“With any luck?” Chan inquired.
“Yes. I finally found the story in the files of the New York Sun. A great newspaper in those days—but I won’t talk shop. It was just a brief item with the Peshawar date line—I copied it down. Here it is.”
Charlie took the sheet of yellow paper, and read a short cable story that told him nothing he did not already know. Eve Durand, the young wife of a certain Captain Eric Durand, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances two nights previously, while on a picnic party in the hills outside Peshawar. The authorities were greatly alarmed, and parties of British soldiers were scouring the wild countryside.
“Item has date, May fifth,” remarked Chan. “Then Eve Durand was lost on night of May third, the year 1913. You found nothing else?”
“There were no follow-up stories,” Rankin replied, “And no mention of Beetham, as you hoped. Say—what in Sam Hill could he have to do with this?”
“Nothing,” said Chan promptly. “It was one of my small mistakes. Even great detective sometimes steps off on wrong foot. My wrong foot often weary from too much use.”
“Well, what’s going on, anyhow?” Rankin wanted to know. “I’ve hounded Flannery, and I’ve tried Miss Morrow, and not a thing do I learn. My city editor is waxing very sarcastic. Can’t you give me a tip to help me out?”
Chan shook his head. “It would be plenty poor ethics for me to talk about the case. I am in no authority here, and already Captain Flannery regards me with the same warm feeling he would show pickpocket from Los Angeles. Pursuing the truth further, there is nothing to tell you, anyhow. We are not as yet close to anything that might indicate happy success.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Rankin said.
“Situation will not continue,” Chan assured him. “Light will break. For the present we swim with one foot on the ground, but in good time we will plunge into center of the stream. Should I be on scene when success is looming, I will be happy to give you little secret hint.”
“If you’re on the scene? What are you talking about?”
“Personal affairs call me home with a loud megaphone. On Wednesday I go whether case is solved or not.”
“Yes—like you did last Wednesday,” Rankin laughed. “You can’t kid me. The patient Oriental isn’t going to get impatient at the wrong minute. Well, I must run. Remember your promise about the hint.”
“I have lengthy memory,” Chan replied. “And already I owe you much. Good-by.”
When the reporter had gone, Charlie stood staring at the copy of that cable story. “May third, nineteen hundred thirteen,” he said aloud. With a surprisingly quick step he went to a table and took from it the Life of Colonel John Beetham. He ran hastily through the pages until he found the thing he sought. Then for a long moment he sat in a chair with the book open on his knee, staring into space.
At precisely twelve-thirty he entered Kirk’s office. The young man rose and, accepting some papers from his secretary, put them into a leather briefcase. “Got to see a lawyer after lunch,” he explained. “Not a nice lawyer, either—a man this time.” They went to the Cosmopolitan Club.
When they had checked their hats and coats and returned to the lobby in that imposing building, Chan looked about him with deep interest. The Cosmopolitan’s fame was wide-spread; it was the resort of men active in the arts, in finance and in journalism. Kirk’s popularity there was proved by many jovial greetings. He introduced Chan to a number of his friends, and the detective was presently the center of a pleasant group. With difficulty they got away to lunch in one corner of the big dining-room.
It was toward the close of the lunch that Chan, looking up, saw approaching the man who interested him most at the moment. Colonel John Beetham’s hard-bitten face was more grim than ever, seen in broad daylight. He paused at their table.
“How are you, Kirk?” he said. “And Mr. Chan. I’ll sit down a moment, if I may.”
“By all means,” Kirk agreed cordially. “How about lunch? What can I order for you?”
“Thanks, I’ve just finished,” Beetham replied.
“A cigarette, then.” Kirk held out his case.
“Good of you.” The Colonel took one and lighted it. “I haven’t seen you since that beastly dinner. Oh—I beg your pardon—you get my meaning?… What a horrible thing that was—a man like Sir Frederic—by the way, have they any idea who did it?”
Kirk shrugged. “If they have, they’re not telling me.”
“Sergeant Chan—perhaps you are working on the case?” Beetham suggested.
