We Have a Visitor—and—I Take a Ride
For a moment no one spoke. As our eyes met, the look we gave each
other was a wondering one. I saw a half smile play around Ranville's
lips, and then Carter rose and started for the living room, we after
him. The same thought must have been in the minds of each of us. Was
this man at the door the Chinaman Warren's housekeeper had said came
to the door around the time he was killed?
The housekeeper had gone to the front door again, and by the time we
reached the living room was ushering the man into our presence. He was
the tallest man of his race I have seen, with a well-developed body
and a very lean face. He was wearing a white silk suit, and as he came
across the room to our side, bore himself with easy grace. His cold
black eyes swept over the three of us, and then in the most perfect
English and in a very cultured voice he asked:
“And which is Mr. Carter?”
Carter replied, and the man half smiled—a smile which lit up his
yellow face. Then he said:
“No doubt you do not know me, Mr. Carter, but you have been pointed
out to me in Washington. My name is Lee Kong, and I have at times been
connected with our London Embassy.”
The English was perfect, and there was no doubt he was one of those
well-educated Chinamen which one meets so often in the various
capitals of the world. His general air was that of breeding and of
culture, and one could feel back of it all the many thousand years of
racial blood. Carter introduced us and motioned to a chair. After
seating himself the man said:
“I saw your name in the paper, Mr. Carter. And I thought that perhaps
you might be the best man to whom to tell my story.”
Carter took his cigar case and offered it to him, but he begged to be
excused. Taking a gold case from his pocket, he lighted a long,
straw-colored cigarette and leaned back in his chair. His shrewd eyes
took us all in, and then with a little laugh he leaned forward to say:
“Perhaps I had better tell you just who I am. I have been connected
with both our London and Washington Embassies. I knew Dr. Warren very
well. It is in regard to my visit to his house yesterday that I wish
to speak. You know, of course, I was there.”
I was rather surprised at the cool manner in which the oriental
admitted he was the man the housekeeper had seen. Carter replied he
knew some one of his race had been there, but that was all. Over the
yellow face came a half smile, and then the words:
“Yes, I was the man. I knew inquiries would be made, and thought I had
better tell my story to some one who could understand. I have been
staying at Cooperstown. When I read in the papers about the inquest, I
saw your name, and I decided you were the person to see.”
There was an air of sureness about the man which was annoying. That
the police were very keen to question him did not seem to enter his
head, or if it did, he was not interested. I believed he was the last
and, for that matter, the only person who had seen Warren around the
time of his death. As I looked at the impassive, yellow face, with the
cold, black eyes, I wondered if he held the solution of the mystery.
As if reading my thoughts, his suave glance met mine, and he said:
“I can assure you I did not kill Mr. Warren. He was dead when I went
into his library.”
We gave a start, but the face of the man did not change a particle.
Coolly, he repeated the statement: “He was dead when I saw him.”
Slowly lighting another of his thin yellow cigarettes, he carefully
inhaled the smoke, then added:
“Mr. Warren, as you know, spent two years in the heart of my country.
In fact, I aided him in some of his arrangements before he started.
China, like all other nations, has citizens who are not law-abiding.
You may remember that when Mr. Warren did not return at the expected
time, it was said he had been killed by outlaws. That, of course, was
but a rumor. He returned safely, but his leaving China made some
little comment among our people.”
He paused, then continued: “You perhaps know the story of Buddha's
death—how his body was burnt, the ashes placed in seven boxes and
buried in seven places.”
As I looked at him, I wondered what he was driving at, but he went on:
“Of course, many of the Christian missionaries have said that the
story was a myth.” A little smile passed over his lips and, shrugging
his shoulders, he continued:
“Just what the missionaries tell their converts now I cannot say; but
only a few years ago there was discovered not only one of the shrines
of Buddha in India, but they found one of the boxes with his ashes.
That is now a matter of history.”
He glanced at our interested faces, and then said half apologetically:
“You, perhaps, wonder what this has to do with Warren. I will tell
you. Buddhism is not the religion of China, though there are a good
many Buddhists. But tradition has said that in one of our temples far
out in the desert, there was a shrine which contained the ashes of the
great teacher. Three years ago outlaws ravaged the temple, and among
their spoils was the box which our tradition said contained the ashes
of the Blessed One.”
