Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 24, No. 4. Whole No. 131, October 1954

There Are No Snakes in Hawaii by Juanita Sheridan

Few of us are fortunate enough to travel extensively, and even fewer have the good luck to visit, let alone live for a time in, the Hawaiian Islands. Well, we can’t give you an all-expense-paid trip to that paradise of the Pacific — but, believe it or not, we can offer you the the next best thing! For we now bring you a suspense novelette — the tale of the inexorable events leading up to tragedy — set against the background, of the real Hawaii, the Hawaii that tourists never see. It is a beautifully written story, by a mature writer who lived in Hawaii for seven years, and knows whereof she speaks. You will, vicariously, see the travel-folder sights — Kilauea volcano, the Waikiki beach curving out toward Diamond Head, the Kanaka surf; but you will also — and a good notch above the vicarious — experience the color, the sound, the feel, the smell, even the taste of true Hawaiian hospitality and customs.

For the space of a novelette you will live among jagged mountains and legendary canyons, in valleys like Gardens of Eden, in a land of thundering waterfalls where “rainbows tilted from Manoa into the sea”; you will see the hulas, smell the leis, hear the alohas; you will have the thrill of spearing fish at night with Kukui torches; you will eat laulaus — salt salmon, butterfish, and pork wrapped in ti leaves; you will witness the courtship dance — a dance no tourist ever sees; you will attend that wonderful feast, a luau — tropical fruit surrounded by fern fronds and hibiscus blossoms, and pigs roasted in the imu with red yams and breadfruit and crayfish and... but why keep you from the next-to-the-best thing? If your mouth does not already water, if your mind is not already whetted, if your curiosity is not already piqued, then even the suspense and crime and fascinating characters in Juanita Sheridan s fine story will not help.

“Johnie” Sheridan is, in her own words, “one-half domestic fowl and the other half adventuress.” We hope fervently to have other stories by her, and when these come through we will tell you more about Juanita Sheridan’s real-life escapades, especially her pioneering in — of all places! — Rockland County, New York. She is the author of among other books, THE KAHUNA KILLER, THE MAMO MURDERS, and most recently, THE WAIKIKI WIDOW — all splendid detective novels about one of her favorite spots on earth, the happy (and on occasion homicidal) Hawaiian Islands.

If you are ever fortunate enough to go to Hawaii, one of the first stories you’ll hear, from island hosts, your tour conductor, or perhaps another malihini on the beach, is about the man who stopped off ten years ago to have his laundry done — and who is still there. The laundry story is told in terms of demobilized service men, schoolteachers, a bored executive, or the prim secretary who found her inhibitions dissolved in the sun and silky waters. There are infinite versions — and in Hawaii you accept them all.

This is especially true if you happen to belong to that unshockable, curiosity-ridden tribe of human oddities known as writers. Then you become a sort of perambulating storage vault of stories, many of them unprintable. Some are cackled into your ear at cocktail parties, others you may hear in a whispered voice, harsh with the relief of telling.

A few of the unprintables concern those unlucky souls who did not find paradise in the Pacific. Generally they are individuals to whom the discarding of social posturings means the exposure of spirits as flabby as the physical nakedness they shrink from uncovering. When for some reason they are forced to remain in our sundrenched latitudes, their puny rebellion manifests itself in sharpened voices, tight mouths, and personalities gone sour.

But there are certain heliophobes of more stubborn fibre. If the relaxed life of a tropical island is a threat to them, then adjustment is impossible. Resentment and vindictiveness seethe in their hearts like fury rumbling in the vitals of Kilauea, gathering force which must ultimately erupt and destroy — as the dreaded lava sears the soil.

Today an eruption of Kilauea is a big attraction; it looks terrific in Technicolor. The human analogy is something else again, not mentioned by the Hawaii Tourist Bureau. But if you stay in the Islands long enough you will hear about it. You may even see it happen — as we saw it happen to the Purcells.

Surely I do not have to point out that the roots of murder, like the soil-probing roots of a tree destined to bear fruit, are nourished deep in human personality. The beginning of the Purcells’ tragedy must be surmised. Only two people know its real ending. Anne was involved partly because of Leila Morgan — Anne is my wife. And I, John Ellis, was the unwitting catalyst.

Our participation dated from a day in January when the mailman brought letters from the mainland. Anne and I were in the garden; I was reading the second draft of a story while Anne was lacquering her toenails. At the scrape of our mailbox I tensed and put down the yellow paper. Anne dipped her brush, raised her other foot in one graceful motion, and went on painting.

“Walk, do not run,” she said. “We’ve paid off the mortgage, remember?”

“So we have.” I got up and started around the side of the house.

By the time we’re married eight more years, perhaps I’ll have achieved some measure of Anne’s wisdom and serenity. From the day we met, a week before I was due to leave Hawaii with nothing in my pocket except a filled notebook and the last two hundred bucks of my terminal leave pay, through the first eighteen months when I finally sold a book which earned $523.42, after a few published stories and two more tepidly unsuccessful novels, Anne was unwaveringly certain that I was the world’s best writer, ours was the most wonderful marriage, and everything was going to be all right.

Now my last book had been bought for serialization in a national fiction magazine and the hard-cover edition was destined for the best-seller list. Our home was paid for (Anne insisted on that first), we had money in the bank, she had quit her job as one of Pan American’s most decorative hostesses, and we were arguing over what to name our first child. I still felt giddy when I thought about it.

I came back from the mailbox with two envelopes, saying, “One’s for you.”

Mine was from my agent and I held it to the light. No check. I looked at the letter for Anne. “It’s from Leila Morgan. Postmarked New York — I thought they were in France.”

“So did I.” Anne reached for the envelope. “I hope she’s not sick again.”

My letter began: “Dear John: With arrival of the next Lurline you’ll have a legitimate excuse to stop work and dispense some Hawaiian hospitality.” I made an annoyed sound and Anne looked up. “More revisions?”

“No. Visitors.” I read again.

“Troy Purcell, no less than the famous Troy, is being shipped to Honolulu. He’s going to illustrate your story and you know what that means circulation-wise. The lowdown is that the publisher wants him to sign a contract. Troy has accepted this assignment but won’t commit himself further, says he’s tired. This in spite of the highest price ever offered an illustrator and the fact that a view of the East River, framed to Mavis Purcell’s taste, costs plenty. Anne will remember their place — we went to a party there when she was with that Pan American publicity tour last fall. Remind her of the bird cage in the bathroom.”

“Hey,” I said. “You didn’t tell me you’d met Troy Purcell.”

She looked up, frowning slightly. “Troy Purcell — oh, the artist. He’s a nice guy.”

I went on reading. “Seriously, John, I don’t think the Purcells’ visit should be much of a headache for you. Although they’re booked for a month at the Royal Hawaiian, Troy has vetoed all publicity. Recently he’s become difficult; goes on a terrific binge before he starts a job. He never fails to deliver, but this pre-partum suspense has not endeared him to editors. The alcoholic problem won’t be yours. All you’re expected to do is steer him to backgrounds and Polynesian models. The rest you can leave to Mavis — she always handles him beautifully.”

I tossed the letter to Anne. “Bet I can describe that bathroom. Black and scarlet, and a gold bird cage.”

“The bath is gray,” Anne said, “and the bird cage is silver.” She added in a remembering voice, “Beige carpeting laid wall to wall. Sheer glass curtains under ashes-of-roses damask. Fruitwood chairs with petit point—”

“— and Haviland china—”

“Limoges. The bed was upholstered in eggshell satin and the spread was quilted blue velvet.” She looked at me with a small grin. “And our bedspread is only monkscloth. Thank heaven you’re not a monk—”

I started to make a suitable answer.

“Stay where you are,” she said. “It’s too hot.”

I picked up my manuscript, decided it was lousy, and laid it aside while my thoughts reverted to the artist. “It’s hard to imagine,” I said.

“Imagine what?”

“A guy like Purcell, working in such pastel perfection.”

“I saw his studio,” Anne told me. “It’s enormous, and practically stark. That’s where the man really lives.”

“Was the party given there?”

“Oh, no. That room is kapu. Definitely not the background for the sort of shindig his wife throws. It was perfect, the ultra-chic Manhattan cocktail party, for ultra-chic people. You know the kind.”

I had been to a few before I left New York. People invited because they were amusing or clever or had made some kind of success. Insincerely cordial greetings, facile chitchat barbed with gossip, trills of artificial laughter, acquaintances who made bright conversation at you while their eyes searched the room to be sure there wasn’t somebody more important they should talk to. When the babel reached a certain sustained pitch, the hostess knew her party was a success.

“What’s Mavis Purcell like?” I asked.

“Small. Blonde. Porcelain and rose-leaf coloring. Honey-colored satin by Valentina. Doesn’t go to beauty salons — they send operators to her.”

