The Paradise Affair

by Bill Pronzini

  “Anything is possible,” Quincannon admitted. “But from all indications your brother was their mark. If they did manage to bilk him, any verifiable amount of money or goods I recover will be returned, of course.”

  “Of course.” Her smile was thin and skeptical. She was a handsome woman, as Abner Bannister had said, but in a severe way. A woman hardened by the land and by her responsibilities, cynical and tenacious, who would do whatever she felt necessary to protect her own. “Tell me, why did you mention an auohe on the coast nearby?”

  He decided to be straightforward with her. “The word was written on a map of the island Vereen’s partner had in his possession.”

  “Just the word? No specific place?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose it could refer to the ruins of an old heiau, but I can’t imagine why. You know what a heiau is?”

  “I do. As a matter of fact I stopped for a look at those ruins before I came here.”

  “Then you know there is nothing there that would interest a pair of crooks,” Grace Millay said. “Do you believe that Vereen is not and never has been here at the ranch?”

  Quincannon was not convinced, but he said, “I have no choice but to take your word for it.”

  “You’re welcome to search the house and the ranch buildings.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” The invitation alone convinced him the effort would be futile.

  “Well, then. If you’re satisfied Vereen is not here, then my brother must have been telling the truth about last seeing him in Hilo.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “You’ll be going there, then?”

  “Hilo, yes,” he lied. “As soon as possible.”

  “That would have to be tomorrow. As late as it is, you may as well spend the night here—we have guest quarters out back. With an early start you’ll reach Kailua in time to catch the afternoon steamer.”

  Quincannon had no intention of going to either Kailua or Hilo on the morrow. Lonesome Jack Vereen had no more departed the inter-island steamer in Hilo than he himself had; the grifter must have come here with Stanton Millay. Why had Millay—and perhaps his sister—lied about it? And where was Vereen now? On his way back to Honolulu, his business with Millay quickly completed? It was possible, but Quincannon had the feeling that that was not the answer. The answer, he was convinced, lay either here on the ranch or close by.

  An overnight stay suited him, therefore. He was tired, the prospect of a night camped out in the volcanic wasteland held no appeal, and a morning departure better fitted the initial plan of action he had devised. He accepted Grace Millay’s invitation.

  17

  SABINA

  “I hate this place,” Philip Oakes said as he and Sabina approached the Pettibone home along the front drive. “From the minute I first laid eyes on it I hated it.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Look at it. It doesn’t belong here. It’s not a Hawaiian house, it’s a San Francisco house. An exact replica of the one my uncle lived in with my aunt before she died.”

  “Is that why he had it built, as a monument to her memory?”

  Oakes emitted a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. “My uncle didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body. Not a sentimental bone. He never loved my aunt, he tolerated her for the same reason he tolerated me—family loyalty. What he loved, the only thing he loved besides making money, was the house he owned in the Western Addition. He hated having to sell it.”

  “Then why did he? Why did he leave San Francisco and move here after your aunt died?”

  “He had no choice, his business partners forced him into it. Expansion of trade with the Pacific and Far East markets meant bigger profits with the base of operations here. He couldn’t bring the Western Addition house with him, so he had this one built, an exact copy. The furniture … he even had that shipped over with the rest of his belongings. A replica inside and out. Inside and out. It—” Abruptly Oakes broke off, gave his head a sharp shake. “I shouldn’t be talking to you like this.”

  “I won’t repeat anything you’ve said.”

  “All right, then. Never mind. It doesn’t matter how I feel about the house. I won’t be living in this monstrosity much longer, now that he’s dead. No, not much longer.”

  It was not the house he hated, Sabina thought as they neared the front entrance, it was his uncle. The enmity must stem from reliance on Gordon Pettibone for his livelihood, and having to share space not only with him but with the woman with whom he was apparently cohabiting. That was why Philip Oakes drank to excess, perhaps was even a contributing factor in his amorous pursuits. His uncle’s sudden demise had not completely freed him of the yoke; only financial independence would accomplish that, thus his desperate desire for the insurance money.

