The Paradise Affair

14 Sabina

Later that day she had two visitors, the first not unexpected, the second whose purpose was something of a surprise.

Margaret came to fetch her when the first caller arrived at the main house midmorning. Emil Jacobsen, captain of detectives, Honolulu Police. He unfolded himself from a chair in the living room when they entered — a tall, spare man with a long, narrow face and jaw, and a skullcap of iron-gray hair, clad not in a uniform but a tan business suit, white shirt, and plum-colored bow tie. Margaret plainly would have liked to remain while he spoke with Sabina, but propriety won out over curiosity and she silently withdrew.

The captain introduced himself, favoring Sabina with a courtly bow and a solemn smile as he did so. His manner was not quite deferential. And expressive, she thought, of more than an ordinary amount of professional interest.

When they were seated he said, “As I’m sure you’ve surmised, I asked to speak with you regarding the death of Mr. Gordon Pettibone.”

“Yes, but there is really nothing I can tell you that I didn’t tell Mr. Oakes last night. Other than I regret having given in to impulse and trespassed on the Pettibone property.”

“Understandable in the circumstances. Would you mind repeating exactly what you saw and heard?”

“Not at all,” she said, and did so. Including mention of the shadow shape. It was seldom wise to withhold anything from the police, John’s views about the efficacy of the law notwithstanding, and would have been downright foolish to do so in a foreign land.

Captain Jacobsen was not stirred. “So you can’t be certain that you actually saw such movements?”

“No, I can’t.”

“You had yet to step over onto the Pettibone property at the time?”

“That’s correct. The angle of view from where I stood was oblique and the light from the window not bright.”

“An optical illusion,” he said, and punctuated the statement with a positive nod. “The circumstances of Mr. Pettibone’s death are such that he could have died in only one of two ways, by accident or by his own hand.”

“The circumstances?”

“He was alone in his study, the door and both windows locked. The door had to be broken down — the noises you heard following the shot.”

“Yes, I thought as much,” Sabina said. “May I ask what conclusion you’ve reached?”

He studied her for a few seconds, as if trying to decide how candid he should be. Then, “I am satisfied that Mr. Pettibone took his own life, though it’s up to the coroner to make the final determination.”

That was not the verdict she had expected. “Mr. Oakes seemed adamant that the shooting was accidental.”

“Very adamant, understandably so, but incorrect. Mr. Pettibone kept his pistol in his bedroom — he deliberately took it into the study last night. There were no cleaning supplies in the study, so that couldn’t have been his purpose. Everything points to suicide.”

“Wasn’t the fatal wound in his chest? Mr. Oakes said it was.”

“It was, yes.”

“Don’t those who commit suicide by firearm usually shoot themselves in the head?”

“Not always. A bullet in the heart is not uncommon.”

“Did Mr. Pettibone leave a suicide note?”

“No, but that is also not uncommon. And his dying words are surely meaningless.”

“Dying words?”

“He was still alive when Mr. Oakes and the houseman broke in. He spoke three words before he died. ‘Pick up sticks.’”

Sabina repeated the phrase. “Is it certain that those are the words he spoke?”

Captain Jacobsen raised and lowered his long jaw affirmatively. “Mr. Oakes, the houseman, and Mr. Pettibone’s secretary all heard them.”

“Do any of them have an idea of what he meant?”

“No,” he said. “Evidently the words had no specific meaning — the delusional rambling of a dying man in extremis.”

Perhaps, but it seemed a strange phrase for a man such as Gordon Pettibone to have uttered at any time, much less with his last breath. For no particular reason it put Sabina in mind of the old nursery rhyme: One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, knock on the door. Five, six, pick up sticks. Very strange, indeed.

The captain was scrutinizing her again. His smile, now, had an ironic edge. “You’re very inquisitive, Mrs. Quincannon. A result of your profession, no doubt. Mrs. Pritchard told me that you and your husband operate a detective agency in San Francisco.”

