The House Without a Key

by Earl Der Biggers

  Egan’s eyes flashed. “Of course,” he cried bitterly. “Of course I’m going with you. You’re all against me, the whole town is against me, I’ve been sneered at and belittled for twenty years. Because I was poor. An outcast, my daughter humiliated, not good enough to associate with these New England blue-bloods—these thin-lipped Puritans with a touch of sun—”

  At sound of that familiar phrase, John Quincy sat up. Where, where—oh, yes, on the Oakland ferry—

  “Never mind that,” Hallet was saying. “I’ll give you one last chance. Will you tell me what I want to know?”

  “I will not,” cried Egan.

  “All right. Then come along.”

  “Am I under arrest?” asked Egan.

  “I didn’t say that,” replied Hallet, suddenly cautious. “The investigation is young yet. You are withholding much needed information, and I believe that after you’ve spent a few hours at the station, you’ll change your mind and talk. In fact, I’m sure of it. I haven’t any warrant, but your position will be a lot more dignified if you come willingly without one.”

  Egan considered a moment. “I fancy you’re right,” he said. “I have certain orders to give the servants, if you don’t mind—”

  Hallet nodded. “Make it snappy. Charlie will go with you.”

  Egan and Chan disappeared. The captain, John Quincy and Jennison went out and sat down in the public room. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen—

  Jennison glanced at his watch. “See here, Hallet,” he said. “The man’s making a monkey of you—”

  Hallet reddened, and stood up. At that instant Egan and Chan came down the big-open stairway at one side of the room. Hallet went up to the Englishman.

  “Say, Egan—what are you doing? Playing for time?”

  Egan smiled. “That’s precisely what I’m doing,” he replied. “My daughter’s coming in this morning on the Matsonia—the boat ought to be at the dock now. She’s been at school on the mainland, and I haven’t seen her for nine months. You’ve done me out of the pleasure of meeting her, but in a few minutes—”

  “Nothing doing,” cried Hallet. “Now you get your hat. I’m pau.”

  Egan hesitated a moment, then slowly took his battered old straw hat from the desk. The five men walked through the blooming garden toward Hallet’s car. As they emerged into the street, a taxi drew up to the curb. Egan ran forward, and the girl John Quincy had last seen at the gateway to San Francisco leaped out into the Englishman’s arms.

  “Dad—where were you?” she cried.

  “Cary, darling,” he said. “I was so frightfully sorry—I meant to be at the dock but I was detained. How are you, my dear?”

  “I’m fine, Dad—but—where are you going?” She looked at Hallet; John Quincy remained discreetly in the background.

  “I’ve—I’ve a little business in the city, my dear,” Egan said. “I’ll be home presently, I fancy. If—if I shouldn’t be, I leave you in charge.”

  “Why, Dad—”

  “Don’t worry,” he added pleadingly. “That’s all I can say now, Cary. Don’t worry, my dear.” He turned to Hallet. “Shall we go, Captain?”

  The two policemen, Jennison and Egan entered the car. John Quincy stepped forward. The girl’s big perplexed eyes met his.

  “You?” she cried.

  “Coming, Mr. Winterslip?” inquired Hallet.

  John Quincy smiled at the girl. “You were quite right,” he said. “I haven’t needed that hat.”

  She looked up at him. “But you’re not wearing any at all. That’s hardly wise—”

  “Mr. Winterslip!” barked Hallet.

  John Quincy turned. “Oh, pardon me, Captain,” he said. “I forgot to mention it, but I’m leaving you here. Good-by.”

  Hallet grunted and started his car. While the girl paid for her taxi out of a tiny purse, John Quincy picked up her suitcase.

  “This time,” he said, “I insist on carrying it.” They stepped through the gateway into the garden that might have been Eden on one of its better days. “You didn’t tell me we might meet in Honolulu,” the boy remarked.

