The Pearl Harbor Murders (15 page)

"You mean... the real murderer called him, and ordered up an alibi?"

Sterling made an openhanded shrugging gesture. "There's really only two reasonable alternatives, here: Kuhn did the killing and blamed Kamana; or someone else did the killing, and Kuhn is alibiing for him... or her."

"Her? Mrs. Kuhn, you mean?"

"She remains a viable suspect," Sterling said, and sipped his coffee. "Otto's reputation as a playboy has been well earned—he does run around on Elfriede ... and you gotta give Otto his nerve for that: his wife is the niece of Heinrich Himmler himself."

The saltwater breeze suddenly seemed chilly to Burroughs. "So I really do have Nazis living next door."

"No doubt of that."

"Then where does the damn phone call come in?"

Sterling threw his hands up. "Search me. But I can tell you this—there's a reason why Pearl Harada's murder sent up a warning flare at my office ... particularly with Otto Kuhn as a supposed eyewitness, apparently fingering a fall guy."

"Why is that, Adam?"

The agent leaned forward. "Remember what I told you about the network of
nisei
who are helping compile a list of potentially disloyal Japs here in Oahu?"

"Sure."

"Well, Pearl Harada's uncle—the Chinatown grocer—is on that list."

Burroughs half climbed out of his wicker chair. "Jesus, Hully went to question that guy this afternoon!"

Sterling patted the air, calmingly. "I didn't say Uncle Harada was dangerous—just that he's loyal to his native country... like a lot of
issei
in Chinatown."

Issei
were first-generation immigrants.

Sterling was saying, "Until recently, Harada displayed photographs of the emperor in his shop. Plus, he's vocally supported Japan's war on China, buying Jap war bonds, helping organize an effort to send 'comfort bags' to Japanese soldiers—blankets, shoes, candy."

Burroughs shifted in his chair. "Well, this is beginning to look like Pearl Harada's death may have more to do with espionage than affairs of the heart."

Sterling shrugged again. "There's no question this was a beautiful girl who could have driven a man to some irrational, jealous act of violence... but with both her uncle and your 'Nazi-next-door' in the scenario, an espionage-related motive remains a distinct possibility."

"And let's not forget she knew Vice Consul Mori-mura, either—or that he was reading her the Riot Act in the parking lot, a few hours before she was killed."

Sterling's reaction was not what Burroughs had expected: the FBI agent laughed.

Astounded, Burroughs said, "This is funny, all of a sudden?"

"I'm sorry. It's just... That guy's hard to take seriously. My guess is Morimura was yelling at her because she wouldn't give him the time of day."

"How can you say that, Adam? Fielder admits this clown spends most of his time engaged in 'legal' spying."

" 'Clown' is the key word, there." Sterling sipped his coffee, then leaned forward again. "Listen, Ed—Morimura is an idiot. I have it on good authority that everybody else at the Consulate hates his guts, considers him a lazy ass. We've had him under surveillance, from time to time, and the guy just wanders around like a tourist, never takes a note or a photo or makes a sketch."

"Maybe he has a photographic memory."

"I sincerely doubt it, considering all the brain cells he's lost to sake. Morimura's a simpleton and a sybarite."

Burroughs was shaking bis head, astounded by Sterling's attitude. "Kuhn's a playboy and you take
him
seriously."

"Morimura spends all his time drinking himself into a stupor and screwing geisha girls—end of story."

"Maybe he's just a clever agent—you were concerned enough about the Consulate burning their papers, yesterday, and Morimura's a damn vice consul...."

Sterling held up his hands as if in surrender. "Check him out yourself, if you like, Ed—this is Saturday ... he'll no doubt be at the Shuncho-ro teahouse, tonight. The management keeps a room upstairs for him, to pursue his debaucheries, and then sleep it off." Sterling checked his watch. "As for me, I have to get over to General Short's quarters, to try to jump-start him into taking all of these matters seriously... the Mori code, the Harada murder, the Consulate burning those papers. ..."

Burroughs sighed, shook his head. "What the hell does it all mean, Adam?"

Sterling rose from his wicker chair. "Figuring that out isn't my job—my job is convincing General Short to figure it out."

