Behind That Curtain

by Earl Der Biggers

  “The hell you say,” Flannery cried. “That’s not my system. I’ll nab him. I’ll make him talk—”

  “And I,” sighed Barry Kirk, “will lose my perfect butler. Shall I write him a reference—or won’t they care, at the jail?”

  “Captain, pause and listen,” pleaded Chan. “We have nothing here to prove Paradise fired fatal bullet into Sir Frederic. Yet somehow he is involved. We watch his every move. Much may be revealed by the unsuspecting. We hunt through his effects. To-day, I believe, he enjoys weekly holiday. Is that not so?” He looked at Kirk.

  “Yes, it’s Black Thursday—the servants’ day off,” Kirk said. “Paradise is probably at the movies—he adores them. Melodrama—that’s his meat.”

  “Fortunate event,” continued Chan. “Cook too is out. We return to bungalow and do some despicable prying into private life of Paradise. Is that not better Captain, than searching through crowded atmosphere of movie theaters to make foolish arrest?”

  Flannery considered. “Well, I guess it is, at that.”

  “Back to the bungalow,” said Kirk, rising. “If Miss Morrow will lend a hand, I’ll give you tea.”

  “Count me out,” said Flannery.

  “And other liquids,” amended Kirk.

  “Count me in again,” added Flannery. “You got your car?” Kirk nodded. “You take Miss Morrow then, and the Sergeant and I will follow in mine.”

  In the roadster on their way to the Kirk Building, Barry Kirk glanced at Miss Morrow and smiled.

  “Yes?” she inquired.

  “I was just thinking. I do, at times.”

  “Is it necessary?”

  “Perhaps not. But I find it exhilarating. I was thinking at that moment about you.”

  “Oh, please don’t trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. I was wondering. There are so many mysterious women hovering about this case. And no one is asking you any questions.”

  “Why should they?”

  “Why shouldn’t they? Who are you? Where did you come from? Since you’re not very likely to investigate yourself, perhaps I should take over the job.”

  “You’re very kind.”

  “I hope you won’t object. Of course, you look young and innocent, but I have your word for it that men are easily fooled.” He steered round a lumbering truck, then turned to her sternly. “Just what were you doing on the night Eve Durand slipped from sight at Peshawar?”

  “I was probably worrying over my homework,” the girl replied. “I was always very conscientious, even in the lowest grades.”

  “I’ll bet you were. And where was this great mental effort taking place? Not in San Francisco?”

  “No, in Baltimore. That was my home before I came west to law school.”

  “Yes? Peering further into your dark past—why, in heaven’s name, the law school? Disappointed in love, or something?”

  She smiled. “Not at all. Father was a judge, and it broke his heart that I wasn’t a boy.”

  “I’ve noticed how unreasonable judges are. Times when they’ve talked to me about my automobile driving. So the judge wanted a boy? He didn’t know his luck.”

  “Oh, he gradually discovered I wasn’t a total loss. He asked me to study law, and I did.”

  “What an obedient child,” Kirk said.

  “I didn’t mind—in fact, I rather liked it. You see, frivolous things never have appealed to me.”

  “I’m afraid that’s true. And it worries me.”

  “Why should it?”

  “Because, as it happens, I’m one of those frivolous things.”

  “But surely you have your serious side?”

  “No—I’m afraid that side was just sketched in—never finished. However, I’m working on it. Before I get through you’ll be calling me deacon.”

  “Really? I’m afraid I’ve never cared much for deacons, either.”

  “Well, not exactly deacon, then. I’ll try to strike a happy medium.”

  “I’ll help you,” smiled the girl.

  Kirk parked his car in a side street, and they went round the corner to the Kirk Building. It was Grace Lane who took them aloft. Kirk studied her with a new interest. Strands of dark red hair crept out from beneath her cap; her face was pale, but unlined and young. Age uncertain, Kirk thought, but beauty unmistakable. What was the secret of her past? Why had Sir Frederic brought to the Kirk Building that clipping about Jennie Jerome?

  “I’ll be along in a minute,” Miss Morrow said, when the elevator stopped at the twentieth floor. Kirk nodded and preceded her to the roof. She followed almost immediately. “I wanted to ask a question or two,” she explained. “You see, I gave Grace Lane very little attention on the night Sir Frederic was killed.”

