Behind That Curtain Page 2

  Paradise hastened forward to officiate with the tie, and over the servant’s shoulder Bill Rankin explained his mission. Kirk nodded.

  “A bully idea,” he remarked. “I have a lot of friends in Honolulu, and I’ve heard about Charlie Chan. I’d like to meet him myself.”

  “Very happy to have you join us,” said the reporter.

  “Can’t be done. You must join me.”

  “But—the suggestion of the lunch was mine—” began Rankin uncomfortably.

  Kirk waved a hand in the airy manner of the rich in such a situation. “My dear fellow—I’ve already arranged a luncheon for tomorrow. Some chap in the district attorney’s office wrote me a letter. He’s interested in criminology and wants to meet Sir Frederic. As I explained to Sir Frederic, I couldn’t very well ignore it. We never know when we’ll need a friend in the district attorney’s office, these days.”

  “One of the deputies?” inquired Rankin.

  “Yes. A fellow named Morrow—J. V. Morrow. Perhaps you know him?”

  Rankin nodded. “I do,” he said.

  “Well, that’s the scenario,” went on Kirk. “We’re to meet this lad at the St. Francis to-morrow at one. The topic of the day will be murder, and I’m sure your friend from Honolulu will fit in admirably. You must pick up Mr. Chan and join us.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Rankin. “You’re extremely kind. We’ll be there. I—I won’t keep you any longer.”

  Paradise came forward with alacrity to let him out. At the foot of the stairs on the twentieth floor he met his old rival, Gleason of the Herald. He chuckled with delight.

  “Turn right around,” he said. “You’re too late. I thought of it first.”

  “Thought of what?” asked Gleason, with assumed innocence.

  “I’m getting Sir Frederic and Charlie Chan together, and the idea’s copyrighted. Lay off.”

  Gloomily, Mr. Gleason turned about, and accompanied Bill Rankin to the elevators. As they waited for the car, the girl in the green dress emerged from the office of the Calcutta Importers and joined them. They rode down together. The girl’s tears had vanished, and had happily left no trace. Blue eyes—that completed the picture. A charming picture. Mr. Gleason was also showing signs of interest.

  In the street Gleason spoke. “I never thought of it until dinner,” he said sourly.

  “With me, my career comes first,” Rankin responded. “Did you finish your dinner?”

  “I did, worse luck. Well, I hope you get a whale of a story—a knock-out, a classic.”

  “Thanks, old man.”

  “And I hope you can’t print one damn word of it.” Rankin did not reply as his friend hurried off into the dusk. He was watching the girl in the green dress disappear up California Street. Why had she left the presence of Sir Frederick Bruce to weep outside that office door? What had Sir Frederic said to her? Might ask Sir Frederic about it to-morrow. He laughed mirthlessly. He saw himself—or any other man—prying into the private affairs of Sir Frederic Bruce.

  Chapter 2

  WHAT HAPPENED TO EVE DURAND?

  The next day at one, Sir Frederic Bruce stood in the lobby of the St. Francis, a commanding figure in a gray tweed suit. By his side, as immaculate as his guest, stood Barry Kirk, looking out on the busy scene with the amused tolerance befitting a young man of vast leisure and not a care in the world. Kirk hung his stick on his arm, and took a letter from his pocket.

  “By the way, I had this note from J. V. Morrow in the morning’s mail,” he said. “Thanks me very politely for my invitation, and says that I’ll know him when he shows up because he’ll be wearing a green hat. One of those green plush hats, I suppose. Hardly the sort of thing I’d put on my head if I were a deputy district attorney.”

  Sir Frederic did not reply. He was watching Bill Rankin approach rapidly across the floor. At the reporter’s side walked, surprisingly light of step, an unimpressive little man with a bulging waistband and a very earnest expression on his chubby face.

  “Here we are,” Rankin said. “Sir Frederic Bruce—may I present Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police?”

  Charlie Chan bent quickly like a jack-knife. “The honor,” he said, “is unbelievably immense. In Sir Frederic’s reflected glory I am happy to bask. The tiger has condescended to the fly.”

