Keeper Of The Keys

by

Earl Derr Biggers

CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX

Chapter I - SNOW ON THE MOUNTAINS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Honolulu," suggested the girl.

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

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

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

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

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

"I certainly do."

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

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

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

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

"But even so," he shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am on no trail but my own."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes?" Chan said politely.

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

"The snow is very beautiful," suggested Charlie.

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"You know me, then?"

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

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

"I am so sorry."

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

"Ah, yes--after that."

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

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

"MR. LUIS ROMANO, KILARNEY HOTEL, SAN FRANCISCO: DELIGHTED YOU ARE COMING TO TAHOE TO VISIT ME. OWING TO VERY LATE SPRING, ROAD AROUND LAKE IN POOR CONDITION. LEAVE TRAIN TRUCKEE. I WILL TELEPHONE LOCAL GARAGE HAVE CAR WAITING. YOU WILL BE DRIVEN TO TAHOE TAVERN. AT TAVERN PIER MY MAN WILL WAIT FOR YOU WITH MOTORLAUNCH. BRING YOU DOWN TO MY PLACE, PINEVIEW. OTHER GUESTS MAY JOIN YOU IN CAR AT TRUCKEE, AMONG THEM MR. CHARLIE CHAN, OF HONOLULU. THANKS FOR COMING.

DUDLEY WARD"

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

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

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

"Absolutely," the Italian admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sank into the chair again. "But why not? What could I expect from her? Always she was like that. The husband she had was never the right one."

Chan nodded. "Ginger grown in one's own garden is not so pungent," he remarked.

Mr. Romano wakened to new excitement. "That is it. That expresses it. It was always so with her. Look at her record--married to Dudley Ward as a girl. Everything she wanted--except a new husband. And she got him in time. John Ryder, his name was. But he didn't last long. Then--another. He was--what does it matter? I forget. Then me. I, who devoted every waking hour to her voice, to coaching her. It was I, Signor, who taught her the old Italian system of breathing, without which a singer is nothing--nothing. If you will credit it--she did not know it when I met her."

He buried his head emotionally in his hands. Charlie respected the moment.

"And now," went on Mr. Romano, "this boy, this singer--this what's-his-name. Will he command her not to eat pastries--seeking to save that figure once so glorious? Will he prepare her gargle, remind her to use it? Now I recall the name of the third husband--he was Dr. Frederic Swan, a throat specialist. He has lived in Reno since the divorce--no doubt she flirts with him again. She will flirt with me, once she has hooked this boy. Always like that. But now--now she can not even send me the agreed settlement--"

Henry Lee approached. "Pardon, Inspector," he announced. "Truckee three minutes."

Mr. Romano dashed for the door, evidently bound for the Pullman and his baggage. Charlie turned to his compatriot.

"So happy to know you," he said.

"Same for you," replied Henry Lee. "Also, I hope you gain much pleasure from your journey. In part," he added, with a grin. "I am going to watch newspapers."

"Nothing about this in newspapers," Charlie assured him.

"If you will pardon my saying it," replied Henry Lee, "I watch newspapers just the same."

Charlie went on back to his Pullman. Swift dark had fallen outside the windows, the snow was blotted from view. He gathered up his bags, turned them over to the porter and proceeded to don the heavy overcoat he had purchased for this journey--the first such garment he had owned in his life.

When he reached the car platform, Mrs. Lee was awaiting him. "My husband has told me of his happy moment with you," she cried. "This is notable day in our lives. I shall have much to tell my small man-child, who is now well past his eleventh moon."

"Pray give him my kind regards," said Charlie. He staggered slightly as his legs were struck from behind by some heavy object. Turning, he saw a tall man with a blond beard, who had just snatched up a bag from the platform--the object, evidently, which had struck Chan so sharp a blow. Expectantly Charlie waited for the inevitable apology. But the stranger gave him one cold look pushed him ruthlessly aside and crowded past him to the car steps.

In another moment the train had stopped, and Charlie was out on the snowy platform. He tipped his porter, waved good-by to the Lees and took a few steps along the brightly lighted space in front of the station. For the first time in his life he heard the creak of frost under his shoes, saw his own breath materialized before his eyes.

Romano came swiftly up. "I have located our motor," he announced. "Come quickly, if you will. I secured a view of the town, and it is not even a one-night stand."

As they came up to the automobile waiting beside the station, they beheld the driver of it conversing with a man who had evidently just left the train. Charlie looked closer--the man with the blond beard. The latter turned to them.

"Good evening," he said. "Are you Dudley Ward's other guests? My name is John Ryder."

Without waiting for their response, he slipped into the preferred front seat by the driver's side. "John Ryder." Charlie looked at Romano, and saw an expression of vast surprise on the Italian's mobile face. They got into the rear seat without speaking, and the driver started the car.

They emerged into the main street of a town that was, in the dim light of a wintry evening, reminiscent of a moving picture of the Old West. A row of brick buildings that spoke of being clubs, but behind the frosted windows of which no gaiety seemed to be afoot to-night. Restaurants with signs that advertised only the softer drinks, a bank, a post-office. Here and there a dusky figure hurrying through the gloom.

The car crossed a railroad spur and turned off into the white nothingness of the country. Now for the first time Charlie was close to the pines, tall and stern, rooted deep in the soil, their aroma pungent and invigorating. Across his vision flitted a picture of distant palms, unbelievable relatives of these proud and lofty giants.

The chains on the tires flopped unceasingly, down the open path between the snow-banks, and Charlie wondered at the sound. On their right now was a tremendous cliff, on their left a half-frozen river.

The man on the front seat beside the driver did not turn. He said no word. The two on the rear seat followed his example.

In about an hour they came upon the lights of a few scattered houses, a little later they turned off into the Tavern grounds. A vast shingled building stood lonely in the winter night, with but a few lights burning on its ground floor.

Close to the pier entrance the driver stopped his car. A man with a boatman's cap came forward.

"Got 'em, Bill?' he inquired.

"Three--that's right, ain't it?" the garage man inquired.

"O.K. I'll take them bags."

Bill said good night and departed, strangely eager to get back to town. The boatman led them on to the pier. For a moment Chan paused, struck by the beauty of the scene. Here lay a lake like a great dark sapphire, six thousand feet above the sea, surrounded by snow-covered mountains. On and on they moved down the dim pier.

"But," cried Romano--"the lake--it does not freeze."

"Tahoe never freezes," the guide explained scornfully. "Too deep. Well, here's the launch." They paused beside a handsome boat. "I'll put your stuff aboard but we'll have to wait a minute. They's one more coming."

Even as he spoke, a man came hurrying along the pier. He joined them, a bit breathless.

"Sorry," he said. "Hope I haven't kept you waiting, gentlemen. I stopped at the Tavern for a minute. Guess we might as well get acquainted. My name is Swan," he added. "Dr. Frederic Swan."

One by one he shook hands with each of them, learning from each his name. As this newcomer and the man with the blond beard climbed aboard, Romano turned to Charlie and said softly:

"What is it? What is it you call it when you reach a town and all the hotel rooms are filled?"

"So sorry," Chan said blankly.

"All right--I will get it. It has happened to me so often. A--a convention. That is it. A convention. My friend, we are about to attend one of those. We are going to attend a convention of the lost loves of Landini."

He and Chan followed the others aboard, and in another moment they were skimming lightly over the icy waters in the direction of Emerald Bay.

Chapter II - DINNER AT PINEVIEW

The mountains were breathlessly still under the black sky, the wind blew chill from their snowy slopes and as the spray occasionally stung Charlie Chan's broad face, he reflected with deep inner joy upon the new setting to which fate had now transplanted him. Too long, he decided, had he known only the semi-tropics; his blood had grown thin--he drew his great coat closer: his energy had run low. Yes--no doubt about it--he was becoming soft. This was the medicine that would revive him; new life was coursing in his veins; new ambitions seethed within him; he longed for a chance to show what he could really do. He began to regret the obviously simple nature of the matter that had brought him to Tahoe; the affair was, on the face of it, so easy and uncomplicated that, as his son Henry might have phrased it, he had come just for the ride.

Though the moon had not yet risen, he could discern the nature of the lake shore on their starboard side. The dim outlines of one huge summer home after another glided by; each without a light, without a sign of life. Presently, in the distance, he saw a lamp burning by the water's edge; a little later and it multiplied into a string of them, stretched along a pier. The boat was swinging inshore now; they fought their way along against the wind. As they reached the wharf, the passengers in the launch looked up and saw a man of about fifty standing, hatless and without an overcoat, above them. He waved, then hurried to help the boatman with the mooring ropes.

Evidently this was their host, Dudley Ward, debonair and gracious even in a stiff wind. He greeted them as they came ashore. "John, old boy," he said to Ryder, "it was good of you to come. Doctor Swan, I appreciate your kindness. And this, no doubt, is Mr. Romano--a great pleasure to welcome you to Pineview. The view is a bit obscured, but I can assure you the pines are there."

The boat was rocking violently as Charlie, always politely last, made a notable leap for the pier. Ward received him, literally, in his arms.

"Inspector Chan," he cried. "For years I have wanted to meet you."

"Desire has been mutual," Chan answered, panting a bit.

"Your native courtesy," Ward smiled. "I am sorry to remind you that you heard of me only--er--recently. Gentlemen--if you will follow me--"

He led the way along a broad walk from which the snow had been cleared toward a great house set amid the eternal pines. As their feet sounded on the wide veranda, an old Chinese servant swung open the door. They caught the odor of burning wood, saw lights and good cheer awaiting them, and crossed the threshold into the big living-room of Pineview.

"Sing, take the gentlemen's coats." The host was alert and cordial. Charlie looked at him with interest; a man of fifty, perhaps more, with gray hair and ruddy pleasant face. The cut of his clothes, and the material of which they were made, placed him at once; only a gentleman, it seemed, knew the names of tailors like that. He led the way to the tremendous fireplace at the far end of the room.

"A bit chilly on Tahoe to-night," he remarked. "For myself, I like it--come up here earlier every year. However--the fire won't go so badly--nor will those." He waved a hand toward a tray of cocktails. "I had Sing pour them when we sighted you, so there would be no delay."

He himself passed the tray. Ryder, Romano and Swan accepted with evident pleasure. Charlie shook his head and smiled, and Ward did not press him. There was a moment of awkward silence, and then the irrepressible Romano, posing with feet far apart in front of the blaze, raised his glass.

"Gentlemen," he announced, "I am about to propose a toast. No other, I believe, could be more appropriate at this time. However little she may mean to you now, whatever you may think of her at this late day--"

"One moment," Ryder spoke, with his accustomed cool rudeness. "I suggest you withdraw your toast. Because, as it happens, I want this drink."

Romano was taken aback. "Why, of course. I am so sorry. Me--I am too impetuous. No one, I am sure, has more to forgive than myself."

"Beside the point," said Ryder, and drained his glass.

Swan also drank, then laughed softly. "We have an much to forgive, I fancy," he remarked. "And to forget. Yes, it was always herself Landini thought of first. Her own wishes--her own happiness. But that, of course, is genius. We ordinary mortals should be charitable. I myself have supposed for many years that I hated the very name of Ellen Landini--and yet when I saw her a few moments ago--"

Dudley Ward paused in his task of refilling the glasses. "A few moments ago?" he repeated.

