“I think there is a way,” Chan said, his voice grim now. “C.V. Soong has given me the thought of a way. Benny Chan was carrying the fifth scroll when he drowned. The sixth scroll is still in Honolulu. Perhaps the man who brings the sixth scroll from Hawaii to the Temple will also be a target. A target more alert than Benny Chan.”
“You mean yourself?” Forbes asked. “I don’t know, it’s risky.”
“Tiger trap must be baited with lamb. Only this lamb can be a disguised wolf. A slight disguise, known to none, will hide detective. We will tell only that the scroll is coming to San Francisco by some messenger. See what tigers rise to bait.”
“Will Soong go for that? He values those scrolls a lot.”
“We will tell Soong only that I will deliver the next scroll, not our other plans.”
“I don’t know, Inspector. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here,” Forbes said.
“Perhaps nothing at all,” Chan said. “But we must find out. To catch an unseen shark, it is necessary to bait our hook with the best morsel.”
“Be careful, Mr. Chan,” Forbes said. “Just be very careful.”
XII
C.V. SOONG was delighted by Charlie Chan’s offer to bring the last scroll from Hawaii to The Temple Of The Golden Horde, and, when Chan had finished his last day at the International Penology Symposium, the detective flew back to Honolulu.
After a day with his family in the house on Punchbowl Hill, Chan drove his sedate old 1949 Cadillac to the philanthropist’s house. A slim, Chinese maid wearing traditional Chinese dress ushered him into the rich library of the vast mansion. A stocky man with a thin smile greeted Chan.
“Inspector Chan? I’m George Hastings, Mr. Soong’s executive assistant.”
The stocky man shook hands. He had a soft, fat hand that matched his full face and fleshy mouth. But Hastings’s eyes were small and sharp. Chan inclined his head in a small bow.
“Honored,” he murmured.
“I’m the one who’s honored,” Hastings said, smiling. “I’ve long wanted to meet you, Inspector. Mr. Soong is most grateful for your offer of help, and so am I.”
“Ah? Why are you grateful, Mr. Hastings?”
“I’m pleased by anything that helps Mr. Soong,” the assistant said somewhat stiffly.
“Most commendable,” Chan said dryly. “Were you acquainted with the former messenger Benny Chan?”
“Yes, I was. As a matter of fact, I gave him the box with the scroll each time. There was no trouble until the last time. I really can’t imagine how he could have been so careless as to almost lose the scroll!”
“Was anything different about the fifth scroll, or about the trip Benny Chan made to the mainland?”
“Nothing at all. I never deviate from normal routine, Mr. Chan,” Hastings said, not as pleased by Chan anymore, it seemed.
“Who would have taken the sixth scroll if I had not?”
Hastings seemed to grow rigid, his small eyes like dark points. “Why, I think perhaps I would have -“
Before Chan could continue with George Hastings, the library door opened and C.V. Soong came in. He wore his Oriental robes again, and he wasn’t alone. Madame Li stood behind him, small and wearing western dress now. In the slim, short skirt she seemed younger, her figure lithe and shapely.
“Ah, Inspector, this is very kind of you,” C.V. Soong said, beaming as he walked up to Chan. “I feel completely relieved. The shipping of the sixth scroll had been preying on my mind.”
“Mr. Hastings would probably have been a reliable courier,” Chan said.
“Yes, George is reliable, but I’m not sure how he would handle a physical attack,” Soong said. “Madame Li came to take the sixth scroll herself, unaware that you had offered. I’m sure that she, too, is relieved.”
“Inspector Chan is generous to help us,” the tiny woman said. “In his hands, what could happen to the scroll?”
Chan smiled to the cult Princess, but behind his quiet eyes his mind wondered if there wasn’t, perhaps, a veiled threat in her words. C.V. Soong did not seem to hear anything unusual.
“Exactly!” the old philanthropist beamed.
“Perhaps we should get the scroll now, Mr. Soong. I have other business,” Madame Li said. “I would like to be sure it is in the box when Inspector Chan leaves.”
“Of course, my dear,” Mr. Soong agreed. “George, will you get the box, please?”
