Behind That Curtain (19 page)

“I am telling you,” persisted Chan.

“I know, but you are guessing. You've identified her as those other two, but as for Eve Durand—”

The telephone rang. Kirk answered, and handed it to Flannery, “For you, Captain,” he said.

Flannery took the telephone. “Oh—hello, Chief,” he said. “Yeah—yeah. What's that? Oh—oh, he is? Good enough. Thank you, Chief. I sure will.”

He hung up the receiver and turned to the others. A broad smile was on his face.

“We're going to find out, Sergeant, just how good a guesser you are,” he said. “I'll put a couple of extra men to following this dame, but I won't do anything more until to-morrow. Yes, sir—by tomorrow evening I'll know whether she's Eve Durand or not.”

“Your words have obscure sound,” Chan told him.

“The Chief of Police has just had a wire,” Flannery explained. “Inspector Duff of Scotland Yard is getting in tomorrow afternoon at two thirty. And he's bringing with him the one man in all the world who's sure to know Eve Durand when he sees her. He's bringing the woman's husband, Major Eric Durand.”

When Chan and Kirk were left alone, the little detective sat staring thoughtfully into space. “Now Tuesday becomes the big day for keen anticipation,” he remarked. “What will it reveal? Much, I hope, for my time on the mainland becomes a brief space indeed.”

Kirk looked at him in wonder. “Surely you won't go on Wednesday, if this thing isn't solved?”

Chan nodded stubbornly. “I have made unspoken promise to Barry Chan. Now I put it into words. Tomorrow Eve Durand's husband arrives. In all the world we could have selected no more opportune person. He will identify this elevator woman as his wife, or he will not. If he does, perhaps case is finished. If he does not”—Charlie shrugged—“then I have done all possible. Let Captain Flannery flounder alone after that.”

“Well, we won't cross our oceans until we get to them,” Kirk suggested. “A lot may happen before Wednesday. By the way, I've been meaning to take you over to the Cosmopolitan Club. How about lunching there this noon?”

Chan brightened. “I have long nursed desire to see that famous interior. You are most kind.”

“All set, then,” replied his host. “I have some business in the office. Come downstairs for me at twelve thirty. And when Paradise returns, please tell him we're lunching out.”

He took his hat and coat and went below. Chan strolled aimlessly to the window and stood looking down on the glittering city. His eyes strayed to the Matson dock, the pier shed and, beyond, the red funnels of a familiar ship. A ship that was sailing, day after tomorrow, for Honolulu harbor. Would he be on it? He had sworn, yes—and yet—He sighed deeply. The doorbell rang, and he admitted Bill Rankin, the reporter.

“Hello,” said Rankin. “Glad to find you in. I spent all day yesterday at the public library, and say, I'll bet I stirred up more dust than the chariot in Ben Hur!”

“With any luck?” Chan inquired.

“Yes. I finally found the story in the files of the
New York Sun. A
great newspaper in those days—but I won't talk shop. It was just a brief item with the Peshawar date line—I copied it down. Here it is.”

Charlie took the sheet of yellow paper, and read a short cable story that told him nothing he did not already know. Eve Durand, the young wife of a certain Captain Eric Durand, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances two nights previously, while on a picnic party in the hills outside Peshawar. The authorities were greatly alarmed, and parties of British soldiers were scouring the wild countryside.

“Item has date, May fifth,” remarked Chan. “Then Eve Durand was lost on night of May third, the year 1913. You found nothing else?”

“There were no follow-up stories,” Rankin replied, “And no mention of Beetham, as you hoped. Say—what in Sam Hill could he have to do with this?”

“Nothing,” said Chan promptly. “It was one of my small mistakes.
Even great detective sometimes steps off on wrong foot. My wrong foot often weary from too much use.”

“Well, what's going on, anyhow?” Rankin wanted to know. “I've hounded Flannery, and I've tried Miss Morrow, and not a thing do I learn. My city editor is waxing very sarcastic. Can't you give me a tip to help me out?”

Chan shook his head. “It would be plenty poor ethics for me to talk about the case. I am in no authority here, and already Captain Flannery regards me with the same warm feeling he would show pickpocket from Los Angeles. Pursuing the truth further, there is nothing to tell you, anyhow. We are not as yet close to anything that might indicate happy success.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” Rankin said.

