Behind That Curtain · Chapter 4 (1/2)

IV

The Reckoning of Heaven

Barry Kirk stood looking about his office; he found it difficult to believe that into this commonplace, familiar room, tragedy had found its way. Yet there was that silent figure on the floor, a few moments before so full of life and energy.

“Poor Sir Frederic,” he said. “Only today he told me he was near the end of a long trail. Nearer than he dreamed, it appears.” He stopped. “A long trail, Sergeant⁠—only a few of us know how far back into the past this thing must reach.”

Chan nodded. He had been consulting a huge gold watch; now he snapped shut the case and restored it to his pocket. “Death is the reckoning of heaven,” he remarked. “On this occasion, a most complicated reckoning.”

“Well, what shall we do?” Kirk asked helplessly. “The police, I suppose. But good lord⁠—this is a case beyond any policeman I ever met. Any uniformed man, I mean.” He paused, and a grim smile flashed across his face. “It looks very much to me, Mr. Chan, as though you would have to take charge and⁠—”

A stubborn light leaped into the little black eyes. “Miss Morrow is above,” said Chan. “What a happy chance, since she is from the district attorney’s office. If I may humbly suggest⁠—”

“Oh, I never thought of that.” Kirk turned to his servant. “Paradise, ask Miss Morrow to come here. Make my excuses to my guests, and ask them to wait.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Paradise, and departed.

Kirk walked slowly about the room. The drawers of the big desk were open and their contents jumbled. “Somebody’s been on a frantic search here,” he said. He paused before the safe; its door was slightly ajar.

“Safe stands open,” suggested Chan.

“Odd about that,” said Kirk. “This afternoon Sir Frederic asked me to take out anything of value and move it upstairs. I did so. He didn’t explain.”

“Of course,” nodded Chan. “And at the dinner table he makes uncalled-for reference to fact that he has not locked safe. The matter struck me at the time. One thing becomes clear⁠—Sir Frederic desired to set a trap. A safe unlocked to tempt marauders.” He nodded to the small volume that lay at the dead man’s side. “We must disturb nothing. Do not touch, but kindly regard book and tell me where last reposing.”

Kirk leaned over. “That? Why, it’s the yearbook of the Cosmopolitan Club. It was usually in that revolving case on which the telephone stands. It can’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not. Maybe”⁠—Chan’s little eyes narrowed⁠—“a hint from beyond the unknown.”

“I wonder,” mused Kirk.

“Sir Frederic was guest of Cosmopolitan Club?”

“Yes⁠—I gave him a two weeks’ card. He wrote a lot of his letters there. But⁠—but⁠—I can’t see⁠—”

“He was clever man. Even in moment of passing, his dying hand would seek to leave behind essential clue.”

“Speaking of that,” said Kirk, “how about those velvet slippers? Where are they?”

Chan shrugged. “Slippers were essential clue in one case, long ago. What did they lead to? Positively nothing. If I am suiting my own taste, this time I look elsewhere.”

Miss Morrow entered the room. Her face was usually full of color⁠—an authentic color that is the gift of the fog to San Francisco’s daughters. Now it was deathly pale. Without speaking, she stepped beyond the desk and looked down. For a moment she swayed, and Barry Kirk leaped forward.

“No, no,” cried the girl.

“But I thought⁠—” he began.

“You thought I was going to faint. Absurd. This is my work⁠—it has come to me and I shall do it. You believe I can’t⁠—”

“Not at all,” protested Kirk.

“Oh, yes you do. Everybody will. I’ll show them. You’ve called the police, of course.”

“Not yet,” Kirk answered.

She sat down resolutely at the desk, and took up the telephone. “Davenport 20,” she said. “The Hall of Justice?⁠ ⁠… Captain Flannery, please⁠ ⁠… Hello⁠—Captain? Miss Morrow of the district attorney’s office speaking. There has been a murder in Mr. Kirk’s office on the top floor of the Kirk Building. You had better come yourself.⁠ ⁠… Thank you.⁠ ⁠… Yes⁠—I’ll attend to that.”