"Yes. I drove up from Reno to the Tavern, and dropped in there for a chat with my friend, Jim Dinsdale, the manager. When I came into the lobby I thought it was deserted, but presently I saw a woman's green scarf Iying on a table. Then I looked over to the fire and saw her--the woman--sitting there. I went closer--the light was poor--but even before my eyes told me, I knew that it was Ellen. I had known she was in Reno, of course, but I hadn't wanted particularly to see her. When we parted years ago--well, I needn't go into that. Anyhow, I've been avoiding her. Yet now we were meeting again--the stage all set, as though she'd arranged it, alone together in the dim-lighted lobby of a practically deserted hotel. She jumped up. 'Fred,' she cried--"

Romano came close, his face glowing with excitement. "How was she looking, Signor? Not too much flesh? Her voice--how did her voice seem to you--"

Swan laughed. "Why--why, she seemed all right to me. In fact--and this is the point of what I started out to say--after all she'd done to me, I felt in that moment the old spell, the old enchantment. She seemed charming, as always. She held out both her hands--"

"She would," snarled Ryder. "May I have another drink?"

"She was lovely," Swan went on. "Just at that moment Dinsdale came in, and with him a young fellow named Beaton--"

"Hugh Beaton," Romano cried. "The infant she has snatched from the cradle. The callow child she would exchange for me across the counters of Reno. Bah! I, too, must drink again."

"Yes, it turned out that way," Swan admitted. "He was her latest flame. She introduced him as such, with all her old arrogance. Also his sister, quite a pretty girl. The romance was rather gone from our meeting."

"What was Landini doing at the Tavern?' Ward inquired.

"I gathered she was a friend of Dinsdale, and had just driven over for dinner. She's not stopping there, of course--she's served four weeks of her cure at Reno, and she's not staying out of the state more than a few hours. Naturally, I didn't linger. I hurried away." He looked about the group. "But pardon me. I didn't mean to monopolize the conversation."

"It was Ellen who was doing that," smiled Dudley Ward, "not you. Up to her old tricks again. Dinner, gentlemen, is at seven. In the meantime, Sing will show you to your various rooms, though I'm afraid you'll have to sort out your own baggage in the upper hall. Doctor Swan, I've assigned you a room, even though, to my regret, you're not staying the night. Ah Sing--where is the old rascal?"

The servant appeared, and led the procession above.

Ward laid a hand on Charlie Chan's arm. "At a quarter to seven, in my study up-stairs at the front of the house," he said softly. "For just a few minutes."

Chan nodded.

"One more thing, gentlemen," Ward called. "No one need dress. This is strictly stag, of course."

He stood and watched them disappear, an ironical smile on his face.

Presently Charlie entered a warm and pleasant bedroom, meekly following Ah Sing. The old man turned on the lights, set down Chan's bags, then looked up at his compatriot from Honolulu. His face was lean and the color of a lemon that has withered, his shoulders were hunched and bent. His eyes alone betrayed his race; and in them Chan detected an authentic gleam of humor.

"P'liceman?" said Ah Sing.

Charlie admitted it, with a smile.

"Some people say plitty wise man?" continued Sing. "Maybe."

"Maybe," agreed Charlie.

Sing nodded sagely, and went out.

Charlie stepped to the window, and looked down an aisle of tall pines at snow-covered hills and a bit of wintry sky. The novelty of this scene so engrossed him that he was three minutes late for his appointment with his host in the study.

"That's all right," Dudley Ward said, when Chan apologized. "I'm not going over the whole business here--I'll have to do it anyhow at the table. I just want to say I'm glad you've come, and I hope you'll be able to help me."

"I shall extend myself to utmost," Charlie assured him.

"It's rather a small matter for a man of your talents," Ward went on. He was sitting behind a broad desk, over which an alabaster lamp cast its glow. "But I can assure you it's important to me. I got you in here just to make sure you know why I invited these three men up here tonight--but now I've done it, I realize I must be insulting your intelligence."

Chan smiled. "On second thoughts, you changed original plan?"

"Yes. I thought when I wrote you, I'd just get in touch with them by letter. But that's a terribly unsatisfactory way of dealing with things--at least, I've always thought so. I like to see a man's face when I'm asking him questions. Then I heard this Romano was in San Francisco, and broke--I knew money would bring him here. Swan was already in Reno, and Ryder--well, he and I've been friends from boyhood, and the fact that he was Ellen's second husband never made any difference between us. So I resolved to bring them all together here to-night."

Charlie nodded. "A bright plan," he agreed.

"I'll ask all the questions," Ward continued. "What sort of replies I'll get, I don't know. None of them loves Landini any too much, I imagine, but because of one reason or another--perhaps in view of promises made long ago--the information we are after may be difficult to get. I rely on you to watch each one carefully, and to sense it if any one of them fails to tell the truth. You've had plenty of experience along that line, I fancy."

"I fear you over-estimate my poor ability," Charlie protested.

"Nonsense," cried Ward. "We're bound to get a clue somewhere. We may even get all we're after. But whether we do or not, I want you to feel that you are here not just as an investigator, but as my guest, and an honored one." Before him on the desk stood twin boxes; one of bright yellow, the other a deep crimson. He opened the nearer one, and pushed it toward Chan. "Will you have a cigarette before dinner?" he invited. Charlie declined, and taking one himself, Ward rose and lighted it. "Cozy little room, this," he suggested.

"The reply is obvious," Chan nodded. He glanced about, reflecting that some woman must have had a hand here. Gay cretonnes hung at the windows, the shades of the several lamps about the room were of delicate silk; the rug was deep and soft.

"Please use it as your own," his host said. "Any work you have to do--letters and the like--come in here. We'll be getting on down-stairs now, eh?" Charlie noted for the first time that the man's hands trembled, and that a faint perspiration shone on his forehead. "A damned important dinner for me," Ward added, and his voice broke suddenly in the middle of the sentence.

But when they reached the group down-stairs before the fire, the host was again his debonair self, assured and smiling. He led his four guests through a brief passageway to the dining-room, and assigned them to their places.

That great oak-paneled room, that table gleaming with silver, spoke eloquently of the prestige of the family of Ward. Ever since the days of Virginia City and the Comstock Lode, the name had been known and honored in this western country. No boat around the Horn for the first Dudley Ward, he had trekked in with the gold rush, a member of that gallant band of whom it has been well said: "The cowards never started, and the weaklings died on the way." Now this famous family had dwindled to the polished, gray-haired gentleman at the head of the table, and Charlie, thinking of his own eleven children at home in Honolulu, glanced around the board and sighed over the futility of such a situation.

In its earlier stages, the dinner seemed a trifle strained, despite the urbane chatter of the host. Charlie alone knew why he was there; the others seemed inclined to silent speculation. Evidently Ward was not yet ready to enlighten them. As Ah Sing moved along with the main course, Charlie said a few words to him in Cantonese, and got a brief answer in the same dialect.

"Pardon, please," Chan bowed to his host. "I take the liberty of asking Ah Sing his age. His reply is not altogether clear."

Ward smiled. "I don't suppose the old boy really knows. In the late seventies, I fancy--a long life, and most of it spent in our service. I know it's not the thing to talk about one's servants--but Ah Sing years ago passed out of that category. He's been one of the family for as long as I can remember."

"I have heard, my heart bursting with pride," Chan said, "of the loyalty and devotion of old Chinese servants in this state."

Ryder spoke suddenly. "Everything you have heard is true," he said. He turned to Ward. "I remember when we were kids, Dudley. Great Scott, how good Sing was to us in those days. The stuff he used to cook for us--grumbling all the time. Huge bowls of rice with meat gravy--I dream of them yet. He'd been with you ages then, hadn't he?"

"My grandfather picked him up in Nevada," Ward replied. "He came to our house when I was just three years old. I remember, because I had a birthday party that day on the lawn, and Sing was serving--his first day. There were a lot of bees down in the meadow and I imagine they were attracted by Sing's cooking, just as we kids were. Anyhow, I remember Sing--a young man then--marching toward us proudly bearing the cake, when a bee suddenly stung him on the leg. He dropped the cake, let out a yell and looked at my mother accusingly. 'Melican buttahfly too damn hot,' he complained. If I were to write my memoirs, I think I should have to begin with that--my first conscious recollection."

"I guess I missed that party," Ryder said. "It came a couple of years too soon for me. But I remember many a later one, in Sing's kitchen. Always a friend in need to us boys, Sing was."

Ward's face was serious. "They're dying out," he remarked. "The ones like Sing. Somebody ought to put up a statue in Golden Gate Park--or at least a tablet somewhere on one of the famous trails--to the best friends Californians ever had."

Sing came in at that moment, and the subject was dropped. A long silence ensued. Romano and Swan seemed to be getting rather impatient over the long delay in reaching the real business of the evening. Since the discussion that had broken out on their first entrance, Ellen Landini had not been so much as mentioned. Romano's cheeks were flushed, his white hands fluttered nervously over his plate, he fidgeted in his chair. Swan also showed various signs of restlessness.

Coffee was finally brought, and then a tray of cut-glass decanters was set before Dudley Ward.

"I have here, gentlemen," he remarked, "some Benedictine, creme de menthe, peach brandy. Also, some port wine. All pre-prohibition--you break no law in my house. What will you have? Just a moment--Sing! Where the devil is that boy?" He rang the bell, and the old Chinese hurriedly returned. "Sing--take the gentlemen's orders--and fill them. And now--"

He paused, and they all looked at him expectantly. "Now, gentlemen, you are wondering why you are here. You are wondering why Inspector Chan, of the Honolulu Police, is here. I have kept you waiting an intolerably long time, I know, but the truth is, I am loath to bring this matter up. To introduce it properly I shall have to go into a subject that I had hoped was for ever dead and forgotten--my life with Ellen Landini."

He pushed his chair back from the table, and crossed his legs. "Sing--you haven't overlooked the cigars? Ah, yes--gentlemen, help yourselves. I--I married Ellen Landini nearly twenty years ago, in San Francisco. She had just come to town from the islands, a young girl of eighteen, with a voice--even then it was magical. But she had more than the voice, she had a freshness, a vivacity, a beauty--however, I needn't go into her charm, surely not in this company. She gave a little concert, I saw her, heard her sing. The courtship was brief. We were married, and went to Paris on our honeymoon.

"That year in Paris--I shall never forget it. I want to be fair. She was wonderful--then. She studied with the best teacher in Europe, and what he told her about her voice made her supremely happy. It made me happy, too--for a time.

"Only gradually did I come to see that this wonderful year had wrecked my dreams--my hopes for a home, for children. Domestic life was now impossible for us. She was determined to become a professional singer. I saw myself, the prima donna's husband, carrying a dog about Europe, waiting at stage doors, enduring for ever an artistic temperament. The career did not appeal to me. I said so.

"Perhaps I was unreasonable. I want, as I have said, to be fair to her. Men were not so complacent about careers for their wives in those days. At any rate, there began a series of endless quarrels. I brought her home from Paris, to San Francisco, and thence, since it was spring, up to this house. I could see she would never be reconciled to the life I wanted."

He was silent for a moment. "I apologize humbly," he went on, "for dragging you into affairs that should be private. I must add, however, that our quarrels became daily more bitter, that we began to say unforgivable things, to hate each other. I could see her hate in her eyes when she looked at me. One June day--in this very room--matters came to a climax and she left the house. She never returned.

"I refused to divorce her, but when, nearly a year later, she applied for a divorce in some middle-western state, on a false charge of desertion, I did not contest the suit. I still loved her--or rather, the girl I thought I had married--but I realized she was lost to me for ever. I balanced the account and closed the books."

He turned to the doctor. "Doctor Swan--won't you try that brandy again? Just help yourself, please. So far, gentlemen, you can see no reason for my story. But there is something more--and only within the past ten days have I come upon the trail of it.

