Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  Entering past a gate that hung sorrowfully on one hinge they walked up a dirt path and in a moment a ramshackle old building came into view. They were approaching it on an angle, and John Quincy saw that the greater part of it extended out over the water. The tottering structure was of two stories, with double-decked balconies on both sides and the rear. It had rather an air about it; once, no doubt, it had been worthy to stand in this setting. Flowering vines clambered over it in a friendly endeavor to hide its imperfections from the world.

  “Some day,” announced Charlie Chan solemnly, “those rafters underneath will disintegrate and the Reef and Palm Hotel will descend into the sea with a most horrid gurgle.”

  As they drew nearer, it seemed to John Quincy that the Chinaman’s prophecy might come true at any moment. They paused at the foot of a crumbling stair that led to the front door, and as they did so a man emerged hurriedly from the Reef and Palm. His once white clothes were yellowed, his face lined, his eyes tired and disillusioned. But about him, as about the hotel, hung the suggestion of a distinguished past.

  “Mr. Egan,” said Captain Hallet promptly.

  “Oh—how are you?” the man replied, with an accent that recalled to John Quincy’s mind his meeting with Captain Arthur Temple Cope.

  “We want to talk to you,” announced Hallet brusquely.

  A shadow crossed Egan’s face. “I’m frightfully sorry,” he said, “but I have a most important engagement, and I’m late as it is. Some other time—”

  “Now!” cut in Hallet. The word shot through the morning like a rocket. He started up the steps.

  “Impossible,” said Egan. He did not raise his voice. “Nothing on earth could keep me from the dock this morning—”

  The captain of detectives seized his arm. “Come inside!” he ordered.

  Egan’s face flushed. “Take your hand off me, damn you! By what right—”

  “You watch your step, Egan,” advised Hallet angrily. “You know why I’m here.”

  “I do not.”

  Hallet stared into the man’s face. “Dan Winterslip was murdered last night,” he said.

  Jim Egan removed his hat, and looked helplessly out toward Kalakaua Avenue. “So I read in the morning paper,”74 he replied. “What has his death to do with me?”

  “You were the last person to see him alive,” Hallet answered. “Now quit bluffing and come inside.”

  Egan cast one final baffled glance at the street, where a trolley bound for the city three miles away was rattling swiftly by. Then he bowed his head and led the way into the hotel.

  They entered a huge, poorly furnished public room, deserted save for a woman tourist writing postcards at a table, and a shabby Japanese clerk lolling behind the desk. “This way,” Egan said, and they followed him past the desk and into a small private office. Here all was confusion, dusty piles of magazines and newspapers were everywhere, battered old ledgers lay upon the floor. On the wall hung a portrait of Queen Victoria; many pictures cut from the London illustrated weeklies were tacked up haphazardly. Jennison spread a newspaper carefully over the window-sill and sat down there. Egan cleared chairs for Hallet, Chan and John Quincy, and himself took his place before an ancient rolltop desk.

  “If you will be brief, Captain,” he suggested, “I might still have time—” He glanced at a clock above the desk.

  “Forget that,” advised Hallet sharply. His manner was considerably different from that he employed in the house of a leading citizen like Dan Winterslip. “Let’s get to business.” He turned to Chan. “Got your book, Charlie?”

  “Preparations are complete,” replied Chan, his pencil poised.

  “All right.” Hallet drew his chair closer to the desk. “Now Egan, you come through and come clean. I know that last night about seven-thirty you called up Dan Winterslip and tried to slide out of an appointment you had made with him. I know that he refused to let you off, and insisted on seeing you at eleven. About that time, you went to his house. You and he had a rather excited talk. At one-twenty-five Winterslip was found dead. Murdered, Egan! Now give me your end of it.”

  Jim Egan ran his fingers through his curly, close-cropped hair—straw-colored once, but now mostly gray. “That’s all quite true,” he said. “Do—do you mind if I smoke?” He took out a silver case and removed a cigarette. His hand trembled slightly as he applied the match. “I did make an appointment with Winterslip for last night,” he continued. “During the course of the day I—I changed my mind. When I called up to tell him so, he insisted on seeing me. He urged me to come at eleven, and I went.”

