Fifty Candles Page 5

  “If you will pardon me, Mrs. Drew—”

  “I have already told you,” answered Carlotta Drew angrily, “I do not know whose birthday it is.”

  “Well, no offense,” smiled Barnes. “That leaves me just one card—the card of the guest who for some reason or other has not come to the party, Doctor Su Yen Hun. The other partner in the Yunnan mine, I believe.”

  “So I understand,” said I.

  “Do you know him?”

  “I met him four years ago in Shanghai.”

  “He was a partner in the fraud you claim was practiced on you?”

  “I understand he was a partner in all of Drew’s shady deals.”

  “An interesting guest. I’d like to see him.” Barnes turned to the patrolman, who was still waiting. “Riley, before I let you go back to your beat, do this for me. Go to Su Yen Hun’s house—you know, the big Chinese millionaire—it’s just round the corner on Post Street. Give Su my compliments and ask him to step over here a minute.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Riley and promptly disappeared.

  “I can tell you in advance—this is not Su’s fiftieth birthday,” Mark Drew said. “He’s a very old man—eighty or more.”

  “I know he is,” Barnes answered, “but he’s worth a question or two anyhow. Now while you people are waiting for your coffee, I’ll have a look about the upstairs.” He paused at the foot of the stairway. “Myers is in front, and Murphy’s in the garden,” he smiled. “Good men, both of them. So keep your seats.”

  As the detective walked briskly up the stairs, I was startled to see Mary Will’s eyes following him, wide and frightened. I went quickly to her side, but before I could speak, Doctor Parker cut in.

  “That is an outrage!” he cried. He rose and walked angrily up and down. “Why should I be held here? I came to this house for a party, not an inquest. When that fool detective comes back, I’m going to demand that he let me go.”

  Mark Drew answered in a low, surprisingly hostile tone. “I would not call that fool detective’s attention to myself if I were you.”

  “What do you mean by that?” snarled Parker, turning on him.

  “Lost in the fog,” smiled Drew. “Not much of an alibi, Doctor, if you ask me.”

  “Do you dare to insinuate—”

  “That you would injure my father? When have you ever done anything else?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, don’t you? I mean you are too eager, my dear Doctor—you and this woman here—to fasten the crime on the head of a young man who may or may not be guilty. Don’t think you can fool me. Don’t think I can’t read you—the pair of you. You have made the last years of my father’s life a hell. And what does his death mean to you? This woman with a big share of my father’s money—and no more need of secrecy. Take care, Doctor Parker. I’m telling you, the fog is a rotten alibi.”

  “You’re a lawyer,” Parker cried. “You know I could have you in court for talk like that.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Drew. “Before this affair is ended you’ll have me in court—or I’ll have you!”

  They faced each other, evidently on the verge of blows. But over Drew’s shoulder, Doctor Parker caught a look from the eyes of Carlotta Drew and, backing away, he stepped to the window. I turned to Mary Will. She seemed to have heard nothing; her gaze had never left the head of the stairs.

  “Mary Will—what is it—what’s the matter?” I said softly.

  “Oh, go away—please go away!” she whispered. “They mustn’t see us talking together now!”

  Without question I did as she asked. But I was filled with amazement. How was Mary Will involved in the murder of Henry Drew?

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI

  While Detective Barnes was upstairs, fifteen or twenty minutes passed, duly recorded by the busy clock in the hall. Gloomy with foreboding, I sat staring at a Chinese print on the wall. It was a cheery little thing, representing an execution. I wondered about the most vitally interested party, who appeared to have completely lost his head. Was he guilty? Or had he, an innocent man, been caught up in a net of circumstantial evidence while the real culprit went free? It was for me a most interesting question.

  The bald little detective was coming down the stairs. His face was very serious; he held one hand behind his back. Mary Will was staring at him, fascinated, and to my surprise he walked straight up to her.

  “If you don’t mind, Miss Tellfair,” he said, “we will go back to your story for a moment.”

  “Yes,” breathed Mary Will. All color vas gone from her face.

