Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  John Quincy stared at him. “You’ve been a long time out here?” he asked.

  “More than fifty years in the foreign field,” answered the old man. “I was one of the first to go to the South Seas. One of the first to carry the torch down there—and a dim torch it was, I’m afraid. Afterward I was transferred to China.” John Quincy regarded him with a new interest. “By the way, sir,” the missionary continued, “I once met another gentleman named Winterslip. Mr. Daniel Winterslip.”

  “Really?” said John Quincy. “He’s a cousin of mine. I’m to visit him in Honolulu.”

  “Yes? I heard he had returned to Hawaii, and prospered. I met him just once—in the ’eighties, it was, on a lonely island in the Gilbert group.44 It was—rather a turning point in his life, and I have never forgotten.” John Quincy waited to hear more, but the old missionary moved away. “I’ll go and enjoy my Transcript,” he smiled. “The church news is very competently handled.”

  John Quincy rose and went aimlessly outside. A dreary scene, the swish of turbulent waters, dim figures aimless as himself, an occasional ship’s officer hurrying by. His stateroom opened directly on the deck and he sank into a steamer chair just outside the door.

  In the distance he saw his room steward, weaving his way in and out of the cabins under his care. The man was busy with his last duties for the night, refilling water carafes, laying out towels, putting things generally to rights.

  “Evening, sir,” he said as he entered John Quincy’s room. Presently he came and stood in the door, the cabin light at his back. He was a small man with gold-rimmed eye-glasses and a fierce gray pompadour.

  “Everything O.K., Mr. Winterslip?” he inquired.

  “Yes, Bowker,” smiled John Quincy. “Everything’s fine.”

  “That’s good,” said Bowker. He switched off the cabin light and stepped out on to the deck. “I aim to take particular care of you, sir. Saw your home town on the sailing list. I’m an old Boston man myself.”

  “Is that so?” said John Quincy cordially. Evidently the Pacific was a Boston suburb.

  “Not born there, I don’t mean,” the man went on. “But a newspaper man there for ten years. It was just after I left the University.”

  John Quincy stared through the dark. “Harvard?” he asked.

  “Dublin,” said the steward. “Yes, sir—” He laughed an embarrassed little laugh. “You might not think it now, but the University of Dublin, Class of 1901. And after that, for ten years, working in Boston on the Gazette—reporting, copy desk, managing editor for a time. Maybe I bumped into you there—at the Adams House45 bar, say, on a night before a football game.”

  “Quite possible,” admitted John Quincy. “One bumped into so many people on such occasions.”

  “Don’t I know it?” Mr. Bowker leaned on the rail, in reminiscent mood. “Great times, sir. Those were the good old days when a newspaper man who wasn’t tanked up was a reproach to a grand profession. The Gazette was edited mostly from a place called the Arch Inn.46 We’d bring our copy to the city editor there—he had a regular table—a bit sloppy on top, but his desk. If we had a good story, maybe he’d stand us a cocktail.”

  John Quincy laughed.

  “Happy days,” continued the Dublin graduate, with a sigh. “I knew every bartender in Boston well enough to borrow money. Were you ever in that place in the alley back of the Tremont Theater—?”47

  “Tim’s place,” suggested John Quincy, recalling an incident of college days.

  “Yeah, bo. Now you’re talking. I wonder what became of Tim. Say, and there was that place on Boylston—but they’re all gone now, of course. An old pal I met in ’Frisco was telling me it would break your heart to see the cobwebs on the mirrors back in Beantown. Gone to the devil, just like my profession. The newspapers go on consolidating, doubling up, combining the best features of both, and an army of good men go on the town. Good men and true, moaning about the vanished days and maybe landing in jobs like this one of mine.” He was silent for a moment. “Well, sir, anything I can do for you—as a mutual friend of Tim’s—”

  “As a friend of Tim’s,” smiled John Quincy, “I’ll not hesitate to mention it.”

  Sadly Bowker went on down the deck. John Quincy sat lonely again. A couple passed, walking close, talking in low tones. He recognized Jennison and his cousin. “Between us we ought to be able to keep this young woman entertained,” Jennison had said. Well, John Quincy reflected, his portion of the entertainment promised to be small.

  Approximate location of Tim’s, behind Tremont Theatre, Boston.

