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  Title: Keeper of the Keys (Charlie Chan #6)

  Date of first publication: 1925

  Author: Earl Derr Biggers (1884-1933)

  Date first posted: May 17 2012

  Date last updated: June 9 2017

  Faded Page eBook #20120512

  This eBook was produced by: David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

  CHARLIE CHAN OMNIBUS

  THE HOUSE WITHOUT A KEY

  BEHIND THAT CURTAIN

  KEEPER OF THE KEYS

  by EARL DERR BIGGERS

  NEW YORK

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  PUBLISHERS

  Copyright, 1925

  By Earl Derr Biggers

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  To

  MY SON

  BOB

  As Quietly as Possible

  Since He Dislikes Publicity

  * * *

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I Snow on the Mountains 11

  II Dinner at Pineview 27

  III The Fallen Flower 46

  IV Upward No Road 64

  V Downward No Door 81

  VI Three O'clock in the Morning 100

  VII The Blind Man's Eyes 118

  VIII The Streets of Reno 136

  IX Trouble Takes Wing 153

  X Romano's Lucky Break 168

  XI A Balcony in Stresa 181

  XII So You're Going to Truckee? 191

  XIII Footsteps in the Dark 209

  XIV Thought Is a Lady 222

  XV Another Man's Earth 232

  XVI That Boy Ah Sing 247

  XVII The Net Closes In 260

  XVIII Rankin Drops a Bomb 273

  XIX Chan Climbs a Ladder 285

  XX After the Typhoon 296

  * * *

  KEEPER OF THE KEYS

  * * *

  CHAPTER I

  Snow on the Mountains

  The train had left Sacramento some distance behind, and was now bravely beginning the long climb that led to the high Sierras and the town of Truckee. Little patches of snow sparkled in the late afternoon sun along the way, and far ahead snow-capped peaks suddenly stood out against the pale sky of a reluctant spring.

  Two conductors, traveling together as though for safety, came down the aisle and paused at section seven. "Tickets on at Sacramento," demanded the leader. The occupant of the section, a pretty blonde girl who seemed no more than twenty, handed him the small green slips. He glanced at them, then passed one to his companion. "Seat in Seven," he said loudly. "Reno."

  "Reno," echoed the Pullman conductor, in an even louder tone.

  They passed on, leaving the blonde girl staring about the car with an air that was a mixture of timidity and defiance. This was the first time, since she had left home the day before, that she had been so openly tagged with the name of her destination. All up and down the car, strange faces turned and looked at her with casual curiosity. Some smiled knowingly; others were merely cold and aloof. The general public in one of its ruder moments.

  One passenger only showed no interest. Across the aisle, in section eight, the girl noted the broad shoulders and back of a man in a dark suit. He was sitting close to the window, staring out, and even from this rear view it was apparent that he was deeply engrossed with his own affairs. The young woman who was bound for Reno felt somehow rather grateful toward him.

  Presently he turned, and the girl understood, for she saw that he was a Chinese. A race that minds its own business. An admirable race. This member of it was plump and middle-aged. His little black eyes were shining as from some inner excitement; his lips were parted in a smile that seemed to indicate a sudden immense delight. Without so much as a glance toward number seven, he rose and walked rapidly down the car.

  Arrived on the front platform of the Pullman, he stood for a moment deeply inhaling the chilly air. Then again, as though irresistibly, he was drawn to the window. The train was climbing more slowly now; the landscape, wherever he looked, was white. Presently he was conscious of some one standing behind him, and turned. The train maid, a Chinese girl of whose guarded glances he had been conscious at intervals all afternoon, was gazing solemnly up at him.

  "How do you do," the man remarked, "and thank you so much. You have arrived at most opportune moment. The need to speak words assails me with unbearable force. I must release flood of enthusiasm or burst. For at this moment I am seeing snow for the first time!"

  "Oh—I am so glad!" answered the girl. It was an odd reply, but the plump Chinese was evidently too excited to notice that.

  "You see, it is this way," he continued eagerly. "All my life I can remember only nodding palm-trees, the trade winds of the tropics, surf tumbling on coral beach——"

  "Honolulu," suggested the girl.

  He paused, and stared at her. "Perhaps you have seen Hawaii too?" he inquired.

  She shook her head. "No. Me—I am born in San Francisco. But I read advertisements in magazines—and besides——"

  "You are bright girl," the man cut in, "and your deduction is eminently correct. Honolulu has been my home for many years. Once, it is true, I saw California before, and from flat floor of desert I beheld, far in distance, mountain snow. But that was all same dream. Now I am moving on into veritable snow country, the substance lies on ground all about, soon I shall plunge unaccustomed feet into its delicious cold. I shall intake great breaths of frigidair." He sighed. "Life is plenty good," he added.

  "Some people," said the girl, "find the snow boresome."

  "And some, no doubt, consider the stars a blemish on the sky. But you and I, we are not so insensible to the beauties of the world. We delight to travel—to find novelty and change. Is it not so?"

  "I certainly do."