Chan’s eyes narrowed. “The affair concerns mainland police. I am stranger here, like yourself.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” responded Beetham. “I just happened to recall that you were on the point of leaving, and I thought, seeing you had stayed over—”
“If I can help, I will do so,” Chan told him. He was thinking deeply. A man like Colonel Beetham did not note the comings and goings of a Charlie Chan without good reason.
“How’s the new expedition shaping up?” Kirk inquired.
“Slowly—rather slowly,” Beetham frowned. “Speaking of that, I have wanted a chat with you on the subject. Your grandmother has offered to help with the financing, but I have hesitated—it’s a stiff sum.”
“How much?”
“I have part of the money. I still need about fifty thousand dollars.”
Kirk’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, yes—quite a nest egg. But if grandmother wants to do it—well, her own money.”
“Glad you feel that way about it,” said Beetham. “I was fearful the other members of the family might think I was using undue influence. The whole idea was hers—I give you my word.”
“Naturally,” Kirk answered. “I’m sure she would enjoy it, at that.”
“The results will be most important from a scientific point of view,” Beetham continued. “Your grandmother’s name would be highly honored. I would see that she had full credit.”
“Just what sort of expedition is it?” Kirk asked.
The tired eyes lighted for the first time. “Well, I had a bit of luck when I was last on the Gobi Desert. I stumbled onto the ruins of a city that must have been flourishing early in the first century. Only had time to take a brief look—but I turned up coins that bore the date of 7 A.D. I unearthed the oldest papers in existence—papers that bore the scrawl of little children—arithmetic—seven times seven and the like. Letters written by the military governor of the city, scraps of old garments, jewelry—amazing mementoes of the past. I am keen to go back and make a thorough investigation. Of course, the trouble in China will interfere, rather—but there is always trouble in China. I have waited long enough. I shall get through somehow. I always have.”
“Well, I don’t envy you,” Kirk smiled. “The way I’ve always felt, when you’ve seen one desert, you’ve seen ‘em all. But you have my best wishes.”
“Thanks. You’re frightfully kind,” Beetham rose. “I hope to settle the matter in a few days. I am hoping, also, that before I leave, the murderer of Sir Frederic will be found. Struck me as a good chap, Sir Frederic.”
Chan looked up quickly. “A great admirer of yours, Colonel Beetham,” he said.
“Admirer of mine? Sir Frederic? Was he really?” The Colonel’s tone was cool and even.
“Undubitable fact. Among his effects we find many books written by you.”
Beetham threw down his cigarette. “That was good of him. I am quite flattered. If by any chance you are concerned in the hunt for the person who killed him, Sergeant Chan, I wish you the best of luck.”
He strolled away from the table, while Chan looked after him thoughtfully.
“Reminds me of the snows of Tibet,” Kirk said. “Just as warm and human. Except when he spoke of his dead city. That seemed to rouse him. An odd fish, isn’t he, Charlie?”
“An odd fish from icy waters,” Chan agreed. “I am wondering—”
“Yes?”
“He regrets Sir F
rederic’s passing. But might it not happen that beneath his weeping eyes are laughing teeth?”
They went to the check-room, where they retrieved their hats and coats and Kirk’s briefcase. As they walked down the street, Kirk looked at Chan.
“Just remembered the Cosmopolitan Club yearbook,” he said. “You don’t imagine it meant anything, do you?”
Chan shrugged. “Imagination does not seem to thrive on mainland climate,” he replied.
Kirk went off to his lawyer’s and Charlie returned home to await a more promising tomorrow.
On Tuesday afternoon Miss Morrow was the first to arrive at the bungalow. She came in about three-thirty. The day was dark, with gusts of wind and rain, but the girl was glowing.
Kirk helped her off with her raincoat. “You seem to be filled with vim and vigor,” he said.
“Walked all the way,” she told him. “I was too excited to sit calmly in a taxi. Just think—in a few minutes we may see the meeting between Major Durand and his long-lost wife.”
“The Major has arrived?” Chan inquired.
