The Paradise Affair Read online

  “That isn’t likely to happen. It was last year that the Japanese dispatched warships, and only for a short time. The threat hasn’t materialized.”

  Quincannon said gloomily, “It still might if this ill-advised war with Spain drags on.”

  “The belief in Washington is that the war will end quickly. It has been only three weeks since the president signed the congressional resolution authorizing use of force to drive the Spanish out of Cuba.”

  “War with Spain over the independence of a Caribbean island, and all because of a naval ship that may not have been sunk by sabotage as claimed. ‘Remember the Maine!’ Bah.”

  “If not a consultation with the police,” Sabina said doggedly, “then why not engage the services of a member of our profession? Honolulu is a city of some size; there must be at least one private investigative agency. The Pinkertons would know.”

  Quincannon gave his mutilated ear another tug. “Do you know what a round-trip ticket to Honolulu costs? The confiscatory sum of one hundred and fifty dollars. On top of which add the price of lodging, transportation rentals, and an added professional fee among other expenses. No, my dear, it just won’t do. Our client would never sanction such a trip.”

  “He might given the circumstances,” Sabina said. “R. W. Anderson is a wealthy and an angry man, as you well know. The return of some or all of his stocks and bonds and the ruin of those two thieves is vital to him. You’ve had his financial support for two weeks now. Would you consider making the trip if he agreed to finance it?”

  “Why are you so keen on the prospect of my going?” he said. “If I didn’t know better I might think you want to be rid of me.”

  “Stuff and nonsense. I’m only thinking of your welfare. I know how you hate to mark an investigation unresolved and I couldn’t bear to see you mired in the doldrums for the Lord knows how long…”

  Abruptly Sabina grew silent, her expression becoming oddly introspective. His gaze lingered on her; she was never more attractive to him than when she was in repose. On another day, in a better frame of mind, he would have been content to sit and admire her fine cameo features, her bright blue eyes and raven-black hair, her engaging smile, and count himself the luckiest of men to have her as his bride of six months. But not on this day. After a time her silence, broken only by the pattering of raindrops on the office roof and windows, became a trifle bemusing.

  Quincannon tapped the bowl of his briar on the desktop to break her reverie. When he had her attention he asked, “What is it you’re thinking so hard about?”

  “An idea, John. A rather wonderful idea.”

  “Yes? And that is?”

  “Why don’t we both travel to Honolulu?”

  Quincannon’s whiskers bristled like those on a startled dog. He stared at her. “Surely you’re joking.”

  “Not at all. Despite the war, there have been no warnings against travel to the Islands. There is no real danger to the citizenry or to visitors; the troops being sent to protect Pearl Harbor will see to that. We have no pressing business on the docket other than the Anderson investigation, and I can help you track down Vereen and Nagle—”

  “Anderson would never agree to paying passage for both of us.”

  “No, nor should he be asked to,” Sabina said. “Our bank balance is substantial, as you well know. We can certainly afford to pay for my passage and expenses.”

  He had a brief vision of hard-earned greenbacks vanishing in puffs of smoke. “And what would you do when your assistance was not needed?”

  “The same things you can do once the swindlers have been found,” Sabina said. “Explore Honolulu and Oahu, sample exotic foods, lounge on a bathing beach … become indolent lotus-eaters for a change. The weather is warm in the Islands, John, not cold and dreary as it has been and may well continue to be here.”

  “No,” he said, “it’s a daft notion.”

  “Daft? Why is it daft?”

  “Fourteen days at sea round trip. Another week or more on the hunt, and with no guarantee of success. Think of the business we’d lose if we closed the agency for three weeks to a month.”

  “Chances are we wouldn’t lose much at all. And we would not have to close the agency. I’m sure Elizabeth Petrie would be willing to take temporary charge, as she has in the past when we’ve both been away, and she and our part-time operatives could handle most new investigations or their preliminaries.” Then, after a pause, she said pointedly, “Besides, your undercover job at the Monarch Mine last fall might well have lasted a month and you had no qualms about accepting that. Or have you forgotten?”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Quincannon said. “But that was a lucrative business decision, and the assignment was completed in less than three weeks.”

  “It still meant a postponement of our wedding.”

  “I’ve apologized for that any number of times, my dear. But it has nothing to do with this fanciful notion of yours—”

  “Fanciful? We have done nothing but labor long hours since November, and we have been apart far too much of the time. We deserve a vacation, even if it is a working one. Yes, and a second honeymoon, too.”

  “What was wrong with our first honeymoon?”

  “Not a thing,” she said. “It was lovely. But you must admit it was also quite brief, and the Valley of the Moon a place we had been to before. A pair of seven-day ocean voyages and a week on a tropical island would be a unique and memorable experience, one that would do us both a world of good.”

  Quincannon said stubbornly, “No, it’s out of the question.”

  “Not even if Mr. Anderson should agree to pay your passage?”

  “Not in any case.”

  “Is that your final word?”

  “It is. Neither of us is going to Hawaii.”

  * * *

  His final word? Hah. He should have known better.

  It took Sabina less than a day to change his mind.

  She did not resort to pleading or cajoling to have her way; her woman’s wiles were too finely honed for that sort of ploy. Subtlety and finesse were her weapons. Without informing him beforehand, she sent a wire to R. W. Anderson and received by return wire confirmation of the investor’s willingness to finance his portion of an Island trip. She consulted with the local Pinkerton office and obtained the name of a reputable Honolulu private investigator, a former police constable named George Fenner. She also obtained Elizabeth Petrie’s promise to take charge of the agency in the event of their absence.

