“Homeward bound, Charlie?” inquired that gentleman breezily.
“So I thought,” replied Chan, “but it seems I was mistaken. At the last moment, I am rudely wrenched ashore. Yet I have ticket good only on this boat.”
“Oh, they’ll fix that up for you at the office. They all know you, Charlie.”
“Thanks for the suggestion. My trunk is already loaded. Will you kindly deliver same to my oldest son, who will call for it when you have docked at Honolulu?”
“Sure.” The “visitors ashore” call was sounding for the last time. “Don’t you linger too long on this wicked mainland, Charlie,” the purser admonished.
“One week only,” called Chan, over his shoulder. “Until the next boat. I swear it.”
On the dock, Miss Morrow seized Kirk’s arm. “Look. Coming down the gangplank. Colonel Beetham. What’s he doing here?”
“Beetham—sure enough,” said Kirk. “Shall I offer him a lift? No—he’s got a taxi. Let him go. He’s a cold proposition—I like him not.” He watched the Colonel enter a cab and ride off.
When he turned back to the Maui, two husky sailors were about to draw up the plank. Suddenly between them appeared a chubby little figure, one hand clutching a suitcase. Miss Morrow gave a cry of delight.
“It’s Chan,” Kirk said. “He’s coming ashore.”
And ashore Charlie came, while they lifted the plank at his heels. He stood before the two young people, ill at ease.
“Moment of gentle embarrassment for me,” he said. “The traveler who said goodbye is back before he goes.”
“Mr. Chan,” the girl cried, “you dear! You’re going to help us, after all.”
Chan nodded. “To the extent of my very slight ability, I am with you to finish, bitter or sweet.”
On the top deck of the Maui the band began to play—“Aloha Oe,” that most touching of farewells. Long streamers of bright-colored paper filled the air. The last goodbyes, the final admonitions—a loud voice calling “Don’t forget to write.” Charlie Chan watched, a mist before his eyes. Slowly the boat drew away from the pier. The crowd ran along beside it, waving frantically. Charlie’s frame shook with another ponderous sigh.
“Poor little Barry Chan,” he said. “He would have been happy to see me. Captain Flannery will not be so happy. Let us ride away into the face of our problems.”
VI
The Guest Detective
Barry Kirk tossed Chan’s suitcase into the luggage compartment of his roadster, and the trio crowded again on to its single seat. The car swung about in the pier shed and emerged into the bright sunlight of the Embarcadero.
“You are partially consumed with wonder at my return?” suggested Chan.
The girl shrugged. “You’re back. That’s enough for me.”
“All the same, I will confess my shame. It seems I have circulated so long with mainland Americans I have now, by contagion, acquired one of their worst faults. I too suffer curiosity. Event comes off on boat which reveals, like heavenly flash, my hidden weakness.”
“Something happened on the boat?” Miss Morrow inquired.
“You may believe it did. On my supposed farewell ride through city, I inform you of Li Gung. I tell you he must be questioned. He can not be questioned now.”
“No? Why not?”
“Because he is on Maui, churning away. It is not unprobable that shortly he will experience a feeling of acute disfavor in that seat of all wisdom, the stomach.”
“Li Gung on the Maui?” repeated the girl. Her eyes were wide. “What can that mean?”
“A question,” admitted Chan, “which causes the mind to itch. Not only is Li Gung on Maui, but he was warmly encouraged away from here by a friend of ours.” He repeated the brief conversation he had overheard in the adjoining cabin.
Barry Kirk was the first to speak. “Colonel Beetham, eh?” he said. “Well, I’m not surprised.”
“Nonsense,” cried Miss Morrow warmly. “Surely he isn’t involved? A fine man like that—”
“A fine man,” Chan conceded, “and a hard one. Look in his eyes and behold; they are cold and gleaming, like the tiger’s. Nothing stands in the way when such eyes are fixed on the goal of large success—stands there long—alive.”
The girl did not seem to be convinced. “I won’t believe it. But shouldn’t we have taken Li Gung off the boat?”
Chan shrugged. “Too late. The opportunity wore rapid wings.”
“Then we’ll have him questioned in Honolulu,” Miss Morrow said.
Chan shook his head. “Pardon me if I say, not that. Chinese character too well known to me. Questioning would yield no result—save one. It would serve to advise Colonel Beetham that we look on him with icy eye. I shudder at the thought—this Colonel clever man. Difficult enough to shadow if he does not suspect. Impossible if he leaps on guard.”
“Then what do you suggest?” asked the girl.
“Let Li Gung, unknowing, be watched. If he seeks to proceed beyond Honolulu, rough hands will restrain him. Otherwise we permit him to lie, like winter overcoat in closet during heated term.” Chan turned to Barry Kirk. “You are taking me back to hotel?”
“I am not,” smiled Kirk. “No more hotel for you. If you’re going to look into this little puzzle, the place for you is the Kirk Building, where the matter originated. Don’t you say so, Miss Morrow?”
“That’s awfully kind of you,” said the girl.
“Not at all. It’s painfully lonesome up where the fog begins without at least one guest. I’m all out of visitors at the moment—er—ah—I mean Mr. Chan will be doing me a real favor.” He turned to Charlie. “You shall have Sir Frederic’s room,” he added.
Chan shrugged. “I can never repay such goodness. Why attempt it?”
“Let’s go to my office, first of all,” Miss Morrow said. “I want the district attorney to meet Mr. Chan. We must all be friends—at the start, anyhow.”
“Anywhere you say,” Kirk agreed, and headed the car up Market Street, to Kearny.
