Flannery rose. “Well, it’s your last chance. You make a monkey of me again and I’ll deport you as an undesirable alien. At the Cosmopolitan Club in half an hour. We’ll be there.”
“Undesirable alien will greet you at the door,” smiled Charlie, “hoping to become desirable at any moment. Mr. Kirk—will you be so good as to join my company?” He and Barry Kirk went out.
“Well, Charlie, you’re certainly in bad with the Captain,” said Kirk as they stood in the street waiting for a taxi.
Chan nodded. “Will be in even worse presently,” he replied.
Kirk stared at him. “How’s that?”
“I shall point him the way to success. He will claim all credit, but sight of me will make him uncomfortable. No man loves the person who has guided his faltering footsteps to high-up rung of the ladder.”
They entered a taxi. “The Cosmopolitan Club,” Chan ordered. He turned to Kirk. “And now I must bow low in dust with many humble apologies to you. I have grieviously betrayed a trust.”
“How so?” asked Kirk surprised.
Chan took a letter from his pocket. It was somewhat worn and the handwriting on the envelope was a trifle blurred. “The other morning you wrote letters in office, giving same to me to mail. I made gesture toward mail chute, but I extracted this missive.”
“Great Scott!” cried Kirk. “Hasn’t that been mailed?”
“It has not. What could be more disgusting? My gracious host, at whose hands I have received every kindness. I have besmirched his confidence.”
“But you had a reason?” suggested Kirk.
“A very good reason, which time will ascertain. Am I stepping over the bounds when I seek to dig up your forgiveness?”
“Not at all,” Kirk smiled.
“You are most affable man it has yet been my fate to encounter.” The taxi had reached Union Square. Chan called to the driver to halt. “I alight here to correct my crime,” he explained. “The long-delayed letter now goes to its destination by special, fleet-footed messenger.”
“I say—you don’t mean—” Kirk cried in amazement.
“What I mean comes gradually into the light,” Chan told him. He got out of the taxi. “Be so kind as to await my coming at the club door. The guardian angel beyond the threshold is jealous as to who has honor of entering Cosmopolitan Club. It has been just as well for my purpose, but please make sure that I am not left rejected outside the portal.”
“I’ll watch for you,” Kirk promised.
He rode on to the club, his head whirling with new speculations and questions. No—no—this couldn’t be. But Charlie had an air—
Shortly after he had reached the building Charlie appeared, and Kirk steered him past the gold-laced door man. Presently Flannery and Duff arrived. The Captain’s manner suggested that he was acting against his better judgment.
“I suppose this is another wild-goose chase,” he fretted.
“One during which the goose is apprehended, I think,” Chan assured him. “But there will be need of Oriental calm. Have you good supply? We may loiter here until midnight hour.”
“That’s pleasant,” Flannery replied. “Well, I’ll wait a while. But this is your last chance—remember.”
“Also your great chance,” Chan shrugged. “You must likewise remember. We do wrong to hang here in spotlight of publicity. Mr. Kirk, I have made selection of nook where we may crouch unobserved, but always observing. I refer to little room behind office, opening at the side on check-room.”
“All right—I know where you mean,” Kirk told him. He spoke to the manager, and the four of them were ushered into a little back room, unused at the moment and in semi-darkness. Chairs were brought, and all save Charlie sat down. The little detective bustled about. He arranged that his three companions should have an unobstructed view of the check-room, where his friend of the morning, old Peter Lee, sat behind his barrier engrossed in a bright pink newspaper.
“Only one moment,” said Chan. He went out through the door which led behind the counter of the check-room. For a brief time he talked in low tones with Lee. Then the three men sitting in the dusk saw him give a quick look toward the club lobby, and dodge abruptly into his hiding-place beside them.
Colonel John Beetham, debonair as usual, appeared at the counter and checked his hat and coat. Kirk, Flannery and Duff leaned forward eagerly and watched him as he accepted the brass check and turned away. But Chan made no move.
Time passed. Other members came into the club for dinner and checked their belongings, unconscious of the prying eyes in the little room. Flannery began to stir restlessly on his uncomfortable chair.
