More Lives Than One/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII
CHINESE CHARLEY
Chinese Charley was proving a puzzle to the police.
As his wages were paid to the end of the month, his notion of duty kept him at his post until the expiration of that time. Then, he explained, he would go away and get another place—unless he had different orders from Mr. Locke in the meantime.
“You are in touch with him, Charley!” Hutchins accused him.
“Touch?” said the Chinese, blankly.
“You hear from him. He writes you? Telephones you?”
“No,” said Charley.
But Hutchins believed he lied.
Since the caretaker was there, however, Glenn continued to stay in the studio apartment day and night. This would continue until the end of the month; then, if Locke had not been heard from, the house agent said he should lock up the place until the paid-up rent had expired and then rent it to some one else.
So matters seemed to be shaping themselves to a general permanent arrangement of forgetting Tommy Locke.
Yet there was nothing else to do. Hunt was being made, search was being kept up, yet there was no sign of the missing man, except the vague reports of his telephoning his servant and friends. Nor could these be verified.
Henry Post declared he had not heard from Locke. Kate Vallon said she had not, while little Miss Cutler refused to answer questions about it.
Charley was equally taciturn, and Hutchins despaired of ever finding out anything.
But the very day after Nelson and Andrew Barham had visited the studio, Charley, who was tidying up, suddenly gave an exclamation.
“What’s doing?” ashed Glenn, who sat by, reading a paper.
“Nothing, sir,” and the Oriental’s face was a blank.
“You Chinese rascal, you’ve found something. Tell me what, or I’ll have the law on you!”
“Nothing, sir.”
And “nothing, sir,” was all Glenn could extract from the wily Charley. He watched him closely all day, but could get no inkling of the discovery he had made, if any.
The only effect it seemed to have was to make the Chinaman do some searching on his own account. Several times through the day, Charley sneaked into the studio or den or the bedroom, choosing opportunities when Glenn was elsewhere, and swiftly pulled out drawers, opened cupboards and rummaged in boxes.
When Glenn came upon him, he immediately looked as innocent as a cherub, and pretended to be emptying an ash tray or picking up papers.
“You’re a caution, Charley,” Glenn said. “I wish I could see into that carved ivory dome of yours.”
“Yes, sir,” said the imperturbable one.
That afternoon Charley dressed himself in street clothes and went forth on errands. Returning, he informed Glenn that he had been to pay the caterer’s bill and also the house agent’s rent.
Glenn looked at him, astonished.
“Where’d you get the money?” he asked.
“Found in—in cubby drawer,” and Charley pointed to a certain pigeonhole in Locke’s desk.
“What? How’d it get there?”
“Misser Locke—he put.”
Apparently the Chinese was greatly enjoying the other’s amazement. Though his yellow face was grave, the slant eyes were flickering with sly interest.
“Mr. Locke put it there! Are you crazy?”
“No clazy; no, sir.”
“How do you know he put it there?”
“Note say so. Note to Charley.”
“A note to you? Come, now, this is too much. Have you seen Mr. Locke?”
“No see Misser Locke, but get note. He put.”
“He put! You— You’ll be put—in jail if you”
“Just for ’cause pay bill? Good bill?”
“Let me see your note.”
“All burn up.”
“Look here, you. Do you mean you found money and a note there, that weren’t there before? That Mr. Locke has been here—and left money for you to pay his bills?”
“Thass right. Money for me, for Caterman, for Agent man. Dassall.”
“Well, next time he comes”
“He no come more. He good-by.”
“Oh, he’s good-by, is he? Well, I think you’re making up this whole yarn. That’s what I think.”
“Yes, sir.”
But Glenn didn’t think so, he knew better. Though not for a moment did he believe the money or note had been found in that pigeonhole. He concluded Locke had gone to Charley’s home—the Chinaman went home nights—and Glenn was sure that Locke had been to see him, and by judicious payment had stopped his mouth from undesired disclosures. Anyway, Glenn decided, that was all he could make of it.
He called up Hutchins but failed to get him, and he went to bed that night with one ear alert, hoping “Misser Locke” would pay another call.
But his hopes were not fulfilled, and next day he told Hutchins of Charley’s story.
“I know,” Hutchins said, staring at Glenn. “There’s something else doing, too. It seems Henry Post and that Miss Vallon have each had a letter from Locke. They were ready enough to tell of it, ready, too, to give us the letters. But, confound it, how has that chap the nerve to stay around here”
“A letter doesn’t mean he’s around here.”