  Somewhat at a loss, the Englishman caressed his mustache and smiled down on the detective from Hawaii. As a keen judge of men, already he saw something in those black restless eyes that held his attention.

  “I’m happy to know you, Sergeant Chan,” he said. “It seems we think alike on certain important points. We should get on well together.”

  Rankin introduced Chan to the host, who greeted the little Chinese with obvious approval. “Good of you to come,” he said.

  “A four-horse chariot could not have dragged me in an opposite direction,” Chan assured him.

  Kirk looked at his watch. “All here but J. V. Morrow,” he remarked. “He wrote me this morning that he’s coming in at the Post Street entrance. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a look around.”

  He strolled down the corridor toward Post Street. Near the door, on a velvet davenport, sat a strikingly attractive young woman. No other seat was available, and with an interested glance at the girl Kirk also dropped down on the davenport. “If you don’t mind—” he murmured.

  “Not at all,” she replied, in a voice that somehow suited her.

  They sat in silence. Presently Kirk was aware that she was looking at him. He glanced up, to meet her smile.

  “People are always late,” he ventured.

  “Aren’t they?”

  “No reason for it, usually. Just too inefficient to make the grade. Nothing annoys me more.”

  “I feel the same way,” the girl nodded.

  Another silence. The girl was still smiling at him.

  “Go out of your way to invite somebody you don’t know to lunch,” Kirk continued, “and he isn’t even courteous enough to arrive on time.”

  “Abominable,” she agreed. “You have all my sympathy—Mr. Kirk.”

  He started. “Oh—you know me?”

  She nodded. “Somebody once pointed you out to me—at a charity bazaar,” she explained.

  “Well,” he sighed, “their charity didn’t extend to me. Nobody pointed you out.” He looked at his watch.

  “This person you’re expecting—” began the girl.

  “A lawyer,” he answered. “I hate all lawyers. They’re always telling you something you’d rather not know.”

  “Yes—aren’t they?”

  “Messing around with other people’s troubles. What a life.”

  “Frightful.” Another silence. “You say you don’t know this lawyer?” A rather unkempt young man came in and hurried past. “How do you expect to recognize him?”

  “He wrote me he’d be wearing a green hat. Imagine! Why not a rose behind his ear?”

  “A green hat.” The girl’s smile grew even brighter. Charming, thought Kirk. Suddenly he stared at her in amazement. “Good lord—you’re wearing a green hat!” he cried.

  “I’m afraid I am.”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  “Yes—it’s true. I’m the lawyer. And you hate all lawyers. What a pity.”

  “But I didn’t dream—”

  “J. V. Morrow,” she went on. “The first name is June.”

  “And I thought it was Jim,” he cried. “Please forgive me.”

  “You’d never have invited me if you’d known—would you?”

  “On the contrary—I wouldn’t have invited anybody else. But come along. There are a lot of murder experts in the lobby dying to meet you.”

  They rose, and walked rapidly down the corridor. “You’re interested in murder?” Kirk inquired.

  “Among other things,” she smiled.

  “Must take it up myself,” Kirk murmured.

  Men turned to look at her a second time, he noticed. There was an alertness in
her dark eyes that resembled the look in Chan’s, her manner was brisk and businesslike, but for all that she was feminine, alluring.

  He introduced her to the surprised Sir Frederic, then to Charlie Chan. The expression on the face of the little Chinese did not alter. He bowed low.

  “The moment has charm,” he remarked.

  Kirk turned to Rankin. “And all the time,” he accused, “you knew who J. V. Morrow was.”

  The reporter shrugged. “I thought I’d let you find it out for yourself. Life holds so few pleasant surprises.”

  “It never held a pleasanter one for me,” Kirk answered. They went in to the table he had engaged, which stood in a secluded corner.

  When they were seated, the girl turned to her host. “This was so good of you. And of Sir Frederic, too. I know how busy he must be.”

  The Englishman bowed. “A fortunate moment for me,” he smiled, “when I decided I was not too busy to meet J. V. Morrow. I had heard that in the States young women were emancipated—”

  “Of course, you don’t approve,” she said.