Drat! Margaret meant well, but Sabina’s accounts of her experiences had resulted in a touch of idolization that had loosened her hostess’s tongue. That explained the captain’s added professional interest.

He said, “I don’t believe I’ve heard of a woman detective in the private sector. You must be unique in the profession.”

The one thing that irritated Sabina almost as much as having men criticize or scoff at her chosen livelihood was having them consider her “unique,” as if she were a freak of nature instead of an emancipated woman toiling willfully and successfully in a man’s game. Captain Jacobsen, at least, showed no disrespect. In fact, he seemed mildly intrigued.

She curbed her annoyance. “Not at all,” she said. “I was employed and trained by the Pinkerton Agency, as several other women have been, before I entered into partnership with Mr. Quincannon. Nearly a dozen years’ experience, all told.”

“Commendable,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “Mrs. Pritchard sang your praises with what I have no doubt is complete justification. But you are in Honolulu on vacation?”

“I am, yes.”

“Your husband has business here and on the Big Island, I understand.”

Margaret again, not that the source mattered. An explanation of John’s absence would have had to be tendered in any case. But not a full explanation, even if one were demanded; he would provide the details of his pursuit of Lonesome Jack Vereen and the late Nevada Ned Nagle if and when he delivered Vereen to the local authorities.

“He does,” Sabina said, “a private matter on behalf of a client who demands discretion. I’m sure you understand.”

“I do, unless it in any way breaks or circumvents Hawaiian law.”

Time for a little white lie. “I assure you that it doesn’t.”

Captain Jacobsen accepted that and did not press her further. He rose, said it had been a pleasure meeting her, bowed again, and took his leave.

After he was gone, Sabina briefly, gently, and mildly remonstrated with Margaret, asking that she please not reveal her and John’s profession to anyone else. Margaret apologized profusely, and that settled the matter.

Sabina’s second visitor arrived unannounced at the guesthouse shortly past noon. She had just finished partaking of a light lunch brought by Kaipo and was perusing an article in the current issue of the Honolulu Evening Bulletin criticizing the burgeoning influx of American warships and military personnel when the knock came on the screen door. She opened it, and there stood Philip Oakes.

“I hope I’m not intruding, Mrs. Quincannon,” he said. “I’d like to speak to you. May I come in?”

“Speak to me about what, Mr. Oakes?”

“My uncle’s death. May I come in?”

There was none of Saturday evening’s flirtatiousness in the way he looked at her, nor was he nattily well groomed or his manner urbane, so it was not a foolishly ill-timed attempt at seduction that had brought him. He seemed more upset today than he had been when she’d spoken to him last night. His voice and eyes were both beseeching.

She allowed him inside. He waited until she had reseated herself at the rattan table, then occupied the second chair and mopped his face with an embroidered silk handkerchief. In the close confines of the porch she detected the odor of whiskey on his breath, but it was not strong and he was nowhere near intoxicated. A large drink or two to settle his nerves, at a guess.

“I’ve come to ask your help,” he said.

“My help? To do what?”

“Prove that my uncle’s death was an accident. An accident. You’re a detective, aren’t you? Captain Jacobsen told me you were after he spoke with you.”

Oh, Lord. The police detective had been no more circumspect than Margaret had in keeping her profession confidential. “Yes,” she admitted, “I am. In San Francisco.”

“There is nothing to stop you from practicing your trade here, is there? Detective business is why your husband went to the Big Island, isn’t it?”

Sabina swallowed a sigh. “The captain seems convinced your uncle died by his own hand.”

“Jacobsen is wrong. My uncle would never have committed suicide. Never.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Positive. He was too fond of himself, had too much to live for. Great Orient Import-Export, his position with the Reform Party and the annexation. Yes, and finishing the book on ancient Chinese history he was writing. I told Jacobsen all of this but he wouldn’t listen, just wouldn’t listen. His investigation was cursory, he made up his mind in a hurry. The man is an incompetent blockhead.”

