The Colonel shook his head. “No—I’d had my chat with Eve. You see, I’d located her several days before the dinner party. After losing track of her for ten years, I came to San Francisco on a rumor she was here. My errand on the floor below was with Li Gung, as I said it was.”
“And the next day you shipped him off to Honolulu?”
“I did, yes. At Eve’s request. I’d arranged that two days before. She heard Sir Frederic was interested in him, and she was afraid something might happen to wreck my next expedition. The thing was unnecessary; Li Gung would never have told, but to set her mind at rest, I did as she asked.”
Duff looked at him with open disapproval. “You knew that Durand had committed one murder. Yet you said nothing to the police. Was that playing the game, Colonel Beetham?”
Beetham shrugged. “Yes, I think it was. I’m sure of it. I did not dream that Durand had been in San Francisco the night of Sir Frederic’s murder. Even if I had known he was here—well—you see—”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” snapped Duff.
“There is really no reason why I need explain to you,” Beetham went on. “However, I will. Something happened on that long trek across Afghanistan and the Kevir Desert. Eve was so brave, so uncomplaining. I—I fell in love. For the first and last time. What she has done since—for me—damn it, man, I worship her. But I have never told her so—I do not know whether she cares for me or not. While Durand lived, he was my rival, in a way. If I had given him up—what would my motive have been? I couldn’t have been quite sure myself. I did suggest that Eve tell her story, but I didn’t press the point. I couldn’t, you see. I had to leave the decision to her. When she escaped that night from Flannery’s men, I helped her. If that was what she wanted, I was forced to agree. Yes, Inspector—I was playing the game, according to my lights.”
Duff shrugged. “A nice sense of honor,” he remarked. “However, I will go so far as to wish you luck.”
“Thanks,” returned Beetham. He took up his coat. “I may say that, no doubt from selfish motives, I was keen to have you get him. And Sergeant Chan here saw to it that I was not disappointed. Sergeant, my hearty congratulations. But I know your people—and I am not surprised.”
Chan bowed. “For ever with me your words will remain, lasting and beautiful as flowers of jade.”
“I will go along,” said Beetham, and departed.
Duff took up Sir Frederic’s briefcase. “Perhaps you would like to look at these records, Sergeant,” he remarked.
Chan came to with a start. “Pardon my stupidity.”
“I said—maybe you want to glance at Sir Frederic’s records?”
Charlie shook his head. “Curiosity is all quenched, like fire in pouring rain. We have looked at last behind that curtain Sir Frederic pictured, and I am content. At the moment I was indulging in bitter thought. There is no boat to Honolulu until next Wednesday. Five terrible days.”
Duff laughed. “Well, I’ve been through the records hastily,” he went on. “Sir Frederic had talked with certain friends of that porter in London. But the man himself had died before the Yard heard about him, and the evidence of his associates was hazy—hardly the sort to stand up in the courts. It needed the corroboration of Eve Durand, and that was what Sir Frederic was determined to get at any cost.”
“How did Sir Frederic know that Eve Durand was in San Francisco?” Barry Kirk inquired.
“He got that information from a letter written by Mrs. Tupper-Brock to an aunt in Shanghai. There is a copy of the letter here. In it Mrs. Tupper-Brock mentioned that Eve Durand was in this city, employed in the Kirk Building. All of which explains his eagerness to make his headquarters with you, Mr. Kirk. But he hadn’t located her—he died without that satisfaction, poor chap. His choice was Miss Lila Barr. He didn’t dare say anything to Mrs. Tupper-Brock, for fear Eve Durand would slip through his fingers again. On the night of the dinner he was setting a trap—the desk unlocked, the safe open. He rather hoped someone would creep in for a look around. That and the chance of identifying Jennie Jerome, or Marie Lantelme—on these things he placed his reliance.”
“He would have won, if he had lived,” Chan remarked.
“No doubt about it. In Peshawar he established to his own satisfaction the manner in which Eve had left India. When he found her he would have told her what he knew, and she would have related her story, just as she did here tonight. His long search for the murderer of Hilary Galt would have ended then and there. Poor Sir Frederic.” Duff picked up his coat, and Kirk helped him. “I’ll take the briefcase,” the Inspector continued. “It will be useful at the Yard.” He held out his hand. “Sergeant Chan, meeting you would alone have repaid me for my long journey. Come to London some day. I’ll show you how we work over there.”
