The Paradise Affair

by Bill Pronzini

  “What type of swindle do they specialize in?”

  “Fake stocks when they can find a suitable mark, but they’ll work any con that has a substantial payoff. Whatever scheme brought them here has to have that kind of potential.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Quincannon said, “You should have enough to go on now, Mr. Fenner. Can you get started right away?”

  “As soon as you leave. Where are you staying?”

  “In Waikiki, with a couple named Pritchard my wife and I met on the ship. They invited us and she talked me into accepting.”

  Fenner elevated a thick eyebrow. “You brought your wife along on a hunt for two crooks?”

  “She is also my business partner, a former Pinkerton operative and a detective the equal of any man.” His tone and narrowed eye challenged Fenner to make an issue of this.

  The fat man merely shrugged. “I don’t know the Pritchards. Their address?”

  Quincannon had gotten it from Lyman and repeated it.

  “I’ll get a message to you as soon as I have news,” Fenner said. “But you’ll have to come here to collect it and pay the balance owed in full. Satisfactory?”

  “Satisfactory.”

  Quincannon paid him the forty-dollar retainer in greenbacks. They shook hands—Fenner’s was rough-skinned and surprisingly dry—after which Quincannon went to the door. As he let himself out, he saw the fat man rising to his feet. True to his word to immediately commence earning his fee. Either that, or he was on his way to the Trader’s Rest to replenish the empty bucket.

  6

  SABINA

  It was just past four o’clock when John returned. He looked as limp, damp, and wilted as his clothing, but he was in better spirits. The meeting with George Fenner, which he related in some detail, had been more encouraging than he’d expected. Still, he was not completely convinced that it would take Fenner no more than two days to learn the whereabouts of Lonesome Jack Vereen and Nevada Ned. “I’ll believe it when and if it happens,” he said. That was John—skeptical by nature of any investigator other than himself and his partner, particularly one who was unknown to him and whose abilities were as yet unproven.

  While he was changing into a fresh suit, Sabina told of her chance meeting with the Pritchards’ neighbor, Gordon Pettibone. She made no mention of Mr. Pettibone’s rather lecherous appraisal of her in her bathing costume; it would only have aroused John’s jealousy and predisposed him to scowl and snap at the man when they met. As it was, he was not keen on having tea with strangers. Or tea at all, for that matter. He considered it unpalatable, had flatly refused to drink the weak tea with milk the steward had brought during his bout with seasickness. The only beverages he cared for were coffee and warm clam juice, the latter a drink she found unpalatable.

  Gordon Pettibone and his nephew were already present with Margaret and Lyman when Kaipo showed her and John onto the lanai. It did not take long after the introductions for her to decide that Philip Oakes was as unlikable as his uncle. He was a slender, dapper person midway through his thirties, clad in a cream-colored suit with knife-crease trousers and a paisley cravat. He had slicked-down sandy hair, a thin mustache, an air of self-importance, and an annoying habit of repeating every third or fourth sentence as if he suspected his listeners of being hard of hearing. In his youth he probably would have cut a handsome figure, but telltale signs of dissipation suggested a chronic overindulgence in alcohol.

  Mr. Pettibone was more sedate in his attitude toward Sabina after meeting John, whose size and demeanor brooked no familiarities with his wife. Philip Oakes, on the other hand, was not as perceptive as his uncle. From the gleam in his shiny blue eyes Sabina could tell that he was one of those lecherous wolves who, upon meeting an attractive woman, immediately imagines her without a stitch of clothes on. He continued to openly ogle her even after being informed that she was a bride of just six months, and seemed either oblivious to or uncaring of John’s displeasure. To avoid any unpleasantness she maintained an aloof attitude, speaking to him only when absolutely necessary.

  The table around which they sat had been set with a silver tea service, a tray of canapés, and another tray that held a bottle of scotch whiskey and a soda siphon to accommodate Pettibone and Oakes. The latter saw fit to accommodate himself two more times during the ensuing hour, and would have done so a third time if his uncle hadn’t stayed his hand with a sharp look and an even sharper “No, Philip.” The only indication of the liquor’s effects on him was an increased tendency to express and repeat himself at length.

