Time passed, and his voice droned on in the intense darkness. The air was thick with the smoke of cigarettes; now and then there was the stir of some one moving, walking about in the rear, occasionally a curtain parted at a window. But Colonel Beetham gave no heed. He was living again on the high plateau of Tibet; the old fervor to go on had returned; he trekked through snowy passes, leaving men and mules dead in the wasteland, fighting like a fanatic on toward his goal.
A weird feeling of oppression settled down over Charlie Chan, a feeling he attributed to the thick atmosphere of the room. He rose and dodged guiltily out into the roof-top garden. Barry Kirk was standing there, a dim figure in the mist, smoking a cigarette. For it was misty now, the fog bell was tolling its warning, and the roof was wrapped in clouds.
"Hello," said Kirk in a low voice. "Want a bit of air, too, eh? I hope he's not boring my poor guests to death. Exploring's a big business now, and he's trying to persuade grandmother to put up a lot of money for a little picnic he's planning. An interesting man, isn't he?"
"Most interesting," Chan admitted.
"But a hard one," added Kirk. "He leaves the dead behind with never so much as a look over his shoulder. I suppose that's the scientific type of mind—what's a few dead men when you're wiping out one of those white spots on the map? However, it's not my style. That's my silly American sentimentality."
"It is undubitably the style of Colonel Beetham," Chan returned. "I read same in his eyes."
He went back into the big living-room, and walked about in the rear. A slight sound in the hallway interested him, and he went out there. A man had just entered by the door that led to the floor below. Before he closed it the light outside fell on the blond hair of Carrick Enderby.
"Just having a cigarette on the stairs," he explained in a hoarse whisper. "Didn't want to add any more smoke to the air in there. A bit thick, what?"
He stole back into the living-room, and Chan, following, found a chair. A clatter of dishes sounded from the distant pantry, competing with the noise of the unwinding film and the steady stream of Beetham's story. The tireless man was starting on a new reel.
"Voice is getting a bit weary," the Colonel admitted. "I'll just run this one off without comment. It requires none." He fell back from the dim light by the machine, into the shadows.
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 onto 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 down-stairs. Just as I discovered it, Sir Frederic entered your room. 'I will investigate this, Paradise,' he said. 'Don't disturb the others.'"
Kirk turned to Charlie Chan. "Sergeant, will you come with me, please?"
Silently Charlie followed him to the stairs, and together they went below. The offices were ablaze with light. The rear room, into which the stairs led, was quite empty. They advanced into the middle room.
A window was open as far as it would go, and in the mist outside Chan noted the iron gratings of a fire-escape. This room too seemed empty. But beyond the desk Barry Kirk, in advance, gave a little cry and dropped to his knees.
Chan stepped around the desk. He was not surprised by what he saw, but he was genuinely sorry. Sir Frederic Bruce lay on the floor, shot cleanly through the heart. By his side lay a thin little volume, bound in bright yellow cloth.
Kirk stood up, dazed. "In my office," he said slowly, as though that were important. "It's—it's horrible. Good God—look!"
He pointed to Sir Frederic. On the detective's feet were black silk stockings—and nothing else. He wore no shoes.
Paradise had followed. He stood for a moment staring at the dead man on the floor, and then turned to Barry Kirk.
"When Sir Frederic came down-stairs," he said, "he was wearing a pair of velvet slippers. Sort of heathen-looking slippers they were, sir."
Chapter IV. The Reckoning of Heaven
BARRY KIRK stood looking about his office; he found it difficult to believe that into this common-place, familiar room, tragedy had found its way. Yet there was that silent figure on the floor, a few moments before so full of life and energy.
"Poor Sir Frederic," he said. "Only to-day he told me he was near the end of a long trail. Nearer than he dreamed, it appears." He stopped. "A long trail, Sergeant,—only a few of us know how far back into the past this thing must reach."
Chan nodded. He had been consulting a huge gold watch; now he snapped shut the case and restored it to his pocket. "Death is the reckoning of heaven," he remarked. "On this occasion, a most complicated reckoning."
"Well, what shall we do?" Kirk asked helplessly. "The police, I suppose. But good lord—this is a case beyond any policeman I ever met. Any uniformed man, I mean." He paused, and a grim smile flashed across his face. "It looks very much to me, Mr. Chan, as though you would have to take charge and—"
A stubborn light leaped into the little black eyes. "Miss Morrow is above," said Chan. "What a happy chance, since she is from the district attorney's office. If I may humbly suggest—"
"Oh, I never thought of that." Kirk turned to his servant. "Paradise, ask Miss Morrow to come here. Make my excuses to my guests, and ask them to wait."
"Very good, sir," replied Paradise, and departed.
Kirk walked slowly about the room. The drawers of the big desk were open and their contents jumbled. "Somebody's been on a frantic search here," he said. He paused before the safe; its door was slightly ajar.
"Safe stands open," suggested Chan.
"Odd about that," said Kirk. "This afternoon Sir Frederic asked me to take out anything of value and move it upstairs. I did so. He didn't explain."
"Of course," nodded Chan. "And at the dinner table he makes uncalled-for reference to fact that he has not locked safe. The matter struck me at the time. One thing becomes clear—Sir Frederic desired to set a trap. A safe unlocked to tempt marauders." He nodded to the small volume that lay at the dead man's side. "We must disturb nothing. Do not touch, but kindly regard book and tell me where last reposing."
Kirk leaned over. "That? Why, it's the year-book of the Cosmopolitan Club. It was usually in that revolving case on which the telephone stands. It can't mean anything."
"Maybe not. Maybe"—Chan's little eyes narrowed—"a hint from beyond the unknown."
"I wonder," mused Kirk.
"Sir