Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On Page 18

  On the deck, Mrs. Chan stood looking up at her inexplicable husband with timid eyes. “Wheh you go now, please?” she asked.

  He gave her a kindly pat on the back. “Events break suddenly like fire-crackers in the face of innocent passerby,” he said. He told her what had happened in his office, and of the need for his immediate departure in order to save his face and regain his lost prestige.

  The gentle little woman understood. “Plenty clean closes in bag,” she told him. She considered for a moment. “I think mebbe dangah winch you go,” she added.

  Charlie smiled reassuringly. “What the gods have decreed, man can not alter,” he reminded her. “Can he dodge down by-path and avoid his fate? Do not fret. All will no doubt be well. And before many days I expect to see our Rose.”

  In the dim light he saw sudden tears shining on her chubby cheeks. “Much love,” she said. “I send much love. She goes so fah away.” A quick pathetic little wringing of her hands. “I do not unnahstand why she go so fah away.”

  “You will understand in the proud days to come,” Charlie promised.

  Little groups of passengers straggled up the gangplank, lingered a moment on the deck, and then drifted off to their cabins. There was to be no excitement attending this sailing evidently. Chan’s chief appeared.

  “Ah, here you are, Charlie,” he said. “I was able to dig up another sixty dollars for you.” He handed over a roll of bills.

  “You overwhelm me with kindness,” Charlie answered.

  “I’ll cable you more to bring you home - after you’ve got your man,” the chief went on. “You’ll get him. I’m sure.”

  “Now that I have time to think it over, I am not so certain myself,” Chan responded. “Seems this is pretty hard task I have selected. I know from talk with Inspector Duff only one thing will make him happy. I must discover identity of man who committed murder more than three months ago in Broome’s Hotel, London. All time I have remained eight thousand miles away from scene of crime, and I must solve same when clues are cold, trail is covered, and no doubt the one vital point that might have brought about arrest is forgotten by all involved. It appears to me now that tonight I hotly elected myself to superman’s job without possessing necessary equipment. Maybe I come crawling home before long, defeated and expunged of all honor.”

  “Yes, and maybe not,” returned the chief. “It does look like a difficult task, that’s true, but -“

  He was interrupted by a small panting figure that appeared out of the night and faced Charlie. It was Kashimo.

  “Hello, Charlie,” the Japanese cried.

  “Ah - this is kind of you to say good-by -” Chan began.

  “Never mind good-by,” Kashimo broke in. “I got important information, Charlie.”

  “Have you indeed?” Chan answered politely. “Of what nature, Kashimo?”

  “I am going by end of alley soon after shot is fired injuring your honorable friend,” went on the Japanese breathlessly. “I behold man coming out of alley into lighted street. He is tall man wrapped in big coat, hat over eyes.”

  “Then you didn’t see his face?” Chan suggested.

  “What’s the matter,” Kashimo replied. “Face not necessary. Saw something better. The man is very lame, like this -” With great histrionic vigor he gave an imitation of a lame man there on the deck. “He carries walking stick, light-colored, maybe Malacca kind.”

  “I am very grateful,” nodded Charlie, speaking in a voice such as he might have used to his youngest child. “You are observant, Kashimo. You are learning fast.”

  “Maybe some day I am good detective too,” suggested the Japanese hopefully.

  “Who can say?” Chan replied. A deep voice suggested that all who were going ashore had better do so. Charlie turned to his wife, and at that instant Kashimo burst into a torrent of words directed at the chief. The burden of it appeared to be that he should be sent to San Francisco as Chan’s assistant.

  “I am very fine searcher,” the Japanese insisted. “Charlie says so himself.”

  “How about it, Charlie?” grinned the chief. “Could you use him?”

  Chan hesitated for a second, then he went over and patted the little man on the shoulder.

  “Consider, Kashimo,” he remarked. “You do not weigh situation properly. Should you and I both be absent from Honolulu at identical moment, what an opportunity for the evil-doers! Crime wave might sweep over island, almost obliterating it. Run along now, and be good boy while I am gone. Always remember, we learn by our mistakes. First you know, you will be ablest man among us.”

