THE TWO KILLERS
When Michael Smith’s erect figure appeared, a puzzled smile was on his frank and not unpleasing countenance.
“Inspector Macklin asked me to step up here,” he began hesitantly. “I hope I can help you in some way:
“Perhaps you can,” North greeted. “Have you ever seen that pistol before?”
“Yes, lying beside poor Trenchard’s body.”
“Before that, I mean?”
Very clean and cool Michael Smith looked in his suit of dark brown tropical worsted when, tucking sun helmet beneath one arm, he bent low over Exhibit A. “No. It’s a Webley, isn’t it?”
“Yes, unusual caliber, too—a .387.44.”
Michael Smith’s blond eyebrows rose a little. “That ought to be a bit of a help.”
“You said when I talked with you last night that you heard no one in the passage immediately before or after Trenchard was shot.”
The reply came gravely and with a convincing lack of hesitation. “I am sure I did not.”
“Did you hear a noise like a door shutting?”
“A door shutting?” The Englishman seemed a little puzzled. “Why, no. And I’m sure I would have, since my door is only two away from where Trenchard was killed.”
“You have known Ruby Braunfeld in the past?”
For the first time an almost imperceptible hesitation marked the tea trader’s manner.
“Why—why, yes, I think I told you about it—it was a good while back, in Berlin. What of it?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing. I merely noticed that it was you who took her to that other cabin.”
The tea dealer looked a little hurt. “Surely you don’t draw any implications from that? The poor woman was about to faint. No one else even moved towards her.”
“She looked fairly healthy to me,” North commented gently. “But then, I was thinking about other things.”
Next he questioned his witness concerning the table knife and sighed a little when Michael Smith denied identification with a deeply puzzled air.
“One last thing, Mr. Smith. Do you carry a revolver?”
For answer Smith produced a snub-nosed .38 automatic from a back pocket and became coolly detached.
“Of course. Anybody who goes traveling in China these days is a fool not to.”
A little pause followed, for a sudden insistent screaming of the Kiangsu’s whistle made speech impossible. To port, a big freighter flying the American flag was thrusting her blunt bows towards the Yangtze.
“I wonder, Mr. Smith,” resumed the Intelligence Captain, “if you would mind sighting for just an instant at that gold hall on the flagstaff?”
“Of course.” The Englishman’s assent was prompt and, bracing his feet apart, he slid his second finger through the trigger guard, raised his weapon, and made as if to point at the mark. “I’m not much of a pistol shot,” he confessed. “Duck shooting’s more my specialty.”
With features devoid of expression, North folded his arms, settled back, and regarded the tea dealer with ruminative eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Smith, that’s all I wanted to know. And you’re sure about not having seen much of Mrs. Braunfeld recently?”
An angry flush surged into Michael Smith’s cheeks. “Look here, Captain, I don’t know what your game is, but I’ve already told you I haven’t.”
“Sorry,” North hastened to say with an apologetic smile. “I think that will be all for now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, we may have to call you to testify before the coroner’s jury. You were one of the first on the scene, you know.”
Smith nodded affably and picked up his sun helmet. “All right, anyone in Shanghai knows where to find me. Good-day, gentlemen.”
After slipping his .38 into a back pocket of his brown suit, Smith strode out onto the deck again, and soon the ring of his feet died away on the iron bridge ladder.
“So much for Michael Smith,” said Kilgour as he pulled out a cigarette and lit it thoughtfully while North bent on his colleague a penetrating regard.
“Well, what do you think about Michael?”
“Don’t know what to think, Hugh. But I know he’s lying about Ruby Braunfeld for some reason. I’m sure I saw him leaving the Astor with her not three weeks back. As I’ve said before, he’s an odd duck, but well enough liked in the colony. Nobody holds it in for Ruby’s lovers.” An unexpectedly boyish grin relieved the tension on Kilgour’s bony red face. “It’s a sort of accolade and a financial criterion along Bubbling Well Road and the Bund.”
North sat staring fixedly out of the porthole, eyeing the sampan-crowded waters with a moody, worried regard. Every instant the dome of the huge Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank loomed more distinctly, and to its right the Custom House with its New York-like stone spire. He aroused himself—time was growing short.
The next of the men was Mr. Chang Ya-chang. Suave and perfectly controlled, he expressed himself eager and willing to cooperate. His prominent cheek bones and teeth gave his face a slightly macabre cast as he said:
“Yes, gentlemen, quite distinctly I heard footsteps—the footsteps of a large man.”
Silently, Kilgour and North exchanged glances.
“Footsteps came from down the hall. I was so excited I could not tell where they turned off, but I am sure they did not come so far as my room.”
“What number is it?” inquired Kilgour.
“Number 8. Two beyond that of General Steel and four beyond that of Mr. Smith.”
“You heard a door slam?”
“Not slam, Captain, close,” corrected the Manchu and absently smoothed the front of his smartly cut white linen suit.
“Have you ever seen this gun before?”
The Celestial’s slanting eyes told neither investigator anything when North turned back the cloth hiding it.
