"Did Stanton threaten her?"
"Not overtly. Just his manner. I do think she was afraid... she was trembling. I put my arm around her." He began to cry again, into the hankie.
Hully waited, then asked, "Is there anything else you saw, Terry? Anything else you know?"
Mizuha bunked. "What do you mean... anything else I know?"
This seemed a peculiar reaction to Hully, who shrugged. "Just that."
The pretty eyes narrowed; the smooth forehead furrowed. "You're not a detective, are you?"
"Unfortunately, no—just a friend trying to help a friend who is beyond help, really."
He swallowed, nodded. "You were going to talk to Colonel Fielder for her, weren't you?"
"Yes....My father agreed, also."
Mizuha sat forward, a strange urgency in his voice. "What did she say to you? What did she tell you? Or your father?"
The intensity of the man made Hully rear back, a little. "Nothing, really—obviously, she wanted to state her case, plead for the colonel's consent to the marriage."
Mizuha's eyes tightened, but otherwise he relaxed, air escaping as if from a balloon, his body becoming even smaller. Then he said, "Let us talk again,"
"Sure."
"I have ... I have to sort a few things out. I have to think."
“Terry, if you know something, tell me, hell, tell the police...."
Mizuha was shaking his head. "I'm too distraught right now. I'm confused. I'm afraid. Please give me a few hours....We'll talk again."
“Terry..."
But the conversation ended there, because something attracted Hully's attention: he saw Bill Fielder getting out of a gray Ford sedan (it beloriged to Colonel Fielder), having just parked in the Niumalu lot.
Something was terribly wrong: Bill was smiling, his expression cheerful; the young Naval officer—who was in a green sportshirt and chinos, on this fine off-duty day—was even whistling a tune.
"We'll talk more, later," Hully said, and Terry Mizuha was getting up and going off in one direction, as Hully—shuddering as if from cold on this warm morning—moved through that open archway into the parking lot, where he approached Bill, catching him before he entered the lodge.
"Hey, Hully." The handsome, cleft-chinned Fielder wore a winning smile. "Hell of a beautiful day, huh?"
"Yeah, Bill—nice weather, even for Hawaii." He touched his friend's arm. "You doing okay?"
"Yeah, better today. I skipped Hotel Street, and had it out with Dad, and..."
Hully stopped listening to his optimistic friend, his own mind throbbing with the inescapable realization that Bill did not know about the murder....
"We have to sit down,". Hully said, guiding his confused friend into the lodge lobby, "and we have to talk."
"What's wrong with you? What the hell—listen, I have to see Pearl, she's waiting, I'm a little late...."
"Sit down, Bill. I have to tell you something—something very bad. Very sad."
Hully sat his friend down in the wicker chair the musician had vacated and he stood in front of his friend and quickly, calmly, as gently as he could, told Bill Fielder that Pearl Harada had been murdered.
Bill's cry of emotional pain echoed through the lodge like that of a mortally wounded beast.
The young Naval officer fell onto the parquet floor and assumed a fetal position and Hully got down there with him, taking his friend into his arms, patting him on the back, comforting him as Bill howled and wept. Hully couldn't even offer Bill a handkerchief because the trumpet player had taken it.
But no handkerchief could have contained the tears of the young sailor.
It was a long time before Bill got settled down enough to begin asking questions about the particulars.
Then, suddenly, the brawny officer was on his feet. "Harry Kamana? Harry Kamana did this? Where the hell is the bastard? I'll break his goddamn neck—"
Hully held him by the arm. "The police have Kamana, Bill—he may not have done it. He says he didn't."
But Bill didn't want to hear about that. He pulled away from Hully, ran out to the car, and tore away, throwing crushed coral like rice at a wedding.
Hully wondered what the hell good Bill thought he could do, what sort of revenge he could take, with Kamana behind bars.
He also wondered if there was the remotest possibility that his friend was good enough an actor to have concocted this entire scene—because if Bill were the murderer of Pearl Harada, he would've had to have done that very thing.
