“Really?” The actor looked up at the tree. “Well, he seems to have traveled as far as he can on that one. Shall we go on the veranda - pardon me, the lanai - and have a chat?”
“The idea is most suitable,” Charlie agreed. He followed Van Horn and they sat down in a secluded corner. The boy had descended the coco-palm and stood now the center of an admiring group, hugely enjoying the limelight. Chan watched him.
“Sometimes in my heart,” he remarked, “arouses hot envy of the beach-boys. To exist so happily - to have no cares and troubles, no worries - ah, that must be what men mean by Paradise. All they ask of life is one bathing-suit, slightly worn.”
Van Horn laughed. “You have worries, I take it, Inspector?”
Charlie turned to him. He had decided to be frank. “I have.” He paused. “You are one of them,” he added suddenly.
The picture actor was unperturbed. “You flatter me,” he answered. “Just how am I worrying you, Inspector?”
“You worry me because in this matter of Miss Shelah Fane’s murder you are quite defenseless. Not only do you possess no alibi, but of all those concerned, you were nearest to the scene of her death. You walked across lawn at very important moment, Mr. Van Horn. I could not worry about you more if you were own son.”
Van Horn grinned. “That’s kind of you, Inspector. I appreciate it. Yes - I am rather badly cast in the story of the crime. But I rely on you. As an intelligent man, you must realize that I could have had absolutely no motive for killing the poor girl. Until I joined her company to make this picture, I scarcely knew her, and all through our journey and the work together, we were on the friendliest terms.”
“Ah, yes,” Chan watched the actor’s face eagerly. “Were you likewise on friendly terms with Denny Mayo?” he inquired.
“Just what has Denny Mayo to do with all this?” Van Horn asked. Despite his best efforts, his expression was not quite so casual as he wanted it to be.
“May have much to do with it,” Charlie told him. “I seek to upearth facts. Maybe you assist me. I repeat - were you on friendly terms with Denny Mayo?”
“I knew him fairly well,” Van Horn admitted. “A most attractive chap - a wild Irishman - you never could tell what he was going to do next. Every one was very fond of him. His death was a great shock.”
“Who killed him?” Charlie asked blandly.
“I wish I knew,” Van Horn replied. “Last night, when I heard you asking everybody about three years ago last June, in Hollywood, I sensed that you thought his death involved in this somehow. I’m curious to know the connection.”
“That, no doubt,” said Charlie, “is why you haste to library early this morning to do hot reading about Mayo case?”
Van Horn smiled. “Oh - so you found me among my books, eh? Well, Inspector, as my press-agent will tell you, I’m of rather a studious type. There’s nothing I like better than to curl up in a corner with a good book - real literature, mind you -“
Charlie raised a protesting hand. “The wise man, knowing he is under suspicion,” he remarked, “does not stoop to tie his shoe in a melon patch.”
Van Horn nodded. “An old Chinese saw, eh? Not bad either.”
“You will,” said Chan sternly, “before we leave these chairs, tell me the reason for your visit to library this morning.”
Van Horn did not reply. He sat for a moment with a frown on his handsome face. Then he turned with sudden decision.
“You’ve been frank with me, Inspector. I’ll be the same with you. Though when you’ve heard my reason for that visit, I fear you’ll be more puzzled than ever.” He took from his pocket an envelope bearing the crest of the Grand Hotel, and drew out a single sheet of note-paper. “Will you please read that?”
Chan took the paper. It bore a brief note, type-written and unsigned. He read:
“Just a word of warning from a friend. You should go at once to the Honolulu Public Library and remove from the bound volumes of all Los Angeles papers carrying the Denny Mayo murder story, certain rather damaging references to your own part in that affair.”
Charlie looked up. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it under my door when I awoke this morning,” the actor told him.
“You went to library at once?”
“Directly after breakfast. Who wouldn’t? I couldn’t recall that I’d ever been mentioned in connection with the case - there was no reason why I should have been. But naturally - my curiosity was aroused. I went down and read every word I could find regarding Mayo’s murder in the Los Angeles Times - the only paper they had. And oddly enough -“
“Yes?” Chan prompted.
