The Pearl Harbor Murders

by Max Allan Collins

  "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 murder.... 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?"

  "No, just the residents in the bungalows adjacent to the beach. But that little Puerto Rican cop said he'd be back either today or Monday, to talk to everybody else."

  Hully didn't correct Bivens's assumption about Jardine's ethnicity. "You have any guests checking out before then?"

  "That cop asked the same thing—no. We're about half and half, at the moment, residents like you and your father, and tourists ... but nobody's leaving before the middle of next week."

  Hully leaned an arm on the counter. He was trying to keep things conversational—he didn't want the manager to figure out he was poking around. Then he shook his head and said, "Damn shame—I really liked Pearl. I know she dated a lot of guys, but I never got the feeling she was ..."

  "Round-heeled or anything? No. I don't think she was any virgin, but she wasn't any, you know... tramp. She was a good kid, with a good heart; but hell, all those show-business types have different moral codes than the rest of us."

  "How so?"

  Now Bivens leaned on the counter. "Come on, Hully—you and your dad live in Hollywood. You know how those movie actors sleep around; you know how those musicians drink and smoke ... and I'm not talking about cigarettes."

  Hully shrugged. "I didn't have the feeling Pearl wanted to stay in show business. Matter of fact, she told me she wanted to get married and settle down."

  Bivens's head rocked back: "What, with that Fielder kid? Come on, Hully—that was a pipe dream! White soldier with a high-ranking father, marry a Jap?"

  "Yeah," Hully admitted, "it was a loaded situation....1 wonder if that had anything to do with her murder."

  Bivens started filling the mail slots again, talking as he did, occasionally glancing back at Hully. "Sure it did. That poor Kamana musta gone off his noodle, with jealousy. He loved that girl—everybody knew it."

  "Does Harry Kamana seem like the violent type to you, Fred? You ever see him lose his temper?"

  "No.... That's the pity. He's always been a sweet guy. But still waters run deep." He paused, several letters in hand, and his gaze held Hully's. "Funny thing, that. He's the leader, you know, of the Harbor Lights, and some of his guys have come to me to complain."

  "What about?"

  Letters distributed, he folded his arms, leaned against the back counter. "Well, they know I do the deals with Harry ... book the gigs, as they put it. And they think I take advantage of Harry... that he's too nice, too soft."

  "Any truth in it?"

  "Hey, I give the boys a fair shake. They get pretty close to top dollar, for the size of the Niumalu and its dance floor."

  "They're popular—a real draw."

  Bivens shook his head, sadly. "Without Pearl... without Harry... I don't know. They're having a meeting right now, over in the dining room. I don't know what the hell they're gonna do.... Supposed to play for me, tonight."

  The musicians were in the dining room, up on the bandstand, casually dressed, sitting in their respective seats in front of music stands; but they weren't rehearsing—no instruments were in sight.

  A guy in a dark blue sportshirt and chinos was standing in front of them, as if directing—but he was really just conducting a meeting. Hully knew him, knew most of the remaining eight members of the Harbor Lights; the guy out front was Jim Kaupiko, a round-faced but slender trumpet player in his late twenties. Most tourists assumed the entire band was Hawaiian, and Kaupiko and Kamana and a few other Harbor Lights were indeed natives; but the band was otherwise a mix of Japanese, Chinese, Filipino and Korean.

  "I know how everybody here feels," Kaupiko said. "Pearl was the best..."

  The various Polyne
sian and Oriental faces on the bandstand were as grave as carved masks.

  "... and we can't ever hope to find someone to fill her shoes. Whether we're even gonna be able to keep going, that's up in the air. But we owe it to Mr. Bivens to play out our contract, at least."

  "Including tonight?" a voice called out.

  "Including tonight, Terry."

  Hully knew the band member who had spoken: Taro 'Terry" Mizuha, the only Japanese in the group other than Pearl.

  "I don't know, Jim," Mizuha said; shaking his head. A slender, almost pretty young man—a guitar player—he really looked devastated. "I just don't know...."

  "I've asked Sally Suziki to fill in on vocals—she was singing with the Kealoha Trio at the Halekulani, but they recently broke up."

  "She'll do fine," somebody said numbly.

  "She's no Pearl," somebody else said.

