Fifty Candles (6 page)

“There's a back stairs?” suggested Barnes.

“Ah, yes,” replied Hung, “a back stairs, leading through the kitchen of Mrs. MacShane. If I had passed that way—”

“He didn't,” said the old woman. “I never left the kitchen from five this afternoon till I come in here. I saw nothing of Hung. He speaks the truth.”

Barnes stood staring at Hung through his vivid little eyes, but the eyes of the Chinaman gave back no answering gleam. Still the detective played with the pack of white cards in his hand.

“We're getting nowhere,” pouted Carlotta Drew. “I must say I feel faint and weak. Surely we may be excused now.”

“Not yet!” snapped Barnes. “I'm sorry. I believe you've had no dinner. If Mrs. MacShane here could make us all a cup of coffee—?”

“I can that,” said Mrs. MacShane.

“Go and help,” said Barnes to Hung, and the latter, after a moment of open defiance, turned slowly on his velvet-shod feet and followed the old woman to the kitchen.

Barnes stood in deep thought, looking from one to another of the group that remained. His eye as it met mine was cold and calculating, and I knew that if he could fix a semblance of guilt on my head, he would do it.

A man prominent in San Francisco life was murdered. There would be an outcry in the newspapers, and an arrest must be made to save the face of the police—the guilty man if possible; if not, someone who seemed guilty.

“Let's go back,” he said with sudden decision. “Henry Drew was giving a birthday party tonight. I noticed, Mr. Drew, that when you saw the cake with the fifty candles you appeared surprised. I take it this was not your father's birthday.”

“It most certainly was not,” Mark Drew replied. “If you will consult the family Bible in the library, you will find that my father was born not in December, but in March. He was sixty-nine years old last March.”

“Sixty-nine,” mused Barnes. “Yet this was somebody's fiftieth birthday—somebody Henry Drew thought highly enough of to honor with a party. Whose birthday was it? Mrs. Drew—do you know?”

“I do not,” said Carlotta Drew. “My husband confided few of his affairs to me.”

“Yes? Well, I guess we can take it for granted that the person in whose honor the party was given was to be among the guests.” Barnes held up the little pack of white cards. “I've got here the place cards for the party, which I gathered up from the table.” Ile began to read. “Mr. Winthrop—you're not fifty. Miss Tellfair—I don't need to ask. Doctor Parker—er—how about you?”

“Not guilty,” Parker said. “It's not my birthday, and Mr. Drew wouldn't have given me a party if it were.”

Barnes held up another card, and for a long moment gazed at the face of Carlotta Drew. He must have seen the lines and wrinkles that even the best of makeups could not completely hide.

“If you will pardon me, Mrs. Drew—”

“I have already told you,” answered Carlotta Drew angrily, “I do not know whose birthday it is.”

“Well, no offense,” smiled Barnes. “That leaves me just one card—the card of the guest who for some reason or other has not come to the party, Doctor Su Yen Hun. The other partner in the Yunnan mine, I believe.”

“So I understand,” said I.

“Do you know him?”

“I met him four years ago in Shanghai.”

“He was a partner in the fraud you claim was practiced on you?”

“I understand he was a partner in all of Drew's shady deals.”

“An interesting guest. I'd like to see him.” Barnes turned to the patrolman, who was still waiting. “Riley, before I let you go back to your beat, do this for me. Go to Su Yen Hun's house—you know, the big Chinese millionaire—it's just round the corner on Post Street. Give Su my compliments and ask him to step over here a minute.”

“Yes, sir,” said Riley and promptly disappeared.

“I can tell you in advance—this is not Su's fiftieth birthday,” Mark Drew said. “He's a very old man—eighty or more.”

“I know he is,” Barnes answered, “but he's worth a question or two anyhow. Now while you people are waiting for your coffee, I'll have a look about the upstairs.” He paused at the foot of the stairway. “Myers is in front, and Murphy's in the garden,” he smiled. “Good men, both of them. So keep your seats.”

As the detective walked briskly up the stairs, I was startled to see Mary Will's eyes following him, wide and frightened. I went quickly to her side, but before I could speak, Doctor Parker cut in.

“That is an outrage!” he cried. He rose and walked angrily up and down. “Why should I be held here? I came to this house for a party, not an inquest. When that fool detective comes back, I'm going to demand that he let me go.”