  “Who let you in?” Hallet asked.

  “Winterslip was waiting in the garden when I came. We went inside—”

  Hallet glanced at the cigarette in Egan’s hand. “By the door leading directly into the living-room?” he asked.

  “No,” said Egan. “By the big door at the front of the house. Winterslip took me out on his lanai, and we had a bit of a chat regarding the—the business that had brought me. About half an hour later, I came away. When I left, Winterslip was alive and well—in good spirits, too. Smiling, as a matter of fact.”

  “By what door did you leave?”

  “The front door—the one I’d entered by.”

  “I see.” Hallet looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “You went back later, perhaps.”

  “I did not,” said Egan promptly. “I came directly here and went to bed.”

  “Who saw you?”

  “No one. My clerk goes off duty at eleven. The hotel is open, but there is no one in charge. My patronage is—not large.”

  “You came here at eleven-thirty and went to bed,” Hallet said. “But no one saw you. Tell me, were you well acquainted with Dan Winterslip?”

  Egan shook his head. “In the twenty-three years I’ve been in Honolulu, I had never spoken to him until I called him on the telephone yesterday morning.”

  “Humph.” Hallet leaned back in his chair and spoke in a more amiable tone. “As a younger man, I believe you traveled a lot?”

  “I drifted about a bit,” Egan admitted. “I was just eighteen when I left England—”

  “At your family’s suggestion,” smiled the captain.

  “What’s that to you?” Egan flared.

  “Where did you go?”

  “Australia. I ranched it for a time—and later I worked in Melbourne.”

  “What doing?” persisted Hallet.

  “In—in a bank.”

  “A bank, eh? And then—”

  “The South Seas. Just—wandering about—I was restless—”

  “Beach-combing, eh?”

  Egan flushed. “I may have been on my uppers at times, but damn it—”

  “Wait a minute,” Hallet cut in. “What I want to know is—those years you were drifting about—did you by any chance run into Dan Winterslip?”

  “I—I might have.”

  “What sort of an answer is that! Yes or no?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I did,” Egan admitted. “Just once—in Melbourne. But it was a quite unimportant meeting. So unimportant Winterslip had completely forgotten it.”

  “But you hadn’t. And yesterday morning, after twenty-three years’ silence between you, you called him on the telephone. On rather sudden business.”

  “I did.”

  Hallet came closer. “All right, Egan. We’ve reached the important part of your story. What was that business?”

  A tense silence fell in the little office as they awaited Egan’s answer. The Englishman looked Hallet calmly in the eye. “I can’t tell you that,” he said.

  Hallet’s face reddened. “Oh, yes, you can. And you’re going to.”

  “Never,” answered Egan, without raising his voice.

  The captain glared at him. “You don’t seem to realize your position.”

  “I realize it perfectly.”

  “If you and I were alone—”

  “I won’t tell you under any circumstances, Hallet.”r />
  “Maybe you’ll tell the prosecutor—”

  “Look here,” cried Egan wearily. “Why must I say it over and over? I’ll tell nobody my business with Winterslip. Nobody, understand?” He crushed the half-smoked cigarette savagely down on to a tray at his side.

  John Quincy saw Hallet nod to Chan. He saw the Chinaman’s pudgy little hand go out and seize the remnant of cigarette. A happy grin spread over the Oriental’s fat face. He handed the stub to his chief.

  “Corsican brand!” he cried triumphantly.

  “Ah, yes,” said Hallet. “This your usual smoke?”

  A startled look crossed Egan’s tired face. “No, it’s not,” he said.

  “It’s a make that’s not on sale in the Islands, I believe?”

  “No, I fancy it isn’t.”

  Captain Hallet held out his hand. “Give me your cigarette case, Egan.” The Englishman passed it over, and Hallet opened it. “Humph,” he said. “You’ve managed to get hold of a few, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. They were—given me.”

  “Is that so? Who gave them to you?”

  Egan considered. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, either,” he said.

