Behind That Curtain (11 page)

“Well—of course I know now it was. I saw his picture in this morning's paper.”

“He was alone in the office when you went in?”

“Yes.”

“Was he the person you went there to see?”

“No, he was not.”

“When you left the office, you burst into tears.” Again the girl started, and her face flushed. “Was it seeing Sir Frederic made you do that?”

“Oh, no,” cried Miss Barr, with more spirit.

“Then what was it made you cry?”

“It was—a purely personal matter. Surely I needn't go into it?”

“I'm afraid you must,” Miss Morrow told her. “This is a serious affair, you know.”

The girl hesitated. “Well—I—”

“Tell me all that happened night before last.”

“Well—it wasn't seeing Sir Frederic made me cry,” the girl began. “It was—not seeing someone else.”

“Not seeing someone else? Please explain that.”

“Very well.” The girl moved impulsively toward Miss Morrow. “I can tell you. I'm sure you will understand. Mr. Kinsey, Mr. Kirk's secretary, and I—we are—well—sort of engaged. Every night Mr. Kinsey waits for me, and we have dinner. Then he takes me home. Day before yesterday we had a little quarrel—just over some silly thing—you know how it is—”

“I can imagine,” said Miss Morrow solemnly.

“It was about nothing, really. I waited a long time that evening, and he didn't come for me. So I thought maybe I had been in the wrong. I swallowed my pride and went to look for him. I opened
the door of Mr. Kirk's office and went in. Of course I thought Mr. Kinsey would be there. Sir Frederic was alone in the office—Mr. Kinsey had gone. I muttered some apology—Sir Frederic didn't say anything, he just looked at me. I hurried out again and—perhaps you know the feeling, Miss Morrow—”

“You burst into tears, because Mr. Kinsey hadn't waited?”

“I'm afraid I did. It was silly of me, wasn't it?”

“Well, that doesn't matter.” Miss Morrow was silent for a moment. “The company you work for—it imports from India, I believe?”

“Yes—silk and cotton, mostly.”

“Have you ever been in India, Miss Barr?”

The girl hesitated. “When I was quite young—I lived there for some years—with my mother and father.”

“Where in India?”

“Calcutta, mostly.”

“Other places, too?” The girl nodded. “In Peshawar, perhaps?”

“No,” answered Miss Barr. “I was never in Peshawar.”

Chan coughed rather loudly, and, catching his eye, Miss Morrow dropped the matter of India. “You had never heard of Sir Frederic before he came here?” she asked.

“Oh, no, indeed.”

“And you saw him just that once, when he said nothing at all?”

“Only that once.”

Miss Morrow rose. “Thank you very much. That is all for the present. I trust Mr. Kinsey has apologized?”

The girl smiled. “Oh, yes—that's all right now. Thank you for asking.” She went out quickly.

Barry Kirk had disappeared from the room, and now he returned. “Kinsey's on his way up,” he announced. “Grab him quick before they can compare notes—that was my idea. Getting to be some little detective myself.”

“Excellent,” nodded Miss Morrow approvingly. A tall, dark young man, very well-dressed, came in.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Kirk?” he inquired.

“Yes. Sorry to butt into your private affairs, Kinsey, but I hear you are sort of engaged to a Miss Lila Barr, who works in one of the offices. Did you know about it?”

Kinsey smiled. “Of course, Mr. Kirk. I have been meaning to mention the matter to you, but the opportunity wasn't offered.”

“Day before yesterday you had a bit of a quarrel with her?”

“Oh, it was nothing, sir.” Kinsey's dark face clouded. “It's all fixed up now.”

“That's good. But on that evening, contrary to your custom, you didn't wait to take her home? You walked out on her?”

“I—I'm afraid I did. I was somewhat annoyed—”

“And you wanted to teach her a lesson. What I call the proper spirit. That's all—and please pardon these personal questions.”

“Quite all right, sir.” Kinsey turned to go, but hesitated. “Mr. Kirk—”

“Yes, Kinsey?”

“Nothing, sir,” said Kinsey, and disappeared.

Kirk turned to Miss Morrow. “There you are. The story of Miss Lila Barr, duly authenticated.”

