Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On

by Earl Derr Biggers

  Mr. Gillow was one of those youthful exquisites who are the pride of the embassies. They usually sleep all day, then change from pajamas to evening clothes and dance all night for their country. He gave Duff a haughty nod.

  “When is the inquest, Inspector?” he inquired.

  “Tomorrow at ten, I believe,” Duff replied.

  “Ah, yes. And if nothing new is disclosed at that time, I presume the doctor may continue his tour as planned?”

  “I don’t know about that,” muttered the detective.

  “Really? You have some evidence then, that will enable you to hold the doctor here?”

  “Well - not precisely.”

  “You can hold some of his party, perhaps?”

  “I shall hold them all.”

  Mr. Gillow lifted his eyebrows. “On what grounds?”

  “Well - I - I -” For once the capable Duff was at a loss.

  Mr. Gillow gave him a pitying smile. “Really, my dear fellow, you’re being rather absurd,” he remarked. “You can’t do that sort of thing in England, and you know it. Unless you have more evidence after the inquest than you have now, your hands are tied. Doctor Lofton and I have been over the entire case.”

  “Some one in that party killed Hugh Drake,” protested Duff stubbornly.

  “Yes? And where is your proof? What was the motive behind the killing? You may be right, and on the other hand you may be talking nonsense. Perhaps some hotel prowler -

  “Some one who had no connection with the party - just as probable, my dear sir. Even more so, I should say. Evidence - you must have evidence, as you well know. Otherwise I am sorry to tell you that Doctor Lofton and his group will continue their tour at once.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Duff answered grimly. He left Mr. Gillow’s presence with ill-concealed annoyance. He did not approve of elegant young men, and he disliked this one all the more because he foresaw that unless light broke quickly, Mr. Gillow’s prediction would undoubtedly come true.

  The inquest on the following morning revealed nothing that was not already known. The hotel servants and the members of the Lofton party repeated all they had told Duff on the previous day. The little bag of stones roused considerable interest, but since no explanation of it was available, the interest quickly died. There was obviously no evidence sufficient to hold any one on, and the inquest was adjourned for three weeks. Duff saw Mr. Gillow smiling at him from across the room.

  For the next few days, Duff worked like a mad man. Had some one in that travel party purchased a watch-chain to replace the one torn in the struggle at Broome’s? He visited every jeweler’s shop in the West End, and many in the City. Had the gray suit with a torn pocket been disposed of through a pawn shop or a second-hand clothing emporium? These, too, were thoroughly combed. Or had the suit been made up into a bundle and carelessly tossed away? Every lost package that turned up in that great city was personally examined by Duff. Nothing came of his efforts. His face grew stern, his eyes weary. Rumblings from the region above him warned him that his time was short, that Lofton was preparing to move on.

  Mrs. Potter and her daughter were planning to sail for home on Friday, just one week after the morning when Drake’s body was discovered in that room at Broome’s. On Thursday evening Duff had a final talk with the two women. The mother seemed more helpless and lost than ever; the girl was silent and thoughtful. With a feeling of chagrin such as he had never known before, the inspector bade them good-by.

  When, after a fruitless day of it, he came back to his office at the Yard late Friday afternoon, he was startled to find Pamela Potter waiting for him. With her was Mrs. Latimer Luce.

  “Hello,” Duff cried. “Thought you’d sailed, Miss Potter?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t. With everything unsolved - up in the air - no answer to our question. No - I engaged a maid for mother, and sent her home without me. I’m going on with the tour.”

  The detective had heard that American girls did pretty much as they pleased, but he was none the less surprised. “And what did your mother say to that?” he inquired.

  “Oh - she was horrified, of course. But I’m sorry to tell you I’ve horrified her so often, she’s rather used to it now. Mrs. Luce here agreed to take up the old-fashioned role of chaperone - you’ve met Mrs. Luce?”

  “Of course,” Duff nodded. “I beg your pardon, Madam. I was so taken back at seeing Miss Pamela -“

  “I understand,” smiled the old lady. “The girl’s got spirit, hasn’t she? Well, I like spirit. Always did. Her mother and I happened to have mutual friends, so I helped put it over. Why not? Naturally the child is curious. So am I. Give five thousand dollars right now to know who killed Hugh Drake, and why.”

