Myra Endore stirred from her apathy on the lounge.
“Isn’t there a Honolulu Police Department, Mr. McGarrett? Don’t tell me a big brave man like you has to do the job all by himself?”
“Myra!” Endore growled. “Stop behaving like a child. This man is trying to save your father’s life.”
“Oh, Father—” She subsided and turned to face the wall where a Chagall reproduction stared down at her. Her pearls clattered.
“You were saying, Mr. McGarrett.” Diplomatically, Endore had brushed the disturbance to one side. McGarrett appreciated his finesse.
“That’s all I have to say. I think I demonstrated to you that no man is unapproachable if another man, an expert at his job, is determined to confront him. You have to cooperate. Don’t go anywhere alone. Stick close to your people. Don’t answer the door unless the caller identifies himself or herself to your satisfaction. I’d suggest a food-taster if you wouldn’t laugh, but really, sir, if you’re a marked man it isn’t as silly as it sounds. I’ll remind you of how we lost a famous President and two other great men.”
Endore nodded his head slowly. Soberly. His huge nose jutted as he tilted his chin. Privately, he regretted holding out on this man.
“Listen, my boy. I’m not a fool altogether. I haven’t tussled with Parliament and the Foreign Office all these years for nothing. I’ll follow your advice implicitly. I shall also commend your services to the Governor. Seeing him tonight. Official business.”
“May I ask where?”
“Your University of Hawaii. The auditorium. I’m to do a hands-across-the-sea sort of talk with your Chamber of Commerce people. And all the local bigwigs.”
McGarrett frowned. Endore couldn’t resist a smile. There was something refreshingly direct and cards-on-the-table about this Five-O blighter that he found highly invigorating. Oddly enough, quite like Winnie.
“I said something wrong?”
“No. You’ve just extended the area of security. Why can’t they let you stay put in the Kahala? It would be easier to watch you here. For your people and mine. Going to the University—” McGarrett held up his hands. “See these? They may not look it but they’re tied. All the way.”
Rogers Endore fingered the shining pearl stickpin in his cravat. His expression was resigned. The fellow was quite right, of course.
“Mr. McGarrett, the dangers of public office come with the job, I’m afraid. A man can’t hide altogether, you know. What will be, will be. They tell me the University of Hawaii is quite a place—”
McGarrett recognized the desire to change the subject. He nodded almost abstractedly. He knew a fighter when he met one.
“Yes. A very modern complex of buildings. The latest in all things. They enroll more than fourteen thousand students a year. You’ll like it. Cambridge-on-the-Pacific.”
“Did you know I attended Cambridge or was that just a shot in the dark?” Endore looked pleased.
“My secretary prepared a file on you before I came here. I read up on you. Can never tell what will come in handy.”
“No, you can’t,” Myra Endore snapped peevishly from the couch. “Now, dear Mr. McGarrett. if you’ve quite finished in attempting to scare my father to death thoroughly, I should like to have a few minutes alone with him.”
Endore thrust out his darkly tanned hand, his eyes telling McGarrett to let the child have her whim. McGarrett found his fingers in a vise of masculine power which belied the older man’s years. Myra Endore swept off the couch in a rustle of expensive silken fabrics and stationed herself at the door to the suite to underscore her suggestion for departure. McGarrett stifled a comeback, said goodbye to Rogers Endore and strode to the door. His face was poker-blank again.
Miss Endore was waiting for him. Regal, haughty, ravishing as a beautiful redhead can be. And very angry. He could see it in a firm pinch of the Hepburn nostrils.
“Good day, McGarrett. Don’t come again.”
“Sorry. I don’t take orders from women. Not since my mother.”
“You idiot.” she hissed in a low voice as her father had gone to the draped windows to stare down at the sunset painting the beach in hues and shades of dying gold. “What does it accomplish all this scare talk? We English have our own agents and agencies and we don’t need any social-climbers and local officials out to feather their nest—”
“Miss Endore,” McGarrett said evenly, his face a taut mask, his eyes unwarming.
“Yes—what?—” He had caught her off guard with a change of pace.
“In your hat.”
