story : MAC.ThePearlHarborMurders (part 11 and 12 )

　ELEVEN 　Hotel Street 　 　The exceptionally beautiful weather and the lopsided victory in this afternoon's football game coalesced into a night of rampant partying, excessive even for a Saturday in Honolulu. The city was rife with private parties and public revelry, and alive with music, from radios bleeding syrupy Hawaiian strains, seemingly designed to make lonely men feel even lonelier, to a lively battle of the bands at the Naval Receiving Station at Pearl Harbor, where the U.S.S. Arizona band was going over big, with the upbeat likes of "Take the A Train." Hotel ballrooms, like the Royal Hawaiian and the Ala Moana, were offering fox-trots, while swing music emanated from the town's less stodgy bandstands, like those at the Niumalu or the dance hall at Waikiki Amusement Park. 　Swing also jumped from jukeboxes up and down Hotel Street, where sailors and soldiers swarmed in ribbons of white and khaki. A fleet of rickety taxis, wheezing buses and rattletrap jalopies charged down the two-lane highway connecting Pearl Harbor and Honolulu, conveying the invading horde to their dropping-off spot: the Army and Navy YMCA, at the eastern end of Hotel Street, a suitable starting point for an evening of good-natured debauchery. 　Awash in garish neon, flickering under the strobe of fluorescent bulbs, Hotel Street was a glorified alleyway lined with low-slung stucco buildings wearing tin awnings like gambler's shades. To boys longing for home, the midway that was Hotel Street seemed to echo carnivals and state fairs, this rude collection of taverns, trinket counters, massage parlors, photo booths, pool halls, shooting galleries, curio stores, tattoo artists, and dime-a-dance joints. 　Along the narrow sidewalks of every block were one or two barbershops, the barbers invariably young attractive Japanese women, and at least one lei shop, with pretty Hawaiian girls stringing flowers. Other sorts of "leis" were available, as well: hotels whose rooms all had the shades drawn-the Rex, the Anchor, the Ritz- attracted lines down the block of sailors and soldiers waiting to choose between two varieties of "room": three dollars for three minutes, or five dollars for an extended stay, up to ten. Relatively safe, too: the local police, in turning a blind if well-paid eye, insisted on weekly blood tests for these unofficially sanctioned soiled doves. 　Hully and Jardine had recruited Sam Fujimoto to join on their Hotel Street expedition. Sam knew both 　Ensign Bill Fielder and Corporal Jack Stanton, the former better than the latter, but in either case enough to recognize either in this sea of uniforms. Starting at the west end, Hully and Jardine, who were on a first-name basis now, took one side of the street, while Sam took the other-they had agreed to rendezvous at the Black Cat Cafe in an hour and a half. 　"You figure whoever killed Pearl Harada," Hully said to the Portuguese detective, "killed Terry Mizuha, as well." 　They were shouldering their way down the tight, teeming sidewalk, faces around them flushed with neon-theirs, too. 　"Probably," Jardine said. 　"Why was Terry killed? What could he have known?" 　Jardine shrugged. "It's possible this Terry was a real eyewitness ... which may be more than can be said for Otto Kuhn." 　A group of sailors slouched under a tin awning in front of a cafe, laughing, smoking, caps at jaunty an-gles, pant legs flapping in the almost cool breeze. 　Hully said, 'Terry wouldn't've had to be an eyewitness to be dangerous to the killer. Everybody knew he and Pearl were best friends. She might have confided in Terry about something that allowed him to know, or anyway strongly suspect, the murderer's identity." 　Jardine nodded. "There's another possibility." 　"Which is?" 　They were passing by a shooting gallery where soldiers were throwing baseballs at milk cans, and sailors were playing Skee-Ball and pinball. 　"Perhaps," Jardine said, 'Terry Mizuha wasn't strictly mahu-maybe he was even closer to Pearl than we've been led to believe." 　"Oh, that's crazy...." 　"Is it? Gates have been known to swing both ways, on this island. Suppose this jealous sailor pal of yours, or that soldier, came upon Terry and Pearl, together on the beach?" 　"What, and confronted by a sudden act of violence, Terry fled?" 　"Yes ... and was afraid to come forward, for fear of looking a coward-hoping his silence would buy him a free pass from the killer." 　"I don't buy it, John." 　