Читать книгу Keeper of the Keys - Earl Derr Biggers - Страница 8

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But when they stepped through the passage into the living-room the lady was not there. Two men were warming themselves before the fire: one, a round cheery, red-faced little man, the other a pale youth with black curly hair and a weak but handsome face. The older of the two stepped forward.

"Hello, Dudley," he said. "This is like old times, isn't it? Ellen back at the old house again and—er—ah—and all that."

"Hello, Jim," Ward replied. He introduced his guests to Jim, who was, it appeared, Mr. Dinsdale, manager of the Tavern. When he had finished, the hotel man turned to the boy who accompanied him.

"This is Mr. Hugh Beaton," he announced. "Ellen and Mr. Beaton's sister have gone up-stairs to leave their wraps, and——"

Mr. Romano had leaped to the boy's side and was shaking his hand. "Ah, Mr. Beaton," he cried, "I have wanted to see you. There is so much I must say."

"Y-yes," replied the boy with a startled air.

"Indeed—yes. You are taking over a very great responsibility. You, a musician, need not be told that. The talent—the genius—of Ellen Landini—it is something to guard, to watch over, to encourage. That is your duty in the name of Art. How does she behave with the pastries?"

"The—the what?" stammered the boy.

"The pastries? She has a wild passion for them. And it must be curbed. It is no easy matter, but she must be held back with a strong hand. Otherwise she will—she will expand—she will grow gross. And cigarettes. How many cigarettes do you permit her each day?"

"I permit her?" Beaton stared at Romano as at a madman. "Why—that's no affair of mine."

Romano looked toward high heaven.

"Ah—it is as I feared. You are too young to understand. Too young for this huge task. No affair of yours? My dear sir, in that case she is lost. She will smoke her voice into eternal silence. She will wreck her great career for ever——"

He was interrupted by a commotion at the head of the stairs, and Ellen Landini began to descend. The long stairway against one side of the room afforded her an excellent entrance. Of this she was not unaware; indeed, she had just sent her companion back on a trivial errand in order that she might have the stage to herself. Which of itself was a good description of Ellen Landini, once young and lovely and innocent, but now a bit too plump, a bit too blonde, and a bit too wise in the tricks of the trade.

She had decided on a dramatic entrance, and such was the one she made, holding in her arms a small Boston terrier who looked world-weary and old. Dudley Ward awaited her at the foot of the stairs; she saw him and him alone.

"Welcome home, Ellen," he said.

"Dudley," she cried. "Dear old Dudley, after all these years. But"—she held aloft the dog—"but poor Trouble——"

"Trouble?" repeated Ward, puzzled.

"Yes—that's his name—but you don't know. You wouldn't. From the baby in Madame Butterfly. My baby—my sweet poor baby—he's having a chill. I knew I shouldn't bring him—it's bitter cold on the lake—it always was on this lake. Where's Sing? Call Sing at once." The old man appeared on the stairs behind her. "Oh, Sing—take Trouble to the kitchen and give him some hot milk. Make him drink it."

"My take 'um," replied Sing with a bored look.

Landini followed him with many admonitions. A young girl in a smart dinner gown had come unostentatiously down the stairs, and Ward was greeting her. He turned to the others.

"This is Miss Leslie Beaton," he said. "I'm sure we're all happy to have her here——"

But Landini was back in the room, overflowing personality and energy and charm. "Darling old Sing," she cried. "The same as ever. I've thought of him so often. He was always——" She stopped suddenly, as her eyes moved unbelievingly about the little group.

Dudley Ward permitted himself a delighted smile. "I think, Ellen," he said, "you already know these gentlemen."

She wanted a moment, obviously, to get her breath, and she found it when her glance fell on Charlie Chan. "Not—not all of them," she said.

"Oh, yes—pardon me," Ward answered. "May I present Inspector Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu Police? On vacation, I should add."

Charlie stepped forward and bowed low over her hand. "Overcome," he murmured.

"Inspector Chan," she said. "I've heard of you."

"It would be tarnishing the lily with gilt," Charlie assured her, "to remark I have heard of you. Speaking further on the subject I once, with great difficulty, heard you sing."

"With—great difficulty?"

"Yes—you may recall. The night you stopped over for a concert in your home city, Honolulu. At the Royal Hawaiian Opera House—and they had but recently applied to it the new tin roof——"

The great Landini clapped her hands and laughed. "And it rained!" she cried. "I should say I do remember! It was my only night—the boat was leaving at twelve—and so I sang—and sang. There in that boiler-factory—or so it seemed—with the downpour on the tin above. What a concert! But that was—some years—ago."

