“Yes—I’ve met him,” John Quincy told her.
“Don’t you think he’s wonderful-looking?” Her dark eyes glowed.
“Oh, he’s all right,” replied John Quincy without enthusiasm. “You know, I can’t help feeling that things are looking up for you.”
“I feel that too,” she said.
“What do you say we celebrate?” he suggested. “Go out among ’em and get a little taste of night life. I’m a bit fed up on the police station. What do people do here in the evening? The movies?”
“Just at present,” the girl told him, “everybody visits Punahou to see the nightblooming cereus. It’s the season now, you know.”
“Sounds like a big evening,” John Quincy laughed. “Go and look at the flowers. Well, I’m for it. Will you come?”
“Of course.” She gave a few directions to the clerk, then joined him by the door. “I can run down and get the roadster,” he offered.
“Oh, no,” she smiled. “I’m sure I’ll never own a motorcar, and it might make me discontented to ride in one. The trolley’s my carriage—and it’s lots of fun. One meets so many interesting people.”
On the stone walls surrounding the campus of Oahu College,112 the strange flower that blooms only on a summer night was heaped in snowy splendor. John Quincy had been a bit lukewarm regarding the expedition when they set out, but he saw his error now. For here was beauty, breath-taking and rare. Before the walls paraded a throng of sight-seers; they joined the procession. The girl was a charming companion, her spirits had revived and she chatted vivaciously. Not about Shaw and the art galleries, true enough, but bright human talk that John Quincy liked to hear.
He persuaded her to go to the city for a maidenly ice-cream soda, and it was ten o’clock when they returned to the beach. They left the trolley at a stop some distance down the avenue from the Reef and Palm, and strolled slowly toward the hotel. The sidewalk was lined to their right by dense foliage, almost impenetrable. The night was calm; the street lamps shone brightly; the paved street gleamed white in the moonlight. John Quincy was talking of Boston.
“I think you’d like it there. It’s old and settled, but—”
From the foliage beside them came the flash of a pistol, and John Quincy heard a bullet sing close to his head. Another flash, another bullet. The girl gave a startled little cry.
John Quincy circled round her and plunged into the bushes. Angry branches stung his cheek. He stopped; he couldn’t leave the girl alone. He returned to her side.
“What did that mean?” he asked, amazed. He stared in wonder at the peaceful scene before him.
“I—I don’t know.” She took his arm. “Come—hurry!”
“Don’t be afraid,” he said reassuringly.
“Not for myself,” she answered.
They went on to the hotel, greatly puzzled. But when they entered the lobby, they had something else to think about. Captain Arthur Temple Cope was standing by the desk, and he came at once to meet them.
John Quincy circled round her and plunged into the bushes. Angry branches stung his cheek. He stopped; he couldn’t leave the girl alone. He returned to her side. From The House Without a Key, illustration by William Liepse (The Saturday Evening Post, February 28, 1925)
“This is Miss Egan, I believe. Ah, Winterslip, how are you?” He turned again to the girl, “I’ve taken a room here, if you don’t mind.”
“Why, not at all,” she gasped.
“I talked with your father this morning. I didn’t know about his trouble until I had boarded a ship for the Fanning Islands. I came back as quickly as I could.”
“You came back—” She stared at him.
“Yes. I came back to help him.”
“That’s very kind of you,” the girl said. “But I’m afraid I don’t understand—”
“Oh, no, you don’t understand. Naturally.” The captain smiled down at her. “You see, Jim’s my young brother. You’re my niece, and your name is Carlota Maria Cope. I fancy I’ve persuaded old Jim to own up to us at last.”
The girl’s dark eyes were wide. “I—I think you’re a very nice uncle,” she said at last.
“Do you really?” The captain bowed. “I aim to be,” he added.
John Quincy stepped forward. “Pardon me,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m intruding. Good night, Captain.”
“Good night, my boy,” Cope answered.
The girl went with John Quincy to the balcony. “I—I don’t know what to make of it,” she said.
