Harada frowned in apparent confusion. "I know no one named Morimura."
"How about Yoshikawa?" Burroughs asked, innocently. "A rose by any other name… You see, I thought, what with bombs dropping and all, you might be just the guy to help get the vice consul out of the limelight."
The grocer shook his head. "I know nothing of what you speak."
"Well," Burroughs said, "to tell you the truth, we were bluffing. Kita didn't mention your name. Matter of fact, I doubt Kita even knows your name, unless the Consulate buys seafood and vegetables from you."
"They do not."
"After all, Kita's not the espionage agent-he'd likely be kept out of the know, for security reasons. It's Morimura-that is, Yoshikawa-who's the spy in the woodpile."
Harada's frown no longer seemed confused, though his words continued down the path of deniaclass="underline" "I understand none of what you say."
"There's no fifth column in Oahu," Burroughs said with a grin, which quickly vanished. "But there is a tiny network of real spies. That radiophone call was a signal that this Sunday would make a fine morning for a surprise party. Your niece knew something was up- more importantly, she knew you were an agent, just like Otto Kuhn, and Morimura."
Now the mask dropped and a tiny, but very nasty smile, etched itself on the bland features. "Are these things you can prove?"
Burroughs shrugged. "Hell, I'll leave that to the FBI." He jerked a thumb at Hully. "My son, here, is the one who really put it together."
Hully said, "I couldn't stop thinking about Morimura bawling Pearl out-she wasn't one of his conquests; he wasn't her type. Why would she even know him? Then it came to me: through you…."
"As the grocer making deliveries to the Niumalu," Burroughs said, "you could easily maintain contact with your German 'sleeper' agent. And Pearl was aware of your relationship with both Kuhn and Morimura. After all, she lived with you, up above your shop, before she moved to the Niumalu, so she knew you and Morimura were in league-and she knew or figured out that he was an espionage agent; she even knew his real name. She got wind of something big coming up, and she was going to turn you, and Morimura, in to military intelligence… to show her loyalty to America."
“To prove herself," Hully said softly, sadly, "to her boyfriend's father."
Harada held out both empty palms and shook his head, smiling as if this was all too far-fetched, too absurd. "And you think this … Morimura… killed my niece?"
"No." Burroughs twitched a smile, nodding right at the grocer. "I think you killed her. I know you killed her. You confronted her about what you considered her disloyalty, to her family, to Japan, and she told you she was going to Colonel Fielder, to tell him everything. You struck her down, with a goddamn rock, crushed
her skull-then Morimura helped cover it up, by calling Kuhn and having him finger the wrong man."
Now the grocer folded his arms and his chin raised; his tone was quietly defiant, now. "I would take offense at these accusations, but they are … foolish."
"Oh, there's more. You got to thinking about your niece's close friend, that homosexual musician, and got worried that she may have talked to him, shared what she knew. Or perhaps she bragged to you that she had told Terry Mizuha what she knew, thinking it would protect her, would keep you from harming her. Either way, she was too naive, or maybe too nice a kid, to understand that this is war: that one more casualty, more or less, is nothing to a soldier… even if it is his own niece."
Harada said nothing; however, a faint sneer could be detected under the trim mustache.
A slight tremor in his voice, Hully said, "You made an unscheduled, unexpected delivery of seafood to the Niumalu-the day after your niece was murdered! If you had any human compassion or decency, you'd know how suspicious, how wrong that would seem to a normal person."
"You murdered Terry Mizuha at the hotel, probably in his room," Burroughs said, "tossed him in your pickup truck, like another swordfish, and hauled him to the beach."
Hully added, "Though you probably picked up your pal Morimura to help you carry him down that rocky slope to the beach."
Harada smiled, just a little, then looked at each man, one at a time, with quiet contempt. "You will try to prove this, how?"
Burroughs shrugged. "Like I said, it's not our job to prove it-that's up to the feds, and Detective Jardine. But they're a little busy this morning … so I thought I'd help out."
Burroughs brought his hand out from around his back and aimed the L?ger at the grocer's chest.
"What is this?" Harada asked, only his eyes betraying any alarm.
"It's what we Americans call a citizen's arrest."
The backroom door flew open and suddenly Morimura was at Burroughs's side, pressing the nose of a.38 revolver into the writer's neck.
"This is not judo," Morimura said. "This is a gun."
The slender, handsome spy wore golf clothes-a checkered sweater vest over a white shirt and knee pants with high checkered socks; well, Kita had said Morimura had a golf date, this morning.
With a sigh, Burroughs set the little L?ger on the counter. The grocer did not take the weapon, rather he reached under the counter and swung out a sawed-off shotgun. Hully and his father exchanged glances-this was not going quite as planned.
"I hope you'll forgive me for eavesdropping," Morimura said, looking a little ridiculous in the golf outfit, though not enough so to take the edge off the weapon he'd stuck in the writer's neck.
“Til let it go this time," Burroughs said, as the cold steel of the spy's gun dimpled his flesh.
Morimura's expression was smug but his eyes had a
wildness, a fear, in them. "You should write detective stories, Mr. Burroughs. You put the pieces together very well."
The writer looked sideways at his captor. "What now, Morimura? You don't mind if I don't call you 'Yoshikawa'-I'm used to you the other way."
Morimura offered half a smile. "The ineffectual, buf-foonish ladies' man, you mean? I must give you credit, Mr. Burroughs-you never did accept that masquerade."
"By any yardstick, buddy, you're no diplomat. You'll face the firing squad, as a spy."
The half smile dissolved into a full scowl. "You're facing a firing squad right now, Mr. Burroughs-something I have no intention of doing."
"What are you going to do?" Burroughs did his best to show no fear; and he wasn't afraid for himself-but his son, at his side, that was something again. "You can't just kill us."
"Really?" Morimura laughed softly. "Do you see anyone around to be a witness? Mr. Harada and I will be on the tiny island of Niihau, by nightfall, and a few days later, a submarine will take us to … friendlier waters."
Burroughs locked eyes with the spy. "Did you know, Morimura? Did you know today was the day?"
The spy smirked, shaking his head. "I suspected- all signs indicated that was the case… but it might have been next week, or the next. What was the difference, with your military so obsessed with fighting fifth columnists, and ignoring the real threat?"
Hully was looking at the little grocer, the big hollow eyes of the man's shotgun looking back at him. "How could you do it? How could you kill your own niece?"
Harada's features were impassive, even proud. "She was a traitor."
Hully's eyes were on fire, his nostrils flaring as he said, "She was a beautiful, talented girl, and you murdered her, you heartless son of a bitch!"
Harada shrugged.
Morimura's smile was pursed, like a kiss, and then he said, "Who was it said, 'War is hell'? Whoever that wise man was, he was so right, even if he was an American … now if you will please to step in back, in the storeroom."
Burroughs put up his hands and so did Hully, and Morimura reached behind him and pushed the backroom door open with one hand, and with the other he kept the revolver trained on the writer, the grocer keeping a bead on Hully. Morimura motioned with the gun for them to follow him into the back.