  “Two questions that are not going to be so easy to answer,” Duff told her.

  “No, I judge not. Sorry for you. Hard case. I don’t know whether you’re aware of it or not, but Lofton’s round the world party is moving on next Monday morning.”

  Duff’s heart sank. “I expected it,” he said. “And I can assure you that it’s a bit of bad news for me.”

  “Cheer up,” the old lady answered. “Nothing’s as bad as it seems to be - I know. I’ve tested that out pretty well in the past seventy-two years. Pamela and I will go along - with eyes and ears open. Wide open - eh, my dear?”

  The girl nodded. “We must get to the bottom of this. I shan’t rest until we do.”

  “Bravo!” Duff said. “I’ll appoint you both to my staff. The entire party’s going, I presume?”

  “Every last one of them,” Mrs. Luce replied. “We had a meeting at the hotel this morning. That little Fenwick creature tried to start a mutiny, but it failed. It ought to fail. Never had any use for any one who can’t see a thing through. Speaking for myself, I’d go on if they’d all been murdered but me.”

  “So Fenwick kicked up a row?” Duff reflected aloud. “I should have been invited to that meeting.”

  “Lofton didn’t want you,” the woman told him. “Funny man, Lofton, I can’t understand him. And I don’t like men I can’t understand. Well, anyhow, Fenwick tried to wreck the tour, but when he saw he was alone, he let the rest shame him out of it. So we’re all going on - just one great big happy family - and a murderer right in the middle of it, or I miss my guess.”

  Duff smiled at her. “You don’t usually miss your guess, I fancy,” he said.

  “Not as a rule. And I’m not missing it this time, am I?”

  “I’m inclined to think you’re not,” he assured her.

  She stood up. “Well, I’ve been traveling all my life. Getting a little sick of it, but this is like a tonic. I expect to enjoy Doctor Lofton’s tour to the hilt - oh, I’m sorry, my dear.”

  “It’s quite all right,” smiled Pamela Potter, rising too. “I’m not going along as a skeleton at the feast. I’m going along to help solve a mystery if I can, and I mean to be cheerful despite the nature of that mystery.”

  Duff regarded her with keen approval, “You’re a sportsman, Miss Potter,” he remarked. “It’s put new heart in me to know that you are continuing with the tour. I shall see you both before you leave on Monday - and I’ll be in touch with you after that too, no doubt.”

  When the two women had gone, the inspector found a memorandum on his desk, requesting him to see his superior at once. He went to the superintendent’s office, knowing in advance the reason for the summons.

  “It couldn’t be avoided, Mr. Duff,” the superintendent said. “The American Ambassador himself took an interest in the matter. We have been forced to grant that party permission to go on. Don’t look so disappointed, my boy. There are, you know, such things as treaties of extradition.”

  Duff shook his head. “The case that isn’t solved promptly is likely to go unsolved,” he remarked.

  “An exploded theory. Look over the records of the Yard. Think of the months spent on many important cases. For example - the Crippen affair.”

  “All the same, sir,
it’s hard to stand aside and watch that crowd wander off heaven knows where.”

  “I appreciate your position, my boy. You wouldn’t care to hold this fellow Keane? We might arrange for a warrant.”

  “There’d be nothing in that, sir, I’m sure. I’d rather have Honywood, or even Tait. But of course I have nothing to take them on.”

  “How about Mr. Max Minchin?”

  “Poor chap. Trying to put all this sort of thing behind him.”

  The superintendent shrugged. “Well, there you are. You will, of course, secure from the conductor a complete itinerary of the tour, with the understanding that he must notify you at once of any change. Also, he must let you know immediately if any members of the party drop out en route.”

  “Of course, sir,” nodded Duff. “A fat lot of good that will do,” he reflected.

  “For the present, you had better pursue your inquiries in London,” his superior continued. “If they come to nothing, we shall send a man to keep an eye on the party - some one who is unknown to them. I’m afraid that bars you, Mr. Duff.”

  “I know it does, sir,” the inspector replied.

