by James R Benn
“I’m surprised you and Daniel didn’t meet up on Pavau,” I said. “Since his job involved keeping books and recording outgoing shipments of copra.”
“We probably would have at some point,” Kari said. “But the days the boats came in were incredibly busy, and I was focused on every detail of the supply shipments and billing the planters. I didn’t want to make a mistake and give Lever a reason to dismiss me. For all I know, we did exchange paperwork at the docks, but I wasn’t paying much attention.”
“Was Sam Chang in competition with Lever?” I asked.
“No, he was trying to supplement what they offered,” Kari said. “He saw an opportunity, and it would have been a good one, too, if not for the war.”
“Lever brought in the basics,” Porter said. “Liquor, tinned meats, that sort of thing. They didn’t do much with anything that might spoil, since they only came around once a month.” He finished his beer with a long swallow, and tossed the empty bottle into the drink.
“With the planters doing well before the Japs came along, they were ready for more frequent resupplies, and more luxuries,” Kari said. “Chang delivered what they wanted.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said to Porter, “did you end up owing Sam Chang money?”
“He never came my way,” Porter said. “Too far for only one customer, on the north side of the island. We face the open ocean, and the waters can be heavy.”
“But he did go to Pavau,” I said.
“Indeed,” Kari said. “A good businessman. He let me know he had no intention of replacing Lever’s business, and asked me to pass that information on, which I did.”
“So he did supply the other planters?” I asked.
“Right,” Kari said. “Except for Silas’s place, the plantations on Pavau are all on the south side of the island, on New Georgia Sound, where the waters are calmer. Chang made regular stops every week, except for when the Lever boats came in. He was smart. He didn’t want to antagonize them, so he worked around their schedule.”
“Did you guys meet on Pavau?” I asked, wondering if Porter and Kari had anything in common other than their Coastwatchers service.
“No,” Kari said, laughing. “Silas the hermit didn’t have a reputation for putting out the welcome mat. Besides, there was only a jungle track over the mountain. His end of the island was quite inaccessible except by boat.”
“And being a dedicated hermit,” Porter said, “I never ventured off the plantation, by land or sea.”
“I’m surprised you took on an assistant,” I said. “Didn’t cramp your style?”
“The price of success, I’m afraid,” Porter said. “We were doing rather well, and I couldn’t be everywhere at once. It takes a deft hand to work with a native crew. You have to be firm and let them know who’s boss, but not be so harsh that they’ll retaliate.”
“Retaliate how?” I asked.
“Oh, there’s been a few who were set upon by their workers. There’s dozens of them and only one of you, so you have to take care. Archer is one who uses fear and his fists to deal with them,” Porter said. “I favored firmness and a decent wage.”
“How did Peter Fraser take to the isolation?”
“He didn’t seem to mind a bit,” Porter said. “But it had only been six months. Perhaps it would have worn on him, had he lived.”
“So what about after the war, for both of you?”
“You mean after a hot bath and a soft bed?” Porter said with a grin. His plans didn’t go beyond rebuilding the plantation and getting off the island now and then. No more of the hermit’s life for him. John Kari hoped to attend university in Australia, if it was allowed.
“I have a feeling things will change after the war. There’s talk of independence for the Solomon Islands,” he said.
“Good luck with that,” I said. “The English don’t let go of their colonies easily, believe me.”
“I don’t think Lever Brothers and the other companies who profit from cheap native labor will be happy either,” Kari said. “But we’ve seen and done things because of this war that will change the Solomons forever.” There was no bitterness when Kari talked of the future, only hope. He finished his beer and carefully set the bottle on the wharf.
“It’s true,” Porter said, with a shake of his head. “For better or worse, the world has descended upon these islands. The simple times are gone.”
“Well, we’ve still got a war to win first,” I said, standing and stretching my legs. “I’ve got to see Lieutenant Cotter. Thanks for the beer.”