The Shuncho-ro—Spring Tide Restaurant—was on Makanani Drive on the slopes of Alewa Heights, a surprisingly un-Oriental-looking two-story wooden house with generous picture windows on both floors and clean modern lines that wouldn't have been out of place back in Frank Lloyd Wright's Oak Park, Illinois, where Burroughs had lived in the teens. In the midst of a lush garden—no palms in sight—hugged by flowering hedges, the Shuncho-ro perched on the mountainside looking down on Honolulu, a breathtaking view any tourist—or spy—might relish.

Burroughs left his Pierce Arrow in the dimly illuminated crushed-coral parking lot, which was fairly full, the restaurant doing a good business. He noted, parked on the other side of the lot, a black Lincoln with a Japanese chauffeur in full livery asleep behind the wheel—the vice consul's car, no doubt.

The writer also recognized another car in the lot, a dark blue '41 Cadillac convertible. He'd seen this distinctive vehicle at the Niumalu many times: it belonged to Otto Kuhn.

The wide entryway of the teahouse had horizontal wooden spindlework on either side, a motif repeated in the vestibule, a strong, stark design that again recalled Oak Park's Frank Lloyd Wright--and Wright's own Japanese inspiration. A host in a black suit and tie asked if Burroughs had a reservation, which he did, having called ahead; after leaving his shoes at the door, Burroughs was shown by a teahouse girl in a pate blue kimono to a low table for one, where he sat on a
tatami
mat.

The sparsely decorated, oak-trimmed, cream-colored dining room seemed about evenly divided between Japanese-Americans and tourists, all of whom—like Burroughs—were rather informally dressed, in anticipation of the teahouse's sit-on-the-floor service. He did not see Morimura or Kuhn among the diners here on the first floor.

He drank a cup of tea, and when the geisha returned for his order, he said, "I was hoping to link up with two friends of mine, who told me they'd be dining here, this evening—Otto Kuhn and Tadashi Mori-mura?"

She nodded. "The gentlemen are upstairs, sir."

"Wonderful! Which room?"

"Ichigo room—sign on door. It is private. May I announce you?"

Smiling, Burroughs got up. "No, that's all right—I'd rather surprise them. Can you direct me?"

The geisha was obliging—these girls were paid to be—and Burroughs was about to go up a stairway when he glimpsed somebody starting down. Ducking back around, tucking into the recess of the restroom hallway, Burroughs allowed Otto Kuhn to exit the stairwell and head out the entryway to the parking lot.

Then the writer slipped his shoes back on and followed after.

Kuhn moved quickly, his white linen suit flashing in the night, like a ghost on the run; but Burroughs trotted after him and caught up with the German near the parked Caddy.

"Well, Otto," Burroughs said, "we just keep bumping into each other."

Startled, Kuhn wheeled, blue eyes wide in the bland oval of his face. "Burroughs ... Edgar. I didn't know you frequented the Shuncho-ro."

"My first time."

"You, uh, simply must try the
ogana
tonight... superb. Well, if you'll excuse me—"

Burroughs stopped him with a hand on an elbow.

"You're always in such a rash, Otto. I'm a driven, intense sort of fella myself... but I've learned to relax in Oahu."

Kuhn drew away from Burroughs's grasp. "Edgar, please, my wife is waiting."

"Really? You didn't take her along to the restaurant, on a Saturday night? I hope you two kids aren't having trouble."

Irritated, Kuhn frowned saying, "She doesn't care for Japanese cuisine. If you'll
excuse
me ..."

"Or maybe you were still doing business? I know you had business downtown, earlier—maybe this is an extension of that."

Kuhn's eyes hardened. "If it is business—it's
my
business... and, frankly, none of yours."

"Funny that you would be dining with Mr. Mori-mura, tonight, when you almost went out of your way, at the luau last night, to avoid him."

Mention of the vice consul's name had widened the blue eyes again; Kuhn had the look of a startled deer. "Who says I was dining with... what was the name?"

"Morimura, and the waitress in there said you and he had a private room upstairs."

Kuhn lifted his chin. "What are you implying?"

"Not romance. You see, Otto, I think somebody... maybe your Jap pal in there... called you last night, woke you and your lovely wife up."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about you pinning a murder on that poor bastard Harry Kamana."

Kuhn's bland features contorted fiercely. "You're out of your mind! I saw that musician bludgeon that girl with a rock—he bashed her damn skull in!"

"Did he? Or did you?"

The German drew back, sucking in a breath. Then, as if hurt, even offended, he said, "I don't have to put up with this."

