Behind That Curtain

by Earl Der Biggers

  “And the poor husband searching frantically throughout India.”

  “Yes, they rather forgot Durand, didn’t they? But they were in love. You know, it looks to me as though we had stumbled onto a great love story. Do you think—”

  “I wonder.”

  “You wonder what?”

  “I wonder if it’s all true—and if it is, does it bring us any closer to a solution of the puzzle? After all, the question remains—who killed Sir Frederic? Captain Flannery hadn’t an iota of proof for any of his wild surmises involving Beetham.”

  “Oh, forget your worries. Let’s pretend. This deserted street is the camel road to Teheran—the old silk road from China to Persia. You and I—”

  “You and I have no time for silk roads now. We must find the road that leads to a solution of our mystery.”

  Kirk sighed. “All right. To make a headline of it, Attorney Morrow Slams Door on Romance Probe. But some day I’ll catch you off your guard, and then—look out!”

  “I’m never off my guard,” she laughed.

  On Friday morning, after breakfast, Chan hesitated a moment, and then followed Barry Kirk into his bedroom. “If you will pardon the imposition, I have bold request to make.”

  “Certainly, Charlie. What is it?”

  “I wish you to take me to Cosmopolitan Club, and introduce me past eagle-eyed door man. After that, I have unlimited yearning to meet old employee of club.”

  “An old employee? Well, there’s Peter Lee. He’s been in charge of the check-room for thirty years. Would he do?”

  “An excellent choice. I would have you suggest to this Lee that he show me about club-house, roof to cellar. Is that possible?”

  “Of course.” Kirk looked at him keenly. “You’re still thinking about that club year-book we found beside Sir Frederic?”

  “I have never ceased to think of it,” Chan returned. “Whenever you are ready, please.”

  Deeply mystified, Kirk took him to the Cosmopolitan and turned him over to Peter Lee.

  “It is not necessary that you loiter on the scene,” Chan remarked, grinning with pleasure. “I will do some investigating and return to the bungalow later.”

  “All right,” Kirk replied. “Just as you wish.”

  It was close to the luncheon hour when Chan showed up, his little eyes gleaming.

  “What luck?” Kirk inquired.

  “Time will reveal,” said Chan. “I find this mainland climate bracing to an extremity. Very much fear I shall depopulate your kitchen at lunch.”

  “Well, don’t drink too heartily of the hydrocyanic acid,” Kirk smiled. “Something tells me it would be a real calamity if we lost you just at present.”

  After luncheon Miss Morrow telephoned to say that Grace Lane, accompanied by the two policemen, would reach Flannery’s office at four o’clock. She added that they were both invited—on her own initiative.

  “Let us go,” Chan remarked. “Captain Flannery’s big scene should have crowded house.”

  “What do you think will come of it?” Kirk asked.

  “I am curious to learn. If it has big success, then my work here is finished. If not—”

  “Yes? Then what?”

  “Then I may suddenly act like pompous stager of shows myself,” Chan suggested.

  Flannery, Duff and Miss Morrow were in the Captain’s office when Chan and Barry Kirk walked in. “Hello,” said the Captain. “Want to be in at the finish, eh?”

  “Pleasure would be impossible to deny ourselves,” Chan told him.

  “Well, I’m all set,” Flannery went on. “All my plans made.”

  Chan nodded. “The wise man digs his well before he is thirsty,” he remarked.

  “You haven’t been doing any too much digging,” Flannery chided. “I got to admit, Sergeant, you’ve kept your word. You’ve let me solve this case without offering very much help. However, I’ve been equal to it. I haven’t needed you, as it turned out. You might as well have been on that boat ten days ago.”

  “A sad reflection for me,” said Chan. “But I am not of mean nature. My hearty congratulations will be ready when desired.”

  Colonel Beetham was ushered into the room. His manner was nonchalant, and, as always, rather condescending.

  “Ah, Captain,” he remarked, “I’m here again. According to instructions—”

  “I’m very glad to see you,” Flannery broke in.

  “And just what can I do for you today?” inquired Beetham, dropping into a chair.

