The House Without a Key

by Earl Der Biggers

  Miss Minerva faced Chan. “The person who did this must be apprehended,” she said firmly.

  He looked at her sleepily. “What is to be, will be,” he replied in a high, sing-song voice.

  “I know—that’s your Confucius,” she snapped. “But it’s a do-nothing doctrine, and I don’t approve of it.”

  A faint smile flickered over Chan’s face. “Do not fear,” he said. “The fates are busy, and man may do much to assist. I promise you there will be no do-nothing here.” He came closer. “Humbly asking pardon to mention it, I detect in your eyes slight flame of hostility. Quench it, if you will be so kind. Friendly cooperation are essential between us.” Despite his girth, he managed a deep bow. “Wishing you good morning,” he added, and followed Hallet.

  Miss Minerva turned weakly to Amos. “Well, of all things—”

  “Don’t you worry about Charlie,” Amos said. “He has a reputation for getting his man. Now you go to bed. I’ll stay here and notify the—the proper people.”

  “Well, I will lie down for a little while,” Miss Minerva said. “I shall have to go early to the dock. Poor Barbara! And there’s John Quincy coming too.” A grim smile crossed her face. “I’m afraid John Quincy won’t approve of this.”

  She saw from her bedroom window that the night was breaking, the rakish cocoanut palms and the hau tree were wrapped in a gray mist. Changing her dress for a kimono, she lay down under the mosquito netting on the bed. She slept but briefly, however, and presently was at her window again. Day had come, the mist had lifted, and it was a rose and emerald world that sparkled before her tired eyes.

  The freshness of that scene revivified her. The trades were blowing now—poor Dan, he had so longed for their return. The night, she saw, had worked its magic on the blossoms of the hau tree, transformed them from yellow to a rich mahogany; through the morning they would drop one by one upon the sand. In a distant algaroba a flock of myna birds screamed at the new day. A party of swimmers appeared from a neighboring cottage and plunged gaily into the surf.

  A gentle knock sounded on the door, and Kamaikui entered. She placed a small object in Miss Minerva’s hand.

  Miss Minerva looked down. She saw a quaint old piece of jewelry, a brooch. Against a background of onyx stood the outline of a tree, with emeralds forming the leaves, rubies the fruit, and a frost of diamonds over all.

  “What is this, Kamaikui?” she asked.

  “Many, many years Mr. Dan have that. One month ago he gives it to a woman down the beach.”

  Miss Minerva’s eyes narrowed. “To the woman they call the Widow of Waikiki?”

  “To her, yes.”

  “How do you happen to have it, Kamaikui?”

  “I pick it up from floor of lanai. Before policemen come.”

  “Very good.” Miss Minerva nodded. “Say nothing of this, Kamaikui. I will attend to the matter.”

  “Yes. Of course.” The woman went out.

  Miss Minerva sat very still, staring down at that odd bit of jewelry in her hand. It must date back to the ’eighties, at least.

  Close above the house sounded the loud whir of an aeroplane. Miss Minerva turned again to the window. A young lieutenant in the air service, in love with a sweet girl on the beach, was accustomed to serenade her thus every morning at dawn. His thoughtfulness was not appreciated by many innocent bystanders, but Miss Minerva’s eyes were sympathetic as she watched him sweep exultantly out, far out, over the harbor.

  Youth and love, the beginning of life. And on that cot down on the lanai, Dan—and the end.

  Chapter 8

  Steamer Day

  Out in the harbor, by the channel entrance, the President Tyler stood motionless as Diamond Head, and from his post near the rail outside his stateroom, John Quincy Winterslip took his first look at Honolulu. He had no feeling of having been here before; this was an alien land. Several miles away he saw the line of piers and unlovely warehouses that marked the waterfront; beyond that lay a vast expanse of brilliant green pierced here and there by the top of a modest skyscraper. Back of the city a range of mountains stood on guard, peaks of crystal blue against the azure sky.

  A trim little launch from Quarantine chugged importantly up to the big liner’s side, and a doctor in a khaki uniform ran briskly up the accommodation ladder to the deck not far from where the boy stood. John Quincy wondered at the man’s vitality. He felt like a spent force himself. The air was moist and heavy, the breeze the ship had stirred in moving gone for ever. The flood of energy that had swept over him in San Francisco was but a happy memory now. He leaned wearily on the rail, staring at the bright tropical landscape before him—and not seeing it at all.

