The White Ghost (18 page)

“Did she seem upset or worried?” I asked.

“Not that I saw,” Gordie said. “Fred?”

“She was her usual self,” Fred said. “Friendly and warm. Who'd want to hurt her, that's what I'd like to know.” His voice caught on those last words, and his emotion seemed sincere. When people lie about an emotion, it's easier to tell. Most times they oversell it. But Fred was working at keeping it bottled up, and that's harder to fake.

“Did you see anyone approach Deanna after you dropped her off?”

“No,” Gordie said, giving it a bit of thought. “Not at all. She asked us if we knew where either of the Chang sisters lived, but we hadn't a clue. Did you see anything, Fred?”

“I watched her for a minute,” Fred said, “to make sure she was alright, you know. But she disappeared into the crowd on the sidewalk. No sign of her after that.”

“I went into a couple of stores,” Gordie said. “Never laid eyes on her again.”

“Were you with him, Fred?”

“No,” Archer said. “Gordie likes those hot dried peppers the Chinese grocers sell. He went off in search of a supply of those. I stayed with the jeep.”

“They don't agree with Fred's stomach,” Gordie said. “But I like a bit of spice out in the bush. Helps when you have nothing but taro or rice to eat.”

“I bet,” I said, wondering how long Fred had while Gordie was gone. “I might get some myself. Which shop?”

“Fei Long's place, near the south end of the wharf. I wanted one of those long strings, not loose peppers. Took a while to find.”

“I'll check it out,” I said. “Good luck with the Cosmoline. Nasty stuff.”

“But worth it,” Fred said. “When we have to retrieve these carbines, they'll be as good as new. And the quartermaster chaps did us a favor. They greased a half dozen. Saves a bit of time.” He gestured in the direction of two crates, stenciled with
US Carbine, Cal. .30, M1
. There were smears of dried Cosmoline on the side of each one.

“Messy,” I said absently, running my finger across the nearest case, feeling the waxy goo.

“That's what Deanna said, poor thing,” Gordie said.

It was a mess. I left them to their work, wondering what the hell to do next. I had four Coastwatchers, all armed with the kind of knife that could have killed Deanna. Three of them were near the scene of her murder. They'd had plenty of contact with Cosmoline during the time in question. So had Silas Porter, but there was no evidence he'd been in Chinatown. I hadn't known many hermits in my time, but I'd bet not many got mixed up with enough people to want to murder three of them. At least not after hiding themselves away from the world for so long; no one made enemies that fast. Still, all four had commando knives, and all four had handled Cosmoline. Even so, Deanna could have picked up a smudge on her own at the quartermaster's.

It looked like I wouldn't need that jail cell anytime soon, unless I were willing to toss them all in.

Chapter Twenty

I drove back
to the hospital, trying to put together what I knew about Deanna's death.

She'd been at Hugh Sexton's in the morning. Then Fred and Gordie headed out with her in their jeep, making stops at the signals section and the quartermaster's, both on the naval base. They took on cases of carbines, two of which were smeared with Cosmoline, which Deanna could have picked up, smudging her collar. Meanwhile, over at the Sesapi PT base, Silas Porter calls the signals people to tell them John Kari is on his way for a new transmitter doohickey. Kari leaves, his hands probably still greasy with Cosmoline. Fred and Gordie stop in Chinatown. Wait—had they and Kari crossed paths? Maybe not. There were a couple of routes to take once past Chinatown, so they may well not have spotted each other.

So Fred and Gordie drop off Deanna. Fred stays in the jeep, watching her walk into the crowded street. Gordie goes off to buy hot peppers. Either one of them could have followed Deanna, pulled her aside, and taken her into that alleyway. A secret to be shared, no one must overhear. She'd trust them, wouldn't she? Or would she be nervous about Fred pulling her off the street, after his behavior at the party? She'd be more likely to trust Gordie. Cheerful, portly Gordie.

