story: MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part 9 and 10)

NINE 　Chinatown 　 　For a Coast haole (as mainlanders were referred to), Hully Burroughs had a better-than-average understanding of Hawaii's Japanese community. 　He knew that Japanese owned many of the restaurants in Honolulu, that they repaired most cars and built most houses, that they worked behind most retail counters. And, anyway, you didn't have to be terribly aware to notice the dozens of Japanese teahouses, or the kimono shops, or the sake breweries, the Japanese-language newspapers, fish-cake factories, movie houses.... 　Still, much of mis eluded the average haole, particularly the typical tourist, because on the one hand, Hawaii worked hard at its Polynesian image-Waikiki wallowed in it-and on the other, Hawaii was insistent upon its American status, indignantly reminding forgetful mainlanders that they were in the United States, not some foreign land. 　Hully had gained his awareness, limited though it might be, through his friendship with Sam Fujimoto, the son of their maid at the Niumalu. Sam-a senior in prelaw at the University of Hawaii-had shown Hully the local ropes, when the mainlander had first arrived. 　This afternoon, Hully needed his friend's help, for two reasons. First, he needed wheels-his father had taken the Pierce Arrow to the Shriner game. Second, he needed a tour guide-because, despite whatever scant familiarity he had with local Asian customs, Hully felt that would not be enough for where he needed to go. 　Chinatown. The Oriental neighborhood had been staked out many decades before by Chinese workers fleeing the sugar and pineapple plantations, marking off this triangle of downtown Honolulu-Nuuanu Street on the southeast, North Beretania Street on the northeast, South King Street as the hypotenuse-for small retail businesses and restaurants. 　But despite the name, in Chinatown, the Japanese (and the Filipinos, too, for that matter) vastly outnumbered the Chinese, though the white tourists, coming and going from the main port at the foot of Nuuanu Street, rarely knew the difference, much less noticed how the Japanese and Chinese merchants kept their distance from each other, even when jammed side by side. 　Coast haoles saw only the Orient, a nonspecific Asia crammed into a few blocks-sleazy storefronts and Shinto shrines, silk shops and tattoo parlors, bathhouses and Buddhist temples, live chickens and dead ducks, coffee shops and chop suey joints, incense and strangely aromatic spices mingling with the sickly-sweet perfume of the nearby pineapple canneries and the salty stench of the marshlands below the city. 　"What do you think her uncle's likely to know?" Sam Fujimoto asked. 　The slender, smoothly handsome nisei-black hair trimmed military short (he was in ROTC at the Manoa campus)-was casual at the wheel of his dark blue '38 Ford convertible sedan; his sportshirt was a lighter blue, his trousers white, his shoes the slippers so common on the island (Hully was wearing a pair himself). 　"You and I, we only knew Pearl through the Niumalu," Hully said. "The only people in her life that we know, too, are musicians, hotel staff and guests." 　"And boyfriends like Bill and that Stanton character, who met her there." 　"Right, Sam. But she used to live with her uncle, in Chinatown, when she first moved to Oahu-that could open up a whole new world of friends and acquaintances." 　"Maybe it is worth talking to him." Sam had never dated Pearl, but he knew her a littie, had spoken to her a few times. "But it'll probably be a dead end. My feeling is, she distanced herself from anything... overtly Japanese." He shrugged. "A lot of my generation do." 　"Pearl sure seemed like an all-American girl." 　One hand on the wheel, Sam gave Hully half a smile. "She was one-she was born in Frisco, right?" 　"Right." 　The convertible was bouncing along Fort Street. They crossed Nuuanu Street, where the Liberty Theater-home to a Chinese stock company that went in for horrific flights of fancy-was at the left. 　"I think I've seen this guy around the Niumalu," Sam said, referring to Yoshio Harada, Pearl's grocer uncle. Though he didn't live at the hotel, Sam had spent his share of time there, what with his mother's work and his friendship with Hully. 　"I saw him just yesterday," Hully said. "Helped him unload, a little. Bivens buys fresh seafood and fruit and vegetables from Harada. Seems like a nice enough little guy ... You would think he'd be heartsick, today." 　"His niece murdered, I should say." 　Actually, Hully had his doubts, though he said, "Maybe he won't even be working." 　"Oh, he'll be working," Sam said with a knowing smile. "Guy like that doesn't miss a Saturday at the market." 　Hully knew Sam was right-knew that Harada was indeed working today. Since Hully hadn't had an address for the grocer, he'd stopped at the front desk and checked with manager Fred Bivens, who'd said, "Funny thing is, you just missed him. He made a delivery not ten minutes ago." 　"Really? Gosh, he delivered a boatload of stuff just yesterday-I helped him unload some of it." 　"I remember-but sometimes Mr. Harada makes unscheduled stops when he has something nice for me- like the swordfish he dropped by with, just now." 　"How's he doing?" 　"Doing?" 　"His niece was murdered last night, Fred. How is he doing?" 　"Oh. Well, he's doing fine. I paid my sympathies, he thanked me, we both said what a sad awful thing it was, and... frankly, then we did business." 　"So Pearl's uncle isn't holed up in some funeral home or church, mourning, then." 　"No. He said he was on his way back to his store." 　"You have an address?" 　"Actually... funny thing, no. I never been down there to his shop in Chinatown... he always makes deliveries. All I know is it's down near the Aala Market." 　They were deep into Chinatown now. Just past Mau-nakea Street, on the right-hand side of Beretania, was notorious Tin Can Alley, that quaint, exotic, harmless-looking entry into a deadly tenement area replete with crooked pathways, whores, rickety wooden stairs, pimps, sagging balconies, and thugs-a literal tourist trap. Within easy walking distance were neighborhoods with such sobriquets as Blood Town, Hell's Half Acre and Mosquito Flats, home to a staggering array of opium dens, gambling halls and cathouses. 　"What's your take on this?" Hully asked his friend. "You know Bill well enough-could he be a suspect?" 　Sam shrugged a shoulder. "Only if Pearl was running around on him, and he caught her in the act." 　"Do you believe that's possible?" 　"She was a flirt, and she got around-but this last month or so? I can't see it. Hell, she was crazy about Bill-she was serious. They were serious." 　Nodding thoughtfully, Hully said, "I'd like to track down this Stanton-he's on a weekend pass. Maybe we could check out Hotel Street later." 　"I'm game." 　Just beyond Lau Yee Chai-the best, most lavish chop suey house in Honolulu (a different sort of tourist trap)-was River Street, bordering the Nuuanu Stream. Soon they were on Queen Street, and Sam found a parking place, and they headed over on foot to the Aala Market and the Japanese sampan fishing dock. 　Along the way they encountered Japanese women wearing silk kimonos clip-clopping along the wooden walkway in clogs called gettas, lugging children on their backs. Past the garish Oriental lettering of signs, small simple wooden storefronts were gorged with tourist-friendly merchandise; often a diapered baby would be crawling across a wooden floor, and one moonfaced older child sat unattended, nibbling pink gelatin candies, while tourists and clerks bartered. They passed pawnshops, saimin (noodle) cafes, coffee shops, and herb dens, the babblelike sounds of Asian tongues mingling with the occasional popping of firecrackers and the hollow echo of gongs gliding down the Nuuanu Valley from a Buddhist temple. 　The Aala Market was democracy-and capitalism- in action: all classes of people, half a dozen or more races, moving along the vegetable, fish and flower stalls, rubbing (sometimes knocking) elbows in the common pursuit of food. The fish caught in Hawaiian waters were second to none, and spread out in rows for the approval of customers: red snappers looking like giant goldfish; enormous swordfish; tuna small and large (aku); bass; needlefish; even an octopus. Some of it had been chopped into slabs and steaks, and there was seaweed for sale, too, and dried salmon, and fresh poi. 　Hully let Sam do the talking-since much of it was in Japanese-seeking directions to the grocer's shop. Sam had little luck for some time, until Hully thought to ask him to explain to these merchants that they were not seeking Harada to make a purchase. 　"I should've thought of that," Sam said, grinning, shaking his head. "They don't want to send us to a competitor!" 　Next time out, they got the address-and it was close by. 　As they strolled along the sampan dock, where both small blue sampans and larger diesel-powered boats were moored, Sam said, "These fishermen are all Japanese-no Chinese or Filipino or anybody else." 　"Why?" 　"We're just better at it." This was a rare instance of Sam referring to himself as in any way Japanese. "Faster boats, powerful shortwave radios. We're good at gizmos." 　"Size of some of these boats is amazing." 　"Fishing is big business, around here-one of those diesel-powered forty-footers can run you twelve grand. That kind of dough even Tarzan wouldn't sneeze at." 　Hully whistled. "You know, all this talk of a Japanese attack on Oahu-would they really do it? I mean, there are so many Japanese here ... so much Japanese business." 　"Well, it's really American business, Hully. But you have a point-Honolulu is probably the most Japanese city on earth, outside Japan." 　"So you're saying they wouldn't bomb us?" "No." And Sam's eyes tightened into slits, and his smile was utterly mirthless. "They'd bomb us in a flash." 　"That's hard for me to believe." Sam put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Hully, there are quite likely people in Japan right now banking on that very attitude." 　Yoshio Harada's shop was not a grocery in any American sense. It was a small, unpretentious wooden storefront whose front door was black hanging beads; the walls were consumed with shelves overflowing with reed baskets and glass jars of ginger root, shark-fins, seahorse skeletons, dried seaweed and other exotic wares. None of the fresh fish or produce that Harada delivered to the Niumalu (and, presumably, other clients) was on display-apparently, he strictly made his purchases at the nearby Aala Market for deliveries by pick-up truck. 　The small, mustached man-wearing a white shirt and tan trousers and a grocer's apron, despite the lack of groceries-was manning a counter to the left, the shelves of weird roots and herbs rising surrealistically behind him. 　Harada recognized Hully at once, half-bowing. "Ah, Burroughs-san. You honor me. What brings you to Chinatown?" 　"I came to pay my respects." Hully gestured to Sam. "This is my friend Sam Fujimoto-his mother is our maid at the Niumalu-perhaps you know her." 　"I am sorry, I do not. But it is a pleasure." Harada held out his hand and he and Sam shook, like they were both Americans ... which, of course, they were. 　"I was a friend of your niece's, as well, sir," Sam said, with another respectful nod. "We're sorry for your loss." 　The grocer offered a curt nod in return. "Thank you, gentlemen." 　"When will the service be held?" Hully asked. 　Harada seemed confused. "Service?" 　"Pearl's funeral." 　"Oh... no arrangements have been made." 　"Ah. Can I help?" 　"I have written her parents. Posted the letter." 　"You didn't call them?" 　"No. It is long distance." 　Hully exchanged glances with Sam. "But Mr. Harada, surely Pearl deserves better than this....As I said, I'll be glad to help...." 　"Offer is ... kind." Harada smiled faintly, patiently. "Burroughs-san, I like my niece, but we were not... close. I am Buddhist, she was Christian. She would not want a service in my faith; I no have interest in arranging one in hers. Her parents share her Christian belief. They may feel other way." 　Frowning, Hully asked, "Where is her body now?" 　"I understand is in morgue. She was murdered." 　"Well, I know she was murdered, but-" 　Harada held up a hand. His face was strangely hard. "I am sorry for her death. But she turned her back on her people. She did not like it here, with me-and she did not return, once she got her... job." 　"I thought she helped line you up your grocery account with Fred Bivens, at the Niumalu." 　"She did. I was grateful." 　Sam said, "But you weren't close." 　"No." 　Hully tried another angle. "Did she have any friends down here? Or for that matter, enemies?" 　Harada's eyes narrowed; his face seemed to harden even more. "Why do you ask this?" 　"Well, someone killed her...." 　Harada's chin lifted. "A man is under arrest. She had loose morals and a man killed her. He is in custody, is he not?" 　"Yeah, sure, but-" 　"The circle has closed. Why do you ask questions as if you are a policeman?" 　Hully gestured with an open hand. "Mr. Harada, I meant no offense. I merely ... we merely ... thought we'd offer our sympathies in what we had assumed would be a dark hour, for you." 　Harada said nothing. 　Sam said, "I guess that was our mistake." 　For several long seconds, Hully just stared at the little grocer, who didn't even blink. Then Hully rushed out onto the wooden sidewalk, anger bubbling; Sam followed. Hully was several storefronts down, moving quickly through the interracial crowd, when Sam caught up with him. 'Take it easy, Hul....You just ran head-on into a cultural war I've fought every day of my life." 　Hully stopped, looked at his friend. "Something smells." 　"Yeah, fish and dirty diapers and incense. What, you think Harada killed his own niece? Why? Because she was Christian?" 　Hully didn't know what to say, and was still looking for words when a small dark man in a snap-brim fedora, orange tie, and brown rumpled suit was suddenly in their midst. 　"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Detective John Jardine demanded. His dark eyes were daggers. 　"I, uh... well..." 　Jardine took Hully by the back of the arm and bus-tied him into a booth in a nearby cafe. Sam came along, a wide-eyed bystander, who slipped in next to Hully. 　