Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 31, No. 1 — January, 1948)

Snow at Waikiki? A strange phenomenon indeed, but it was there all right — half a million dollars’ worth. And it made the Islands plenty hot for Johnny Ford.

Chapter One

The night was hot and muggy, definitely not a night to make with the brain. The royal palms which usually kept up a rustling clatter outside my lanai were as lifeless as their potted brethren in the Waikiki Theater. My eyes were still tired from squinting against the glare all day and my shirt was sticking to my back. Each sip of my drink left an increasing aftertaste of burnt celluloid. Somewhere in the distance a woman’s voice sounded in high, mocking laughter. It seemed directed at me.

The envelope was still on the table where I found it when I came in. A plain cheap envelope with no address, no message, nothing — except five hundred dollars in ten dollar bills, all unmarked as far as I could tell. It meant that somebody was worried, but I had covered too many places and talked to too many people to know who it was. I reread the notes I had made in the vain hope that my eyes could make my brain work. It was no go. I crumpled the sheets in disgust. It was a cinch somebody ought to get in touch with me.

I got up, started toward the bathroom to destroy the notes and the telephone rang. As soon as the muffled voice spoke, I knew its owner was using the handkerchief trick on the mouthpiece.

“Mr. Johnny Ford?”

“Speaking.”

“Did you get my message?”

“What message?”

“The five hundred?”

“I got it. Who’s talking?”

“A friend.”

“What do I have to do to earn it, friend?”

“Just spend it, Mr. Ford.”

“Any suggestions as to how or where I should spend it?”

“Not as to how you spend it, Mr. Ford, as long as you spend it in California — tomorrow night.”

“I’d have to catch the Clipper in the morning.”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Suppose I’m not in a hurry to go?”

The muffled voice sounded apologetic. “The Tourist Bureau would be very annoyed if they heard me tell you this, Mr. Ford, but the truth is — the climate in the Islands is not healthy for everyone.”

“I wouldn’t want to catch anything serious.”

The voice chuckled. “I think you can feel perfectly safe provided you catch the Clipper tomorrow morning. Good night, Mr. Ford.”

I cradled the receiver and grinned. Somebody must have had things his own way too long if he thought that Fu Manchu act would scare anybody. Personally, I have never been accused of being the timid emotional type.

I went into the bathroom, set fire to my useless notes, dropped the ash into the toilet bowl and flushed it. It disappeared down the drain, but the bowl didn’t refill. There wasn’t any sound of water coming into the tank. I lifted the top off the tank and looked inside.

A square tin, the size of a small box of tea, rested on the bottom. The brown paper in which it was wrapped had parted and a large fragment had floated in between the ball stopper and the flush valve. I rolled up my sleeve, removed the paper and the water flowed freely. I dried the box on a towel and carried it into the kitchen. The lid had been fastened on with what looked like sealing wax. I scraped it away with a kitchen knife and the lid came off easily.

I lifted out the top packet, opened it and stared down at the powder in the tissue. I touched the tip of my tongue to the white crystals and spat. It was heroin all right. The voice on the telephone wasn’t taking any chances. Either I caught the Clipper in the morning or answered some unpleasant questions for the Feds in the afternoon. I put the packet back in the box, replaced the lid and carefully wiped the whole thing. The telephone rang again. I wrapped the box in the towel and took it with me to the telephone.

It was my client, Allan Norris, and his voice was as brusque and harsh as ever. He was a great guy for ordering people around.

“I want you to come up to my house right away.”

“I thought we decided against that.”

“Do you think I would call you if it wasn’t urgent?” he demanded acidly.

I had my own ideas about that. I had learned that anything Allan Norris thought he wanted was urgent. I said: “I’ve got another tough day tomorrow. Unless you give me some idea of what it’s about, I’m not coming.”

“My daughter, Jennifer, has passed away,” he said in a flat, dull voice.

I didn’t believe it. “You mean she got out of the house?”

“She’s dead.”

I was jolted. “How did she die?”

“I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. Are you coming?” The tough old buzzard’s voice was actually pleading.

“Hold everything, I’ll be right up.” I hung up and got into my shoulder holster and coat. I eyed the towel-wrapped can. There was nothing to do but take it along. I shoved it down in my coat pocket, turned off the lights and went out.

My cottage was one of the detached group belonging to a glorified hotel known as the Hanauma. The cottages were just off the beach and so cunningly hidden amid the giant oleanders, royal palms, hibiscus, ferns, panax hedges and what not that it was a major operation to find one’s own cottage after dark. It was an ideal spot for the well-heeled tourist who wanted privacy. For some reason, Allan Norris had decided I would need such privacy and since he was paying for it, I made no objection.

I found my way out of the jungle and moved along the shed garage until I came to my stall. The neat white sign dangling from the roof said, “Mr. J. Ford.” Even if you only stayed the minimum, which was a week at the Hanauma, you rated a garage stall and a little white sign with your name on it. A minor exhibit in the psychology of tourist snobbery but I didn’t sneer too much. As I said, Allan Norris was paying for it. I got my rented coupe out of the garage and headed for Makiki Heights.

It was my first visit to the Honolulu millionaire’s big, Spanish-style town house. There were three cars parked in the semi-circular drive. I pulled in behind a medium-priced job whose rear license plate sported a medico’s caduceus medallion. The second car was a sleek black sedan, and the car directly in front of the door was a special-built cream colored convertible. I decided again that there was plenty of ready cash here in Hawaii.

Three figures stood in the hallway inside the open door. Norris detached himself from the other two and came forward to meet me. He was a stocky erect man with a stern, tanned face topped by a shock of white hair. He looked as fit as a professional athlete but his face was tortured.

“Come in, Ford.” He extended his hand. “I called you as soon as it happened.” He led me toward the other two men. He indicated a tall slender man with dark red wavy hair who looked to be about my own age, which is thirty-five. “I want you to meet Walter Kent.” We shook hands and I turned to the other figure, a thin, balding, intelligent-looking man in the middle fifties. He wore a smart conservative business suit and rimless glasses. “This is Carter MacDonald, my lawyer.” We shook hands. “Mr. Ford is a private investigator who is conducting a business investigation for me,” he explained to the others.

“What happened?” I asked.

“The three of us were in the library when we heard the shot. Jennifer was dead when I got to her bedside.”

I glanced briefly at the others. “Has anyone else been up?”

“No one but Dr. Wolsey.”

MacDonald cleared his throat. “I think, under the circumstances, Allan, we had best postpone our business until another time. I’m sure Walter agrees.” He nodded in Kent’s direction.

Kent said: “Of course. Is there anything we can do before we go, Allan?”

Norris shook his head. “I’ll get in touch with both of you tomorrow.” He walked to the door with them. When they had gone, he returned and led the way up the broad staircase without speaking.

Dr. Wolsey was repacking his bag when we reached Jennifer’s room. He was a dry little man in the sixties with dignified, unhurried movements and a low voice full of soft courtesy.

I pulled back the sheet. Jennifer Norris had once been a very attractive young woman. I could still see indications of that. But the wreckage of dope addiction was all too obvious. Her hollow-cheeked face was gray and lined with anguish, and her skin had the clammy feel of putty. Dark blood clotted her hair and coagulated around the small hole in her right temple. I put the sheet back. A snub-nosed .25 caliber automatic lay on the floor beside the bed. I turned to the medico.

“Is this where the gun was found, Doctor?”

Dr. Wolsey frowned. “I presume so. That’s where it was when I arrived.”

“That’s correct,” Norris said sharply.

“Did the bullet in the temple kill her?”

“Yes.”

“Was it suicide?”

Wolsey’s tired smile held condescension. “What would you say, young man? The child was ill and despondent. She died with her own gun in a locked room.”

I looked back at the sheet-draped “child” and shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure.”

Wolsey put his arm around Norris’ shoulders. “Perhaps it was for the best, Allan. Jennifer was having a hard time of it.”

Norris nodded vaguely.

Wolsey patted his shoulder. “I’ll have to comply with the law and call the police, Allan. I’ll see that they are as considerate as possible.” He turned to go.

As he reached the doorway, Norris called after him: “Oh, Bill!” Wolsey turned, inquiring, and Norris said: “Mr. Ford is a private investigator who has been doing some work for me, Bill. When you talk to the police, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention his presence here. It would only cause confusion.”

Wolsey looked at me with renewed interest, nodded and went out.

I looked at Norris. “Well, that’s that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your daughter’s death closes the case, doesn’t it?”

“Why?” he grated.

“Look,” I said, “I didn’t have a chance in a thousand on this case from the beginning. You wouldn’t see that and your stubbornness has ruined whatever chances I did have. I’ve been stumbling around in circles ever since you tricked me into coming out here.”

“Tricked you?” Norris sneered. “Are you sure it wasn’t the money I offered you?”

I gritted my teeth. “I’ll admit that a five thousand dollar bonus is a lot of money,” I said. “But if you will remember, your letter stated that you wanted me to ‘conduct a little business investigation’ for you. You hinted broadly that I ought to be able to clean it up in a week and I had nothing to lose. But for pete’s sake!” I exploded. “A dope ring!”

I counted off on my fingers. “Mistake number one — the Feds. They’ve got a nationwide organization and they work at their business twenty-four hours a day. You won’t even let me talk to their local agent. You read a news story about me in an L.A. paper and immediately decide that with your brains and my experience we can do a job the Feds can’t do.”

“Apparently I was mistaken about your contribution.”

“You can save the sarcasm. I told you what we were up against before we started.” I held up a second finger. “Number two — the Honolulu police. At least, they know the local situation. You’ve got one guy down here, the Lieutenant Chun I was telling you about, who’s hotter than a dime store pistol. I’d like to meet the guy even if it was only to swap lies. But you didn’t like the idea.

“Number three, and worst of all — your daughter. There was a chance I could have gotten a description of the guy who peddled the stuff to her. Maybe I could have slapped some information out of him, maybe not. But you thought you could handle that end. You didn’t, and I never talked to her. It’s a wonder you didn’t make it really tough and not allow me to look at a map of the city.”

Norris mumbled: “Perhaps I deserve all you’ve said.”

He seemed to be apologizing. I said: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rub it in.”

Norris waved that aside. “I’ve got an easier job for you now. I want you to find my daughter’s murderer.”

“Huh?”

He pointed to the automatic lying on the floor. “That gun is Jennifer’s. But it wasn’t in this house until the moment before it was used to kill her. She told me herself, months ago, that she had lost it. She didn’t know where. When we first discovered her condition and called in Dr. Wolsey, I had this house searched from top to bottom. There were no guns here. Furthermore, though Jennifer’s condition had improved enough not to require the services of a night nurse, the day nurse searches this room carefully before she goes off duty. The main reason for the search was to see that Jennifer didn’t have access to drugs other than those Dr. Wolsey was administering. But she was instructed to remove anything that Jennifer might conceivably use as a weapon against herself.”

“How did you work that?”

