“Life must be full of ups and downs,” he ventured lightly. “Tell me about Honolulu. Sort of a wild place, I imagine?”
She laughed. “I’ll let you discover for yourself how wild it is,” she told him. “Practically all the leading families came originally from your beloved New England. ‘Puritans with a touch of sun,’ my father calls them. He’s clever, my father,” she added, in an odd childish tone that was wistful and at the same time challenging.
“I’m sure of it,” said John Quincy heartily. They were approaching the Ferry Building and other passengers crowded about them. “I’d help you with that suitcase of yours, but I’ve got all this truck. If we could find a porter—”
“Don’t bother,” she answered. “I can manage very well.” She was staring down at John Quincy’s hat-box. “I—I suppose there’s a silk hat in there?” she inquired.
“Naturally,” replied John Quincy.
She laughed—a rich, deep-throated laugh. John Quincy stiffened slightly. “Oh, forgive me,” she cried. “But—a silk hat in Hawaii!”
John Quincy stood erect. The girl had laughed at a Winterslip. He filled his lungs with the air sweeping in from the open spaces, the broad open spaces where men are men. A weird reckless feeling came over him. He stooped, picked up the hat-box, and tossed it calmly over the rail. It bobbed indignantly away. The crowd closed in, not wishing to miss any further exhibition of madness.
“That’s that,” said John Quincy quietly.
“Oh,” gasped the girl, “you shouldn’t have done it!”
And indeed, he shouldn’t. The box was an expensive one, the gift of his admiring mother at Christmas. And the topper inside, worn in the gloaming along the water side of Beacon Street, had been known to add a touch of distinction even to that distinguished scene.
“Why not?” asked John Quincy. “The confounded thing’s been a nuisance ever since I left home. And besides we do look ridiculous at times, don’t we? We easterners? A silk hat in the tropics! I might have been mistaken for a missionary.” He began to gather up his luggage. “Shan’t need a porter any more,” he announced gaily. “I say—it was awfully kind of you—letting me talk to you like that.”
“It was fun,” she told him. “I hope you’re going to like us out here. We’re so eager to be liked, you know. It’s almost pathetic.”
“Well,” smiled John Quincy, “I’ve met only one Californian to date. But—”
“Yes?”
“So far, so good!”
“Oh, thank you.” She moved away.
“Please—just a moment,” called John Quincy. “I hope—I mean, I wish—”
But the crowd surged between them. He saw her dark eyes smiling at him and then, irrevocably as the hat, she drifted from his sight.
Chapter 3
Midnight on Russian Hill
A few moments later, John Quincy stepped ashore in San Francisco. He had taken not more than three steps across the floor of the Ferry Building when a dapper Japanese chauffeur pushed through the crowd and singling out the easterner with what seemed uncanny perspicacity, took complete charge of him.
Roger Winterslip, the chauffeur announced, was too busy to meet ferries, but had sent word that the boy was to go up to the house and after establishing himself comfortably there, join his host for lunch downtown. Gratified to feel solid ground once more beneath his feet, John Quincy followed the chauffeur to the street. San Francisco glittered under the morning sun.
“I always thought this was a foggy town,” John Quincy said.
The Japanese grinned. “Maybe fog will come, maybe it will not. Just now one time maybe it will not. Please.” He held open the car door.
Through bright streets where life appeared to flow with a pleasant rhythm, they bowled along. Beside the curbs stood the colorful carts of the flower venders, unnecessarily painting the lily of existence. Weary traveler though he was, John Quincy took in with every breath a fresh supply of energy. New ambitions stirred within him; bigger, better bond issues than ever before seemed ridiculously easy of attainment.
Roger Winterslip had not been among those lured to suburban life down the peninsula; he resided in bachelor solitude on Nob Hill. It was an ancient, battered house viewed from without, but within, John Quincy found, were all known comforts. A bent old Chinese man showed him his room and his heart leaped up when he beheld, at last, a veritable bath. At one o’clock he sought out the office where his relative carried on, with conspicuous success, his business as an engineer and builder. Roger proved a short florid man in his late fifties.
