John Quincy was on his feet. “What time was it when we left the beach?” he asked in a low tense voice.
“About eight-thirty,” said Booth.
John Quincy talked very fast. “That means I’ve got just thirty minutes to get ashore, dress, and reach the dock before the President Tyler sails. I’m sorry to go, but it’s vital—vital. Cary, I’d started to tell you something. I don’t know when I’ll get back, but I must see you when I do, either at Mrs. Maynard’s or the hotel. Will you wait up for me?”
She was startled by the seriousness of his tone. “Yes, I’ll be waiting,” she told him.
“That’s great.” He hesitated a moment; it is a risky business to leave the girl you love on a float in the moonlight with a handsome naval officer. But it had to be done. “I’m off,” he said, and dove.
When he came up he heard the lieutenant’s voice. “Say, old man, that dive was all wrong. You let me show you—”
“Go to the devil,” muttered John Quincy wetly, and swam with long powerful strokes toward the shore. Mad with haste, he plunged into the dressing-room, donned his clothes, then dashed out again. No time for apologies to his hostess. He ran along the beach to the Winterslip house. Haku was dozing in the hall.
“Wikiwiki,” shouted John Quincy. “Tell the chauffeur to get the roadster into the drive and start the engine. Wake up! Travel! Where’s Miss Barbara?”
“Last seen on beach—” began the startled Haku.
On the bench under the hau tree he found Barbara sitting alone. He stood panting before her.
“My dear,” he said. “I know at last who killed your father—”
She was on her feet. “You do?”
“Yes—shall I tell you?”
“No,” she said. “No—I can’t bear to hear. It’s too horrible.”
“Then you’ve suspected?”
“Yes—just suspicion—a feeling—intuition. I couldn’t believe it—I didn’t want to believe it. I went away to get it out of my mind. It’s all too terrible—”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Poor Barbara. Don’t you worry. You won’t appear in this in any way. I’ll keep you out of it.”
“What—what has happened?”
“Can’t stop now. Tell you later.” He ran toward the drive. Miss Minerva appeared from the house. “Haven’t time to talk,” he cried, leaping into the roadster.
“But John Quincy—a curious thing has happened—that lawyer who was here to look at the house—he said that Dan, just a week before he died, spoke to him about a new will—”
“That’s good! That’s evidence!” John Quincy cried.
“But why a new will? Surely Barbara was all he had—”
“Listen to me,” cut in John Quincy. “You’ve delayed me already. Get the big car and go to the station—tell that to Hallet. Tell him too that I’m on the President Tyler and to send Chan there at once.”
He stepped on the gas. By the clock in the automobile he had just seventeen minutes, to reach the dock before the President Tyler would sail. He shot like a madman through the brilliant Hawaiian night. Kalakaua Avenue, smooth and deserted, proved a glorious speedway. It took him just eight minutes to travel the three miles to the dock. A bit of traffic and an angry policeman in the center of the city caused the delay.
A scattering of people in the dim pier-shed waited for the imminent sailing of the liner. John Quincy dashed through them and up the gangplank. The second officer, Hepworth, stood at the top.
“Hello, Mr. Winterslip,” he said. “You sailing?”
“No. But let me aboard!”
“I’m sorry. We’re about to draw in the plank.”
“No, no—you mustn’t. This is life and death. Hold off just a few minutes. There’s a steward named Bowker—I must find him at once. Life and death, I tell you.”
Hepworth stood aside. “Oh, well, in that case. But please hurry, sir—”
“I will.” John Quincy passed him on the run. He was on his way to the cabins presided over by Bowker when a tall figure caught his eye. A man in a long green ulster and a battered green hat—a hat John Quincy had last seen on the links of the Oahu Country Club.
The tall figure moved on up a stairway to the topmost deck. John Quincy followed. He saw the ulster disappear into one of the de luxe cabins. Still he followed, and pushed open the cabin door. The man in the ulster was back to it, but he swung round suddenly.
“Ah, Mr. Jennison,” John Quincy cried. “Were you thinking of sailing on this boat?”