  “I’m anxious to have you meet—a certain lady.”

  The Colonel opened a cigarette case, took out a cigarette, and tapped it on the silver side of the case. “Ah, yes. I’m not precisely a lady’s man, but—”

  “I think you’ll be interested to meet this one,” Flannery told him.

  “Really?” He lighted a match.

  “You see,” Flannery went on, “it happens to be a lady who once took a very long journey in your company.”

  Beetham’s brown, lean hand paused with the lighted match. The flame held steady. “I do not understand you,” he said.

  “An eight months’ journey, I believe,” the Captain persisted. “Through Khyber Pass and across Afghanistan and eastern Persia to the neighborhood of Teheran.”

  Beetham lighted his cigarette and tossed away the match. “My dear fellow—what are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Eve Durand—the lady you helped out of India fifteen years ago. No one suspected you, did they, Colonel? Too big a man—above suspicion—all those medals on your chest. However, I know you did it—I know you ran away with Durand’s wife—and I’ll prove it, too. But perhaps I needn’t prove it—perhaps you’ll admit it—” He stopped.

  Beetham unconcernedly blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling, and for a moment watched it dissolve. “All that,” he remarked, “is so absolutely silly I refuse to answer.”

  “Suit yourself,” replied Flannery. “At any rate, Eve Durand will be here in a few minutes, and I want you to see her again. The sight may refresh your memory. I want you to see her—standing at her husband’s side.”

  Beetham nodded. “I shall be most happy. I knew them both, long ago. Yes, I shall be a very pleased witness of the touching reunion you picture.”

  A policeman appeared at the door. “Major Durand is outside,” he announced.

  “Good,” said Flannery. “Pat—this is Colonel Beetham. I want you to take him into the back room—the second one—and stay with him until I send for the both of you.”

  Beetham rose. “I say, am I under arrest?” he inquired.

  “You’re not under arrest,” returned Flannery. “But you’re going with Pat. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely. Pat—I am at your service.” The two disappeared. Flannery rose and going to the door leading into the anteroom, admitted Major Durand.

  The Major entered and stood there, somewhat at a loss. Flannery proffered a chair. “Sit down, sir. You know everybody here. I’ve great news for you. We’ve located the woman we think is your wife, and she’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Durand stared at him. “You’ve found—Eve? Can that possibly be true?”

  “We’ll know in a minute,” Flannery said. “I may tell you I’m certain of it—but we’ll let you see for yourself. Before she comes—one or two things I want to ask you about. Among the members of that picnic party was Colonel John Beetham, the explorer?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “He left the next morning on a long journey through the Khyber Pass?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see him go, but they told me he had gone.”

  “Has anyone ever suggested that he may have taken your wife with him when he left?”

  The question struck Durand with the force of a bullet. He paled. “No one has ever made that suggestion,” he replied, almost inaudibly.

  “All the same, I’m here to tell you that is exactly what happened.”

  Durand got up and
began to pace the floor. “Beetham,” he muttered. “Beetham. No, no—he wouldn’t have done it. A fine chap, Beetham—one of the best. A gentleman. He wouldn’t have done that to me.”

  “He was just in here, and I accused him of it.”

  “But he denied it, of course?”

  “Yes—he did. But my evidence—”

  “Damn your evidence,” cried Durand. “He’s not that kind of man, I tell you. Not Beetham. And my wife—Eve—why, what you are saying is an insult to her. She loved me. I’m sure of it—she loved me. I won’t believe—I can’t—”

  “Ask her when she comes,” suggested Flannery. Durand sank back into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

  For a long moment they waited in silence. Miss Morrow’s cheeks were flushed with excitement; Duff was puffing quietly on his inevitable pipe; Charlie Chan sat immobile as an idol of stone. Kirk nervously took out a cigarette, and then put it back in the case.

  The man named Petersen appeared in the door. He was dusty and travel-stained.

  “Hello, Jim,” Flannery cried. “Have you got her?”

  “I’ve got her this time,” Petersen answered, and stood aside. The woman of so many names entered the room and halted, her eyes anxious and tired. Another long silence.

