Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On

by Earl Derr Biggers

  At ten o’clock that night Duff came upon Pamela Potter and Kennaway seated in wicker chairs on the hotel terrace. “Heavenly spot for a chat,” the detective remarked, sitting down beside them.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” said Kennaway. “Note the oversize moon, and the scent of orange blossoms drifting up from the grounds. We were just wondering if these were included in the rate, or if they’d be among the extras on our bills. Lofton’s contract, you know. Not responsible for personal expenses such as mineral waters, wines and laundry. Moonlight and orange blossoms usually turn out to be rated a personal expense.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your romantic speculations,” Duff smiled. “Miss Potter has told me that the two of you took a stroll just before dinner?”

  Kennaway nodded. “We were trying to build up an appetite,” he explained. “After you’ve been on a tour of this kind for a while, life seems just one long table d’hote.”

  “When you told Mr. Tait you were going out did he offer any opposition to the plan?”

  “No, he didn’t. As a matter of fact, he acted rather in favor of it. He said he didn’t care to dine before eight, as he was very tired, and wanted to lie down for a while before eating. Our rooms are quite small, and possibly he figured I might disturb him if I stuck around.”

  “On what floor are your rooms?”

  “On the third floor.”

  “Are you near the lift?”

  “Just opposite it.”

  “Ah, yes. At six-forty-five this evening, I believe you had not yet left the hotel. Did you hear the sound of a shot about that time?”

  “I did.”

  “Where were you at the moment?”

  “I was down in the lobby, waiting for Miss Potter. We weren’t supposed to meet until seven, but Mr. Tait had sort of shooed me out.”

  “Who else was in the lobby? Any other member of the party?”

  “No. Just myself and a few servants. I heard the shot, but I didn’t realize what it was right away. You see, it came from the elevator shaft. Having ridden on the elevator, I wasn’t surprised. I was expecting to see it blow up in a cloud of red smoke at any moment.”

  “Then when the shot was fired, Mr. Tait was alone in your suite?”

  “Undoubtedly. Alone, and probably sound asleep.”

  “Probably,” nodded Duff.

  At that instant, Tait appeared on the terrace. He stood there straight and tall, a handsome figure in evening dress under the Riviera moon. Duff had been thinking of him as an old man, but it suddenly occurred to the inspector that Tait was not so old as he seemed - illness, anxiety, in his face perhaps, but not age.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” the lawyer remarked to Kennaway.

  “Sit down, Mr. Tait,” Duff suggested. “We’ve been admiring the view.”

  “I’m fed up on views,” Tait snapped. “Wish I was back in New York. Active all my life, and this loafing is hell.” Duff wondered. Was Tait thinking of dropping out of the party too? “Come on, Mark, let’s go upstairs,” the lawyer went on. “I want to get to bed. You won’t have to read to me very long tonight.”

  “Still mystery stories?” the detective inquired.

  “Not a chance,” Tait answered. “There’s enough murder in real life without reading about it in books. We’ve taken up the Russians now. It was Mark’s idea. He thought he was clever, but I’m on to him. I have to listen or go to sleep, so naturally I go to sleep. That gives him more time for the ladies.” He turned and walked toward the lighted French window through which he had come. “Are you ready, Mark?” he said, over his shoulder.

  Kennaway rose reluctantly. “When duty calls with clarion voice, the youth replies, I come,” he remarked. “Sorry, Miss Potter. Mark Kennaway signing off. If the orange blossoms are an extra, you’ll have to bear the expense alone from now on.”

  “Nice chap, isn’t he?” Duff inquired, as the young man disappeared.

  “Very nice,” answered the girl. “At times. Tonight was one of the times.”

  “What do you mean, at times?” the detective inquired.

  “Oh, he has his moments. At others, he looks at me as much as to say, how in the world did I ever come to speak to this person from the crude Middle West? It’s Boston, you know. But there - you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Duff replied. “Tell me - how are the members of the travel party taking our latest murder?”

