The Black Camel/Chapter 22

THEY sat in silence, and the minutes dragged by. Smith’s pale gray eyes stared hopelessly into the future, a future where he walked for ever, broke and forlorn, along a curving beach. Lighting a big cigar, the Chief picked up the evening paper. Charlie Chan took the diamond bar pin from his pocket and studied it, deep in thought.

Ten minutes passed, and then Robert Fyfe entered the room. He came in as though he were stepping on to a stage: suave, smiling, sure of himself. But as his gaze fell upon Smith the smile faded suddenly, and a frown replaced it.

“Good evening,” the actor said. “I can give you about twenty minutes, Mr. Chan, and then I must run. It wouldn’t do to be late at the theater again to-night.”

“Twenty minutes will be ample plenty,” nodded Charlie. “Mr. Smith and yourself have met before. Over here sits my Chief.”

Fyfe bowed. “Ah, yes. I take it you have called me here for some important reason, Inspector?”

“Seems important to us,’ Chan answered. “I will squander no words. Last night you hold famous conversation with ex-wife in beach pavilion. The true contents of that talk have not yet been revealed. First ​when matter is discussed, you confess to crime you did not do, in order to change subject. Then, this morning, you discover yourself sudden lover of art, and buy picture from Smith, hoping to keep him quiet.” He looked fixedly at the actor. “I rejoice you got nice painting, Mr. Fyfe. Because that will be all you get. Smith can not longer keep quiet. Smith is about to speak.”

A look of distress crossed the actor’s face, and was succeeded by one of anger. He wheeled about and faced the beach-comber. “You contemptible——”

Smith raised a protesting hand. “I know—I know. What a broken reed I’ve turned out to be. I’m as sorry about this as you are, old man. But these keen lads here have got something on me—something rather serious—it means prison unless I ditch you. And I’ve slept in the pure open air so much—somehow a prison cot doesn’t appeal to me. Frightfully sorry, as I said, but I’m going to throw you over. By the way, have you got a cigarette?”

Fyfe glared at him for a moment, and then, shrugging his shoulders, opened a silver case and held it out. Smith helped himself.

“Thanks. It’s a wretched affair, Mr. Fyfe, and—no, that’s all right, I’ve got a match—the sooner we get it over with, the better.” He lighted the cigarette, and took a long pull at it. “To return to our favorite subject—last night on the beach—I went up to that pavilion window and they were in there together—this man and Shelah Fane. She was doing most of the talking—I got a look at her—lovely, even more so than in the films. I’d rather like to have painted her—wearing that cream-colored gown——”

​“Come, come,” cried the Chief. “Get on with it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. I just wanted to point out how beautiful she was—a woman like that ought to be allowed at least one—shot.”

Chan stood up. “What is your meaning now?”

“I mean she’d taken it, anyhow. She was telling Mr. Fyfe all about it—how three years ago, in Hollywood, she killed a man——”

With a groan Fyfe sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

“Killed what man?” the Chief demanded.

“Ah, yes—the name.” Smith hesitated. “Denny, I think she called him. Yes, that was it—Denny Mayo.”

There was a moment’s tense silence, and then Fyfe leaped to his feet. “Let me tell this,” he cried. “It will sound dreadful, if he tells it. Let me explain about Shelah—she was emotional, impetuous. I'll try to make you understand——”

“I don’t care who tells it,” said the Chief. “But I want it told, and quick.”

Fyfe turned to Chan. “You heard, Inspector, how she called me at the theater—a distracted, pitiful call—and said she must see me at once. I answered that I’d come after the show, but she said no, that might be too late. If I’d ever loved her, I must come at once. She had something to tell me, she wanted my advice, she was desperate. So—I went.

“I met her on the lawn; she seemed overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. We went to the pavilion and she burst at once into her story. Some years after our divorce, she told me, she met this Denny Mayo—she fell madly in love with him—I could picture it. I ​knew how Shelah loved. Wildly, unreasonably. Mayo seemed to care for her; he had a wife in London, a dancer in musical comedies, but he promised to divorce her and marry Shelah. For a time Shelah was happy—and then one night Mayo asked her to come to his house.

“That was three years ago—a night in June. She went to his place at the hour he had suggested. He told her that he was through; that his wife had had an accident and was unable to work any longer; that he believed he owed a duty to this woman—at any rate he was going to write her to join him in Hollywood. Poor Shelah went a little mad then. Quite out of her senses. There was a revolver in the drawer of Mayo’s desk, she got it, pointed it at him, threatened to kill him and herself. I have seen her in such moments; she was not responsible, I know. They struggled over the weapon, it went off in her hand. She stood looking down at Mayo, dead at her feet.

“She came to her senses then, I fancy. At any rate, she took her handkerchief and removed her finger-prints from the gun. She stole out of the house and went home unobserved. She was safe. Not once did the investigation point to her. Safe—but never happy again. From that day she lived in torment.

