“Why, no.”
“But he has talked with you about it?”
“He hasn’t talked with me about anything.”
Chan’s eyes narrowed. “The truth is not in him. We will say no more of that.” He glanced at a sheet of paper and pencil in the girl’s hand. “Pardon me - I think I interrupt. You are writing letter?”
She shook her head. “No, I - I - well, as a matter of fact, I was merely puzzling over our mystery. The time is getting rather short, you know.”
“No one could know it better,” he nodded gravely.
“And it doesn’t seem to me that we’re getting anywhere. Oh - I’m sorry - but you came into the case rather late. You really haven’t had a chance. I was just making a list of men in our party, and opposite the name of each, I’ve been putting down the things against him. So far as I can see, every single one of them except Mr. Minchin and Mark Kennaway has been under a cloud at one time or another -“
“Your list is not correct. Those two, also, have no claim to clean record.”
She gasped. “You mean every man in the party has been involved?”
Chan rose, and gently removed the paper from her hand. He tore it into tiny fragments and, walking to the rail, tossed them overboard.
“Do not worry pretty head over matter,” he advised, coming back. “It is already settled.”
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“Of course, there remains stern quest for proofs acceptable to English courts, but these will yet be found.”
“You mean you know who killed my grandfather?”
“You yourself do not know?” inquired Charlie.
“Of course I don’t. How should I?”
Charlie smiled. “You had same opportunities as I. But then, your mind was filled with young man who irritates you. As for me, I labored under no such handicap.”
With a beautiful bow which included both of them, he strolled casually off down the deck.
Chapter XXI
THE PROMENADE DES ANGLAIS
Her eyes wide with amazement, Pamela Potter looked at Mrs. Luce. “What in the world,” she cried, “did Mr. Chan mean by that?”
Mrs. Luce smiled. “He meant that he knows who killed your grandfather, my dear. I rather thought he’d find it out.”
“But how did he find it out? He said I ought to know, too. And I can’t imagine -“
The old lady shrugged. “Even for your generation,” she said, “you’re a clever girl. I’ve noticed that. Bright as a dollar, as we used to say. But you’re not so clever as Charlie Chan. Not many people are. I’ve noticed that, too.” She stood up. “Here comes young Kennaway - I think I’ll go into the lounge.”
“Oh, please don’t run away.”
“I may be a chaperon, Pamela, but I was young once myself.” And she moved toward a distant door.
Kennaway sat down tentatively on the foot of the deck chair the old lady had deserted.
“Well,” he remarked. “Another day gone.”
The girl nodded.
“You don’t seem very talkative,” the young man suggested.
“That should be a relief,” she answered. “I - I was very busy thinking. Mr. Chan has just told me the most surprising thing.”
“What, for instance?”
She shook her head. “No, I mustn’t repeat it to you. I told you something once - and you failed to keep it secret.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No matter. We needn’t go into it now.”
“Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am.” He looked quite contrite, and very handsome in the light of the newly risen moon. For a moment neither spoke. Then a sudden expression of concern crossed the young man’s face. “I say - Mr. Chan didn’t tell you that - that he had his man?”
“Why should he?”
“I don’t know - but something that happened tonight -” Again he was silent, staring into space. “I wonder,” he added at last, and his voice was strained, even frightened.
Pamela Potter glanced at him. A boy in Detroit had once been the recipient of a similar glance, and had never been the same since. “Our next to the last night aboard the ship,” she reminded him.
“I know,” he replied gloomily.
“We shall miss this old war when it’s over.”
“I shall,” he nodded. “But you - you’ll be back in Detroit, having a grand time. The little princess of the automobiles. All the peasants bowing low.”
“Nonsense. You’ll be back in Boston - that’s where the royal blood is. One of the Beacon Street Kennaways. I presume the Browning Society will call a special meeting when you arrive.”
He shook his head. “Don’t kid me, please. Somehow, I don’t seem to enjoy it any more.”
“What’s the matter? I supposed you’d be in high spirits. The end of the tour so near, and all. Rid of poor Mr. Tait at last - and of me.”
