Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “That is occupied by a Mr. Patrick Tait,” Kent replied. “Another member of the Lofton party. A man of about sixty, very distinguished-looking - for an American. I believe he has been a well-known criminal lawyer in the States. Unfortunately he suffers from a weak heart, and so he is accompanied by a traveling companion - a young man in the early twenties. But you’ll see Mr. Tait below, no doubt - and his companion too.”

  Duff went alone to the first floor. Doctor Lofton was pacing anxiously up and down before a door. Beyond, Duff caught a glimpse of a little group of people waiting amid faded red-plush splendor.

  “Ah, Inspector,” the doctor greeted him. “I haven’t been able to round up the entire party as yet. Five or six are still missing, but as it’s nearly ten, they should be in soon. Here is one of them now.”

  A portly, dignified man came down the corridor from the Clarges Street entrance. His great shock of snow-white hair made him appear quite distinguished - for an American.

  “Mr. Tait,” said Lofton, “meet Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.”

  The old man held out his hand. “How do you do, sir?” Ho had a deep booming voice. “What is this I hear? A murder? Incredible. Quite incredible. Who - may I ask - who is dead?”

  “Just step inside, Mr. Tait,” Duff answered. “You’ll know the details in a moment. A rather distressing affair -“

  “It is, indeed.” Tait turned and with a firm step crossed the threshold of the parlor. For a moment he stood, looking about the group inside. Then he gave a strangled little cry, and pitched forward on to the floor.

  Duff was the first to reach him. He turned the old man over, and with deep concern noted his face. It was as blank as that of the dead man in room 28.

  Chapter IV

  DUFF OVERLOOKS A CLUE

  The next instant a young man was at Duff’s side, a good-looking American with frank gray eyes, now somewhat startled. Removing a small, pearl-like object from a bottle, he crushed it in his handkerchief, and held the latter beneath the nose of Mr. Patrick Tait.

  “Amyl nitrite,” he explained, glancing up at the inspector. “It will bring him around in a moment, I imagine. It’s what he told me to do if he had one of these attacks.”

  “Ah, yes. You are Mr. Tait’s traveling companion?”

  “I am. My name’s Mark Kennaway. Mr. Tait is subject to this sort of thing, and that is why he employed me to come with him.” Presently the man on the floor stirred and opened his eyes. He was breathing heavily and his face was whiter than his shock of snowy hair.

  Duff had noted a door on the opposite side of the room and crossing to it, he discovered that it led to a smaller parlor, among the furnishings of which was a broad and comfortable couch. “Best get him in here, Mr. Kennaway,” he remarked. “He’s still too shaky to go upstairs.” Without another word, he picked the old man up in his arms and carried him to the couch. “You stay here with him,” Duff suggested. “I’ll talk to you both a little later.” Returning to the larger room, he closed the door behind him.

  For a moment he stood looking about the main lounge of Broome’s Hotel. Plenty of red plush and walnut had been the scheme of the original decorator, and it had remained undisturbed through the years. There was a bookcase with a few dusty volumes, a pile of provincial papers on a table, on the walls a number of sporting prints, their once white mats yellowed by time.

  The group of very modern people who sat now in this musty room were regarding Inspector Duff with serious and, it seemed to him, rather anxious eyes. Outside the sun had at last broken through the fog, and a strong light entered through the many-paned windows, illuminating these faces that were to be the chief study of the detective for a long time to come.

  He turned to Lofton. “Some of your party are still missing?”

  “Yes - five. Not counting the two in the next room - and of course, Mrs. Potter.”

  “No matter,” shrugged Duff. “We may as well get started.” He drew a small table into the middle of the floor, and sitting down beside it, took out his notebook. “I presume every one here knows what has happened. I refer to the murder of Mr. Drake in room 28 last night.” No one spoke, and Duff continued. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard. I may say, first of all, that this entire group, and all the other members of your party, must remain together here at Broome’s Hotel until released by the authorities at the Yard.”

