Билл Пронзини - The Paradise Affair

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.

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 stellar 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.”