“The Powells were coming out of their room,” the reporter said.
“Did you see anything else?”
“Nothing. I didn’t hear anything else, either.”
IX
LEAVING Sprague’s room, Chan and DeBevre spoke to Melvin Randolph next. The American ex-champion seemed much more agitated than he had earlier that afternoon, but he had nothing new or helpful to tell them. He had entered the hall after being aroused by the gunshot, and had arrived seconds after the Powells and Tony Sprague. He had not heard anything other than the shot, he said. His face registered surprise at the news that a ball-bearing had killed Balfour.
But he could not offer any suggestion as to how it could have been fired. He claimed not to have previously known about the room switch between the Powells and Balfour, and said that he knew of no reason why either of the two men would be marked for murder.
“I suppose,” Randolph said somewhat stiffly, “that after the conversation in the lounge today, you think I might hate Powell enough to want him dead - that I hold a grudge against him for defeating me in the U.S. playoffs. But I could never kill.”
Randolph had nothing else to say, so Charlie and the Prefect left and rounded the ell in the corridor. When DeBevre knocked on the door to the suite belonging to Clive and Jennifer Kettridge, it was the lovely young daughter who admitted them.
As they entered, they saw Roger Mountbatten standing beside Kettridge at a silver cart containing several bottles of liquor and mix. Both men came over to greet the two detectives, carrying glasses of what appeared to be whiskey-and-soda. From the expressions on their faces, they looked as if they’d needed the drinks to calm somewhat shaky nerves.
Despite an obvious attempt to appear clam and collected, Jennifer, too, seemed badly upset. Her chin quivered slightly and her eyes were puffed and red-rimmed. She said, after Chan had introduced the French Prefect: “Father told me what happened to poor Raymond Balfour. I… I couldn’t believe it at first. It’s so frightening!”
“Murder,” DeBevre said solemnly, “is always frightening.”
Mountbatten said, “Has anything new developed? Has the killer been uncovered yet?”
“I’m afraid not, M’sieur. The mystery has, in fact, deepened.” DeBevre studied the Englishman critically. “There were sharp differences between you and the deceased, n’est ce pas?”
“A few,” Mountbatten admitted reluctantly. “But the differences were over the tournament, and hardly sufficient to result in murder!”
DeBevre then looked at Kettridge. “And you, m’sieur, did you not have a violent argument with M’sieur Balfour in the lobby this afternoon?”
Kettridge worried his lower lip, obviously discomfited. “Yes, it’s so. But what Roger said is also applicable to myself. I did not hate the young man enough to wish him dead, and certainly not because of an argument over the tournament.”
“Perhaps you had other reasons for disliking Mr. Balfour?” Chan asked. “Perhaps very personal reasons?”
“What do you mean by that remark?” Kettridge demanded.
“We have been informed of Raymond Balfour’s appreciation of your daughter’s charms, and of your disapproval.”
“I will say it’s true enough that Raymond tried to press his attentions on me,” Jennifer injected quickly, before her father could reply. “They were… unwanted. Father disapproved of Raymond, but as there was nothing between Raymond and myself, he would have hardly stooped to murder, would he?”
Kettridge pursed his lips. “What Jennifer says is quite right. I didn’t care for Balfour as a suitor, but since she rejected him on her own, I had no cause to hate the man for having attempted to court her. He was a trifle insistent, I must admit, but Jennifer made it quite clear that she wanted nothing to do with him.”
DeBevre produced the steel ball-bearing, explaining that it was the object which had killed Balfour. The three Britishers stared at it in wonder, and after a protracted moment, the Prefect said firmly: “I would like to know where each of you were when this was fired. M’sieur Mountbatten?”
“Naturally, I was in my room,” the British chess champion answered stiffly. “Mr. Chan can testify to that.”
Chan moved his head negatively. “I can testify only to the fact that you and Mr. Kettridge arrived in the hall as I approached. You were in your room prior to the shot?”
“Yes, although I’m afraid I can’t prove that. I was alone after Hans Dorner left, about fifteen minutes earlier.”