EIGHT
Halftime
The Termite Palace—as locals affectionately if accurately referred to the wooden-bleachered Honolulu Stadium—had hosted Bing Crosby concerts, championship boxing matches, and even a notorious race between Olympic runner Jesse Owens and a horse (Owens won). The unprepossessing facliity—at the ewa (west)/makai (seaward) corner of King and Isen-berg streets—was also home to every Oahu sporting event from club baseball to college football games, like today's annual Shriner-sponsored contest.
The stands were packed, over twenty-five thousand in attendance—10 percent of the city's population---which was unusual: college games were usually lucky to draw half that many fans. The big local attraction was high-school football, the eight-team league an Oahu obsession, fueled by gambling interests whose weekly betting turnover was said to be half a million dollars.
Burroughs found the casual corruption of Honolulu at once amusing and disturbing. To a writer, the irony of sin in paradise was appealing, and he disliked the legislation of morality; but the town's wide-open gambling and unfettered red-light district jarred his conservative Midwestern sensibilities.
Somehow the rollickingly enthusiastic crowd—watching the game for its own sake (little betting attended college games)—gave Burroughs a lift. He was enjoying this exceptionally beautiful day with its clear sky and sharp sunlight as much as anyone in the polyglot assemblage, which contained more than its share of high-ranking military personnel, including Colonel Kendall "Wooch" Fielder, next to whom the writer sat. As the first half neared its conclusion, with the Roaring Rainbows of the University of Hawaii leading the Bearcats of Willamette (Oregon) University fourteen to nothing, the reserved seat on the other side of Burroughs—meant for FBI agent Adam Sterling—was vacant.
Sterling was a rabidly loyal Willamette grad, who for weeks had been vocal about looking forward to this game, and his missing-in-action status nagged at Burroughs, who was aware the agent had taken off early this morning to go in to work. The writer could not help but again wonder if Sterling's absence was related to the murder of Pearl Harada.
When Burroughs had returned to his bungalow, this morning—after his conversations first with Otto Kuhn and then with Etfriede Kuhn—he had come in on Mrs. Fujimoto, who was, in her pastel floral kimono, vacuuming the sitting room. He had directed her to continue working, got himself a bottle of Pepsi from their little refrigerator perched in one corner, slipped his shoes off and lounged on the couch, with his feet up on it, to stay out of the maid's way.
Though Mrs. Fujimoto was invariably, subserviently formal in her manner, she and Burroughs were friendly—he often kidded her, prodding giggles out of her—and her college-boy son Sam and Hully were good pals. As he waited for Hully, Burroughs formed a few questions which he realized the maid might de-cline to answer... but were definitely worth a try.
When she had finished her vacuuming and began her feather-dusting, Burroughs said, causally, "So the Kuhns chased you out early, today."
She smiled and nodded, carefully dusting his work area.
"Mr. Kuhn almost knocked me down," Burroughs said, still lounging on the sofa, keeping his tone light. "The way he came bolting out of mat bungalow, I thought he might be ... mad or something."
She nodded. "Mr. Kuhn very upset this morning."
"Really? Well, you know, he witnessed that murder last night."
Mrs. Fujimoto looked up from her work. "I did hear this....So sad." She sighed, shook her head. "M
iss Pearl, so beautiful."
"It was a terrible tragedy Kuhn identified Harry Kamana as the killer, you know."
She nodded, dusting. "That I also hear. Hard to believe."
"Why do you say that?"
She dusted some more, before answering. "Mr. Kamana... he is a very gentle man. Kind man. He always treat Miss Pearl with kindness."
The opinion of an "invisible" person like a maid, here at the Niumalu—who observed much, from the sidelines—was not to be undervalued.
Burroughs rose, crossed to her at his desk. Her eyes widened—she was surprised by this familiarity.
Facing her, close to her, he said, his tone serious now, "I don't believe Harry Kamana killed that young woman. Do you?"
She winced. "If Mr. Kuhn say he saw it..."
"People lie sometimes don't they, Mrs. Fujimoto? Were the Kuhns arguing this morning? The way he came flying out of there, that was the impression I got."
From her expression, she seemed to be experiencing physical pain. "Oh, Mr. Burroughs... do not ask, please. It would be improper for me to—"
"It would be improper to let Harry Kamana take the blame for something he didn't do. My son and I are looking into this matter."
