Behind That Curtain Page 12

  “You have made progress?” Chan inquired.

  “How could I? Every time I get all set to go at the thing in a reasonable way, I have to stop and hunt for a missing woman. I tell you, I’m getting fed up on that end of it. If there’s any more nonsense about—”

  The door opened, and a clerk admitted Carrick Enderby and his wife. Eileen Enderby, even before she spoke, seemed flustered and nervous. Miss Morrow rose.

  “How do you do,” she said. “Sit down, please. It was good of you to come.”

  “Of course we came,” Eileen Enderby replied. “Though what it is you want, I for one can’t imagine.”

  “We must let Miss Morrow tell us what is wanted, Eileen,” drawled her husband.

  “Oh, naturally,” Mrs. Enderby’s blue eyes turned from one to the other and rested at last on the solid bulk of Captain Flannery.

  “We’re going to ask a few questions, Mrs. Enderby,” began Miss Morrow. “Questions that I know you’ll be glad to answer. Tell me—had you ever met Sir Frederic Bruce before Mr. Kirk’s dinner party the other night?”

  “I’d never even heard of him,” replied the woman firmly.

  “Ah, yes. Yet just after Colonel Beetham began to show his pictures, Sir Frederic called you out into a passageway. He wanted to speak to you alone.”

  Eileen Enderby looked at her husband, who nodded. “Yes,” she admitted. “He did. I was never so surprised in my life.”

  “What did Sir Frederic want to speak to you about?”

  “It was a most amazing thing. He mentioned a girl—a girl I once knew very well.”

  “What about the girl?”

  “Well—it was quite a mystery. This girl Sir Frederic spoke of—she disappeared one night. Just walked off into the dark and was never heard of again.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Did she disappear at Peshawar, in India?” Miss Morrow inquired.

  “India? Why, no—not at all,” replied Eileen Enderby.

  “Oh, I see. Then he was speaking of Marie Lantelme, who disappeared from Nice?”

  “Nice? Marie Lantelme? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mrs. Enderby’s pretty forehead wrinkled in amazement.

  For the first time, Chan spoke. “It is now how many years,” he asked, “since your friend was last seen?”

  “Why—it must be—let me think. Seven—yes—seven years.”

  “She disappeared from New York, perhaps?”

  “From New York—yes.”

  “Her name was Jennie Jerome?”

  “Yes. Jennie Jerome.”

  Chan took out his wallet and removed a clipping. He handed it to Miss Morrow. “Once more, and I am hoping for the last time,” he remarked, “I would humbly request that you read aloud a scrap of paper from Sir Frederic’s effects.”

  Miss Morrow took the paper, her eyes wide. Captain Flannery’s face was a study in scarlet. The girl began to read:

  “What happened to Jennie Jerome? A famous New York modiste and an even more famous New York illustrator are among those who have been asking themselves that question for the past seven years.

  “Jennie Jerome was what the French call a mannequin, a model employed by the fashionable house of DuFour et Cie, on Fifth Avenue, in New York. She was something more than a model, a rack for pretty clothes; she was a girl of charming and marked personality and a beauty that will not be forgot in seven times seven years. Though employed but a brief time by DuFour she was the most popular of all their models among the distinguished patrons of the house. A celebrated New York illustrator saw her picture in a newspaper and at once sought her out, offering her a large sum of money to pose for him.

  “Jennie Jerome seemed delighted at the opportunity. She invited a number of her friends to a little dinner party at her apartment, to celebrate the event. When these friends arrived, the door of her apartment stood open. They entered. The table was set, the candles lighted, preparations for the dinner apparent. But the hostess was nowhere about.

  “The boy at the telephone switchboard in the hall below reported that, a few minutes before, he had seen her run down the stairs and vanish into the night. He was the last person who saw Jennie Jerome. Her employer, Madame DuFour, and the illustrator who had been struck by her beauty, made every possible effort to trace her. These efforts came to nothing. Jennie Jerome had vanished into thin air. Eloped? But no man’s name was ever linked with hers. Murdered? Perhaps. No one knows. At any rate, Jennie Jerome had gone without leaving a trace, and there the matter has rested for seven years.”

