The Black Camel

by The Black Camel [lit]

  The bell rang, and Charlie himself went to the door. Peering into the night, he beheld a burly dark-skinned man in the khaki uniform of the Honolulu police.

  "Ah, it is Spencer," he said. "I am very glad to have you here."

  The officer came into the hall, dragging after him a figure that, anywhere save on a tropic beach, would have been quite unbelievable.

  "I picked this up on Kalakaua Avenue," the policeman explained. "I thought you might like to see him. He's a little mixed on what he's been doing to-night."

  The man to whom he referred shook off the officer's grip and stepped toward Charlie. "I trust we're not too late for dinner," he remarked. He stood for a moment looking about the hall and then, as though prompted by old memories, removed from his head a limp and tattered hat of straw. "My chauffeur is really rather stupid. He lost his way."

  His manner was jaunty and debonair, no mean triumph considering his costume. Aside from the hat, which he now clutched in a thin freckled hand, that costume consisted of a badly soiled pair of white duck trousers, a blue shirt open at the throat, a disreputable velvet coat that had once been the color of Burgundy and the remnants of a pair of shoes, through the holes of which peered the white of his naked feet.

  The buzz of conversation from the dining-room had died, the group in there appeared to be listening, and Charlie hastily held open the curtains to the living-room. "Come in here, please," he said, and they entered to find Fyfe waiting there alone. For a moment the man in the velvet coat stared at the actor, and under the yellow ragged beard that had not known barber's scissors for a month, a slow smile appeared.

  "Now," Chan said. "Who are you? Where do you live?"

  The man shrugged. "The name," he replied, "might be Smith."

  "It might also be Jones," Charlie suggested.

  "A mere matter of taste. Personally, I prefer Smith."

  "And you live -"

  Mr. Smith hesitated. "To put it crudely, officer, I'm afraid I'm on the beach."

  Charlie smiled. "Ah, you uphold noble tradition. What would Waikiki be without beach-comber?" He went to the window that led to the lanai and summoned Kashimo. "Kindly search this gentleman," he directed.

  "By all means," the beach-comber agreed. "And if you find anything that looks like money, in heaven's name let me know about it at once."

  Kashimo's search revealed little - a piece of string, a comb, a rusty pocket-knife, and an object which at first glance looked like a coin, but which turned out to be a medal. Charlie took this and studied it.

  "Temple bronze medal, Third Prize, Landscapes in oils," he read. "The Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts." He looked inquiringly at Smith.

  The beach-comber shrugged. "Yes," he said. "I see I shall have to confess it all now - I'm a painter. Not much of a one at that - the third prize only, you will observe. The first medal was of gold - it might have come in handy of late, if I'd won it. But I didn't." He came a bit nearer. "If it's not asking too much - just what is the reason for this unwarranted intrusion into my affairs? Can't a gentleman go about his business in this town without being pawed by a fat policeman, and searched by a thin one?"

  "We are sorry to inconvenience you, Mr. Smith," Charlie replied politely. "But tell me - have you been on the beach to-night?"

  "I have not. I've been in town. I walked out - for reasons which we needn't take up now. I was going along Kalakaua when this cop -"

  "Where down-town have you been?"

  "In Aala Park."

  "You talked with some one there?"

  "I did. The company was not select, but I made it do."

  "Not on the beach to-night." Chan was staring at the man's feet. "Kashimo, you and Spencer will kindly escort this gentleman out to spot below window where you discovered footprints, and make careful comparison."

  "I know," cried the Japanese eagerly. He went out with the other policeman and the beach-comber.

  Chan turned to Fyfe. "Long arduous task," he commented. "But man, without work, becomes - what? A Mr. Smith. Will you be seated at your ease?"

  The others entered from the dining-room, and to them also Charlie offered chairs, which most of them accepted with poor grace. Alan Jaynes was consulting his watch. Eleven o'clock - he sought Chan's eyes. But the detective looked innocently the other way.

  Tarneverro came close to Charlie. "Anything new?" he inquired, under his breath.

  "The inquiry widens," Chan answered.

  "I'd rather it narrowed down," replied the fortune-teller.

  The two policemen and the beach-comber returned through the lanai. Spencer again had the latter firmly in his grip.

  "O.K., Charlie," said the uniformed man. "The footprints under the window could have been made by only one pair of shoes in Honolulu." He pointed at the beach-comber's battered footwear. "Those shoes," he added.

  Smith looked down, smiling whimsically. "They are a shocking bad pair, aren't they?" he inquired. "But Hawaii you know, seems to have no appreciation of art. If you've noticed the paintings they buy to hang in their parlors - the wooden waves put on canvas by the local Rembrandts - I may be a third-rater, but I couldn't bring myself to do stuff like that. Not even for a new pair of -"

  "Come here!" cut in Charlie sharply. "You lied to me."

  Smith shrugged. "You put things bluntly for one of your race, officer. It may be that I distorted the situation slightly in the interests of -"

  "The interests of what?"

