Close above the house sounded the loud whir of an aeroplane. Miss Minerva turned again to the window. A young lieutenant in the air service, in love with a sweet girl on the beach, was accustomed to serenade her thus every morning at dawn. His thoughtfulness was not appreciated by many innocent bystanders, but Miss Minerva's eyes were sympathetic as she watched him sweep exultantly out, far out, over the harbor.
Youth and love, the beginning of life. And on that cot down on the lanai, Dan—and the end.
Out in the harbor, by the channel entrance, thePresident Tylerstood motionless as Diamond Head, and from his post near the rail outside his stateroom, John Quincy Winterslip took his first look at Honolulu. He had no feeling of having been here before; this was an alien land. Several miles away he saw the line of piers and unlovely warehouses that marked the water-front; beyond that lay a vast expanse of brilliant green pierced here and there by the top of a modest skyscraper. Back of the city a range of mountains stood on guard, peaks of crystal blue against the azure sky.
A trim little launch from Quarantine chugged importantly up to the big liner's side, and a doctor in a khaki uniform ran briskly up the accommodation ladder to the deck not far from where the boy stood. John Quincy wondered at the man's vitality. He felt like a spent force himself. The air was moist and heavy, the breeze the ship had stirred in moving gone for ever. The flood of energy that had swept over him in San Francisco was but a happy memory now. He leaned wearily on the rail, staring at the bright tropical landscape before him—and not seeing it at all.
He saw instead a quiet, well-furnished Boston office where at this very moment the typewriters were clicking amiably and the stock ticker was busily writing the story of another day. In a few hours—there was a considerable difference of time—the market would close and the men he knew would be piling into automobiles and heading for the nearest country club. A round of golf, then a calm, perfectly served dinner, and after that a quiet evening with a book. Life running along as it was meant to go, without rude interruption or disturbing incident; life devoid of ohia wood boxes, attic encounters, unwillingly witnessed love scenes, cousins with blackbirding pasts. Suddenly John Quincy remembered, this was the morning when he must look Dan Winterslip in the eye and tell him he had been a bit dilatory with his fists. Oh, well—he straightened resolutely—the sooner that was done, the better.
Harry Jennison came along the deck, smiling and vigorous, clad in spotless white from head to foot. "Here we are," he cried. "On the threshold of paradise!"
"Think so?" said John Quincy.
"Know it," Jennison answered. "Only place in the world, these islands. You remember what Mark Twain said—"
"Ever visited Boston?" John Quincy cut in.
"Once," replied Jennison briefly. "That's Punch Bowl Hill back of the town—and Tantalus beyond. Take you up to the summit some day—wonderful view. See that tallest building? The Van Patten Trust Company—my office is on the top floor. Only drawback about getting home—I'll have to go to work again."
"I don't see how any one can work in this climate," John Quincy said.
"Oh, well, we take it easy. Can't manage the pace of you mainland people. Every now and then some go-getter from the States comes out here and tries to hustle us." He laughed. "He dies of disgust and we bury him in a leisurely way. Been down to breakfast?"
John Quincy accompanied him to the dining saloon. Madame Maynard and Barbara were at the table. The old lady's cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled; Barbara, too, was in her gayest mood. The excitement of coming home had made her very happy—or was her happiness all due to that? John Quincy noted her smile of greeting for Jennison, and rather wished he knew less than he did.
"Prepare for a thrill, John Quincy," the girl said. "Landing in Hawaii is like landing nowhere else on the globe. Of course, this is a through boat, and it isn't welcomed as the Matson liners are. But there'll be a crowd waiting for theMatsoniathis morning, and we'll steal a little of her aloha."
"A little of her what?" inquired John Quincy.
"Aloha—meaning loving welcome. You shall have all my leis, John Quincy. Just to show you how glad Honolulu is you've come at last."
The boy turned to Madame Maynard. "I suppose this is an old story to you?"
"Bless you, my boy," she said. "It's always new. A hundred and twenty-eight times—yet I'm as thrilled as though I were coming home from college." She sighed. "A hundred and twenty-eight times. So many of those who once hung leis about my neck are gone for ever now. They'll not be waiting for me—not on this dock."
"None of that," Barbara chided. "Only happy thoughts this morning. It's steamer day."
Nobody seemed hungry, and breakfast was a sketchy affair. John Quincy returned to his cabin to find Bowker strapping up his luggage.
"I guess you're all ready, sir," said the steward. "I finished that book last night, and you'll find it in your suit-case. We'll be moving on to the dock shortly. All good luck to you—and don't forget about the okolehau."
"It's graven on my memory," smiled John Quincy. "Here—this is for you."
Bowker glanced at the bank-note and pocketed it. "You're mighty kind, sir," he remarked feelingly. "That will sort of balance up the dollar each I'll get from those two missionaries when we reach China—if I'm lucky. Of course, it's rather distasteful to me to accept anything. From a friend of Tim's, you know."
