Chan read slowly and carefully a newspaper clipping, now yellow with age:
ELLEN LANDINI SNOWED IN
Recently Divorced San Francisco Singer in a Cabin “Up the Ravine.”
SAN FRANCISCO, Feb. 9 - Ellen Landini, the singer, formerly the wife of Dudley Ward, of this city, but who was recently married to John Ryder, a mining man, is snowed in for the winter at Calico mine in Plumas County. After their marriage Mrs. Ryder gave up her career and took the trail with her husband over the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the Calico claim, of which he is manager. Heavy snow fell soon after the couple had established themselves in the superintendent’s cabin up the ravine.
Some mining men who have come down from that country say snow is twenty-five feet deep on the level, and that it is one of the hardest winters northern California has known in many years. Twenty-five feet of snow means candle-light all day in the cabin and no fresh grub and little if any mail; snow on the ground until June and no chance to get out with comfort before summer.
Chan handed the book to the sheriff, and looked at Miss Meecher. “It has aspect of romantic situation,” he remarked, “rather than grounds for divorce.”
“That,” the woman replied, “is what I remarked to Madame when I read it. I - I was somewhat younger at the time. Madame burst into loud laughter ‘Romantic, Mary,’ she cried. ‘Ah, but life is not like that. Romantic to find yourself shut up in one room for eternity with the most colossal bore since the world began! A sullen egotist, with the conversational powers of a mummy. In a week I loathed him, in another I despised him, in a month I could have killed him. I was the first person out of that camp in the spring, and I thanked God it was only a few miles to Reno.’ I am quoting Madame, you understand, Mr. Chan.”
Charlie smiled. “Ah, yes - that would, I have no doubt, happen. It begins to explain Mr. Ryder. If you do not incline to object, I would remove this clipping.”
Miss Meecher looked startled at the idea, but then remembered. “Oh, of course,” she said. “It won’t matter particularly now.”
Chan took the book from the sheriff, and carefully cut out the tale of Landini’s second marriage. Meanwhile, Dudley Ward sat, still silent, by the window, apparently hearing none of this.
“We proceed,” Chan continued. “And in the course of our proceedings we now arrive at Mr. Luis Romano.”
Miss Meecher so far forgot her stern aloofness as to permit herself a shrug of disgust.
“Romano,” she said, “we haven’t seen him in months. You don’t mean to say that he is in this neighborhood?”
“He was at Mr. Ward’s home last evening. I admired his attitude toward Madame Landini. What, if you please, was her attitude toward him?”
“Oh, she tolerated him. He was a harmless little idiot. Why she ever married him I’m sure I don’t know - and I’m sure that Madame didn’t either. She liked to be petted, pampered, looked after. But there is no real romance in that - and she finally sent him on his way.”
“Making a settlement - which she later ignored.”
“I’m afraid she did. She couldn’t help herself. She owns a great deal of real estate - but ready cash has been very scarce.”
“Speaking of real estate - she drew up a will, leaving her property to her new attraction - Mr. Hugh Beaton. I am eager to know - was that will ever signed?”
Miss Meecher suddenly put her hand to her cheek. “Good heavens - I never thought of that. It was - it was never signed.”
Even Dudley Ward looked up. “Never signed, eh?” cried Don Holt.
“No. It came from her lawyers three weeks ago. There was something in it that wasn’t quite right. She was going to have it fixed here - but she kept putting it off. She was always - putting things off.”
“Then Luis Romano inherits her estate?” Chan said thoughtfully.
“I’m afraid he does.”
“Do you think he knew this?”
“If he didn’t, it wasn’t his fault. He kept writing, trying to find out whether or not the will had been signed. He wrote to me, privately. But of course I didn’t tell him. Perhaps - perhaps he wrote to her lawyers, in New York.”
Chan sat for a moment quietly, considering this startling possibility.
“We drop that for the present,” he said finally. “I turn now to Michael Ireland, the aviator. Would you talk about him, please?”
