“Sing,” Charlie repeated, and his voice was firm, “come here!”
The old man inspected a pot at the rear of the stove, dropped the lid hastily and came to the door.
“Wha’s mallah, Boss? This velly bad time fo’ talk -“
“This plenty good time. Sing - you got key to big house down the road?”
“Sure, my got key. All time got key. Plumber come, light man come - they want key. My got ‘um.”
“Where you got ‘um?”
“Hang on hook, in hall, outside.”
“What hook? Show me.”
“My velly busy now. All time woik this house. No can do -“
“Show me, and be quick!”
“All light, Boss. Keep collah on. My show you.” He came into the passage and pointed to a hook beside the rear door. It was empty. “Key all gone now,” he commented, without interest.
“Gone - where?”
“No savvy, Boss.”
“When did you see it last?”
“No savvy. Yeste’day, day befo’ - mebbe las’ week. My got to go now.”
“Wait a minute. You mean somebody has stolen the key?”
Sing shrugged. “What you think, Boss?”
“Do you know that Doctor Swan was murdered in that house last night? And the person who did it had your key?”
Mrs. O’Ferrell gave a startled cry.
“Too bad, Boss,” Sing answered. “Solly - got to get back to kitchen now.”
Charlie sighed and let him go. “Does it chance you had noticed that key, Mrs. O’Ferrell?” he inquired.
“Sing showed it to me whin I first come,” she answered. “There was a tag on it, tellin’ what it was for. Sure, I niver give it a thought from that day to this.”
“You wouldn’t know, then, when it disappeared or who probably took it?”
“I would not, Mr. Chan. It’s sorry I am I can’t help you.” There was a clatter from the kitchen. “Excuse me please, sir. Sure, I don’t know whether it’s me or Sing that’s gettin’ lunch.”
Charlie went to his room to freshen up. When he returned downstairs, Ward and Ryder were in the living-room.
“Our ranks are somewhat depleted,” the host said. “It’s going to seem a little lonely from now on.”
“I’ll have to be getting back on the job myself very soon,” Ryder told him. “If there’s nothing I can do for you, old man. I - I don’t believe the sheriff can hold me here. Do you think so, Mr. Chan?”
“Seems nothing against you,” Chan admitted.
“I hear your business is even more prosperous than usual, John,” Ward remarked.
Ryder brushed an imaginary bit of lint from the lapel of his beautifully tailored coat. “I can’t complain,” he admitted. “If I’ve got nothing else from life, I’ve at least got money. More than enough.”
At the luncheon table, Sing appeared to be in a state of great excitement. He served Charlie and Ward first with chops and vegetables, meanwhile assuring Ryder that the latter was not forgotten. “You wait. You see,” he said repeatedly. Presently he appeared, triumphantly bearing aloft an enormous bowl, which he set before the mining man.
“Rice!” cried Ryder. “Sing - you old rascal!”
“Like ol’ time,” chuckled Sing, patting him on the back. “You wait now. You see.”
He fairly ran to the kitchen, reappearing almost at once with another bowl. “Chicken gravy. You smell ‘um, hey? Like ol’ time - when you lil boy.”
“Sing - this is wonderful,” Ryder remarked, evidently touched. “I’ve been dreaming of your rice and gravy for nearly thirty years. Nothing has ever tasted so good since those old days in your kitchen.”
“Sing goo’ cook, hey?”
“The best in the world. Thank you a million times.” Charlie thought Ryder had never seemed so human before.
“Ah - er -” Ward looked slightly embarrassed. “It seems that you and I are rather out of things, Mr. Chan. You must forgive Sings peculiar ideas of hospitality.”
“Not at all,” Chan replied. “You and I will have plenty lunch. And I believe Sing’s ideas of hospitality are excellent. With him, old friends are best friends. Who could place blame on him for that?”
“This is a real bowl of rice,” Ryder was saying. “Not one of those little bowls. A real, big bowl. And the gravy - come to think about it, I don’t know that I’ll ever go home.”
After lunch, Chan retired to his room to finish the last few galleys of Landini’s story. Nothing more of interest had cropped up, but the personality of the writer had steadily grown upon him, and now, as he finished, he was one of the singer’s friends, he felt. More than ever, he was determined to find her slayer - wherever the trail might lead.
