“Will do,” Carraway said and hung up.
Now, the inherent springiness and litheness of Rogers Endore’s body was quickly evident. He roamed to the hall closet, dug out some suitable attire and dressed rapidly. His movements were deft and true.
Five minutes later, when the feminine tapping sounded at the room door, Endore was the picture of himself. He stalked to the door, planting an expression of severity on his famous face and tucked the white handkerchief in his breast pocket down so that only two triangular corners showed. His suit was dark blue, his cravat broad and purple, crested with a pearl stickpin. A French Légion d’honneur decorated his lapel. He looked as impressive as a man of distinction in any of the custom ads. His reading glasses were out of sight.
He swept the door back, trying not to smile. He blinked.
The tall man practically planted on the threshold had a .38 caliber pistol trained directly at his heart. To the right of France’s highest decoration and just below the collarbone.
“Bang, bang,” McGarrett said, “you’re dead.”
On the sidewalk outside Iolani Palace with its towering palm trees, regally impressive architectural front and awesomely unique status, Danny Williams and Chin Ho Kelly clambered into a squad car. Kelly drove and Williams took up his position as car commander, radio monitor and police partner. Kelly’s shining black hair, tan face and husky broad body made him resemble a somehow modernized pagan idol who had been outfitted in a suit of civilian clothes. In this case, a tan tropical suit with a blue tie. Williams was more in the McGarrett image. Very, very American looking, dressed as executively but unlike his superior, Danny Williams had a boyish eagerness and nonpoker face which always betrayed his innermost secrets. He wore his youth like a badge. McGarrett’s private assessment of Danny Williams that somewhere inside the boy was a great policeman dying to break out was all too accurate.
“Damn,” Williams mumbled, “what did he read us the riot act for? He practically chewed our heads off.”
Kelly’s smile was bleak. He too had not appreciated the sting of McGarrett’s pow-wow about protecting the Mr. Big staying at the Kahala.
“The Governor pulled his tail, Danny. That’s all. You know Steve. Chances are he cracked the whip at us because he didn’t like what the Governor handed him.”
“Yeah.” Danny Williams rested his right arm on the opened window and stared dully ahead as Kelly maneuvered the car out onto the main drag which fed into downtown Honolulu. The sun had lowered in the western sky, riding like a golden ball until it was almost hidden by the rapidly rising concrete skyline of the new Hawaii. Buildings going up, vying with the volcanic edifices that hovered on the blue horizon, eternally and everlastingly. Williams grunted. He was still shaken by McGarrett’s tirade. Dammit, Steve had even snarled at May for not coming up with a thick enough pile of dope on Rogers Endore. It wasn’t like him. Not like him at all.
“What beats me,” Williams went on, “is that I practically had that missing station wagon beef closed. Out on Lalemuno Road. Now I have to lose valuable time chasing off on a hand-holding assignment. Staking out the Kahala. Me, you and Kono, around the clock for twenty-four hours straight.”
Kelly spun the wheel, purring by a Volkswagen and a broad double-decked bus loaded with gaily dressed tourists and sightseers. The Honolulu panorama never changed, either. It was always open season on vacationers.
“Now you know why he was mad. Wish I’d been there to hear him give the Governor the usual hard time.”
“Big deal,” Williams fumed. “He gave in, didn’t he? Passed the buck to us and here we are. On our way to the Kahala. Why don’t these big wheels stay home and go around in circles there?”
Kelly really laughed at that one. His dark face was cracked in a moonish grin.
“Now who’s got a bee up his puka?”
“Just letting off steam.”
“Sure. Same as Steve. Cool it. You’ll last longer.”
Danny Williams relaxed, grinning too.
“Sure. You’re right. Who could stay sore at Steve McGarrett? In the first place, he wouldn’t sit still for it. And in the second, he’s twice the man I’ll ever be.” Genuine admiration sounded in the younger detective’s voice. Chin Ho Kelly nodded in approval, keeping his alert eyes on the streaming traffic that throttled the thoroughfare on all sides. The palm-tree lined walks suggested peace and quiet but it was not to be found in the jam up of vehicles, pedestrians and too many traffic signals.
“How do you want to work the straight eights, Danny?”
