Behind That Curtain - ebook

Contents

I. THE MAN FROM SCOTLAND YARD

II. WHAT HAPPENED TO EVE DURAND?

III. THE BUNGALOW IN THE SKY

IV. THE RECKONING OF HEAVEN

V. THE VOICE IN THE NEXT ROOM

VI. THE GUEST DETECTIVE

VII. MUDDY WATER

VIII. WILLIE LI'S GOOD TURN

IX. THE PORT OF MISSING WOMEN

X. THE LETTER FROM LONDON

XI. THE MUDDY WATER CLEARS

XII. A MISTY EVENING

XIII. OLD FRIENDS MEET AGAIN

XIV. DINNER FOR TWO

XV. THE DISCREET MR. CUTTLE

XVI. LONG LIFE AND HAPPINESS

XVII. THE WOMAN FROM PESHAWAR

XVIII. FLANNERY'S BIG SCENE

XIX. A VIGIL IN THE DARK

XX. THE TRUTH ARRIVES

XXI. WHAT HAPPENED TO EVE DURAND

XXII. HAWAII BOUNDII. WHAT HAPPENED TO EVE DURAND?

THE next day at one Sir Frederic Bruce stood in the lobby of the St. Francis, a commanding figure in a gray tweed suit. By his side, as immaculate as his guest, stood Barry Kirk, looking out on the busy scene with the amused tolerance befitting a young man of vast leisure and not a care in the world. Kirk hung his stick on his arm, and took a letter from his pocket.

“By the way, I had this note from J. V. Morrow in the morning’s mail,” he said. “Thanks me very politely for my invitation, and says that I’ll know him when he shows up because he’ll be wearing a green hat. One of those green plush hats, I suppose. Hardly the sort of thing I’d put on my head if I were a deputy district attorney.”

Sir Frederic did not reply. He was watching Bill Rankin approach rapidly across the floor. At the reporter’s side walked, surprisingly light of step, an unimpressive little man with a bulging waistband and a very earnest expression on his chubby face.

“Here we are,” Rankin said. “Sir Frederic Bruce–may I present Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police?”

Charlie Chan bent quickly like a jack-knife. “The honor,” he said, “is unbelievably immense. In Sir Frederic’s reflected glory I am happy to bask. The tiger has condescended to the fly.”

Somewhat at a loss, the Englishman caressed his mustache and smiled down on the detective from Hawaii. As a keen judge of men, already he saw something in those black restless eyes that held his attention.

“I’m happy to know you, Sergeant Chan,” he said. “It seems we think alike on certain important points. We should get on well together.”

Rankin introduced Chan to the host, who greeted the little Chinese with obvious approval. “Good of you to come,” he said.

“A four-horse chariot could not have dragged me in an opposite direction,” Chan assured him.

Kirk looked at his watch. “All here but J. V. Morrow,” he remarked. “He wrote me this morning that he’s coming in at the Post Street entrance. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a look around.”

He strolled down the corridor toward Post Street. Near the door, on a velvet davenport, sat a strikingly attractive young woman. No other seat was available, and with an interested glance at the girl Kirk also dropped down on the davenport. “If you don’t mind–” he murmured.

“Not at all,” she replied, in a voice that somehow suited her.

They sat in silence. Presently Kirk was aware that she was looking at him. He glanced up, to meet her smile.

“People are always late,” he ventured.

“Aren’t they?”

“No reason for it, usually. Just too inefficient to make the grade. Nothing annoys me more.”

“I feel the same way,” the girl nodded.

Another silence. The girl was still smiling at him.

“Go out of your way to invite somebody you don’t know to lunch,” Kirk continued, “and he isn’t even courteous enough to arrive on time.”

“Abominable,” she agreed. “You have all my sympathy–Mr. Kirk.”

He started. “Oh–you know me?”

She nodded. “Somebody once pointed you out to me–at a charity bazaar,” she explained.

“Well,” he sighed, “their charity didn’t extend to me. Nobody pointed you out.” He looked at his watch.

“This person you’re expecting–“ began the girl.

“A lawyer,” he answered. “I hate all lawyers. They’re always telling you something you’d rather not know.”

“Yes–aren’t they?”

“Messing around with other people’s troubles. What a life.”

“Frightful.” Another silence. “You say you don’t know this lawyer?” A rather unkempt young man came in and hurried past. “How do you expect to recognize him?”

“He wrote me he’d be wearing a green hat. Imagine! Why not a rose behind his ear?”

“A green hat.” The girl’s smile grew even brighter. Charming, thought Kirk. Suddenly he stared at her in amazement. “Good lord–you’re wearing a green hat!” he cried.

“I’m afraid I am.”

