Title: The Black Camel (1929)
Author: Earl Derr Biggers
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Language:  English
Date first posted: September 2002
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Title:      The Black Camel (1929)
Author:     Earl Derr Biggers





CONTENTS

    I MORNING AT THE CROSSROADS
   II THE HOUSE ON THE BEACH
  III FLOWERS FOR SHELAH FANE
   IV THE CAMEL AT THE GATE
    V THE MAN IN THE OVERCOAT
   VI FIREWORKS IN THE RAIN
  VII THE ALIBI OF THE WATCH
 VIII THE BEACH-COMBER'S SHOES
   IX EIGHTEEN IMPORTANT MINUTES
    X "SHELAH FROM DENNY"
   XI MIDNIGHT IN HONOLULU
  XII NOBODY'S FOOL
 XIII BREAKFAST WITH THE CHANS
  XIV THE PAVILION WINDOW
   XV "TWO JUICES OF THE ORANGE"
  XVI A WORD OF WARNING
 XVII HOW DENNY MAYO DIED
XVIII THE BELL-MAN'S STORY
  XIX TARNEVERRO'S HELPING HAND
   XX ONE CORNER OF THE VEIL
  XXI THE KING OF MYSTERY
 XXII WHAT THE BEACH-COMBER HEARD
XXIII THE FATEFUL CHAIR
 XXIV THE VEIL IS LIFTED





Chapter I



MORNING AT THE CROSSROADS



The Pacific is the loneliest of oceans, and travelers across that rolling
desert begin to feel that their ship is lost in an eternity of sky and
water. But if they are journeying from the atolls of the South Seas to
the California coast, they come quite suddenly upon a half-way house. So
those aboard the Oceanic had come upon it shortly after dawn this silent
July morning. Brown misty peaks rose from the ocean floor, incredible,
unreal. But they grew more probable with each moment of approach, until
finally the watchers at the rail were thrilled to distinguish the bright
green island of Oahu, streaked with darker folds where lurk the valley
rains.

The Oceanic swung about to the channel entrance. There stood Diamond
Head, like a great lion--if you want the time-worn simile--crouched to
spring. A crouching lion, yes; the figure is plausible up to that point;
but as for springing--well, there has never been the slightest chance of
that. Diamond Head is a kamaaina of the islands, and has long ago sensed
the futility of acting on impulse--of acting, as a matter of fact, at
all.

A woman traveler stood by the starboard rail on the boat deck, gazing at
the curved beach of Waikiki and, up ahead, the white walls of Honolulu
half hidden in the foliage behind the Aloha Tower. A handsome woman in
her early thirties, she had been a source of unending interest to her
fellow passengers throughout that hot monotonous voyage from Tahiti. No
matter in what remote corner of the world you have been hiding, you would
have recognized her at once, for she was Shelah Fane of the pictures, and
hers was a fame equal to that of any president or king.

"A great piece of property," film salesmen had called her for eight years
or more, but now they had begun to shake their heads. "Not so good. She's
slipping." Golden lads and lasses must, like chimney-sweepers, come to
dust, which is something the film stars think about when they can not
sleep of nights. Shelah had not been sleeping well of late, and her eyes,
as they rested on peaceful Tantalus with its halo of fleecy cloud, were
sad and a little wistful.

She heard a familiar step on the deck behind her and turned. A broad,
powerful, keen-looking man was smiling down at her.

"Oh--Alan," she said. "How are you this morning?"

"A bit anxious," he replied. He joined her at the rail. His was a face
that had never known Klieg lights and makeup; it was deeply lined and
bronzed by tropic suns. "Journey's end, Shelah--for you at least," he
added, laying his hand over hers. "Are you sorry?"

She hesitated a moment. "Rather sorry--yes. I shouldn't have cared if we
had just sailed on and on."

"Nor I." He stared at Honolulu with the bright look of interest that
comes naturally to British eyes at sight of a new port, a new anchorage.
The ship had come to a stop at the channel entrance, and a launch bearing
the customs men and the doctor was speeding toward it.

"You haven't forgotten?" The Britisher turned back to Shelah Fane. "This
isn't journey's end for me. You know I'm leaving you behind here
to-night. Sailing out at midnight on this same ship--and I must have your
answer before I go."

She nodded. "You shall have it before you go. I promise."

For a brief moment he studied her face. A marked change had crept over
her at the sight of land. She had come back from the little world of the
ship to the great world whose adoration she expected and thrived on. No
longer calm, languorous, at peace, her eyes were alight with a restless
flame, her small foot tapped nervously on the deck. A sudden fear
overwhelmed him, a fear that the woman he had known and worshipped these
past few weeks was slipping from him for ever.

"Why must you wait?" he cried. "Give me your answer now."

"No, no," she protested. "Not now. Later to-day." She glanced over her
shoulder. "Were there reporters on the launch, I wonder?"

A tall, handsome, hatless youth with a mop of blond hair waving in the
breeze rushed up to her. His energy was a challenge to the climate.

"Hello, Miss Fane. Remember me? Met you when you went through here on
your way south. Jim Bradshaw, of the Tourist Bureau, press-agent of
beauty, contact man for Paradise. Our best aloha--and here's a lei to
prove it." He hung a fragrant garland about her neck, while the man she
had called Alan moved quietly away.

"You're awfully kind," Shelah Fane told him. "Of course I remember you.
You seemed so glad to see me. You do now."

He grinned. "I am--and besides, that's my job. I'm the door-mat on the
threshold of Hawaii, with 'welcome' written all over me. Island
hospitality--I have to make sure that my advertisements all came true.
But in your case, I--well, believe me, it isn't any strain." He saw that
she looked expectantly beyond him. "Say, I'm sorry, but all the newspaper
men seem to be lingering in the arms of Morpheus. However, you can't
blame them. Lulled as they are by the whisper of the soft invigorating
trade-winds in the coco-palms--I'll finish that later. Just tell me
what's doing, and I'll see that it gets into the papers. Did you complete
the big South Sea picture down in Tahiti?"

"Not quite," she answered. "We left a few sequences to be shot in
Honolulu. We can live here so much more comfortably, and the backgrounds,
you know, are every bit as beautiful--"

"Do I know it?" the boy cried. "Ask me. Exotic flowers, blossoming trees,
verdant green hills, blue sunny skies with billowy white clouds--the
whole a dream of the unchanging tropics with the feel of spring. How's
that? I wrote it yesterday."

"Sounds pretty good to me," Shelah laughed.

"You'll be some time in Honolulu, Miss Fane?"

She nodded. "I've sent for my servants," she told him. "They've taken a
house for me on the beach. I stifle in hotels--and then, too, people are
always staring at me. I hope it's a large house--"

"It is," Bradshaw cut in. "I was out there yesterday. They're all set and
waiting for you. I saw your butler--and your secretary, Julie O'Neill.
Speaking of that, some day I'd like to ask you where you find secretaries
like her."

Shelah smiled. "Oh, Julie's much more than a secretary. Sort of a
daughter--almost. Though of course that's absurd to say, for we're nearly
the same age."

"Is that so?" said the boy--to himself.

"Julie's mother was a dear friend of mine, and when she died four years
ago, I took the child in. One must do a good deed occasionally," she
added, modestly looking down at the deck.

"Sure," agreed Bradshaw. "If we don't we's never be tapped for the Boy
Scouts. Julie was telling me how kind you've been--"

"I've been amply repaid," the star assured him. "Julie is a darling."

"Isn't she?" replied the boy heartily. "If I had my rhyming dictionary
along, I'd give you a good description of the girl right here and now."

Shelah Fane looked at him suddenly. "But Julie got in only two days
ago--"

"Yes--and so did I. Made a flying trip to Los Angeles, and came back on
the same boat with her. The best crossing I ever had. You
know--moonlight, silver seas, a pretty girl--"

"I must look into this," said Shelah Fane.

Two of the passengers joined them: a weary, disillusioned-looking man
whose costume suggested Hollywood Boulevard, and a dashing girl of
twenty. Shelah yielded to the inevitable. "Mr. Bradshaw, of the Tourist
Bureau," she explained. "This is Miss Diana Dixon, who is in my new
picture, and Huntley Van Horn, my leading man."

Miss Dixon lost no time. She sparkled instantly. "Honolulu is an adorable
place. I'm always so thrilled to come here--such beauty--"

"Never mind," cut in the star. "Mr. Bradshaw knows all that. None
better."

"Always happy to have my ideas confirmed," bowed the boy. "Especially
from such a charming source." He turned to the man. "Mr. Van Horn--I've
seen you in the films."

Van Horn smiled cynically. "So, I believe, have the natives of Borneo.
Has Shelah told you anything about our latest epic?"

"Very little," Bradshaw replied. "Got a good part?"

"It always has been a good part," Van Horn said. "I trust my rendering of
the role will not impair its future usefulness. If it does, many of our
leading studios will have to close. I'm a beach-comber, you see, and I've
sunk lower and lower--"

"You would," nodded the star.

"I'm wallowing in the depths, and quite comfortable, thank you," went on
Van Horn, "when--if you can believe it--I'm saved. Absolutely
rehabilitated, you know, through the love of this primitive,
brown-skinned child."

"Which child?" asked Bradshaw blankly. "Oh, you mean Miss Fane. Well, it
sounds like a great plot--but don't tell me, don't tell me." He turned to
the star. "I'm glad you're going to take a few shots in Honolulu. That
sort of thing makes us very happy at the Tourist Bureau. I must run
along--one or two other celebrities on the ship. Fellow named Alan
Jaynes--very wealthy--"

"I was talking with him when you came up," Shelah said.

"Thanks. I'll go after him. Diamond mines--South Africa--he sounds good.
We're strong for the arts in Hawaii, you know, but as for money--well,
when that appears in the harbor, then we really get out the flags. See
you all later."

He disappeared down the deck, and the three picture people moved over to
the rail.

"Here comes Val," said Huntley Van Horn, "looking like the man who wrote
the tropics."

He referred to Val Martino, director of Shelah's latest picture, who was
rapidly approaching along the deck. He was a short, stocky, gray-haired
man, dressed in a suit of immaculate white silk. Above a flaming red tie
loomed his broad heavy face. It was almost the same shade as the tie,
suggesting that Mr. Martino had never concerned himself with such trivial
matters as blood pressure and diet.

"Hello," he said. "Well, here we are. Thank heaven, Tahiti has been
attended to. From this on, I'll take my tropics after they've been ruined
by American plumbing. Was that a newspaper man you were talking with,
Shelah?"

"Not precisely. A boy from the Tourist Bureau."

"I hope you laid it on thick about the new picture," he continued. "You
know, well need all the publicity we can get."

"Oh, let's forget the picture," returned the star a bit wearily.

The Oceanic was drawing slowly up to the pier, on which a surprisingly
meager crowd was waiting. Shelah Fane gazed at the group with interest
and some disappointment. She had rather hoped for a vast throng of
schoolgirls in white, bearing triumphal leis. But this had happened when
she went through before; she could not expect history to repeat
itself--and it was, too, only seven in the morning.

"There's Julie," she cried suddenly. "There--near the end of the pier.
See--she's waving." She returned Julie's signal.

"Who's that beside her?" Van Horn inquired. "Good lord--it looks like
Tarneverro."

"It is Tarneverro," Miss Dixon said.

"What's he doing here?" the leading man wondered.

"Perhaps he's here because I sent for him," said Shelah Fane.

A quiet black-garbed maid stood at her side. "What is it, Anna?"

"The customs men, madam. They're going through everything. You'd better
come. They want talking to, it seems."

"I'll talk to them," said the star firmly, and followed the maid into her
suite.

"Well, what do you know about that?" Van Horn remarked. "She's sent for
that phony fortune-teller to come all the way from Hollywood--"

"What do you mean, phony?" cut in Miss Dixon. "Tarneverro is simply
wonderful. He's told me the most amazing things about my past--and about
my future, too. I never take a step without consulting him--and neither
does Shelah."

Martino shook his great head impatiently. "It's a rotten scandal," he
cried, "the way most of you Hollywood women have gone mad over voodoo
men. Telling them all your secrets--some day one of them will publish his
memoirs, and then where will you be? A few of us try to lift the industry
to a dignified plane--but, oh, lord--what's the use?"

"No use, my dear fellow," said Van Horn. He looked across the intervening
stretch of water at the tall lean figure of the fortune-teller. "Poor
Shelah--there's something rather touching in such faith as this. I
presume she wants to ask Tarneverro whether or not she shall marry Alan
Jaynes."

"Of course she does," Miss Dixon nodded. "She wants to know if she'll be
happy with him. She cabled Tarneverro the day after Jaynes proposed. Why
not? Marriage is a serious step."

Martino shrugged. "If she'd only ask me, I'd read her future quick
enough. She's nearly through in pictures, and she ought to know it. Her
contract expires in six months, and I happen to know--in strict
confidence, you understand--it won't be renewed. I can see her taking a
long journey by water then--going abroad to make a picture--the beginning
of the end. She'd better grab this diamond king quick before he changes
his mind. But no--she's fooling round with a back-parlor crystal-gazer.
However, that's like you people. You won't grow up." He walked away.

The formalities of the port were quickly ended, and the Oceanic docked.
Shelah Fane was the first down the plank, to be received by the eager
arms of her secretary. Julie was young, impetuous, unspoiled; her joy was
genuine.

"The house is all ready, Shelah. It's a knockout. Jessop is there, and
we've found a Chinese cook who's a magician. The car's waiting."