  Hallet’s eyes glittered angrily. “Let me give you a few facts,” he began. “You called on Dan Winterslip last night, you entered and left by the front door, and you didn’t go back. Yet just outside the door leading directly into the living-room, we have found a partly smoked cigarette of this unusual brand. Now will you tell me who gave you these Corsicans?”

  “No,” said Egan, “I won’t.”

  Hallet slipped the silver cigarette case into his pocket, and stood up. “Very well,” he remarked. “I’ve wasted all the time I intend to here. The district court prosecutor will want to talk to you—”

  “Of course,” agreed Egan, “I’ll come and see him—this afternoon—”

  Hallet glared at him. “Quit kidding yourself and get your hat!”

  Egan rose too. “Look here,” he cried, “I don’t like your manner. It’s true there are certain matters in connection with Winterslip that I can’t discuss, and that’s unfortunate. But surely you don’t think I killed the man. What motive would I have—”

  Jennison rose quickly from his seat on the window-ledge and stepped forward. “Hallet,” he said, “there’s something I ought to tell you. Two or three years ago Dan Winterslip and I were walking along King Street, and we passed Mr. Egan here. Winterslip nodded toward him. ‘I’m afraid of that man, Harry,’ he said. I waited to hear more, but he didn’t go on, and he wasn’t the sort of client one would prompt. ‘I’m afraid of that man, Harry.’ Just that, and nothing further.”

  “It’s enough,” remarked Hallet grimly. “Egan, you’re going with me.”

  Egan’s eyes flashed. “Of course,” he cried bitterly. “Of course I’m going with you. You’re all against me, the whole town is against me, I’ve been sneered at and belittled for twenty years. Because I was poor. An outcast, my daughter humiliated, not good enough to associate with these New England blue-bloods—these thin-lipped Puritans with a touch of sun—”

  At sound of that familiar phrase, John Quincy sat up. Where, where—oh, yes, on the Oakland ferry—

  “Never mind that,” Hallet was saying. “I’ll give you one last chance. Will you tell me what I want to know?”

  “I will not,” cried Egan.

  “All right. Then come along.”

  “Am I under arrest?” asked Egan.

  “I didn’t say that,” replied Hallet, suddenly cautious. “The investigation is young yet. You are withholding much needed information, and I believe that after you’ve spent a few hours at the station, you’ll change your mind and talk. In fact, I’m sure of it. I haven’t any warrant, but your position will be a lot more dignified if you come willingly without one.”

  Egan considered a moment. “I fancy you’re right,” he said. “I have certain orders to give the servants, if you don’t mind—”

  Hallet nodded. “Make it snappy. Charlie will go with you.”

  Egan and the Chinaman disappeared. The captain, John Quincy and Jennison went out and sat down in the public room. Five minutes passed, ten, fifteen—

  Jennison glanced at his watch. “See here, Hallet,” he said. “The man’s making a monkey of you—”

  Hallet reddened, and stood up. At that instant Egan and Chan came down the big open stairway at one side of the room. Hallet went up to the Englishman.

  “Say, Egan—what are you doing? Playing for time?”

  Egan smiled. “That’s precisely what I’m doing,” he replied. “My daughter’s coming in this morning on the Matsonia—the boat ought to be at the dock now. She’s been at school on the mainland, and I haven’t seen her for nine months. You’ve done me out of the pleasure of meeting her, but in a few minutes—”

  “Nothing doing,” cried Hallet. “Now you get your hat. I’m pau.”

  Egan hesitated a moment, then slowly took his battered old straw hat from the desk. The five men walked through the blooming garden toward Hallet’s car. As they emerged into the street, a taxi drew up to the curb. Egan ran forward, and the girl John Quincy had last seen at the gateway to San Francisco leaped out into the Englishman’s arms.

  “Dad—where were you?” she cried.

  “Cary, darling,” he said. “I was so frightfully sorry—I meant to be at the dock but I was detained. How are you, my dear?”

  “I’m fine, dad—but—where are you going?” She looked at Hallet; John Quincy remained discreetly in the background.

  “I’ve—I’ve a little business in the city, my dear,” Egan said. “I’ll be home presently, I fancy. If—if I shouldn’t be, I leave you in charge.”