“We made no bones about it. Jennifer watched and she approved. Thanks to Dr. Wolsey, she was on the road to recovery and she didn’t want to take chances any more than we did.”

I went over and tried the balcony doors. They were locked. I said: “Wolsey said the room was locked.”

Norris nodded. “We always kept the doors locked from the outside when no one was in the room with her. If she wanted anything, she could ring. The nurse or the servants would hear it during the day and I would hear it in my room at night.”

“When you came upstairs after hearing the shot, did you have to unlock the bedroom door?”

“Yes.”

“But anyone else could have done the same thing before you did?”

“There was no one else in the house. And no one could have gone up the stairs without being seen by the three of us through the open library door.”

“What about back stairs?”

“There are no back stairs leading onto that hallway.”

I looked at him impatiently. “You still say it’s murder?”

Norris turned and beckoned me to follow. He led the way down the hall and into the adjoining room. “My room,” he said, “and the only other room opening onto this balcony.” The balcony doors were closed but unlocked. We went out and along the balcony to Jennifer’s room. I saw that the key was in the door on the outside. “I left it there for convenience,” Norris said. “I had no idea her life was in danger.” He leaned across the balcony rail and patted the thick gray trunk of a coco palm which curved upward, grazing the balcony. “When Jennifer was in her late teens and retired to her room, ostensibly to study, she locked the door and scrambled down this tree to see her young men.” His mouth twisted sadly. “Another of my failures as a parent. Any reasonably athletic youngster could reach the balcony by climbing that tree.”

Chapter Two Makiki Mauler

I peered over the balcony and saw that it wouldn’t be too hard to manage. “Maybe the cops can make something out of it.”

“I am not going to tell the police. I am not going to do anything to jeopardize your investigation.”

I looked at him. “You’re crazy. If you suspect that a crime has been committed it’s your duty to notify the police.”

He smiled with stubborn ingenuousness. “How could I suspect anything like that? The room was locked.”

I shook my head. He was probably wrong anyway. I said: “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. There’s one chance in a hundred that something will break tomorrow and I’ll stay with it until then anyway.” I told him about the telephone call, the bribe and the heroin.

Norris nodded with excitement. “There’s your lead!”

“Lead, hell, I’m in the middle. But I’ll do it.” I headed back toward the door. “Now I’ve got to get out of here.”

Wolsey was seated in the library reading a magazine when I went down the stairs. He didn’t look up.

I paused in the front doorway. “I still don’t like it. I don’t mind playing live bait so much as working against the cops. But I haven’t got any choice.” I patted the towel-wrapped box in my pocket. “I can’t do anything until I get rid of this.”

Norris smiled maliciously and nodded.

I scowled and went out to my coupe without saying any more. I felt like all kinds of a damn fool. I don’t like holding out on the cops and any private eye in the business would tell me I ought to have my head examined for playing tag with the Feds.

I backed the coupe out of the driveway and headed down the winding road from Makiki Heights. I hadn’t gone far when I heard the wail of a siren below me. There were no side roads. I pulled into the nearest driveway and turned off my lights. Five minutes later the prowl car shot by, its siren tapering off to a sullen-throated growl.

The road from Makiki Heights winds around an out-cropping of rock halfway down and straightens out, going northeast for three or four hundred yards before making a sharp hairpin turn and heading south to intersect Nehoa Street. The strip between this junior-size cliff and the hairpin turn is narrow and can be dangerous if you are careless. There are no curbs, sidewalks or streetlights along the narrow asphalt strip, and the hillside drops away sharply. Cars have skidded over the edge, rolled down the fifty or seventy-five foot slope, taken the twenty foot drop to where the road winds back on itself and stayed there until the junk dealer, the ambulance and/or the morgue wagon came to take them away.

I rounded the jutting rock and was proceeding slowly when my headlights picked up a sedan parked cater-cornered across the road. The little fellow standing beside it held up his hand in the semi-helpless manner of a driver in distress. I couldn’t have passed if I had wanted to, so I came to a stop and cut the ignition. He was a stranger to me, but as he stepped out of the glare of my headlights, I saw a look of recognition on his face and saw his hand go into his coat pocket.

I couldn’t start the motor and back up the hill as fast as lead could fly, so I did the next best thing. I exited through the opposite door, getting my gun out at the same time. It was a good move except for one thing. A dark figure materialized out of nowhere on my side of the car and a brown hand holding a .45 smashed down on my wrist, sending my gun spinning. I half-straightened, saw that he was Hawaiian, about six-three, at least two hundred and fifty pounds. That gave him height, weight and reach over me, not to mention the gun or his little pal. Naturally I was supposed to lie down and roll over. He was still pulling his gun hand away from me when I dove out of my half crouch. I grabbed his gun wrist with my left hand and butted him in his big belly. We were on the dirt shoulder of the road a yard from the drop over the edge. He grunted, fell backwards, his feet reaching desperately for a firm footing, and toppled over the edge. I hung onto his gun arm and let him pull me over with him. I might as well get my neck broken rolling down the incline as stay at the top and get shot in the back.

We plunged in a tangle of arms and legs down the rocky slope. Once when I happened to be on top, the darkness was lit up as Shorty tried a shot. It went harmlessly over our heads. I remembered the sheer drop at the bottom of the incline. If I was lucky and the big Kanaka didn’t fall on top of me, I could come out of it with a sprained ankle or a broken arm. If I let go now, I would be caught in the middle of that dark slope between two guys with guns. If he was too dumb to drop the gun and try to save himself, I was going to have to hang on and take that fall.

He must have gotten that idea about the same time. I felt him let go the gun, spread-eagle and brace himself. He was below me at that point and my hands and head were leading my feet down the slope. I saw what had given him the idea. The headlights of an approaching car were moving slowly up the lower portion of the road. After the car negotiated the hairpin turn and started upward, it would find the way blocked by our two cars. The occupants would no doubt be curious about what was going on.

I let go, threw both arms around a clump of pamakani and allowed my body to slide around below my head. The big Kanaka braced himself, rose and reached for my feet. I hung onto the bush, drew my knees up and let him have both feet in the face. I have always heard that the Hawaiians are a noisy carefree race. This one didn’t utter a sound and he had plenty of cares as he went backward head-over-heels and tumbled over the drop twenty feet below. I heard the grinding of gears and looked upward in time to see the sedan speed past the oncoming car near the hairpin turn.

Outside of a skinned nose and a big jump in blood pressure, I was all right. I scrambled back up the slope and reached the top just as the car which was probably responsible for saving my life went by without stopping. His lack of interest was all right with me. I found my gun, holstered it and got rid of the grass and gravel that had worked down my collar, climbed in the coupe and headed down the hill. The little guy in the sedan had not been interested in the fate of his pal. I was.

I found his body at the foot of the drop by the side of the road. By the way his neck was twisted he must have landed on it. I saw that I hadn’t exaggerated his size. He was wearing a green sport coat over a canary yellow sport shirt. The tropical worsted trousers yielded a wallet with three dollars and a driver’s license that said he was William Kahalawai and lived in the Hillside Hotel in the Kakaako district. He had a dime, a quarter and a room key in one pants pocket, and a pack of cigarettes and two packs of book matches from the Hobron Club in another.

The pockets of the coat yielded an item of interest — a pair of suede gloves. Hawaiians don’t wear gloves. In fact, I can’t imagine a reason for anybody in Hawaii wearing suede gloves except perhaps to pull a trigger on a murder gun. I looked down at his big feet. They were encased in soft woven-leather sandals with flexible rubber soles. Ideal for climbing a slanting coco palm. I got the towel-wrapped tin out, eased the box into his coat pocket. I got back into the coupe, shoved the towel in the dashboard compartment, and headed for Waikiki. A visit to the Hobron Club was indicated.

The lights were dim in the Hobron Club, the bar was bamboo and the walls were covered with lauhala matting. A row of booths lit by imitation fishermen’s torches lined the long wall opposite the bar. Throw-nets and green glass floats were scattered here and there and the seven piece orchestra wore mess jackets and pikake leis. I climbed up on a bar stool and ordered a Scotch and water. The evening trade had packed the place. There were about thirty tables surrounding the medium-size dance floor and everybody seemed to be having a good time.

Directly across from me I saw a familiar face. It was my landlady — technically anyway, since she owned the Hanauma. She was the best-looking landlady I had ever had. Maile Sherrod was about thirty and had thick wavy brown hair down to her shoulders. According to Allan Norris, her father had been Scotch-Irish and her mother Hawaiian. The combination had worked out well. There was a warmth and richness in her coloring and the slightest tilt to the outer corners of her long-lashed brown eyes. She was wearing a flowing white evening dress with a lot of material in it below the waist. Above the waist, she could catch cold if the temperature dropped to seventy-five. According to Norris, she had a shrewd business head and was making money hand over fist at the Hanauma.

Her escort was a big fellow in a midnight blue dinner jacket and a red carnation. He was more than somewhat oiled. His head rolled on its axis as he leaned across the table to ask a question. Maile shook her head. He repeated the question and covered one of her hands with his. She withdrew her hand, laughing, and shook her head more positively. She looked slightly buzzed herself but I supposed she could take care of herself. I turned back to the Filipino bartender.

“Who runs this joint?”

“Sar?”

“Who owns the Hobron Club?”

“Meestar Jocko Vecelli.”

“He around?”

The Filipino motioned with his head. “In the rear booth, sar.”

I picked up my drink, slid off the bar stool and ambled through the crowd. Jocko Vecelli was seated in the rear booth, playing with a wine glass. He was a lean pocket-size Italian in the late forties, with sad liquid eyes.

I said: “Hello, Jocko.”

He favored me with a slashing, mine-host smile but his voice was toneless. “Take a load off your feet, copper.”

I slid into the booth and neither of us said anything. I finished my drink and Jocko beckoned a waiter. “Bring Mr. Ford another of whatever it is he’s drinking.”

I said: “Scotch and water.”

Jocko studied his long tapering fingers. “I been hearing about you. What’s the matter with California? Too small for you?”

“The Coast is all right. I’m taking a little vacation.”

“For a tourist, you been asking a lot of irrelevant questions. Why don’t you stick to the scenery?”

“I get bored.”

“You’ll get bored in the hospital. Besides, they’re all overcrowded.”

“You trying to scare away trade?”

“A little friendly advice.”

The waiter returned with my drink. I started to pay for it and Jocko waved him away. I sipped it in silence. Finally, I said: “Who’s Kahalawai?”

Jocko looked casually around the club, “I got a bouncer named William Kahalawai.” His eyes didn’t show much interest. “This is his night off.”

“Big fellow, about six-three, weight around two-fifty?”

“Sounds like him. A bad man to cross. If you tried it, you made a serious mistake.”

I shrugged and took another sample of my drink.

“You been—” Jocko changed the phrasing. “Has he been giving you any trouble?”

I grinned. “Not much.”

Jocko dismissed the subject. “I’ll ask him about it tomorrow.”

“I heard,” I said slowly, “that he won’t be in tomorrow. I heard he fell down and hurt himself.”

