The Black Camel is the fourth of the Charlie Chan novels by Earl Derr Biggers.
Plot summary:
It tells the story of a Hollywood star, shooting a film on location in Hawaii, who is murdered during her stay. The story behind her murder is linked with the three-year-old murder of another Hollywood actor and also connected with an enigmatic psychic named Tarneverro. Chan, in his position as a detective with the Honolulu Police Department, "investigates amid public clamor demanding that the murderer be found and punished immediately. "Death is the black camel that kneels unbidden at every gate," Chan tells the suspects."
***
CONTENTS:
I. Morning At The Crossroads
II. The House On The Beach
III. Flowers For Shelah Fane
IV. The Camel At The Gate
V. The Man In The Overcoat
VI. Fireworks In The Rain
VII. The Alibi Of The Watch
VIII. The Beach-Comber's Shoes
IX. Eighteen Important Minutes
X. "Shelah From Denny"
XI. Midnight In Honolulu
XII. Nobody's Fool
XIII. Breakfast With The Chans
XIV. The Pavilion Window
XV. "Two Juices Of The Orange"
XVI. A Word Of Warning
XVII. How Denny Mayo Died
XVIII. The Bell-Man's Story
XIX. Tarneverro's Helping Hand
XX. One Corner Of The Veil
XXI. The King Of Mystery
XXII. What The Beach-Comber Heard
XXIII. The Fateful Chair
XXIV. The Veil Is Lifted
a selection from:
Chapter I MORNING AT THE CROSSROADS
The Pacific is the loneliest of oceans, and travelers across that rolling desert begin to feel that their ship is lost in an eternity of sky and water. But if they are journeying from the atolls of the South Seas to the California coast, they come quite suddenly upon a half-way house. So those aboard the Oceanic had come upon it shortly after dawn this silent July morning. Brown misty peaks rose from the ocean floor, incredible, unreal. But they grew more probable with each moment of approach, until finally the watchers at the rail were thrilled to distinguish the bright green island of Oahu, streaked with darker folds where lurk the valley rains.
The Oceanic swung about to the channel entrance. There stood Diamond Head, like a great lion--if you want the time-worn simile--crouched to spring. A crouching lion, yes; the figure is plausible up to that point; but as for springing--well, there has never been the slightest chance of that. Diamond Head is a kamaaina of the islands, and has long ago sensed the futility of acting on impulse--of acting, as a matter of fact, at all.
A woman traveler stood by the starboard rail on the boat deck, gazing at the curved beach of Waikiki and, up ahead, the white walls of Honolulu half hidden in the foliage behind the Aloha Tower. A handsome woman in her early thirties, she had been a source of unending interest to her fellow passengers throughout that hot monotonous voyage from Tahiti. No matter in what remote corner of the world you have been hiding, you would have recognized her at once, for she was Shelah Fane of the pictures, and hers was a fame equal to that of any president or king.
"A great piece of property," film salesmen had called her for eight years or more, but now they had begun to shake their heads. "Not so good. She's slipping." Golden lads and lasses must, like chimney-sweepers, come to dust, which is something the film stars think about when they can not sleep of nights. Shelah had not been sleeping well of late, and her eyes, as they rested on peaceful Tantalus with its halo of fleecy cloud, were sad and a little wistful.

The Black Camel is the fourth of the Charlie Chan novels by Earl Derr Biggers.
Plot summary:
It tells the story of a Hollywood star, shooting a film on location in Hawaii, who is murdered during her stay. The story behind her murder is linked with the three-year-old murder of another Hollywood actor and also connected with an enigmatic psychic named Tarneverro. Chan, in his position as a detective with the Honolulu Police Department, "investigates amid public clamor demanding that the murderer be found and punished immediately. "Death is the black camel that kneels unbidden at every gate," Chan tells the suspects."
***
CONTENTS:
I. Morning At The Crossroads
II. The House On The Beach
III. Flowers For Shelah Fane
IV. The Camel At The Gate
V. The Man In The Overcoat
VI. Fireworks In The Rain
VII. The Alibi Of The Watch
VIII. The Beach-Comber's Shoes
IX. Eighteen Important Minutes
X. "Shelah From Denny"
XI. Midnight In Honolulu
XII. Nobody's Fool
XIII. Breakfast With The Chans
XIV. The Pavilion Window
XV. "Two Juices Of The Orange"
XVI. A Word Of Warning
XVII. How Denny Mayo Died
XVIII. The Bell-Man's Story
XIX. Tarneverro's Helping Hand
XX. One Corner Of The Veil
XXI. The King Of Mystery
XXII. What The Beach-Comber Heard
XXIII. The Fateful Chair
XXIV. The Veil Is Lifted
a selection from:
Chapter I MORNING AT THE CROSSROADS
The Pacific is the loneliest of oceans, and travelers across that rolling desert begin to feel that their ship is lost in an eternity of sky and water. But if they are journeying from the atolls of the South Seas to the California coast, they come quite suddenly upon a half-way house. So those aboard the Oceanic had come upon it shortly after dawn this silent July morning. Brown misty peaks rose from the ocean floor, incredible, unreal. But they grew more probable with each moment of approach, until finally the watchers at the rail were thrilled to distinguish the bright green island of Oahu, streaked with darker folds where lurk the valley rains.
The Oceanic swung about to the channel entrance. There stood Diamond Head, like a great lion--if you want the time-worn simile--crouched to spring. A crouching lion, yes; the figure is plausible up to that point; but as for springing--well, there has never been the slightest chance of that. Diamond Head is a kamaaina of the islands, and has long ago sensed the futility of acting on impulse--of acting, as a matter of fact, at all.
A woman traveler stood by the starboard rail on the boat deck, gazing at the curved beach of Waikiki and, up ahead, the white walls of Honolulu half hidden in the foliage behind the Aloha Tower. A handsome woman in her early thirties, she had been a source of unending interest to her fellow passengers throughout that hot monotonous voyage from Tahiti. No matter in what remote corner of the world you have been hiding, you would have recognized her at once, for she was Shelah Fane of the pictures, and hers was a fame equal to that of any president or king.
"A great piece of property," film salesmen had called her for eight years or more, but now they had begun to shake their heads. "Not so good. She's slipping." Golden lads and lasses must, like chimney-sweepers, come to dust, which is something the film stars think about when they can not sleep of nights. Shelah had not been sleeping well of late, and her eyes, as they rested on peaceful Tantalus with its halo of fleecy cloud, were sad and a little wistful.