  “Your room upstairs—it’s the blue room to the left, on the second floor?”

  “It is.”

  “When you went up to get the smelling-salts for Mrs. Drew, you took the time to go first to your own room, didn’t you?”

  “I—I did.”

  “You wanted to hide something?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something you had picked up from the side of the dead man in the dining room?”

  Mary Will nodded; her face was the color of that tablecloth old Drew had seized in his last moment of life.

  “You don’t seem to be up on this sort of thing, my girl,” Barnes went on. “Under your mattress was a pretty obvious place.”

  He brought his hand round from behind his back, and when I saw what the hand held, I had difficulty repressing the cry that rose to my lips. For the detective held a small Chinese knife, with a handle of grape jade, carved in the shape of some heathen god. It was unique, that knife. There could hardly be another like it in the world. I had bought it from a merchant far in the interior of China, and on the boat coming over I had shown it to several people, Mary Will included.

  “It was the worst thing I could have done.” Mary Will was sobbing now. “But I was so excited—I had no time to think.”

  Out of the murk of tule-fog and hatred and murder, one dazzling thing flashed clear—and nothing else mattered. I was a happy man.

  “You did that for me!” I cried. “Mary Will—you’re wonderful!”

  “Then this is your knife?” Barnes broke in, holding it before me.

  “No question about it,” said I.

  “How do you account for the fact that it was found beside the dead man?”

  I turned in time to catch the look that passed between Parker and Carlotta Drew, and hot anger filled my heart.

  “It was stolen, of course,” I said.

  “Of course,” smiled the detective.

  “I had not missed it yet,” I went on, “but it must have been taken from my luggage, in the stateroom, sometime today. There were just two men who had access to that luggage. One was the dead man, who could hardly have taken it.”

  “And the other?” cried Mark Drew suddenly.

  “The other,” said I, “was Doctor Parker, who at seven-thirty tonight claims he was lost in the fog.”

  “Nonsense!” said Parker. “What motive—”

  “Motive enough!” cried Mark Drew angrily. “A secret love-affair with my father’s wife that has been going on for more than a year. A lust for money that is famous on the China coast—along with your well-known lack of scruples in stopping at nothing to get it. Motive, my dear Doctor—”

  “You think,” sneered Parker, “that I would paw over this man’s luggage—that I would steal his silly knife?”

  “Why not? A man who would steal another’s wife would hardly stop at the theft of a little weapon like this!” Drew turned to the detective. “Sergeant Barnes, this man claims that at the time the crime was committed, he was walking from his hotel to this house. There are good pavements, good sidewalks, all the way. Let me call your attention to his shoes. They are unbelievably wet; they are muddy.”

  “Rot!” snarled Parker. “That means nothing. The sidewalk was torn up before a new building. I couldn’t see where I was going. I got rather deep into the water and mud.”

  “You are in rather deep,
my friend,” cried Drew. “I’ll grant you that.”

  Other hot words passed between them, but I did not listen. I had turned to Mary Will.

  “Whatever happens,” I said, “I shan’t forget what you tried to do for me.”

  “Oh—it was all wrong,” she whispered. “I see that now. I have harmed you dreadfully—and I only meant to help. I did it on the spur of the moment. Why I did it I can’t imagine.”

  “Can’t you? I can. Your first instinct was to protect the man you love.”

  “No—no,” she protested.

  “Poor Mary Will. All your denials won’t avail now. The deed is done. You supposed that I had lost my head and killed Henry Drew.”

  “It was silly of me—I didn’t stop to think. And everything looked against you—I saw you running out of the window.”

  “Everything is still against me. Are you, Mary Will? Look at me.” She raised her eyes to mine. “Mary Will—I did not kill Drew. You believe that, don’t you?”

  “I believe it,” she answered. “Nothing will ever make me change.”

  “That’s all I wanted to know,” I cried.

  All my depression, all my gloom was gone, and it was in almost a gay mood that I turned to face the detective. He had waved aside Mark Drew’s insinuations against Parker and was standing before me.

