The Betrayers (3 page)

The cheerful boys in blue-and-white sport shirts who unloaded my gear from the taxi looked as if they’d just stepped off the nearest surfboard, as did the stocky brown Hawaiian gent behind the desk who signed me in, gave me the compass bearings of the beach, bar, and dining room, and then turned to shuffle through some mail he produced from a pigeonhole behind him.

“Ah, here we are,” he said, handing me an airmail letter. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Helm.
Aloha, as we say here in Hawaii.”

I said, “I thought aloha meant goodbye.”

He grinned. “It means hello or goodbye, or just about anything else you like, as long as it’s friendly, Mr. Helm. It is a very useful word.”

He passed the key to the bellboy. Following the kid upstairs—apparently I was to be domiciled in the main building—I glanced warily at the envelope I’d been given. I’m not used to getting much private mail. In the business, we don’t accumulate many letter-writing friends. We don’t even run up many bills under our own names, and I’d arranged to have mine taken care of.

Generally, mail means trouble in code or cipher, but this letter didn’t seem to come from an official source. At least I knew of no potential contact masquerading as a firm of San Francisco attorneys. I stuffed it into my pocket as the boy unlocked the door and let me into my room, actually a good-sized suite. Making my arrangements at the last minute, I’d had to take what was available regardless of expense—not a serious financial hardship since, as it turned out, Uncle Sam would be paying the bills.

It was an impressive layout consisting of a bathroom, a small dressing room, and a big bedroom with twin beds, connecting with a smaller sitting room that was actually a screened sunporch with a view of the gardens below. “Lanai” was the local word for this breezy architectural feature, the bellboy informed me. There was a bouquet of unreal-looking, waxy, bright-red flowers on the lanai table, courtesy of the management. Everything looked
pleasantly luxurious without being shriekingly new or modern. I thought that with a little effort I might manage to be comfortable here, as long as the Monk let me.

I tipped the bellboy, and when the door had closed behind him I pulled off my jacket and tie, got a flask from my suitcase, found ice and glasses ready on the dresser, and made myself a drink so as not to lose the pleasant edge of what I’d been served on the plane. Crossing the Pacific by air is a rather alcoholic experience unless you’re strong enough to fight off the pretty stewardesses, who outnumber you two or three to one. I’m not quite that strong.

I sat down on the edge of the bed to read my letter. It was from a lawyer named Wilson D. Pratt, of the firm of Prescott, Haverford, and Pratt.

My dear Mr. Helm:

As executors of the estate of the late Philip Grant Marner, we have been advised of the tragic death in France of Mrs. Helm, the former Winifred Philippa Marner who, as you are doubtless aware, was one of the two principal legatees under Mr. Marner’s will. Please accept our sincere condolences.

We would appreciate your contacting us at your earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

W. D. Pratt

I took a drink from my glass, but it didn’t help much. The message still made no sense to me. What confused me, I guess, was the fact that I’d used the matrimonial cover several times in my career as an agent; I’d even had a real wife once. Her maiden name had not been Marner, and we’d been divorced years ago, but it took a second reading of the letter with its reference to France before I realized that this communication did not refer to her, but to my latest pseudo-bride, the one I’d known by the code name Claire.

Winifred Philippa Marner, I thought. Philippa, for God’s sake! No wonder she’d never told me her real name, although she’d used the Winifred in playing her honeymoon role. And now some San Francisco legal brains wanted to make me rich, maybe, just because we’d signed a few European hotel registers as man and wife. I thought this was a careless assumption for trained lawyers to make, but then, maybe the estate involved didn’t amount to enough to make them careful.

If it did, I reflected, it was a pity they hadn’t picked on a man with more larceny in his soul, a man who’d have given them a run for their money—well, for Mr. Philip Grant Marner’s money. All kinds of interesting possibilities went through my mind. A little fraud wouldn’t be difficult for a man with my training and experience.

I sighed regretfully and, being fundamentally honest, at least where money is concerned, I stuck the letter into a hotel envelope with a note addressed to Mac, through channels, asking him to get these people off my neck.
Then I sat for a moment debating with myself whether or not, if the letter were intercepted, this action would seem consistent with my cover as an agent being disciplined for shooting off his mouth irresponsibly.