Chan smiled. “You are too kind. But the postman on his holiday has walked until feet are aching. Free to remark that if he ever takes another vacation, same will be forced on him at point of plenty big gun.”
“I don’t wonder,” replied Duff. “Mr. Kirk—a pleasure to know you, too. Good-by and good luck to you both.”
Kirk let him out. When he returned, Charlie was standing at the window, staring down on the roofs of the city. He swung about. “Now I go and pack.”
“But you’ve five days for that,” Kirk protested.
Charlie shook his head. “The guest who lingers too long deteriorates like unused fish. You have been so good—more would make me uncomfortable. I remove my presence at once.”
“Oh, no,” Kirk cried. “Good old Paradise will serve dinner in a few minutes.”
“Please,” Chan said, “permit me the luxury of at last beginning to mean what I say.”
He went into his bedroom and in a surprisingly brief time returned. “Luggage was pretty much ready,” he explained. He glanced toward the window. “Bright moon shines tonight in Honolulu. I am thinking of those home nights—long ones with long talks, long sipping of tea, long sleep and long peaceful dreams.” He went to the hall, where he had left his coat and hat. “I am wondering how to make words of the deep thanks I feel,” he said, returning. “Faced with kindness such as yours—”
The doorbell rang, a sharp, insistent peal. Charlie stepped into the bedroom. Kirk opened the door, and Bill Rankin, the reporter, rushed in.
“Where’s Charlie Chan?” he demanded breathlessly.
“He’s gone into his room,” Kirk answered. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
“I want to thank him,” Rankin continued loudly. “He sure treated me like a prince. I beat the town. And I’ve news for him—a woman has just been murdered over in Oakland under the most peculiar circumstances. There are all sorts of bully clues—and since he can’t leave until next week—”
Kirk laughed. “You tell him,” he suggested.
They waited a moment, then Kirk went into the bedroom. He cried out in surprise. The room was empty. A door leading to the passageway stood open. He stepped through it, and discovered that the door at the top of the stairs leading to the offices was also ajar.
“Rankin,” he called. “Come here, please.”
Rankin came. “Why—where is he—”
Kirk preceded the reporter downstairs. The offices were in darkness. In the middle room, Kirk switched on the light. After a hurried glance around, he pointed to the window that opened onto the fire-escape. It had been pushed up as far as it would go.
“The postman,” Kirk remarked, “absolutely refuses to take another walk.”
“Done an Eve Durand on us!” Rankin cried. “Well, I’ll be doggoned.”
Kirk laughed. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll know where to find him—next Wednesday noon.”
Intent on verifying this prediction, Barry Kirk appeared in Miss Morrow’s dusty office the following Wednesday morning at eleven. He had stopped at a florist’s and bought an extravagant cluster of orchids. These he handed to the deputy district attorney.
“What’s the idea?” she asked.
“Co
me on,” he said. “The morning’s as bright as a new gold piece, and down at the docks there’s a ship about to set out for the loveliest fleet of islands in any ocean. The flowers are my bon voyage offering to you.”
“But I’m not sailing,” she protested.
“We’ll pretend you are. You’re going as far as the pier, anyhow. Get your hat.”
“Of course.” She got it, and they went down the dark stairs.
“Have you heard anything from Charlie Chan?” she asked.
“Not a word,” Kirk told her. “Charlie isn’t taking any chances. But we’ll find him aboard the boat. I’d gamble all I’ve got on that.”
They entered his car, and Kirk stepped on the gas. “What a morning,” he remarked. “Cooped up in that dark office of yours, you’ve no idea the things that are going on outside. Lady—spring is here!”
“So it seems. By the way—you know that Colonel Beetham sailed last night for China?”
“Yes. What about Eve Durand?”
“She’s starting to-morrow for England. Her uncle has cabled her to come and stop with him. The Colonel is to be in the Gobi Desert for a year, and then he’s going to England too. It will be spring in Devonshire when he arrives. A very lovely spring, they seem to think.”
Kirk nodded. “But a year away. Too bad—so long to wait. Enjoy the spring you’ve got. That would be my advice.”
