The House Without a Key

by Earl Der Biggers

  When they reached the police station, Hallet and the prosecutor seemed in high good humor. Kaohla sat in a corner, hopeless and defeated; John Quincy saw at a glance that the boy’s secret was his no longer.

  “Introducing Mr. Brade,” said Chan.

  “Ah,” cried Hallet, “we’re glad to see you, Mr. Brade. We’d been getting pretty worried about you.”

  “Really, sir,” said Brade, “I am completely at a loss—”

  “Sit down,” ordered Hallet. The man sank into a chair. He too had a hopeless, defeated air. No one can appear more humble and beaten than a British civil servant, and this man had known thirty-six years of baking under the Indian sun, looked down on by the military, respected by none. Not only his mustache but his whole figure drooped “in saddened mood.” Yet now and then, John Quincy noted, he flashed into life, a moment of self-assertion and defiance.

  “Where have you been, Mr. Brade?” Hallet inquired.

  “I have visited one of the other islands. Maui.”

  “You went last Tuesday morning?”

  “Yes. On the same steamer that brought me back.”

  “Your name was not on the sailing list,” Hallet said.

  “No. I went under another name. I had—reasons.”

  “Indeed?”

  The flash of life. “Just why am I here, sir?” He turned to the prosecutor. “Perhaps you will tell me that?”

  Greene nodded toward the detective. “Captain Hallet will enlighten you,” he said.

  “You bet I will,” Hallet announced. “As perhaps you know, Mr. Brade, Mr. Dan Winterslip has been murdered.”

  Brade’s washed-out eyes turned to John Quincy. “Yes,” he said. “I read about it in a Hilo newspaper.”

  “You didn’t know it when you left last Tuesday morning?” Hallet asked.

  “I did not. I sailed without seeing a paper here.”

  “Ah, yes. When did you see Mr. Dan Winterslip last?”

  “I never saw him.”

  “What! Be careful, sir.”

  “I never saw Dan Winterslip in my life.”

  “All right. Where were you last Tuesday morning at twenty minutes past one?”

  “I was asleep in my room at the Reef and Palm Hotel. I’d retired at nine-thirty, as I had to rise early in order to board my boat. My wife can verify that.”

  “A wife’s testimony, Mr. Brade, is not of great value—”

  Brade leaped to his feet. “Look here, sir! Do you mean to insinuate—”

  “Take it easy,” said Hallet smoothly. “I have a few matters to call to your attention, Mr. Brade. Mr. Dan Winterslip was murdered at one-twenty or thereabouts last Tuesday morning. We happen to know that in his youth he served as first officer aboard the Maid of Shiloh, a blackbirder. The master of that vessel had the same name as yourself. An investigation of your room at the Reef and Palm—”

  “How dare you!” cried Brade. “By what right—”

  “I am hunting the murderer of Dan Winterslip,” broke in Hallet coolly. “And I follow the trail wherever it leads. In your room I found a letter from the British Consul here addressed to you, and informing you that Winterslip was alive and in Honolulu. I also found this tin of Corsican cigarettes. Just outside the living-room door of Winterslip’s house, we picked up the stub of a Corsican cigarette. It’s a brand not on sale in Honolulu.”

  Brade had dropped back into his chair, and was staring in a dazed way at the tin box in Hallet’s hand. Hallet indicated the Hawaiian boy in the corner. “Ever see this lad before, Mr. Brade?” Brade nodded.

  “You had a talk with him last Sunday night on the beach?”

  “Yes.”

  “The boy’s told us all about it. He read in the paper that you were coming to Honolulu. His father was a confidential servant in Dan Winterslip’s employ and he himself was brought up in the Winterslip household. He could make a pretty good guess at your business with Winterslip, and he figured you’d be pleased to lay hands on this ohia wood box. In his boyhood he’d seen it in a trunk in the attic of Winterslip’s San Francisco house. He went down to the President Tyler and arranged with a friend aboard that boat, the quartermaster, to break into the house and steal the box. When he saw you last Sunday night he told you he’d have the box as soon as the President Tyler got in, and he arranged to sell it to you for a good sum. Am I right so far, Mr. Brade?”

  “You are quite right,” said Brade.

