Damned in Paradise

by Max Allan Collins

“We couldn’t have asked for a lovelier day for our arrival,” Darrow said.

  “Merely a typical Hawaiian day, Mr. Darrow—the sort of day so magnificent it’s almost enough to make one forget the existence of certain sordid people permitted to exist on these heavenly shores by a too-trusting Providence…. If you’d like to smoke, gentlemen, please go right ahead.”

  The admiral was filling an ivory meerschaum with tobacco from a wooden humidor with an anchor carved on it; he didn’t drop a flake of stray tobacco on the spotless desk.

  “I imagine you refer,” Darrow said, as he began casually building a cigarette, “to Mrs. Massie’s five assailants.”

  “They’re only a symptom of the disease, sir.” Stirling was lighting up the pipe with a kitchen match. He puffed at it, got it going, like a tugboat’s smokestack. Then he leaned back in the chair and spoke reflectively.

  “When I first visited Hawaii, well before the turn of the century, long before I dreamed a naval command here would be mine, these beautiful gems of the Pacific were ruled over by a dusky Hawaiian queen. Since then, a once-proud Polynesian race has been displaced by Orientals, coming from the coolie class chiefly, the lowest caste in the Orient. That picturesque simple Hawaiian civilization has well nigh passed away, never to return….”

  I knew racial rot like this was anathema to Darrow; but I also knew he needed to stay on the admiral’s good side. Still, I knew he wouldn’t let this pass….

  “Yes, it is a pity,” Darrow said as he lighted his cigarette from a matchbook, neither sarcasm nor recrimination in his tone, “that so many waves of cheap yellow labor were brought in to work on the white man’s plantations.”

  The admiral only nodded, puffed at his pipe solemnly. “The large number of people of alien blood in these islands is a matter of grave concern to the government; nearly half the population here is Japanese!”

  “Is that a fact.”

  “Even factoring in our twenty thousand military personnel, Caucasians number barely over ten percent. The dangers of such a polyglot population are obvious.”

  “I should say they are,” Darrow said. “Now. Admiral…”

  “Hawaii is of prime strategic importance—she must be made invulnerable from attack, or an enemy would have a sword to the throat of our Pacific coast. And that’s why, strange as it may seem, this unfortunate Massie affair may provide an unexpected blessing.”

  Suddenly Darrow was interested in Stirling’s racist editorializing. “In what way, Admiral?”

  “Well, as I’ve already made clear, I’m no advocate of the melting pot experiment. I’ve been lobbying for some time that the U.S. needs to limit suffrage in Hawaii. I’ve long expressed my firm belief that the controlling government here should be under the jurisdiction of the Navy, and Army.”

  “The reports in the mainland press,” Darrow said gently, “of women unsafe on your streets at night, that a hoodlum element here is holding Honolulu in its grip…these have opened the door to Washington considering martial law?”

  The mildest frown grazed the admiral’s face. “That may yet happen, though I take no pleasure in the fact, Mr. Darrow. Until this affair, I’d always had congenial and cordial relations with Governor Judd…. We’ve often gone out in a mutual friend’s motor sampan, to different parts of the islands, for deep-sea fishing.”

  Wasn’t that just peachy.

  “But,” the admiral was saying, “it is the irresponsibility of the Territorial government, and the corruption, and incompetence, of the local police, that transformed the Massie case from a mere crime into a major tragedy.”

  “Admiral,” I said, risking a question, “do you mind telling us how you think that happened?”

  “Yes,” Leisure said, “we’ve made ourselves familiar with the facts of the case, but we’re burdened with an outsider’s point of view.”

  The admiral was shaking his head; smoke curled out of his pipe in corkscrew fashion. “It’s hard to describe how hard the news hit this base…that a gang of half-breed hoodlums on the Ala Moana had ravaged one of our younger set. Thalia Massie is a friend of my daughter’s, you know—Mrs. Massie is a demure, attractive, quiet-spoken, sweet young woman.”

  “We’ve met with her,” Darrow said, nodding. “I concur with your assessment, sir.”

