Behind That Curtain (9 page)

“Calm your distress,” said Chan soothingly. “It is a matter to
note, that is all. It proves that the quest of Eve Durand held important place in murderer's mind. You must, then, cherchez la femme. You understand?”

“Hunt the woman,” said Miss Morrow.

“You have it. And in such an event, a huntress will be far better than a hunter. Let us think of guests at party. Mr. Kirk, you have said a portion of these people are there because Sir Frederic requested their presence. Which?”

“The Enderbys,” replied Kirk promptly. “I didn't know them. But Sir Frederic wanted them to come.”

“That has deep interest. The Enderbys. Mrs. Enderby approached state of hysteria all evening. Fear of dark might mean fear of something else. Is it beyond belief that Eve Durand, with new name, marries again into bigamy?”

“But Eve Durand was a blonde,” Miss Morrow reminded him.

“Ah, yes. And Eileen Enderby has hair like night. It is, I am told, a matter that is easily arranged. Color of hair may be altered, but color of eyes—that is different. And Mrs. Enderby's eyes are blue, matching oddly raven locks.”

“Never miss a trick, do you?” smiled Kirk.

“Mrs. Enderby goes to garden, sees man on fire-escape. So she informs us. But does she? Or does she know her husband, smoking cigarette on stairs, has not been so idly occupied? Is man on fire-escape a myth of her invention, to protect her husband? Why are stains on her gown? From leaning with too much hot excitement against garden rail, damp with the fog of night? Or from climbing herself onto fire-escape—you apprehend my drift? What other guests did Sir Frederic request?”

Kirk thought. “He asked me to invite Gloria Garland,” the young man announced.

Chan nodded. “I expected it. Gloria Garland—such is not a name likely to fall to human lot. Sounds like a manufacture. And Australia
is so placed on map it might be appropriate end of journey from Peshawar. Blonde, blue-eyed, she breaks necklace on the stair. Yet you discover a pearl beneath the office desk.”

Miss Morrow nodded. “Yes—Miss Garland certainly is a possibility.”

“There remains,” continued Chan, “Mrs. Tupper-Brock. A somewhat dark lady—but who knows? Sir Frederic did not ask her presence?”

“No—I don't think he knew she existed,” said Kirk.

“Yes? But it is wise in our work, Miss Morrow, that even the smallest improbabilities be studied. Men stumble over pebbles, never over mountains. Tell me, Mr. Kirk—was Colonel John Beetham the idea of Sir Frederic, too?”

“Not at all. And now that I remember, Sir Frederic seemed a bit taken aback when he heard Beetham was coming. But he said nothing.”

“We have now traversed the ground. You have, Miss Morrow, three ladies to receive your most attentive study—Mrs. Enderby, Miss Garland, Mrs. Tupper-Brock. All of proper age, so near as a humble man can guess it in this day of beauty rooms with their appalling tricks. These only of the dinner party—”

“And one outside the dinner party,” added the girl, to Chan's surprise.

“Ah—on that point I have only ignorance,” he said blankly.

“You remember the elevator operator spoke of a girl employed by the Calcutta Importers, on the twentieth floor? A Miss Lila Barr. She was at work in her office there last night.”

“Ah, yes,” nodded Chan.

“Well, a newspaper man, Rankin of the Globe, came to see me a few minutes ago. He said that the other evening—night before last—he went to call on Sir Frederic in Mr. Kirk's office, rather late. Just as he approached the door, a girl came out. She was crying.
Rankin saw her dab at her eyes and disappear into the room of the Calcutta Importers. A blonde girl, he said.”

Chan's face was grave. “A fourth lady to require your kind attention. The matter broadens. So much to be done—and you in the midst of it all, like a pearl in a muddy pool.” He stood up. “I am sorry. But the
Maui
must even now be straining at her moorings—”

“One other thing,” put in the girl. “You made quite a point of that Cosmopolitan Club year-book lying beside Sir Frederic. You thought it important?”

Chan shrugged. “I fear I was in teasing mood. I believed it hardest puzzle of the lot. Therefore I am mean enough to press it on Captain Flannery's mind. What it meant, I can not guess. Poor Captain Flannery will never do so.”

