Читать книгу Charlie Chan Carries On - Earl Derr Biggers - Страница 6

Table of Contents

HE next instant a young man was at Duff’s side, a good-looking American with frank gray eyes, now somewhat startled. Removing a small, pearl-like object from a bottle, he crushed it in his handkerchief, and held the latter beneath the nose of Mr. Patrick Tait.

“Amyl nitrate,” he explained, glancing up at the inspector. “It will bring him around in a moment, I imagine. It’s what he told me to do if he had one of these attacks.”

“Ah, yes. You are Mr. Tait’s traveling companion?”

“I am. My name’s Mark Kennaway. Mr. Tait is subject to this sort of thing, and that is why he employed me to come with him.” Presently the man on the floor stirred and opened his eyes. He was breathing heavily and his face was whiter than his shock of snowy hair.

Duff had noted a door on the opposite side of the room and crossing to it, he discovered that it led to a smaller parlor, among the furnishings of which was a broad and comfortable couch. “Best get him in here, Mr. Kennaway,” he remarked. “He’s still too shaky to go up-stairs.” Without another word, he picked the old man up in his arms and carried him to the couch. “You stay here with him,” Duff suggested. “I’ll talk to you both a little later.” Returning to the larger room, he closed the door behind him.

For a moment he stood looking about the main lounge of Broome’s Hotel. Plenty of red plush and walnut had been the scheme of the original decorator, and it had remained undisturbed through the years. There was a bookcase with a few dusty volumes, a pile of provincial papers on a table, on the walls a number of sporting prints, their once white mats yellowed by time.

The group of very modern people who sat now in this musty room were regarding Inspector Duff with serious and, it seemed to him, rather anxious eyes. Outside the sun had at last broken through the fog, and a strong light entered through the many-paned windows, illuminating these faces that were to be the chief study of the detective for a long time to come.

He turned to Lofton. “Some of your party are still missing?”

“Yes—five. Not counting the two in the next room—and of course, Mrs. Potter.”

“No matter,” shrugged Duff. “We may as well get started.” He drew a small table into the middle of the floor, and sitting down beside it, took out his note-book. “I presume every one here knows what has happened. I refer to the murder of Mr. Drake in room 28 last night.” No one spoke, and Duff continued. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard. I may say, first of all, that this entire group, and all the other members of your party, must remain together here at Broome’s Hotel until released by the authorities at the Yard.”

A little man, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses, leaped to his feet. “Look here, sir,” he cried in a high shrill voice, “I propose to leave the party immediately. I am not accustomed to being mixed up with murder. In Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where I come from——”

“Ah, yes,” said Duff coldly. “Thank you. I scarcely knew where to begin. We will start with you.” He took out a fountain pen. “Your name, please?”

“My name is Norman Fenwick.” He pronounced it Fennick.

“Spell the last name, if you will.”

“F-e-n-w-i-c-k. It’s an English name, you know.”

“Are you English?”

“English descent, yes. My ancestors came to Massachusetts in 1650. During the Revolution they were all loyal to the mother country.”

“That,” smiled Duff grimly, “was some time ago. It will hardly enter into the present case.” He stared with some distaste at the little man who was so obviously eager to curry favor with the British. “Are you traveling alone?”

“No, I’m not. My sister is with me.” He indicated a colorless, gray-haired woman. “Miss Laura Fenwick.”

Duff wrote again. “Now tell me, do either of you know anything about last night’s affair?”

Mr. Fenwick bristled. “Just what do you mean by that, sir?”

“Come, come,” the inspector protested. “I’ve a bit of a job here and no time to waste. Did you hear anything, see anything, or even sense anything that might have some bearing on the case?”

“Nothing, sir, and I can answer for my sister.”

“Have you been out of the hotel this morning? Yes? Where?”

“We went for a stroll through the West End. A last look at London. We are both quite fond of the city. That’s only natural, since we are of British origin——”

“Yes, yes. Pardon me, I must get on——”

“But one moment, Inspector. We desire to leave this party at once. At once, sir. I will not associate——”

“I have told you what you must do. That matter is settled.”

“Very well, sir. I shall interview our ambassador. He’s an old friend of my uncle’s——”

“Interview him by all means,” snapped Duff. “Who is next? Miss Pamela, we have had our chat. And Mrs. Spicer—I have seen you before. That gentleman next to you——”

The man answered for himself. “I am Stuart Vivian, of Del Monte, California.” He was bronzed, lean, and would have been handsome had it not been for a deep scar across the right side of his forehead. “I must say that I’m quite in sympathy with Mr. Fenwick. Why should we be put under restraint in this affair? Myself, I was a complete stranger to the murdered man—I’d never even spoken to him. I don’t know any of these others, either.”

