Collins, Max Allan - Nathan Heller 09 (11 page)

The top was down (and I left it down) on the Durant, a two-tone blue number with wire wheels that was surprisingly sporty for a society matron like Grace Fortescue, even if she was an accomplice to murder. The buggy handled nicely and the three-and-a-half-mile drive from Honolulu to Waikiki—straight down King Street, right on Kalakaua Avenue—was a pleasant combination of palm-shaded drive, strolling locals, and budding commerce. I tossed my fedora on the floor on the rider’s side, because the motor-stirred breeze would have sent it sailing, and it felt good, getting my hair mussed. The steady stream of traffic was divided by a clanging trolley, and halted occasionally by Polynesian traffic cops with stop-go signs—no traffic lights in Honolulu, though they had street-lamps. Pretty soon the coral-pink stucco spires of the Royal Hawaiian began emerging up over the trees, like a mirage playing peek-a-boo.

Turning right off Kalakaua into the hotel driveway, I was swept into lushly green, blossom-dabbed, meticulously landscaped grounds along a palm-lined gentle curve of asphalt that wound around to the Pink Palace’s porte cochere, where my rubbernecking damn near ran me smack into one of the massive pillars at the entry way.

The doorman, a Japanese, wore a fancier white uniform and cap than Admiral Stirling. When he leaned his smooth round face in, I asked him where the parking lot was, and he told me they’d park “the vehicle” for me.

I left the motor running, grabbed my bag out of the back, took the claim stub (imagine giving an automobile to somebody like you were checking your damn hat!), tipped the doorman a nickel, and headed inside. A Chinese bellboy in an oriental outfit tried to take my bag as I bounded up the steps, but I waved him off; I only had so many nickels.

The lobby was cool and open, with doorless doorways letting in lovely weather, chirping birds, whispering surf.

The massive walls with their looming archways and the high ceiling with its chandeliers dwarfed the potted palms and fancy lamps and wicker furnishings, not to mention the people, who seemed mostly to be staff. There were enough bellboys—some in those oriental pajamas, others in crisp traditional red jacket and white pants, all in racial shades of yellow and brown—to put together a football team; and room enough to play, without stepping off the Persian carpet.

But there were damn few guests. In fact, as I moved to the registration desk at left, I was the only guest around at the moment. As I was signing in, a honeymooning couple in tennis togs strolled by arm in arm. But that was about it.

Even the fancy lobby shops—display windows showing off jade and silk and high fashions, for the moneyed man or woman—were populated only by salesclerks.

An elevator operator took me up to the fourth floor, where I found a room so spacious and beautifully appointed, it made my cabin on the
Malolo
look like my one-room flat back home. More wicker furniture, ferns and flowers, shuttered windows, and a balcony that looked out on the ocean….

It was late afternoon, and the sunbathers and swimmers were mostly indoors; a spirited game of surfboard polo was under way, but that was all. No outrigger canoes in sight; no surf-riding dogs.

The day was winding down and I was, frankly, exhausted. I dropped the sort of immense window shade that was the only thing separating the balcony from the room itself, and adjusted the shutters till the room was as dark as I could get it, stripped to my shorts, and flopped on the bed.

Ringing awoke me.

I turned on the bedside lamp. Blinking, I looked at the telephone on the nightstand and it looked back at me, and rang again. I lifted the receiver, only half-awake.

“’Llo.”

“Nate? Isabel.”

“Hi. What time is it?”

“Eight-something.”

“Eight-something at night?”

“Yes, eight-something at night. Did I wake you? Were you napping?”

“Yeah. That old man Clarence Darrow wore me the hell out. Where are you? Here in the hotel?”

“No,” she said, and there was disappointment in her voice. “I’m still at Thalia’s. She’s not moving out to Pearl Harbor till tomorrow, so I’m staying with her, tonight.”

“Too bad—I could use the company. I seem to have this whole barn to myself.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I hear business at the Royal Hawaiian is terrible since the Crash.”

I sat up. “Listen, I’d like to talk to Thalia again—without C.D. and Leisure around. There’s hardly anybody at this damn joint—maybe you and she could come around for breakfast. I don’t think there’ll be too many gawkers.”

“Let me ask her,” Isabel said. She was gone for a minute or so, then came back: “Thalia would love to get away. What time?”

“How about nine? Just a second, let me look at this…” There was an information card on the nightstand with room service and other restaurant info. “We’ll meet at the Surf Porch. Just ask at the desk and they’ll shoo you in the right direction.”

“This sounds delightful, Nathan. See you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Back at ya.”

