was waiting for them beside the fire. He handed the sheriff an envelope and also a folded sheet of paper.

  “A letter to my landlady,” he explained. “And a list of things I’ll need - you’ll find a bag in the closet to put them in. I hope to heaven I’ll be able to get home pretty quickly - what do you think?”

  “I hope so, too, Doctor,” the sheriff replied.

  “You - have no clue, I suppose?”

  “None at all,” responded the young man. “Except that some one, who knew all about how Miss Beaton felt toward Landini, planted that pink scarf and the pin. We’re investigatin’ that.”

  The doctor gave him an unpleasant look and turned away.

  Romano came up, looking rather forlorn. “Pleasant journey,” he remarked.

  “Sorry you ain’t goin’ anywhere,” smiled Don Holt.

  Romano shrugged. “Me - I have no place to go - and no money to take me there, if I had.”

  “Does it chance,” Chan inquired, “that there exists some errand we could perform for you in Reno?”

  “None,” Romano answered. “But” - he came closer, and lowered his voice - “would you be kind enough to inquire of Miss Meecher as to whether or not poor Ellen ever signed that new will?”

  “Miss Meecher?”

  “Yes - an estimable woman - Ellen’s secretary. Estimable, but alas - so - what you call close-mouthed.”

  Charlie nodded. “Do not fret, I beg of you. That is one of the things we visit Reno to discover.”

  “Good,” cried Romano. “Splendid news. Excellent.”

  Leslie Beaton and her brother appeared, the latter going at once for his hat and coat. Don Holt had stepped to the door leading to the kitchen, and he now returned with a youth whose costume suggested that a rodeo was impending. Bright blue corduroys were tucked into high-heeled boots, his shirt was yellow silk embroidered with pink roses, around his neck was a crimson scarf, and he carried a two-gallon hat in his hand.

  “Folks,” said Holt, “this here is Cash Shannon, my deputy. You’ll be seein’ more of him - if your eyes can stand it.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” remarked Mr. Shannon cordially.

  “Miss Beaton - I hope you won’t mind him - much,” Holt went on.

  “Not at all,” the girl smiled. “He’s to keep an eye on me, I presume?”

  “Lady,” said Cash in a deep emotional voice, “the softest snap of my life. Easy to look at - that’s what you are.”

  Holt laughed. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s such a fast worker he gets all tangled up. A lady’s man - jes’ born that way.”

  “Better that than a woman-hater, like you,” Cash averred.

  “A woman-hater,” cried the girl. “You mean Mr. Holt?”

  “Lady - you said it. These divorcees we git round here has jes’ naturally soured him on the sex. Takes a herd of ‘em out on a picnic, an’ comes back ravin’ about their warpaint an’ their cigarettes, an’ how women ain’t what they used to be - an’ probably never was.”

  “Some women,” Holt corrected. “I never said all.”

  “I ain’t deaf,” Cash returned. “All women, you always said.” He squinted his eyes. “Ain’t never heard you make no exception - until now.”

  “Well, let’s get going,” said Holt hastily.

  Dudley Ward appeared, ready for the journey. Miss Beaton went with them to the veranda, pronounced the morning gorgeous and moved on with the little group to the pier. Chan and Don Holt walked with the old sheriff, but he seemed perfectly able to keep a straight course down the path. Cash Shannon came up behind them.

  “Say, listen, Don,” he remarked in a loud whisper, “you’re crazy. If that dame done murder, I’m Al Capone.”

  “Get the girl off your mind,” Holt smiled. “Remember, you’re here to watch a lot of people. Sing, and the doctor, and Romano - that little Italian guy. Cecile, too. How do you know they ain’t all goin’ out the back door right now?”

  “I get you,” nodded Cash. “Mebbe I better go back.”

  “Mebbe you had. An’ when it comes to this girl, jes’ keep one thing in mind. You ain’t the sheriff. You’re jes’ the deputy.”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Cash, and returned reluctantly to the house.

  As they were about to step into the sheriff’s launch the front door banged, and Sing ran like a rabbit down the path. He was waving wildly.

  “Hey, Boss,” he panted when he reached them. “Heah - you catch ‘um umbrella.”

