“To steal the cloak and helmet,” Quincannon finished for him, “and dispose of you once they had them.” Like as not true, if such artifacts were as valuable as Grace Millay had indicated. Those two jackals had been entirely capable of cold-blooded murder if enough money were to be had.
“That’s right,” Millay said, “but I didn’t think so then. I thought … I don’t know what I thought. I tried to tell them I’d made up the story but they wouldn’t believe me. They threatened me, threatened Grace … I had to keep playing along. What else could I do?”
Quincannon produced the crude map, held it in front of Millay’s face. “Who drew this? You?”
“Yes.”
“Willingly?”
“No. The fat one, Reno … he insisted.”
And Vereen had overlooked the map or been unable to find it after Nevada Ned’s demise. “They both intended to take the inter-island steamer with you on Sunday?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Did Vereen tell you why he was alone when he met you at the dock, that his partner was dead?”
“No,” Millay said. “I didn’t know about Reno until you told me. All he said was that the heat and humidity had laid his partner low.”
The kona weather might or might not have been a contributing factor in Nevada Ned’s death. Heart failure, accidental morphine overdose, or deliberate act of murder by Vereen … there was no way that Quincannon would ever know which it had been. Not that it mattered a great deal, now.
He said, “And on Monday, after an overnight stay in Kailua, you brought Vereen straight to the heiau.”
“He made me take him there. I kept trying to convince him that I’d made it all up, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“What happened in the burial cave?”
“He was … crazy mad when he saw that the cloak and helmet weren’t there. He accused me of taking it to the ranch, wanted to come here.… I couldn’t let him do that, I was afraid for Grace.…”
“Liar,” she said.
“He drew his pistol and I … I fought him for it and it went off…”
“Twice?” Quincannon said.
“What?”
“He was shot twice. You somehow gained possession of the pistol and put two bullets in him, deliberately. That is what actually happened, isn’t it.”
Millay shook his head, the motion making him wince. “I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember.”
Quincannon let the lie pass unchallenged. “But you do remember emptying his pockets and disposing of his luggage.”
“I … was afraid to leave anything that might identify him if the body were ever found.”
“No, you weren’t. You wanted whatever of value he had on him. He had to have been carrying cash, and stock certificates and bearer bonds from the swindle that brought me over here. What did you do with them?”
“Brought them here. I couldn’t just throw them into the sea with his carpetbag, could I?”
When neither Quincannon nor his sister answered him, Millay ingested more okolehao and then staggered to his feet. They followed him into another room, one which contained a rolltop secretary desk. Millay opened it, handed Quincannon the contents of one of the drawers.
The certificates and bearer bonds were all there; Vereen and Nagle had made no attempt to dispose of any of them, other than the one bond they’d cashed in San Jose, before embarking for Hawaii. But they had spent most of the two thousand dollars they’d filched from R. W. Anderson, or they had if the amount Quincannon counted—three hundred and ninety dollars in greenbacks—was the full sum that Vereen had been carrying. Millay swore it was, but Quincannon was not about to accept his word.
The three of them returned to the front room. He said then to Millay, “You will arrange for a bank draft, payable to John Quincannon, in the amount of one thousand six hundred and ten dollars.”
“Why should we do that?” Grace Millay asked.
He told her why.
“And then what? What do you intend to do about the dead man in the burial cave?”
Somewhat mollified now, Quincannon said, “Nothing, as long as the draft is honored at your Honolulu bank. Even though Vereen was shot twice I have no proof to refute the veracity of your brother’s claim of self-defense. As for Vereen’s remains … if the bones of ancient priests have no objection to those of a murdering thief lying among them, I have none either.”
Grace Millay said to her brother, her voice cold and bitter, “I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done. If it weren’t for your drunken lies and stupidity, Sam Opaka would still be alive. I wish it had been you who was dragged into the blowhole instead of him.”
Millay let out a heavy sighing breath, sank down again into the chair, and cradled his head in his hands.
23
SABINA
The long period of kona weather finally ended on Friday. Sabina awoke to a cloudless sky of brilliant blue and a gentle offshore breeze. The temperature, as the day progressed, was a dozen or more degrees cooler. This at last was the Hawaii lauded by Twain and Stevenson—softly scented trade winds, cheerful natives swimming in balmy surf, the ocean placid and of a pleasing apple-green hue. Spirit-lifting, all of it.
