Behind That Curtain

by Earl Der Biggers

  “You had final view of her?” Chan suggested.

  “Yes. On my way home, I saw her standing talking to some man on the Promenade des Anglais, at the entrance to the jetty. I went on, thinking nothing of it at the time. Afterward, of course—”

  “And it was this girl Sir Frederic asked you about?” Miss Morrow inquired.

  “It was. He showed me that clipping, and asked me if I wasn’t in the same company. I said I was. He wanted to know if I thought I could identify Marie Lantelme if I met her again, and I said I was quite sure I could. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘I may call upon you for that service before the evening is over. Please do not leave tonight until we have had another talk.’ I told him I wouldn’t, but of course, at the end—well, he wasn’t talking to anyone any more.”

  They sat for a moment in silence. Then Miss Morrow spoke.

  “I think that is all,” she said. “Unless Captain Flannery—”

  She glanced at the Captain. An expression of complete bewilderment decorated that great red face. “Me? No—no, I guess not. Nothing more from me, now,” he stammered.

  “Thank you very much, Miss Garland,” the girl continued. “You are going to be in the city for some time?”

  “Yes. I’ve been promised a part at the Alcazar.”

  “Well, don’t leave town without letting me know. You may go now. So good of you to come.”

  Miss Garland nodded toward the desk. “May I have the pearl?”

  “Oh—certainly—”

  “Thanks. When an actress has been out of a show for some time, even the imitation jewels are precious. You understand?”

  Miss Morrow let her out, and returned to the silent little group in the inner room. “Well?” she remarked.

  “It’s incredible,” cried Barry Kirk. “Another lost lady. Good lord, Eve Durand and Marie Lantelme can’t both be hanging out around here. Unless this is the Port of Missing Women. What do you say, Sergeant?”

  Chan shrugged. “All time we get in deeper,” he admitted. “Free to announce I find myself sunk in bafflement.”

  “I’ll get to the bottom of it,” Flannery cried. “You leave it to me. I’ll stir things up.”

  Chan’s eyes narrowed. “My race has old saying, Captain,” he remarked gently. “‘Muddy water, unwisely stirred, grows darker still. Left alone, it clears itself.’”

  Flannery glared at him and without a word strode from the room, slamming the outer door behind him.

  Chapter 8

  WILLIE LI’S GOOD TURN

  Thoughtfully Charlie Chan picked up Sir Frederic’s clippings from the desk and taking out a huge wallet, stowed them away inside. Barry Kirk’s eyes were on the door through which Flannery had taken his unceremonious departure.

  “I’m very much afraid,” he said, “that the policeman’s lot is not a happy one. The dear old Captain seemed a bit—what’s a good word for it? Nettled? Ah yes, nettled is a very good word.”

  Miss Morrow smiled. “He’s frightfully puzzled, and that always makes a policeman cross.”

  “I hope it doesn’t have that effect on you.”

  “If it did, I’d be so cross right at this moment you’d order me out of your life for ever.”

  “A trifle baffled, eh?”

  “Can you wonder? Was there ever a case like this?” She picked up her coat, which she had brought with her from the bungalow. “All that about Marie Lantelme—”

  “Humbly making suggestion,” remarked Chan, “do not think too much about Marie Lantelme. She is—what you say—an issue from the side. Remember always one big fact—Sir Frederic Bruce dead on this very floor, the velvet shoes absent from his feet. Wandering too far from that, we are lost. Think of Eve Durand, think of Hilary Galt, but think most of all regarding Sir Frederic and last night. Bestow Marie Lantelme in distant pigeonhole of mind. That way alone, we progress, we advance.”

  The girl sighed. “Shall we ever advance? I doubt it.”

  “Take cheer,” advised Chan. “A wise man said, ‘The dark clouds pass, the blue heavens abide.’” He bowed low and disappeared toward the stairs leading up to the bungalow.

  Barry Kirk held the girl’s coat. As he placed it about her shoulders the words of a familiar advertisement flashed into his mind. “Obey that impulse.” But one couldn’t go through life obeying every chance impulse.

