The Black Camel/Chapter 17

CHAN sat motionless for a long time, deep in thought. Some desperate person was determined that he should not look upon the likeness of Denny Mayo. The captions to the pictures were for the most part intact. “Denny Mayo When He First Came to Hollywood.” And here again: “Denny Mayo as He Appeared in The Unknown Sin.” But in every instance the reproduction of the actor’s face was destroyed.

Who had done this thing? Huntley Van Horn? Perhaps. Yet if that were so, Van Horn’s methods were crude and raw for so suave a gentleman. To go boldly to the library, ask for this volume, sign his name to the slip as he claimed to have done, and then mutilate the yellowed pages, would be unbelievably naive. It invited swift and inevitable detection. It certainly did not sound like Van Horn.

With a ponderous sigh, Charlie applied himself to the story that had surrounded Denny Mayo’s pictures. The actor had come to Hollywood from the English stage, and had won immediate success. He had lived with one servant in a detached house on one of the best Los Angeles streets. On the night of the murder the servant, after completing his usual duties, took the ​evening off. He went out at eight o’clock, leaving Mayo in excellent spirits.

Returning at midnight, the man let himself in through the kitchen door. Seeing a light in the living-room, he went there to ask if anything further was required of him before he went to bed. On the floor of the room he discovered the actor, dead some two hours. Mayo had been shot at close range with his own revolver, a delicate weapon which he was accustomed to keeping in the drawer of his desk. The revolver was lying at his side, and there were no finger-prints on it—neither his own nor those of any unknown person. No one had been seen entering or leaving the house which occupied a dark position under its many trees.

Unfortunately, the following morning—and Charlie’s eyebrows rose at this—the police had permitted the general public to swarm through the house. Actors, actresses, directors, producers—all friends, they claimed, of the dead man—had paraded through the rooms, and if any vital clue was still lying about it could easily have been destroyed. In any case, no vital clue was ever found. Those the police discovered led nowhere.

Little was known about Mayo’s past; he had come from far away, and no member of his family stepped forward during the investigation. It was rumored that he had a wife in England, but he had not seen her for several years, never mentioned her to his friends— might, possibly, have been divorced. His life in Hollywood had not been spectacular; women admired him, but if he returned this admiration in any instance, he had been most discreet about it. If any one had a grudge against him——

​Further along in the story, a name caught Charlie’s eye, and he sat up with sudden interest. Hastily he read on until he came to it. Mayo had been working in a picture, and as his leading woman he had had an actress named Rita Montaine. Miss Montaine was engaged to marry a certain Wilkie Ballou, a prominent figure in Honolulu, scion of an old family there. Some obscure person testified that he had overheard a quarrel between Mayo and Ballou—it concerned a party to which Mayo had taken Miss Montaine. But the witness had heard Ballou make no threats against the actor.

Nevertheless, Ballou had been questioned. His alibi was complete, sworn to by Miss Montaine herself. On the night of Mayo’s death the actress said that she and Ballou had been together from six o’clock until after midnight. They had taken a long ride in Ballou’s car and danced together at a roadhouse far from the scene of the crime. She admitted that she was engaged to Ballou and intended to marry him soon.

These two faded from the limelight. Charlie read on, through the helpless meanderings of a completely baffled police. He turned page after page, no new developments arose, and amid a frantic sputtering on the part of the reporters, the story gradually died out.

How about that alibi of Ballou’s? Sworn to by the woman who was going to marry him. Was she also ready to lie for him?

Chan picked up the heavy volume and returned to the main room of the library. He laid his burden down on the desk, behind which stood a bright young woman. Without speaking, he opened the book and indicated the mutilated pages.

​If his aim had been to annoy the young woman, he could have found no better means. Her cry of dismay was immediate and heartfelt. “Who did this, Mr. Chan?” she demanded.

Charlie smiled. “Thanks for touching faith in my ability,” he remarked. “But I can not tell you.”

