“I’ll probably write again from Singapore - it will depend on what happens next. Please pardon this long letter, but I told you I was garrulous with a fountain pen. And I really had something to write about this time.
“Warmly yours - it’s the climate -
“Pamela Potter.”
An hour after reading this epistle, Inspector Duff was in conference with his chief. The superintendent read it too, and with an interest almost as great as Duff’s.
“Welby appears to be playing a lone game,” he remarked, and his tone suggested a certain lack of approval.
“He probably has nothing definite to report as yet, sir,” Duff replied. “But if the girl has narrowed his search to one of two people, then there ought to be news very soon. Of course, it may all come to nothing. She may even be mistaken about what she heard in the jeweler’s shop.”
The superintendent considered. “Why did Welby ask her how much Vivian knew about diamonds?” he said at last.
“Couldn’t say, sir,” Duff answered. “He’s deep, Welby is. No doubt he has a theory of some sort. We might cable to Calcutta and have that clerk questioned about Jim Everhard.”
His superior shook his head. “No - I prefer to leave it to Welby. To do what you suggest might interfere with his game. A cable of warning from the clerk to Everhard, and Everhard might disappear from the party. Besides, I’m certain we should get nothing from Miss Potter’s friend with the drooping eyelid. He doesn’t sound like the sort who would be eager to assist Scotland Yard.”
Duff had taken out a pocket calendar. “I figure that the Lofton party is in Hong Kong to-day, sir. They’re to stop at that port a week, I believe, making a side trip to Canton. If I’m to carry through the investigation you suggested, and then get on to Honolulu -” He waited.
“You want to be off, I suppose,” the superintendent smiled. “How soon can you start?”
“Tonight - if there’s a boat, sir,” Duff answered.
“Tomorrow, at any rate,” agreed his superior.
On the morrow Duff, radiantly happy that the moment for action had arrived at last, set out for Southampton. This time it was Hayley who sped the parting traveler, with many expressions of encouragement and hope. That night the inspector was aboard one of the swiftest of Atlantic liners. The steady turn of the screw was music in his ears; he stood at the starboard rail and watched the prow of the ship as it cut with amazing speed through the dark water. His heart was light. Every moment was carrying him nearer the puzzle that had so rudely left him to travel round the world.
His inquiries into the past of the Honywoods, which he pursued diligently once he had reached New York, got him nowhere. They had arrived in that confusing city some fifteen years ago, and none of the friends whose names Mrs. Honywood’s maid had given him appeared to know whence they had come. It was not, it appeared, customary to inquire, in New York. Today was all that mattered, yesterday was nobody’s business. Blank looks met any mention of the wash leather bags. Duff found himself baffled, and somewhat resentful toward this teeming, heedless city.
In the matter of a safety-deposit box numbered 3260, he was equally helpless. With the aid of the New York police, he was able to ascertain the number of Tait’s box at his bank, and also that of the one kept by Lofton. Neither meant anything. A helpful commissioner pointed out to the Britisher that a man might have any number of secret boxes at banks where he did not regularly do business. This part of it, Duff began to realize, was nothing but a wild goose chase.
Nevertheless he plodded on, patient to the end. He went to Boston and looked up Mark Kennaway’s position there. An excellent family, he discovered, and even he, an outsider, sensed what that meant - in Boston. Next he visited Pittsfield, where the continued absence of the Fenwicks was deplored by a little circle of the best people. Painfully respectable, it seemed, the Fenwicks. At Akron the air was less rarefied, but the situation appeared much the same. Duff was taken out to lunch by Benbow’s partner, who told him to tell old Elmer to hurry home. Business, it was rumored, had definitely turned the corner, and was on the up grade.
In Chicago he found the friends of Maxy Minchin reticent in the extreme. Tight-lipped, they listened to the inspector and had nothing at all to say. Duff gathered that there was no great public demand for the gangster’s return. He moved on to Tacoma. John Ross, he found, was an important figure in the lumber trade. Dropping down to San Francisco, he made inquiries about Stuart Vivian. The man was known to many of the leading citizens; they all spoke highly of him. A call at the office of Irene Spicer’s husband revealed that he was away in Hollywood, and was not expected back for some time.
Sitting down one mild May evening in his room at the Fairmont Hotel Duff summed up the results of his long trek. They were nil. He had looked into the home standing of every man in the Lofton travel party, and with the exception of Maxy Minchin, all appeared to be above reproach. As for Maxy, it seemed unlikely that he could be involved in any such affair as this. Every man in the party? Well, it was true he had found no track of Keane in New York, where the captain claimed to reside. The name was in no directory. But Duff gave this little thought. From the first, for some reason he couldn’t quite define, he had refused to suspect Keane.
With that one exception, then, he was familiar with the home environment of all of them, and he was no nearer than ever to knowing which one was capable of murder. Yet there was a murderer in that group - there must be, if Honywood’s letter spoke true. “Jim Everhard is traveling with the party. Jim Everhard, who has sworn to kill me - and you, too.”
Duff got up and walked to the window. From his lofty perch he saw the lights of Chinatown, of the ferries in the harbor, of the tall buildings across the bay. Memories of his previous visit to this fascinating city came back to him. Memories of Charlie Chan.