  Immediately upon entering the house, even though she had been prepared, Sabina had the eerie sensation of having stepped out of Waikiki and into a stateside manse. The wide foyer was hung with gold-framed mirrors; the broad curving staircase had ornate newel posts and carpeted risers. Through an archway she could see into a parlor burdened by heavy, waxed mahogany furniture and stodgy paintings in baroque frames. There was nothing anywhere even remotely Hawaiian.

  The Chinese houseman, Cheng, appeared from inside the parlor. He was short, slightly stooped, stoic; he showed no surprise at seeing Sabina, acknowledging her presence with nothing more than a slight bow. Oakes did not bother to introduce them.

  “We’ll be in the study, Cheng,” he said. Then, “Miss Thurmond … where is she?”

  “She resting in her room.”

  “Good. Then she won’t bother us.”

  He led Sabina down a central hallway off which opened other archways that provided glimpses of a sitting room and dining room. At a short cross-hallway he turned right and halted at a set of double oak doors. There was a six-inch gap between the two halves. A twisted piece of metal that was part of a bolt lock was visible in the opening. When Oakes drew one of the halves open, Sabina noted that a brass key still jutted askew from the keyhole inside.

  “How was the door lock forced?” she asked.

  “With a poker. A poker from the parlor fireplace.”

  “Were you the first to arrive in response to the pistol shot?”

  “No, Cheng was. Then me.”

  “And Miss Thurmond?”

  “Just after I forced the lock.”

  Oakes went first into the darkened study, turned a wall switch to illuminate a heavy brass chandelier. The large room had the austere atmosphere of a museum display. Neatly filled bookshelves covered one wall; more colorless paintings adorned a second; damask drapery covered the rear wall. A brick-and-mortar fireplace occupied the fourth wall, its mantelpiece bare, nothing on the clean-swept hearthstones other than a set of brass fire tools and a small stack of cordwood. Two overstuffed leather armchairs, two ornate floor lamps, a smoking stand, and a long writing table flanked by a pair of straight-backed chairs comprised the furnishings.

  The floor was carpeted here, too, the nap a dark tan color on which crusted bloodstains were still visible despite an effort having been made to remove them by scrubbing. Sabina made out a dark splotch near one of the armchairs, faint streaks over a distance of some three feet, and a smaller splotch five feet from the fireplace—all of which indicated that Gordon Pettibone had crawled away from the spot where he was mortally wounded. Not toward the door, however. Why not?

  She asked Oakes, “Exactly where was your uncle lying when you broke in?”

  “There.” He pointed to the second splotch.

  “Facedown or on his back?”

  “Facedown.”

  “And the pistol?”

  “A short distance away.”

  “How short a distance? Inches, a foot or more?”

  “About a foot. About twelve inches. Captain Jacobsen thinks that when my uncle fired the shot into his chest, the recoil knocked the pistol out of his hand and it bounced away that far. Do
esn’t seem likely to me. Does it seem likely to you?”

  No, it didn’t. The weapon had lain some four feet from the evident firing point, a possible but unlikely distance for it to have gone as a result of recoil. It was also possible that Pettibone had been crawling toward the firearm, perhaps to shoot himself a second time, a coup de grâce, but that, too, seemed problematical.

  Oakes said, “Much more likely he flung the pistol away after it went off accidentally. Eh? Eh?”

  More likely, yes. But only by a small margin.

  “Was Mr. Pettibone in the habit of coming in here in the middle of the night?” Sabina asked.

  “No. Not as far as I know.”

  “Why do you think he did so at three A.M., armed with his pistol?”

  “Not to kill himself,” Oakes said. “No, not to kill himself.”

  “Why, then? He had to have some reason.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he was awakened by a noise of some sort—he was a light sleeper—and came down to investigate.”

  “There haven’t been any burglaries or attempted burglaries in the neighborhood, have there?”

