The House Without a Key

by Earl Der Biggers

  “That,” his aunt told him, “will be decided at another conference. I’m not so sure, John Quincy, that you are the proper person to go. After all, what experience have you had with women of this type?”

  John Quincy was offended. He was a man, and he felt that he could meet and outwit a woman of any type. He said as much.

  Amos described the woman’s house as a small cottage several hundred yards down the beach, and directed the boy how to get there. John Quincy set out.

  Night had fallen over the Island when he reached Kalia Road, a bright silvery night, for the Kona weather was over and the moon traveled a cloudless sky. The scent of plumaria and ginger stole out to him through hedges of flaming hibiscus; the trade winds, blowing across a thousand miles of warm water, still managed a cool touch on his cheek. As he approached what he judged must be the neighborhood of the woman’s house, a flock of Indian myna birds in a spreading algaroba screamed loudly, their harsh voices the only note of discord in that peaceful scene.

  He had some difficulty locating the cottage, which was almost completely hidden under masses of flowering alamander, its blossoms pale yellow in the moonlight. Before the door, a dark fragrant spot under a heavily laden trellis, he paused uncertainly. A rather delicate errand, this was. But he summoned his courage and knocked.

  Only the myna birds replied. John Quincy stood there, growing momentarily more hostile to the Widow of Waikiki. Some huge coarse creature, no doubt, a man’s woman, a good fellow at a party—that kind. Then the door opened and the boy got a shock. For the figure outlined against the light was young and slender, and the face, dimly seen, suggested fragile loveliness.

  “Is this Mrs. Compton?” he inquired.

  “Yeah—I’m Mrs. Compton. What do you want?” John Quincy was sorry she had spoken. For she was, obviously, one of those beauties so prevalent nowadays, the sort whom speech betrays. Her voice recalled the myna birds.

  “My name is John Quincy Winterslip.” He saw her start. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

  “Sure you can. Come in.” She led the way along a low narrow passage into a tiny living-room. A pasty-faced young man with stooped shoulders stood by a table, fondling a cocktail shaker.

  “Steve,” said the woman, “this is Mr. Winterslip. Mr. Leatherbee.”

  Mr. Leatherbee grunted. “Just in time for a little snifter,” he remarked.

  “No, thanks,” John Quincy said. He saw Mrs. Compton take a smoking cigarette from an ash tray, start to convey it to her lips, then, evidently thinking better of it, crush it on the tray.

  “Well,” said Mr. Leatherbee, “your poison’s ready, Arlene.” He proffered a glass.

  She shook her head, slightly annoyed. “No.”

  “No?” Mr. Leatherbee grinned. “The more for little Stevie.” He lifted a glass. “Here’s looking at you, Mr. Winterslip.”

  “Say, I guess you’re Dan’s cousin from Boston,” Mrs. Compton remarked. “He was telling me about you.” She lowered her voice. “I’ve been meaning to get over to your place all day. But it was such a shock—it knocked me flat.”

  “I understand,” John Quincy replied. He glanced at Mr. Leatherbee, who seemed not to have heard of Prohibition. “My business with you, Mrs. Compton, is private.”

  Leatherbee stiffened belligerently. But the woman said: “That’s all right. Steve was just going.”

  Steve hesitated a moment, then went. His hostess accompanied him. John Quincy heard the low monotone of their voices in the distance. There was a combined odor of gin and cheap perfume in the air; the boy wondered what his mother would say if she could see him now. A door slammed, and the woman returned.

  “Well?” she said. John Quincy perceived that her eyes were hard and knowing, like her voice. He waited for her to sit down, then took a chair facing her.

  “You knew my Cousin Dan rather intimately,” he suggested.

  “I was engaged to him,” she answered. John Quincy glanced at her left hand. “He hadn’t come across—I mean, he hadn’t given me a ring, but it was—you know—understood between us.”

  “Then his death is a good deal of a blow to you?”

  She managed a baby stare, full of pathos. “I’ll say it is. Mr. Winterslip was kind to me—he believed in me and trusted me. A lone woman way out here don’t get any too much char—kindness.”

  “When did you see Mr. Winterslip last?”

