Daylight had come, but a sullen counterfeit daylight. The rain beat down on the top of the car, and on Don Holt’s two-gallon hat as he leaned far out to follow the road - the windshield wiper, he explained, was not working. The wind had died, the pines were silent and dripping; they plowed on through slush a foot deep.
“Wonder how we’ll find all the folks at Pineview,” the sheriff said presently. “Including the murderer. I guess there ain’t much doubt he’ll be there, waiting for us.”
“He may be,” Charlie agreed.
“Well - let’s have a check-up. Who’s there now? Romano, Ryder and Ward. Hugh Beaton - and his sister.”
“A charming lady, Miss Beaton,” Chan suggested.
“Yeah - she’s all right. But don’t get me off the track - I’m countin’. Let’s see - well, that’s about all - except Sing and Cecile - I sort of had that French dame on my mind, but after this, she don’t look so good. That’s the list.”
“And Mrs. O’Ferrell,” Chan added.
“Yeah - I can see her plowin’ down through the snow to put a bullet in Swan. Say - I never been able to figure out what you meant - about Trouble bein’ a clue.”
“So sorry,” Chan replied. “But we all have our little mysteries to sting us, as summer flies pester the horse. For example, in own mind I am convinced blow received by Sing in defenseless face on night of murder was vastly important clue. But - I can not figure it. However, we must be patient. You and I - we will both learn in time.”
They left the car on the road above and descended the steps to the back door of Pineview. Sing was shaking a duster on the porch. He gave Charlie a slightly startled look.
“Wha’s mallah you?” he demanded. “My think you upstair in bed, you come home back step, plenty wet.”
“I was called away on business,” Charlie explained.
“Hello, Sing,” the sheriff said. “Don’t worry about Mr. Chan. I’ve been taking care of him. Anybody up yet?”
“Nobody, only me,” Sing replied. “My get up sunlise, woik, woik, woik. Too much woik this house. No can do.”
Inside, they found Sing’s statements somewhat inaccurate. Mrs. O’Ferrell was busy in the kitchen, and gave them a cheery greeting. Proceeding to the living-room, they found Leslie Beaton, reading a book.
“Hello - you’re up early,” Holt remarked.
“The same for you,” she replied, “and as for Mr. Chan - I don’t believe he ever sleeps. Was that he - or should I say him - I saw in the road behind the house in the night?”
“It may have been,” Charlie said quickly. “Again, it may not. Elaborate the statement, if you will be so good.”
“I couldn’t sleep very well,” the girl went on. “Can any one - in this house? My room is in an ell in the rear, close to the road. I went to the window and looked out. I saw a shadowy figure, hurrying up the steps, and fairly running along the road.”
“Sounds pretty active for the inspector,” smiled Holt. “Do you know what time this was?”
“Yes - it was precisely ten minutes after twelve. I looked at my watch.”
Chan leaned toward her eagerly. “Describe this person,” he urged.
“Impossible,” she answered. “It was snowing hard. It might have been anybody - even a woman, for that matter. I was somewhat worried. I went into my brother’s room - he’s right next door - and wakened him. But he told me to go back to bed, and forget it.”
Hugh Beaton at that moment appeared on the stairs. His face seemed paler than usual; there were dark circles about his eyes, and his manner was extremely nervous. He saw Charlie and the sheriff.
“What’s happened now?” he cried. “For God’s sake - what is it now?”
“It is nothing,” Charlie replied soothingly. “You arise early.”
“Why shouldn’t I? My nerves are all shot to pieces, in this God-forsaken place. When are you going to let us out of this prison? What right have you -“
“Please, Hughie,” his sister cut in. “Mr. Ward might hear you - and he’s been so kind to us.”
“I don’t care if he does hear me,” the boy retorted. “He knows I don’t want to stay here. When do we go to the Tavern? You promised to-day -“
“And it will be to-day,” Holt said, looking at him with a trace of contempt. Temperamental artists were not in the sheriff’s line. “Brace up.”
