“You would chop down the tree to catch the blackbird,” Chan said.
“Well, sometimes we have to do that. It’s roundabout, but it ought to work. What do you think, Inspector?”
“Sounds rather good, as drama,” Duff drawled. “But do you really think it will reveal the murderer of Sir Frederic?”
“It may. Somebody—the woman, or Beetham—will break. Make a damaging admission. They always do. I’ll gamble on it, this time. Yes, sir—we’re going to take a big stride forward tomorrow night.”
Leaving Captain Flannery to an enthusiastic contemplation of his own cleverness, they departed. At the door Chan went off with Inspector Duff. Kirk and the girl strolled up the hill together.
“Want a taxi?” Kirk asked.
“Thanks. I’d rather walk—and think.”
“We have something to think of, haven’t we? How does it strike you? Beetham?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Nonsense. I’ll never believe it. Not if he makes a full confession himself.”
“Oh, I know. He’s the hero of your dreams. But just the same, my lady, he’s not incapable of it. If Sir Frederic was in his way—threatening his plans—and it begins to look as though he was. Unless you don’t believe that Eve Durand was in the caravan?”
“I believe that,” she replied.
“Because you want to,” he smiled. “It’s too romantic for words, isn’t it? By George, the very thought of it makes me feel young and giddy. The gay picnic party in the hills—the game of hide-and-seek—one breathless moment of meeting behind the tamarisks. ‘I’m yours—take me with you when you go.’ Everything forgotten—the world well lost for love. The wagon jolting out through the pass, with all that beauty hidden beneath a worn bit of canvas. Then—the old caravan road—the golden road to Samarkand—the merchants from the north crowding by—camels and swarthy men—and mingled with the dust of the trail the iron nails lost from thousands of shoes that have passed that way since time began.”
“I didn’t know you were so romantic.”
“Ah—you’ve never given me a chance. You and your law books. Eight months along that famous road—nights with the white stars close overhead, dawns hazy with desert mist. Hot sun at times, and then snow, flurries of snow. The man and the woman together—”
“And the poor husband searching frantically throughout India.”
“Yes, they rather forgot Durand, didn’t they? But they were in love. You know, it looks to me as though we had stumbled on to a great love story. Do you think—”
“I wonder.”
“You wonder what?”
“I wonder if it’s all true—and if it is, does it bring us any closer to a solution of the puzzle? After all, the question remains—who killed Sir Frederic? Captain Flannery hadn’t an iota of proof for any of his wild surmises involving Beetham.”
“Oh, forget your worries. Let’s pretend. This deserted street is the camel road to Tehran—the old silk road from China to Persia. You and I—”
“You and I have no time for silk roads now. We must find the road that leads to a solution of our mystery.”
Kirk sighed. “All right. To make a headline of it, Attorney Morrow Slams Door on Romance Probe. But some day I’ll catch you off your guard, and then—look out!”
“I’m never off my guard,” she laughed.
On Friday morning, after breakfast, Chan hesitated a moment, and then followed Barry Kirk into his bedroom. “If you will pardon the imposition, I have bold request to make.”
“Certainly, Charlie. What is it?”
“I wish you to take me to Cosmopolitan Club, and introduce me past eagle-eyed door man. After that, I have unlimited yearning to meet old employee of club.”
“An old employee? Well, there’s Peter Lee. He’s been in charge of the checkroom for thirty years. Would he do?”
“An excellent choice. I would have you suggest to this Lee that he show me about clubhouse, roof to cellar. Is that possible?”
“Of course.” Kirk looked at him keenly. “You’re still thinking about that club yearbook we found beside Sir Frederic?”
“I have never ceased to think of it,” Chan returned. “Whenever you are ready, please.”
Deeply mystified, Kirk took him to the Cosmopolitan and turned him over to Peter Lee.
“It is not necessary that you loiter on the scene,” Chan remarked, grinning with pleasure. “I will do some investigating and return to the bungalow later.”
“All right,” Kirk replied. “Just as you wish.”
It was close to the luncheon hour when Chan showed up, his little eyes gleaming.
“What luck?” Kirk inquired.
“Time will reveal,” said Chan. “I find this mainland climate bracing to an extremity. Very much fear I shall depopulate your kitchen at lunch.”
“Well, don’t drink too heartily of the hydrocyanic acid,” Kirk smiled. “Something tells me it would be a real calamity if we lost you just at present.”
After luncheon Miss Morrow telephoned to say that Grace Lane, accompanied by the two policemen, would reach Flannery’s office at four o’clock. She added that they were both invited—on her own initiative.
“Let us go,” Chan remarked. “Captain Flannery’s big scene should have crowded house.”
“What do you think will come of it?” Kirk asked.
“I am curious to learn. If it has big success, then my work here is finished. If not—”
“Yes? Then what?”
“Then I may suddenly act like pompous stager of shows myself,” Chan shrugged.
Flannery, Duff and Miss Morrow were in the Captain’s office when Chan and Barry Kirk walked in. “Hello,” said the Captain. “Want to be in at the finish, eh?”
“Pleasure would be impossible to deny ourselves,” Chan told him.
“Well, I’m all set,” Flannery went on. “All my plans made.”
Chan nodded. “The wise man digs his well before he is thirsty,” he remarked.
“You haven’t been doing any too much digging,” Flannery chided. “I got to admit, Sergeant, you’ve kept your word. You’ve let me solve this case without offering very much help. However, I’ve been equal to it. I haven’t needed you, as it turned out. You might as well have been on that boat ten days ago.”
“A sad reflection for me,” said Chan. “But I am not of mean nature. My