  A little man, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses, leaped to his feet. “Look here, sir,” he cried in a high shrill voice, “I propose to leave the party immediately. I am not accustomed to being mixed up with murder. In Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where I come from -“

  “Ah, yes,” said Duff coldly. “Thank you. I scarcely knew where to begin. We will start with you.” He took out a fountain pen. “Your name, please?”

  “My name is Norman Fenwick.” He pronounced it Fennick.

  “Spell the last name, if you will.”

  “F-e-n-w-i-c-k. It’s an English name, you know.”

  “Are you English?”

  “English descent, yes. My ancestors came to Massachusetts in 1650. During the Revolution they were all loyal to the mother country.”

  “That,” smiled Duff grimly, “was some time ago. It will hardly enter into the present case.” He stared with some distaste at the little man who was so obviously eager to curry favor with the British. “Are you traveling alone?”

  “No, I’m not. My sister is with me.” He indicated a colorless, gray-haired woman. “Miss Laura Fenwick.”

  Duff wrote again. “Now tell me, do either of you know anything about last night’s affair?”

  Mr. Fenwick bristled. “Just what do you mean by that, sir?”

  “Come, come,” the inspector protested. “I’ve a bit of a job here and no time to waste. Did you hear anything, see anything, or even sense anything that might have some bearing on the case?”

  “Nothing, sir, and I can answer for my sister.”

  “Have you been out of the hotel this morning? Yes? Where?”

  “We went for a stroll through the West End. A last look at London. We are both quite fond of the city. That’s only natural, since we are of British origin -“

  “Yes, yes. Pardon me, I must get on -“

  “But one moment, Inspector. We desire to leave this party at once. At once, sir. I will not associate -“

  “I have told you what you must do. That matter is settled.”

  “Very well, sir. I shall interview our ambassador. He’s an old friend of my uncle’s -“

  “Interview him by all means,” snapped Duff. “Who is next? Miss Pamela, we have had our chat. And Mrs. Spicer - I have seen you before. That gentleman next to you -“

  The man answered for himself. “I am Stuart Vivian, of Del Monte, California.” He was bronzed, lean, and would have been handsome had it not been for a deep scar across the right side of his forehead. “I must say that I’m quite in sympathy with Mr. Fenwick. Why should we be put under restraint in this affair? Myself, I was a complete stranger to the murdered man - I’d never even spoken to him. I don’t know any of these others, either.”

  “With one exception,” Duff reminded him.

  “Ah - er - yes. With one exception.”

  “You took Mrs. Spicer to the theater last evening?”

  “I did. I knew her before we came on this tour.”

  “You planned the tour together?”

  “A ridiculous question,” the woman flared.

  “Aren’t you rather overstepping the bounds?” cried Vivian angrily. “It was quite a coincidence. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Spicer for a year, and imagine my surprise to come on to New York and find her a member of the same party. Naturally there was no reason why we shouldn’t go on.”

  “Naturally,” answered Duff amiably. “You know nothing about Mr. Drake’s murder?”

  “How could I?”

  “Have you been out of the hotel this morning?”

  “Certainly. I took a stroll -
wanted to buy some shirts at the Burlington Arcade.”

  “Make any other purchases?”

  “I did not.”

  “What is your business, Mr. Vivian?”

  “I have none. Play a bit of polo now and then.”

  “Got that scar on the polo field, no doubt?”

  “I did. Had a nasty spill a few years back.”

  Duff looked about the circle. “Mr. Honywood, just one more question for you.”

  Honywood’s hand trembled as he removed the cigarette from his mouth. “Yes, Inspector?”

  “Have you been out of the hotel this morning?”

  “No, I - I haven’t. After breakfast I came in here and looked over some old copies of the New York Tribune.”

  “Thank you. That gentleman next to you?” Duff’s gaze was on a middle-aged man with a long hawk-like nose and strikingly small eyes. Though he was dressed well enough and seemed completely at ease, there was that about him which suggested he was somewhat out of place in this gathering.