"Oh, that's for value received," said John Quincy, and followed Bowker on deck.
"There she is," announced Bowker, pausing by the rail. "Honolulu. The South Seas with a collar on, driving a Ford car. Polynesia with a private still and all the other benefits of the white man's civilization. We'll go out at eight to-night, thank heaven."
"Paradise doesn't appeal to you," suggested John Quincy.
"No. Nor any other of these bright-colored lands my poor old feet must tread. I'm getting fed up, sir." He came closer. "I want to hang my hat somewhere and leave it there. I want to buy a little newspaper in some country town and starve to death on the proceeds of running it. What a happy finish! Well, maybe I can manage it, before long."
"I hope so," said John Quincy.
"I hope so, too," said Bowker. "Here's wishing you a happy time in Honolulu. And one other word of warning—don't linger there."
"I don't intend to," John Quincy assured him.
"That's the talk. It's one of those places—you know—dangerous. Lotus on the menu every day. The first thing you know, you've forgot where you put your trunk. So long, sir."
With a wave of the hand, Tim's friend disappeared down the deck. Amid much confusion, John Quincy took his place in line for the doctor's inspection, passed the careful scrutiny of an immigration official who finally admitted that maybe Boston was in the Union, and was then left to his own devices and his long, long thoughts.
ThePresident Tylerwas moving slowly toward the shore. Excited figures scurried about her decks, pausing now and then to stare through lifted glasses at the land. John Quincy perceived that early though the hour was, the pier toward which they were heading was alive with people. Barbara came and stood by his side.
"Poor old dad," she said, "he's been struggling along without me for nine months. This will be a big morning in his life. You'll like dad, John Quincy."
"I'm sure I shall," he answered heartily.
"Dad's one of the finest—" Jennison joined them. "Harry, I meant to tell the steward to take my luggage ashore when we land."
"I told him," Jennison said. "I tipped him, too."
"Thanks," the girl replied. "I was so excited, I forgot."
She leaned eagerly over the rail, peering at the dock. Her eyes were shining. "I don't see him yet," she said. They were near enough now to hear the voices of those ashore, gay voices calling flippant greetings. The big ship edged gingerly closer.
"There's Aunt Minerva," cried John Quincy suddenly. That little touch of home in the throng was very pleasant. "Is that your father with her?" He indicated a tall anemic man at Minerva's side.
"I don't see—where—" Barbara began. "Oh—that—why, that's Uncle Amos!"
"Oh, is that Amos?" remarked John Quincy, without interest. But Barbara had gripped his arm, and as he turned he saw a wild alarm in her eyes.
"What do you suppose that means?" she cried. "I don't see dad. I don't see him anywhere."
"Oh, he's in that crowd somewhere—"
"No, no—you don't understand! Uncle Amos! I'm—I'm frightened."
John Quincy didn't gather what it was all about, and there was no time to find out. Jennison was pushing ahead through the crowd, making a path for Barbara, and the boy meekly brought up the rear. They were among the first down the plank. Miss Minerva and Amos were waiting at the foot.
"My dear." Miss Minerva put her arms about the girl and kissed her gently. She turned to John Quincy. "Well, here you are—"
There was something lacking in this welcome. John Quincy sensed it at once.
"Where's dad?" Barbara cried.
"I'll explain in the car—" Miss Minerva began.
"No, now! Now! I must know now!"
The crowd was surging about them, calling happy greetings, the Royal Hawaiian Band was playing a gay tune, carnival was in the air.
"Your father is dead, my dear," said Miss Minerva.
John Quincy saw the girl's slim figure sway gently, but it was Harry Jennison's strong arm that caught her.
For a moment she stood, with Jennison's arm about her. "All right," she said. "I'm ready to go home." And walked like a true Winterslip toward the street.
Amos melted away into the crowd, but Jennison accompanied them to the car. "I'll go out with you," he said to Barbara. She did not seem to hear. The four of them entered the limousine, and in another moment the happy clamor of steamer day was left behind.
No one spoke. The curtains of the car were drawn but a warm streak of sunlight fell across John Quincy's knees. He was a little dazed. Shocking, this news about Cousin Dan. Must have died suddenly—but no doubt that was how things always happened out this way. He glanced at the white stricken face of the girl beside him, and because of her his heart was heavy.
She laid her cold hand on his. "It's not the welcome I promised you, John Quincy," she said softly.
"Why, my dear girl, I don't matter now."
No other word was spoken on the journey, and when they reached Dan's house, Barbara and Miss Minerva went immediately up-stairs. Jennison disappeared through a doorway at the left; evidently he knew his way about. Haku volunteered to show John Quincy his quarters, so he followed the Jap to the second floor.
When his bags were unpacked, John Quincy went down-stairs again. Miss Minerva was waiting for him in the living-room. From beyond the bamboo curtain leading to the lanai came the sound of men's voices, mumbling and indistinct.
