The Paradise Affair

16 Quincannon

Scowling, he asked the paniolo, “Is Mr. Millay here now?”

“Sure.”

“Where would I find him?”

“Main house, maybe.”

“And his sister?”

“Miss Grace out riding with Sam Opaka. Back pretty soon.”

Quincannon left him to his chore and crossed the yard to the ranch house. It was almost tolerably cool in the shade of the monkeypod. The front door stood open behind a fly screen; he rattled his knuckles on the screen’s frame. When this produced no response he used the heel of his hand to make a louder summons.

A voice from the gloom within called out thickly, “Mele! See who that is!”

Quincannon waited. After a minute or so, when no one appeared, he pounded on the frame again.

“Mele!” Then: “Dammit, who’s making all that racket out there?”

“Stanton Millay?”

“... I don’t want to see anybody. Go away.”

Quincannon did the opposite: he opened the screen and stepped inside. Once his eyes grew accustomed to the half-light, he saw that he was in a large room whose rough-hewn walls were decorated with tapa cloth on which were displayed notched war clubs and a pair of crossed spears with polished wood shafts and ivory barbs. An assortment of other pagan objects — carved idols, feathered fetishes, calabashes made from coconut husks — were arranged on pieces of furniture made of native lumber and on woven mats that covered the floor.

In one of three chairs a young, medium-sized man with a mop of wheat-colored hair sat slumped on his spine, a glass propped on his chest. Judging from the bleary squint he directed at Quincannon, the glass contained okolehao or its equivalent and had been emptied and refilled several times from the decanter on an adjacent table.

“Who in blazes are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Quincannon.”

“Quincannon? Scotsman, eh? I don’t know any Scotsmen. Get out of my house.”

“Not until I have what I came here for.”

“And just what would that be?”

“Jack Vereen.”

A blank stare. “Who?”

“All right, then. James A. Varner.”

That name produced a twitch that nearly upset Millay’s glass. “Who?” he said again.

“Don’t try my patience, Mr. Millay. You crossed the ocean from San Francisco with him and his partner, Simon Reno. Spent a night drinking and carousing with them in Honolulu last week.”

“By Christ!” The exclamation startled a young Hawaiian girl, barefoot and dressed in a long flowered garment, who had just entered the room. “I don’t want you any more, Mele,” Millay snapped at her, and immediately she disappeared again. Then he said to Quincannon, “Casual companions, nothing more. What’s your interest in them? Who the devil are you?”

Quincannon laid one of his business cards on the arm of Millay’s chair. The rancher picked it up, squinted at the wording. A muscle flexed twice in his cheek, shaping his mouth into a grimace. He fortified himself with a deep draught from his glass before saying, “Detective? What’s Varner and Reno done to bring a San Francisco detective all the way out here?”

“You have no idea?”

“No. I hardly know them, just a couple of businessmen I happened to meet.”

“In San Francisco on your recent trip there.”

“So what? What difference does that make?”

“The fact that they shared your passage back to Honolulu makes a great deal of difference.”

“Why the hell should it? Listen—”

“No, you listen, Mr. Millay. Whether you know it or not, those two are not businessmen — they are thieves and swindlers.”

This was no revelation to the cattleman. The muscle flexed again; his gaze shifted away from Quincannon’s. Man under a severe nervous strain. “What does that have to do with me?”

“That is what I want to know,” Quincannon said. “What kind of fabulous scheme did they present to you?”

“Scheme?”

“Something to do with a clock or cloak, wasn’t it?”

The muscle flexed again. “You don’t make any sense, man. Clock, cloak... mumbo jumbo. I had no business with those two. I told you... good-time companions, that’s all.”

Quincannon didn’t believe him and said so.

“I don’t care what you believe or don’t believe,” Millay said. He drank again. “Not one damn bit.”

“Where is Varner now?”

“How should I know?”

“He came here with you on Monday.”

“The hell he did.”

“You left Honolulu with him Sunday morning.”

“... How do you know that?”

“How I know isn’t important. Do you deny it?”

“No,” Millay said. “We happened to take the same steamer, that’s all. Last I saw of him was five minutes after we docked at Hilo. He was meeting someone there, he said.”