“It was just as I thought. My name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. I’ve had a rather puzzled morning Inspector.”
“Natural you should,” nodded Charlie. “A queer circumstance, indeed. Have you any idea who wrote this note?”
“None whatever,” returned Van Horn. “But the purpose of it seems to be clear. Somebody has sought to cast suspicion in my direction. It’s a delicate little attention, and I appreciate it. He - or possibly she - figured that I would go to the library and sign for that volume, and that of course you would soon find it out. After that, you would fancy me deeply involved in this affair, and would spend precious time sleuthing in the wrong direction. Fortunately, you took the unusual course of coming to me at once with your suspicion. I’m glad you did. And I’m damned glad I kept the letter.”
“Which, after all, you may have written to yourself,” Chan suggested.
Van Horn laughed. “Oh, no - I’m not so deep as all that, Mr. Chan. The letter was under my door when I rose. Find out who wrote it, and you may find the murderer of Shelah Fane.”
“True enough,” agreed Charlie. “I will keep it now, of course.” He stood up. “We have had a good talk, Mr. Van Horn, and I am grateful for your confidence. I go my way with one more puzzle burning in my pocket. Add a few more, and I collapse from mental strain. I trust I have not held you away from luncheon.”
“Not at all,” the actor replied. “This has been a very lucky interview for me. Good-by, and all my best wishes for success.”
Chan hastened through the palm court, and at last set his flivver on the road to the city. As he moved along, he thought deeply about Huntley Van Horn. Despite his airy manner, the actor had seemed to be open and sincere. But could he, Charlie wondered, be sure of that? Could he ever be sure in this world? Deceit sprouted everywhere and thrived like a weed.
Suppose Van Horn was sincere? Who put that note under his bedroom door while he slept? Chan began to realize that he was engaged in a duel - a duel to the death. His opponent was quick and wary, cleverer than any person he had yet encountered in a long career. How many of these clues were false, dropped but to befuddle him? How many real?
An inner craving told him that lunch would be a pleasant diversion; he was never one to put such promptings aside. But as he approached the public library an even greater craving assailed him - a keen desire to read for himself the story of Denny Mayo’s murder. With a sigh for the business man’s lunch that must languish without him a little longer, he stopped the car and went inside.
The desk was deserted for the moment, and he turned into the reading-room at his right. There was just a chance that the big volume taken out by Van Horn early that morning was not yet restored to its place on the shelves. Yes - there it lay, on the table at which he had seen the picture actor sitting. Save for one or two children, the place was deserted. Charlie rapidly crossed the room and opened the book.
It happened that he knew the date of the Mayo tragedy, and he sought immediately the issue of the subsequent morning. His eyes opened wide. Under an eight-column head, “Movie Actor Found Murdered in Home,” a great torn gap stared up at him.
Quickly he examined the pages, and then sat back, dazed and unbelieving. Every picture of Denny Mayo had been ruthlessly cut from the book.
Chapter XVII
HOW DENNY MAYO DIED
>
Chan sat motionless for a long time, deep in thought. Some desperate person was determined that he should not look upon the likeness of Denny Mayo. The captions to the pictures were for the most part intact. “Denny Mayo When He First Came to Hollywood.” And here again: “Denny Mayo as He Appeared in The Unknown Sin.” But in every instance the reproduction of the actor’s face was destroyed.
Who had done this thing? Huntley Van Horn? Perhaps. Yet if that were so, Van Horn’s methods were crude and raw for so suave a gentleman. To go boldly to the library, ask for this volume, sign his name to the slip as he claimed to have done, and then mutilate the yellowed page, would be unbelievably naive. It invited swift and inevitable detection. It certainly did not sound like Van Horn.