"I was impressed at the time by your extreme youthfulness," Charlie remarked.

She gave him a ravishing smile. "I shall sing again for you some day," she said. "And it will not be raining then."

Her poise regained, sure of herself now, she turned to the odd party into which Dudley Ward had brought her. "What fun," she cried. "What wonderful fun! All my dear ones gathered together. John—looking as stern as ever—Frederic—I miss the reflector on your forehead. I always think of you wearing that. And Luis—you here—of all people——"

Mr. Romano stepped forward with his usual promptness. "Yes, you may bet I am here," he replied, his eyes flashing. "I, of all people, and of all people I will be present at a good many places to which you travel in the future—unless your memory speedily improves. Must I recall to you an arrangement made in New York——"

"Luis—not here!" She stamped her foot.

"No, perhaps not here. But somewhere—soon—depend on that. Look at your shoes!"

"What is wrong with my shoes?"

"Wet! Soaking wet!" He turned hotly on young Beaton. "Are there, then, no rubbers in the world? Is the supply of arctics exhausted? I told you—you do not understand your job. You let her walk about in the snow in her evening slippers. What sort of husband is that for Ellen Landini——"

"Oh, do be quiet, Luis," Landini cried. "You were always so tiresome—a nurse. Do you think I want a nurse? I do not—and that is what I like about Hugh." She stepped toward the boy, who appeared to draw back a bit. "Hugh is more interested in romance than in arctics—aren't you, my dear?"

She ran her fingers affectionately through the young man's black hair, a theatrical gesture that was a bit upsetting to all who saw it. Dudley Ward, looking hastily away, caught on the face of Hugh Beaton's sister an expression of such bitter disgust that he sought to divert the girl's attention.

"Your first visit west, Miss Beaton?" he inquired.

"My very first," she answered. "I love it, too. All except——"

"Reno."

"Naturally—I don't like that. The place sort of puts a blight on one's outlook—don't you think? What price romance—after seeing Reno?"

"Pity you feel that way," Ward said. He looked at her admiringly. Hugh Beaton's sister was even prettier than he was. But there was a worried look about her brown eyes; the lips that should be always laughing were drawn and tired.

"Dudley—it's marvelous to be back here." Landini was drawing him again into the general conversation. "It's just as well you invited me, because I was coming anyway. Several times I've been on the point of descending on you."

"I should have been charmed," Ward replied.

"And surprised," she laughed, "because I mean that literally—descending on you. You see, I've flown over you often, and seen that flying field you've had cleared behind the house."

"Oh, yes," Ward nodded. "So many of my friends have planes—and I like to fly a bit myself."

"My pilot told me he'd land any time," Landini continued. "But somehow—the hour never seemed right—too late—too early—or we had to hurry back."

"You enjoy flying, I hear?" It was Doctor Swan who spoke, and there was an expression on his face that mingled malice and contempt.

"Oh—I adore it! It's the biggest thrill in the world. It's living—at last. Especially here, above the snow-capped mountains, and these marvelous lakes. And I've found such a wonder of a pilot——"

"So I've been told," Swan answered. "But as I recall, you found him some years ago——"

Landini walked quickly to where John Ryder was standing, as far apart from the others as he could get.

"John," she said, "I'm so happy to see you again. You're looking well."

"Unfortunately," Ryder said, "I'm looking better than I feel. Dudley, I'm afraid I shall have to be excused. Good night." He bowed to the room in general, and went hastily up the stairs.

Ellen Landini shrugged her generous shoulders and laughed. "Poor John," she said. "Always he took life so seriously. What is to be gained by that? But we are what we are—we can not change——"

"Ellen," said Dudley Ward, "you enjoy seeing the old place again?"

"I adore it," she sparkled. "I'm simply wild with joy."

He looked at her in amazement—still sparkling, after all these years. Not since she came in had she let down for a minute. He thought back to the days of their marriage. It had been one of the things that had driven him mad. "Every day is Christmas with Landini," he had once complained to himself.

"Then perhaps you'd like to take a tour about," Ward continued. "There are a few changes—I'd like to show them to you. If my guests will be so very good as to excuse me."

There was a polite murmur, and Dinsdale raised his glass. "These highballs of yours, Dudley, excuse anything," he laughed.

"Good," smiled Ward. "Ellen, I want you to see the old study, I've just had it done over by a decorator. Probably all wrong. And as we can't afford any scandal, I'm taking along a chaperon. Inspector Chan—will you join us?"

