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 Another Random Document on
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"Of course," replied John Quincy. "But you haven't told me much
about it, you know."
"No, I haven't." The missionary dropped into a chair. "I don't like to
reveal any secrets about a man's past," he said. "However, I
understand that the story of Dan Winterslip's early life has always
been known in Honolulu." He glanced toward Madame Maynard.
"Dan was no saint," she remarked. "We all know that."
He crossed his thin legs. "As a matter of fact, I'm very proud of my
meeting with Dan Winterslip," he went on. "I feel that in my humble
way I persuaded him to change his course—for the better."
"Humph," said the old lady. She was dubious, evidently.
John Quincy was not altogether pleased at the turn the conversation
had taken. He did not care to have the name of a Winterslip thus
bandied about. But to his annoyance, the Reverend Mr. Upton was
continuing.
"It was in the 'eighties, as I told you," said the missionary. "I had a
lonely station on Apiang, in the Gilbert group. One morning a brig
anchored just beyond the reef, and a boat came ashore. Of course, I
joined the procession of natives down to the beach to meet it. I saw
few enough men of my own race.
"There was a ruffianly crew aboard, in charge of a dapper, rather
handsome young white man. And I saw, even before they beached
her, midway in the boat, a long pine box.
"The white man introduced himself. He said he was First Officer
Winterslip, of the brig Maid of Shiloh. And when he mentioned the
name of the ship, of course I knew at once. Knew her unsavory
trade and history. He hurried on to say that their captain had died
the day before, and they had brought him ashore to bury him on
land. It had been the man's last wish.
"Well." The Reverend Mr. Upton stared at the distant shore line of
Oahu. "I looked over at that rough pine box—four Malay sailors were
carrying it ashore. 'So Tom Brade's in there,' I said. Young Winterslip
nodded. 'He's in there, right enough,' he answered. And I knew I
was looking on at the final scene in the career of a famous character
of the South Seas, a callous brute who knew no law, a pirate and
adventurer, the master of the notorious Maid of Shiloh. Tom Brade,
the blackbirder."
"Blackbirder?" queried John Quincy.
The missionary smiled. "Ah, yes—you come from Boston. A
blackbirder, my boy, is a shipping-master who furnishes contract
labor to the plantations at so much a head. It's pretty well wiped out
now, but in the eighties! A horrible business—the curse of God was
on it. Sometimes the laborers came willingly. Sometimes. But mostly
they came at the point of a knife or the muzzle of a gun. A bloody,
brutal business.
"Winterslip and his men went up the beach and began to dig a grave
under a cocoanut palm. I followed. I offered to say a prayer.
Winterslip laughed—not much use, he said. But there on that bright
morning under the palm I consigned to God the soul of a man who
had so much to answer for. Winterslip agreed to come to my house
for lunch. He told me that save for a recruiting agent who had
remained aboard the brig, he was now the only white man on the
ship.
"During lunch, I talked to him. He was so young—I discovered this
was his first trip. 'It's no trade for you,' I told him. And after a time,
he agreed with me. He said he had two hundred blacks under the
hatches that he must deliver to a plantation over in the Kings-mill
group, and that after he'd done that, he was through. 'I'll take the
Maid back to Sydney, Dominie,' he promised, 'and turn her over.
Then I'm pau. I'm going home to Honolulu.'"
The Reverend Mr. Upton rose slowly. "I learned later that he kept his
word," he finished. "Yes, Dan Winterslip went home, and the South
Seas saw him no more. I've always been a little proud of my part in
that decision. I've had few rewards. It's not everywhere that the
missionaries have prospered in a worldly way—as they did in
Hawaii." He glanced at Madame Maynard. "But I've had satisfactions.
And one of them arose from that meeting on the shore at Apiang.
It's long past my bed hour—I must say good night."
He moved away. John Quincy sat turning this horror over and over in
his mind. A Winterslip in the blackbirding business! That was pretty.
He wished he was back on Beacon Street.
"Sweet little dig for me," the old lady was muttering indignantly.
"That about the missionaries in Hawaii. And he needn't be so cocky.
If Dan Winterslip dropped blackbirding, it was only because he'd
found something more profitable, I fancy." She stood up suddenly.
"At last," she said.
John Quincy rose and stood beside her. Far away a faint yellow eye
was winking. For a moment the old lady did not speak.
"Well, that's that," she said finally, in a low voice. "I've seen
Diamond Head again. Good night, my boy."
"Good night," John Quincy answered.
He stood alone by the rail. The pace of the President Tyler was
slowing perceptibly. The moon came from behind a cloud, crept back
again. A sort of unholy calm was settling over the hot, airless, deep
blue world. The boy felt a strange restlessness in his heart.
