Behind That Curtain (22 page)

“No doubt about it,” Kirk returned, “there's plenty of the United States. Too much, some people think.”

“We haven't said that,” Durand reminded him, smiling faintly. “However, the possibilities of such a country seem endless. I may add”—he looked at Miss Morrow—“that I find your young women charming.”

“How very polite of you,” she smiled.

“Oh, not at all. I really mean it. If you will pardon me—I did not quite catch your connection with this affair?”

“I am in the district attorney's office,” she told him.

“Like our crown prosecutor, the district attorney,” Duff explained. “This young woman is, I believe, a student of the law.”

“My word,” said Durand. “Just fancy. Then it surprises me there is not more respect for law in the States.”

“Thank you,” Miss Morrow answered. “That's flattering to me, if not to the States.”

Durand rose. “You must forgive me if I run along,” he said. “I have found the long journey somewhat fatiguing—and added to
that is the disappointment I suffered a few moments ago. I pretended, of course, that I had no hope, but it wasn't quite true. As a matter of fact, despite all the false rumors in the past, I still go on hoping. And this time, with the word of a man like Sir Frederic Bruce involved—well, my mind will never be at rest until I have seen the woman who left so suddenly tonight.”

“She may yet be found,” Duff suggested.

“I hope so, I'm sure. Are you coming, old chap?”

“Of course,” Duff replied, rising.

“You and I must have that talk soon, Inspector,” Chan said.

Duff stopped. “Well, I've always thought there's no time like the present. You go ahead, Major, and I'll follow.”

“Very good,” Durand answered. “I have engaged a room for you at the St. Francis Hotel. I trust you'll approve of my choice.”

“That was thoughtful of you,” Duff told him. “I'll see you shortly.”

Durand turned to Barry Kirk. “You've been very hospitable to a stranger.”

“Not at all,” Kirk said. “You must drop in often. I hope you won't be lonely here. I'll send you a card for a club or two, and if you like, we'll have a little party occasionally.”

“Frightfully kind, I'm sure,” Durand replied warmly. “A thousand thanks.” He added his farewells and went out.

“Poor man,” Miss Morrow said.

“A nice chap,” Duff remarked. He turned briskly to Charlie. “But this isn't getting us forward, Sergeant. Where shall we begin? I learned from Captain Flannery that no records of any case were found among Sir Frederic's effects?”

“None whatsoever,” Chan corroborated.

“Then it looks like theft as well as murder, for unquestionably such records were kept. Somewhere—unless they have been destroyed by the same hand that killed Sir Frederic—there must be
in existence detailed accounts of the Hilary Galt case, as well as the disappearance of Eve Durand—”

“You have heard that, in Sir Frederic's thinking, these two matters boast some obscure connection?” Chan asked.

Duff nodded. “Yes, I saw the copy of the letter from my Chief at the Yard. I should say from the sound of it that he's as much in the dark as we are. But I have already cabled him for any information he may have.”

“You act with beautiful speed,” Chan approved. “One thing this Major Durand has told us puts new face on whole matter. Up to now, it was entirely unknown round here that Colonel John Beetham attended picnic that unforgotten night at Peshawar.”

“What about Beetham? He's in San Francisco, you say?”

“Very much so. He was present at dinner. A strange, silent, mind-beguiling man.”

Miss Morrow spoke suddenly. “Why, of course,” she cried. “Colonel Beetham at the picnic—that means he knew Eve Durand. On the night he came here to dinner, he must have been brought up in the elevator by little Jennie Jerome Marie Lantelme. If she was Eve Durand, he probably recognized her.”

“Undubitably,” Chan agreed.

“Why, that makes it all very simple,” Miss Morrow continued. “I'll get hold of him at once, and ask him—”

Chan raised his hand. “Humbly begging pardon to cut in—would you ask a blind man the road?”

“Why—I—what do you mean?”

“I have known for some days that the Colonel was in neighborhood of Peshawar that early May, 1913. Until tonight I did not dream he was member of picnic party. Even so, the last act I would consider would be to make inquiries.”

