The Black Camel/Chapter 23

CHARLIE rode out to the beach for what he hoped would be his final call at Shelah Fane’s house. The moon had not yet risen, the sky was purple velvet pierced by ineffectual stars, the flowering trees hid their beauty somewhere in the calm breathless dark. Twenty-four hours ago, in this same period of impenetrable night before the coming of the moon, the black camel had knelt at Shelah Fane’s gate.

Though he knew now the secret in the woman’s past, knew that she had done a grievous wrong, he still thought of her with the deepest sympathy. She had never stood in court to answer for her crime, but she had suffered none the less. What torture those three years must have been! “Perhaps in the end I may find a little happiness. I want it so much”—thus she had written in her last pitiful note. Instead she had found—what? The black camel waiting to carry her away into the unknown.

Whatever the motive behind her murder may have been, Chan reflected, the act itself was heartless and cruel. He was firmly resolved that the person who had killed her should be found and made to pay. Found—but how? Would the little pin resting in his pocket come nobly to his aid? He hoped desperately that it would, for it was his sole reliance now.

​The banyan tree’s shade was like ink on the front lawn of the huge rambling building that had been the famous star’s last home. Chan parked his car, switched off its lights, and leaped nimbly to the ground.

Jessop, serene and dignified as ever, let him in. “Ah, Constable, I was rather expecting you. What a pleasant evening to be abroad. Mild and fragrant, I should call it, sir.”

Chan smiled. “I am too busy man, Jessop, to have concern with perfumes of the night.”

“Ah, yes, I presume your time is fairly well occupied, Constable. Is there—if I may make bold to inquire—any news regarding the homicide?”

Chan shook his head. “Not up to present moment.”

“I regret to hear that, sir. The young people are on the beach—Miss Julie and Mr. Bradshaw, I mean. Whom did you wish to interrogate?”

“I wish to interrogate the floors of this house,” Chan told him.

Jessop raised his white eyebrows. “Indeed, sir. My old father used to say that walls have ears——”

“Floors, also, may repeat a story,” Charlie returned. “If you have no inclination for objecting, I will begin in living-room.”

He pushed through the heavy curtains. Diana Dixon was sitting at the piano, softly playing. She got up.

“Oh, hello,” she said. “You want somebody?”

“I want somebody very much,” Chan nodded. “At end of trail I hope to find him—or her.”

“Then you haven’t yet discovered who killed poor Shelah?”

“I have not. But subject is unhappy one. Why ​are you not on beach? That is place for youth at this hour?”

Diana shrugged. “What’s the beach without a man? And there aren’t enough to go round, evidently.”

“A situation rare in your neighborhood, I will wager,” Charlie smiled.

“Oh, a change does us all good.” She watched him as he stood there, looking impatiently about the room. “What are you going to do now? I’m so thrilled by all this——”

“Now, I am going to be unbearably rude,” he replied. “I find myself in uncredible position of wanting to dispense with your company. Will you kindly wait on the lanai?”

She pouted. “I hoped you were going to ask me to help you.”

“In such charming company as yours, I fear I could not keep mind on work.” He held open the French window. “As a very great favor, please——”

With obvious reluctance she went out, and he closed the window after her. He did not wish to appear undignified in the presence of a witness, and it was his intention now to be undignified indeed. He turned on all the lights in the room and with some difficulty, got down on his knees. Taking a magnifying-glass from his pocket, he began a close scrutiny of the highly polished floor wherever it was uncovered by rugs.

For a long time he crept about, until his knees ached. But he did not mind that, for his efforts were richly rewarded. Here and there he encountered numerous little scratches which had been, without doubt, recently made. He breathed hard, and his black eyes shone with satisfaction.

​Suddenly a brighter idea struck him. He scrambled to his feet and hurried to the dining-room. The table, he was happy to note, was the same size it had been on the previous evening. Jessop was putting away silver in the sideboard. He turned.

“I observe,” Chan remarked, “that you have not yet reduced size of dining table.”

“I couldn’t, sir,” replied the butler. “All the leaves are already out. The former occupants of this house, it would appear, were of a most hospitable temperament.”