"Really, dear?"

The star looked up into the dark deep-set eyes of the man at Julie's
side. "Tarneverro--what a relief to see you here. But I knew I could
depend on you."

"Always," said the fortune-teller gravely.

What the crowd lacked in numbers, it made up in noise and confusion.
Anna, the maid, was overwhelmed with boxes and bags, and seeing this,
Tarneverro went to help her. There was no condescension in his manner; he
treated her with the same courtly grace he would have shown the star.

Alan Jaynes and Bradshaw appeared on the scene. The latter went over to
greet Julie with as much warmth as though he had just arrived after a
long hard voyage from some distant port. Jaynes stepped quickly to
Shelah's side.

"I shall be damnably anxious," he said. "This afternoon--may I come
then?"

"Of course," she nodded. "Oh--this is Julie--you've heard about her.
Julie, please tell him the number of our house. We're just beyond the
Grand Hotel, on Kalakaua Avenue."

Julie told him, and he turned back to Shelah. "I shan't keep you--" he
began.

"Just a moment," said the star. "I want to introduce an old friend from
Hollywood. Tarneverro--will you come here, please?"

The fortune-teller handed a couple of bags to Shelah's chauffeur, and
came at once. Jaynes looked at him with some surprise.

"Tarneverro--I want you to meet Alan Jaynes," the star said.

They shook hands. "Glad to know you," remarked the Britisher. As he gazed
into the other man's face, he experienced a sudden sensation of deep
dislike. Here was power; not the power of muscle, which he had himself
and could understand; but something more subtle, something uncanny,
inexplicable and oddly disturbing. "Sorry, but I must dash along now," he
added.

He disappeared into the crowd, and Julie led them to the waiting car.
Tarneverro, it appeared, was stopping at the Grand, and Shelah offered to
drop him there.

Presently they were bowling along through Honolulu's streets, under a
flaming blue sky. The town was waking to another leisurely day. Men of
many races languidly bestirred themselves; at the corner of King Street a
boy offered the morning paper, and a fat brown-skinned policeman lazily
turned a stop-go sign to let them pass. Shelah Fane, like all passengers
newly descended from a ship at this port, felt rather dazzled by the
brightness and the color.

"Oh, I shall enjoy this," she cried. "I've never stayed here longer than
one day before. What a relief to be out of the South Seas."

"But they're romantic, aren't they?" Julie asked.

"The illusions of youth," the star shrugged. "I shan't destroy them. Only
don't mention Tahiti to me again as long as I live."

"Not quite like the books," Tarneverro nodded. He sat, mysterious even in
that bright world, at Shelah's side. "I discovered that for myself, long
ago. You're staying here for some time, I take it?"

"A month, I hope," the star answered. "A couple of weeks still to go on
the picture, and then, I trust, a fortnight's rest. I want it badly,
Tarneverro. I'm tired--tired."

"You need not tell me that," he said. "I have eyes."

He had, indeed, eyes; eyes that were cold and piercing and rather
disquieting. The car sped on past the old royal palace and the judiciary
building, and turned off into Kalakaua Avenue.

"It was so good of you to come over here," Shelah told him.

"Not at all," he replied evenly. "I started the day after I got your
cable. I was due for a vacation--my work, you know, is not precisely
restful. Then, too, you said you needed me. That was enough. That will
always be--enough."

Julie began to chatter about the islands: she mentioned the warm
caressing waters of Waikiki, the thrill of haunting native music in the
purple night, the foreign pageant of the streets.

"All of which," smiled Shelah, "sounds very much to me like James
Bradshaw in one of his more lyric moods."

Julie laughed. "Yes, I guess I was quoting Jimmy. Did you meet him,
Shelah?"

"I met him," the star nodded.

"He's really very nice," Julie assured her. "Especially when he isn't
talking shop."

The pink walls of the Grand Hotel appeared at that moment through a
network of majestic palms, and Shelah directed the chauffeur to turn in
at the gates.

"I must talk with you very soon," she said to Tarneverro. "I have so much
to ask you. You see--"

He raised a slim white hand. "Don't tell me, please," he smiled. "Let me
tell you."

She glanced at him, a little startled. "Oh--of course. I need your
advice, Tarneverro. You must help me again, as you have helped me so
often in the past."

He nodded gravely. "I shall try. With what success--who knows? Come to my
apartment at eleven o'clock--it is number nineteen, on the first floor.
There is a short flight of stairs leading to my corridor just at the left
of the hotel desk as you enter. I shall expect you."

"Yes, yes." Her voice was trembling. "I must settle this thing to-day.
I'll be there."

Tarneverro bowed from the hotel steps, and as the car drove off Shelah
was conscious of Julie's frank young eyes fixed on her with a disapproval
that was almost contempt.

The head bell-man touched Tarneverro's sleeve. "Excuse. There is a man
who waits to see you. This one."

The fortune-teller turned to perceive a bulky Chinese who approached him
with an amazingly light step. The ivory face was wearing a somewhat
stupid expression; the black eyes were veiled and sleepy-looking. Not a
very intelligent Chinese, Tarneverro thought, wondering vaguely what this
visit presaged.

The oriental placed one hand on his broad chest, and achieved a grand bow
despite his waist-line.

"A thousand pardons," he remarked. "Have I the undisputable honor to
address Tarneverro the Great?"

"I am Tarneverro," answered the other bruskly. "What can I do for you?"

"Permit that I introduce myself," continued the Chinese, "unworthy of
your notice though I am. The name is Harry Wing, and I am humble business
man of this island. Do I extend my remarks too far when I say I wish to
see you alone?"

Tarneverro shrugged. "What for?"

"The matter is of pressing urgency. If I might suggest--your room--"

The fortune-teller gazed for a moment into that placid mask of a face,
behind which life seemed nonexistent. He capitulated. "Come along," he
said. Obtaining his key at the desk, he led the way.

Once inside the door of number nineteen, he turned to confront his odd
visitor, who had followed on noiseless feet. The curtains of the
sitting-room were drawn back as far as they would go, and the place was
flooded with light. With his customary forethought, Tarneverro had
selected an apartment on the mountain side of the hotel, and a restless
cool wind from the Koolau Range swept in at the window and stirred the
papers lying on a desk.

The countenance of the Chinese was still without expression, even under
the piercing scrutiny the fortune-teller now gave it.

"Well?" said Tarneverro.

"You are the famous Tarneverro," began Harry Wing in a respectful
singsong. "Among Hollywood people you have vast reputation as one who
lifts dark veils and peers into uncertain future. Black as lacquer that
future may be to ordinary eyes, but to yours, they say, it is clear as
glass. Permit me to add this reputation pursues you even to Hawaii,
dogging like shadow at your heels. The rumor of your mystic skill floods
the street."

"Yes?" put in Tarneverro shortly. "What of it?"

"I am, as I say, business man of small importance to everybody but
myself. Now I begin to speak to you frankly that opportunity arouses
itself in my path. I can amalgamate my business up together with that of
my cousin from a north province. Future looks bright, but qualms assail
me. Will the merge have success? Is my cousin honorable as cousin of mine
should naturally be? Can I trust him? In fewer words, I desire dark veil
lifted, and you are man to do the business. I stand ready to make
generous payment for this lifting."

Tarneverro's eyes narrowed, and for a long time he stood staring at this
unexpected customer for his wares. The Chinese waited motionless as a
Buddha, with his hands in his trousers pockets, his coat thrown back. The
fortune-teller's glance rested for a moment at a point just below the
fountain-pen pocket on his visitor's waistcoat.

"Impossible," he said, with sudden decision. "I am here on a vacation,
not to practice my profession."

"But rumor remarks," objected the other, "that you have already done work
with crystal--"

"For one or two of the hotel managers--as a friendly gesture," Tarneverro
cut in. "I received no fee of any sort. I will not do this kind of thing
for the general public."

Harry Wing shrugged. "The matter then becomes sad disappointment for me,"
he answered.

A grim smile spread over the seer's dark face. "Sit down," he said. "I
have spent some time in China, and I understand how great is the interest
of your people in fortune-tellers. So for a moment, while you were
telling me why you came, I thought you were speaking the truth."

The visitor frowned. "I am now rapidly failing to understand you."

Still smiling, Tarneverro dropped into a chair facing the oriental. "Yes,
Mr.--ah--er--Wing, I believe you said--momentarily I was deceived. And
then a certain little gift of mine came to my aid. You have been kind
enough to speak of my success. I have succeeded--why? Because I happen to
be psychic, Mr. Wing--"

"Chinese people are psychic, too."

"Just a moment. As I stood there listening to you, a psychic wave swept
over me. I had a feeling--a feeling of--what? Of stern men who sit in
police stations and are sworn to enforce the laws. Of detectives pursuing
evildoers, landing them at last--and then, a court of justice, so-called,
a learned judge. That, my friend, is the feeling I had. Rather amazing,
don't you think?"

His visitor's expression had lost suddenly all its stupidity. The little
black eyes snapped with admiration.

"Amazing smart act on your part, yes. But as for me, I do not think it
was psychic feeling. A moment ago I beheld your eyes resting with fierce
understanding on locality of my own waistcoat from which detective badge
was recently removed. The pin has left indelible marks. You are number
one detective yourself, and I congratulate you."

Tarneverro threw back his head and laughed. "Touche!" he cried. "So you
are a detective, Mr.--er--"

"The name is Chan," said the bulky Chinese, grinning broadly. "Inspector
Chan, of the Honolulu police--former times Sergeant, but there hag been
upheaval in local police department, and I am rewarded far beyond my
humble merits. Trap which has just failed so flatly, I add in justice to
me personally, was not my idea. I informed Chief it would not work unless
you happened to be extreme dull-wit. Since you turn out clever beyond
expectation, it did not. No bitter feelings. I pause only to call
attention to local ordinance which says men like you must not practice
dark arts in this town without obtaining permission. A word being spoken
to the wise, I rise to accomplish my exit."

Tarneverro also stood up. "I am not going to practice among your
townspeople," he announced. He had dropped the tense air of mystery which
he evoked for the benefit of film stars, and seemed quite human and not
unlikable. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, Inspector. As for my own
detective prowess, I may say in confidence that it is rather useful in my
work."

"Must be so," returned Chan. "But such skill as yours should be at
service of public. Frequently in Los Angeles murder mystery leaps into
print and never gets solved. I study them all with fiery interest. The
Taylor case--what an amazing happening was there--haie, it is still
mystery. And case of Denny Mayo, famous actor of handsome countenance,
dead in his home at night. How many years--three and more--and Denny Mayo
is still unavenged by Los Angeles police."

"And never will be," added the fortune-teller. "No, Inspector, that is
not in my line. I find it safer to dwell on the future and soft-pedal
Hollywood's past."

"In such course, wisdom may abide," agreed Chan. "None the less, how
happily I would welcome your aid if some such worrisome puzzle stared
into my face. I will say good-by, Mr. Tarneverro. Memory of your
cleverness will linger in my poor mind for long time to come."

He slipped quietly out, and Tarneverro glanced at his watch. With a
leisurely air, he placed a small table in the middle of the room, and
taking from a bureau drawer a gleaming crystal, stood it thereon. Then he
stepped to the window and drew the curtains part way across, shutting out
a goodly portion of the bright light outside. Glancing about the darkened
room, he shrugged his shoulders. Not such an impressive stage-setting as
his studio in Los Angeles, but it would have to serve. Sitting down by
the window, he took out of his pocket a bulky letter and, slitting the
flap of the envelope, began to read. The curtains, caught in the fierce
grip of the trade-wind, swirled about his head.

At eleven o'clock Shelah Fane knocked on the door, and he ushered her
into his sitting-room. She was gowned in white and appeared younger than
she had at the dock, but her eyes were clouded with worry. Tarneverro's
manner was professional now, he was cold, remote, unsympathetic. He
seated her at the table behind the crystal; then, drawing the curtains
all the way, plunged the room into almost complete darkness.

"Tarneverro--you must tell me what to do," she began. He sat down
opposite her.

"Wait," he commanded. He looked fixedly into the crystal. "I see you
standing at the rail on the boat deck of a steamer, under a brilliant
moon. You are wearing a dinner gown--it is gold and matches your hair.
There is a scarf of the same color about your shoulders. A man is
standing at your side; he points, and offers you a pair of glasses. You
raise them to your eyes--you catch the last faint glimmer of the lights
along the front at Papeete, the port from which you sailed a few brief
hours ago."

"Yes, yes," murmured Shelah Fane. "Oh, Tarneverro--how do you know--"

"The man turns. I can see him only dimly, but I recognize him. To-day, on
the pier--Alan Jaynes--was that his name? He has asked you a
question--marriage, perhaps--but you shake your head. Reluctantly. You
want to say yes--yet you don't. You put him off. Why? I feel you love
this man."

"I do," the star cried. "Oh, Tarneverro--I really do. I knew him first at
Papeete--only a week--but in a place like that--The first night out--it
was just as you say--he proposed to me. I haven't given him my answer
yet. I want to say yes--to have a little happiness now--I've earned it, I
think. But I--I'm afraid--"

He lifted, his piercing eyes from the crystal. "You're afraid. Something
in your past--you fear it will return to haunt you--"

"No, no," the woman cried.

"Something that happened long ago."

"No, no--it isn't true."

"You can not deceive me. How long ago? I can not quite determine, and it
is necessary that I know."

The trade-wind mumbled at the curtains. Shelah Fane's eyes wandered
helplessly about the darkened room, then came back to Tarneverro's.

