The House of Special Purpose

by Paul Christopher

  They continued south, losing altitude all the way, crossing the Territorial Forest Reservation that covered the spine of the island with a thick green coat, then passing over the pineapple plantations at Wahaiwa, dropping even lower as they made their final approach above the sugar-cane fields on the outskirts of Pearl City and then over Pearl Harbor itself, its three peninsulas jutting out into the dark water, all of them pointing towards the runways of the Ford Island Naval Air Station and the narrow neck of the approach to the harbour. The passengers on the Clipper had a brief, impressive look at the hundreds of ships moored in the deep-water, protected anchorage and then they were out over the open seas again beyond the Barbers Point Lighthouse.

  A few moments later the Clipper seemed to lean over on its starboard wing, heeling at a steep angle as it turned back towards land, following the visible lines of rolling surf that had been beating against the volcanic island for an eternity. Once again they were over the bottleneck of the entrance to Pearl Harbor, losing height at an almost alarming rate, heading for the smallest and most eastern of the three peninsulas of land around the perimeter of the harbour.

  Suddenly the Clipper seemed to plummet from the sky and Jane felt her stomach drop. Without any hesitation whatsoever the pilot slid the huge transoceanic aircraft down onto the water, threading an invisible needle between the row of anchored tenders on one side and the heavily treed finger of land on the other. A shudder ran through the floor beneath Jane’s feet and they were down, the sound of the engines instantly dropping away. The outer engines stopped altogether, the big props slowing and then stopping, while the inner engines were throttled back as they headed for a long dock that jutted out into the water. The pilot swung the Clipper hard to starboard, edging them towards the dock, and through the dripping, spray-drenched window Jane could see half a dozen men in PAA dark blue overalls. From somewhere in the forward section came the sound of a bulkhead door being cranked opened and suddenly the interior of the aircraft was filled with the perfumed air of Hawaii. They had arrived.

  Ever since getting up for breakfast an hour or so before landing, Jane had noticed Black’s progressively darkening expression but so far she’d said nothing. In the short time she’d known the detective from Scotland Yard, she’d learned to recognise that the growing thundercloud expression was a reflection of his way of thinking through a problem.

  They lined up in the central aisle to disembark, their two stone-faced watchdogs a few passengers behind them. Jane exited first, stepping onto the blunt stabilising winglet that kept them from capsizing on landing and from there onto a square floating canvas-covered platform and finally the dock itself. They were greeted by a dozen or so pretty young women dressed in long grass skirts and rather skimpy tops made out of woven straw handing out wreaths of fresh flowers and saying aloha to each passenger.

  As Jane received her flowers, the woman placing the lei over her head and onto her shoulders pressed a small folded piece of paper in her hand. Jane closed her fist over it then continued up the dock to solid ground. She waited for Black under a stand of palm trees on the edge of the water screening the small wooden Pan American Airways administration and baggage building.

  A few yards up the path was a large gravel parking lot where half a dozen Chevrolet Master DeLuxe twelve-passenger limousines stood waiting, their blue and white Pan American livery gleaming brightly, their spoked white wheels and whitewall tyres freshly washed. The drivers, all in Pan American uniforms, waited beside their vehicles, standing at attention while behind them and off to one side stood two battered-looking Plymouth PDs, complete with broad running boards and bug-eye headlights in front of their boxy flat-roofed bodies. For their age they looked well cared for and both had been recently painted a bright crimson colour. The name Two Bit Taxi Company was written neatly on each of the front doors in a yellow as bright as the red. Both of the drivers were sitting on their respective running boards, one reading a copy of the Honolulu Advertiser, the other smoking a cigarette, eyes closed, head back against the door of his taxi as he tried to snooze. Both men appeared to be Eurasian, their skin a faint tan colour, their eyes almond shaped, their hair jet black.

  A light wind ruffled the fronds of the palms above her and Jane shivered slightly, squinting out into the harbour itself, staring at what appeared to be hundreds of ships. It was a strange sight, so many massive and overwhelmingly powerful instruments of war basking so peacefully in an island paradise of palms and beaches and bright blue, cloudless sky.