“An incompetent blockhead doesn’t become a captain of detectives,” Sabina said.

“He does if he was given his position for political reasons. Jacobsen was. He must have been.”

“What makes you think I am any more competent than he? How do you expect me to prove him wrong?”

“Come with me to the house, conduct your own investigation. There must be something the police missed in my uncle’s study, something they missed. I’ll pay you. I’ll pay whatever your agency charges in San Francisco.”

“Payment is not an issue,” Sabina said. “Why are you so desperate to prove your uncle did not take his own life?”

“Suicide is bad for business. Bad for business. A blot on the family escutcheon.”

“Come now, Mr. Oakes, you’re not being frank with me. There must be more to it than that.”

He was silent for a few seconds, as if debating with himself. Then, “Oh, very well. The main reason is insurance.”

“Insurance?”

“A life insurance policy with an American firm. Twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars! I happen to know that I am the beneficiary.”

“I see. The policy contains a nonpayment clause in the event of suicide, is that it?”

“Yes. Twenty thousand dollars is a substantial amount — all that is likely to come to me and I won’t be cheated out of it. I won’t be cheated.”

“But surely you stand to inherit your uncle’s home, his share of the import-export business...”

“Not the business,” Oakes said. “There are ironclad agreements with the other partners... no, I don’t stand to inherit his share. Or the house. Likely he left it to his business partners, or the Reform Party. Or his paramour.”

“Paramour?”

“Miss Earlene Thurmond.” His lip curled disdainfully as he spoke the name. “That is what she was, you know, in addition to her secretarial duties. His paramour.”

Sabina let that pass without comment.

“No financial bequest to me, that is the point,” Oakes said. “No money except the insurance. Not even a token amount in his will, he told me that. Not even a token amount.”

“In that case, are you certain you’re still the beneficiary of the insurance policy?”

“Certain, yes. Positive. My uncle was manipulative, autocratic, but he wasn’t a complete bas... wasn’t completely heartless. He hadn’t much sense of family loyalty but he did have some. Not enough, but some.”

Once more Sabina was silent. Unbidden, the lines from the old nursery rhyme again intruded on her thoughts. One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, knock on the door. Five, six...

“Pick up sticks,” she said aloud.

“What? What’s that?”

“Pick up sticks. Captain Jacobsen told me your uncle spoke those words before he succumbed. You haven’t any idea what they mean?”

“No. He never said anything like that before. Never. Out of his head with pain. What does it matter?”

“Perhaps it doesn’t.” And perhaps it did.

Oakes mopped his forehead again. “Will you at least come to the house and look through the study? At least that much, Mrs. Quincannon?”

Sabina’s inclination was to politely but firmly decline. She did not like Philip Oakes and she found his mercenary motives distasteful. And yet there were puzzling aspects to Gordon Pettibone’s death that were not satisfactorily explained by Captain Jacobsen’s conclusion of a willfully self-inflicted gunshot.

The fact that 3:00 A.M. was a curious time for a man to choose to take his own life; the gunshot wound in an unlikely location for a suicide; that inexplicable dying utterance of “pick up sticks”; and the shadow shape that might not have been imaginary after all.

Add all those together, and she knew what John would have made of the bundle. If the two apparent anomalies were nothing of the kind, and “pick up sticks” was not just nonsense but some sort of dying message, then it was possible Gordon Pettibone hadn’t shot himself on purpose or by accident — that someone had put the bullet in his heart despite the fact that the study doors and windows had all been locked.

John, if he were here, would surely accept the investigative challenge; conundrums of this sort intrigued him. If she refused the opportunity, he would chastise her for it when he found out. And be perfectly right in doing so. She had, after all, been instrumental in solving a few conundrums herself.

“Very well, Mr. Oakes,” she said. “I’ll do as you ask.”