Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “What is it?” son Holt asked.

  “The dog, wherever he is, knows his master’s mood,” Charlie quoted. “Poor little Trouble - did he know that, at moment plane was over house, Landini was dying? Yes, I cried inwardly, that was it. Why not? In terrific din made by airplane, a dozen shots might have been fired and gone unheard. But by some sixth sense which we can not explain, the dog was aware. He knew that when the airplane had landed, and we all stood with the aviator in the living-room and Ryder strolled down the stairs, Ellen Landini was already dead. She was dead some time before the firing of that shot which brought us all to her side.

  “The shot we heard, then, had been merely to mislead. Who had fired it? Sing, probably. From the first I suspected him - last night I was sure. For I recalled the dinner on the evening of my arrival at Pineview - before I had even seen Ellen Landini. I recalled what Ryder had said: ‘Always a friend in need, Sing was.’”

  Holt nodded. “So Ryder said that, did he?”

  “He did, and his statement was quite correct. A friend in need. All the way from chicken gravy and rice, to the firing of a deceiving bullet from the study window into the pines.”

  “Do you know what was in that letter Landini wrote to Ryder?” Holt asked.

  “Alas, no. There are several things which I must yet accomplish at Pineview. The message from professor at Berkeley is important, but our evidence is not complete. I propose to go now and complete it. But first, I must ask a thousand pardons. When I set Sing on road to China, I was, I fear, law-breaker myself.”

  “That’s all right,” Sam Holt remarked. “Don’t you apologize, Mr. Chan. I ain’t goin’ to. We saved this young hothead here from a mighty embarrassin’ situation.”

  “I reckon you did,” Don Holt agreed. “I’m sorry for anything I said.”

  Charlie patted the boy on the arm. “You were remarkably restrained. And you will note, I did not answer back. I recalled our conflict last night in hall of empty house. With most complimentary intention, I add that the man who has once been bitten by a snake, fears every rope in the roadway.”

  The sheriff laughed. “Well, I’ll take it as a compliment, anyhow. And I’m glad you got Sing out of the way. I don’t suppose he thought he was doin’ anything wrong, but if he was around here now, I’d sure have to arrest him as an accessory. By the time I’m through with this business, I probably won’t know where he is.”

  “You certainly will not,” Chan smiled, “if you are depending on your honorable father for help. Or on my humble self. I go now to Pineview to investigate those matters which I mentioned. After brief talk with your father, you will know precisely how to act.” He glanced at his watch. “Give me, however, one hour.”

  Holt nodded. “One hour, exactly,” he agreed.

  The moon was shining and a warm breeze was blowing through the pines as Charlie traveled the lonely road back to the house where he had been a guest for several days. Now his moment of triumph was drawing close, but he was not in a mood to gloat. As in so many other cases, he found it impossible to view things from the standpoint of a scientific machine. Always he thought of people - of the human heart. For that reason, his own heart was never to know elation in moments such as this.

  But by the time he had driven into the Pineview garage, he had put aside his regrets. He was brisk and businesslike. Now at last he lifted that ladder at which he had only this afternoon cast longing eyes, and boosting it to his shoulder, he cautiously carried it around the house to the front lawn. A light streaming from the dining-room windows indicated that Ryder and his host were still lingering over dinner.

  Placing the ladder against the tall tree from which, Chan was sure, that piece of bark had fallen, he climbed aloft, his plump figure finally disappearing among the thick branches. There, for a time, his flashlight played like a will-o’-the-wisp. Finally he found what he was seeking - what he sought in vain that afternoon on the ground - the bullet Sing had fired from the open window of the study, in order to provide an alibi for a friend. This bullet would complete the story told by the two pistols down at Berkeley; he took out his pen-knife and began to dig it from its resting-place.

  With the slug securely in his pocket, he lowered himself from among the branches and found the ladder. He had gone half-way down it when he was aware of a tall, able-bodied man waiting for him in the darkness below.

  “Oh - is it you, Mr. Chan?” said Michael Ireland. “Cecile seen somebody from the window, and she sent me out to get him - whoever he was. Her nerves ain’t none too good, you know.”

