“Well—I—” John Quincy hesitated.
“Speak out,” said Miss Minerva. “Mr. Chan knows everything.”
“Most flattering,” grinned Chan. “Some things are not entirely well-known to me. But about your call on Widow of Waikiki I learn soon after door receives you.”
“The devil you did,” said John Quincy.
“Simple enough,” Chan went on. “Study human people, as I relate to you. Compton lady was friend to Mr. Dan Winterslip. Mr. Leatherbee rival friend. Enter jealous feelings. Since morning both of these people are under watchful regard of Honolulu police. Into the scene, you walk. I am notified and fly to beach.”
“Ah—does he also know—” began John Quincy.
“About the brooch?” finished Miss Minerva. “Yes—I’ve confessed everything. And he’s been kind enough to forgive me.”
“But not nice thing to do,” added Chan. “Humbly begging pardon to mention it. All cards should repose on table when police are called upon.”
“Yes,” said Miss Minerva, “he forgave me, but I have been gently chided. I have been made to feel, as he puts it, most naughty.”
“So sorry,” bowed Chan.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” said John Quincy, “I was going to tell Mr. Chan the whole story at once.” He turned to him. “I’ve already tried to reach you by telephone at the station. When I left the woman’s cottage—”
“Police affairs forbid utmost courtesy,” interrupted Chan. “I cut in to remark from the beginning, if you will please do so.”
“Oh, yes,” smiled John Quincy. “Well, the woman herself let me in, and showed me into her little living-room. When I got there this fellow Leatherbee was mixing cocktails by the table—”
Haku appeared at the door. “Mr. Charlie Chan wanted by telephone,” he announced.
Chan apologized and hastened out.
“I intend to tell everything,” John Quincy warned his aunt.
“I shan’t interfere,” she answered. “He has been sitting here looking at me more in sorrow than in anger for the better part of an hour, and I’ve made up my mind to one thing. I shall have no more secrets from the police.”
Chan reentered the room. “As I was saying,” John Quincy began, “this fellow Leatherbee was standing by the table, and—”
“Most sorry,” said Chan, “but the remainder of that interesting recital is to be told at the station-house.”
“At the station-house!” cried John Quincy.
“Precisely the fact. I am presuming you do me the great honor to come with me to that spot. The man Leatherbee is apprehended aboard boat Niagara on verge of sailing to Australia. Woman are also apprehended in act of tearful farewell. Both now relax at police station.”
“I thought so,” said John Quincy.
“One more amazing fact comes into light,” added Chan. “In pocket of Leatherbee is the page ruthlessly extracted from guest book. Kindly procure your hat. Outside I have waiting for me one Ford automobile.”
Chapter 12
Tom Brade the Blackbirder
In Hallet’s room at headquarters they found the Captain of Detectives seated grimly behind his desk staring at two reluctant visitors. One of the visitors, Mr. Stephen Leatherbee, stared back with a look of sullen defiance. Mrs. Arlene Compton, late of Broadway and the Automat, was dabbing at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. John Quincy perceived that she had carelessly allowed tears to play havoc with her make-up.
“Hello, Charlie,” said Hallet. “Mr. Winterslip, I’m glad you came along. As you may have heard, we’ve just pulled this young man off the Niagara. He seemed inclined to leave us. We found this in his pocket.”
He put into Chan’s hand a time-yellowed page obviously from Dan Winterslip’s guest book. John Quincy and Chan bent over it together. The inscription was written in an old-fashioned hand, and the ink was fading fast. It ran:
“In Hawaii all things are perfect, none more so than the hospitality I have enjoyed in this house.—Joseph E. Gleason, 124 Little Bourke Street, Melbourne, Victoria.”
John Quincy turned away, shocked. No wonder that page had been ripped out! Evidently Mr. Gleason had not enjoyed the privilege of studying A. S. Hill’s book on the principles of rhetoric. How could one thing be more perfect than another?
“Before I take a statement from these people,” Hallet was saying, “what’s all this about a brooch?”
John Quincy laid the piece of jewelry on the captain’s desk. He explained that it had been given to Mrs. Compton by Dan Winterslip, and told of its being discovered on the floor of the lanai.