"How long ago?" the man demanded again.

She sighed. "Three years ago last month," she said in a voice so low he
had to strain to hear.

He was silent for a moment, his mind racing like an engine. June--three
years ago. He gazed fixedly into the crystal; his lips moved. "Denny
Mayo," he said softly. "Something about Denny Mayo. Ah, yes--I see it
now."

The wind tore the curtains apart, and a wide strip of dazzling light fell
across Shelah Fane's face. Her eyes were staring, frightened.

"I shouldn't have come," she moaned.

"What about Denny Mayo?" Tarneverro went on relentlessly. "Shall I tell
you--or will you tell me?"

She pointed to the window. "A balcony. There's a balcony out there."

As one who humors a child, he rose and looked outside. He came back to
the table. "Yes, there's a balcony--but no one is on it."

He sat down again, and his bold commanding eyes sought hers. She was
trapped, and helpless.

"Now!" said Tarneverro the Great.





Chapter II



THE HOUSE ON THE BEACH



After a brief twilight, the dark sweeps over Waikiki Beach like old Man
Mystery himself. In the hours before the moon, like a climbing torch,
ascends the purple sky, the sense of hearing comes into its own.
Blackness covers the coco-palms, yet they may be heard rustling at the
trade-wind's touch; the white line of the breakers is blotted out, yet
they continue to crash on that unseen shore with what seems an added
vigor. This is night in the real sense of the word, intriguing,
awe-inspiring, but all too short, for the moon is waiting an early cue.

A solitary floor lamp was burning in the huge living-room of the house
Shelah Fane had rented at Waikiki. The paneled walls, the furniture and
the floor, all fashioned of rare native woods, gleamed faintly in the
half-light; the green of exotic plants was everywhere. The French windows
that faced the street were closed, but those on the ocean side, leading
on to a great screened lanai, stood wide, and through them at regular
intervals came the roar of the surf, which was running high.

Shelah Fane came into the room. She walked with a quick nervous step, and
in her eyes was a look of apprehension--almost of terror. It was a look
that had been there ever since her return from that interview with
Tarneverro in his apartment at the Grand Hotel. What had she done? She
asked this of herself over and over. What had she done? What was the
secret of this dark man's power that he had so easily dragged from the
inner recesses of her mind a story she had thought safely buried for
ever? Once away from the strange influence of his presence she had been
appalled at her own indiscretion. But it was too late then for anything
save regret.

With her unerring instinct for the spotlight, she sat down under the
single lamp. Many cameras had clicked in Hollywood since that distant
time when, like a rocket, she had flashed into the picture sky, and
nowadays the spotlight was none too kind to her. Kind to her hair, yes,
which seemed to spring into flame, but not so considerate of the lines of
worry about her eyes, about her small tense mouth. Did she know? Longer
than most rockets she had hung blazing in the sky; now she must endure
the swift lonely drop in the dark.

Her butler, Jessop, came in, a spare elderly Englishman who had also
found in Hollywood the promised land. He carried a florist's box. Shelah
looked up.

"Oh, Jessop," she said. "Did Miss Julie tell you? The dinner hour is
eight-thirty."

"I understand, madam," he answered gravely.

"A few of the young people are going for a dip before we dine. Mr.
Bradshaw for one. You might show him to the blue bedroom to dress. The
bath-houses are dark and need cleaning. Miss Julie and Miss Diana will
dress in their rooms."

Jessop nodded, as Julie came in. The girl wore an afternoon gown, and her
face was innocent of make-up. She was enthusiastic, happy, young--a touch
of envy darkened the star's fine eyes.

"Don't you worry, Shelah," Julie said. "Jessop and I have planned
everything. It will be like all your parties--a knockout. What's that,
Jessop? Flowers?"

"For Miss Fane," explained the butler, and handing the box to the girl,
left the room.

Shelah Fane was looking about her, a frown on her face. "I've been
wondering, Julie. How in the world can I arrange a good entrance on the
party, in a place like this? If only there were a balcony, or at least a
broad flight of stairs."

Julie laughed. "You might come suddenly through the lanai, strumming a
ukulele and singing a Hawaiian song."

The star took her seriously. "No good, my dear. I'd be entering on the
same level with the guests, and that is never effective. To make the
proper impression, one must appear suddenly from above--always remember
that, darling. Now, in Hollywood--"

The girl shrugged. "Oh, just come in naturally for once, Shelah. There's
a lot in novelty, you know." She had torn the cord from the box of
flowers, and now she lifted the lid. "Lovely," she cried. "Orchids,
Shelah."

The star turned, without interest. Orchids were nothing new in her life.
"Nice of Alan," she said languidly.

But Julie shook her head. "No," she announced, "they're not from Mr.
Jaynes, evidently." She read the card aloud. "'With love from one you
have forgotten.' Who could that be, Shelah?"

"Who couldn't it be?" smiled the star a bit wistfully. She rose with
sudden interest. "I wonder--let me see the card." She glanced at it.
"'With love from one--'" Her eyes lighted with quick understanding. "Why,
it's Bob's writing. Dear old Bob! Just fancy--with love--after all these
years."

"Bob?" inquired the girl.

Shelah nodded. "Bob Fyfe--my first and only husband, dear. You never knew
him--it was long ago. I was just a kid, in the chorus of a musical show
in New York, and Bob was an actor, a legitimate actor--such a good one,
too. I adored him then, but along came Hollywood, and our divorce. And
now--with love--I wonder? Can it be true?"

"What's he doing in Honolulu?" Julie asked.

"Playing in stock," Shelah replied. "Leading man at some theater here.
Rita Ballou told me all about him, this morning when I called her up."
She took the orchids. "I shall wear these to-night," she announced. "I
never dreamed he would even speak to me. I--I'm touched. I'd like to see
Bob again." A thoughtful look crossed her face. "I'd like to see him at
once. He was always so kind, so clever. What time is it--oh, yes--" She
glanced at a watch on her wrist. "Seven-twenty. What was the name of that
theater? Rita told me. The Royal, I think she said--"

The door-bell rang briskly, there ensued a snappy bit of dialogue in the
hall and Jimmy Bradshaw burst through the curtains. He was, it seemed, in
a light-hearted mood.

"Here we all are," he cried. "Everybody who really matters. Well, Miss
Fane, how does it feel to be foot-loose and care-free on a palm-fringed
shore--way down in the warm southern seas?"

"It's really very restful," Shelah smiled. She nodded at Julie. "I'll be
back in a moment. I want a pin for these flowers."

She disappeared into the hall, and Bradshaw turned quickly to the girl.

"You're looking great," he cried. "It's the climate. Not that you didn't
look fairly good at the start--"

"Tell me," she cut in. "What do you think of Shelah?"

"Shelah?" He paused. "Oh, she's all right. Nice and friendly but--a bit
artificial--a good actress, on and off. In the past two years I've met
enough screen stars to start a Hollywood of my own, and what I always say
is--doffing my hat to southern California--you can have 'em."

"You don't really know Shelah," protested the girl.

"No, I guess not. She's been kind to you, and that makes her aces up with
me. But my own preference in women--and I've looked very carefully over
the field--"

"Oh, you have, have you?"

"My ideal--since you've asked me, and I'm glad you have--is a rather
different sort. Lovely, of course, young, innocent, ingenuous--and pretty
crazy about yours truly. That--and you may quote me freely--is the girl
for me."

Diana came suddenly through the curtains. She, too, still wore an
afternoon gown.

"Hello, big boy," she said. "You ready for that swim with me?"

"Sure," replied Bradshaw. "With you--and anybody else who wants to come
along." He looked at Julie. "Let's go. Before the moon rises is my idea.
It's the best time. Any one else going--or is it just--the three of us?"

Julie shook her head. "No one else, I guess. The others are afraid of
spoiling their make-up."

"Which is one advantage of youth over doddering age," the boy returned.
"Well, come along--"

Shelah appeared, wearing the orchids on her shoulder.

"Just about to dip into the world-famed waters of Waikiki," Jimmy
informed her. "Won't you join us?"

"Some other evening," she told him. "You know, I'm hostess to-night."

"You are missing," said Bradshaw impressively, "one of the thrills of a
lifetime. The silken surf beating on coral sand, the dark, star-strewn
sky above, perhaps the pastel loveliness of a lunar rainbow--boats run
from Los Angeles and San Francisco once a week, and the fare is within
the reach of all--"

The door-bell rang again. Accompanied by Shelah, the young people went
out into the hall.

"Get your suit," Julie said to the boy. "I'll show you where to change.
Let's make it a race. The first one into the water gets a prize."

"I'll win it," answered Bradshaw. "I'll name it too." They clattered up
the polished stairs.

Again the bell sounded. Shelah was just beside the door, but she did not
open it; she considered such an act beneath the dignity of a star.
Instead she returned to the living-room and waited for Jessop to do his
duty. After a brief delay, he did it, and two new guests appeared in the
living-room. Shelah advanced to meet them--a dark, rather faded woman of
thirty, followed by a big blond man who had an air of nonchalant
authority.

"Rita Ballou," the star cried. "Why--it's ages! And Wilkie--I'm so glad."

"Hello, darling," said the woman she called Rita.

The man came forward. "Look here, Shelah. What time did you say dinner
was to be?"

"Eight-thirty--but it doesn't matter--"

Ballou turned to his wife. "Good lord--can't you ever get anything
straight?"

"What's the difference?" the woman replied. "We can have a chat with
Shelah before the others come." She turned to the star. "So sorry we
missed you when you went through before. We were on the mainland."

"Haven't missed you this time, thank heaven," added Wilkie Ballou. "By
gad, you're as blooming as ever."

"How do you do it?" inquired Rita sweetly. Her cold eyes flashed green
with envy as she looked at Shelah.

"She's found the fountain of youth," suggested Wilkie admiringly.

"I've always heard that was in Hawaii," smiled the star. She looked hard
at Rita. "But it isn't," the look added.

Rita understood. "Not at all," she said grimly. "It's in the beauty shops
of Hollywood, and you know it. Over here, women fade quickly--"

"Nonsense," protested Shelah.

"Yes, they do. Oh--I've learned my lesson--too late. I should have stayed
in Hollywood and gone on with my career."

"But, my dear,--surely you're happy with Wilkie?"

"Of course. The way I would be with the toothache."

Wilkie shrugged. "Overlook it, Shelah," he said. "We've been rowing all
the way out here. Rita's nerves, you know."

"Is that so?" remarked his wife. "I guess any one would have nerves with
a husband like you. Honestly, Shelah, he's got a better imagination than
what's his name--Shakespeare. If he'd only drop sugar planting and go in
for writing scenarios--but never mind us. Tell me all about Hollywood.
I'd love to be back."

"I'm making a long stop here--we'll have lots of time to chat later,"
Shelah explained. "Some of the crowd are going for a swim before dinner.
Care to go along?"

Rita put one hand to her perfect coiffure, and shrugged. "Not for me,"
she cried. "I'm so sick of swimming I gag at the sight of my tub. You've
no idea, my dear--three years married and living in Honolulu--these
people over here are like fish. They suffocate when you bring 'em
ashore."

They heard the noise of a new arrival in the hall, and Alan Jaynes came
into the room, handsome and upstanding in his dinner clothes. Shelah's
heart sank suddenly at sight of him. While she was introducing him to the
Ballous, Julie and Jimmy Bradshaw rushed in, wearing gay beach robes over
their bathing-suits. They paused, with obvious reluctance, for further
introductions.

"Where's Miss Dixon?" Bradshaw inquired. "She hasn't gone out, has she?"

"Nonsense," cried Julie. "Diana will take ages. She always does."

"Then the race is between us two," said the boy, and dashed through the
open window on to the lanai, with Julie at his heels.

"What a good-looking boy," Rita remarked. "Who is he?"

Shelah explained Mr. Bradshaw's place in the world's work. Rita stood up.

"Let's all go down to the beach," she said.

"The beach--in high-heeled slippers?" protested Wilkie.

"I can take them off, can't I?" Rita demanded. She was moving toward the
window.

"Go along," the star said. "Well follow later."

Rita went out.

Without enthusiasm, Wilkie lifted his great bulk from the chair. "That
means I go, too," he explained, and did so.

Shelah turned to Alan Jaynes with a nervous little laugh. "Poor
Wilkie--he's so jealous. And with reason, I'm afraid--at least, he had
reason in the old days."

Jaynes came quickly to her side. "So sorry I couldn't see you this
afternoon. Your headache--it's better, I trust?"

She nodded. "Much better."

"I've brought you a bit of an offering. It's hardly worthy of you, of
course." He handed her a corsage bouquet wrapped in tissue-paper.

She unwrapped it. "Lovely," she said.

"But too late," remarked Jaynes. "I see you're wearing some one's
orchids."

Shelah laid his gift on a table. "Yes, Alan."

"I hope that doesn't mean--" he began, frowning. "Shelah--it can't mean
that. I--I couldn't go on without you."

She faced him. "You'll have to, Alan. I'm so sorry. But I--I can't marry
you."

His expression clouded. "It's true, then," he said.

"What's true?"

"The thing Van Horn told me this afternoon. I refused to believe it of
you--it's too childish--too ignorant. You sent for that damned
fortune-telling charlatan, and he decided it for you. He advised you not
to take me." She turned away, without speaking. The man's face flushed
with anger. "If you had any sane reason," he continued, controlling
himself with an effort, "I'd take my medicine quietly. But this--this is
too much. To let a fakir--a crystal-gazer--a cheap fraud, come between
us--by the lord, I won't stand for it. I thought on the boat you loved
me--"

"Maybe I did," she answered sadly.

