“Maybe it might be,” answered Chan, “and maybe also not. At six o’clock in hotel lobby, if you will so far condescend.”
“I’ll be there,” John Quincy promised, and he was.
He greeted Chan with anxious, inquiring eyes, but the Chinaman was suave and entirely non-committal. He led John Quincy to the dining-room and carefully selected a table by a front window.
“Do me the great favor to recline,” he suggested.
John Quincy reclined. “Charlie, don’t keep me in suspense,” he pleaded.
Chan smiled. “Let us not shade the feast with gloomy murder talk,” he replied. “This are social meeting. Is it that you are in the mood to dry up plate of soup?”
“Why, yes, of course,” John Quincy answered. Politeness, he saw, dictated that he hide his curiosity.
“Two of the soup,” ordered Chan of a white-jacketed waiter. A car drew up to the door of the Alexander Young. Chan half rose, staring at it keenly. He dropped back to his seat. “It is my high delight to entertain you thus humbly before you are restored to Boston. Converse at some length of Boston. I feel interested.”
“Really?” smiled the boy.
“Undubitably. Gentleman I meet once say Boston are like China. The future of both, he say, lies in graveyards where repose useless bodies of honored guests on high. I am fogged as to meaning.”
“He meant both places live in the past,” John Quincy explained. “And he was right, in a way. Boston, like China, boasts a glorious history. But that’s not saying the Boston of to-day isn’t progressive. Why, do you know—”
He talked eloquently of his native city. Chan listened, rapt.
“Always,” he sighed, when John Quincy finished, “I have unlimited yearning for travel.” He paused to watch another car draw up before the hotel. “But it are unavailable. I am policeman on small remuneration. In my youth, rambling on evening hillside or by moonly ocean, I dream of more lofty position. Not so now. But that other American citizen, my eldest son, he are dreaming too. Maybe for him dreams eventuate. Perhaps he become second Baby Ruth, home run emperor, applause of thousands making him deaf. Who knows it?”
The dinner passed, unshaded by gloomy talk, and they went outside. Chan proffered a cigar of which he spoke in the most belittling fashion. He suggested that they stand for a time before the hotel door.
“Waiting for somebody?” inquired John Quincy, unable longer to dissemble.
“Precisely the fact. Barely dare to mention it, however. Great disappointment may drive up here any minute now.”
An open car stopped before the hotel entrance. John Quincy’s eyes sought the license plate, and he got an immediate thrill. The first two figures were 33.
A party of tourists, a man and two women, alighted. The doorman ran forward and busied himself with luggage. Chan casually strolled across the walk, and as the Japanese driver shifted his gears preparatory to driving away, put a restraining hand on the car door.
“One moment, please.” The Jap turned, fright in his eyes. “You are Okuda, from auto stand across way?”
“Yess,” hissed the driver.
“You are now returned from exploring island with party of tourists? You leave this spot early Sunday morning?”
“Yess.”
“Is it possible that you wear wrist watch, please?”
“Yess.”
“Deign to reveal face of same.”
The Jap hesitated. Chan leaned far over into the car and thrust aside the man’s coat sleeve. He came back, a pleased light in his eyes, and held open the rear door. “Kindly embark into tonneau, Mr. Winterslip.” Obediently John Quincy got in. Chan took his place by the driver’s side. “The police station, if you will be so kind.” The car leaped forward.
The essential clue! They had it at last. John Quincy’s heart beat fast there in the rear of the car where, only a few nights before, he had been bound and gagged.
Captain Hallet’s grim face relaxed into happy lines when he met them at the door of his room. “You got him, eh? Good work.” He glanced at the prisoner’s wrist. “Rip that watch off him, Charlie.”
Charlie obeyed. He examined the watch for a moment, then handed it to his chief.
“Inexpensive time-piece of noted brand,” he announced. “Numeral two faint and far away. One other fact emerge into light. This Jap have small wrist. Yet worn place on strap convey impression of being worn by man with wrist of vastly larger circumference.”
Hallet nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Some other man has owned this watch. He had a big wrist—but most men in Honolulu have, you know. Sit down, Okuda. I want to hear from you. You understand what it means to lie to me?”
