LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

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

Скачать книгу