The Pearl Harbor Murders (4 page)

"How so?"

"A hen's bom able to lay just so many eggs, and after she's dropped her last one, she can sit on her nest and strain and grunt and never squeeze out another. I'm starting to think a writer is born with just so many plots."

A smile creased Sterling's face. "Why, have you been straining and grunting?"

"Hell, yes, and rearranging my feathers; but I'll be damned if I can squeeze out a new plot, and these old ones are starting to smell."

Sterling shrugged. "I thought that last Tarzan, the one about the secret treasure, was swell."

"That was a movie, Adam—I didn't write that."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It did stink, though."

The FBI man took a swig of root beer. "You going to the luau tonight?"

"Those damn things ... They expect you to eat dried octopus and raw fish and disinterred pig, and then there's that library paste they try to disguise under the alias of
poi."

"Yeah, but are you going?"

"Haven't turned down an invite yet." Burroughs looked sideways at his friend, eyes slitted and amused. "Christ, Adam, I thought I was the worst conversationalist on the planet, till I heard this sorry attempt on your part. Can the small talk—what's this about?"

Sterling sighed, sat forward, hunkering toward him. "Ed, I need to take you into my confidence."

"Be my guest."

"This is very unofficial."

"Okay."

"I've been here at the Niumalu for about three months, now. So has somebody else."

Burroughs thought about that, gestured with a motion of his head. "That German next door, the big spender—Otto Kuhn. He and his wife moved in maybe a week before you." "That's right. He's why I moved in, Ed."

"Really!" Burroughs got up from me couch, pulled his typing chair over and sat, so he could face his Mend; this was getting interesting. "Don't tell me we have a Nazi at the Niumalu."

"Something like that. He's really just a goddamned beachcomber pretending to be a retired gentleman of substance. But... he
was
an officer in the Kaiser's Navy during the Great War, that much we know."

Burroughs arched an eyebrow. "He's trying to start a real estate business, I understand."

"That's just talk—before that it was selling furniture; for a while he studied Japanese at the University of Hawaii."

Now the writer was leaning forward. "Why does a German in English-speaking Hawaii want to learn Japanese?"

"Our boy Otto has frequent dealings with the Japs—he took one trip to Tokyo in '30 and another in '36. We suspect he's in their employ. My contacts confirm as much."

"Your contacts."

"Ed, you put our Mend Colonel Frank Teske on his steamer today. I don't have to tell you he thinks war is imminent... that this island will be under attack, momentarily."

"What do you think, Adam?"

"He's right and he's wrong—war is imminent Washington isn't having any luck negotiating with the Japanese. But Frank's wrong, too—the threat on our remote little island is not from the sky, but on the ground."

"Sabotage. I was just telling Hully the very same thing."

"Well, you're right. Since the middle of last year, I've been developing a network of contacts in the Japanese community—trustworthy ones, Americans who happen to be Japanese."

Both of the writer's eyebrows lifted. "Is there such a thing?"

"Oh yes. The vast majority of these Hawaii-born Japanese are loyal to our Sag. And a number of them have been helping me identify the potentially dangerous sorts among them."

"What does that have to do with a German like Kuhn?"

Sterling spoke softly, but with an edge. "When the war begins, we'll be cracking down on disloyal Japs—arrests will be made. My contacts tell me that Kuhn is a 'sleeper' agent—set to take over as top local spy, when and if the top Japanese agents on this island are arrested, after hostilities begin."

"Your contacts are trustworthy? I mean, can you really trust these
nisei
?"

"I trust them," Sterling said. "But I also trust my fellow FBI agents, who've been keeping their eyes peeled. A little over a month ago, the
Tatsuta Maru
arrived in Honolulu, delivering a pair of Japanese diplomats, both of whom met with Kuhn—who then deposited fourteen thousand dollars in cash in a local bank."

Burroughs took another swig of the root beer.

"You've convinced me—he's a rat. Where do I come in?"

Sterling's face was a tight mask. "Things are heating up. This war
is
coming. I can use another pair of eyes here at the Niumalu ... informed eyes... not to do any spying or poking around, understand—just to keep watch. I'm not here during the day, and Kuhn frequently is."

"You're not asking me to do surveillance—take notes..."