“It was taken out by Mr. Van Horn, the actor. This sort of thing is prohibited by law, you know. You must arrest him at once.”

Chan shrugged. “It was also lying on table from time Mr. Van Horn left it, early to-day, until well past noon. What proof have we that Van Horn mutilated it? I know him well, and I do not think him complete fool.”

“But—but——”

“I will, with your kind permission, speak to him over wire. He may be able to cast little light.”

The young woman led him to the telephone, and Chan got Van Horn at the hotel. He explained at once the condition in which he had found the book.

“What do you know about that!” Van Horn remarked.

“Alas! very little,” Charlie returned. “The volume was in the intact state when you saw it?”

“Absolutely. Perfectly O. K. I left it on the table about nine-thirty and went out.”

“Did you see any one known to you about place?”

“Not a soul. But I say, Inspector, this throws new light on that note I got this morning. Perhaps the intention of my unknown friend was not so much to involve me, as to get that volume out of the files. He—if it was a he—may have hoped that the thing would happen just as it has happened—that I would ​take it out and leave it where he could find it without himself signing a slip. Have you thought of that?”

“So much to think of,” Chan sighed. “Thank you for the idea.” He went back to the desk. “Mr. Van Horn left the volume in original state. He is certain of that. Was it noted that any one else examined it this morning?”

“I don’t know,” the young woman replied. “The librarian in charge of that room is out to lunch. Look here, Mr. Chan, you’ve got to find who did this.”

“Plenty busy with murder just now,” Charlie explained.

“Never mind your murder,” she answered grimly. “This is serious.”

Chan smiled, but the young woman was in no mood to join him. He promised to do his best and departed.

A glance at his watch told him that he had no time for his usual leisurely lunch. He had instead a sandwich and a glass of milk, then went to the station. The Chief was pacing the floor of the detectives’ room.

“Hello, Charlie,” he cried. “I’ve been wondering where you were. Pretty busy this morning, I take it?”

“Like fly on hot griddle,” Chan answered, “And just as eager to get off.”

“Haven't got anything yet, eh?”

“Have so much I am worn out,” Charlie told him. “But no idea who killed Shelah Fane.”

“That’s what we want,” the Chief insisted. “The name—the name. Good lord, we ought to get somewhere pretty soon.”

“Maybe we will,” replied Chan, with just the slightest inflection on the “we.” He sat down. “Now I will relate morning’s adventures, and it can happen that ​your keen brain will function where mine wanders lonely in the dark.”

He began at the beginning: his visit to the theater, Robert Fyfe’s cast-iron alibi, his admission that he had given the beach-comber money in exchange for a painting. He mentioned his call at the library and his discovery there of Huntley Van Horn, then went on to the two old people on the terrace of the hotel, who had accounted so readily for Tarneverro’s actions on the previous night.

“They may be lying,” said the Chief.

Charlie shook his head. “You would not say that if you saw them. Honesty gleams like unceasing beacon from their eyes.”

“I'll judge of that for myself, ”remarked his superior. “What was their name? MacMaster? I’ll talk with them later. Go on.”

Charlie continued. He told of finding the stub of the small cigar of a sort smoked only by Alan Jaynes, beneath the pavilion window.

“Oh, lord,” sighed the Chief. “They can’t all be in it. Somebody’s kidding you, Charlie.”

“You go back to singular pronoun,” smiled Chan. “A moment ago it was we. But that was only in regard to approaching moment of success, I think.”

“Well, somebody’s kidding us, then. Have it your own way. You got Jaynes’ finger-prints?”

“I slyly obtained same. But it was print of Smith, the beach-comber, we discover on window-sill.”

“Yes—that was something we can really act on. I sent out the word to pick him up right away. They'll bring him in any minute now. What have you been doing since then?”