  “Major Durand,” said Flannery. “Unless I am much mistaken—”

  Durand got slowly to his feet, and took a step forward. He studied the woman intently for a moment, and then he made a little gesture of despair.

  “It’s the old story,” he said brokenly. “The old story over again. Captain Flannery, you are mistaken. This woman is not my wife.”

  Chapter 19

  A VIGIL IN THE DARK

  For a moment no one spoke. Captain Flannery was gradually deflating like a bright red balloon that had received a fatal puncture. Suddenly his eyes blazed with anger. He turned hotly on Charlie Chan.

  “You!” he shouted. “You got me into this! You and your small-time hunch. The lady is Jennie Jerome. She is also Marie Lantelme. What does that mean? It means she is Eve Durand. A guess—a fat-headed guess—and I listened to you. I believed you. Good lord, what a fool I’ve been!”

  Profound contrition shone in Charlie’s eyes. “I am so sorry. I have made stupid error. Captain—is it possible you will ever forgive me?”

  Flannery snorted. “Will I ever forgive myself? Listening to a Chinaman—me, Tom Flannery. With my experience—my record—bah! I’ve been crazy—plumb crazy—but that’s all over now.” He rose. “Major Durand, a thousand apologies. I wouldn’t have disappointed you again for worlds.”

  Durand shrugged his shoulders wearily. “Why, that doesn’t matter. You meant it kindly, I know. For a moment, in spite of all that has happened, I did allow myself to hope—I did think that it might really be Eve. Silly of me—I should have learned my lesson long ago. Well, there is nothing more to be said.” He moved toward the door. “If that is all, Captain—”

  “Yes, that’s all. I’m sorry, Major.”

  Durand bowed. “I’m sorry, too. No doubt I shall see you again. Good-by.”

  Near the door, as he went out, he passed the girl who called herself Grace Lane. She had been standing there drooping with fatigue; now she took a step nearer the desk. Her face was pale, her eyes dull with the strain of a long, hard day. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

  “Wait a minute,” growled Flannery.

  Miss Morrow rose, and placed a chair for the other woman. She was rewarded by a grateful look.

  “I just remembered Beetham,” said Flannery. Again he scowled at Chan. “I’ve tipped off my hand to him—for nothing. I can thank you for that, too.”

  “My guilty feeling grows by jumps and bounds,” sighed Charlie.

  “It ought to,” the Captain replied. He went to the inner door and called loudly: “Pat!” Pat appeared at once, followed by the Colonel. For an instant Beetham stood staring curiously about the room.

  “But where,” he remarked, “is the touching reunion? I don’t see Durand. No more do I see his wife.”

  Flannery’s face grew even redder than usual. “There’s been a mistake,” he admitted.

  “There have been a number of mistakes, I fancy,” said Beetham carelessly. “A dangerous habit, that of making mistakes, Captain. You should seek to overcome it.”

  “When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it,” responded the harassed Flannery. “You can go along. But I still regard you as an important witness in this case, and I warn you not to strike out for any more deserts until I give you the word.”

  “I shall remember what you say,” Beetham nodded, and went out.

  “What are you going to do with me?” Grace Lane persisted.

  “Well, I guess you’ve had a pretty rough deal,” Flannery said. “I apologize to you. You see, I got foolish and listened to a Chinaman, and that’s how I came to make a mistake about your identity. I brought you back on a charge of stealing a uniform, but probably Mr. Kirk won’t want to go ahead with that.”

  “I should say not,” cried Barry Kirk. He turned to the woman. “I hope you won’t think it was my idea. You can have a bale of my uniforms, if you like.”

  “You’re very kind,” she answered.

  “Not at all. What is more, your old position is yours if you want it. You know, I’m eager to beautify the Kirk Building, and I lost ground when you left.”

  She smiled, without replying. “I may go then?” she said, rising.

  “Sure,” agreed Flannery. “Run along.”

