Behind That Curtain (4 page)

“You learned nothing?” inquired Barry Kirk.

“What could you expect?” Sir Frederic dropped a small lump of sugar into his coffee. “Fifteen years since that little picnic party rode back to Peshawar, back to the compound of the lonely garrison, leading behind them the riderless pony of Eve Durand. And
fifteen years, I may tell you, make a very heavy curtain on India's frontier.”

Again Bill Rankin turned to Charlie Chan. “What do you say, Sergeant?” he asked.

Chan considered. “The town named Peshawar stands with great proximity to the Khyber Pass, leading into wilds of Afghanistan,” he said.

Sir Frederic nodded. “It does. But every foot of the pass is guarded night and day by British troops, and no European is permitted to leave by that route, save under very special conditions. No, Eve Durand could never have left India by way of the Khyber Pass. The thing would have been impossible. Grant the impossible, and she could not have lived a day among the wild hillmen over the border.”

Chan gravely regarded the man from Scotland Yard. “It is not to be amazed at,” he said, “that you have felt such deep interest. Speaking humbly for myself, I desire with unlimited yearning to look behind that curtain of which you speak.”

“That is the curse of our business, Sergeant,” Sir Frederic replied. “No matter what our record of successes, there must always remain those curtains behind which we long with unlimited yearning to look—and never do.”

Barry Kirk paid the check, and they rose from the table. In the lobby, during the course of the good-bye, the party broke up momentarily into two groups. Rankin, Kirk and the girl went to the door, and after a hurried expression of thanks, the reporter dashed out to the street.

“Mr. Kirk—it was wonderful,” Miss Morrow said. “Why are all Englishmen so fascinating? Tell me that.”

“Oh—are they?” He shrugged. “You tell me. You girls always fall for them, I notice.”

“Well—they have an air about them. An atmosphere. They're not provincial, like a Rotarian who wants to tell you about the
water-works. He took us traveling, didn't he? London and Peshawar—I could listen to him for hours. Sorry I have to run.”

“Wait. You can do something for me.”

“After what you've done for me,” she smiled, “anything you ask.”

“Good. This Chinese—Chan—he strikes me as a gentleman, and a mighty interesting one. I believe he would go big at my dinner to-night. I'd like to ask him, but that would throw my table out of gear. I need another woman. How about it? Will old man Blackstone let you off for the evening?”

“He might.”

“Just a small party—my grandmother, and some people Sir Frederic has asked me to invite. And since you find Englishmen so fascinating, there'll be Colonel John Beetham, the famous Asiatic explorer. He's going to show us some movies he took in Tibet—which is the first intimation I've had that anything ever moved in Tibet.”

“That will be splendid. I've seen Colonel Beetham's picture in the papers.”

“I know—the women are all crazy about him, too. Even poor grandmother—she's thinking of putting up money for his next expedition to the Gobi Desert. You'll come then? Seven-thirty.”

“I'd love to—but it does seem presumptuous. After what you said about lawyers—”

“Yes—that was careless of me. I'll have to live it down. Give me a chance. My bungalow—you know where it is—”

She laughed. “Thanks. I'll come. Good-by—until tonight.”

Meanwhile Sir Frederic Bruce had led Charlie Chan to a sofa in the lobby. “I was eager to meet you, Sergeant,” he said, “for many reasons. Tell me, are you familiar with San Francisco's Chinatown?”

“I have slight acquaintance with same,” Chan admitted. “My cousin, Chan Kee Lim, is an honored resident of Waverly Place.”

“Have you, by any chance, heard of a Chinese down there—a stranger, a tourist—named Li Gung?”

“No doubt there are many so named. I do not know the one you bring up.”

“This man is a guest of relatives on Jackson Street. You could do me a great service, Sergeant.”

“It would remain,” said Chan, “a golden item on the scroll of memory.”

“Li Gung has certain information and I want it. I have tried to interview him myself, but naturally with no success.”

“Light begins to dawn.”

“If you could strike up an acquaintance with him—get into his confidence—”

“Humbly asking pardon, I do not spy on my own race with no good reason.”

“The reasons in this case are excellent.”