He ascended to the boat deck, seeking a breath of air. There, in a
secluded spot, he came upon Barbara and Jennison—and stopped,
shocked. His cousin was in the man's arms, and their bizarre
costumes added a weird touch to the scene. They did not see John
Quincy, for in their world at that moment there were only two. Their
lips were crushed together, fiercely—
John Quincy fled. Good lord! He had kissed a girl or two himself, but
it had been nothing like that.
He went to the rail outside his stateroom. Well, what of it? Barbara
was nothing to him, a cousin, yes, but one who seemed to belong to
an alien race. He had sensed that she was in love with Jennison; this
was no surprise. Why did he feel that frustrated pang deep in his
heart? He was engaged to Agatha Parker.
He gripped the rail, and sought to see again Agatha's aristocratic
face. But it was blurred, indistinct. All Boston was blurred in his
memory. The blood of the roaming Winterslips, the blood that led on
to blackbirding and hot breathless kisses in the tropic night—was it
flowing in his veins too? Oh, lord—he should have stayed at home
where he belonged.
Bowker, the steward, came along. "Well, here we are," he said.
"We'll anchor in twelve fathoms and wait for the pilot and the doctor
in the morning. I heard they'd been having Kona weather out this
way, but I imagine this is the tail end of it. There'll be a moon
shortly, and by dawn the old trades will be on the job again, God
bless them."
John Quincy did not speak. "I've returned all your books, sir," the
steward went on, "except that one by Adams on Revolutionary New
England. It's a mighty interesting work. I intend to finish it to-night,
so I can give it to you before you go ashore."
"Oh, that's all right," John Quincy said. He pointed to dim harbor
lights in the distance. "Honolulu's over there, I take it."
"Yeah—several miles away. A dead town, sir. They roll up the
sidewalks at nine. And let me give you a tip. Keep away from the
okolehau."
"The what?" asked John Quincy.
"The okolehau. A drink they sell out here."
"What's it made of?"
"There," said Bowker, "you have the plot for a big mystery story.
What is it made of? Judging by the smell, of nothing very lovely. A
few gulps, and you hit the ceiling of eternity. But oh, boy—when you
drop! Keep off it, sir. I'm speaking as one who knows."
"I'll keep off it," John Quincy promised.
Bowker disappeared. John Quincy remained by the rail, that restless
feeling growing momentarily. The moon was hidden still, the ship
crept along through the muggy darkness. He peered across the
black waters toward the strange land that awaited him.
Somewhere over there, Dan Winterslip waited for him too. Dan
Winterslip, blood relative of the Boston Winterslips, and ex-
blackbirder. For the first time, the boy wished he had struck first in
that dark attic in San Francisco, wished he had got that strong box
and cast it overboard in the night. Who could say what new scandal,
what fresh blot on the honored name of Winterslip, might have been
averted had he been quicker with his fists?
As John Quincy turned and entered his cabin, he made a firm
resolution. He would linger but briefly at this, his journey's end. A
few days to get his breath, perhaps, and then he would set out
again for Boston. And Aunt Minerva would go with him, whether she
wanted to or not.
 CHAPTER VI
BEYOND THE BAMBOO CURTAIN
Had John Quincy been able to see his Aunt Minerva at that moment,
he would not have been so sure that he could persuade her to fall in
with his plans. He would, indeed, have been profoundly shocked at
the picture presented by his supposedly staid and dignified relative.
For Miss Minerva was sitting on a grass mat in a fragrant garden in
the Hawaiian quarter of Honolulu. Pale golden Chinese lanterns,
inscribed with scarlet letters, hung above her head. Her neck was
garlanded with ropes of buff ginger blossoms twined with maile. The
sleepy, sensuous music of ukulele and steel guitar rose on the
midnight air and before her, in a cleared space under the date
palms, Hawaiian boys and girls were performing a dance she would
not be able to describe in great detail when she got back to Beacon
Street.
Miss Minerva was, in her quiet way, very happy. One of the
ambitions of her life had been realized, and she was present at a
luau, or native Hawaiian feast. Few white people are privileged to
attend this intimate ceremony, but Honolulu friends had been invited
on this occasion, and had asked her to go with them. At first she
had thought she must refuse, for Dan was expecting Barbara and
John Quincy on Monday afternoon. When on Monday evening he
had informed her that the President Tyler would not land its
passengers until the next day, she had hastened to the telephone
and asked to reconsider her refusal.
And she was glad she had. Before her, on another mat, lay the
remnants of a dinner unique in her experience. Dan had called her a
good sport, and she had this evening proved him to be correct.
Without a qualm she had faced the queer food wrapped in brown
bundles, she had tasted everything, poi served in individual
calabashes, chicken stewed in cocoanut milk, squid and shrimps,
limu, or sea-weed, even raw fish. She would dream to-night!
