At the top of Red Hill, Burroughs slowed his Pierce Arrow to take in the panoramic view of Pearl Harbor on this peaceful evening-the scattering of stars in God's purple Hawaiian sky competing with the man-made twinkling of buildings and ships, the ebony sea highlighted shimmeringly by the rays of the near-golden moon. Dance band music drifted up from the officers' club below, the view including the Naval Station, Luke Field, and-in the distance-the Ewa Sugar Plantation; but the equipment, the trappings, of the great base were lost in the night, the workshops, the big hammerhead crane, swallowed by darkness, with only the lights of the Pacific Fleet remaining-and there were plenty, what with every battleship in port. Winding down the hill, passing through Halawa Gulch, the convertible glided by fields of sugarcane, which waved at the writer, friendly in the moonlight.
A sign told Burroughs that Pearl City Road Junction lay ahead just three miles, where a left turn would take him to the Peninsula residential section and the Shuncho-ro teahouse.
He had not connected with Hully, and Burroughs wondered what his son might have uncovered-he only hoped the boy hadn't gotten himself in any jam. For once Burroughs valued his son's friendship with Sam Fujimoto-snooping in Chinatown without a safari guide would have been reckless. Not that he was worried, really, other than a standard fatherly concern: Hully was as smart as he was strapping, and could damn well take care of himself.
On the other hand, it was a murderer they were chasing. And Burroughs was starting to wonder whether Pearl Harada's death really had been a simple crime of passion, driven by the jealousy of one suitor or another … or was it a small yet important part of something greater and far more sinister?
Back at the Waikiki Tavern, after Colonel Fielder had departed, Burroughs and FBI agent Sterling had sat and talked for another fifteen minutes, in the matched-roofed pergola on the beach. No more rum punch: a waiter was dispatched to bring coffee for both men. As they spoke, a tropical sunset painted the water, the world, with shades of red and orange; but as the sun's ball of fire slipped over the horizon, darkness rapidly invaded.
Burroughs had told Sterling about the informal investigation he and his son were undertaking into the Harada girl's death, assuring the agent that Hully had not been clued in on Otto Kuhn's suspected status as a sleeper agent.
"To me, the most interesting thing you've come up with," the ruggedly handsome FBI agent said, stirring sugar into his coffee, "is that phone call that Kuhn and his wife argued about."
Burroughs lifted an eyebrow. "Apparently, Otto told her to deny there'd been any phone call, or anyway not to mention there had been one."
Sterling's eyes narrowed. "But who rang Otto, in the middle of the night? And why?"
"He's a sleeper agent-maybe it was a wake-up call."
The FBI agent nodded. "Maybe in a way it was-Otto receives a call, and then before you know it, he's on your doorstep, telling Jardine he witnessed Kamana killing that girl."
"You mean… the real murderer called him, and ordered up an alibi?"
Sterling made an openhanded shrugging gesture. "There's really only two reasonable alternatives, here: Kuhn did the killing and blamed Kamana; or someone else did the killing, and Kuhn is alibiing for him… or her."
"Her? Mrs. Kuhn, you mean?"
"She remains a viable suspect," Sterling said, and sipped his coffee. "Otto's reputation as a playboy has been well earned-he does run around on Elfriede … and you gotta give Otto his nerve for that: his wife is the niece of Heinrich Himmler himself."
The saltwater breeze suddenly seemed chilly to Burroughs. "So I really do have Nazis living next door."
"No doubt of that."
"Then where does the damn phone call come in?"
Sterling threw his hands up. "Search me. But I can tell you this-there's a reason why Pearl Harada's murder sent up a warning flare at my office … particularly with Otto Kuhn as a supposed eyewitness, apparently fingering a fall guy."
"Why is that, Adam?"
The agent leaned forward. "Remember what I told you about the network of nisei who are helping compile a list of potentially disloyal Japs here in Oahu?"
"Sure."
"Well, Pearl Harada's uncle-the Chinatown grocer-is on that list."
Burroughs half climbed out of his wicker chair. "Jesus, Hully went to question that guy this afternoon!"
Sterling patted the air, calmingly. "I didn't say Uncle Harada was dangerous-just that he's loyal to his native country… like a lot of issei in Chinatown."
Issei were first-generation immigrants.
Sterling was saying, "Until recently, Harada displayed photographs of the emperor in his shop. Plus, he's vocally supported Japan's war on China, buying Jap war bonds, helping organize an effort to send 'comfort bags' to Japanese soldiers-blankets, shoes, candy."
Burroughs shifted in his chair. "Well, this is beginning to look like Pearl Harada's death may have more to do with espionage than affairs of the heart."
