Charlie Chan [6] The Keeper of the Keys

by Earl Derr Biggers

  For a moment, while the yellow glare of Chan’s flashlight rested idly on the face of the dead doctor, there was no sound save that of the storm roaring about the old house.

  “Exit Doctor Swan,” said the sheriff grimly. “I wonder what this means?”

  “I believe,” Chan answered, “it means that blackmailer has met with obvious finish. Was Doctor Swan enclosed safely in room last night when fatal shot was fired at Landini? It never did seem probable. Suppose he hovered about in hall, desiring one final word with his former wife. Suppose he learned who killed her. Would such a man report at once to police? Or would he, instead, see new delightful path for blackmail opening up before his dazzled eyes?”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Holt agreed.

  “I think it happened. Suppose he is summoned down here tonight to receive first installment of his wickedly earned money. And receives instead the bullet of a desperate person who can not pay - or, knowing that the demand will be endless, will not pay. Ah, yes, from murderer’s standpoint, this would be wiser course. I can not truthfully say I disagree. But you were about to tell me how you chance to be here?”

  “The coroner had the room next to Swan’s at the Tavern,” Holt replied. “He was waked up about twelve-thirty by the banging of a shutter. The noise seemed to come from Swan’s room. The coroner stood it as long as he could, and then he rapped on Swan’s door. Well, to cut it short, nobody answered - an’ that was how I come into it.

  “We saw right away that Swan had left by the window. I followed his footprints to the road, where they turned in this direction. It looked like the doctor was staging a getaway. Say, I didn’t stop for anything - I jes’ hurried along on his trail. Didn’t even have a flashlight - not so strong on preparedness as you are. But I did have a full box of matches - jes’ used my last downstairs.”

  “You walked the two miles or more from the Tavern?”

  “Sure - when I wasn’t running. When I got to the point behind this house where Swan had turned off, I looked up and got the glimmer of a flashlight back of the hall shutters on the second floor - yours, I reckon. So I pushed open the back door, and came in.”

  “The back door was still unlocked?” Chan asked thoughtfully.

  “Sure.”

  Charlie considered. “The killer of Doctor Swan must have intended this house as temporary hiding-place for victim,” he reflected. “Would he then have departed, leaving door unlocked for any passer-by to enter? I think not. The answer is, of course, he was still in house when we arrived. He may even be here now. Come - we waste valuable time.”

  Hastily he led Don Holt downstairs and through the passageway to the rear door. He turned the knob. But now the rear door was locked, and there was no key in sight.

  “Haie!” Chan cried. “Our friend has made his escape - perhaps while we were tumbling in mortal conflict in the hall. Where was he hiding when we entered?” He made an investigation of the plentiful snow along the passage. “Ah, yes.” Pushing open the door into a butler’s pantry, he sadly pointed out to Holt more snow on the linoleum inside. “Let us place order for ample supply of sackcloth and ashes,” he remarked gloomily. “You and I, my boy, both walked tonight within three feet of the murderer we so hotly seek. Alas, this winter climate is not so invigorating to the mental processes as I had hoped it would be.”

  The sheriff returned to the back door and fiercely rattled the knob. “He’s got a fine start on us, too,” he said.

  “Man inclined to exercise would not need to look farther for nice pair of dumb-bells,” Chan answered. “Pardon vile slang, which I acquire from my children, now being beautifully educated in American schools. Come, we must seek new footprints leading away from this rear door. They are our only hope.”

  They ran to the big front door, where somewhat rusted bolts again delayed them. After a struggle, however, they got it open, and hastened around to the back of the house. The snow was very damp now. “Turning to rain,” Holt announced, looking up at the sky. “This’ll have to be a quick job.”

  There were, indeed, new footprints in the snow at the back. They led away, not to the road, but around the house, on the opposite side from that which Chan and the sheriff had traveled. Breathlessly the two representatives of the law followed them - straight to the pier. At the edge of the restless water beneath the pier, the footprints stopped abruptly.

  “That ends that,” sighed Holt. “This guy had a rowboat, I reckon.” He stared at the wild waters. “Wouldn’t care to be traveling out there tonight,” he added.