Or, did John Kari stop on his way back from the base? Then jump into his jeep and flee the scene at top speed? But why would he attack Deanna? I had no answer for that. Even Fred Archer's temper and desire for Deanna didn't add up to murder, at least not this kind of murder. His kind of guy might go too far late at night, half drunk and in a jealous rage. But in the light of day, while preparing for a mission? I couldn't see it.

I couldn't see much at all. Means and opportunity were everywhere. Motive was missing in action. If I caught a glimpse of the motive that drove these murders, all might be revealed. I parked the jeep in front of the hospital, hoping Kaz would be back soon to help me muddle through all this.

I went off to find Schwartz. He wasn't happy when I did.

“Boyle, I'm not the local coroner, dammit,” Schwartz said as he led me into the damp basement morgue.

“If the Brits had one here, he skedaddled to Australia long ago,” I said. “Sorry, but I wanted to be sure a medical expert examined her for evidence.”

“In here,” he said, opening a thick wooden door, leading into a chamber dug out of the side of the hill the hospital stood on. It was cool, about as chilled as anywhere on Tulagi could be. He pulled a cord and a harsh light illuminated a shroud-covered body. Deanna Pendleton.

“You probably saw the marks,” Schwartz said, pulling the sheet and uncovering her head and shoulders. Her eyes were milky and skin pale, but her face was still beautiful. “A strong left hand, I'd say. In strangulation cases, you often see oval finger marks, with the thumb doing the most damage, like on Sam Chang's neck. You can see here that the other fingers left fainter marks.” He traced a finger along the left side of her neck.

“Was she strangled?” I asked, working at not looking into those dead eyes.

“No, I don't think so,” Schwartz said. “It was a very forceful grip, but I didn't see any other swelling or evident damage to the larynx. I could open up the neck and check if you want.”

“No,” I said, my voice a clipped whisper. I wanted to say
her
neck, but I held back. He was just being clinical.

“It doesn't really matter,” he said, covering her face before folding the sheet up on her right side, treating her with more modesty than a real coroner would have. “Not with this knife wound. Right between the fourth and fifth ribs into the heart.” The blood had been washed away, and all that was left was a narrow slit, a tear in the pearly white skin to the side of her left breast.

“That would have killed her, right?”

“Yes, and quickly, too,” Schwartz said. “Look at the incision left by the blade. See how it's tapered at both ends? That means the blade was sharp on both sides. Fairly thin, too, based on the width of the opening.”

“Like a Marine Raider stiletto,” I said.

“I wouldn't know,” Schwartz said. “I've never seen one of those. But on nearly any Saturday night in the County General ER, you'd see a wound like this. Usually made by an Italian switchblade, sharpened on both sides.” He covered her back up and sighed, shaking his head.

“Thanks, Doc,” I said. “What'll happen now? With her body, I mean.”

“I contacted Graves Registration, but since she's a civilian, they're not sure what to do. You have any idea how to contact next of kin?”

“All I know is she worked with a Methodist missionary still hiding out on Vella Lavella.”

“Damn,” Schwartz muttered as he turned off the light and shut the heavy door behind us. “Any idea who did it?”

“Gwai lo,”
I said. “The white ghost.”

I made my way back to my quarters, the air still thick with heat even as the sun set over the Slot. Kao was waiting on the verandah with a message from Captain Ritchie, who wanted to see me, in his quarters this time. He had the old district commissioner's place, a short walk up the dusty lane. I took my time, trying to figure out a way to report on what I'd found that made any sense at all.

I came up empty.

“Lieutenant Boyle,” Ritchie greeted me from a chair on his verandah, beckoning in a casual manner.

“You asked to see me, Captain?” I said, snapping a salute and standing at attention, sweat dripping from my brow.

“At ease, Boyle,” Ritchie said. “Take a load off.” He gestured with his thumb toward the worn wicker chair next to him, clinking the remains of ice cubes in his glass. “Join me?”

“Wouldn't mind it a bit,” I said. “You have ice?”

