“You’d never know it from me.”
“She was on the verge of bringing me a shot of rye, Mr. Sedley.”
“Man alive, she’d have put a kick in it with arsenic or cyanide.”
I winced. “Sometimes you break up the most wonderful dreams.”
“Come on,” he told me. “Doane will give you all the drinks you want and if he doesn’t, I’ve a cellar full.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” I demanded.
Snow at Waikiki
by Curtis Cluff
Snow at Waikiki? A strange phenomenon indeed, but it was there all right — half a million dollars’ worth. And it made the Islands plenty hot for Johnny Ford.
Chapter One
The night was hot and muggy, definitely not a night to make with the brain. The royal palms which usually kept up a rustling clatter outside my lanai were as lifeless as their potted brethren in the Waikiki Theater. My eyes were still tired from squinting against the glare all day and my shirt was sticking to my back. Each sip of my drink left an increasing aftertaste of burnt celluloid. Somewhere in the distance a woman’s voice sounded in high, mocking laughter. It seemed directed at me.
The envelope was still on the table where I found it when I came in. A plain cheap envelope with no address, no message, nothing — except five hundred dollars in ten dollar bills, all unmarked as far as I could tell. It meant that somebody was worried, but I had covered too many places and talked to too many people to know who it was. I reread the notes I had made in the vain hope that my eyes could make my brain work. It was no go. I crumpled the sheets in disgust. It was a cinch somebody ought to get in touch with me.
I got up, started toward the bathroom to destroy the notes and the telephone rang. As soon as the muffled voice spoke, I knew its owner was using the handkerchief trick on the mouthpiece.
“Mr. Johnny Ford?”
“Speaking.”
“Did you get my message?”
“What message?”
“The five hundred?”
“I got it. Who’s talking?”
“A friend.”
“What do I have to do to earn it, friend?”
“Just spend it, Mr. Ford.”
“Any suggestions as to how or where I should spend it?”
“Not as to how you spend it, Mr. Ford, as long as you spend it in California — tomorrow night.”
“I’d have to catch the Clipper in the morning.”
“That’s the general idea.”
“Suppose I’m not in a hurry to go?”
The muffled voice sounded apologetic. “The Tourist Bureau would be very annoyed if they heard me tell you this, Mr. Ford, but the truth is — the climate in the Islands is not healthy for everyone.”
“I wouldn’t want to catch anything serious.”
The voice chuckled. “I think you can feel perfectly safe provided you catch the Clipper tomorrow morning. Good night, Mr. Ford.”
I cradled the receiver and grinned. Somebody must have had things his own way too long if he thought that Fu Manchu act would scare anybody. Personally, I have never been accused of being the timid emotional type.
I went into the bathroom, set fire to my useless notes, dropped the ash into the toilet bowl and flushed it. It disappeared down the drain, but the bowl didn’t refill. There wasn’t any sound of water coming into the tank. I lifted the top off the tank and looked inside.
A square tin, the size of a small box of tea, rested on the bottom. The brown paper in which it was wrapped had parted and a large fragment had floated in between the ball stopper and the flush valve. I rolled up my sleeve, removed the paper and the water flowed freely. I dried the box on a towel and carried it into the kitchen. The lid had been fastened on with what looked like sealing wax. I scraped it away with a kitchen knife and the lid came off easily.
I lifted out the top packet, opened it and stared down at the powder in the tissue. I touched the tip of my tongue to the white crystals and spat. It was heroin all right. The voice on the telephone wasn’t taking any chances. Either I caught the Clipper in the morning or answered some unpleasant questions for the Feds in the afternoon. I put the packet back in the box, replaced the lid and carefully wiped the whole thing. The telephone rang again. I wrapped the box in the towel and took it with me to the telephone.
It was my client, Allan Norris, and his voice was as brusque and harsh as ever. He was a great guy for ordering people around.
“I want you to come up to my house right away.”
“I thought we decided against that.”
“Do you think I would call you if it wasn’t urgent?” he demanded acidly.
I had my own ideas about that. I had learned that anything Allan Norris thought he wanted was urgent. I said: “I’ve got another tough day tomorrow. Unless you give me some idea of what it’s about, I’m not coming.”
“My daughter, Jennifer, has passed away,” he said in a flat, dull voice.
I didn’t believe it. “You mean she got out of the house?”
“She’s dead.”
I was jolted. “How did she die?”
“I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. Are you coming?” The tough old buzzard’s voice was actually pleading.
“Hold everything, I’ll be right up.” I hung up and got into my shoulder holster and coat. I eyed the towel-wrapped can. There was nothing to do but take it along. I shoved it down in my coat pocket, turned off the lights and went out.
My cottage was one of the detached group belonging to a glorified hotel known as the Hanauma. The cottages were just off the beach and so cunningly hidden amid the giant oleanders, royal palms, hibiscus, ferns, panax hedges and what not that it was a major operation to find one’s own cottage after dark. It was an ideal spot for the well-heeled tourist who wanted privacy. For some reason, Allan Norris had decided I would need such privacy and since he was paying for it, I made no objection.
I found my way out of the jungle and moved along the shed garage until I came to my stall. The neat white sign dangling from the roof said, “Mr. J. Ford.” Even if you only stayed the minimum, which was a week at the Hanauma, you rated a garage stall and a little white sign with your name on it. A minor exhibit in the psychology of tourist snobbery but I didn’t sneer too much. As I said, Allan Norris was paying for it. I got my rented coupe out of the garage and headed for Makiki Heights.
It was my first visit to the Honolulu millionaire’s big, Spanish-style town house. There were three cars parked in the semi-circular drive. I pulled in behind a medium-priced job whose rear license plate sported a medico’s caduceus medallion. The second car was a sleek black sedan, and the car directly in front of the door was a special-built cream colored convertible. I decided again that there was plenty of ready cash here in Hawaii.
Three figures stood in the hallway inside the open door. Norris detached himself from the other two and came forward to meet me. He was a stocky erect man with a stern, tanned face topped by a shock of white hair. He looked as fit as a professional athlete but his face was tortured.
“Come in, Ford.” He extended his hand. “I called you as soon as it happened.” He led me toward the other two men. He indicated a tall slender man with dark red wavy hair who looked to be about my own age, which is thirty-five. “I want you to meet Walter Kent.” We shook hands and I turned to the other figure, a thin, balding, intelligent-looking man in the middle fifties. He wore a smart conservative business suit and rimless glasses. “This is Carter MacDonald, my lawyer.” We shook hands. “Mr. Ford is a private investigator who is conducting a business investigation for me,” he explained to the others.