Damned in Paradise

by Max Allan Collins

  “My understanding was, you weren’t directly involved in this case.”

  The wide thin line of his mouth curved into a glorious smile. “No. Chang Apana nears retirement. He is grand old man of department. Sits at his desk and tells his stories—but he also hears stories. Stories of drunken Navy officer the night of rape picked up near Massie house with fly open. Stories of Mrs. Massie telling Navy officer not to worry, everything be all right. Stories of how the police had to fire gunshots at Mrs. Fortescue’s car before it pull over. Stories of Lt. Massie’s pride when body of Kahahawai is found in back of car…”

  He stood.

  “Should you wish to talk to officers who witnessed these events, Chang Apana can arrange. Should you wish to discover the truth, Chang Apana can open doors.”

  I stood. “I just may take you up on that, Chang.”

  He bowed again, and placed the Panama on his head; its turned-up brim seemed ridiculously wide, like an oversize soup bowl. A smile tickled the wide straight line that was his mouth.

  “Welcome to Paradise,” Chang said, and went out as quietly as he must have come in.

  8

  The next morning, on the Surf Porch of the Royal Hawaiian, I sat at a wicker table, sipping pineapple juice, awaiting my guests for breakfast, enjoying the cooler-than-yesterday’s breeze. Off to the left, Diamond Head was a slumbering green and brown crocodile. Beyond a handful of palms watching, leaning, and a narrow band of white beach bereft of bathers, the shimmer of ocean was a gray-blue interrupted occasionally by the lazy roll of whitecaps. The overcast sky seemed more blue and white than gray, low-slung clouds hugging the horizon, making the gentle graduations of blue so subtle it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.

  Just as the coolness and the overcast had nixed most beach activity this morning, the Surf Porch itself was lightly attended. Maybe a third of the canopied swinging chairs along the back wall were in use by the well-to-do few who were sharing this palatial hotel with a certain Chicago representative of the hoi polloi. I seemed to be the only one on the porch who wasn’t in white; in my brown suit, I felt like a poor relation hoping to worm into the will of a wealthy invalid uncle I was visiting at a very chic sanitarium.

  “Excuse please,” the waitress said. A lovely Japanese girl in a colorful floral pattern kimono, she bore a pitcher of pineapple juice and wanted to know if I wanted more.

  “No thanks,” I said. I didn’t really like that bitter stuff; I’d accepted the first glass just out of civility, not wanting to insult the Island beverage or anything. She was about to depart when I stopped her: “Say, you could bring me some coffee?”

  “Cream? Sugar?”

  “Black, honey,” I said, and grinned.

  She smiled a little and floated off.

  All the waitresses here wore kimonos—like the wenches who wore them, each garment was as lovely, delicate, and different as a snowflake; these little geishas were so attentive, it stopped just short of driving you batty. Maybe that was because the help at the Royal Hawaiian—Oriental and Polynesian, to a man (and woman)—seemed to outnumber the patrons.

  I glanced back at the archway entry, to see if my guests were here; after a moment, as if I’d willed it, there they were, eyes searching for, and finding, me.

  Waving them over, I admired all three women as they crossed the porch—Thalia Massie, pudgy but pretty in a navy blue frock with big white buttons, the lenses of her sunglasses like two big black buttons in counterpoint under the shade of the brim of her white-banded navy chapeau; Isabel, her face glowing in a hatless haze of blond hair, fetching in a white frock with red polka dots that lifted nicely around her knees as the breeze caught the wispy fabric, and which she only half-heartedly pushed down; and finally, a surprise visitor, Thalia’s Japanese maid, Beatrice, as slender and daintily pretty as any of the kimono girls serving us, but wearing a white short-sleeved blouse and ankle-length dark skirt, her jaunty white cuff-brim turban a pleasant contrast with her bobbed black hair, a small white clutch purse in one hand.

  None of the guests, rocking in their porch chairs, enjoying the study in blues and grays before them, gave an inkling of reaction to the celebrity who had just entered, though a few of the males sneaked a peek at the three pretty girls.

