The White Ghost

by James R Benn

  “They’re not,” Porter said, drawing his out and handing it to me. “They’re Marine Raider stilettos. A Raider battalion came through here a few weeks ago and we traded for them.”

  “They feel deadly,” I said, hefting the cold cross-hatched grip in my palm, the weight of it heavy, making it well suited for a sudden thrust.

  “That’s all they’re made for,” Kari said. “Killing.”

  “The Marine Raiders were getting a new knife issued,” Porter explained. “It’s called the Ka-Bar, and it’s a combination fighting-and-utility knife. This stiletto is too thin and pointy to be of any practical use, like opening a can of rations or prying open a crate. But for a quick kill, it’s perfect. It’s designed to be lethal and good for little else.”

  “It sounds like you’ve used it,” I said.

  “Not this Marine model, no,” Porter said. “I had an Australian commando stiletto, and used it on a number of occasions. But it was lost on the way here, so when I saw the Raiders were trading theirs, I snapped them up. Gave them to Hugh, Fred, Gordie, John, and a few others.”

  “See how the pommel has a small, hard knob?” Kari said. “Good for bashing heads if the blade doesn’t do the job.” There was an edge of steel at the end of the grip, and my first thought was of Daniel Tamana being hit from behind. But the knob was too small. It would definitely crack bone if the strike were forceful enough, but it wouldn’t make the kind of depression fracture we saw on Daniel’s skull.

  “If you had to use it, I guess it would mean you were in a tight spot,” I said, handing it back to Porter.

  “True enough,” Porter said. “I had to take out a Jap sentry once. A small patrol had gone by on a path we were about to cross. We had ten natives with us, carrying the radio to a new location. The patrol halted and left one man to guard a bend in the trail as they took a break about twenty yards away by a stream. We could’ve waited them out, but the bugger wandered into the bush to relieve himself. Stepped right on one of the native’s hands. The lad was well hidden and didn’t let out a sound, but I could tell the Jap knew something was wrong. He was still pissing when I grabbed his jaw from behind and stabbed him in the heart. Bastard was dead before he hit the ground. I hope these Yank blades are as good as that Australian one. Pity I lost it.”

  “I hear Archer and Gordie are going out soon,” I said. “They taking theirs along?”

  “I saw them not half an hour ago,” Kari said. “They had them on, alright. Impresses the PT crew, makes them think we’re dangerous.”

  “What about you, John? Have you used a knife up close?” I watched his eyes, alert for any telltale nervousness.

  “Not the knife, no,” he said. “Rifle and machete, yes. Of course, I wouldn’t have had a chance to use this knife, since Silas gave it to me only a fortnight ago.” He smiled, forgiving me my error.

  “Of course,” I said. “Where are Gordie and Archer, by the way? I need to talk to them about Deanna. I understand they were the ones who dropped her off in Chinatown this morning.”

  “End of the dock,” Porter said. “PT-169. That’s Phil Cotter’s boat. The fellow who left Kennedy and his crew adrift in Blackett Strait.”

  “I hadn’t heard it was Fred and Gordie who brought Deanna to Chinatown,” Kari said. “Do you think—?” He let the question hang in the air. Porter gave me a studied glance again, then looked away.

  “Listen, John,” Porter said before I could answer, “Fred was sweet on Deanna, but he wouldn’t hurt her, would he?”

  “The man has a temper, there’s no denying it,” Kari said.

  “I heard he was pretty tough on his workers, but that’s not the same thing as murdering a defenseless woman,” I said, watching again for a reaction. “Who would do that?”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to be finding out, isn’t it?” Porter said, his tone harsh and demanding.

  “Is that true, what I’ve heard?”

  “Yes, it is,” Kari said, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “He’s the type of man who enjoys a fight and doesn’t mind a few split knuckles along the way. I wouldn’t want to work for him, but I wouldn’t mind having him on my side in a fight either.”

  “That’s helpful,” I said. “Thanks. See you later.”

  I ambled off to find PT-169. I was sure that Deanna had been killed with a dagger or stiletto. Her wound was small and the external blood loss was minimal. The fact that half a dozen or so Coastwatchers, and whoever else the Marine Raiders traded with, had the right kind of knife for the job didn’t help matters. In any case, I’d wait for Doc Schwartz to confirm my theory when I saw him at the hospital.

