Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys

by Earl Derr Biggers

  He went down the room, said something to Dinsdale and disappeared toward a distant corridor. Charlie and the two Holts joined the little group by the fire.

  “Draw up and sit down, gentlemen,” Dinsdale remarked. “I was just telling Miss Beaton how glad we’ll be to have her come down here tomorrow. Of course, the Tavern isn’t officially open, and things are a bit dull, but we can show her a little excitement, I reckon. There’s a few newspaper reporters coming up from San Francisco on the morning train, and they’ll stir things up. They usually do.”

  “Newspaper reporters,” cried Don Holt in dismay.

  “Yes - and that Reno bunch will be back here tomorrow. They’ve been prowling round the neighborhood all day. Claimed they wanted to find Mr. Chan.”

  “Well, I hope it’s Mr. Chan they find,” Holt said. “Lord, I wouldn’t know what to say to ‘em.”

  “The secret,” Charlie told him, “is to talk much, but say nothing. Not your specialty, I fear. Leave them to me - I will act as buffer. I have the figure.”

  “Tomorrow sounds interesting,” Leslie Beaton remarked, “but how about tonight? Where’s the night life around here?”

  Dinsdale laughed. “Night life? I’m afraid you’ll have to come back later in the summer.”

  “Oh - but I’ve heard the gambling wasn’t all on the other side of the state line,” the girl continued, and Charlie gave her a grateful smile. “There must be a few places -“

  “There ain’t any in my county,” Don Holt said firmly.

  “Well, let’s get out of your old county, then. I feel like going places and doing things. Surely there must be a city, or a town, or at least a village, nearer than Reno.”

  “Well, there’s Truckee,” Dinsdale ventured dubiously. “Summers we sometimes run over there in the evening. Not much doing now, I’m afraid. But there’s two or three restaurants, and a movie - and you might dig up a game.”

  “Not if it’s in Sheriff Holt’s county,” the girl said mockingly.

  “But it ain’t,” replied the sheriff. “It’s over the county-line, so you can’t tell - it might turn out to be the modern Babylon you’re longing for. Get your coat, an’ we’ll have a look at it.” His manner was gay enough, but there was a note of disappointment in his voice.

  “That’ll be grand,” the girl cried. She went over to Sam Holt’s chair, and bent above him. “You’re coming with us, you know,” she said.

  “Shouldn’t do it,” he answered. “But say - I like your voice. Sounds lively. Full o’ spirit, which young folks’ voices is generally too tired nowadays to suit me. Sure, I’m coming. Fresh air never hurt nobody.”

  Leslie Beaton turned to Swan. “Doctor - you don’t mind a little game, as I recall.”

  “Well, really - I think I’d better stay here,” Swan replied. But his eyes had brightened.

  “Nonsense - we won’t go without you,” the girl said, while Don Holt stared at her in amazement.

  “Oh - in that case -” Swan stood up at once.

  Dinsdale felt he should stay at the Tavern - a guest is a sort of responsibility, he explained, and there was no one about to take his place in the office. He offered his car for the trip, along with certain vague suggestions of the “So you’re going to Truckee” order.

  But Truckee, when they had covered fifteen miles of snowy road and rolled on to its startled main thoroughfare, responded with the gloomiest welcome imaginable. Even the spirits of Leslie Beaton drooped at the prospect. Tired old store-fronts listing, it seemed, with the wind, a half-darkened drug store, the lighted windows of a few restaurants dripping with steam. Don Holt drew up to the curb.

  “Here you are, folks,” he smiled. “Night life in these parts; I don’t know what you’re looking for, but it ain’t here.”

  “Isn’t that a light in the Exchange Club, over the Little Gem Restaurant?” Doctor Swan inquired.

  “It might be, at that. I’m afraid you have the gambler’s instinct, Doctor. Maybe we are in Babylon, after all. Anyhow, it won’t hurt to inquire.”

  Holt led them into the Little Gem. An odor of fried fish and other delicacies of the lake country nearly bowled them over. The proprietor of the establishment, a swarthy Greek known locally as “Lucky Pete,” was shaking dice with a customer.

  “Hello, Pete,” Holt said. “What’s the big excitement in these parts tonight?”

