Behind That Curtain (17 page)

The girl shrugged. “That from you, deacon,” she said, reproachfully.

Chan and Captain Flannery were at the door, and Kirk let them in. The Captain was all business.

“Hello,” he said. “Now if you'll show us that butler's room, Mr. Kirk, well get busy right away. I've brought a few skeleton keys. We'll go over the place like a vacuum cleaner.” Kirk led them into the corridor.

“How about the cook's room?” Flannery added. “We might take a look at that.”

“My cook's a Frenchman,” Kirk explained. “He sleeps out.”

“Humph. He was here the other night at the time of the murder?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I'd better have a talk with him some time.”

“He speaks very little English,” Kirk smiled. “You'll enjoy him.” He left the two in the butler's bedroom, and returned to Miss Morrow.

“I suppose you hate the sight of a kitchen,” he suggested.

“Why should I?”

“Well—a big lawyer like you—”

“But I've studied cook-books, too. You'd be surprised. I can cook the most delicious—”

“Rarebit,” he finished. “I know. And your chocolate fudge was famous at the sorority house. I've heard it before.”

“Please let me finish. I was going to say, pot roast. And my lemon pie is not so bad, either.”

He stood solemnly regarding her. “Lady,” he announced, “you improve on acquaintance. And if that isn't gilding the lily, I don't know what is. Come with me and we'll dig up the tea things.”

She followed him to the kitchen. “I've got a little apartment,” she said. “And when I'm not too tired, I get my own dinner.”

“How are you on Thursday nights?” he asked. “Pretty tired?”

“That depends. Why?”

“Servants' night out. Need I say more?”

Miss Morrow laughed. “I'll remember,” she promised. With deft hands she set the water to boiling, and began to arrange the tea tray. “How neat everything is,” she remarked. “Paradise is a wonder.”

“Tell that to my grandmother,” Kirk suggested. “She believes that a man who lives alone wallows in grime and waste. Every home needs a woman's touch, according to her story.”

“Absurd,” cried the girl.

“Oh, well—grandmother dates back a few years. In her day women were housekeepers. Now they're movie fans, club members, lawyers—what have you? Must have been a rather comfortable age at that.”

“For the men, yes.”

“And men don't count any more.”

“I wouldn't say that. I guess we're ready now.”

Kirk carried the tray to the living-room, and placed it on a low table before the fire. Miss Morrow sat down behind it. He threw a couple of logs onto the glowing embers, then, visiting the dining-room, returned with a bottle, a siphon and glasses.

“Mustn't forget that Captain Flannery doesn't approve of tea,” he said.

Miss Morrow looked toward the passageway. “They'd better hurry, or they'll be late for the party,” she remarked.

But Chan and Flannery did not appear. Outside the March dusk was falling; a sharp wind swept through the little garden and rattled insistently at the casements. Kirk drew the curtains. On the hearth the fresh logs flamed, filling the room with a warm, satisfying glow. He took from Miss Morrow's hand his cup of tea, selected a small cake, and dropped into a chair.

“Cozy—that would be my word for this,” he smiled. “To look at you now, no one would ever suspect that old affair between you and Blackstone.”

“I'm versatile, anyhow,” she said.

“I wonder,” he replied.

“Wonder what?”

“I wonder just how versatile you are. It's a matter I intend to investigate further. I may add that I am regarded throughout the world as the greatest living judge of a lemon pie.”

“You frighten me,” Miss Morrow said.

“If your testimony has been the truth, so help you,” he answered, “what is there to be frightened about?”

At that moment Chan and Flannery appeared in the doorway. The Captain seemed very pleased with himself.

“What luck?” Kirk inquired.

“The best,” beamed Flannery. He carried a piece of paper in his hand. “Ah—shall I help myself?”

“By all means,” Kirk told him. “A congratulatory potion. Mr. Chan—what's yours?”

“Tea, if Miss Morrow will be so kind. Three lumps of sugar and the breath of the lemon in passing.”

The girl prepared his cup. Flannery dropped into a chair.

“I see you've found something,” Kirk suggested.