  “What do you think of her—now that you’ve looked again?”

  “She’s a lady—if you don’t mind an overworked word. This job she has now is beneath her.”

  “Think so?” Kirk took Miss Morrow’s coat. “I should have said that most of the time, it’s over her head.”

  The girl shrugged. “That from you, deacon,” she said, reproachfully.

  Chan and Captain Flannery were at the door, and Kirk let them in. The Captain was all business.

  “Hello,” he said. “Now if you’ll show us that butler’s room, Mr. Kirk, well get busy right away. I’ve brought a few skeleton keys. We’ll go over the place like a vacuum cleaner.” Kirk led them into the corridor.

  “How about the cook’s room?” Flannery added. “We might take a look at that.”

  “My cook’s a Frenchman,” Kirk explained. “He sleeps out.”

  “Humph. He was here the other night at the time of the murder?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, I’d better have a talk with him some time.”

  “He speaks very little English,” Kirk smiled. “You’ll enjoy him.” He left the two in the butler’s bedroom, and returned to Miss Morrow.

  “I suppose you hate the sight of a kitchen,” he suggested.

  “Why should I?”

  “Well—a big lawyer like you—”

  “But I’ve studied cook-books, too. You’d be surprised. I can cook the most delicious—”

  “Rarebit,” he finished. “I know. And your chocolate fudge was famous at the sorority house. I’ve heard it before.”

  “Please let me finish. I was going to say, pot roast. And my lemon pie is not so bad, either.”

  He stood solemnly regarding her. “Lady,” he announced, “you improve on acquaintance. And if that isn’t gilding the lily, I don’t know what is. Come with me and we’ll dig up the tea things.”

  She followed him to the kitchen. “I’ve got a little apartment,” she said. “And when I’m not too tired, I get my own dinner.”

  “How are you on Thursday nights?” he asked. “Pretty tired?”

  “That depends. Why?”

  “Servants’ night out. Need I say more?”

  Miss Morrow laughed. “I’ll remember,” she promised. With deft hands she set the water to boiling, and began to arrange the tea tray. “How neat everything is,” she remarked. “Paradise is a wonder.”

  “Tell that to my grandmother,” Kirk suggested. “She believes that a man who lives alone wallows in grime and waste. Every home needs a woman’s touch, according to her story.”

  “Absurd,” cried the girl.

  “Oh, well—grandmother dates back a few years. In her day women were housekeepers. Now they’re movie fans, club members, lawyers—what have you? Must have been a rather comfortable age at that.”

  “For the men, yes.”

  “And men don’t count any more.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. I guess we’re ready now.”

  Kirk carried the tray to the living-room, and placed it on a low table before the fire. Miss Morrow sat down behind it. He threw a couple of logs onto the glowing embers, then, visiting the dining-room, returned with a bottle, a siphon and glasses.

  “Mustn’t forget
that Captain Flannery doesn’t approve of tea,” he said.

  Miss Morrow looked toward the passageway. “They’d better hurry, or they’ll be late for the party,” she remarked.

  But Chan and Flannery did not appear. Outside the March dusk was falling; a sharp wind swept through the little garden and rattled insistently at the casements. Kirk drew the curtains. On the hearth the fresh logs flamed, filling the room with a warm, satisfying glow. He took from Miss Morrow’s hand his cup of tea, selected a small cake, and dropped into a chair.

  “Cozy—that would be my word for this,” he smiled. “To look at you now, no one would ever suspect that old affair between you and Blackstone.”

  “I’m versatile, anyhow,” she said.

  “I wonder,” he replied.

  “Wonder what?”

  “I wonder just how versatile you are. It’s a matter I intend to investigate further. I may add that I am regarded throughout the world as the greatest living judge of a lemon pie.”

  “You frighten me,” Miss Morrow said.

  “If your testimony has been the truth, so help you,” he answered, “what is there to be frightened about?”

  At that moment Chan and Flannery appeared in the doorway. The Captain seemed very pleased with himself.

  “What luck?” Kirk inquired.