A waitress in a kimono came over, and Jardine said, "Three coffees," and she went away. 　"You were grilling that guy," Jardine said. 　"You... you heard?" 　"There's no damn door. Sure I heard-I was on my way in to interrogate him myself. What in the hell are you doing, walking my damn beat?" 　Calmly, Hully said, "Have you talked to my dad today?" 　"No-we've missed each other, traded phone calls. Why, is he in this too?" 　With another glance at Sam, who shrugged, Hully sighed and made a clean breast it-sharing not only the notion of the informal investigation he and his father had been conducting, but the various pieces of information they had discovered. 　Though he looked irritated, the Portuguese detective jotted much of this down in his small notebook. 　"Thank you for the information," Jardine said, sliding the notebook into an inside suit-jacket pocket. "Now-give your father a message for me: leave this to the professionals. I won't write about his jungle, and you and your father need to stay the hell out of mine." 　Hully leaned forward. "Are you looking at any suspects, other than Harry Kamana?" 　An eyebrow arched. "I was about to interview that grocer, wasn't I? Damnit, boy-leave this to the police." He looked sharply at Sam. "What's your part in this?" 　Sam's eyes widened. "I'm just a friend of Hully's ... I was a friend of Pearl's, too." 　"Where were you last night?" 　"At a college dance-pregame bash." 　"But you weren't at the game today?" 　"I don't like football." 　"But you went to the 'pregame bash'?" 　"Well, sure-I do like girls." 　"Did you like Pearl Harada?" 　"Not that way... hey, what is this?" 　Jardine looked pointedly at Hully. "How's this guy for another suspect? We're looking at everybody and everything... including you, Mr. Burroughs." 　A uniformed officer, a young Polynesian, peered in the cafй's storefront window and seemed relieved to see Jardine. The cop hurried in and stood next to the booth, hands behind him. 　"Detective, may I have a word?" Jardine rose and, pointing to Hully and then at Sam, said, "Stay," as if to a pair of dogs. 　Hully and Sam watched out the window as the uniformed cop delivered some slice of detailed information that made Jardine cover his mouth; then the detective pushed his fedora back on his head, and turned and gazed through the cafe window at Hully. He crooked a finger. 　Hully raised his eyebrows and gestured to himself. Jardine frowned and nodded. Soon Sam had been left behind and Jardine-with the uniformed cop at the wheel-was sitting in the front seat of a squad car with Hully in back, feeling like a suspect. 　"What's this about?" Hully asked. "Just ride," Jardine said. 　Past the end of the Waikiki streetcar line, Jardine's driver headed out Diamond Head Road. The road was just about to begin making its winding way up the cliffs, when the squad car drew up along the roadside where another squad car was already parked. 　Wordlessly, Jardine approached an opening between the rocks where another Polynesian uniformed cop was posted at the mouth of the path; the cop nodded to 　Jardine and pointed down. Following the swarthy little detective-whose driver had stayed behind-Hully did his best to keep his balance as he navigated van-sized rocks down the grassy, sandy slope. On the beach below, the rock-infested white beach, lay a body-a naked man, sprawled on his stomach. Two more cops stood watch, but this fellow wasn't going anywhere. 　The sand was moist under his slippers, as Hully trailed after the detective, who made a beeline to the body and knelt. The nude, slender frame of the corpse became a specific person when Hully got close enough to see the pale, sand-flecked, bulging-eyed face, the surf rolling up nearby, threatening to dampen the dead features. 　"Recognize him?" Jardine said to Hully, looking up from beside the body. 　'Terry Mizuha," Hully said. His tongue felt thick; his head was spinning. He turned away from the corpse, walked a few steps down the beach, his back to the cops and the body. 　Then Jardine was at his side. "You said this boy might have more information to share." 　Hully had included a summary of his conversation with the (late) guitar player when he had filled Jardine in, at the Chinatown coffee shop. 　"Yes-he said he had to think... to 'sort things out' He'd said maybe we'd talk in a few hours." 　"It's been a few hours-but Terry doesn't seem too talkative." 　Hully swallowed, shivered. "How was he killed?" 　The wind off the ocean was threatening to whip away Jardine's fedora, but somehow it stayed put. "Garroted-probably with a small rope." 　Hully shook his head-such a violent way for so gentle a soul to meet his fate. "Do you still think Harry Kamana killed Pearl Harada?" 　Jardine twitched a nonsmile. "I'd say a little doubt is raised." 　Hully snorted a humorless laugh. "Well, Kamana sure as hell didn't kill this guy! I saw Terry at the Niumalu, well before lunch!" 　Jardine heaved a sigh, and looked back toward the body. "We were probably not meant to find him so soon.... This is a rocky portion of the beach, not visible from the highway. But some tourists stumbled across him... forty-five minutes ago." 　"What's the significance of finding him sooner, rather than later?" 　The sharp eyes landed back on Hully; the faintest of smiles etched itself on Jardine's thin lips. "I'm supposed to write this off as a mahu kill." 　"A what?" 　"Mahu ... fairy-homosexual. Lots of queers get killed in Waikiki, usually by soldiers or sailors. Kind of a... local tradition that horny servicemen, short of money, pick up a mahu on a street corner for a free 'thrill.' Some of these servicemen are sickened by the experience, and take it out on the poor bastards, after." 　"You don't really think this is a-" 　"No. But I'm supposed to. Terry Mizuha was a known mahu-and he's nude, possibly preparing for ... you know." 　"In the middle of the day?" 　Jardine frowned. "That's why I say we weren't supposed to find him so soon I would like to talk to your servicemen friends, Fielder and Stanton." 　"Why, you think one of them may have lured him out here, on a pretext?" 　"Possibly. It's secluded enough, even for a daytime tryst Anyway, there are no signs of the body being carried down the slope. He would seem to have been killed here, on the beach." 　"But he could have been killed elsewhere." 　"Yes-if the killer had an accomplice to help him carry the body down the slope. The body could have been transported here in the trunk of a car." 　"Did you find the clothes?" 　Jardine nodded. "I'm told they were neatly stacked in the rocks nearby." 　The afternoon was dying. The setting sun seemed a red-hot ball of flame, tinting the waves pink, as if the ocean were watered-down blood. 　The detective looked up at Hully with eyes that were bright but no longer hard or sharp. "Would you help me tonight, Mr. Burroughs? We'll go to Hotel Street and find that sailor and that soldier." 　There was no question about it: Hully would go along with Jardine. But just the same, he said, "I thought I was supposed to leave this to the professionals." 　"You'll be with a professional. What do you say?" 　Down the beach, foamy surf licking ever nearer, Terry Mizuha seemed to have no objection. 　"I had nothing else planned," Hully said. 　 　 　TEN 　An Evening at the Shuncho-ro 　 　At the top of Red Hill, Burroughs slowed his Pierce Arrow to take in the panoramic view of Pearl Harbor on this peaceful evening-the scattering of stars in God's purple Hawaiian sky competing with the man-made twinkling of buildings and ships, the ebony sea highlighted shimmeringly by the rays of the near-golden moon. Dance band music drifted up from the officers' club below, the view including the Naval Station, Luke Field, and-in the distance-the Ewa Sugar Plantation; but the equipment, the trappings, of the great base were lost in the night, the workshops, the big hammerhead crane, swallowed by darkness, with only the lights of the Pacific Fleet remaining-and there were plenty, what with every battleship in port. Winding down the hill, passing through Halawa Gulch, the convertible glided by fields of sugarcane, which waved at the writer, friendly in the moonlight. 　A sign told Burroughs that Pearl City Road Junction lay ahead just three miles, where a left turn would take him to the Peninsula residential section and the Shuncho-ro teahouse. 　He had not connected with Hully, and Burroughs wondered what his son might have uncovered-he only hoped the boy hadn't gotten himself in any jam. For once Burroughs valued his son's friendship with Sam Fujimoto-snooping in Chinatown without a safari guide would have been reckless. Not that he was worried, really, other than a standard fatherly concern: Hully was as smart as he was strapping, and could damn well take care of himself. 　On the other hand, it was a murderer they were chasing. And Burroughs was starting to wonder whether Pearl Harada's death really had been a simple crime of passion, driven by the jealousy of one suitor or another ... or was it a small yet important part of something greater and far more sinister? 　Back at the Waikiki Tavern, after Colonel Fielder had departed, Burroughs and FBI agent Sterling had sat and talked for another fifteen minutes, in the matched-roofed pergola on the beach. No more rum punch: a waiter was dispatched to bring coffee for both men. As they spoke, a tropical sunset painted the water, the world, with shades of red and orange; but as the sun's ball of fire slipped over the horizon, darkness rapidly invaded. 　Burroughs had told Sterling about the informal investigation he and his son were undertaking into the Harada girl's death, assuring the agent that Hully had not been clued in on Otto Kuhn's suspected status as a sleeper agent. 　"To me, the most interesting thing you've come up with," the ruggedly handsome FBI agent said, stirring sugar into his coffee, "is that phone call that Kuhn and his wife argued about." 　Burroughs lifted an eyebrow. "Apparently, Otto told her to deny there'd been any phone call, or anyway not to mention there had been one." 　Sterling's eyes narrowed. "But who rang Otto, in the middle of the night? And why?" 　"He's a sleeper agent-maybe it was a wake-up call." 　The FBI agent nodded. "Maybe in a way it was- Otto receives a call, and then before you know it, he's on your doorstep, telling Jardine he witnessed Kamana killing that girl." 　"You mean... the real murderer called him, and ordered up an alibi?" 　Sterling made an openhanded shrugging gesture. "There's really only two reasonable alternatives, here: Kuhn did the killing and blamed Kamana; or someone else did the killing, and Kuhn is alibiing for him... or her." 　"Her? Mrs. Kuhn, you mean?" 　"She remains a viable suspect," Sterling said, and sipped his coffee. "Otto's reputation as a playboy has been well earned-he does run around on Elfriede ... and you gotta give Otto his nerve for that: his wife is the niece of Heinrich Himmler himself." 　The saltwater breeze suddenly seemed chilly to Burroughs. "So I really do have Nazis living next door." 　"No doubt of that." 　"Then where does the damn phone call come in?" 　Sterling threw his hands up. "Search me. But I can tell you this-there's a reason why Pearl Harada's murder sent up a warning flare at my office ... particularly with Otto Kuhn as a supposed eyewitness, apparently fingering a fall guy." 　"Why is that, Adam?" 　The agent leaned forward. "Remember what I told you about the network of nisei who are helping compile a list of potentially disloyal Japs here in Oahu?" 　"Sure." 　"Well, Pearl Harada's uncle-the Chinatown grocer-is on that list." 　Burroughs half climbed out of his wicker chair. "Jesus, Hully went to question that guy this afternoon!" 　Sterling patted the air, calmingly. "I didn't say Uncle Harada was dangerous-just that he's loyal to his native country... like a lot of issei in Chinatown." 　Issei were first-generation immigrants. 　Sterling was saying, "Until recently, Harada displayed photographs of the emperor in his shop. Plus, he's vocally supported Japan's war on China, buying Jap war bonds, helping organize an effort to send 'comfort bags' to Japanese soldiers-blankets, shoes, candy." 　Burroughs shifted in his chair. "Well, this is beginning to look like Pearl Harada's death may have more to do with espionage than affairs of the heart." 　Sterling shrugged again. "There's no question this was a beautiful girl who could have driven a man to some irrational, jealous act of violence... but with both her uncle and your 'Nazi-next-door' in the scenario, an espionage-related motive remains a distinct possibility." 　"And let's not forget she knew Vice Consul Mori-mura, either-or that he was reading her the Riot Act in the parking lot, a few hours before she was killed." 　Sterling's reaction was not what Burroughs had expected: the FBI agent laughed. 　Astounded, Burroughs said, "This is funny, all of a sudden?" 　"I'm sorry. It's just... That guy's hard to take seriously. My guess is Morimura was yelling at her because she wouldn't give him the time of day." 　"How can you say that, Adam? Fielder admits this clown spends most of his time engaged in 'legal' spying." 　" 'Clown' is the key word, there." Sterling sipped his coffee, then leaned forward again. "Listen, Ed- Morimura is an idiot. I have it on good authority that everybody else at the Consulate hates his guts, considers him a lazy ass. We've had him under surveillance, from time to time, and the guy just wanders around like a tourist, never takes a note or a photo or makes a sketch." 　"Maybe he has a photographic memory." 　"I sincerely doubt it, considering all the brain cells he's lost to sake. Morimura's a simpleton and a sybarite." 　Burroughs was shaking bis head, astounded by Sterling's attitude. "Kuhn's a playboy and you take him seriously." 　"Morimura spends all his time drinking himself into a stupor and screwing geisha girls-end of story." 　"Maybe he's just a clever agent-you were concerned enough about the Consulate burning their papers, yesterday, and Morimura's a damn vice consul...." 　