Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “But his name - his name!”

  “I do not know what he calls himself now. Years ago, when we met him in - in a far country, his name was Jim Everhard. Now he is traveling with the Lofton party, but under another name.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “My husband wrote it to me.”

  “But he did not write you the name?”

  “No.”

  “Did this same man kill Hugh Morris Darke?” Duff held his breath. It was Drake’s murderer he had to find.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Your husband told you that, too?”

  “Yes - it is all in the letter, which I shall give you tonight.”

  “But this man - who is he - that is what I must discover, Madam. You say you met him years ago. Will you recognize him if you meet him again?”

  “I shall recognize him instantly.”

  Duff took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. This was magnificent.

  “Madam, are you still there? Mrs. Honywood?”

  “I am still here.”

  “What you have told me is - very satisfactory.” Duff was always given to understatement. “I shall arrive at your hotel at about half past six this evening. I am not certain of the exact moment. With me will be the entire Lofton party.” A thought of Fenwick flashed through his mind, but he dismissed it. “There must be no accident. I beseech you to stay in your rooms until I communicate with you again. I shall arrange for you to see every member of the party, preferably from a point where you yourself will remain unseen. When you have made your identification, the rest will lie with me. Everything will be made as easy for you as possible.”

  “You are very kind. I shall do my duty. I have made up my mind. At any cost to myself - and the cost will not be inconsiderable - I shall help you to bring Walter’s murderer to justice. You may rely on me.”

  “I am relying on you, and I am eternally grateful. Until tonight, then, Mrs. Honywood.”

  “Until tonight. I shall be awaiting your call in my rooms.”

  As Duff left the booth, he was startled to find Doctor Lofton standing just beside it.

  “I got your message,” Lofton remarked. “We’re booked for the four-thirty express. There’s a ticket for you, if you want it.”

  “Of course I want it,” Duff answered. “Ill pay you for it later.”

  “No hurry.” Lofton started to walk away, then paused. “Ah - er - you have talked with Mrs. Honywood?”

  “I just finished.”

  “Could she tell you anything?”

  “Nothing,” Duff replied.

  “What a pity,” Lofton said casually, and moved on toward the lift.

  Duff went to his room as near to elation as he ever got. A difficult case - one of the most difficult he had ever been called upon to face - and another seven hours would solve it. As he sat in the dining-room at luncheon, he made a cautious study of the men in Lofton’s travel party. Which one? Which one could smile and smile, and be a villain still? Lofton himself? Lofton was traveling with the party. With, the woman had said, not in. Was that significant? Possibly. Tait, who had experienced that terrific heart attack just as he entered the parlor at Broome’s Hotel? Not out of it, not by a long shot. A man could have a weak heart, and still gather the strength to strangle another man of Drake’s advanced age. And Tait had about him the look of far countries. Kennaway? A mere boy. Benbow? Duff shook his head. Ross or Vivian or Keane? All possible. Maxy Minchin? He hardly seemed to fit into the setting, but the affair was quite in his line. Fenwick? The detective’s heart sank. Suppose it were Fenwick - well, what of it? He’d go after him, even to the ends of the earth - to Pittsfield, Massachusetts, wherever that was - he’d go after Fenwick and bring him back.

  At four-thirty that afternoon they were all aboard the train de luxe, bound for San Remo. Duff had confided in no one, so he alone knew what was waiting ahead. He went from one compartment to another, making sure once more - though he had counted them at the station - that no one was missing. After chatting with a number of the others, he entered the compartment occupied by Tait and Kennaway.

  “Well, Mr. Tait,” he began amiably, dropping into a seat, “I trust that for your sake the exciting part of your tour around the world is now ended.”

  Tait gave him an unfriendly look. “You needn’t worry about me,” he said.

  “How can I help it?” Duff smiled. He sat for a moment in silence, staring out at the passing scene. Wooded hills and richly cultivated plains swept by, a tiny seaport with a chapel, a ruined castle. Beyond, the blue and sparkling Mediterranean. “Rather pretty country along here,” the detective ventured.

