“And then Brade came. It seemed providential. I might have sold my information to him, but when I talked with him I found he had very little money, and I felt that Winterslip would beat him in the end. No, Winterslip was my man—Winterslip with his rotten wealth. I don’t know just what happened—I was quite mad, I fancy—the world owed me that, I figured, just for my girl, not for me. I called Winterslip up and made an appointment for that Monday night.
“But somehow—the standards of a lifetime—it’s difficult to change. The moment I had called him, I regretted it. I tried to slip out of it—I told myself there must be some other way—perhaps I could sell the Reef and Palm—anyhow, I called him again and said I wasn’t coming. But he insisted, and I went.
“I didn’t have to tell him what I wanted. He knew. He had a check ready for me—a check for five thousand dollars. It was Cary’s happiness, her chance. I took it, and came away—but I was ashamed. I’m not trying to excuse my action; however, I don’t believe I would ever have cashed it. When Cary found it in my desk and brought it to me, I tore it up. That’s all.” He turned his tired eyes toward his daughter. “I did it for you, Cary, but I didn’t want you to know.” She went over and put her arm about his shoulder, and stood smiling down at him through her tears.
“If you’d told us that in the first place,” said Greene, “you could have saved everybody a lot of trouble, yourself included.”
Cope stood up “Well, Mr. Prosecutor, there you are. You’re not going to hold him now?”
Greene rose briskly. “No. I’ll arrange for his release at once.” He and Egan went out together, then Hallet and Cope. John Quincy held out his hand to Carlotta Egan—for by that name he thought of her still.
“I’m mighty glad for you,” he said.
“You’ll come and see me soon?” she asked. “You’ll find a very different girl. More like the one you met on the Oakland ferry.”
“She was very charming,” John Quincy replied. “But then, she was bound to be—she had your eyes.” He suddenly remembered Agatha Parker. “However, you’ve got your father now,” he added. “You won’t need me.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I wonder,” she said, and went out.
John Quincy turned to Chan. “Well, that’s that,” he remarked. “Where are we now?”
“Speaking personally for myself,” grinned Chan, “I am static in same place as usual. Never did have fondly feeling for Egan theory.”
“But Hallet did,” John Quincy answered. “A black morning for him.”
In the small anteroom they encountered the Captain of Detectives. He appeared disgruntled.
“We were just remarking,” said John Quincy pleasantly, “that there goes your little old Egan theory. What have you left?”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” growled Hallet.
“Yes, you have. One by one your clues have gone up in smoke. The page from the guest book, the brooch, the torn newspaper, the ohia wood box, and now Egan and the Corsican cigarette.”
“Oh, Egan isn’t out of it. We may not be able to hold him, but I’m not forgetting Mr. Egan.”
“Nonsense,” smiled John Quincy. “I asked what you had left. A little button from a glove—useless. The glove was destroyed long ago. A wristwatch with an illuminated dial and a damaged numeral two—”
Chan’s amber eyes narrowed. “Essential clue,” he murmured. “Remember how I said it.”
Hallet banged his fist on a table. “That’s it—the wristwatch! If the person who wore it knows any one saw it, it’s probably where we’ll never find it now. But we’ve kept it pretty dark—perhaps he doesn’t know. That’s our only chance.” He turned to Chan. “I’ve combed these islands once hunting that watch,” he cried, “now I’m going to start all over again. The jewelry stores, the pawn shops, every nook and corner. You go out, Charlie, and start the ball rolling.”
Chan moved with alacrity despite his weight. “I will give it one powerful push,” he promised, and disappeared.
“Well, good luck,” said John Quincy, moving on.
Hallet grunted. “You tell that aunt of yours I’m pretty sore,” he remarked. He was not in the mood for elegance of diction.
John Quincy’s opportunity to deliver the message did not come at lunch, for Miss Minerva remained with Barbara in the city. After dinner that evening he led his aunt out to sit on the bench under the hau tree.
“By the way,” he said, “Captain Hallet is very much annoyed with you.”
“I’m very much annoyed with Captain Hallet,” she replied, “so that makes us even. What’s his particular grievance now?”