“Just as well,” nodded Chan. He was pleased to see that the big table stood on the bare floor; the room was without rugs save for a small one that lay in the doorway. “Do me a great favor, if you will, Mr. Jessop. Kindly place ten chairs about this board, in identical positions they occupied last night.”

Puzzled, Jessop obeyed. When he had finished, Charlie stood for a moment in deep speculation.

“They now stand just as they did when you served dinner guests with coffee, some twenty-two hours ago?”

“Precisely,” the butler assured him.

Without a word, Charlie pulled back a chair and disappeared beneath the table. One by one, mute evidence of his activity there, the chairs were pushed away, while Jessop stared with an amazement rarely seen on his imperturbable face. With a flash-light added to his equipment, Chan made the long circuit. Finally he came up as though for air.

“Were place-cards used for last night’s dinner?” he inquired.

“No, sir. It was a rather informal affair, and Miss Fane told me she would seat the guests herself.”

​“Then when they came in here for coffee, they sat in no prearranged order?”

“Oh, no, sir. They just sat anywhere their fancy dictated.”

“Is there chance you happen to remember who sat in which place?”

Jessop shook his head. “I’m sorry, Constable. It was a somewhat disturbing evening. I was a bit—unnerved, I fear.”

Charlie laid his hand on the chair at the right of the one the hostess would no doubt have occupied. “You can not, then, tell me who it was reclined here?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Chan. One of the gentlemen, I fancy. But—I—I really don’t know.”

Charlie studied a moment. “Thank you so much. The telephone is in the hall closet, I believe?”

“Yes, sir. I will show you——”

“No need to trouble,” Chan told him. “I will find it.”

He went out to the hall and shutting himself in the hot cubby-hole under the stairs, made numerous calls. Finally he rang up his Chief.

“Inspector Chan speaking,” he said. “May I humbly suggest that you bring one other good man with you, and come immediately to house of Shelah Fane?”

“Something doing, Charlie?” asked the Chief.

Chan pulled the door shut as far as it would go. Little beads of perspiration began to pop out on his forehead.

“Pin is about to lead us to success,” he replied in a low voice. “On floor of living-room repose plenty fresh scratches. What is more, during time of investi​gation last night, guests who expected to enjoy dinner sat down round dining table for abbreviated repast. Floor is bare beneath table, and in front of one chair—and only one—more scratches are in evidence.”

“Who sat in that chair?” the Chief demanded.

“The murderer of Shelah Fane,” Chan answered. “The name I do not yet know. But I have just now summoned to house six guests, who, with three already here, make up complete list. When all are assembled we lead them to dining-room and ask them, please, to sit where they did last night. Chair of dead hostess was at head of table, facing door to hall. Note who sits down in chair at right of hostess. Same will be person we so hotly seek.”

The Chief laughed. “Going to make a big drama out of it, eh, Charlie? Well, that’s all right with me, so long as it means success. I'll be with you pronto.”

Chan returned to the hall, mopping his brow. He caught a glimpse of the coat-tails of Jessop, hastily disappearing through the curtains of the dining-room door. With an idle step he moved along, and came finally to the lanai, where he encountered Miss Dixon.

“Living-room is again at your disposal,” he bowed.

She rose and came toward him. “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked eagerly.

He shrugged. “Who in this world finds what he looks for? Success—what is it? A bubble that explodes when touched by human hand.” And he strolled off toward the beach.

At his right, as he crossed the lawn, lay the pavilion, dark and empty to-night. Close by the sea, seated together in a beach chair intended for one person only, he came upon Julie and Jimmy Bradshaw. The boy rose.

​“Why, it’s good old Charlie,” he cried. “Honolulu’s noted sleuth. How are you, and what’s the news?”

“News seems to be that spell of Waikiki Beach is still intact,” Chan answered. “I am so sorry to interrupt this touching scene.”

Bradshaw held out his hand. “Shake, Charlie. You're the first to hear about it. I’m going to be married. And oh, yes,—Julie is too.”

“Plenty good news,” returned Chan heartily. “May you have half the happiness I wish you—the full amount would be impossible.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Chan,” Julie said.

“You're a great old scout,” Bradshaw remarked. “I’ll miss you. I’ll miss this beach, too——”

“What is that? You leave Honolulu?”

