The White Ghost (8 page)

“Did any of them hold a grudge against Daniel? Maybe he slipped up and got some villagers killed?”

“Not that I've heard,” Jack said. “He comes from Malaita Island. Not too many connections to the tribes in this area. You're thinking a blood feud?”

“Too soon to tell,” I said. “Can you show us where you found the body?”

“Sure. I'll take you there. Toss me those shoes, Kaz.” We waited while Jack pulled on the white canvas deck shoes over his gauze-encased feet, the laces tied loosely. I grabbed his cane and handed it to him. It was a handsome dark wood, with artistic carvings at the top.

“What do the carvings mean?” I asked as he limped out of the hut, leading us downhill toward the water.

“Nothing,” he said. “You'll find all sorts of stuff for sale down by the harbor. Grass skirts, canes, and all sorts of carvings. But it's meaningless. Literally.”

“What do you mean?” Kaz asked, offering a hand to steady Jack as he took uneven steps on the path. Jack shook it off, an irritated look on his face. A Kennedy didn't need help. His gait improved as we walked. Maybe he was shaking off the stiffness, or maybe ignoring the pain. Hard to tell with that guy.

“GIs and sailors saw grass skirts in Hawaii when they shipped in,” he said. “So they expected to see them everywhere. When they came through these islands, they wanted souvenirs like they found in Hawaii. The natives were too polite to tell them they never heard of a skirt made out of grass. But they were smart enough to see an opportunity. These canes are another good example. Every sailor around here will tell you they got theirs from a village chief. There aren't that many villages in the Solomons.”

“The islanders must enjoy the newfound wealth,” Kaz said.

“Yes,” Jack answered, leading us through the bushes on a narrow track. “But remember, the white settlers and plantation people here call themselves islanders. The Melanesians are natives. The English and Australians are touchy about the distinction. Besides, the islanders don't like all the money the natives are making, whether from souvenirs or working for the navy. They say it'll be hard to get them back to work on the coconut plantations after the war. Here we are.” We stepped out onto a small stretch of beach, soft sand about twenty feet wide. Crescent-shaped, the beach fronted a small lagoon. Waves lapped against coral-encrusted rocks. Peaceful and quiet. The perfect secluded spot for a bit of mayhem.

“He was over there,” Jack said. “Close to where the trail empties out onto the beach.”

“Show me exactly,” I said. “Where was his head?”

“He was on his stomach,” Jack said. He drew an outline in the sand with his cane. Legs pointing toward the water. “His head was bloody, but it was dried. I don't know about these things, but it seemed he'd been dead a while.”

“What time did you find him?” Kaz asked.

“A little after seven o'clock,” Jack said. “I'd taken a walk to get some strength back in my legs.”

“With those cuts?” I said. “They must have been pretty bad last week. They're still healing.”

“A few scratches from the coral,” he said with a shrug. “No big deal.”

“Still, it must have been hard,” I said. “You did okay today, but you weren't exactly limber.”

“You're right. It wasn't as easy last week,” Jack said bitterly. He wouldn't have liked being incapacitated then, much less admitting to it now.

“But you had your cane, right? Or did your friend just give it to you?”

“No. He brought it over the first day I was here,” Jack said. “What's your point?”

“I don't know,” I said, studying the cane as Kennedy put weight on it. “I guess I wonder why you chose this spot.”

“I like the view,” Jack said impatiently. “Listen, Billy, anyone could have followed Daniel down here and surprised him.”

“Sure,” I said, taking the cane from his hand. “But how many of them came prepared with a blunt object?” I slammed the round end of the cane into the palm of my hand.

It packed a wallop.

Chapter Eleven

Jack grabbed the
cane out of my hand, told me to go to hell, and stalked off, waving the cane like a saber at a clump of tall grass, beheading it neatly. I'd half expected him to swing at me, but he was too smart to incriminate himself, so the vegetation suffered in my place.

“Interesting fellow, your friend Jack,” Kaz said as we watched him disappear into the bushes.

“I never claimed he was my pal,” I said, walking along the water's edge, trying to imagine what had brought Daniel Tamana to this spot. I walked to where Jack had drawn the outline of Daniel's feet. “It would help to know which side of his head he was hit on.”

“Why?” Kaz asked.

“It might tell us if he was trying to get away, or was taken by surprise,” I said. “He was close to the path, and it seems like he was facing away from the water. Had he started to leave? Run? Or did someone take him by surprise?”

“I see,” Kaz said. “If he were hit from behind, he wasn't taken by surprise since his assailant would have been in the open, close to the water.”

“Yeah,” I said, kneeling and studying the surface of the beach as if it might yield a clue after all this time. “Not that it matters much; it won't tell us if he knew his killer. Too bad there wasn't a real police report or a morgue with the body on ice.”