  Inevitably he asked after their business interests. John gave him the same answer he had the Pritchards, that they owned a private consulting firm. But that was not enough to satisfy him.

  “You and the lovely Mrs. Quincannon both? Really? What sort of consulting do you do?”

  “We would rather not discuss the particulars.”

  “Oh? Very hush-hush, eh? Very hush-hush? It wouldn’t involve government work, by any chance?”

  “It has in the past, yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “And occasionally still does,” Sabina added.

  Evasive answers, but with truthful foundations. Their investigations were indeed private and often hush-hush at the request of their clients. John had served as an operative of the United States Secret Service for a number of years, and just recently, as a favor to his former superior, the head of the Service’s San Francisco office, he had been instrumental in breaking up a new and insidious counterfeiting scheme.

  Mr. Oakes soon lost interest in them, fortunately, except for an occasional half leer at Sabina. He and his uncle dominated the conversation thereafter, often enough with bits and pieces of information about themselves. Gordon Pettibone had been one of the founders of the Great Orient Import-Export Company in San Francisco in the early eighties and had moved to the Islands after the death of his wife, eight years before. Philip, his late sister’s son, had joined him here two years ago after some sort of business failure in Los Angeles. Neither seemed to hold the other in very high regard. Judging from little asides and innuendoes delivered by each, Mr. Oakes considered his uncle a penny-pinching autocrat, while Mr. Pettibone thought his nephew weak-willed and foolish.

  When they weren’t discussing themselves or each other, they held forth on what was obviously their second favorite conversational topic—the coming U.S. annexation. Gordon Pettibone was all in favor of it; it was bound to increase the Far East trade and the profits therefrom, he said in vociferous tones, and serve to bring in more “good American business interests to help civilize this heathen place.” Most of the other American and European residents also supported annexation, Lyman among them, though his position was more moderate; unlike Pettibone, he had not been a staunch supporter of the Reform Party of the Hawaiian Kingdom or a member of the Committee of Safety that had deposed the queen and overthrown the kingdom five years ago.

  Philip Oakes, on the other hand, was against the annexation, whether in principle or simply because it nettled his uncle Sabina couldn’t tell. He preferred the Islands just the way they were, he said, not overrun with tourists and opportunists who would change both the face and character of them. Margaret agreed with him. So, for that matter, did Sabina, though she kept the opinion to herself. John had nothing to say, either; it was plain to her, if not to any of the others, that he was hardly even listening.

  It was a relief when Pettibone and Oakes took their leave—the former after declining Margaret’s invitation that they stay for a traditional Hawaiian dinner, the latter after a clumsy attempt to kiss Sabina’s hand that she avoided. Once they were gone Lyman said to John, apologetically, “I’m afraid our neighbors can be a bit hard to take at times. I hope you and Sabina weren’t too uncomfortable.”

  “Not at all,” he lied.

  “I must say I’m relieved they didn’t stay to dinner. Margaret, why did you invite them?”

  “Well, I was sure Gordon wouldn’t accept—he loathes Ha
waiian food.”

  Sabina said, “He doesn’t seem to like native Hawaiians very much, either.”

  “I’m afraid he doesn’t, and I can’t imagine why—they’re wonderful people. His houseman, driver, and groundskeepers are all Chinese. So are all the non-Caucasian employees of his firm.”

  A racist, Sabina thought, in addition to his other unpleasant character traits. It must be something of a chore for the Pritchards, Margaret especially given her passion for the Islands and their indigenous people, to have men like Pettibone and his nephew residing in such close proximity.