  “Dunno,” returned Pete, stifling a yawn. “Is there any?”

  “Jes’ dropped in to find out,” Holt said. “A few friends of mine - from Reno.”

  Pete nodded. “Pleased to meet them. The slot machines are over in the corner.”

  “Nothing doing upstairs?” Holt asked.

  “Not these days - no. Tables all covered - times is bad. A few members of the Club - prominent gentlemen of the city - they play poker.”

  Chan stepped forward. “Is this a private game - or can anybody enter?”

  Pete surveyed him critically. “You can go up an’ ask,” he suggested.

  “Doctor Swan - what do you say? Shall we purchase small supply of chips?” Charlie inquired.

  “We’ll take a look, first,” Swan replied cautiously.

  It appeared there was an inner stairway, which identified Lucky Pete as the real steward of the Exchange Club. The five, led by Don Holt, ascended. Charlie and old Sam Holt brought up the rear.

  “Watch what you do in this place, Inspector,” Holt said. “A Greek! How did a Greek find Truckee - unless they closed all the other towns to him?”

  “Greek people,” Charlie answered, “appear to be born with geography of the world in one hand.”

  In the big bare room above, half hidden in darkness, were numerous gambling tables, covered with brown canvas. Under the solitary light, five men played poker with soiled cards.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” said Don Holt. “Things don’t seem to be prospering around here right now.”

  “Not much doing,” one of the players responded. “Unless you’d like to sit in on this game.”

  Holt looked around the faces at the table and shook his head. “I hardly think so. We’ve got jes’ a few minutes -“

  “Small contributions gratefully received,” said another player, who had the pale face and artificial-looking hair of a croupier.

  “We might take brief turn to try luck,” remarked Charlie. “Doctor Swan - what is your reply? Ten dollars spent in chips by each - and leave in one half-hour, win or lose?”

  Swan’s eyes glittered, his cheeks were flushed. “I’m with you,” he replied.

  “Good,” Charlie replied. “It is now nine-thirty. Gentlemen - we drop out at ten precisely. May we squeeze in?”

  Don Holt gave Chan a dazed look. “All right,” he agreed. “Miss Beaton and I will wait downstairs. Father -“

  “Git me a chair, son,” the old man said. “I sure do like to hear the sound of them chips again. What is it, boys - straight, whisky or draw?”

  “Draw,” answered one of the boys. “How about you, Dad? Oh - excuse me.”

  “I’ll jes’ listen in,” explained Sam Holt. “That’s all I’m doin’, nowadays.”

  “Would you be so good, gentlemen,” remarked Chan, “as to explain to me the value of these chips? I am, you understand, a novice.”

  “Yeah,” returned the man with the pale face. “I’ve met them novices before.”

  Don Holt and the girl returned to the aggressive odors of the room below.

  “Like something to eat?” the sheriff inquired.

  “Never wanted anything less in my life,” she smiled.

  “Well, I guess we better order something, anyhow. It’d look better. You can’t go huntin’ night life, an’ not spend any money. A table, or the counter?”

  She walked past several tables, studying the cloths. “The counter, I believe,” she told him.

  He laughed. “That’s pickin’ ‘em,” he nodded. They sat up to the counter. “Now, what would you like? Wait a minute - I meant to say, what will you tak
e?”

  “How about a sandwich and a glass of milk?”

  “Well - you’re fifty per cent right, anyhow. Stick to the sandwich - that was an inspiration. But as for the milk -“

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “No. It don’t do to pioneer in the West anymore. Jes’ play safe an’ make it what’s known in these parts as a ‘cup cawfee.’”

  “I’m in your hands,” she told him.

  Pete appeared, and Don Holt ordered two ham sandwiches and two cups of coffee. As the man departed, the sheriff glanced toward the stairs. “Well, Inspector Chan is sure havin’ fun tonight,” he remarked. “Some people, you jes’ can’t keep ‘em away from a gamblin’ table.”

  The girl smiled. “Is that what you think?”

  “Why shouldn’t I think it? Say, I hope he’s good - those boys up there invented the game. At ten o’clock we leave - if I have to draw a gun. Your big fling at night life ends then, so make the most of it while you can.”

  She gave him a quick look. “You’re not so very pleased with me this evening, are you?” she inquired.