She got up, and, going round the desk, bent over Sir Frederic. She noted the book, and her eyes strayed wonderingly to the stocking feet. Inquiringly she turned to Chan.

“The slippers of Hilary Galt,” he nodded. “Souvenir of that unhappy case, they adorned his feet when he came down. Here is Paradise⁠—he will explain to you.”

The butler had returned, and Miss Morrow faced him. “Tell us what you know, please,” she said.

“I was busy in the pantry,” Paradise said. “I thought I heard the buzz of the burglar alarm by Mr. Kirk’s bed⁠—the one connected with the windows and safe in this room. I hastened to make sure, but Sir Frederic was just behind. It was almost as though he had been expecting it. I don’t know how I got that impression⁠—I’m odd that way⁠—”

“Go on,” said the girl. “Sir Frederic followed you into Mr. Kirk’s room?”

“Yes, Miss. ‘There’s someone below, sir,’ I said. ‘Someone who doesn’t belong there.’ Sir Frederic looked back into the pitch dark living-room. ‘I fancy so, Paradise,’ he said. He was smiling. ‘I will attend to it. No need to disturb Mr. Kirk or his guests.’ I followed him into his room. He tossed off his patent leather pumps. ‘The stairs are a bit soiled, I fear, sir,’ I reminded him. He laughed. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘But I have the very thing.’ The velvet slippers were lying near his bed. He put them on. ‘I shall walk softly in these, Paradise,’ he told me. At the head of the stairs, I stopped him. A sort of fear was in my heart⁠—I am given to that⁠—to having premonitions⁠—”

“You stopped him,” Kirk cut in.

“I did, sir. Respectfully, of course. ‘Are you armed, Sir Frederic?’ I made bold to inquire. He shook his head. ‘No need, Paradise,’ he answered. ‘I fancy our visitor is of the weaker sex.’ And then he went down, sir⁠—to his death.”

They were silent for a moment, pondering the servant’s story.

“We had better go,” said the girl, “and tell the others. Someone must stay here. If it’s not asking too much, Mr. Chan⁠—”

“I am torn with grief to disagree,” Chan answered. “Please pardon me. But for myself, I have keen eagerness to note how this news is taken in the room above.”

“Ah, yes. Naturally.”

“I shall be glad to stay, Miss,” Paradise said.

“Very well,” the girl answered. “Please let me know as soon as Captain Flannery arrives.” She led the way above, and Kirk and the little detective from Honolulu followed.

Barry Kirk’s guests were seated, silent and expectant, in the now brightly lighted living-room. They looked up inquiringly as the three from below entered. Kirk faced them, at a loss how to begin.

“I have dreadful news for you,” he said. “An accident⁠—a terrible accident.” Chan’s eyes moved rapidly about the group and, making their choice, rested finally on the white, drawn face of Eileen Enderby. “Sir Frederic Bruce has been murdered in my office,” Kirk finished.

There was a moment’s breathless silence, and then Mrs. Enderby got to her feet. “It’s the dark,” she cried in a harsh, shrill voice. “I knew it. I knew something would happen when the lights were turned off. I knew it, I tell you⁠—”

Her husband stepped to her side to quiet her, and Chan stood staring not at her, but at Colonel John Beetham. For one brief instant he thought the mask had dropped from those weary, disillusioned eyes. For one instant only.

They all began to speak at once. Gradually Miss Morrow made herself heard above the din. “We must take this coolly,” she said, and Barry Kirk admired her composure. “Naturally, we are all under suspicion. We⁠—”

“What? I like that!” Mrs. Dawson Kirk was speaking. “Under suspicion, indeed⁠—”

“The room was in complete darkness,” Miss Morrow went on. “There was considerable moving about. I don’t like to stress my official position here, but perhaps you would prefer my methods to those of a police captain. How many of you left this room during the showing of Colonel Beetham’s pictures?”

