“Good-by,” said Jennison coldly.
John Quincy went hastily through the living-room, where Miss Minerva sat with Amos. “Got an appointment downtown,” he explained, and picking up his hat in the hall, fled into the night.
He had intended taking the roadster, but to reach the garage he would have to pass that bench under the hau tree. Oh, well, the colorful atmosphere of a trolley was more interesting, anyhow.
In the cable office on the ground floor of the Alexander Young Hotel, Chan was waiting, and they sent off their inquiry to the postmaster at Des Moines, signing John Quincy’s name and address. That attended to, they returned to the street. In the park across the way an unseen group of young men strummed steel guitars and sang in soft haunting voices; it was the only sign of life in Honolulu.
“Kindly deign to enter hotel lobby with me,” suggested Chan. “It is my custom to regard names in register from time to time.”
At the cigar stand just inside the door, the boy paused to light his pipe, while Chan went on to the desk. As John Quincy turned he saw a man seated alone in the lobby, a handsome, distinguished man who wore immaculate evening clothes that bore the stamp of Bond Street. An old acquaintance, Captain Arthur Temple Cope.
At sight of John Quincy, Cope leaped to his feet and came forward. “Hello, I’m glad to see you,” he cried, with a cordiality that had not been evident at former meetings. “Come over and sit down.”
John Quincy followed him. “Aren’t you back rather soon?” he inquired.
“Sooner than I expected,” Cope rejoined. “Not sorry, either.”
“Then you didn’t care for your little flock of islands?”
“My boy, you should visit there. Thirty-five white men, two hundred and fifty natives, and a cable station. Jolly place of an evening, what?”
Chan came up, and John Quincy presented him. Captain Cope was the perfect host. “Sit down, both of you,” he urged. “Have a cigarette.” He extended a silver case.
“Thanks, I’ll stick to the pipe,” John Quincy said. Chan gravely accepted a cigarette and lighted it.
“Tell me, my boy,” Cope said when they were seated, “is there anything new on the Winterslip murder? Haven’t run down the guilty man, by any chance.”
“No, not yet,” John Quincy replied.
“That’s a great pity. I—er—understand the police are holding a chap named Egan?”
“Yes—Jim Egan, of the Reef and Palm Hotel.”
“Just what evidence have they against Egan, Mr. Winterslip?”
John Quincy was suddenly aware of Chan looking at him in a peculiar way. “Oh, they’ve dug up several things,” he answered vaguely.
“Mr. Chan, you are a member of the police force,” Captain Cope went on. “Perhaps you can tell me?”
Chan’s little eyes narrowed. “Such matters are not yet presented to public,” he replied.
“Ah, yes, naturally.” Captain Cope’s tone suggested disappointment.
“You have interest in this murder, I think?” Chan said.
“Why, yes—every one out this way is puzzling about it, I fancy. The thing has so many angles.”
“Is it possible that you were an acquaintance with Mr. Dan Winterslip?” the detective persisted.
“I—I knew him slightly. But that was many years ago.”
Chan stood. “Humbly begging pardon to be so abrupt,” he said. He turned to John Quincy. “The moment of our appointment is eminent—”
“Of course,” agreed John Quincy. “See you again, Captain.” Perplexed, he followed Chan to the street. “What appointment—” he began, and stopped. Chan was carefully extinguishing the light of the cigarette against the stone facade of the hotel. That done, he dropped the stub into his pocket.
“You will see,” he promised. “First we visit police station. As we journey, kindly relate all known facts concerning this Captain Cope.”
John Quincy told of his first meeting with Cope in the San Francisco club, and repeated the conversation as he recalled it.
“Evidence of warm dislike for Dan Winterslip were not to be concealed?” inquired Chan.
“Oh, quite plain, Charlie. He certainly had no love for Cousin Dan. But what—”
“Immediately he was leaving for Hawaii—pardon the interrupt. Does it happily chance you know his date of arrival here?”
“I do. I saw him in the Alexander Young Hotel last Tuesday evening when I was looking for you. He was rushing off to the Fanning Islands, and he told me he had got in the previous day at noon—”
“Monday noon to put it lucidly.”
