The Pearl Harbor Murders

'Kuhn told me himself.'

Morimura frowned. 'If so, he lies. When did he say this?'

'Just now, in the parking lot. I don't blame you for trading his company in on those geishas… no comparison. Anyway, Otto admitted you called him, and had him play eyewitness. You see, Otto receiving a call last night, well… that's a known fact.'

'Really? I understood there was no switchboard at the Niumalu.'

Burroughs grinned. 'How interesting that you'd know a trivial detail like that, Mr. Morimura, considering you're not at all involved in this. By the way, don't take it out on Otto-he's afraid you'll kill him, or have him killed, because of what he told me.'

'Did you bribe the German?'

'Hell no.'

'Ah.' Morimura's eyes narrowed. 'I see the scrape on your knuckles. You beat it out of him.' Morimura stood. 'Perhaps you would care to try taking that… very American approach to seeking information… with me.'

The consul moved away from the low table and struck a martial-arts pose. A single eyebrow raised, tiny smile on his thin lips, Morimura said, 'Judo.'

Burroughs rose and took the L?ger out and pointed it at him and said, 'Gun.'

Eyes flickering with fear, the supposed diplomat slowly raised his hands. 'Shoot me if you wish, Mr. Burroughs ….but I will say nothing more. I am not like Otto Kuhn. I am not weak.'

'And I'm not a murderer,' Burroughs said, and slipped the gun in his pocket, and went out.

ELEVEN

Hotel Street

The exceptionally beautiful weather and the lopsided victory in this afternoon's football game coalesced into a night of rampant partying, excessive even for a Saturday in Honolulu. The city was rife with private parties and public revelry, and alive with music, from radios bleeding syrupy Hawaiian strains, seemingly designed to make lonely men feel even lonelier, to a lively battle of the bands at the Naval Receiving Station at Pearl Harbor, where the U.S.S. Arizona band was going over big, with the upbeat likes of 'Take the A Train.' Hotel ballrooms, like the Royal Hawaiian and the Ala Moana, were offering fox-trots, while swing music emanated from the town's less stodgy bandstands, like those at the Niumalu or the dance hall at Waikiki Amusement Park.

Swing also jumped from jukeboxes up and down Hotel Street, where sailors and soldiers swarmed in ribbons of white and khaki. A fleet of rickety taxis, wheezing buses and rattletrap jalopies charged down the two-lane highway connecting Pearl Harbor and Honolulu, conveying the invading horde to their dropping-off spot: the Army and Navy YMCA, at the eastern end of Hotel Street, a suitable starting point for an evening of good-natured debauchery.

Awash in garish neon, flickering under the strobe of fluorescent bulbs, Hotel Street was a glorified alleyway lined with low-slung stucco buildings wearing tin awnings like gambler's shades. To boys longing for home, the midway that was Hotel Street seemed to echo carnivals and state fairs, this rude collection of taverns, trinket counters, massage parlors, photo booths, pool halls, shooting galleries, curio stores, tattoo artists, and dime-a- dance joints.

Along the narrow sidewalks of every block were one or two barbershops, the barbers invariably young attractive Japanese women, and at least one lei shop, with pretty Hawaiian girls stringing flowers. Other sorts of 'leis' were available, as well: hotels whose rooms all had the shades drawn-the Rex, the Anchor, the Ritz-attracted lines down the block of sailors and soldiers waiting to choose between two varieties of 'room': three dollars for three minutes, or five dollars for an extended stay, up to ten. Relatively safe, too: the local police, in turning a blind if well-paid eye, insisted on weekly blood tests for these unofficially sanctioned soiled doves.

Hully and Jardine had recruited Sam Fujimoto to join on their Hotel Street expedition. Sam knew both

Ensign Bill Fielder and Corporal Jack Stanton, the former better than the latter, but in either case enough to recognize either in this sea of uniforms. Starting at the west end, Hully and Jardine, who were on a first-name basis now, took one side of the street, while Sam took the other-they had agreed to rendezvous at the Black Cat Cafe in an hour and a half.

'You figure whoever killed Pearl Harada,' Hully said to the Portuguese detective, 'killed Terry Mizuha, as well.'

They were shouldering their way down the tight, teeming sidewalk, faces around them flushed with neon- theirs, too.

'Probably,' Jardine said.

'Why was Terry killed? What could he have known?'

Jardine shrugged. 'It's possible this Terry was a real eyewitness … which may be more than can be said for Otto Kuhn.'

A group of sailors slouched under a tin awning in front of a cafe, laughing, smoking, caps at jaunty an-gles, pant legs flapping in the almost cool breeze.

Hully said, 'Terry wouldn't've had to be an eyewitness to be dangerous to the killer. Everybody knew he and Pearl were best friends. She might have confided in Terry about something that allowed him to know, or anyway strongly suspect, the murderer's identity.'

Jardine nodded. 'There's another possibility.'

'Which is?'

They were passing by a shooting gallery where soldiers were throwing baseballs at milk cans, and sailors were playing Skee-Ball and pinball.

'Perhaps,' Jardine said, 'Terry Mizuha wasn't strictly mahu-maybe he was even closer to Pearl than we've been led to believe.'

'Oh, that's crazy….'

'Is it? Gates have been known to swing both ways, on this island. Suppose this jealous sailor pal of yours, or that soldier, came upon Terry and Pearl, together on the beach?'

'What, and confronted by a sudden act of violence, Terry fled?'

'Yes … and was afraid to come forward, for fear of looking a coward-hoping his silence would buy him a free pass from the killer.'

'I don't buy it, John.'

The detective summoned a thin smile. 'Well, it's your own damn fault, Hully.'

'My fault?'

'You're the one that started me thinking-I was content with Harry Kamana as the murderer.'

Looking for Bill and Stanton, Hully and Jardine tried various taverns-the Two Jacks, the Mint, the New Emma Cafe-wading through clouds of cigarette smoke laced with the smell of stale beer, sorting swarms of sailors and soldiers, who were crowded at tables, packed in booths, flirting with Oriental waitresses, whom they so greatly outnumbered. None of the fresh, young, happy, sad faces belonged to Bill Fielder or Jack Stanton.

Hully and the detective checked tattoo parlors, where boys sat bare-chested under bare bulbs as Filipino artists inscribed American flesh with hula girls, anchors and 'Mother.' They tried curio shops where this sailor bought a fringed pillow cursively designated 'Honolulu,' and that soldier purchased a monkey-pod carving. They tried storefront photo studios, where gobs and GIs posed with pretty, grass-skirted Hawaiian girls who had no interest in a date. They tried cafE's-the Bunny Ranch, Lousy Lui's, Swanky Franky-where servicemen who had gotten drunk too fast tried to sober up just as quickly. No Fielder; no Stanton.

They tried a dime-a-dance joint, a barnlike second-floor ballroom not unlike a church hall or an Elks club. A small combo-piano, guitar, drums-played slow tunes; tables were scattered on either side of the heavily varnished, underlit cavern. Many of the girls were surprisingly good-looking, Hully thought, a variety of Japanese, Chinese, Puerto Rican, Hawaiian and combinations thereof-also the occasional white girl-in low-cut, shoulder-baring evening gowns. No liquor was sold on the premises, nor was it allowed to be brought in.