Now the feasting had given way to the dance. The moonlight was
tracing lacy patterns on the lawn, the plaintive wail of the music rose
ever louder, the Hawaiian young people, bashful at first in the
presence of strangers, were bashful no longer. Miss Minerva closed
her eyes and leaned back against the trunk of a tall palm. Even in
Hawaiian love songs there is a note of hopeless melancholy, it
touched her emotions as no symphony ever could. A curtain was
lifted and she was looking into the past, the primitive, barbaric past
of these Islands in the days before the white men came.
A long, heart-breaking crescendo, and the music stopped, the
swaying bodies of the dancers were momentarily still. It seemed to
Miss Minerva's friends an opportune moment to depart. They
entered the house and in the stuffy little parlor, took leave of their
brown, smiling host and hostess. The baby whose arrival in the
world was the inspiration for the luau awoke for a second and smiled
at them too. Outside in the narrow street their car was waiting.
Through silent, deserted Honolulu they motored toward Waikiki. As
they passed the Judiciary Building on King Street the clock in the
tower struck the hour of one. She had not been out so late, Miss
Minerva reflected, since that night when a visiting company sang
Parsifal at the Boston Opera House.
The iron gates that guarded the drive at Dan's house were closed.
Leaving the car at the curb, Miss Minerva bade her friends good
night and started up the walk toward the front door. The evening
had thrilled her, and she moved with the long confident stride of
youth. Dan's scarlet garden was shrouded in darkness, for the moon,
which had been playing an in-and-out game with the fast-moving
clouds all evening, was again obscured. Exotic odors assailed her
nostrils, she heard all about her the soft intriguing noises of the
tropic night. She really should get to bed, she knew, but with a
happy truant feeling she turned from the front walk and went to the
side of the house for a last look at the breakers.
She stood there under a poinciana tree near the door leading into
Dan's living-room. For nearly two weeks the Kona wind had
prevailed, but now on her cheek, she thought she felt the first kindly
breath of the trades. Very wide awake, she stared out at the dim
foaming lines of surf between the shore and the coral reef. Her mind
strayed back to the Honolulu she had known in Kalakaua's day, to
that era when the Islands were so naive, so colorful—unspoiled.
Ruined now, Dan had said, ruined by a damned mechanical
civilization. "But away down underneath, Minerva, there are deep
dark waters flowing still."
The moon came out, touching with silver the waters at the
crossroads, then was lost again under fleecy clouds. With a little sigh
that was perhaps for her lost youth and the 'eighties, Miss Minerva
pushed open the unlocked door leading into the great living-room,
and closed it gently so as not to waken Dan.
An intense darkness engulfed her. But she knew her way across the
polished floor and set out confidently, walking on tiptoe. She had
gone half-way to the hall door when she stopped, her heart in her
mouth. For not five feet away she saw the luminous dial of a watch,
and as she stared at it with frightened eyes, it moved.
Not for nothing had Miss Minerva studied restraint through more
than fifty years. Many women would have screamed and fainted,
Miss Minerva's heart pounded madly, but that was all. Standing very
still, she studied that phosphorescent dial. Its movement had been
slight, it was now at rest again. A watch worn on some one's wrist.
Some one who had been on the point of action, but had now
assumed an attitude of cautious waiting.
Well, Miss Minerva grimly asked herself, what was she going to do
about it? Should she cry out a sharp: "Who's there?" She was a
brave woman, but the fool-hardiness of such a course was apparent.
She had a vision of that dial flashing nearer, a blow, perhaps strong
hands at her throat.
She took a tentative step, and then another. Now, surely, the dial
would stir again. But it remained motionless, steady, as though the
arm that wore it were rigid at the intruder's side.
Suddenly Miss Minerva realized the situation. The wearer of the
watch had forgotten the tell-tale numerals on his wrist, he thought
himself hidden in the dark. He was waiting for her to go on through
the room. If she made no sound, gave no sign of alarm, she might
be safe. Once beyond that bamboo curtain leading into the hall, she
could rouse the household.
She was a woman of great will power, but it took all she had to
move serenely on her way. She shut her lips tightly and
accomplished it, veering a bit from that circle of light that menaced
her, looking back at it over her shoulder as she went. After what
seemed an eternity the bamboo curtain received her, she was
through it, she was on the stairs. But it seemed to her that never
again would she be able to look at a watch or a clock and find that
the hour was anything save twenty minutes past one!
When she was half-way up the stairs, she recalled that it had been
her intention to snap on the lights in the lower hall. She did not turn
back, nor did she search for the switch at the head of the stairs.
Instead, she went hastily on into her room, and just as though she
had been an ordinary woman she closed her door and dropped
down, trembling a little, on a chair.