“Yes—Monday noon. But Charlie—what are you trying to get at?”
“Groping about,” Chan smiled. “Seeking to seize truth in my hot hands.”
They walked on in silence to the station, where Chan led the way into the deserted room of Captain Hallet. He went directly to the safe and opened it. From a drawer he removed several small objects, which he carried over to the captain’s table.
“Property Mr. Jim Egan,” he announced, and laid a case of tarnished silver before John Quincy. “Open it—what do you find now? Corsican cigarettes.” He set down another exhibit. “Tin box found in room of Mr. Brade. Open that, also. You find more Corsican cigarettes.”
He removed an envelope from his pocket and taking out a charred stub, laid that too on the table. “Fragment found by walk outside door of Dan Winterslip’s mansion,” he elucidated. “Also Corsican brand.”
Frowning deeply, he removed a second charred stub from his pocket and laid it some distance from the other exhibits. “Cigarette offered just now with winning air of hospitality by Captain Arthur Temple Cope. Lean close and perceive. More Corsican brand!”
“Good lord!” John Quincy cried.
“Can it be you are familiar with these Corsicans?” inquired Chan.
“Not at all.”
“I am more happily located. This afternoon before the swim I pause at public library for listless reading. In Australian newspaper I encounter advertising talk of Corsican cigarette. It are assembled in two distinct fashions, one, labeled on tin 222, holds Turkish tobacco. Note 222 on tin of Brade. Other labeled 444 made up from Virginia weeds. Is it that you are clever to know difference between Turkish and Virginia tobacco?”
“Well, I think so—” began John Quincy.
“Same with me, but thinking are not enough now. The moment are serious. We will interrogate expert opinion. Honor me by a journey to smoking emporium.”
He took a cigarette from Brade’s tin, put it in an envelope and wrote something on the outside, then did the same with one from Egan’s case. The two stubs were similarly classified.
They went in silence to the street. John Quincy, amazed by this new turn of events, told himself the idea was absurd. But Chan’s face was grave, his eyes awake and eager.
John Quincy was vastly more amazed when they emerged from the tobacco shop after a brisk interview with the young man in charge. Chan was jubilant now.
“Again we advance! You hear what he tells us. Cigarette from Brade’s tin and little brother from Egan’s case are of identical contents, both being of Turkish tobacco. Stub found near walk are of Virginia stuff. So also are remnant received by me from the cordial hand of Captain Arthur Temple Cope!”
“It’s beyond me,” replied John Quincy. “By gad—that lets Egan out. Great news for Carlota. I’ll hurry to the Reef and Palm and tell her—”
“Oh, no, no,” protested Chan. “Please to let that happy moment wait. For the present, indulge only in silence. Before asking Captain Cope for statement we spy over his every move. Much may be revealed by the unsuspecting. I go to station to make arrangements—”
“But the man’s a gentleman,” John Quincy cried. “A captain in the British Admiralty. What you suggest is impossible.”
Chan shook his head. “Impossible in Rear Bay at Boston,” he said, “but here at moonly crossroads of Pacific, not so much so. Twenty-five years of my life are co
nsumed in Hawaii, and I have many times been witness when the impossible roused itself and occurred.”
106.Trace.
107.If John Quincy was more familiar with the Midwest, this might have been a tip-off that Saladine was an imposter—all midwesterners know that the town is pronounced “Dee Moyn,” presenting no difficulty to a lisping speaker.
108.George Gordon, Lord Byron, “She Walks in Beauty” (1813).
CHAPTER XVII
Night Life in Honolulu
Monday brought no new developments, and John Quincy spent a restless day. Several times he called Chan at the police station, but the detective was always out.
Honolulu, according to the evening paper, was agog. This was not, as John Quincy learned to his surprise, a reference to the Winterslip case. An American fleet had just left the harbor of San Pedro109 bound for Hawaii. This was the annual cruise of the graduating class at Annapolis; the war-ships were overflowing with future captains and admirals. They would linger at the port of Honolulu for several days and a gay round of social events impended—dinners, dances, moonlight swimming parties.