  “Calmly enough, I believe. I’ve always heard that one gets used to anything in time. I presume we’ll be held up here for a while?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Duff told her. “A murder investigation in Italy, you know, is likely to be a complicated affair. There are three branches of the police, the City Guards, the Carabinieri and the Municipal Force. The last are concerned only with minor crimes, but often the other two branches are called upon simultaneously to investigate a murder, and the result is a very pretty little row between them. So far, only the City Guards have come into this case, and I am hoping the Carabinieri stay out. If they do, I don’t anticipate much difficulty. I believe I can convince that worried major that this is my affair, and that he mustn’t trouble, really.”

  The girl leaned suddenly closer. “Tell me something please?” she said gravely. “Is the murderer the same person every time? My grandfather, poor Mr. Honywood, and now Mrs. Honywood? All killed by the same man?”

  Duff nodded slowly. “Undoubtedly, Miss Pamela. The same man.”

  “Who?” Her voice was low, tense. “Who?”

  The detective smiled. “All in good time, we know,” he replied. “I am quoting an old friend - a Chinese whom I want you to meet when you reach Honolulu. At present moment we are faced by stone wall. We swing about, seeing new path. Still quoting my friend.” The girl did not speak. After a brief silence Duff continued. “I looked you up tonight because I have something to tell you, Miss Pamela. A part of our mystery at least has been solved. I have in my bag a letter which fully explains how your grandfather happened to be involved in this affair.”

  The girl leaped to her feet. “You have! I must see it.”

  “Of course.” Duff also rose. “If you will come up with me I will give it to you. Take it to your own room and read it. I should like to have it back in the morning.”

  Without a word, she went with him into the brightly lighted lobby. They moved toward the lift. Duff regarded the little cage with marked distaste. “I’m on the first floor,” he suggested hopefully.

  “Then we won’t bother with that thing,” said the girl. “Let’s go.”

  She waited in his doorway while he brought the letter. He was frantically searching his mind for words of preparation and of sympathy, but none came to him. Words were not his forte. All he could say was: “At what hour shall we meet tomorrow?”

  “At eight o’clock,” the girl answered. “In the lobby.” Seizing the thick envelope eagerly, she hurried away.

  Duff returned below-stairs, where he had another chat with the baffled major of the City Guards. Subtly he planted in that official’s mind the uselessness of further investigation. This particular murder, he pointed out, looked to be solution-proof, but fortunately it happened to be one of a series, and since the first had taken place in London, the whole matter was up to Scotland Yard. He intimated that the Yard stood ready to relieve the Italian police of a difficult and thankless task.

  The major intimated that the Italian police stood ready to be relieved. When they parted, the local man seemed to be in a much happier frame of mind.

  The next day proved to be the type which the Riviera does so well - deep blue sky, sparkling sea, and sunlight like a gold piece just from the mint. At eight o’clock, as they had planned, Duff met Pamela Potter in the lobby. The beauty of the morning was seemingly lost on the girl. Her violet eyes were clouded with the evidence of recent tears. She handed the letter back to Duff.

  “I wanted to prepare you,” he told her. “But I didn’t know how. My methods are rather
clumsy - I’m so sorry.”

  “Not at all,” she answered in a low voice. “You took the very best course. Poor grandfather - dead for no reason whatever. Dead because he did another man a kindness.”

  “Who could ask a better epitaph?” the detective said gently.

  Pamela Potter looked at him, and her fine eyes flashed. “Well, this doesn’t end the matter with me,” she cried. “I want that man - that man who killed him. I shan’t rest until he’s been found.”

  “Nor I,” Duff replied. He thought of the lift. “No, by gad - nor I. I mean to run down Jim Everhard if it’s the last act of my life. Have you any idea -“

  She shook her head. “I lay awake nearly all night, thinking - Who of the men in our party? They all seem incapable of such a thing - even Maxy Minchin. Who - who? Mr. Vivian - he appears to be interested only in Mrs. Spicer. Captain Keane - such a sneaky air - I don’t like him, but that’s not enough, of course. Mr. Tait - he’s very disagreeable at times. But then, the poor man is ill. Mr. Ross - there’s not a thing to connect him with all this. As for Mr. Benbow, I’m sure he’d never do anything he couldn’t photograph and show the boys back in Akron. There’s Doctor Lofton left. And that foolish little Fenwick man. But it would be absurd to think that he -“

  “Nothing is absurd in this business,” Duff broke in. “And by the way - you’ve forgotten one member of the party.”

