The Black Camel/Chapter 11

CHAN drove slowly on to Halekaua Hale, at the foot of Bethel Street, the home of the police. Parking his car, he ascended the worn stone steps. A light was burning in the detectives’ room, and going in, he encountered his Chief.

“Hello, Charlie,” that gentleman said. “I’ve been waiting for you. Drove over to Kalaua to-night, or I’d have been with you down the beach. This is a pretty mix-up, isn’t it? Got anything yet?”

Sadly Chan shook his head. He glanced at his watch. “The story has length,” he suggested.

“Guess I'd better hear it, anyhow,” replied the Chief. In him, there was no lack of vigor. The ride in the moonlight to Kalaua had been restful and refreshing.

Charlie sat down and began to talk, while his Chief listened intently. He took up first the scene of the murder, the absence of any weapon, the unsuccessful attempt of the murderer to fix the moment of the crime at two minutes past eight. Coming to the question of clues, he mentioned the loss of the diamond pin which had held the orchids.

“That’s something,” nodded the Chief, lighting a cigar.

​Chan shrugged. “Something we do not possess,” he pointed out. He went on to repeat Shelah Fane’s story of her presence at the murder of Denny Mayo—the tale she had told Tarneverro, according to the fortune-teller, that morning.

“Fine—fine,” cried the Chief. “That gives you the motive, Charlie. Now if she had only written down the name, as this Tarneverro wanted her to———”

With acute distaste, Charlie added the incident of the letter’s loss. His Chief looked at him with surprise and a marked disapproval.

“Never knew anything like that to happen to you before. Losing your grip, Charlie?”

“For a moment, I certainly lost grip and letter too,” Chan replied ruefully. “As the matter turned out, it did not have much importance.” His face brightened as he added the later discovery of the letter under the rug, proving that it was of no value save as a corroboration of Tarneverro’s story. He went on to the destruction of the portrait over which Shelah Fane had been seen weeping bitterly in the afternoon.

“Some one didn’t want you to see it,” frowned the Chief.

“I arrived at the same deduction myself,” Charlie admitted. He pictured the arrival of Robert Fyfe on what was obviously his second visit to Waikiki within a few hours, and then turned to the subject of the beach-comber.

“We took his finger-prints and let him go,” put in the Chief. “He hasn’t nerve enough to kill a fly.”

Chan nodded. “You are no doubt correct in such surmise.” His report of Fyfe’s subsequent, easily punctured confession, evidently puzzled his superior. He ​mentioned the handkerchief with the telltale slivers of glass found in Martino’s pocket, and Jimmy Bradshaw’s somewhat belated claim to its ownership. He was by this time rather out of breath. “So matter stands at present,” he finished.

His Chief was looking at him with an amused smile. “Well, Charlie, sometimes I’ve thought you weren’t entirely satisfied here since your return from the mainland,” he said. “Pretty quiet, you thought it. No big cases like over there. Just chasing a few scared gamblers down an alley—not very thrilling, was it? Honolulu didn’t seem to be big enough for you any more. I guess it’s big enough to-night.”

“I experience uncomfortable feeling maybe it is too big,” Chan admitted. “How will I come out of this? Considerable puzzle, if inquiry is made of me.”

“We mustn’t let it stump us,” replied the Chief briskly. He was an intelligent man, and he knew where to lean. He foresaw that he was going to do some heavy leaning in the next few days. With an appraising glance, he surveyed his assistant. Charlie looked sleepy and somewhat worn—nothing alert, nothing clever in his appearance now. The Chief consoled himself with memories. Chan, he reflected, was ever keener than he looked.

He considered. “This Tarneverro, Charlie,—what sort of fellow is he?”

Chan brightened. “Ah, perhaps you go to heart of the matter. Tarneverro appears dark as rainy night, but it is his business to act so. He owns a quick mind. And he seems fiercely eager to assist poor policeman like me.”

“A bit too eager, maybe?”

​Charlie nodded. “I have thought of that. But consider—he offers to produce testimony of old couple with whom he sat until moment murder was discovered. Truth of that will be examined to-morrow, but I do not doubt it. No—I am plenty certain he did not visit house of Shelah Fane until I took him there. Other points absolve him.”

“What, for example?”

“I have told you he spoke to me before murder was done, hinting we would to-night make arrest in famous case. That would have been strangely foolish move if he contemplated murder himself. And Tarneverro is not foolish—he goes far the other way. Then, too, indicating he has earnest desire to assist he points out the matter of the watch. It was bright act—not very necessary since I already knew facts from Wu Kno-ching—but all same plenty good proof he sincerely aims to help. No, I do not believe him guilty killer, and yet———”

“Yet what, Charlie?”

“I prefer to hold that safe in mind for the present. It may mean much, and it may mean nothing.”

“You've got something on Tarneverro?” asked the Chief, looking at him keenly.

“With regard to killing—not one solitary thing. At moment when that took place, I believe he was most decidedly elsewhere. Gazing in another direction—kindly permit that I gaze that way a few hours longer before I divulge my thoughts.” The plump detective put one hand to his head. “Haie, just now I wander, lost in maze of doubts and questionings.”