“Tell me,” Chan said. “When your sister came in to wake you last night -“
“When she - oh yes. I remember now. What was that all about?”
“You remember, Hughie,” said the girl, “I told you I’d seen somebody leaving the house.”
“Oh, yes. Well, did somebody leave? Is some one missing?”
“Somebody did leave,” Charlie explained. “We think he returned, however. But not until, in an empty house down the road, he had shot and killed Doctor Swan.”
There was silence for a moment. “Doctor Swan,” gasped the girl. Her face was as white as her brother’s. “Oh, that’s too terrible.”
“It’s no more terrible than the killing of Ellen,” her brother said, and his voice sounded hysterical. “We’ve got to get out of here, I tell you. To-day. This minute.” He rose and stared wildly about.
“A little later,” Holt remarked calmly.
“But I tell you - my sister - she’s in danger here. So are we all - but I have to look after her -“
“A natural feeling,” Chan said. “Your sister will be taken care of - and so will you. I presume you heard nothing in the night - save, of course, your sister’s entrance. You can throw no light on this?”
“None. None whatever,” the boy answered.
“Most unfortunate.” Charlie rose. “I go to my room to freshen up drooping appearance. I return soon,” he added to the sheriff.
He went up, leaving the three young people in the living-room. Cecile was standing just inside his door.
“Ah, Monsieur,” she cried. “Your bed is untouched.”
“I know,” he replied. “I did not sleep last night. Just a moment, if you will be so kind. Do not go.”
“Yes, Monsieur.” She regarded him with troubled eyes.
“Your husband, Madame? When did you see him last?”
“When he left here just before dinner. Surely you recall? He took the little dog in his plane.”
“He did not return to this neighborhood last night?”
“How could he? Such a night. He could not fly in such weather.”
“But is he not an expert chauffeur? He could return in automobile.”
“If he returned, I did not know it. I do not understand of what you speak, Monsieur.”
“He and Doctor Swan - they were not the best of friends?”
“Michael hates him, as you saw yourself. He despises him, and with many good reasons. But why do you ask?”
“Because” - Charlie keenly watched her face - “because, Madame, Doctor Swan was murdered in this vicinity last night.” Still he watched her. “Ah, that is all. You may go now.”
She left without a word, and after hastily washing his hands and his as yet unshaven face, Charlie went out and knocked on Romano’s door. The conductor let him in; he was partly dressed, his face was covered with lather, and he held a razor in his hand.
“Enter, Inspector,” he invited. “You will pardon my condition. The hour - it is an early one.”
“Events conspire to give me no rest,” Chan told him. “Continue, please, to shave. I will repose here, on edge of bathtub. There is a word or two -“
“What do you wish, Signor?”
“You heard no one about this house last night? You saw no one leave by the rear door?”
“I am a sound sleeper, Inspector.”
Quickly Chan told him what had occurred. He wished the Italian had removed more of that lather before hearing the news. But - wasn’t the swarthy forehead now somewhat more in harmony with the white lather?
“Swan, eh?” said Romano slowly. “Ah, yes - he knew too much, that
one, Inspector. Him, he could not hold his tongue. Only yesterday, when we were having long day together, he spoke indiscreetly to me.”
“He said - what?”
“Nothing definite, you understand. I could not give you words. But already I thought his greedy fingers counted fresh bank-notes. That is dangerous business - blackmail.”
Chan studied the Italian’s face. From the first, this man had baffled him.
“And in my room last night,” he said, “you, yourself, hinted at knowing something, too.”
An expression of vast surprise crossed Romano’s face.
“I, Signor? The day is young - you are still dreaming.”
“Nonsense. You spoke of -“
“Ah, my English - it is not good. You do not understand me when I speak it.”
“You asked if any one who could give information in this case would have to remain here after giving it.”
“Did I say that? I must have been thinking of Doctor Swan.”
“Unusual, if you were,” Chan answered. “I should not say you devoted much thought to others. Of yourself, you think. Then consider this - if you have information which you withhold, it will go hard with you when matter is discovered.”