A bellboy knocked at his door and handed him a cablegram. It was from his chief at the Yard.
“Cable from Kobe. Welby anticipates early success. Proceed to Honolulu. Luck.”
A few words only, but Duff was mightily cheered. Welby, at least, was making progress. Would the little cockney solve the problem in the end? Not usually an imaginative man, Duff was able none the less to picture a gratifying scene. A meeting with Welby on the Honolulu dock, Welby with proofs such as would satisfy the most exacting jury, Welby pointing out some not quite - at this moment - clearly discerned figure. “Tyke him, Duff. He’s guilty as hell.” Not quite so gratifying, of course, as it would have been if Duff had gathered those proofs himself. But what of that? Scotland Yard always worked as a team. He would do something for Welby some day.
The next morning but one, Duff sailed for Honolulu on the Maui. It would bring him, he knew, into Honolulu harbor some twenty hours before that Dollar liner from Yokohama docked beneath the Aloha Tower. A brief time to renew old acquaintance with Charlie Chan, to tell him about this new case on which he had been working - and then, the Lofton travel party and action. Quick action, he hoped. He had decided not to cable Charlie of his coming. Why take the edge off the surprise?
For two days Duff loafed about the ship, at peace with the world. A glorious rest, this was. When the big moment arrived, he would be strong and ready. On the evening of the second day, a boy came up to him and handed him a radiogram. Tearing open the envelope, he glanced at the signature. The message was from his chief.
“Welby found murdered on dock at Yokohama shortly after sailing of liner carrying Lofton party. Get Everhard dead or alive.”
Crushing the message savagely in his hand, Duff sat for a long time staring into the darkness beyond the rail of the ship. Before his eyes was a picture of Welby as he had seen him last in London, smiling, confident, serene. The little cockney who had never hitherto strayed beyond the sound of the bells of St. Mary le Bow, killed on a Yokohama dock.
“Dead or alive,” said Duff through his teeth. “Dead, if I have my way.”
Chapter XIII
A KNOCK AT CHARLIE’S DOOR
“All right, Inspector Chan,” said the judge. “Let us have your story, please.”
The witness sat, immobile as a stone Buddha. He opened his narrow black eyes a trifle wider, and spoke.
“I am walking down Pawaa Alley,” he remarked. “With me is my fellow detective, Mr. Kashimo. Before us, at the door of Timo’s fish shop, we perceive extensive crowd has gathered. We accelerate our speed. As we approach, crowd melts gradually away, and next moment we come upon these three men, now prisoners in the dock. They are bent on to knees, and they disport themselves with dice. Endearing remarks toward these same dice issue from their lips in three languages.”
“Come, come, Charlie,” said the prosecuting attorney, a red-haired, aggressive man. “I beg your pardon - Inspector Chan. Your language is, as usual, a little flowery for an American court. These men were shooting craps. That’s what you mean to say, isn’t it?”
“I am very much afraid it is,” Chan replied.
“You are familiar with the game? You know it when you see it?”
“As a child knows its mother’s face.”
“And you identify these men absolutely? They are the crap shooters?”
“No question whatever,” Charlie nodded. “They are, unfortunately for them, the three.”
The lawyer for the defense, a slick little Japanese, was instantly on his feet. “Now I object,” he cried. “Your Honor, I question propriety of that word ‘unfortunately.’ The witness speaks as though my clients had already been tried and found guilty. Mr. Chan, kindly restrain such comment, if you will do so.”
Chan bowed his head. “Overwhelmed with chagrin, I am sure,” he replied. “Pardon me for assuming inevitable has already occurred.” The lawyer gave a little cry of rebuke, but Charlie went blandly on. “To continue testimony, next moment the three look up and behold myself and the redoubtable Kashimo. At simultaneous moment, expressions of faces take on startling change. They leap up to feet to accomplish escape. Down the alley they race, myself after them. Before end of alley occurs, I have them.”
The lawyer for the defense gave Charlie a hard look. He pointed to the three lean men, his clients. “Is it your purpose to tell the court that your avoirdupois conquered those thin legs?” he demanded.
Chan smiled. “He who runs with a light conscience makes the most speed,” he answered gently.
“Meantime, how does Kashimo occupy himself?” inquired the lawyer.
“Kashimo knows his duty, and performs it. He remains behind to gather up abandoned dice. Such was the proper move.” Chan nodded with grave approval.
“Yes, yes,” broke in the judge, a bald-headed man with an air of infinite boredom. “And where are the dice?”
“Your Honor,” Charlie answered, “unless I am much mistaken, the dice have only this moment entered the courtroom, in pocket of the active Mr. Kashimo.”
Kashimo had indeed come in. He was a nervous little Japanese, and at sight of the bleak look on his face, Charlie’s heart sank. Stepping hastily inside the enclosure, the Japanese whispered excitedly into Charlie’s ear. Presently Chan looked up.
“I was much mistaken, your Honor,” he said. “Mr. Kashimo has lost the dice.”