  "She'll do fine," Kaupiko affirmed. "And I've got Sammy Amaulu, trombone player from the Surfriders—they're not gigging tonight. Sammy can fill in, but just this once."

  Somebody asked, "Are we gonna rehearse with these fill-ins?"

  “Today at three—any objections?"

  There were none, and Kaupiko seemed about to adjourn the informal meeting, when Hully strolled up and said, "What do you guys think about Harry?"

  About half of them had been getting up out of their chairs; all of them had wide-eyed, sucker-punched expressions.

  Kaupiko, still in the director's position on the bandstand, turned and looked down and said, "Hiya, Hully—heard you and your old man found Pearl, and nabbed Harry."

  "It was mostly Dad's doing.... I just wondered what you guys thought, you know, about whether Harry did it or not."

  One of the guys, a Filipino whose name Hully didn't know, a sax player, asked, "I thought your father caught him red-handed."

  "Red-handed in that he had blood on his hand... but maybe it got there 'cause he was trying to help her, or check the pulse in her neck. I just thought you guys should know that Harry denied killing Pearl—he could probably use some support about now. Somebody ought to go downtown and make sure he's got a good lawyer."

  "Sounds like he'll need one," Kaupiko said.

  "No question about that. But I thought maybe you fellas ... his friends ... would like to know that I, for one, found his story convincing."

  "I can't believe Harry'd hurt a fly," Jack Wong said. He was also a sax player.

  "He was crazy about Pearl," somebody else chimed in.

  "Most people think his loving her is a motive," Hully said. "I'd just like to know if any of you guys ever saw Harry act violent—ever behave like a hothead, blow his top over anything."

  Nobody said anything; everybody was sitting down again, and the band members exchanged glances, often shaking their heads.

  Hully stood with hands on his hips. "How about Harry saying anything about Bill Fielder muscling in on him? Did Harry ever have a shouting match with Pearl, over that or anything else?"

  No one said a word.

  Hully searched the cheerless faces. "I'm not a cop ... I'm just a friend of Harry's, who wants to make sure he doesn't get a raw deal outta this."

  "Harry hardly ever raises his voice," Wong said. "That's his problem—we'd be playing at the Royal Hawaiian right now, with the following we got, if he was more aggressive."

  Wong's fellow band members were nodding.

  "Okay, guys," Hully said, easily. "Listen, I'll be over at my bungalow, for a while, if anybody wants to share anything, one to one, man to man. Okay?"

  More nods.

  Hully turned and headed out, to the tune of chairs getting pushed back and murmuring among the members.

  Kaupiko caught up with him about halfway across the dance floor, taking Hully by the arm. "Let's talk," the trumpet player said, and nodded toward the courtyard, which the dining room opened onto.

  The rock garden at the center had a little waterfall which made just enough noise to give them some additional privacy.

  "Are you investigating Pearl's murder?" Kaupiko asked, his expression thoughtful.

  "Not officially," Hully said. "But I think there's at least a possibliity that Harry Kamana is innocent, and I don't see the police going down that path."

  "And if Harry's innocent, somebody else is ..."

  "The word is 'guilty,' Jim. Yes." Hully rocked back on bis heels. "How many of the band live here at the Niumalu?"

  The round-faced musician stroked his chin, which was almost as blue as his shirt—he needed a shave.

  "Besides Harry, and Pearl? Just a couple. Most are local. Harry's from the big island, though, and needs lodging when we work Oahu, which lately has been most of the time."

  "I had the idea that Pearl lived with her uncle, that grocer, in Chinatown."

  Kaupiko nodded. "She did, when she first came here. But once we got this steady gig at the Niumalu, Harry negotiated with Mr. Bivens to get her a room in the lodge."

  "Who else lives here at the hotel?"

  The musician looked around, rather furtively, apparently checking to see if any of his band mates were watching... or listening.

  “Terry Mizuha," he said, finally. "He's the only guy besides Harry that was really cozy with Pearl."

  "Did she date him, too?"

  Kaupiko laughed.

  "What's so funny, Jim?"

  "Sorry." The musician's expression was sober again. "Listen, I don't want to talk outta school. Terry's a great guy, helluva guitar player."

  "Okay—now drop the other shoe."