“Hans Dorner!” DeBevre exclaimed. “Why was he in your room?”
“He came to discuss the protest Clive and I lodged against Grant Powell this evening. He was not at all happy about it, I must say.”
“Did he say where he was going when he left you?”
“He did not. I suppose he returned to his room. It’s the one directly over Balfour’s, on the fourth floor.”
DeBevre nodded, then turned to Clive Kettridge. “And you, M’sieur? You were in your room at the time of M’sieur Balfour’s death?”
“Why, yes. I was reviewing some chess magazines.”
“And I was here with him,” Jennifer said. “When we heard the shot, Father jumped up and told me to stay here while he investigated. Terrible - oh, it’s all so terrible!” Tears welled in her eyes, and she tried to blink them back.
“For a man you apparently disliked,” Chan observed gently, “you mourn in the fashion of a widow.”
“It… It’s not that I disliked Raymond Balfour - or liked him, either. It’s just that all death is terrible, frightening.”
Chan continued to study her for a moment, wondering about the girl’s motives. Was she reacting with the over-emoting of an adolescent? Or were there deeper motivations to her sadness?
Mountbatten was still staring at the bearing in DeBevre’s palm. “I don’t understand at all how that should have killed Balfour. It was a gunshot we heard, I’m quite positive of that. What sort of gun could fire a ball bearing?”
“No gun at all,” Kettridge said. “Not that it matters, of course, since none of us has a weapon. Do we, Roger?”
Mountbatten seemed to hesitate briefly, and then said, “No, I’m sure none of us do.”
“Of course not,” Jennifer added, and averted her eyes. Chan observed the downward shift of her gaze, and wondered again if perhaps the girl were lying for some hidden reason. But at this point in the investigation, it was too early to tell for certain.
Kettridge stepped up to his daughter and placed an arm about her shoulders. His voice was stern and paternal as he queried the two detectives, “Have you any more questions? Jennifer is upset, as we all are - and it is quite late.”
“I have no more questions at this time,” DeBevre told him. “Perhaps in the morning.”
“Yes, quite so.”
Chan and the Prefect returned to the murder room, where the laboratory men had finished their examination and the body of Raymond Balfour had been removed. DeBevre spoke with one of his men, then reported to Charlie Chan that the search had yielded nothing of fresh interest. The carpet had been vacuumed, as was standard procedure, and the contents of the bag would be inspected at the Prefecture.
DeBevre ordered that the room be locked up until further notice, and then he and Chan stepped into the corridor. The Honolulu detective said: “I suggest we visit Hans Dorner. His whereabouts at the time of the shooting are as yet undetermined.”
“I was about to make the same suggestion, Charlie,” DeBevre agreed.
They rode up one floor in the cage lift, and walked to Dorner’s room. The Prefect rapped loudly on the paneling several times, but there was no response.
DeBevre stroked his jaw thoughtfully. “It is now well past midnight, and yet Herr Dorner is still not in his room. Where could he have gone after he left M’sieur Mountbatten’s chamber?”
“Your question is at present rhetorical,” Chan noted. “When he is located, we will have the answer.”
“I will have
him located,” the Prefect promised. He sighed. “Ah, but it appears this will be a long night. There is little point in both of us going without rest, Charlie. If you wish to retire, I will contact you the moment there are developments.”
“It is perhaps best. My brain remains alert, but my venerable body demands rest. I fear it is to my body that I must yield.”
Chan bid DeBevre good-night in the elevator, departed on the third floor and returned to his room. Wearily, he removed his robe and slipped into bed again. He lay deep in thought for a long while, reviewing the events of the evening, and then gratefully allowed sleep to claim him.
X
THERE WERE no calls from DeBevre or any other disturbances to interrupt his slumber, and Charlie Chan awoke at eight the following morning feeling thoroughly refreshed. He called room service to request his morning tea and the French croissants for which he had acquired a fondness, and five minutes later there was a knock on the door. Chan, dressed in his silk robe, admitted a porter with his Continental breakfast on a tray.