"I have been told, by some one who ought to know, that when Ellen Landini left my house she carried with her a secret which she had not seen fit to divulge to me. I have heard, from a source I believe reliable, that less than seven months after she left this place, she gave birth to a child, in a New York hospital. A son. Her son--and mine."

He did not go on for a moment. All the men about the table were looking at him, some with pity, some with amazement.

"I have said," Ward went on, "that Ellen hated me. Perhaps with reason--oh, I want to be just. She hated me so much, evidently, that she was determined I must never have the satisfaction of knowing about--my boy. Perhaps she feared it would start the old argument all over again. Perhaps it was just--hate. I--I think it was rather cruel."

"She was always cruel," said Ryder harshly. He laid a sympathetic hand on Dudley Ward's arm.

"At any rate," Ward went on, "she gave this child for adoption to some wealthy friends of hers. It wasn't legal adoption, of course. But she agreed to give him up for ever, to let him be known by another name, never to try to see him. She could do that. Her career was everything.

"That, gentlemen, ends my story. You can see my position. I am not--not so young as I was. My brother and sister are both dead, childless. Somewhere in this world, if the story is true, and the boy lived, I have a son, now nearly eighteen. All this--is his. I intend to find him." His voice grew louder. "By heaven, I will find him. As far as Landini is concerned, bygones are bygones. I have no more hatred. But I want my boy.

"That is why," he continued in a lower tone, "I have sent for Inspector Chan. I shall back him to the limit in this search. I've had only ten days--I've only started--"

"Who told you all this?" Ryder inquired.

"Ah--that's rather interesting," Ward replied. "It was Ellen's return to this part of the world that, indirectly, brought it out. It seems that about eight years ago, when Ellen came to Nevada to divorce--er--Doctor Swan, she was, at the moment, interested in--you will pardon me, Doctor--"

Swan smiled. "Oh, that's perfectly all right. We've all been victims--we can speak freely here. She wanted to divorce me because she had fallen in love--or thought she had--with her chauffeur, a handsome boy named Michael Ireland. I came out to fight the divorce--but she got it anyhow. She didn't, however, get Michael. It was one of her few defeats in that line. The day before her divorce, young Michael eloped with Ellen's maid, a French girl named Cecile. The maid just took him away from her. It was rather amusing. Michael and his wife are still living in Reno, and the former is a pilot for a passenger airplane company over there."

"Precisely," nodded Ward. "When I first came up here two weeks ago I sent to Reno for a couple of servants--a cook and an up-stairs maid--and the latter happened to be Michael's wife. It seems they're not very prosperous, and she'd decided to go into service temporarily. She knew, of course, my connection with Ellen Landini when she came here, but for a time she said nothing. Naturally, I had never seen or heard of the woman before. But it appears that Ellen is doing a great deal of flying during her stay in Reno, and her favorite pilot is Michael Ireland. Cecile is wildly jealous, and that is no doubt what led her to come to me with the story about my son. She claims she went with Ellen as personal maid shortly before the baby was born, and that she had been sworn to eternal secrecy in the matter."

Ryder shook his head. "The story of a jealous woman," he remarked. "I'm sorry, Dudley, but aren't you building a bit too much on that? Not the best evidence, you know."

Ward nodded. "I know. Still, I can't well ignore a thing as important as this. And as the woman told it, I must admit it had the ring of truth. Also, I recalled certain little things that had happened, things that Ellen had said during her last mad weeks in this house--it is quite possible the story is true. And I mean to find out whether it's true or not."

"Have you questioned Landini?" asked Doctor Swan.

"I have not," replied Ward. "In the first excitement of the moment, I called her hotel in Reno, but before I got the connection, I had sense enough to ring off. Inspector Chan may have an interview with her later, if he sees fit, but I would expect nothing to come of it. I know her of old.

"No, gentlemen, it is to you three that, at the beginning of this hunt, I have seen fit to pin my hopes. You have all, like myself, been married to Landini. I do not believe that she would ever have deliberately told any of you about this child, but even so--these things sometimes come out. A telegram opened by mistake, a telephone call in some strange city, a chance meeting--by one or another of these methods, one of you may have come upon her secret. I am not asking you to be disloyal in any way. But I do contend that if Ellen deceived me in this matter, it was a piece of unwarranted cruelty, and as man to man I ask you, if you can, to relieve me of this horrible suspense. Nothing shall happen to Landini, or to the boy, save to his advantage. But--you can see--I am in hell over this--and I must know--I must know."

His voice rose to an almost hysterical pitch as he looked appealingly about the table. John Ryder spoke first.

"Dudley," he said, "no one would be happier to help you now than I would be--if I could. God knows I have no wish to spare the feelings of Ellen Landini. But as you know, my life with her was of the briefest--and that was the only lucky break I ever got where she was concerned. So brief and so hectic that I never heard of this matter you have brought up to-night--never dreamed of it. I--I'm sorry."

Ward nodded. "I was afraid of that." He looked toward Swan and Romano, and his expression changed. "Before we go any further, I may add that I am willing to pay handsomely--and I mean no offense--for any information that may be of help. Doctor Swan--you were married to Landini for several years--"

Swan's eyelids narrowed. He toyed with his coffee cup, took out his eye-glasses, put them on, restored them to his pocket.

"Don't misunderstand me," he said slowly. "Landini means nothing to me, despite what I said earlier about her charm when I saw her again at the Tavern. It isn't very pleasant to be thrown over for a chauffeur." Across his usually pleasant face shot a look of malevolence that was startling and unexpected. "No," he added harshly, "I have no wish to protect the woman--but I'm sorry to say that this is--well, it's all news to me."

Ward's face was gray and tired as he turned to Romano. The opera conductor shot his cuffs and spoke.

"The figures--er--the figures of the amount you wish to pay, Mr. Ward--I leave them entirely to you. I rely on your reputation as a gentleman."

"I think you may safely do so," replied Ward grimly.

"Landini--she is still my wife--but what does she mean to me? In New York were drawn up terms of settlement by which I was to release her for this new divorce. Has she made the initial payment? She has not. I must live--is it not so? Once I had a career of my own--I was aimed high for success--all gone now. She has done that to me. She has wrecked my life--and now she casts me off." He clenched his fist that lay on the table, and a sudden fire gleamed in his dark eyes.

"You were going to tell me--" suggested Ward.

"There was, sir, a telegram opened by mistake. I opened it. It held some news of that son of hers. She told me little, but enough. There was a son. That much I can say. I have, of course, no recollection of the signature on the telegram."

"But--the town from which it was sent?" Ward cried.

Romano looked at him--the sly anxious look of a man who needs money--needs it badly enough to lie for it, perhaps.

"The town I do not now remember," Romano said. "But I will think--I will think hard--and it will come to me, I am sure."

Ward looked hopelessly at Charlie Chan. He sighed. At that instant, from the big room beyond the passage came the slamming of a door, and then, sharp and clear, the bark of a dog.

The four guests of Dudley Ward looked up in amazement, as though they found something sinister and disquieting in that bark. Sing came shuffling in and, leaning over the chair of the host, spoke in a low tone. Ward nodded, and gave a direction. Then, an ironical smile on his face, he rose to his feet.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I hope you will not be too much annoyed by my peculiar sense of humor. I have acted on impulse--and I may have been wrong. But it came to me when Doctor Swan spoke of his encounter at the Tavern--there was just one person lacking to make our party complete. And since she was so near--"

"Landini," cried Ryder. "You have invited Landini here?"

"For a very brief call--I have."

"I won't see her," Ryder protested. "I swore years ago I'd never see her again--"

"Oh, come on, John," Ward said. "Be modern. Landini will regard it as a lark--I didn't tell her you were all here, but I know she won't care. Doctor Swan has already seen her. Mr. Romano has no objections--"

"Me?" cried Romano. "I want to talk to her!"

"Precisely. I am willing to forget the past. Come on, John."

Ryder's eyes were on the table. "All right," he agreed.

Dudley Ward smiled. "Gentlemen," he said, "shall we join the lady?"

Chapter III - THE FALLEN FLOWER

But when they stepped through the passage into the living-room the lady was not there. Two men were warming themselves before the fire: one, a round, cheery, red-faced little man, the other a pale youth with black curly hair and a weak but handsome face. The older of the two stepped forward.

"Hello, Dudley," he said. "This is like old times, isn't it? Ellen back at the old house again and--er--ah--and all that."

"Hello, Jim," Ward replied. He introduced his guests to Jim, who was, it appeared, Mr. Dinsdale, manager of the Tavern. When he had finished, the hotel man turned to the boy who accompanied him.

"This is Mr. Hugh Beaton," he announced. "Ellen and Mr. Beaton's sister have gone up-stairs to leave their wraps, and--"

Mr. Romano had leaped to the boy's side and was shaking his hand. "Ah, Mr. Beaton," he cried, "I have wanted to see you. There is so much I must say."

"Y-yes," replied the boy with a startled air.

"Indeed--yes. You are taking over a very great responsibility. You, a musician, need not be told that. The talent--the genius--of Ellen Landini--it is something to guard, to watch over, to encourage. That is your duty in the name of Art. How does she behave with the pastries?"

"The--the what?" stammered the boy.

"The pastries? She has a wild passion for them. And it must be curbed. It is no easy matter, but she must be held back with a strong hand. Otherwise she will--she will expand--she will grow gross. And cigarettes. How many cigarettes do you permit her each day?"

"I permit her?" Beaton stared at Romano as at a madman. "Why--that's no affair of mine."

Romano looked toward high heaven.

"Ah--it is as I feared. You are too young to understand. Too young for this huge task. No affair of yours? My dear sir, in that case she is lost. She will smoke her voice into eternal silence. She will wreck her great career for ever--"

He was interrupted by a commotion at the head of the stairs, and Ellen Landini began to descend. The long stairway against one side of the room afforded her an excellent entrance. Of this she was not unaware; indeed, she had just sent her companion back on a trivial errand in order that she might have the stage to herself. Which of itself was a good description of Ellen Landini, once young and lovely and innocent, but now a bit too plump, a bit too blonde, and a bit too wise in the tricks of the trade.

She had decided on a dramatic entrance, and such was the one she made, holding in her arms a small Boston terrier who looked world-weary and old. Dudley Ward awaited her at the foot of the stairs; she saw him and him alone.

"Welcome home, Ellen," he said.

"Dudley," she cried. "Dear old Dudley, after all these years. But"--she held aloft the dog--"but poor Trouble--"

"Trouble?" repeated Ward, puzzled.

"Yes--that's his name--but you don't know. You wouldn't. From the baby in Madame Butterfly. My baby--my sweet poor baby--he's having a chill. I knew I shouldn't bring him--it's bitter cold on the lake--it always was on this lake. Where's Sing? Call Sing at once." The old man appeared on the stairs behind her. "Oh, Sing--take Trouble to the kitchen and give him some hot milk. Make him drink it."

"My take 'um," replied Sing with a bored look.

Landini followed him with many admonitions. A young girl in a smart dinner gown had come unostentiously down the stairs, and Ward was greeting her. He turned to the others.

"This is Miss Leslie Beaton," he said. "I'm sure we're all happy to have her here--"

But Landini was back in the room, overflowing personality and energy and charm. "Darling old Sing," she cried. "The same as ever. I've thought of him so often. He was always--" She stopped suddenly as her eyes moved unbelievingly about the little group.

Dudley Ward permitted himself a delighted smile. "I think, Ellen," he said, "you already know these Gentlemen."

She wanted a moment, obviously, to get her breath and she found it when her glance fell on Charlie Chan. "Not--not all of them," she said.

