Behind That Curtain (7 page)

Barry Kirk's guests were seated, silent and expectant, in the now brightly lighted living-room. They looked up inquiringly as the three from below entered. Kirk faced them, at a loss how to begin.

“I have dreadful news for you,” he said. “An accident—a terrible accident.” Chan's eyes moved rapidly about the group and, making their choice, rested finally on the white, drawn face of Eileen Enderby. “Sir Frederic Bruce has been murdered in my office,” Kirk finished.

There was a moment's breathless silence, and then Mrs. Enderby got to her feet. “It's the dark,” she cried in a harsh, shrill voice. “I knew it. I knew something would happen when the lights were turned off. I knew it, I tell you—”

Her husband stepped to her side to quiet her, and Chan stood staring not at her, but at Colonel John Beetham. For one brief instant he thought the mask had dropped from those weary, disillusioned eyes. For one instant only.

They all began to speak at once. Gradually Miss Morrow made herself heard above the din. “We must take this coolly,” she said, and Barry Kirk admired her composure. “Naturally, we are all under suspicion. We—”

“What? I like that!” Mrs. Dawson Kirk was speaking. “Under suspicion, indeed—”

“The room was in complete darkness,” Miss Morrow went on. “There was considerable moving about. I don't like to stress my official position here, but perhaps you would prefer my methods to those of a police captain. How many of you left this room during the showing of Colonel Beetham's pictures?”

An embarrassed silence fell. Mrs. Kirk broke it. “I thought the pictures intensely interesting,” she said. “True, I did step into the kitchen for a moment—”

“Just to keep an eye on my domestic arrangements,” suggested Barry Kirk.

“Nothing of the sort. My throat was dry. I wanted a glass of water.”

“You saw nothing wrong?” inquired Miss Morrow.

“Aside from the very wasteful methods that seemed to be in vogue in the kitchen—nothing,” replied Mrs. Kirk firmly.

“Mrs. Tupper-Brock?” said Miss Morrow.

“I was on the sofa with Miss Garland,” replied that lady. “Neither of us moved from there at any time.” Her voice was cool and steady.

“That's quite true,” the actress added.

Another silence. Kirk spoke up. “I'm sure none of us intended a discourtesy to the Colonel,” he said. “The entertainment he gave us was delightful, and it was gracious of him to honor us. I myself—er—I was in the room constantly—except for one brief moment in the garden. I saw no one there—save—”

Chan stepped forward. “Speaking for myself, I found huge delight in the pictures. A moment I wish to be alone, in order that I may digest great events flashed before me on silvery screen. So I also invade the garden, and meet Mr. Kirk. For a time we marvel at the distinguished Colonel Beetham—his indomitable courage, his deep resource, his service to humanity. Then we rush back, that we may miss no more.” He paused. “Before I again recline in sitting posture, noise in hallway offend me. I hurry out there in shushing mood, and behold—”

“Ah—er—the pictures were marvelous,” said Carrick Enderby. “I enjoyed them immensely. True enough, I stepped out on the stairs for a cigarette—”

“Carry, you fool,” his wife cried. “You would do that.”

“But I say—why not? I saw nothing. There was nothing to see. The floor below was quite deserted.” He turned to Miss Morrow. “Whoever did this horrible thing left by way of the fire-escape. You've already learned that—”

“Ah, yes,” cut in Chan. “We have learned it indeed—from your wife.” He glanced at Miss Morrow and their eyes met.

“From my wife—yes,” repeated Enderby. “Look here—what do you mean by that? I—”

“No matter,” put in Miss Morrow. “Colonel Beetham—you were occupied at the picture machine. Except for one interval of about ten minutes, when you allowed it to run itself.”

“Ah, yes,” said the Colonel evenly. “I did not leave the room, Miss Morrow.”

Eileen Enderby rose. “Mr. Kirk—we really must be going. Your dinner was charming—how terrible to have it end in such a tragic way. I—”

“Just a moment,” said June Morrow. “I can not let you go until the captain of police releases you.”

“What's that?” the woman cried. “Outrageous. You mean we are prisoners here—”

“Oh—but, Eileen—” protested her husband.