“Hello, son,” he cried cordially. “How’s Boston?”
“Every one is quite well,” said John Quincy. “You’re being extremely kind—”
“Nonsense. It’s a pleasure to see you. Come along.”
He took John Quincy to a famous club for lunch. In the grill he pointed out several well-known writers. The boy was not unduly impressed, for Longfellow, Whittier and Lowell were not among them. Nevertheless it was a pleasant place, the service perfect, the food of an excellence rare on the codfish coast.
“And what,” asked Roger presently, “do you think of San Francisco?”
“I like it,” John Quincy said simply.
“No? Do you really mean that?” Roger beamed. “Well, it’s the sort of place that ought to appeal to a New Englander. It’s had a history, brief, but believe me, my boy, one crowded hour of glorious life. It’s sophisticated, knowing, subtle. Contrast it with other cities—for instance, take Los Angeles—” He was off on a favorite topic and he talked well.
“Writers,” he said at last, “are forever comparing cities to women. San Francisco is the woman you don’t tell the folks at home an awful lot about. Not that she wasn’t perfectly proper—I don’t mean that—but her stockings were just a little thinner and her laugh a little gayer—people might misunderstand. Besides, the memory is too precious to talk about. Hello.” A tall, lean, handsome Englishman was crossing the grill on his way out. “Cope! Cope, my dear fellow!” Roger sped after him and dragged him back. “I knew you at once,” he was saying, “though it must be more than forty years since I last saw you.”
The Britisher dropped into a chair. He smiled a wry smile. “My dear old chap,” he said. “Not so literal, if you don’t mind.”
“Rot!” protested Roger. “What do years matter? This is a young cousin of mine, John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston. Ah—er—just what is your title now?”
“Captain. I’m in the Admiralty.”
“Really? Captain Arthur Temple Cope, John Quincy.” Roger turned to the Englishman. “You were a midshipman, I believe, when we met in Honolulu. I was talking to Dan about you not a year ago—”
An expression of intense dislike crossed the captain’s face. “Ah, yes, Dan. Alive and prospering, I presume?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Roger.
“Isn’t it damnable,” remarked Cope, “how the wicked thrive?”
An uncomfortable silence fell. John Quincy was familiar with the frankness of Englishmen, but he was none the less annoyed by this open display of hostility toward his prospective host. After all, Dan’s last name was Winterslip.
“Ah—er—have a cigarette,” suggested Roger.
“Thank you—have one of mine,” said Cope, taking out a silver case. “Virginia tobacco, though they are put up in Piccadilly. No? And you, sir—” He held the case before John Quincy, who refused a bit stiffly.
The captain nonchalantly lighted up. “I beg your pardon—what I said about your cousin,” he began. “But really, you know—”
“No matter,” said Roger cordially. “Tell me what you’re doing here.”
“On my way to Hawaii,” explained the captain. “Sailing at three to-day on the Australian boat. A bit of a job for the Admiralty. From Honolulu I drop down to the Fanning Group—a little flock of islands that belongs to us,” he added with a fine paternal air.
“A possible coaling station,” smiled Roger.
“My dear fellow—the precise nature of my mission is, of course, a secret.” Captain Cope looked suddenly at John Quincy. “By the way, I once knew a very charming girl from Boston. A relative of yours, no doubt.”
“A—a girl,” repeated John Quincy, puzzled.
“Minerva Winterslip.”
“Why,” said John Quincy, amazed, “you mean my Aunt Minerva.”
The captain smiled. “She was no one’s aunt in those days,” he said. “Nothing auntish about her. But that was in Honolulu in the ’eighties—we’d put in there on the old wooden Reliance—the poor unlucky ship was limping home crippled from Samoa. Your aunt was visiting at that port—there were dances at the palace, swimming parties—ah, me, to be young again.”
“Minerva’s in Honolulu now,” Roger told him.
“No—really?”
“Yes. She’s stopping with Dan.”
“With Dan.” The captain was silent for a moment. “Her husband—”
“Minerva never married,” Roger explained.