“With one exception,” Duff reminded him.

“Ah—er—yes. With one exception.”

“You took Mrs. Spicer to the theater last evening?”

“I did. I knew her before we came on this tour.”

“You planned the tour together?”

“A ridiculous question,” the woman flared.

“Aren’t you rather overstepping the bounds?” cried Vivian angrily. “It was quite a coincidence. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Spicer for a year, and imagine my surprise to come on to New York and find her a member of the same party. Naturally there was no reason why we shouldn’t go on.”

“Naturally,” answered Duff amiably. “You know nothing about Mr. Drake’s murder?”

“How could I?”

“Have you been out of the hotel this morning?”

“Certainly. I took a stroll—wanted to buy some shirts at the Burlington Arcade.”

“Make any other purchases?”

“I did not.”

“What is your business, Mr. Vivian?”

“I have none. Play a bit of polo now and then.”

“Got that scar on the polo field, no doubt?”

“I did. Had a nasty spill a few years back.”

Duff looked about the circle. “Mr. Honywood, just one more question for you.”

Honywood’s hand trembled as he removed the cigarette from his mouth. “Yes, Inspector?”

“Have you been out of the hotel this morning?”

“No, I—I haven’t. After breakfast I came in here and looked over some old copies of the New York Tribune.”

“Thank you. That gentleman next to you?” Duff’s gaze was on a middle-aged man with a long hawk-like nose and strikingly small eyes. Though he was dressed well enough and seemed completely at ease, there was that about him which suggested he was somewhat out of place in this gathering.

“Captain Ronald Keane,” he said.

“A military man?” Duff inquired.

“Why—er—yes——”

“I should say he is a military man,” Pamela Potter put in. She glanced at Duff. “Captain Keane told me he was once in the British army, and had seen service in India and South Africa.”

Duff turned to the captain. “Is that true?”

“Well——” Keane hesitated. “No, not precisely. I may have been—romancing a bit. You see—on board a ship—a pretty girl——”

“I understand,” nodded the detective. “In such a situation one tries to impress, regardless of the truth. It has been done before. Were you ever in any army, Captain Keane?”

Again Keane hesitated. But the Scotland Yard man was in too close touch with records to make further lying on this point advisable, “Sorry,” he said. “I—er—the title is really honorary. It means—er—little or nothing.”

“What is your business?”

“I haven’t any at present. I’ve been—an engineer.”

“How did you happen to come on this tour?”

“Why—for pleasure, of course.”

“I trust you are not disappointed. What do you know about last night’s affair?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I presume that you, too, have been out for a stroll this morning?”

“Yes, I have. I cashed a check at the American Express Office.”

“You were supposed to carry only Nomad checks,” put in Doctor Lofton, his business sense coming to the fore.

“I had a few of the others,” Keane replied. “Is there any law against that?”

“The matter was mentioned in our agreement——” began Lofton, but Duff cut him off.

“There remains only the gentleman in the corner,” said the detective. He nodded toward a tall man in a tweed suit. This member of the party had a heavy walking-stick, and one leg was stiff in front of him. “What is your name, sir?” Duff added.

“John Ross,” the other replied. “I’m a lumber man from Tacoma, Washington. Been looking forward to this trip for years, but I never dreamed it would be anything like this. My life’s an open book, Inspector. Give the word, and I’ll read aloud any page you select.”

“Scotch, I believe?” Duff suggested.

“Does the burr still linger?” Ross smiled. “It shouldn’t—Lord knows I’ve been in America long enough. I see you’re looking at my foot, and since we’re all explaining our scars and our weaknesses, I’ll tell you that when I was down in the redwoods some months ago, I was foolish enough to let a tree fall on my right leg. Broke a lot of bones, and they haven’t knitted as they should.”

“That’s a pity. Know anything about this murder?”

“Not a thing, Inspector. Sorry I can’t help you. Nice old fellow, this Drake. I got pretty well acquainted with him on the ship—he and I both had rather good stomachs. I liked him a lot.”

“I imagine that you, too——”

Ross nodded. “Yes—I went for a walk this morning. Fog and all. Interesting little town you’ve got here, Inspector. Ought to be out on the Pacific Coast.”

