"What the devil are you talking about?" demanded Jennison.
Again Greene pressed a button on his desk. Spencer appeared at once. "Take this Spaniard," the prosecutor directed, "and bring in Hepworth and the quartermaster." He turned again to Jennison. "I'll show you what I'm talking about in just a minute. On the night of June thirtieth you were a passenger on the President Tyler, which was lying by until dawn out near the channel entrance?"
"I was."
"No passengers were landed from that ship until the following morning?"
"That's a matter of record."
"Very well." The second officer of the President Tyler came in, followed by a big hulking sailorman John Quincy recognized as the quartermaster of that vessel. He was interested to note a ring on the man's right hand, and his mind went back to that encounter in the San Francisco attic.
"Mr. Hepworth," the prosecutor began, "on the night of June thirtieth your ship reached this port too late to dock. You anchored off Waikiki. On such an occasion, who is on deck—say, from midnight on?"
"The second officer," Hepworth told him. "In this case, myself. Also the quartermaster."
"The accommodation ladder is let down the night before?"
"Usually, yes. It was let down that night."
"Who is stationed near it?"
"The quartermaster."
"Ah, yes. You were in charge then on the night of June thirtieth. Did you notice anything unusual on that occasion?"
Hepworth nodded. "I did. The quartermaster appeared to be under the influence of liquor. At three o'clock I found him dozing near the accommodation ladder. I roused him. When I came back from checking up the anchor bearings before turning in at dawn—about four-thirty—he was dead to the world. I put him in his cabin, and the following morning I of course reported him."
"You noticed nothing else out of the ordinary?"
"Nothing, sir," Hepworth replied.
"Thank you very much. Now, you—" Greene turned to the quartermaster. "You were drunk on duty the night of June thirtieth. Where did you get the booze?" The man hesitated. "Before you say anything, let me give you a bit of advice. The truth, my man. You're in pretty bad already. I'm not making any promises, but if you talk straight here it may help you in that other matter. If you lie, it will go that much harder with you."
"I ain't going to lie," promised the quartermaster.
"All right. Where did you get your liquor?"
The man nodded toward Jennison. "He gave it to me."
"He did, eh? Tell me all about it."
"I met him on deck just after midnight—we was still moving. I knew him before—him and me—"
"In the opium game, both of you. I understand that. You met him on deck—"
"I did, and he says, you're on watch to-night, eh, and I says I am. So he slips me a little bottle an' says, this will help you pass the time. I ain't a drinking man, so help me I ain't, an' I took just a nip, but there was something in that whisky, I'll swear to it. My head was all funny like, an' the next I knew I was waked up in my cabin with the bad news I was wanted above."
"What became of that bottle?"
"I dropped it overboard on my way to see the captain. I didn't want nobody to find it."
"Did you see anything the night of June thirtieth? Anything peculiar?"
"I seen plenty, sir—but it was that drink. Nothing you would want to hear about."
"All right." The prosecutor turned to Jennison. "Well, Harry—you drugged him, didn't you? Why? Because you were going ashore, eh? Because you knew he'd be on duty at that ladder when you returned, and you didn't want him to see you. So you dropped something into that whiskey—"
"Guess work," cut in Jennison, still unruffled. "I used to have some respect for you as a lawyer, but it's all gone now. If this is the best you can offer—"
"But it isn't," said Greene pleasantly. Again he pushed the button. "I've something much better, Harry, if you'll only wait." He turned to Hepworth. "There's a steward on your ship named Bowker," he began, and John Quincy thought that Jennison stiffened. "How has he been behaving lately?"
"Well, he got pretty drunk in Hong-kong," Hepworth answered. "But that, of course, was the money."
"What money?"
"It's this way. The last time we sailed out of Honolulu harbor for the Orient, over two weeks ago, I was in the purser's office. It was just as we were passing Diamond Head. Bowker came in, and he had a big fat envelope that he wanted to deposit in the purser's safe. He said it contained a lot of money. The purser wouldn't be responsible for it without seeing it, so Bowker slit the envelope—and there were ten one hundred dollar bills. The purser made another package of it and put it in the safe. He told me Bowker took out a couple of the bills when we reached Hong-kong."
"Where would a man like Bowker get all that money?"
"I can't imagine. He said he'd put over a business deal in Honolulu but—well, we knew Bowker."
The door opened. Evidently Spencer guessed who was wanted this time, for he pushed Bowker into the room. The steward of the President Tyler was bedraggled and bleary.
"Hello, Bowker," said the prosecutor. "Sober now, aren't you?"
"I'll tell the world I am," replied Bowker. "They've walked me to San Francisco and back. Can—can I sit down?"
"Of course," Greene smiled. "This afternoon, while you were still drunk, you told a story to Willie Chan, out at Okamoto's auto stand on Kalakaua Avenue. Later on, early this evening, you repeated it to Captain Hallet and me. I'll have to ask you to go over it again."
Bowker glanced toward Jennison, then quickly looked away. "Always ready to oblige," he answered.
"You're a steward on the President Tyler," Greene continued. "On your last trip over here from the mainland Mr. Jennison occupied one of your rooms—number 97. He was alone in it, I believe?"
"All alone. He paid extra for the privilege, I hear. Always traveled that way."
"Room 97 was on the main deck, not far from the accommodation ladder?"
"Yes, that's right."
"Tell us what happened after you anchored off Waikiki the night of June thirtieth."
Bowker adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses with the gesture of a man about to make an after-dinner speech. "Well, I was up pretty late that night. Mr. Winterslip here had loaned me some books—there was one I was particularly interested in. I wanted to finish it so I could give it to him to take ashore in the morning. It was nearly two o'clock when I finally got through it, and I was feeling stuffy, so I went on deck for a breath of air."
"You stopped not far from the accommodation ladder?"
"Yes sir, I did."
"Did you notice the quartermaster?"
"Yes—he was sound asleep in a deck chair. I went over and leaned on the rail, the ladder was just beneath me. I'd been standing there a few minutes when suddenly somebody came up out of the water and put his hands on the lowest rung. I drew back quickly and stood in a shadow.
"Well, pretty soon this man comes creeping up the ladder to the deck. He was barefooted, and all in black—black pants and shirt. I watched him. He went over and bent above the quartermaster, then started toward me down the deck. He was walking on tiptoe, but even then I didn't get wise to the fact anything was wrong.
"I stepped out of the shadow. 'Fine night for a swim, Mr. Jennison,' I said. And I saw at once that I'd made a social error. He gave one jump