“I’ll say you’re restless. You kept changing names?”
“I wanted to start all over. A new person.”
Flannery glared at her. “There’s something queer about you, my girl. You know who I am, don’t you?”
“You appear to be a policeman.”
“Well, that’s right. I am.”
“I have never done anything wrong. I am not afraid.”
“Maybe not. But tell me this—what do you know about Sir Frederic Bruce?”
“I know that he was a famous man from Scotland Yard, who was killed in Mr. Kirk’s office last Tuesday night.”
“Ever see him before he came here?”
“No, sir—I never had.”
“Ever hear of him?”
“I don’t believe so.”
Her even, gentle answers put Flannery at a loss. He stood, considering. His course was far from clear.
“You were running the elevator here last Tuesday night?” he continued.
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“Have you any idea why Sir Frederic was hunting for you? For Marie Lantelme, or Jennie Jerome, or whoever you really are?”
She frowned. “Was he hunting for me? How strange. No, sir—I have no idea at all.”
“Well,” said Flannery, “let me tell you this. You’re a pretty important witness in the matter of Sir Frederic’s murder, and I don’t intend you shall get away.”
The girl smiled. “So I judge. I seem to have been followed rather closely the past few days.”
“Well, you’ll be followed even more closely from now on. One false move, and I lock you up. You understand that?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“All right. Just tend to your work, and when I want you, I’ll tell you so. You can go now.”
“Thank you, sir,” the girl replied, and went out.
Flannery turned to Miss Garland. “You recognized her the other night, didn’t you?” he demanded.
“Oh, but I assure you, I didn’t. I recognized her today for the first time.”
“Which is plenty time enough,” said Chan. “Miss Garland, we are sunk deep in your debt. I permit you now to depart—”
“Yeah—you can go,” added Flannery. “Take some other car and keep away from your old friend until this thing’s cleared up.”
“I’ll do that,” Miss Garland assured him. “I’m afraid she didn’t want me to identify her. I do hope I haven’t got her into trouble.”
“That depends,” answered Flannery, and Kirk showed the actress out.
Chan was beaming. “Hunch plenty good, after all,” he chuckled.
“Well, where are we?” Flannery said. “The elevator girl is Jennie Jerome. Then she’s Marie Lantelme. What does that mean?”
“It means only one thing,” said Miss Morrow softly.
“The Captain is pretending to be dense,” suggested Chan. “He could not really be so thick.”
“What are you talking about?” Flannery demanded.
“My hunch, which has come so nicely true,” Chan told him. “The elevator girl is Jennie Jerome. Next, she is Marie Lantelme. What does it mean, you ask? It means one thing only. She is also Eve Durand.”
“By heaven!” Flannery cried.
“Consider how the muddy water clears,” Chan went on. “Eve Durand flees from India one dark night fifteen years ago. Four years later she is found in Nice, playing in theater. Something happens—maybe she is seen and recognized—again she runs away. Another four years elapse and we encounter her in New York, walking in model gowns. Again something happens, again she disappears. Where does she go? Eventually, to San Francisco. Here opportunities are not so good, she must take more lowly position. And here Sir Frederic comes, always seeking for Eve Durand.”
“It’s beautifully clear,” approved Miss Morrow.
“Like lake at evening,” nodded Chan. “Sir Frederic, though he has looked long for this woman, has never seen her. He can upearth here no one who can identify Eve Durand, but he remembers once she was Marie Lantelme, once Jennie Jerome. In this great city, he learns, are two people who have known her when she was wearing these other names. He asks that they be invited to dinner, hoping that one or both will point out to him the woman he has trailed so long.”
Flannery was walking the floor. “Well—I don’t know. It’s almost too good to be true. But if it is—if she’s Eve Durand—then I can’t let her wander around loose. I’ll have to lock her up this morning. If I could only be sure—”
“I am telling you,” persisted Chan.
“I know, but you are guessing. You’ve identified her as those other two, but as for Eve Durand—”
The telephone rang. Kirk answered, and handed it to Flannery, “For you, Captain,” he said.
Flannery took the telephone. “Oh—hello, Chief,” he said. “Yeah—yeah. What’s that? Oh—oh, he is? Good enough. Thank you, Chief. I sure will.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to the others. A broad smile was on his face.
“We’re going to find out, Sergeant, just how good a guesser you are,” he said. “I’ll put a couple of extra men to following this dame, but I won’t do anything more until tomorrow. Yes, sir—by tomorrow evening I’ll know whether she’s Eve Durand or not.”
“Your words have obscure sound,” Chan told him.
“The Chief of Police has just had a wire,” Flannery explained. “Inspector Duff of Scotland Yard is getting in tomorrow afternoon at two thirty. And he’s bringing with him the one man in all the world who’s sure to know Eve Durand when he sees her. He’s bringing the woman’s husband, Major Eric Durand.”
XII
A Misty Evening
When Chan and Kirk were left alone, the little detective sat staring thoughtfully into space. “Now Tuesday becomes the big day for keen anticipation,” he remarked. “What will it reveal? Much, I hope, for my time on the mainland becomes a brief space indeed.”
Kirk looked at him in wonder. “Surely you won’t go on Wednesday, if this thing isn’t solved?”
Chan nodded stubbornly. “I have made unspoken promise to Barry Chan. Now I put it into words. Tomorrow Eve Durand’s husband arrives. In all the world we could have selected no more opportune person. He will identify this elevator woman as his wife, or he will not. If he does, perhaps case is finished. If he does not”—Charlie shrugged—“then I have done all possible. Let Captain Flannery
