Behind That Curtain (25 page)

“Hello,” Kirk greeted her. “You remember Miss Morrow, of course.”

“Oh, yes—the lawyer. How do you do. And Mr. Chan—look here, why haven't you solved this case?”

“A little more patience,” grinned Chan. “We are getting warm now. You are under hovering cloud of suspicion at last.”

“So I hear,” snapped the old lady. She turned to Miss Morrow. “Well, my dear, Barry said you wanted to cross-question me.”

“Nothing cross about it,” Miss Morrow said, with a smile. “Just a few polite questions.”

“Oh, really. Don't be too polite. I'm always suspicious of too-polite people. You don't think I killed poor Sir Frederic, I hope?”

“Not precisely. But you've written a letter—”

“I suppose so. Have a habit of writing indiscreet letters. And old habits are hard to break. But I always put ‘burn this' at the bottom. Somebody has failed to follow my instructions, eh?”

Miss Morrow shook her head. “I believe you omitted that admonition in this case.” She handed the letter to Mrs. Kirk. “You wrote that, didn't you?”

Mrs. Kirk glanced it through. “Certainly I wrote it. What of it?”

“This Grace Lane was a good friend of yours?”

“In a way, yes. Of course, I scarcely knew the girl—”

“Oho,” cried Barry Kirk. “You vouched for her in every way, yet you scarcely knew her.”

“Keep out of this, Barry,” advised the old lady. “You're not a lawyer. You haven't the brains.”

“Then you knew Grace Lane only slightly, Mrs. Kirk?” the girl continued.

“That's what I said.”

“Yet you recommended her without reservation? Why did you do that?”

Mrs. Kirk hesitated. “If you'll pardon me, I regard it as my own affair.”

“I'm sorry,” Miss Morrow replied quickly, “but you will have to answer. Please do not be deceived by the setting of this interview. It is not a social function. I am acting for the district attorney's office, and I mean business.”

Mrs. Kirk's eyes flashed. “I understand. But now, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask a few questions.”

“You may do so. And when you have finished, I will resume.”

“What has this girl, Grace Lane, to do with the murder of Sir Frederic Bruce?”

“That is what we are trying to determine.”

“You mean she had something to do with it?”

“We believe she had. And that is why your recommendation of
her is no longer your own affair, Mrs. Kirk.”

The old lady sat firmly on the edge of her chair. “I shan't say a word until I know where all this is leading us.”

“It'll lead you to jail if you don't stop being stubborn,” suggested Barry Kirk.

“Indeed? Well, I have friends among the lawyers, too. Miss Morrow, I want to know Grace Lane's connection with Sir Frederic.”

“I have no objection to telling you—if you will keep the matter to yourself.”

“She's the most indiscreet woman on the west coast,” Kirk warned.

“Hush up, Barry. I can keep still if I have to. Miss Morrow—?”

“When Sir Frederic came here,” Miss Morrow explained, “he was seeking a woman named Eve Durand, who disappeared from India fifteen years ago. We suspect Grace Lane was that woman.”

“Well, why don't you ask her?”

“We'd be glad to, but we can't. You see, she's disappeared again.”

“What! She's gone?”

“Yes. Now I have answered your questions, and I expect you to do as much for me.” Miss Morrow became again very businesslike. “Grace Lane was undoubtedly brought to you by a third person—a person you trusted. Who was it?”

Mrs. Kirk shook her head. “I'm sorry. I can't tell you.”

“You realize, of course, the seriousness of your refusal?”

“I—well, I—good heavens, what have I got mixed up in, anyhow? A respectable woman like me—”

“Precisely,” said Miss Morrow sternly. “A woman honored throughout the city, a woman prominent in every forward-looking movement—I must say I am surprised, Mrs. Kirk, to find you obstructing the course of justice. And all because this person who brought Grace Lane to you is now asking you to keep the matter secret—”

“I didn't say that.”

“But I did. It's true, isn't it?”