“Things are coming rather fast,” John Quincy admitted. He remembered the Corsican cigarette. “I wouldn’t trust him too far,” he admonished.
“But he’s so wonderful—”
“Oh, he’s all right, probably. But looks are often deceptive. I’ll go along now and let you talk with him.”
She laid one slim tanned hand on his white-clad arm. “Do be careful!”
“Oh, I’m all right,” he told her.
“But some one shot at you.”
“Yes, and a very poor aim he had, too. Don’t worry about me.” She was very close, her eyes glowing in the dark. “You said you weren’t afraid for yourself,” he added. “Did you mean—”
“I meant—I was afraid—for you.”
The moon, of course, was shining. The cocoapalms turned their heads away at the suggestion of the trades. The warm waters of Waikiki murmured near by. John Quincy Winterslip, from Boston and immune, drew the girl to him and kissed her. Not a cousinly kiss, either—but why should it have been? She wasn’t his cousin.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said. He seemed to be floating dizzily in space. It came to him that he might reach out and pluck her a handful of stars.
It came to him a second later that, despite his firm resolve, he had done it again. Kissed another girl.
Three—that made three with whom he was sort of entangled.
“Good night,” he said huskily, and leaping over the rail, fled hastily through the garden.
Three girls now—but he hadn’t a single regret. He was living at last. As he hurried through the dark along the beach, his heart was light. Once he fancied he was being followed, but he gave it little thought. What of it?
On the bureau in his room he found an envelope with his name typewritten on the outside. The note within was typewritten too. He read:
“You are too busy out here. Hawaii can manage her affairs without the interference of a malihini. Boats sail almost daily. If you are still here forty-eight hours after you get this—look out! To-night’s shots were fired into the air. The aim will quickly improve!”
Delighted, John Quincy tossed the note aside.
Threatening him, eh? His activities as a detective were bearing fruit. He recalled the glowering face of Kaohla when he said: “You did this. I don’t forget.” And a remark of Dan Winterslip’s his aunt had quoted: “Civilized—yes. But far underneath there are deep dark waters flowing still.”
Boats were sailing almost daily, were they? Well, let them sail. He would be on one some day—but not until he had brought Dan Winterslip’s murderer to justice.
Life had a new glamour now. Look out? He’d be looking—and enjoying it, too. He smiled happily to himself as he took off his coat. This was better than selling bonds in Boston.
109.San Pedro is still the major port of the City of Los Angeles.
110.The exchange rate was one pound for U.S. $4.42 in 1924; Brade’s request was barely little more than return of the original stolen money.
111.Founded in 1915, Kiwanis was an organization of business and professional men. Although its original motto was “We Trade,” by 1920, it was changed to “We Build,” and later to “Serving the Children of the World.” Although conceived as a networking organization fostering business, delegates voted to change the mission to service. John Quincy is joking about the “Babbitt”-like stereotype.
112.Now Punahou School, at 1601 Punahou Street, it was founded in 1841. According to the school’s website, i
t “was originally designed to provide a quality education for the children of Congregational missionaries, allowing them to stay in Hawai’i with their families, instead of being sent away to school. The first class had 15 students.” http://www.punahou.edu/about/history/index.aspx Its illustrious alumni include Sun Yat-Sen, Buster Crabbe, and Barack Obama.
CHAPTER XVIII
A Cable from the Mainland
John Quincy awoke at nine the following morning and slipped from under his mosquito netting eager to face the responsibilities of a new day. On the floor near his bureau lay the letter designed to speed the parting guest. He picked it up and read it again with manifest enjoyment.
When he reached the dining-room Haku informed him that Miss Minerva and Barbara had breakfasted early and gone to the city on a shopping tour.
“Look here, Haku,” the boy said. “A letter came for me late last night?”
“Yess,” admitted Haku.
“Who delivered it?”
“Can not say. It were found on floor of hall close by big front door.”
“Who found it?”
“Kamaikui.”
“Oh, yes—Kamaikui.”
“I tell her to put in your sleeping room.”
“Did Kamaikui see the person who brought it?”
