“If I can help, I will do so,” Chan told him. He was thinking deeply. A man like Colonel Beetham did not note the comings and goings of a Charlie Chan without good reason.
“How’s the new expedition shaping up?” Kirk inquired.
“Slowly—rather slowly,” Beetham frowned. “Speaking of that, I have wanted a chat with you on the subject. Your grandmother has offered to help with the financing, but I have hesitated—it’s a stiff sum.”
“How much?”
“I have part of the money. I still need about fifty thousand dollars.”
Kirk’s eyebrows went up. “Ah, yes—quite a nest-egg. But if grandmother wants to do it—well, it’s her own money.”
“Glad you feel that way about it,” said Beetham. “I was fearful the other members of the family might think I was using undue influence. The whole idea was hers—I give you my word.”
“Naturally,” Kirk answered. “I’m sure she would enjoy it, at that.”
“The results will be most important from a scientific point of view,” Beetham continued. “Your grandmother’s name would be highly honored. I would see that she had full credit.”
“Just what sort of expedition is it?” Kirk asked.
The tired eyes lighted for the first time. “Well, I had a bit of luck when I was last on the Gobi Desert. I stumbled on to the ruins of a city that must have been flourishing early in the first century. Only had time to take a brief look—but I turned up coins that bore the date of 7 AD. I unearthed the oldest papers in existence—papers that bore the scrawl of little children—arithmetic—seven times seven and the like. Letters written by the military governor of the city, scraps of old garments, jewelry—amazing mementoes of the past. I am keen to go back and make a thorough investigation. Of course, the trouble in China will interfere, rather—but there is always trouble in China. I have waited long enough. I shall get through somehow. I always have.”
“Well, I don’t envy you,” Kirk smiled. “The way I’ve always felt, when you’ve seen one desert, you’ve seen ’em all. But you have my best wishes.”
“Thanks. You’re frightfully kind,” Beetham rose. “I hope to settle the matter in a few days. I am hoping, also, that before I leave, the murderer of Sir Frederic will be found. Struck me as a good chap, Sir Frederic.”
Chan looked up quickly. “A great admirer of yours, Colonel Beetham,” he said.
“Admirer of mine? Sir Frederic? Was he really?” The Colonel’s tone was cool and even.
“Undubitable fact. Among his effects we find many books written by you.”
Beetham threw down his cigarette. “That was good of him. I am quite flattered. If by any chance you are concerned in the hunt for the person who killed him, Sergeant Chan, I wish you the best of luck.”
He strolled away from the table, while Chan looked after him thoughtfully.
“Reminds me of the snows of Tibet,” Kirk said. “Just as warm and human. Except when he spoke of his dead city. That seemed to rouse him. An odd fish, isn’t he, Charlie?”
“An odd fish from icy waters,” Chan agreed. “I am wondering—”
“Yes?”
“He regrets Sir Frederic’s passing. But might it not happen that beneath his weeping eyes are laughing teeth?”
They went to the checkroom, where they retrieved their hats and coats and Kirk’s briefcase. As they walked down the street, Kirk looked at Chan.
“Just remembered the Cosmopolitan Club yearbook,” he said. “You don’t imagine it meant anything, do you?”
Chan shrugged. “Imagination does not seem to thrive on mainland climate,” he replied.
Kirk went off to his lawyer’s and Charlie returned home to await a more promising tomorrow.
On Tuesday afternoon Miss Morrow was the first to arrive at the bungalow. She came in about three thirty. The day was dark, with gusts of wind and rain, but the girl was glowing.
Kirk helped her off with her raincoat. “You seem to be filled with vim and vigor,” he said.
“Walked all the way,” she told him. “I was too excited to sit calmly in a taxi. Just think—in a few minutes we may see the meeting between Major Durand and his long lost wife.”
“The Major has arrived?” Chan inquired.
“Yes—he and Inspector Duff came half an hour ago. Their train was a trifle late. Captain Flannery went to the station to meet them. He telephoned me they’d be along shortly. It seems that, like a true Englishman, the Major didn’t care to talk with anybody until he’d gone to a hotel and had his tub.”
“Don’t blame him, after that trip from Chicago,” Kirk said. “I believe little Jennie Jerome Marie Lantelme is on the elevator.”
Miss Morrow nodded. “She is. I saw her when I came up. I wonder if she is really Eve Durand? Won’t it be thrilling if she is!”
“She’s got to be. She’s Charlie’s hunch.”
“Do not be too certain,” Chan objected. “In the past it has often happened I was hoarsely barking up incorrect tree.”
Kirk stirred the fire, and drew up a wide chair for the girl. “Here you are—a trifle large for you, but you may grow. I’ll give you tea later. These Englishmen probably can’t do a thing until they’ve had their Oolong.”
The girl sat down, and, dropping into a chair at her side, Kirk began to talk airily of nothing in particular. He was conscious that at his back Chan was nervously walking the floor.
“Better sit down, Charlie,” he suggested. “You act like a man in a dentist’s waiting-room.”
“Feel that way,” Chan told him. “Much is at stake now for me. If I have taken wrong turning, I shall have to endure some Flannery sneers.”
It was four o’clock, and the dusk was falling outside the lofty windows, when the bell rang. Kirk himself went to the door. He admitted Flannery and a thickset young Englishman. Two men only—Kirk peered past them down the stairs, but the third man was not in evidence.
“Hello,” Flannery said, striding in. “Major Durand not here yet, eh?”
“He is not,” Kirk replied. “Don’t tell me you’ve mislaid him.”
“Oh, no,” Flannery answered. “I’ll explain in a minute. Miss