"Then nothing in this world shall stop me--"

"Wait, Alan, wait, please," she cried. "It's for you--I'm doing this for
you. You must believe that. There could be no happiness for us--"

"So that's what he told you, eh?"

"That's what he told me, but he was only repeating what was in my heart.
The past, Alan--the past won't die--"

"I've told you I don't give a hang about what's past."

"Oh, but you don't know, Alan--and I can't tell you. I'm trying to do the
decent thing--you're so fine and straight--I couldn't bear it if I ended
by dragging you through the dust. Please, Alan, please--"

"I don't want to understand," Jaynes cried. "I only want you--to love and
take care of--see here, my time is brief, so pitifully brief. I must
leave at midnight--you know that. Forget this fool of a fortune-teller. I
can't understand your faith in him, I can't approve it, but I'm willing
to overlook it. You aren't to blame, I fancy. Your temperament, your way
of life. Forget him, my dear, and give me your word before I go--"

She shook her head. "I can't," she said brokenly. "I can't."

For a long moment Jaynes looked at her. Then, with great dignity, he
turned on his heel.

"Where are you going?" Shelah cried.

"I don't know," he answered. "I must think this thing out."

"But you're dining here--"

"I don't know," the man repeated. "I couldn't talk to your friends just
now. I want to be alone for a few minutes. I may return later." He seemed
dazed, uncertain of himself.

Shelah was at his side, her hand on his sleeve. "Alan, I'm so sorry--so
unhappy."

He turned, and took her in his arms. "By heaven--you loved me on the
ship. I won't give you up. I can't." His glance fell on the orchids,
fastened to the shoulder-strap of her gown by a small diamond pin. "No
one shall take you from me," he cried and, releasing her, went quickly
out.

Shelah Fane walked slowly to a chair, and dropped into it. Pain and a
desperate unhappiness were in her face, and she was not acting now. For a
few moments she sat there, then gradually came back to her surroundings.
She glanced at her watch--a quarter of eight. Quickly she rose and went
to the French windows at the rear.

The moon was still in hiding, and the broad lawn that lay between the
house and the pounding surf was shrouded in darkness. She heard, far
away, the exultant cry of Julie battling with a breaker, and then the
answering call of Jimmy Bradshaw. There was an odd air of expectancy
about her as she stepped out on the lanai. She crossed it to the screen
door that opened on to the lawn and stood there, peering out. Under a
near-by hau tree she thought she saw, in the blackness, an even blacker
shadow. Suddenly it moved. With a little cry of recognition, she flung
open the door and ran swiftly across the grass.

Meanwhile, Alan Jaynes was striding grimly along Kalakaua Avenue in the
direction of the Grand Hotel. Five minutes brought him to the cool lofty
lobby of that famous hostelry. He passed the head bell-man, whose smile
of welcome froze suddenly on his face as he caught the look in the
Britisher's eyes.

Jaynes turned to the left, moving past shop windows filled with jade and
Oriental silks, then past the flower booth where, earlier in the evening,
he had purchased the bouquet which now lay unappreciated on Shelah Fane's
table. In another moment he reached the entrance to the big lounge of the
hotel, and stood there at the top of a short flight of steps.

It was a beautiful room, with those three great arches opposite the
entrance like triple paintings of the tropic sky. But Jaynes had no eye
for beauty to-night. Most of the guests were at dinner, and the lounge
had a deserted air. Seated not far away, however, talking pleasantly with
an elderly couple who had the look of tourists, the Britisher saw the man
he wanted.

He descended the steps, and crossed to this man's chair. "Stand up," he
ordered in a husky voice.

Tarneverro the Great looked at him with an expressionless face. "I should
have expected a bit more courtesy," he said evenly. "But then--I scarcely
know you."

"Stand up," Jaynes repeated, "and come with me. I want a talk with you."

For a moment the fortune-teller sat, quietly measuring the man who
towered above him. Then he rose, and making his apologies to the two old
people, he walked at Jaynes' side down the long room.

"What is all this--" he began.

They stopped at an archway near the far end. Outside a series of
brilliant lights bathed the hotel lawn in white, making an ideal
stage-setting for some drama of the tropics. But the stage was empty; the
drama was all inside the lounge.

"I want an explanation," said Jaynes roughly.

"An explanation of what?"

"I have done myself the honor of asking Miss Shelah Fane to marry me. I
had every reason to believe she intended to do so--but today she
consulted you about the matter--a matter that concerns you not at all.
You advised her against a marriage with me."

Tarneverro shrugged. "I do not discuss with outsiders what goes on at my
readings."

"You're going to discuss it with me. Make up your mind to that!"

"Suppose I did--what could I say? I tell my clients only what I see in
the crystal--"

"Rot!" cried Jaynes. "You tell them whatever happens to suit your fancy.
What was your reason for this advice to Shelah?" He came closer and
stared into the seer's face. "Are you, by any chance, in love with her
yourself?"

The fortune-teller smiled. "Miss Fane is most charming--"

"We don't need your evidence on that point--"

"Most charming, but I do not permit myself the unwise luxury of a
sentimental attachment for my clients. I advised her as I did because I
saw no happiness possible in this proposed marriage." His tone grew
serious. "Incidentally, whether you appreciate it or not, I did you a
favor to-day."

"Really?" said Jaynes. "But I'm not asking favors of a mountebank like
you."

A dark flush spread over Tarneverro's face. "There can be no point in
prolonging this interview," he remarked, and turned away.

Jaynes seized him quickly by the arm. "We'll prolong it this far. You are
going to Miss Fane at once and tell her you're a fraud, a fake, and that
you wish to retract all you said to her to-day."

Tarneverro shook off the other's grasp. "And if I refuse?" he said.

"If you refuse," Jaynes answered, "I propose to give you a thrashing you
won't forget for many a day."

"I do refuse," said Tarneverro quietly.

Jaynes' arm shot back, only to find itself in a surprisingly firm grip.
He turned. Val Martino, the director, was at his side; his was the grip
on the Britisher's arm. Beyond Martino, Huntley Van Horn, resplendent in
Hollywood evening garb, looked on with an air of amused interest.

"Now, now," bellowed Martino, his face even redder than usual. "Cut this
out, please. Too much of it in the pictures already. We can't have it,
Jaynes, we can't have it."

For a moment the four stood motionless. A new figure strolled upon the
scene, a broad bulky Chinese in a dinner coat. Tarneverro hailed him.
"Ah, Inspector Chan. Just a moment, please."

Charlie came closer. "It is Mr. Tarneverro," he remarked. "'The lifter of
the veil.'"

"Inspector," the fortune-teller said, "may I present Mr. Van Horn, and
Mr. Martino? And this is Mr. Alan Jaynes. Inspector Chan, of the Honolulu
police."

Chan bowed gracefully. "The honor is immense. Distinguished company, as a
blind man could see."

Jaynes glared at Tarneverro. "Very good," he sneered. "Hide behind the
skirts of the police. It's what I would expect of you."

"Now, now," Martino interposed. "A slight misunderstanding, Inspector.
There will be no trouble--I am sure the good name of the industry is too
precious to all of us. It is certainly very precious to me."

Van Horn looked at his watch. "Eight o'clock," he announced. "I believe
I'll roll along down to Shelah's. Anybody coming?"

The director shook his head. "Not yet. I'll be down presently." The actor
walked slowly away. Martino, his grip still firm on the Britisher's arm,
sought to lead him off. "Come out on the terrace," he pleaded. "We'll
talk this matter over."

Jaynes turned to the fortune-teller. "I'm not sailing until twelve," he
said. "In the meantime, we may meet again." He permitted Martino to lead
him down the room.

"I trust that last prediction falls short of truth," Chan said to
Tarneverro. "I do not have much liking for light I observe in gentleman's
eye."

Tarneverro laughed. "Oh, he'll come around. I have offended him, quite
unintentionally." He looked thoughtfully at Charlie. "By the way,
Inspector, this is a happy meeting. I was thinking of calling you up.
Just how do you plan to spend the evening?"

"I attend Rotary Club banquet in this hotel," Chan explained.

"Good. You'll be here some time?"

Chan nodded. "I fear so. It happens very few after-dinner speeches are
equipped with self-stopper."

"Until eleven, perhaps?"

"It seems terribly possible."

"I am dining at a friend's house down the beach," Tarneverro said. "At
the house of Miss Shelah Fane, in fact. Some time between now and eleven
o'clock I may have a very important message for you, Inspector."

Chan's eyes opened slowly. "A message? Of what nature?"

Tarneverro hesitated. "This morning you happened to speak of certain
murder cases in Los Angeles that remain unsolved. I told you then that I
preferred to keep out of that sort of thing. We are not always able to
follow our preferences, Inspector." He moved away.

"One moment," said Chan. "You have sought to quench the fire of my
curiosity by tossing upon it a handful of straw. May I repeat my
question--what sort of message?"

The fortune-teller gave him a long look. "A message calling upon you to
arrest the murderer of--but there, I mustn't say too much. There's many a
slip, as you have no doubt learned from your own experience. I shall be
happy to have you so near--until eleven, at least. After that I presume I
can reach you at your home?"

"With ease," Charlie told him.

"Let us hope for success," smiled Tarneverro cryptically, and went to
rejoin his elderly acquaintances in the center of the lounge. For a
second Chan looked after him. Then, shrugging his broad shoulders, he
turned to find the banquet room.





Chapter III



FLOWERS FOR SHELAH FANE



Huntley Van Horn strolled down Kalakaua Avenue in the direction of Shelah
Fane's house. On this tiny island in the midst of the rolling Pacific,
few outward signs of a romantic past survived. He might have been on
Hollywood Boulevard: the parade of automobiles along that stretch of
American asphalt was constant, a trolley clattered by, he walked on a
concrete sidewalk under the soft yellow glow of modern street-lamps. Yet,
beyond the range of those lamps, he was conscious of the black velvet of
a tropic night. He caught the odor of ginger blossoms and plumeria, a
croton hedge gave way to one of hibiscus, topped with pale pink flowers
that were doomed to die at midnight.

He came to the number Shelah had impressed on his memory and turned in
through the gates on to a broad drive that curved before a wide front
door. Passing beneath a prolific banyan tree, two centuries older than
the motion pictures, he rang the bell. Jessop admitted him.

"Oh, Mr. Van Horn," the butler said. "I'm happy to see you again."

"How have you been?" the actor inquired.

"In splendid health, sir. I trust you enjoyed your little jaunt to
Tahiti?"

Van Horn tossed down the straw hat he had substituted for the silk topper
in which he had won the approval of several million women. "A primitive
country, Tahiti," he smiled. "It would have reminded you of Hollywood,
Jessop."

The butler permitted himself a discreet smite. Van Horn pushed on into
the living-room, and Jessop followed.

"No one here?" the actor cried. "Lord--am I as early as all that?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Van Horn. Some of the guests are enjoying the bathing, which
I understand is rather famous in certain quarters. A few, I believe, are
on the beach. Would you care to join the--er--the other young people in
the water, sir?"

Van Horn grinned. "The diplomatic service lost a good man in you.
No--much as I am tempted to classify myself with youth, the matter
involves too damn much dressing and undressing. I shall remain, high and
dry, on the shore."

"Just as well, sir," nodded Jessop. "It is already eight-fifteen, and the
dinner hour is rapidly approaching. I shall be forced to summon them in
shortly."

Van Horn stared about the room. "What--no cocktails?"

"There has been a slight delay, sir. The gentleman who was to supply us
with the raw material--the very raw material, between you and me,
sir--has only just come. I was busy with the shaker when you rang." He
went over and stood by the French window opening on to the lanai. "You
will find the ocean just out here, sir," he explained.

Van Horn laughed, and stepped on to the lanai. The butler followed him to
the screen door, and held it open.

"Ah, yes," said the actor. "I hear the roar of surf. No doubt I shall
find the sea in that same general neighborhood." He paused in the
doorway, and indicated a light gleaming through the trees some distance
to the right. "What's over there?"

"It's a sort of summer-house, or pavilion, sir," Jessop explained. "At
least, it would be a summer-house in England, where we have summers. It
may be a few of the guests are in there."

Van Horn went out on the lawn, and started across it in the direction of
the light. Suddenly he heard, above the pounding of the breakers, voices
on the beach. He stood for a moment, undecided which way to go.

Jessop, meanwhile, returned to the living-room. An old bent Chinese came
shuffling in.

"My dear Wu Kno-ching," the butler protested, "in a well-run house, the
cook's place is in the kitchen."

The old man blandly ignored the rebuke. "What time dinnah?" he asked.

"As I have told you, the dinner is set for eight-thirty," replied Jessop.
"It may, however, be somewhat delayed."

Wu Kno-ching shrugged. "Wha' kin' house this is? Dinnah mebbe sometime
plitty soon aftah while. I get dinnah ready--boss say wait--dinnah goes
to hell." He departed, murmuring further reproof.

The screen door slammed behind Wilkie Ballou; he crossed the lanai
aimlessly and entered the living-room.

"I fear this idea of a swim is going to delay dinner, sir," Jessop said
to him.

"What? Oh, yes--I suppose so. Have you any cigarettes here? My case is
empty."

Jessop proffered a box containing cigarettes, and taking one, Ballou
dropped into a chair. The butler officiated with a match, then retired to
the kitchen.