“Such a reasonable story, too,” sighed the girl. “But it gets us nowhere. I must say I'm disappointed. Mr. Chan—you thought I went too far—on India?”

Chan shrugged. “In this game, better if the opponent does not know what we are thinking. Assume great innocence is always my aim. Sometimes what I assume is exactly what I've got. Others—I am flying at a low altitude.”

“I'm afraid I should have flown at a lower altitude than I did,” the girl reflected, frowning. “Her story was perfectly plausible, and yet—I don't know—”

“Well, one thing's certain,” remarked Kirk. “She's not Eve Durand.”

“How do you know that?” asked Miss Morrow.

“Why,—her age. She's a mere kid.”

Miss Morrow laughed. “Lucky a woman is in on this,” she said. “You men are so painfully blind where a blonde is concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean there are certain artifices which fool a man, but never fool a woman. Miss Barr is thirty—at the very least.”

Kirk whistled. “I must be more careful,” he said. “I thought her sweet and twenty.”

He turned to find Paradise at his elbow. The butler had entered noiselessly, and was holding out a silver tray in the manner of one offering rich treasure.

“What shall I do with these, sir?” he inquired.

“Do with what?” Kirk asked.

“Letters addressed to Sir Frederic Bruce, sir. They have just been delivered by the local office of Thomas Cook and Sons.”

Miss Morrow came eagerly forward. “I'll take charge of them,” she said. Paradise bowed, and went out. The girl's eyes sparkled. “We never thought of this, Sergeant. Sir Frederic's mail—it may prove a gold mine.” She held up a letter. “Here—the first thing—one from London. The Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard—”

Quickly she ripped open the envelope and withdrawing a single sheet of paper, spread it out. She gave a little cry of dismay.

Kirk and Charlie Chan came nearer. They stared at the sheet of paper that had arrived in the envelope from Scotland Yard. It was just that—a sheet of paper—completely blank.

Miss Morrow stood, her brows contracted in bewilderment, looking down at the unexpected enclosure she had found in the envelope with the London postmark.

“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “There's just one trouble with this detective business. It's so full of mystery.”

Chan smiled. “Humbly begging pardon to mention it, I would suggest you iron out countenance. Wrinkles might grow there, which would be a heart-breaking pity. Occasional amazing occurrence keeps life spicy. Accept that opinion from one who knows it.”

“But what in the world does this mean?” she asked.

“One thing I am certain it does not mean,” Chan replied. “Scotland Yard in sudden playful mood does not post empty paper over six thousand miles of land and water. No, some queer business has blossomed up near at hand, which it is our duty to unveil.” The girl began to smooth the blank sheet. Chan stretched out a warning hand. Despite his girth, the hand was thin and narrow, with long, tapering fingers. “I beg of you, do not touch further,” he cried. “A great mistake. For although we can not see, there is something on that paper.”

“What?” she inquired.

“Fingerprints,” he answered. Gingerly by one corner he removed the paper from her hand. “The fingerprints, dainty and firm, you have made. The fingerprints, also, perhaps not so dainty, of the person who folded it and put it in envelope.”

“Oh, of course,” said Miss Morrow.

“I am no vast admirer of science in this work,” Chan went on. “But fingerprints tell pretty much truth. Happy to say I have made half-hearted study of the art. In Honolulu, where I am faced by little competition, I rejoice in mouth-filling title of fingerprint expert. Mr. Kirk, have you a drawer with heavy lock, to which you alone hold key?”

“Surely,” replied Kirk. He unlocked a compartment in a handsome Spanish desk, and Chan deposited the paper inside. Kirk turned the key, and removing it from the ring, handed it to Charlie.

“Later,” remarked Chan, “with lamp black and camel's hair brush, I perform like the expert I have been pronounced. Maybe we discover who has been opening Sir Frederic's mail.” He picked up the empty envelope. “Behold—steam has been applied. The marks unquestionable.”

“Steam,” cried Barry Kirk. “But who in the world—oh, I say. Sir Frederic's mail came through the local office of Thomas Cook and Sons.”

“Precisely,” grinned Chan.

“And Mr. Carrick Enderby is employed there.”

