Hawaii Five-O - 2 - Terror in the Sun

by Michael Avallone

  “And what was that?”

  “Since whoever is out to harm you has to harm you now and not later, I took Miss Endore’s information to heart. She told me that you were proud enough and foolish enough to deny yourself a real bodyguard routine. You know, having one of your men with you at all times, even when you turned in. I took a room at this hotel tonight to keep tabs on the situation. Luckily, I decided to check with Carraway before turning in.”

  “Luck?” Endore was amazed. “You’ve a positive genius for your work, my boy. Don’t ever lose it. There but for you go I—” He shuddered. Carraway looked at McGarrett admiringly, but the head of Five-O was still staring down at Rogers Endore.

  “Would you sit still for a few questions? As an expression of your gratitude?”

  Rogers Endore smiled up at him, fondly.

  “How can I deny you? Ask away.”

  “Are you willing to tell me now why you should be a target for assassination? Beyond your usual importance?”

  “No, I cannot.”

  “Can you tell me then why you are loitering in Honolulu to see the sights when you could be safely on a private plane going to the mainland?”

  “No comment. I’m sorry, McGarrett. Indeed I am.”

  McGarrett flicked a finger at his left ear.

  “All right. Last question. Did you see the man who tried to kill you tonight?”

  “Uh—no. Not really. Too dark in here. Oh, he was tall, wore black things. All that. But I couldn’t be sure about his face—” He could not for the life of him say why at that precise moment he wasn’t sure he should tell McGarrett the identity of Morley. Morley! After all these years—

  “Very well. Get a good night’s sleep. Carraway will stay with you, if you don’t mind. I’ve left my room number with him. Shouldn’t be any more trouble tonight. Tomorrow’s our next worry. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Mr. McGarrett. My debt to you is unpayable.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see. Just put in a good word for me with the Governor. I might get a raise. Who knows?”

  “Even that is possible,” Rogers Endore agreed.

  They watched him leave the room, still alert, only a slight limp betraying his fatigue and his ordeal with Tornier outside Five-O Headquarters. The door of the outer room thudded softly and Carraway looked back at Rogers Endore.

  “A blooming, brilliant bloke, sir. Anything happened to you—”

  “Stop that kind of talk, Carraway. My own fault.” Rogers Endore stared at the door through which McGarrett had gone. “Yes, I rather think he is.”

  “Wish we had a couple like him,” Carraway said, loosening his tie.

  Rogers Endore motioned Carraway to come nearer as he lay back once more against the bed. His face, tanned as it was, seemed drawn and worried.

  “Something wrong, sir?”

  “Carraway,” Endore said evenly, in a low voice. “I didn’t quite tell our dear Mr. McGarrett the truth. I know the man who came here this evening to kill me. It was Sidney Morley. Do you remember that name, Carraway? Sidney Morley?”

  “Sidney Morley!” The name exploded out of Carraway. His eyes fairly popped.

  “Yes,” Endore said weakly. “Morley. Morley. Calcutta. In forty-nine. The business with the ransoming of Rama Puta . . .”

  “Lord, yes! Morley asked for a million ransom to return Puta, took the loot and sent him back strangled anyway—”

  “Yes, but not before I got a good look at him. So there it is. Mr. Morley wants me dead. Perhaps because I’m the only one who knows what he looks like?”

  Carraway had no answer.

  Neither did Rogers Endore.

  Assassins like Sidney Morley could be hired to obtain valuable slips of paper from diplomats who behaved like spies without portfolio. It was impossible to be certain, considering the stakes.

  A sticky wicket, all around.

  Very sticky.

  Once down the hall and around the next fork in the corridor, McGarrett knocked on a door. It opened swiftly and he darted in. In the half-light of a lamp, Myra Endore embraced him again. Her loosely falling hair barely hid her splendid nakedness.

  “Is Father all right?”

  “Fine,” McGarrett lied. “All quiet on the Kahala front.”

  “McGarrett, McGarrett,” she crooned huskily, falling against his broad shoulder. “If anyone had told me this in London I’d have laughed in their lorgnettes.”

