Charlie Chan [1] The House Without a Key

by Earl Derr Biggers

  “Trolley’s good enough for me,” said John Quincy. “Here, give me the paper.”

  She explained to him how he was to reach the city, and he got his hat and went. Presently he was on a trolley-car surrounded by representatives of a dozen different races. The melting pot of the Pacific, Carlota Egan had called Honolulu, and the appellation seemed to be correct. John Quincy began to feel a fresh energy, a new interest in life.

  The trolley swept over the low swampy land between Waikiki and Honolulu, past rice fields where bent figures toiled patiently in water to their knees, past taro patches, and finally turned on to King Street. Every few moments it paused to take aboard immigrants, Japanese, Chinese, Hawaiians, Portuguese, Philippinos, Koreans, all colors and all creeds. On it went. John Quincy saw great houses set in blooming groves, a Japanese theater flaunting weird posters not far from a Ford service station, then a huge building he recognized as the palace of the monarchy. Finally it entered a district of modern office buildings.

  Mr. Kipling was wrong, the boy reflected, East and West could meet. They had.

  This impression was confirmed when he left the car at Fort Street and for a moment walked about, a stranger in a strange land. A dusky policeman was directing traffic on the corner, officers of the United States army and navy in spotless duck strolled by, and on the shady side of the street Chinese girls, slim and immaculate in freshly laundered trousers and jackets, were window shopping in the cool of the evening.

  “I’m looking for the police station,” John Quincy informed a big American with a friendly face.

  “Get back on to King Street,” the man said. “Go to your right until you come to Bethel, then turn makai —”

  “Turn what?”

  The man smiled. “A malihini, I take it. Makai means toward the sea. The other direction is mauka — toward the mountains. The police station is at the foot of Bethel, in Kalakaua Hale.”

  John Quincy thanked him and went on his way. He passed the post-office and was amazed to see that all the lock boxes opened on the street. After a time, he reached the station. A sergeant lounging behind the desk told him that Charlie Chan was at dinner. He suggested the Alexander Young Hotel or possibly the All American Restaurant on King Street.

  The hotel sounded easiest, so John Quincy went there first. In the dim lobby a Chinese house boy wandered aimlessly about with broom and dust pan, a few guests were writing the inevitable post-cards, a Chinese clerk was on duty at the desk. But there was no sign of Chan, either in the lobby or in the dining-room at the left. As John Quincy turned from an inspection of the latter, the elevator door opened and a Britisher in mufti came hurriedly forth. He was followed by a Cockney servant carrying luggage.

  “Captain Cope,” called John Quincy.

  The captain paused. “Hello,” he said. “Oh — Mr. Winterslip — how are you?” He turned to the servant. “Buy me an evening paper and an armful of the less offensive-looking magazines.” The man hurried off, and Cope again addressed John Quincy. “Delighted to see you, but I’m in a frightful rush. Off to the Fanning Islands in twenty minutes.”

  “When did you get in?” inquired John Quincy. Not that he really cared.

  “Yesterday at noon,” said Captain Cope. “Been on the wing ever since. I trust you are enjoying your stop here — but I was forgetting. Fearful news about Dan Winterslip.”

  “Yes,” said John Quincy coolly. Judging by the conversation in that San Francisco club, the blow had not been a severe one for Captain Cope. The servant returned.

  “Sorry to run,” continued the captain. “But I must be off. The service is a stern taskmaster. My regards to your aunt. Best of luck, my boy.”

  He disappeared through the wide door, followed by his man. John Quincy reached the street in time to see him rolling off in a big car toward the docks.

  Noting the cable office near by, the boy entered and sent two messages, one to his mother and the other to Agatha Parker. He addressed them to Boston, Mass. U.S.A., and was accorded a withering look by the young 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 Chan. “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 Japanese man, 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 is covered with finger-marks,” rebuked Chan. “The sight is most disgusting. Kindly remove it and bring me a more hygienic sector.”

  The Japanese man 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 Chan. “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 shish 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.

  A trolley-car marked “Waikiki” was approaching. John Quincy hailed it and hopped aboard. Three giggling Japanese girls in bright kimonos drew in their tiny sandaled feet and he slipped past them to a seat.

  CHAPTER XI

  The Tree Of Jewels

  TWO HOURS later, John Quincy rose from the table where he and his aunt had dined together.

  “Just to show you how quick I am to learn a new language,” he remarked, “I’m quite pau. Now I’m going makai to sit on the lanai, there to forget the pilikia of the day.”

  Miss Minerva smiled and rose too. “I expect Amos shortly,” she said as they crossed the hall. “A family conference seemed advisable, so I’ve asked him to come over.”

  “Strange you had to send for him,” said John Quincy, lighting a cigarette.

  “Not at all,” she answered. She explained about the long feud between the brothers.