“I know,” he agreed. “I ought to be the happiest man in the world. But I’m not. Oh, well - that’s life, no doubt.”
“And that nice girl waiting for you in Back Bay.”
“What girl?”
“The one you’re engaged to.”
“Me - engaged? Do I look as feeble as that? There are lots of nice girls in Boston, but I’m not engaged to any of them, thank heaven.”
“You ought to try it some time. It’s fun, rather.”
“I suppose you’ve tried it?”
“Oh, yes - frequently.”
“One of those fellows who’s been writing to you?”
“One of them? I’m no piker. All of them, at various times.”
“Well, make a selection,” he suggested. “Get it over with. We’re none of us as young as we used to be.”
“I am - and I mean to stay so. Shall you write to me, after we part?”
“What for?”
“I love to get letters.”
“I hate to write them. Besides, I’ll be terribly busy. It will take me a lifetime of hard work to put by even a modest competence. We can’t all manufacture automobiles.”
“Heaven forbid! The roads are crowded enough now. Then - when we say good-by, it will be for ever?”
“And a day,” he added, with forced cheerfulness.
“That will make it so much more romantic, don’t you think? You’d better go in and play bridge. I imagine Mr. Tait is waiting.”
“No doubt he is,” the young man agreed.
“Would you like me to play?”
“Suit yourself. You’re pretty bad, you know.”
“I guess I am,” she sighed.
“But of course, you make poor old Tait happy. As long as you aren’t his partner.”
“It’s tough on you - having me for a partner, I mean.”
He shrugged, and stood up. “Oh, I don’t mind. I realize that it isn’t permanent.”
She started to rise, and he gave her his hand. “Since you insist,” she said, “I will join you.”
“Thanks so much,” he smiled grimly. They went inside.
Mrs. Luce and Tait were seated at a bridge table, the latter looking wistfully about the room. His face lighted when he saw Kennaway.
“Ah, my boy,” he cried. “Will you join us?”
“Surely,” Kennaway answered.
“That’s good of you. I didn’t like to ask. I’ve taken so much of your time - and this is one of your last nights aboard.”
“Quite all right,” the young man assured him. “I have nothing else to do.”
“God bless the man who invented bridge,” remarked Pamela Potter. “Come on, old son - say it.”
“Say what?” Kennaway inquired.
“Your proper come-back to that should have been: ‘You ought to learn it some time.’ “
He laughed. “I couldn’t be so rude as that,” he protested.
“Oh, couldn’t you?” she answered.
Meanwhile Charlie, having gone to the library and selected a book, was sitting th
ere reading with the air of a man who has joined a book club and hopes none of his friends will call him up for a year. He read until ten o’clock, and after a leisurely stroll around the deck, sought his cabin. Sleep came to him without delay, the dreamless sleep of one who hasn’t a care in the world.
At eight o’clock the next morning, he was abroad on the sunlit deck. The final twenty-four hours of a most momentous journey were impending. If the realization of this was hanging over him, it evidently left him calm and undisturbed. From his manner it was clear he was one of those who feel that what is to be, will be.
Later that morning he had a long radiogram from Duff. He retired with it to his cabin. There, with the sun streaming over his shoulder, he read:
“Splendid news. How can I ever thank you? Get the proofs, Charlie. But I know you will. Cable from chief says investigation clerk jewelry shop Calcutta reveals him once I. D. B. in South Africa. Meaning illicit diamond buyer. Inquiries among diamond merchants Amsterdam brought out further fact another I. D. B. around Kimberley some fifteen years back by name Jim Everhard. May be help. Remember bags of stones. Scotland Yard man Sergeant Wales in New York time my accident now in San Francisco by chief’s order. Will meet you at dock prepared to make arrest. With him our friend Flannery. Like old times. Sorry can’t be there. Mending rapidly, be on coast soon, wait there for my thanks. Cheerio. Best of luck.
“Duff.”