  Jane unfolded the note in her palm.

  Wenner-Gren

  Richard Shivers, SAIC FBI

  Dillingham Transportation Building

  Take the one with the broken headlight

  It was written on an old typewriter whose keys hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Black stepped off the dock and walked up the path to where she was standing. He looked wretchedly uncomfortable with the lei around his neck and pulled at it every few seconds like a too-tight tie. He stopped beside her and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Me too,’ she said. Black handed her the one he’d just lit and lit a second cigarette for himself.

  ‘What have we got there?’ he asked.

  ‘Note. Apparently from the special agent in charge here.’ She handed it to him and he read it. Jane turned and looked at the Two Bit taxicabs. The one on the right with the driver reading the newspaper had a piece of heavy black electrical tape criss-crossed over the left headlamp. Most of the passengers from the Clipper flight were climbing into the complimentary limousines Jane had read about in the brochure she’d read during the flight. They’d go to the Pan American Hotel in Pearl City first and drop off any passengers continuing on to Manila or Singapore, then take the rest of the passengers to whichever hotel they’d booked, most of them on Millionaires Row in Waikiki, either the Ala Moana or the pink wedding cake of the Royal Hawaiian. Suddenly the driver of the other Two Bit taxi flipped away the butt of his cigarette and opened the rear door of his old car and ushered in a middle-aged couple. Their two watchdogs were now standing on the edge of the parking lot, desperately trying to look anywhere but at Jane and Morris Black.

  The Scotland Yard detective folded the note neatly and put it into his pocket. ‘What do you think?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Some kind of trap maybe but I don’t think so.’

  Black shrugged. ‘Maybe the taxi’s been sent to take us out into the cane fields and chop us into little bits.’

  ‘You’re listening to too much Inner Sanctum.’

  Black frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Oh, forget it.’ Jane waved away the comment. ‘You’re never going to figure out Americans.’

  ‘One certainly hopes not.’

  ‘The point is, the FBI could have picked us up a long time ago and this guy knows Wenner-Gren’s name.’

  ‘Which could simply mean the note was passed along by Wenner-Gren to lure us away into the cane fields.’

  ‘Scaredy-cat,’ Jane scoffed. ‘Wait here.’ She walked over to the parking lot and approached one of the limousine drivers, who was about to climb behind the wheel of his glistening vehicle. The man was very large and his chauffeur’s cap barely fit over his boulder-sized skull. His smile was friendly enough as she approached though.

  ‘Looking for a ride, lady?’

  ‘Just the answer to a question.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Where does the FBI hang out in Honolulu?’

  ‘I think it’s called the Dillingham Building.’

  ‘Who’s Dillingham?’

  ‘One of the Big Five.’

  ‘Five what?’

  ‘Five big haole families that stole Hawaii. They still own half of Honolulu and most of Waikiki on top of that.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Bottom of Bishop Street at Ala Moana. Across from the Aloha Tower.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘No problem, sistah. Anything for a cute little puka like you.’ He grinned and eased himself b
ehind the wheel of the Master DeLuxe. Jane went back to where Black was standing.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m a cute little puka, whatever that means, and it looks like this Shivers person is sending us to the right place.’

  ‘As long as he’s the right person.’

  ‘Cute. You go get the bags and I’ll bag the taxi.’

  The driver took them up the narrow peninsula with its small neat fields, palm-lined streets and large, expensive-looking houses, finally reaching the main highway and heading along the coast towards the city. He was skinny, round-faced, half-Chinese by the looks of him and wore a ragged, sweat-stained straw hat set down squarely on his forehead. As they drove, he alternated between eating MoonPies, drinking RC Cola from a bottle he held between his legs and smoking Camels. Unlike the taxi drivers mentioned in Jane’s brochure he was anything but communicative, not saying a word for the entire trip. It took them half an hour to reach the downtown area. In the distance Jane could see a tower close to the harbour, where a large liner was moored.

  ‘Is that the Aloha Tower?’

