Behind That Curtain (21 page)

“What an odd place for hydrocyanic acid,” said Kirk. “But then, of course, I speak without knowing the lady.”

“The lady was his wife,” Duff explained. “It seemed to some of us that he had rather overstepped a husband's privileges. He was brought to trial—”

Paradise raised his head. “Nothing was ever proved,” he said firmly. “I was acquitted.”

“Yes, our case collapsed,” admitted Inspector Duff. “That doesn't often happen, Mr. Kirk, but it did in this instance. Technically, at least, Paradise can not be adjudged guilty. In the eyes of the law, I mean. And for that reason I might have been inclined to keep all this to myself, if I had not heard of his queer work with that letter. Tell me, Paradise—do you know anything about Eve Durand?”

“I have never heard the name before, sir.”

“Have you any information in the matter of an old murder in Ely Place—the murder of Hilary Galt?”

“None whatever, sir.”

“But you opened an envelope addressed to Sir Frederic Bruce and substituted a blank sheet for the letter you found inside. I think you had better explain, my man.”

“Yes, sir. I will do so.” The servant turned to Barry Kirk. “This is very painful for me, Mr. Kirk. In the two years I have been with you I have done nothing dishonorable before—before this act. The gentleman has said that I poisoned my wife. I may call attention to the fact that he has some animus in the matter, as he conducted the investigation and was bitterly disappointed when a jury acquitted me. A natural feeling—”

“Never mind that,” said Duff sharply.

“At any rate, sir,” the butler continued to Kirk, “I was acquitted, for the very good reason that I was an innocent man. But I knew that, innocent or not, the fact of my having been tried would not be—er—pleasant news for you.”

“Anything but,” agreed Kirk.

“I thought it would be best if the matter remained in its former oblivion. I have been happy here—it is an excellent post—the very fact of its height above the ground has inspired me. I was always fond of high places. So I was in a bit of a funk, sir, when you told me Sir Frederic Bruce was coming. I had never had the pleasure of his acquaintance, but I'd had my brief moment in the public eye and I feared he might do me the honor to remember me. Well, he arrived and—unfortunately—he recognized me at once. We had a long talk here in this room. I assured him that I had been unjustly accused, that I had never done anything wrong, and that I was living a model life. I begged him to keep my secret. He was a just man. He said he would look into the matter—I presumed he wanted
to hear Scotland Yard's opinion of the evidence—and would let me know his decision later. And there the matter stood, sir, on the night Sir Frederic met his unhappy end.”

“Ah, yes,” said Kirk. “I begin to see.”

“What I did later was done from a misguided wish to retain your respect and confidence, sir. A messenger from Cook's put into my hand that packet of letters, and I saw on the top what I thought was the dreaded missive from Scotland Yard. If I may be allowed to say so, I went a bit balmy then. I believed that Sir Frederic had cabled about me to the Yard, and that this was the answer. It would no doubt fall into the hands of the police.”

“It was too early for any answer yet,” Kirk told him.

“How could I be sure, sir? In this day of the airmail and other time-saving devices. I determined to have a look at that letter, and if it did not concern me, to put it back in place—”

“But it didn't concern you, Paradise,” said Kirk.

“Not directly, sir. However, it mentioned that Inspector Duff was in New York. I had enjoyed the honor of Inspector Duff's personal attention in my—er—my ordeal, and I was panic-stricken. The local police, reading the letter, might send for him, with results that are all too apparent now. So in my madness I slipped a blank sheet of paper into the envelope and resealed it. It was a clumsy subterfuge, sir, and one I deeply regret. Not the clumsiness, but the deceit, sir—that pains me. Everything has always been above the table with us, sir.”

“I should hope it had,” said Kirk.

“I am perhaps going too far when I ask you to overlook my defection, Mr. Kirk. I assure you, however, that it was my fondness for you, my keen desire to remain in your service, that prompted my rash act. If we could only go back to the old basis, sir—of mutual confidence and esteem—”

Kirk laughed. “I don't know. I shall have to think this over. Are you sure you're fond of me, Paradise?”

“Very, sir.”

“Have you analyzed your emotions carefully? No little hidden trace of resentment, or disapproval?”

