Charlie Chan in the Pawns of Death

by Earl Derr Biggers;Bill Pronzini

  “Perhaps I was foolish last evening,” Kettridge said. “I admit that, in fact. But I insist my missing Webley has nothing whatsoever to do with Raymond Balfour’s death.”

  “That remains to be seen,” DeBevre told him. “You still claim also that you did not leave your room prior to the murder? That you ventured forth only to investigate the show?”

  “Yes. It’s the bloody truth.”

  “Then, M’sieur, you would not object to a search of your possessions?”

  “On the contrary,” Kettridge said acidly, “I demand it. Perhaps, when you find nothing, you will think twice about attempting to involve me in this crime.”

  “Do you wish to accompany us while we conduct this search?”

  “I do not.” Kettridge stood and stalked from the salon.

  Charlie Chan said to the Prefect, “I suggest a search of all suspects’ rooms. And perhaps men to watch the exits of the hotel, should anyone connected with the case attempt to leave.”

  “My men have been here all night,” DeBevre told him. “No one who knew Mr. Balfour attempted to leave. Alas, many tried to enter most of them reporters. M’sieur Sprague’s story of the murder has all of Paris, and apparently the entire world, in a ferment. He exercised no restraint whatsoever, unfortunately.”

  The Prefect expelled a soft breath, shaking his head. Chan said, “It is fortunate that a policeman of your capabilities is handling such a difficult case.”

  DeBevre’s eyes reflected pride at the compliment, then sobered again due to the gravity of the situation. The two detectives then left the salon and proceeded up to the third floor once again. Jennifer, who had returned to the suite occupied by her and her father, admitted them and offered no objections to a search.

  The search yielded nothing in the way of evidence.

  Chan and DeBevre departed and went to Roger Mountbatten’s chamber; he was not in, but with the concierge’s master key, they gained entry.

  “This is highly illegal,” the Prefect warned, slightly nervous at entering without a proper warrant.

  “But necessary,” Chan responded. “Time is now a most valuable commodity, and cannot be wasted.”

  “You are thinking of something in particular?”

  “Of many things,” Chan said noncommittally. “Before I put voice to them, I would prefer more facts, however. A song without a melody is only a harsh noise.”

  Refusing to say more about his suspicions, and not divulging that he had visited the murder room earlier that morning, Chan accompanied DeBevre in a search of Tony Sprague’s and Melvin Randolph’s chambers. Nothing was found of importance. After leaving Randolph’s room, the two detectives knocked on Powell’s door, and in a few moments, Grant Powell ushered them in, clad only in a towel and wet from a shower.

  “Go right ahead,” he said after they’d requested permission to search. “If you don’t mind, though, I’ll dress while you do.”

  “How is your charming wife this morning?” Chan asked him.

  “Much better after some sleep. She’s gone downstairs to the lobby for a copy of the Herald Tribune, and should be back shortly.” Powell sighed and looked almost contrite. “I was something of an ass last night, wasn’t I? In more ways than one.”

  Chan and DeBevre were silent.

  “I don’t know what makes me act as I do sometimes,” Powell said. “Ego, I suppose, and a perverse streak. I’m usually sorry, afterward.”

  He looked at the two detectives steadily. “As you no doubt know, the tournament has been postponed indefinitely. But I for one want it to continue as soon as Ray Balfour’s murderer is caught. One reason is selfish: to prove to the world that I have not been cheating, that I am capable of winning the Transcon championship on merit alone.

  “The other reason is somewhat less selfish. I believe Ray would have wanted me to continue, and to win. He may have had his faults, but he was a good friend and he truly believed in me and my abilities as well.”

  Chan surmised that Powell was revealing depths of integrity and compassion which had previously been buried completely; his opinion of the young chess expert went up considerably. “I believe your reasons are valid ones, Mr. Powell.”

  “Thank you.” Powell smiled faintly. “I… well, thank you.”

  Charlie Chan and the Prefect soon finished their search of the Powells’ room, and also discovered nothing of importance. When they had entered the corridor again, Chan suggested that their next stop should be the room of the Swiss chess official, Hans Dorner. Earlier, DeBevre had mentioned that Dorner had finally been located shortly past three that morning, when he had returned to the Frontenac more than a little intoxicated.

