Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “It might interest Beacon Street to know,” Mrs. Maynard said, “that long before the days of ’forty-nine the people of California were sending their children over here to be educated in the missionary schools. And importing their wheat from here, too.”

  “Go on, tell him the other one, Aunt Sally,” laughed a pretty girl in blue. “That about the first printing press in San Francisco being brought over from Honolulu.”

  Madame Maynard shrugged her shoulders. “Oh, what’s the use? We’re so far away, New England will never get us straight.”

  John Quincy looked up to see Carlota Egan in the doorway. A moment later Lieutenant Booth, of Richmond, appeared at her side. It occurred to the young man from Boston that the fleet was rather overdoing its stop at Honolulu.

  Mrs. Maynard rose to greet the girl. “Come in, my dear. You know most of these people.” She turned to the others. “This is Miss Egan, a neighbor of mine on the beach.”

  It was amusing to note that most of these people knew Carlota too. John Quincy smiled—the British Admiralty and the soap business. It must have been rather an ordeal for the girl, but she saw it through with a sweet graciousness that led John Quincy to reflect that she would be at home in England—if she went there.

  Carlota sat down on a sofa, and while Lieutenant Booth was busily arranging a cushion at her back, John Quincy dropped down beside her. The sofa was, fortunately, too small for three.

  “I rather expected to see you,” he said in a low voice. “I was brought here to meet the best people of Honolulu, and the way I see it, you’re the best of all.”

  She smiled at him, and again the chatter of small talk filled the room. Presently the voice of a tall young man with glasses rose above the general hubbub.

  “They got a cable from Joe Clark out at the Country Club this afternoon,” he announced.

  The din ceased, and every one listened with interest. “Clark’s our professional,” explained the young man to John Quincy. “He went over a month ago to play in the British Open.”

  “Did he win?” asked the girl in blue.

  “He was put out by Hagen122 in the semi-finals,” the young man said. “But he had the distinction of driving the longest ball ever seen on the St. Andrews course.”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” asked an older man. “He’s got the strongest wrists I ever saw on anybody!”

  John Quincy sat up, suddenly interested. “How do you account for that?” he asked.

  The older man smiled. “We’ve all got pretty big wrists out here,” he answered. “Surf-boarding—that’s what does it. Joe Clark was a champion at one time—body-surfing and boardsurfing too. He used to disappear for hours in the rollers out by the reef. The result was a marvelous wrist development. I’ve seen him drive a golf ball three hundred and eighty yards. Yes, sir, I’ll bet he made those Englishmen sit up and take notice.”

  While John Quincy was thinking this over, some one suggested that it was time for the swim, and confusion reigned. A Chinese servant led the way to the dressing-rooms, which opened off the lanai, and the young people trouped joyously after him.

  “I’ll be waiting for you on the beach,” John Quincy said to Carlota Egan.

  “I came with Johnnie, you know,” she reminded him.

  “I know all about it,” he answered. “But it was the week-end you promised to the navy. People who try to stretch their week-end through the following Wednesday night deserve all they get.”

  She laughed. “I’ll look for you,” she agreed.

  He donned his bathing suit hastily in a room filled with flying clothes and great waving brown arms. Lieutenant Booth, he noted with satisfaction, was proceeding at a leisurely pace. Hurrying through a door that opened directly on the beach, he waited under a nearby hau tree. Presently Carlota came, slender and fragile-looking in the moonlight.

  “Ah, here you are,” John Quincy cried. “The farthest float.”

  “The farthest float it is,” she answered.

  They dashed into the warm silvery water and swam gaily off. Five minutes later they sat on the float together. The light on Diamond Head was winking; the lanterns of sampans twinkled out beyond the reef; the shore line of Honolulu was outlined by a procession of blinking stars controlled by dynamos. In the bright heavens hung a lunar rainbow, one colorful end in the Pacific and the other tumbling into the foliage ashore.

  A gorgeous setting in which to be young and in love, and free to speak at last. John Quincy moved closer to the girl’s side.

  “Great night, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Wonderful,” she answered softly.

  “Cary, I want to tell you something, and that’s why I brought you out here away from the others—”

  “Somehow,” she interrupted, “it doesn’t seem quite fair to Johnnie.”

  “Never mind him. Has it ever occurred to you that my name’s Johnnie, too.”

  She laughed. “Oh, but it couldn’t be.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I simply couldn’t call you that. You’re too dignified and—and remote. John Quincy—I believe I could call you John Quincy—”

  “Well, make up your mind. You’ll have to call me something, because I’m going to be hanging round pretty constantly in the future. Yes, my dear, I’ll probably turn out to be about the least remote person in the world. That is, if I can make you see the future the way I see it. Cary dearest—”

  A gurgle sounded behind them, and they turned around. Lieutenant Booth was climbing on to the raft. “Swam the last fifty yards under water to surprise you,” he sputtered.

  “Well, you succeeded,” said John Quincy without enthusiasm.

  The lieutenant sat down with the manner of one booked to remain indefinitely. “I’ll tell the world it’s some night,” he offered.

  “Speaking of the world, when do you fellows leave Honolulu?” asked John Quincy.

  “I don’t know. To-morrow, I guess. Me, I don’t care if we never go. Hawaii’s not so easy to leave. Is it, Cary?”

  She shook her head. “Hardest place I know of, Johnnie. I shall have to be sailing presently, and I know what a wrench it will be. Perhaps I’ll follow the example of Waioli the swimmer, and leave the boat when it passes Waikiki.”

  They lolled for a moment in silence. Suddenly John Quincy sat up. “What was that you said?” he asked.

  “About Waioli? Didn’t I ever tell you? He was one of our best swimmers, and for years they tried to get him to go to the mainland to take part in athletic meets, like Duke Kahanamoku.123 But he was a sentimentalist—he couldn’t bring himself to leave Hawaii. Finally they persuaded him, and one sunny morning he sailed on the Matsonia, with a very sad face. When the ship was opposite Waikiki he slipped overboard and swam ashore. And that was that. He never got on a ship again. You see—”

  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 top-most 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, 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 shut 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 Carlota waiting his return. He summoned his strength for one last desperate effort to renew his grip.

  Another moment—What then? John Quincy wondered. From The House Without a Key, illustration by William Liepse (The Saturday Evening Post, March 7, 1925)

  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’ll 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.”

  121.“Fusel oil” (technically “fusel alcohols”) is a mixture of alcohols produced as a by-product of alcoholic fermentation with the yeast Saccharomyces cerevisiae. The word “fusel” comes from the German, meaning “bad liquor.”

  122.Walter Hagen (1892–1969) was the first great American professional golfer, winning elev
en professional major tournaments. Hagen (who won the British Open in 1922) was the winner, by one stroke, of the British Open held on June 26–27, 1924. There is no record of a golfer named “Clark” participating in the tournament.

  123.Waioli appears to be a fictional person, unlike Duke Kahanamoku (1890–1968), certainly the most famous swimmer ever produced by Hawaii. A Native Hawaiian, Kahanamoku was a five-time Olympic medalist in swimming and a great popularizer of the sport of surfing.

  CHAPTER XXII

  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 bridge work 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.”