“Yeah—but I’d rather hunt up a cow,” Flannery growled.
“Patient waiting,” Chan went on, “is first requisite of good detective. Is that not correct, Inspector Duff?”
“Sometimes it seems the only requisite,” Duff agreed. “I fancy I may smoke here?”
“Oh, of course,” Kirk told him. He sighed with relief and took out his pipe.
The minutes dragged on. They heard the shuffle of feet on the tiled floor of the lobby, the voices of members calling greetings, making dinner dates. Flannery was like a fly on a hot griddle.
“If you’re making a fool of me again—” he began.
His recent humiliation had been recalled to his mind by the sight of Major Eric Durand, checking his Burberry and his felt hat with Peter Lee. The Major’s manner was one of deep depression.
“Poor devil,” said Flannery softly. “We handed him a hard jolt today. It wasn’t necessary, either—” His accusing eyes sought Chan. The detective was huddled up on his chair like some fat, oblivious Buddha.
A half-hour passed. Flannery was in constant touch with the figures on the face of his watch. “Missing my dinner,” he complained. “And this chair—it’s like a barrel top.”
“There was no time to procure a velvet couch,” Chan suggested gently. “Compose yourself, I beg. The happy man is the calm man. We have only begun to vigil.”
At the end of another half-hour, Flannery was fuming. “Give us a tip,” he demanded. “What are we waiting for? I’ll know, or by heaven, I’ll get out of here so quick—”
“Please,” whispered Charlie. “We are waiting for the murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce. Is that not enough?”
“No, it isn’t,” the Captain snapped. “I’m sick of you and your confounded mystery. Put your cards on the table like a white man. This chair is killing me, I tell you—”
“Hush!” said Chan. He was leaning forward now, staring through the door into the checkroom. The others followed his gaze.
Major Eric Durand stood before the counter. He threw down the brass check for his coat and hat, it rang metallically in the silence. Peter Lee brought them for him. He leaned across the barrier and helped Durand on with his coat. The Major was fumbling in his pockets. He produced a small bit of cardboard, which he gave to Peter Lee. The old man studied his treasures for a moment, and then handed over a black leather briefcase.
Chan had seized Flannery’s arm, and was dragging the astonished Captain toward the club lobby. Kirk and Duff followed. They lined up before the huge front door. Durand appeared, walking briskly. He stopped as he saw the group barring his way.
“Ah, we meet again,” he said. “Mr. Kirk, it was thoughtful of you to send me that guest card to your club. I deeply appreciate it. It arrived only a short time ago. I shall enjoy dropping in here frequently—”
Charlie Chan came of a race that likes its drama, and his fat face was shining with joy. He raised his arm with the gesture of a Booth or a Salvini.
“Captain Flannery,” he cried. “Arrest this man.”
“Why—I—er—I don’t—” sputtered Flannery.
“Arrest this man Durand,” Chan went on. “Arrest him at same moment while he holds beneath his arm a briefcase containing much useful information. The briefcase Sir Frederic Bruce checked in this club on the afternoon of the day he died.”
XX
The Truth Arrives
All color had drained from Durand’s face, it was gray as fog as he stood there confronted by the triumphant little Chinese. Flannery reached out and seized the leather case. The Major made no move to resist.
“Sir Frederic’s briefcase,” Flannery cried. His air of uncertainty had vanished; he was alert and confident. “By heaven, if that’s true, then our man hunt is over.” He sought to open the case. “The thing’s locked,” he added. “I don’t like to break it open. It will be a mighty important piece of evidence.”
“Mr. Kirk still holds in possession Sir Frederic’s keys,” suggested Charlie. “I would have brought them with me but I did not know where they reposed.”
“They are in my desk,” Kirk told him.
A curious group was gathering about them. Chan turned to Flannery. “Our standing here has only one result. We offer ourselves as nucleus for a crowd. Humbly state we should go at once to bungalow. There the matter may be threshed out like winter wheat.”
“Good idea,” replied Flannery.
“I also ask that Mr. Kirk visit telephone booth and request Miss Morrow to speed to bungalow with all haste. It would be amazing unkindness to drop her out of events at this junction.”
“Sure,” agreed Flannery. “Do that, Mr. Kirk.”
“Likewise,” added Charlie, laying a hand on Kirk’s arm, “advise her to bring with her the elevator operator, Grace Lane.”
“What for?” demanded Flannery.
“Time will reveal,” Chan shrugged. As Kirk sped away, Colonel John Beetham came up. For a moment the explorer stood, taking in the scene before him. His inscrutable expression did not change.
“Colonel Beetham,” Charlie explained, “we have here the man who killed Sir Frederic Bruce.”
“Really?” returned Beetham calmly.
“Undubitably. It is a matter that concerns you, I think. Will you be so good as to join our little party?”
“Of course,” Beetham replied. He went for his hat and coat. Chan followed him, and retrieved from Peter Lee the pasteboard check on receipt of which the old man had relinquished Sir Frederic’s property.
Kirk, Beetham and Chan returned to the group by the door. “All set,” announced Flannery. “Come along, Major Durand.”
Durand hesitated. “I am not familiar with your law. But shouldn’t there be some sort of warrant—”
“You needn’t worry about that. I’m taking you on suspicion. I can get a warrant when I want it. Don’t be a fool—come on.”
Outside a gentle rain had begun to fall, and the town was wrapped in mist. Duff, Flannery and Durand got into one taxi, and Chan followed with Kirk and the explorer in another. As Charlie was stepping into the car, a breathless figure shot out
