'These girls don't look like prostitutes,' Hully whispered to Jardine, as the two stood on the sidelines.
'They aren't,' the detective said. 'See that blonde over there?'
Jardine was indicating a dazzling blonde dancing with an older man, a Filipino.
'She's somebody's wife, I'll lay odds,' the detective said. 'These are nice girls. They aren't allowed to date the customers-aren't allowed to leave until closing, when their mothers or their husbands pick them up.'
But Hully wasn't looking at the blonde, anymore. He was nodding toward a soldier. 'Hey-that's him…. That's Stanton.'
Corporal Jack Stanton was dancing with an attractive if overly made-up Japanese girl in a low-cut blue satin gown that would have made her the hit of any prom; she was holding the boyishly handsome, brown-haired soldier close, her small fist tightly clenching a curling strand of tickets. She looked just a little bit like Pearl Harada, particularly to somebody drunk, like Jack Stanton.
When the tune ended-'Moonlight Becomes You'-Jardine went out onto the dance floor and tapped Stanton's shoulder, as if he were cutting in.
Stanton glared at the little fedora-sporting detective, but when Jardine held up his wallet, displaying his badge, Stanton swallowed and nodded, with morose inevitability. Hully couldn't hear what either man was saying-he had secured a small table at Jardine's request-and watched as the broad-shouldered, athletic-looking Stanton walked subserviently along with the diminutive detective, over to the waiting table.
Hully pulled out a chair for the corporal.
Suddenly Stanton's submissive attitude shifted; he seemed to bristle at the sight of Hully, saying, 'I know you.'
'I know you, too, Jack.' Hully gestured to the chair and, in a not unfriendly way, said, 'Sit down.'
Stanton was scowling. 'You're Bill Fielder's friend.'
'I'm one of them.'
Jardine said to Stanton, 'Sit down.' Not so friendly. Stanton sat. He was inebriated, but short of sloshed. Jardine sat on one side of the soldier, Hully on the other.
The detective said, 'I brought Mr. Burroughs along to identify you. I could have embarrassed you by going to your commanding officer and requesting a photo, you know.'
Stanton's eyes narrowed. 'Why didn't you?'
'I wanted to hear your story.'
'What story?'
'The story of you and Pearl Harada.'
Stanton swallowed. Then he put his elbows on the table and began to cry into his hands. The shabby little combo was playing 'Fools Rush In.'
Jardine gave the corporal a handkerchief. Stanton thanked Jardine and used it, drying his eyes, blowing his nose.
Then the detective said, 'You and Bill Fielder got into a tussle over Pearl Harada last night. Want to tell me about it?'
Swallowing again, Stanton shrugged, saying, 'It wasn't much of a 'tussle'-I punched him and he punched me. Then it got broke up. That's all.'
'Why did you punch him?'
'Because … Pearl was my girl. I wanted him to stay away from her.'
'You mean you were still seeing her? She was dating you, at the same time as Fielder?'
He shook his head, glumly. 'No … no. She broke it off with me, weeks ago. I just… couldn't get her out of my mind. Couldn't accept it. She was… so beautiful. So much fun… sweet… talented… smart…'
Jardine waited until Stanton stopped crying again, then said, 'You were seen arguing with her last night.'
'I know.' Stanton worked up a sneer. 'By that fairy Mizuha. He told you, right?'
Jardine's face was as impassive as a cigarstore Indian's. 'The way this works is, I ask the questions. You argued with her?'
'It… it wasn't really an argument. I was … a little drunk. I yelled at her.' The soldier leaned against an elbow, hand to his forehead, as if taking his own temperature. 'She just looked at me, like … like she felt sorry for me. And maybe a little … disgusted… after I wouldn't stop yelling. I almost think that's what hurts most of all.'
'What?'
'That she died thinking I was a jerk.'
More tears followed, then Jardine asked, 'Where were you, around twelve-thirty, one o'clock?'
'Back at Hickam.'
'What time did you argue with Pearl?'
'Midnight-right after the band got finished.'
'Where did you go, after the argument?'
'I told you-Hickam. I took a cab. I was in my rack by twelve-thirty, or damn close.'
'You were in the barracks?'
'Yeah.'
Jardine was jotting this down in his little notebook. Hully realized these assertions would be easily
checked: the cab could be tracked; and whether or not Stanton had been in the barracks at the time of the girl's death. Pearl had been alive at twelve-fifteen, when she'd taken her leave of Hully's father, at their bungalow. And Hickam Field was twenty minutes from Waikiki.
If he was telling the truth, Stanton couldn't have been Pearl Harada's murderer.
'I want you at Central Police Station at ten o'clock Monday morning,' Jardine said to the corporal. 'For a formal statement. If you need to have your commanding officer call me, I work out of the Prosecutor's Office at City Hall.'
And Jardine handed Stanton a business card. Stanton held it between thumb and middle finger and stared at it like a chimp trying to figure out a math problem.
Stanton's expression was one of astonishment. 'You don't really think I… listen, I didn't… Do I need an attorney?'
'That's up to you, Corporal. If you were a prime suspect in my mind, I'd be taking you in right now.'
He was shaking his head, his eyes as intense as they were red. 'I wouldn't have hurt her. I would never have hurt her. I'd sooner kill myself. Do you have any idea what I'm going through? What it feels like inside my head right now? Inside my gut? My heart?'
'Monday. Ten o'clock.'
'I thought Harry Kamana did it. Didn't you arrest him?'
“Ten o'clock. Monday.'
Jardine rose and Hully followed suit.
'What about Fielder?' Stanton asked, still seated. 'Where was he when Pearl was …?'
'We're going to find that out,' Jardine said. He touched the brim of his fedora, in a tip-of-the-hat manner, and headed for the door, Hully trailing after.
Just as they were going out, Hully saw Stanton heading back out to the dance floor with the Japanese girl, the combo playing, 'I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good.'
The Black Cat was a long, open-faced cafE that benefited from its proximity to the YMCA across the street, where buses and cabs had brought-and would later pick up-sailors and soldiers … anyway, those who weren't sleeping it off in a room in the big, rambling, palm-surrounded Y.
Sam Fujimoto was at a table right on the street with two sailors-one of whom was Bill Fielder. The other was Dan Pressman. The Black Cat served liquor, but all three were drinking coffee.
'Nice work,' Jardine said to Sam, pulling up a chair, Hully doing the same.
Bill sat slumped in his chair, his expression dour, his handsome features puffy, his dark hair uncombed. Blond, blue-eyed Dan Pressman seemed more alert, and was watching Bill the way a parent watches a child. Hully's hunch was that Bill had been tying one on, and Dan had laid off the booze, to keep an eye on his friend's safety and welfare.
'Found Bill and Dan down at the Tradewinds,' Sam said.