“He believes you knew all the time the name of the man who dropped that Corsican cigarette.”
She was silent for a moment. “Not all the time,” she said at length. “What has happened?”
John Quincy sketched briefly the events of the morning at the police station. When he had finished he looked at her inquiringly.
“In the first excitement I didn’t remember, or I should have spoken,” she explained. “It was several days before the thing came to me. I saw it clearly then—Arthur—Captain Cope—tossing that cigarette aside as we reentered the house. But I said nothing about it.”
“Why?”
“Well, I thought it would be a good test for the police. Let them discover it for themselves.”
“That’s a pretty weak explanation,” remarked John Quincy severely. “You’ve been responsible for a lot of wasted time.”
“It—it wasn’t my only reason,” said Miss Minerva softly.
“Oh—I’m glad to hear that. Go on.”
“Somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to link up that call of Captain Cope’s with—a murder mystery.”
Another silence. And suddenly—he was never dense—John Quincy understood.
“He told me you were very beautiful in the ’eighties,” said the boy gently. “The captain, I mean. When I met him in that San Francisco club.”
Miss Minerva laid her own hand on the boy’s. When she spoke her voice, which he had always thought firm and sharp, trembled a little. “On this beach in my girlhood,” she said, “happiness was within my grasp. I had only to reach out and take it. But somehow—Boston—Boston held me back. I let my happiness slip away.”
“Not too late yet,” suggested John Quincy.
She shook her head. “So he tried to tell me that Monday afternoon. But there was something in his tone—I may be in Hawaii, but I’m not quite mad. Youth, John Quincy, youth doesn’t return, whatever they may say out here.” She pressed his hand, and stood. “If your chance comes, dear boy,” she added, “don’t be such a fool.”
She moved hastily away through the garden, and John Quincy looked after her with a new affection in his eyes.
Presently he saw the yellow glare of a match beyond the wire. Amos again, still loitering under his algaroba tree. John Quincy rose and strolled over to him.
“Hello, Cousin Amos,” he said. “When are you going to take down this fence?”
“Oh, I’ll get round to it some time,” Amos answered. “By the way, I wanted to ask you. Any new developments?”
“Several,” John Quincy told him. “But nothing that gets us anywhere. So far as I can see, the case has blown up completely.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking it over,” Amos said. “Maybe that would be the best outcome, after all. Suppose they do discover who did for Dan—it may only reveal a new scandal, worse than any of the others.”
“I’ll take a chance on that,” replied John Quincy. “For my part, I intend to see this thing through—”
Haku came briskly through the garden. “Cable message for Mr. John Quincy Winterslip. Boy say collect. Requests money.”
John Quincy followed quickly to the front door. A bored small boy awaited him. He paid the sum due and tore open the cable. It was signed by the postmaster at Des Moines, and it read:
“No one named Saladine ever heard of here.”
John Quin
cy dashed to the telephone. Someone on duty at the station informed him that Chan had gone home, and gave him an address on Punchbowl Hill. He got out the roadster, and in five minutes more was speeding toward the city.
Chapter 19
“Good-by, Pete!”
Charlie Chan lived in a bungalow that clung precariously to the side of Punchbowl Hill. Pausing a moment at the gate, John Quincy looked down on Honolulu, one great gorgeous garden set in an amphitheater of mountains. A beautiful picture, but he had no time for beauty now. He hurried up the brief walk that lay in the shadow of the palm trees.
A Chinese woman—a servant, she seemed—ushered him into Chan’s dimly-lighted living-room. The detective was seated at a table playing chess; he rose with dignity when he saw his visitor. In this, his hour of ease, he wore a long loose robe of dark purple silk, which fitted closely at the neck and had wide sleeves. Beneath it showed wide trousers of the same material, and on his feet were shoes of silk, with thick felt soles. He was all Oriental now, suave and ingratiating but remote, and for the first time John Quincy was really conscious of the great gulf across which he and Chan shook hands.
“You do my lowly house immense honor,” Charlie said. “This proud moment are made still more proud by opportunity to introduce my eldest son.” He motioned for his opponent at chess to step forward, a slim sallow boy with amber eyes—Chan himself before he put on weight. “Mr. John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston, kindly condescend to notice Henry Chan. When you appear I am giving him lesson at chess so he may play in such manner as not to tarnish honored name.”
