“Ah yes—of course,” apologized the reporter.
The door opened, and a cleaning woman entered. Sir Frederic turned to her. “Good evening,” he said. “You understand that no papers on this desk—or in it—are to be interfered with in any way?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” the woman answered.
“Very good. Now, Mr.—er—Mr.—”
“Rankin, Sir Frederic.”
“Of course. There is a stairs in this rear room leading up to the bungalow. If you will come with me—”
They entered the third and last room of the office suite, and Bill Rankin followed the huge figure of the Englishman aloft. The stairs ended in a dark passageway on the floor above. Throwing open the nearest door, Sir Frederic flooded the place with light, and Bill Rankin stepped into the great living-room of the bungalow. Paradise was alone in the room; he received the reporter with cold disdain. Barry Kirk, it appeared, was dressing for dinner, and the butler went reluctantly to inform him of the newspaper man’s unseemly presence.
Kirk appeared at once, in his shirtsleeves and with the ends of a white tie dangling about his neck. He was a handsome, lean young man in the late twenties, whose manner spoke of sophistication, and spoke true. For he had traveled to the far corners of the earth seeking to discover what the Kirk fortune would purchase there, and life held no surprises for him any more.
“Ah yes—Mr. Rankin of the Globe,” he said pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”
Paradise hastened forward to officiate with the tie, and over the servant’s shoulder Bill Rankin explained his mission. Kirk nodded.
“A bully idea,” he remarked. “I have a lot of friends in Honolulu, and I’ve heard about Charlie Chan. I’d like to meet him myself.”
“Very happy to have you join us,” said the reporter.
“Can’t be done. You must join me.”
“But—the suggestion of the lunch was mine—” began Rankin uncomfortably.
Kirk waved a hand in the airy manner of the rich in such a situation. “My dear fellow—I’ve already arranged a luncheon for tomorrow. Some chap in the district attorney’s office wrote me a letter. He’s interested in criminology and wants to meet Sir Frederic. As I explained to Sir Frederic, I couldn’t very well ignore it. We never know when we’ll need a friend in the district attorney’s office, these days.”
“One of the deputies?” inquired Rankin.
“Yes. A fellow named Morrow—J. V. Morrow. Perhaps you know him?”
Rankin nodded. “I do,” he said.
“Well, that’s the scenario,” went on Kirk. “We’re to meet this lad at the St. Francis tomorrow at one. The topic of the day will be murder, and I’m sure your friend from Honolulu will fit in admirably. You must pick up Mr. Chan and join us.”
“Thank you very much,” said Rankin. “You’re extremely kind. We’ll be there. I—I won’t keep you any longer.”
Paradise came forward with alacrity to let him out. At the foot of the stairs on the twentieth floor he met his old rival, Gleason of the Herald. He chuckled with delight.
“Turn right around,” he said. “You’re too late. I thought of it first.”
“Thought of what?” asked Gleason, with assumed innocence.
“I’m getting Sir Frederic and Charlie Chan together, and the idea’s copyrighted. Lay off.”
Gloomily Mr. Gleason turned about, and accompanied Bill Rankin to the elevators. As they waited for the car, the girl in the green dress emerged from the office of the Calcutta Importers and joined them. They rode down together. The girl’s tears had vanished, and had happily left no trace. Blue eyes—that completed the picture. A charming picture. Mr. Gleason was also showing signs of interest.
In the street Gleason spoke. “I never thought of it until dinner,” he said sourly.
“With me, my career comes first,” Rankin responded. “Did you finish your dinner?”
“I did, worse luck. Well, I hope you get a whale of a story—a knockout, a classic.”
“Thanks, old man.”
“And I hope you can’t print one damn word of it.”
Rankin did not reply as his friend hurried off into the dusk. He was watching the girl in the green dress disappear up California Street. Why had she left the presence of Sir Frederic Bruce to weep outside that office door? What had Sir Frederic said to her? Might ask Sir Frederic about it tomorrow. He laughed mirthlessly. He saw himself—or any other man—prying into the private affairs of Sir Frederic Bruce.
II
What Happened to Eve Durand?
The next day at one Sir Frederic Bruce stood in the lobby of the St. Francis, a commanding figure in a gray tweed suit. By his side, as immaculate as his guest, stood Barry Kirk, looking out on the busy scene with the amused tolerance befitting a young man of vast leisure and not a care in the world. Kirk hung his stick on his arm, and took a letter from his pocket.
“By the way, I had this note from J. V. Morrow in the morning’s mail,” he said. “Thanks me very politely for my invitation, and says that I’ll know him when he shows up because he’ll be wearing a green hat. One of those green plush hats, I suppose. Hardly the sort of thing I’d put on my head if I were a deputy district attorney.”
Sir Frederic did not reply. He was watching Bill Rankin approach rapidly across the floor. At the reporter’s side walked, surprisingly light of step, an unimpressive little man with a bulging waistband and a very earnest expression on his chubby face.
“Here we are,” Rankin said. “Sir Frederic Bruce—may I present Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police?”
Charlie Chan bent quickly like a jackknife. “The honor,” he said, “is unbelievably immense. In Sir Frederic’s reflected glory I am happy to bask. The tiger has condescended to the fly.”
Somewhat at a loss, the Englishman caressed his mustache and smiled down on the detective from Hawaii. As a keen judge of men, already he saw something in those black restless eyes that held his attention.
“I’m happy to know you, Sergeant Chan,” he said. “It seems we think alike