  The Prefect had questioned him extensively, and Dorner had claimed that he was upset over the protest which Mountbatten and Kettridge had planned to lodge against Grant Powell, and had spent the entire evening at a bistro on the Champs Elysees, following his departure from Mountbatten’s room. He had not been too intoxicated, according to DeBevre, to profess shock and horror at the news of Raymond Balfour’s murder.

  Now, as the two detectives started from the elevator on the fourth floor, DeBevre said, “I trust Herr Dorner had the good sense to remain in his room, as I instructed him to do last night. I am far from satisfied with his explanation, and I -“

  His words were abruptly cut off by a high-pitched scream from the floor above; a chilling, piercing shriek filled with decibels of horror, that raised the hairs on the back of Charlie Chan’s neck.

  XII

  CHARLIE CHAN and the Prefect exchanged startled glances; then, as the chilling scream continued to echo through the quiet halls, the two men turned and hurried back into the waiting elevator. DeBevre punched the button for the next floor, and the cage seemed to rise with impossible slowness.

  When it arrived at the fifth floor landing, Chan and DeBevre rushed into the hallway. It appeared deserted in both directions; but the scream sounded again, coming from beyond the ell to their left. They ran down there and turned the corner. A black-and-white uniformed chambermaid was backed against one of the walls, her hands clutched in front of her, her eyes protruding with horror as she stared into the open doorway of one of the chambers. Her screams had brought a small cluster of guests which milled about staring horrified into the room.

  As they drew abreast of the room, Chan had his first glimpse at the object of the woman’s cried and he felt his own stomach contract. He had seen blood and death many times before, but he had never yet grown inured to it.

  The man lying doubled up on his side on the carpeting had a small paring knife thrust between his ribs, near his heart, and there was a vast quantity of blood on the front of his white shirt, on the carpet where he sprawled, and in a sticky crimson trail extending well into the chamber.

  In his right hand was clutched an old Webley revolver. He was still alive, his left hand clawing feebly at the nap of the carpet, and his mouth moving soundlessly. But from the position and depth of the wound, and the amount of lost blood, Chan knew death was but seconds away.

  The man was Tony Sprague.

  Both Charlie Chan and the Prefect knelt beside the dying wire-service reporter, DeBevre calling over his shoulder in French for somebody to phone a doctor. Sprague’s eyes were half-rolled up in their sockets, but he seemed to recognize Chan; his free hand came up imploringly, and his lips attempted to form words.

  The Honolulu detective bent closer, straining to hear. At first there was no sound save for the excited murmurings of the gathered patrons, plus the now-hysterical sobbings of the chambermaid. Then, in a barely audible whisper, Sprague managed to gasp:

  “Checkmate!”

  That strange term was all the fatally wounded reporter was able to say. His eyes rolled the rest of the way up in their sockets, and his hand fell back to the carpet. He was dead.

  DeBevre looked at Charlie Chan. “What did he say? I could not hear.”

  Chan repeated Sprague’s dying exclamation.

  “Y
ou are certain?”

  “Doubt in this instance does not exist.”

  “But what could he have meant? I do not understand; I do not understand at all.” Grimly, DeBevre turned and crossed to where the chambermaid stood trembling. Speaking to her in soothing French, he managed to calm her sufficiently so that she was able to answer a few questions; voice quivering, she responded haltingly to the Prefect’s inquiries.

  When she had finished, DeBevre said to Chan, “She tells of coming down the hall with her cart, about to clean the rooms on the opposite side of the hotel. She heard moaning sounds from this chamber and unlocked the door. She saw M’sieur Sprague lying as he is now, and it was then she began to scream.”

  “She saw no one else in the hallway?”

  “No, she insists she did not,” DeBevre replied.

  “Unlocked the door…” Chan said aloud, reflectively; then he asked, “Who is registered in this room?”

  “According to the maid it is vacant!”

  Chan frowned slightly. “She is certain of this?”