  “Captain Ronald Keane,” he said.

  “A military man?” Duff inquired.

  “Why - er - yes -“

  “I should say he is a military man,” Pamela Potter put in. She glanced at Duff. “Captain Keane told me he was once in the British army, and had seen service in India and South Africa.”

  Duff turned to the captain. “Is that true?”

  “Well -” Keane hesitated. “No, not precisely. I may have been - romancing a bit. You see - on board a ship - a pretty girl -“

  “I understand,” nodded the detective. “In such a situation one tries to impress, regardless of the truth. It has been done before. Were you ever in any army, Captain Keane?”

  Again Keane hesitated. But the Scotland Yard man was in too close touch with records to make further lying on this point advisable. “Sorry,” he said. “I - er - the title is really honorary. It means - er - little or nothing.”

  “What is your business?”

  “I haven’t any at present. I’ve been - an engineer.”

  “How did you happen to come on this tour?”

  “Why - for pleasure, of course.”

  “I trust you are not disappointed. What do you know about last night’s affair?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “I presume that you, too, have been out for a stroll this morning?”

  “Yes, I have. I cashed a check at the American Express Office.”

  “You were supposed to carry only Nomad checks,” put in Doctor Lofton, his business sense coming to the fore.

  “I had a few of the others,” Keane replied. “Is there any law against that?”

  “The matter was mentioned in our agreement -” began Lofton, but Duff cut him off.

  “There remains only the gentleman in the corner,” said the detective. He nodded toward a tall man in a tweed suit. This member of the party had a heavy walking-stick, and one leg was stiff in front of him. “What is your name, sir?” Duff added.

  “John Ross,” the other replied. “I’m a lumber man from Tacoma, Washington. Been looking forward to this trip for years, but I never dreamed it would be anything like this. My life’s an open book, Inspector. Give the word, and I’ll read aloud any page you select.”

  “Scotch, I believe?” Duff suggested.

  “Does the burr still linger?” Ross smiled. “It shouldn’t - Lord knows I’ve been in America long enough. I see you’re looking at my foot, and since we’re all explaining our scars and our weaknesses, I’ll tell you that when I was down in the redwoods some months ago, I was foolish enough to let a tree fall on my right leg. Broke a lot of bones, and they haven’t knitted as they should.”

  “That’s a pity. Know anything about this murder?”

  “Not a thing, Inspector. Sorry I can’t help you. Nice old fellow, this Drake. I got pretty well acquainted with him on the ship - he and I both had rather good stomachs. I liked him a lot.”

  “I imagine that you, too -“

  Ross nodded. “Yes - I went for a walk this morning. Fog and all. Interesting little town you’ve got here, Inspector. Ought to be out on the Pacific Coast.”

  “Wish we could bring the coast here,” Duff replied. “Climate especially.”

  Ross sat up with interest. “You’ve been there, Inspector?”

  “Briefly - a few years ago.”

  “What did you think of us?” the lumber man demanded.

  Duff laughed, and shook his head. “Ask me some other time,” he said. “I’ve more pressing matters to occupy me now.” He stood up. “You will all wait here just for a moment,” he added, and went out.

  Fenwick went over to Doctor Lofton. “See here - you’ve got to give us our money back on this tour,” he began, glaring through his thick glasses.

  “Why so?” inquired Lofton suavely.

  “Do you suppose we’re going on after this?”

  “The tour is going on,” Lofton told him. “Whether you go or not rests with you. I have been making this trip for many years, and death is not altogether an unknown occurrence among the members of my parties. That it happens to be a murder in this case in no way alters my plans. We shall be delayed for a time in London but that is, of course, an act of God. Read your contract with me, Mr. Fenwick. Not responsible for acts of God. I shall get the party around the world in due course, and if you choose to drop out, there will be no rebate.”

  “An outrage,” Fenwick cried. He turned to the others. “We’ll get together. We’ll take it up with the Embassy.” But no one seemed to be in a mood to match his.