  “I wasn’t sure we would.” She glanced at the shabby old hotel. “You see, I’m not exactly a social favorite out here.” John Quincy could think of no reply, and they mounted the crumbling steps. The public room was quite deserted. “And why have we met?” the girl continued. “I’m fearfully puzzled. What was Dad’s business with those men? One of them was Captain Hallet—a policeman—”

  John Quincy frowned. “I’m not so sure your father wants you to know.”

  “But I’ve got to know, that’s obvious. Please tell me.”

  John Quincy relinquished the suitcase, and brought forward a chair. The girl sat down.

  “It’s this way,” he began. “My Cousin Dan was murdered in the night.”

  Her eyes were tragic. “Oh—poor Barbara!” she cried. That’s right, he mustn’t forget Barbara. “But Dad—oh, go on please—”

  “Your father visited Cousin Dan last night at eleven, and he refuses to say why. There are other things he refuses to tell.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I was so happy on the boat,” she said. “I knew it couldn’t last.”

  He sat down. “Nonsense. Everything will come out all right. Your father is probably shielding someone—”

  She nodded. “Of course. But if he’s made up his mind not to talk, he just simply won’t talk. He’s odd that way. They may keep him down there, and I shall be all alone—”

  “Not quite alone,” John Quincy told her.

  “No, no,” she said. “I’ve warned you. We’re not the sort the best people care to know—”

  “The more fools they,” cut in the boy. “I’m John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston. And you—”

  “Carlotta Maria Egan,” she answered. “You see, my mother was half-Portuguese. The other half was Scotch-Irish—my father’s English. This is the melting pot out here, you know.” She was silent for a moment. “My mother was very beautiful,” she added wistfully. “So they tell me—I never knew.”

  John Quincy was touched. “I thought how beautiful she must have been,” he said gently. “That day I met you on the ferry.”

  The girl dabbed at her eyes with an absurd little handkerchief, and stood up. “Well,” she remarked, “this is just another thing that has to be faced. Another call for courage—I must meet it.” She smiled. “The lady manager of the Reef and Palm. Can I show you a room?”

  “I say, it’ll be a rather stiff job, won’t it?” John Quincy rose too.

  “Oh, I shan’t mind. I’ve helped Dad before. Only one thing troubles me—bills and all that. I’ve no head for arithmetic.”

  “That’s all right—I have,” replied John Quincy. He stopped. Wasn’t he getting in a little deep?

  “How wonderful,” the girl said.

  “Why, not at all,” John Quincy protested. “It’s my line, at home.” Home! Yes, he had a home, he recalled. “Bonds and interest and all that sort of thing. I’ll drop in later in the day to see how you’re getting on.” He moved away in a mild panic. “I’d better be going now,” he added.

  “Of course.” She followed him to the door. “You’re altogether too kind. Shall you be in Honolulu long?”

  “That depends,” John Quincy said. “I’ve made up my mind to one thing. I shan’t stir from here until this mystery about Cousin Dan is solved. And I’m going to do everything in my power to help in solving it.”

  “I’m sure you’re very clever, too,” she told him.

  He shook his head. “I wouldn’t say that. But I intend to make the effort of my life. I’ve got a lot of incentives for seeing this affair through.” Something else trembled on his tongue. Better not say it. Oh, Lord, he was saying it. “You’re one of them,” he added, and clattered down the stairs.

  “Do be careful,” called the girl. “Those steps are even worse than they were when I left. Just another thing to be repaired—some day
—when our ship comes in.”

  He left her smiling wistfully in the doorway and hurrying through the garden, stepped out on Kalakaua Avenue. The blazing sun beat down on his defenseless head. Gorgeous trees flaunted scarlet banners along his path, tall cocoanut palms swayed above him at the touch of the friendly trades; not far away rainbow-tinted waters lapped a snowy beach. A sweet land—all of that.

  Did he wish that Agatha Parker were there to see it with him? Pursuing the truth further, as Charlie Chan would put it, he did not.

