The White Ghost

by James R Benn

  “Hurry back,” I said as we descended the steps outside the office. “I may need you to help run interference with Jai-li. The last thing we need is a second case and a bunch of angry Chinese on our tail. Ritchie seems more worried about them than about Tamana.”

  “Perhaps he has lost interest in serving the Kennedy interests, since you demonstrated how obvious his links are to the ambassador. The Chinese can certainly close ranks and make his administration of Tulagi irksome. They are here, and the Kennedy family is far away,” Kaz said.

  “Yeah, maybe. The good news is we might stumble upon a link between Daniel and Chang if we can find out why Daniel sought him out,” I said as I started the jeep.

  “I’d say there is bad news and good news,” Kaz said. “The bad news is that if there was a link, with both men dead, we may never know what it was.”

  “And the good news?”

  “The good news is I will not have to suffer another boat ride to Guadalcanal.”

  I drove Kaz to the harbor where he did have to endure a brief journey in a launch out to the waiting PBY. It was seven or eight hours to Brisbane, so depending on when he got to the hospital and saw Dickie Miller, he’d be gone two or three days. I hoped it would be worth the trip.

  I proceeded to the hospital, wondering what the death of Sam Chang meant. A blood feud between gangs? There were a number of triad organizations active among the Chinese communities in the South Pacific. Like Mafia families, they often fought with each other. But from the little I’d heard about Sam Chang, he was a straightforward businessman, not a criminal. Maybe he borrowed money and couldn’t pay it back. The triad wouldn’t like that. Or maybe he loaned money and the borrower paid him back with a tight grip around the neck.

  Or, perhaps somebody didn’t want us making the connection between Daniel Tamana and Sam Chang. Well, I had one now: both of them murdered on Tulagi.

  “Lieutenant Boyle?” asked a sailor as I took the steps up to the hospital entrance. He was dressed in blue dungarees and a white Dixie cup hat and sported an SP armband. Shore patrol.

  “If you know my name you know why I’m here,” I said. “Lead the way.”

  “The doctors are in a snit waiting for you, sir. They keep saying they have to move the body. The other patients don’t like a corpse on their ward, if you know what I mean.”

  “Can’t blame ’em, sailor,” I said. “But no one’s touched the body, right?”

  “Yes, sir. My buddy is standing guard.”

  He took me to a small ward off the main corridor. A small room, really. No nurses station, just six beds, three along each wall. All the patients were Chinese. In unison they began chattering at me, jabbing fingers at Chang’s body, obviously not happy. Neither was Sam Chang, with his broken leg in traction, the bed sheets thrown off, and his open eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  “Does anyone speak English?” I asked.

  “Already tried that, Lieutenant,” the second SP said. “No one even understands the question.”

  “You finally made it.” The voice belonged to a harried doctor with disheveled hair, a heavy beard, and a rumpled white coat over his navy khakis. “Captain Ritchie ordered us not to move the body until you looked at it. So look.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Boyle. And you are?”

  “Captain Schwartz, and I’ve been on duty for twenty-four hours, so hurry it up, please.”

  “Okay, Captain, but first tell me, are these patients civilians? What are they doing here?”

  “We expanded the English colonial hospital when we first took the island. Medical facilities had been overwhelmed with natives and other refugees fleeing the Japanese. So we have a few rooms set aside for them. We put the Chinese patients together so they could communicate with each other.”

  “That’s great, but I’d like to know what they’re saying now,” I said over the din of the continuing complaints.

  “They wish my brother’s body to be treated with respect,” a soft, melodious voice said from behind Captain Schwartz. “And not left in such an undignified position.”

  “Miss Rui Chang,” I said, recognizing the woman Jack had left with last night. She wore a white silk dress, buttoned high to the neck. I knew white was the Chinese color for mourning. “We mean no disrespect.”