“Nobody see him. Nobody on place.”
“All right,” John Quincy said.
He spent a leisurely hour on the lanai with his pipe and the morning paper. At about half past ten he got out the roadster and drove to the police station.
Hallet and Chan, he was told, were in a conference with the prosecutor. He sat down to wait, and in a few moments word came for him to join them. Entering Greene’s office, he saw the three men seated gloomily about the prosecutor’s desk.
“Well, I guess I’m some detective,” he announced.
Greene looked up quickly. “Found anything new?”
“Not precisely,” John Quincy admitted. “But last night when I was walking along Kalakaua Avenue with a young woman, somebody took a couple of wild shots at me from the bushes. And when I got home I found this letter waiting.”
He handed the epistle to Hallet, who read it with evident disgust, then passed it on to the prosecutor. “That doesn’t get us anywhere,” the captain said.
“It may get me somewhere, if I’m not careful,” John Quincy replied. “However, I’m rather proud of it. Sort of goes to show that my detective work is hitting home.”
“Maybe,” answered Hallet, carelessly.
Greene laid the letter on his desk. “My advice to you,” he said, “is to carry a gun. That’s unofficial, of course.”
“Nonsense, I’m not afraid,” John Quincy told him. “I’ve got a pretty good idea who sent this thing.”
“You have?” Greene said.
“Yes. He’s a friend of Captain Hallet’s. Dick Kaohla.”
“What do you mean he’s a friend of mine?” flared Hallet.
“Well, you certainly treated him pretty tenderly the other night.”
“I knew what I was doing,” said Hallet grouchily.
“I hope you did. But if he puts a bullet in me some lovely evening, I’m going to be pretty annoyed with you.”
“Oh, you’re in no danger,” Hallet answered. “Only a coward writes anonymous letters.”
“Yes, and only a coward shoots from ambush. But that isn’t saying he can’t take a good aim.”
Hallet picked up the letter. “I’ll keep this. It may prove to be evidence.”
“Surely,” agreed John Quincy. “And you haven’t got any too much evidence, as I see it.”
“Is that so?” growled Hallet. “We’ve made a rather important discovery about that Corsican cigarette.”
“Oh, I’m not saying Charlie isn’t good,” smiled John Quincy. “I was with him when he worked that out.”
A uniformed man appeared at the door. “Egan and his daughter and Captain Cope,” he announced to Greene. “Want to see them now, sir?”
“Send them in,” ordered the prosecutor.
“I’d like to stay, if you don’t mind,” John Quincy suggested.
“Oh, by all means,” Greene answered. “We couldn’t get along without you.”
The policeman brought Egan to the door, and the proprietor of the Reef and Palm came into the room. His face was haggard and pale; his long siege with the authorities had begun to tell. But a stubborn light still flamed in his eyes. After him came Carlota Egan, fresh and beautiful, and with a new air of confidence about her. Captain Cope followed, tall, haughty, a man of evident power and determination.
“This is the prosecutor, I believe?” he said. “Ah, Mr. Winterslip, I find you everywhere I go.”
“You don’t mind my staying?” inquired John Quincy.
“Not in the least, my boy. Our business here will take but a moment.” He turned to Greene. “Just as a preliminary,” he continued, “I am Captain Arthur Temple Cope of the British Admiralty, and this gentleman”—he nodded toward the proprietor of the Reef and Palm—“is my brother.”
“Really?” said Greene. “His name is Egan, as I understand it.”
“His name is James Egan Cope,” the captain replied. “He dropped the Cope many years ago for reasons that do not concern us now. I am here simply to say, sir, that you are holding my brother on the flimsiest pretext I have ever encountered in the course of my rather extensive travels. If necessary, I propose to engage the best lawyer in Honolulu and have him free by night. But I’m giving you this last chance to release him and avoid a somewhat painful expose of the sort of nonsense you go in for.”
John Quincy glanced at Carlota Egan. Her eyes were shining but not on him. They were on her uncle.
Greene flushed slightly. “A good bluff, Captain, is always worth trying,” he said.
