The House Without a Key · Chapter 3 (2/2)

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 him 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 tomorrow. 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.

“Tomorrow,” 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 round, 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.