“Auwe!” I said. “Those Troy Girls had better be good.”

“What’s so remarkable about the Troy Girls?”

“Full-page color, in the big-circulation magazines.” I shuffled through a pile on the table. “Don’t you ever read these?”

“Only the recipes,” Anne admitted. “They’re wonderful.” Then she sat up straight and studied what I had handed her. “Hey, Johnny. This is almost good! I’ll bet he started out to be a fine artist.”

“Fine art,” I reminded her, “sometimes buys a view of the East River — for your grandchildren. Anyhow, most people prefer this.”

It was the usual haunting Troy picture, lacking the details of most magazine illustrations: a girl at a railroad station on a foggy night, watching a train depart.

“His women always have that look,” I said. “It has made them pin-ups all over the globe. Without sweaters, too. It’s something in the way their lips curve, the way their eyes look at you with a kind of yearning.”

“Perhaps,” Anne suggested, “the yearning is in him.”

“No doubt,” I said. “And we know now what it is. Thirst.”

“It won’t hurt us to make them happy for a month, since he’s being sent here especially to do your story.” Anne began to chant: “—And so, as the pride of the Matson fleet glides into the blue waters of Honolulu harbor—”

“— we see our hero and heroine, brightly smiling, bearing leis and aloha—”

“— boarding the tug which will take them out to meet their new friends, the famous artist and his charming wife—”

We began to laugh.

The first impression I had of Troy Purcell was that here was a man worn to exhaustion. He wore a knife-creased light palm beach suit (new, I decided) as if it chafed every inch of his big frame. His tie had already slipped sideways, his collar was damp. He looked in his early forties, his thinning brown hair was rumpled, and his deep-circled eyes held perplexity, as if the inner man also had never found proper garments.

Mavis appeared years younger; perhaps it was his awkwardness which made her seem so fragile. When we entered their cabin she was folding yellow chiffon into a meticulously packed dressing case. After we introduced ourselves, the first thing Mavis mentioned was her relief at being able to sub-let their apartment to our friends.

“I won’t worry the least bit now,” she said, “knowing we have responsible people there. Last year when we came back from Europe the place had been broken into.”

“Was very much stolen?” I asked.

“Silver, a crystal clock — things like that. Fortunately we were insured. But some of the pieces can’t be replaced.”

“This bag ready?” her husband asked, and started to pick it up.

“Lock it first, dear.”

She handed him some keys. While he bent over the bag I saw that he had a tic. A muscle in his check twitched occasionally.

“I’ll take those,” Mavis said, and she zipped the keys back into her purse. “Is your husband as absent-minded as mine? Troy can’t remember for two minutes where he’s put things.”

“Oh, yes,” Anne lied cheerfully. “Johnny’s helpless as a babe, especially when he’s working.” She sent me a finger signal which said, “For heaven’s sake, keep your mouth shut,” and descended on Mavis, who recoiled.

“Don’t be startled, Mrs. Purcell. Giving lets is an Island custom. Welcome to Hawaii.”

I draped ropes of plumeria around Troy’s neck and he sniffed deeply. “My God, I didn’t know flowers could smell like this!” He turned to his wife. “Aren’t they wonderful?”

She was lifting gardenias to see whether they had stained her silk dress. “They’re so lovely I almost hate to — Where are you going, Troy?”

The muscle in Troy’s cheek twitched. “Let’s go up — it’s hot as hell in here.”

From the promenade deck there was a good view. Honolulu starts with one of the world’s cleanest harbors. Ships dock there almost in the heart of the city, which spreads back over a plateau to the Koolau Range. That day the mountains were veiled in mist, which parted occasionally to reveal jungled slopes of variegated greens gashed with purple and indigo valleys through which ran the coppery lines of roads. It was raining in the distance. As we watched, the trades swept clouds away and a rainbow tilted from Manoa Valley into the sea.

“Just look at that!” Troy burst out. “Did you ever see anything more beautiful?”

“Islanders consider the rainbow a good omen,” Anne told him. “You’re getting a special welcome.”

Mavis laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Darling,” she said. “I’m so thrilled. You’ll do the best work of your life here.”

“You say that about every job,” he growled. “Nobody can paint those colors.” He leaned on the rail, shading his eyes with one hand, and began identifying them in a sort of incredulous mutter: Ultramarine, scarlet, cobalt, magenta, vermilion, emerald...

He seemed dazed as he went down the gangplank.

We took them to the Queen’s Surf that night, and were a party of six, Peggy and Bill Garrison making the third couple. Bill was an agreeable fellow, an insurance-broker acquaintance of Troy’s from New York. Casual remarks between the two men, and intimate chatter of their wives, indicated that friendship had developed during the crossing.

Troy asked when we sat down, “What’ll we have to drink? Got any specialties here in the Islands?”

Mavis said, “I’ll stick to my usual, Troy.”

I noticed that Mavis began to watch apprehensively when Troy finished his fifth highball; she must have said something to him on the dance floor, because he looked subdued when they returned. While the Garrisons were dancing, Mavis and Anne went to the powder room and Troy said, “Let’s go have a look at the Pacific.”

He and I walked through the tropical garden to the sea wall. A torch fisherman moved slowly in the distance; outside the periphery of his flare the water looked like ink. We lit cigarettes and stood silent. There was a quarter moon; we watched it slip over Diamond Head until the sea was enameled silver.

Troy said, like a man in a dream: “It was snowing when we left New York. I thought I’d never be warm again.” Then he faced me suddenly. “They gave me some galleys and I read your story on the way over. Is it a true story?”

I hesitated, feeling that something important depended on my answer. “The haole — white — characters are fiction. The Hawaiians — and the background — are authentic.”

“You mean there really is a valley, a place like that?”

“Yes. Not exactly like it, of course. But I had a certain place in mind when I was writing. It’s on Kauai — that’s another island.”

He sighed, “We’d better go back. The women...”

We reached our table in time to see an impromptu celebration. A stately Hawaiian woman in a flowered holoku rose and bowed from her seat at a floorside table. “What is it?” Troy asked, and Anne said, “She is having a birthday party.”

Someone called, “Liliu E!” and the woman smiled, looked at the orchestra, and finally began to dance the story of Queen Liliuokalani.

She wasn’t as supple as a young woman, but her hula was very good: her hips swayed gracefully, arms and fingers wove interpretive patterns in the air as she told the story of the beloved queen whose mouth was curved with laughter, whose shoulders waved like a fan, whose little feet danced round the world...

When she finished Troy rose abruptly and left us. He came back with his arms filled with leis. He dumped them on our table, shook loose a wreath of red carnations, and went over to the gray-haired woman who had been dancing. He bowed and said something, hung the flowers around her neck, and then kissed her.

I looked at Mavis. She was watching him indulgently. When he sat beside her again she said, smiling, “Troy! Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

Troy’s cheek twitched. He picked up his glass. “Because she was so beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Mavis looked at the Hawaiian woman and then at Troy. “Darling, you really must be drunk!”

A few nights later the four of them came to our house for dinner. Troy had a sunburn. He squirmed in his chair, tried to pretend interest while Mavis and the Garrisons asked questions about our island life, and gulped four martinis before we went to the table. After dinner some friends arrived, including David Kimu, the Hawaiian. David was Anne’s childhood playmate, who became my best friend at Columbia. He was now doing graduate work in sociology at the University of Hawaii.

David was dressed casually in a red aloha shirt and blue cotton pants. He took off his shoes, as most of us do, when he came into the house. Seeing our guests in more formal clothes didn’t faze him; he said, “Malihinis?” and added, with his brilliant smile, “Aloha nui loa!”

I mentioned Troy’s commission and said I hoped David would be able to help him. David sat on the floor, accepted a drink, and asked what Troy was most interested in. A few minutes after that Troy was beside him, looking comfortable for the first time that evening. They were talking about the Islands.

Peggy Garrison was fascinated with David. “What a gorgeous man!” she said under her breath to Anne. “Did you say he was a childhood playmate?”

“We grew up together,” Anne told her. “David was the one who taught me to swim, and to hula — among other things—”

I made a note to tell her to go easy on the next drink. But the slight mockery in Anne’s voice went unnoticed. The look Peggy turned on her held speculation — and the faintest trace of envy.

Mavis’s mind didn’t run in those channels. She commented, studying David with narrowed violet eyes, “He’d make a wonderful model. A perfect native specimen.”

My hackles rose. I forbore mentioning that David was a sociologist. I said instead that most Hawaiians are exceptionally handsome people and few can match them for natural grace and dignity. I was going on in this vein when I perceived that Mavis’s face had gone blank with boredom, and I changed the subject.

