The House Without a Key Page 4

  “Meant to bring a flashlight,” he said, “but I clean forgot. Wait here—I’ll hunt those candles in the pantry.”

  He went off into the dark. John Quincy took a few cautious steps. He was about to sit down on a chair—but it was like sitting on the lap of a ghost. He changed his mind, stood in the middle of the floor, waited. Quiet, deathly quiet. The black had swallowed Roger, with not so much as a gurgle.

  After what seemed an age, Roger returned, bearing two lighted candles. One each, he explained. John Quincy took his, held it high. The flickering yellow flame accentuated the shadows, was really of small help.

  Roger led the way up the grand staircase, then up a narrower flight. At the foot of still another flight, in a stuffy passage on the third floor, he halted.

  “Here we are,” he said. “This leads to the storage room under the roof. By gad, I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. I meant to bring a chisel to use on that lock. I know where the tools are—I’ll be gone only a minute. You go on up and locate the trunk.”

  “All—all right,” answered John Quincy.

  Again Roger left him. John Quincy hesitated. Something about a deserted house at midnight to dismay the stoutest heart—but nonsense! He was a grown man. He smiled, and started up the narrow stair. High above his head the yellow light of the candle flickered on the brown rafters of the unfinished store room.

  He reached the top of the stairs, and paused. Gloom, gloom everywhere. Odd how floor boards will creak even when no one is moving over them. One was creaking back of him now. He was about to turn when a hand reached from behind and knocked the candle out of his grasp. It rolled on the floor, extinguished.

  This was downright rude! “See here,” cried John Quincy, “wh—who are you?”

  A bit of moonlight struggled in through a far window, and suddenly between John Quincy and that distant light there loomed the determined figure of a man. Something told the boy he had better get ready, but where he came from one had a moment or two for preparation. He had none here. A fist shot out and found his face, and John Quincy Winterslip of Boston went down amid the rubbish of a San Francisco attic. He heard, for a second, the crash of planets in collision, and then the clatter of large feet on the stairs. After that, he was alone with the debris.

  He got up, thoroughly angry, and began brushing off the dinner coat that had been his tailor’s pride. Roger arrived. “Who was that?” he demanded breathlessly. “Somebody went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Who was it?”

  “How should I know?” inquired John Quincy with pardonable peevishness. “He didn’t introduce himself to me.” His cheek was stinging; he put his handkerchief to it and noted in the light of Roger’s candle that it was red when it came away. “He wore a ring,” added John Quincy. “Damned bad taste!”

  “Hit you, eh?” inquired Roger.

  “I’ll say he did.”

  “Look!” Roger cried. He pointed. “The trunk-lock smashed.” He went over to investigate. “And the box is gone. Poor old Dan!”

  John Quincy continued to brush himself off. Poor old Dan’s plight gave him a vast pain, a pain which had nothing to do with his throbbing jaw. A fine nerve poor old Dan had to ask a complete stranger to offer his face for punishment in a dusty attic at midnight. What was it all about, anyhow?

  Roger continued his search. “No use,” he announced. “The box is gone, that’s plain. Come on, we’ll go downstairs and look about. There’s your candle on the floor.”

  John Quincy picked up the candle and relighted it from Roger’s flame. Silently they went below. The outer door of the kitchen stood open. “Left that way,” said Roger. “And see”—he pointed to a window with a broken pane—“that’s where he came in.”

  “How about the police?” suggested John Quincy.

  Roger stared at him. “The police? I should say not! Where’s your discretion, my boy? This is not a police matter. I’ll have a new glass put in that window to-morrow. Come on—we might as well go home. We’ve failed.”

  The note of reproof in his voice angered John Quincy anew. They left the extinguished candles on a table in the hall, and returned to the street.

  “Well, I’ll have to cable Dan,” Roger said, as they walked toward the corner. “I’m afraid he’ll be terribly upset by this. It won’t tend to endear you to him, either.”

  “I can struggle along,” said John Quincy, “without his affection.”

  “If you could only have held that fellow till I came—”

  “Look here,” said John Quincy, “I was taken unawares. How could I know that I was going up against the heavyweight champion in that attic? He came at me out of the dark—and I’m not in condition—”

  “No offense, my boy,” Roger put in.

