Behind That Curtain Read online

  “Eve Durand,” repeated Rankin eagerly.

  “That was her name. As a matter of fact, I had nothing to do with the case. It happened outside my bailiwick—very far outside. But I followed it with intense interest from the first. There are others, too, who have never forgotten—just before I left England I clipped from a British periodical a brief reference to the matter—I have it here.” He removed a bit of paper from his purse. “Miss Morrow—will you be kind enough to read this aloud?”

  The girl took the clipping. She began to read, in a low, clear voice:

  “A gay crowd of Anglo-Indians gathered one night fifteen years ago on a hill outside Peshawar to watch the moon rise over that isolated frontier town. Among the company were Captain Eric Durand and his wife, just out from home. Eve Durand was young, pretty and well-born—a Miss Mannering, of Devonshire. Someone proposed a game of hide-and-seek before the ride back to Peshawar. The game was never finished. They are still looking for Eve Durand. Eventually all India was enlisted in the game. Jungle and bazaar, walled city and teak forest, were fine-combed for her. Through all the subterranean channels of that no-white-man’s land of native life the search was carried by the famous secret service. After five years her husband retired to a life of seclusion in England, and Eve Durand became a legend—a horror tale to be told by ayahs to naughty children, along with the ghost stories of that north country.”

  The girl ceased reading, and looked at Sir Frederic, wide-eyed. There followed a moment of tense silence.

  Bill Rankin broke the spell. “Some little game of hide-and-seek,” he said.

  “Can you wonder,” asked Sir Frederic, “that for fifteen years the disappearance of Eve Durand, like Hilary Galt’s slippers, has haunted me? A notably beautiful woman—a child, really—she was but eighteen that mysterious night at Peshawar. A blonde, blue-eyed, helpless child, lost in the dark of those dangerous hills. Where did she go? What became of her? Was she murdered? What happened to Eve Durand?”

  “I’d rather like to know myself,” remarked Barry Kirk softly.

  “All India, as the clipping says, was enlisted in the game. By telegraph and by messenger, inquiries went forward. Her heart-broken, frantic husband was given leave, and at the risk of his life he scoured that wild country. The secret service did its utmost. Nothing happened. No word ever came back to Peshawar.

  “It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, and in time, for most people, the game lost its thrill. The hue and cry died down. All save a few forgot.

  “When I retired from the Yard and set out on this trip around the world, India was of course on my itinerary. Though it was far off my track, I resolved to visit Peshawar. I went down to Ripple Court in Devonshire and had a chat with Sir George Mannering, the uncle of Eve Durand. Poor man, he is old before his time. He gave me what information he could—it was pitifully meager. I promised I would try to take up the threads of this old mystery when I reached India.”

  “And you did?” Rankin inquired.

  “I tried—but, my dear fellow, have you ever seen Peshawar? When I reached there the hopelessness of my quest struck me, as Mr. Chan might say, with an unbearable force. The Paris of the Pathans, they call it, and its filthy alleys teem with every race in the East. It isn’t a city, it’s a caravansary, and its population is constantly shifting. The English garrison is changed frequently, and I could find scarcely any one who was there in the time of Eve Durand.

  “As I say, Peshawar appalled me. Anything could happen there. A wicked town—its sins are the sins of opium and hemp and jealousy and intrigue, of battle, murder and sudden death, of gambling and strange intoxications, the lust of revenge. Who can explain the deviltry that gets into men’s blood in certain latitudes? I walked the Street of the Story Tellers and wondered in vain over the story of Eve Durand. What a place to bring a woman like that, delicately reared, young, inexperienced.”

  “You learned nothing?” inquired Barry Kirk.

  “What could you expect?” Sir Frederic dropped a small lump of sugar into his coffee. “Fifteen years since that little picnic party rode back to Peshawar, back to the compound of the lonely garrison, leading behind them the riderless pony of Eve Durand. And fifteen years, I may tell you, make a very heavy curtain on India’s frontier.”

  Again Bill Rankin turned to Charlie Chan. “What do you say, Sergeant?” he asked.

