Behind That Curtain (30 page)

“No, it isn't,” the Captain snapped. “I'm sick of you and your confounded mystery. Put your cards on the table like a white man. This chair is killing me, I tell you—”

“Hush!” said Chan. He was leaning forward now, staring through the door into the check-room. The others followed his gaze.

Major Eric Durand stood before the counter. He threw down the brass check for his coat and hat. It rang metallically in the silence. Peter Lee brought them for him. He leaned across the barrier and helped Durand on with his coat. The Major was fumbling in his pockets. He produced a small bit of cardboard, which he gave to Peter Lee. The old man studied his treasures for a moment, and then handed over a black leather briefcase.

Chan had seized Flannery's arm, and was dragging the astonished
Captain toward the club lobby. Kirk and Duff followed. They lined up before the huge front door. Durand appeared, walking briskly. He stopped as he saw the group barring his way.

“Ah, we meet again,” he said. “Mr. Kirk, it was thoughtful of you to send me that guest card to your club. I deeply appreciate it. It arrived only a short time ago. I shall enjoy dropping in here frequently—”

Charlie Chan's fat face was shining with joy. He raised his arm with the gesture of a Booth or a Salvini.

“Captain Flannery,” he cried. “Arrest this man.”

“Why—I—er—I don't—” sputtered Flannery.

“Arrest this man Durand,” Chan went on. “Arrest him at same moment while he holds beneath his arm a briefcase containing much useful information. The briefcase Sir Frederic Bruce checked in this club on the afternoon of the day he died.”

All color had drained from Durand's face. It was gray as fog as he stood there confronted by the triumphant little Chinese. Flannery reached out and seized the leather case. The Major made no move to resist.

“Sir Frederic's briefcase,” Flannery cried. His air of uncertainty had vanished; he was alert and confident. “By heaven, if that's true, then our man hunt is over.” He sought to open the case. “The thing's locked,” he added. “I don't like to break it open. It will be a mighty important piece of evidence.”

“Mr. Kirk still holds in possession Sir Frederic's keys,” suggested Charlie. “I would have brought them with me but I did not know where they reposed.”

“They are in my desk,” Kirk told him.

A curious group was gathering about them. Chan turned to Flannery. “Our standing here has only one result. We offer ourselves as nucleus for a crowd. Humbly state we should go at once to bungalow. There the matter may be threshed out like winter wheat.”

“Good idea,” replied Flannery.

“I also ask that Mr. Kirk visit telephone booth and request Miss Morrow to speed to bungalow with all haste. It would be amazing unkindness to drop her out of events at this junction.”

“Sure,” agreed Flannery. “Do that, Mr. Kirk.”

“Likewise,” added Charlie, laying a hand on Kirk's arm, “advise her to bring with her the elevator operator, Grace Lane.”

“What for?” demanded Flannery.

“Time will reveal,” Chan shrugged. As Kirk sped away, Colonel John Beetham came up. For a moment the explorer stood, taking in the scene before him. His inscrutable expression did not change.

“Colonel Beetham,” Charlie explained, “we have here the man who killed Sir Frederic Bruce.”

“Really?” returned Beetham calmly.

“Undubitably. It is a matter that concerns you, I think. Will you be so good as to join our little party?”

“Of course,” Beetham replied. He went for his hat and coat. Chan followed him, and retrieved from Peter Lee the pasteboard check on receipt of which the old man had relinquished Sir Frederic's property.

Kirk, Beetham and Chan returned to the group by the door. “All set,” announced Flannery. “Come along, Major Durand.”

Durand hesitated. “I am not familiar with your law. But shouldn't there be some sort of warrant—”

“You needn't worry about that. I'm taking you on suspicion. I can get a warrant when I want it. Don't be a fool—come on.”

Outside a gentle rain had begun to fall, and the town was wrapped in mist. Duff, Flannery and Durand got into one taxi, and Chan followed with Kirk and the explorer in another. As Charlie was stepping into the car, a breathless figure shot out of the dark.

“Who was that with Flannery?” panted Bill Rankin.

“It has happened as I telephoned from the hotel,” Charlie answered. “We have our man.”

“Major Durand?”

“The same.”

“Good enough. I'll have a flash on the street in twenty minutes. You certainly kept your promise.”

