Sinister Paradise (9 page)

“All
right!
It's about time I got in on the action.”

“Don't take chances, George. Okay?”

“Okay. Be careful, Nan!”

Nancy hung up. As she emerged from the phone booth, she saw Bess in the Market Place lobby wearing a floppy straw hat.

Her smile forced, Bess shifted her eyes to the left. “He's outside.”

“I've set him up, Bess, but I'll need your help to pull it off. It's acting time again. Do a lot of talking while we walk. Tell me about Hawaii.” As they strolled back onto the sidewalk, Bess began a rambling monologue about beaches, gift stores, and palm trees. This left Nancy free to check the window reflections and make sure their enemy was still on the trail.

He was! The moon-faced man sauntered along, completely unaware that Nancy had identified him. Bess was doing a great job. Between her giggly chatter and Nancy's leisurely pace, the man probably thought they were out on a shopping trip.

When they reached Ala Wai, Nancy boarded the
Kahala
and pretended to check a mooring line. Bess went straight below. Peering out of the corner of her eye, Nancy saw the moon-faced man loitering at the dockmaster's shed.

Nancy went below. Hot, stifling air filled the cabin. She cranked open the hatch. A blast of cool sea air streamed past her face, filling the main salon.

Bess stood in her stateroom doorway. The giggling tourist was gone. “Nancy, is he still out there?”

Leaning against the bulkhead, Nancy eased the blind away from the porthole. Her gaze swept the parking lot. It was empty!

“Bess, I don't see him—!”

Thump!
Nancy's gaze zipped upward. Something had hit the roof of the cruiser's main cabin.

The noise sounded like footsteps. And they were heading straight for the open hatch!

T
HUMP-BUMP-BUMP
!
N
ANCY LOOKED
around desperately for a weapon. He was almost to the hatchway!

Something flashed through the opening. Gasping, Nancy raised her fist. The object struck the deck with a hollow thump, bounced toward her—and came to rest between her sneakers.

Nancy grinned. It was a white rubber ball covered with blue stars.

Bess groaned in relief and slumped against the wall.

A childish voice yowled. “Maaaaa! I
lost
it!”

“Jason, I told you not to play around other people's boats!”

Nancy returned to the porthole. She saw a tired-looking woman drag a sniffling toddler back to another cabin cruiser.

Across the lot, the door at the rear of the dockmaster's shed suddenly swung open. The moon-faced man appeared, wiping his hands on a paper towel. He crumpled it into a ball, lobbed it into the trash can, and moved toward the
Kahala
.

At that moment a brunette in a swimsuit approached from the other direction.

“George!” Bess gasped, standing at Nancy's elbow.

“I told her not to take chances,” Nancy said in a worried voice.

As George approached the man, Nancy fretted. It was too late to warn her friend away now. . . .

“Excuse me. Are you looking for somebody?” George asked, her hands on her hips.

The man produced a battered wallet. “Yeah, you might say that.” He flipped it open, revealing a laminated card. “I'm a private eye. I'm looking for Nancy Drew. You live around here?”

“Yes, I live here.” Deadpan, George gestured at a big motor sailer at the end of the pier. “Lived here two years. Never heard of a Nancy Drew.”

“Maybe you've seen her around, then.” He put away his ID. “Tall girl. Reddish blond hair. Lives aboard that boat there.”

“The
Kahala?”
George feigned a look of confusion.
“That's Mrs. Faulkner's boat. Are you sure you're at the right marina?”

Nonplussed, the man pressed on. “Maybe you've seen Nancy's friends around. A blond girl. Couple of guys named Ned and George.”

Nancy sucked in her breath sharply.

Mischief gleamed in George's eyes. “Hmmmm, maybe I have seen George around. What a hunk! He plays football for Oklahoma State.” She grinned. “Want me to pass on any messages?”

“Ah, thanks—but no.” Looking very worried, the man retreated across the parking lot. “I got to get back to work. See you!”

George watched him dash across the street and climb into the driver's seat of an older-model car. Tires squealed as he pulled away from the curb. George smiled and made a circle with her thumb and forefinger.

Nancy and Bess hurried out to greet her.

“If you want to find him, his license number is HWI zero-two-eight,” George said, beaming.

“Nice work, George.” Nancy hugged her friend. Then the three of them headed back to the boat.

Bess and George decided to return little Jason's rubber ball. While they were gone, Nancy, on impulse, flagged a cab and headed uptown. She had a few things she wanted to clear up before she looked for the moon-faced man. She had to learn more about the Malihini Corporation.
Why did they operate out of a post office box? Why had they incorporated in the Cayman Islands? Once she was able to answer those questions, she hoped she'd be able to figure out what they wanted with Lisa Trumbull.

And Nancy had a good idea who to ask. . . .

• • •

Jack Showalter was on the phone when Nancy arrived. Flashing a welcoming smile, he gestured at the guest chair beside his desk.

“Yes, well, those interest payments are due, Mr. Gavalu.” Jack made an apologetic motion with his free hand. “I understand. Yes. Nice talking to you, sir. Goodbye!” Hanging up, he let out a low groan. “What a day!”

“Who were you talking to?” Nancy asked curiously.

Jack flushed self-consciously. “The deputy finance minister of Kiribati. But he's not the high-priority item around here these days. Lisa Trumbull is. How are you making out?”

“Jack, have you ever heard of the Malihini Corporation?”

“Who hasn't? They're knocking the legs out from under this bank.”

“Have you ever run into them?”