“No. Not that I recall.”
“You seem to know Mrs. Braunfeld quite well?”
Clasping both hands over his stomach, Mr. Chang Ya-chang became elaborately vague and bowed a little while sunlight, beating in through a porthole, brought out bluish tints in his stiff black hair.
“I have had that extreme honor. Madame Braunfeld is the kindest and most estimable of ladies.” Owlishly he regarded the seated white men. “She has even condescended to appear to be amused at my slight conversational talents.”
“You got on the boat at Nanking with Mrs. Braunfeld,” North remarked. “Did you see anything of her in that city?”
Quite devoid of expression were the greenish-bronze features of the tall Manchu as he said, “We met two days before sailing.”
“An accident, Mr. Chang?”
“Your words are golden truth.”
“Did you see Mr. Trenchard at any time before arriving at Nanking?”
For all the reaction they betrayed Mr. Chang’s features might have been carved from frozen butter. He simply said, “I saw him only once in Nanking.”
A thrill of excitement shot through North. Lie number one. Ruby had declared that Chang and Trenchard had come on the same train from Taihung.
“Where were you when the shot was fired?”
“In my cabin contemplating business affairs for the morrow.”
“Have you ever seen this pistol before?”
“Never in my life.”
“I see. You carry a pistol, of course?”
“On the contrary, I do not.”
“Do you ever?”
“Very seldom.”
“That’s odd,” was North’s soft comment, “because I have a strong impression that I saw one in your back pocket when you were looking over the rail during our stop at Tingchow.”
North could feel Kilgour’s penetrating gaze glancing off the stony expressionlessness of Chang’s face as he said simply:
“You are mistaken. I rarely carry weapons.”
The Intelligence Captain did not press the point, but when he rather suddenly produced his own .32, Mr. Chang’s powerful white-clad form gathered itself, and a startled glare leaped into his eyes.
“Please,” said North with grim amusement, “there is nothing to worry about. It is only part of a little test I wish to make.”
From his automatic he removed the cartridge clip and briskly ejected the cartridge in the chamber before passing the ugly blue-black weapon to Mr. Chang, who received it unenthusiastically.
“Please sight at the gold ball on that flagstaff.”
North’s deep-set gray eyes riveted themselves on that long and bony hand as it closed over the butt to note how the forefinger slid with serpent-like smoothness in front of the trigger.
Mr. Chang’s flat face contracted in a bleak smile. “Is that enough to convince you that I am not very expert?”
“Yes—that’s quite enough. Now, please—” He repeated his question concerning a third table knife, and Chang was impassively replacing it on the table when a knock sounded at the door, and Inspector Macklin burst in, excitement written in every contour of his pink visage.
“Ah! Just in time—” Kilgour got abruptly to his feet and said sharply, “What’s that in your hand?”
The S.M.P. man cast a significant glance at Mr. Chang’s big neat figure as he said, “Oh, only a pair of .38/44 bullets I found in this gentleman’s collar box.” Silence, almost tangible in quality, reigned, and the hooting of passing tugs and steamers suddenly crept indoors. Then, in a gesture of complete composure, Mr. Chang returned Captain North’s pistol to him. Quite as impassively North accepted it. Macklin cleared his throat impressively after dropping the damning cartridges on the table and Kilgour—who knew the Chinese—edged nearer the door and, very carelessly, let his hand fall into his pocket. North almost worshiped him at that moment.
“Well, Mr. Chang, .38/.44s aren’t very common.”
“The weapon is mine,” admitted the Celestial, as though the statement held no implications whatsoever. “It was stolen from my cabin yesterday evening.”
“Why did you deny ownership before?” boomed Inspector Macklin. “Do you realize what this means, my man?”
Mr. Chang ignored the S.M.P. man as if he were a yapping puppy and said to North, “I had no wish to become involved in this affair, since I had no hand in Mr. Trenchard’s lamentable death.”
“That, my lad, is something you can prove later,” began Macklin. “I hereby warn—”
But North interrupted with a raised hand. “Please, Inspector, your turn comes later. Please remember that I am still handling the case.”
He again addressed the impassive Manchu. “Mr. Chang, it would have been much better to tell the truth to begin with. When did you miss this pistol?”
“When I dressed for dinner last night.”
“Was anything else stolen?”
“I have not missed anything else.”
“Isn’t that rather odd—especially as you have some beautiful pearl studs?”
“Thieves are seldom clever.”
“I’m inclined to believe you,” was the Intelligence Captain’s surprising comment. He turned away and commenced to reload his .32. Almost as an afterthought he added, “As far as I’m concerned, you are at liberty to go.”
Mr. Chang’s erect figure relaxed just a little, and he bowed.
“My thanks. As I have previously suspected, your wisdom, sir, puts the serpent’s to shame.”
Only North appreciated the gibe hidden beneath the Celestial’s courteous manner. Inspector Macklin was too indignant and incredulous to perceive it, and Kilgour too intent on his thoughts.