From then on our group was divided; Troy and David on the floor gradually joined by Bill and our other friends; Anne and I sitting on the punee with the two visiting women discussing the smartest places to dine, addresses of good local shops, and the type of entertainment given by Honolulu’s upper-echelon socialites. When those subjects were exhausted Anne mentioned the Dillinghams’ famous Japanese garden, and from there we went to descriptions of other Honolulu show places, a topic which proved inexhaustible. Anne can manage that sort of thing gracefully. For me it was heavy going; I finally broke away with the excuse that I’d better mix some drinks. Out in the kitchen I offered myself a dividend.

When I returned to the living room David was saying that Hawaiian chants are wonderful but difficult to describe. Under the influence of my private dividend, I broke in with: “Why don’t we play some records?”

This brought the usual result: we spent the rest of the night singing and doing hulas. The party broke up at 2 and Troy left only at his wife’s insistence.

Anne reproached me the next day. “You were remiss as a host, fella. I don’t think Mavis Purcell will forgive you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said unregretfully. “I should have realized folklore would be too deep for Troy’s wife.”

“Don’t make the mistake of labeling her stupid,” Anne warned. “She knows exactly what she wants — and she’s got it. You can be sure she has no intention of giving it up.”

“So who cares?” I retorted. “They’re nothing in our lives. David will take Troy in hand from now on. We can put the Purcells out of mind.” But a week or so later conscience drove me to the hotel to inquire how they were getting along. I was startled when the room clerk said that Mr. Purcell was out of town, but did I wish to speak to Mrs. Purcell? I said no, guiltily, and turned to encounter the Garrisons. When they invited me to have a drink I consented, hoping to hear news of Troy.

“He’s on some other island,” Peggy said in a disapproving tone. “That Hawaiian we met at your house sent him over to stay at some kind of native village.”

We were on the terrace of the Royal with an excellent view of Waikiki curving out toward Diamond Head. Peggy waved a hand. “The beach is crawling with Hawaiians. And this island has plenty of scenery. Why should Troy have to sneak off—”

“Peggy!” Her husband interrupted. She flashed an angry look at him.

She was afraid, I thought. The little flicker of desire she had felt at the sight of David was immediately quenched.

“All right,” Peggy said. “He didn’t sneak off. He told us where he was going. But he’s been gone a week, while Mavis is stuck here. Why did he choose some place where he knows she can’t go with him?”

I was beginning to feel uneasy. “Why couldn’t she go?”

“Because,” Peggy informed me, “the place he went to can’t be reached except by plane. And Mavis is deathly afraid of flying. That’s why they came on the Lurline instead of by Clipper.” At this I felt even more disquieted. I thanked them for the drink and left. Bill caught up with me just as I got into the car.

“Look, John.” He hesitated. “What’s on your mind?”

“If you know where Troy is you might hint that he should get back here pretty soon. Mavis doesn’t feel well. She got a skin rash from eating fresh pineapple.”

“Many tourists do. I forgot to caution her about that.”

“It upset her quite a bit. She stayed in the room a couple of days until it went away. But she’s afraid something else might happen.”

“You mean,” I said, “Mavis might be finding this climate too much for her?”

He grinned and nodded. Then he grew more serious. “I’m speaking as a friend of Troy’s now, as well as his insurance broker. He’s lucky he carries a good policy with us because he might not be able to get another. The guy really needs a complete rest. When he’s home he works like crazy — won’t take care of himself. I’d like to see him stay his month out.” He looked at me, then added uncomfortably, “Mavis and Peggy are pretty thick. Neither of them would appreciate knowing that I—”

“Don’t worry. I won’t mention it.”

I went home and called David. When he told me where he had sent Troy, I was really disturbed. I hung up and said to Anne, “Troy Purcell has gone to Kauai. His wife is here alone. And she’s been showing symptoms—” I repeated what Bill had told me, but added, “She may look delicate. I’ll bet she’s tough as an elephant.”

“Remember the elephant’s other attribute,” Anne reminded me. “Both times that Troy Purcell’s had a taste of island life, he forgot his wife entirely. Why don’t you call him?”

“There’s no telephone.” When I told her where on Kauai he had gone, Anne said slowly, “I wonder why David did that?”

“I have a hunch Troy insisted on it.” I was remembering our conversation by the sea wall at the Queen’s Surf. “What should I do, Anne?”

“Well,” she said, “he is in a way your responsibility. You’d better go after him.”

I worried in the inter-island plane all the way to Kauai. David had sent me there when I talked to him about research for my story. It hadn’t upset my emotional balance. But then my choice had been made; the islands were my home, not a tantalizing glimpse of loveliness I must put behind me after a brief vacation. For an artist, high-strung and susceptible, there might be no more dangerous place in all Hawaii — perhaps in all the world — to send a man like Troy.

Tourist literature calls Kauai The Garden Isle. But to many Polynesians the island is a haunted place. There are even a few white people who claim they cannot stand more than a few weeks of its atmosphere. Oldest of the Hawaiian group, Kauai possesses jagged mountains, unexplored legendary canyons, valleys into which waterfalls thunder to become rivers cascading to the sea, sacred regions where ancient heiaus still stand and ghost drums herald nightly processions of ghostly Hawaiian warriors.

On the northern coast of Kauai there exist today a few isolated communities in valleys as lovely as the Garden of Eden, hidden between awesome rock walls and accessible only by tortuous trails pre-dating King Kamehameha. In these localities the rhythm of Polynesian life has hardly changed; here people grow taro and weave lauhala, toss nets from rocky ledges into a churning sea, spear fish at night with kukui torches flaring orange over black waters. In such a place certain personalities succumb irresistibly to enchantment of the spirit.

And Troy Purcell had been there a week.

Since the coastal approach to the village is unnavigable, he had been taken there by plane, and it was in the same Piper Cub, piloted by a Hawaiian named Keoni, that I went after him. I didn’t know what pretext I would use to bring him back to Honolulu.

But none was necessary. When we settled on the landing strip near the lagoon a group came to meet us, and among them was Troy.

“Hi, John. Glad you decided to come over.” As he reached the plane he called to the pilot, “Keoni! You’re a day ahead of time.”

Hawaiians gathered around us, asking, “How’s the fishing? What news from Lihue? Did you bring canned milk?” Troy and I withdrew to the edge of the palm grove and lit cigarettes.

He didn’t seem different, except that his redness had turned to brown and his waist must have been thinner because he had difficulty keeping his pants up. He wore an unbuttoned cotton shirt and he was barefoot.

“I’ve found my models,” he said. “A couple are coming over to Oahu to pose for me. One of them is Keoni.”

“When will you start to work?” I was careful to keep relief out of my voice.

“I was planning to leave tomorrow, but we may as well go today. Unless,” he looked as if it had just occurred to him, “you have some reason for staying here?”

“No. I just came to see how you’re getting on.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’ve never been so — hey, Lala! That’s my other model. Isn’t she a beauty?”

I studied the girl as she walked toward us. She was tall, superbly modeled under the cotton dress she wore; in her way (not the Dorothy Lamour way nor even with the sullen secretiveness of Gauguin’s Tahitians) she was very beautiful. Her hair was glossy black and from the thickness of the braids around her head looked to be quite long; the seriousness of her great dark eyes was belied by up-tilted corners of her wide, exquisitely carved Hawaiian mouth.

“This is Lala Kealoha,” Troy said.

She smiled as Troy mentioned my name. “David Kimu has spoken often of you.”

“Is David a friend of yours?”

“I’ve met him here a few times. But he is a long time aikane of my brother Umi.”

“Do you live here?” I waved at the small village behind us.

“Not now. I have a waitress job in Lihue. I’ve been visiting my grandmother. Troy wanted to do some sketches and I stayed over a few days to pose for him.” She turned to go. “I’ve got to fix kaukau for Keoni — he wants to start back as soon as he eats. See you later on Oahu.”

“Where will she stay in Honolulu?” I asked Troy.

“With her brother. David took me to meet him the day after we were at your house. Suppose we kaukau too? Fish and poi?”

“You mean you really like it? Few tourists do.”

“Never gave it any thought. That was what we had here and it tasted fine to me. Let’s go.”

We ate with the Hawaiian family Troy had been living with, a meal consisting of steamed laulaus (salt salmon, butterfish, and pork wrapped in ti leaves), poi, and coconut pudding. All this time I was wondering when Troy would mention his wife.

He finally did while we were waiting for Keoni. I sat in the shade as Troy stretched out, bare to the waist, in the sun nearby. “This feels good,” he said; and then, quietly; “How’s Mavis? I suppose she was the one who sent you.”

“I haven’t seen her. But the Garrisons told me she hasn’t been feeling well, and I thought you should know.”

“What’s wrong with her?” His voice was completely emotionless.

When I told him he made no comment. Presently he said, still in that same flat voice, “Before we were married we planned to travel, have all kinds of adventures. The first six hundred we saved, we went to Mexico. Mavis hated it — the people, the heat, the little village where we stayed. She got dysentery and we had to come home. She was months getting over it. When medical bills began to pile up I took on a few commercial jobs to get us out of the hole. They liked my stuff. They paid — good Lord, how they paid!”