  “Mr. Winthrop,” he said, “you had quarreled with the dead man. You claim that he and his partner, Doctor Su, had defrauded you. You admit all that. You admit that this is your knife which your sweetheart—this young woman—found by the body.”

  “Yes,” I replied, “that’s all true. I admit also that things look rather badly for me. But in spite of all you have discovered, I did not kill Henry Drew. As you go further into the matter you must find that out yourself. Surely there must be some other evidence—I don’t know what it can be. Perhaps when you have talked with Doctor Su Yen Hun, he can throw some light—”

  The door opened and Riley came into the room. His great red face proclaimed him the bearer of news.

  “Sergeant,” he cried, “I went to Doctor Su’s house, as ye told me to—”

  “Yes, Riley.”

  “The place was dark. I rung the bell four times—mebbe five—nobody answered. I knew it was important, so I went round to the back. The kitchen door was open—”

  “Go on.”

  “I went inside. Sergeant—there wasn’t a livin’ thing in the house. Not one. But he was there. Doctor Su Yen Hun, I mean. He was layin’ dead in the middle of the library floor. Somebody’d got to him an’ stuck a knife between his ribs!”

  My heart seemed to stop beating. A moment of dreadful silence fell.

  “Did you examine the wound?” Barnes inquired.

  “I did,” said Riley, proud of himself. “An’ it was exactly like the one poor Mr. Drew got. Yes, Sergeant—if you ask me, the same hand done for ‘em both. I waited till Detective Curry arrived, an’ then—”

  “Yes, Riley. Thanks. You’d better go back to your beat.” As Riley went out Barnes turned to me. “This was Drew’s partner in the Yunnan mine,” he said. “The other man you say had cheated you?”

  I tried to speak but the words would not come.

  “Mr. Winthrop,” the detective went on. “I’m sorry, but I have no other course—”

  “Wait a minute.” It was Mark Drew who spoke. “I beg your pardon, Sergeant. You are conducting this case, I know, but naturally my interest is keen. I tell you flatly I do not believe this young man is guilty of my father’s murder.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Drew,” I said.

  “It’s an old saying and a true one,” Barnes remarked, “that there’s a motive behind every killing. Find that motive and you’ve got your man. The motive in this case is clear: revenge.”

  “But there’s another one of us who may have had a motive,” said Drew. His eyes were on Parker.

  “I can’t arrest a man because his shoes are muddy,” replied Barnes peevishly. “You know that. No, everything points to this young fellow. He had the motive. His story of his actions after the crime is ridiculous. His knife was found—”

  “But before you arrest him,” pleaded Drew, “there are so many matters still unaccounted for!”

  The voice of Barnes was very cool and unfriendly.

  “I recognize your interest,” he said. “If there is any clue I have not considered—any matter you think I should investigate further—”

  Mrs. MacShane came into the room, bearing a tray of steaming coffee cups. She placed her burden on a table.

  “I—I hardly know,” stammered Drew. “I’m not criticizing you, Sergeant, but … there are the fifty candles. Yes—by heaven—the fifty candles! There’s mystery in them. Whose birthday is this?”

  Mrs. MacShane suddenly lifted her head and came over into the center of the group.

  “I know whose birthday it is,” she said.

  “You know?” cried Drew. “Then in heaven’s name, tell us!”

  “Your father explained it to me tonight,” the old woman went on. “He come into my kitchen with the fifty little pink candles in his hands, an’ he asked me to put them on the cake. ‘If I may make so bold, sir,’ I says to him, ‘whose birthday is it today?’ An’ he says to me, ‘It’s the Chinaman’s,’ he says. ‘It’s Hung Chin-chung’s.’”

  “The Chinaman’s!” Mark Drew cried.

  “But why should my husband give a birthday party for Hung Chin-chung?” asked Carlotta Drew, amazed.

  “Just what I asks myself, ma’am,” Mrs. MacShane went on, “but Mr. Drew didn’t tell me. He just repeated that it was Hung’s birthday. ‘Yes, Mrs. MacShane,’ he says to me, ‘Hung was born fifty years ago today in a little house near some queen’s yard in Honolulu—out on that beach—what is it now, the one there’s all the songs about? Oh, to be sure! ‘out on the beach at Waikiki.’”