“What!” cried the inspector. “Do you actually mean to let the fellow go? Why, that explanation of his wouldn’t fool a child—besides, I know the Chinese.”
“Follow your own inclinations,” North advised curtly.
Kilgour was looking uneasy—apparently fear concerning Trenchard’s document was torturing him anew. But, being who and what he was, he said nothing.
“Oh, I’ll hold him all right,” Macklin was saying, and common sense stood out all over him. “Now, then, Mr. Chang, I herewith warn you that anything you may say will be used against you. Raise your hands, please.”
“As you wish.” The Manchu serenely submitted to a thorough search. At the end of it he smiled. “Again my compliments, Captain North, on your intelligence. Perhaps we shall meet again under pleasanter circumstances. Shall we go, Inspector? I suspect Captain North has still some thinking to do.”
“Do you want to see that Frenchman?” Macklin inquired over his shoulder.
“Yes,” North replied, “but don’t under any conditions touch his luggage. I just want to see if Mr. Kilgour knows him.”
“What makes you think I might?” inquired Kilgour.
“He’s an unusual type—a Frenchman who talks little and sees a lot.”
“Cheeky beggar, that Chang,” grunted Kilgour when Macklin and his prisoner had departed. Worried lines marked his eyes when he said, “I say, Hugh, you haven’t forgotten about that queer cash you found in Trenchard’s pocket?”
“Now, Bruce, is that kind?”
The Englishman flushed and smiled apologetically as he reseated himself at the table.
“Sorry, old lad, but—well, the seriousness of this thing has me keyed up. There’ll be the devil to pay if we don’t recover that document! It’s a matter involving thousands of white men’s lives as well as millions of pounds in property.”
Silence fell sharply when a light step sounded outside, and for the fourth time the brass-bound mahogany door swung inward to reveal the slightly sinister figure of M. Marcel Fournier, with his vulpine features creased in an apprehensive grin.
Kilgour, leaving no time for awkward or leading questions, rose to the occasion with that promptness which had long ago made him one of North’s favorite colleagues.
“Oh, hello, Broussard,” he drawled in a not too intelligent manner. “Didn’t recognize you under your nom de guerre. Captain North, may I present Monsieur Broussard who—er—recovered the Pelletier diamonds? I believe our friend Major Lepine acquired Monsieur Broussard’s valuable services shortly after you went up river. Fancy your traveling together like this.”
So this was the notorious Broussard, and in the employ of the French Intelligence! No wonder the soi-disant M. Fournier had already attracted his attention. North felt a sudden confusion, though no great surprise, as he said:
“Too bad I couldn’t have enjoyed your cooperation earlier, monsieur.”
The Frenchman forced a smile as automatic as a rubber stamp. “I regret not having had the honor of meeting le Capitaine Nort before this.”
“Sorry, too,” the American stated with more feeling than his words indicated.
“It is also lamentable, Mr. Kilgour, that I could be of no help to Monsieur le Capitaine, but, hélas, I was sound asleep until that shot woke me up. Then I was so confused, I remember nothing until I join the crowd lamenting the death of that so charming M. Trenchard.”
A few sentences more, and the Frenchman made his way below again, leaving North and Kilgour alone together.
“Charming lad,” Kilgour remarked. “He’d murder his mother if someone paid him enough. Well, there’s another indication of the situation; the French must be jolly well determined to win when they hire rats like that.”
North made a noise which might have been described as a laugh. “Rat is right—the swine tried to knife me in my bunk last night.”
“What!” The word fairly exploded from the British agent’s lips.
“Just that—he picked the lock on my door; but luckily I was awake.”
Kilgour swallowed hard. “But, dammit, Hugh, I don’t understand. Broussard couldn’t have known who you were—you’ve been away over a month. Besides, all Shanghai knows you were ordered home. Why should he try to murder you?”
“I don’t understand,” North admitted. “Especially as he didn’t kill Trenchard—at least, I’m pretty sure he didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you arrest him?”
“I want to see what he’ll do—may be a help to us later. Besides, I couldn’t prove anything.”
“You’re sure it was Broussard?”
North’s black head inclined. “Positive.”
“Well,” demanded the Englishman, “what are we—say you, rather—going to do next?”
“We’re going to arrest someone,” was North’s terse reply. “And we’re going to give that hombre’s belongings the damnedest searching you’ve ever heard tell of.”
“We’ll have to hurry, then,” Kilgour warned; “the ship’s slowed down already. Damn those sampans anyhow! They’re as thick as fleas on a dog. Oh, by the way, just whom are we going to arrest?”
“Whom do you think?” queried North as with small stickers he labeled each of the table knives before stowing them in his pocket.
“Sam Steel?”
“No,” was the American’s reply when once more the .32 nestled under his left armpit. “We’re going to go below to see if we can arrest Michael Smith without having to shoot.”
“Smith? You must be crazy!”
“It’s not improbable,” was the Intelligence officer’s grim reply, “but Michael Smith was the only one of the three who didn’t hear footsteps after the murder, and the only one who sighted with his forefinger held along the pistol barrel!”