Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/175

from the glare of the footlights, peered into the auditorium.

“Oh, yes—Inspector Chan,” he said. “Won’t you come up, please?”

Panting from the effort, Charlie boosted his heavy bulk on to the stage.

Fyfe was smiling and cordial. “What can I do for you this morning, Inspector?” he inquired.

Charlie regarded him through half-shut eyes. “Not much, I fear, unless maybe mood has altered overnight. You will recall I arranged for you, somewhat against your wish, a very nice alibi. I am here now to verify myself. A mere matter of form.”

“Surely,” nodded Fyfe. “Oh, Wayne,” he called. Reluctantly the man in the green hat got up and came over to them. “This is Mr. Wayne, our stage manager—Inspector Chan, of the Honolulu police. The Inspector is here regarding that affair last night. Wayne—what time was it when you rang up last evening?”

“Eight-twenty,” growled Wayne. “Five minutes late.”

“I was standing beside you when you rang up?”

“Yes—you were. Though where you were when we were hammering on your door, I’m damned if I know.”

“The Inspector, however, does,” Fyfe returned. “Was that all you wanted, Mr. Chan?”

“One other thing.” Chan addressed the stage manager. “In play which you perform this present week, does Mr. Fyfe in actor capacity indulge in use of knife?”

“A knife?” repeated Wayne. “Why, no—there’s