“There’s nothing to say,” Miss Meecher answered. “I believe there was once a sort of love-affair between him and Madame. It was before my time. Since she came here, she’s enjoyed riding about in his plane. But the affair was over - on her side, at least. I’m sure of that.”
“And on his side?”
“Well - I suppose I must tell everything. I did overhear him making love to her here one evening. But she only laughed at him.”
“So - she laughed at him, eh?” Again Chan considered.
“Yes - she told him to stick to his wife. She reminded him that when she first saw him, he had just come home from the war, and was in uniform. ‘It was the uniform, Michael,’ I heard her say. ‘I loved every man who wore one!’”
Chan’s eyes narrowed. “So Ireland served in the war? A steady hand. A clear eye. An expert -” He saw Don Holt looking at him with amazement. “What of it?” he added hastily. “Miss Meecher, there is one I have saved to the last. I refer to Doctor Swan.”
“Contemptible,” spoke Miss Meecher, and her thin lips closed tightly.
“So I have gathered,” Charlie replied. “Since you have come to Reno, he has visited Madame?”
“He has.”
“Ah, yes - he lied to us about that. But visits were necessary if he was to follow his trade.”
“You mean - as doctor?”
“Alas, no. I mean as blackmailer, Miss Meecher.”
The woman started. “Who told you that?”
“No matter. We know it. We know that Madame had long paid him two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Why did she pay him this money?”
“I - I don’t know,” the secretary said.
“Ah - I am so sorry to contradict a lady,” Charlie went on sadly. “But you do know, Miss Meecher. You know quite well Landini paid him this money because he had somehow become aware of the birth of her child. She paid it to him because he threatened that, if she did not, he would acquaint Mr. Dudley Ward, the child’s father, with the facts, Come - Miss Meecher - this is not the time for double dealing. I want the truth.”
Dudley Ward was on his feet. Perspiration gleamed on his forehead as he faced the woman. “I - I want it too,” he cried.
Miss Meecher looked up at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “When you first came in - I wasn’t sure - I wanted a moment to think. I - I have thought. It doesn’t really matter now, I suppose. You may as well know: Yes - Madame had a son. A lovely boy. I saw him once. Dudley - she called him. He would have been eighteen next January - if -“
“If - what?” Ward cried hoarsely.
“If he - had lived. He was killed in an automobile accident over three years ago. I’m so sorry, Mr. Ward.”
Ward had put his hands out, feebly, as though to fend off a blow. “And I never saw him,” he said brokenly. “I never saw him.” He turned, and walking to the window, leaned heavily against it.
Chapter IX
TROUBLE TAKES WING
The three other people in Landini’s small sitting-room looked at one another, but did not speak. For a time Ward continued to stare out the window. At length he turned, he was pale, but self-controlled and calm. Blood, the young Sheriff thought to himself, will tell. The cowards never started on that rush of ‘49, and the weaklings died on the way, but Dudley Ward was descended from a man who had reached journey’s end. His voice was steady as he said: “Thank you so much for telling me.”
“I knew, of course, the child was dead,” Chan remarked, “when you told us Romano was Landini’s only heir. You have, perhaps, Miss Meecher, some documents regarding the boy’s death?”
She ro
se. “Yes. I have the telegram that was our first news of it, and the letter that followed from his foster-mother. Madame always kept them close to her.”
She opened a desk drawer, and producing these, handed them to Dudley Ward. They waited while he read them. “That is finished,” he said finally, and returned them.
“Madame read that letter over and over,” Miss Meecher told him. “I want you to know, Mr. Ward, that she adored this boy. Though she rarely saw him, though he regarded himself as the son of - of others - he was always in her thoughts. You must - believe this.”
“Yes,” Ward said dully, and again turned to the window.
“Then it is true,” Charlie said to the woman in a subdued voice, “that Doctor Swan was blackmailing her about this matter?”
“Yes - he was. She did not want Mr. Ward to hear about the boy - even after - the accident.”
“Recently she stopped the payments, and Doctor Swan - perhaps he threatened her?”