  Charlie was bending eagerly with his flashlight above the last visible prints just before they entered the water. “No use,” he said, sighing ponderously. “Fresh snow obscures any identifying marks. Snow, I fear, has been a little too highly spoken of as aid to detectives in hour of need.”

  They returned to the front veranda of the house. Holt continued to study the lake. “With this rain coming on,” he remarked, “I don’t believe a rowboat could keep afloat out there.”

  “If man who killed Swan, and then escaped after we entered house, brought boat,” Chan said, “then who was person whose tracks I followed down from Pineview by the road? Did he perhaps carry boat on back?”

  “Oh - you followed somebody down here, too?”

  “I assuredly did, and I believe he was the man we seek.”

  “Perhaps he took a boat from this place.”

  “No - I observed boat-house intact. Might I make another suggestion?”

  “By all means. I’m through.”

  “Might he not have stepped into water and run along shore for some distance? Beach is flat here.”

  “By golly, that’s right,” agreed the sheriff. “He could travel by that method for a while in either direction. Of course, he’d probably leave the water as soon as he thought himself safe. There’s an idea - we could follow the shore -“

  “In which direction?”

  “Why - you take one way, and I’ll take the other.”

  Charlie shook his head. “No use,” he said. “Already this gentleman has had twelve minutes’ start. As for me, my avoirdupois precludes success - and even your thin legs, I think, would fail.”

  Holt sighed. “It seemed the only chance,” he said.

  Charlie smiled. “There will be other chances,” he replied. “Do not despair. Our quarry will be caught - but by subtler means than running alongshore in the rain. For I perceive we now have rain.”

  “Yes, spring has come,” Holt answered. “And here I am, too tangled up in murder to enjoy the thought.”

  “From the black sky, white water falls,” smiled Chan, looking aloft. “This may yet prove very pleasant spring for you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” the sheriff replied. “Well, in the meantime, what next? Here we are, stuck down here, in a deserted house with a dead man - no telephone, and nothing but our feet to get away on. Here’s my suggestion. I’ll go back to the Tavern and get the coroner, while you go and see what’s doing at Pineview.”

  “So sorry to disagree,” Chan said. “Everything would no doubt be quiet at Pineview - every one in bed and asleep by the time I reached there. No change - save that I might possibly find back door, which I left unfastened now locked. In such case, I must raise row, or stand in rain until morning. Besides, is it wise to leave this place unguarded? We might return to find our dead man gone. Suppose the killer still lurks among the trees, sees us both depart, and proceeds to follow out hastily the plan I am sure he intended to pursue at leisure - to drop body of Swan far out in lake, to hide it in hills, to dispose of it in some manner. No. Plan for yourself is excellent, but I shall linger here, awaiting return of the honorable sheriff, the coroner and light of another day.”

  “Well.” Holt looked back into the dim empty house. “It’s no job I would rise in meeting to ask for, but if you want it, it’s yours. But what in Sam Hill will you do with yourself? I’ll be gone quite some while.”

  “There is no need of hurry on your part. First, I shall
open front door very wide, seeking to exchange stale air of long-closed house for fresher breath of first spring night. Then, I shall find comfortable chair in parlor, repose in it and think.”

  “Think?”

  “Precisely. Thought is a lady, beautiful as jade, so do not fear I shall be lonely. Events of tonight make me certain I must not neglect the lady’s company longer.”

  “Well, look out for yourself, if you stay here,” Holt remarked. “That’s not a pretty picture you painted - the killer creeping back. I haven’t got my gun with me, or I’d loan it to you.”

  Charlie shrugged. “I hold with Mrs. O’Ferrell - the less guns, the fewer gets killed. However, have no anxiety. The chair I sit in will be like seat for guest of honor at Chinese dinner. It will face the door, so I may note enemy’s approach.”

  “Then I’ll be going -” Holt began.

  Charlie laid a hand on his arm, “Already that lady inspires me - I see Doctor Swan, standing on pier tonight, just before you took him to the Tavern in your launch. What was it he desire so eagerly to know?”

