The girl came forward, smiling. “I’m so glad,” she said.
“Charmed,” remarked Duff, in a hearty, roast-beef-of-Old-England voice. He was surprisingly young, with rosy cheeks, and the look of a farmer about him. And indeed it had been from a farm in Yorkshire that he had come to London and the Metropolitan police.
“The Inspector and I went from the train to my office,” Flannery explained. “I wanted to go over the records of our case with him. The Major stopped at the hotel to brush up—he’ll be along in a minute. Oh, yes—Mr. Kirk, Inspector Duff. And this, Inspector, is Sergeant Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police.”
Chan bowed low. “A moment that will live forever in my memory,” he said.
“Oh—er—really?” Duff replied. “The Captain’s told me of you, Sergeant. We’re in the same line—some miles apart.”
“Many miles apart,” conceded Charlie gravely.
“Look here,” said Flannery, “it will be just as well if the Major doesn’t meet that girl in the elevator until we’re all set for it. Somebody should go below and steer him into a different car.”
“I will be happy to perform that service,” Chan offered.
“No—I know him by sight—I’ll do it,” Flannery replied. “I want to have a word with the men I’ve got watching her. I saw one of them in front of the building when I came in. Inspector—I’ll leave you here. You’re in good hands.” He went out.
Kirk drew up a chair for the English detective. “Give you tea when the Major comes,” he said.
“You’re very kind, I’m sure,” Duff answered.
“You have been all over the case with Captain Flannery?” Miss Morrow inquired.
“I have—from the beginning.” Duff replied. “It’s a shocking affair—shocking. Sir Frederic was deeply respected—I might even say loved—by all of us. It appears that he was killed in the line of duty, though he had retired and was, supposedly, out of all that. I can assure you that the murder of one of its men is not taken lightly by Scotland Yard. We shall not rest until we have found the guilty person—and in that task, Sergeant, we shall welcome help from every possible source.”
Chan bowed. “My abilities are of the slightest, but they are lined up beside your very great ones.”
“I had hoped, Inspector,” Miss Morrow said, “that you would be able to throw considerable light on this affair.”
Duff shook his head. “I’m frightfully sorry. There are so many other men—older men—on our force who would have been of much greater service. Unfortunately I am the only Scotland Yard man in the States at the moment. You see—I’m a bit young—”
“I’d noticed that,” smiled the girl.
“All these events that appear to be linked up with Sir Frederic’s murder happened before my day. I shall do my best—but—”
“Will you have a cigarette?” Kirk suggested.
“No, thanks. My pipe, if the young lady doesn’t object.”
“Not at all,” said Miss Morrow. “It’s quite in the Sherlock Holmes tradition.”
Duff smiled. “But the only point of similarity, I fear. As I say, I have been with the Metropolitan police a comparatively brief time—a mere matter of seven years. Of course I have heard of the Hilary Galt murder, though it happened many years ago. As a young policeman I was shown, in the Black Museum, the famous velvet slippers they found Galt wearing that disastrous night. Coming to Eve Durand, I am familiar, in a casual way, with the story of her disappearance. In fact, I had, once, a very slight connection with the case. Five years ago there was a rumor that she had been seen in Paris, and Sir Frederic sent me across the Channel to look into it. It was merely another false alarm, but while making the investigation I chanced to encounter Major Durand, who was also on the ground. Poor chap—that was one of a long series of disappointments for him. I hope he is not to suffer another here tonight.”
“How did the Major happen to come to America at this time?” Miss Morrow inquired.
“He came in answer to a cable from Sir Frederic,” Duff explained. “Sir Frederic asked his help, and of course he hastened to comply, landing in New York a week ago. When I got off the Twentieth Century in Chicago I discovered Durand had been on the same train. We joined forces and hurried on to San Francisco together.”
“Well, he, at least, can help us,” Miss Morrow suggested.
“I fancy he can. I repeat, I have been over the case carefully, but I have had no inspiration as yet. One angle of it interests me tremendously—those velvet slippers. Why were they taken? Where are they now? They appear to be again the essential clue. What do you say, Sergeant?”
Chan shrugged. “Slippers were exactly that long time ago,” he said. “On which occasion they led positively no place.”
“I know,” smiled Duff. “But I’m not superstitious. I shall follow them again. By the way, there is one point on which I may be able to offer some help.” He turned suddenly to Kirk. “You have a butler named Paradise?” he inquired.
Kirk’s heart sank. “Yes—and a very good one,” he answered.
“I have been interested in Paradise,” said Duff. “And Paradise, I understand, has been interested in Sir Frederic’s mail. Where is he now?”
“He’s in the kitchen, or his room,” Kirk replied. “Do you want to see him?”
“Before I go—yes,” Duff said.
Flannery came through the hall, followed by a big, blond man in a dripping Burberry coat. Major Eric Durand, retired, looked to be the sportsman type of Englishman; his cheeks were tanned and weather-beaten, as though from much riding in the open, his blue eyes alert. Indoors, one would picture him sitting in a club with a cigar, a whiskey and soda, and a copy of the Field.
“Come in, Major,” Flannery said. He introduced the Britisher to the company, and Kirk hurried forward to take the Burberry coat. There followed a moment of awkward silence.
“Major,” Flannery began, “we haven’t told you why we got you here.
