Behind That Curtain (31 page)

“Building on all this, I set tonight my trap. And into it walks the man who killed Sir Frederic Bruce.”

Inspector Duff looked up. He appeared to have been reading and listening at the same time. “Intelligence, hard work and luck,” he remarked. “These three things contribute to the solution of a criminal case. And I may add that in my opinion, in this instance, the greatest of the trinity was intelligence.”

Chan bowed. “A remark I shall treasure with jealous pride all my life.”

“Yes, it's pretty good,” admitted Flannery grudgingly. “Very good. But it ain't complete. What about the velvet slippers? What about Hilary Galt? How is Galt's murder mixed up in all this?”

Chan grinned. “I am not so hoggish. I leave a few points for Captain Flannery's keen mind.”

Flannery turned to Duff. “Maybe it's in those records?”

“I've got only about half-way through,” Duff answered. “There has been one mention of Hilary Galt. It says here that among the people who called at Galt's office on the day the solicitor was murdered was Eric Durand. Captain Eric Durand—that was his rank at the time. To discover the meaning of that, I shall have to read further.”

“Have you learned,” Chan inquired, “this thing? Did Sir Frederic know which of the ladies we have suspicioned was Eve Durand?”

“Evidently he didn't. All he knew was that she was in the Kirk Building. He seemed to favor Miss Lila Barr.”

“Ah, yes. Was he aware how Eve Durand escaped from India?”

“He was, beyond question.”

“He knew she went by the caravan?”

“By the caravan, through Khyber Pass. In the company of Colonel John Beetham,” Duff nodded.

They all looked toward the Colonel, sitting silent and aloof in the background. “Is that true, Colonel Beetham?” Flannery asked.

The explorer bowed. “I will not deny it longer. It is true.”

“Perhaps you know—”

“Whatever I know, I am not at liberty to tell.”

“If I make you—” Flannery exploded.

“You can, of course, try. You will not succeed.”

The door opened, and Miss Morrow came quickly through the hall. With her came the elevator girl. Jennie Jerome? Marie Lantelme? Grace Lane? Whatever her name, she entered, and stood staring at Eric Durand.

“Eric!” she cried. “What have you done? Oh—how could you—”

Durand raised his head and looked at her with bloodshot eyes. “Go away from me,” he said dully. “Go away. You've brought me nothing but trouble—always. Go away. I hate you.”

The woman backed off, frightened by the venom in his tone. Chan approached her.

“Pardon,” he said gently. “Perhaps the news has already reached you? It was this man Durand who killed Sir Frederic. Your husband—is that not true, Madam?”

She dropped into a chair and covered her face. “Yes,” she sobbed. “My husband.”

“You are indeed Eve Durand?”

“Y-yes.”

Charlie looked grimly at Flannery. “Now the truth arrives,” he said. “That you once listened to a Chinaman is, after all, no lasting disgrace.”

Flannery turned fiercely on Eve Durand. “Then you've known all along?” he cried. “You knew the Major had been here before—you saw him that night he did for Sir Frederic—”

“No, no,” she protested. “I didn't see him—I never dreamed of such a thing. And if he knew I was in the building that night, he took good care to keep out of my way. For if I had seen him—if I had known—it would have been the final straw. I'd have told. I'd have told the whole story at once.”

Flannery grew calmer. “Well, let's go back. You're Eve Durand—you admit it at last. Fifteen years ago you ran away from your husband in Peshawar. You went with the caravan of Colonel Beetham here—”

The woman looked up, startled, and for the first time saw the explorer. “That's all true,” she said softly, “I went with Colonel Beetham.”

“Ran away with another man—deserted your husband? Why? In love with the Colonel—”

“No!” Her eyes flashed. “You mustn't think that. Colonel Beetham did a very kind act—an indiscreet act—and he shall not suffer for it. Long ago, I made up my mind to that.”

“Please, Eve,” said the Colonel. “I shan't suffer. Don't tell your story on my account.”

“That's like you,” she answered. “But I insist. I said if I was ever found, I'd tell everything. And after what Eric has done now—it doesn't matter any longer. Oh, I shall be so relieved to tell the whole terrible thing at last.”