"Oh, yes--pardon me," Ward answered. "May I present Inspector Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu Police? On vacation, I should add."

Charlie stepped forward and bowed low over her hand. "Overcome," he murmured.

"Inspector Chan," she said. "I've heard of you."

"It would be tarnishing the lily with gilt," Charlie assured her, "to remark I have heard of you. Speaking further on the subject, I once, with great difficulty, heard you sing."

"With--great difficulty?"

"Yes--you may recall. The night you stopped over for a concert in your home city, Honolulu. At the Royal Hawaiian Opera House--and they had but recently applied to it the new tin roof--"

The great Landini clapped her hands and laughed. "And it rained!" she cried. "I should say I do remember! It was my only night--the boat was leaving at twelve--and so I sang--and sang. There in that boiler-factory--or so it seemed--with the downpour on the tin above. What a concert! But that was--some years--ago."

"I was impressed at the time by your extreme youthfulness," Charlie remarked.

She gave him a ravishing smile. "I shall sing again for you some day," she said. "And it will not be raining then."

Her poise regained, sure of herself now, she turned to the odd party into which Dudley Ward had brought her. "What fun," she cried. "What wonderful fun! All my dear ones gathered together. John--looking as stern as ever--Frederic--I miss the reflector on your forehead. I always think of you wearing that. And Luis--you here--of all people--"

Mr. Romano stepped forward with his usual promptness. "Yes, you may bet I am here," he replied, his eyes flashing. "I, of all people, and of all people I will be present at a good many places to which you travel in the future--unless your memory speedily improves. Must I recall to you an arrangement made in New York--"

"Luis--not here!" She stamped her foot.

"No, perhaps not here. But somewhere--soon--depend on that. Look at your shoes!"

"What is wrong with my shoes?"

"Wet! Soaking wet!" He turned hotly on young Beaton. "Are there, then, no rubbers in the world? Is the supply of arctics exhausted? I told you--you do not understand your job. You let her walk about in the snow in her evening slippers. What sort of husband is that for Ellen Landini--"

"Oh, do be quiet, Luis," Landini cried. "You were always so tiresome--a nurse. Do you think I want a nurse? I do not--and that is what I like about Hugh." She stepped toward the boy, who appeared to draw back a bit. "Hugh is more interested in romance than in arctics--aren't you, my dear?"

She ran her fingers affectionately through the young man's black hair, a theatrical gesture that was a bit upsetting to all who saw it. Dudley Ward, looking hastily away, caught on the face of Hugh Beaton's sister an expression of such bitter disgust that he sought to divert the girl's attention.

"Your first visit west, Miss Beaton?" he inquired.

"My very first," she answered. "I love it, too. All except--"

"Reno."

"Naturally--I don't like that. The place sort of puts a blight on one's outlook--don't you think? What price romance--after seeing Reno?"

"Pity you feel that way," Ward said. He looked at her admiringly. Hugh Beaton's sister was even prettier than he was. But there was a worried look about her brown eyes--the lips that should be always laughing were drawn and tired.

"Dudley--it's marvelous to be back here." Landini was drawing him again into the general conversation. "It's just as well you invited me, because I was coming anyway. Several times I've been on the point of descending on you."

"I should have been charmed," Ward replied.

"And surprised," she laughed, "because I mean that literally--descending on you. You see, I've flown over you often, and seen that flying field you've had cleared behind the house."

"Oh, yes" Ward nodded. "So many of my friends have planes--and I like to fly a bit myself."

"My pilot told me he'd land any time," Landini continued. "But somehow--the hour never seemed right--too late--too early--or we had to hurry back."

"You enjoy flying, I hear?" It was Doctor Swan who spoke, and there was an expression on his face that mingled malice and contempt.

"Oh--I adore it! It's the biggest thrill in the world. It's living--at last. Especially here, above the snow-capped mountains, and these marvelous lakes. And I've found such a wonder of a pilot--"

"So I've been told," Swan answered. "But as I recall, you found him some years ago--"

Landini walked quickly to where John Ryder was standing, as far apart from the others as he could get.

"John," she said, "I'm so happy to see you again. You're looking well."

"Unfortunately," Ryder said, "I'm looking better than I feel. Dudley, I'm afraid I shall have to be excused. Good night." He bowed to the room in general, and went hastily up the stairs.

Ellen Landini shrugged her generous shoulders and laughed. "Poor John," she said. "Always he took life so seriously. What is to be gained by that? But we are what we are--we can not change--"

"Ellen," said Dudley Ward, "you enjoy seeing the old place again?"

"I adore it," she sparkled. "I'm simply wild with joy."

He looked at her in amazement--still sparkling, after all these years. Not since she came in had she let down for a minute. He thought back to the days of their marriage. It had been one of the things that had driven him mad. "Every day is Christmas with Landini," he had once complained to himself.

"Then perhaps you'd like to take a tour about," Ward continued. "There are a few changes--I'd like to show them to you. If my guests will be so very good as to excuse me."

There was a polite murmur, and Dinsdale raised his glass. "These highballs of yours, Dudley, excuse anything," he laughed.

"Good," smiled Ward. "Ellen, I want you to see the old study, I've just had it done over by a decorator. Probably all wrong. And as we can't afford any scandal, I'm taking along a chaperon. Inspector Chan--will you join us?"

"With great pleasure," smiled Charlie. "Everybody knows policeman always on hand when least needed."

Ellen Landini laughed with the others, but there was a deeply puzzled look in her blue eyes. Dinsdale came forward, looking at his watch.

"Just to remind you, Ellen," he said. "You'll have to be starting soon if you're to be back in Reno by midnight."

"What time is it, Jim?"

"It's twenty-five minutes to ten."

"I'm starting at ten, and I'll be back in Reno before eleven."

He shook his head. "Not to-night--over these roads," he said.

"To-night," she laughed. "But not over these roads. Not for little Ellen."

Hugh Beaton looked up. "Ellen--what are you talking about?" he asked.

She gave him a loving glance. "Now, be a good boy. You and Leslie go back by car from the Tavern. It's a nasty old car, and you're liable to have a few blowouts just as we did coming over, but that won't matter to you. However, I must make better time. I had an inspiration when Dudley here called up and invited me to drop in on him. I telephoned to Reno for my favorite plane and pilot, and they'll be here at ten. Won't it be glorious? There's a gorgeous moon--I'm simply thrilled to death." She turned to Ward. "Michael told me you have lights on the field?"

Ward nodded. "Yes. I'll turn them on presently. Everything's in order--that's a grand idea of yours. But then--your ideas always were."

Romano, who had been talking violently with Hugh Beaton in a corner, rose quickly. "I will go to my room," he announced, "and I will make for you a list. The things she must do, and the things she must not do. It will be useful--"

"Oh, please don't trouble," Beaton protested.

"It is my duty," Romano said sternly.

Ward stood aside, and let his guests precede him up the stairs. Romano walked close to Landini's side, and as they came into the upper hall, he swung on her. "Where is my money?" he demanded.

"Luis--I don't know--oh, hasn't it been sent?"

"You know very well it has not been sent. How am I to live--"

"But, Luis--there has been trouble--my investments--oh, please, please don't bother me now."

"I suggest, Mr. Romano," Ward said, "that you comply with Madame Landini's wishes. This, I believe, is the door of your room."

"As you say," shrugged Romano. "But, Ellen, I have not finished. There must be an understanding before we part."

He disappeared, and the three others went into the study in front. Ward flashed on the floor lamps, and Landini dropped into the chair beside the desk. Both men saw that her face was suddenly drawn and haggard, all the vivacity gone. Then she did let down at times. It was not always Christmas; it was sometimes the morning after.

"Oh, the little beast," she cried. "I hate him. Dudley, you can see what my life has been--lived in a whirlwind, excitement, madness, filled all the time with noisy nothings. I'm so tired--so deathly tired. If only I could find peace--"

Charlie Chan saw that Ward's face was filled with genuine tenderness and pity. "I know, my dear," said the host, as he closed the door. "But peace was never for you--we knew that in the old days. It had to be the limelit highway--the bright parade. Come--pull yourself together." He offered her one of the colored boxes on the desk. "Have a cigarette. Or perhaps you prefer this other brand." He reached for the companion box.

She took one from the latter, and lighted it. "Dudley," she said, "coming here has taken me back to my girlhood. It has touched me deeply--" She looked toward Charlie Chan.

A sudden harshness came into Ward's eyes. "Sorry," he said. "Mr. Chan stays. I was wondering why you accepted my invitation to-night. I see now--it was to pull this airplane stunt. The spectacular thing--the thing you would do. Has it occurred to you to wonder--why I invited you?"

"Why--I thought, of course--after all, you did love me once. I thought you would like to see me again. But when I saw John, and Frederic, and Luis--I was puzzled--"

"Naturally. I invited you, Ellen, because I wanted you to realize that I am in touch with your various husbands. I wanted you, also, to meet Inspector Charlie Chan who, as you know, is a detective. Inspector Chan and I have begun to-night an investigation which may take us many weeks--or which may end here and now. You have it in your power to end it. Ellen, I have no bitterness, no ill will for you at this late day. I have thought it over so long--perhaps I was wrong from the first. But I have brought you to Pineview to ask you, simply--where is my son?"

Charlie Chan, watching, reflected that here was either a great actress or a much maligned woman. Her expression did not change. "What son?" she asked.

Ward shrugged his shoulders. "Very well," he said. "We won't go any further with it."

"Oh, yes, we will," said Ellen Landini. "Dudley--don't be a fool. Some one has told you a lie, evidently. Don't you know they've been Iying about me for years? I've got so I don't mind--but if you've heard something that's made you unhappy--that's sending you off on a wild-goose chase--well, I'd like to stop that, if I can. If you'll only tell me--"

"No matter," said Ward. "What's the use?"

"If you take that tone," she replied, "it's hopeless." She was surprisingly cool and calm. "By the way--hadn't you better turn on the lights on the field? And I should like a small blanket for Trouble--he'll need it, in addition to the robes in the plane. I'll send it back to you. He'll go with me, of course. He loves it."

"Very well," nodded Ward. "I'll see about it, and then I'll get down to those lights." He went to the door. "Cecile," he called. "Oh, Sing--send Cecile to me, please."

He stepped back into the room. "Cecile?" said Ellen Landini.

"Yes," Ward said. "An old servant of yours, I believe. The wife of your wonder pilot. You didn't know she was here?"

Landini lighted another cigarette. "I did not. But I might have guessed it these last few minutes. A liar Dudley, always, with a temper like the devil. She stole from me, too, but naturally, one expects that. But the truth was not in her. I don't know what cock-and-bull story she has told you, but whatever it is--"

"What makes you think it was she who told me?"

"I have discovered that a lie has been told in this house, Dudley, and now I discover Cecile is here. It's effect and cause, my dear."

"You wanted me, sir?" The Frenchwoman at the door was about thirty, with lovely eyes, but an unhappy and discontented face. For a long moment she stared at Landini. "Ah, Madame," she murmured.

"How are you, Cecile?" the singer asked.

"I am well, thank you." She turned to Ward, inquiringly.

"Cecile," said her employer, "please go and get Madame Landini a small blanket of some sort--something suitable to wrap about a dog."

"A dog?" The eyes of the Frenchwoman narrowed. There was a moment's silence, and in the quiet they all heard, suddenly, a far-off but unmistakable sound--the droning of an airplane. Ward flung open the French windows that led on to a balcony, which was in reality the roof of the front veranda. The others crowded about him, and in the moonlit sky, far out over the lake, they saw the approaching plane.

