By then I was a bit impatient.
“Who’s that?” I demanded.
She put her eyebrows up for me.
“Mr. John Garthorne,” she said.
“How well do you know him?”
“May I ask why you are so interested?”
“You may. Mr. John Garthorne is all wrong, I think.”
“Wrong?”
I had another idea.
“Where does he live?”
She gave me an O’Farrell Street number.
“The Glenway Apartments?”
“I think so.” She was looking at me without any affectation at all. “Will you please explain?”
“One more question and I will. Do you know a Chinese named Chang Li Ching?”
“No.”
“All right. I’ll tell you about Garthorne. So far I’ve run into two angles on this trouble of yours. One of them has to do with this Chang Li Ching in Chinatown, and one with an ex-convict named Conyers. This John Garthorne was in Chinatown today. I saw him coming out of a cellar that probably connects with Chang Li Ching’s house. The ex-convict Conyers visited the building where Garthorne lives, early this afternoon.”
Her mouth popped open and then shut.
“That is absurd!” she snapped. “I have known Mr. Garthorne for some time, and—”
“Exactly how long?”
“A long—several months.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
“Through a girl I knew at college.”
“What does he do for a living?”
She stood stiff and silent.
“Listen, Miss Shan,” I said. “Garthorne may be all right, but I’ve got to look him up. If he’s in the clear there’ll be no harm done. I want to know what you know about him.”
I got it, little by little. He was, or she thought he was, the youngest son of a prominent Richmond, Virginia, family, in disgrace just now because of some sort of boyish prank. He had come to San Francisco four months ago, to wait until his father’s anger cooled. Meanwhile his mother kept him in money, leaving him without the necessity of toiling during his exile. He had brought a letter of introduction from one of Lillian Shan’s schoolmates. Lillian Shan had, I gathered, a lot of liking for him.
“You’re going out with him tonight?” I asked when I had got this.
“Yes.”
“In his car or yours?”
She frowned, but she answered my question.
“In his. We are going to drive down to Half Moon for dinner.”
“I’ll need a key, then, because I am coming back here after you have gone.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m coming back here. I’ll ask you not to say anything about my more or less unworthy suspicions to him, but my honest opinion is that he’s drawing you away for the evening. So if the engine breaks down on the way back, just pretend you see nothing unusual in it.”
That worried her, but she wouldn’t admit I might be right. I got the key, though, and then I told her of my employment agency scheme that needed her assistance, and she promised to be at the office at half past nine Thursday morning.
I didn’t see Garthorne again before I left the house.
VI
In my hired car again, I had the driver take me to the nearest village, where I bought a plug of chewing tobacco, a flashlight, and a box of cartridges at the general store. My gun is a .38 Special, but I had to take the shorter, weaker cartridges, because the storekeeper didn’t keep the specials in stock.
My purchases in my pocket, we started back toward the Shan house again. Two bends in the road this side of it, I stopped the car, paid the chauffeur, and sent him on his way, finishing the trip afoot.
The house was dark all around.
Letting myself in as quietly as possible, and going easy with the flashlight, I gave the interior a combing from cellar to roof. I was the only occupant. In the kitchen, I looted the icebox for a bite or two, which I washed down with milk. I could have used some coffee, but coffee is too fragrant.
The luncheon done, I made myself comfortable on a chair in the passageway between the kitchen and the rest of the house. On one side of the passageway, steps led down to the basement. On the other, steps led upstairs. With every door in the house except the outer ones open, the passageway was the center of things so far as hearing noises was concerned.
An hour went by—quietly except for the passing of cars on the road a hundred yards away and the washing of the Pacific down in the little cove. I chewed on my plug of tobacco—a substitute for cigarettes—and tried to count up the hours of my life I’d spent like this, sitting or standing around waiting for something to happen.
The telephone rang.
I let it ring. It might be Lillian Shan needing help, but I couldn’t take a chance. It was too likely to be some egg trying to find out if anybody was in the house.
Another half hour went by with a breeze springing up from the ocean, rustling trees outside.
A noise came that was neither wind nor surf nor passing car.
Something clicked somewhere.
It was at a window, but I didn’t know which. I got rid of my chew, got gun and flashlight out.
It sounded again, harshly.
Somebody was giving a window a strong play—too strong. The catch rattled, and something clicked against the pane. It was a stall. Whoever he was, he could have smashed the glass with less noise than he was making.
I stood up, but I didn’t leave the passageway. The window noise was a fake to draw the attention of anyone who might be in the house. I turned my back on it, trying to see into the kitchen.
The kitchen was too black to see anything.
I saw nothing there. I heard nothing there.
Damp air blew on me from the kitchen.
That was something to worry about. I had company, and he was slicker than I. He could