  I rose, gestured toward the three chairs—I’d only been expecting Thalia and Isabel, but this was a table for four, luckily—and Thalia held up a hand, stopping her two companions from sitting just yet. Not till she’d gotten something straight.

  “We’ll be going to my new quarters at Pearl Harbor, from here,” Thalia said in her low husky near-monotone, “and my maid Beatrice is accompanying me. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her along, Mr. Heller. I believe in treating servants like people.”

  “Damn white of ya,” I said, smiling at Beatrice, whose mouth didn’t return the smile, though her eyes did; and I gestured again, for all of them to sit, and, finally, they did.

  The geisha brought my coffee, and filled Thalia and Isabel’s coffee cups; Beatrice had turned hers over. Then the kimono cutie stayed around to take our breakfast order. I went for the fluffy eggs with bacon while Isabel and Thalia decided to share a big fruit plate. The waitress seemed confused as to whether to take Beatrice’s order, and Beatrice wasn’t helping by sitting there as mute and expressionless as Diamond Head itself.

  “Are you having anything?” I asked her.

  “No thank you,” she said. “I’m just along.”

  “You mean like a dog?”

  This immediately made everybody uncomfortable, except me, of course.

  “Well, if you expect me to feed you under the table,” I said, “forget about it. You don’t like coffee? Get her some, what? Juice? Tea?”

  “Tea,” Beatrice said softly. Her eyes were smiling again.

  “And why don’t you bring us a basket of goodies we can all share,” I suggested to the waitress. “You know, muffins and what-have-you.”

  “Pineapple muffins?” the geisha asked.

  “Anything without pineapple,” I said with a wince.

  That seemed to amuse all the women, and I sipped my coffee and said, “I’m glad you girls could make it this morning.”

  “I’m going to stop by the desk,” Isabel said, beaming, “and see about my suite.”

  “I talked to C.D. this morning,” I said. “It’s all arranged. They have a key waiting for you.”

  “Swell,” she said, hands folded, smile dimpling that sweet face. It was pretty clear I had a date tonight. A hot one.

  “It’s lovely here,” Thalia commented, rather distantly, the black lenses of her sunglasses looking out on the blues and grays and whites of that vista whose horizon you had to work to make out. Wind whipped the arcs of her dark blonde hair.

  “Would you like to wait till after breakfast?” I asked.

  She turned the big black eyes of her glasses my way; the rest of her face held no more expression than they did. “Wait till after breakfast for what?”

  “Well, I need to ask you some things. Didn’t Isabel mention the reason for my invitation?”

  A single eyebrow arched above a black lens. “You and Mr. Darrow already questioned me, yesterday.”

  I nodded. “And he’ll question you again, and again, as will Mr. Leisure. And they’ll have their agenda, and I have mine.”

  “And what, Mr. Heller,” she asked crisply, “is yours?”

  Isabel, the breeze making her headful of blonde curls seem to shimmer, frowned in concern and touched her cousin’s wrist. “Don’t be mad at Nate. He’s trying to help.”

  “She’s right,” I said. “But I’m not a lawyer, I’m an investigator. And it’s my job to go over details, looking for the places where the prosecution can make hay.”

  Thalia shifted in her wicker chair; the surf was whispering and her monotone barely rose above it. “I don’t understand. This trial isn’t about me. It’s about Tommie, and Mother…”

  She’d said much the same thing to
Darrow.

  I sipped my coffee. “This case begins and ends with you, Thalia…may I call you Thalia? And please call me Nate, or Nathan, whichever you prefer.”

  She said nothing; her baby face remained as blank as the black lenses. Isabel seemed uneasy. Beatrice had long ago disappeared into herself; she was just along.

  Thalia took a deep breath. “Mr. Heller…Nate. Surely you can understand that I’m not anxious to go into court and tell this story again. I hope that’s not the road you and Mr. Darrow intend to go down.”

  “Oh but it is. It’s the only way a jury can be made to understand what motivated your husband.”