  “So sorry I have disturbed her,” Charlie replied, stepping on to the ground. “Assure her, please, that there is no cause for alarm. I merely pursue my harmless investigations.”

  “Sure,” remarked Ireland. “Can I give you a hand with that ladder? Kinda heavy, ain’t it?” They carried the ladder back to the garage.

  “I was not aware that you were with us tonight,” Charlie said. “Did you make the journey by plane?”

  “Yes. An’ I was wantin’ to talk to you, Mr. Chan.”

  “I am a great believer in the here and now.”

  “Well - it’s Cecile. Always kinda nervous an’ flighty - you know women. Since this Swan business she’s all on edge ag’in - an’ she telephoned me to come over n’ take her home. I says, I ain’t so sure the sheriff will let you leave - but she just set off the fireworks - you know how it is. So I said I’d ask.”

  “I know how it is,” nodded Charlie. “But you are now asking the wrong person.”

  Ireland shook his head. “No, I ain’t, Mr. Chan. I called up the sheriff a little while ago, an’ he said everything down here was in your hands. He said you would tell me when Cecile could go.”

  Charlie considered. He glanced at his watch. “Ask me again in half an hour - if you will be so kind.”

  “O.K.,” Ireland answered. “In half an hour.” He started away, but suddenly stopped. “Say - what’s going to happen in half an hour?” he demanded.

  Chan shrugged. “Who shall say? If you will pardon me now, I remain in open for few more minutes.”

  He waited while Ireland went reluctantly up the back steps and reentered the house. Then he removed from his pocket an enormous bunch of keys. With this in his hands, he disappeared among the sheds at the rear of the garage.

  Some ten minutes later, Chan went into the house by the rear door. Mrs. O’Ferrell, Cecile and Ireland were in the kitchen, and they regarded him with anxious eyes as he passed. He went on up the back stairs, walking as quietly as the tiger to whom Sam Holt had compared him. Reaching the hall above he leaned over the stair-rail and listened; far in the distance, in the dining-room, he heard voices. He went into his room and locked the door behind him.

  For a short time he was busy at his desk, and it was obvious that fingerprints concerned him. Then hastily he began to pack his suitcase. When everything was accounted for, he stood the case in the hall, placed with it his overcoat and hat, and again listened. The sound of voices still came from the dining-room. After a brief visit to the study, he returned to the hall, gathered up his things and went downstairs.

  The firelight flickered in friendly peaceful fashion on the walls of the great living-room. Chan set down his luggage and stood for a moment, looking musingly about him. He was reliving a scene; the scene in that room at the moment, two nights ago, when Michael Ireland came in for a drink. He pictured Beaton and Dinsdale beside the fire, Ward preparing the highball, Ireland waiting expectantly in that big easy chair, Ryder strolling nonchalantly down the stairs. Five men in all; six if you included Chan himself.

  The picture faded from his mind. He walked slowly through the passage that led to the dining-room, and stood there in the doorway.

  Ward and Ryder were seated at the table, coffee cups before them. Impelled by his innate sense of hospitality, the former leaped to his feet.

  “Hello, Mr. Chan,” he cried. “We missed you at dinner. Won’t you have something now? Sing!” He st
opped. “Damn it, I keep forgetting. Sing, Mr. Chan, has disappeared.”

  “No matter,” Charlie answered. “I have eaten a sufficiency, Mr. Ward. But I appreciate your kindness, none the less.”

  Ryder spoke. “Perhaps Mr. Chan can throw some light on the disappearance of Sing?” he suggested.

  Charlie drew a chair up to the table. “I can,” he nodded. They waited in silence. “I am grieved to tell you, Mr. Ward, that all evidence uncovered has pointed with painful certainty to Sing as the person who fired that shot at Landini - the shot that took us up to the study to find her dead body on the floor.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Ward cried hotly. “I don’t care where the evidence points. Sing never did it -“

  “But if Sing himself admits he did -“

  Ward stood up. “Where is he? I’ll go to him at once.”

