Charlie Chan [4] The Black Camel

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Thank you so much,” Charlie said, bowing. “That is all.” He turned on Robert Fyfe a speculative eye. “Will you come with me, please?”

  He led the way down into the auditorium, thinking deeply as he did so. Shelah Fane was seen alive at eight-twelve. Robert Fyfe was in the wings of the theater, ready to go on, at eight-twenty. Just eight minutes - no one could possibly travel the distance from Waikiki to town in that time. Fyfe’s alibi was perfect. And yet -

  In the darkened foyer back of the last row Charlie paused, and the two leaned on the rail.

  “I am still wondering, Mr. Fyfe,” the detective remarked, “why you made false confession that you killed Shelah Fane.”

  “I’m inclined to wonder a bit myself, Inspector.”

  “Obviously you did not kill her.”

  “I’m afraid you must think me a fool,” Fyfe said.

  “Other way about, I think you very smart man.”

  “Do you, really? That’s flattering, I’m sure.”

  “There was reason for that confession, Mr. Fyfe.”

  “If there was, it has quite escaped my memory at this time, Inspector.”

  “Much better you tell me. Otherwise you place obstacle in path of justice.”

  “I must be the judge of that, Mr. Chan. I do not wish to hinder you. On the contrary I am eager for your success.”

  “Under such a circumstance, I find that difficult to believe.” Chan was silent for a moment. “You have seen our friend the beachcomber this morning?”

  Fyfe hesitated. He regretted more than ever the public nature of his meeting with Smith. Then he threw back his head and laughed - a laugh too long delayed, as Charlie noted.

  “I certainly have,” the actor admitted. “He called on me almost before I was up.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To get money, of course. I imagine he is making the rounds of the people he met last night. He seemed to think that the mere meeting gave him a sort of claim on us all.”

  “You are too busy with plural words,” Chan protested. “His claim, I think, was on you alone.” The actor said nothing. “You gave him money?” Charlie persisted.

  “Why - yes - a few dollars. I was rather sorry for him. He is not a bad painter -” Fyfe stopped suddenly.

  “How do you know he is not a bad painter?” Chan was quick to ask.

  “Well - he - he left a canvas with me -“

  “This canvas?” Charlie stepped down the aisle, and picked up something from a vacant seat. “I noted it as we came back here together,” he explained. “If you do not mind, I will take it to light and examine it.”

  “By all means,” the actor agreed.

  Charlie walked to the door, and pushing it open, gazed for a moment at the painting. The eyes of that girl, posed against green shrubbery, seemed strangely alive. He came back to Fyfe’s side.

  “You are correct,” he remarked, dropping the canvas into one of the chairs. “The man has talent. Pity such a one must resort to - blackmail.”

  “Who said it was blackmail?” demanded Fyfe.

  “I say so. Mr. Fyfe, I could place you beneath arrest -“

  “Isn’t my alibi satisfactory?”

  “Quite. But you hamper my work. For the last time - what was it Smith, the beachcomber, heard your ex-wife say to you?”

  The stage manager came to the footlights, and called.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Fyfe, “but I’m keeping the company. I really must go along -“

  Chan shrugged. “The inquiry is young, as yet. Before I am through, I will know, Mr. Fyfe.”

  “Drop in any time,” said Fyfe blandly, holding out his hand. “Too bad I must leave you now, but an actor’s life, you know -“

  Chan gravely shook hands, and the actor hurried up the aisle. As he returned to the bright street, Charlie wore a puzzled frown. He knew that behind Fyfe’s suave manner there lurked something of vital importance - something that might, indeed, solve his problem. Yet he would never get it from Fyfe. The beachcomber - ah, perhaps. He made a mental note of the beachcomber.

  Climbing back into his flivver, Chan drove over to King Street and turned in the direction of Waikiki. As he passed the public library, set well back from the street amid great trees, he was tempted to stop. It occurred to him that he ought to read, in a Los Angeles paper, the story of Denny Mayo’s murder. Buried in the yellowed columns describing that spectacular moment in the movie colony’s history, he might discover a line that would at once put him on the true scent in his search for Shelah Fane’s assailant.

  With quick decision he swung about and returned to the library. In another moment, he was addressing the woman at the library desk.

