Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On Page 9

  Duff turned at once to Doctor Lofton. “Please tell me all you know about this,” he directed. They sat down together on a sofa.

  “I gave the party only three days in Paris,” Lofton began. “Trying to make up for the time lost in London, you see. We arrived here yesterday morning. In the afternoon Honywood decided to drive over to Monte Carlo. He invited Mrs. Luce and Miss Pamela Potter to go with him. At six o’clock last evening I was here in the lobby talking with Fenwick - the prize pest of the tour, between you and me - when I saw Mrs. Luce and the girl enter that side door over there. I asked them about their drive, and they said they’d enjoyed it immensely. Honywood, they told me, was out at the gate paying off the driver of the car - he would be in in a moment. They went on upstairs. Fenwick continued to pester me. There was the sound of a sharp report from outside, but I paid no attention. I thought it the exhaust of a car, or possibly a bursting tire - you know how they drive over here. In another moment Mrs. Luce came rushing from the lift. She’s the calmest of women ordinarily, and I was struck by her appearance. She seemed to be in a state of high excitement -“

  “One moment,” Duff put in. “Have you told any of this to the commissary of police?”

  “No. I thought it better to save it for you.”

  “Good. Go on. Mrs. Luce was upset -“

  “Extremely so. She hurried up to me. ‘Has Mr. Honywood come in yet?’ she demanded. I stared at her. ‘Mrs. Luce - what has happened?” I cried. ‘A great deal has happened,’ she replied. ‘I must see Mr. Honywood at once. What can be keeping him?’ The memory of that sharp report - like a shot, I realized it now - came back to me. I rushed out, followed by Mrs. Luce. We found the gardens in darkness, dusk had fallen, these economical French had not yet lighted the lamps. About half-way down the walk we came upon Walter Honywood, lying partly on the walk, partly on the floral border. He was shot unerringly through the heart, the pistol lay at his side, near his right hand.”

  “Suicide?” said Duff, giving the doctor a searching look.

  “I believe so.”

  “You want to believe so.”

  “Naturally. It would be better -” Lofton stopped. Mrs. Luce was standing just back of the sofa.

  “Suicide, your grandmother,” she remarked briskly. “Good morning, Inspector Duff. You’re wanted here. Murder again.”

  “Murder?” Duff repeated.

  “Absolutely,” returned the old lady. “I’ll tell you in a moment why I think so. Oh, you needn’t look so shocked, Doctor Lofton. Another member of your party has been killed, and what worries me is, will there be enough of us to supply the demand? It’s still quite some distance around the world.”

  Chapter VIII

  FOG ON THE RIVIERA

  Lofton was standing, and he began to pace nervously back and forth over a patch of bright sunlight that lay on the Persian rug. He was chewing savagely at the ends of his mustache, a habit he had when perturbed. Mrs. Luce wished he wouldn’t do it.

  “I can’t believe it,” the conductor cried. “It’s incredible. One murder in the party I might admit - but not two. Unless some one is trying to wreck my business. Some one with a grudge against me.”

  “It seems more likely,” the old lady said dryly, “that some one has a grudge against the members of your party. As for your believing that this second affair is murder too, listen to what I have to say, and then tell me what you think.” She sat down on the sofa. “Come,” she went on, “draw up that chair and stop pacing. You remind me of a lion I used to see at the Hamburg Zoo - I got to know him quite well - but no matter. Inspector Duff, won’t you sit here beside me? I think you will both find my story interesting.”

  Duff meekly took his place, and Lofton also obeyed orders. Somehow, this was the type of woman who doesn’t have to speak twice.

  “Mr. Honywood, Miss Pamela and I drove to Monte Carlo yesterday afternoon,” Mrs. Luce continued. “Perhaps you already know that, Inspector. Mr. Honywood has been rather distraught and worried on this tour, but during our jaunt over to Monaco he seemed to relax - he was quite charming, really. More, I imagine, like his real self. He was not contemplating suicide - I am confident of that. There was a man once at the hill station of Darjeeling, in India - it happened I was the last person to see him alive - but I needn’t go into it. Mr. Honywood was light-hearted, almost gay. He returned here at dusk last night still in that mood. We left him out at the gate paying off the driver of the car and, coming in, went to our rooms.”