  “Oh—but I do,” he murmured.

  “And Mr. Chan. I’m sure Mr. Chan disapproves of me.”

  Chan regarded her blankly. “Does the elephant disapprove of the butterfly? And who cares?”

  “No answer at all,” smiled the girl. “You are returning to Honolulu soon, Mr. Chan?”

  A delighted expression appeared on the blank face. “To-morrow at noon the Maui receives my humble person. We churn over to Hawaii together.”

  “I see you are eager to go,” said the girl.

  “The brightest eyes are sometimes blind,” replied Chan. “Not true in your case. It is now three weeks since I arrived on the mainland, thinking to taste the joys of holiday. Before I am aware events engulf me, and like the postman who has day of rest I foolishly set out on long, tiresome walk. Happy to say that walk are ended now. With beating heart I turn toward little home on Punchbowl Hill.”

  “I know how you feel,” said Miss Morrow.

  “Humbly begging pardon to mention it, you do not. I have hesitation in adding to your ear that one thing calls me home with unbearable force. I am soon to be happy father.”

  “For the first time?” asked Barry Kirk.

  “The eleventh occasion of the kind,” Chan answered.

  “Must be sort of an old story by now,” Bill Rankin suggested.

  “That is one story which does not get aged,” Chan replied. “You will learn. But my trivial affairs have no place here. We are met to honor a distinguished guest.” He looked toward Sir Frederic.

  Bill Rankin thought of his coming story. “I was moved to get you two together,” he said, “because I found you think alike. Sir Frederic is also scornful of science as an aid to crime detection.”

  “I have formed that view from my experience,” remarked Sir Frederic.

  “A great pleasure,” Chan beamed, “to hear that huge mind like Sir Frederic’s moves in same groove as my poor head-piece. Intricate mechanics good in books, in real life not so much so. My experience tell me to think deep about human people. Human passions. Back of murder what, always? Hate, greed, revenge, need to make silent the slain one. Study human people at all times.”

  “Precisely,” agreed Sir Frederic. “The human element—that is what counts. I have had no luck with scientific devices. Take the dictaphone—it has been a complete washout at the Yard.” He talked on, while the luncheon progressed. Finally he turned to Chan. “And what have your methods gained you, Sergeant? You have been successful, I hear.”

  Chan shrugged. “Luck—always happy luck.”

  “You’re too modest,” said Rankin. “That won’t get you anywhere.”

  “The question now arises—where do I want to go?”

  “But surely you’re ambitious?” Miss Morrow suggested.

  Chan turned to her gravely. “Coarse food to eat, water to drink, and the bended arm for a pillow—that is an old definition of happiness in my country. What is ambition? A canker that eats at the heart of the white man, denying him the joys of contentment. Is it also attacking the heart of white woman? I hope not.” The girl looked away. “I fear I am victim of crude philosophy from Orient. Man—what is he? Merely one link in a great chain binding the past with the future. All times I remember I am link. Unsignificant link joining those ancestors whose bones repose on far distant hillsides with the ten children—it may now be eleven—in my house on Punchbowl Hill.”

  “A comforting creed,” Barry Kirk commented.

  “So, waiting the end, I do my duty as it rises. I tread the path that opens.” He turned to Sir Frederic. “On one point, from my reading, I am curious. In your work at Scotland Yard, you follow only one clue. What you call the essential clue.”

  Sir Frederic nodded, “Such is usually our custom. When we fail, our critics ascribe it to that. They say for example, that our obsession over the essential clue is the reason why we never solved the famous Ely Place murder.”

  They all sat up with interest. Bill Rankin beamed. Now things were getting somewhere. “I’m afraid we never heard of the Ely Place murder, Sir Frederic,” he hinted.

  “I sincerely wish I never had,” the Englishman replied. “It was the first serious case that came to me when I took charge of the C.I.D. over sixteen years ago. I am chagrined to say I have never been able to fathom it.”