Chan read the message a second time, and when he came to the mention of Captain Flannery, an amused smile spread over his broad face. Fate was a wonderful stage manager, he reflected. He would be happy to see Flannery again. He tore Duff’s message to bits, and tossed them through the port-hole.
The day wore on without incident. Benbow came to him late in the afternoon.
“I don’t know whether or not you understand, Mr. Chan,” he remarked, “but you’re invited to that party of ours tonight. Couldn’t get along without you. Policemen round the world - you said it.”
Chan bowed. “I accept with unbounded pleasure. You will show your films?”
“Yes. I’ve arranged to have the sitting-room of one of the empty de luxe suites. We’ll meet there about eight-thirty. I’ll put up a screen I’ve borrowed from the purser. I must say nobody seems to be much interested.”
“I am deeply interested,” Charlie assured him.
“Yes - but the rest of them - you’d think they’d be keen to see those pictures. Their own trip.” He sighed. “But that’s the way it goes. A man with a camera never gets any encouragement. I suppose I’ll have to lock the doors when I try to show those films in Akron. At eight-thirty, then, in Cabin A.”
“You are so very kind,” Chan returned. “I am honored beyond words.”
By eight o’clock the clear skies that had for so long looked down on the President Arthur were lost behind an impenetrable curtain. The ship moved cautiously along through a thick fog that recalled London on the morning Hugh Morris Drake lay dead in Broome’s Hotel. At intervals the voice of the fog horn, deep and sonorous, claimed for a moment the sole attention of every one aboard.
When, at eight-thirty, Charlie pushed open the door of Cabin A, all the members of the party appeared to be already gathered inside. They were moving about, chatting aimlessly, but Mrs. Benbow, an efficient woman, soon had them seated in a little semicircle facing a white screen. Before this Benbow labored, busy with the many details that oppress a man about to show his own motion pictures.
While they waited, Charlie spoke. “All life long,” he remarked, “I have unbearable yearning to travel - to take same extended tour you people in this room are now completing. One thing I have unquenchable desire to learn. What sight envisioned on your long journey stands out in outline of fire amid great crowd of memories? Mrs. Luce, you are agile traveler. On recent circle of world, what that you witnessed interests you most?”
“I can tell you in a minute,” the old lady replied. “A troup of trained cats I saw at a vaudeville theater in Nice. I’ll never forget them. Greatest sight I ever saw in my life.”
Doctor Lofton smiled. “You needn’t look so surprised, Mr. Chan,” he said. “I always ask the same question at the close of a tour, and often the answers leave me breathless. Mrs. Spicer - if I were to ask it of you -“
“Let me think.” The San Francisco woman’s eyes grew dreamy. “There was a gown I saw at the Opera in Paris. It wasn’t just a gown - it was a little bit of heaven. Any woman could have looked young in that,” she added wistfully.
“As far as I’m concerned,” said Vivian, “the bright spot of this tour is still to come. When we pass the Farallones tomorrow morning, and Russian Hill rises out of the mist - well, ask me your question then, Mr. Chan. I know it’s impolite to point, but that’s what I’ll have to do.”
Maxy Minchin took out a large cigar, looked about the crowded room, and then put it back in his pocket. “They was a kid drivin’ an ox cart in Italy,” he remarked. “Gee, I wish little Maxy coulda seen him. It woulda give him a new slant on that Straight Eight I bought him just before we left.”
“Do any of you remember the trees in the Forest of Fontainebleau?” Ross inquired. “I’m very fond of trees. Something so solid and serene and comfortable about them. Great timber, that was.”
“Miss Pamela, you have not spoken,” Chan reminded her.
“I have so many memories,” she answered. She was wearing a delphinium blue gown she had saved for this final evening. All the women had noticed it - and even a few of the men. It could have been the one that haunted Mrs. Spicer’s dreams. “I find it difficult to say what interested me most,” the girl went on. “But there was one flying fish that hopped aboard our ship in the Red Sea. He had such sad, romantic eyes - I just can’t forget him.” She turned to the young man at her side. “You remember - I named him John Barrymore.”