“No, nor does a telephone call. But if he put that money where Charley says he did, he must be in this vicinity.”
“Oh, I don’t believe the Chink. Locke sent him that money by postal order or something like that”
“That’s neither here nor there, anyway. The point is, that apparently Locke has no intention of returning to this place at all. Now, if that is so, he’s staying away because he is guilty. If he were an innocent man, why wouldn’t he return and help straighten things out? I can’t see it any other way than that Locke did know Mrs. Barham, and did kill her. His very coolness and nerve in writing letters and telephoning and all that, proves the possibility, the probability of his being just the sort who would commit a murder, and then walk out the front door, saying, ‘Back in a minute.’”
“That’s all so,” and Glenn tried to look wise. He was an humble underling, and he was secretly elated at being thus talked to by the great Hutchins.
“Of course it is,” Hutchins went on. He was really only thinking aloud, and used Glenn merely as a target for his speech. “So I’m more than ever convinced that Locke is our man, and that his murder of Mrs. Barham was premeditated and prearranged. Now, here’s that Yellow Streak again! What is it, Charley?”
“I talk you, alone, Misser Hutch.”
“No, I don’t think you will. You’ll talk to me right here before Mr. Glenn. He’s my brother and my father and my grandmother.”
“Yes, sir. Then, Misser Hutch, I ask you help me. I know things.”
“Oho, you do! Well, Charley, if you know things, I’m the man to help you. And whatever you know, out with it. You may forget it.”
“No, I no forget.”
The Chinaman was serious now, and obviously deeply troubled.
Hutchins winked at Glenn but said no word, fearing to disturb Charley’s thoughts—which, on the whole, promised to be interesting when divulged.
“I have errand to do for Misser Locke,” he said at last. “I no can do—alone.”
“All right,” Hutchins said, cheerfully, “I’ll help you. Do we start now?”
But Charley looked graver still, and shook his head.
“It’s to the lady,” he divulged. “The pretty little lady.”
“Miss Cutler?” Hutchins guessed.
“Yes, Missee Cutler.”
“See here, Charley, is she Mr. Locke’s girl—you know—sweetheart?”
“I donno. But Misser Locke he want his—his jewel thing—his Luckee—and Missee Cutler—she got it.”
The secret came out in a burst of confidence, and his tale told, Charley wilted. His waving arms fell limp, and his excited face returned to its normal stolidity.
Hutchins held himself in, and strove to answer casually.
“Oh, yes—that’s easy. Miss Cutler has Mr. Locke’s jewel—a lucky piece, you say? And Mr. Locke wants it. Of course he does. He’d have no luck without it. Well, let’s go and get it from Miss Cutler. Or did he give it to her? Is it hers now?”
“No! Oh, no!” Charley fairly shuddered. “He not give it to her. She take it—Missee Cutler take it—from—from—dead lady!”
Charley’s eyes now glowed with horror, even fright. But whatever the meaning of this strange story he was telling, he was certainly in earnest. There was no slyness now—no roguery. The man was deeply stirred by some emotion—some sense of duty.
Hutchins’ own calm gave way.
“Miss Cutler took it from the dead lady! From Mrs. Barham? What are you talking about?”
“Go easy,” Glenn warned him. “He’ll shut up or bolt, if you’re not careful.”
“Right, Glenn,” and Hutchins put a guard on his impatience.
“When did she take it Charley?” he asked. “When did Miss Cutler take the lucky piece from Mrs. Barham?”
“After—after she dead—oh, oh!” His long, yellow hands flew up and covered his eyes. Clearly, he was envisioning a horrible memory.
Hutchins’ mind worked like lightning.
“Charley,” he said, “who killed the lady? Who killed Mrs. Barham? Did Mr. Locke do it?”
But no answer came. The slant eyes seeemed to be of glass, so meaningless, so unalive they became.
“If he knows, he won’t tell,” Glenn urged. “Get at it in a roundabout way.”
The next day, Hutchins realized that he was taking advice from an humble inferior, but at this moment the suggestion seemed good to him, and he acted on it at once.
“Yes, Charley,” he said; “yes—about that lucky piece, now. Was it a jewel?”
“Donno what you call. But like a flyaway. All same, dead lady had him in her hand.”
“After she was dead?”
