“You don’t say.” Flannery looked at Chan coldly. “What was that?”
“Sir Frederic English detective, and great one. All English detectives make exhausting records of every case. No question that records of certain case, in which murderer was hotly interested, were sought here.”
“Maybe,” admitted the Captain. “We’ll go over the room later.” He turned to the patrolmen. “You boys take a look at the fire-escape.” They climbed out into the fog. At that moment the door leading from the reception-room into the hallway opened, and an odd little group came in. A stout, middle-aged man led the procession; he was Mr. Cuttle, the night-watchman.
“Here they are, Captain,” he said. “I’ve rounded up everybody in the building, except a few cleaning women who have nothing to do with this floor. You can see ‘em later, if you like. This is Mrs. Dyke, who takes care of the two top floors.”
Mrs. Dyke, very frightened, said that she had finished with Kirk’s office at seven and gone out, leaving the burglar alarm in working order, as was her custom. She had not been back since. She had seen no one about the building whom she did not recognize.
“And who is this?” inquired the Captain, turning to a pale, sandy-haired young man who appeared extremely nervous.
“I am employed by Brace and Davis, Certified Public Accountants, on the second floor,” said the young man. “My name is Samuel Smith. I was working to-night to catch up—I have been ill—when Mr. Cuttle informed me I was wanted up here. I know nothing of this horrible affair.”
Flannery turned to the fourth and last member of the party, a young woman whose uniform marked her as an operator of one of the elevators. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Grace Lane, sir,” she told him.
“Run the elevator, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Kirk had sent word that one of us must work overtime tonight. On account of the party.”
“How many people have you brought up since the close of business?”
“I didn’t keep count. Quite a few—ladies and gentlemen—Mr. Kirk’s guests, of course.”
“Don’t remember anybody who looked like an outsider?”
“No, sir.”
“This is a big building,” said Flannery. “There must have been others working here to-night besides this fellow Smith. Remember anybody?”
The girl hesitated. “There—there was one other, sir.”
“Yes? Who was that?”
“A girl who is employed in the office of the Calcutta Importers, on this floor. Her name is Miss Lila Barr.”
“Working here to-night, eh? On this floor. She’s not here now?”
“No, sir. She left some time ago.”
“How long ago?”
“I can’t say exactly, sir. Half an hour—perhaps a little more than that.”
“Humph.” The Captain took down their names and addresses, and dismissed them. As they went out, the two patrolmen entered from the fire-escape, and, leaving them in charge, Flannery asked to be directed upstairs.
The dinner guests were sitting with rather weary patience in a semicircle in the living-room. Into their midst strode the Captain, with an air of confidence he was far from feeling. He stood looking them over.
“I guess you know what I’m doing here,” he said. “Miss Morrow tells me she’s had a talk with you, and I won’t double back over her tracks. However, I want the name and address of every one of you.” He turned to Mrs. Kirk. “I’ll start with you.”
She stiffened at his tone. “You’re very flattering, I’m sure. I am Mrs. Dawson Kirk.” She added her address.
“You.” Flannery turned to the explorer.
“Colonel John Beetham. I am a visitor in the city, stopping at the Fairmont.”
Flannery went on down the list. When he had finished, he added:
“Anyone got any light to throw on this affair? If you have, better give it to me now. Things’ll be a lot pleasanter all round than if I dig it up for myself later.” No one spoke. “Some lady saw a man running down the fire-escape,” he prompted.
“Oh—I did,” said Eileen Enderby. “I’ve been all over that with Miss Morrow. I had gone out into the garden—” Again she related her experience.
“What’d this man look like?” demanded Flannery.
“I couldn’t say. A very dim figure in the fog.”
“All right. You can all go now. I may want to see some of you later.” Flannery strode past them into the garden.
One by one they said their strained farewells and departed—Mrs. Kirk and her companion, Miss Gloria Garland, then the Enderbys, and finally the explorer. Charlie Chan also got his hat and coat, while Miss Morrow watched him inquiringly.