​Charlie repeated Jessop’s story about the ring, which, he pointed out, might mean merely the repayment of an old grudge. He showed his Chief the letter which Van Horn had offered in explanation of his visit to the library. Finally he told of the mutilation of the bound volume of the newspaper, and ended with the mention of Ballou and his wife in the story of the Denny Mayo murder case.

For a long time, when he had finished, his Chief sat in silence. “Well,” he said at length, “according to your investigation, they’re all in it, I guess. Good heavens, can’t you draw any deductions from all this?”

“Kindly state what are your deductions,” answered Chan with gentle malice.

“Me? I don’t know. I’m stumped. But you—the pride of the force——”

“Kindly recall—I have never been demon for speed. While I stumble about this way, I am fiercely thinking. Large bodies arrive late. Grant me time.”

“What do you propose to do now?”

“I consider a little social visit with Mrs. Ballou.”

“Great Scott, Charlie,—watch your step. Ballou’s an important man in this town, and he’s never been very friendly to me.”

“I plan to use all possible diplomacy.”

“You'll need it, and then some. Don’t offend him, whatever you do. You know—these old families——”

Charlie shrugged. “I have not lived in Honolulu all these years in state of blindness. Do not worry. I move now on feet shod with velvet, and my voice drips oil and honey.”

Kashimo came in. He walked with dragging step and had a discouraged air.

​“Well, where’s this fellow Smith?” demanded the Chief.

“No place, sir,” said Kashimo. “Melted like ice.”

“Melted, hell! You go out again, and don’t come back without him.”

“Look everywhere,” Kashimo complained. “All funny joints, up-stair, in cellar. Comb town. No Smith.”

Charlie went over and patted him on the back. “If at first you have drawn blank, resume the job,” he advised. He took a slip of paper from a desk and began to write. “I give you list of unsavory places,” he explained. “Maybe you overlook some. Perhaps, after all, I have better knowledge of city’s wickedness than honored member of Young Men’s Buddhist Association like yourself.”

He handed his list to the Japanese, who took it and left, followed by Charlie’s kindly encouragement.

Poor Kashimo,” Chan remarked. “When there is no oil in the lamp, the wick is wasted. In dealing with such a one, friendly words bring best results. Now I go forth to wallow some more in bafflement.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from you,” his Chief called after him.

Charlie set out for the Moana Valley home of the Ballous. The business district disappeared behind him, and he traveled a street lined with great houses set on rolling lawns. Above his head flamed flowering trees, now in the last weeks of their splendor. He sped past Punahou Academy, and as he penetrated farther into the valley, he left the zone of sunshine for one of darkness. Black clouds hung over the mountains ahead and suddenly, borne on the wind, came a wild gust of rain. ​It beat fiercely on the top of the little car and blurred the windshield. Yet a mile away, at Charlie’s back, Honolulu sparkled in the midday sun.

He reached the handsome house of Wilkie Ballou, and Rita received him in the dark drawing-room. Her husband, she explained, was up-stairs dressing for his afternoon golf. In Honolulu a real golfer pays no attention to rain; it may be pouring on his street, but bright and sunny round the corner. Rita’s manner was cordial, and Chan took heart.

“I am so sorry to obtrude my obnoxious presence,” he apologized. “If you never saw me again, I feel sure you would like it well enough. But—mere matter of form—I must inflict little talk on every one present at sad affair last night.”

Rita nodded. “Poor Shelah! How are you getting on, Inspector?”

“I make splendid progress,” he informed her blithely. There was, he felt, no occasion to go into that. “Would you speak with me little while about days when you were famous Hollywood figure?”

With bored eyes, Rita looked out at the rain lashing against the window. “I certainly will,” she said.

“May I add that you broke heart of my eldest daughter, who is great film fan, when you retired from silvery sheet? No one, she moans, is ever so good as you were.”

Rita’s face brightened. “She remembers me? That’s sweet of her.”

“Your fine skill will never be forgotten anywhere,” Chan assured her, and knew that he had made a friend for life.