  “Really?” She appeared surprised. “Who? Or should it be whom? I know how fussy you are about grammar.”

  “I was referring to Mark Kennaway.”

  She smiled. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I never overlook any one myself,” he remarked. “And since I am about to take you in as my partner -“

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that I shall probably leave the party for a time. I don’t expect any more er - accidents, and there is little I could accomplish if I came along. As I told you last night, I am faced with stone wall, and I must swing about, seeking another path. Sooner or later I shall no doubt join you again. In the meantime, I should like to have you act as my representative. Please make a study of the men in this group, and write me occasionally from the various ports where your tour touches. Just tell me how things are going. If you come across anything that looks like a clue, let me have it. You know - nice gossipy letters - you’re very good at that sort of thing, I’m sure. And a cable if anything important turns up - New Scotland Yard, London, will reach me. Will you do that?”

  “Of course,” the girl nodded. “I’m writing to some twenty boys already. The more the merrier.”

  “I’m flattered to be included on the list,” Duff replied. “Thank you so much.”

  Mrs. Luce came up. “Oh, there you are, Pamela,” she said. “I’m glad to see you in such safe company. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Inspector. Where matters of the heart are concerned, I presume you’re just as dangerous as any man. There - I’ve probably made you very happy by saying that.”

  Duff laughed. “Gorgeous morning, isn’t it?” he inquired.

  “Is it?” she answered. “I’m from southern California myself, and I’m not impressed.”

  “I hope you slept well, my dear,” the girl remarked pleasantly.

  “I always sleep well - provided I change bedrooms often enough. Even a murder doesn’t disturb me, I remember once at Maiden’s Hotel, in Delhi - of course, he was only a bus boy - the victim, I mean. But I must save that for my reminiscences. What have you made of last night’s affair, Inspector?”

  “Nothing, as usual,” Duff replied grimly.

  “Well, I’m not surprised. You’re no superman, and this friend of ours with the urge to kill begins to look like one. Clever, certainly. One reassuring thing - he’s starting to operate outside the party. There may be enough of us to last him, after all. Are you breakfasting, Pamela?”

  “I’m famished,” said the girl, and followed Mrs. Luce into the dining-room.

  By noon it was apparent that the Italian authorities would attempt to hold none of the travelers in the hotel. The tourist business was no mean industry along the Riviera di Ponente, and not to be disturbed to satisfy a policeman’s whim. Bags were piled up at the door of the hotel, and a number of guests departed. The word went around among the Lofton party that they were to take the two o’clock express for Genoa. All of them were eager to be off. Lofton himself had recovered from his despairing mood of the night before; he was everywhere at once, spreading information and advice.

  As for the major of the City Guards, his spirits had risen noticeably. After a talk with his associates, and a telegram to Rome, it had been decided to hand the whole matter over to Scotland Yard, which left the major nothing to do but wear his uniform and impress the ladies. At both of these tasks he excelled, and he knew it.

  Again, as on that morning in London, Inspector Duff found himself in the odd position of saying good-by to a group of people among whom was undoubtedly the quarry he so much wanted to capture. Of seeing them off on a long journey - Naples, Alexandria, Bombay, the far ports of the Orient. But by this time he was resigned to any turn which fate might take. With a cheery air he went with them to the station on the west bay, just outside the new town.

  They gathered on the platform to await the train. Benbow with his camera, Sadie Minchin loaded down with recent purchases in the jewelry line. “Maybe Maxy won’t have to come across when he meets a customs man,” she predicted proudly.

  Suddenly Mrs. Spicer gave a little cry. “Good heavens - I never realized it before,” she exclaimed.

  “What is the trouble?” Doctor Lofton asked solicitously.