With a ponderous sigh, Charlie applied himself to the story that had surrounded Denny Mayo’s pictures. The actor had come to Hollywood from the English stage, and had won immediate success. He had lived with one servant in a detached house on one of the best Los Angeles streets. On the night of the murder the servant, after completing his usual duties, took the evening off. He went out at eight o’clock, leaving Mayo in excellent spirits.
Returning at midnight, the man let himself in through the kitchen door. Seeing a light in the living-room, he went there to ask if anything further was required of him before he went to bed. On the floor of the room he discovered the actor, dead some two hours. Mayo had been shot at close range with his own revolver, a delicate weapon which he was accustomed to keeping in the drawer of his desk. The revolver was lying at his side, and there were no fingerprints on it - neither his own nor those of any unknown person. No one had been seen entering or leaving the house which occupied a dark position under its many trees.
Unfortunately, the following morning - and Charlie’s eyebrows rose at this - the police had permitted the general public to swarm through the house. Actors, actresses, directors, producers - all friends, they claimed, of the dead man - had paraded through the rooms, and if any vital clue was still lying about it could easily have been destroyed. In any case, no vital clue was ever found. Those the police discovered led nowhere.
Little was known about Mayo’s past; he had come from far away, and no member of his family stepped forward during the investigation. It was rumored that he had a wife in England, but he had not seen her for several years, never mentioned her to his friends - might, possibly, have been divorced. His life in Hollywood had not been spectacular; women admired him, but if he returned this admiration in any instance, he had been most discreet about it. If any one had a grudge against him -
Further along in the story, a name caught Charlie’s eye and he sat up with sudden interest. Hastily he read on until he came to it. Mayo had been working in a picture, and as his leading woman he had had an actress named Rita Montaine. Miss Montaine was engaged to marry a certain Wilkie Ballou, a prominent figure in Honolulu, scion of an old family there. Some obscure person testified that he had overheard a quarrel between Mayo and Ballou - it concerned a party to which Mayo had taken Miss Montaine. But the witness had heard Ballou make no threats against the actor.
Nevertheless, Ballou had been questioned. His alibi was complete, sworn to by Miss Montaine herself. On the night of Mayo’s death the actress said that she and Ballou had been together from six o’clock until after midnight. They had taken a long ride in Ballou’s car and danced together at a roadhouse far from the scene of the crime. She admitted that she was engaged to Ballou and intended to marry him soon.
These two faded from the limelight. Charlie read on, through the helpless meanderings of a completely baffled police. He turned page after page, no new developments arose, and amid a frantic sputtering on the part of the reporters, the story gradually died out.
How about that alibi of Ballou’s? Sworn to by the woman who was going to marry him. Was she also ready to lie for him?
Chan picked up the heavy volume and returned to the main room of the library. He laid his burden down on the desk, behind which stood a bright young woman. Without speaking, he opened the book and indicated the mutilated pages.
If his aim had been to annoy the young woman, he could have found no better means. Her cry of dismay was immediate and heartfelt. “Who did this, Mr. Chan?” she demanded.
Charlie smiled. “Thanks for touching faith in my ability.” he remarked. “But I can not tell you.”
“It was taken out by Mr. Van Horn, the actor. This sort of thing is prohibited by law, you know. You must arrest him at once.”
Chan shrugged. “It was also lying on table from time Mr. Van Horn left it, early to-day, until well past noon. What proof have we that Van Horn mutilated it? I know him well, and I do not think him complete fool.”
“But - but -“
“I will, with your kind permission, speak to him over wire. He may be able to cast little light.”
The young woman led him to the telephone, and Chan got Van Horn at the hotel. He explained at once the condition in which he had found the book.
“What do you know about that!” Van Horn remarked.
“Alas! very little,” Charlie returned. “The volume was in the intact state when you saw it?”
“Absolutely. Perfectly O.K. I left it on the table about nine-thirty and went out.”
“Did you see any one known to you about place?”
“Not a soul. But I say, Inspector, this throws new light on that note I got this morning. Perhaps the intention of my unknown friend was not so much to involve me, as to get that volume out of the files. He - if it was a he - may have hoped that the thing would happen just as it has happened - that I would take it out and leave it where he could find it without himself signing a slip. Have you thought of that?”
