MIDNIGHT ON RUSSIAN HILL.
A few moments later John Quincy stepped ashore in San Francisco. He had
taken not more than three steps across the floor of the Ferry Building
when a dapper Japanese chauffeur pushed through the crowd and singling
out the easterner with what seemed uncanny perspicacity, took complete
charge of him.
Roger Winterslip, the Jap announced, was too busy to meet ferries, but
had sent word that the boy was to go up to the house and after
establishing himself comfortably there, join his host for lunch
down-town. Gratified to feel solid ground once more beneath his feet,
John Quincy followed the chauffeur to the street. San Francisco
glittered under the morning sun.
"I always thought this was a foggy town," John Quincy said.
The Jap grinned. "Maybe fog come, maybe it do not. Just now one time
maybe it do not. Please." He held open the car door.
Through bright streets where life appeared to flow with a pleasant
rhythm, they bowled along. Beside the curbs stood the colorful carts of
the flower venders, unnecessarily painting the lily of existence. Weary
traveler though he was, John Quincy took in with every breath a fresh
supply of energy. New ambitions stirred within him, bigger, better bond
issues than ever before seemed ridiculously easy of attainment.
Roger Winterslip had not been among those lured to suburban life down
the peninsula; he resided in bachelor solitude on Nob Hill. It was an
ancient, battered house viewed from without, but within, John Quincy
found, were all known comforts. A bent old Chinaman showed him his room
and his heart leaped up when he beheld, at last, a veritable bath.
At one o'clock he sought out the office where his relative carried on,
with conspicuous success, his business as an engineer and builder. Roger
proved a short florid man in his late fifties.
"Hello, son," he cried cordially. "How's Boston?"
"Every one is quite well," said John Quincy. "You're being extremely
kind--"
"Nonsense. It's a pleasure to see you. Come along."
He took John Quincy to a famous club for lunch. In the grill he pointed
out several well-known writers. The boy was not unduly impressed, for
Longfellow, Whittier and Lowell were not among them. Nevertheless it was
a pleasant place, the service perfect, the food of an excellence rare on
the codfish coast.
"And what," asked Roger presently, "do you think of San Francisco?"
"I like it," John Quincy said simply.
"No? Do you really mean that?" Roger beamed. "Well, it's the sort of
place that ought to appeal to a New Englander. It's had a history,
brief, but believe me, my boy, one crowded hour of glorious life. It's
sophisticated, knowing, subtle. Contrast it with other cities--for
instance, take Los Angeles--"
He was off on a favorite topic and he talked well.
"Writers," he said at last, "are for ever comparing cities to women. San
Francisco is the woman you don't tell the folks at home an awful lot
about. Not that she wasn't perfectly proper--I don't mean that--but her
stockings were just a little thinner and her laugh a little
gayer--people might misunderstand. Besides, the memory is too precious
to talk about. Hello."
A tall, lean, handsome Englishman was crossing the grill on his way out.
"Cope! Cope, my dear fellow!" Roger sped after him and dragged him back.
"I knew you at once," he was saying, "though it must be more than forty
years since I last saw you."
The Britisher dropped into a chair. He smiled a wry smile. "My dear old
chap," he said. "Not so literal, if you don't mind."
"Rot!" protested Roger. "What do years matter? This is a young cousin of
mine, John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston. Ah--er--just what is your title
now?"
"Captain. I'm in the Admiralty."
"Really? Captain Arthur Temple Cope, John Quincy." Roger turned to the
Englishman. "You were a midshipman, I believe, when we met in Honolulu.
I was talking to Dan about you not a year ago--"
An expression of intense dislike crossed the captain's face. "Ah, yes,
Dan. Alive and prospering, I presume?"
"Oh, yes," answered Roger.
"Isn't it damnable," remarked Cope, "how the wicked thrive?"
An uncomfortable silence fell. John Quincy was familiar with the
frankness of Englishmen, but he was none the less annoyed by this open
display of hostility toward his prospective host. After all, Dan's last
name was Winterslip.
"Ah--er--have a cigarette," suggested Roger.
"Thank you--have one of mine," said Cope, taking out a silver case.
"Virginia tobacco, though they are put up in Piccadilly. No? And you,
sir--" He held the case before John Quincy, who refused a bit stiffly.
The captain nonchalantly lighted up. "I beg your pardon--what I said
about your cousin," he began. "But really, you know--"
"No matter," said Roger cordially. "Tell me what you're doing here."
