Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Very good,” Duff answered quietly. “I quite understand. In that parlor across the way, please.”

  “I will wait there,” Tait replied humbly. “Are you coming, Mark?”

  The young man hesitated a second, then shrugged his shoulders and followed. Mrs. Luce and the girl accompanied him. Duff went to the desk of the hotel to register at last. He arranged with a bellboy to take his bag above-stairs. As he turned away, he encountered Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Benbow.

  “Rather expected to see you,” Benbow said, after a genial greeting. “But you got here sooner than I thought you would. Too bad about Honywood, isn’t it?”

  “A great pity,” Duff agreed. “What do you think of that affair?”

  “Don’t know what to think,” Benbow told him. “But - well, I guess I’d better tell him, Nettie.”

  “Of course you’d better tell him,” Mrs. Benbow advised.

  “I don’t know whether it has anything to do with all this or not,” Benbow continued. “But one night Nettie and I went to one of those hot shows in Paris - boy, did I need my smoked glasses! - and when we got back to the hotel, our room was a wreck. Every bit of baggage ripped open and searched, but not a thing taken. I didn’t know what to make of it. Wasn’t Scotland Yard, was it?”

  Duff smiled. “Hardly. Scotland Yard is not so clumsy as that, Mr. Benbow. So your room was searched. Tell me - have you been seeing much of Mr. Honywood since you left London?”

  “Well, yes - we have. His room was near ours, in Paris. I went around a little with him there. He knew the town like I know Akron. Say - do you believe he killed himself?”

  “It looks that way,” Duff replied. “Will you wait for me in that parlor, please?”

  “Sure,” Benbow answered, and he and his wife walked to the room Duff had indicated. The detective followed. As he crossed the threshold, the Minchins appeared in his path. Maxy gave him a friendly greeting.

  “Well, another guy has been put on the spot,” the racketeer remarked, in a hoarse whisper. “Looks like they was something doing in this mob. What do you make of it, Officer?”

  “What do you?” Duff inquired.

  “Too deep for this baby,” Maxy assured him. “No, I don’t get it. But that guy Honywood didn’t rub himself out, you can gamble your roll on that. I been watching. I see other birds get the news their number was up, and believe me, he had it. You could tell it from his eyes. Looked like he was praying to know which way the hot lead was coming from.”

  “Mr. Minchin,” Duff said, “I’m going to ask a favor of you. When we discuss the affair here this morning, will you be good enough to keep that opinion to yourself?”

  “I’m wise,” Minchin replied. “It’s just like I told you - I trail along with the bulls this time. Sealed like a coffin - that’s my lips.”

  Lofton arrived at that moment with Mrs. Spicer and Stuart Vivian. While they were finding chairs, Ross came limping in. He was followed by Keane, whose sly little eyes traveled everywhere about the room before he sat down.

  “All here but the Fenwicks,” Lofton remarked to Duff. “They seem to be out, and I didn’t make much effort to find them. If we can get everything settled before that little fool shows up, so much the better.”

  Duff nodded, and faced the group. “Here I am again,” he began grimly. “I want to say a few words to you about your future plans, in view of last night’s unhappy affair. I refer to the suicide of Mr. Walter Honywood.”

  “Suicide?” inquired Mrs. Spicer languidly. She looked very smart in a white frock, with a trim little hat pulled far down over her brilliant eyes.

  “Suicide is what I said,” Duff went on. “Has any one of you anything to tell me about the unfortunate occurrence?”

  No one spoke. “Very good,” Duff continued. “In that case we will -“

  “Just a moment,” Vivian broke in. The scar on his forehead stood out with appalling clarity in that bright room. “Merely a little incident, Inspector. It may mean nothing. But Mr. Honywood and I came down here in the same sleeping compartment. I’d got to know him rather well in Paris - I liked him. We went to the dining-car together for dinner. When we returned to our compartment, both of my bags had been broken into and obviously searched. Nothing belonging to Honywood had been touched. It seemed a bit odd - and odder still when I looked at his face, after I had made my discovery. He was deathly pale, and trembling like a leaf. I asked him what was wrong, but he turned my questions aside. None the less, he was obviously alarmed - if that is a strong enough word.”

