Behind That Curtain

by Earl Der Biggers

  Suddenly in the mob he caught sight of Willie Li, the Boy Scout whose good deed had thwarted his best laid plans on the previous Wednesday evening. Willie was gazing wistfully at the little frame of actors’ pictures in the lobby. Chan went up to him with a friendly smile.

  “Ah, we meet again,” he said in Cantonese. “How fortunate, since the other night I walked my way churlishly, without offering my thanks for the great kindness you did me in bringing a physician.”

  The boy’s face brightened in recognition. “May I be permitted to hope that the injury is improved?” he said.

  “You have a kind heart,” Chan replied. “I now walk on the foot with the best of health. Be good enough to tell me, have you performed your kind act for today?”

  The boy frowned. “Not yet. Opportunities are so seldom.”

  “Ah, yes—how true. But if you will deign to come into the theater as my guest, opportunities may increase. Each of the actors, as you know, receives in addition to his salary a bonus of twenty-five cents for every round of applause that is showered upon him. Come, and by frequent applauding you may pile up enough kind acts to spread over several days.”

  The boy was only too willing, and buying a couple of tickets, Chan led him inside. The horrible din that greeted them they did not find disconcerting. It was, in fact, music to their ears. Even at this early hour the house was crowded. On the stage, with the casual, offhand manner they affected, the Chinese company was enacting a famous historical play. Chan and the boy were fortunate enough to find seats.

  Looking about, the detective from Hawaii saw that he was in a gathering of his own race exclusively. The women members of the audience were arrayed in their finest silks; in a stage box sat a slave girl famous in the colony. Little, slant-eyed children played in the aisles; occasionally a mother sent out to the refreshment booth in the lobby a bottle of milk, to be heated for the baby in her arms.

  The clatter of the six-piece orchestra never ceased; it played more softly at dramatic moments, but comedy lines were spoken to the accompaniment of a terrific fusillade. Chan became engrossed in the play, for the actors were finished artists, the women players particularly graceful and accomplished. At eleven o’clock he suggested that they had better go, lest the boy’s family be troubled about him.

  “My father will not worry,” said Willie Li. “He knows a Boy Scout is trustworthy.”

  Nevertheless Chan led him to the lobby, and there stood treat to a hot dog and a cup of coffee—for the refreshment booth alone was Americanized. As they climbed the empty street to the Oriental Apartments, Charlie looked inquiringly at the boy.

  “Tell me,” he said, still speaking in Cantonese, “of your plans for the future. You are ambitious. What profession calls you?”

  “I would be an explorer, like my cousin Li Gung,” the boy answered in the same rather stilted tongue.

  “Ah, yes—he who is attached to Colonel John Beetham,” nodded Chan. “You have heard from your cousin stories of Colonel Beetham?”

  “Many exciting ones,” the boy replied.

  “You admire the Colonel? You think him very great character?”

  “Why not? He is man of iron, stern but just. Discipline is with him important thing, and all Boy Scouts know that is right thinking. Many examples of this our cousin told us. Sometimes, Li Gung said, the caravan would revolt. Then the Colonel would snatch out gun, facing them with his bravery, alone. The caravan would tremble and proceed.”

  “They knew, perhaps, that the Colonel would not hesitate to fire?”

  “They had seen him do it. One event Li Gung spoke about I can never forget.” The boy’s voice rose in excitement. “It was on the desert, and the Colonel had told them what they must do, and what they must not do. A dirty keeper of camels, a man of low character, he did a thing which the Colonel had forbidden. In an instant he lay on the sand, with a bullet in his heart.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Chan, “I would expect that. However, it is an incident I have not encountered in any of the Colonel’s books.”

  They were at the door of the apartment house. “Accept my thanks, please,” Willie Li said. “You have done a very kind deed to me.”

  Chan smiled. “Your company was a real pleasure. I hope we meet again.”

  “I hope it, too,” answered Willie Li warmly. “Good night.”

  Chan walked slowly back to the Kirk Building. He was thinking of Colonel Beetham. A hard man, a man who did not hesitate to kill those who opposed their will to his. Here was food for thought.