With that McGarrett swung cleanly through the door and closed it on her face without slamming the door. Myra Endore stared in bewildered outrage at the panel, started to claw for the knob, thought better of it and then flung back her head and laughed. Her long red tresses shone like flaming foliage.
At the window Rogers Endore turned.
“You shouldn’t have come here, you know.”
“Oh, dammit Father—” McGarrett forgotten, she rushed across the room into his arms. They embraced for a long, delicious moment. Two people who completely loved each other without strings or conditions or considerations. Without five slips of coded paper between them.
“I had to come,” she whispered, toying with his cravat, unable to look into his face. “What an elegant stickpin—”
“Why?” he demanded simply. He was tired now. Very tired. It was in the ragged edges of his voice.
“Something I overheard in the lobby at Covent Garden. They’re doing Daphnis and Chloe. The ballet’s A-1, you know, even for warhorses like you who don’t particularly care for those sort of things.”
“Something you overheard,” he prodded her, gently.
“Yes. Harkness was talking to that man you know from the Admiralty. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I heard your name and before I realized—well, old dear. Harkness, for all his protocol and furtive manner, did say and I quote him exactly—“Imagine R.O.E. doing the James Bond thing . . .” Well, I couldn’t walk up to them and ask anything further. Not the daughter of a diplomat. But I got the wind up, asked about during the next few days and putting the pieces together, I dashed down here on the next jet. Oh, I do hope you’re not involved in anything stupid like that . . .”
“You little dear Miss Fix-It.” Endore held her at arm’s length. “Go mix me a whiskey and soda and we’ll say no more. You are to take the next plane back.”
She stepped away from him. Fright shone in her face.
“Then it’s true. All of it?”
“Very nearly. Going to make that drink or aren’t you?”
“I can’t believe it. You’re not a man to be sent up as a big shining balloon for anybody. Not you. You’re Rogers Overton Endore, my father and a man our whole country is proud of.”
Rogers Endore stiffened, as if she had slapped him. But he smiled thinly and his great nose seemed to quiver.
“Yes. I suppose I am all that. But I’m also a servant to the Queen. And what has been suggested for me I cannot deny. Nor could you if they asked you.”
Myra Endore was on the verge of tears. Something that would have astounded Steve McGarrett whose first impression of her had not been exactly heartwarming.
“Father, you’re not telling me straight off that you’re actually a spy?”
“No, not indeed,” he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “Yet, in all honesty, I must admit, that quite like the legendary Bond, I am on her Majesty’s Secret Service.”
Myra Endore sat down on the lounge, her ivory face whiter than ever. As if drained of all blood. She couldn’t take her eyes off her father’s face.
It was incredibly stupid. Farfetched, supremely absurd. Crackers, in a word. Endore the Diplomat. Endore the Spy.
The world was indeed mad.
And the lovely young woman who had successfully eluded marriage and responsibility, expertly dodged all the blandishments of Ban The Bomb Societies, Youth Movements and Anti-War Marches and Programs,
was now reduced to a trembling, afraid-for-her-father daughter.
Nobody in London or all of the British Isles for that matter would have believed it was possible.
Rogers Endore chuckled self-consciously.
“All right. Sister. I’ll make my own drink. Can I pour you one? We’ve got a well-stocked bar here . . .”
Myra Endore began to sob softly.
Carraway blocked Steve McGarrett’s way as he took the last step down the stairs into the tiled corridor leading from the service elevators. McGarrett had exited the way he had entered, not wanting to stumble over any more of the English security people. But Carraway was waiting for him. A big man with excessively wide shoulders in a plain gray suit. Carraway’s face was pocked on the left side as if he had once in his life encountered a buckshot blast and not managed to duck all the way. His features were oddly amiable though. Like a big dog’s. The sort of face, McGarrett supposed, that filled London’s tubes and tea shoppes.
“Hullo, Yank. Nice bit of business with the extinguisher. I’ll remember that one.”
“You’re welcome.” McGarrett made a quick decision. “Look. Mr. Carraway. We’re in this together, to coin a phrase. I’m willing if you’re willing.”
“Meaning?”
