Behind That Curtain · Chapter 12 (2/2)

Duff smiled. “But the only point of similarity, I fear. As I say, I have been with the Metropolitan police a comparatively brief time⁠—a mere matter of seven years. Of course I have heard of the Hilary Galt murder, though it happened many years ago. As a young policeman I was shown, in the Black Museum, the famous velvet slippers they found Galt wearing that disastrous night. Coming to Eve Durand, I am familiar, in a casual way, with the story of her disappearance. In fact, I had, once, a very slight connection with the case. Five years ago there was a rumor that she had been seen in Paris, and Sir Frederic sent me across the Channel to look into it. It was merely another false alarm, but while making the investigation I chanced to encounter Major Durand, who was also on the ground. Poor chap⁠—that was one of a long series of disappointments for him. I hope he is not to suffer another here tonight.”

“How did the Major happen to come to America at this time?” Miss Morrow inquired.

“He came in answer to a cable from Sir Frederic,” Duff explained. “Sir Frederic asked his help, and of course he hastened to comply, landing in New York a week ago. When I got off the Twentieth Century in Chicago I discovered Durand had been on the same train. We joined forces and hurried on to San Francisco together.”

“Well, he, at least, can help us,” Miss Morrow suggested.

“I fancy he can. I repeat, I have been over the case carefully, but I have had no inspiration as yet. One angle of it interests me tremendously⁠—those velvet slippers. Why were they taken? Where are they now? They appear to be again the essential clue. What do you say, Sergeant?”

Chan shrugged. “Slippers were exactly that long time ago,” he said. “On which occasion they led positively no place.”

“I know,” smiled Duff. “But I’m not superstitious. I shall follow them again. By the way, there is one point on which I may be able to offer some help.” He turned suddenly to Kirk. “You have a butler named Paradise?” he inquired.

Kirk’s heart sank. “Yes⁠—and a very good one,” he answered.

“I have been interested in Paradise,” said Duff. “And Paradise, I understand, has been interested in Sir Frederic’s mail. Where is he now?”

“He’s in the kitchen, or his room,” Kirk replied. “Do you want to see him?”

“Before I go⁠—yes,” Duff said.

Flannery came through the hall, followed by a big, blond man in a dripping Burberry coat. Major Eric Durand, retired, looked to be the sportsman type of Englishman; his cheeks were tanned and weather-beaten, as though from much riding in the open, his blue eyes alert. Indoors, one would picture him sitting in a club with a cigar, a whiskey and soda, and a copy of the Field.

“Come in, Major,” Flannery said. He introduced the Britisher to the company, and Kirk hurried forward to take the Burberry coat. There followed a moment of awkward silence.

“Major,” Flannery began, “we haven’t told you why we got you here. You have come to San Francisco in response to a cablegram from Sir Frederic Bruce?”

“I have,” said Durand quietly.

“Did he give you any idea of why he wanted you to come?”

“He intimated that he was on the point of finding⁠—my wife.”

“I see. Your wife disappeared under unusual circumstances some fifteen years ago, in India?”

“Precisely.”

“Did you ever hear of her after that?”

“Never. There were many false reports, of course. We followed them all up, but none of them came to anything in the end.”

“You never heard of her at Nice? Or in New York?”

“No⁠—I don’t think those were among the places. I’m sure they weren’t.”

“You would, of course, know her if you saw her now?”

Durand looked up with sudden interest. “I fancy I would. She was only eighteen when she was⁠—lost.” Miss Morrow felt a quick twinge of pity for the man. “But one doesn’t forget, you know.”

“Major,” said Flannery slowly, “we have every reason to believe that your wife is in this building tonight.”

Durand took a startled step backward. Then he sadly shook his head. “I wish it were true. You’ve no idea⁠—fifteen years’ anxiety⁠—it rather takes it out of a chap. One stops hoping, after a time. Ah, yes⁠—I wish it were true⁠—but there have been so many disappointments. I can not hope any more.”

“Please wait just a minute,” Flannery said, and went out.

A strained silence followed his exit. The ticking of a tall clock in a corner became suddenly like the strokes of a hammer. Durand began to pace the floor.

“It can’t be,” he cried to Duff. “No⁠—it can’t be Eve. After all these years⁠—in San Francisco⁠—no, no⁠—I can’t believe it.”

“We shall know in a moment, old chap,” Duff said gently.

The moments lengthened horribly. Chan began to wonder. Durand continued to pace back and forth, silently, over the rug. Still the hammer strokes of the clock. Five minutes⁠—ten⁠—

The outer door was flung open and Flannery burst into the room. His face was crimson, his gray hair disheveled.

“She’s gone!” he cried. “Her elevator’s standing at the seventh floor, with the door open. She’s gone, and no one saw her go!”

Durand gave a little cry and sinking into a chair, buried his face in his hands.