  “Looks like the movies,” growled Tait, and picked up a copy of the New York Herald’s Paris edition.

  Duff turned to the young man. “First trip abroad?” he inquired.

  Kennaway shook his head. “No, I used to come over in college vacations. Had a grand time in those days - I didn’t know my luck.” He looked at the old man and sighed. “Nothing to worry me - nothing on my mind but my hair.”

  “This is different,” Duff suggested.

  “I’ll sign a statement to that effect any time,” smiled the boy.

  Duff turned back to the old man with an air of determination. “As I was saying, Mr. Tait,” he remarked loudly, “how can I help worrying about you? I saw one of your attacks, you may recall, and my word - I thought you were gone, I did indeed.”

  “I wasn’t gone,” Tait snapped. “Even you must have noticed that.”

  “Even I?” Duff raised his eyebrows. “Quite true. I’m not much of a detective, am I? So many points I haven’t solved. For example, I don’t yet know what you saw inside Broome’s parlor that brought on such a severe heart attack.”

  “I saw nothing, I tell you nothing.”

  “I’ve forgotten,” the inspector went on blandly. “Have I asked you this before? On the night Hugh Morris Drake was murdered, did you hear no sound - no cry - you know what I mean?”

  “How should I? Honywood’s room was between mine and Drake’s.”

  “Ah, yes. So it was. But you see, Mr. Tait” - the detective’s eyes were keen on the old man’s face - “Drake was murdered in Honywood’s room.”

  “What’s that?” Kennaway cried. Tait said nothing, but the inspector thought his face had grown a trifle paler.

  “You understood what I said, Mr. Tait? Drake was murdered in Honywood’s room.”

  The old man tossed down his newspaper. “Perhaps you’re a better detective than I thought you,” he remarked. “So you’ve found that out, have you?”

  “I have. And under the circumstances, don’t you want to alter your story a bit?”

  Tait nodded. “I’ll tell you just what happened,” he said. “I presume you won’t believe it, but that won’t matter a damn. Early on the morning of February seventh, I was awakened by the sounds of some sort of struggle going on in the room next to mine at Broome’s Hotel. Honywood’s room, it was. The struggle was extremely brief, and by the time I was fully awake, all indication of it had ceased. I debated with myself what I should do. I’d been trying for some months to rest, and the thought of becoming involved in a matter that did not concern me was very distasteful. No thought of murder, of course, came into my mind. Some sort of trouble - yes - I sensed that. But everything was quiet by that time, and I determined to go back to sleep and forget it.

  “In the morning I rose at an early hour and decided to breakfast outside. After I’d had my coffee - it’s forbidden but, dammit, no man can live forever - I went for a walk in St. James’s Park. When I arrived back at Broome’s, I met a servant at the Clarges Street entrance who told me that an American had been murdered upstairs. He didn’t know the name, but it came to me suddenly that I knew it. Honywood! That struggle! I had heard Honywood murdered and had made no move to help him, to apprehend his assailant.

  “I had already had one great shock, you see, when I came to you at the parlor door. I stepped across
the threshold, certain that Honywood was dead upstairs. He was the first person I saw. That shock added to the previous one, was too much. My heart went back on me.”

  “I see,” nodded Duff. “But you told me nothing of the struggle in Honywood’s room. Was that sporting of you?”

  “Probably not. But when I saw you again, I was weak and ill. My one thought was to keep out of the thing if I could. You had your job - you could do it. All I wanted was peace. That’s my story. Believe it or not, as you like.”

  Duff smiled. “I am rather inclined to believe it, Mr. Tait. Subject, of course, to what the future may reveal.”

  Tait’s look softened. “By Jove,” he remarked, “you are a better detective than I thought you were.”

  “Thank you very much,” answered Duff. “I believe we are already at San Remo.”

