The Pearl Harbor Murders (10 page)

Burroughs raised his palms, as if in surrender. "My mistake—I thought, since we'd both been witnesses to this thing, that we had something in common. That we'd shared something, however horrible."

Kuhn nodded, once. "I do understand—I meant no offense. But I would prefer not to discuss the matter any further."

Not the murder—the "matter."

"Sure, Otto. I guess I don't blame you."

The ambiguity of what Burroughs had just said froze the German for a moment; then he gave the writer another curt nod. "If you'll excuse me, Edgar—I have business downtown."

Kuhn strode off across the grass, toward the lodge and its parking lot, and Burroughs began back toward his own quarters; then, when Kuhn was out of sight, the writer cut back toward the bougainvillea-covered bungalow.

He didn't have to knock on the screen door, this time—Kuhn's wife, the person he had hoped to casually interview, was already outside. He didn't see her, at first—she was down at the far end of the bungalow, tucked back in the cool blue shade of sheltering palms, seated in a wood-and-canvas beach-type chair.

Elfriede Kuhn's slender shape was well served by a white halter top and matching shorts. Honey-blonde hair brushing her shoulders, eyes a mystery behind the dark blue circles of white-framed sunglasses, she sat slumped with the back of her head resting on the wooden chair, using both armrests, her legs stretched out, ankles crossed. Her thin, wide, pretty mouth was red with lipstick, but otherwise she wore no makeup that he could detect.

She was a handsome woman of perhaps forty-five, but she looked better from a distance.

Perhaps she was staying out of the sun because her flesh had already passed the merely tanned stage into dark leather, and her high-cheekboned face—which most likely had, in her twenties and probably thirties, rivaled that of any fashion model—bore a crinkly, weathered look.

"Mr. Burroughs," she said, as he wandered into sight. She had a cigarette in a clear holder in one hand and a half-empty glass of orange juice in the other. "If you're looking for a tennis partner, I'm afraid I'm simply too tired."

She spoke with only the faintest German accent.

"I'm in no mood myself, Mrs. Kuhn. May I join you for a moment? It looks cool there in the shade."

"Certainly." She gestured to another beach chair, near the side of the house. "I can go in and get you one of these."

She was lifting the orange-juice glass; he was dragging the chair around, to sit beside her.

"No thanks," he said. "I've had my breakfast."

"Ah, but this isn't just breakfast. It's a rejuvenating tonic known as a screwdriver."

He grinned a little, shook his head. "No thanks—I'm on the wagon... holding on by my thumbs, but holding on....Little early for that, isn't it?"

She sipped from the glass. "Is it ever too early for vitamin C? Or vodka? Citrus is rich in it, you know. Vitamin C, that is."

"Yeah, I know—I used to live in California. Plenty of citrus. And vodka."

Mrs. Kuhn blew a smoke ring, regally. "I would love to live in California. I have had more than enough of ... paradise."

"But your husband has his business here."

"Yes. Oh yes."

Burroughs shifted in the canvas seat. "I ran into him a few minutes ago, on his way to some business appointment or other. He didn't say what, exactly."

She said nothing; she might not even have been listening. The wind was rippling the fronds overhead, making gently percussive music, while underneath the sibilant rash of the nearby surf provided its monotonous melody.

“Terrible thing, last night," Burroughs said.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly. "You caught the murderer, I understand."

"I heard a scream. Ran out to the beach. That musician was leaning over the poor girl's body, blood on his hands."

"Awful," she said emotionlessly.

"What did you hear?"

"Pardon?"

"When did you wake up?"

She turned her head toward him and lowered her sunglasses and her pale blue eyes studied him; her thin lips curved in mild amusement. "Is this really the proper subject for casual midmorning conversation?"

"No disrespect meant, to either you or the deceased." He shrugged. "It's just that... you and I and your husband, we're the only witnesses to this tragedy."

She frowned and turned away, put her sunglasses back into position. "I'm not a witness, Mr. Burroughs. I didn't wake up until my husband's ... activity awoke me."

"Activity?"

"He was quite understandably agitated by what he saw."

"So he woke you."

She heaved an irritated sigh and looked at him again, not bothering to lower the sunglasses, this time. "Really, Mr. Burroughs, this is nothing I want to talk about—I spent half the night blathering with that dreadful little foreign policeman, and I don't want to gossip about such a misfortune with a neighbor—
if you don't mind."

"I meant no offense."

"Neither did I."

She wasn't looking at him, now—neither one of their apologies had sounded very convincing.

He shrugged again. "It just rather casts a pall over this lovely day."

"You can have this lovely day, and every other lovely Hawaiian day, as far as I'm concerned."

"Pearl Harada might not agree with you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means she had
every
day taken away from her ... and it wasn't her idea. That's all it means."

She sipped the screwdriver. "I'm sorry the young woman is dead, but I barely knew her."

"You did know her, though."

"I knew her as any guest at the Niumalu knew her—she was an entertainer, here—a decent one, too. She seemed pleasant enough, when I would encounter her around the place. Not stuck-up like some show-business types. I'm sorry she's gone." She looked at him over the rims of the sunglasses. "Is there anything else, Mr. Burroughs?"

"I apologize, Mrs. Kuhn—I was just making conversation. I thought... as mutual witnesses ... we had something in common."

"You said that. Mr. Burroughs, if you'd like to go get your tennis racket, I'll meet you on the court. Or if you'd like to sit here and share some stories about the Hollywood celebrities you've encountered, please feel welcome. Otherwise, change the subject, or find someone else to gossip with."

He rose. "Sorry, Mrs. Kuhn. And I'm still in no mood for tennis, and I like talking about Hollywood about as much as you like discussing murder.... Have you seen Mr. Sterling this morning?"

The FBI man's bungalow was the next one over, the only other bungalow near enough to the beach for someone within to have possibly heard or seen something last night.

"Yes, I have—he chatted with Otto this morning, on this same dreadful subject. Then he headed off."

Burroughs frowned. "Do you know where he went?"

Her patience clearly all but exhausted, Mrs. Kuhn said, "I believe Mr. Sterling said he was going in to work."

"Oh... well, thanks, Mrs. Kuhn. Sorry—didn't mean to disturb you with this unpleasantness."

"I'm sure," she said, coldly. "Just as I did not mean to be rude."

Burroughs headed over to the lodge, to catch up with Hully, mind abuzz. It was unusual for the FBI man to work on a Saturday morning, and he and Sterling were set to go to the Shriners game this afternoon, with Colonel Fielder. He wondered if Sterling's Saturday-morning business had anything to do with Pearl Harada's murder.

He wondered the same about Otto Kuhn's business downtown.

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."