THE RETURN OF CAPTAIN COPE
After breakfast on Sunday morning, John Quincy followed Miss Minerva to
the lanai. It was a neat world that lay outside the screen, for Dan
Winterslip's yard boy had been busy until a late hour the night before,
sweeping the lawn with the same loving thoroughness a housewife might
display on a precious Oriental rug.
Barbara had not come down to breakfast, and John Quincy had seized the
opportunity to tell his aunt of Brade's return, and repeat the man's
story of Dan Winterslip's theft on board the _Maid of Shiloh_. Now he
lighted a cigarette and sat staring seriously out at the distant water.
"Cheer up," said Miss Minerva. "You look like a judge. I presume you're
thinking of poor Dan."
"I am."
"Forgive and forget. None of us ever suspected Dan of being a saint."
"A saint! Far from it! He was just a plain--"
"Never mind," put in his aunt sharply. "Remember, John Quincy, man is a
creature of environment. And the temptation must have been great.
Picture Dan on that ship in these easy-going latitudes, wealth at his
feet and not a soul in sight to claim it. Ill-gotten wealth, at that.
Even you--"
"Even I," said John Quincy sternly, "would have recalled I am a
Winterslip. I never dreamed I'd live to hear you offering apologies for
that sort of conduct."
She laughed. "You know what they say about white women who go to the
tropics. They lose first their complexion, then their teeth, and finally
their moral sense." She hesitated. "I've had to visit the dentist a good
deal of late," she added.
John Quincy was shocked "My advice to you is to hurry home," he said.
"When are you going?"
"Oh, soon--soon."
"That's what we all say. Returning to Boston, I suppose?"
"Of course."
"How about San Francisco?"
"Oh, that's off. I did suggest it to Agatha, but I'm certain she won't
hear of it. And I'm beginning to think she'd be quite right." His aunt
rose. "You'd better go to church," said John Quincy severely.
"That's just where I am going," she smiled. "By the way, Amos is coming
to dinner to-night, and he'd best hear the Brade story from us, rather
than in some garbled form. Barbara must hear it too. If it proves to be
true, the family ought to do something for Mr. Brade."
"Oh, the family will do something for him, all right," John Quincy
remarked. "Whether it wants to or not."
"Well, I'll let you tell Barbara about him," Miss Minerva promised.
"Thank you so much," replied her nephew sarcastically.
"Not at all. Are you coming to church?"
"No," he said. "I don't need it the way you do."
She left him there to face a lazy uneventful day. By five in the
afternoon Waikiki was alive with its usual Sunday crowd--not the
unsavory holiday throng seen on a mainland beach, but a scattering of
good-looking people whose tanned straight bodies would have delighted
the heart of a physical culture enthusiast. John Quincy summoned
sufficient energy to don a bathing suit and plunge in.
There was something soothing in the warm touch of the water, and he was
becoming more at home there every day. With long powerful strokes he
drew away from the malihini breakers to dare the great rollers beyond.
Surf-board riders flashed by him; now and then he had to alter his
course to avoid an outrigger canoe.
On the farthest float of all he saw Carlota Egan. She sat there, a
slender lovely figure vibrant with life, and awaited his coming. As he
climbed up beside her and looked into her eyes he was--perhaps from his
exertion in the water--a little breathless.
"I rather hoped I'd find you," he panted.
"Did you?" She smiled faintly. "I hoped it too. You see, I need a lot of
cheering up."
"On a perfect day like this!"
"I'd pinned such hopes on Mr. Brade," she explained. "Perhaps you know
he's back--and from what I can gather, his return hasn't meant a thing
so far as dad's concerned. Not a thing."
"Well, I'm afraid it hasn't," John Quincy admitted. "But we mustn't get
discouraged. As Chan puts it, we sway about, seeking a new path. You and
I have a bit of swaying to do. How about Mr. Saladine?"
"I've been thinking about Mr. Saladine. But I can't get excited about
him, somehow. He's so ridiculous."
"We mustn't pass him up on that account," admonished John Quincy. "I
caught a glimpse of his purple bathing suit on the first float. Come
on--we'll just casually drop in on him. I'll race you there."