Mark Drew answered in a low, surprisingly hostile tone. “I would not call that fool detective's attention to myself if I were you.”

“What do you mean by that?” snarled Parker, turning on him.

“Lost in the fog,” smiled Drew. “Not much of an alibi, Doctor, if you ask me.”

“Do you dare to insinuate—”

“That you would injure my father? When have you ever done anything else?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, don't you? I mean you are too eager, my dear Doctor—you and this woman here—to fasten the crime on the head of a young man who may or may not be guilty. Don't think you can fool me. Don't think I can't read you—the pair of you. You have made the last years of my father's life a hell. And what does his death mean to you? This woman with a big share of my father's money—and no more need of secrecy. Take care, Doctor Parker. I'm telling you, the fog is a rotten alibi.”

“You're a lawyer,” Parker cried. “You know I could have you in court for talk like that.”

“Don't worry,” said Drew. “Before this affair is ended you'll have me in court—or I'll have you!”

They faced each other, evidently on the verge of blows. But over Drew's shoulder, Doctor Parker caught a look from the eyes of Carlotta Drew and, backing away, he stepped to the window. I turned to Mary Will. She seemed to have heard nothing; her gaze had never left the head of the stairs.

“Mary Will—what is it—what's the matter?” I said softly.

“Oh, go away—please go away!” she whispered. “They mustn't see us talking together now!”

Without question I did as she asked. But I was filled with amazement. How was Mary Will involved in the murder of Henry Drew?

While Detective Barnes was upstairs, fifteen or twenty minutes passed, duly recorded by the busy clock in the hall. Gloomy with foreboding, I sat staring at a Chinese print on the wall. It was a cheery little thing, representing an execution. I wondered about the most vitally interested party, who appeared to have completely lost his head. Was he guilty? Or had he, an innocent man, been caught up in a net of circumstantial evidence while the real culprit went free? It was for me a most interesting question.

The bald little detective was coming down the stairs. His face was very serious; he held one hand behind his back. Mary Will was staring at him, fascinated, and to my surprise he walked straight up to her.

“If you don't mind, Miss Tellfair,” he said, “we will go back to your story for a moment.”

“Yes,” breathed Mary Will. All color vas gone from her face.

“Your room upstairs—it's the blue room to the left, on the second floor?”

“It is.”

“When you went up to get the smelling-salts for Mrs. Drew, you took the time to go first to your own room, didn't you?”

“I—I did.”

“You wanted to hide something?”

“Yes.”

“Something you had picked up from the side of the dead man in the dining room?”

Mary Will nodded; her face was the color of that tablecloth old Drew had seized in his last moment of life.

“You don't seem to be up on this sort of thing, my girl,” Barnes went on. “Under your mattress was a pretty obvious place.”

He brought his hand round from behind his back, and when I saw what the hand held, I had difficulty repressing the cry that rose to my lips. For the detective held a small Chinese knife, with a handle of grape jade, carved in the shape of some heathen god. It was unique, that knife. There could hardly be another like it in the world. I had bought it from a merchant far in the interior of China, and on the boat coming over I had shown it to several people, Mary Will included.

“It was the worst thing I could have done.” Mary Will was sobbing now. “But I was so excited—I had no time to think.”

Out of the murk of tule-fog and hatred and murder, one dazzling thing flashed clear—and nothing else mattered. I was a happy man.

“You did that for me!” I cried. “Mary Will—you're wonderful!”

“Then this is your knife?” Barnes broke in, holding it before me.

“No question about it,” said I.

“How do you account for the fact that it was found beside the dead man?”

I turned in time to catch the look that passed between Parker and Carlotta Drew, and hot anger filled my heart.

“It was stolen, of course,” I said.

“Of course,” smiled the detective.

“I had not missed it yet,” I went on, “but it must have been taken from my luggage, in the stateroom, sometime today. There were just two men who had access to that luggage. One was the dead man, who could hardly have taken it.”

“And the other?” cried Mark Drew suddenly.

“The other,” said I, “was Doctor Parker, who at seven-thirty tonight claims he was lost in the fog.”

“Nonsense!” said Parker. “What motive—”

“Motive enough!” cried Mark Drew angrily. “A secret love-affair with my father's wife that has been going on for more than a year. A lust for money that is famous on the China coast—along with your well-known lack of scruples in stopping at nothing to get it. Motive, my dear Doctor—”

“You think,” sneered Parker, “that I would paw over this man's luggage—that I would steal his silly knife?”