  Duff returned, and with him came Eben, the night-watchman.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the inspector began, “I have asked this man to look you over and see if he can identify a certain person who, at two o’clock last night, was a trifle confused as to the whereabouts of his room. A person who, in point of fact, was wandering about the floor on which the murder took place.”

  He turned to Eben, who was grimly studying the faces of the men in that old-fashioned parlor. The servant stared at Lofton, then at Honywood, at Ross, the lumber man, and at Vivian, the polo player. He gave the weak face of Fenwick but a fleeting glance.

  “That’s him,” said Eben firmly, pointing at Captain Ronald Keane.

  Keane sat up. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s you I met on my two o’clock round. You told me you’d got on to that floor by mistake, thinking it was your own.”

  “Is this true?” Duff asked sternly.

  “Why -” Keane looked anxiously about him. “Why, yes - I was up there. You see, I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted a book to read.”

  “That’s pretty old - that wanted-a-book-to-read stuff,” the detective reminded him.

  “I fancy it is,” returned Keane with a sudden show of spirit. “But it happens occasionally - among literate people I mean. I knew Tait had a lot of books - that young fellow reads to him until late at night. I found it out on the boat. I knew, too, that he was on the third floor, though I wasn’t sure of the room. I just thought I’d go up there and listen outside the doors, and if I heard any one reading, I’d go in and borrow something. Well, I didn’t hear a thing, so I decided it was too late. When I met this watchman here, I was on my way back to the floor below.”

  “Why the statement about being confused as to the location of your room?” Duff wanted to know.

  “Well, I couldn’t very well take up the subject of my literary needs with a servant. He wouldn’t have been interested. I just said the first thing that came into my head.”

  “Rather a habit with you, I judge,” Duff remarked. He stood for a moment staring at Keane. A mean face, a face that he somehow didn’t care for at all, and yet he had to admit that this explanation sounded plausible enough. But he resolved to keep an eye on this man. A sly wary sort, and the truth was not in him.

  “Very good,” the detective said. “Thank you, Eben. You may go now.” He thought of Hayley, still searching above. �
�You will all remain here until I release you,” he added, and ignoring a chorus of protest, walked briskly over and stepped into the smaller parlor.

  As he closed the connecting door behind him, he saw Patrick Tait sitting erect on the couch, a glass of spirits in his hand. Kennaway was hovering solicitously about.

  “Ah, Mr. Tait,” Duff remarked. “I am happy to see you are better.”

  The old man nodded his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.” The booming voice was a feeble murmur now. “I am subject to these spells - that is why I have this boy with me. He will take good care of me, I’m sure. A little too much excitement, perhaps. Murder, you know - I hardly bargained for that.”

  “No, of course not,” the inspector agreed, and sat down. “If you’re quite well enough now, sir -“

  “Just a moment.” Tait held up his hand. “You will pardon my curiosity, I’m sure. But I still don’t know who was killed, Mr. Duff.”

  The detective gave him a searching look. “You’re sure you are strong enough -“

  “Nonsense,” Tait answered. “It means nothing to me, one way or the other. To whom did this appalling thing happen?”

  “It happened to Mr. Hugh Morris Drake, of Detroit,” said Duff.

  Tait bowed his head, and was silent for a moment. “I knew him, very slightly, for many years,” he remarked at last. “A man of unsullied past, Inspector, and with the most humanitarian impulses. Why should any one want to remove him? You are faced by an interesting problem.”

  “And a difficult one,” Duff added. “I should like to discuss it with you for a moment. You occupy, I believe, room 30, which is near the spot where the unfortunate affair occurred. At what time did you retire for the night?”

  Tait looked at the boy. “About twelve, wasn’t it, Mark?”

  Kennaway nodded. “Or a few minutes after, perhaps. You see, Inspector, I go to Mr. Tait’s room every evening and read him to sleep. Last night I began to read at ten, and at a few minutes past twelve he was sleeping soundly. So I slipped out, and went to my own room on the second floor.”