WHAT KAOHLA CARRIED
Several days slipped by so rapidly John Quincy scarcely noted their
passing. Dan Winterslip was sleeping now under the royal palms of the
lovely island where he had been born. Sun and moon shone brightly in
turn on his last dwelling place, but those who sought the person he had
encountered that Monday night on his lanai were still groping in the
dark.
Hallet had kept his word, he was combing the Islands for Brade. But
Brade was nowhere. Ships paused at the crossroads and sailed again; the
name of Thomas Macan Brade was on no sailing list. Through far
settlements that were called villages but were nothing save clusters of
Japanese huts, in lonely coves where the surf moaned dismally, over
pineapple and sugar plantations, the emissaries of Hallet pursued their
quest. Their efforts came to nothing.
John Quincy drifted idly with the days. He knew now the glamour of
Waikiki waters; he had felt their warm embrace. Every afternoon he
experimented with a board in the malihini surf, and he was eager for the
moment when he could dare the big rollers farther out. Boston seemed
like a tale that is told, State Street and Beacon memories of another
more active existence now abandoned. No longer was he at a loss to
understand his aunt's reluctance to depart these friendly shores.
Early Friday afternoon Miss Minerva found him reading a book on the
lanai. Something in the nonchalance of his manner irritated her. She had
always been for action, and the urge was on her even in Hawaii.
"Have you seen Mr. Chan lately?" she inquired.
"Talked with him this morning. They're doing their best to find Brade."
"Humph," sniffed Miss Minerva. "Their best is none too good. I'd like to
have a few Boston detectives on this case."
"Oh, give them time," yawned John Quincy.
"They've had three days," she snapped. "Time enough. Brade never left
this island of Oahu, that's certain. And when you consider that you can
drive across it in a motor in two hours, and around it in about six, Mr.
Hallet's brilliance does not impress. I'll have to end by solving this
thing myself."
John Quincy laughed. "Yes, maybe you will."
"Well, I've given them the two best clues they have. If they'd keep
their eyes open the way I do--"
"Charlie's eyes are open," protested John Quincy.
"Think so? They look pretty sleepy to me."
Barbara appeared on the lanai, dressed for a drive. Her eyes were
somewhat happier; a bit of color had come back to her cheeks. "What are
you reading, John Quincy?" she asked.
He held up the book. "_The City by the Golden Gate_," he told her.
"Oh, really? If you're interested, I believe dad had quite a library on
San Francisco. I remember there was a history of the stock exchange--he
wanted me to read it, but I couldn't."
"You missed a good one," John Quincy informed her. "I finished it this
morning. I've read five other books on San Francisco since I came."
His aunt stared at him. "What for?" she asked.
"Well--" He hesitated. "I've taken sort of a fancy to the town. I don't
know--sometimes I think I'd rather like to live there."
Miss Minerva smiled grimly. "And they sent you out to take me back to
Boston," she remarked.
"Boston's all right," said her nephew hastily. "It's Winterslip
headquarters--but its hold has never been strong enough to prevent an
occasional Winterslip from hitting the trail. You know, when I came into
San Francisco harbor, I had the oddest feeling." He told them about it.
"And the more I saw of the city, the better I liked it. There's a snap
and sparkle in the air, and the people seem to know how to get the most
out of life."
Barbara smiled on him approvingly. "Follow that impulse, John Quincy,"
she advised.
"Maybe I will. All this reminds me--I must write a letter." He rose and
left the lanai.
"Does he really intend to desert Boston?" Barbara asked.
Miss Minerva shook her head. "Just a moment's madness," she explained.
"I'm glad he's going through it--he'll be more human in the future. But
as for leaving Boston! John Quincy! As well expect Bunker Hill Monument
to emigrate to England."
In his room up-stairs, however, John Quincy's madness was persisting. He
had never completed that letter to Agatha Parker, but he now plunged
into his task with enthusiasm. San Francisco was his topic, and he wrote
well. He pictured the city in words that glowed with life, and he
wondered--just a suggestion--how she'd like to live there.
Agatha was now, he recalled, on a ranch in Wyoming--her first encounter
with the West--and that was providential. She had felt for herself the
lure of the wide open spaces. Well, the farther you went the wider and
opener they got. In California life was all color and light. Just a
suggestion, of course.
As he sealed the flap of the envelope, he seemed to glimpse Agatha's
thin patrician face, and his heart sank. Her gray eyes were cool, so
different from Barbara's, so very different from those of Carlota Maria
Egan.
On Saturday afternoon John Quincy had an engagement to play golf with
Harry Jennison. He drove up Nuuanu Valley in Barbara's roadster--for Dan
Winterslip's will had been read and everything he possessed was
Barbara's now. In that sheltered spot a brisk rain was falling, as is
usually the case, though the sun was shining brightly. John Quincy had
grown accustomed to this phenomenon; "liquid sunshine" the people of
Hawaii call such rain, and pay no attention to it. Half a dozen
different rainbows added to the beauty of the Country Club links.