  “Is it possible that I obtain at once Los Angeles paper for June, three years ago?” he inquired.

  “Certainly, Mr. Chan,” she answered. “Just fill out the card.”

  He filled it hastily, and saw it passed to a young assistant. The girl started to move toward the files, glancing at the card as she did so. She turned and came back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just happened to remember. That volume of the Los Angeles Times is in use just now.”

  “In use?” Chan was surprised.

  “Yes. A gentleman took it out half an hour ago.”

  “Can you describe this gentleman?”

  The girl nodded toward the reading-room. “He’s still there. By that farther window.”

  Chan went over and peered round the corner of a bookcase. Seated bent over a huge gray-bound volume, he saw Huntley Van Horn. The picture actor did not look up; he seemed grimly intent on what he was doing. With a gesture toward the desk, meant to convey the fact that he dropped the whole matter, Chan walked softly out of the building.

  Chapter XIV

  THE PAVILION WINDOW

  Charlie went to the street, got into his flivver, and in another moment was traveling rapidly toward Waikiki. It was good to feel the faithful little car shuddering under him again; so often in the past it had carried him along on the trail of innumerable clues. Many of these clues had led him, as he put it, “into presence of immovable stone wall.” Thereupon he had swung the car about, seeking a new road. And the road that ended in victory had, in most cases, stretched before him at last.

  As he sped through the brilliant morning, he thought of Huntley Van Horn. He pictured the cinema actor on the night before, walking across the lawn at the very moment when the black camel must have been kneeling at Shelah Fane’s gate. No one was with the actor, no one saw him; he could easily have stepped into the pavilion, silenced the woman for ever and then calmly joined the two people on the beach.

  What sort of man was Van Horn? Charlie wished he had read a few of the movie gossip magazines his children were always bringing into the house. Not the sleek, pretty boy type of film favorite, that was evident. Cynical, aloof, well-poised, he was the type who could keep his own counsel and turn an expressionless face on any one who sought to pry into his affairs. Ah, yes - Mr. Van Horn would bear thinking about. Such thinking might yield a rich reward.

  But it was not with Van Horn that Chan was immediately concerned. He was on Kalakaua Avenue now, and though the sun was still shining above him, he had entered a zone where rain was falling. He saw, as he approached the hotels, tourists who wore rain-coats and carried umbrellas; evidently they took this liquid sunshine with a seriousness that amused a kamaaina like Charlie. He turned sharply to the right and, moving on past the lovely gardens of the Grand Hotel, parked his car in the drive at the rear. Walking unconcerned through the drizzle, he went over and ascended the hotel steps.

  The head bell-man, a Chinese boy with a winning smile, greeted him in Cantonese. Chan paused to chat for a moment. No, he explained, he was not looking for any one in particular; he would, with kind permission, stroll about a bit. He crossed the high cool lobby, returning the jovial greeting of a young assistant manager.

  He walked down the long corridor, toward the lounge. Unlike many o
f his fellow citizens of Honolulu, he had no feeling of somewhat resentful awe in this impressive interior. Having been to the mainland he regarded himself as a traveled man, a judge of hotels, and he approved heartily of this recent addition to the charms of Waikiki. He nodded affably at the flower girl, and stood for a moment in the entrance to the lounge. This room always inspired him. Through the great archways opening on the terrace he caught the shimmer of the sea, breathtaking fragments of a scene no coast in the world can surpass.

  The huge room was empty of guests, but a few silent oriental servants were busy arranging the floral decorations for the day. On tiny slivers of bamboo stuck in bowls of sand, they mounted innumerable hibiscus flowers, beautiful and fragile blossoms that would fade when evening came. Chan passed through to the terrace facing the ocean, and luck was with him. The only occupants of the place at that moment were the two old people with whom he had seen Tarneverro talking the previous evening. He stepped over to the Hongkong chairs where they sat, and stood looking down at them. The man put aside his morning paper; the woman glanced up from her book.

  Chan bowed low. “May I wish you good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning, sir,” the old man replied courteously. There was a pleasant Scotch burr to his words, and his face, lined by hard work under a hot sun, was as honest as any Charlie had ever seen.