  “Thanks,” Duff said. “Interesting, but it doesn’t upset the suicide theory.”

  “You think, then, he committed suicide?” Vivian asked, with just a faint note of incredulity.

  “That is what the French police believe, and I am inclined to agree with them,” Duff told him. “Mr. Honywood had suffered a nervous breakdown. His wife, of whom he appeared very fond, was estranged from him. The stage was all set for a tragedy of that sort.”

  “Perhaps it was,” Vivian replied, but there was a question in the words.

  “You have had a most distressing tour so far,” Duff continued. “But I am inclined to think your troubles are now over. It is possible the secret of Mr. Drake’s - er - accident has died with Honywood. I may tell you that certain of my discoveries in London would indicate that it has. Better let them think so, anyhow. It might put the murderer off his guard. I should like to see you, as soon as the police investigation here is finished, resume your tour. I feel sure that it will be without unpleasant incident from here on. Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?”

  “None whatever,” said Mrs. Luce promptly. “I’ll go on as long as there’s a tour.”

  “That’s the way we feel, lady,” Maxy Minchin added.

  “I knew you would,” Mrs. Luce assured him.

  “Well, I don’t see any reason for stopping,” Captain Keane announced.

  “I couldn’t go back to Akron without the pictures I promised ‘em,” Benbow remarked. “I’d be the laughing stock of the town. Around the world - that was my order, and when I turn in an order, I want to see it filled.”

  “Mr. Ross?” Duff inquired.

  The lumber man smiled. “By all means,” he said, “let’s go on with the tour. It’s taken me a long time to get started, and I’d hate to drop it now.”

  “Mrs. Spicer?”

  That lady took out a long holder, and inserted a cigarette. “I’m no quitter,” she remarked. “Who’s got a match?”

  Vivian leaped into action. It was evident he would follow where she led.

  “Who began all this, anyhow?” Tait wanted to know. His temper appeared still uncertain. “No one has ever talked of stopping, except that little idiot Fenwick. Do I have to apologize? No - he isn’t here, is he?”

  “Good,” Doctor Lofton said. “We shall leave here whenever the commissary of police gives the word. I’ll let you know the time of the train later. Our next stop will be San Remo, over the border in Italy.”

  Amid a buzz of comment, the meeting broke up. Duff followed Mrs. Luce from the room. He stopped her beside the sofa where they had talked before. “By the way,” he remarked, “when you came back last night, and entered the lobby with Miss Pamela, I believe Lofton was here talking with Fenwick?”

  “He was - yes.”

  “When you hurried down again, after discovering the theft of that envelope, was Fenwick still with the doctor?”

  “He was not. Doctor Lofton was alone.”

  “Lofton had asked you about Honywood when you came in?”

  “Yes. He inquired about Mr. Honywood in a rather anxious way.”

  “Be careful. I don’t want editorial opinions, Mrs. Luce. I want facts. So far as you know, Lofton and Fenwick may have separated the moment you went up in the lift to your room?”

  “Yes. And Doctor Lofton may have rushed outside and fired that -“

  “Never mind.”

  “But I don’t like the man either,” protest
ed the old lady.

  “What do you mean by that word either?” Duff inquired. “I don’t have likes and dislikes, Mrs. Luce. I can’t afford to in my business.”

  “Oh, I guess you’re human, like the rest of us,” said Mrs. Luce, and went on her way.

  Lofton came up. “Thank you, Inspector,” he remarked. “You settled our future plans in short order. If you can have an equal success with the commissary of police, all will be well.”

  “I fancy it will. By the way, Doctor Lofton - last night, when you heard that shot outside, were you still talking with Fenwick?”

  “Yes, of course. I couldn’t shake the man.”

  “Do you think he also heard the sound of the shot being fired?”

  “I imagine he did. He started a bit.”

  “Ah, yes. Then you and he both have a very good alibi.”

  Lofton smiled in a somewhat strained way. “I guess we have. Unfortunately, however, Mr. Fenwick is not here to verify what I say.”