  ‘“All time we get in deeper,’” he quoted. “It begins to look like a long and very involved case.”

  “I’m afraid it does,” Miss Morrow replied.

  “What do you mean, afraid? You and I are very brainy people—thanks for including me—and we should welcome a good stiff test of our powers. Let’s get together for a conference very soon.”

  “Do you think that’s necessary?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Then it’s all settled,” she smiled. “Thanks for the lunch—and good-by.”

  When Kirk reached the bungalow, Charlie called to him from the room formerly occupied by the man from Scotland Yard. Going in, he found the detective standing thoughtfully before Sir Frederic’s luggage, now piled neatly in a corner.

  “You have investigated these properties of Sir Frederic?” Chan asked.

  Kirk shook his head. “No, I haven’t. That’s hardly in my line. Flannery went through them last night, and evidently found nothing. He told me to turn them over to the British consul.”

  “Flannery travels with too much haste,” protested Chan. “You have the keys, perhaps? If so, I experience a yearning of my own to look inside.”

  Kirk handed him the keys, and left him alone. For a long time Chan proceeded with his search. Finally he appeared in the living-room with a great collection of books under his arm.

  “Find anything?” Kirk asked.

  “Nothing at all,” Chan returned, “with these somewhat heavy exceptions. Deign to come closer, if you will be kind enough.”

  Kirk rose and casually examined the books. His offhand manner vanished, and he cried excitedly: “Great Scott!”

  “The same from me,” Chan smiled. “You have noted the name of the author of these volumes.” He read off the titles. “Across China and Back. Wanderings in Persia. A Year in the Gobi Desert. Tibet, the Top of the World. My Life as an Explorer.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Kirk. “All the work of our good friend, Colonel Beetham. No other books amid Sir Frederic’s luggage. Does it not strike you as strange, his keen interest in one solitary author?”

  “It certainly does,” agreed Kirk. “I wonder—”

  “I have never ceased to wonder. When I look into deep eyes of the lonely explorer last night, I ask myself, what make of man is this? No sooner is Sir Frederic low on the floor than my thoughts fly back to that mysterious face. So cold, so calm, but who knows with what hot fires beneath.” He selected one enormous volume, the Life. “I feel called upon to do some browsing amid Sir Frederic’s modest library. I will advance first on this, which will grant me bird’s-eye look over an adventurous career.”

  “A good idea,” Kirk nodded.

  Before Chan could settle to his reading, the bell rang and Paradise admitted Mrs. Dawson Kirk. She came in as blithely as a girl.

  “Hello, Barry. Mr. Chan, I rather thought I’d find you here. Didn’t sail after all, did you?”

  Chan sighed. “I have encountered some difficulty in bringing vacation to proper stop. History is a grand repeater.”

  “Well, I’m glad of it,” said Mrs. Kirk. “They’ll need you here. Frightful thing, this is. And to think, Barry, it happened in your building. The Kirks are not accustomed to scandal. I never slept a wink all night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” her grandson said.

  “Oh, you needn’t be. Not sleeping much anyhow, of late. Seems I got all my sleeping done years ago. Well, what’s happened? Have they made any progress?”

  “Not much,” Kirk admitted.

  “How could they? That stupid police captain—he annoyed me. No subtlety. Sally Jordan’s boy here wil
l show him up.”

  “Humbly accept the flattery,” Chan bowed.

  “Flattery—rot. The truth, nothing else. Don’t you disappoint me. All my hopes are pinned on you.”

  “By the way,” said Kirk, “I’m glad you came alone. How long has that woman—Mrs. Tupper-Brock—been with you?”

  “About a year. What’s she got to do with it?”

  “Well—what do you know about her?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Barry. I know everything. She’s all right.”

  “You mean all her past is an open book to you?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I never asked about it. I didn’t have to. I’m a judge of people. One look—that’s enough for me.”

  Kirk laughed. “What a smart lady. As a matter of fact, you don’t know a thing about her, do you?”

