Behind That Curtain (2 page)

Bill Rankin pushed on into Barry Kirk's office. He entered a sort of reception-room, but a door beyond stood open, and the newspaperman went confidently forward. In the second room, Sir Frederic Bruce, former head of the C.I.D., sat at a big, flat-topped desk. He swung around, and his gray eyes were stern and dangerous.

“Oh,” he said. “It's you.”

“I must apologize for intruding on you again, Sir Frederic,” Bill Rankin began. “But—I—er—may I sit down?”

“Certainly.” The great detective slowly gathered up some papers on the desk.

“The fact is—” Rankin's confidence was ebbing. An inner voice told him that this was not the genial gentleman of the afternoon interview in the bungalow upstairs. Not the gracious visitor to San Francisco, but Sir Frederic Bruce of Scotland Yard, unbending, cold and awe-inspiring. “The fact is,” continued the reporter lamely, “an idea has struck me.”

“Really?” Those eyes—they looked right through you.

“What you told us this afternoon, Sir Frederic—Your opinion of the value of scientific devices in the detection of crime, as against luck and hard work—” Rankin paused. He seemed unable to finish his sentences. “I was reminded, when I came to write my story, that oddly enough I had heard that same opinion only a few days ago.”

“Yes? Well, I made no claim to originality.” Sir Frederic threw his papers into a drawer.

“Oh, I haven't come to complain about it,” smiled Rankin, regaining a trace of his jaunty spirit. “Under ordinary conditions, it wouldn't mean anything, but I heard your ideas from the lips of a rather unusual man, Sir Frederic. A humble worker in your own field, a detective who has evolved his theories far from Scotland Yard. I heard them from Detective-Sergeant Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police.”

Sir Frederic's bushy eyebrows rose. “Really? Then I must applaud the judgment of Sergeant Chan—whoever he may be.”

“Chan is a detective who has done some good work in the islands. He happens to be in San Francisco at the moment, on his way home. Came to the mainland on a simple errand, which developed into quite a case before he had finished with it. I believe he acquitted himself with credit. He's not very impressive to look at, but—”

Sir Frederic interrupted. “A Chinese, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The great man nodded. “And why not? A Chinese should make an excellent detective. The patience of the East, you know.”

“Precisely,” agreed Bill Rankin. “He's got that. And modesty—”

Sir Frederic shook his head. “Not such a valuable asset, modesty. Self-assurance, a deep faith in one's self—they help. But Sergeant Chan is modest?”

“Is he? ‘Tailing hurts least those who fly low'—that's the way he put it to me. And Sergeant Chan flies so low he skims the daisies.”

Sir Frederic rose and stepped to the window. He gazed down at the spatter of lights flung like a handful of stars over the darkening town. For a moment he said nothing. Then he turned to the reporter.

“A modest detective,” he said, with a grim smile. “That's a novelty, at any rate. I should like very much to meet this Sergeant Chan.”

Bill Rankin sighed with relief. His task was unbelievably easy, after all.

“That's exactly what I came here to suggest,” he said briskly. “I'd like to bring you and Charlie Chan together—hear you go over your methods and experiences—you know, just a real good talk. I was wondering if you would do us the great honor to join Mr. Chan and me at lunch to-morrow?”

The former head of the C.I.D. hesitated. “Thank you very much. But I am more or less in Mr. Kirk's hands. He is giving a dinner tomorrow night, and I believe he said something about luncheon tomorrow, too. Much as I should like to accept at once, decidedly we must consult Mr. Kirk.”

“Well, let's find him. Where is he?” Bill Rankin was all business.

“I fancy he is up in the bungalow.” Sir Frederic turned and, swinging shut the door of a big wall safe, swiftly twirled the knob.

“You did that just like an American businessman, Sir Frederic,” Rankin smiled.

The detective nodded. “Mr. Kirk has kindly allowed me to use his office while I am his guest.”

“Ah—then you're not altogether on a pleasure trip,” said Bill Rankin quickly.

The gray eyes hardened. “Absolutely—a pleasure trip. But there are certain matters—private business—I am writing my memoirs—”

“Ah yes—of course,” apologized the reporter.