  She leaned forward; it was getting eerie, staring into those black circles. “Wasn’t the Ala Moana trial enough? You know, many women hesitate to report a case of assault because of the awful publicity and the ordeal of a trial. But I felt it was my duty to protect other women and girls….”

  Isabel patted her cousin’s hand again. “You did the right thing, Thalo.”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t bear to think that some other girl might have to go through what I did,” she said, “at the hands of those brutes. From a personal standpoint, the punishment of these creatures was secondary to just getting them off the street—only the ordeal of that trial didn’t accomplish that, did it?”

  “My investigation may,” I said.

  She cocked her head. “How do you mean?”

  I shrugged. “If I can gather enough new evidence, they’ll be put away.”

  Her laugh was throaty and humorless. “Oh, wonderful! Another trial, after this one! When will this end? No one who hasn’t undergone such an experience can possibly imagine the strain upon not just the victim, but their family….”

  “Isn’t that why we’re here?” I suggested.

  “I would imagine you’re here because of money,” she snapped.

  “Thalo!” Isabel said.

  “I know,” she said resignedly, and sighed. “I know. Your Nate is only trying to help. Well, if going to court again, and testifying as to the details of that terrible night, will help my family…and save other girls from similar horrifying experiences…then I feel the end will justify the means.”

  I might have pointed out that the end justifying the means was the kind of thinking that got her hubby and mumsy in such hot water; but since she seemed to have just talked herself into cooperating with me, I let it pass.

  “Good,” I said. “Now—I was up late last night…” I took out my notebook, thumbing to the right page. “…going over the court transcripts and various statements you made…. Please understand that I’m only asking questions that the prosecution is likely to bring up.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Heller.” She forced a smile. “Nate.”

  “Normally,” I said, “a witness’s recollections decrease geometrically with the passage of time. But your memory, about this unfortunate event, seems only to improve.”

  Her mouth twitched, as if it were trying to decide whether to frown or smile; it did neither. “My recollection of the ‘unfortunate event’ is all too clear, I’m afraid. I suppose you’re referring to the statements I made that night, or rather in the early morning hours that followed….”

  “Yes,” I said. “You were questioned by an Inspector Jardine, also a cop named Furtado, and of course Inspector Mclntosh, within hours of the assault. And several other cops, as well. You even spoke to the nurse at the emergency hospital, a Nurse Fawcett….”

  “That’s right. What of it?”

  “Well, you told these various cops, and Nurse Fawcett, that you couldn’t identify your assailants. That it was too dark. But you thought that maybe you could identify them by voice.”

  Thalia said nothing; her Kewpie doll mouth was pursed as if to blow me a kiss. Somehow I didn’t think she had that in mind.

  “Yet now your recollections include physical descriptions of the assailants, down to the clothes they were wearing.”

  “I’m telling the truth, Mr. Heller. As I recall it now.”

  “Make it Nate.” I took another sip of the coffee; it was a strong, bitter brew. “You also said, initially, that you were convinced the boys were Hawaiian, as opposed to Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, or whatever. You said you recognized the way they spoke as Hawaiian.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “They were all colored, weren’t they?”

  “But only Kahahawai and Ahakuelo were Hawaiian, and two of the boys were Japanese and the last one Chinese.”

  Another throaty laugh. “And you can tell the difference?”

  “In Chicago we know the difference between a Jap and a Chinaman, sure.”

  I was watching Beatrice out of the corner of an eye, and she didn’t flinch at my racial crudity.

  “Is that right?” Thalia said. “Does that hold true even when you’re being raped?”

  Isabel looked very uncomfortable. She clearly didn’t like the way this was going.

  I leaned in. “Thalia—Mrs. Massie—I’m playing a sort of devil’s advocate here, okay? Looking for the weak spots that the prosecution can kill us with. If you have any explanations besides knee-jerk defensive smartass remarks, I’d appreciate hearing them.”