  The driver nodded and took a bite from his third MoonPie, washing it down with the dregs of his bottle of RC Cola. They reached Bishop Street and turned left, pulling up in front of a large, mock Italian Renaissance four-storey office building with a red tile roof. The main floor seemed to be encircled by a stone-arched arcade. Jane realised that from one side of the building, at least on the upper floors, you’d be able to see anyone arriving at the dock beyond the Aloha Tower.

  ‘This it?’

  ‘Eight bucks.’

  ‘Little high, isn’t it?’ Black commented.

  ‘Not high. Eight bucks,’ said the driver. ‘It’s always eight bucks.’

  ‘What happened to Two Bits?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Died behind the wheel of one of his own boilers. Fell asleep at the wheel.’

  ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ said Black.

  ‘Two bits is a quarter. Twenty-five cents. I thought it was the fare but apparently it was the owner’s nickname. Give him the eight dollars and let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Not until he takes out our bags.’ Black reached into his European-sized wallet and neatly extracted a five and three ones. ‘The bags,’ he repeated. Grumbling under his breath, the driver climbed out of the taxi, went around to the rear of the old car and pulled their two new suitcases out of the boot, setting them down hard on the sidewalk in front of the building. Jane got out and the Scotland Yard detective finally handed over the handful of bills, which the driver carefully counted.

  ‘No tip?’

  ‘Oh, bugger off, mate.’ Black picked up both bags and walked briskly under the shadow of the arcade and disappeared through the main entrance. Jane gave the driver a friendly shrug and the man scowled and muttered something under his breath.

  Jane went after Black, finally catching up to him just as he reached the main doors. ‘I guess he doesn’t like the navy.’

  The main floor was a gigantic lobby with an art deco ceiling painted with a variety of transportation motifs that went from ships and steaming railroads to thundering trucks and a strange-looking barge fitted with a steam shovel that seemed to be dredging out Pearl Harbor, complete with monster dreadnoughts she was sure had never been part of the U.S. Navy. The floors were polished marble and rang like hammers as they walked across them. A cool cross breeze was created by the high windows set into the arcade arches and the temperature of the floors made things even cooler. They found a brass-doored elevator etched with more trains, ships and even a few aircraft as well. On the glass-covered directory beside it, the Federal Bureau of Investigation was listed as being on the second floor. Jane pressed the appropriate button, the doors slid open and they went up.

  Almost the entire west wing of the second floor was given over to the FBI, including a large central room and half a dozen smaller offices on the perimeter. As Jane had suspected, the main room looked out over Ala Moana Boulevard and down to the Aloha Tower and the docks. She grinned, spotting a large telescope mounted on a tripod near one of the windows.

  The main room was furnished with an assortment of wooden government-issue desks and rows of green filing cabinets. A scattering of plants was dying on windowsills. There were maps pinned up here and there plus a blackboard. Across from a reproduction portrait of President Roosevelt was an equal-sized portrait of the Boss, J. Edgar Hoover himself. There wasn’t a single person at any of the desks. Distantly Jane heard a door creak closed and a few seconds later a narrow-shouldered man in shirtsleeves with a striped tie loosely knotted at his neck appeared. He was wearing glasses and a worried expression and his dark hair was thinned back in a widow’s peak. As he came forward, he managed a smile and extended a hand.

  ‘I see the fleet’s in.’ He smiled. ‘Hi, I’m Dick Shivers.’

  Black took the hand and shook it. Jane thought the name sounded like an unfinished newspaper headline: DICK SHIVERS, COLD SNAP COUNTINUES. She kept herself from smiling. Black put down the suitcases.

  ‘Sorry to catch you before you got to your hotel but I thought it was advisable.’ Shivers looked around the empty squad room. ‘Usually the joint is jumping but I’ve got everybody gone home or on assignment. I thought we could do with some privacy. Coffee?’