  Miss Morrow looked at her keenly. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. I—”

  “I do,” said the deputy district attorney. “You’re going home with me. I’ve got an apartment—there’s loads of room. You shall stay with me for this one night, at least.”

  “You—you are really too good to me,” replied Grace Lane, and her voice broke slightly.

  “Nonsense. We’ve all been far too unkind to you. Come along.”

  The two women went out. Flannery sank down behind his desk. “Now I’m going at this thing in my own way for a change,” he announced. “This has been an awful upset, but I had it coming to me. Listening to a Chinaman! If Grace Lane isn’t Eve Durand, who is? What do you say, Inspector Duff?”

  “I might also warn you,” smiled Duff, “against the dangers of listening to an Englishman.”

  “Oh, but you’re from Scotland Yard. I got respect for your opinion. Let’s see—Eve Durand is about somewhere—I’m sure of that. Sir Frederic was the kind of man who knows what he’s talking about. There’s that Lila Barr. She fits the description pretty well. There’s Gloria Garland. An assumed name—Australia—might be. There’s Eileen Enderby. Rust stains on her dress that night. But I didn’t see them. May have been there—probably not. Another guess on Sergeant Chan’s part, perhaps.”

  “There is also,” added Charlie, “Mrs. Tupper-Brock. I offer the hint with reluctance.”

  “And well you may,” sneered Flannery. “No—if you fancy Mrs. Tupper-Brock, then right there she’s out with me. Which of these women—I’ll have to start all over again.”

  “I feel humble and contrite,” said Chan. “In spite of which, suggestions keep crowding to my tongue. Have you heard old Chinese saying, Captain—‘It is always darkest underneath the lamp’?”

  “I’m fed up on Chinese sayings,” replied the Captain.

  “The one I have named means what? That just above our heads the light is blazing. Such is the fact, Captain Flannery. Take my advice, and worry no more about Eve Durand.”

  “Why not?” asked Flannery, in spite of himself.

  “Because you are poised on extreme verge of the great triumph of your life. In a few hours at the most your head will be ringing with your own praises.”

  “How’s that?”

  “In a few hours you will arrest the murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce,” Chan told him calmly.

  “Say—how do you get that way?” queried
Flannery.

  “There is one condition. It may be hard one for you,” Chan continued. “For your own sake, I beseech you to comply with same.”

  “One condition? What’s that?”

  “You must listen once more—and for the last time—to what you call a Chinaman.”

  Flannery stirred uneasily. A hot denial rose to his lips, but something in the little man’s confident manner disturbed him.

  “Listen to you again, eh? As though I’d do that.”

  Inspector Duff stood up, and relighted his pipe. “If it is true that you respect my opinion, Captain—then, quoting our friend, I would make humble suggestion. Do as he asks.”

  Flannery did not reply for a moment. “Well,” he said finally, “what have you got up your sleeve now? Another hunch?”

  Chan shook his head. “A certainty. I am stupid man from small island, and I am often wrong. This time I am quite correct. Follow me—and I prove it.”

  “I wish I knew what you’re talking about,” Flannery said.

  “An arrest—in a few hours—if you will stoop so far as to do what I require,” Chan told him. “In Scotland Yard, which Inspector Duff honors by his association, there is in every case of murder what they call essential clue. There was essential clue in this case.”

  “The slippers?” asked Flannery.

  “No,” Charlie replied. “The slippers were valuable, but not essential. The essential clue was placed on scene by hand now dead. Hand of a man clever far beyond his fellows—how sad that such a man has passed. When Sir Frederic saw death looking him boldly in the face, he reached to a bookcase and took down—what? The essential clue, which fell from his dying hand to lie at his side on the dusty floor. The year-book of the Cosmopolitan Club.”

  A moment of silence followed. There was a ring of conviction in the detective’s voice.

  “Well—what do you want?” inquired Flannery.

  “I want that you must come to the Cosmopolitan Club in one-half hour. Inspector Duff will of course accompany. You must then display unaccustomed patience and wait like man of stone. Exactly how long I can not predict now. But in due time I will point out to you the killer of Sir Frederic—and I will produce proof of what I say.”