"Ah, yes," cried Cecile, "I understand. Madame returns to Reno by air."

"Is that any affair of yours?" Landini asked coldly.

"It happens to be, Madame," the woman answered.

"Will you get that blanket?" Ward demanded.

Without a word, the Frenchwoman went out. Ward looked at his watch.

"Your pilot's ahead of time," he said. "I must hurry out to those lights--"

"Dudley--would you do something--" Landini cried.

"Too late. When the plane has landed--"

He hastened out. The singer turned to Charlie.

"Tell me," she said. "Do you know which is Mr. Ryder's room?"

Charlie bowed. "I think I do."

"Then please go to him. Send him here at once. Tell him I must see him--he must come--don't take no for an answer! Tell him--it's life and death!"

She fairly pushed the detective from the room. He hurried down the hall and knocked on the door of the room into which he had seen Ryder ushered before dinner. Without awaiting an answer, he opened it and entered. Ryder was seated reading a book beside a floor lamp.

"So sorry," Charlie remarked. "The intrusion is objectionable, I realize. But Madame Landini--"

"What about Madame Landini?" asked Ryder grimly.

"She must see you at once--in the study at the front. She demands this wildly. It is, she tells me life and death."

Ryder shrugged. "Rot! There is nothing to be said between us. She knows that."

"But--"

"Yes--life and death--I know. Don't be fooled by her theatrics. She was always that way. Kindly tell her I refuse to see her."

Chan hesitated. Ryder got up and led him to the door. "Tell her that under no circumstances will I ever see her again."

Charlie found himself in the hall, with Ryder's door closed behind him. When he got back to the study Landini was seated at the desk, writing madly.

"I am so sorry--" the detective began.

She looked up. "He won't see me? I expected it. No matter, Mr. Chan. I have thought of another way. Thanks."

Chan turned, and went down the hall toward the head of the stairs. As he passed the open door of Romano's room, he saw the conductor walking anxiously up and down. Ryder's door remained closed. The noise of the plane was momentarily growing louder.

In the living-room Dinsdale and Hugh Beaton were alone, evidently vastly uninterested in the spectacular approach of Landini's pilot. Charlie was not so callous and stepping out the front door, he crossed the porch and walked a short distance down the path to the pier. He was staring up at the lights of the plane, when some one approached from the direction of the water. It was Doctor Swan.

"Went out on the pier to see it better," Swan said. "A beautiful sight, on a night like this. Wish I could go back in it myself." The aviator was turning in toward the house.

"Shall we find the landing field?" Charlie suggested.

"Not for me," Swan shivered. "It's somewhere at the back, God knows where. I'm going to get my things--I want to start for the Tavern as soon as Ellen has made her grand exit." He ran up the steps to the house.

Michael Ireland, it appeared, was planning a few stunts. Despite the tallness of the pines, he swept down on the house, dangerously near. Hurrying through the snow to the rear, Charlie was conscious that the plane was circling about above the roof of Pineview. Aviators never could resist the spectacular. Presently Chan came upon a cleared place, flooded with lights, and there, when the pilot had completed his exhibition, he finally brought the plane down, in a skillful landing.

"Pretty work," cried a voice at Chan's elbow. It was Dudley Ward. "By gad, that lad knows how to drive his old two-seater."

He hurried out to meet Ireland on the field, and led him back to where Charlie stood. All three went up the narrow path to the back door, and entered a long passage that led to the front of the house. As they passed the open door of the kitchen Chan saw a large woman, evidently the cook. With her was Landini's dog, whining and still shivering from its chill. Ward led on to the living-room.

"Nice night for it," he was saying to Ireland, a husky red-cheeked man of thirty or so. "I envy you--the way you brought her down." Dinsdale and Beaton rose to greet them, and the aviator, pulling off a huge glove, shook hands all round. "Sit down a minute," Ward continued. "You'll want a drink before you start back."

"Thank you, sir," Ireland replied. "And maybe I'd better be havin' a word with my wife--"

Ward nodded. "I fancy you had," he smiled. "I'll arrange that. But first of all--what will it be? A highball?"

"Sounds good to me," Ireland answered. He looked a bit apprehensive and ill at ease. "Not too much, Mr. Ward, please--"

Ryder appeared on the stairs, lighting a cigarette. Half-way down, he paused. "Has Landini gone?" he inquired.

"Come along, John," Ward said genially. "Just in time for another little drink. Is that right for you, Ireland?"

"Just, thank you," the aviator replied.

From somewhere up-stairs came a sharp report that sounded unpleasantly like the firing of a pistol.

"What was that?" asked Ryder, now at the foot of the stairs.

Ward set down the bottle he was holding and looked toward Charlie Chan. "I wonder," he said.

Charlie did not pause to wonder. Pushing Ryder aside, he ran up the stairs. He was conscious of figures in the upper hall as he passed, figures he did not pause to identify. Chinese, he had always contended, were psychic people, but he did not have to be particularly psychic on this occasion to know which door to seek. It was closed. He pushed it open.

The lights in the study were out, but for a first glance the moonlight sufficed. Landini was Iying just inside the French windows that led on to the balcony. Charlie leaped across her and peered out the open window. He saw no one.

Black shapes crowded the doorway. "Turn on the lights," Charlie said. "And do not come too close, please."

The lights flashed on, and Dudley Ward pushed forward. "Ellen!" he cried. "What's happened here--"

Chan intercepted him and laid his hand on the host's arm. Beyond Ward he saw frightened faces--Romano, Swan, Beaton, Dinsdale, Ireland, Cecile. "You are psychic, Mr. Ward," Charlie said gravely. "All same Chinese race. Three days before the crime, you summon detective."

"Crime!" repeated Ward. He sought to kneel beside the singer, but again Chan restrained him.

"Permit me, please," the Chinese continued. "For you, it means pain. For me, alas, a customary duty." With some difficulty, he knelt upon the floor, and placed his fingers gently on Landini's wrist.

"Doctor Swan is here," Ward said. "Perhaps--can nothing be done?"

Chan struggled back to his feet. "Can the fallen flower return to the branch again?" he asked softly.

Ward turned quickly away, and there was silence in the room. Charlie stood for a moment, staring down at the body. Landini lay on her back, those evening shoes whose dampness had so distressed Romano were but a few inches away from the threshold of the open windows. In her dead hands was loosely held a chiffon scarf, bright pink in color, contrasting oddly with her green gown. And just inside the windows, close to her feet, lay a dainty, snub-nosed revolver.

Charlie removed his handkerchief from his pocket and stooping over, picked up the weapon. It was still warm, he noted through the handkerchief. One cartridge had been fired. He carried it over and deposited it on the desk.

There for a long moment he stood staring, behind him the murmur of many voices. He appeared to be lost in thought, and indeed he was. For an odd thing had suddenly occurred to him. When he had last seen Landini sitting at this desk, the two boxes containing cigarettes had been close at her elbow, both open. Now they had been restored to their places, farther back on the desk. But on the crimson box rested the yellow lid--and on the yellow box, the crimson.

Chapter IV - UPWARD NO ROAD

As Charlie stood, silently regarding those boxes whose lids had become so strangely confused, he was conscious that some newcomer had pushed his way into the room. He swung around and beheld the shrunken figure of Ah Sing. The old Chinese held a blue bundle under his arm, which he now proffered to the room at large.

"Blanket," he announced, his high shrill voice sounding oddly out of place at that moment. "Blanket fo' lil dog."

Chan watched him closely as his beady eyes fell on the silent figure by the window. "Wha's mallah heah?" the old man inquired. His expression did not change.

"You can see what's the matter," Charlie replied sharply. "Madame Landini has been murdered."

The dim old eyes turned to Chan with what was almost a look of insolence. "P'liceman him come," he muttered complainingly. "Then woik fo' p'liceman him come plitty soon too." He glanced at Ward accusingly. "What my tell you, Boss? You crazy invite p'liceman heah. Mebbe some day you lissen to Ah Sing."

Somewhat nettled, Chan pointed to the blanket. "What are you doing with that? Who asked you to bring it?"

"Missie ask me," the old man nodded toward the figure on the floor. "Missie say she send Cecile fo' blanket, no catch 'um. She say, Sing, you catch 'um like goo' boy."

"When was this?"

"Mebbe half past nine, between ten."

"Where was the airplane at that time? Over the house?"

"Not ovah house no moah. Mebbe on field."

"I see," Chan nodded. "The blanket is no longer required. Take it away."

"Allight, p'liceman," nodded the old man, and did so.

Charlie turned back and addressed Dinsdale. "I have really no authority in this place," he remarked. "Those who are out of office should not meddle with the government. There is, I presume, a sheriff?"

"Bygad, yes," Dinsdale said. "Young Don Holt--this will be a whale of a job for him. He was elected less than a year ago. His dad, old Sam Holt, has been sheriff of this county for fifty years but he went blind a while back, and as a sort of tribute to him, they put up young Don. He'll be a puzzled kid over this. Horses are his specialty."

"Does it chance that he lives near by?" Charlie inquired.

"He lives down at the county-seat," Dinsdale answered, "but he has charge of the riding stables at the Tavern during the summer, and it happens he's over there to-night. I'll get him on the telephone, and he can reach here inside of twenty minutes by boat."

"If you will be so good," Charlie said, and Dinsdale went quickly out.

For a moment Charlie stared at the varied group gathered in that little room. How unfortunate, he reflected, that he could not have announced this killing to them suddenly, and watched their faces at the news. But alas, they had come upon him in the dark, they had known of the tragedy almost as soon as he, and whatever their reception of this knowledge, he was never to learn it now.

Nevertheless, their faces were an interesting study. That of Romano, the emotional, was pale and drawn, and there were tears in his brown eyes. Doctor Swan's was taut and excited. Dudley Ward had dropped into a chair beside the fire, and was shading his eyes with his hand. Beaton and his sister stood as far from the body as possible, the girl was crying, and the young man comforted her. The look on the face of Cecile was a mixture of fright and sullenness, while Michael's expression was dazed and puzzled, bespeaking an honest but somewhat stupid simplicity. As for John Ryder, his blue eyes were cold as usual, and they looked at the woman who had once been his wife with no sign of pity or regret.

"I think it much better" Chan said, "if you all returned to the living-room below. You understand, naturally, sad state of affairs which makes it necessary you do not take departure now."

"But I've got to get back to Reno," Swan cried.

Charlie shrugged. "You must not place blame on me. Place it on guilty shoulders of one who fired this recent shot."

Dinsdale returned. "I got hold of the sheriff," he announced. "He's on his way."

"Thank you so much," Charlie said. "Mr. Dinsdale, you will remain here with Mr. Ward and myself, but I am inviting the others down-stairs. Before you go," he added, as they started to file out, "I must inquire--though there is no stern necessity to answer, for I am stranger here myself--has any one of you seen this before?" He lifted the snub-nosed revolver from the desk, and held it high in the handkerchief.

"I have," said Dinsdale promptly. "I saw it once before, only to-night."

"Where was that?" Charlie asked.

"At the Tavern," the hotel man continued. "Ellen Landini and I were engaged in a small financial transaction, and that revolver fell from her bag when she opened it. I picked it up, and handed it back--"

"Quite true," nodded Luis Romano, coming close and staring at the weapon. "It is Ellen's property. Some years ago there was an attempt to hold her up in a hotel room and always since she has insisted on carrying that with her. I pleaded with her--I did not approve--and now she has been killed with her own revolver."

"Others, then, must have known she carried it," mused Chan. "Mr. Beaton?"