“Bye-o,” Porter said, lighting a cigarette as he leaned back against a stack of crates, all labeled Fragmentation Hand Grenade, Mk2. Out here, you took your comfort where you found it.
John Kari waved and smiled, perhaps practicing for his future career as a politician. He had a good start. He’d been lying through his teeth when he claimed he hadn’t met Daniel Tamana on Pavau.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We all lie from time to time. But John Kari’s lie was about Daniel Tamana, a guy who’d brought me to these tropical isles and ruined my leave in Algiers with Diana by getting himself killed. There were plenty of reasons to hide the truth, and Kari may have had a good one, but I needed to find out if it had anything to do with Daniel’s death.
I turned it over in my mind as I walked the length of the dock, heading to where Cotter’s PT-169 was moored, the blistering sun grilling my exposed skin. Daniel Tamana’s job on the Pavau plantation was to keep the books and oversee outgoing shipments of copra. John Kari’s job was to record those shipments for Lever at the docks. How could they not have met? How many well-educated Melanesians were there on one island, speaking the King’s English to perfection?
Kari was also in charge of billing planters for the Lever supplies. Daniel would have handled those bills. Another intersection of events that certainly would have brought them into contact. But why lie? Even if they’d only met briefly and had cursory business contacts, why hide the fact?
Porter had not been there when Daniel first came to Hugh Sexton’s place, which explained why he had asked Kari if he’d ever met Daniel before. Would Porter have known either man on Pavau? No, not isolated as he was on the north end of the island. But I had my doubts about Kari not knowing Daniel.
I scanned the dock for any sign of Gordie or Archer, but couldn’t pick them out from the press of sailors moving in every direction. Another section of dock jutted out from the shore just ahead, with only a single larger vessel moored alongside. It was about the size of an LST, but with cranes and pulleys, the kind you see on merchant ships for loading cargo. Two PT boats were anchored alongside; I figured this was a PT boat tender, the kind of vessel Daniel and the others took from Guadalcanal. It was bigger than I’d expected, and I decided it’d be interesting to see what the view was for your average passenger.
I approached the 169 as Cotter was descending the gangplank. I introduced myself and told him I might need to hitch a ride for Kaz and myself tomorrow. I offered to show him my orders, but he waved me off.
“Not a problem, Lieutenant, even for a pal of Kennedy’s,” Cotter said, his hands on his hips, his chin jutting forward. His words were friendly enough, but his stance was a fighter’s. “Be here before fifteen hundred hours tomorrow, and keep your gear light. We’ve got plenty on board already, courtesy of our Coastwatcher passengers.”
“Got it. And Jack Kennedy and I are acquaintances, not pals,” I said. “How about you? Were you and he pals?”
“We were friendly enough, before that patrol in Blackett Strait. A skipper dumb enough to get his boat sliced in two while dead in the water shouldn’t criticize his squadron mates for not finding him.”
“You searched?” I asked, figuring a direct question was the best way to get the measure of this man.
“We not only searched, we sent a radi
o warning before the 109 was hit. We saw the phosphorescent wake of what I thought was a destroyer and radioed to all boats in the vicinity. No acknowledgement from Kennedy.” He turned and spat into the oily water.
“Why wouldn’t he acknowledge?” I asked.
“Good question,” Cotter said. “I asked his radioman, Maguire, why he hadn’t answered. He said he was up on deck, chatting with Kennedy. Chatting, can you believe it? That’s the kind of skipper he was. Sloppy. If I was in a night action and my radioman left his post, I’d kick his ass and put him on report. Anything else you want to waste my time over?” Cotter took a step closer, his arms akimbo. If I backed up, I’d end up in the drink with his spit, which seemed to be his plan.
“Why is it a waste of time?” I said. “I told you he’s no friend of mine.”
“Because he’s a rich man’s spoiled kid, that’s why. What the hell do you think the navy’s going to do with him, send him home in disgrace?”
