Behind That Curtain (24 page)

At about the same time, Barry Kirk was going blithely up the steps of his grandmother's handsome house on Pacific Heights. The old lady greeted him in the drawing-room.

“Hello,” she said. “How do you happen to be up and about so early? And wide awake, if I can believe my failing eyesight.”

“Detective work,” he laughed.

“Good. What can I do for you? I seem to have been left entirely out of things, and it annoys me.”

“Well, you're still out, so don't get up any false hopes,” he returned. “I'm not here to consult with you, wise as I know you to be. I'm looking for Mrs. Tupper-Brock. Where is she?”

“She's upstairs. What do you want with her?”

“I want to take her for a little ride—down to see Miss Morrow.”

“Oh, so that young woman is still asking questions? She seems a bit lacking in results, so far.”

“Is that so? Well, give her time.”

“I rather fancy she'll need a lot of it. Mixing up in affairs that should be left to the men—”

“You're a traitor to your sex. I think it's mighty fine of her to be where she is. Give this little girl a great big hand.”

“Oh, I imagine she doesn't lack for applause when you are about. You seem very much taken with her.”

“I am, and don't forget it. Now, how about calling Mrs. Tupper-Brock? Please tell her to come, and bring her hyphen.”

Mrs. Kirk gave him a scornful look, and departed. In a few minutes the secretary appeared in the room. Poised and cool, as always, she greeted Barry Kirk without enthusiasm.

“Good morning,” he said. “I'm sorry to disturb you, but Miss Morrow—you met her at my dinner—would like to see you. If you can come now, I'll drive you down in my car.”

“Why, of course,” returned the woman calmly. “I'll be just a moment.”

She went out, and Mrs. Kirk reappeared. “What's the matter with that boy of Sally Jordan's?” she demanded. “I thought he'd have this thing solved long ago. I've been watching the papers like a bargain hunter.”

“Oh, Charlie's all right,” Kirk said. “He's slow, but sure.”

“He's slow enough,” admitted the old lady. “You might tell him that I'm growing impatient.”

“That'll speed him up,” Kirk smiled.

“I wish something would,” his grandmother snapped. “What's all this about Helen? Surely she's not entangled in the case?”

“I'm not free to say, one way or another. Tell me, have you given Colonel Beetham that money yet?”

“No—but I believe I will.”

“Take my advice and hold off for a few days.”

“What? He isn't in it, is he? Why—he's a gentleman.”

“Just take my advice—” began Kirk. Mrs. Tupper-Brock was in the hall, waiting for him.

“Now you've got me all excited,” complained Mrs. Kirk.

“That's bad, at your age,” Kirk said. “Calm down.”

“What do you mean—my age? I read of a woman the other day who is a hundred and two.”

“Well, there's a mark to shoot at,” Kirk told her. “So long. See you later.”

Mrs. Tupper-Brock sat at his side in the roadster, stiff and obviously not inclined to talk. A few remarks on the weather yielding no great flood of conversation, Kirk abandoned the effort. They rode on in silence, and finally he ushered her into Miss Morrow's office.

The deputy district attorney made a charming picture against that gloomy background. Such was not, however, her aim at the moment. Alert and businesslike she greeted Mrs. Tupper-Brock and indicated a chair beside her desk.

“Sit down, please. So good of you to come. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you?”

“Not in the least,” the woman replied, seating herself. There was a moment's silence.

“You know, of course, that we are hunting the murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce,” Miss Morrow began.

“Naturally,” Mrs. Tupper-Brock's tone was cool. “Why did you wish to see me?”

“I wondered whether you have any information that might help us.”

“That's hardly likely,” responded Mrs. Tupper-Brock. She took out a lace-edged handkerchief and began to turn it slowly in her hands.

“No, perhaps not,” Miss Morrow smiled. “Still, we are not justified in ignoring anyone in this terrible affair. Sir Frederic was a complete stranger to you?”

“Yes, quite. I met him for the first time on that Tuesday night.”

“Did you also meet Colonel Beetham for the first time that night?”

The handkerchief was suddenly a tiny ball in her hand. “No—I did not.”

“You had met him before?”

“Yes. At Mrs. Dawson Kirk's. He had been to the house frequently.”

“Of course. You and the Colonel are quite good friends, I hear. Perhaps you knew him before he came to San Francisco?”

“No, I did not.”

“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.

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 knows 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.”