  “The best,” beamed Flannery. He carried a piece of paper in his hand. “Ah—shall I help myself?”

  “By all means,” Kirk told him. “A congratulatory potion. Mr. Chan—what’s yours?”

  “Tea, if Miss Morrow will be so kind. Three lumps of sugar and the breath of the lemon in passing.”

  The girl prepared his cup. Flannery dropped into a chair.

  “I see you’ve found something,” Kirk suggested.

  “I certainly have,” the Captain replied. “I’ve found the letter from Scotland Yard that Paradise nabbed from the mail.”

  “Good enough,” cried Kirk.

  “A slick bird, this Paradise,” Flannery went on. “Where do you think he had it? All folded up in a little wad and tucked into the toe of a shoe.”

  “How clever of you to look there,” Miss Morrow approved.

  Flannery hesitated. “Well—er—come to think of it, I didn’t. It was Sergeant Chan here dug it up. Yes, sir—the Sergeant’s getting to be a real sleuth.”

  “Under your brilliant instruction,” smiled Chan.

  “Well, we can all learn from each other,” conceded the Captain. “Anyhow, he found it, and turned it right over to me. The letter that came in the Scotland Yard envelope—no question about it. See—at the top—the Metropolitan Police—”

  “If it’s not asking too much,” said Kirk, “what’s in the letter?”

  Flannery’s face fell. “Not a whole lot. We’ll have to admit that. But little by little—”

  “With brief steps we advance,” put in Chan. “Humbly suggest you read the epistle.”

  “Well, it’s addressed to Sir Frederic, care of Cook’s, San Francisco,” said Flannery. He read:

  “Dear Sir Frederic: “I was very glad to get your letter from Shanghai and to know that you are near the end of a long trail. It is indeed surprising news to me that the murder of Hilary Galt and the disappearance of Eve Durand from Peshawar are, in your final analysis, linked together. I know you always contended they were, but much as I admire your talents, I felt sure you were mistaken. I can only apologize most humbly. It is a matter of regret to me that you did not tell me more; what you wrote roused my interest to a high pitch. Believe me, I shall be eager to hear the end of this strange case.

  “By the way, Inspector Rupert Duff will be in the States on another matter at about the time you reach San Francisco. You know Duff, of course. A good man. If you should require his help, you have only to wire him at the Hotel Waldorf, New York.

  “With all good wishes for a happy outcome to your investigation, I am, sir, always, your obedient servant, Martin Benfield, Deputy-Commissioner.”

  Flannery stopped reading and looked at the others. “Well, there you are,” he said. “The Galt affair and Eve Durand are mixed up together. Of course that ain’t exactly news—I’ve known it right along. What I want to find out now is, why did Paradise try to keep this information from us? What’s his stake in the affair? I could arrest him at once, but I’m afraid that if I do, he’ll shut up like a clam and that will end it. He doesn’t know we’re wise to him, so I’m going to put this letter back where we found it and give him a little more rope. The sergeant here has agreed to keep an eye on him, and I rely on you, too, Mr. Kirk, to see that he doesn’t get away.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Kirk. “I don’t want to lose him.”

  Flannery rose. “Sir Frederic’s mail isn’t coming here any more?” he inquired of Miss Morrow.

  “No, of course not. I arranged to have it sent to my office. There’s been nothing of interest—purely personal matters.”

  “I must put this letter back, and then I’ll have to run along,” the Captain said. He went into the passageway.

  “Well,” remarked Kirk, “Paradise hangs on a little longer. I see your handiwork there, Sergeant, and you have my warmest thanks.”

  “For a brief time, at least” Chan said. “You will perceive I am no person’s fool. I do not arrange arrest of butler in house where I am guest. I protect him, and I would do same for the cook.”

  Flannery returned. “I got to get back to the station,” he announced. “Mr. Kirk, thanks for your—er—hospitality.”

  Miss Morrow looked up at him. “You are going to wire to New York for Inspector Duff?” she asked.

  “I am not,” the Captain said.

  “But he might be of great help—”

  “Nix,” cut in Flannery stubbornly. “I got about all the help I can stand on this case now. Get him here and have him under foot? No, sir—I’m going to find out first who killed Sir Frederic. After that, they can all come. Don’t you say so, Sergeant?”