He paused to light another cigarette, and then came his smooth voice:
“To get at the heart of the matter, that box in some manner fell into
Warren's hands. I had been in correspondence with him for several
months asking him to return it to me. It was of no value to him, and
it did mean a good deal to some of my countrymen. He was willing to
give it up, and it was for that purpose I came to his house two days
ago.”
“And you found him dead?” came Carter's question.
The dark head bowed, repeating slowly: “I found him dead.”
He threw out his hands in a gesture of resignation.
“His soul had joined his ancestors.” He paused, then went on rather
quickly:
“I went up the path as the servant directed me. The library door was
open, and after knocking several times I took the liberty of entering.
Mr. Warren was lying back of his desk upon the floor; there was a
knife protruding from his chest.”
“You say that the knife was in his body?” came Carter's startled
voice.
As if surprised at his tone, the Chinaman studied him coolly. “Yes.
You seem surprised.”
Carter made no reply to the question, but asked him if he had seen any
one, and if he closed the door after he left. To both he answered:
“No”; then seeing our amazed faces, he added:
“You perhaps wonder why I did not report his death to the police.”
He was silent a moment, studying the gloss of his nails; then, raising
his head, he said:
“That, of course, was not my affair. Then again I failed to see why I
should become—what is it you say—mixed up in a violent death. I had
nothing to do with it, and it was not my affair in the least.”
He paused and there fell a silence—a silence broken by Ranville
speaking for the first time:
“You wrote to Mr. Warren, you say—telling him you were to visit him?”
The yellow figure in the chair slightly inclined his head in assent.
Then Ranville asked:
“Did you type your letter?”
The voice was cold as the oriental replied:
“As it was a personal letter, naturally I did him the courtesy of
writing it with my own hand.”
Again silence, in which I wondered what might be in the brain of the
inscrutable figure in the chair. His eyes went over the three of us,
and I thought I saw a little show of contempt in the glance. It was
Carter who broke the silence—a silence which was becoming awkward.
“Did you find the box?”
The man rose, and once more I thought that he was the tallest man of
his race I had ever seen. As he bent to take his hat in his hand, I
noticed how long his fingers were and how flexible they appeared. Then
as he straightened up, he answered the question:
“No, I did not find it. If I had, I would have taken it with me. I
left everything as it was and departed. The door was still open when I
went away.”
He turned as if he thought the interview was over. Behind the man's
back Ranville's eyes met Carter's, and there was a little amused look
in them. He reached the door before Carter spoke:
“Will you go with me and tell your story to the chief of police?”
The man turned quickly. There seemed to be a surprised tone in his
voice as he replied:
“The police? Why, no, why should I bother with them. You can tell them
what I have said.”
He smiled and added sarcastically: “They can find me. I am in
Cooperstown—at the Inn.” Then bowing very low, he begged us not to go
to the door, and went out into the air.
For a moment after his steps died away no one spoke. The man had gone
as quietly as he had arrived. His story, to say the least, was odd.
Then, with a decided shake of his head, Carter burst forth:
“Well, what do you think of that yarn? For my part I don't believe
it.”
“It is pretty hard to say, Carter,” Ranville laughed in reply. “I have
had a good deal of experience with the Chinese, and it has been my
idea that it is almost impossible to say what goes on back of their
almond-shaped eyes. Yet he may have told the truth, at that.”
“I don't believe it,” was Carter's energetic protest. “That Chinaman
was about as smooth an article as I have ever seen. It's my idea he
knew it was only a question of a day or so before he would have been
traced. That's why he came around and told that yarn. There is no way
of saying it is not so; his word is as good as ours.”
He brought his fist down on the arm of his chair, then added: “But
there is one thing I can do. I will wire my chief in Washington and
get all the information there is about him. If he has been around the
Embassy, the chief will have the dope on him.”
“His story of Warren being dead, with the knife still in the body and
the door open, makes the affair look a bit different than what we
found,” I commented.