"Well," said John Quincy, "how have you been?"
"Never better," his aunt assured him.
"Mother's been rather worried about you. She'd begun to think you were never coming home."
"I've begun to think it myself," Miss Minerva replied.
He stared at her. "Some of those bonds you left with me have matured. I haven't known just what you wanted me to do about them."
"What," inquired Miss Minerva, "is a bond?"
That sort of wild reckless talk never did make a hit with John Quincy. "It's about time somebody came out here and brought you to your senses," he remarked.
"Think so?" said his aunt.
A sound up-stairs recalled John Quincy to the situation. "This was rather sudden—Cousin Dan's death?" he inquired.
"Amazingly so."
"Well, it seems to me that it would be rather an intrusion—our staying on here now. We ought to go home in a few days. I'd better see about reservations—"
"You needn't trouble," snapped Miss Minerva. "I'll not stir from here until I see the person who did this brought to justice."
"The person who did what?" asked John Quincy.
"The person who murdered Cousin Dan," said Miss Minerva.
John Quincy's jaw dropped. His face registered a wide variety of emotions. "Good lord!" he gasped.
"Oh, you needn't be so shocked," said his aunt. "The Winterslip family will still go on."
"Well, I'm not surprised," remarked John Quincy, "when I stop to think. The things I've learned about Cousin Dan. It's a wonder to me—"
"That will do," said Miss Minerva. "You're talking like Amos, and that's no compliment. You didn't know Dan. I did—and I liked him. I'm going to stay here and do all I can to help run down the murderer. And so are you."
"Pardon me. I am not."
"Don't contradict. I intend you shall take an active part in the investigation. The police are rather informal in a small place like this. They'll welcome your help."
"My help! I'm no detective. What's happened to you, anyhow? Why should you want me to go round hobnobbing with policemen—"
"For the simple reason that if we're not careful some rather unpleasant scandal may come out of this. If you're on the ground you may be able to avert needless publicity. For Barbara's sake."
"No, thank you," said John Quincy. "I'm leaving for Boston in three days, and so are you. Pack your trunks."
Miss Minerva laughed. "I've heard your father talk like that," she told him. "But I never knew him to gain anything by it in the end. Come out on the lanai and I'll introduce you to a few policemen."
John Quincy received this invitation with the contemptuous silence he thought it deserved. But while he was lavishing on it his best contempt, the bamboo curtain parted and the policemen came to him. Jennison was with them.
"Good morning, Captain Hallet," said Miss Minerva brightly. "May I present my nephew, Mr. John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston."
"I'm very anxious to meet Mr. John Quincy Winterslip," the captain replied.
"How do you do," said John Quincy. His heart sank. They'd drag him into this affair if they could.
"And this, John Quincy," went on Miss Minerva, "is Mr. Charles Chan, of the Honolulu detective force."
John Quincy had thought himself prepared for anything, but—"Mr.—Mr. Chan," he gasped.
"Mere words," said Chan, "can not express my unlimitable delight in meeting a representative of the ancient civilization of Boston."
Harry Jennison spoke. "This is an appalling business, Miss Winterslip," he said. "As perhaps you know, I was your cousin's lawyer. I was also his friend. Therefore I hope you won't think I am intruding if I show a keen interest in what is going forward here."
"Not at all," Miss Minerva assured him. "We shall need all the help we can get."
Captain Hallet had taken a paper from his pocket. He faced John Quincy.
"Young man," he began, "I said I wanted to meet you. Last night Miss Winterslip told me of a cablegram received by the dead man about a week ago, which she said angered him greatly. I happen to have a copy of that message, turned over to me by the cable people. I'll read it to you:
"John Quincy sailing onPresident Tylerstop owing to unfortunate accident he leaves here with empty hands. Signed, Roger Winterslip."
"John Quincy sailing onPresident Tylerstop owing to unfortunate accident he leaves here with empty hands. Signed, Roger Winterslip."
"Yes?" said John Quincy haughtily.
"Explain that, if you will."
John Quincy stiffened. "The matter was strictly private," he said. "A family affair."
Captain Hallet glared at him. "You're mistaken," he replied. "Nothing that concerns Mr. Dan Winterslip is private now. Tell me what that cable meant, and be quick about it. I'm busy this morning."
John Quincy glared back. The man didn't seem to realize to whom he was talking. "I've already said—" he began.
"John Quincy," snapped Miss Minerva. "Do as you're told!"
Oh, well, if she wanted family secrets aired in public! Reluctantly John Quincy explained about Dan Winterslip's letter, and the misadventure in the attic of Dan's San Francisco house.
"An ohia wood box bound with copper," repeated the captain. "Initials on it, T. M. B. Got that, Charlie?"
"It is written in the book," said Chan.
"Any idea what was in that box?" asked Hallet.