The detective summoned a thin smile. "Well, it's your own damn fault, Hully." 　"My fault?" 　"You're the one that started me thinking-I was content with Harry Kamana as the murderer." 　Looking for Bill and Stanton, Hully and Jardine tried various taverns-the Two Jacks, the Mint, the New Emma Cafe-wading through clouds of cigarette smoke laced with the smell of stale beer, sorting swarms of sailors and soldiers, who were crowded at tables, packed in booths, flirting with Oriental waitresses, whom they so greatly outnumbered. None of the fresh, young, happy, sad faces belonged to Bill Fielder or Jack Stanton. 　Hully and the detective checked tattoo parlors, where boys sat bare-chested under bare bulbs as Filipino artists inscribed American flesh with hula girls, anchors and "Mother." They tried curio shops where this sailor bought a fringed pillow cursively designated "Honolulu," and that soldier purchased a monkey-pod carving. They tried storefront photo studios, where gobs and GIs posed with pretty, grass-skirted Hawaiian girls who had no interest in a date. They tried cafй's-the Bunny Ranch, Lousy Lui's, Swanky Franky-where servicemen who had gotten drunk too fast tried to sober up just as quickly. No Fielder; no Stanton. 　They tried a dime-a-dance joint, a barnlike second-floor ballroom not unlike a church hall or an Elks club. A small combo-piano, guitar, drums-played slow tunes; tables were scattered on either side of the heavily varnished, underlit cavern. Many of the girls were surprisingly good-looking, Hully thought, a variety of Japanese, Chinese, Puerto Rican, Hawaiian and combinations thereof-also the occasional white girl- in low-cut, shoulder-baring evening gowns. No liquor was sold on the premises, nor was it allowed to be brought in. 　"These girls don't look like prostitutes," Hully whispered to Jardine, as the two stood on the sidelines. 　"They aren't," the detective said. "See that blonde over there?" 　Jardine was indicating a dazzling blonde dancing with an older man, a Filipino. 　"She's somebody's wife, I'll lay odds," the detective said. "These are nice girls. They aren't allowed to date the customers-aren't allowed to leave until closing, when their mothers or their husbands pick them up." 　But Hully wasn't looking at the blonde, anymore. He was nodding toward a soldier. "Hey-that's him.... That's Stanton." 　Corporal Jack Stanton was dancing with an attractive if overly made-up Japanese girl in a low-cut blue satin gown that would have made her the hit of any prom; she was holding the boyishly handsome, brown-haired soldier close, her small fist tightly clenching a curling strand of tickets. She looked just a little bit like Pearl Harada, particularly to somebody drunk, like Jack Stanton. 　When the tune ended-"Moonlight Becomes You"- Jardine went out onto the dance floor and tapped Stanton's shoulder, as if he were cutting in. 　Stanton glared at the little fedora-sporting detective, but when Jardine held up his wallet, displaying his badge, Stanton swallowed and nodded, with morose inevitability. Hully couldn't hear what either man was saying-he had secured a small table at Jardine's request-and watched as the broad-shouldered, athletic-looking Stanton walked subserviently along with the diminutive detective, over to the waiting table. 　Hully pulled out a chair for the corporal. 　Suddenly Stanton's submissive attitude shifted; he seemed to bristle at the sight of Hully, saying, "I know you." 　"I know you, too, Jack." Hully gestured to the chair and, in a not unfriendly way, said, "Sit down." 　Stanton was scowling. "You're Bill Fielder's friend." 　"I'm one of them." 　Jardine said to Stanton, "Sit down." Not so friendly. Stanton sat. He was inebriated, but short of sloshed. Jardine sat on one side of the soldier, Hully on the other. 　The detective said, "I brought Mr. Burroughs along to identify you. I could have embarrassed you by going to your commanding officer and requesting a photo, you know." 　Stanton's eyes narrowed. "Why didn't you?" 　"I wanted to hear your story." 　"What story?" 　"The story of you and Pearl Harada." 　Stanton swallowed. Then he put his elbows on the table and began to cry into his hands. The shabby little combo was playing "Fools Rush In." 　Jardine gave the corporal a handkerchief. Stanton thanked Jardine and used it, drying his eyes, blowing his nose. 　Then the detective said, "You and Bill Fielder got into a tussle over Pearl Harada last night. Want to tell me about it?" 　