  Chan nodded. “You are wise man. The ship with too many steersmen never reaches port.”

  Chapter 11

  THE MUDDY WATER CLEARS

  Flannery departed, and Miss Morrow picked up her coat. Reluctantly Kirk held it for her. “Must you go?” he protested.

  “Back to the office—yes,” she said. “I’ve oceans of work. The district attorney keeps asking me for results in this investigation, and so far all I have been able to report is further mysteries. I wonder if I’ll ever have anything else.”

  “It was my hope,” remarked Chan, “that today we take a seven-league step forward. But it is fated otherwise. Not before Monday now.”

  “Monday,” repeated the girl. “What do you mean, Mr. Chan?”

  “I mean I experience great yearning to bring Miss Gloria Garland to this building again. I have what my cousin Willie Chan, a vulgar speaker, calls a hunch. But this morning when I call Miss Garland on the telephone I learn that she is absent in Del Monte, and will not return until Sunday night.”

  “Miss Garland? What has she to do with it?”

  “Remains to be observed. She may have much, or nothing. Depends on the authentic value of my hunch. Monday will tell.”

  “But Monday,” sighed Miss Morrow. “This is only Thursday.”

  Chan also sighed. “I too resent that with bitter feelings. Do not forget that I have sworn to be on boat departing Wednesday. My little son demands me.”

  “Patience,” laughed Barry Kirk. “The doctor must take his own medicine.”

  “I know,” shrugged Chan. “I am taking same in plenty large doses. Mostly when I talk of patience, I am forcing it on others. Speaking for myself in this event, I do not much enjoy the flavor.”

  “You said nothing about your hunch to Captain Flannery,” Miss Morrow remarked.

  Chan smiled. “Can you speak of the ocean to a well frog, or of ice to a summer insect? The good Captain would sneer—until I prove to him I am exceedingly correct. I am praying to do that on Monday.”


  “In the meantime, we watch and wait,” said Miss Morrow.

  “You wait, and I will watch,” suggested Chan.

  Kirk accompanied Miss Morrow to the door. “Au revoir,” he said. “And whatever you do, don’t lose that lemon pie recipe.”

  “You needn’t keep hinting,” she replied. “I won’t forget.”

  Upon Kirk’s return, Charlie regarded him keenly. “A most attracting young woman,” he remarked.

  “Charming,” agreed Kirk.

  “What a deep pity,” Chan continued, “that she squanders glowing youth in a man’s pursuit. She should be at mothering work.”

  Kirk laughed. “You tell her,” he suggested.

  On Friday, Bill Rankin called Chan on the telephone. He had been through the Globe’s files for the year 1913, he said—a long, arduous job. His search had been without result; he could find no story about Eve Durand. Evidently cable news had not greatly interested the Globe’s staff in those days.

  “I’m going to the public library for another try,” he announced. “No doubt some of the New York papers carried the story. They seem our best bet now. I’m terribly busy, but I’ll speed all I can.”

  “Thanks for your feverish activity,” Chan replied. “You are valuable man.”

  “Just a real good wagon,” laughed Rankin. “Here’s hoping I don’t break down. I’ll let you know the minute I find something.”

  Saturday came; the life at the bungalow was moving forward with unbroken calm. Through it Paradise walked with his accustomed dignity and poise, little dreaming of the dark cloud of suspicion that hovered over his head. Chan was busy with the books of Colonel John Beetham; he had finished the Life and was now going methodically through the others as though in search of a clue.

  On Saturday night Kirk was dining out, and after his own dinner Chan again went down into Chinatown. There was little he could do there, he knew, but the place drew him none the less. This time he did not visit his cousin, but loitered on the crowded sidewalk of Grant Avenue.

  Catching sight of the lights outside the Mandarin Theater, he idly turned his footsteps toward the doorway. The Chinese have been a civilized race for many centuries; they do not care greatly for moving-pictures, preferring the spoken drama. A huge throng was milling about the door of the theater, and Chan paused. There was usually enough drama in real life to satisfy him, but tonight he felt the need of the painted players.