TOM BRADE THE BLACKBIRDER
In Hallet's room at headquarters they found the Captain of Detectives
seated grimly behind his desk staring at two reluctant visitors. One of
the visitors, Mr. Stephen Leatherbee, stared back with a look of sullen
defiance. Mrs. Arlene Compton, late of Broadway and the Automat, was
dabbing at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. John Quincy perceived that
she had carelessly allowed tears to play havoc with her make-up.
"Hello, Charlie," said Hallet. "Mr. Winterslip, I'm glad you came along.
As you may have heard, we've just pulled this young man off the
_Niagara_. He seemed inclined to leave us. We found this in his pocket."
He put into the Chinaman's hand a time-yellowed page obviously from Dan
Winterslip's guest book. John Quincy and Chan bent over it together. The
inscription was written in an old-fashioned hand, and the ink was fading
fast. It ran:
"In Hawaii all things are perfect, none more so than the hospitality I
have enjoyed in this house.--Joseph E. Gleason, 124 Little Bourke
Street, Melbourne, Victoria."
John Quincy turned away, shocked. No wonder that page had been ripped
out! Evidently Mr. Gleason had not enjoyed the privilege of studying A.
S. Hill's book on the principles of rhetoric. How could one thing be
more perfect than another?
"Before I take a statement from these people," Hallet was saying,
"what's all this about a brooch?"
John Quincy laid the piece of jewelry on the captain's desk. He
explained that it had been given Mrs. Compton by Dan Winterslip, and
told of its being discovered on the floor of the lanai.
"When was it found?" demanded the captain, glaring his disapproval.
"Most regrettable misunderstanding," put in Chan hastily. "Now
completely wiped out. The littlest said, sooner repairs are made. Mr.
Winterslip has already to-night examined this woman--"
"Oh, he has, has he!" Hallet turned angrily on John Quincy. "Just who is
conducting this case?"
"Well," began John Quincy uncomfortably, "it seemed best to the
family--"
"Damn the family!" Hallet exploded. "This affair is in my hands--"
"Please," broke in Chan soothingly. "Waste of time to winnow that out.
Already I have boldness to offer suitable rebukes."
"Well, you talked with the woman, then," said Hallet. "What did you get
out of her?"
"Say, listen," put in Mrs. Compton. "I want to take back anything I told
this bright-eyed boy."
"Lied to him, eh?" said Hallet.
"Why not? What right did he have to question me?" Her voice became
wheedling. "I wouldn't lie to a cop," she added.
"You bet your life you wouldn't," Hallet remarked. "Not if you know
what's good for you. However, I want to hear what you told this amateur
detective. Sometimes lies are significant. Go on, Winterslip."
John Quincy was deeply annoyed. What was this mix-up he had let himself
in for, anyhow? He had a notion to rise, and with a cold bow, leave the
room. Something told him, however, that he couldn't get away with it.
Very much on his dignity, he repeated the woman's story to him.
Winterslip had come to her cottage the night before to make a final
appeal for the brooch. On his promise to replace it with something else,
she had given it up. He had taken it and left her at nine-thirty.
"That was the last she saw of him," finished John Quincy.
Hallet smiled grimly. "So she told you, at any rate. But she admits she
was lying. If you'd had the sense to leave this sort of thing to the
proper people--" He wheeled on the woman. "You were lying, weren't you?"
She nodded nonchalantly. "In a way. Dan did leave my cottage at
nine-thirty--or a little later. But I went with him--to his house. Oh,
it was perfectly proper. Steve went along."
"Oh, yes--Steve." Hallet glanced at Mr. Leatherbee, who did not appear
quite the ideal chaperon. "Now, young woman, go back to the beginning.
Nothing but the truth."
"So help me," said Mrs. Compton. She attempted a devastating smile. "I
wouldn't lie to you, Captain--you know I wouldn't. I realize you're a
big man out here, and--"
"Give me your story," cut in Hallet coldly.
"Sure. Dan dropped into my place for a chat last night about nine, and
he found Mr. Leatherbee there. He was jealous as sin, Dan was--honest to
God, I don't know why. Me and Steve are just pals--eh, Steve?"
"Pals, that's all," said Steve.
