Classic American Crime Fiction of the 1920s

by Leslie S. Klinger

  “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 down-town 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—”

  “I’m coming to that,” Greene told him. “Just now—by the way, what time is it?”

  Jennison took from his pocket a watch on the end of a slender chain. “It’s a quarter past nine.”

  “Ah, yes. Is that the watch you usually carry?”

  “It is.”

  “Ever wear a wrist watch?”

  Jennison hesitated. “Occasionally.”

  “Only occasionally.” The prosecutor rose and came round his desk. “Let me see your left wrist, please.”

  Jennison held out his arm. It was tanned a deep brown, but on the wrist was etched in white the outline of a watch and its encircling
strap.

  Greene smiled. “Yes, you have worn a wrist watch—and you’ve worn it pretty constantly, from the look of things.” He took a small object from his pocket and held it in front of Jennison. “This watch, perhaps?” Jennison regarded it stonily. “Ever see it before?” Greene asked. “No? Well, suppose we try it on, anyhow.” He put the watch in position and fastened it. “I can’t help noting, Harry,” he continued, “that it fits rather neatly over that white outline on your wrist And the prong of the buckle falls naturally into the most worn of the holes on the strap.”

  “What of that?” asked Jennison.

  “Oh, coincidence, probably. You have abnormally large wrists, however. Surf-boarding, swimming, eh? But that’s something else I’ll speak of later.” He turned to Miss Minerva. “Will you please come over here, Miss Winterslip.”

  She came, and as she reached his side, the prosecutor suddenly bent over and switched off the light on his desk. Save for a faint glimmer through a transom, the room was in darkness. Miss Minerva was conscious of dim huddled figures, a circle of white faces, a tense silence. The prosecutor was lifting something slowly toward her startled eyes. A watch, worn on a human wrist—a watch with an illuminated dial on which the figure two was almost obliterated.

  “Look at that and tell me,” came the prosecutor’s voice. “You have seen it before?”

  “I have,” she answered firmly.

  “Where?”

  “In the dark in Dan Winterslip’s living-room just after midnight the thirtieth of June.”

  Greene flashed on the light. “Thank you, Miss Winterslip.” He retired behind his desk and pressed a button. “You identify it by some distinguishing mark, I presume?”

  “I do. The numeral two, which is pretty well obscured.”

  Spencer appeared at the door. “Send the Spaniard in,” Greene ordered. “That is all for the present, Miss Winterslip.”

  Cabrera entered, and his eyes were frightened as they looked at Jennison. At a nod from the prosecutor, Chan removed the wrist watch and handed it to the Spaniard.

  “You know that watch, Jose?” Greene asked.

  “I—I—yes,” answered the boy.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Greene urged. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. I want you to repeat the story you told me this afternoon. You have no regular job. You’re a sort of confidential errand boy for Mr. Jennison here.”

  “I was.”

  “Yes—that’s all over now. You can speak out. On the morning of Wednesday, July second, you were in Mr. Jennison’s office. He gave you this wrist watch and told you to take it out and get it repaired. Something was the matter with it. It wasn’t running. You took it to a big jewelry store. What happened?”

  “The man said it is very badly hurt. To fix it would cost more than a new watch. I go back and tell Mr. Jennison. He laugh and say it is mine as a gift.”

  “Precisely.” Greene referred to a paper on his desk. “Late in the afternoon of Thursday, July third, you sold the watch. To whom?”

  “To Lau Ho, Chinese jeweler in Maunakea Street. On Saturday evening maybe six o’clock Mr. Jennison telephone my home, much excited. Must have watch again, and will pay any price. I speed to Lau Ho’s store. Watch is sold once more, now to unknown Japanese. Late at night I see Mr. Jennison and he curse me with anger. Get the watch, he says. I have been hunting, but I could not find it.”

  Greene turned to Jennison. “You were a little careless with that watch, Harry. But no doubt you figured you were pretty safe—you had your alibi. Then, too, when Hallet detailed the clues to you on Winterslip’s lanai the morning after the crime, he forgot to mention that some one had seen the watch. It was one of those happy accidents that are all we have to count on in this work. By Saturday night you realized your danger—just how you discovered it I don’t know—”

  “I do,” John Quincy interrupted.

  “What! What’s that?” said Greene.

  “On Saturday afternoon,” John Quincy told him, “I played golf with Mr. Jennison. On our way back to town, we talked over the clues in this case, and I happened to mention the wrist watch. I can see now it was the first he had heard of it. He was to dine with us at the beach, but he asked to be put down at his office to sign a few letters. I waited below. It must have been then that he called up this young man in an effort to locate the watch.”

