The Complete Charlie Chan Series – All 6 Mystery Novels in One Edition. Earl Derr Biggers

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СКАЧАТЬ a little collection," commented John Quincy.

      "Most interesting," admitted the Chinaman. "One by one, we explore. Some cause us to arrive at nowhere. One, maybe two, will not be so unkind. I am believer in Scotland Yard method—follow only essential clue. But it are not the method here. I must follow all, entire."

      "The essential clue," repeated John Quincy.

      "Sure." Chan scowled at the waiter, for his more hygienic sector had not appeared. "Too early to say here. But I have fondness for the guest book with page omitted. Watch also claims my attention. Odd enough, when we enumerate clues this morning, we pass over watch. Foolish. Very good-looking clue. One large fault, we do not possess it. However, my eyes are sharp to apprehend it."

      "I understand," John Quincy said, "that you've been rather successful as a detective."

      Chan grinned broadly. "You are educated, maybe you know," he said. "Chinese most psychic people in the world. Sensitives, like film in camera. A look, a laugh, a gesture perhaps. Something go click."

      John Quincy was aware of a sudden disturbance at the door of the All American Restaurant. Bowker, the steward, gloriously drunk, was making a noisy entrance. He plunged into the room, followed by a dark, anxious-looking youth.

      Embarrassed, John Quincy turned away his face, but to no avail. Bowker was bearing down upon him, waving his arms.

      "Well, well, well, well!" he bellowed. "My o' college chum. See you through the window." He leaned heavily on the table. "How you been, o' fellow?"

      "I'm all right, thanks," John Quincy said.

      The dark young man came up. He was, from his dress, a shore acquaintance of Bowker's. "Look here, Ted," he said. "You've got to be getting along—"

      "Jush a minute," cried Bowker. "I want y' to meet Mr. Quincy from Boston. One best fellows God ever made. Mushual friend o' Tim's—you've heard me speak of Tim—"

      "Yes—come along," urged the dark young man.

      "Not yet. Gotta buy thish boy a lil' drink. What you having, Quincy, o' man?"

      "Not a thing," smiled John Quincy. "You warned me against these Island drinks yourself."

      "Who—me?" Bowker was hurt. "You're wrong that time, o' man. Don' like to conter—conterdict, but it mush have been somebody else. Not me. Never said a word—"

      The young man took his arm. "Come on—you're due on the ship—"

      Bowker wrenched away. "Don' paw me," he cried. "Keep your hands off. I'm my own mashter, ain't I? I can speak to an o' friend, can't I? Now, Quincy, o' man—what's yours?"

      "I'm sorry," said John Quincy. "Some other time."

      Bowker's companion took his arm in a firmer grasp. "You can't buy anything here," he said. "This is a restaurant. You come with me—I know a place—"

      "Awright," agreed Bowker. "Now you're talking. Quincy, o' man, you come along—"

      "Some other time," John Quincy repeated.

      Bowker assumed a look of offended dignity. "Jush as you say," he replied. "Some other time. In Boston, hey? At Tim's place. Only Tim's place is gone." A great grief assailed him. "Tim's gone—dropped out—as though the earth swallowed him up—"

      "Yes, yes," said the young man soothingly. "That's too bad. But you come with me."

      Submitting at last, Bowker permitted his companion to pilot him to the street. John Quincy looked across at Chan.

      "My steward on the President Tyler," he explained. "The worse for wear, isn't he?"

      The waiter set a fresh piece of pie before the Chinaman.

      "Ah," remarked Chan, "this has a more perfect appearance." He tasted it. "Appearance," he added with a grimace, "are a hellish liar. If you are quite ready to depart—"

      In the street Chan halted. "Excuse abrupt departure," he said. "Most honored to work with you. The results will be fascinating, I am sure. For now, good evening."

      John Quincy was alone again in that strange town. A sudden homesickness engulfed him. Walking along, he came to a news-cart that was as well supplied with literature as his club reading room. A brisk young man in a cap was in charge.

      "Have you the latest Atlantic?" inquired John Quincy.

      The young man put a dark brown periodical into his hand. "No," said John Quincy. "This is the June issue. I've seen it."

      "July ain't in. I'll save you one, if you say so."

      "I wish you would," John Quincy replied. "The name is Winterslip."

      He went on to the corner, regretting that July wasn't in. A copy of the Atlantic would have been a sort of link with home, a reminder that Boston still stood. And he felt the need of a link, a reminder.

      A trolley-car marked "Waikiki" was approaching. John Quincy hailed it and hopped aboard. Three giggling Japanese girls in bright kimonos drew in their tiny sandaled feet and he slipped past them to a seat.

      Chapter XI. The Tree of Jewels

       Table of Contents

      Two hours later, John Quincy rose from the table where he and his aunt had dined together.

      "Just to show you how quick I am to learn a new language," he remarked, "I'm quite pau. Now I'm going makai to sit on the lanai, there to forget the pilikia of the day."

      Miss Minerva smiled and rose too. "I expect Amos shortly," she said as they crossed the hall. "A family conference seemed advisable, so I've asked him to come over."

      "Strange you had to send for him," said John Quincy, lighting a cigarette.

      "Not at all," she answered. She explained about the long feud between the brothers.

      "Didn't think old Amos had that much fire in him," commented John Quincy, as they found chairs on the lanai. "A rather anemic specimen, judging by the look I had at him this morning. But then, the Winterslips always were good haters."

      For a moment they sat in silence. Outside the darkness was deepening rapidly, the tropic darkness that had brought tragedy the night before. John Quincy pointed to a small lizard on the screen.

      "Pleasant little beast," he said.

      "Oh, they're quite harmless," Miss Minerva told him. "And they eat the mosquitos."

      "They do, eh?" The boy slapped his ankle savagely. "Well, there's no accounting for tastes."

      Amos arrived presently, looking unusually pale in the half-light. "You asked me to come over, Minerva," he said, as he sat down gingerly on one of Dan Winterslip's Hong-Kong chairs.

      "I did. Smoke if you like." Amos lighted a cigarette, which seemed oddly out of place between his thin lips. "I'm sure," СКАЧАТЬ