“Amazing,” said the captain. He blew a ring of smoke toward the paneled ceiling. “The more shame to the men of Boston. My time is hardly my own, but I shall hope to look in on her.” He rose. “This was a bit of luck—meeting you again, old chap. I’m due aboard the boat very shortly—you understand, of course.” He bowed to them both, and departed.
“Fine fellow,” Roger said, staring after him. “Frank and British, but a splendid chap.”
“I wasn’t especially pleased,” John Quincy admitted, “by the way he spoke of Cousin Dan.”
Roger laughed. “Better get used to it,” he advised. “Dan is not passionately beloved. He’s climbed high, you know, and he’s trampled down a few on his way up. By the way, he wants you to do an errand for him here in San Francisco.”
“Me!” cried John Quincy. “An errand?”
“Yes. You ought to feel flattered. Dan doesn’t trust everybody. However, it’s something that must wait until dark.”
“Until dark,” repeated the puzzled young man from Boston.
“Precisely. In the meantime I propose to show you about town.”
“But—you’re busy. I couldn’t think of taking you away—”
Roger laid his hand on John Quincy’s shoulder. “My boy, no westerner is ever too busy to show a man from the East about his city. I’ve been looking forward to this chance for weeks. And since you insist on sailing tomorrow at ten, we must make the most of our time.”
Roger proved an adept at making the most of one’s time in San Francisco. After an exhilarating afternoon of motoring over the town and the surrounding country, he brought John Quincy back to the house at six, urging him to dress quickly for a dinner of which he apparently had great hopes.
The boy’s trunk was in his room, and as he put on a dinner coat he looked forward with lively anticipation to a bit of San Francisco night life in Roger’s company. When he came downstairs his host was waiting, a distinguished figure in his dinner clothes, and they set out blithely through the gathering dusk.
“Little place I want you to try,” Roger explained as they sat down at a table in a restaurant that was outwardly of no special note. “Afterward we’ll look in on that musical show at the Columbia.”
The restaurant more than justified Roger’s hopes of it. John Quincy began to glow with a warm friendly feeling for all the world, particularly this city by the western gate. He did not think of himself as a stranger here. He wasn’t a stranger, anyhow. The sensation he had first experienced in the harbor returned to him. He had been here before, he was treading old familiar ground. In far, forgotten, happy times he had known the life of this city’s streets. Strange, but true. He spoke to Roger about it.
Roger smiled. “A Winterslip, after all,” he said. “And they told me you were just a sort of—of Puritan survival. My father used to know that sensation you speak of, only he felt it whenever he entered a new town. Might be something in reincarnation, after all.”
“Nonsense,” said John Quincy.
“Probably. Just the blood of the roaming Winterslips in your veins.” He leaned across the table. “How would you like to come to San Francisco to live?”
“Wha—what?” asked John Quincy, startled.
“I’m getting along in years, and I’m all alone. Lots of financial details in my office—take you in there and let you look after them. Make it worth your while.”
“No, no, thank you,” said John Quincy firmly. “I belong back east. Besides, I could never persuade Agatha to come out here.”
“Agatha who?”
“Agatha Parker—the girl I’m engaged to—in a way. Been sort of understood between us for several years. No,” he added, “I guess I’d better stay where I belong.”
Roger Winterslip looked his disappointment. “Probably had,” he admitted. “I fancy no girl with that name would follow you here. Though a girl worth having will follow her man anywhere—but no matter.” He studied John Quincy keenly for a moment. “I must have been wrong about you, anyhow.”
John Quincy felt a sudden resentment. “Just what do you mean by that?” he inquired.
“In the old days,” Roger said, “Winterslips were the stuff of which pioneers are made. They didn’t cling to the apron-strings of civilization. They got up some fine morning and nonchalantly strolled off beyond the horizon. They lived—but there, you’re of another generation. You can’t understand.”
“Why can’t I?” demanded John Quincy.
