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 downtown hotels, Waikiki tomorrow. 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 tomorrow. 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 today his firm in Boston would offer that preferred stock for the shoe people in Lynn. Would the issue be oversubscribed? 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.
XIII
The Luggage in Room Nineteen
John Quincy emerged from sleep the next morning with a great effort, and dragged his watch from under the pillow. Eight-thirty! Good lord, he was due at the office at nine! A quick bath and shave, a brief pause at the breakfast table, a run past the Public Gardens and the Common and down to School Street—
He sat up in bed. Why was he imprisoned under mosquito netting? What was the meaning of the little lizard that sported idly outside the cloth? Oh, yes—Honolulu. He was in Hawaii, and he’d never reach his office by nine. It was five thousand miles away.
The low murmur of breakers on the beach confirmed him in this discovery and stepping to his window, he gazed out at the calm sparkling morning. Yes, he was in Honolulu entangled in a murder mystery, consorting with Chinese detectives and Waikiki Widows, following clues. The new day held interesting promise. He must hurry to find what it would bring forth.
Haku informed him that his aunt and Barbara had already breakfasted, and set before him a reddish sort of cantaloupe which was, he explained in answer to the boy’s question, a papaya. When he had eaten, John Quincy went out on the lanai. Barbara stood there, staring at the beach. A new Barbara, with the old vivacity, the old joy of living, submerged; a pale girl with sorrow in her eyes.
John Quincy put his arm about her shoulder; she was a Winterslip and the family was the