  “The initials on the box are T.M.B.” Hallet persisted. “They are your initials, are they not?”

  “They happen to be,” said Brade. “But they were also the initials of my father. My father died aboard ship in the South Seas many years ago, and that box was stolen from his cabin after his death. It was stolen by the first officer of the Maid of Shiloh—by Mr. Dan Winterslip.”

  For a moment no one spoke. A cold shiver ran down the spine of John Quincy Winterslip and a hot flush suffused his cheek. Why, oh, why, had he strayed so far from home? In Boston he traveled in a rut, perhaps, but ruts were safe, secure. There no one had ever brought a charge such as this against a Winterslip, no whisper of scandal had ever sullied the name. But here Winterslips had run amuck, and there was no telling what would next be dragged into the light.

  “I think, Mr. Brade,” said the prosecutor slowly, “you had better make a full statement.”

  Brade nodded. “I intend to do so. My case against Winterslip is not complete and I should have preferred to remain silent for a time. But under the circumstances, of course I must speak out. I’ll smoke, if you don’t mind.” He took a cigarette from his case and lighted it. “I’m a bit puzzled just how to begin. My father disappeared from England in the ’seventies, leaving my mother and me to shift for ourselves. For a time we heard nothing of him, then letters began to arrive from various points in Australia and the South Seas. Letters with money in them, money we badly needed. I have since learned that he had gone into the blackbirding trade; it is nothing to be proud of, God knows, but I like to recall in his favor that he did not entirely abandon his wife and boy.

  “In the ’eighties we got word of his death. He died aboard the Maid of Shiloh and was buried on the island of Apiang in the Gilbert Group—buried by Dan Winterslip, his first officer. We accepted the fact of his death, the fact of no more letters with remittances, and took up our struggle again. Six months later we received, from a friend of my father in Sydney, a brother captain, a most amazing letter.

  “This letter said that, to the writer’s certain knowledge, my father had carried a great deal of money in his cabin on the Maid of Shiloh. He had done no business with banks, instead he had had this strong box made of ohia wood. The man who wrote us said that he had seen the inside of it, and that it contained jewelry and a large quantity of gold. My father had also shown him several bags of green hide, containing gold coins from many countries. He estimated that there must have been close to twenty thousand pounds, in all. Dan Winterslip, the letter said, had brought the Maid of Shiloh back to Sydney and turned over to the proper authorities my father’s clothing and personal effects, and a scant ten pounds in money. He had made no mention of anything further. He and the only other white man aboard the Maid, an Irishman named Hagin, had left at once for Hawaii. My father’s friend suggested that we start an immediate investigation.

  “Well, gentlemen”—Brade looked about the circle of interested faces—“what could we do? We were in pitiful circumstances, my mother and I. We had no money to employ lawyers, to fight a case thousands of miles away. We did make a few inquiries through a relative in Sydney, but nothing came of them. There was talk for a time, but the talk died out, and the matter was dropped But I—I have never forgotten.

  “Dan Winterslip returned here, and prospered. He built on the foundation of the money he found in my father’s cabin a fortune that inspired the admiration of Honolulu. And while he prospered, we were close to starvation. My mother died, but I carried on. For years it has been my dream to make him pay. I have not been
particularly successful, but I have saved, scrimped. I have the money now to fight this case.

  “Four months ago I resigned my post in India and set out for Honolulu. I stopped over in Sydney—my father’s friend is dead, but I have his letter. I have the depositions of others who knew about that money—about the ohia wood box. I came on here, ready to face Dan Winterslip at last. But I never faced him. As you know, gentlemen”—Brade’s hand trembled slightly as he put down his cigarette—“someone robbed me of that privilege. Some unknown hand removed from my path the man I have hated for more than forty years.”

  “You arrived last Saturday—a week ago,” said Hallet, after a pause. “On Sunday evening Kaohla here called on you. He offered you the strongbox?”

  “He did,” Brade replied. “He’d had a cable from his friend, and expected to have the box by Tuesday. I promised him five thousand dollars for it—a sum I intended Winterslip should pay. Kaohla also told me that Hagin was living on a ranch in a remote part of the Island of Maui. That explains my journey there—I took another name, as I didn’t want Winterslip to follow my movements. I had no doubt he was watching me.”

