Behind That Curtain (23 page)

“Absurd! A man like Colonel Beetham—famous throughout the world—a man who has won all the medals and distinctions there are for gallant conduct—as though he could do anything base, anything despicable.”

“Just there,” said Kirk, “your sex betrays you. Not one of you women can resist a handsome, distinguished-looking Englishman. Speaking as a less romantic male, I must say that the Colonel doesn't strike me quite so favorably. He has courage, yes—and he has a will that gets him where he wants to go, and damn the consequences. I shouldn't care to be one of his party on the top floor of Tibet and too weak to go on. He'd give me one disgusted look, and leave me. But wait a minute—I believe he'd do me one last kindness before he left.”

“What's that?”

“I think he'd pull out a gun and shoot me. Yes, I'm certain he would, and he'd go on his way happy to know there was one weakling who would never trouble him again.”

“Yes, he's a hard, determined man,” Miss Morrow admitted. “Nevertheless, he wouldn't kill Sir Frederic. Poor Sir Frederic wasn't interfering with his plans in any way.”

“Oh, wasn't he? How do you know he wasn't?”

“Well—I can't see—”

“Let's leave Beetham to Chan,” Kirk suggested. “The little man has an air about him—I believe he knows what he's doing. And now will you drop all this and dance with me—or must I dance alone?”

“I don't know. In my position, I have to give an impression of being serious—the public—”

“Oh, forget your public. He wouldn't venture out on a night like this. Come along.”

Miss Morrow laughed, and they danced together on the tiny floor. For the rest of the evening she permitted Kirk to lead the conversation into more frivolous channels—a task at which he excelled. The change seemed to do her good.

“Well,” said Kirk, as he signed the check, “you can be gay, after all. And I must say it becomes you.”

“I've forgot all my worries,” replied the girl, her eyes sparkling. “I feel as though I should never think of them again.”

“That's the talk,” Kirk approved.

But before they got out of the room, Miss Morrow's worries were suddenly brought back to her. Along one wall was a series of booths, beside which they walked on their way to the door. Opposite the final booth the girl half stopped, and glanced back over her shoulder at Barry Kirk. In passing he too looked into the compartment, and then hastily moved on. He need not have effaced himself so hurriedly, for the two people who were dining together in the booth were so deep in serious conversation they were oblivious to everything.

In the street Miss Morrow turned to Kirk. “What did I tell you?” she cried. “There are other women involved in this affair besides that poor little elevator girl.”

“And what did I tell you,” Kirk answered, “about your handsome British hero?”

Miss Morrow nodded. “To-morrow,” she said, “I shall look into this. Just what, I wonder, is the connection between Colonel Beetham and Mrs. Helen Tupper-Brock?”

When Charlie Chan rose on Wednesday morning, the rain was over and the fog was lifting. Bravely struggling through remnants of mist, the sun fell on a sparkling town, washed clean for a new day. Chan stood for a long time looking out at the magnificent panorama over bay and harbor, at the green of Goat Island and the prison fortress of Alcatraz. Along the water-front stretched a line of great ships as though awaiting a signal that should send them scurrying off to distant treaty ports and coral islands.

Chan's heart was heavy despite the bright morning. At twelve noon would sail the ship on which he had sworn to depart, the ship that would come finally to rest under the tower that bore the word “Aloha.” There would be keen disappointment in the little house beneath the algaroba trees on Punchbowl Hill, as there was disappointment in the detective's heart now. He sighed. Would this holiday never end? This holiday so filled with work and baffling problems? This holiday that was no holiday at all?

When he entered the dining-room Barry Kirk was already at the table, but his glass of orange juice stood before him, untouched.

“Hello,” said the host. “I waited for you.”

“You grow increasingly kind with every dawn,” Chan grinned.

“Oh, I don't know. It isn't exactly kindness. Somehow, I don't seem in any hurry to quaff California's favorite beverage this morning. Take a look at it. Does it strike you as being—er—the real thing?”

As Chan sat down, Paradise appeared in the doorway. Without a moment's hesitation, Chan lifted his glass. “Your very good health,” he remarked.