  “Three or four days ago—last Friday evening, I guess it was.”

  John Quincy frowned. “Wasn’t that rather a long stretch?”

  She nodded. “I’ll tell you the truth. We had a little—misunderstanding. Just a lover’s quarrel, you know. Dan sort of objected to Steve hanging around. Not that he’d any reason to—Steve’s nothing to me—just a weak kid I used to know when I was trouping. I was on the stage—maybe you heard that.”

  “Yes,” said John Quincy. “You hadn’t seen Mr. Winterslip since last Friday. You didn’t go to his house last evening?”

  “I should say not. I got my reputation to think of—you’ve no idea how people talk in a place like this—”

  John Quincy laid the brooch down upon the table. It sparkled in the lamplight—a reading lamp, though the atmosphere was not in the least literary. The baby stare was startled now. “You recognize that, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Why—yes—it’s—I—”

  “Just stick to the truth,” said John Quincy, not unkindly. “It’s an old piece of jewelry that Mr. Winterslip gave you, I believe.”

  “Well—”

  “You’ve been seen wearing it, you know.”

  “Yes, he did give it to me,” she admitted. “The only present I ever got from him. I guess from the look of it Mrs. Noah wore it on the Ark. Kinda pretty, though.”

  “You didn’t visit Mr. Winterslip last night,” persisted John Quincy. “Yet, strangely enough, this brooch was found on the floor not far from his dead body.”

  She drew in her breath sharply. “Say—what are you? A cop?” she asked.

  “Hardly,” John Quincy smiled. “I am here simply to save you, if possible, from the hands of the—er—the cops. If you have any real explanation of this matter, it may not be necessary to call it to the attention of the police.”

  “Oh!” She smiled. “Say, that’s decent of you. Now I will tell you the truth. That about not seeing Dan Winterslip since Friday was bunk. I saw him last night.”

  “Ah—you did? Where?”

  “Right here. Mr. Winterslip gave me that thing about a month ago. Two weeks ago he came to me in a sort of excited way and said he must have it back. It was the only thing he ever gave me and I liked it and those emeralds are valuable—so—well, I stalled a while. I said I was having a new clasp put on it. He kept asking for it, and last night he showed up here and said he just had to have it. Said he’d buy me anything in the stores in place of it. I must say he was pretty het up. So I finally turned it over to him and he took it and went away.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About nine-thirty. He was happy and pleasant and he said I could go to a jewelry store this morning and take my pick of the stock.” She looked pleadingly at John Quincy. “That’s the last I ever saw of him. It’s the truth, so help me.”

  “I wonder,” mused John Quincy.

  She moved nearer. “Say, you’re a nice kid,” she said. “The kind I used to meet in Boston when we played there. The kind that’s got some consideration for a woman. You ain’t going to drag me into this. Think what it would mean—to me.”

  John Quincy did not speak. He saw there were tears in her eyes. “You’ve probably heard things about me,” she went on, “but they ain’t true. You don’t know what I been up against out here. An unprotected woman don’t have much chance anywhere, but on this beach, where men come drifting in from all over the world—I been friendly, that’s my only trouble. I was homesick—oh, God, wasn’t I homesick! I was having a good time back there, and then I fell for Bill Compton and came out he
re with him, and sometimes in the night I’d wake up and remember Broadway was five thousand miles away, and I’d cry so hard I’d wake him. And that made him sore—”

  She paused. John Quincy was impressed by the note of true nostalgia in her voice. He was, suddenly, rather sorry for her.

  “Then Bill’s plane crashed on Diamond Head,” she continued, “and I was all alone. And these black sheep along the beach, they knew I was alone—and broke. And I was homesick for Forty-Second Street, for the old boardinghouse and the old gang and the Automat and the chewing-gum sign, and try-outs at New Haven. So I gave a few parties just to forget, and people began to talk.”

  “You might have gone back,” John Quincy suggested.