  He saw instead a quiet, well-furnished Boston office where at this very moment the typewriters were clicking amiably and the stock ticker was busily writing the story of another day. In a few hours—there was a considerable difference of time—the market would close and the men he knew would be piling into automobiles and heading for the nearest country club. A round of golf, then a calm, perfectly served dinner, and after that a quiet evening with a book. Life running along as it was meant to go, without rude interruption or disturbing incident; life devoid of ohia wood boxes, attic encounters, unwillingly-witnessed love scenes, cousins with blackbirding pasts. Suddenly John Quincy remembered, this was the morning when he must look Dan Winterslip in the eye and tell him he had been a bit dilatory with his fists. Oh, well—he straightened resolutely—the sooner that was done, the better.

  Harry Jennison came along the deck, smiling and vigorous, clad in spotless white from head to foot. “Here we are,” he cried. “On the threshold of paradise!”

  “Think so?” said John Quincy.

  “Know it,” Jennison answered. “Only place in the world, these islands. You remember what Mark Twain said—”

  “Ever visited Boston?” John Quincy cut in.

  “Once,” replied Jennison briefly. “That’s Punch Bowl Hill back of the town—and Tantalus beyond. Take you up to the summit some day—wonderful view. See that tallest building? The Van Patten Trust Company—my office is on the top floor. Only drawback about getting home—I’ll have to go to work again.”

  “I don’t see how anyone can work in this climate,” John Quincy said.

  “Oh, well, we take it easy. Can’t manage the pace of you mainland people. Every now and then some go-getter from the States comes out here and tries to hustle us.” He laughed. “He dies of disgust and we bury him in a leisurely way. Been down to breakfast?”

  John Quincy accompanied him to the dining saloon. Madame Maynard and Barbara were at the table. The old lady’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled; Barbara, too, was in her gayest mood. The excitement of coming home had made her very happy—or was her happiness all due to that? John Quincy noted her smile of greeting for Jennison, and rather wished he knew less than he did.

  “Prepare for a thrill, John Quincy,” the girl said. “Landing in Hawaii is like landing nowhere else on the globe. Of course, this is a through boat, and it isn’t welcomed as the Matson liners are. But there’ll be a crowd waiting for the Matsonia this morning, and we’ll steal a little of her aloha.”

  “A little of her what?” inquired John Quincy.

  “Aloha—meaning loving welcome. You shall have all my leis, John Quincy. Just to show you how glad Honolulu is you’ve come at last.”

  The boy turned to Madame Maynard. “I suppose this is an old story to you?”

  “Bless you, my boy,” she said. “It’s always new. A hundred and twenty-eight times—yet I’m as thrilled as though I were coming home from college.” She sighed. “A hundred and twenty-eight times. So many of those who once hung leis about my neck are gone forever now. They’ll not be waiting for me—not on this dock.”

  “None of that,” Barbara chided. “Only happy thoughts this morning. It’s steamer day.”

  Nobody seemed hungry, and breakfast was a sketchy affair. John Quincy returned to his cabin to find Bowker
strapping up his luggage.

  “I guess you’re all ready, sir,” said the steward. “I finished that book last night, and you’ll find it in your suitcase. We’ll be moving on to the dock shortly. All good luck to you—and don’t forget about the okolehau.”

  “It’s graven on my memory,” smiled John Quincy. “Here—this is for you.”

  Bowker glanced at the bank-note and pocketed it. “You’re mighty kind, sir,” he remarked feelingly. “That will sort of balance up the dollar each I’ll get from those two missionaries when we reach China—if I’m lucky. Of course, it’s rather distasteful to me to accept anything. From a friend of Tim’s, you know.”

  “Oh, that’s for value received,” said John Quincy, and followed Bowker on deck.

  “There she is,” announced Bowker, pausing by the rail. “Honolulu. The South Seas with a collar on, driving a Ford car. Polynesia with a private still and all the other benefits of the white man’s civilization. We’ll go out at eight to-night, thank heaven.”