  “Why, dad—”

  “Don’t worry,” he added pleadingly. “That’s all I can say now, Cary. Don’t worry, my dear.” He turned to Hallet. “Shall we go, Captain?”

  The two policemen, Jennison and Egan entered the car. John Quincy stepped forward. The girl’s big perplexed eyes met his.

  “You?” she cried.

  “Coming, Mr. Winterslip?” inquired Hallet.

  John Quincy smiled at the girl. “You were quite right,” he said. “I haven’t needed that hat.”

  She looked up at him. “But you’re not wearing any at all. That’s hardly wise—”

  “Mr. Winterslip!” barked Hallet.

  John Quincy turned. “Oh, pardon me, Captain,” he said. “I forgot to mention it, but I’m leaving you here. Good-by.”

  Hallet grunted and started his car. While the girl paid for her taxi out of a tiny purse, John Quincy picked up her suitcase.

  “This time,” he said, “I insist on carrying it.” They stepped through the gateway into the garden that might have been Eden on one of its better days. “You didn’t tell me we might meet in Honolulu,” the boy remarked.

  They stepped through the gateway into the garden that might have been on one of its loveliest days. “You didn’t tell me we might meet in Honolulu,” the boy remarked. From The House Without a Key, illustration by William Liepse (The Saturday Evening Post, February 7, 1925).

  “I wasn’t sure we would.” She glanced at the shabby old hotel. “You see, I’m not exactly a social favorite out here.” John Quincy could think of no reply, and they mounted the crumbling steps. The public room was quite deserted. “And why have we met?” the girl continued. “I’m fearfully puzzled. What was dad’s business with those men? One of them was Captain Hallet—a policeman—”

  John Quincy frowned. “I’m not so sure your father wants you to know.”

  “But I’ve got to know, that’s obvious. Please tell me.”

  John Quincy relinquished the suit-case, and brought forward a chair. The girl sat down.

  “It’s this way,” he began. “My Cousin Dan was murdered in the night.”

  Her eyes were tragic. “Oh—poor Barbara!” she cried. That’s right, he mustn’t forget Barbara. “But dad—oh, go on please—�
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  “Your father visited Cousin Dan last night at eleven, and he refuses to say why. There are other things he refuses to tell.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes filled with sudden tears. “I was so happy on the boat,” she said. “I knew it couldn’t last.”

  He sat down. “Nonsense. Everything will come out all right. Your father is probably shielding some one—”

  She nodded. “Of course. But if he’s made up his mind not to talk, he just simply won’t talk. He’s odd that way. They may keep him down there, and I shall be all alone—”

  “Not quite alone,” John Quincy told her.

  “No, no,” she said. “I’ve warned you. We’re not the sort the best people care to know—”

  “The more fools they,” cut in the boy. “I’m John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston. And you—”

  “Carlota Maria Egan,” she answered. “You see, my mother was half Portuguese.75 The other half was Scotch-Irish—my father’s English. This is the melting pot out here, you know.” She was silent for a moment. “My mother was very beautiful,” she added wistfully. “So they tell me—I never knew.”

  John Quincy was touched. “I thought how beautiful she must have been,” he said gently. “That day I met you on the ferry.”

  The girl dabbed at her eyes with an absurd little handkerchief, and stood up. “Well,” she remarked, “this is just another thing that has to be faced. Another call for courage—I must meet it.” She smiled. “The lady manager of the Reef and Palm. Can I show you a room?”

  “I say, it’ll be a rather stiff job, won’t it?” John Quincy rose too.

  “Oh, I shan’t mind. I’ve helped dad before. Only one thing troubles me—bills and all that. I’ve no head for arithmetic.”

  “That’s all right—I have,” replied John Quincy. He stopped. Wasn’t he getting in a little deep?

  “How wonderful,” the girl said.

  “Why, not at all,” John Quincy protested. “It’s my line, at home.” Home! Yes, he had a home, he recalled. “Bonds and interest and all that sort of thing. I’ll drop in later in the day to see how you’re getting on.” He moved away in a mild panic. “I’d better be going now,” he added.