  “You didn’t tell Kaohla you were going, either?”

  “No, I didn’t think it advisable to take him completely into my confidence. I found Hagin, but could get nothing out of him. Evidently Winterslip had bought his silence long ago. I realized the box was of great importance to me, and I cabled Kaohla to bring it to me immediately on my return. It was then that the news of Winterslip’s death came through. It was a deep disappointment, but it will not deter me.” He turned to John Quincy. “Winterslip’s heirs must pay. I am determined they shall make my old age secure.”

  John Quincy’s face flushed again. A spirit of rebellion, of family pride outraged, stirred within him. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Brade,” he said. “You have unearthed the box, but so far as any proof about valuables—money—”

  “One moment,” cut in Greene, the prosecutor. “Mr. Brade, have you a description of any article of value taken from your father?”

  Brade nodded. “Yes. In my father’s last letter to us—I was looking through it only the other day—he spoke of a brooch he had picked up in Sydney. A tree of emeralds, rubies and diamonds against an onyx background. He said he was sending it to my mother—but it never came.”

  The prosecutor looked at John Quincy. John Quincy looked away. “I’m not one of Dan Winterslip’s heirs, Mr. Brade,” he explained. “As a matter of fact, he was a rather distant relative of mine. I can’t presume to speak for his daughter, but I’m reasonably sure that when she knows your story, this matter can be settled out of court. You’ll wait, of course?”

  “I’ll wait,” agreed Brade. “And now, Captain—”

  Hallet raised his hand. “Just a minute. You didn’t call on Winterslip? You didn’t go near his house?”

  “I did not,” said Brade.

  “Yet just outside the door of his living-room we found, as I told you, the stub of a Corsican cigarette. It’s a matter still to be cleared up.”

  Brade considered briefly. “I don’t want to get anyone into trouble,” he said. “But the man is nothing to me, and I must clear my own name. In the course of a chat with the proprietor of the Reef and Palm Hotel, I offered him a cigarette. He was delighted when he recognized the brand—said it had been years since he’d seen one. So I gave him a handful, and he filled his case—”

  “You’re speaking of Jim Egan,” suggested Hallet delightedly.

  “Of Mr. James Egan, yes,” Brade replied.

  “That’s all I want to know,” said Hallet. “Well, Mr. Greene—”

  The prosecutor addressed Brade. “For the present, we can’t permit you to leave Honolulu,” he said. “But you are free to go to your hotel. This box will remain here until we can settle its final disposition.”

  “Naturally.” Brade rose.

  John Quincy faced him. “I’ll call on you very soon,” he promised.

  “What? Oh, yes—yes, of course.” The man stared nervously about him. “If you’ll pardon me, gentlemen, I must run—I really must—”

  He went out. The prosecutor looked at his watch. “Well, that’s that. I’ll have a conference with you in the morning, Hallet. My wife’s waiting for me at the Country Club. Good night, Mr. Winterslip.” He saw the look on John Quincy’s face, and smiled. “Don’t take those revelations about your cousin too seriously. The ’eighties are ancient history, you know.”

  As Greene disappeared, Hallet turned to John Quincy. “What about this Kaohla?” he inquired. “It will be a pretty complicated job to prosecute him and his housebreaking friend on the President Tyler, but it can be done—”

  A uniformed policeman appeared at the door, summoning Chan outside.

  “Oh, no,” said John Quincy. “Let the boy go. We don’t want any publicity about this. I’ll ask you, Captain, to keep Brade’s story out of the papers.”

  “I’ll try,” Hallet replied. He turned to the Hawaiian. “Come here!” The boy rose. “You heard what this gentleman said. You ought to be sent up for this, but we’ve got more important things to attend to now. Run along—beat it—”

  Chan came in just in time to hear the last. At his heels followed a sly little Japanese man and a young Chinese boy. The latter was attired in the extreme of college-cut clothes; he was an American and he emphasized the fact.

  “Only one moment,” Chan cried. “New and interesting fact emerge into light. Gentlemen, my Cousin Willie Chan, captain All Chinese baseball team and demon back-stopper of the Pacific!”

