“You could not turn on lights until you located Sing, who had keys of everything about this house. You found him on rear porch, on his way to manage lights himself. You sent him along, telling him that later he must bring blanket to study for Landini’s dog.
“With more questions for Landini, you returned to study. She, meanwhile, has written letter to Ryder, who has refused to see her. When you enter, she is on balcony waving to aviator. ‘Oh, it is you, is it?’ she says. ‘I’m freezing - get me my scarf. It’s on the bed in the next room. The green one.’ The great Landini, giving orders as of old. You go into next room, return with pink scarf. She snatches it from you. Did she chide you then? Did she say, I had forgot you were color-blind? No - the questions are only rhetorical. They do not matter. She decides Miss Beaton’s scarf will do. And then - your eye lights on the desk - on the letter she has written and addressed to John Ryder.”
Charlie paused. “I wonder what was in that letter?” he said slowly.
“You seem to know everything,” Ward answered. “What do you think was in it?”
“I believe that news of your son’s death was in it,” Chan replied.
Ward did not speak for a moment. He sighed wearily. “You do know everything,” he said at last.
“You were curious about that letter,” Charlie continued. “Always a little jealous of Ryder, perhaps. You asked Landini what it meant. Your unhappy temper grew hot. You snatched up the envelope, ripped it open, and read. Landini was asking Ryder, your best friend in the house, to break to you gently the news that your boy had died.
“Died - and you’d never seen him. Your temper was terrible then. Murder was in your heart. From the drawer of your desk you removed a revolver - an automatic - and turned on the woman. She screamed, struggled with you above the desk, the boxes of cigarettes were upset. The aviator was once more just overhead, the din was terrific. You cast Landini from you, she fell, you fired at her from above. And the roar of the plane died away in the distance. Just as the roar of your frightful anger was dying away in your brain.
“You were dazed, weak, unsteady. A neat man, always, you unconsciously sought to straighten things on the disordered desk. It came to you that perhaps it might help to pretend Landini had been shot from the balcony. You dragged her to the window - and from her hand-bag, opened in the struggle, her own revolver fell. You examined it - the same caliber as yours. At that moment, Sing entered the room, beneath his arm, a small blue blanket.
“What happened then? Whatever it was, it happened quickly. Whose idea was it - the alibi of the shot to be fired by Sing? Yours or his - that does not matter. He was your loyal servant. You knew that he would protect you as he had protected you from your childhood. He was your keeper of the keys.”
“That says it,” old Sam Holt cried. “Keeper of the keys. For sixty years Ah Sing had been slammin’ the doors on the Ward family skeletons, an’ turnin’ the keys on them. I know all about it - don’t I, Dudley? An’ he’d a’ done it this time - only Inspector Chan had his foot in the door.”
“I’m afraid he did,” Ward admitted.
“So you left it all to Sing,” Charlie went on, “and hurried down to the landing field to greet a new guest. Ah, your manners, Mr. Ward - they were always so perfect. But a golden bed can not cure the sick, and good manners can not produce a good man. You made the aviator welcome, and we came inside. While up above, Sing kept the faith. As my friend, Inspector Duff of Scotland Yard, would say - he carried on.”
Charlie rose. “We need no longer shade the scene with dark pictures of the past. I do not dwell on murder of Swan. It is not for his death that you will be tried.”
“I’m sorry I won’t,” Ward answered grimly. “Because I rather imagine I did the world a service there. A dirty blackmailer - he was at the door of the study when I - when Landini died. When I went to him later on to take him things for the night, he threatened me, demanded money. I told him I would get him some the next day in Reno, and I did. Last night I telephoned to him he could get it if he’d meet Sing at the house down the road. Then I got to thinking - he would suck at me, like a leech, for ever. So I didn’t send Sing - I went myself. And when Swan came, eager for his first drop of blood - I finished him. Yes - I’m rather proud of what I did to Swan.”
“And I am very grateful,” Chan said. “We needed that revolver of yours, Mr. Ward - as cherry trees need the sun. I wondered at first why you did not toss weapon into lake, but remembering the famous clarity of Tahoe waters near the shore, I applauded your wisdom. You planned to come back later with boat, and carry both Doctor Swan and the pistol far out - but ah, the best-laid plans - how often they explode into disaster.” Charlie nodded at Don Holt. “Sheriff - I am turning this man over to you. With only one question in my mind - who, on the night of Landini’s murder, struck the loyal and faithful Sing that cruel blow in the face?”
