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....