The House Without a Key

Miss Minerva Winterslip was a Bostonian in good standing, and long past the romantic age. Yet beauty thrilled her still, even the semi-barbaric beauty of a Pacific island. As she walked slowly along the beach she felt the little catch in her throat that sometimes she had known in Symphony Hall, Boston, when her favorite orchestra rose to some new and unexpected height of loveliness.

It was the hour at which she liked Waikiki best, the hour just preceding dinner and the quick tropic darkness. The shadows cast by the tall coconut palms lengthened and deepened, the light of the falling sun flamed on Diamond Head and tinted with gold the rollers sweeping in from the coral reef. A few late swimmers, reluctant to depart, dotted those waters whose touch is like the caress of a lover. On the springboard of the nearest float a slim brown girl poised for one delectable instant. What a figure! Miss Minerva, well over fifty herself, felt a mild twinge of envy⁠—youth, youth like an arrow, straight and sure and flying. Like an arrow the slender figure rose, then fell; the perfect dive, silent and clean.

Miss Minerva glanced at the face of the man who walked beside her. But Amos Winterslip was oblivious to beauty, he had made that the first rule of his life. Born in the Islands, he had never known the mainland beyond San Francisco. Yet there could be no doubt about it, he was the New England conscience personified⁠—the New England conscience in a white duck suit.

A picture as intriguing and colorful as a back drop in a theater⁠—but far more real.

Suddenly John Quincy stood up. A puzzled look had come into his calm gray eyes. “I⁠—I don’t understand,” he murmured.

He was startled by the sound of his own voice. He hadn’t intended to speak aloud. In order not to appear too utterly silly, he looked around for someone to whom he might pretend he had addressed that remark. There was no one about⁠—except the young person who was obviously feminine and therefore not to be informally accosted.

John Quincy looked down at her. Spanish or something like that, blue-black hair, dark eyes that were alight now with the amusement she was striving to hide, a delicate oval face tanned a deep brown. He looked again at the harbor⁠—beauty all about the boat, and beauty on it. Much better than traveling on trains!

The girl looked up at John Quincy. She saw a big, broad-shouldered young man with a face as innocent as a child’s. A bit of friendliness, she decided instantly, would not be misunderstood.

“I beg your pardon,” she said.

“Oh⁠—I⁠—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean⁠—I spoke without intending⁠—I said I didn’t understand⁠—”

“You didn’t understand what?”

“A most amazing thing has happened,” he continued. He sat down, and waved his hand toward the harbor. “I’ve been here before.”

She looked perplexed. “Lots of people have,” she admitted.

An intense darkness engulfed her. But she knew her way across the polished floor and set out confidently, walking on tiptoe. She had gone halfway to the hall door when she stopped, her heart in her mouth. For not five feet away she saw the luminous dial of a watch, and as she stared at it with frightened eyes, it moved.

Not for nothing had Miss Minerva studied restraint through more than fifty years. Many women would have screamed and fainted, Miss Minerva’s heart pounded madly, but that was all. Standing very still, she studied that phosphorescent dial. Its movement had been slight, it was now at rest again. A watch worn on someone’s wrist. Someone who had been on the point of action, but had now assumed an attitude of cautious waiting.

Well, Miss Minerva grimly asked herself, what was she going to do about it? Should she cry out a sharp: “Who’s there?” She was a brave woman, but the foolhardiness of such a course was apparent. She had a vision of that dial flashing nearer, a blow, perhaps strong hands at her throat.

She took a tentative step, and then another. Now, surely, the dial would stir again. But it remained motionless, steady, as though the arm that wore it were rigid at the intruder’s side.

Suddenly Miss Minerva realized the situation. The wearer of the watch had forgotten the telltale numerals on his wrist, he thought himself hidden in the dark. He was waiting for her to go on through the room.

“So it is.” Miss Minerva rose and started for the lanai. She was her old competent self again. At that moment a loud knock sounded on the screen door at the front of the house. Presently there were voices in the hall, and Haku ushered three men into the living-room. Though evidently police, they were all in plain clothes. One of them, a tall, angular Yankee with the look of a sailing master about him, stepped forward.

“I’m Hallet,” he said. “Captain of Detectives. You’re Mr. Amos Winterslip, I believe?”

“I am,” Amos answered. He introduced Miss Minerva. Captain Hallet gave her a casual nod; this was man’s business and he disliked having a woman involved.

“Dan Winterslip, you said,” he remarked, turning back to Amos. “That’s a great pity. Where is he?”

Amos indicated the lanai. “Come, Doctor,” Hallet said, and went through the curtain, followed by the smaller of the two men.

As they went out, the third man stepped farther into the room, and Miss Minerva gave a little gasp of astonishment as she looked at him. In those warm islands thin men were the rule, but here was a striking exception. He was very fat indeed, yet he walked with the light dainty step of a woman. His cheeks were as chubby as a baby’s, his skin ivory tinted, his black hair close-cropped, his amber eyes slanting. As he passed Miss Minerva he bowed with a courtesy encountered all too rarely in a work-a-day world, then moved on after Hallet.

“Amos!” cried Miss Minerva. “That man⁠—why he⁠—”

“Charlie Chan,” Amos explained. “I’m glad they brought him. He’s the best detective on the force.”

“But⁠—he’s a Chinaman!”

“Of course.”

Miss Minerva sank into a chair. Ah, yes, they had policemen out here, after all.

“I’m looking for Mr. Charlie Chan,” said John Quincy.

The old man nodded and led the way to a red curtain across the rear of the shop. He lifted it, and indicated that John Quincy was to pass. The boy did so, and came into a bare room furnished with a cot, a table on which an oil lamp burned dimly behind a smoky chimney, and a couple of chairs. A man who had been sitting on one of the chairs rose suddenly; a huge red-haired man with the smell of the sea about him.

“Hello,” he said.

“Is Mr. Chan here?” John Quincy inquired.

“Not yet. He’ll be along in a minute. What say to a drink while we’re waiting. Hey, Liu, a coupla glasses that rotten rice wine!”

The Chinaman withdrew. “Sit down,” said the man. John Quincy obeyed; the sailor sat too. One of his eyelids drooped wickedly; he rested his hands on the table⁠—enormous hairy hands. “Charlie’ll be here pretty quick,” he said. “Then I got a little story to tell the two of you.”

“Yes?” John Quincy replied. He glanced about the little vile-smelling room. There was a door, a closed door, at the back. He looked again at the red-haired man. He wondered how he was going to get out of there.