I grunted a laugh. “At least it isn’t the car they hauled that poor bastard’s body in.”
He moved away to pluck one of the envelopes off the table by the door. “This is for you, too, son—it’s your temporary private investigator’s license, and permission to carry a firearm in the Territory of Hawaii.”
“What the hell,” I said, having a look at the document, signed by the chief of police. “I’m legal.”
He patted my shoulder. “I’ll be holed up here, mostly, working with George. Check in with me by phone and we’ll meet every day or so. Now, I want you to stay away from this hotel—I don’t want the reporters getting after you.” He dug in his pocket. “Here’s some expense money….”
I took the five tens he was offering, and said, “Whose idea was it, hiring me? Yours or Evalyn Walsh McLean’s?”
“Does it matter where a great notion first rears its head?”
“Don’t tell me
He touched his caved-in chest with splayed fingers. “Now that injures me, it really does. You know I dote upon you—as if you were my own son!”
“Is having me around costing you
“Certainly, Nate. That was my pocket you saw me reach into, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, but I don’t know whose money you dug out.”
His gray eyes were impish. “Why, your money, Nate. Your money, now.”
I grunted another laugh. “I’d put you under oath, but what difference would it make?”
“What do you mean?”
“What good’s it do, having an agnostic swear on a Bible?”
He was chuckling over that as he closed the door behind me.
The top was down (and I left it down) on the Durant, a two-tone blue number with wire wheels that was surprisingly sporty for a society matron like Grace Fortescue, even if she was an accomplice to murder. The buggy handled nicely and the three-and-a-half-mile drive from Honolulu to Waikiki—straight down King Street, right on Kalakaua Avenue—was a pleasant combination of palm-shaded drive, strolling locals, and budding commerce. I tossed my fedora on the floor on the rider’s side, because the motor-stirred breeze would have sent it sailing, and it felt good, getting my hair mussed. The steady stream of traffic was divided by a clanging trolley, and halted occasionally by Polynesian traffic cops with stop-go signs—no traffic lights in Honolulu, though they had street- lamps. Pretty soon the coral-pink stucco spires of the Royal Hawaiian began emerging up over the trees, like a mirage playing peek-a-boo.
Turning right off Kalakaua into the hotel driveway, I was swept into lushly green, blossom-dabbed, meticulously landscaped grounds along a palm-lined gentle curve of asphalt that wound around to the Pink Palace’s porte cochere, where my rubbernecking damn near ran me smack into one of the massive pillars at the entry way.
The doorman, a Japanese, wore a fancier white uniform and cap than Admiral Stirling. When he leaned his smooth round face in, I asked him where the parking lot was, and he told me they’d park “the vehicle” for me.
I left the motor running, grabbed my bag out of the back, took the claim stub (imagine giving an automobile to somebody like you were checking your damn hat!), tipped the doorman a nickel, and headed inside. A Chinese bellboy in an oriental outfit tried to take my bag as I bounded up the steps, but I waved him off; I only had so many nickels.
The lobby was cool and open, with doorless doorways letting in lovely weather, chirping birds, whispering surf.
The massive walls with their looming archways and the high ceiling with its chandeliers dwarfed the potted palms and fancy lamps and wicker furnishings, not to mention the people, who seemed mostly to be staff. There were enough bellboys—some in those oriental pajamas, others in crisp traditional red jacket and white pants, all in racial shades of yellow and brown—to put together a football team; and room enough to play, without stepping off the Persian carpet.
But there were damn few guests. In fact, as I moved to the registration desk at left, I was the only guest around at the moment. As I was signing in, a honeymooning couple in tennis togs strolled by arm in arm. But that was about it.
Even the fancy lobby shops—display windows showing off jade and silk and high fashions, for the moneyed man or woman—were populated only by salesclerks.
An elevator operator took me up to the fourth floor, where I found a room so spacious and beautifully appointed, it made my cabin on the
It was late afternoon, and the sunbathers and swimmers were mostly indoors; a spirited game of surfboard polo was under way, but that was all. No outrigger canoes in sight; no surf-riding dogs.
The day was winding down and I was, frankly, exhausted. I dropped the sort of immense window shade that was the only thing separating the balcony from the room itself, and adjusted the shutters till the room was as dark as I could get it, stripped to my shorts, and flopped on the bed.
Ringing awoke me.
I turned on the bedside lamp. Blinking, I looked at the telephone on the nightstand and it looked back at me, and rang again. I lifted the receiver, only half-awake.
“’Llo.”
“Nate? Isabel.”
“Hi. What time is it?”
“Eight-something.”