Kirk glanced at the butler, and raised his own glass. “I sincerely trust you're right,” he murmured, and drank heartily.

Paradise gravely said his good mornings and, setting down two bowls of oatmeal, departed. “Well,” Barry Kirk smiled, “we seem to be O.K. so far.”

“Suspicion,” Chan told him, “is a wicked thing. That is written in many places.”

“Yes—and where would you be in your work without it?” Kirk inquired. “By the way, did you get anything out of Duff last night?”

“Nothing that demands heavy thought. One point he elucidated carried slight interest.”

“What was that?”

“Begging respectful pardon, for the present I will ponder same with my customary silence. You dined here?”

“No. Miss Morrow and I went to a restaurant.”

“Ah—a moment's pleasant recreation,” said Chan approvingly.

“That was the idea.”

“You enjoy society of this young woman?”

“I do not precisely pine in her presence. You know, she's not so serious as she pretends to be.”

“That is good. Women were not invented for heavy thinking. They should decorate scene, like blossom of the plum.”

“Yes, but they can't all be movie actresses. I don't mind a girl's having a brain if she doesn't act up-stage about it—and Miss Morrow never does. We had a very light-hearted evening, but we weren't blind. As we left the restaurant, we made a little discovery.”

“Good, what was it?”

Kirk shrugged. “Shall I ponder same with my customary silence? No, I won't be as mean as you are, Charlie. We saw your old friend Colonel John Beetham relaxing from the stern realities of life. We saw him dining with a lady.”

“Ah, yes. Which lady?”

“A lady we have rather overlooked so far. Mrs. Helen Tupper-Brock.”

“That has interest. Miss Morrow will investigate?”

“Yes. I'm going to pick up Mrs. Tupper-Brock this morning and take her down to the district attorney's office. I don't look for any brilliant results, however. She's cold and distant, like the winter stars. Good lord—I'm getting poetic. You don't suppose it could be something I've had for breakfast?”

“More likely memories of last night,” Chan answered.

When the meal was finished, Kirk announced that he was going down to the office to attend to a few letters. Chan rose quickly.

“I will accompany, if I may,” he said. “I must produce letter of explanation for my wife, hoping it will yet catch out-going boat. It will be substitute for me—a smaller substitute.” He sighed.

“That's right,” Kirk remembered. “You were going out on the tide to-day, weren't you? It's a shame you can't.”

“What will little Barry think of me?”

“Oh, he's probably sensible, like his namesake. He'll want you to stay where duty lies. And how proud he'll be—in the future—over your success in running down the murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce.”

“Still have some running to do,” Chan admitted. “One more week—I give myself that. Then, whatever has happened, I shift mainland dust off my shoes and go. I swear it, and this time I am firm like well-known Gibraltar rock.”

“A week,” repeated Kirk. “Oh, that will be ample. You'll be sitting pretty then.”

“On deck of boat bound for Honolulu,” Chan said firmly. “Quoting local conversation, you bet I will.”

They went below, and Kirk seated himself at the big desk. Kinsey was out; “collecting rents,” Kirk explained. Chan accepted paper and an envelope and took his place at the stenographer's desk by the wall.

But his mind did not seem to be on the letter he was writing. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Kirk's movements carefully. In a moment he rose and came over to Kirk's desk. “Pen enjoys stubborn spasm,” he explained. “The ink will not gush. Who calls it fountain pen?”

“There are pens in here,” Kirk said, leaning over to open a lower drawer. Chan's keen eyes were on the papers atop the desk. Noted for his courtesy, his actions were odd. He appeared to be spying on his host.

Charlie accepted a pen and returned to his writing. Still he watched Kirk from the corner of his eye.

The young man finished his letter and started another. When he had completed the second, he stamped them both. Simultaneously Chan sealed his own letter, stamped it, and rose quickly to his feet. He held out his long, thin hand.

“Permit me,” he said, “that I deposit our mail in the hallway chute.”

“Why—thank you,” Kirk replied, giving him the letters.

When Charlie returned, Kirk was on his feet, consulting his watch. “Want to hear Mrs. Tupper-Brock's life story?” he inquired.

