Behind That Curtain (15 page)

“Oh, no,” protested Chan. “For the present, silence only. He must not know we are aware of his weakness. Just watchfully waiting.”

“Suits me,” agreed Kirk. “I'll hang onto him until you produce the handcuffs. What a pity it will seem to lock up such competent hands as his.”

“May not happen,” Chan suggested.

“I hope not,” Kirk answered fervently.

After breakfast Chan called the
Globe
office, and got Bill Rankin's home address. He routed the reporter from a well-earned sleep, and asked him to come at once to the bungalow.

An hour later Rankin, brisk and full of enthusiasm, arrived on the scene. He grinned broadly as he shook hands.

“Couldn't quite pull it off, eh?” he chided. “The cool, calm Oriental turned back at the dock.”

Chan nodded. “Cool, calm Oriental gets too much like mainland Americans from circling in such lowering society. I have remained
to assist Captain Flannery, much to his well-concealed delight.”

Rankin laughed. “Yes—I talked with him last night. He's tickled pink but he won't admit it, even to himself. Well, what's the dope? Who killed Sir Frederic?”

“A difficult matter to determine,” Chan replied. “We must go into the past, unearthing here and there. Just at present I am faced by small problem with which you can assist. So I have ventured to annoy you.”

“No annoyance whatever. I'm happy to have you call on me. What are your orders?”

“For the present, keep everything shaded by darkness. No publicity. You understand it?”

“All right—for the present. But when the big moment comes, I'm the fair-haired boy. You understand it?”

Chan smiled. “Yes—you are the chosen one. That will happen. Just now, a little covered investigation. You recall the story of Eve Durand?”

“Will I ever forget it? I don't know when anything has made such an impression on me. Peshawar—the dark hills—the game of hide-and-seek—the little blonde who never came back from the ride. If that isn't what the flappers used to call intriguing, I don't know what is.”

“You speak true. Fifteen years ago, Sir Frederic said. But from neither Sir Frederic nor the clipping did I obtain the exact date, and for it I am yearning. On what day of what month, presumably in the year 1913, did Eve Durand wander off into unlimitable darkness of India? Could you supply the fact?”

Rankin nodded. “A story like that must have been in the newspapers all over the world. I'll have a look at our files for 1913 and see what I can find.”

“Good enough,” said Chan. “Note one other matter, if you please.
Suppose you find accounts. Is the name of Colonel John Beetham anywhere mentioned?”

“What! Beetham! That bird? Is he in it?”

“You know him?”

“Sure—I interviewed him. A mysterious sort of guy. If he's in it, the story's even better than I thought.”

“He may not be,” warned Chan. “I am curious, that is all. You will then explore in files?”

“I certainly will. You'll hear from me pronto. I'm on my way now.”

The reporter hurried off, leaving Chan to his ponderous book. For a long time he wandered with Colonel Beetham through lonely places, over blazing sands at one moment, at another over wastelands of snow. Men and camels and mules lay dead on the trail, but Beetham pushed on. Nothing stopped him.

During lunch the telephone rang, and Kirk answered. “Hello—oh, Miss Morrow. Of course. Good—he'll be there. So will I—I beg your pardon? … No trouble at all. Mr. Chan's a stranger here, and I don't want him to get lost … Yes … Yes, I'm coming, so get resigned, lady, get resigned.”

He hung up. “Well, we're invited to Miss Morrow's office at two o'clock to meet the Enderbys. That is you're invited, and I'm going anyhow.”

At two precisely Chan and his host entered the girl's office, a dusty, ill-lighted room piled high with law books. The deputy district attorney rose from behind an orderly desk and greeted them smilingly.

Kirk stood looking about the room. “Great Scott—is this where you spend your days?” He walked to the window. “Charming view of the alley, isn't it? I must take you out in the country some time and show you the grass and the trees. You'd be surprised.”

“Oh, this room isn't so bad,” the girl answered. “I'm not like some people. I keep my mind on my work.”

Flannery came in. “Well, here we are again,” he said. “All set for another tall story. Mrs. Enderby this time, eh? More women in this case than in the League of Women Voters.”

“You still appear in baffled stage,” Chan suggested.