"With great pleasure," smiled Charlie. "Everybody knows policeman always on hand when least needed."

Ellen Landini laughed with the others, but there was a deeply puzzled look in her blue eyes. Dinsdale came forward, looking at his watch.

"Just to remind you, Ellen," he said. "You'll have to be starting soon if you're to be back in Reno by midnight."

"What time is it, Jim?"

"It's twenty-five minutes to ten."

"I'm starting at ten, and I'll be back in Reno before eleven."

He shook his head. "Not to-night—over these roads," he said.

"To-night," she laughed. "But not over these roads. Not for little Ellen."

Hugh Beaton looked up. "Ellen—what are you talking about?" he asked.

She gave him a loving glance. "Now, be a good boy. You and Leslie go back by car from the Tavern. It's a nasty old car, and you're liable to have a few blowouts just as we did coming over, but that won't matter to you. However, I must make better time. I had an inspiration when Dudley here called up and invited me to drop in on him. I telephoned to Reno for my favorite plane and pilot, and they'll be here at ten. Won't it be glorious? There's a gorgeous moon—I'm simply thrilled to death." She turned to Ward. "Michael told me you have lights on the field?"

Ward nodded. "Yes. I'll turn them on presently. Everything's in order—that's a grand idea of yours. But then—your ideas always were."

Romano, who had been talking violently with Hugh Beaton in a corner, rose quickly. "I will go to my room," he announced, "and I will make for you a list. The things she must do, and the things she must not do. It will be useful——"

"Oh, please don't trouble," Beaton protested.

"It is my duty," Romano said sternly.

Ward stood aside, and let his guests precede him up the stairs. Romano walked close to Landini's side, and as they came into the upper hall, he swung on her. "Where is my money?" he demanded.

"Luis—I don't know—oh, hasn't it been sent?"

"You know very well it has not been sent. How am I to live——"

"But, Luis,—there has been trouble—my investments—oh, please, please don't bother me now."

"I suggest, Mr. Romano," Ward said, "that you comply with Madame Landini's wishes. This, I believe, is the door of your room."

"As you say," shrugged Romano. "But, Ellen, I have not finished. There must be an understanding before we part."

He disappeared, and the three others went into the study in front. Ward flashed on the floor lamps, and Landini dropped into the chair beside the desk. Both men saw that her face was suddenly drawn and haggard, all the vivacity gone. Then she did let down at times. It was not always Christmas, it was sometimes the morning after.

"Oh, the little beast," she cried. "I hate him. Dudley, you can see what my life has been—lived in a whirlwind, excitement, madness, filled all the time with noisy nothings. I'm so tired—so deathly tired. If only I could find peace——"

Charlie Chan saw that Ward's face was filled with genuine tenderness and pity. "I know, my dear," said the host, as he closed the door. "But peace was never for you—we knew that in the old days. It had to be the limelit highway—the bright parade. Come—pull yourself together." He offered her one of the colored boxes on the desk. "Have a cigarette. Or perhaps you prefer this other brand." He reached for the companion box.

She took one from the latter, and lighted it. "Dudley," she said, "coming here has taken me back to my girlhood. It has touched me deeply——" She looked toward Charlie Chan.

A sudden hardness came into Ward's eyes. "Sorry," he said. "Mr. Chan stays. I was wondering why you accepted my invitation to-night. I see now—it was to pull this airplane stunt. The spectacular thing—the thing you would do. Has it occurred to you to wonder—why I invited you?"

"Why—I thought, of course—after all, you did love me once. I thought you would like to see me again. But when I saw John, and Frederic, and Luis—I was puzzled——"

"Naturally. I invited you, Ellen, because I wanted you to realize that I am in touch with your various husbands. I wanted you, also, to meet Inspector Charlie Chan who, as you know, is a detective. Inspector Chan and I have begun to-night an investigation which may take us many weeks—or which may end here and now. You have it in your power to end it. Ellen, I have no bitterness, no ill will for you at this late day. I have thought it over so long—perhaps I was wrong from the first. But I have brought you to Pineview to ask you, simply—where is my son?"

Charlie Chan, watching, reflected that here was either a great actress or a much maligned woman. Her expression did not change. "What son?" she asked.

Ward shrugged his shoulders. "Very well," he said. "We won't go any further with it."

"Oh, yes, we will," said Ellen Landini. "Dudley—don't be a fool. Some one has told you a lie, evidently. Don't you know they've been lying about me for years? I've got so I don't mind—but if you've heard something that's made you unhappy—that's sending you off on a wild-goose chase—well, I'd like to stop that, if I can. If you'll only tell me——"

"No matter," said Ward. "What's the use?"