An embarrassed silence fell. Mrs. Kirk broke it. “I thought the pictures intensely interesting,” she said. “True, I did step into the kitchen for a moment⁠—”

“Just to keep an eye on my domestic arrangements,” suggested Barry Kirk.

“Nothing of the sort. My throat was dry. I wanted a glass of water.”

“You saw nothing wrong?” inquired Miss Morrow.

“Aside from the very wasteful methods that seemed to be in vogue in the kitchen⁠—nothing,” replied Mrs. Kirk firmly.

“Mrs. Tupper-Brock?” said Miss Morrow.

“I was on the sofa with Miss Garland,” replied that lady. “Neither of us moved from there at any time.” Her voice was cool and steady.

“That’s quite true,” the actress added.

Another silence. Kirk spoke up. “I’m sure none of us intended a discourtesy to the Colonel,” he said. “The entertainment he gave us was delightful, and it was gracious of him to honor us. I myself⁠—er⁠—I was in the room constantly⁠—except for one brief moment in the garden. I saw no one there⁠—save⁠—”

Chan stepped forward. “Speaking for myself, I found huge delight in the pictures. A moment I wish to be alone, in order that I may digest great events flashed before me on silvery screen. So I also invade the garden, and meet Mr. Kirk. For a time we marvel at the distinguished Colonel Beetham⁠—his indomitable courage, his deep resource, his service to humanity. Then we rush back, that we may miss no more.” He paused. “Before I again recline in sitting posture, noise in hallway offend me. I hurry out there in shushing mood, and behold⁠—”

“Ah⁠—er⁠—the pictures were marvelous,” said Carrick Enderby. “I enjoyed them immensely. True enough, I stepped out on the stairs for a cigarette⁠—”

“Carry, you fool,” his wife cried. “You would do that.”

“But I say⁠—why not? I saw nothing. There was nothing to see. The floor below was quite deserted.” He turned to Miss Morrow. “Whoever did this horrible thing left by way of the fire-escape. You’ve already learned that⁠—”

“Ah, yes,” cut in Chan. “We have learned it indeed⁠—from your wife.” He glanced at Miss Morrow and their eyes met.

“From my wife⁠—yes,” repeated Enderby. “Look here⁠—what do you mean by that? I⁠—”

“No matter,” put in Miss Morrow. “Colonel Beetham⁠—you were occupied at the picture machine. Except for one interval of about ten minutes, when you allowed it to run itself.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Colonel evenly. “I did not leave the room, Miss Morrow.”

Eileen Enderby rose. “Mr. Kirk⁠—we really must be going. Your dinner was charming⁠—how terrible to have it end in such a tragic way. I⁠—”

“Just a moment,” said June Morrow. “I can not let you go until the captain of police releases you.”

“What’s that?” the woman cried. “Outrageous. You mean we are prisoners here⁠—”

“Oh⁠—but, Eileen⁠—” protested her husband.

“I’m very sorry,” said the girl. “I shall protect you as much as possible from the annoyance of further questioning. But you really must wait.”

Mrs. Enderby flung angrily away, and a filmy scarf she was wearing dropped from one shoulder and trailed after her. Chan reached out to rescue it. The woman took another step, and he stood with the scarf in his hand. She swung about. The detective’s little eyes, she noticed, were fixed with keen interest on the front of her pale blue gown, and following his gaze, she looked down.

“So sorry,” said Chan. “So very sorry. I trust your beautiful garment is not a complete ruin.”

“Give me that scarf,” she cried, and snatched it rudely from him.

Paradise appeared in the doorway. “Miss Morrow, please,” he said. “Captain Flannery is below.”

“You will kindly wait here,” said the girl. “All of you. I shall arrange for your release at the earliest possible moment.”

With Kirk and Charlie Chan, she returned to the twentieth floor. In the central room they found Captain Flannery, a gray-haired, energetic policeman of about fifty. With him were two patrolmen and a police doctor.