The young man nodded. "Yes--I've seen it many times. It's hers, all right."

Suddenly, Charlie swung on the girl at Beaton's side. "And you, Miss Beaton?"

She shrank away from him as he held the weapon close. "Yes--yes--I've seen it too."

"You have known it was always in Madame Landini's bag?"

"I have known it--yes."

"For how long?"

"Ever since I met her--a week ago."

Chan's voice softened to its customary tone. "What a pity," he said. "You are trembling. It is too cold for you here, with these windows open." He restored the revolver to the desk. "You should have a scarf," he continued. "A pretty pink scarf to match that gown of yours."

"I--I have," she said. She was on her way toward the door.

"This one, perhaps," Charlie cried. He stepped to the side of the dead woman and lifted one corner of the chiffon scarf that lay in her lifeless hands. "This, perhaps, belongs to you," he continued. The girl's eyes had followed him, fascinated, and now her scream rang out sharply in the room. Her brother put his arm about her.

"My scarf," she cried. "What is it doing--there?"

Chan's eyebrows rose. "You had not noticed it before?"

"No--no, I hadn't. It was dark when I came in here--and after the lights went on--I never really looked in this direction."

"You never really looked," Chan went on thoughtfully. He dropped the corner of the scarf and rose. His eyes strayed to the boxes on the table. "I am so sorry--I can not return your property just at this moment. Later, perhaps--when the sheriff of the county has beheld it--in a dead woman's hands. You will all go now--thank you so much."

When the last one had left, he closed the door and turned to Dinsdale and Ward. The latter had risen, and was anxiously pacing the floor.

"Confound it, Inspector," he cried. "That young woman is my guest. You don't for a moment think--" He paused.

"I think," said Chan slowly, "that one of your guests has to-night stooped to murder."

"Evidently. But a woman--a charming girl--"

Chan shrugged. "There is no such poison in the green snake's mouth as in a woman's heart."

"I don't know who said that first," Ward replied, "but I don't agree with him. No--not even after all that has--that I've been through." He stood for a moment, staring down at the dead woman on the floor. "Poor Ellen--she deserved better than this. I'll never forgive myself for inviting her over here. But I thought we might induce her to tell--" He stopped. "By heaven--I hadn't thought of it until now. Shall we ever find the truth about my boy--after this? Ellen was our best chance--perhaps, in the final analysis, our only one." He stared hopelessly at Charlie.

"Do not despair." Charlie patted his shoulder pityingly. "We will persevere--and we will succeed, I am sure. This event may really speed our search--for among the papers and effects of this lady we may find our answer. However, matter of even fiercer importance now intrudes itself. Who killed Ellen Landini?"

"What's your guess, Mr. Chan?" Dinsdale inquired.

Charlie smiled. "Guessing is cheap, but wrong guess expensive. I can not afford it, myself."

"Well, I'm a spendthrift. Sleuth all you like, but I can tell you now--Romano killed her."

"You have evidence, perhaps--"

"The evidence of my eyes--I noticed he was sore at her about something. Money, I imagine. He's Latin, excitable--"

Charlie shook his head. "Ah, yes. But Latins do not become so excitable they forget where financial advantage lies. Landini alive was worth money to him, but with Landini dead--unless--unless--"

"Unless what?"

"No matter. We will look into that later. There is long tortuous path to climb, and the wise man starts slowly, conserving his strength for a swift finish. By the way, you spoke of moment at Tavern to-night when Landini opened bag to pay you money?"

"Yes, so I did," Dinsdale replied. "I meant to explain it. Last week I called on Ellen in Reno to invite her over to the Tavern for dinner. While I was there, a C. O. D. package arrived--there was the usual wild hunt for cash, which ended in her borrowing twenty dollars from me. To-night she insisted on repaying it--and that was when the revolver dropped out of her bag."

"She did repay it?"

"Yes, with a brand-new bill which she peeled from a great roll of them in her purse."

"Odd," Charlie said. "There are no bills in her purse now."

"Good lord," cried Ward. "Not only a murderer but a petty thief. I'm afraid I've carried hospitality too far."

"What did I tell you?" the hotel man said. "Romano."

Charlie rose. "When I came to mainland," he remarked, "I was engaged deep in puzzling case. Remnant of that effort, I have in my baggage lamp-black and camel's-hair brush. Same are useful in matter of finger-prints, and while we await the sheriff, I may as well obtain them."

He went to his room. While he searched his luggage for the tools of his trade, he heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Presently he found what he was looking for, and returned to the study. A tall, black-haired young westerner in riding boots, breeches and leather coat was standing in the center of the room.

"Inspector Chan," said Dinsdale, "meet Don Holt."

"Hello, Inspector," the young man cried, and seized the hand of the Chinese in a grip that almost lifted him from the floor. "Pleased to meet you--and I'm telling you I never meant that so heartfelt before in all my born days."

"You have grasped situation?" inquired Charlie. He set down his burden and caressed his right hand with his left, seeking to restore the circulation.

"Well--in a way--at least I've gathered there is a situation. Coroner lives over to the county-seat, so he won't be able to see this lady till to-morrow. But I got a Tahoe doctor on the way to make a preliminary examination, and after that I guess we can move her down to town--what town there is. So far--am I right?"

"So far you appear to act with most commendable speed," Chan assured him.

"I know, but this is my first case of this--this sort of thing, and I can assure you, Inspector, I'm trembling all over like a roped yearling. Mr. Ward was just telling me you was here, on a visit to him. He says he's got a little job for you, but it can wait while you give the county and me a helping hand. How's that sound to you?"

Charlie looked at Ward. "We are, of course, very lucky to be able to enlist the inspector's services," his host remarked. "My affair can wait."

"In which case," Charlie said, "my very slight talents are yours to command, Mr. Holt."

"Fine," Holt answered. "I could speak a couple of volumes on the way that makes me feel, but action, not words, is my specialty. Let's get down to brass tacks. What happened here to-night, anyhow? Who was all them people down-stairs? Where do we start, and how soon?"

They all looked at Charlie, and patiently he went over the events of the evening, up to the firing of the shot and the discovery of Landini's dead body. The young man nodded.

"I get you. At the time the shot was fired, who was unaccounted for?"

"Quite a number," Charlie told him. "Of the guests, Miss Leslie Beaton, whose scarf, oddly enough, is clutched in dead woman's hands. Also, Dr. Frederic Swan and Mr. Luis Romano. Of the servants, Cecile and--er--Ah Sing."

"Five of 'em," commented the sheriff. "Well, it could have been worse. It really is only four because I've known Ah Sing since I was ten inches tall, and he wouldn't--"

"Pardon," said Chan.

Mr. Holt laughed. "I know," he said. "That's no way for a sheriff to act. Getting ideas all set in advance--anything can happen, at that. Well, that's lesson number one. Just deal 'em out to me as we go. And now, Inspector, you just go ahead and solve this case, and don't pay any attention to me."

"Ah, but I must pay attention to you. You are constituted authority in this place, and everything I do must be done with your approval and permission."

"Granted in advance," nodded Holt. "What I want is results, and I guess you can get 'em. You see, I got a sort of family reputation to uphold--"

Chan nodded. "Yes--I have heard of your honorable father. Maybe we also call him in. It has well been said--in time of severe illness summon three doctors. One might be good."

"Dad was good," the young man replied softly. "But he's blind now."

"A terrible pity," Charlie said. "But even a blind man, if he has been over the road before, may point out the way. Just now, however, you and I are in charge. You have spoken of lesson number one. May I, with all humility, now proffer the second lesson?"

"Shoot," said Holt.

"It has been my good fortune to know famous detectives, some from Scotland Yard. All these say, in case of homicide, first duty of detective is to examine position of body as it fell. What does that examination suggest to you?"

The boy considered. "I should say--well, she may have been shot from the balcony. Or at least by some one standing in the window."

"Precisely. The body is well arranged to present that effect. Let us now examine the room. Kindly come and view this desk. You observe upon it fine particles of--what?"

"Tobacco," Holt answered.

"Correct. Very fine tobacco, such as is contained in cigarettes. Observe these two boxes, in which cigarettes of two brands are kept. What strikes you?"

"Somebody got twisted and put the wrong lids on them."

"So it would seem," Chan nodded. "Somebody was in very great hurry, no doubt. The time for escape was brief, for the shot was heard instantly below. We will open boxes." He did so, using his handkerchief, which he pulled from under the weapon. "Behold. Cigarettes are not piled in neat order, but are in unsettled state. They were tossed back hurriedly. What shall we say to that? Was there a struggle at this desk? When last I saw Madame Landini she was seated here. Was the struggle here, and was she then dragged to window in hope to make it appear killing was done from balcony? Why else should there be this frantic effort to tidy desk? The time was brief, but there was just enough, perhaps--though great haste was needed, so great that wrong lids got on to boxes. The killer could have so performed, then fled through open window and escaped into another room that opens on balcony. I should have examined those rooms at once--it may be killer lurked there until all were crowded into this study, then moved away--perhaps crowded into study himself. You will perceive that your new assistant has sinking spells of stupidity."

"Ain't we all?" grinned Holt. "What you say's mighty interesting. I take it you think, then, that the lady was shot by some one who was with her in this room, and not from the balcony?"

Chan shrugged. "I am merely putting facts on parade. I find it wise not to draw conclusion too rapidly. We get answer too quick, we may be wrong, like my children who labor with algebra. I leave it open for present. Lady may, in spite of all I say, have been shot from balcony. She may even have been shot on balcony, and taken step back into room before falling. Perhaps doctor can tell us that. We will now travel to balcony, if you please."

All four stepped through the windows, past the dead Landini, and came into the bracing night air. The lake lay calm and chill under the full moon, the stars here were dim and remote, Chan noted, lacking the friendliness of those in the Hawaiian sky. Charlie took a deep breath.

"I regret there is no snow here," he said to Ward.

"Unfortunately, no," his host replied. "I had this balcony cleared off when we first came, and Sing has kept it swept and garnished ever since. Otherwise the snow piles against the windows and chills the rooms."

Charlie shrugged. "After many years I encounter snow, and the clue of the footstep is denied me. Such, I presume, is life." He examined the scene. "Two other rooms, I perceive, open on this veranda. This one is--"

"That," said Ward slowly, "is the room Landini used to have as a sitting-room. I have kept it--just as she left it."

Charlie tried the window. "Locked from the inside, of course. Naturally, if killer went that way, he--or she--would attend to that. We will study threshold in the morning." He led the way to the windows on the opposite side of the study. "And this room?" he inquired.

"It's my bedroom," Ward told him. "I believe Sing showed the ladies here with their wraps." He peered through the window into the room, where a dim light was burning. "Yes--there are coats on the bed--"

"And a woman's scarf," added Chan, at his side. "A green scarf. The one Landini should have been clutching in her hands. Her own."

Ward nodded. "I suppose so." Chan tried this window with the same result as before, and they returned to the study.

"Next step," said Chan to the sheriff, "finger-prints. Matter about which we hear so much, and from which we get so little."

"Oh, lord, I suppose so," the young man answered. "I've got a homicide squad, but he's sick in bed. Fingerprints are in his department--I wonder if he knows it. My Dad never took a finger-print in his life."

"Ah, but we are more unfortunate--we live in age of science," Charlie smiled. "Great marvels happen all times, and world gets less human by minute. Sorry to say I possess utensils to get scientific here and now. I will proceed to examine fatal pistol and discover not a print on it. The suspense will be terrible. Humbly suggest you ease your mind by careful study of room."