But she was no ordinary woman, and in two seconds she was up
and had reopened her door. Her sudden terror was evaporating; she
felt her heart beat in a strong regular rhythm again. Action was what
was required of her now, calm confident action; she was a Winterslip
and she was ready.
The servants' quarters were in a wing over the kitchen, she went
there at once and knocked on the first door she came to. She
knocked once, then again, and finally the head of a very sleepy Jap
appeared.
"Haku," said Miss Minerva, "there is some one in the living-room.
You must go down and investigate at once."
He stared at her, seeming unable to comprehend.
"We must go down," amended Miss Minerva.
"Wikiwiki!"
He disappeared, and Miss Minerva waited impatiently. Where was
her nerve, she wondered, why hadn't she seen this through alone?
At home, no doubt, she could have managed it, but here there was
something strange and terrifying in the very air. The moonlight
poured in through a small window beside her, forming a bright
square at her feet. Haku reappeared, wearing a gaudy kimono that
he often sported on the beach.
Another door opened suddenly, and Miss Minerva started. Bah! What
ailed her, anyhow, she wondered. It was only Kamaikui, standing
there a massive figure in the dim doorway, a bronze statue clad in a
holoku.
"Some one in the living-room," Miss Minerva explained again. "I saw
him as I came through."
Kamaikui made no reply, but joined the odd little procession. In the
upper hall Haku switched on the lights, both up-stairs and down. At
the head of the stairs there was a brief pause—then Miss Minerva
took her rightful place at the head of the line. She descended with a
firm step, courageous and competent, Boston at its best. After her
followed a stolid little Jap in a kimono gay with passionate poppies,
and a Polynesian woman who wore the fearful Mother Hubbard of
the missionaries as though it were a robe of state.
In the lower hall Miss Minerva did not hesitate. She pushed on
through the bamboo curtain and her hand—it trembled ever so
slightly—found the electric switch and flooded the living-room with
light. She heard the crackle of bamboo behind her as her strange
companions followed where she led. She stood looking curiously
about her.
There was no one in sight, no sign of any disturbance, and it
suddenly occurred to Miss Minerva that perhaps she was behaving in
a rather silly fashion. After all, she had neither seen nor heard a
living thing. The illuminated dial of a watch that moved a little—
might it not have been a figment of her imagination? She had
experienced a stirring evening. Then, too, she remembered, there
had been that small glass of okolehau. A potent concoction!
Kamaikui and Haku were looking at her with the inquiring eyes of
little children. Had she roused them for a fool's errand? Her cheeks
flushed slightly. Certainly in this big brilliant room, furnished with
magnificent native woods and green with many potted ferns,
everything seemed proper and in order.
"I—I may have been mistaken," she said in a low voice. "I was quite
sure—but there's no sign of anything wrong. Mr. Winterslip has not
been resting well of late. If he should be asleep we won't waken
him."
She went to the door leading on to the lanai and pushed aside the
curtain. Bright moonlight outside revealed most of the veranda's
furnishings, and here, too, all seemed well. "Dan," Miss Minerva
called softly. "Dan. Are you awake?"
No answer. Miss Minerva was certain now that she was making a
mountain out of a molehill. She was about to turn back into the
living-room when her eyes, grown more accustomed to the semi-
darkness, noted a rather startling fact.
Day and night, over Dan's cot in one corner of the lanai, hung a
white mosquito netting. It was not there now.
"Come, Haku," Miss Minerva said. "Turn on the light out here."
Haku came, and the green-shaded lamp glowed under his touch.
The little lamp by which Dan had been reading his evening paper
that night when he had seemed suddenly so disturbed, and rushed
off to send a letter to Roger in San Francisco. Miss Minerva stood
recalling that incident, she recalled others, because she was very
reluctant to turn toward that cot in the corner. She was conscious of
Kamaikui brushing by her, and then she heard a low, half-savage
moan of fear and sorrow.
Miss Minerva stepped to the cot. The mosquito netting had been
torn down as though in some terrific struggle and there, entangled
in the meshes of it, she saw Dan Winterslip. He was lying on his left
side, and as she stared down at him, one of the harmless little
Island lizards ran up his chest and over his shoulder—and left a
crimson trail on his white pajamas.
 CHAPTER VII
ENTER CHARLIE CHAN
Miss Minerva leaned far over, her keen eyes seeking Dan's face. It
was turned toward the wall, half buried in the pillow. "Dan," she said
brokenly. She put her hand on his cheek. The night air was warm
and muggy, but she shivered a little as she drew the hand quickly
away. Steady! She must be steady now.
She hurried through the living-room to the hall; the telephone was in
a closet under the front stairs. Her fingers were trembling again as
she fumbled with the numerals on the dial. She got her number,
heard finally an answering voice.