  His pipe in hand waved a curl of smoke in the air. “Imagine thousands of young officers, sailors and marines, on the naval base, in ships, who as American youth had been taught to hold the honor of their women sacred.”

  Well, I knew more than a few sailors on leave in Chicago who hadn’t held the honor of women so very goddamn sacred….

  “My first inclination,” he continued, his eyes hard under the pouches, “was to seize the brutes and string them up on trees. But…I set that impulse aside, to give the authorities a chance to carry out the law.”

  Darrow seemed about to say something; he seemed about to burst, and the admiral’s endorsement of lynch law wasn’t something he was likely to let ride, even when he needed to….

  So I jumped in with, “You gotta give the local coppers some credit, Admiral Stirling—they sure picked those hoods up in a hell of a hurry.”

  “That was a kindly Providence,” the admiral said. “Were the particulars of their capture in the materials you were provided?”

  Darrow glanced at me; he didn’t know.

  “No,” I said. “Just that the assailants had been involved in another assault, earlier that night. Was that another rape?”

  The admiral shook his head, no. His pipe had gone out. He relighted it as he said, “About forty-five minutes past midnight, only about an hour and a quarter after Mrs. Massie left that nightclub, an automobile with four or five dark-skinned youths bumped bumpers with a car driven by a white man and his kanaka wife.”

  “Kanaka?” I asked.

  “Hawaiian,” the admiral said, waving out his kitchen match. “Interracial couples are, unfortunately, all too common here. At any rate, one of the dark men got out of the car, saying, ‘Let me at that damn white man!’ But the woman, apparently a husky Island gal, jumped out and confronted the bully. Smacked him a few times, and he scurried away, and he and the other cowards drove off. But the woman got their license number and reported the collision at once to the police. By three o’clock that morning, the five hoodlums who’d been the occupants of that car were rounded up and placed under arrest.”

  “Sounds like pretty good police work to me,” I said.

  “There are a number of competent officers on the force,” the admiral admitted. “Perhaps you’ve heard of Chang Apana—he’s something of a local celebrity. The fictional Chinese detective Charlie Chan was based on him.”

  “Really,” I said. I’d read several Chan serials in The Saturday Evening Post; and there was a pretty good talkie with Warner Oland, the title of which escaped me, which I’d seen last year, at the Oriental. Appropriately enough.

  “Unfortunately, Chang Apana is approaching retirement age,” the admiral said, “and his involvement in the Massie case was minimal. But could even his judgment be less than suspect?”

  I couldn’t hold back a smile. “You mean, even Charlie Chan can’t be trusted?”

  The admiral lifted an eyebrow. “He’s Chinese. His sympathies might well be with the colored defendants. And the vast majority of policemen are Hawaiian, or have Hawaiian blood—there’s a longstanding patronage system giving such individuals an inside track on police jobs.”

  If I was supposed to get indignant about police patronage, the admiral was telling the wrong boy: how did he think I got my job on the Chicago PD?

  “The Honolulu police department,” the admiral was saying, “is divided against itself in the Massie matter. During the six long weeks it took Mrs. Massie to recover to the point where she could undergo the rigors of a trial, many officers were said to be making reports to the defense attorneys, instead of the DA’s office!”

  Darrow gave me a sideways glance that all but said, Where can I find s
ome coppers like that back home?

  “And,” continued the admiral, “those hoodlums had the best legal minds in the Territory—William Heen, a Territorial senator and former circuit judge, and William Pittman, brother of U.S. Senator Kay Pittman.”

  I asked, “How could a bunch of kid gangsters afford top talent like that?”

  The admiral sighed. “Two of the five culprits were of pure Hawaiian blood, so it was no surprise the acknowledged head of their race, Princess Abby Kawananakoa, gave them financial support. After all, her own son is a hoodlum beach boy, in Oahu Prison on a second-degree murder charge.”

  “So a defense fund was raised?” Darrow asked.

  “Yes. And, keep in mind, both Hawaiian defendants were professional athletes, and local gate-receipt attractions. Managers of sporting contests helped finance the defense as well.”