I rolled out of bed. I stretched, yawned loudly. I was hungry; maybe I’d put my pants on and go down and charge a great big fancy meal to my room. That was one way to stretch fifty bucks a week expenses.

Yanking the cord, I lifted the big window shade and let the night air roll in off the balcony. Then I wandered out there in my shorts and socks to drink in the night. The sky was purple and scattered with stars; the moon, full and almost golden, cast glimmering highlights on the ebony ocean. Diamond Head was a slumbering silhouette, barely discernible. I drew in the sea breeze, basked in the beauty of the breakers rolling in.

“Please excuse intrusion,” a quiet voice said.

I damn near fell off the balcony.

“Did not wish to disturb you.” He was seated in a wicker chair, to the left, back away from the ledge of the balcony, a skinny little Chinese guy in a white suit with a black bow tie, a Panama hat in his lap.

I stepped forward, fists balled. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”

He stood; he was no more than five foot. He bowed.

“Took liberty of waiting for you to wake up.”

His head had a skull-like appearance, accentuated by his high forehead and wispy, thinning graying hair. His nose was thinly hawkish, his mouth a wide narrow line over a spade-like jaw; but his most striking feature was his eyes: deeply socketed, bright and alert, and the right one had a nasty scar above and below it, the entire socket discolored, like an eye patch of flesh. Knife scar, I’d wager, and he was lucky he didn’t lose the eye.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Detective First Grade Chang Apana. Care to see badge?”

“No thanks,” I said, letting out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “It would
take
Charlie Chan to sneak in here and not wake me. Any special reason you dropped by unannounced?”

“Roundabout way often shortest path to correct destination.”

“Who said that? Confucius?”

He shook his head, no. “Derr Biggers.”

Whoever that was.

I asked, “You mind if I put on my pants?”

“By all means. You mind if I smoke?”

We sat on the balcony in wicker chairs. As we spoke, he chain-smoked. That wasn’t a very Charlie Chan-like thing to do; and, as I recalled, the fictional detective was roly-poly. But maybe Chang Apana and his storybook counterpart had other things in common.

“What are you doing here, Detective Apana?”

“You’re working with famous lawyer—Clarence Darrow. On Massie case.”

“That’s right. But I haven’t even started poking around yet. How did you know…?”

“Chief of police showed me paperwork giving you permission to carry weapon and investigate, here. You’re Chicago policeman?”

“That’s right. I took a leave of absence to help Mr. Darrow out. We’re old friends.”

A tiny smile tickled the line of a mouth. “You’re not old at all, Mr. Heller. I have been detective for thirty-seven years.”

That surprised me, but looking at the crevices on that skeletal mug, I could believe it.

“You still haven’t told me what brings you here, Detective Apana.”

“Please. Call me Apana, or Chang. I am here to offer aid and information to brother officer.”

“Well, then, why don’t you call me Nate, Chang. Why do you want to help me? Where do you stand on the Massie case, anyway?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Depends which case. Tommie Massie and his mother-in-law and sailors, law is clear. Man they kidnapped was killed.”

“It’s not quite that simple….”

“Not simple at all. Heavy cloud hangs over this island, Nate. Will we be stripped of self-government? Will dream of statehood burst like bubble? Outcome of trial will determine these things…and yet these things have nothing to do with law, or justice.”

“Where do you stand on the other case? The Ala Moana rape case?”

“I stand in embarrassment.”

“Why?”

“Because department I serve for thirty-seven years have disgraced self in committing many blunders. Example—Inspector McIntosh arrest five boys because they were involved in another ‘assault’ same night…. That assault was minor auto mishap and scuffle. Not rape. But McIntosh arrest them on this basis,
then
he build his case. This is same inspector who drives suspect’s car to scene of crime to examine tire tracks, and wipes out tracks in process.”

“Yeah, I read about that in the trial transcript. That does take the cake.”

“Cake taken by Thalia Massie when her memory makes remarkable improvement. Night she was attacked, she tell police she leave Ala Wai Inn between twelve-thirty and one
A.M
. Later, when Inspector McIntosh cannot make this work with suspects’ strong alibis, Mrs. Massie change time to eleven-thirty. Night she was attacked, she tell police she can’t identify rapists, too dark. Tell police also she didn’t see license plate number. Later, memory miraculously improve on all counts.”

“You think Kahahawai and the others are innocent?”

He shrugged. “Unlike Inspector Mclntosh, Chang Apana prefer making mind up after investigation complete. ‘Mind is like parachute, only function when open.’” He withdrew a card from his suit jacket pocket and handed it to me. “If you wish my aid, call me at headquarters, or at my home on Punchbowl Hill.”

