The Pearl Harbor Murders d-3

by Max Allan Collins

  "I don't feel much like tennis this morning," Hully said, returning his china cup to its dish with a slight clatter.

  "I was just thinking the same thing."

  His son's brow furrowed. "Your friend… Detective Jardine…"

  "Yes?"

  "You respect him? He's a good cop?"

  Burroughs sipped his coffee, raised an eyebrow. "Probably the best investigator on this island-that's why I called him, sought him out specifically….That and his honesty."

  "So … the case is in good hands."

  Burroughs said nothing.

  "Dad?"

  A few of the tables nearby were taken up by other Niumalu guests. From the expressions on various faces, it was clear that news of the murder had gotten around-and judging by the occasional glances he and Hully were getting, their participation in the discovery of the body was common knowledge … or anyway, common gossip.

  "Let's take a walk, Hully-let's return to the scene of the crime."

  Within a few minutes, after depositing their tennis rackets at their bungalow, along with their abandoned thoughts of a morning round or two, father and son were sitting on the sand-the beach again a beach, a crime scene no more, though one ominous blackened area, like a scab on the sand, was marked by the victim's dried blood. The steady rash of the surf, the understated thunder of it, might have been soothing-under other circumstances.

  Hully sat like an Indian, while Burroughs had his bronzed, muscular legs sticking straight out, his palms on the sand, bracing him.

  "Normally I would be content to leave this to John Jardine," Burroughs said, voice barely audible above the surf. "But John's only flaw, if it is one, has to do with his working out of the prosecutor's office."

  "I don't understand."

  Burroughs twitched a half smile. "Jardine's specialty isn't so much solving a crime as providing an airtight case for his boss to take into court. He'll dig in and do

  the legwork, all the tedious stuff real detectives do… but he'll do it all operating from the assumption that that musician did the murder."

  Hully shrugged. "It does look open-and-shut. Ka-mana had motive, opportunity…"

  "Blood on his hands." Burroughs tossed a pebble at the tide, raised a single eyebrow. "That's the problem: I'm afraid Jardine won't do anything except dig into Harry Kamana-and until or unless he finds out that Kamana didn't do the murder, nobody else will get looked at as a suspect."

  Both Hully's eyebrows had climbed his forehead. "Is that what you think? That Kamana is innocent?"

  "What's your opinion?"

  Hully sighed, and stared out at the vast blue of the sky meeting the ocean. He was a handsome young man-Burroughs could see so much of his own late mother in the boy's sensitive, oval face.

  "Well, like you said last night, O. B.-Kamana was a hell of a lot more credible than that Kuhn character … but why would Kuhn have lied?"

  "Maybe he did the killing." Burroughs nodded to the left, toward the foliage lining the beach, behind which the German's bungalow nestled. "He had easy access-as you put it, opportunity."

  Hully was making a face. "What's his motive?"

  "Pearl was a nice girl, but let's face it-she got around. And Otto, married or not, has a reputation as a playboy."

  Hully snapped his fingers. "That makes his wife a suspect, too! Suppose Otto and Pearl were down on the beach, and Mrs. Kuhn caught 'em!"

  Nodding, with a wry, rueful smile, Burroughs said, "Doesn't take long to come up with other suspects, does it? And there could be other reasons why Kuhn lied."

  "If he did lie."

  "If he did lie," Burroughs allowed. He wanted to share Kuhn's supposed status as "sleeper" agent for the Japanese; but didn't feel he should betray FBI agent Sterling's confidence.

  "Anyway, I can see the problem with Jardine," Hully said. "As a prosecutor's investigator, he's already focused on one suspect-when there are plenty of others."

  Burroughs glanced around, to make sure he and his son were still alone on the beach. "I hate to say so, but … Colonel Fielder and his son have to be included on that list."

  Hully was shaking his head. "I can't believe Bill would do anything to harm Pearl-he was crazy about her!"

  " 'Crazy' might be the operative word-suppose Bill found Pearl with another man, on the beach?"

  "Well… I can see your point, but-"

  "Were you with Bill last night? Can you alibi him?"

  Hully lowered his gaze. "No. Last I saw him, he was on Hotel Street… plenty of time to get back here."

