Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys
Page 20
He appeared slightly surprised at the number of passengers he was to carry, for Romano added himself and his luggage to the group on the pier, and Charlie made it known that his not inconsiderable person was also to be included. However, once they were started, Cash paid no attention to any one save the girl.
“Well, I guess you might call this the opening day at the Tavern,” he remarked to her. “If I was the management - which I ain’t - there’d be tea on the terrace, music in the casino, an’ flags hanging all over the place.”
“What are you talking about?” she inquired.
“Any time a girl like you comes to a hotel, ought to be some sort of celebration. That’s the way I figure it. Say - how do you get on with a horse?”
“I ride a little.”
“Well, we’ll change all that. You’ll ride a lot, the next few days. Some of the trails are open now an’ say - the plans I got -“
“If you will be so kind,” called Chan, from behind him. “Please make utmost speed.”
“What for?” inquired Cash.
“I have some plans myself,” smiled Charlie.
The instant the launch had landed, he leaped ashore and hurried to the hotel. Old Sam Holt was seated by the fire, and greeted Chan with every evidence of pleasure.
“Been waiting to talk to you,” he said. “Sorry I wasn’t with you last night up the road.”
“We have much to discuss,” Charlie answered. “But first there is a matter that requires great haste. Where is your son, please?”
“I reckon he’s out to the stables. I’ll send one of the boys.” The old man made his way to the desk, gave the order and returned. “What’s on your mind now, Inspector?”
“You will denounce me bitterly when I tell you,” Chan replied.
“‘Tain’t easy to picture that,” the old man said. “You mean -“
“I mean I propose to call into this case some one we both agree is absolutely worthless. A scientist.”
Sam Holt laughed. “Wal - gener’ly speakin’, Mr. Chan. Gener’ly speakin’. O’ course, mebbe I’m a leetle unreasonable. An’ if you cave in on th’ point, I reckon I kin cave with you.”
“A gentleman I met in San Francisco a few weeks ago,” Charlie explained. “An instructor of physics at the University of California, in Berkeley. I had a serious talk with him, and I thought -” Don Holt approached and Chan leaped to his feet. “Mr. Sheriff, tell me - have you bullet from body of the recent Doctor Swan?”
“Sure - I got it,” Holt replied, producing it. “Another thirty-eight. The coroner -“
“Haste is required,” Chan cut in. “Pardon the abrupt manner. But inform me - can we place some one on the ten-thirty train at Truckee - and if so, whom?”
Cash had just entered with Leslie Beaton and her brother. The deputy was loaded with bags, and eternal adoration of the fair sex gleamed in his eyes. Holt laughed.
“I’ll say we’ve got some one we can put on that train,” he chortled. “And good riddance, too. Hey - Cash.”
Cash dropped the luggage and came over. “What is it, Chief?”
“Get a bag packed, kid. You got to catch the Oakland train at Truckee, an’ you got to step.”
“Me?” cried Cash in dismay. “But say, I just made a date with Miss Beaton to exercise a couple horses at three o’clock -“
“Thanks a lot,” smiled Holt. “I’ll be glad to take care of that for you. Get a move on, boy. I’m tellin’ you.” Cash hurried out toward the stables. “Now, Mr. Chan - that’s the best idea you’ve ever had in your life. Where’s he goin’, and why?”
“To begin operations,” Charlie said, “kindly bring me from safe of Mr. Dinsdale, Landini’s revolver, and along with it bullet from same which killed her. Also, please obtain for me one very large and strong Manila envelope.” He sat down at a writing-desk, and took the pistol which had slain Swan from his pocket. This he laid on the desk. The bullet he had just received from the sheriff, he put in an envelope and marked. Then he took a sheet of note paper and hastily began to write.
He had finished the letter when young Holt returned and placed before him the pearl-handled pistol that had been Landini’s property, and the other bullet. The latter was put into a second small envelope and marked, and Charlie then proceeded to insert a marked piece of paper in the barrel of each gun. He took the big envelope Holt handed him, wrote a hasty name and address on the outside, and put into it the two weapons and the two small envelopes. He then sealed the flap, and handed the big envelope to the sheriff.
