Behind That Curtain

by Earl Der Biggers

  “While the Colonel was showing his pictures, you remained on the davenport with Miss Garland. You saw nothing of a suspicious nature?”

  “Nothing whatever.” The handkerchief lay in a crumbled heap in her lap. She took it up and once more began to smooth it.

  “Have you ever lived in India?”

  “No—I have never been there—”

  “Did you ever hear of a tragic event that happened in India—at Peshawar? The disappearance of a young woman named Eve Durand?”

  Mrs. Tupper-Brock considered. “I may have read about it in the newspapers,” she admitted. “It has a dimly familiar sound.”

  “Tell me—did you by any chance notice the elevator girl who took you up to the bungalow the night of Mr. Kirk’s dinner?”

  Again the handkerchief was crushed in the woman’s hand. “I did not. Why should I?”

  “She was, then, quite unknown to you?”

  “I fancy she was. Of course, one doesn’t study—er—that sort of person.”

  “Ah, yes.” Miss Morrow sought an inconsequential ending for the interview, “You are English, Mrs. Tupper-Brock?”

  “English, yes.”

  “A Londoner?”

  “No—I was born in Devonshire. I stayed there until my—my marriage. Then my husband took me to York, where he had a living. He was a clergyman, you know.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “I’m afraid I have been of very little help.”

  “Oh, but I hardly looked for anything else,” Miss Morrow smiled. “These questions are a mere formality. Every one at the dinner—you understand. It was good of you to come.” She rose.

  Mrs. Tupper-Brock restored the handkerchief to her bag, and also stood up. “That is all, I take it?”

  “Oh, quite. It’s a lovely day after the rain.”

  “Beautiful,” murmured the woman, and moved toward the door. Kirk came from the corner where he had been lolling.

  “Any other little service I can do?” he asked.

  “Not at present, thanks. You’re immensely valuable.”

  Mrs. Tupper-Brock had reached the outer room. Kirk spoke in a low voice. “No word of the elevator girl?”

  “Not a trace,” Miss Morrow sighed. “The same old story. But just what I expected.”

  Kirk looked toward the other room. “And the lady who has just left,” he whispered. “A complete dud, wasn’t she? I’m awfully sorry. She told you nothing.”

  The girl came very close, fragrant, young, smiling. Kirk felt a bit dizzy. “You are wrong,” she said softly. “The lady who has just left told me a great deal.”

  “You mean?”

  “I mean she’s a liar, if I ever met one. A liar, and a poor one. I’m going to prove it, too.”

  “Bright girl,” Kirk smiled, and, hurrying out, caught up with Mrs. Tupper-Brock in the hall.

  The return ride to Mrs. Dawson Kirk’s house was another strained, silent affair, and Kirk parted from the dark, mysterious lady with a distinct feeling of relief. He drove back to the Kirk Building and ascended to the twentieth floor. As he got out of the elevator he saw Mr. Cuttle trying his office door. Cuttle was not only the night-watchman, but was also assistant superintendent of the building, a title in which he took great pride.

  “Hello, Cuttle,” Kirk said. “Want to see me?”

  “I do, sir,” Cuttle answered. “Something that may be important.” Kirk unlocked the office and they went in.

  “It’s about that girl, Grace Lane, sir,” Cuttle explained, when they reached the inner room. “The one who disappeared last night.”

  “Oh, yes.” Kirk looked at him with sudden interest. “What about her?”

  “The police asked me a lot of questions. Where did I get her, and all that. There was one point on which I was silent. I thought I had better speak to you first, Mr. Kirk.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Cuttle. It isn’t wise to try to conceal things from the police.”

  “But on this point, sir—”

  “What point?”

  “The matter of how I came to hire her. The letter she brought to me from a certain person—”

  “From what person?”

  “From your grandmother, sir. From Mrs. Dawson Kirk.”

  “Good lord! Grace Lane came to you with a letter from my grandmother?”

  “She did. I still have the letter. Perhaps you would like to see it?”