Sterling held up his hands as if in surrender. "Check him out yourself, if you like, Ed-this is Saturday ... he'll no doubt be at the Shuncho-ro teahouse, tonight. The management keeps a room upstairs for him, to pursue his debaucheries, and then sleep it off." Sterling checked his watch. "As for me, I have to get over to General Short's quarters, to try to jump-start him into taking all of these matters seriously... the Mori code, the Harada murder, the Consulate burning those papers. ..." 　Burroughs sighed, shook his head. "What the hell does it all mean, Adam?" 　Sterling rose from his wicker chair. "Figuring that out isn't my job-my job is convincing General Short to figure it out." 　The Shuncho-ro-Spring Tide Restaurant-was on Makanani Drive on the slopes of Alewa Heights, a surprisingly un-Oriental-looking two-story wooden house with generous picture windows on both floors and clean modern lines that wouldn't have been out of place back in Frank Lloyd Wright's Oak Park, Illinois, where Burroughs had lived in the teens. In the midst of a lush garden-no palms in sight-hugged by flowering hedges, the Shuncho-ro perched on the mountainside looking down on Honolulu, a breathtaking view any tourist-or spy-might relish. 　Burroughs left his Pierce Arrow in the dimly illuminated crushed-coral parking lot, which was fairly full, the restaurant doing a good business. He noted, parked on the other side of the lot, a black Lincoln with a Japanese chauffeur in full livery asleep behind the wheel-the vice consul's car, no doubt. 　The writer also recognized another car in the lot, a dark blue '41 Cadillac convertible. He'd seen this distinctive vehicle at the Niumalu many times: it belonged to Otto Kuhn. 　The wide entryway of the teahouse had horizontal wooden spindlework on either side, a motif repeated in the vestibule, a strong, stark design that again recalled Oak Park's Frank Lloyd Wright--and Wright's own Japanese inspiration. A host in a black suit and tie asked if Burroughs had a reservation, which he did, having called ahead; after leaving his shoes at the door, Burroughs was shown by a teahouse girl in a pate blue kimono to a low table for one, where he sat on a tatami mat. 　The sparsely decorated, oak-trimmed, cream-colored dining room seemed about evenly divided between Japanese-Americans and tourists, all of whom-like Burroughs-were rather informally dressed, in anticipation of the teahouse's sit-on-the-floor service. He did not see Morimura or Kuhn among the diners here on the first floor. 　He drank a cup of tea, and when the geisha returned for his order, he said, "I was hoping to link up with two friends of mine, who told me they'd be dining here, this evening-Otto Kuhn and Tadashi Mori-mura?" 　She nodded. "The gentlemen are upstairs, sir." 　"Wonderful! Which room?" 　"Ichigo room-sign on door. It is private. May I announce you?" 　Smiling, Burroughs got up. "No, that's all right- I'd rather surprise them. Can you direct me?" 　The geisha was obliging-these girls were paid to be-and Burroughs was about to go up a stairway when he glimpsed somebody starting down. Ducking back around, tucking into the recess of the restroom hallway, Burroughs allowed Otto Kuhn to exit the stairwell and head out the entryway to the parking lot. 　Then the writer slipped his shoes back on and followed after. 　Kuhn moved quickly, his white linen suit flashing in the night, like a ghost on the run; but Burroughs trotted after him and caught up with the German near the parked Caddy. 　"Well, Otto," Burroughs said, "we just keep bumping into each other." 　Startled, Kuhn wheeled, blue eyes wide in the bland oval of his face. "Burroughs ... Edgar. I didn't know you frequented the Shuncho-ro." 　"My first time." 　"You, uh, simply must try the ogana tonight... superb. Well, if you'll excuse me-" 　Burroughs stopped him with a hand on an elbow. 　"You're always in such a rash, Otto. I'm a driven, intense sort of fella myself... but I've learned to relax in Oahu." 　Kuhn drew away from Burroughs's grasp. "Edgar, please, my wife is waiting." 　"Really? You didn't take her along to the restaurant, on a Saturday night? I hope you two kids aren't having trouble." 　Irritated, Kuhn frowned saying, "She doesn't care for Japanese cuisine. If you'll excuse me ..." 　"Or maybe you were still doing business? I know you had business downtown, earlier-maybe this is an extension of that." 　Kuhn's eyes hardened. "If it is business-it's my business... and, frankly, none of yours." 　"Funny that you would be dining with Mr. Mori-mura, tonight, when you almost went out of your way, at the luau last night, to avoid him." 　Mention of the vice consul's name had widened the blue eyes again; Kuhn had the look of a startled deer. "Who says I was dining with... what was the name?" 　"Morimura, and the waitress in there said you and he had a private room upstairs." 　Kuhn lifted his chin. "What are you implying?" 　"Not romance. You see, Otto, I think somebody... maybe your Jap pal in there... called you last night, woke you and your lovely wife up." 　"I don't know what you're talking about." 　"I'm talking about you pinning a murder on that poor bastard Harry Kamana." 　Kuhn's bland features contorted fiercely. "You're out of your mind! I saw that musician bludgeon that girl with a rock-he bashed her damn skull in!" 　"Did he? Or did you?" 　The German drew back, sucking in a breath. Then, as if hurt, even offended, he said, "I don't have to put up with this." 　"Maybe not from me... but my friend Detective Jardine, him you'll have to talk to. Last night you added to some already damning evidence to help make Kamana the obvious, and only, suspect. Today, though, things are looking different." 　"What are you talking about?" 　"I'm talking about that late-night phone call. I'm talking about your vice-consul pal in there bawling out that girl in public, just hours before her murder." 　Kuhn shoved Burroughs, roughly, and the writer knocked into the next parked car with a metallic whump. Kuhn was opening his car door, getting in, when Burroughs latched onto his shoulder, spun him around and slammed a fist into his face. 　His mouth bloody, Kuhn shoved Burroughs again, then went clawing inside his white jacket; the German's fingers were on a small black Liiger, snugged away in a shoulder holster, when Burroughs doubled him over with a hard fist to the belly. 　Dazed, Kuhn tumbled to the crushed coral, sitting between his Caddy and the parked car next door, lean-ing on both hands, while Burroughs reached down and inside the man's jacket and plucked the Lьger like a hard little flower. 　Then the writer pressed the automatic's barrel to the German's forehead, and released the safety, a tiny click that echoed in the stillness of the night. 　Eyes glittering with alarm, Kuhn said, "What do you want?" 　"The truth. Did you see Kamana kill that girl?" 　Swallowing thickly, the German shook his head, and the pressed-to-his-flesh pistol went along. "Morimura called me. Told me what to say." 　"Did Morimura kill her?" 　"I don't know. Maybe. I only know he wanted the musician identified. As far as I know, Kamana really could be the killer... I just... I just didn't see him do it." 　"Why was Pearl Harada killed?" 　"I don't know, I don't know. She flitted around- she was a pretty girl. Jealousy makes men crazy." 　"Did you have an affair with her?" 　"No! No. Of course not." 　Burroughs pushed harder against the German's forehead. "What about Morimura?" 　"I don't know! I don't know....I'm not his goddamn chaperon." 　"No, you're his stooge, though. Or should I say his understudy?" 　Now the blue eyes tightened-alarm dissolving into fear. "Wh... what do you mean?" 　"The Consulate's been busy burning its papers; coded messages to Japan have been flying. You're a good Nazi, aren't you, Otto? Waiting to help your ally, after we're at war, and diplomats like Morimura are suddenly prisoners...." 　Stiffly, Kuhn said, "I am not a Nazi." 　"Should I pass that news along to your uncle Himmler?" 　"Why are you ... what are you ... You're just a writer!" 　"I'm just an American. Otto-did that girl's murder have anything to do with espionage?" 　"What? No! How should I know?" 　Burroughs pressed harder with the gun barrel. 'Try again." 　Trembling now, sweat pearling down his forehead, Kuhn said, "I swear to sweet Jesus I don't know....I told you what you wanted! I admitted Morimura called me... that alone could get me killed." 　Burroughs thought about that-then removed the gun from the German's forehead; it had left an impression, in several ways. 　"Get the hell out of here," Burroughs told him, disgustedly. 　Kuhn swallowed again. "What about my gun?" 　"Spoils of war," Burroughs said, and dropped it into his pocket. 　Kuhn didn't argue the point; he scrambled to his feet, climbed into his car and-as Burroughs headed back toward the Shuncho-ro-roared out, throwing crushed coral, finally waking up the Japanese chauffeur ... for a few moments. 　The word Ichigo appeared in both English and Japanese on a small oak plaque by an upstairs door. Burroughs knocked. 　A male voice from within answered: "Yes?" 　The writer spoke to the door. "Mr. Morimura? Ed Burroughs. Could I have a word with you?" 　Moments later, the door cracked open. The handsome young Japanese diplomat stood eye to eye with Burroughs; Morimura's black hair was slicked back, and his slender form was wrapped up in an off-white robe with a scarlet sash. His feet were bare. He smelled heavily of musk. 　"I do not understand, Mr. Burroughs." Morimura's expression was friendly but his dark eyes were not. "Why do you seek me here?" 　Burroughs leaned a hand against the doorjamb. "I took a chance you might be at the Shuncho-ro. I heard it was kind of a second home to you." "Could we not meet another time, another place?" 　"This won't take long-I just want to chat for a few minutes. May I come in?" 　"I have company." 　Burroughs pushed the door open and shouldered past Morimura. At a low table, three Japanese girls wearing nothing at all were sitting on tatami mats. They were lovely of face and form, though their frozen embarrassment was painful to see. 　"Put your kimonos on, girls," Burroughs said, "and take a break." 　The pretty trio made sounds that mingled distress with giggling as they quickly got into their kimonos, which had been folded neatly on the floor behind them. This was another sparsely decorated, oak-lined, cream-walled room; a row of big picture windows looked out onto the ocean ... and Pearl Harbor, Ford Island visible to the west, the Army's Hickam Field just to the left. A powerful telescope on a stand awaited any ... tourist... who might want a better, closer look. 　The now-clothed geishas scurried out past Morimura, who stood near the door with his arms folded, his face blank. 　The consul said, "You are a rude and foolish man." 　Burroughs strolled over and touched the telescope admiringly. "Maybe it's just cultural differences. Besides, I don't think you're a fool-even if everybody else seems to." 　"Perhaps all Americans are foolish." 　"They are if they don't think you're a damn spy." 　Morimura smiled, almost gently. He gestured to the low table and the tatami mats. "Sake, Mr. Burroughs?" 　"No thanks. I'm on the wagon." 　"Wagon?" 　"Never mind. But I'll sit with you, while you drink." 　They sat across from each other at the low table; neither partook of the pitcher of sake. 　Morimura's arms were again folded. "I am not a spy, Mr. Burroughs-I am a diplomat. Any information I have obtained has been through strictly legal means. Blame your own... American openness. Much can be gleaned from your daily newspapers, for example-and is there a law against looking through a telescope at a restaurant's lovely view?" 　"Did you kill Pearl Harada?" 　Morimura blinked, and his expression became one of horror. "What? What a ridiculous question!" 　"Did you?" 　"No. Certainly not I barely knew her." 　"Do you... 'barely' know her, the way you 'barely' know those three geisha girls?" 　"No. The singer and I were not romantically involved." 　"How about carnally?" 　"No." 　"Then why were you arguing with her, in the Niumalu parking lot, the night of her murder?" 　Morimura's eyes widened-obviously, he didn't know he and Pearl had been seen. 　"Her uncle asked me to speak to her." 　"Her uncle? The grocer?" 　"Yes. He heard rumors she was planning to marry an American boy. A sailor. He disapproved. I merely conveyed this message to her, and she was....disrespectful, both to me and in speaking of her uncle." 　"Why didn't her uncle tell her this himself? He was around the Niumalu in the afternoon." 　Morimura glared at Burroughs. "Why are you curious? What business is it to you, the murder of this girl?" 　"I helped put the cuffs on Harry Kamana... I caught him at the beach with his hands bloody." 　The diplomat nodded. "This I have heard." 　"Between the two of us, you and me, we really nailed the poor bastard." 　"The two of us? Nail? Your meaning escapes me." 　"You called Otto Kuhn in the middle of the night, and had him pretend to be an eyewitness. You had him finger that musician." 　"Nonsense." 　"Kuhn told me himself." 　Morimura frowned. "If so, he lies. When did he say this?" 　"Just now, in the parking lot. I don't blame you for trading his company in on those geishas... no comparison. Anyway, Otto admitted you called him, and had him play eyewitness. You see, Otto receiving a call last night, well... that's a known fact." 　"Really? I understood there was no switchboard at the Niumalu." 　Burroughs grinned. "How interesting that you'd know a trivial detail like that, Mr. Morimura, considering you're not at all involved in this. By the way, don't take it out on Otto-he's afraid you'll kill him, or have him killed, because of what he told me." 　"Did you bribe the German?" 　"Hell no." 　"Ah." Morimura's eyes narrowed. "I see the scrape on your knuckles. You beat it out of him." Morimura stood. "Perhaps you would care to try taking that... very American approach to seeking information... with me." 　The consul moved away from the low table and struck a martial-arts pose. A single eyebrow raised, tiny smile on his thin lips, Morimura said, "Judo." 　Burroughs rose and took the Lьger out and pointed it at him and said, "Gun." 　Eyes flickering with fear, the supposed diplomat slowly raised his hands. "Shoot me if you wish, Mr. Burroughs ....but I will say nothing more. I am not like Otto Kuhn. I am not weak." 　"And I'm not a murderer," Burroughs said, and slipped the gun in his pocket, and went out.

story; MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part 7 and 8) * will update soon....*

SEVEN 　Mourning After 　 　Hully drifted through an open archway into the airy, A-frame lobby of the Niumalu, its sun-reflecting parquet floor dotted with Oriental rags, potted ferns perching on the periphery like silent witnesses. Nary a guest was partaking of the cushioned wicker chairs and sofas, but manager Fred Bivens was behind the front desk of the lodge, at the far end, distributing mail into key slots. 　Fred's aloha shirt was an all-purpose blue on which floated the fluffy clouds and palmy island of its pattern. The affable, heavyset Bivens put aside his work to chat with Hully-the manager's eyes were dark and baggy, bis normally pleasant features seeming to droop, as if last night's tragedy had melted his face slightly. 　"How late did the cops keep you up last night?" Bivens asked. 　Their voices echoed in the high-ceilinged room. 　"Not as late as some," Hully said. "Dad and I were the first questioned ... us and Harry Kamana. Did they wake up a lot of your guests, for questioning?" 　"No, just the residents in the bungalows adjacent to the beach. But that little Puerto Rican cop said he'd be back either today or Monday, to talk to everybody else." 　Hully didn't correct Bivens's assumption about Jardine's ethnicity. "You have any guests checking out before then?" 　"That cop asked the same thing-no. We're about half and half, at the moment, residents like you and your father, and tourists ... but nobody's leaving before the middle of next week." 　Hully leaned an arm on the counter. He was trying to keep things conversational-he didn't want the manager to figure out he was poking around. Then he shook his head and said, "Damn shame-I really liked Pearl. I know she dated a lot of guys, but I never got the feeling she was ..." 　"Round-heeled or anything? No. I don't think she was any virgin, but she wasn't any, you know... tramp. She was a good kid, with a good heart; but hell, all those show-business types have different moral codes than the rest of us." 　"How so?" 　Now Bivens leaned on the counter. "Come on, Hully-you and your dad live in Hollywood. You know how those movie actors sleep around; you know how those musicians drink and smoke ... and I'm not talking about cigarettes." 　Hully shrugged. "I didn't have the feeling Pearl wanted to stay in show business. Matter of fact, she told me she wanted to get married and settle down." 　Bivens's head rocked back: "What, with that Fielder kid? Come on, Hully-that was a pipe dream! White soldier with a high-ranking father, marry a Jap?" 　"Yeah," Hully admitted, "it was a loaded situation....1 wonder if that had anything to do with her murder." 　Bivens started filling the mail slots again, talking as he did, occasionally glancing back at Hully. "Sure it did. That poor Kamana musta gone off his noodle, with jealousy. He loved that girl-everybody knew it." 　"Does Harry Kamana seem like the violent type to you, Fred? You ever see him lose his temper?" 　"No.... That's the pity. He's always been a sweet guy. But still waters run deep." He paused, several letters in hand, and his gaze held Hully's. "Funny thing, that. He's the leader, you know, of the Harbor Lights, and some of his guys have come to me to complain." 　"What about?" 　Letters distributed, he folded his arms, leaned against the back counter. "Well, they know I do the deals with Harry ... book the gigs, as they put it. And they think I take advantage of Harry... that he's too nice, too soft." 　"Any truth in it?" 　"Hey, I give the boys a fair shake. They get pretty close to top dollar, for the size of the Niumalu and its dance floor." 　"They're popular-a real draw." 　Bivens shook his head, sadly. "Without Pearl... without Harry... I don't know. They're having a meeting right now, over in the dining room. I don't know what the hell they're gonna do.... Supposed to play for me, tonight." 　The musicians were in the dining room, up on the bandstand, casually dressed, sitting in their respective seats in front of music stands; but they weren't rehearsing-no instruments were in sight. 　A guy in a dark blue sportshirt and chinos was standing in front of them, as if directing-but he was really just conducting a meeting. Hully knew him, knew most of the remaining eight members of the Harbor Lights; the guy out front was Jim Kaupiko, a round-faced but slender trumpet player in his late twenties. Most tourists assumed the entire band was Hawaiian, and Kaupiko and Kamana and a few other Harbor Lights were indeed natives; but the band was otherwise a mix of Japanese, Chinese, Filipino and Korean. 　"I know how everybody here feels," Kaupiko said. "Pearl was the best..." 　The various Polynesian and Oriental faces on the bandstand were as grave as carved masks. 　"... and we can't ever hope to find someone to fill her shoes. Whether we're even gonna be able to keep going, that's up in the air. But we owe it to Mr. Bivens to play out our contract, at least." 　"Including tonight?" a voice called out. 　"Including tonight, Terry." 　Hully knew the band member who had spoken: Taro 'Terry" Mizuha, the only Japanese in the group other than Pearl. 　"I don't know, Jim," Mizuha said; shaking his head. A slender, almost pretty young man-a guitar player- he really looked devastated. "I just don't know...." 　"I've asked Sally Suziki to fill in on vocals-she was singing with the Kealoha Trio at the Halekulani, but they recently broke up." 　"She'll do fine," somebody said numbly. 　"She's no Pearl," somebody else said. 　"She'll do fine," Kaupiko affirmed. "And I've got Sammy Amaulu, trombone player from the Surfriders- they're not gigging tonight. Sammy can fill in, but just this once." 　Somebody asked, "Are we gonna rehearse with these fill-ins?" 　'Today at three-any objections?" 　There were none, and Kaupiko seemed about to adjourn the informal meeting, when Hully strolled up and said, "What do you guys think about Harry?" 　About half of them had been getting up out of their chairs; all of them had wide-eyed, sucker-punched expressions. 　Kaupiko, still in the director's position on the bandstand, turned and looked down and said, "Hiya, Hully- heard you and your old man found Pearl, and nabbed Harry." 　"It was mostly Dad's doing.... I just wondered what you guys thought, you know, about whether Harry did it or not." 　One of the guys, a Filipino whose name Hully didn't know, a sax player, asked, "I thought your father caught him red-handed." 　"Red-handed in that he had blood on his hand... but maybe it got there 'cause he was trying to help her, or check the pulse in her neck. I just thought you guys should know that Harry denied killing Pearl-he could probably use some support about now. Somebody ought to go downtown and make sure he's got a good lawyer." 　"Sounds like he'll need one," Kaupiko said. 　"No question about that. But I thought maybe you fellas ... his friends ... would like to know that I, for one, found his story convincing." 　"I can't believe Harry'd hurt a fly," Jack Wong said. He was also a sax player. 　"He was crazy about Pearl," somebody else chimed in. 　"Most people think his loving her is a motive," Hully said. "I'd just like to know if any of you guys ever saw Harry act violent-ever behave like a hothead, blow his top over anything." 　Nobody said anything; everybody was sitting down again, and the band members exchanged glances, often shaking their heads. 　Hully stood with hands on his hips. "How about Harry saying anything about Bill Fielder muscling in on him? Did Harry ever have a shouting match with Pearl, over that or anything else?" 　No one said a word. 　Hully searched the cheerless faces. "I'm not a cop ... I'm just a friend of Harry's, who wants to make sure he doesn't get a raw deal outta this." 　"Harry hardly ever raises his voice," Wong said. "That's his problem-we'd be playing at the Royal Hawaiian right now, with the following we got, if he was more aggressive." 　Wong's fellow band members were nodding. 　"Okay, guys," Hully said, easily. "Listen, I'll be over at my bungalow, for a while, if anybody wants to share anything, one to one, man to man. Okay?" 　More nods. 　Hully turned and headed out, to the tune of chairs getting pushed back and murmuring among the members. 　Kaupiko caught up with him about halfway across the dance floor, taking Hully by the arm. "Let's talk," the trumpet player said, and nodded toward the courtyard, which the dining room opened onto. 　The rock garden at the center had a little waterfall which made just enough noise to give them some additional privacy. 　"Are you investigating Pearl's murder?" Kaupiko asked, his expression thoughtful. 　"Not officially," Hully said. "But I think there's at least a possibliity that Harry Kamana is innocent, and I don't see the police going down that path." 　"And if Harry's innocent, somebody else is ..." 　"The word is 'guilty,' Jim. Yes." Hully rocked back on bis heels. "How many of the band live here at the Niumalu?" 　The round-faced musician stroked his chin, which was almost as blue as his shirt-he needed a shave. 　"Besides Harry, and Pearl? Just a couple. Most are local. Harry's from the big island, though, and needs lodging when we work Oahu, which lately has been most of the time." 　"I had the idea that Pearl lived with her uncle, that grocer, in Chinatown." 　Kaupiko nodded. "She did, when she first came here. But once we got this steady gig at the Niumalu, Harry negotiated with Mr. Bivens to get her a room in the lodge." 　"Who else lives here at the hotel?" 　The musician looked around, rather furtively, apparently checking to see if any of his band mates were watching... or listening. 　'Terry Mizuha," he said, finally. "He's the only guy besides Harry that was really cozy with Pearl." 　"Did she date him, too?" 　Kaupiko laughed. 　"What's so funny, Jim?" 　"Sorry." The musician's expression was sober again. "Listen, I don't want to talk outta school. Terry's a great guy, helluva guitar player." 　"Okay-now drop the other shoe." 　He shrugged. "I don't think Terry likes dolls. He's, uh ... you know." Kaupiko held up his hand and made a sideways shaking gesture. 　"But he and Pearl were friends?" 　"Yeah. Sort of... 'girlfriends.' Hey, don't spread that around. We don't care about Terry's tastes-he's discreet and he's a good musician and he's our pal. Anyway, some of the people we work for might not hire us if they knew he was that way. So mum's the word." 　"I appreciate you leveling with me, Jim." 　Kaupiko sighed, shook his head. "We all loved Pearl. She could've taken us to Hollywood or somethin', someday, if some bastard hadn't done her in. And I want to thank you for saying what you did in front of the band-you really got everybody thinking. I mean, in our hearts we didn't believe Harry could have done that terrible thing ... but we believed what we were told." 　"That's understandable." 　He sighed again, relieved this time. "Anyway, I'm going down to the police station and see about Harry- like you suggested." 　"Good. Before you go, is there anything else you can think of, that might be pertinent?" 　Kaupiko's eyes squeezed tight in thought. "Come to think of it... I did see Pearl have an argument last night, but not with Harry. Before we went onstage." 　Hully leaned in. "Who with?" 　"Do you know that Japanese diplomat, that idiot skirt-chaser Morimura?" 　"I know who he is-he sat with Dad and me at the luau." 　Kaupiko nodded. "Well, he had her cornered, out in the parking lot, away from everybody and everything, out by that big fancy car of his-it's a Lincoln. He was really chewing her out, shaking his finger at her.... 　She just had her arms folded and was taking it, chin up, kinda proud." 　"Huh," Hully grunted. "What did you make of that?" 　Kaupiko shrugged elaborately. "I didn't know what to think, and I never said a word to Pearl about it. I mean, I always thought that Morimura character was just a harmless grinning jerk, always chasing tail." 　"You think Pearl and Morimura may have dated?" 　Another, less elaborate shrug. "I suppose anything is possible. But it doesn't ring true, somehow. Morimura doesn't seem her type-she liked musicians, and she liked servicemen ... that was about it. And that's the only time I ever saw them together." 　"Okay." 　Kaupiko gestured with a pointing finger. "If that cop asks me about this, I'm gonna tell him, too." 　"Good. It's not a competition-in fact, say and do anything you can that will help get that guy Jardine off the dime, and looking at some suspects besides Harry Kamana." 　The two men shook hands, and Kaupiko headed back toward the bandstand, while Hully returned to the lobby, intending to ask Bivens which room was Terry Mizuha's, wanting to talk to the guitar player. 　But Bivens was no longer behind the front desk, apparently off doing some other Niumalu chore. That was all right-it was even good-because Hully didn't need Bivens's help to find Terry Mizuha. 　The slender musician was sitting on a cushioned wicker chair, between two archways that looked out onto the parking lot. 　Mizuha, in a cream sportshirt and white slacks and cream slippers, had almost delicate features-handsome but vaguely feminine, his dark hair long, slicked back like an Oriental George Raft. His Iong-lashed eyes were dark-circled and webbed with red. 　"I hoped you might come through here," Mizuha said. His voice was soft, gentle, melodic. Hully pulled another of the wicker chairs up. 　"Why didn't you stop me in the other room, Terry, when I asked for information?" 　"Jim beat me to it. What did he fell you?" 　"That you and Pearl were good friends." 　"That's true... that's true." He covered his face 　with a finely boned hand and began to weep. Hully, embarrassed, dug out a hankie from his pocket and handed it to the man, who took it gratefully; for two excruciatingly long minutes, Mizuha wept into Hully's cloth. When the slender man lowered the handkerchief from his face, his eyes were even more bloodshot. He said, "She was my best friend." 　"Do you know anything about her murder?" 　"I know I saw that soldier... Stanton? She had dated him, before the sailor boy-Fielder? I saw him yelling at her, after the dance, when we were packing up." 　"Did the others see this? Why didn't they-?" Mizuha was shaking his head. "They didn't see the argument. It was outside, he had her up against the wall of the lodge. I... I interceded. He almost struck me, but I pretended she was needed by Jim, for band business. Stanton stalked off." 　"Did you hear anything of what was said?" 　"Just the usual spurned-lover recriminations." 　"Did Stanton threaten her?" 　"Not overtly. Just his manner. I do think she was afraid... she was trembling. I put my arm around her." He began to cry again, into the hankie. 　Hully waited, then asked, "Is there anything else you saw, Terry? Anything else you know?" 　Mizuha bunked. "What do you mean... anything else I know?" 　This seemed a peculiar reaction to Hully, who shrugged. "Just that." 　The pretty eyes narrowed; the smooth forehead furrowed. "You're not a detective, are you?" 　"Unfortunately, no-just a friend trying to help a friend who is beyond help, really." 　He swallowed, nodded. "You were going to talk to Colonel Fielder for her, weren't you?" 　