In spite of her faith in his ability to keep himself from harm, a worm of worry was again at work in her—a niggling little worm that seemed to have been born when she finally admitted to herself that she was in love with him, and that plagued her whenever he was away on potentially dangerous business. Perhaps it was because she had had no such concerns about Stephen, whom she had loved with all her heart and whose sudden death had left her devastated. But Stephen had been young, as reckless as John but much less experienced, and the blind faith she had had in him was a product of her own youth and inexperience.
It was pointless to compare the two men, or her feelings for them. Her love for Stephen had been all-consuming; her love for John, the slow-developing kind of a mature woman for an equally mature man, was less intense but in a sense the bond was even stronger. In time she had been able to overcome the loss of her first love; she was not at all sure she could overcome a loss of her second and last. Hence the little worm of worry.
She went for a short stroll along Kalakaua Avenue and two short side streets. The sultry kona heat was less enervating today; she must be starting to become acclimatized to it. Still, she fervently hoped it would end soon. The balmy trade winds Twain and Stevenson had so highly praised would be a welcome blessing for at least a portion of their time here.
Most of the homes she passed were similar in architectural style to the Pritchards’, but here and there were an odd assortment of others. One was a modified Cape Cod with a pitched gabled roof, probably by one of the New England whalers who had plied these islands in the early years of the century. Another was what Margaret would later identify as a hale pili—a traditional Hawaiian home built of native woods and covered with grass.
The oddest of all was the Pettibone abode. Viewed from the front, it was definitely Queen Anne in design, complete with gables and decorative shingles. No apparent modifications such as a lanai had been added. With few tropical plantings surrounding it, the house had a queer, anomalous aspect, as of something displaced in time and space. Even the carriage lean-to and stable on its far side were American in design. A Chinese groundskeeper, busily removing storm debris from the grass, also might have been transplanted from one of San Francisco’s better neighborhoods.
Margaret had told her some of the house’s curious history. Gordon Pettibone had hired a San Francisco architect and a six-man construction crew who specialized in building Queen Anne homes, and paid their passage to Honolulu along with all the necessary timbers and other components. The crew, with the aid of Chinese laborers—Pettibone refused to hire native Hawaiians for the task—had built the house to specifications on the property here. It must have cost him a pretty penny to have his obsessive (John would have called it “crackbrain”) desire satisfied. Fortunately there was no sign of either the eccentric Mr. Pettibone or his unpleasant nephew on the grounds when she passed.
Shortly after Sabina returned to the guesthouse, Kaipo brought a light lunch of steamed butterfish wrapped in taro leaves, rice, and fruit. At first the meal didn’t strike Sabina as particularly appealing, but she found that she was hungrier than she thought and the food so good she ate it all. Drowsiness overtook her not long after she finished.
She napped for nearly two hours, awoke feeling damp and sticky, and since John still hadn’t returned, she donned her bathing costume and walked down to the beach. It was mostly deserted, the surf less settled than it had been the day before, the rollers breaking over the sand in restless mutters. Not really swimmable, she decided. She went in just far enough to immerse her body, then sat beneath one of the palms to dry before trekking back.
She had finished sluicing off salt residue with fresh water from the rain barrel and was dressing when John finally arrived at the guesthouse.
As soon as she saw him she knew that the day had not gone well for him. If he had succeeded in capturing the two grifters, he would have had a satisfied, even jaunty mien in spite of the heat. As it was, he looked bedraggled, vexed, his jaw set in a grimly determined way.
“What happened?” she asked. “Didn’t Fenner have Vereen and Nagle located after all?”
“He had them located well enough. They’ve been occupying a bungalow on Punchbowl Hill the past week.”
“But you didn’t find them there?”
“I found one. Nagle. Dead.”
“Dead? How?”
“Morphine overdose. Possibly accidental, possibly not.”
“And Vereen?”
“Gone, bag and baggage.”
“Gone where, do you know?”
“The Big Island,” he said. “Evidently to meet with the new mark they’d set up, a man named Millay.” He went on to explain who Millay was, and that the cattleman had apparently made the acquaintance of the two thieves while on a visit to San Francisco.
“Another stock swindle?” Sabina asked.
“Doesn’t appear to be, this time.” John removed his jacket, took a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket, and handed it to her. “Something to do with a clock or cloak, apparently. And with this.”
She studied the crudely drawn map he handed her, while he sat on one of the beds and began to strip off his sweat-sodden shirt. “A drawing of one of the islands?”
“Yes. The one they call the Big Island.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Sewn into the lining of Nagle’s coat. Perhaps drawn by him, perhaps not. The key word is ‘auohe’—hidden place. The other words are the names of villages on the Kona Coast.”
“What sort of hidden place?”
“That remains to be learned.”
“Where does the clock or cloak fit in?”
“Good question.” John recounted his conversation with the man named Gomez. “He claimed he didn’t know which it was.”
“The truth?”
“I think so. Whichever it is, it has to be something or part of something of great value.”
“I can’t imagine any kind of clock or cloak being worth enough to bring those two all the way here to Hawaii. Can you?”