“We're a long way from anything so organized,” Kaz said. “I wonder what did happen to the body.”

“Let's ask Jacob Vouza,” I said. He'd told us he was headed to Hugh Sexton's place, where the Coastwatchers had gathered. I figured it wouldn't be hard to find.

“Good idea,” Kaz said. “While we walk, you can tell me about your history with Jack Kennedy. What happened back in Boston?”

“What did you think of Jack's reaction to seeing me this morning?” I asked as we took the trail to the main road by the hospital.

“Pleased to see you, I'd say. Fairly normal for running into an old friend. Or acquaintance,” Kaz said.

“Right. It was like nothing had happened, nothing of importance,” I said, feeling the anger rise in my throat. “Except that the last time I had anything to do with him, he nearly cost me my job.”

“Why?” Kaz asked.

“Because it was convenient for him, and I was handy,” I said. “Which is all that matters to Jack. But that's enough ancient history for today.” Being with Jack reminded me of what a chump I'd been, how I'd assumed a friendship that was never real, never on an equal footing. We got into the jeep and drove in silence down the winding narrow lane, following the directions we'd been given to Sexton's place. Palm trees arched overhead, shielding us from the midday sun. It was already hot, and our khaki shirts were damp with sweat. North Africa had been hot, but this was a different kind of heat: thick, humid, cloying. And this was Tulagi, the paradise of the Solomon Islands.

I wanted to find Daniel Tamana's killer and get the hell out of here, away from the sweltering heat and Jack Kennedy. We drove away from the hospital, navigating around a couple of trucks from a signals company stringing communications wire through the palm trees. Tulagi probably never had a single telephone before the war. Now it had all the trappings of civilization: bombs, Spam, and telephone calls.

“There,” Kaz said as we approached a large house with a wide verandah where Jacob Vouza stood talking with a man wearing an Australian slouch hat. The building sat on a cleared hillside alongside a smaller house on the right. Across the road on the water side, a weather-beaten dock jutted out into the clear water, where an even more weathered boat bobbed gently on the waves. It had one blackened funnel, a broken window in the pilot house, and peeling white paint down to the waterline. Two dugout canoes were beached nearby.

I pulled the jeep off the road and we walked up the steps—coconut logs set in the hill—to the house.

“Hao Nao, Jacob!” Kaz said. Jacob smiled and waved us onto the verandah.

“This is Captain Sexton,” Jacob said, introducing us to the wiry, tall fellow at his elbow.

“Pleased to meet you,” Sexton said, shaking hands. His blond hair was bleached nearly white by the sun, or perhaps worry. Coastwatching was not for the faint of heart. His face was deeply tanned and crow's feet radiated from the corners of his eyes. “You've come to find out who killed Daniel, I hear.” Sexton spoke with an upper-class English accent and wore an easy grin. The dark bags under his eyes hinted at something far deeper.

“We'll do our best,” I said.

“Daniel deserves no less,” he said. “If there's anything I can do to help, let me know.”

“We'd like to hear more about Daniel,” Kaz said. “From both of you. What he was like, his work, his friends.”

“Let's go inside,” Sexton said. “I'll show you.”

The main room held a large table strewn with maps and charts. Sexton cleared off the top layer, revealing a dog-eared map with Guadalcanal at one end and Bougainville at the other.

“This is my area of operations,” Sexton began. “As you can see, Guadalcanal and Malaita anchor the Solomons to the southeast. The island chain runs to the northwest, where Bougainville, the largest landmass, ends it. Beyond is New Georgia and New Ireland, both firmly in Jap hands.”

“This is the Slot,” Jacob said, tapping his finger on the channel between the central Solomon Islands. “Jap ships come at night, planes by day.”

“It's our job to maintain posts on the Japanese-held islands and radio in reports of ships and aircraft,” Sexton said. “When the battle for Guadalcanal was being fought, it was about the only advantage we had.”

“Shoot down many fella Japan Kawanishi,” Jacob said.

“Do they still come down this far?” I asked.

“Not usually,” Sexton said. “But as you saw, we'll get the occasional raid. The whole show has moved up the Slot. We've recently taken Rendova, so the action is around New Georgia now.” He tapped his finger on a clump of islands at the center of the Solomons. “That's why we're here. Reorganizing and moving new teams up. We still have observation posts on nearly every island, but the main focus is the advance up the Slot.”

“Where was Daniel stationed?” Kaz asked.

“Choiseul. Big island,” Jacob said.

“Mount Vasau,” Sexton said. “Excellent observation point. Unfortunately an obvious one, so Daniel and Dickie Miller were constantly on the run.”

“Miller?” I asked.