She smiled again, and leaped to her feet. For a second she stood poised,
then dived in a way that John Quincy could never hope to emulate. He
slipped off in pursuit, and though he put forth every effort, she
reached Saladine's side five seconds before he did.
"Hello, Mr. Saladine," she said. "This is Mr. Winterslip, of Boston."
"Ah, yeth," responded Mr. Saladine, gloomily. "Mr. Winterthlip." He
regarded the young man with interest.
"Any luck, sir?" inquired John Quincy sympathetically.
"Oh--you heard about my accthident?"
"I did, sir, and I'm sorry."
"I am, too," said Mr. Saladine feelingly. "Not a thrath of them tho far.
And I muth go home in a few dath."
"I believe Miss Egan said you lived in Des Moines?"
"Yeth. Deth--Deth--I can't thay it."
"In business there?" inquired John Quincy nonchalantly.
"Yeth. Wholethale grothery buthineth," answered Mr. Saladine, slowly but
not very successfully.
John Quincy turned away to hide a smile. "Shall we go along?" he said to
the girl. "Good luck to you, sir." He dove off, and as they swam toward
the shore, he reflected that they were on a false trail there--a trail
as spurious as the teeth. That little business man was too conventional
a figure to have any connection with the murder of Dan Winterslip. He
kept these thoughts to himself, however.
Half-way to the beach, they encountered an enormous figure floating
languidly on the water. Just beyond the great stomach John Quincy
perceived the serene face of Charlie Chan.
"Hello, Charlie," he cried. "It's a small ocean, after all! Got your
Ford with you?"
Chan righted himself and grinned. "Little pleasant recreation," he
explained. "Forget detective worries out here floating idle like leaf on
stream."
"Please float ashore," suggested John Quincy. "I have something to tell
you."
"Only too happy," agreed Chan.
He followed them in and they sat, an odd trio, on the white sand. John
Quincy told the detective about Saladine's activities outside the window
the night before, and repeated the conversation he had just had with the
middle westerner. "Of course, the man seems almost too foolish to mean
anything," he added.
Chan shook his head. "Begging most humble pardon," he said, "that are
wrong attitude completely. Detective business made up of unsignificant
trifles. One after other our clues go burst in our countenance. Wise to
pursue matter of Mr. Saladine."
"What do you suggest?" John Quincy asked.
"To-night I visit city for night work to drive off my piled tasks," Chan
replied. "After evening meal, suggest you join with me at cable office.
We despatch message to postmaster of this Des Moines, inquiring what are
present locality of Mr. Saladine, expert in wholeselling provisions.
Your name will be signed to message, much better than police meddling."
"All right," John Quincy agreed, "I'll meet you there at eight-thirty."
Carlota Egan rose. "I must get back to the Reef and Palm. You've no idea
all I have to do--"
John Quincy stood beside her. "If I can help, you know--"
"I know," she smiled. "I'm thinking of making you assistant manager.
They'd be so proud of you--in Boston."
She moved off toward the water for her homeward swim, and John Quincy
dropped down beside Chan. The Chinaman's little amber eyes followed the
girl. "Endeavoring to make English language my slave," he said, "I
pursue poetry. Who were the great poet who said--'She walks in beauty
like the night?'"
"Why, that was--er--who was it?" remarked John Quincy helpfully.
"Name is slippery," went on Chan. "But no matter. Lines pop into brain
whenever I see this Miss Egan. Beauty like the night, Hawaiian night
maybe, lovely as purest jade. Most especially on this beach. Spot of
heart-breaking charm, this beach."
"Surely is," agreed John Quincy, amused at Chan's obviously sentimental
mood.
"Here on gleaming sand I first regard my future wife," continued Chan.
"Slender as the bamboo is slender, beautiful as blossom of the plum--"
"Your wife," repeated John Quincy. The idea was a new one.
"Yes, indeed." Chan rose. "Recalls I must hasten home where she attends
the children who are now, by actual count, nine in number." He looked
down at John Quincy thoughtfully. "Are you well-fitted with the armor of
preparation?" he said. "Consider. Some night the moon has splendor in
this neighborhood, the cocoa-palms bow lowly and turn away their heads
so they do not see. And the white man kisses without intending to do
so."
