“Certainly, sir.” The butler made a gloomy exit.
“Good lord,” sighed Kirk, “I’m afraid he’s going sensitive on my hands. I suppose that just to show I trust him, I’ll have to give a large dinner and invite all the people of whom I’m especially fond.”
“A large dinner?”
“Well—fairly large. My grandmother, and Charlie Chan, and a few old friends from the club. And—er—would you come?”
“If I didn’t, it wouldn’t be because I was afraid of Paradise.”
They descended to the street. It was a night of mist, with occasional fierce rain. Kirk found his car and helping the girl in, drove from the deserted business district to Union Square, where bright lights were gleaming on the wet pavements. The cable-car bells rang cheerily, a flotilla of umbrellas bobbed jauntily along the sidewalk; the spirits of the people of San Francisco, habitually high, are not to be damped by a little rain. “How about Marchetti’s?” Kirk inquired.
“Sounds good to me,” Miss Morrow answered.
They entered the little restaurant. On the dance floor the first of the cabaret acts was under way; a young, good-looking chorus pranced about to the strains of a popular air. Barry Kirk was known there, and the result was a good table and an obsequious head waiter. They gave their order.
“I like this place,” said Kirk. “They never confuse noise with merriment.” A pretty little blonde awarded him a sweet smile in passing. “Awfully cute girls, don’t you think?”
“Yes, aren’t they?” Miss Morrow answered. “Do you like cute girls?”
“Like to see ’em going by—on the other side. Never cared much for their conversation. It has no weight. Now, you take a lawyer, for instance—”
“Please,” she said. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m not in the mood for it tonight. I’m tired—and discouraged.”
“Tired—that’s all right,” he replied. “But discouraged—what about? As I understand it, you’ve been a big success in your work.”
“Oh, no I haven’t. I’ve got on—a little way—but am I going any farther? Have you forgotten—this is an anniversary. A week ago tonight—”
“You dined with me for the first time. I hope—”
“A week ago tonight Sir Frederic was killed, and I embarked on my first big case. Up to this minute I haven’t contributed a thing to its solution—”
“Oh, yes, you have. Of course, you haven’t solved the puzzle, but there’s plenty of time—”
“Oh, no, there isn’t. At any moment the district attorney may tell me I’m out. I’ve got to make good quickly—and how can I? Look back—what have we accomplished to date?”
“Well, you’ve found Eve Durand.”
“And lost her. That is—if the little elevator girl was Eve Durand.”
“She must be. Charlie says so.”
Miss Morrow shook her head. “Charlie’s clever, but he’s been wrong. He admits it freely. You know, something happened tonight while we were waiting for Captain Flannery to lead that girl into the room. Something inside me. Just a hunch—a woman’s intuition—I suddenly felt quite sure that she wasn’t Eve Durand after all.”
“You don’t say. And what basis did you have for that hunch?”
“None whatever. But I felt we were on the wrong trail altogether. She might very well be Jennie Jerome, and Marie Lantelme too, and still not be Durand’s lost wife. Don’t forget there are many other possibilities for that role.”
“For example?”
“How about Lila Barr—the girl in the office of the Calcutta Importers? You remember what you told us—how interested Sir Frederic was in her? Just what did that mean?”
“I’d be happy to tell you—if I knew.”
“But you don’t. Then there’s Eileen Enderby and Gloria Garland. In spite of their stories about why Sir Frederic wanted to see them—are they out of it? And Mrs. Tupper-Brock. No—we can’t be sure that the elevator girl was Eve Durand. We’ve just been guessing—Chan’s been guessing. And we’ll never know now.”
“Why not? Flannery will find her.”
“You don’t really believe that? If you do, you’ve more faith in the poor old Captain than I have. Suppose he does find her, and she is Eve Durand—what of it? She’ll simply refuse to talk, and we’ll be no nearer knowing who killed Sir Frederic than we ever were.”
“I brought you here for an evening of gaiety,” Kirk said sternly, “and you sit there thinking black thoughts.”
“Just a minute—let me go on. It’s such a comfort to talk things over. Who killed Sir Frederic—that’s my problem. The identity of Eve Durand may not have as much to do with the matter as we think. It may even prove to have nothing to do with it at all. Who pulled that trigger in your office last Tuesday night? Carrick Enderby? It’s quite possible. Eileen Enderby? There were those stains on her frock—did she climb down the fire-escape on some sinister errand? Dismissing the Enderby family, there are others. How about Gloria Garland? Mrs. Tupper-Brock?”
“Each of whom, of course, arrived at my dinner with a pistol hidden under her gown?” smiled Kirk.
“Each of whom knew she was to meet Sir Frederic that night. The pistol could have been arranged. To go on with the list—there’s Paradise. I like him, but I can’t see that his story of this afternoon puts him completely beyond suspicion. On the contrary. Outside the bungalow, there was that pale young man from the accountants’ office.”
“Oh yes—name of Smith,” said Kirk. “I’d forgotten all about him.”
“I haven’t,” Miss Morrow replied. “Then, there’s Li Gung. The Chinese who fled to Honolulu next day. What was his hurry? Isn’t it possible that he climbed up the fire-escape—Oh, what’s the use? The list seems endless.” Miss Morrow sighed.
“And incomplete, as you give it,” added Kirk.
“You mean—”
“I mean the man who accompanied Li Gung to the dock. Colonel John Beetham.”
“Absurd! A man like Colonel Beetham—famous throughout the world—a man who has won all the medals and distinctions there are for gallant conduct—as though he could do anything base, anything despicable.”
“Just there,” said Kirk, “your sex betrays you. Not one of you women can resist a handsome, distinguished-looking Englishman. Speaking as a less romantic male, I must say that the Colonel doesn’t strike