“Why would you want to help the defense in this case?”

“Perhaps I only wish to help a brother officer from the great city of Chicago. Perhaps fame of Clarence Darrow has reached these shores. Clarence Darrow, who is defender of men regardless of shade of skin.”

“My understanding was, you weren’t directly involved in this case.”

The wide thin line of his mouth curved into a glorious smile. “No. Chang Apana nears retirement. He is grand old man of department. Sits at his desk and tells his stories—but he also hears stories. Stories of drunken Navy officer the night of rape picked up near Massie house with fly open. Stories of Mrs. Massie telling Navy officer not to worry, everything be all right. Stories of how the police had to fire gunshots at Mrs. Fortescue’s car before it pull over. Stories of Lt. Massie’s pride when body of Kahahawai is found in back of car…”

He stood.

“Should you wish to talk to officers who witnessed these events, Chang Apana can arrange. Should you wish to discover the truth, Chang Apana can open doors.”

I stood. “I just may take you up on that, Chang.”

He bowed again, and placed the Panama on his head; its turned-up brim seemed ridiculously wide, like an oversize soup bowl. A smile tickled the wide straight line that was his mouth.

“Welcome to Paradise,” Chang said, and went out as quietly as he must have come in.

The next morning, on the Surf Porch of the Royal Hawaiian, I sat at a wicker table, sipping pineapple juice, awaiting my guests for breakfast, enjoying the cooler-than-yesterday’s breeze. Off to the left, Diamond Head was a slumbering green and brown crocodile. Beyond a handful of palms watching, leaning, and a narrow band of white beach bereft of bathers, the shimmer of ocean was a gray-blue interrupted occasionally by the lazy roll of whitecaps. The overcast sky seemed more blue and white than gray, low-slung clouds hugging the horizon, making the gentle graduations of blue so subtle it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the sky began.

Just as the coolness and the overcast had nixed most beach activity this morning, the Surf Porch itself was lightly attended. Maybe a third of the canopied swinging chairs along the back wall were in use by the well-to-do few who were sharing this palatial hotel with a certain Chicago representative of the hoi polloi. I seemed to be the only one on the porch who wasn’t in white; in my brown suit, I felt like a poor relation hoping to worm into the will of a wealthy invalid uncle I was visiting at a very chic sanitarium.

“Excuse please,” the waitress said. A lovely Japanese girl in a colorful floral pattern kimono, she bore a pitcher of pineapple juice and wanted to know if I wanted more.

“No thanks,” I said. I didn’t really like that bitter stuff; I’d accepted the first glass just out of civility, not wanting to insult the Island beverage or anything. She was about to depart when I stopped her: “Say, you could bring me some coffee?”

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Black, honey,” I said, and grinned.

She smiled a little and floated off.

All the waitresses here wore kimonos—like the wenches who wore them, each garment was as lovely, delicate, and different as a snowflake; these little geishas were so attentive, it stopped just short of driving you batty. Maybe that was because the help at the Royal Hawaiian—Oriental and Polynesian, to a man (and woman)—seemed to outnumber the patrons.

I glanced back at the archway entry, to see if my guests were here; after a moment, as if I’d willed it, there they were, eyes searching for, and finding, me.

Waving them over, I admired all three women as they crossed the porch—Thalia Massie, pudgy but pretty in a navy blue frock with big white buttons, the lenses of her sunglasses like two big black buttons in counterpoint under the shade of the brim of her white-banded navy chapeau; Isabel, her face glowing in a hatless haze of blond hair, fetching in a white frock with red polka dots that lifted nicely around her knees as the breeze caught the wispy fabric, and which she only half-heartedly pushed down; and finally, a surprise visitor, Thalia’s Japanese maid, Beatrice, as slender and daintily pretty as any of the kimono girls serving us, but wearing a white short-sleeved blouse and ankle-length dark skirt, her jaunty white cuff-brim turban a pleasant contrast with her bobbed black hair, a small white clutch purse in one hand.

None of the guests, rocking in their porch chairs, enjoying the study in blues and grays before them, gave an inkling of reaction to the celebrity who had just entered, though a few of the males sneaked a peek at the three pretty girls.

I rose, gestured toward the three chairs—I’d only been expecting Thalia and Isabel, but this was a table for four, luckily—and Thalia held up a hand, stopping her two companions from sitting just yet. Not till she’d gotten something straight.

“We’ll be going to my new quarters at Pearl Harbor, from here,” Thalia said in her low husky near-monotone, “and my maid Beatrice is accompanying me. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her along, Mr. Heller. I believe in treating servants like people.”