  Chan pushed back his coat. “I am Inspector Chan of the Honolulu police. You have, I think, perused in the morning paper story of quick finish of noted actress. I am sorry to intrude my inspeakable presence between you and this charming view, but gentleman you know was friend of the departed lady. It therefore becomes inevitable that I speak to you for short moment.”

  “Happy to meet you,” said the old gentleman. He rose, and pulled up a chair. “Be seated, Inspector. I am Thomas MacMaster, of Queensland, Australia, and this is Mrs. MacMaster.”

  Chan achieved a notable bow, and the old lady gave him a quick kindly smile. A bit of idle chatter seemed in order.

  “You are enjoying nice holiday?” the detective inquired.

  “That we are,” returned MacMaster. “And we’ve earned it, eh, Mother? Aye, after long years on a sheep ranch, we’re off to revisit old Scotland at last. A very leisurely journey, Inspector; we mean to miss nothing along the way. And delighted we are” - he waved toward the beach - “that we did not miss this bonny spot.”

  His wife nodded. “Aye, bonny it is. We’re very much afraid we’ll no have the strength of character to move on.”

  “Speak for yourself, Mother,” MacMaster said. “When the moment comes, I’m sure I’ll have strength for two. Do not forget that Aberdeen is waiting.”

  “In behalf of Honolulu,” beamed Chan, “my warmest thanks for all these treasured compliments. I recognize they come from honest lips, and my heart feels itself deeply touched. But reluctantly I must approach subject of last night’s homicide. May I open my remarks by pointing out that some malihini - some stranger - must be responsible for this cruel event? Here people are kind, like climate. We seldom murder,” he added feelingly.

  “Of course,” murmured the old lady.

  Looking up, Charlie saw Tarneverro in the doorway. The fortune-teller’s dark face lighted with satisfaction when he saw the group on the terrace, and he came rapidly down the steps. Chan sighed. He would have preferred to do this thing himself.

  “Ah, good morning, Inspector,” Tarneverro said. “Good morning, Mrs. MacMaster. And how are you, sir?”

  “A wee bit lost,” answered the old man. “I can not feel just right and not be at my work. But Mother tells me I must learn to rest.”

  “You certainly must - you have it coming to you,” Tarneverro smiled. “Inspector, I am happy to see you on the job at this early hour. You are no doubt here to verify my alibi, and that is quite fitting and proper. Have you asked these two friends of mine the important question?”

  “I was approaching it with suitable preparation.”

  “Ah, yes,” the fortune-teller continued. “Mr. MacMaster, in the matter of that unfortunate affair last night - I happen to have been one of the few people in the Islands acquainted with the poor girl, and it is important that I establish to the Inspector’s satisfaction the fact that I was elsewhere at the moment of her death. Luckily I can establish it - with your help.” He turned to Charlie. “After I left you in the lounge last night, you saw me return to my conversation with Mr. and Mrs. MacMaster. Mr. MacMaster will tell you what happened after that.”

  The old man frowned thoughtfully. “Mr. - er - Tarneverro suggested that we go out on the veranda - I believe you call it a lanai - that looks across the palm court. We did so, and for the matter of a half-hour sat talking about the old days in Queensland. Finally Mr. Tarneverro had a look at his watch. He said it was thirty minutes after eight and that he must leave us, as he had a dinner engagement down the beach. We stood up -“

  “Begging humblest pardon,” Chan cut in, “did you by any chance consult own timepiece?”

  “Aye, that I did,” returned the old man. His manner was very earnest and there was an unmistakable ring of truth to his words. “I took out my watch -” He removed an old-fashioned timepiece from his pocket. “‘I’m a wee bit fast,’ I said. ‘Eight-thirty-five, I make it. Mother, it’s time old folks like us went upstairs.’ You see, on the ranch we were always early abed, and well-established habits are hard to break. So we came into the hotel. Mother and I stopped at the elevators, and Mr. Tarneverro went round the corner to his own room on the first floor. While we waited for the lift, I stepped to the desk to set my watch the correct time. Eight-thirty-two it was then, and I made the change. Those are the facts, Inspector, and Mother and I will swear to them.”

  Chan nodded. “The speech of some is like wind in empty space,” he said. “But blind man could see your word is good.”