Swallowing again, Stanton shrugged, saying, "It wasn't much of a 'tussle'-I punched him and he punched me. Then it got broke up. That's all." 　"Why did you punch him?" 　"Because ... Pearl was my girl. I wanted him to stay away from her." 　"You mean you were still seeing her? She was dating you, at the same time as Fielder?" 　He shook his head, glumly. "No ... no. She broke it off with me, weeks ago. I just... couldn't get her out of my mind. Couldn't accept it. She was... so beautiful. So much fun... sweet... talented... smart..." 　Jardine waited until Stanton stopped crying again, then said, "You were seen arguing with her last night." 　"I know." Stanton worked up a sneer. "By that fairy Mizuha. He told you, right?" 　Jardine's face was as impassive as a cigarstore Indian's. "The way this works is, I ask the questions. You argued with her?" 　"It... it wasn't really an argument. I was ... a little drunk. I yelled at her." The soldier leaned against an elbow, hand to his forehead, as if taking his own temperature. "She just looked at me, like ... like she felt sorry for me. And maybe a little ... disgusted... after I wouldn't stop yelling. I almost think that's what hurts most of all." 　"What?" 　"That she died thinking I was a jerk." 　More tears followed, then Jardine asked, "Where were you, around twelve-thirty, one o'clock?" 　"Back at Hickam." 　"What time did you argue with Pearl?" 　"Midnight-right after the band got finished." 　"Where did you go, after the argument?" 　"I told you-Hickam. I took a cab. I was in my rack by twelve-thirty, or damn close." 　"You were in the barracks?" 　"Yeah." 　Jardine was jotting this down in his little notebook. Hully realized these assertions would be easily 　checked: the cab could be tracked; and whether or not Stanton had been in the barracks at the time of the girl's death. Pearl had been alive at twelve-fifteen, when she'd taken her leave of Hully's father, at their bungalow. And Hickam Field was twenty minutes from Waikiki. 　If he was telling the truth, Stanton couldn't have been Pearl Harada's murderer. 　"I want you at Central Police Station at ten o'clock Monday morning," Jardine said to the corporal. "For a formal statement. If you need to have your commanding officer call me, I work out of the Prosecutor's Office at City Hall." 　And Jardine handed Stanton a business card. Stanton held it between thumb and middle finger and stared at it like a chimp trying to figure out a math problem. 　Stanton's expression was one of astonishment. "You don't really think I... listen, I didn't... Do I need an attorney?" 　"That's up to you, Corporal. If you were a prime suspect in my mind, I'd be taking you in right now." 　He was shaking his head, his eyes as intense as they were red. "I wouldn't have hurt her. I would never have hurt her. I'd sooner kill myself. Do you have any idea what I'm going through? What it feels like inside my head right now? Inside my gut? My heart?" 　"Monday. Ten o'clock." 　"I thought Harry Kamana did it. Didn't you arrest him?" 　'Ten o'clock. Monday." 　Jardine rose and Hully followed suit. 　"What about Fielder?" Stanton asked, still seated. "Where was he when Pearl was ... ?" 　"We're going to find that out," Jardine said. He touched the brim of his fedora, in a tip-of-the-hat manner, and headed for the door, Hully trailing after. 　Just as they were going out, Hully saw Stanton heading back out to the dance floor with the Japanese girl, the combo playing, "I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good." 　The Black Cat was a long, open-faced cafй that benefited from its proximity to the YMCA across the street, where buses and cabs had brought-and would later pick up-sailors and soldiers ... anyway, those who weren't sleeping it off in a room in the big, rambling, palm-surrounded Y. 　Sam Fujimoto was at a table right on the street with two sailors-one of whom was Bill Fielder. The other was Dan Pressman. The Black Cat served liquor, but all three were drinking coffee. 　"Nice work," Jardine said to Sam, pulling up a chair, Hully doing the same. 　Bill sat slumped in his chair, his expression dour, his handsome features puffy, his dark hair uncombed. Blond, blue-eyed Dan Pressman seemed more alert, and was watching Bill the way a parent watches a child. Hully's hunch was that Bill had been tying one on, and Dan had laid off the booze, to keep an eye on his friend's safety and welfare. 　"Found Bill and Dan down at the Tradewinds," Sam said. 　