The beach was a short distance down the gradual slope. This section of the garden was dominated by mango trees heavy with fruit, and by one bearing long strands of vivid yellow flowers that Margaret identified as a golden shower tree, one of Hawaii’s most common and most attractive.
As they neared a gate that gave access to the beach, Sabina spied a man and a woman beyond a low fence bordering the neighboring property. They stood near a similar gate on that side, facing each other, the man with both hands tightly gripping the woman’s arms. He seemed to be in the midst of a heated scolding of his companion. She stood stiffly, her blond head tilted to one side as if she disdained looking at him.
When the man heard Sabina and Margaret approaching, he quickly released his hold, squinted in their direction, then said something to the woman that turned her around and sent her back up the incline without a sideways glance. Sabina had a clear look at her then — young, attractive, Junoesque in stature, dressed in a light-colored blouse and skirt.
The man hesitated, looking after her, then walked over to the fence. He was about sixty, tall and spare, with a long saturnine face and a liver-spotted scalp beneath thinning gray hair. Despite the heat, the beige suit he wore was immaculate.
“Hello, Margaret. So you and Lyman are back.” His smile was a mouth-stretch that did not reach his eyes. “How was San Francisco?”
“Cold and wet, I’m afraid.”
“Better than this miserable heat and humidity.”
“Has the kona weather been on us long, Gordon?”
“Three days.”
“Oh, drat. I was hoping it was nearing an end.”
“We’re in for another four or five before the trades begin again.” His gaze shifted to Sabina in an appraisal she found too bold for a man twice her age. “Who is this attractive young woman?”
Margaret introduced them. He was Gordon Pettibone, owner of the neighboring property. He allowed as how it was a pleasure to make Sabina’s acquaintance, a statement she pretended to share. Her years of detective work had taught her to trust first impressions, and there was something about Mr. Pettibone that left her cold.
Ever polite, Margaret said to him, “We’ll be having tea on the lanai at five o’clock with Mrs. Quincannon and her husband. Would you and Philip care to join us?”
“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, his eyes still on Sabina. “Philip is out somewhere but he’ll come if he returns by five.”
“Miss Thurmond is welcome, too, if you would like to bring her.”
“I think not. She will be busy.” He essayed a slight bow, then followed the path the young woman had taken toward the Queen Anne replica.
Sabina said as she and Margaret stepped down onto the white sand beach, “You seemed surprised that Mr. Pettibone accepted your invitation.”
Margaret nodded. “He isn’t the most social of men. Or very fond of our island, I’m sorry to say.”
“Is that why he had his home built to resemble one in San Francisco?”
“It is. He’s not a bad neighbor, though he can be standoffish at times. I hope you don’t mind that I asked him and his nephew to tea.”
“Not at all.” Which wasn’t exactly the truth.
Mr. Pettibone, Margaret explained then, was the minority owner and head of the Honolulu branch of Great Orient Import-Export, a large firm that dealt in silk, foodstuffs, and other goods from China and the Far East. Philip was Philip Oakes, his nephew and an employee of the firm; the blond woman he’d been scolding was Miss Thurmond, his secretary. Both lived with him. Earlene Thurmond’s duties included cataloguing Mr. Pettibone’s large collection of books on Chinese history and assisting him on a scholarly tome he was writing on that nation’s ancient dynasties. Sabina thought she detected a faint note of disapproval in Margaret’s use of the word “duties,” as if she suspected the relationship between the two to be more than just employer-employee. The little scene by the gate suggested the same to Sabina.
The white-sand beach was sparsely populated, most of those present children of various ages, and the shade cast by tall palms kept it from being unbearably hot. The cream-tipped rollers were gentle, the water warm and gloriously soft. Sabina’s only regret, while she and Margaret bathed, was that John was not here to share her enjoyment. She hoped he had made contact with George Fenner and it proved fruitful, and that he would return before five o’clock. She did not relish the thought of having to socialize with Gordon Pettibone without him.
5
Quincannon
The trolley rattled through the swampy lowlands, then ran inland between rows of coconut palms. It stopped often to take on or disgorge passengers of half a dozen or more races, very few of them Caucasian; the slow progress and the oppressive heat inside the car did nothing to improve Quincannon’s disposition.
So this was Hawaii, the Crossroads of the Pacific, the place Sabina had quoted Mark Twain as describing in one of his notebooks as “the most magnificent, balmy atmosphere in the world — ought to take dead men out of grave.” Smiling native girls in little more than grass skirts and flower leis? The only ones he’d seen so far that even came close to fitting that description had been those waiting outside the pier shed; and they, like all the women on this infernal trolley, were well covered. The men were even more stoic, baring their teeth only in panting frowns. One burly fellow, in fact, seemed to study Quincannon’s neck as if measuring it for a noose or a knife blade.
Paradise?
Bah!
He focused his thoughts on Lonesome Jack Vereen and Nevada Ned Nagle. He had considered canvassing the hotels for them but discarded the notion. It was not likely the unholy pair would have taken rooms in one, even if the present lack of hotel space in Honolulu permitted it. Their modus operandi was to arrange for private lodging places while working one of their swindles; that was what they had done during the bilking of R. W. Anderson, and they would surely have followed suit here if they were setting up another con. A hotel canvass would be a waste of valuable time, not to mention a daunting task for a stranger in this strange land.
No, his best course of action, like it or not, was to enlist the aid of George Fenner. According to the information supplied by the Pinkertons, Fenner was both an experienced and a competent detective. Until three years ago he had been a member of the Honolulu constabulary, under the authority of the marshal of the kingdom of Hawaii. He had been a security officer in the entourage accompanying Kalakaua, the last king of Hawaii, who had visited San Francisco in 1891 and had eventually died there. When the Sandwich Islands Kingdom breathed its last, two years later, Fenner had supported Marshal Charles B. Wilson in refusing for several hours to turn over the police station to the new provisional government, an act of insubordination that had cost him his job and led him to open his own investigative service.
All of this spoke well of him, but a man’s past history could be misleading. This was especially true, in Quincannon’s experience, of flycops in general. What was Fenner like today and in person? Would he be willing and able to do Quincannon’s bidding at a reasonable price? Yes, and if so how long would it take him to produce results?
The trolley finally turned on King Street and entered the city proper, passing a massive concrete-faced structure set inside a broad square that must be the Royal Palace. Despite the kona weather, the cobblestone street was crowded with buggies, men on horseback, pedestrians that included uniformed soldiers and American naval personnel. Quincannon joined the foot traffic at the intersection with Bishop Street. The motorman had told him when he boarded that the quickest route to Nuuanu Street was via Merchant Street, which was one block mauka — toward the mountains.