“When was it found?” demanded the captain, glaring his disapproval.
“Most regrettable misunderstanding,” put in Chan hastily. “Now completely wiped out. The littlest said, sooner repairs are made. Mr. Winterslip has already tonight examined this woman—”
“Oh, he has, has he!” Hallet turned angrily on John Quincy. “Just who is conducting this case?”
“Well,” began John Quincy uncomfortably, “it seemed best to the family—”
“Damn the family!” Hallet exploded. “This affair is in my hands—”
“Please,” broke in Chan soothingly. “Waste of time to winnow that out. Already I have boldness to offer suitable rebukes.”
“Well, you talked with the woman, then,” said Hallet. “What did you get out of her?”
“Say, listen,” put in Mrs. Compton. “I want to take back anything I told this bright-eyed boy.”
“Lied to him, eh?” said Hallet.
“Why not? What right did he have to question me?” Her voice became wheedling. “I wouldn’t lie to a cop,” she added.
“You bet your life you wouldn’t,” Hallet remarked. “Not if you know what’s good for you. However, I want to hear what you told this amateur detective. Sometimes lies are significant. Go on, Winterslip.”
John Quincy was deeply annoyed. What was this mix-up he had let himself in for, anyhow? He had a notion to rise, and with a cold bow, leave the room. Something told him, however, that he couldn’t get away with it.
Very much on his dignity, he repeated the woman’s story to him. Winterslip had come to her cottage the night before to make a final appeal for the brooch. On his promise to replace it with something else, she had given it up. He had taken it and left her at nine-thirty.
“That was the last she saw of him,” finished John Quincy.
Hallet smiled grimly. “So she told you, at any rate. But she admits she was lying. If you’d had the sense to leave this sort of thing to the proper people—” He wheeled on the woman. “You were lying, weren’t you?”
She nodded nonchalantly. “In a way. Dan did leave my cottage at nine-thirty—or a little later. But I went with him—to his house. Oh, it was perfectly proper. Steve went along.”
“Oh, yes—Steve.” Hallet glanced at Mr. Leatherbee, who did not appear quite the ideal chaperon. “Now, young woman, go back to the beginning. Nothing but the truth.”
“So help me,” said Mrs. Compton. She attempted a devastating smile. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Captain—you know I wouldn’t. I realize you’re a big man out here, and—”
“Give me your story,” cut in Hallet coldly.
“Sure. Dan dropped into my place for a chat last night about nine, and he found Mr. Leatherbee there. He was jealous as sin, Dan was—honest to God, I don’t know why. Me and Steve are just pals—eh, Steve?”
“Pals, that’s all,” said Steve.
“But anyhow, Dan flew off the handle, and we had one grand blow-up. I tried to explain Steve was just stopping over on his way to Australia, and Dan wants to know what’s detaining him. So Steve tells about how he lost all his money at bridge on the boat coming out here. ‘Will you move on,’ says Dan, ‘if I pay your passage?’ And Steve answers he will, like a shot. Am I getting this straight, Steve?”
“Absolutely,” approved Mr. Leatherbee. “It’s just as she says, Captain. Winterslip offered to give—loan me
passage money. It was only a loan. And I agreed to sail on the Niagara to-night. He said he had a little cash in his safe at the house, and invited Arlene and me to go back with him—”
“Which we did,” said Arlene. “Dan opened the safe and took out a roll of bills. He peeled off three hundred dollars. You didn’t often see him in that frame of mind—but as I was saying, he gives the money to Steve. Then Steve begins to beef a little—yes, you did, Steve—and wants to know what he’s going to do in Australia. Says he don’t know a soul down there and he’ll just plain starve. Dan was sore at first, then he laughs a nasty little laugh and goes over and tears that there page out of the guest book and gives it to Steve. ‘Look him up and tell him you’re a friend of mine,’ he says. ‘Maybe he’ll give you a job. The name is Gleason. I’ve disliked him for twenty years, though he don’t know that!’”
“A dirty dig at me,” Leatherbee explained. “I took the loan and this Gleason’s address and we started to go. Winterslip said he wanted to talk to Arlene, so I came away alone. That was about ten o’clock.”