  “I see my mistake,” went on John Quincy. “I should have trained for this trip out here. A stiff course in a gymnasium. But don’t worry. The next lad that makes a pass at me will find a different target. I’ll do a daily three dozen and I’ll take boxing lessons. From now on until I get home, I’ll be expecting the worst.”

  Roger laughed. “That’s a nasty cut on your cheek,” he remarked. “We’d better stop at this drug store and have it dressed.”

  A solicitous drug clerk ministered to John Quincy with iodine, cotton and court plaster, and he reentered the limousine bearing honorably the scar of battle. The drive to Nob Hill was devoid of light chatter.

  Just inside the door of Roger’s house, a whirlwind in a gay gown descended upon them. “Barbara!” Roger said. “Where did you come from?”

  “Hello, old dear,” she cried, kissing him. “I motored up from Burlingame. Spending the night with you—I’m sailing on the President Tyler in the morning. Is this John Quincy?”

  “Cousin John,” smiled Roger. “He deserves a kiss, too. He’s had a bad evening.”

  The girl moved swiftly toward the defenseless John Quincy. Again he was unprepared, and this time it was his other cheek that suffered, though not unpleasantly. “Just by way of welcome,” Barbara laughed. She was blonde and slender. John Quincy thought he had never seen so much energy imprisoned in so slight a form. “I hear you’re bound for the Islands?” she said.

  “To-morrow,” John Quincy answered. “On your boat.”

  “Splendid!” she cried. “When did you get in?”

  “John Quincy came this morning,” Roger told her.

  “And he’s had a bad evening?” the girl said. “How lucky I came along. Where are you taking us, Roger?”

  John Quincy stared. Taking them? At this hour?

  “I’ll be getting along upstairs,” he ventured.

  “Why, it’s just after twelve,” said Barbara. “Lots of places open. You dance, don’t you? Let me show you San Francisco. Roger’s a dear old thing—we’ll let him pay the checks.”

  “Well—I—I—” stammered John Quincy. His cheek was throbbing and he thought longingly of that bed in the room upstairs. What a place, this West!

  “Come along!” The girl was humming a gay little tune. All vivacity, all life. Rather pleasant sort at that. John Quincy took up his hat.

  Roger’s chauffeur had lingered a moment before the house to inspect his engine. When he saw them coming down the steps, he looked as though he rather wished he hadn’t. But escape was impossible; he climbed to his place behind the wheel.

  “Where to, Barbara?” Roger asked. “Tait’s?”

  “Not Tait’s,” she answered. “I’ve just come from there.”

  “What! I thought you motored in from Burlingame?”

  “So I did—at five. I’ve traveled a bit since then. How about some chop-suey for this Boston boy?”

  Good lord, John Quincy thought. Was there anything in the world he wanted less? No matter. Barbara took him among the Chinese.

  He didn’t give a hang about the Chinese. Nor the Mexicans, whose restaurants interested the girl next. At the moment, he was unsympathetic toward Italy. And even toward France. But he struggled on the international r
ound, affronting his digestion with queer dishes, and dancing thousands of miles with the slim Barbara in his arms. After scrambled eggs at a place called Pete’s Fashion, she consented to call it an evening.

  As John Quincy staggered into Roger’s house, the great clock in the hall was striking three. The girl was still alert and sparkling. John Quincy hastily concealed a yawn.

  “All wrong to come home so early,” she cried. “But we’ll have a dance or two on the boat. By the way, I’ve been wanting to ask. What does it mean? The injured cheek?”

  “Why—er—I—” John Quincy remarked. Over the girl’s shoulder he saw Roger violently shaking his head. “Oh, that,” said John Quincy, lightly touching the wound. “That’s where the West begins. Good night. I’ve had a bully time.” And at last he got upstairs.

  He stood for a moment at his bedroom window, gazing down at the torchlight procession of the streets through this amazing city. He was a little dazed. That soft warm presence close by his side in the car—pleasant, very pleasant. Remarkable girls out here. Different!