  “What do you mean, he’s not here?” Duff cried.

  “I didn’t tell you in the parlor,” Lofton answered, “but this note has been found, pinned to the pillowcase in Fenwick’s room. You’ll notice it is addressed to me.” He handed it over. Duff read:

  “Dear Doctor Lofton: I warned you that if there was any more funny business, we’d quit. Well, there has been more funny business, and we’re off. I’ve arranged it with the concierge, and we’re pulling out in a car at midnight. You can’t stop us, and you know it. You have my Pittsfield address, and I shall expect to find a rebate on the price of the tour waiting for me there when I get back. That means you had better get it off at once.

  “Norman Fenwick.”

  “Leaving at midnight,” mused Duff. “I wonder which way they went.”

  “The hotel people tell me Fenwick was asking about the boats from Genoa to New York.”

  “Genoa, eh? Then they went east along the Riviera. They’re over the border by now.”

  Lofton nodded. “Undoubtedly. Over the border in Italy.”

  “You appear rather pleased, Doctor Lofton,” Duff remarked.

  “I’m delighted,” the doctor returned. “Why should I try to conceal it? In fifteen years of touring, I never met a worse pest than Fenwick. I’m glad he’s gone.”

  “Even though your alibi went with him?” Duff suggested.

  Lofton smiled. “Why should I need an alibi?” he inquired blandly.

  Chapter IX

  DUSK AT SAN REMO

  Lofton stepped over to the desk, leaving the detective to ponder this somewhat disconcerting news. Two of his traveling group of suspects had broken away from the fold. Nothing had been discovered that connected the Fenwicks with the London murder in any way - or with that of Honywood either. None the less, Duff felt that every member of the Lofton party was under suspicion until the problem was solved, and the Fenwicks were not immune. The man did not look like a murderer, but experience had taught the inspector that few murderers do. He was exceedingly annoyed by the highhanded conduct of the pompous little chap from Pittsfield. Yet what could he do about it? He had no authority to dictate the actions of any one in that party save Honywood - and Honywood was dead.

  A commotion about the lift attracted his attention, and the next moment the resplendent commissary of police was marching toward him. How well that dazzling uniform fitted into the colorful background of the Riviera.

  “Ah, Inspector, you do not arrive above,” the commissary cried. “I wait, but you do not appear.”

  Duff shook his head. “There was no need, Monsieur le Commissaire. I know only too well the keen eyes of the French police. May I congratulate you on your conduct of this case? I have investigated, and I am struck by the intelligence you have shown.”

  “That is so kind of you to say,” the commissary beamed. “Me, I have learned much that I know from a study of Scotland Yard methods.” His chest expanded. “Yes, I believe what you say is correct - I have done well here under the conditions. But what conditions! Impossible even for the most brilliant mind. The stupidity of the servants - Monsieur, I could easily weep. Footprints trampled upon, fingerprints destroyed. What is it there remains I can do?”

  “Fortunately, there is nothing more you need to do,” Duff assured him. “It is a case of suicide, Commissary. I can guarantee that.”

  The Frenchman’s face lighted with relief. “It is a thing I am most ‘appy to hear. A woman - she is in it, of course?”

  Duff smiled. “Yes,” he said, taking his cue neatly. “The dead man’s wife. He loved her passionately, and she deserted him. Heart-broken he tried to go on alone. It was no use. Even here in your charming and cheerful city, he perceived it was no use. Hence the pistol, the body on the walk.”

  The commissary shook his head. “Ah, the woman, Monsieur. Always the woman! What suffering, what sorrow, is she not responsible for? Yet - could we do without her?”

  “Hardly,” ventured Duff.

  “Never!” cried the commissary, with vehemence. “I shudder to think -” He paused. “But I fear we get beside the point. The Doctor Lofton tells me why you are here, Inspector. I accept your word of the suicide. Who should know better than you? So I will report it, and the affair closes itself.”

  “Very good,” Duff nodded. “Then I take it that the party may continue its tour at once?”