  Chan considered. “The town named Peshawar stands with great proximity to the Khyber Pass, leading into wilds of Afghanistan,” he said.

  Sir Frederic nodded. “It does. But every foot of the pass is guarded night and day by British troops, and no European is permitted to leave by that route, save under very special conditions. No, Eve Durand could never have left India by way of the Khyber Pass. The thing would have been impossible. Grant the impossible, and she could not have lived a day among the wild hillmen over the border.”

  Chan gravely regarded the man from Scotland Yard. “It is not to be amazed at,” he said, “that you have felt such deep interest. Speaking humbly for myself, I desire with unlimited yearning to look behind that curtain of which you speak.”

  “That is the curse of our business, Sergeant,” Sir Frederic replied. “No matter what our record of successes, there must always remain those curtains behind which we long with unlimited yearning to look—and never do.”

  Barry Kirk paid the check, and they rose from the table. In the lobby, during the course of the good-bye, the party broke up momentarily into two groups. Rankin, Kirk and the girl went to the door, and after a hurried expression of thanks, the reporter dashed out to the street.

  “Mr. Kirk—it was wonderful,” Miss Morrow said. “Why are all Englishmen so fascinating? Tell me that.”

  “Oh—are they?” He shrugged. “You tell me. You girls always fall for them, I notice.”

  “Well—they have an air about them. An atmosphere. They’re not provincial, like a Rotarian who wants to tell you about the water-works. He took us traveling, didn’t he? London and Peshawar—I could listen to him for hours. Sorry I have to run.”

  “Wait. You can do something for me.”

  “After what you’ve done for me,” she smiled, “anything you ask.”

  “Good. This Chinese—Chan—he strikes me as a gentleman, and a mighty interesting one. I believe he would go big at my dinner to-night. I’d like to ask him, but that would throw my table out of gear. I need another woman. How about it? Will old man Blackstone let you off for the evening?”

  “He might.”

  “Just a small party—my grandmother, and some people Sir Frederic has asked me to invite. And since you find Englishmen so fascinating, there’ll be Colonel John Beetham, the famous Asiatic explorer. He’s going to show us some movies he took in Tibet—which is the first intimation I’ve had that anything ever moved in Tibet.”

  “That will be splendid. I’ve seen Colonel Beetham’s picture in the papers.”

  “I know—the women are all crazy about him, too. Even poor grandmother—she’s thinking of putting up money for his next expedition to the Gobi Desert. You’ll come then? Seven-thirty.”

  “I’d love to—but it does seem presumptuous. After what you said about lawyers—”

  “Yes—that was careless of me. I’ll have to live it down. Give me a chance. My bungalow—you know where it is—”

  She laughed. “Thanks. I’ll come. Good-by—until tonight.”

  Meanwhile Sir Frederic Bruce had led Charlie Chan to a sofa in the lobby. “I was eager to meet you, Sergeant,” he said, “for many reasons. Tell me, are you familiar with San Francisco’s Chinatown?”

  “I have slight acquaintance with same,” Chan admitted. “My cousin, Chan Kee Lim, is an honored resident of Waverly Place.”

  “Have you, by any chance, heard of a Chinese down there—a stranger, a tourist—named Li Gung?”

  “No doubt there are many so named. I do not know the one you bring up.”

  “This man is a guest of relatives on Jacks
on Street. You could do me a great service, Sergeant.”

  “It would remain,” said Chan, “a golden item on the scroll of memory.”

  “Li Gung has certain information and I want it. I have tried to interview him myself, but naturally with no success.”

  “Light begins to dawn.”

  “If you could strike up an acquaintance with him—get into his confidence—”

  “Humbly asking pardon, I do not spy on my own race with no good reason.”

  “The reasons in this case are excellent.”

  “Only a fool could doubt it. But what you hint would demand a considerable interval of time. My humble affairs have rightly no interest for you, so you have properly overlooked my situation. Tomorrow at noon I hasten to my home.”

  “You could stay over a week. I would make it greatly worth your while.”

  A stubborn look came into the little eyes. “One path only is worth my while now. The path to my home on Punchbowl Hill.”