  On Sunday Barry Kirk called up Miss Morrow and suggested a ride into the country and dinner at a distant inn. “Just to clear the cobwebs from your brain,” he put it.

  “Thanks for the ad,” she answered. “So that’s how my brain strikes you? Cobwebby.”

  “You know what I mean,” he protested. “I want you to keep keen and alert. Nothing must happen to that pie.”

  They spent a happy, care-free day on roads far from the rush of city traffic. When Kirk helped the girl out of the car before her door that night, he said: “Well, tomorrow morning Charlie springs his hunch.”

  “What do you imagine he has up his sleeve?”

  “I haven’t an idea. The more I see of him, the less I know him. But let’s hope it’s something good.”

  “And illuminating,” added Miss Morrow. “I feel the need of a little light.” She held out her hand. “You’ve been lovely to me today.”

  “Give me another chance,” he said. “Give me lots of ’em. I’ll get lovelier and lovelier as time goes on.”

  “Is that a threat?” she laughed.

  “A promise. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I? Good night.” She entered the lobby of her apartment house.

  On Monday morning Chan was brisk and businesslike. He called Gloria Garland and was much relieved to hear her answering voice. She agreed to come to the bungalow at ten o’clock, and Charlie at once got in touch with Miss Morrow and asked her to come at the same hour, bringing Captain Flannery. Then he turned to Kirk.

  “Making humble suggestion,” he said, “would you be so kind as to dispatch Paradise on lengthy errand just as ten o’clock approaches? I do not fancy him in bungalow this morning.”

  “Surely,” agreed Kirk. “I’ll send him out for some fishing tackle. I never get time to fish, but a man can’t have too much tackle.”

  At fifteen minutes of ten Chan rose and got his hat. He would, he said, himself escort Miss Garland to the bungalow. Going below, he took up his stand in the doorway of the Kirk Building.

  He saw Miss Morrow and Flannery enter, but gave them only a cool nod as they passed. Mystified, they went on upstairs. Kirk met them at the door.

  “Here we are,” growled Flannery. “I wonder what the Sergeant’s up to. If he’s got me here on a wild goose chase, I’ll deport him to Hawaii. I’m too busy today to feel playful.”

  “Oh, Chan will make good,” Kirk assured him. “By the way, I suppose you’ve got that elevator girl—Jennie Jerome, or Grace Lane, or whatever her name is—under your eagle eye?”

  “Yes. The boys have been shadowing her.”

  “Find out anything?”

  “Not a thing. She’s got a room on Powell Street. Stays in nights and minds her own business, as far as I can learn.”

  Down at the door, Chan was greeting Gloria Garland. “You are promptly on the minute,” he approved. “A delectable virtue.”

  “I’m here, but I don’t know what you want,” she replied. “I told you everything the other day—”

  “Yes, of course. Will you be kind enough to walk after me? We rise aloft.”

  He took her up in a car run by a black-haired Irish girl, and they entered the living-room of the bungalow.

  “Ah, Captain—Miss Morrow—we are all here. That is correct,” Charlie said. “Miss Garland, will you kindly recline on chair.”

  The woman sat down, obviously puzzled. Her eyes sought Flannery’s. “What do you want with
me now?” she asked.

  The Captain shrugged his broad shoulders. “Me—I don’t want you. It’s Sergeant Chan here. He’s had a mysterious hunch.”

  Chan smiled. “Yes, I am guilty party, Miss Garland. I hope I have not rudely unconvenienced you?”

  “Not a bit,” she answered.

  “One day you told us of the girl Marie Lantelme, who disappeared so oddly out of Nice,” Chan continued. “Will you kindly state—you have still not encountered her?”

  “No, of course not,” the woman replied.

  “You are quite sure you would recognize her if you met her?”

  “Of course. I knew her well.”

  Chan’s eyes narrowed. “There would be no reason why you would conceal act of recognition from us? I might humbly remind you, this is serious affair.”

  “No—why should I do that? I’ll tell you if I see her—but I’m sure I haven’t—”

  “Very good. Will you remain in present posture until my return?” Chan went rapidly out to the stairway leading to the floor below.