“You'll have to cut that out, Charlie,” his Chief told him in a kindly but somewhat worried tone. “The ​honor of the force is at stake. If these people are going to come over here to our quiet little city and murder each other at Waikiki, we've got to prove to them that they can’t get away with it. I rely on you.”

Chan bowed. I’m afraid you do. “Appreciate the distinction, and will do all my humble talents permit. Now I will wish you good night. The evening has worn on me like some prolonged dispute.”

He went out into the battered old hall, just as Spencer entered from the street. Chan looked at his watch.

“The Oceanic has sailed?” he inquired.

“Yeah—she’s out.”

“With none of our friends aboard, I trust?” Chan said.

“None that I saw goin’ aboard—and I guess I was there first. One of ’em showed up, though.”

“Which one?”

“That Alan Jaynes. He came in a car from the Grand Hotel, an’ collected his baggage. I heard him swearin’ under his breath when the ship backed away from the pier. I helped him load up, an’ he went back to the beach. He give me a message for you.”

“What was that?”

“He said he was sailing on the next ship, and all hell couldn’t stop him.”

Charlie smiled. “None the less, I shall see that the province he mentions breaks loose at the dock if he tries it.”

He went down the flight of steps to the street. Through the moonlight he saw approaching him the jaunty figure of Smith, the beach-comber.

“This is a pretty idea, Officer,” that gentleman said.

​“You give me a nice ride down to the station, and then you kick me out. How am I going to get back to my bedroom? I’ve walked it once to-night.”

Charlie reached into his pocket and held out one hand in which lay a small coin. “You may make the distance by trolley,” he suggested.

Smith looked down at the coin. “A dime,” he remarked. “Ten cents. I can’t get on a street-car and offer the conductor a dime. A gentleman has to have the prestige of a dollar.”

Tired as he was, Chan laughed. “So sorry,” he answered. “There may be much in what you say. But I believe it wiser at this time to proffer you the ride and no more. The hour is late, and you should be able to maintain your dignity on very little prestige to-night.”

Stubbornly Smith shook his head. “I’ve got to have the prestige of a dollar,” he insisted.

“You mean you’ve got to have a drink,” shrugged Chan. “If the coin is unsatisfactory, I regretfully withdraw it.” He moved toward his car. “So sorry that I travel in opposite direction from your couch beneath the palm.”

Smith followed him. “Oh, well,” he said, “perhaps I’m a bit too sensitive. I'll take the dime.” Charlie gave it to him. “Just a loan, Inspector. I'll make a note of it.”

He hurried away down Bethel Street in the direction of King. With one foot on the running-board of his little car, Charlie stared after him. Finally he abandoned the flivver and followed. The empty streets were as bright as day, the risk was great, but Chan was an old hand at the game. Smith’s battered shoes ​flopped noisily on the deserted sidewalk, but the detective moved as though on velvet slippers.

The beach-comber turned to the right on King Street and, dodging in and out of doorways, Chan followed. As his quarry neared the corner of Fort, Charlie waited anxiously in a shadowed nook. Would Smith pause at that corner for a Waikiki car? If he did, this pursuit came to nothing.

But Smith did not stop. Instead he crossed over and hastened down Fort Street. The moon shone brightly on his enormous flapping hat, on the shoulders of his absurd velvet coat. Charlie’s interest revived at once. On what errand did the beach-comber set forth at this hour of the night?

Selecting the opposite side of the thoroughfare from that which Smith traveled—it was darker and better suited to his purpose—Chan trailed his man down Fort. Past the principal shops of Honolulu, in each of which a dim light burned, they moved along. Smith came to the entrance of the Waioli Hotel, and stopped there. Hiding in a dark doorway across the street, Chan saw him peer into the hotel lobby. The place was deserted save for a watchman who dozed in a chair behind the great glass window. For a moment the beach-comber hesitated and then, as though changing his mind, turned and retraced his steps. Charlie squeezed his great bulk against the door behind him, in a panic lest he be discovered.

But he was safe. All unsuspecting, Smith hurried back to the corner of King, there to await the Waikiki car. Charlie remained in hiding until the car arrived. He saw the beach-comber mount to a seat and ride away—without the prestige of a dollar.

​Slowly Chan walked back to the station house. What did this mean? Evidently when Robert Fyfe announced his address to the detective, he was also proclaiming it to the battered Mr. Smith. And Smith desired to see the actor at once, on urgent business.

Charlie was getting into his flivver when the Chief came down the steps of Halekaua Hale.

“Thought you’d gone home, Charlie,” he said.

“I was for a moment delayed,” Chan explained.

His superior came up eagerly. “Anything new?”

“I remain just where I always have been,” the detective sighed.

“You're not really as much in the dark on this case as you say you are?” asked the Chief anxiously.

Chan nodded. “The man who sits in a well, sees little of the sky.”

“Well, climb out, Charlie, climb out.”

“I am planning swift ascent,” the detective answered, and starting his engine, sped off at last in the direction of his house on Punchbowl Hill.