A roar of laughter swept through the room, while the judge idly hammered on his desk. Charlie sat motionless and seemingly undisturbed, but his heart was bitter. Like all Orientals, he did not relish laughter at his own expense, and much of this was no doubt directed at him. As a matter of fact, he was now in a ridiculous position. The lawyer for the defense, grinning broadly, addressed the court.
“Your Honor, I move charge be dismissed. There is no material evidence. Even famous Inspector Chan will tell you there is no material evidence, when he regains composure and speaks again.”
“Inspector Chan,” said Charlie, with a grim look at the slant-eyed little attorney, “would much prefer to make oration on efficiency of Japanese race.”
“That will do,” cut in the judge. “Once more the time of this court has been wasted. Charge is dismissed. Call the next case.”
With all the dignity he could muster, Chan left the witness box and moved slowly down the aisle. At the rear of the room he encountered Kashimo, crouching on a bench. He took him gently by one brown ear, and led him into the hall.
“Again,” he remarked, “you let me down with terrible tumble. Where do I obtain all this patience I squander on you? I astound myself.”
“So sorry,” hissed Kashimo.
“So sorry, so sorry,” repeated Charlie. “Those words fall from your lips in never-ending stream. Can good intentions atone for so many blunders? Can the morning dew fill a well? Where were dice lost?”
The contrite Kashimo tried to explain. This morning, on his way to court, he had stopped at the barber shop of Kryimota, on Hotel Street, for hair cut. He had hung coat on rack.
“After first showing dice to entire shop, no doubt?” Chan suggested.
No - he had shown them only to Kryimota, an honorable man. While he submitted to the cut of the hair, various customers had come in and gone out of the shop. The operation finished, he had again donned his coat, and hastened to the courtroom. On his way up the stairs, he had made the unhappy discovery that he was bereft.
Charlie regarded him sadly. “You began work as supreme fumbler,” he remarked, “but I think you improve as you go forward. What laughter there must have been among the gods when you were made detective.”
“So sorry,” Kashimo said again.
“Be sorry out of my sight,” sighed Chan. “While you are in it, my vision blurs and I feel my self-control under big strain.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away down the stairs.
The police station was on the ground floor, just beneath the courtroom, and at the rear was a small private office that was Chan’s pride and joy. It had been turned over to him by his chief after he had brought to a successful conclusion the case of Shelah Fane, more than a year ago. He went inside now, closed the door, and stood looking through the open window into the alleyway that ran along behind the building.
He was still smarting from the incident upstairs, but that was merely a climax to a year of frustration. “Oriental knows,” he had written to Duff in the letter the Britisher had read aloud in the Vine Street station, “that there is a time to fish, and a time to dry the nets.” But, as he had confessed further along in the same epistle, this eternal drying of the nets was beginning to distress him.
He had for some months past been troubled by a restlessness such as the Chinese are not supposed to know. He was troubled by it now as he stared out into the peaceful alley. Over a year since his last big case, and nothing of note had happened. Chasing slightly annoyed gamblers down obscure by-paths, invading odorous kitchens in search of stills, even sent to tag cars along King Street - was this the career for a Charlie Chan? Honolulu - he loved it - but what was Honolulu doing for him? A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country. Honolulu did not take him seriously - it had laughed at him only this morning. Like that alley out there, it was narrow - narrow as was his life.
With a ponderous sigh, he sat down at his roll-top desk. It was swept clean - clean as the desk of an old man who has retired from business. He swung slowly about in his chair, which creaked in alarm. Getting older every day - well, his children would carry on. Rose, for instance. A brilliant girl, Rose. Making a grand record at that mainland university -
There was a knock on Charlie’s door.
He frowned. Kashimo, perhaps, with more of his apologies? Or the chief, to learn what had happened upstairs?
“Come!” Chan called.
The door opened, and there on the threshold stood his good friend, Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.
Chapter XIV
DINNER ON PUNCHBOWL HILL
A Chinese does not, as a rule, register surprise, and a good detective learns early in his career the wisdom of keeping his emotions to himself. When you get the two in one package, as in the case of Charlie Chan, you are likely to have something pretty unperturbable. Yet now his eyes widened amazingly, and for a moment his mouth stood open. One would have said that he was, at the least, slightly taken aback.
In another moment he had leaped nimbly to his feet, and was moving swiftly toward the door. “My celebrated friend,” he cried, “for an instant I question the reliability of my sight.”
Smiling, Duff held out his hand. “Inspector Chan!”
Charlie took it. “Inspector Duff!”
The Britisher tossed a briefcase down on the desk. “Here I am at last, Charlie. Did I surprise you? I meant to.”
“For a brief space the breath left me,” grinned Charlie “Putting it more forcefully, I might say I gasped.” He held ready a chair for his visitor, and inserted himself again into the one behind the desk. “I had so long desired this tremendous honor and happiness that I feared I endured hallucination. First question is now in order. What is your opinion of Honolulu, as far as you have got with it?”
Duff considered. “Well, it seems to be a nice clean town,” he admitted.
Chan was shaking with silent mirth. “Almost I am drowned in the flood of your enthusiasm,” he remarked. “But with you it is deeds, not words, I know. Busy man like yourself has no time for tourist nonsense. I make the wager you are here on case.”
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