  "Ah—you should visit my islands. Do not think that in my ecstasy of raving I forget the charm of my own land. I have daughter same age as you—how happy she would be to act as your guide. She would show you Honolulu, the flowering trees, the——"

  "The new police station, perhaps," cried the girl suddenly.

  The big man started slightly and stared at her. "I perceive that I am known," he remarked.

  "Naturally," the girl smiled. "For many years you have been newspaper hero for me. I was small child at the time, but I read with panting interest when you carried Phillimore pearls on flat floor of desert. Again, when you captured killer of famous Scotland Yard man in San Francisco, I perused daily accounts breathlessly. And only three weeks ago you arrived in San Francisco with one more cruel murderer in your firm grasp."

  "But even so," he shrugged.

  "Your pictures were in all the papers. Have you forgot?"

  "I seek to do so," he answered ruefully. "Were those my pictures?"

  "More than that, I have seen you in person. Two weeks ago when the Chan Family Society gave big banquet for you in San Francisco. My mother was a Chan, and we were all present. I stood only a few feet away when you entered building. True, I was seated so far distant I could not hear your speech,
but I was told by others it was brilliant talk."

  He shrugged. "The Chan family should have more respect for truth," he objected.

  "I am Violet Lee," she went on, holding out a tiny hand. "And you—may I speak the name——"

  "Why not?" he replied, taking her hand. "You have me trapped. I am Inspector Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu Police."

  "My husband and I recognized you when you came aboard at Oakland," the girl went on. "He is Henry Lee, steward of club car," she added proudly. "But he tells me sternly I must not speak to you—that is why I cried 'I am so glad!' when you spoke first to me. Perhaps, said my husband, inspector is now on new murder case, and does not want identity known. He is often right, my husband."

  "As husbands must be," Chan nodded. "But this time he is wrong."

  A shadow of disappointment crossed the girl's face. "You are not, then, on trail of some wrong-doer?"

  "I am on no trail but my own."

  "We thought there might have been some recent murder——"

  Charlie laughed. "This is the mainland," he remarked, "so of course there have been many recent murders. But I am happy to say, none of them concerns me. No—I am involved only in contemplation of snow-capped peaks."

  "Then—may I tell my husband that he is free to address you? The honor will overwhelm him with joy."

  Chan laid his hand on the girl's arm. "I will tell him myself," he announced. "And I will see you again before I leave the train. In the meantime, your friendly words have been as food to the famished, rest to the jaded. Aloha."

  He stepped through the door of the car ahead, leaving his small compatriot flushed and breathing fast on the chilly platform.

  When he reached the club car, the white-jacketed steward was bending solicitously over the solitary passenger there. Receiving the latter's order, he stood erect and cast one look in the direction of Charlie Chan. He was a small thin Chinese, and only another member of his race would have caught the brief flame of interest that flared under his heavy eyelids.

  Charlie dropped into a chair and, for lack of anything better to do, studied his fellow traveler, some distance down the aisle. The man was a lean, rather distinguished-looking foreigner of some sort—probably a Latin, Chan thought. His hair was as black and sleek as the detective's, save where it was touched with gray over the ears. His eyes were quick and roving, his thin hands moved nervously about, he sat on the edge of his chair, as though his stay on the train was but a brief interlude in an exciting life.

  When the steward returned with a package of cigarettes on a silver tray and got his money and tip from the other passenger, Chan beckoned to him. The boy was at his side in an instant.

  "One juice of the orange, if you will be so good," Charlie ordered.

  "Delighted to serve," replied the steward, and was off like a greyhound. With surprising speed he returned, and placed the drink on the arm of Charlie's chair. He was moving reluctantly away, when the detective spoke.

  "An excellent concoction," he said, holding the glass aloft.

  "Yes, sir," replied the steward, and looked at Chan much as the Chinese girl on the platform had done.

  "Helpful in reducing the girth," Chan went on. "A question which, I perceive, does not concern you. But as for myself—you will note how snugly I repose in this broad chair."

  The eyes of the other narrowed. "The man-hunting tiger is sometimes over-plump," he remarked. "Still he pounces with admirable precision."

  Charlie smiled. "He who is cautious by nature is a safe companion in crossing a bridge."

  The steward nodded. "When you travel abroad, speak as the people of the country are speaking."

  "I commend your discretion," Charlie told him. "But as I have just said to your wife, it is happily unnecessary at this time. The man-hunting tiger is at present unemployed. You may safely call him by his name."

  "Ah, thank you, Inspector. It is under any conditions a great honor to meet you. My wife and I are both long-time admirers of your work. At this moment you seem to stand at very pinnacle of fame."

  Charlie sighed, and drained his glass. "He who stands on pinnacle," he ventured, "has no place to step but off."

  "The need for moving," suggested the steward, "may not be imminent."

  "Very true." The detective nodded approvingly. "Such wisdom, and such efficiency. When I met your wife, I congratulated you. Now I meet you, I felicitate her."

  A delighted smile spread over the younger man's face. "A remark," he answered, "that will find place in our family archive. The subjects are unworthy, but the source is notable. Will you deign to drink again?"

  "No, thank you." Chan glanced at his watch. "The town of Truckee, I believe, is but twenty-five minutes distant."

