Behind That Curtain by Earl Der Biggers

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.
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œVoice is getting a bit weary,” the Colonel admitted. “I’ll just runthis 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.
    â€œOh, 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?”
    â€œA 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.”
    â€œMy 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.”
    â€œDown to the offices? Why?”
    â€œThe burglar alarm by your bed was buzzing, sir. The one connected up downstairs. 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.
    â€œWhen Sir Frederic came downstairs,” he said, “he was wearing a pair of velvet slippers. Sort of heathen-looking slippers they were,