“I do not lie, sir.”
“No, you bet your sweet life you don’t. First, tell me who engaged your car last Saturday night.”
“Saturday night?”
“That’s what I said!”
“Ah, yes. Two sailors from ship. Engage for evening paying large cash at once. I drive to shop on River Street, wait long time. Then off we go to dock with extra passenger in back.”
“Know the names of those sailors?”
“Could not say.”
“What ship were they from?”
“How can I know? Not told.”
“All right I’m coming to the important thing. Understand? The truth—that’s what I want! Where did you get this watch?”
Chan and John Quincy leaned forward eagerly. “I buy him,” said the Jap.
“You bought him? Where?”
“At jewel store of Chinese Lau Ho on Maunakea Street.”
Hallet turned to Chan. “Know the place, Charlie?”
Chan nodded. “Yes, indeed.”
“Open now?”
“Open until hour of ten, maybe more.”
“Good,” said Hallet. “Come along, Okuda. You can drive us there.”
Lau Ho, a little wizened Chinaman, sat back of his work bench with a microscope screwed into one dim old eye. The four men who entered his tiny store filled it to overflowing, but he gave them barely a glance.
“Come on, Ho—wake up,” Hallet cried. “I want to talk to you.”
With the utmost deliberation the Chinaman descended from his stool and approached the counter. He regarded Hallet with a hostile eye. The captain laid the wrist watch on top of a showcase in which reposed many trays of jade.
“Ever see that before?” he inquired.
Lau Ho regarded it casually. Slowly he raised his eyes. “Maybe so. Can not say,” he replied in a high squeaky voice.
Hallet reddened. “Nonsense. You had it here in the store, and you sold it to this Jap. Now, didn’t you?”
Lau Ho dreamily regarded the taxi driver. “Maybe so. Can not say.”
“Damn it!” cried Hallet. “You know who I am?”
“Policeman, maybe.”
“Policeman maybe yes! And I want you to tell me about this watch. Now wake up and come across or by the Lord Harry—”
Chan laid a deferential hand on his chief’s arm. “Humbly suggest I attempt this,” he said.
Hallet nodded. “All right, he’s your meat, Charlie.” He drew back.
Chan bowed with a great show of politeness. He launched into a long story in Chinese. Lau Ho looked at him with slight interest. Presently he squeaked a brief reply. Chan resumed his flow of talk. Occasionally he paused, and Lau Ho spoke. In a few moments Chan turned beaming.
“Story are now completely extracted like aching tooth,” he said. “Wrist watch was brought to Lau Ho on Thursday, same week as murder. Offered him on sale by young man darkly colored with small knife scar marring cheek. Lau Ho buy and repair watch, interior works being in injured state. Saturday morning he sell at seemly profit to Japanese, presumably this Okuda here but Lau Ho will not swear. Saturday night dark young man appear much overwhelmed with excitement and demand watch again, please. Lau Ho say it is sold to Japanese. Which Japanese? Lau Ho is not aware of name, and can not describe, all Japanese faces being un
interesting outlook for him. Dark young man curse and fly. Appear frequently demanding any news, but Lau Ho is unable to oblige. Such are story of this jewel merchant here.”
They went out on the street. Hallet scowled at the Jap. “All right—run along. I’ll keep the watch.”120
“Very thankful,” said the taxi driver, and leaped into his car.
Hallet turned to Chan. “A dark young man with a scar?” he queried.
“Clear enough to me,” Chan answered. “Same are the Spaniard Jose Cabrera, careless man about town with reputation not so savory. Mr. Winterslip, is it that you have forgotten him?”
John Quincy started. “Me? Did I ever see him?”
“Recall,” said Chan. “It are the night following murder. You and I linger in All American Restaurant engaged in debate regarding hygiene of pie. Door open, admitting Bowker, steward on President Tyler, joyously full of okolehau. With him are dark young man—this Jose Cabrera himself.”
“Oh, I remember now,” John Quincy answered.