  39.On July 17, 1893, according to the so-called Blount Report, a report on affairs in Hawaii presented to President Cleveland in 1894, a committee of thirteen men, calling themselves a “Citizens’ committee of safety,” seized control of the Hawaiian government. The committee, chaired by Sanford B. Dole, included the following: “Mr. C. Bolte is of German origin, but a regularly naturalized citizen of the Hawaiian Islands. Mr. A. Brown is a Scotchman and has never been naturalized. Mr. W. O. Smith is a native of foreign origin and a subject of the Islands. Mr. Henry Waterhouse, originally from Tasmania, is a naturalized citizen of the islands. Mr. Theo. F. Lansing is a citizen of the United States, owing and claiming allegiance thereto. He has never been naturalized in this country. Mr. Ed. Suhr is a German subject. Mr. L. A. Thurston is a native-born subject of the Hawaiian Islands, of foreign origin. Mr. John Emmeluth is an American citizen. Mr. W. E. Castle is a Hawaiian of foreign parentage. Mr. J. A. McCandless is a citizen of the United States—never having been naturalized here. Six are Hawaiians subjects; five are American citizens; one English, and one German. A majority are foreign subjects.” The committee deposed the queen and established itself as the Provisional Government of Hawaii. The Blount Report remarks, “This is the first time American troops were ever landed on these islands at the instance of a committee of safety without notice to the existing government. It is to be observed that they claim to be a citizens’ committee of safety and that they are not simply applicants for the protection of the property and lives of American citizens.” President Cleveland demanded that the queen be restored. The Provisional Government refused, demanding instead that the United States annex Hawaii. In July 1894 the Provisional Government called a constitutional convention, establishing the Republic of Hawaii. On August 12, 1898, President McKinley signed the Newland Resolution.” approving annexation of Hawaii. The resolution read, in part: “Whereas, the Government of the Republic of Hawaii having, in due form, signified its consent, in the manner provided by its constitution, to cede absolutely and without reserve to the United States of America . . .” A committee was appointed to study the governance of Hawaii, and it was not until 1900 that Congress enacted the Hawaiian Organic Act, providing for the appointment (by the president) of a territorial governor. The first such was Sanford B. Dole; at the time of the events of The House Without a Key, Wallace R. Farrington held the post.

  President Dole accepting the resolution of annexation of Hawaii from U.S. Minister Harold M. Sewall, August 12, 1898.

  40.The story is apocryphal.

  40.Why was John Quincy not in a private stateroom? This would have been consistent with his use of “sleepers” for his rail travel. Perhaps he had not booked his voyage ahead of time and simply took whatever was available in order to expedite what he anticipated would be an unpleasant trip.

  42.The Matsonia, a liner of the Matson Navigation Company, was launched in 1913 and (with an interlude of military service carrying troops in World War I) continued to carry passengers for Matson until 1937, when she was sold to private interests. The ship was finally scrapped in 1957. Matson used the name for several other ships built after 1925.

  SS Matsonia with troops, in 1919.

  43.The Matsonia and other Matson line ships sailed weekly from San Francisco to Honolulu, and the voyage took five to six days, depending on weather. In 1927, Matson introduced the S S Malolo, the fastest ship on the line, which could po
st a top speed of 22 knots (about 25 mph) on the 2,400-mile trip. This is still a typical speed for a cruise ship, though the Cunard Line’s Queen Mary 2 boasts speeds in excess of 29 knots.

  A passenger list for the SS Matsonia, 1925.

  44.The Gilbert Islands, halfway between Papua New Guinea and Hawaii, are a group of sixteen islands, sometimes known as the Kingsmill Group. The name “Gilbert” was first applied in 1820, and in 1916 they were incorporated into the British colony called the Gilbert and Elice Islands. Today they are all part of the Republic of Kiribati. See note 30. “Kiribati” is the native pronunciation of “Gilbert.”

  45.One of the finest hotels in Boston, it opened in 1846 on Washington Street. In 1889, King’s Hand-Book of Boston noted that the Adams House was “one of the finest and best-equipped hotels in the city, of which its dining-rooms and café are . . . conspicuous features.” It declined during Prohibition and closed in 1927.