  “Paradise doesn’t appeal to you,” suggested John Quincy.

  “No. Nor any other of these bright-colored lands my poor old feet must tread. I’m getting fed up, sir.” He came closer. “I want to hang my hat somewhere and leave it there. I want to buy a little newspaper in some country town and starve to death on the proceeds of running it. What a happy finish! Well, maybe I can manage it, before long.”

  “I hope so,” said John Quincy.

  “I hope so, too,” said Bowker. “Here’s wishing you a happy time in Honolulu. And one other word of warning—don’t linger there.”

  “I don’t intend to,” John Quincy assured him.

  “That’s the talk. It’s one of those places—you know—dangerous. Lotus on the menu every day. The first thing you know, you’ve forgot where you put your trunk. So long, sir.”

  With a wave of the hand, Tim’s friend disappeared down the deck. Amid much confusion, John Quincy took his place in line for the doctor’s inspection, passed the careful scrutiny of an immigration official who finally admitted that maybe Boston was in the Union, and was then left to his own devices and his long, long thoughts.

  The President Tyler was moving slowly toward the shore. Excited figures scurried about her decks, pausing now and then to stare through lifted glasses at the land. John Quincy perceived that early though the hour was, the pier toward which they were heading was alive with people. Barbara came and stood by his side.

  “Poor old Dad,” she said, “he’s been struggling along without me for nine months. This will be a big morning in his life. You’ll like Dad, John Quincy.”

  “I’m sure I shall,” he answered heartily.

  “Dad’s one of the finest—” Jennison joined them. “Harry, I meant to tell the steward to take my luggage ashore when we land.”

  “I told him,” Jennison said. “I tipped him, too.”

  “Thanks,” the girl replied. “I was so excited, I forgot.”

  She leaned eagerly over the rail, peering at the dock. Her eyes were shining. “I don’t see him yet,” she said. They were near enough now to hear the voices of those ashore, gay voices calling flippant greetings. The big ship edged gingerly closer.

  “There’s Aunt Minerva,” cried John Quincy suddenly. That little touch of home in the throng was very pleasant. “Is that your father with her?” He indicated a tall anemic man at Minerva’s side.

  “I don’t see—where—” Barbara began. “Oh—that—why, that’s Uncle Amos!”

  “Oh, is that Amos?” remarked John Quincy, without interest. But Barbara had gripped his arm, and as he turned he saw a wild alarm in her eyes.

  “What do you suppose that means?” she cried. “I don’t see Dad. I don’t see him anywhere.”

  “Oh, he’s in that crowd somewhere—”

  “No, no—you don’t understand! Uncle Amos! I’m—I’m frightened.”

  John Quincy didn’t gather what it was all about, and there was no time to find out. Jennison was pushing ahead through the crowd, making a path for Barbara, and the boy meekly brought up the rear. They were among the first down the plank. Miss Minerva and Amos were waiting at the foot.

  “My dear.” Miss Minerva put her arms about the girl and kissed her gently. She turned to John Quincy. “Well, here you are—”

  There was something lacking in this welcome. John Quincy sensed it at once.

  “Where’s Dad?” Barbara cried.

  “I’ll explain in the car—” Miss Minerva began.

  “No, now! Now! I must know now!”

  The crowd was surging about them, calling happy greetings, the Royal Hawaiian Band was playing a gay tune, carnival was in the air.

  “Your father is dead, my dear,” said Miss Minerva.

  John Quincy saw the girl’s slim figure sway gently, but it was Harry Jennison’s strong arm that caught her.

  For a moment she stood, with Jennison’s arm about her. “All right,” she said. “I’m ready to go home.” And walked like a true Winterslip toward the street.

  Amos melted away into the crowd, but Jennison accompanied them to the car. “I’ll go out with you,” he said to Barbara. She did not seem to hear. The four of them entered the limousine, and in another moment the happy clamor of steamer day was left behind.

  No one spoke. The curtains of the car were drawn, but a warm streak of sunlight fell across John Quincy’s knees. He was a little dazed. Shocking, this news about Cousin Dan. Must have died suddenly—but no doubt that was how things always happened out this way. He glanced at the white stricken face of the girl beside him, and because of her his heart was heavy.