  He shrugged. "I don't think Terry likes dolls. He's, uh ... you know." Kaupiko held up his hand and made a sideways shaking gesture.

  "But he and Pearl were friends?"

  "Yeah. Sort of... 'girlfriends.' Hey, don't spread that around. We don't care about Terry's tastes—he's discreet and he's a good musician and he's our pal. Anyway, some of the people we work for might not hire us if they knew he was that way. So mum's the word."

  "I appreciate you leveling with me, Jim."

  Kaupiko sighed, shook his head. "We all loved Pearl. She could've taken us to Hollywood or somethin', someday, if some bastard hadn't done her in. And I want to thank you for saying what you did in front of the band—you really got everybody thinking. I mean, in our hearts we didn't believe Harry could have done that terrible thing ... but we believed what we were told."

  "That's understandable."

  He sighed again, relieved this time. "Anyway, I'm going down to the police station and see about Harry—like you suggested."

  "Good. Before you go, is there anything else you can think of, that might be pertinent?"

  Kaupiko's eyes squeezed tight in thought. "Come to think of it... I did see Pearl have an argument last night, but not with Harry. Before we went onstage."

  Hully leaned in. "Who with?"

  "Do you know that Japanese diplomat, that idiot skirt-chaser Morimura?"

  "I know who he is—he sat with Dad and me at the luau."

  Kaupiko nodded. "Well, he had her cornered, out in the parking lot, away from everybody and everything, out by that big fancy car of his—it's a Lincoln. He was really chewing her out, shaking his finger at her....

  She just had her arms folded and was taking it, chin up, kinda proud."

  "Huh," Hully grunted. "What did you make of that?"

  Kaupiko shrugged elaborately. "I didn't know what to think, and I never said a word to Pearl about it. I mean, I always thought that Morimura character was just a harmless grinning jerk, always chasing tail."

  "You think Pearl and Morimura may have dated?"

  Another, less elaborate shrug. "I suppose anything is possible. But it doesn't ring true, somehow. Morimura doesn't seem her type—she liked musicians, and she liked servicemen ... that was about it. And that's the only time I ever saw them together."

  "Okay."

  Kaupiko gestured with a pointing finger. "If that cop asks me about this, I'm gonna tell him, too."

  "Good. It's not a c
ompetition—in fact, say and do anything you can that will help get that guy Jardine off the dime, and looking at some suspects besides Harry Kamana."

  The two men shook hands, and Kaupiko headed back toward the bandstand, while Hully returned to the lobby, intending to ask Bivens which room was Terry Mizuha's, wanting to talk to the guitar player.

  But Bivens was no longer behind the front desk, apparently off doing some other Niumalu chore. That was all right—it was even good—because Hully didn't need Bivens's help to find Terry Mizuha.

  The slender musician was sitting on a cushioned wicker chair, between two archways that looked out onto the parking lot.

  Mizuha, in a cream sportshirt and white slacks and cream slippers, had almost delicate features—handsome but vaguely feminine, his dark hair long, slicked back like an Oriental George Raft. His Iong-lashed eyes were dark-circled and webbed with red.

  "I hoped you might come through here," Mizuha said. His voice was soft, gentle, melodic. Hully pulled another of the wicker chairs up.

  "Why didn't you stop me in the other room, Terry, when I asked for information?"

  "Jim beat me to it. What did he fell you?"

  "That you and Pearl were good friends."

  "That's true... that's true." He covered his face

  with a finely boned hand and began to weep. Hully, embarrassed, dug out a hankie from his pocket and handed it to the man, who took it gratefully; for two excruciatingly long minutes, Mizuha wept into Hully's cloth. When the slender man lowered the handkerchief from his face, his eyes were even more bloodshot. He said, "She was my best friend."

  "Do you know anything about her murder?"

  "I know I saw that soldier... Stanton? She had dated him, before the sailor boy—Fielder? I saw him yelling at her, after the dance, when we were packing up."

  "Did the others see this? Why didn't they—?" Mizuha was shaking his head. "They didn't see the argument. It was outside, he had her up against the wall of the lodge. I... I interceded. He almost struck me, but I pretended she was needed by Jim, for band business. Stanton stalked off."

  "Did you hear anything of what was said?"

  "Just the usual spurned-lover recriminations."