“Don’t tell me–”

“Yes–it’s true. I’m the lawyer. And you hate all lawyers. What a pity.”

“But I didn’t dream–”

“J. V. Morrow,” she went on. “The first name is June.”

“And I thought it was Jim,” he cried. “Please forgive me.”

“You’d never have invited me if you’d known–would you?”

“On the contrary–I wouldn’t have invited anybody else. But come along. There are a lot of murder experts in the lobby dying to meet you.”

They rose, and walked rapidly down the corridor. “You’re interested in murder?” Kirk inquired.

“Among other things,” she smiled.

“Must take it up myself,” Kirk murmured.

Men turned to look at her a second time, he noticed. There was an alertness in her dark eyes that resembled the look in Chan’s, her manner was brisk and businesslike, but for all that she was feminine, alluring.

He introduced her to the surprised Sir Frederic, then to Charlie Chan. The expression on the face of the little Chinese did not alter. He bowed low.

“The moment has charm,” he remarked.

Kirk turned to Rankin. “And all the time,” he accused, “you knew who J. V. Morrow was.”

The reporter shrugged. “I thought I’d let you find it out for yourself. Life holds so few pleasant surprises.”

“It never held a pleasanter one for me,” Kirk answered. They went in to the table he had engaged, which stood in a secluded corner.

When they were seated, the girl turned to her host. “This was so good of you. And of Sir Frederic, too. I know how busy he must be.”

The Englishman bowed. “A fortunate moment for me,” he smiled, “when I decided I was not too busy to meet J. V. Morrow. I had heard that in the States young women were emancipated–”

“Of course, you don’t approve,” she said.

“Oh–but I do,” he murmured.

“And Mr. Chan. I’m sure Mr. Chan disapproves of me.”

Chan regarded her blankly. “Does the elephant disapprove of the butterfly? And who cares?”

“No answer at all,” smiled the girl. “You are returning to Honolulu soon, Mr. Chan?”

A delighted expression appeared on the blank face. “To-morrow at noon the Maui receives my humble person. We churn over to Hawaii together.”

“I see you are eager to go,” said the girl.

“The brightest eyes are sometimes blind,” replied Chan. “Not true in your case. It is now three weeks since I arrived on the mainland, thinking to taste the joys of holiday. Before I am aware events engulf me, and like the postman who has day of rest I foolishly set out on long, tiresome walk. Happy to say that walk are ended now. With beating heart I turn toward little home on Punchbowl Hill.”

“I know how you feel,” said Miss Morrow.

“Humbly begging pardon to mention it, you do not. I have hesitation in adding to your ear that one thing calls me home with unbearable force. I am soon to be happy father.”

“For the first time?” asked Barry Kirk.

“The eleventh occasion of the kind,” Chan answered.

“Must be sort of an old story by now,” Bill Rankin suggested.

“That is one story which does not get aged,” Chan replied. “You will learn. But my trivial affairs have no place here. We are met to honor a distinguished guest.” He looked toward Sir Frederic.

Bill Rankin thought of his coming story. “I was moved to get you two together,” he said, “because I found you think alike. Sir Frederic is also scornful of science as an aid to crime detection.”

“I have formed that view from my experience,” remarked Sir Frederic.

“A great pleasure,” Chan beamed, “to hear that huge mind like Sir Frederic’s moves in same groove as my poor head-piece. Intricate mechanics good in books, in real life not so much so. My experience tell me to think deep about human people. Human passions. Back of murder what, always? Hate, greed, revenge, need to make silent the slain one. Study human people at all times.”

“Precisely,” agreed Sir Frederic. “The human element–that is what counts. I have had no luck with scientific devices. Take the dictaphone– it has been a complete washout at the Yard.” He talked on, while the luncheon progressed. Finally he turned to Chan. “And what have your methods gained you, Sergeant? You have been successful, I hear.”

Chan shrugged. “Luck–always happy luck.”

“You’re too modest,” said Rankin. “That won’t get you anywhere.”

“The question now arises–where do I want to go?”

“But surely you’re ambitious?” Miss Morrow suggested.

Chan turned to her gravely. “Coarse food to eat, water to drink, and the bended arm for a pillow–that is an old definition of happiness in my country. What is ambition? A canker that eats at the heart of the white man, denying him the joys of contentment. Is it also attacking the heart of white woman? I hope not.” The girl looked away. “I fear I am victim of crude philosophy from Orient. Man–what is he? Merely one link in a great chain binding the past with the future. All times I remember I am link. Unsignificant link joining those ancestors whose bones repose on far distant hillsides with the ten children–it may now be eleven–in my house on Punchbowl Hill.”

“A comforting creed,” Barry Kirk commented.

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