“Yes—he and Inspector Duff came half an hour ago. Their train was a trifle late. Captain Flannery went to the station to meet them. He telephoned me they’d be along shortly. It seems that, like a true Englishman, the Major didn’t care to talk with anybody until he’d gone to a hotel and had his tub.”
“Don’t blame him, after that trip from Chicago,” Kirk said. “I believe little Jennie Jerome Marie Lantelme is on the elevator.”
Miss Morrow nodded. “She is. I saw her when I came up. I wonder if she is really Eve Durand? Won’t it be thrilling if she is!”
“She’s got to be. She’s Charlie’s hunch.”
“Do not be too certain,” Chan objected. “In the past it has often happened I was hoarsely barking up incorrect tree.”
Kirk stirred the fire, and drew up a wide chair for the girl. “Here you are—a trifle large for you, but you may grow. I’ll give you tea later. These Englishmen probably can’t do a thing until they’ve had their Oolong.”
The girl sat down, and, dropping into a chair at her side, Kirk began to talk airily of nothing in particular. He was conscious that at his back Chan was nervously walking the floor.
“Better sit down, Charlie,” he suggested. “You act like a man in a dentist’s waiting-room.”
“Feel that way,” Chan told him. “Much is at stake now for me. If I have taken wrong turning, I shall have to endure some Flannery sneers.”
It was four o’clock, and the dusk was falling outside the lofty windows, when the bell rang. Kirk himself went to the door. He admitted Flannery and a thickset young Englishman. Two men only—Kirk peered past them down the stairs, but the third man was not in evidence.
“Hello,” Flannery said, striding in. “Major Durand not here yet, eh?”
“He is not,” Kirk replied. “Don’t tell me you’ve mislaid him.”
“Oh, no,” Flannery answered. “I’ll explain in a minute. Miss Morrow, meet Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.”
The girl came forward, smiling. “I’m so glad,” she said.
“Charmed,” remarked Duff, in a hearty, roast-beef-of-Old-England voice. He was surprisingly young, with rosy cheeks, and the look of a farmer about him. And indeed it had been from a farm in Yorkshire that he had come to London and the Metropolitan police.
“The Inspector and I went from the train to my office,” Flannery explained. “I wanted to go over the records of our case with him. The Major stopped at the hotel to brush up—he'll be along in a minute. Oh, yes—Mr. Kirk, Inspector Duff. And this, Inspector, is Sergeant Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police.”
Chan bowed low. “A moment that will live for ever in my memory,” he said.
“Oh—er—really?” Duff replied. “The Captain’s told me of you, Sergeant. We’re in the same line—some miles apart.”
“Many miles apart,” conceded Charlie gravely.
“Look here,” said Flannery, “it will be just as well if the Major doesn’t meet that girl in the elevator until we’re all set for it. Somebody should go below and steer him into a different car.”
“I will be happy to perform that service,” Chan offered.
“No—I know him by sight—I’ll do it,” Flannery replied. “I want to have a word with the men I’ve got watching her. I saw one of them in front of the building when I came in. Inspector—I’ll leave you here. You’re in good hands.” He went out.
Kirk drew up a chair for the English detective. “Give you tea when the Major comes,” he said.
“You’re very kind, I’m sure,” Duff answered.
“You have been all over the case with Captain Flannery?” Miss Morrow inquired.
“I have—from the beginning,” Duff replied. “It’s a shocking affair—shocking. Sir Frederic was deeply respected—I might even say loved—by all of us. It appears that he was killed in the line of duty, though he had retired and was, supposedly, out of all that. I can assure you that the murder of one of its men is not taken lightly by Scotland Yard. We shall not rest until we have found the guilty person—and in that task, Sergeant, we shall welcome help from every possible source.”
Chan bowed. “My abilities are of the slightest, but they are lined up beside your very great ones.”
“I had hoped, Inspector,” Miss Morrow said, “that you would be able to throw considerable light on this affair.”