  Kashimo nodded, shook hands and disappeared down the deck. Charlie turned to his son. “Please arrange that my car is taken up to garage on Punchbowl Hill at once,” he said. “In my absence you will show your mother every deference, and guard whole family well.”

  “Sure,” Henry agreed. “And say, Dad - can I use your bus until you come back? There’s something wrong with that old flivver I inherited from you.”

  Chan nodded. “I foresaw that request. Yes, you may use my car, but please treat it with unusual kindness. Do not continually demand more than it has to give, like speed-mad young people you imitate. Good-by, Henry.” He said a few low words to his wife, kissed her in Occidental fashion, and led her to the top of the gangplank.

  “Good luck, Charlie,” remarked his chief, and shook hands.

  A chain clanked in the quiet night, and the plank was lowered, cutting Chan irrevocably off from the group on the dock. He saw them standing there looking up at him, and the sight touched him. There was, in their very attitudes, an expression of confidence in him and in his ultimate success. It was a confidence he did not share with them. What was this wild task he had set himself? He clutched Duff’s briefcase tightly in his arms.

  Slowly the big liner backed away, out into midstream. No orchestra playing Aloha tonight, no gaily colored streamers floating between ship and shore, none of the picturesque gestures that usually attended island sailings. Just the grim business of getting on with it, the old story of a ship putting out to sea.

  The little group on the shadowy pier faded finally from his sight; still he did not move from his post by the rail. The throb of the engines became more pronounced; the ship was settling down to it. Presently Chan saw the circle of lights that marked Waikiki Beach. How many nights he had sat on his lanai staring across the town toward that beach, vaguely wishing for action, for something to happen. Well, it had happened at last - yes, something had certainly happened when he saw the lights of Waikiki from a ship at sea.

  He turned and regarded the huge bulk of the liner, dark and mysterious behind him. He was in a new world now, a small world, and in it with him was a man who had killed in London through error, had killed again in Nice and San Remo through grim intention, and then again on the Yokohama dock, no doubt through necessity. A ruthless man who had only tonight sought to remove the relentless Duff from his trail. Not a squeamish person, this Jim Everhard. Now for six days Chan and he would be together in a limited space, prisoners on this brave contraption of steel and wood, each seeking to outwit the other. Which would win?

  Charlie started. Some one had come up noiselessly behind him, and he had heard a sudden hissing in his ear. He turned.

  “Kashimo,” he gasped.

  “Hello, Charlie,” grinned the Japanese.

  “Kashimo - what does this mean?”

  “I am hide-away,” Kashimo explained. “I go with you to assist on big case.”

  Chan cast a speculative eye at the breakers between the boat and Waikiki Beach. “Can you swim, Kashimo?” he inquired.

  “Not a single stroke,” replied the little man gleefully.

  Chan sighed. “Ah, well. He who accepts with a smile whatever the gods may send, has mastered most important lesson in life’s hard school. Pardon me one moment, Kashimo. I am seeking to achieve the smile.”

  Chapter XVI

  THE MALACCA STICK

  In another moment Chan’s
inherent good-nature triumphed, and the smile was accomplished.

  “You will pardon, Kashimo, if for one instant I was slightly appalled. Can you blame me? I remember our last adventure together - the affair of the dice. But enterprise such as yours is not to be met with a sneeze. I welcome you into present case - which was a most difficult one, even before you arrived.”

  “Hearty thanks,” replied the Japanese.

  The purser emerged from a near-by doorway, and came rapidly along the deck.

  “Oh, Mr. Chan,” he said, “I’ve been looking for you. Just had a chat with the captain and he told me to give you the best I’ve got. There’s a cabin with bath - at the minimum rate, of course. I’m having one of the beds made up. If you’ll bring your bag and follow me -” He stared at Kashimo. “And who is this?”

  Chan hesitated. “Er - Mr. Lynch, condescend to meet Officer Kashimo, of Honolulu force. One of” - he choked a little - “our most able men. At last moment it was decided to bring him along in role of assistant. If you can find a place to lay him away for the night -“

  Lynch considered. “He’s going as a passenger, too, I suppose?”