While the stocky assistant was out of the room, C.V. Soong chatted about the long history of the scrolls, and how they had been in his family for three generations. Chan listened politely, but he was watching Madame Li. Did the tiny woman suspect C.V. Soong of something? Had she some reason to think that the scroll might not be in the box? Or could it be that there was something wrong about the scrolls? Fakes? Chan had not considered that possibility.
If there was anything wrong with his scrolls, C.V. Soong seemed to be unworried. He went on talking about the six priceless historical documents until Hastings returned with a heavy dark wood chest exactly like the one Benny Chan had carried. Its brass fittings gleamed in the Hawaiian sunlight in the library.
“Open it, Hastings,” Soong said. There was an almost hushed reverence in his voice. If the scroll was a fake, Soong was putting on a good act.
“Please,” Chan said quickly, “allow me to open it. I ought to be familiar with the box and contents and lock.”
Hastings handed him the key. It was a large, brass key, very ancient, and fitted the old lock loosely. It was a massive lock, but for all its formidable appearance it was simple and easily opened with almost any flat, cabinet-type key - or not much more than a well-handled hairpin. Chan opened the chest.
The scroll lay inside on its two polished spindles exactly like the fifth scroll. Soong removed it reverently, and unrolled a section. He and Madame Li examined it. The tiny woman nodded, and Soong returned it to the chest. Chan locked it, pocketed the key.
“I will now assume full responsibility for scroll, and safe delivery to Temple. May I suggest the Khan be there to meet me? I will go to San Francisco by my own route, take all my own precautions. That way no one knows where, how, or when the scroll will arrive. I suggest Madame Li and Mr. Soong go to San Francisco also; perhaps potential thieves will follow them.”
“Excellent, Inspector,” Soong agreed.
With a small nod to each of them, Chan left the library. He stood for a moment in the vast entry hall, listening. He heard nothing, and went on out of the big house. As he climbed into his immaculate old Cadillac, placing the chest on the seat beside him, he saw the figure at the corner of the grandiose old mansion.
Someone was watching from among the tall palms and the thick hibiscus!
Chan started his car, drove on down the curving shell drive of the Hawaiian estate. He didn’t even glance toward the palms and thick flowers at the corner of the house as he passed. But the moment he was out of sight, he stopped the car, drew his small pistol, and getting out, slipped back through the palms and banana trees. The figure was still at the corner of the house.
Chan unwittingly stepped on a liana, caught his foot, and the noise of the vine rustling heavily echoed through the day. The man at the corner of the house whirled - it was Carleton Sedgwick. Before Chan could move or call out, the tall lawyer ran around the house and vanished.
Chan began to run in pursuit - and stopped. The scroll was back in his car! Could Sedgwick be a ruse to lure him away from his charge before he had even started his trip?
Quickly, the detective hurried back through the trees and thick bushes to his Cadillac.
The box was still there. He opened it. As far as he could tell, the scroll was undisturbed. Thoughtfully, Chan climbed once more into his ear and drove slowly off. What had Carleton Sedgwick been doing lurking near Soong’s mansion?
Nothing more happened, and Chan drove home to leave his car, and tell Madame Chan that once more he was leaving for a time.
He took a taxi to his do
wntown office, observing no one suspicious among the throngs of mixed ancestry of the island state. In his office he made reservations on jets at three different airlines, at three different times. Carrying the box, he left his office in an official car in time to make the first flight he had reserved on. He dismissed the police car, and walked into the main terminal building.
Inside, he checked in at the flight desk, confirmed his reservation, then went into the men’s room, still carrying the brass-bound chest. Once in the men’s room he waited until he was alone, then quickly used a key on a side door that led from the lavatory into a narrow rear hall. It was a trick he had used before.
Unobserved in the deserted rear hall, Chan left the terminal carefully, and entered a nearby hangar. There he went into a small room, and opened a black case he had put there some hours before he went to C.V. Soong’s house. He went to work.
Twenty minutes later a portly Chinese with a small beard and dark glasses came out of the room wearing a black Mao suit. The apparent Chinese businessman or official carried a brown canvas suitcase of the type favored by proletarian functionaries, and a chest under his arm. This ‘official’ went back to the front of the terminal building and caught a taxi into Honolulu.