“Yes, sir. Then I see Missee Cutler take him out of dead lady’s hand, and put him away, in her blouse. So.”
Charley tucked his hand into his house jacket, with quite evident imitation of a woman concealing a treasure trove in her bodice.
“Charley,” Hutchins looked at him sternly, “why are you telling this now? Is it true? If it is, why didn’t you tell at first?”
Charley looked troubled.
“I like Missee Cutler—but,” he sighed deeply, “I like my Misser Locke more. You make Missee Cutler give me lucky piece for my Misser Locke?”
“I will, indeed—if she has it. You say you saw her take it—from—here, Charley, come into the den and show me.”
Hutchins led the way and Charley obediently followed. Glenn, after them, wondering if they were on the verge of an important revelation or if the Chinaman had them “on a string.”
“Now,” Hutchins said, watching Charley steadily, “Where was Mrs. Barham—the dead lady?”
“Here,” and he indicated the spot where Madeleine had been found.
“And where was Miss Cutler? How?”
“So,” and the Chinaman crouched over the place as one might who was intently examining an unconscious body. With his long yellow fingers, he made motions of extracting a small object from the hand—and so graphic was he that Glenn was horrified.
“Missee Barrum here,” and Charley explained, as if he feared his dumb show was not intelligible; “Missee Cutler lean over—so—and pick Luckee from dead lady’s fingers.”
“Where were you?” Hutchins asked, sternly.
“Here,” and Charley rose and hurried to the little back hall. Then, standing just outside the partly open door, he peeped around it, as if spying on the scene he had just portrayed.
“I can’t seem to think this is all made up,” Hutchins said to Glenn, in a breathless aside, “and yet it is incredible. Do you suppose Pearl Jane”
“Killed Mrs. Barham? I do not!” and Glenn looked positive “But I believe this dumb show business. Charley never invented all that. . . . Moreover, Locke is after that lucky piece—or whatever it is—and Charley, who is all devotion to him, wants to get it for him.”
“When you get it, Charley,” Hutchins said, “how will you get it to Mr. Locke?”
But now the shrewd look returned. “I do,” was all the reply Hutchins could obtain. `
“I was pretty sure that girl was mixed up in the affair somehow,” Hutchins said, reflectively, as he looked at Glenn.
“She could be mixed up in it and yet be entirely innocent of crime,” Glenn persisted, for his heart had been caught in the tangles of Pearl Jane’s bobbed hair.
“She could. And if you feel that way about it, you’d better not go with me over to her place—which is where I’m going right now. You’d better not go, anyway, as I propose to take Charley, and if we leave this place unguarded, friend Locke may come in and camp here.”
“No such luck,” returned Glenn, “I wish he would. But I’ve no desire to go and see or hear you bait that young woman.”
“I know you haven’t. But, listen here, Glenn. That young woman was found by me, crying, in that closet in that back hall there. She had a smear on her sleeve that looked to me like blood. When I went to see her a few hours later, she had washed the stain away—I saw the mark of it left. She said—or, rather Miss Vallon said, they had washed away a few drops of cocoa. Somebody else said, it might have been a red smear from a lipstick, every woman carries those nowadays. But I say, if that smear was lipstick or rouge or cocoa, why were they in such a hurry to eradicate it? Why did they notice it at all? Also, in that same cupboard was the monk’s robe, which Locke had tossed to Charley and which Charley had hung up there. That, too, had a smear of blood on it. Now, add the fact that Charley saw Miss Cutler bending over the body, that he saw her take something from the dead woman’s hand and conceal it in her bosom, add the fact—or, at least, my strong conviction that Miss Cutler has had one telephone message—if not two—from Locke, since his disappearance, and, perhaps romancing a little, remember that the girl was in love with Locke and may easily have been jealous of this strange woman—perhaps no stranger to her—oh, well, there’s enough, to my way of thinking, to get busy on.”
Glenn had nothing in particular to reply to all this, and taking Charley with him, Hutchins started off to see Pearl Jane.
But her little place was closed and locked. Nor was Miss Vallon at home. The janitor said the two ladies had gone away together, and had left word they would be back in two days.
“If ever!” exclaimed Hutchins, when he heard this. He was angry, for he feared that, like Locke, the two women had gone for good and all.
The janitor reassured him, however, saying the two frequently went off for a couple of days, and he was positive they would be back the next day but one.