Jennison was waiting on the veranda, a striking figure in white. He
appeared genuinely glad to see his guest, and they set out on a round of
golf that John Quincy would long remember. Never before had he played
amid such beauty. The low hills stood on guard, their slopes bright with
tropical colors--the yellow of kukui trees, the gray of ferns, the
emerald of ohia and banana trees, here and there a splotch of brick-red
earth. The course was a green velvet carpet beneath their feet, the
showers came and went. Jennison was a proficient driver, but the boy was
his superior on approaches, and at the end of the match John Quincy was
four up. They putted through a rainbow and returned to the locker room.
In the roadster going home, Jennison brought up the subject of Dan
Winterslip's murder. John Quincy was interested to get the reaction of a
lawyer to the evidence.
"I've kept more or less in touch with the case," Jennison said. "Egan is
still my choice."
Somehow, John Quincy resented this. A picture of Carlota Egan's lovely
but unhappy face flashed through his mind. "How about Leatherbee and the
Compton woman?" he asked.
"Well, of course, I wasn't present when they told their story," Jennison
replied. "But Hallet claims it sounded perfectly plausible. And it
doesn't seem likely that if he'd had anything to do with the murder,
Leatherbee would have been fool enough to keep that page from the guest
book."
"There's Brade, too," John Quincy suggested.
"Yes--Brade complicates things. But when they run him down--if they
do--I imagine the result will be nil."
"You know that Kamaikui's grandson is mixed up somehow with Brade?"
"So I understand. It's a matter that wants looking into. But mark my
words, when all these trails are followed to the end, everything will
come back to Jim Egan."
"What have you against Egan?" inquired John Quincy, swerving to avoid
another car.
"I have nothing against Egan," Jennison replied. "But I can't forget the
look on Dan Winterslip's face that day he told me he was afraid of the
man. Then there is the stub of the Corsican cigarette. Most important of
all, Egan's silence regarding his business with Winterslip. Men who are
facing a charge of murder, my boy, talk, and talk fast. Unless it so
happens that what they have to say would further incriminate them."
They drove on in silence into the heart of the city. "Hallet tells me
you're doing a little detective work yourself," smiled Jennison.
"I've tried, but I'm a duffer," John Quincy admitted. "Just at present
my efforts consist of a still hunt for that watch Aunt Minerva saw on
the murderer's wrist. Whenever I see a wrist watch I get as close to it
as I can, and stare. But as most of my sleuthing is done in the day
time, it isn't so easy to determine whether the numeral two is bright or
dim."
"Persistence," urged Jennison. "That's the secret of a good detective.
Stick to the job and you may succeed yet."
The lawyer was to dine with the family at Waikiki. John Quincy set him
down at his office, where he had a few letters to sign, and then drove
him out to the beach. Barbara was gowned in white; she was slim and
wistful and beautiful, and considering the events of the immediate past,
the dinner was a cheerful one.
They had coffee on the lanai. Presently Jennison rose and stood by
Barbara's chair. "We've something to tell you," he announced. He looked
down at the girl. "Is that right, my dear?"
Barbara nodded.
"Your cousin and I"--the lawyer turned to the two from Boston--"have
been fond of each other for a long time. We shall be married very
quietly in a week or so--"
"Oh, Harry--not a week," said Barbara.
"Well, as you wish. But very soon."
"Yes, very soon," she repeated.
"And leave Honolulu for a time," Jennison continued. "Naturally, Barbara
feels she can not stay here for the present--so many memories--you both
understand. She has authorized me to put this house up for sale--"
"But, Harry," Barbara protested, "you make me sound so inhospitable.
Telling my guests that the house is for sale and I am leaving--"
"Nonsense, my dear," said Aunt Minerva. "John Quincy and I understand,
quite. I sympathize with your desire to get away." She rose.
"I'm sorry," said Jennison. "I did sound a little abrupt. But I'm
naturally eager to take care of her now."
"Of course," John Quincy agreed.
Miss Minerva bent over and kissed the girl. "If your mother were here,
dear child," she said, "she couldn't wish for your happiness any more
keenly than I do." Barbara reached up impulsively and put her arms about
the older woman.
John Quincy shook Jennison's hand. "You're mighty lucky."
"I think so," Jennison answered.
The boy went over to Barbara, "All--all good wishes," he said. She
nodded, but did not reply. He saw there were tears in her eyes.
Presently Miss Minerva withdrew to the living-room, and John Quincy,
feeling like a fifth wheel, made haste to leave the two together. He
went out on the beach. The pale moon rode high amid the golden stars,
romance whispered through the cocoanut palms. He thought of the scene he
had witnessed that breathless night on the _President Tyler_--only two
in the world, love quick and overwhelming--well, this was the setting
for it. Here on this beach they had walked two and two since the
beginning of time, whispering the same vows, making the same promises,
whatever their color and creed. Suddenly the boy felt lonely.