"Maybe not from me... but my friend Detective Jardine, him you'll have to talk to. Last night you added to some already damning evidence to help make Kamana the obvious, and only, suspect. Today, though, things are looking different."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about that late-night phone call. I'm talking about your vice-consul pal in there bawling out that girl in public, just hours before her murder."

Kuhn shoved Burroughs, roughly, and the writer knocked into the next parked car with a metallic
whump.
Kuhn was opening his car door, getting in, when Burroughs latched onto his shoulder, spun him around and slammed a fist into his face.

His mouth bloody, Kuhn shoved Burroughs again, then went clawing inside his white jacket; the German's fingers were on a small black Liiger, snugged away in a shoulder holster, when Burroughs doubled him over with a hard fist to the belly.

Dazed, Kuhn tumbled to the crushed coral, sitting between his Caddy and the parked car next door, lean-ing on both hands, while Burroughs reached down and inside the man's jacket and plucked the L¸ger like a hard little flower.

Then the writer pressed the automatic's barrel to the German's forehead, and released the safety, a tiny click that echoed in the stillness of the night.

Eyes glittering with alarm, Kuhn said, "What do you want?"

"The truth. Did you see Kamana kill that girl?"

Swallowing thickly, the German shook his head, and the pressed-to-his-flesh pistol went along. "Morimura called me. Told me what to say."

"Did Morimura kill her?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I only know he wanted the musician identified. As far as I know, Kamana really could be the killer... I just... I just didn't see him do it."

"Why was Pearl Harada killed?"

"I don't know, I don't know. She flitted around—she was a pretty girl. Jealousy makes men crazy."

"Did you have an affair with her?"

"No! No. Of course not."

Burroughs pushed harder against the German's forehead. "What about Morimura?"

"I don't know! I don't know....I'm not his goddamn chaperon."

"No, you're his stooge, though. Or should I say his understudy?"

Now the blue eyes tightened—alarm dissolving into fear. "Wh... what do you mean?"

"The Consulate's been busy burning its papers; coded messages to Japan have been flying. You're a good Nazi, aren't you, Otto? Waiting to help your ally, after we're at war, and diplomats like Morimura are suddenly prisoners...."

Stiffly, Kuhn said, "I am not a Nazi."

"Should I pass that news along to your uncle Himmler?"

"Why are you ... what are you ... You're just a writer!"

"I'm just an American. Otto—did that girl's murder have anything to do with espionage?"

"What? No! How should I know?"

Burroughs pressed harder with the gun barrel. 'Try again."

Trembling now, sweat pearling down his forehead, Kuhn said, "I swear to sweet Jesus I don't know....I told you what you wanted! I admitted Morimura called me... that alone could get me killed."

Burroughs thought about that—then removed the gun from the German's forehead; it had left an impression, in several ways.

"Get the hell out of here," Burroughs told him, disgustedly.

Kuhn swallowed again. "What about my gun?"

"Spoils of war," Burroughs said, and dropped it into his pocket.

Kuhn didn't argue the point; he scrambled to his feet, climbed into his car and—as Burroughs headed back toward the Shuncho-ro—roared out, throwing crushed coral, finally waking up the Japanese chauffeur ... for a few moments.

The word
Ichigo
appeared in both English and Japanese on a small oak plaque by an upstairs door. Burroughs knocked.

A male voice from within answered: "Yes?"

The writer spoke to the door. "Mr. Morimura? Ed Burroughs. Could I have a word with you?"

Moments later, the door cracked open. The handsome young Japanese diplomat stood eye to eye with Burroughs; Morimura's black hair was slicked back, and his slender form was wrapped up in an off-white robe with a scarlet sash. His feet were bare. He smelled heavily of musk.

"I do not understand, Mr. Burroughs." Morimura's expression was friendly but his dark eyes were not. "Why do you seek me here?"

Burroughs leaned a hand against the doorjamb. "I took a chance you might be at the Shuncho-ro. I heard it was kind of a second home to you." "Could we not meet another time, another place?"

"This won't take long—I just want to chat for a few minutes. May I come in?"

"I have company."

Burroughs pushed the door open and shouldered past Morimura. At a low table, three Japanese girls wearing nothing at all were sitting on
tatami
mats. They were lovely of face and form, though their frozen embarrassment was painful to see.