  As the hotel bus rolled through the streets of the town in the dusk, Doctor Lofton spoke a few words to his charges. “We’re leaving here tomorrow noon,” he announced. “None of you will unpack any more than is absolutely necessary. You understand that we must go on to Genoa at the earliest possible moment.”

  Presently they drew up before the entrance of the Palace Hotel. Duff secured a room on the first floor, at the head of the stairs leading up from the lobby. There was a lift of the Continental type not far from his door, he noted, as he made a study of his surroundings. Though not a man given to moments of excitement, his heart was beating at a quite surprising rate. The Palace was a comparatively small establishment, not one of the huge show places of the town, but even so there was an air of spaciousness and comfort about it. Dinner, the detective discovered, was only half an hour away. About the lobby and the corridors hung that atmosphere of quiet characteristic of a resort hotel when the guests are dressing for the evening.

  Duff had ascertained at the desk that Miss Sybil Conway - it was under that name she had registered - was on the fourth floor. His room, he was glad to discover, was equipped with a telephone. He called Miss Conway’s apartment, and in another moment the low musical voice, which must have been so pleasing in the theater, was answering him.

  “Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.” He half-whispered it.

  “I’m so glad. The wait has been terrible. I - I am ready to go through with it.”

  “Good. We must meet at once. The members of the party are all in their rooms, but they will reappear in the lobby presently for dinner. While we are waiting for them, you and I will have a chat.”

  “Of course. I shall bring you a letter my husband wrote me from London. It will explain many things. And after that -“

  “After that, you and I will watch the members of Doctor Lofton’s travel party go in to dinner. I have selected our hiding-place, behind a cluster of palms. For our chat, I have planned it this way. There is a small deserted public parlor just beside my room on the first floor. You understand what I mean by the first floor - the one above the lobby - I believe you would call it the second in America. The door of the little parlor can be locked on the inside. I suggest we meet there. Is your apartment near the lift?”

  “A few steps only.”

  “Splendid. You will come down in the lift. Stop a bit. I have thought of a better way. I will come and fetch you. Number 40, I believe - your room?”

  “Number 40, yes, I shall be waiting.”

  Duff went immediately into the hall. He was pleased to see that the corridor was in semidarkness, illuminated only by such light as came up from below along the open elevator shaft. He pressed the lift button. Occasional visits to modest hotels in Paris had made him familiar with the whims of the automatic Continental elevator. The cage rose slowly and majestically - thank heaven, for once it was not out of order. He got in, and pressed another button, this time for the fourth floor.

  He knocked at the door of number 40, and it was opened by a tall graceful woman. A blaze of light at her back left her face in shadow, but he knew at once that she was beautiful. Her hair was gold, like her gown, and her voice, heard now over no telephone wire, thrilled even the stolid inspector.

  “Mr. Duff - I’m so glad.” She was a little breathless. “Here - this is my husband’s letter.”

  He took it and put it in his pocket. “Thanks a thousand times,” he said. “Will you come with me? The lift is waiting.”

  He ushered her into the narrow cage, then followed and pushed the button for the first floor. Slowly, hesitantly, the unsteady car began its descent.

  “I have been ill,” Sybil Conway told him. “I am finding it difficult to go on with this. But I must - I must -“

  “Hush!” admonished the detective. “Not now, please.” They were slipping past the third floor. “In a moment, you must tell me everything -“

  He stopped in horror. From slightly above his head came the sharp explosion of a shot. A small object hurtled through the air and fell at his feet. The woman’s face appalled him. He caught her in his arms, for he had seen, on the bodice of her gold silk gown, a spreading, dull red stain.

  “It’s all over,” Sybil Conway whispered. Duff could not speak. He reached out one hand and fought savagely with the locked door of the lift. The imperturbable invention of the French moved resolutely on. A great bitterness was in the detective’s heart.

  This was a situation that would haunt Inspector Duff to the end of his career. He had seen a woman murdered at his side, had held her dying in his arms, locked with her in a little cage, the door of which would open all in good time. He looked aloft into the darkness and knew that it was no use. When the lift released him, he would be too late.

