Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “You are quite sure? An unusual number of Chinese are.”

  “Dog-gone it, Mr. Chan,” cried the old man, ‘let’s try not to think about Sing. Why should we? Fine character, he’s always been. Model of all the virtues.”

  “Ah, yes,” nodded Chan, “the real virtues. But was murder any great vice in era from which Sing dates? I think not - if the motive was good. The motive - that was what counted then. And would count to-day, with Sing, I think.”

  “I ain’t listenin’,” Sam Holt replied grimly.

  Charlie smiled. “I can not find it in my heart to blame you. It will, you may well believe, pain me deeply if I have traveled all this distance to put an ornament of my own race in hangman’s noose. But let us not anticipate.”

  “Good advice, that is,” the old man agreed. “But hard to follow, at my age. I said this afternoon I’d sleep better tonight - but - I dunno. Don’t seem to need much of it at my age - an’ it ain’t so easy to sleep when you kain’t tell the daylight from the dark. Somethin’ tells me this case is goin’ to change the world - fer a few of us. My boy -“

  “One of finest young men I have had the honor to meet,” Chan put in.

  “I know. I wouldn’t tell him, Mr. Chan, but I know. Ain’t never paid much attention to girls, Don ain’t. But I heard somethin’ in his voice tonight when he was talkin’ to the Beaton girl -“

  Chan laid his hand gently on the old man’s shoulder. “A splendid young woman. Most of her life so far has been devoted to her brother. She knows the meaning of loyalty.”

  Sam Holt sighed with relief. “Then that’s all right. Ain’t nobody’s opinion I’d take before yours, Mr. Chan. Yes, that’s all right - but that boy Sing! By the lord, Inspector, I’ll be a happy man when we git out o’ the woods on this case - even ef I kain’t see the mountaintops myself.” He held out his hand. “Good night.”

  There were deep understanding and sympathy in their hand-clasp. Chan left the old man standing by the fire, his sightless eyes turned toward the open door.

  Dinsdale spoke his farewell on the terrace, where flakes of snow were beginning to sift gently down. “More of it,” the hotel man grumbled. “Is spring never coming? Seems to me the weather’s all haywire these last few years.”

  Miss Beaton and the sheriff were waiting beside the launch. “Water’s churning pretty lively,” the latter remarked. “I’ll take you back.”

  “Ah, yes,” nodded Chan. “But I am sorry to remind you that, though we walk a thousand miles along the way with a friend, moment of good-by is still inevitable.”

  “For which remark,” Don Holt replied, “you draw the back seat, an’ the snow that goes with it. Hop in.”

  The pier lights faded suddenly behind them as they nosed into impenetrable dark. From out the soft blackness of the night came the drifting snow, thicker now, cool and refreshing. Chan lifted his face, delighting in the touch of the whirling flakes, so different from the liquid sunshine of steamy Honolulu days. Again a feeling of renewed energy swept over him.

  Unerringly Don Holt found the lights of Dudley Ward’s pier, and they moored the boat. Sing let them in, muttering vaguely on the ways of people who never knew when to come home, and the steadily multiplying labors in this house. Romano and Cash were alone in the living-room, the latter in the midst of a rather conspicuous yawn.

  “Here we are - back already,” remarked Don Holt.

  “Thought you’d all been drowned,” said Cash. “Maybe we might as well stay on fer breakfast now.”

  “Wait till you’ve been asked,” suggested Holt. “All serene, I take it?”

  “Sure - everybody in bed hours ago - except me an’ the perfessor, here. He’s been tellin’ me all about music. I reckon I’ll be a wow on my ukulele from this on.”

  “Most exciting to meet you, Mr. Shannon,” Romano remarked. “Always I have deep interest in Wild West cinemas.”

  “I don’t know what you’re calling me, Mister,” returned Cash. “Don’t sound very complimentary, but I’m too sleepy to care. Well, Don, do we hit the down trail now?”

  It appeared that they did, and the two departed. Miss Beaton said good night and hastened upstairs. Chan was hanging his hat and coat in the closet at the rear, when Romano approached him. “If possible, I would enjoy word with you,” he said.