  Boston’s Adams House in 1906

  46.The Arch Inn Café on Summer Street was a regular watering-hole of the Boston press in the early twentieth century.

  47.The Tremont Theatre was a playhouse at 179 Tremont Street. It opened in 1889 and was demolished in 1983. “Tim’s place” is untraceable.

  The Tremont Theatre, Boston, Massachusetts, 1907

  CHAPTER V

  The Blood of the Winterslips

  The days that followed proved that he was right. He seldom had a moment alone with Barbara; when he did, Jennison seemed always to be hovering near by, and he did not long delay making the group a threesome. At first John Quincy resented this, but gradually he began to feel that it didn’t matter.

  Nothing appeared to matter any more. A great calm had settled over the waters and over John Quincy’s soul. The Pacific was one vast sheet of glass, growing a deeper blue with every passing hour. They seemed to be floating in space in a world where nothing ever happened, nothing could happen. Quiet restful days gave way to long brilliant nights. A little walk, a little talk, and that was life.

  Sometimes John Quincy chatted with Madame Maynard on the deck. She who had known the Islands so many years had fascinating tales to tell, tales of the monarchy and the missionaries. The boy liked her immensely, she was a New Englander at heart despite her glamourous lifetime in Hawaii.

  Bowker, too, he found excellent company. The steward was that rarity even among college graduates, an educated man; there was no topic upon which he could not discourse at length and brilliantly. In John Quincy’s steamer trunk were a number of huge imposing volumes—books he had been meaning to tackle long ago, but it was Bowker who read them, not John Quincy.

  As the days slipped by, the blue of the water deepened to ultramarine, the air grew heavier and warmer. Underfoot throbbed the engines that were doing their best for Barbara and an early landing. The captain was optimistic, he predicted they would make port late Monday afternoon. But Sunday night a fierce sudden storm swept down upon them, and lashed the ship with a wet fury until dawn. When the captain appeared at luncheon Monday noon, worn by a night on the bridge, he shook his head.

  “We’ve lost our bet, Miss Barbara,” he said. “I can’t possibly arrive off Honolulu before midnight.”

  Barbara frowned. “But ships sail at any hour,” she reminded him. “I don’t see why—if we sent radios ahead—”

  “No use,” he told her. “The Quarantine people keep early hours. No, I’ll have to lay by near the channel entrance until official sunrise—about six. We’ll get in ahead of the Matsonia in the morning. That’s the best I can offer you.”

  “You’re a dear, anyhow,” Barbara smiled. “That old storm wasn’t your fault. We’ll drown our sorrow to-night with one last glorious dance—a costume party.” She turned to Jennison. “I’ve got the loveliest fancy dress—Marie Antoinette—I wore it at college. What do you say, Harry?”

  “Fine!” Jennison answered. “We can all dig up some sort of costume. Let’s go.”

  Barbara hurried off to spread the news. After dinner that evening she appeared, a blonde vision straight from the French Court, avid for dancing. Jennison had rigged up an impromptu pirate dress, and was a striking figure. Most of the other passengers had donned weird outfits; on the Pacific boats a fancy dress party is warmly welcomed and amusingly carried out.

  John Quincy took small part in the gaiety, for he still suffered from New England inhibitions. At a little past eleven he drifted into the main saloon and found Madame Maynard seated there alone.

  “Hello,” she said. “Come to keep me company? I’ve sworn not to go to bed until I see the light on Diamond Head.”

  “I’m with you,” John Quincy smiled.

  “But you ought to be dancing, boy. And you’re not in costume.”

  “No,” admitted John Quincy. He paused, seeking an explanation. “A—a fellow can’t make a fool of himself in front of a lot of strangers.”

  “I understand,” nodded the old lady. “It’s a fine delicacy, too. But rather rare, particularly out this way.”

  Barbara entered, flushed and vibrant. “Harry’s gone to get me a drink,” she panted. She sat down beside Mrs. Maynard. “I’ve been looking for you, my dear. You know, you haven’t read my palm since I was a child. She’s simply wonderful—” this to John Quincy. “Can tell you the most amazing things.”

  Mrs. Maynard vehemently shook her head. “I don’t read ’em any more,” she said. “Gave it up. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to understand how foolish it is to peer into the future. To-day—that’s enough for me. That’s all I care to think about.”

  “Oh, please,” the girl pouted.