"Rough joint," Jardine said, and showed his badge to the two sailors. "I'm Detective Jardine. How are you doing, Bill?" 　"My fiancee was murdered," he said, just slightly slurring his words. "How the hell you think I am?" 　"When did you see Pearl Harada last, Ensign?" 　Dan said, "Detective, if you want to question Bill, don't you think it'd be more appropriate if you waited till he's-" 　"I'll talk to him now," Bill said sharply. "Right now. I'm sober-sober enough. And I don't have a goddamn thing to hide." 　"You should have a lawyer," Dan said. "This is a murder case." 　Bill batted the air. "They already caught the guy. Didn't you catch the guy?" 　"Harry Kamana is in custody," Jardine said. "When did you see Pearl last, Ensign?" 　"At the Niumalu. I left about a quarter to midnight. ... The Harbor Lights were still playing." 　Jardine gazed out from under the shadow of the fedora brim. "She was your girl, wasn't she? Why didn't you hang around to spend some time with her, after?" 　"I wanted to talk to my father. I was spending the weekend with my folks-and I knew I'd have the chance to talk to Dad about... about Pearl and me. About us getting married." 　"Did you talk to him?" 　"Yes." He shook his head, rolled his eyes. "Oh yes indeed." 　"It did not go well?" 　He grunted a humorless laugh. "It did not go well." 　"What happened?" 　Bill leaned forward, weaving slightly; his words remained slurred but coherent. "Just a shouting match. My mother tried to calm both of us down, but... I went to the guest room, slammed the door. That was the end of it." 　"What time was this?" 　"I got home just after midnight. We must have argued till one o'clock, one-fifteen." 　Jardine glanced at Hully: this would seem to be an alibi for both Bill and his father. . . unless one was covering for the other. 　"Ensign Fielder," the detective said, "I mean no disrespect ... but you were not the only man in Pearl's life." 　Bill slapped the metal table and the coffee cups jumped, spilling a little. "You're wrong! I was the only man in her life." 　Jardine's voice was a persistent near monotone. "What about Jack Stanton? Harry Kamana?" 　Bill gestured with an awkward hand. "They were old boyfriends. I didn't say she was a... a nun. But we were engaged-she wasn't dating anybody else, wasn't seeing anybody else. Just me." 　"How would you have felt if you found her in the arms of another man?" 　The ensign bobbed forward. "Would it make me want to kill somebody? Is that what you want to know? Sure, Detective ..." 　Touching his friend's arm, Dan said, "Bill-easy, now ... watch what you're saying...." 　"I'd have wanted to kill the son of a bitch who was with her... not Pearl. Never Pearl. But that didn't happen, Detective, and it wouldn't happen, couldn't happen. She loved me, I loved her. We were engaged. She was going to be ... my wife." 　"What if you found her in the arms of Terry Mi-zuha?" 　Bill blinked. "Why would she be in that queer's arms? What the hell kind of stupid question is that?" 　Jardine handed Bill a business card. "That's my office number at City Hall. But I want you down at Central Police Station at eleven o'clock Monday morning. Can you remember that?" 　"Yeah." Bill was looking at the business card, trying to make his eyes focus. "Why do you wanna talk to me again?" 　"I want your formal statement. I don't think you did this thing, Ensign Fielder, but you are a suspect. You may wish to bring an attorney along." 　Bill's head was rocking, slightly. "I don't understand this-Harry Kamana did it! He had goddamn blood all over himself! Somebody saw him do it, right? Why..." 　"We can discuss this Monday. Show up sober, Ensign." 　Then Bill was on his feet, raving, ranting. "You let that bastard Kamana out, I'll kill his ass! You understand? You wanna arrest me for a murder, you'll get your chance...." 　Dan also got to his feet, latching onto Bill's arm. "Take it easy, Bill. Just stop talking, goddamnit." 　A male voice chimed in: "Did you kill her, Fielder? Did you murder my girl?" 　As if he'd materialized, Corporal Jack Stanton was standing next to the table. Now Hully and Jardine were getting to their feet, as Stanton grabbed the startled Bill Fielder by his khaki blouse, with both hands. 　"Why did you do it, Fielder?" Stanton demanded, his eyes crazed. "Was she throwing you over? Coming back to me?" 　Bill threw the first punch. Then the two heartsick, drunken servicemen were slugging away at each other, flailing, stumbling out into the street, mostly missing, occasionally connecting. Within seconds a crowd of sailors and soldiers had formed around them, cheering them on. 　