“Wish we could bring the coast here,” Duff replied. “Climate especially.”

Ross sat up with interest. “You’ve been there, Inspector?”

“Briefly—a few years ago.”

“What did you think of us?” the lumber man demanded.

Duff laughed, and shook his head. “Ask me some other time,” he said. “I’ve more pressing matters to occupy me now.” He stood up. “You will all wait here just for a moment,” he added, and went out.

Fenwick went over to Doctor Lofton. “See here—you’ve got to give us our money back on this tour,” he began, glaring through his thick glasses.

“Why so?” inquired Lofton suavely.

“Do you suppose we’re going on after this?”

“The tour is going on,” Lofton told him. “Whether you go or not rests with you. I have been making this trip for many years, and death is not altogether an unknown occurrence among the members of my parties. That it happens to be a murder in this case in no way alters my plans. We shall be delayed for a time in London but that is, of course, an act of God. Read your contract with me, Mr. Fenwick. Not responsible for acts of God. I shall get the party around the world in due course, and if you choose to drop out, there will be no rebate.”

“An outrage,” Fenwick cried. He turned to the others. “We’ll get together. We’ll take it up with the Embassy.” But no one seemed to be in a mood to match his.

Duff returned, and with him came Eben, the night-watchman.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the inspector began, “I have asked this man to look you over and see if he can identify a certain person who, at two o’clock last night, was a trifle confused as to the whereabouts of his room. A person who, in point of fact, was wandering about the floor on which the murder took place.”

He turned to Eben, who was grimly studying the faces of the men in that old-fashioned parlor. The servant stared at Lofton, then at Honywood, at Ross, the lumber man, and at Vivian, the polo player. He gave the weak face of Fenwick but a fleeting glance.

“That’s him,” said Eben firmly, pointing at Captain Ronald Keane.

Keane sat up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s you I met on my two o’clock round. You told me you’d got on to that floor by mistake, thinking it was your own.”

“Is this true?” Duff asked sternly.

“Why——” Keane looked anxiously about him. “Why, yes—I was up there. You see, I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted a book to read.”

“That’s pretty old—that wanted-a-book-to-read-stuff,” the detective reminded him.

“I fancy it is,” returned Keane with a sudden show of spirit. “But it happens occasionally—among literate people I mean. I knew Tait had a lot of books—that young fellow reads to him until late at night. I found it out on the boat. I knew, too, that he was on the third floor, though I wasn’t sure of the room. I just thought I’d go up there and listen outside the doors, and if I heard any one reading, I’d go in and borrow something. Well, I didn’t hear a thing, so I decided it was too late. When I met this watchman here, I was on my way back to the floor below.”

“Why the statement about being confused as to the location of your room?” Duff wanted to know.

“Well, I couldn’t very well take up the subject of my literary needs with a servant. He wouldn’t have been interested. I just said the first thing that came into my head.”

“Rather a habit with you, I judge,” Duff remarked. He stood for a moment staring at Keane. A mean face, a face that he somehow didn’t care for at all, and yet he had to admit that this explanation sounded plausible enough. But he resolved to keep an eye on this man. A sly wary sort, and the truth was not in him.

“Very good,” the detective said. “Thank you, Eben. You may go now.” He thought of Hayley, still searching above. “You will all remain here until I release you,” he added, and ignoring a chorus of protest, walked briskly over and stepped into the smaller parlor.

As he closed the connecting door behind him, he saw Patrick Tait sitting erect on the couch, a glass of spirits in his hand. Kennaway was hovering solicitously about.

“Ah, Mr. Tait,” Duff remarked. “I am happy to see you are better.”

The old man nodded his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.” The booming voice was a feeble murmur now. “I am subject to these spells—that is why I have this boy with me. He will take good care of me, I’m sure. A little too much excitement, perhaps. Murder, you know—I hardly bargained for that.”

“No, of course not,” the inspector agreed, and sat down. “If you’re quite well enough now, sir——”

“Just a moment.” Tait held up his hand. “You will pardon my curiosity, I’m sure. But I still don’t know who was killed, Mr. Duff.”

The detective gave him a searching look. “You’re sure you are strong enough——”

“Nonsense,” Tait answered. “It means nothing to me, one way or the other. To whom did this appalling thing happen?”

“It happened to Mr. Hugh Morris Drake, of Detroit,” said Duff.