“What the devil is all this?” he demanded.
“Patience,” Charlie admonished. “As the Chinese say, ‘In time the grass becomes milk.’”
“Yeah—but I’d rather hunt up a cow,” Flannery growled.
“Patient waiting,” Chan went on, “is first requisite of good detective. Is that not correct, Inspector Duff?”
“Sometimes it seems the only requisite,” Duff agreed. “I fancy I may smoke here?”
“Oh, of course,” Kirk told him. He sighed with relief and took out his pipe.
The minutes dragged on. They heard the shuffle of feet on the tiled floor of the lobby, the voices of members calling greetings, making dinner dates. Flannery was like a fly on a hot griddle.
“If you’re making a fool of me again—” he began.
His recent humiliation had been recalled to his mind by the sight of Major Eric Durand, checking his Burberry and his felt hat with Peter Lee. The Major’s manner was one of deep depression.
“Poor devil,” said Flannery softly. “We handed him a hard jolt to-day. It wasn’t necessary, either.” His accusing eyes sought Chan. The detective was huddled up on his chair like some fat, oblivious Buddha.
A half-hour passed. Flannery was in constant touch with the figures on the face of his watch. “Missing my dinner,” he complained “And this chair—it’s like a barrel top.”
“There was no time to procure a velvet couch,” Chan suggested gently. “Compose yourself, I beg. The happy man is the calm man. We have only begun to vigil.”
At the end of another half-hour, Flannery was fuming. “Give us a tip,” he demanded. “What are we waiting for? I’ll know, or by heaven, I’ll get out of here so quick—”
“Please,” whispered Charlie. “We are waiting for the murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce. Is that not enough?”
“No, it isn’t,” the Captain snapped. “I’m sick of you and your confounded mystery. Put your cards on the table like a white man. This chair is killing me, I tell you—”
“Hush!” said Chan. He was leaning forward now, staring through the door into the check-room. The others followed his gaze.
Major Eric Durand stood before the counter. He threw down the brass check for his coat and hat. It rang metallically in the silence. Peter Lee brought them for him. He leaned across the barrier and helped Durand on with his coat. The Major was fumbling in his pockets. He produced a small bit of cardboard, which he gave to Peter Lee. The old man studied his treasures for a moment, and then handed over a black leather briefcase.
Chan had seized Flannery’s arm, and was dragging the astonished Captain toward the club lobby. Kirk and Duff followed. They lined up before the huge front door. Durand appeared, walking briskly. He stopped as he saw the group barring his way.
“Ah, we meet again,” he said. “Mr. Kirk, it was thoughtful of you to send me that guest card to your club. I deeply appreciate it. It arrived only a short time ago. I shall enjoy dropping in here frequently—”
Charlie Chan’s fat face was shining with joy. He raised his arm with the gesture of a Booth or a Salvini.
“Captain Flannery,” he cried. “Arrest this man.”
“Why—I—er—I don’t—” sputtered Flannery.
“Arrest this man Durand,” Chan went on. “Arrest him at same moment while he holds beneath his arm a briefc
ase containing much useful information. The briefcase Sir Frederic Bruce checked in this club on the afternoon of the day he died.”
Chapter 20
THE TRUTH ARRIVES
All color had drained from Durand’s face. It was gray as fog as he stood there confronted by the triumphant little Chinese. Flannery reached out and seized the leather case. The Major made no move to resist.
“Sir Frederic’s briefcase,” Flannery cried. His air of uncertainty had vanished; he was alert and confident. “By heaven, if that’s true, then our man hunt is over.” He sought to open the case. “The thing’s locked,” he added. “I don’t like to break it open. It will be a mighty important piece of evidence.”
“Mr. Kirk still holds in possession Sir Frederic’s keys,” suggested Charlie. “I would have brought them with me but I did not know where they reposed.”
“They are in my desk,” Kirk told him.