Jardine was shaking his head, giving Hully a look. "Oh hell," he said wearily. 　It was only a matter of minutes before the crowd turned itself into a brawling mob, sailors belting soldiers, soldiers smacking sailors. Fielder and Stanton were no longer visible, swallowed in the sea of white and khaki, with shouted obscenities mingling with cries of pain. 　The gunshot froze them all. 　Then their eyes turned to the little Portuguese detective who had fired his .38 revolver into the air. The sailors and soldiers did not have time to process this before the MPs and Shore Patrol descended, blowing whistles, shouting admonitions, arresting a few of them, the bulk scattering. 　Hully found Bill Fielder in a pile on the pavement, 　barely conscious, fairly battered; Stanton was nowhere to be seen. Hully and Dan Pressman-who had not gotten involved in the fracas-walked Bill to the table and sat him down. 　Dan said to Hully, "Listen, I need to catch a liberty ship. You want me to haul him back to the Arizona?' 　"No-I'll baby-sit him tonight," Hully said. "Clean him up, and let him sleep it off." 　Jardine was talking to the Shore Patrol and the MPs, showing them his badge. 　"You guys always have this much fun on Hotel Street?" Hully asked Pressman. 　Dan grinned. "Every time." TWELVE 　Party Crashers 　 　In the golden Hawaiian moonlight, Schofield Barracks-the largest military base in the United States- looked like a perfecdy idealized American town, right off the cover of The Saturday Evening Post or the back lot of MGM. If it were not for the surrounding fields of sugarcane and pineapple, no one would guess the Hawaiian location; if it were not for the sentry-guarded entry, no one would take this for an Army post. Street after street was lined with stucco and brick houses on well-manicured lawns, ranging from bungalows to near mansions, depending on the ranks of their occupants, of course; and-set off in splendid isolation, like castles of the realm-massive brick structures for various military purposes. 　Burroughs pulled up outside the gate, waiting for FBI agent Adam Sterling. He had called the agent at the Niumalu, where Sterling had been brooding in his bungalow, after an unsuccessful meeting with General Short on the lanai of the latter's home, at Fort Shafter, the Army administrative quarters just outside Honolulu. 　"Well, get out here to Schofield," Burroughs had told the FBI man, from a phone booth outside a gas station with a magnificent view of Pearl Harbor that rivaled the Shuncho-ro's. "I have new information for the general, and I won't be able to get past the guard without your help." 　Burroughs filled Sterling in on what he'd learned from Kuhn and Morimura, and the FBI man, excited, said he was on his way and hung up. 　The writer had paused to look at the view, before driving to nearby Schofield. Pearl Harbor was spread out before him, warships moored in pools of yellow luminance, signal lights blinking back and forth, search beams stroking the sky. 　A chatty little Japanese man in coveralls-who had introduced himself as Mr. Sumida, the service station's owner, and who had smiled during every moment of gas pumping and windshield cleaning-was also admiring the glittering view, as Burroughs paid for his gas. 　"So beautiful," Mr. Sumida said. "Like great big Christmas tree!" 　Somehow this observation was less than comforting, and now-as Burroughs waited for Sterling outside the Schofield gate-he wondered how his son and Sam Fujimoto were faring. About now they would be combing Hotel Street for Bill Fielder and Jack Stanton, and \the writer was well aware of the potential perils of that sleazy strip of sin. 　Sterling pulled up in a black Ford, government issue no doubt, and Burroughs left the Pierce Arrow and hopped in front, on the passenger side. The FBI man showed his ID to the guard and they soon were rolling through the lush, suburban "barracks." 　"We're probably on a fool's errand, Ed," the FBI agent said. The rangy, square-jawed Sterling-who still reminded Burroughs of a hero from one of his own books-seemed frazzled at the end of this long day, his white linen suit rumpled, his tie a limp, wrinkled rag. 　Sterling proceeded to tell Burroughs that when he'd arrived at Fort Shafter at seven, for a promised ten-minute audience with the general, both Mrs. Short and Mrs. Fielder were already seated in the general's car with its motor running, in the driveway, waiting to go to the party at the Schofield Officers' Club. 　