  “That’s right,” Holt said. “About Romano and the will. Did Romano get Landini’s property?”

  “And was he, consequently, a good blackmail prospect?” Chan’s eyes narrowed. “It would seem to me Sheriff, that Swan came here tonight to meet a man of whom, physically, he had no fear. A small man - like Romano.”

  Don Holt scowled. “But Romano. If he had done either of these killings wouldn’t he have been more likely to use a knife?”

  “Ah - excellent reasoning,” Charlie cried. “I am proud of you. However, you forget - or perhaps you do not know - that Romano, like Ireland, served in the war. An Italian officer - he must have known well the use of the revolver. But no matter - I merely continue to marshal facts for the storehouse of my mind. A pleasant journey to you.”

  “Yeah - in the rain, on foot,” smiled Holt. “Well, good-by - and good luck.”

  He ran down off the porch and disappeared toward the road in the rear. Chan retired inside, leaving the door open, and moved on into a large living-room. A pleasant place this must be, he thought, on summer nights, with its splendid view of the lake. He removed a sheet from a large chair and placing the latter in what seemed the safest corner, dropped into it. Then he shut off his light, and put it in his pocket.

  The rain beat against the house, the wind roared, and Charlie thought back over this wintry case upon which he, detective of the semitropics, was now so unexpectedly engaged. First of all he thought of people: of Sing, whose beady little eyes even Chan could not read; of Cecile, jealous and angry last night when she heard the airplane over the lake; of Ireland, clumsy and uneasy when out of his plane, but so expert when in it. He considered Romano, broke and according to his own confession, desperate - but now come into money through Landini’s sudden passing. Hugh Beaton, sick of the bargain he had made; his sister, jealous as Cecile, but in a different way - a high-strung, impetuous girl. Dinsdale - since he was including them all - evidently so aloof from all this - but an old friend of the singer, none the less. Ward, who had started it all and encountered two tragedies. Ryder, with the scornful blue eyes above the blond beard, and Swan - dead now in that room above. Had it been, after all, attempted blackmail that led to Swan’s death? How young Hugh Beaton had raged at the doctor last night after the murder - and how Michael Ireland and Swan had snarled at each other.

  The rain outside seemed to increase in fury, and Charlie decided he had had enough of the open door. He crossed over, closed it and returned to his chair. Once more, he decided, he would take things from the beginning - the sudden shot upstairs, Landini on the floor, the boxes with the mixed lids - ah, he had been over all this a hundred times. But - and he started up suddenly in his chair - there was one thing he had forgotten. Not yet had he carefully considered the events before the murder.

  He was back, then, on the train, repeating from memory his talk with Romano; he was riding up from Truckee to the Tavern; again the icy spray of the lake stung his cheeks, he was going ashore at Pineview, the ex-husbands of Landini were drinking before the fire. Then followed dinner - his excellent memory recalled vividly every incident at the table, nearly every word that had been spoken. He heard again the bark of the dog announcing the arrival of the singer - felt again the vibrant, colorful personality of Landini - ah, what a pity her brilliant career was so soon to end.

  But beyond the shot that ended it, Chan did not trouble now to explore. He gazed around this strange room, listened for a moment to the spatter of rain at the windows, and then, oblivious to any killer who might return, he curled up comfortably in his chair, drew his overcoat closer and fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. After all, a man must sleep.

  He awoke with a start to find the sheriff bending over him. A semblance of dawn seemed to be floating through the house, but the rain still beat against the windowpanes.

  Beyond Don Holt stood the coroner.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Holt said. “We just dropped in.”

  Charlie yawned, sat up and was about to step to the window for a look at his beloved Honolulu. Then he remembered.

  “Anything exciting happen?” Holt wanted to know.

  “I - I think not,” Chan said. “No - as I recall now - nothing happened. Ah, yes - the coroner. He will want to go upstairs.”

  He leaped briskly to his feet, and led the way to the room above. The others followed, not so briskly. They could all see, in the semi-darkeness, the body of Swan, lying as it had been left by Charlie and the sheriff the night before.