  “Even so, Lieutenant, our beliefs dictate that when a person dies, their body must be treated gently and with kindness. The spirit remains for a time near the body. Unless the spirit can move on in a state of happiness, it may not be reborn for a very long time. And any spirit would be distressed upon seeing my poor brother’s body.”

  “Of course,” I said, taking in the traction device that held Chang’s broken leg up, not to mention the bruised neck and the open, sightless eyes. “I need only a few minutes, and the body can be released.”

  She nodded and retreated to the corridor.

  “When was he found?” I asked Schwartz as I leaned over the corpse.

  “Around five o’clock. Orderlies check the rooms at night every hour. Everything was fine at four. He was found like this at five.”

  “Death by manual strangulation, obviously,” I said, turning his head to see the bruises on either side of his neck. Schwartz nodded his agreement. “Was he being treated for anything other than a broken leg?”

  “No,” Schwartz said. “Re-broken, to be precise. He sustained a fracture on that island he was evacuated from, and then fell and reinjured it getting off ship in the harbor. We reset it, and he would have been fine.”

  “Did he have a lot of visitors?”

  “Lieutenant Boyle, the Chinese have large families,” Schwartz said. “They’re in and out of here all day long.”

  “White men? Melanesians? Anyone other than family?” I asked.

  “No,” Schwartz said. “Not that I know of, but we don’t really keep track of visitors, especially when we don’t speak the same language.”

  “Didn’t Sam Chang speak English? It seems he did business with lots of islanders; he must have known the lingo,” I said.

  “He did. But still, this is a naval hospital. We treat civilians as needed and then get them out. Chang was here mainly because his injury was sustained while disembarking a naval vessel.”

  “So no one else besides his family came to visit him?”

  “No, not exactly,” Schwartz said, rubbing his chin absentmindedly.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Lieutenant Kennedy—you know that guy who got his PT boat rammed?—I saw him in the hallway last night, late. He stopped and looked in the Chinese ward. But then he left.”

  “What time?” I asked.

  “It was a little after two o’clock. I was headed to the mess for some coffee when I saw him. I asked if he needed any help, and he said he was looking in on a friend, then heading for his hut.”

  “You watched him leave?”

  “Sure,” Schwartz said. “I didn’t follow him, if that’s what you mean. But he went in that direction, down the main corridor.” He hitched his thumb in the general direction of the long hallway leading to the rear of the hospital and the grass and bamboo huts for the walking wounded of the officer class.

  “Hang on a sec, Doc,” I said, brushing past Schwartz.

  “That’s Captain,” he said, without much enthusiasm.

  “Miss Chang,” I said, noticing for the first time that she was accompanied by two large guys standing on each side of her. Their eyes focused on me as I drew closer, and one stepped in front of Rui while the other intercepted me. Classic bodyguard moves. She spoke sharply, and they eased back into position.

  “Are you done, Lieutenant Boyle?” she asked.

  “Almost, Miss Chang. Could you or one of your associates ask the other patients if they saw anyone enter the ward during the night?”

  “Such an obvious question, Lieutenant. We asked hours ago.
No, none of them saw anything. Two patients, including the man opposite my brother, had been given sedatives. My brother as well was given a sleeping pill. The assailant could have easily entered in silence and done his work.”

  “Forgive me saying so, but the men with you appear to be bodyguards. Is that because of the murder of your brother, or is it how you usually travel?”

  “My sister and I always go out with one escort,” she said. “Due to the perilous times in which we live. The second man is because of my brother.” She spoke very precise English, each syllable clipped and exact. Her posture was equally as exact. She stood erect, completely still, not a wasted movement, even in her hands, which were demurely clasped in front of her. Her eyes were dark, her lips red, and her cheekbones finely sculpted. Jack always did go for the finer things in life.

  “I see. Is it possible he was killed as the result of business dealings? In these perilous times?”

  “No, Lieutenant Boyle, it is not,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “My brother had been trapped on Vella Lavella for months. He had no opportunity to engage in a dispute that would have resulted in such an attack. In any case, very few people knew he got out and was on Tulagi, and most of those were American navy or Coastwatchers. I am afraid you must look to your own people for the killer.”