"Not the slightest," John Quincy told him.
Hallet turned to Miss Minerva. "You knew nothing about this?" She assured him she did not. "Well," he continued, "one thing more and we'll go along. We've been making a thorough search of the premises by daylight—without much success, I'm sorry to say. However, by the cement walk just outside that door"—he pointed to the screen door leading from the living-room into the garden—"Charlie made a discovery."
Chan stepped forward, holding a small white object in the palm of his hand.
"One-half cigarette, incompletely consumed," he announced. "Very recent, not weather stained. It are of the brand denominated Corsican, assembled in London and smoked habitually by Englishmen."
Hallet again addressed Miss Minerva. "Did Dan Winterslip smoke cigarettes?"
"He did not," she replied. "Cigars and a pipe, but never cigarettes."
"You were the only other person living here."
"I haven't acquired the cigarette habit," snapped Miss Minerva. "Though undoubtedly it's not too late yet."
"The servants, perhaps?" went on Hallet.
"Some of the servants may smoke cigarettes, but hardly of this quality. I take it these are not on sale in Honolulu?"
"They're not," said the captain. "But Charlie tells me they're put up in air-tight tins and shipped to Englishmen the world over. Well, stow that away, Charlie." The Chinaman tenderly placed the half cigarette, incompletely consumed, in his pocketbook. "I'm going on down the beach now to have a little talk with Mr. Jim Egan," the captain added.
"I'll go with you," Jennison offered. "I may be able to supply a link or two there."
"Sure, come along," Hallet replied cordially.
"Captain Hallet," put in Miss Minerva, "it is my wish that some member of the family keep in touch with what you are doing, in order that we may give you all the aid we can. My nephew would like to accompany you—"
"Pardon me," said John Quincy coldly, "you're quite wrong. I have no intention of joining the police force."
"Well, just as you say," remarked Hallet. He turned to Miss Minerva. "I'm relying on you, at any rate. You've got a good mind. Anybody can see that."
"Thank you," she said.
"As good as a man's," he added.
"Oh, now you've spoiled it. Good morning."
The three men went through the screen door into the bright sunshine of the garden. John Quincy was aware that he was not in high favor with his aunt.
"I'll go up and change," he said uncomfortably "We'll talk things over later—"
He went into the hall. At the foot of the stairs he paused.
From above came a low, heart-breaking moan of anguish. Barbara. Poor Barbara, who had been so happy less than an hour ago.
John Quincy felt his head go hot, the blood pound in his temples. How dare any one strike down a Winterslip! How dare any one inflict this grief on his Cousin Barbara! He clenched his fists and stood for a moment, feeling that he, too, could kill.
Action—he must have action! He rushed through the living-room, past the astonished Miss Minerva. In the drive stood a car, the three men were already in it.
"Wait a minute," called John Quincy. "I'm going with you."
"Hop in," said Captain Hallet.
The car rolled down the drive and out on to the hot asphalt of Kalia Road. John Quincy sat erect, his eyes flashing, by the side of a huge grinning Chinaman.
They reached Kalakaua Avenue and swerving sharply to the right, Captain Hallet stepped on the gas. Since the car was without a top, John Quincy was getting an unrestricted view of this land that lay at his journey's end. As a small boy squirming about on the hard pew in the First Unitarian Church, he had heard much of Heaven, and his youthful imagination had pictured it as something like this. A warm, rather languid country, freshly painted in the gaudiest colors available.
Creamy white clouds wrapped the tops of the distant mountains, and their slopes were bright with tropical foliage. John Quincy heard near at hand the low monotone of breakers lapping the shore. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of apple-green water and a dazzling white stretch of sand. "Oh, Waikiki! Oh, scene of peace—" What was the rest of that poem his Aunt Minerva had quoted in her last letter—the one in which she had announced that she was staying on indefinitely. "And looking down from tum-tum skies, the angels smile on Waikiki." Sentimental, but sentiment was one of Hawaii's chief exports. One had only to look at the place to understand and forgive.
John Quincy had not delayed for a hat, and the sun was beating down fiercely on his brown head. Charlie Chan glanced at him.
"Humbly begging pardon," remarked the Chinaman, "would say it is unadvisable to venture forth without headgear. Especially since you are a malihini."
"A what?"
"The term carries no offense. Malihini—stranger, newcomer."
"Oh." John Quincy looked at him curiously. "Are you a malihini?"
"Not in the least," grinned Chan. "I am kamaaina—old-timer. Pursuing the truth further, I have been twenty-five years in the Islands."
They passed a huge hotel, and presently John Quincy saw Diamond Head standing an impressive guardian at the far end of that lovely curving beach. A little farther along the captain drew up to the curb and the four men alighted. On the other side of a dilapidated fence was a garden that might have been Eden at its best.
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 bruskly.
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," 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 post-cards 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 roll-top 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—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."