  Dinner, prepared by Kaipo and served by Alika on the lanai, was quite to her liking. It consisted of several dishes with exotic names—a noodle soup called saimin, chicken with pineapple, shrimp in coconut milk, and haipu, a coconut pudding, for dessert. A traditional dish called poi, a thick brownish paste made from mashed taro root and eaten by using one’s index and middle fingers as a scoop, was her least favorite—an acquired taste that she might but John would never acquire. His horrified expression after one scoop made both Margaret and Lyman laugh.

  Coffee and a pipe for John, a cigar for Lyman completed the meal. But they didn’t tarry long past sunset. The night had become very humid, very still; even the sea and land birds were quiet. The stillness and a palpable electric current in the dead air presaged a coming kona storm. Just how fierce it would be was impossible to predict.

  The first thing John said when he and Sabina entered the guesthouse was “It may have been a mistake lodging here.”

  “Why? Are you concerned about the storm?”

  “No, no, that’s not the reason.”

  “What, then? The three-mile trolley ride into the city?”

  “Not that, either. The trolley is tolerable.”

  “So are these accommodations—more than tolerable. And the Pritchards are splendid hosts.”

  “Yes, but their neighbors leave a great deal to be desired. Especially that crapulous fop Oakes. He kept looking at you the way a fox looks at a sitting hen.”

  “Really, John. A hen?”

  “You know what I mean. As if he’d like nothing better than to eat you.”

  She laughed. “His first attempted bite would be his last.”

  “He’s a cussed rake. I don’t like or trust rakes.”

  “You were a bit of one yourself, once upon a time,” she reminded him.

  “Never with another man’s wife,” he said, scowling. “He had better not make advances to you when I’m not here.”

  “He won’t, he wouldn’t dare.”

  “Don’t be too sure.”

  “But I am sure,” Sabina said. “He may be a rake but he’s not a nitwit. He knows the Pritchards wouldn’t stand for a guest being subjected to that kind of funny business. Neither would his uncle, for that matter. Mr. Pettibone rules him with an iron hand.”

  “I didn’t like Pettibone, either. Blasted self-important windbag.”

  And a Lothario himself despite his age, Sabina thought, assuming he and the comely Miss Thurmond were in fact cohabiting. Lechery must be an inherited family trait. A good thing John had not been present to witness the way Pettibone looked at her at their first meeting.

  “Well, you needn’t be concerned about me,” she said. “You know perfectly well I can take care of myself in any situation.”

  He admitted the truth of that.

  “Subject closed. Shall we go to bed now? It has been a long day and we both need sleep.”

  * * *

  They did not get very much of that needed sleep. The kona storm struck in the dead of night, a sudden onslaught of heavy rain and howling wind that immediately woke her. John, too, and he was usually a heavy sleeper. The continual ferocity of the blow kept them awake until it finally began to abate some three hours later. They both slept again then, Sabina fitfully. When she awoke to gray daylight, her nightdress and the bedsheets were sodden with perspiration. The storm had failed to ease the sticky heat; if anything, it had left the air even more sultry—so much so that Sabina felt as though she were trying to breathe under water.

  John was still mired in restless slumber. She drew back the mosquito netting, washed from a basin of fresh water, dressed in her thinnest blouse and skirt, and went out onto the screened porch. The sky was the color of dull pewter, though no more rain clouds were visible overhead or on the horizon. Trees and other vegetation glistened wetly in the morning light, still monotonously shedding droplets of rainwater. The path that led to the main house was strewn with leaves, pieces of fruit, a torn-off palm frond. Far out near the reef she glimpsed high, foaming waves. The panorama, so pleasant the day before, was now mildly depressing.

  She was sitting lethargically in one of the rattan chairs when their hostess appeared to see how they had fared. Margaret was as smilingly cheerful as ever; Sabina had to make an effort to match her good humor. The storm had not been as powerful as it might have seemed, she reported; the damage it had done to the property was minimal. Her answer, when Sabina asked if there might be other storms before the end of the kona cycle, was “It’s likely, yes. But perhaps not as severe.”

  Her suggestion for dealing with the present enervating humidity was to remain quietly inactive. That was what she and Lyman intended to do even though they were acclimated to it. Later, perhaps, they could all go for a swim if the surf gentled enough to permit it.

