DeBevre ignored this last comment and looked at Melvin Randolph. “And you, m’sieur?”
“I was looking through the boutiques in the arcade, considering among other things the purchase of a new sports coat.”
“All morning, m’sieur?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Browsing, mostly. What else is there to do, since you have the hotel sealed off like a tomb?”
“Mr. Randolph was there, as he says,” Laura Powell said. “I saw him as I came out of the drugstore.”
“I recall your husband mentioning you had descended for a newspaper, Madame. But were you not also in the arcade for a considerable period of time?”
“Not really. I bought the paper, glanced through it in the lobby, and then returned to the arcade to browse some myself. As Mr. Randolph said, there is not really much else to do since we’re being kept in the hotel like prisoners.”
“Well, you know where I was,” Grant Powell said. “As you recall, I was taking a shower when you arrived at our room.”
“Perhaps you had just returned from the fifth floor,” DeBevre said. “Perhaps you had just returned from committing murder.”
Powell’s face darkened with anger. “That’s damned nonsense, and you know it!”
“Of course it is,” Laura Powell said. “Grant couldn’t have killed Tony Sprague or Ray Balfour or anyone else; he’s not your murderer, Prefect.”
“This may well be true,” DeBevre observed darkly; “and then it may not be true at all. M’sieur Sprague’s dying declaration might well point to your husband, Madame.”
“What’s that?” Mountbatten broke in. “Sprague was alive when you found him?”
“For only a moment, yes. But he lived long enough to utter one word, and that word was checkmate.”
More murmurs of surprise rustled among the seven gathered suspects. Powell said, “All right, I see how that might point to me, in an indirect way. As everyone here knows, checkmate is a chess term meaning the king is dead. I don’t suppose Sprague was referring to himself, but he might have been referring to me, as the probable new king of Transcon chess. However, he damned well wasn’t.”
Powell smiled thinly. “Then again, he might have been referring to Mountbatten, who is the current king of Transcon chess.”
The British champion sat up in his chair, his own face reddening with outrage. “Rubbish!” he snapped. He glared at Powell, and then looked at DeBevre. “If I had killed Sprague, why wouldn’t he simply have spoken my name? Why take such a preposterously roundabout way of accusing someone?”
“But, he did not speak the name of anyone,” DeBevre reminded him. “He spoke the word checkmate. There is no way to understand the workings of a dying man’s fevered mind.”
The Prefect turned his attention now to the dour, reticent features of Hans Dorner. The Swiss official was leaning against one wall, holding a cup of coffee in two hands which trembled badly. “Ah, Herr Dorner, is that the effect of a hangover which is so obvious to all present? Or, perhaps, the outward sign of a guilty conscience?”
Dorner said thickly, “My conscience is as clear as yours. If I had known how I would feel this morning, I would never have entertained the idea of a drink to calm my nerves last night. One led to another, and I believe I had a schnapps for every year of my life.”
DeBevre turned back to Clive Kettridge. But before he could resume his interrogation, there was a polite knock on the closed salon door. Then the door opened and the portly figure of Charlie Chan stepped inside.
“Please excuse my interruption,” Chan said, “but it is necessary to request your most urgent assistance, Claude.”
DeBevre hurried over to Chan. “What is it, Charlie?”
Chan’s features betraying no sign of emotion, he said, “I believe probable identity of the murderer of Mr. Balfour and Mr. Sprague is in our possession.”
The announcement was so calmly given that it was a moment before the others in the salon reacted. Then there was a series of surprised murmurs and exchanges of guarded looks, as everyone fastened their attention on the Honolulu detective.
“One of us?” Melvin Randolph asked. “You mean, one of us here?”
Chan said nothing. Prefect DeBevre’s eyes were wide, and he asked with rising excitement, “Who is it, Charlie? How did you discover -?”
“I will offer a full explanation at a later time,” Chan said. “First we are in need of absolute proof, for without it, our case is based on speculation only. As a house which has been built without a foundation, it would thus be in danger of collapse.”