  Lieutenant Cotter was at the back of my mind as well. Jack had practically called him a coward for leaving the crew of PT-109 in Blackett Strait that night. And a liar for claiming he had searched for them. If the Coastwatcher’s report of seeing a burning hulk from Kolombangara was accurate, I couldn’t see how Cotter missed it in the dark Pacific night. Unless he was headed in the opposite direction.

  Did that make him a suspect? It was hard to see how, except for the possibility that he’d tried to frame Jack to get back at him and discredit his accusations. One killing was worth considering. With each additional death, it made less and less sense. He could have followed Jack into the hospital, watched him deliver the plant to Sam Chang, and then strangled him, hoping that frame would fit.

  But Deanna? Could he kill a woman in cold blood? No, not even my fevered imagination could work that one out.

  The 169 had a lived-in look. A canvas tarp was hung across the deck to provide partial shade for the crew busy cleaning the twin fifty-caliber machine guns and the twenty-millimeter cannon mounted aft. Skivvies and sun-bleached khakis were draped over lines, drying in the sun. Fred and Gordie were on the dock, under a canvas lean-to doing the same Cosmoline job that John Kari had been working on.

  “What ho, Billy!” Gordie said in greeting, holding up a brown, grease-covered hand. “What brings you here?” Fred gave me a curt nod, then returned to slathering Cosmoline over a carbine.

  “I’m going up to Rendova with Silas and John,” I said by way of an answer. I pulled a crate into the shade of the lean-to and joined them. “You’ve heard about Deanna, I suppose.”

  “God-awful,” Gordie spat. Sweat dripped from his bald head and he wiped it away with a shirtsleeve.

  “Is it related to the other deaths?” Archer asked, his mouth set in a grim line.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, glancing at their web belts. Each wore a knife identical to the one Porter showed me.

  “Well, seems odd, doesn’t it? I mean, we’ve seen plenty of death in this war, but I always thought murder might take a holiday, you know? Now all of a sudden, we’ve got three bodies.”

  “Yeah, it’s strange,” I said, as if the thought hadn’t yet occurred to me. “I understand you fellows gave Deanna a ride into Chinatown. Is that right?”

  “That we did,” Gordie offered. “She seemed awfully keen on getting there in advance of her luncheon with the Kennedy boy. We left Hugh’s place, made a stop at the signals section, picked up these weapons and a case of Cosmoline from the quartermaster, then made the stop in Chinatown.”

  “Did she seem upset or worried?” I asked.

  “Not that I saw,” Gordie said. “Fred?”

  “She was her usual self,” Fred said. “Friendly and warm. Who’d want to hurt her, that’s what I’d like to know.” His voice caught on those last words, and his emotion seemed sincere. When people lie about an emotion, it’s easier to tell. Most times they oversell it. But Fred was working at keeping it bottled up, and that’s harder to fake.

  “Did you see anyone approach Deanna after you dropped her off?”

  “No,” Gordie said, giving it a bit of thought. “Not at all. She asked us if we knew where either of the Chang sisters lived, but we hadn’t a c
lue. Did you see anything, Fred?”

  “I watched her for a minute,” Fred said, “to make sure she was alright, you know. But she disappeared into the crowd on the sidewalk. No sign of her after that.”

  “I went into a couple of stores,” Gordie said. “Never laid eyes on her again.”

  “Were you with him, Fred?”

  “No,” Archer said. “Gordie likes those hot dried peppers the Chinese grocers sell. He went off in search of a supply of those. I stayed with the jeep.”

  “They don’t agree with Fred’s stomach,” Gordie said. “But I like a bit of spice out in the bush. Helps when you have nothing but taro or rice to eat.”

  “I bet,” I said, wondering how long Fred had while Gordie was gone. “I might get some myself. Which shop?”

  “Fei Long’s place, near the south end of the wharf. I wanted one of those long strings, not loose peppers. Took a while to find.”

  “I’ll check it out,” I said. “Good luck with the Cosmoline. Nasty stuff.”

