“Then fine evidence arrives. The velvet slippers come back to us on tide of events, wrapped in newspaper. On margin of paper, partially torn, are figures—a money addition—$79 plus $23 equals $103. This refers to dollars only. Cents have been torn off. I visit railroad office. I decide what must have been on that paper before its tearing. Simply this, $79.84 plus $23.63 equals $103.47. What is that? The cost of railroad fare to Chicago with lower berth. Then the person who discarded those slippers was on Oakland ferry Wednesday morning after murder, bound to take train from Oakland terminal to Chicago. Who of all my suspects might have done that? No one but Major Durand.
“I think deep, I cogitate, I weave in and out through my not very brilliant mind. I study timetables. Presume Major Durand was on that train out of Oakland Wednesday noon. He arrives in Chicago Saturday morning at nine. He is still distressed about check for briefcase, but his best plan seems to be to proceed eastward, and he hastens to LaSalle Street station to obtain train for New York. He arrives in time to see Inspector Duff, whom he met once in Paris, disembarking from Twentieth Century. He is smart man, a big idea assails him. First he will give impression he is alighting from same train, and then he will return to California in company of Scotland Yard Inspector. Who would suspect him then? So the innocent Inspector Duff himself escorts the killer back to the scene of the crime.
“All this seems to possess good logic. But it hangs on one thing—has briefcase been checked by Sir Frederic? This morning I visit with Peter Lee, keeper of Cosmopolitan Club checkroom. I can scarce restrain my joy to learn Sir Frederic did indeed leave such an object the day he died. His dying gesture then, was to call our attention to the fact. He sought to present us with essential clue—what a man he was! I fondle the case lovingly, observing dust. Inside is no doubt very important information. But I do not desire to open it yet. I desire to set a trap. I have unlimited yearning to show Captain Flannery the man we have sought, standing by the checkroom counter with this briefcase under his arm. Such evidence will be unanswerable.
“So I leave club, very happy. The affair has now pretty well unveiled itself. I have not yet discovered motives, but I am certain it was Major Durand who objected so murderously to the finding of his lost wife. He has not come to this country in answer to a cable from Sir Frederic. That is a lie. Sir Frederic did not want him. But he has learned, probably from the woman’s uncle, that Sir Frederic is on point of revealing wife. For a reason still clouded in dark, he determines this must not happen. He arrives in San Francisco same time as Sir Frederic. He locates great detective, learns of the office, watches his chance. To prevent detective from revealing wife, two things are necessary. He must destroy the records, and he must kill Sir Frederic. He decides to begin with records, and so on night of dinner party he forces his way into office, unseen by anybody. He is searching when Sir Frederic creeps in on the velvet slippers and surprises him. His opportunity has come, Sir Frederic is unarmed, he shoots him dead. But his task is only half completed, he hunts frantically for records. He does not find them. But he finds the check for the briefcase. He abstracts same, casts longing thought toward club, but does not dare. On the next train out he flees, the check burning in his pocket. If only he could return. In Chicago his great chance arrives.
“Building on all this, I set tonight my trap. And into it walks the man who killed Sir Frederic Bruce.”
Inspector Duff looked up. He appeared to have been reading and listening at the same time. “Intelligence, hard work and luck,” he remarked. “These three things contribute to the solution of a criminal case. And I may add that in my opinion, in this instance, the greatest of the trinity was intelligence.”
Chan bowed. “A remark I shall treasure with jealous pride all my life.”
“Yes, it’s pretty good,” admitted Flannery grudgingly. “Very good. But it ain’t complete. What about the velvet slippers? What about Hilary Galt? How is Galt’s murder mixed up in all this?”
Chan grinned. “I am not so hoggish. I leave a few points for Captain Flannery’s keen mind.”
Flannery turned to Duff. “Maybe it’s in those records?”
“I’ve got only about halfway through,” Duff answered. “There has been one mention of Hilary Galt. It says here that among the people who called at Galt’s office on the day the solicitor was murdered was Eric Durand. Captain Eric Durand—that was his rank at the time. To discover the meaning of that, I shall have to read further.”
“Have you learned,” Chan inquired, “this thing? Did Sir Frederic know which of the ladies we have suspicioned was Eve Durand?”
“Evidently he didn’t. All he knew was that she was in the Kirk Building. He seemed to favor Miss Lila Barr.”
“Ah, yes. Was he aware how Eve Durand escaped from India?”
“He was, beyond question.”
“He knew she went by the caravan?”
“By the caravan, through
