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.