“Just once. I put together a nice little loan package a few months ago. I even got old man Rafferty to approve it. Then the Malihini Corporation came out of nowhere, stole my clients, and
blew me out of the water!” Scowling at the memory, he added, “Why are you so interested in them?”

“I did some checking with the Honolulu police. They said the Malihini Corporation was set up in the Cayman Islands,” Nancy said quietly. “You're the banker, Jack. Is there anything significant in that?”

Features thoughtful, Jack leaned back in his chair. “Caymans, eh? You know, those islands have the tightest bank secrecy in the world. Tighter than Switzerland! Some people use the Cayman Islands as a tax dodge. In my trade, we call it ‘chasing the hot dollar.' What people do is go to the Caymans and set up their own private corporation. Then they open a bank account in the corporation's name, using a bank with a branch office here in the States.”

“Like the Bank of Nova Scotia?” Nancy asked.

“Exactly!” Jack warmed to his topic. “It's a cute way to cheat the government. You make money in the corporation's name, squirrel it away in the Caymans, and, if you ever need any, draw it out through the branch bank. Let's suppose you made a million dollars, Nancy, and reported only ten grand to the IRS. How is the government going to prove you're a liar? It can't get into your Cayman bank to see how much you
really
made. That's what I mean—it's the perfect tax dodge.”

Nancy mulled it over. “Jack, suppose you wanted to run your Cayman corporation out of a post office box. Could it be done?”

“Sure! All you have to do is set up either a telephone or a computer link with your Cayman bank. The bank will issue checks the minute you ask for them. Why, with computer equipment, you could run your corporation from the seawall at Sunset Beach!”

Nancy frowned thoughtfully. At first she'd assumed that the Malihini Corporation was based in the Cayman Islands. Now she wasn't so sure. The Malihini Corporation might be a front for someone in Honolulu. Someone very close to the Faulkners and to Windward Fidelity Bank.

Reaching across the desk, Nancy took Jack's telephone and tapped out the number of the Honolulu police's CID. Seconds later, Tim DiPrizio's baritone voice answered. “Criminal Investigation Division.”

“Tim, hi! It's Nancy Drew. Listen, I've got a lead. A license number. HWI-zero-two-eight. Can you run a make for me?”

“Just a sec.” After a couple of moments, Nancy heard a police Teletype rattling noisily. When Tim returned, “We bombed out. That car's rented to a Waikiki agency.”

“What about the person who rented it from the agency?” she asked.

Tim sounded frustrated. “The Department of Transportation lists only the owner—the Makaha
agency. To get the name of the driver, we'd have to subpoena the agency's records. We can't do that without a court order.”

“Oh, well. Thanks, Tim. Bye!”

As she hung up, she noticed Jack's sympathetic expression. He said quietly, “You know, maybe I can help.”

Jack picked up the phone and asked to be put through to Mr. Carstairs, the president of the Makaha agency. Then he switched on the speaker.

“Mr. Carstairs, this is Jack Showalter at the Windward Fidelity Bank. We have a little problem here, and I wonder if you could help us.”

“Why, of course, Jack!”

“One of our stockholders had his credit card stolen,” Jack said smoothly, giving Nancy a sly wink. “The thief apparently used it to rent a car at your agency. Our stockholder was billed for it.”

Carstairs apologized profusely and asked Jack for the license number. Jack gave it to him. The phone was silent for several moments. Then Carstairs returned, sounding a bit confused. “Jack, that can't be right. We rented that car just yesterday to the Apex Detective Agency. The bill was sent to the Malihini Corporation. Are you certain about that number?”

Jack grunted. “Let me get back to you on that. Thanks a lot.” Hanging up, he took a deep breath and expelled it in a long whoosh. “How was I?”

“Superb!” Nancy left her chair. “If you ever give up banking, Jack, you'd make a great detective. See you later.”

“Take care!” he called after her.

• • •

Shortly before dusk, Nancy stepped down from the bus in Palama, a rundown neighborhood on the west side of Honolulu. She went to the address of the Apex Detective Agency that she had gotten from the Yellow Pages. The agency was located in a tumbledown office building on Vineyard Boulevard. She rode the dilapidated elevator to the third floor, her thoughts racing.

The Malihini Corporation must have hired the Apex people to search for Lisa, she mused. That's why I saw that moon-faced man staking out Lisa's apartment. Later, after Malihini had made contact with Lisa, they'd told Apex to follow me.

Well, two could play the surveillance game. Nancy intended to make certain that the detective agency was actually in that building. Then she would call in her friends.

The third-floor hallway smelled as if it had just been painted. Nancy sidestepped a full trash barrel as she left the elevator. Her footsteps sounded loud as they echoed in the empty hallway. The other side of paradise, she thought as she looked around the shabby surroundings.

At the end of the corridor Nancy found a frosted-glass door. The name read A
PEX
D
ETECTIVE
A
GENCY
, with W
ALLY
C
ERRADO
—Pres, in smaller type.

Turning, Nancy returned to the elevator. Apex was here, all right. Now she and her friends would arrange a surprise for the moon-faced man.

She pressed the elevator button. Winches whined in the basement as the car climbed up.

Suddenly Nancy heard a footstep behind her. A broad hand shot out of the darkness, clasping itself around Nancy's mouth. The pungent odor of chloroform filled her nostrils. She kicked and struggled, but it was like grappling with a mountain.

Darkness rimmed Nancy's field of vision. Her knees began to buckle. Then everything went black.