“Oh, then you admit you’ve been bluffing,” said Cope quickly.
“I was referring to your attitude, sir,” Greene replied.
“Oh, I see,” Cope said. “I’ll sit down, if you don’t mind. As I understand it, you have two things against old Jim here. One is that he visited Dan Winterslip on the night of the murder, and now refuses to divulge the nature of that call. The other is the stub of a Corsican cigarette which was found by the walk outside the door of Winterslip’s living-room.”
Greene shook his head. “Only the first,” he responded. “The Corsican cigarette is no longer evidence against Egan.” He leaned suddenly across his desk. “It is, my dear Captain Cope, evidence against you.”
Cope met his look unflinchingly. “Really?” he remarked.
John Quincy noted a flash of startled bewilderment in Carlota Egan’s eyes.
“That’s what I said,” Greene continued. “I’m very glad you dropped in this morning, sir. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. I’ve been told that you were heard to express a strong dislike for Dan Winterslip.”
“I may have. I certainly felt it.”
“Why?”
“As a midshipman on a British war-ship, I was familiar with Australian gossip in the ’eighties. Mr. Dan Winterslip had an unsavory reputation. It was rumored on good authority that he rifled the sea chest of his dead captain on the Maid of Shiloh. Perhaps we’re a bit squeamish, but that is the sort of thing we sailors can not forgive. There were other quaint deeds in connection with his blackbirding activities. Yes, my dear sir, I heartily disliked Dan Winterslip, and if I haven’t said so before, I say it now.”
“You arrived in Honolulu a week ago yesterday,” Greene continued. “At noon—Monday noon. You left the following day. Did you, by any chance, call on Dan Winterslip during that period?”
“I did not.”
“Ah, yes. I may tell you, sir, that the Corsican cigarettes found in Egan’s case were of Turkish tobacco. The stub found near the scene of Dan Winterslip’s murder was of Virginia tobacco. So also, my dear Captain Cope, was the Corsican cigarette you gave our man Charlie Chan in the lobby of the Alexander Young Hotel last Sunday night.”
“Never mind that!” Greene cried. “I’m asking for an explanation.”
“The explanation is very simple,” Cope replied. “I was about to give it to you when you launched into this silly cross-examination. The Corsican cigarette found by Dan Winterslip’s door was, naturally, of Virginia tobacco. I never smoke any other kind.”
“What!”
“There can be no question about it, sir. I dropped that cigarette there myself.”
“But you just told me you didn’t call on Dan Winterslip.”
“That was true. I didn’t. I called on Miss Minerva Winterslip, of Boston, who is a guest in the house. As a matter of fact, I had tea with her last Monday at five o’clock. You may verify that by telephoning the lady.”
Greene glanced at Hallet, who glanced at the telephone, then turned angrily to John Quincy. “Why the devil didn’t she tell me that?” he demanded.
John Quincy smiled. “I don’t know, sir. Possibly because she never thought of Captain Cope in connection with the murder.”
“She’d hardly be likely to,” Cope said. “Miss Winterslip and I had tea in the living-room, then went out and sat on a bench in the garden, chatting over old times. When I returned to the house I was smoking a cigarette. I dropped it just outside the living-room door. Whether Miss Winterslip noted my action or not, I don’t know. She probably didn’t, it isn’t the sort of thing one remembers. You may call her on the telephone if you wish, sir.”
Again Greene looked at Hallet, who shook his head. “I’ll talk with her later,” announced the Captain of Detectives. Evidently Miss Minerva had an unpleasant interview ahead.
“At any rate,” Cope continued to the prosecutor, “you had yourself disposed of the cigarette as evidence against old Jim. That leaves only the fact of his silence—”
“His silence, yes,” Greene cut in, “and the fact that Winterslip had been heard to express a fear of Jim Egan.”
Cope frowned. “Had he, really?” He considered a moment. “Well, what of it? Winterslip had good reason to fear a great many honest men. No, my dear sir, you have nothing save my brother’s silence against him, and that is not enough. I demand—”
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 25