"Oh, don't worry about me," John Quincy laughed; "I'm from Boston, and
immune."
"Immune," repeated Chan. "Ah, yes, I grasp meaning. In my home I have
idol brought from China with insides of solid stone. He would think he
is--immune. But even so I would not entrust him on this beach. As my
cousin Willie Chan say with vulgarity, see you later."
John Quincy sat for a time on the sand, then rose and strolled toward
home. His path lay close to the lanai of Arlene Compton's cottage, and
he was surprised to hear his name called from behind the screen. He
stepped to the door and looked in. The woman was sitting there alone.
"Come in a minute, Mr. Winterslip," she said.
John Quincy hesitated. He did not care to make any social calls on this
lady, but he did not have it in him to be rude. He went inside and sat
down gingerly, poised for flight. "Got to hurry back for dinner," he
explained.
"Dinner? You'll want a cocktail."
"No, thanks. I'm--I'm on the wagon."
"You'll find it hard to stick out here," she said a little bitterly. "I
won't keep you long. I just want to know--are those boneheads down at
the station getting anywhere, or ain't they?"
"The police," smiled John Quincy. "They seem to be making progress. But
it's slow. It's very slow."
"I'll tell the world it's slow. And I got to stick here till they pin it
on somebody. Pleasant outlook, ain't it?"
"Is Mr. Leatherbee still with you?" inquired John Quincy.
"What do you mean is he still with me?" she flared.
"Pardon me. Is he still in town?"
"Of course he's in town. They won't let him go, either. But I ain't
worrying about him. I got troubles of my own. I want to go home." She
nodded toward a newspaper on the table. "I just got hold of an old
_Variety_ and seen about a show opening in Atlantic City. A lot of the
gang is in it, working like dogs, rehearsing night and day, worrying
themselves sick over how long the thing will last. Gee, don't I envy
them. I was near to bawling when you came along."
"You'll get back all right," comforted John Quincy.
"Say--if I ever do! I'll stop everybody I meet on Broadway and promise
never to leave 'em again." John Quincy rose. "You tell that guy Hallet
to get a move on," she urged.
"I'll tell him," he agreed.
"And drop in to see me now and then," she added wistfully. "Us
easterners ought to stick together out here."
"That's right, we should," John Quincy answered. "Good-by."
As he walked along the beach, he thought of her with pity. The story she
and Leatherbee had told might be entirely false; even so, she was a
human and appealing figure and her homesickness touched his heart.
Later that evening when John Quincy came down-stairs faultlessly attired
for dinner, he encountered Amos Winterslip in the living-room. Cousin
Amos's lean face was whiter than ever; his manner listless. He had been
robbed of his hate; his evenings beneath the algaroba tree had lost
their savor; life was devoid of spice.
Dinner was not a particularly jolly affair. Barbara seemed intent on
knowing now the details of the search the police were conducting, and it
fell to John Quincy to enlighten her. Reluctantly he came at last to the
story of Brade. She listened in silence. After dinner she and John
Quincy went out into the garden and sat on a bench under the hau tree,
facing the water.
"I'm terribly sorry I had to tell you that about Brade," John Quincy
said gently. "But it seemed necessary."
"Of course," she agreed. "Poor dad! He was weak--weak--"
"Forgive and forget," John Quincy suggested. "Man is a creature of
environment." He wondered dimly where he had heard that before. "Your
father was not entirely to blame--"
"You're terribly kind, John Quincy," she told him.
"No--but I mean it," he protested. "Just picture the scene to yourself.
That lonely ocean, wealth at his feet for the taking, no one to see or
know."
She shook her head. "Oh, but it was wrong, wrong. Poor Mr. Brade. I must
make things right with him as nearly as I can. I shall ask Harry to talk
with him to-morrow--"
"Just a suggestion," interposed John Quincy. "Whatever you agree to do
for Brade must not be done until the man who killed your father is
found."
She stared at him. "What! You don't think that Brade--"
"I don't know. Nobody knows. Brade is unable to prove where he was early
last Tuesday morning."
