“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
