The Pearl Harbor Murders

Burroughs explained, ' 'Where's the fire'-what's your hurry?'

Kuhn blinked, raised his chin. 'Oh, I have a business appointment.' Then he put a hand on the writer's shoulder. 'I feel the fool-are you all right?'

'I'll survive.' Actually, the wooden frame had clipped Burroughs on the forehead and it did hurt, a little. 'I just wanted to see how you were doing, this morning-after that unpleasantness last night.'

Kuhn withdrew his hand from Burroughs's shoulder, and summoned an unconvincing smile; it was like a gash in his pasty pale face. 'How thoughtful, Edgar. Well, of course, it was a terrible thing to witness.' He said this as offhandedly as a man describing an overcooked steak he'd had to send back.

Burroughs shook his head. 'I should say-her scream woke me from a deep sleep, and scared the bejesus out of me.' That wasn't exactly true, but the writer liked the effect of it. 'Did Pearl scream when Kamana raised the rock?'

Kuhn cocked his head. 'Pardon me?'

'Well, you saw the murder-did she scream when Kamana raised his hand, to strike her? Or did he hit her more than once, and she screamed after one glancing blow … and then another blow, or blows, silenced her?'

The blue eyes were wide, white showing all around. 'I, uh… my God, Edgar, this is an unpleasant subject. I've already.had to go over this with the police, again and again… I was up until all hours.'

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