  “The enjoyment would be mutual,” Charlie returned. “Shall we sit here by the fire? No. Sing, I perceive, is annoyed - we will retreat to my room.” He led the way upstairs, and politely proffered a chair before the fireplace. “What, my dear Mr. Romano, is hovering in your mind?”

  “Many things,” Romano replied. “Mr. Chan, this news I have heard to-day - this fortune that has dropped into my lap - it works a vast difference in my life.”

  “A pleasant one, no doubt,” Chan replied, also taking a chair.

  “Naturally. From a pauper I ascend suddenly to the position of a man of property. What is my first reaction? To get away from this spot, lovely as it may be - to hasten to New York - to realize on my inheritance, and then to move on to the continent, where alone I feel at home. I shall sit in the twilight while the band plays in the Piazza at Venice, and I shall be grateful to Landini. I shall climb the stairs of the Opera in Vienna - but I perhaps move too quickly. What I am asking, Mr. Chan, is - how far has this matter of Landini’s murder traveled to solution?”

  “So far,” Charlie told him, “we have been ringing wooden bell.”

  “Which, if I interpret correctly, means you are nowhere?”

  “In that neighborhood,” Chan replied.

  “Alas, it is unfortunate,” Romano sighed. “And we unlucky ones who are unable to give satisfactory account of ourselves - how long must we languish here, waiting?”

  “You must languish until guilty person is found.”

  “Then we may go?” asked Romano, brightening.

  “All those of you who are not concerned - yes. All those who will not be required to give evidence at trial.”

  For a long moment Romano stared into the fire. “But one who had such evidence - one who had, perhaps, assisted in the arrest of the guilty - such a one would be forced to linger here?”

  “For a time. And he would undoubtedly be commanded to return for the trial.”

  “That would be most unfortunate for him,” replied Romano suavely. “But long ago I find there is no justice in this American law. Ah, well - I must be patient. Paris will be waiting, Vienna will still be the same, and I shall sit again in the Opera at Milan. Perhaps direct once more - who knows? Yes - I must - what you call it? - bide my time.” He leaned forward and whispered. “Did you, also, hear a noise outside that door?”

  Chan rose, went softly over and flung it open. No one was there.

  “I think you are unduly nervous, Mr. Romano,” he said.

  “And who, I pray, would not be nervous?” Romano replied. “All the time, I feel I am watched. Everywhere I go - every corner I turn - prying eyes are on me.”

  “And do you know why that should be?” Chan said.

  “I know nothing,” Romano answered loudly. “I have no part in this affair. When Landini was murdered, I was in my room, the door closed. I have testified to that. It is the truth.”

  “You had nothing else to say to me?” Chan inquired.

  “Nothing whatever,” Romano said, rising. He was calm again. “I merely wished to tell you I am very eager to go to New York. It means nothing to you, of course, but I am praying for your sudden success, Mr. Chan.”

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Sometimes success comes like that. Suddenly. Who knows? In this case it may happen.”

  “I hope with all my heart it will,” bowed Romano. His eyes were on a table by the fire. “Is it that you have written a book, Inspector?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Landini has written book,” he replied. “I have been perusing galley proofs of same.”

  “Ah, yes. I knew of Landini’s book. As a matter of fact, I assisted occasionally in the writing.” />
  “Were you, by any chance, present when last chapter was written? Same was composed, I believe, at Stresa, on Lago Maggiore.”

  “Alas, no,” Romano answered. “I was detained in Paris at the time.”

  “But you know Stresa? I understand it is beautiful spot.”

  Romano raised his hands. “Beautiful, Signor? Ah, the word is not enough. Oh, belle, belle - Stresa is heavenly, it is divine. Such coloring in the lake, the sky, the hills. Beloved Stresa - I must not forget - it is one of the places to which dear Ellen’s money shall take me. I really believe I shall have to make a list. There are so many lovely places.” He moved toward the door. “I hope I have not troubled you, Signor,” he said. “Good night.”