“Oh—sure.”

“You depart from this lovely spot, about which you have written one million words——”

“I’ve got to, Charlie. Have you ever stopped to think about the effect of all this languid beauty on a young man’s character? Devastating, that’s what it is. On this crescent beach, fanned by the warm breath of the south, and so on—what happens to him? He droops, he stagnates, he crumbles. No more coco-palms for me. Redwoods, Charlie. Do you know about the redwoods? They brace you up. They’re my trees hereafter. A big lumber and sap man from the West—that’s going to me my rôle.”

Chan grinned. “You have failed to win Miss Julie to your views on Hawaii?”

“It looks that way. Sold it to fifty thousand tourists, but not to the girl I love. That’s life, I suppose.”

​“When you go from here, you will leave much beauty behind,” Charlie said. “But you will also take much beauty with you, since Miss Julie goes along.”

“Which remark, Mr. Bradshaw,” Julie laughed, “should have come from you.”

“It would have, presently,” he answered.

Chan stood staring at the rising moon, the curve of lights along the whispering shore. The sad music of Hawaii came drifting up from the Moana courtyard. “To be young, in love, and on this beach,” he said. “What greater happiness than that? Taste it to the full. It happens once, then time moves on. Moment comes when gold and pearls can not buy back the raven locks of youth.”

“Why, Charlie,—you’re getting sentimental,” Bradshaw cried.

Chan nodded. “I think of my own courtship on this shore—so long ago. How long, you wonder? I am now father of eleven children—judge for yourself.”

“You must be very proud of them,” Julie ventured.

“As proud as they will permit,” Chan answered. “At least, I have done my part to link past with future. When I move on, leaving eleven offspring, can any man say I have not been here? I think not.”

“You're certainly right on that,” Bradshaw assured him.

“May I speak with you in private for a moment?” Charlie said. He walked with the boy back toward the lights of the house.

“What’s doing?” Bradshaw wanted to know.

“Plenty will be doing at any moment now. Within the hour I tell you who killed Shelah Fane.”

“Good lord!” the boy gasped.

​“First, I suggest a task for you. Miss Julie was Shelah Fane’s dear friend. Go back and break news gently to her that it was Miss Fane who shot Denny Mayo. Same is now established beyond all doubt.”

“You don’t mean it?”

“I do. Impart news gently, as I request. Then blow will not hit her with such cruel force as in crowd of people. It will be unhappy shock for her, but she will soon forget. She has your love.”

“All I’ve got, Charlie. Say—this is pretty considerate of you. But then—you think of everything.”

“Within my limitations, I try to do so. When news is broken, both of you are to come at once to living-room.”

“We'll do that, Charlie. Thanks.”

As Chan entered the great room, Diana Dixon was greeting Martino, Van Horn and Jaynes, who had come down from the hotel together. The detective noted with satisfaction that all three were in dinner clothes—was it too much to hope they wore the same shoes as on the previous evening?

“Hello, Inspector,” Martino said. “We came as soon as we could make it. What's in the air?”

“A little experiment,” Chan answered. “Perhaps our case is pau to-night.”

Jaynes was lighting a small cigar. “Pau—you mean finished? By jove, I hope so. They’re holding a cabin for me on to-morrow’s boat. I rely on you, Inspector.”

“We all do,” added the director. “I want to get off myself. Huntley—you and I might take that boat too.”

Van Horn shrugged. “Oh—I don’t care if I ​never leave. I was looking at that beach-comber last night. Shouldn’t be surprised if he were the happiest man among us.”

“Going primitive, eh?” Martino smiled. “I suppose it’s the influence of that part you played down in Tahiti.”

“It’s the thought of Hollywood,” responded Van Horn. “Of all the artificial places I’ve seen, that town wins the embossed medallion.”

“Spoken like a true Californian,” remarked Jimmy Bradshaw, entering with Julie. “Would you mind if I quoted you on that? Famous picture actor prefers Honolulu’s simple ways to the fevered swank of the film colony.”

“You do,” returned Van Horn grimly, “and I'll deny I ever said it.”

“Alas!” grinned Bradshaw. “All the movie actors’ best lines have to be left out of their interviews.”