“Situation will not continue,” Chan assured him. “Light will break. For the present we swim with one foot on the ground, but in good time we will plunge into center of the stream. Should I be on scene when success is looming, I will be happy to give you little secret hint.”

“If you're on the scene? What are you talking about?”

“Personal affairs call me home with a loud megaphone. On Wednesday I go whether case is solved or not.”

“Yes—like you did last Wednesday,” Rankin laughed. “You can't kid me. The patient Oriental isn't going to get impatient at the wrong minute. Well, I must run. Remember your promise about the hint.”

“I have lengthy memory,” Chan replied. “And already I owe you much. Good-by.”

When the reporter had gone, Charlie stood staring at the copy of that cable story. “May third, nineteen hundred thirteen,” he said aloud. With a surprisingly quick step he went to a table and took from it the
Life
of Colonel John Beetham. He ran hastily through the pages until he found the thing he sought. Then for a long moment
he sat in a chair with the book open on his knee, staring into space.

At precisely twelve-thirty he entered Kirk's office. The young man rose and, accepting some papers from his secretary, put them into a leather briefcase. “Got to see a lawyer after lunch,” he explained. “Not a nice lawyer, either—a man this time.” They went to the Cosmopolitan Club.

When they had checked their hats and coats and returned to the lobby in that imposing building, Chan looked about him with deep interest. The Cosmopolitan's fame was wide-spread; it was the resort of men active in the arts, in finance and in journalism. Kirk's popularity there was proved by many jovial greetings. He introduced Chan to a number of his friends, and the detective was presently the center of a pleasant group. With difficulty they got away to lunch in one corner of the big dining-room.

It was toward the close of the lunch that Chan, looking up, saw approaching the man who interested him most at the moment. Colonel John Beetham's hard-bitten face was more grim than ever, seen in broad daylight. He paused at their table.

“How are you, Kirk?” he said. “And Mr. Chan. I'll sit down a moment, if I may.”

“By all means,” Kirk agreed cordially. “How about lunch? What can I order for you?”

“Thanks, I've just finished,” Beetham replied.

“A cigarette, then.” Kirk held out his case.

“Good of you.” The Colonel took one and lighted it. “I haven't seen you since that beastly dinner. Oh—I beg your pardon—you get my meaning?… What a horrible thing that was—a man like Sir Frederic—by the way, have they any idea who did it?”

Kirk shrugged. “If they have, they're not telling me.”

“Sergeant Chan—perhaps you are working on the case?” Beetham suggested.

Chan's eyes narrowed. “The affair concerns mainland police. I am stranger here, like yourself.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” responded Beetham. “I just happened to recall that you were on the point of leaving, and I thought, seeing you had stayed over—”

“If I can help, I will do so,” Chan told him. He was thinking deeply. A man like Colonel Beetham did not note the comings and goings of a Charlie Chan without good reason.

“How's the new expedition shaping up?” Kirk inquired.

“Slowly—rather slowly,” Beetham frowned. “Speaking of that, I have wanted a chat with you on the subject. Your grandmother has offered to help with the financing, but I have hesitated—it's a stiff sum.”

“How much?”

“I have part of the money. I still need about fifty thousand dollars.”

Kirk's eyebrows went up. “Ah, yes—quite a nest egg. But if grandmother wants to do it—well, her own money.”

“Glad you feel that way about it,” said Beetham. “I was fearful the other members of the family might think I was using undue influence. The whole idea was hers—I give you my word.”

“Naturally,” Kirk answered. “I'm sure she would enjoy it, at that.”

“The results will be most important from a scientific point of view,” Beetham continued. “Your grandmother's name would be highly honored. I would see that she had full credit.”

“Just what sort of expedition is it?” Kirk asked.