  “But worth it,” Fred said. “When we have to retrieve these carbines, they’ll be as good as new. And the quartermaster chaps did us a favor. They greased a half dozen. Saves a bit of time.” He gestured in the direction of two crates, stenciled with US Carbine, Cal. .30, M1. There were smears of dried Cosmoline on the side of each one.

  “Messy,” I said absently, running my finger across the nearest case, feeling the waxy goo.

  “That’s what Deanna said, poor thing,” Gordie said.

  It was a mess. I left them to their work, wondering what the hell to do next. I had four Coastwatchers, all armed with the kind of knife that could have killed Deanna. Three of them were near the scene of her murder. They’d had plenty of contact with Cosmoline during the time in question. So had Silas Porter, but there was no evidence he’d been in Chinatown. I hadn’t known many hermits in my time, but I’d bet not many got mixed up with enough people to want to murder three of them. At least not after hiding themselves away from the world for so long; no one made enemies that fast. Still, all four had commando knives, and all four had handled Cosmoline. Even so, Deanna could have picked up a smudge on her own at the quartermaster’s.

  It looked like I wouldn’t need that jail cell anytime soon, unless I were willing to toss them all in.

  Chapter Twenty

  I drove back to the hospital, trying to put together what I knew about Deanna’s death.

  She’d been at Hugh Sexton’s in the morning. Then Fred and Gordie headed out with her in their jeep, making stops at the signals section and the quartermaster’s, both on the naval base. They took on cases of carbines, two of which were smeared with Cosmoline, which Deanna could have picked up, smudging her collar. Meanwhile, over at the Sesapi PT base, Silas Porter calls the signals people to tell them John Kari is on his way for a new transmitter doohickey. Kari leaves, his hands probably still greasy with Cosmoline. Fred and Gordie stop in Chinatown. Wait—had they and Kari crossed paths? Maybe not. There were a couple of routes to take once past Chinatown, so they may well not have spotted each other.

  So Fred and Gordie drop off Deanna. Fred stays in the jeep, watching her walk into the crowded street. Gordie goes off to buy hot peppers. Either one of them could have followed Deanna, pulled her aside, and taken her into that alleyway. A secret to be shared, no one must overhear. She’d trust them, wouldn’t she? Or would she be nervous about Fred pulling her off the street, after his behavior at the party? She’d be more likely to trust Gordie. Cheerful, portly Gordie.

  Or, did John Kari stop on his way back from the base? Then jump into his jeep and flee the scene at top speed? But why would he attack Deanna? I had no answer for that. Even Fred Archer’s temper and desire for Deanna didn’t add up to murder, at least not this kind of murder. His kind of guy might go too far late at night, half drunk and in a jealous rage. But in the light of day, while preparing for a mission? I couldn’t see it.

  I couldn’t see much at all. Means and opportunity were everywhere. Motive was missing in action. If I caught a glimpse of the motive that drove these murders, all might be revealed. I parked the jeep in front of the hospital, hoping Kaz would be back soon to help me muddle through all this.

  I went off to find Schwartz. He wasn’t happy when I did.

  “Boyle, I’m not the local coroner, dammit,” Schwartz said as he led me into the damp basement morgue.

  “If the Brits had one here, he skedaddled to Australia long ago,” I said. “Sorry, but I wanted to be sure a medical expert examined her for evidence.”

  “In here,” he said, opening a thick wooden door, leading into a chamber dug out of the side of the hill the hospital stood on. It was cool, about as chilled as anywhere on Tulagi could be. He pulled a cord and a harsh light illuminated a shroud-covered body. Deanna Pendleton.

  “You probably saw the marks,” Schwartz said, pulling the sheet and uncovering her head and shoulders. Her eyes were milky and skin pale, but her face was still beautiful. “A strong left hand, I’d say. In strangulation cases, you often see oval finger marks, with the thumb doing the most damage, like on Sam Chang’s neck. You can see here that the other fingers left fainter marks.” He traced a finger along the left side of her neck.

  “Was she strangled?” I asked, working at not looking into those dead eyes.

  “No, I don’t think so,” Schwartz said. “It was a very forceful grip, but I didn’t see any other swelling or evident damage to the larynx. I could open up the neck and check if you want.”