“Old habit with me,” Chan told him.

“And how about Beetham?”

Chan glanced into the dark cab. “Nothing to do with the matter. We were on wrong trail there.”

“Too bad,” Rankin said. “Well, I'm off. I'll be back later for details. Thanks a thousand times.”

Chan inserted his broad bulk into the taxi, and they started for the Kirk Building.

“May I express humble hope,” remarked the little detective to Kirk, “that I am forgiven for my crime. I refer to my delay in mailing to Major Durand your letter containing guest card for Cosmopolitan Club.”

“Oh, surely,” Kirk told him.

“It chanced I was not yet ready he should walk inside the club,” Chan added.

“Well, I'm knocked cold,” Kirk said. “You must have had your eye on him for some time.”

“I will explain with all my eloquence later. Just now I content myself with admitting this—Major Durand was one person in all the world who did not want Eve Durand discovered.”

“But in heaven's name—why not?” Kirk asked.

“Alas, I am no miracle man. It is a matter I hope will be apparent later. Perhaps Colonel Beetham can enlighten us.”

The Colonel's voice was cool and even in the darkness. “I'm a bit weary of lying,” he remarked. “I could enlighten you. But I won't. You see, I have made a promise. And like yourself, Sergeant, I prefer to keep my promises.”

“We have many commendable points in common.”

Beetham laughed. “By the way—that was extremely decent of you—telling the reporter I wasn't concerned in this affair.”

“Only hope,” responded Chan, “that events will justify my very magnanimous act.”

They alighted before the Kirk Building and rode up to the bungalow. Paradise had admitted Flannery and Duff with their prisoner.

“Here you are,” said Flannery briskly. “Now, Mr. Kirk—let's have that key.”

Kirk stepped to his desk and produced Sir Frederic's keys. The Captain, with Duff close at his side, hastened to open the case. Charlie dropped down on the edge of a chair, his intent little eyes on Major Durand. The Major was seated in a corner of the room, his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the rug.

“By George,” cried Duff. “It's Sir Frederic's case, right enough. And here—yes—here is what we have been looking for.” He took out a typewritten sheaf of paper. “Here are his records in the matter of Eve Durand.”

The Inspector began to read eagerly. Flannery turned to Durand.

“Well, Major—this settles your hash. Where did you get the check for this briefcase?”

Durand made no reply. “I will answer for him,” Charlie said. “He extracted same from the purse of Sir Frederic the night he killed that splendid gentleman.”

“Then you visited San Francisco once before, Major?” Flannery persisted.

Still Durand did not so much as raise his eyes.

“Naturally he did,” Chan grinned. “Captain Flannery, at any moment reporters will burst upon you desiring to learn how you captured this dangerous man. Would it not be better if I told you so you will be able to make intelligent reply?” Flannery glared at him. “The matter will demand your close attention. I search about, wondering where to begin.”

Duff looked up. “I suggest you start with the moment when you first suspected Durand,” he said, and returned to his perusal of the records.

Chan nodded. “It was here in this room, same night when Durand arrived. Have you ever heard, Captain,—do not fear, it is not old saying this time. Have you ever heard Chinese are psychic people? It is true. A look, a gesture, a tone of voice—something goes click inside. I hear Mr. Kirk say to the Major he will send guest card for club or two. And from the sudden warmth of the Major's reply, I obtain my psychic spasm of warning. At once I ask myself, has the Major special interest in San Francisco clubs? It would seem so. Is he, then, the man we seek? No, he can not be. Not if he came entire distance from New York with good Inspector Duff.

“But—I advise myself—pause here and ponder. What has Inspector Duff said on this point? He has said that when he got off Twentieth Century in Chicago, he discovered Major had been on same train. I put an inquiry to myself. Has this clever man, Duff, for once in his life been hoodwinked? Inspector does me high honor to invite to dinner. During the feast, I probe about. I politely inquire, did he with his own eyes see Major Durand on board Twentieth Century while train was yet speeding between New York and Chicago? No, he did not. He saw him first in Chicago station. Durand assures him he was on identical train Inspector has just left. He announces he, too, is on way to San Francisco. They take, that same night, train bound for coast.