His face began to twitch. He rolled over and looked out at the green sea. “Can’t get enough of this sun,” he said. “Been soaking it up like a blotter since I came here.”

Shortly after Troy came back, Mavis invited us to lunch and swim with them. We lay under an umbrella at Waikiki and chatted; or rather, Anne and I chatted with Mavis while Troy brooded at the horizon. When Mavis asked him once if he felt all right, he started and then said abstractedly of course he did, he was just going nuts watching the colors of that water.

It was a brilliant day and the Kanaka surf was running. Far, far out were the dark heads of swimmers waiting for the next big comber. Nearer shore the water was tranquil, a shimmering turquoise and emerald, jade and chrysoprase and tourmaline.

I said to Troy, “It’s the reef that causes it.”

He sent me a grateful look. “Variations in depth? Of course! Then the light makes different refractions. This light!” He almost groaned the words. “Those poor fools in New York are so used to living under a pall of soot that they never see—”

The rest was a mumble.

I didn’t properly register his pronoun, because my attention switched to Mavis. “How do you keep that lovely golden color?” she was asking, admiring Anne’s legs. “You’re blonde, too. I just turn pink and my skin hurts.”

“Difference in pigmentation, I suppose.” Anne added generously, “Of course, my skin isn’t nearly as delicate as yours.”

I noticed then that Mavis’s hair was streaked and faint spidery lines showed at the edge of her sun glasses. She was closer to Troy’s forties than I’d realized.

When I mentioned this later to Anne she said, “I thought so, too. It’s probably important to her to look young and fragile. I feel sorry for Mavis.”

“Why?”

“Because she lives with a man who is completely creative, while she can create nothing.”

“Artists aren’t the only creative people in the world,” I protested, surprised to find myself defending Troy’s wife. “Building a good marriage, having children, those things are—” My voice faded. Then I said triumphantly, “How about that perfect apartment of theirs?”

Anne’s bare shoulders moved. We were in the bedroom and she sat at the dressing table getting ready for guests who were coming to play Mah Jongg. She picked up her lipstick and leaned toward the mirror. “I had another letter from Leila Morgan yesterday. I meant not to show it to you for a while, but — it’s in my white purse, hanging on the back of the closet door.”

Part of the letter said: “Please tell Mrs. Purcell that her decorator was here recently to report success in finding a duplicate of the silver girandole which was stolen. He also said that he copied this decor for her, at her direction, from the Paris apartment of Madame Juliette Gauntier, the aunt who reared Mrs. Purcell. The decorator was touched by her sentimental desire to recreate the background of her childhood. You should have heard Hank howl when the man left. People envy us our luck in being here, they rave about Mavis Purcell’s exquisite taste and originality. What tickles Hank is that he remembers doing a feature on her for his home town paper, the Milwaukee Journal. She had just been chosen one of those beer beauties, which gave her a start in modeling. Her name was Maria Schlanger then, and she’d never been nearer Paris than Milwaukee...”

I sat and stared at Anne’s reflection. She went on tying a ribbon around her hair and said nothing. “Where,” I finally asked, “do you suppose she got the idea?”

“For the apartment? From a book of interiors, possibly, or some old copy of a Paris magazine. Don’t look so shocked, Johnny. It’s a harmless act. I wouldn’t have shown you the letter if I hadn’t been so pig-headed about making my point.”

“You made it.” I stood up. “I’m going to have a drink.”

I made a double collins, then put on some records and sat down to finish my drink and wait for Anne. I couldn’t concentrate — I was trying to remember some of the German I had picked up in the E.T.O. When I finally got it, what kept running fantastically through my mind was the fact that Schlanger means snake — and there are no snakes in Hawaii.

The next day Mavis called to announce that Troy was ready to go to work. “Those models have finally arrived. He’s found a place in some valley where he wants to take you, to discuss illustrations for the first installment.”

“What valley?” I asked, but she couldn’t remember. I suggested picking Troy up and she said she would tell him to be ready. Mavis’s voice sounded strained and I remembered Troy’s habit of getting drunk before he began a job. The sooner he got that binge over with, the better we’d all feel.

The valley was Manoa, a favorite residential district of Oahu, but the road Troy took me on was one I might never have found without direction. We drove through the thickly settled section, past old houses deep in gardens, past newer modern dwellings and apartment buildings, to the head of the valley and a narrow lane which twisted up a hillside and ended at two frame cottages whose high foundations were deep in red ginger. A single hard-surfaced drive served both houses, widening toward separate garage buildings. Concrete steps led down from small rear porches, and on one of these a tall smiling man appeared and greeted us.

His name was Umi Kealoha, and Troy had been directed to him by David, Umi said, “Will you come in? My sister will be back soon.”

We entered through the kitchen, which contained a stove, refrigerator, and chipped porcelain sink under the window overlooking the driveway. The rest of the house was equally simple, furnished with creaking wicker and dime-store curtains. Umi showed us the four rooms with a pride which I understood after learning that he had built both houses himself. He had a small orchestra which played for local parties and occasional night-club engagements. The identical house next door, he told us, had been occupied by his parents.

“They’ve gone back to Kauai,” he said. “My father’s a good mechanic but he doesn’t like living in the city. And now our fishing hui’s beginning to pay, so he can go home.”

He explained that the Piper Cub which flew us to the village was part of a cooperative which the people had recently formed. They owned a sampan and the plane was used to spot schools of tuna, mullet, and red snapper which ran off the northern coast of the island. Keoni, who had learned to fly in the army, scouted at an altitude of about a thousand feet, and when he located a school of fish he dropped signals to the waiting sampan.

“Used to bring in five, sometimes six tons on a good day,” Umi said. “Now they get eight and ten from a single school. Want to come out front? We’re rehearsing.”

We followed him to the lanai where in the sun three men sat with instruments. We listened while they played Ke Kali Nei Au, the Hawaiian Wedding Song.

Troy was restless. He finally asked, “Where’s Lala?”

“She went swimming.”

Troy’s face showed disappointment. Umi said, “Not at the beach. Very near here. Want to go find her?”

He looked at our feet doubtfully. I began to unlace my sneakers, explaining to Troy, “The trail will be slippery. It rains almost every day here. Remember that rainbow we saw the morning you arrived?” Troy’s delight was out of proportion to the value of the information I gave him. “So it came from here?” He sat down immediately and removed his shoes. We rolled up trouser legs and started out.

Skidding and slipping, clutching branches of mountain apple and guava trees, we climbed the banks of the stream. As we pushed through thick growth of ti and ginger we heard the waterfall, and we heard voices, too. But when we reached the pool no one seemed to be there.

Troy cupped his hands and yelled, “Lala!”

She appeared from behind the falls, hastily tying a lavalava around her waist. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. She called over her shoulder, “Keoni. Come on out.”

Keoni started toward us, laughing. “We thought it was strangers,” he said. “No clothes!”

“Here!” She tossed shorts into the pool. He waded to shallow water and put them on.

“We’re ready to start to work, Troy,” Lala said. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Troy answered.

And that was all. We never once discussed ideas for illustrating the first installment. I knew that what he painted would be right. And it was. It took him ten days to finish the two pictures which would be sent to the mainland immediately. When, after we congratulated him, Mavis commented that he generally worked much faster, he explained that light was sometimes poor at the pool and that the sittings had been interrupted by showers.

“Why don’t you work here, then, instead of in that funny little shack?”

“I can’t,” he said. “It’s got to be done there.”

He did a lot of work in the cottage — background layouts, preliminary sketches, and so forth. Umi had offered him the house next door and Troy went there every day. He had the telephone connected so Mavis could reach him, and she brought a lunch once in a while and read novels while Troy worked.

At this point my new book came back from the publisher with suggestions for revisions and these necessitated a trip to Kona to check on background detail. I did a lot of running around there and then settled at the Volcano House to finish the rewrite, which took two long weeks. When I came home I asked Anne about the Purcells, and she brought me up to date while we had dinner.

“How’s Troy?” I asked. “Did he have his binge?”

“Apparently,” she said, “he has been too busy. Troy just sent the third group of illustrations off by air freight.”

“That was the beach scene. Where did he paint it? At Hanauma?”

“No. He decided on Waimea, where there are fewer people. The pictures were wonderful. But there was almost a tragedy that day.”

“What happened?”