"But anyhow, Dan flew off the handle, and we had one grand blow-up. I
tried to explain Steve was just stopping over on his way to Australia,
and Dan wants to know what's detaining him. So Steve tells about how he
lost all his money at bridge on the boat coming out here. 'Will you move
on,' says Dan, 'if I pay your passage?' And Steve answers he will, like
a shot. Am I getting this straight, Steve?"
"Absolutely," approved Mr. Leatherbee. "It's just as she says, Captain.
Winterslip offered to give--loan me passage money. It was only a loan.
And I agreed to sail on the _Niagara_ to-night. He said he had a little
cash in his safe at the house, and invited Arlene and me to go back with
him--"
"Which we did," said Arlene. "Dan opened the safe and took out a roll of
bills. He peeled off three hundred dollars. You didn't often see him in
that frame of mind--but as I was saying, he give the money to Steve.
Then Steve begins to beef a little--yes, you did, Steve--and wants to
know what he's going to do in Australia. Says he don't know a soul down
there and he'll just plain starve. Dan was sore at first, then he laughs
a nasty little laugh and goes over and tears that there page out of the
guest book and gives it to Steve. 'Look him up and tell him you're a
friend of mine,' he says. 'Maybe he'll give you a job. The name is
Gleason. I've disliked him for twenty years, though he don't know
that!'"
"A dirty dig at me," Leatherbee explained. "I took the loan and this
Gleason's address and we started to go. Winterslip said he wanted to
talk to Arlene, so I came away alone. That was about ten o'clock."
"Where did you go?" Hallet asked.
"I went back to my hotel down-town. I had to pack."
"Back to your hotel, eh? Can you prove it?"
Leatherbee considered. "I don't know. The boy at the desk may remember
when I came in, though I didn't stop there for my key--I had it with
me. Anyhow, I didn't see Winterslip after that. I just went ahead with
my preparations to sail on the _Niagara_, and I must say you've got your
nerve--"
"Never mind that!" Hallet turned to the woman. "And after Leatherbee
left--what happened then?"
"Well, Dan started in on that brooch again," she said. "It made me sore,
too--I never did like a tight-wad. Besides, my nerves was all on edge,
I'm funny that way, rows get me all upset. I like everybody pleasant
around me. He went on arguing, so finally I ripped off the brooch and
threw it at him, and it rolled away under the table somewhere. Then he
said he was sorry, and that was when he offered to replace it with
something more up-to-date. The best money could buy--that was what he
promised. Pretty soon we was friends again--just as good friends as ever
when I came away, about ten-fifteen. His last words was that we'd look
round the jewelry stores this morning. I ask you, Captain, is it
reasonable to think I'd have anything to do with murdering a man who was
in a buying mood like that?"
Hallet laughed. "So you left him at ten-fifteen--and went home alone?"
"I did. And when I saw him last he was alive and well--I'll swear to
that on a stack of Bibles as high as the Times Building. Gee, don't I
wish I was safe on Broadway to-night!"
Hallet thought for a moment. "Well, we'll look into all this. You can
both go--I'm not going to hold you at present. But I expect you both to
remain in Honolulu until this affair is cleared up, and I advise you not
to try any funny business. You've seen to-night what chance you've got
to get away."
"Oh, that's all right." The woman stood, looking her relief. "We've got
no reason to beat it, have we, Steve?"
"None in the world," agreed Steve. His facetious manner returned.
"Speaking for myself," he added, "innocent is my middle name."
"Good night, all," said Mrs. Compton, and they went out.
Hallet sat staring at the brooch. "A pretty straight story," he
remarked, looking at Chan.
"Nice and neat," grinned the Chinaman.
"If true." Hallet shrugged his shoulders. "Well, for the present, I'm
willing to believe it." He turned to John Quincy. "Now, Mr. Winterslip,"
he said severely, "I want it understood that any other evidence your
family digs up--"
"Oh, that's all right," interrupted the boy. "We'll turn it over at
once. I've already given to Chan the newspaper my cousin was reading
that night he wrote the letter to Roger Winterslip."
Chan took the paper from his pocket. "Such a busy evening," he
explained, "the journal was obscure in my mind. Thanks for the
recollection." He called to his chief's attention the mutilated corner.
"Look into that," said Hallet.
"Before sleeping," promised Chan. "Mr. Winterslip, we pursue similar
paths. The honor of your company in my humble vehicle would pleasure me
deeply." Once in the car on the deserted street, the Chinaman spoke
again. "The page ripped from guest book, the brooch lying silent on
floor. Both are now followed into presence of immovable stone wall. We
sway about, looking for other path."