“Only a fool could doubt it. But what you hint would demand a considerable interval of time. My humble affairs have rightly no interest for you, so you have properly overlooked my situation. Tomorrow at noon I hasten to my home.”

“You could stay over a week. I would make it greatly worth your while.”

A stubborn look came into the little eyes. “One path only is worth my while now. The path to my home on Punchbowl Hill.”

“I mean I would pay—”

“Again asking pardon—I have food, I have clothes which cover even the vast area I possess. Beyond that, what is money?”

“Very good. It was only a suggestion.”

“I am desolated by acute pain,” replied Chan. “But I must refuse.”

Barry Kirk joined them. “Mr. Chan, I'm going to ask you to do something for me,” he began.

Chan sought to keep concern from his face, and succeeded. But what next, he wondered. “I am eagerly at attention,” he said. “You are my host.”

“I've just invited Miss Morrow to dinner to-night and I need another man. Will you come?”

“Your requests are high honors, which only an ungrate would refuse. But I am now already in your debt. More is going to embarrass me.”

“Never mind that. I'll expect you at seven-thirty—my bungalow on the Kirk Building.”

“Splendid,” said Sir Frederic. “We'll have another talk then, Sergeant. My requests are not precisely honors, but I may yet persuade you.”

“The Chinese are funny people,” remarked Chan. “They say no, no is what they mean. They say yes, and they are glued to same. With regard to dinner, I say yes, greatly pleased.”

“Good,” said Barry Kirk.

“Where's that reporter?” Sir Frederic asked.

“He hurried away,” Kirk explained. “Anxious to get to his story, I imagine.”

“What story?” asked the Englishman blankly.

“Why—the story of our luncheon. Your meeting with Sergeant Chan.”

A startled expression crossed the detective's face. “Good lord—you don't mean he's going to put that into print?”

“Why naturally. I supposed you knew—”

“I'm afraid I'm woefully ignorant of American customs. I thought that was merely a social function. I didn't dream—”

“You mean you don't want him to print it?” asked Barry Kirk, surprised.

Sir Frederic turned quickly to Charlie. “Good-by, Sergeant. This has been a real pleasure. I shall see you tonight—”

He hastily shook hands with Chan, and dragged the dazed Barry Kirk to the street. There he motioned for a taxi. “What paper was that young scoundrel representing?” he inquired.

“The
Globe,
” Kirk told him.

“The
Globe
office—and quickly, please,” Sir Frederic ordered.

The two got in, and for a moment rode in silence.

“You are curious, perhaps,” said Sir Frederic at last.

“I hope you won't think it's unnatural of me,” smiled Kirk.

“I know I can rely on your discretion, my boy. I told only a small part of the story of Eve Durand at luncheon, but even that must not reach print just yet. Not here—not now—”

“Great Scott. Do you mean—”

“I mean I am near the end of a long trail. Eve Durand was not murdered in India. She ran away. I know why she ran away. I even suspect the peculiar method of her going. More than that—”

“Yes?” cried Kirk eagerly.

“More than that I can not tell you at present.” The journey was continued in silence, and presently they drew up before the office of the
Globe.

In the city editor's cubby-hole, Bill Rankin was talking exultantly to his chief. “It's going to be a corking good feature,” he was saying, when he felt a grip of steel on his arm. Turning, he looked into the face of Sir Frederic Bruce. “Why—why—hello,” he stammered.

“There has been a slight mistake,” said the detective.

“Let me explain,” suggested Barry Kirk. He shook hands with the editor and introduced Sir Frederic, who merely nodded, not relaxing his grip on the reporter's paralyzed arm. “Rankin, this is unfortunate,” Kirk continued, “but it can't be helped. Sir Frederic is unfamiliar with the ways of the American press, and he did not understand that you were gathering a story at lunch. He thought it a purely social affair. So we have come to ask that you print nothing of the conversation you heard this noon.”

Rankin's face fell. “Not print it? Oh—I say—”

“We appeal to you both,” added Kirk to the editor.

“My answer must depend on your reason for making the request,” said that gentleman.