Returning fifteen minutes later, he found the Honolulu man sitting just
as he had left him.

"Things are getting rather serious, sir," Jessop remarked. He carried a
large dinner gong. "I had always supposed, from my reading, that the
Chinese are a notably patient race."

"They have that reputation, yes," nodded Ballou.

"Their representative in our kitchen, sir, is doing nothing to sustain
it," Jessop sighed. "He informs me with great passion that dinner is
waiting. I'll just go down to the shore and see what this will do." He
nodded toward the gong and disappeared. Presently he could be heard in
the distance, beating a not unmusical tattoo.

Ballou lighted a fresh cigarette. Jessop returned, and at his heels came
Rita Ballou and Van Horn.

"You should have stayed, Wilkie," Rita said. "I've just been getting all
the latest Hollywood gossip."

"I'm not interested," Ballou growled.

"Poor Wilkie," his wife smiled. "It's close to his bedtime, and he hasn't
even had his dinner. Cheer up. It won't be long now."

Diana Dixon arrived, quite out of breath. "I suppose we're late," she
cried. "You should have been in with us. It was glorious--but not half
long enough. I could have stayed for hours. Cocktails--that's an idea."

She took one from the tray which Jessop held before her. The other guests
likewise needed no urging. Huntley Van Horn lifted his glass.

"To our hostess, if any," he remarked.

"That's right--what's become of Shelah?" Rita Ballou said. "We saw her
for a moment when we came--"

"Shelah," said Van Horn, with a cynical smile, "is no doubt lurking in
the background waiting to make a grand and impressive entrance. She will
ride in on a white charger, or descend on us from a balloon. You know,
she goes in for that sort of thing--"

Julie and Jimmy Bradshaw rushed in, glowing and in high spirits. "Hello,
Mr. Van Horn," the girl cried. "Are you all that's come?"

"To think," he groaned, "that you could be so rude to me."

"Oh, you know what I mean," she laughed. "Where are all our other guests?
Val Martino, Mr. Jaynes, Tarneverro--"

"Tarneverro coming?" Van Horn lifted his eyebrows. "In that case, I will
have a second cocktail. Thanks so much."

Quite unexpectedly there was the sound of steel guitars at the front
door, and of many fresh young voices singing a Hawaiian song. Julie cried
out with delight.

"A serenade from Shelah's admirers," she said. "Isn't that sweet? She
will be pleased." Her beach robe streaming behind her, she ran to the
door and threw it open. She stood gazing out at a vast throng of
high-school girls, laden with flowers. They stopped their song, and a
young Japanese girl stepped forward. "We would like to see Shelah Fane,
please."

"Of course," said Julie. "Just wait, and I'll get her. While you're
waiting, if you don't mind--will you sing The Song of the Islands? It's
Miss Fane's favorite, you know."

She left the door open and returned to the living-room. "Come on,
Jimmy--we'll find Shelah. I think she's in the pavilion."

"Sure," said Jimmy. They went out on the lawn.

"Couldn't be better," Julie cried. "For Shelah's entrance on the party, I
mean. That crowd outside serenading her as she comes in--she'd love it."

"Good lord," said Bradshaw, disapproval in his voice.

"Oh, I know," the girl answered. "It's silly, but poor Shelah's what she
is. Her life has made her so, and she can't change." They went on across
the soft lawn under the hau trees and the algarobas. The sweet haunting
strains of The Song of the Islands came to them on the evening breeze.
"Hurry," Julie said, "Shelah must get in there before that song ends."

She ran up the steps of the pavilion, with Bradshaw close behind. He
pushed open the door of the single room. For a second he stood there,
then he turned swiftly and caught the girl in his arms.

"No, no," he cried. "Don't go any farther."

His tone frightened her. "What do you mean?"

"Turn around and go back," he pleaded, but she tore away from him and ran
inside.

"You'll be sorry," he warned.

And she was sorry, it seemed, for above the voices of the serenaders and
the distant whine of steel guitars, her own voice rose in a sharp cry of
fright and terror.

Shelah Fane lay on the floor beside a small straight-backed chair. She
had been stabbed through the heart; her priceless ivory gown was stained
with crimson. Outside, that little group of her admirers continued to
sing fervently their serenade.

Julie knelt by the star's side, and Bradshaw looked away. In a moment he
went over and lifted the girl to her feet. "We'd better go," he said
gently. "There's nothing we can do."

He led her to the door. She looked up at him through her tears. "But
who--who--" she murmured.

"Ah, yes--" he answered. "That, I'm afraid, is the big question now."

He found, on the inside of the pavilion door, an unexpected key. They
went outside, and the boy locked the door, putting the key in his pocket.
Slowly they walked back to the house. Huntley Van Horn greeted them.

"Did you tell Shelah?" he said. "The stage is all set. Her guests are
gathered in the living-room, her great public is singing lustily at the
door--it's a grand entrance--" He stopped at sight of Julie's face.

"What's happened?" cried Rita Ballou shrilly.

Bradshaw stood looking about the little group. Jessop came in and,
picking up the silver tray on which he had served the cocktails, prepared
to collect the empty glasses. Outside the door, The Song of the Islands
trailed off into silence.

"Shelah Fane has been murdered in the pavilion," said the boy in a low
voice.

There was a sudden crash. Jessop had been guilty of his first error in
forty years of service. He had dropped the silver tray.

"I beg pardon," he said to no one in particular.

Outside, Shelah Fane's admirers began another song. Bradshaw dashed
through the curtains to the front door.

"Please," he cried. "Please--no more to-night. You must go away now. Miss
Fane can't see you. She is--she is ill."

"We are so sorry," said the girl who seemed to be the leader. "Will you
give her the flowers, please?"

They began to load him down with fragrant blossoms. Presently he
staggered back into the hallway, his arms filled with a riot of color.
Julie was standing there, her eyes wide, her face deathly pale.

"Flowers," said Bradshaw. "Flowers for Shelah Fane."

With a choking cry, Julie fell in a heap at his feet.





Chapter IV



THE CAMEL AT THE GATE



Down at the Grand Hotel, Charlie Chan was well started on what he
perceived was going to be an excellent dinner. The hour of Rotarian
oratory was not near enough to worry him, the food was good and he felt
at peace with the world. He did not know the name of the small fish that
lay on the plate before him, but one taste had led him to approve most
heartily of its quality. He was leaning forward to apply himself with
increased diligence to the task at hand, when a bell-boy touched him on
the shoulder.

"You are wanted on telephone very quick," said the boy.

A sense of vague unrest troubled him as he walked down the long lobby to
the telephone booth. He would have preferred a life of quiet meditation,
but a ruthless fate was always breaking in upon him with some new problem
that must be solved. What now, he wondered, as he entered the booth and
pulled the door to behind him.

He was greeted by an excited young voice. "Say, Charlie,--this is Jim
Bradshaw of the Tourist Bureau. Huntley Van Horn told me I could find you
at the hotel."

"Yes--and now you have found me. What is it that has brought you to this
state of high disturbance?"

In jumbled phrases Bradshaw poured out his story. Charlie listened
calmly.

"Shelah Fane," the boy was saying. "You know what that means, Charlie.
This news of mine will be cabled all over the world to-night. You're
going to be in the limelight as you never were before. Better get down
here as fast as you can."

"I will arrive at once," Charlie answered. Was that a sigh, Bradshaw
wondered, that came over the wire? "Let nothing be touched until I touch
it," the detective added.

He hung up, then called the police station and gave certain directions.
At last he came from the booth, mopping his perspiring brow with his
handkerchief. For a moment he stood motionless, as though gathering his
strength for the task that lay before him. Another case, another murder,
and he knew that what the boy had said was true: this time he would work
in a bright spotlight indeed. Shelah Fane! Not for nothing did he have
numerous children who, as he often said, were movie crazed. He knew only
too well the interest that had always centered about the woman who now
lay dead a short distance down the beach.

"A thousand-mile journey begins with one step," he sighed, and took
it--in the direction of his hat.

When he returned to the door of the hotel, he encountered Tarneverro. The
fortune-teller also carried a hat, and seemed on the point of going out.
"Hello, Inspector," he said. "You haven't finished your dinner already?"

"I have not," Charlie answered. "I am rudely wrenched away by important
business. The most important I have encountered for some time."

"Yes?" returned Tarneverro lightly.

Charlie's small eyes were fixed upon the other's face with a fierce
intensity. Not too soon to collect impressions, to weigh, to measure, to
study.

"Miss Shelah Fane," he said slowly, "is just now found murdered at her
home."

For hours afterward he was to speculate upon the look that crossed that
dark mysterious face.

"Shelah!" Tarneverro cried. "Good God!"

"You were on your way there, perhaps?" Charlie continued.

"I--I--yes--of course--"

"Do me the honor to ride with me. I desire to ask questions."

Val Martino hurried up. "I say, Tarneverro--are you going down the
beach?"

Tarneverro told him the news. The director heard it with surprising
calmness.

"Too bad," he said evenly. He was thoughtful. "Well, there goes six
months' hard work. That picture's ruined. I'll never find anybody to
double for her--I've tried it--"

"Good lord, man!" cried Tarneverro angrily. "Shelah is dead, and you
babble about your picture."

"Sorry," said Martino. "Sorry for poor Shelah. But even in the movies,
the show must go on."

"What became of that fellow Jaynes?" Tarneverro asked suddenly.

"Right after we left you, he shook me off and strolled down the beach. He
was in a state of mind--well, you saw that. Wasn't coming to the
dinner--but I fancy I'd better find him and bring him down, eh?"

"Yes, yes," Chan said hurriedly. "I must see him. Come, Mr. Tarneverro.
Speed is necessary." He led the fortune-teller out to the drive, where
his battered flivver was waiting. "The vehicle is none too grand," he
apologized, "but it moves. Will you kindly leap inside?"

Silently Tarneverro climbed into the little two-seater. Charlie started
the car.

"This is a terrible thing," the fortune-teller said. "Poor Shelah--I can
scarcely realize it."

Charlie shrugged. "Time to be philosophical," he suggested. "You have
perhaps heard old Eastern saying. 'Death is the black camel that kneels
unbid at every gate.' Sooner or later--does it matter which?"

"I know, I know," Tarneverro continued. "But, in a way, I'm afraid I'm
responsible for this. Oh, lord, the more I think about it, the clearer it
becomes. Poor Shelah's blood is on my head."

"Your remarks have interesting sound," Charlie remarked, as the car moved
through the hotel gates on to the avenue. "Explain, if you will be so
kind."

"This evening," the fortune-teller went on, "I told you I might call on
you to make an arrest in a very important murder case. I fully expected
to do so. I'll tell you what I meant by that, as briefly as possible.

"Shelah Fane had cabled me from the ship, asking me to meet her here. It
seems that this fellow Jaynes had proposed to her, and she wanted my
advice. For some time past she had been in the habit of coming to me with
all her problems. She loved Jaynes, she wanted to marry him--but she was
afraid of what the future might hold in store. She feared that at any
moment the world might discover that for three years or more she had gone
about burdened with a terrible secret."

"What secret?" Charlie inquired.

"This morning," Tarneverro continued, "you spoke of Denny Mayo, who was
found dead in his home in Los Angeles some three years ago. The police
have been at sea on the case from the start. But Shelah Fane--she knew
who murdered Denny Maro. She was in Mayo's house, paying a harmless call,
on the night of the murder. The door-bell rang, and she foolishly hid in
another room. She saw the thing done. All this she confessed to me this
morning. What is more, she told me that Denny Mayo's murderer is at this
moment in Honolulu."

Charlie's eyes gleamed in the dark. "She told you the name?"

Tarneverro shook his head. "I'm sorry. She didn't want to, and I made no
effort to press her. Her reason, of course, for not revealing her
connection with this affair at the time, was that to do so would ruin her
career. She has kept silent all these years, but she hesitated to marry a
man of whom she was really fond and perhaps drag him through some very
unpleasant publicity later on."

"A natural hesitation," Chan approved. "You encouraged it?" He had
stopped the car in the drive of Shelah's house, but he made no move to
alight.

"I did, of course," Tarneverro said. "More than that, I strongly advised
her to lift this burden from her mind and find peace at last. I assured
her that if she revealed the name of the guilty person of her own accord,
no police in the world would be inclined to punish her for her long
silence. I trust I was right in that?"

"Speaking for myself only, yes," nodded Charlie.

"I suggested she refuse Jaynes for the present, and go through with this
unpleasant duty which I felt she owed to society. I said I thought it
would be extremely foolish for her to marry any man with such a threat
hanging over her happiness. If he really cared for her, I pointed out,
Jaynes would marry her in the end. If he didn't care that much, then it
was better to discover it now."

They alighted and stood under the banyan tree. Charlie peered into the
fortune-teller's face. "And if Jaynes did not marry her--" he suggested.

Tarneverro shrugged. "You are on the wrong track there," he said. "I had
no sentimental interest in Shelah Fane. But I didn't fancy my role--the
secret she confided in me was a bit more than I'd bargained for. I felt,
too, that for the sake of her own happiness she ought to get rid of this
burden at last. So I pleaded with her to make public the name of the
guilty person in the Mayo case."

"And she agreed?" Charlie asked.

"Not precisely. The idea rather frightened her. She said she would think
it over, and give me her decision tonight. 'Write me a brief statement,
with that name included,' I told her, 'give it to me at dinner this
evening, and I will make everything as easy for you as possible.' I was
confident of gaining my point, or I would never have spoken to you about
it. Yes, I would have gained it--but now--now--"

"Now," Chan said, "the killer of Denny Mayo has silenced this woman for
ever."