“It bears, you will note, an address in Berkeley. Tell the good Cash to alight at Oakland and visit this man at once. He is to obtain answer to question in my letter - tonight if possible - and wire same to you instantly. Impress upon him great need of speed.”
“Fine,” answered Holt, looking at his watch. “I’ll let him take my car, and he can just about make it. He can leave the car in a garage near the station in Truckee.”
He hurried out. Sam Holt, who had been listening, came up. “And this perfessor at Berkeley, Mr. Chan,” he said, “what does he claim he kin do?”
“He claims,” Charlie replied, “that if he has both pistol and bullet, he can tell how far latter has traveled.”
“He’s a liar,” said Holt promptly.
“Perhaps,” smiled Chan. “But the wonders of science - who are we to question them? And I have some curiosity to know how far these bullets traveled - especially that one found in poor unhappy Landini. My friend also claims that many times, from portion of thumb-print found on head of shell, he can reconstruct full print of person who had pushed same into carriage. That would be useful in other instance.”
“He’s a colossal liar,” insisted the old sheriff.
“We shall see,” Chan told him. “If you will pardon me for one moment, I have telephone call to make.”
He went into a booth, and in a few minutes he was greeting Miss Meecher in her Reno hotel.
“So sorry to disturb you,” he said.
“That is quite all right,” she answered. “Is there any news?”
“None save that of Doctor Swan’s unexpected passing, about which you have no doubt heard.”
“Yes - a bell-boy just told me. It seems rather terrible.”
“Entire case is terrible. Miss Meecher, you are in receipt of Trouble?”
“Oh - you mean the dog? Yes, Mr. Ireland brought him in last night. Poor little fellow - he just roams about the apartment, looking for his mistress.”
“That is very sad. However, he is in kind hands, I know. There is a question, Miss Meecher, which I must ask you.”
“I’ll tell you anything I can.”
“Naturally. You have told me that you and Madame Landini worked on her biography together. Do you recall beginning of last chapter, written on balcony of hotel at Stresa, where she spoke of knowing color-blind person?”
“Why, yes, I do,” Miss Meecher replied.
“Did it chance that she mentioned to you the name of this person?”
“No, she didn’t. I remember she wrote that herself, and when I came to type it I was slightly curious. But she wasn’t about at the moment, and though I meant to ask her later, it slipped my mind. It didn’t seem important, anyhow.” There was a brief pause. “Is it important, Mr. Chan?”
“Not even slightly,” replied Chan heartily. “I was, like you, somewhat curious. But it does not matter. My real intention in calling up - I would ask has anything developed you think I should note?”
“I believe not. There’s a wire from Madame’s attorneys in New York asking me if it is true she never signed the will. It seems Romano is already in touch with them.”
“Ah, he is no wastrel of time, this Romano.”
“Shall I wire them the truth?”
“By all means. And kindly give my best regards to the anxious little dog. I have great likeness for him.”
“Thank you so much,” Miss Meecher replied.
As Charlie emerged
from the booth, two young men entered the hotel lounge from the terrace. One of them - tall, lean, a bit graying at the temples - rushed forward eagerly.
“As I live and breathe,” he cried. “My old friend. Charlie Chan. You remember me - Bill Rankin, of the San Francisco Globe?”
“With a pleasant glow,” Chan replied. “You were my very good ally when Sir Frederic Bruce was killed.”
“And here I am, all ready to be an ally once again. Oh - this is Gleason of the Herald. He thinks he’s a newspaper reporter, too. What ideas these youngsters get!”
“Hello, Mr. Chan,” Gleason said. “We just missed you down at Pineview. But we had a nice ride on the lake.”
“Let’s get down to cases,” said Rankin. “This sheriff up here, Inspector, is a swell guy, but he won’t talk. That was never your trouble, as I recall.”
“Talk was my weakness,” grinned Chan.
“Of course, you never said anything, but it made copy. Now, what’s the dope? Who bumped off Landini?”
“Surely you do not think I have solved such a problem already?”