“Sure I do,” admitted the Captain. “I am. And how about you? I don't hear any very illuminating deductions from you.”

“At any moment now,” grinned Chan, “I may dazzle you with great light.”

“Well, don't hurry on my account,” advised Flannery. “We've got all year on this, of course. It's only Sir Frederic Bruce of Scotland Yard who was murdered. Nobody cares—except the whole British Empire.”

“You have made progress?” Chan inquired.

“How could I? Every time I get all set to go at the thing in a reasonable way, I have to stop and hunt for a missing woman. I tell you, I'm getting fed up on that end of it. If there's any more nonsense about—”

The door opened, and a clerk admitted Carrick Enderby and his wife. Eileen Enderby, even before she spoke, seemed flustered and nervous. Miss Morrow rose.

“How do you do,” she said. “Sit down, please. It was good of you to come.”

“Of course we came,” Eileen Enderby replied. “Though what it is you want, I for one can't imagine.”

“We must let Miss Morrow tell us what is wanted, Eileen,” drawled her husband.

“Oh, naturally,” Mrs. Enderby's blue eyes turned from one to the other and rested at last on the solid bulk of Captain Flannery.

“We're going to ask a few questions, Mrs. Enderby,” began Miss Morrow. “Questions that I know you'll be glad to answer. Tell
me—had you ever met Sir Frederic Bruce before Mr. Kirk's dinner party the other night?”

“I'd never even heard of him,” replied the woman firmly.

“Ah, yes. Yet just after Colonel Beetham began to show his pictures, Sir Frederic called you out into a passageway. He wanted to speak to you alone.”

Eileen Enderby looked at her husband, who nodded. “Yes,” she admitted. “He did. I was never so surprised in my life.”

“What did Sir Frederic want to speak to you about?”

“It was a most amazing thing. He mentioned a girl—a girl I once knew very well.”

“What about the girl?”

“Well—it was quite a mystery. This girl Sir Frederic spoke of—she disappeared one night. Just walked off into the dark and was never heard of again.”

There was a moment's silence. “Did she disappear at Peshawar, in India?” Miss Morrow inquired.

“India? Why, no—not at all,” replied Eileen Enderby.

“Oh, I see. Then he was speaking of Marie Lantelme, who disappeared from Nice?”

“Nice? Marie Lantelme? I don't know what you're talking about.” Mrs. Enderby's pretty forehead wrinkled in amazement.

For the first time, Chan spoke. “It is now how many years,” he asked, “since your friend was last seen?”

“Why—it must be—let me think. Seven—yes—seven years.”

“She disappeared from New York, perhaps?”

“From New York—yes.”

“Her name was Jennie Jerome?”

“Yes. Jennie Jerome.”

Chan took out his wallet and removed a clipping. He handed it to Miss Morrow. “Once more, and I am hoping for the last time,” he remarked, “I would humbly request that you read aloud a scrap
of paper from Sir Frederic's effects.”

Miss Morrow took the paper, her eyes wide. Captain Flannery's face was a study in scarlet. The girl began to read:

“What happened to Jennie Jerome? A famous New York modiste and an even more famous New York illustrator are among those who have been asking themselves that question for the past seven years.

“Jennie Jerome was what the French call a mannequin, a model employed by the fashionable house of DuFour et Cie, on Fifth Avenue, in New York. She was something more than a model, a rack for pretty clothes; she was a girl of charming and marked personality and a beauty that will not be forgot in seven times seven years. Though employed but a brief time by DuFour she was the most popular of all their models among the distinguished patrons of the house. A celebrated New York illustrator saw her picture in a newspaper and at once sought her out, offering her a large sum of money to pose for him.

“Jennie Jerome seemed delighted at the opportunity. She invited a number of her friends to a little dinner party at her apartment, to celebrate the event. When these friends arrived, the door of her apartment stood open. They entered. The table was set, the candles lighted, preparations for the dinner apparent. But the hostess was nowhere about.

“The boy at the telephone switchboard in the hall below reported that, a few minutes before, he had seen her run down the stairs and vanish into the night. He was the last person who saw Jennie Jerome. Her employer, Madame DuFour, and the illustrator who had been struck by her beauty, made every possible effort to trace her. These efforts came to nothing. Jennie Jerome had vanished into thin air. Eloped? But no man's name was ever linked with hers. Murdered? Perhaps. No one knows. At any rate, Jennie
Jerome had gone without leaving a trace, and there the matter has rested for seven years.”