The boy bowed low; evidently he was one member of the younger generation who had a deep respect for his elders. John Quincy also bowed. “Your father is my very good friend,” he said. “And from now on, you are too.”
Chan beamed with pleasure. “Condescend to sit on this atrocious chair. Is it possible you bring news?”
“It certainly is,” smiled John Quincy. He handed over the message from the postmaster at Des Moines.
“Most interesting,” said Chan. “Do I hear impressive chug of rich automobile engine in street?”
“Yes, I came in the car,” John Quincy replied.
“Good. We will hasten at once to home of Captain Hallet, not far away. I beg of you to pardon my disappearance while I don more appropriate costume.”
Left alone with the boy, John Quincy sought a topic of conversation. “Play baseball?” he asked.
The boy’s eyes glowed. “Not very good, but I hope to improve. My cousin Willie Chan is great expert at that game. He has promised to teach me.”
John Quincy glanced about the room. On the back wall hung a scroll with felicitations, the gift of some friend of the family at New Year’s. Opposite him, on another wall, was a single picture, painted on silk, representing a bird on an apple bough. Charmed by its simplicity, he went over to examine it. “That’s beautiful” he said.
“Quoting old Chinese saying, a picture is a voiceless poem,” replied the boy.
Beneath the picture stood a square table, flanked by straight, low-backed armchairs. On other elaborately carved teakwood stands distributed about the room were blue and white vases, porcelain wine jars, dwarfed trees. Pale golden lanterns hung from the ceiling; a soft-toned rug lay on the floor. John Quincy felt again the gulf between himself and Charlie Chan.
But when the detective returned, he wore the conventional garb of Los Angeles or Detroit, and the gulf did not seem so wide. They went out together and entering the roadster, drove to Hallet’s house on Iolani Avenue.
The captain lolled in pajamas on his lanai. He greeted his callers with interest.
“You boys are out late,” he said. “Something doing?”
“Certainly is,” replied John Quincy, taking a proffered chair. “There’s a man named Saladine—”
At mention of the name, Hallet looked at him keenly. John Quincy went on to tell what he knew of Saladine, his alleged place of residence, his business, the tragedy of the lost teeth.
“Some time ago we got on to the fact that every time Kaohla figured in the investigation, Saladine was interested. He managed to be at the desk of the Reef and Palm the day Kaohla inquired for Brade. On the night Kaohla was questioned by your men, Miss Egan saw Mr. Saladine crouching outside the window. So Charlie and I thought it a good scheme to send a cable of inquiry to the postmaster at Des Moines, where Saladine claimed to be in the wholesale grocery business.” He handed an envelope to Hallet. “That answer arrived to-night,” he added.
An odd smile had appeared on Hallet’s usually solemn face. He took the cable and read it, then slowly tore it into bits.
“Forget it, boys,” he said calmly.
“Wha—what!” gasped John Quincy.
“I said forget it. I like your enterprise, but you’re on the wrong trail there.”
John Quincy was greatly annoyed. “I demand an explanation,” he cried.
“I can’t give it to you,” Hallet answered. “You’ll have to take my word for it.”
“I’ve taken your word for a good many things,” said John Quincy hotly. “This begins to look rather suspicious to me. Are you trying to shield somebody?”
Hallet rose and laid his hand on John Quincy’s shoulder. “I’ve had a hard day,” he remarked, “and I’m not going to get angry with you. I’m not trying to shield anybody. I’m as anxious as you are to discover who killed Dan Winterslip. More anxious, perhaps.”
“Yet when we bring you evidence you tear it up—”
“Bring me the right evidence,” said Hallet. “Bring me that wrist watch. I can promise you action then.”
John Quincy was impressed by the sincerity in his tone. But he was sadly puzzled, too. “All right,” he said, “that’s that. I’m sorry if we’ve troubled you with this trivial matter—”
“Don’t talk like that,” Hallet broke in. “I’m glad of your help. But as far as Mr. Saladine is concerned—” he looked at Chan—“let him alone.”