  “Two of the assailants were sports heroes?” I asked. “But you’ve been saying they were hoodlums…”

  “They are,” the admiral said crisply, teeth tight around the stem of his pipe. “Ben Ahakuelo is a popular local boxer—he also was convicted with his crony Chang on an attempted rape charge in 1929…. Governor Judd paroled him so he could represent the Territory at the National Amateur Boxing Championship at Madison Square Garden last year. The late Joseph Kahahawai was a football star—and a convicted felon…he did thirty days on a first-degree robbery charge in 1930.”

  “What about the other two boys?” Darrow asked.

  “They had no criminal records,” the admiral said with a shrug, “but they were known as bad characters by the police, with no visible means of support. And all five were soon out on bail, thanks to Princess Abby and the defense fund. Ahakuelo and Kahahawai continued playing football each Sunday, their names emblazoned in headlines on the sports pages of our Honolulu papers….” He sighed, shook his head. “In spite of the discipline I maintain on this base, I half-expected to find those savages swinging by the neck from trees up Nuuana Valley or at the Pali.”

  “And of course,” Darrow said gravely, “one of the defendants was seized and beaten by Navy men….”

  The admiral nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes. Horace Ida, severely so, and I believe that the discipline our men were under prevented more drastic action being taken upon him. They were trying to obtain a confession…”

  Darrow asked, “Did they succeed?”

  “Rumor is, yes…but the duress involved would negate it. By the way, I allowed Ida to be brought around, to have a look at the sailors on liberty that night, and he was able to make no identification.”

  Not surprising. You know what they say—all white boys look alike.

  The admiral continued, “And this wasn’t the only clash between Navy men and the hoodlum element….”

  “How badly did things get out of hand?” Leisure asked.

  “Well, to give security to the isolated naval people in Manoa Valley and the other suburbs, I established more foot patrols of sailors, and established Navy radio cars in districts where Navy families lived.”

  “Why weren’t the cops doing that?” I asked.

  “All I can tell you is that this was done at the request of the mayor and the sheriff. And the pressure I’ve brought to bear has resulted in a major shake-up of the force, finally…a new chief of police, practically the entire department put on a year’s probation.”

  “How did you manage that?” I asked, impressed.

  The admiral’s smile was tiny but bespoke large smugness. “There is certain…leverage the Navy has been able to apply.”

  “What kind of leverage?” Darrow wondered.

  The admiral’s eyes damn near twinkled. “We have, from time to time during this unfortunate affair, cancelled shore leave. When the fleet is in, gentlemen, income for many businesses in Honolulu is up. By withholding that from the community, well…you can imagine the results.”

  “You obviously tried to exert a positive influence on this case from the beginning,” Darrow said. Even I couldn’t detect the sarcasm.

  The admiral’s pouchy eyes tightened. “This degenerate sex criminal Kahahawai would be alive today, if Governor Judd and the attorney general had listened to me.”

  Darrow frowned thoughtfully. “How so?”

  “After the trial ended in a hung jury, I suggested they keep those rapists locked up, until a second trial could be held. But they insisted it was illegal to raise bail above what an individual could pay. It would violate their civil rights, don’t you know. You see, by accident of birth, these creatures are technically ‘Americans’…. Well—I suppose you gentlemen are anxious to meet with your clients.”

  “With your kind permission,” Darrow said, rising. “By the way, Admiral—how did you manage to keep our clients under your benign influence?”

  “You mean, why aren’t they in jail?” He allowed himself a broader smile. “Cristy, the trial judge, had no stomach for the responsibility of what might happen to Mrs. Fortescue and the others, what with threats of terrorism and mob violence. I suggested the judge swear one of my officers in as a special officer of the civil court, to supervise their confinement aboard the Alton. And I promised to produce the defendants wherever and whenever the Territory might need them.”

  “Nicely handled,” Darrow said, meaning it.

  The admiral was standing now, but he stayed back behind his desk. “You know, Mr. Darrow, in the trial against those hoodlum rapists, the jury deliberated for ninety-seven hours…. Deadlocked at seven for not guilty, five for guilty. The exact proportion of yellow and brown to white members of the jury. You will undoubtedly face a polyglot jury in this case, as well….”