“Until dark deed shaded the feast,” said Chan, “the evening was an unquestioned joy. Mr. Kirk—”
“Oh, but you’re not leaving,” cried Miss Morrow. “Please. I want to have a talk with you.”
“Tomorrow I am sea-going man,” Chan reminded her. “The experience weakens me considerably. I have need of sleep, and relaxing—”
“I’ll keep you only a moment,” she pleaded, and Chan nodded.
Captain Flannery appeared from the garden. “Dark out there,” he announced. “But if I’m not mistaken, anyone could have reached the floor below by way of the fire-escape. Is that right?”
“Undoubtedly,” replied Kirk.
“An important discovery,” approved Chan. “On the gown of one of the lady guests were iron rust stains, which might have been suffered by—But who am I to speak thus to keen man like the Captain? You made note of the fact, of course?”
Flannery reddened. “I—I can’t say I did. Which lady?”
“That Mrs. Enderby, who witnessed fleeing man. Do not mention it, sir. So happy to be of slightest service.”
“Let’s go back downstairs,” growled Flannery. On the floor below, he stood for a long moment, looking about. “Well, I got to get busy here.”
“I will say farewell,” remarked Chan.
“Going, eh?” said Flannery, with marked enthusiasm.
“Going far,” smiled Chan. “Tomorrow I am directed toward Honolulu. I leave you to the largest problem of your life, Captain. I suffer no envy for you.”
“Oh, I’ll pull through,” replied Flannery.
“Only the witless could doubt it. But you will travel a long road. Consider. Who is great man silent now on couch? A famous detective with a glorious record. The meaning of that? A thousand victories—and a thousand enemies. All over broad world are scattered men who would do him into death with happy hearts. A long road for you, Captain. You have my warmest wishes for bright outcome. May you emerge in the shining garments of success.”
“Thanks,” said Flannery.
“One last point. You will pardon me if I put in final oar.” He took up from the table a little yellow book, and held it out. “Same was at the dead man’s elbow when he fell.”
Flannery nodded. “I know. The Cosmopolitan Club book. It can’t mean a damn thing.”
“Maybe. I am stupid Chinese from tiny island. I know nothing. But if this was my case I would think about book, Captain Flannery. I would arouse in the night to think about it. Good-by, and all good wishes already mentioned.”
He made a deep bow, and went through the reception room into the hall. Kirk and the girl followed swiftly. The latter put her hand on Chan’s arm.
“Sergeant—you mustn’t,” she cried despairingly. “You can’t desert me now. I need you.”
“You rip my heart to fragments,” he replied. “However, plans are set.”
“But poor Captain Flannery—all this is far beyond him. You know more about the case than he does. Stay, and I’ll see that you’re given every facility—”
“That’s what I say,” put in Barry Kirk. “Surely you can’t go now. Good lord, man, have you no curiosity?”
“The bluest hills are those farthest away,” Chan said. “Bluest of all is Punchbowl Hill, where my little family is gathered,
waiting for me—”
“But I was depending on you,” pleaded the girl. “I must succeed—I simply must. If you would stay—”
Chan drew away from her. “I am so sorry. Postman on his holiday, they tell me, takes long walk. I have taken same, and I am weary. So very sorry—but I return to Honolulu tomorrow.” The elevator door was open. Chan bowed low. “The happiest pleasure to know you both. May we meet again. Good-by.”
Like a grim, relentless Buddha he disappeared below. Kirk and the girl reentered the office, Captain Flannery was eagerly on the hunt.
Chan walked briskly through the fog to the Stewart Hotel. At the desk the clerk handed him a cable, which he read with beaming face. He was still smiling when, in his room, the telephone rang. It was Kirk.
“Look here,” Kirk said. “We made the most astonishing discovery in the office after you left.”
“Pleased to hear it,” Chan replied.
“Under the desk—a pearl from Gloria Garland’s necklace!”
“Opening up,” said Chan, “a new field of wonderment. Hearty congratulations.”