Sterling shrugged again. "There's no question this was a beautiful girl who could have driven a man to some irrational, jealous act of violence… but with both her uncle and your 'Nazi-next-door' in the scenario, an espionage-related motive remains a distinct possibility."
"And let's not forget she knew Vice Consul Mori-mura, either-or that he was reading her the Riot Act in the parking lot, a few hours before she was killed."
Sterling's reaction was not what Burroughs had expected: the FBI agent laughed.
Astounded, Burroughs said, "This is funny, all of a sudden?"
"I'm sorry. It's just… That guy's hard to take seriously. My guess is Morimura was yelling at her because she wouldn't give him the time of day."
"How can you say that, Adam? Fielder admits this clown spends most of his time engaged in 'legal' spying."
" 'Clown' is the key word, there." Sterling sipped his coffee, then leaned forward again. "Listen, Ed-Morimura is an idiot. I have it on good authority that everybody else at the Consulate hates his guts, considers him a lazy ass. We've had him under surveillance, from time to time, and the guy just wanders around like a tourist, never takes a note or a photo or makes a sketch."
"Maybe he has a photographic memory."
"I sincerely doubt it, considering all the brain cells he's lost to sake. Morimura's a simpleton and a sybarite."
Burroughs was shaking bis head, astounded by Sterling's attitude. "Kuhn's a playboy and you take him seriously."
"Morimura spends all his time drinking himself into a stupor and screwing geisha girls-end of story."
"Maybe he's just a clever agent-you were concerned enough about the Consulate burning their papers, yesterday, and Morimura's a damn vice consul…."
Sterling held up his hands as if in surrender. "Check him out yourself, if you like, Ed-this is Saturday … he'll no doubt be at the Shuncho-ro teahouse, tonight. The management keeps a room upstairs for him, to pursue his debaucheries, and then sleep it off." Sterling checked his watch. "As for me, I have to get over to General Short's quarters, to try to jump-start him into taking all of these matters seriously… the Mori code, the Harada murder, the Consulate burning those papers. …"
Burroughs sighed, shook his head. "What the hell does it all mean, Adam?"
Sterling rose from his wicker chair. "Figuring that out isn't my job-my job is convincing General Short to figure it out."
The Shuncho-ro-Spring Tide Restaurant-was on Makanani Drive on the slopes of Alewa Heights, a surprisingly un-Oriental-looking two-story wooden house with generous picture windows on both floors and clean modern lines that wouldn't have been out of place back in Frank Lloyd Wright's Oak Park, Illinois, where Burroughs had lived in the teens. In the midst of a lush garden-no palms in sight-hugged by flowering hedges, the Shuncho-ro perched on the mountainside looking down on Honolulu, a breathtaking view any tourist-or spy-might relish.
Burroughs left his Pierce Arrow in the dimly illuminated crushed-coral parking lot, which was fairly full, the restaurant doing a good business. He noted, parked on the other side of the lot, a black Lincoln with a Japanese chauffeur in full livery asleep behind the wheel-the vice consul's car, no doubt.
The writer also recognized another car in the lot, a dark blue '41 Cadillac convertible. He'd seen this distinctive vehicle at the Niumalu many times: it belonged to Otto Kuhn.
The wide entryway of the teahouse had horizontal wooden spindlework on either side, a motif repeated in the vestibule, a strong, stark design that again recalled Oak Park's Frank Lloyd Wright-and Wright's own Japanese inspiration. A host in a black suit and tie asked if Burroughs had a reservation, which he did, having called ahead; after leaving his shoes at the door, Burroughs was shown by a teahouse girl in a pate blue kimono to a low table for one, where he sat on a tatami mat.
The sparsely decorated, oak-trimmed, cream-colored dining room seemed about evenly divided between Japanese-Americans and tourists, all of whom-like Burroughs-were rather informally dressed, in anticipation of the teahouse's sit-on-the-floor service. He did not see Morimura or Kuhn among the diners here on the first floor.
He drank a cup of tea, and when the geisha returned for his order, he said, "I was hoping to link up with two friends of mine, who told me they'd be dining here, this evening-Otto Kuhn and Tadashi Mori-mura?"
She nodded. "The gentlemen are upstairs, sir."
"Wonderful! Which room?"
"Ichigo room-sign on door. It is private. May I announce you?"
Smiling, Burroughs got up. "No, that's all right-I'd rather surprise them. Can you direct me?"
The geisha was obliging-these girls were paid to be-and Burroughs was about to go up a stairway when he glimpsed somebody starting down. Ducking back around, tucking into the recess of the restroom hallway, Burroughs allowed Otto Kuhn to exit the stairwell and head out the entryway to the parking lot.