  DeBevre spoke again to the chambermaid, who shook her head vehemently and answered in her quaking voice. The Prefect translated to Chan, saying, “She insists it is so. She herself made up this room earlier, in preparation for a new arrival, and it is for this reason she found most surprising the sounds which came from inside, and thus opened the door.”

  Chan nodded, looking again at the body of the reporter. “We know now,” he said grimly, “the nature of the murder weapon.”

  “How do we know this?” DeBevre asked.

  “The knife is similar to one in my room, which came with a complimentary basket of fruit. The vacancy to which the maid referred is only temporary, it would seem, and the basket with this knife was placed here by her this morning. Has she any idea why or how Mr. Sprague was locked in the empty room?”

  DeBevre passed a hand over his face and once again questioned the girl. “She has never seen M’sieur Sprague before,” he related to Chan a moment later. “She has no idea what he was doing there, and swears she locked the door securely when she was finished earlier.”

  The Prefect then turned to the group of people and began to question them, but it was obvious by the tones of their voices and the shakings of their heads that they had nothing to add. He told the guests to return to their quarters, and dispatched the chambermaid, who was still in a state of agitated shock, with a warning he might wish to speak to her again later.

  Chan by this time was once more kneeling beside the body. Then he rose, holding the Webley pistol gingerly by its muzzle, having taken it from the reporter’s limp grasp. He began to examine it, careful not to handle it more than was necessary. He was about to call something to DeBevre’s attention, when the hotel doctor and a different but acutely upset concierge rounded the hallway ell.

  DeBevre spoke to the concierge while the doctor officially pronounced Tony Sprague deceased. Then the Prefect turned to Chan.

  “The concierge confirms the maid’s story, Charlie. A Canadian couple is expected shortly, and she was ordered to prepare the room for their arrival.” DeBevre glanced down at the body with grim dissatisfaction. “Another murder, this time with an enigmatic dying message. Surely this murder is connected with the killing of Raymond Balfour last night!”

  “But this death was not as carefully planned as before,” Charlie Chan said. “This was done with sudden decision, and its execution made in haste.”

  “It would seem so,” DeBevre agreed, and then in a low, cold tone, he added: “The haste of a man such as M’sieur Kettridge, perhaps? Is that not his allegedly missing weapon you are holding, Charlie? Perhaps it was not missing at all, and M’sieur Kettridge murdered M’sieur Sprague!”

  Chan meditated for a moment, not speaking.

  DeBevre went on: “Perhaps M’sieur Sprague was lured here to this vacant room while we were busy downstairs. What more perfect rendezvous for a private confrontation than here, especially if M’sieur Sprague knew something about the death of M’sieur Balfour, and had therefore to be silenced.”

  “Quite possible,” Chan admitted. “This murder is indeed a vicious relative of Raymond Balfour’s death, but the exact lineage is still in doubt. The presence of this pistol is more vexing a question than its ownership, however, and the answer may lead to a different direction.”

  “What do you mean, Charlie?”

  Chan indicated the revolver. “It has not been fired. A shot was not heard, the barrel is cool, and the inside is slightly rusted. Yet the cylinder contains bullets. How strange that it was not used.”

  “Ah, bien entendu! If M’sieur Sprague had the gun when he was attacked, why did he not use it to defend himself? And if the killer had possession of it, why was the knife used instead?”

  DeBevre took off his glasses and wiped the lenses thoughtfully with a handkerchief. “For that matter, why is gun here at all? I would think the killer would have taken it with him.”

  “The only explanation which comes to my mind at present,” Chan replied, “is that the killer did not wish to keep the weapon on his person, and had no other quick way of disposal here in the hotel.”

  Chan broke the cylinder, dropping the six stubby bullets into his other palm. “I believe that if you examine the firing mechanism,” he said after a moment’s inspection, “you will see why the weapon was not used.”

  “Is it somehow defective?” the Prefect asked.

  “It would appear so,” Chan said, handing the gun to the Prefect. He studied the bullets next, juggling them in his hand one at a time, and then gave them to DeBevre. “I also suggest a laboratory check of these. The weight of two of them seems less than the others, indicating that perhaps the powder has been removed.”