Ranville carefully lighted a cigar, watched the first smoke ring
circle above his head, and then said:
“If we presume that his story is true, it opens up several interesting
theories. Who took the knife from the body? Who closed the door?” and
he paused.
“And who killed him?” broke in Carter's disgusted voice.
Rising to his feet, he stood before our chairs, his hands in his
pocket, and said earnestly:
“There's that story of his about the box with the ashes of Buddha in
it. There were a number of boxes in the room. Who knows if he did not
take it? For that matter, who can tell if anything was taken from
Warren's library? We won't get very far as to discovering why Warren
was killed until we find a motive of some sort. At present there is no
one who can tell us if anything was taken from the library. No one
knows anything about its contents anyway.”
“Only the secretary,” was Ranville's dry comment, “and no one knows
where she is.”
As they both looked at me, I told them of my visit to the girl's aunt,
and of what the woman had said. They listened until I was through, and
then said that the most important thing the chief had to do was to
find the secretary. Not only would she have to explain her statement,
that Warren ought to be killed, but there was something else she could
do. As she had worked with Mr. Warren, she must be familiar with the
contents of his library. She alone could tell us if anything was
missing. Until we knew that fact there was little we could go on.
We discussed this for a while, and in the midst of our talk the
telephone rang. Carter went out into the hall to answer it. He
returned in a moment to tell me I was wanted on the phone. Taking the
receiver, I found the chief of police on the other end of the wire. He
had received—as he put it—a good tip as to where the missing secretary
was. He mentioned that it was about twenty miles away, over the
mountains, and asked if I would be willing to take my car and go with
him. I told him I would be at the station in a few moments and rang
off.
Returning to the living room, I told them what the chief had said, and
Carter tried to figure out where we might be going. He said there were
any number of small lakes in the near-by mountains which were as
inaccessible as though they were hundreds of miles away. Some of these
lakes were camping spots, and many of them did not have even a
telephone. He followed me out to the car to remind me that it might
not be a bad idea for me to take my chains along. Then as he wished me
good-by, I drove out of the yard.
The police station was a small squatty brick building, set directly
back of a white church. I stopped at the curb and, climbing down, went
through the open door into the large room within. Behind a desk, with
his feet higher than his head, was a policeman reading a newspaper. He
dropped the paper long enough to ask me what I wanted. At my request
for the chief, he motioned to a door at the left and then went back to
his reading. Walking across the floor, I pushed open the door and
passed into the next room.
Evidently it was the private office of the chief. A small room with
two chairs and a desk for furniture. Upon the walls were several gaudy
calendars and two or three placards announcing a reward for various
wanted men. At the desk, busily engaged in looking over a large scale
map, was the chief. He motioned to the other chair, and as I pulled it
up to the desk, he started to thank me for my willingness to go with
him.
As my eyes dropped to the map, he saw my glance and, pushing back his
chair, said:
“Well, I think maybe I have got hold of a good tip about that girl. I
got hold of the young law student she goes around with. He said that
he saw her about half-past four the afternoon of the murder.”
“He did!” was my comment.
“Yep, he did,” was the retort. “And he saw her again at five. She was
climbing into the old Ford which belongs to the camp at Lake Pleasant.
That's a small girls' camp over Bald Mountain. It's twenty-five miles
from here, and about as bad a road as you can find. Once a week the
Ford comes into town for provisions and the mail.”
A twenty-five-mile ride over a bad road did not appear very pleasing.
I asked the chief why he did not telephone and see if the girl was
there.
“For the simple reason there is no telephone in camp. The nearest one
is over five miles away, on the side of another hill. Besides I had an
idea it might be best to see the girl ourselves. The young man said
she was in the Ford when it went out of town. And if she was, then she
must be at the camp.”
I agreed it might be best to see the girl ourselves, and in a short
time we went out to the car. I stopped at a filling station to make
sure the tank was full and that I had enough oil. Then we headed for
the hills, which were but a few miles away. For a while we drove on a
fine state highway, with summer estates and small farms for company.
But after we had gone a few miles we turned off the main road to
follow a narrow, dirt highway—a road which grew narrower as we went
along—with a brook by the side, which was running swiftly down to the
lake.