"Yes....My father agreed, also." 　Mizuha sat forward, a strange urgency in his voice. "What did she say to you? What did she tell you? Or your father?" 　The intensity of the man made Hully rear back, a little. "Nothing, really-obviously, she wanted to state her case, plead for the colonel's consent to the marriage." 　Mizuha's eyes tightened, but otherwise he relaxed, air escaping as if from a balloon, his body becoming even smaller. Then he said, "Let us talk again," 　"Sure." 　"I have ... I have to sort a few things out. I have to think." 　'Terry, if you know something, tell me, hell, tell the police...." 　Mizuha was shaking his head. "I'm too distraught right now. I'm confused. I'm afraid. Please give me a few hours....We'll talk again." 　'Terry..." 　But the conversation ended there, because something attracted Hully's attention: he saw Bill Fielder getting out of a gray Ford sedan (it beloriged to Colonel Fielder), having just parked in the Niumalu lot. 　Something was terribly wrong: Bill was smiling, his expression cheerful; the young Naval officer-who was in a green sportshirt and chinos, on this fine off-duty day-was even whistling a tune. 　"We'll talk more, later," Hully said, and Terry Mizuha was getting up and going off in one direction, as Hully-shuddering as if from cold on this warm morning-moved through that open archway into the parking lot, where he approached Bill, catching him before he entered the lodge. 　"Hey, Hully." The handsome, cleft-chinned Fielder wore a winning smile. "Hell of a beautiful day, huh?" 　"Yeah, Bill-nice weather, even for Hawaii." He touched his friend's arm. "You doing okay?" 　"Yeah, better today. I skipped Hotel Street, and had it out with Dad, and..." 　Hully stopped listening to his optimistic friend, his own mind throbbing with the inescapable realization that Bill did not know about the murder.... 　"We have to sit down,". Hully said, guiding his confused friend into the lodge lobby, "and we have to talk." 　"What's wrong with you? What the hell-listen, I have to see Pearl, she's waiting, I'm a little late...." 　"Sit down, Bill. I have to tell you something-something very bad. Very sad." 　Hully sat his friend down in the wicker chair the musician had vacated and he stood in front of his friend and quickly, calmly, as gently as he could, told Bill Fielder that Pearl Harada had been murdered. 　Bill's cry of emotional pain echoed through the lodge like that of a mortally wounded beast. 　The young Naval officer fell onto the parquet floor and assumed a fetal position and Hully got down there with him, taking his friend into his arms, patting him on the back, comforting him as Bill howled and wept. Hully couldn't even offer Bill a handkerchief because the trumpet player had taken it. 　But no handkerchief could have contained the tears of the young sailor. 　It was a long time before Bill got settled down enough to begin asking questions about the particulars. 　Then, suddenly, the brawny officer was on his feet. "Harry Kamana? Harry Kamana did this? Where the hell is the bastard? I'll break his goddamn neck-" 　Hully held him by the arm. "The police have Kamana, Bill-he may not have done it. He says he didn't." 　But Bill didn't want to hear about that. He pulled away from Hully, ran out to the car, and tore away, throwing crushed coral like rice at a wedding. 　Hully wondered what the hell good Bill thought he could do, what sort of revenge he could take, with Kamana behind bars. 　He also wondered if there was the remotest possibility that his friend was good enough an actor to have concocted this entire scene-because if Bill were the murderer of Pearl Harada, he would've had to have done that very thing. 　 　 　EIGHT 　Halftime 　 　The Termite Palace-as locals affectionately if accurately referred to the wooden-bleachered Honolulu Stadium-had hosted Bing Crosby concerts, championship boxing matches, and even a notorious race between Olympic runner Jesse Owens and a horse (Owens won). The unprepossessing facliity-at the ewa (west)/makai (seaward) corner of King and Isen-berg streets-was also home to every Oahu sporting event from club baseball to college football games, like today's annual Shriner-sponsored contest. 　The stands were packed, over twenty-five thousand in attendance-10 percent of the city's population---which was unusual: college games were usually lucky to draw half that many fans. The big local attraction was high-school football, the eight-team league an Oahu obsession, fueled by gambling interests whose weekly betting turnover was said to be half a million dollars. 　Burroughs found the casual corruption of Honolulu at once amusing and disturbing. To a writer, the irony of sin in paradise was appealing, and he disliked the legislation of morality; but the town's wide-open gambling and unfettered red-light district jarred his conservative Midwestern sensibilities. 　Somehow the rollickingly enthusiastic crowd- watching the game for its own sake (little betting attended college games)-gave Burroughs a lift. He was enjoying this exceptionally beautiful day with its clear sky and sharp sunlight as much as anyone in the polyglot assemblage, which contained more than its share of high-ranking military personnel, including Colonel Kendall "Wooch" Fielder, next to whom the writer sat. As the first half neared its conclusion, with the Roaring Rainbows of the University of Hawaii leading the Bearcats of Willamette (Oregon) University fourteen to nothing, the reserved seat on the other side of Burroughs-meant for FBI agent Adam Sterling-was vacant. 　Sterling was a rabidly loyal Willamette grad, who for weeks had been vocal about looking forward to this game, and his missing-in-action status nagged at Burroughs, who was aware the agent had taken off early this morning to go in to work. The writer could not help but again wonder if Sterling's absence was related to the murder of Pearl Harada. 　When Burroughs had returned to his bungalow, this morning-after his conversations first with Otto Kuhn and then with Etfriede Kuhn-he had come in on Mrs. Fujimoto, who was, in her pastel floral kimono, vacuuming the sitting room. He had directed her to continue working, got himself a bottle of Pepsi from their little refrigerator perched in one corner, slipped his shoes off and lounged on the couch, with his feet up on it, to stay out of the maid's way. 　Though Mrs. Fujimoto was invariably, subserviently formal in her manner, she and Burroughs were friendly-he often kidded her, prodding giggles out of her-and her college-boy son Sam and Hully were good pals. As he waited for Hully, Burroughs formed a few questions which he realized the maid might de-cline to answer... but were definitely worth a try. 　When she had finished her vacuuming and began her feather-dusting, Burroughs said, causally, "So the Kuhns chased you out early, today." 　She smiled and nodded, carefully dusting his work area. 　"Mr. Kuhn almost knocked me down," Burroughs said, still lounging on the sofa, keeping his tone light. "The way he came bolting out of mat bungalow, I thought he might be ... mad or something." 　She nodded. "Mr. Kuhn very upset this morning." 　"Really? Well, you know, he witnessed that murder last night." 　Mrs. Fujimoto looked up from her work. "I did hear this....So sad." She sighed, shook her head. "Miss Pearl, so beautiful." 　"It was a terrible tragedy Kuhn identified Harry Kamana as the killer, you know." 　She nodded, dusting. "That I also hear. Hard to believe." 　"Why do you say that?" 　She dusted some more, before answering. "Mr. Kamana... he is a very gentle man. Kind man. He always treat Miss Pearl with kindness." 　The opinion of an "invisible" person like a maid, here at the Niumalu-who observed much, from the sidelines- was not to be undervalued. 　Burroughs rose, crossed to her at his desk. Her eyes widened-she was surprised by this familiarity. 　Facing her, close to her, he said, his tone serious now, "I don't believe Harry Kamana killed that young woman. Do you?" 　She winced. "If Mr. Kuhn say he saw it..." 　"People lie sometimes don't they, Mrs. Fujimoto? Were the Kuhns arguing this morning? The way he came flying out of there, that was the impression I got." 　From her expression, she seemed to be experiencing physical pain. "Oh, Mr. Burroughs... do not ask, please. It would be improper for me to-" 　"It would be improper to let Harry Kamana take the blame for something he didn't do. My son and I are looking into this matter." 　"But... the police..." 　"They've already made their minds up that Harry did it-largely because of what Kuhn told them.... Did you hear anything this morning, Mrs. Fujimoto, before the Kuhns chased you out of there? Anything... suspicious?" 　She raised her hand, in a gentle "stop" gesture. "Mr. Burroughs..." "Please." 　She swallowed. Shaking her head, her gaze lowered, she said softly, "They did argue. I....I did not hear much." 　"What did you hear?" 　"Something ... something about a phone call... a phone call last night." 　What the hell? 　Burroughs leaned in, even closer. "A phone call- what about it?" 　"Mr. Kuhn tell her this phone call-it never came." 　His mind was racing. "There was a phone call, but if anybody asked, she was to say there wasn't any phone call? Is that it?" 　"I cannot say. I tell you what I hear. I do not understand what it mean. Please... Mr. Burroughs ... I am uncomfortable speak of this." 　He sighed. Then, very lightly, he touched her shoulder. "That's all right, Mrs. Fujimoto. But if the police talk to you, you must tell them about this-understand? It could be important; it may relate to what really happened to that poor girl. You must tell them." 　Nodding slowly, she said, "Yes, Mr. Burroughs. I understand. If police ask, I tell them." 　"Good. Good." 　Hully had come in shortly after that, and father and son had strolled to the beach and filled each other in on what they had learned so far, in their informal investigation. 　At the game, Burroughs .had watched the one-sided affair with only mild interest; and Wooch Fielder- casual in a short-sleeved blue aloha shirt and khaki trousers-applauded and occasionally cheered, but he too seemed distracted. Burroughs didn't mention the murder, waiting to see if the colonel would bring it up. 　The halftime show was a binge of patriotism, a colorful, musical pageant that the crowd ate up. Fifteen marching bands-with a crack Marine unit in the lead-combined into one massive crew, playing island favorites like "Hawaii Ponoi," the inescapable Shriner anthem "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles," and such flag-waving fare as "Stars and Stripes Forever." The lavish exhibition included a rare daylight array of fireworks, one of whose rockets delivered a miniature Hawaiian flag, followed by another that sent the American flag wafting down in a shower of sparks, though the unfurling barely occurred before it bit the ground, due to a slight malfunction. After all of his friend Teske's talk of Japanese invasion, Burroughs could not keep from wondering if the latter was a portent. 　Also, the creator of Tarzan and John Carter of Mars could not keep from noticing white clouds piling up in the placid blue of the sky into what seemed to him the unmistakable formation of a monster, whose long tongue lashed side to side. Another omen? At times like these, Edgar Rice Burroughs could have done without his vivid imagination. 　As the second half got under way, Burroughs finally looked over at his friend and said, "I'm a little surprised you haven't said anything about that girl's murder." 　Fielder gave Burroughs a quick sideways look, then said, as if commenting on the rising price of wheat, "Well, it's certainly a terrible thing." ' 　"How's your son taking it?" 　Now some humanity came into Fielder's hawkish face. "Very hard, I'm afraid. I don't even know where he is, he rushed off after we ... He came looking for me...." 　Burroughs frowned. "Why would he come looking for you?" 　Fielder was lighting up a cigarette. "He just needed to take it out on someone....'Are you satisfied?'.... That kind of thing. To be expected." 　"Hully was the one who broke it to him. Hell of a thing." 　With a sigh of smoke, Fielder said, "Poor Hully 　I hope he can help Bill. I'm afraid I won't be able to break through the resentment for some time." 　Bill and Wooch had a somewhat strained relationship, anyway-that the boy had joined the Navy, rather than the Army, in an effort to step out from under his father's shadow, had been a point of contention. On the other hand, Burroughs believed that Fielder was secretly proud of his son, for taking that stand. 　"Did you and Bill ever argue about the planned marriage?" 　"Actually, yes-last night, after the luau, he came to see me ... to state his case. I'm afraid I was rather rough on the boy. Nothing I can do about it now." 　Burroughs studied his friend. "Pearl Harada came to see me, not long before she was killed-to ask if I'd arrange a meeting between the two of you." 　Fielder gave Burroughs a sharp look. "Really? Whatever for?" 　"Same thing, I suppose-make a case for the marriage. You didn't talk to her?" 　"I never met the young woman. I'm sorry she's dead." The colonel shrugged. "That's the end of it." 　"Jesus, Wooch-that's a little cold, isn't it?" 　He exhaled smoke. "All I care about is the best for my boy-and marrying that girl would've been a tragedy." 　"Her death's the tragedy, Wooch." 　Fielder said nothing; he was watching the game. 　Burroughs applauded as the Rainbows made another first down. "That fellow Morimura, that so-called diplomat, he was seen bawling out the Harada girl, a few hours before she was killed." 　Another sharp, interested look. "Is that right? I wonder ..." 　"What, Wooch?" 　"Well, possibly that little Jap was one of her lovers. She was something of a tart, I understood." 　Burroughs blinked. "I wouldn't refer to her that way, to your son, if I were you." 　Fielder turned toward the writer and some of the hardness seemed to melt. "Ed... I don't mean to be a bastard. I'm not unfeeling. But the very fact that this girl attracted a murderer... that some suitor of hers felt compelled to kill her, in some crime of passion ... that makes my case, doesn't it? That Bill is better off without her." 　Suddenly six-two Adam Sterling was pushing in next to Burroughs, finally taking his seat. "Sony I'm a little late." 　"A little late?" Burroughs said. "It's the third quarter and your guys are behind fourteen and haven't made a dent on the Scoreboard." 　Sterling shrugged. "I'm afraid it is a lost cause for the Bearcats." 　The FBI agent was in a white linen suit with a dark blue tie; he looked as if he'd just come from the office- which Burroughs figured was probably the case. 　The score climbed to twenty to nothing, and Sterling didn't even appear to care; he, too, seemed distracted, terribly so. The game he'd been looking forward to, so eagerly, suddenly seemed to mean nothing. 　Finally Sterling leaned across Burroughs and whispered to Fielder, "What are your plans, after the game?" 　"My wife and I are going to a party tonight, at Scho-field Barracks-with General Short and his wife." 　"Something's come up I need to fill you in on, Colonel-really need to see what you make of it." 　