John Quincy had not seen Barbara all day; the girl had not appeared at breakfast and had lunched with a friend down the beach. They met at dinner, however, and it seemed to him that she looked more tired and wan than ever. She spoke about the coming of the war-ships.
“It’s always such a happy time,” she said wistfully. “The town simply blooms with handsome boys in uniform. I don’t like to have you miss all the parties, John Quincy. You’re not seeing Honolulu at its best.”
“Why—that’s all right,” John Quincy assured her.
She shook her head. “Not with me. You know, we’re not such slaves to convention out here. If I should get you a few invitations—what do you think, Cousin Minerva?”
“I’m an old woman,” said Miss Minerva. “According to the standards of your generation, I suppose it would be quite the thing. But it’s not the sort of conduct I can view approvingly. Now, in my day—”
“Don’t you worry, Barbara,” John Quincy broke in. “Parties mean nothing to me. Speaking of old women, I’m an old man myself—thirty my next birthday. Just my pipe and slippers by the fire—or the electric fan—that’s all I ask of life now.”
She smiled and dropped the matter. After dinner, she followed John Quincy to the lanai. “I want you to do something for me,” she began.
“Anything you say.”
“Have a talk with Mr. Brade, and tell me what he wants.”
“Why, I thought that Jennison—” said John Quincy.
“No, I didn’t ask him to do it,” she replied. For a long moment she was silent. “I ought to tell you—I’m not going to marry Mr. Jennison, after all.”
A shiver of apprehension ran down John Quincy’s spine. Good lord—that kiss! Had she misunderstood? And he hadn’t meant a thing by it. Just a cousinly salute—at least, that was what it had started out to be. Barbara was a sweet girl, yes, but a relative, a Winterslip, and relatives shouldn’t marry, no matter how distant the connection. Then, too, there was Agatha. He was bound to Agatha by all the ties of honor. What had he got himself into, anyhow?
“I’m awfully sorry to hear that,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m to blame—”
“Oh, no,” she protested.
“But surely Mr. Jennison understood. He knows we’re related, and that what he saw last night meant—nothing.” He was rather proud of himself. Pretty neat the way he’d got that over.
“If you don’t mind,” Barbara said, “I’d rather not talk about it any more. Harry and I will not be married—not at present, at any rate. And if you’ll see Mr. Brade for me—”
“I certainly will,” John Quincy promised. “I’ll see him at once.” He was glad to get away, for the moon was rising on that “spot of heart-breaking charm.”
A fellow ought to be more careful, he reflected as he walked along the beach. Fit upon himself the armor of preparation, as Chan had said. Strange impulses came to one here in this far tropic land; to yield to them was weak. Complications would follow, as the night the day. Here was one now, Barbara and Jennison estranged, and the cause was clear. Well, he was certainly going to watch his step hereafter.
On the far end of the Reef and Palm’s first floor balcony, Brade and his wife sat together in the dusk. John Quincy went up to them.
“May I speak with you, Mr. Brade?” he said.
The man looked up out of a deep reverie. “Ah, yes—of course—”
“I’m John Quincy Winterslip. We’ve met before.”
“Oh, surely, surely sir.” Brade rose and shook hands. “My dear—” he turned to his wife, but with one burning glance at John Quincy, the woman had fled. The boy tingled—in Boston a Winterslip was never snubbed. Well, Dan Winterslip had arranged it otherwise in Hawaii.
“Sit down, sir,” said Brade, somewhat embarrassed by his wife’s action. “I’ve been expecting some one of your name.”
“Naturally. Will you have a cigarette, sir.” John Quincy proffered his case, and when the cigarettes were lighted, seated himself at the man’s side. “I’m here, of course, in regard to that story you told Saturday night.”
“Story?” flashed Brade.
John Quincy smiled. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not questioning the truth of it. But I do want to say this, Mr. Brade—you must be aware that you will have considerable difficulty establishing your claim in a court of law. The ’eighties are a long time back.”
