Her suggestion for dealing with the present enervating humidity was to remain quietly inactive. That was what she and Lyman intended to do even though they were acclimated to it. Later, perhaps, they could all go for a swim if the surf gentled enough to permit it.
Kaipo brought breakfast, but Sabina had little appetite and only picked at it. She did read the copy of one of Honolulu’s newspapers, The Pacific Commercial Advertiser, that Kaipo also brought. There was much in it about the Spanish-American war, though the news from Cuba was several days old and not enlightening; the primary focus, naturally, was on the comings and goings of American warships, the arrival of a garrison of troops at Pearl Harbor and their effect on the local economy.
John, when he finally awakened, was no more interested in food than she and not at all interested in the newspaper. He was in a grumpy mood — the storm, his restless sleep, the sweltering heat, and especially the lack of a message from George Fenner. He knew it was too soon to expect it — it was Sunday, after all — but he was impatient nonetheless. He was not good at waiting at the best of times, and dependence on someone he barely knew for vital information made him even more anxious.
The morning crawled away. She and John seldom lacked the ability to communicate, but they had little enough to say to each other today. The kona weather seemed to have temporarily robbed them of even mundane conversational topics. After a time the torpor Sabina felt gave way to drowsiness; she went into the bedroom, lay down on the now-dry sheet in her bed, and was soon asleep. At some point John had come in, too; he was snoring gently in the other bed when she awoke.
It was midafternoon then, the air a trifle more breathable. She went to look outside. The pale orb of the sun appeared, disappeared, reappeared among shifting cloud formations driven by high-altitude winds. From what she could see of the ocean, the incoming surf was no longer unsettled and should be calm enough for bathing.
John roused as she was putting on her costume. Normally he avoided athletic pursuits such as swimming, but like her he was moist and prickly-skinned after his nap, and the prospect of a cooling dip appealed to him, too. He thought he looked foolish in his blue pin-striped costume — “a half-naked hairy ape” was how he described himself — but Sabina’s opinion was that he cut a rather dashing figure.
There were a few people on the beach, mostly sun-browned native children playing in the sand and a few adults prowling among the piles of driftwood and other detritus that had been cast up by the storm. The ocean, which she and John quickly entered, was a welcome respite from the heat despite its bathwater temperature. Actual swimming required too much effort; mostly they just splashed about, letting the rollers wash over them.
After a time, refreshed, she went to dry off in the shade of a coconut palm while John continued to bathe. She noticed then that a fully dressed Caucasian woman had joined the natives on the beach, and despite the wide floppy straw hat the woman wore Sabina recognized her as Gordon Pettibone’s secretary. Miss Thurmond wandered among the piles of flotsam and jetsam, apparently not in search of shells, for she picked none up. Nor anything else until something caught her eye and she pounced on it like a cat pouncing on a mouse.
The woman was too far away for Sabina to tell what the object was, only that it was small and dark-colored. Miss Thurmond examined it briefly, then put it into a pocket of her beige dress and hurriedly left the beach. Sabina’s impression was that Miss Thurmond had not been randomly beachcombing, that she had been searching for whatever it was that she’d finally found.
The message from George Fenner arrived shortly past nine on Monday morning. She and John were just finishing breakfast when Alika brought the sealed envelope. It was slightly less steamy hot today, a light ocean breeze having begun to intermittently rattle tree branches and palm fronds, and they had both recovered some if not all of their appetites.
John’s entire demeanor changed when he tore open the envelope and read what was written on the sheet of paper inside. Whereas he had been half fidgety, half listless before, now he was animated again. His voice resonated with controlled enmity when he said, “Fenner located Vereen and Nagle. True to his word, by Godfrey!”
“Where are they?”
“The note doesn’t say. He’ll tell me in person.”
He showed her the paper. Back-slanted printed words read succinctly: Have requested information. Office open until 1 p.m. Then he folded it, tucked it into a trouser pocket, and went inside.
Sabina followed him into the bedroom, watched as he unpacked and loaded his Navy Colt. “I hope you don’t have to use that,” she said.
“So do I.”
“It could mean serious trouble if you do. We have no legal jurisdiction here.”
“No, but a citizen’s arrest is legal anywhere with just cause. So is self-defense.”
He put the pistol into a belt holster, strapped it on, donned a jacket to cover it, kissed her briefly, and went off to put what she fervently hoped would be a swift, safe end to his quest.
7
Quincannon
Lonesome Jack Vereen and Nevada Ned Nagle, who were still using the aliases James Varner and Simon Reno under which they’d sailed, had procured a small bungalow on the lower slope of Punchbowl Hill, not much more than a mile from Nuuanu Street.
According to Fenner’s investigation, the pair had not indulged their vices by frequenting the Fid Street saloons or the Chinatown brothels during the past week. But they had spent one evening shortly after their arrival in one of Honolulu’s better resorts, in the company of a Big Island (the local name for the island of Hawaii) ranch owner named Stanton Millay, the three of them ruining their gizzards with large quantities of a potent Hawaiian liquor called okolehao.
The fact that the two thieves had mostly chosen a sub-rosa lifestyle was a sure sign that they were involved in another large-scale swindle. Millay might be their new mark, but if so, the game must be something other than one of their favorite stock grifts; the rancher, according to Fenner, was not the sort to have anything to do with the stock market. Well, the nature of the flimflam, whatever it was, would be revealed soon enough.
Quincannon rented a roan saddle horse at the same livery that had supplied Vereen and Nagle with a horse and buggy, and rode to Punchbowl Hill following the directions Fenner had given him. The fat man had offered to accompany him, but Quincannon neither wanted nor needed assistance in putting the arm on his quarries. Besides, he was loath to pay Fenner another forty-dollar day wage.
It took him nearly an hour to find Hoapili Street and the right bungalow, for the streets in the area had been laid out in a confusing hodgepodge and not all the dwellings bore clearly numbered addresses. Once he was certain he had the right address, he rode slowly past with the brim of his hat pulled down low to shield his face.
The bungalow was half hidden behind tall hibiscus shrubs and a cluster of stubby palms. There was no sign of the rented horse and buggy. One of the grifters might still be here, however, the other off on some sort of errand; it would make his task easier if so. If both were absent, he would wait for their return no matter how long it took.
He picketed the horse behind the concealing branches of a thorn-laden tree, wiped his dripping face with an already damp handkerchief. The heat was intense again today, the sticky air dead still, the sky once more coated with a milky, shimmering radiance that burned the eye. Riding in the open squeezed out a constant trickle of sweat that itched his beard, plastered his shirt to his skin. Even the grip of the Navy Colt felt moist when he touched it.