“None whatever, sir. I give you my word.”

Kirk shrugged. “Very well. Then you might go and prepare the—er—the tea. In the usual manner, please.”

“Thank you, sir,” answered Paradise, and departed.

“The poor old dear,” said Miss Morrow. “I'm sure he never did it. He was the victim of circumstances.”

“Perhaps,” admitted Duff. “Personally, however, I thought the evidence very strong. But I was new to the work at that time, and I may have been mistaken. At any rate, I am happy to have been able to eliminate Paradise from our case. It clears the air a bit.”

“He may be eliminated from the case,” Barry Kirk remarked. “But I'm free to admit that to me he is more important than ever.”

“You don't believe he had anything to do with killing Sir Frederic?” Miss Morrow inquired.

“No—but I'm afraid he may have something to do with killing me. I'm faced by a private and personal problem—and a very pretty one, too. I'd hate to lose Paradise, but I'd hate to lose myself even more. Imagine taking the glass of good old orange juice every morning from a hand that has been up to tacks with hydrocyanic acid. Not so good. Charlie, as a guest here, you're interested. What do you say?”

Chan shrugged. “It may be he disliked his wife,” he suggested.

“I should hate to think he was fond of her,” Kirk replied. “But at that, he's a good old soul. And some wives, no doubt, drive a man too far. I think I'll let him stay a while. However”—he looked at Miss Morrow—“something tells me I'll do an awful lot of eating out.”

“Sergeant Chan,” Duff said, “you have not been idle. What discoveries have you made in our case so far?”

“None but the slightest,” Chan told him. “I am very bright in tracking down Paradise here, and we have just seen the value of that. Alas, there are sprouting crops that never ripen into grain.”

“True enough,” agreed the Inspector. “But you must have had ideas along other lines, too. I should be interested to hear them.”

“Some time we have little talk,” Charlie promised. “For the present—I hesitate to speak of it. I am not without tender feeling to my heart, and I know only too well the topic must be one of deep pain to Major Durand. He must pardon my rudeness if I have keen desire to hear something of that far-away night when Eve Durand was lost.”

Durand came out of a deep reverie. “Ah, yes—what's that? The night when Eve—of course, it was all so long ago.”

“Yet a moment you are not likely to forget,” suggested Chan.

Durand smiled ruefully. “I'm afraid not. I have tried to forget—it seemed the best way. But I have never succeeded.”

“The date was the third of May, in the year 1913,” Chan prompted.

“Precisely. We had been living in Peshawar just six months—I was assigned to a regiment there only a month after our marriage, in England. A God-forsaken place, Peshawar—an outpost of empire, with a vengeance. No place to bring a woman like Eve, who had known nothing save the civilized life of the English countryside.”

He paused, deep in thought. “Yet we were very happy. We were young—Eve was eighteen, I was twenty-four—young and tremendously in love. The discomforts of that far garrison meant nothing—we had each other.”

“And on this night under question,” Chan persisted.

“There was a gay social life at the garrison, and Eve took an important part in it, as was natural. On the evening you ask about, we
had arranged a picnic party in the hills. We were to ride our ponies out of the town and up a narrow dirt road to a small plateau from which we could watch the moon rise over the roofs of Peshawar. The plan was rather foolhardy—the hills were full of bandits—I was a bit fearful at the time. But the ladies—they insisted—you know how women are. And there were five men in the party, all fully armed. There seemed no real danger.”

Again he paused. “Eve wore her jewels—a pearl necklace her uncle had given her—I remember protesting against it before we set out. She only laughed at me. Sometimes I have thought—But no, I do not like to think that. Was she killed for her necklace, her rings? I have had to face it.

“At any rate, we packed our supper and rode out of the town. Everything went well until the hour arrived to go home. Then someone suggested a game of hide-and-seek—”

“You recall who suggested that?” asked Chan.

“Yes—it was Eve. I objected, but—well, one doesn't like to be a spoilsport, and the party was in a gay humor. The women scattered among the tamarisks—disappeared into the shadows, laughing and chatting. Within the half-hour we had found them all—save one. We have not found her yet.”

“How terrible,” Miss Morrow cried.

