“You might not be far off the mark, Boyle,” he said. “I’ve learned not to question the origin of orders like these. It was a strong recommendation, actually. Nothing in writing, of course. Merely a comment that it would be in the best interests of the service.”
Maybe it was the bourbon, or the ice, but I did feel for Ritchie. He was in a tight spot.
“Sali!” he yelled. “Play the piano, willya?”
“Yes, boss,” Sali answered, and soon we were serenaded by a tune that sounded familiar, on a piano that was almost in tune.
“You do have all the comforts of home,” I said. “Is that ‘I’ll String Along With You’ he’s playing?”
“A reasonable facsimile,” Ritchie said. “Sali actually knows classical stuff, too. He learned at the mission school. Let me tell you a story about that piano. You know this was the Japanese commander’s place after the Brits bugged out in early ’42?”
“Best house on the island,” I said.
“Of course. Well, when I arrived, not long after the marines secured the island, the place was all shot up. There’d been fighting along this road, and the Japs didn’t give up easily. For some reason, that piano had been moved outside. Maybe the Jap commander thought it would be safer, I don’t know. Anyway, I come walking up the path, scouting out the housing, and I find a marine playing that piano. One leg was splintered and the whole thing was at an angle, but he was playing the same song. Better than Sali is. There were dead Japs all around, shell craters and weapons lying everywhere. But that marine was lost in the song.”
“Something about not being an angel, right?” I said.
“Yeah. Because angels are so few. I’m a lot like that piano, Boyle. Left out to rot on Tulagi. But I can still play a tune. String along with me, Boyle. You’re no angel, but you’ll do.”
I sat back and drank the bourbon, savoring the ice as it sloshed into my mouth. I didn’t like being told what to do. By anyone, much less a navy captain who was following orders originating from half a world away in Hyannisport. But I had to admit, the facts didn’t amount to much of a case against Jack. I knew I was close to digging in my heels on this one simply because Ritchie was Ritchie and Jack was a Kennedy.
“If I write this report, Captain, what happens then?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Boyle, you can go back to where you came from.”
“How about I stick around? Find out who really killed those three?”
“I get my report? Full exoneration for Kennedy?”
“First thing in the morning,” I said.
“Sali! More ice!”
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, Yeoman Howe kept my coffee cup filled as I pecked away at a typewriter outside Captain Ritchie’s office. Which was fortunate, since the bourbon and ice had gone down smoothly last night. I needed the java to counteract a headache and to withstand Ritchie’s prompting to get on with it and type faster. He was definitely the type of officer best experienced through a haze of alcohol.
I worked it like a police report. Short sentences and to the point. I kept the statement focused on Jack and Daniel Tamana, no mention of the other murders. Jack had recently met the deceased. He found the body of the deceased on his morning walk from the hospital grounds. No evidence of any connection between the two other than a brief conversation the day before. Lieutenant Kennedy had been cooperative in all respects. Well, that was laying it on a bit thick, but thick was what Ritchie wanted.
I dated and signed it, and handed it over to Yeoman Howe, who brought it into Ritchie’s office. I helped myself to more coffee with a heaping teaspoon of sugar. One thing about the navy; they had all these ships, and besides fighting, they carried tons of supplies all over the world. Cold beer, ice, sugar, the kinds of things in short supply in North Africa and Sicily-on army bases, at least.
“Very good, Lieutenant Boyle,” Ritchie said, waving the report in my direction as Howe returned to his desk. “See Yeoman Howe if you need anything, and keep me posted.” He shut his door and I could hear him whistling a tune. “I’ll String Along With You,” of course.
“I’m at your service, Lieutenant,” Howe said. “The captain’s a happy man this morning.”
“I live to make captains happy,” I said. “Can you find out if Lieutenant Kazimierz is coming back from Brisbane today?”
“I’ll send a radio message. They’ll have a manifest for the PBY flight and I can find out if he’s on it.”
“Okay. I’m heading over to Sesapi. I’ll call or swing back here later this morning.”
I drove the now familiar route to the PT base at Sesapi, wondering what the payoff would be for Ritchie. A promotion? A job after the war with the Kennedy business empire? Maybe politics? Well, good luck to him, whatever it was. He’d find out soon enough there was always a price to be paid, even when you thought you were square with the Kennedy clan.
I parked the jeep and walked around the fuel dump this time, the odor of gas heavy in the humid air. The tepid harbor water did little to cool the oppressive air. Men were already stripped to the waist, glistening with sweat as they carried supplies aboard PT boats, cleaned machine guns, or worked on engines in what shade they could find. Speed was their best defense, and lives depended on those engines being in top shape. Jack had been idling on only one engine when he’d been hit, and I’d heard him harshly criticized, since it had given him no time to get out of the way of the destroyer. But what else could he have done? If all the engines had been running at more than idle, the phosphorescence from the churning water would have highlighted his position to any Kawanishi in the night sky. Jack had played the odds, but sometimes fate has a way of dealing a losing hand even when you’re holding aces.
A clanking rumble jolted me out of my musings as cries of warning echoed from above. I looked in time to see two steel drums careening down the hill, straight at me, each full of high-octane aviation gas. I dropped and rolled toward the embankment, hoping to evade the avalanche. One drum hit a rock and bounced over it with a metallic clang, crashing into the dock a few feet from my head. The other rolled straight down and into the water, missing me by inches.
A gaggle of sailors ran to me, yammering a bunch of excuses and apologies. No one knew how it could have happened; all the drums were supposed to be secured on pallets; thank God I wasn’t hurt; was I okay?
“Don’t worry, boys, accidents happen,” I told them as I picked myself up. But I doubted this was an accident. I scanned the gathering crowd and the wharf for a familiar face. A suspect. I didn’t see any of the cast of characters running through my mind. But who would hang around? The place was a warren of paths and rickety wooden stairs. The stairs through the fuel dump had a couple of switchbacks; it would have been a simple matter to shoulder a couple of steel drums from their resting place while no one was looking.
I moved on, eager to see whoever I might run into. I spotted Silas Porter and John Kari, disembarking from PT-157. An officer in bleached khakis was following them to the shade provided by camouflage netting draped from the bow of the boat to poles set along the dock.
“Billy,” Kari said, waving me over. “Come meet Lieutenant Liebenow. He’s in command of the 157.” He was all innocent smiles. Porter looked nonchalant, even bored.
“Call me Bud,” Leibenow said. “I hear you’re coming along for the ride to Rendova.” None of them made any mention of the accident, not that it would have rated headlines. Sesapi was a busy place, thick with weapons and machinery, accidents waiting to happen.
“I might wait for my partner to get back from Brisbane,” I said, studying their eyes. No telltale flickers of guilt. “If he makes it in later today, we’ll hitch a ride with Gordie and Archer tomorrow, if that’s okay.”