“Hello, Miss Morrow,” said the Captain. “This is a he⁠—I mean, a terrible thing. Sir Frederic Bruce of Scotland Yard⁠—we’re up against it now. If we don’t make good quick we’ll have the whole Yard on our necks.”

“I’m afraid we shall,” admitted Miss Morrow. “Captain Flannery⁠—this is Mr. Kirk. And this⁠—Detective-Sergeant Charlie Chan, of Honolulu.”

The Captain looked his fellow detective over slowly. “How are you, Sergeant? I’ve been reading about you in the paper. You got on this job mighty quick.”

Chan shrugged. “Not my job, thank you,” he replied. “All yours, and very welcome. I am here in society role, as guest of kind Mr. Kirk.”

“Is that so?” The Captain appeared relieved. “Now, Miss Morrow, what have you found out?”

“Very little. Mr. Kirk was giving a dinner upstairs.” She ran over the list of guests, the showing of the pictures in the dark, and the butler’s story of Sir Frederic’s descent to the floor below, wearing the velvet slippers. “There are other aspects of the affair that I will take up with you later,” she added.

“All right. I guess the D.A. will want to get busy on this himself.”

The girl flushed. “Perhaps. He is out of town tonight. I hope he will leave the matter in my hands⁠—”

“Great Scott, Miss Morrow⁠—this is important,” said the Captain, oblivious of his rudeness. “You’re holding those people upstairs?”

“Naturally.”

“Good. I’ll look ’em over later. I ordered the night-watchman to lock the front door and bring everybody in the building here. Now, we better fix the time of this. How long’s he been dead, Doctor?”

“Not more than half an hour,” replied the doctor.

“Humbly begging pardon to intrude,” said Chan. “The homicide occurred presumably at ten twenty.”

“Sure of that?”

“I have not the habit of light speaking. At ten twenty-five we find body, just five minutes after lady on floor above rush in with news of man escaping from this room by fire-escape.”

“Huh. The room seems to have been searched.” Flannery turned to Barry Kirk. “Anything missing?”

“I haven’t had time to investigate,” said Kirk. “If anything has been taken, I fancy it was Sir Frederic’s property.”

“This is your office, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But I had made room here for Sir Frederic. He had various papers and that sort of thing.”

“Papers? What was he doing? I thought he’d retired.”

“It seems he was still interested in certain cases, Captain,” Miss Morrow said. “That is one of the points I shall take up with you later.”

“Again interfering with regret,” remarked Chan, “if we do not know what was taken, all same we know, what was hunted.”

“You don’t say.” Flannery looked at Chan coldly. “What was that?”

“Sir Frederic English detective, and great one. All English detectives make exhausting records of every case. No question that records of certain case, in which murderer was hotly interested, were sought here.”

“Maybe,” admitted the Captain. “We’ll go over the room later.” He turned to the patrolmen. “You boys take a look at the fire-escape.” They climbed out into the fog. At that moment the door leading from the reception-room into the hallway opened, and an odd little group came in. A stout, middle-aged man led the procession; he was Mr. Cuttle, the night-watchman.

“Here they are, Captain,” he said. “I’ve rounded up everybody in the building, except a few cleaning women who have nothing to do with this floor. You can see ’em later, if you like. This is Mrs. Dyke, who takes care of the two top floors.”

Mrs. Dyke, very frightened, said that she had finished with Kirk’s office at seven and gone out, leaving the burglar alarm in working order, as was her custom. She had not been back since. She had seen no one about the building whom she did not recognize.

“And who is this?” inquired the Captain, turning to a pale, sandy-haired young man who appeared extremely nervous.

“I am employed by Brace and Davis, Certified Public Accountants, on the second floor,” said the young man. “My name is Samuel Smith. I was working tonight to catch up⁠—I have been ill⁠—when Mr. Cuttle informed me I was wanted up here. I know nothing of this horrible affair.”