Behind That Curtain (20 page)

“Oh, no,” Flannery answered. “I'll explain in a minute. Miss Morrow, meet Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.”

The girl came forward, smiling. “I'm so glad,” she said.

“Charmed,” remarked Duff, in a hearty, roast-beef-of-Old-England voice. He was surprisingly young, with rosy cheeks, and the look of a farmer about him. And indeed it had been from a farm in Yorkshire that he had come to London and the Metropolitan police.

“The Inspector and I went from the train to my office,” Flannery explained. “I wanted to go over the records of our case with him. The Major stopped at the hotel to brush up—he'll be along in a minute. Oh, yes—Mr. Kirk, Inspector Duff. And this, Inspector, is Sergeant Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police.”

Chan bowed low. “A moment that will live for ever in my memory,” he said.

“Oh—er—really?” Duff replied. “The Captain's told me of you, Sergeant. We're in the same line—some miles apart.”

“Many miles apart,” conceded Charlie gravely.

“Look here,” said Flannery, “it will be just as well if the Major doesn't meet that girl in the elevator until we're all set for it. Somebody should go below and steer him into a different car.”

“I will be happy to perform that service,” Chan offered.

“No—I know him by sight—I'll do it,” Flannery replied. “I want to have a word with the men I've got watching her. I saw one of them in front of the building when I came in. Inspector—I'll leave you here. You're in good hands.” He went out.

Kirk drew up a chair for the English detective. “Give you tea when the Major comes,” he said.

“You're very kind, I'm sure,” Duff answered.

“You have been all over the case with Captain Flannery?” Miss Morrow inquired.

“I have—from the beginning,” Duff replied. “It's a shocking affair—shocking. Sir Frederic was deeply respected—I might even say loved—by all of us. It appears that he was killed in the line of duty, though he had retired and was, supposedly, out of all that. I can assure you that the murder of one of its men is not taken lightly by Scotland Yard. We shall not rest until we have found the guilty person—and in that task, Sergeant, we shall welcome help from every possible source.”

Chan bowed. “My abilities are of the slightest, but they are lined up beside your very great ones.”

“I had hoped, Inspector,” Miss Morrow said, “that you would be able to throw considerable light on this affair.”

Duff shook his head. “I'm frightfully sorry. There are so many other men—older men—on our force who would have been of much greater service. Unfortunately I am the only Scotland Yard man in the States at the moment. You see—I'm a bit young—”

“I'd noticed that,” smiled the girl.

“All these events that appear to be linked up with Sir Frederic's murder happened before my day. I shall do my best—but—”

“Will you have a cigarette?” Kirk suggested.

“No, thanks. My pipe, if the young lady doesn't object.”

“Not at all,” said Miss Morrow. “It's quite in the Sherlock Holmes tradition.”

Duff smiled. “But the only point of similarity, I fear. As I say, I have been with the Metropolitan police a comparatively brief time—a mere matter of seven years. Of course I have heard of the Hilary Galt murder, though it happened many years ago. As a young policeman I was shown, in the Black Museum, the famous velvet slippers they found Galt wearing that disastrous night. Coming to Eve Durand, I am familiar, in a casual way, with the story of her disappearance. In fact, I had, once, a very slight connection with the case. Five years ago there was a rumor that she had been seen in Paris, and Sir Frederic sent me across the Channel to look into it. It was merely another false alarm, but while making the investigation I chanced to encounter Major Durand, who was also on the ground. Poor chap—that was one of a long series of disappointments for him. I hope he is not to suffer another here to-night.”

“How did the Major happen to come to America at this time?” Miss Morrow inquired.

“He came in answer to a cable from Sir Frederic,” Duff explained. “Sir Frederic asked his help, and of course he hastened to comply, landing in New York a week ago. When I got off the Twentieth Century in Chicago I discovered Durand had been on the same train. We joined forces and hurried onto San Francisco together.”

“Well, he, at least, can help us,” Miss Morrow suggested.

“I fancy he can. I repeat, I have been over the case carefully, but I have had no inspiration as yet. One angle of it interests me tremendously—
those velvet slippers. Why were they taken? Where are they now? They appear to be again the essential clue. What do you say, Sergeant?”