Once downtown again, Chan, in his disguise, had lunch at a small restaurant he knew well. He appeared oblivious to all that went on in the restaurant, but actually observed everyone who entered or left. He saw no one suspicious. His meal finished, he left and caught another taxi back to the airport in time to catch the second of the three flights he had reserved on.
On the jet he sat quietly in his seat, assuming an air of aloof disdain for his fellow travelers, and deeply engrossed in a book. It was a common sight, and few people did more than stare at him once.
He remained quiet and wary the entire flight, but no one came near him, and he saw no one watching him. He recognized none of the passengers, not the cautious men in the dark suits, nor anyone who looked like the member of a Tong gang. By the time the jet landed in San Francisco, Chan was sure that no one could have followed him or been waiting for him.
From the San Francisco airport, he took a taxi to a second-class hotel downtown near the bay, The Moreton Hotel. It was a hotel where Inspector Charlie Chan had never stayed, where no one who knew Chan would ever look for him. He checked in, and went up to his room. He was now in San Francisco, and no one knew he was there. No one knew where the box was with the scroll in it.
Now anyone who wanted to steal the scroll would have to be waiting somewhere near The Temple Of The Golden Horde for him to appear carrying the brass-bound chest. When, and if, they did, Chan and the police would be ready. The trap was set and baited.
For tomorrow.
Tonight Chan had nothing to do but relax while everyone else sweated and wondered where he was.
He showered, and then went down to an obscure restaurant he knew where they had excellent Chinese cuisine. Feeling pleased with his efforts, he treated himself to the best Mandarin duck, delicately fried shrimp with none of the Cantonese thick crust of batter, and crisp Mandarin vegetables.
After dinner he went for a stroll in the foggy winter night near the bay. All that remained to do was contact Lieutenant Forbes and complete the trap. When he returned to his room he felt sure that tomorrow he would know, one way or the other, if Benny Chan and Angela Smith had died for the sacred scrolls.
Humming to himself, he stepped into his room and saw too late that his canvas suitcase was open!
The arm went around his throat, thin and muscular, and the hand pressed his neck in a skilled judo attack.
XIII
CHARLIE CHAN lay in the dark unmoving. The room was black now. He was on a floor, and he lay immobile while his keen senses probed out to assess his situation. There was no sound, no movement, in the room, and yet he sensed he was not alone! Someone was in the room.
Very slowly, Chan let his eyes look all around. Finally, his glance rested on a chair far across the darkened room. There was faint light from the street below, and he saw a shape seated in the chair.
Chan waited. He didn’t move a muscle. The figure in the chair didn’t move either. Chan still waited. He tried to quiet his breathing and listen. He heard nothing, only the very faint sound of his own breathing. Still the figure in the chair across the dark room never moved.
Quickly, Chan stood up and flicked the light switch in the same fluid movement.
The Khan, Li Po, sat in an armchair across the room. The thin leader of The Golden Horde seemed to be scowling at Chan. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t scowling at anything. The hilt of a Chinese dagger protruded from his chest.
Chan crossed quickly to him. There was no need for haste. Blood covered the front of his Oriental robe. The Khan was dead.
For a moment, Chan stood there unbelieving. How had the killer found him? How had the Khan found him? Why? He reached to touch the dead man. The Khan’s body was still warm. No more than twenty minutes, perhaps less.
Chan whirled. The chest of the scroll was gone!
The killer had taken the scroll, but what had the Khan, been doing in the hotel room in the first place? Had he followed the man who killed him? Followed someone he had suddenly discovered was trying to steal the sacred scrolls, caught that person in the act of stealing the scroll, and so been killed?
But how had the thief, the killer, anyone, located where the scroll was? How had anyone found him? Chan was certain that he could not have been followed - and yet, he must have been.
Grimly, Chan turned to the telephone, picked up the receiver, and called the police. He asked for Captain Wade, gave his name. Wade came on at once.
“Charlie? This is the social call? Where do we meet?”
