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

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СКАЧАТЬ was ended and cleaning women knelt reverently on the marble floor. One elevator was still running, and into this Bill Rankin stepped.

      "All the way," he said to the girl.

      He alighted at the twentieth floor, the final stop. A narrow stair led to Barry Kirk's bungalow, and the reporter ascended two steps at a time. Pausing before an imposing door, he rang. The door opened and Paradise, Kirk's English butler, stood like a bishop barring Rankin's path.

      "Ah—er—I'm back," panted Rankin.

      "So I see, sir." Very like a bishop indeed, with that great shock of snow-white hair. His manner was not cordial. Earlier that day he had admitted many reporters, but with misgivings.

      "I must see Sir Frederic at once. Is he in?"

      "Sir Frederic is in the offices, on the floor below. I fancy he is busy, but I will announce you—"

      "No—please don't trouble," said Rankin quickly. Running down to the twentieth floor, he noted a door with Barry Kirk's name on the frosted glass. As he moved toward it, it opened suddenly, and a young woman came out.

      Rankin stopped in his tracks. A remarkably pretty young woman—that much was obvious even in the dim light on the twentieth floor. One of those greatly preferred blonds, with a slender figure trim in a green dress of some knitted material. Not precisely tall, but—

      What was this? The young woman was weeping. Silently, without fuss, but indubitably weeping. Tears not alone of grief, but, if Rankin was any judge, of anger and exasperation, too. With a startled glance at the reporter, she hastily crossed the hall and disappeared through a door that bore the sign "Calcutta Importers, Inc."

      Bill Rankin pushed on into Barry Kirk's office. He entered a sort of reception-room, but a door beyond stood open, and the newspaper man went confidently forward. In the second room, Sir Frederic Bruce, former head of the C.I.D., sat at a big, flat-topped desk. He swung around, and his gray eyes were stern and dangerous.

      "Oh," he said. "It's you."

      "I must apologize for intruding on you again, Sir Frederic," Bill Rankin began. "But—I—er—may I sit down?"

      "Certainly." The great detective slowly gathered up some papers on the desk.

      "The fact is—" Rankin's confidence was ebbing. An inner voice told him that this was not the genial gentleman of the afternoon interview in the bungalow up-stairs. Not the gracious visitor to San Francisco, but Sir Frederic Bruce of Scotland Yard, unbending, cold and awe-inspiring. "The fact is," continued the reporter lamely, "an idea has struck me."

      "Really?" Those eyes—they looked right through you.

      "What you told us this afternoon, Sir Frederic—Your opinion of the value of scientific devices in the detection of crime, as against luck and hard work—" Rankin paused. He seemed unable to finish his sentences. "I was reminded, when I came to write my story, that oddly enough I had heard that same opinion only a few days ago."

      "Yes? Well, I made no claim to originality." Sir Frederic threw his papers into a drawer.

      "Oh, I haven't come to complain about it," smiled Rankin, regaining a trace of his jaunty spirit. "Under ordinary conditions, it wouldn't mean anything, but I heard your ideas from the lips of a rather unusual man, Sir Frederic. A humble worker in your own field, a detective who has evolved his theories far from Scotland Yard. I heard them from Detective-Sergeant Charlie Chan, of the Honolulu police."

      Sir Frederic's bushy eyebrows rose. "Really? Then I must applaud the judgment of Sergeant Chan—whoever he may be."

      "Chan is a detective who has done some good work in the islands. He happens to be in San Francisco at the moment, on his way home. Came to the mainland on a simple errand, which developed into quite a case before he had finished with it. I believe he acquitted himself with credit. He's not very impressive to look at, but—"

      Sir Frederic interrupted. "A Chinese, I take it?"

      "Yes, sir."

      The great man nodded. "And why not? A Chinese should make an excellent detective. The patience of the East, you know."

      "Precisely," agreed Bill Rankin. "He's got that. And modesty—"

      Sir Frederic shook his head. "Not such a valuable asset, modesty. Self-assurance, a deep faith in one's self—they help. But Sergeant Chan is modest?"

      "Is he? 'Falling hurts least those who fly low'—that's the way he put it to me. And Sergeant Chan flies so low he skims the daisies."

      Sir Frederic rose and stepped to the window. He gazed down at the spatter of lights flung like a handful of stars over the darkening town. For a moment he said nothing. Then he turned to the reporter.

      "A modest detective," he said, with a grim smile. "That's a novelty, at any rate. I should like very much to meet this Sergeant Chan."

      Bill Rankin sighed with relief. His task was unbelievably easy, after all.

      "That's exactly what I came here to suggest," he said briskly. "I'd like to bring you and Charlie Chan together—hear you go over your methods and experiences—you know, just a real good talk. I was wondering if you would do us the great honor to join Mr. Chan and me at lunch to-morrow?"

      The former head of the C.I.D. hesitated. "Thank you very much. But I am more or less in Mr. Kirk's hands. He is giving a dinner to-morrow night, and I believe he said something about luncheon to-morrow, too. Much as I should like to accept at once, decidedly we must consult Mr. Kirk."

      "Well, let's find him. Where is he?" Bill Rankin was all business.

      "I fancy he is up in the bungalow." Sir Frederic turned and, swinging shut the door of a big wall safe, swiftly twirled the knob.

      "You did that just like an American business man, Sir Frederic," Rankin smiled.

      The detective nodded. "Mr. Kirk has kindly allowed me to use his office while I am his guest."

      "Ah—then you're not altogether on a pleasure trip," said Bill Rankin quickly.

      The gray eyes hardened. "Absolutely—a pleasure trip. But there are certain matters—private business—I am writing my Memoirs—"

      "Ah yes—of course," apologized the reporter.

      The door opened, and a cleaning woman entered. Sir Frederic turned to her. "Good evening," he said. "You understand that no papers on this desk —or in it—are to be interfered with in any way?"

      "Oh, yes, sir," the woman answered.

      "Very good. Now, Mr.—er—Mr.—"

      "Rankin, Sir Frederic."

      "Of course. There is a stairs in this rear room leading up to the bungalow. If you will come with me—"

      They entered the third and last room of the office suite, and Bill Rankin followed the huge figure of the Englishman aloft. The stairs ended in a dark passageway on the floor above. Throwing open the nearest door, Sir Frederic flooded the place with light, and Bill Rankin stepped into the great living-room of the bungalow. Paradise was alone in the room; he received the reporter with cold disdain. Barry СКАЧАТЬ