  “Didn’t think old Amos had that much fire in him,” commented John Quincy, as they found chairs on the lanai. “A rather anemic specimen, judging by the look I had at him this morning. But then, the Winterslips always were good haters.”

  For a moment they sat in silence. Outside the darkness was deepening rapidly, the tropic darkness that had brought tragedy the night before. John Quincy pointed to a small lizard on the screen.

  “Pleasant little beast,” he said.

  “Oh, they’re quite harmless,” Miss Minerva told him. “And they eat the mosquitos.”

  “They do, eh?” The boy slapped his ankle savagely. “Well, there’s no accounting for tastes.”

  Amos arrived presently, looking unusually pale in the half-light. “You asked me to come over, Minerva,” he said, as he sat down gingerly on one of Dan Winterslip’s Hong-Kong chairs.

  “I did. Smoke if you like.” Amos lighted a cigarette, which seemed oddly out of place between his thin lips. “I’m sure,” Miss Minerva continued, “that we are all determined to bring to justice the person who did this ghastly thing.”

  “Naturally,” said Amos.

  “The only drawback,” she went on, “is that in the course of the investigation some rather unpleasant facts about Dan’s past are likely to be revealed.”

  “They’re bound to be,” remarked Amos coldly.

  “For Barbara’s sake,” Miss Minerva said, “I’m intent on seeing that nothing is revealed that is not absolutely essential to the discovery of the murderer. For that reason, I haven’t taken the police completely into my confidence.”

  “What!” cried Amos.

  John Quincy stood up. “Now look here, Aunt Minerva —”

  “Sit down,” snapped his aunt. “Amos, to go back to a talk we had at your house when I was there, Dan was somewhat involved with this woman down the beach. Arlene Compton, I believe she calls herself.”

  Amos nodded. “Yes, and a worthless lot she is. But Dan wouldn’t see it, though I understand his friends pointed it out to him. He talked of marrying her.”

  “You knew a good deal about Dan, even if you never spoke to him,” Miss Minerva went on. “Just what was his status with this woman at the time of his murder — only last night, but it seems ages ago.”

  “I can’t quite tell you that,” Amos replied. “I do know that for the past month a malihini named Leatherbee — the black sheep of a good family in Philadelphia, they tell me — has been hanging around the Compton woman, and that Dan resented his presence.”

  “Humph.” Miss Minerva handed to Amos an odd old brooch, a tree of jewels against an onyx background. “Ever see that before, Amos?”

  He took it, and nodded. “It’s part of a little collection of jewelry Dan brought back from the South Seas in the ‘eighties. There were ear-rings and a bracelet, too. He acted rather queerly about those trinkets — never let Barbara’s mother or any one else wear them. But he must have got over that idea recently. For I saw this only a few weeks ago.”

  “Where?” asked Miss Minerva.

  “Our office has the renting of the cottage down the beach occupied at present by the Compton woman. She came in not long ago to pay her rent, and she was wearin
g this brooch.” He looked suddenly at Miss Minerva. “Where did you get it?” he demanded.

  “Kamaikui gave it to me early this morning,” Miss Minerva explained. “She picked it up from the floor of the lanai before the police came.”

  John Quincy leaped to his feet. “You’re all wrong, Aunt Minerva,” he cried. “You can’t do this sort of thing. You ask the help of the police, and you aren’t on the level with them. I’m ashamed of you —”

  “Please wait a moment,” said his aunt.

  “Wait nothing!” he answered. “Give me that brooch. I’m going to turn it over to Chan at once. I couldn’t look him in the eye if I didn’t.”

  “We’ll turn it over to Chan,” said Miss Minerva calmly, “if it seems important. But there is no reason in the world why we should not investigate a bit ourselves before we do so. The woman may have a perfectly logical explanation —”

  “Rot!” interrupted John Quincy. “The trouble with you is, you think you’re Sherlock Holmes.”

  “What is your opinion, Amos?” inquired Miss Minerva.

  “I’m inclined to agree with John Quincy,” Amos said. “You are hardly fair to Captain Hallet. And as for keeping anything dark on account of Barbara — or on anybody’s account — that won’t be possible, I’m afraid. No getting round it, Minerva, Dan’s indiscretions are going to be dragged into the open at last.”

  She caught the note of satisfaction in his tone, and was nettled by it. “Perhaps. At the same time, it isn’t going to do any harm for some member of the family to have a talk with this woman before we consult the police. If she should have a perfectly sincere and genuine explanation —”

  “Oh, yes,” cut in John Quincy. “She wouldn’t have any other kind.”

  “It won’t be so much what she says,” persisted Miss Minerva. “It will be the manner in which she says it. Any intelligent person can see through deceit and falsehood. The only question is, which of us is the intelligent person best fitted to examine her.”

  “Count me out,” said Amos promptly.

  “John Quincy?”

  The boy considered. He had asked for the privilege of working with Chan, and here, perhaps, was an opportunity to win his respect. But this sounded rather like a woman who would be too much for him.