“No,” he said darkly. “But I’ll find out.”
She waited until he washed his hands and face at the basin and put on a clean shirt from the wardrobe trunk, then said as she returned the map, “Naturally you intend to go after Vereen.”
“Naturally. I’ve already booked passage to the Big Island on an inter-island steamer.”
“Leaving when?”
“Early tomorrow morning.”
Sabina repressed a sigh. “Sure to be a lengthy trip. Several days if not longer.”
“No doubt. And before you suggest it, my love, the answer is no, you cannot accompany me. Too dangerous, too much of a hardship. The Millay ranch is more than thirty miles from the nearest port of entry, over what promises to be rough terrain and primitive roads.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest going with you.”
“Weren’t you? You had that look in your eye.”
“What look?”
“The same one as in Sacramento last fall, when you insisted on joining the hunt for the head of the gold-stealing ring.”
“An entirely different situation,” Sabina said. “You misinterpreted what I’m thinking, John.”
“And what is that?”
“For one thing, that you’ll need clothing, incidentals. How will you carry them? All we brought with us are these trunks.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” No, of course he hadn’t; one of his minor faults was a tendency to overlook practical matters in times of stress. “The Pritchards must have a carpetbag I can borrow.”
“Yes, but they may not want to lend it to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“That is the other thing on my mind—the Pritchards. We have to tell them exactly what sort of consultants we are and the primary reason why you’re here. As soon as possible.”
“That isn’t necessary—”
“Yes, it is, for more than one reason.”
�
��What reasons?”
“Use your head, John. You can’t just disappear for days, leaving me behind, without a credible explanation. And for all we know Margaret and Lyman may not want me to remain as their guest until you return.”
“Why wouldn’t they want you to remain here?”
“We haven’t been completely honest with them, have we? They’re respected members of the community; they may not want to become involved, even peripherally, with criminals, one of whom may have been murdered by his partner.”
John started to tug at his damaged ear, fluffed his beard instead. “I see what you mean,” he admitted. “But they can’t be told about Nagle.”
“Not that, no. Nor of Vereen’s identity or any other particulars of the investigation.”
“All right, then. But suppose they don’t want you to remain here? What will you do?”
“Move,” Sabina said. “There must be a hotel that has an accommodation available for a new guest.”
The statement produced a scowl. “I don’t like the idea of that.”
“Neither do I, and perhaps it won’t be necessary. But if it is, we’ll arrange to move right away.”
“Tonight? What if a hotel room can’t be found on short notice?”
“Then you may have to postpone your voyage until Wednesday. A day’s hiatus won’t make that much difference, will it?”
“It might.”
“A bridge to be crossed if and when, in any event,” Sabina said. “You do agree that our hosts must be told?”
He made grumbling noises, but he knew she was right and he put up no further argument.
* * *
The Pritchards were somewhat nonplussed but not in the least upset. Margaret, in fact, seemed intrigued by the revelation that both John and Sabina were professional detectives of long standing. Lyman, as befitted a successful business executive, was more reserved; he gave his ginger mustache several thoughtful strokes before saying, “I do wish you’d told us all this on the ship.”
“It would have required more explanation than we felt comfortable providing,” Sabina said. “We seldom advertise our profession unless absolutely necessary. But we do apologize for misleading you.”
John asked in his blunt fashion, “Would you have invited us to be your guests if we had revealed ourselves?”
“Well…”
“Of course we would have.” Margaret’s color was high, her chocolate-drop eyes agleam. She said to Sabina, “Detective work must be thrilling. But isn’t it dangerous for a woman?”
“Hardly ever.” A little white lie.
“Is there any danger from the confidence man you’re after?”
“Very little,” John said. “Guile is his stock-in-trade, not violence.” A little white lie of his own.
“Whom has he gone to see on the Big Island?” Lyman asked. “Or do you know?”
“I know, but I would rather not give you a name or any other details now. Perhaps after I have my man in custody.”
“How long do you expect that will take?”
“I can’t say. Possibly as long as a week, given the amount of travel involved.”
Sabina said, “And I have no desire to impose further on your hospitality while John is gone. Perhaps it would be best if I moved to a hotel until his return—”
“Oh, no, Sabina,” Margaret said, “that isn’t necessary, not at all. You’re perfectly welcome to stay on here. Isn’t she, Lyman?”
“Yes, of course,” her husband agreed without hesitation. “You’re friends, not just guests. The nature of your profession doesn’t change that in the slightest.”
* * *
Rain fell again during the night, but it was relatively light and intermittent—not much of a storm this time. Sabina would have liked to share John’s bed with him, but it was too muggy for close contact of any kind. She contented herself with the thought that he would be spared any lingering concern for her welfare while he was away. The Pritchards could not have been more understanding or accommodating; Lyman had not only loaned John the carpetbag he needed, but had arranged for Alika to drive him to the inter-island steamship dock in the morning.
She did not expect to find much pleasure in the days until his return, but the company of friendly faces would make the waiting easier than if she had to tolerate it alone.
