Page:The Black Camel (IA blackcamel0000earl).djvu/292

The banyan tree’s shade was like ink on the front lawn of the huge rambling building that had been the famous star’s last home. Chan parked his car, switched off its lights, and leaped nimbly to the ground.

Jessop, serene and dignified as ever, let him in. “Ah, Constable, I was rather expecting you. What a pleasant evening to be abroad. Mild and fragrant, I should call it, sir.”

Chan smiled. “I am too busy man, Jessop, to have concern with perfumes of the night.”

“Ah, yes, I presume your time is fairly well occupied, Constable. Is there—if I may make bold to inquire—any news regarding the homicide?”

Chan shook his head. “Not up to present moment.”

“I regret to hear that, sir. The young people are on the beach—Miss Julie and Mr. Bradshaw, I mean. Whom did you wish to interrogate?”

“I wish to interrogate the floors of this house,” Chan told him.

Jessop raised his white eyebrows. “Indeed, sir. My old father used to say that walls have ears——”

“Floors, also, may repeat a story,” Charlie returned. “If you have no inclination for objecting, I will begin in living-room.”

He pushed through the heavy curtains. Diana Dixon was sitting at the piano, softly playing. She got up.

“Oh, hello,” she said. “You want somebody?”

“I want somebody very much,” Chan nodded. “At end of trail I hope to find him—or her.”

“Then you haven’t yet discovered who killed poor Shelah?”

“I have not. But subject is unhappy one. Why