  “No. But he didn’t trust the natives. Didn’t like Hawaiians.” A frown pleated Oakes’s brow. “It doesn’t matter why he came here when he did. All that matters is that he accidentally shot himself.”

  Sabina let that pass, too, without comment. “Did you hear noises prior to the gunshot?” she asked.

  “No. No noises.”

  “Your room is where, Mr. Oakes?”

  “Second on the north side, front.”

  “Your uncle’s?”

  “Head of the stairs.”

  “And Miss Thurmond’s?”

  “Next to his on the south side.” Oakes’s mouth pinched in at the corners. “With a connecting door,” he added.

  “Was the library door always kept locked at night?”

  “The door and both windows but not only at night. Whenever he wasn’t here.”

  “Miss Thurmond wasn’t allowed in here by herself?”

  “No. He didn’t trust her. Didn’t trust anybody.”

  “So she doesn’t have a door key?”

  “No, and neither do I or Cheng. He kept his key with him at all times, never let it out of his sight.”

  Sabina looked again at the stains on the carpet. “Your uncle’s dying words—how did he say them? All three together, or with a pause or pauses between them?”

  “Are we back to that again? Back to that again? I don’t see what difference it makes.”

  “Please answer the question, Mr. Oakes.”

  “Let me think.…” Then, “With a pause between the last two.”

  “‘Pick up … sticks.’”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he lying still when he spoke?”

  “Lifted his arm as if he were attempting to rise. In the next second he was gone. Dead as a doornail.”

  Sabina crossed to the rear wall and opened the drapes. The windows were both casements with double-halved panes fitted into brass frames. A storm shutter covered the innermost of the two on the outside; the other, the one through which she’d briefly looked yesterday morning, had none.

  “Why is only the one window shuttered?” she asked Oakes.

  “Both were, but the shutter on that one was damaged in Saturday night’s storm. Cheng took it down.”

  “Are the windows always kept shuttered?”

  “No. Only during kona weather.”

  Sabina peered at the frames in the shutter-free window. They fit tightly together and were secured by a bolt that turned by means of a small brass knob centered between French-type handles. She unfastened the bolt, an act that required two turns of the knob.

  “Are you sure this window was secure when the shooting took place?” she asked.

  “I checked it myself. So did Miss Thurmond. Locked tight. Both of them. Locked tight.” Oakes’s voice was edged with impatience now. “I don’t see the need for all these questions. Captain Jacobsen didn’t ask half as many.”

  “I believe in being thorough.”

  “Do they help prove the shooting was accidental? Do they? I don’t see how.”

  Sabina had become as annoyed with him as he was with her. “You asked for my professional assistance, Mr. Oakes. Kindly allow me to investigate as I deem necessary.”

  “All right. All right. What else do you want to know?”

  “Nothing more at the moment. Now, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to continue in here alone.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “If you don’t mind,” she repeated.

  He did mind, judging from his expression, but he made no protest. He said, “Very well, I’ll wait for you in the parlor,” and took his leave.

  Sabina turned back to the window. The two halves opened outward, letting in the overheated breeze. She examined the frames top and bottom, then the sill. It was less than three feet above the ground outside.

  There was a faint mark on the sill’s outer portion—a tiny scrape in the wood, she discerned upon closer inspection, neither deep nor long but fairly fresh. There were no other marks on the window casing. But when she felt along the top corner of the left-hand frame, her fingertip was lightly pricked by something caught there.

  Carefully she pinched it off. It was a sliver of soft, blackened wood. When she rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, it left a thin smear. She sniffed the smear, then the splinter; both had a faint brackish odor.

  She went to the writing table. The top left-hand drawer contained bond paper, some plain and some with a Great Orient Import-Export Company letterhead, plain and printed envelopes, handwriting tools. Sabina slipped the splinter into one of the plain envelopes, which she then folded and tucked into her skirt pocket.