  Now Isabel leaned in—frowning. “Nate—that’s a little forward, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t go to finishing school,” I said. “I went to school on the West Side of Chicago where first graders carry knives and pistols. So you’ll have to pardon my lack of social graces…but when you’re in a jam, I’m the kind of roughneck you want to have around. And, Mrs. Massie—Thalia—you’re in a hell of a jam, or anyway, your husband and mother are. They can do twenty to life on this rap.”

  There was silence—silence but for the chirping of caged birds out in the nearby lobby, and the gentle but ceaseless surge of the surf on the shore.

  Thalia Massie, the black lenses of her glasses fixed upon me, said, “Ask your questions.”

  I sighed; flipped a notebook page.

  “In the hours after the rape,” I said, “you went through your story six times, and you consistently said you hadn’t been able to make out the license plate number of the car. You said as much to four different police investigators, and a doctor and a nurse.”

  She shrugged.

  “Then,” I said, “in Inspector Mcintosh’s office at police headquarters, on your seventh pass at the story, it suddenly came to you.”

  “Actually,” she said, chin lifted, “I got it wrong by one number.”

  “Horace Ida’s car was 58-895, you said it was 58-805. Close enough. Missing one number makes it more believable, somehow. But there are those who say you may have heard that number in the examining room at Queens Hospital.”

  “Not true.”

  My eyebrows went up. “A police car with its radio on, full blast, was parked right outside the windows of the examining room. An officer testified that he heard an alarm for car 58-895, in possible connection with your assault, broadcast three times.”

  “I never heard it.”

  I sat forward. “You do realize that the only reason that car was really being sought was its involvement in a minor accident and scuffle earlier that evening, which had also been classified an assault?”

  “I’m aware of that, now.”

  “You also said, on the night of the assault, that you thought the car you’d been pulled into was an old Ford or Dodge or maybe Chevrolet touring car, with a canvas top, an old ripped rag top that made a flapping noise as they drove you along?”

  Another shrug. “I don’t remember saying that. I know it came up at the trial, but I don’t remember it.”

  And then sometimes her memory wasn’t so hot.

  “Thalia, Horace Ida’s car…actually, it was his sister’s car, I guess…. Anyway, Ida’s car was a 1929 Model A Phaeton. A fairly new car, and its rag top wasn’t torn. Yet you identified it.”

  “It was the car, or one just like it. I knew it when I saw it.”

  Breakfast arrived,
our geisha accompanying a waiter who was delivering it on a well-arranged tray, and Thalia smiled faintly and said, “Is that all? Do you mind if we eat in peace?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  There was quite a bit of awkward silence as I dug into my eggs and bacon, and the two girls picked at a lavish plate of pineapples, grapes, papaya, figs, persimmons, bananas, cubed melon, and more. They small-talked as if I weren’t there, discussing (among other things) how Thalia’s father the major was recuperating from his illness, and how nice it was that Mrs. Fortescue’s mother—vacationing in Spain—had sent a supportive wire to her daughter.

  “Grandmother said she was so convinced of Mother’s innocence,” Thalia said, “there was no need to come, really.”

  We were all having a second (or in Thalia’s case, third) cup of coffee when I started in again.

  “What can you tell me about Lt. Jimmy Bradford?”

  “What do you want to know?” Thalia was holding her coffee cup in patrician style—pinkie extended. “He’s Tommie’s friend. Probably his best friend.”

  “What was he doing stumbling around your neighborhood, the night of the rape, drunk and with his fly open?”

  “Nathan!” Isabel blurted, her eyes wide and hurt.

  “I would imagine,” Thalia said, “having had rather too much to drink, he found a bush to relieve himself behind.”

  “Relieve himself in what way?”

  “I won’t dignify that with a response.”

  “Why did you say to him that everything would be all right, just before the cops hauled him in for questioning?”

  “He was cleared,” she said. “Tommie vouched for him. Tommie had been with him every second all evening.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  “Nate,” Isabel said, “I’m getting very perturbed with you….”

  Perturbed. That was how rich people got pissed off.

  I said to Thalia, “If you don’t want to answer the question—”