Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On

by Earl Derr Biggers

The girl stopped, and Duff sat in silence. Welby had taken too much of a chance as it was; he had blundered, that was all too plain now. But he had meant well. And he had paid for his blunder.

  “I wish to heaven,” said the English detective savagely, “you had made him tell you the name of the holder of that key.”

  “Well, I certainly tried,” the girl answered. “I begged and pleaded, but Mr. Welby simply wouldn’t listen. He said it would be dangerous for me to know - and aside from that, I could see he had old-fashioned ideas about women. Never trust them with a secret - that sort of thing. He was a nice little man - I liked him - so I didn’t nag. I told myself I would know all in good time. He went ashore to send that cable. And the next morning, when we were well out at sea, I discovered that he had never come back.”

  “No,” said Duff quietly. “He never came back.”

  The girl looked at him quickly. “You know what happened to him?”

  “Welby was found dead on the dock soon after your ship sailed.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Of course.”

  Duff was startled to see that the girl, for all her sophistication, was weeping. “I - I can’t help it,” she apologized. “Such a nice little man. And - oh, it’s abominable. That beast! Shall we ever find him? We must!”

  “Indeed we must,” returned Duff gravely. He got up and walked to the window. Honolulu was dozing in the blazing sun, under a palm tree in the little park across the way a brown-skinned, ragged boy was sprawled, his steel guitar forgotten at his side. That was the life, Duff thought, not a care in the world, nothing to do until tomorrow and perhaps not then. He heard a door open behind him, and turning, saw Mrs. Luce enter from the bedroom.

  “Just taking a nap,” she explained. She noted the girl’s tears. “What’s wrong now?”

  Pamela Potter told her. The old lady’s face paled, and she sat down suddenly.

  “Not our little steward,” she cried. “I’ve had millions of stewards all over the world, but I’d taken a particular fancy to him. Well, I shall never make a long trip like this again. Maybe a little run over to China, or down to Australia, but that’s all. I begin to feel old, for the first time in seventy-two years.”

  “Nonsense,” said Duff. “You don’t look a day over fifty.”

  She brightened. “Do you mean that? Well, as a matter of fact, I’ll probably get over this soon. After I’ve had a good rest in Pasadena - I’ve never been to South America, you know. I can’t think how I came to miss it.”

  “I’ve got an invitation for the two of you,” Duff announced. “It sounds quite interesting. That Chinese you met on the dock this morning - he’s a good fellow and a gentleman. He’s invited me to his home for dinner tonight, and he told me to bring you along. Both of you. The honor, it appears, is all his.”

  They agreed to go, and at six-thirty Duff was waiting for them in the lobby. They drove up to Punchbowl Hill in the cool of the evening. The mountains ahead of them were wrapped in black clouds, but the town at their backs was yellow and rose in the light of the setting sun.

  Charlie was waiting on his lanai, in his best American clothes, his broad face shining with joy.

  “What a moment in the family history,” he cried. “Over my threshold steps my old friend from London, in itself an honor almost too great to endure. Additions to the party make me proud man indeed.”

  With many remarks about his mean house and its contemptible furniture, he ushered them into the parlor. His unflattering picture of the hospitality he was offering was, of course, merely his conception of what was due his guests. The room was a charming one, a rare old rug on the floor, crimson and gold Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling, many carved teakwood tables bearing Swatow bowls, porcelain wine jars, dwarfed trees. On the wall was a single picture, a bird on an apple bough, painted on silk. Pamela Potter looked at Charlie with a new interest. She wished certain interior decorators she knew could see this parlor.

  Mrs. Chan appeared, stiff in her best black silk, and very careful about her English. A number of the older children entered and were ceremoniously presented.

  “I will not burden you with entire roll-call,” Chan explained. “The matter would, I fear, come to be an ordeal.” He spoke of his eldest daughter, Rose, away at college on the mainland. His voice softened, and his eyes took on a look of sadness. If Rose were here - Rose, the flower of his flock - how well she would meet this situation, which had somewhat upset his wife’s accustomed calm.