“Why not? You’ve had over twenty-four hours. Not slowing up on us, are you? Getting old - no, I can tell you’re not by looking at you.”
“The case,” said Chan, “has many angles. We labor hard, but it will not be brought to solution in a day. No tree in the forest bears cooked rice.”
“Yeah,” smiled Rankin, “I’ll remind my managing editor. Might make a head-line. ‘Inspector Chan Says No Tree in Forest Bears Cooked Rice.’”
“Look here, Mr. Chan,” Gleason said solemnly, “surely you have some results to report to our readers. That’s what they want. Results.”
“Ah, this American passion for results,” Charlie sighed. “Yet the apple-blossom is so much more beautiful than the dumpling.”
“And can we send back an armful of apple-blossoms?” laughed Rankin. “You met my editor once. He wants a pan of dumplings, warm from the oven.”
“So sorry,” Chan apologized. “I suggest first of all, you get lay of land.”
“We got it,” Gleason replied. “Say, what was in that big envelope you just sent the drug-store cowboy flivvering off with? We asked him - but of all the nasty tempers -“
“Ah,” nodded Chan, “perhaps it was Landini’s will.”
“Carried it with her wherever she went, eh?” Rankin grinned.
“Just a suggestion,” Chan told him. “Who inherits her property? Merely one of the angles.”
“By gad - we never thought of that,” Gleason cried. “How about it, Bill?”
“What was the name of her lawyers in Reno?” Rankin inquired. “Thanks, Inspector. There might be a story in that. I think I’ll take a run over there for lunch -“
“I’m right with you,” Gleason assured him. “We’ll see you later, Mr. Chan. Thanks for the tip.”
“It was nothing,” Charlie smiled. As the two went out, he walked over and sat down beside Sam Holt. “Ah, the reporters - they are upon us,” he murmured.
“Like the pest of the locust,” the old man said. “I could hear what ye told ‘em. Gave ‘em somethin’ to think about, eh?”
“I did,” Charlie replied. “While we think of something else. Your son has told you all concerning last night, I presume?”
“He did - in a terrible hurry. You think this Swan knew too much about who killed Landini?”
“I’m certain of it. I also, Mr. Holt, think there is one other who knows something concerning the matter.”
“Yes, Mr. Chan?”
“Romano, the Italian, fourth and final husband of great singer - he hinted to me that his door was not too tightly closed on night of murder. Vast numbers were about on that second floor when Landini died. This morning, Romano’s courage fails him. He will say no more. We should get together, sir, and put bolster under that courage.”
“He’s up at Pineview, ain’t he?”
“No - he came down with us, and took Swan’s room. Your son is approaching - the three of us will descend on this man. We may conquer by numbers.”
Five minutes later the representatives of the law were facing Romano in his small bedroom. The conductor, frightened and nervous, sat on the edge of his bed and protested.
“I tell you I know nothing, gentlemen. Mr. Chan, he mistakes what I say. If - I told him. If a person knew, I said. Observe that if, please.”
“Look here,” said Don Holt, “you know something - don’t deny it. You don’t want to tell because you’re afraid it will delay you in getting back to the bright lights an’ spending Landini’s money. Well, it might - I can’t promise. If I can fix things so it don’t, I will. But one way or the other, Mister, you’re tellin’. Or I lock you up. Get that, an’ get it quick.”
“I am - I am so upset,” wailed Romano. “This American law - it is confusing. What I saw - it was nothing, really. But I will tell. You understand, I am in my room, looking upon snow of flying field, I see plane alight, and for a time I watch it. Then - it comes to me - Landini will be going now. Have I accomplished my purpose? No. A few bills, thrown to me like I am a beggar - I, who have every right to demand. Am I not the husband? I go to my door. I will demand from Landini a definite appointment in Reno.
“I open that door, you understand. I am on point of moving into the hall. Opposite is the study door, now closed. Before I can move, it opens, and - a man - he steps into my view. I watch him, with stealthy look around he slips silently into the room beside the study - the one at my left as I stand.”
“Landini’s old sitting-room,” Chan nodded.