Not only was the road narrow, but it was in horrible condition. Deep
ruts ran along its sides and across its surface. The scenery became
more desolate, and the farms fewer. In a short while the pasture land
vanished, and on each side of us were deep woods. The road began to
climb, growing steeper with every foot, and soon I was forced to put
the car into second gear. Though it was a very well-built machine, yet
we bounded from side to side upon the seat. Once as we struck an extra
deep rut, I heard the chief mutter an oath as he came down against the
side of the car.
We reached the top of the mountain at last, and found that there was a
clear space ahead of us. We could look far down into the valley below
and across to another range of hills. A wild country useless for
farming, and without a house in sight. But as I swept around a bend in
the road, I saw far below me the shining waters of several small
lakes. One of these the chief pointed out as being our destination.
If anything, the descent of the hill was even worse than coming up. I
could well see why those who camped in the valley did not make many
trips to town. The road became so narrow that there was not room for
two cars to pass, and I wondered at times if I could keep on it. Not
only that, but it suddenly started to sweep around abrupt heights, in
sharp, sudden curves—curves which took all one's skill to make. It was
with a little sigh of relief that I came off the mountain and began to
follow the road which ran through two rows of trees.
Suddenly we came out of the wood, to find ourselves by the shore of a
small lake—a lake which formed almost a complete glimmering circle,
with trees coming down to the water's edge. The road followed the
shore of the lake for a few hundred yards, then took an abrupt bend,
to again come back to the water. And then, as we came around the bend,
I saw three small buildings ahead of us—buildings placed in a cleared
spot of ground, and with a little wharf in front which ran into the
lake. And it was here we stopped.
The buildings were the sort of summer cottages that one finds so
often, built more for cheapness than for looks or even comfort. But
when we climbed out of the car and went across the high grass, we
found that there was no one at home. The cottages were occupied, for
the doors were not locked. Hammocks were swung under the trees, and on
the verandas were chairs with magazines flung upon them. But there was
no one at home; and when we went down to the wharf, we found the boats
were not in. Evidently we would have to wait until they returned.
We seated ourselves upon the edge of the wharf and let our legs dangle
over the water. Lighting my cigar as the chief lighted his pipe, I
gazed at the scene before. On all sides the woods circled the lake,
the trees green and restful to the eyes. Above in a blue sky little
fleecy clouds floated by, only to be reflected in the darker blue of
the lake. And on every side were the hills, with the lake below, like
the bottom to a cup.
For a while we sat there, and the chief told me the camp was run by
one of the churches in the village. But after a time conversation
ceased, and we sat and smoked, dreaming in the sunlight. Once in a
while a fish would jump from the water—a gleaming mass of silver—and
fall back with a splash; then would come the scream of a bird far down
the lake. But save for these, the air was very still. And just as I
was beginning to grow sleepy, the chief cried, pointing down the lake:
“I guess they are coming.”
I gazed in the direction he pointed and saw three small boats far down
the lake. They were moving very slowly, but once in a while I could
catch the echo of laughter. We watched them approach nearer, until the
people in the boats could be seen—a number of girls in bathing suits,
girls laughing and talking.
They had almost reached the dock before they saw us and for a moment
their voices suddenly ceased. Then, recognizing the chief, they waved
their hands at him. In a moment the row boats were by the dock, and I
started to offer to aid them with their ropes; but instead of tying to
the dock they ran their boats upon the shore and soon ten girls in
bathing suits came running down the planks of the wharf. I could tell
they were curious and that the presence of the chief puzzled them.
From out of the ten figures there stepped a girl who evidently had
been in the water only a few moments before. Her one-piece suit clung
to the perfect figure, and I noticed that her shapely legs were whiter
than the other girls, as though she had not been in the sun very long.
Her face was keen, and her laughing eyes turned upon the chief. She
advanced almost in front of him and in a laughing voice said:
“Did you come after me, chief?”
The chief rose slowly to his feet and his face was serious as he
turned and faced the girl. As their eyes met something about his
expression drove the laughter from her face and her cheeks flushed.
For a moment they stood there, their eyes meeting, and then the chief
said very simply:
“I am afraid I did, Miss Harlan.”