She turned to Flannery. “I shall have to go back. I was brought up in Devonshire by my uncle and aunt—my parents had died. I wasn't very happy. My uncle had old-fashioned ideas. He meant well, he was kind, but somehow we just didn't get along. Then I met Eric—he was a romantic figure—I adored him. I was only seventeen. On my eighteenth birthday we were married. He was assigned to a regiment stationed in Peshawar, and I went with him.

“Even before we reached India, I began to regret what I had done. I was sorry I hadn't listened to my uncle—he never approved of the match. Under his dashing manner I found that Eric was mean and cheap. He was a gambler, he drank too much. His real character appalled me—he was coarse and brutal, and a cheat.

“Soon after our arrival at Peshawar, letters began to come from London—letters in dirty envelopes, the address written in an uncultivated hand. They seemed to enrage my husband; he wasn't fit to associate with after their appearance. I was puzzled and alarmed. On a certain day—the day of the picnic, it was—one of those letters was put in my hand during Eric's absence. By that time I was desperate. I knew only too well the outburst that would come when he saw it. I hesitated for a while. Finally I tore it open and read it.

“What I read wrecked my life for ever. It was from a porter in an office building in London. It said he must have more money—at once. It didn't hint—it spoke openly. Everything was all too plain. Eric—my husband—was being blackmailed by the porter. He was paying money to keep the man quiet. If he didn't, the porter threatened to reveal the fact that he had seen Eric leaving a London office
one night a year previously. Leaving an office on the floor of which lay Hilary Galt, the solicitor, with a bullet in his head.”

Eve Durand paused, and continued with an effort. “My husband, then, was being blackmailed for the murder of Hilary Galt. He came home presently, in rather a genial mood—for him. I said: ‘I am leaving you at once.' He wanted to know why, and I gave him the opened letter.

“His face went gray, and he collapsed. Presently he was on his knees, groveling at my feet, pleading with me. Without my asking for it, he gave me the whole terrible story. Hilary Galt and my uncle, Sir George Mannering, were old friends. On the morning of that awful day, the solicitor had sent for Eric and told him that if he persisted in his intention of marrying me, he—Mr. Galt, I mean—would go to my uncle with the story of certain unsavory happenings in Eric's past. Eric had listened, and left the office. That night he had gone back and killed Hilary Galt, and the porter had seen him coming away.

“He did it for love of me, he said. Because he must have me—because he was determined nothing should stand in his way. I must forgive him—”

“Pardon,” put in Chan. “Did he, in that unhappy moment, mention a pair of velvet slippers?”

“He did. After—after he had killed Mr. Galt, he saw the slippers lying on a chair. He knew that Scotland Yard always looks for an essential clue, and he resolved to furnish one. One that meant nothing, one that would point away from him. So he tore off Hilary Galt's shoes and substituted the slippers. He was rather proud of it, I think. Oh, he was always clever, in that mean way of his. He boasted of what he had done, of how he had thrown Scotland Yard off the scent. Then he was pleading again—he had done it for me—I must not tell. I couldn't tell. I was his wife—no one could make me tell. Heaven knows, I had no desire to tell, all I wanted
was to get away from him. I said again that I was going. ‘I'll kill you first,' he answered, and he meant it.

“So I went on that picnic, with my life all in pieces, frantic, insane with grief and fear. Colonel Beetham was there—I had met him once before—a fine man, a gentleman, all that Eric was not. He was leaving in the morning—it came to me in a flash. He must take me with him. I suggested the game of hide-and-seek—I had already asked the Colonel to meet me in a certain spot. He came—I made him promise never to tell—and I explained to him the horrible position I was in. If I tried to leave openly I was afraid—I was sure—Eric would carry out his threat. Colonel Beetham was wonderful. He arranged everything. I hid in the hills all night. He came with Li Gung in the wagon at dawn—he had added it to his caravan, intending to abandon it when we got through the pass. I rode out hidden in that, and beyond the Khyber there began for me the most wonderful adventure a woman ever had. Eight months through that wild country on a camel—the stars at night, the dust storms, the desert stretching empty but mysterious as far as the eye could see. Outside Teheran I left the caravan and got to Baku alone. From there I went to Italy. Eight months had passed, as I say, and the hue and cry had died down.