"Amos? Is that you, Amos? This is Minerva. Come over here to Dan's
as quickly as you can."
The voice muttered in protest. Miss Minerva cut in on it sharply.
"For God's sake, Amos, forget your silly feud. Your brother is dead."
"Dead?" he repeated dully.
"Murdered, Amos. Will you come now?"
A long silence. What thoughts, Miss Minerva wondered, were
passing through the mind of that stern unbending Puritan?
"I'll come," a strange voice said at last. And then, a voice more like
that of the Amos she knew: "The police! I'll notify them, and then I'll
come right over."
Returning to the hall, Miss Minerva saw that the big front door was
closed. Amos would enter that way, she knew, so she went over and
opened it. There was, she noted, an imposing lock, but the key had
long since been lost and forgotten. Indeed, in all Dan's great house,
she could not recall ever having seen a key. In these friendly trusting
islands, locked doors were obsolete.
She reentered the living-room. Should she summon a doctor? But
no, it was too late, she knew that only too well. And the police—
didn't they bring some sort of doctor with them? Suddenly she
began to wonder about the police. During all her time in Honolulu
she had never given them a thought before. Away off here at the
end of the world—did they have policemen? She couldn't remember
ever having seen one. Oh, yes—there was that handsome, brown-
skinned Hawaiian who stood on a box at the corner of Fort and King
Streets, directing traffic with an air that would have become
Kamehameha himself. She heard the scrape of a chair being moved
on the lanai, and went to the door.
"Nothing is to be touched out here," she said. "Leave it just as it
was. You'd better go up-stairs and dress, both of you."
The two frightened servants came into the living-room, and stood
there regarding her. They seemed to feel that this terrible affair
called for discussion. But what was there to be said? Even in the
event of murder, a Winterslip must maintain a certain well-bred
aloofness in dealing with servants. Miss Minerva's feeling for them
was kindly. She sympathized with their evident grief, but there was,
she felt, nothing to discuss.
"After you've dressed," she ordered, "stay within reach. You'll both
be wanted."
They went out, Haku in his absurd costume, Kamaikui moaning and
muttering in a way that sent shivers up and down Miss Minerva's
spine. They left her there alone—with Dan—and she who had always
thought herself equal to anything still hesitated about going out on
the lanai.
She sat down in a huge chair in the living-room and gazed about her
at the trappings of wealth and position that Dan had left for ever
now. Poor Dan. Despite all the whispering against him, she had liked
him immensely. It is said of many—usually with small reason—that
their lives would make an interesting book. It had been said of Dan,
and in his case it was true. What a book his life would have made—
and how promptly it would have been barred for all time from the
shelves of the Boston Public Library! For Dan had lived life to the
full, made his own laws, fought his battles without mercy, prospered
and had his way. Dallied often along forbidden paths, they said, but
his smile had been so friendly and his voice so full of cheer—always
until these last two weeks.
Ever since that night he sent the letter to Roger, he had seemed a
different man. There were lines for the first time in his face, a weary
apprehensive look in his gray eyes. And how furious he had been
when, last Wednesday, he received a cable from Roger. What was in
that message, Miss Minerva wondered; what were those few
typewritten words that had caused him to fly into such a rage and
set him to pacing the floor with tigerish step?
She thought of him as she had seen him last—he had seemed rather
pathetic to her then. When the news came that the President Tyler
could not dock until morning, and that Barbara—
Miss Minerva stopped. For the first time she thought of Barbara. She
thought of a sprightly, vivacious girl as yet untouched by sorrow—
and of the morning's home-coming. Tears came into her eyes, and it
was through a mist she saw the bamboo curtain that led into the hall
pushed aside, and the thin white face of Amos framed there.
Amos entered, walking gingerly, for he was treading ground he had
sworn his feet should never touch. He paused before Miss Minerva.
"What's this?" he said. "What's all this?"
She nodded toward the lanai, and he went out there. After what
seemed a long time, he reappeared. His shoulders drooped wearily
and his watery eyes were staring.
"Stabbed through the heart," he muttered. He stood for a moment
regarding his father's picture on the wall. "The wages of sin is
death," he added, as though to old Jedediah Winterslip.
"Yes, Amos," said Miss Minerva sharply. "I expected we should hear
that from you. And there's another one you may have heard—judge
not that ye be not judged. Further than that, we'll waste no time
moralizing. Dan is dead, and I for one am sorry."
"Sorry!" repeated Amos drearily. "How about me? My brother—my
young brother—I taught him to walk on this very beach—"
"Yes." Miss Minerva looked at him keenly. "I wonder. Well, Dan's
gone. Some one has killed him. He was one of us—a Winterslip.
What are we going to do about it?"
"I've notified the police," said Amos.
