The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers
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his tea, he saw in the dining-room door the thin, nervous figure of Bill Rankin, the reporter. He signed his check, left a generous tip, and joined Rankin in the lobby.
"Hello," said the reporter. "Well, that was some little affair up at the Kirk Building last night."
"Most distressing," Chan replied. They sat down on a broad sofa, and Rankin lighted a cigarette.
"I've got a bit of information I believe you should have," the newspaper man continued.
"Begging pardon, I think you labor under natural delusion," Chan said.
"Why—what do you mean?"
"I am not concerned with case," Chan calmly informed him.
"You don't mean to say—"
"In three hours I exit through Golden Gate."
Rankin gasped. "Good lord. I knew you'd planned to go, of course, but I supposed. Why, man alive, this is the biggest thing that's broke round here since the fire. Sir Frederic Bruce—it's an international catastrophe. I should think you'd leap at it."
"I am not," smiled Charlie, "a leaping kind of man. Personal affairs call me to Hawaii. The postman refuses to take another walk. Very interesting case, but as I have heard my slanging cousin Willie say, I am not taking any of it."
"I know," said Rankin. "The calm, cool Oriental. Never been excited in your life, I suppose?"
"What could I have gained by that? I have watched the American citizen. His temples throb. His heart pounds. The fibers of his body vibrate. With what result? A year subtracted from his life."
"Well, you're beyond me," said Rankin, leaning back and seeking to relax a bit himself. "I hope I won't be boring you if I go on talking about Sir Frederic. I've been all over our luncheon at the St. Francis in my mind, and do you know what I think?"
"I should be pleased to learn," returned Chan.
"Fifteen years make a very heavy curtain on the Indian frontier, Sir Frederic said. If you ask me, I'd say that in order to solve the mystery of his murder last night, we must look behind that curtain."
"Easy said, but hard to do," suggested Chan.
"Very hard, and that's why you—Oh, well, go on and take your boat ride. But the disappearance of Eve Durand is mixed up in this somehow. So, perhaps, is the murder of Hilary Galt."
"You have reason for thinking this?"
"I certainly have. Just as I was about to sit down and write a nice feature story about that luncheon, Sir Frederic rushed into the Globe office and demanded I hush it all up. Why should he do that? I ask you."
"And I pause for your reply."
"You'll get it. Sir Frederic was still working on one, or maybe both, of those cases. More than that, he was getting somewhere. That visit to Peshawar may not have been as lacking in results as he made out. Eve Durand may be in San Francisco now. Some one connected with one of those cases is certainly here—some one who pulled that trigger last night. For myself, I would cherchez la femme. That's French—"
"I know," nodded Chan. "You would hunt the woman. Excellent plan. So would I."
"Aha—I knew it. And that's why this information I have is vital. The other night I went up to the Kirk Building to see Sir Frederic. Paradise told me he was in the office. Just as I was approaching the office door, it opened, and a young woman—"
"One moment," Chan cut in. "Begging pardon to interrupt, you should go at once with your story to Miss June Morrow. I am not connected."
Rankin stood up. "All right. But you're certainly beyond me. The man of stone. I wish you a pleasant journey. And if this case is ever solved, I hope you never hear about it."
Chan grinned broadly. "Your kind wishes greatly appreciated. Good-by, and all luck possible."
He watched the reporter as he dashed from the lobby into the street, then going above, he completed his packing. A glance at his watch told him he had plenty of time, so he went to say good-by to his relative in Chinatown. When he returned to the hotel to get his bags, Miss Morrow was waiting for him.
"What happy luck," he said. "Once again I am rewarded by a sight of your most interesting face."
"You certainly are," she replied. "I simply had to see you again. The district attorney has put this whole affair in my hands, and it's my big chance. You are still determined to go home?"
"More than usual." He led her to a sofa. "Last night I have joyous cable -"
"I know. I was there when Mr. Kirk telephoned you. A boy, I think he said."
"Heaven's finest gift," nodded Chan.
Miss Morrow sighed. "If it had only been a girl," she said.
"Good luck," Chan told her, "dogs me in such matters. Of eleven opportunities, I am disappointed but three times."
"You're to be congratulated. However, girls are a necessary evil."
"You are unduly harsh. Necessary, of course. In your case, no evil whatever."
Barry Kirk came into the lobby and joined them. "Good morning, father," he smiled. "Well, we're all here to speed the parting guest."
Chan consulted his watch. Miss Morrow smiled. "You've quite a lot of time," she said. "At least give me the benefit of your advice before you leave."
"Happy to do so," agreed Chan. "It is worthless, but you are welcome."
"Captain Flannery is completely stumped, though of course he won't admit it. I told him all about Hilary Galt and Eve Durand, and he just opened his mouth and forgot to close it."
"Better men than the Captain might also pause in yawning doubt."
"Yes—I admit that." Miss Morrow's white forehead wrinkled in perplexity. "It's all so scattered—San Francisco and London and Peshawar—it almost looks as though whoever solved it must make a trip around the world."
Chan shook his head. "Many strings reach back, but solution will lie in San Francisco. Accept my advice, and take heart bravely."
The girl still puzzled. "We know that Hilary Galt was killed sixteen years ago. A long time, but Sir Frederic was the sort who would never abandon a trail. We also know that Sir Frederic was keenly interested in the disappearance of Eve Durand from Peshawar. That might have been a natural curiosity—but if it was, why should he rush to the newspaper office and demand that nothing be printed about it? No—it was more than curiosity. He was on the trail of something."
"And near the end of it," put in Kirk. "He told me that much."
Miss Morrow nodded. "Near the end—what did that mean? Had he found Eve Durand? Was he on the point of exposing her identity? And was there some one—Eve Durand or some one else—who was determined he should never do so? So determined, in fact, that he—or she—would not stop short of murder to silence him?"
"All expressed most clearly," approved Chan.
"Oh—but it isn't clear at all. Was Hilary Galt's murder connected somehow with the disappearance of that young girl from Peshawar? The velvet slippers—where are they now? Did the murderer of Sir Frederic take them? And if so—why?"
"Many questions arise," admitted Chan. "All in good time you get the answers."
"We'll never get them," sighed the girl, "without your help."
Chan smiled. "How sweet your flattery sounds." He considered. "I made no search of the office last night. But Captain Flannery did. What was found? Records? A case-book?"
"Nothing," said Kirk, "that had any bearing on the matter. Nothing that mentioned Hilary Galt or Eve Durand."
Chan frowned. "Yet without question of doubt, Sir Frederic kept records. Were those records the prize for which the killer made frantic search? Doubtless so. Did he—or she—then, find them? That would seem to be true, unless—"
"Unless