Quickly Chan applied lamp black and brush. Then he removed the blank paper from the compartment, and with the aid of a reading glass, studied the impressions.
He leaned back in his chair with a puzzled frown. He knew now that he need not investigate the fingerprints of Carrick Enderby. The thumbprint of Paradise was on the postcard, and the same print was on the blank sheet of paper that had arrived in the envelope from Scotland Yard. It was Paradise, then, who had tampered with Sir Frederic’s mail.
IX
The Port of Missing Women
Thursday morning dawned bright and fair. Stepping briskly from his bed to the window, Chan saw the sunlight sparkling cheerily on the waters of the harbor. It was a clear, cool world he looked upon, and the sight was invigorating. Nor forever would he wander amid his present dark doubts and perplexities; one of these days he would see the murderer of Sir Frederic as plainly as he now saw the distant towers of Oakland. After that—the Pacific, the lighthouse on Makapuu Point, Diamond Head and a palm-fringed shore, and finally his beloved town of Honolulu nestling in the emerald cup of the hills.
Calm and unhurried, he prepared himself for another day, and left his bedroom. Barry Kirk, himself immaculate and unperturbed, was seated at the breakfast table reading the morning paper. Chan smiled at thought of the bomb he was about to toss at his gracious host. For he had not seen Kirk the previous night after his discovery. Though he had waited until midnight, the young man had not returned, and Chan had gone sleepily to bed.
“Good morning,” Kirk said. “How’s the famous sleuth today?”
“Doing as well as could be predicted,” Chan replied. “You are tip-top yourself. I see it without the formal inquiring.”
“True enough,” Kirk answered. “I am full of vim, vigor and ambition, and ready for a new day’s discoveries. By the way, I called Miss Morrow last night and gave her my grandmother’s story about Eileen Enderby. She’s going to arrange an interview with the lady, and you’re invited. I hope I won’t be left out of the party, either. If I am, it won’t be my fault.”
Chan nodded. “Interview is certainly indicated,” he agreed.
Paradise entered, haughty and dignified as always, and after he had bestowed on each a suave good morning, placed orange juice before them. Kirk lifted his glass.
“Your very good health,” he said, “in the wine of the country. California orange juice—of course you read our advertisements. Cures anything from insomnia to a broken heart. How did you spend last evening?”
“Me?” Chan shrugged. “I made slight sally into Chinatown.”
“On Li Gung’s trail, eh? What luck?”
“The poorest,” returned Chan, grimacing at the memory. “I encounter Chinese boy scout panting to do good turn, and he does me one of the worst I ever suffered.” He recounted his adventure, to Kirk’s amusement.
“Tough luck,” laughed the young man. “However, you probably got all you could, at that.”
“Later,” continued Chan, “the luck betters itself.” Paradise came in with the cereal, and Chan watched him in silence. When the butler had gone, he added: “Last night in living-room out there I make astonishing discovery.”
“You did? What was that?”
“How much you know about this perfect servant of yours?”
Kirk started. “Paradise? Good lord! You don’t mean—”
“He came with references?”
“King George couldn’t have brought better. Dukes and earls spoke of him in glowing terms. And why not? He’s the best servant in the world.”
“Too bad,” commented Chan.
“What do you mean, too bad?”
“Too bad best servant in world has weakness for steaming open letters—” He stopped suddenly, for Paradise was entering with bacon and eggs. When he had gone out, Kirk leaned over and spoke in a low tense voice.
“Paradise opened that letter from Scotland Yard? How do you know?”
Briefly Charlie told him, and Kirk’s face grew gloomy at the tale.
“I suppose I should have been prepared,” he sighed. “The butler is always mixed up in a thing like this. But Paradise! My paragon of all the virtues. Oh well—’twas ever thus. ‘I never loved a young gazelle—’ What’s the rest of it? What shall I do? Fire him?”
“Oh, no,” protested Chan. “For the present, silence only. He must not know we are aware of his weakness. Just watchfully waiting.”
“Suits me,” agreed Kirk. “I’ll hang on to him until you produce the handcuffs. What a pity it will seem to lock up such competent hands as his.”
“May not happen,” Chan suggested.
“I hope not,” Kirk answered fervently.
After breakfast Chan called the Globe office, and got Bill Rankin’s home address. He routed the reporter from a well-earned sleep, and asked him to come at once to the bungalow.
An hour later Rankin, brisk and full of enthusiasm, arrived on the scene. He grinned broadly as he shook hands.
“Couldn’t quite pull it off, eh?” he chided. “The cool, calm Oriental turned back at the dock.”
Chan nodded. “Cool, calm Oriental gets too much like mainland Americans from circling in such lowering society. I have remained to assist Captain Flannery, much to his well-concealed delight.”
Rankin laughed. “Yes—I talked with him last night. He’s tickled pink but he won’t admit it, even to himself. Well, what’s the dope? Who killed Sir Frederic?”
“A difficult matter to determine,” Chan replied. “We must go into the past, upearthing here and there. Just at present I am faced by small problem with which you can assist. So I have ventured to annoy you.”
“No annoyance whatever. I’m happy to have you call on me. What are your orders?”
“For the present, keep everything shaded by darkness. No publicity. You understand it?”
“All right—for the present. But when the big moment comes, I’m the fair-haired boy. You understand it?”
Chan smiled. “Yes—you are the chosen one. That will happen. Just now, a little covered investigation. You recall the story of Eve Durand?”
“Will I ever forget it? I don’t know when anything has made such an impression on me. Peshawar—the dark hills—the game of hide-and-seek—the
