The House Without a Key

by Earl Der Biggers

  “What,” John Quincy inquired, “is the college boat?”

  “So many children from Hawaii at school on the mainland,” the old lady explained, “that every June around this time they practically fill a ship. We call it the college boat. This year it’s the Matsonia. She left San Francisco to-day at noon.”

  “I’ve got a lot of friends aboard her,” Barbara said. “I do wish we could beat her in. Captain, what are the chances?”

  “Well, that depends,” replied the captain cautiously.

  “She isn’t due until Tuesday morning,” Barbara persisted. “Wouldn’t it be a lark if you could land us the night before? As a favor to me, Captain.”

  “When you look at me like that,” smiled the officer, “I can only say that I’ll make a supreme effort. I’m just as eager as you to make port on Monday—it would mean I could get off to the Orient that much sooner.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Barbara beamed.

  “It’s settled that we’ll try,” he said. “Of course, if I speed up there’s always the chance I may arrive off Honolulu after sundown, and be compelled to lay by until morning. That would be torture for you.”

  “I’ll risk it,” Barbara smiled. “Wouldn’t dear old dad be pleased if I should burst upon his vision Monday evening?”

  “My dear girl,” the captain said gallantly, “any man would be pleased to have you burst upon his vision any time.”

  There was, John Quincy reflected, much in what the captain said. Up to that moment there had been little of the romantic in his relations with girls; he was accustomed to look upon them merely as tennis or golf opponents or a fourth at bridge. Barbara would demand a different classification. There was an enticing gleam in her blue eyes, a hint of the eternal feminine in everything she did or said, and John Quincy was no wooden man. He was glad that when he left the dinner table, she accompanied him.

  They went on deck and stood by the rail. Night had fallen, there was no moon, and it seemed to John Quincy that the Pacific was the blackest, angriest ocean he had ever seen. He stood gazing at it gloomily.

  “Homesick, John Quincy?” Barbara asked. One of his hands was resting on the rail. She laid her own upon it.

  He nodded. “It’s a funny thing. I’ve been abroad a lot, but I never felt like this. When the ship left port this morning, I nearly wept.”

  “It’s not so very funny,” she said gently. “This is an alien world you’re entering now. Not Boston, John Quincy, nor any other old, civilized place. Not the kind of place where the mind rules. Out here it’s the heart that charts our course. People you’re fond of do the wildest, most unreasonable things, simply because their minds are sleeping and their hearts are beating fast. Just—just remember, please, John Quincy.”

  There was an odd note of wistfulness in her voice. Suddenly at their side appeared the white-clad figure of Harry Jennison.

  “Coming for a stroll, Barbara?” he inquired.

  For a moment she did not reply. Then she nodded. “Yes,” she said. And called over her shoulder as she went: “Cheer up, John Quincy.”

  He watched her go, reluctantly. She might have stayed to assuage his loneliness. But there she walked along the dim deck, close to Jennison’s side.

  After a time, he sought the smoking-room. It was deserted, but on one of the tables lay a copy of the Boston Transcript. Delighted, John Quincy pounced upon it, as Robinson Crusoe might have pounced on news from home.

  The issue was ten days old, but no matter. He turned at once to the financial pages. There it was, like the face of a well-beloved friend, the record of one day’s trading on the Stock Exchange. And up in one corner, the advertisement of his own banking house, offering an issue of preferred stock in a Berkshire cotton mill. He read eagerly, but with an odd detached feeling. He was gone, gone from that world, away out here on a black ocean bound for picture-book islands. Islands where, not so long ago, brown tribes had battled, brown kings ruled. There seemed no link with that world back home, those gay-colored streamers of confetti breaking so readily had been a symbol. He was adrift. What sort of port would claim him in the end?

  He threw the paper down. The Reverend Mr. Upton entered the smoking-room.

  “I left my newspaper here,” he explained. “Ah—did you care to look at it?”

  “Thank you, I have,” John Quincy told him.

  The old man picked it up in a great bony hand. “I always buy a Transcript when I get the chance,” he said. “It carries me back. You know, I was born in Salem, over seventy years ago.”

  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. 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 started 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 House 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 newspaperman who wasn’t tanked up was a reproach to a grand profession. The Gazette was edited mostly from a place called the Arch Inn. 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—?”

  “Tim’s place,” suggested John Quincy, reca
lling 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.

  Chapter 5

  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 nearby, 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 hurtled 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. We shall have to round Koko Head 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.”

  “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. 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.”

  “Blackbirder?” queried John Quincy.

  The missionary smiled. “Ah, yes—you come from Boston. A blackbirder, my boy, is a shipping-master who furnishes contract labor to the plantations at so much a head. It’s pretty well wiped out now, but in the ’eighties! A horrible business—the curse of God was on it. Sometimes the laborers came willingly. Sometimes. But mostly they came at the point of a knife or the muzzle of a gun. A bloody, brutal business.