“I have no information,” Romano answered suavely. “All I can say is, I trust this new murder will speed your search, for speed is what I most desire. In the meantime you are permitting Miss Beaton and her brother the privilege of changing their residence to the Tavern to-day. Can you deny the same to me? You can not. I will not stay in this house another day.”
“Ah - you begin to remember, now,” Chan smiled. “You are afraid here. You do know something, after all.”
“Signor,” cried Romano passionately, “you insult my honor. Ellen Landini was dear to me - her memory is dearer still - would I conceal the name of her assassin? No! A million times, no! Anyhow,” he added more calmly, “I do not know the name. Must I tell you again?”
“For the present - no,” bowed Chan, and left the room.
Downstairs, he found Hugh Beaton nervously pacing the floor, while his sister and the sheriff sat before the fire. The latter’s conversational powers seemed to be ebbing fast, and Charlie was happy to help him out. In a few moments John Ryder came down the stairs, carefully groomed as always, remote and aloof.
“Beastly day, isn’t it?” he remarked. He glanced at the sheriff. “Hello, Mr. Holt. Anything new?”
“Nothing unusual,” Holt said. “Another murder, that’s all.”
“Another what?” It was Dudley Ward who spoke, from the stairs.
Charlie Chan explained, watching both men alternately as he did so. Ryder’s expression never altered; Ward looked only a little older, a little more worn, as he listened.
“A nasty bounder, Swan,” Ryder said coldly. “But, of course - murder is a bit extreme.”
“None too kind to Ellen,” Ward remarked thoughtfully. “But then - I guess none of us were, for that matter.”
“Speak for yourself, Dudley,” answered Ryder warmly. “Don’t begin to idealize the woman, just because she’s dead.”
“I’m not idealizing her, John,” Ward returned. “I’m just trying to keep in mind her virtues - and they were many. And it has occurred to me these last few days, that she was not too lucky in her choice of husbands.” His eyes were on Romano, sleek and dapper, who was now coming down the stairs.
“Breakfast ready now,” announced Sing, from the rear.
“Come on, Don,” Ward said. “You’re eating with us.”
“That’s - that’s mighty good of you,” replied the sheriff.
“Nonsense. Sing - set another place.”
Sing muttered something about the amount of work in this house, and retired. But when they reached the dining-room, the old Chinese was there ahead of them, briskly and efficiently making a place for Holt.
The meal was eaten for the most part in silence. When it was ended, and they were back in the living-room, Holt informed Leslie Beaton and her brother that he would send his launch for them at nine-thirty, and that they should be packed and ready for the move to the hotel.
“You bet I’ll be ready,” young Beaton cried. Seeing his sister’s eyes on him, he added: “Of course, Mr. Ward, I appreciate your hospitality. And the way Leslie’s looking at me, I suppose I ought to add, I had a nice time.” His tone was childish and disagreeable.
“Hardly that,” Ward replied amiably. “But I shall miss your sister and you very much, and I hope you may some day return for a stay under happier conditions.”
“You’ve been wonderful,” Leslie Beaton told him. “I shall never forget you. The perfect host - at the most imperfect moment.”
Ward bowed. “I shan’t forget you,” he said.
Romano popped to the front. “There will be a place in your launch for me?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” inquired Holt.
“I mean I also - with deep regret, Signor Ward - am leaving here to-day for the Tavern. Inspector Chan has agreed.”
Holt glanced at Charlie, who nodded. “All right,” the sheriff said. “You can have Swan’s room. You’ve heard what happened to him.”
Romano shrugged. “Ah - he wandered too far away. Me - I stick close to the hotel.”
“Well, see that you do,” Holt replied.
Charlie followed the sheriff into the passage at the rear. “Pardon me,” he inquired. “You have revolver we discovered in snow?”
“Sure. You want it?” Holt produced the weapon.
“I will take it brief while. When our friends come down to Tavern, I will be with them. Tell me, is there train to Oakland this morning?”
