The Black Camel/Chapter 7

CHARLIE sent the maid back to the house, and then sat down in the straight-backed chair before the dressing-table. The sole illumination in the little room came from two pink-shaded lamps, one on either side of the mirror. Thoughtfully he stared into the glass where, dimly reflected, he caught occasional glimpses of an ivory satin gown. Shelah Fane now lay on the couch where the coroner had placed her. All the loves and the hates, the jealousies, the glittering triumphs of this tempestuous career were ended to-night. A woman of flame, they had called her. The flame had flickered and died like a candle in the wind—in the restless trade-wind blowing from the Koolau Range.

Chan’s small eyes narrowed in an intense effort at concentration. In one of her more indiscreet moments, Shelah Fane had seen Denny Mayo murdered. For three years she had carried the secret about with her until—and this moment was even more indiscreet—she poured it into the willing ears of Tarneverro the Great, a crystal-gazer—a charlatan, no doubt. That same night, the black camel had knelt before her gate.

Carefully in his mind, the detective began to go over the points his investigation had so far revealed. ​He was not one to carry a note-book, but he took an envelope from his pocket, and with a pencil began to write a list of names on the back. He was thus engaged when he heard a step behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the lean mysterious figure of Tarneverro.

The fortune-teller came forward and dropped into a chair at Chan’s side. He stared at the detective, and there was disapproval in that stare.

“Since you have asked me to work with you in this affair,” he began, “you will perhaps pardon me if I say I think you have been extremely careless.”

Charlie’s eyes opened wide. “Yes?” he said.

“I refer to Miss Fane’s letter,’ continued Tarneverro. “It may have been the answer to all our questions. In it the poor girl may have written the name we so eagerly seek. Yet you made no move to search the people in that room—you even pooh-poohed the idea when I offered it. Why?”

Chan shrugged. “You think, then, we have to deal with a fool? A miscreant who would take pretty complete pains to obtain the epistle, and then place it on his own person where a search would instantly reveal it? You are wrong, my friend. I had no taste for revealing how wrong you were, at the expense of further embarrassment for myself. No, the letter is hidden in that room, and sooner or later it will be found. If not—what of it? I have strong feeling that it contains nothing of the least importance.”

“On what do you base that feeling?” Tarneverro inquired.

“I have plenty as a base. Would Shelah Fane have written big secret down and then given it to servant ​who must pass it along to you? No, she would have awaited her opportunity and then delivered it to you with her own hand. I do not reprove you, but I believe you attach undue importance to that probably innocent epistle.”

“Well, the murderer certainly thought it important. You can’t deny that.”

“Murderer was in state of high excitement and took unnecessary risk. If he takes few more like that, we are at trail’s end.”

Tarneverro, with a gesture, dismissed the matter. “Well, and what have you discovered from all your questions?” He glanced at Chan’s notes.

“Not much. You perceived that I was curious to learn who was in Hollywood three years ago last month. Assuming that the story is true—the story you say Shelah Fane told you this morning———”

“Why shouldn’t it be true? Does a woman make a confession like that as a joke?”

“Never,” answered Chan, somewhat sharply for him. “And for that reason I am remarking I assume it to be true. It is, then, important to locate our many suspects in June three years ago. I have written here the names of all who were in Hollywood at that time, and consequently may have slain Denny Mayo. They are Wilkie Ballou, Rita his wife, Huntley Van Horn. And—ah, yes—Jessop, the butler. I regret that, overwhelmed by account of bloody shirt, I neglected to make inquiries of Miss Dixon.”

“She has been in Hollywood six years,” the fortune-teller informed him. “I know from what she has told me during the readings I have given her.”

“One more.” Charlie wrote down the name. “I ​may, I presume, add Miss Julie—though very young at the time. Of these, for the hour of two minutes past eight to-night, two have been accounted for. Jessop presents plenty good alibi and Huntley Van Horn has perfect one, to which I myself can swear. Other things I learned—not very important—but it struck my mind, as it must have struck yours, that Mr. Alan Jaynes was breathless with anxiety to leave Hawaii to-night. Do not forget—it is within grounds of possibility that Denny Mayo murder had nothing to do with death of Shelah Fane. This Jaynes was in overwrought state; his may be fiercely jealous nature; he may have looked at those orchids, the gift of another, on the lady’s shoulder, and———”

“But he, too, has the alibi of the watch,” Tarneverro suggested.

“Alas! yes,” Chan nodded.

For a moment they sat in silence. Then Tarneverro rose, and walked slowly toward the couch. “By the way,” he said casually, “have you made a thorough examination of this watch?”

“So sorry.” Chan rose and followed him. “You now call my attention to fact that I have neglected most obvious duty.” Tarneverro was bending over, but Chan stopped him. “I will remove it at once and have careful look at it—though I am so dense I do not quite grasp your meaning.”