  Cuttle produced a gray, expensive-looking envelope. Kirk took out the enclosure and saw that the message was written in his grandmother’s cramped, old-fashioned hand. He read:

  “My dear Mr. Cuttle: The young woman who presents this letter is a good friend of mine, Miss Grace Lane. I should be very pleased if you could find some employment for her in the building—I have thought of the work on the elevators. Miss Lane is far above such work, but she has had a bad time of it, and is eager to take anything that offers. I am sure you will find her willing and competent. I will vouch for her in every way. Sincerely yours, Mary Winthrop Kirk.”

  Kirk finished, a puzzled frown on his face. “I’ll keep this, Cuttle,” he remarked, putting the letter in his pocket. “And—I guess it was just as well you said nothing to the police.”

  “I thought so, sir,” replied Cuttle with deep satisfaction, and retired.

  Chapter 16

  LONG LIFE AND HAPPINESS

  Kirk hurried up to the bungalow. He found Charlie Chan seated in a chair by the window, completely engrossed in Colonel John Beetham’s description of The Land Beyond the Khyber.

  “Well,” said Kirk, “here’s news for you. I’ve just got on the trail of another suspect in our little case.”

  “The more the increased merriment,” Chan assured him. “Kindly deign to name the newest person who has been performing queer antics.”

  “Just my grandmother,” Kirk returned. “That’s all.”

  Charlie allowed himself the luxury of a moment’s surprise. “You overwhelm me with amazement. That dear old lady. What misendeavor has she been up to?”

  “It was she who got Grace Lane—or whatever her confounded name is—a job in the Kirk Building.” The young man repeated his talk with Cuttle and showed Chan the letter.

  Charlie read Mrs. Dawson Kirk’s warm endorsement with interest. He handed it back, smiling. “Grandmother now becomes a lady to be investigated. Humbly suggest you place Miss Morrow on her track.”

  Kirk laughed. “I’ll do it. The resulting display of fireworks ought to prove a very pretty sight.” He called Miss Morrow and, having heard his story, she suggested an interview with Mrs. Kirk at the bungalow at two o’clock.

  The young man got his grandmother on the wire. “Hello,” he said, “this is Barry. Did I understand you to say this morning you’d like to be mixed up in the Bruce murder?”

  “Well—in a nice way—I wouldn’t mind. In fact, I’d rather enjoy it.”

  “You’ve got your wish. Just at present the police are after you.”

  “Mercy—what have I done?”

  “I leave that to you. Think over your sins, and report here at two o’clock. Miss Morrow wants to question you.”

  “She does, eh? Well, I’m not afraid of her.”

  “All right. Only come.”

  “I shall have to leave early. I promised to go to a lecture—”

  “Never mind. You’ll leave when the law has finished with you. I suggest that you come prepared to tell the truth. If you do, I may yet be able to keep you out of jail.”

  “You can’t frighten me. I’ll come—but only from curiosity. I should like to see that young woman in action. I haven’t a doubt in the world but what I can hold my own.”

  “I heard different,” replied Kirk. “Remember—two o’clock. Sharp!”

  He hung up the receiver and waited impatiently for the hour of the conflict. At a quarter before two Miss Morrow arrived on the scene.

  “This is a strange turn,” she said, when Kirk had taken her coat. “So your grandmother k
nows Jennie Jerome Marie Lantelme?”

  “Knows her!” replied Kirk. “They’re great friends.” He handed over the letter. “Read that. Vouches for her in every way. Good old grandmother!”

  Miss Morrow smiled. “I must handle her gently,” she remarked. “Somehow, I don’t believe she approves of me.”

  “She’s reached the age where she doesn’t approve of anybody,” Kirk explained. “Not even of me. A fine noble character, as you well know. Yet she discovers flaws. Can you imagine!”

  “Absurd,” cried Miss Morrow.

  “Don’t be too nice to her,” Kirk suggested. “She’ll like you better if you walk all over her. Some people are made that way.”

  Charlie entered from his room. “Ah, Miss Morrow. Again you add decoration to the scene. Am I wrong in presuming that Captain Flannery has apprehended Eve Durand?”

  “If you mean the elevator girl, you are quite wrong. Not a trace of her. You still think she was Eve Durand—”

  “If she wasn’t, then I must bow my head in sackcloth and ashes,” Chan replied.