"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 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 out-cast, 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 theMatsonia—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 suit-case.
"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.
"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 whyhavewe 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—"
"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. 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.
"Of course." She followed him to the door. "You're altogether too kind. Shall you be in Honolulu long?"
"That depends," John Quincy said. "I've made up my mind to one thing. I shan't stir from here until this mystery about Cousin Dan is solved. And I'm going to do everything in my power to help in solving it."
"I'm sure you're very clever, too," she told him.
He shook his head. "I wouldn't say that. But I intend to make the effort of my life. I've got a lot of incentives for seeing this affair through." Something else trembled on his tongue. Better not say it. Oh, lord, he was saying it. "You're one of them," he added, and clattered down the stairs.
"Do be careful," called the girl. "Those steps are even worse than they were when I left. Just another thing to be repaired—some day—when our ship comes in."
He left her smiling wistfully in the doorway and hurrying through the garden, stepped out on Kalakaua Avenue. The blazing sun beat down on his defenseless head. Gorgeous trees flaunted scarlet banners along his path, tall cocoanut palms swayed above him at the touch of the friendly trades, not far away rainbow-tinted waters lapped a snowy beach. A sweet land—all of that.
Did he wish that Agatha Parker were there to see it with him? Pursuing the truth further, as Charlie Chan would put it, he did not.
When John Quincy got back to the living-room he found Miss Minerva pacing up and down with the light of battle in her eyes. He selected a large, comfortable-looking chair and sank into it.
"Anything the matter?" he inquired. "You seem disturbed."
"I've just been having a lot of pilikia," she announced.
"What's that—another native drink?" he said with interest. "Could I have some too?"
"Pilikia means trouble," she translated. "Several reporters have been here, and you'd hardly credit the questions they asked."
"About Cousin Dan, eh?" John Quincy nodded. "I can imagine."
"However, they got nothing out of me. I took good care of that."
"Go easy," advised John Quincy. "A fellow back home who had a divorce case in his family was telling me that if you're not polite to the newspaper boys they just plain break your heart."
"Don't worry," said Miss Minerva. "I was diplomatic, of course. I think I handled them rather well, under the circumstances. They were the first reporters I'd ever met—though I've had the pleasure of talking with gentlemen from theTranscript. What happened at the Reef and Palm Hotel?"
John Quincy told her—in part.
"Well, I shouldn't be surprised if Egan turned out to be guilty," she commented. "I've made a few inquiries about him this morning, and he doesn't appear to amount to much. A sort of glorified beach-comber."
"Nonsense," objected John Quincy. "Egan's a gentleman. Just because he doesn't happen to have prospered is no reason for condemning him without a hearing."
"He's had a hearing," snapped Miss Minerva. "And it seems he's been mixed up in something he's not precisely proud of. There, I've gone and ended a sentence with a preposition. Probably all this has upset me more than I realize."
John Quincy smiled. "Cousin Dan," he reminded her, "was also mixed up in a few affairs he could hardly have looked back on with pride. No, Aunt Minerva, I feel Hallet is on the wrong trail there. It's just as Egan's daughter said—"
She glanced at him quickly. "Oh—so Egan has a daughter?"
"Yes, and a mighty attractive girl. It's a confounded shame to put this thing on her."
"Humph," said Miss Minerva.
John Quincy glanced at his watch. "Good lord—it's only ten o'clock!" A great calm had settled over the house, there was no sound save the soft lapping of waves on the beach outside. "What, in heaven's name, do you do out here?"
"Oh, you'll become accustomed to it shortly," Miss Minerva answered. "At first, you just sit and think. After a time, you just sit."
"Sounds fascinating," said John Quincy sarcastically.
"That's the odd part of it," his aunt replied, "it is. One of the things you think about, at first, is going home. When you stop thinking, that naturally slips your mind."
"We gathered that," John Quincy told her.
"You'll meet a man on the beach," said Miss Minerva, "who stopped over between boats to have his laundry done. That was twenty years ago, and he's still here."
"Probably they haven't finished his laundry," suggested John Quincy, yawning openly. "Ho, hum. I'm going up to my room to change, and after that I believe I'll write a few letters." He rose with an effort and went to the door. "How's Barbara?" he asked.
Miss Minerva shook her head. "Dan was all the poor child had," she said. "She's taken it rather hard. You won't see her for some time, and when you do—the least said about all this, the better."
"Why, naturally," agreed John Quincy, and went up-stairs.
After he had bathed and put on his whitest, thinnest clothes, he explored the desk that stood near his bed and found it well supplied with note paper. Languidly laying out a sheet, he began to write.
