The Seven Sinister Sombreros

Chapter III. Around the Island.

There were eight tawny-skinned Hawaiian girls, and fully half a dozen thin cow-punchers at Lester Leith’s apartment when the spy returned from his session with Sergeant Ackley.

Lester Leith frowned his disapproval, and said: “Dammit, Scuttle, you’ve been more than an hour getting the car from the garage. What the devil’s the idea? Did you think you were on a vacation?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the spy lied glibly with the facility born of long practice. “The car had a flat tire and I had the devil of a time getting it off. The rim was frozen solid to the wheel and—”

“Well, never mind,” Leith said. “Here are these people who have gathered in response to the ad. Get the name and address of each, and send the applicants into my private sitting room, One at a time. Give me a list of the names and addresses, and I’ll check them off as I interview the applicants.”

“Yes, sir,” the spy said, making a surreptitious appraisal of the Hawaiian girls whose dark, smoky eyes, hinting at the romantic possibilities of a friendly race, drew his attention as a magnet.

Lester Leith, ensconced in his private sitting room, set the stage for the interviews. After five minutes, the spy opened the door and oozed into the room.

“Here they are,” he said, “the names and addresses of all the applicants.”

“Very well, Scuttle. I’ll see the dancers first, the cowpunchers next.”

The first young woman through the door smiled at him with the frank friendliness of the Polynesian.

“What’s your name?” Lester Leith asked.

“Nano Kapiolani.”

Leith checked off her name and address on the list. “What do you know about the hula?” he asked.

“Everything,” she said, and for a moment her lips lost their smile. Her eyes were pleading and wistful. “If you people of the Mainland could only understand the spirit of our hula,” she said, “it would make for so much more enjoyment of our dances. The genuine hula isn’t a vulgar ‘grind’ such as you see at so many of the cheap exhibits. It’s a portrayal of nature. With our bodies, we imitate the swaying of trees in tropical winds. With our hands, we signify the action of our songs, the tiny wavelets hissing up the sand, the drifting of clouds across the sky, the— Here, let me show you.”

She kicked off her shoes, loosened the belt of her skirt, and, singing with the effortless ease of the native Hawaiian, began to sway in rhythm to the music.

When she had finished, Leith said: “You get the job. It may interest you to know that your activities will be in connection with the organization of the Hawaiian-American Aesthetic Art Association with offices in the Moronia Building. The purpose and scope of the organization will be to advance a greater appreciation of the artistic significance of the Hawaiian dances. Here’s a one-hundred-dollar advance on salary. That will cover your work for a week. The job may not last longer than that, but you’ll get another week’s salary in lieu of notice.”

“Shall I tell the other applicants that the position’s filled?” she asked, her eyes glistening with gratitude as she took the hundred-dollar bill.

“No,” Leith said. “I want to talk with each of them, but remember to hold yourself in readiness for a telephone call from me.”

She thanked him and went out. The spy promptly introduced the next applicant.

“Maui Huanemo,” the spy said.

“How did you get that first name?” Lester Leith asked her.

“I was born on Maui,” she said. “Most of the girls on the Hawaiian teams come from Oahu. They started calling me Maui as sort of a nickname, until now it’s the way I’m known in all of the booking agencies.”

“And what do you know of the hula?” Leith asked.

“I know too much,” she told him sadly.

“What do you mean?”

“I have learned that on the Mainland the Hawaiian hula has been turned from something beautiful and symbolic into something vulgar. In Hawaii, when we dance the hula, it is an attempt to interpret songs and legends with the rhythmic motion of our bodies. Whenever we portray ‘going around the island,’ it brings forth wild applause. That’s all you want of a hula. Even your ad emphasized that part of the hula dance. We—”

Lester Leith interrupted to say: “I’m sorry if you misunderstood the ad. As a matter of fact, I am a representative of the Hawaiian-American Aesthetic Art Association with offices in the Moronia Building. It is the purpose of the organization to advance an artistic appreciation of the true aesthetic value of the Hawaiian hula dances. If you are employed, you will be doing field work for the association, and may rest assured that everything you do will advance an appreciation of the Hawaiian dances. Are you acquainted with Nano Kapiolani, the young woman who was just in here?”