  The old woman took Barbara’s slim hand in hers, and studied the palm for a moment. John Quincy thought he saw a shadow cross her face. Again she shook her head.

  “Carpe diem,” she said. “Which my nephew once translated as ‘grab the day.’ Dance and be happy to-night, and let’s not try to look behind the curtain. It doesn’t pay, my dear. Take an old woman’s word for that.”

  Harry Jennison appeared in the door. “Oh, here you are,” he said. “I’ve got your drink waiting in the smoking-room.”

  “I’m coming,” the girl said, and went. The old woman stared after her.

  “Poor Barbara,” she murmured. “Her mother’s life was none too happy, either—”

  “You saw something in her hand—” John Quincy suggested.

  “No matter,” the old lady snapped. “There’s trouble waiting for us all, if we look far enough ahead. Now, let’s go on deck. It’s getting on toward midnight.”

  She led him out to the starboard rail. A solitary light, like a star, gleamed in the distance. Land, land at last. “Diamond Head?” John Quincy asked.

  “No,” she said. “That’s the beacon on Makapuu Point.48 We shall have to round Koko Head49 before we sight Honolulu.” She stood for a moment by the rail, one frail hand resting upon it. “But that’s Oahu,” she said gently. “That’s home. A sweet land, boy. Too sweet, I often think. I hope you’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure I shall,” replied John Quincy gallantly.

  “Let’s sit down here.” They found deck chairs. “Yes, a dear land,” she went on. “But we’re all sorts, in Hawaii—just as it is the whole world over—honest folks and rascals. From the four corners of the globe men come to us—often because they were no longer welcome at home. We offer them a paradise, and some repay us by becoming good citizens, while others rot away. I often think it will take a lot of stamina to make good in Heaven—and Hawaii is the same.”

  The tall emaciated figure of the Reverend Mr. Upton appeared before them. He bowed. “Good evening, Madame. You’re nearly home.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Glad of it, too.”

  He turned to John Quincy. “You’ll be seeing Dan Winterslip in the morning, young man.”

  “I expect I shall,” John Quincy replied.

  “Just ask him if he recalls that day on Apiang Island in the ’eighties. The Reverend Frank Upton.”

&n
bsp; “Of course,” replied John Quincy. “But you haven’t told me much about it, you know.”

  “No, I haven’t.” The missionary dropped into a chair. “I don’t like to reveal any secrets about a man’s past,” he said. “However, I understand that the story of Dan Winterslip’s early life has always been known in Honolulu.” He glanced toward Madame Maynard.

  “Dan was no saint,” she remarked. “We all know that.”

  He crossed his thin legs. “As a matter of fact, I’m very proud of my meeting with Dan Winterslip,” he went on. “I feel that in my humble way I persuaded him to change his course—for the better.”

  “Humph,” said the old lady. She was dubious, evidently.

  John Quincy was not altogether pleased at the turn the conversation had taken. He did not care to have the name of a Winterslip thus bandied about. But to his annoyance, the Reverend Mr. Upton was continuing.

  “It was in the ’eighties, as I told you,” said the missionary. “I had a lonely station on Apiang, in the Gilbert group.50 One morning a brig anchored just beyond the reef, and a boat came ashore. Of course, I joined the procession of natives down to the beach to meet it. I saw few enough men of my own race.

  “There was a ruffianly crew aboard, in charge of a dapper, rather handsome young white man. And I saw, even before they beached her, midway in the boat, a long pine box.

  “The white man introduced himself. He said he was First Officer Winterslip, of the brig Maid of Shiloh. And when he mentioned the name of the ship, of course I knew at once. Knew her unsavory trade and history. He hurried on to say that their captain had died the day before, and they had brought him ashore to bury him on land. It had been the man’s last wish.

  “Well.” The Reverend Mr. Upton stared at the distant shore line of Oahu. “I looked over at that rough pine box—four Malay sailors were carrying it ashore. ‘So Tom Brade’s in there,’ I said. Young Winterslip nodded. ‘He’s in there, right enough,’ he answered. And I knew I was looking on at the final scene in the career of a famous character of the South Seas, a callous brute who knew no law, a pirate and adventurer, the master of the notorious Maid of Shiloh. Tom Brade, the blackbirder.”51