  "And I know for a fact Pearl was looking to talk to Fielder…."

  Quickly, Burroughs filled his son in on Pearl's visit

  to the bungalow, and her request for Burroughs to set up a meeting with Bill's father.

  "She asked me the same thing," Hully said. "Wanted me, or you, to arrange a meet. Are you thinking the colonel may have come back… or was still hanging around here … and she approached him, and… tried to present her case, for marrying Bill, and …"

  "Can you deny it's a possibility?"

  Hully gestured with an open hand. "What if you run all of this by Jardine?"

  "I intend to … but I know how that Portuguese po-lice dog's mind works, and I know his single-minded technique."

  "What do you suggest, Dad?"

  Burroughs leaned toward his son, placed a hand on Hully's shoulder, gently squeezing. "Why don't we do a little… informal investigating? We can chat with people-many of the suspects are our friends, after all…."

  "Unfortunately."

  "No-fortunately." Now Burroughs looked out at the ocean and the sky, his eyes, his whole face, tight as a clenched fist. "The worst that could be said of that young woman is she may have been a little fast. She didn't deserve anything but a long, happy life. She was pretty and smart and talented. Any 'friend' of mine who murdered that girl is no friend at all."

  "Dad… Jesus, Dad. You really were a cop."

  He turned to Hully again. "What do you say, son? Why don't we split up, and do some … socializing?"

  Hully's eyes narrowed, then he nodded, vigorously. "Pearl deserves our help."

  "She sure as hell does-I only wish I'd been a little earlier last night, and could have really helped her, when she needed it most."

  They briefly discussed who among the Niumalu residents and staff each would attempt to interrogate-without seeming to, of course-and soon Hully was heading off toward the lodge, and Burroughs was angling over toward the bungalow where the Kuhns resided.

  As he approached, he encountered Mrs. Fujimoto, coming from the direction of the Kuhn bungalow. The slender, fortyish kimono-clad woman, her graying hair tucked back in a bun, worked as a maid at the Niumalu; she was not on the hotel staff, rather worked for a handful of guests who shared her services, Burroughs and the Kuhns among them.

  "Good morning, Mr. Burroughs," she said, stopping, lowering her head respectfully.

  "How are you this morning, Mrs. Fujimoto?"

  "Very sad, since I hear of Miss Pearl Harada's misfortune. Very sad."

  Nodding, Burroughs said, "She was a lovely girl, a nice person-she'll be missed."

  Mrs. Fujimoto looked up and her eyes were filigreed red; she wore no makeup, which made her seem rather plain when actually her features were pleasant. "I am on way to your cottage, Mr. Burroughs, to begin my work."

  He checked his watch. "You're not due till around eleven, are you?"

  "I ran early-the Kuhns did not want me… what they say? 'Underfoot.' Is it inconvenience, my early come?"

  "No, no-go ahead."

  At the Kuhns' bungalow, Burroughs stood on the stoop at the screen door, about to knock, when the German opened the door, slapping the writer with it.

  "Sorry, Edgar!" Kuhn looked aghast. "Forgive me!"

  Burroughs, knocked back a bit, touched his forehead and said, "Jeez, Otto, where's the fire?"

  "Fire?" Shutting the screen, Kuhn joined the writer, at the bottom of the short stoop. Th
e German was again in white linen, his tie a light blue, damn near matching the light blue of his eyes-the whiteness of his suit was stark against the rose-colored bougainvillea blanketing his bungalow.

  Burroughs explained, " 'Where's the fire'-what's your hurry?"

  Kuhn blinked, raised his chin. "Oh, I have a business appointment." Then he put a hand on the writer's shoulder. "I feel the fool-are you all right?"

  "I'll survive." Actually, the wooden frame had clipped Burroughs on the forehead and it did hurt, a little. "I just wanted to see how you were doing, this morning-after that unpleasantness last night."

  Kuhn withdrew his hand from Burroughs's shoulder, and summoned an unconvincing smile; it was like a gash in his pasty pale face. "How thoughtful, Edgar. Well, of course, it was a terrible thing to witness." He said this as offhandedly as a man describing an overcooked steak he'd had to send back.

