The Black Camel/Chapter 21

CHAN’S breath came a little faster as he listened to this unexpected bit of news. Tarneverro was Denny Mayo’s brother! No wonder, then, that the fortune-teller had been so eager to learn from Shelah Fane the name of Mayo’s murderer. No wonder he had offered to help Chan to the limit of his ability in the task of finding out who had silenced Shelah just as she was, supposedly, on the point of telling.

And yet—had he carried out that promise to assist? On the contrary, he had evidently been placing in Chan’s way every obstacle possible. Puzzles, puzzles— Charlie put his hand to his head. This man Tarneverro was the king of mystery.

“Madam, what you say is very interesting,” the detective remarked. His eyes brightened. On one point, at least, light was breaking. “Will you be kind enough to tell me—was there resemblance in features between those two men?”

She nodded. “Aye, there was, though many people might not have noticed, because of the difference in age and coloring. Denny was blond, and Arthur very dark. But the first time I saw them, standing side by side in my kitchen, I knew they were brothers.”

Chan smiled. ‘You have contributed something to

258 ​our solution, madam, though up to moment of present speaking, only the gods know what. I think that is all we now require of you. Do I speak correctly, Chief?”

“Yes, that’s right, Charlie. Mr. MacMaster, I’m obliged to your wife and you for this visit.”

“Not at all, sir,” the old man answered. “Come, Mother. I—I’m not quite comfortable about this. Perhaps you've talked a wee bit too much.”

“Nonsense, Thomas. No honest man is ashamed of his name—and I’m sure Arthur Mayo is honest. If he’s not, he’s sore changed from what he was when we knew him.” The old lady rose.

“As for the alibi,” her husband said stubbornly, “we stick to that—through thick and thin. Tarneverro was with us from eight to eight-thirty, and if the murder was done in that half-hour, he didn’t do it. To that I'll swear, gentlemen.”

“Yes, yes—I suppose you will,” the Chief replied. “Good evening, sir. Madam—a great pleasure to meet you.”

The old couple went out, and the Chief looked at Charlie. “Well, where are we now?” he inquired.

“Tangled in endless net, as always,” Chan answered. “One thing I know—Tarneverro waits for me at Young Hotel. I will call him at once and request his presence here.”

When he had done so, he came back and sat down beside his superior. His brows were contracted in thought.

“The case spreads itself,” he remarked. “Tarneverro was Denny’s brother. That ought to give us big boost toward our solution, but other way about, it only increases our worry. Why did he not tell me ​that? Why has he, as matter of fact, fiercely struggled to keep it from me? You heard what lady said about resemblance. That explains at once why all pictures of Mayo were torn to bits. Tarneverro was willing to travel long length to make sure we do not discover this fact just related to us.” He sighed. “Anyhow, we have learned why portraits were destroyed.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t get us anywhere,” the Chief replied. “If it was his brother who was killed, and he was on the point of asking you to arrest the murderer as soon as Shelah Fane revealed the name, I’d think that he would naturally tell you of his connection with Mayo—especially after the news of Miss Fane’s death. It would have been a logical explanation of his interest in the case. Instead of telling you, he tries desperately to keep the relationship hidden.” The Chief paused. “Strange none of these Hollywood folks ever noticed a resemblance between Mayo and the fortune-teller.”

Chan shook his head. “Not likely they would. The two visit town at widely separated times, and were not seen together there. Many people, Mrs. MacMaster said, would not note the resemblance, but Tarneverro flatters me by assuming I am one who would. As for others, he knows well it is the kind of likeness almost no one sees until it is pointed out. Then everybody sees it. Human nature is like that.”

“Human nature is getting to be too much for me,” growled the Chief. “What course do you propose to take with this fortune-teller when he gets here?”

“I plan to walk softly. We will say nothing about his many misendeavors, but we will speak of this thing we have just learned. What reasons will he give for his silence? They may have vast significance.”

​“Well, I don’t know, Charlie. It might be better to keep him in the dark even on that point.”

“Not if we pretend we hold no suspicion whatever. We will assume instead a keen delight. Now we know he has every reason to help us, and the skies brighten above our weary heads.”

“Well, you handle him, Charlie.”

A few moments later Tarneverro strode debonairly into the room. His manner was aloof and a bit condescending, as though he found himself in quaint company but was man of the world enough to be at home anywhere. He nodded at Charlie.

“Ah, Inspector, I waited for you a long time. I'd about given you up.”

“A thousand of my humblest apologies,” Chan returned. “I was detained by heavy weight of business. May I present my honored Chief?”