"On my way to Hawaii," explained the captain. "Sailing at three to-day
on the Australian boat. A bit of a job for the Admiralty. From Honolulu
I drop down to the Fanning Group--a little flock of islands that belongs
to us," he added with a fine paternal air.
"A possible coaling station," smiled Roger.
"My dear fellow--the precise nature of my mission is, of course, a
secret." Captain Cope looked suddenly at John Quincy. "By the way, I
once knew a very charming girl from Boston. A relative of yours, no
doubt."
"A--a girl," repeated John Quincy, puzzled.
"Minerva Winterslip."
"Why," said John Quincy, amazed, "you mean my Aunt Minerva."
The captain smiled. "She was no one's aunt in those days," he said.
"Nothing auntish about her. But that was in Honolulu in the
'eighties--we'd put in there on the old wooden _Reliance_--the poor
unlucky ship was limping home crippled from Samoa. Your aunt was
visiting at that port--there were dances at the palace, swimming
parties--ah, me, to be young again."
"Minerva's in Honolulu now," Roger told him.
"No--really?"
"Yes. She's stopping with Dan."
"With Dan." The captain was silent for a moment "Her husband--"
"Minerva never married," Roger explained.
"Amazing," said the captain. He blew a ring of smoke toward the paneled
ceiling. "The more shame to the men of Boston. My time is hardly my own,
but I shall hope to look in on her." He rose. "This was a bit of
luck--meeting you again, old chap. I'm due aboard the boat very
shortly--you understand, of course." He bowed to them both, and
departed.
"Fine fellow," Roger said, staring after him. "Frank and British, but a
splendid chap."
"I wasn't especially pleased," John Quincy admitted, "by the way he
spoke of Cousin Dan."
Roger laughed. "Better get used to it," he advised. "Dan is not
passionately beloved. He's climbed high, you know, and he's trampled
down a few on his way up. By the way, he wants you to do an errand for
him here in San Francisco."
"Me!" cried John Quincy. "An errand?"
"Yes. You ought to feel flattered. Dan doesn't trust everybody. However,
it's something that must wait until dark."
"Until dark," repeated the puzzled young man from Boston.
"Precisely. In the meantime I propose to show you about town."
"But--you're busy. I couldn't think of taking you away--"
Roger laid his hand on John Quincy's shoulder. "My boy, no westerner is
ever too busy to show a man from the East about his city. I've been
looking forward to this chance for weeks. And since you insist on
sailing to-morrow at ten, we must make the most of our time."
Roger proved an adept at making the most of one's time in San Francisco.
After an exhilarating afternoon of motoring over the town and the
surrounding country, he brought John Quincy back to the house at six,
urging him to dress quickly for a dinner of which he apparently had
great hopes.
The boy's trunk was in his room, and as he put on a dinner coat he
looked forward with lively anticipation to a bit of San Francisco night
life in Roger's company. When he came down-stairs his host was waiting,
a distinguished figure in his dinner clothes, and they set out blithely
through the gathering dusk.
"Little place I want you to try." Roger explained as they sat down at a
table in a restaurant that was outwardly of no special note. "Afterward
we'll look in on that musical show at the Columbia."
The restaurant more than justified Roger's hopes of it. John Quincy
began to glow with a warm friendly feeling for all the world,
particularly this city by the western gate. He did not think of himself
as a stranger here. He wasn't a stranger, anyhow. The sensation he had
first experienced in the harbor returned to him. He had been here
before, he was treading old familiar ground. In far, forgotten, happy
times he had known the life of this city's streets. Strange, but true.
He spoke to Roger about it.
Roger smiled. "A Winterslip, after all," he said. "And they told me you
were just a sort of--of Puritan survival. My father used to know that
sensation you speak of, only he felt it whenever he entered a new town.
Might be something in reincarnation, after all."
"Nonsense," said John Quincy.
"Probably. Just the blood of the roaming Winterslips in your veins." He
leaned across the table. "How would you like to come to San Francisco to
live?"
"Wha-what?" asked John Quincy, startled.
"I'm getting along in years, and I'm all alone. Lots of financial
details in my office--take you in there and let you look after them.
Make it worth your while."
"No, no, thank you," said John Quincy firmly. "I belong back east.
Besides, I could never persuade Agatha to come out here."
"Agatha who?"