"Then why aren't they here? In Boston by this time—but then, I
know this isn't Boston. Stabbed, you say. Was there any sign of a
weapon?"
"None whatever, that I could see."
"How about that Malay kris on the table out there? The one Dan
used as a paper cutter?"
"I didn't notice," Amos replied. "This is a strange house to me,
Minerva."
"So it is." Miss Minerva rose and started for the lanai. She was her
old competent self again. At that moment a loud knock sounded on
the screen door at the front of the house. Presently there were
voices in the hall, and Haku ushered three men into the living-room.
Though evidently police, they were all in plain clothes. One of them,
a tall, angular Yankee with the look of a sailing master about him,
stepped forward.
"I'm Hallet," he said. "Captain of Detectives. You're Mr. Amos
Winterslip, I believe?"
"I am," Amos answered. He introduced Miss Minerva. Captain Hallet
gave her a casual nod; this was man's business and he disliked
having a woman involved.
"Dan Winterslip, you said," he remarked, turning back to Amos.
"That's a great pity. Where is he?"
Amos indicated the lanai. "Come, Doctor," Hallet said, and went
through the curtain, followed by the smaller of the two men.
As they went out, the third man stepped farther into the room, and
Miss Minerva gave a little gasp of astonishment as she looked at
him. In those warm islands thin men were the rule, but here was a
striking exception. He was very fat indeed, yet he walked with the
light dainty step of a woman. His cheeks were as chubby as a
baby's, his skin ivory tinted, his black hair close-cropped, his amber
eyes slanting. As he passed Miss Minerva he bowed with a courtesy
encountered all too rarely in a work-a-day world, then moved on
after Hallet.
"Amos!" cried Miss Minerva. "That man—why he—"
"Charlie Chan," Amos explained. "I'm glad they brought him. He's
the best detective on the force."
"But—he's a Chinaman!"
"Of course."
Miss Minerva sank into a chair. Ah, yes, they had policemen out
here, after all.
In a few moments Hallet came briskly back into the living-room.
"Look here," he said. "The doctor tells me Mr. Winterslip has been
dead a very short while. I don't want your evidence just yet—but if
either of you can give me some idea as to the hour when this thing
happened—"
"I can give you a rather definite idea," said Miss Minerva calmly. "It
happened just previous to twenty minutes past one. Say about one
fifteen."
Hallet stared at her. "You're sure of that?"
"I ought to be. I got the time from the wrist watch of the person
who committed the murder."
"What! You saw him!"
"I didn't say that. I said I saw his wrist watch."
Hallet frowned. "I'll get that straight later," he said. "Just now I
propose to comb this part of town. Where's the telephone?"
Miss Minerva pointed it out to him, and heard him in earnest
conversation with a man at headquarters named Tom. Tom's job, it
seemed, was to muster all available men and search Honolulu,
particularly the Waikiki district, rounding up any suspicious
characters. He was also to have on hand, awaiting his chief's return,
the passenger lists of all ships that had made port at Honolulu
during the past week.
Hallet returned to the living-room. He took a stand directly in front
of Miss Minerva. "Now," he began, "you didn't see the murderer, but
you saw his wrist watch. I'm a great believer in taking things in an
orderly fashion. You're a stranger here. From Boston, I believe?"
"I am," snapped Miss Minerva.
"Stopping in this house?"
"Precisely."
"Anybody here besides you and Mr. Winterslip?"
Miss Minerva's eyes flashed. "The servants," she said. "And I would
like to call your attention to the fact that I am Dan Winterslip's first
cousin."
"Oh, sure—no offense. He has a daughter, hasn't he?"
"Miss Barbara is on her way home from college. Her ship will dock in
the morning."
"I see. Just you and Winterslip. You're going to be an important
witness."
"It will be a novel experience, at any rate," she remarked.
"I dare say. Now, go back—" Miss Minerva glared at him—it was a
glare that had frightened guards on the Cambridge subway. He
brushed it aside. "You understand that I haven't time for please,
Miss Winterslip. Go back and describe last evening in this house."
"I was here only until eight-thirty," she told him, "when I went to a
luau with some friends. Previous to that, Mr. Winterslip dined at his
usual hour and we chatted for a time on the lanai."
"Did he seem to have anything on his mind?"
"Well, he has appeared a bit upset—"
"Wait a minute!" The captain took out a note-book. "Want to put
down some of this. Been upset, has he? For how long?"
"For the past two weeks. Let me think—just two weeks ago to-night
—or rather, last night—he and I were sitting on the lanai, and he
was reading the evening paper. Something in it seemed to disturb
him. He got up, wrote a note to his cousin Roger in San Francisco,
and took it down for a friend aboard the President Tyler to deliver.
From that moment he appeared restless and unhappy."
"Go on. This may be important."
"Last Wednesday morning he received a cable from Roger that
infuriated him."