The door opened, and a cleaning woman entered. Sir Frederic turned to her. “Good evening,” he said. “You understand that no papers on this desk—or in it—are to be interfered with in any way?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” the woman answered.

“Very good. Now, Mr.—er—Mr.—”

“Rankin, Sir Frederic.”

“Of course. There is a stairs in this rear room leading up to the bungalow. If you will come with me—”

They entered the third and last room of the office suite, and Bill Rankin followed the huge figure of the Englishman aloft. The stairs ended in a dark passageway on the floor above. Throwing open the nearest door, Sir Frederic flooded the place with light, and Bill Rankin stepped into the great living-room of the bungalow. Paradise was alone in the room; he received the reporter with cold disdain. Barry Kirk, it appeared, was dressing for dinner, and the butler went reluctantly to inform him of the newspaperman's unseemly presence.

Kirk appeared at once, in his shirt-sleeves and with the ends of a white tie dangling about his neck. He was a handsome, lean young man in the late twenties, whose manner spoke of sophistication, and spoke true. For he had traveled to the far corners of the earth seeking to discover what the Kirk fortune would purchase there, and life held no surprises for him any more.

“Ah yes—Mr. Rankin of the
Globe,
” he said pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

Paradise hastened forward to officiate with the tie, and over the servant's shoulder Bill Rankin explained his mission. Kirk nodded.

“A bully idea,” he remarked. “I have a lot of friends in Honolulu, and I've heard about Charlie Chan. I'd like to meet him myself.”

“Very happy to have you join us,” said the reporter.

“Can't be done. You must join me.”

“But—the suggestion of the lunch was mine—” began Rankin uncomfortably.

Kirk waved a hand in the airy manner of the rich in such a situation. “My dear fellow—I've already arranged a luncheon for tomorrow.
Some chap in the district attorney's office wrote me a letter. He's interested in criminology and wants to meet Sir Frederic. As I explained to Sir Frederic, I couldn't very well ignore it. We never know when we'll need a friend in the district attorney's office, these days.”

“One of the deputies?” inquired Rankin.

“Yes. A fellow named Morrow—J. V. Morrow. Perhaps you know him?”

Rankin nodded. “I do,” he said.

“Well, that's the scenario,” went on Kirk. “We're to meet this lad at the St. Francis to-morrow at one. The topic of the day will be murder, and I'm sure your friend from Honolulu will fit in admirably. You must pick up Mr. Chan and join us.”

“Thank you very much,” said Rankin. “You're extremely kind. We'll be there. I—I won't keep you any longer.”

Paradise came forward with alacrity to let him out. At the foot of the stairs on the twentieth floor he met his old rival, Gleason of the
Herald.
He chuckled with delight.

“Turn right around,” he said. “You're too late. I thought of it first.”

“Thought of what?” asked Gleason, with assumed innocence.

“I'm getting Sir Frederic and Charlie Chan together, and the idea's copyrighted. Lay off.”

Gloomily, Mr. Gleason turned about, and accompanied Bill Rankin to the elevators. As they waited for the car, the girl in the green dress emerged from the office of the Calcutta Importers and joined them. They rode down together. The girl's tears had vanished, and had happily left no trace. Blue eyes—that completed the picture. A charming picture. Mr. Gleason was also showing signs of interest.

In the street Gleason spoke. “I never thought of it until dinner,” he said sourly.

“With me, my career comes first,” Rankin responded. “Did you finish your dinner?”

“I did, worse luck. Well, I hope you get a whale of a story—a knock-out, a classic.”

“Thanks, old man.”

“And I hope you can't print one damn word of it.” Rankin did not reply as his friend hurried off into the dusk. He was watching the girl in the green dress disappear up California Street. Why had she left the presence of Sir Frederick Bruce to weep outside that office door? What had Sir Frederic said to her? Might ask Sir Frederic about it to-morrow. He laughed mirthlessly. He saw himself—or any other man—prying into the private affairs of Sir Frederic Bruce.