12
QUINCANNON
The night’s rain had re-choked the morning with steaming humidity. Banks of black-rimmed cumulus clouds blotted out the sun. Quincannon knew without asking either Lyman, who was on his way to his job at the Spreckels office, or Alika on the buggy ride to the inter-island steamship dock, that another kona storm was in the offing. He could only maintain the dismal hope that it would hold off until he had completed passage to the Big Island.
It didn’t, curse the luck.
The storm struck when the little steamer Lehua was an hour out from Honolulu Harbor, a more intense blow than the one on Saturday night. Crackles of thunder, slashing blades of lightning, heavy rain, gusting wind combined to boil the sea and toss the ship around like a toy. Quincannon endured it as he had those two days on the Alameda, flat on his back with eyes shut and teeth gritted against an ebb and flow of nausea.
Thankfully this tempest blew itself out not long before the ship reached Hilo. He emerged from his cabin, shaken and wobbly, as they drew into the harbor. The offshore wind that greeted him seemed somewhat cooler, but it did nothing to improve either his physical or mental well-being. He leaned on the railing, staring at the distantly looming presence of one of the island’s volcanoes, Mauna Loa, and the small port settlement that stretched out beyond a long expanse of palm-fringed beach.
The wharf at which the steamer docked looked new, as did some of the rows of warehouses along the waterfront. Hilo’s buildings and houses were a mixture of old and new, some made of stone, more of unpainted timber, more still of woven palm fronds with grass roofs. Quincannon regarded the town with a dully covetous eye. It was not a particularly inviting place, but it had one attribute that made him yearn to be disembarking here: its buildings sprawled across solid ground.
The Lehua’s layover was short. Most of the passengers disembarked here; a handful took their place. Cargo was quickly off-loaded and other cargo loaded on, and they were soon under way again. The ocean on the leeward side of the island was considerably calmer, permitting Quincannon to remain on deck throughout the voyage around to the Kona Coast. The brisk sea wind was refreshing; his tortured insides eased. When the ship finally drew in to Kailua, he felt more or less human again.
The village was a straggling affair of thirty or forty buildings that hugged the shore beside a protected bay. The dominant structure, he overheard one of the stewards say, was a royal palace built by Prince Kuakini, brother of Kamehameha’s queen. To his jaundiced eye, it looked less like a palace than a square, three-storied New England house onto which had been grafted a long porch and a second-story balcony with ornate railings.
Quincannon noted all of this abstractedly as he off-loaded himself and his borrowed carpetbag, first onto the slender dock and then onto blessed terra firma. Local color, even the exotic variety he had encountered so far in these islands, was of little interest to him at the best of times. And these were not the best of times.
He trudged to a small, single-story hotel that the steward had pointed out to him. The weather was almost as hot and sultry here as it had been in Honolulu, the sky heavy with more of the black-edged cumulus clouds. There was sure to be another blasted storm by nightfall.
The hotel accommodations were Spartan but adequate. The owner, Abner Bannister, a rail-thin Englishman with a bristling salt-and-pepper mustache, proudly proclaimed himself the descendant of one of the missionaries who had helped Prince Kuakini design his royal home in 1837. Quincannon allowed as how he was there on a business matter concerning Stanton Millay and an acquaintance, James Varner, who had arrived together on Sunday. Had Bannister seen them? No, the innkeeper said. Millay prefer
red other lodgings when he spent a night in Kailua.
“How far is the Millay ranch from here?” Quincannon asked.
“About thirty miles, as the crow flies.”
“How would he and Varner have traveled to it? By boat?”
The hotel owner shook his head. “The only boats in Kailua are fisherman’s outriggers. There are no passenger craft to Puako, the nearest village on that section of the coast. Of course, if one of the cattle ships from Hilo was due in, it could take you to Kawaihae farther north. They anchor offshore there when ranchers drive their herds to the beach for shipment to the other islands. The cattle are lashed to the outside of small boats and ferried out to the main ship where they’re belly-hoisted aboard—”
“The two of them went by road, then,” Quincannon interrupted. “There is one to that section of the coast, I trust?”
“Oh, yes. The up-island road goes all the way to Waimea.”
“Where can I rent a horse?”
Bannister laughed. “There are no horses for hire in Kailua. The lios in this district have either been domesticated for use on the ranches and plantations, or roam wild.”
“How do people make the trip, then? How did Millay and Varner?”
“By horse and buggy, in their case. Millay boards his equipage at the livery here when he’s away. Your method of transportation will have to be by rented wagon and Kona nightingale.”
“What, pray tell, is a Kona nightingale?”
“A native breed of donkey. Durable and sturdy creatures, for the most part quite dependable when domesticated.”
Donkeys! No boats, no horses, naught but wagons and asses! What other handicaps did these island gardens of delight hold in store?
Bannister sent one of his Hawaiian employees to make transportation arrangements for the following morning, saving Quincannon at least that disagreeable task. After a roast pork supper, palatable save for that strange paste-like inedible side dish called poi, the two men retired to the hotel parlor to smoke their pipes. If there were any other guests, they had not made themselves visible in the dining room or elsewhere on the premises.
The Paradise Affair Page 8