“Surely you don't think—”

“I have not decided what to think. A member of that party—the
fact may mean much, or it may mean nothing at all. On chance that it means much, let us say nothing to the Colonel just yet. To do so might defeat our own ends. There was once a man who pinched the baby while rocking the cradle. His work was not regarded a very large success.”

Miss Morrow smiled. “I shall take your advice, of course.”

“Thank you. Before we act, permit that I dig about some more amid events of past.” Chan turned to the Inspector. “Dropping the Colonel for the moment, I mention those velvet slippers.”

“Yes,” said Duff. “The velvet slippers. A bit of a mystery, they are. Carried off by the murderer, it seems. But why? And what did he—or she—do with them? It's not unreasonable to suppose they were hurriedly chucked away somewhere. In England, we have a system in such a case—we advertise and offer a reward.”

“Splendid idea,” agreed Chan.

“Surely Captain Flannery has thought of it?”

Chan shrugged. “Captain acts much like little child caught in cross-woven net. He can only struggle, always getting deeper. But I must restrain my criticism. Free to admit, the plan had not occurred even to me.”

Duff laughed. “Well, I'll look the Captain up after dinner and suggest that he try it. By the way, I'm quite at a loss—the city is new to me. Could I prevail on you, Sergeant, to dine with me? We can talk things over, and afterward you can show me about, and direct me to Flannery's office.”

“Deeply pleased at the invitation,” Chan beamed. “I have much to learn. Where better could I study than in your distinguished company?”

“Well—er—that's a bit strong,” returned Duff. “However, we'll have a jolly little dinner. Any time you're ready—”

“I procure hat and coat with instant action,” Chan replied.

Duff turned to Kirk and the girl. “Great pleasure to meet you
both,” he said. “Miss Morrow, to work with a charming young woman on a case will be a new experience for me—and a delightful one.”

“You must think it an utterly ridiculous situation,” she remarked.

“I haven't said so,” he smiled.

Chan returned, and he and Duff went out together. Miss Morrow took up her coat.

“Just a minute,” Kirk protested. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” she told him.

“To a lonely dinner,” he suggested.

“You needn't hint. I can't invite you to-night. I shall need loads of time to prepare that pie—”

“Of course. I wasn't hinting. But oddly enough, I've gone sort of cold on the idea of dining here in my cozy little nest. I propose to go where there are lights, laughter, and a waiter I can trust. And unless you prove more cruel than you look, I'm not dining alone.”

“But I really should go home—and freshen up.”

“Nonsense—you're blooming now. Like a peach tree covered with blossoms—I wonder how I came to think of that? No matter—will you join me?”

“If you want me to.”

Kirk rang the bell, and Paradise appeared at once. “Ah—er—I'm dining out to-night,” the young man explained.

Paradise looked distressed. “Very good, sir. But if I may make so bold—”

“Yes—what is it?”

“I trust this is not a sign of waning confidence in me, sir? I have been hoping for the old relations between us—”

“Nonsense. I often dine out. You know that.”

“Certainly, sir.” The butler made a gloomy exit.

“Good lord,” sighed Kirk, “I'm afraid he's going sensitive on my hands. I suppose that just to show I trust him, I'll have to give
a large dinner and invite all the people of whom I'm especially fond.”

“A large dinner?”

“Well—fairly large. My grandmother, and Charlie Chan, and a few old friends from the club. And—er—would you come?”

“If I didn't, it wouldn't be because I was afraid of Paradise.”

They descended to the street. It was a night of mist, with occasional fierce rain. Kirk found his car and helping the girl in, drove from the deserted business district to Union Square, where bright lights were gleaming on the wet pavements. The cable-car bells rang cheerily, a flotilla of umbrellas bobbed jauntily along the sidewalk; the spirits of the people of San Francisco, habitually high, are not to be damped by a little rain. “How about Marchetti's?” Kirk inquired.

“Sounds good to me,” Miss Morrow answered.

They entered the little restaurant. On the dance floor the first of the cabaret acts was under way; a young, good-looking chorus pranced about to the strains of a popular air. Barry Kirk was known there, and the result was a good table and an obsequious head waiter. They gave their order.