Wilkie Ballou and his wife came in. The former wore a linen suit, with white shoes, and Charlie was troubled. If Ballou took the chair that was waiting for some one in the dining-room, then his case might be far from proof even now.

“What's it all about?” Ballou demanded. “I was going to bed early to-night.”

“Poor old Wilkie can’t stand excitement,” Rita remarked. “As for me, I love it. Hello, Diana,—what have you been doing to-day?”

The curtain parted, and Tarneverro stepped noiselessly into the room. He stood for a moment, staring about, a rather worried look in his dark eyes.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “We're all here, aren’t we?”

Jaynes got slowly to his feet, walked over and prof​fered a case. “Good evening,” he remarked. “Will you have one of my cigars?”

“No, thank you,” Tarneverro answered blandly. “I don’t use them.”

“So sorry,” replied the Britisher. “I rather thought you did.”

Charlie stepped hastily between them. “Will you be seated, please? We are all here, yes—except my Chief. We wait few minutes for him.”

They sat down. Rita, Diana and Julie chatted together in low tones. The men were silent, staring into space.

Presently there was a clatter in the hall, and the Chief strode in. After him came Spencer, big and competent-looking. Chan leaped up.

“Ah, Chief,—now we may go forward. I have explained that we desire to make small experiment. You know some of these people——”

Wilkie Ballou shook the Chief’s hand. “I’m glad to see you here,” he remarked, with a glance toward Charlie.

“Mr. Tarneverro is also known to you,” Chan continued, oblivious. He introduced the others. “Now we will all proceed to dining-room,” he finished.

“What! Another dinner party?” cried Rita Ballou.

“A peculiar dinner party,” Chan told her, “at which no food will be served. Come this way, please.”

They filed out, solemn and ill-at-ease now. The presence of the Chief and the burly policeman in uniform had served to impress them with the seriousness of the situation. Not unnaturally, they were asking themselves what all this meant? Was it a trap?

Jessop was on duty in the dining-room, grave and ​dignified. He waited, ready to seat them at the barren table with the same poise as though it had gleamed with silver, been snowy with linen.

“We are now about to make request,” Chan said slowly. “I would remind you that this is important moment and you must think deep before acting. No mistake must be made. Will you kindly sit down at same places you occupied at this table last night?”

A little chorus of dismay greeted his words. “But I was so excited, I don’t remember,” cried Diana, and the others echoed her. For a moment they milled about, puzzled and uncertain. Then Jimmy Bradshaw dropped down at the foot of the table, opposite the empty chair of the hostess.

“I sat here,” he announced. “I recall it perfectly. Julie, you were at my right. Mr. Van Horn, you sat at my left.”

Julie and the picture actor, with Jessop officiating, took their places.

“Mr. Ballou, you were here beside me,” Julie said, and Chan heaved a sigh of relief as the Honolulu man sank into his chair.

“So I was,” Ballou remarked. “Thank you for remembering, my dear. Diana, you were at my right.”

“True enough,” Miss Dixon agreed, and Jessop held her chair. “And, Val, you were at my right.”

“Of course,” the director nodded, and sat down.

One side of the table was now completely filled—but it was not the side that interested Charlie.

“You were across from me, Rita,” said Diana.

Mrs. Ballou took her place.

Two chairs, aside from the one at the head of the table, remained vacant, with Jaynes and Tarneverro left to occupy them.

​“I believe, Mrs. Ballou, that I had the honor of sitting beside you,” remarked Tarneverro, and took the chair at her right.

“So you did,” Rita agreed. “And Mr. Jaynes was on the other side.” She indicated the chair at her left—the portentous chair before which were tiny scratches such as might have been made by a broken pin protruding slightly from the heel of a shoe.

“I fancy we have it now,” smiled Jaynes innocently, and sat down.

There was a moment’s silence. “You are seated just as you were last night?” Chan inquired slowly.

“We are not,” said Huntley Van Horn suddenly.

“Something is wrong?” Charlie asked.

“It is. Mr. Tarneverro is at my left now, but last night Mr. Jaynes was in that position.”

“Why, of course,” Rita Ballou cried. She turned to Tarneverro. “You and Mr. Jaynes have exchanged places.”

