The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers

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СКАЧАТЬ When Madden, having shot, remarked, 'Shut up and forget. I was afraid and I killed. Now think quick what we had better do,' I would expect first thought is—burial. How else to dispose of dead? So just now I have examined every inch of ground, with highest hope. No good. If burial made, it was not here. I see by your faces you have similar bafflement to report."

      "Haven't found a thing," Eden replied.

      Chan sighed. "I drag the announcement forth in pain," he said. "But I now gaze solemnly at stone wall."

      They sat in helpless silence. "Well, let's not give up yet," Bob Eden remarked. He leaned back in his chair and blew a ring of smoke toward the paneled ceiling. "By the way, has it ever occurred to you that there must be some sort of attic above this room?"

      Chan was instantly on his feet. "Clever suggestion," he cried. "Attic, yes, but how to ascend?" He stood staring at the ceiling a moment, then went quickly to a large closet in the rear of the room. "Somewhat humiliated situation for me," he announced. Crowding close beside him in the dim closet, the other two looked aloft at an unmistakable trap-door.

      Bob Eden was selected for the climb, and with the aid of a stepladder Chan brought from the barn, he managed it easily. Holley and the detective waited below. For a moment Eden stood in the attic, his head bent low, cobwebs caressing his face, while he sought to accustom his eyes to the faint light.

      "Nothing here, I'm afraid," he called. "Oh, yes, there is. Wait a minute."

      They heard him walking gingerly above, and clouds of dust descended on their heads. Presently he was lowering a bulky object through the narrow trap—a battered old Gladstone bag.

      "Seems to be something in it," Eden announced.

      They took it with eager hands, and set it on the desk in the sunny living-room. Bob Eden joined them.

      "By gad," the boy said, "not much dust on it, is there? Must have been put there recently. Holley, here's where your keys come in handy."

      It proved a simple matter for Holley to master the lock. The three men crowded close.

      Chan lifted out a cheap toilet case, with the usual articles—a comb and brush, razors, shaving cream, tooth paste, then a few shirts, socks and handkerchiefs. He examined the laundry mark.

      "D—thirty-four," he announced.

      "Meaning nothing," Eden said.

      Chan was lifting a brown suit of clothes from the bottom of the bag.

      "Made to order by tailor in New York," he said, after an inspection of the inner coat pocket. "Name of purchaser, however, is blotted out by too much wearing." He took from the side pockets a box of matches and a half-empty packet of inexpensive cigarettes. "Finishing the coat," he added.

      He turned his attention to the vest and luck smiled upon him. From the lower right-hand pocket he removed an old-fashioned watch, attached to a heavy chain. The timepiece was silent; evidently it had been unwound for some time. Quickly he pried open the back case, and a little grunt of satisfaction escaped him. He passed the watch to Bob Eden.

      "Presented to Jerry Delaney by his Old Friend, Honest Jack McGuire," read Eden in a voice of triumph. "And the date—August twenty-sixth, 1913."

      "Jerry Delaney!" cried Holley. "By heaven, we're getting on now. The name of the third man was Jerry Delaney."

      "Yet to be proved he was the third man," Chan cautioned. "This, however, may help."

      He produced a soiled bit of colored paper—a passenger's receipt for a Pullman compartment. "Compartment B—car 198," he read. "Chicago to Barstow." He turned it over. "Date when used, February eighth, present year."

      Bob Eden turned to a calendar. "Great stuff," he cried. "Jerry Delaney left Chicago on February eighth—a week ago Sunday night. That got him into Barstow last Wednesday morning, February eleventh—the morning of the day he was killed. Some detectives, we are."

      Chan was still busy with the vest. He brought forth a key ring with a few keys, then a worn newspaper clipping. The latter he handed to Eden.

      "Read it, please?" he suggested.

      Bob Eden read:

      "Theater-goers of Los Angeles will be delighted to know that in the cast of One Night in June, the musical comedy opening at the Mason next Monday night, will be Miss Norma Fitzgerald. She has the role of Marcia, which calls for a rich soprano voice, and her vast army of admirers hereabouts know in advance how well she will acquit herself in such a part. Miss Fitzgerald has been on the stage twenty years—she went on as a mere child—and has appeared in such productions as The Love Cure."

      Eden paused. "There's a long list." He resumed reading:

      "Matinees of One Night in June will be on Wednesdays and Saturdays, and for this engagement a special scale of prices has been inaugurated."

      Eden put the clipping down on the table. "Well, that's one more fact about Jerry Delaney. He was interested in a soprano. So many men are—but still, it may lead somewhere."

      "Poor Jerry," said Holley, looking down at the rather pitiful pile of the man's possessions. "He won't need a hair-brush, or a razor, or a gold watch where he's gone." He took up the watch and regarded it thoughtfully. "Honest Jack McGuire. I seem to have heard that name somewhere."

      Chan was investigating the trousers pockets. He turned them out one by one, but found nothing.

      "Search is now complete," he announced. "Humbly suggest we put all back as we found it. We have made delightful progress."

      "I'll say we have," cried Eden, with enthusiasm. "More progress than I ever thought possible. Last night we knew only that Madden had killed a man. Today we know the name of the man." He paused. "I don't suppose there can be any doubt about it?" he inquired.

      "Hardly," Holley replied. "A man doesn't part with such personal possessions as a hair-brush and a razor as long as he has any further use for them. If he's through with them, he's through with life. Poor devil!"

      "Let's go over it all again before we put these things away," said Eden. "We've learned that the man Madden feared, the man he killed, was Jerry Delaney. What do we know of Delaney? He was not in very affluent circumstances, though he did have his clothes made by a tailor. Not a smart tailor, judging by the address. He smoked Corsican cigarettes. Honest Jack McGuire, whoever he may be, was an old friend of his, and thought so highly of him he gave Jerry a watch. What else? Delaney was interested in an actress named Norma Fitzgerald. A week ago last Sunday he left Chicago at eight P.M.—the Limited—for Barstow, riding in Compartment B, car 198. And that, I guess, about sums up what we know of Jerry Delaney."

      Charlie Chan smiled. "Very good," he said. "A splendid list, rich with promise. But one fact you have missed complete."

      "What's that?" inquired Eden.

      "One very easy fact," continued Chan. "Take this vest once on Jerry Delaney. Examine close—what do you discover?"

      Carefully Eden looked over the vest, then with a puzzled air handed it to Holley, who did the same. Holley shook his head.

      "Nothing?" asked Chan, laughing silently. "Can it be you are not such able detectives as I thought? Here—place hand in pocket—"

      Bob СКАЧАТЬ