  But he had troubled Charlie slightly. What did this interview mean? Was Romano concealing important evidence? Was his door, after all, not quite so tightly closed as he pretended at that moment when Ellen Landini was shot?

  Or was he merely seeking to divert suspicion to others? Always he gave the impression of slyness; what could be slyer than for a guilty man to hint that perhaps he could tell something if he chose? And that play-acting about a noise at the door - rather hollow, rather unconvincing.

  Charlie stepped quietly into the hall. All was silent below, and cautiously he crept downstairs. No one seemed to be about, so with only the flickering fire to show him the way, he went to the closet and removed his hat, his overcoat, and those strange arctics which had come into his life when he decided to take this simple little trip to Tahoe. Returning to his room, he placed all these articles within easy reach, got out his flashlight and inspected it, and then - settled down to read the autobiography of Ellen Landini.

  At one o’clock Charlie stopped reading, put down the galleys and stepped to his window. Pines, lake, sky, all had disappeared; the world seemed to end three feet away in a mixture of white and black. The outlook appeared to give him immense satisfaction; he was smiling as, with some difficulty, he got into the arctics and fastened them. He donned the unaccustomed overcoat, put his black felt hat securely on his head and took up his flashlight with a steady hand. Extinguishing all but one of his lights, he went into the hall and closed the door silently behind him.

  It was the back stairs he chose tonight, and all down their length and along the passageway to the back door, he half expected to encounter the ubiquitous figure of the aged Sing. But no Sing loomed in his path. He let himself out on to the snowy back porch, and started toward the garage where only a few hours before he had come upon a ladder. The amateur student of trees was again immersed in thoughts of his favorite line of research.

  But fate intervened, and Charlie did not visit the garage that night. For, flashing his light cautiously along the path, he suddenly perceived that there were fresh footprints ahead of him. Some one else had left Pineview by the back way tonight - and not so long ago.

  To one who had hitherto known footprints only as something to be found in sand along a sunlit beach, the idea was fascinating. Almost unconsciously he followed the trail, up the flight of outdoor stairs that led to the road, which was some distance above the house. There he paused, and considered.

  Who had left this house since eleven o’clock, which was about the time the snow had begun to fall? Had one of his charges escaped from his care? The falling snow was rapidly covering these tracks, but they seemed fresh ones, none the less. The quickest answer appeared to lie ahead.

  He began to travel, as rapidly as his girth permitted, down the road that led in the direction of the Tavern. The wind howled through the long fragrant aisles of the pines, the storm wrapped him in a damp embrace. But he made speed, for his energy was great, and the languor of the semitropics was far-off and forgotten.

  About half a mile down the road he came to the house of Dudley Ward’s nearest neighbor. He remembered having seen it from the water - a great rambling barracks built of wood. Its windows were closed and shuttered for the winter, no sign of life was anywhere about it. And yet - the footprints which Charlie followed unmistakably turned off at this point. Turned off, and went unerringly down the path to the rear door.

  A bit skeptical now, Charlie did the same. Perhaps, he reflected, he was merely on the trail of a watchman, or some equally harmless person. For a moment he stood on the rear porch. Then he reached out and tried the back door of the deserted house. A little thrill ran down his spine - for it opened at his touch.

  At any rate, this was not housebreaking, he thought as he went inside. He found himself in a passageway, similar to the one in Ward’s house, and again he stopped alert for some sound of human habitation. The wind rattled the windows and sighed around the eaves, but nothing moved or seemed to live in these empty rooms. Yet at his feet, Chan’s flashlight showed him, was a trail of loose snow leading off into the dark.

  He followed this trail, out of the passage into a front hall. Great shadows danced about him on the walls; in distant rooms he saw ghostly chairs and sofas swathed in white. Undaunted, he pushed on, up the carpeted stairs where the fresh snow lay. It led him to a closed door at the rear of the second-floor hall, and there it stopped. He tried the door, quietly, and found it locked.

  A brief examination of the sill decided him, and he had raised his hand to knock, when he thought he heard the closing of a distant door. He waited. Undoubtedly stealthy footsteps were crossing the polished floor of the downstairs hall. Charlie was thinking very fast.

