Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Perhaps,” Chan said. He seemed very sleepy, and not overly keen. The doctor turned to Holt.

  “We can tell more about that tomorrow,” he continued. “The caliber of the gun - that must wait until tomorrow, also.”

  Holt held out the small pearl-handled revolver. “We’ve found this,” he said.

  “One thing, Doctor,” Charlie remarked. “Was death, in your opinion, instantaneous? Or could the lady have taken a step or two after the wound?”

  The doctor considered. “I can tell you better after we have probed for the bullet,” he said. “At present, all I can say is - there is a chance that she did move after the shot. But you must understand -“

  He was interrupted by the loud whirring of an airplane engine, and then the steady drone of it moving off, evidently away from the house.

  “It’s Ireland,” said the sheriff to Charlie. “I told him he could go.”

  “Naturally,” nodded Chan. He stepped on to the balcony and watched the plane as it moved out over the sapphire lake. Much had happened, he reflected, since that machine had first been sighted in the still night sky.

  “I’d like to be getting along,” the doctor was saying. “I had a hard night last night.”

  “Sure,” said Holt. “We can take this poor lady with us, I guess. I phoned Gus Elkins to wait up for us. We’ll need some blankets, won’t we? I hope everybody’s out of that room downstairs - especially the women -“

  Charlie took up his lampblack and brush from the desk. “While you busy yourself with unhappy task,” he said, “I will make superficial investigation of room next door - that old sitting-room of Ellen Landini’s - through which her slayer must have left the scene. Kindly visit me there before taking departure for the night.”

  “I’ll do that,” Holt promised.

  Some fifteen minutes later he pushed open the door of the room in question. Chan was standing in the center of it, all the lights, both on the walls and in the ceiling, were blazing. The atmosphere of the place was faintly out-of-date, for the furnishings were those of twenty years before, though probably this made no impression on Holt.

  “What luck?” the young man inquired.

  “A little,” Charlie shrugged.

  Holt went over and examined the catch fastening the windows that opened on to the balcony. “Any prints on this?” he asked.

  “None whatever,” Chan answered. “There are also no prints on door-knob, either side.”

  “But there should be - shouldn’t there?” Holt inquired. “I mean - if everything was O.K.?”

  “There should be dozens,” Charlie admitted. “But alas - too many people read detective stories now - get fingerprint complex. All have been rubbed away.”

  “Then Landini’s murderer did come this way,” Holt mused. “And probably went this way to reach her, too. Leaving the window unlocked so he could return through it.”

  Chan nodded. “You are learning fast. Pretty soon, your instructor must take lessons from you. Yes - the firing of that pistol must have been premeditated. Otherwise the killer could not have come through here without smashing glass in the window.”

  “Anything else to make you think he -“

  “Or she,” suggested Chan.

  “Or she, escaped through this room?”

  Chan pointed. There was a dressing-table against one wall of the room, and overturned on the floor in front of it was a heavy bench.

  “Some one came, hurrying in the dark,” he said. “Knee met sharp edge of plenty solid bench, which is turned on side. Maybe somebody have pretty sore knee.”

  Holt nodded. “I hope so. Even if a bad infection sets in, it will be all right with me. This room doesn’t connect with any other, does it?”

  “No - that is closet door over there,” Chan told him.

  “Well, I’d better be getting along,” Holt said. “I’ll be up early in the morning, of course. Poor Landini is in my launch, and the doctor has already taken his boat and gone. He was a candidate for coroner himself last election, and lost out, so he’s not very keen about this job.”

  They went downstairs, through the living-room, which was now deserted. Chan stepped outside, and walked toward the pier with his new-found friend.

  “I’m certainly glad to have you on this job with me,” Holt remarked. “It just looks hopeless. I can’t see any light ahead.”

  “Be cheerful,” urged Charlie. “When the melon is ripe, it will fall of itself. I have always found it so.”

  “Have you got any clue?” asked the boy.

  “Clue?” Chan smiled. “I have so many clues, I would sell some very cheaply. Yes,” he mused, “if I was complaining man, and were asked for complaint against this case, I would say, bitterly, too many clues. Pointing all ways at once.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” Holt sighed.