The Italian’s thumb and forefinger tightened on the wine glass. “I got no sense of humor, Ford. I don’t like to kid around.”

“What’s the idea of sending that big hippo after me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell you don’t.”

“I want you to get a few things straight.” Jocko dropped each word out separately and deliberately. “Giacomo Vecelli keeps his nose clean. He likes everybody else to do the same thing. He doesn’t like to see a Coast shamus coming out here and raising a stink. Go back to California.”

“You haven’t answered my questions,” I said.

“Listen, shamus,” Jocko’s voice grated, “when I want something done bad enough, I don’t have to send anybody. I take care of it myself.”

“It’s your move then.”

Jocko’s eyes grew heavy-lidded.

“Hello.” Maile Sherrod smiled brightly down at us.

Vecelli made it out of the booth first because he was smaller. “Will you have a seat, Miss Sherrod?”

Miss Sherrod teetered uncertainly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“Not at all,” Vecelli said. “Did you want to see Mr. Ford or me, or were you just visiting?”

“As a matter of fact, I wanted to see Mr. Ford, if you’re sure I’m not interrupting.”

Vecelli bowed. “I was about to return to my office. More tax forms.” He shrugged helplessly and bowed again, “I’ll see you later, Mr. Ford.”

I grinned at the implied threat and slid into the booth opposite Maile. She took a compact from her bag and stared at her reflection.

“Very informal of me, isn’t it?”

“I like it that way. Can I get you a drink?”

She nodded.

I signalled the waiter, ordered drinks and looked around the club. Maile put away the compact and lit a cigarette. “What’s the matter?”

“I was wondering about your boy friend.”

“Would you be afraid of him, Mr. Ford?”

“I wouldn’t be afraid and I wouldn’t not be afraid. I don’t look for trouble, Miss Sherrod.”

Her eyes had a bit of difficulty in focusing. “Why don’t you look for trouble?”

“I don’t have to. It always seems to know where to find me.”

She made a face. “I hope that remark isn’t personal.” She blew smoke at the ceiling. “You don’t have to worry. I am a deserted woman.”

“Is your friend crazy or something?” I inquired gallantly.

The waiter brought our drinks. Maile took a long pull from hers and put the glass down.

“He has a place on the windward side of the island and he insisted this was a nice night for a drive.”

“Well, isn’t it?”

Her lip twisted slightly. “Fundamentally, all men are alike, aren’t they?”

I shook my head sadly. “So young and yet so cynical.”

“Well, aren’t they?” she demanded.

“I wouldn’t say that about all the girls.”

“The hell you wouldn’t.” She grinned happily.

“Well,” I amended, “it’s the superficial differences that interest me.”

“Weasel,” she said. “What were your plans for the rest of the evening?”

“This is so sudden, Miss Sherrod.”

“Don’t overestimate yourself. I want a ride home. You can have a drink if you take me home.”

“Let’s go.” I threw a bill on the table and we worked our way through the mob. I bought Maile’s jacket back from the check-room attendant and we went out to my car. I turned on the dashboard radio and Maile leaned her head back on the seat, apparently prepared to enjoy the music in silence. I tried to decide whether I was just lucky or this was part of somebody’s plan.

Chapter Three Descent to Murder

Maile’s house turned out to be in Kahala. I navigated the winding driveway and parked outside a three-car garage. We mounted a low stone terrace and entered a large living room through sliding glass doors. The room was apple green, the woodwork a darker hue of the same color. There were several good water colors on the walls, and over the broad stone fireplace was a large oil painting of a Hawaiian fisherman with a throw-net over his shoulder and fishing goggles raised above his eyebrows. It was good. The subject was a powerfully built man resting easily against an out-cropping of coral, his eyes scanning the water for signs of movement beneath the surface. The play of sunlight over his graceful flowing muscles was like early Greek sculpture.

We went into the kitchen and made drinks. Apparently the ride had gotten in its work because Maile no longer showed any signs of being tight — if she had been in the first place. We brought our drinks into the living room and settled back on the large hikie. Maile refused a cigarette, I lit my own and my eyes strayed to the oil painting. There was something familiar about it.

“Like it?”

I nodded.

“I’m glad you do.”

I squinted at it. “The fellow who painted that knew his business.”

“Thank you.”

I turned to her. “You did that?”

She nodded, smiling. “Why not?”

“If you can do that—?”

“Why do I hang around nightclubs with overgrown male children?” She shrugged. “Painting is just a hobby. A girl can’t spend all her time on a hobby.” She stared at the picture. “Powerful brute, isn’t he?”

“Did you exaggerate him much?”

“I didn’t exaggerate at all.”

“Where did you find the model?”

“I painted it several years ago, when I was still in school. Bill was a football star at the University while I was in prep school. He didn’t turn out to be much good as a human being, but how he could run with a football!”

“What happened to him?”

“He was quite a campus hero. When college was over and the newspapers and the glory hunters had gotten in their dirty work, they dropped him. He wasn’t news any more. Bill wasn’t very bright and he couldn’t take it. Anyway, he became a ‘beach boy.’ I suppose you know what that means?”

“Sort of a flunkey for wealthy tourists, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “He was popular with the tourists for a while. But he took on more and more of the standard beach boy attributes and he began to get mean and ugly when he was drinking. Finally, he grew unpopular and the money stopped coming in.”

“Where is he now?”

“He had several run-ins with the police and then he became a bouncer at the Hobron Club. He wasn’t there tonight.”

I thought that over. Bill had descended all the way down the ladder to murder. Thanks to a Mainland shamus who had never even spoken to him, Bill Kahalawai’s troubles were over. I took another drink and turned my attention to the living. “Vecelli seems to be quite a boy. I imagine people who work for him have to toe the line.”

“I imagine they do.” She looked at me slyly. “How is the investigation coming?”

I looked at her ruefully. “There are not many secrets out here, are there?” She smiled. “I check the register at the Hanauma regularly.”

“What did you learn from that?”

“Enough to whet my curiosity.” She tilted her head to one side critically. “You look presentable enough.”

“Is something supposed to be wrong with me?”

Her eyes held secret amusement. “On the afternoon of the same day you got in, a check arrived at the Hanauma paying for your cottage and incidental expenses for one week. The check was signed by Allan Norris. I was curious to know more about the person for whom Norris would go to all that expense — rather than invite him to stay at that enormous house of his. We don’t rent those cottages at bargain rates.”

“I didn’t know about the check. Sometimes I don’t think Norris is very bright.”

She shrugged. “By a strange coincidence,” she made a little face, “I happened to be in Norris’ office yesterday. His secretary didn’t know much, but I saw the address of your Los Angeles agency. After tonight, I can guess the rest.”

“What is the rest?”

“Allan Norris has a screwball daughter and Jocko Vecelli runs the Hobron Club.” She smiled smugly.

I said: “I’ll bite. What has the owner of a nightclub got to do with Norris’ daughter?”

“It’s the second floor of the Hobron Club I’m talking about.”

I looked sheepish. “A guy can’t find out everything in four days.”

Maile was puzzled. “Didn’t you know about the gambling on the second floor?”

I shook my head.

She laughed. “And I thought I was a detective. Well, what are you doing in Honolulu? You couldn’t be loafing.”

“Tell me about Jennifer Norris.”

“You mean the ‘try anything twice’ girl?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jennifer used to say, ‘I’ll try anything twice — I might have missed something the first time.’ She usually lived up to it, too.”

“How?”

“Oh, husbands, automobile accidents, impossible jumps with horses and week-long jags.”

“You thought she had fallen into the foul clutches of Jocko Vecelli and I came out here to get back the I.O.U.’s which would ruin her reputation and her father’s?”

“You make it sound silly but I did think something like that. About a year ago, Jennifer went on a terrific binge and ended up by doing several hundred dollars’ worth of damage in the Hobron Club. Jocko didn’t press charges and Norris paid the damages. It was just before she divorced Walter Kent for the second time.”

I grimaced inwardly. That was another item that Norris had failed to mention. I said: “She was married twice to the same man?”

“I told you she was the ‘try anything twice’ girl.”

“What’s Kent like?”

“Tall, red-headed, sort of dashing — a very complex person. You never know what he’s thinking, yet he makes you believe you’re the only other person in the world when he talks to you. He’s a magnificent horseman, one of the best tennis players in the Islands and a superb swimmer. I seem to be using a lot of superlatives, don’t I?”

“What does he do for a living?”

“You’ll never believe it, but he runs a bookshop.”

I frowned. “You gave me the impression he was the athletic type.”

“I know. That’s what I mean. You just can’t pigeonhole his personality. He owns ‘The Bookshop’, which is all the name it has, incidentally. Have you noticed it on King Street?”

I shook my head and remembered the custom-built convertible I had seen Kent drive away from Norris’ house. “Book stores don’t pay very much as a rule.”

“This one does. He has an extremely attractive house on Wilhelmina Rise and a little place he calls ‘Pali House’ over on the windward side. And the Pali House, my son, is really out of this world!”

“Fancy?”

“Well, out of the ordinary. It’s just the other side of Kaneohe, perched on a sheer cliff three hundred feet above the water’s edge. The house is built on two levels and he used glass wherever possible. Both bedrooms and a large living room have glass ceilings covered by steel shutters. If his guests want to, they can get into bed, press a button and sleep under the stars.” Maile’s eyes travelled to the clock on the mantle. “And speaking of sleep, it’s almost two o’clock. You’ve got to run.”

I said: “Isn’t that kind of abrupt?”

She got off the hikie. “You forget I’m a working girl, Mr. Ford. I’ve got to get my beauty sleep.”

I got up. “Are you suddenly sore about something?”

She laughed. “To tell you the truth, I’m furious. I thought I was going to find out all about you and instead you’ve had me prattling on about nothing ever since you got here.”

“Will you answer one more question before I go?”

“What is it?”

“Was that damsel in distress act real, or did you plan it?”

She pushed me out of the door, laughing. “Let’s leave it the way it is. Maybe you’ll find out before you go back to California.” Her hand brushed the bulge under my left armpit and she stopped laughing suddenly. “I overlooked something, didn’t I?”

“Meaning what?”

Instead of answering, she linked her arm in mine and walked beside me to the driveway. We stopped at the car and her head came up. “You think I’m an awful fool, don’t you?”

Since that is a leading question which has trapped better men than I am, I was smart enough not to answer it. I waited.

“You’re not exactly like other people, are you? There is always something in the back of your mind and you’re always watching and waiting, aren’t you? There’s something hard and menacing about it.” She paused. “I’m not sure I like you,” she said slowly. She moved up close to me, her eyes open wide, searching, as though trying to read my face in the darkness. She shivered.

I put my arm around her bare shoulders. “You’ve got too much imagination.”

She reached up and pulled my head down to hers. Her lips parted and I kissed her. We stood together for a moment and there was no sound except the murmur of tiny waves curling on the beach and the gentle rustling of palm fronds overhead. She broke away. “Call me tomorrow,” she muttered and turning, walked slowly back to the house, her head bowed, the white evening dress flowing like a graceful caress about her body. I watched until she went inside and the terrace light went out. I mopped my perspiring brow with my handkerchief and got into the coupe.