“Damn white of ya,” I said, smiling at Beatrice, whose mouth didn’t return the smile, though her eyes did; and I gestured again, for all of them to sit, and, finally, they did.

The geisha brought my coffee, and filled Thalia and Isabel’s coffee cups; Beatrice had turned hers over. Then the kimono cutie stayed around to take our breakfast order. I went for the fluffy eggs with bacon while Isabel and Thalia decided to share a big fruit plate. The waitress seemed confused as to whether to take Beatrice’s order, and Beatrice wasn’t helping by sitting there as mute and expressionless as Diamond Head itself.

“Are you having anything?” I asked her.

“No thank you,” she said. “I’m just along.”

“You mean like a dog?”

This immediately made everybody uncomfortable, except me, of course.

“Well, if you expect me to feed you under the table,” I said, “forget about it. You don’t like coffee? Get her some, what? Juice? Tea?”

“Tea,” Beatrice said softly. Her eyes were smiling again.

“And why don’t you bring us a basket of goodies we can all share,” I suggested to the waitress. “You know, muffins and what-have-you.”

“Pineapple muffins?” the geisha asked.

“Anything
without
pineapple,” I said with a wince.

That seemed to amuse all the women, and I sipped my coffee and said, “I’m glad you girls could make it this morning.”

“I’m going to stop by the desk,” Isabel said, beaming, “and see about my suite.”

“I talked to C.D. this morning,” I said. “It’s all arranged. They have a key waiting for you.”

“Swell,” she said, hands folded, smile dimpling that sweet face. It was pretty clear I had a date tonight. A hot one.

“It’s lovely here,” Thalia commented, rather distantly, the black lenses of her sunglasses looking out on the blues and grays and whites of that vista whose horizon you had to work to make out. Wind whipped the arcs of her dark blonde hair.

“Would you like to wait till after breakfast?” I asked.

She turned the big black eyes of her glasses my way; the rest of her face held no more expression than they did. “Wait till after breakfast for what?”

“Well, I need to ask you some things. Didn’t Isabel mention the reason for my invitation?”

A single eyebrow arched above a black lens. “You and Mr. Darrow already questioned me, yesterday.”

I nodded. “And he’ll question you again, and again, as will Mr. Leisure. And they’ll have their agenda, and I have mine.”

“And what, Mr. Heller,” she asked crisply, “is yours?”

Isabel, the breeze making her headful of blonde curls seem to shimmer, frowned in concern and touched her cousin’s wrist. “Don’t be mad at Nate. He’s trying to help.”

“She’s right,” I said. “But I’m not a lawyer, I’m an investigator. And it’s my job to go over details, looking for the places where the prosecution can make hay.”

Thalia shifted in her wicker chair; the surf was whispering and her monotone barely rose above it. “I don’t understand. This trial isn’t about me. It’s about Tommie, and Mother…”

She’d said much the same thing to Darrow.

I sipped my coffee. “This case begins and ends with you, Thalia…may I call you Thalia? And please call me Nate, or Nathan, whichever you prefer.”

She said nothing; her baby face remained as blank as the black lenses. Isabel seemed uneasy. Beatrice had long ago disappeared into herself; she was just along.

Thalia took a deep breath. “Mr. Heller…Nate. Surely you can understand that I’m not anxious to go into court and tell this story again. I hope that’s not the road you and Mr. Darrow intend to go down.”

“Oh but it is. It’s the only way a jury can be made to understand what motivated your husband.”

She leaned forward; it was getting eerie, staring into those black circles. “Wasn’t the Ala Moana trial enough? You know, many women hesitate to report a case of assault because of the awful publicity and the ordeal of a trial. But I felt it was my duty to protect other women and girls….”

Isabel patted her cousin’s hand again. “You did the right thing, Thalo.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t bear to think that some other girl might have to go through what I did,” she said, “at the hands of those brutes. From a personal standpoint, the punishment of these creatures was secondary to just getting them off the street—only the ordeal of that trial didn’t accomplish that, did it?”

“My investigation may,” I said.

She cocked her head. “How do you mean?”

I shrugged. “If I can gather enough new evidence, they’ll be put away.”

Her laugh was throaty and humorless. “Oh, wonderful!
Another
trial, after this one! When will this end? No one who hasn’t undergone such an experience can possibly imagine the strain upon not just the
victim,
but their
family….
”

“Isn’t that why we’re here?” I suggested.

“I would imagine you’re here because of money,” she snapped.

“Thalo!” Isabel said.