Short had been unimpressed with the transcript of the Mori radiophone call. "If this is code," the general had asked skeptically, "why do they talk in the clear about things like planes and searchlights?" 　While the wives fretted and fumed in the car, Sterling had tried to make his case to Short and Fielder (who lived next door to the general). 　"General Short thought the Mori call was 'quite an ordinary message,' " Steriing said to Burroughs, pulling into the officers'-club parking lot. "Nothing much to get excited about." 　"And of course Fielder parroted that view," Burroughs said dryly. 　"The worst of it is, the general said he appreciated my 'zeal,' but perhaps I was being 'too intelligence-conscious.' " 　Burroughs, shaking his head, said, "Is there such a thing, with war hanging over us?" 　"When it comes to matters like these," Sterling said, as he parked his car in the nearly filled lot, "it's easy to be wrong.... Morimura being a case in point, on my part." 　Burroughs was getting out of the car. "You might have done better with General Short during working hours. When a man's wife is waiting for him in a car, dressed to the nines ready to go to a party, his judgment is easily impaired." 　As they walked up to the entry of the unpretentious brick building, the FBI agent warned Burroughs: "The general was pretty patient with me at his house, all considering, but this interruption may be something else again." 　Sterling had already explained that this was not just the club's weekly Saturday-night dance, but an annual cabaret-style benefit show put on by "talented young ladies" who worked on the post. Right now they could hear a small combo-piano, drums, guitar and bass fiddle-accompanying a thin female voice doing Ella Fitzgerald's "A Tisket a Tasket," passably. 　Once inside, they peeked in at the wood-paneled dining room, which was decked out with ferns and floral arrangements, and every linen-covered table had fresh-cut flowers; between two lava-rock columns was the stage area, where various amateurs were coming up to sing and dance and do their best. The men in the audience were in dress uniform and the women in their fanciest gowns, and the club was brimming with brass-in addition to Short and Fielder, who were positioned up front (unfortunately), Burroughs spotted Major Durward Wilson of the 24th Infantry Division, Lieutenant Colonel Emil Leard, and Lieutenant Colonel Walter Phillips, Short's chief of staff. 　"Wait in the bar," Sterling told Burroughs, who did as he was told, as the FBI man waded gingerly into the sea of high-ranking officers. 　With the benefit show in full sway, the bar was empty, but for the bartender himself, and Burroughs ordered a root beer at the counter, and retreated to a booth. 　A few minutes later, Sterling returned with both General Short and Colonel Fielder, neither of whom seemed happy. Nor did they did seem inclined to join Burroughs in the booth, and the writer crawled out and stood and apologized for interrupting their evening out. 　"I hope there's a good reason for this, Mr. Burroughs," the slim, wiry general said tightly. 　Burroughs jumped right in. "You already know about the Mori radiophone call, and the Jap Consulate burning its papers. What you don't know is mat Otto Kuhn, the German 'sleeper' agent, is working with Vice Consul Morimura, in an effort to pin the murder of Pearl Harada on an innocent man." 　The general frowned, but with interest. This news perked Fielder's curiosity, as well. Short gestured to the booth, said, "Let's sit down-I'd like to hear this." 　Burroughs and Sterling sat across from the general and the colonel. Both men seemed keenly attentive as the writer told them what Kuhn had admitted about the phone call, and that Morimura had flaunted his spying activities, right down to the powerful telescope in his private room at the Shuncho-ro. 　Sterling said, "My office has clearly underestimated Morimura-he's put on a good front as a womanizer and buffoon. But it's apparent he's involved heavily in spying, though much of it may be legal." 　"This is intriguing information, Mr. Burroughs," the general said, nodding thoughtfully. "But I as yet fail to see a reason for your sense of urgency...." 　"Pearl Harada's uncle is on the FBI's list of dangerous Japanese-Americans here in Oahu. She may have been involved in something having to do with espionage, or overheard something." Burroughs turned to Fielder. "Wooch, that girl made a concerted effort to have me arrange a meeting between the two of you." 　