  “I know—why didn’t I? I been intending to, right along, but every day out here is just like any other day, and somehow you don’t get round to picking one out—I been drifting—but honest to God if you keep me out of this I’ll go home on the first boat. I’ll get me a job, and—and—If you’ll only keep me out of it. You got a chance now to wreck my life—it’s all up to you—but I know you ain’t going to—”

  She seized John Quincy’s hand in both of hers, and gazed at him pleadingly through her tears. It was the most uncomfortable moment of his life. He looked wildly about the little room, so different from any in the house on Beacon Street. He pulled his hand away.

  “I’ll—I’ll see,” he said, rising hastily. “I’ll think it over.”

  “But I can’t sleep to-night if I don’t know,” she told him.

  “I’ll have to think it over,” he repeated. He turned toward the table in time to see the woman’s slim hand reach out and seize the bit of jewelry. “I’ll take the brooch,” he added.

  She looked up at him. Suddenly John Quincy knew that she had been acting, that his emotions had been falsely played upon, and he felt again that hot rush of blood to the head, that quick surge of anger, he had experienced in Dan Winterslip’s hall. Aunt Minerva had predicted he couldn’t handle a woman of this type. Well, he’d show her—he’d show the world. “Give me that brooch,” he said coldly.

  “It’s mine,” answered the woman stubbornly.

  John Quincy wasted no words; he seized the woman’s wrist. She screamed. A door opened behind them.

  “What’s going on here?” inquired Mr. Leatherbee.

  “Oh, I thought you’d left us,” said John Quincy.

  “Steve! Don’t let him have it,” cried the woman. Steve moved militantly nearer, but there was a trace of caution in his attitude.

  John Quincy laughed. “You stay where you are, Steve,” he advised. “Or I’ll smash that sallow face of yours.” Strange talk for a Winterslip. “Your friend here is trying to hang on to an important bit of evidence in the murder up the beach, and with the utmost reluctance I am forced to use strong-arm methods.” The brooch dropped to the floor; he stooped and picked it up. “Well, I guess that’s about all,” he added. “I’m sorry if you’ve been homesick, Mrs. Compton, but speaking as a Bostonian, I don’t believe Broadway is as glamourous as you picture it. Distance has lent enchantment. Good night.”

  He let himself out, and found his way to Kalakaua Avenue. He had settled one thing to his own satisfaction; Chan must know about the brooch, and at once. Mrs. Compton’s story might be true or not; it certainly needed further investigation by some responsible person.

  John Quincy had approached the cottage by way of Kalia Road; he was planning to return to Dan’s house along the better lighted avenue. Having reached that broad expanse of asphalt, however, he realized that the Reef and Palm Hotel was near at hand. There was his promise to Carlotta Egan—he had said he would look in on her again to-day. As for Chan, he could telephone him from the hotel. He turned in the direction of the Reef and Palm.

  Stumbling through the dark garden, he saw finally the gaunt old hulk of the hotel. Lights of low candle power burned at infrequent intervals on the double-decked veranda. In the huge lobby a few rather shabby-looking guests took their ease. Behind the desk stood—nobody but the Japanese clerk.

  John Quincy was directed to a telephone booth, and his keen Bostonian mind required Nipponese aid in mastering the dial system favored by the Honolulu telephone company. At length he got the police station. Chan was out, but the answering voice promised that he would be told to get in touch with Mr. Winterslip immediately on his return.

  “How much do I owe you?” inquired John Quincy of the clerk.

  “Not a penny,” said a voice, and he turned to find Carlotta Egan at his elbow. He smiled. This was more like it.

  “But I say—you know—I’ve used your telephone—”

  “It’s free,” she said. “Too many things are free out here. That’s why we don’t get rich. It was so kind of you to come again.”

  “Not at all,” he protested. He looked about the room. “Your father—”

  She glanced at the clerk, and led the way out to the lanai at the side. They went to the far end of it, where they could see the light on Diamond Head, and the silvery waters of the Pacific sweeping in to disappear at last beneath the old Reef and Palm.

  “I’m afraid poor Dad’s having a bad time of it,” she said, and her voice broke slightly. “I haven’t been able to see him. They’re holding him down there—as a witness, I believe. There was some talk of bail, but I didn’t listen. We haven’t any money—at least, I didn’t think we had.”

