The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers
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Chan turned the slipper slowly in his hand. "There exist one hundred and one varieties of this character—one hundred for the people, one reserved for the Emperor. A charming gift. The footwear of a mandarin, fitting only for one high-placed and wealthy."
"Well, they were on Hilary Galt's feet when we found him, murdered on the floor," Sir Frederic said. "'Walk softly, my best of friends'—that was what the Chinese minister wrote in the letter he sent with them. Hilary Galt was walking softly that night—but he never walked again." The Englishman took the slippers. "By the way—I hesitate to ask it—but I'd rather you didn't mention this matter to-night at dinner."
"Why, of course," remarked the girl, surprised.
"And that affair of Eve Durand. Ah—er—I fear I was a little indiscreet this noon. Now that I'm no longer at the Yard, I allow myself too much rope. You understand, Sergeant?"
Chan's little eyes were on him with a keenness that made Sir Frederic slightly uncomfortable. "Getting immodest for a minute," the Chinese said, "I am A-1 honor student in school of discretion."
"I'm sure of that," the great man smiled.
"No impulse to mention these matters would assail me, I am certain," Chan went on. "You bright man, Sir Frederic—you know Chinese are psychic people."
"Really?"
"Undubitably. Something has told me—"
"Ah yes—we needn't go into that," Sir Frederic put in hastily. "I have a moment's business in the offices below. If you will excuse me—"
He disappeared with the slippers into his room. Miss Morrow turned in amazement to Kirk.
"What in the world did he mean? Surely Eve Durand—"
"Mr. Chan is psychic," Kirk suggested. "Maybe he can explain it."
Chan grinned. "Sometimes psychic feelings lead positively nowhere," he remarked.
Paradise escorted two more guests through the outer hall into the living-room. A little, bird-like woman was on tiptoe, kissing Barry Kirk.
"Barry, you bad boy. I haven't seen you for ages. Don't tell me you've forgot your poor old grandmother."
"I couldn't do that," he laughed.
"Not while I have my health and strength," she returned. She came toward the fireplace. "How cozy you are—"
"Grandmother—this is Miss Morrow," Kirk said. "Mrs. Dawson Kirk."
The old lady took both the girl's hands. "My dear, I'm happy to know you -"
"Miss Morrow is a lawyer," Kirk added.
"Lawyer fiddlesticks," his grandmother cried. "She couldn't be—and look like this."
"Just what I said," nodded Kirk.
The old lady regarded the girl for a brief moment. "Youth and beauty," she remarked. "If I had those, my child, I wouldn't waste time over musty law books." She turned toward Chan. "And this is—"
"Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police," Kirk told her.
The old lady gave Charlie a surprisingly warm handclasp. "Know all about you," she said. "I like you very much."
"Flattered and overwhelmed," gasped Chan.
"Needn't be," she answered.
The woman who had accompanied Mrs. Kirk stood rather neglected in the background. Kirk hurried forward to present her. She was, it seemed, Mrs. Tupper-Brock, Mrs. Kirk's secretary and companion. Her manner was cold and distant. Chan gave her a penetrating look and then bowed low before her.
"Paradise will show you into one of the guest rooms," said Kirk to the women. "You'll find a pair of military brushes and every book on football Walter Camp ever wrote. If there's anything else you want, try and get it."
They followed the butler out. The bell rang, and going to the door himself, Kirk admitted another couple. Mr. Carrick Enderby, who was employed in the San Francisco office of Thomas Cook and Sons, was a big, slow, blond man with a monocle and nothing much behind it. All the family brilliance seemed to be monopolized by his wife, Eileen, a dark, dashing woman of thirty-five or so, who came in breezily. She joined the women, and the three men stood in the ill-at-ease silence that marks a dinner party in its initial stages.
"We're in for a bit of fog, I fancy," Enderby drawled.
"No doubt of it," Kirk answered.
When the women reappeared, Mrs. Dawson Kirk came at once to Chan's side.
"Sally Jordan of Honolulu is an old friend of mine," she told him. "A very good friend. We're both living beyond our time, and there's nothing cements friendship like that. I believe you were once—er—attached—"
Chan bowed. "One of the great honors of my poor life. I was her house-boy, and memories of her kindness will survive while life hangs out."
"Well, she told me how you repaid that kindness recently. A thousand-fold, she put it."
Chan shrugged. "My old employer has only one weakness. She exaggerates stupendously."
"Oh, don't be modest," said Mrs. Kirk. "Gone out of fashion, long ago. These young people will accuse you of something terrible if you try that tune. However, I like you for it."
A diversion at the door interrupted her. Colonel John Beetham entered the living-room. John Beetham the explorer, whose feet had stood in many dark and lonely places, who knew Tibet and Turkestan, Tsaidam and southern Mongolia. He had lived a year in a house-boat on the largest river in the heart of Asia, had survived two heart-breaking, death-strewn retreats across the snowy plateau of Tibet, had walked amid the ruins of ancient desert cities that had flourished long before Christ was born.
For once, here was a man who looked the part. Lean, tall, bronzed, there was a living flame in his gray eyes. But like Charlie Chan, he came of a modest race, and his manner was shy and aloof as he acknowledged the introductions.
"So glad," he muttered. "So glad." A mere formula.
Suddenly Sir Frederic Bruce was again in the room. He seized Colonel Beetham's hand.
"I met you several years ago," he said. "You wouldn't recall it. You were the lion of the hour, and I a humble spectator. I was present at the dinner of the Royal Geographical Society in London when they gave you that enormous gold doodad—the Founders' Medal—wasn't that it?"
"Ah yes—of course. To be sure," murmured Colonel Beetham.
His eyes bright as buttons in the subdued light, Charlie Chan watched Sir Frederic being presented to the ladies—to Mrs. Tupper-Brock and Eileen Enderby. Paradise arrived with something on a tray.
"All here except Miss Garland," Kirk announced. "We'll wait just a moment." The bell rang, and he motioned to his servant that he would go.
When Kirk returned, he was accompanied by a handsome woman whose face was flushed and who carried some burden in her jeweled hands. She hurried to a table, and deposited there a number of loose pearls.
"I had the most ridiculous accident on the stairs," she explained. "The string of my necklace broke, and I simply shed pearls right and left. I do hope I haven't lost any."
One of the pearls rolled to the floor, and Kirk retrieved it. The woman began counting them off into a gold mesh handbag. Finally she stopped.
"Got them all?" Barry Kirk inquired.
"I—I think so. I never can remember the number. And now—you really must forgive my silly entrance. It would be rather effective on the stage, I fancy, but I'm not on the stage now. In real life, I'm afraid it was rather rude."
Paradise took her cloak, and Kirk introduced her. Charlie Chan studied her long and carefully. She was no longer young, but her beauty was still triumphant. It would have to be, for her profession was the stage, and she was well-beloved in the Australian theaters.
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