“He looked more like Eddie Cantor to me,” smiled Kennaway.
“It’s all been wonderful,” Mrs. Benbow said. “So different from Akron, and I wanted a change. I’ll never forget the afternoon I was walking in Delhi, and a maharajah drove by in a Rolls-Royce. He had on the most wonderful clothes - gold brocade, they were -” She looked severely at her husband, busy with the projector. “You’ve got to go to your tailor the minute you get home, Elmer,” she announced.
“A lot of things have interested me on this trip,” Keane put in. “There’s one night that sticks in my mind - the last in Yokohama. I was walking round the town, and I dropped into a cable office. Doctor Lofton was there - and that little steward named Welby. I asked the doctor if he was going back to the ship, but he put me off - I could see he wanted to be alone. So I went along by myself - down to the water front - dark and mysterious - the go-downs - the funny little people running around in the dark - the lights of the sampans - picturesque, I’d call it. It sort of gave me the feel of the East.” He stopped and looked meaningly at Lofton, a malicious light in his eyes. “That was the place where Welby was found dead, you know -“
“All ready, folks,” cried Benbow. “Mr. Kennaway, will you snap off the lights? Thanks. The first pictures, as you can see are the ones I took on the deck of the ship just as we were leaving New York harbor. We didn’t know one another very well then. I think I got the Statue of Liberty - yes, here she is. Take off your hats, boys. Now we’re coming to some I got on the way across the Atlantic. Not many of you people in these - I guess most of you had a date with the little old berth down below. Here’s poor Mr. Drake - lucky he didn’t know what was coming.”
He continued his prattle as the film unwound. They saw London again, and Broome’s Hotel. They had a few moments with the Fenwicks, whom Benbow had met on a street corner and insisted on recording for posterity. The little man from Pittsfield was obviously somewhat resentful of the honor being done him. Then came the pictures of Inspector Duff, driving away from the doorway of Broome’s, and evidently as unwilling an actor as Fenwick. Dover and the channel boat. Paris, and after that, Nice.
Mr.
Benbow’s audience sat in attitudes that betokened an increasing interest. As the pictures of Nice were unrolled, Charlie suddenly uncrossed his plump legs and leaned forward. He was recalled to his surroundings by the voice of Tait, who sat by his side. The lawyer spoke in a low voice.
“I’m leaving, Mr. Chan,” he said. “I - I feel rather ill.” Charlie saw, even in that dim light, that his face was like chalk. “I’ll not say anything to Kennaway - it’s his last night and I don’t want to trouble him. I shall be all right when I’ve rested for a moment on my bed.” He slipped out noiselessly.
Benbow was starting on a new reel. His pictorial record seemed endless, but now his audience was with him. Egypt, India, Singapore, China - the man had really shown remarkable intelligence in the scenes he had selected.
He came at last to the end, and after thanking him, the party drifted from the room, until only Chan and the Benbows were left. The detective was examining the little spools on which the film was wound. “A very interesting evening,” he remarked.
“Thanks,” Benbow replied. “I believe they did enjoy it, don’t you?”
“I am certain they did,” Charlie told him. “Mrs. Benbow, it is not just that you should oppress frail self with that burden. Your husband and I will together transport this material to your cabin.” He took up the many reels of film, and moved toward the door. Benbow carrying the projector, followed. They went below.
Once inside the Benbow stateroom, Charlie laid the film on the bed, and turned to the man from Akron.
“May I inquire who has cabins on either side of you?” he said.
Benbow seemed startled. “Why - Mrs. Luce and Miss Pamela are on one side. The cabin forward is empty.”
“One moment,” Chan answered. He disappeared, but returned almost at once. “At this instant,” he announced, “both cabins quite empty. Corridor also is entirely deserted by one and all.”
Benbow was fumbling nervously with the projector. He got it into its case, and began to buckle up a long black strap. “What - what’s it all about, Mr. Chan?” he stammered.
“That is very valuable film of yours?” Charlie suggested blandly.
Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On Page 24