Duff shook his head. “I’m frightfully sorry. There are so many other men—older men—on our force who would have been of much greater service. Unfortunately I am the only Scotland Yard man in the States at the moment. You see—I’m a bit young—”
“I’d noticed that,” smiled the girl.
“All these events that appear to be linked up with Sir Frederic’s murder happened before my day. I shall do my best—but—”
“Will you have a cigarette?” Kirk suggested.
“No, thanks. My pipe, if the young lady doesn’t object.”
“Not at all,” said Miss Morrow. “It’s quite in the Sherlock Holmes tradition.”
Duff smiled. “But the only point of similarity, I fear. As I say, I have been with the Metropolitan police a comparatively brief time—a mere matter of seven years. Of course I have heard of the Hilary Galt murder, though it happened many years ago. As a young policeman I was shown, in the Black Museum, the famous velvet slippers they found Galt wearing that disastrous night. Coming to Eve Durand, I am familiar, in a casual way, with the story of her disappearance. In fact, I had, once, a very slight connection with the case. Five years ago there was a rumor that she had been seen in Paris, and Sir Frederic sent me across the Channel to look into it. It was merely another false alarm, but while making the investigation I chanced to encounter Major Durand, who was also on the ground. Poor chap—that was one of a long series of disappointments for him. I hope he is not to suffer another here to-night.”
“How did the Major happen to come to America at this time?” Miss Morrow inquired.
“He came in answer to a cable from Sir Frederic,” Duff explained. “Sir Frederic asked his help, and of course he hastened to comply, landing in New York a week ago. When I got off the Twentieth Century in Chicago I discovered Durand had been on the same train. We joined forces and hurried onto San Francisco together.”
“Well, he, at least, can help us,” Miss Morrow suggested.
“I fancy he can. I repeat, I have been over the case carefully, but I have had no inspiration as yet. One angle of it interests me tremendously—those velvet slippers. Why were they taken? Where are they now? They appear to be again the essential clue. What do you say, Sergeant?”
Chan shrugged. “Slippers were exactly that long time ago,” he said. “On which occasion they led positively no place.”
“I know,” smiled Duff. “But I’m not superstitious. I shall follow them again. By the way, there is one point on which I may be able to offer some help.” He turned suddenly to Kirk. “You have a butl
er named Paradise?” he inquired.
Kirk’s heart sank. “Yes—and a very good one,” he answered.
“I have been interested in Paradise,” said Duff. “And Paradise, I understand, has been interested in Sir Frederic’s mail. Where is he now?”
“He’s in the kitchen, or his room,” Kirk replied. “Do you want to see him?”
“Before I go—yes,” Duff said.
Flannery came through the hall, followed by a big, blond man in a dripping Burberry coat. Major Eric Durand, retired, looked to be the sportsman type of Englishman; his cheeks were tanned and weatherbeaten, as though from much riding in the open, his blue eyes alert. Indoors, one would picture him sitting in a club with a cigar, a whiskey and soda, and a copy of the Field.
“Come in, Major,” Flannery said. He introduced the Britisher to the company, and Kirk hurried forward to take the Burberry coat. There followed a moment of awkward silence.
“Major,” Flannery began, “we haven’t told you why we got you here. You have come to San Francisco in response to a cablegram from Sir Frederic Bruce?”
“I have,” said Durand quietly.
“Did he give you any idea of why he wanted you to come?”
“He intimated that he was on the point of finding—my wife.”
“I see. Your wife disappeared under unusual circumstances some fifteen years ago, in India?”
“Precisely.”
“Did you ever hear of her after that?”
“Never. There were many false reports, of course. We followed them all up, but none of them came to anything in the end.”
“You never heard of her at Nice? Or in New York?”
“No—I don’t think those were among the places. I’m sure they weren’t.”
“You would, of course, know her if you saw her now?”
Durand looked up with sudden interest. “I fancy I would. She was only eighteen when she was—lost.” Miss Morrow felt a quick twinge of pity for the man. “But one doesn’t forget, you know.”
“Major,” said Flannery slowly, “we have every reason to believe that your wife is in this building tonight.”
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