"If you take that tone," she replied, "it's hopeless." She was surprisingly cool and calm. "By the way—hadn't you better turn on the lights on the field? And I should like a small blanket for Trouble—he'll need it, in addition to the robes in the plane. I'll send it back to you. He'll go with me, of course. He loves it."

"Very well," nodded Ward. "I'll see about it, and then I'll get down to those lights." He went to the door. "Cecile," he called. "Oh, Sing—send Cecile to me, please."

He stepped back into the room. "Cecile?" said Ellen Landini.

"Yes," Ward said. "An old servant of yours, I believe. The wife of your wonder pilot. You didn't know she was here?"

Landini lighted another cigarette. "I did not. But I might have guessed it these last few minutes. A liar, Dudley, always, with a temper like the devil. She stole from me, too, but naturally, one expects that. But the truth was not in her. I don't know what cock-and-bull story she has told you, but whatever it is——"

"What makes you think it was she who told me?"

"I have discovered that a lie has been told in this house, Dudley, and now I discover Cecile is here. It's effect and cause, my dear."

"You wanted me, sir?" The Frenchwoman at the door was about thirty, with lovely eyes, but an unhappy and discontented face. For a long moment she stared at Landini. "Ah, Madame," she murmured.

"How are you, Cecile?" the singer asked.

"I am well, thank you." She turned to Ward, inquiringly.

"Cecile," said her employer, "please go and get Madame Landini a small blanket of some sort—something suitable to wrap about a dog."

"A dog?" The eyes of the Frenchwoman narrowed. There was a moment's silence, and in the quiet they all heard, suddenly, a far-off but unmistakable sound—the droning of an airplane. Ward flung open the French windows that led on to a balcony, which was in reality the roof of the front veranda. The others crowded about him, and in the moonlit sky, far out over the lake, they saw the approaching plane.

"Ah, yes," cried Cecile, "I understand. Madame returns to Reno by air."

"Is that any affair of yours?" Landini asked coldly.

"It happens to be, Madame," the woman answered.

"Will you get that blanket?" Ward demanded.

Without a word, the Frenchwoman went out. Ward looked at his watch.

"Your pilot's ahead of time," he said. "I must hurry out to those lights——"

"Dudley—would you do something——" Landini cried.

"Too late. When the plane has landed——"

He hastened out. The singer turned to Charlie.

"Tell me," she said. "Do you know which is Mr. Ryder's room?"

Charlie bowed. "I think I do."

"Then please go to him. Send him here at once. Tell him I must see him—he must come—don't take no for an answer! Tell him—it's life and death!"

She fairly pushed the detective from the room. He hurried down the hall and knocked on the door of the room into which he had seen Ryder ushered before dinner. Without awaiting an answer, he opened it and entered. Ryder was seated reading a book beside a floor lamp.

"So sorry," Charlie remarked. "The intrusion is objectionable, I realize. But Madame Landini——"

"What about Madame Landini?" asked Ryder grimly.

"She must see you at once—in the study at the front. She demands this wildly. It is, she tells me, life and death."

Ryder shrugged. "Rot! There is nothing to be said between us. She knows that."

"But——"

"Yes—life and death—I know. Don't be fooled by her theatrics. She was always that way. Kindly tell her I refuse to see her."

Chan hesitated. Ryder got up and led him to the door. "Tell her that under no circumstances will I ever see her again."

Charlie found himself in the hall, with Ryder's door closed behind him. When he got back to the study, Landini was seated at the desk, writing madly.

"I am so sorry——" the detective began.

She looked up. "He won't see me? I expected it. No matter, Mr. Chan. I have thought of another way. Thanks."

Chan turned, and went down the hall toward the head of the stairs. As he passed the open door of Romano's room he saw the conductor, walking anxiously up and down. Ryder's door remained closed. The noise of the plane was momentarily growing louder.

In the living-room Dinsdale and Hugh Beaton were alone, evidently vastly uninterested in the spectacular approach of Landini's pilot. Charlie was not so callous and, stepping out the front door, he crossed the porch and walked a short distance down the path to the pier. He was staring up at the lights of the plane, when some one approached from the direction of the water. It was Doctor Swan.

"Went out on the pier to see it better," Swan said. "A beautiful sight, on a night like this. Wish I could go back in it myself." The aviator was turning in toward the house.

"Shall we find the landing field?" Charlie suggested.