“It’s doubtful,” I agreed. Cotter let his hands drop and took half a step back, his anger vented for the moment. “Did you happen to know the fellow who was killed near the hospital? Daniel Tamana?”
“The Coastwatcher? No, but I heard Kennedy was the one who found him. You the guy they got investigating that?”
“Yep, that’s me. You hear anything I should know about?”
“Yeah,” Cotter said, brushing me aside. “I hear Papa Kennedy got a Boston Irish cop to come out here and clear his son. Have I got that right?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he hustled off the dock. I felt half a dozen eyes on me as his crewmen stood on the deck of the PT boat, watching.
“Basically, he does,” I shouted at them. They scattered.
Gordie and Archer were nowhere to be found. Maybe one of them left after rolling a couple of steel drums in my direction. Or both? Anyway, I figured there’d be time tomorrow to talk more with them. I didn’t ask if any of the PT-169 crew knew where they were, figuring they might send me to the wrong end of the island just for my Southie accent, if they agreed with Cotter.
I made my way to the base HQ, such as it was. A stifling hot Quonset hut, the commanding officer nowhere to be found, manned by a single sailor in shorts and a denim shirt with the sleeves torn off. Not exactly recruiting poster stuff, but I couldn’t blame him once I set foot inside. I felt the sweat evaporate off my skin in a heartbeat, and instantly understood why the CO had found business elsewhere. The sailor made a call for me to Yeoman Howe, who had learned Kaz would be on today’s flight from Brisbane. Good news.
He followed me outside and collapsed into a chair set under a canvas tarp strung from the side of the metal hut, gulping water from a canteen.
“Is that big ship at the end of the dock a PT boat tender?” I asked.
“Yes sir,” he said. “That’s an AGP-21, a converted LST.”
“Are there others in the Solomons?”
“No, that’s our one and only. She runs between here and Rendova pretty regular. Guadalcanal, too. That covers all the PT bases in the Solomons.”
“Who’s the XO?” I knew better than to bother the ship’s captain, but his executive officer would want to know what I was doing aboard, so better to start off by being polite and observing the naval courtesies.
“Lieutenant Kelly, sir. He left here about a half hour ago. They’re getting ready to pull out tonight, so he’s probably on board.”
“Thanks. Don’t get heatstroke in there.”
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I only go in when I hear the telephone or see an officer coming. If I’d known you were army, I would have stayed out here.”
“Smart,” I said. “They should promote you.”
“The navy don’t work like that, sir.”
I told him the army wasn’t much better and headed for the tender. Moored hard against it was a PT boat swarming with sailors brandishing wrenches and muscle as they worked to remove the heavy torpedo tubes. I saw that the depth charges were already gone and wondered what was in store for the stripped-down vessel.
I clambered up the tender’s steep gangplank, remembering to stop near the top and salute the colors. The navy liked its traditions and formality, and since I’d basically be wasting the XO’s valuable time prior to departure, I thought it best to play by their rules.
“Permission to come aboard,” I said, saluting the officer of the deck even though he was just an ensign. I asked for the XO and he sent a swabbie to find him, leaving me to gaze out over Sesapi harbor from the deck of the PT tender. I spotted Archer and Gordie stopping to talk with Porter and Kari. I wondered what the conversation was about. Their upcoming assignments? Deanna Pendleton? Or other secrets I wasn’t even aware of? I made a mental note to ask Archer and Gordie what they knew of John Kari’s business on Pavau, to try and get a hint of why he’d lied to me.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” The XO popped out of a hatch, his uniform sweat-soaked, sleeves rolled up, wiping greasy hands on an oil-stained rag. He looked about thirty or so, tall and dark-haired. He reminded me of commercial fishermen I’d known back home. The kind of guy who appeared at ease on a boat of any size.
“Billy Boyle,” I said, extending my hand, thinking Kelly would wave me off, given the condition his were in. He didn’t. But he did toss me the rag with a grin.
“We don’t see the army much,” he said. “You must be that second louie who’s snooping around. Why do we rate a visit?”