  In the top right-hand drawer were two accordion files, one filled with a jumble of notes written in a spidery backhand, the other with a sheaf of manuscript pages penned by a different, precise hand that was likely Miss Thurmond’s. Sabina flipped through the first few pages. This was the book Gordon Pettibone had been writing, a ponderous tome with a ponderous title: A Comprehensive History of China’s Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms.

  Nothing in any of the other drawers captured her attention. She moved on to the shelves of books on the wall behind the table. Most were old and bound in brown and black leather, a few others in buckram. Judging by their titles, all were volumes of Far East and East Asian history, the preponderance of them concerning ancient China. All, that was, except for one tucked into a corner on an upper shelf. That one, also leather-bound, had the words HOLY BIBLE stamped in gold leaf on its backstrip.

  On impulse, Sabina took it down. It, too, was old and seemed to have been well read. By Pettibone’s late wife, evidently, for the flyleaf bore her signature. Tucked inside was a two-by-two-inch white index card of the sort she and John used to file addresses at Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. It had been in the Bible for some time, a fact attested to by a yellowish tinge to the paper and the faded ink of the single line written on one side.

  RL462618359.

  The penmanship was not that of the late Mrs. Pettibone, but rather the same as that on the notes in the accordion file—Gordon Pettibone’s. What did the two letters and line of numbers signify? Some sort of reference to passages of Scripture? No, that was unlikely. And nothing had been written in the Bible itself.

  She decided against pocketing the index card. Instead she returned to the writing table, and with pen and ink from the drawer, copied the two letters and line of numbers onto the envelope containing the splinter.

  After replacing the card and reshelving the Bible, she opened three of the Oriental history books at random. Each also contained an index card, these relatively new, on which were noted dates of purchase, prices paid, estimated worth, research references to similar volumes. The handwriting was the same as on the manuscript pages: Miss Thurmond and her cataloguing duties.

  Sabina looked a
round the rest of the study. The fireplace, in this tropical climate, was ornamental rather than functional. There was nothing of interest on or under the armchair cushions, or under the armchairs themselves, or anywhere else in the room.

  The shutter-free window drew her again. Its two halves were still open; she widened the gap and leaned out to look at the ground beneath. The stubbly grass had been cleared of most of the debris from Saturday night’s storm, but it was still littered with leaves and twigs. Needle in a haystack, she thought. Then again, perhaps not.

  She closed and re-bolted the window frames, drew the drapes, and went in search of the way to the side porch.

  18

  SABINA

  The side porch opened off of the kitchen. Cheng showed her the way after she encountered him in the central hallway. She took the opportunity to ask that he tell Miss Thurmond she wished to speak with her and to please wait with Mr. Oakes in the parlor. The houseman, used to being given orders and to obeying them unquestioningly, went to do as she requested.

  Outside, Sabina went around to the rear of the house. Starting in close to the wall, she walked slowly back and forth for a distance of several feet on either side of the shutter-free window, her body bent forward and her eyes searching the ground. When she failed to find what she sought, she moved outward by two paces and repeated the process. She had to do this five times before her efforts were rewarded.

  The first object she spied and quickly picked up was an irregular chunk of light-colored wood the size of a cookie, wafer-thin along one edge, tapering gradually to a thicker, rounded outer edge. The thin portion was scraped in two places, top and bottom. She slipped the piece into her skirt pocket and continued her search.

  It did not take her long to find the second chunk of wood, for it was black and of a similar shape and somewhat larger size. One of its edges, too, was thin and flattish, the surface on one side scraped and marred by a tiny gouge the size of the splinter. This piece joined the other in her pocket.

  She returned to the side porch and reentered the house. Before going to the parlor, she took a few moments to compose herself. Her exertions in the fiery glare of the sun had made her feel a trifle light-headed. Prickly oozings of perspiration glazed her face and trickled on the back of her neck; her blouse felt as if it were pasted to the skin between her shoulder blades. She loosened the garment, wiped away as much of the perspiration as she could with her handkerchief. Lord, how good a cold shower would feel just now!