  “But long experience shows,” added Chan briskly. “That in time clues fall into place, false ones fade and wither, true ones cluster together in one unerring signboard. I may say I am interested in this case. Unusual event has roused itself and occurred here tonight, and one unusual clue may point our final path. But I anticipate.” They had come to the pier. Charlie held out his hand. “Good night. I enjoy knowing you, if you permit my saying so. I enjoy knowing cool fresh country like this. I am plenty happy.”

  “Fine,” said Holt. “Let’s all be happy. See you tomorrow, Mr. Chan.”

  “Just one matter.” Charlie laid a hand on his arm.

  “What’s that?”

  “The bullet for which they probe in the morning - get it, and guard it well. It must on no account be lost.”

  “I’ll hang on to it,” Holt promised, and ran down the pier to his launch.

  Charlie came back to the living-room to find Dudley Ward waiting there.

  “Ah, Mr. Chan,” he said. “I fancy you’re the last of my guests to retire.”

  “I will do so at once,” Charlie assured him. “So sorry to delay your own rest.”

  “Not at all,” Ward answered. He sank into a chair. “But I am rather weary, at that. Poor Ellen - I shall never forgive myself for inviting her here. However, I was so anxious - about my boy.”

  “How natural,” Chan said.

  “I am more anxious than ever, now,” Ward continued. “I hope, in the terrible excitement of tonight, you won’t forget why you have come here, Inspector. You must, of course, find who killed Landini if you can - but you must also find my boy. He needs me more than ever - with Landini gone.”

  “I am not forgetting same,” Chan nodded.

  “You heard what Ireland said about Doctor Swan’s having blackmailed poor Ellen,” Ward went on. “Did it occur to you that he might have known about the boy, and been threatening to tell me of him?”

  “It did,” Chan nodded gravely.

  “Of course, he denied at dinner that he had ever heard of the child -“

  “He was Iying,” Charlie said firmly.

  “You thought so?” Ward inquired.

  “I was certain of it. Just as I was sure Romano was Iying when he said he had.”

  “Well, I am glad to have such expert confirmation of my own opinion,” Ward went on. “I went to Swan’s room a moment ago to loan him some things - and I told him what I thought. I pleaded with him, if he knew anything of the boy, to tell me about him. He still denied any knowledge.”

  “Still Iying,” Chan suggested.

  “I think so,” Ward agreed. “Well, we must look elsewhere, perhaps. But as a last resort, we must not forget Doctor Swan.”

  “I shall not forget him,” Chan promised. “And now - if you don’t mind - I will go to my room.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Ward, rising. “You know where it is. I have just remembered that I forgot to turn off the lights on the landing field. I must send Sing to attend to that - then perhaps I can retire for the night myself.”

  Charlie had been in his room but a few minutes, when Ward knocked on his door. “Just to say you must let
Sing or me know if you want anything,” he remarked. “Good night, Inspector.”

  “Good night, Mr. Ward,” Chan said.

  There was, he noted, plenty of wood in the basket beside his fireplace. That would come in handy, if he was to keep his promise to Don Holt and sit up through the night. A rather silly promise, he reflected, as he began to undress. No one of these people would be so foolish as to attempt escape.

  Nevertheless, he changed to pajamas, dressing-gown and slippers, put another log on the fire, opened his door a few inches and sat down in a comfortable chair just inside it. He looked at his wristwatch. One thirty. All was quiet in the hall outside, save for the sounds that afflict an ancient wooden house on a frosty night. Crackings, creakings, moanings. But the human company, Chan knew, were in their beds.

  He settled more deeply into his upholstered chair, to think about this case upon which he was so unexpectedly engaged. Pictures flashed through his mind - the calm lake under the stars - Dudley Ward greeting his fellow husbands on the pier - Landini lively and vivacious on the stairs, holding aloft the dog, Trouble - Ireland circling the house in his plane - Landini lying on the study carpet - promised to sing for him some day - never would sing for him now - never -

  Chan sat up with a start. He looked at his wristwatch. Ten minutes to three. Too comfortable, that chair. But what had startled him? - ah, now he knew. A groan - a faint groan from somewhere outside his door. Not the groan of an old house in the night, but of a human being in pain.