  "Twenty-four and one-half," replied Henry Lee, who was a railroad man. The flicker of surprise in his black eyes was scarcely noticeable. "You alight at Truckee, Inspector?"

  "I do," nodded Charlie, his gaze on the other passenger, who had evinced sudden interest.

  "You travel for pleasure, I believe you intimated," the steward continued.

  Chan smiled. "In part," he said softly.

  "Ah, yes—in part," Henry Lee repeated. He saw Chan's hand go to his trousers pocket. "The charge, I regret to state, is one half-dollar."

  Nodding, Charlie hesitated a moment. Then he laid the precise sum on the silver tray. He was not unaware of the institution of tipping. He was also not unaware of the sensitive Chinese nature. They would part now as friends, not as master and menial. He saw from the light in Henry Lee's eyes that the young man appreciated his delicacy.

  "Thank you so much," said the steward, bowing low. "It has been great honor and privilege to serve Inspector Charlie Chan."

  It chanced that at the moment the detective's eyes were on the foreign-looking passenger at the other end of the car. The man had been about to light a cigarette, but when he overheard the name he paused, and stared until the match burned down to his finger-tips. He tossed it aside, lighted another and then came down the car and dropped into the seat at Charlie's side.

  "Pardon," he said. "Me—I have no wish to intrude. But I overhear you say you leave the train at Truckee. So also must I."

  "Yes?" Chan said politely.

  "Alas, yes. A desolate place, they tell me, at this time of year."

  "The snow is very beautiful," suggested Charlie.

  "Bah!" The other shrugged disgustedly. "Me, I have had sufficient snow. I fought for two winters with the Italian Army in the North."

  "Distasteful work," commented Chan, "for you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Pardon—no offense. But one of your temperament. A musician."

  "You know me, then?"

  "I have not the pleasure. But I note flattened, calloused finger-tips. You have played violin."

  "I have done more than play the violin. I am Luis Romano, conductor of the opera. Ah—I perceive that means nothing to you. But in my own country—at La Scala in Milan, at Naples. And also in Paris, in London, even in New York. However, that is all finished now."

  "I am so sorry."

  "Finished—by a woman. A woman who—but what of this? We both alight at Truckee. And after that——"

  "Ah, yes—after that."

  "We travel together, Signor Chan. I could not help it—I heard the name. But that was lucky. I was told to look out for you. You do not believe? Read this."

  He handed Charlie a somewhat soiled and crumpled telegram. The detective read:

  "Mr. Luis Romano, Kilarney Hotel, San Francisco: Delighted you are coming to Tahoe to visit me. Owing to very late spring, roads around lake in poor condition. Leave train Truckee, I will telephone local garage have car waiting, you will be driven to Tahoe Tavern. At Tavern pier my man will wait for you with motor-launch, bring you down to my place, Pineview. Other guests may join you in car at Truckee, among them Mr. Charlie Chan, of Honolulu. Thanks for coming.

  "Dudley Ward."

  Chan returned the missive to t
he eager hand of the Italian. "Now I understand," he remarked.

  Mr. Romano made a gesture of despair. "You are more fortunate than I. I understand to the door of this place Pineview—but no further. You, however—it may be you are old friend of Mr. Dudley Ward? The whole affair may be clear to you."

  Charlie's face was bland, expressionless. "You are, then, in the dark yourself?" he inquired.

  "Absolutely," the Italian admitted.

  "Mr. Dudley Ward is no friend of yours?"

  "Not at all. I have yet to see him. I know, of course, he is a member of a famous San Francisco family, very wealthy. He spends the summers at his place on this high lake, to which he goes very early in the season. A few days ago I had a most surprising letter from him, asking me to visit him up here. There was, he said, a certain matter he wished to discuss, and he promised to pay me well for my trouble. I was—I am, Signor, financially embarrassed—owing to a circumstance quite unforeseen and abominable. So I agreed to come."

  "You have no trace of idea what subject Mr. Ward desires to discuss?"

  "I have an inkling—yes. You see—Mr. Ward was once the husband of—my wife." Chan nodded hazily. "The relationship, however, is not very close. There were two other husbands in between us. He was the first—I am the fourth."

  Charlie sought to keep a look of surprise from his face. What would his wife, on Punchbowl Hill, think of this? But he was now on the mainland, with Reno only a few miles away.

  "It will be perhaps easier for you to understand," the Italian went on, "if I tell you who is my wife. A name, Signor, known even to you—pardon—to the whole world. Landini, the opera singer, Ellen Landini." He sat excitedly on the edge of his chair. "What a talent—magnificent. What an organ—superb. And what a heart—cold as those snow-covered stones." He waved at the passing landscape.

  "So sorry," Chan said. "You are not, then, happy with your wife?"

  "Happy with her, Signor? Happy with her!" He stood up, the better to declaim. "Can I be happy with a woman who is at this very moment in Reno seeking to divorce me and marry her latest fancy—a silly boy with a face like putty? After all I have done for her—the loving care I have lavished upon her—and now she does not send me even the first payment of the settlement that was agreed on—she leaves me to——"