  “Aye, it always has been. From Aberdeen to Queensland no one has ever questioned it, Inspector.”

  “You have known Mr. Tarneverro long time?” Charlie asked.

  Tarneverro answered. “Ten years ago,” he remarked, “I was playing in a Melbourne theater. I was an actor in those days, you know. Our company stranded, and I went out to Mr. MacMaster’s ranch, a few miles from Brisbane to work for him. I stayed a year - the happiest year of my life. For as you may see by looking at them, these two are the kindest people in the world, and they were like father and mother to me -“

  “We did nothing,” the old lady protested. “It was a joy to have you and -“

  “Alone and lonely as I was,” Tarneverro interrupted, “it was great luck to come upon people like these. You can imagine my delight when I ran across them again at this hotel the other day.” He rose. “I take it that is all you wanted to know, Mr. Chan. I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  “That is all,” remarked Chan, rising too. “Lady, - sir, - may vacation continue as happy as it is this bright morning on undescribably lovely beach. I am so pleased that our paths met here at famous crossroads.”

  “We share that pleasure, sir,” MacMaster replied. His wife nodded and smiled. “We’ll be thinking of ye as we travel on to Aberdeen. Our very best wishes for success.”

  Charlie and the fortune-teller went inside, and sat down on a sofa. “You are favorite of the gods,” Chan remarked. “If I needed alibi I would ask nothing better than word from honest people such as those.”

  Tarneverro smiled. “Yes - they’re a grand pair. Simple and wholesome and addicted to all the old virtues.” He paused. “Well, Inspector, you know where I was during those vital eighteen minutes. How about the others?”

  “I know also where Robert Fyfe was,” Charlie replied, “though much about his actions puzzles me. Speaking of the rest, they have no such luck. Not one has offered alibi.”

  Tarneverro nodded. “Yes - and one among them may need an alibi badly before this affair is ended. You had, I take it, no flash of inspiration in the night?”

  Chan sadly shook his head. “I had nothing
but plenty good sleep. And you?”

  The other smiled. “I’m afraid I weakly fell into a dreamless slumber too. No - I have thought hard, but I’m afraid I can’t help you much. There are so many possibilities. Shall we go over them? Rita and Wilkie Ballou. Both in Hollywood at the time of Denny Mayo’s death. Mayo was said to be a bit careless with the ladies - and it is clear that Ballou is a notably jealous man.”

  “I think about Ballou,” remarked Chan slowly.

  “It might pay,” Tarneverro agreed. “He was wandering about - came into the living-room to get a cigarette - claims he stayed there. Turning from him for the time being, there’s Alan Jaynes. His state of mind was rather emotional last night. Who knows anything about him? Suppose that like that of Ballou, his is a wildly jealous nature. He saw those flowers - not his - on the shoulder of the woman he loved. We found them trampled under foot, as though in rage. The Mayo affair, as I believe you pointed out, may have had nothing to do with Miss Fane’s murder, after all. Perhaps it was just a case of mad unreasoning jealousy -“

  “Perhaps,” answered Chan calmly. “There is also Martino.”

  “Yes - Martino,” repeated the fortune-teller. A black look swept across his handsome face. “It would give me great pleasure to help you pin this thing on him. He has made some very rude remarks about me -“

  “What sort of man you call him?” Charlie asked.

  “Oh, he seems to have brains,” Tarneverro admitted “And a kind of rude strength - a queer combination, the esthete and the brute in one package. He wasn’t in Hollywood when Mayo was killed, but once again - perhaps we are on the wrong trail there. Martino’s been a bit of a ladies’ man - there may have been some unsuspected relationship between him and Shelah Fane. Certainly that handkerchief in his pocket had a fishy look to me. Of course he denied he owned it - who wouldn’t? But if any one placed it on Martino’s person, he was taking a tremendous and unnecessary risk. Why not throw it into the bushes - drop it on the lawn? Why attempt the difficult, the dangerous? The handkerchief, Inspector, may have been Martino’s own property! He may have gone on carrying it after the murder, quite innocent of the fact that it contained those splinters of glass. Unless” - the fortune-teller paused - “unless you have evidence that it belonged to some one else?”