  “Told you what?” he asked, guiding her back to the turned-down bed. Whispering breezes wafted the curtains on the windows.

  “Oh, that I’d hop into the sheets with the next attractive man I met—”

  “Uh-huh.” They sat down on the bed, looking at each other. McGarrett slowly took his shoes off again. “Sorry?”

  “I’m a lot of things, McGarrett, but I’m not a complete idiot, either. You must be good for Father, the way you pay attention to your job, but for me—you’re a revelation.”

  “Why?”

  “You won’t laugh?”

  “I never do.”

  She swept her long red hair back with a nervous hand. In the dim light of the room, she could have stepped down from an oil painting by Titian.

  “I don’t feel impulsive with you. Or wanton. Or cheap. Make sense?”

  He nodded, easing her gently down to the pillow for a soft, lingering kiss. Her scent had the damnedest way of clinging to a man.

  “Whatever happens,” he said very deliberately, “this is not in the line of duty. It’s strictly personal.”

  She smiled before their lips brushed briefly again.

  “From you to me?”

  “In triplicate,” he said, feelingly.

  As happy as he was now, as good as he was feeling in Myra Endore’s lovely arms, he couldn’t eradicate the gnawing suspicion that her father had lied to him about recognizing the unknown intruder who had come to kill.

  The bloodhound in him was baying.

  As well as the wolf.

  Downstairs in the big suite of rooms, Benjamin Bygraves slipped quickly back into his bedroom. No sound came from the three sleepers in the adjoining suite. He paused to catch his breath, exhausted and spent from his miraculous escape from Rogers Endore’s terrace. He had traveled like a bullet along the wall, overreaching his suction disks to gain the next abutment cornice before he was spotted. An ill-timed fluke had brought rescuers to Endore’s aid at the eleventh hour. What an imponderable stroke of fate!

  Worse, Rogers Endore had recognized him.

  Remembered him.

  Possibly even his name.

  Calcutta, ’49, Rama Puta, the ransom, all of it. What would Endore do with the memory? Make use of it immediately or collect his thoughts until the morning?

  In any case, the Kahala Hilton had lost all its charms as a place of operations. He, Bellini, Tillingham and Von Litz would have to clear out by morning. Before the manhunt began in earnest, with the full facilities of the Hawaiian Police Department in play. And Five-O. And McGarrett.

  Of all the bad luck—

  The devil take Igor Dorkin if he didn’t return in time and walked right into a police trap the next day. He’d have to watch his own skin.

  It was every assassin for himself.

  He would have to find another way to kill Rogers Endore. Time was now running out. Only a day and a half remained before the Briton flew to the mainland. Endore had extended his stay—why?

  With the important secret he was carrying.

  Benjamin Bygraves began to pack a suitcase. Lightning was striking all around him and he wanted to get out from under the tree. Trees fall when struck by lightning.

  So do assassins.

  At two thirty that morning, approximately nine thirty in the United States, the Governor of Hawaii put in a long distance telephone call to Washington, D.C. The Governor made the call from his home in the Honolulu hills. It was a top-secret listing, set with scrambling device and code rating.

  When the proper party answered the lin
e, the Governor looked relieved. An intelligent man, he wasn’t happy with confidential matters which could shake up the peaceful balance of the international situation.

  “Hello,” his contact said. “You have a report?”

  “Yes, it is imperative that Endore leave here without any further delay. His presence poses a gigantic problem of security. The sooner the package comes the better.”

  There was a pause as if the party on the end of the line was consulting something.

  “It should be there tomorrow. When it comes, hand it over to him, explain your part as intermediary and that’s all you can do. The CIA and his own agents can take it from there.”

  “Good.” The Governor heaved a sigh of relief. “Any notion what time I can expect delivery?”

  “Yes. Twelve thirty your time. At your office. Be there and give Endore his instructions. He can do the rest. Thanks for your cooperation, Governor. That comes from the top.”

  “He’s welcome and you’re welcome. Well, that’s all I wanted. Good night.”

  “Good morning, Governor,” the crisp voice said archly.

  And hung up.