It had been a busy day. Even for a shamus.

I had hoped that whoever checked the California-bound Clipper might be tempted to pay a later visit to my cottage when he found I wasn’t aboard. But nobody had come to see me and it was almost ten A.M. when I pulled into a parking space across from the post office. I pocketed the keys and walked down King Street.

The Bookshop was air-conditioned, quiet and a little on the arty side. There were no other customers. An attractive young Japanese clerk approached me.

I said: “I’d like to see Mr. Walter Kent, if he’s around.”

She flashed me a smile. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Kent just stepped out.”

“When will he be back?”

“I don’t know. Would you like to speak to the manager, Miss Seccombe?”

I said I would like to speak to Miss Seccombe.

She led the way to the rear of the store where a slender, dark-haired girl in the late twenties sat at an executive-type desk. The sign on the top of the desk said: “Miss Anne Seccombe, Mgr.” The clerk explained that I would like to see Mr. Kent. Miss Seccombe gave me a flat, appraising glance. It was supposed to be an impersonal look but it had something of the stock-breeder in it and it reminded me sadly that some women, like some men, ruin a swell avocation by making a vocation out of it. I kept my face a blank and when Miss Seccombe’s voice came out, it was crisp and businesslike.

“I’m not sure that Mr. Kent will be back this morning. Is there something I can do?”

“I wanted to see Kent personally. Mind if I wait around for a while?”

“Not at all. Perhaps you’d like to look at some books.” She waved a hand around the store.

I thanked her and said I’d look around. I moved away and picked out a spot beside a table of best sellers. The two girl clerks chatted in low voices as they dusted off the shelves and rearranged books. Occasionally they threw a covert glance at Anne Seccombe. I gathered that they weren’t talking about her but were just a little afraid of her disapproval. Then I learned something else about Miss Seccombe.

It was costing her a great deal of effort to look cool, calm and efficient. She initialled some invoices, made notes in a little cloth-bound ledger and apparently she had finished her work for the day. She stacked the invoices neatly, put them to one side on her desk. As she placed a paperweight on top of the pile, I saw that her hands trembled involuntarily as though she had the palsy. This puzzled me. I was sure she had never seen me before and reasonably sure that I had never been described to her. I have looked into enough faces to be able to tag a look of recognition when I see it. I decided she had a hangover.

I moved along the wall to a section of shelves labelled “Rental Library.” I was closer and could see that beneath her make-up her eyes were slightly red-rimmed and gave the impression of being on the verge of tears though her features remained glacially calm. She sneezed. She sneezed again. I pulled a book down at random, turned and peered over it as she sneezed a third time. It could have been hay fever or the dust the clerks were stirring up. But I knew it wasn’t dust or hay fever and she didn’t have a hangover. Miss Seccombe was a junky. She needed a shot and she was trying desperately to control herself. She opened a book on her desk and tried to read. She held the book in both hands and twice, as the minutes ticked by, I saw the book tilt slowly downward only to be snapped back into position. The third time it happened, she put the book down with a show of briskness, open the top drawer of her desk and took out her bag. She opened it, peered inside and darted a look at the clock on the wall. With an air of reassurance she closed the bag, placed it on the corner of the desk and picked up her book. She could have been peering at the mirror in her bag, but I had an idea that the look of reassurance came from the sight of a small packet of white powder that she was going to permit herself to take as soon as the hand of the clock reached a certain position. Her self-control was winning a small victory over her craving and she was pleased with herself. Then we began to get a flurry of trade.

A young sailor came in and made for the shelves of Modern Library books. One of the clerks joined him. Then three girls came in together, hatless and chattering. The other clerk joined them. Next came an old gentleman wearing a white Van Dyke, and Anne Seccombe rose to wait on him. She greeted him with a smile and apparently knew him. They chatted for a few moments and moved over to the biography section. Aside from the way in which she rid her palms of excess moisture with a casual, skirt-smoothing gesture, I would never have known that she was about to jump out of her skin. The old gentleman selected a book, Anne took it back to the rear of the store, wrapped it, rang up the sale on the cash register and the old man bowed and departed.

Anne cast an indifferent glance around the store, looked at the clock, picked up her bag and started back toward the closed door of Kent’s private office. She was stopped by a woman who had just entered the store, forced a smile, dropped her bag back on her desk and led the way into Kent’s office and closed the door. The newcomer had been about forty, with a hard flat voice and smug-looking pug face. I was sure Anne’s face had held ill-concealed dislike of the older woman.

Almost at the same moment they disappeared into the office, the two clerks headed for the wrapping room with books under their arms. It was too good a chance to miss. The only other occupants of the main part of the store were the three girls at the opposite end and the sailor who was squatting with his back to me, examining books on the bottom shelf. I moved over to Anne Seccombe’s desk, fumbled her bag open, reached inside with my middle and index fingers, got tangled up in a handkerchief, got free again and came out with the little envelope. I snapped the bag shut and pocketed the envelope. The whole operation had taken about forty seconds. I was getting slow. I moved back to the rental shelves and picked up the mimeographed catalog of rental books and thumbed through it idly. By the time the girls had returned from the wrapping room and made the correct change, more customers had drifted in.

The door to Kent’s office opened and the hard-faced woman came out, followed by Anne Seccombe. Her mouth was slack and her eyes were warm, blank obscenities. I saw the book in the plain wrapper under her arm and the twenty dollar bill she handed Anne Seccombe. There was no change. As she hurried out, she cast a fleeting sly look about the store. I buried my face in the catalog — and read the secret of The Bookshop’s financial success. It was on the last page of the catalog and the notice read: “Qualified customers are invited to inspect our rental collection of valuable technical works. Ask for Mr. Kent.”

When “technical” volumes rent for twenty bucks a throw and go out in a plain wrapper under the arm of a woman like the one who just left, it is a fairly safe bet that the owner of the store keeps his head above the water by renting a particular kind of book. I caught Miss Seccombe as she almost escaped again into the privacy of Kent’s office with her precious bag under her arm.

“Oh, Miss Seccombe!” She turned with a slightly wild-eyed look of frustration. I said: “I don’t think I’ll wait any longer for Mr. Kent. Just tell him that Mr. Ford called and will call back later.”

She nodded and hurried into the office almost before I had finished speaking. I felt sorry for her. I went out of The Bookshop, crossed the street, bought a paper and entered the drug store. I selected a seat at the end of the fountain where I could watch the book store and sat down to wait. I ordered a coke and unfolded the paper.

Both Jennifer Norris and William Kahalawai had made the front page. Jennifer’s story was complete in five paragraphs, three of which told what a great guy Allan Norris was. The other two gave little information other than the fact that she had attended Sarah Lawrence in the East, was thirty-one and her death was very sudden. There was no mention of guns or suicide or murder. Allan Norris had taken care of that. Kahalawai rated a two-column headline and three paragraphs at the bottom of the front page and a whole column continued on the sport page where there was a picture of him in football uniform. His athletic prowess was played up and no mention made of his scrapes with the law or of a box of heroin being found on his body. Death was described as due to an accidental fall and there was no hint of foul play. I was worried. The local gestapo was not dumb enough to think that he had fallen while picking wild flowers in the moonlight.

I looked up in time to see Anne Seccombe come out of the book store and strike out determinedly along King Street. She was agitated and she looked neither to the right nor to the left. I flipped a nickel on the counter and went out. At Richards Street, she turned to the right, walking rapidly. I stepped off the curb to cross and got caught by the traffic light. I stood in the swarm of pedestrians and watched her cut across Richards and hurry up the short walk to the post office arcade. The light changed and I moved fast.

She disappeared around the corner to the right. I moved after her and paused at the blind Hawaiian’s newsstand at the turn. The arcade ended a short way down and Anne was in line at the far stamp window. I moved into a knot of idlers of both sexes and examined the magazines on the rack. In a few minutes high heels clacked past my back. I waited for the sound to reach the entrance to the arcade, turned — and was in time to see it take place.

Anne swerved sharply toward the exit and bumped into a man who was just entering. Her pocketbook went spinning and the man went after it. He handed it back to her and raised his hat. She thanked him briefly and hurried out. He had handed her the purse with both hands and as he stepped away from her his right hand went into his pocket and her right hand went under the flap of her bag. The money and the merchandise had changed hands. I lost interest in her.

Chapter Four Pali House

The man who had rescued her bag was the short, rodent-faced character who had been William Kahalawai’s companion last night. He took a newspaper from his pocket and pretended to scan it. He gave her time to round the corner of the Hawaiian Electric Company building, going back along King. Satisfied that no one was following her, his beady little eyes flicked over the loiterers in the arcade. I turned my back and tried to read my horoscope on a booklet in the newsstand.

When I looked around again, he had traversed the short length of sidewalk and was heading for the row of parked cars facing King Street. It was a happy accident that my coupe was in that line. Rat Face got into a 1947 station wagon and wheeled out into the King Street traffic. We turned left on Punchbowl and left again into Beretania. Soon we swung right toward the Nuuanu Pali and the windward side of the island. Once on the other side, we headed for the little town of Kaneohe, but Rat Face continued through the town and rapidly increased his speed as he left it behind.

Ten minutes later, he suddenly jammed on the brakes and turned off the road to the right. I lifted my foot from the gas but I was doing at least thirty-five when I slid past. I got a brief glimpse of a narrow overgrown trail winding between tall stands of kamani and eucalyptus trees. A hundred yards farther along another overgrown trail appeared. I parked in the bushes at the side of the trail, hurried back to the highway, took about three loping steps and did a slow double-take in the opposite direction.

Beginning inland, a low hill rose on a gradual incline toward the sea, sheered off abruptly at what I knew to be the water’s edge. At the very top of the cliff was a house, mostly of glass. It was this reflection that had caught my eyes. For whatever it was worth, I now knew the location of Walter Kent’s Pali House. I ran for the lane where the car had disappeared. There was no station wagon in view. I moved along the winding trail cautiously until it ended abruptly in a little clearing. The station wagon was parked in the center of the clearing, its dead motor still making tiny explosive snapping sounds from the heat. But Rat Face had disappeared.

A footpath led away from the clearing in the general direction of the ocean. I struck out through the underbrush at right angles to the path until I thought I was far enough away not to be heard, then swung parallel to the path and headed toward the ocean. I didn’t have far to go. The trees and underbrush ended abruptly in a short steep slope. At the foot of the slope the land flattened out into irrigated taro fields as far up and down the coast as I could see from my cramped position. The irrigated rows ran parallel to the coastline and the individual fields were separated from each other by wider irrigation ditches running at right angles to the rows. On the far side, a windbreak of bushes and stunted trees separated the fields from the brief, sandy beach and the ocean. Below me, two bent figures moved at a snail’s pace in mud and water up to their knees, between the luxuriant green rows of taro. I remembered from somewhere that the famous Hawaiian poi was made from the pounded roots of taro. It didn’t really seem to be worth all that effort.