“I like this place,” said Kirk. “They never confuse noise with merriment.” A pretty little blonde awarded him a sweet smile in passing. “Awfully cute girls, don't you think?”

“Yes, aren't they?” Miss Morrow answered. “Do you like cute girls?”

“Like to see ‘em going by—on the other side. Never cared much for their conversation. It has no weight. Now, you take a lawyer, for instance—”

“Please,” she said. “Don't make fun of me. I'm not in the mood for it tonight. I'm tired—and discouraged.”

“Tired—that's all right,” he replied. “But discouraged—what about? As I understand it, you've been a big success in your work.”

“Oh, no I haven't. I've got on—a little way—but am I going any farther? Have you forgotten—this is an anniversary. A week ago to-night—”

“You dined with me for the first time. I hope—”

“A week ago to-night Sir Frederic was killed, and I embarked on my first big case. Up to this minute I haven't contributed a thing to its solution—”

“Oh, yes, you have. Of course, you haven't solved the puzzle, but there's plenty of time—”

“Oh, no, there isn't. At any moment the district attorney may tell me I'm out. I've got to make good quickly—and how can I? Look back—what have we accomplished to date?”

“Well, you've found Eve Durand.”

“And lost her. That is—if the little elevator girl was Eve Durand.”

“She must be. Charlie says so.”

Miss Morrow shook her head. “Charlie's clever, but he's been wrong. He admits it freely. You know, something happened tonight while we were waiting for Captain Flannery to lead that girl into the room. Something inside me. Just a hunch—a woman's intuition—I suddenly felt quite sure that she wasn't Eve Durand after all.”

“You don't say. And what basis did you have for that hunch?”

“None whatever. But I felt we were on the wrong trail altogether. She might very well be Jennie Jerome, and Marie Lantelme too, and still not be Durand's lost wife. Don't forget there are many other possibilities for that role.”

“For example?”

“How about Lila Barr—the girl in the office of the Calcutta Importers? You remember what you told us—how interested Sir Frederic was in her? Just what did that mean?”

“I'd be happy to tell you—if I knew.”

“But you don't. Then there's Eileen Enderby and Gloria Garland. In spite of their stories about why Sir Frederic wanted to see them—are they out of it? And Mrs. Tupper-Brock. No—we can't be sure that the elevator girl was Eve Durand. We've just been guessing—Chan's been guessing. And we'll never know now.”

“Why not? Flannery will find her.”

“You don't really believe that? If you do, you've more faith in the poor old Captain than I have. Suppose he does find her, and she is Eve Durand—what of it? She'll simply refuse to talk, and we'll be no nearer knowing who killed Sir Frederic than we ever were.”

“I brought you here for an evening of gaiety,” Kirk said sternly, “and you sit there thinking black thoughts.”

“Just a minute—let me go on. It's such a comfort to talk things over. Who killed Sir Frederic—that's my problem. The identity of Eve Durand may not have as much to do with the matter as we think. It may even prove to have nothing to do with it at all. Who pulled that trigger in your office last Tuesday night? Carrick Enderby? It's quite possible. Eileen Enderby? There were those stains on her frock—did she climb down the fire-escape on some sinister errand? Dismissing the Enderby family, there are others. How about Gloria Garland? Mrs. Tupper-Brock?”

“Each of whom, of course, arrived at my dinner with a pistol hidden under her gown?” smiled Kirk.

“Each of whom knew she was to meet Sir Frederic that night. The pistol could have been arranged. To go on with the list—there's Paradise. I like him, but I can't see that his story of this afternoon puts him completely beyond suspicion. On the contrary. Outside the bungalow, there was that pale young man from the accountants' office.”

“Oh yes—name of Smith,” said Kirk. “I'd forgotten all about him.”

“I haven't,” Miss Morrow replied. “Then, there's Li Gung, the Chinese who fled to Honolulu next day. What was his hurry? Isn't
it possible that he climbed up the fire-escape—Oh, what's the use? The list seems endless.” Miss Morrow sighed.

“And incomplete, as you give it,” added Kirk.

“You mean—”

“I mean the man who accompanied Li Gung to the dock. Colonel John Beetham.”