"Dear Agatha: Here I am in Honolulu and outside my window I can hear the lazy swish of waters lapping the famous beach of—"
"Dear Agatha: Here I am in Honolulu and outside my window I can hear the lazy swish of waters lapping the famous beach of—"
Lazy, indeed. John Quincy had a feeling for words. He stopped and stared at an agile little cloud flitting swiftly through the sky—got up from his chair to watch it disappear over Diamond Head. On his way back to the desk he had to pass the bed. What inviting beds they had out here! He lifted the mosquito netting and dropped down for a moment—
Haku hammered on the door at one o'clock, and that was how John Quincy happened to be present at lunch. His aunt was already at the table when he staggered in.
"Cheer up," she smiled. "You'll become acclimated soon. Of course, even then you'll want your nap just after lunch every day."
"I will not," he answered, but there was no conviction in his tone.
"Barbara asked me to tell you how sorry she is not to be with you. She's a sweet girl, John Quincy."
"She's all of that. Give her my love, won't you?"
"Your love?" His aunt looked at him. "Do you mean that? Barbara's only a second cousin—"
He laughed. "Don't waste your time match-making, Aunt Minerva. Some one has already spoken for Barbara."
"Really? Who?"
"Jennison. He seems like a fine fellow, too."
"Handsome, at any rate," Miss Minerva admitted. They ate in silence for a time. "The coroner and his friends were here this morning," said Miss Minerva presently.
"That so?" replied John Quincy. "Any verdict?"
"Not yet. I believe they're to settle on that later. By the way, I'm going down-town immediately after lunch to do some shopping for Barbara. Care to come along?"
"No, thanks," John Quincy said. "I must go up-stairs and finish my letters."
But when he left the luncheon table, he decided the letters could wait. He took a heavy volume with a South Sea title from Dan's library, and went out on to the lanai. Presently Miss Minerva appeared, smartly dressed in white linen.
"I'll return as soon as I'm pau," she announced.
"What is this pau?" John Quincy inquired.
"Pau means finished—through."
"Good lord," John Quincy said. "Aren't there enough words in the English language for you?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answered, "a little Hawaiian sprinkled in makes a pleasant change. And when one reaches my age, John Quincy, one is eager for a change. Good-by."
She left him to his book and the somnolent atmosphere of Dan's lanai. Sometimes he read, colorful tales of other islands farther south. Sometimes he sat and thought. Sometimes he just sat. The blazing afternoon wore on; presently the beach beyond Dan's garden was gay with bathers, sunburned men and girls, pretty girls in brief and alluring costumes. Their cries as they dared the surf were exultant, happy. John Quincy was keen to try these notable waters, but it didn't seem quite the thing—not just yet, with Dan Winterslip lying in that room up-stairs.
Miss Minerva reappeared about five, flushed and—though she well knew it was not the thing for one of her standing in the Back Bay—perspiring. She carried an evening paper in her hand.
"Any news?" inquired John Quincy.
She sat down. "Nothing but the coroner's verdict. The usual thing—person or persons unknown. But as I was reading the paper in the car, I had a sudden inspiration."
"Good for you. What was it?"
Haku appeared at the door leading to the living-room. "You ring, miss?" he said.
"I did. Haku, what becomes of the old newspapers in this house?"
"Take and put in a closet beside kitchen," the man told her.
"See if you can find me—no, never mind. I'll look myself."
She followed Haku into the living-room. In a few minutes she returned alone, a newspaper in her hand.
"I have it," she announced triumphantly. "The evening paper of Monday, June sixteenth—the one Dan was reading the night he wrote that letter to Roger. And look, John Quincy—one corner has been torn from the shipping page!"
"Might have been accidental," suggested John Quincy languidly.
"Nonsense!" she said sharply. "It's a clue, that's what it is. The item that disturbed Dan was on that missing corner of the page."
"Might have been, at that," he admitted. "What are you going to do—"
"You're the one that's going to do it," she cut in. "Pull yourself together and go into town. It's two hours until dinner. Give this paper to Captain Hallet—or better still, to Charlie Chan. I am impressed by Mr. Chan's intelligence."
John Quincy laughed. "Damned clever, these Chinese!" he quoted. "You don't mean to say you've fallen for that bunk. They seem clever because they're so different."
"We'll see about that. The chauffeur's gone on an errand for Barbara, but there's a roadster in the garage—"
"Trolley's good enough for me," said John Quincy. "Here, give me the paper."
She explained to him how he was to reach the city, and he got his hat and went. Presently he was on a trolley-car surrounded by representatives of a dozen different races. The melting pot of the Pacific, Carlota Egan had called Honolulu, and the appellation seemed to be correct. John Quincy began to feel a fresh energy, a new interest in life.
The trolley swept over the low swampy land between Waikiki and Honolulu, past rice fields where quaint figures toiled patiently in water to their knees, past taro patches, and finally turned on to King Street. Every few moments it paused to take aboard new immigration problems, Japs, Chinamen, Hawaiians, Portuguese, Philippinos, Koreans, all colors and all creeds. On it went. John Quincy saw great houses set in blooming groves, a Japanese theater flaunting weird posters not far from a Ford service station, then a huge building he recognized as the palace of the monarchy. Finally it entered a district of modern office buildings.