  Charlie slipped out into the hall, which was in utter darkness. Feeling his way along the wall, still somewhat confused by sleep, he approached the head of the stairs His foot encountered some soft object on the floor.

  Then at last he remembered his flashlight, and removed it from the pocket of his dressing-gown. Its glare fell on a supine figure at his feet - then on the face - the lined yellow face of Ah Sing.

  The old man groaned again, and raising one thin hand, rubbed his even thinner jaw.

  “No can do,” he protested feebly. “No can do.”

  Chapter VII

  THE BLIND MAN’S EYES

  For a moment Chan stood looking down at the crumpled figure of Ah Sing, and a wave of pity for this loyal servant who had been with the house of Ward so many years swept through him. He bent over solicitously.

  “What has happened here?” he asked. Gently he shook the old man. “Who has done this thing to you?”

  Sing opened his eyes, sighed and closed them again.

  Rising, Charlie found the switch on the wall with his flash, and turned on the light in the upper hall. He surveyed the many doors. With the exception of his own, all were closed; they seemed blind, uninterested, secretive. He walked down the hall and knocked softly on the door of Dudley Ward’s room.

  Presently it opened and Ward appeared, a weary gray-haired man in pajamas, looking older than Chan had thought him.

  “Mr. Chan!” he exclaimed. “Is anything wrong?”

  “There has been,” Chan explained, “an accident.”

  “An accident! Good lord! What now!” Ward ran into the hall and, seeing Sing, went with Charlie toward the recumbent figure.

  “I find your servant unconscious from blow in face.”

  “A blow! Who the devil -“

  At sound of the familiar voice, the old man sat up. He looked his master over disapprovingly.

  “What’s mallah you?” he demanded. “You crazy? You walk loun’ heah no bathrobe, no slippahs, you catch ‘um plenty col’. You mebbe die.”

  “Never mind that,” Ward said. “Who hit you, Sing?”

  Sing shrugged. “How my know? Plenty big man, mebbe. Plenty big fist. Jus’ hide in dahk an’ hit me. Tha’s all.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “How my do that?” He struggled to get to his feet, and Charlie helped him. “No light nowheh.” With a groan he pushed Chan aside, and tottered unsteadily into Ward’s room. In a moment he returned with bathrobe and slippers. “Heah, Boss - you lissen to Sing. You go loun’ like crazy man, you catch ‘um all kin’ col’.”

  Ward sighed and submitted meekly to the additions to his costume. “Very well,” he said. “But what were you doing down here, anyhow?”

  “What my always do?” Sing queried in a complaining voice. “Woik, woik, all time woik. Wake up, take look-see clock, think mebbe moah bettah my go down cellah fix fiah. People all ovah house, too many people, they wake up say too col’.” He viewed his master as one who had been meaning to speak of this matter for some time. “Too much woik this house. Nevah no stop. Too much fo’ me. No can do. No can do.”

  “He’s been talking like that for fifty years,” Ward explained to Chan, “and I have to battle him tooth and nail to get another servant on to the place. God knows I don’t want him to get up at three in the morning and fix the furnace. Well” - he turned to Sing - “did you fix it?”

  “My fix ‘um,” nodded the old man. “Put new logs down-steh, too. Then came up heah, fist come out f’om dahk, catch ‘um my jaw. Tha’s all.”

  Charlie patted him on the back. “You go to bed now,” he suggested. “Too many people in this house - you have spoken truly there. Not very nice people, some of them. Aged men should not consort with ruffians. Eggs should not dance with stones.”

  “Goo’ night,” replied Sing, and departed.

  Chan turned to his host. “I note you are shivering,” he said. “Kindly step into my room for a moment. I have maintained my fire, which you will find welcome, I think.” He led the way and indicated a chair. “Who, I would ask, has perpetrated this latest outrage?”