Sterling clearly meant business, his handsome, bronzed features fist-tight, his voice knife-edged. And Fielder, after all, was chief of Army intelligence on Oahu 　Fielder, eyes narrowed, obviously reading this, said, "I don't think your team's going to come back-shall we go somewhere and talk?" 　"You going to leave me here?" Burroughs asked. 'To endure this one-sided contest alone?" 　Sterling looked at Burroughs, then at Fielder. "I think Ed can hear this." 　Fielder shrugged. "It's your call." 　Within twenty minutes, the trio was seated in a thatched-roof pergola on the stretch of beach that belonged to the Waikiki Tavern, which despite its saloon-style name was perhaps Honolulu's most cosmopolitan restaurant. The beachfront arbor was theirs alone, giving the three men both privacy and a breathtaking view of Diamond Head, that distinctive extinct crater whose green slopes danced with sunlight and shadows. 　Fielder and Sterling had ordered mm punches and Burroughs was drinking iced tea. The FBI agent had explained to Fielder that Burroughs was doing a little informal surveillance work at the Niumalu and that Burroughs (revealing a fact of which the writer was previously unaware) had been given a security clearance by J. Edgar Hoover himself, for that very purpose. 　Sterling got a notebook out of the inside pocket of his white linen jacket, saying, "I went in to the office this morning because of several disturbing events. One was the murder of Pearl Harada." 　Fielder frowned skeptically. "How would a girl singer's murder have an impact on intelligence?" 　"I can't imagine," Sterling admitted. "But the supposed eyewitness to her murder, Otto Kuhn, is believed to be a 'sleeper' agent for Japan. Kuhn lives at the Niumalu, you know-he's the character Ed is helping keep an eye on." 　Fielder nodded, lighting up a cigarette. "You said 'several' disturbing events-what else?" 　The colonel did not seem keen to discuss the Pearl Harada killing. 　The FBI agent leaned forward. "We've learned that the Japanese Consulate has spent much of the week disposing of-burning-its papers. Considering the present situation, that would seem goddamn significant-a definite indication that the end of peaceful relations between our two nations is close at hand." 　"Everyone knows we're heading for war with Japan," Fielder said, sighing smoke, not seeming terribly impressed. "It doesn't surprise me that they're cleaning house! What else?" 　"Well, as you know," Steriing said, shifting in his wicker chair, "we record every radiophone call made between here and Tokyo." 　"That's been a matter of routine for months," Fielder said, apparently for Burroughs's benefit. 　"When I came in to the office this morning, with these other matters on my mind, I was presented with a transcript translation of a radiophone conversation. Seems yesterday afternoon, a reporter at a Tokyo newspaper placed a call to Honolulu." Sterling referred to the tittle notebook. "His name is Ogawa, and his paper is the Yomiuri Shinbun." Fielder sipped his rum punch. "The call was to Mrs. Ishiko Mori," Sterling elaborated, "a Japanese citizen living here, married to a prominent nisei dentist." 　"Why is a Tokyo paper interviewing a dentist's wife?" Fielder asked. 　"Mrs. Mori is a journalist-a stringer for the paper. She'd been asked to round up prominent members of the Japanese-American community for interviews- some kind of feature on everyday life in Honolulu. But Mrs. Mori reported to Ogawa that no one wanted to participate; possibly with the current state of relations between Japan and America, the idea made them... nervous. So Mrs. Mori answered the questions herself." 　"What sort of questions?" 　"Whether airplanes were flying daily, and were they 'big' planes ... the latter could be significant, because that would indicate long-range recon missions. Most of the questions Ogawa asked had to do with Oahu's defenses." 　"Such as?" 　"Such as whether the fleet was in... were there searchlights on the planes flying at night... that kind of thing." 　Fielder said, "That's information available to any-, body in the city." 　"Legal spying?" Burroughs asked. "Like the snooping that Morimura character's been up to?" 　Sterling seemed a bit surprised at Burroughs knowing this, and though the writer had intended his words for Fielder, the FBI agent answered: "Exactly like that. But one exchange between the reporter and the dentist's wife really caught my attention." 　Again Sterling referred to the notebook. 　" 'What kind of flowers are in bloom in Hawaii at present?' Ogawa asked her," the FBI agent reported. "And Mrs. Mori said, "The hibiscus and poinsettias are in bloom now.'" 　Fielder seemed almost amused. "And, what? You believe this to be code?" 　"I believe she may have been reporting on the movement of specific battleships, yes." 　Burroughs, knowing he was out of his element, had largely kept mum; but now he couldn't resist, saying, "Wooch, if somebody in Tokyo did invent this flower code, and was willing to spend upwards of two hundred bucks for a fifteen-minute transpacific call... could Frank Teske have been right? Are we in imminent danger of air attack?" 　Fielder ignored Burroughs, saying to Sterling, "Do you have the full transcript with you?" 　Sterling said, "Yes," eagerly withdrawing the several folded sheets from his jacket pocket. He handed them to Fielder, who sat and read them, while Sterling and Burroughs waited. The pergola was so near the water, the view of the surf and its riders was particularly peaceful; the silhouette of Diamond Head seemed so tranquil, the concerns the FBI man had been expressing were absurd in contrast. 　But Burroughs had seen a dead girl on these white sands, the night before, and was inclined to pay attention. 　The chief of Army intelligence, however, was not overawed. Handing the transcript back, Fielder said, "It seems like quite an ordinary message. Sounds like just the sort of mundane stuff a newspaperman would need for a feature story on life in present-day Honolulu." 　"Colonel," Sterling said, "I can't agree-I know nothing here can be clearly defined as manifestly dangerous to security ... but the general tone of the conversation, in light of suspicious activity by a German 'sleeper' agent, and the Jap Consulate burning their papers ... Wooch, damnit, man-I have a sick feeling about this." 　Fielder crushed his cigarette out in a little metal ashtray. He was nodding. "Fair enough. I'll tell General Short you want an appointment, Monday morning." 　"No-tonight. As soon as possible." 　The colonel looked up, sharply. "I told you, Adam- the general has plans for the evening." 　"Then I'll meet with him on his goddamn front porch. I have to insist, Colonel. These Moris are on my list of potentially disloyal Japs. I'm positive this call means something-something's definitely in the wind." 　Fielder sighed heavily. He finished off his rum punch and said, "All right, you stubborn s.o.b. Can you meet me at my quarters at six o'clock?" "Yes. Absolutely." 　Nodding, Fielder rose; the two men shook hands. "See you there." 　And Colonel Fielder headed toward the tavern and its parking lot. "I think you're doing the right thing," Burroughs said. 　"Hell," Sterling said with a laugh. The FBI man gulped down the rest of his rum punch. "I was just hoping I was full of crap." will update soon.... 　

story : MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part 5, 6)

FIVE 　Sad Song 　 　After the luau wound down, Hully Burroughs had been in no mood to join his sailor friends Bill Fielder and Dan Pressman in any Hotel Street excursions. Bill had been rather on the morose side-he'd learned about Colonel Fielder's displeased reaction at seeing his son and the Japanese songstress on the dance floor; and Pearl herself had begged off any after-hours date, pleading fatigue from her night on the bandstand. 　This meant Bill would get plastered, while Dan would be on the prowl for dames, and in that part of town, the likely candidates served up love for a fee. Hully was interested in accompanying neither a drunk nor a tomcat, and instead headed to the Royal Hawaiian, where Harry Owens's orchestra was playing. Nobody pulled off that hapa haole sound better, and Hully's odds of meeting a nice young female-a tourist maybe, as the absent, much-missed Marjorie Petty had been-were far better than down at sleazy Hotel Street. 　He'd gotten very lucky-not in the way the sailors on Hotel Street did, either. He danced several slow tunes with a pretty brunette named Marion Thrasher, a local girl in her early twenties out celebrating a friend's birthday. She was down-to-earth and friendly, so different from the girls in California, all of whom seemed to be aspiring actresses (expecting Hully to land them a part in a Tarzan picture!). All he'd "scored" were a few lovely if tentative smiles, some conversation and a phone number... but he was walking on air. 　Or rather driving on air, in his father's Pierce Arrow convertible, one hand on the wheel, elbow resting on the rolled-down window, enjoying the way the stirred-up, sweetly scented breeze raffled his hair. He loved this little low-rise city of Honolulu, which hid shyly under banyans and flowering shrubs, palm trees towering over telephone poles. 　Waikiki itself was a bohemian village, increasingly given over to hotels and inns, but still with room for clapboard houses, fisherman's shacks, picket fences and vacant lots. On an evening like this-well, early morning, as it was approaching one a.m.-the sounds were unbelievably romantic, the music of strolling troubadours mingling with the benign roar of surf. 　As he pulled into the moonlight-washed Niumalu parking lot, the revelry of the luau was long over, the staff's cleanup accomplished, with a few lights on in the lodge itself, but most of the bungalows-peeking from between palms-dark. He parked, headed down a crashed coral path toward the Burroughs bungalow, whistling "Sweet Leilani," jingling change and keys in his khaki pockets. 　That was when he heard, coming from the beach, a man's voice-his father's voice, he could have sworn- shouting "You! Don't move!" 　The shout conveyed an urgency, and a sense of menace, that sent Hully running down the path, and cutting through the hedges, toward the sandy shore. 　By the time he got there, it was over: his father had apprehended (there could be no other word) the individual, who proved to be bandleader Harry Kamana. A bare-chested O. B. was hauling the aloha-shirt-sporting musician-who was blubbering like a baby-toward their bungalow. 　Hully slowed and, approaching his father, was about to ask him what had happened when he noticed the twisted form of the girl, down a ways on the beach. 　For a moment, he covered his mouth, in shock and horror; then Hully managed, "Is that... ?" 　"It's the Japanese girl," his father affirmed. "Pearl Harada. Head crashed with a rock-I caught this son of a bitch red-handed." 　Literally: the musician's right hand was damply red with blood. 　"I'm going to take Harry here to our bungalow," O. B. said, holding on to the slumping, bawling musician, "and call the cops. You go alert Fred at the lodge, and have him post somebody at the crime scene, so that the body isn't disturbed." 　Had the situation not been so loathsome, Hully might have laughed. "I'll be damned, Dad," he said. "You really were a cop." 　Burroughs nodded, and dragged Kamana off. 　Hully went to the lodge and woke the manager, filling him in as they walked to the beach, where the younger Burroughs got his first close, grisly look at the beautiful dead woman with the ugly head wound, bathed in gold by an obscenely beautiful Hawaiian moon. 　Manager Fred Bivens-who was in his pajama top and some trousers he'd thrown on, a heavyset genial fellow in his forties-turned away, aghast. 　The tide sweeping onto the shore had a distant sound, despite its closeness, like the hoarse echo of a scream. The ocean stretched purple to the horizon, glimmering with gold, almost as lovely as this girl had been. 　"Are you all right, Fred?" Hully asked, touching the man's arm. 　"What a hell of a thing," Fred whispered. "What a hell of a thing... She was a sweet kid. Flirty, but sweet-and so talented... What a goddamn shame." 　Hully understood and shared all these sentiments, and was not surprised by the tears in Fred's eyes. 　"Can you stay here with her, Fred? Till the police come? Dad's calling them." 　Fred ran a hand through his thinning brown hair, shaking his head, as if saying no, as he said, "Sure... sure. Poor sweet kid..." 　"We need to keep everybody away. Dad says this is a... crime scene, now. So you need to keep your distance, too, Fred-don't touch her or anything." 　"Don't worry." 　Moments later, Hully joined his father in the bungalow. The whimpering musician was seated on O. B.'s typing chair, which had been situated in the middle of the sitting room. Kamana sat there, slumped, chin on his chest, one hand on a knee, the other hand-the bloody one-held out, palm up, as if he were trying to weigh something. 　O. B.-who had thrown on an aloha shirt and some chinos but whose feet were bare-stood with his muscular arms folded, staring at the musician like a scornful genie. 　"Fred's standing watch," Hully said. 　"Good." 　"When will the police get here?" 　"Soon. I got lucky." 　"How so?" 　"Have you met my friend Jardine?" 　Hully shook his head. "Don't believe so." 　"He's a Portuguese-the best homicide detective on the island-works out of City Hall, not the police station. Officially he's a detective on the Honolulu PD, but he operates strictly out of the prosecutor's office, principally on murder cases." 　"That's a good thing?" 　Burroughs came over to his son, turning his back to the seated, moaning musician, and whispered, "Local PD is so corrupt, it makes the LAPD look squeaky-clean." 　"Jeez." 　"Jardine's straight as an arrow. Luckily he was in, at this hour." 　"Why was he?" 　A tiny half smile crinkled O. B.'s bronzed face. "When he isn't working a murder case, he makes a habit on weekend nights of standing at the corner of Hotel and Bishop, giving the soldiers and sailors the evil eye. He's known around there as a hard-nosed cop, so standing guard like that, looking at passersby like . they're all suspects, well it's his idea of crime prevention....1 caught him at his desk just before he was heading home." 　Hully figured this Jardine had probably given his friends Fielder and Pressman the "evil eye" tonight- and many nights. 　"I want to wash my hands!" 　Hully and his father turned toward the musician, who had finally stopped sobbing and spoken-actually, more like yelled. 　O. B. went over to the man-who was holding the blood-streaked hand out, staring at it-and sneered down at him. "I just bet you'd like to wash your hands of this." 　The slight, pockmarked, roughly handsome Kamana looked up, as if startled, as if realizing for the first time just what he was being accused of-even though he'd already run guiltily away. "I didn't do this." 　"You didn't, huh," Burroughs said. It wasn't really a question. 　Kamana's eyes were about as red as the bloody hand. "I loved her....1 loved her more than life!" 　"More than her life?" 　