  An aged woman servant appeared in the doorway and said something in a high shrill voice. They moved on into the dining-room, where Charlie explained that he was giving them a Hawaiian dinner, rather than a Chinese. The initial stiffness wore off, Mrs. Chan finally ventured a smile, and after Mrs. Luce had chatted breezily for a few moments, everybody felt at ease.

  “My favorite race, the Chinese, Mr. Chan,” the old lady remarked.

  Charlie bowed. “After your own, of course.”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. I’ve just been cooped up in close quarters with my own for nearly four months, and I repeat - the Chinese are my favorite race.”

  “On trip round world you see many of my people,” Chan suggested.

  “One certainly does - doesn’t one, Pamela?”

  “Everywhere,” nodded the girl.

  “The Chinese are the aristocrats of the East,” Mrs. Luce went on. “In every city out there - in the Malay States, in the Straits Settlements, in Siam - they are the merchants, the bankers, the men of substance and authority. So clever and competent and honest, carrying on among the lazy riffraff of the Orient. A grand people, Mr. Chan. But you know all that.”

  Charlie smiled. “All I know, I do not speak. Appreciation such as yours makes music to my ears. We are not highly valued in the United States, where we are appraised as laundrymen, or maybe villains in the literature of the talkative films. You have great country, rich and proud, and sure of itself. About rest of world - pardon me - it knows little, and cares extremely less.”

  Mrs. Luce nodded. “Quite true. And sometimes the most provincial among us we reward with a seat in the Senate. Have you visited China recently, Mr. Chan?”

  “Not for many years,” Charlie told her. “I saw it last through sparkling eyes of youth. It was peaceful land in those days.”

  “But not any more,” Pamela Potter said.

  Chan nodded gravely. “Yes, China is sick now. But as some one has so well said, many of those who send sympathy to the sick man will die before him. That has happened in China’s past - it will happen again.” There was a rush of wind outside, followed by the terrific beating of rain upon the roof. “Now I think there is going to be a shower,” Charlie added.

  Through the remainder of the dinner, the rain continued. It was still pouring down with tropical fervor when they returned to the parlor. Duff consulted his watch.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, Charlie,” he explained. “This evening will remain one of the happiest memories of my life. But the President Arthur goes at ten, you know, and it’s past eight-thirty. I’m a bit nervous over the thought of missing that ship - as you can quite understand. Hadn’t I better telephone for a car -“

  “Not to be considered,” Chan protested. “I possess automobile completely enclosed that will hold four with spacious ease - even four like myself, if there were such. I know the burden on your shoulders, and will convey you down Punchbowl Hill immediately.”

  With many expressions of their pleasure in the dinner, they prepared to leave. “It’s the high spot of my trip around the world,” Pamela Potter said, and Charlie and his wife both beamed with delight. In a few moments the new car was on its way down the hillside, the lights of the water front blurred and indistinct in the distance.

  They stopped at the Young for Duff’s luggage, and the two small bags the women had brought ashore. As they set out for the dock, Duff put his hand to his head.

  “Good lord, Charlie,” he remarked, “what’s wrong wit
h me anyhow? I’d completely forgotten - all my notes about the case are in your safe at the station.”

  “I had not forgotten,” Charlie answered. “I am taking you there now. I will drop you off, then I will transport ladies to the dock. When I return, you can have papers gathered up - chief or one of men will open safe for you. We will have last chat, and you shall smoke a final pipe.”

  “Very good,” Duff agreed. He alighted in a torrent of rain before Halekaua Hale, and the other three went on.

  At the dock, Charlie bade the women a polite farewell, then hurried back to the station. As he climbed those worn familiar steps, his heart was heavy. Duff’s coming had meant a happy break in the monotony, but the Englishman’s stay was all too brief. Tomorrow, Chan reflected would be like all the other days. The roar of tropic rain still in his ears, he crossed the hallway and pushed open the door of his office. For the second time within thirty-six hours, he encountered the unexpected.

  Duff was lying on the floor beside the desk chair, his arms sprawled helplessly above his head. With a cry of mingled anger and alarm, Chan ran forward and bent over him The English detective’s face was pale as death, but placing a quick finger on his pulse, Charlie could feel a slight fluttering. He leaped to the telephone and got the Queen’s Hospital.