I decided that such an agent would indeed be careful to appear scrupulously honest, and I went downstairs to buy an airmail stamp and find a mailbox. When I got back to my room, the phone was ringing. I picked it up. There was no sound for a moment except the sound of the wires. Then I heard a man groan with sudden, unbearable pain.

“Hello,” I said. “Hello, who’s there?”

A rich baritone voice I recognized from years ago said, “Helm? Your friend Naguki wants to speak to you… Speak to the man, Bernard!”

I heard another quick gasp of pain. I said irritably, “Go peddle your practical jokes somewhere else, wise guy. I don’t know anybody named Naguki. Goodbye!”

I slammed down the receiver. The flask of bourbon was still standing on the dresser. It seemed like a good idea, and then it didn’t. I mean, I like a drink when I want to relax, but these were hardly the circumstances for quiet relaxation. The phone rang again, as I’d expected it to. I gave it a little time to jangle before I picked it up.

“Eric?” It was the same voice.

I said, “All right, funny fellow, now tell me who you are and where you got hold of
that
name.”

“This is Monk, Eric. Remember the Monk? Remember Hofbaden?”

I said, “For God’s sake! Good old Monk! I thought
you’d bit yourself and died of rabies years ago. What the hell are you doing on this Pacific rock?”

“Watching you, Eric. Orders. You’ve been a bad boy, it seems. You always did talk too much.”

I said, “Well, I’ll tell you, I thought I was in a democracy, Monk. Free speech and all that jazz. My mistake. I won’t make it again, so don’t get your hopes up.” He didn’t speak, and after a moment I went on, “So Washington’s ordered you to keep an eye on me? Come to think of it, I did notice an incompetent jerk in a motorized roller skate tailing me from the airport. So what else is new?”

“You’re sure you don’t know anybody named Naguki, Eric?”

Obviously I didn’t know anybody named Naguki. I couldn’t know anybody named Naguki. If I did know somebody named Naguki—if I had any interest whatever in a man by that name—my flimsy cover story was destroyed, and I was no longer just a suspended agent killing time in Hawaii. This was, of course, exactly what Monk was trying to force me to admit.

I said, “Go to hell. I don’t know anybody in Honolulu but that ex-Olympic character, Duke Kahanamoku—at least I saw his picture once, somewhere. Don’t try to frame anything on me, amigo. All I did was talk out of turn. Don’t try to build it into something big. I’ll stand for the surveillance bit because you’re doing it under orders, but don’t dream up any frills of your own, like persuading some lousy little enemy errand boy to swear I sold him state secrets. I know you, Monk, and you know me, so don’t try
it. Don’t even think it. Now, what’s this Naguki routine?”

“If you don’t know him, what do you care?”

I said, “For Christ’s sake, if you’ve got something to say, say it. If you don’t, get off the damn line and let me go to bed. It’s been a long day and airplanes make me tired.”

Monk’s voice said heavily, “If you don’t know Naguki, I guess you don’t mind if we kill him a little.”

I said, “Hell, draw and quarter him if you like. He’s all yours. I give you Naguki, whoever he may be. No charge. Now can I go to sleep?”

Monk said nothing. He just cut the connection. I replaced the phone gently in its cradle and looked at myself in the mirror of the dresser across the room, but that was a mistake. The guy in the glass looked like a cold-blooded sonofabitch, the kind of callous louse who’d sacrifice a man’s life without turning a hair. I told myself that nothing I could have said would have helped Naguki once the Monk decided to grab him. It was probably the truth but it didn’t make me feel any better.

I went to bed. After a while I even went to sleep, to awaken suddenly at the sound of somebody nearby crying out a shrill warning. I went into the standard surprised-in-bed routine without stopping to think—if you think about it you often don’t survive to do it—and wound up on the rug six feet away, gun in hand, facing in the direction from which the noise had come. I was surprised to discover that it was morning. There was nobody in sight.

I had closed the lanai shutters before turning in, since I don’t like sleeping in full view of the outdoors. Why make
it easy for a guy with a rifle and telescopic sight? Nothing moved, inside or out. Nobody spoke or screamed. I rose cautiously and backed away and inspected the bathroom and dressing room. Having made sure no danger lurked behind me, I returned to the bedroom and stood there, frowning. Everything was very quiet; then the sharp, hysterical cry that had awakened me came again.

