“That’s the purpose for which it is primarily intended.”
“Did you procure such a weapon for Mr. Mandra?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“In the first place, they’re rather rare, being curios of another phase of Chinese life. In the second place, I was not in China to purchase curios.”
“You have seen Jacob Mandra since your return from the Orient?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About a week after I returned. I had tea with him at his flat on Stockton Street.”
“I believe you said you wished to verify certain impressions?”
“Yes.”
“What were those impressions?”
“I’m sorry,” Clane observed, “but I cannot see the necessity of such questions.”
“I feel they are very necessary, Mr. Clane.”
Clane sighed.
“I had a sleeve gun of my own,” he said. “If the impressions I had received from Mr. Mandra’s correspondence had proved incorrect, I intended to present him with that sleeve gun as a gift.”
“Did you present him with it?”
“No.”
“By that you mean that the impressions you had drawn from his correspondence were correct?”
“I saw no reason to present him with a sleeve gun.”
“What were those impressions?”
“I was not entirely certain,” Clane said, “that the man wanted the article as a curio.”
“You thought he might have wanted it as a weapon?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”
“But you didn’t give him the sleeve gun?”
“No.”
“What was your impression of Mr. Mandra’s character?”
Clane raised his eyebrows.
“I can assure you,” Dixon said, “I have a reason for asking the question.”
“Frankly, the man interested me as well as repelled me. He undoubtedly has a keen mentality, but I doubt if the uses to which he puts his mind are... shall we say ‘ethical’?”
“Did he say why he wanted the sleeve gun?”
“Merely as a collector. He said a sleeve gun would make a very welcome addition to his collection of death-dealing nick-nacks.”
“Did you form any opinion as to Mandra’s nationality?”
“Not a definite opinion,” Clane said. “I’ll admit his nationality puzzled me. He has many definitely Oriental characteristics, both physical and mental, yet I don’t think he’s of Chinese or Japanese extraction.”
“Can you tell me some more about the opinion you formed of his character?”
“He’s a strange mixture,” Clane answered, “having a ruthless cunning as well as a tragic realization of what he’s lost by misapplying his rather remarkable natural talents. I consider the nature of the lethal weapons he has collected in his little museum indicates a very definite and sinister trait of character.”
“In what way?” Dixon asked, his interest shown by the way in which he snapped out the question.
“I noted,” Clane said, “that, while the weapons were all death-dealing, very few of them were weapons of open antagonism. They were, if I might use the word, surreptitious weapons, things which made no noise, daggers which could be concealed in the hem of a garment, blowguns which shot poisoned darts, silken cords of stranglers, and things of that sort.”
“You’ll understand, of course,” Terry went on, “that I’m acting on the assumption you consider my impressions of Jacob Mandra’s character sufficiently important to make my answers in a way obligatory.”
The district attorney nodded. “You didn’t see Jacob Mandra last night?” he asked.
“No.”
“At any time yesterday?”
“No.”
“Do you know whether Miss Renton knew him?”
“I have no idea.”
“Do you know whether Miss Cynthia Renton knew Mandra?”
“No.”
“Did either of the sisters ever mention a portrait of Mandra?”
“A portrait?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Terry said positively.
“Did you ever discuss Mandra with either of the Renton sisters?”
“No.”
“You left Miss Alma at her apartment last night?”
“It was early this morning,” Clane corrected, “between one and two, or between one and two-thirty. She invited me in for a cup of tea.”
“Do you know whether she saw Jacob Mandra yesterday night or early this morning?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t answer that question.”
“Which means you won’t?”
“Not exactly... I couldn’t tell what she did when I wasn’t with her — naturally. And I’m certain she didn’t see him when I was with her.”
Dixon stared steadily at Terry Clane with thoughtful eyes. There was no trace of a smile on his lips. “It might interest you to know,” he said slowly, his voice low, his words evenly spaced, “that Jacob Mandra was murdered some time shortly before three o’clock this morning. The cause of death was a steel-tipped dart which had been shot into his heart by some force which made no noise and which caught him completely by surprise. In short, Mr. Clane, death was probably brought about by the use of a sleeve gun such as you have just described.”
Terry Clane met the district attorney’s eyes. His own eyes did not change their expression. His face did not move a muscle. “No,” he said, “the information does not interest me.”
“I have reason to believe,” the district attorney went on, “that a young and beautiful Chinese girl called on Mandra in his apartment some time after midnight.”
“Indeed,” Terry muttered politely.
“You know many of the better-class Chinese in San Francisco, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Among them, do you know of some young woman who might have called on Mandra?”
“Your question,” Terry pointed out in a tone which was almost a rebuke, “contains its own answer. No high-class Chinese girl would have called on Mandra at such an hour.”
“I am afraid,” Dixon said, watching Terry narrowly, “that you aren’t taking a very active interest in the matter, Mr. Clane.”
“I have answered all your questions.”
“Your attitude, however, has been rather... shall we say ‘aloof’?”
“I believe you were the one,” Clane reminded him with unbending formality, “who suggested that, inasmuch as the interview was official, we could dispense with friendly informalities.” Dixon’s expression showed that the shot went home. He was evidently finding Terry’s cold formality as disconcerting as the demonstration of what Terry had meant by concentration. “You seem highly unconcerned over a very mysterious murder,” he charged.
“Frankly, I can’t see that it concerns me in the least.”
“It perhaps concerns Miss Renton.”
“Why don’t you ask your questions of Miss Renton then?”
“Because, unfortunately, she can’t be found. Her bed wasn’t slept in last night, and she isn’t in her apartment this morning. Nor can any of her friends tell me anything about her.”
“Perhaps, then,” Terry said, “I can clarify the situation somewhat by asking you a few questions. Is there any reason to suspect that Miss Renton is mixed up in the Mandra murder?”
Dixon said, “I don’t care to answer that question right now.”
“Have you any reason to believe that she called on Mandra last night?”
“That, also, is something I prefer not to answer.”
“Why did you think I could give you any information of value?”
“Because of your correspondence with Mandra about the sleeve gun.”
“And the fact that I was with Miss Renton yesterday evening and early this morning had nothing to do with it?”