He sat down at the desk and busied himself with his lampblack and brush. Don Holt began a careful survey of the room, as suggested. Dudley Ward picked up a log, and was about to place it on the fire, when a cry from Chan startled him.

"Please," Charlie called, "just a moment, if you will be so good."

"Why--er--what--" Ward was puzzled.

"The log, pardon me. Not just now," Chan explained.

Ward nodded and put the log back in the basket. Presently Charlie stood up.

"Suspense now over," he announced. "No print on pistol anywhere. Gloves, held in handkerchief, wiped clean--take your honorable choice. Something more suggestive, though--there are also no marks on lids of pretty colored boxes. I think we may go below--"

Holt approached him, holding out his great hand. In it Chan beheld a cheap little gold pin, with semi-precious stones.

"Ah--you make discovery," Charlie said.

"Bedded deep in the carpet," the sheriff explained. "Somebody stepped on it, I guess."

"Plenty ladies around here," Charlie remarked. "That was not Landini's--we know that much. It has not the rich look of prima-donna jewelry. Let us carry it below--and I suggest that you now remove pink scarf, so we may take that also. But one thing remains to be done here. Gentlemen--if you will do me the favor to await me one moment--"

He went briskly out, and walked part way down the stairs to a point where he had a clear view of the room below. The silent little party seated there looked up at him with interest. The detective's eye lighted on one who sat far from the others. "Mr. Ryder," he said.

For a moment there was no reply. "Yes?" said Ryder finally.

"If you please--will you be so good as to return to the study?"

With annoying slowness, Ryder got to his feet. Chan waited patiently. When finally the bearded man reached him on the stairs, the Chinese bowed low. "You are quite right," he said. "He who hurries can not walk with a stately step. Precede me, I beg of you."

They came again into the room where Landini lay. "I don't quite know," Ryder said, "why I should have the honor of a separate inquisition."

"You will yet learn," Chan assured him. "Have you met Mr. Don Holt, sheriff of this county?"

"I've not had the pleasure," Ryder replied, shaking hands.

"Mr. Ryder," Charlie began, "it is not my purpose to keep you here for long time. Before tragic passing of this lady, I visited your room with urgent message from her to you. A message which you belittled. You hurried me out, closing door almost against my back. And then--"

"Then--what?"

"Kindly detail your acts from that moment until lady's murder."

"A simple matter," Ryder said easily. "I sat down and resumed my reading. Shortly afterward I heard the airplane approaching. I went on reading. Then I heard it over the house."

"You went on reading?"

"Precisely. After a time I thought the airplane must have landed. Ellen Landini, I decided, was leaving by plane. So--I went on reading."

"An interesting book," Charlie nodded. "But sooner or later--you put it down."

"Yes--I went to the door, opened it and listened. Everything was rather quiet--I couldn't hear Landini's voice--so I decided she must have gone out on the field. I went to the stairs--"

"One moment, please. From the time I left you, until I saw you again on the stairs, you did not visit any other part of house? This room, for example?"

"I did not."

"You are certain on that point?"

"Of course I am."

"Mr. Holt," said Chan, stepping to the fireplace, "will you come here, please?" The sheriff did so. "Permit that I point out to you certain matters," Charlie continued. "We have here"--he took up the poker--"the completely consumed ashes of a letter, written, I may tell you, on paper similar to that on desk. And over here, in far corner, we have partly consumed envelope, burned but slightly at top. Will you be so kind as to rescue same?" Holt took it up in his fingers. "What would be address on envelope, Mr. Sheriff?"

The young man examined it. "Why--it says: 'Mr. John Ryder. Urgent. Private.' In a big bold hand--but it doesn't look like a man's writing, at that."

"Mr. Ryder will tell you whose writing it is," Chan suggested.

Ryder glanced at it. "It is the writing," he said, "of Ellen Landini."

"Correct," cried Chan. "It was addressed to you as private and urgent. It was sealed. It was torn open, and the letter removed. Who would do that, Mr. Ryder?"

"I'm sure I don't know," Ryder answered.

"Not many in this house," Chan continued. "No gentleman, surely--no lady. Such would not tear open the letter of another, marked private. No, it appears to me, Mr. Ryder, there is only one person who could have opened that letter. Yourself."

Ryder stared at him coldly. "A natural inference, Mr. Chan," he replied. "However, even if you were correct--and I can tell you at once that you're not--what of it? Surely you haven't forgotten that at the moment Landini was killed, I was standing at the foot of the stairs, in the living-room below."

Charlie turned to the sheriff. "You and I--we have long journey to take together," he remarked. "Often it will seem matter of upward, no road, downward, no door. But the man with a tongue in his head can always find the way. Let us go down-stairs and exercise our tongues."

Chapter V - DOWNWARD NO DOOR

The five men descended to the living-room at once. A glance at the formidable company that awaited them there caused Charlie's heart to sink. He looked toward the sheriff. The young man nervously cleared his throat.

"This is sure too bad," he began. "It's going to be pretty unpleasant for all of us, I guess. I'm Don Holt, sheriff of the county, and I don't aim to cause no innocent person any unnecessary trouble. But I got to get to the bottom of this business, and the shorter the route, the better for all of us--well, most of us, anyhow. I've asked Inspector Chan, who's had more experience in this line than I have, to give me a hand here, an' I want to say right now, that when he asks, you answer. That's all, I reckon."

A diversion at the door interrupted the proceedings. Sing admitted a small gray-haired man with a black satchel, who proved to be the doctor from Tahoe Holt had mentioned. The young man took him aside for a brief talk, and then called to Sing, who led the newcomer upstairs.

"I guess we can get goin' now," said Holt, looking helplessly at Charlie.

Charlie nodded. "We begin with least important of the gathering," he announced. "When fatal shot was fired, terminating brilliant career of one who was much beloved, six men were present in this room. One of these, Mr. Ryder, has already made statement. I would learn from remaining five all actions just before they met here, their conduct and locations, and when they last saw Landini. In this way, some light might be thrown. Since hour of the clock is uncertain, we can perhaps fix times by location of airplane overhead. I myself was one of these five. Answering my questions without asking same, I last saw Landini above in study while airplane was still over lake. She had requested I summon to her side Mr. Ryder, and I reported back to her he refused to accede. She was then writing hurriedly at desk. I left her, came down here, and went outside, where I eventually met Mr. Ward and Mr. Ireland at edge of field." He turned to the aviator. "Mr. Ireland, we can pass over you completely. You can scarcely be involved in this, or have any information of any sort."

The big Irishman nodded. "All I know is, Landini called me up to come and get her. And I came." He looked up, and his eyes met those of his wife. "I had to," he added. "That's my job. I'm workin' for others."

"Exactly," said Charlie. "Mr. Ward--you last saw Landini--"

"You were with me, Inspector," Ward replied. "You remember I left the study to turn on the lights at the field, as soon as we saw the plane over the lake. The lights are worked from a small shed in back of the hangar. We keep it closed and locked. I had to get the keys, and the lock stuck--a bit rusty, I fancy. It was a hurry-up job, but I got them on in time."

Chan turned to Ireland. "When did lights blaze on?" he asked.

"It was while I was circling over the house, I think," the aviator said. "Thanks a lot," he added to Ward. "But it wouldn't have mattered if you hadn't made it--the moon was good enough."

"Leaving two of the five," Charlie persisted. "Mr. Dinsdale and Mr. Beaton. It is my impression that neither left this room during the evening, until after the shot was fired. Am I correct?"

"In my case, yes," Dinsdale said. "A good fire and a good drink--all the airplanes in the world landing in the back yard couldn't rout me out. Yes--I sat here, right from the time I came until we heard the shot and ran upstairs."

"And Mr. Beaton was with you?"

"Well--not all the time--"

"No--no, I wasn't, that's true." Young Beaton stood up, fragile and pale and evidently very nervous. "You see--I went outside. You remember you went through the room, Mr. Chan, and then we heard you talking with some one out there, and in a minute Doctor Swan came in. He said the airplane was a beautiful sight, or something like that, so I said I guessed I'd have a look at it too. I went out--it was just coming in from over the lake then. I stepped down on to the path, and suddenly I heard a voice up above me."

"Ah--you heard a voice," repeated Charlie with sudden interest.

"Yes--it--it was Ellen--I couldn't mistake that, of course. And I heard her say--she was calling to somebody, really--I heard her call: 'Oh, it's you, is it? I'm freezing--get me my scarf. It's on the bed in the next room. The green one.'"

Chan smiled with sudden understanding. "Ah--most interesting. You heard Miss Landini ask for her scarf?"

"Yes, yes," cried the boy eagerly. His manner was almost pathetically ingenuous. "It's true, Mr. Chan. It really is. I know it sounds--"

"Let us not trouble how it sounds. Continue, please."

"I went a little farther along the path, and I saw Landini standing alone on the balcony just over the front door. She was looking up and waving her handkerchief. Then the airplane came down terribly close, and began to circle around the house. I started to cough and realized I didn't have my hat or overcoat--so I hurried inside. Anyhow--the picture sort of sickened me--Ellen standing there and waving like a mad woman--"

"That's O.K., Inspector," Dinsdale said. "He was out there only a few minutes."

"But long enough," shrugged Chan, "to hear Landini demand a scarf. Her green scarf. How much better, Mr. Beaton, if you had not added that last."

The boy's face contorted. "But it's the truth," he cried. "I'm telling it to you just as it happened. Somebody came into that room, and she asked for her scarf. And--and--"

"And the person, intending murder and wishing to incriminate innocent girl, returned with your sister's scarf. You are asking me to believe that?"

"I'm not asking you to believe anything," the boy almost screamed. "I'm just telling you what happened. I'm just trying to help you--and you won't believe me--you won't believe me--"

"Never mine, Hughie." His sister got up and patted him on the back. "Please don't get so upset."

"It happened, I tell you."

"I know. I know."

"Thank you, my boy," Charlie said gently. "I have not said I do not believe you. As a matter of fact--" He paused, his eyes on the sheriff. Mr. Holt was staring at Leslie Beaton with the most unsheriff-like look Chan ever remembered having seen in his long career. He sighed. A new complication, perhaps.

"As a matter of fact," Charlie continued, "this brings you, Mr. Ireland, unexpectedly back into limelight. Though you had not yet arrived on the place, it must be that you, none the less, were one of the last people to see Landini alive."

Ireland shifted in his chair. "Maybe I was," he remarked. "It didn't strike me before. When I turned in over the house, I looked down and seen some dame waving to me from the balcony. I dropped down to see who it was--"

"You knew well enough who it was," flashed his wife.

"How could I, dearie? I thought maybe it was you. So I got down as near as I dared, and I seen it was Landini--"

"So then you stunted around, risking your neck to give her a thrill--"

"Now, dearie, I just circled round a few times, to get my bearings and locate the field--"

"Did you, then, think the field was on the roof?" Cecile sneered.

Her husband shrugged. "I knew where it was, and I knew what I was doing. I don't need no back-seat drivers--"

"Pardon," Chan said. "How many times did you circle the house?"

"Three times."

"And three times you beheld Landini on that balcony."

"No--only the first. The last two times she'd gone inside."

"And could you see--were the windows open?"

"Well--I couldn't be sure of that."

"Thank you so much." Charlie walked off to a corner of the room with the sheriff. "Which concludes all those who were in this room when shot was fired," he said in a low tone. "Now we advance to more important sector of our attack."

"But say," demanded Holt. "Oughtn't we to be writing all this down in a book?"

Chan shook his head. "Not my method. Sight of paper and pencil sometimes has deleterious effect on speaker. I keep all this in mind, and at early opportunity, I make slight notes of it."

