“What’s that?”
“I think he’d pull out a gun and shoot me. Yes, I’m certain he would, and he’d go on his way happy to know there was one weakling who would never trouble him again.”
“Yes, he’s a hard, determined man,” Miss Morrow admitted. “Nevertheless, he wouldn’t kill Sir Frederic. Poor Sir Frederic wasn’t interfering with his plans in any way.”
“Oh, wasn’t he? How do you know he wasn’t?”
“Well—I can’t see—”
“Let’s leave Beetham to Chan,” Kirk suggested. “The little man has an air about him—I believe he knows what he’s doing. And now will you drop all this and dance with me—or must I dance alone?”
“I don’t know. In my position, I have to give an impression of being serious—the public—”
“Oh, forget your public. He wouldn’t venture out on a night like this. Come along.”
Miss Morrow laughed, and they danced together on the tiny floor. For the rest of the evening she permitted Kirk to lead the conversation into more frivolous channels—a task at which he excelled. The change seemed to do her good.
“Well,” said Kirk, as he signed the check, “you can be gay, after all. And I must say it becomes you.”
“I’ve forgot all my worries,” replied the girl, her eyes sparkling. “I feel as though I should never think of them again.”
“That’s the talk,” Kirk approved.
But before they got out of the room, Miss Morrow’s worries were suddenly brought back to her. Along one wall was a series of booths, beside which they walked on their way to the door. Opposite the final booth the girl half stopped, and glanced back over her shoulder at Barry Kirk. In passing he too looked into the compartment, and then hastily moved on. He need not have effaced himself so hurriedly, for the two people who were dining together in the booth were so deep in serious conversation they were oblivious to everything.
In the street Miss Morrow turned to Kirk. “What did I tell you?” she cried. “There are other women involved in this affair besides that poor little elevator girl.”
“And what did I tell you,” Kirk answered, “about your handsome British hero?”
Miss Morrow nodded. “Tomorrow,” she said, “I shall look into this. Just what, I wonder, is the connection between Colonel Beetham and Mrs. Helen Tupper-Brock?”
XV
The Discreet Mr. Cuttle
When Charlie Chan rose on Wednesday morning, the rain was over and the fog was lifting. Bravely struggling through remnants of mist, the sun fell on a sparkling town, washed clean for a new day. Chan stood for a long time looking out at the magnificent panorama over bay and harbor, at the green of Goat Island and the prison fortress of Alcatraz. Along the waterfront stretched a line of great ships as though awaiting a signal that should send them scurrying off to distant treaty ports and coral islands.
Chan’s heart was heavy despite the bright morning. At twelve noon would sail the ship on which he had sworn to depart, the ship that would come finally to rest under the tower that bore the word “Aloha.” There would be keen disappointment in the little house beneath the algaroba trees on Punchbowl Hill, as there was disappointment in the detective’s heart now. He sighed. Would this holiday never end? This holiday so filled with work and baffling problems? This holiday that was no holiday at all?
When he entered the dining-room Barry Kirk was already at the table, but his glass of orange juice stood before him, untouched.
“Hello,” said the host. “I waited for you.”
“You grow increasingly kind with every dawn,” Chan grinned.
“Oh, I don’t know. It isn’t exactly kindness. Somehow, I don’t seem in any hurry to quaff California’s favorite beverage this morning. Take a look at it. Does it strike you as being—er—the real thing?”
As Chan sat down, Paradise appeared in the doorway. Without a moment’s hesitation, Chan lifted his glass. “Your very good health,” he remarked.
Kirk glanced at the butler, and raised his own glass. “I sincerely trust you’re right,” he murmured, and drank heartily.
Paradise gravely said his good mornings and, setting down two bowls of oatmeal, departed. “Well,” Barry Kirk smiled, “we seem to be OK so far.”
“Suspicion,” Chan told him, “is a wicked thing. That is written in many places.”
“Yes—and where would you be in your work without it?” Kirk inquired. “By the way, did you get anything out of Duff last night?”
“Nothing that demands heavy thought. One point he elucidated carried slight interest.”
“What was that?”
“Begging respectful pardon, for the present I will ponder same with my customary silence. You dined here?”
“No. Miss Morrow and I went to a restaurant.”
“Ah—a moment’s pleasant recreation,” said Chan approvingly.
“That was the idea.”
“You enjoy society of this young woman?”
“I do not precisely pine in her presence. You know, she’s not so serious as she pretends to be.”
“That is good. Women were not invented for heavy thinking. They should decorate scene, like blossom of the plum.”
“Yes, but they can’t all be movie actresses. I don’t mind a girl’s having a brain if she doesn’t act upstage about it—and Miss Morrow never does. We had a very lighthearted evening, but we weren’t blind. As we left the restaurant, we made a little discovery.”
“Good, what was it?”
Kirk shrugged. “Shall I ponder same with my customary silence? No, I won’t be as mean as you are, Charlie. We saw your old friend Colonel John Beetham relaxing from the stern realities of life. We saw him dining with a lady.”
“Ah, yes. Which lady?”
“A lady we have rather overlooked so far. Mrs. Helen Tupper-Brock.”
“That has interest. Miss Morrow will investigate?”
“Yes. I’m going to pick