  They looked at one another in wonder, but no one spoke. In a moment, Chan returned. With him came Grace Lane, the elevator girl whom Mrs. Enderby had identified as Jennie Jerome.

  She came serenely into the room, and stood there. The sunlight fell full upon her, outlining clearly her delicately modeled face. Gloria Garland started, and half rose from her chair.

  “Marie!” she cried. “Marie Lantelme! What are you doing here?”

  They gasped. A look of triumph shone in Chan’s narrow eyes.

  The girl’s poise did not desert her. “Hello, Gloria,” she said softly. “We meet again.”

  “But where have you been, my dear?” Miss Garland wanted to know. “Where did you go—and why—”

  The girl stopped her. “Some other time—” she said.

  In a daze, Flannery rose to his feet. “Look here,” he began. “Let me get this straight.” He moved forward accusingly, “You are Marie Lantelme?”

  “I was—once,” she nodded.

  “You were singing in the same troupe as Miss Garland here—eleven years ago, at Nice? You disappeared?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I was tired of it. I found I didn’t like the stage. If I had stayed, they would have forced me to go on. So I ran away.”

  “Yeah. And seven years ago you were in New York—a model for a dressmaker. Your name then was Jennie Jerome. You disappeared again?”

  “For the same reason. I didn’t care for the work. I—I’m restless, I guess—”

  “I’ll say you’re restless. You kept changing names?”

  “I wanted to start all over. A new person.”

  Flannery glared at her. “There’s something queer about you, my girl. You know who I am, don’t you?”

  “You appear to be a policeman.”

  “Well, that’s right. I am.”

  “I have never done anything wrong. I am not afraid.”

  “Maybe not. But tell me this—what do you know about Sir Frederic Bruce?”

  “I know that he was a famous man from Scotland Yard, who was killed in Mr. Kirk’s office last Tuesday night.”

  “Ever see him before he came here?”

  “No, sir—I never had.”

  “Ever hear of him?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Her even, gentle answers put Flannery at a loss. He stood, considering. His course was far from clear.

  “You were running the elevator here last Tuesday night?” he continued.

  “Yes, sir, I was.”

  “Have you any idea why Sir Frederic was hunting for you? For Marie Lantelme, or Jennie Jerome, or whoever you really are?”

  She frowned, “Was he hunting for me? How strange. No, sir,—I have no idea at all.”

  “Well,” said Flannery, “let me tell you this. You’re a pretty important witness in the matter of Sir Frederic’s murder, and I don’t intend you shall get away.”

  The girl smiled. “So I judge. I seem to have been followed rather closely the past few days.”

  “Well, you’ll be followed even more closely from now on. One false move, and I lock you up. You understand that?”

  “Perfectly, sir.”

  “All right. Just tend to your work, and when I want you, I’ll tell you so. You can go now.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the girl replied, and went out.

  Flannery turned to Miss Garland. “You recognized her the other night, didn’t you?” he demanded.

  “Oh, but I assure you, I didn’t. I recognized her today for the first time.”

  “Which is plenty time enough,” said Chan. “Miss Garland, we are sunk deep in your debt. I permit you now to depart—”

  “Yeah—you can go,” added Flannery. “Take some other car and keep away from your old friend until this thing’s cleared up.”

  “I’ll do that,” Miss Garland assured him. “I’m afraid she didn’t want me to identify her. I do hope I haven’t got her into trouble.”

  “That depends,” answered Flannery, and Kirk showed the actress out.

  Chan was beaming. “Hunch plenty good, after all,” he chuckled.

  “Well, where are we?” Flannery said. “The elevator girl is Jennie Jerome. Then she’s Marie Lantelme. What does that mean?”

  “It means only one thing,” said Miss Morrow softly.

  “The Captain is pretending to be dense,” suggested Chan. “He could not really be so thick.”

  “What are you talking about?” Flannery demanded.

  “My hunch, which has come so nicely true,” Chan told him. “The elevator girl is Jennie Jerome. Next, she is Marie Lantelme. What does it mean, you ask? It means one thing only. She is also Eve Durand.”