Anne told me briefly. The Garrisons had gone to Maui, where Bill was visiting one of his company’s branch offices, and without their companionship Mavis was lonely. Troy suggested that since Waimea was on a side of the island which she had not seen, she should come along and they would have a picnic. While everybody was occupied, Troy at his easel and the Hawaiian group in poses he had given them, Mavis decided to go wading. She was knee-deep when a sudden gigantic wave knocked her down and the undertow caught her. Mavis’s scream brought Troy running; he plunged in after her, only to be caught as she was. The Hawaiians made a chain of hands and rescued them, and when they were safe ashore Umi told Mavis that there was no reef at Waimea, the beach was posted Unsafe for Swimming. Hadn’t she seen the warning sign? No, she hadn’t, and it was not until they packed for the trip home that Troy discovered he had tossed his shirt over the warning sign when he set up his easel nearby.

“Is Mavis all right now?” I asked.

“She’s had a shock. She doesn’t say so but I think she wants to go home. She says the climate is affecting Troy, too; he has never taken so long over a job. And the month at Royal is up.”

“What does Troy say?”

“He says they can move into the empty cottage next to Umi. It won’t cost them anything. Mavis would be really isolated there—” Anne pushed her coffee cup aside. “I have an idea, Johnny. Troy insisted on no publicity, but — considering what is involved — suppose we call a few people and mention that the Purcells are in Honolulu?”

I was at the telephone before she finished speaking.

The following week there was a reception at the Honolulu Academy of Arts, to meet Troy Purcell. Then the Davis Galleries at Waikiki had a showing of local sketches Troy had made, plus layouts for the illustrations already finished. Troy was working that day, but Mavis presided prettily, wearing blue organza and an expression of wifely pride. Then we read about luncheons, bridge parties, and a tea in her honor. Finally we heard that the Purcells had moved to Manoa; the Sunday Advertiser devoted a page to photographs: Troy at his easel and Mavis in a silk kimono arranging anthuriums and hanging fishnet draperies around the windows of the cottage.

I went to see them that afternoon. Troy was working in the dining room, which had become his studio. Mavis was in the front room reading a book by William Roughead. Crossing their lanai I had heard music from the house next door; it was less audible in their living room, because windows on that side were closed.

Mavis seemed delighted to have a visitor- She called to Troy to mix some drinks, and he came out with a blank look. But he smiled when he saw me, and said, “You haven’t been around for a long time. Aloha, John. Pehea oe?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “How’s the work going?”

“I’m almost finished.” He turned to his wife with a puzzled expression. “What was it you told me to do?”

“Drinks, dear,” she said, and he nodded and started to the kitchen.

“How do you like housekeeping in Hawaii?” I asked. Mavis said she liked it very much. The domestic problem was certainly simpler, wasn’t it?

“We can get a gardener and maid here for half what I pay my cook at home. Lala cooks fairly well, too. Did you know that she is a high school graduate?”

“Really?” I felt that familiar rise of the hackles again. With the excuse of helping Troy, I went out to the kitchen. He was struggling with ice cubes from the battered trays in the old refrigerator.

“Make mine light,” I told him. “We’re going to a party tonight.”

“Same for me,” he said. “I’ve got work to do.”

We heard laughter from the other house and Troy went to the screened door, hesitated, then came back. At my questioning look he said, “Thought I’d ask them over for a drink. They’d be glad to see you.” He lowered his voice. “The gang used to come over often. Recently they’ve stayed away. For some reason, they’re uncomfortable here.”

I cast around for some acceptable excuse. “Is it since Mavis began decorating?”

He nodded and regarded me with that perplexed look he so often wore.

“It might be the fishnet,” I said. “Many Hawaiians are superstitious, especially about fishing, probably because from early times their survival has depended largely on it. And since Keoni makes his living from fishing, and Mavis has—”

“And what has Mavis done now?”

Troy and I turned guiltily. Mavis stood in the doorway.

“Do tell me,” she urged. “Troy knows that I wouldn’t for the world do anything to offend his precious Hawaiians.”

I could feel my face growing hot. “It’s the fishnet on your windows. Many Hawaiians believe that a net should never be hung overhead, or draped around a room in any manner which suggests its actual use.” I added lamely, “Of course, it is just superstition—”

“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “Troy will take it down.”

The big man hesitated, holding our drinks. She took them from him and turned her back to us as she began setting glasses on a tray. “Go ahead, Troy.” Her voice shook. “Take the net down. Now.”

Troy didn’t say a word. He went into the front room, unhooked the net, carried it to the rear door, and tossed it outside. Then he came back and picked up his glass, still silent. I studied him, puzzled. There was a change in him I could not identify. He had lost a lot of weight and it could have been that, and his deep tan, which made him look more vital. No. There was something else. Then I realized — Troy had also lost his tic.

Mavis had been putting cheese crackers on a dish. She led us to the front room, carrying the tray. She handed me a drink, sipped her own, and said in a hostessy voice, “You know the Erickssons, I believe? I understand he is a very successful architect?”

“Yes,” I said. “His wife was in Anne’s graduating class at Punahou. They have a very beautiful house at Black Point.”

“I’ve heard about it,” she said. “They’re giving a party for us tonight. We’ll probably see you there.”

We saw them there, but not for long. That was the night Troy got hilariously drunk and broke a table lamp when he tried to do a hula. Joe and Helen Ericksson helped Mavis get him into Umi’s old car, and after they had gone Helen looked ruefully at the shattered lamp.

Her husband said, “I heard that Troy goes on a spree before he starts a job — but isn’t he almost finished?”

“Yes. He is almost finished.” For a moment I thought there was a significant tone in Anne’s voice.

Half an hour later the telephone rang and Joe answered.

“Mavis? I hope you got home all right.” He listened and said reassuringly, “If he shows up here we’ll take good care of him. And we’ll see that he gets back safely. You just go to bed and don’t worry.”

He hung up and explained, “Troy wouldn’t go into the house with her, insisting he was having a fine time here and wanted to come back to the party. Before she could stop him, he started the car again and drove off. The poor girl is terribly concerned.” Troy never showed up. Our party was spoiled; we spent the balance of the evening in an atmosphere of strain, waiting for him. As we said good night to the Erickssons, Joe said, “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to know Troy Purcell better. They’ll be leaving soon, won’t they?”

“Yes,” I answered, and added fervently to myself, “I certainly hope so.”

Another week went by. Anne told me one day, when I came out of my office at the end of a morning’s work: “David called. We’re invited to a Iuau tomorrow. At Waimanalo. Given by the Kealohas.”

“Swell! What’s the occasion?”

“It’s a double celebration. For Troy, because he has delivered the last illustration. And for Lala. She and Keoni are getting married.”

So that was why Umi’s orchestra had been rehearsing the wedding song. “I didn’t know,” I said. “When?”

“As soon as they return to Kauai. Keoni is leaving immediately. Lala will stay long enough to buy her kitchen equipment and a trousseau.”

“With the money she got for modeling,” I said slowly. “Does Troy know?” At Anne’s shrug I said, “I’m going to call him and see what I can find out.”

All I found out was that Troy seemed in a high mood.

“My check’s on the way,” he said. “Tomorrow’s the day we really ‘go for broke.’ Why don’t you ride over with us? You haven’t lived until you’ve traveled in our jalopy. Vintage 1936. Bought it for sixty-five dollars from Umi’s father.”

The Purcells arrived just after the mailman, and we saw that Troy had not exaggerated the condition of his car. It was an ancient Chevrolet with battered fenders and rattling doors which Anne and I regarded with suspicion as we rounded sharp turns down the Pali road. The doors stayed closed, however, and we stowed our beach bags at each side of ourselves and braced together in the center, being careful of the flat package which stood against the driver’s seat.

“What is it?” I asked, and all Troy would say was, “Surprise. You’ll see later.”

The old car chugged along and Troy sang jubilantly, “Oh, we’re going to a hukilau, a huki, huki, huki, huki hukilau.”

Anne and I exchanged glances, wondering if his ebullience could be genuine.

Mavis seemed happy, too. She glanced back and chattered about furnishing the cottage: she had found some nice little bamboo tables, she said, and Grossman-Moody had really wonderful fabrics — she thought of using hand-blocked linen in a ti-leaf design.

“We’ll paint the floors dark green,” she told us. “And with lauhala mats and some reed furniture, with our Kelly etching and the Tennant and a few of Troy’s things, it will be quite charming.”

“Aren’t you spending a lot of effort,” Anne asked, “on someone else’s house?”

Mavis turned completely around then, and her smile was very bright. “Oh, it’s going to be our house. That’s what Troy plans to use his check for.”

“And when we sell the stuff we left in New York,” Troy called back, “we’ll get a new car. This heap’s going to be put out to pasture.”

We had begun to descend the steepest section of the road and he held the hand-brake as he drove. “She froze once,” he said. “Nearly scared us both to death. We had started to a party—”

“That was the night we went to the Erickssons,” Mavis put in.

“What a night that was!” Troy said. “As we started out, I parked on the drive and went back to close the garage door; Umi’s father left tools there and we keep it locked. The car rolled down the drive and the hand-brake stuck. Mavis tried to cut off the motor and yanked the key out instead. This girl’s a quick thinker. She jerked the wheel and landed against a papaya tree at the bottom of the road. You should have heard those melons squashing!”

