The Black Camel/Chapter 20

THEY went over and stood by Charlie’s car. A puzzled frown wrinkled the Chief’s brow. “I don’t get this, Charlie.”

“On which point,” returned Chan placidly, “we are like as two reeds bending beside stream.”

“Tarneverro hit you. Why?”

“Why not? Maybe he feels athletic.”

“He'd just been telling you about that letter—hoping that the two of you would run across it somewhere—and when you got it he knocked you down and took it away from you.”

“No doubt he wished to examine it in private.”

The Chief shook his head. “Beyond me—way beyond me. He stole a cigar from Jaynes, hurried down and dropped the butt outside the pavilion window. He wrote a note to Van Horn, sending him off to the library on a fool’s errand. He—he—what else has he done?”

“Perhaps he has murdered Shelah Fane,” Charlie suggested.

“I’m sure he did.”

“Yet he owns fine alibi.”

The Chief looked at his watch. “Yes—I’ll attend to that alibi at five-thirty, if those old people show up as they promised. What are you going to do now?”

​“I follow you to join in that interview, but first I make stop at public library.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Come as soon as you can, I— I think we’re getting somewhere now.”

“Where?” inquired Chan blandly.

“Lord knows—I don’t,” replied the Chief, and hurried to his own car. He got away first, and Charlie followed him through the big gates to Kalakaua Avenue.

It was nearly five o’clock, the bathing hour at Waikiki was on, and along the sidewalk passed a perpetual parade of pretty girls in gay beach robes and stalwart tanned men in vivid dressing-gowns. Other people had time to enjoy life, Charlie reflected, but not he. The further discoveries of the afternoon baffled him completely, and he had need of all his Oriental calm to keep him firmly on the pathway of his investigation. Tarneverro, who had sworn that his dearest wish was to assist in finding the murderer of Shelah Fane, had been impeding the search from the start. The fortune-teller’s dark face, with its deep mysterious eyes, haunted Chan’s thoughts as he flivvered on to town.

Stopping at the public library, he again appeared at the desk.

“Would you kindly tell me if the young woman in charge of reading-room is now on scene?” he asked.

The girl appeared, upset and indignant over the morning’s events. She would never again leave a newspaper file idle on a table, but the Japanese boy whose work it was to return such items to the shelves was taking the day off. She remembered Van Horn, of course; she had seen him in the films.

​“Were other striking personalities present in reading-room during the morning?” Charlie inquired.

The girl thought. Yes—she remembered one. A rather peculiar-looking man—she recalled especially his eyes. Chan urged her to a further description, and was left in no doubt as to whom she referred.

“Did you perceive him examining newspaper file left by actor?”

“No, I didn’t. He came in soon after Mr. Van Horn left, and stayed all morning, reading various papers and magazines. He seemed to be trying to pass the time.”

“When did he leave?”

“I don’t know. He was still here when I went out to Iunch.”

“Ah, yes,” Chan nodded. “He would be.”

“You think he cut the book?”

“I have no proof, and never will have, I fear. But I am sure he mutilated the volume.”

“I’d like to see him in jail,” said the girl warmly.

Charlie shrugged. “We have tastes in common. Thank you so much for significant information.”

He drove quickly to the police station. The Chief, alone in his room, was gruffly talking over the telephone. “No—no—nothing yet.” He slammed the receiver on to its hook. “Good lord, Charlie, they're hounding me to death. The whole world wants to know who killed Shelah Fane. The morning paper’s had over a hundred cables. Well, what about the library?—Wait a minute.”

The telephone was ringing again. The Chief’s replies were none too gentle.

“That was Spencer,” he announced, hanging up. ​“I don’t know what’s got into the boys—they seem to be helpless. They can’t find a trace of that confounded beach-comber anywhere. He’s of vital importance, Charlie; he was in that room last night——”

Charlie nodded. “He must assuredly be found. I am plenty busy man, but it seems I must go on his trail myself. As soon as interview with old people is ended——”

“Good! That’s the ticket. You go out the first chance you get. What was I saying?—Oh, yes—the library. What did you find there?”

“No question about it,” Charlie replied. “Tarneverro is man who destroyed pictures of Denny Mayo.”

“He is, eh? Well, I thought so. Doesn’t want you to know what this Mayo looked like. Why? I'll go mad if this keeps up. But there’s one thing sure, and I’m clinging to it. Tarneverro’s our man. He killed Shelah Fane, and we’ve got to pin it on him.” Chan started to speak. Oh, yes—I know—his alibi. Well, you watch me. I'll smash that alibi if it’s the last act of my life.”

“I was going to name one other objection,” Chan told him gently.

“What’s that?”

“If he contemplated killing of Shelah Fane, why did he announce first to me that we are about to arrest killer of Denny Mayo? Why, as my boy Henry would say, bring that up?”

The Chief put his head in his hands. “Lord, I don’t know. It’s a difficult case, isn’t it, Charlie?” A plain-clothes man appeared at the door, announcing Mr. Thomas MacMaster and wife. “Show them in,” cried ​the Chief, leaping to his feet. “We can do one thing, anyhow, Charlie,” he said. “We can smash that alibi, and when we’ve done that, maybe things will clear up a bit.”

The old Scotch couple entered, and at the guileless and innocent look of them, the Chief received a severe shock. The old man approached Chan with outstretched hand.