He went downstairs again. Pineview was deserted. He put on his arctics, for though the spring sun was now warm in the sky, things were a bit damp underfoot. Going outside, for a time he wandered about among the sheds at the rear, trying various doors. All, save those of the garage, were tightly padlocked. At the latter spot he looked longingly for a moment at the ladder. Evidently the pine trees again intrigued him.
He moved around to the front of the house. Much of the snow on the lawn had melted, leaving only a thin coating of slush. Now and again he stopped, to pick up a cone or a fallen branch; idly, aimlessly, the student of the pines seemed to be gathering data on a favorite subject. Murders, the stern realities of his trade, policemen and sheriffs, appeared to be far from his thoughts.
And at that moment, Charlie was surprisingly far from the thoughts of the sheriff. Don Holt was seated in the saddle on his favorite mount, and beside him along the narrow trail under the pines, rode Leslie Beaton. The magic air of Tahoe had brought into her cheeks a color that was not for sale in the beauty parlors of Reno, and her eyes were shining with a new enthusiasm for life.
“It sure was a grand idea Cash had,” the sheriff remarked. “Inviting you to go on this ride.”
“Poor Cash! What a pity he was called away.”
“He’s the kind that’s likely to get called away,” Holt responded grimly.
“He never even said good-by to me.”
“They wasn’t time. You see, Cash’s good-bye is likely to be long an’ lingering - like that guy Romeo’s. I reckon you’re missin’ old Cash.”
“Cash is a fluent talker.”
“I’ll say he is. By this time, he’d have told you all about - how - pretty you look.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know he would.”
“I mean - do you think I look - all right?”
“Fine. But I ain’t got the words, somehow.”
“Too bad. Cash’s absence begins to look like a great calamity.”
“I was afraid you’d feel that way. Always been cooped up in cities, ain’t you?”
“Always.”
“This air is doin’ you a lot of good. It would do you more good - if you stayed.”
“Oh - but I must go back East. I have to work for living, you see.”
The sheriff frowned. “Cash would explain to you that you needn’t go. He’s pretty convincin’, that boy.” They came into a clearing, and turned their horses about. Far below lay the lake, reflecting snowcapped peaks beyond. “Mighty nice view, ain’t it?” said the sheriff.
“If sort of takes my breath away,” the girl answered.
“Makes you a little dizzy, eh? This is where old Cash would have staged a big emotional scene. About how you was the loveliest girl he’d ever met - how he couldn’t live without you -“
“Don’t, please,” smiled the girl. “I seem to be missing so much.”
“Oh, you ain’t missing a lot. Cash got engaged to three girls on this very spot last summer.”
“You mean he’s fickle?”
“Well - you know - these fellows that talk a lot -“
“I know. But the strong silent men ought to strike a happy medium now and then - don’t you think?”
“I reckon that’s right,
too.” The sheriff took off his hat, as though to cool a fevered brow. “You - you think you could like this country?”
“The summers must be lovely.”
“That’s jest it. The winters - I don’t know. I wish you could come down an’ look at the county-seat - before you go away. It ain’t a very big town. I reckon you wouldn’t like it.”
“No - perhaps not. Can we see Pineview from here?”
“It’s over there - in that bunch of trees. Gosh - I’d plumb forgot. Pretty big job we got on our hands, at Pineview.”
“Does it mean a lot to you - to succeed?”
“I’ll say it does. I got to live up to Dad’s reputation. He kind of expects it, I guess. But I don’t know. Even with Mr. Chan’s help - we don’t seem to be going very strong.”
For a moment the girl did not speak. “I’m afraid I haven’t been quite fair with you,” she said at last. “I wonder if you’ll ever forgive me?”
“I reckon so. But what do you mean?”
“About the night of Landini’s murder. I can’t imagine why I was so silly - but it seemed quite terrible. Involving some one who might perhaps be innocent - getting involved myself - I - I just couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t what?”
“I wanted to think it over - I’ve done that - and I see I’ve been a fool. All the time I really wanted to help you - I do now. You know - I was in the bedroom next door when I heard the shot that killed Landini.”