  “Another one of ‘em,” cried Flannery, as Miss Morrow stopped reading. “Great Scott—what are we up against?”

  “A puzzle,” suggested Chan calmly. He restored the clipping to his pocketbook.

  “I’ll say so,” Flannery growled.

  “You knew Jennie Jerome?” Miss Morrow said to Eileen Enderby.

  Mrs. Enderby nodded. “Yes. I was employed by the same firm—DuFour. One of the models, too. I was working there when I met Mr. Enderby, who was in Cook’s New York office at the time. I knew Jennie well. If I may say so, that story you just read has been touched up a bit. Jennie Jerome was just an ordinarily pretty girl—nothing to rave about. I believe some illustrator did want her to pose for him. We all got offers like that.”

  “Leaving her beauty out of it,” smiled Miss Morrow, “she did disappear?”

  “Oh, yes. I was one of the guests invited to her dinner. That part of it is true enough. She just walked off into the night.”

  “And it was this girl whom Sir Frederic questioned you about?”

  “Yes. Somehow, he knew I was one of her friends—how he knew it, I can’t imagine. At any rate, he asked me if I would know Jennie Jerome if I saw her again. I said I thought I would. He said: ‘Have you seen her in the Kirk Building this evening?’”

  “And you told him—”

  “I told him I hadn’t. He said to stop and think a minute. I couldn’t see the need of that. I hadn’t seen her—I was sure of it.”

  “And you still haven’t seen her?”

  “No—I haven’t.”

  Miss Morrow rose. “We are greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Enderby. That is all, I believe. Captain Flannery—”

  “That’s all from me—” said Flannery.

  “Well, if there’s any more I can tell you—” Mrs. Enderby rose, with evident relief.

  Her husband spoke. “Come along, Eileen,” he said sternly. They went out. The four left behind in the office stared at one another in wonder.

  “There you are,” exploded Flannery, rising. “Another missing woman. Eve Durand, Marie Lantelme and Jennie Jerome. Three—count ‘em—three—and if you believe your ears, every damn one of ‘em was in the Kirk Building night before last. I don’t know how it sounds to you, but to me it’s all wrong.”

  “It does sound fishy,” Barry Kirk admitted. “The Port of Missing Women—and I thought I was running just an ordinary office building.”

  “All wrong, I tell you,” Flannery went on loudly. “It never happened, that’s all. Somebody’s kidding us to a far-the-well. This last story is one too many—” He stopped, and stared at Charlie Chan. “Well, Sergeant—what’s on your mind?” he inquired.

  “Plenty,” grinned Chan. “On one side of our puzzle, at least, light is beginning to break. This last story illuminates darkness. You follow after me, of course.”

  “I do not. What are you talking about?”

  “You do not? A great pity. In good time, I show you.”

  “All right—all right,” cried Flannery. “I leave these missing women to you and Miss Morrow here. I don’t want to hear any more about ’em—I’ll go dippy if I do. I’ll stick to the main facts. Night before last Sir Frederic Bruce was murdered in an office on the twentieth floor of the Kirk Building. Somebody slipped away from that party, or somebody got in from outside, and did for him. There was a book beside him, and there were marks on the fire-escape—I didn’t tell you that, but there were—a
nd the murderer nabbed a pair of velvet shoes off his feet. That’s my case, my job, and by heaven I’m going after it, and if anybody comes to me with any more missing women stories—”

  He stopped. The outer door had opened, and Eileen Enderby was coming in. At her heels came her husband, stern and grim. The woman appeared very much upset.

  “We—we’ve come back,” she said. She sank into a chair. “My husband thinks—he has made me see—”

  “I have insisted,” said Carrick Enderby, “that my wife tell you the entire story. She has omitted a very important point.”

  “I’m in a terrible position,” the woman protested. “I do hope I’m doing the right thing. Carry—are you sure—”

  “I am sure,” cut in her husband, “that in a serious matter of this sort, truth is the only sane course.”