Tait bowed his head, and was silent for a moment. “I knew him, very slightly, for many years,” he remarked at last. “A man of unsullied past, Inspector, and with the most humanitarian impulses. Why should any one want to remove him? You are faced by an interesting problem.”

“And a difficult one,” Duff added. “I should like to discuss it with you for a moment. You occupy, I believe, room 30, which is near the spot where the unfortunate affair occurred. At what time did you retire for the night?”

Tait looked at the boy. “About twelve, wasn’t it, Mark?”

Kennaway nodded. “Or a few minutes after, perhaps. You see, Inspector, I go to Mr. Tait’s room every evening and read him to sleep. Last night I began to read at ten, and at a few minutes past twelve he was sleeping soundly. So I slipped out, and went to my own room on the second floor.”

“What do you read, mostly?” asked Duff, interested.

“Mystery stories,” Kennaway smiled.

“To a man with a bad heart? I should think the excitement——”

“Bah,” put in Tait. “There’s little enough excitement in the things. I have been a criminal lawyer for many years back home, and as far as the word murder goes——” He stopped suddenly.

“You were about to say,” suggested Duff gently, “that murder is not, where you are concerned, an exciting topic.”

“What if I was?” demanded Tait, rather warmly.

“I was only wondering,” continued Duff, “why this particular murder brought on such a serious spell this morning?”

“Oh, well—meeting it in one’s own life is quite different from reading about it in books. Or even from talking about it in a courtroom.”

“Quite, quite,” agreed Duff. He was silent, drumming with his fingers on the arm of his chair. Suddenly he turned, and with the speed and precision of a machine-gun began to fire questions at the lawyer.

“You heard nothing on that third floor last night?”

“Nothing.”

“No outcry? No call for help?”

“Nothing, I tell you.”

“No scream from an old man brutally attacked?”

“I have told you, sir——”

“I am asking you, Mr. Tait. I meet you in the hallway, and you appear to be strong and well. You have heard rumors of a murder, but you do not know who was killed. You walk with a firm step to the doorway of the parlor. You glance around the faces inside, and in another moment you are on the floor, in what seems a mortal attack——”

“They come like that——”

“Do they? Or did you see some one in that room——”

“No! No!”

“Some face, perhaps——”

“I tell you, no!”

The old man’s eyes were blazing, the hand that held the glass trembled. Kennaway came forward.

“Inspector, I beg your pardon,” he said quietly. “You are going too far. This man is ill——”

“I know,” admitted Duff softly. “I’m sorry. I was wrong, and I apologize. I forgot, you see—I have my job to do, and I forgot.” He arose. “None the less, Mr. Tait,” he added, “I think that some surprising situation dawned upon you as you stood in that doorway this morning, and I intend to find out what it was.”

“It is your privilege to think anything you please, sir,” replied the old man, and as Duff went out he carried a picture of the great criminal lawyer, gray of face and breathing heavily, sitting on a Victorian sofa and defying Scotland Yard.

Hayley was waiting in the lobby. “Been through the rooms of every man in the party,” he reported. “No fragment of watch-chain. No gray coat with a torn pocket. Nothing.”

“Of course not,” Duff replied. “Practically every mother’s son of ’em has been out of the hotel this morning, and naturally any evidence like that went with them.”

“I really must get back to my duties at Vine Street,” Hayley went on. “You’ll drop in after you’ve finished, old man?”

Duff nodded. “Go along. What was it that street orchestra was playing? There’s a Long, Long Trail A-Winding. It’s true, Hayley. Damned true.”

“I’m very much afraid it is,” the other answered. “See you at the station.”

As Duff turned, his worried frown disappeared. Pamela Potter was beckoning to him from the parlor doorway. He went over to her at once.

“I was wondering, Inspector,” she said, “if you want to see mother now, I believe I can arrange it.”

“Good,” he answered. “I’ll go up with you in a moment.” He stepped inside the parlor, and with one final warning against leaving Broome’s Hotel for the present, he dismissed the assembled crowd. “I shall want to see the five remaining members of your party,” he said to Lofton.

“Of course. The moment they come in, I’ll let you know,” Lofton agreed. He went on down the lobby, with Fenwick still arguing at his heels.

At the door of the suite occupied by Pamela Potter and her mother, Duff waited while the girl went inside. After several moments, during which he heard the sounds of a discussion going on beyond the door, the young woman returned and admitted him.

The shades were all drawn in the sitting-room where he now found himself. Gradually accustoming his eyes to the gloom, he perceived, on a chaise longue in the darkest corner, the figure of a woman. He stepped nearer.