“I know.”
“Well, somehow, the shot seemed to be on the balcony. So - I didn’t just sit there dumbly. I ran to the balcony window, opened it and looked out. And I saw a man leave the study, run along the balcony and disappear through the window of the room beyond - a man with a blanket under his arm.”
“Sing.”
“Yes - it was poor Sing. It seemed incredible - I couldn’t believe it. But Sing ran out of the study just after that shot was fired. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you before.”
“You’ve told me now,” Holt replied gloomily. “Gosh - I’d rather be hung myself. But there’s nothing to it - duty is duty, an’ I took the oath. I reckon we’d better be goin’ back.”
They started down the trail along which they had come. Again on that homeward trek Holt was the strong silent man - oppressively silent, now. When they parted before the Tavern stables, the girl laid her hand on his arm. “You forgive me for not telling sooner, don’t you?”
He looked at her solemnly in the dusk. “Sure I do,” he answered. “I reckon, when I come to think of it, I’d forgive you for almost anything.”
As he led the horses into the stable, he saw his father sitting alone in the office, near the door. Presently he went inside and sat down.
“Ain’t no more doubt, I reckon,” he said. “Sing killed Landini. I got it straight from a reliable party this time.” He repeated Leslie Beaton’s story. “Mebbe I’d better go up an’ get him now,” he finished.
“Hold yer horses,” Sam Holt replied. “We got to consult Mr. Chan. Yes - I guess there ain’t much doubt - but it don’t do to jump too soon. We want to git all the evidence we kin, first. Wasn’t the coroner goin’ to hold an inquest on Doctor Swan about this time?”
The young man looked at his watch. “Yes - that’s right.”
“You go over there, son,” Sam Holt said. “Pick up anything you kin. There’s plenty o’ time fer Sing.”
As soon as the sheriff had gone, Sam Holt’s groping hands sought for the telephone on the desk. In another moment he was talking to Charlie Chan at Pineview.
“Yes,” he was saying, “it’s Sing, Inspector. The net is closin’ in. Matter o’ fact, it’s about closed.”
“As I expected,” Chan replied softly. “What do you suggest?”
“Git down here as quick as ye kin, Mr. Chan - an’ fetch Sing with ye. Don’t say nothin’ to nobody - but have him bring his bag. Jest a little bag - about what a man would need - in jail.”
“Ah, yes - in jail,” Chan repeated thoughtfully.
“Ye’ll find me in the office o’ the stables,” Sam Holt went on. “Them reporters drove me out o’ the Tavern.”
“I understand,” Charlie replied. “There is an old flivver here. We shall arrive most speedily in that.”
And they did. Twenty minutes later, Charlie pushed open the door of the overheated little office.
“Hello, Mr. Chan,” Sam Holt said. “Somebody with ye, ain’t they? Well, tell him to wait in th’ stable. You an’ me needs a little talk.”
There was an air of tense expectancy about Charlie as he came in alone and took a battered old chair beside the roll-top desk at which Holt sat. “New evidence has leaped to view?” he inquired.
“It sure has,” Holt answered. “After we heard from Romano, Inspector, I got to thinkin’. Sentiment is sentiment, but duty is duty. So I got that doctor over here - the Tahoe doctor that helped Don bring Landini’s body down to town the night o’ the murder. I says to him, ‘Sing brought you blankets,’ I says, ‘to wrap about Landini. Blue blankets. Do you remember,’ I says, ‘was they ever laid on a velvet chair in that room?’” Holt paused.
“And the doctor’s answer?” inquired Charlie.
“Seems I was a better detective than I wanted to be. Mr. Chan,” Holt went on grimly. “That doctor took them blankets from Sing at the door, an’ laid ‘em on the floor beside the body. They never touched a chair. He was dead certain about that. Yes, sir - that blue blanket was in the room before the murder - they ain’t no doubt about it.”
“I congratulate you on keen deduction you performed that morning in the study,” Charlie said.