I spotted the point where the trail path emerged into the fields. It led to the mounded bank of an irrigation ditch and proceeded along it in the direction of the ocean. Through the trees and bushes that made up the windbreak at the far end of the path I saw a small unpainted frame building. I guessed it to be an abandoned boathouse. Then I saw the third figure.

He was dressed like the others in straw hat, faded workshirt and dungarees, and he was standing motionlessly in the shade of the boathouse. He moved casually and the sunlight glinted on a metallic object in his hand. He was concentrating on the two figures in the field. He was an Oriental.

I looked back to the field. The two men had moved to a position opposite each other, working the same row. Something bothered me about the picture and I finally caught on to what it was. They had remained opposite each other much too long to be working, and yet, they couldn’t just be batting the breeze. If they were, it was the first time I had ever seen manual laborers anywhere remain in a cramped position to chat when they could be standing erect, giving their back muscles a rest. They moved apart and one of them worked back in the direction of the path. He moved faster now. When he reached the end of the row, his head bobbed up and he took a leisurely look around. He rose and made his way unhurriedly to the path and disappeared. But not before I had recognized his rat face in spite of the coolie get-up. It had been a smooth act. But I had learned how the dope changed hands.

The second man slowly worked his way back along the row, stepped onto the path and headed for the watcher at the boathouse. The two men spoke briefly and disappeared around the building.

My legs were beginning to protest against my heel-squatting position. I lowered myself to the ground and tried to massage some circulation back into them. Fifteen minutes went by and the pair didn’t reappear. I cursed the wind break that hid the narrow beach from my gaze. Farther down the beach, two husky Orientals in bathing trunks and carrying fishing spears, with goggles dangling from their necks, crossed a sandy spit going away from me. They would have had to pass the boathouse. I wondered if they had seen my field workers. Then it dawned on me. They were the two field workers! The windbreak had screened their departure and the difference of attire had almost fooled me. I could have kicked myself. I should have been able to tell that they were phony field workers when they were right under my nose. It was a small thing but it was the kind of mistake I get paid for not making. It was simply that their backs were too straight and they carried themselves with an arrogance that was not natural to the older and eternally weary field worker. I waited to be sure. Nobody appeared and I had the vast expanse all to myself.

I found the two coolie outfits, plus a .38 Smith & Wesson and a shiny Yale padlock key, stuffed in the hollow trunk of an ancient hau tree. The heavy padlock yielded easily. I swung open the wide door of the boathouse, slipped inside and lowered the patented latch. The dark interior smelled strongly of brine and creosote. A pile of dry-rotting throw-nets were heaped in a corner near the door. An inverted dinghy hung under the darkened rafters, its paint and seams in good condition. A pair of collapsible aluminum oars leaned in one rear corner, there was a barrel with a lid on it in the other. I lifted the lid and discovered an outboard motor inside. Its tank was full of gas and it was ready to go. I pulled the pile of rotting throw-nets out of the corner. Nothing was concealed either in or under them.

I got down on my hands and knees and worked my way across the slatted floor. My bruised knees began crying for mercy almost immediately, but it wasn’t until I reached the rear corner with the barrel in it that I found what I was looking for. I rolled the barrel aside, slipped my fingers through the slats and heaved. The corner section of the floor came up easily. Instead of an expanse of sand that one might normally expect to find beneath the flooring of a boathouse, there was a zinc-covered trap door about a foot beneath the floor level. I lifted the rope handle and looked down into a square concrete well. I could not tell how deep this pseudo well was because from wall to wall to within a couple of feet of the surface were duplicates of the little sealed tin that had been planted in my cottage.

I had what I wanted. At current market prices there was at least half a million dollars’ worth of heroin in the cache. I wiped the nervous sweat off my face onto my coat sleeve, let the trap door fall, put back the floor section and rolled the barrel back in the corner. I arranged the throw-nets in their original position and took a last look around. I lifted the latch, slid outside and made the padlock fast. Back at the hau tree, I put the key back in the dungarees, replaced everything as I remembered it, covered my traces as well as I could and headed for my car. Except for making an accurate mileage check back to the township limits of Kaneohe, the ride to Honolulu was uneventful and my mind was free to speculate.

Anne Seccombe wasn’t in evidence when I got back to The Bookshop. I asked the little clerk if Walter Kent was around.

“Yes,” she smiled. “He just came in.” She went back to his office, knocked and went inside. She came out in a moment and beckoned me in.

Kent’s lean flushed face had a drawn look but his smile was affable enough. He waved me to a chair. “I hear you came to see me this morning. Sorry I wasn’t in.”

I nodded slowly, examining his face.

“Well,” he raised his eyes quizzically, “what did you want to see me about?”

“You know I’m working on a job for Allan Norris, don’t you?”

“So Norris said last night.”

“There are some things about the job that have turned out to be pretty screwy,” I said, “and I need some help. Naturally, since I can’t tell you anything about the ease, I couldn’t blame you for refusing to answer questions. I hope you will answer them, though.”

Kent’s eyes narrowed and his face grew thoughtful. “Ask the questions and then we’ll talk about the answers,” he said.

“What were you and the lawyer. Carter MacDonald, doing at Norris’ house last night?”

He smiled slightly. “It was a minor business matter of no concern to anybody but Norris and myself. It couldn’t possibly have any bearing on your investigation. Unless, of course,” he grinned, “you’re investigating my credit standing?”

I shook my head. “It’s funny though,” I mused out loud, “that you and Norris should...” I trailed off.

Kent’s face clouded over. “That Norris and I should be on speaking terms after my somewhat involved marital mix-ups with his daughter?”

I nodded. “Something like that.”

“Jennifer and I both were very strongly individualistic,” Kent said slowly, “and that’s about all we had in common.” He shrugged. “It would take a psychiatrist to tell you what was really wrong with Jennifer, but a lot of the blame can be laid at her father’s door. Norris is a swell person and high-minded as hell but, as you’ve probably noticed, he likes to be the one to give the orders. I wouldn’t say he wholeheartedly approves of me but he’s too intelligent to blame me strictly for the mess we made of our marriage. Or maybe I should say ‘marriages.’ ” He grinned.

I grinned with him and asked: “You still won’t tell me about the business matter you discussed with him?”

“Hell, yes. I’ll tell you.” Kent was irritated. “Norris owns some land. I want to buy it. Does that have anything to do with your investigation?”

“Where is the land?”

Kent continued to look exasperated. “All right, here’s the whole story: I own a little hideaway on the other side of the island. It’s surrounded by fertile taro fields which Norris owns and rents much too cheaply to small farmers. I want to buy it up, drain it and plant papayas. There’s a good market for canned papaya juice and it’s getting bigger all the time.”

I looked around. “You going to be a papaya farmer and run this place, too?”

“I want to give up the bookstore. I’ve done well with it in the past, but I believe that money is going to get tight in the next few years. When it does, the first thing people are going to stop buying is books.”

“Sounds logical.” I got up and wandered over to the sectional bookcases lining the side wall. They were glassed-in and each section had a separate lock. The titles of the books were innocuous enough and the subjects ranged from ballistics to sugar technology. But most of the books had dust jackets. I turned back to Kent. “I can see why you want to get out of such a precarious business as this.”

“I wouldn’t say that it was precarious. Business has been rather good lately.”

“But it could suddenly get very bad — any day, any hour — couldn’t it?”

Kent eyed me speculatively. “What do you mean by that?”

I shrugged. “Just observant. There’s a dust jacket in there with the title, Hawaiian Salads and How to Make Them, but it doesn’t seem to fit the book very well. And it’s the first time I ever saw a cookbook with a morocco leather binding, printed on thin paper with gold edges.”

“Oh, that! I wanted to protect the leather binding from the sun and that paper jacket happened to be handy.”

“What about this one — Kings and Chiefs of Old Hawaii? The jacket doesn’t come within an inch of covering the book, the binding is cheap cloth and the pages are the poorest kind of pulp. You trying to protect that binding, too?”

“What are you trying to prove anyway?” Kent rose. “Those are rental library books that are not for the casual reader — expensive technical books. They’re not on general display because we only lend them out to qualified customers who are seriously interested in the technical aspects of a subject. What about it?”

“Would you be willing to say that eighty per cent of the books in those cases are pornography?”

“I most assuredly would not be willing to say that.” Kent grinned shamelessly. “But what the hell if they were? Who am I to dictate to people’s tastes? I just rent books — and at very fancy prices, too. It pays the overhead and helps me make available the best supply of books in town to legitimate customers.”

I grinned. “That argument made just as much sense when black market operators used it during the war. To hear them talk, they were misunderstood public benefactors.”

Kent shrugged, still grinning. “Put it down to pure personal pleasure, then. If you knew the ironic satisfaction I got out of seeing Mrs. Gotrocks or some other pillar of society come in and plank down twenty bucks for a piece of elegant filth, you wouldn’t have the heart to deny me that pleasure.”

“Your office manager is a junky, isn’t she?” I asked quietly.

Kent paled. “What was that?”

I studied his face. “You did know Miss Seccombe was a drug addict, didn’t you?”

His face hardened. “I didn’t, and I don’t believe it either.”

But he did believe it. He couldn’t have looked worse if I had kicked him in the belly. His reaction was obviously sincere. How she had managed to keep it a secret from him was something I would have to find out from her. Kent sat down. “Ford, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He ran his hand through his hair. “I’ve known Anne Seccombe since she was knee-high to a grasshopper.”

I stared at him. “I gathered that she was a friend of yours but I thought you knew about it. I brought it up to throw your argument back in your face — about how much fun it was to stand by and watch a fellow human give in to a weakness he doesn’t know how to control. I didn’t know it would be such a blow to you.”

“You made your point.” Kent shook his head dumbly.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Come in!” Kent called.

The little clerk opened the door. “Mr. Kent, the driver is here with the books that came in on the Lurline and I don’t know where Miss Seccombe wanted them stored.” She stood in the doorway helplessly.

Kent sighed and stood up. “I’ll be right out.” The girl bowed and exited. Kent turned to me. “You want to stick around for a drink? I won’t be more than five minutes. And I need one.”

I shook my head. “I’m bushed from lack of sleep. I’m going back to the cottage and take a nap.”

Kent stared at me reflectively and shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He held the door open for me.

Chapter Five Four-way Gunfight

Back at the Hanauma, I detoured through the main office to see if there were any calls. The clerk handed me a brief telephone memorandum: “I want to see you. Important. — Maile S.” I waited until I got back to the cottage before dialing her Kahala number.

The maid who answered the phone said that Miss Sherrod was out and hadn’t left word when she would be back. I left my name and hung up. I checked the latches on the outside doors and searched the cottage from top to bottom. Nobody had planted any more heroin on me. I took a warm tub and climbed into bed, intending to sleep until supper.

I don’t know how long I slept. I was dreaming about a four-way gunfight with Norris, Kent and Vecelli when a little dark man crept up behind me and I woke up suddenly. The guns were still firing.