  “Mon Dieu!” DeBevre exclaimed. “A gun that will not fire, bullets that cannot work, not one but two locked-room murders! We have no idea how M’sieur Balfour was killed, or how admittance was gained either to his chamber or to his one. Incroyable!”

  The Prefect looked at the concierge and spoke with harried irritation. The concierge, with widened eyes, then hurried away and DeBevre turned back to Chan. “He is to phone the Prefecture, and soon my men will be here. When they are, I will confront M’sieur Kettridge once more, and this time I will settle for nothing less than the whole and complete truth!”

  “I suggest that all of the interested parties be gathered,” Chan said. “We may find valuable information in the whereabouts of each at the time of this second death.”

  “Excellent idea, Charlie. I will clear the breakfast salon and use it as my office. It will hold all those concerned quite comfortably.”

  Chan nodded. “I will meet you there shortly.”

  “Are you not waiting with me?” DeBevre asked, somewhat bemused.

  “I am afraid that this detective’s curiosity is a matter of impatience,” Chan replied. “And as in the sport of kings, a hunch must be played in the fever of the moment.”

  Leaving the Prefect in a state of bewilderment, Charlie Chan hurried down the hall on his unexplained mission.

  XIII

  IT TOOK less than an hour for Claude DeBevre to assemble the seven suspects in the breakfast salon. All had been in various parts of the hotel, and all had apparently shown genuine surprise and horror when told of Tony Sprague’s murder.

  When all seven were seated at the small tables at the rear of the salon, the Prefect leaned against a longer table facing them. His attention was focused on Clive Kettridge, for he was now more than ever convinced that the Britisher was his man.

  He said, “So, M’sieur Kettridge, you attempted to leave the hotel not so long ago.”

  “And what is so incriminating about that? I wished to get a haircut.”

  “There is a barber downstairs in the arcade,” DeBevre told him pointedly.

  “I am well aware of that,” Kettridge snapped. “I wanted a British trim, and there is a quite acceptable shop I often frequent nearby.”

  “My men
report you were quite abusive to them.”

  “Well, I found it distinctly irritating to be prevented from leaving as I chose.”

  DeBevre smiled without humor. “Perhaps this was your reason, and perhaps not. Again, there is the matter of your gun - the Webley which you claim was stolen from your room.”

  “It was stolen!”

  “This, too, remains to be seen. The fact is, however, that we now have the weapon. It was in M’sieur Sprague’s hand.”

  Murmurs of surprise rippled through the assemblage. DeBevre held up his hand for silence. “Mais oui, clutched in M’sieur Sprague’s hand - unfired and perhaps in defective condition. We will know more of this when my men at the laboratory have examined the weapon; and we will also know the answer to another mystery surrounding the gun.”

  “What mystery is that?” Melvin Randolph asked.

  “I do not wish to discuss it at present,” The Prefect said. He was still stonily regarding Kettridge. “So, M’sieur, there is the fact that you attempted to leave the hotel when you were instructed to remain here, and there is the matter of your gun. There is also the fact that you were not with your daughter prior to M’sieur Balfour’s death last night, nor were you with her at the time of M’sieur Sprague’s death today.”

  “No,” Jennifer interrupted angrily, “and I was also alone on both occasions. Why don’t you accuse me of the murders?”

  “I accuse no one - yet,” DeBevre said. “Where were you one hour ago, Mademoiselle Kettridge?”

  “Where you found me: in our suite.”

  “And you, M’sieur Kettridge?”

  “In the bloody bar. It was rather crowded, and I don’t suppose the barman will remember. But I was there, and damn you if you think otherwise!”

  The Prefect decided to determine the whereabouts of the other suspects at the time of Sprague’s death, before continuing his interrogation of Kettridge. He turned to Roger Mountbatten and asked the question.

  “On the rooftop terrace. I had gone up there after breakfast, which was quite early this morning, and I was enjoying the view from a chaise lounge. I came down shortly before you knocked on my door. As to whether or not I was seen, I have no idea. And like Clive, I resent your constant badgering.