  “Who - me? Why - why sure I am. Maybe I’m a little disappointed - you see, I been tellin’ myself perhaps you would like the county-seat, after all. It’s quite a busy little town, but of course -“

  “Of course - what.”

  “I don’t mean that you’re to blame. It ain’t your fault. You’re jes’ like all the other girls, that’s all. Restless, always wantin’ excitement. I see it on the parties I take out from the Tavern. What’s got into the women nowadays? The men are O.K. They’d like to relax, an’ take a look at the mountains. But the girls won’t let ‘em. Come on, boys, is their slogan. What’ll we do now? I want to go places, an’ do things.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “Don’t I what?”

  “Want to go places, and do things?”

  “Sure - when there’s somewhere to go, an’ something to do. But when there ain’t, I can sit all the way back in my chair, an’ not have any nervous breakdown.”

  “Everything you say is pretty true,” the girl replied. “Women are a bit restless - and I’m as bad as any of them, perhaps. But I’ve got too much spirit to sit here on this very unsteady stool and be unjustly accused. It wasn’t my idea - coming out to find a gambling house tonight.”

  “But - but you suggested it.”

  “Of course I did. However, it was only to please Mr. Chan. He told me he was eager to watch Doctor Swan while the doctor was busily engaged in gambling.”

  A look of perplexity clouded Don Holt’s fine eyes. “He did? Well, then - say, I reckon there’s a pretty humble apology due from yours truly.”

  “Nothing of the sort,” the girl protested.

  Pete appeared with the repast, and she smiled at the thickness of the sandwich that stood before her. “I wonder if I could really open my mouth that wide,” she went on. “It’s worth trying, don’t you think?”

  The young sheriff was still puzzling over her news. “So Mr. Chan wanted to watch Swan gamble,” he mused. “It’s too much for me. I wonder what the inspector’s got on his mind.”

  In the room above the inspector appeared to have much on his mind, including a rapid, tense and deadly game of poker. Scarcely once since it started had he taken his eyes from Doctor Swan. Every move of the latter’s hands as he made his ante, pushed out his bet, lost or raked in the chips and sorted them, he watched with extreme care. Either because of this absorption or due to inexperience, Chan played badly, and his stack of chips was close to the vanishing point.

  “Ah,” he murmured, “how true it is that dollars going into a gambling house are like criminals led to execution. Doctor, might I trouble you - would you exchange ten white chips for a blue?”

  “Gladly,” nodded Swan, “but - pardon me - you are offering me a red chip, Mr. Chan.”

  “Forgive the error,” smiled Charlie, correcting it. “Not for worlds would I cheat you, my dear Doctor.”

  When Don Holt came to get them at ten o’clock, Charlie held up one white chip. “Behold,” he said, “my stack has melted like snow under stream of hot water. I use my last chip to ante.” He took his five cards, glanced at them, and threw them down. “No cards,” he said. “The situation is hopeless. I withdraw.”

  Swan remained in for the hand, lost it and also stood up. “I’m about even,” he remarked. “A lot of hard work for nothing.” He counted his stack, and pushed it toward the banker. “Seven dollars and twenty-five cents,” he added.

  “Better stick a little longer, gentlemen,” the banker said in a hard voice.

  “No,” Charlie said firmly. “We go along now - with the sheriff.” The five hard-boiled gamblers looked up with sudden interest. “Ten o’clock - is that not correct, Sheriff?”

  “Jes’ ten,” Don Holt returned. “Time to get goin’.”

  There was no further protest against their doing so from the gamblers, who appeared to have lost all interest in the noble sport themselves. Presently the little group from Tahoe was out in the car, and the sleeping town receded rapidly behind them.

  “I think it was lots of fun,” Leslie Beaton cried. “So quaint and unusual.”

  “But not very profitable,” muttered Doctor Swan. “Eh, Mr. Chan?”

  “Profit and pleasure so seldom found on same street,” Charlie answered.

  When they reached the Tavern, Swan said good night and retired to his room down the same corridor as that into which the coroner had disappeared. Dinsdale suggested that Miss Beaton come and look at the suite he was preparing for her. “There’s a small sitting-room, with a fireplace -” he was saying, as they moved away.