“But now I realized what I had done. Colonel Beetham was a hero, he was honored everywhere. What if it became known how I had left India? No journey could ever have been more innocent, but this is a cynical world. Doing a kind act, a gallant act, Colonel Beetham had put himself in the position, in the world's eyes, of running away with another man's wife. If it became known, the Colonel's splendid career would be wrecked. It must never become known. I made up my mind I would see to that.”

“And you have,” remarked Beetham softly. “Gentlemen, you have just heard what I did referred to as a gallant act. But it was as nothing compared with Eve Durand's gallantry ever since.”

“First of all,” the woman went on, “I wrote a letter to Eric. I told him he must never try to find me—for his own sake. I said that if I was found, if the story came out of how I had left India, I would not hesitate a moment. I would clear Colonel Beetham's name at once by a clear account of why I had gone. I would say I left because I discovered my husband was a murderer. Eric didn't answer, but he must have received the letter. He never tried to find me after that. He did not want anyone else to find me—as he has recently proved to you.”

She paused. “That is about all. I—I have had rather a hard struggle of it. I sold my jewelry and lived on the proceeds for a time. Then I went to Nice, and under the name of Marie Lantelme, I got a place in the opera company. There, for the first time, I realized that another man was on my trail—a man who would never give up. Sir Frederic Bruce of Scotland Yard, in charge of the Hilary Galt case. He knew that Eric had visited Galt's office the day of the murder, and when he read of my disappearance in India, he must have sensed a connection. One night when I came from the theater in Nice, an Inspector from Scotland Yard stopped me on the Promenade des Anglais. ‘You are Eve Durand,' he said. I denied it, got away from him, managed to reach Marseilles. From there I went to New York. I changed my appearance as much as I could—the color of my hair—and under the name of Jennie Jerome, secured a position as a model. Again Scotland Yard was on my track. I had to disappear in the night. Eventually I arrived in San Francisco, desperate, penniless. On a ferry I met Helen Tupper-Brock, who had lived near us in Devonshire. She has been so kind—she got me my position here. I was happy again, until Sir Frederic Bruce came, still following that old trail.”

Durand got slowly to his feet. “I hope you're satisfied,” he said thickly.

“Oh, Eric—”

“You've done for me. You ought to be satisfied now.” His eyes flamed red. “You've saved the spotless reputation of your damned Sir Galahad—”

“You're going to confess?” cried Flannery.

Durand shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. “Why not? What else is left?” He turned his blazing eyes on Charlie Chan. “Everything this devil said was true. I admire him for it. I thought I was clever. But he's beat me—” His voice rose hysterically. “I killed Sir Frederic. Why shouldn't I? It was the only way. He stood there grinning at me. My God—what a man! He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't call quits. Sixteen years, and he was still at my heels. Sixteen years, and he wouldn't forget. Yes, I killed him—”

“And the velvet slippers?” Chan inquired softly.

“On his feet. The same old velvet slippers I'd left in that office, long ago. I saw them just after I fired, and then my nerve went. It was like a judgment—my trade-mark—on the feet of Sir Frederic—pointing to me. I snatched them off—took them with me. I—I didn't know what to do with them. My nerve was gone—but I'd killed him first. Yes—I killed him. And I'm ready to pay. But not in the way you think.”

Suddenly he wheeled about and crashed through the French window into the garden of the bungalow.

“The fire-escape,” Flannery shouted. “Head him off—”

The Captain, Duff and Chan were close behind. Charlie ran to the fire-escape at the left. But it was not that for which Eric Durand was headed to-night. He leaped to the rail that enclosed the garden; for an instant his big figure poised, a dark silhouette against the misty sky. Then silently it disappeared.

They ran to the rail and looked down. Far below, in the dim light of a street lamp, they saw a black, huddled heap. A crowd was gathering around it.

Their pursuit so tragically ended, the three men came slowly back into the living-room of the bungalow.

“Well,” said Flannery, “that's the end of him.”

“Escaped?” Miss Morrow cried.