  “But she begged me not to tell,” Eileen Enderby reminded him. “She pleaded so hard. I don’t want to make trouble for her—”

  “You gave no promise,” her husband said. “And if the woman’s done nothing wrong, I don’t see—”

  “Look here,” broke in Flannery. “You came back to tell us something. What is it?”

  “You came back to tell us that you have seen Jennie Jerome?” suggested Miss Morrow.

  Mrs. Enderby nodded, and began to speak with obvious reluctance.

  “Yes—I did see her—but not before I talked with Sir Frederic. I told him the truth. I hadn’t seen her then—that is, I had seen her, but I didn’t notice—one doesn’t, you know—”

  “But you noticed later.”

  “Yes—on our way home. Going down in the elevator. I got a good look at her then, and that was when I realized it. The elevator girl in the Kirk Building night before last was Jennie Jerome.”

  Chapter 10

  THE LETTER FROM LONDON

  Captain Flannery got up and took a turn about the room. He was a simple man and the look on his face suggested that the complexities of his calling were growing irksome. He stopped in front of Eileen Enderby.

  “So—the elevator girl in the Kirk Building was Jennie Jerome? Then you lied a few minutes ago when you told Miss Morrow you hadn’t seen her?”

  “You can’t hold that against her,” Enderby protested. “She’s come back of her own free will to tell you the truth.”

  “But why didn’t she tell it in the first place?”

  “One doesn’t care to become involved in a matter of this sort. That’s only natural.”

  “All right, all right.” Flannery turned back to Mrs. Enderby. “You say you recognized this girl when you were going down in the elevator, on your way home after the dinner? And you let her see that you recognized her?”

  “Oh, yes. I cried out in surprise: ‘Jennie! Jennie Jerome! What are you doing here?’”

  “You saw what she was doing, didn’t you?”

  “It was just one of those questions—it didn’t mean anything.”

  “Yeah. And what did she say?”

  “She just smiled quietly and said: ‘Hello, Eileen. I was wondering if you’d know me.’”

  “Then what?”

  “There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask of course. Why she ran away that time—where she had been. But she wouldn’t answer, she just shook her head, still smiling, and said maybe some other time she’d tell me everything. And then she asked me if I’d do this—this favor for her.”

  “You mean, keep still about the fact that you’d seen her?”

  “Yes. She said she’d done nothing wrong, but that if the story about how she left New York came out it might create a lot of suspicion—”

  “According to your husband, you made no promise?” Flannery said.

  “No, I didn’t. Under ordinary conditions, of course, I’d have promised at once. But I thought of Sir Frederic’s murder, and it seemed to me a very serious thing she was asking. So I just said I’d think it over and let her know when I saw her again.”

  “And have you seen her again?”

  “No, I haven’t. It was all so strange. I hardly knew what to do.”

  “Well, you’d better keep away from her,” Flannery suggested.

  “I’ll keep away from her all right. I feel as though I’d betrayed her.” Eileen Enderby glanced accusingly at her husband.

  “You were not in her debt,” said Enderby. “Lying’s a dangerous business in a matter of this kind.”

  “You’re lucky, Mrs. Enderby,” said the Captain. “You’ve got a sensible husband. Just listen to him, and you’ll be O.K. I guess that’s all now. You can go. Only keep this to yourself.”

  “I’ll certainly do that,” the woman assured him. She rose.

  “If I want you again, I’ll let you know,” Flannery added.

  Chan opened the door for her. “May I be permitted respectful inquiry,” he ventured. “The beautiful garment marked by iron rust stains—it was not ruined beyond reclaim?”

  “Oh, not at all,” she answered. She paused, as though she felt that the matter called for an explanation. “When I saw that man on the fire-escape I became so excited I leaned against the garden railing. It was dripping with fog. Careless of me, wasn’t it?”

  “In moment of stress, how easy to slip into careless act,” resumed Chan. Bowing low, he closed the door after the Enderbys.

  “Well,” said Flannery, “I guess we’re getting somewhere at last. Though if you ask me where, I can’t tell you. Anyhow, we know that Sir Frederic was looking for Jennie Jerome the night he was killed, and that Jennie Jerome was running an elevator just outside his door. By heaven, I’ve a notion to lock her up right now.”