"Agatha Parker--the girl I'm engaged to--in a way. Been sort of
understood between us for several years. No," he added, "I guess I'd
better stay where I belong."
Roger Winterslip looked his disappointment. "Probably had," he admitted.
"I fancy no girl with that name would follow you here. Though a girl
worth having will follow her man anywhere--but no matter." He studied
John Quincy keenly for a moment. "I must have been wrong about you,
anyhow."
John Quincy felt a sudden resentment. "Just what do you mean by that?"
he inquired.
"In the old days," Roger said, "Winterslips were the stuff of which
pioneers are made. They didn't cling to the apron-strings of
civilization. They got up some fine morning and nonchalantly strolled
off beyond the horizon. They lived--but there, you're of another
generation. You can't understand."
"Why can't I?" demanded John Quincy.
"Because the same old rut has evidently been good enough for you. You've
never known a thrill. Or have you? Have you ever forgot to go to bed
because of some utterly silly reason--because, for example, you were
young and the moon was shining on a beach lapped by southern seas? Have
you ever lied like a gentleman to protect a woman not worth the trouble?
Ever made love to the wrong girl?"
"Of course not," said John Quincy stiffly.
"Ever run for your life through crooked streets in the rowdy quarter of
a strange town? Ever fought with a ship's officer--the old-fashioned
kind with fists like flying hams? Ever gone out on a man hunt and when
you got your quarry cornered, leaped upon him with no weapon but your
bare hands? Have you ever--"
"The type of person you describe," John Quincy cut in, "is hardly
admirable."
"Probably not," Roger agreed. "And yet--those are incidents from my own
past, my boy." He regarded John Quincy sadly. "Yes, I must have been
wrong about you. A Puritan survival, after all."
John Quincy deigned no reply. There was an odd light in the older man's
eyes--was Roger secretly laughing at him? He appeared to be, and the boy
resented it.
But he forgot to be resentful at the revue, which proved to be witty and
gay, and Roger and he emerged from the theater at eleven the best of
friends again. As they stepped into Roger's car, the older man gave the
chauffeur an address on Russian Hill.
"Dan's San Francisco house," he explained, as he climbed in after John
Quincy. "He comes over about two months each year, and keeps a place
here. Got more money than I have."
Dan's San Francisco house? "Oh," said John Quincy, "the errand you
mentioned?"
Roger nodded. "Yes." He snapped on a light in the top of the limousine,
and took an envelope from his pocket. "Read this letter. It was
delivered to me two days ago by the Second Officer of the _President
Tyler_."
John Quincy removed a sheet of note paper from the envelope. The message
appeared to be rather hastily scrawled.
"DEAR ROGER," he read. "You can do me a great service--you and that
discreet lad from Boston who is to stop over with you on his way
out here. First of all, give John Quincy my regards and tell him
that he must make my house his home while he is in the Islands.
I'll be delighted to have him.
"About the errand. You have a key to my house on Russian Hill. Go
up there--better go at night when the caretaker's not likely to be
around. The lights are off, but you'll find candles in the pantry.
In the store room on the top floor is an old brown trunk. Locked,
probably--smash the lock if it is. In the lower section you'll find
a battered strong box made of ohia wood and bound with copper.
Initials on it--T. M. B.
"Wrap it up and take it away. It's rather an armful, but you can
manage it. Have John Quincy conceal it in his luggage and some dark
night when the ship's about half-way over, I want him to take it on
deck and quietly drop it overboard. Tell him to be sure nobody sees
him. That's all. But send me a guarded cable when you get the box,
and tell him to send me a radio when the Pacific has it at last.
I'll sleep better then.
"Not a word, Roger. Not a word to any one. You'll understand.
Sometimes the dead past needs a bit of help in burying its dead.
"YOUR COUSIN DAN."
Solemnly John Quincy handed the letter back into Roger's keeping. The
older man thoughtfully tore it to bits and tossed them through the car
window open beside him. "Well," said John Quincy. "Well--" A fitting
comment eluded him.
"Simple enough," smiled Roger. "If we can help poor old Dan to sleep
better as easily as that, we must do it, eh?"
"I--I suppose so," John Quincy agreed.
They had climbed Russian Hill, and were speeding along a deserted avenue
lined by imposing mansions. Roger leaned forward. "Go on to the corner,"
he said to the chauffeur. "We can walk back," he explained to John
Quincy. "Best not to leave the car before the house. Might excite
suspicion."