  “Pleased to meetchu,” said Willie Chan.

  “Also Okamoto, who have auto stand on Kalakaua Avenue, not far from Winterslip household—”

  “I know Okamoto,” said Hallet. “He sells okolehau on the side.”

  “No, indeed,” protested Okamoto. “Auto stand, that is what.”

  “Willie do small investigating to help out crowded hours,” went on Chan. “He have dug up strange event out of this Okamoto here. On early morning of Tuesday, July first, Okamoto is roused from slumber by fierce knocks on door of room. He go to door—”

  “Let him tell it,” suggested Hallet. “What time was this?”

  “Two of the morning,” said Okamoto. “Knocks were as described. I rouse and look at watch, run to door. Mr. Dick Kaohla here is waiting. Demand I drive him to home over in Iwilei district. I done so.”

  “All right,” said Hallet. “Anything else? No? Charlie—take them out and thank them—that’s your specialty.” He waited until the Orientals had left the room, then turned fiercely on Kaohla. “Well, here you are back in the limelight,” he cried. “Now, come across. What were you doing out near Winterslip’s house the night of the murder?”

  “Nothing,” said the Hawaiian.

  “Nothing! A little late to be up doing nothing, wasn’t it? Look here, my boy, I’m beginning to get you. For years Dan Winterslip gave you money, supported you, until he finally decided you were no good. So he stopped the funds and you and he had a big row. Now, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” admitted Dick Kaohla.

  “On Sunday night Brade offered you five thousand for the box. You thought it wasn’t enough. The idea struck you that maybe Dan Winterslip would pay more. You were a little afraid of him, but you screwed up your courage and went to his house—”

  “No, no,” the boy cried. “I did not go there.”

  “I say you did. You’d made up your mind to double-cross Brade. You and Dan Winterslip had another big scrap, you drew a knife—”

  “Lies, all lies,” the boy shouted, terrified.

  “Don’t tell me I lie! You killed Winterslip and I’ll get it out of you! I got the other and I’ll get this.” Hallet rose threateningly from his chair.

  Chan suddenly reentered the room, and handed Hallet a note. “Arrive this moment by special messenger,” he explained.

  Hallet ripped open the envelope and read. His expression altered. He turned d
isgustedly to Kaohla. “Beat it!” he scowled.

  The boy fled gratefully. John Quincy and Chan looked wonderingly at the captain. Hallet sat down at his desk. “It all comes back to Egan,” he said. “I’ve known it from the first.”

  “Wait a minute,” cried John Quincy. “What about that boy?”

  Hallet crumpled the letter in his hand. “Kaohla? Oh, he’s out of it now.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s all I can tell you. He’s out of it.”

  “That’s not enough,” John Quincy said. “I demand to know—”

  Hallet glared at him. “You know all you’re going to,” he answered angrily. “I say Kaohla’s out, and that settles it. Egan killed Winterslip, and before I get through with him—”

  “Permit me to say,” interrupted John Quincy, “that you have the most trusting nature I ever met. Everybody’s story goes with you. The Compton woman and that rat Leatherbee come in here and spin a yarn, and you bow them out. And Brade! What about Brade! In bed at one-twenty last Tuesday morning, eh? Who says so? He does. Who can prove it? His wife can. What was to prevent his stepping out on the balcony of the Reef and Palm and walking along the beach to my cousin’s house? Answer me that!”

  Hallet shook his head. “It’s Egan. That cigarette—”

  “Yes—that cigarette. Has it occurred to you that Brade may have given him those cigarettes purposely—”

  “Egan did it,” cut in Hallet stubbornly. “All I need now is his story; I’ll get it. I have ways and means—”

  “I congratulate you on your magnificent stupidity,” cried John Quincy. “Good night, sir.”

  He walked along Bethel Street, Chan at his side.

  “You are partly consumed by anger,” said the Chinaman. “Humbly suggest you cool. Calm heads needed.”

  “But what was in that note? Why wouldn’t he tell us?”

  “In good time, we know. Captain honest man. Be patient.”

  “But we’re all at sea again,” protested John Quincy. “Who killed Cousin Dan? We get nowhere.”