"No. Just keep your head up. Stay alert. Let me know if you see anything, anyone, suspicious around Kuhn or his cottage."

"Glad to help," Burroughs said.

"All right, then—mum's the word." Sterling slapped his thighs, and rose. "See you tonight at the luau?"

Burroughs stood. "I'll be there—just don't pass me any of that goddamn library paste."

The FBI man chuckled, shook the writer's hand, collected the empty soda-pop bottles, and went out, leaving an energized Burroughs behind.

Feeling revitalized, Edgar Rice Burroughs returned to Venus, wondering if this time he might make it to the fire before it went out.

THREE
Luau Luminaries

The Niumalu was noted for its luaus, which were held once a month. Guests often asked why the hotel didn't hold their version of a native feast every week, but the truth was, it took seven to ten days to properly prepare for the event.

The central set piece of the affair was itself a daylong chore: the roasting of a kalua pig, hoofs and all. The pig was stuffed with hot rocks, lowered into a barbecue pit called an
imu,
which was already filled with red-hot rocks, then the unprotesting pig was covered with
ti
leaves, buried under earth and canvas, and left to slowly cook, hour upon hour.

The result was melt-in-your-mouth succulence, a tender, delicious, fall-off-the-bone meat the likes of which Hully Burroughs had never tasted. Hully was an ardent supporter of the picturesque ritual—even if O. B. did dismiss the tradition of roasting a pig in an
imu
as "a lot of silly fuss over cooking some damn pork."

All day long, hotel manager Fred Bivens and his staff had been bustling around the palm-shaded grounds, in particular dealing with deliveries of foodstuffs. That little Japanese grocer, Yoshio Harada, had been bringing pickup-truckloads of fresh fish and produce over from his shop at the Aala Market in Chinatown. That afternoon, Hully—in his tennis whites, waiting to meet his father on the court—had helped the nice little guy unload for a while, making a few trips to the rear kitchen door.

Harada—slight, mustached, primly businesslike in a white short-sleeved shirt with a red tie—had an "in" with the hotel staff: his niece, Pearl, was the featured singer with the Niumalu band, which was a popular local attraction.

"You are very kind, Burroughs-
san
," Harada said. "Pearl speak very well of you."

"She's never given me the time of day, though," Hully said, hauling a bushel basket of sweet potatoes.

"Pearl is popular girl," the grocer said, smile flashing under the neatly trimmed mustache, the little man carrying enough bananas to send Tarzan's pet monkey into a frenzy.

Actually, Hully was aware that the pretty singer—who indeed had been "popular," dating any number of guys in recent months—was seriously seeing Ensign Bill Fielder, a good pal of Hully's. But he didn't mention this to the grocer, as he wasn't sure how the Japanese gent would react to his daughter dating a
haole.

When Hully wandered over to the tennis court to wait for his dad, he discovered Pearl sunbathing on the strip of sand nearby. Hully and the singer were friendly, but (as he'd indicated to her uncle) she'd always been involved with one guy or another, and he never seemed to get his turn.

He would've loved to have one: she was a stunning girl in her early twenties, with black hair and a slender, curvy form made obvious by a formfitting pink bathing suit, petite at five-two or -three, with wonderful high cheekbones, a flawless complexion and full lips that always seemed poised to pucker into a kiss. Her father, back home in San Francisco, was Japanese; but her mother, also in Frisco, was white, and the Eurasian combination was exquisite. If he hadn't known of her Japanese blood, Hully would never have guessed its presence, her dark eyes lacking the distinctive Asian almond shape; still, something exotic lurked in those features.

Before his father showed up for tennis, Hully sat hugging his knees on the sand, next to Pearl, and they chatted. She was on her back, half sitting, leaning on her elbows.

"I suppose Bill's got your dance card filled tonight," he said.

Her smile was lazy yet dazzling and as white as her name. "I only get to dance on a few songs—I have to sing for my supper, you know....Is Bill's father going to be here tonight?"

Colonel Kendall Fielder, chief of Army intelligence, was a good Mend of the elder Burroughs, and frequently stopped by the Niumalu.

"I think so," Hully said. "He's a regular at these luaus."

She seemed troubled. "I hope the colonel won't mind seeing his son dance with the likes of me." "He'll only be jealous."