By the time I had recovered my wits enough to leap out of bed, all was silent again. Outside the bedroom window I saw that night had fallen. Maybe the shots had been in my imagination. Then I heard a scratching sound against the front screen. As I piled into my clothes in the dark, something metallic thudded on the floor of the lanai. I crouched low, flipped on the light in the living room and, gun in hand, threw open the front door.

Anne Seccombe lay in the pool of light, her head toward the door. She struggled to her hands and knees and stared at me with the dumb, incoherent look of approaching death. I knelt and saw the crimson splotch beginning to spread across her back. I put my arm around her for support and felt the stickiness dribble down my fingers. Apparently she had been on the point of knocking at my door when she was shot in the back. Her jaw worked with difficulty and tears formed in her eyes. She uttered the one word, “Ruiz—” and died in my arms. I lowered her gently to the lanai and looked around.

A few feet away lay a Japanese officer’s pistol. There were hundreds of such souvenir weapons in Honolulu. I rose and started toward it. There was a rustle of movement. I ducked and caught a glancing blow over the temple. I went down to my hands and knees, rolled my head groggily and tried to bring the gun up. The light went out in the living room as a heel ground my wrist into the floor, and the feeling went out of my arm. My fingers relaxed and I didn’t have the gun as I rolled to a sitting position. The sap crashed down again and I went over on my back. Instead of being unconscious, I floated in a slug-drunk realm where I could hear perfectly but couldn’t make my eyes focus and had no control over my movements. There was a shuffle of feet and I heard a Kanaka voice remonstrate: “Don’t slug him again. Waste-time trying to carry such a big fella. Make him walk.”

A strong pair of hands lifted me to my feet. My knees tried to buckle, my eyes came gradually into focus and I found myself staring up into the dark face of a grinning Kanaka. I say “up.” I’m six-one and this guy was a giant of at least six-four or five. Rat Face stood beside him, holding my .38 in one hand and a Colt Woodsman in the other. The Kanaka continued to grin. “You understand what I say?”

I nodded.

“O.K., we’re going for a little ride. You be good and nobody gets hurt. You make trouble and we make you very unhappy.” He held a big fist under my nose.

“Where are we going?”

“We go see a fella. No more talk now. You be good?”

I was in no shape to take on the big lug and I had no desire to argue with Rat Face’s guns. “Let’s go,” I said.

We walked through the shrubbery to the garages without attracting attention. Two solicitous friends helping a drunk on his way. The station wagon I had followed earlier stood waiting. The Kanaka drove and Rat Face sat beside me in the rear with the Colt in his lap. The ride was brief and didn’t take us out of Waikiki. It ended in the parking lot at the rear of the Hobron Club. Rat Face addressed the Kanaka: “I’ll do the talking to the boss, Malo. You keep your yap shut.”

Malo looked hurt. “Sure, sure, Ruiz. Don’t I always take my play from you? Do I make mistakes?”

“Just do what I tell you and shut up,” Ruiz snarled.

“Sure, leave it to Malo. We take him upstairs?”

“Come on.”

We walked across the lot and up to the rear door. Ruiz knocked and the door was opened by an aproned Filipino who recognized Ruiz and walked away paying no more attention to us. We were in the nightclub kitchen with all its attendant noises and clattering confusion. We walked through and came out in a narrow hall on the opposite side. Directly across from us were the swinging doors leading to the nightclub proper. At one end of the hall a red exit light glowed dimly. We turned in the opposite direction and mounted the stairs.

There were swinging doors on the second floor in approximately the same place as those below. We had to step back as they swung inward on us and Jocko Vecelli came through. I caught a glimpse of a wide, low ceiling room, not too fancy. A black cloth cyclorama hung in folds around the circumference of the room. It was a neat idea for killing several birds with one stone. It centered attention on the gaming tables, acted as a blackout curtain, deadened sound and probably saved Jocko a lot of money in decorations.There were about two dozen players in the room and the low hum of conversation blended with the hollow rattle of the ivory pellet whirling in the roulette wheel and the soft voice of the house man calling odds at the crap table. There were other seated games and I already knew enough about Honolulu to know that monte, fantan and the inevitable black jack would be among them.

Vecelli gestured silently toward the door in the opposite wall. Malo started to haul me forward, but I suddenly dug my heels in. As my eyes had roamed the big room I had caught a glimpse of Maile Sherrod standing at the roulette table talking animatedly to the croupier. He was smiling and shaking his head at whatever she was saying. The swinging door blotted out my view, Malo tugged again and I allowed myself to be dragged into Vecelli’s office.

Jocko had apparently had too much experience with short-memoried politicians and crooked vice squad cops to splurge on an expensive layout. The office walls were stained plywood paneling, the floor was covered with maroon carpeting and the desk was a good efficient metal one without adornment. The only wall decoration hung behind the desk — and proved that Vecelli had a sense of humor of sorts. It was a large framed, signed photograph of Honolulu’s Chief of Police, an estimable gentleman who undoubtedly would have blown his top had he known where it was hanging.

Vecelli crossed the office ahead of us and opened a door in the side wall. “Take him in here.”

It was a small storeroom with a single unshaded light bulb hanging down from the ceiling. Broken chairs were piled in one corner, a battered crap table with one leg missing leaned against the wall and old menus, poker chips and odds and ends of junk were scattered on the floor. The room was on the corner directly over the kitchen. The windows on both sides had been painted black.

Vecelli closed the door and turned to me. “I warned you to stay out of my affairs, Ford.”

I grinned. “You also said you could take care of your affairs personally.” Ruiz pulled my gun out of his pocket. Vecelli spoke to him without taking his eyes off me. “Put the rod away. I don’t want any shooting here.”

Ruiz continued to hold the gun on me. “I’m not gonna plug him — yet.” He turned to Malo. “Tie him up.”

Malo went over to the corner, picked up a dirty length of clothesline and proceeded to tie my wrists behind me. Ruiz stepped to one side and inspected the knots. He nodded in satisfaction and moved around to face me. Suddenly he reached up and slammed the barrel of the automatic against my jaw. I staggered back and fell against the wall. Ruiz shifted the gun to his other hand and drove his fist into my stomach. I jack-knifed and went down to my knees. Ruiz leaned forward. “The boss don’t like wisecracks, shamus. Be respectful.”

Vecelli pulled him aside. “Get up,” he ordered.

I got slowly to my feet, resigned to the fact that I was going to get a good going over. Vecelli grasped my shirt front. “Tough guy!” He spat full in my face. “Here’s a guy thinks he can bump off one of Vecelli’s boys and come around to brag about it. ’At’s the trouble with you Coast punks. You get one block off the Strip and you think you’re pushing around a bunch of hayseeds.”

I said: “What did you have to kill Anne Seccombe for?”

Vecelli turned slowly on Ruiz. “What’s he talking about?”

Ruiz looked sullen. “We’re in kind of a jam, boss.”

“What kind of a jam are we in?” Vecelli asked ominously.

“I had to plug the Seccombe dame. She was going into Ford’s place when she spotted us.”

“You gun-crazy fool!” Vecelli exploded. “Who gave you any orders to kill a dame?”

“She spotted us, boss,” Ruiz whined. “Besides,” he added reproachfully, “Ford ain’t a tourist. He don’t have no social callers.”

Vecelli considered this and nodded slowly.

“The way I figured it,” said Ruiz, gaining courage, “if a local girl disappears, people ask questions. But if she gets plugged at Ford’s cottage and Ford disappears, everything still gets taken care of.”

Vecelli was still sore but his mind began to examine the idea. “You kill her with your own rod?”

Ruiz grinned. “I used a souvenir Jap pistol I carry for emergencies.”

“Where is it?”

“Beside her body. No fingerprints.” He grinned wolfishly. “If the punk disappears off Makapuu Point tonight, he’ll be halfway to California tomorrow.”

Vecelli came to a decision. “It was a dumb play but it can’t be helped. Leave him in here and we’ll take him for a ride after we close.”

Ruiz moved in on me again. “I’ll fix him so he won’t make any noise.” He drew back his gun hand.

Malo grabbed Ruiz’s arm. “One minute. ’Scuse me, boss,” he said apologetically to Vecelli. “More-better not to mark him up so much. Might be, we change our minds again.” He grinned wickedly. “All we want is make him sleep till time to go, huh?”

Vecelli nodded.

“O.K.” Malo pushed Ruiz aside, rolled his shoulders once and with a look of childish glee, smashed his big fist into the point of my jaw. Stars did pin-wheels under my skull and then a red wave was succeeded by a black wave and I was falling through space.

I had no idea of time. When I came to, the room was dark and the pain in my jaw swept over me in sickening waves. I struggled to a sitting position, started to topple, threw out an arm and caught myself. My hands were no longer tied! I fumbled around in the darkness, found the rope, felt the ends. They had been cut through sharply. This was no time to go around looking for somebody to thank. I tiptoed across the room and raised the rear window. It gave onto a sloping roof over the kitchen door.

I lowered myself from the window and let go. My feet went out from under me, I clawed frantically at the edge of the roof, missed, and tumbled unceremoniously to the ground.

I got up and dusted myself off as a sedan eased into the parking lot. I backed into the shadows and watched two laughing couples get out of the car and head toward the front entrance of the club. They paid no attention when I moved in behind them. They turned in at the entrance, stopped and chatted with the doorman. I hurried on. I hailed a cab on Kalakaua and directed the Filipino driver to the tan tile and brick edifice that housed Honolulu Police Headquarters.

Lieutenant Walter Chun was a slender broad-shouldered Chinese in the middle thirties. He was wearing civvies, had shining black patent leather hair and hard intelligent eyes that gleamed like black enamel. He appeared to be satisfied with my credentials and showed neither surprise, suspicion nor any other emotion at my story. But when I had finished, his lips were thin.

“You should have come to us in the first place.”

I shrugged. “I told you why I didn’t. I was just going through the motions to prove to my client that it wouldn’t work. I couldn’t know I was going to get the breaks beforehand.”

“You knew last night.”

“O.K., maybe I played it wrong according to you. But I’m bringing you a lot of information tonight. Are you willing to go along with my plan?”

Chun eyed me expressionlessly. “You know if your scheme doesn’t work, that won’t be the end of it. You won’t see California again for a long, long time.”

I didn’t want to think about that. I brushed it aside. “If it does work?”

Chun smiled slightly. “Then I think the haul will be big enough for us to overlook your somewhat unorthodox behavior.”

“What are we waiting for?”

Chun rose to his feet and indicated the desk phone. “You can use that phone. I’ll get a car and a driver.” He moved swiftly and silently out of the office.

I reached for the telephone book and located Allan Norris’ Makiki Heights number. Norris himself answered the phone.

“Ford speaking. Do you want to clean up that business tonight?”

There was a pause. Finally Norris said: “Do you mean you’ve really found something important?”

“More than that. I think I can wrap the whole thing up.”