“Did he, now? And who might that someone be?”

“He didn’t confide in me. And I didn’t ask. I keep my nose out of other men’s business.”

Quincannon had had enough of this verbal sparring. He growled, “Varner’s true name is Vereen, Lonesome Jack Vereen. His fat partner’s real name was Nagle, also known as Nevada Ned.”

“... What do you mean, his name was Nagle?”

“He’s dead.”

“Dead?” The cheek muscle danced this time. “How? When?”

“Three days ago of a morphine overdose. Possibly administered by Vereen before he departed.”

“Why would—” Millay broke off, wagged his head in a confused way. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“That is what I intend to find out.”

“Does Varner... Vereen know you’re after him?”

“If he doesn’t,” Quincannon said, “he soon will. I’ve come almost three thousand miles to take him prisoner and I won’t leave until I do. If you’re hiding him on this ranch, you’re guilty of aiding and abetting a dangerous fugitive.”

“Hiding him? Why would I do that?”

“Why, indeed.”

“Well, I’m not hiding him. Dammit, he was never here!”

“You had better not be lying to me, Mr. Millay.”

In a convulsive movement the rancher drained his glass, slammed it down on a side table hard enough to knock it over, and shoved onto his feet. “I’ve heard enough about matters that don’t concern me. And I don’t like to be threatened.” The bluster was still in his thickened voice, but underlying it now was a current of fear. “Either you rattle your hocks out of here or I’ll throw you out.”

Quincannon’s answer to that was a feral grin. In the tense moment that followed, there was the sudden pound of boots on the porch outside. Two pairs, one heavy, one light. A woman’s voice called “Stan? Are you in here?” just before the screen door clattered open.

Quincannon moved a few paces to one side as the newcomers entered the room. The woman, in the lead, was an older, slimmer version of Millay — fair-skinned, her sun-bleached hair tucked inside a cowboy hat decorated with a hibiscus band. The hard-eyed man behind her was native-dark, bulky, dressed as she was in rough range garb. Grace Millay and Sam Opaka.

The woman glanced at Quincannon, said to her brother, “Keole told me we have company. Who is this man?”

“His name’s Quincannon,” Millay said. He seemed calmer now that reinforcements had arrived, but no less defensive or truculent. And the undercurrent of fear was still present in his voice. “Detective from San Francisco. He thinks we’re harboring one of a pair of swells I met on my trip, supposed to be a confidence man.”

“Jack Vereen,” Quincannon said, “alias James A. Varner.”

“I told him I haven’t seen the man since Sunday in Hilo but he doesn’t believe me.” To Quincannon he said, “This is my sister, Grace. And our luna, Sam Opaka. Go ahead, ask them if Varner’s here or been here.”

“My brother is telling the truth,” Grace Millay said. Opaka said nothing, but his eyes, black and hard as volcanic rock, never left Quincannon’s face. “There is no one on this ranch named Varner or Vereen. Nor has there ever been, so far as I know.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“What makes you think this man came here?”

Quincannon said cannily, “The auohe, among other things.”

“Auohe? What auohe?” She sounded genuinely puzzled.

“On the coast near here.”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to. Sam? Do you?”

Opaka gave a short, sharp headshake.

“Neither do I,” Millay snapped. He had picked up the decanter from the table and was about to replenish his glass. “By God, this has gone far enough. Talking nonsense, implying we’re liars — I won’t stand for it!”

His sister said warningly, “Be quiet, Stan.”

“Why should I? I don’t want anything more to do with this damn flycop. I think we ought to kick his okole off our land. Sam and me, right now.”

“I told you to be quiet. And put that decanter down. You’ve had enough to drink.”

“The hell I have.”

“More than enough.” She nodded to Opaka. “Sam.”

The luna moved for the first time. He caught hold of Millay’s arm with one hand, the decanter with the other. He said softly, “Miss Grace say pau, Mr. Stanton.”

Millay started to argue, but when Opaka tightened his grip, the handsome features went lax and he subsided. He ran his tongue over dry lips, his gaze lowering, and allowed the luna to prod him from the room.