She viewed the change as a good omen of things to come. And so it was, for John returned safe and sound late that afternoon. His journey to the Big Island had had positive results, though not quite as he would have preferred them to be. Lonesome Jack Vereen was dead, too—both he and Nevada Ned also victims of the “dying weather,” Sabina thought but did not say when told. John, fortunately, was not responsible. His account of how Vereen had died, of the nonexistent feathered cloak conjured up by Stanton Millay that had brought the scheming pair to Hawaii, of his harrowing experience in the ancient temple (the danger to him which he likely minimized to spare her), was related without his usual ebullience at the close of a difficult investigation.
The reason, of course, was disappointment; he had had no hand in the downfall of either man, and thus he felt robbed of the satisfaction of bringing at least one of them to justice after his long and difficult hunt. It nettled his pride, his ego. Understandable, given the somewhat vainglorious man he was, but in Sabina’s view, not particularly valid.
“You recovered our client’s stock certificates and all but one of the bearer bonds,” she said to him. “That is the important thing, my dear—that, and the fact that those two scoundrels will lie, cheat, and steal no more. Mr. Anderson will be very grateful.”
“I expect so,” John admitted. “But I still wish I had been the one to end Vereen’s foul career, if not Nagle’s.”
“Yes, but think of the difficulties his capture alive would have entailed.”
“Difficulties?”
“Transportation of the prisoner to Kailua, to Hilo, to Honolulu, to the police. Explanations, questions, written statements … a lengthy, arduous, and disagreeable procedure. This way, you have been saved all of that.”
It was plain from his expression that he hadn’t considered this. “I suppose you’re right. Still…”
“I know I’m right,” she said a touch ruefully. “I spent most of Wednesday and part of yesterday in a similar procedure with the Honolulu police.”
“You did?” Surprise made him blink and then fluff his beard. “For what reason?”
“Well, I had a professional adventure of my own while you were gone.”
“What sort of adventure?”
“One you wouldn’t have minded sharing. The next-door neighbor, Gordon Pettibone, was shot to death in his locked study early Tuesday morning. It appeared at first to be either accident or suicide, but it was neither. He was murdered.”
“The devil you say. But how did you become involved?”
She explained in detail—how she first learned of Pettibone’s death, how her aid had been enlisted by Philip Oakes, and how she had deduced the explanations for the crime’s complexities.
John was genuinely impressed. “A s
tellar piece of detective work, my love,” he said. “I couldn’t have done better myself.”
“Praise of the highest order,” she said with only a hint of irony.
“That lecherous fop Oakes must have been thrilled. Death by homicide doesn’t invalidate his uncle’s insurance policy. He’ll collect the full twenty thousand dollars.”
“Thrilled for that reason, and because his uncle’s death released him from bondage and Miss Thurmond’s arrest removed her from his life as well. The property is his alone now, at least until the will is probated.”
“He has access to enough money to pay our fee, I trust? We won’t have to wait until he collects the insurance?”
“Well, actually, John, I didn’t charge him a fee.”
“You didn’t? Why the deuce not? He didn’t expect you to investigate gratis, did he?”
“No, he offered to pay our usual rate, but I’m afraid I declined.”
“Declined?” He gave her a half-pained, half-reproving look. “Why? Were you giddy from the heat?”
“Perhaps. But since I have no professional standing here, it seemed a reasonable thing to do at the time.”
“It’s not a reasonable thing to do at any time, professional standing or not,” John said. “Well, we’ll soon rectify the error. You will present Philip Oakes with a bill for services rendered and I will make sure he pays it before we leave Honolulu.”
Sabina didn’t argue. She was not always in accord with John’s obsession with the almighty dollar, but in this particular case she was. That lecherous fop Philip Oakes blessed well ought to pay and pay handsomely for her services!
QUINCANNON
If he had had his way, they would have booked passage on the next available steamship bound for San Francisco. A desire to report to R. W. Anderson and return the stock certificates and bearer bonds was one reason, the bad taste left by the deaths of Vereen and Nagle and his misadventures on the Big Island another. But the primary reason was that he missed the city and its familiar haunts, and Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. The old bromide that absence makes the heart grow fonder was never truer than when your home and business were seven days and almost three thousand miles distant.