  “Well, that’s no place for anybody’s head,” Kirk remarked.

  “None the less, mine has been there,” Chan grinned.

  Mrs. Dawson Kirk bustled in. “Here I am, on time to the minute. Please make a note of that.”

  “Hello,” Kirk greeted her. “You remember Miss Morrow, of course.”

  “Oh, yes—the lawyer. How do you do. And Mr. Chan—look here, why haven’t you solved this case?”

  “A little more patience,” grinned Chan. “We are getting warm now. You are under hovering cloud of suspicion at last.”

  “So I hear,” snapped the old lady. She turned to Miss Morrow. “Well, my dear, Barry said you wanted to cross-question me.”

  “Nothing cross about it,” Miss Morrow said, with a smile. “Just a few polite questions.”

  “Oh, really. Don’t be too polite. I’m always suspicious of too-polite people. You don’t think I killed poor Sir Frederic, I hope?”

  “Not precisely. But you’ve written a letter—”

  “I suppose so. Have a habit of writing indiscreet letters. And old habits are hard to break. But I always put ‘burn this’ at the bottom. Somebody has failed to follow my instructions, eh?”

  Miss Morrow shook her head. “I believe you omitted that admonition in this case.” She handed the letter to Mrs. Kirk. “You wrote that, didn’t you?”

  Mrs. Kirk glanced it through. “Certainly I wrote it. What of it?”

  “This Grace Lane was a good friend of yours?”

  “In a way, yes. Of course, I scarcely knew the girl—”

  “Oho,” cried Barry Kirk. “You vouched for her in every way, yet you scarcely knew her.”

  “Keep out of this, Barry,” advised the old lady. “You’re not a lawyer. You haven’t the brains.”

  “Then you knew Grace Lane only slightly, Mrs. Kirk?” the girl continued.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Yet you recommended her without reservation? Why did you do that?”

  Mrs. Kirk hesitated. “If you’ll pardon me, I regard it as my own affair.”

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Morrow replied quickly, “but you will have to answer. Please do not be deceived by the setting of this interview. It is not a social function. I am acting for the district attorney’s office, and I mean business.”

  Mrs. Kirk’s eyes flashed. “I understand. But now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  “You may do so. And when you have finished, I will resume.”

  “What has this girl, Grace Lane, to do with the murder of Sir Frederic Bruce?”

  “That is what we are trying to determine.”

  “You mean she had something to do with it?”

  “We believe she had. And that is why your recommendation of her is no longer your own affair, Mrs. Kirk.”

  The old lady sat firmly on the edge of her chair. “I shan’t say a word until I know where all this is leading us.”

  “It’ll lead you to jail if you don’t stop being stubborn,” suggested Barry Kirk.

  “Indeed? Well, I have friends among the lawyers, too. Miss Morrow, I want to know Grace Lane’s connection with Sir Frederic.”

  “I have no objection to telling you—if you will keep the matter to yourself.”

  “She’s the most indiscreet woman on the west coast,” Kirk warned.

  “Hush up, Barry. I can keep still if I have to. Miss Morrow—?”

  “When Sir Frederic came here,” Miss Morrow explained, “he was seeking a woman named Eve Durand, who disappeared from India fifteen years ago. We suspect Grace Lane was that woman.”

  “Well, why don’t you ask her?”

  “We’d be glad to, but we can’t. You see, she’s disappeared again.”

  “What! She’s gone?”

  “Yes. Now I have answered your questions, and I expect you to do as much for me.” Miss Morrow became again very businesslike. “Grace Lane was undoubtedly brought to you by a third person—a person you trusted. Who was it?”

  Mrs. Kirk shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”

  “You realize, of course, the seriousness of your refusal?”

  “I—well, I—good heavens, what have I got mixed up in, anyhow? A respectable woman like me—”

  “Precisely,” said Miss Morrow sternly. “A woman honored throughout the city, a woman prominent in every forward-looking movement—I must say I am surprised, Mrs. Kirk, to find you obstructing the course of justice. And all because this person who brought Grace Lane to you is now asking you to keep the matter secret—”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But I did. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Well—yes—it is. And I must say I think she’s asking a good deal of me—”

  “She? Then Grace Lane was brought to you by a woman?”