“Well, the Spaniard’s easy to pick up,” said Hallet. “I’ll have him inside an hour—”
“One moment, please,” interposed Chan. “To-morrow morning at nine o’clock the President Tyler return from Orient. No gambler myself but will wager increditable sum Spaniard waits on dock for Mr. Bowker. If you present no fierce objection, I have a yearning to arrest him at that very moment.”
“Why, of course,” agreed Hallet. He looked keenly at Charlie Chan. “Charlie, you old rascal, you’ve got the scent at last.”
“Who—me?” grinned Chan. “With your gracious permission I would alter the picture. Stone walls are crumbling now like dust. Through many loopholes light stream in like rosy streaks of dawn.”
120.Really? Hallet is prepared to accept that Okuda didn’t notice that John Quincy was bound and gagged and therefore wasn’t a willing—and paid—participant in the kidnapping?
CHAPTER XXI
The Stone Walls Crumble
The stone walls were crumbling and the light streaming through—but only for Chan. John Quincy was still groping in the dark, and his reflections were a little bitter as he returned to the house at Waikiki. Chan and he had worked together, but now that they approached the crisis of their efforts, the detective evidently preferred to push on alone, leaving his fellow-worker to follow if he could. Well, so be it—but John Quincy’s pride was touched.
He had suddenly a keen desire to show Chan that he could not be left behind like that. If only he could, by some inspirational flash of deductive reasoning, arrive at the solution of the mystery simultaneously with the detective. For the honor of Boston and the Winterslips.
Frowning deeply, he considered all the old discarded clues again. The people who had been under suspicion and then dropped—Egan, the Compton woman, Brade, Kaohla, Leatherbee, Saladine, Cope. He even considered several the investigation had not touched. Presently he came to Bowker. What did Bowker’s reappearance mean?
For the first time in two weeks he thought of the little man with the fierce pompadour and the gold-rimmed eye-glasses. Bowker with his sorrowful talk of vanished bar-rooms and lost friends behind the bar. How was the steward on the President Tyler connected with the murder of Dan Winterslip? He had not done it himself, that was obvious, but in some way he was linked up with the crime. John Quincy spent a long and painful period seeking to join Bowker up with one or another of the suspects. It couldn’t be done.
All through that Tuesday evening the boy puzzled, so silent and distrait that Miss Minerva finally gave him up and retired to her room with a book. He awoke on Wednesday morning with the problem no nearer solution.
Barbara was due to arrive at ten o’clock from Kauai, and taking the small car, John Quincy went down-town to meet her. Pausing at the bank to cash a check, he encountered his old shipmate on the President Tyler, the sprightly Madame Maynard.
“I really shouldn’t speak to you,” she said. “You never come to see me.”
“I know,” he answered. “But I’ve been so very busy.”
“So I hear. Running round with policemen and their victims. I have no doubt you’ll go back to Boston and report we’re all criminals and cutthroats out here.”
“Oh, hardly that.”
“Yes, you will. You’re getting a very biased view of Honolulu. Why not stoop to associate with a respectable person now and then?”
“I’d enjoy it—if they’re all like you.”
“Like me? They’re much more intelligent and charming than I am. Some of them are dropping in at my house to-night for an informal little party. A bit of a chat, and then a moonlight swim. Won’t you come too?”
“I want to, of course,” John Quincy replied. “But there’s Cousin Dan—”
Her eyes flashed. “I’ll say it, even if he was your relative. Ten minutes of mourning for Cousin Dan is ample. I’ll be looking for you.”
John Quincy laughed. “I’ll come.”
“Do,” she answered. “And bring your Aunt Minerva. Tell her I said she might as well be dead as hog-tied by convention.”
John Quincy went out to the corner of Fort and King Streets, near which he had parked the car. As he was about to climb into it, he paused. A familiar figure was jauntily crossing the street. The figure of Bowker, the steward, and with him was Willie Chan, demon backstopper of the Pacific.
“Hello, Bowker,” John Quincy called.
Mr. Bowker came blithely to join him. “Well, well, well. My old friend Mr. Winterslip. Shake hands with William Chan, the local Ty Cobb.”
“Mr. Chan and I have met before,” John Quincy told him.
“Know all the celebrities, eh? That’s good. Well, we missed you on the President Tyler.”