  “That, I fear, is impossible,” Charlie replied. “The sheriff was about to arrest him when - he dropped from sight.”

  “He got away?” Ryder cried.

  “For the time being,” Chan answered. “He may yet be apprehended.” He turned to Ward. “I am so sorry, Mr. Ward. This must be a great shock for you, I know. I have paused for brief moment only to inform you that with deep regret, and with warm glow of thanks for your hospitality, I leave this house at once. There is nothing more I can do.”

  “I suppose not,” Ward replied. “But you must not go until one thing is settled. I promised you a thousand dollars to undertake the search for my boy -“

  “But the search was so brief,” Chan protested.

  “No matter. There was nothing about that in our agreement. Wait here just a moment, please. I shall write you a check.”

  He left the room. Charlie turned to see an unaccustomed smile on the face of John Ryder.

  “You find only pleasure in the escape of Sing,” the detective remarked.

  “Need I conceal that, Mr. Chan?”

  “Sing was a very good friend of yours.”

  “One of the best I ever had.”

  “Ah, yes - chicken gravy and rice,” nodded Charlie.

  Ryder made no answer. In another moment Ward returned, and handed Charlie a check.

  “I accept this with crimson cheeks,” Chan said, and having placed it in his pocketbook, he looked at his watch. “It is time I am going,” he added, and rose to his feet.

  “Won’t you have a farewell drink?” Dudley Ward suggested. “But you don’t drink, do you? It’s just as well because, come to think of it, there’s nothing to drink. Poor John and I have been sitting here with parched throats all evening - you see, Sing had the keys to the sideboard, and the cellar, too.”

  “Thank you so much for reminding me,” Chan cried. “I was on the point of forgetting.” He took from his pocket a great key-ring, on which hung more than a score of keys. “This was entrusted to me by your servant - just before his escape.”

  “That’s a bit of luck,” Ward answered. He took the keys and stepped to the sideboard. “What will it be, John? A cordial with your coffee?”

  “I don’t mind,” Ryder said.

  From the sideboard Ward took four cut-glass decanters, and set them on a tray. He placed the tray before his friend. “Help yourself,” he suggested. He secured a larger and heavier decanter, and put it at his own place. “Mr. Chan - you won’t change your mind?”

  “I am great believer in proper ceremony,” Charlie answered. “In old days, in China, refusal to drink parting libation would be slur on hospitality of the host. A small taste - if you will be so good.”

  “Fine,” Ward cried. He placed another glass before Ryder. “John - give the inspector - which do you prefer, Mr. Chan?”

  “A little of the port wine, please.” Suddenly Chan’s voice grew louder. “One thing more. In China, in the old days, refusal of the host to pour the parting libation himself might well have been regarded as a slur on the guest.”

  There was a sudden silence in the room. Charlie saw Ryder hesitate, and look inquiringly at Ward. “But I do not press the point,” Charlie continued, with an amiable smile. “You understand, I recall my first dinner at this table. I recall how courteous you were, Mr. Ward - how you served the cocktails yourself - how nothing was too much trouble - until that tray of decanters was put before you. And then - how you shouted for Sing - how Sing had to return from the kitchen before the cordials could be served. Ah - these little things - they register in the mind of a detective. Many hours later I remembered, and I said to myself - can it be that Mr. Ward is color-blind?”

  He paused, and another tense silence filled the room.

  “It was an interesting question,” Charlie continued. “Only tonight I answered it once and for all. There were two varieties of ink on your study desk upstairs, Mr. Ward. Black on the right, and red on the left. A moment ago I slipped in and took the very great liberty of changing the position of the inkwells. You will forgive me I hope.” He tapped the pocket into which he had put his purse. “The check you just gave me was written in red ink Mr. Ward. So you are color-blind after all.”

  “And what if I am?” Ward asked.

  Charlie leaned back at ease in his chair. “The person who killed Landini was first sent by her for a green scarf. He returned to her bringing a pink one. Later, in vague impulse to straighten the desk and alter the look of affairs, he put a crimson lid on a yellow box, and a yellow lid on a crimson one. No, thank you, Mr. Ryder.” He waved aside the glass Ryder was holding out. “I could not quite bring myself to drink with a man I am about to arrest for murder.”