  “I understand Lieutenant Kennedy visited you last night,” I said, watching for a reaction.

  “You saw us leave the party together, so you know that,” she said.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but did you mention your brother’s presence here to Jack? Ask him to stop and visit?”

  “Yes, I did,” Rui said. “I gave him a bamboo plant and asked him to leave it on Shan’s bed table. Or Sam, as you call him. I saw it there when I looked in earlier. It is a symbol of good luck, and I thought it would cheer Shan up when he awoke.” Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she kept them in check.

  “Did your brother know a Melanesian named Daniel Tamana? He’s also a Coastwatcher.”

  “Not that I know of,” Rui said. “Is that not the man who was recently murdered?”

  “Yes. I understand Daniel was looking for your brother the day before he was killed.”

  “As you know, Lieutenant,” she said, “if he found him, it would have been in this room. Shan was hardly in a position to attack and kill him, if that is what you are alluding to.”

  “No, not at all. I simply thought it might shed some light on Daniel’s activities the day of his death.”

  “If I hear of anything, I will inform you,” Rui said. “Shan may have known him on Vella Lavella, but I would have no knowledge of that.”

  “One last question, I promise. What time did Jack leave you?”

  “Perhaps one thirty, a little later.”

  “Thank you, Miss Chang. I am very sorry about your brother’s death. I will do everything I can to find the killer.”

  “Do so, Lieutenant Boyle,” she said, and left. A woman used to getting her way. I watched the bodyguards flanking her, and thought that even from a hospital bed, a Chang family member would have no trouble getting their dirty work done for them.

  “Okay, Captain Schwartz,” I said, returning to the room and noting the glass vase with sprouted bamboo. “How long would it take to strangle him?”

  “Hard to say. He could have struggled, fought back,” Schwartz said.

  “Don’t worry, Doc, I won’t ask for a second opinion,” I said. “And remember, he’d been given a sleeping pill.”

  “Right,” Schwartz said, consulting the chart still hanging at the end of the bed. “Supposing his assailant could get into position without waking him, it would take about ten seconds of firm, steady pressure to render him unconscious. Then another minute and it’s all over. The sedative would have made the job easier.”

  I hefted the glass vase with the bamboo plant set in among smooth, rounded pebbles. It would have made a decent cosh, but there had been no need. I checked the drawer on the nightstand, but it was empty. Not surprising since Chang probably came in with nothing but the clothes on his back. Or if there had been anything valuable, his sisters would have taken it for safekeeping. I rolled his body, looking for anything hidden in the bed. Nothing.

  “I don’t see any other marks or bruises, do you?”

  “No,” Schwartz said, unbuttoning Chang’s pajama top and getting a good look at the marks left by the killer’s hands. “Strong hands, I’d say.”

  “Why?”

  “Even with the sedative, he would have woken up,” Schwartz said. “The natural response is to thrash about, and if he moved that leg at all, it would have been painful. A sharp, sudden pain that would make anyone gasp or scream, sedated or not.”

  “But he was being choked,” I said.

  “Right, but some sort of sound would have come out, unless the grip was very tight, which also would have rendered him unconscious more quickly. My conjecture is that his assailant was very strong and determined, otherwise Chang would have made more than enough noise to wake someone in this room.”

  “Strong, determined, and with big hands,” I said, placing my own around Chang’s throat. “Bigger than mine.”

  “Right,” Schwartz said. “The killer might be right-handed, as well. See how the right thumbprint shows? People usually grasp things first with their dominant hand.”

  “You know your way around dead bodies, Doc.”

  “You do your residency at County General in Chicago, you see a lot of violent injuries in the ER,” Schwartz said. “Couldn’t help learning a few things from the questions cops asked.”