  Chapter 10

  A Newspaper Ripped in Anger

  When John Quincy got back to the living-room he found Miss Minerva pacing up and down with the light of battle in her eyes. He selected a large, comfortable-looking chair and sank into it.

  “Anything the matter?” he inquired. “You seem disturbed.”

  “I’ve just been having a lot of pilikia,” she announced.

  “What’s that—another native drink?” he said with interest. “Could I have some too?”

  “Pilikia means trouble,” she translated. “Several reporters have been here, and you’d hardly credit the questions they asked.”

  “About Cousin Dan, eh?” John Quincy nodded. “I can imagine.”

  “However, they got nothing out of me. I took good care of that.”

  “Go easy,” advised John Quincy. “A fellow back home who had a divorce case in his family was telling me that if you’re not polite to the newspaper boys they just plain break your heart.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Miss Minerva. “I was diplomatic, of course. I think I handled them rather well, under the circumstances. They were the first reporters I’d ever met—though I’ve had the pleasure of talking with gentlemen from the Transcript. What happened at the Reef and Palm Hotel?”

  John Quincy told her—in part.

  “Well, I shouldn’t be surprised if Egan turned out to be guilty,” she commented. “I’ve made a few inquiries about him this morning, and he doesn’t appear to amount to much. A sort of glorified beachcomber.”

  “Nonsense,” objected John Quincy. “Egan’s a gentleman. Just because he doesn’t happen to have prospered is no reason for condemning him without a hearing.”

  “He’s had a hearing,” snapped Miss Minerva. “And it seems he’s been mixed up in something he’s not precisely proud of. There, I’ve gone and ended a sentence with a preposition. Probably all this has upset me more than I realize.”

  John Quincy smiled. “Cousin Dan,” he reminded her, “was also mixed up in a few affairs he could hardly have looked back on with pride. No, Aunt Minerva, I feel Hallet is on the wrong trail there. It’s just as Egan’s daughter said—”

  She glanced at him quickly. “Oh—so Egan has a daughter?”

  “Yes, and a mighty attractive girl. It’s a confounded shame to put this thing on her.”

  “Humph,” said Miss Minerva.

  John Quincy glanced at his watch. “Good Lord—it’s only ten o’clock!” A great calm had settled over the house; there was no sound save the soft lapping of waves on the beach outside. “What, in heaven’s name, do you do out here?”

  “Oh, you’ll become accustomed to it shortly,” Miss Minerva answered. “At first, you just sit and think. After a time, you just sit.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” said John Quincy sarcastically.

  “That’s the odd part of it,” his aunt replied, “it is. One of the things you think about, at first, is going home. When you stop thinking, that naturally slips your mind.”

  “We gathered that,” John Quincy told her.

  “You’ll meet a man on the beach,” said Miss Minerva, “who stopped over between boats to have his laundry done. That was twenty years ago, and he’s still here.”

  “Probably they haven’t finished his laundry,” suggested John Quincy, yawning openly. “Ho, hum. I’m going up to my room to change, and after that I believe I’ll write a few letters.” He rose with an effort and went to the door. “How’s Barbara?” he asked.

  Miss Minerva shook her head. “Dan was all the poor child had,” she said. “She’s taken it rather hard. You won’t see her for some time, and when you do—the least said about all this, the better.”

  “Why, naturally,” agreed John Quincy, and went upstairs.

  After he had bathed and put on his whitest, thinnest clothes, he explored the desk that stood near his bed and found it well-supplied with note paper. Languidly laying out a sheet, he began to write.

  “Dear Agatha: Here I am in Honolulu and outside my window I can hear the lazy swish of waters lapping the famous beach of—”

  Lazy, indeed. John Quincy had a feeling for words. He stopped and stared at an agile little cloud flitting swiftly through the sky—got up from his chair to watch it disappear over Diamond Head. On his way back to the desk he had to pass the bed. What inviting beds they had out here! He lifted the mosquito netting and dropped down for a moment—

  Haku hammered on the door at one o’clock, and that was how John Quincy happened to be present at lunch. His aunt was already at the table when he staggered in.