Charlie Chan sipped his tea and debated calling DeBevre to ask if there had been any further developments. He decided against it, finally, reasoning that the Prefect would have kept his promise to phone if there were any news. Finishing his tea and the last of the croissants, the Oriental detective lay back on the bed again and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling, once more lost in contemplation.
After a time something seemed to be trying to intrude on his consciousness. He concentrated, and suddenly he realized what was bothering him. Quickly he dressed in one of the tailored double-breasted suits with wide lapels and cuffs that he favored, combed his straight black hair, smoothed his neatly trimmed Chinese mustache, and left the room to immediately enter one of the elevators. In the lobby, he spoke with the haggard concierge, who was still on duty, requesting a key that would open the door of the murder room.
“But Prefect DeBevre ordered that the room remain locked,” the concierge argued. “No one is to enter, not even members of the hotel staff.”
“It is my humble opinion that Prefect DeBevre would have no objection to me entering. Please call him and inquire, if you are doubtful.”
The concierge gnawed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully, and finally demurred, saying: “Perhaps a call is not necessary, M’sieur Chan. The Prefect did tell me, it seems, that you were to help him with his investigation.”
He relinquished the master key, and Charlie Chan went up to the third floor again and let himself into the room in which Balfour had met his mysterious end. He spent five minutes examining the room, noting a few small flecks of gilt paint on the carpet; after another five minutes, the Honolulu detective had confirmed his hunch - and knew, or at least suspected, how Balfour had been murdered.
Chan also was aware that someone had been in the room since it had been locked the night before; and that this person had removed the contrivance which had been used to fire the lethal ball bearing.
Hurriedly Chan left the chamber, relocking the door, and started down the corridor. To his surprise, Jennifer Kettridge was waiting in front of his room, tears shining in her eyes.
“Oh, Mr. Chan,” she said, “I was hoping to find you!”
“You appear upset,” Chan observed; then, in a very soft voice, he asked: “Would this perhaps be because of your untruths last night?”
“Then you… you knew?”
“A detective cannot read minds, but sometimes faces may reveal much. Lies are like blemishes, for often they cannot be hidden.”
Jennifer reflected bitterly: “It is not I who is suffering, so much as it is my father. Prefect DeBevre discovered that I hadn’t been in the room with Father as I’d said, but downstairs in the cabaret. I should’ve thought of the chit I’d signed, that it would give me away even if I weren’t recognized. But everything was happening so quickly. I… I only wanted to help!”
“Wisdom is not always present when affection speaks. I presume, then, that Mr. Kettridge was alone in your room?”
“Yes.” Jennifer lowered her head. “And because of my lie, it looks even blacker for Father, now that it’s known he owns a gun, and that it was here with him at the hotel.”
“Oh?” Chan’s face was expressionless.
Jennifer nodded in confirmation, her blue eyes soft and moist with worry. “It was the sidearm he carried during the War,” she explained. “He’s always packed it with him on trips, ever since he was robbed in Algeria some years ago, during a tournament.”
“And where is this gun at present?”
“That’s why Father didn’t admit to owning it. You see, he told me after you left that the pistol has been missing from the room for the last two days. Someone obviously stole it, but he didn’t report the theft, fearing publicity. When he discovered that Raymond had been shot, he knew it would appear worse for him so he lied, and Roger and I backed him up.”
“How did Prefect DeBevre discover this truth?”
“A chambermaid,” Jennifer told him. “During his questioning of the hotel staff, she recalled seeing it among Father’s belongings in a suitcase he’d inadvertently left open one morning.”
“And now your father has been confronted?”
The young girl nodded. “We were eating breakfast in the salon when Prefect DeBevre burst in on us. He allowed me to leave and I came straight to find you. He must still be in the salon with Father, and I’m quite sure he believes Father somehow murdered Raymond.”
“Was a motive mentioned while you were present?”
“No. But I suppose the Prefect believes it’s either due to the difference of opinion over the Transcon tournament or because of me. Both are utterly ridiculous, of course. Father becomes quite excitable over chess, but he isn’t a man of violence.
