There came to police headquarters a tall, ruddy-skinned man of middle
age. He wore a suit which was evidently not made for him, and he seemed
a little depressed by his surroundings.
“I have an appointment with Inspector Carver,” he said and passed a
letter across the desk to the police clerk, who read it and nodded.
“Inspector Carver is expecting you,” he said and called a messenger.
Carver looked round as the door opened and viewed his caller with a
speculative eye. Then he jumped up.
“Of course!” he said. “Sit down please.”
“I hope--” began the man, “there isn’t going to be any trouble.”
“Not for you,” said Carver, “but I rather fancy there is trouble coming
for somebody.”
The messenger closed the door and left them together.
Half an hour later Inspector Carver telephoned for the office
stenographer, and when the harassed man with the fresh face and
ill-fitting clothes left the police office after a three-hour
examination, Inspector Carver had material for much cogitation.
Tab called in the ordinary way of duty and they discussed the latest
tragedy, but never once did Inspector Carver make reference to his
visitor of the morning. That was his secret and too precious a one, in
the circumstances, to breathe to a soul.
He drove that afternoon to the detention prison where Walters was
awaiting trial and had a long talk with him. Yeh Ling was in his
parlour, half-way through his long weekly letter to his son, when
Inspector Carver was announced. He put down his brush and gazed
impassively upon the servant who had brought in the inspector’s card.
“Is this man alone?” he asked.
“Yes, Yeh Ling. There is no man with him.”
Yeh Ling tapped his white teeth with his well-manicured nails.
“Come,” he said laconically and there was something in Carver’s face
which told Yeh Ling all that he wanted to know. But there was a fight
to be made yet and he was not without hope that this matter of the
Trasmere murder and the tragedy that had followed, would be settled in
a manner more consonant with his keen sense of obligation.
The inspector did not come to the point at once. He accepted a cigar
that the Chinaman offered to him, spoke jocularly of Yeh Ling’s letter
writing, asked a question or two about Ursula Ardfern, and at last
hinted at the object of his visit.
“Yeh Ling,” he said, “I think the Trasmere case is coming to a
solution.”
Yeh Ling’s eyelids did not so much as flicker.
“In fact,” said the inspector, carefully examining the ash of his
cigar, “I have found the murderer.”
Yeh Ling said nothing.
“I need very little confirmatory evidence to put the man who killed
Jesse Trasmere on the trap,” Carver went on.
“And you have come to me to furnish that evidence,” said Yeh Ling with
a touch of irony.
Carver shook his head and smiled.
“I don’t know--I didn’t think you would,” he said, and then almost
sharply: “Where are the documents you took from the Trasmere house the
night you went there with Miss Ardfern?”
The Chinaman got up without hesitation, unlocked a small safe in the
corner of the room and brought out a thick packet of papers.
“They are all there?” asked Carver, shooting a suspicious glance at the
other.
“All except two,” was the cool reply, “one of which has reference to my
interest in the Golden Roof and that is with my lawyer--”
“And the other?” asked the detective.
“That deals with matters of a sacred nature,” said Yeh Ling in that
precise English that sounded almost affected.
Carver bit his lip.
“You know that this is the document I particularly want?” he asked.
“I guessed that,” was the reply. “Nevertheless, Mr. Carver, I cannot
give it to you, and if you know so much,” for a second a ghost
of a smile lit his brown eyes, “then you will know why it is not
forthcoming.”
“Does Miss Ardfern know?”
Yeh Ling shook his head.
“She is the one person who must not know,” he said emphatically. “If it
were not for her--” he shrugged his shoulders, “you might see it.”
Carver knew that he was opposed by a will greater than his own and that
neither threats nor promises would move this impassive man from the
attitude he had taken up.
“What does it matter whether you see this paper or not?” asked Yeh
Ling. “You say you know the murderer, that you have sufficient evidence
to put him on the trap--but have you?”
His look was a challenge.
“You cannot convict a man on supposition, Mr. Carver. You must prove
beyond any doubt whatever that Jesse Trasmere was killed by somebody
who had the means of getting in and out that locked vault, and leaving
the key on the table. It is not enough to say: ‘I am certain that
this prisoner killed his--benefactor.’ It is not sufficient that you
can show motives. You must produce the means! Until you can say the
murderer obtained admission to the vault by this or that door, in this
or that way, or that he employed these or those means to restore the
key to the table from the outside of a locked door through which no key
could pass, you cannot secure a conviction. That is the law. I studied
law at Harvard, and I have the rules of evidence at my fingertips,” he
smiled faintly. “You see, Mr. Carver, that the confirmatory evidence
you require cannot possibly be supplied by me.”