"But... the police..."
"They've already made their minds up that Harry did it—largely because of what Kuhn told them.... Did you hear anything this morning, Mrs. Fujimoto, before the Kuhns chased you out of there? Anything... suspicious?"
She raised her hand, in a gentle "stop" gesture. "Mr. Burroughs..." "Please."
She swallowed. Shaking her head, her gaze lowered, she said softly, "They did argue. I....I did not hear much."
"What did you hear?"
"Something ... something about a phone call... a phone call last night."
What the hell?
Burroughs leaned in, even closer. "A phone call—what about it?"
"Mr. Kuhn tell her this phone call—it never came."
His mind was racing. "There was a phone call, but if anybody asked, she was to say there wasn't any phone call? Is that it?"
"I cannot say. I tell you what I hear. I do not understand what it mean. Please... Mr. Burroughs ... I am uncomfortable speak of this."
He sighed. Then, very lightly, he touched her shoulder. "That's all right, Mrs. Fujimoto. But if the police talk to you, you must tell them about this—understand? It could be important; it may relate to what really happened to that poor girl. You must tell them."
Nodding slowly, she said, "Yes, Mr. Burroughs. I understand. If police ask, I tell them."
"Good. Good."
Hully had come in shortly after that, and father and son had strolled to the beach and filled each other in on what they had learned so far, in their informal investigation.
At the game, Burroughs .had watched the one-sided affair with only mild interest; and Wooch Fielder—casual in a short-sleeved blue aloha shirt and khaki trousers—applauded and occasionally cheered, but he too seemed distracted. Burroughs didn't mention the murder, waiting to see if the colonel would bring it up.
The halftime show was a binge of patriotism, a colorful, musical pageant that the crowd ate up. Fifteen marching bands—with a crack Marine unit in the lead—combined into one massive crew, playing island favorites like "Hawaii Ponoi," the inescapable Shriner anthem "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles," and such flag-waving fare as "Stars and Stripes Forever." The lavish exhibition included a rare daylight array of fireworks, one of whose rockets delivered a miniature Hawaiian flag, followed by another that sent the American flag wafting down in a shower of sparks, though the unfurling barely occurred before it bit the ground, due to a slight malfunction. After all of his friend Teske's talk of Japanese invasion, Burroughs could not keep from wondering if the latter was a portent.
Also, the creator of Tarzan and John Carter of Mars could not keep from noticing white clouds piling up in the placid blue of the sky into what seemed to him the unmistakable formation of a monster, whose long tongue lashed side to side. Another omen? At times like these, Edgar Rice Burroughs could have done without his vivid imagination.
As the second half got under way, Burroughs finally looked over at his friend and said, "I'm a little surprised you haven't said anything about that girl's murder."
Fielder gave Burroughs a quick sideways look, then said, as if commenting on the rising price of wheat, "Well, it's certainly a terrible thing."
"How's your son taking it?"
Now some humanity came into Fielder's hawkish face. "Very hard, I'm afraid. I don't even know where he is, he rushed off after we ... He came looking for me...."
Burroughs frowned. "Why would he come looking for you?"
Fielder was lighting up a cigarette. "He just needed to take it out on someone....'Are you satisfied?'.... That kind of thing. To be expected."
"Hully was the one who broke it to him. Hell of a thing."
With a sigh of smoke, Fielder said, "Poor Hully. I hope he can help Bill. I'm afraid I won't be able to break through the resentment for some time."
Bill and Wooch had a somewhat strained relationship, anyway—that the boy had joined the Navy, rather than the Army, in an effort to step out from under his father's shadow, had been a point of contention. On the other hand, Burroughs believed that Fielder was secretly proud of his son, for taking that stand.
"Did you and Bill ever argue about the planned marriage?"
"Actually, yes—last night, after the luau, he came to see me ... to state his case. I'm afraid I was rather rough on the boy. Nothing I can do about it now."
Burroughs studied his friend. "Pearl Harada came to see me, not long before she was killed—to ask if I'd arrange a meeting between the two of you."
Fielder gave Burroughs a sharp look. "Really? Whatever for?"
