The Pearl Harbor Murders

Fielder nodded, barely, and strode toward the Niu-malu lodge, from which emanated the muffled sound of the band playing 'I'll Remember April.'

Burroughs, cup of wine in hand, wandered, stopping now and then for conversation. A few guests were chatting in the hotel courtyard-not a spacious area, particularly since the hub was taken up by a rock-garden, and standing room was compromised by the yawning fronds of potted tropical plants on the periphery. The dining room was open onto this rock-garden courtyard, and the loud, lively dance music of Pearl and her Harbor Lights limited conversation, as well.

But Burroughs was amused to find Otto Kuhn-his blonde wife on his arm, 'playboy' or not-chatting with secret adversary Adam Sterling of the FBI.

Kuhn-even at six foot, still towered over by the strapping, brown-haired FBI agent-had blue-eyed bland good looks, dark blond hair and wore a white linen suit with a silver tie. Elfriede Kuhn was of medium height, with a nicely slender shape, and one of the few women present not swimming in a muumuu or wrapped up in a kimono- she wore a simple black cocktail dress, rather low-cut. Both husband and wife were attractive individuals in their dissipated forties.

The conversation was focused on an upcoming battle: the annual Shrine-sponsored football game tomorrow, in which the University of Hawaii would meet Willamette. The German favored Hawaii, while the FBI agent-a Willamette University graduate, it happened-not unexpectedly argued for the out-of-town team.

Burroughs, who didn't give a damn either way-he was a boxing and wrestling fan-stood on the fringes of the conversation, politely; then the German-his blue eyes languid-changed the subject, drawing Burroughs directly in.

'I feel my countrymen owe you an apology, Edgar,' Kuhn said, his accent thick, his manner smooth. 'It is something I have long meant to bring up.'

'Why an apology?' Burroughs asked, already amused.

'Like so many German men, when was it… ten years ago? I was a devoted fan of your Tarzan novels. What a sensation you were in my homeland!'

Burroughs sipped his wine, offered up a wry smile. 'That is true-my first German royalty check was the largest single foreign payment I ever had.'

'Every man and boy in Deutschland caught Tarzan fever,' Kuhn said, admiringly, eyes as bright as any young fan of the Jungle Lord's adventures.

Mildly chagrined, the writer said, 'Well, like most epidemics, it ran its course. Or I should say, got cured.'

'What was done to you was most unfortunate,' the German said, shaking his head, 'most unfair.'

Her pretty features pinched with sympathy, Kuhn's wife said, 'Oh, yes, how foolishly the press behaved.'

The FBI agent, confused, said, 'What was done to you, Ed?'

'Well, it was my own damn fault, or my agent's-after we did so well with the first four Tarzans, a rival publisher bought the rights to a book my regular German publisher had skipped over-Tarzan the Untamed, a thing I did during the world war.'

Eyebrow arched, Kuhn glanced at Steriing. 'It was published as Tarzan der Deutschenfresser.… It too caused a sensation.'

Sterling still appeared confused, and Mrs. Kuhn further translated, her manner as delicate as her words were not: 'Tarzan the German Devourer.'

Now the FBI man got it-perhaps, as the Tarzan fan he had often professed to be, he even recalled the plot of the novel: Tarzan-his beloved wife Jane apparently murdered by a German officer-goes on a blood-lust rampage against the Hun, including setting loose a ravenous lion in the German trenches.

'You can't give my stuff away there, now,' Burroughs said, with a laugh. 'As Mrs. Kuhn said, the German press lambasted me-one article advised readers to throw their Tarzan books into the garbage can.'

'Sanctimonious nonsense,' the German said. 'Were you expected to soft-pedal your honest convictions, at the height of a bitter war?'

'Well, I should have seen it coming, and blocked publication in Germany-it was dated material, wartime propaganda, and shouldn't have been reprinted, anywhere.'

Sterling said, 'I guess politics and entertainment don't mix. You've never regained your footing over there, in all this time?'

Kuhn answered for Burroughs, 'Adam, you don't realize the extent of our friend's popularity-the fever turned into a furor….'

Sterting frowned. 'What does Hitler have to do with it?'

Burroughs laughed, almost choking on his wine. 'Not 'f?hrer,' Adam-fur-or.'

Embarrassed, the FBI man said, 'Sorry.'

'An understandable confusion,' the German said urbanely. 'After all, there were public burnings of your books, Edgar.'

Mrs. Kuhn asked the writer, 'Did your German publishers ever ask you to offer an… explanation, or apology to your readers?'

'An open letter from me was published,' Burroughs said, and Kuhn-aware of this-was nodding. 'I didn't apologize, exactly. The novel reflected what I thought and felt at the time I wrote it. I wasn't about to assume a spineless attitude and retract and apologize ad nauseam.'

With a nod-though stopping short of clicking his heels-Kuhn said, 'Well, please allow me to offer an overdue apology myself, on behalf of the German people.'

'Thanks, Otto-though I prefer royalties to apologies.'

But much later that evening, after the last luau guests had departed the Niumalu, Burroughs-in his bungalow, preparing for bed-reflected on Tarzan the Untamed, which since the German uproar had been withheld from all markets. The businessman in him was thinking that the book was probably marketable again-and, when the war came, could go back into print, in America anyway. Tarzan bellowing the victory cry of the bull ape as he stood with his foot on the chest of a fallen German soldier, whose neck he'd snapped… that could prove to be a crowd-pleaser again, before too very long….

Though it was after midnight, Hully wasn't home yet-off having a good time with his sailor pals, no doubt, prowling Hotel Street. Burroughs was in his pa-jama bottoms-he liked to sleep shirtless, in this tropical clime-about to shut off the light and climb in bed when a knock at the door interrupted him. Grumbling, he threw on a maroon rayon robe and went to the door.

'Could I come in for a moment?' Pearl Harada asked, looking up at him through the screen door. The dark eyes in the lovely face conveyed urgency, and she seemed small, childlike, gazing up from the bottom step of the stoop.

'If you're looking for Hully …'

'No, Mr. Burroughs-it's you I want to see.' She was still wearing the low-cut gown, but a lacy shawl was slung around her shoulders, and over her dEcolle-tage, whether out of modesty, or because of the cool night breeze, Burroughs couldn't say.

He opened the screen door, glanced around, wondering if allowing this young beauty into his bungalow was an impropriety he'd pay for; then he sighed and nodded, gesturing her inside.

He suggested she sit on the couch, which she did, and offered her a soft drink, which she refused.

'I won't be here long,' she assured him. 'I know it's late… and I know this is an imposition. But it really is important.'

'All right,' he said, pulling his typing chair over, sitting opposite her.

'Has your son spoken to you about me?'

'No he hasn't.'

Her eyes lowered to her lap, where her hands were clasped. 'Hully's a nice boy-he probably will say something. But I saw him leave with Bill… and I couldn't take the chance.'

'What chance?'

'That he would forget to ask you.'

'Ask me what?'

'If… if you would arrange a meeting for me, with Bill's father.'