Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/176

no knife in this play. It’s a polite drawing-room comedy.”

“Thank you so much,” Charlie said, bowing. “That is all.” He turned on Robert Fyfe a speculative eye. “Will you come with me, please?”

He led the way down into the auditorium, thinking deeply as he did so. Shelah Fane was seen alive at eight-twelve. Robert Fyfe was in the wings of the theater, ready to go on, at eight-twenty. Just eight minutes—no one could possibly travel the distance from Waikiki to town in that time. Fyfe’s alibi was perfect. And yet———

In the darkened foyer back of the last row Charlie paused, and the two leaned on the rail.

“I am still wondering, Mr. Fyfe,” the detective remarked, “why you made false confession that you killed Shelah Fane.”

“I’m inclined to wonder a bit myself, Inspector.”

“Obviously you did not kill her.”

“I’m afraid you must think me a fool,” Fyfe said.

“Other way about, I think you very smart man.”

“Do you, really? That’s flattering, I’m sure.”

“There was reason for that confession, Mr. Fyfe.”

“If there was, it has quite escaped my memory at this time, Inspector.”

“Much better you tell me. Otherwise you place obstacle in path of justice.”

“I must be the judge of that, Mr. Chan. I do not wish to hinder you. On the contrary I am eager for your success.”

“Under such a circumstance, I find that difficult to believe.” Chan was silent for a moment. “You have seen our friend the beach-comber this morning?”