Behind That Curtain

Bill Rankin sat motionless before his typewriter, grimly seeking a lead for the interview he was about to write. A black shadow shot past his elbow and materialized with a soft thud on his desk. Bill’s heart leaped into his throat and choked him.

But it was only Egbert, the office cat. Pretty lonesome round here, seemed to be Egbert’s idea. How about a bit of play? Rankin glared at the cat with deep disgust. Absurd to be so upset by a mere Egbert, but when one has been talking with a great man for over an hour and the subject of the talk has been murder, one is apt to be a trifle jumpy.

He reached out and pushed Egbert to the floor. “Go away,” he said. “What do you mean, scaring me out of a year’s growth? Can’t you see I’m busy?”

His dignity offended, Egbert stalked off through the desert of typewriter tables and empty chairs. Bill Rankin watched him disappear at last through the door leading into the hallway. The hour was five thirty; the street ten stories below was filled with home-going throngs, but up here in the city room of the Globe a momentary quiet reigned. Alone of all the green-shaded lamps in the room, the one above Rankin’s typewriter was alight, shedding a ghastly radiance on the blank sheet of paper in his machine. Even the copy desk was deserted. In his cubbyhole at the rear sat the Globe’s city editor, the only other human thing in sight. And he was not, if you believed the young men who worked for him, so very human at that.

“And what is that?” asked Rankin, while they waited with deep interest.

“The mystery of the missing,” Sir Frederic replied. “The man or woman who steps quietly out of the picture and is never seen again. Hilary Galt, dead in his office, presents a puzzle, of course; still, there is something to get hold of, something tangible, a body on the floor. But if Hilary Galt had disappeared into the fog that gloomy night, leaving no trace⁠—that would have been another story.

“For years I have been enthralled by the stories of the missing,” the detective went on. “Even when they were outside my province, I followed many of them. Often the solution was simple, or sordid, but that could never detract from the thrill of the ones that remained unsolved. And of all those unsolved cases, there is one that I have never ceased to think about. Sometimes in the night I wake up and ask myself⁠—what happened to Eve Durand?”

“Eve Durand,” repeated Rankin eagerly.

“That was her name. As a matter of fact, I had nothing to do with the case. It happened outside my bailiwick⁠—very far outside. But I followed it with intense interest from the first. There are others, too, who have never forgotten⁠—just before I left England I clipped from a British periodical a brief reference to the matter⁠—I have it here.” He removed a bit of paper from his purse.

In ten minutes the reel had unwound its length, and the indomitable Beetham was on hand. He was preparing to start on what he announced as the final reel, when the curtains over one of the French windows parted suddenly, and the white figure of a woman came into the room. She stood there like a wraith in the misty light at her back.

“Oh, stop it!” she cried. “Stop it and turn up the lights. Quickly! Quickly⁠—please!” There was a real hysteria in Eileen Enderby’s voice now.

Barry Kirk leaped to the light switch, and flooded the room. Mrs. Enderby stood, pale and swaying slightly, clutching at her throat. “What is it?” Kirk asked. “What’s the trouble?”

“A man,” she panted. “I couldn’t stand the dark⁠—it was driving me mad⁠—I stepped out into the garden. I was standing close to the railing when I saw a man leap from a lighted window on the floor below, out on to the fire-escape. He ran down it into the fog.”

“My offices are below,” Kirk said quietly. “We had better look into this. Sir Frederic⁠—” His eyes turned from one to the other. “Why⁠—where is Sir Frederic?” he asked.

Paradise had entered from the pantry. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “Sir Frederic went down to the offices some ten minutes ago.”

“Down to the offices? Why?”

“The burglar alarm by your bed was buzzing, sir. The one connected up downstairs. Just as I discovered it, Sir Frederic entered your room. ‘I will investigate this, Paradise,’ he said. ‘Don’t disturb the others.’ ”

His gloomy reflections were interrupted by a voice in the next stateroom⁠—a voice he had heard before. His heart stood still as he listened.

“I fancy that’s all, Li,” said the familiar voice. “You have your passport, your money. You are simply to wait for me in Honolulu. Better lie low there.”

“I will do so,” replied a high-pitched, singsong voice.

“And if anyone asks any questions, you know nothing. Understand?”

“Yes-s-s. I am silent. I understand.”

“Very good. You’re a wonderful servant, Li Gung. I don’t like to flatter you, you grinning beggar, but I couldn’t do without you. Goodbye⁠—and a pleasant journey.”

Chan was on his feet now, peering out into the dim passageway along which opened the rooms on the lowest deck. In that faint light he saw a familiar figure emerge from the room next door, and disappear in the distance.

The detective stood for a moment, undecided. Of all the guests at Barry Kirk’s party one had interested him beyond all others⁠—almost to the exclusion of the others. The tall, grim, silent man who had made his camps throughout the wastelands of the world, who had left a trail of the dead but who had always moved on, relentlessly, toward his goal. Colonel John Beetham, whom he had just seen emerging from the stateroom next to his with a last word of farewell to Li Gung.

Paradise entered with calm dignity and stood in the brightly lighted room, his shock of snow-white hair lending him an air of stern respectability.

“You rang, sir?” he said.

“Yes,” Kirk replied. “We’ll have tea, Paradise. Five of us here⁠—” He stopped. The butler’s eyes were on Inspector Duff, and his face was suddenly as white as his hair.

There was a moment of silence. “Hello, Paradise,” Duff said quietly.

The butler muttered something, and turned as though to go out.

“Just a moment!” The Inspector’s voice was steely cold. “This is a surprise, my man. A surprise for both of us, I fancy. When I last saw you, you were standing in the dock at Old Bailey.” Paradise bowed his head. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have been inclined to give you away, Paradise, if you had behaved yourself. But you’ve been opening mail⁠—haven’t you? You’ve been tampering with a letter addressed to Sir Frederic Bruce?”

“Yes, sir, I have.” The servant’s voice was very low.

“So I understand,” Duff continued. He turned to Barry Kirk. “I’m sorry to distress you, Mr. Kirk. I believe Paradise has been a good servant?”

“The best I ever had,” Kirk told him.

“He was always a good servant,” went on Duff. “As I recall, that fact was brought out clearly at the trial. A competent, faithful man⁠—he had many references to prove it. But unfortunately a few years ago, in England, there was some suspicion that he had put hydrocyanic acid in a lady’s tea.”

“What an odd place for hydrocyanic acid,” said Kirk. “But then, of course, I speak without knowing the lady.”