The fortune-teller bowed. “A great pleasure. How are you getting on, Inspector? I’ve been very eager to know.”

“Natural you should be. Only a moment ago did we peak fact which makes us realize how deep your interest is.”

Tarneverro glanced at him keenly. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean we discover that Denny Mayo was your brother.”

Tarneverro stepped over and laid his walking-stick on a desk. The act, it seemed, gave him a moment for thought.

“It’s true, Inspector,” he remarked, facing Chan again. “I don’t know how you found it out——”

Charlie permitted himself a quiet smile of satisfac​tion. “Not many things remain buried through investigation such as we are making,” he remarked gently.

“Evidently not.” Tarneverro hesitated. “I presume you are wondering why I didn’t tell you this myself?”

Chan shrugged. “Undoubtedly you possessed good reason.”

“Several reasons,” the fortune-teller assured him. “For one thing, I didn’t believe that such knowledge would help you in any way in solving the case.”

“Which is sound thinking,” Chan agreed readily. “Still—I must confess slight hurt in my heart. Frankness between friends is like warm sun after rain. The friendship grows.”

Tarneverro nodded and sat down. “I suppose there’s a great deal in what you say. I’m rather sorry I kept the relationship to myself, and I apologize most humbly. If it’s not too late, Inspector, I will give you the whole story now——”

“Not at all too late,” Chan beamed.

“Denny Mayo was my brother, Inspector, my youngest brother. The relationship between us was more like that of father and son. I was intensely fond of him. I watched over him, helped his career, took pride in it. When he was brutally murdered, the shock was a terrible one for me. So you can easily under- stand why I say”—his voice trembled with sudden passion—“that to avenge his death has been for three years my chief aim—indeed my only aim. If the person who killed Shelah Fane is the same man or woman who murdered Denny—then, by heaven, I can not rest until justice is done.”

​He rose and began to pace the floor.

“When I heard the news of Denny’s murder, I was playing in a London production. There was nothing I could do about it at the moment—I was too far away. But at my earliest opportunity I went to Hollywood, determined to solve the mystery of his death. I thought that the chances of my doing so would be better if I did not arrive in the picture colony as Denny’s brother, but under an assumed name. At first I called myself Henry Smallwood—it was the name of a character I had lately played.

“I looked around. The police, it was evident, were completely at sea on the case. Gradually I became impressed by the number of seers and fortune-tellers of various sorts in Hollywood. They all seemed to be prospering, and it was rumored that they were the recipients of amazing confidences and secrets from the lips of the screen people.

“A big idea struck me. In my younger days I had been an assistant to Maskelyne the Great, one of a long line of famous magicians, and a man of really remarkable powers. I had some talent in a psychic way, had told fortunes as an amateur and had the nerve to carry the thing through. Why not, I thought, take an impressive name, set myself up as a crystal-gazer, and by prying into Hollywood’s secrets, seek to solve the mystery of poor Denny’s death? The whole thing looked absurdly simple and easy.”

He sat down again.

“So for two years, gentlemen, I have been Tarneverro the Great. I have listened to stories of unrequited love, of overwhelming ambition, of hate and intrigue, hope and despair. It has been interesting, ​many secrets have been whispered in my ear, but until recently the one big secret I longed to hear was not among them. Then, out of a blue sky, yesterday morning at the Grand Hotel, my moment came. I finally got on the trail of Denny’s murderer. It took all my will power to control myself when I realized what was happening. Shelah Fane told me she was in Denny’s house that night—she saw him murdered. I had difficulty restraining myself—I wanted to leap upon her then and there and wring the name of his killer from her reluctant lips. Three years ago I would have done it—but time—well, we grow calmer with the passage of time.

“However, once I discovered she knew, I would never have left her until she told. When you saw me last night, Inspector, my hopes were running high. I proposed to take you with me to her home after the party, and between us I felt certain we could drag out that name at last. I intended to hand the guilty person over to you immediately, for”—he looked at the Chief—“I need hardly tell you that I have never thought of avenging the crime in any other manner. From the first, I proposed to let the courts deal with Denny’s killer. That was, of course, the only sane way.”

The Chief nodded gravely. “The only way, of course.”

Tarneverro turned toward Chan. “You know what happened. Somehow this person discovered that Shelah was on the verge of telling, and silenced her for ever. On the very threshold of triumph, I was defeated. Unless you find out who killed poor Shelah, my years of exile in Hollywood will very likely go for nothing. ​That’s why I’m with you—that’s why I want”—his voice trembled again—“the murderer of Shelah Fane more than I’ve ever wanted anything in all my life before.”

Charlie looked at him with a sort of awe. Was this the man who had been scattering all those false clues about the place?