"A cable. What was in it?"
"It was not addressed to me," said Miss Minerva haughtily.
"Well, that's all right. We'll dig it up. Now, about last night. Did he
act more upset than ever?"
"He did. But that may have been due to the fact he had hoped his
daughter's ship would dock yesterday afternoon, and had learned it
could not land its passengers until this morning."
"I see. You said you was only here until eight-thirty?"
"I did not," replied Miss Minerva coldly. "I said I was here only until
eight-thirty."
"Same thing."
"Well, hardly."
"I'm not here to talk grammar," Hallet said sharply. "Did anything
occur—anything out of the ordinary—before you left?"
"No. Wait a moment. Some one called Mr. Winterslip on the
telephone while he was at dinner. I couldn't help overhearing the
conversation."
"Good for you!" She glared at him again. "Repeat it."
"I heard Mr. Winterslip say: 'Hello, Egan. What—you're not coming
over? Oh, yes you are. I want to see you. I insist on it. Come about
eleven. I want to see you.' That was, at least, the import of his
remarks."
"Did he seem excited?"
"He raised his voice above the ordinary tone."
"Ah, yes." The captain stared at his note-book. "Must have been Jim
Egan, who runs this God-forsaken Reef and Palm Hotel down the
beach." He turned to Amos. "Was Egan a friend of your brother?"
"I don't know," said Amos.
"You see, Amos was not a friend of his brother, either," explained
Miss Minerva. "There was an old feud between them. Speaking for
myself, I never heard Dan mention Egan, and he certainly never
came to the house while I was here."
Hallet nodded. "Well, you left at eight-thirty. Now tell us where you
went and when you got back. And all about the wrist watch."
Miss Minerva rapidly sketched her evening at the luau. She described
her return to Dan's living-room, her adventure in the dark—the
luminous dial that waited for her to pass.
"I wish you'd seen more," Hallet complained. "Too many people
wear wrist watches."
"Probably not many," said Miss Minerva, "wear a wrist watch like that
one."
"Oh. It had some distinguishing mark?"
"It certainly did. The numerals were illuminated, and stood out
clearly—with an exception. The figure 2 was very dim—practically
obliterated."
He looked at her admiringly. "Well, you certainly had your wits about
you."
"That's a habit I formed early in life," replied Miss Minerva. "And old
habits are hard to break."
He smiled, and asked her to continue. She told of rousing the two
servants and, finally, of the gruesome discovery on the lanai.
"But it was Mr. Amos," Hallet said, "who called the station."
"Yes. I telephoned him at once, and he offered to attend to that."
Hallet turned to Amos. "How long did it take you to reach here, Mr.
Winterslip?" he inquired.
"Not more than ten minutes," said Amos.
"You could dress and get here in that time?"
Amos hesitated. "I—I did not need to dress," he explained. "I hadn't
gone to bed."
Hallet regarded him with a new interest. "Half past one—and you
were still up?"
"I—I don't sleep very well," said Amos. "I'm up till all hours."
"I see. You weren't on friendly terms with your brother? An old
quarrel between you?"
"No particular quarrel. I didn't approve of his manner of living, and
we went separate ways."
"And stopped speaking to each other, eh?"
"Yes. That was the situation," Amos admitted.
"Humph." For a moment the captain stared at Amos, and Miss
Minerva stared at him too. Amos! It flashed through her mind that
Amos had been a long time alone out there on the lanai before the
arrival of the police.
"Those two servants who came down-stairs with you, Miss
Winterslip," Hallet said. "I'll see them now. The others can go over
until morning."
Haku and Kamaikui appeared, frightened and wide-eyed. The Jap
had nothing to tell, he had been sleeping soundly from nine until the
moment Miss Minerva knocked on his door. He swore it. But
Kamaikui had something to contribute.
"I come here with fruit." She pointed to a basket on the table. "On
lanai out there are talking—Mr. Dan, a man, a woman. Oh, very
much angry."
"What time was that?" Hallet asked.
"Ten o'clock I think."
"Did you recognize any voice except your master's?"
Miss Minerva thought the woman hesitated a second. "No. I do not."
"Anything else?"
"Yes. Maybe eleven o'clock. I am sitting close to window up-stairs.
More talking on lanai. Mr. Dan and other man. Not so much angry
this time."
"At eleven, eh? Do you know Mr. Jim Egan?"
"I have seen him."
"Could you say if it was his voice?"
"I could not say."
"All right. You two can go now." He turned to Miss Minerva and
Amos. "We'll see what Charlie has dug up out here," he said, and led
the way to the lanai.
The huge Chinaman knelt, a grotesque figure, by a table. He rose
laboriously as they entered.
"Find the knife, Charlie?" the captain asked.