  “Oh, yes I do. She’s English—born in Devonshire.”

  “Devonshire, eh?”

  “Yes. Her husband was a clergyman—you’d know that by her starved look. He’s dead now.”

  “And that’s the extent of your knowledge?”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree—but you would. A nice boy, but never very clever. However, I didn’t come here to discuss Helen Tupper-Brock. It has just occurred to me that I didn’t tell all I knew last night.”

  “Concealing evidence, eh?” smiled Kirk.

  “I don’t know—it may be evidence—probably not. Tell me—have they dug up any connection between Sir Frederic and that little Mrs. Enderby?”

  “No, they haven’t. Have you?”

  “Well—it was just after the pictures started. I went out into the kitchen—”

  “You would.”

  “My throat was dry. I didn’t see any water in the living-room. But what could I expect in a man-run house? In the passageway I came upon Sir Frederic and Mrs. Enderby engaged in what appeared to be a quite serious talk.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “I’m no eavesdropper. Besides, they stopped suddenly when I appeared, and remained silent until I had gone by. When I returned a few moments later, both were gone.”

  “Well, that may be important,” Kirk admitted. “Perhaps not. Odd, though—Sir Frederic told me he had never met Mrs. Enderby when he suggested I invite the pair to dinner. I’ll turn your information over to Miss Morrow.”

  “What’s Miss Morrow got to do with it?” snapped the old lady.

  “She’s handling the case for the district attorney’s office.”

  “What! You mean to say they’ve put an important case like this in the hands of—”

  “Calm yourself. Miss Morrow is a very intelligent young woman.”

  “She couldn’t be. She’s too good-looking.”

  “Miracles happen,” laughed Kirk.

  His grandmother regarded him keenly. “You look out for yourself, my boy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The Kirk men always did have a weakness for clever women—the attraction of opposites, I presume. That’s how I came to marry into the family.”

  “You don’t happen to have an inferiority complex about you, do you?”

  “No, sir. That’s one thing the new generation will never be able to pin on me. Well, go ahead and tell Miss Morrow about Eileen Enderby. But I fancy the important member of the investigating committee has heard it already. I’m speaking of Mr. Chan.” She rose. “I wrote Sally Jordan this morning that I’d met you,” she went on, to the detective. “I said I thought the mainland couldn’t spare you just yet.”

  Chan shrugged. “Mainland enjoys spectacle of weary postman plodding on his holiday walk,” he replied. “No offense is carried, but I am longing for Hawaii.”

  “Well, that’s up to you,” remarked Mrs. Kirk bluntly. “Solve this case quickly and run before the next one breaks. I must go along. I’ve a club meeting. That’s what my life’s come to—club meetings. Barry, keep me posted on this thing. First excitement in my neighborhood in twenty years. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

  Kirk let her out, and returned to the living-room. The quick winter dusk was falling, and he switched on the lights.

  “All of which,” he said, “brings little Eileen into it again. She did seem a bit on edge last night—even before she saw that man on the fire-escape. If she really did see him. I’ll put Miss Morrow on her trail, eh?”

  Chan looked up from his big book, and nodded without interest. “All you can do.”

  “She doesn’t intrigue you much, does she?” Kirk smiled.

  “This Colonel Beetham,” responded Chan. “What a man!”

  Kirk looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’m dining to-night at the Cosmopolitan Club, with a friend. I made the engagement several days ago.”

  “Greatly pained,” said Chan, “if I interfered with your plans in any way. Tell me—our Colonel Beetham—you have seen him at Cosmopolitan Club?”

  “Yes. Somebody’s given him a card. I meet him around there occasionally. I must take you over to the club one of these days.”

  “The honor will be immense,” Chan said gravely.

  “Paradise will give you dinner,” Kirk told him.

  “Not to be considered,” Chan protested. “Your staff in kitchen deserves holiday after last night’s outburst. I am doing too much eating at your gracious board. I too will dine elsewhere—there are little matters into which I would peer inquiringly.”