“I am glad of this frankness, lately as it arrives,” the detective said, with an odd smile.

“I should have told you at once, I presume,” Tarneverro continued. “I was, as a matter of fact, on the point of explaining my relationship to Denny as we rode down to Shelah’s house. But, I reflected, the information would not help you in the least. And I did not want it to become known why I was telling fortunes in Hollywood. If it did, of course my career there would be ended. Suppose, I said to myself, Inspector Chan fails to find Shelah Fane’s murderer. In that case I must go back to Hollywood and resume my quest. They are still coming to me with their secrets. Diana Dixon consulted me to-day. That is why, until Denny’s murderer is found, I do not want my real name made public. I rely on you gentlemen to be discreet.”

“You may do so,” Chan nodded. “Matter remains buried as though beneath Great Wall of China. Knowing how firmly you are with us in this hunt adds on new hope. We will find Shelah Fane’s murderer, Mr. Tarneverro—and your brother’s all same time.”

“You are making progress?” asked the fortune- teller eagerly.

Charlie regarded him fixedly. “Every moment we are approaching nearer. One or two little matters—and we are at journey’s end.”

​“Good,” said Tarneverro heartily. “You know now my stake in the affair. I hope you will forgive me that I didn’t reveal it fully at the start.”

“Explanation has been most reasonable,” smiled Chan. “All is forgiven. I think you may now be excused.”

“Thank you.” Tarneverro glanced at his watch. “It is getting on toward the dinner hour, isn’t it? I'm sorry that what I have told you is of no vital importance in your search. If there were only some really valuable contribution that I could make——”

Chan nodded. “Understand your feeling plenty well. Who knows? Your opportunity may yet arise.” He escorted Tarneverro from the room, and out the front door of the station house.

When he returned, the Chief was slumped down in his chair. He looked up with a wry smile. “Well,” he remarked, “what was wrong with that picture?”

Charlie grinned. “Pretty much everything,” he responded. “Tarneverro plenty queer man. He wants to help—so he robs cigar from Mr. Jaynes and drops same outside pavilion window. He thirsts for my success—so he writes note that causes me to waste time on innocent Mr. Van Horn. He has mild little reason, of no importance, for not telling me he is Denny Mayo’s brother—but he rages about destroying pictures of Denny as though he would keep matter from me or die in the attempt. He beholds letter in which may be written name of Denny’s killer, and when I am about to open it, he kicks out light and smashes me in face.” Chan rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “Yes, this Tarneverro plenty peculiar man.”

“Well, where do we go from here?” the Chief in​quired. “It begins to look like one of your stone walls, Charlie.”

Chan shrugged. “In which case, we circle about, seeking new path. Me, I get renewed interest in beach-comber. Why was he in pavilion room last night? More important yet, what was conversation he overheard between Shelah Fane and Robert Fyfe, for suppression of which Fyfe pays handsome sum?” He moved toward the door. “Kashimo has now played his game of hide-and-seek long time enough. I go to bestow inside small quantity of provisions, and after that I myself will do a little scouring of this town.”

“That's the talk,” his Chief cried. “You go after that beach-comber yourself. I'll eat down-town too, and come back here as soon as I’ve finished. You'll find me here any time after seven.”

Charlie went to the telephone and called his house, getting his daughter Rose on the wire. He announced that he would not be home for dinner. A sharp cry of protest answered him.

“But, Dad,—you must come home. We all want to see you.”

“Ah—at last you begin to feel keen affection for poor old father.”

“Sure. And we’re dying to hear the news.”

“Remain alive a small time longer,” he advised. “There are no news as yet.”

“Well, what have you been doing all day?” Rose wanted to know.

Chan sighed. “Maybe I should put my eleven children on this case.”

“Maybe you should,” she laughed. “A little American pep might work wonders.”

​“That is true. I am only stupid old Oriental——”

“Who says you are? I never did. But Dad, if you love me, please hurry.”

“I will speed,” he answered. “If I do not, I perceive I can not come home to-night.”

He hung up the receiver and went to a near-by restaurant, where he ate a generous dinner.

Refreshed and fortified, he was presently strolling down King Street toward Aala Park. Dusk was falling over that littered stretch of ground, the campus of the undergraduates in the hard school of experience. They lolled about on the benches, some of them glancing up at Charlie with hostile eyes under discreetly lowered lids. There was muttering as he passed, an occasional curse from the lips of some one who had met the detective under circumstances none too pleasant. He paid no attention to any of them—he was seeking a man in a velvet coat and duck trousers that had once been white.