Chan shrugged. “Slippers were exactly that long time ago,” he said. “On which occasion they led positively no place.”

“I know,” smiled Duff. “But I'm not superstitious. I shall follow them again. By the way, there is one point on which I may be able to offer some help.” He turned suddenly to Kirk. “You have a butler named Paradise?” he inquired.

Kirk's heart sank. “Yes—and a very good one,” he answered.

“I have been interested in Paradise,” said Duff. “And Paradise, I understand, has been interested in Sir Frederic's mail. Where is he now?”

“He's in the kitchen, or his room,” Kirk replied. “Do you want to see him?”

“Before I go—yes,” Duff said.

Flannery came through the hall, followed by a big, blond man in a dripping Burberry coat. Major Eric Durand, retired, looked to be the sportsman type of Englishman; his cheeks were tanned and weatherbeaten, as though from much riding in the open, his blue eyes alert. Indoors, one would picture him sitting in a club with a cigar, a whiskey and soda, and a copy of the
Field.

“Come in, Major,” Flannery said. He introduced the Britisher to the company, and Kirk hurried forward to take the Burberry coat. There followed a moment of awkward silence.

“Major,” Flannery began, “we haven't told you why we got you here. You have come to San Francisco in response to a cablegram from Sir Frederic Bruce?”

“I have,” said Durand quietly.

“Did he give you any idea of why he wanted you to come?”

“He intimated that he was on the point of finding—my wife.”

“I see. Your wife disappeared under unusual circumstances some fifteen years ago, in India?”

“Precisely.”

“Did you ever hear of her after that?”

“Never. There were many false reports, of course. We followed them all up, but none of them came to anything in the end.”

“You never heard of her at Nice? Or in New York?”

“No—I don't think those were among the places. I'm sure they weren't.”

“You would, of course, know her if you saw her now?”

Durand looked up with sudden interest. “I fancy I would. She was only eighteen when she was—lost.” Miss Morrow felt a quick twinge of pity for the man. “But one doesn't forget, you know.”

“Major,” said Flannery slowly, “we have every reason to believe that your wife is in this building tonight.”

Durand took a startled step backward. Then he sadly shook his head. “I wish it were true. You've no idea—fifteen years' anxiety—it rather takes it out of a chap. One stops hoping, after a time. Ah, yes—I wish it were true—but there have been so many disappointments. I can not hope any more.”

“Please wait just a minute,” Flannery said, and went out.

A strained silence followed his exit. The ticking of a tall clock in a corner became suddenly like the strokes of a hammer. Durand began to pace the floor.

“It can't be,” he cried to Duff. “No—it can't be Eve. After all these years—in San Francisco—no, no—I can't believe it.”

“We shall know in a moment, old chap,” Duff said gently.

The moments lengthened horribly. Chan began to wonder. Durand continued to pace back and forth, silently, over the rug. Still the hammer strokes of the clock. Five minutes—ten—

The outer door was flung open and Flannery burst into the room. His face was crimson, his gray hair disheveled.

“She's gone!” he cried. “Her elevator's standing at the seventh floor, with the door open. She's gone, and no one saw her go!”

Durand gave a little cry and sinking into a chair, buried his face in his hands.

Major Durand was not the only one to whom Flannery's news came as a shock and a disappointment. On the faces of the four other people in that room dismay was clearly written.

“Gone, and no one saw her go,” Chan repeated. He looked reprovingly at the Captain. “Yet she was under watchful eye of clever mainland police.”

Flannery snorted. “She was, but we're not supermen. That woman's as slippery as an eel. There were two of my boys on the job—both keen lads—well, no use crying over spilt milk. I'll get her. She can't—”

The door opened and a plainclothes man entered, bringing with him a little old cleaning woman with straggling gray hair.

“Hello, Petersen—what is it?” Flannery asked.

“Listen to this, Chief,” said Petersen. “This woman was working in an office on the seventh door.” He turned to her. “Tell the Captain what you told me.”

