Death was instantaneous. He was still clutching the revolver when they found him.
The authorities tabulated it as suicide, and the case was closed. But his friend, Kerle Andrews, a free-lance feature writer had a hunch that it was murder, and not without reason. Francis Channing had phoned him and there was panic in his voice. He was Peter Larkin's greatest friend. Why was he so perturbed? Why did he want Kerle Andrews to come to his office at once? It was an interesting item to chew on. He was always on the alert for new ideas, and here was a plot ready-made.
II
When Kerle Andrews arrived at Channing's office in the Graybar Building, the architect was in a state bordering on hysteria, walking up and down the room, his colorless face resembling a death mask.
As Kerle Andrews was announced by a clerk, he said, "I came as quick as I could."
"It's a relief to see you," Channing declared huskily.
"What's the matter? Are you sick?"
Channing laughed mirthlessly. "Yes, I'm sick, sick of living, and yet afraid to die. I lack Pete Larkin's courage. I do not feel sorry about his passing; on the contrary, I envy him."
"Perhaps he, too, was sick of living."
"Anyway, he's dead."
"But that doesn't explain your present state, or does it? You appear as though you had seen a ghost."
"I've seen worse than that."
"What do you mean?"
"Chan Kien is in town."
"That doesn't mean a thing to me," said Kerle Andrews bluntly. "What should my reaction be, one of terror?"
"If you were in my place, it would be."
"If you'd tell a coherent story, perhaps I could help you."
Francis Channing collapsed into a chair as though his knees had buckled under him. "Without the shadow of a doubt, Chan Kien is the key to Peter Larkin's murder. As you know, for many years Pete and I were inseparable friends. Once we toured the Orient together. It was a most lucrative enterprise. We dabbled in a hundred different schemes, trading in silks, porcelains, amber and jade after a fashion. Peter had a faculty for shrewd buying. We shipped all the stuff we bought to August Galt, an import and export merchant in New York City who happened to be our mutual friend. All three of us shared equally in the profits. Later, years later in fact, Galt and Larkin quarreled over this partnership."
"You do not suspect Galt of being implicated in any way with the murder," Kerle Andrews broke in. As he put the question, he studied his companion's expression intently. Though he was extremely upset, there could be no denying his sincerity.
"Not in the slightest degree," Channing answered quickly. "May I proceed?"
"Do."
"Now it so happened that in our travels we met Chan Kien. His home was in the Gobi Desert, a legendary home, for it was rumored he lived in a cave in the mountains and crept forth only at night. Some even said he was a fox who dashed about the country in the moonlight. He could change his form at will. Pete Larkin and I met Chan Kien in Peiping. He laughed over the fantasies that were told about him. 'It is good for a man not to be understood,' he averred, 'for then people never lose interest in him.' What nobody knew about Chan Kien would have filled a book. He was immensely rich and had homes scattered over a wide area of China. No one knew where he would be sleeping on a certain night. He did this to confound his enemies. A rich man is always