  It released him at the first floor. Doors were opening, half-clothed guests were peering out. He carried Sybil Conway to a sofa in the parlor. She was dead, he knew. Running back to the lift, he picked up an object that was lying there. A small bag of wash leather - he did not need to open it. He knew what it contained. Pebbles gathered from some beach - a hundred silly, meaningless little stones.

  Chapter X

  THE DEAFNESS OF MR. DRAKE

  As Duff left the elevator he closed the door behind him, and almost instantly the bell rang and the cage began to ascend. He stood for a moment watching it slowly rising, the only spot of light in that dark scene. Too late he noted what a target was presented by any one who stood on the unprotected platform. Like most foreign lifts it moved along a shaft which was, save for a sparse iron grill work, open on all sides. The platform was surrounded by a similar grill, no higher than the average passenger’s shoulder. What a shining mark that gold silk gown, how simple to kneel on the floor of the hallway and fire through the grill from above, just as the lift and its human freight passed slowly out of sight. It seemed so obvious now that it had happened, but it was one of those things that no honest man, lacking in imagination, would ever see in advance. As he turned away, the inspector was muttering savagely beneath his breath. In his heart was an unwilling respect for his antagonist.

  The owner-manager of the Palace was puffing up the stairs. He was a man of enormous girth, innumerable yards of black frock coat encircled him. Mountains of spaghetti must have existed, ere he could be. After him came his clerk, also in a frock coat, but thin and with a chronically anxious look. The hallway was filled with excited guests.

  Quickly the detective led the two men into the parlor, and locked the door. They stood staring at the sofa and its pathetic burden.

  As briefly as possible, Duff presented the situation.

  “Murdered in the lift? Who would do that?” The eyes widened in the owner’s fat face.

  “Who, indeed?” replied Duff crisply. “I was with her at the time.”

  “Ah, you were? Then you will remain here and talk with the police when they arrive.”

  “Of course I will. I am Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard, and this dead woman was to have been an important witness in the matter of a murder which took place in London.”

  “It becomes clearer,” the big man nodded. “The poor, poor lady. But such things, you must
know, are bad for my hotel. There is a doctor who lives here.” He turned to his clerk. “Vito - you will fetch him at once. Though it is, I fear, too late.”

  He waddled to the door, unlocked it, and stood there facing the guests. As a screen, he was efficient.

  “A small accident,” he announced. “It concerns none of you. You will return to your rooms, if you please.” Reluctantly the group melted away. As Vito was hurrying by him, the proprietor laid a hand on the clerk’s arm. “Call also the City Guards. Not, you understand, the Carabinieri.” He glanced at Duff. “They would bring Il Duce himself into the affair,” he shrugged.

  The clerk dashed down the stairs. Inspector Duff started to leave the room, but the fat man blocked his way. “Where do you go, Signore?” he demanded.

  “I want to make an investigation,” the detective explained. “I tell you I am from Scotland Yard. How many guests are at present in the hotel?”

  “Last night there slept here one hundred and twenty,” the owner answered. “It is the season’s high point. Quite filled, Signore.”

  “One hundred and twenty,” Duff repeated grimly. A bit of work for the City Guards. A bit of work even for him, who knew that of this great group, only the members of the Lofton party need be considered.

  With some difficulty he edged by the owner, and went aloft by way of the stairs. The third-floor hallway was silent and deserted; he found no sign of any sort about the lift shaft. If ever there was a murder without a clue, he reflected, this was no doubt one. Dejectedly he went on up and knocked at the door of room 40.

  A white-faced maid opened to him. Briefly he related what had happened. The woman seemed quite overcome.

  “She feared this, sir. All afternoon she has been worried. ‘If anything happens to me, Tina,’ she said, over and over, and she gave me directions what I must do.”

  “What was that?”

  “I was to take her body back to the States, sir. And that of poor Mr. Honywood as well. There are cables I must send, too. To friends in New York.”

  “And relatives, perhaps?”