“Where did you go?” Hallet asked.
“I went back to my hotel downtown. I had to pack.”
“Back to your hotel, eh? Can you prove it?”
Leatherbee considered. “I don’t know. The boy at the desk may remember when I came in, though I didn’t stop there for my key—I had it with me. Anyhow, I didn’t see Winterslip after that. I just went ahead with my preparations to sail on the Niagara, and I must say you’ve got your nerve—”
“Never mind that!” Hallet turned to the woman. “And after Leatherbee left—what happened then?”
“Well, Dan started in on that brooch again,” she said. “It made me sore, too—I never did like a tightwad. Besides, my nerves was all on edge. I’m funny that way, rows get me all upset. I like everybody pleasant around me. He went on arguing, so finally I ripped off the brooch and threw it at him, and it rolled away under the table somewhere. Then he said he was sorry, and that was when he offered to replace it with something more up-to-date. The best money could buy—that was what he promised. Pretty soon we was friends again—just as good friends as ever when I came away, about ten-fifteen. His last words was that we’d look round the jewelry stores this morning. I ask you, Captain, is it reasonable to think I’d have anything to do with murdering a man who was in a buying mood like that?”
Hallet laughed. “So you left him at ten-fifteen—and went home alone?”
“I did. And when I saw him last he was alive and well—I’ll swear to that on a stack of Bibles as high as the Times Building. Gee, don’t I wish I was safe on Broadway to-night!”
Hallet thought for a moment. “Well, we’ll look into all this. You can both go—I’m not going to hold you at present. But I expect you both to remain in Honolulu until this affair is cleared up, and I advise you not to try any funny business. You’ve seen to-night what chance you’ve got to get away.”
“Oh, that’s all right.” The woman stood, looking her relief. “We’ve got no reason to beat it, have we, Steve?”
“None in the world,” agreed Steve. His facetious manner returned. “Speaking for myself,” he added, “innocent is my middle-name.”
“Good night, all,” said Mrs. Compton, and they went out.
Hallet sat staring at the brooch. “A pretty straight story,” he remarked, looking at Chan.
“Nice and neat,” grinned the Chinese man.
“If true.” Hallet shrugged his shoulders. “Well, for the present, I’m willing to believe it.” He turned to John Quincy. “Now, Mr. Winterslip,” he said severely, “I want it understood that any other evidence your family digs up—”
“Oh, that’s all right,” interrupted the boy. “We’ll turn it over at once. I’ve already given to Chan the newspaper my cousin was reading that night he wrote the letter to Roger Winterslip.”
Chan took the paper from his pocket. “Such a busy evening,” he explained, “the journal was obscure in my mind. Thanks for the recollection.” He called to his chief’s attention the mutilated corner.
“Look into that,” said Hallet.
“Before sleeping,” promised Chan. “Mr. Winterslip, we pursue similar paths. The honor of your company in my humble vehicle would pleasure me deeply.” Once in the car on the deserted street, he spoke again. “The page ripped from guest book, the brooch lying silent on floor. Both are now followed into presence of immovable stone wall. We sway about, looking for other path.”
“Then you think those two were telling the truth?” John Quincy asked.
“As to that, I do not venture to remark,” Chan replied.
“How about those psychic powers?” inquired John Quincy.
Chan smiled. “Psychic powers somewhat drowsy just now,” he admitted. “Need prodding into wakefulness.”
“Look here,” said John Quincy, “there’s no need for you to take me out to Waikiki. Just drop me on King Street, and I’ll get a trolley.”
“Making humble suggestion,” Chan replied, “is it not possible you will accompany me to newspaper rooms, where we set out on different path?”
John Quincy looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past eleven. “I’ll be glad to, Charlie,” he said.
Chan beamed with pleasure. “Greatly honored by your friendly manner,” he remarked. He turned into a side street. “Newspaper of this nature burst out at evening, very quiet now. Somebody may loiter in rooms, if we have happy luck.”
They had just that, for the building of the evening journal was open, and in the city room an elderly man with a green shade over his eyes hammered on a typewriter.