  “You didn’t think—” he began, puzzled.

  She produced a small bit of paper, and put it in his hand. “I want to ask your advice. I’ve been cleaning up Dad’s office, and just before you came I ran across that in his desk.”

  John Quincy stared down at the little pink slip she had given him. By the light of one of the small lamps he saw that it was a check for five thousand dollars, made out to “Bearer” and signed by Dan Winterslip. The date was that of the day before.

  “I say, that looks important, doesn’t it?” John Quincy said. He handed it back to her, and thought a moment. “By gad—it is important. It seems to me it’s pretty conclusive evidence of your father’s innocence. If he had that, his business with Cousin Dan must have come to a successful end, and it isn’t likely he would—er—do away with the man who signed it and complicate the cashing of it.”

  The girl’s eyes shone. “Just the way I reasoned. But I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Your father has engaged a lawyer, of course.”

  “Yes, but a rather poor one. The only kind we can afford. Should I turn this over to him?”

  “No—wait a minute. Any chance of seeing your father soon?”

  “Yes. It’s been arranged I’m to visit him in the morning.”

  John Quincy nodded. “Better talk with him before you do anything,” he advised. He had a sudden recollection of Egan’s face when he refused to explain his business with Dan Winterslip. “Take this check with you and ask your father what he wants done with it. Point out to him that it’s vital evidence in his favor.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s the best plan,” the girl agreed. “Will—will you sit down a moment?”

  “Well.” John Quincy recalled Miss Minerva waiting impatiently for news. “Just a moment. I want to know how you’re getting on. Any big arithmetical problems come up yet?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. It really isn’t so bad, the work. We haven’t many guests, you know. I could be quite happy—if it weren’t for poor Dad.” She sighed. “Ever since I can remember,” she added, “my happiness has had an if in it.”

  He led her on to speak about herself, there in the calm night by that romantic beach. Through her talk flashed little pictures of her motherless childhood on this exotic shore, of a wearing fight against poverty and her father’s bitter struggle to send her to school on the mainland, to give her what he considered her proper place in the world. Here was a girl far different from any he had met on Beacon Street, and John Quincy found pleasure in her talk.

  Finally he forced himself to leav
e. As they walked along the balcony they encountered one of the guests, a meek little man with stooped shoulders. Even at that late hour he wore a bathing suit.

  “Any luck, Mr. Saladine?” the girl inquired.

  “Luck ith againth me,” he lisped, and passed hastily on.

  Carlotta Egan laughed softly. “Oh, I really shouldn’t,” she repented at once. “The poor man.”

  “What’s his trouble?” asked John Quincy.

  “He’s a tourist—a business man,” she said. “Des Moines, or some place like that. And he’s had the most appalling accident. He’s lost his teeth.”

  “His teeth!” repeated John Quincy.

  “Yes. Like so many things in this world, they were false. He got into a battle with a roller out by the second raft, and they disappeared. Since then he spends all his time out there, peering down into the water by day, and diving down and feeling about by night. One of the tragic figures of history,” she added.

  John Quincy laughed.

  “That’s the most tragic part of it,” the girl continued. “He’s the joke of the beach. But he goes on hunting, so serious. Of course, it is serious for him.”

  They passed through the public room to the front door. Mr. Saladine’s tragedy slipped at once from John Quincy’s mind.

  “Good night,” he said. “Don’t forget about the check, when you see your father to-morrow. I’ll look in on you during the day.”

  “It was so good of you to come,” she said. Her hand was in his. “It has helped me along—tremendously.”

  “Don’t you worry. Happy days are not far off. Happy days without an if. Hold the thought!”

  “I’ll hold it,” she promised.

  “We’ll both hold it.” It came to him that he was also holding her hand. He dropped it hastily. “Good night,” he repeated, and fled through the garden.

  In the living-room of Dan’s house he was surprised to find Miss Minerva and Charlie Chan sitting together, solemnly staring at each other. Chan rose hurriedly at his entrance.

  “Hello,” said John Quincy. “I see you have a caller.”

  “Where in the world have you been?” snapped Miss Minerva. Evidently entertaining Chan had got a bit on her nerves.