“Well, we won’t cross our oceans until we get to them,” Kirk suggested. “A lot may happen before Wednesday. By the way, I’ve been meaning to take you over to the Cosmopolitan Club. How about lunching there this noon?”
Chan brightened. “I have long nursed desire to see that famous interior. You are most kind.”
“All set, then,” replied his host. “I have some business in the office. Come downstairs for me at twelve thirty. And when Paradise returns, please tell him we’re lunching out.”
He took his hat and coat and went below. Chan strolled aimlessly to the window and stood looking down on the glittering city. His eyes strayed to the Matson dock, the pier shed and, beyond, the red funnels of a familiar ship. A ship that was sailing, day after tomorrow, for Honolulu harbor. Would he be on it? He had sworn, yes—and yet—He sighed deeply. The doorbell rang, and he admitted Bill Rankin, the reporter.
“Hello,” said Rankin. “Glad to find you in. I spent all day yesterday at the public library, and say, I’ll bet I stirred up more dust than the chariot in Ben Hur.”
“With any luck?” Chan inquired.
“Yes. I finally found the story in the files of the New York Sun. A great newspaper in those days—but I won’t talk shop. It was just a brief item with the Peshawar date line—I copied it down. Here it is.”
Charlie took the sheet of yellow paper, and read a short cable story that told him nothing he did not already know. Eve Durand, the young wife of a certain Captain Eric Durand, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances two nights previously, while on a picnic party in the hills outside Peshawar. The authorities were greatly alarmed, and parties of British soldiers were scouring the wild countryside.
“Item has date, May fifth,” remarked Chan. “Then Eve Durand was lost on night of May third, the year 1913. You found nothing else?”
“There were no followup stories,” Rankin replied. “And no mention of Beetham, as you hoped. Say—what in Sam Hill could he have to do with this?”
“Nothing,” said Chan promptly. “It was one of my small mistakes. Even great detective sometimes steps off on wrong foot. My wrong foot often weary from too much use.”
“Well, what’s going on, anyhow?” Rankin wanted to know. “I’ve hounded Flannery, and I’ve tried Miss Morrow, and not a thing do I learn. My city editor is waxing very sarcastic. Can’t you give me a tip to help me out?”
Chan shook his head. “It would be plenty poor ethics for me to talk about the case. I am in no authority here, and already Captain Flannery regards me with the same warm feeling he would show pickpocket from Los Angeles. Pursuing the truth further, there is nothing to tell you, anyhow. We are not as yet close to anything that might indicate happy success.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Rankin said.
“Situation will not continue,” Chan assured him. “Light will break. For the present we swim with one foot on the ground, but in good time we will plunge into center of the stream. Should I be on scene when success is looming, I will be happy to give you little secret hint.”
“If you’re on the scene? What are you talking about?”
“Personal affairs call me home with a loud megaphone. On Wednesday I go whether case is solved or not.”
“Yes—like you did last Wednesday,” Rankin laughed. “You can’t kid me. The patient Oriental isn’t going to get impatient at the wrong minute. Well, I must run. Remember your promise about the hint.”
“I have lengthy memory,” Chan replied. “And already I owe you much. Goodbye.”
When the reporter had gone, Charlie stood staring at the copy of that cable story. “May third, nineteen hundred thirteen,” he said aloud. With a surprisingly quick step he went to a table and took from it the Life of Colonel John Beetham. He ran hastily through the pages until he found the thing he sought. Then for a long moment he sat in a chair with the book open on his knee, staring into space.
At precisely twelve thirty he entered Kirk’s office. The young man rose and, accepting some papers from his secretary, put them into a leather briefcase. “Got to see a lawyer after lunch,” he explained. “Not a nice lawyer, either—a man this time.” They went to the Cosmopolitan Club.
When they had checked their hats and coats and returned to the lobby in that imposing building, Chan looked about him with deep interest. The Cosmopolitan’s fame was widespread; it was the resort of men active in the arts, in finance and in journalism. Kirk’s popularity there was proved by many jovial greetings. He introduced Chan to a number of his friends, and the detective was presently the center of a pleasant group. With difficulty they got away to lunch in one corner of the big dining-room.
It was toward the close of the lunch that Chan, looking up, saw approaching the man who interested him most at the moment. Colonel John Beetham’s hard-bitten face was more grim than ever, seen in broad daylight. He paused at their table.
“How are you, Kirk?” he said. “And Mr. Chan. I’ll sit down a moment, if I may.”
“By all means,” Kirk agreed cordially. “How about lunch? What can I order for you?”
“Thanks, I’ve just finished,” Beetham replied.
“A cigarette, then.” Kirk held out his case.
“Good of you.” The Colonel took one and lighted it. “I haven’t seen you since that beastly dinner. Oh—I beg your pardon—you get my meaning? … What a horrible thing that was—a man like Sir Frederic—by the way, have they any idea who did it?”
Kirk shrugged. “If they have, they’re not telling me.”
“Sergeant Chan—perhaps you are working on the case?” Beetham suggested.
Chan’s eyes narrowed. “The affair concerns mainland police. I am stranger here, like yourself.”
“Ah, yes, of course,” responded Beetham. “I just happened to recall that you were on the point of leaving, and I thought, seeing you had stayed