  “By heaven!” Flannery cried.

  “Consider how the muddy water clears,” Chan went on. “Eve Durand flees from India one dark night fifteen years ago. Four years later she is found in Nice, playing in theater. Something happens—maybe she is seen and recognized—again she runs away. Another four years elapse and we encounter her in New York walking in model gowns. Again something happens, again she disappears. Where does she go? Eventually, to San Francisco. Here opportunities are not so good, she must take more lowly position. And here Sir Frederic comes, always seeking for Eve Durand.”

  “It’s beautifully clear,” approved Miss Morrow.

  “Like lake at evening,” nodded Chan. “Sir Frederic, though he has looked long for this woman, has never seen her. He can up-earth here no one who can identify Eve Durand, but he remembers once she was Marie Lantelme, once Jennie Jerome. In this great city, he learns, are two people who have known her when she was wearing these other names. He asks that they be invited to dinner, hoping that one or both will point out to him the woman he has trailed so long.”

  Flannery was walking the floor. “Well—I don’t know. It’s almost too good to be true. But if it is—if she’s Eve Durand—then I can’t let her wander around loose. I’ll have to lock her up this morning. If I could only be sure—”

  “I am telling you,” persisted Chan.

  “I know, but you are guessing. You’ve identified her as those other two, but as for Eve Durand—”

  The telephone rang. Kirk answered, and handed it to Flannery, “For you, Captain,” he said.

  Flannery took the telephone. “Oh—hello, Chief,” he said. “Yeah—yeah. What’s that? Oh—oh, he is? Good enough. Thank you, Chief. I sure will.”

  He hung up the receiver and turned to the others. A broad smile was on his face.

  “We’re going to find out, Sergeant, just how good a guesser you are,” he said. “I’ll put a couple of extra men to following this dame, but I won’t do anything more until to-morrow. Yes, sir—by tomorrow evening I’ll know whether she’s Eve Durand or not.”

  “Your words have obscure sound,” Chan told him.

  “The Chief of Police has just had a wire,” Flannery explained. “Inspector Duff
of Scotland Yard is getting in tomorrow afternoon at two thirty. And he’s bringing with him the one man in all the world who’s sure to know Eve Durand when he sees her. He’s bringing the woman’s husband, Major Eric Durand.”

  Chapter 12

  A MISTY EVENING

  When Chan and Kirk were left alone, the little detective sat staring thoughtfully into space. “Now Tuesday becomes the big day for keen anticipation,” he remarked. “What will it reveal? Much, I hope, for my time on the mainland becomes a brief space indeed.”

  Kirk looked at him in wonder. “Surely you won’t go on Wednesday, if this thing isn’t solved?”

  Chan nodded stubbornly. “I have made unspoken promise to Barry Chan. Now I put it into words. Tomorrow Eve Durand’s husband arrives. In all the world we could have selected no more opportune person. He will identify this elevator woman as his wife, or he will not. If he does, perhaps case is finished. If he does not”—Charlie shrugged—“then I have done all possible. Let Captain Flannery flounder alone after that.”

  “Well, we won’t cross our oceans until we get to them,” Kirk suggested. “A lot may happen before Wednesday. By the way, I’ve been meaning to take you over to the Cosmopolitan Club. How about lunching there this noon?”

  Chan brightened. “I have long nursed desire to see that famous interior. You are most kind.”

  “All set, then,” replied his host. “I have some business in the office. Come downstairs for me at twelve thirty. And when Paradise returns, please tell him we’re lunching out.”

  He took his hat and coat and went below. Chan strolled aimlessly to the window and stood looking down on the glittering city. His eyes strayed to the Matson dock, the pier shed and, beyond, the red funnels of a familiar ship. A ship that was sailing, day after tomorrow, for Honolulu harbor. Would he be on it? He had sworn, yes—and yet—He sighed deeply. The doorbell rang, and he admitted Bill Rankin, the reporter.

  “Hello,” said Rankin. “Glad to find you in. I spent all day yesterday at the public library, and say, I’ll bet I stirred up more dust than the chariot in Ben Hur!”