“No—I have never been there.”
“Did you ever hear of a tragic event that happened in India—at Peshawar? The disappearance of a young woman named Eve Durand?”
Mrs. Tupper-Brock considered. “I may have read about it in the newspapers,” she admitted. “It has a dimly familiar sound.”
“Tell me—did you by any chance notice the elevator girl who took you up to the bungalow the night of Mr. Kirk’s dinner?”
Again the handkerchief was crushed in the woman’s hand. “I did not. Why should I?”
“She was, then, quite unknown to you?”
“I fancy she was. Of course, one doesn’t study—er—that sort of person.”
“Ah, yes.” Miss Morrow sought an inconsequential ending for the interview. “You are English, Mrs. Tupper-Brock?”
“English, yes.”
“A Londoner?”
“No—I was born in Devonshire. I stayed there until my—my marriage. Then my husband took me to York, where he had a living. He was a clergyman, you know.”
“Thank you so much.”
“I’m afraid I have been of very little help.”
“Oh, but I hardly looked for anything else,” Miss Morrow smiled. “These questions are a mere formality. Everyone at the dinner—you understand. It was good of you to come.” She rose.
Mrs. Tupper-Brock restored the handkerchief to her bag, and also stood up. “That is all, I take it?”
“Oh, quite. It’s a lovely day after the rain.”
“Beautiful,” murmured the woman, and moved toward the door. Kirk came from the corner where he had been lolling.
“Any other little service I can do?” he asked.
“Not at present, thanks. You’re immensely valuable.”
Mrs. Tupper-Brock had reached the outer room. Kirk spoke in a low voice. “No word of the elevator girl?”
“Not a trace,” Miss Morrow sighed. “The same old story. But just what I expected.”
Kirk looked toward the other room. “And the lady who has just left,” he whispered. “A complete dud, wasn’t she? I’m awfully sorry. She told you nothing.”
The girl came very close, fragrant, young, smiling. Kirk felt a bit dizzy. “You are wrong,” she said softly. “The lady who has just left told me a great deal.”
“You mean?”
“I mean she’s a liar, if I ever met one. A liar, and a poor one. I’m going to prove it, too.”
“Bright girl,” Kirk smiled, and, hurrying out, caught up with Mrs. Tupper-Brock in the hall.
The return ride to Mrs. Dawson Kirk’s house was another strained, silent affair, and Kirk parted from the dark, mysterious lady with a distinct feeling of relief. He drove back to the Kirk Building and ascended to the twentieth floor. As he got out of the elevator he saw Mr. Cuttle trying his office door. Cuttle was not only the night-watchman, but was also assistant superintendent of the building, a title in which he took great pride.
“Hello, Cuttle,” Kirk said. “Want to see me?”
“I do, sir,” Cuttle answered. “Something that may be important.” Kirk unlocked the office and they went in.
“It’s about that girl, Grace Lane, sir,” Cuttle explained, when they reached the inner room. “The one who disappeared last night.”
“Oh, yes.” Kirk looked at him with sudden interest. “What about her?”
“The police asked me a lot of questions. Where did I get her, and all that. There was one point on which I was silent. I thought I had better speak to you first, Mr. Kirk.”
“Well, I don’t know, Cuttle. It isn’t wise to try to conceal things from the police.”
“But on this point, sir—”
“What point?”
“The matter of how I came to hire her. The letter she brought to me from a certain person—”
“From what person?”
“From your grandmother, sir. From Mrs. Dawson Kirk.”
“Good lord! Grace Lane came to you with a letter from my grandmother?”
“She did. I still have the letter. Perhaps you would like to see it?”
Cuttle produced a gray, expensive-looking envelope. Kirk took out the enclosure and saw that the message was written in his grandmother’s cramped, old-fashioned hand. He read:
“My dear Mr. Cuttle: The young woman who presents this letter is a good friend of mine, Miss Grace Lane. I should be very pleased if you could find some employment for her in the building—I have thought of the work on the elevators. Miss Lane is far above such work, but she has had a bad time of it, and is eager to take anything that offers. I am sure you will find her willing and competent. I will vouch for her in every way.
Kirk finished, a puzzled frown on his face. “I’ll keep this, Cuttle,” he remarked, putting the letter in his pocket. “And—I guess it was just as well you said nothing to the police.”
“I thought so, sir,” replied Cuttle with deep satisfaction, and retired.
XVI
Long Life and Happiness
Kirk hurried up to the bungalow. He found Charlie Chan seated in a chair by the window, completely engrossed in Colonel John Beetham’s description of The Land Beyond the Khyber.
“Well,” said Kirk, “here’s news for you. I’ve just got on the trail of another suspect in our little case.”
“The more the increased merriment,” Chan assured him. “Kindly deign to name the newest person who has been performing queer antics.”
“Just my grandmother,” Kirk returned. “That’s all.”
Charlie allowed himself the luxury of a moment’s surprise. “You overwhelm me with amazement. That dear old lady. What misendeavor has she been up to?”
“It was she who got Grace Lane—or whatever her confounded name is—a job in the Kirk Building.” The young man repeated his talk with Cuttle and showed Chan the letter.
Charlie read Mrs. Dawson Kirk’s warm endorsement with interest. He handed it back, smiling. “Grandmother now becomes a lady to be investigated. Humbly suggest you place Miss Morrow on her track.”
Kirk laughed. “I’ll do it. The resulting display of fireworks ought to prove a very pretty sight.” He called Miss Morrow and, having heard his story, she suggested an interview with Mrs. Kirk at the bungalow at two o’clock.
The young man got his grandmother on the wire. “Hello,” he said, “this is Barry. Did I understand you to say this morning you’d like to be mixed up in the Bruce murder?”
“Well—in