  “Murder!” cried Ward. “Are you mad, Inspector?”

  “No - it was you who went mad - night before last in the study.”

  “I was in the living-room when the shot was fired. You saw me there.”

  “Sing’s shot into the pine trees - yes. But alas, Landini was actually killed in noise and confusion of the moment when airplane was roaring over the house.”

  “At which moment I was turning on the lights of the landing field. You heard what the aviator said -“

  “That those lights flashed on while he was above the house. And he was correct - they did. But you, Mr. Ward, did not turn them on.” Charlie took an envelope from his pocket and held up, very carefully, the wooden handle of an electric light switch. “Short time ago, aided by a bunch of keys from Sing, I entered shed at rear of hangar from which light was managed. I removed this article from its place. On it are two sets of fingerprints. Each set is from the fingers of your faithful servant, Ah Sing.” He dropped the switch back into its envelope. “Two very good alibis,” he added. “Sing’s shot into the trees - your claim of having turned on the lights. Both gone. Both useless now.”

  Looking up, he saw that a terrible change had come over the usually genial Ward. He was trembling with rage, his face was purple, his mouth twitching. “Damn you!” he screamed. He snatched up the heavy decanter from the table, and his muscular arm drew back to strike. Then his eyes strayed to the door at Charlie’s back, his purpose faltered, and, as suddenly as it had come, his fury passed.

  “Cool off, Dudley,” said the voice of old Sam Holt from the doorway. “I told you when you was a kid that temper of yours would finish you some day.”

  Dudley Ward slumped into his chair, and covered his face with his hands.

  “I guess you were right, Sam,” he muttered. “I guess you were right, at that.”

  Chapter XX

  AFTER THE TYPHOON

  The old sheriff stepped into the room, and Don Holt followed. Charlie looked at his watch.

  “One hour, to the minute,” he remarked to the younger Holt. “Fortunate you are man of your word. I feared I was about to lose a most important piece of evidence.”

  “Then you got what you came after?” Don Holt inquired.

  “I got it.” Chan handed an envelope to the sheriff. “Handle of light switch from shed at rear of hangar,” he explained. “On it, fingerprints of Sing who turned off lights on landing field when un
happy evening had ended. Also, more fingerprints of Sing, who evidently turned them on in first place.”

  “So Dudley Ward never went near them lights,” nodded Holt.

  “Such is the inference we must naturally draw,” Chan agreed. “I am handing precious cargo over to you. Also, in this other envelope, bullet from Landini’s gun, which I have recently dug from pine tree.”

  Ryder pushed forward, his expression unpleasant and contemptuous as usual. “And you expect to convict my friend on evidence like that?” he cried.

  “It will all help,” shrugged Chan. “We will in addition trace the owner of a revolver which now reposes in Berkeley.”

  “That may not be so easy,” sneered Ryder.

  “Perhaps not.” Charlie turned and looked at Ward. “If difficulties arise, we can still bring back to this scene the accessory to the crime, Ah Sing. Of course, in such case, he also would suffer punishment -“

  Ward leapt to his feet.

  “Oh, stop it,” he cried passionately. “What’s the use? Let Sing alone. Let him go. I killed Landini, and I killed Swan, too.”

  “But look here, Dudley -” Ryder protested.

  “What’s the use I say?” Ward went on. “Forget it, John. I’ve nothing to live for - nothing to fight for. Let’s get on with it. Let’s get it finished. That’s all I want now.” He sank back into his chair.

  “I am so sorry, Mr. Ward,” Chan said gently, “that visit to your home must finish in such manner. Let us, as you say, get on with it. I will detail a few happenings in this house night before last, and perhaps if I am wrong, you will correct me. You and I went with Madame Landini to the study. You accused her of hiding from you knowledge of your son. She denied it, but you were not satisfied. The airplane appeared, you left presumably to turn on the lights of landing field. When you left, Landini was wildly seeking to communicate with John Ryder.