I strode across the porch and yanked back the shutters and looked out from my second-story vantage at a couple of birds about the size of starlings on the shingled roof of the bungalow across the way. They were having a hell of an argument. I grimaced, wondering if perhaps I really needed the vacation I wasn’t going to get. I went back to the bedroom dresser and leafed through a pamphlet I’d brought with me and identified the little feathered squabblers as mynah birds. While I was at it, waiting for my circulatory and nervous systems to return to normal, I looked up the unlikely-looking red flower on the table: anthurium.

My watch read barely six-thirty, local time, but I didn’t feel sleepy enough to get back into bed. Instead I shed my pajamas, dug out swim trunks and sandals, put them on, and grabbed a towel. When I got down to the beach, I had it all to myself. A large outrigger canoe with the hotel’s name on it was drawn up on the sand. The water was blue and clear. The slow waves rolling up to the shore didn’t look very big, but half a mile out an occasional one would break into white foam as it stumbled over a reef or shelf out there.

Leaving my sandals and towel on the stone sea wall,
I walked out onto the sand and looked around. It was my first real view of Waikiki Beach. If I’d had any childish illusions about the place, they’d have died right there. If you’re still dreaming of a long, curving strip of white sand shaded by tall tropical palm trees, forget it. There are a few palms, to be sure, but what you’ll find is a long, curving strip of white sand shaded mainly by tall luxury hotels. Even the frowning mass of Diamond Head, the great rock guarding the eastern end of the Bay, hasn’t escaped the promoters. Right at the tip, like pimples on Oahu’s aristocratic nose, are several monstrous complexes of glass and concrete at least a dozen stories high.

Well, I have no doubt that some financial genius has great plans for filling in the Grand Canyon to make a nice level spot for a tourist resort. The fact that the tourists will then have no view left to look at has been taken into consideration: there’ll be a swell eighteen-hole golf course instead.

I guess I was a little disappointed, after all. I told myself, what the hell, I’d known I wasn’t coming to a desert island, why should I be surprised that people had built houses on it? I waded into the water, a little chilly at that hour of the morning, and swam out a distance but discovered that I could still touch bottom. Out here, however, it was no longer sand but weeds and coral, nothing you’d care to walk around on barefoot. Not knowing what kind of tropical sea monsters might lurk in the crevices, I paddled hastily back to where I could see what I was stepping on.

After getting to my feet in the shallows, I started to wade shoreward and stopped abruptly. A slender, sunburned, blonde girl in a scanty white bikini was just coming down to the beach, balancing a red-and-white surfboard on her head. Considering that the board was eight or ten feet long, a couple of feet wide, and probably weighed well over thirty pounds, this was quite a sight in itself, but it wasn’t the athletic trick that had startled me. For a moment I’d thought there was something familiar about the approaching figure. I mean, let’s face it, Claire had worn a white bikini on occasion.

It wasn’t Claire, of course. Claire was dead half a world away, and this was a taller girl with a rangier build. She was just as brown as the girl I’d known in Europe, but her streaky blonde hair was darker—more like light brown hair bleached by the sun—and longer, reaching well down her shoulders. Claire’s had been quite short, just a light silvery cap.

As she passed me, the strange girl gave me an impersonal little smile from under the board: just a friendly early riser greeting a kindred spirit. She stopped beyond me to launch her gaudy plank, and straightened up to give a hitch to the bottom of her bikini, or perhaps just to reassure herself that she hadn’t misplaced the essential scrap of cloth somewhere. She posed there briefly, breathing the fresh morning air, slowly running her fingers through her uncovered hair, pushing it back from her face.

On the beach, you can tell a lot about a girl by the way
she treats her hair. If she comes down to the shore all ratted and lacquered and paddles around in shallow water like a stiff-necked turtle, obviously thinking of nothing but keeping the precious stuff dry, you might as well forget about her. You aren’t man enough to get her mind off her coiffure. Nobody is.

If she takes the bathing-cap route and really swims, there’s hope for her, but she’s either incurably optimistic or not very bright, since the cap hasn’t been invented yet that’ll keep all water out. But if she just dives in and lets her hairdo wash where it will, you’d better grab her quick before some smart guy beats you to her. She may look a little stringy come evening, but she’ll probably be worth it. At least she knows there are more important things in the world than hair.