“Sergeant Vouza is a retired constable,” Kaz said, turning to me. “From the neighboring island of Malaita. He says he works with the marines and the Coastwatchers organization.”
“You got all that from what he said?” I asked.
“He’s speaking Pijin, an island dialect. It is very closely related to English,” Kaz said.
Vouza threw a glance at Kao and said, “Kopi.” Whatever that meant, Kao ran out of the room, nodding his head and smiling.
“You mean pidgin?” I asked.
“Not exactly,” Kaz said. “Solomon Island Pijin is related to other Pacific dialects. Pidgin is a less precise term. Pijin is a trade language, originating with the first whalers who visited these islands in the last century. It allowed the natives and the seamen to speak a common language. A quite interesting evolution, actually.”
“I’m sure,” I said, cutting Kaz off before he composed a monograph on the subject. “But why is he here?”
“I gather he wants to know why we are here,” Kaz said.
“Does he know Daniel Tamana?” I asked, looking to Vouza for a reaction. His eyes widened for a split second at the mention of the victim’s name.
“Mi wantok blong Daniel,” Vouza said. “Angkol.”
“Angkol?” Kaz repeated. “Uncle? You are Daniel’s uncle?” Vouza nodded solemnly.
“Wanem nao yu duim?” It was the same thing he said when he first came into the room. I was beginning to get the hang of this. Most of the words were English, pronounced with a unique accent, and perhaps a slight speech impediment.
“What are we doing?” I guessed.
“Now,” Kaz added. “What are we going to do now?”
Vouza nodded, folding his arms across his massive chest and waiting.
“We are here to find out who killed Daniel, and why,” I said. Another nod. Then I smelled coffee brewing, and I learned another Pijin word. Kopi. I needed some.
We sat on the verandah, the three of us sipping steaming kopi while Kao worked his magic with powdered eggs and Spam. Vouza was silent, content with the view and his sugared brew.
“Do you think he plans to stick with us?” I asked Kaz.
“I sense he may be impatient, and with good reason,” Kaz said. “If Captain Ritchie has done nothing so far, the trail has certainly gone cold.”
“We need to talk to Jack and check out the scene of the crime,” I said. “Then find out who may have had a beef with Daniel. The sergeant should be able to help with that, at least among the natives.”
“Yes, and the Coastwatchers as well,” Kaz said. “We need to find someone among the navy personnel who isn’t worried about offending Captain Ritchie. We should talk to Commander Cluster before he leaves.”
“Yeah, he doesn’t seem the type to worry about a pencil pusher like Ritchie,” I said.
“Have you spoken with Captain Ritchie?” Kaz asked Vouza, who had made a sour look at the mention of the name.
“Nomata yu talem hem, baebae hem i no lisen. Hem i nating savvy,” Vouza said as Kao came out with the breakfast plates.
“No matter what you tell him,” Kaz said slowly, replaying the Pijin words in his mind, “he will not listen. But I do not understand ‘nating savvy.’”
“He understands nothing,” Vouza said, in British-accented English, tucking into his Spam, which disappeared as quickly as his Pijin. I heard Kao chuckling as he brought out more coffee.
“I did not know your purpose,” Vouza said as we drove to the hospital. He was going to a nearby villa where his Coastwatcher boss was headquartered. “I wanted to hear you speak when you thought I would not understand.” He spoke slowly, his voice not quite right, the words slurred and thick. I wondered if the scar on his neck had anything to do with that.
“You speak English very well,” I said.
“They taught me well at the Evangelical Mission on Guadalcanal,” he said. “But Pijin comes easier. You learn kwiktaem, Kaz.” I guess I’d be the slow-time one.
“You’re worried we’re here to cover things up?” I said.
“No mi wari,” Vouza said. “Hem kill Daniel wari.” That was easy enough to figure out.
“Do you know Lieutenant Jack Kennedy?” I asked, wondering if Vouza had him on his list of suspects.
“Sure. Hem loosim boat. Two fella dead. Hem wari all day. Hem hate Japan man. Kennedy barava.” Brave. It wasn’t the first word that sprang to mind about Jack, but it had been a while.
“Did he know Daniel?” I asked.
“Ya. Daniel friend with Biuku and Eroni. They brought message to navy to send boat. Save sailors. They all visit Kennedy. Next day, Daniel dead. You think Kennedy kill Daniel?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I think no,” Vouza said. “Hem good man. Also weak from loosim PT boat, no helti. Daniel strong. Hem faetem Kennedy easy.”
“That fits what we know about his condition after the rescue. We need to talk to Jack,” I said. “You know his father is a very important man?”
“I do not know his father. Big man?”
“Yes,” I said, figuring Vouza deserved the truth. “Very big in America. He had us sent here. But he doesn’t own us.”
Vouza looked at me from the passenger seat, then turned his gaze to Kaz. He pursed his lips, nodding to himself.
“No wari,” Vouza said. “You tell me Kennedy no kill Daniel, I believe you. You tell me Kennedy kill Daniel, then I kill Kennedy. Kwiktaem.”
There wasn’t much to say after that.
Chapter Ten
I saw Jack before he spotted me. He had always been skinny, but I wasn’t prepared for how frail and bone-thin he looked. But the smile was there, the same one I remembered. The kind of grin that took you in and swallowed you whole. There was no denying a smiling Jack.
“Billy Boyle!” Jack exclaimed from his hospital bed, where he’d been reclining while a striking brown-haired female nurse changed bandages on his feet. He swung his legs off the bed, trailing a swath of gauze and nearly knocking the girl off her chair. “Sorry I can’t get up; we’re in the middle of something. How are you, Billy?”
His Cambridge accent was as strong as ever. They tell me folks from Southie have a bit of an accent, but we all sound normal to my ears. Jack’s accent was pure Harvard, with that British upper-class drawl and those leisurely rrr’s. I took his proffered hand and shook. His skin was deeply tanned, but that was the only part of him that looked healthy. Or helti, as Jacob said. He had dark bags under his eyes and a weariness that his jovial greeting couldn’t hide.
“I’m good, Jack,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he said. “Deanna is taking great care of me. Deanna Pendleton, this is an old pal of mine from Boston, Billy Boyle. A swell guy.” Jack looked up at me while Deanna smiled politely and maneuvered his legs back onto the bed. She smeared ointment on the bottom of his feet. They’d been badly cut up from what I could see. Healing, but it didn’t look like Jack would be running the hundred-yard dash anytime soon. I looked away, feeling Jack’s gaze grow steely. He didn’t like his weaknesses on display.
“Jack, this is Kaz.”
“Lieutenant Piotr Kazimierz,” Kaz said. “A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant. I met your brother several years ago in England, at a house party given by Lady Astor.” Kaz carefully left out the recent meeting in Morocco.
“My condolences, Lieutenant,” Jack said. “Sounds dreary. Joe can be a bore at times. Always so serious.”
“I assure you, Lady Astor was so offensive I took little note of anyone else.”
“Very diplomatic,” he said. “At least regarding my family. Are you with the Polish Government in Exile?”
“Detached,” Kaz said, avoiding the fact that he now worked for General Eisenhower.
“Kaz is a baron,” I said, steering the conversation in a direction a Boston Brahmin might appreciate, even an upstart Irish Brahmin.