“He worked for Burns Philp before the war,” Sexton said. “One of their plantation managers. He escaped Bougainville and joined our group when the Japs invaded.”

“He knew Daniel well?” Kaz said.

“They in bush together one year,” Jacob said. “But he gone Austrelia. Got pekpek blut bad.”

“Pekpek?” Kaz asked.

“Dysentery,” Sexton explained. “We evacuated them both when we heard how sick Dickie was. It's fairly common, but Dickie was very ill, nearly died. We sent in a fresh team when we got the two of them out.”

“How did Daniel come to join the Coastwatchers?” I asked.

“He work on plantesen on Pavau,” Jacob said, tracing a line on the map to an island north of Choiseul. “Japan man come, Pavau man kill one fella Japan. Japan kill many fella Pavau. Daniel escape, takim boat to Choiseul. He help nuns escape too, bringim to Tulagi.”

“That's when he volunteered,” Sexton said. “He spoke English very well and was adept with the radio. He was very good.”

“Did he and Dickie Miller get along?” I asked.

“Like barata,” Jacob said. “Faetem lot, but strong together.”

“Like brothers,” I said.

“Yes,” Sexton added. “When two people spend that much time together in the bush, there's bound to be arguments. But Daniel didn't leave Dickie's side until he got on a transport at Henderson Field.”

“When was that exactly?” I asked.

“The day before he was killed,” Sexton said. “He came over here, but didn't stay long. He said he had to see a relative from Malaita. He was due a few days' rest, so that wasn't a problem.”

“Do either of you have any idea why he would have gone down to that beach?” Kaz asked.

“No,” Jacob said. “I come over later in the day, weitim here. No Daniel.”

“We were surprised,” Sexton said. “We'd told Daniel that Jacob would be here to meet him. They hadn't seen each other in two years.”

“Did anyone see him after he returned from his visit?” I asked. The two men shook their heads.

“The only man to see Daniel after that was Jack Kennedy,” Sexton said. “Not counting the fellow who killed him, of course.” At the mention of Jack's name, Jacob's eyes narrowed as he looked away, gazing out over the water.

“Where is everyone, anyway?” I asked. “I thought you were having a pow-wow.”

“Each team is being briefed on the new teleradio sets over at the naval base, courtesy of your signals section,” Sexton said. “They'll be back this evening. Every Coastwatcher has to be thoroughly versed in radio repair and maintenance. It is a matter of life or death.”

“Is that the new radio?” Kaz asked. A large transmitter and receiver were set up on a table.

“Yes, the Teleradio 3BZ,” Sexton said. “Has a range of four hundred miles.”

“Plenty heavy,” Jacob said. “Fourteen fella to carry.”

“Fourteen?” I said. “Why so many?”

“You've got the transmitter and receiver,” Sexton said. “Plus the microphone, headset, and spare parts. Then a gasoline generator to run the thing, not to mention the fuel itself. Batteries for when the fuel runs out. Fourteen fella, just like Jacob said.”

“It must be very difficult,” Kaz said with typical English understatement. “Is four hundred miles a sufficient range?”

“No, especially if we sight aircraft coming in from Rabaul. So we relay messages from one post to another, until they're received by the signals unit on Guadalcanal. That's why it's vital we have teams on every island, and that the teleradios remain operational. It's not easy when the men are constantly on the move and staying off the trails to avoid Japanese patrols,” Sexton said. “And of course, the best observation point is always on the highest ground.”

“I had no idea,” I said.

“Good,” Sexton said. “We can't brag about our work. The less the Japanese know about us, the better.”

“They always lukluk,” Jacob said. “Come to every island. Ask where radio? Kill the people if they no tell.”

“Do they tell?” Kaz asked.

Jacob shrugged.

“Only once in a great while,” Sexton said. “It's usually someone from another island who has no ties to the local families. The Japs might have had better luck when they first came if they didn't destroy gardens and shoot people indiscriminately. Now they're thoroughly hated. If they send a small patrol to an island, they're often never heard from again.”

“Daniel was from Malaita,” I said. “But he'd been on Pavau and then Choiseul. Could he have gotten involved in a dispute with the local natives?”

“Who then followed him to Tulagi?” Sexton said. “Not likely. If there was a dispute on Choiseul, it would have been settled there.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm trying to get a sense of where to begin. We usually get a chance to study the crime scene and view the body. We
don't even know where Daniel was struck.”

“On head. You want lukim?” Jacob said.

“I thought the body would have been buried by now,” I said. “Especially in this climate.”

“Yes,” Jacob said. “Body buried. But you can lukim Daniel's head. I take you.”

“Take us to Daniel's head?” Kaz said.

“Yes,” Jacob said, as if explaining the obvious to a slow learner. “Head about ready now.”