Barbara was a Winterslip, and not for him. Why then did he feel again
that frustrated pang in his heart? She had chosen and her choice was
fitting, what affair was it of his?
He found himself moving slowly toward the Reef and Palm Hotel. For a
chat with Carlota Egan? But why should he want to talk with this girl,
whose outlook was so different from that of the world he knew? The girls
at home were on a level with the men in brains--often, indeed, they were
superior, seemed to be looking down from a great height. They discussed
that article in the latest _Atlantic_, Shaw's grim philosophy, the new
Sargent at the Art Gallery. Wasn't that the sort of talk he should be
seeking here? Or was it? Under these palms on this romantic beach, with
the moon riding high over Diamond Head?
Carlota Egan was seated behind the desk in the deserted lobby of the
Reef and Palm, a worried frown on her face.
"You've come at the psychological moment," she cried, and smiled. "I'm
having the most awful struggle."
"Arithmetic?" John Quincy inquired.
"Compound fractions, it seems to me. I'm making out the Brades' bill."
He came round the desk and stood at her side. "Let me help you."
"It's so fearfully involved." She looked up at him, and he wished they
could do their sums on the beach. "Mr. Brade has been away since Tuesday
morning, and we don't charge for any absence of more than three days. So
that comes out of it. Maybe you can figure it--I can't."
"Charge him anyhow," suggested John Quincy.
"I'd like to--that would simplify everything. But it's not dad's way."
John Quincy took up a pencil. "What rate are they paying?" he inquired.
She told him, and he began to figure. It wasn't a simple matter, even
for a bond expert. John Quincy frowned too.
Some one entered the front door of the Reef and Palm. Looking up, John
Quincy beheld the Hawaiian boy, Dick Kaohla. He carried a bulky object,
wrapped in newspapers.
"Mr. Brade here now?" he asked.
Carlota Egan shook her head. "No, he hasn't returned."
"I will wait," said the boy.
"But we don't know where he is, or when he will come back," the girl
protested.
"He will be here soon," the Hawaiian replied. "I wait on the lanai." He
went out the side door, still carrying his clumsy burden. John Quincy
and the girl stared at each other.
"'We move, we advance!'" John Quincy quoted in a low voice. "Brade will
be here soon! Would you mind going out on the lanai and telling me where
Kaohla is now?"
Quickly the girl complied. She returned in a few seconds. "He's taken a
chair at the far end."
"Out of earshot?"
"Quite. You want the telephone--"
But John Quincy was already in the booth. Charlie Chan's voice came back
over the wire.
"Most warm congratulations. You are number one detective yourself.
Should my self-starter not indulge in stubborn spasm, I will make
immediate connection with you."
John Quincy returned to the desk, smiling. "Charlie's flying to us in
his Ford. Begins to look as though we were getting somewhere now. But
about this bill. Mrs. Brade's board and room I make sixteen dollars. The
charge against Mr. Brade--one week's board and room minus four days'
board--totals nine dollars and sixty-two cents."
"How can I ever thank you?" said the girl.
"By telling me again about your childhood on this beach." A shadow
crossed her face. "Oh, I'm sorry I've made you unhappy."
"Oh, no--you couldn't." She shook her head. "I've never been--so very
happy. Always an 'if' in it, as I told you before. That morning on the
ferry I think I was nearest to real happiness. I seemed to have escaped
from life for a moment."
"I remember how you laughed at my hat."
"Oh--I hope you've forgiven me."
"Nonsense. I'm mighty glad I was able to make you laugh like that." Her
great eyes stared into the future, and John Quincy pitied her. He had
known others like her, others who loved their fathers, built high hopes
for them, then saw them drift into a baffled old age. One of the girl's
slender, tanned hands lay on the desk, John Quincy put his own upon it.
"Don't be unhappy," he urged. "It's such a wonderful night. The
moon--you're a what-you-may-call-it--a kamaaina, I know, but I'll bet
you never saw the moon looking so well before. It's like a
thousand-dollar gold piece, pale but negotiable. Shall we go out and
spend it?"
Gently she drew her hand away. "There were seven bottles of charged
water sent to the room. Thirty-five cents each--"
"What? Oh, the Brades' bill. Yes, that means two forty-five more. I'd
like to mention the stars too. Isn't it odd how close the stars seem in
the tropics--"
She smiled. "We mustn't forget the trunks and bags. Three dollars for
bringing them up from the dock."
"Say--that's rather steep. Well, it goes down on the record. Have I ever
told you that all this natural beauty out here has left its imprint on
your face? In the midst of so much loveliness, one couldn't be anything
but--"
"Mrs. Brade had three trays to the room. That's seventy-five cents
more."