"Then you think those two were telling the truth?" John Quincy asked.
"As to that, I do not venture to remark," Chan replied.
"How about those psychic powers?" inquired John Quincy.
Chan smiled. "Psychic powers somewhat drowsy just now," he admitted.
"Need prodding into wakefulness."
"Look here," said John Quincy, "there's no need for you to take me out
to Waikiki. Just drop me on King Street, and I'll get a trolley."
"Making humble suggestion," Chan replied, "is it not possible you will
accompany me to newspaper rooms, where we set out on different path?"
John Quincy looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past eleven. "I'll
be glad to, Charlie," he said.
Chan beamed with pleasure. "Greatly honored by your friendly manner," he
remarked. He turned into a side street. "Newspaper of this nature burst
out at evening, very quiet now. Somebody may loiter in rooms, if we have
happy luck."
They had just that, for the building of the evening journal was open,
and in the city room an elderly man with a green shade over his eyes
hammered on a typewriter.
"Hello, Charlie," he said cordially.
"Hello, Pete. Mr. Winterslip of Boston, I have all the honor to present
this Pete Mayberry. For many years he explore water-front ferreting for
whatever news are hiding there."
The elderly man rose and removed his eye-shade, revealing a pleasant
twinkle. He was evidently interested to meet a Winterslip.
"We pursue," continued Chan, "one copy of paper marked June sixteen,
present year. If you have no inclination for objecting."
Mayberry laughed. "Go to it, Charlie. You know where the files are."
Chan bowed and disappeared. "Your first appearance out here, Mr.
Winterslip?" inquired the newspaper man.
John Quincy nodded. "I've only just got here," he said, "but I can see
it's a rather intriguing place."
"You've said it," smiled Mayberry. "Forty-six years ago I came out from
Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to visit relatives. I've been in the
newspaper game here ever since--most of the time on the water-front.
There's a life-work for you!"
"You must have seen some changes," remarked John Quincy inanely.
Mayberry nodded. "For the worse. I knew Honolulu in the glamourous days
of its isolation, and I've watched it fade into an eighth carbon copy of
Babbittville, U. S. A. The water-front's just a water-front now--but
once, my boy! Once it oozed romance at every pore."
Chan returned, carrying a paper. "Much to be thankful for," he said to
Mayberry. "Your kindness are quite overwhelming--"
"Anything doing?" asked Mayberry eagerly.
Chan shook his head. "Presently speaking, no. Our motions just now must
be blackly clouded in secrecy."
"Well," said the reporter, "when it comes time to roll them clouds away,
don't forget me."
"Impossibility," protested Chan. "Good night."
They left Mayberry bending over his typewriter, and at Chan's suggestion
went to the All American Restaurant, where the Chinaman ordered two cups
of "your inspeakable coffee." While they waited to be served, he spread
out on the table his complete copy of the newspaper, and laying the torn
page on its counterpart, carefully removed the upper right-hand corner.
"The missing fragment," he explained. For a time he studied it
thoughtfully, and finally shook his head. "I apprehend nothing to
startle," he admitted. He handed it across the table. "If you will
condescend greatly--"
John Quincy took the bit of newspaper. On one side was the advertisement
of a Japanese dealer in shirtings who wrote his own publicity. Any one
might carry off, he said, six yards for the price of five. And in case
the buyer cried loudly in amaze, how can do, it was a matter he was
happy to explain. John Quincy laughed aloud.
"Ah," said Chan, "you are by rights mirthful. Kiku-chi, purveyor of
shirting cloth, seize on grand English language and make it into idiotic
jumble. On that side are nothing to detain us. But humbly hinting you
reverse the fragment--"
John Quincy reversed it. The other side was a part of the shipping page.
He read it carefully, news of sailings and arrivals, there would be
places for five passengers to the Orient on the _Shinyo Maru_, leaving
Wednesday, the _Wilhelmina_ was six hundred and forty miles east of
Makupuu Point, the brig _Mary Jane_ from the Treaty Ports----
John Quincy started, and caught his breath. A small item in tiny print
had met his eye.