Fielder shrugged. "Of course-because she and my son wanted to get married...." 　This was news to Short, who looked sharply at Fielder, who went on, faintly chagrined. 　"My son and that girl knew I would forbid such a union, and she wanted to try to win me over." 　"That's right," Burroughs said. "And we've been assuming that she was going to bat her eyes and sweet-talk you and just generally appeal to your basic goodness... but Wooch, what if she was going to prove herself to you by handing you sensitive information?" - 　Fielder's eyes narrowed, and so did Short's. 　"I spoke to that girl minutes before her murder," Burroughs said. "She was anxious to see you, Wooch, as soon as possible. She had a real sense of urgency about her, let me tell you ... and somebody else had enough of a sense of urgency to murder her before she could talk to you." 　Fielder seemed stunned, trying to absorb this. 　"What do you think she knew?" the general asked. 　"I can only guess," Burroughs said. "But if the Japs, through Morimura, are waking their sleeper agent... literally ... and murder is being committed, right down to framing some poor fall guy ... it must be something important. Something ... urgent." 　"It would certainly seem that Morimura and Kuhn are worth serious investigation." General Short turned to Fielder, who was after all his top intelligence man. "First thing Monday morning, I want you to meet with Agent Sterling and whoever's handling this murder case." 　"That would be Detective John Jardine of the Prosecutor's Office," Burroughs told the general, "but do you really think you should wait until Monday?" 　Short raised an eyebrow. "Morimura is a diplomat- with protected status. If he's been involved in illegal espionage, that status dissolves. Kuhn we can simply have arrested. Nevertheless, we need to tread slowly, carefully." 　Burroughs leaned forward in the booth. "General Short, what if Pearl Harada had information indicating invasion was at hand?" 　"Mr. Burroughs, war is at hand, unless these negotiations with the Japs start going someplace, quick... Washington indicates we could have hostile action at any moment." 　"Well, then-" 　"And I'm grateful to you, Mr. Burroughs, for this information indicating that espionage efforts here in Oahu are heating up." 　The writer was shaking his head. "General, I'm not talking about war, I'm talking about invasion-a sneak attack. Your man Colonel Teske believed it would come by air at dawn on a Saturday or Sunday-when the Japs know they would have their best shot at rinding our ships in port and many men off duty, our guard dropped." 　"Our 'guard' is never dropped, Mr. Burroughs," the general said, crisply, defensive irritation unmistakable in his tone. "War is coming but almost certainly not in Hawaii-I asked my chief of staff just yesterday what the odds were of that, and he told me, flatly, 'Zero.' " 　Then Short was out of the booth, Fielder too, the general thanking the writer for his patriotism and his conscientiousness. 　"This activity by Morimura and Kuhn is unquestionably pertinent," he told Burroughs and Sterling, who were still seated in the booth. "We're on alert against sabotage, espionage activities and subversion right now. When the Japs attack-whether it's the Philippines or Borneo-we'll have to be ready to handle a bloody uprising of their local fifth column." 　And, after a few polite smiles and nods, General Walter Short and Colonel Kendall Fielder were off to rejoin their wives, who were listening to a trio of girls from the camp PX singing "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." 　"Hell, Ed," Sterling said, ashen, as the two walked out into the officers'-club parking lot in the still, crisp air, "if your hunch about invasion is correct, the general's antisabotage efforts could backfire tragically." 　"How so?" 　"Well, in this antisabotage alert he's implemented, Short's ordered ammo boxed up and locked, to prevent theft. And all the warplanes are disarmed and massed close together, in the middle of open tarmacs." 　The writer's eyes popped. "Are you serious? That makes a perfect target for an enemy air raid!" 　The FBI agent shrugged, glumly. "It's easier to guard the planes that way, Short says-against the 'fifth column' of local Jap saboteurs." 　Burroughs shook his head. "And what I told him about Morimura probably only reinforced that notion." 　