The Black Camel/Chapter 16

CHAN’S air of calm detachment had vanished for the moment, and he walked the floor as though inspired by his latest discovery.

“Smith, the beach-comber,” he said once more. “Dreary bit of human wreckage cast up on shore of splendid island. Ragged remnant of a man—how busy he was around this building last night. A big evening, I think, in the life of Smith.”

Hettick was gathering up the tools of his trade. “Well, I believe [ll go back to the station now,” he remarked. “I’ve given you boys something to work on. Go out and make the most of it.”

“Ah, you are clever detective,” Chan grinned. “Things slip from mind sometimes, but when humble fellow worker recalls them, then you move on like avenging demon. You have given us material indeed. Yes, please return to station at once. I will arrive later, and in meantime I respectfully suggest that you send out alarm call for Smith. Tell Chief beach-comber must be pulled into station with no delay. Let all low dives be explored. Put Kashimo on it. He is our most passioned searcher, and what is better, he knows all cracks and crannies of modest little underworld.”

Hettick promised he would deliver the message, ​and departed. Charlie followed at his heels. He saw Julie and Bradshaw on the lawn, and paused beside them. “You wish ride to town?” he inquired of the latter.

“No, thanks,” Bradshaw replied. “I’ve got my car to-day. Besides, Julie has just persuaded me to stay for lunch.”

“May life hold for her no sterner task than such persuasion,” smiled Chan. “I do not wish to cloud your future, Miss Julie, but must warn you that I return here soon.”

He was skirting the house when Jessop appeared at the lanai door. “Ah—er—Constable,” he said. “May I ask you to step inside just a moment?”

Struck by the seriousness of the butler’s manner, Charlie passed through the door which the servant held open. “You have something to say to me?” he asked.

“I have, sir. Kindly come with me.” Jessop led the way into a small reception-room near the front of the house. He entered it first—evidence of unusual abstraction on his part. “Oh—I beg your pardon, sir. I'll just close this door, so we may have an undisturbed téte-à-téte.”

“Time is none too plentiful with me——” Chan began, somewhat surprised by these elaborate preparations.

“I know that, Constable, I will—er—plunge in at once.” In spite of this promise, he hesitated. “My old father, who was for more than forty years the trusted employee of a rather exacting duke, remarked to me in my youth: ‘A good servant, Cedric, sees all, knows all, but tells nothing.’ It is only after prolonged and ​mature consideration, Constable, that I have determined to ignore that excellent counsel.”

Chan nodded. “Circumstances,” he remarked, “upset cases.”

“Precisely, sir. I have always been a law-abiding man, and what is more, I am eager to see you get to the bottom of this matter without—if I may say so— further delay. Last evening I chanced to be busy in the hall at the moment when you were engaged in interviewing Miss Julie regarding the emerald ring. This may suggest to you that I was eavesdropping, but I can assure you that such duplicity was farthest from my thoughts. I heard the young lady tell you that Miss Fane had given her that ring early in the morning, and that she—Miss Julie, I mean—had held it in her possession from that moment on, until you discovered it in her room.”

“Such was Miss Julie’s story,” Charlie agreed.

“I am at a complete loss to understand it, sir. I don’t know what she meant by her testimony—but I do know this. At about seven last night, Miss Fane called me to her room and gave me the letter which I was to deliver to Mr. Tarneverro immediately on his arrival at the house. As she passed over the missive, I distinctly saw, gleaming on her right hand, the ring in question. I am positive on that point, Constable, and prepared to offer a sworn statement along those lines.”

Chan was silent for a moment. He thought of Julie O'Neill, so young, so innocent-looking. “Thank you very much,” he said at last. “What you say seems of vast importance.”

“I only hope it may not be so important as it ​appears,” Jessop replied. “I tell you this, Constable, with considerable reluctance. I have nothing against Miss Julie—a charming young woman—indeed she is, sir. I was tempted for a long time to remain silent, but it struck me that my duty lay, most decidedly, in the opposite direction. Like yourself, I desire to see the miscreant in this affair adequately punished. Miss Fane was always extremely kind to me.”

Chan moved toward the door. “I shall act upon your information at once,” he announced.