“My reason would be respected in England,” Sir Frederic told him. “Here, I don't know your custom. But I may tell you that if you print any of that conversation, you will seriously impede the course of justice.”

The editor bowed. “Very well. We shall print nothing without your permission, Sir Frederic,” he said.

“Thank you,” replied the detective, releasing Rankin's arm. “That concludes our business here, I fancy.” And wheeling, he went out. Having added his own thanks, Kirk followed.

“Well, of all the rotten luck,” cried Rankin, sinking into a chair.

Sir Frederic strode on across the city room. A cat may look at a king, and Egbert stood staring with interest at the former head of the C.I.D. Just in front of the door, the Englishman paused. It was either that or a collision with Egbert, moving slowly like a dark shadow across his path.

Barry Kirk stepped from his living-room through French windows leading into the tiny garden that graced his bungalow in the sky—“My front yard,” he called it. He moved over to the rail and stood looking out on a view such as few front yards have ever offered. Twenty stories below lay the alternate glare and gloom of the city; far in the distance the lights of the ferry-boats plodded across the harbor like weary fireflies.

The stars were bright and clear and amazingly close above his head, but he heard the tolling of the fog bell over by Belvedere, and he knew that the sea mist was drifting in through the Gate. By midnight it would whirl and eddy about his lofty home, shutting him off from the world like a veil of filmy tulle. He loved the fog. Heavy with the scent of distant gardens, salt with the breath of the Pacific, it was the trade mark of his town.

He went back inside, closing the window carefully behind him. For a moment he stood looking about his living-room, which wealth and good taste had combined to furnish charmingly. A huge, deep sofa, many comfortable chairs, a half-dozen floor lamps shedding their warm yellow glow, a brisk fire crackling on a wide
hearth—no matter how loudly the wind rattled at the casements, here were comfort and good cheer.

Kirk went on into his dining-room. Paradise was lighting the candles on the big table. The flowers, the snowy linen, the old silver, made a perfect picture, forecasting a perfect dinner. Kirk inspected the ten place cards. He smiled.

“Everything seems to be O.K.,” he said. “It's got to be to-night. Grandmother's coming, and you know what she thinks about a man who lives alone. To hear her tell it, every home needs a woman's touch.”

“We shall disillusion her once again, sir,” Paradise remarked.

“Such is my aim. Not that it will do any good. When she's made up her mind, that's that.”

The doorbell rang, and Paradise moved off with slow, majestic steps to answer it. Entering the living-room, Barry Kirk stood for a moment fascinated by the picture he saw there. The deputy district attorney had paused just inside the door leading from the hallway; she wore a simple, orange-colored dinner gown, her dark eyes were smiling.

“Miss Morrow,” Kirk came forward eagerly. “If you don't mind my saying so, you don't look much like a lawyer to-night.”

“I presume that's intended for a compliment,” she answered. Chan appeared at her back. “Here's Mr. Chan. We rode up together in the elevator. Heavens—don't tell me we're the first.”

“When I was a boy,” smiled Kirk, “I always started in by eating the frosting off my cake. Which is just to tell you that with me, the best is always first. Good evening, Mr. Chan.”

Chan bowed. “I am deeply touched by your kindness. One grand item is added to my mainland memories tonight.” He wore a somewhat rusty dinner coat, but his linen gleamed and his manners shone.

Paradise followed with their wraps on his arm, and disappeared
through a distant doorway. Another door opened. Sir Frederic Bruce stood on the threshold.

“Good evening, Miss Morrow,” he said. “My word—you look charming. And Mr. Chan. This is luck—you're the first. You know I promised to show you a souvenir of my dark past.”

He turned and reentered his room. Kirk led his guests over to the blazing fire.

“Sit down—do,” he said. “People are always asking how I can endure the famous San Francisco zephyrs up here.” He waved a hand toward the fireplace. “This is one of my answers.”

Sir Frederic rejoined them, a distinguished figure in his evening clothes. He carried a pair of slippers. Their tops were of cut velvet, dark red like old Burgundy, and each bore as decoration a Chinese character surrounded by a design of pomegranate blossoms. He handed one to the girl, and the other to Charlie Chan.