“I'm very sorry,” said the girl. “I shall protect you as much as possible from the annoyance of further questioning. But you really must wait.”

Mrs. Enderby flung angrily away, and a filmy scarf she was wearing dropped from one shoulder and trailed after her. Chan reached out to rescue it. The woman took another step, and he stood with the scarf in his hand. She swung about. The detective's little eyes, she noticed, were fixed with keen interest on the front of her pale blue gown, and following his gaze, she looked down.

“So sorry,” said Chan. “So very sorry. I trust your beautiful garment is not a complete ruin.”

“Give me that scarf,” she cried, and snatched it rudely from him.

Paradise appeared in the doorway. “Miss Morrow, please,” he said. “Captain Flannery is below.”

“You will kindly wait here,” said the girl. “All of you. I shall arrange for your release at the earliest possible moment.”

With Kirk and Charlie Chan, she returned to the twentieth floor. In the central room they found Captain Flannery, a gray-haired, energetic policeman of about fifty. With him were two patrolmen and a police doctor.

“Hello, Miss Morrow,” said the Captain. “This is a he—I mean, a terrible thing. Sir Frederic Bruce of Scotland Yard—we're up against it now. If we don't make good quick well have the whole Yard on our necks.”

“I'm afraid we shall,” admitted Miss Morrow. “Captain Flannery—this is Mr. Kirk. And this—Detective-Sergeant Charlie Chan, of Honolulu.”

The Captain looked his fellow detective over slowly. “How are you, Sergeant? I've been reading about you in the paper. You got on this job mighty quick.”

Chan shrugged. “Not my job, thank you,” he replied. “All yours, and very welcome. I am here in society role, as guest of kind Mr. Kirk.”

“Is that so?” The Captain appeared relieved. “Now, Miss Morrow, what have you found out?”

“Very little. Mr. Kirk was giving a dinner upstairs.” She ran over the list of the guests, the showing of the pictures in the dark, and the butler's story of Sir Frederic's descent to the floor below, wearing the velvet slippers. “There are other aspects of the affair that I will take up with you later,” she added.

“All right. I guess the D.A. will want to get busy on this himself.”

The girl flushed. “Perhaps. He is out of town tonight. I hope he will leave the matter in my hands—”

“Great Scott, Miss Morrow—this is important,” said the Captain, oblivious of his rudeness. “You're holding those people upstairs?”

“Naturally.”

“Good. I'll look ‘em over later. I ordered the night-watchman to lock the front door and bring everybody in the building here. Now, we better fix the time of this. How long's he been dead, doctor?”

“Not more than half an hour,” replied the doctor.

“Humbly begging pardon to intrude,” said Chan. “The homicide occurred presumably at ten-twenty.”

“Sure of that?”

“I have not the habit of light speaking. At ten-twenty-five we find body, just five minutes after lady on floor above rush in with news of man escaping from this room by fire-escape.”

“Huh. The room seems to have been searched.” Flannery turned to Barry Kirk. “Anything missing?”

“I haven't had time to investigate,” said Kirk. “If anything has been taken, I fancy it was Sir Frederic's property.”

“This is your office, isn't it?”

“Yes. But I had made room here for Sir Frederic. He had various papers and that sort of thing.”

“Papers? What was he doing? I thought he'd retired.”

“It seems he was still interested in certain cases, Captain,” Miss Morrow said. “That is one of the points I shall take up with you later.”

“Again interfering with regret,” remarked Chan, “if we do not know what was taken, all same we know what was hunted.”

“You don't say.” Flannery looked at Chan coldly. “What was that?”

“Sir Frederic English detective, and great one. All English detectives make exhausting records of every case. No question that records of certain case, in which murderer was hotly interested, were sought here.”

“Maybe,” admitted the Captain. “We'll go over the room later.” He turned to the patrolmen. “You boys take a look at the fire-escape.”
They climbed out into the fog. At that moment the door leading from the reception-room into the hallway opened, and an odd little group came in. A stout, middle-aged man led the procession; he was Mr. Cuttle, the night-watchman.

