Earl Derr Biggers: Complete 11 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers

woman in charge as she crossed out the last three letters. There were only two words in each message, but he returned to the street with the comfortable feeling that his correspondence was now attended to for some time to come.

      A few moments later he encountered the All American Restaurant and going inside, found himself the only American in the place. Charlie Chan was seated alone at a table, and as John Quincy approached, he rose and bowed.

      "A very great honor," said the Chinaman. "Is it possible that I can prevail upon you to accept some of this terrible provision?"

      "No, thanks," answered John Quincy. "I'm to dine later at the house. I'll sit down for a moment, if I may."

      "Quite overwhelmed," bobbed Charlie. He resumed his seat and scowled at something on the plate before him. "Waiter," he said. "Be kind enough to summon the proprietor of this establishment."

      The proprietor, a suave little Jap, came gliding. He bowed from the waist.

      "Is it that you serve here insanitary food?" inquired Chan.

      "Please deign to state your complaint," said the Jap.

      "This piece of pie are covered with finger-marks," rebuked Chan. "The sight are most disgusting. Kindly remove it and bring me a more hygienic sector."

      The Jap picked up the offending pastry and carried it away.

      "Japanese," remarked Chan, spreading his hands in an eloquent gesture. "Is it proper for me to infer that you come on business connected with the homicide?"

      John Quincy smiled. "I do," he said. He took the newspaper from his pocket, pointed out the date and the missing corner. "My aunt felt it might be important," he explained.

      "The woman has a brain," said Chan. "I will procure an unmutilated specimen of this issue and compare. The import may be vast."

      "You know," remarked John Quincy, "I'd like to work with you on this case, if you'll let me."

      "I have only delight," Chan answered. "You arrive from Boston, a city most cultivated, where much more English words are put to employment than are accustomed here. I thrill when you speak. Greatest privilege for me, I would say."

      "Have you formed any theory about the crime?" John Quincy asked.

      Chan shook his head. "Too early now."

      "You have no finger-prints to go on, you said."

      Chan shrugged his shoulders. "Does not matter. Finger-prints and other mechanics good in books, in real life not so much so. My experience tell me to think deep about human people. Human passions. Back of murder what, always? Hate, revenge, need to make silent the slain one. Greed for money, maybe. Study human people at all times."

      "Sounds reasonable," admitted John Quincy.

      "Mostly so," Chan averred. "Enumerate with me the clues we must consider. A guest book devoid of one page. A glove button. A message on the cable. Story of Egan, partly told. Fragment of Corsican cigarette. This newspaper ripped maybe in anger. Watch on living wrist, numeral 2 undistinct."

      "Quite a little collection," commented John Quincy.

      "Most interesting," admitted the Chinaman. "One by one, we explore. Some cause us to arrive at nowhere. One, maybe two, will not be so unkind. I am believer in Scotland Yard method—follow only essential clue. But it are not the method here. I must follow all, entire."

      "The essential clue," repeated John Quincy.

      "Sure." Chan scowled at the waiter, for his more hygienic sector had not appeared. "Too early to say here. But I have fondness for the guest book with page omitted. Watch also claims my attention. Odd enough, when we enumerate clues this morning, we pass over watch. Foolish. Very good-looking clue. One large fault, we do not possess it. However, my eyes are sharp to apprehend it."

      "I understand," John Quincy said, "that you've been rather successful as a detective."

      Chan grinned broadly. "You are educated, maybe you know," he said. "Chinese most psychic people in the world. Sensitives, like film in camera. A look, a laugh, a gesture perhaps. Something go click."

      John Quincy was aware of a sudden disturbance at the door of the All American Restaurant. Bowker, the steward, gloriously drunk, was making a noisy entrance. He plunged into the room, followed by a dark, anxious-looking youth.

      Embarrassed, John Quincy turned away his face, but to no avail. Bowker was bearing down upon him, waving his arms.

      "Well, well, well, well!" he bellowed. "My o' college chum. See you through the window." He leaned heavily on the table. "How you been, o' fellow?"

      "I'm all right, thanks," John Quincy said.

      The dark young man came up. He was, from his dress, a shore acquaintance of Bowker's. "Look here, Ted," he said. "You've got to be getting along—"

      "Jush a minute," cried Bowker. "I want y' to meet Mr. Quincy from Boston. One best fellows God ever made. Mushual friend o' Tim's—you've heard me speak of Tim—"

      "Yes—come along," urged the dark young man.

      "Not yet. Gotta buy thish boy a lil' drink. What you having, Quincy, o' man?"

      "Not a thing," smiled John Quincy. "You warned me against these Island drinks yourself."

      "Who—me?" Bowker was hurt. "You're wrong that time, o' man. Don' like to conter—conterdict, but it mush have been somebody else. Not me. Never said a word—"

      The young man took his arm. "Come on—you're due on the ship—"

      Bowker wrenched away. "Don' paw me," he cried. "Keep your hands off. I'm my own mashter, ain't I? I can speak to an o' friend, can't I? Now, Quincy, o' man—what's yours?"

      "I'm sorry," said John Quincy. "Some other time."

      Bowker's companion took his arm in a firmer grasp. "You can't buy anything here," he said. "This is a restaurant. You come with me—I know a place—"

      "Awright," agreed Bowker. "Now you're talking. Quincy, o' man, you come along—"

      "Some other time," John Quincy repeated.

      Bowker assumed a look of offended dignity. "Jush as you say," he replied. "Some other time. In Boston, hey? At Tim's place. Only Tim's place is gone." A great grief assailed him. "Tim's gone—dropped out—as though the earth swallowed him up—"

      "Yes, yes," said the young man soothingly. "That's too bad. But you come with me."

      Submitting at last, Bowker permitted his companion to pilot him to the street. John Quincy looked across at Chan.

      "My steward on the President Tyler," he explained. "The worse for wear, isn't he?"

      The waiter set a fresh piece of pie before the Chinaman.

      "Ah," remarked Chan, "this has a more perfect appearance." He tasted it. "Appearance," he added with a grimace, "are a hellish liar. If you are quite ready to depart—"

      In the street Chan halted. "Excuse abrupt departure," he said. "Most honored to work with you. The results will be fascinating, I am sure. For now, good evening."

      John Quincy was alone again in that strange town. A sudden homesickness engulfed him. Walking along, he came to a news-cart that was as well supplied with literature as his club reading room. A brisk young man in a cap was in charge.

      "Have you the latest Atlantic?" inquired John Quincy.

      The young man put a dark brown periodical into his hand. "No," said John Quincy. "This is the June issue. I've seen it."

      "July ain't in. I'll save you one, if you say so."

      "I wish you would," John Quincy replied. "The name is Winterslip."

      He went on to the corner, regretting that July wasn't in. A copy of the Atlantic would have been a sort of link with home, a reminder that Boston still stood. And he felt the need of a link, a reminder.