“This is Inspector Duff, Mother,” said Pamela Potter.

“Oh, yes,” answered the woman faintly.

“Mrs. Potter,” remarked the detective, feeling rather ill at ease, “I am extremely sorry to trouble you. But it can not be avoided.”

“I fancy not,” she replied. “Won’t you be seated? You won’t mind the curtains being down, I hope. I’m afraid I’m not looking my best after this terrible shock.”

“I have already talked with your daughter,” continued Duff, moving a chair as close to the couch as he dared, “so I shan’t be here more than a moment. If there is anything you can tell me about this affair, I assure you that it is very important you should do so. Your knowledge of the past is, of course, a trifle more extensive than that of Miss Pamela. Had your father any enemy?”

“Poor father,” the woman said. “Pamela, the smelling salts.” The girl produced a green bottle. “He was a saint, Mr.—er—what did you say his name was, my dear?”

“Mr. Duff, Mother.”

“My father was a saint on earth if ever there was one. Not an enemy in the world. Really, I never heard of anything so senseless in all my life.”

“But there must be sense in it somewhere, Mrs. Potter. It is for us to find out. Something in your father’s past——” Duff paused, and took from his pocket a wash leather bag. “I wonder if we might have that curtain up just a little way?” he added to the girl.

“Certainly,” she said, and raised it.

“I’m sure I look a fright,” protested the woman.

Duff held out the bag. “See, Madam—we found this on the bed beside your father.”

“What in the world is it?”

“A simple little bag, Mrs. Potter, of wash leather—chamois, I believe you call it.” He poured some of the contents into the palm of his hand. “It was filled with a hundred or more pebbles, or small stones. Do they mean anything to you?”

“Certainly not. What do they mean to you?”

“Nothing, unfortunately. But—think, please, Mrs. Potter. Your father was never, for example, engaged in mining?”

“If he was, I never heard of it.”

“These pebbles could have no connection with automobiles?”

“How could they? Pamela—this—pillow——”

“I’ll fix it, Mother.”

Duff sighed, and returned the bag to his pocket. “You did not mingle, on the boat, with the other members of the travel party?”

“I never left my cabin,” the woman said. “Pamela here was constantly wandering about. Talking with all sorts of people, when she should have been with me.”

The detective took out the fragment of watch-chain, with the key attached. He handed it to the girl. “You did not, I suppose, happen to notice that chain on any one with whom you talked?”

She examined it, and shook her head. “No. Who looks at a man’s watch-chain?”

“The key means nothing to you?”

“Not a thing. I’m sorry.”

“Please show it to your mother. Have you ever seen that chain or key before, Madam?”

The woman shrugged. “No, I haven’t. The world is full of keys. You’ll never get anywhere that way.”

Duff restored this clue to his pocket and stood up. “That is all, I fancy,” he remarked.

“The whole affair is utterly senseless, I tell you,” the woman said complainingly. “There is no meaning to it. I hope you get to the bottom of it, but I don’t believe you ever will.”

“I shall try, at any rate,” Duff assured her. And he went out, conscious of having met a vain and very shallow woman. The girl followed him into the hall.

“I thought it would be better for you to see mother,” she said. “So you might understand that I happen to be spokesman for the family, sort of in charge, if you care to put it that way. Poor mother has never been strong.”

“I understand,” Duff answered. “I shall try not to trouble her again. It’s you and I together, Miss Pamela.”

“For grandfather’s sake,” she nodded gravely.

Duff returned to room 28. His two assistants were waiting, their paraphernalia packed.

“All finished, Mr. Duff,” the finger-print man told him. “And very little, I fear, sir. This, however, is rather odd.” He handed to the inspector the ear-phone of the dead man.

Duff took it. “What about this?”

“Not a print on it,” the other said. “Not even that of the man on the bed. Wiped clean.”

Duff stared at the instrument. “Wiped clean, eh? I wonder now. If the old gentleman and his ear-phone were in some other part of the hotel—if he was killed there, and then moved back here—and the ear-phone was carried back too——”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you, sir,” the assistant remarked.

Duff smiled. “I was only thinking aloud. Come on, boys. We must be getting along.” He returned the ear-phone to the table.

Though he did not suspect it at the moment, he had just held in his hand the key to his mystery. It had been Hugh Morris Drake’s deafness that led to his murder in Broome’s Hotel.