"Precisely."

"But in what manner did this person discover she was hovering on a point
of revealment?"

"I can't tell you," Tarneverro replied. "There is a balcony outside my
room. That's a possibility, but not a likely one, I fear. Or it may be
that Shelah consulted the killer, told him--or her--that she could no
longer remain silent. It would have been like her. She was indiscreet,
impulsive." They moved toward the steps. "I hope that what I have told
you will prove helpful, Inspector. It gives you the motive, at least, and
it narrows your search. Believe me, I shall be at your side through this
investigation. You are going to have all the help I can possibly give
you. I want, even more than you, the name of Shelah's murderer."

"Your help will be valuable indeed," Chan told him. "What did I say to
you this morning--you are number one detective yourself. I did not dream
that so soon we would be working side by side."

Jessop admitted them, and they went into the living-room where the two
Ballous and Van Horn sat in gloomy silence. Charlie stood gazing at this
small group with thoughtful deliberation. Jimmy Bradshaw entered behind
him, his bathing-suit abandoned for dinner clothes.

"Hello, Charlie," he said in a low voice. "You're needed here, all right.
In the pavilion--clear over to the right on the lawn. I locked the door
as soon as we found what had happened. Here's the key."

"You are bright boy," said Charlie, pleased. "That fact has long been
apparent as the morning sun." He turned to the others. "It will naturally
be understood that no one leaves this house until I grant permission. Mr.
Tarneverro, will you kindly accompany me?"

He walked with the fortune-teller in silence across the lawn, white now
under the rising moon. Chan went up the steps first, and unlocked the
door. With marked reluctance, Tarneverro followed.

Charlie went over and dropped down on one knee beside Shelah Fane. Slowly
he looked from her to the fortune-teller. "Long time I have been in
present business," he said softly, "but rough blunt feelings do not come
natural to me yet. I am sorry for this lady. Never before this moment
have I seen her--yet I am so very sorry." He stood up. "The black camel
has knelt at plenty famous gate to-night," he added.

Tarneverro remained some distance from the body. He seemed to control
himself with an effort. "Poor Shelah!" he muttered. "Life was very sweet
to her."

"It is sweet to all of us," Charlie nodded. "Even the beggar hesitates to
cross a rotting bridge."

"I can never forgive myself," the other continued. "What you see here
began this morning in my apartment."

"What is to be, will be," Chan comforted. "We will not move unfortunate
one until arrival of coroner. I have already telephoned the station. But
we will look about, Mr. Tarneverro. Do not forget--you are to help." He
knelt again, and lifted Shelah Fane's left arm. "Here is already some
evidence. There has been a struggle, and wrist-watch was smashed in
process. Crystal is broken, and"--he placed the watch to his ear--"the
working of the timepiece immediately ceased to function. The hands remain
stationary at two minutes past eight. So soon, without an effort, we know
exact moment of tragedy. That is indeed something."

"Two minutes after eight," Tarneverro said. "At that moment, Jaynes,
Martino, Van Horn, you and I were in the lounge of the hotel.
Remember--Van Horn looked at his watch, remarked it was eight o'clock,
and said he was starting down here."

"Of course," Chan nodded. "The alibis arrive in one huge flock." He
pointed to the orchids, crushed on the floor. "Further evidence of the
struggle. Bouquet was torn off, trampled under foot."

"All of which looks a bit like jealousy," responded Tarneverro, frowning.
"Can we be wrong about the motive, after all? No--it might be anger,
too."

Charlie was crawling about the rug. "Peculiar thing," he remarked.
"Flowers were fastened by pin--you may note the shoulder-strap is
torn--but no pin is here now." He examined the orchids, and made a
thorough search of the floor, while Tarneverro watched him. "It is true,"
he added, standing up, "the pin which fastened flowers is strangely
missing."

He stepped to an old mahogany dressing-table, a handsome piece in its
day, but now banished to the beach house. The table had a glass top, and
leaning over, he studied this with a microscope he had taken from his
pocket. "One more point," he said. "This corner here has lately received
fierce nick. What can that mean?"

Tarneverro had picked up an expensive gold mesh bag that was lying on the
table, and was studying the contents. "No use," he said. "The usual
compact, and a few dollars. For a moment I had a crazy thought that
perhaps Shelah had already written down for me that name we want. It
would have been a very happy chance. The case would have been over before
it started."

"Cases do not permit themselves the luxury of such easy solution," sighed
Chan. "If letter such as you warmly desire had been in this room,
murderer would have it now. No--fate is never so kind. We must take long
way round. Come--we have finished here for the present. Much more to be
done later."

They went out, and Charlie locked the door. As they moved across the
lawn, he enumerated the clues. "A watch stopped at two minutes past eight
in fierce struggle. A bouquet of orchids crushed in same, the pin that
held them in place oddly lost. A fresh nick on glass corner of
dressing-table. Enough for the moment, maybe."

As they entered the living-room, Jessop was ushering in Martino and Alan
Jaynes. The latter's face was pale beneath its bronze, and he was
obviously much upset.

"We will all acquire chairs," Chan suggested. "Many questions must now be
asked."

Jessop came forward and faced Tarneverro. "I'm sorry, sir," he said.
"With all the excitement, I quite forgot it."

"Forgot what?" asked Tarneverro, surprised.

"This letter, sir." He took a large elaborate envelope from his pocket.
"Miss Fane requested me to give it to you the moment you arrived."

Tarneverro stretched forth his hand, but Charlie stepped quickly between
them. He took the envelope. "So sorry. But the police are in charge here
now."

"Naturally, sir," Jessop bowed, and backed away.

Chan stood there, a rather helpless-looking figure, holding the letter in
his hand. Could it be true? Was the answer to this puzzle so soon within
his grasp? A long understanding look passed between him and Tarneverro.
The room seemed filled with people, milling about, seeking chairs.
Charlie lifted his right hand to slit the envelope.

The floor lamp furnished the only illumination in the room. Chan took a
step nearer it; he had the envelope open now, and was about to remove the
contents. Suddenly the lamp went out, and the room was plunged into
darkness. There followed the sound of a blow, then another, a cry and the
fall of a rather solid body.

The place was in an uproar. Out of the blackness came an insistent demand
for lights. The lamps in the wall brackets flashed on revealing Jessop at
the switch.

Charlie was slowly rising from the floor. He rubbed his right cheek,
which was bleeding slightly.

"Overwhelmed with regret," he said, glancing at Tarneverro. "Famous god
Jove, I hear, nodded on occasion. For myself, I fear I have just taken
most unfortunate nap." He held out his left hand, in which was a tiny
fragment of envelope. "Vital portion of letter," he added, "seems to have
traveled elsewhere."





Chapter V



THE MAN IN THE OVERCOAT



For a long moment Chan stood with that fragment of letter in his hand.
His expression was calm and unruffled, a very inaccurate indication of
what was going on in his heart. Before a room filled with people some
person had tricked and therefore disgraced the famous detective of the
Honolulu police.

Charlie Chan had lost face in the presence of seven witnesses. Though he
had lived many years in Hawaii, he was still Oriental enough to feel a
hot bitter anger that startled even himself.

He sought to conquer that feeling immediately. Anger, he had been taught,
is a poison that destroys the mind, and he would have need of all his
faculties in the ordeal that impended. In this affair he was face to face
with an adversary who was not only in a desperate mood, but who was also
clever and quick to act. Well, so much the better, Charlie told himself;
he would find all the more satisfaction in defeating such an opponent in
the end. For he would win out; on that he was fiercely determined. The
unknown person who had killed, first Denny Mayo, and then, to protect
that secret, Shelah Fane, would be brought to justice at last, or
Inspector Chan could never find peace again.

Tarneverro was glaring at him with ill-concealed indignation. "So sorry,"
he remarked coldly, "but the police are in charge here now."

Chan nodded. "You are eminently correct in that sneer. Never before in my
life has such a happening aroused itself in my path. But I give you my
word"--he looked slowly around the little group--"the person who struck
that blow will pay. I am in no mood that turns the other cheek to-night."

He took out his handkerchief and applied it to the cheek that had,
unfortunately, been already turned. It did not need the trace of red on
the white linen to tell him that the hand that had hit him wore a ring.
His right cheek--then the blow had probably come from some one's left
hand. On the left hand of Van Horn, he noted a large seal ring; he turned
to Wilkie Ballou, and on that gentleman's left hand he caught the glint
of a diamond. Covertly he pursued his study; Bradshaw, Martino,
Tarneverro and Jaynes were all innocent of jewelry.

Tarneverro held his arms aloft. "You may start with me," he said. "You
are, of course, going to search every one in this room."

Charlie smiled. "I am not quite such fool as that. Person who favored me
with vigorous blow is not likely to hold incriminating letter in guilty
possession. Besides," he added casually, as he walked away, "the matter
is of small importance anyhow."

Tarneverro lowered his arms. It was quite evident from his expression
that he heartily disapproved Charlie's omission of what he considered an
essential move. But Chan ignored him. The detective was making a swift
examination of the cord which stretched from the lamp to an electrical
socket a few inches above the floor. The plug, wrenched from its place,
lay before him, its two protruding prongs mute evidence that its removal
had been a simple matter. It had only been necessary to step on the cord
anywhere along its length, move the foot a short distance away from the
wall, and the thing was done. Simple, yes, but a bit of quick thinking on
some one's part. Charlie restored the plug, and the lamp flashed on
again.

He came back to the center of the room. "We waste no time in fruitless
search for letter now," he remarked. "I propose instead to fix in my mind
our little group of characters, and perhaps learn from their lips just
what they were engaged in doing at two minutes past eight to-night." He
stood gazing at them thoughtfully. "I have some hesitation where to
begin. Mr. Ballou, yours is familiar face, so I will start in your
vicinity. Will you kindly state position in this house of yourself and
Mrs. Ballou?"

The millionaire looked at him with all the arrogance of the white man who
has lived for a long time among what he considers inferior races. "Why
should I do that?" he inquired carelessly.

"Murder has been committed," replied Charlie sternly. "I recognize your
high position on this island, but you are not above question. Will you
deign to reply, please?"

"We came here as dinner guests," Ballou said. "We are--we were old
friends of Miss Fane."

"You knew her in Hollywood?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Ballou was, before her marriage to you, herself actress on famous
silver screen?"

"What if she was?" flared Ballou.

"Why not be polite, Wilkie?" rebuked his wife. "Yes, Inspector, I was in
the pictures, under the name of Rita Montaine. And if I do say it, I was
rather well known."

Chan bowed. "Could one of your charm be otherwise? May I inquire, please,
how long you have been married?"

"Three years this month," she told him amiably.

"You resided, perhaps, in Hollywood up to moment of your marriage?"

"Oh, yes."

"Do you recall--was Mr. Ballou in Hollywood for some time previous to
that marriage?"

"Yes--he hung around for several months, pleading with me to give up my
career and take him." Her husband snorted. "You may not recall it now,
Wilkie, but you did."

"What the devil," cried Ballou irritably, "has all that got to do with
the murder of Shelah Fane? I believe, Inspector, that you are exceeding
your authority. You'd better be careful--I'm not without influence--"

"So sorry," said Chan soothingly. "I will come at once to the present.
You arrived here to-night at what hour?"

"At seven-thirty," he answered. "The dinner was not until eight-thirty,
but Mrs. Ballou got the invitation over the telephone, and as usual"--he
glared at his wife--"she balled things up."

"At seven-thirty," put in Chan hastily, cutting off Rita's reply.
"Describe actions down to present moment, please."

"What are you getting at?" objected Ballou roughly. "You don't think I
killed Shelah Fane, do you? By gad, I'll speak to some one down at the
station about this. Do you know who I am--"

"Oh, who are you, anyhow, Wilkie?" his wife put in wearily. "Why not tell
the Inspector what he wants to know and have done with it?" She turned to
Chan. "We arrived about seven-thirty, and after a little chat with Miss
Fane, stepped out on the beach to watch the bathers. It was about a
quarter to eight when we went out there, I imagine."

"You were engaged in this manner how long?"

"Answering for myself, I was on the beach until Jessop came out at
eight-thirty. About ten minutes before that, Mr. Van Horn joined us and
my husband got up and strolled toward the house."

"At two minutes past eight, then, yourself and husband were seated side
by side on sand. You heard no cry or other indication of disturbance?"

"None at all. The two girls in the water were doing more or less
screaming--you know how people will. But that's not the sort of thing you
mean?"

"Not precisely," replied Chan. "Thank you so much. We drop you for the
present."

Julie O'Neill came slowly into the room. The new pink evening gown she
had looked forward to wearing at the party was back on its hangar, and
she had donned a simple little dress of gray chiffon. Her face was still
decidedly pale, but she seemed calm and collected now. Chan turned to
her.

"Good evening. I am so sorry to be here. Not until this moment have I
encountered the pleasant thrill of seeing you. Would you mind informing
me just who you are?"

Bradshaw came forward. He introduced Julie to Chan, and went on to
explain the girl's place in the household.

"My heart's deepest sympathy," Charlie remarked. "As mere matter of form,
I must ask about your actions during this most tragic evening."