  Ward sat down, and stared into the fire. “Don’t ask me, please,” he said wearily. “I’d like to get my hands on him, whoever he is. A harmless old man like Sing - but good lord - I’m all at sea.”

  “I am inclined to wonder,” Chan mused. “In a way, the sheriff left me in charge here tonight. Can it be that one of my birds has flown? With your permission, I intend to make a brief survey.”

  “Maybe you’d better,” Ward nodded.

  “The rooms of Romano, Ryder and Swan I know,” Charlie continued. “I will also, I think, investigate that of young Hugh Beaton, if you will acquaint me with his door.”

  Ward did so, and Chan went out. In less than ten minutes he returned.

  “The loss of one night’s sleep means ten days of discomfort,” he smiled. “Happy to say none of the gentlemen we mentioned faces such a fate. I opened the door of each, flashed light on bed. One and all they appeared to slumber.”

  “Well - that gets us nowhere,” Ward remarked.

  “As far as I expected,” Charlie replied. “Yes, they slumbered - and not one faced the door. The long arm of coincidence, I believe it is called. Speaking for myself, I was plenty glad to find them here at all, asleep or otherwise.”

  Ward rose. “I may as well go back to bed, I fancy. It is not easy for me to sleep tonight, Inspector. Ellen dead - in this old house where I had expected to spend a happy life with her. And tomorrow we must go over to Reno and look into her affairs.” He laid his hand on Chan’s arm. “I’m afraid,” he added.

  “Afraid?” Chan asked.

  “Yes. Suppose - I have a son. A boy who has never heard of me - never seen me. It came to me tonight - after I went to bed. What will I mean to him? Less than nothing. Love - affection - never, under those conditions. Too late, Mr. Chan. Always too late, for me.”

  “Go back and seek for sleep, at least,” Charlie said gently. “As for the future - when you have reached the river, then is the time to take off your shoes.”

  After Ward had gone, Charlie put fresh logs on the fire and sat down - in front of it this time, but with his door open. He was thoroughly awake now, and four o’clock in the morning is an excellent time to think. What was behind this unprovoked attack on Sing? Or was it unprovoked? Did Sing know who it was that had struck him? If so - why should he hide it? Fear, no doubt, fear of the white man inspired in the old Chinese of min
ing-camp days by years of rough treatment and oppression.

  A clue. Charlie eagerly searched his mind for a clue. “No can do,” the old man had muttered, semiconscious on the floor. But that was probably just the refrain that ran through all his days: “Too much woik this house. No can do.” The complaint under which he hid his real devotion.

  Chan sighed. It was too early, he decided, to place this attack in the scheme of things, too early to come to any real decision regarding the murder of Landini. For the present, the mere marshaling of facts must suffice, and so he sat and marshaled them in that mind which he had called “large, empty place that makes good storehouse.” He marshaled them while the chill dawn crept across the lake, and somewhere behind the snowcapped peaks a yellow sun was rising. Doors began to slam, the voice of Mrs. O’Ferrell was heard in the land, and from the distant kitchen came, faintly, the bark of a dog.

  While Chan bathed and shaved, his mind was filled with Trouble. Trouble, the dog.

  When finally Charlie was ready to go downstairs, the sun was on the lake, and a prospect of breath-taking beauty was spread before him. He opened his window and leaned far out enjoying the cool, fresh, bracing mountain air. In the darkness of the night he had had his doubts, but now he felt he could conquer the world. Problems, puzzles - he welcomed them.

  He walked, with his chest well out, through the chilly hall and down the stairs. The delicious odor of bacon and coffee floated about him. He knew he would enjoy his breakfast, even though, at the same table, sat the murderer of Ellen Landini.

  Reaching that table, he found Ward, Ryder and Swan already there. They greeted him with varying degrees of cordiality. At Chan’s heels came Romano, his sartorial elegance a bit cheapened by the clean light of day. Scarcely had he and Charlie sat down when Leslie Beaton appeared, and all the men rose.

  “Ah, Miss Beaton,” said Ward. “So happy to have you here. And looking, if I may say so, as fresh and beautiful as the morning.”