The woman twisted her apron nervously. “In 709 I was, sir. They go home early, and I was alone there at my work. The door opens and this red-headed elevator girl runs in. She's got on a raincoat, and a hat. ‘What's the matter?' I says, but she just runs on into the
back room, and sort of wondering, I follow her. I'm just in time to see her climb onto the fire-escape. Never a word she said, sir—she just disappeared in the night.”

“The fire-escape,” repeated Flannery. “I thought so. Have you looked at it, Petersen?”

“Yes, sir. It's one of those—you know—a person's weight lets down the last flight of steps to the ground. A simple matter to go like that.”

“All right,” Flannery answered. “Some one must have seen her when she came out of the alley. We'll go down and have a look round.” He turned to the cleaning woman. “That's all. You can go.”

The woman passed a second plain clothes man in the hall. He came quickly into the living-room.

“I've got a lead, Captain,” he said. “Boy in the cigar store on the corner. He says a girl with a Kirk Building uniform under her coat rushed in a few minutes ago and used his telephone.”

“Did he hear the call?”

“No, sir. It's a booth phone. She was there only a few minutes, and then she hurried out again.”

“Well, that's something,” Flannery said. “You boys wait for me—I've got a car. First of all, I'll send out the alarm. I'll have men at the ferries and the railroad stations—she's a marked woman with that uniform. I'll pick her up before midnight—”

“On what charge?” asked Miss Morrow gently.

“Oh—oh, well—as a witness. I'll take her as a witness. Still that will mean a lot of publicity I don't want at this time. I have it. I'll take her on a charge of stealing. The uniform is your property, Mr. Kirk?”

“Yes—but I don't like that,” protested Kirk.

“Oh, it's just a fake. We won't press it. I've got to get her on some pretext. Now—if I can use your phone—”

Flannery talked to some person at the station house, and the hue and cry after that elusive woman was once more under way. He rose full of energy.

“I'll get her,” he promised. “It's a bad set-back to our plans, but it's only for a minute. She can't get away—”

“She is one who has had some success at getting away in the past,” Chan reminded him.

“Yeah—but not this time,” answered the Captain. “She's never had me on her trail before.” He blustered out, followed by his two men.

Major Durand slumped dejectedly in his chair. Inspector Duff was puffing calmly on his well-seasoned pipe.

“It's a bit of hard luck,” he remarked. “But patience—that's what counts in this work, eh, Sergeant Chan?”

Charlie beamed. “At last I meet fellow detective who talks same language with me.”

Barry Kirk rose and rang the bell. “How about a cup of tea?” he said. He stepped to the window and looked out. Swords of light marking the streets floated dimly in the mist, far below. The wind howled, rain spattered on the panes, the city was shrouded and lost. “It's one of those nights—a little something to warm us up—” He was silent. What a night it was—made to order for the man or woman who sought to slip away and never be seen again.

Paradise entered with calm dignity and stood in the brightly lighted room, his shock of snow-white hair lending him an air of stern respectability.

“You rang, sir?” he said.

“Yes,” Kirk replied. “We'll have tea, Paradise. Five of us here—” He stopped. The butler's eyes were on Inspector Duff, and his face was suddenly as white as his hair.

There was a moment of silence. “Hello, Paradise,” Duff said quietly.

The butler muttered something, and turned as though to go out.

“Just a moment!” The Inspector's voice was steely cold. “This is a surprise, my man. A surprise for both of us, I fancy. When I last saw you, you were standing in the dock at Old Bailey.” Paradise bowed his head. “Perhaps I shouldn't have been inclined to give you away, Paradise, if you had behaved yourself. But you've been opening mail—haven't you? You've been tampering with a letter addressed to Sir Frederic Bruce?”

“Yes, sir, I have.” The servant's voice was very low.

“So I understand,” Duff continued. He turned to Barry Kirk. “I'm sorry to distress you, Mr. Kirk. I believe Paradise has been a good servant?”

“The best I ever had,” Kirk told him.

“He was always a good servant,” went on Duff. “As I recall, that fact was brought out clearly at the trial. A competent, faithful man—he had many references to prove it. But unfortunately a few years ago, in England, there was some suspicion that he had put hydrocyanic acid in a lady's tea.”