“Perhaps we have,” the fortune-teller answered amiably. He rose. Jaynes also got up, and took the chair at Rita’s right. After a moment’s hesitation, Tarneverro dropped into the fateful chair. “I fancy we're all set now,” he remarked calmly. “Jessop, you may serve the soup.”

Charlie and the Chief exchanged a look, and moved away from the neighborhood of the table. They went into the hall.

“Tarneverro,” said the Chief softly. “I knew it. Take a look at his shoes——”

But Chan stubbornly shook his head. “Something is very wrong here,” he insisted.

“Wrong, nonsense! What’s got into you, anyhow, Charlie?”

​“Extremely wrong,” Chan continued. “You can not convict a man with an alibi such as his. All broken pins in world would not avail.”

“Then the whole thing’s a flop, according to you?”

“So far—yes. But I do not despair. Permit me that I think a moment. There is some explanation of this. Ah, yes—come with me.”

They returned to the dining-room. The group about that barren table looked at them expectantly.

“Kindly hold positions just as at present,” Chan said. “I come back before I am missed.”

He stepped through a swinging door into the kitchen, and they heard his voice in low converse with Wu Kno-ching, the cook. They waited in silence; even the obviously innocent appeared anxious and uneasy. Presently Charlie returned, walking with unwonted briskness and with a grim look on his face.

“Jessop,” he said.

The butler stepped forward with a rather startled air.

“Yes, Constable?”

“Jessop, after these people departed last night, others sat at this table?”

The butler had a guilty look. “I’m extremely sorry, sir. It was not quite in order—I would not ordinarily countenance it in a well-run house, but things were rather at sixes and sevens—and we had had no dinner—so we just sat down for a bit of coffee; we needed it badly——”

“Who sat down?”

“Anna and I, sir.”

“You and Anna sat down at this table, after the guests had gone? Where did you sit?”

​“Over there—where Mr. Martino is now seated, sir.”

“And Anna—where did Anna sit?”

“She sat here, sir.” And Jessop laid his hand on the back of Tarneverro’s chair.

For a moment Chan was silent, staring at the butler with unseeing eyes. He sighed heavily, as one who after a long journey sights the end of the trail at last.

“Where is Anna now?” he asked.

“She is in her room, I fancy, sir. Up-stairs.”

Charlie nodded at Spencer. “Bring this woman at once,” he ordered, and the policeman disappeared. Chan turned to the table. “Our little experiment is ended. Please step back to living-room.”

They got up and filed silently across the hall. Charlie and the Chief waited at the foot of the stairway. The Chief said nothing, and Charlie also seemed disinclined to speak. Presently Spencer appeared at the head of the stairs, accompanied by Anna. They descended slowly. His eyes like black buttons in the half-light, Chan faced the woman. With cool unconcern, she returned his stare.

“Come with me,” he said. He led her into the living-room, and stood for a moment looking at her feet. She wore high, black shoes, in keeping with her sober uniform. The right one, Charlie noted, seemed somewhat thick about the ankle.

“Anna, I must make very odd request of you,” he said. “Will you be good enough to remove right shoe?”

She sat down, and began slowly to unlace it. Tarneverro came forward and stood at Chan’s side. The detective ignored him.

​He took the heavy shoe from Anna’s hand, turned it over, and with his penknife slit the rubber heel. A little half-inch length of gold pin lay exposed, and with a gesture of triumph he lifted it out and held it up.

“You are all witnesses,” he reminded them. He turned to Anna. “As for you, I fear you have been grossly careless. When you stamped those orchids under foot, you failed to note this telltale evidence of your act. Ah, well—but for such brief moments of neglect, we would get nowhere in this business.” He gave his attention to the shoe. “I note braces built along the sides,” he continued. “Meant to protect weak ankle, I think. You have had an accident, madam?”

“My—my ankle was broken—long ago,” she replied, in a voice barely audible.

“Broken?” cried Charlie quickly. “When? How? Was it dancing on the stage you broke that ankle? Ah, yes—it was. Madam—I think you were once the wife of Denny Mayo.”

The woman took a little step toward him. Her eyes were hard and defiant, but her usually dark face was white as Waikiki’s sands.