Sabina, however, was less eager to leave. Now that the weather had improved, the attractions of Waikiki and Honolulu, combined with the well-meaning blandishments of Margaret Pritchard, had her yearning to prolong the vacation aspects of their visit. The matter was settled at dinner with the Pritchards that evening, when Lyman offered to arrange for their first-class passage on an Oceanic steamer from Australia scheduled to depart Honolulu on Tuesday. The prospect of three more days on the island put a sparkle in Sabina’s eyes that Quincannon could not bring himself to dim. Only an unfeeling dolt—he was many things, but that was not one of them—would deny his bride, his partner, and his best friend a simple pleasure. A well-earned one, too, for Philip Oakes had paid the bill she gave him promptly and without complaint.
As it turned out, the delay in their departure was not without benefit for Quincannon, too. On Saturday, Lyman and Margaret took them on a picnic in lush Manoa Valley, and on Sunday to a native luau replete with traditional Polynesian music and dancing, and succulent roast pig. He found these outings almost as enjoyable as how he and Sabina spent their last day on Waikiki, which was to do nothing more than swim in the ocean and lie indolently in the shade of coconut palms.
Both Lyman and Margaret accompanied them to the harbor on Tuesday afternoon. Sabina and Margaret had become staunch friends, a bond strengthened by Sabina’s sterling efforts in the Pettibone matter; they promised to write regularly and to arrange a get-together when the Pritchards made their annual trip to San Francisco the following year, and Margaret issued an open invitation for another island visit. The get-together, if not the invitation, suited Quincannon. His small coterie of social acquaintances did not normally include corporation executives, but Lyman was more congenial by far than any he’d dealt with in California.
When the Oceanic steamer sailed out of Honolulu Harbor, he stood with Sabina at the rail for his last glimpse of Hawaii’s tropical lushness. Now that he was departing, he had to admit that his feelings toward the Islands had mellowed. They had a certain amount of allure, to be sure. Although another visit was unlikely given the demands of their profession, he supposed he might not be averse to it someday to please Sabina.
The mellowness lasted until the steamer was two days from the Golden Gate. That was when a sudden storm as fierce as those on the westbound crossing set the sea a-churn, the ship to pitching and rolling, and Quincannon lurching to their stateroom.
He lay abed, green-gilled and groaning despite Sabina’s tender ministrations, and silently vowed that he would shoot himself before he took another ocean voyage. As for paradise, he thought morosely, one man’s version was another man’s aversion. Travel to such a place was all in the eye—and the stomach—of the beholder.
CARPENTER AND QUINCANNON MYSTERIES
BY MARCIA MULLER AND BILL PRONZINI
The Bughouse Affair
The Spook Lights Affair
The Body Snatchers Affair
The Plague of Thieves Affair
The Dangerous Ladies Affair
BY BILL PRONZINI
The Bags of Tricks Affair
The Flimflam Affair
The Stolen Gold Affair
The Paradise Affair
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BILL PRONZINI has been nominated for, or won, every prize offered to crime-fiction writers in the United States, including the 2008 Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America. It is no wonder, then, that the Detroit Free Press said of him, “It’s always nice to see masters at work. Pronzini’s clear style seamlessly weaves story lines together, turning them into a quick, compelling read.” He lives and writes in California with his wife, crime novelist Marcia Muller. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
Tom Doherty Associates ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
1. Quincannon
2. Quincannon
3. Sabina
4. Sabina
5. Quincannon
6. Sabina
7. Quincannon
8. Quincannon
9. Quincannon
10. Quincannon
11. Sabina
12. Quincannon
13. Sabina
14. Sabina
15. Quincannon
16. Quincannon
17. Sabina
18. Sabina
19. Quincannon
20. Quincannon
21. Sabina
22. Quincannon
23. Sabina
Quincannon
Also by Bill Pronzini
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE PARADISE AFFAIR
Copyright © 2020 by Pronzini-Muller Family Trust
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Fred Gambino
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
120 Broadway
New York, NY 10271
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-21650-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-21651-9 (ebook)
; eISBN 9781250216519
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: 2021
The Paradise Affair Page 16