  “There are thirteen of us,” she replied, with a stricken look.

  Maxy Minchin patted her on the back. “Don’t mean a thing, lady,” he assured her.

  Doctor Lofton smiled wearily. “There are only twelve in the party now,” he told her. “I’m not in it, really, you know.”

  “Oh, yes, you are,” the woman persisted. “And you’re the thirteenth.”

  “Nonsense, Irene,” Stuart Vivian said. “Surely you’re not superstitious?”

  “Why not? Everybody is.”

  “Only the ignorant,” he replied. “Oh - I’m sorry -“

  He was sorry a bit too late. The woman had given him a look. Even those at whom it was not directed were startled to see it. There was a dangerous fire in her green eyes.

  “I’m superstitious too,” Mrs. Luce put in diplomatically. “Not about thirteen, though. That’s always been lucky for me. But when it comes to a black cat - one crossed before my rickshaw on the Bubbling Well Road in Shanghai ten years ago, and half an hour later an automobile struck us. I pulled through all right, but I always blamed the cat. Thirteen, as I was saying, Mrs. Spicer -” But that lady had walked haughtily away.

  The express thundered in, crowded as usual, and there began a hurried search for seats in the first-class compartments. Duff helped Mrs. Luce and Pamela Potter to find places. Once more he spoke to the girl about the letters.

  “Don’t worry,” she smiled. “I’m positively garrulous with a fountain pen.”

  The detective leaped back to the platform. Doors were slamming shut, one by one the Lofton travel party was disappearing from his ken. He noted Benbow, his camera hanging from a black strap across his shoulder, climbing into a compartment from which his wife had beckoned; noted Ross with his Malacca stick helped aboard by a porter, caught a last knowing smile from Captain Keane. The final face he saw was that of Patrick Tait, the lined, worried face of a man old before his time, white as death now in the dazzling Riviera sunshine.

  “Well, that’s that,” shrugged Duff, and returned to the hotel to inquire about London trains.

  The next morning but one, he sat in the superintendent’s office at Scotland Yard. His face was very red and he was perspiring freely, for he had just related the latter part of his story - the disturbing incident of the murder in the lift. His superior looked at him in a kindly way
.

  “Don’t take it too hard, my boy. It might have happened to any of us.”

  “I shall take it just this hard, sir,” Duff replied. “I shall go on searching for Jim Everhard until I find him. It may take months, but I mean to have him in the end.”

  “Naturally,” the superintendent nodded. “I know how you feel. And every facility of the Yard will be put at your disposal. But don’t forget this. Evidence in the matter of the killing of Honywood and his wife is of no value to us. Those cases could never be tried in London. No - it is the murder of Hugh Morris Drake that alone concerns us. We must capture Everhard and bring him here to answer for that, and our proofs must be unanswerable.”

  “I understand that, sir. It was why I didn’t linger on in Nice or San Remo.”

  “Have you mapped out any future course of action?”

  “No, I haven’t. I thought I would consult with you about that.”

  “Precisely.” The superintendent nodded his complete approval. “Will you please leave with me all your notes on the case? I shall look them over during the day. If you will come in at five this afternoon, we will decide at that time what we had better do. And once more - don’t worry about that affair in the lift. Think of it only as a stronger incentive to get your man.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Feeling much better than when he had entered the room, Duff left it. A good egg, his superior.

  He lunched with Hayley, who was even more sympathetic than the superintendent. At five that afternoon he returned to his superior’s office.

  “Hello,” that gentleman said. “Sit down, please. I’ve read your notes. A puzzle, of course, But I was struck by one thing. No doubt you were, too.”

  “What was that?”

  “This man Tait, Mr. Duff.”

  “Ah, yes - Tait.”

  “Rather queer, my boy, rather queer. His story may be absolutely true, but doubts crept into my mind as I read. He thought Honywood had been murdered, he entered that parlor and saw Honywood alive, and the shock nearly finished him. Why should he take it so hard? Honywood and he were, it seems, practically strangers. Why should the matter have been such a shock, unless -” The superintendent paused.