Chan shrugged. “You are bright young man. It is not beyond possibility that the mark of Mr. Enderby's large thumb is on that paper. However, speculation is idle thing. Facts must be upearthed. Miss Morrow—may I rudely suggest—the remainder of Sir Frederic's mail?”

“Yes, of course,” said the girl. “I feel rather guilty about this, but when duty calls, you know—”

She sat down and went through the other letters. Obviously her search was without any interesting result.

“Well,” she said finally, “that's that. I leave the matter of the blank sheet of paper to you, Sergeant. For myself, I am going to turn my attention to Miss Gloria Garland. What was that pearl from her necklace doing under the desk beside which Sir Frederic was killed?”

“A wise question,” nodded Chan. “Miss Garland should now be invited to converse. May she prove more pointed talker than Miss Lila Barr.”

“Let me call her up and ask her over here,” suggested Kirk. “I'll tell her I want to have a talk with her in my office about last night's affair. She may arrive a bit less prepared with an explanation than if she knows it's the police who want to see her.”

“Splendid,” approved Miss Morrow. “But I'm afraid we're cutting in most frightfully on your business, Mr. Kirk. You must say so if we are.”

“What business?” he inquired airily. “Like Sergeant Chan, I am now attached to your office. And I'm likely to grow more attached all the time. If you'll pardon me for a moment—”

He went to the telephone and reached Miss Garland at her apartment. The actress agreed to come at once.

As Kirk came away from the telephone, the doorbell rang and Paradise admitted a visitor. Captain Flannery strode into the room.

“Hello,” he said. “You're all here, ain't you? I'd like to look round a bit—if I'm not butting in.”

“Surely no one could be more warmly welcome,” Chan told him.

“Thanks, Sergeant. You solved this problem yet?”

“Not up to date of present speaking,” grinned Chan.

“Well, you're a little slow, ain't you?” Captain Flannery was worried, and not in the best of humor. “I thought from what I've read about you, you'd have the guilty man locked up in a closet for me, by this time.”

Chan's eyes narrowed. “Challenge is accepted,” he answered with spirit. “I have already obliged mainland policemen by filling a few closets with guilty men they could not catch. From my reading in newspapers, there still remains vast amount of work to do in same line.”

“Is that so?” Flannery responded. He turned to Miss Morrow. “Did you talk with the Barr woman?”

“I did,” said the girl. She repeated Lila Barr's story. Flannery heard her out in silence.

“Well,” he remarked when she had finished, “you didn't get much, did you?”

“I'll have to admit I didn't,” she replied.

“Maybe not as much as I could have got—and me not a woman, either. I'm going down now and have a talk with her myself. She don't look good to me. Cried because her fellow went and left her? Perhaps. But if you ask me, it takes more than that to make a woman cry nowadays.”

“You may be right,” Miss Morrow agreed.

“I know I'm right. And let me tell you something else—I'm going to be on hand when you talk with Gloria Garland. Make up your mind to that right now.”

“I shall be glad to have you. Miss Garland is on her way here to meet us in the office downstairs.”

“Fine. I'll go and take a look at this weepy dame. If the Garland woman comes before I'm back, you let me know. I've been in this game thirty years, young woman, and no district attorney's office can freeze me out. When I conduct an investigation, I conduct it.”

He strode from the room. Chan looked after him without enthusiasm. “How loud is the thunder, how little it rains,” he murmured beneath his breath.

“We'd better go to the office,” suggested Kirk. “Miss Garland is likely to arrive at any moment.”

They went below. The sun was blazing brightly in the middle room; the events of the foggy night now passed seemed like a bad dream. Kirk sat down at his desk, opened a drawer, and handed Chan a couple of press clippings.

“Want to look at those?” he inquired. “As I told you this morning, it appears that Sir Frederic was interested, not only in Eve Durand, but in other missing women as well.”

Chan read the clippings thoughtfully, and laid them on the desk. He sighed ponderously. “A far-reaching case,” he remarked, and was silent for a long time.

“A puzzler, even to you,” Kirk said at length.

Chan came to himself with a start. “Pardon, please? What did you say?”

“I said that even the famous Sergeant Chan is up against it this time.”