Ward confronted the detective, and a red dangerous light was gleaming in his bloodshot eyes. “What’s that got to do with it?” he cried. “My God - don’t you know enough now? Are you never satisfied? What’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing, Dudley,” old Sam Holt put in soothingly. “Not a thing in the world. Mr. Chan, I reckon we won’t insist on knowin’ the answer to that.”
“Of course not,” answered Charlie promptly. “My connection with the case is now completely finished. I go to procure my things.”
Ten minutes later the two Holts, Chan and the now silent Ward, stepped into the sheriff’s launch. Ryder had been left in charge at Pineview, and Don Holt had also persuaded Ireland to remain overnight. The little boat cut its way through the silvery water; on distant peaks gleamed the snow that was still a nine days’ wonder in the eyes of the detective from Hawaii.
They walked up the Tavern pier toward the hotel. “I asked the coroner to be ready,” Don Holt remarked to Chan. “We’re driving down to the county-seat right off, an’ takin’ Ward with us. By the way, I’d like to stop at the Tavern for just a minute. I wish you and Dad would take Ward around to the drive. That is - if you think I can trust you.”
“We have enjoyed brief lapse,” Charlie replied, “However, I believe we are now quite safe custodians.”
“Yes - I reckon you are. An’ that lapse - I’m grateful for it. Sixty years of loyalty an’ love - say, jail would have been a fine reward for that.”
As young Holt entered the Tavern lounge, the two newspaper men from San Francisco leaped upon him. It appeared that the coroner had been a trifle indiscreet, and a torrent of questions was the result.
“Nothin’ to say,” the sheriff replied. “Only this. I just arrested Dudley Ward, an’ he’s confessed. Nothin’ more - only - give all the credit to Charlie Chan.”
Rankin turned to his companion. “Did you hear what I heard? A mainland policeman giving the credit to Charlie Chan!”
“They grow ‘em different up here in these mountains,” Gleason answered. “Come on - the phone’s in the office. I’ll match you for the first call.”
As they disappeared, Holt saw that Leslie Beaton was seated near by.
“Fine,” he cried, as she rose and approached him. “You’re the very person I wanted to see.”
“Dudley Ward,” she remarked, her eyes wide. “Why - that’s incredible.”
“I know - but I can’t discuss it now. I’m in an awful rush. I want to say - Cash will probably turn up here early in the morning.”
“You mean - he’ll be company for me while you’re away?”
“Yeah - I’m afraid he will. I wired him to take a little vacation in San Francisco, but he’s the sort who will see through that. Yes - he’ll pull in here at dawn. And the first thing he’ll do - he’ll want you to take a ride up to that clearing where we was this afternoon.”
“Will he really?”
“Sure. An’ I wish - as a sort o’ favor to me - I wish you wouldn’t go.”
“But what shall I tell poor Cash?”
“Well, you might te
ll him you been there already.”
“Oh! But Cash isn’t the sort to be put off with an excuse like that.”
“No, I guess he ain’t.” The sheriff turned his hat about in his hands, staring at it as though it were something that caused him much embarrassment. “Well, then - you might - just as a favor, too - tell him you’re going to - to marry me.
“But would that be the truth?”
“Well - I know you ain’t seen the county-seat yet -“
“I haven’t - no. But I’ve seen the sheriff.”
He looked at her, his fine eyes glowing. “By golly. Do you mean that?”
“I guess - that is, I reckon I do.”
“You’ll marry me?” She nodded. “Say,” cried Don Holt, “that’s great. I’ll have to run now. But I’ll be seein’ you.”
He started off. “Just a minute,” said the girl. “Let me get this straight. Is it you I’m going to marry - or Cash?”
He came back, smiling. “Yeah - I don’t wonder you’re sort o’ mixed.” He took her in his arms and kissed her. “I reckon that might help you to remember,” he added, and disappeared.
Charlie and Sam Holt were waiting beside the car, in which the coroner was already at the wheel. A dim figure huddled in the rear seat. “Mr. Sheriff,” Chan said. “Your prisoner informs me he will plead guilty.” He took out his pocketbook and removed a narrow slip of paper. “So I imagine you will not require this check for evidence at the trial.”
“What is it?” Holt inquired.
Chan explained.
“No, we won’t need it,” said Holt, handing it back. “You jes’ keep it - an’ use it.”
But already Charlie was tearing it slowly across and across. He tossed the pieces into the air. Dudley Ward leaned suddenly forward from his place in the rear of the car.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he protested.