They sat silent for a moment; then the girl suddenly collapsed and
buried her face in her hands. Her slim shoulders trembled convulsively
and John Quincy, deeply sympathetic, moved closer. He put his arm about
her. The moonlight shone on her bright hair, the trades whispered in
the hau tree, the breakers murmured on the beach. She lifted her face,
and he kissed her. A cousinly kiss he had meant it to be, but somehow it
wasn't--it was a kiss he would never have been up to on Beacon Street.
"Miss Minerva said I'd find you here," remarked a voice behind them.
John Quincy leaped to his feet and found himself staring into the
cynical eyes of Harry Jennison. Even though you are the girl's cousin,
it is a bit embarrassing to have a man find you kissing his fiancée.
Particularly if the kiss wasn't at all cousinly--John Quincy wondered if
Jennison had noticed that.
"Come in--I mean, sit down," stammered John Quincy. "I was just going."
"Good-by," said Jennison coldly.
John Quincy went hastily through the living-room, where Miss Minerva sat
with Amos. "Got an appointment down-town," he explained, and picking up
his hat in the hall, fled into the night.
He had intended taking the roadster, but to reach the garage he would
have to pass that bench under the hau tree. Oh, well, the colorful
atmosphere of a trolley was more interesting, anyhow.
In the cable office on the ground floor of the Alexander Young Hotel,
Chan was waiting, and they sent off their inquiry to the postmaster at
Des Moines, signing John Quincy's name and address. That attended to,
they returned to the street. In the park across the way an unseen group
of young men strummed steel guitars and sang in soft haunting voices; it
was the only sign of life in Honolulu.
"Kindly deign to enter hotel lobby with me," suggested Chan. "It is my
custom to regard names in register from time to time."
At the cigar stand just inside the door, the boy paused to light his
pipe, while Chan went on to the desk. As John Quincy turned he saw a man
seated alone in the lobby, a handsome, distinguished man who wore
immaculate evening clothes that bore the stamp of Bond Street. An old
acquaintance, Captain Arthur Temple Cope.
At sight of John Quincy, Cope leaped to his feet and came forward.
"Hello, I'm glad to see you," he cried, with a cordiality that had not
been evident at former meetings. "Come over and sit down."
John Quincy followed him. "Aren't you back rather soon?" he inquired.
"Sooner than I expected," Cope rejoined. "Not sorry, either."
"Then you didn't care for your little flock of islands?"
"My boy, you should visit there. Thirty-five white men, two hundred and
fifty natives, and a cable station. Jolly place of an evening, what?"
Chan came up, and John Quincy presented him. Captain Cope was the
perfect host. "Sit down, both of you," he urged. "Have a cigarette." He
extended a silver case.
"Thanks, I'll stick to the pipe," John Quincy said. Chan gravely
accepted a cigarette and lighted it.
"Tell me, my boy," Cope said when they were seated, "is there anything
new on the Winterslip murder? Haven't run down the guilty man, by any
chance."
"No, not yet," John Quincy replied.
"That's a great pity. I--er--understand the police are holding a chap
named Egan?"
"Yes--Jim Egan, of the Reef and Palm Hotel."
"Just what evidence have they against Egan, Mr. Winterslip?"
John Quincy was suddenly aware of Chan looking at him in a peculiar way.
"Oh, they've dug up several things," he answered vaguely.
"Mr. Chan, you are a member of the police force," Captain Cope went on.
"Perhaps you can tell me?"
Chan's little eyes narrowed. "Such matters are not yet presented to
public," he replied.
"Ah, yes, naturally." Captain Cope's tone suggested disappointment.
"You have interest in this murder, I think?" Chan said.
"Why, yes--every one out this way is puzzling about it, I fancy. The
thing has so many angles."
"Is it possible that you were an acquaintance with Mr. Dan Winterslip?"
the detective persisted.
"I--I knew him slightly. But that was many years ago."
Chan stood. "Humbly begging pardon to be so abrupt," he said. He turned
to John Quincy. "The moment of our appointment is eminent--"
"Of course," agreed John Quincy. "See you again, Captain." Perplexed, he
followed Chan to the street. "What appointment--" he began, and stopped.