Jessop looked uncomfortable. “If my name could only be kept out of it, sir——”

“Same may not be possible,” Charlie told him.

Jessop sighed. “I recognize that, Constable. I can only say again that I am quite positive I saw the ring. My eyesight is excellent, which, to a man of my age, is a matter of deep satisfaction.”

They went out into the hall. Anna, the maid, was slowly coming down the stairs. Chan turned to Jessop.

“Thank you again,” he said. “You may go now.”

The butler disappeared toward the kitchen, and Charlie waited for Anna at the foot of the stairs.

“Good morning,’ he remarked pleasantly. “I desire one word with you, please.”

“Of course,” replied Anna, and followed him into the living-room.

“You recall story of Miss Julie regarding the ring?”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Same was given her by Miss Fane in early morning and remained in her possession. Have you anything to say regarding that?”

“Why—why what do you mean, sir?” the maid returned.

​“You did not yourself see the ring on Miss Fane’s finger during the day? Or when she came to you to procure pin for orchids?”

“If I did, it made no impression on me, sir.”

“You see things, yet they make no impression?”

“You know how it is, sir. Things become familiar and you don’t really notice. What I mean is—the ring may or may not have been there. I’m afraid I can’t say, sir.”

“You wish the matter to stand at that?”

“I fear it must, as far as I am concerned.”

Chan bowed. “Thank you—that is all.”

He stepped through a French window, and walked slowly across the lanai. He had no heart for the task that faced him now, but many such tasks had confronted him in the past, and he had never faltered. Stepping out on the lawn, he went over to a beach swing where Bradshaw and the girl were sitting.

“Miss Julie,” he began. The girl looked up at him, and at sight of his grave face, her own paled.

“Yes, Mr. Chan,” she said in a low voice.

“Miss Julie, you have told me Miss Fane gave you that emerald ring soon after her arrival yesterday morning. Why did you tell me that?”

“Because it’s the truth,” Julie answered bravely.

“Then how do you account for fact that ring was seen on her finger last evening at seven?”

“Who says it was?” the girl cried.

“Is that important?”

“It is very important. Who says it was?”

“I learn it from what I think reliable source.”

“You have no means of knowing how reliable, Mr. Chan. Who made that statement? Not Miss Dixon— ​she isn’t up yet. It must have been one of the servants. Jessop, perhaps. Was it Jessop, Mr. Chan?”

“What does it matter if——”

“But I assure you it matters very much. Because, you see, I don’t stand very well with Jessop. There’s an old grudge between us—on his part, at least.”

“You will, please, explain what you mean by that?”

“Of course. As I told you last night, Miss Fane’s servants were always cheating her. When I first became her secretary I shut my eyes to it, because I’m no tale-bearer. But about a year ago, her finances became terribly involved, and I began an investigation. I discovered that Jessop had a most shameless arrangement with the tradespeople—all the bills were padded outrageously and Jessop was getting a share of the profits.

“I said nothing to Miss Fane—I knew what that would mean—a temperamental outburst, tears and recriminations, and probably a grand scene of forgiveness in the end. She was always so kind-hearted. Instead I went to Jessop, told him I knew what he was doing and that the thing must stop. He was most indignant. All the other servants in Hollywood, he told me, were doing the same, and he seemed to consider it a sort of royal prerogative. But when I threatened to tell Miss Fane, he backed down and agreed to put an end to the practise. I fancy he did, too, but since that time he has always been very cool to me, and I know that I have never been forgiven. So you see why I asked you if it was Jessop who told that—falsehood about the ring.”

“Just where do you stand—as you say it—with Anna?”

​“Oh, Anna and I have always been on the most friendly terms,” Julie answered. “A good steady girl who saves her money and buys bonds with it. It’s money honestly come by—I’m sure of that because”—Julie smiled faintly—“the poor thing has never had a chance to pad bills. None of them passes through her hands.”

Chan looked at Julie’s flushed face for a long moment. “Then you desire to repeat that Miss Fane herself gave you the ring yesterday morning?”

“I certainly do. It’s the truth, Mr. Chan.”

Charlie bowed. “I can only accept your word, Miss Julie. It is quite possible—the person who told me of seeing the ring last night may have been moved by ancient grudge—I thought of it at the time. Miss Julie, I say to myself, too fine and sweet for underhand work. You will note, Jimmy, that you and I have tastes in common.”