Still John Quincy had no comment to make. They alighted at the corner
and walked slowly back along the avenue. In front of a big stone house,
Roger paused. He looked carefully in all directions, then ran with
surprising speed up the steps. "Come on," he called softly.
John Quincy came. Roger unlocked the door and they stepped into a dark
vestibule. Beyond that, darker still, was a huge hall, the dim
suggestion of a grand staircase. Here and there an article of furniture,
shrouded in white, stood like a ghost, marooned but patient. Roger took
out a box of matches.
"Meant to bring a flashlight," he said, "but I clean forgot. Wait
here--I'll hunt those candles in the pantry."
He went off into the dark. John Quincy took a few cautious steps. He was
about to sit down on a chair--but it was like sitting on the lap of a
ghost. He changed his mind, stood in the middle of the floor, waited.
Quiet, deathly quiet. The black had swallowed Roger, with not so much as
a gurgle.
After what seemed an age, Roger returned, bearing two lighted candles.
One each, he explained. John Quincy took his, held it high. The
flickering yellow flame accentuated the shadows, was really of small
help.
Roger led the way up the grand staircase, then up narrower flight. At
the foot of still another flight, in a stuffy passage on the third
floor, he halted.
"Here we are," he said. "This leads to the storage room under the roof.
By gad, I'm getting too old for this sort of thing. I meant to bring a
chisel to use on that lock. I know where the tools are--I'll be gone
only a minute. You go on up and locate the trunk."
"All--all right," answered John Quincy.
Again Roger left him. John Quincy hesitated. Something about a deserted
house at midnight to dismay the stoutest heart--but nonsense! He was a
grown man. He smiled, and started up the narrow stair. High above his
head the yellow light of the candle flickered on the brown rafters of
the unfinished store room.
He reached the top of the stairs, and paused. Gloom, gloom everywhere.
Odd how floor boards will creak even when no one is moving over them.
One was creaking back of him now.
He was about to turn when a hand reached from behind him and knocked the
candle out of his grasp. It rolled on the floor, extinguished.
This was downright rude! "See here," cried John Quincy, "wh--who are
you?"
A bit of moonlight struggled in through a far window, and suddenly
between John Quincy and that distant light there loomed the determined
figure of a man. Something told the boy he had better get ready, but
where he came from one had a moment or two for preparation. He had none
here. A fist shot out and found his face, and John Quincy Winterslip of
Boston went down amid the rubbish of a San Francisco attic. He heard,
for a second, the crash of planets in collision, and then the clatter
of large feet on the stairs. After that, he was alone with the debris.
He got up, thoroughly angry, and began brushing off the dinner coat that
had been his tailor's pride. Roger arrived. "Who was that?" he demanded
breathlessly. "Somebody went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Who
was it?"
"How should I know?" inquired John Quincy with pardonable peevishness.
"He didn't introduce himself to me." His cheek was stinging; he put his
handkerchief to it and noted in the light of Roger's candle that it was
red when it came away. "He wore a ring," added John Quincy. "Damned bad
taste!"
"Hit you, eh?" inquired Roger.
"I'll say he did."
"Look!" Roger cried. He pointed. "The trunk-lock smashed." He went over
to investigate. "And the box is gone. Poor old Dan!"
John Quincy continued to brush himself off. Poor old Dan's plight gave
him a vast pain, a pain which had nothing to do with his throbbing jaw.
A fine nerve poor old Dan had to ask a complete stranger to offer his
face for punishment in a dusty attic at midnight. What was it all about,
anyhow?
Roger continued his search. "No use," he announced. "The box is gone,
that's plain. Come on, we'll go down-stairs and look about. There's your
candle on the floor."
John Quincy picked up the candle and relighted it from Roger's flame.
Silently they went below. The outer door of the kitchen stood open.
"Left that way," said Roger. "And, see"--he pointed to a window with a
broken pane--"that's where he came in."
"How about the police?" suggested John Quincy.
Roger stared at him. "The police? I should say not! Where's your
discretion, my boy? This is not a police matter. I'll have a new glass
put in that window to-morrow. Come on--we might as well go home. We've
failed."
The note of reproof in his voice angered John Quincy anew. They left the
extinguished candles on a table in the hall, and returned to the street.
"Well, I'll have to cable Dan," Roger said, as they walked toward the
corner. "I'm afraid he'll be terribly upset by this. It won't tend to
endear you to him, either."
"I can struggle along," said John Quincy, "without his affection."