  “Umbrella,” Ward protested. “The sun’s shining.”

  “Sun him shine now,” Sing announced, portentously. “Plitty soon lain him fall. Sing know. You lissen to Sing.”

  “Oh, all right,” Ward grinned. “Give it to me.” Sing handed it to him, and retired up the path. “Let’s get off quick,” Ward continued. “He’s forgot to make me put on my arctics. Poor chap - I’m afraid he is getting old, after all.”

  They guided Sam Holt into the launch, then Ward, Beaton and Chan followed. Don Holt turned to the girl.

  “Look out for that Cash,” he warned. “He’s got a Romeo complex. I’ll be back on the job myself by sundown.”

  “Fine,” she smiled. “I’ll feel much safer then.”

  The launch put-putted and they swept off over the sunlit lake. As they turned toward Tahoe, they could see the girl waving to them from the pier. A shrill cry from the house caused them to look back. Sing was standing on the steps, waving an arctic in each hand.

  They all laughed, and Dudley Ward said, above the noise of the motor, “Great! Two victories over Sing in one morning. I slipped into his room and got his broken glasses.” He held up a spectacles case. “Mr. Chan - please don’t let me forget them while we’re in town.”

  Charlie nodded, but did not reply. The loveliness of the scene, so foreign to anything he had ever encountered before, enchanted him. The vista of snow-clad mountains, of deep blue water, of dark green pines, might indeed have thrilled one far less sensitive to beauty. And the air - he pitied all those who could not breathe such air this morning. Those of the cities, who awoke to the same old scent of gasoline - even those of his own Honolulu, who awoke to an air likely to send them, mentally at least, back to slumber. He was grateful to the fate that had brought him to this spot.

  All too soon they reached the Tavern pier. As he walked with Sam Holt along the unsteady planks, solicitous lest the old sheriff’s cane become caught in one of the many cracks, he sought to express some of his admiration for the Sierra Nevada country.

  “Yes - it’s a good place, I reckon,” Holt said. “I was born here seventy-eight years ago, and I’ve stuck close. Read about them Alps in Switzerland. Used to think I’d like to see ‘em. Kain’t see my own mountains - no more. Are we alone, Mr. Chan?”

  “We are,” said Charlie. “The others are now far in advance.”

  “I reckon you an’ me - we’re goin’ to accept Don’s explanation about the fuzz on that chair?”

  “With the greatest of pleasure,” smiled Chan. “On the part of both.”

  Sam Holt smiled, too. “I reckon so. But that don’t mean we don’t have to push ahead an’ solve this case, Inspector.”

  “I am keenly aware of the fact,” Charlie assured him.

  “Nothing else against Sing - except that bench which got kicked over. You kain’t prove anything by that. Ain’t nothin’ else, is they?”

  “Not - not much,” Chan answered. “Be very careful, please. The next plank is of a faulty nature.”

  “I remember it,” Sam Holt replied. “What was Dudley Ward sayin’ about Sing’s glasses? They got broke? When was that?”

  “A long time ago - so I understand.”

  “He wasn’t wearin’ ‘em when you come last evenin’?”

  “N
o - his sight was his own.”

  Holt hesitated. “Mr. Chan - the person who mixed them box lids last night wasn’t seein’ any too well.”

  “I am forced to agree,” Charlie replied.

  “Has it jes’ happened to occur to you that the story told by that Beaton boy may have been correct? That Ellen Landini may have sent some person for her green scarf?”

  “It has occurred to me,” Chan admitted.

  “And the person came back with a pink one. Mr. Chan - that person wasn’t seein’ any too well, either.”

  “I understand,” Chan replied.

  Holt shook his head. “If that boy Sing don’t stop poppin’ back into this thing like he was the killer, he’ll jes’ plumb break my heart,” he said.

  “Cease to worry,” Charlie replied sympathetically. “Maybe pretty quick we eliminate him.”

  “Or else -“

  “In any case, Mr. Holt,” Chan continued, “please be so good as to accept my advice, so humbly offered. Cease to worry.”

