like yelled.
O. B. went over to the man-who was holding the blood-streaked hand out, staring at it-and sneered down at him. 'I just bet you'd like to wash your hands of this.'
The slight, pockmarked, roughly handsome Kamana looked up, as if startled, as if realizing for the first time just what he was being accused of-even though he'd already run guiltily away. 'I didn't do this.'
'You didn't, huh,' Burroughs said. It wasn't really a question.
Kamana's eyes were about as red as the bloody hand. 'I loved her….1 loved her more than life!'
'More than
'I didn't kill her!' Though he'd stopped crying, he nonetheless seemed on the verge of hysteria. 'I'd sooner kill myself!'
O. B. grunted a humorless laugh. 'Maybe you'd better save it for the cops.'
But Kamana wanted to talk, and the words tumbled out of him-how two years ago Pearl Harada, who had been visiting relatives in Honolulu, auditioned for his band, on an impulse. When Kamana told her she had the job, Pearl had moved from San Francisco to Oahu.
'I knew she was something special…. It was more than just her looks, or that nice voice of hers… so much like Dinah Shore … she had star quality. She could have gone places.
Hully knew what the man was doing: Kamana was talking about her because it was a way of keeping her alive. Though it seemed obvious he'd killed her, this man just as obviously was deeply sorry she was dead.
O. B. didn't seem terribly moved by any of this. 'So you might have 'gone places' … and that makes you innocent of her murder? As in, why would you kill your meal ticket?'
Kamana was shaking his head, and he seemed desperate to be believed. 'She was more than that to me … so much more. I didn't date her at first… I tried to keep things… businesslike. But we hit it off so well, musically, it was just natural for us to get together, in other ways…. I wanted her to marry me. But she wouldn't. She said her career came first, and she didn't want to settle down anyway … and she dated a lot of guys, mostly servicemen who followed the band. Then this Fielder came along … and she got serious with him … said she was going to marry him … quit the band… quit show business … quit me.'
Hully asked, casually, 'So you argued? Tonight?'
'We've argued several times about it,' Kamana said. Talking seemed to calm him. 'But not tonight. I… I accepted it and… well, I was hoping it would just… pass. Anyway, I figured in the long run it was just a
pipe dream….That Fielder kid, his colonel papa wouldn't put up with his boy marrying a Jap. I stopped arguing with her-maybe she would come to her senses, maybe she wouldn't, but that Fielder kid would … or at least his father would make him come to his senses.'
'So,' Hully said, 'you were just… chatting tonight, down on the beach.'
Kamana shook his head, emphatically. 'I wasn't talking to her on the beach … not at all, not tonight! I heard arguing … my bungalow's near the beach, you know … and recognized her voice … heard a man's voice, but it was soft, I didn't recognize it. Then I… I heard her scream, and I ran out and down there… and…'
He began to weep again, instinctively covering his face with his hands-smearing the blood all over himself. Hully glanced at O. B., who looked back with wide eyes.
'… She was dead….My lovely Pearl was dead…. Somebody killed her….All crushed in … I tried to help her, and got her blood on me….'
His pockmarked face was streaked with blood, now-he looked like an Apache with war paint.
A knock at the door made them jump, even O. B., who said to Hully, 'Get that.'
The man Hully let in was small and swarthy, a hawk-faced obvious plainclothes cop in a snap-brim fedora, rumpled gray suit and red tie. His eyes were small and dark and needle-sharp.
'Hulbert Burroughs,' Hully said, extending his hand to the little detective.
'John Jardine,' he replied, and shook Hully's hand, a strong grip.
Jardine and O. B. shook hands, as well. The elder Burroughs had already filled the detective in on many of the particulars, over the phone.
'How did you get blood on your face, Mr. Kamana?' Jardine asked bluntly, standing uncomfortably close to the seated musician.
'It isn't on my face,' Kamana said, stupidly, holding up his hand, where the blood was just a stain, now.
'It's on your face.'
Kamana's grief had subsided and fear was moving in; with Honolulu's top homicide cop staring him down, the musician obviously was grasping what kind of spot he was in. 'It… it was on my hand… I must have… must have touched my face….'
'How did you get it on your hand?'
Hully and his father sat on the couch as Jardine questioned Kamana-just preliminary stuff, but Hully was interested in the musician's responses, which were for the most part a rehash of the things Kamana had emotionally blurted to Hully and O. B.
But Hully was impressed by the unrehearsed consistency of Kamana's answers.
Before long, Jardine was lugging Kamana-his hands cuffed behind him-outside into the breeze-kissed dark, where he turned the musician over to a uniformed cop, a Polynesian who walked Kamana toward a squad car waiting in the parking lot near the lodge. From down toward the beach came bursts of light, as if a tiny lightning storm had moved in.
Noting Hully's confused expression, Jardine said, 'Flash photos.'
Hully nodded-like his dad had said, the beach was a crime scene now … and Pearl was no longer a person, but evidence.
The Portuguese detective said to O. B., 'Do you mind a few questions? While it's all fresh in your mind?'
'Not at all. Shall we go back inside?'
O. B. was opening the screen door for the detective when a figure came rushing up, dressed in white, a ghost emerging from the darkness.
Otto Kuhn-in a white shirt and white linen pants, looking like a male nurse seeking a doctor-seemed out of breath, though his bungalow, next door, was hardly any distance. His light blue eyes had a startled look.
'Are you with the police, sir?' he asked Jardine in his thick yet smoothly accented second tenor.
'I'm Detective Jardine.'
'I'm Otto Kuhn-I live there.' He pointed toward the bungalow past a cluster of palms. 'Could I speak to you, sir?'
Jardine gestured toward the sitting room, which beckoned beyond the screen door O. B. held open. 'Mr. Burroughs, do you mind?'
'Not at all.'
And soon Hully and his father were again seated on the couch, spectators, as the German real-estate agent spoke excitedly to the Portuguese detective. Though Kuhn towered over the little man, literally, Jardine's commanding presence loomed over the German, figuratively.
With an inappropriate smile, Kuhn said, 'I saw you arrest that… native. That musician.'
'You did.'
'Yes, and you were correct to do so. I… hesitated to come forward until I was sure he was safely in custody.'
'You sound as if you were afraid of Kamana, Mr. Kuhn.'
Kuhn swallowed, nodded. 'I'm not proud to admit that is the case. You see… I saw of what brutality he was capable. My bungalow … a window looks out on the beach. It is somewhat blocked by trees, but I had them trimmed back, recently … for a better view.'
'What kind of view did you have tonight, Mr. Kuhn?'
'I was sleeping,' he said, tilting his head, as if onto a pillow, 'and woke suddenly….' He jerked his head straight up.
Hully winced; these histrionics were somehow distasteful.
Kuhn was saying, 'I heard arguing, loud arguing, a man and a woman. I rolled over, to go back to sleep … my wife did not waken, I must emphasize, she saw nothing.'
'All right.'