  “We need more light here, I think,” Chan said. “I will admit some, such as it is.” He went to the window opened it and threw back the blinds. For a moment he stood leaning over the window-sill, then Don Holt was surprised to see him climbing through the window.

  “What are you doing?” the sheriff inquired.

  “Small polar expedition of my own,” Chan replied. He had dropped to a balcony some two feet below the window. It was covered by about twelve inches of snow, now melting rapidly. At one side of the window, close to the house wall, was a spot which had melted more rapidly than the rest, leaving a small hole. Charlie bared one arm to the elbow, and plunged it deep into the crevice. With an expression of triumph on his face, he held up an automatic pistol so those inside the room could see.

  “Man who buries his treasure in the snow,” he said, “forgets that summer is coming.”

  Chapter XV

  ANOTHER MAN’S EARTH

  Chan handed the revolver to the sheriff and began a rather cumbersome climb back into the room.

  “Guard weapon well,” he suggested. “It may prove valuable - who knows? How many cartridges exploded, please?”

  “Why, one, of course,” the sheriff replied.

  “Ah, yes - the bullet from which, now reposing in poor Doctor Swan, the coroner will later obtain for us. You may handle pistol freely, Sheriff. The killer we deal with does not leave fingerprints - even with his footprints he is careful man. In spite of his care, however, his discarded weapons may yet tell us much.”

  “You think so?” inquired Holt.

  “I hope so.” For a time Charlie stood studying the revolver as it lay in the sheriff’s hand. “This one has somewhat old-fashioned look,” he suggested.

  “Sure does,” Don Holt agreed.

  “You are, of course, too young to have fought in the war?”

  “Too young by six years - I tried it,” smiled the sheriff.

  Charlie shrugged. “No matter. All sorts of weapons were issued in the war - on many fronts. We must seek other path.”

  Doctor Price stood up. “All right,” he said, “that’s all I can do now. We may as well take this man down to the village.”

  “What would you deduce?” Chan inquired.

  “I believe he was shot at close range, and without a struggle,” the coroner replied. “Certainly there was no struggle here - though he may have been killed elsewhere, and carried to this room.
”

  “Very probable,” Chan nodded. “For that reason, I make no extended examination of the place.”

  “I don’t believe the poor devil had any inkling of what was about to happen to him,” Doctor Price continued. “That’s just a guess, of course. The bullet entered his side - it may have been fired by some one who was walking close to him - or slightly behind him. All things that we’ll never know, I reckon.” There came the honk of a horn behind the house. “That’s Gus Elkins. I told him to follow us with his ambulance.” He yawned. “Gosh - I expected to be on my way back to the county-seat before this.”

  While Doctor Price and Mr. Elkins attended to the removal of Swan’s body, the sheriff and Charlie made a tour of the house, restoring it to order, in so far as they could.

  “You an’ me - I reckon we’ll take my old flivver and get over to Pineview,” the sheriff said. “We come up by road - lake looked pretty choppy. But say - wait till you hit the road.” He kicked aside some broken glass in the lower hall. “Hope you ain’t feelin’ any ill effects from our friendly tussle.”

  “He who goes out on the hills to meet the tiger must pay the price,” returned Charlie.

  Holt laughed. “Sure was a mix-up. I was wonderin’ when I walked back to the Tavern what we ought to do next. Somebody had a key to the back door of that house, I said. So I sent a wire down to the owner in San Francisco an’ asked him who that would be.”

  “Excellent,” Charlie returned. “It was what I was about to suggest. But now you are moving a little ahead of me on our rocky path.”

  “I ain’t so sure about that,” Holt said. “How did you get on with your home work while I was away? Going to do a lot of heavy thinkin’, I believe you told me.”

  Charlie’s eyes narrowed. “Alas,” he answered, “I fear that, like my little son Barry, I toppled in sleep on to my books.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Don Holt answered.

  In a few moments the ambulance had gone, and Chan climbed into the flivver beside the sheriff. “Feel at home in such seat,” he commented. They started with a jerk. “But not on such road. Not much melting snow on Punchbowl Hill.”