LITMIR.BIZ

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when the serenaders drifted about the harbor in row-boats, and the lanterns speared long paths on the water—"

      He seemed about to weep. John Quincy's mind went back to books he had read in his boyhood.

      "And occasionally," he said, "I presume somebody went aboard a ship against his will?"

      "I'll say he did," replied Mr. Mayberry, brightening at the thought. "Why, it was only in the 'nineties I was sitting one night on a dock a few yards down, when I saw a scuffle near the landing, and one of my best friends shouted to me: 'Good-by, Pete!' I was up and off in a minute, and I got him away from them—I was younger in those days. He was a good fellow, a sailorman, and he wasn't intending to take the journey that bunch had planned for him. They'd got him into a saloon and drugged him, but he pulled out of it just in time—oh, well, those days are gone for ever now. Just like Galveston or Seattle. Yes, sir, this harbor of Honolulu has lost its romance."

      The little Inter-Island boat was drawing up to the pier, and they watched it come. As the gangplank went down, Chan rose.

      "Who you expecting, Charlie?" asked Mayberry.

      "We grope about," said Chan. "Maybe on this boat are Mr. Brade."

      "Brade!" Mayberry leaped to his feet.

      "Not so sure," warned Chan. "Only a matter we suppose. If correct, humbly suggest you follow to the station. You might capture news."

      John Quincy and Chan moved up to the gangplank as the passengers descended. There were not many aboard. A few Island business men, a scattering of tourists, a party of Japanese in western clothes, ceremoniously received by friends ashore—a quaint little group all bowing from the waist. John Quincy was watching them with interest when Chan touched his arm.

      A tall stooped Englishman was coming down the plank. Thomas Macan Brade would have been easily spotted in any crowd. His mustache was patterned after that of the Earl of Pawtucket, and to make identification even simpler, he wore a white pith helmet. Pith helmets are not necessary under the kindly skies of Hawaii; this was evidently a relic of Indian days.

      Chan stepped forward. "Mr. Brade?"

      The man had a tired look in his eyes. He started nervously. "Y—yes," he hesitated.

      "I am Detective-Sergeant Chan, Honolulu police. You will do me the great honor to accompany me to the station, if you please."

      Brade stared at him, then shook his head. "It's quite impossible," he said.

      "Pardon me, please," answered Chan. "It are unevitable."

      "I—I have just returned from a journey," protested the man. "My wife may be worried regarding me. I must have a talk with her, and after that—"

      "Regret," purred Chan, "are scorching me. But duty remains duty. Chief's words are law. Humbly suggest we squander valuable time."

      "Am I to understand that I'm under arrest?" flared Brade.

      "The idea is preposterous," Chan assured him. "But the captain waits eager for statement from you. You will walk this way, I am sure. A moment's pardon. I introduce my fine friend, Mr. John Quincy Winterslip, of Boston."

      At mention of the name, Brade turned and regarded John Quincy with deep interest. "Very good," he said. "I'll go with you."

      They went out to the street, Brade carrying a small hand-bag. The flurry of arrival was dying fast. Honolulu would shortly return to its accustomed evening calm.

      When they reached the police station, Hallet and the prosecutor seemed in high good humor. Kaohla sat in a corner, hopeless and defeated; John Quincy saw at a glance that the boy's secret was his no longer.

      "Introducing Mr. Brade," said Chan.

      "Ah," cried Hallet, "we're glad to see you, Mr. Brade. We'd been getting pretty worried about you."

      "Really, sir," said Brade, "I am completely at a loss—"

      "Sit down," ordered Hallet. The man sank into a chair. He too had a hopeless, defeated air. No one can appear more humble and beaten than a British civil servant, and this man had known thirty-six years of baking under the Indian sun, looked down on by the military, respected by none. Not only his mustache but his whole figure drooped "in saddened mood." Yet now and then, John Quincy noted, he flashed into life, a moment of self-assertion and defiance.

      "Where have you been, Mr. Brade?" Hallet inquired.

      "I have visited one of the other islands. Maui."

      "You went last Tuesday morning?"

      "Yes. On the same steamer that brought me back."

      "Your name was not on the sailing list," Hallet said.

      "No. I went under another name. I had—reasons."

      "Indeed?"

      The flash of life. "Just why am I here, sir?" He turned to the prosecutor. "Perhaps you will tell me that?"

      Greene nodded toward the detective. "Captain Hallet will enlighten you," he said.

      "You bet I will," Hallet announced. "As perhaps you know, Mr. Brade, Mr. Dan Winterslip has been murdered."

      Brade's washed-out eyes turned to John Quincy. "Yes," he said. "I read about it in a Hilo newspaper."

      "You didn't know it when you left last Tuesday morning?" Hallet asked.

      "I did not. I sailed without seeing a paper here."

      "Ah, yes. When did you see Mr. Dan Winterslip last?"

      "I never saw him."

      "What! Be careful, sir."

      "I never saw Dan Winterslip in my life."

      "All right. Where were you last Tuesday morning at twenty minutes past one?"

      "I was asleep in my room at the Reef and Palm Hotel. I'd retired at nine-thirty, as I had to rise early in order to board my boat. My wife can verify that."

      "A wife's testimony, Mr. Brade, is not of great value—"

      Brade leaped to his feet. "Look here, sir! Do you mean to insinuate—"

      "Take it easy," said Hallet smoothly. "I have a few matters to call to your attention, Mr. Brade. Mr. Dan Winterslip was murdered at one-twenty or thereabouts last Tuesday morning. We happen to know that in his youth he served as first officer aboard the Maid of Shiloh, a blackbirder. The master of that vessel had the same name as yourself. An investigation of your room at the Reef and Palm—"

      "How dare you!" cried Brade. "By what right—"

      "I am hunting the murderer of Dan Winterslip," broke in Hallet coolly. "And I follow the trail wherever it leads. In your room I found a letter from the British Consul here addressed to you, and informing you that Winterslip was alive and in Honolulu. I also found this tin of Corsican cigarettes. Just outside the living-room door of Winterslip's house, we picked up the stub of a Corsican cigarette. It's a brand not on sale in Honolulu."

      Brade had dropped back into his chair, and was staring in a dazed way at the tin box in Hallet's hand. Hallet indicated the Hawaiian boy in the corner. "Ever see this lad before, Mr. Brade?" Brade nodded.

      "You had a talk with him last Sunday night on the beach?"

      "Yes."

      "The boy's told us all about it. He read in the paper that you were coming to Honolulu. His father was a confidential servant in Dan Winterslip's employ and he himself was brought up in the Winterslip household. He could make a pretty good guess at your business with Winterslip, and he figured you'd be pleased to lay hands on this ohia wood box. In his boyhood he'd seen it in a trunk in the attic of Winterslip's San Francisco house. He went down to the President Tyler and arranged with a friend aboard that boat, the quartermaster, to break into the house and steal the box. When he saw you last Sunday night he told you he'd have the box as soon as the President Tyler got in, and he arranged to sell it to you for a good sum. Am I right so far, Mr. Brade?"

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