"If you could only have held that fellow till I came--"
"Look here," said John Quincy, "I was taken unawares. How could I know
that I was going up against the heavyweight champion in that attic? He
came at me out of the dark--and I'm not in condition--"
"No offense, my boy," Roger put in.
"I see my mistake," went on John Quincy. "I should have trained for this
trip out here. A stiff course in a gymnasium. But don't worry. The next
lad that makes a pass at me will find a different target. I'll do a
daily three dozen and I'll take boxing lessons. From now on until I get
home, I'll be expecting the worst."
Roger laughed. "That's a nasty cut on your cheek," he remarked. "We'd
better stop at this drug store and have it dressed."
A solicitous drug clerk ministered to John Quincy with iodine, cotton
and court plaster, and he reentered the limousine bearing honorably the
scar of battle. The drive to Nob Hill was devoid of light chatter.
Just inside the door of Roger's house, a whirlwind in a gay gown
descended upon them. "Barbara!" Roger said. "Where did you come from?"
"Hello, old dear," she cried, kissing him. "I motored up from
Burlingame. Spending the night with you--I'm sailing on the _President
Tyler_ in the morning. Is this John Quincy?"
"Cousin John," smiled Roger. "He deserves a kiss too. He's had a bad
evening."
The girl moved swiftly toward the defenseless John Quincy. Again he was
unprepared, and this time it was his other cheek that suffered, though
not unpleasantly. "Just by way of welcome," Barbara laughed. She was
blonde and slender. John Quincy thought he had never seen so much energy
imprisoned in so slight a form, "I hear you're bound for the Islands?"
she said.
"To-morrow," John Quincy answered. "On your boat."
"Splendid!" she cried. "When did you get in?"
"John Quincy came this morning," Roger told her.
"And he's had a bad evening?" the girl said. "How lucky I came along.
Where are you taking us, Roger?"
John Quincy stared. Taking them? At this hour?
"I'll be getting along up-stairs," he ventured.
"Why, it's just after twelve," said Barbara. "Lots of places open. You
dance, don't you? Let me show you San Francisco. Roger's a dear old
thing--we'll let him pay the checks."
"Well--I--I--" stammered John Quincy. His cheek was throbbing and he
thought longingly of that bed in the room up-stairs. What a place, this
West!
"Come along!" The girl was humming a gay little tune. All vivacity, all
life. Rather pleasant sort at that. John Quincy took up his hat.
Roger's chauffeur had lingered a moment before the house to inspect his
engine. When he saw them coming down the steps, he looked as though he
rather wished he hadn't. But escape was impossible; he climbed to his
place behind the wheel.
"Where to, Barbara?" Roger asked. "Tait's?"
"Not Tait's," she answered. "I've just come from there."
"What! I thought you motored in from Burlingame?"
"So I did--at five. I've traveled a bit since then. How about some
chop-suey for this Boston boy?"
Good lord, John Quincy thought. Was there anything in the world he
wanted less? No matter. Barbara took him among the Chinese.
He didn't give a hang about the Chinese. Nor the Mexicans, whose
restaurants interested the girl next. At the moment, he was
unsympathetic toward Italy. And even toward France. But he struggled on
the international round, affronting his digestion with queer dishes, and
dancing thousands of miles with the slim Barbara in his arms. After
scrambled eggs at a place called Pete's Fashion, she consented to call
it an evening.
As John Quincy staggered into Roger's house, the great clock in the hall
was striking three. The girl was still alert and sparkling. John Quincy
hastily concealed a yawn.
"All wrong to come home so early," she cried. "But we'll have a dance or
two on the boat. By the way, I've been wanting to ask. What does it
mean? The injured cheek?"
"Why--er--I--" John Quincy remarked. Over the girl's shoulder he saw
Roger violently shaking his head. "Oh, that," said John Quincy, lightly
touching the wound. "That's where the West begins. Good night. I've had
a bully time." And at last he got up-stairs.
He stood for a moment at his bedroom window, gazing down at the
torchlight procession of the streets through this amazing city. He was a
little dazed. That soft warm presence close by his side in the
car--pleasant, very pleasant. Remarkable girls out here. Different!
Beyond shone the harbor lights. That other girl--wonderful eyes she had.
Just because she had laughed at him his treasured hat box floated now
forlorn on those dark waters. He yawned again. Better be careful.
Mustn't be so easily influenced. No telling where it would end.