“Which does you credit,” smiled Bradshaw.

“Which credits us both,” amended Chan. “I will no longer hang about, a blot on this lovely scene. My kindest good-by—until we meet again.”

He walked thoughtfully to his car, and drove away through the hot noon sunshine. “So many roads that wind and wind——” He had read that somewhere. He sighed. So many roads—would the little car finally leap down the right one?

As he approached the Grand Hotel, Huntley Van Horn was again in his thoughts. He was reluctant to reappear so soon at the hotel’s main entrance so, parking his car in the street, he entered the grounds and walked toward the palm court. A group of excited tourists was gathered beneath the tallest of the coco​palms, and looking aloft, Charlie saw one of the beach- boys, in a red bathing-suit, climbing the tree with the agility of a monkey. He stood for a moment, admiring the boy’s skill.

“The kid’s clever, eh, Inspector?” remarked a voice at his elbow.

He turned and looked into the smiling gray eyes of Van Horn. They were standing a little apart from the others, and the picture actor was the recipient of many awed, adoring glances from young women who were ostensibly there to watch the beach-boy.

“Ah, Mr. Van Horn,” Chan said. “This meeting is indeed most fortunate. I am calling here for the sole purpose of seeing you.”

“Really?” The actor looked up at the tree. “Well, he seems to have traveled as far as he can on that one. Shall we go on the veranda—pardon me, the lanai— and have a chat?”

“The idea is most suitable,” Charlie agreed. He followed Van Horn and they sat down in a secluded corner. The boy had descended the coco-palm and stood now the center of an admiring group, hugely en- joying the limelight. Chan watched him.

“Sometimes in my heart,” he remarked, “arouses hot envy of the beach-boys. To exist so happily—to have no cares and troubles, no worries—ah, that must be what men mean by Paradise. All they ask of life is one bathing-suit, slightly worn.”

Van Horn laughed. “You have worries, I take it, Inspector?”

Charlie turned to him; he had decided to be frank. “I have.” He paused. “You are one of them,” he added suddenly.

​The picture actor was unperturbed. “You flatter me,” he answered. “Just how am I worrying you, Inspector?”

“You worry me because in this matter of Miss Shelah Fane’s murder you are quite defenseless. Not only do you possess no alibi, but of all those concerned, you were nearest to the scene of her death. You walked across lawn at very important moment, Mr. Van Horn. I could not worry about you more if you were own son.”

Van Horn grinned. “That’s kind of you, Inspector. I appreciate it. Yes—I am rather badly cast in the story of the crime. But I rely on you. As an intelligent man, you must realize that I could have had absolutely no motive for killing the poor girl. Until I joined her company to make this picture, I scarcely knew her, and all through our journey and the work together, we were on the friendliest terms.”

“Ah, yes.” Chan watched the actor’s face eagerly. “Were you likewise on friendly terms with Denny Mayo?” he inquired.

“Just what has Denny Mayo to do with all this?” Van Horn asked. Despite his best efforts, his expression was not quite so casual as he wanted it to be.

“May have much to do with it,” Charlie told him. “I seek to upearth facts. Maybe you assist me. I repeat—were you on friendly terms with Denny Mayo?”

“I knew him fairly well,” Van Horn admitted. “A most attractive chap—a wild Irishman—you never could tell what he was going to do next. Every one was very fond of him. His death was a great shock.”

“Who killed him?” Charlie asked blandly.

​“I wish I knew,” Van Horn replied. “Last night, when I heard you asking everybody about three years ago last June, in Hollywood, I sensed that you thought his death involved in this somehow. I’m curious to know the connection.”

“That, no doubt,” said Charlie, “is why you haste to library early this morning to do hot reading about Mayo case?”

Van Horn smiled. “Oh—so you found me among my books, eh? Well, Inspector, as my press-agent will tell you, I’m of rather a studious type. There’s nothing I like better than to curl up in a corner with a good book—real literature, mind you——”

Charlie raised a protesting hand. “The wise man, knowing he is under suspicion,” he remarked, “does not stoop to tie his shoe in a melon patch.”