“Hello, Charlie,” he said cordially.
“Hello, Pete. Mr. Winterslip of Boston, I have all the honor to present this Pete Mayberry. For many years he explore waterfront ferreting for whatever news are hiding there.”
The elderly man rose and removed his eye-shade, revealing a pleasant twinkle. He was evidently interested to meet a Winterslip.
“We pursue,” continued Chan, “one copy of paper marked June sixteen, present year. If you have no inclination for objecting.”
Mayberry laughed. “Go to it, Charlie. You know where the files are.”
Chan bowed and disappeared. “Your first appearance out here, Mr. Winterslip?” inquired the newspaperman.
John Quincy nodded. “I’ve only just got here,” he said, “but I can see it’s a rather intriguing place.”
“You’ve said it,” smiled Mayberry. “Forty-six years ago I came out from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to visit relatives. I’ve been in the newspaper game here ever since—most of the time on the waterfront. There’s a lifework for you!”
“You must have seen some changes,” remarked John Quincy inanely.
Mayberry nodded. “For the worse. I knew Honolulu in the glamourous days of its isolation, and I’ve watched it fade into an eighth carbon copy of Babbittville, U.S.A. The waterfront’s just a waterfront now—but once, my boy! Once it oozed romance at every pore.”
Chan returned, carrying a paper. “Much to be thankful for,” he said to Mayberry. “Your kindness are quite overwhelming—”
“Anything doing?” asked Mayberry eagerly.
Chan shook his head. “Presently speaking, no. Our motions just now must be blackly clouded in secrecy.”
“Well,” said the reporter, “when it comes time to roll them clouds away, don’t forget me.”
“Impossibility,” protested Chan. “Good night.”
They left Mayberry bending over his typewriter, and at Chan’s suggestion went to the All American Restaurant, where he ordered two cups of “your inspeakable coffee.” While they waited to be served, he spread out on the table his complete copy of the newspaper, and laying the torn page on its counterpart, carefully removed the upper right-hand corner.
“The missing fragment,” he explained. For a time he studied it thoughtfully, and finally shook his head. “I apprehend nothing to startle,” he admitted. He handed it acro
ss the table. “If you will condescend greatly—”
John Quincy took the bit of newspaper. On one side was the advertisement of a Japanese dealer in shirtings who wrote his own publicity. Any one might carry off, he said, six yards for the price of five. John Quincy laughed aloud.
“Ah,” said Chan, “you are by rights mirthful. Kikuchi, purveyor of skirting cloth, seize on grand English language and make it into a jumble. On that side are nothing to detain us. But humbly hinting you reverse the fragment—”
John Quincy reversed it. The other side was a part of the shipping page. He read it carefully, news of sailings and arrivals: there would be places for five passengers to the Orient on the Shinyo Maru, leaving Wednesday; the Wilhelmina was six hundred and forty miles east of Makupuu Point; the brig Mary Jane from the Treaty Ports—
John Quincy started, and caught his breath. A small item in tiny print had met his eye.
“Among the passengers who will arrive here on the Sonoma from Australia a week from Saturday are: Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Macan Brade, of Calcutta—”
John Quincy sat staring at the unwashed window of the All American Restaurant. His mind went back to the deck of the President Tyler, to a lean old missionary telling a tale of a bright morning on Apiang, a grave under a palm tree. “Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Macan Brade, of Calcutta.” He heard again the missionary’s high-pitched voice. “A callous brute, a pirate and adventurer. Tom Brade, the blackbirder.”
But Brade had been buried in a long pine box on Apiang. Even at the Crossroads of the Pacific, his path and that of Dan Winterslip could hardly have crossed again.
The waiter brought the coffee. Chan said nothing, watching John Quincy closely. Finally he spoke: “You have much to tell me.”
John Quincy looked around quickly; he had forgotten Chan’s presence.
His dilemma was acute. Must he here in this soiled restaurant in a distant town reveal to this man that ancient blot on the Winterslip name? What would Aunt Minerva say? Well, only a short time ago she had remarked that she was resolved to have no more secrets from the police. However, there was family pride—
The House Without a Key Page 13