He looked at his watch. The girl rose. “I won't keep you longer,” she sighed. “I'm very busy, but somehow I can't let you go. I'm trailing along to the dock with you, if you don't mind. Perhaps I'll think of something else on the way.”

“Who am I,” smiled Chan, “to win such overwhelming honor? You behold me speechless with delight, Mr. Kirk.”

“Oh, I'm going along,” said Kirk. “Always like to see a boat pull out. The Lord meant me for a traveling salesman.”

Chan got his bag, paid his bill, and the three of them entered Kirk's car, parked round the corner.

“Now that the moment arrives,” said Chan, “I withdrew from this teeming mainland with some regret. Fates have been in smiling mood with me here.”

“Why go?” suggested Kirk.

“Long experience,” replied Chan, “whispers not to strain fates too far. Their smile might fade.”

“Want to stop anywhere on the way?” Kirk asked. “You've got thirty minutes until sailing time.”

“I am grateful, but all my farewells are said. Only this morning
I have visited Chinatown—” He stopped. “So fortunate you still hang on,” he added to the girl. “I was forgetting most important information for you. Still another path down which you must travel.”

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “I'm dizzy now. What next?”

“You must at once inflict this information on Captain Flannery. He is to find a Chinese, a stranger here, stopping with relatives on Jackson Street. The name, Li Gung.”

“Who is Li Gung?” asked Miss Morrow.

“Yesterday, when delicious lunch was ended, I hear of Li Gung from Sir Frederic.” He repeated his conversation with the great man. “Li Gung had information much wanted by Sir Frederic. That alone I can say. Captain Flannery must extract this information from Li!”

“He'll never get it,” replied the girl pessimistically. “Now you, Sergeant—”

Chan drew a deep breath. “I am quite overcome,” he remarked, “by the bright loveliness of this morning on which I say farewell to the mainland.”

They rode on in silence, while the girl thought hard. If only she could find some way of reaching this stolid man by her side, some appeal that would not roll off like water from a duck's back. She hastily went over in her mind all she had ever read of the Chinese character.

Kirk drove his smart roadster onto the pier, a few feet from the Maui's gang-plank. The big white ship was gay with the color of women's hats and frocks. Taxis were sweeping up, travelers were alighting, white-jacketed stewards stood in a bored line ready for another sailing. Good-bys and final admonitions filled the air.

A steward stepped forward and took Chan's bag. “Hello, Sergeant,” he said. “Going home, eh? What room, please?”

Chan told him, then turned to the young people at his side. “At thought of your kindness,” he remarked, “I am choking. Words escape me. I can only say—good-by.”

“Give my regards to the youngest Chan,” said Kirk. “Perhaps I'll see him some day.”

“Reminding me,” returned Chan, “that only this morning I scour my brain to name him. With your kind permission, I will denote him Barry Chan.”

“I'm very much flattered,” Kirk answered gravely. “Wish to heaven I had something to send him—er—a mug—or a what-you-may-call-it. You'll hear from me later.”

“I only trust,” Chan said, “he grows up worthy of his name. Miss Morrow—I am leaving on this dock my heartiest good wishes—”

She looked at him oddly. “Thank you,” she remarked in a cool voice. “I wish you could have stayed, Mr. Chan. But of course I realize your point of view. The case was too difficult. For once, Charlie Chan is running away. I'm afraid the famous Sergeant of the Honolulu police has lost face today.”

A startled expression crossed that usually bland countenance. For a long moment Chan looked at her with serious eyes, then he bowed, very stiffly. “I wish you good-by,” he said, and walked with offended dignity up the gang-plank.

Kirk was staring at the girl in amazement. “Don't look at me like that,” she cried ruefully. “It was cruel, but it was my last chance. I'd tried everything else. Well, it didn't work. Shall we go?”

“Oh—let's wait,” pleaded Kirk. “They're sailing in a minute. I always get a thrill out of it. Look—up there on the top deck.” He nodded toward a pretty girl in gray, with a cluster of orchids pinned to her shoulder. “A bride, if you ask me. And I suppose that vacant-faced idiot at her side is the lucky man.”

Miss Morrow looked, without interest.

“A great place for a honeymoon, Hawaii,” went on Kirk. “I've often thought—I hope I'm not boring you?”

“Not much,” she said.