“Well—” Norris hesitated. “Do it then. That’s what you were hired to do, isn’t it?”

“I think you ought to be in at the kill.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I think so.”

“Very well, what do you want me to do?”

I looked at the map of Honolulu under the glass top of the desk. “Be on the corner of Nuuanu and Iolani in fifteen minutes. I’ll pick you up there.”

“Can you tell me anything now?”

“I’m pressed for time and there are too many angles.”

“Very well — oh, by the way, Carter MacDonald is here with me now. May I bring him along?”

I grinned into the phone. “Sure, bring him along.” I hung up and reached for the directory.

I located Walter Kent’s Wilhelmina Rise number and dialled. I made my voice hurried and business-like when Kent answered the phone. “I haven’t got much time to talk. You remember that business we were discussing today?”

Kent’s voice was surprised. “We talked about a lot of things.”

“The book business?”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “The books in my office?”

“Right. There’s a chance you may not be in that business unless you act fast.”

“What’s happened?”

“I’m on my way to the other side of the Island. If you could be at that Pali House of yours about an hour from now, I could stop in.”

There was another pause. “Couldn’t you stop by here first?”

“My business across the Island is urgent. Listen, Kent, I’m doing you a favor. Nobody’s forcing you to come.”

“I suppose there’s no other way,” Kent said dubiously. “All right, the Pali House in an hour.”

“Or thereabouts. I’ll see you then. So long.” I hung up as Chun returned, loading an extra police revolver. I got the number of the Hobron Club. A voice I didn’t recognize answered the phone.

“Get Jocko Vecelli on the phone.”

“Who’s calling?”

“Get Vecelli.”

“He’s busy now and don’t want to be disturbed.”

“Tell him Johnny Ford wants to talk to him.”

“O.K.”

Vecelli’s urgent business didn’t keep him from getting to the phone in one minute flat. “Ford?”

“Yeah. Sorry I had to run out on you but I had some things to take care of.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ve got some information you want.”

“I’ll settle for you telling me where you are.”

“Skip it. A certain party doesn’t think the Hobron Club is a good influence on the community, Jocko. I think you’re going to be closed up.”

“Nuts.”

“Maybe. We’re having a little meeting. You want to join us?”

Vecelli cursed. “Who is ‘we’?”

“You want to come or not?”

Jocko paused. “What about the girl over at your place?”

“We can take care of that, too.”

“Where’s the meeting?”

“You know Walter Kent’s place on the other side of the Island?”

“Is he in on this?”

“Don’t waste time. If you’re interested, be there in an hour and a half.”

“Say! Wait a minute!” Jocko’s voice was suspicious. “This is no long distance call.”

“Did I say it was? You’ve got your choice: be at Kent’s place in an hour and a half — or else!” I slammed down the receiver and winked at Chun.

He tossed the revolver to me and nodded. “He’ll come. Let’s get going.”

“What about Anne Seccombe’s body?”

“I’ve already dispatched a car.”

Chapter Six Heroin Hideout

We hurried down to the big basement garage where a wiry young uniformed cop of Japanese ancestry stood beside a purring sedan. Chun said his name was Matsu and introduced me. Matsu climbed under the wheel and as Chun and I settled ourselves into the rear seat, Chun grinned at me. “By the way, you know who owns the Hobron Club, don’t you?”

“Giacomo Vecelli.”

“I mean the physical property — the building and the lot it stands on.”

I looked at him. “Not my client?”

Chun nodded. “Allan Norris.”

It gave me something else to think about as the police car howled out into Bethel Street.

Norris and MacDonald were waiting as we slid to a stop at Nuuanu and Iolani. I introduced Chun to them while he climbed into the front seat beside Matsu, and Norris and MacDonald got into the back with me. As soon as we were rolling, Matsu opened the siren and we wailed up Nuuanu Valley. The few cars we encountered on the lonely road darted over to the side like unprotected infantry under the onslaught of dive bombers. I’ll never know how we managed to stay on the road when we skidded around the top of the Pali and twisted down the treacherous turns on the other side of the mountain. Once, Norris jerked out a nervous, “Where are we going?” over the screaming complaint of the tires.

I grunted noncommittally and didn’t answer.

We made it to Kaneohe in nineteen minutes and it was an experience I wouldn’t care to repeat. A few brief minutes later, Matsu slammed on the brakes, threw the wheel over and we bumped up the dirt trail. Then we were skidding to a stop in the clearing. Chun turned. “This it?”

I nodded. “This is it.”

Chun, Matsu and I piled out hurriedly. Norris and MacDonald were getting out when Chun stopped them. “I think it would be best if you gentlemen waited here.” They sank back into the car, MacDonald silently, Norris muttering. Chun took Matsu to one side.

“You stay with them, Matsu.”

Matsu showed his teeth. “Am I protecting them or guarding them?”

Chun’s eyes glinted. “Both.”

Matsu nodded and I led Chun off down the path. We paused at the foot of the slope to reconnoiter. The flat taro fields were bathed in the light of a fat oversize orange moon that looked more like Culver City corn than the real thing. When a low-lying cloud drifted across its face, we bent low and took the irrigation path on the double. I found the hollow hau tree, knelt and reached inside. The hollow trunk was too hollow.

Frantically, I reached around inside and grabbed fistfuls of air. I stared stupidly into the beam of Chun’s flash. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream. I got up and hurried to the boathouse. The padlock was gone and the doors hung open dispiritedly. Chun came up behind me and played his light over the interior.

The dinghy was gone from the rafters, the oars and the barrel with its outboard motor were gone. Nothing was left except the pile of throw-nets in the corner. I knelt and lifted the slatted floorboards. The trap door was still in place anyway. I grasped the rope handle and heaved. The concrete well was filled with sea water. I threw off my coat, rolled up my sleeve and fished beneath the surface. I could have saved myself the trouble. I let the lid fall into place, rolled down my sleeve and picked up my coat.

“This makes it look like I made up the whole thing.”

“Not so good,” Chun admitted, and I noticed he moved away from me.

“You don’t have to use that tone,” I said.

Chun shrugged. “You admit fighting with Kahalawai; you admit planting the dope on him and you admit Miss Seccombe died in your presence. Norris has got some questions to answer about his daughter’s death, but you were in on that, too.”

“Would I have gone to all this trouble to attract attention to myself?”

Chun smiled. “You did.”

“Look,” I pleaded, “we’ve still got a chance if we play it out. At least we can go to Kent’s place and see what happens.”

“Whatever happens, can happen to me,” Chun said softly.

I grinned. “You hope I’m right or you’d be running me in instead of arguing. Plant Matsu outside while we go in. There’s only one way down from that place.”

Chun said: “Let’s go.”

We went back to the car and got in without explanations. Actually, it wasn’t until Chun gave Matsu the directions that I felt reassured about the remainder of what I laughingly call the best years of my life.

Kent’s garage was some thirty yards down the slope from the house. Matsu eased the car to a stop and cut the lights. We got out and Chun turned to Matsu.

“Stay out of sight and don’t come unless I call you personally. Anything funny happens, give us a horn.”

Matsu nodded and drifted away into the shadows. The rest of us trudged single file up to the house. As we reached the doorway, lights blazed and Walter Kent stood grinning in the entrance. “Welcome to the Pali House, Hawkshaw.” He looked at Norris in surprise. “Hello, Allan. Is this your party, too?”

Norris shook his head. “Don’t you know what it’s all about either?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” Kent shook hands with MacDonald and looked at Chun. “I don’t believe I’ve met this gentleman.”

“His name is Chun,” I said. “Let’s go inside.”

The wide hallway led to a dropped living room running the width of the house. The ceiling-to-floor drapes were pulled back, revealing a solid window across the front of the room. The indirect lights were low and I had the feeling of walking out into the night as I entered the room. The window was like a huge mural with its high moon and millions of stars suspended in the velvet blue-blackness of the Pacific night.

I moved over to the big window with something like awe and looked down at the reflected starlight on the water. The ocean was barely stirring except directly below us where the breakers rolled in majestically but futilely, to spend themselves on the scattered rocks at the foot of the cliff.

Kent busied himself pouring drinks. “You’ll have to excuse the looks of the place,” he apologized. “I just got here myself.”

I looked around the room. There was nothing to apologize for. Fine Oriental rugs lay scattered on the koa wood floors. The furniture was low and comfortable. Richly bound books lined the walls and added a final touch of luxurious ease to the scene. Kent finished handing out the drinks and for a moment it was like the awkward silence at a party where the guests haven’t been introduced. Then light sprayed across the side windows and the rattle of gravel on the drive announced the arrival of another car. Everyone remained silent and I felt the tension begin to mount.

Footsteps sounded and Kent opened the door.

Jocko Vecelli came in warily, followed by a silent and watchful Ruiz. The big, moon-faced grinning Malo came in last. Kent greeted Jocko familiarly, nodded to Ruiz and Malo and led them into the living room. He looked at me ironically. “Have I any more guests coming?”.

I shook my head and watched the new arrivals. Jocko looked at me coldly and turned his attention to the rest. Ruiz fastened his little cobra-eyes on me with a noticeable lack of affection.

Malo beamed at me. “Hi, Mac. We been looking all over for you.”

Kent spoke to Vecelli. “What will you have to drink?”

Vecelli looked around. “You got any wine?”

Kent looked apologetic. “I have a little White Burgundy but it isn’t chilled. Would you prefer whiskey?”

“Burgundy.”

Kent turned to the others.

“Got rye?” Ruiz asked.

“Of course.”

“I’ll take rye.”

“Me too,” Malo grinned. “Make mine double. I’m big fellow.”

When they had their drinks, Vecelli raised his glass. Everybody drank and as if at a signal, the glasses were lowered and all eyes turned toward me. All but Ruiz. He was looking at Chun. “What’s the copper here for?” he demanded.

Kent turned to Chun. “Are you a policeman?”

“I am,” said Chun. “Let’s get on with it, Ford. Who’s who and what’s what?”

I faced the others and started in to stir up the most trouble in the shortest amount of time. “First,” I said, “I’ll begin by saying that everybody in this room with the exception of Lieutenant Chun is guilty of some criminal action, and I may add,” I said pleasantly, “that I don’t like any of you and I’m sure that your collective mothers bayed at the moon.”

There were several growls at this and Carter MacDonald spoke up. “Apparently, I am not alone in taking exception to your remarks, Mr. Ford. You have been a focal point of irritation ever since you arrived in the Islands. It may interest you to know that I’ve tried to persuade my client to dispense with your services before you involve him in any further trouble. I may also point out that your rather childish invective lays you open to libel charges.”

“We’ll begin with you,” I said coldly. “You are Norris’ business and legal adviser, aren’t you?”

“I have that honor.”