  She laid her cold hand on his. “It’s not the welcome I promised you, John Quincy,” she said softly.

  “Why, my dear girl, I don’t matter now.”

  No other word was spoken on the journey, and when they reached Dan’s house, Barbara and Miss Minerva went immediately upstairs. Jennison disappeared through a doorway at the left; evidently he knew his way about. Haku volunteered to show John Quincy his quarters, so he followed Haku to the second floor.

  When his bags were unpacked, John Quincy went downstairs again. Miss Minerva was waiting for him in the living-room. From beyond the bamboo curtain leading to the lanai came the sound of men’s voices, mumbling and indistinct.

  “Well,” said John Quincy, “how have you been?”

  “Never better,” his aunt assured him.

  “Mother’s been rather worried about you. She’d begun to think you were never coming home.”

  “I’ve begun to think it myself,” Miss Minerva replied.

  He stared at her. “Some of those bonds you left with me have matured. I haven’t known just what you wanted me to do about them.”

  “What,” inquired Miss Minerva, “is a bond?”

  That sort of wild reckless talk never did make a hit with John Quincy. “It’s about time somebody came out here and brought you to your senses,” he remarked.

  “Think so?” said his aunt.

  A sound upstairs recalled John Quincy to the situation. “This was rather sudden—Cousin Dan’s death?” he inquired.

  “Amazingly so.”

  “Well, it seems to me that it would be rather an intrusion—our staying on here now. We ought to go home in a few days. I’d better see about reservations—”

  “You needn’t trouble,” snapped Miss Minerva. “I’ll not stir from here until I see the person who did this brought to justice.”

  “The person who did what?” asked John Quincy.

  “The person who murdered Cousin Dan,” said Miss Minerva.

  John Quincy’s jaw dropped. His face registered a wide variety of emotions. “Good Lord!” he gasped.

  “Oh, you needn’t be so shocked,” said his aunt. “The Winterslip family will still go on.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” remarked John Quincy, “when I stop to think. The things I’ve learned about Cousin Dan. It’s a wonder to me—”

  “Tha
t will do,” said Miss Minerva. “You’re talking like Amos, and that’s no compliment. You didn’t know Dan. I did—and I liked him. I’m going to stay here and do all I can to help run down the murderer. And so are you.”

  “Pardon me. I am not.”

  “Don’t contradict. I intend you shall take an active part in the investigation. The police are rather informal in a small place like this. They’ll welcome your help.”

  “My help! I’m no detective. What’s happened to you, anyhow? Why should you want me to go round hobnobbing with policemen—”

  “For the simple reason that if we’re not careful some rather unpleasant scandal may come out of this. If you’re on the ground you may be able to avert needless publicity. For Barbara’s sake.”

  “No, thank you,” said John Quincy. “I’m leaving for Boston in three days, and so are you. Pack your trunks.”

  Miss Minerva laughed. “I’ve heard your father talk like that,” she told him. “But I never knew him to gain anything by it in the end. Come out on the lanai and I’ll introduce you to a few policemen.”

  John Quincy received this invitation with the contemptuous silence he thought it deserved. But while he was lavishing on it his best contempt, the bamboo curtain parted and the policemen came to him. Jennison was with them.

  “Good morning, Captain Hallet,” said Miss Minerva brightly. “May I present my nephew, Mr. John Quincy Winterslip of Boston.”

  “I’m very anxious to meet Mr. John Quincy Winterslip,” the captain replied.

  “How do you do,” said John Quincy. His heart sank. They’d drag him into this affair if they could.

  “And this, John Quincy,” went on Miss Minerva, “is Mr. Charles Chan, of the Honolulu detective force.”

  John Quincy had thought himself prepared for anything, but—“Mr.—Mr. Chan,” he gasped.

  “Mere words,” said Chan, “can not express my unlimitable delight in meeting a representative of the ancient civilization of Boston.”

  Harry Jennison spoke. “This is an appalling business, Miss Winterslip,” he said. “As perhaps you know, I was your cousin’s lawyer. I was also his friend. Therefore I hope you won’t think I am intruding if I show a keen interest in what is going forward here.”