“What you say may be true,” Brade agreed. “I’m relying more on the fact that a trial would result in some rather unpleasant publicity for the Winterslip family.”
“Precisely,” nodded John Quincy. “I am here at the request of Miss Barbara Winterslip, who is Dan Winterslip’s sole heir. She’s a very fine girl, sir—”
“I don’t question that,” cut in Brade impatiently.
“And if your demands are not unreasonable—” John Quincy paused, and leaned closer. “Just what do you want, Mr. Brade?”
Brade stroked those gray mustaches that drooped “in saddened mood.” “No money,” he said, “can make good the wrong Dan Winterslip did. But I’m an old man, and it would be something to feel financially secure for the rest of my life. I’m not inclined to be grasping—particularly since Dan Winterslip has passed beyond my reach. There were twenty thousand pounds involved. I’ll say nothing about interest for more than forty years. A settlement of one hundred thousand dollars would be acceptable.”110
John Quincy considered. “I can’t speak definitely for my cousin,” he said, “but to me that sounds fair enough. I have no doubt Barbara will agree to give you that sum”—he saw the man’s tired old eyes brighten in the semi-darkness—“the moment the murderer of Dan Winterslip is found,” he added quickly.
“What’s that you say?” Brade leaped to his feet.
“I say she’ll very likely pay you when this mystery is cleared up. Surely you don’t expect her to do so before that time?” John Quincy rose too.
“I certainly do!” Brade cried. “Why, look here, this thing may drag on indefinitely. I want England again—the Strand, Piccadilly—it’s twenty-five years since I saw London. Wait! Damn it, why should I wait! What’s this murder to me—by gad, sir—” He came close, erect, flaming, the son of Tom Brade, the blackbirder, now. “Do you mean to insinuate that I—”
John Quincy faced him calmly. “I know you can’t prove where you were early last Tuesday morning,” he said evenly. “I don’t say that incriminates you, but I shall certainly advise my cousin to wait. I’d not care to see her in the position of having rewarded the man who killed her father.”
“I’ll fight,” cried Brade. “I’ll take it to the courts—”
“Go ahead,” John Quincy said. “But it will cost you every penny you’ve saved, and you may lose in the end. Good night, sir.”
“Good night!” Brade answered, standing as his father might have stood on the Maid of Shiloh’s deck.
“You’ve got me,” he said, laying a hand on John Quincy’s arm. “I can’t fight. I’m too tired, too old—I’ve worked too hard. I’ll take whatever your cousin wants to give me—when she’s ready to give it.”
“That’s a wise decision, sir,” John Quincy answered. A sudden feeling of pity gripped his heart. He felt toward Brade as he had felt toward that other exile, Arlene Compton. “I hope you see London very soon,” he added, and held out his hand.
Brade took it. “Thank you, my boy. You’re a gentleman, even if your name is Winterslip.”
Which, John Quincy reflected as he entered the lobby of the Reef and Palm, was a compliment not without its flaw.
He didn’t worry over that long, however, for Carlota Egan was behind the desk. She looked up and smiled, and it occurred to John Quincy that her eyes were happier than he had seen them since that day on the Oakland ferry.
“Hello,” he said. “Got a job for a good bookkeeper?”
She shook her head. “Not with business the way it is now. I was just figuring my pay-roll. You know, we’ve no undertow at Waikiki, but all my life I’ve had to worry about the overhead.”
He laughed. “You talk like a brother Kiwanian.111 By the way, has anything happened? You seem considerably cheered.”
“I am,” she replied. “I went to see poor dad this morning in that horrible place—and when I left some one else was going in to visit him. A stranger.”
“A stranger?”
“Yes—and the handsomest thing you ever saw—tall, gray, capable-looking. He had such a friendly air, too—I felt better the moment I saw him.”
“Who was he?” John Quincy inquired, with sudden interest.
“I’d never seen him before, but one of the men told me he was Captain Cope, of the British Admiralty.”
“Why should Captain Cope want to see your father?”
“I haven’t a notion. Do you know him?”
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 24