“Yep. Got an icebox inside and a refrigeration unit on base. They deliver a block of ice every day. Keeps the food cold and the bourbon the way I like it. Sali, more ice,” he hollered in the general direction of the house. In two shakes his houseboy, dressed in a
lap-lap
much like Kao's, raced out with a glass and a bowl of chipped ice. Sali retreated inside and Ritchie poured the bourbon, leaving the ice to me. I took enough to chill the amber liquid, but not enough to look greedy. Out here, ice probably commanded a high price on the black market.

“Cheers,” I said, raising my glass. We touched glasses and drank. Ritchie took a long gulp, and I wondered how long cocktail hour had been going on.

“Sad business about Miss Pendleton,” he said, a sigh escaping his lips as he worked a piece of ice around in his mouth.

“Yes sir,” I said. “I think there's a good chance all three killings are related. Tamana, Chang, and Deanna.”

“Sounds like you're making progress,” Ritchie said, in an encouraging voice. I liked him a lot better with bourbon on the verandah than during office hours.

“Some,” I said. “I know Daniel Tamana went looking for Sam Chang in Chinatown. He'd heard Chang was on Tulagi, but didn't know he was in the hospital. And Tamana and Deanna were observed having a hushed conversation the day Daniel was killed. I think whoever murdered Daniel is cleaning up loose ends.”

“Surely you don't suspect Lieutenant Kennedy of killing all three people? Especially since he was involved with the Pendleton girl.” Ritchie took another drink and topped off our glasses.

“I don't think he killed Deanna,” I said. “But a guy is always a suspect when his girlfriend is found dead, until he's ruled out.”

“But in this case there's no evidence against him?” Ritchie said.

“No, sir.”

“If the killings are related, and you don't think Kennedy killed the girl, then you probably don't suspect him in the other two deaths, right?” It was an undeniable piece of logic; I could see the bourbon wasn't getting in the way of clear thinking for Ritchie.

“I can't be certain about Daniel yet,” I said. “There's something about Jack's state of mind that makes him volatile. He can take offense easily, and I don't know what may have passed between Daniel and him if they met on that beach.”

“What about the Chinaman? Chang. Do you suspect Kennedy of his death?”

“No, Captain, I don't. Jack might have a sudden fit of temper, but he wouldn't strangle a man in a hospital bed.”

“It sounds to me, Lieutenant,” Ritchie said, taking another sip and smacking his lips, “that you're hanging onto the slightest pretext to suspect Kennedy of being involved in Tamana's death. Should I suspect you're prejudiced against him?”

“I know him pretty well, Captain,” I said. “Which means I know his faults as well as his strengths.”

“Fair enough,” Ritchie said. “I want you to think all this through very thoroughly. Then tomorrow, unless you come up with any evidence to the contrary, I want an official report by the end of the day, exonerating Kennedy of any suspicion in regard to these killings.” With that, he crunched ice between his teeth.

“Regardless of the facts, Captain?” Now it was my turn to drain the glass.

“You don't have facts, Boyle. You have suspicion and maybe jealousy, I don't know. And I don't care. What I do know is that back in the States you wouldn't have enough evidence to arrest Kennedy, would you?”

“No. But he'd still be a suspect in any decent investigation,” I said.

“That's in a perfect world, Boyle. Perhaps you haven't noticed, but we're in the Solomon Islands and at war. Hardly perfect. Now listen and listen good,” Ritchie said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “The navy has decided Jack Kennedy is a hero. Not too long ago, there was talk of a court-martial, but that's changed. You can guess why.”

“He doesn't consider himself a hero, Captain.”

“Do you imagine what that little runt thinks matters a whit? The navy needs a hero, so now that's his job. He's getting a new command and everyone is going to look sharp about it. No lingering suspicions. Understood?”

“Yeah, I get it, Captain. Joe Senior pulled the strings in Boston and I end up with iced bourbon on Tulagi for my troubles.” To my surprise, Ritchie laughed and poured me another. I'd half expected to be arrested for insubordination.

“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!”