  Burroughs shook his head. "I should say-her scream woke me from a deep sleep, and scared the bejesus out of me." That wasn't exactly true, but the writer liked the effect of it. "Did Pearl scream when Kamana raised the rock?"

  Kuhn cocked his head. "Pardon me?"

  "Well, you saw the murder-did she scream when Kamana raised his hand, to strike her? Or did he hit her more than once, and she screamed after one glancing blow … and then another blow, or blows, silenced her?"

  The blue eyes were wide, white showing all around. "I, uh… my God, Edgar, this is an unpleasant subject. I've already.had to go over this with the police, again and again… I was up until all hours."

  Burroughs raised his palms, as if in surrender. "My mistake-I thought, since we'd both been witnesses to this thing, that we had something in common. That we'd shared something, however horrible."

  Kuhn nodded, once. "I do understand-I meant no offense. But I would prefer not to discuss the matter any further."

  Not the murder-the "matter."

  "Sure, Otto. I guess I don't blame you."

  The ambiguity of what Burroughs had just said froze the German for a moment; then he gave the writer another curt nod. "If you'll excuse me, Edgar-I have business downtown."

  Kuhn strode off across the grass, toward the lodge and its parking lot, and Burroughs began back toward his own quarters; then, when Kuhn was out of sight, the writer cut back toward the bougainvillea-covered bungalow.

  He didn't have to knock on the screen door, this time-Kuhn's wife, the person he had hoped to casually interview, was already outside. He didn't see her, at first-she was down at the far end of the bungalow, tucked back in the cool blue shade of sheltering palms, seated in a wood-and-canvas beach-type chair.

  Elfriede Kuhn's slender shape was well served by a white halter top and matching shorts. Honey-blonde hair brushing her shoulders, eyes a mystery behind the dark blue circles of white-framed sunglasses, she sat slumped with the back of her head resting on the wooden chair, using both armrests, her legs stretched out, ankles crossed. Her thin, wide, pretty mouth was red with lipstick, but otherwise she wore no makeup that he could detect.

  She was a handsome woman of perhaps forty-five, but she looked better from a distance.

  Perhaps she was staying out of the sun because her flesh had already passed the merely tanned stage into dark leather, and her high-cheekboned face-which most likely had, in her twenties and probably thirties, rivaled that of any fashion model-bore a crinkly, weathered look.

  "Mr. Burroughs," she said, as he wandered into sight. She had a cigarette in a clear holder in one hand and a half-empty glass of orange juice in the other. "If you're looking for a tennis partner, I'm afraid I'm simply too tired."

  She spoke with only the faintest German accent.

  "I'm in no mood myself, Mrs. Kuhn. May I join you for a moment? It looks cool there in the shade."

  "Certainly." She gestured to another beach chair, near the side of the house. "I can go in and get you one of these."

  She was lifting the orange-juice glass; he was dragging the chair around, to sit beside her.

  "No thanks," he said. "I've had my breakfast."

  "Ah, but this isn't just breakfast. It's a rejuvenating tonic known as a screwdriver."

  He grinned a little, shook his head. "No thanks-I'm on the wagon… holding on by my thumbs, but holding on….Little early for that, isn't it?"

  She sipped from the glass. "Is it ever too early for vitamin C? Or vodka? Citrus is rich in it, you know. Vitamin C, that is."

  "Yeah, I know-I used to live in California. Plenty of citrus. And vodka."

  Mrs. Kuhn blew a smoke ring, regally. "I would love to live in California. I have had more than enough of … paradise."

  "But your husband has his business here."

  "Yes. Oh yes."

  Burroughs shifted in the canvas seat. "I ran into him a few minutes ago, on his way to some business appointment or other. He didn't say what, exactly."

  She said nothing; she might not even have been listening. The wind was rippling the fronds overhead, making gently percussive music, while underneath the sibilant rash of the nearby surf provided its monotonous melody.

  “Terrible thing, last night," Burroughs said.

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly. "You caught the murderer, I understand."

  "I heard a scream. Ran out to the beach. That musician was leaning over the poor girl's body, blood on his hands."

  "Awful," she said emotionlessly.

  "What did you hear?"

  "Pardon?"