  “I saw you,” Lofton reminded her.

  “Yes, of course. Well, as I was unlocking my door, it came over me in a flash that the lock had been tampered with. Once, in Melbourne, Australia, my hotel room was entered - I’d had experience, you see. The doors here have shrunk, the cracks are wide, and I saw about the lock the marks of some sharp instrument, probably a knife. A simple matter to force the spring. I went inside and turned on the light. Instantly my impressions were verified. My room was in the utmost confusion, it had been searched from top to bottom. My trunk was broken open, and in a moment I made sure that what I had feared had happened. A document that had been entrusted to my keeping was missing.”

  “What sort of document?” Duff inquired with interest.

  “We must go back to London, and the period following the murder of Hugh Drake. On the Saturday afternoon just two days before our departure from your city, Mr. Duff, I had a message from Mr. Walter Honywood asking me to meet him at once in the lounge of Broome’s Hotel. I was puzzled, of course, but I did as he asked. He came into the room in what seemed a very perturbed state of mind. ‘Mrs. Luce,’ he said without preamble, ‘I know you are a woman of wide experience and great discretion. Though I have no right to do so, I am going to ask a favor of you.’ He took a long white envelope from his pocket. ‘I wish you to take charge of this envelope for me. Keep it well guarded, and if anything should happen to me on this tour, please open it and read the contents at once.’ “

  “And that is the document which was stolen?” Duff demanded.

  “Let’s not get ahead of our story,” the old lady replied. “Naturally I was somewhat taken aback. I hadn’t said two words to him thus far on the tour. ‘Mr. Honywood,’ I inquired, ‘what is in this envelope?’ He looked at me in a queer way. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘Nothing save a list of instructions as to what must be done in case I - in case I am not here any more.’ ‘Certainly Doctor Lofton is the person with whom this should be left,’ I told him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Doctor Lofton is decidedly not the person to hold that envelope.’

  “Well, I just sat there, wondering. I asked him what he thought was going to happen to him. He murmured something about being ill - one never could tell, he said. He looked so spent, so utterly weary, I felt sorry for him. We were all rather on edge. I knew that Mr. Honywood was supposed to be suffering from a nervous breakdown, and I told myself that this was perhaps the whim of a sick and troubled mind. It seemed to me a small thing he was asking, and I told him I would take the envelope. He appeared to be delighted. ‘It’s so good of you,’ he said. ‘I would keep it locked up, if I were you. We had better not leave this room together. I will wait here until you have gone. And if you don’t mind, I suggest we keep as far apart as possible when we are with the other members of the tour.’

  “All that was rather queer, too. But I had an engagement with some friends in Belgravia that afternoon, and I was already late. I patted the poor man on the back, told him not to worry, and hurried out. When I got to my room, I glanced at the envelope. On it was written in a small script: ‘To be opened in case of my death. Walter Honywood.’ I hastily locked it in my trunk, and went out.”

  “You should have communicated with me at once,” Duff reproved her.

  “Should I? I couldn’t decide. As I say, I thought it the notion of a sick mind, and of no importance. And I was very busy those last few days in London. It wasn’t until I got on the train for Dover on Monday morning that I really began to think about Mr. Hon
ywood and the document he had given into my care. For the first time I wondered if it could have any connection with the murder of Hugh Drake. When I walked on to the deck of the channel boat at Dover, I determined to find out.

  “I saw Mr. Honywood leaning against the starboard rail, and I went over and pinned him. He seemed very reluctant to have me do so. All the while we talked he kept glancing up and down the deck with a sort of hunted and terrified look in his eyes. I was quite uncomfortable about the whole affair by this time. ‘Mr. Honywood,’ I said, ‘I have been thinking about that envelope you left with me. I feel the moment has arrived for a frank talk between us. Tell me - have you any reason to believe that your life is in danger?’

  “He started at that, and gave me a searching look. ‘Why - no,’ he stammered. ‘Not at all. No more than any one’s life is in danger in this uncertain world.’ His reply didn’t satisfy me. I decided to put into words a thought that had come to me in the train. ‘If you should meet the same fate as Hugh Morris Drake,’ I said, ‘would the name of your assailant be found inside the envelope?’