“So sorry,” Chan bowed. “But I could not enjoy spending the money of one whose association with me ended in disaster for him.”
Ward slumped back in the car. “And I always thought,” he murmured, “that Don Quixote was a Spaniard.”
The sheriff had seized Chan’s hand. “You’re a grand guy, Charlie,” he said. “Will you be here when I come back tomorrow?”
“If you come early - yes.”
“Don’t go till I see you. By that time, maybe I’ll be able to think up some words that’ll tell you what your help has meant to me.”
“Not worth mentioning,” Chan replied. “In this world, all sorts of men could help one another - if they would. The boat can ride on the wagon, and the wagon on the boat. Good night - and my best wishes for - for ever.”
Charlie and the old sheriff watched the car start, then walked around the Tavern and out upon the pier. Near the end of this stood a sheltered group of benches, and on one of these they sat down together.
“Kinda hard case,” remarked old Holt.
“In many ways,” Chan agreed. He contemplated the snowcapped mountains, gorgeous in the moonlight. “From the moment I made up my mind that shot we heard was but empty gesture, I was appalled at possibilities. Did Hugh Beaton climb to balcony and kill Landini, and did his sister fire shot to protect him, as she had protected him all her life? I wondered. Or did Michael Ireland shoot Landini from plane, and did Cecile fire again to save her husband? It was intriguing thought, and for a time I played with it. But no - I told myself sadly that jealous wives are not so obliging. Then I recalled the serving of the cordials that first night at dinner - and at last my eyes turned toward the guilty one.”
“He never was no good, Dudley wasn’t,” mused Sam Holt. “I knowed it from the days he was a kid. Terrible temper, an’ a born drunkard. Yes - even the giant redwoods - they got rotten branches. The family of Ward had theirs, an’ Dudley was the last - an’ rottenest. If his name had come up sooner - I could ha’ told ye. That time long ago Landini run away from him - he was tryin’ to beat her. Sing stepped in - good ol’ Sing - locked him in his room - helped Landini git away. I tell you, Mr. Chan, when Landini hid the news of that baby from Dudley Ward, she knew what she was doin’. She knew he wasn’t fit to care fer it.”
“Poor Landini,” Charlie remarked. “What unlucky fate she had when matter of husbands comes up. Romano - grasping as he was - I imagine he was the best - and the kindest.”
“I reckon he was,” nodded Holt.
“I presume it was Ward who struck Sing that night of the murder?”
“Sure it was. I didn’t think we needed to humiliate him no more - but sure, he struck Sing. An’ why? Because Sing had the keys to the sideboard, an’ Ward wanted booze. He wanted to git drunk an’ fergit what he done, but Sing had sense enough to know how dangerous that would be. So he refused to give up them keys, an’ Ward knocked him down. I used to see him in them tempers as a boy. He’s no good, Mr. Chan. We don’t need to waste no sympathy on Dudley Ward.”
“Yet Sing would have died for him. Would never have left him, if he hadn’t seen Ward’s pistol on my desk this morning, and thought his master was in danger. When, as he thought, we blundered and selected him as the murderer, he was delighted to go away. I believe he would have gone to the gallows just as cheerfully.”
“Of course he would. But Sing never saw Dudley Ward growed up. He saw him allus as a little boy, beggin’ fer rice an’ gravy in the kitchen.”
They rose and walked back along the pier, the waters lapping peacefully beside them.
“After a typhoon there are pears to gather,” Charlie mused. “From this place I take away golden memories of two men. One was loyal and true beyond all understanding. Of my own race - I shall recall him with unseemly pride. The other - yourself, Mr. Holt.”
“Me? Oh, hell, Mr. Chan, I ain’t nobody. Never was. Jes’ been goin’ along fer seventy-eight years, doin’ the best I kin.”
“The greatest of Chinese emperors, being asked to suggest his own epitaph, replied in much the same vein,” smiled Charlie.
In the Tavern lounge, he bade the old man good night. As he turned, he saw Leslie Beaton approaching.
“Ah,” Chan remarked, “I perceive my necktie now has serious competition. I refer to your cheeks, Miss Beaton.”
“Excitement,” she explained. “You see, I’m engaged. At least - I think I am.”
“I know you are,” Charlie told her. “I also knew you were going to be, from the moment I saw the young sheriff’s eye light upon you.”
“You really are a great detective, aren’t you?” she replied.
Chan bowed. “Three things the wise man does not do. He does not plow the sky. He does not paint pictures on the water. And he does not argue with a woman.”
THE END
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys Page 24