The smile returned. "If Bill's father breaks us up, how about catching me on the rebound?"

Hully felt his heart race—foolish though that was. "Why wait?"

She shrugged, stared toward the vast blue of the ocean, visible through an opening in the palms and across a stubby fence guarding a short drop-off. "I don't think your father would like me much, either. He always growls at me."

"He growls at everybody. Anyway, he doesn't think for me—I'm free, wuh ..." He paused.

"White and twenty-one?" The smile was sad now, but no less lovely. "Don't kid yourself, Hully. These are... precarious times. You know Colonel Fielder well, don't you?"

"Fairly well. He and my pop are tight as ticks." The lovely dark eyes tightened. "Do you think you ... or your father... could introduce us? I'd really like to talk to Colonel Fielder."

"I'm sure you could meet him." A strange sense of urgency throbbed in the girl's voice. "I really need to see him, alone.... Would you help me? Perhaps speak to your father, and ask him to arrange a meeting?"

"Well... sure."

Hully's heart wasn't racing now. The breathtaking Pearl simply wanted his help so she could make her case to her beau's father—which no doubt meant Bill had finally popped the question. And Hully felt sad for her, sorry for her, because he knew how the colonel was likely to respond, in this climate of war clouds, to the notion of his son marrying a
nisei.

Then his father had arrived, and Hully hopped up from the sand and joined the old man on the court. The tantalizing aroma of the nearby roasting pig offered a distraction almost as bad as Pearl in her pink bathing suit, and Hully again lost to his old man, two sets to one.

As he and his dad headed back to the bungalow for cool showers—the Niumalu's accommodations lacked water heaters, typical here in this land of perfect temperatures—Hully told his father that he'd put them in for the luau.

They were moving past hedges of hibiscus and morning glory flowering beneath poinciana and jaca-randa trees.

"I'd rather go to the wrestling match," O. B. grumbled, "and eat hot dogs."

Hully knew his dad wasn't kidding: they frequently attended the professional wrestling bouts at several local arenas, particularly when the champ, Prince Ali Hassan, was competing, as he was tonight; O. B. found the sport "hilariously exciting," relishing what he termed the "sweaty theatricality" and "hokey sadism."

"You know a lot of your Navy and Army pals will be here," Hully said, opening the bungalow door for his dad. Nearby, orchids bloomed in coconut shells hanging from a monkey pod. "The brass always turns out for these Niumalu luaus."

"I'm sure there'll be the usual quota of admirals and colonels," O. B. said, stepping inside. "These admirals are so plentiful they get between your feet and in your hair. I have to comb 'em out every time I come home."

"What hair?" Hully asked, good-naturedly. "Anyway, you love those Navy guys."

"Compared to the Army brass, sure," the old boy said, flopping on the couch. "Our Navy is great, but that Army of ours is undermanned and underequipped, if you ask me."

"I don't remember asking, Pop," Hully said, sitting next to him. "Anyway, Fred said for us, the luau's on the house, as usual."

"Because I'm a celebrity. You know notoriety gives me a royal pain."

Hully also knew his father had once loved publicity—it was the adverse publicity surrounding the Burroughs divorce and remarriage that led to this new-found phobia.

"Anyway, I'm unquestionably the world's poorest conversationalist," O. B. said, folding his arms. "I'm as bad a listener as these idiots are lousy talkers—average man or woman has little or nothing worth saying, and spend much of their waking lives saying it. They exercise their vocal organs while their brains atrophy."

Hully was used to such rants. Calmly he said, "I'm not going to the wrestling match, Pop. Anyway, you're a great conversationalist, and some very interesting people are bound to be there. You're just not used to socializing sober."

Burroughs gave his son a blank, almost stunned look; then the old man burst into laughter.

"You got me," he said. 'Take your damn shower—you smell worse than I do."

Hully took his shower.

He was amused by his father's cantankerousness, and delighted by how the old man's despondency had faded over the last month or so. Frankly amazed by his father's new lease on life, Hully had marveled the other day when, walking back to the hotel along a fence line-, his father had jumped up, swung a leg over and dropped down nimbly on the other side. The younger Burroughs had stood there flabbergasted: the fence was chest-high, and Hully knew
he
couldn't have vaulted the thing.