  “Cheer up,” she smiled. “You’ll become acclimated soon. Of course, even then you’ll want your nap just after lunch every day.”

  “I will not,” he answered, but there was no conviction in his tone.

  “Barbara asked me to tell you how sorry she is not to be with you. She’s a sweet girl, John Quincy.”

  “She’s all of that. Give her my love, won’t you?”

  “Your love?” His aunt looked at him. “Do you mean that? Barbara’s only a second cousin—”

  He laughed. “Don’t waste your time match-making, Aunt Minerva. Some one has already spoken for Barbara.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “Jennison. He seems like a fine fellow, too.”

  “Handsome, at any rate,” Miss Minerva admitted. They ate in silence for a time. “The coroner and his friends were here this morning,” said Miss Minerva presently.

  “That so?” replied John Quincy. “Any verdict?”

  “Not yet. I believe they’re to settle on that later. By the way, I’m going downtown immediately after lunch to do some shopping for Barbara. Care to come along?”

  “No, thanks,” John Quincy said. “I must go upstairs and finish my letters.”

  But when he left the luncheon table, he decided the letters could wait. He took a heavy volume with a South Sea title from Dan’s library, and went out onto the lanai. Presently Miss Minerva appeared, smartly dressed in white linen.

  “I’ll return as soon as I’m pau,” she announced.

  “What is this pau?” John Quincy inquired.

  “Pau means finished—through.”

  “Good Lord,” John Quincy said. “Aren’t there enough words in the English language for you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she answered, “a little Hawaiian sprinkled in makes a pleasant change. And when one reaches my age, John Quincy, one is eager for a change. Good-by.”

  She left him to his book and the somnolent atmosphere of Dan’s lanai. Sometimes he read, colorful tales of other islands farther south. Sometimes he sat and thought. Sometimes he just sat. The blazing afternoon wore on; presently the beach beyond Dan’s garden was gay with bathers, sunburned men and girls, pretty girls in brief and alluring costumes. Their cries as they dared the surf were exultant, happy. John Quincy was keen to try these notable waters, but it didn’t seem quite the thing—not just yet, with Dan Winterslip lying in that room upstairs.

  Miss Minerva reappeared about five, flushed and—though she well knew it was not the thing for one of her standing in the Back Bay—perspiring. She carried an evening paper in her hand.

  “Any news?” inquired John Quincy.

  She sat down. “Nothing but the coroner’s verdict. The usual thing—person or persons unknown. But as I was reading the paper in the car, I had a sudden inspiration.”

  “Good for you. What was it?”

  Haku appear
ed at the door leading to the living-room. “You ring, miss?” he said.

  “I did. Haku, what becomes of the old newspapers in this house?”

  “Take and put in a closet beside kitchen,” the man told her.

  “See if you can find me—no, never mind. I’ll look myself.”

  She followed Haku into the living-room. In a few minutes she returned alone, a newspaper in her hand.

  “I have it,” she announced triumphantly. “The evening paper of Monday, June sixteenth—the one Dan was reading the night he wrote that letter to Roger. And look, John Quincy—one corner has been torn from the shipping page!”

  “Might have been accidental,” suggested John Quincy languidly.

  “Nonsense!” she said sharply. “It’s a clue, that’s what it is. The item that disturbed Dan was on that missing corner of the page.”

  “Might have been, at that,” he admitted. “What are you going to do—”

  “You’re the one that’s going to do it,” she cut in. “Pull yourself together and go into town. It’s two hours until dinner. Give this paper to Captain Hallet—or better still, to Charlie Chan. I am impressed by Mr. Chan’s intelligence.”

  John Quincy laughed. “Damned clever, these Chinese!” he quoted. “You don’t mean to say you’ve fallen for that bunk. They seem clever because they’re so different.”

  “We’ll see about that. The chauffeur’s gone on an errand for Barbara, but there’s a roadster in the garage—”

  “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, Carlotta 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.