“Why not? A man who would steal another's wife would hardly stop at the theft of a little weapon like this!” Drew turned to the detective. “Sergeant Barnes, this man claims that at the time the crime was committed, he was walking from his hotel to this house. There are good pavements, good sidewalks, all the way. Let me call your attention to his shoes. They are unbelievably wet; they are muddy.”

“Rot!” snarled Parker. “That means nothing. The sidewalk was torn up before a new building. I couldn't see where I was going. I got rather deep into the water and mud.”

“You are in rather deep, my friend,” cried Drew. “I'll grant you that.”

Other hot words passed between them, but I did not listen. I had turned to Mary Will.

“Whatever happens,” I said, “I shan't forget what you tried to do for me.”

“Oh—it was all wrong,” she whispered. “I see that now. I have harmed you dreadfully—and I only meant to help. I did it on the spur of the moment. Why I did it I can't imagine.”

“Can't you? I can. Your first instinct was to protect the man you love.”

“No—no,” she protested.

“Poor Mary Will. All your denials won't avail now. The deed is done. You supposed that I had lost my head and killed Henry Drew.”

“It was silly of me—I didn't stop to think. And everything looked against you—I saw you running out of the window.”

“Everything is still against me. Are you, Mary Will? Look at me.” She raised her eyes to mine. “Mary Will—I did not kill Drew. You believe that, don't you?”

“I believe it,” she answered. “Nothing will ever make me change.”

“That's all I wanted to know,” I cried.

All my depression, all my gloom was gone, and it was in almost a gay mood that I turned to face the detective. He had waved aside Mark Drew's insinuations against Parker and was standing before me.

“Mr. Winthrop,” he said, “you had quarreled with the dead man. You claim that he and his partner, Doctor Su, had defrauded you. You admit all that. You admit that this is your knife which your sweetheart—this young woman—found by the body.”

“Yes,” I replied, “that's all true. I admit also that things look rather badly for me. But in spite of all you have discovered, I did not kill Henry Drew. As you go further into the matter you must find that out yourself. Surely there must be some other evidence—I don't know what it can be. Perhaps when you have talked with Doctor Su Yen Hun, he can throw some light—”

The door opened and Riley came into the room. His great red face proclaimed him the bearer of news.

“Sergeant,” he cried, “I went to Doctor Su's house, as ye told me to—”

“Yes, Riley.”

“The place was dark. I rung the bell four times—mebbe five—nobody answered. I knew it was important, so I went round to the back. The kitchen door was open—”

“Go on.”

“I went inside. Sergeant—there wasn't a livin’ thing in the house. Not one. But he was there. Doctor Su Yen Hun, I mean. He was layin’ dead in the middle of the library floor. Somebody'd got to him an’ stuck a knife between his ribs!”

My heart seemed to stop beating. A moment of dreadful silence fell.

“Did you examine the wound?” Barnes inquired.

“I did,” said Riley, proud of himself. “An’ it was exactly like the one poor Mr. Drew got. Yes, Sergeant—if you ask me, the same hand done for ‘em both. I waited till Detective Curry arrived, an’ then—”

“Yes, Riley. Thanks. You'd better go back to your beat.” As Riley went out Barnes turned to me. “This was Drew's partner in the Yunnan mine,” he said. “The other man you say had cheated you?”

I tried to speak but the words would not come.

“Mr. Winthrop,” the detective went on. “I'm sorry, but I have no other course—”

“Wait a minute.” It was Mark Drew who spoke. “I beg your pardon, Sergeant. You are conducting this case, I know, but naturally my interest is keen. I tell you flatly I do not believe this young man is guilty of my father's murder.”

“Thank you, Mr. Drew,” I said.

“It's an old saying and a true one,” Barnes remarked, “that there's a motive behind every killing. Find that motive and you've got your man. The motive in this case is clear: revenge.”

“But there's another one of us who may have had a motive,” said Drew. His eyes were on Parker.

“I can't arrest a man because his shoes are muddy,” replied Barnes peevishly. “You know that. No, everything points to this young fellow. He had the motive. His story of his actions after the crime is ridiculous. His knife was found—”