“Well—yes—it is. And I must say I think she's asking a good deal of me—”

“She? Then Grace Lane was brought to you by a woman?”

“What? Oh—oh, yes. Of course. I'll admit that.”

“You have admitted it,” chuckled Barry Kirk.

“Tell me this,” Miss Morrow went on, “before you left to come down here, did you let Mrs. Tupper-Brock know where you were going?”

“I did.”

“Did you tell her you expected to be questioned by me when you got here?”

“Y-yes.”

“And was it then that she asked you not to reveal the fact that she was the person who brought Grace Lane to you, with a request that you help the girl?” Mrs. Kirk was silent. “You needn't answer,” Miss Morrow smiled. “As a matter of fact, you have answered. Your face, you know.”

Mrs. Kirk shrugged. “You're a clever young woman,” she complained.

“Since that is settled, and I now know that it was Mrs. Tupper-Brock who introduced the Lane girl to you,” Miss Morrow continued, “there is no real reason why you shouldn't give me the details. How long ago did it happen?”

Mrs. Kirk hesitated, and then surrendered. “Several months ago,” she said. “Helen brought the girl to the house. She told me she had met her on a ferry—that they were old friends—had known each other in Devonshire, a great many years back.”

“In Devonshire. Please go on.”

“Helen said this girl had been through a lot—”

“What?”

“I didn't ask. I have some delicacy. Also, that she was destitute
and in desperate need of work. She was such a pretty, modest, feminine little thing, I took an immediate fancy to her. So I got her the job in this building.”

“Without consulting me,” Kirk suggested.

“Why should I? It was a matter requiring instant action. You were off somewhere as usual.”

“And that's all you know about Grace Lane?” inquired Miss Morrow.

“Yes. I made inquiries, and found she was doing well and was, apparently, happy. When we came up here the other night, we spoke to her. She thanked me, very nicely. I'm sorry she's been hounded out of town.”

Miss Morrow smiled. “One thing more. Have you noticed any signs of a close friendship between Mrs. Tupper-Brock and Colonel Beetham?”

“I believe they've gone out together occasionally. I don't spy on them.”

“Naturally not. I think that is all, Mrs. Kirk.”

Mrs. Kirk stood up. She appeared to be in a rather chastened mood. “Thanks. Fortunately, I can still get to my lecture on time.”

“Just one point,” added the girl. “I'd rather you didn't repeat this conversation to Mrs. Tupper-Brock.”

“Me—I won't repeat it to anybody.” The old lady smiled grimly. “Somehow I don't seem to have come out of it as well as I expected.” She said good-by and made a hasty exit.

“Bully for you,” cried Kirk with an admiring look at Miss Morrow.

She stood, frowning. “What did I tell you this morning? Mrs. Tupper-Brock was lying, but I didn't expect confirmation so soon.”

“Going to have her on the carpet again?” Kirk asked.

“I am not. What's the good of more lies? Grace Lane was an old friend—which may mean that Grace Lane will write to Mrs.
Tupper-Brock from wherever she is hiding. I am going to make immediate arrangements with the postal authorities. Mrs. Tupper-Brock's mail will reach her through my office from now on.”

“Excellent,” approved Chan. “You have wise head on pretty shoulders. What an unexpected combination. May I inquire, what is our good friend Flannery doing?”

“The Captain has taken a sudden fancy to Miss Lila Barr. I believe he has ordered her to his office at five this afternoon, for what he calls a grilling. I can't be there, but if I were you, I'd drop in on it.”

Chan shrugged. “I fear I will look in vain for welcome inscribed in glowing characters on the mat. However, I will appear with offhand air.”

Miss Morrow turned to Barry Kirk. “I do hope your grandmother won't hold my inquisition against me.”

“Nonsense. You were splendid, and she's crazy about you. I saw it in her eyes when she went out.”

“I didn't,” smiled the girl.