“What kind of proof, and how do we obtain it?”
“By a methodical search of the hotel,” Charlie Chan told him. “The emphasis is to be placed on all the vacant rooms on the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors.”
DeBevre was at a complete loss to understand. “But why vacant rooms?”
“If a clever murderer wishes to hide incriminating evidence, what more sensible place than one which seems senseless?”
Claude DeBevre said with full trust in Chan’s capabilities, “As you wish, Charlie. I have little doubt that you, if not I, know of what you speak.”
Chan nodded, then glanced at each of the seven suspects. None of their faces revealed any sign of guilt or apprehension, but Chan knew that one of them was a cold-blooded and extremely clever killer. He said, “I suggest that all of you either remain here or return to your individual rooms while our search is being conducted. No one is to attempt to leave the hotel.”
“Damn it all,” Kettridge protested, “you should not make an announcement like the one you just made and then leave us in bloody suspense! The murderer must be desperate now that you’ve said you know his identity. He might kill others of us!”
“The possibility of any further deaths is remote,” Charlie Chan said. “Please, remain calm and do not fear.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Randolph snapped. “Well, I for one am going to my room and lock the door and keep it locked until this business is finished once and for all.”
“I shall do the same,” Mountbatten concurred.
The others voiced similar sentiments, and Chan said to DeBevre, “Time, I fear, is a vital factor - now, more than ever. We must hurry.”
“Oui, certainement!” DeBevre agreed, and the two detectives hastily left the salon.
The others shifted uneasily in their places, casting surreptitious looks at one another. Then, singularly and in pairs, they stood and began to file out.
XIV
CHARLIE CHAN made certain that the corridor was deserted before inserting the concierge’s master key into the lock on the door marked 616. Opening the door and switching on the overhead chandelier, he and DeBevre slipped inside and Chan relocked the latch.
The Prefect’s forehead was furrowed. “Why have we come here, Charlie. You said a search of the hotel was to be conducted.”
“A search is no longer necessary,” Chan told him. “Take a look at the chandelier above you.”
“The chandelier?” DeBevre’s frown deepened as he stared at the fixture. “It is the same as all others in the hotel.”
“Not quite true.” The portly detective moved an easy chair beneath the chandelier, stood on it, and stretched one hand up among its gilt vines and arms, and it was only then that the Prefect was able to discern another object attached to one of the limbs. It was fastened by gilt-painted clamps, nearly invisible from a few feet away, camouflaged by more gold paint and the Baroque confusion of the chandelier’s construction.
When Charlie Chan had finished undoing the contraption, he stepped down again and handed it to DeBevre.
“This,” he said, “is the weapon which killed Raymond Balfour.”
“Mon Dieu!”
The object which Claude DeBevre held was a short length of plumber’s pipe, capped at one end, the other end open and slightly blackened from the discharge of the ball-bearing “bullet.” Protruding through a hole in the end cap were two wires, w
hich were connected to a small metal box some six inches square and three inches high. From the other side of the box was a strip of painted lamp-cord, its ends screwed to alligator clips the kind with a single pointed tip used for penetrating insulation.
“I believe,” Chan said, “that the American term for this type of weapon is a ‘zip gun.’ Juvenile gangs often fashion similar guns in cities where real pistols are difficult to obtain.”
“Ah, mais oui!” DeBevre exclaimed. “We find such guns as you describe among the Apaches of our Montmarte district. But this box, Charlie, and the wires… How are they included?”
“The box is a burglar alarm relay,” Chan explained. “Normally, an alarm system is triggered when a weak electrical current is cut off, but there is also the opposite type which triggers the alarm when the current is on. These are used to confuse burglars who cut house wires and thus feel safe, for then an independent electrical current inside switches the relay and an alarm is rung.”
“And this is the second type,” DeBevre concluded. “But how was it used to fire the bearing?”