The Park yielded nothing. He crossed to a street of mean shops and shabby business. Above his head, on a fragile balcony, an enormous Filipino woman in a faded kimono puffed on an after-dinner cigar. Charlie moved along into a section of Honolulu quite unknown to tourists who breathed the pure air of the beach and raved about the beauty of these islands.

There was no beauty in the River District, only squalor and poverty; seven races jumbled together in an international slum. He heard voices raised in bitter argument, the weeping of children, the clatter of sandals, and, even here, the soft whine of Hawaiian music. The Song of the Islands floated lazily on the fetid air. Over a doorway that led to a dark and dirty stair, he saw the sign: “Oriental Cabaret.”

​He paused for a moment in the glare of the lights that formed this sign. A girl was approaching, dark-skinned, slender, graceful. He stood aside to let her pass, and saw her face. The tropics, lonely islands lost in vast southern seas—a lovely head against a background of cool green. Quickly he followed her up the stairs.

He came into a bare room with a sagging roof. There were many tables with blue and white checkered cloths; painted girls were eating at the rear. A suave little proprietor came forward, rubbing his hands with outward calm, but somewhat disturbed inside.

“What you want, Inspector?”

Charlie pushed him aside and followed the girl he had seen below. She had taken off her hat and hung it on a nail; evidently she worked here.

“Begging your pardon,” Chan began.

She looked at him, fear and defiance mingling in her smoldering eyes. “What you want?”

“You are acquainted with haole—white man—Smith, the beach-comber?”

“Maybe.”

“He painted your portrait—I have seen it. A beautiful thing.”

The girl shrugged. “Yes, he come here, sometimes. I let him make the picture. What of it?”

“Have you seen Mr. Smith lately?”

“Not for long time—no”

“Where does he live?”

“On the beach, I think.”

“But when he has money—where then?”

The girl did not reply. The proprietor came forward. “You tell him, Leonora. Tell Inspector what he asks you to.”

​“Oh, well. Sometimes he live at Nippon Hotel, on Beretania Street.”

Chan bowed. “Thank you so much.” He wasted no time in that odorous cluttered room, but hastened down the dark stair. In a few moments he entered the Nippon Hotel. The sleek little Japanese behind the desk greeted him with a cordiality Chan knew was rankly insincere.

“Inspector, you honor my house.”

“Such is not my purpose. Haole named Smith—he stops here?”

The clerk took a register from beneath the desk. “I look see——”

Charlie reached out and took the book from his slightly resisting hands. “I will see. Your eyes are notably bad. Archie Smith, room seven. Lead me there.”

“Mr. Smith out, I think.”

“We will discover if he is. Please make haste.”

Reluctantly the Japanese led him across an open courtyard, filled with a neglected tangle of plants and flowers. The Nippon Hotel was a cluster of shabby sheds, antiquated outbuildings. They stepped on to a lanai; a Japanese woman porter, bent low under a heavy tin trunk, staggered by. The clerk moved on into a musty hallway, and pointed to a door. The numeral seven—or what was left of it—hung by one nail on the panel.

“In there,” said the Jap, and with a hostile look, disappeared.

Chan opened the door of number seven, and entered a dim low-ceilinged room. One dirty bulb was burning over a pine table, and at that table sat Smith, the beach-​comber, with a canvas on his knees. He looked up, startled.

“Oh,” he said. “So it’s you?”

Chan regarded him sleepily. “Where you been all day?”

Smith indicated the canvas. “The evidence is right here, Inspector. I’ve been sitting in my palatial studio painting that courtyard outside. Glad you dropped in—it’s been a bit dull since I finished.” He leaned back in his chair and critically surveyed his work. “Come and look at this, Inspector. Do you know, I believe I’ve got something into it—a certain miasmic quality. Did you ever realize before that flowers can look mean and sinister?, Well, they can—in the courtyard of the Nippon Hotel.”

Chan glanced at the painting and nodded. “Yes, plenty good, but I have no time to be critic now. Get your hat and come with me.”

“Where are we going—to dinner? I know a place on the Boulevard St.-Germain——”

“We go to the station house,” Charlie replied.

“Wherever you say,’ nodded Smith, and putting aside the canvas, picked up his hat.

They crossed Aala Park to King Street. Chan regarded the derelict with an almost affectionate gaze. Before he and Smith parted company again, the beach-comber was going to tell him much—enough, perhaps, to solve his problem and put an end to all his worries.

The Chief was alone in the detectives’ room. At sight of Charlie’s companion, he brightened visibly. “Ah, you got him. I thought you would.”