“And you should have heard me scream!” Mavis said. “The brake is all right now. I had it fixed.” She added fondly, “Troy is utterly hopeless about remembering things.”

The drive to Waimanalo took over an hour. During that time neither of the Purcells mentioned Lala and Keoni, or the second reason why the Kealohas were celebrating with a luau.

There was a crowd by the time we arrived. At the side of the house a long table had been contrived by laying planks across wooden trestles. Hawaiian women moved leisurely about in cotton holokus, arranging fern fronds and hibiscus blossoms on the bare wood, laying fresh ti leaves in the center which they filled with speckled mangoes, bananas, and pineapples. They gossiped and joked, exchanging remarks in a mixture of pidgin, Hawaiian, and phrases of English.

“Isn’t the table pretty!” Mavis exclaimed, and turned to one of the women. “Do you think I could help?”

“Sure. Ask in the kitchen. There’s plenty to do.”

Mavis went toward the rear of the house and I stared after her. Troy’s wife had certainly suffered a sea-change. Anne was looking at her too, and Anne’s face was sober. She met my glance and shrugged, then caught my hand.

“Let’s change, shall we?”

We got into bathing suits and went down to the beach where Archie Kamaka had already prepared the pit. People were rushing back and forth, heaping fuel on the nearby fire which heated the stones. Archie raked coals aside and nodded; the rocks were red. Next came the ritual of putting the pigs into the imu.

Reverent assistants scraped fire from the rocks. Archie, scowling in concentration, dipped into a calabash of cold water and snatched a stone which he flung into the pit. More followed until the imu was fined with hot stones; then fresh banana leaves were laid over them and the pigs carefully placed in the center. Their sides were braced with red yams, packages of laulau were added, and breadfruit and bananas and crayfish and small mysterious bundles wrapped in leaves, until at last hot rocks were stuffed into the middles of the pigs and the whole was covered with leaves, more rocks, a layer of wet burlap, and shovelfuls of sand.

“Hey! Isn’t this something?” The Garrisons had joined us. “My mouth is watering already,” Bill said. “How long will it take to cook?”

“Three or four hours.” That was David Kimu, coming to greet us.

I heard Peggy’s indrawn breath as she saw David, who had just come out of the water. Wet black hair curled on his head, muscles rippled in his thighs as he moved toward us, wearing a red malo. He winked at Anne and me, fully aware of the sensation he was causing. Peggy stammered that it was delightful to see him again and avoided looking at her husband, whose opu bulged over Polynesian print shorts.

“The idea,” David told them, “is to keep busy. We’re about ready for the hukilau. Come along to the water.” He led us seaward, explaining to Bill that huki means pull and lau means leaf, from the ti leaves which are used to frighten fish into the net.

At the shore a crowd had gathered, and we saw Troy there, with Lala. They were watching Keoni and two other men launch a boat loaded with the long net which would be dropped in a horseshoe pattern into the sea. Anne and I walked behind the Garrisons and we heard Peggy say, “Is that his famous model? What’s so terrific about her?”

Her husband chuckled. “Take another look, Peg.”

Lala was wearing an old woolen bathing suit which was mended in moth-eaten spots. It was tight on her, but Lala was indifferent to that. Her long hair blew into her face and she brushed it back and laughed and said something to Troy. The net was being dropped and he picked it up and they took hold, Troy’s hands grasping the rope behind hers.

Bill muttered, “Now I understand why Troy forgets everything but his art.”

Peggy’s voice was sharp with spite. “It’s a good thing he has Mavis to handle his affairs for him. Otherwise he might find himself in a mess.”

We caught up the net and waited for the boat to return.

“Troy insisted the other day he doesn’t want to keep up his policy.” Bill seemed to feel a need to explain his wife’s remark. “He’s carrying thirty thousand life, and claims he won’t be making enough in the future to meet payments. I tried to convince him he was crazy, but evidently it took Mavis to bring him to his senses. When I reported to the home office, they wrote back that they had just received his check for the premium.”

We had taken our places behind the Garrisons; now we moved forward as the boat finished its slow circle and dropped the last of the net. Peggy began to squeal with excitement. Under cover of her noise, Anne said to me, “I want to talk to you.” I left the group and followed Anne to the house. We sat in the shade and lit cigarettes. Anne’s face was serious as she watched the group on the sand. Keoni squatted with shoulders bent over the mullet he held; bright scales flew from his knife. Lala was beside him and Troy knelt opposite. They laughed, then their faces sobered at something Troy said and Lala put her hand on Troy’s arm and spoke very solemnly. Keoni looked at Troy and nodded. The young couple seemed to be making some kind of promise.

Anne said, “I don’t like this.”

“What don’t you like?”

“This situation between them.”

“Between whom? Troy and Lala?”

“Between Troy and his wife. They are trying — at least, she is trying — to make us believe something which is phony.”

My wife was not a worrier by nature. I asked, “What do you mean, ‘phony’?”

“I don’t believe they really agree about staying in the Islands.”

“Do you think he’ll change his mind?”

“I think Mavis will try to change it for him. If she isn’t able to do that... I wish I knew how he really feels about Lala.”

“Well.” I said, rising, “there’s one way to find out. Let’s ask David.”

Before we could talk to David we were interrupted by the arrival of one of the most honored guests. A very old Hawaiian lady appeared and was greeted by shouts of welcome. She was Lala’s grandmother, come from Kauai that day to give her blessing to the young couple. Kaahumanu Kaiulani Kealoha was snowy-haired and dignified, the purple holoku she wore hung loose on her tall, thin body. She embraced Lala and hung around her neck a lei of mokihana and maile from their valley home; she went through the same ceremony with Keoni.

Then she was seated in a canvas chair while David announced, “It is time to drink a toast, to drink many toasts!” There was a buzz of agreement and paper cups were handed around. The first toast was to Lala’s grandmother, with congratulations for her bravery in making the trip to our island by plane; her first and probably her last flight.

Then we drank to Lala and Keoni and wished them happiness and success with the fishing hui and many children.

And last, to Troy, who laughed with delight and when he finished his drink said, “Now I have a small gift for my two friends. To remember this time, and because—” he put an arm around each of them and finished:

“Me ke aloha pau ole.”

My love for you will never die.

David handed him the package we had brought in the car, and when Troy unwrapped it everyone moved forward to admire his gift.

It was a portrait of Lala and Keoni, in the pool near the cottage. Both were naked, as Troy must often have seen them. Lala was sitting at the edge of the pool, leaning slightly backward and laughing as Keoni knelt and fastened ginger blossoms in her hair. Scattered around them and floating on the water were petals of white ginger.

This was a new Troy girl — without a yearning look.

Anne and I had moved to the edge of the group. Anne whispered, “Look!” and I glanced toward the house.

Mavis stood there, clutching to her chest the tray from which she had just been serving drinks. She Seemed frozen in that position. Her eyes were narrowed, her lips curled back in open hatred. I averted my eyes and muttered to Anne, “I’m beginning to see what you mean.”

Announcement of the engagement sparked hilarity. Umi’s boys began to play and everyone called to the engaged couple for a hula. Lala protested but finally went into the house and came out in a yellow holoku, a circle of flame hibiscus on her head and around her throat. Keoni joined her. Then they began a courtship dance, the kind of dance the tourist never sees.

Smiling, dark eyes shining, they faced each other with knees bent and worked down with hips moving in a figure-eight; then they rose slowly. Keoni began to circle as Lala did the olappa, the measured sway of her body accompanied by voluptuous undulation of hips while her knees lifted sharply in counter-accent and the train of her holoku jerked across the sand.

The boys chanted the song; a woman offering herself, reciting to her lover her own charms, clinging lips and warm breasts and encircling arms, the yearning and fire of her flesh; watchers grew tense as Lala’s fingertips caressed her brown skin; when she lifted her eyes to Keoni in challenge he let out an exultant cry and moved toward her in frankly mating motions while onlookers held their breaths. They finished side by side, panting, and the crowd yelled.

Then, to uproarious applause, Troy began to dance. He didn’t do badly, and what he lacked in grace and technique he made up in enthusiasm as he courted Lala’s delighted grandmother. The old lady simpered, she made mock protestations of modesty, and finally she rose and finished the dance as his partner.

Troy came over to us a few minutes later, his face flushed. “Having a good time?”

“Wonderful. We think your picture is wonderful, too.”

“I’ve never enjoyed doing one more. How about a drink? I’m taking it easy, this is one party where I don’t want to miss a moment. But let me bring you something.”

“Thanks, Troy, but we’re doing fine—”

Yells from the vicinity of the imu indicated that the big moment had arrived. Troy started running, eager as a child.

As we walked toward it, Anne said, “While I was changing into my suit I read a letter that came just as we left the house. It was from Leila Morgan.”