  He finished his salad, and pushed away the plate. “Since I have gone so far, I perceive I must go farther. Hilary Galt was the senior partner in the firm of Pennock and Galt, solicitors, with offices in Ely Place, Holborn. The business this firm carried on for more than a generation was unique of its kind. Troubled people in the highest ranks of society went to them for shrewd professional advice and Mr. Hilary Galt and his father-in-law, Pennock, who died some twenty years ago, were entrusted with more numerous and romantic secrets than any other firm of solicitors in London. They knew the hidden history of every rascal in Europe, and they rescued many persons from the clutches of blackmailers. It was their boast that they never kept records of any sort.”

  Dessert was brought, and after this interruption, Sir Frederic continued.

  “One foggy January night sixteen years ago, a caretaker entered Mr. Hilary Galt’s private office, presumably deserted for the day. The gas lights were ablaze, the windows shut and locked; there was no sign of any disturbance. But on the floor lay Hilary Galt, with a bullet in his brain.

  “There was just one clue, and over that we puzzled for many weary months at the Yard. Hilary Galt was a meticulous dresser, his attire was perfect, always. It was perfect on this occasion—with one striking exception. His highly polished boots—I presume you call them shoes over here—were removed and standing on a pile of papers on top of his desk. And on his feet he wore a pair of velvet slippers, embellished with a curious design.

  “These, of course, seemed to the Yard the essential clue, and we set to work. We traced those slippers to the Chinese Legation in Portland Place. Mr. Galt had been of some trifling service to the Chinese minister, and early on the day of his murder the slippers had arrived as a gift from that gentleman. Galt had shown them to his office staff, and they were last seen wrapped loosely in their covering near his hat and stick. That was as far as we got.

  “For sixteen years I have puzzled over those slippers. Why did Mr. Hilary Galt remove his boots, don the slippers, and prepare himself as though for some extraordinary adventure? I don’t know to this day. The slippers still haunt me. When I resigned from the Yard, I rescued them from the Black Museum and took them with me as a souvenir of my first case—an unhappy souvenir of failure. I should like to show them to you, Miss Morrow.”

  “Thrilling,” said the girl.

  “Annoying,” corrected Sir Frederic grimly.

  Bill Rankin looked at Charlie Chan. “What’s your reaction to that case, Sergeant?” he inquired.

  Chan’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Humbly begging pardon to inquire,” he said, “have yo
u the custom, Sir Frederic, to put yourself in place of murderer?”

  “It’s a good idea,” the Englishman answered, “if you can do it. You mean—”

  “A man who has killed—a very clever man—he knows that Scotland Yard has fiercely fixed idea about essential clue. His wits accompany him. He furnishes gladly one essential clue which has no meaning and leads no place at all.”

  Sir Frederic regarded him keenly. “Excellent,” he remarked. “And it has one great virtue—from your point of view. It completely exonerates your countrymen at the Chinese Legation.”

  “It might do more than that,” suggested Barry Kirk.

  Sir Frederic thoughtfully ate his dessert. No one spoke for some moments. But Bill Rankin was eager for more material.

  “A very interesting case, Sir Frederic,” he remarked. “You must have a lot like it up your sleeve. Murders that ended more successfully for Scotland Yard—”

  “Hundreds,” nodded the detective. “But none that still holds its interest for me like the crime in Ely Place. As a matter of fact, I have never found murder so fascinating as some other things. The murder case came and went and, with a rare exception such as this I have mentioned, was quickly forgotten. But there is one mystery that to me has always been the most exciting in the world.”

  “And what is that?” asked Rankin, while they waited with deep interest.

  “The mystery of the missing,” Sir Frederic replied. “The man or woman who steps quietly out of the picture and is never seen again. Hilary Galt, dead in his office, presents a puzzle, of course; still, there is something to get hold of, something tangible, a body on the floor. But if Hilary Galt had disappeared into the fog that gloomy night, leaving no trace—that would have been another story.

  “For years I have been enthralled by the stories of the missing,” the detective went on. “Even when they were outside my province, I followed many of them. Often the solution was simple, or sordid, but that could never detract from the thrill of the ones that remained unsolved. And of all those unsolved cases, there is one that I have never ceased to think about. Sometimes in the night I wake up and ask myself—what happened to Eve Durand?”