Gesturing with both hands, the German said, 'The arguing got louder. Heated, you might say. I went to the window, to complain. I think if I shout at them, they might stop, and I can sleep again, and no one would be harmed. But when I got to the window … that's when I saw it.'
'Saw what?'
'The murder. That man… the Hawaiian musician, Kamana… he had something in his hand… a rock, I think. Something heavy, anyway, small enough for him to grasp. He raised his hand, and I wanted to shout, 'Stop!' But I was too late… she screamed, and he struck her. Struck her a terrible blow.'
Kuhn lowered his head, shaking it, as if remembering this terrible thing… but something about it seemed hollow to Hully. He glanced at his father, to see if he could read any similar reaction, and noted his dad's eyes were so narrow, they might have been cuts in his face.
'This is a very interesting story, Mr. Kuhn,' Jardine said. 'I have one question-why didn't you call the police?'
Kuhn nodded toward O. B., on the couch. 'I saw Mr. Burroughs capture the Hawaiian….Edgar was obviously taking him to justice. I calmed my wife… she had woken by this time, and heard my story, and had become terribly upset… and I simply waited for you to arrive.' He smiled, clasped his hands in front of him, like a waiter about to show a patron to a really nice table. 'I would be most happy to give you a formal statement, tomorrow, at your headquarters.'
Jardine said nothing for a few seconds; then he sighed, and said, 'Why don't you show me the window you saw all this through?'
Kuhn nodded, curtly. 'My pleasure.'
Hully found this German's story unsettling, and unconvincing, despite the way it hewed to the particulars of Pearl Harada's death.
As he accompanied Kuhn out, Jardine turned to O. B. and said, 'We'll talk tomorrow, Mr. Burroughs. Thanks for your help-shouldn't have to bother you again, tonight.'
'Good night, John,' O. B. said, seeing them to the door.
'Nice meeting you,' Jardine said to Hully, and then they were out of the door.
A few minutes later, Hully was folding the couch out into its bed, and his father-in a fresh pair of pa-jama bottoms-came out from his bedroom and stood there, bare-chested, with his hands on hips, Tarzan-style.
'I thought that trombone player was a killer,' O. B. said, 'until ol' Otto started agreeing with me.'
Hully, unbuttoning his shirt, said, 'Why did Kuhn
wait so long to come forward? Why didn't he come out and help you nab that guy, if he witnessed everything?'
O. B. blew a raspberry. 'That Kraut didn't see a damn thing.'
'Funny… that's my instinct, too. But why would he claim to have?'
'I don't know, son… I sure as hell don't know.' He heaved a sigh, and hit the light switch. 'Get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning.'
Hully lay on his back, staring up into the darkness, the breeze blowing through the window, its flowery scent suddenly seeming too sweet, sickly sweet. He thought about the musician, and how sincere the man had seemed; he thought about Kuhn, and how phony that bastard had been.
Then he thought about Pearl Harada, and thought about his friend Bill Fielder, probably sleeping off a drunk somewhere, blissfully unaware of the tragedy.
His pillow was damp, so he turned it over and, finally, went to sleep-hoping his father wouldn't awaken him with another damn nightmare.
TWO: December 6, 1941
SIX
Strong morning trade winds blew across Oahu, fronds of palms and plants ruffling, cane fields undulating, surf swelling, the clear sky disrupted only by smokelike puffs of clouds over the Koolau mountain range. Between that range at the east and the Waianae range at the west lay both the capital city of Honolulu and the Naval base of Pearl Harbor.
The base-though well located for a strategic deployment of the United States Navy-was a logistical nightmare, with the nearest resupply three thousand miles away on the American West Coast. Also, the one- channel entrance of the landlocked harbor could bottle up easily with the sinking of a single ship; and, even under ideal circumstances, getting the fleet out of that channel and onto the open sea required three hours. When the fleet was in-as it was on this first weekend of December-the port was clogged with ships, supply dumps, repair installations and highly flammable fuel.
Pearl Harbor might well have been designed for air attack. But a battle fleet in Hawaii was deemed necessary to deter Japan, and no alternative location could be found offering advantages and facilities to match Pearl's. Interceptor aircraft, AA guns and radar equipment would simply have to shore up the harbor's weaknesses. So said Washington and its top military minds.
Of course, Honolulu had already been invaded by air-on the previous weekend, when a silver plane circled the city before landing in Kapiolani Park, where three thousand civilians watched and screamed… in delight: Santa Claus had arrived. Sponsored by the
With the defense boom, the city was swarming with homesick American boys-defense workers as well as servicemen-stuck in these tropical surroundings, pining for their favorite winter holiday. Sears and Roebuck responded by hanging brightly wrapped presents from the palm trees surrounding their parking lot, and festive colored lights had been strung across major streets; even the street-corner Santas-most of whom were Japanese- were putting some extra swing into theft bell-ringing.
Still, it seemed rather halfhearted to Edgar Rice Burroughs, who was used to sunny Christmases, having lived in California for some time now, though his many years in the Midwest meant he knew damn well what a real white Christmas was all about. The cellophane window wreaths and tinsel-draped palms of Honolulu didn't really cut the mustard.
After last night's luau, a light breakfast seemed called for, and around nine a.m., Burroughs and Hully-in their tennis whites, rackets at hand-sat on wicker chairs at a small round wicker table on the lodge's back patio and ate fresh cut pineapple and buttered toast, and sipped coffee.
This was an exceptionally beautiful day, even for Hawaii, Burroughs noted-clear sky, sharp light, fresh air. Hard to believe, just hours before, a young woman had been murdered in such idyllic surroundings. The prospect of playing tennis, within a few yards of where her corpse had been flung, a blossom ripped roughly from a tree, seemed somehow improper… even sacrilegious.
'I don't feel much like tennis this morning,' Hully said, returning his china cup to its dish with a slight clatter.
'I was just thinking the same thing.'
His son's brow furrowed. 'Your friend… Detective Jardine…'
'Yes?'
'You respect him? He's a good cop?'
Burroughs sipped his coffee, raised an eyebrow. 'Probably the best investigator on this island-that's why I called him, sought him out specifically….That and his honesty.'
'So … the case is in good hands.'
Burroughs said nothing.
'Dad?'