“I’ll take the first eight. You tag me and then Kono can round off our delightful trio. Okay?”
“Deal. Think I’ll stop off and try some of the Kahala’s menu after I drop you. Kono was telling me they have a new turtle soup with mushrooms and a slice of pineapple that’s out of this world—”
Williams winced. “You gotta be kidding. Turtle soup and mushrooms and pineapple?”
“Honest Hawaiian,” Kelly pledged. “This new chef from Detroit just got a job there and he’s a big man in his line. He told Kono that if you just pass the slice of pineapple over the steaming soup—”
The culinary digression of conversation served to make the remainder of the humid and tortuous drive to the hotel less arduous than usual. It also served to allow Chin Ho Kelly to completely miss the unusual behavior of the oncoming sedan in the opposite lane. It was still a hundred yards away, but if Kelly had been paying attention he might have noticed that the vehicle, a closed green Plymouth of used car proportions was picking up speed at a remarkable rate. Far in excess of the twenty-five miles an hour speed limit for the city precincts and vicinity.
When he did finally see the roaring, zooming Plymouth, some seventy-five yards of the distance had been bridged and now there was a fierce caterwauling of car horns and screams of pedestrians as the runaway machine careered forward. Suddenly, Chin Ho Kelly’s eyes batted in alarm and Danny Williams flung his arms up to the dashboard cushion.
The Plymouth’s side door shot open and a man spilled out from the driver’s side, gaining the sidewalk in an athletic, gymnastically superb cartwheel of his flying figure. In an instant, he disappeared between a parked convertible and a panel truck. Shouts and screams filled the warm hot afternoon. The Plymouth loomed like a juggernaut in the front windshield of the Five-O squad car. Motor sound thundered.
“CHIN!” Danny Williams yelled. The Plymouth was now driverless.
Kelly hit the brakes, swerving the wheel. A Renault on his rear, forced into emergency action, stopped almost on a dime. But Kelly could not stop that fast. Before him, two Polynesian children, no more than five or six years old, in short pants and Aloha shirts, were riveted to the side of the adult with them, black eyes blinking fear out of beautiful little faces. The adult had pressed her hands to her eyes.
Kelly veered sharply once more. Smack into the path of the oncoming Plymouth.
The two cars met in a grinding, twisting, smoking collision of metal and wheels and men.
The thoroughfare exploded with the natively hideous, particular and so very specific sound of violence.
A scant block away, lost in the confusion and misdirection of an ugly catastrophe, Igor Dorkin, sufficiently dusted off and once more presentable in suede wind-breaker, crew-neck Basque shirt and light brown slacks, sauntered into a combination coffee shop and bar whose sign advertised Tourist Ted’s. A jolly looking Hawaiian proprietor and a pleasant handful of mini-skirted, local ladies ministered libations and comestibles, all with American, Hawaiian, Chinese and Japanese labels. Dorkin placed himself at a table close to the door and ordered a poi cocktail and a fresh tropical fruit platter. He was blissful and insouciant—as stateside as a baseball fan eating a hotdog. He blended with his surroundings. There had been no need for the almost dainty little fountain pen destroyer this time. Driving all sorts of cars at top speeds, under any and all conditions, was another Dorkin specialty. He was thankful he had thought of using it.
He had sampled the tropical fruit, finding the mixture of pineapples, oranges, guava and coconut, very refreshing. The poi cocktail was a palate sensation. He was just rounding off the meal with a second one when Tornier walked into Tourist Ted’s, spotted him and took the chair across from him. The cane table and chairs and atmosphere of bamboo and wood was a pleasant place to talk.
Tornier ordered coffee, black, and his lumpy face barely moved as he muttered across the table to Igor Dorkin.
“They were removed from the scene by ambulance. Both cars are completely destroyed.”
“Good. Try a poi.” Tornier shook his head.
“Two from four leaves two,” the Frenchman said blankly.
“It always has,” Dorkin agreed. “And two from two leaves nothing.”
“I will do the man Kono. It has been arranged.” Dorkin smiled as Tornier’s coffee came and the Frenchman sipped it and made a face.
“I don’t trust the cream anywhere but in France,” Tornier explained. “We did well to think of it this way. Don’t you think?”