Bowker was evidently quite sober. “Just got in, I take it,” John Quincy remarked.
“A few minutes ago. How about joining us?” He came closer and lowered his voice. “This intelligent young man tells me he knows a taxi-stand out near the beach where one may obtain a superior brand of fusel oil121 with a very pretty label on the bottle.”
“Sorry,” John Quincy answered. “My cousin’s coming in shortly on an Inter-Island boat, and I’m elected to meet her.”
“I’m sorry, too,” said the graduate of Dublin University. “If my strength holds out I’m aiming to stage quite a little party, and I’d like to have you in on it. Yes, a rather large affair—in memory of Tim, and as a last long lingering farewell to the seven seas.”
“What? You’re pau?”
“Pau it is. When I sail out of here to-night at nine on the old P. T. I’m through for ever. You don’t happen to know a good country newspaper that can be bought for—well, say ten grand.”
“This is rather sudden, isn’t it?” John Quincy inquired.
“This is sudden country out here, sir. Well, we must roll along. Sorry you can’t join us. If the going’s not too rough and I can find a nice smooth table top, I intend to turn down an empty glass. For poor old Tim. So long, sir—and happy days.”
He nodded to Willie Chan, and they went on down the street. John Quincy stood staring after them, a puzzled expression on his face.
Barbara seemed paler and thinner than ever, but she announced that her visit had been an enjoyable one, and on the ride to the beach appeared to be making a distinct effort to be gay and sprightly. When they reached the house, John Quincy repeated to his aunt Mrs. Maynard’s invitation.
“Better come along,” he urged.
“Perhaps I will,” she answered. “I’ll see.”
The day passed quietly, and it was not until evening that the monotony was broken. Leaving the dining-room with his aunt and Barbara, John Quincy was handed a cablegram. He hastily opened it. It had been sent from Boston; evidently Agatha Parker, overwhelmed by the crude impossibility of the West, had fled home again, and John Quincy’s brief “San Francisco or nothing” had followed her there. Hence the delay.
The cablegram said simply: “Nothing. Agatha.” John Quincy cr
ushed it in his hand; he tried to suffer a little, but it was no use. He was a mighty happy man. The end of a romance—no. There had never been any nonsense of that kind between them—just an affectionate regard too slight to stand the strain of parting. Agatha was younger than he, she would marry some nice proper boy who had no desire to roam. And John Quincy Winterslip would read of her wedding—in the San Francisco papers.
He found Miss Minerva alone in the living-room. “It’s none of my business,” she said, “but I’m wondering what was in your cablegram.”
“Nothing,” he answered truthfully.
“All the same, you were very pleased to get it.”
He nodded. “Yes. I imagine nobody was ever so happy over nothing before.”
“Good heavens,” she cried. “Have you given up grammar, too?”
“I’m thinking of it. How about going down the beach with me?”
She shook her head. “Some one is coming to look at the house—a leading lawyer, I believe he is. He’s thinking of buying, and I feel I should be here to show him about. Barbara appears so listless and disinterested. Tell Sally Maynard I may drop in later.”
At a quarter to eight, John Quincy took his bathing suit and wandered down Kalia Road. It was another of those nights; a bright moon was riding high; from a bungalow buried under purple alamander came the soft croon of Hawaiian music. Through the hedges of flaming hibiscus he caught again the exquisite odors of this exotic island.
Mrs. Maynard’s big house was a particularly unlovely type of New England architecture, but a hundred flowering vines did much to conceal that fact. John Quincy found his hostess enthroned in her great airy drawing-room, surrounded by a handsome laughing group of the best people. Pleasant people, too; as she introduced him he began to wonder if he hadn’t been missing a great deal of congenial companionship.
“I dragged him here against his will,” the old lady explained. “I felt I owed it to Hawaii. He’s been associating with the riff-raff long enough.”
They insisted that he take an enormous chair, pressed cigarettes upon him, showered him with hospitable attentions. As he sat down and the chatter was resumed, he reflected that here was as civilized a company as Boston itself could offer. And why not? Most of these families came originally from New England, and had kept in their exile the old ideals of culture and caste.
Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s Page 29