  "The interests of Smith. I observe that there is something wrong here, and I much prefer to keep out of it -"

  "You are in it now. Tell me - did you enter that beach house to-night?"

  "I did not - I'll swear to that. True, I stood beneath the window for a few minutes."

  "What were you doing there?"

  "I was planning to make the sand in the shelter of the pavilion my lodging for the night. It's a favorite place of mine -"

  "Go back to beginning," cut in Chan. "The truth this time."

  "I hadn't been out to the beach for three days and nights," the man told him. "I got a little money, and I've been stopping down-town. When I was out here last, this house was unoccupied. To-day my money was gone - I'm expecting a check - it hasn't come." He paused. "Rotten mail service out here. If I could only get back to the mainland -"

  "Your money was gone," Charlie interrupted.

  "Yes - so I was forced back to my old couch under the palm trees. I walked out from town, and got to the beach -"

  "At what time?"

  "My dear sir, - you embarrass me. If you will take a stroll along Hotel Street, you will see my watch hanging in a certain window. I often go and look at it myself."

  "No matter. You got to the beach."

  "I did. It's public, you know - this one out here. It belongs to everybody. I was surprised to see a light in the pavilion. Somebody's rented the house, I thought. The curtain of that window was down, but it was flapping in the wind. I heard voices inside - a man's and a woman's - I wondered whether it was such a good place to sleep, after all."

  He paused. Charlie's eyes were on Robert Fyfe. The actor was leaning forward with a fierce intensity, staring at the beach-comber, his hands clenched until the knuckles showed white.

  "I just stood there," Smith continued. "The curtain flopped about - and I got a good look at the man."

  "Ah, yes," Charlie nodded. "What man?"

  "Why, that fellow there," Smith said. He pointed at Fyfe. "The chap with the red ribbon across his shirt-front. I haven't seen one of those ribbons since the time when I was studying at Julien's, in Paris, and our ambassador invited me round for dinner. It's a fact. He came from my town - an old friend of my father -"

  "No matter," Charlie cut in. "You stood there, peeping beneath the curtain -"

  "What do you mean?" cried the beach-comber. "Don't judge a man by his clothes, please. I wasn't spying. If I caught a glimpse, as I did, it was unavoidable. They were talking fast, those two - this man, and the woman."

  "Yes
. And perhaps - equally unavoidable, do not misunderstand me - you heard what they said?"

  Smith hesitated. "Well - as a matter of fact - I did. I heard her tell him -"

  With a little cry, Robert Fyfe leaped forward. He pushed the beach-comber aside and stood before Charlie. His face was deathly pale, but his eyes did not falter.

  "Drop it," he said hoarsely. "I can put an end to your investigation here and now. I killed Shelah Fane, and I'm willing to pay for it."

  A shocked silence greeted his words. Calm, unmoved, quite motionless, Chan stared into the man's face.

  "You killed Miss Fane?"

  "I did."

  "For what reason?"

  "I wanted her to come back to me. I couldn't live without her. I pleaded and begged - and she wouldn't listen. She laughed at me - she said there wasn't a chance. She drove me to it - I killed her. I had to do it."

  "You killed her - with what?"

  "With a knife I carried as one of the props in the play."

  "Where is it now?"

  "I threw it into a swamp on my way to town."

  "You can lead me to the spot?"

  "I can try."

  Chan turned away.

  Alan Jaynes was on his feet. "Eleven-ten," he cried. "I can just make the boat if I hurry, Inspector. Of course, you're not going to hold me now."

  "But I do hold you," Charlie answered. "Spencer, if this man makes another move, kindly place him beneath arrest."

  "Are you mad?" Jaynes cried. "You have your confession, haven't you -"

  "With regard to that," said Charlie, "wait just a moment, please." He turned back to Fyfe, who was standing quietly beside him. "You left the pavilion, Mr. Fyfe, at four minutes past eight?"

  "I did."

  "You had already killed Shelah Fane?"

  "I had."

  "You drove to the theater and were in the wings of same at twenty minutes past eight?"

  "Yes - I told you all that."

  "The stage manager will swear that you were there at twenty minutes past eight?"

  "Of course - of course."

  Chan stared at him. "Yet at twelve minutes past eight," he said, "Shelah Fane was seen alive and well."

  "What's that!" Tarneverro cried.

  "Pardon - I am speaking with this other gentleman. At twelve minutes past eight, Mr. Fyfe, Shelah Fane was seen alive and well. How do you account for that?"

  Fyfe dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

  "I do not understand you," Charlie said gently. "You wish me to believe you killed Shelah Fane. Yet, of all the people in this room, you alone have unshakable alibi."

  Chapter IX

  EIGHTEEN IMPORTANT MINUTES

  No one spoke. Outside what Jimmy Bradshaw had called the silken surf broke once again on the coral sand. The crash died away, and inside that crowded room there was no sound save the ticking of a small clock on a mantel beneath which fires were rarely lighted. With a gesture of despair, Alan Jaynes stepped to a table and, striking a match, applied it to one of his small cigars. Charlie crossed over and laid his hand on Fyfe's shoulder.