Chan shook his head. "No knife are present in neighborhood of
crime," he announced.
"On that table," Miss Minerva began, "there was a Malay kris, used
as a paper cutter—"
The Chinaman nodded, and lifted the kris from the desk. "Same
remains here still," he said, "untouched, unsullied. Person who killed
carried individual weapon."
"How about finger-prints?" asked Hallet.
"Considering from recent discovery," Chan replied, "search for finger-
prints are hopeless one." He held out a pudgy hand, in the palm of
which lay a small pearl button. "Torn from kid's glove," he
elucidated. "Aged trick of criminal mind. No finger-prints."
"Is that all you've got?" asked his chief.
"Most sincere endeavors," said Chan, "have revealed not much.
However, I might mention this." He took up a leather bound book
from the table. "Here are written names of visitors who have
enjoyed hospitality of the house. A guest book is, I believe, the
term. You will find that one of the earlier pages has been ruthlessly
torn out. When I make discovery the volume are lying open at that
locality."
Captain Hallet took the book in his thin hand. "All right, Charlie," he
said. "This is your case."
The slant eyes blinked with pleasure. "Most interesting," murmured
Chan.
Hallet tapped the note-book in his pocket. "I've got a few facts here
for you—we'll run over them later." He stood for a moment, staring
about the lanai. "I must say we seem a little shy on clues. A button
torn from a glove, a page ripped from a guest book. And a wrist
watch with an illuminated dial on which the figure 2 was damaged."
Chan's little eyes widened at mention of that. "Not much, Charlie, so
far."
"Maybe more to come," suggested the Chinaman. "Who knows it?"
"We'll go along now," Hallet continued. He turned to Miss Minerva
and Amos. "I guess you folks would like a little rest. We'll have to
trouble you again to-morrow."
Miss Minerva faced the Chinaman. "The person who did this must be
apprehended," she said firmly.
He looked at her sleepily. "What is to be, will be," he replied in a
high, sing-song voice.
"I know—that's your Confucius," she snapped. "But it's a do-nothing
doctrine, and I don't approve of it."
A faint smile flickered over the Chinaman's face. "Do not fear," he
said. "The fates are busy, and man may do much to assist. I promise
you there will be no do-nothing here." He came closer. "Humbly
asking pardon to mention it, I detect in your eyes slight flame of
hostility. Quench it, if you will be so kind. Friendly cooperation are
essential between us." Despite his girth, he managed a deep bow.
"Wishing you good morning," he added, and followed Hallet.
Miss Minerva turned weakly to Amos. "Well, of all things—"
"Don't you worry about Charlie," Amos said. "He has a reputation for
getting his man. Now you go to bed. I'll stay here and notify the—
the proper people."
"Well, I will lie down for a little while," Miss Minerva said. "I shall
have to go early to the dock. Poor Barbara! And there's John Quincy
coming too." A grim smile crossed her face. "I'm afraid John Quincy
won't approve of this."
She saw from her bedroom window that the night was breaking, the
rakish cocoanut palms and the hau tree were wrapped in a gray
mist. Changing her dress for a kimono, she lay down under the
mosquito netting on the bed. She slept but briefly, however, and
presently was at her window again. Day had come, the mist had
lifted, and it was a rose and emerald world that sparkled before her
tired eyes.
The freshness of that scene revivified her. The trades were blowing
now—poor Dan, he had so longed for their return. The night, she
saw, had worked its magic on the blossoms of the hau tree,
transformed them from yellow to a rich mahogany, through the
morning they would drop one by one upon the sand. In a distant
algaroba a flock of myna birds screamed at the new day. A party of
swimmers appeared from a neighboring cottage and plunged gaily
into the surf.
A gentle knock sounded on the door, and Kamaikui entered. She
placed a small object in Miss Minerva's hand.
Miss Minerva looked down. She saw a quaint old piece of jewelry, a
brooch. Against a background of onyx stood the outline of a tree,
with emeralds forming the leaves, rubies the fruit, and a frost of
diamonds over all.
"What is this, Kamaikui?" she asked.
"Many, many years Mr. Dan have that. One month ago he gives it to
a woman down the beach."
Miss Minerva's eyes narrowed. "To the woman they call the Widow
of Waikiki?"
"To her, yes."
"How do you happen to have it, Kamaikui?"
"I pick it up from floor of lanai. Before policemen come."
"Very good." Miss Minerva nodded. "Say nothing of this, Kamaikui. I
will attend to the matter."
"Yes. Of course." The woman went out.
Miss Minerva sat very still, staring down at that odd bit of jewelry in
her hand. It must date back to the 'eighties, at least.
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.
 CHAPTER VIII
STEAMER DAY
Out in the harbor, by the channel entrance, the President Tyler stood
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 the Matsonia this 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