“A few weeks ago, in Tahiti, she met Alan Jaynes. She wanted to marry him, but she was haunted by that memory of the past. She’d fallen into the habit of consulting this fellow Tarneverro about everything; he had impressed her deeply with his cleverness. She sent for him to meet her here, and yesterday morning she went to his apartment.

“When she went there, she had no intention of ​telling him anything about Denny Mayo. She merely wanted him to read her future, to advise her as to whether a marriage with Jaynes would turn out happily. But he—he seemed to exert some mysterious power over her. Perhaps he hypnotized her. In any case, the first thing she knew, she found herself confessing the whole terrible story to the fortune-teller——”

“Stop!” cried Chan, with unaccustomed bruskness. “Ah, pardon me—one moment, please. You mean to say she told Tarneverro that she herself killed Denny Mayo?”

“Of course she did. I——”

“But Tarneverro relates different story.”

“Then he lies. Shelah confessed to him that she had killed Denny—don’t you understand—that’s why she was so frightened, why she sent for me. I was the only one she could turn to, she said. She hadn’t liked the light she saw in Tarneverro’s eyes when she made her confession. She was deathly afraid of the man. She was sure he planned to use that confession in some way that would do her infinite harm. She clung to me, pleaded for my help. But what could I do? What was there to be done?”

Fyfe sat down as though exhausted by his story. “I tried to reassure her, promised to help her all I could—but I pointed out to her that I must get back to the theater at once. She begged me to stand by, stay with her—but you know, gentlemen, the show must go on. I had never disappointed an audience in my life—I refused to do it then. I left her and returned to town.”

Again Fyfe buried his face in his hands. “If I had only stayed with her—but I didn’t. The next thing ​I heard, poor Shelah was—murdered. I intended to tell the police the whole story at once, but somehow—when it came right down to it—I couldn’t. Shelah, who had always been so straight and fine, such a good pal, so generous and kind. I pictured that blot on her past, that wild thing she had done in one irresponsible moment, cabled to the ends of the earth. She was gone. To find her murderer would never bring her back. No, I thought, keep Shelah’s name unsullied. That’s your job now.

“Then this accursed beach-comber came in and started his story. I went a little mad myself. I’d always loved Shelah—I loved her still—more than ever when I saw her last night. So I made my melodramatic confession to shut off the investigation. I don’t know whether I’d have gone through with it or not—this morning when I woke up it seemed that I had carried chivalry a bit too far. Fortunately for me, I didn’t have to go through with it—Mr. Chan disproved my confession on the spot. But I had succeeded in my purpose, I had given Smith here a tip, and when he came to me to-day I was ready and willing to pay all I had to keep him quiet. I couldn’t bear the thought of Shelah disgraced before the world that had so greatly admired her.”

Charlie got up and laid his hand on the actor’s shoulder. “You have caused me much trouble, but I forgive freely, for you are gallant gentleman. Pardon me if I grow tiresome with much pounding on one point, but it is of vast importance. You are quite sure that Miss Fane told her story to Tarneverro exactly as she told it to you?”

“Absolutely,” Fyfe replied. “And if you can find ​any connection between Tarneverro and Denny Mayo, then the fortune-teller killed her. That’s certain.”

Charlie exchanged a long look with his Chief. The latter turned to Smith. “You can go along,” he said. “And don’t let me see you here again.”

The beach-comber rose quickly. “You won’t—not if it’s left to me,” he remarked. “Of course, if you keep dragging me in——” He walked over to Fyfe. “I really am sorry, old man. I want you to know—in one respect at least I kept my word—I haven't had a drink all day. I sat in my room—money in my pocket—sat there and painted a lot of wicked-looking flowers, with my throat as dry as the Sahara. It was a tough assignment, but I came through it. Who knows—maybe I’ve got a chance yet. Here”—he took a roll of bills from his pocket—“this is yours.”

“Why, what is it?” Fyfe asked.

“Thirty-two bucks—all I’ve got left of the fifty. Sorry it isn’t more, but I bought a bit of canvas and some brushes—a chap can’t just sit in a room, you know.”

Fyfe stood up, and pushed the money away. “Oh, that’s all right. It was a rather good painting—that’s how I feel about it. Keep the money and get yourself some decent clothes.”

Smith’s pale gray eyes shone with gratitude. “By heaven—you're a gentleman. It does a fellow good to meet you. I feel something stirring within me—can it be a great resolve? They tell me there’s a scarcity of stewards on the boats, To-morrow morning I’ll buy myself some new things, and sign on for the trip to the coast. San Francisco—it’s only a short walk from there to Cleveland. Yes—by the lord—I’ll do it.”

​“Good luck to you,” Fyfe answered.

“Thanks. May I trouble you—one more cigarette? You're very kind.” He moved to the door, stopped and came back. “Somehow, Chief, I don’t like to leave you. Will you do me a favor?”