“Then I may point out,” I said ironically, “that when you O.K. a deal whereby Allan Norris rents out his property to a known gambler, you sure as hell are guilty of criminal behavior even if there’s no law against it. The fact that you’re too good a lawyer for anybody to be able to prove that you had knowledge of the gambling is beside the point. Everyone in Honolulu knows about the Hobron Club. That rent is just as much a part of the house take as the money Vecelli pockets.” I turned to Norris. “We won’t waste time talking about morals and ethics. My client, besides being guilty of criminal behavior, is guilty of actual law-breaking in withholding facts of a crime in the death of his daughter. Vecelli is guilty of running a gambling house and probably of bribing vice squad cops. Our host,” I grinned at Kent, “is able to furnish a layout like this at least in part from the rental of obscene books. The two stooges,” I nodded at Ruiz and Malo, “are guilty of assorted crimes including kidnapping and murder. Modesty forbids a listing of my own crimes,” I said shyly.

“Get down to business,” Chun said impatiently. He was grinning.

I nodded. “A drug ring in Honolulu is anxious to see me get out of the Islands. They tried to encourage me with a bribe and planted dope in my cottage in case I didn’t take the hint. Jennifer Norris was murdered last night and I was waylaid by her murderers. I was lucky enough to get the guy who did the actual killing — William Kahalawai. Today I spotted his pal and followed him. He led me to a cache of over half a million dollars’ worth of heroin. It was hidden on property also belonging to Allan Norris. It’s obvious that a man as well known as Norris couldn’t run around peddling dope but—”

MacDonald squeaked out again. “I protest against your continued libels against my client’s character.”

“Shut up!” I snarled. “I’m stating facts and I’ll do it my way. I said Norris didn’t run around peddling dope, and he didn’t. But the punk I followed works for a man who has got the organization to handle it. Ruiz works for Jocko Vecelli.”

I got all the action I wanted in the next few moments.

“I knew it was a frame!” Vecelli spat. He went for the gun in his shoulder holster. Guns appeared in various hands and I beat Vecelli to the draw but didn’t fire. Because Vecelli crumpled to the floor with a slug through his head.

The smoking .38 was in the hand of Walter Kent whose elbow still rested on the open top drawer of his desk. Malo stood by the door, a A5 in his big mitt, not smiling now, and looking to Ruiz for his cue. Ruiz covered the room with his Woodsman and backed toward the fireplace. Kent’s face creased in a hard grin.

“I’m sorry, Ford,” he apologized, “you could have used his testimony.”

“Drop your guns and raise your hands.” Lieutenant Chun spoke to Ruiz and Malo.

Suddenly, outside the house, three shots rang out in quick succession. All of us were startled but nobody took his eyes off anybody else. A twisted grin curled over Ruiz’s face. Chun turned his gun on him.

“It’s three to two. You want to shoot it out?”

Ruiz continued to grin. I looked around unhappily. Norris was out of line of fire, staring uncomprehendingly at the scene. MacDonald was down on his hands and knees, blinking owlishly over the top of his glasses. Perspiration stood out on his pale forehead. I wanted to tell him to move over and kneel down beside him. I spoke to Chun.

“You got the odds right but on the wrong side. It’s three to two against us. Kent was running a bluff.”

Malo darted a quick look at Ruiz, whether for confirmation of my statement or for instructions I didn’t know.

“I don’t get it,” said Chun without taking his eyes off Ruiz.

I tried to relax my tense muscles. “Ruiz and Malo are both rodded. Why didn’t they cut Kent down as soon as he plugged Jocko?” I took a step backward. “There seem to be three guns pointing at us.”

Chun looked around slowly into the barrels of three guns.

I said: “These two boys officially worked for Vecelli but they ran dope for Kent and took orders from him. Vecelli didn’t know that.” I turned to Kent. “That was a dumb play of yours — giving yourself away.”

Kent grinned. “On the contrary, there was a possibility you wouldn’t spot the contradiction in which way the guns pointed. But you would never have been suspicious if you hadn’t already discovered other evidence. I seem to be in the driver’s seat, Lieutenant. Do you still want to shoot it out?”

“So it’s you,” Chun glowered. “We can take at least two of you with us.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be sufficient,” Kent said. “We most certainly will take both of you. Take their guns, Ruiz.” Ruiz slid behind us while we stood there like dopes, and the game was up. We handed over our guns.

“Now,” Kent said, “I don’t want you to have any false hopes. From the number of shots outside, I would say that you left one policeman on guard. I assure you that he has been taken care of.”

“How do you think you’re going to take care of all of us?” I inquired.

“Simple.” Kent grinned slyly. “You and the lieutenant will die from each other’s guns and in the melee Norris and MacDonald will crash through the front window to the rocks below. It’s a bit melodramatic but when you remember that I and my friends will be the only surviving witnesses, it ought not to be hard to put over.”

I stared at the guy. He didn’t seem to be a bit nuts. I said: “Since you’re crazy enough to think you can get away with that, maybe you’re crazy enough to answer a question that’s been bothering me.”

“What is it?”

“How did you get mixed up in this racket anyway?”

“Accident.” Kent smiled. “Purely by accident. One day while walking on the beach, I discovered that old boathouse and explored it. I came across the cache of heroin. It had apparently been smuggled into the Islands before the war and of course, December 7th put an end to dope traffic from the Orient to the Mainland. I don’t know what happened to the original owners. Perhaps they were interned at the outbreak, perhaps they were killed. At any rate, I set my two servants on watch and when nobody showed up within a reasonable time I took over. I found the man I needed to distribute it in Ruiz, who was working for Vecelli. I might mention that Ruiz didn’t know where the cache was located. No one knew that but me and my two Chinese boys. Also, I knew nothing of the identity of Ruiz’s clients. That was his responsibility. And he hired his own assistants. Kahalawai was one such assistant and this chap, Malo, helps him at present.”

I said: “Ruiz and Kahalawai planted the dope and the money in my cottage and you telephoned me. Right?”

“Of course, and from Allan Norris’ house.” Kent grinned. “So you see the ‘dope ring’ you spoke of actually consists of me, my two servants and these two. Amusing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I said. “About as amusing as Anne Seccombe’s death.”

Kent’s face clouded. “That was one of the unfortunate weaknesses of our system. I would certainly never have permitted her to get the habit through any action of mine.”

“You sentenced her to death.”

“Unfortunate,” Kent said coldly. “There was nothing else to do. I went to her apartment after you left this afternoon and stupidly tried to warn her by telling her that you, a private detective, had discovered her habit. She became despondent and decided to expose Ruiz to the authorities before going to a sanitarium. Then she decided to go to you instead. I couldn’t dissuade her. Naturally, she had to be stopped.”

“Like your ex-wife had to be stopped,” I said.

Kent looked tired. “Jennifer discovered the truth some time ago. She was loyal and kept her mouth shut. If she had been sent to a sanitarium I wouldn’t have worried. But when Norris sent for you and continued to hold her incommunicado at home, I was afraid she would crack. I was not happy about it.”

“Very hard on you,” I sneered.

Kent came to life. “All right, Ruiz, let’s get it over. Mr. Ford may have the honor of dying first. Use the lieutenant’s gun.”

Ruiz put the other guns on the desk, moved to the center of the room with Chun’s revolver. In the shadow of a moment that followed I wondered inanely if my secretary back in L.A. would have trouble finding another job. Ruiz’s hand tightened on the trigger and my eyes closed instinctively. A gun roared and my ears rang, but I didn’t feel any pain. I opened my eyes in surprise.

Ruiz wheeled in the center of the room clutching his arm. Slowly the gun dropped from his hand. Every face in that room wore a look of surprise — except Malo’s. As Ruiz whimpered and sank to his knees Malo grinned. “Morebetter we do it this way.”

Kent started to rise. “You fool!”

“Sit down, Mister Kent.”

But Kent continued to rise and that was the last I saw of him for a moment. Ruiz scrambled for the gun on the floor and Chun and I dove for it at the same moment. Mrs. Ford’s little boy, Johnny, came up with the gun in time to see Kent whirl and fire at Malo. Malo went down on one knee and put another shot where it would do the most good, in Kent’s arm. Kent dropped his gun, cast a wild look around the room and raced toward Norris and MacDonald who were rooted to the floor near the window. I tried a wing shot, caught Kent in the thigh. His leg buckled but he kept going. I threw another shot and Kent’s other leg buckled. But it was too late. Norris made a halfhearted attempt to grab him as his body pitched forward and crashed through the window. There was no sound after the smashing of the glass. Just silence.

Suddenly the front door banged open and a Chinese raced in. “Everything O.K.?” He stopped, surprised. “Where’s Mr. Kent?”

“Quick! Where’s other fella?” Malo shouted.

“Damn cop got him,” the Chinese said. “I winged the cop. What am I supposed to—?” Suddenly an awful suspicion crossed his face and his gun came up. Malo and I cut him down at the same moment.

Malo turned to the rest of us. “And that ends that,” he said, without a trace of pidgin.

The clock in my cottage living room said three A.M. and I was on my fourth drink and couldn’t even feel it. I was still wound up. Maile Sherrod sat across from me doing very well on her third drink.

“... That about winds it up,” I said. “This big lug wasn’t Hawaiian at all but Samoan. The Federal Narcotics Bureau needed an undercover man and they wanted somebody with a Polynesian background who was unknown. So they borrowed Harry Malo from the Samoan police. Malo had found out that the Hobron Club was a distribution point and had gotten a job there as dishwasher. He got on to Kahalawai and Ruiz, and he thought Vecelli was the boss but he didn’t have any evidence to prove it. He spent six months working his way into Ruiz’s good graces and when Kahalawai went out of the picture Ruiz took him on.”

“But he was with Ruiz when Anne was killed.”

“There wasn’t anything he could do about it. He didn’t know what was up until they spotted Anne at my door and Ruiz had fired. Malo had to string along. He did make it easier for me though. Twice he stopped Ruiz from working my skull over and he cut the ropes that allowed me to escape from Vecelli. He did everything he could do without giving himself away.”

Maile still looked puzzled. “What happened to all that dope?”

I shrugged. “We don’t know for sure but we think that Kent had given up the game rather than take any more risks. He was a gambler but he was no fool. If we’re right, he probably dumped it somewhere off the reef, possibly when Ruiz and Malo were supposed to be taking care of me. The cops, the Federal boys and the Coast Guard are going to start dragging for it this morning.”

Maile sighed. “It’s as wild a story as I ever heard.”

I thought about Norris’ folded check in my wallet and it didn’t seem so wild to me. “Well, it’s practically finished,” I said.

“Practically?”

“There’s one more thing to clear up.”

Maile looked inquiring.

“What were you doing on the second floor of the Hobron Club tonight?”

Maile blushed. “Looking for you.”

“You left a telephone message for me in the afternoon. What was the important thing you wanted to talk to me about?”

“It was just a wild idea I had.”

“What was it?”

“It sounds foolish.”

“What was it?”

She blushed to the roots of her hair. “Well, I... kind of wanted to see you again so I conceived the bright idea of suggesting that you stay out here a while and maybe open a branch of your agency. It was just a gag.” She stared at me defiantly.

I put down my drink and got up. “O.K.,” I said, advancing on her, “I can go along with a gag.”