“How can I help you?” she inquired.

​Chan considered. “You knew Miss Fane in Hollywood?”

“Oh, yes, quite well.”

“It is wisely forbidden to speak ill of those who have ascended the dragon, but sometimes we must let old rules go down the board. Was there at any time scandal in the lady’s life?”

“Oh, no, none whatever. She wasn’t that sort, you know.”

“But she had what you call love-affairs?”

“Yes, frequently. She was emotional and impulsive—never without a love-affair. But they were all harmless, I’m sure.”

“Did you hear that once she loved a man named—Denny Mayo?” Charlie watched Rita’s face closely, and he thought she looked a little startled.

“Why, yes—Shelah was rather wild about Denny at one time, I believe. She took it rather hard when he was—killed. You knew about that, perhaps?”

“I know all about that,” answered Chan slowly. But to his disappointment, the words seemed to leave the woman quite calm. “You had acquaintance with this Denny Mayo yourself, I think?”

“Yes—I was in his last picture.”

Chan had an inspiration. “It may be you have photograph of Mayo somewhere among possessions?”

She shook her head. “No—I did have some old stills, but Mr. Ballou made me burn them. He said he wouldn’t have me mooning about over the dear, dead past when I was——” She stopped, her eyes on the door.

Charlie looked up. Wilkie Ballou, in a golf suit, was in the doorway. He strode grimly into the room.

​“What’s all this about Denny Mayo?” he demanded.

“Mr. Chan was simply asking me if I knew him,” Rita explained.

“Mr. Chan should mind his own business,” her husband growled. He walked over and faced Charlie. “Denny Mayo,” he said, “is dead and buried.”

Chan shrugged. “I am so sorry, but he does not stay buried.”

“He stays that way as far as my wife and I are concerned,” Ballou answered, and there was a certain dignity about him as he said it.

For a moment Chan looked sleepily into the hostile eyes of the millionaire. “Your alibi for the night of Mayo’s murder,” he ventured, “seems to have enjoyed a fine success.”

Ballou flushed. “Why not? It was the truth.”

“So naturally, it prevailed.” Chan moved toward the door. “I am sorry if I have disturbed you——”

“You haven’t disturbed me in the least,” Ballou snapped. “Just what did you expect to find here, anyhow?”

“I thought I might chance upon photograph of Denny Mayo.”

“And why should you want his photograph?”

“Some unknown person objects to my looking at it.”

“Is that so?” said Ballou. “Well, you won’t find Mayo’s picture here. Or anything else that will interest you, for that matter. Good day, Inspector; and I must ask you not to call again.”

Charlie shrugged. “I travel where duty takes me. Would much prefer to loll in station house—but can ​you study swimming on a carpet? No—you must go where waters are deep. Good day, Mr. Ballou.”

Rita followed him into the hall. “I’m afraid we haven't been able to help you,” she remarked.

“Thanks all same,” bowed Chan.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman said. “I want to see you succeed. If there was only something I could do——”

Chan’s eyes caught the flash of rings on her fingers. “There might be,” he remarked suddenly.

“Anything,” she replied.

“Last night you saw Miss Shelah Fane after long separation. Quick glance of women catches points men despise to notice. You recall all she was wearing, no doubt?”

“Why, of course. She had on a stunning gown—ivory satin, it was——”

“I speak mostly of jewels,” Chan told her. “What woman is so blind she fails to note other woman’s jewelry?”

Rita smiled. “Not I. She had on a gorgeous string of pearls, and a diamond bracelet——”

“And her rings?”

“Only one. A huge emerald I remember seeing in Hollywood. It was on her right hand.”

“This was when you last encountered her? The young people were already in the water enjoying warm swim?”

“Julie and that boy were—yes.”

Charlie bowed low. ‘‘My gratitude has no bounds. Now I must go on with my work. Good-by.”

He went out into the perpetual valley rain, and turned his car toward the sunlit beach.