Behind That Curtain Read Free Page A

asked Gleason, with assumed innocence.
    â€œI’m getting Sir Frederic and Charlie Chan together, and the idea’s copyrighted. Lay off.”
    Gloomily, Mr. Gleason turned about, and accompanied Bill Rankin to the elevators. As they waited for the car, the girl in the green dress emerged from the office of the Calcutta Importers and joined them. They rode down together. The girl’s tears had vanished, and had happily left no trace. Blue eyes—that completed the picture. A charming picture. Mr. Gleason was also showing signs of interest.
    In the street Gleason spoke. “I never thought of it until dinner,” he said sourly.
    â€œWith me, my career comes first,” Rankin responded. “Did you finish your dinner?”
    â€œI did, worse luck. Well, I hope you get a whale of a story—a knock-out, a classic.”
    â€œThanks, old man.”
    â€œAnd I hope you can’t print one damn word of it.” Rankin did not reply as his friend hurried off into the dusk. He was watching the girl in the green dress disappear up California Street. Why had she left the presence of Sir Frederick Bruce to weep outside that office door? What had Sir Frederic said to her? Might ask Sir Frederic about it to-morrow. He laughed mirthlessly. He saw himself—or any other man—prying into the private affairs of Sir Frederic Bruce.

Chapter 2

WHAT HAPPENED TO EVE DURAND?
    The next day at one, Sir Frederic Bruce stood in the lobby of the St. Francis, a commanding figure in a gray tweed suit. By his side, as immaculate as his guest, stood Barry Kirk, looking out on the busy scene with the amused tolerance befitting a young man of vast leisure and not a care in the world. Kirk hung his stick on his arm, and took a letter from his pocket.
    â€œBy the way, I had this note from J. V. Morrow in the morning’s mail,” he said. “Thanks me very politely for my invitation, and says that I’ll know him when he shows up because he’ll be wearing a green hat. One of those green plush hats, I suppose. Hardly the sort of thing I’d put on my head if I were a deputy district attorney.”
    Sir Frederic did not reply. He was watching Bill Rankin approach rapidly across the floor. At the reporter’s side walked, surprisingly light of step, an unimpressive little man with a bulging waistband and a very earnest expression on his chubby face.
    â€œHere we are,” Rankin said. “Sir Frederic Bruce—may I present Detective-Sergeant Chan, of the Honolulu police?”
    Charlie Chan bent quickly like a jack-knife. “The honor,” he said, “is unbelievably immense. In Sir Frederic’s reflected glory I amhappy to bask. The tiger has condescended to the fly.”
    Somewhat at a loss, the Englishman caressed his mustache and smiled down on the detective from Hawaii. As a keen judge of men, already he saw something in those black restless eyes that held his attention.
    â€œI’m happy to know you, Sergeant Chan,” he said. “It seems we think alike on certain important points. We should get on well together.”
    Rankin introduced Chan to the host, who greeted the little Chinese with obvious approval. “Good of you to come,” he said.
    â€œA four-horse chariot could not have dragged me in an opposite direction,” Chan assured him.
    Kirk looked at his watch. “All here but J. V. Morrow,” he remarked. “He wrote me this morning that he’s coming in at the Post Street entrance. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll have a look around.”
    He strolled down the corridor toward Post Street. Near the door, on a velvet davenport, sat a strikingly attractive young woman. No other seat was available, and with an interested glance at the girl Kirk also dropped down on the davenport. “If you don’t mind—” he murmured.
    â€œNot at all,” she replied, in a voice that somehow suited her.
    They sat in silence.