“So much to think of,” Chan sighed. “Thank you for the idea.” He went back to the desk. “Mr. Van Horn left the volume in original state. He is certain of that. Was it noted that any one else examined it this morning?”
“I don’t know,” the young woman replied. “The librarian in charge of that room is out to lunch. Look here, Mr. Chan, you’ve got to find who did this.”
“Plenty busy with murder just now,” Charlie explained.
“Never mind your murder,” she answered grimly. “This is serious.”
Chan smiled, but the young woman was in no mood to join him. He promised to do his best and departed.
A glance at his watch told him that he had no time for his usual leisurely lunch. He had instead a sandwich and a glass of milk, then went to the station. The Chief was pacing the floor of the detectives’ room.
“Hello, Charlie,” he cried. “I’ve been wondering where you were. Pretty busy this morning, I take it?”
“Like fly on hot griddle,” Chan answered. “And just as eager to get off.”
“Haven’t got anything yet, eh?”
“Have so much I am worn out,” Charlie told him. “But no idea who killed Shelah Fane.”
“That’s what we want,” the Chief insisted. “The name - the name. Good lord, we ought to get somewhere pretty soon.”
“Maybe we will,” replied Chan, with just the slightest inflection on the “we.” He sat down. “Now I will relate morning’s adventures, and it can happen that your keen brain will function where mine wanders lonely in the dark.”
He began at the beginning: his visit to the theater, Robert Fyfe’s cast-iron alibi, his admission that he had given the beachcomber money in exchange for a painting. He mentioned his call at the library and his discovery there of Huntley Van Horn, then went on to the two old people on the terrace of the hotel, who had accounted so readily for Tarneverro’s actions on the previous night.
“They may be lying,” said the Chief.
Charlie shook his head. “You would not say that if you saw them. Honesty gleams like unceasing beacon from their eyes.”
“I’ll judge of that for myself,” remarked his superior. “What was their name? MacMaster? I’ll talk with them later. Go on.”
Charlie co
ntinued. He told of finding the stub of the small cigar of a sort smoked only by Alan Jaynes, beneath the pavilion window.
“Oh, lord,” sighed the Chief. “They can’t all be in it. Somebody’s kidding you, Charlie.”
“You go back to singular pronoun,” smiled Chan. “A moment ago it was we. But that was only in regard to approaching moment of success, I think.”
“Well, somebody’s kidding us, then. Have it your own way. You got Jaynes’ fingerprints?”
“I slyly obtained same. But it was print of Smith, the beachcomber, we discover on window-sill.”
“Yes - that was something we can really act on. I sent out the word to pick him up right away. They’ll bring him in any minute now. What have you been doing since then?”
Charlie repeated Jessop’s story about the ring, which, he pointed out, might mean merely the repayment of an old grudge. He showed his Chief the letter which Van Horn had offered in explanation of his visit to the library. Finally he told of the mutilation of the bound volume of the newspaper, and ended with the mention of Ballou and his wife in the story of the Denny Mayo murder case.
For a long time, when he had finished, his Chief sat in silence. “Well,” he said at length, “according to your investigation, they’re all in it, I guess. Good heavens, can’t you draw any deductions from all this?”
“Kindly state what are your deductions,” answered Chan with gentle malice.
“Me? I don’t know. I’m stumped. But you - the pride of the force -“
“Kindly recall - I have never been demon for speed. While I stumble about this way, I am fiercely thinking. Large bodies arrive late. Grant me time.”
“What do you propose to do now?”
“I consider a little social visit with Mrs. Ballou.”
“Great Scott, Charlie, - watch your step. Ballou’s an important man in this town, and he’s never been very friendly to me.”
“I plan to use all possible diplomacy.”
“You’ll need it, and then some. Don’t offend him, whatever you do. You know - these old families -“
Charlie Chan [4] The Black Camel Page 17