"I thought that trombone player was a killer," O. B. said, "until ol' Otto started agreeing with me."
Hully, unbuttoning his shirt, said, "Why did Kuhn
wait so long to come forward? Why didn't he come out and help you nab that guy, if he witnessed everything?"
O. B. blew a raspberry. "That Kraut didn't see a damn thing."
"Funny... that's my instinct, too. But why would he claim to have?"
"I don't know, son... I sure as hell don't know." He heaved a sigh, and hit the light switch. "Get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning."
Hully lay on his back, staring up into the darkness, the breeze blowing through the window, its flowery scent suddenly seeming too sweet, sickly sweet. He thought about the musician, and how sincere the man had seemed; he thought about Kuhn, and how phony that bastard had been.
Then he thought about Pearl Harada, and thought about his friend Bill Fielder, probably sleeping off a drunk somewhere, blissfully unaware of the tragedy.
His pillow was damp, so he turned it over and, finally, went to sleep—hoping his father wouldn't awaken him with another damn nightmare.
* * *
TWO:
December 6, 1941
SIX
Neighborly Visits
Strong morning trade winds blew across Oahu, fronds of palms and plants ruffling, cane fields undulating, surf swelling, the clear sky disrupted only by smokelike puffs of clouds over the Koolau mountain range. Between that range at the east and the Waianae range at the west lay both the capital city of Honolulu and the Naval base of Pearl Harbor.
The base—though well located for a strategic deployment of the United States Navy—was a logistical nightmare, with the nearest resupply three thousand miles away on the American West Coast. Also, the one-channel entrance of the landlocked harbor could bottle up easily with the sinking of a single ship; and, even under ideal circumstances, getting the fleet out of that channel and onto the open sea required three hours. When the fleet was in—as it was on this first weekend of December—the port was clogged with ships, supply dumps, repair installations and highly flammable fuel.
Pearl Harbor might well have been designed for air attack. But a battle fleet in Hawaii was deemed necessary to deter Japan, and no alternative location could be found offering advantages and facilities to match Pearl's. Interceptor aircraft, AA guns and radar equipment would simply have to shore up the harbor's weaknesses. So said Washington and its top military minds.
Of course, Honolulu had already been invaded by air—on the previous weekend, when a silver plane circled the city before landing in Kapiolani Park, where three thousand civilians watched and screamed... in delight: Santa Claus had arrived. Sponsored by the Honolulu Advertiser, piloted by the 86th Observation Squadron, Saint Nick's invasion was part of an attempt by the city fathers to provide a more traditional—and commercial—Christmas than the underwhelming Yule-tide season that was the Hawaiian norm.
With the defense boom, the city was swarming with homesick American boys—defense workers as well as servicemen—stuck in these tropical surroundings, pining for their favorite winter holiday. Sears and Roebuck responded by hanging brightly wrapped presents from the palm trees surrounding their parking lot, and festive colored lights had been strung across major streets; even the street-corner Santas—most of whom were Japanese—were putting some extra swing into theft bell-ringing.
Still, it seemed rather halfhearted to Edgar Rice Burroughs, who was used to sunny Christmases, having lived in California for some time now, though his many years in the Midwest meant he knew damn well what a real white Christmas was all about. The cellophane window wreaths and tinsel-draped palms of Honolulu didn't really cut the mustard.
After last night's luau, a light breakfast seemed called for, and around nine a.m., Burroughs and Hully—in their tennis whites, rackets at hand—sat on wicker chairs at a small round wicker table on the lodge's back patio and ate fresh cut pineapple and buttered toast, and sipped coffee.
This was an exceptionally beautiful day, even for Hawaii, Burroughs noted—clear sky, sharp light, fresh air. Hard to believe, just hours before, a young woman had been murdered in such idyllic surroundings. The prospect of playing tennis, within a few yards of where her corpse had been flung, a blossom ripped roughly from a tree, seemed somehow improper... even sacrilegious.
"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."
&
nbsp; "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. The 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?"
The Pearl Harbor Murders Page 7