  He had been in somewhat similar situations before, and had learned that all the advantage lies with the side which attacks suddenly and unexpectedly. Putting his flashlight in his pocket, he moved softly and swiftly to the stairs and began to descend. Half-way down he stopped and so, almost, did his heart. For the person in the hall below had lighted a match.

  Charlie crouched close to the wall, the shadows flickered about him, but the life of a match is brief, and evidently he was still safe when the flame expired. Safe - in a way - except for the fact that the unknown intruder was coming rapidly up the stairs.

  He had the top position, and there was nothing else for it - Charlie gathered all his strength and leaped, straight into the surprise of his life. For it was obviously a giant upon whom he fell, a giant who kept his footing and took Chan, avoirdupois and all, into his arms. In another second the plump detective from the islands was engaged in a struggle he would long remember. They staggered together down the stairs; their swaying forms hit the newel post, and an old-fashioned lamp that had been established there for thirty years crashed down in a million pieces. Next they were rolling on the floor, Charlie grimly determined to keep in so close an embrace that this terrible stranger would have no chance to square off for a blow. One blow from that source, he felt, would ruin him for ever.

  Not in such good condition as he used to be, Chan reflected, as the fight went doggedly on. Getting on in years, easily winded - ah, youth, youth. No use pretending, it left one day, never to return. About this struggle now - he was losing it. Unmistakably. He was on his back, the stranger’s hands were at his throat, he sought, vainly, to tear them away. A flash of the little house on Punchbowl Hill, the bougainvillea vine hanging over the veranda - then the dark, slowly enveloping his senses.

  Then the stranger, sitting down violently on Charlie’s generous stomach, and the voice of Don Holt, crying, “Good Lord - is that you, Mr. Chan?”

  “Alas,” said Chan. “At night all cats are black.”

  Holt was helping him to his feet, deeply solicitous. “Say - I sure am sorry about this, Inspector. Of course - I never suspected. I hope I haven’t hurt you much. How do you feel?”

  “How does sparrow feel when hit by cannon-ball?” Charlie returned. “A little disturbed. However, I expect to survive. And I am delighted we have met, though I must disparage the details of our meeting. For there is something strange afoot in this house tonight.”

  “I reckon there is,” Holt answered. “I was sound asleep when the coroner came to my room -“

  “One moment, please
,” Chan interrupted. “I will hear that later. Just now I think it important that we investigate a certain door upstairs. Without delay.” He got out his flashlight and, to his surprise, found it still working. “Will you be kind enough to follow me?”

  Quickly he led the sheriff to the locked door on the second floor. “Track of snow brought me here,” he explained. “And behold.” He pointed. On the doorsill was more snow, a portion of a heel-print where a foot had recently trod.

  “Then somebody’s inside,” said Holt, in a hushed voice.

  “Somebody,” nodded Chan. “Or something,” he added.

  The sheriff raised a great fist, and the sound of his blow against the panel echoed loudly through the house. “Open up here!” he shouted.

  In the dead silence that followed there was something sinister and disturbing. Holt rattled the knob, and then moved back a few feet.

  “Well,” he said, “we already owe for that lamp downstairs. Might as well add a little damage here. Will you turn the light this way, Inspector?”

  Charlie illuminated the scene, and the sheriff lunged forward. There came the sound of splintering wood as the lock gave way and the door swung open. Chan’s flash swept the room inside. An ordinary bedroom, it seemed to be, as one after another the articles of furniture emerged from the shadows. An ordinary bedroom - and on the floor beside the bed, the motionless figure of a man.

  As they stood for a moment in the doorway, Chan thought suddenly of Romano. Romano sitting nervously in that other bedroom, asking what would happen to one who - perhaps - assisted in the arrest of the guilty. Had there been real fear in the Italian’s eyes when he whispered: “Did you, also, hear a noise outside that door?”

  Kneeling, the sheriff turned the figure on the floor face up. Chan joined him with the lamp - and they were looking into the dead eyes of Doctor Swan.

  Chapter XIV

  THOUGHT IS A LADY