"I didn't kill her!" Though he'd stopped crying, he nonetheless seemed on the verge of hysteria. "I'd sooner kill myself!" 　O. B. grunted a humorless laugh. "Maybe you'd better save it for the cops." 　But Kamana wanted to talk, and the words tumbled out of him-how two years ago Pearl Harada, who had been visiting relatives in Honolulu, auditioned for his band, on an impulse. When Kamana told her she had the job, Pearl had moved from San Francisco to Oahu. 　"I knew she was something special.... It was more than just her looks, or that nice voice of hers... so much like Dinah Shore ... she had star quality. She could have gone places. We might have gone places!" 　Hully knew what the man was doing: Kamana was talking about her because it was a way of keeping her alive. Though it seemed obvious he'd killed her, this man just as obviously was deeply sorry she was dead. 　O. B. didn't seem terribly moved by any of this. "So you might have 'gone places' ... and that makes you innocent of her murder? As in, why would you kill your meal ticket?" 　Kamana was shaking his head, and he seemed desperate to be believed. "She was more than that to me ... so much more. I didn't date her at first... I tried to keep things... businesslike. But we hit it off so well, musically, it was just natural for us to get together, in other ways.... I wanted her to marry me. But she wouldn't. She said her career came first, and she didn't want to settle down anyway ... and she dated a lot of guys, mostly servicemen who followed the band. Then this Fielder came along ... and she got serious with him ... said she was going to marry him ... quit the band... quit show business ... quit me." 　Hully asked, casually, "So you argued? Tonight?" 　"We've argued several times about it," Kamana said. Talking seemed to calm him. "But not tonight. I... I accepted it and... well, I was hoping it would just... pass. Anyway, I figured in the long run it was just a 　pipe dream....That Fielder kid, his colonel papa wouldn't put up with his boy marrying a Jap. I stopped arguing with her-maybe she would come to her senses, maybe she wouldn't, but that Fielder kid would ... or at least his father would make him come to his senses." 　"So," Hully said, "you were just... chatting tonight, down on the beach." 　Kamana shook his head, emphatically. "I wasn't talking to her on the beach ... not at all, not tonight! I heard arguing ... my bungalow's near the beach, you know ... and recognized her voice ... heard a man's voice, but it was soft, I didn't recognize it. Then I... I heard her scream, and I ran out and down there... and..." 　He began to weep again, instinctively covering his face with his hands-smearing the blood all over himself. Hully glanced at O. B., who looked back with wide eyes. 　"... She was dead....My lovely Pearl was dead.... Somebody killed her....All crushed in ... I tried to help her, and got her blood on me...." 　His pockmarked face was streaked with blood, now- he looked like an Apache with war paint. 　A knock at the door made them jump, even O. B., who said to Hully, "Get that." 　The man Hully let in was small and swarthy, a hawk-faced obvious plainclothes cop in a snap-brim fedora, rumpled gray suit and red tie. His eyes were small and dark and needle-sharp. 　"Hulbert Burroughs," Hully said, extending his hand to the little detective. 　"John Jardine," he replied, and shook Hully's hand, a strong grip. 　Jardine and O. B. shook hands, as well. The elder Burroughs had already filled the detective in on many of the particulars, over the phone. 　"How did you get blood on your face, Mr. Kamana?" Jardine asked bluntly, standing uncomfortably close to the seated musician. 　"It isn't on my face," Kamana said, stupidly, holding up his hand, where the blood was just a stain, now. 　"It's on your face." 　Kamana's grief had subsided and fear was moving in; with Honolulu's top homicide cop staring him down, the musician obviously was grasping what kind of spot he was in. "It... it was on my hand... I must have... must have touched my face...." 　"How did you get it on your hand?" 　Hully and his father sat on the couch as Jardine questioned Kamana-just preliminary stuff, but Hully was interested in the musician's responses, which were for the most part a rehash of the things Kamana had emotionally blurted to Hully and O. B. 　But Hully was impressed by the unrehearsed consistency of Kamana's answers. 　Before long, Jardine was lugging Kamana-his hands cuffed behind him-outside into the breeze-kissed dark, where he turned the musician over to a uniformed cop, a Polynesian who walked Kamana toward a squad car waiting in the parking lot near the lodge. From down toward the beach came bursts of light, as if a tiny lightning storm had moved in. 　Noting Hully's confused expression, Jardine said, "Flash photos." 　Hully nodded-like his dad had said, the beach was a crime scene now ... and Pearl was no longer a person, but evidence. 　The Portuguese detective said to O. B., "Do you mind a few questions? While it's all fresh in your mind?" 　"Not at all. Shall we go back inside?" 　O. B. was opening the screen door for the detective when a figure came rushing up, dressed in white, a ghost emerging from the darkness. 　Otto Kuhn-in a white shirt and white linen pants, looking like a male nurse seeking a doctor-seemed out of breath, though his bungalow, next door, was hardly any distance. His light blue eyes had a startled look. 　"Are you with the police, sir?" he asked Jardine in his thick yet smoothly accented second tenor. 　"I'm Detective Jardine." 　"I'm Otto Kuhn-I live there." He pointed toward the bungalow past a cluster of palms. "Could I speak to you, sir?" 　Jardine gestured toward the sitting room, which beckoned beyond the screen door O. B. held open. "Mr. Burroughs, do you mind?" 　"Not at all." 　And soon Hully and his father were again seated on the couch, spectators, as the German real-estate agent spoke excitedly to the Portuguese detective. Though Kuhn towered over the little man, literally, Jardine's commanding presence loomed over the German, figuratively. 　With an inappropriate smile, Kuhn said, "I saw you arrest that... native. That musician." 　"You did." 　"Yes, and you were correct to do so. I... hesitated to come forward until I was sure he was safely in custody." 　"You sound as if you were afraid of Kamana, Mr. Kuhn." 　Kuhn swallowed, nodded. "I'm not proud to admit that is the case. You see... I saw of what brutality he was capable. My bungalow ... a window looks out on the beach. It is somewhat blocked by trees, but I had them trimmed back, recently ... for a better view." 　"What kind of view did you have tonight, Mr. Kuhn?" 　"I was sleeping," he said, tilting his head, as if onto a pillow, "and woke suddenly...." He jerked his head straight up. 　Hully winced; these histrionics were somehow distasteful. 　Kuhn was saying, "I heard arguing, loud arguing, a man and a woman. I rolled over, to go back to sleep ... my wife did not waken, I must emphasize, she saw nothing." 　"All right." 　Gesturing with both hands, the German said, "The arguing got louder. Heated, you might say. I went to the window, to complain. I think if I shout at them, they might stop, and I can sleep again, and no one would be harmed. But when I got to the window ... that's when I saw it." 　"Saw what?" 　"The murder. That man... the Hawaiian musician, Kamana... he had something in his hand... a rock, I think. Something heavy, anyway, small enough for him to grasp. He raised his hand, and I wanted to shout, 'Stop!' But I was too late... she screamed, and he struck her. Struck her a terrible blow." 　Kuhn lowered his head, shaking it, as if remembering this terrible thing... but something about it seemed hollow to Hully. He glanced at his father, to see if he could read any similar reaction, and noted his dad's eyes were so narrow, they might have been cuts in his face. 　"This is a very interesting story, Mr. Kuhn," Jardine said. "I have one question-why didn't you call the police?" 　Kuhn nodded toward O. B., on the couch. "I saw Mr. Burroughs capture the Hawaiian....Edgar was obviously taking him to justice. I calmed my wife... she had woken by this time, and heard my story, and had become terribly upset... and I simply waited for you to arrive." He smiled, clasped his hands in front of him, like a waiter about to show a patron to a really nice table. "I would be most happy to give you a formal statement, tomorrow, at your headquarters." 　Jardine said nothing for a few seconds; then he sighed, and said, "Why don't you show me the window you saw all this through?" 　Kuhn nodded, curtly. "My pleasure." 　Pleasure? That seemed an odd thing to say.... 　Hully found this German's story unsettling, and unconvincing, despite the way it hewed to the particulars of Pearl Harada's death. 　As he accompanied Kuhn out, Jardine turned to O. B. and said, "We'll talk tomorrow, Mr. Burroughs. Thanks for your help-shouldn't have to bother you again, tonight." 　"Good night, John," O. B. said, seeing them to the door. 　"Nice meeting you," Jardine said to Hully, and then they were out of the door. 　A few minutes later, Hully was folding the couch out into its bed, and his father-in a fresh pair of pa-jama bottoms-came out from his bedroom and stood there, bare-chested, with his hands on hips, Tarzan-style. 　"I thought that trombone player was a killer," O. B. said, "until ol' Otto started agreeing with me." 　Hully, unbuttoning his shirt, said, "Why did Kuhn 　wait so long to come forward? Why didn't he come out and help you nab that guy, if he witnessed everything?" 　O. B. blew a raspberry. "That Kraut didn't see a damn thing." 　"Funny... that's my instinct, too. But why would he claim to have?" 　"I don't know, son... I sure as hell don't know." He heaved a sigh, and hit the light switch. "Get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning." 　Hully lay on his back, staring up into the darkness, the breeze blowing through the window, its flowery scent suddenly seeming too sweet, sickly sweet. He thought about the musician, and how sincere the man had seemed; he thought about Kuhn, and how phony that bastard had been. 　Then he thought about Pearl Harada, and thought about his friend Bill Fielder, probably sleeping off a drunk somewhere, blissfully unaware of the tragedy. 　His pillow was damp, so he turned it over and, finally, went to sleep-hoping his father wouldn't awaken him with another damn nightmare. SIX 　Neighborly Visits 　 　Strong morning trade winds blew across Oahu, fronds of palms and plants ruffling, cane fields undulating, surf swelling, the clear sky disrupted only by smokelike puffs of clouds over the Koolau mountain range. Between that range at the east and the Waianae range at the west lay both the capital city of Honolulu and the Naval base of Pearl Harbor. 　The base-though well located for a strategic deployment of the United States Navy-was a logistical nightmare, with the nearest resupply three thousand miles away on the American West Coast. Also, the one-channel entrance of the landlocked harbor could bottle up easily with the sinking of a single ship; and, even under ideal circumstances, getting the fleet out of that channel and onto the open sea required three hours. When the fleet was in-as it was on this first weekend of December-the port was clogged with ships, supply dumps, repair installations and highly flammable fuel. 　Pearl Harbor might well have been designed for air attack. But a battle fleet in Hawaii was deemed necessary to deter Japan, and no alternative location could be found offering advantages and facilities to match Pearl's. Interceptor aircraft, AA guns and radar equipment would simply have to shore up the harbor's weaknesses. So said Washington and its top military minds. 　Of course, Honolulu had already been invaded by air-on the previous weekend, when a silver plane circled the city before landing in Kapiolani Park, where three thousand civilians watched and screamed... in delight: Santa Claus had arrived. Sponsored by the Honolulu Advertiser, piloted by the 86th Observation Squadron, Saint Nick's invasion was part of an attempt by the city fathers to provide a more traditional-and commercial-Christmas than the underwhelming Yule-tide season that was the Hawaiian norm. 　With the defense boom, the city was swarming with homesick American boys-defense workers as well as servicemen-stuck in these tropical surroundings, pining for their favorite winter holiday. Sears and Roebuck responded by hanging brightly wrapped presents from the palm trees surrounding their parking lot, and festive colored lights had been strung across major streets; even the street-corner Santas-most of whom were Japanese-were putting some extra swing into theft bell-ringing. 　Still, it seemed rather halfhearted to Edgar Rice Burroughs, who was used to sunny Christmases, having lived in California for some time now, though his many years in the Midwest meant he knew damn well what a real white Christmas was all about. The cellophane window wreaths and tinsel-draped palms of Honolulu didn't really cut the mustard. 　After last night's luau, a light breakfast seemed called for, and around nine a.m., Burroughs and Hully-in their tennis whites, rackets at hand-sat on wicker chairs at a small round wicker table on the lodge's back patio and ate fresh cut pineapple and buttered toast, and sipped coffee. 　This was an exceptionally beautiful day, even for Hawaii, Burroughs noted-clear sky, sharp light, fresh air. Hard to believe, just hours before, a young woman had been murdered in such idyllic surroundings. The prospect of playing tennis, within a few yards of where her corpse had been flung, a blossom ripped roughly from a tree, seemed somehow improper... even sacrilegious. 　"I don't feel much like tennis this morning," Hully said, returning his china cup to its dish with a slight clatter. 　"I was just thinking the same thing." 　His son's brow furrowed. "Your friend... Detective Jardine..." 　"Yes?" 　"You respect him? He's a good cop?" 　Burroughs sipped his coffee, raised an eyebrow. "Probably the best investigator on this island-that's why I called him, sought him out specifically....That and his honesty." 　"So ... the case is in good hands." 　Burroughs said nothing. 　"Dad?" 　A few of the tables nearby were taken up by other Niumalu guests. From the expressions on various faces, it was clear that news of the murder had gotten around-and judging by the occasional glances he and Hully were getting, their participation in the discovery of the body was common knowledge ... or anyway, common gossip. 　"Let's take a walk, Hully-let's return to the scene of the crime." 　Within a few minutes, after depositing their tennis rackets at their bungalow, along with their abandoned thoughts of a morning round or two, father and son were sitting on the sand-the beach again a beach, a crime scene no more, though one ominous blackened area, like a scab on the sand, was marked by the victim's dried blood. The steady rash of the surf, the understated thunder of it, might have been soothing- under other circumstances. 　Hully sat like an Indian, while Burroughs had his bronzed, muscular legs sticking straight out, his palms on the sand, bracing him. 　