  Beyond shone the harbor lights. That other girl—wonderful eyes she had. Just because she had laughed at him, his treasured hat box floated now forlorn on those dark waters. He yawned again. Better be careful. Mustn’t be so easily influenced. No telling where it would end.

  Chapter 4

  A Friend of Tim’s

  It was another of those mornings on which the fog maybe did not come. Roger and his guests were in the limousine again; it seemed to John Quincy that they had left it only a few minutes before. So it must have seemed to the chauffeur too as, sleepy-eyed, he hurried them toward the water-front.

  “By the way, John Quincy,” Roger said, “you’ll want to change your money before you go aboard.”

  John Quincy gathered his wandering thoughts. “Oh, yes, of course,” he answered.

  Roger smiled. “Just what sort of money would you like to change it for?” he inquired.

  “Why—” began John Quincy. He stopped. “Why, I always thought—”

  “Don’t pay any attention to Roger,” Barbara laughed. “He’s spoofing you.” She was fresh and blooming, a little matter like three A.M. made no difference to her. “Only about one person out of a thousand in this country knows that Hawaii is a part of the United States, and the fact annoys us deeply over in the Islands. Dear old Roger was trying to get you in wrong with me by enrolling you among the nine hundred and ninety-nine.”

  “Almost did it, too,” chuckled Roger.

  “Nonsense,” said Barbara. “John Quincy is too intelligent. He’s not like that congressman who wrote a letter to the American Consul at Honolulu.”

  “Did one of them do that?” smiled John Quincy.

  “He certainly did. We almost gave up the struggle after that. Then there was the senator who came out on a junket, and began a speech with: ‘When I get home to my country—’ Some one in the audience shouted: ‘You’re there now, you big stiff!’ It wasn’t elegant, of course, but it expressed our feeling perfectly. Oh, we’re touchy, John Quincy.”

  “Don’t blame you a bit,” he told her. “I’ll very careful what I say.”

  They had reached the Embarcadero, and the car halted before one of the piers. The chauffeur descended and began to gather up the baggage. Roger and John Quincy took a share of it, and they traversed the pier-shed to the gangplank.

  “Get along to your office, Roger,” Barbara said.

  “No hurry,” he answered. “I’ll go aboard with you, of course.”

  Amid the confusion of the deck, a party of girls swept down on Barbara, pretty lively girls of the California brand. John Quincy learned with some regret that they were there only to see Barbara off. A big broad-shouldered man in white pushed his way through the crowd.

  “Hello there!” he called to Barbara.

  “Hello, Harry,” she answered. “You know Roger, don’t you? John Quincy, this is an old friend of mine, Harry Jennison.”

  Mr. Jennison was extremely good-looking, his face was deeply tanned by the Island sun, his hair blond and wavy, his gray eyes amused and cynical. Altogether, he was the type of man women look at twice and never forget; John Quincy felt himself at once supplanted in the eyes of Barbara’s friends.

  Jennison seized the boy’s hand in a firm grip. “Sailing too, Mr. Winterslip?” he inquired. “That’s good. Between us we ought to be able to keep this young woman entertained.”

  The shore call sounded, and the confusion increased. Along the deck came a little old lady, followed by a Chinese woman servant. They walked briskly, and the crowd gave way before them.

  “Hello—this is luck,” cried Roger. “Madame Maynard—just a moment. I want you to meet a cousin of mine from Boston.” He introduced John Quincy. “I give him into your charge. Couldn’t find a better guide, philosopher and friend for him if I combed the Islands.”

  The old lady glanced at John Quincy. Her black eyes snapped. “Another Winterslip, eh?” she said. “Hawaii’s all cluttered up with ’em now. Well, the more the merrier. I know your aunt.”

  “Stick close to her, John Quincy,” Roger admonished.

  She shook her head. “I’m a million years old,” she protested. “The boys don’t stick so close any more. They like ’em younger. However, I’ll keep my eye on him. My good eye. Well, Roger, run over some time.” And she moved away.

  “A grand soul,” said Roger, smiling after her. “You’ll like her. Old missionary family, and her word’s law over there.”

  “Who’s this Jennison?” asked John Quincy.