“Because people have been murdered,” I said. “Three so far.” I wasn’t surprised he’d heard about the investigation. It was a small island packed with guys who had little else to do other than their duties. A murder inquiry was a prime piece of gossip.
“Okay,” Kelly said, his voice tempered by the mention of three deaths. “Let’s get out of the sun.” He led the way up a ladder to an open, flat area amid ships, flanked by cranes. It was covered with a large tarp hung over a cable, creating a tent under which men worked on several engines and other disassembled equipment—another ingenious method of countering the blazing sun. Kelly leaned against a crate and lit a cigarette, sighing as he exhaled.
“You might not see the army much, but I’m not used to seeing officers with grease under their fingernails,” I said.
“This isn’t exactly an admiral’s flagship,” Kelly said. “We’re a repair and supply vessel, and the PT crews we service are even less spit-and-polish than we are. See those cranes? We can hoist two PT boats up onto this deck for repairs. And half the time we’re close enough to the Japs to keep all the antiaircraft guns manned. As long as our weapons are clean and the engines working, I don’t give a damn about dirty fingernails. But you didn’t come here for a speech about the glamorous life aboard a PT tender, so shoot. What do you need?”
“Do you recall making the trip from Rendova to Guadalcanal, then here, about ten days ago, ferrying some Coastwatchers?”
“Sure,” Kelly said, taking a drag off his Lucky. “Two teams, I think. Four in all, one of them a native. Spoke English like a professor. Don’t remember their names, but I can check the manifest if you want.”
“No need,” I said. “What about another native Coastwatcher, picked up on Guadalcanal?”
“For the trip across to Tulagi?” Kelly asked. “I don’t recall, but it’s a short hop and we’d take anyone over who asked, really. Ironbottom Sound is a rear area now, and things are pretty casual between the two islands.”
“Where would your passengers be?” I asked. “Would they have the run of the ship?”
“Not the bridge or the engine room, but otherwise they could take a look around. We brought a few walking wounded out from Rendova, and they stayed in sick bay. But the others were mostly above decks. On the fantail, mainly. The stern is out of the wind and a good place to enjoy the ride. I had coffee and sandwiches brought out, I remember that much.”
“Anyone else other tha
n the wounded and the Coastwatchers?”
“Yeah, a handful of navy and marine officers, a couple of Australian commandos, and a half dozen PT crew.”
“Does the name Sam Chang ring a bell?”
“No,” Kelly said, giving it some thought as he fieldstripped the Lucky. “Can’t say it does. Sorry, Billy, I wish I was more help. The war is bad enough even on a good day. I can’t understand anyone bumping off some of our own.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s worse than murder back home.” We were silent for a moment, the words hanging in the heat of the day. “Anyway, when you docked at Guadalcanal, did some of the passengers get off?”
“Yeah, the Aussies and the marines had air transport out of there. The rest stayed on board and got off right here, at Sesapi.”
“Everyone departed, along with whoever hitched a ride,” I said. Kelly nodded his agreement. “Could you show me where the men were?”
“Sure. Some guys like to sit in the sun, others look for shade. They could have been anywhere,” he said, gesturing around.
“Up here?” I asked, walking toward the stern end of the ship, where the fantail was, considerably lower than this working deck.
“Yes, now that you mention it. We had a PT up here under repairs. A few people did wander up to take a look.”
Steel cables ran along each side of the deck, forming a chest-high fence. Crates of machine parts and oil drums were stacked near the cranes, giving anyone up here a perch from which to observe the activity on the fantail below. I watched two sailors talking, one lighting a cigarette for another. They didn’t look my way, ten feet or so above and behind them. I tried to imagine Daniel Tamana standing at this very spot, suddenly seeing something—no, someone—that surprised him. Then stepping back, completely out of sight.
So what happened next?
“When you docked here at Sesapi,” I asked Kelly, “did you keep track of departing passengers?”