  "When did you wake up?"

  She turned her head toward him and lowered her sunglasses and her pale blue eyes studied him; her thin lips curved in mild amusement. "Is this really the proper subject for casual midmorning conversation?"

  "No disrespect meant, to either you or the deceased." He shrugged. "It's just that… you and I and your husband, we're the only witnesses to this tragedy."

  She frowned and turned away, put her sunglasses back into position. "I'm not a witness, Mr. Burroughs. I didn't wake up until my husband's … activity awoke me."

  "Activity?"

  "He was quite understandably agitated by what he saw."

  "So he woke you."

  She heaved an irritated sigh and looked at him again, not bothering to lower the sunglasses, this time. "Really, Mr. Burroughs, this is nothing I want to talk about-I spent half the night blathering with that dreadful little foreign policeman, and I don't want to gossip about such a misfortune with a neighbor-if you don't mind."

  "I meant no offense."

  "Neither did I."

  She wasn't looking at him, now-neither one of their apologies had sounded very convincing.

  He shrugged again. "It just rather casts a pall over this lovely day."

  "You can have this lovely day, and every other lovely Hawaiian day, as far as I'm concerned."

  "Pearl Harada might not agree with you."

  "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means she had every day taken away from her … and it wasn't her idea. That's all it means."

  She sipped the screwdriver. "I'm sorry the young woman is dead, but I barely knew her."

  "You did know her, though."

  "I knew her as any guest at the Niumalu knew her-she was an entertainer, here-a decent one, too. She seemed pleasant enough, when I would encounter her around the place. Not stuck-up like some show-business types. I'm sorry she's gone." She looked at him over the rims of the sunglasses. "Is there anything else, Mr. Burroughs?"

  "I apologize, Mrs. Kuhn-I was just making conversation. I thought… as mutual witnesses … we had something in common."

  "You said that. Mr. Burroughs, if you'd like to go get your tennis racket, I'll meet you on the court. Or if you'd like to sit here and share some stories about the Hollywood celebrities you've encountered, please feel welcome. Otherwise, change the subject, or find someone else to gossip with."

  He rose. "Sorry, Mrs. Kuhn. And I'm still in no mood for tennis, and I like talking about Hollywood about as much as you like discussing murd
er…. Have you seen Mr. Sterling this morning?"

  The FBI man's bungalow was the next one over, the only other bungalow near enough to the beach for someone within to have possibly heard or seen something last night.

  "Yes, I have-he chatted with Otto this morning, on this same dreadful subject. Then he headed off."

  Burroughs frowned. "Do you know where he went?"

  Her patience clearly all but exhausted, Mrs. Kuhn said, "I believe Mr. Sterling said he was going in to work."

  "Oh… well, thanks, Mrs. Kuhn. Sorry-didn't mean to disturb you with this unpleasantness."

  "I'm sure," she said, coldly. "Just as I did not mean to be rude."

  Burroughs headed over to the lodge, to catch up with Hully, mind abuzz. It was unusual for the FBI man to work on a Saturday morning, and he and Sterling were set to go to the Shriners game this afternoon, with Colonel Fielder. He wondered if Sterling's Saturday-morning business had anything to do with Pearl Harada's murder.

  He wondered the same about Otto Kuhn's business downtown.

  SEVEN

  Mourning After

  Hully drifted through an open archway into the airy, A-frame lobby of the Niumalu, its sun-reflecting parquet floor dotted with Oriental rags, potted ferns perching on the periphery like silent witnesses. Nary a guest was partaking of the cushioned wicker chairs and sofas, but manager Fred Bivens was behind the front desk of the lodge, at the far end, distributing mail into key slots.

  Fred's aloha shirt was an all-purpose blue on which floated the fluffy clouds and palmy island of its pattern. The affable, heavyset Bivens put aside his work to chat with Hully-the manager's eyes were dark and baggy, bis normally pleasant features seeming to droop, as if last night's tragedy had melted his face slightly.

  "How late did the cops keep you up last night?" Bivens asked.

  Their voices echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

  "Not as late as some," Hully said. "Dad and I were the first questioned … us and Harry Kamana. Did they wake up a lot of your guests, for questioning?"