  Don Holt was waiting for them at the pier’s end. “Mr. Chan - the car’s ready for us up in the drive. Dad, what are you going to do to-day?”

  “Never mind, son. I kin take care of myself. I’m havin’ lunch with Jim Dinsdale, an’ other times I’ll jes’ loll round an’ mebbe do a little thinkin’.”

  “Well, you be careful,” the young sheriff said. “Better keep inside - you don’t want any cold - at your age. And whatever you do, watch your step -“

  “Run along,” cut in Sam Holt. “My God - anybody would think I was a baby in the cradle to hear you. Mr. Chan - you got sons, I suppose?”

  “Abundantly,” Charlie answered.

  “They treat you this way?”

  Chan took his hand. “Princes have censors,” he remarked, “and fathers have sons. A happy day to you - and once again - so proud to meet you.”

  On the way to the drive in front of the garage, Chan encountered Dudley Ward. “Now we are on our way,” the detective said, “to important discoveries, I hope. May I venture the wish that such stirring morning does not find you - as you said last night -“

  “Afraid?” Ward finished. “No, Mr. Chan. A man is likely to feel a little low at four in the morning. If I have a boy somewhere, it will be happy news for me. I’m starting late, but by heaven, I’ll win his respect and affection if it’s the last act of my life. It will give me what I’ve lacked and needed for many years - an incentive - something to live for.”

  Hugh Beaton joined them from behind. A silent young man, Charlie reflected. He had scarcely spoken all morning; his face was pale and drawn. No doubt the events of the night before were a bit hard on the artistic temperament.

  Don Holt herded them into a big closed car, which he said belonged to Dinsdale, and they were off. Down through the scattered village, then on to Truckee, a bit more cheery in the bright morning. There they came on to the main highway, almost clear of snow, and the sheriff stepped on the gas.

  They entered Reno through quiet pleasant streets that in no way suggested anything but the average western town. Charlie looked eagerly about him; here was no hint of night clubs, faro games, bars and merry prospective widows. The main street, Virginia, seemed the usual one, save for a preponderance of lawyers’ offices and beauty parlors.

  “Just a moment, Sheriff,” Ward said. “Here’s that optician’s. I’ll drop these glasses now - it will take some time to fix them. If you don’t mind.”

  “Sure, I don’t,” resumed Holt amiably. He waited while a car slipped out of a parking place, and then moved in. Ward left them.

  “Well, Mr. Chan,” Holt remarked, “what do you think of the biggest little city in the world?”

  “So far,” Charlie told him, “it refuses to sustain its reputation.”

  “You got to get it gradually,” the sheriff explained. “For instance - them black chiffon nightgowns in that window. Not for the western trade, Mr. Chan. An’ an these beauty parlors - women have gone dippy over warpaint, but the local girls couldn’t support so many. And that nurse in the funny dress - with them cute kids - goin’ to have a brand-new papa, the poor little devils. Gradually it soaks in. The best people from the East come here - and raise hell with the West.”

  But at this end of the street, Chan reflected, the West still ruled. Cowboys whose costumes were a faded imitation of the Cash Shannon splendor, cattle men and ranchers - and here an Indian woman with a papoose strapped to her back. It was not until Ward returned and they crossed the bridge over the yellow, tumbling Truckee River, that they began to mingle with the best people from the East. Holt parked in front of the new hotel, sliding in beside a long, low, foreign car, over which a glowering chauffeur, also foreign, stood guard. At the left was the dignified white courthouse, the heart of the community. They entered the busy lobby of the hotel, and although Charlie never guessed it, he beheld a Patou hat and a Chanel ensemble for the first time in his life.

  “I wonder,” Hugh Beaton said timidly, “may I go up to my - to our - rooms now?”

  He looked so pale and helpless that the sheriff gave him a kindly pat. “You gather up all the stuff you and your sister will need, and -“

  “Need - for how long?” Beaton asked.

  “How the heck should I know? Jes’ gather up some stuff, an’ meet us here in this lobby - say, at three o’clock. Run along, kid - an’ cheer up.” He turned to Charlie. “Why are you lookin’ at me like that, Inspector?”