  The Governor of Hawaii stared at the silent phone for a long, thoughtful second. Then he looked at his hand. He was pleased to see it wasn’t shaking, though a fine tracery of dew limned his handsome forehead.

  Sighing again, he turned off the light in his highly masculine executive-looking study and went to bed.

  Another turn of the wheel.

  Another chore.

  Another job that had very damn little to do with running a state. Another headache, if not properly taken care of, would be enough to blow a man’s top. Any man’s.

  If McGarrett only knew—that governing Hawaii was not a pineapple in every chocolate ice cream sundae!

  9. MURDER MORNING

  Tornier the Frenchman looked up painfully when McGarrett entered the narrow, windowless room. A hospital bed would have been more accommodating for a man in such a condition, but McGarrett had seen no reason to coddle a killer. Tornier’s entire torso was in a plaster cast, with his right arm rigidly turned up like the spout on a teapot. The hammerlock breakage of that arm had called for all the bone-setting skills and miracles of the staff of Honolulu General. At McGarrett’s early morning call from the Kahala Hilton, they had parked Tornier in a private office on the ground floor to await Five-O’s judgment. A policeman, blue-uniformed and blue-badged, was on duty in the quiet hallway. McGarrett was not allowing any grass to grow under his case. He had fled the Kahala, leaving a sleeping Myra Endore with a note on his pillow: You’re a princess. Call you later. McGarrett.

  He bad gotten the earliest possible start, getting right back into harness at the crack of Oahu dawn. Already, he had put in a call to the County Morgue as well as to the Governor’s office. A tremendously busy day loomed on the schedule. McGarrett had decided on the early bird-worm gambit. The second and minute hands on his watch said nine o’clock sharp. The day was off and winging.

  He closed the door of Tornier’s room and put his back to it. He said nothing. Tornier, his head as stiff as a robot’s, snarled up at him amiably enough from a bed on which there were no sheets, no pillow cases, no bedding at all. The Frenchman was completely dressed, the plaster cast shell serving as his jacket. Only his left arm hung free.

  “Do I not know you from someplace?” Tornier growled.

  “Sure,” McGarrett said. “Your dancing partner. Good morning, monsieur.”

  “I warn you,” Tornier said. “I have nothing to say. This is a waste of time.”

  “Maybe. Right now, you’re pretty much of a cipher, monsieur. We have no make on you. Nothing has come in from the usual sources that can give you a name or an identity. Pretty neat, that. I’ve paid special attention to your French police agencies. Even the Sureté. I ought to get that on the hot line before noon.”

  “You will find nothing. What would I have to do with France?”

  “Don’t make me laugh, monsieur. Last night, you cursed at me in gutter French, used some fancy la savate and you speak with an accent that would match Charles Boyer’s.”

  Tornier nibbled his lower lip. “Do you have a cigarette?”

  McGarrett nodded, took two out of his inner pocket, lit them and placed one between Tornier’s lips. The lumpy face, with the eternal scowl that interlocked the bushy red eyebrows, was not contrite. Or afraid. Tornier was a fatalist. He had failed. He would make no bargains in defeat. Where could he hide if he betrayed the rest of them? The prison was not made that would protect him from the avenging arm of Assassins, Incorporated.

  “You had a comb in a case in your pocket. That and some bills and change. No car keys or room keys. No business cards. No mail. No nothing. So you walk into a police establishment, throw a knife at a cop, knock out a secretary and then vamoose. Why?”

  “I hate the police. I hate you.”

  “No answer. You were hired to do what you did. Your entire behavior and personal habits mark you as an assassin. Even the two-bit characters that infest downtown Honolulu’s beer joints, pool halls and back alleys don’t walk around without identification on them. Where are you staying in Honolulu?”

  “I slipped off a boat.”

  “Which one? Think fast and lie quickly, monsieur. It’s easy enough to check.”

  “I have no more to say.”

  “Maybe you’re staying at the Kahala Hilton? In one of those hundreds of rooms. With some friends? Some more assassins who hate policemen, like you do?”

  Tornier allowed his irritation to show by puffing too hard on the cigarette. Smoke swirled about his shoulders. Feebly, his left hand withdrew the butt. His narrow eyes showed nothing, however.