“You didn't look carefully. That's where you make a mistake. Examine the eyes about you. You'll find a lot more approval than you suspect.”

“Really? I'm afraid I'm too busy—I must leave that sort of thing to the old-fashioned girls. Now, I must run along. There's just a chance I can find Grace Lane for Captain Flannery. Some one must.”

“And it might as well be you,” quoted Kirk. “I'll hope to see you again soon.” He showed her out.

At four-thirty Charlie Chan strolled to the Hall of Justice and walked in on Captain Flannery. The Captain appeared to be in rare good humor.

“How are you, Sergeant,” he said. “What's new with you?”

“With me, everything has aged look,” Chan replied.

“Not getting on as fast as you expected, are you?” Flannery inquired. “Well, this should be a lesson to you. Every frog ought to stick to his own pond. You may be a world-beater in a village like Honolulu, but you're on the big time over here. You're in over your depth.”

“How true,” Charlie agreed. “I am often dismayed, but I think of you and know you will not permit me to drown. Something has happened to elevate your spirit?”

“It sure has. I've just pulled off a neat little stunt. You see, I had a grand idea. I put an ad in the morning paper for those velvet slippers—”

“Ah, yes,” Chan grinned. “Inspector Duff warned me you were about to be hit by that idea.”

“Oh, he did, did he? Well, I'm not taking orders from Duff. I was on the point of doing it some days ago, but it slipped my mind. Duff recalled it to me, that's all. I put a very cagey advertisement in the paper, and—”

“Results are already apparent?” Chan finished.

“Are they? I'll say so.” Flannery took up something wrapped in a soiled newspaper. The string had already been loosened, and casting it aside, he revealed the contents of the bundle. Before Chan's eyes lay the red velvet slippers from the Chinese Legation, the slippers found on the feet of Hilary Galt that tragic night in London, the slippers in which Sir Frederic Bruce had walked to his death little more than a week ago.

“What happy luck,” Charlie said.

“Ain't it,” agreed Flannery. “A soldier from out at the Presidio brought them in less than an hour ago. It seems he was crossing to Oakland to visit his girl last Wednesday noon, and he picked this package up from one of the benches on the ferry-boat. There was
nobody about to claim it, so he took it along. Of course, he should have turned it over to the ferry people—but he didn't. I told him that was all right with me.”

“On ferry-boat to Oakland,” Chan repeated.

“Yes. This guy'd been wondering what to do with his find, and he was mighty pleased when I slipped him a five spot.”

Charlie turned the slippers slowly about in his hands. Again he was interested by the Chinese character which promised long life and happiness. A lying promise, that. The slippers had not brought long life and happiness to Hilary Galt. Nor to Sir Frederic Bruce.

“Just where,” Chan mused, “do we arrive at now?”

“Well, I'll have to admit that we're still a long ways from home,” Flannery replied. “But we're getting on. Last Wednesday, the day after the murder, somebody left these slippers on an Oakland ferryboat. Left them intentionally, I'll bet—glad enough to be rid of ‘em.”

“In same identical paper,” Charlie inquired, “they were always wrapped?”

“Yes—that's the paper this fellow found them in. An evening paper dated last Wednesday night. A first edition, issued about ten in the morning.”

Chan spread out the newspaper and studied it. “You have been carefully over this journal, I suspect?”

“Why—er—I haven't had time,” Flannery told him.

“Nothing of note catches the eye,” Chan remarked. “Except—ah, yes—here on margin of first page. A few figures, carelessly inscribed in pencil. Paper is torn in that locality, and they are almost obliterated.”

Flannery came closer, and Charlie pointed. A small sum in addition had evidently been worked out.

“A hundred three,” Flannery read. “That's wrong. Seventy-nine and twenty-three don't add up to a hundred three.”

“Then we must seek one who is poor scholar of arithmetic,” Chan replied. “If you have no inclination for objecting, I will jot figures down.”

“Go ahead. Put your big brain on it. But don't forget—I produced the slippers.”