“Another one of ‘em,” cried Flannery, as Miss Morrow stopped reading. “Great Scott—what are we up against?”

“A puzzle,” suggested Chan calmly. He restored the clipping to his pocketbook.

“I'll say so,” Flannery growled.

“You knew Jennie Jerome?” Miss Morrow said to Eileen Enderby.

Mrs. Enderby nodded. “Yes. I was employed by the same firm—DuFour. One of the models, too. I was working there when I met Mr. Enderby, who was in Cook's New York office at the time. I knew Jennie well. If I may say so, that story you just read has been touched up a bit. Jennie Jerome was just an ordinarily pretty girl—nothing to rave about. I believe some illustrator did want her to pose for him. We all got offers like that.”

“Leaving her beauty out of it,” smiled Miss Morrow, “she did disappear?”

“Oh, yes. I was one of the guests invited to her dinner. That part of it is true enough. She just walked off into the night.”

“And it was this girl whom Sir Frederic questioned you about?”

“Yes. Somehow, he knew I was one of her friends—how he knew it, I can't imagine. At any rate, he asked me if I would know Jennie Jerome if I saw her again. I said I thought I would. He said: ‘Have you seen her in the Kirk Building this evening?'”

“And you told him—”

“I told him I hadn't. He said to stop and think a minute. I couldn't see the need of that. I hadn't seen her—I was sure of it.”

“And you still haven't seen her?”

“No—I haven't.”

Miss Morrow rose. “We are greatly obliged to you, Mrs. Enderby. That is all, I believe. Captain Flannery—”

“That's all from me—” said Flannery.

“Well, if there's any more I can tell you—” Mrs. Enderby rose, with evident relief.

Her husband spoke. “Come along, Eileen,” he said sternly. They went out. The four left behind in the office stared at one another in wonder.

“There you are,” exploded Flannery, rising. “Another missing woman. Eve Durand, Marie Lantelme and Jennie Jerome. Three—count ‘em—three—and if you believe your ears, every damn one of ‘em was in the Kirk Building night before last. I don't know how it sounds to you, but to me it's all wrong.”

“It does sound fishy,” Barry Kirk admitted. “The Port of Missing Women—and I thought I was running just an ordinary office building.”

“All wrong, I tell you,” Flannery went on loudly. “It never happened, that's all. Somebody's kidding us to a far-the-well. This last story is one too many—” He stopped, and stared at Charlie Chan. “Well, Sergeant—what's on your mind?” he inquired.

“Plenty,” grinned Chan. “On one side of our puzzle, at least, light is beginning to break. This last story illuminates darkness. You follow after me, of course.”

“I do not. What are you talking about?”

“You do not? A great pity. In good time, I show you.”

“All right—all right,” cried Flannery. “I leave these missing women to you and Miss Morrow here. I don't want to hear any more about 'em—I'll go dippy if I do. I'll stick to the main facts. Night before last Sir Frederic Bruce was murdered in an office on the twentieth floor of the Kirk Building. Somebody slipped away from that party, or somebody got in from outside, and did for him. There was a book beside him, and there were marks on the fire-escape—I didn't tell you that, but there were—and the murderer nabbed a pair of velvet shoes off his feet. That's my case, my job,
and by heaven I'm going after it, and if anybody comes to me with any more missing women stories—”

He stopped. The outer door had opened, and Eileen Enderby was coming in. At her heels came her husband, stern and grim. The woman appeared very much upset.

“We—we've come back,” she said. She sank into a chair. “My husband thinks—he has made me see—”

“I have insisted,” said Carrick Enderby, “that my wife tell you the entire story. She has omitted a very important point.”

“I'm in a terrible position,” the woman protested. “I do hope I'm doing the right thing. Carry—are you sure—”

“I am sure,” cut in her husband, “that in a serious matter of this sort, truth is the only sane course.”

“But she begged me not to tell,” Eileen Enderby reminded him. “She pleaded so hard. I don't want to make trouble for her—”