The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers
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got all my sleeping done years ago. Well, what's happened? Have they made any progress?"
"Not much," Kirk admitted.
"How could they? That stupid police captain—he annoyed me. No subtlety. Sally Jordan's boy here will show him up."
"Humbly accept the flattery," Chan bowed.
"Flattery—rot. The truth, nothing else. Don't you disappoint me. All my hopes are pinned on you."
"By the way," said Kirk, "I'm glad you came alone. How long has that woman—Mrs. Tupper-Brock—been with you?"
"About a year. What's she got to do with it?"
"Well—what do you know about her?"
"Don't be a fool, Barry. I know everything. She's all right."
"You mean all her past is an open book to you?"
"Nothing of the sort. I never asked about it. I didn't have to. I'm a judge of people. One look—that's enough for me."
Kirk laughed. "What a smart lady. As a matter of fact, you don't know a thing about her, do you?"
"Oh, yes I do. She's English—born in Devonshire."
"Devonshire, eh?"
"Yes. Her husband was a clergyman—you'd know that by her starved look. He's dead now."
"And that's the extent of your knowledge?"
"You're barking up the wrong tree—but you would. A nice boy, but never very clever. However, I didn't come here to discuss Helen Tupper-Brock. It has just occurred to me that I didn't tell all I knew last night."
"Concealing evidence, eh?" smiled Kirk.
"I don't know—it may be evidence—probably not. Tell me—have they dug up any connection between Sir Frederic and that little Mrs. Enderby?"
"No, they haven't. Have you?"
"Well—it was just after the pictures started. I went out into the kitchen—"
"You would."
"My throat was dry. I didn't see any water in the living-room. But what could I expect in a man-run house? In the passageway I came upon Sir Frederic and Mrs. Enderby engaged in what appeared to be a quite serious talk."
"What were they saying?"
"I'm no eavesdropper. Besides, they stopped suddenly when I appeared, and remained silent until I had gone by. When I returned a few moments later, both were gone."
"Well, that may be important," Kirk admitted. "Perhaps not. Odd, though— Sir Frederic told me he had never met Mrs. Enderby when he suggested I invite the pair to dinner. I'll turn your information over to Miss Morrow."
"What's Miss Morrow got to do with it?" snapped the old lady.
"She's handling the case for the district attorney's office."
"What! You mean to say they've put an important case like this in the hands of—"
"Calm yourself. Miss Morrow is a very intelligent young woman."
"She couldn't be. She's too good-looking."
"Miracles happen," laughed Kirk.
His grandmother regarded him keenly. "You look out for yourself, my boy."
"What are you talking about?"
"The Kirk men always did have a weakness for clever women—the attraction of opposites, I presume. That's how I came to marry into the family."
"You don't happen to have an inferiority complex about you, do you?"
"No, sir. That's one thing the new generation will never be able to pin on me. Well, go ahead and tell Miss Morrow about Eileen Enderby. But I fancy the important member of the investigating committee has heard it already. I'm speaking of Mr. Chan." She rose. "I wrote Sally Jordan this morning that I'd met you," she went on, to the detective. "I said I thought the mainland couldn't spare you just yet."
Chan shrugged. "Mainland enjoys spectacle of weary postman plodding on his holiday walk," he replied. "No offense is carried, but I am longing for Hawaii."
"Well, that's up to you," remarked Mrs. Kirk bluntly. "Solve this case quickly and run before the next one breaks. I must go along. I've a club meeting. That's what my life's come to—club meetings. Barry, keep me posted on this thing. First excitement in my neighborhood in twenty years. I don't want to miss any of it."
Kirk let her out, and returned to the living-room. The quick winter dusk was falling, and he switched on the lights.
"All of which," he said, "brings little Eileen into it again. She did seem a bit on edge last night—even before she saw that man on the fire-escape. If she really did see him. I'll put Miss Morrow on her trail, eh?"
Chan looked up from his big book, and nodded without interest. "All you can do."
"She doesn't intrigue you much, does she?" Kirk smiled.
"This Colonel Beetham," responded Chan. "What a man!"
Kirk looked at his watch. "I'm sorry, but I'm dining to-night at the Cosmopolitan Club, with a friend. I made the engagement several days ago."
"Greatly pained," said Chan, "if I interfered with your plans in any way. Tell me—our Colonel Beetham—you have seen him at Cosmopolitan Club?"
"Yes. Somebody's given him a card. I meet him around there occasionally. I must take you over to the club one of these days."
"The honor will be immense," Chan said gravely.
"Paradise will give you dinner," Kirk told him.
"Not to be considered," Chan protested. "Your staff in kitchen deserves holiday after last night's outburst. I am doing too much eating at your gracious board. I too will dine elsewhere—there are little matters into which I would peer inquiringly."
"As you wish," nodded Kirk. He went into his bedroom, leaving Chan to the book.
At six thirty, after Kirk had left, Chan also descended to the street. He had dinner at an inexpensive little place and when it was finished, strolled with what looked like an aimless step in the direction of Chinatown.
The Chinese are a nocturnal people; Grant Avenue's shops were alight and thronged with customers; its sidewalk crowded with idlers who seemed at a loose end for the evening. The younger men were garbed like their white contemporaries; the older, in the black satin blouse and trousers of China, shuffled along on felt shod feet. Here and there walked with ponderous dignity a Chinese matron who had all too obviously never sought to reduce. A sprinkling of bright-eyed flappers lightened the picture.
Chan turned up Washington Street, then off into the gloomy stretch of Waverly Place. He climbed dimly lighted stairs and knocked at a familiar door.
Surprise is not in the lexicon of the Chinese people, and Chan Kee Lim admitted him with stolid face. Though they had said farewell only that morning, the detective's call was accepted calmly by his cousin.
"I am here again," Chan said in Cantonese. "It was my thought that I was leaving the mainland, but the fates have decreed otherwise."
"Enter," his cousin said. "Here in my poor house the welcome never cools. Deign to sit on this atrociously ugly stool."
"You are too kind," Charlie returned. "I am, as you must surmise, the victim of my despicable calling. If you will so far condescend, I require information."
Kee Lim's eyes narrowed, and he stroked his thin gray beard. He did not approve of that calling, as Charlie well knew.
"You are involved," he said coldly, "with the white devil police?"
Chan shrugged. "Unfortunately, yes. But I ask no betrayal of confidence from you. A harmless question, only. Perhaps you could tell me of a stranger, a tourist, who has been guest of relatives in Jackson Street? The name Li Gung."
Kee