"I can tell you all about that," Bradshaw informed him, "and kill two
birds--oh, sorry--I mean to say, give you my own story at the same time.
I arrived at the house early for a swim with Miss O'Neill. The last time
we saw Miss Fane was in this room when we came down dressed for the
water--that was about seventy-forty. She was here with Mr. and Mrs.
Ballou, and Mr. Jaynes."

"You went immediately to the beach?"

"We did--and on into the water. It was marvelous--pardon me if I put in a
small advertisement for the local bathing beach. What I mean to say is,
Miss O'Neill and I were together from the time we saw Miss Fane until
about eight-thirty, when Jessop rang the gong calling us in. It was soon
after that we made our unhappy discovery."

"You remained in water at all times?"

"Oh, no--we came back to the beach now and then. Mrs. Ballou was there
from the start, as she says. Mr. Ballow disappeared toward the last and
Mr. Van Horn showed up."

"At two minutes past eight, then, you and Miss Julie were either in water
or making brief excursion to shore?"

"One or the other--we had no means of knowing the time, of course. It
went very quickly. We were surprised when Jessop called us in."

Chan turned to the girl. "Miss Fane was wearing tonight pretty nice
bouquet of orchids on shoulder?"

Julie nodded. "Yes."

"Fastened with pin, no doubt?"

"Of course."

"Did you by any chance note the pin?"

"No, I didn't. But I remember her saying she was going to her room to get
one. Perhaps her maid can tell you about that."

"Are you in position to know who it was sent those orchids?"

"I am," Julie replied. "There was no name, but Miss Fane recognized the
writing on the card. She said they came from her ex-husband, Bob
somebody--he's an actor playing with a stock company in Honolulu."

"Bob Fyfe," explained Rita Ballou. "He's in the company down at the
Royal. They were married when Shelah was quite young, and I believe she
was always very fond of him, even after their divorce."

Alan Jaynes rose and, taking a small cigar from a case, lighted it, then
walked nervously about the room, seeking a place to throw the match.

"A discarded husband," mused Charlie. "Ah, yes, I would expect at least
one of those. This man should be notified at once, and arrive here with
all speed possible."

"I'll attend to it, Charlie," offered Jimmy Bradshaw.

"Warmest thanks," Chan remarked. As the boy left the room, he turned to
the others. "We now resume somewhat rude questioning. Mr. Van Horn, you
are actor, perhaps?"

"Perhaps?" laughed Van Horn. "Well, that's flattering. The reward of ten
years' hard work."

"You have, then, been in Hollywood for the past ten years?"

"Ten years and a half--lost in what the amiable Mr. Mencken calls the
sewers of Hollywood."

"And before that?"

"Oh, before that I led a most romantic life--ask my press-agent."

"I seek to determine facts," Charlie said.

"In that case I shall have to tell you that I came there wide-eyed and
innocent, from an engineering school. I planned to build bridges, but my
fatal beauty intervened."

"You have appeared with Miss Shelah Fane in other pictures before this
one?"

"No." Van Horn grew more serious. "I scarcely knew her until I was
engaged for this part."

"I do not need to ask where you were at two minutes past eight to-night?"
Chan continued.

"No, you don't," the actor agreed. "I was in the same room with you.
You'll remember I looked at my watch and remarked that it was eight
o'clock, and that I was toddling along down here. At two minutes past the
hour I was still where you could see me--if you cared to avail yourself
of the privilege."

"You came to this house immediately?"

"Yes--I walked. Exercise--that's how I keep in trim. I got here about
eight-fifteen--I didn't hurry. Jessop let me in, we had a little chat,
and at about eight-twenty I joined Mrs. Ballou on the beach, as you've
already heard."

Jimmy Bradshaw returned. "I got that man Fyfe at the theater," he
announced. "My news just about bowled the poor fellow over. He said he
would be through after the second act, and would come right along."

"Thank you most warmly," Chan nodded. "You have most helpful nature." He
turned to Martino. "You are what they call a director, I think."

"Yes, they call me that," replied Martino grimly. "Among other things."

"You have been engaged in this work a long time?"

"Not very long. I was formerly an actor, on the English stage. Got
interested in the pictures, you know, and eventually went to Hollywood."

"Could you mention date of arrival?"

"Surely. I landed there two years ago last March."

"At that date, you saw the place for the first time?"

"Yes--of course."

Charlie nodded. "With regard to this evening, I can also omit to ask from
you your exact location at two minutes past eight."

"Naturally. I was with you and these other chaps at the hotel. As I
believe I told you, when I left you just after eight o'clock, I went with
Mr. Jaynes on to the terrace. I tried to calm him a bit, but he broke
away and wandered down the beach. I sat there on the beach walk for some
twenty-five minutes, admiring the set. When I saw you again, I had just
been upstairs to get my hat, intending to come down here."

Charlie looked over at Alan Jaynes, nervously smoking his small cigar in
a distant corner. "Mr. Jaynes," he said.

The Britisher rose and approached him, consulting his watch as he did so.
"Yes?" he remarked.

Charlie regarded him gravely. "You are, I believe, one of the people who
suffer most from this death to-night?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"It is reported that you loved Shelah Fane."

"Reported--by whom?" The man looked angrily at Tarneverro.

"No matter," said Chan. "You had asked her to marry you?"

"I had."

"Then you loved her?"

"Look here--must you make a public inquisition of this?"

"So sorry. It is, I perceive, somewhat indiscreet on my part. Mr.
Bradshaw has told me you were in this room at seven-forty to-night."

"I was. I had come to dinner."

"And to have, first of all, a private conversation with Miss Fane?"

"Yes. But the nature of that conversation is none of your business."

Charlie smiled. "Alas! I know so much that is none of my business. You
ask for her final decision in the matter of marriage. She rejects you,
and you suspect Mr. Tarneverro here is responsible for the action. You
tramp angrily back to hotel, seeking to make quarrel with this same
Tarneverro. So, at two minutes past eight, you stand in hotel lounge,
glowering. Which, dear sir, is fortunate affair for you."

"I take it," Jaynes said, "that you have fixed the moment of this--this
murder, at two minutes after eight?"

"I have," Chan replied.

Jaynes tossed his cigar into an ash-tray with a gesture of deep relief.
"Thank God for that. Have you any more questions?"

"You saw Miss Fane for final time when you left this room at about
fifteen minutes before eight?"

"That was the last time I saw her--yes."

"Then you did not return here between eight-five and eight-thirty-five?"

"I did not."

"Have you ever been in Hollywood, Mr. Jaynes?"

The Britisher laughed bitterly. "I have not--and I'm not likely to go
there."

"That is all, sir," Chan nodded.

"Thank you. I'll say good-by. I happen to be sailing on the Oceanic at
midnight."

Charlie looked at him in sudden surprise. "You are leaving Hawaii
to-night?"

"I am."

The detective shrugged. "I am so sorry to disappoint you. The matter is
impossible."

"Why should it be?" Jaynes demanded.

"You are somewhat deeply involved in this affair."

"But you say you've fixed the moment of the murder--and at that moment I
was standing in your presence. It's a perfect alibi."

"Perfect alibis have way of turning imperfect without warning," Charlie
informed him. "I regret that I can not allow you to sail. The Oceanic
will be carefully watched, and no one connected with this affair will be
permitted to leave the island aboard her. Or on any other ship, for the
present."

An angry flush spread over the Britisher's face. "On what grounds do you
keep me here?"

"As an important witness in present case," Chan replied. "I will go to
extreme length of swearing out warrant, if necessary."

"I can at least go back to the hotel," Jaynes suggested.

"When I permit it," Charlie said gently. "Meanwhile, I hope you will find
for yourself a comfortable chair."

Jaynes glared at him, then receded into the background. The door-bell
rang, and Jessop admitted two men. One was a tall angular American with a
deputy sheriff's badge, the other a small anxious-looking Japanese.

"Ah, Mr. Coroner," Chan greeted the deputy, who doubled in that role.
"And Kashimo. As usual, Kashimo, you are demon for speed to get on job.
Is it too much to assume that you arrive here with horse and carriage?"

The deputy spoke. "They sent him to fetch me, and he finally managed it.
Where did this thing happen, Charlie?"

"In a moment I lead you to the place," Charlie said.

"Maybe I search house," suggested Kashimo.

Chan regarded him sadly. "It would appear that there was great shortage
of detectives at station house tonight," he said. "No, Mr. Kashimo,
please do not search house--at least, not until somebody tells you what
you are searching for." He turned to the deputy. "If you will follow
me--"

Diana Dixon came into the room. She wore a white evening gown, and her
elaborate make-up was sufficient explanation of the long delay in her
appearance. Chan looked at her with interest.

"Here is some one about whom I have not heard before," he said.

"Who in the world--" began Diana, staring at him.

"Do not be alarmed," smiled Charlie. "I am Inspector Chan, of Honolulu
police. You are in Hawaii now."

"Oh, I see," she answered.

"Your name, please?"

She gave it.

"You are guest in house, perhaps?"

"I am. Miss Fane was kind enough to take me in. You know, I've just come
up from the South Seas with her--I acted in her last picture."

"An actress," nodded Chan. "I find myself dazzled by so much fame and
beauty. All the same, I collect myself to inquire--what have you been
engaged in doing this evening?"

"Why, I've been in swimming," she told him.

"When did you last see Miss Fane?"

"When I went up-stairs to put on my bathing-suit--I don't know what time
that was. Mr. Bradshaw had just come, and Miss Julie and he and I went up
to change. We left Miss Fane standing here in the hall. Some one was
ringing the door-bell."

"You came down and entered the water with these young people?"

"Oh, no--it took me a lot longer to change. It was eight o'clock when I
was finally ready--I noticed the clock on my dressing-table just before I
left my room. I'd no idea it was so late--so I hurried down--"

"You did not see Miss Fane?"

"No, I didn't. This room was empty when I came through it. I crossed the
lanai and stepped out on the lawn--"

"At a little time past eight?"

"Yes--it must have been three or four minutes past the hour. As I ran
over the lawn, I saw a man come hurriedly away from the pavilion--"

"You saw a man leaving the pavilion? Who was he?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see his face. I thought he was one of the
guests, and I shouted hello. But he didn't answer."

"You are able to describe him?" Chan asked.

"Not his face--that was in shadow, as I told you. But he was wearing a
coat--an overcoat--I thought it odd on a night like this. The coat was
open, and a streak of light from the kitchen window fell on his
shirt-front. He was dressed in evening clothes, you see, and across his
white shirt--" Suddenly she turned pale and sat down weakly in the
nearest chair. "Oh, my God," she cried, "I never thought of it before."

"You never thought of what before?" Charlie prompted.

"That stain on his shirt--that long, narrow, bright red stain," she
gasped. "It--it must have been blood."





Chapter VI



FIREWORKS IN THE RAIN



For a moment, stunned by the picture Miss Dixon's words presented, the
assemblage was silent. Then a low murmur, a buzz of amazed comment,
filled the room. Charlie Chan stood looking at his newest witness
speculatively, as though he asked himself whether her statement could
possibly be true.

"Most interesting," he said at last. "There has been, then, on these
grounds to-night, a gentleman whose presence was up to this moment
unsuspected by me. Whether or not he carried blood-soaked shirt bosom--"

"But I tell you I saw it," the girl protested.

Chan shrugged. "Perhaps. Oh, most humble pardon--I do not question your
truth. I merely mention overwrought nerves, or maybe optic illusion. You
must excuse if I say I might admit murderer would be so clumsy at his
work as to inundate himself, but reason totters on pedestal to add that
such a man would rush from scene of crime with coat flapping open on his
error. Rather I would picture him with garment wrapped close to hide away
this crimson evidence. But what does it matter? We must at any rate
pursue thought of man with overcoat. The idea in itself presents portrait
of queer human being. Overcoat in smiling tropics, even over evening
dress, is unaccustomed garb." He turned to Julie. "And what, please, is
name of man servant in this house?"

"You mean Jessop?" she inquired.

"I mean the butler. Will you summon him--if I am not getting too
obnoxious?"

Julie went into the hall, and Charlie turned to the deputy sheriff. "I
find it impossible to accompany you to scene of crime just yet. Same took
place in small beach house at right of lawn--please accept this key. You
may begin examination, and I will join you when I have interrogated
servants here."

"Did you find the weapon, Charlie?" asked the coroner.

"I did not. That was, I think, carried off by the assailant. He was
person, you will find, who had wits in good control." Charlie turned to
the Japanese. "Kashimo, you may enjoy yourself by keen observation of the
neighborhood. But if you repeat one former performance and spoil any
footprints for me, I will at once arrange for you to return to former
position as janitor of fish market."

The coroner and the little Japanese went out. At the same moment Jessop
held open the curtains and followed Julie into the room. The butler was
pale and agitated.

"The name is Jessop?" Charlie inquired.

"Yes--ah--sir."

"You understand who it is that I am?"

"I take it you represent the local constabulary, sir."

Chan grinned. "If it will help you to endure society of person like me,
Jessop, I offer statement that my humble efforts on one occasion met with
the complete approval of a gentleman from Scotland Yard."

"Really, sir?" answered Jessop. "The memory must be most gratifying to
you."

"It is, indeed. How long is it now that you have been Miss Fane's
butler?"

"Two years, sir."

"You were in Hollywood before that, maybe?"

"For about eighteen months, I was."

"A butler, always?"

"Always a butler, sir. I had a number of berths before I went with Miss
Fane. I am bound to say that I was unhappily in all of them."

"The work was, perhaps, too difficult?"