Carver knew that he was speaking no more than the truth; that he was
against a dead wall unless some human eye had witnessed the murder, and
the method by which the murderer escaped.
The logic of the Chinaman’s criticism was irresistible, and Carver,
who had seen success within reach, experienced a sense of failure at
the very moment when he thought that all his efforts were coming to
fruition.
“Then tell me this,” he said. “I understand that on several occasions
you have been followed by this Man in Black. Have you any idea who he
is?”
“Yes,” said the other without hesitation, “but what is the value of my
ideas? I could not swear to any facts, and facts are the meat and drink
of juries, Mr. Carver.”
Carver got up and sighed heavily, and hearing him Yeh Ling broke into a
fit of silent laughter.
“I am sorry,” he apologised, “but I am thinking of my favorite poem,”
his eyes twinkled. “You remember the other gentleman who ’rose with
a sigh, and he said, ‘Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap
labour....’”
“I shall certainly not ‘go the Heathen Chinee,’” said Carver
good-humouredly, “not for the moment. What I like about you, Yeh Ling,
is your refreshing sanity. I don’t know that I have ever dealt with a
man--shall I say fought with a man?--who would have given me greater
pleasure to fence.”
The Chinaman performed a deep kow-tow and his mock humility amused
Carver long after he had left the shadow of the Golden Roof.
Yeh Ling, who seldom made any personal effort for the comfort of his
guests, paid particular attention to the preparations which were being
made in No. 6 that night. The Italian waiters, to whom the proprietor
was almost unknown, were both nervous and annoyed, for nothing seemed
to please Yeh Ling. He had the flowers changed half-a-dozen times. He
had new cloths brought and at the last minute insisted upon the table
being laid all over again. He brought the rarest of glass to adorn the
board, unearthed unsuspected treasures in chinaware, and substituted
them for the crockery of the restaurant. This done, he summoned to his
room the maitre d’hotel and the wine chef, and chose the dinner with
the most exquisite care.
“Yeh Ling has really done himself proud,” said Tab admiring the table.
The girl nodded. She had hoped that Yeh Ling would have chosen another
room, but she had no real feeling of repugnance and besides she had
been here since Trasmere’s death.
“It is very thrilling to be dining alone with a young man,” she said,
handing her wrap to the waiter, “and I can only hope the scandal of it
doesn’t get into the newspapers!”
“Shall we see Yeh Ling?” asked Tab, half-way through the dinner.
She shook her head.
“He never appears. He has only been in this room twice to my
recollection.
“It is our first appearance together in public,” said Tab solemnly.
“I can count on our boys, but if any of those ‘Herald’ thugs hear and
catch a glimpse of your expensive ring, there are going to be scare
lines in that deplorable rag--the ‘Herald’ has no reticence on decency.”
She laughed softly and looked at the “expensive ring” that glittered
and sparkled in the light of the shaded lamp.
“I asked Carver if he would come along after dinner,” said Tab,
“but he is busy. He sent the most flowery and poetical messages to
you--really Carver is a surprising person; there is a whole world of
romance hidden behind that somewhat unpleasing exterior, if you will
pardon the journalese.”
But if Carver could not come, they had a visitor. There came a tap and
the door opened slowly.
“Great Moses!” said Tab springing up. “How the dickens did you know
that we were here, Rex?”
“I spotted you,” said Rex Lander reproachfully, “slinking in at the
side door like two guilty souls! May I offer my congratulations, Miss
Ardfern, and lay at your feet the fragments of a broken heart?”
She laughed nervously at his jest.
“No, I can’t stay,” said Rex, “I have a party and, moreover, I am
entertaining a man with terrific ideas on architecture. Isn’t that
queer! Now that I am no longer arc-ing, I have conceived a passion for
that unhallowed profession! Even old Stott is becoming an admirable
personage in my eyes. Have you forgiven me, Miss Ardfern?”
“Oh yes,” she said quietly, “I have forgiven you a very long time ago.”
Rex’s baby eyes were very kindly, his plump face was wrinkled in a
smile of amiable reflection.
“‘When a young man’s fancy--’” he began and caught a reflection in the
mirror.
From where Tab and the girl sat they could see nothing. Rex saw
reflected the half-open door and a figure that stood motionless
outside. He spun round with an exclamation.