  “Him?” Roger glanced over to where Mr. Jennison stood, the center of an admiring feminine group. “Oh, he’s Dan’s lawyer. One of the leading citizens of Honolulu, I believe. John J. Adonis himself, isn’t he?” An officer appeared, herding the reluctant throng toward the gangplank. “I’ll have to leave you, John Quincy. A pleasant journey. When you come through on your way home, give me a few more days to try to convince you on my San Francisco offer.”

  John Quincy laughed. “You’ve been mighty kind.”

  “Not at all.” Roger shook his hand warmly. “Take care of yourself over there. Hawaii’s a little too much like Heaven to be altogether safe. So long, my boy, so long.”

  He moved away. John Quincy saw him kiss Barbara affectionately and with her friends join the slow procession ashore.

  The young man from Boston stepped to the rail. Several hundred voices were calling admonitions, promises, farewells. With that holiday spirit so alien to John Quincy’s experience, those ashore were throwing confetti. The streamers grew in number, making a tangle of color, a last frail bond with the land. The gangplank was taken up; clumsily the President Tyler began to draw away from the pier. On the topmost deck a band was playing—Aloha-oe, the sweetest, most melancholy song of good-by ever written. John Quincy was amazed to feel a lump rising in his throat.

  The frail, gay-colored bond was breaking now. A thin veined hand at John Quincy’s side waved a handkerchief. He turned to find Mrs. Maynard. There were tears on her cheeks.

  “Silly old woman,” she said. “Sailed away from this town a hundred and twenty-eight times. Actual count—I keep a diary. Cried every time. What about? I don’t know.”

  The ship was well out in the harbor now. Barbara came along, Jennison trailing her. The girl’s eyes were wet.

  “An emotional lot, we Islanders,” said the old lady. She put her arm about the girl’s slim waist. “Here’s another one of ’em. Living way off the way we do, any good-by at all—it saddens us.” She and Barbara moved on down the deck.

  Jennison stopped. His eyes were quite dry. “First trip out?” he inquired.

  “Oh, yes,” replied John Quincy.

  “Hope you’ll like us,” Jennison said. “Not Massachusetts, of course, but we’ll do our best to make you feel at home. It’s a way we have with strangers.”

  “I’m sure I shall have a bully time,” John Quincy remarked. But he felt somewhat depressed. Three thousan
d miles from Beacon Street—and moving on! He waved to someone he fancied might be Roger on the dock, and went to find his stateroom.

  He learned that he was to share his cabin with two missionaries. One was a tall, gloomy old man with a lemon-colored face—an honored veteran of the foreign field named Upton. The other was a ruddy-cheeked boy whose martyrdom was still before him. John Quincy suggested drawing lots for a choice of berths, but even this mild form of gambling appeared distasteful to those emissaries of the church.

  “You boys take the berths,” said Upton. “Leave me the couch. I don’t sleep well anyhow.” His tone was that of one who prefers to suffer.

  John Quincy politely objected. After further discussion it was settled that he was to have the upper berth, the old man the lower, and the boy the couch. The Reverend Mr. Upton seemed disappointed. He had played the role of martyr so long he resented seeing any one else in the part.

  The Pacific was behaving in a most unfriendly manner, tossing the great ship about as though it were a piece of driftwood. John Quincy decided to dispense with lunch, and spent the afternoon reading in his berth. By evening he felt better, and under the watchful and somewhat disapproving eyes of the missionaries, arrayed himself carefully for dinner.

  His name being Winterslip, he had been invited to sit at the captain’s table. He found Madame Maynard, serene and twinkling, at the captain’s right, Barbara at his left, and Jennison at Barbara’s side. It appeared that oddly enough there was an aristocracy of the Islands, and John Quincy, while he thought it quaint there should be such distinctions in an outpost like Hawaii, took his proper place as a matter of course.

  Mrs. Maynard chatted brightly of her many trips over this route. Suddenly she turned to Barbara. “How does it happen, my dear,” she asked, “that you’re not on the college boat?”

  “All booked up,” Barbara explained.

  “Nonsense,” said the frank old lady. “You could have got on. But then”—she looked meaningly toward Jennison—“I presume this ship was not without its attractions.”

  The girl flushed slightly and made no reply.