"Not at all, sir. I objected to the familiarity of my employers. There is
a certain reserve that should exist between servant and master. I found
that lacking. The ladies I worked for would often weep in my presence and
tell me stories of unrequited love. The gentlemen who engaged me were
inclined to treat me like some long-lost brother. One in particular was
accustomed to address me as 'old pal' and when a bit under the influence,
would embrace me in the presence of guests. A man has his dignity, sir."

"It has been well said, without dignity there can be no stature," Charlie
assured him. "You found Miss Fane of a different type?"

"I did indeed, sir. A lady who knew her place as I knew mine. There was
never any undue informality in her treatment of me."

"Relations were, then, of the happiest?"

"That they were. I should like to add that I am quite heart-broken by
this evening's business, sir."

"Ah, yes--coming to this evening--did any of the gentlemen whom you
admitted here to-night wear an overcoat, Jessop?"

"An overcoat, sir?" Jessop's white eyebrows went up.

"Yes. With dinner costume, you understand."

"No, sir," replied Jessop firmly. "No such gaucherie of dress was
evident, Constable."

Chan smiled. "Kindly look about the room. Do you recall admitting any
visitor with exception of those now visible to your view?"

"No, sir," returned Jessop, surveying the party.

"Thank you. When did you last see Miss Fane?"

"It was in this room, at about twenty minutes after seven, when I brought
her a box of flowers. I heard her voice after that, but I did not see
her."

"Please detail your activities from hour of twenty minutes past seven
onward," Chan requested.

"I was engaged with my duties, sir, in the dining-room and the kitchen. I
may add that it has been a rather trying evening, in my department. The
Chinese cook has exhibited all the worst qualities of a heathen race--I'm
sure I beg your pardon."

"A heathen race," repeated Charlie gravely, "that was busy inventing the
art of printing at moment when gentlemen in Great Britain were still
beating one another over head with spiked clubs. Pray excuse this brief
reference to history. The cook has been in uproar?"

"Yes, Constable. He has proved himself sorely deficient in that patience
for which his people have long been noted. Then, too, the--er--the
bootlegger, to use one of your--or their--American phrases, has been
unforgivably late."

"Ah--you already possess bootlegger?"

"Yes, sir. Miss Fane was a temperate woman herself, but she knew her
duties as a hostess. So Wu Kno-ching, the cook, arranged with a friend to
deliver a bit of liquor just out of the laboratory, and a wine of the
most recent vintage."

"I am deeply shocked," Chan replied. "Wu's friend was late?"

"He was indeed, sir. As I say, I was busy with my duties from the moment
I gave Miss Fane the flowers. At two minutes past eight--"

"Why do you make selection of two minutes past eight?"

"I could not help but overhear your questions to these others, sir. At
that moment I was in the kitchen--"

"Alone?"

"No, sir. Wu was there, of course. And Anna, the maid, had dropped in for
a cup of tea to sustain her until dinner. I called Wu's attention to the
fact that it was already past eight o'clock, and we had a few words about
the bootlegger's tardiness. The three of us remained there together until
ten after eight, when Wu's friend made a rather sheepish appearance, and
I immediately set about to do what I could with the ingredients he
brought. At fifteen past eight, I came out to admit Mr. Van Horn. From
that point on I was in and out of this room, sir, but I did not leave the
house until I went to the beach and sounded the dinner gong."

"I am obliged to you for a most complete account," Charlie nodded. "That
is all, Jessop."

The butler hesitated. "There is one other matter, Constable."

"Ah, yes. What is that?"

"I do not know whether or not it has any significance, sir, but it came
back to me when I heard this terrible news. There is a small library
up-stairs, and to-day, when I had cleared away the luncheon things, I
went in there to secure a book, planning to take it to my room as a
recreation during my siesta. I came suddenly upon Miss Fane. She was
looking at a photograph and weeping most bitterly, sir."

"A photograph of whom?"

"That I couldn't say, sir, save that it was of some gentleman. She held
it so I could not obtain a better view of the face, and hurriedly left
the room. All I can tell you is that it was a rather large photograph,
and was mounted on a mat that was Nile green in color."

Chan nodded. "Thank you so much. Will you be kind enough to dispatch
heathen cook into my presence, Jessop?"

"I will indeed, sir," replied Jessop, and withdrew.

Charlie looked about the circle. "The matter lengthens itself out," he
remarked kindly. "I observe beyond windows a cool lanai crowded with nice
Hongkong chairs. Any who wish to do so may stroll to more airy perch. One
thing only I ask--please do not leave these grounds."

There followed a general movement and amid a low buzz of comment all save
Bradshaw, Julie, Tarneverro and Chan went out on the dim lanai. The
fortune-teller looked keenly at Charlie.

"What have you accomplished?" he wanted to know.

Charlie shrugged. "Up to the present moment, I seem to have been setting
off fireworks in the rain."

"That's precisely what I thought," Tarneverro said impatiently.

"Do not lose heart--" Chan advised. "Changing the figure, I might add
that to dig up the tree, we must start with the root. All this digging is
routine matter that does not fascinate, but at any moment we may strike a
root of vital importance."

"I sincerely hope so," Tarneverro remarked.

"Oh, you trust Charlie," Bradshaw said. "One of Honolulu's first
citizens, he is. He'll get his man."

Wu Kno-ching came in, mumbling to himself, and Charlie addressed him
sharply in Cantonese. Looking at him with sleepy eyes, Wu replied at some
length.

The high-pitched, singsong exchange of words between these two
representatives of the oldest civilized nation in the world grew faster
and louder, and on Wu's part, seemingly more impassioned. The three
outsiders stood there deeply interested; it was like a play in some dead
language; they could not understand the lines but they were conscious of
a strong current of drama underneath. Once Chan, who had up to that point
been seemingly uninterested, lifted his head like a bird-dog on the
scent. He went closer to the old man, and seized his arm. One
recognizable word in Wu's conversation occurred again and again. He
mentioned the "bootleggah."

Finally, with a shrug, Chan turned away.

"What's he say, Charlie?" asked Bradshaw eagerly.

"He knows nothing," Chan answered.

"What was all that about the bootlegger?"

Charlie gave the boy a keen look. "The tongue of age speaks with
accumulated wisdom, and is heard gladly, but the tongue of youth should
save its strength," he remarked.

"Yours received and contents noted," smiled the boy.

Chan turned to Julie. "You have spoken of Miss Fane's maid. She alone
remains to be interviewed. Will you be so good as to produce her?"

Julie nodded and went out. Wu Kno-ching still lingered at the door, and
now he burst into a tirade, with appropriate gestures. Charlie listened
for a moment, and then shooed the old man from the room.

"Wu complains that no one eats his dinner," he smiled. "He is great
artist who lacks appreciation, and his ancient heart cracks with rage."

"Well," remarked Jimmy Bradshaw, "I suppose it's an unfeeling thing to
say, but I could put away a little of his handiwork."

Chan nodded. "I have thought of that. Later, perhaps. Why not? Do the
dead gain if the living starve?"

Julie returned, followed by Anna, the maid. The latter was a dark thin
woman who moved gracefully.

"The name, please?" Chan inquired.

"Anna Rodderick," she answered. There was just a trace of defiance in her
tone.

"You have been with Miss Shelah Fane how long?"

"Something like a year and a half, sir."

"I see. Before that you were perhaps employed elsewhere in Hollywood?"

"No, sir, I was not. I went with Miss Fane the day after my arrival
there, and I have never been employed by any one else in the picture
colony."

"How did you happen to go to California, please?"

"I was in service in England, and a friend wrote me of the higher wages
that prevailed in the States."

"Your relations with Miss Fane--they were pleasant?"

"Naturally, sir, or I wouldn't have remained with her. There were many
other positions available."

"Did she ever admit you into her confidence regarding personal affairs?"

"No, sir, she did not. It was one of the things I liked about her."

"When did you last see your mistress?"

"At a bit before seven-thirty. I was about to go down to the kitchen for
a cup of tea, for I saw that my dinner was likely to be long delayed.
Miss Fane came to her room--I was in the one adjoining. She called to me
and said she wanted a pin for some orchids she had in her hand. I went
and got it for her."

"Kindly describe the pin."

"It was a rather delicate affair, set with diamonds. About two inches
long, I should say. I fastened the flowers to the shoulder-strap of her
gown."

"Did she remark about those flowers?" Charlie inquired.

"She said they were sent to her by some one of whom she was once very
fond. She seemed a bit excited."

"What happened next?"

"She sat down at the telephone," Anna told him. "There is an extension in
her room. She looked up a number in the telephone book and then busied
herself with the dial, sir."

"Maybe you heard subsequent conversation?" Chan suggested.

"I am not accustomed to spying, sir. I left her at once and went down to
the kitchen."

"You were in the kitchen at two minutes past eight?"

"Yes, sir. I recall the hour because there was a great deal of talk
between Jessop and the cook about the bootlegger."

"You were still in the kitchen when this bootlegger came, at ten minutes
past eight?"

"I was, sir. A little later I went back to my room."

"You did not see your mistress again?"

"No, sir, I did not."

"One other thing." Chan looked at her thoughtfully. "Kindly speak of her
manner during the day. Was it same as always?"

"I noticed nothing unusual."

"You did not note that she was seen with a portrait--the portrait of a
gentleman--during the afternoon?"

"I was not here this afternoon. It was our first day ashore, and Miss
Fane kindly gave me a few hours off."

"Have you ever seen, among Miss Fane's possessions, portrait of gentleman
mounted on Nile-green mat?"

"Miss Fane always carried with her a large portfolio, containing many
pictures of her friends. It may be such a one is among them."

"But you never saw it?"

"I have never opened the portfolio. That would seem too much like
prying--if I may say so, sir."

"Do you know where portfolio is now?" Charlie asked.

"I believe it is lying on a table in her room. Shall I fetch it for you?"

"A little later, perhaps. Just now I would inquire--you are familiar with
jewelry usually worn by Miss Fane on occasion of evening party? Aside
from diamond pin fastening orchids, I mean?"

"I think so, sir."

"Will you come with me, please?"

Leaving the others in the drawing-room, he led the maid across the
moonlit lawn in the direction of the pavilion. They went in, and Anna
lost her composure for a moment at sight of Shelah Fane. She gave a
strangled little cry.

"Kindly conduct thorough search," Chan said to her, "and inform me if all
jewelry is at present time in place."

Anna nodded without speaking. The coroner came over to greet Chan.

"I've made my examination," he said. "This is a pretty big thing,
Charlie. I'd better send somebody to help you out."

Chan smiled. "I have Kashimo," he answered. "What more could any man ask?
Tell Chief I will report entire matter to him at earliest convenience."
They stepped out on the lanai of the pavilion, and at the same moment
Kashimo crept like a correspondence-school sleuth from a cluster of
bushes at the corner of the building.

"Charlie--come quick," he whispered hoarsely.

"Kashimo has discovered essential clue," Charlie said. "Please join us,
Mr. Coroner."

They followed the Japanese through the bushes and out upon a public beach
that bounded the property on the right. On that side of the pavilion,
which stood flush with the dividing line, was a single window. Kashimo
led them to this, and swept a flash-light over the sand.

"Footprints-s-s!" he hissed dramatically.

Charlie seized the light and knelt on the sand. "True enough, Kashimo,"
he remarked. "These are footprints, and peculiar ones, too. Shoes were
old and battered, the heels are worn down unevenly, and in sole of one
shoe was most unfashionable hole." He stood up. "I fear that fortune has
not been smiling on owner of that footwear," he added.

"I am one to find things," remarked Kashimo proudly.

"You are," smiled Charlie, "and for once you do not destroy clue the
moment you come upon it. You are learning, Kashimo. Warm
congratulations."

They returned to the lawn of Shelah Fane's house. "Well, Charlie, this is
up to you," the deputy said. "I'll see you early in the morning--unless
you want me to stay."

"Your duty is accomplished," Chan answered, "Or will be when you have
made proper arrangements in city. Body will of course be taken at once to
mortuary."

"Certainly," the deputy replied. "Well, good-by--and good luck."

Chan turned to Kashimo. "Now great opportunity arises for you to perform
your specialty," he said.

"Yes-s-s," Kashimo answered eagerly.

"Go to house, inquire for bedroom of Miss Shelah Fane, and search--"

"I go now," cried Kashimo, leaping away.

"Stop!" commanded Charlie. "You are one grand apprentice detective,
Kashimo, but you never pause to inquire what it is you sleuth for. On
table of that room you will find large portfolio of photographs. I very
much desire to see portrait of gentleman mounted on mat that is colored
Nile green--"

"Nile is new word to me," the Japanese complained.

"Yes--and I have no time for geography lesson now," sighed Chan. "Bring
me all photographs in room mounted on cardboard colored green. If none
such is in portfolio, search elsewhere. Now be off. The portrait of a
gentleman, remember. If you return with pretty picture of Fujiyama I will
personally escort you back to private life."

Kashimo sped across the lawn, and Charlie again entered the pavilion.
Anna was standing in the center of the room.

"You made investigation?" he inquired.

"I did," she said. "The pin that fastened the flowers is nowhere about."

"A matter already known to me," he nodded. "Otherwise the ornamental
equipment is complete?"

"No," she replied. "It isn't."

He regarded her with sudden interest. "Something is missing?"

"Yes--an emerald ring--a large emerald that Miss Fane usually wore on her
right hand. She told me once that it represented quite a bit of money.
And--it has disappeared."





Chapter VII



THE ALIBI OF THE WATCH



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 bounds
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-