“And he knew there was nothing between Ray and myself. I never cared for him at all, not with his arrogance. His treatment of women was deplorable as well - as if they were toys to be trifled with and then discarded.”
Jennifer looked up again, imploringly. “Father did not kill him, Mr. Chan; I know he didn’t! Please help him, please!”
“I may assist only in the capture of a murderer,” Chan said gently. “It may be hoped the success of that venture will reaffirm your faith in your father.”
“It will, because he’s innocent. Find the real killer quickly, Mr. Chan, for Father’s sake and… and for Grant’s, too.”
“For Mr. Powell’s sake?”
More flushed than ever now, Jennifer realized what she had said. Confusedly, she attempted to explain away her slip. “I… well, that is, it was Grant… I mean, it was Mr. Powell… who might have well been the intended victim, mightn’t it? His life might perhaps still be in danger.”
Charlie Chan studied her for a moment, and then said, “You care for Mr. Powell - is that not so, Miss Kettridge?” His voice was without censure.
Jennifer sighed. “All right, it’s quite useless trying to hide it any longer at least from you, Mr. Chan. Yes, I’m in love with Grant. I have been for quite some time now.”
“And does he reciprocate this love?”
“He hardly knows I exist. He’s of course happily married and I… oh, I simply could never tell him how I feel, under the circumstances. You are the only one who knows my heart, Mr. Chan.”
“Then your secret shall remain safe.” Charlie Chan smiled reassuringly turned to step away, and then as an apparent afterthought he asked: “Would you tell me, Miss Kettridge, if your father was in your suite all of last evening?”
“All night? Why, of course. We retired soon after you and Prefect DeBevre left us. Why do you ask?”
Chan shrugged, as if the matter were unimportant. “A detective is always filled with much curiosity, about many things,” he said enigmatically. “Please excuse me.”
XI
CHARLIE CHAN entered his room to wash, and then walked downstairs to the mezzanine and stepped inside the ornate breakfast salon that was reserved for the hotel patrons. It cons
isted of clusters of small tables filled with guests; a longer table against the far wall that had on it ironed copies of such Parisian newspapers as Le Monde and Figaro, and a decor of murals depicting the palace of Versailles and its gardens.
Toward the back, Chan could make out the hunched form of Claude DeBevre, straddling a wicker chair with his arms folded across its top. He was talking intently to Clive Kettridge, who seemingly had lost interest in his half-eaten breakfast of eggs and bacon.
“M’sieur,” DeBevre was saying as Chan approached, “you tell a tale of a missing Webley pistol, when now it is convenient to do so! You ask me to believe you, but can you blame me if I doubt instead?”
Kettridge dabbed his perspiring forehead with his napkin. “I fail to see how it makes one whit of difference in any case! Raymond Balfour was killed with a bearing, not by a bullet, and certainly not by a bullet from my stolen gun!”
DeBevre, who by this time had seen Chan approaching them, gestured with an open hand in the other detective’s direction. “Mais oui, but to borrow some of M’sieur Chan’s wisdom, liars and criminals often occupy the same dwelling place.”
“Out with it, then!” Kettridge jumped to his feet, thumping the table with the knuckles of one clenched fist. “Are you or are you not officially charging me with murder?”
Chan approached quickly. “Please excuse my intrusion,” he said. “Before words fly without benefit of thought, I suggest a moment of reflection. Please resume your seat, Mr. Kettridge.”
The Englishman stood trembling for a moment, and then capitulated, subsiding once more into his chair. “Yes, I dare say you’re right, Mr. Chan. But I shan’t condone being called a common criminal, by inference or in any other manner. I shan’t!”
DeBevre said to Chan, “I should have summoned you immediately, Charlie, when I learned of this fresh development. But in my zealousness, I neglected to do so. We have perhaps found, as you say, the first break in the case.”
Charlie Chan nodded. “I was informed of Mr. Kettridge’s missing weapon by his daughter, only moments ago.”
Charlie Chan in the Pawns of Death Page 4