"Same thing, I suppose—make a case for the marriage. You didn't talk to her?"
"I never met the young woman. I'm sorry she's dead." The colonel shrugged. "That's the end of it."
"Jesus, Wooch—that's a little cold, isn't it?"
He exhaled smoke. "All I care about is the best for my boy—and marrying that girl would've been a tragedy."
"Her death's the tragedy, Wooch."
Fielder said nothing; he was watching the game.
Burroughs applauded as the Rainbows made another first down. "That fellow Morimura, that so-called diplomat, he was seen bawling out the Harada girl, a few hours before she was killed."
Another sharp, interested look. "Is that right? I wonder ..."
"What, Wooch?"
"Well, possibly that little Jap was one of her lovers. She was something of a tart, I understood."
Burroughs blinked. "I wouldn't refer to her that way, to your son, if I were you."
Fielder turned toward the writer and some of the hardness seemed to melt. "Ed... I don't mean to be a bastard. I'm not unfeeling. But the very fact that this girl attracted a murderer... that some suitor of hers felt compelled to kill her, in some crime of passion ... that makes my case, doesn't it? That Bill is better off without her."
Suddenly six-two Adam Sterling was pushing in next to Burroughs, finally taking his seat. "Sony I'm a little late."
"A little late?" Burroughs said. "It's the third quarter and your guys are behind fourteen and haven't made a dent on the Scoreboard."
Sterling shrugged. "I'm afraid it is a lost cause for the Bearcats."
The FBI agent was in a white linen suit with a dark blue tie; he looked as if he'd just come from the office—which Burroughs figured was probably the case.
The score climbed to twenty to nothing, and Sterling didn't even appear to care; he, too, seemed distracted, terribly so. The game he'd been looking forward to, so eagerly, suddenly seemed to mean nothing.
Finally Sterling leaned across Burroughs and whispered to Fielder, "What are your plans, after the game?"
"My wife and I are going to a party tonight, at Scho-field Barracks—with General Short and his wife."
"Something's
come up I need to fill you in on, Colonel—really need to see what you make of it."
Sterling clearly meant business, his handsome, bronzed features fist-tight, his voice knife-edged. And Fielder, after all, was chief of Army intelligence on Oahu.
Fielder, eyes narrowed, obviously reading this, said, "I don't think your team's going to come back—shall we go somewhere and talk?"
"You going to leave me here?" Burroughs asked. 'To endure this one-sided contest alone?"
Sterling looked at Burroughs, then at Fielder. "I think Ed can hear this."
Fielder shrugged. "It's your call."
Within twenty minutes, the trio was seated in a thatched-roof pergola on the stretch of beach that belonged to the Waikiki Tavern, which despite its saloon-style name was perhaps Honolulu's most cosmopolitan restaurant. The beachfront arbor was theirs alone, giving the three men both privacy and a breathtaking view of Diamond Head, that distinctive extinct crater whose green slopes danced with sunlight and shadows.
Fielder and Sterling had ordered mm punches and Burroughs was drinking iced tea. The FBI agent had explained to Fielder that Burroughs was doing a little informal surveillance work at the Niumalu and that Burroughs (revealing a fact of which the writer was previously unaware) had been given a security clearance by J. Edgar Hoover himself, for that very purpose.
Sterling got a notebook out of the inside pocket of his white linen jacket, saying, "I went in to the office this morning because of several disturbing events. One was the murder of Pearl Harada."
Fielder frowned skeptically. "How would a girl singer's murder have an impact on intelligence?"
"I can't imagine," Sterling admitted. "But the supposed eyewitness to her murder, Otto Kuhn, is believed to be a 'sleeper' agent for Japan. Kuhn lives at the Niumalu, you know—he's the character Ed is helping keep an eye on."
Fielder nodded, lighting up a cigarette. "You said 'several' disturbing events—what else?"
The colonel did not seem keen to discuss the Pearl Harada killing.
The FBI agent leaned forward. "We've learned that the Japanese Consulate has spent much of the week disposing of—burning—its papers. Considering the present situation, that would seem goddamn significant—a definite indication that the end of peaceful relations between our two nations is close at hand."
The Pearl Harbor Murders Page 9