“But see here,” Kirk cried, “aren’t you interested? Won’t you stay and help us get at the bottom of this?”
Again that stubborn look in Charlie’s eyes. “Not possible. Only a few minutes back I have a cable that calls me home with unbearable force. Nothing holds me on the mainland now.”
“A cable? From whom?”
“From my wife. Glorious news. We are now in receipt of our eleventh child—a boy.”
Chapter 5
THE VOICE IN THE NEXT ROOM
Charlie Chan rose at eight the next morning, and as he scraped the stubble of black beard from his cheeks, he grinned happily at his reflection in the glass. He was thinking of the small, helpless boy-child who no doubt at this moment lay in the battered old crib on Punchbowl Hill. In a few days, the detective promised himself, he would stand beside that crib, and the latest Chan would look up to see, at last, his father’s welcoming smile.
He watched a beetle-browed porter wheel his inexpensive little trunk off on the first leg of its journey to the Matson docks, and then neatly placed his toilet articles in his suitcase. With jaunty steps he went down to breakfast.
The first page of the morning paper carried the tragic tale of Sir Frederic’s passing, and for a moment Chan’s eyes narrowed. A complicated mystery, to be sure. Interesting to go to the bottom of it—but that was the difficult task of others. Had it been his duty, he would have approached it gallantly, but, from his point of view, the thing did not concern him. Home—that alone concerned him now.
He laid the paper down, and his thoughts flew back to the little boy in Honolulu. An American citizen, a future boy scout under the American flag, he should have an American name. Chan had felt himself greatly attracted to his genial host of the night before. Barry Chan—what was the matter with that?
As he was finishing his tea, he saw in the dining-room door the thin, nervous figure of Bill Rankin, the reporter. He signed his check, left a generous tip, and joined Rankin in the lobby.
“Hello,” said the reporter. “Well, that was some little affair up at the Kirk Building last night.”
“Most distressing,” Chan replied. They sat down on a broad sofa, and Rankin lighted a cigarette.
“I’ve got a bit of information I believe you should have,” the newspaperman continued.
“Begging pardon, I think you labor under natural delusion,” Chan said.
“Why—what do you mean?”
“I am not concerned with case,” Chan calmly informed him.
“You don’t mean to say—”
“In three hours I exit through Golden Gate.”
Rankin gasped. “Good lord. I knew you’d planned to go, of course, but I supposed. Why, man alive, this is the biggest thing that’s broke round here since the fire. Sir Frederic Bruce—it’s an international catastrophe. I should think you’d leap at it.”
“I am not,” smiled Charlie, “a leaping kind of man. Personal affairs call me to Hawaii. The postman refuses to take another walk. Very interesting case, but as I have heard my slanging cousin Willie say, I am not taking any of it.”
“I know,” said Rankin. “The calm, cool Oriental. Never been excited in your life, I suppose?”
“What could I have gained by that? I have watched the American citizen. His temples throb. His heart pounds. The fibers of his body vibrate. With what result? A year subtracted from his life.”
“Well, you’re beyond me,” said Rankin, leaning back and seeking to relax a bit himself. “I hope I won’t be boring you if I go on talking about Sir Frederic. I’ve been all over our luncheon at the St. Francis in my mind, and do you know what I think?”
“I should be pleased to learn,” returned Chan.
“Fifteen years make a very heavy curtain on the Indian frontier, Sir Frederic said. If you ask me, I’d say that in order to solve the mystery of his murder last night, we must look behind that curtain.”
“Easy said, but hard to do,” suggested Chan.
“Very hard, and that’s why you—Oh, well, go on and take your boat ride. But the disappearance of Eve Durand is mixed up in this somehow. So, perhaps, is the murder of Hilary Galt.”
“You have reason for thinking this?”
“I certainly have. Just as I was about to sit down and write a nice feature story about that luncheon, Sir Frederic rushed into the Globe office and demanded I hush it all up. Why should he do that? I ask you.”
“And I pause for your reply.”