The next day at one, Sir Frederic Bruce stood in the lobby of the St. Francis, a commanding figure in a gray tweed suit. By his side, as immaculate as his guest, stood Barry Kirk, looking out on the busy scene with the amused tolerance befitting a young man of vast leisure and not a care in the world. Kirk hung his stick on his arm, and took a letter from his pocket.

“By the way, I had this note from J. V. Morrow in the morning's mail,” he said. “Thanks me very politely for my invitation, and says that I'll know him when he shows up because he'll be wearing a green hat. One of those green plush hats, I suppose. Hardly the sort of thing I'd put on my head if I were a deputy district attorney.”

Sir Frederic did not reply. He was watching Bill Rankin approach rapidly across the floor. At the reporter's side walked, surprisingly light of step, an unimpressive little man with a bulging waistband and a very earnest expression on his chubby face.

“Here we are,” Rankin said. “Sir Frederic Bruce—may I present Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police?”

Charlie Chan bent quickly like a jack-knife. “The honor,” he said, “is unbelievably immense. In Sir Frederic's reflected glory I am
happy to bask. The tiger has condescended to the fly.”

Somewhat at a loss, the Englishman caressed his mustache and smiled down on the detective from Hawaii. As a keen judge of men, already he saw something in those black restless eyes that held his attention.

“I'm happy to know you, Sergeant Chan,” he said. “It seems we think alike on certain important points. We should get on well together.”

Rankin introduced Chan to the host, who greeted the little Chinese with obvious approval. “Good of you to come,” he said.

“A four-horse chariot could not have dragged me in an opposite direction,” Chan assured him.

Kirk looked at his watch. “All here but J. V. Morrow,” he remarked. “He wrote me this morning that he's coming in at the Post Street entrance. If you'll excuse me, I'll have a look around.”

He strolled down the corridor toward Post Street. Near the door, on a velvet davenport, sat a strikingly attractive young woman. No other seat was available, and with an interested glance at the girl Kirk also dropped down on the davenport. “If you don't mind—” he murmured.

“Not at all,” she replied, in a voice that somehow suited her.

They sat in silence. Presently Kirk was aware that she was looking at him. He glanced up, to meet her smile.

“People are always late,” he ventured.

“Aren't they?”

“No reason for it, usually. Just too inefficient to make the grade. Nothing annoys me more.”

“I feel the same way,” the girl nodded.

Another silence. The girl was still smiling at him.

“Go out of your way to invite somebody you don't know to lunch,” Kirk continued, “and he isn't even courteous enough to arrive on time.”

“Abominable,” she agreed. “You have all my sympathy—Mr. Kirk.”

He started. “Oh—you know me?”

She nodded. “Somebody once pointed you out to me—at a charity bazaar,” she explained.

“Well,” he sighed, “their charity didn't extend to me. Nobody pointed you out.” He looked at his watch.

“This person you're expecting—” began the girl.

“A lawyer,” he answered. “I hate all lawyers. They're always telling you something you'd rather not know.”

“Yes—aren't they?”

“Messing around with other people's troubles. What a life.”

“Frightful.” Another silence. “You say you don't know this lawyer?” A rather unkempt young man came in and hurried past. “How do you expect to recognize him?”

“He wrote me he'd be wearing a green hat. Imagine! Why not a rose behind his ear?”

“A green hat.” The girl's smile grew even brighter. Charming, thought Kirk. Suddenly he stared at her in amazement. “Good lord—you're wearing a green hat!” he cried.

“I'm afraid I am.”

“Don't tell me—”

“Yes—it's true. I'm the lawyer. And you hate all lawyers. What a pity.”

“But I didn't dream—”

“J. V. Morrow,” she went on. “The first name is June.”

“And I thought it was Jim,” he cried. “Please forgive me.”

“You'd never have invited me if you'd known—would you?”

“On the contrary—I wouldn't have invited anybody else. But come along. There are a lot of murder experts in the lobby dying to meet you.”

They rose, and walked rapidly down the corridor. “You're interested in murder?” Kirk inquired.

“Among other things,” she smiled.

“Must take it up myself,” Kirk murmured.

Men turned to look at her a second time, he noticed. There was an alertness in her dark eyes that resembled the look in Chan's, her manner was brisk and businesslike, but for all that she was feminine, alluring.