“The alligator clips punctured the electrical wires of the chandelier, and as long as the light was on, the relay remained open. But when Raymond Balfour, lying in bed, reached up and turned the light off at the switch over the headboard, the relay closed and the batteries inside fed a miniature transformer. The transformer, in turn, supplied enough spark to detonate the powder placed in the pipe barrel with the ball bearing.”
“Powder,” DeBevre echoed; and then with his eyes widening, he said, “Powder from the bullets in M’sieur Kettridge’s revolver! Alors! I see it all now!”
“Yes. Then the empty cartridges were returned to the Webley,” Charlie Chan amplified, “for the simple reason that there was nowhere else to dispose of them without fear of discovery.”
The Prefect stared at Charlie Chan incredulously. “An ingenious method of murder. How did you discover it?”
“While lying in bed this morning, my eyes rested on the chandelier and I became acutely aware of it. The chandelier in my room is the same as the one in the murder room and all other rooms in the hotel. It occurred to me that it would be a most excellent hiding place, overlooked by all last night. I obtained a passkey and proceeded to examine the murder room. On the floor beneath the fixture were particles of gilt paint. They obviously had fallen since the murder, for your technicians would otherwise have vacuumed them up.
“A further examination of the chandelier disclosed exposed electrical wiring to which the relay had been attached, and marks on the surface of one arm where the zip gun had been clamped.”
“But once it had been removed,” DeBevre said, “how did you deduce it would be here, in a vacant chamber?”
“By asking myself the question: where is the most logical hiding place, considering the hotel is secured? Obviously another chandelier. However, the murderer would not wish to be captured while in an occupied room, hence the choice of one that was vacant. While you were in the salon with the suspects, I searched all possible vacancies and discovered the weapon here, in room 616. It was as simple as that.”
DeBevre’s eyes were filled with respect. “It is to be devoutly wished that Claude DeBevre shall one day possess one-half the deductive logic of his friend, Charlie Chan.” He paused with grim excitement. “And now, who is the killer? What is the name of the person who created this evil contrivance?”
“While my deductions have narrowed the choice to two, I am as yet unsure which one is guilty.”
“But in the salon, you said you knew!”
“Forgive me, but it was done to deceive - not you, but the guilty party.” Chan moved the chair back to where it had been. “I am hopeful that the killer will not guess that we already know in which room the weapon is hidden, and believe that we are busy elsewhere.”
“Ah, and so he will come here to remove the weapon!”
“Yes,” Chan replied. He gestured to the bathroom, and smiled at the Prefect. “If you will be so kind as to turn off the chandelier, we will hide in here and see if my trap will ensnare the murderer. Only then will there be sufficient evidence to convict.”
Chan and Prefect DeBevre entered the bathroom, keeping the door slightly ajar and all the lights out. The seconds ticked away into long, drawn-out minutes; finally, in a burst of impatience, the French detective whispered:
“You said there were only two suspects now, Charlie. Who are they? My curiosity, it is -“
Chan placed a warning finger to his lips. “I believe someone is now at the door.”
Silence, except for the distant hum of an electric razor, was absolute. Then came the sound of a key inserted into the door, the turning of the latch, and footsteps in a quiet hurry.
Then a rustle as someone clicked on the chandelier and dragged a chair beneath it. Chan waited only for a second, then opening the door he said:
“The weapon is no longer hidden where you put it; it is now in the possession of the police.”
The killer gasped; whirling and stumbling from the chair. Charlie Chan and Prefect DeBevre stood framed in the now open door to the bathroom, and the killer realized all at once that a trap had been set and that now it was sprung.
“Do not attempt to flee,” DeBevre said. “There is no place for you to run.”
Laura Powell stared at the two stern-faced detectives for a long moment. Then, bitterly accepting the fact that she had, after all, been placed in checkmate that the game was indeed over - she sat on the chair and covered her face with her hands and began to weep.
XV
CHARLIE CHAN felt little sympathy for the crying woman. He knew from his years of experience with crime and criminals that underneath her pretty facade she was calculating and ruthless, lacking a fundamental decency; her histrionics were hollow, and more the result of self-pity than any sort of repentance.