Then the writer slipped his shoes back on and followed after.
Kuhn moved quickly, his white linen suit flashing in the night, like a ghost on the run; but Burroughs trotted after him and caught up with the German near the parked Caddy.
"Well, Otto," Burroughs said, "we just keep bumping into each other."
Startled, Kuhn wheeled, blue eyes wide in the bland oval of his face. "Burroughs … Edgar. I didn't know you frequented the Shuncho-ro."
"My first time."
"You, uh, simply must try the ogana tonight… superb. Well, if you'll excuse me-"
Burroughs stopped him with a hand on an elbow.
"You're always in such a rash, Otto. I'm a driven, intense sort of fella myself… but I've learned to relax in Oahu."
Kuhn drew away from Burroughs's grasp. "Edgar, please, my wife is waiting."
"Really? You didn't take her along to the restaurant, on a Saturday night? I hope you two kids aren't having trouble."
Irritated, Kuhn frowned saying, "She doesn't care for Japanese cuisine. If you'll excuse me …"
"Or maybe you were still doing business? I know you had business downtown, earlier-maybe this is an extension of that."
Kuhn's eyes hardened. "If it is business-it's my business… and, frankly, none of yours."
"Funny that you would be dining with Mr. Mori-mura, tonight, when you almost went out of your way, at the luau last night, to avoid him."
Mention of the vice consul's name had widened the blue eyes again; Kuhn had the look of a startled deer. "Who says I was dining with… what was the name?"
"Morimura, and the waitress in there said you and he had a private room upstairs."
Kuhn lifted his chin. "What are you implying?"
"Not romance. You see, Otto, I think somebody… maybe your Jap pal in there… called you last night, woke you and your lovely wife up."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm talking about you pinning a murder on that poor bastard Harry Kamana."
Kuhn's bland features contorted fiercely. "You're out of your mind! I saw that musician bludgeon that girl with a rock-he bashed her damn skull in!"
"Did he? Or did you?"
The German drew back, sucking in a breath. Then, as if hurt, even offended, he said, "I don't have to put up with this."
"Maybe not from me… but my friend Detective Jardine, him you'll have to talk to. Last night you added to some already damning evidence to help make Kamana the obvious, and only, suspect. Today, though, things are looking different."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about that late-night phone call. I'm talking about your vice-consul pal in there bawling out that girl in public, just hours before her murder."
Kuhn shoved Burroughs, roughly, and the writer knocked into the next parked car with a metallic whump. Kuhn was opening his car door, getting in, when Burroughs latched onto his shoulder, spun him around and slammed a fist into his face.
His mouth bloody, Kuhn shoved Burroughs again, then went clawing inside his white jacket; the German's fingers were on a small black Liiger, snugged away in a shoulder holster, when Burroughs doubled him over with a hard fist to the belly.
Dazed, Kuhn tumbled to the crushed coral, sitting between his Caddy and the parked car next door, lean-ing on both hands, while Burroughs reached down and inside the man's jacket and plucked the L?ger like a hard little flower.
Then the writer pressed the automatic's barrel to the German's forehead, and released the safety, a tiny click that echoed in the stillness of the night.
Eyes glittering with alarm, Kuhn said, "What do you want?"
"The truth. Did you see Kamana kill that girl?"
Swallowing thickly, the German shook his head, and the pressed-to-his-flesh pistol went along. "Morimura called me. Told me what to say."
"Did Morimura kill her?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I only know he wanted the musician identified. As far as I know, Kamana really could be the killer… I just… I just didn't see him do it."
"Why was Pearl Harada killed?"
"I don't know, I don't know. She flitted around-she was a pretty girl. Jealousy makes men crazy."
"Did you have an affair with her?"
"No! No. Of course not."
Burroughs pushed harder against the German's forehead. "What about Morimura?"
"I don't know! I don't know….I'm not his goddamn chaperon."
"No, you're his stooge, though. Or should I say his understudy?"
Now the blue eyes tightened-alarm dissolving into fear. "Wh… what do you mean?"
"The Consulate's been busy burning its papers; coded messages to Japan have been flying. You're a good Nazi, aren't you, Otto? Waiting to help your ally, after we're at war, and diplomats like Morimura are suddenly prisoners…."
Stiffly, Kuhn said, "I am not a Nazi."
"Should I pass that news along to your uncle Himmler?"
"Why are you … what are you … You're just a writer!"
"I'm just an American. Otto-did that girl's murder have anything to do with espionage?"