  Chan smiled. “Ah - I am just thinking. Is that the method of a good detective? Such a one would enter those rooms simultaneously - he would search - he would investigate correspondence.”

  Holt shrugged his broad shoulders. “I ain’t no detective, good or otherwise. Thank the lord. I’m only a sheriff.”

  The sleek young man at the desk looked at them suspiciously when Holt asked to be shown to Landini’s apartment. “Miss Meecher is up there alone,” he said. “She’s had a frightful morning. The reporters have been so rude.”

  “Well, we’re not reporters,” said Holt. He flashed his badge. “I’m the sheriff from over the line, this is Mr. Dudley Ward, of Tahoe and San Francisco, and this is Mr. Charlie Chan, of Honolulu.”

  Don Holt had a carrying voice, and it was not surprising that three young men at once leaped forward from behind near-by potted palms. They represented various press associations and the local paper, it appeared. The passing of Landini was news all over the world. The method of her passing was better still. After a struggle which reached major proportions, the sheriff and his companions got away, and started upstairs, where Miss Meecher awaited them. As the elevator ascended, Chan thought of Henry Lee, the steward, with a wry smile. “I shall watch newspapers,” Mr. Lee had said.

  Miss Meecher greeted them at the door, a repressed, middle-aged woman dressed in black. Very proper-looking, rather grim, but breathing efficiency.

  “Come in, gentlemen,” she said. She met even Chan without a change of expression - a remarkable woman indeed, he thought. “A terrible thing, this is. No one, evidently, thought to telephone me the news.”

  “So sorry,” Chan remarked, “but up to this morning, no one in authority knew of your existence. The others - Miss Beaton and her brother - were perhaps too overcome.”

  “Perhaps,” she answered. Her voice was as crisp and cool as the mountain air. She added: “I am glad you are here, Mr. Ward. Some one will have to attend to - to the services.”

  Ward bowed his head. “I’d already thought of it. I shall take full charge - it seems to be my duty. No one else appears to be interested - outside, of course, yourself.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. Then that is settled.” Efficient. No time for emotion. Just - what’s the next thing to be done? Well - do it - and move on.

  “Might I ask?” Ward continued, “how long you have been with Madame Landini?”

  “Over seven years,” Miss Meecher replied. “I came first as secretary - lately I have more or less combined that post with the one of
- maid. Times have not been so good - with any of us.”

  Dudley Ward leaned suddenly forward. “I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice trembled. “I do not wish to seem abrupt. But there is one question I must ask you - and I can not hold it back - I can not wait. I have heard it rumored - that my wife had a son - my son - about whom she never told me. You can understand my feeling in this matter, I’m sure. I want to ask you - I want you to tell me - was there any truth in this rumor?”

  Miss Meecher stared at him. The same expressionless face. “I can not tell you,” she said. “I do not know. Madame never mentioned the matter to me.”

  Ward turned away, and sat looking out the window at his right, across an open space toward the white courthouse which had figured so largely in the life of Ellen Landini. Finally Chan broke the silence.

  “Miss Meecher - the sheriff here will tell you that he authorizes me to speak for him -“

  “That’s right,” Holt nodded.

  “Had you heard any word from Madame Landini, Miss Meecher, at any time, that might lead you to believe she considered her life in danger?”

  “None at all. Of course, she carried a pistol, but that was from a fear of thugs, robbers. I’m sure she was not afraid of any of her intimates. She had no reason to be.”

  “There are three or four men, Miss Meecher, about whose relations with Landini I wish to make inquiries.” The woman’s expression finally changed - a little. “Oh, most pleasant inquiries,” Chan assured her. “Nothing of scandalous nature. I would mention John Ryder. Her second husband, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “She never heard from him? Had correspondence with him?”

  “I don’t imagine she thought of him, any more.”

  “Have you the slightest idea why she separated from him? After many years, it would seem he still bears wound.”

  “I can give you a notion,” Miss Meecher said. “Madame’s scrap-books of clippings from all over the world always traveled with us. In an early one, when I first came to her, I once read a certain item. Just a moment.” She rose briskly, went into the other room and reappeared with a worn old-fashioned book. Opening it, she handed it to Chan, and pointed.