The Paradise Affair

8 Quincannon

George Fenner’s Fid Street office was closed. And his return was not imminent, else the door would have been left unlocked. Gone off on business? Or to slake his beer thirst or to fill his gullet with food? In no frame of mind to wait passively, Quincannon went in search of him.

The fat detective was not in the Trader’s Rest saloon next door, nor had he been there this morning. The bartender allowed as how he might be found at this hour in his favorite Chinatown feeding place and provided directions. The dimly lit restaurant, in a narrow alley not far from Nuuanu Street, was where Fenner was, right enough, seated in a private alcove behind a flagon of beer, a mound of fried rice, and a dish of something that looked suspiciously like the cut-up tentacle of an octopus swimming in its own ink.

He didn’t ask how Quincannon had located him. Professional courtesy, perhaps. His greeting, spoken through a mouthful of rice: “Back so soon? The two kukas must not have been at the bungalow.”

Quincannon sat in a spindly chair across from him. “One of them was,” he said in a lowered voice. “Nevada Ned Nagle.”

“And you didn’t put him under citizen’s arrest?”

“Not much point in arresting a dead man.”

“Dead?” Fenner paused in the act of spearing a chunk of tentacle. “By your hand?”

“No. Either by his own, unintentionally, or his partner’s. An overdose of morphine.”

“How long ago?”

“Sometime yesterday and so ripening in the heat.”

“No sign of the other one?”

“Not a trace. No luggage, nothing left behind but Nagle’s corpse.”

The fat man set his chopsticks down, dabbed at his lips with his bandanna-size handkerchief, then quaffed deeply from the flagon. Quincannon’s mouth and throat were parched from the morning’s efforts; he watched Fenner have at his suds with one of the few twinges of envy he’d felt since taking the pledge nearly a decade ago. Also on the table was a glass of water; he picked it up and drained it without asking permission.

Fenner didn’t seem to mind. He said, “Nagle’s death should be reported to the police.”

“Not by me. I can’t afford to be held up by official red tape with Vereen still on the loose.”

“You think he murdered his partner?”

“Conceivably,” Quincannon said. “If he did, it was because the new swindle’s cush is much greater than they were used to playing for.”

“And you believe it is.”

“I do. Whether he succeeds in putting it over or not, I damned well intend to find him before he departs for San Francisco or the Orient.”

“You’re a hard man when the situation warrants, eh, Quincannon?”

“Not unlike you, I’ll warrant.”

Fenner’s mouth curved slightly, the closest to a smile his poker face would allow.

Quincannon said, “The rancher, Millay, that Vereen was seen drinking with. Is he wealthy enough to be Vereen’s mark?”

“Yes. Stanton Millay and his sister Grace own a large ranch on the Big Island. She runs it. He spends much of the profits, and is none too careful how.”

“But not in the stock market.”

“No. I don’t know him personally, but his primary vices are reputed to be women, okolehao, and poker.”

A poker grift was not in Vereen and Nagle’s repertoire. If Millay was their mark, the game had to be something that did not involve gambling. “Do you know if Millay is still in Honolulu?”

Fenner shook his head. “Chances are he’s gone back to the Big Island by now. He seldom stays in Honolulu more than a few days.”

“Where does he usually lodge here?”

“The Hotel Honolulu. The bar there was where he was drinking with Vereen and Nagle.”

“How did you find that out, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The barman is an acquaintance of mine.”

“Acquaintance” being a polite term for “informer and information seller”; Fenner must have his share of them here, just as Quincannon did in San Francisco. “Did he happen to overhear any of what the three of them discussed?”

“He didn’t tell me if he did.”

“Would he talk to me? With your sanction, that is.”

“Yes, but not for free. You’ll have to pay him.”

“I expected as much. His name?”

“Winchell. Oliver Winchell. You won’t have any trouble finding him — he’s working the day shift this week.” Fenner took a business card from his pocket, wrote something on it with the stub of a pencil. “Give him this by way of introduction.”

Quincannon pocketed the card without looking at it. “And where is the Hotel Honolulu?”

“On Beretania, off Punchbowl Street.”

“If Millay has gone back to the Big Island, by what means? Inter-island steamer, his own boat?”

“Inter-island steamer, as far as I know.”

Quincannon did not have to ask where such passage was arranged. He remembered having passed the Merchant Street offices of the Inter-Island Steamship Company on Saturday.

He asked, “What kind of ranch do the Millays have?”

“Cattle. Prime beef.”

“A cattle ranch? In Hawaii?”

“There are several large ranches on the Big Island. The Parker ranch is the largest by far — they run more than fifty thousand head. The Millays’ ranks fourth or fifth.”

“Fifty thousand head?” Quincannon was astonished.

“Thriving cattle business in the islands. Has been for nearly a hundred years.”

The fat man picked up his chopsticks, helped himself to the last large chunk of eight-legged sea creature. From the way he chewed it, it must have had the consistency of rubber. Quincannon’s stomach muscles twitched. Why subject your innards to something as unappetizing as octopus-in-ink when prime Hawaiian beefsteak was available?

He fished out the crude map he’d found hidden in Nevada Ned’s coat. Laid it on the table next to Fenner’s plate, and explained where he’d found it. “Would this be a drawing of the Big Island?”

Fenner gave it a quick study, quaffing beer again as he did so. “It would,” he said. “Kailua is the largest town on the Kona Coast. Kawaihae and Puako... little fishing villages, as I recall. Years since my last visit to that part of the Big Island.”

“Is the Millay ranch located there?”

“Inland between Puako and Waimae Point, I think. On the lower slopes of Mauna Kea.”

“And Auohe?”

“A Hawaiian word that means ‘hidden place,’” Fenner said. “As far as I know, there’s no village or anything else along that stretch of coast that carries the name.”

“You’ve no idea what it might refer to on this map?”

“None. Unless it marks the location of the ranch road, but I don’t see how that would translate to ‘auohe.’”

Quincannon said, “You told me earlier that the owner of the Hoapili Street bungalow is a man named... Gomez, was it? Maybe he has the answer.”

“Justo Gomez. Half-caste Portuguese-Hawaiian. A kuka mixed up in a number of shady enterprises — gambling, prostitution. How Vereen and Nagle made contact with him I don’t know.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Justo’s Bait and Tackle Shop, on the waterfront near River Street.”

Quincannon stood up. Fenner said, “One thing to be settled before you leave.”

“Yes?”

“Nagle’s death has to be reported to the authorities. Matter of public safety. But there are ways for it to be done anonymously and without repercussions.”

“By you?”

“For a small additional charge.”

Quincannon paid the charge without argument. The outlay of money was not an issue at this point. And he had to admit that if their positions had been reversed, he himself would have expected to be paid for making such arrangements.