“He was very violent and abusive about it. I don’t believe he had a successful practice, and it appeared that this money meant a lot to him. I don’t know that he actually threatened her life, however. But he was a man capable of almost anything.”
Chan nodded toward the desk. “I note there long strips of paper with printing. Am I correct in calling them proofs of book?”
Miss Meecher nodded. “They are galley proofs of Madame’s autobiography, which I have been helping her to write for the past few years. The book is to be published very soon.”
“Ah,” returned Charlie, a sudden eagerness in his voice, “would you, perhaps, object if I took same with me and perused them? Some little detail, some chance remark -“
“By all means,” Miss Meecher replied. “If you’ll be kind enough to return them. As a matter of fact - I’d like to have you read them. I’m afraid you’ve got rather a - well, a mistaken idea of Madame. If you had really known her as I knew her -” She stopped, and a terrible dry sob shook her thin shoulders. It passed in a moment. “She was really the kindest person - the victim of a wrong impression fostered by her many marriages. She was just restless, unhappy, always seeking romance - and never finding it.”
“No doubt she has been misjudged,” Chan returned politely. “Public opinion is often an envious dog barking at the heels of greatness. Ah, thank you - you needn’t wrap the proofs. This large elastic will suffice. You shall have them back at very earliest moment. Now, I think, Mr. Ward, if you are willing, we will trouble this lady no longer.”
“Of course,” Ward answered. He looked at Miss Meecher. “There were - photographs - I suppose?”
“Many. They belong to you now.” She started on her efficient way, but he laid a hand on her arm.
“Please,” he said, “a little later. I - I couldn’t bring myself - If you will be so kind, you might gather them up for me.”
“I will,” she promised.
“You have been so good, Miss Meecher,” Chan remarked, bowing low. “Always I shall remember your frankness. It is of such great help.”
“There’s just one thing,” the secretary returned, “that you might do for me.”
“You have only to name it.”
“Trouble,” said the woman. “Trouble, the dog. He and I had much in common - we both loved Madame. I should like to have him, if I might. I am certain Madame would wish it.”
“I will despatch him to you with the greatest speed,” Chan promised. “Perhaps - by airplane.”
“Thank you so much. He - he will be company for me here.” And Charlie saw, as he took his leave, that at last there were tears in the eyes of the aloof Miss Meecher.
The three men rode down in the elevator, Chan and the sheriff both slightly uncomfortable at the feeling that there was something they should say to Ward and neither being able to put it into words.
“There are a number of things I must attend to,” Ward remarked, when they reached the lobby. “I fancy I’m not concerned in your further investigation here. I’ll meet you again on this spot at three.”
“That’ll be fine,” the sheriff said, and Chan nodded. Ward disappeared, and Holt added: “Dog-gone it, I wanted to say something about the kid, but I jes’ plumb couldn’t.”
“There are times,” Charlie told him, “when words, though meant in kindness, are but salt in the wound.”
“There sure are. Well, what do you say? I had breakfast at six, and it’s nearly one. Let’s eat, Inspector.”
Into the rather effete dining-room Don Holt brought a breath of the West. Women in smart Paris costumes looked up admiringly as he passed, and registered a startled interest at sight of the broad figure which followed meekly at his heels. Ignoring them all, the sheriff sat down and with difficulty selected a man-size lunch from the French items on the menu. When the waiter had departed - a friendly waiter who treated them like old pals - Charlie ventured a question.
“You propose to visit local police?”
Holt grinned. “No - reckon I’ll give them a bitter disappointment by passing them up. Nothing to gain, that I can see. Say, won’t they be sore! All this lovely publicity, an’ they on the outside, lookin’ in. But you’re going to be all the help I’ll need, Mr. Chan. I can see that, right now.”
“Sincerely trust you are not too optimistic,” Charlie answered. “Can it be you glimpse light of solution ahead?”
“Me?” cried Holt. “I ain’t got the slightest idea what’s goin’ on. But some men - well, you jes’ look at ‘em, and you get confidence. You’re one like that.”