“I know,” she said resignedly, and sighed. “I know. Your Nate is only trying to help. Well, if going to court again, and testifying as to the details of that terrible night, will help my family…and save other girls from similar horrifying experiences…then I feel the end will justify the means.”

I might have pointed out that the end justifying the means was the kind of thinking that got her hubby and mumsy in such hot water; but since she seemed to have just talked herself into cooperating with me, I let it pass.

“Good,” I said. “Now—I was up late last night…” I took out my notebook, thumbing to the right page. “…going over the court transcripts and various statements you made…. Please understand that I’m only asking questions that the prosecution is likely to bring up.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Heller.” She forced a smile. “Nate.”

“Normally,” I said, “a witness’s recollections decrease geometrically with the passage of time. But your memory, about this unfortunate event, seems only to improve.”

Her mouth twitched, as if it were trying to decide whether to frown or smile; it did neither. “My recollection of the ‘unfortunate event’ is all too clear, I’m afraid. I suppose you’re referring to the statements I made that night, or rather in the early morning hours that followed….”

“Yes,” I said. “You were questioned by an Inspector Jardine, also a cop named Furtado, and of course Inspector Mclntosh, within hours of the assault. And several other cops, as well. You even spoke to the nurse at the emergency hospital, a Nurse Fawcett….”

“That’s right. What of it?”

“Well, you told these various cops, and Nurse Fawcett, that you couldn’t identify your assailants. That it was too dark. But you thought that maybe you could identify them by voice.”

Thalia said nothing; her Kewpie doll mouth was pursed as if to blow me a kiss. Somehow I didn’t think she had that in mind.

“Yet now your recollections include physical descriptions of the assailants, down to the clothes they were wearing.”

“I’m telling the truth, Mr. Heller. As I recall it now.”

“Make it Nate.” I took another sip of the coffee; it was a strong, bitter brew. “You also said, initially, that you were convinced the boys were Hawaiian, as opposed to Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, or whatever. You said you recognized the way they spoke as Hawaiian.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “They
were
all colored, weren’t they?”

“But only Kahahawai and Ahakuelo were Hawaiian, and two of the boys were Japanese and the last one Chinese.”

Another throaty laugh. “And you can tell the difference?”

“In Chicago we know the difference between a Jap and a Chinaman, sure.”

I was watching Beatrice out of the corner of an eye, and she didn’t flinch at my racial crudity.

“Is that right?” Thalia said. “Does that hold true even when you’re being raped?”

Isabel looked very uncomfortable. She clearly didn’t like the way this was going.

I leaned in. “Thalia—Mrs. Massie—I’m playing a sort of devil’s advocate here, okay? Looking for the weak spots that the prosecution can kill us with. If you have any explanations besides knee-jerk defensive smartass remarks, I’d appreciate hearing them.”

Now Isabel leaned in—frowning. “Nate—that’s a little forward, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t go to finishing school,” I said. “I went to school on the West Side of Chicago where first graders carry knives and pistols. So you’ll have to pardon my lack of social graces…but when you’re in a jam, I’m the kind of roughneck you want to have around. And, Mrs. Massie—Thalia—you’re in a hell of a jam, or anyway, your husband and mother are. They can do twenty to life on this rap.”

There was silence—silence but for the chirping of caged birds out in the nearby lobby, and the gentle but ceaseless surge of the surf on the shore.

Thalia Massie, the black lenses of her glasses fixed upon me, said, “Ask your questions.”

I sighed; flipped a notebook page.

“In the hours after the rape,” I said, “you went through your story six times, and you consistently said you hadn’t been able to make out the license plate number of the car. You said as much to four different police investigators, and a doctor and a nurse.”

She shrugged.

“Then,” I said, “in Inspector Mcintosh’s office at police headquarters, on your seventh pass at the story, it suddenly came to you.”

“Actually,” she said, chin lifted, “I got it wrong by one number.”

“Horace Ida’s car was 58-895, you said it was 58-805. Close enough. Missing one number makes it more believable, somehow. But there are those who say you may have heard that number in the examining room at Queens Hospital.”

“Not true.”

My eyebrows went up. “A police car with its radio on, full blast, was parked right outside the windows of the examining room. An officer testified that he heard an alarm for car 58-895, in possible connection with your assault, broadcast three times.”

“I never heard it.”

I sat forward. “You do realize that the only reason that car was really being sought was its involvement in a minor accident and scuffle earlier that evening, which had also been classified an assault?”

“I’m aware of that, now.”

“You also said, on the night of the assault, that you thought the car you’d been pulled into was an old Ford or Dodge or maybe Chevrolet touring car, with a canvas top, an old ripped rag top that made a flapping noise as they drove you along?”