O. B. was opening the screen door for the detective when a figure came rushing up, dressed in white, a ghost emerging from the darkness.
Otto Kuhn-in a white shirt and white linen pants, looking like a male nurse seeking a doctor-seemed out of breath, though his bungalow, next door, was hardly any distance. His light blue eyes had a startled look.
"Are you with the police, sir?" he asked Jardine in his thick yet smoothly accented second tenor.
"I'm Detective Jardine."
"I'm Otto Kuhn-I live there." He pointed toward the bungalow past a cluster of palms. "Could I speak to you, sir?"
Jardine gestured toward the sitting room, which beckoned beyond the screen door O. B. held open. "Mr. Burroughs, do you mind?"
"Not at all."
And soon Hully and his father were again seated on the couch, spectators, as the German real-estate agent spoke excitedly to the Portuguese detective. Though Kuhn towered over the little man, literally, Jardine's commanding presence loomed over the German, figuratively.
With an inappropriate smile, Kuhn said, "I saw you arrest that… native. That musician."
"You did."
"Yes, and you were correct to do so. I… hesitated to come forward until I was sure he was safely in custody."
"You sound as if you were afraid of Kamana, Mr. Kuhn."
Kuhn swallowed, nodded. "I'm not proud to admit that is the case. You see… I saw of what brutality he was capable. My bungalow … a window looks out on the beach. It is somewhat blocked by trees, but I had them trimmed back, recently … for a better view."
"What kind of view did you have tonight, Mr. Kuhn?"
"I was sleeping," he said, tilting his head, as if onto a pillow, "and woke suddenly…." He jerked his head straight up.
Hully winced; these histrionics were somehow distasteful.
Kuhn was saying, "I heard arguing, loud arguing, a man and a woman. I rolled over, to go back to sleep … my wife did not waken, I must emphasize, she saw nothing."
"All right."
Gesturing with both hands, the German said, "The arguing got louder. Heated, you might say. I went to the window, to complain. I think if I shout at them, they might stop, and I can sleep again, and no one would be harmed. But when I got to the window … that's when I saw it."
"Saw what?"
"The murder. That man… the Hawaiian musician, Kamana… he had something in his hand… a rock, I think. Something heavy, anyway, small enough for him to grasp. He raised his hand, and I wanted to shout, 'Stop!' But I was too late… she screamed, and he struck her. Struck her a terrible blow."
Kuhn lowered his head, shaking it, as if remembering this terrible thing… but something about it seemed hollow to Hully. He glanced at his father, to see if he could read any similar reaction, and noted his dad's eyes were so narrow, they might have been cuts in his face.
"This is a very interesting story, Mr. Kuhn," Jardine said. "I have one question-why didn't you call the police?"
Kuhn nodded toward O. B., on the couch. "I saw Mr. Burroughs capture the Hawaiian….Edgar was obviously taking him to justice. I calmed my wife… she had woken by this time, and heard my story, and had become terribly upset… and I simply waited for you to arrive." He smiled, clasped his hands in front of him, like a waiter about to show a patron to a really nice table. "I would be most happy to give you a formal statement, tomorrow, at your headquarters."
Jardine said nothing for a few seconds; then he sighed, and said, "Why don't you show me the window you saw all this through?"
Kuhn nodded, curtly. "My pleasure."
Pleasure? That seemed an odd thing to say….
Hully found this German's story unsettling, and unconvincing, despite the way it hewed to the particulars of Pearl Harada's death.
As he accompanied Kuhn out, Jardine turned to O. B. and said, "We'll talk tomorrow, Mr. Burroughs. Thanks for your help-shouldn't have to bother you again, tonight."
"Good night, John," O. B. said, seeing them to the door.
"Nice meeting you," Jardine said to Hully, and then they were out of the door.
A few minutes later, Hully was folding the couch out into its bed, and his father-in a fresh pair of pa-jama bottoms-came out from his bedroom and stood there, bare-chested, with his hands on hips, Tarzan-style.
"I thought that trombone player was a killer," O. B. said, "until ol' Otto started agreeing with me."
Hully, unbuttoning his shirt, said, "Why did Kuhn
wait so long to come forward? Why didn't he come out and help you nab that guy, if he witnessed everything?"
O. B. blew a raspberry. "That Kraut didn't see a damn thing."
"Funny… that's my instinct, too. But why would he claim to have?"
"I don't know, son… I sure as hell don't know." He heaved a sigh, and hit the light switch. "Get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning."
Hully lay on his back, staring up into the darkness, the breeze blowing through the window, its flowery scent suddenly seeming too sweet, sickly sweet. He thought about the musician, and how sincere the man had seemed; he thought about Kuhn, and how phony that bastard had been.
Then he thought about Pearl Harada, and thought about his friend Bill Fielder, probably sleeping off a drunk somewhere, blissfully unaware of the tragedy.
His pillow was damp, so he turned it over and, finally, went to sleep-hoping his father wouldn't awaken him with another damn nightmare.
TWO: December 6, 1941
SIX
Strong morning trade winds blew across Oahu, fronds of palms and plants ruffling, cane fields undulating, surf swelling, the clear sky disrupted only by smokelike puffs of clouds over the Koolau mountain range. Between that range at the east and the Waianae range at the west lay both the capital city of Honolulu and the Naval base of Pearl Harbor.
The base-though well located for a strategic deployment of the United States Navy-was a logistical nightmare, with the nearest resupply three thousand miles away on the American West Coast. Also, the one-channel entrance of the landlocked harbor could bottle up easily with the sinking of a single ship; and, even under ideal circumstances, getting the fleet out of that channel and onto the open sea required three hours. When the fleet was in-as it was on this first weekend of December-the port was clogged with ships, supply dumps, repair installations and highly flammable fuel.
Pearl Harbor might well have been designed for air attack. But a battle fleet in Hawaii was deemed necessary to deter Japan, and no alternative location could be found offering advantages and facilities to match Pearl's. Interceptor aircraft, AA guns and radar equipment would simply have to shore up the harbor's weaknesses. So said Washington and its top military minds.
Of course, Honolulu had already been invaded by air-on the previous weekend, when a silver plane circled the city before landing in Kapiolani Park, where three thousand civilians watched and screamed… in delight: Santa Claus had arrived. Sponsored by the Honolulu Advertiser, piloted by the 86th Observation Squadron, Saint Nick's invasion was part of an attempt by the city fathers to provide a more traditional-and commercial-Christmas than the underwhelming Yule-tide season that was the Hawaiian norm.
With the defense boom, the city was swarming with homesick American boys-defense workers as well as servicemen-stuck in these tropical surroundings, pining for their favorite winter holiday. Sears and Roebuck responded by hanging brightly wrapped presents from the palm trees surrounding their parking lot, and festive colored lights had been strung across major streets; even the street-corner Santas-most of whom were Japanese-were putting some extra swing into theft bell-ringing.
Still, it seemed rather halfhearted to Edgar Rice Burroughs, who was used to sunny Christmases, having lived in California for some time now, though his many years in the Midwest meant he knew damn well what a real white Christmas was all about. The cellophane window wreaths and tinsel-draped palms of Honolulu didn't really cut the mustard.