"Not for me," Swan shivered. "It's somewhere at the back, God knows where. I'm going to get my things—I want to start for the Tavern as soon as Ellen has made her grand exit." He ran up the steps to the house.

Michael Ireland, it appeared, was planning a few stunts. Despite the tallness of the pines, he swept down on the house, dangerously near. Hurrying through the snow to the rear, Charlie was conscious that the plane was circling about above the roof of Pineview. Aviators never could resist the spectacular. Presently Chan came upon a cleared place, flooded with lights, and there, when the pilot had completed his exhibition, he finally brought the plane down, in a skilful landing.

"Pretty work," cried a voice at Chan's elbow. It was Dudley Ward. "By gad, that lad knows how to drive his old two-seater."

He hurried out to meet Ireland on the field, and led him back to where Charlie stood. All three went up the narrow path to the back door, and entered a long passage that led to the front of the house. As they passed the open door of the kitchen Chan saw a large woman, evidently the cook. With her was Landini's dog, whining and still shivering from its chill. Ward led on to the living-room.

"Nice night for it," he was saying to Ireland, a husky red-cheeked man of thirty or so. "I envy you—the way you brought her down." Dinsdale and Beaton rose to greet them, and the aviator, pulling off a huge glove, shook hands all round. "Sit down a minute," Ward continued. "You'll want a drink before you start back."

"Thank you, sir," Ireland replied. "And maybe I'd better be havin' a word with my wife——"

Ward nodded. "I fancy you had," he smiled. "I'll arrange that. But first of all—what will it be? A highball?"

"Sounds good to me," Ireland answered. He looked a bit apprehensive and ill at ease. "Not too much, Mr. Ward, please——"

Ryder appeared on the stairs, lighting a cigarette. Half-way down, he paused. "Has Landini gone?" he inquired.

"Come along, John," Ward said genially. "Just in time for another little drink. Is that right for you, Ireland?"

"Just, thank you," the aviator replied.

From somewhere up-stairs came a sharp report that sounded unpleasantly like the firing of a pistol.

"What was that?" asked Ryder, now at the foot of the stairs.

Ward set down the bottle he was holding and looked toward Charlie Chan. "I wonder," he said.

Charlie did not pause to wonder. Pushing Ryder aside, he ran up the stairs. He was conscious of figures in the upper hall as he passed, figures he did not pause to identify. Chinese, he had always contended, were psychic people, but he did not have to be particularly psychic on this occasion to know which door to seek. It was closed. He pushed it open.

The lights in the study were out, but for a first glance the moonlight sufficed. Landini was lying just inside the French windows that led on to the balcony. Charlie leaped across her and peered out the open window. He saw no one.

Black shapes crowded the doorway. "Turn on the lights," Charlie said. "And do not come too close, please."

The lights flashed on, and Dudley Ward pushed forward. "Ellen!" he cried. "What's happened here——"

Chan intercepted him and laid his hand on the host's arm. Beyond Ward he saw frightened faces—Romano, Swan, Beaton, Dinsdale, Ireland, Cecile. "You are psychic, Mr. Ward," Charlie said gravely. "All same Chinese race. Three days before the crime, you summon detective."

"Crime!" repeated Ward. He sought to kneel beside the singer, but again Chan restrained him.

"Permit me, please," the Chinese continued. "For you, it means pain. For me, alas, a customary duty." With some difficulty, he knelt upon the floor, and placed his fingers gently on Landini's wrist.

"Doctor Swan is here," Ward said. "Perhaps—can nothing be done?"

Chan struggled back to his feet. "Can the fallen flower return to the branch again?" he asked softly.

Ward turned quickly away, and there was silence in the room. Charlie stood for a moment, staring down at the body. Landini lay on her back; those evening shoes whose dampness had so distressed Romano were but a few inches away from the threshold of the open windows. In her dead hands was loosely held a chiffon scarf, bright pink in color, contrasting oddly with her green gown. And just inside the windows, close to her feet, lay a dainty, snub-nosed revolver.

Charlie removed his handkerchief from his pocket and stooping over, picked up the weapon. It was still warm, he noted through the handkerchief. One cartridge had been fired. He carried it over and deposited it on the desk.

There for a long moment he stood staring, behind him the murmur of many voices. He appeared to be lost in thought, and indeed he was. For an odd thing had suddenly occurred to him. When he had last seen Landini sitting at this desk, the two boxes containing cigarettes had been close at her elbow, both open. Now they had been restored to their places, farther back on the desk. But on the crimson box rested the yellow lid—and on the yellow box, the crimson.