Turning to DeBevre, the Oriental detective said sorrowfully, “When hatred gains control of a woman, that which is man’s greatest joy becomes his deadliest enemy.”
“All too true, Charlie.” DeBevre’s lips were compressed tightly. “It is apparent to me now that your other suspect was Madame Powell’s husband, Grant Powell. Is this not so, my friend?”
“Yes. I arrived at that conclusion due to the Powell’s sudden exchange of rooms with Mr. Balfour.”
DeBevre frowned. “But would not the exchange allow for the Powells to be the intended victims as well as M’sieur Balfour?”
“On the surface, perhaps,” Chan answered. “Yet consider: the room has but one bed, a double bed in which the Powells would sleep together. One shot was fired, into the center of the bed, where only a man who was alone would be lying. Hence, it is reasonable to assume the killer wished only to dispose of a single man, and since the Powells and Mr. Balfour told no one else of the room switch, the choice was thus narrowed to only one of two people as the probable murderer.”
“Ah, I understand,” DeBevre said. “I did not think of that, poor Prefect that I am.” He looked at Laura Powell. “Now, then, Madame. Why did you murder M’sieur Balfour?”
“Love,” she sobbed bitterly. “Love… and hate!”
“The opposites which are inseparable?” Chan said. “I recall the conversation with Jennifer Kettridge in which she stated she did not care for Mr. Balfour’s treatment of women. I also remember Tony Sprague’s comment last night concerning Mr. Balfour’s behavior with married ladies. Could it be, Mrs. Powell, that you and Mr. Balfour were having an affair?”
“Yes,” she answered, “for a number of years. I loved him, far more than I ever loved Grant.” A shudder passed through her. “But Ray grew tired of me, laughed at me when I refused to break it off so he could have that young Kettridge girl. Oh, I know she resisted his advances, but Ray was very clever and he would have won her over after a while. If not, then it would have been some other girl.”
Her eyes, puffed and red from crying, now flashed with dark rage. “And when he threatened to tell a
ll to Grant and that reporter, Sprague, drag my good name through the mud… well, it was then I knew I had to make sure he never left me. I tried to kill him up on the roof terrace, after insisting on a showdown meeting, but Kettridge’s faulty pistol failed to fire. If I had checked it more carefully, none of this would have happened.”
“How did you know of M’sieur Kettridge’s gun?”
“Ray told me. Jennifer, in resisting him, had threatened that her father would use it if he didn’t leave her alone. Instead, it was I who used it.”
“You stole the gun from Mr. Kettridge’s room?” Chan asked.
“Yes. The hotel staff is very careful with the keys, but I bided my time and finally was able briefly to steal the custodian’s set. I took the passkey immediately to have a duplicate made. Then I replaced the original, and waited for a chance to take the gun.”
“This duplicate was also used to enter the murder room so you could remove the weapon last night,” Chan said, “as well as to enter this room and the one in which Tony Sprague died.”
“Yes.”
DeBevre asked, “How is it, Madame, that you knew enough to make such a device as the one you used to kill M’sieur Balfour?”
“I lived in Brooklyn as a child,” she said, her head lowered. “My brother ran with a gang which used such things. And then, before I married Grant, I was a secretary in an electronics firm. I’ve always had an aptitude for things mechanical - though now I wish I never had.”
Laura Powell moaned slightly with self-pity. “Once I hit upon the idea, I spent most of yesterday buying and having the different parts made, being careful to do it in various parts of Paris so none could be traced to me. Then I built it and painted it, and installed it in the chandelier while Grant was elsewhere. All I had to do then was to convince Grant to switch rooms with Ray, to make it seem as if Grant were the intended victim and that way, deepen the mystery.”
Chan asked quietly, “You murdered Tony Sprague because he learned you had done away with Mr. Balfour?”
Charlie Chan in the Pawns of Death Page 6