“How did Sir Frederic know that Eve Durand was in San Francisco?” Barry Kirk inquired.
“He got that information from a letter written by Mrs. Tupper-Brock to an aunt in Shanghai. There is a copy of the letter here. In it Mrs. Tupper-Brock mentioned that Eve Durand was in this city, employed in the Kirk Building. All of which explains his eagerness to make his headquarters with you, Mr. Kirk. But he hadn’t located her—he died without that satisfaction, poor chap. His choice was Miss Lila Barr. He didn’t dare say anything to Mrs. Tupper-Brock, for fear Eve Durand would slip through his fingers again. On the night of the dinner he was setting a trap—the desk unlocked, the safe open. He rather hoped someone would creep in for a look around. That and the chance of identifying Jennie Jerome, or Marie Lantelme—on these things he placed his reliance.”
“He would have won, if he had lived,” Chan remarked.
“No doubt of it. In Peshawar he established to his own satisfaction the manner in which Eve had left India. When he found her he would have told her what he knew, and she would have related her story, just as she did here tonight. His long search for the murderer of Hilary Galt would have ended then and there. Poor Sir Frederic.” Duff picked up his coat, and Kirk helped him. “I’ll take the briefcase,” the Inspector continued. “It will be useful at the Yard.” He held out his hand. “Sergeant Chan, meeting you would alone have repaid me for my long journey. Come to London some day. I’ll show you how we work over there.”
Chan smiled. “You are too kind. But the postman on his holiday has walked until feet are aching. Free to remark that if he ever takes another vacation, same will be forced on him at point of plenty big gun.”
“I don’t wonder,” replied Duff. “Mr. Kirk—a pleasure to know you, too. Goodbye and good luck to you both.”
Kirk let him out. When he returned, Charlie was standing at the window, staring down on the roofs of the city. He swung about. “Now I go and pack.”
“But you’ve five days for that,” Kirk protested.
Charlie shook his head. “The guest who lingers too long deteriorates like unused fish. You have been so good—more would make me uncomfortable. I remove my presence at once.”
“Oh, no,” Kirk cried. “Good old Paradise will serve dinner in a few minutes.”
“Please,” Chan said, “permit me the luxury of at last beginning to mean what I say.”
He went into his bedroom and in a surprisingly brief time returned. “Luggage was pretty much ready,” he explained. He glanced toward the window. “Bright moon shines tonight in Honolulu. I am thinking of those home nights—long ones with long talks, long sipping of tea, long sleep and long peaceful dreams.” He went to the hall, where he had left his coat and hat. “I am wondering how to make words of the deep thanks I feel,” he said, returning. “Faced with kindness such as yours—”
The doorbell rang, a sharp, insistent peal. Charlie stepped into the bedroom. Kirk opened the door, and Bill Rankin, the reporter, rushed in.
“Where’s Charlie Chan?” he demanded breathlessly.
“He’s gone into his room,” Kirk answered. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
“I want to thank him,” Rankin continued loudly. “He sure treated me like a prince. I beat the town. And I’ve news for him—a woman has just been murdered over in Oakland under the most peculiar circumstances. There are all sorts of bully clues—and since he can’t leave until next week—”
Kirk laughed. “You tell him,” he suggested.
They waited a moment, then Kirk went into the bedroom. He cried out in surprise. The room was empty. A door leading to the passageway stood open. He stepped through it, and discovered that the door at the top of the stairs leading to the offices was also ajar.
“Rankin,” he called. “Come here, please.”
Rankin came. “Why—where is he—”
Kirk preceded the reporter downstairs. The offices were in darkness. In the middle room, Kirk switched on the light. After a hurried glance around, he pointed to the window that opened on to the fire-escape. It had been pushed up as far as it would go.
“The postman,” Kirk remarked, “absolutely refuses to take another walk.”
“Done an Eve Durand on us!” Rankin cried. “Well, I’ll be dog-goned.”
Kirk laughed. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll know where to find him—next Wednesday noon.”
Intent on verifying this prediction, Barry Kirk appeared in Miss Morrow’s dusty office the following Wednesday morning at eleven. He had stopped at a florist’s and bought an extravagant cluster of orchids. These he handed to the deputy district attorney.
“What’s the idea?” she asked.
“Come on,” he said. “The morning’s as bright as a new gold piece, and down at the docks there’s a ship about to set out for the loveliest fleet of islands in any ocean. The flowers are my bon voyage offering to you.”
“But I’m not sailing,” she protested.
“We’ll pretend you are. You’re going as far as the pier, anyhow. Get your hat.”
“Of course.” She got it, and they went down the dark stairs.
“Have you heard anything from Charlie Chan?” she asked.
“Not a word,” Kirk told her. “Charlie isn’t taking any chances. But we’ll find him aboard the boat. I’d gamble all I’ve got on that.”
They entered his car, and Kirk stepped on the gas. “What a morning,” he remarked. “Cooped up in that dark office of yours, you’ve no idea the things that are going on outside. Lady—spring is here!”
“So it seems. By the way—you know that Colonel Beetham sailed last night for China?”
“Yes. What about Eve Durand?”
“She’s starting tomorrow for England. Her uncle has cabled her to come and stop with him. The Colonel is to be in the Gobi Desert for a year, and then he’s going to England too. It will be spring in Devonshire when he arrives. A very lovely spring, they seem
