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