The detective shook his head. “Thanking you all the same, I will not interpolate myself. Miss Morrow is competent for work. Already, I have several times squirmed about in the position of fifth, unnecessary wheel. This once I will loiter elsewhere.”

“Suit yourself,” Kirk answered carelessly. He took up his hat and coat and disappeared.

When Chan went upstairs by the inner route, he found Bill Rankin waiting for him in the living-room of the bungalow. The reporter looked at him with amusement.

“Good morning,” he said. “I presume you're sailing this noon?”

Chan frowned. “Missing boats is now a regular habit for me,” he replied. “I can not go. Too many dark clouds shade the scene.”

“I knew it,” smiled Rankin. “Before you go you've got to give me a story that will thrill the town. I was sure I could depend on you. A great little people, the Chinese.”

“Thanks for advertising my unassuming race,” Chan said.

“Now, to get down to business,” Rankin continued. “I've brought you a little present this bright morning.”

“You are pretty good.”

“I'm a clever boy,” Rankin admitted. “You know, your rather foggy remarks about Colonel John Beetham have set me thinking. And when I think—get out from under. I have read the Colonel's
Life,
from cover to cover. I imagine I need not tell you that on May fourth, nineteen hundred and thirteen, Beetham set out on an eight months' journey from Peshawar to Teheran, by way of Afghanistan and the Kevir desert of Persia?”

“I too have upearthed that,” nodded Chan.

“I thought you had. But did you know that he had written a book—a separate book—about that little jaunt? A bit of a holiday, he called it. Not real exploring, but just his way of going home.”

Chan was interested. “I have been unaware of that volume,” he replied.

“It isn't as well known as his other books,” went on Rankin. “Out of print now.
The Land Beyond the Khyber,
he called it. I tried every bookstore in town, and finally picked up a copy over in Berkeley.”

He produced a volume bound in deep purple. “It's the little present I mentioned,” he added.

Chan took it eagerly. “Who shall say? This may be of some value. I am in your debt and sinking all the time.”

“Well, I don't know about its value. Maybe you can find something I have overlooked. I've been through it carefully, but I haven't found a thing.”

Chan opened the book. “Interesting item flashes up immediately,” he said. “Unlike Colonel Beetham's other books, this has dedication.” Slowly he read the inscription on the dedicatory page: “To one who will remember, and understand.”

“I noticed that,” Rankin told him. “It begins to look as though the Colonel has his tender moments, doesn't it? To one who will remember and understand. A boyhood sweetheart, probably. One who will remember the time he kissed her under the lilacs at the gate, and understand that he goes on his daring trips with her image in his heart.”

Chan was deep in thought. “Possible,” he muttered.

“You know, these Englishmen aren't as hard-boiled as they seem,” Rankin continued. “I knew a British aviator in the war—a tough baby, he ate nails for breakfast. Yet he always carried a sprig of heather on his plane—the memento of an old love-affair. A sentimentalist at heart. Perhaps Colonel Beetham is the same type.”

“May very well be,” Charlie agreed.

Rankin got up. “Well, I suppose my dear old Chief is crying his eyes out because I haven't shown up. He loves me, even though he does threaten to cast me off because I haven't solved the mystery of Sir Frederic's murder.”

“You are not alone in that fault,” Chan told him.

“I—I don't suppose you could give me any little morsel for our million panting readers?”

“Nothing of note may yet be revealed.”

“Well, it does seem high time we were getting a glimpse behind that curtain,” Rankin remarked.

Charlie shook his head. “The matter is difficult. If I were in Peshawar—but I am not. I am in San Francisco fifteen years after the event, and I can only guess. I may add, guessing is poor business that often leads to lengthy saunters down the positively wrong path.”

“You hang on,” advised Rankin. “You'll win yet and when you do, just let me be there, with a direct line to the office at my elbow.”

“We will hope that happy picture eventuates,” Chan replied.

Rankin went out, leaving Charlie to the book. He sat down before the fire and began to read eagerly. This was better than interviewing Mrs. Tupper-Brock.