“You’ll get it. Sir Frederic was still working on one, or maybe both, of those cases. More than that, he was getting somewhere. That visit to Peshawar may not have been as lacking in results as he made out. Eve Durand may be in San Francisco now. Someone connected with one of those cases is certainly here—someone who pulled that trigger last night. For myself, I would cherchez la femme. That’s French—”
“I know,” nodded Chan. “You would hunt the woman. Excellent plan. So would I.”
“Aha—I knew it. And that’s why this information I have is vital. The other night I went up to the Kirk Building to see Sir Frederic. Paradise told me he was in the office. Just as I was approaching the office door, it opened, and a young woman—”
“One moment,” Chan cut in. “Begging pardon to interrupt, you should go at once with your story to Miss June Morrow. I am not connected.”
Rankin stood up. “All right. But you’re certainly beyond me. The man of stone. I wish you a pleasant journey. And if this case is ever solved, I hope you never hear about it.”
Chan grinned broadly. “Your kind wishes greatly appreciated. Good-by, and all luck possible.”
He watched the reporter as he dashed from the lobby into the street, then going above, he completed his packing. A glance at his watch told him he had plenty of time, so he went to say good-by to his relative in Chinatown. When he returned to the hotel to get his bags, Miss Morrow was waiting for him.
“What happy luck,” he said. “Once again I am rewarded by a sight of your most interesting face.”
“You certainly are,” she replied. “I simply had to see you again. The district attorney has put this whole affair in my hands, and it’s my big chance. You are still determined to go home?”
“More than usual.” He led her to a sofa. “Last night I have joyous cable—”
“I know. I was there when Mr. Kirk telephoned you. A boy, I think he said.”
“Heaven’s finest gift,” nodded Chan.
Miss Morrow sighed. “If it had only been a girl,” she said.
“Good luck,” Chan told her, “dogs me in such matters. Of eleven opportunities, I am disappointed but three times.”
“You’re to be congratulated. However, girls are a necessary evil.”
“You are unduly harsh. Necessary, of course. In your case, no evil whatever.”
Barry Kirk came into the lobby and joined them. “Good morning, father,” he sm
iled. “Well, we’re all here to speed the parting guest.”
Chan consulted his watch. Miss Morrow smiled. “You’ve quite a lot of time,” she said. “At least give me the benefit of your advice before you leave.”
“Happy to do so,” agreed Chan. “It is worthless, but you are welcome.”
“Captain Flannery is completely stumped, though of course he won’t admit it. I told him all about Hilary Galt and Eve Durand, and he just opened his mouth and forgot to close it.”
“Better men than the Captain might also pause in yawning doubt.”
“Yes—I admit that.” Miss Morrow’s white forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “It’s all so scattered—San Francisco and London and Peshawar—it almost looks as though whoever solved it must make a trip around the world.”
Chan shook his head. “Many strings reach back, but solution will lie in San Francisco. Accept my advice, and take heart bravely.”
The girl still puzzled. “We know that Hilary Galt was killed sixteen years ago. A long time, but Sir Frederic was the sort who would never abandon a trail. We also know that Sir Frederic was keenly interested in the disappearance of Eve Durand from Peshawar. That might have been a natural curiosity—but if it was, why should he rush to the newspaper office and demand that nothing be printed about it? No—it was more than curiosity. He was on the trail of something.”
“And near the end of it,” put in Kirk. “He told me that much.”
Miss Morrow nodded. “Near the end—what did that mean? Had he found Eve Durand? Was he on the point of exposing her identity? And was there someone—Eve Durand or someone else—who was determined he should never do so? So determined, in fact, that he—or she—would not stop short of murder to silence him?”
“All expressed most clearly,” approved Chan.
“Oh—but it isn’t clear at all. Was Hilary Galt’s murder connected somehow with the disappearance of that young girl from Peshawar? The velvet slippers—where are they now? Did the murderer of Sir Frederic take them? And if so—why?”
“Many questions arise,” admitted Chan. “All in good time you get the answers.”
Behind That Curtain Page 6