"Extravagant lady! Brade will be sorry he came back, for more reasons
than one. Well, I've got that. Anything else?"
"Just the laundry. Ninety-seven cents."
"Fair enough. Adding it all up, I get thirty-two dollars and sixty-nine
cents. Let's call it an even thirty-three."
She laughed. "Oh, no. We can't do that."
Mrs. Brade came slowly into the lobby from the lanai. She paused at the
desk. "Has there been a message?" she inquired.
"No, Mrs. Brade," the girl answered. She handed over the slip of paper.
"Your bill."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Brade will attend to this the moment he returns."
"You expect him soon?"
"I really can't say." The Englishwoman moved on into the corridor
leading to nineteen.
"Full of information, as usual," smiled John Quincy. "Why, here's
Charlie now."
Chan came briskly to the desk, followed by another policeman, also in
plain clothes.
"Automobile act noble," he announced, "having fondly feeling for night
air." He nodded toward his companion. "Introducing Mr. Spencer. Now,
what are the situation? Humbly hinting you speak fast."
John Quincy told him Kaohla was waiting on the lanai, and mentioned the
unwieldy package carried by the boy. Chan nodded.
"Events are turning over rapidly," he said. He addressed the girl.
"Please kindly relate to this Kaohla that Brade has arrived and would
wish to encounter him here." She hesitated. "No, no," added Chan
hastily, "I forget nice heathen delicacy. It is not pretty I should ask
a lady to scatter false lies from ruby lips. I humbly demand
forgiveness. Content yourself with a veiled pretext bringing him here."
The girl smiled and went out. "Mr. Spencer," said Chan, "I make bold to
suggest you interrogate this Hawaiian. My reckless wanderings among
words of unlimitable English language often fail to penetrate sort of
skulls plentiful round here."
Spencer nodded and went to the side door, standing where he would not be
seen by any one entering there. In a moment Kaohla appeared, followed by
the girl. The Hawaiian came in quickly but seeing Chan, stopped, and a
frightened look crossed his face. Spencer startled him further by
seizing his arm.
"Come over here," said the detective. "We want to talk to you." He led
the boy to a far corner of the room, Chan and John Quincy followed. "Sit
down--here, I'll take that." He removed the heavy package from under the
boy's arm. For a moment the Hawaiian seemed about to protest, but
evidently he thought better of it. Spencer placed the package on a table
and stood over Kaohla.
"Want to see Brade, eh?" he began in a threatening tone.
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Business is private."
"Well, I'm telling you to come across. You're in bad. Better change your
mind and talk."
"No."
"All right. We'll see about that. What have you got in that package?"
The boy's eyes went to the table, but he made no answer.
Chan took out a pocket knife. "Simple matter to discover," he said. He
cut the rough twine, unwound several layers of newspapers. John Quincy
pressed close, he felt that something important was about to be
divulged.
The last layer of paper came off. "Hot dog!" cried Chan. He turned
quickly to John Quincy. "Oh, I am so sorry--I pick up atrocious phrase
like that from my cousin Mr. Willie Chan, Captain of All Chinese
baseball team--"
But John Quincy did not hear, his eyes were glued to the object that lay
on the table. An ohia wood box, bound with copper--the initials T. M. B.
"We will unlatch it," said Chan. He made an examination. "No, locked
most strongly. We will crash into it at police station, where you and I
and this silent Hawaiian will now hasten. Mr. Spencer, you will remain
on spot here. Should Brade appear, you know your duty."
"I do," said Spencer.
"Mr. Kaohla, do me the honor to accompany," continued Chan. "At police
headquarters much talk will be extracted out of you."
They turned toward the door. As they did so, Carlota Egan came up. "May
I speak to you a moment?" she said to John Quincy.
"Surely." He walked with her to the desk.
"I went to the lanai just now," she whispered breathlessly. "Some one
was crouching outside the window near where you were talking. I went
closer and it was--Mr. Saladine!"
"Aha," said John Quincy. "Mr. Saladine had better drop that sort of
thing, or he'll get himself in trouble."
"Should we tell Chan?"
"Not yet. You and I will do a little investigating ourselves first. Chan
has other things to think about. And we don't want any of our guests to
leave unless it's absolutely necessary."
"We certainly don't," she smiled. "I'm glad you've got the interests of
the house at heart."
"That's just where I've got them--" John Quincy began, but Chan cut in.
"Humbly begging pardon," he said, "we must speed. Captain Hallet will
have high delight to encounter this Kaohla, to say nothing of ohia wood
box."
In the doorway, Kaohla crowded close to John Quincy, and the latter was
startled by the look of hate he saw in the boy's stormy eyes. "You did
this," muttered the Hawaiian. "I don't forget."