“Jennie Jerome seemed delighted at the opportunity. She invited a number of her friends to a little dinner party at her apartment, to celebrate the event. When these friends arrived, the door of her apartment stood open. They entered. The table was set, the candles lighted, preparations for the dinner apparent. But the hostess was nowhere about.
“The boy at the telephone switchboard in the hall below reported that, a few minutes before, he had seen her run down the stairs and vanish into the night. He was the last person who saw Jennie Jerome. Her employer, Madame DuFour, and the illustrator who had been struck by her beauty, made every possible effort to trace her. These efforts came to nothing. Jennie Jerome had vanished into thin air. Eloped? But no man’s name was ever linked with hers. Murdered? Perhaps. No one knows. At any rate, Jennie Jerome had gone without leaving a trace, and there the matter has rested for seven years.”
“Another one of ’em,” cried Flannery, as Miss Morrow stopped reading. “Great Scott—what are we up against?”
“A puzzle,” suggested Chan calmly. He restored the clipping to his pocketbook.
“I’ll say so,” Flannery growled.
“You knew Jennie Jerome?” Miss Morrow said to Eileen Enderby.
Mrs. Enderby nodded. “Yes. I was employed by the same firm—DuFour. One of the models, too. I was working there when I met Mr. Enderby, who was in Cook’s New York office at the time. I knew Jennie well. If I may say so, that story you just read has been touched up a bit. Jennie Jerome was just an ordinarily pretty girl—nothing to rave about. I believe some illustrator did want her to pose for him. We all got offers like that.”
“Leaving her beauty out of it,” smiled Miss Morrow, “she did disappear?”
“Oh, yes. I was one of the guests invited to her dinner. That part of it is true enough. She just walked off into the night.”
“And it was this girl whom Sir Frederic questioned you about?”
“Yes. Somehow, he knew I was one of her friends—how he knew it, I can’t imagine. At any rate, he asked me if I would know Jennie Jerome if I saw her again. I said I thought I would. He said: ‘Have you seen her in the Kirk Building this evening?’ ”
“And you told him—”
“I told him I hadn’t. He said to stop and think a minute. I couldn’t see the need of that. I hadn’t seen her—I was sure of it.”
“And you still haven’t seen her?”
“No—I haven’t.”
Miss Morrow rose. “We are greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Enderby. That is all, I believe. Captain Flannery—”
“That’s all from me,” said Flannery.
“Well, if there’s any more I can tell you—” Mrs. Enderby rose, with evident relief.
Her husband spoke. “Come along, Eileen,” he said sternly. They went out. The four left behind in the office stared at one another in wonder.
“There you are,” exploded Flannery, rising. “Another missing woman. Eve Durand, Marie Lantelme and Jennie Jerome. Three—count ’em—three—and if you believe your ears, every damn one of ’em was in the Kirk Building night before last. I don’t know how it sounds to you, but to me it’s all wrong.”
“It does sound fishy,” Barry Kirk admitted. “The Port of Missing Women—and I thought I was running just an ordinary office building.”
“All wrong, I tell you,” Flannery went on loudly. “It never happened, that’s all. Somebody’s kidding us to a fare-ye-well. This last story is one too many—” He stopped, and stared at Charlie Chan. “Well, Sergeant—what’s on your mind?” he inquired.
“Plenty,” grinned Chan. “On one side of our puzzle, at least, light is beginning to break. This last story illuminates darkness. You follow after me, of course.”
“I do not. What are you talking about?”
“You do not? A great pity. In good time, I show you.”
“All right—all right,” cried Flannery. “I leave these missing women to you and Miss Morrow here. I don’t want to hear any more about ’em—I’ll go dippy if I do. I’ll stick to the main facts. Night before last Sir Frederic Bruce was murdered in an office on the twentieth floor of the Kirk Building. Somebody slipped away from that party, or somebody got in from outside, and did for him. There was a book beside him, and there were marks on the fire-escape—I didn’t tell you that, but there were—and the murderer nabbed a pair of velvet shoes off his feet. That’s my case, my job, and by heaven I’m going after it, and if anybody comes to me with any more missing women stories—”
He stopped. The outer door had opened, and Eileen Enderby was coming in. At her heels came her husband, stern and grim. The woman appeared very much upset.
“We—we’ve come back,” she said. She sank into a chair. “My husband thinks—he has made me see—”
“I have insisted,” said Carrick Enderby, “that my wife tell you the entire story. She has omitted a very important point.”
“I’m in a terrible position,” the woman protested. “I do hope I’m doing the right thing. Carry—are you sure—”
“I am sure,” cut in her husband, “that in a serious matter of this sort, truth is the only sane course.”
“But she begged me not to tell,” Eileen Enderby reminded him. “She pleaded so hard. I don’t want to make trouble for her—”
“You gave no promise,” her husband said. “And if the woman’s done nothing wrong, I don’t see—”
“Look here,” broke in Flannery. “You came back to tell us something. What is it?”
“You came back to tell us