  He went back to his desk, baffled and in despair. But he did not let his state of mind interfere with his activities, which were many and varied. All through Saturday, and even under the handicap of Sunday, when all shops were closed, he searched and questioned and studied his problem. Hayley lent his staff and his cheery comment. It was all to no avail. The murder in Broome’s Hotel remained as far from solution as it had been on the foggy morning when the little green car first drew up before that respectable door.

  On Monday morning, Duff went to Victoria Station on as odd a mission as a Scotland Yard detective had ever been called upon to perform. He was there to say good-by to a round the world party, to shake hands with them all and wish them a pleasant journey. And among the hands he must shake, he was quite certain in his mind, was one of the pair that had strangled Hugh Morris Drake in Broome’s Hotel on the early morning of February seventh.

  As he came on to the platform beside the ten-forty-five train for Dover, Doctor Lofton greeted him cordially. There was elation in the conductor’s bearing, he was like a schoolboy off on a long vacation. He gripped Duff warmly by the hand.

  “Sorry we must tear ourselves away,” he remarked, with what was for him a near approach to levity. “But a tour is a tour, you know. You have our schedule, and any time you care to join us, we’ll make you welcome. Eh, Mr. Benbow?”

  Duff had heard a grinding sound at his back, and turned to find Benbow busy with his eternal camera. The man from Akron shifted it quickly to his left hand, and gave Duff his right.

  “Sorry you fell down on the case,” he said, with amiable tactlessness. “Never knew a Scotland Yard man to do that - in the books. But this isn’t a book, and I guess things are different in real life, eh?”

  “I think it’s a bit early to give up hope,” Duff replied. “By the way, Mr. Benbow -” He took a key and three links of a chain from his pocket. “Have you see this before?”

  “Saw it at the inquest - but from a distance,” Benbow told him. He took the key and examined it. “Do you know what I think this is, Inspector?”

  “I should be happy to learn.”

  “Well, it’s a key to a safety-deposit box in some American bank,” the man from Akron explained. “The only kind of key, except for luggage, that a fellow would be likely to carry on a tour like this. A bank over on our side usually gives a depositor two keys, so maybe there’s a duplicate floating about somewhere.”

  Duff took the clue and studied it with new interest. “And this name - the Dietrich Safe and Lock Company, Canton, Ohio - that ought to mean the bank is somewhere in your neighborhood?”

  “No, not at all. It’s a big concern. They sell lock-boxes and keys all over the States. Might be San Francisco, or Boston, or New York - anywhere. But if I were you, I’d think about that key.”

  “I shall,” Duff told him. “Of course, it may have been placed in the dead man’s hand to mislead me.”

  Benbow was busy with his camera, and looked up quickly. “Never thought of that,” he admitted.

  His wife came up. “Oh, for pity sake, Elmer,” she said. “Put that camera away. You’re getting on my nerves.”

  “Why?” he answered plaintively. “There’s nothing I have to look at here, is there? I thought it was just a railroad station. Or is it a ruined castle or a museum, or something? I’m getting so I don’t know one from the other.”

  Patrick Tait and his young companion strolled up. The old man appeared to be in glowing health, his step was firm, his cheeks ruddy. Somehow, a bit of Lofton’s elation seemed to be reflected in his face.

  “Well, Inspector,” he remarked, “this is good-by, I imagine. Sorry you haven’t had better luck. But of course, you won’t give up.”

  “Hardly,” Duff returned, looking him steadily in the eye. “It’s not our habit, at the Yard.”

  Tait met the gaze for a moment, then his eyes wandered up and down the platform. “Ah, yes,” he murmured. “That’s what I’ve always understood.”

  The detective turned to Kennaway. “Miss Potter is going with you, after all,” he said.

  Kennaway laughed. “So I hear. More of the famous Kennaway luck. We have all kinds - good and bad.”

  The detective crossed the platform to where Mrs. Spicer and Stuart Vivian were standing. Vivian’s good-by was cool and unfriendly, and the woman was not very cordial, either. A lack of cordiality, however, was not evident in the farewell of Captain Ronald Keane, who stood near by. He rather overdid the handshaking, Duff thought. So did John Ross, the lame man, but in the latter instance Duff did not so much mind the enthusiasm.

  “Hope to see you on the Pacific coast some day,” Ross told him.