  “Great stuff,” said Greene enthusiastically. “That finishes the watch, Jennison. I’m surprised you wore it, but you probably knew that it would be vital to you to keep track of the time, and you figured, rightly, that it would not be immediately affected by the salt water—”

  “What the devil are you talking about?” demanded Jennison.

  Again Greene pressed a button on his desk. Spencer appeared at once. “Take this Spaniard,” the prosecutor directed, “and bring in Hepworth and the quartermaster.” He turned again to Jennison. “I’ll show you what I’m talking about in just a minute. On the night of June thirtieth you were a passenger on the President Tyler, which was lying by until dawn out near the channel entrance?”

  “I was.”

  “No passengers were landed from that ship until the following morning?”

  “That’s a matter of record.”

  “Very well.” The second officer of the President Tyler came in, followed by a big hulking sailorman John Quincy recognized as the quartermaster of that vessel. He was interested to note a ring on the man’s right hand, and his mind went back to that encounter in the San Francisco attic.

  “Mr. Hepworth,” the prosecutor began, “on the night of June thirtieth your ship reached this port too late to dock. You anchored off Waikiki. On such an occasion, who is on deck—say, from midnight on?”

  “The second officer,” Hepworth told him. “In this case, myself. Also the quartermaster.”

  “The accommodation ladder is let down the night before?”

  “Usually, yes. It was let down that night.”

  “Who is stationed near it?”

  “The quartermaster.”

  “Ah, yes. You were in charge then on the night of June thirtieth. Did you notice anything unusual on that occasion?”

  Hepworth nodded. “I did. The quartermaster appeared to be under the influence of liquor. At three o’clock I found him dozing near the accommodation ladder. I roused him. When I came back from checking up the anchor bearings before turning in at dawn—about four-thirty—he was dead to the world. I put him in his cabin, and the following morning I of course reported him.”

  “You noticed nothing else out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Hepworth replied.

  “Thank you very much. Now, you—” Greene turned to the quartermaster. “You were drunk on duty the night of June thirtieth. Where did you get the booze?” The man hesitated. “Before you say anything, let me give you a bit of advice. The truth, my man. You’re in pretty bad already. I’m not making any promises, but if you talk straight here it may help you in that other matter. If you lie, it will go that much harder with you.”

  “I ain’t going to lie,” promised the quartermaster.

  “All right. Where did you get your liquor?”

  The man nodded toward Jennison. “He gave it to me.”

  “He did, eh? Tell me all about it.”

  “I met him on deck just after midnight—we was still moving. I knew him before—him and me—”

  “In the opium game, both of you. I understand that. You met him on deck—”

  “I did, and he says, you’re on watch to-night, eh, and I says I am. So he slips me a little bottle an’ says, this will help you pass the time. I ain’t a drinking man, so help me I ain’t, an’ I took just a nip, but there was something in that whiskey, I’ll swear to it. My head was all funny like, an’ the next I knew I was waked up in my cabin with the bad news I was wanted above.”

  “What became of that bottle?”

  “I dropped it overboard on my way to see the captain. I didn’t want nobody to find it
.”

  “Did you see anything the night of June thirtieth? Anything peculiar?”

  “I seen plenty, sir—but it was that drink. Nothing you would want to hear about.”

  “All right.” The prosecutor turned to Jennison. “Well, Harry—you drugged him, didn’t you? Why? Because you were going ashore, eh? Because you knew he’d be on duty at that ladder when you returned, and you didn’t want him to see you. So you dropped something into that whiskey—”

  “Guess work,” cut in Jennison, still unruffled. “I used to have some respect for you as a lawyer, but it’s all gone now. If this is the best you can offer—”

  “But it isn’t,” said Greene pleasantly. Again he pushed the button. “I’ve something much better, Harry, if you’ll only wait.” He turned to Hepworth. “There’s a steward on your ship named Bowker,” he began, and John Quincy thought that Jennison stiffened. “How has he been behaving lately?”

  “Well, he got pretty drunk in Hong-kong,” Hepworth answered. “But that, of course, was the money.”

  “What money?”

  “It’s this way. The last time we sailed out of Honolulu harbor for the Orient, over two weeks ago, I was in the purser’s office. It was just as we were passing Diamond Head. Bowker came in, and he had a big fat envelope that he wanted to deposit in the purser’s safe. He said it contained a lot of money. The purser wouldn’t be responsible for it without seeing it, so Bowker slit the envelope—and there were ten one hundred dollar bills. The purser made another package of it and put it in the safe. He told me Bowker took out a couple of the bills when we reached Hong-kong.”

  “Where would a man like Bowker get all that money?”

  “I can’t imagine. He said he’d put over a business deal in Honolulu but—well, we knew Bowker.”