"My gosh--can you do that?" Holt answered. "I've forgot it already."

Charlie smiled. "Large empty place makes good storehouse," he remarked, tapping his forehead. "Now we proceed."

"Just a minute," Holt laid his hand on the detective's arm. "Who's that girl in the pink dress?"

"Owner of the pink scarf," Chan answered. "And I would humbly recall to you for the next few minutes the stern realities of lesson number one."

They went back to the other end of the room, and Chan again faced the assembly. "We come now," he said, "to members of this party who were not in view when death came to unfortunate lady above. One of these has already made at least partial statement. Sing, here, was probably last person to see Landini alive, having been dispatched for blanket, he says, after airplane landed. What you do, Sing, up to that time?"

"My don' know," shrugged Sing.

"You must know," replied Chan sternly.

"Mebbe my min' own business," suggested Sing slyly.

Charlie glared at him. He was finding his own compatriot a bit trying. "Listen to me," he said. "This is murder case, understand--murder case. You answer my question, or maybe the sheriff here lock you up in big jail."

Sing stared at the young man. "Who--him?" he asked, incredulous.

"That's right, Sing," Holt said. "You answer. Understand?"

"Allight," agreed Sing. "Why you no say so light away? My jes' go aloun' tendin' to own business."

"What was your business? What did you do?" Chan continued patiently.

"Boss see me in has, say you catch 'um Cecile. My catch 'um. Then my go down-stair. Go out back step watch landing field. Boss come out, say to me, 'Sing, Landini want something, you catch 'um.'"

"Just a minute." Chan turned to Dudley Ward.

"That's right," Ward said. "I'd just passed Cecile on the back stairs and I gathered she had no intention of getting that blanket. I was in too much of a hurry about the lights to argue, so I just sent Sing to attend to it."

"My go in house," Sing continued when urged. "Heah lil dog bark in kitchen. Stop lissen. Plitty soon go up-stair, membah Missie. Go to room, say, 'What you want, Missie? She say, 'Sing, you catch 'um blanket like go' boy, covah up dog.' Dog, dog, dog all time when she 'lound. My go out--"

"The airplane had now landed on the field?" Charlie inquired.

"Yes."

"How you know that?"

"Damn noise quiet now. My go my loom--"

"On the third floor?"

"Yes. My catch 'um blanket. Plitty soon heah noise. Mebbe pistol. So my come down with blanket--"

"Very slowly, I judge," remarked Chan.

"Wha's th' mallah?" inquired Sing. "Plenty time. Plitty soon see Missie gits shot. Too bad," he added, without emotion.

"Thank you so much," said Chan, with obvious relief. "That will do, for the present." He glanced at Holt. "Probably the last person to see Landini alive. I'll talk with him later, alone." He turned to the conductor. "Mr. Romano, so sorry to say I have somewhat warm interest in your actions for half-hour preceding this sad event."

"Me?" Romano gazed at him with innocent eyes.

"You, indeed. When I last saw you, airplane was still over lake, and you walked about room with panther tread. What next?"

"Ah, I recall," said the musician slowly. "I was engaged in making a list of rules for this young man--a list which, alas, will not now be required. I was no doubt at that moment seeking to determine whether or not I had fully covered the ground. I saw you pass my door on your way down-stairs--"

"And continued with the list, maybe?"

"No," Romano answered, "not at all. It comes to me--now Landini must be alone. I hasten to the study, she is writing letter, she puts it in envelope, seals the flap. Now, I say, is come the time to talk about that settlement. I am--what you say--broke. I am--am I right?--flat. Landini addresses the envelope. 'I am so sorry,' she say, 'but, Luis, I am in financial difficulty too. My investments do not pay proper dividends.'

"Then I say, impassioned, 'Ellen, you can not afford a new husband at this time. Why not cling to the old? I am still fond of you'--but, Mr. Chan"--his old voice broke--"need I discuss that scene?"

"Not at all," Chan answered, "except to tell me her reply."

"It was," Romano bowed his head, "it was not flattering to me. Imagine, if you can--after all I had done for her--cared for her like a bambino. The airplane was now approaching the house. She leaped to her feet, flung wide the windows. 'Come and see me in Reno,' she cried. 'I will do what I can.' And she ran on to the balcony."

"And you, Mr. Romano?"

"Me--I was broken-hearted. I stared at her there on the balcony--it was to be my last sight of her alive--though of course I did not know that. Then I returned to my room, closed my door. I sat by the window, staring out at the snow, the dark trees, the sad night. Flung off, like an old coat, I sorrowed. But I was indignant, too. I remembered all I had done--"

"Ah, yes. And you sat there, brooding, until you heard the shot."

"It is true. I heard the shot, and for a time, I wondered. Then, I hear footsteps, voices, and I follow you in here to your sad discovery."

"Tell me this." Chan studied him keenly. "You were still the husband of Ellen Landini--at the least for two weeks more. As such, will you inherit any property she may leave?"

Romano shook his head. "Alas, no. At the time the settlement was drawn up--the one which she so cruelly ignored--she told me she was making a will, leaving everything she had to her future husband--to Mr. Hugh Beaton here."

Surprised, Chan turned to the young man. "Did you know of this, Mr. Beaton?"

Beaton looked up wearily. "Yes--she told me about it. Naturally, I didn't want her to do it."

"Do you know whether the will was made or not?"

"She told me one day it had been drawn up. Signed, too, I suppose. I didn't ask any questions. I hated the whole idea."

Charlie looked at Miss Beaton. "You, too, had heard of the affair?"

"I had," said the girl softly. "But I paid no attention. It didn't matter."

Chan turned back to Romano. "What a sad position for you. Wife, money, everything lost. Do you, may I ask, happen to have that list you drew up for Mr. Beaton?"

"It is in my--" Suddenly he stopped. "It is in my room. I will get it for you."

"So sorry." Chan's eyes narrowed. "You were about to say, I think, that it is in your pocket."

"You are mistaken," Romano said, but his pale face had suddenly grown paler than ever. "What does it matter, at any rate?"

"It matters so much," Chan continued gently, "that unless you empty pockets here and now, I must reluctantly do same for you. Believe me, such a barbarous action would bring me pain."

Romano stood for a moment, considering.

"The story," he said finally, "of my interview with my wife was not quite complete. I--a man does not willingly speak of such things--but--" He reached into a trousers pocket and took out a roll of crisp new twenty-dollar bills which he handed to Chan. "Just before Ellen rushed on to the balcony she removed these from her bag, flung them on the desk. I--I accepted them. My case--was--desperate." He dropped into a chair and covered his face with his hands. Chan looked down on him with real pity.

"I am so glad," the detective said, "that you saw way clear to amending own story. Unfortunately, these must remain with sheriff at present as evidence. But in meantime--we will see--way will be found--do not worry, Mr. Romano." He turned with sudden grim determination on Doctor Swan. "And now, Doctor, your turn arrives. Where did you go after you left me in path before house?"

"I haven't much to tell," said Swan. "I came in here, had a word or two with Dinsdale and Beaton, and then went up-stairs--to the room that had been assigned me before dinner. I was planning to leave at the earliest possible moment."

"Ah--and you had left something in that room you wished to obtain?"

"No--I had nothing up there. My coat and hat were in the closet down here. I had no luggage--it was not my intention to spend the night."

"You had nothing up there--then why did you go?"

Swan hesitated. "The windows of that room faced the back. I figured I could see the plane land--and--"

Charlie and the sheriff exchanged a look.

"Well, I'll be frank with you," Swan went on. "As a matter of fact, it occurred to me that after Ireland had landed his plane, he'd probably come inside for a moment. I didn't care to meet him. He knows what I think of him."

"And you know what I think of you," said Ireland sneeringly.

"No man," continued Swan, "can look forward to a social meeting with a greasy chauffeur who once made love to his wife behind his back--"

Ireland was on his feet. "Is that so--"

"Sit down," said Don Holt. "Now this is getting to be a case that I can handle. Sit down, Ireland, and shut up."

Big as he was, the aviator was not inclined to argue with the sheriff. He sat down, and Holt looked somewhat disappointed.

"Let us continue," said Chan, "peacefully. You went up-stairs to avoid Mr. Ireland, Doctor Swan?"

"Yes. I went into that room and closed the door. It was not my intention to come out of there until Ellen and the plane had gone. I watched it land, and I was standing by the window waiting to see it depart before returning down-stairs. That is where I was when the shot was fired. It's not much of an alibi, I know, but--"

"I'll say it's not much of an alibi," growled Ireland. "A fat chance you've got putting that over. Especially when they find out you've been blackmailing poor Landini for seven years--"

"That's a lie," cried Swan, trembling with fury.

"Blackmailing," remarked Chan. He looked at Dudley Ward.

"Yeah--blackmailing," Ireland repeated. "She told me all about it. Two hundred and fifty a month for seven years, and the other day she told me she couldn't pay any more. I advised her to order this buzzard to scram. Did she tell you, Doctor? I guess she did--from the looks of to-night."

"You'd better be careful," said Swan through his teeth. "You're not out of the woods yet yourself."

"Me?" Ireland said. "Why--I was flying around in the sky, innocent as a bird. I had nothing to do with this--"

"But--your wife?" cried Swan. "How about your wife--or don't you care what happens to her? Poor Cecile--wandering about up-stairs almost insane with jealousy--and with good reason, too, I imagine. Where was Cecile when that shot was fired--that's what I want to know."

"The proper authorities," Chan put in, "will resume the inquiry into this case--if you have no objection, Doctor Swan. Cecile--pardon, Mrs. Ireland--we come now, with the doctor's kind assistance, to you. Courtesy has not ruled us, you will observe. It appears to be a matter of ladies last."

"I--I know nothing," the woman said.

"As I feared. But let us push questions, none the less. When last I saw you, you had been sent to obtain blanket for dog. You did not busy yourself with such task?"

Her eyes flashed. "I did not. I had no intention of doing so."

"Hot anger was in your heart?"

"Why not? I had just seen Michael's plane--I knew that woman had sent for him to take her home in the moonlight. And he, like a fool--"

"It was my job, I tell you," Ireland persisted sullenly.

"And how you hated it, eh? No matter. I thought, 'Let her find her own blanket for that accursed dog.' I was on my way down the back stairs, when Mr. Ward hurried down after me. He asked about the blanket--I told him frankly I would not get it. 'I wonder where Sing is,' he said, and hastened past."

"And you--"

"Me--I went to the kitchen, where the cook was. I heard Michael risking his life above the house. I waited--I would have a word with him, I thought. The plane landed--and Michael came into the passageway, as I expected. But he was not alone--Mr. Ward and Mr. Chan were with him. I was too unhappy--'I will have no scene here,' I said, so I let him pass. Then I started up the back stairs again--my place was above--and I figured how I would send Sing to bring Michael to me there. But on the stairs--"

"Ah, yes--on the stairs," nodded Charlie.

"I--I paused to weep, Monsieur. I was so very unhappy. I had known from the sound how close Michael had come to the house--reckless, a fool--to impress that woman, with whom he was always infatuated--"

"Bologny," interrupted her husband.

"You were--you know it. But I will say no more of the dead. I wept quietly for a moment, then I dried my eyes and started again up the stairs. It was then I heard the shot--loud, unexpected, clear. That--that is all."

Chan turned to Holt. "The little object, please, which you found embedded in study carpet."

"Oh--oh, yes." The sheriff found it and turned it over. Charlie held it out to the woman. "Have you, by any chance, ever seen this pin before?" he inquired.

She glanced at it.