Mr. Kipling was wrong, the boy reflected, East and West could meet. They had.
This impression was confirmed when he left the car at Fort Street and for a moment walked about, a stranger in a strange land. A dusky policeman was directing traffic on the corner, officers of the United States army and navy in spotless duck strolled by, and on the shady side of the street Chinese girls, slim and immaculate in freshly laundered trousers and jackets, were window shopping in the cool of the evening.
"I'm looking for the police station," John Quincy informed a big American with a friendly face.
"Get back on to King Street," the man said. "Go to your right until you come to Bethel, then turn makai—"
"Turn what?"
The man smiled. "A malihini, I take it. Makai means toward the sea. The other direction is mauka—toward the mountains. The police station is at the foot of Bethel, in Kalakaua Hale."
John Quincy thanked him and went on his way. He passed the post-office and was amazed to see that all the lock boxes opened on the street. After a time, he reached the station. A sergeant lounging behind the desk told him that Charlie Chan was at dinner. He suggested the Alexander Young Hotel or possibly the All American Restaurant on King Street.
The hotel sounded easiest, so John Quincy went there first. In the dim lobby a Chinese house boy wandered aimlessly about with broom and dust pan, a few guests were writing the inevitable post-cards, a Chinese clerk was on duty at the desk. But there was no sign of Chan, either in the lobby or in the dining-room at the left. As John Quincy turned from an inspection of the latter, the elevator door opened and a Britisher in mufti came hurriedly forth. He was followed by a Cockney servant carrying luggage.
"Captain Cope," called John Quincy.
The captain paused. "Hello," he said. "Oh—Mr. Winterslip—how are you?" He turned to the servant. "Buy me an evening paper and an armful of the less offensive-looking magazines." The man hurried off, and Cope again addressed John Quincy. "Delighted to see you, but I'm in a frightful rush. Off to the Fanning Islands in twenty minutes."
"When did you get in?" inquired John Quincy. Not that he really cared.
"Yesterday at noon," said Captain Cope. "Been on the wing ever since. I trust you are enjoying your stop here—but I was forgetting. Fearful news about Dan Winterslip."
"Yes," said John Quincy coolly. Judging by the conversation in that San Francisco club, the blow had not been a severe one for Captain Cope. The servant returned.
"Sorry to run," continued the captain. "But I must be off. The service is a stern taskmaster. My regards to your aunt. Best of luck, my boy."
He disappeared through the wide door, followed by his man. John Quincy reached the street in time to see him rolling off in a big car toward the docks.
Noting the cable office near by, the boy entered and sent two messages, one to his mother and the other to Agatha Parker. He addressed them to Boston, Mass. U. S. A., and was accorded a withering look by the young woman in charge as she crossed out the last three letters. There were only two words in each message, but he returned to the street with the comfortable feeling that his correspondence was now attended to for some time to come.
A few moments later he encountered the All American Restaurant and going inside, found himself the only American in the place. Charlie Chan was seated alone at a table, and as John Quincy approached, he rose and bowed.
"A very great honor," said the Chinaman. "Is it possible that I can prevail upon you to accept some of this terrible provision?"
"No, thanks," answered John Quincy. "I'm to dine later at the house. I'll sit down for a moment, if I may."
"Quite overwhelmed," bobbed Charlie. He resumed his seat and scowled at something on the plate before him. "Waiter," he said. "Be kind enough to summon the proprietor of this establishment."
The proprietor, a suave little Jap, came gliding. He bowed from the waist.
"Is it that you serve here insanitary food?" inquired Chan.
"Please deign to state your complaint," said the Jap.
"This piece of pie are covered with finger-marks," rebuked Chan. "The sight are most disgusting. Kindly remove it and bring me a more hygienic sector."
The Jap picked up the offending pastry and carried it away.
"Japanese," remarked Chan, spreading his hands in an eloquent gesture. "Is it proper for me to infer that you come on business connected with the homicide?"
John Quincy smiled. "I do," he said. He took the newspaper from his pocket, pointed out the date and the missing corner. "My aunt felt it might be important," he explained.
"The woman has a brain," said Chan. "I will procure an unmutilated specimen of this issue and compare. The import may be vast."
"You know," remarked John Quincy, "I'd like to work with you on this case, if you'll let me."
"I have only delight," Chan answered. "You arrive from Boston, a city most cultivated, where much more English words are put to employment than are accustomed here. I thrill when you speak. Greatest privilege for me, I would say."
"Have you formed any theory about the crime?" John Quincy asked.
Chan shook his head. "Too early now."
"You have no finger-prints to go on, you said."
Chan shrugged his shoulders. "Does not matter. Finger-prints and other mechanics good in books, in real life not so much so. My experience tell me to think deep about human people. Human passions. Back of murder what, always? Hate, revenge, need to make silent the slain one. Greed for money, maybe. Study human people at all times."