“You can scarcely realize the true horror of it,” Durand returned. “Those black hills filled with innumerable dangers—oh, it was a foolish thing, that game. It should never have happened. Of the night that followed—and the long, hot dreadful days after that—I need not go on, I'm sure.” He bowed his head.

“There were five men,” said Chan. “Yourself already counted.”

“Five men, yes,” Durand replied. “And five charming girls.”

“Five men—the other four officers, like yourself?” Charlie continued.

“Three of them were officers. One was not.”

Chan's face lighted. “One was not?”

“No. The party was given in his honor, in a way. You see, he was a famous man—every one was eager to pay tribute to him. He had just been a guest at the Vice-Regal Lodge, he'd spoken in the throne-room, and they'd pinned medals and things on him. All India was ringing with his praises. He'd recently come back from a beastly perilous journey through Tibet—”

Chan's eyes narrowed. “He was an explorer?”

“One of the best. A brave man.”

“You are referring to Colonel John Beetham?”

“Yes, of course. Then you knew?”

Kirk and Miss Morrow sat up with sudden interest. Chan nodded. “I had guessed,” he said. He was silent for a moment. “Colonel Beetham is at this moment in San Francisco,” he added.

“Really?” answered the Major. “An odd coincidence. I should like to meet him again. He was most sympathetic.”

“The party was in his honor, you have said?” Charlie went on.

“Yes—a sort of farewell. You see, he was leaving the next day. Leaving for home, but not by the conventional route—not Beetham. He was going by caravan through the wilds of Afghanistan and across the great salt desert of Persia to Teheran.”

“Through Khyber Pass?” Chan asked.

“Oh, yes—through the Khyber. A dangerous business, but he had a big retinue of servants who had been with him on other expeditions—and the Emir of Afghanistan had invited him. He left early the next morning and I have never seen him since.”

“Early the next morning,” Chan repeated slowly. “Going home.” He stared for a moment at the misty window. “I had hoped to go home in the morning myself. But always something rises up making me break my word to my little son. What a despicable father he will think me. However”—he shrugged—“what is to be, will be.”

Paradise came into the room, pompously wheeling a tea-wagon. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“Tea, sir,” said the butler.

“I hope so, I'm sure,” replied Kirk.

Paradise served Miss Morrow, and then turned to Inspector Duff. “What will you have in yours, sir?” he inquired.

The Inspector looked him firmly in the eye. “One lump of sugar,” he said. “And—nothing else.”

With a grave face Paradise served the tea, passed sandwiches and cakes, and then silently withdrew. Barry Kirk paused with his cup at his lips, an inquiring look in his eyes. Inspector Duff saw it and smiled.

“I may tell you,” he said, “that hydrocyanic acid has a quite distinctive odor. A pungent odor of peach blossoms.”

“That's very good of you,” answered Kirk. “I shall remember what you say. And you, Charlie—you'd better do the same. At the first intimation that we are in a peach orchard, we call up the employment agency and engage a new butler.”

“I have made a note,” Chan told him.

“At any rate,” Kirk continued, “life's going to be rather a sporting proposition from now on. ‘To be, or not to be: that is the question.'”

“We must treat Paradise with kindly consideration,” Chan suggested. “We must bear in mind that a good word has heat enough for three winters, while a hard one wounds like six months of cold. It is going to improve our characters.”

“I'll say it is,” agreed Kirk. He looked at Major Durand and reflected that perhaps the conversation was a bit flippant in view of
that gentleman's mission in San Francisco. Poor devil—what a life he must have led. Seeking about to include him in the talk Kirk was able to hit upon nothing save the aged and obvious bromide. “Tell us, Major,” he said. “What do you think of the States?”

“Ah, yes,” replied Durand. “My impressions. Well, really, I'm afraid I can't be very original. My sole impression so far is one of—er—bigness. Size, you know. My word—your country is tremendous.”

Duff nodded. “We could talk of little else on the train coming out. You can scarcely imagine the effect of America on the minds of men who hail from a country like England. There, a ride of a few miles in any direction and you are on the coast. But here—day after day we looked from the car windows incredulous, amazed. We thought we should never come to the end of our journey.”