Behind That Curtain (28 page)

“Not to mention,” said Chan gently, “the velvet slippers. The slippers of Hilary Galt.”

“Oh, hell,” cried Flannery. “Be reasonable, man! One thing at a time.”

Greatly pleased with himself, Captain Flannery sat down behind his desk. His summing up of the case against Beetham seemed, to his way of thinking, without a flaw. He beamed at the assembled company.

“Everything is going to work out fine,” he continued. “Tomorrow evening in this room I stage my big scene, and if we don't get something out of it, then I'm no judge of human nature. First, I bring in Major Durand. I tell him Eve Durand has been found and is on her way here, and while we're waiting I go back to the question of how she got out of India. I plant in his mind a suspicion of Beetham. Then I bring the woman into the room—after fifteen years' suffering and anxiety, he sees his wife at last. What's he going to think? What'll he ask himself—and her? Where's she been? Why did she leave? How did she escape from India? At that moment I produce Colonel Beetham, confront him with the husband he wronged, the woman he carried off in his caravan. I tell Durand I have certain knowledge that his wife left with Beetham. Then I sit back and watch the fireworks. How does that strike you, Sergeant Chan?”

“You would chop down the tree to catch the blackbird,” Chan said.

“Well, sometimes we have to do that. It's roundabout, but it ought to work. What do you think, Inspector?”

“Sounds rather good, as drama,” Duff drawled. “But do you really think it will reveal the murderer of Sir Frederic?”

“It may. Somebody—the woman, or Beetham—will break. Make a damaging admission. They always do. I'll gamble on it, this time. Yes, sir—we're going to take a big stride forward tomorrow night.”

Leaving Captain Flannery to an enthusiastic contemplation of his own cleverness, they departed. At the door Chan went off with Inspector Duff. Kirk and the girl strolled up the hill together.

“Want a taxi?” Kirk asked.

“Thanks. I'd rather walk—and think.”

“We have something to think of, haven't we? How does it strike you? Beetham?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Nonsense. I'll never believe it. Not if he makes a full confession himself.”

“Oh, I know. He's the hero of your dreams. But just the same, my lady, he's not incapable of it. If Sir Frederic was in his way—threatening his plans—and it begins to look as though he was. Unless you don't believe that Eve Durand was in the caravan?”

“I believe that,” she replied.

“Because you want to,” he smiled. “It's too romantic for words, isn't it? By George, the very thought of it makes me feel young and giddy. The gay picnic party in the hills—the game of hide-and-seek—one breathless moment of meeting behind the tamarisks. ‘I'm yours—take me with you when you go.' Everything forgotten—the world well lost for love. The wagon jolting out through the pass, with all that beauty hidden beneath a worn bit of canvas. Then—the old caravan road—the golden road to Samarkand—the merchants from the north crowding by—camels and swarthy men—and mingled with the dust of the trail the iron
nails lost from thousands of shoes that have passed that way since time began.”

“I didn't know you were so romantic.”

“Ah—you've never given me a chance. You and your law books. Eight months along that famous road—nights with the white stars close overhead, dawns hazy with desert mist. Hot sun at times, and then snow, flurries of snow. The man and the woman together—”

“And the poor husband searching frantically throughout India.”

“Yes, they rather forgot Durand, didn't they? But they were in love. You know, it looks to me as though we had stumbled onto a great love story. Do you think—”

“I wonder.”

“You wonder what?”

“I wonder if it's all true—and if it is, does it bring us any closer to a solution of the puzzle? After all, the question remains—who killed Sir Frederic? Captain Flannery hadn't an iota of proof for any of his wild surmises involving Beetham.”

“Oh, forget your worries. Let's pretend. This deserted street is the camel road to Teheran—the old silk road from China to Persia. You and I—”

“You and I have no time for silk roads now. We must find the road that leads to a solution of our mystery.”

Kirk sighed. “All right. To make a headline of it, Attorney Morrow Slams Door on Romance Probe. But some day I'll catch you off your guard, and then—look out!”

“I'm never off my guard,” she laughed.