Hutchins had half a mind to get a warrant and search Pearl Jane’s rooms, but he wasn’t quite sure enough of the credibility of Charley’s story.
At any rate, no one else knew of it, and if he could make the Chinaman keep quiet, and could pledge Glenn to secrecy, the matter could await the return of the two women.
So he told Charley that if he said no word of it all to any one, that probably the lucky piece would be recovered. But if he told—there was no chance of it.
This made the boy promise, and Hutchins believed he would keep his word.
Glenn, too, agreed to be silent, and Hutchins turned his attention to the Barham side of the question for the next forty-eight hours. It was his plan to work from Locke to Mrs. Barham and back again, hoping to get some data on one side that would dovetail with facts on the other.
Glenn slept soundly that night. He was not a heavy sleeper, usually, but after any mental excitement, he felt exhausted, and glad of a good rest.
Though on guard in the house, he was not required to stay awake at night, Dickson deeming it highly improbable that any intruder would put in an appearance.
Nor had any one done so, to Glenn’s knowledge, though Charley’s story of finding money and a note in the desk looked like it. But Glenn doubted the details of the story and felt sure the Oriental had made up that part and had really received the messages by mail or in some such way, at his own place.
And so, when, toward morning, Glenn heard a faint sound, which awoke him, he didn’t, at first, think it might mean anything of interest.
He listened, however, but he heard nothing more.
A moment later he saw or thought he saw a mere speck of light as if from a pocket flashlight held by some one in the den.
Glenn was a good watchman, and his getting up out of bed was absolutely noiseless. So was his progress across the room and into the little back hall. From here he could see—even as Charley had seen—the spot where the dead body had been found. And there, bending over, as Pearl Jane might have bent over, was a dark figure—a man, searching on the floor.
The tiny flashlight gave but a point of light, but by its single ray, the intruder was intently, eagerly looking for something.
Awaiting his time, Glenn continued to watch. The man’s motions were so slow, his actions so deliberate, the policeman felt sure he could spring at him when he got ready, and still catch him unawares.
The man’s back was toward Glenn, but he felt certain it was Locke. He could see dark hair, rather long, be neath the soft, dark hat. He caught sight of a flowing tie—these things, he had been told, spelled Locke.
Slowly, still, the man turned to the nearby table. This was getting pretty close to Glenn’s hiding place, and he concluded the time was ripe.
The man reached for something on the table, and at the same movement Glenn burst in upon him, crying, “Hands up, Mr. Locke! Come quietly, now.”
The man raised an astonished face, and at sight of Glenn, tousle-haired, wild-eyed, and clad only in pajamas, gave way to an irrepressible smile, exhibiting two gold eye-teeth and then, quickly snapping off his little flashlight, he sprang aside, and made for the studio door.
But Glenn was too quick for him, and though it was pitch dark he was guided by the sounds, and the policeman slammed the door shut just before the other reached it.
At bay, the intruder met Glenn in a hand to hand fight—by no means a desperate one, but both men were in earnest and the wrestling was steady and forceful.
Glenn found his opponent was holding his own, and, incidentally edging nearer and nearer to the hall door, which, if he gained, would let him down the front stairs.
This Glenn aimed to prevent, but, finally by a sudden push, the stranger sent the policeman flat against the wall, winded and off his balance.
He recovered in a moment, but by that time the other had gone through the hall door, slammed it behind him, and could be heard running down the front stairs.
As Glenn opened the door at the top of the stairs, he heard the street door flung open, and when, after the shortest possible interval he himself was down at the street door, and running down the steps, no one was in sight.
Baffled, he looked one way and another, and just then Briggs came along on his beat.
“What’s up?” he cried.
“Locke! Chase him!” Glenn cried; “he just got away!”
“Locke!” Briggs echoed. “Which way?”
“I don’t know—he just ran out this door”
“He never did! I should have seen him. Where was he?”
“In the house—upstairs—he fought me” Glenn suddenly awoke to the fact that he was too unconventionally clad to appear on a front stoop, and made for the house door again.
“Chase him, Briggs,” he urged.
“Aw, chase yourself,” Briggs returned. “’Twas a nightmare you had. Go back to bed.”
“No, it was no nightmare,” Glenn returned, “but I know what did happen. He fooled me! He slammed this door open—and then ran back through the hall and out that way. We’ve lost him!”
“You poor fish!”said Briggs.