  “Thanks, Captain, you’ve been a big help. Okay to move him out.” I arranged Chang’s hands on his chest, closed his eyes, and drew the sheet up over his face as Schwartz loosened the wires holding Chang’s leg in traction. I left, wishing Sam Chang a quick trip to the next life and hopes that it’d be a peaceful one.

  As for Jack, my mind wasn’t made up. I knew he had a temper, and it wasn’t impossible to think of him taking a whack at a guy in a rage; I could see him killing Daniel in an unguarded moment. But could he throttle a man to death? It wouldn’t have been his style in Boston, but in the South Pacific, surrounded by blood, decay, and death, who knew?

  I didn’t.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Jack?” I said, announcing myself as I entered his hut. The place was empty, his bed unmade and clothes heaped in piles on the floor. Neatness was never a big consideration for Jack, as far as I remembered. I sat at the table, strewn with yellowed newspapers, a couple of old Life magazines, and some correspondence in progress. I sat to wait and flipped through Life, reading about the army training women pilots in Texas to ferry aircraft overseas from the States. Not a bad idea. Another article was about General Charles de Gaulle, which wasn’t even a close second in the not-a-bad-idea department. I tossed the magazine aside and let my gaze wander over to Jack’s letters.

  One envelope had a return address from Charlotte McDonnell. The letter next to it was in Jack’s handwriting, with a note from Charlotte scrawled across the top in large letters: Can’t keep all the girls straight? Jack’s letter to Dearest Darlyne had gone in the wrong envelope and was obviously not appreciated. Especially the part about looking forward to a return engagement, not of the matrimonial kind.

  No, Charlotte, I thought, Jack can’t keep all the girls straight.

  I craned my neck to spy on the letter Jack was obviously in the midst of writing. Dear Lem, it began. Lem Billings, Jack’s best friend from his private school days. I’d met Lem—it was hard to know Jack and not meet Lem—and liked him. A decent guy. We’d stayed in touch off and on, mostly through Christmas cards and the occasional postcard from distant lands. He had bad eyes and couldn’t get into the service, but had volunteered for the American Ambulance Field Service, and probably saw more action in North Africa than a lot of guys in the army.
/>   Jack’s letter started off by informing Lem he was about to be discharged from the hospital, and was well enough to have sampled the delights of the Orient, if you know what I mean. Last night was my first excursion into the Far East, and I did my nation proud. And so on. Now I’m no prude, but something in Jack’s bragging about his conquests didn’t sit well with me. It seemed like he needed to announce his every escapade, and I wondered if the telling was more important for Jack than the act itself. I’d heard plenty of rumors about his old man stepping out with the ladies, so maybe he was trying to live up to his father’s reputation.

  I walked outside, putting some distance between me and evidence of my snooping. Just in time, too. Jack approached, wearing shorts and tennis shoes, a towel slung around his neck.

  “Billy, what’s new? Did you have a good time last night?”

  “It was okay,” I said as I followed him into the hut. “How about you?”

  “Terrific. Rui took me home to Chinatown,” Jack said, grinning as he flopped into a chair and tossed the towel on the floor. “Did you meet her?”

  “Yeah, a little while ago,” I said. Jack sounded like he hadn’t heard about Sam. “As I was checking her brother’s body for evidence.”

  “What?” Jack said, his eyes wide with surprise, or a reasonable imitation.

  “Sam Chang was murdered early this morning,” I said. “A few hours after you were seen in his room.”

  “Oh Jesus, that’s all I need,” Jack said.

  “Yeah, I imagine he felt the same way when he was being strangled,” I said, pulling up a chair next to Jack and leaning in close. “Tell me why you were there.”

  “Rui asked me to drop off a bamboo plant,” he said. “It’s for luck.”

  “Yeah, all of it bad. What time was that?”

  “I’m not sure, around two o’clock, I think,” Jack said. “I went in and put the plant on the table; Rui told me which bed Sam was in. He was asleep, and so was everyone else in the room.”

  “Did you see anyone else?”