On Friday morning, after breakfast, Chan hesitated a moment, and then followed Barry Kirk into his bedroom. “If you will pardon the imposition, I have bold request to make.”

“Certainly, Charlie. What is it?”

“I wish you to take me to Cosmopolitan Club, and introduce me
past eagle-eyed door man. After that, I have unlimited yearning to meet old employee of club.”

“An old employee? Well, there's Peter Lee. He's been in charge of the check-room for thirty years. Would he do?”

“An excellent choice. I would have you suggest to this Lee that he show me about club-house, roof to cellar. Is that possible?”

“Of course.” Kirk looked at him keenly. “You're still thinking about that club year-book we found beside Sir Frederic?”

“I have never ceased to think of it,” Chan returned. “Whenever you are ready, please.”

Deeply mystified, Kirk took him to the Cosmopolitan and turned him over to Peter Lee.

“It is not necessary that you loiter on the scene,” Chan remarked, grinning with pleasure. “I will do some investigating and return to the bungalow later.”

“All right,” Kirk replied. “Just as you wish.”

It was close to the luncheon hour when Chan showed up, his little eyes gleaming.

“What luck?” Kirk inquired.

“Time will reveal,” said Chan. “I find this mainland climate bracing to an extremity. Very much fear I shall depopulate your kitchen at lunch.”

“Well, don't drink too heartily of the hydrocyanic acid,” Kirk smiled. “Something tells me it would be a real calamity if we lost you just at present.”

After luncheon Miss Morrow telephoned to say that Grace Lane, accompanied by the two policemen, would reach Flannery's office at four o'clock. She added that they were both invited—on her own initiative.

“Let us go,” Chan remarked. “Captain Flannery's big scene should have crowded house.”

“What do you think will come of it?” Kirk asked.

“I am curious to learn. If it has big success, then my work here is finished. If not—”

“Yes? Then what?”

“Then I may suddenly act like pompous stager of shows myself,” Chan suggested.

Flannery, Duff and Miss Morrow were in the Captain's office when Chan and Barry Kirk walked in. “Hello,” said the Captain. “Want to be in at the finish, eh?”

“Pleasure would be impossible to deny ourselves,” Chan told him.

“Well, I'm all set,” Flannery went on. “All my plans made.”

Chan nodded. “The wise man digs his well before he is thirsty,” he remarked.

“You haven't been doing any too much digging,” Flannery chided. “I got to admit, Sergeant, you've kept your word. You've let me solve this case without offering very much help. However, I've been equal to it. I haven't needed you, as it turned out. You might as well have been on that boat ten days ago.”

“A sad reflection for me,” said Chan. “But I am not of mean nature. My hearty congratulations will be ready when desired.”

Colonel Beetham was ushered into the room. His manner was nonchalant, and, as always, rather condescending.

“Ah, Captain,” he remarked, “I'm here again. According to instructions—”

“I'm very glad to see you,” Flannery broke in.

“And just what can I do for you today?” inquired Beetham, dropping into a chair.

“I'm anxious to have you meet—a certain lady.”

The Colonel opened a cigarette case, took out a cigarette, and tapped it on the silver side of the case. “Ah, yes. I'm not precisely a lady's man, but—”

“I think you'll be interested to meet this one,” Flannery told him.

“Really?” He lighted a match.

“You see,” Flannery went on, “it happens to be a lady who once took a very long journey in your company.”

Beetham's brown, lean hand paused with the lighted match. The flame held steady. “I do not understand you,” he said.

“An eight months' journey, I believe,” the Captain persisted. “Through Khyber Pass and across Afghanistan and eastern Persia to the neighborhood of Teheran.”

Beetham lighted his cigarette and tossed away the match. “My dear fellow—what are you talking about?”

“You know what I'm talking about. Eve Durand—the lady you helped out of India fifteen years ago. No one suspected you, did they, Colonel? Too big a man—above suspicion—all those medals on your chest. However, I know you did it—I know you ran away with Durand's wife—and I'll prove it, too. But perhaps I needn't prove it—perhaps you'll admit it—” He stopped.

Beetham unconcernedly blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling, and for a moment watched it dissolve. “All that,” he remarked, “is so absolutely silly I refuse to answer.”