A curious group was gathering about them. Chan turned to Flannery. “Our standing here has only one result. We offer ourselves as nucleus for a crowd. Humbly state we should go at once to bungalow. There the matter may be threshed out like winter wheat.”
“Good idea,” replied Flannery.
“I also ask that Mr. Kirk visit telephone booth and request Miss Morrow to speed to bungalow with all haste. It would be amazing unkindness to drop her out of events at this junction.”
“Sure,” agreed Flannery. “Do that, Mr. Kirk.”
“Likewise,” added Charlie, laying a hand on Kirk’s arm, “advise her to bring with her the elevator operator, Grace Lane.”
“What for?” demanded Flannery.
“Time will reveal,” Chan shrugged. As Kirk sped away, Colonel John Beetham came up. For a moment the explorer stood, taking in the scene before him. His inscrutable expression did not change.
“Colonel Beetham,” Charlie explained, “we have here the man who killed Sir Frederic Bruce.”
“Really?” returned Beetham calmly.
“Undubitably. It is a matter that concerns you, I think. Will you be so good as to join our little party?”
“Of course,” Beetham replied. He went for his hat and coat. Chan followed him, and retrieved from Peter Lee the pasteboard check on receipt of which the old man had relinquished Sir Frederic’s property.
Kirk, Beetham and Chan returned to the group by the door. “All set,” announced Flannery. “Come along, Major Durand.”
Durand hesitated. “I am not familiar with your law. But shouldn’t there be some sort of warrant—”
“You needn’t worry about that. I’m taking you on suspicion. I can get a warrant when I want it. Don’t be a fool—come on.”
Outside a gentle rain had begun to fall, and the town was wrapped in mist. Duff, Flannery and Durand got into one taxi, and Chan followed with Kirk and the explorer in another. As Charlie was stepping into the car, a breathless figure shot out of the dark.
“Who was that with Flannery?” panted Bill Rankin.
“It has happened as I telephoned from the hotel,” Charlie answered. “We have our man.”
“Major Durand?”
“The same.”
“Good enough. I’ll have a flash on the street in twenty minutes. You certainly kept your promise.”
“Old habit with me,” Chan told him.
“And how about Beetham?”
Chan glanced into the dark cab. “Nothing to do with the matter. We were on wrong trail there.”
“Too bad,” Rankin said. “Well, I’m off. I’ll be back later for details. Thanks a thousand times.”
Chan inserted his broad bulk into the taxi, and they started for the Kirk Building.
“May I express humble hope,” remarked the little detective to Kirk, “that I am forgiven for my crime. I refer to my delay in mailing to Major Durand your letter containing guest card for Cosmopolitan Club.”
“Oh, surely,” Kirk told him.
“It chanced I was not yet ready he should walk inside the club,” Chan added.
“Well, I’m knocked cold,” Kirk said. “You must have had your eye on him for some time.”
“I will explain with all my eloquence later. Just now I content myself with admitting this—Major Durand was one person in all the world who did not want Eve Durand discovered.”
“But in heaven’s name—why not?” Kirk asked.
“Alas, I am no miracle man. It is a matter I hope will be apparent later. Perhaps Colonel Beetham can enlighten us.”
The Colonel’s voice was cool and even in the darkness. “I’m a bit weary of lying,” he remarked. “I could enlighten you. But I won’t. You see, I have made a promise. And like yourself, Sergeant, I prefer to keep my promises.”
“We have many commendable points in common.”
Beetham laughed. “By the way—that was extremely decent of you—telling the reporter I wasn’t concerned in this affair.”
“Only hope,” responded Chan, “that events will justify my very magnanimous act.”
They alighted before the Kirk Building and rode up to the bungalow. Paradise had admitted Flannery and Duff with their prisoner.
“Here you are,” said Flannery briskly. “Now, Mr. Kirk—let’s have that key.”
Kirk stepped to his desk and produced Sir Frederic’s keys. The Captain, with Duff close at his side, hastened to open the case. Charlie dropped down on the edge of a chair, his intent little eyes on Major Durand. The Major was seated in a corner of the room, his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the rug.