  “As you wish,” nodded Kirk. He went into his bedroom, leaving Chan to the book.

  At six-thirty, after Kirk had left, Chan also descended to the street. He had dinner at an inexpensive little place and when it was finished, strolled with what looked like an aimless step in the direction of Chinatown.

  The Chinese are a nocturnal people; Grant Avenue’s shops were alight and thronged with customers; its sidewalk crowded with idlers who seemed at a loose end for the evening. The younger men were garbed like their white contemporaries; the older, in the black satin blouse and trousers of China, shuffled along on felt shod feet. Here and there walked with ponderous dignity a Chinese matron who had all too obviously never sought to reduce. A sprinkling of bright-eyed flappers lightened the picture.

  Chan turned up Washington Street, then off into the gloomy stretch of Waverly Place. He climbed dimly lighted stairs and knocked at a familiar door.

  Surprise is not in the lexicon of the Chinese people, and Chan Kee Lim admitted him with stolid face. Though they had said farewell only that morning, the detective’s call was accepted calmly by his cousin.

  “I am here again,” Chan said in Cantonese. “It was my thought that I was leaving the mainland, but the fates have decreed otherwise.”

  “Enter,” his cousin said. “Here in my poor house the welcome never cools. Deign to sit on this atrociously ugly stool.”

  “You are too kind,” Charlie returned. “I am, as you must surmise, the victim of my despicable calling. If you will so far condescend, I require information.”

  Kee Lim’s eyes narrowed, and he stroked his thin gray beard. He did not approve of that calling, as Charlie well knew.

  “You are involved,” he said coldly, “with the white devil police?”

  Chan shrugged. “Unfortunately, yes. But I ask no betrayal of confidence from you. A harmless question, only. Perhaps you could tell me of a stranger, a tourist, who has been guest of relatives in Jackson Street? The name Li Gung.”

  Kee Lim nodded. “I have not met him, but I have heard talk at the Tong House. He is one who has traveled much in foreign lands. For some time he has been domiciled with his cousin Henry Li, the basket importer, who lives American style in the big apartment house on Jackson Street. The Oriental Apartments, I believe. I have not been inside, but I understand there are bathrooms and other strange developments of what the white devil is pleased to call his civilization.”

  “You are an acquaintance of Henry Li?” Charlie asked.

  Kee Lim’s eyes hardened. “I have not the honor,” he replied.

&n
bsp; Charlie understood. His cousin would have no part in whatever he proposed. He rose from his ebony stool.

  “You are extremely kind,” he said. “That was the extent of my desire. Duty says I must walk my way.”

  Kee Lim also rose. “The briefness of your stop makes it essential you come again. There is always a welcome here.”

  “Only too well do I know it,” nodded Charlie. “I am busy man, but we will meet again. I am saying good-by.”

  His cousin followed to the door. “I hope you have a safe walk,” he remarked, and there was, it seemed, something more in his mind than the conventional farewell wish.

  Chan set out at once for Jackson Street. Half-way up the hill he encountered the gaudy front of the Oriental Apartments. Here the more prosperous members of the Chinese colony lived in the manner of their adopted country.

  He entered the lobby and studied the letter boxes. Henry Li, he discovered, lived on the second floor. Ignoring the push buttons, he tried the door. It was unlocked, and he went inside. He climbed to the third floor, walking softly as he passed the apartment occupied by Henry Li. For a moment he stood at the head of the stairs, then started down. He had proceeded about half-way to the floor below, when suddenly he appeared to lose his footing, and descended with a terrific clatter to the second-floor landing. The door of Henry Li’s apartment opened, and a fat little Chinese in a business suit peered out.

  “You are concerned in an accident?” he inquired solicitously.

  “Haie!” cried Chan, picking himself up, “the evil spirits pursue me. I have lost my footing on these slippery stairs.” He tried to walk, but limped painfully. “I fear I have given my ankle a bad turn. If I could sit quietly for a moment—”

  The little man threw wide his door. “Condescend to enter my contemptible house. My chairs are plain and uncomfortable, but you must try one.”