  "Why have you confessed to a deed you did not perform?" he asked. "That is something I warmly desire to know."

  The actor made no answer, nor did he so much as look up. Charlie turned to face Tarneverro.

  "So Shelah Fane was seen alive at twelve minutes past eight?" the fortune-teller remarked suavely. "Would you mind telling me how long you have known that?"

  Charlie smiled. "If only it happened you understood Chinese language," he replied. "I would not find it necessary to elucidate." He went to the door, and called Jessop. When the butler appeared, Chan asked that he send in Wu Kno-ching at once. "I am doing something now for your benefit alone, Mr. Tarneverro," he added.

  "You are a considerate man, Inspector," the fortune-teller answered.

  The old Chinese shuffled into the room; he was, evidently, in a rather peevish frame of mind. His carefully prepared dinner had been ruined by the events of this tragic evening, and he was in no mood to accept the philosophy of the patient K'ung-fu-tsze.

  Chan talked with him for a moment, again in Cantonese, and then turned to Tarneverro. "I request that he verify story he told me in native language when I interrogated him in this room some while ago," he explained. "Wu, you have said you lingered in kitchen with Jessop and Anna when clock was speaking the hour of eight. You fretted because dinner was seemingly movable feast, and also because bootlegger of your choice had not shown up and was causing you to lose much face. Am I correct so far?"

  "Bootleggah velly late," nodded Wu.

  "But at ten minutes past hour, erring friend of yours makes panting appearance with hotly desired liquids. While Jessop begins task of making this poison palatable, you wander away in search of mistress." Chan glanced at the fortune-teller. "Wu informal type servant who pops up anywhere on place with great bland look. Characteristic of the race." He resumed his remarks to the Chinese. "You discover Miss Shelah Fane alone in pavilion. Vindicating your honor, you announce bootlegger friend has finally appeared. What did Missie say?"

  "Missie look-see watch, say twelve minutes aftah eight plitty muchee time bootleggah come. I say plitty muchee time dinnah gets on table. Mebbe that can happen now if not new cook needed heah wikiwiki."

  "Yes. Then she ordered you to get out and not annoy her with your bothers. So you went back to kitchen. That's what you told me before, isn't it?"

  "Yes, boss."

  "All same true, eh, Wu?"

  "Yes, boss. Wha' foah my tell lie to you?"

  "All right. You can go now."

  "My go, boss."

  As the old man moved silently away on his velvet slippers, Charlie turned to meet the penetrating gaze of Tarneverro. "All of which is very interesting," the fortune-teller said coldly. "I perceive that when I pointed out to you the matter of the watch, I was merely wasting my breath. You already knew that Shelah Fane had not been murdered at two minutes past eight."

  Charlie laid a conciliatory hand on Tarneverro's arm. "Pray do not take offense. I knew Miss Fane had been seen at that later hour, yes; but I was still uncertain of how watch had been manipulated. I listened, curious and then entranced, to your logical explanation. Could I, at its finish, rudely cry thanks for nothing? A gentleman is always courteous. Much better I shower you with well-deserved words of praise, so you go forward with vigorous and triumphant mood of heart."

  "Is that so?" remarked Tarneverro, moving off.

  Charlie stepped up to the beach-comber. "Mr. Smith," he said.

  "Right here, officer," Smith answered. "I was afraid you were going to forget me. What can I do for you now?"

  "A moment ago you began interesting recital of conversation overheard between this gentleman with ribbon-bedecked shirt-front and lady he met in pavilion to-night. At crucial point you suffered very blunt interruption. I am most eager that you return to subject at once."

  Fyfe rose to his feet, and stared hard at the derelict in the velvet coat. Smith looked back at him, and a speculative, cunning look flashed into his pale gray eyes.

  "Oh, yes," he said slowly. "I was interrupted, wasn't I? But I'm used to that. Sure - sure, I was telling you that I heard them talking together. Well, there's no need to go on with it now. I've nothing to add to what the gentleman has already told you." Fyfe turned away. "He was pleading with her to come back to him - said he loved her, and all that. And she wouldn't listen to him. I felt rather sorry for him - I've been in that position myself. I heard her say: 'Oh, Bob - what's the use?' He went on insisting. Every now and then he looked at his watch. 'My time's up,' he said at last. 'I've got to go. We'll thrash this out later.' I heard the slam of the door -"

  "And the woman was alone in the room - alive and well. You are sure of that?"

  "Yes - the curtain was flapping - I saw her after he left. She was there alone - moving about."

  With a puzzled frown, Charlie glanced at Robert Fyfe. "You are not content with
one alibi. You have now a second. I do not understand you, Mr. Fyfe."

  The actor shrugged. "I find it hard to understand myself, Inspector. A fit of temperament, perhaps. We stage people are inclined to be overly dramatic."

  "Then you withdraw your confession?"

  "What else can I do?" Chan did not overlook the glance that passed between the immaculate actor and the battered beach-comber. "Others have withdrawn it for me. I did not kill Shelah - that's quite true. But I thought it would be better if -"