  “What? Oh—oh, yes. Of course. I’ll admit that.”

  “You have admitted it,” chuckled Barry Kirk.

  “Tell me this,” Miss Morrow went on, “before you left to come down here, did you let Mrs. Tupper-Brock know where you were going?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you tell her you expected to be questioned by me when you got here?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “And was it then that she asked you not to reveal the fact that she was the person who brought Grace Lane to you, with a request that you help the girl?” Mrs. Kirk was silent. “You needn’t answer,” Miss Morrow smiled. “As a matter of fact, you have answered. Your face, you know.”

  Mrs. Kirk shrugged. “You’re a clever young woman,” she complained.

  “Since that is settled, and I now know that it was Mrs. Tupper-Brock who introduced the Lane girl to you,” Miss Morrow continued, “there is no real reason why you shouldn’t give me the details. How long ago did it happen?”

  Mrs. Kirk hesitated, and then surrendered. “Several months ago,” she said. “Helen brought the girl to the house. She told me she had met her on a ferry—that they were old friends—had known each other in Devonshire, a great many years back.”

  “In Devonshire. Please go on.”

  “Helen said this girl had been through a lot—”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t ask. I have some delicacy. Also, that she was destitute and in desperate need of work. She was such a pretty, modest, feminine little thing, I took an immediate fancy to her. So I got her the job in this building.”

  “Without consulting me,” Kirk suggested.

  “Why should I? It was a matter requiring instant action. You were off somewhere as usual.”

  “And that’s all you know about Grace Lane?” inquired Miss Morrow.

  “Yes. I made inquiries, and found she was doing well and was, apparently, happy. When we came up here the other night, we spoke to her. She thanked me, very nicely. I’m sorry she’s been hounded out of town.”

  Miss Morrow smiled. “One thing mo
re. Have you noticed any signs of a close friendship between Mrs. Tupper-Brock and Colonel Beetham?”

  “I believe they’ve gone out together occasionally. I don’t spy on them.”

  “Naturally not. I think that is all, Mrs. Kirk.”

  Mrs. Kirk stood up. She appeared to be in a rather chastened mood. “Thanks. Fortunately, I can still get to my lecture on time.”

  “Just one point,” added the girl. “I’d rather you didn’t repeat this conversation to Mrs. Tupper-Brock.”

  “Me—I won’t repeat it to anybody.” The old lady smiled grimly. “Somehow I don’t seem to have come out of it as well as I expected.” She said good-by and made a hasty exit.

  “Bully for you,” cried Kirk with an admiring look at Miss Morrow.

  She stood, frowning. “What did I tell you this morning? Mrs. Tupper-Brock was lying, but I didn’t expect confirmation so soon.”

  “Going to have her on the carpet again?” Kirk asked.

  “I am not. What’s the good of more lies? Grace Lane was an old friend—which may mean that Grace Lane will write to Mrs. Tupper-Brock from wherever she is hiding. I am going to make immediate arrangements with the postal authorities. Mrs. Tupper-Brock’s mail will reach her through my office from now on.”

  “Excellent,” approved Chan. “You have wise head on pretty shoulders. What an unexpected combination. May I inquire, what is our good friend Flannery doing?”

  “The Captain has taken a sudden fancy to Miss Lila Barr. I believe he has ordered her to his office at five this afternoon, for what he calls a grilling. I can’t be there, but if I were you, I’d drop in on it.”

  Chan shrugged. “I fear I will look in vain for welcome inscribed in glowing characters on the mat. However, I will appear with offhand air.”

  Miss Morrow turned to Barry Kirk. “I do hope your grandmother won’t hold my inquisition against me.”

  “Nonsense. You were splendid, and she’s crazy about you. I saw it in her eyes when she went out.”

  “I didn’t,” smiled the girl.

  “You didn’t look carefully. That’s where you make a mistake. Examine the eyes about you. You’ll find a lot more approval than you suspect.”

  “Really? I’m afraid I’m too busy—I must leave that sort of thing to the old-fashioned girls. Now, I must run along. There’s just a chance I can find Grace Lane for Captain Flannery. Some one must.”