“I certainly have,” the Captain replied. “I've found the letter from Scotland Yard that Paradise nabbed from the mail.”

“Good enough,” cried Kirk.

“A slick bird, this Paradise,” Flannery went on. “Where do you think he had it? All folded up in a little wad and tucked into the toe of a shoe.”

“How clever of you to look there,” Miss Morrow approved.

Flannery hesitated. “Well—er—come to think of it, I didn't. It was Sergeant Chan here dug it up. Yes, sir—the Sergeant's getting to be a real sleuth.”

“Under your brilliant instruction,” smiled Chan.

“Well, we can all learn from each other,” conceded the Captain. “Anyhow, he found it, and turned it right over to me. The letter that came in the Scotland Yard envelope—no question about it. See—at the top—the Metropolitan Police—”

“If it's not asking too much,” said Kirk, “what's in the letter?”

Flannery's face fell. “Not a whole lot. We'll have to admit that. But little by little—”

“With brief steps we advance,” put in Chan. “Humbly suggest you read the epistle.”

“Well, it's addressed to Sir Frederic, care of Cook's, San Francisco,” said Flannery. He read:

“Dear Sir Frederic: “I was very glad to get your letter from Shanghai and to know that you are near the end of a long trail. It is indeed surprising news to me that the murder of Hilary Galt and the disappearance of Eve Durand from Peshawar are, in your final analysis, linked together. I know you always contended they were, but much as I admire your talents, I felt sure you were mistaken. I can only apologize most humbly. It is a matter of regret to me that you did not tell me more; what you wrote roused my interest to a high pitch. Believe me, I shall be eager to hear the end of this strange case.

“By the way, Inspector Rupert Duff will be in the States on another matter at about the time you reach San Francisco. You know Duff, of course. A good man. If you should require his help, you have only to wire him at the Hotel Waldorf, New York.

“With all good wishes for a happy outcome to your investigation, I am, sir, always, your obedient servant, Martin Benfield, Deputy-Commissioner.”

Flannery stopped reading and looked at the others. “Well, there you are,” he said. “The Galt affair and Eve Durand are mixed up together. Of course that ain't exactly news—I've known it right along. What I want to find out now is, why did Paradise try to keep this information from us? What's his stake in the affair? I could arrest him at once, but I'm afraid that if I do, he'll shut up like a clam and that will end it. He doesn't know we're wise to him, so I'm going to put this letter back where we found it and give him a little more rope. The sergeant here has agreed to keep an eye on him,
and I rely on you, too, Mr. Kirk, to see that he doesn't get away.”

“Don't worry,” said Kirk. “I don't want to lose him.”

Flannery rose. “Sir Frederic's mail isn't coming here any more?” he inquired of Miss Morrow.

“No, of course not. I arranged to have it sent to my office. There's been nothing of interest—purely personal matters.”

“I must put this letter back, and then I'll have to run along,” the Captain said. He went into the passageway.

“Well,” remarked Kirk, “Paradise hangs on a little longer. I see your handiwork there, Sergeant, and you have my warmest thanks.”

“For a brief time, at least” Chan said. “You will perceive I am no person's fool. I do not arrange arrest of butler in house where I am guest. I protect him, and I would do same for the cook.”

Flannery returned. “I got to get back to the station,” he announced. “Mr. Kirk, thanks for your—er—hospitality.”

Miss Morrow looked up at him. “You are going to wire to New York for Inspector Duff?” she asked.

“I am not,” the Captain said.

“But he might be of great help—”

“Nix,” cut in Flannery stubbornly. “I got about all the help I can stand on this case now. Get him here and have him under foot? No, sir—I'm going to find out first who killed Sir Frederic. After that, they can all come. Don't you say so, Sergeant?”

Chan nodded. “You are wise man. The ship with too many steersmen never reaches port.”

Flannery departed, and Miss Morrow picked up her coat. Reluctantly Kirk held it for her. “Must you go?” he protested.

“Back to the office—yes,” she said. “I've oceans of work. The district attorney keeps asking me for results in this investigation, and so far all I have been able to report is further mysteries. I wonder if I'll ever have anything else.”