The Chief laughed. “I might,” he said.

“Lock me up until morning,” the beach-comber went on. “Don’t let me go into the street with all this money on me. I might be held up, or possibly—possibly—— What I mean is, put me in a safe place overnight, and the chances of getting rid of me to-morrow will be a lot better than they look right now.”

“With pleasure,” nodded the Chief. “Come with me.”

Smith waved a hand at Charlie Chan. “Remind me in the morning, Inspector, I owe you a dime—ten cents.” He followed the Chief from the room.

Charlie turned to Fyfe. “You are now in demand at playhouse. I am deeply grateful for all you have told.”

“Mr. Chan—if you could only keep this thing about Shelah from reaching the public——”

Charlie shook his head. “I am so sorry, but I fear same can not be done. The matter has vital connection with her murder.”

“I suppose it has,” Fyfe sighed. “Well, anyhow, you’ve been mighty decent to me, and I appreciate it.”

Chan bowed him out.

Left alone, the detective stared thoughtfully into space. He was standing thus when the Chief strode again into the room. For a moment they regarded each other.

“Well,” the Chief said, “so Tarneverro’s story was ​a lie. And you’ve based your whole investigation on it. It’s not like you, Charlie, to be tricked like that.”

Chan nodded. “If I had time to do so, I would droop my head in shame. However, I choose now to forget the past. From this point on, my investigation takes new turn——”

“What do you mean—from this point on?” his Chief demanded. “The case is ended—don’t you know that?”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it. In the morning Shelah Fane tells Tarneverro she killed Denny Mayo. Mayo was his brother. In the evening, she’s found murdered. What could be simpler than that? I’m going to arrest the fortune-teller at once.”

Charlie raised his hand. “No, no—I advise against that. You forget his alibi, solid as stone wall, not to be shaken.”

“We'll have to shake it. It’s evidently false. It must be. Either those old people are lying to save him, or else he tricked them as he tricked you——”

“I do not think so,” Chan said stubbornly.

“What's the matter with you, Charlie? Losing your grip? We never had a clearer case than this. The little matter of the alibi——”

“Something else, too,” Chan reminded him. “Why did Tarneverro say he would call me down the beach to arrest a murderer? His words stick in my mind and will not be unlodged. I tell you firmly, this problem not yet solved.”

“I can’t understand you, Charlie.”

“Only one thing made clear by Mr. Fyfe’s interesting story. I know now why Mr. Tarneverro did not ​wish me to open letter written by Shelah Fane. He feared I would learn at once his tale of seance with the lady was false in details, and house of cards would tumble about his ears. Fortunate for him, letter when finally opened was so worded as to add strength to his lie. ‘Please forget what I told you this morning. I must have been mad—mad.’ Then he knew that blow struck in the dark was not needed, after all. Must have wished to give himself a few resounding kicks.” Chan paused. “Yes, Mr. Tarneverro has muddled me with his deceit from very start. Still, I do not believe him guilty of murder.”

“Well, what do you propose to do?” the Chief demanded. “Just sit here and twiddle your thumbs, with me to help you?”

“I am no thumb-twiddler,” replied Chan with spirit. “I propose to act.”

“On what? We have no more clues.”

Charlie took the diamond pin from his pocket. “We have this.” He handed it over. “Will you kindly oblige by making study of same?”

The Chief examined it. “The pin itself is broken in the middle, isn’t it? Half of it seems to be gone.”

Chan nodded. “Undubitably gone. And when we find that missing end, our case is solved.”

The Chief looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“How was pin broken? When watch was smashed, murderer wished to provide further evidence of struggle that might make smashing of watch more probable. So he tore off orchid flowers and trampled them beneath foot. When he ripped off flowers, pin unfastened and came with them. No doubt it lay on floor, point uppermost. Perhaps that point drove deep into heel of ​murderer’s shoe, and broke off there. Did this happen, and did it go unnoticed by killer? It might. If so, there may be tell-tale scratches on polished floors of house at Waikiki. I speed there at once to look for same.”

The Chief pondered. “Well, there might be something in it, at that. I'll give you a chance to find out. Go along, and I’ll wait here for news.”

In the doorway, Charlie encountered Kashimo. The little Japanese was worn and dispirited. “Have combed town twenty, maybe fifty, times. Mr. Smith no longer exists.”

“A fine detective you are,” growled the Chief. “Smith is out there in a cell now. Charlie found him.”

Disappointment and distress showed in the eyes of the Japanese. Charlie paused at the door and came back. He patted the little man’s shoulder.

“Cheer yourself up,” he said kindly. “Be good boy, attend all meetings of Y. M. B. A., and you will yet win success. Nobody is perfect. Take look at me. Twenty-seven years on force, and I am nowhere near so clever as I thought I was.”

He walked slowly from the room.