"What? No! How should I know?"
Burroughs pressed harder with the gun barrel. 'Try again."
Trembling now, sweat pearling down his forehead, Kuhn said, "I swear to sweet Jesus I don't know….I told you what you wanted! I admitted Morimura called me… that alone could get me killed."
Burroughs thought about that-then removed the gun from the German's forehead; it had left an impression, in several ways.
"Get the hell out of here," Burroughs told him, disgustedly.
Kuhn swallowed again. "What about my gun?"
"Spoils of war," Burroughs said, and dropped it into his pocket.
Kuhn didn't argue the point; he scrambled to his feet, climbed into his car and-as Burroughs headed back toward the Shuncho-ro-roared out, throwing crushed coral, finally waking up the Japanese chauffeur … for a few moments.
The word Ichigo appeared in both English and Japanese on a small oak plaque by an upstairs door. Burroughs knocked.
A male voice from within answered: "Yes?"
The writer spoke to the door. "Mr. Morimura? Ed Burroughs. Could I have a word with you?"
Moments later, the door cracked open. The handsome young Japanese diplomat stood eye to eye with Burroughs; Morimura's black hair was slicked back, and his slender form was wrapped up in an off-white robe with a scarlet sash. His feet were bare. He smelled heavily of musk.
"I do not understand, Mr. Burroughs." Morimura's expression was friendly but his dark eyes were not. "Why do you seek me here?"
Burroughs leaned a hand against the doorjamb. "I took a chance you might be at the Shuncho-ro. I heard it was kind of a second home to you." "Could we not meet another time, another place?"
"This won't take long-I just want to chat for a few minutes. May I come in?"
"I have company."
Burroughs pushed the door open and shouldered past Morimura. At a low table, three Japanese girls wearing nothing at all were sitting on tatami mats. They were lovely of face and form, though their frozen embarrassment was painful to see.
"Put your kimonos on, girls," Burroughs said, "and take a break."
The pretty trio made sounds that mingled distress with giggling as they quickly got into their kimonos, which had been folded neatly on the floor behind them. This was another sparsely decorated, oak-lined, cream-walled room; a row of big picture windows looked out onto the ocean … and Pearl Harbor, Ford Island visible to the west, the Army's Hickam Field just to the left. A powerful telescope on a stand awaited any … tourist… who might want a better, closer look.
The now-clothed geishas scurried out past Morimura, who stood near the door with his arms folded, his face blank.
The consul said, "You are a rude and foolish man."
Burroughs strolled over and touched the telescope admiringly. "Maybe it's just cultural differences. Besides, I don't think you're a fool-even if everybody else seems to."
"Perhaps all Americans are foolish."
"They are if they don't think you're a damn spy."
Morimura smiled, almost gently. He gestured to the low table and the tatami mats. "Sake, Mr. Burroughs?"
"No thanks. I'm on the wagon."
"Wagon?"
"Never mind. But I'll sit with you, while you drink."
They sat across from each other at the low table; neither partook of the pitcher of sake.
Morimura's arms were again folded. "I am not a spy, Mr. Burroughs-I am a diplomat. Any information I have obtained has been through strictly legal means. Blame your own… American openness. Much can be gleaned from your daily newspapers, for example-and is there a law against looking through a telescope at a restaurant's lovely view?"
"Did you kill Pearl Harada?"
Morimura blinked, and his expression became one of horror. "What? What a ridiculous question!"
"Did you?"
"No. Certainly not I barely knew her."
"Do you… 'barely' know her, the way you 'barely' know those three geisha girls?"
"No. The singer and I were not romantically involved."
"How about carnally?"
"No."
"Then why were you arguing with her, in the Niumalu parking lot, the night of her murder?"
Morimura's eyes widened-obviously, he didn't know he and Pearl had been seen.
"Her uncle asked me to speak to her."
"Her uncle? The grocer?"
"Yes. He heard rumors she was planning to marry an American boy. A sailor. He disapproved. I merely conveyed this message to her, and she was….disrespectful, both to me and in speaking of her uncle."
"Why didn't her uncle tell her this himself? He was around the Niumalu in the afternoon."
Morimura glared at Burroughs. "Why are you curious? What business is it to you, the murder of this girl?"
"I helped put the cuffs on Harry Kamana… I caught him at the beach with his hands bloody."
The diplomat nodded. "This I have heard."
"Between the two of us, you and me, we really nailed the poor bastard."
"The two of us? Nail? Your meaning escapes me."
"You called Otto Kuhn in the middle of the night, and had him pretend to be an eyewitness. You had him finger that musician."
"Nonsense."
"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.