  “I mean I would pay—”

  “Again asking pardon—I have food, I have clothes which cover even the vast area I possess. Beyond that, what is money?”

  “Very good. It was only a suggestion.”

  “I am desolated by acute pain,” replied Chan. “But I must refuse.”

  Barry Kirk joined them. “Mr. Chan, I’m going to ask you to do something for me,” he began.

  Chan sought to keep concern from his face, and succeeded. But what next, he wondered. “I am eagerly at attention,” he said. “You are my host.”

  “I’ve just invited Miss Morrow to dinner to-night and I need another man. Will you come?”

  “Your requests are high honors, which only an ungrate would refuse. But I am now already in your debt. More is going to embarrass me.”

  “Never mind that. I’ll expect you at seven-thirty—my bungalow on the Kirk Building.”

  “Splendid,” said Sir Frederic. “We’ll have another talk then, Sergeant. My requests are not precisely honors, but I may yet persuade you.”

  “The Chinese are funny people,” remarked Chan. “They say no, no is what they mean. They say yes, and they are glued to same. With regard to dinner, I say yes, greatly pleased.”

  “Good,” said Barry Kirk.

  “Where’s that reporter?” Sir Frederic asked.

  “He hurried away,” Kirk explained. “Anxious to get to his story, I imagine.”

  “What story?” asked the Englishman blankly.

  “Why—the story of our luncheon. Your meeting with Sergeant Chan.”

  A startled expression crossed the detective’s face. “Good lord—you don’t mean he’s going to put that into print?”

  “Why naturally. I supposed you knew—”

  “I’m afraid I’m woefully ignorant of American customs. I thought that was merely a social function. I didn’t dream—”

  “You mean you don’t want him to print it?” asked Barry Kirk, surprised.

  Sir Frederic turned quickly to Charlie. “Good-by, Sergeant. This has been a real pleasure. I shall see you tonight—”

  He hastily shook hands with Chan, and dragged the dazed Barry Kirk to the street. There he motioned for a taxi. “What paper was that young scoundrel representing?” he inquired.

  “The Globe,” Kirk told him.

  “The Globe office—and quickly, please,” Sir Frederic ordered.

  The two got in, and for a moment rode in silence.

  “You are curious, perhaps,” said Sir Frederic at last.

  “I hope you won’t think it’s unnatural of me,” smiled Kirk.

  “I know I can rely on your discretion, my boy. I told only a small part of the story of Eve Durand at luncheon, but even that must not reach print just yet. Not here—not now—”

  “Great Scott. Do you mean—”

  “I mean I am near the end of a long trail. Eve Durand was not murdered in India. She ran away. I know why she ran away. I even suspect the peculiar method of her going. More than that—”

  “Yes?” cried Kirk eagerly.

  “More than that I can not tell you at present.” The journey was continued in silence, and presently they drew up before the office of the Globe.

  In the city editor’s cubby-hole, Bill Rankin was talking exultantly to his chief. “It’s going to be a corking good feature,” he was saying, when he felt a grip of steel on his arm. Turning, he looked into the face of Sir Frederic Bruce. “Why—why—hello,” he stammered.

  “There has been a slight mistake,” said the detective.

  “Let me explain,” suggested Barry Kirk. He shook hands with the editor and introduced Sir Frederic, who merely nodded, not relaxing his grip on the reporter’s paralyzed arm. “Rankin, this is unfortunate,” Kirk continued, “but it can’t be helped. Sir Frederic is unfamiliar with the ways of the American press, and he did not understand that you were gathering a story at lunch. He thought it a purely social affair. So we have come to ask that you print nothing of the conversation you heard this noon.”

  Rankin’s face fell. “Not print it? Oh—I say—”

  “We appeal to you both,” added Kirk to the editor.

  “My answer must depend on your reason for making the request,” said that gentleman.

  “My reason would be respected in England,” Sir Frederic told him. “Here, I don’t know your custom. But I may tell you that if you print any of that conversation, you will seriously impede the course of justice.”

  The editor bowed. “Very well. We shall print nothing without your permission, Sir Frederic,” he said.