“Suit yourself,” replied Flannery. “At any rate, Eve Durand will be here in a few minutes, and I want you to see her again. The sight may refresh your memory. I want you to see her—standing at her husband's side.”

Beetham nodded. “I shall be most happy. I knew them both, long ago. Yes, I shall be a very pleased witness of the touching reunion you picture.”

A policeman appeared at the door. “Major Durand is outside,” he announced.

“Good,” said Flannery. “Pat—this is Colonel Beetham. I want you to take him into the back room—the second one—and stay with him until I send for the both of you.”

Beetham rose. “I say, am I under arrest?” he inquired.

“You're not under arrest,” returned Flannery. “But you're going with Pat. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely. Pat—I am at your service.” The two disappeared. Flannery rose and going to the door leading into the anteroom, admitted Major Durand.

The Major entered and stood there, somewhat at a loss. Flannery proffered a chair. “Sit down, sir. You know everybody here. I've great news for you. We've located the woman we think is your wife, and she'll be along in a few minutes.”

Durand stared at him. “You've found—Eve? Can that possibly be true?”

“We'll know in a minute,” Flannery said. “I may tell you I'm certain of it—but we'll let you see for yourself. Before she comes—one or two things I want to ask you about. Among the members of that picnic party was Colonel John Beetham, the explorer?”

“Yes, of course.”

“He left the next morning on a long journey through the Khyber Pass?”

“Yes. I didn't see him go, but they told me he had gone.”

“Has anyone ever suggested that he may have taken your wife with him when he left?”

The question struck Durand with the force of a bullet. He paled. “No one has ever made that suggestion,” he replied, almost inaudibly.

“All the same, I'm here to tell you that is exactly what happened.”

Durand got up and began to pace the floor. “Beetham,” he muttered. “Beetham. No, no—he wouldn't have done it. A fine chap, Beetham—one of the best. A gentleman. He wouldn't have done that to me.”

“He was just in here, and I accused him of it.”

“But he denied it, of course?”

“Yes—he did. But my evidence—”

“Damn your evidence,” cried Durand. “He's not that kind of man, I tell you. Not Beetham. And my wife—Eve—why, what you are saying is an insult to her. She loved me. I'm sure of it—she loved me. I won't believe—I can't—”

“Ask her when she comes,” suggested Flannery. Durand sank back into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

For a long moment they waited in silence. Miss Morrow's cheeks were flushed with excitement; Duff was puffing quietly on his inevitable pipe; Charlie Chan sat immobile as an idol of stone. Kirk nervously took out a cigarette, and then put it back in the case.

The man named Petersen appeared in the door. He was dusty and travel-stained.

“Hello, Jim,” Flannery cried. “Have you got her?”

“I've got her this time,” Petersen answered, and stood aside. The woman of so many names entered the room and halted, her eyes anxious and tired. Another long silence.

“Major Durand,” said Flannery. “Unless I am much mistaken—”

Durand got slowly to his feet, and took a step forward. He studied the woman intently for a moment, and then he made a little gesture of despair.

“It's the old story,” he said brokenly. “The old story over again. Captain Flannery, you are mistaken. This woman is not my wife.”

For a moment no one spoke. Captain Flannery was gradually deflating like a bright red balloon that had received a fatal puncture. Suddenly his eyes blazed with anger. He turned hotly on Charlie Chan.

“You!” he shouted. “You got me into this! You and your small-time hunch. The lady is Jennie Jerome. She is also Marie Lantelme. What does that mean? It means she is Eve Durand. A guess—a fat-headed guess—and I listened to you. I believed you. Good lord, what a fool I've been!”

Profound contrition shone in Charlie's eyes. “I am so sorry. I have made stupid error. Captain—is it possible you will ever forgive me?”

Flannery snorted. “Will I ever forgive myself? Listening to a Chinaman—me, Tom Flannery. With my experience—my record—bah! I've been crazy—plumb crazy—but that's all over now.” He rose. “Major Durand, a thousand apologies. I wouldn't have disappointed you again for worlds.”