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Chan. We meet again.”

Charlie got up. “Would you kindly shake hands with the Chief of Detectives. Mrs. MacMaster, I would also present my superior officer to you. Chief desires to ask a few polite questions.” He stressed the polite ever so slightly, but his superior got the hint.

“How do you do, madam,” he said cordially. “Mr. MacMaster—I am sorry to trouble you.”

“No trouble at all, sir,” replied the old man, with the rolled r of Aberdeen. “Mother and I have never had much to do wi’ the police, but we’re law-abiding citizens and glad to help.”

“Fine,” returned the Chief. “Now, sir, according to what you told Inspector Chan here, you are both old friends of the man who calls himself Tarneverro the Great?”

“Aye—that we are. It was in his younger days we knew him, and a splendid lad he was. We're deeply fond of him, sir.”

The Chief nodded. “Last night you say you sat with him on one of the lanais of the Grand Hotel from a few minutes after eight until half past the hour.”

“That is what we said, sir,” MacMaster returned, “and we will swear to it in any court you put us in. It is the truth.”

​The Chief looked him firmly in the eye. “It can’t be the truth,” he announced.

“Why—why, what do you mean, sir?”

“I mean there’s a mistake somewhere. We have indisputable evidence that Mr. Tarneverro was elsewhere during that time.”

The old man drew himself up proudly. “I do not like your tone, sir. The word of Thomas MacMaster has never been questioned before, and I have not come here to be insulted——”

“I don’t question your word. You’ve made a mistake, that’s all. Tarneverro left you at eight-thirty, you claim. Did you verify that by your own watch?”

“I did.”

“The watch might have been wrong.”

“It was wrong.”

“What!”

“It was a wee bit fast—a matter of three minutes. I compared it with the hotel clock, which stood at eight- thirty-two.”

“You're not—pardon me—a young man, Mr. MacMaster?”

“Is that also forbidden by law in the States, sir?”

“What I mean is—your eyes——”

“My eyes, sir, are as good as yours, and better. Mr. Tarneverro left us at eight-thirty—the correct time. He had been with us since we came out from our dinner, save for a brief period when he talked with a gentleman at the far end of the lounge. And during that time he did not leave our sight. That I say—and that I'll stand by”—he banged a great fist on the desk—“until hell freezes over!”

“Father—don’t get excited,” put in the old lady.

​“Who’s excited?” cried MacMaster. “You have to be emphatic wi’ a policeman, Mother. You have to talk his language.”

The Chief considered. In spite of himself, he was impressed by the obvious honesty of the old man. He had planned to bully him out of his testimony, but something told him such tactics would be useless. Hang it all, he reflected, Tarneverro did have an alibi, and a good one.

“You second what your husband says, madam?” he inquired.

“Every word of it,” the old lady nodded.

The Chief made a helpless gesture, and turned toward MacMaster. “All right,” he remarked. “You win.”

Charlie stepped forward. “May I have honor to address few remarks to these good friends of mine?” he inquired.

“Sure. Go ahead, Charlie,” replied the Chief wearily.

“I make simple inquiry,” Chan continued gently. “Mr. Tarneverro was young man starting career when he visited your ranch, I believe?”

“He was that,” agreed MacMaster.

“An actor on theatrical stage?”

“Aye—and not a very successful one. He was glad of the work wi’ us.”

“Tarneverro very odd name. Was that what he called himself when he worked with you?”

The old man glanced quickly at his wife. “No, it was not,” he said.

“What name did he offer at that time?”

MacMaster’s jaw shut hard, and he said nothing.

​“I repeat—what name did he offer when he worked with you?”

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” the old man replied. “But he has asked us not to refer to the matter.”

Chan’s eyes flashed with sudden interest. “He requests that you do not mention his real name?”

“Yes. He said he had done wi’ it, and asked us to think of him as Mr. Tarneverro.”

Charlie felt his way carefully. “Mr. MacMaster, a serious situation looks us hard in the face. Murder was done last night. Tarneverro is not guilty man. You prove same yourself by offer of alibi, which is accepted by us in sincere spirit, because we know it is spoken same way. You have performed that favor for him. You do it gladly because you love truth. But more even dear friend has no right to ask of you. You have said you are law-abiding, and no one exists who is stupid enough to doubt that. I wish to know Mr. Tarneverro’s name when he was with you in Australia.”

The old man turned uncertainly to his wife. “I—I don’t know. This is a difficult position, Mother.”

“You will not prove him murderer by giving it,” Charlie continued. “Already you have saved him from that. But you will impede our work if you withhold same—and I am plenty certain you are not kind of man to do that.”

“I don’t understand,” the Scotchman muttered. “Mother, what do you think?”

“I think Mr. Chan is right.” She beamed upon Charlie. “We have done enough when we swear to his alibi. If you won't tell, Father, I will. Why should a man be ashamed of his real name?—And it was his real name, I’m sure.”

​“Madam,” said Chan. “You have proper view of things. Deign to mention the name.”

“When we knew Tarneverro on the ranch,” continued the old lady, “his name was Arthur Mayo.”

“Mayo!” cried Chan. He and the Chief exchanged a triumphant glance.

“Yes. He told you this morning he was alone when he came to work for us. I can’t think why he said that—it wasn’t true. You see, he and his brother came to us together.”

“His brother?”

“Yes, of course—his brother, Denny Mayo.”