“Look here, Sou Ha, do you know what this means?”
“I am not a child.”
“But why do you tell me of this? I want to protect you. I know the man was evil.”
“You also want to protect this painter woman?”
“Yes.”
“And to protect me?”
“Yes.”
She laughed bitterly and said, “I am not of your race. You love her. Protect her. If it becomes necessary, surrender me to your law. I have placed my life in your keeping.”
She turned and sought the door. And Terry Clane knew enough of his Chinese not to interrupt the dignity of her exit by word or gesture.
It was as she gently closed the bedroom door that Terry, moodily contemplating the opposite wall, noted that one of the pictures was slightly tilted. His training in the Orient had taught him to notice details and to appreciate the hidden significance of those things which would appear trivial to the casual eye. He strode to the picture. Looking on the floor directly beneath it, he detected several bits of plaster dust. He gently tilted the picture. Behind it was a sinister dark object, a concealed microphone, looking as malevolently omnipotent as the unblinking eye of a serpent.
Terry gently replaced the picture, walked quickly back to the centre of the room and, speaking in a naturally conversational tone of voice, his face turned towards the empty chair which Sou Ha had just vacated, said, “No, Sou Ha, wait a minute. I have something to tell you, a confession of my own. But I must make it in my own way, and you mustn’t interrupt me. You promise? That’s fine.
“I am going to tell you something of Mandra, something which, perhaps, you already know, since he tried to blackmail you. Mandra and a Dr. Sedler were working together, hand in glove. There were two others in the game, but they were small fry, one was a man with a serious spinal injury, the other an acrobatic tumbler.
“This combination was supposed to be working together, but the individuals were actually double-crossing each other. Mandra collected twenty thousand dollars from one victim. He held out on the others. Dr. Sedler heard of this and became angry. He sought out Mandra to demand an account. Mandra was cold, sneering, and triumphant. Sedler determined to kill him.
“Now, that leads up to my own connexion with the case, but first, in order that you may understand exactly what I have done, I want you to know just how I feel towards this painter woman... No, don’t interrupt me, Sou Ha, you promised, you know... Sit back there and listen to me... Look at me, Sou Ha... There, that’s better.
“You think that I am in love with the painter woman. And when you say the painter woman, you mean Alma. Please believe me when I tell you that I am not in love with Alma. Remember that much can happen in seven years... and remember that I have a confession to make, not in regard to my feelings for the painter woman, but in regard to the murder.”
Terry paused to take a deep breath. Mechanically he wiped a handkerchief across his forehead. He knew now how a radio announcer must feel, talking against time when something goes wrong with a programme, striving to hold his listeners with an improvised patter.
Terry moved over to the window and looked down at the sidewalk. He saw Sou Ha cross the strip of cement, enter her car and drive out from the curb, unmolested. As nearly as Terry could tell, she was not followed.
But Inspector Malloy was waiting somewhere at the other end of that dictograph wire. One thing, and one thing alone, would hold him to continued inactivity, Terry’s repeated assertion that he was about to make a “confession.” And even that bait would soon grow stale. Sou Ha must be given every opportunity to get away.
Terry turned back towards the dictograph. “Now, Sou Ha, you must realize that Mandra was a man of many interests. In some of those interests he had crossed you and your father. But how about me? Isn’t it possible that I, too, was a victim of that same hoax which Mandra played upon automobile drivers who had taken a drink or two? Isn’t it possible that I, myself, had reason to wish both Mandra and Sedler out of the way? And how about Sedler? Think for a moment of his position. Think, I say!”
Terry paused. He realized he wasn’t doing so well. He dared not actually implicate himself, yet nothing short of a confession would stay Malloy’s hand. Sooner or later the Inspector would realize Terry was talking against time... He was seized with a sudden inspiration... “Wait right there, Sou Ha, and think this matter over. I am going to step into the next room and get some papers which will furnish definite proof of what I have to say. When you see these papers, you will realize... But sit there and wait. Do not move.”
Terry walked to the door which led to his bedroom, jerked it open, slammed it shut with an audible bang, and waited. He had not long to wait. As he heard a commotion at the door of the apartment, he opened a drawer in his desk, started rummaging through some papers. He heard Yat T’oy’s voice screaming. “No can come! No can come in!” Then the sound of swift struggle, and the door opened to disclose Inspector Malloy’s broad, capable shoulders pushing their way into the room.
Terry looked up with a start of surprise. “Why, Inspector,” he said, “what brings you here?”
Malloy was cordial as ever, but there was a glint in his eyes which belied the geniality of his manner. “Well, Clane,” he said, “it’s getting so I’m calling on you in so many different capacities I hardly know how to keep them separated, myself. Now, for instance, there’s the theft of your sleeve gun. In one of my capacities I’m trying to help you find out who stole that. And then there’s my capacity as investigator. In the one capacity I’m helping you — a friend, as it were. In the other capacity I’m causing you some inconvenience by doing my duty.”
“I see,” Clane said, “and which is it this time?”
“Oh, this time I’m a friend! I got an idea about that sleeve gun business. You know, I’d like to nail the one who stole that, and I think I’m getting close. Of course, I can’t guarantee results, but I think I’m making progress.”
“And just what did you want?” Terry asked.
“Thought I’d take a look through the place, if you don’t mind, and see just how many exits and entrances there were. Perhaps some of the doors will show evidences of having been pried open with a jimmy. You know, Clane, it’s just the usual routine investigation.”
“You’re making it at a rather late hour, aren’t you, Inspector?”
“Well,” Malloy admitted, “I’ve been a busy man. You know that, Clane. Now let’s see, suppose we begin with the bedroom? I’d like to take a look in there... and, oh, yes, tell that Chink of yours not to get so vehement when I drop in. He seems to think I’m trying to rob you or something.”
“Perhaps,” Terry said, “he doesn’t fully appreciate these different capacities in which you call.”
Malloy grinned and nodded. “That must be it,” he said. “In the meantime, how about taking a look in that bedroom, Clane?”
Yat T’oy, watching Terry, his wrinkled, inscrutable countenance as fixed in its expression as though it had been carved from old ivory, said in Chinese, “There are men in the hallway, men who search the alley, men who are watching the fire-escape. And this man is evil, First Born. His mouth speaks the words of friendship, but his hand is the hand of an enemy, clenched to strike.”
Terry answered him in the same language. “The best way to confuse a trapper is to walk around the trap, pretending, the while, that you do not know it is there.”
Malloy, his hand on the door-knob, his forehead creased in a scowl, said, “I guess I’ll have to learn Chinese if I’m going to keep up with you, Clane.”