  The commissary hesitated. After all, one must not treat the affair too lightly. “Not quite so fast, Monsieur, if you please,” he said. “I go now to the room of the Juge d’Instruction. With him rests the final decision. Presently I shall call you with the telephone and inform you what that is. The arrangement is satisfactory, Inspector?”

  “Oh, quite,” Duff answered. “Once more, my heartiest congratulations.”

  “You say too much, Monsieur.”

  “Not at all. I have been impressed - deeply impressed.”

  “How can I thank you? How indicate my pleasure at this meeting?”

  “Do not attempt it, Monsieur.”

  “Again I accept your advice. Bon jour, Inspector.”

  “Bon jour,” repeated Duff, with a Yorkshire accent. The glittering commissary strode away.

  Lofton came up to Duff at once. “Well?” he inquired.

  The detective shrugged. “It will be all right, I fancy. The commissary was glad to be convinced. But he has to report the matter to the examining magistrate before a final decision can be made. I am to await a telephone call. I hope it comes soon, as I am eager to put through one myself for San Remo the moment I know what our plans are to be.”

  “I shall be somewhere in the hotel,” Lofton told him. “Naturally I want to hear about it as soon as you get the call. There’s a train de luxe at four-thirty this afternoon, and I hope very much we can be on it.”

  An hour passed before the word came through from the commissary that they could go on whenever they pleased. Duff hastily scribbled a note for Lofton, gave it to a bellboy, and then stepped up to the desk.

  “Please get me the Palace Hotel at San Remo on the telephone,” he said. “I wish to speak with Mrs. Walter Honywood - or Miss Sybil Conway, as she sometimes calls herself.”

  This, it appeared, was viewed by the staff as considerable of an undertaking. An excited discussion took place behind the scenes. Duff sat down in a near-by chair and waited. After many minutes a bellboy came to him breathless with news. “A lady in San Remo has the wire,” he said.

  The detective hastened into the booth that was pointed out to him. “Are you there?” he cried. His deep distrust of Continental telephones moved him to shout at the top of his voice.

  An answering voice faint, far-away, but musical, sounded in his ear. “Did some one wish to speak to Miss Conway?”

  “Yes - I did. Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.”

  “I can not hear you. Inspector what?”

  “Duff. Duff.”

  “Perhaps you speak a little too loudly. I still can’t hear you.”

  Duff
was perspiring freely, and he suddenly realized that he had been bellowing. He spoke in a lower tone, and more distinctly.

  “I am Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard. It has been my duty to investigate the murder of Mr. Hugh Drake, of the Lofton travel party, in London. I am now in Nice, where I have happened upon the unfortunate death of your husband, Mr. Walter Honywood.”

  “Yes.” The voice was very faint.

  “Madam, I am deeply sorry.”

  “Thank you. What did you wish to say to me?”

  “I am wondering if you know anything that may throw light on his death?”

  “Doctor Lofton told me it was suicide.”

  “It was not suicide, Madam,” Duff’s voice was now very low. “Your husband was murdered. Are you still there?”

  “I am here.” Very faintly.

  “I feel certain the murder has some connection with that of Mr. Drake in London,” Duff went on.

  There was a pause. “I can assure you that it has, Inspector,” said the woman.

  “What’s that?” Duff cried.

  “I am telling you that the two are connected. They are, in a manner of speaking, the same murder.”

  “Good lord,” the detective gasped. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I will explain when I see you. The story is a long one. You will come to San Remo with the Lofton party?”

  “I certainly will. We are leaving here at four-thirty this afternoon, and should reach your hotel about two hours later.”

  “Very well. The matter can wait until then. Mr. Honywood wanted the whole affair kept quiet for my sake. I imagine he feared it would hurt my career in the theater, and that I’d be distressed on that account. But I have made up my mind. I mean to see justice done, at any cost to myself. You see - I know who murdered my husband.”

  Again Duff gasped.

  “You know who -“

  “I do, indeed.”

  “Then, for God’s sake, Madam, don’t let’s take any chances. Tell me now - at once.”

  “I can only tell you that it was a man who is traveling with the Lofton party around the world.”