A NEWSPAPER RIPPED IN ANGER
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 the _Transcript_. 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--"
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 the _President 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 latest _Atlantic_?" 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 the
_Atlantic_ would 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.