“I know. Brides leave you cold. I suppose divorce is more in your line. You and Blackstone. Well, you shan't blast my romantic young nature.” He took out a handkerchief and waved it toward the girl on the top deck. “So long, my dear,” he called. “All the luck in the world.”

“I don't see Mr. Chan,” said the young woman from the district attorney's office.

Mr. Chan was sitting thoughtfully on the edge of the berth in his stateroom, far below. The great happiness of his long anticipated departure for home had received a rude jolt. Running away—was that it? Afraid of a difficult case? Did Miss Morrow really think that? If she did, then he had lost face indeed.

His gloomy reactions were interrupted by a voice in the next stateroom—a voice he had heard before. His heart stood still as he listened.

“I fancy that's all, Li,” said the familiar voice. “You have your passport, your money. You are simply to wait for me in Honolulu. Better lie low there.”

“I will do so,” replied a high-pitched, singsong voice.

“And if any one asks any questions, you know nothing. Understand?”

“Yes-s-s. I am silent. I understand.”

“Very good. You're a wonderful servant, Li Gung. I don't like to flatter you, you grinning beggar, but I couldn't do without you. Good-by—and a pleasant journey.”

Chan was on his feet now, peering out into the dim passageway along which opened the rooms on the lowest deck. In that faint light he saw a familiar figure emerge from the room next door, and disappear in the distance.

The detective stood for a moment, undecided. Of all the guests at Barry Kirk's party, one had interested him beyond all others—almost to the exclusion of the others. The tall, grim, silent man who had made his camps throughout the wastelands of the world, who had left a trail of the dead but who had always moved on, relentlessly, toward his goal. Colonel John Beetham, whom he had just seen emerging from the stateroom next to his with a last word of farewell to Li Gung.

Chan looked at his watch. It was never his habit to hurry, but he must hurry now. He sighed a great sigh that rattled the glasses in their rings, and snatched up his bag. On the saloon deck he met the purser.

“Homeward bound, Charlie?” inquired that gentleman breezily.

“So I thought,” replied Chan, “but it seems I was mistaken. At the last moment, I am rudely wrenched ashore. Yet I have ticket good only on this boat.”

“Oh, they'll fix that up for you at the office. They all know you, Charlie.”

“Thanks for the suggestion. My trunk is already loaded. Will you kindly deliver same to my oldest son, who will call for it when you have docked at Honolulu?”

“Sure.” The “visitors ashore” call was sounding for the last time. “Don't you linger too long on this wicked mainland, Charlie,” the purser admonished.

“One week only,” called Chan, over his shoulder. “Until the next boat. I swear it.”

On the dock, Miss Morrow seized Kirk's arm. “Look. Coming down the gang-plank. Colonel Beetham. What's he doing here?”

“Beetham—sure enough,” said Kirk. “Shall I offer him a lift? No—he's got a taxi. Let him go. He's a cold proposition—I like him not.” He watched the Colonel enter a cab and ride off.

When he turned back to the Maui, two husky sailors were about
to draw up the plank. Suddenly between them appeared a chubby little figure, one hand clutching a suitcase. Miss Morrow gave a cry of delight.

“It's Chan,” Kirk said. “He's coming ashore.”

And ashore Charlie came, while they lifted the plank at his heels. He stood before the two young people, ill at ease.

“Moment of gentle embarrassment for me,” he said. “The traveler who said good-by is back before he goes.”

“Mr. Chan,” the girl cried, “you dear! You're going to help us, after all.”

Chan nodded. “To the extent of my very slight ability, I am with you to finish, bitter or sweet.”

On the top deck of the
Maui
the band began to play—Aloha, that most touching of farewells. Long streamers of bright-colored paper filled the air. The last good-bye, the final admonitions—a loud voice calling “Don't forget to write.” Charlie Chan watched, a mist before his eyes. Slowly the boat drew away from the pier. The crowd ran along beside it, waving frantically. Charlie's frame shook with another ponderous sigh.

“Poor little Barry Chan,” he said. “He would have been happy to see me. Captain Flannery will not be so happy. Let us ride away into the face of our problems.”

Barry Kirk tossed Chan's suitcase into the luggage compartment of his roadster, and the trio crowded again onto its single seat. The car swung about in the pier shed and emerged into the bright sunlight of the Embarcadero.