As they headed out of Schofield in the black Ford, Burroughs said to Sterling, "We have to talk to Admiral Kimmel. We have to try him." 　"That's probably not advisable...." 　"Do you know where he is tonight?" 　"I do," Sterling admitted. "A party at the Halekulani, given by Admiral Leary and his wife." 　A number of the Navy's top brass lived at the Halekulani Hotel. 　"Drop me at my car," Burroughs said, "and I'll meet you over there-in the lobby." 　Just beyond Fort DeRussey, on the ocean side of Kalia Street, the Halekulani was a low-key, casually posh hotel whose buildings and cottages seemed interwoven with the Hawaiian landscape. The House Without a Key bar was named after Earl Derr Biggers' s first Charlie Chan mystery, a small resonance Burroughs might have savored, under less tense circumstances: John Jardine's late colleague on the Honolulu PD, Chang Apana, had been the basis for the fictional Chan. 　Burroughs and the FBI agent found Admiral Kimmel in the company of Rear Admiral Draemel and Admiral Pye and their wives, sipping cocktails at a table under the big hau tree on the Halekulani terrace. A grouping of tables nearby made up a dinner party of around a dozen-all top brass and their wives ... except, of course, for Husband Kimmel, whose wife was back on the mainland. 　Sterling approached the stern, broad-browed admiral, apologizing for the intrusion, and politely asking for a few minutes of his time. 　In the charming, pale pink, wicker-furnished lobby, standing near a huge window looking out on a seemingly impenetrable thickness of tropical garden, Burroughs and the FBI man laid out their cards for Admiral Kimmel. It took a while longer than the meeting with Short and Fielder, because Kimmel knew nothing of the Mori radiophone call, though he was aware of the Japanese Consulate burning their papers. 　"That's only natural," the stately admiral said, a faint touch of Kentucky in his voice, "at a time like this." 　"With war imminent, you mean?" Burroughs said. 　"Yes. Now what is this business about murder, and espionage?" 　They filled him in slowly, and the admiral listened, absorbed, frequently nodding. Burroughs and Sterling exchanged occasional glances, both men feeling they were getting through to Kimmel. 　But in the end, the admiral's reaction mirrored the general's. 　"This begs prompt action," Kimmel said. "First thing Monday morning." 　"Admiral Kimmel," Burroughs said, "Sunday is the perfect time for an invasion...." 　The admiral's clear blue eyes seemed tranquil. "The Japs may indeed invade, tomorrow-somewhere in Southeast Asia, that is." 　"What about here? In Hawaii?" 　"No one gives that possibility much credence. Just last week I asked my operations officer what the chances were, of a surprise attack on Oahu, and he said, 'None.' I hope you won't mind if I rely on the advice of our leading military minds and not... forgive me ... the creator of Tarzan?" 　The admiral thanked both men for their diligence, and returned to the terrace and the single cocktail he was conservatively making last all evening. 　Soon the writer and the FBI man were back at the Niumalu, in their respective bungalows; when he took his leave, Sterling seemed weary and defeated. Burroughs felt about the same, but was relieved and even energized to find Hully at home. They had company: Hully had hauled his inebriated and somewhat battered friend, Bill Fielder, to sleep it off, which he was doing, on a pallet on the floor. 　Father and son sat on the couch and exchanged their tales of the evening's investigations, each surprising, occasionally delighting, the other with revelations and adventures. 　But finally it was left to Hully to ask, "What does it all add up to, O. B.?" . 　His father shrugged. "Harry Kamana is innocent- and so, most likely, are Bill and Stanton and the other 'jealous lovers.' Pearl Harada was killed for a classic motive: she knew too much." 　"But what did she know, Dad?" 　"I can't tell you, Son-and neither can Pearl." 　Hully sighed. "I guess our investigation is over." 　"Ours is-but when Sterling and Jardine get together with Colonel Fielder of Army intelligence, Morimura and Kuhn won't stand a chance." 　"And when does this happen?" 　"Monday." 　"Monday." Hully stretched, yawned. "I guess it can wait that long." 　And-with Bill snoring on his pallet on the floor- Hully folded out the couch into a bed, while his father trundled off in hopes of a good night's sleep, minus any nightmares or other rude awakenings. 　THREE: 　December 7, 1941 thanks for reading.