“What’s it all about?” Smith asked jauntily. “I’m flattered, of course, by all these attentions, but——”

​“Sit down,” said the Chief. “Take off that hat.” Thank heaven, here was some one who needn’t be handled any too gently. “Look at me. A woman was killed last night at Waikiki, in a separate building on the grounds of her home. What were you doing in the room where she was killed?”

Beneath the yellow beard, Smith’s face paled. He wet his lips with his tongue. “I was never in that room, Chief.”

“You lie! We found your finger-prints on the window-sill. Look at me. What were you doing in that room?”

“I—I——”

“Come on, brace up. You're in a tight place. Tell the truth, or you'll swing for this. What were you doing——”

“All right,” said Smith in a low voice. “I’ll tell you about it. Give me a chance. I didn’t kill anybody. It’s true, I was in that room—in a way——”

“In a way?”

“Yes. I opened the window and climbed up on the sill. You see——”

“Kindly start at beginning,” Chan cut in. “We know you arrived at window of pavilion to hear man and woman talking inside. What was said we pass over for the minute. You heard the man leaving the room——”

“Yes—and I went after him. I wanted to see him—but he got into a car and drove away down the avenue. I couldn’t catch him. So I ambled back and sat down on the beach. Pretty soon I heard a cry—a woman’s cry—from that pavilion. I didn’t know what to do. I waited a while, and then I went ​over and looked through the window. The curtain was down, but it flapped about. Everything was quiet—I thought the place was empty. And then—well, really—I’m a little embarrassed about this. I’d never done such a thing before. But I was desperate—strapped—and when you're that way you get the feeling, somehow, that the world owes you a living——”

“Get on with it,” barked the Chief.

“Well, just inside the window I caught a glimpse of—of a diamond pin. I thought there was no one inside, so I pushed up the screen and climbed on to the sill. I stooped over and picked up the pin—and then I saw her—the woman—lying over there by the table—stabbed, dead. Well, of course I realized at once that was no place for me. I lowered the screen, hid the pin in a little secret safety-deposit box of mine on the beach, and strolled as casually as I could to the avenue. I was still moving when that cop picked me up, an hour later.”

“Is pin still on beach?” Chan inquired.

“No—I got it this morning.” Smith reached into his trousers pocket and produced it. “Take it quick—I don’t want it—don’t let me ever see it again. I must have been crazy, I guess. But as I say—when you're down and out——”

Charlie was studying the pin. It was a delicate affair, a row of fine diamonds set in platinum. He turned it over. The pin itself was broken midway, and the end of it was lost.

The Chief was looking sternly at the beach-comber. “Well,” he said, “you know what this means. “We'll have to lock you up——”

“One moment, please,” broke in Charlie. “Finding ​of pretty pin is good enough, but it is not vital to us. Vital matter is, what did this man hear Shelah Fane and Robert Fyfe saying to each other while he lingered outside pavilion window? Something of great importance—something Mr. Fyfe made false confession to quiet—something he has paid Mr. Smith nice sum to conceal. But now Mr. Smith changes mind. He will not conceal it any longer.”

“Oh, yes, I will,” cried Smith. “I mean—it was nothing—nothing——”

“We hold you for theft,” cut in Charlie. “Do you enjoy prisons? I think not. Neither does territory enjoy supporting you there. Under a certain circumstance, memory of theft might fade from our minds for ever. Am I speaking correctly, Chief?”

The Chief was dubious. “You think it’s as important as that, Charlie?”

“It is of vast importance,” Chan replied.

“All right.” He turned to the beach-comber. “Tell us the truth of what you heard last night, and you can go, I won't press the charge. But—it’s got to be the truth, this time.”

Smith hesitated. His rosy dream of the mainland, decent clothes, respectability, was dying hard. But he shuddered at the thought of Oahu Prison.

“All right,” he said at last. “I'll tell you. I hate to do it, but—oh, well—there’s Cleveland. My father—a most punctilious man, Easily annoyed—growing old, you know. I’ve got to get out of this jam for his sake, if not for my own. When I came up to that window, Inspector——”

Chan raised his hand. “A moment, please, I have keen desire to see Robert Fyfe in this room when you ​tell the story.” He looked at his watch. “I can reach him at hotel, I think. Excuse me.” He took up the telephone and summoned Fyfe. Then he went over and sat down in a chair at the beach-comber’s side. “Now we will rest as comfortable as may be. You, Smith, explore your mind and arrange story in advance. Kindly remember—the truth.”

The beach-comber nodded. “You're on, Inspector. The truth this time.” He looked down at his battered shoes. “I knew it was too good to last. Got a cigarette? No? Neither have I. Oh, well, life’s like that.”