“Something in that man’s manner - it gives me pause,” continued Romano. “Me - I am not easily suppressed, but for the moment I am just that. And then, suddenly - from the study rings out - what? A shot, gentlemen. The shot that means Landini’s death.”
“All right,” said Don Holt. “But who was the man?”
“The man I saw,” replied Romano, with drama. “The man who slips so slyly from one room to another. That man was Sing.”
In the silence that followed, Charlie heard Sam Holt sigh wearily.
“Fine,” remarked Don Holt. “You keep that to yourself now, an’ you’ll be all right.”
“Me - I will keep it,” Romano cried. “And I hope - so much - I will be all right.”
Charlie and the old sheriff walked together down the corridor. “It keeps comin’ back to Sing,” Sam Holt said. “Fer all we kin do, Mr. Chan - it keeps comin’ back to him.”
“Quite true,” Chan replied, “but consider. Romano is the man who profits most by Landini’s death. A man who may well have killed her. And a sly one, like a thief amid the fire. One of the slyest I have ever encountered. Suppose he sought to turn attention from himself? His eye lights on -“
“Poor old Sing,” finished Holt, slapping his thigh. “Which is the first it would light on, I reckon. Sing, that looks helpless, an’ not so quick on the come-back.” He stopped. “Still - I ain’t so sure, Inspector.”
“No?” inquired Chan.
“No. If Romano was cookin’ up a story about Sing, would he ha’ done it so dog-gone well? Wouldn’t he say he seen Sing creepin’ into the study, an’ then heard the shot? Would he say he seen him creepin’ out o’ the study, an’ then the explosion came? No, Inspector - I got a sort o’ sick feelin’ Romano’s story sounds like the facts. Sing brings th’ blanket, an’ finds Landini alone. He goes out, into her old room, opens the windows fer a way of escape, runs back to the study by way of the balcony, kills her an’ then gits out the way he came. If he killed her, that’s the way he done it, an’ Romano is too close to it fer comfort, the way I feel.”
“Romano is sly and clever,” repeated Charlie. “He studied situation, maybe.”
The old man laid his hand on Charlie’s arm. “Don’t it beat all,” he said, “the way that boy Sing keeps poppin’ back, an’ the way you an’ me, we jest go on makin’ excuses fer him? What I want to know is - how long kin we keep it up?”
“There ye are, Inspector,” Sam Holt said. “One more vote for Sing.”
“Won’t you stay here for lunch?” Don Holt invited.
“You are very kind,” Charlie replied. “But I fear we leave Pineview too much alone. I believe it wiser to return.”
“Maybe you’re right,” agreed the sheriff. “Tell that boatman on the pier I said to run you up to the house. I -“
A young woman summoned him into Dinsdale’s office. Chan said good-by to Sam Holt and hurried toward the pier. He was stepping into a launch when Don Holt ran across the terrace and called to him.
“Just took a wire from San Francisco,” the sheriff said as he reached Chan’s side. “From the owner of the house where we found Swan. He says there’s just one person up here has a key to that rear door. He leaves it here in case of an emergency.”
“Ah, yes. And he leaves it with -“
“He leaves it with Sing,” Holt answered. “You’d better look into the matter when you get to Pineview.”
Charlie sighed. “The man who would avoid suspicion should not adjust his hat under a plum tree. He is always adjusting his hat - that Sing.”
Chapter XVII
THE NET CLOSES IN
Chan found the living room at Pineview deserted and walked rapidly through it to the kitchen. There conditions appeared to be somewhat chaotic. Sing and Mrs. O’Ferrell seemed to be jointly preparing lunch, and the latter was red of face and evidently quite flustered.
“Sing,” said Chan sternly from the doorway, “I must speak with you immediately.”
“Wha’s mallah you?” Sing replied. “My velly busy. You go ‘way, Boss.”
“I’ll say he’s busy,” cried Mrs. O’Ferrell indignantly. “It was understood whin I come to this house I was to do the cookie’, an’ no wan else. An’ here he’s been all mornin’, stirrin’ up hivin knows what. Sure, an’ it’s me notice they get after this -“