“Here they are, Captain,” he said. “I've rounded up everybody in the building, except a few cleaning women who have nothing to do with this floor. You can see ‘em later, if you like. This is Mrs. Dyke, who takes care of the two top floors.”

Mrs. Dyke, very frightened, said that she had finished with Kirk's office at seven and gone out, leaving the burglar alarm in working order, as was her custom. She had not been back since. She had seen no one about the building whom she did not recognize.

“And who is this?” inquired the Captain, turning to a pale, sandy-haired young man who appeared extremely nervous.

“I am employed by Brace and Davis, Certified Public Accountants, on the second floor,” said the young man. “My name is Samuel Smith. I was working to-night to catch up—I have been ill—when Mr. Cuttle informed me I was wanted up here. I know nothing of this horrible affair.”

Flannery turned to the fourth and last member of the party, a young woman whose uniform marked her as an operator of one of the elevators. “What's your name?” he asked.

“Grace Lane, sir,” she told him.

“Run the elevator, eh?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Kirk had sent word that one of us must work overtime tonight. On account of the party.”

“How many people have you brought up since the close of business?”

“I didn't keep count. Quite a few—ladies and gentlemen—Mr. Kirk's guests, of course.”

“Don't remember anybody who looked like an outsider?”

“No, sir.”

“This is a big building,” said Flannery. “There must have been others working here to-night besides this fellow Smith. Remember anybody?”

The girl hesitated. “There—there was one other, sir.”

“Yes? Who was that?”

“A girl who is employed in the office of the Calcutta Importers, on this floor. Her name is Miss Lila Barr.”

“Working here to-night, eh? On this floor. She's not here now?”

“No, sir. She left some time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“I can't say exactly, sir. Half an hour—perhaps a little more than that.”

“Humph.” The Captain took down their names and addresses, and dismissed them. As they went out, the two patrolmen entered from the fire-escape, and, leaving them in charge, Flannery asked to be directed upstairs.

The dinner guests were sitting with rather weary patience in a semicircle in the living-room. Into their midst strode the Captain, with an air of confidence he was far from feeling. He stood looking them over.

“I guess you know what I'm doing here,” he said. “Miss Morrow tells me she's had a talk with you, and I won't double back over her tracks. However, I want the name and address of every one of you.” He turned to Mrs. Kirk. “I'll start with you.”

She stiffened at his tone. “You're very flattering, I'm sure. I am Mrs. Dawson Kirk.” She added her address.

“You.” Flannery turned to the explorer.

“Colonel John Beetham. I am a visitor in the city, stopping at the Fairmont.”

Flannery went on down the list. When he had finished, he added:

“Anyone got any light to throw on this affair? If you have, better give it to me now. Things'll be a lot pleasanter all round than if I dig it up for myself later.” No one spoke. “Some lady saw a man running down the fire-escape,” he prompted.

“Oh—I did,” said Eileen Enderby. “I've been all over that with Miss Morrow. I had gone out into the garden—” Again she related her experience.

“What'd this man look like?” demanded Flannery.

“I couldn't say. A very dim figure in the fog.”

“All right. You can all go now. I may want to see some of you later.” Flannery strode past them into the garden.

One by one they said their strained farewells and departed—Mrs. Kirk and her companion, Miss Gloria Garland, then the Enderbys, and finally the explorer. Charlie Chan also got his hat and coat, while Miss Morrow watched him inquiringly.

“Until dark deed shaded the feast,” said Chan, “the evening was an unquestioned joy. Mr. Kirk—”

“Oh, but you're not leaving,” cried Miss Morrow. “Please. I want to have a talk with you.”

“Tomorrow I am sea-going man,” Chan reminded her. “The experience weakens me considerably. I have need of sleep, and relaxing—”

“I'll keep you only a moment,” she pleaded, and Chan nodded.

Captain Flannery appeared from the garden. “Dark out there,” he announced. “But if I'm not mistaken, anyone could have reached the floor below by way of the fire-escape. Is that right?”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Kirk.

“An important discovery,” approved Chan. “On the gown of one of the lady guests were iron rust stains, which might have been suffered by—But who am I to speak thus to keen man like the Captain? You made note of the fact, of course?”

Flannery reddened. “I—I can't say I did. Which lady?”