  Black opened his mouth to turn down the offer but Jane beat him to the punch. ‘Sure. Sounds good.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  Shivers led them to his office, which was equipped with a desk, a chair behind it and two wooden armchairs for guests. An old Remington typewriter was set on a small table at right angles to the desk. Probably the one Shivers used to type the note. He also had a big West Bend vacuum coffeemaker and coffee-making paraphernalia on top of yet another trio of government-issue green filing cabinets. Shivers took their coffee orders, poured and charged with milk or sugar or both and handed cups around. Over Shivers’s shoulder Jane could see the Aloha Tower out the window. She took a sip of her coffee then stared down into her cup, amazed.

  ‘That’s incredibly good,’ she said.

  Black took a sip of his own and nodded. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Kona,’ said Shivers. ‘Just about the best-kept secret in Hawaii. We don’t export too much.’

  ‘I’ll take ten pounds,’ said Jane.

  ‘Not before we find out what Special Agent Shivers wants,’ said Black, smiling benignly.

  ‘Look,’ said Shivers. ‘I got a call from one of Hoover’s boys saying you’d been seen at San Francisco Airport and to keep an eye out for you. Which I did, you have to admit.’

  ‘How come you didn’t arrest us?’ asked Jane.

  ‘Hey, the director doesn’t read any of my memos or warnings so why should I listen to his? Plus I was curious.’

  ‘About us?’ said Jane innocently.

  ‘Holding a gun on a federal agent, impersonating members of the United States armed forces. I gather you’ve stepped over the line before that.’

  ‘I suppose you could say that,’ Black answered.

  ‘What I want to know is why. I’m up to my ears in spies here and all I get from the beloved director is, “Leave it to Naval Intelligence,” who – pardon my French, lady – don’t know their asses from a hole in the ground.’

  ‘I thought that’s what they say about the Bureau,’ Jane responded.

  ‘Ha-ha,’ said Shivers. ‘I’m not kidding. This place is crawling with Jap spies, not to mention a few Germans and even the odd Russian, and I’m supposed to sit around and do nothing, pardon my French again, with my thumbs up my ass.’

  ‘From our information a pair of your old Red Squad pals tried to kill us on the Super Chief,’ said Jane.

  ‘Not my old pals and you can ask anyone you want, there’s not much love lost between me and the director either.’

  ‘Why are you telling us this?’ asked Jane. ‘From what I hear you don’t lip the big G-man unless you’re looking for a job in the sewage-treatment business.’


  ‘I’ve reached the point where I don’t care. There’s a war coming with the Japs and everyone knows it and the son of a bitch has me counting up the nisei in the islands so we can have lists when we intern them.’

  ‘Nisei?’

  ‘First-generation Japanese. Born here. U.S. citizens.’

  ‘Intern them?’ asked Black.

  ‘Already building camps in Colorado and California.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Jane whispered.

  ‘Why are you so sure war’s coming?’ asked Black.

  ‘We call it traffic weight,’ said Shivers. ‘We’ve got phone taps on everyone and the cable companies as well. The Japanese consulate has sent about ten times more messages and phone calls in the past ten days than it has in the past six months. Something big’s coming and soon and I can’t do a damn thing about it.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you’re telling us.’

  ‘I’ve got my sources,’ said Shivers flatly. ‘Donovan’s bunch and your friend the Limey in New York have operations with more holes than a tea strainer. We’ve been following the Budberg woman around just like your people have and now she turns up here with this Wenner-Gren character, the Duke of Windsor’s bosom buddy, not to mention half the known Nazi sympathizers in the Western Hemisphere, a Russian prince who claims he’s the old tsar’s nephew and another Russian lunatic named Vonsiatsky all holed up on Howard Hughes’s old yacht, which is berthed down at the Yacht Club, pretty as a picture.’

  ‘Isn’t there some kind of unofficial ban on him docking in any American port?’ Black asked.

  Shivers nodded. ‘This is a territory, though, which means the paperwork takes forever, not to mention the fact that he’s muddied the waters by deeding over the boat to this Budberg woman for the time being and there’s no ban on her. Wenner-Gren’s home port is Nassau so there’s really no way we can touch him… or his guests.’

  ‘Isn’t Vonsiatsky the one who married the heiress and lives in Connecticut?’ said Jane. ‘I saw something in Life about him. Like an American Mussolini or something.’