  Chan turned quickly to the Holts. “Humbly suggest you owe me ten dollars,” he said. “The amount of money invested in poker game just now. Place it on your expense account for county to pay.”

  “Hold on a minute,” Don Holt replied. “I ain’t getting this. I’m glad to pay the ten, of course - but what did we get for it?”

  Chan smiled. “We eliminated Doctor Swan from list of our suspects.”

  “What!”

  “I am, perhaps, getting a few paces ahead of myself,” Charlie conceded. He took galley one hundred and ten from his pocket, and gently unfolded it. “Tonight, I am perusing the autobiography of Landini, and happy luck smiles upon me. Will you be so good as to read aloud to your honorable father, the first paragraph of Chapter Twenty-Eight?”

  The young sheriff cleared his throat. “After my marvelously successful season in Berlin, I came for a rest to - to Stresa, on lovely Lago’ - Lago - say, what language is this, anyhow?”

  “It is Italian,” Chan told him. “Lago Maggiore - the second largest of the Italian lakes, I believe.”

  ”’- Lago Maggiore,’” continued Holt uncertainly. “It is here, on a balcony of the Grand Hotel et des - des - more Italian - that I write the concluding chapters of my book. Where could I have found a more beautiful setting? I gaze in turn at the aquamarine waters, the fierce blue sky, the snowcapped Alps. Not far away, I am enraptured by Isola Bella, with its fantastic palace, its green terraces of orange and lemon trees rising a hundred feet above the lake. The dining that has always made life worth while for me is color - plenty of color, in personality, in music, in scenery. I have pitied many people in my time, but none more so than one I knew who was color-blind -“

  “By the Lord Harry!” cried old Sam Holt.

  ”’ - color-blind,’” repeated his son doggedly, “a poor luckless soul to whom all this gorgeous beauty would seem as a mere monotonous prospect of dull gray; lake, mountains, trees, sky - all the same. What a tragedy!”

  “Color-blind,” Don Holt said again, as he laid down the galley.

  “Precisely,” nodded Chan. “A person, who, sent for a green scarf, comes back with a pink one. A poor luckless soul who, having murdered Landini and desiring to give semblance of order to desk, places on the yellow box the crimson lid, and on the crimson box, the yellow.”

/>   “Mr. Chan,” old Sam Holt said, “you’ve sure struck the right lead now.”

  “Who was this person?” Chan went on. “That remains to be discovered. One thing I know - it was not Doctor Swan, who for one half-hour tonight sorted so carefully the chips, blue, red and white. He is eliminated, but we proceed with high heart now, for we may be pretty sure that the person Ellen Landini pitied - the one who would not have enjoyed to sit with her on the balcony of the Grand Hotel et des Iles Borromees - that is the person who murdered her.”

  “So you think,” Don Holt said slowly, “that she was killed near the desk? By someone who was in the room with her at the time?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “Then why all that talk about pine trees, and pieces of bark Iying on the ground?”

  Chan shrugged. “Might it not be that I am truly amateur student of trees? But what is the use? Can you make public believe that policeman is something more than dumb brute thinking only of man-hunt? Can you convince it that he may have outside interests of gentler nature? Alas - can you borrow a comb in a Buddhist monastery?”

  Chapter XIII

  FOOTSTEPS IN THE DARK

  Dinsdale and the girl returned at that moment, and Charlie hastily restored galley one hundred and ten to his pocket.

  “Sorry I can’t put you higher up,” the hotel man was saying. “The view would be better, of course. But I’m using only the ground floor at present, and just the one wing, at that.”

  “It’s awfully good of you to take us at all,” Leslie Beaton assured him. “Now, Mr. Chan, hadn’t we better be going? I just remembered poor Cash.”

  “For whom, perhaps, time does not travel so rapidly as it did this afternoon,” Chan replied. “You are quite right, we must hasten.” Don Holt and the girl went outside, and Dinsdale followed. Charlie turned to the old sheriff. “Good night, sir. We have something to work on now. As I recall - you once enjoyed camping journeys with Sing -“

  “Funny,” said Sam Holt, “the way you an’ me - we always come back to Sing. I was jes’ thinkin’ of him myself. Yes, I camped with him, but I don’t recollect he was color-blind. Leastways, he never showed it ef he was.”