  A brilliant idea struck Charlie. “Kashimo is specialist, like everybody nowadays. He is grand searcher. If you could find him place in crew which would not consume too much brain power, he might accomplish brilliant results. In that way he could maintain anonymous standing, which I, alas, can not do.”

  “One of our boys was pinched in Honolulu tonight for bootlegging,” Lynch replied. “What’s getting into those Federal men, anyhow? It means a few changes in our assignments. We might make Mr. Kashimo a biscuit boy - one of the lads who sit in the alleyways and answer the cabin bells. Of course, it’s not a very dignified job -“

  “But a splendid opportunity,” Chan assured him. “Kashimo will not mind. His duty is first with him, always. Kashimo, tell the gentleman how you feel about it.”

  “Biscuit boys get tips?” inquired the Japanese eagerly.

  Charlie waved a hand. “Behold - he pants to begin.”

  “Well, you’d better take him in with you tonight,” Lynch said. “Nobody will know about it but your steward, and I’ll tell him not to say anything.” He turned to Kashimo. “Report to the chief steward at eight tomorrow. I don’t mind your searching, but you mustn’t get caught, you understand. We can’t have innocent people annoyed.”

  “Naturally not,” agreed Chan heartily. But he wasn’t so sure. Annoying innocent people, he reflected, was another of Kashimo’s specialties.

  “The captain would like to see you in the morning, Mr. Chan,” the purser remarked at the doorway of the cabin to which he led them. He departed.

  Charlie and Kashimo entered the stateroom. The steward was still there, and Chan directed him to make up the other bed. While they waited, the detective looked about him. A large airy room, a pleasant place to think. And he would have to do much thinking during the next six days - and nights.

  “I will return presently,” he said to his assistant.

  He went to the top deck and dispatched a radiogram. It was addressed to his chief, and in it he wrote:

  “If you notice Kashimo has mislaid himself, I am one to do worrying. He is with me on ship.”

  Going back to his cabin, he found the Japanese there alone. “I have just broken news to chief about your departure,” he explained. “This biscuit boy business is brilliant stroke. Otherwise question might have come up who pays your passage, and I have deep fear everybody would have declined the honor.”

  “Better go to bed now,” Kashimo suggested.

  Charlie gave him a pair of his own pajamas, and was moved to silent mirth at the resulting spectacle. “You have aspect of deflated balloon going nowhere,” he said.

  Kashimo grinned. “Can sleep in anything,” he announced, and climbed into bed prepared to prove it.

  Presently Charlie turned on the light above his pillow, put out all the others, and got into his own bed with Duff’s briefcase in his hand. He undid the straps, and took out a huge sheaf of papers. Duff’s notes were on numbered pages, and Chan was relieved to discover that none was missing. Honywood’s letter to his wife, together with all other messages and documents pertinent to the case, remained intact. Either Jim Everhard had been afraid to enter the office after his shooting of Duff, or he had felt that there was nothing in these papers he need bother about.

  “I trust I shall not disturb you, Kashimo,” Chan remarked. “But stowaways must not be too particular. It is my duty now to read the story of our case, until I know it perfectly by heart.”

  “Won’t disturb me none,” yawned the Japanese.

  “Ah, all the fun and no responsibility,” sighed Charlie. “You have happy life. While I read, I shall pay especial attention to lame man in the party. What was he doing at mouth of alley when poor Mr. Duff lay shot in my office? You gave me point of attack on case with that news, and I am grateful.”

  He began to read and, in imagination, he traveled far. London, all his life a name and nothing more, became a familiar city. He saw the little green car set out from Scotland Yard, he stepped inside the sacred portals of Broome’s Hotel, he bent above the lifeless form of Hugh Morris Drake as it lay on the bed in room 28. Descending to the musty parlor of the hotel, he witnessed Tait’s heart attack on the threshold, noted Honywood’s haunted look. Then on to Paris, and Nice. Honywood dead in the garden. San Remo, and that terrible moment in the lift. Carefully he read Honywood’s epistle to his wife, which explained so much but left the vital question unanswered. Every detail in the long case burned itself into his mind now.