"Among the passengers who will arrive here on the _Sonoma_ from
Australia a week from Saturday are: Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Macan
Brade, of Calcutta--"
John Quincy sat staring at the unwashed window of the All American
Restaurant. His mind went back to the deck of the _President Tyler_, to
a lean old missionary telling a tale of a bright morning on Apiang, a
grave under a palm tree. "Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Macan Brade, of Calcutta."
He heard again the missionary's high-pitched voice. "A callous brute, a
pirate and adventurer. Tom Brade, the blackbirder."
But Brade had been buried in a long pine box on Apiang. Even at the
Crossroads of the Pacific, his path and that of Dan Winterslip could
hardly have crossed again.
The waiter brought the coffee. Chan said nothing, watching John Quincy
closely. Finally the Chinaman spoke: "You have much to tell me."
John Quincy looked around quickly, he had forgotten Chan's presence.
His dilemma was acute. Must he here in this soiled restaurant in a far
town reveal to a Chinaman that ancient blot on the Winterslip name? What
would Aunt Minerva say? Well, only a short time ago she had remarked
that she was resolved to have no more secrets from the police. However,
there was family pride--
John Quincy's eye fell on the Japanese waiter. What were those lines
from _The Mikado_? "But family pride must be denied and mortified and
set aside."
The boy smiled. "Yes, Charlie," he admitted, "I have much to tell you."
And over the inspeakable coffee of the All American Restaurant he
repeated to the detective the story the Reverend Frank Upton had told
on the _President Tyler_.
Chan beamed. "Now," he cried, "we arrive in the neighborhood of
something! Brade the blackbirder, master _Maid of Shiloh_ boat, on which
Mr. Dan Winterslip are first officer--"
"But Brade was buried on Apiang," protested John Quincy.
"Yes, indeed. And who saw him, pardon me? Was it then an unsealed box?
Oh, no!" Chan's eyes were dancing. "Please recollect something more. The
strong box of ohia wood. Initials on it are T. M. B. Mysteries yet, but
we move, we advance!"
"I guess we do," admitted John Quincy.
"This much we grasp," Chan continued. "Dan Winterslip repose for quiet
hour on lanai, in peaceful reading. This news assault his eye. He now
leaps up, paces about, flees to dock to send letter requesting, please
the ohia wood box must be buried deep in Pacific. Why?" Fumbling in his
pocket, Chan took out a sheaf of papers, evidently lists of steamer
arrivals. "On Saturday just gone by, the _Sonoma_ make this port. Among
passengers--yes--yes--Thomas Macan Brade and honorable wife, Calcutta.
It is here inscribed they arrive to stay, not being present when
_Sonoma_ persist on journey. On the night of Monday, Mr. Dan Winterslip
are foully slain."
"Which makes Mr. Brade an important person to locate," said John Quincy.
"How very true. But the hurry are not intense. No boats sailing now.
Before sleeping, I will investigate down-town hotels, Waikiki to-morrow.
Where are you, Mr. Brade?" Chan seized the check. "No--pardon me--the
honor of paying for this poison-tasting beverage must be mine."
Out in the street, he indicated an approaching trolley. "It bears
imprint of your destination," he pointed out. "You will require sleep.
We meet to-morrow. Congratulations on most fruitful evening."
Once more John Quincy was on a Waikiki car. Weary but thrilled, he took
out his pipe and filling it, lighted up. What a day! He seemed to have
lived a lifetime since he landed that very morning. He perceived that
his smoke was blowing in the face of a tired little Japanese woman
beside him. "Pardon me," he remarked, and knocking the pipe against the
side rail, put it in his pocket. The woman stared at him in meek
startled wonder; no one had ever asked her pardon before.
On the seat behind John Quincy a group of Hawaiian boys with yellow leis
about their necks twanged on steel guitars and sang a plaintive love
song. The trolley rattled on through the fragrant night; above the
clatter of the wheels the music rose with a sweet intensity. John Quincy
leaned back and closed his eyes.
A clock struck the hour of midnight. Another day--Wednesday--it flashed
through his mind that to-day his firm in Boston would offer that
preferred stock for the shoe people in Lynn. Would the issue be
over-subscribed? No matter.
Here he was, out in the middle of the Pacific on a trolley-car. Behind
him brown-skinned boys were singing a melancholy love song of long ago,
and the moon was shining on crimson poinciana trees. And somewhere on
this tiny island a man named Thomas Macan Brade slept under a mosquito
netting. Or lay awake, perhaps, thinking of Dan Winterslip.