Chan was carefully extinguishing the light of the cigarette against the
stone facade of the hotel. That done, he dropped the stub into his
pocket.
"You will see," he promised. "First we visit police station. As we
journey, kindly relate all known facts concerning this Captain Cope."
John Quincy told of his first meeting with Cope in the San Francisco
club, and repeated the conversation as he recalled it.
"Evidence of warm dislike for Dan Winterslip were not to be concealed?"
inquired Chan.
"Oh, quite plain, Charlie. He certainly had no love for Cousin Dan. But
what--"
"Immediately he was leaving for Hawaii--pardon the interrupt. Does it
happily chance you know his date of arrival here?"
"I do. I saw him in the Alexander Young Hotel last Tuesday evening when
I was looking for you. He was rushing off to the Fanning Islands, and he
told me he had got in the previous day at noon--"
"Monday noon to put it lucidly."
"Yes--Monday noon. But Charlie--what are you trying to get at?"
"Groping about," Chan smiled. "Seeking to seize truth in my hot hands."
They walked on in silence to the station, where Chan led the way into
the deserted room of Captain Hallet. He went directly to the safe and
opened it. From a drawer he removed several small objects, which he
carried over to the captain's table.
"Property Mr. Jim Egan," he announced, and laid a case of tarnished
silver before John Quincy. "Open it--what do you find now? Corsican
cigarettes." He set down another exhibit. "Tin box found in room of Mr.
Brade. Open that, also. You find more Corsican cigarettes."
He removed an envelope from his pocket and taking out a charred stub,
laid that too on the table. "Fragment found by walk outside door of Dan
Winterslip's mansion," he elucidated. "Also Corsican brand."
Frowning deeply, he removed a second charred stub from his pocket and
laid it some distance from the other exhibits. "Cigarette offered just
now with winning air of hospitality by Captain Arthur Temple Cope. Lean
close and perceive. More Corsican brand!"
"Good lord!" John Quincy cried.
"Can it be you are familiar with these Corsicans?" inquired Chan.
"Not at all."
"I am more happily located. This afternoon before the swim I pause at
public library for listless reading. In Australian newspaper I encounter
advertising talk of Corsican cigarette. It are assembled in two distinct
fashions, one, labeled on tin 222, holds Turkish tobacco. Note 222 on
tin of Brade. Other labeled 444 made up from Virginia weeds. Is it that
you are clever to know difference between Turkish and Virginia tobacco?"
"Well, I think so--" began John Quincy.
"Same with me, but thinking are not enough now. The moment are serious.
We will interrogate expert opinion. Honor me by a journey to smoking
emporium."
He took a cigarette from Brack's tin, put it in an envelope and wrote
something on the outside, then did the same with one from Egan's case.
The two stubs were similarly classified.
They went in silence to the street. John Quincy, amazed by this new turn
of events, told himself the idea was absurd. But Chan's face was grave,
his eyes awake and eager.
John Quincy was vastly more amazed when they emerged from the tobacco
shop after a brisk interview with the young man in charge. Chan was
jubilant now.
"Again we advance! You hear what he tells us. Cigarette from Brade's tin
and little brother from Egan's case are of identical contents, both
being of Turkish tobacco. Stub found near walk are of Virginia stuff.
So also are remnant received by me from the cordial hand of Captain
Arthur Temple Cope!"
"It's beyond me," replied John Quincy. "By gad--that lets Egan out.
Great news for Carlota. I'll hurry to the Reef and Palm and tell her--"
"Oh, no, no," protested Chan. "Please to let that happy moment wait. For
the present, indulge only in silence. Before asking Captain Cope for
statement we spy over his every move. Much may be revealed by the
unsuspecting. I go to station to make arrangements--"
"But the man's a gentleman," John Quincy cried. "A captain in the
British Admiralty. What you suggest is impossible."
Chan shook his head. "Impossible in Rear Bay at Boston," he said, "but
here at moorly crossroads of Pacific, not so much so. Twenty-five years
of my life are consumed in Hawaii, and I have many times been witness
when the impossible roused itself and occurred."