“By George,” cried Duff. “It’s Sir Frederic’s case, right enough. And here—yes—here is what we have been looking for.” He took out a typewritten sheaf of paper. “Here are his records in the matter of Eve Durand.”
The Inspector began to read eagerly. Flannery turned to Durand.
“Well, Major—this settles your hash. Where did you get the check for this briefcase?”
Durand made no reply. “I will answer for him,” Charlie said. “He extracted same from the purse of Sir Frederic the night he killed that splendid gentleman.”
“Then you visited San Francisco once before, Major?” Flannery persisted.
Still Durand did not so much as raise his eyes.
“Naturally he did,” Chan grinned. “Captain Flannery, at any moment reporters will burst upon you desiring to learn how you captured this dangerous man. Would it not be better if I told you so you will be able to make intelligent reply?” Flannery glared at him. “The matter will demand your close attention. I search about, wondering where to begin.”
Duff looked up. “I suggest you start with the moment when you first suspected Durand,” he said, and returned to his perusal of the records.
Chan nodded. “It was here in this room, same night when Durand arrived. Have you ever heard, Captain,—do not fear, it is not old saying this time. Have you ever heard Chinese are psychic people? It is true. A look, a gesture, a tone of voice—something goes click inside. I hear Mr. Kirk say to the Major he will send guest card for club or two. And from the sudden warmth of the Major’s reply, I obtain my psychic spasm of warning. At once I ask myself, has the Major special interest in San Francisco clubs? It would seem so. Is he, then, the man we seek? No, he can not be. Not if he came entire distance from New York with good Inspector Duff.
“But—I advise myself—pause here and ponder. What has Inspector Duff said on this point? He has said that when he got off Twentieth Century in Chicago, he discovered Major had been on same train. I put an inquiry to myself. Has this clever man, Duff, for once in his life been hoodwinked? Inspector does me high honor to invite to dinner. During the feast, I probe about. I politely inquire, did he with his own eyes see Major Durand on board Twentieth Century while train was yet speeding between New York and Chicago? No, he did not. He saw him first in Chicago station. Durand assures him he was on identical train Inspector has just left. He announces he, too, is on way to San Francisco. They take, that same night, train bound for coast.
&nbs
p; “The matter, then, is possible. Men have been known to double back on own tracks. Study of time elapsed since murder reveals Major may have been doing this very thing. I begin to think deep about Durand. I recall that at luncheon when Sir Frederic tells us of Eve Durand case, he makes curious omission which I noted at the time. He says that when he is planning to go to Peshawar to look into Eve Durand matter, he calls on Sir George Mannering, the woman’s uncle. Yet husband is living in England, and he would know much more about the affair than uncle would. Why, then, did not Sir Frederic interrogate the husband? I find there food for thought.
“All time I am wondering about Cosmopolitan Club year-book, which hand of Sir Frederic drops on floor at dying moment. Mr. Kirk kindly takes me to lunch at club, and checks a briefcase. I note check for coat is of metal, but briefcase check is of cardboard, with name of article deposited written on surface by trembling hand of Peter Lee. A bright light flashes in my mind. I will suppose that Sir Frederic checked a briefcase containing records we so hotly seek, and check for same was in pocket when he died. This the killer extracts; he is clever man and knows at last he has located papers he wants so fiercely. But alas for him, club-house door is guarded, only members and guests may enter. In despair, he flees, but that check he carries with him spells his doom unless he can return and obtain object it represents. He longs to do so, but danger is great.
“Then fine evidence arrives. The velvet slippers come back to us on tide of events, wrapped in newspaper. On margin of paper, partially torn, are figures—a money addition—$79 plus $23 equals $103. This refers to dollars only. Cents have been torn off. I visit railroad office. I decide what must have been on that paper before its tearing. Simply this, $79.84 plus $23.63 equals $103.47. What is that? The cost of railroad fare to Chicago with lower berth. Then the person who discarded those slippers was on Oakland ferry Wednesday morning after murder, bound to take train from Oakland terminal to Chicago. Who of all my suspects might have done that? No one but Major Durand.
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