"Sounds reasonable," admitted John Quincy.
"Mostly so," Chan averred. "Enumerate with me the clues we must consider. A guest book devoid of one page. A glove button. A message on the cable. Story of Egan, partly told. Fragment of Corsican cigarette. This newspaper ripped maybe in anger. Watch on living wrist, numeral 2 undistinct."
"Quite a little collection," commented John Quincy.
"Most interesting," admitted the Chinaman. "One by one, we explore. Some cause us to arrive at nowhere. One, maybe two, will not be so unkind. I am believer in Scotland Yard method—follow only essential clue. But it are not the method here. I must follow all, entire."
"The essential clue," repeated John Quincy.
"Sure." Chan scowled at the waiter, for his more hygienic sector had not appeared. "Too early to say here. But I have fondness for the guest book with page omitted. Watch also claims my attention. Odd enough, when we enumerate clues this morning, we pass over watch. Foolish. Very good-looking clue. One large fault, we do not possess it. However, my eyes are sharp to apprehend it."
"I understand," John Quincy said, "that you've been rather successful as a detective."
Chan grinned broadly. "You are educated, maybe you know," he said. "Chinese most psychic people in the world. Sensitives, like film in camera. A look, a laugh, a gesture perhaps. Something go click."
John Quincy was aware of a sudden disturbance at the door of the All American Restaurant. Bowker, the steward, gloriously drunk, was making a noisy entrance. He plunged into the room, followed by a dark, anxious-looking youth.
Embarrassed, John Quincy turned away his face, but to no avail. Bowker was bearing down upon him, waving his arms.
"Well, well, well, well!" he bellowed. "My o' college chum. See you through the window." He leaned heavily on the table. "How you been, o' fellow?"
"I'm all right, thanks," John Quincy said.
The dark young man came up. He was, from his dress, a shore acquaintance of Bowker's. "Look here, Ted," he said. "You've got to be getting along—"
"Jush a minute," cried Bowker. "I want y' to meet Mr. Quincy from Boston. One best fellows God ever made. Mushual friend o' Tim's—you've heard me speak of Tim—"
"Yes—come along," urged the dark young man.
"Not yet. Gotta buy thish boy a lil' drink. What you having, Quincy, o' man?"
"Not a thing," smiled John Quincy. "You warned me against these Island drinks yourself."
"Who—me?" Bowker was hurt. "You're wrong that time, o' man. Don' like to conter—conterdict, but it mush have been somebody else. Not me. Never said a word—"
The young man took his arm. "Come on—you're due on the ship—"
Bowker wrenched away. "Don' paw me," he cried. "Keep your hands off. I'm my own mashter, ain't I? I can speak to an o' friend, can't I? Now, Quincy, o' man—what's yours?"
"I'm sorry," said John Quincy. "Some other time."
Bowker's companion took his arm in a firmer grasp. "You can't buy anything here," he said. "This is a restaurant. You come with me—I know a place—"
"Awright," agreed Bowker. "Now you're talking. Quincy, o' man, you come along—"
"Some other time," John Quincy repeated.
Bowker assumed a look of offended dignity. "Jush as you say," he replied. "Some other time. In Boston, hey? At Tim's place. Only Tim's place is gone." A great grief assailed him. "Tim's gone—dropped out—as though the earth swallowed him up—"
"Yes, yes," said the young man soothingly. "That's too bad. But you come with me."
Submitting at last, Bowker permitted his companion to pilot him to the street. John Quincy looked across at Chan.
"My steward on thePresident Tyler," he explained. "The worse for wear, isn't he?"
The waiter set a fresh piece of pie before the Chinaman.
"Ah," remarked Chan, "this has a more perfect appearance." He tasted it. "Appearance," he added with a grimace, "are a hellish liar. If you are quite ready to depart—"
In the street Chan halted. "Excuse abrupt departure," he said. "Most honored to work with you. The results will be fascinating, I am sure. For now, good evening."
John Quincy was alone again in that strange town. A sudden homesickness engulfed him. Walking along, he came to a news-cart that was as well supplied with literature as his club reading room. A brisk young man in a cap was in charge.
"Have you the latestAtlantic?" inquired John Quincy.
The young man put a dark brown periodical into his hand. "No," said John Quincy. "This is the June issue. I've seen it."
"July ain't in. I'll save you one, if you say so."
"I wish you would," John Quincy replied. "The name is Winterslip."
He went on to the corner, regretting that July wasn't in. A copy of theAtlanticwould have been a sort of link with home, a reminder that Boston still stood. And he felt the need of a link, a reminder.
A trolley-car marked "Waikiki" was approaching. John Quincy hailed it and hopped aboard. Three giggling Japanese girls in bright kimonos drew in their tiny sandaled feet and he slipped past them to a seat.