  * * *

  CHAPTER VII

  The beach at Waikiki! Mrs. MacShane’s unexpected bit of evidence had a fantastic ring. I had never been to Honolulu, but instantly I heard the tinkle of ukeleles, the murmur of breakers pouring in over a coral reef. I saw coconut palms outlined against a vivid sky, the brown boys riding in, erect and slender, on their surf-boards. By what stretch of the imagination could all this be connected with the murder of Henry Drew?

  I looked about that strange little group gathered in the gloomy room of the house on Nob Hill. Evidently they were all asking themselves the same question. Carlotta Drew and Doctor Parker exchanged a glance of surprise. In Mary Will’s eyes, I saw the light of romantic memory; stopping off on her way to China, she had known Waikiki Beach in the moonlight when the Southern Cross hung low. Detective Barnes stood blinking at Mrs. MacShane with what was, for him, a rather stupid expression. Suddenly Mark Drew leaped to his feet and began excitedly to pace the floor. Barnes turned toward him.

  “Well, Mr. Drew—and where does this get us?” he inquired.

  “I don’t know,” said Drew. “But it may get us quite a distance before we’re finished.”

  “I can’t follow you,” the detective replied. “Though it is a rather startling bit of news, I’ll admit that. The birthday of Hung Chin-chung! Born fifty years ago in Honolulu. Your father thinks so much of him he decides to give him a birthday party. He goes to a lot of trouble to get candles, and—say, how long was the Chinaman with your family?”

  “Twenty years,” said Mark Drew.

  “That explains it,” Barnes replied. “Twenty years! If we could keep a servant twenty years, we wouldn’t stop at a birthday party. We’d give him a deed to our house and lot. Well, Mr. Drew gives the Chinaman a party; an eccentric thing to do, but then, he always was—er—different. And what of it? We can’t argue that Hung picked this occasion to kill his master. Unless he was dissatisfied with the thickness of the frosting on the cake or peeved because Mr. Drew made a mistake about his age.” The hour was late, and Sergeant Barnes seemed a bit peeved himself. He turned again to me. “No,” he said firmly, �
��it all comes back to this young man. He had a grievance not only against Henry Drew, but against the other murdered man, Doctor Su Yen Hun. His knife has been found. He was caught running away in the fog.”

  Mary Will was on her feet facing the detective, her eyes flashing, her cheeks aflame.

  “How dare you!” she cried. “How dare you insinuate that Mr. Winthrop is capable of killing a man! You should know better.”

  “How should I?” asked Barnes.

  “Why—just by looking at him,” said Mary Will.

  Barnes smiled.

  “My dear young lady, I’m mighty sorry for you,” he said, “but all the evidence—”

  “Once more,” put in Mark Drew, “I’m going to ask you to wait.”

  Barnes said nothing, but turned and stared at him with annoyance plainly written on his face. Mary Will sat down again, and I gave her hand a grateful squeeze. Mark Drew went over to his father’s wife.

  “As you know,” he said, “I have been out of touch with my family for the past five years. During that time what should you say was the nature of the relations between Hung and my father? Were they as friendly as ever?”

  Carlotta Drew stared at him coldly. She had not forgotten his recent snub of her; she never would.

  “Your father and Hung were master and servant,” she said. “That’s all I know. I made no effort to pry into your father’s private affairs. I felt that the details would be too—unsavory.”

  “Mr. Winthrop?” Drew turned to me “You said a while ago that there were only two men who bad access to your luggage in the stateroom of the China boat—my father and Doctor Parker. On second thought—wasn’t there one other?”

  “Yes,” I nodded. “It had not occurred to me before, but Chin-chung was frequently there. He spent the morning there today, packing your father’s bags.”

  “Nonsense!” said Detective Barnes decisively. “This birthday party is a false lead. If it means anything at all, it means that Mr. Drew was fond of the Chinaman. And it must mean, too, that the Chinaman was fond of the old man.”