“Is she feeling better?”

“Yes. She mentioned how sorry they are to hear that the Purcells have changed their mind about giving up the apartment.”

“But Mavis said—” I had stopped dead still. Anne caught my elbow and urged me forward.

“That is what she said.” Her voice was low. “I wish we knew when Troy made the final decision about staying here.”

“We can ask David. We were going to ask him anyway.”

“That isn’t necessary now.”

I had decided the same thing. If Troy were in love with Lala he would never have painted her with Keoni. Troy was in love, yes. He had fallen in love with life. I wondered whether Mavis understood this.

We looked for David, but he was helping at the imu. Archie, who took full advantage of his dramatic moment, was waiting while his helpers scraped away the sand. He posed with impressive dignity, straining the patience of his audience to the limit as they stared at steam rising from the pit. Then with a magnificent flourish he swept aside brown and wilted leaves to reveal the roasted pigs, sizzling with fat, emitting savory vapors. A concerted hungry moan rose to the evening sky.

“Hele mai e ai!” a woman called. Come and eat! The crowd broke ranks and rushed for places.

Four men carried the pigs on huge koa platters carved with supporting feet, and set their steaming burden in the center of the table. Lala’s grandmother rose and there was a hush as she began to chant, first a kuauhau, the genealogy of the family, then a long prayer for the happiness of the young couple. She finished and sat down, food was passed, and the feast was on. Imu pork, white and succulent inside crackling brown skin, red yams with the sweetness of honey, steamed mullet, chicken in coconut milk, briny laulaus, baked bananas, tender crabmeat, cool lavender pot which blended perfectly with other flavors.

Troy and Mavis sat near Lala’s grandmother, opposite Lala and Keoni. The Garrisons were beside them, then, there was Umi, who beamed at the success of his sister’s party. Anne and I had taken seats next to David. Mavis, I noticed, picked at her food; Troy ate as if famished. Drinks were passed during dinner and he emptied several glasses. David caught me watching this and said, “We tipped off the bartender. Troy’s drinking ginger ale.”

I said, “David. I want to talk to you after dinner.”

He gave me an odd look. “Okay.”

But after dinner it was difficult to find David. Night had come by then and torches had been lit and tied to several posts. Anne and I looked among rocks, behind the house, and along the shore where the light did not reach. “Do you think he’s avoiding us?” I asked.

“Perhaps. We’ve got to find him.”

I called his name several times, and finally David stepped out of the shadows. “What do you want?”

“We’re worried about the Purcells,” Anne told him. “Do you know when Troy decided definitely to buy the house from Umi?”

“Two weeks ago,” David said. “Maybe longer than that. I’m not sure. Why?”

“The date is important.”

David shrugged. “Maybe Lala can tell you. She saw Troy every day.” Anne started immediately toward where Lala and Keoni stood. They were near the steps of the lanai, holding hands as they watched a fat, giggling Hawaiian woman dancing opposite wizened Archie Kamaka in a very wicked hula. Troy was with the musicians; he chanted with each chorus.

David started to walk away and I followed. “You knew what might happen when you sent Troy to Kauai. Why did you do it?”

David turned. Torchlight flared behind him, silhouetting his body. For a moment he was David the primitive, the perfect native specimen Mavis had labeled him. But it was David the civilized who answered. “He asked for it.”

“But his wife—”

David’s voice was harsh. “She won’t stay. Soon she’ll hate it — and us and everything we mean to him — even more than she does now.”

“Then it can’t possibly work out. She’s his wife.”

David jerked his head toward the house. Mavis, dainty in her white dress, was passing drinks to the Garrisons on a tray, then carrying one to Troy, laying an affectionate hand on his shoulder as she offered it.

David looked at me. He made a gesture with his two hands like a man twisting the neck of a barnyard fowl and flinging it to the ground to flap its life out. He wheeled and left.

When I reached the house, Anne had drawn Lala aside and they were sitting together on the steps. As I joined them Anne said, “She doesn’t know me very well, Johnny. Please talk to her.”

I sat down beside Lala. “We wanted to ask about Troy and his wife.”

“Yes?” Her lids dropped and she was remote.

I began again. “We know that Troy loves you very much, Lala.”

She looked up with quick protest and I went on, “We know what kind of aloha Troy has for you. Please do not misunderstand. We’re glad for Troy, that he is so happy here. But we’re concerned about his wife. Do you think she really wants to stay?” Lala said suddenly, “No! She has said that she will not stay. I heard her tell him so.”

“When was this?”

“Two weeks ago.” Lala began to speak rapidly in a low voice. “I heard her tell him she will not stay, she cannot endure this place. She wants to go home, she says, where they can live like civilized human beings.”

“How could you know this?” Anne demanded.

“We live next door. The first time I heard them they had a terrible fight. That was the day Troy told Umi he will buy the house and will pay cash for it when his check comes from the magazine. She yelled at him that night. Troy told her to shut up but she kept on yelling. Finally he rushed out of the house and went up to the pool and stayed until very late. The next day she started again. This time she was more quiet.”

“Then how could you hear what she said? Did you listen deliberately?”

“Yes. Keoni and I — Troy still had posing for us to do, and we needed the money. I was afraid she might persuade him to leave. So I listened. I went to the windows on the other side of their house, the side away from ours. I heard everything.”

“What did you hear?”

“Troy told her he wanted a divorce. He said she could go home, and according to Territorial law he could divorce her for desertion after a year and nothing would be in the papers. She could have what was in their New York bank account and all the furniture. She said their savings wouldn’t last her six months. He was very angry that night. He said she could sell some of the expensive trash she had bought and have enough to live on for two years. They had a big fight.”

“What else?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, Lala? No more fighting?”

“That’s right. Next day I listened again, but they had made up. She told him she didn’t want a divorce, she loved him and only wanted him to be happy. He said that if she really meant it she would stay here with him and make a new life, that he never knew how to live until he came here. When she said living costs as much in Honolulu as in New York, he told her it depends on what you mean by living. He could sell enough of his paintings, he said, or he could take on a commercial job once in a while, and they would be comfortable. Then they made up.”

“What happened after that?”

“Nothing. Troy worked every day, he finished the paintings.”

“What did Mavis do?”

“When she was home she stayed in the house, reading. She went out a lot. Shopping, she said, getting ideas for furnishing the house. And she went to parties. I pressed all her clothes one day. She has beautiful clothes.”

“And she and Troy never had another argument?”

“No.” Lala stood up. “But I don’t believe she will stay here long. She is an empty woman. It takes a lot of money to fill her kind of emptiness, and then it is never filled.”

We watched as she went to join Keoni. He asked a question and she shook her head and smiled, and then they disappeared in the crowd.

“Let’s walk,” Anne said. We headed for the beach.

As we paced up and down we heard behind us the voices of singers, occasional shouts of laughter, cries of “Kani ka pila!” On with the music. The luau was just warming up.

Anne clung to my arm. Her bare shoulder brushed mine as we walked. “Before you joined us I asked Lala if she remembered the night Troy got drunk at the Erickssons’. She did remember it because that was the time the car rolled down the hill, and they saw how frightened Troy was when he ran after it. I think it was shock which made him drink that night.”

“But why is that — any of it — significant now?”

“What I really wanted to know from her was where Troy went after he got into the car alone and started off again. Johnny, he didn’t leave — he didn’t go anywhere! Lala said they heard the Purcells come in that night. Troy was singing and Mavis told him to be quiet. He went into the house with her, meek as a lamb, and went to bed.”

I stopped in my tracks. “Then she told a deliberate lie! She even called the Erickssons to say how worried she was. Now that I think of it, it was out of character for Mavis. She’s not the confiding type.”

Anne urged me into motion and we walked again. “No,” she agreed, “she’s not the confiding type, nor does she act on impulse, as Troy does. That story to the Erickssons was a calculated dramatization, a plant of some kind. And for some definite reason.”

We paced in silence for a while. “Tell me,” Anne said then, “what Bill Garrison was saying to you about Troy’s insurance.”

“You were behind me. You heard him.”

“Not every word.”

I slowed my step, scuffing damp sand as I concentrated.

“First, Peggy said it was a good thing Troy has Mavis to manage his affairs. Then Bill explained that Troy carries life insurance of thirty thousand and had told him he wanted to drop it because he doesn’t expect to earn enough in the future to keep up the payments. Bill argued with Troy but couldn’t persuade him to change his mind. Later he heard from the home office that they had received Troy’s check.”

“Troy’s check — or hers?”

“He didn’t say — why should he? Maybe they have a joint account. What difference does that make, anyhow?”

“At this point, none, probably.” Anne shivered.

I knew she couldn’t be cold. I stopped and pulled her into my arms and kissed her. She clung tight for a moment and then moved back and caught my hand and we walked on.