  True, he had been all over it with Duff, but then the affair had seemed so remote, so little to concern him. It concerned him tonight. He was in Duff’s shoes, the case was his; nothing must escape him; nothing could be safely overlooked. Last of all he perused the report of Duff’s talk with Pamela Potter in Honolulu that very afternoon, in which she had told of Welby’s discovery of the key. It was a matter of pride with Duff that he kept his notes up to the minute.

  Chan finished reading. “Kashimo,” he remarked thoughtfully, “that man Ross has intriguing sound. What about Ross? Always in the background, limping along, never a hint against him - until now. Yes, Kashimo, the matter of Mr. Ross must be our first concern.”

  He paused. A loud snore from the bed across the way was his only answer. Charlie looked at his watch, it was past midnight. He turned back to the beginning and read it all again.

  It was after two o’clock when he finally put out his light. Even then, he was not ready to sleep. He lay there, planning the future.

  At seven-thirty he rudely dragged his small assistant out of slumberland. Kashimo was lost in the clouds, and had to be gradually brought back to earth and a realization of where he was. While he made his sketchy toilet Charlie told him a little of the case, with special emphasis on the part the Japanese was to play. He was to search among the possessions of the travel party for a key bearing the number 3260. He might find it, he might not - perhaps by this time it was at the bottom of the Pacific. But the effort must be made anyhow. The Japanese nodded in a dazed, uncomprehending sort of way, and at two minutes of eight was ready for his interview with the chief steward.

  “Remember, Kashimo, too much haste may have fatal ending,” was Chan’s final admonition. “Take plenty of time and know what you are doing before you do it. You are biscuit boy from now on, and if we meet on ship, you have never seen me before. All talks between us are conducted with utmost secrecy in this cabin. Farewell, and best of luck.”

  “So long,” Kashimo responded, and went out. Charlie stood for a moment at the port-hole, gazing at the sunlit sea and breathing in great drafts of the bracing air. There is something invigorating about the first morning on a ship, the cool peace, the feeling of security away from the land’s alarms. A sense of well-being and confidence flooded Chan’s heart. It was a glorious day, and the future looked promising.

  He was shaving whe
n a boy knocked at his door and handed him a radiogram from his chief. He read:

  “Surgeon reports operation O.K. Duff doing fine. Sincere condolences on Kashimo.”

  Charlie smiled. Great news, that about Duff. In a cheerful frame of mind he stepped out on to the deck to face his problems. The first person he saw was Pamela Potter, who was taking a morning stroll, accompanied by Mark Kennaway. The girl stopped, and stared.

  “Mr. Chan,” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

  Charlie managed a low and sweeping bow. “I am enjoying a very good morning, thank you. You appear to be doing the same.”

  “But I’d no idea you were coming with us.”

  “I had no idea myself, until late hour last night. In me you behold quite worthless replacement for Inspector Duff.”

  She started. “He - you don’t mean that he, too -“

  “Do not be alarmed. Wounded only.” Quickly he reported what had happened.

  The girl shook her head. “There seems to be no end to it,” she said.

  “What begins, must finish,” Chan told her. “Miscreant in this case is clever enough to play a fiddle behind his back, but even the cleverest have been known to blunder. I believe I saw this young man on the dock yesterday. The name -“

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the girl replied. “I was so startled to see you. Inspector Chan - this is Mr. Kennaway. I’ve just been telling him what a wonderful party he missed last night. He’s all upset. You know, he belongs to such a family in Boston and he isn’t accustomed to being left out.”

  “Nonsense,” Kennaway said.

  “He would have been very welcome,” Charlie remarked. He turned to the young man. “I myself have keen interest in Boston, and some day we must enjoy small talk about same. Just now I will not further interrupt your perambulations. Since I was introduced to your entire party yesterday, full name and title, it will be useless for me to attempt dissemble of my identity. So I propose to meet all of you presently for little chat about last night.”