He steered his car onto the pier. Another sailing day—excitement and farewells. Tourists and traveling salesmen, bored stewards waiting patiently in line.
Miss Morrow and Kirk ran up the gang-plank onto the deck of the big white ship. “Just stand here by the rail, please,” said Kirk. “With the orchids—”
“What in the world for?”
“I want to see how you’ll look in the role. Back in a minute.”
When he returned, Charlie Chan was walking lightly at his side. The detective’s face was beaming with a satisfaction he could not conceal.
“Overwhelmed by your attention,” he said to the girl.
“Where have you been?” she cried. “We’ve missed you terribly.”
He grinned. “Hiding from temptation,” he explained.
“But Captain Flannery has taken all the credit for your wonderful success. It isn’t fair.”
Chan shrugged. “From the first, I knew my work on this case was like bowing in the dark. Why should I care? May I add that you present charming picture of loveliness this morning?”
“What does she look like to you, Charlie?” Kirk inquired. “Standing there by the rail with those flowers?”
“A bride,” answered Chan promptly, as one who had been coached. “A bride who sails for honeymoon in pleasant company of newly-captured husband.”
“Precisely,” Kirk agreed. “She’s rehearsing the part, you know.”
“The first I’ve heard of it,” objected Miss Morrow.
“Wise man has said, ‘The beautiful bird gets caged,’” Chan told her. “You could not hope to escape.”
The girl handed him a little package. “This is for—the other Barry—with my love.”
“My warmest thanks. He will be proud boy. But you will not give him all your love. You will not overlook original of same name. Chinese are psychic people, and I have sensed it. Am I right? My precious reputation hangs shaking on your answer.”
Miss Morrow smiled. “I’m very much afraid—you’re always right.”
“Now this is truly my happiest day,” Chan told her.
“Mine too,” cried Kirk. He took an envelope from his pocket. “That being arranged, I also have something for little Barry. Give it to him with my warm regards.”
Chan accepted the envelope, heavy with gold pieces. “My heart flows over,” he said. “Small son will express thanks in person when you arrive in Honolulu thrilled with the high delight of honeymoon.”
“Then he’ll have to learn to talk mighty soon,” Kirk answered. “But with a father like you—”
The final call of “visitors ashore” was sounding. They shook hands with Charlie and ran. At the top of the gangplank they were engulfed in a very frenzy of farewell. Mad embraces, hasty kisses, final promises and admonitions. Kirk leaned quickly over and kissed Miss Morrow.
“Oh—how could you!” she cried.
“Pardon me. I was still pretending you were going, too.”
“But I’m not. Neither are you.”
“No one will notice in this melee. Come on.”
They descended to the pier, and ran along it until they stood opposite Charlie Chan. The detective had procured a roll of bright pink paper, and holding fast to one end, he tossed it to the girl.
Kirk smiled happily. “If any one had told me two weeks ago I was going to kiss a lawyer—and like it—” He was interrupted by the hoarse cry of the ship’s siren.
Slowly the vessel drew away from the pier. The pink streamer broke, its ends trailing in the water. Charlie leaned far over the rail.
“Aloha,” he called. “Until we meet again.” His fat face shone with joy. The big ship paused, trembled, and set out for Hawaii.
Note on the Author
Earl Derr Biggers (1884–1933) was an American novelist and playwright. He is remembered primarily for his novels, especially those featuring the Chinese-American detective, Charlie Chan.
Biggers was born in Warren, Ohio, and graduated from Harvard University in 1907. Many of his plays and novels were made into movies, and he was posthumously inducted into the Warren City Schools Distinguished Alumni Hall of Fame.
By 1908, Biggers was hired at the Boston Traveler to write a daily humor column and, soon after, became the drama critic. It was at this time that he met Elanor Ladd, who would later become his wife and who would have a marked influence in his writing.
The popularity of Charlie Chan extended even to China, where audiences in Shanghai appreciated the Hollywood films. Chinese companies made their own versions of the films starring this fictional character.
Biggers lived in San Marino, California, and died in a Pasadena, California of a heart attack. He was 48.
Discover books by S.S. Van Dine published by Bloomsbury Reader at
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Behind That Curtain
The Chinese Parrot
The House without a Key
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
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Copyright © 1922 Earl Derr Biggers
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Behind That Curtain Page 25