  McGarrett knew he wouldn’t crack. He had nothing to throw at him, really. Save an attempted homicide, assault and battery and resisting arrest. Enough to put him on ice for a long time, of course, but nothing to connect him with the plot against Rogers Endore. Yet.

  Still, there were so many questions this crippled suspect could answer. McGarrett went through the motions.

  “What is your name?”

  “That is for you to find out.”

  “How long have you been here in Honolulu?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “In Hawaii then, on these islands?” Tornier shook his head.

  “What’s your occupation?”

  Tornier smiled. An unhumorous smile. “I am a bird watcher, my friend.”

  “I’ll bet. Vultures, probably.”

  Tornier stopped smiling. His mouth turned down in a growl. McGarrett moved on, imperturbably.

  “Will I learn anything about you from France? It’s useless to stall. If you have a record there, we’ll know it soon enough. The distance between here and the Continent is meaningless in this day and age, you know. Teletype, IBM. The works. I’ll even have your fingerprint identification if there is one on file—anywhere. Think about that.”

  “There is nothing to think about. I will not tell you anything. My lips are sealed.”

  “Sure. You can’t afford to talk, can you? You’re an assassin for hire. The dirtiest job in the universe.” McGarrett shook his head. “You would have killed me last night if it had been the other way around. Do you know what that attempt is going to cost you?”

  The Frenchman stared stonily at a point above McGarrett’s head. But McGarrett knew the breed. Knew what might possibly turn the wheel.

  He played the only card he had left.

  “A friend of yours blew up last night. He must have been carrying something explosive on him. What’s left of him is in the county morgue. Nothing much. A pound of battered flesh and bones you could fit into a desk drawer. We haven’t any make on him, either. But there was enough left to indicate he had been wearing a suede jacket, light brown pants and maybe a crew-neck shirt. Same sort of fellow ran a car into two of my men yesterday. Would you know this man by any chance?”

  Tornier allowed the cigarette to droop between his l
ips. His eyes were cold and unyielding. Dorkin gone! Something had really gone wrong. The whole affair was blowing up in their faces. Had Bygraves lied . . . ?

  “Again I have nothing to say. Your luck held last night, monsieur. I should have broken your neck.”

  “Next time, perhaps.” McGarrett dropped his cigarette to the bare floor ground it out under the sole of his shoe. His expression matched Tornier’s. Grim, poker-blank. “How many of you are in on the conspiracy to kill Rogers Endore?”

  Tornier fidgeted. “I do not know this Rogers Endore—”

  “That’s a stupid lie. Would have made more sense if you did. One of the most famous men in the world? And you never heard of him. I thank you, Monsieur No-Name-Yet. You have helped me a great deal.” He turned to the door ready to leave. Tornier stirred on the bleak bed, his face slightly worried now.

  “Help? What help? I have told you nothing—”

  McGarrett smiled at him from the doorway. A winning smile. The one that said aces full and I’ll take the pot.

  “Haven’t you? When I threw the conspiracy charge in your face just now, you should have said ‘what conspiracy?’ Instead, you bluff about not knowing a famous man like Endore. Au revoir, Frenchy, there are more of you in this than yourself and your dynamited friend. But don’t worry. We’ll get all the rest of you.”

  “Now who’s bluffing?” Tornier snarled again. “You know nothing! You have gotten nothing from me! Do you hear me—?”

  He was talking to an empty room. McGarrett had stepped out deftly during the height of his tirade.

  May was waiting for him in the deserted corridor. The cop on duty had gone down the hall to find a chair. May was pretty and trim in a pencil-striped Bonnie and Clyde suit. She looked none the worse for wear for last night’s adventure. Mis-adventure.

  “Kono’s waiting at the office for you, Steve. I came here like you told me—”

  “Good girl. Right on the button. I’m finished here so I can get on about my business. You run upstairs and pay a social call on our wounded soldiers. They’ll be glad to see you. Tell them Poppa sends his best regards, to forget the case and take it easy. I’ll see you later at Headquarters. Okay?”