“No, I have never seen her before.”

Leith gravely took from his pocket a hundred-dollar bill.

“You get the job,” he said, “but I don’t want you to tell the others.”

“But don’t you want to see me dance?” she asked. “Don’t you want—”

“It’s quite unnecessary. I can tell from the manner in which you carry yourself that you are quite proficient. This hundred dollars will cover your first week’s salary. The job may not last longer than that, but you will receive another hundred dollars in lieu of notice. And remember that you start working for me tonight, that you are to hold yourself in readiness to follow my instructions regardless of how peculiar and eccentric those instructions may seem.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” she said.

Leith nodded crisp dismissal, ushered her to the door, and nodded to the undercover man.

The next young woman was Mildred Wemomano.

“And what,” Lester Leith asked, “do you know about the hula?”

“Watch mamma,” she said.

She took off her shoes, stepped from the chair to the desk, fastened big, brown, laughing eyes on Lester Leith and began swaying in the rhythmic tempo of a South Sea Island dance.

Gradually the tempo grew more rapid.

“Here we go,” she said, “around the island. Watch.”

Folding her arms, she characterized the journey around the island in the age-old Hawaiian manner.

Lester Leith gravely took a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket.

“You’re hired,” he said. “But don’t tell the others.”

Within the next fifteen minutes, Leith had hired all the Hawaiian dancing girls, and had started interviewing cowpunchers.

Harry Lanten was the first applicant, a drawling, soft-spoken individual who walked into the room with shoes that would clump despite anything he could do, with legs that were bowed like a pair of calipers.

“What,” Leith asked, “do you know about riding mean bucking broncos?”

“I’ve ridden a few.”

“And you wear a seven-and-a-quarter size hat?”

“That’s right.”

“I see,” Lester Leith said, “that you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for. You’re hired. Here’s one hundred dollars to cover a week’s salary in advance.”

The blue, deep-set eyes, seemingly trying to crowd together past the barrier of a nose which was as protruding and businesslike as the beak of a mosquito, lighted with gratitude. “Say, buddy,” he said, “you don’t know what this means—”

“Could you,” Lester Leith interrupted his thanks, “teach me how to ride a bucking bronco?”

The thin cowpuncher surveyed him with appraising eyes. “Yes,” he said. “I know where there are a couple of horses, not downright mean uns, you know, but horses that’ll start to buck if you crowd ’em a bit.”

Leith said: “Tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock I want to take my first lesson. Have a bronco all ready for me.”

“O. K. Swell,” the man said.

Leith opened the door of his closet.

“Here,” he said, “is a little present for you. Take your pick.”

The man stared at the array of ten-gallon sombreros, grabbed one of them, felt the texture of the rim, looked in the band to be certain of the name of the maker, and then whistled.

“You mean you’re giving this to me?” he asked.

Leith nodded. “And remember,” he said, “to be on the job waiting for me to telephone. Don’t get drunk, and you hadn’t better wear cowboy togs. Just keep on your regular clothes, but you can wear this hat.”

Lanten thanked him and left, renewing his assurances of gratitude. Five minutes later, Lester Leith had hired Philip Wolsack of Arizona. Six minutes after that, Tex Sherwin of San Antonio had collected the job. Then Arthur Grebe was hired.

However, it wasn’t until shortly after noon that Beaver was able to call Sergeant Ackley.

“Hello, sergeant,” he said cautiously. “I just wanted to give you the lowdown. Apparently those ads are just run-arounds. He tried to keep anyone from knowing which one of the applicants he’d hired, but I was too smart for him. Whenever they would come out, I would take them to one side and ask them confidentially: ‘What time did Mr. Leith say you were to start work?’”

“Good work,” Sergeant Ackley said. “Whom did he hire?”

A slow grin twisted the spy’s thick lips. “He hired every damn one of them,” he said. “Remember, sergeant, you boys do the thinking. That puts it in your department. Now figure that out, and put it in your report to Captain Carmichael.” And the spy eased the receiver back on its hook.