“Yes - there’s one about ten-thirty. Say” - an expression of dismay spread over the sheriff’s face - “you ain’t leaving, are you?”
“No. Not at this date.”
“Who is?”
“We will discuss the matter later.”
“So long, then.” Holt lowered his voice. “Well, we had a nice breakfast, didn’t we? But that’s about all we got, eh?”
“Not quite.” Chan’s eyes narrowed. “We received also, from Miss Beaton, very pretty alibi for her brother at twelve-ten last night.”
“My gosh,” the sheriff said. “I never thought of that.”
“I did not think you would,” smiled Charlie.
He went at once to his room where, for a time, he experimented with lampblack and brush on the automatic pistol. Then, leaving the weapon on his desk, he hurried at last to the refreshing solace of his morning bath. He had just finished shaving when Sing appeared in his room with a supply of wood. Chan came out from the bath to find the old man staring at the pistol.
“Hello, Sing,” he remarked, “you see that before, maybe?”
“I no see him.”
“You are quite sure?”
“I no see him - tha’s no he, Boss.”
Charlie’s eyebrows went up at this unexpected tribute of respect. “Mebbe you catch ‘um killer - hey, Boss?” the old man added.
Chan shrugged. “I am stupid policeman - my mind is like the Yellow River.” He paused. “But - who was it said - even the Yellow River has its clear days?”
“No savvy,” responded Sing, and started out.
Charlie laid a hand on the thin old arm.
“Delay one moment, if you will be so good,” he said in Cantonese. “You and I, honorable Sing, are of the same race, the same people. Why, then, should a thousand hills rise between us when we talk?”
“They are hills you place there with your white devil ways,” Sing suggested.
“I am so sorry. They are imaginary. Let us sweep them away. How many years did you have when you came to this alien land?”
“I had eighteen,” the old man replied. “Now I have seventy-eight.”
“Then for sixty years you have carried another man’s heaven on your head, and your feet have trod upon another man’s earth. Do you not long to return to China, ancient one?”
“Some
day -” the old man’s eyes glittered.
“Some day - yes. But a man takes off his shoes tonight. How does he know he will put them on again in the morning? Death comes, Ah Sing.”
“My bones return,” Sing told him.
“Yes - that is much. But to see again the village where you were born - to walk again on the soil where your bones are to rest -“
The old man shook his head sadly. “Too much woik this house,” he said, lapsing into English. “No can go. No can go.”
“Do not despair,” Charlie returned, dropping his somewhat rusty Cantonese. “Fate settles all things, and all things arrive at their appointed time.” He took a clean white shirt from his bag and proceeded to put it on. “A very dull day, indeed,” he added, stepping to the window and gazing out at the dripping pines. “On such an occasion, the attire of man should compensate. You understand what I mean - I should wear gay clothes, happy clothes. My brightest necktie, perhaps.”
“Tha’s light,” nodded Sing.
“I have a very red necktie - my daughter Evelyn gave it to me on Christmas, and she herself put it in my bag when I left. It is, my dear Sing, the reddest necktie the eyes of man have seen. And this, I believe, is the fitting day for it.” He went to his closet, removed a tie and drew it around his neck. For a moment he faced the mirror, and while he tied the knot, he watched the expression on the old man’s withered countenance. He turned about, to give Sing the full effect.
“There,” he beamed, “that will brighten this gloomy day. Eh, Sing?”
“Velly good,” agreed Sing, and walked slowly from the room. Charlie stood looking after him, his eyes narrowed, his face very thoughtful.
Chapter XVI
THAT BOY AH SING
At half past nine, Cash Shannon appeared with the sheriff’s launch. When it came to brightening the day and atoning for the weather, Cash took second place to no man. Indeed, at the mere sight of his colorful costume, the weather seemed to be giving up the struggle; the rain had stopped, and the clouds raced madly through the sky as though seeking to give the sun an opening. There was no doubt that the storm was over, nature would soon be smiling but not, probably, as brightly as Cash at the sight of Leslie Beaton.
Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys Page 19