Chan bowed. “You are undisputable chief,” he replied.
They went back to Punchbowl Hill in the roadster, both rather dejected. As Chan alighted at his gate, John Quincy spoke: “Well, I’m pau. Saladine was my last hope.”
Chan stared for a moment at the moonlit Pacific that lay beyond the waterfront lamps. “Stone wall surround us,” he said dreamily. “But we circle about, seeking loophole. Moment of discovery will come.”
“I wish I thought so,” replied John Quincy.
Chan smiled. “Patience are a very lovely virtue,” he remarked. “Seem that way to me. But maybe that are my Oriental mind. Your race, I perceive, regard patience with ever-swelling disfavor.”
It was with swelling disfavor that John Quincy regarded it as he drove back to Waikiki. Yet he had great need of patience in the days immediately following. For nothing happened.
The forty-eight-hour period given him to leave Hawaii expired, but the writer of that threatening letter failed to come forward and relieve the tedium. Thursday arrived, a calm day like the others; Thursday night, peaceful and serene.
On Friday afternoon Agatha Parker broke the monotony by a cable sent from the Wyoming ranch.
“You must be quite mad. I find the West crude and impossible.”
John Quincy smiled; he could picture her as she wrote it, proud, haughty, unyielding. She must have been popular with the man who transmitted the message. Or was he, too, an exile from the East?
And perhaps the girl was right. Perhaps he was mad, after all. He sat on Dan Winterslip’s lanai, trying to think things out. Boston, the office, the art gallery, the theaters. The Common on a winter’s day, with the air bracing and full of life. The thrill of a new issue of bonds, like the thrill of a theatrical first night—would it get over big or flop at his feet? Tennis at Longwood, long evenings on the Charles, golf with people of his own kind at Magnolia. Tea out of exquisite cups in dim old drawing-rooms. Wasn’t he mad to think of giving up all that? But what had Miss Minerva said? “
If your chance ever comes—”
The problem was a big one, and big problems were annoying out here where the lotus grew. He yawned, and went aimlessly downtown. Drifting into the public library, he saw Charlie Chan hunched over a table that held an enormous volume. John Quincy went closer. The book was made up of back numbers of the Honolulu morning paper, and it was open at a time-yellowed sporting page.
“Hello, Chan. What are you up to?”
Chan gave him a smile of greeting. “Hello. Little bit of careless reading while I gallop about seeking loophole.”
He closed the big volume casually. “You seem in the best of health.”
“Oh, I’m all right.”
“No more fierce shots out of bushes?”
“Not a trigger pulled. I imagine that was a big bluff—nothing more.”
“What do you say—bluff?”
“I mean the fellow’s a coward, after all.”
Chan shook his head solemnly. “Pardon humble suggestion—do not lose carefulness. Hot heads plenty in hot climate.”
“I’ll look before I leap,” John Quincy promised. “But I’m afraid I interrupted you.”
“Ridiculous thought,” protested Chan.
“I’ll go along. Let me know if anything breaks.”
“Most certainly. Up to present, everything are intact.”
John Quincy paused at the door of the reference room. Charlie Chan had promptly opened the big book, and was again bending over it with every show of interest.
Returning to Waikiki, John Quincy faced a dull evening. Barbara had gone to the island of Kauai for a visit with old friends of the family. He had not been sorry when she went, for he didn’t feel quite at ease in her presence. The estrangement between the girl and Jennison continued; the lawyer had not been at the dock to see her off. Yes, John Quincy had parted from her gladly, but her absence cast a pall of loneliness over the house on Kalia Road.
After dinner, he sat with his pipe on the lanai. Down the beach at the Reef and Palm pleasant company was available—but he hesitated. He had seen Carlotta Egan several times by day, on the beach or in the water. She was very happy now, though somewhat appalled at the thought of her approaching visit to England. They’d had several talks about that—daylight talks. John Quincy was a bit afraid to entrust himself—as Chan had said in speaking of his stone idol—of an evening. After all, there was Agatha, there was Boston. There was Barbara, too. Being entangled with three girls at once was a rather wearing experience. He rose, and went down-town to the movies.
The House Without a Key Page 21