For an instant Jennison stared at him. “I was,” he said quietly.
“Forget it,” John Quincy answered. “You’re going ashore with me.”
“Really? What is your authority?”
“No authority whatever,” said the boy grimly. “I’m taking you, that’s all.”
Jennison smiled, but there was a gleam of hate behind it. And in John Quincy’s heart, usually so gentle and civilized, there was hate too as he faced this man. He thought of Dan Winterslip, dead on his cot. He thought of Jennison walking down the gangplank with them that morning they landed, Jennison putting his arm about poor Barbara when she faltered under the blow. He thought of the shots fired at him from the bush, of the red-haired man battering him in that red room. Well, he must fight again. No way out of it. The siren of the President Tyler sounded a sharp warning.
“You get out of here,” said Jennison through his teeth. “I’ll go with you to the gangplank—”
He stopped, as the disadvantages of that plan came home to him. His right hand went swiftly to his pocket. Inspired, John Quincy seized a filled water bottle and hurled it at the man’s head. Jennison dodged; the bottle crashed through one of the windows. The clatter of glass rang through the night, but no one appeared. John Quincy saw Jennison leap toward him, something gleaming in his hand. Stepping aside, he threw himself on the man’s back and forced him to his knees. He seized the wrist of Jennison’s right hand, which held the automatic, in a firm grip. They kept that posture for a moment, and then Jennison began slowly to rise to his feet. The hand that held the pistol began to tear away. John Quincy clenched his teeth and sought to maintain his grip. But he was up against a more powerful antagonist than the red-haired sailor, he was outclassed, and the realization of it crept over him with a sickening force.
Jennison was on his feet now, the right hand nearly free. Another moment—what then, John Quincy wondered? This man had no intention of letting him go ashore; he had changed that plan the moment he put it into words. A muffled shot, and later in the night when the ship was well out on the Pacific—John Quincy thought of Boston, his mother. He thought of Carlotta waiting his return. He summoned his strength for one last desperate effort to renew his grip.
A serene, ivory-colored face appeared suddenly at the broken window. An arm with a weapon was extended through the jagged opening.
“Relinquish the firearms, Mr. Jennison,” commanded Charlie Chan, “or I am forced to make fatal insertion in vital organ belonging to you.”
Jennison’s pistol dropped to the floor, and John Quincy staggered back against the berth. At that instant the door opened and Hallet, followed by the detective, Spencer, came in.
“Hello, Winterslip, what are you doing here?” the captain said. He thrust a paper into one of the pockets of the green ulster. “Come along, Jennison,” he said. “We want you.”
Limply John Quincy followed them from the stateroom. Outside they were joined by Chan. At the top of the gangplank Hallet paused. “We’ll wait a minute for Hepworth,” he said.
John Quincy put his hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Charlie, how can I ever thank you? You saved my life.”
Chan bowed. “My own pleasure is not to be worded. I have saved a life here and there, but never before one that had beginning in cultured city of Boston. Always a happy item on the golden scroll of memory.”
Hepworth came up. “It’s all right,” he said. “The captain has agreed to delay our sailing one hour. I’l
l go to the station with you.”
On the way down the gangplank, Chan turned to John Quincy. “Speaking heartily for myself, I congratulate your bravery. It is clear you leaped upon this Jennison with vigorous and triumphant mood of heart. But he would have pushed you down. He would have conquered. And why? The answer is, such powerful wrists.”
“A great surf-boarder, eh?” John Quincy said.
Chan looked at him keenly. “You are no person’s fool. Ten years ago this Harry Jennison are champion swimmer in all Hawaii. I extract that news from ancient sporting pages of Honolulu journal. But he have not been in the water much here lately. Pursuing the truth further, not since the night he killed Dan Winterslip.”
Chapter 22
The Light Streams Through
They moved on through the pier-shed to the street, where Hepworth, Jennison and the three policemen got into Hallet’s car. The captain turned to John Quincy.
“You coming, Mr. Winterslip?” he inquired.