  “But you haven’t anything against her,” Miss Morrow objected. “You know that.”

  “No, I haven’t. However, the newspapers are howling for an arrest. They always are. I could give ‘em Jennie Jerome—a pretty girl—they’d eat it up. Then, if nothing else breaks against her, I could let her off, sort of quiet.”

  “Such tactics are beneath you, Captain,” Miss Morrow said. “I trust that when we make an arrest, it will be based on something more tangible than any evidence we’ve got so far. Are you with me, Mr. Chan?”

  “Undubitably,” Chan replied. He glanced up at the frowning face of the Captain. “If I may make humble suggestion—”

  “Of course,” agreed Miss Morrow.

  But Chan, it seemed, changed his mind. He kept his humble suggestion to himself. “Patience,” he finished lamely, “always brightest plan in these matters. Acting as champion of that lovely virtue, I have fought many fierce battles. American has always the urge to leap too quick. How well it was said, retire a step and you have the advantage.”

  “But these newspapermen—” protested the Captain.

  “I do not wish to infest the picture,” Chan smiled, “but I would like to refer to my own habit in similar situation. When newspapers rage, I put nice roll of cotton in the ears. Simmered down to truth, I am responsible party, not newspaper reporter. I tell him with exquisite politeness to fade off and hush down.”

  “A good plan,” laughed Miss Morrow. She turned to Barry Kirk. “By the way, do you know anything about this elevator girl? Grace Lane was, I believe, the name she gave the other night.”

  Kirk shook his head. “Not a thing. Except that she’s the prettiest girl we’ve ever employed in the building. I’d noticed that, of course.”

  “I rather thought you had,” Miss Morrow said.

  “Lady, I’m not blind,” he assured her. “I notice beauty anywhere—in elevators, in cable cars—even in a lawyer’s office. I tried to talk to this girl once or twice, but I didn’t get very far. If you like, I’ll try it again.”

  “No, thanks. You’d probably be away off the subject—”

  “Well, it all sounds mighty mysterious to me,” he admitted. “We thought Sir Frederic was on the trail of Eve Durand, and now it seems it must have been a couple of other women. The poor chap is gone, but he’s left a most appalling puzzle on my doorstep. You’re all su
ch nice detectives—I don’t want to hurt your feelings—but will you kindly tell me whither we are drifting? Where are we getting? Nowhere, if you ask me.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right,” Miss Morrow sighed.

  “Maybe if I locked this woman up—” began Flannery, attached to the idea.

  “No, no,” Miss Morrow told him. “We can’t do that. But we can shadow her. And since she is one who has some talent for walking off into the night, I suggest that you arrange the matter without delay.”

  Flannery nodded. “I’ll put the boys on her trail. I guess you’re right—we might get onto something that way. But Mr. Kirk has said it—we’re not progressing very fast. If there was only some clue I could get my teeth into—”

  Chan cut in. “Thanks for recalling my wandering ideas,” he said. “So much has happened the matter was obscure in my mind. I have something here that might furnish excellent teeth-hold.” He removed an envelope from his pocket and carefully extracted a folded sheet of paper and a picture post-card. “No doubt, Captain, you have more cleverness with fingerprints than stupid man like me. Could you say—are these thumb prints identically the same?”

  Flannery studied the two items. “They look the same to me. I could put our expert on them—but say, what’s this all about?”

  “Blank sheet of paper,” Chan explained, “arrive in envelope marked Scotland Yard. Without question Miss Morrow has told you?”

  “Oh, yes—she mentioned that. Somebody tampering with the mail, eh? And this thumb print on the post-card?”

  “Bestowed there last night by digit of Paradise, Mr. Kirk’s butler,” Chan informed him.

  Flannery jumped up. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Now we’re getting on. You’ve got the makings of a detective after all, Sergeant. Paradise, eh—fooling with Uncle Sam’s mail. That’s good enough for me—I’ll have him behind the bars in an hour.”

  Chan lifted a protesting hand. “Oh, no—my humblest apologies. Again you leap too sudden. We must watch and wait—”