“Kick me, Mr. Chan, an’ I’ll be more obliged,” Holt replied. “Yes, sir - jest as I thought - Sing fired that shot. We got the blanket evidence, the hurt knee from that dressing-table bench. We got Romano, that seen him slip through that room next door, jest before the shot. An’ we got some one else - some one who seen him leave the study jest after it.”
“That is news to me,” Chan remarked. Sam Holt told him of Leslie Beaton’s story. Charlie shook his head. “Too many people on that floor at time,” he remarked sadly.
“Too many fer poor ol’ Sing,” agreed Holt. “Got him comin’ an’ goin’, we have. Don wants to lock him up.”
“A natural course,” Chan nodded.
“I wonder,” said Sam Holt. Charlie looked at him keenly. “I wonder,” went on the old sheriff. “I’ve been thinkin’, Mr. Chan. A blind man gits a lot o’ time to think, an’ I been at it this afternoon, at it hard.”
“You have been thinking of all the clues in this case, perhaps?” Chan suggested gently.
“I have. What you said to Don about the dog. An’ all this interest of yours in the pine trees, Mr. Chan.”
Charlie smiled. “Mr. Holt - the best clue of all, you do not know. I did not recall it myself until last night, while I waited alone in creaking house of death. I propose to make a slight narration. I intend to tell you, from start to finish, every event that occurred, every word that was spoken, at dinner my first night at Pineview. Before the murder, you understand.”
He moved close to the old man, and in a low confidential voice, he spoke for some ten minutes. When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and studied Sam Holt’s face.
Holt was silent for a moment, playing with a paper-knife on the desk. At last he spoke. “Mr. Chan - I am seventy-eight years old.”
“An honorable age,” said Charlie.
“A happy one, too, because I am here, among my own people, in the country I’ve always known. But now - jes’ supposin’ - I was in some foreign country - what would I want more than anything -“
“You would wish to see again your native village - to walk upon the soil wherein your bones were some day to rest.”
“You’re a smart man, Mr. Chan. You git me right away. Inspector - Don ain’t never even made ye a deputy. You ain’t got no real authority here.”
“I am well aware of the fact,” no
dded Charlie.
Sam Holt rose and stood there, a distinguished figure, a figure of honor, of integrity. “And I - I am blind,” he said.
Chinese do not easily weep, but suddenly Charlie Chan felt a stinging in his eyes. “Thank you” he said. “I speak for entire race when I say it. You will pardon me now, I know. I have little errand to perform.”
“Of course ye have,” said Holt. “Good-by, Mr. Chan. An’ if it should so happen that I don’t ever meet a certain friend o’ mine ag’in - give him my love an’ say I’m proud I knowed him.”
Chan stepped through the door and closed it after him. In the dim shadows several feet away, he saw the bent figure of old Sing. He went over to him. “Come on, Sing,” he remarked. “You and I got journey to make.” Suddenly he saw looming in the doorway the powerful figure of Don Holt. He seized the old Chinese and drew him back into the shadows.
Don Holt opened the office door. “Hello, Dad,” he said. “You know, I been thinkin’ some. I reckon I ought to go down to Pineview now -“
“Step in, son,” came the voice of the old sheriff. “Step in, en’ we’ll talk it over.”
The door of the office closed behind the young man and Charlie hurried Sing out to the car in which they had come down together from Pineview. He motioned to the old man to get in beside him, and they set off along the Tavern drive. When they came to the main entrance, Chan turned toward Truckee.
“Wha’s mallah now?” ventured Sing. “Mebbe I catch ‘um jail, hey?”
“You’re a wicked man,” Chan replied sternly. “You have caused us much worry and suffering. Jail is what you richly deserve.”
“I catch ‘um jail, hey, Boss?”
“On the contrary,” Chan replied, “you catch ‘um boat for China.”
Chapter XVIII
RANKIN DROPS A BOMB
A boat for China! Charlie could not see the face of the old man who sat at his side in the car that sped along the road to Truckee, but he heard a tremendous sigh. Of relief?
“All light, Boss,” Sing said.
“All right?” repeated Chan with some bitterness. “Is that the extent of your remarks? We are doing you a great favor, a tremendous kindness, and you reply, all right. The courteous man, Ah Sing, would not permit his tongue to stop at that.”
Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys Page 21