“I’ve got my own car,” the boy explained. “I’ll follow you in that.”
The roadster was not performing at its best, and he reached the station house a good five minutes after the policemen. He noted Dan Winterslip’s big limousine parked in the street outside.
In Hallet’s room he found the captain and Chan closeted with a third man. It took a second glance at the latter to identify him as Mr. Saladine, for the little man of the lost teeth now appeared a great deal younger than John Quincy had thought him.
“Ah, Mr. Winterslip,” remarked Hallet. He turned to Saladine. “Say, Larry, you’ve got me into a heap of trouble with this boy. He accused me of trying to shield you. I wish you’d loosen up for him.”
Saladine smiled. “Why, I don’t mind. My job out here is about finished. Of course, Mr. Winterslip will keep what I tell him under his hat?”
“Naturally,” replied John Quincy. He noticed that the man spoke with no trace of a lisp. “I perceive you’ve found your teeth,” he added.
“Oh, yes—I found them in my trunk, where I put them the day I arrived at Waikiki,” answered Saladine. “When my teeth were knocked out twenty years ago in a football game, I was broken-hearted, but the loss has been a great help to me in my work. A man hunting his bridgework in the water is a figure of ridicule and mirth. No one ever thinks of connecting him with serious affairs. He can prowl about a beach to his heart’s content. Mr. Winterslip, I am a special agent of the Treasury Department sent out here to break up the opium ring. My name, of course, is not Saladine.”
“Oh,” said John Quincy, “I understand at last.”
“I’m glad you do,” remarked Hallet. “I don’t know whether you’re familiar with the way our opium smugglers work. The dope is brought in from the Orient on tramp steamers—the Mary S. Allison, for example. When they arrive off Waikiki they knock together a few small rafts and load ’em with tins of the stuff. A fleet of little boats, supposedly out there for the fishing, pick up these rafts and bring the dope ashore. It’s taken downtown and hidden on ships bound for ’Frisco—usually those that ply only between here and the mainland, because they’re not so closely watched at the other end. But it just happened that the quartermaster of the President Tyler is one of their go-betweens. We searched his cabin this evening and found it packed with the stuff.”
“The quartermaster of the President Tyler,” repeated John Quincy. “That’s Dick Kaohla’s friend.”
“Yeah—I’m coming to Dick. He’s been in charge of the pick-up fleet here. He was out on that business the night of the murder. Saladine saw him and told me all about it in that note, which was my reason for letting the boy go.”
“I owe you an apology,” John Quincy said.
“Oh, that’s all right.” Hallet was in great good humor. “Larry here has got some of the higher-ups, too. For instance, he’s discovered that Jennison is the lawyer for the ring, defending any of them who are caught and brought before the commissioner. The fact has no bearing on Dan Winterslip’s murder—unless Winterslip knew about it, and that was one of the reasons he didn’t want Jennison to marry his girl.”
Saladine stood up. “I’ll turn the quartermaster over to you,” he said. “In view of this other charge, you can of course have Jennison too. That’s all for me. I’ll go along.”
“See you to-morrow, Larry,” Hallet answered. Saladine went out, and the captain turned to John Quincy. “Well, my boy, this is our big night. I don’t know what you were doing in Jennison’s cabin, but if you’d picked him for the murderer, I’ll say you’re good.”
“That’s just what I’d done,” John Quincy told him. “By the way, have you seen my aunt? She’s got hold of a rather interesting bit of information—”
“I’ve seen her,” Hallet said. “She’s with the prosecutor now, telling it to him. By the way, Greene’s waiting for us. Come along.”
They went into the prosecutor’s office. Greene was alert and eager, a stenographer was at his elbow, and Miss Minerva sat near his desk.
“Hello, Mr. Winterslip,” he said. “What do you think of our police force now? Pretty good, eh, pretty good. Sit down, won’t you?” He glanced through some papers on his desk while John Quincy, Hallet and Chan found chairs. “I don’t mind telling you, this thing has knocked me all in a heap. Harry Jennison and I are old friends; I had lunch with him at the club only yesterday. I’m going to proceed a little differently than I would with an ordinary criminal.”