  “No,” I said, my voice a clipped whisper. I wanted to say her neck, but I held back. He was just being clinical.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” he said, covering her face before folding the sheet up on her right side, treating her with more modesty than a real coroner would have. “Not with this knife wound. Right between the fourth and fifth ribs into the heart.” The blood had been washed away, and all that was left was a narrow slit, a tear in the pearly white skin to the side of her left breast.

  “That would have killed her, right?”

  “Yes, and quickly, too,” Schwartz said. “Look at the incision left by the blade. See how it’s tapered at both ends? That means the blade was sharp on both sides. Fairly thin, too, based on the width of the opening.”

  “Like a Marine Raider stiletto,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Schwartz said. “I’ve never seen one of those. But on nearly any Saturday night in the County General ER, you’d see a wound like this. Usually made by an Italian switchblade, sharpened on both sides.” He covered her back up and sighed, shaking his head.

  “Thanks, Doc,” I said. “What’ll happen now? With her body, I mean.”

  “I contacted Graves Registration, but since she’s a civilian, they’re not sure what to do. You have any idea how to contact next of kin?”

  “All I know is she worked with a Methodist missionary still hiding out on Vella Lavella.”

  “Damn,” Schwartz muttered as he turned off the light and shut the heavy door behind us. “Any idea who did it?”

  “Gwai lo,” I said. “The white ghost.”

  I made my way back to my quarters, the air still thick with heat even as the sun set over the Slot. Kao was waiting on the verandah with a message from Captain Ritchie, who wanted to see me, in his quarters this time. He had the old district commissioner’s place, a short walk up the dusty lane. I took my time, trying to figure out a way to report on what I’d found that made any sense at all.

  I came up empty.

  “Lieutenant Boyle,” Ritchie greeted me from a chair on his verandah, beckoning in a casual manner.

  “You asked to see me, Captain?” I said, snapping a salute and standing at attention, sweat dripping from my brow.

  “At ease, Boyle,” Ritchie said. “Take a load off.” He gestured with his thumb toward the worn wicker chair next to him, clinking the
remains of ice cubes in his glass. “Join me?”

  “Wouldn’t mind it a bit,” I said. “You have ice?”

  “Yep. Got an icebox inside and a refrigeration unit on base. They deliver a block of ice every day. Keeps the food cold and the bourbon the way I like it. Sali, more ice,” he hollered in the general direction of the house. In two shakes his houseboy, dressed in a lap-lap much like Kao’s, raced out with a glass and a bowl of chipped ice. Sali retreated inside and Ritchie poured the bourbon, leaving the ice to me. I took enough to chill the amber liquid, but not enough to look greedy. Out here, ice probably commanded a high price on the black market.

  “Cheers,” I said, raising my glass. We touched glasses and drank. Ritchie took a long gulp, and I wondered how long cocktail hour had been going on.

  “Sad business about Miss Pendleton,” he said, a sigh escaping his lips as he worked a piece of ice around in his mouth.

  “Yes sir,” I said. “I think there’s a good chance all three killings are related. Tamana, Chang, and Deanna.”

  “Sounds like you’re making progress,” Ritchie said, in an encouraging voice. I liked him a lot better with bourbon on the verandah than during office hours.

  “Some,” I said. “I know Daniel Tamana went looking for Sam Chang in Chinatown. He’d heard Chang was on Tulagi, but didn’t know he was in the hospital. And Tamana and Deanna were observed having a hushed conversation the day Daniel was killed. I think whoever murdered Daniel is cleaning up loose ends.”

  “Surely you don’t suspect Lieutenant Kennedy of killing all three people? Especially since he was involved with the Pendleton girl.” Ritchie took another drink and topped off our glasses.

  “I don’t think he killed Deanna,” I said. “But a guy is always a suspect when his girlfriend is found dead, until he’s ruled out.”

  “But in this case there’s no evidence against him?” Ritchie said.

  “No, sir.”

  “If the killings are related, and you don’t think Kennedy killed the girl, then you probably don’t suspect him in the other two deaths, right?” It was an undeniable piece of logic; I could see the bourbon wasn’t getting in the way of clear thinking for Ritchie.