“Because the same old rut has evidently been good enough for you. You’ve never known a thrill. Or have you? Have you ever forgot to go to bed because of some utterly silly reason—because, for example, you were young and the moon was shining on a beach lapped by southern seas? Have you ever lied like a gentleman to protect a woman not worth the trouble? Ever made love to the wrong girl?”
“Of course not,” said John Quincy stiffly.
“Ever run for your life through crooked streets in the rowdy quarter of a strange town? Ever fought with a ship’s officer—the old-fashioned kind with fists like flying hams? Ever gone out on a man hunt and when you got your quarry cornered, leaped upon him with no weapon but your bare hands? Have you ever—”
“The type of person you describe,” John Quincy cut in, “is hardly admirable.”
“Probably not,” Roger agreed. “And yet—those are incidents from my own past, my boy.” He regarded John Quincy sadly. “Yes, I must have been wrong about you. A Puritan survival after all.”
John Quincy deigned no reply. There was an odd light in the older man’s eyes—was Roger secretly laughing at him? He appeared to be, and the boy resented it.
But he forgot to be resentful at the revue, which proved to be witty and gay, and Roger and he emerged from the theater at eleven the best of friends again. As they stepped into Roger’s car, the older man gave the chauffeur an address on Russian Hill.
“Dan’s San Francisco house,” he explained, as he climbed in after John Quincy. “He comes over about two months each year, and keeps a place here. Got more money than I have.” Dan’s San Francisco house? “Oh,” said John Quincy, “the errand you mentioned?”
Roger nodded. “Yes.” He snapped on a light in the top of the limousine, and took an envelope from his pocket. “Read this letter. It was delivered to me two days ago by the Second Officer of the President Tyler.”
John Quincy removed a sheet of note paper from the envelope. The message appeared to be rather hastily scrawled.
“Dear Roger,” he read. “You can do me a great service—you and that discreet lad from Boston who is to stop over with you on his way out here. First of all, give John Quincy my regards and tell him that he must make my house his home while he is in the Islands. I’ll be delighted to have him.
“About the errand. You have a key to my house on Russian Hill. Go up there—better go at night when the caretaker’s not likely to be around. The lights are off, but you’ll find candles in the pantry. In the store r
oom on the top floor is an old brown trunk. Locked, probably—mash the lock if it is. In the lower section you’ll find a battered strong box made of ohia wood and bound with copper. Initials on it—T.M.B.
“Wrap it up and take it away. It’s rather an armful, but you can manage it. Have John Quincy conceal it in his luggage and some dark night when the ship’s about half-way over, I want him to take it on deck and quietly drop it overboard. Tell him to be sure nobody sees him. That’s all. But send me a guarded cable when you get the box, and tell him to send me a radio when the Pacific has it at last. I’ll sleep better then.
“Not a word, Roger. Not a word to any one. You’ll understand. Sometimes the dead past needs a bit of help in burying its dead.
“Your Cousin Dan.”
Solemnly John Quincy handed the letter back into Roger’s keeping. The older man thoughtfully tore it to bits and tossed them through the car window open beside him. “Well,” said John Quincy. “Well—” A fitting comment eluded him.
“Simple enough,” smiled Roger. “If we can help poor old Dan to sleep better as easily as that, we must do it, eh?”
“I—I suppose so,” John Quincy agreed.
They had climbed Russian Hill, and were speeding along a deserted avenue lined by imposing mansions. Roger leaned forward. “Go on to the corner,” he said to the chauffeur. “We can walk back,” he explained to John Quincy. “Best not to leave the car before the house. Might excite suspicion.”
Still John Quincy had no comment to make. They alighted at the corner and walked slowly back along the avenue. In front of a big stone house, Roger paused. He looked carefully in all directions, then ran with surprising speed up the steps. “Come on,” he called softly.
John Quincy came. Roger unlocked the door and they stepped into a dark vestibule. Beyond that, darker still, was a huge hall, the dim suggestion of a grand staircase. Here and there an article of furniture, shrouded in white, stood like a ghost, marooned but patient. Roger took out a box of matches.
The House Without a Key Page 3