The tired eyes lighted for the first time. “Well, I had a bit of luck when I was last on the Gobi Desert. I stumbled onto the ruins of a city that must have been flourishing early in the first century. Only had time to take a brief look—but I turned up coins that bore the date of 7 A.D. I unearthed the oldest papers in existence—papers
that bore the scrawl of little children—arithmetic—seven times seven and the like. Letters written by the military governor of the city, scraps of old garments, jewelry—amazing mementoes of the past. I am keen to go back and make a thorough investigation. Of course, the trouble in China will interfere, rather—but there is always trouble in China. I have waited long enough. I shall get through somehow. I always have.”

“Well, I don't envy you,” Kirk smiled. “The way I've always felt, when you've seen one desert, you've seen ‘em all. But you have my best wishes.”

“Thanks. You're frightfully kind,” Beetham rose. “I hope to settle the matter in a few days. I am hoping, also, that before I leave, the murderer of Sir Frederic will be found. Struck me as a good chap, Sir Frederic.”

Chan looked up quickly. “A great admirer of yours, Colonel Beetham,” he said.

“Admirer of mine? Sir Frederic? Was he really?” The Colonel's tone was cool and even.

“Undubitable fact. Among his effects we find many books written by you.”

Beetham threw down his cigarette. “That was good of him. I am quite flattered. If by any chance you are concerned in the hunt for the person who killed him, Sergeant Chan, I wish you the best of luck.”

He strolled away from the table, while Chan looked after him thoughtfully.

“Reminds me of the snows of Tibet,” Kirk said. “Just as warm and human. Except when he spoke of his dead city. That seemed to rouse him. An odd fish, isn't he, Charlie?”

“An odd fish from icy waters,” Chan agreed. “I am wondering—”

“Yes?”

“He regrets Sir Frederic's passing. But might it not happen that beneath his weeping eyes are laughing teeth?”

They went to the check-room, where they retrieved their hats and coats and Kirk's briefcase. As they walked down the street, Kirk looked at Chan.

“Just remembered the Cosmopolitan Club yearbook,” he said. “You don't imagine it meant anything, do you?”

Chan shrugged. “Imagination does not seem to thrive on mainland climate,” he replied.

Kirk went off to his lawyer's and Charlie returned home to await a more promising tomorrow.

On Tuesday afternoon Miss Morrow was the first to arrive at the bungalow. She came in about three-thirty. The day was dark, with gusts of wind and rain, but the girl was glowing.

Kirk helped her off with her raincoat. “You seem to be filled with vim and vigor,” he said.

“Walked all the way,” she told him. “I was too excited to sit calmly in a taxi. Just think—in a few minutes we may see the meeting between Major Durand and his long-lost wife.”

“The Major has arrived?” Chan inquired.

“Yes—he and Inspector Duff came half an hour ago. Their train was a trifle late. Captain Flannery went to the station to meet them. He telephoned me they'd be along shortly. It seems that, like a true Englishman, the Major didn't care to talk with anybody until he'd gone to a hotel and had his tub.”

“Don't blame him, after that trip from Chicago,” Kirk said. “I believe little Jennie Jerome Marie Lantelme is on the elevator.”

Miss Morrow nodded. “She is. I saw her when I came up. I wonder if she is really Eve Durand? Won't it be thrilling if she is!”

“She's got to be. She's Charlie's hunch.”

“Do not be too certain,” Chan objected. “In the past it has often happened I was hoarsely barking up incorrect tree.”

Kirk stirred the fire, and drew up a wide chair for the girl. “Here you are—a trifle large for you, but you may grow. I'll give you tea
later. These Englishmen probably can't do a thing until they've had their Oolong.”

The girl sat down, and, dropping into a chair at her side, Kirk began to talk airily of nothing in particular. He was conscious that at his back Chan was nervously walking the floor.

“Better sit down, Charlie,” he suggested. “You act like a man in a dentist's waiting-room.”

“Feel that way,” Chan told him. “Much is at stake now for me. If I have taken wrong turning, I shall have to endure some Flannery sneers.”

It was four o'clock, and the dusk was falling outside the lofty windows, when the bell rang. Kirk himself went to the door. He admitted Flannery and a thickset young Englishman. Two men only—Kirk peered past them down the stairs, but the third man was not in evidence.

“Hello,” Flannery said, striding in. “Major Durand not here yet, eh?”

“He is not,” Kirk replied. “Don't tell me you've mislaid him.”