“It was my hope,” remarked Chan, “that today we take a seven-league step forward. But it is fated otherwise. Not before Monday now.”

“Monday,” repeated the girl. “What do you mean, Mr. Chan?”

“I mean I experience great yearning to bring Miss Gloria Garland to this building again. I have what my cousin Willie Chan, a vulgar speaker, calls a hunch. But this morning when I call Miss Garland on the telephone I learn that she is absent in Del Monte, and will not return until Sunday night.”

“Miss Garland? What has she to do with it?”

“Remains to be observed. She may have much, or nothing. Depends on the authentic value of my hunch. Monday will tell.”

“But Monday,” sighed Miss Morrow. “This is only Thursday.”

Chan also sighed. “I too resent that with bitter feelings. Do not forget that I have sworn to be on boat departing Wednesday. My little son demands me.”

“Patience,” laughed Barry Kirk. “The doctor must take his own medicine.”

“I know,” shrugged Chan. “I am taking same in plenty large doses. Mostly when I talk of patience, I am forcing it on others. Speaking for myself in this event, I do not much enjoy the flavor.”

“You said nothing about your hunch to Captain Flannery,” Miss Morrow remarked.

Chan smiled. “Can you speak of the ocean to a well frog, or of ice to a summer insect? The good Captain would sneer—until I prove to him I am exceedingly correct. I am praying to do that on Monday.”

“In the meantime, we watch and wait,” said Miss Morrow.

“You wait, and I will watch,” suggested Chan.

Kirk accompanied Miss Morrow to the door. “Au revoir,” he said. “And whatever you do, don't lose that lemon pie recipe.”

“You needn't keep hinting,” she replied. “I won't forget.”

Upon Kirk's return, Charlie regarded him keenly. “A most attracting young woman,” he remarked.

“Charming,” agreed Kirk.

“What a deep pity,” Chan continued, “that she squanders glowing youth in a man's pursuit. She should be at mothering work.”

Kirk laughed. “You tell her,” he suggested.

On Friday, Bill Rankin called Chan on the telephone. He had been through the
Globe
's files for the year 1913, he said—a long, arduous job. His search had been without result; he could find no story about Eve Durand. Evidently cable news had not greatly interested the
Globe
's staff in those days.

“I'm going to the public library for another try,” he announced. “No doubt some of the New York papers carried the story. They seem our best bet now. I'm terribly busy, but I'll speed all I can.”

“Thanks for your feverish activity,” Chan replied. “You are valuable man.”

“Just a real good wagon,” laughed Rankin. “Here's hoping I don't break down. I'll let you know the minute I find something.”

Saturday came; the life at the bungalow was moving forward with unbroken calm. Through it Paradise walked with his accustomed dignity and poise, little dreaming of the dark cloud of suspicion that hovered over his head. Chan was busy with the books of Colonel John Beetham; he had finished the
Life
and was now going methodically through the others as though in search of a clue.

On Saturday night Kirk was dining out, and after his own dinner Chan again went down into Chinatown. There was little he could do there, he knew, but the place drew him none the less. This time he did not visit his cousin, but loitered on the crowded sidewalk of Grant Avenue.

Catching sight of the lights outside the Mandarin Theater, he idly turned his footsteps toward the doorway. The Chinese have been a civilized race for many centuries; they do not care greatly for moving-pictures, preferring the spoken drama. A huge throng was milling about the door of the theater, and Chan paused. There was usually enough drama in real life to satisfy him, but tonight he felt the need of the painted players.

Suddenly in the mob he caught sight of Willie Li, the Boy Scout whose good deed had thwarted his best laid plans on the previous Wednesday evening. Willie was gazing wistfully at the little frame of actors' pictures in the lobby. Chan went up to him with a friendly smile.

“Ah, we meet again,” he said in Cantonese. “How fortunate, since the other night I walked my way churlishly, without offering my thanks for the great kindness you did me in bringing a physician.”

The boy's face brightened in recognition. “May I be permitted to hope that the injury is improved?” he said.

“You have a kind heart,” Chan replied. “I now walk on the foot with the best of health. Be good enough to tell me, have you performed your kind act for today?”