“You said it,” Igor Dorkin said quietly, with relish. The sound of a man who enjoyed his profession thoroughly. “When you set out to get somebody, it’s very wise to remove all the friends who might be stumbling blocks. You play chess, Tornier? A king is pretty helpless when all his pawns are taken away from him.”
“Yes, I play chess,” Tornier rumbled, his lumpy face almost bovine. “I prefer it. It calls for using all the grey matter in one’s head.”
A woman tittered in one corner of the café-bar and Igor Dorkin turned a casual look in that direction. When he turned back again, he saw that Tornier was the one that was now smiling.
“Something funny?”
“Oui,” Tornier said. “I am very glad that there are no women involved in this enterprise. Women make things go badly. Thieves fall out. Assassins—” He shrugged. “If you are done, let us leave. I wish to get on with my end of the affair.”
Dorkin nodded and rose.
When they were both outside on the street, the blazing sun had almost vanished. The weirdly beautiful panoply of colors that comprise a Hawaiian sunset had bathed the world in an almost iridescent haze of loveliness. Magenta, orange, blue, green and burnt umber filled the eye. It was as if this corner of the world had been dipped into the oils of an Old Master. A master painter whose well would never run dry. Both men paused to take in the view.
“My God.” Igor Dorkin murmured, “what a lovely place to die in.”
“Come on,” Tornier rambled gruffly. “Bad luck being sarcastic. Do not mock.” He almost crossed himself. Dorkin saw the gesture and burst out laughing. It was incredible, really. An assassin who was obviously a God-fearing man. A weakling with superstition. Surely, that was one for the books. They’d laugh their heads off about that in East Berlin when he told them. What an anecdote for the men of Bureau X!
With night coming on, they hailed a cab.
Their first stop was the Kahala Hilton to drop off Dorkin. Tornier continued on, giving the driver an address about three blocks short of Iolani Palace. The Russian was humming as he left the cab.
As he rode in glum silence, alone, Tornier’s huge right hand, gnarled and formidable, was closed about the perfect ebony handle of his favorite stiletto.
Now it was time for the knife.
The small assassin so easy to carry.
So easy to use.
If you knew how.
And Tornier did.
4. GATHERING PLACE
Myra Endore was that euphemistic creation known as a ravishing redhead. She was roughly in her mid-twenties, McGarrett rapidly estimated, but for everything else about her, the word smoothly would have to have been applied. He had never seen such a sleek young lady in his life and he had seen a lot of women in his time. The woman was tall, willowy, with that sort of slenderness made unforgettable by a delectable fleshing out in the most advantageous places for a man. But beyond all that attraction, the girl’s face was of a pure white ivory complexion, highlighted by hazel eyes, gaunt cheekbones and a red wonder of a mouth that managed to spew dialogue and phrasing worthy of a lady who owned townhouses and was a fast-talking American businesswoman. He was more than pleasantly reminded of Katharine Hepburn in her palmiest days. Also, he was quick to note, there was absolutely not a stitch of resemblance between Myra Endore and her famous father.
She had come flying through the suite door like an unleashed typhoon trailing a cloud of mink and highly charged energy as Rogers Endore waved off the rednecked special agents whom McGarrett had gulled away from duty outside in the hall. McGarrett waited patiently while Rogers Endore kissed his daughter firmly on the cheek, hugging her almost proudly.
“My dear girl—”
“You old dear—why must I always have to fight my way through hordes of Nosey Parkers to see you—?”
“We’ll talk about that later, you young minx. Here, now. Meet Mr. McGarrett. His special badge tells us he is the head of Five-O here in Hawaii. He has also given your old father an object lesson in the pitfalls of depending on other people to keep your hide intact. I’m afraid I was an awful fool on the subject. Mr. McGarrett, this, as you will have deduced, is my only and undeniable flesh and blood. My daughter Myra.”
Myra Endore flipped the mink off her shoulders, tossed it on the long lounge and stared McGarrett straight in the eye. He liked that, for all of its looking-down-the-nose aspect. He nodded but did not extend his hand. He recognized the lady’s breed of character.
“You’re another policeman, I take it?”