“Sorry to say, this isn’t social, Mort. Very much business. I’m in a room at The Moreton Hotel. I’ve got a dead body with me; the Khan of that Golden Horde Temple. You had better come with your people.”
“In your room?”
“Yes, my room. Also there’s been a theft -“
Chan stopped, blinked. He stared across the room to a dark corner near the door.
“Charlie?” Captain Mort Wade said from the other end of the line. “Are you okay? Charlie?”
“Yes, I am fine. Come quickly!”
“On my way.”
Chan hung up, and crossed the room to the dark corner near the door. He stared down. The brass-bound chest lay there on the floor.
Chan blinked slowly like an owl. Then he bent and saw that the key was in the lock. He opened the lid. The scroll was inside, intact.
He stood up slowly, looked at the box, then at the dead Khan, and a puzzled expression settled on his pale ivory face. He remained in deep thought until the police arrived.
Captain Mort Wade watched the Medical Examiner’s men take out the body of Li Po, Khan of The Golden Horde Temple.
“Single knife wound in the heart; never made a sound when it hit, the M.E. says,” Wade told Chan. “Obviously the work of someone who knew how to use a knife. About an hour ago now. Does that put the time about when you were attacked?”
“Very close, yes,” Chan said. “The man who attacked me also knew how to use judo and karate. He pressured the exactly proper point on my neck.”
“So far no reports from the hotel on seeing anyone,” Wade said. “From the sound of the killer or killers, I’ve got a hunch we won’t be getting any reports. An expert.”
“Trained in the martial arts,” Chan said quietly. “Like an agent of intelligence-service, or a Tong assassin.”
“Yeah,” Wade agreed.
Chan was seated in the room that was full of San Francisco policemen now. Wade sat down facing him. The Captain seemed worried, puzzled.
“You came here from Honolulu carrying the scroll, sure no one followed you. Yet you were attacked in this room, and the Khan was murdered here.”
“I used every skill to be sure no one followed, but obviously my skills were not good enough,” Chan said.
> “No, I don’t believe that Charlie. If you made sure no one could follow you, then no one could have. You’re too good to make some stupid mistake. Your idea was to set yourself up as bait to see if anyone would try to steal the scroll?”
“The plan was to begin tomorrow,” Chan said. “The shark struck before the bait was out, and it is now clear that the theft of the scroll is not the aim of killer.”
“I guess not,” Wade agreed. “Then what is behind it all? Something to do with that Temple? Some enemy of the cult? Maybe something they were doing down there?”
“All three victims were closely associated with the Temple Of The Golden Horde,” Chan observed. “Each murder points more to some motive close to cult. Have you any results of the investigations I requested, Captain?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Wade said. “I was getting a report typed up tomorrow to send to you in Honolulu, but I can give you most of it right now.”
“Please do so!”
The Captain opened his notebook. “Nothing much on Betty Chan. Born here, went to high school in Chinatown, was married briefly to a kid name Jang Shi, but it didn’t take, she got it annulled after a few months. The kid’s real name was George Shi, he Chinese-ized it when he ran with a street gang in Chinatown. Anyway, the Chan girl broke up the marriage, got a couple of waitress jobs, and finally ended up in that book store. It’s kind of a Chinese Culture book store, they seem to like her there, and that’s it. No record, no past troubles I know.”
“Where is her ex-husband?”
“No idea, he seems to have faded out. It wasn’t much of a marriage; the boy doesn’t seem to have ever held a job. If he’s still around Chinatown, he’s in the shadows. That’s not so hard to do down there.”
“No, it can be a labyrinth,” Chan said thoughtfully. “What, then, of Madame Li and Carleton Sedgwick?”
“Not much on Madame Li. She only married the Khan a few years ago, came up from Los Angeles, and we’re still checking,” Wade said, “but Sedgwick’s something else. He came from back East maybe ten years ago after a shady deal involving stock manipulations. Not enough to get him disbarred, or jailed, but the kind of deal that got him fired by a blue-ribbon law firm. Seems he was a real law-school hotshot, was taken on by this topflight firm. After about two years they caught him pulling a deal for himself on hush-hush info he got in a client relationship.
Charlie Chan in the Temple of the Golden Horde Page 7