  Kaipo brought breakfast, but Sabina had little appetite and only picked at it. She did read the copy of one of Honolulu’s newspapers, The Pacific Commercial Advertiser, that Kaipo also brought. There was much in it about the Spanish-American war, though the news from Cuba was several days old and not enlightening; the primary focus, naturally, was on the comings and goings of American warships, the arrival of a garrison of troops at Pearl Harbor and their effect on the local economy.

  John, when he finally awakened, was no more interested in food than she and not at all interested in the newspaper. He was in a grumpy mood—the storm, his restless sleep, the sweltering heat, and especially the lack of a message from George Fenner. He knew it was too soon to expect it—it was Sunday, after all—but he was impatient nonetheless. He was not good at waiting at the best of times, and dependence on someone he barely knew for vital information made him even more anxious.

  The morning crawled away. She and John seldom lacked the ability to communicate, but they had little enough to say to each other today. The kona weather seemed to have temporarily robbed them of even mundane conversational topics. After a time the torpor Sabina felt gave way to drowsiness; she went into the bedroom, lay down on the now-dry sheet in her bed, and was soon asleep. At some point John had come in, too; he was snoring gently in the other bed when she awoke.

  It was midafternoon then, the air a trifle more breathable. She went to look outside. The pale orb of the sun appeared, disappeared, reappeared among shifting cloud formations driven by high-altitude winds. From what she could see of the ocean, the incoming surf was no longer unsettled and should be calm enough for bathing.

  John roused as she was putting on her costume. Normally he avoided athletic pursuits such as swimming, but like her he was moist and prickly-skinned after his nap, and the prospect of a cooling dip appealed to him, too. He thought he looked foolish in his blue pin-striped costume—“a half-naked hairy ape” was how he described himself—but Sabina’s opinion was that he cut a rather dashing figure.

  There were a few people on the beach, mostly sun-browned native children playing in the sand and a few adults prowling among the piles of driftwood and other detritus that had been cast up by the storm. The ocean, which she and John quickly entered, was a welcome respite from the heat despite its bathwater temperature. Actual swimming required too much effort; mostly they just splashed about, letting the rollers wash over them.

  After a time, refreshed, she went to dry off in the shade of a coconut palm while John continued to bathe. She noticed then that a fully dressed Caucasian woman had joined the natives on th
e beach, and despite the wide floppy straw hat the woman wore Sabina recognized her as Gordon Pettibone’s secretary. Miss Thurmond wandered among the piles of flotsam and jetsam, apparently not in search of shells, for she picked none up. Nor anything else until something caught her eye and she pounced on it like a cat pouncing on a mouse.

  The woman was too far away for Sabina to tell what the object was, only that it was small and dark-colored. Miss Thurmond examined it briefly, then put it into a pocket of her beige dress and hurriedly left the beach. Sabina’s impression was that Miss Thurmond had not been randomly beachcombing, that she had been searching for whatever it was that she’d finally found.

  * * *

  The message from George Fenner arrived shortly past nine on Monday morning. She and John were just finishing breakfast when Alika brought the sealed envelope. It was slightly less steamy hot today, a light ocean breeze having begun to intermittently rattle tree branches and palm fronds, and they had both recovered some if not all of their appetites.

  John’s entire demeanor changed when he tore open the envelope and read what was written on the sheet of paper inside. Whereas he had been half fidgety, half listless before, now he was animated again. His voice resonated with controlled enmity when he said, “Fenner located Vereen and Nagle. True to his word, by Godfrey!”

  “Where are they?”

  “The note doesn’t say. He’ll tell me in person.”

  He showed her the paper. Back-slanted printed words read succinctly: Have requested information. Office open until 1 p.m. Then he folded it, tucked it into a trouser pocket, and went inside.

  Sabina followed him into the bedroom, watched as he unpacked and loaded his Navy Colt. “I hope you don’t have to use that,” she said.

  “So do I.”