  “There will be no hung jury in this trial,” Darrow predicted.

  “You’re up against Prosecutor John C. Kelley—he’s a young firebrand. He’ll attack ferociously…”

  “And I’ll counterattack with an olive branch,” Darrow said. “I’m here to heal the breach that’s opened between the races in these garden islands, sir. Not to gouge open that gaping wound further.”

  And we left the admiral to ponder Darrow’s words.

  6

  Our limo driver remained our chaperon as we were led to that obsolete, decommissioned, rundown old cruiser sitting high and dry on a mudflat in Pearl Harbor, the U.S.S. Alton. The driver turned us over to the two armed Marine sentries at the mouth of the seventy-five-foot gangplank that separated the ship and the shore. One of the sentries escorted us aboard, leading the way as we danced across to the rickety wooden gangplanks tune.

  Above this screaky melody, Leisure managed to be heard, whispering to Darrow, “The admiral gives quite a ringing endorsement of lynch law, wouldn’t you say?”

  But if racial champion Darrow was expected to provide a biting condemnation of Stirling (now that our host was absent), he disappointed. Well, he disappointed Leisure. I knew C.D. well enough to have predicted he’d say something like: “Admiral Stirling is a Navy man, and a Southerner, and his statements are naturally prejudiced.”

  Which is exactly what he said.

  Our Marine escort led us to the top deck. “The Alton’s used as a general mess hall,” he said over the echo of our feet on metal, “and Officers’ Club.”

  He led us into a wardroom, in the stern of the ship, saying, “Mrs. Fortescue and Lt. Massie are staying in the captain’s cabin, just through here.”

  We were moving past a large mess table where a number of officers watched us with curiosity, several obviously recognizing Darrow as he shambled by. The interior of the ship, at least judging by this mess hall, was nothing like its sorry exterior: the walls were mahogany paneled, with framed oil paintings of admirals, display cases of trophies, and shining silver ornamentation.

  Darrow asked, “The captain was so kind as to vacate his quarters for my clients?”

  “No, sir—Captain Wortman lives in Honolulu with his wife. This stateroom is usually reserved for visiting admirals.”

  Or very special guests, like defendants in m
urder trials.

  Our escort knocked at the door, saying, “Mrs. Fortescue? Your guests are here.”

  “Show them in,” a cultured, Southern, feminine voice responded.

  The Marine opened the door and Darrow stepped in first, followed by Leisure and myself. The door clanged shut behind us, as if a reminder we’d entered a jail cell of sorts; but what a hell of a jail cell this was.

  Mahogany paneled, spacious, with a big round mahogany table at the center of the room, this might have been a first-class cabin on the Malolo—dark attractive furnishings including wardrobe, chest of drawers, a single bed. Here and there, colorful Hawaiian flowers in vases and bowls gave a woman’s touch to these resolutely male quarters.

  And greeting us like an elegant hostess was Mrs. Grace (née Granville) Fortescue, her hand extended to Darrow as if she expected him to kiss it.

  So he did.

  “What a pleasure and honor it is to meet you, Mr. Darrow,” she said.

  Her Southern accent was as refined as she was: tall, slim, Grace Fortescue might have been hostessing a tea in her cherry-colored suit and jaunty matching hat, pearls looped around her rather long, slender, somewhat créped neck, single matching pearls dangling from her earlobes. Her dark blond hair (the same color as Thalia’s) was cut short, in a youthful, stylish bob, and she might have been as young as forty, or as old as (approaching) sixty—it was hard to say; but she was definitely at that age where a woman is no longer pretty but handsome, and despite her bright eyes (the same light blue as Isabel’s), there was no discounting a certain drawn, weary look to these finely carved features. There were lines in this haughty face etched by recent events.

  Darrow introduced Leisure, and Mrs. Fortescue warmly offered him her hand—although he merely clasped it, not kissed it—and then Darrow turned to me and said, “And this is the young man we discussed, on the telephone.”

  “The young detective Evalyn recommended!” she said with a lovely smile.

  “Nathan Heller,” Darrow said, nodding, as I took the hand Mrs. Fortescue offered. I didn’t kiss it either.