  “Thank you,” replied the detective, releasing Rankin’s arm. “That concludes our business here, I fancy.” And wheeling, he went out. Having added his own thanks, Kirk followed.

  “Well, of all the rotten luck,” cried Rankin, sinking into a chair.

  Sir Frederic strode on across the city room. A cat may look at a king, and Egbert stood staring with interest at the former head of the C.I.D. Just in front of the door, the Englishman paused. It was either that or a collision with Egbert, moving slowly like a dark shadow across his path.

  Chapter 3

  THE BUNGALOW IN THE SKY

  Barry Kirk stepped from his living-room through French windows leading into the tiny garden that graced his bungalow in the sky—“My front yard,” he called it. He moved over to the rail and stood looking out on a view such as few front yards have ever offered. Twenty stories below lay the alternate glare and gloom of the city; far in the distance the lights of the ferry-boats plodded across the harbor like weary fireflies.

  The stars were bright and clear and amazingly close above his head, but he heard the tolling of the fog bell over by Belvedere, and he knew that the sea mist was drifting in through the Gate. By midnight it would whirl and eddy about his lofty home, shutting him off from the world like a veil of filmy tulle. He loved the fog. Heavy with the scent of distant gardens, salt with the breath of the Pacific, it was the trade mark of his town.

  He went back inside, closing the window carefully behind him. For a moment he stood looking about his living-room, which wealth and good taste had combined to furnish charmingly. A huge, deep sofa, many comfortable chairs, a half-dozen floor lamps shedding their warm yellow glow, a brisk fire crackling on a wide hearth—no matter how loudly the wind rattled at the casements, here were comfort and good cheer.

  Kirk went on into his dining-room. Paradise was lighting the candles on the big table. The flowers, the snowy linen, the old silver, made a perfect picture, forecasting a perfect dinner. Kirk inspected the ten place cards. He smiled.

  “Everything seems to be O.K.,” he said. “It’s got to be to-night. Grandmother’s coming, and you know what she thinks about a man who lives alone. To hear her tell it, every home needs a woman’s touch.”

  “We shall disillusion her once again, sir,” Paradise remarked.

  “Such is my aim. Not that it will do any good. When she’s made up her mind, that’s that.”

  The doo
rbell rang, and Paradise moved off with slow, majestic steps to answer it. Entering the living-room, Barry Kirk stood for a moment fascinated by the picture he saw there. The deputy district attorney had paused just inside the door leading from the hallway; she wore a simple, orange-colored dinner gown, her dark eyes were smiling.

  “Miss Morrow,” Kirk came forward eagerly. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look much like a lawyer to-night.”

  “I presume that’s intended for a compliment,” she answered. Chan appeared at her back. “Here’s Mr. Chan. We rode up together in the elevator. Heavens—don’t tell me we’re the first.”

  “When I was a boy,” smiled Kirk, “I always started in by eating the frosting off my cake. Which is just to tell you that with me, the best is always first. Good evening, Mr. Chan.”

  Chan bowed. “I am deeply touched by your kindness. One grand item is added to my mainland memories tonight.” He wore a somewhat rusty dinner coat, but his linen gleamed and his manners shone.

  Paradise followed with their wraps on his arm, and disappeared through a distant doorway. Another door opened. Sir Frederic Bruce stood on the threshold.

  “Good evening, Miss Morrow,” he said. “My word—you look charming. And Mr. Chan. This is luck—you’re the first. You know I promised to show you a souvenir of my dark past.”

  He turned and reentered his room. Kirk led his guests over to the blazing fire.

  “Sit down—do,” he said. “People are always asking how I can endure the famous San Francisco zephyrs up here.” He waved a hand toward the fireplace. “This is one of my answers.”

  Sir Frederic rejoined them, a distinguished figure in his evening clothes. He carried a pair of slippers. Their tops were of cut velvet, dark red like old Burgundy, and each bore as decoration a Chinese character surrounded by a design of pomegranate blossoms. He handed one to the girl, and the other to Charlie Chan.

  “Beautiful,” cried Miss Morrow. “And what a history! The essential clue.”

  “Not any too essential, as it turned out,” shrugged the great detective.