“The matter, then, is possible. Men have been known to double back on own tracks. Study of time elapsed since murder reveals Major may have been doing this very thing. I begin to think deep about Durand. I recall that at luncheon when Sir Frederic tells us of Eve Durand case, he makes curious omission which I noted at the time. He says that when he is planning to go to Peshawar to look into Eve Durand matter, he calls on Sir George Mannering, the woman's
uncle. Yet husband is living in England, and he would know much more about the affair than uncle would. Why, then, did not Sir Frederic interrogate the husband? I find there food for thought.

“All time I am wondering about Cosmopolitan Club year-book, which hand of Sir Frederic drops on floor at dying moment. Mr. Kirk kindly takes me to lunch at club, and checks a briefcase. I note check for coat is of metal, but briefcase check is of cardboard, with name of article deposited written on surface by trembling hand of Peter Lee. A bright light flashes in my mind. I will suppose that Sir Frederic checked a briefcase containing records we so hotly seek, and check for same was in pocket when he died. This the killer extracts; he is clever man and knows at last he has located papers he wants so fiercely. But alas for him, club-house door is guarded, only members and guests may enter. In despair, he flees, but that check he carries with him spells his doom unless he can return and obtain object it represents. He longs to do so, but danger is great.

“Then fine evidence arrives. The velvet slippers come back to us on tide of events, wrapped in newspaper. On margin of paper, partially torn, are figures—a money addition—$79 plus $23 equals $103. This refers to dollars only. Cents have been torn off. I visit railroad office. I decide what must have been on that paper before its tearing. Simply this, $79.84 plus $23.63 equals $103.47. What is that? The cost of railroad fare to Chicago with lower berth. Then the person who discarded those slippers was on Oakland ferry Wednesday morning after murder, bound to take train from Oakland terminal to Chicago. Who of all my suspects might have done that? No one but Major Durand.

“I think deep, I cogitate, I weave in and out through my not very brilliant mind. I study time-tables. Presume Major Durand was on that train out of Oakland Wednesday noon. He arrives in Chicago Saturday morning at nine. He is still distressed about check for briefcase, but his best plan seems to be to proceed eastward, and he
hastens to LaSalle Street station to obtain train for New York. He arrives in time to see Inspector Duff, whom he met once in Paris, disembarking from Twentieth Century. He is smart man, a big idea assails him. First he will give impression he is alighting from same train, and then he will return to California in company of Scotland Yard Inspector. Who would suspect him then? So the innocent Inspector Duff himself escorts the killer back to the scene of the crime.

“All this seems to possess good logic. But it hangs on one thing—has briefcase been checked by Sir Frederic? This morning I visit with Peter Lee, keeper of Cosmopolitan Club check-room. I can scarce restrain my joy to learn Sir Frederic did indeed leave such an object the day he died. His dying gesture then, was to call our attention to the fact. He sought to present us with essential clue—what a man he was! I fondle the case lovingly, observing dust. Inside is no doubt very important information. But I do not desire to open it yet. I desire to set a trap. I have unlimited yearning to show Captain Flannery the man we have sought, standing by the check-room counter with this briefcase under his arm. Such evidence will be unanswerable.

“So I leave club, very happy. The affair has now pretty well unveiled itself. I have not yet discovered motives, but I am certain it was Major Durand who objected so murderously to the finding of his lost wife. He has not come to this country in answer to a cable from Sir Frederic. That is a lie. Sir Frederic did not want him. But he has learned, probably from the woman's uncle, that Sir Frederic is on point of revealing wife. For a reason still clouded in dark, he determines this must not happen. He arrives in San Francisco same time as Sir Frederic. He locates great detective, learns of the office, watches his chance. To prevent detective from revealing wife, two things are necessary. He must destroy the records, and he must kill Sir Frederic. He decides to begin with records, and so on night of dinner party he forces his way into office, unseen by
anybody. He is searching when Sir Frederic creeps in on the velvet slippers and surprises him. His opportunity has come, Sir Frederic is unarmed, he shoots him dead. But his task is only half completed, he hunts frantically for records. He does not find them. But he finds the check for the briefcase. He abstracts same, casts longing thought toward club, but does not dare. On the next train out he flees, the check burning in his pocket. If only he could return. In Chicago his great chance arrives.