John Quincy half rose from his chair. “Don’t get excited,” Greene smiled. “Jennison will get all that’s coming to him, friendship or no friendship. What I mean is that if I can save the territory the expense of a long trial by dragging a confession out of him at once, I intend to do it. He’s coming in here in a moment, and I propose to reveal my whole hand to him, from start to finish. That may seem foolish, but it isn’t. For I hold aces, all aces, and he’ll know it as quickly as any one.”
The door opened. Spencer ushered Jennison into the room, and then withdrew. The accused man stood there, proud, haughty, defiant, a viking of the tropics, a blond giant at bay but unafraid.
“Hello, Jennison,” Greene said. “I’m mighty sorry about this—”
“You ought to be,” Jennison replied. “You’re making an awful fool of yourself. What is this damned nonsense, anyhow—”
“Sit down,” said the prosecutor sharply. He indicated a chair on the opposite side of the desk. He had already turned the shade on his desk lamp so the light would shine full in the face of any one sitting there. “That lamp bother you, Harry?” he asked.
“Why should it?” Jennison demanded.
“Good,” smiled Greene. “I believe Captain Hallet served you with a warrant on the boat. Have you looked at it, by any chance?”
“I have.”
The prosecutor leaned across the desk. “Murder, Jennison!”
Jennison’s expression did not change. “Damned nonsense, as I told you. Why should I murder any one?”
“Ah, the motive,” Greene replied. “You’re quite right, we should begin with that. Do you wish to be represented here by counsel?”
Jennison shook his head. “I guess I’m lawyer enough to puncture this silly business,” he replied.
“Very well.” Greene turned to his stenographer. “Get this.” The man nodded, and the prosecutor addressed Miss Minerva. “Miss Winterslip, we’ll start with you.”
Miss Minerva leaned forward. “Mr. Dan Winterslip’s house on the beach has, as I told you, been offered for sale by his daughter. After dinner this evening a gentleman came to look at it—a prominent lawyer named Hailey. As we went over the house, Mr. Hailey mentioned that he had met Dan Winterslip on the street a week before his death, and that my cousin had spoken to him about coming in shortly to draw up a new will. He did not say what the provisions of the will were to be, nor did he ever carry out his intention.”
“Ah yes,” said Greene. “But Mr. Jennison here was your cousin’s lawyer?”
�
�He was.”
“If he wanted to draw a new will, he wouldn’t ordinarily have gone to a stranger for that purpose.”
“Not ordinarily. Unless he had some good reason.”
“Precisely. Unless, for instance, the will had some connection with Harry Jennison.”
“I object,” Jennison cried. “This is mere conjecture.”
“So it is,” Greene answered. “But we’re not in court. We can conjecture if we like. Suppose, Miss Winterslip, the will was concerned with Jennison in some way. What do you imagine the connection to have been?”
“I don’t have to imagine,” replied Miss Minerva. “I know.”
“Ah, that’s good. You know. Go on.”
“Before I came down here to-night, I had a talk with my niece. She admitted that her father knew she and Jennison were in love, and that he had bitterly opposed the match. He had even gone so far as to say he would disinherit her if she went through with it.”
“Then the new will Dan Winterslip intended to make would probably have been to the effect that in the event his daughter married Jennison, she was not to inherit a penny of his money?”
“There isn’t any doubt of it,” said Miss Minerva firmly.
“You asked for a motive, Jennison,” Greene said. “That’s motive enough for me. Everybody knows you’re money mad. You wanted to marry Winterslip’s daughter, the richest girl in the Islands. He said you couldn’t have her—not with the money too. But you’re not the sort to make a penniless marriage. You were determined to get both Barbara Winterslip and her father’s property. Only one person stood in your way—Dan Winterslip. And that’s how you happened to be on his lanai that Monday night—”
“Wait a minute,” Jennison protested. “I wasn’t on his lanai. I was on board the President Tyler, and everybody knows that ship didn’t land its passengers until nine the following morning—”
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