  “Perhaps,” nodded the inspector.

  “A little more interest, please,” smiled the other. “I certainly would like to introduce you to our redwoods. Finest trees in the world.”

  Honywood appeared on the platform. “It isn’t every party that is seen off by a Scotland Yard inspector,” he said. His tone attempted lightness, but there was an odd look in his eyes, and the hand he gave to Duff was damp and clammy.

  The detective had a few final words with Mrs. Luce and Pamela Potter, and then with the Minchins. He looked at his watch, and walked over to Lofton. “Three minutes,” he remarked. “Where are the Fenwicks?”

  The doctor looked uneasily down the platform. “I don’t know. They agreed to be here.”

  A minute passed. All save Lofton were now aboard the train. Suddenly, at the far end of the station, the Fenwicks appeared, running. They arrived quite out of breath.

  “Hello,” said Duff. “Afraid you weren’t coming.”

  “Oh - we’re - coming,” panted Fenwick. His sister climbed aboard. “Going a little way, anyhow. But if there’s any more funny business, we leave the party” - he snapped his fingers - “like that.”

  “There will be no more funny business,” Lofton assured him firmly.

  “I’m glad you’re going along,” Fenwick said to Duff.

  “But I’m not,” the detective smiled.

  “What - not going?” The little man stared at Duff, open-mouthed. “You mean you’re dropping the whole matter?” Doors were slamming all along the platform.

  “Get in, Mr. Fenwick,” Lofton cried, and half lifted him aboard. “Good-by, Inspector.”

  The train began to move. For as long as he could see it, Duff stood there on the platform staring after it. Some one in that party - that party moving on to Paris - to Italy - to Egypt - to India to the ends of the earth.

  The detective turned away with a sigh. For one imaginative moment he wished he might be aboard the express, invisible, watching the expressions of those various faces that interested him so much.

  If he had been there, he might have come upon Walter Honywood, alone in a compartment, his face pressed close to the window as he watched the drab
backyards of London drift by. His lips were parted, his eyes staring, and little beads of moisture were on his forehead.

  The door of the compartment opened - almost noiselessly, but not quite. Just enough sound so that Honywood turned in a flash, and on his face was a surprising look of terror. “Oh, hello,” he said.

  “Hello,” returned Fenwick. He advanced into the compartment, followed by his silent colorless sister. “May we come in here? We were late - all the seats taken -“

  Honywood wet his lips with his tongue. “Come in, by all means,” he said.

  The Fenwicks sat down. The unlovely side of the great gray city continued to glide by the windows.

  “Well,” remarked Fenwick at last, “we’re leaving London. Thank God for that.”

  “Yes, we’re leaving London,” Honywood repeated. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. The look of terror was gradually fading from his face.

  Chapter VII

  AN ADMIRER OF SCOTLAND YARD

  On the following Thursday night, Inspector Duff again walked into Hayley’s room at the Vine Street station. The divisional inspector took one look at his old friend, and smiled sympathetically.

  “I don’t need to ask,” he remarked.

  Duff took off coat and hat and tossed them on to a chair, then slumped into another beside Hayley’s desk.

  “Do I show it as plainly as that?” he said. “Well, it’s true, old chap. Not a thing, Hayley, not a blessed thing. I’ve hung round Broome’s Hotel until I’m beginning to feel a hundred years old myself. I’ve scoured the shops until my feet ache. A clever lad, the murderer of Hugh Morris Drake. The trail is cold.”

  “You’re about done up,” Hayley told him. “Relax a bit, my boy, and try some entirely different method of approach.”

  “I’m thinking of taking a new tack,” Duff nodded. “There’s this key we removed from the dead man’s hand.” He repeated to his friend what Benbow had told him about its probable nature. “There was, very likely, a duplicate, and the murderer may have that with him now. I might follow up the party, and search the luggage of every one in it. But they know who I am - the difficulties would be enormous. Even if we sent some one unknown to them, his task would be a tremendous one. I might go to the States, and visit the home town of every man in the party, seeking to ascertain if any one of them has a safety box at his bank numbered 3260. Difficulties there, too. But I talked it over with the chief this afternoon, and he favors it.”