  “It seemed for a moment that he wasn’t going to answer me. Then he turned, and his eyes were so sad that again I pitied him. ‘My dear lady,’ he remarked, ‘why should you think I would put such a burden on you? That envelope contains just what I said it did - instructions to be carried out in case of my death.’ ‘If that is true,’ I answered, ‘why wasn’t it left with Doctor Lofton? Why must I guard it so carefully? Why do you object to our being seen together?’ He nodded. ‘Those are fair questions,’ he admitted, ‘and I’m frightfully sorry I can’t answer them. But I give you my word, Mrs. Luce - I am not letting you in for anything. Please, I beg of you - hold that envelope just a little longer, and say nothing. The matter will soon be settled. And now - if you don’t mind’ - he was still looking up and down in that frightened, anxious way - ‘I don’t feel very well and I am going inside to lie down.’ Before I could say another world, he had gone.

  “Well, I went on to Paris, still worried. I’m sorry to say I didn’t believe what the poor man had told me. I thought that with my usual perspicacity I had hit upon the true situation. I was certain that Walter Honywood expected to be murdered, just as Hugh Morris Drake was murdered, and by the same person. And I was almost as certain that he had written the name of that person in the letter he left with me. That would make me a sort of accomplice in the Drake murder or something like it. I had no fear on that score. Once, in Japan, where I lived three years, I protected - oh, well, I had right on my side, there’s nothing more to be said. But in this case I didn’t want to protect anybody. I wanted the man who had killed Drake discovered and punished. I was upset - and I’m not often upset. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “There was just one thing to do,” remarked Duff sternly. “And I am disappointed in you that you didn’t do it. You had my address -“

  “Yes, I know. But I’m not accustomed to calling in some mere man to help me solve my difficulties. There was one other thing to do, and I’m disappointed in you that you haven’t thought of it. Have you never heard of the old trick of opening an envelope by use of steam?”

  “You steamed open that envelope?” Duff cried.

  “I did, and I make no apologies. All’s fair in love and murder. That night in Paris I released the flap, and took out the sheet of paper the envelope contained.”

  “And what was on it?” Duff asked eagerly.

  “Just what poor Mr. Honywood had told me was on it. A brief note that ran something like this:

  ” ‘Dear Mrs. Luce: I am so sorry to have troubled you. Will you be kind enough to ask Doctor Lofton to communicate at once with my wife, Miss Sybil Conway? She is at the Palace Hotel, San Remo, Italy.’ “

  “Meaning precisely nothing,” Duff sighed.

  “Precisely,” agreed Mrs. Luce. “I felt rather small when I read it. And puzzled. I had never been so puzzled in all my seventy-two years. Why couldn’t he have left that message with the doctor? There was no need of it in the first place. Doctor Lofton knew the name and whereabouts of Mr Honywood’s wife. A number of us did - he had mentioned her several times, and said that she was in San Remo. Yet here he had written this unnecessary bit of information on a slip of paper and given it to me, intimating that I must guard it with my life.”

  Duff stared thoughtfully into space. “I don’t get it,” he admitted.

  “Nor I,” said Mrs. Luce. “But can you wonder I believe Mr. Honywood was murdered? I am sure he saw it coming - the look in his eyes. And the murderer thought it necessary to get possession of that slip of paper in my trunk before going on with his plans. Why? Heaven knows. Who told him there was such a paper? Did Walter Honywood? It’s all too obscure for me. You must unravel it, Mr. Duff. I hand the whole matter over to you.”

  “Thanks,” answered Duff. He turned to Doctor Lofton. “Is it true you already knew that Honywood’s wife was in San Remo?”

  “I certainly did,” Lofton replied. “Honywood told me so himself. He asked me to stop over there a day, at the Palace Hotel, in the hope that he might persuade her to join our tour.”

  Duff frowned. “The fog increases,” he sighed. “You’ve notified the lady, I presume?”

  “Yes, I called her on the telephone last night and when she heard my news, I believe she fainted. At least, it sounded that way - I heard her fall, and I lost the connection. This morning her maid telephoned me and said that Mrs. Honywood - or Sybil Conway, as she calls herself - was unable to come to Nice, and that she wanted me to bring her husband’s body to San Remo.”