"Normally I would be content to leave this to John Jardine," Burroughs said, voice barely audible above the surf. "But John's only flaw, if it is one, has to do with his working out of the prosecutor's office." 　"I don't understand." 　Burroughs twitched a half smile. "Jardine's specialty isn't so much solving a crime as providing an airtight case for his boss to take into court. He'll dig in and do 　the legwork, all the tedious stuff real detectives do... but he'll do it all operating from the assumption that that musician did the murder." 　Hully shrugged. "It does look open-and-shut. Ka-mana had motive, opportunity..." 　"Blood on his hands." Burroughs tossed a pebble at the tide, raised a single eyebrow. "That's the problem: I'm afraid Jardine won't do anything except dig into Harry Kamana-and until or unless he finds out that Kamana didn't do the murder, nobody else will get looked at as a suspect." 　Both Hully's eyebrows had climbed his forehead. "Is that what you think? That Kamana is innocent?" 　"What's your opinion?" 　Hully sighed, and stared out at the vast blue of the sky meeting the ocean. He was a handsome young man-Burroughs could see so much of his own late mother in the boy's sensitive, oval face. 　"Well, like you said last night, O. B.-Kamana was a hell of a lot more credible than that Kuhn character ... but why would Kuhn have lied?" 　"Maybe he did the killing." Burroughs nodded to the left, toward the foliage lining the beach, behind which the German's bungalow nestled. "He had easy access- as you put it, opportunity." 　Hully was making a face. "What's his motive?" 　"Pearl was a nice girl, but let's face it-she got around. And Otto, married or not, has a reputation as a playboy." 　Hully snapped his fingers. "That makes his wife a suspect, too! Suppose Otto and Pearl were down on the beach, and Mrs. Kuhn caught 'em!" 　Nodding, with a wry, rueful smile, Burroughs said, "Doesn't take long to come up with other suspects, does it? And there could be other reasons why Kuhn lied." 　"If he did lie." 　"If he did lie," Burroughs allowed. He wanted to share Kuhn's supposed status as "sleeper" agent for the Japanese; but didn't feel he should betray FBI agent Sterling's confidence. 　"Anyway, I can see the problem with Jardine," Hully said. "As a prosecutor's investigator, he's already focused on one suspect-when there are plenty of others." 　Burroughs glanced around, to make sure he and his son were still alone on the beach. "I hate to say so, but ... Colonel Fielder and his son have to be included on that list." 　Hully was shaking his head. "I can't believe Bill would do anything to harm Pearl-he was crazy about her!" 　" 'Crazy' might be the operative word-suppose Bill found Pearl with another man, on the beach?" 　"Well... I can see your point, but-" 　"Were you with Bill last night? Can you alibi him?" 　Hully lowered his gaze. "No. Last I saw him, he was on Hotel Street... plenty of time to get back here." 　"And I know for a fact Pearl was looking to talk to Fielder...." 　Quickly, Burroughs filled his son in on Pearl's visit 　to the bungalow, and her request for Burroughs to set up a meeting with Bill's father. 　"She asked me the same thing," Hully said. "Wanted me, or you, to arrange a meet. Are you thinking the colonel may have come back... or was still hanging around here ... and she approached him, and... tried to present her case, for marrying Bill, and ..." 　"Can you deny it's a possibility?" 　Hully gestured with an open hand. "What if you run all of this by Jardine?" 　"I intend to ... but I know how that Portuguese po-lice dog's mind works, and I know his single-minded technique." 　"What do you suggest, Dad?" 　Burroughs leaned toward his son, placed a hand on Hully's shoulder, gently squeezing. "Why don't we do a little... informal investigating? We can chat with people-many of the suspects are our friends, after all...." 　"Unfortunately." 　"No-fortunately." Now Burroughs looked out at the ocean and the sky, his eyes, his whole face, tight as a clenched fist. "The worst that could be said of that young woman is she may have been a little fast. She didn't deserve anything but a long, happy life. She was pretty and smart and talented. Any 'friend' of mine who murdered that girl is no friend at all." 　"Dad... Jesus, Dad. You really were a cop." 　He turned to Hully again. "What do you say, son? Why don't we split up, and do some ... socializing?" 　Hully's eyes narrowed, then he nodded, vigorously. "Pearl deserves our help." 　"She sure as hell does-I only wish I'd been a little earlier last night, and could have really helped her, when she needed it most." 　They briefly discussed who among the Niumalu residents and staff each would attempt to interrogate- without seeming to, of course-and soon Hully was heading off toward the lodge, and Burroughs was angling over toward the bungalow where the Kuhns resided. 　As he approached, he encountered Mrs. Fujimoto, coming from the direction of the Kuhn bungalow. The slender, fortyish kimono-clad woman, her graying hair tucked back in a bun, worked as a maid at the Niumalu; she was not on the hotel staff, rather worked for a handful of guests who shared her services, Burroughs and the Kuhns among them. 　"Good morning, Mr. Burroughs," she said, stopping, lowering her head respectfully. 　"How are you this morning, Mrs. Fujimoto?" 　"Very sad, since I hear of Miss Pearl Harada's misfortune. Very sad." 　Nodding, Burroughs said, "She was a lovely girl, a nice person-she'll be missed." 　Mrs. Fujimoto looked up and her eyes were filigreed red; she wore no makeup, which made her seem rather plain when actually her features were pleasant. "I am on way to your cottage, Mr. Burroughs, to begin my work." 　He checked his watch. "You're not due till around eleven, are you?" 　"I ran early-the Kuhns did not want me... what they say? 'Underfoot.' Is it inconvenience, my early come?" 　"No, no-go ahead." 　At the Kuhns' bungalow, Burroughs stood on the stoop at the screen door, about to knock, when the German opened the door, slapping the writer with it. 　"Sorry, Edgar!" Kuhn looked aghast. "Forgive me!" 　Burroughs, knocked back a bit, touched his forehead and said, "Jeez, Otto, where's the fire?" 　"Fire?" Shutting the screen, Kuhn joined the writer, at the bottom of the short stoop. The German was again in white linen, his tie a light blue, damn near matching the light blue of his eyes-the whiteness of his suit was stark against the rose-colored bougainvillea blanketing his bungalow. 　Burroughs explained, " 'Where's the fire'-what's your hurry?" 　Kuhn blinked, raised his chin. "Oh, I have a business appointment." Then he put a hand on the writer's shoulder. "I feel the fool-are you all right?" 　"I'll survive." Actually, the wooden frame had clipped Burroughs on the forehead and it did hurt, a little. "I just wanted to see how you were doing, this morning-after that unpleasantness last night." 　Kuhn withdrew his hand from Burroughs's shoulder, and summoned an unconvincing smile; it was like a gash in his pasty pale face. "How thoughtful, Edgar. Well, of course, it was a terrible thing to witness." He said this as offhandedly as a man describing an overcooked steak he'd had to send back. 　Burroughs shook his head. "I should say-her scream woke me from a deep sleep, and scared the bejesus out of me." That wasn't exactly true, but the writer liked the effect of it. "Did Pearl scream when Kamana raised the rock?" 　Kuhn cocked his head. "Pardon me?" 　"Well, you saw the murder-did she scream when Kamana raised his hand, to strike her? Or did he hit her more than once, and she screamed after one glancing blow ... and then another blow, or blows, silenced her?" 　The blue eyes were wide, white showing all around. "I, uh... my God, Edgar, this is an unpleasant subject. I've already .had to go over this with the police, again and again... I was up until all hours." 　Burroughs raised his palms, as if in surrender. "My mistake-I thought, since we'd both been witnesses to this thing, that we had something in common. That we'd shared something, however horrible." 　Kuhn nodded, once. "I do understand-I meant no offense. But I would prefer not to discuss the matter any further." 　Not the murder-the "matter." 　"Sure, Otto. I guess I don't blame you." 　The ambiguity of what Burroughs had just said froze the German for a moment; then he gave the writer another curt nod. "If you'll excuse me, Edgar-I have business downtown." 　Kuhn strode off across the grass, toward the lodge and its parking lot, and Burroughs began back toward his own quarters; then, when Kuhn was out of sight, the writer cut back toward the bougainvillea-covered bungalow. 　He didn't have to knock on the screen door, this time-Kuhn's wife, the person he had hoped to casually interview, was already outside. He didn't see her, at first-she was down at the far end of the bungalow, tucked back in the cool blue shade of sheltering palms, seated in a wood-and-canvas beach-type chair. 　Elfriede Kuhn's slender shape was well served by a white halter top and matching shorts. Honey-blonde hair brushing her shoulders, eyes a mystery behind the dark blue circles of white-framed sunglasses, she sat slumped with the back of her head resting on the wooden chair, using both armrests, her legs stretched out, ankles crossed. Her thin, wide, pretty mouth was red with lipstick, but otherwise she wore no makeup that he could detect. 　She was a handsome woman of perhaps forty-five, but she looked better from a distance. 　Perhaps she was staying out of the sun because her flesh had already passed the merely tanned stage into dark leather, and her high-cheekboned face-which most likely had, in her twenties and probably thirties, rivaled that of any fashion model-bore a crinkly, weathered look. 　"Mr. Burroughs," she said, as he wandered into sight. She had a cigarette in a clear holder in one hand and a half-empty glass of orange juice in the other. "If you're looking for a tennis partner, I'm afraid I'm simply too tired." 　She spoke with only the faintest German accent. 　"I'm in no mood myself, Mrs. Kuhn. May I join you for a moment? It looks cool there in the shade." 　"Certainly." She gestured to another beach chair, near the side of the house. "I can go in and get you one of these." 　She was lifting the orange-juice glass; he was dragging the chair around, to sit beside her. 　"No thanks," he said. "I've had my breakfast." 　"Ah, but this isn't just breakfast. It's a rejuvenating tonic known as a screwdriver." 　He grinned a little, shook his head. "No thanks- I'm on the wagon... holding on by my thumbs, but holding on....Little early for that, isn't it?" 　She sipped from the glass. "Is it ever too early for vitamin C? Or vodka? Citrus is rich in it, you know. Vitamin C, that is." 　"Yeah, I know-I used to live in California. Plenty of citrus. And vodka." 　Mrs. Kuhn blew a smoke ring, regally. "I would love to live in California. I have had more than enough of ... paradise." 　"But your husband has his business here." 　"Yes. Oh yes." 　Burroughs shifted in the canvas seat. "I ran into him a few minutes ago, on his way to some business appointment or other. He didn't say what, exactly." 　She said nothing; she might not even have been listening. The wind was rippling the fronds overhead, making gently percussive music, while underneath the sibilant rash of the nearby surf provided its monotonous melody. 　'Terrible thing, last night," Burroughs said. 　She nodded, almost imperceptibly. "You caught the murderer, I understand." 　"I heard a scream. Ran out to the beach. That musician was leaning over the poor girl's body, blood on his hands." 　"Awful," she said emotionlessly. 　"What did you hear?" 　"Pardon?" 　"When did you wake up?" 　She turned her head toward him and lowered her sunglasses and her pale blue eyes studied him; her thin lips curved in mild amusement. "Is this really the proper subject for casual midmorning conversation?" 　"No disrespect meant, to either you or the deceased." He shrugged. "It's just that... you and I and your husband, we're the only witnesses to this tragedy." 　She frowned and turned away, put her sunglasses back into position. "I'm not a witness, Mr. Burroughs. I didn't wake up until my husband's ... activity awoke me." 　"Activity?" 　"He was quite understandably agitated by what he saw." 　"So he woke you." 　She heaved an irritated sigh and looked at him again, not bothering to lower the sunglasses, this time. "Really, Mr. Burroughs, this is nothing I want to talk about-I spent half the night blathering with that dreadful little foreign policeman, and I don't want to gossip about such a misfortune with a neighbor-if you don't mind." 　"I meant no offense." 　"Neither did I." 　She wasn't looking at him, now-neither one of their apologies had sounded very convincing. 　He shrugged again. "It just rather casts a pall over this lovely day." 　"You can have this lovely day, and every other lovely Hawaiian day, as far as I'm concerned." 　"Pearl Harada might not agree with you." 　"What is that supposed to mean?" 　"It means she had every day taken away from her ... and it wasn't her idea. That's all it means." 　She sipped the screwdriver. "I'm sorry the young woman is dead, but I barely knew her." 　"You did know her, though." 　"I knew her as any guest at the Niumalu knew her- she was an entertainer, here-a decent one, too. She seemed pleasant enough, when I would encounter her around the place. Not stuck-up like some show-business types. I'm sorry she's gone." She looked at him over the rims of the sunglasses. "Is there anything else, Mr. Burroughs?" 　"I apologize, Mrs. Kuhn-I was just making conversation. I thought... as mutual witnesses ... we had something in common." 　"You said that. Mr. Burroughs, if you'd like to go get your tennis racket, I'll meet you on the court. Or if you'd like to sit here and share some stories about the Hollywood celebrities you've encountered, please feel welcome. Otherwise, change the subject, or find someone else to gossip with." 　He rose. "Sorry, Mrs. Kuhn. And I'm still in no mood for tennis, and I like talking about Hollywood about as much as you like discussing murder.... Have you seen Mr. Sterling this morning?" 　The FBI man's bungalow was the next one over, the only other bungalow near enough to the beach for someone within to have possibly heard or seen something last night. 　"Yes, I have-he chatted with Otto this morning, on this same dreadful subject. Then he headed off." 　Burroughs frowned. "Do you know where he went?" 　Her patience clearly all but exhausted, Mrs. Kuhn said, "I believe Mr. Sterling said he was going in to work." 　"Oh... well, thanks, Mrs. Kuhn. Sorry-didn't mean to disturb you with this unpleasantness." 　"I'm sure," she said, coldly. "Just as I did not mean to be rude." 　Burroughs headed over to the lodge, to catch up with Hully, mind abuzz. It was unusual for the FBI man to work on a Saturday morning, and he and Sterling were set to go to the Shriners game this afternoon, with Colonel Fielder. He wondered if Sterling's Saturday-morning business had anything to do with Pearl Harada's murder. 　He wondered the same about Otto Kuhn's business downtown. 　 will update soon,,,thanks