Grace Millay said, “We’ll go out on the lanai, Mr. Quincannon. It’s cooler there.” And when they were outside in the shade of the monkeypod, “You must excuse my brother. He is... high-strung and inclined to be belligerent when he drinks too much.”

Weak and easily manipulated were more apt descriptions of Stanton Millay. All fuss and feathers, with very little sand; anyone who showed him strength, man or woman, could back him down. Prime prey for the likes of Vereen and Nagle. It was little wonder, Quincannon thought, that Millay chose to leave the ranch for long periods whenever he could. Only in the vice dens of Nuuanu Avenue, Chinatown, and the Barbary Coast would he be able to convince himself and others of his manhood.

He asked, “Does he always drink so heavily during the day?”

“No. At least, not here on the ranch.”

“Why now, then?”

“I have no idea, unless it has something to do with the man you’re looking for. He hasn’t drawn a sober breath since he returned on Monday.”

“Returned alone?”

“Alone, yes. What sort of criminal is this man Vereen?”

“The opportunistic sort,” Quincannon told her. “He and his partner suit their chicanery to the person or persons they’re aiming to fleece. Their specialty is confidence games involving stocks and bonds.”

“That doesn’t apply to Stanton. He has neither, nor any interest in such matters. Nor have I.”

“It isn’t clear yet what kind of swindle they tailored to your brother. Something to do with a cloak or clock, perhaps. Does that suggest anything to you?”

She shook her head. “Were they able to fleece him?”

“I can’t say yet. He claims he had no business dealings with them.”

“But you think otherwise.”

“I have good reason to,” Quincannon said. “You seem to have a strong influence with him, Miss Millay. Can you convince him to be candid with you?”

“Not if he’s done something illegal or immoral and a substantial amount of money is involved. The amount would be substantial, I suppose?”

“Yes. Vereen and his partner would not have traveled all the way to Hawaii otherwise.”

“Isn’t it possible my brother was not their... target? That they had another, someone who resides in Hilo?”

“Anything is possible,” Quincannon admitted. “But from all indications your brother was their mark. If they did manage to bilk him, any verifiable amount of money or goods I recover will be returned, of course.”

“Of course.” Her smile was thin and skeptical. She was a handsome woman, as Abner Bannister had said, but in a severe way. A woman hardened by the land and by her responsibilities, cynical and tenacious, who would do whatever she felt necessary to protect her own. “Tell me, why did you mention an auohe on the coast nearby?”

He decided to be straightforward with her. “The word was written on a map of the island Vereen’s partner had in his possession.”

“Just the word? No specific place?”

“No.”

“I suppose it could refer to the ruins of an old heiau, but I can’t imagine why. You know what a heiau is?”

“I do. As a matter of fact I stopped for a look at those ruins before I came here.”

“Then you know there is nothing there that would interest a pair of crooks,” Grace Millay said. “Do you believe that Vereen is not and never has been here at the ranch?”

Quincannon was not convinced, but he said, “I have no choice but to take your word for it.”

“You’re welcome to search the house and the ranch buildings.”

“That won’t be necessary.” The invitation alone convinced him the effort would be futile.

“Well, then. If you’re satisfied Vereen is not here, then my brother must have been telling the truth about last seeing him in Hilo.”

“So it would seem.”

“You’ll be going there, then?”

“Hilo, yes,” he lied. “As soon as possible.”

“That would have to be tomorrow. As late as it is, you may as well spend the night here — we have guest quarters out back. With an early start you’ll reach Kailua in time to catch the afternoon steamer.”

Quincannon had no intention of going to either Kailua or Hilo on the morrow. Lonesome Jack Vereen had no more departed the inter-island steamer in Hilo than he himself had; the grifter must have come here with Stanton Millay. Why had Millay — and perhaps his sister — lied about it? And where was Vereen now? On his way back to Honolulu, his business with Millay quickly completed? It was possible, but Quincannon had the feeling that that was not the answer. The answer, he was convinced, lay either here on the ranch or close by.

An overnight stay suited him, therefore. He was tired, the prospect of a night camped out in the volcanic wasteland held no appeal, and a morning departure better fitted the initial plan of action he had devised. He accepted Grace Millay’s invitation.