  Duff considered. “I must have a talk with the lady at my earliest. Well, Doctor, now that we have heard Mrs. Luce’s story, what have you to say about Honywood’s death?”

  “What should I say? I must admit that it begins to look like something more than a simple case of suicide. As a matter of fact, I shall have to tell you that my own room was searched repeatedly while we were in Paris. Yes, it was probably murder, Inspector - but can you think of any good reason why any one save the three of us here should know it? If the French police find it out - well, you understand what red tape is over here, Mr. Duff.”

  “There’s a lot in what you say, Doctor,” Duff agreed. “I must admit I wouldn’t care to have the Paris Surete enter the case now - much as I respect their intelligence and their record. No, it’s my job, and I want to do it.”

  “Precisely,” said Lofton, with evident relief. “Consider this, too. Shall we tell the remaining members of the party what we suspect? They’re a bit on edge already. Fenwick has tried to stir up mutiny before, and this would certainly start him off again. Suppose the party broke up and scattered to the four winds? Would that help your investigation? Or would you prefer that we stick together until your case is solved?”

  Duff smiled grimly. “You put it all most logically and convincingly, Doctor. If you’ll get your party together, I’ll have another chat with them, and then I’ll see what I can do with that commissary of police. I don’t believe he’ll prove difficult.”

  Lofton departed, and Duff stood staring after him. He looked down at Mrs. Luce.

  “Honywood thought Lofton was decidedly not the person to hold the envelope,” he remarked.

  She nodded vigorously. “He was very firm on that point,” she said.

  Pamela Potter and Mark Kennaway had entered the side door of the hotel. Duff nodded and waved to them. They came over at once.

  “Why, it’s Inspector Duff,” the girl cried, with every evidence of pleasure. “How nice to see you again.”

  “Hello, Miss Pamela,” the detective said. “And Mr. Kennaway. Been out for a stroll?”

  “Yes,” answered the girl. “We managed to evade the eagle-eyed chaperon and took a walk along the beach. It was heavenly - at least I thought it was. But I’m given to understand that the air is nowhere near so invigorating as on the North Shore, in Massachusetts.”

  Kennaway shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m in wrong,” he
remarked. “I ventured to say a good word for my native state, and I hear that in Detroit it isn’t even regarded as a good market for automobiles. And how could we sink lower than that? However, I do approve of Nice -“

  “Fine,” laughed the girl. “They won’t have to tear it down just yet. Why - what’s wrong with Mr. Tait?”

  The famous lawyer was approaching rapidly, his face a purplish red that boded ill for a man with a heart like his.

  “Where the devil - oh, hello, Mr. Duff,” he began. “Where the devil have you been, Kennaway?”

  The young man flushed at his tone. “I have been for a walk with Miss Pamela,” he said in a low voice.

  “Oh, you have, have you?” Tait went on. “Leaving me to shift for myself. Did you think of that? To tie my own necktie.” He indicated the polka-dot bow he affected. “Look at the damn’ thing. I never could tie them.”

  “I wasn’t aware,” Kennaway said, his voice rising, “that I was engaged as a valet.”

  “You know perfectly well what you were engaged for. To be my companion. If Miss Potter wants a companion, let her hire one -“

  “That is a service,” began the young man hotly, “for which some people do not have to -“

  “Just a moment.” Pamela Potter stepped forward with a conciliating smile. “Do let me fix that tie, Mr. Tait. There. That’s better. Go look in a mirror and see.” Tait softened a bit - he couldn’t very well help it. But he continued to glare at the boy. Then he started to walk away.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Tait,” Duff said. “The members of Doctor Lofton’s party are asked to meet in that parlor over there -“

  Tait wheeled. “What for? More of your damned silly investigation, eh? You may waste the time of the others, but not mine, sir, not mine. You’re a fumbler, Inspector, an incompetent fumbler - I saw that in London. Where did you get there? Nowhere. To hell with your meetings.” He took a few steps then turned and came back. His face was contrite. “I beg your pardon, Inspector. I’m sorry. It’s my blood pressure - my nerves are all shot to pieces. I really didn’t mean what I said.”