“Cooperation. Right down the line. I’ll tell you what people I’ll have on deck. You give me a rundown on your crowd. That way we won’t trip over each other.”
“Done. Better all around.” Carraway squinted down at McGarrett from an advantage of several inches of height. “Show you there’s no hard feelings, Mr. McGarrett, I’ll add my bit right now. Your office called as you were on your way down. Man named Kono. Seems a pair of your fellows piled up a car. Some spot called Kalakaua Avenue. They’re both in hospital, now. Honolulu General. Expect you know where that is.”
McGarrett stilled the rising feeling of panic in his breast. Over-identification with the men. Bomber command people had suffered it in World War Two; some brass hats lost their jobs because of it, being no longer able to function. And police chiefs very often found it in their desk drawers when they sent men out on assignments from which they never came back alive.
“Did Kono identify the men?”
Carraway nodded. “Williams and a Kelly. He wouldn’t tell me anything else. Just for you to down tools and get cracking.”
“Thanks, Carraway. I will.”
McGarrett broke away from the big man and tried not to run. The lavishness of his surroundings, the deluxe interior of the Kahala Hilton with its thick carpet pile, the mosaic of tiles, the elegant palms, the broad panoramic view of Waikiki from the high windows, the beautiful sunset, all seemed a mockery of high order. Danny and Chin Ho. Hurt. First crack out of the box. Dammit, what did it all mean—
“Oh, McGarrett?”
Carraway was calling from his position at the bottom of the tiled staircase. McGarrett whirled.
“Good luck, Yank.”
McGarrett waved back and hurried through the wonderland maze of the lobby of the Kahala Hilton. Anyone watching him would not have guessed that his heart was beating like a triphammer, that his brain was a galvanized volcano of whirling thoughts and twisting worries and concerns. Oahu is Hawaiian for “Gathering Place.” Gather was right—
As he flung down the long steps outside the building, he nearly collided with Don Von Elsner and the tall son named Sandy who was very like his father. Two big outdoorsy looking males who exuded that secure, easy-going, healthy appearance that bespeaks camaraderie, vitality and love. Father and son were discussing the Hawaiian Regionals.
“Mac!” There was no getting by Don Von Elsner. He was as formidable as a battering ram with a grip to match. “Small world, you badge bum. You remember Sandy? My pride and only boy—”
McGarrett smiled in spite of his hurry. The young son shook hands. “Hello, Steve. Got time for a cup of coffee? Dad’s going over his darn fancy seventy-eight golf game of ten years back. Meanwhile, he insists on explaining why bridge is the greatest thing since women—” Von Elsner smiled but something about McGarrett’s face stopped him.
“Duty calls?”
“Duty calls, Duke. Sorry. Give me a raincheck. You too, Sandy.”
“Sure,” Von Elsner nodded. “Jody and Len Smith are in from Denver and staying with us for a week or so. If you can break away from the badge, you know you’re welcome. Frances will break my arm when she finds out I couldn’t get you to come for dinner.”
“Sorry about that. Well—see you—and never mind your old man, Sandy. Golf, bridge and dames are three of the best vices.”
With that, he left them, his thoughts still flying. The Von Elsners had gone on into the Kahala Hilton. Duke Von Elsner was a prominent citizen of Hilo on the island of Hawaii. His livelihood was real estate but his reputation was solidly anchored as a championship bridge player and expert, as well as the rather unusual sideline of writing mystery novels which embraced his twin loves of bridge and storytelling. Len Smith was Bridge Editor of the Denver Post, stateside, and a good egg. McGarrett had met him and his charming Jody once at a Von Elsner house-party complete with luau, and a host of subjects that had ranged from the psychological facets of competitive sport and all the ways there are to kill a man to the successful preparation of Eggs Benedict. Quite a nice bunch of people. McGarrett regretted that his Five-O chores denied him a lot of good company.
Denied.
As he climbed behind the wheel of the extra squad car parked behind the Kahala in a supermarket-sized parking area, he prayed silently that Hawaii Five-O had not denied him the services of Danny Williams and Chin Ho Kelly.
Denied him forever.
The Hawaiian sun was dipping into the Pacific, flaming the horizon in purely awesome hues. Exciting and vivid, as ever.