Taking a linen handkerchief from his pocket, he spread it over his left hand. With his other hand he unfastened the narrow black ribbon from Shelah Fane’s wrist, and lifting the costly little watch, laid it on the handkerchief. He went back and stood directly under one of the lights, staring down at the timepiece.

​“Haie, I seem in stupid mood to-night,” he sighed. “I am still at sea. Crystal is broken, watch has ceased to function at precisely two minutes past eight———”

“Permit me,” said Tarneverro. “I will be more explicit.” He took both handkerchief and watch, and with the linen always between his fingers and the metal, turned the stem of the fragile timepiece. At his touch, the minute hand moved instantly.

A flash of triumph shone in the fortune-teller’s eyes. “That,” he cried, “is more than I dared to hope for. The murderer has been guilty of a small error—it was very kind of him. He adjusted the stem so that the time shown on the face of the watch could be altered at will—and in his haste he forgot to readjust it. Surely I needn’t tell you what that means.”

Charlie gave him a look of enthusiastic approval. “You are detective of the first class yourself—give me credit that I noted same this morning. I can never cease to be grateful to you. Of course I grasp meaning now.”

Tarneverro laid the watch down on the glass top of the dressing-table. “I think we may be sure of one thing, Inspector,” he remarked. “At whatever hour the murder took place, it was certainly not at two minutes past eight. We are dealing with a clever man. After he had killed Shelah Fane he removed her watch, set the time back—or perhaps forward—to two minutes past eight, and then smashed the thing as though to indicate a struggle.” The fortune-teller’s eyes lighted; he pointed to the corner of the dressing-table. “That’s the explanation of the nick in the glass. He banged the watch against that corner until he had stopped its running.”

​Chan was instantly on the floor. “There is no glass beneath,” he said.

“No, no,” Tarneverro continued. “There wouldn’t be. The broken glass was naturally found where Miss Fane fell. And why? Because this unknown person removed the watch with a handkerchief, as you have done; he swung it against the table in that handkerchief to catch the bits of crystal, and carried the wrecked remains intact to the spot where he wanted them. A bright boy, Inspector.”

Charlie nodded. Obvious chagrin was in his manner. “But you are brighter boy. Almost I am on verge of resigning in disgust at my own stupidity. You should take my badge, Mr. Tarneverro, for you are the smart detective on this case.”

Tarneverro gave him an odd look. “You think so, do you? I’m afraid you exaggerate—the matter was really simple enough. It came into my mind that too many of us had alibis in this affair. I thought how easy it would be to change the time on the face of a watch. That is what happened here. The murderer set it at a moment then past, for which he had already established an alibi—or at a future time for which he proposed to get an alibi forthwith. However, when a man is excited he is likely to slip up somewhere—and this chap stumbled when he forgot to push down that little stem before he left.”

Chan sighed. “I am, as I remarked, bubbling with gratitude toward you, and yet I am appalled. Whole flock of alibis is now quite ruined, and the field broadens like some boundless prairie. Van Horn’s alibi is gone, the alibis of Martino and of Jaynes, they are gone too, and—begging humble pardon, Mr. Tar​neverro—you have likewise destroyed the alibi you yourself possessed.”

The fortune-teller threw back his head and laughed. “Do I need an alibi?” he cried.

“Perhaps not,” Charlie grinned. “But when a tree falls, the shade is gone. Who knows? Even you might regret the loss of that shade in time.”

“It may happen that I have another tree,” suggested Tarneverro.

“If that is true, I congratulate you.” Charlie glanced around the room. “I must have poor unfortunate lady removed now to house, then lock this place until finger-print expert can do work early in morning. You will observe we do not move with vast speed here in Hawaii. It is our lovely climate.” He put the watch in the dressing-table drawer, and he and Tarneverro went out, Chan again locking the door. “We will now continue to living-room, which we will seek to obtain to ourselves. Perhaps there you will deign to keep on with remarkable research. I travel in luck to-night. What could I do without you?”

A little group of chairs on the lawn indicated the whereabouts of most of the guests. In the living-room they came upon Julie and Jimmy Bradshaw, seated close together. The girl had evidently been crying, and Mr. Bradshaw’s manner suggested that he played the role of comforter. Chan gave Julie the key to the pavilion, and told her gently what must be done. She and the boy went out to seek the aid of the servants.

When they had gone, Charlie walked thoughtfully up and down the big room. He peered into receptacles that held flowers and plants, opened the few books he came upon and ruffled the pages.

​“By the way,” Tarneverro remarked, “have you made an inspection of Miss Fane’s bedroom?”

