Flammable. No Smoking.
Yeah, no kidding. I reminded myself to take a different route back, not that it would matter much if one of these fifty-five gallon cans went up. I was after PT-157, Lieutenant Liebenow commanding. Sexton had told me I could hitch a ride to Rendova with them, since they were taking Porter and Kari in that direction. I found it by spotting Silas Porter sitting on a crate dockside, a pile of radio gear beside him. Next to him was John Kari, cleaning an M1 carbine. They wore identical sheath knives.
“Hello, Billy,” Kari said, looking up from his work.
“Hear you’re coming along for the ride to Rendova,” Porter said.
“I am. I got held up in Chinatown, but then I heard you wouldn’t be leaving until tomorrow.” I watched their faces. Both gave weary nods, the sad acceptance of death in wartime.
“Poor Deanna,” Porter said. “Hard to believe after all she endured.”
“Any idea who did it?” Kari asked, wiping his hands and wrapping the carbine in heavy waxed paper before taking a Thompson submachine gun and rubbing a greasy brown substance all over it.
“No, but I have a couple of clues,” I said, taking a seat on one of the wooden crates. “What is that stuff?” I asked innocently as I ran my fingers along the stock of the Thompson, and the Cosmoline came away brown, the color of the stain on Deanna’s collar.
“Cosmoline,” Kari answered. “It’s to preserve the weapons. We’re going to stash a couple of crates in the jungle, for use by the Zeleboes on Choiseul.”
“They’re a tribe who are quite anti-Japanese,” Porter explained. “They lost a lot of men when the Japs invaded. Plantation workers, that sort of thing. When we retake Choiseul, these will come in handy. We’ll hit the Japs from behind while your lot take the beaches.”
“But until then, the metal would rust and the wood rot without lots of Cosmoline,” Kari said. “It’s easy to put on but the devil’s own work to clean off.” He started to disassemble the Thompson and work the greasy mixture into the weapon.
“Looks like you’ve been at it all day,” I said, trying to sound impressed with his work ethic.
“Silas is the one with the hard job,” Kari said, nodding in the direction of the radio parts. “When he tested everything this morning, he found a bad output coil in our transmitter.”
“We had a spare, but it wouldn’t do to start off using it right away,” Porter said. “John fetched one from the communications section back at the base. So we were glad enough of the delay. Can’t nip off for spare parts once you’re out in the bush.”
“Right,” I said. “John, I think I saw you on the road when I was in Chinatown. Driving pretty fast, if I recall.”
“Yes, on my way back here. I saw the ambulance but had no idea it was for Deanna. It’s so hard to believe, even now.” He shook his head sadly, and I thought Porter shot a glance in my direction. Protective, or did he have his own suspicions? John Kari was a hard read; with his dark skin, bushy hair, shell necklace, and precise English accent, he was a walking contradiction. Not like anyone I’d ever met before. I was having a tough time deciding if he was a practiced liar or expressing genuine grief and surprise.
“John always drives fast,” Porter explained. “He’d never driven a vehicle before he was nineteen. Not many in the islands. Not many roads, for that matter.”
“I do like speed, I must admit,” Kari said with a gentle laugh. I watched him work, his small, delicate hands caressing the weaponry as he spread the Cosmoline everywhere. Were those the hands of a killer? I looked at their knives again. He and Porter wore identical sheaths, the narrow grip of a dagger visible.
“What kind of knives are those?” I asked. “They don’t look like regular army issue.”
“They’re not,” Porter said, drawing his out and handing it to me. “They’re Marine Raider stilettos. A Raider battalion came through here a few weeks ago and we traded for them.”
“They feel deadly,” I said, hefting the cold cross-hatched grip in my palm, the weight of it heavy, making it well suited for a sudden thrust.
“That’s all they’re made for,” Kari said. “Killing.”
“The Marine Raiders were getting a new knife issued,” Porter explained. “It’s called the Ka-Bar, and it’s a combination fighting-and-utility knife. This stiletto is too thin and pointy to be of any practical use, like opening a can of rations or prying open a crate. But for a quick kill, it’s perfect. It’s designed to be lethal and good for little else.”
“It sounds like you’ve used it,” I said.
“Not this Marine model, no,” Porter said. “I had an Australian commando stiletto, and used it on a number of occasions. But it was lost on the way here, so when I saw the Raiders were trading theirs, I snapped them up. Gave them to Hugh, Fred, Gordie, John, and a few others.”
“See how the pommel has a small, hard knob?” Kari said. “Good for bashing heads if the blade doesn’t do the job.” There was an edge of steel at the end of the grip, and my first thought was of Daniel Tamana being hit from behind. But the knob was too small. It would definitely crack bone if the strike were forceful enough, but it wouldn’t make the kind of depression fracture we saw on Daniel’s skull.
“If you had to use it, I guess it would mean you were in a tight spot,” I said, handing it back to Porter.
“True enough,” Porter said. “I had to take out a Jap sentry once. A small patrol had gone by on a path we were about to cross. We had ten natives with us, carrying the radio to a new location. The patrol halted and left one man to guard a bend in the trail as they took a break about twenty yards away by a stream. We could’ve waited them out, but the bugger wandered into the bush to relieve himself. Stepped right on one of the native’s hands. The lad was well hidden and didn’t let out a sound, but I could tell the Jap knew something was wrong. He was still pissing when I grabbed his jaw from behind and stabbed him in the heart. Bastard was dead before he hit the ground. I hope these Yank blades are as good as that Australian one. Pity I lost it.”
“I hear Archer and Gordie are going out soon,” I said. “They taking theirs along?”
“I saw them not half an hour ago,” Kari said. “They had them on, alright. Impresses the PT crew, makes them think we’re dangerous.”
“What about you, John? Have you used a knife up close?” I watched his eyes, alert for any telltale nervousness.
“Not the knife, no,” he said. “Rifle and machete, yes. Of course, I wouldn’t have had a chance to use this knife, since Silas gave it to me only a fortnight ago.” He smiled, forgiving me my error.
“Of course,” I said. “Where are Gordie and Archer, by the way? I need to talk to them about Deanna. I understand they were the ones who dropped her off in Chinatown this morning.”
“End of the dock,” Porter said. “PT-169. That’s Phil Cotter’s boat. The fellow who left Kennedy and his crew adrift in Blackett Strait.”
“I hadn’t heard it was Fred and Gordie who brought Deanna to Chinatown,” Kari said. “Do you think-?” He let the question hang in the air. Porter gave me a studied glance again, then looked away.
“Listen, John,” Porter said before I could answer, “Fred was sweet on Deanna, but he wouldn’t hurt her, would he?”
“The man has a temper, there’s no denying it,” Kari said.
“I heard he was pretty tough on his workers, but that’s not the same thing as murdering a defenseless woman,” I said, watching again for a reaction. “Who would do that?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to be finding out, isn’t it?” Porter said, his tone harsh and demanding.
“Is that true, what I’ve heard?”
“Yes, it is,” Kari said, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “He’s the type of man who enjoys a fight and doesn’t mind a few split knuckles along the way. I wouldn’t want to work for him, but I wouldn’t mind having him on my side in a fight either.”