Another incredibly beautiful sunset.
The same one which Igor Dorkin had marveled over outside of Trader Ted’s in the heart of town.
May, Five-O’s efficient, all-purpose secretary was a very sensible looking girl. A lively brunette of attractive dimensions and decided brainpower, whose wholesome face brightened the office and environs. May had not gone home to her tastefully furnished Waikiki apartment, thanks to the calamity that had sent Danny Williams and Chin Ho Kelly to Honolulu General. A girl couldn’t pay attention to the clock when her friends were in trouble. So she had stayed on at her desk in the outer office, continuing the pile of data on Rogers Endore as well as sundry other local items which had managed to crop up during the Five-O working day. A pig had escaped from the property room beyond the parking area of the Honolulu Police Department. The pig, stolen property recovered by the Department, had eluded recapture and was still on the loose. Sergeant Manama had called, wanting Five-O to keep an eye open for a runaway porker. But it wasn’t all fun and games.
A knifing had been reported down at the docks, where over eighteen thousand ships moored annually. Two seamen, an argument over a local Hawaiian girl who worked at one of the night spots. Downtown Honolulu had had a fire in one of the department stores. Arson was suspected. A lost child had been found wandering along the field of canebrakes in Pearl Harbor because she had taken off from her parents to trail a mangy dog with a sad expression on his face. So May was busy. Typing, filling out forms for McGarrett’s signature. And also, keeping Kono company.
Kono was miserable.
Chained to the desk inside McGarrett’s office, stolidly enduring a long wait. To hear from the hospital. To hear from McGarrett. The double accident had hit him like a chop to the solar plexus. Kono was a pure Hawaiian native; the oldest strain on the islands, dating all the way back to legendary King Kamehameha I, the late eighteenth century emperor who had massacred many Oahuan warriors, including their women, when he took over to consolidate the island empire. If Chin Ho Kelly looked pagan, Kono was but the new image of the type. With years and more wisdom, Kono would mature into a Kelly for all his flip, slangy talk.
When the accident had been reported in and Kono got all the d
etails from the staff at the hospital, he had replaced the phone on its base so loudly that May had come rushing in to see what was wrong. Kono had had to tell her in his flat, unemotional style. Yet May knew what the news had done to the man inside, where it counted “My God,” May’s face had drained as she clenched her steno pad. “How bad?”
“Bad enough. Kelly got the worst of it. Five cracked ribs, a skull concussion. Danny’s in traction. Mostly a whiplash and general bruising. Neither of them are going to do much surfing for a couple of weeks. As of now, they couldn’t shuffle a pack of cards without two other people to help them.”
“How did it happen? Chin Ho’s such a fine driver—”
“Runaway car was all they said. Won’t really know until Steve can talk to them. Sounds plenty fishy to me all around. What with that talk dished out to us today from the Boss.”
May nodded and went back out to her desk. Kono sat down in McGarrett’s chair and pondered. He usually left all the organized thinking and fine details to McGarrett but this was an emergency of monumental proportions. Two of the team had been put out of action. The hard way. A planned way? He couldn’t be sure.
Time moved on. Slowly, inexorably, unchangingly. Despite the brilliant lighting which exposed every corner of Five-O—the desks, the chairs, the polished files, the mahogany furnishings, the flags, the seals of official status—shadows lengthened beyond the full glass windows of Iolani Palace. Night was closing over Honolulu.
Kono yawned at the desk, rubbing his eyes. Waiting for the phone to ring. His flat, moon face was expressionless.
He did not hear May’s soft moan from the outer office where gloved hands had found her neck, pressed vital nerve centers and then deposited her quietly on the carpeted floor.
Nor did he see Tornier the Frenchman glide like a noiseless phantom, moving with fantastic ease for a big man, toward the entrance to McGarrett’s sanctum sanctorum.
He couldn’t have seen the shining stiletto.
It was behind Tornier’s back, balanced for throwing, his gloved thumb and forefinger barely compressed around the ebony hilt. The caress of a lover, the touch of a virtuoso.
Hawaii Five-O - 2 - Terror in the Sun Page 5