“Not yet,” Chan answered. “So much to do, and only you and I to do it. I have sent Kashimo, our Japanese sleuth hound, on an errand, from which he will doubtless return in course of week or two. As for myself———” He was walking across a rug, and paused. “As for myself———” he repeated. He rubbed his thin-soled shoe back and forth over a spot in the rug. “As for myself,” he added a third time, “I have plenty good business here.”

He stooped and threw back the rug. There on the polished floor lay the big envelope that had been snatched from his hand earlier in the evening. One corner was missing, but otherwise the letter was intact.

“Fortunate that Miss Fane preferred such thick note-paper,” Charlie said. He picked up the envelope. “I fear I can not offer my unknown friend warm congratulations on his originality this time. But he was very hurried gentleman when this matter engaged his attention—I must remember that.”

Tarneverro came close, his dark eyes gleaming. “By gad—Shelah’s letter. And addressed to me, I believe?”

“I remind you again that the police are in charge,” Chan said.

“They were in charge before,” Tarneverro answered.

“Ah, yes. But history will not repeat just yet.” Charlie removed the note from the envelope, and read. He shrugged his shoulders, and passed the missive to the fortune-teller. “Once I was right,” he remarked.

Tarneverro looked down at the huge sprawling ​handwriting of one who was generous of note-paper as of all things. He frowned at what he saw.

“Dear Tarneverro:

“Please forget what I told you this morning. I must have been mad—mad. I intend to forget it—and so must you—oh, Tarneverro, promise me you will. Pretend that I never said it. I shall refuse poor Alan to-night—it will break my heart—but I'll do it. I am going on alone—perhaps in the end I may even find a little happiness. I want it so much.

“Poor Shelah!” The fortune-teller stood for a moment, staring at the letter. “She hadn’t the courage to go through with it—I might have known. A pitiful letter—I don’t believe I would have insisted, after all.” He crushed the paper in his hand fiercely. “The murderer of Denny Mayo was safe—she wasn’t going to tell on him—he killed her for nothing. She’s gone, and she might be here. By heaven—I’ll get him if it’s the last act of my life!”

Chan smiled. “I have a similar ambition, though I trust the accomplishment will not finish off my existence.” His Japanese assistant came stealthily into the room. “Ah, Kashimo, have you enjoyed pleasant week-end up-stair?”

“Pretty hard job, but I got him,” Kashimo announced proudly. “Found in jar under potted plant.”

Chan reached out his hand. To his surprise Kashimo proffered, not the photograph Charlie expected, but a handful of torn bits of glazed paper and of heavy green cardboard. Some one had ripped the ​portrait on the green mat to bits, and then attempted to conceal the wreckage.

“What have we now?” Chan said. He stood looking in wonder at the handful of scraps that he held. His eyes sought Tarneverro’s. “Here is a matter worthy of consideration. Person unknown does not wish me to look upon the photograph over which Shelah Fane wept this afternoon. Why? Is it then portrait of the man you had asked her to betray?”

“It may have been,” Tarneverro agreed.

“Course now becomes clear,” Charlie announced. “I must view this photograph, so with all patience at my command, I propose to fit these scraps together again.” He pulled a small table up before the windows that faced the street.

“I investigate outside the house,” Kashimo remarked.

“Much the safest place to have you,” Chan returned. “By all means investigate very hard.”

The Japanese went out.

Charlie removed the table cover, and sat down. On the smooth top he began carefully to lay together the pieces of the photograph. The task, he saw, was going to be long and arduous. “I never was bright man with jigsaw puzzle,” he complained. “My daughter Rose was pride of family at that work. I would enjoy to have her at my side.”

He had made scant progress when the door of the lanai opened, and a group of the guests entered the living-room. Wilkie Ballou walked at the head, and after him came Van Horn, Martino, Jaynes and Rita Ballou. Diana Dixon followed; she seemed detached from the crowd, which had the air of a delegation.

​A delegation it was, evidently. Ballou began to speak, in his most commanding tone.

“See here, Inspector—we’ve talked it over and there’s no earthly reason why you should keep us here any longer. We've all been questioned, we’ve told you what we know, and now we propose to leave.”

Charlie tossed down the as yet unplaced bits of the photograph and rose. He bowed politely.

“I recognize you are impatient with good reason,” he said.

“Then you’re willing for us to go along?” inquired Ballou.

“I am—and I say it with extreme pain—quite unwilling,” Chan replied. “Unfortunately, new developments keep popping off like firecrackers on New Year holiday, and I have something still to talk about with you.”

“An outrage!” Ballou cried. “I'll have your badge for this.”

Charlie rewarded him with a maddening smile. “That may happen—to-morrow. But looking only at to-night, I am placed in charge of this case, and I say—you will remain here until I tell you to depart.”