Charlie smiled. “I should gaze more often in mirror,” he replied. “Myself, I am not so sure. This is hard case. However, Miss Meecher was mine of information.”
“Yeah - you got plenty out of her, didn’t you?”
“Our success was gratifying. We learn - what? The background of Landini’s second marriage - that to John Ryder. Snowed in with him up the ravine - the poor lady has, even at late day like this, my sincere condolences. We learn what may prove vastly important clue - new will was left unsigned, and Romano is happy heir. Did he know this? If he did, then case may end a very simple one. We learn that Swan’s blackmail concerned the dead son of Landini, hear of the doctor’s anger when payment at last was ended. Also, that Michael Ireland made love, and was repulsed. Is our motive hidden somewhere among these?”
“Also - though I can’t see that it means anything - we hear that Ireland was in the war,” Holt remarked. “I must say, Mr. Chan - you acted mighty mysterious right there. Last night you said some pretty queer things, too - but I want to assure you here an’ now - I ain’t going to ask any questions.”
“Thank you so much,” Charlie said. “But as clues pop up in this case, I promise I will draw them to your attention. We work on the matter together.”
“Yeah - but with different brains,” grinned Holt. “Well, here’s once I guessed right. Filet mignon does mean steak - but not much of it.”
After lunch they visited Swan’s lodgings. The landlady, who appeared to be waging a battle against age with the assistance of various drug-store preparations, was suspicious at first, but soon succumbed to Don Holt’s charm. From then on, she was almost too solicitous. However, they managed a search of the rooms, with absolutely no result, and then proceeded to gather up the articles the doctor had listed.
“Well, I reckon we’re jes’ errand boys, after all,” remarked Holt, as he tossed an armful of gaudy shirts into the suitcase. “And I wanted to get something on this bird, the worst way.”
“Ah,” nodded Chan, “you still hold him responsible for awkward situation regarding Miss Beaton’s scarf.”
“He put it there, of course. That’s plain enough.”
“If he did,” Chan continued, “then he also persuaded Landini to grasp it before he killed her. I am plenty sure of that.”
“Well, maybe he did,” said the sheriff.
They returned presently to the hotel. Ward and Beaton were sitting in the lobby, the latter with two large b
ags at his feet. A little later they were on their way down Virginia Street. Dudley Ward sat silent, and as they passed the optician’s, Chan turned to him.
“You recalled the spectacles of Sing, Mr. Ward?”
Ward came to himself with a start. “No - by George - I forgot all about them -“
“Permit that I go,” Charlie suggested. “I need not climb out over luggage, you will perceive.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Ward answered. “Just charge them to me. I have an account there.”
Holt parked some distance down the street, and Chan got out. He walked back to the optician’s, through a colorful western throng, and going in, made clear his errand. The optician remarked that Sing should have come himself - the frame should have been adjusted on him.
“Sing has but little interest in the affair,” Chan remarked. “Which is a great pity, since his eyes are so very bad.”
“Who says his eyes are bad?’ the man wanted to know.
“Why - I have always understood that he could see very little without these spectacles,” Chan returned.
The optician laughed. “He’s kidding you,” he said. “He can see about as well without them as with them. Except when it comes to reading - and I don’t guess Sing does a great deal of that.”
“Thank you so much,” Charlie responded. “The charge is to be made on Mr. Dudley Ward, of Tahoe.”
He returned and handed the glasses to Ward. Holt started the car and in a few moments they were again out on the main road west, rolling along between the snowy hills.
Charlie was turning over in his mind this latest news. Sing was really not deprived of much when he broke his glasses. It was amusing how fate was constantly exonerating the old man. It had probably not been Sing who mixed the box lids.
No one seemed inclined to conversation, so Chan settled in his seat to meditate on the puzzle of those lids. They went over a bump. “Excuse me, folks,” Don Holt said. The galley proofs of Ellen Landini’s autobiography fell from Chan’s lap to the floor of the car. He picked them up and carefully dusted them off. If he had been as psychic as he sometimes pretended to be, he would have known that the answer to this particular puzzle was at that moment in his hands.
Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys Page 12