“Yes,” McGarrett said. “Five-O is a special law enforcement organization here in Honolulu.”
“How nice for you.” She turned away, her eyes searching for the mink as if she wanted a cigarette case or something. McGarrett didn’t offer her anything. This sort of lady called for keep-your-distance. Probably all too used to calling the shots and having men fall all over her aristocratic neck. Impatiently, Myra Endore forgot about what she was looking for and snapped a remark at her father.
“I came down here all sixes and sevens because of something I was told about this mission of yours—” She broke off and forced a smile onto her unforgettable face. “Father, can we be alone? I do so want to discuss this with you.”
McGarrett shook his head. “It will have to wait, Miss Endore. My business with your father isn’t quite finished yet.”
Rogers Endore chuckled. A glint of admiration shone in his eyes.
“Sit still, Myra. Mr. McGarrett’s time is valuable. He has been given specific instructions by the Governor to oversee my safety. And I may say he has already amply demonstrated his abilities. Care to hear about it?”
“Father—”
“Oh, sit down, sit down,” he barked at her amiably. “You thought nothing of sailing down here like a runaway kite. Now you will sit still and listen. Forgive her, Mr. McGarrett. In England we too have our—what do they call it in the states—generation gap?”
McGarrett smiled. “A mile wide and ten generations deep.”
Myra Endore sniffed through her classic nostrils, sighed, and decided to sit down. She crossed her mini-skirted legs and delicious inches of knee, thigh, calf and ankle were properly exhibited. She folded her arms and waited. “Very well,” she said stiffly. “If I must, I must.”
As Rogers Endore, in clipped and precise summary, recounted the adventure of answering the door to find himself staring into the bore of McGarrett’s .38, Myra Endore managed somehow to look bored. She brushed indifferently at the high-necked aquamarine shirtwaist that covered her torso. A string of pearls dangled with exquisite carelessness from her throat, nestling archly within the proud valley of her breasts. McGarrett suppressed his anger. It wasn’t his daughter but had he been Rogers Endore, he would have broken his neck reaching down for a hairbrush.
“—So you see, Myra, Mr. McGarrett heard you at the downstairs desk, only to catch you giving Carraway a hard time and shot up here by the sta
ircase which the hotel help uses. Outside in the hall, he created a minor diversion by overturning a fire extinguisher, causing all that gooey foam and liquid to trickle down the hall. Made quite a hissing racket, I expect. And, sadly, it was enough to draw three highly trained agents away from their watchdog duty at the front door. I answered the knock because I expected you.” Rogers Endore shook his head. His tanned face was slightly pale. “I shudder to think what would have happened if Mr. McGarrett was someone other than who he is.”
“Bully for you, McGarrett,” Myra Endore said coldly.
“You’re welcome, I’m sure.” McGarrett ignored her and focused his attention on Oahu’s most important visitor. “I regret scaring you that way, sir. But I wanted to make a point.”
“You made it,” Endore said. “Now I shall listen to you.”
“Good. I’m not going to ask you what brings you to Hawaii or what is taking you back to the mainland. The Governor has made it clear it’s none of my business. All right. I have to buy that because he’s my superior. But can you tell me?”
“Not a chance, my boy.” Endore looked almost rueful. “Better you don’t know.”
“Thanks for being direct. Can you tell me why you have to stay here in Oahu for three days?”
Endore smiled. “I see. I’m such an infernal weight on you, you’d rather I pushed right on and get out of your hair. That it?”
“On the nose, sir. Your presence here is calling for all I have to give. Honolulu crime never stops. Tying up my best people doing a bodyguard on you is—” McGarrett shrugged almost helplessly. “Sorry to be blunt but let me fill you in a little on the Aloha State. It’s the healthiest climate on the map and it draws just about everybody there is in the world. You know—fun in the sun—palm trees, bikinis, Diamond Head, Waikiki Beach, the yachts, the luaus—this being the capital, everybody stops off in Honolulu before looking at all the neighbor islands. So you see, this city is my beat. It’s an around-the-clock job. Anything that will speed you on your way would interest me. I really haven’t got the manpower to guarantee your protection.”
Hawaii Five-O - 2 - Terror in the Sun Page 4