Anne began to think aloud. “Mavis has paid up Troy’s insurance — or persuaded him to do so. She has written to the Morgans — Leila’s letter was dated five days ago and she had just heard from Mavis — giving them notice to move because she wants the apartment. Yet today she lets us believe that she intends to stay here. She doesn’t contradict Troy when he mentions selling their furniture in New York and using the money to buy a car. She talks about decorating the cottage and says their new home will be charming.” She gripped my hand tight and said, “I don’t like it, Johnny! Especially after what we saw on her face this evening.”

“When you bring the facts together that way, I don’t like it either,” I admitted. “That naked hatred when she looked at Troy and Lala — it might be just the girl she hates. And Lala is leaving soon. Perhaps after she goes Mavis will get over it.”

“I don’t think she will,” Anne insisted. “She’s not young any more. She’s invested years of effort manipulating Troy, building the kind of life she wants for them both. Now the entire structure is threatened. And in spite of her pretty manners, she is capable of violence. Lala said she screamed at Troy in fury. That must have been one of her few unguarded moments. Now she’s docile. But she spends her time reading stories of murder.”

“That’s as good a sublimation as any.”

“Don’t be an idiot. It’s only in psychology books that sublimation really works.”

“All right,” I said. “What can we do? What can anybody do?”

We had turned and were headed toward the party again. “I don’t know,” Anne said. Automatically we quickened our pace.

When we rejoined the crowd we saw neither Troy nor his wife. We went to the table, now serving as a bar, then through the house to the kitchen, and back to the lanai. There we ran into Umi.

“Looking for Troy?” he said. “He just left.”

An old man on the grass near us cackled approval. “Troy plenty onaona. Had one fine time.”

“Was he really drunk?” I asked.

“He was stiff!” Bill Garrison told us from the steps. “We just poured him into the car and Mavis took him home. Never saw anything happen faster. One minute he’s sitting here with this glass in his hand, singing — the next, he’s flat on his face. No wonder, after all the liquor he took aboard.”

Anne and I avoided looking at each other. We were both remembering what Troy had said about not wanting to drink, and what David had told us about the straight ginger ale.

“Don’t worry about Troy,” Bill said. “He’ll be all right. The fresh air’ll sober him up on the way home. And Mavis is a good driver.”

“Of course,” Anne said. She sank to the steps of the lanai where Troy had recently been sitting. “Give me a cigarette, Johnny.”

As soon as Bill and Umi had wandered off, she stood up. “Let’s go after them.”

“We haven’t a car.”

“Take David’s. Take the first one we find. But hurry!”

We took David’s car without permission. Anne opened the glove compartment as we started.

“What are you putting in there?” I asked.

“The glass Troy drank from. When we get as far as Kaneohe I want to telephone.”

I pressed the accelerator. At Kaneohe, Anne reported no answer from Troy’s house or Umi’s. “All the Kealohas are at the party, of course. And Mavis probably hasn’t had time to get home yet. Are we taking the Pali road?”

“It’s quicker — if it doesn’t start to rain when we get there.”

The rain started when we were halfway up the long, winding drive. It didn’t rain hard; there was just a blowing mist which clouded the windshield and made the road Like glass. We drove in silence and Anne said nothing as we skidded on curves; nor did she grab at the door when we scraped, once, against stones of the outside wall.

When we reached the summit we were in a downpour. Wind rocked the car as we made the turn and started down. It had taken us almost an hour, slowed as we were by the weather. We were possibly twenty minutes behind Mavis, and in that much time anything could happen — or could be made to happen — to Tray.

My thoughts went back and forth with the clack of the windshield wipers. One minute I thought this whole thing was preposterous and we were acting like idiots; next I recapitulated everything we knew plus what we surmised, and I was sure we would be too late.

We found a filling station on Nuuanu Avenue and Anne was out of the car even before it stopped. She was inside for quite a while and I watched her through the window as she spoke over the phone. She came back with a set look on her face and said, “I reached her.”

“What did she say?”

“She was hysterical. She called me a fool. But when I told her we have the glass Troy drank from — and that several witnesses remembered her giving it to him — then she was scared. Let’s go to the house now.”

We turned at last up the steep drive which led to the cottage, and I parked near the path to the front door. The house was lighted, but when we knocked there was no answer. We waited and listened but heard no sound other than the drip of water from the eaves and the soughing of trees in the wind which swept down the valley. We knocked again and called, then tried the door and found it unlocked. We walked in.

The living room was empty. The wicker table by the side of the broken-springed couch was piled with magazines; there was a manicuring set, a filled ashtray, and an empty glass with cigarette butts in it. We went into the bedroom. It was lighted and empty. Troy’s grass slippers, one strap torn loose, were half under the bed. It gave me a queer feeling to see them. The white dress Mavis had worn was tossed on a chair and her white sandals lay close by.

On the dresser were jars and cosmetics of all descriptions. A bottle of liquid cleansing cream lay smashed on the floor, as if the woman who was using it had dropped it there, perhaps, when she heard the telephone ring. We went into the kitchen and found the screen door half ajar; light from the room streamed out over the small rear landing onto steps which led to the concrete driveway.

It was there we found Mavis.

We saw first her naked legs, then the shell pink satin of the dressing gown which had spread over her face when she tripped and sprawled headfirst down the steps. She lay still, in that final stillness which is death. But we heard a sound.

It was the familiar sound of the ancient car which had chugged so faithfully as it carried us to the luau.

“The garage!” Anne cried. “Quick! Open the door!” As I went to it she ran around the side of the building.

The door was padlocked. I heard breaking glass, and then Anne came back and said, “The window is nailed. Can’t you get the door open?”

While I tugged at the hasp she went to Mavis’s body and snatched the key from her outflung hand. I took it and opened the lock.

Anne untied the halter top of her bathing suit and thrust it at me. “Be careful, Johnny. Hold this over your nose while you turn off the ignition—”

But there was no key in the ignition. The motor chugged on, while I dragged Troy’s sagging body out of the car and across the garage floor to fresh air and Anne shut the garage doors again. “He’s breathing,” I said when she turned. “He can’t have been in there long. He’ll probably be all right once we get him to the hospital. I’ll go phone.”

As I reached for the screen door I was dimly aware that Anne was leaning over Mavis’s body. Then I almost tripped over a high-heeled satin mule. Mavis should have known better than to rush down a flight of steps in high heels, I thought, as I went into the house.

When I came out Troy’s breathing sounded normal and his face looked less pink. We left him lying on the damp grass and went to sit on the steps of Umi’s cottage. I helped Anne tie her halter back on, and we moved very close together. After a while she stopped shivering.

We didn’t hunt for the ignition key. Later, after disconnecting some wires to stop the motor, police found it in the pocket of Mavis’s dressing gown.

As we waited, Anne and I began to talk.

The story Mavis had planned to tell seemed fairly obvious, we decided, remembering the one she had already told the Erickssons. Troy had “refused” to enter the house, and she left him in the car to sleep off his “drunk.” He had revived and decided to go back to the party, had started the motor, and then passed out again — while Mavis slept. The next day — or the next hour, it did not matter — she would become alarmed and go to the garage and find him.

“By the time she’d have called the police,” Anne said, “the door would be open, of course, and the key back in the ignition. She must have taken the idea from a newspaper, or from one of those stories she read.”

“She would never have got away with it.”

“She might have. A pretty woman, a good lawyer, and a husband with a reputation for drinking heavily? And even if she were convicted—” Anne let out a long, ragged sigh — “that wouldn’t have done Troy any good.”

She looked at her hands, which were dirty, and went to brush them across the wet grass. When she sat beside me again I said, “Hey, kid. Your legs are all streaked, as if you’d been carrying—” I looked at Mavis’s body, then I squared around. “Anne. You moved something away from there. What was it?”

Instead of answering directly, she said, “Johnny, do you remember the things we heard about Troy and Mavis — the two accidents they almost had?”

“Once when she was nearly drowned, and he went in after her—”

“That was the time Troy ‘absent-mindedly’ hung his shirt over the warning sign at the beach.”

I was beginning to get the idea. “—and then the hand-brake on the car froze, the night Troy got drunk!”

“Mavis told us earlier today that the brake didn’t work because Troy ‘forgot’ to have it repaired. It might be interesting to know whether there were other instances of Troy’s ‘absent-mindedness’ before they left New York, or whether his need to be rid of his incubus crystallized only after they came here. But the point is — the third time Troy tried to murder his wife, he was successful.”

“Anne, what was it you moved?”

“Remember, you told them of the superstition about hanging a fishnet in the house?”

“Sure. Mavis ordered Troy to take it down. And he tossed it—” I looked with horror at the steps down which Mavis had tumbled to her death.

“Yes,” Anne said. “I removed the net.”

Before I could say anything Troy stirred, and we heard him groan.

Then the ambulance arrived.