Jaynes pushed forward. “I have important business on the mainland, and I intend to sail at midnight. It is now long past ten. I warn you that you must call out your entire force if you propose to keep me here———”

“That also can be done,” answered Charlie amiably.

“Good lord!” The Britisher looked helplessly at Wilkie Ballou. “What kind of place is this? Why don’t they send a white man out here?”

A rare light flared suddenly in Charlie’s eyes. “The ​man who is about to cross a stream should not revile the crocodile’s mother,” he said in icy tones.

“What do you mean by that?” Jaynes asked.

“I mean you are not yet safely on the farther bank.”

“You know damn’ well I’ve got an alibi,” cried the Britisher angrily.

Chan’s little eyes surveyed him from head to foot. “I am not so sure I do,” he remarked calmly.

“You said yourself you had fixed the time of this affair———”

“How sad,” cut in Charlie, “that we pass through this life, making so many errors as we go. Me, I am stupid blunderer. Your alibi, Mr. Jaynes, has been punctured like bubble with a pin.”

“What!” cried Jaynes.

Van Horn and Martino stirred with sudden interest.

“Back off and cool down,” Chan continued. “And accepting my advice, speak no more of alibis. You have already said too much.”

Like a man dazed, Jaynes almost literally obeyed Chan’s orders. Charlie turned to Rita Ballou.

“Madam, my humblest apologies and regrets. I hold you here with the utmost grief. It has occurred to me that there is a dinner long prepared—I fear the passage of time has wrecked most of it now. But if I might suggest———”

“Oh, I couldn’t eat a thing,” Rita told him.

“No, of course, the very thought is horrifying,” Chan nodded. “Such heartlessness would be quite out of place.” Julie and Bradshaw came in. “Nevertheless I urge that you all go out to your positions at the table and at least partake of one cup of coffee. The event will shatter strain, and make easier the period of ​waiting. Coffee, as you know, stimulates and fortifies the mind.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Huntley Van Horn.

“Miss Julie———” Chan suggested.

The girl smiled wanly. “Yes, of course. I'll tell Jessop to get things ready. You must forgive me. I’d quite forgotten we had guests to-night.”

She turned and went out. Charlie walked back to the small table where his task lay uncompleted. At that instant a French window facing the street was thrust suddenly open, and the trade-wind swept into the room like a miniature hurricane. Instantly the air was filled with torn bits of photograph, swirling about like snow in a Minnesota blizzard.

Kashimo stuck his head into the room. “S-s-s,” he hissed. “Charlie!”

“Splendid work, Kashimo,” said Chan through his teeth. “What is it now?”

“I find window unlocked,” announced the Japanese triumphantly, and withdrew, closing the aperture behind him.

Concealing his disgust, Charlie moved around the room, retrieving the bits of photograph from most unlikely places. Tarneverro and some of the others came promptly to his aid. In a few moments, he again held a little packet of scraps in his hand. He walked about, still seeking, but no more were in sight.

He resumed his place at the table, and for a few moments he worked hard. Then he shrugged his shoulders, and stood up.

“What’s the trouble?” Tarneverro asked.

Charlie looked at him. “No use. I have now little more than half the pieces I had before.” For a moment ​he stood staring about that innocent-appearing little group. It was in his mind to search every one of them, but a glance at Ballou reminded him that such action would mean a hot battle, and he was ever a man of peace. No, he must reach his goal by some other path. He sighed, and placed what he had left of the photograph in his pocket, as Kashimo dashed in. More in sorrow than in anger Charlie regarded his ambitious confrère.

“Detectives were practically extinct at station house when they sent you out to-night,” he said.

The door-bell rang, a loud, insistent peal. Jessop being in the distant kitchen, Jimmy Bradshaw went to the door. Those in the living-room heard a few sharp quick words in the hall, and a man strode into their midst. He was a handsome fellow of forty, gray at the temples, with great poise of manner and a keen eye. The grease-paint of the theater was still on his face. He stood, looking about him.

“Good evening,” he said. “I am Robert Fyfe—at one time the husband of Miss Shelah Fane. This is terrible news some one telephoned me a short time ago. I came the instant my part in the piece was finished—without stopping to remove my make-up or change my costume. Most unprofessional—but I must ask you to overlook it.”

“Shall I take your overcoat?” Jimmy Bradshaw asked.

“Thank you so much.” He stepped to the curtains and handed Jimmy the coat. As he turned back toward the room, Diana Dixon’s scream rang out, shrill and unexpected. She was pointing at Robert Fyfe’s shirt-front.

​Diagonally across that white expanse lay the bright red ribbon of the Legion of Honor. Startled, Fyfe looked down at it.

“Ah, yes,” he said. “I came in my stage costume, as I told you. This week, you see, I happen to be playing the rôle of a French ambassador.”