  “An ambulance,” he shouted. “Send it to the police station at once. Be quick, in name of heaven!”

  He stood for a moment, staring helplessly about. The single window was raised, as usual; out in the murky alley the rain was beating down. The window - ah, yes - and a sudden bullet from the misty darkness. Chan turned to the desk. On it lay Duff’s open briefcase. Its contents appeared intact; some of the papers were still in the case; a few were strewn carelessly about, scattered, it was clear, by the wind.

  Charlie called, and the chief came in from his office near by. At the same instant, Duff stirred slightly. Chan knelt by his side. The Englishman opened his eyes and saw his old friend.

  “Carry on, Charlie,” he whispered, and again lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Chan stood erect, glanced at his watch, and began to gather up the papers on the desk.

  Chapter XV

  BOUND EAST FROM HONOLULU

  The chief was bending over Duff. His face very grave, he rose from his knees and looked wonderingly at Chan. “What does this mean, Charlie?” he wanted to know.

  The Chinese pointed to the open window. “Shot,” he explained tersely. “Shot in back by bullet entering from there. Poor Inspector Duff. He comes to our quiet city in search of murderer in traveling party landing at this port to-day, and tonight murderer attempts to ply his trade.”

  “Of all the damned impertinence,” cried the chief, suddenly enraged. “A man shot down in the Honolulu police station -“

  Chan nodded. “Even worse than that. Shot down in my very office, of which I have been so proud. Until this killer is captured, I am laughing stock of world.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way,” the chief said. Chan had restored all Duff’s papers to the briefcase, and was strapping it up. “What are you going to do, Charlie?”

  “What should I do? Can I lose face like this and offer no counter attack? I am sailing tonight on President Arthur.”

  “But you can’t do that -“

  “Who stops me? Will you kindly tell me which surgeon in this town is ablest man?”

  “Well, I suppose Doctor Lang -“

  In another second, Chan had the telephone book in his hand, and was dialing a number. As he talked, he heard the clang of an ambulance at the door of Halekaua Hale, and white-coated orderlies entered the hallway with a stretcher. The chief superintended the removal of the unfortunate Duff, while Charlie consulted with the surgeon. Doctor Lang lived at the Young Hotel, and he promised to be at the Queen’s Hospital almost as soon as the ambulance. Charlie put the receiver back on the hook, then removed it and dialed once more.

  “Hello,” he said. “This is you, Henry? You are home early tonight. The gods are good. Listen carefully. Your father speaking. I sail in one hour for the mainland. What? Kindly omit surprised feelings - the matter is settled. I am off on important case. Pull self together and get this straight - to quote language you affect. Kindly pack bag with amazing speed, toothbrush, other suit, razor. Ask yourself what I shall require and bring same. Your honorable mother will assist. Come in your car to dock where President Arthur, Dollar boat, is waiting, bringing my bag and your mother. Boat departs at ten. You will gather that speed is essential. Thank you so much.”

  As he rose from the telephone, the chief faced him. “Better think this over, Charlie,” he suggested.

  Chan shrugged. “I have thought it over.”

  “What do you suggest - another leave of absence? I’d have to take that up with the commissioners - it would require several days -“

  “Then call it my resignation,” Chan answered briefly.

  “No, no,” protested the chief. “I’ll fix it somehow. But listen, Charlie. This job is dangerous - this man is a killer -“

  “Who knows that better than I? Is it important? My honor is assailed. In my office, you recall.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you shouldn’t risk your life, provided it’s in the legitimate line of duty. But I’d - I’d hate to lose you, Charlie. And this looks to me like Scotland Yard’s affair -“

  Stubbornly Chan shook his head. “Not any more. My affair, now. You would hate to lose me - from what? From pursuing fleet gamblers down an alley? From tagging cars on King Street -“

  “I understand. Things have been rather slow -“

  “Have been - yes. But not tonight. Things are plenty fast again. I am on that boat when she sails, and I will have my man before the mainland is reached. If not, I say good-by for all time to title of detective inspector, I retire for ever in sackcloth with ashes.” He went to the safe. “I find here two hundred cash dollars. I am taking same. You will cable me more at San Francisco. Either it is necessary expense of catching criminal who performed black act on premises of Honolulu police station, or it is my money and I will repay it. Which does not matter. Now I am off for hospital. I am saying good-by -“

  “No, you’re not,” replied his chief. “I’ll be at the dock when you sail.”