Van Horn nodded. “An old Chinese saw, eh? Not bad either.”

“You will,” said Chan sternly, “before we leave these chairs, tell me the reason for your visit to library this morning.”

Van Horn did not reply. He sat for a moment with a frown on his handsome face. Then he turned with sudden decision.

“You've been frank with me, Inspector. I’ll be the same with you. Though when you’ve heard my reason for that visit, I fear you'll be more puzzled than ever.” He took from his pocket an envelope bearing the crest of the Grand Hotel, and drew out a single sheet of note-paper. “Will you please read that?”

Chan took the paper. It bore a brief note, type- written and unsigned. He read:

​“Just a word of warning from a friend. You should go at once to the Honolulu Public Library and remove from the bound volumes of all Los Angeles papers carrying the Denny Mayo murder story, certain rather damaging references to your own part in that affair.”

Charlie looked up. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it under my door when I awoke this morning,” the actor told him.

“You went to library at once?”

“Directly after breakfast. Who wouldn’t? I couldn’t recall that I'd ever been mentioned in connection with the case—there was no reason why I should have been. But naturally—my curiosity was aroused. I went down and read every word I could find regarding Mayo’s murder in the Los Angeles Times—the only paper they had. And oddly enough——”

“Yes?” Chan prompted.

“It was just as I thought. My name wasn’t mentioned anywhere. I’ve had a rather puzzled morning, Inspector.”

“Natural you should,” nodded Charlie. “A queer circumstance, indeed. Have you any idea who wrote this note?”

“None whatever,” returned Van Horn. “But the purpose of it seems to be clear. Somebody has sought to cast suspicion in my direction. It’s a delicate little attention, and I appreciate it. He—or possibly she—figured that I would go to the library and sign for that volume, and that of course you would soon find it out. After that, you would fancy me deeply in​volved in this affair, and would spend precious time sleuthing in the wrong direction. Fortunately, you took the unusual course of coming to me at once with your suspicion. I’m glad you did. And I’m damned glad I kept the letter.”

“Which, after all, you may have written to yourself,” Chan suggested.

Van Horn laughed. “Oh, no—I’m not so deep as all that, Mr. Chan. The letter was under my door when I rose. Find out who wrote it, and you may find the murderer of Shelah Fane.”

“True enough,” agreed Charlie. “I will keep it now, of course.” He stood up. “We have had a good talk, Mr. Van Horn, and I am grateful for your confidence. I go my way with one more puzzle burning in my pocket. Add a few more, and I collapse from mental strain. I trust I have not held you away from luncheon.”

“Not at all,” the actor replied. “This has been a very lucky interview for me. Good-by, and all my best wishes for success.”

Chan hastened through the palm court, and at last set his flivver on the road to the city. As he moved along, he thought deeply about Huntley Van Horn. Despite his airy manner, the actor had seemed to be open and sincere. But could he, Charlie wondered, be sure of that? Could he ever be sure in this world? Deceit sprouted everywhere and thrived like a weed.

Suppose Van Horn was sincere? Who put that note under his bedroom door while he slept? Chan began to realize that he was engaged in a duel—a duel to the death. His opponent was quick and wary, cleverer than any person he had yet encountered in a ​long career. How many of these clues were false, dropped but to befuddle him? How many real?

An inner craving told him that lunch would be a pleasant diversion; he was never one to put such promptings aside. But as he approached the public library an even greater craving assailed him—a keen desire to read for himself the story of Denny Mayo’s murder. With a sigh for the business man’s lunch that must languish without him a little longer, he stopped the car and went inside.

The desk was deserted for the moment, and he turned into the reading-room at his right. There was just a chance that the big volume taken out by Van Horn early that morning was not yet restored to its place on the shelves. Yes—there it lay, on the table at which he had seen the picture actor sitting. Save for one or two children, the place was deserted. Charlie rapidly crossed the room and opened the book.

It happened that he knew the date of the Mayo tragedy, and he sought immediately the issue of the subsequent morning. His eyes opened wide. Under an eight-column head, “Movie Actor Found Murdered in Home,” a great torn gap stared up at him.

Quickly he examined the pages, and then sat back, dazed and unbelieving. Every picture of Denny Mayo had been ruthlessly cut from the book.