  Clasping Duff’s precious briefcase under his arm, Chan hurried to the street. With that sudden change of mood characteristic of Honolulu weather, the rain had ceased, and here and there amid the clouds the stars were shining. Charlie went to the lobby of the Young, and accosted the first man he met in the uniform of a ship’s officer. Luck was with him, for the man proved to be one Harry Lynch, purser of the President Arthur.

  Chan introduced himself, and persuaded Mr. Lynch to get into the flivver with him. While he drove to Queen’s Hospital, he hastily explained what had happened. The purser was deeply interested.

  “The old man told me a Scotland Yard detective was coming aboard here,” he remarked. “We knew all about Welby, of course. It was quite a shock when we lost him so abruptly. The word from Yokohama was simply that the man had been killed. And now Inspector Duff has been wounded, eh? Well, we’ll be glad to have a police officer aboard. There seems to be plenty of work waiting for you, Mr. Chan.”

  Charlie shrugged. “My talents are of the slightest,” he protested.

  “Yeah?” said Mr. Lynch. “I heard different.”

  He said no more, but Chan’s heart had warmed toward him. After his long period of inaction, it was good to know that he was remembered.

  “I’ll fix up the matter of your ticket,” Lynch went on. “We’re running light this crossing, and I can give you a good cabin to yourself.”

  They were at the hospital now, and Charlie went inside, a feeling of deep anxiety weighing him down. Doctor Lang was pointed out to him - a ghostly figure all in white, his face lost somewhere in the shadow of an eye shade.

  “I’ve located the bullet,” the surgeon announced, “and I’m operating at once. Fortunately it was deflected fr
om its course by a rib. It’s a ticklish business, but the man looks to be in remarkably good condition, and he ought to pull through.”

  “He must,” Charlie said firmly. He told the doctor who Duff was, and why he had come to Honolulu. “If I could see him for one final moment -” he suggested, timid in this unfamiliar place.

  “Come up to the operating-room,” the surgeon invited. “The patient has talked a little, but it’s delirious talk. However, maybe you can make something of it.”

  In the rather terrifying, odoriferous room upstairs, Charlie bent over the sheeted form of his friend. Had Duff caught a glimpse of the man who fired that shot? If he had, and spoke the name now, the case was finished.

  “Inspector,” said the Chinese gently. “This is Charlie Chan. Haie, what an awful thing has happened! I am so sorry. Tell me - did you behold face of assailant?”

  Duff stirred slightly, and spoke in a thick voice. “Lofton,” he muttered. “Lofton - the man with a beard -“

  Charlie held his breath. Was it Lofton who had appeared at the window?

  “There’s Tait, too,” Duff muttered. “And Fenwick. Where’s Fenwick now? Vivian - Keane -“

  Charlie turned sadly away. Poor Duff was only running over once again the list of his suspects.

  “Better leave him now, Mr. Chan,” the surgeon said.

  “I will go,” Charlie replied. “But I must say this last thing. Tomorrow or whenever he awakes, you will have most restless patient on your hands. He will warmly desire to rise from bed and follow trail again. When that happens, soothe him with this word from me. Tell him Charlie Chan has sailed for San Francisco on President Arthur, and will have guilty man before boat reaches shore of mainland. Make it in form of promise, and say it comes from one who has never yet smashed promise to a friend.”

  The surgeon nodded gravely. “I’ll tell him, Mr. Chan. Thanks for the suggestion. And now - we’re going to do our best for him. That’s my promise to you.”

  It was nine-forty-five when Charlie and the purser drove on to the dock beside the President Arthur. Not far away, as he alighted, Chan saw his son Henry and with him a dumpy little figure in black silk - Mrs. Chan, still in her party finery. He went over, and led them up the gangplank in the purser’s company. An officer who stood at a little desk at the bottom of the plank eyed them curiously as they passed.