  Thus armed, Sabina then commenced a forceful promotional campaign. If he didn’t seize the opportunity to close out his pursuit of Lonesome Jack Vereen and Nevada Ned and maintain his unblemished record, he would never forgive himself. He was, after all, the most accomplished detective in the western United States. Hadn’t he said more than once that he prided himself on never giving up on an investigation when there was so much as a remote chance of success?

  Once this baited hook was firmly set, she dwelt on the virtues of ocean travel by steamship—first-class accommodations, sumptuous cuisine, a restful atmosphere conducive to passionate interludes. And, bolstered by a pamphlet she had found somewhere, she enumerated the virtues of the Hawaiian Islands and Honolulu, Crossroads of the Pacific. Lauded by such luminaries as Robert Louis Stevenson and Mark Twain, who called them “the loveliest fleet of islands anchored in any ocean,” they were a virtual paradise where lush vegetation grew in aromatic profusion, the sky was a soft blue, balmy trade winds wafted gently over white sand beaches, sun-browned Polynesian girls performed native dances clad in little more than grass skirts and flower leis. Could he justify denying himself the pleasure of a once-in-a-lifetime experience? Could he justify denying her that same pleasure merely because it would cost a few hundred dollars they could easily afford?

  No, he couldn’t. And so he weakened and gave in. And not as reluctantly as he might have, after due consideration.

  Both of them were going to Hawaii.

  3

&
nbsp; SABINA

  They sailed Saturday noon on the Oceanic steamship Alameda.

  Sabina had taken care of most of the necessary preparations. She bought their tickets at the company’s office on Market Street, having chosen passage on the Alameda over one of the Matson Company steamers because of its size—it was a relatively new three-thousand-ton iron ship with accommodations for one hundred first-class, second-class, and steerage passengers. She withdrew from the agency’s account at the Miner’s Bank what she judged to be enough cash to last them for the duration—more than ever-thrifty John would have taken if she’d left the task up to him. She obtained and packed steamer and wardrobe trunks with appropriate lightweight summer clothing, then arranged to have them transported to the Oceanic Steamship Company wharf at the foot of Steuart and Folsom streets. She spent half a day preparing Elizabeth Petrie, the highly competent former police matron, for her duties during their temporary absence. She also notified her erstwhile cousin Callie French (who was delighted at the news) and a handful of other close friends of their plans.

  John, meanwhile, did little other than inform their half-dozen major clients and Whit Slattery and two other part-time male employees. But she didn’t mind. She was, after all, more organized and detail-oriented than he, and more excited at the prospect of the trip. Not that he lacked enthusiasm—once committed, he allowed as how he was looking forward to it. Of course that was because of the opportunity to close out the Anderson case; he didn’t share her absorption in the voyage and the mystique of the Hawaiian Islands. But he would once they were under way and if his quest for the two swindlers went as well as she hoped it would after their arrival.

  The morning was overcast but dry when she and John arrived at the Oceanic wharf shortly before eleven o’clock—a good omen after more than a week of rain, drizzle, and thick fog. Freight wagons, baggage vans, hansom cabs, and other passenger equipage packed the wharfside. Stevedores and winch operators outnumbered arriving passengers by five to one, busily loading all sorts of crates, boxes, sacks, and drums onto the cargo decks; like all the other ships on the Hawaii and Far East runs, the Alameda was mainly a transporter of mail and essential trade goods. A scattering of porters trundled passenger baggage up an aft gangplank, while passengers boarded on a forward one. A babel of voices joined with the squeal of winches and the deep-throated bellows of bay foghorns to create a constant din.

  Once they alighted from the cab, John took her arm and steered her through the mass of humanity to the forward gangplank. She fancied that they made a particularly attractive couple, John in his Chesterfield, pearl-gray suit, and Panama hat, she in a hooded green and white wool cape and a traveling bonnet trimmed with crushed silk ribbons. He was a ruggedly handsome man, John Frederick—broad shoulders, piercing brown eyes, his full beard neatly trimmed at her insistence. A fine catch, as more than one of her women friends had said to her. And a good husband in every way; the past six months had exceeded her marital expectations. Their future together was bright—if only he would learn to be less reckless in his investigative pursuits. Stephen had made her a widow by engaging in a rash confrontation with bandits near Denver; she could not bear to lose John, too, to an act of violence.…

  She put that morbid thought out of her head as they boarded the steamer. Days of restful pleasure lay ahead—a grand adventure no matter what the outcome of the search for the two grifters. She was determined that they both enjoy it to the fullest.

  A steward directed them to their cabin on A deck amidships. It was spacious and well appointed, as comfortable as a room in a fashionable hotel. It had electric lights, fan, and bell signals to their steward’s quarters, as well as easy access to several bathrooms. The steamer’s other first-class passenger attractions—dining saloon, music room, library and reading room, smoking rooms and ladies’ lounge—were also on this deck.

  Rather than remain in the cabin prior to sailing, they went out on deck to stand at the railing with a handful of other passengers willing to brave the cold wind off the bay. They had been there five minutes or so when a comely woman about Sabina’s age stepped up to the rail beside her.

  She wore a plaid cape, a white woolen scarf, a small black hat over ash-blond curls; striking white jade pendant earrings complemented the coppery tone of her skin. She leaned forward to scan the crowded wharfside below, caught someone’s eye and waved enthusiastically. John had noticed her, too, and was appraising her in typical male fashion. This led Sabina to nudge him sharply with her elbow. He winked at her in return.

  The last of the cargo was soon loaded; the deck throbbed with the beat of the engines. Promptly at noon the gangplanks were raised and secured, and several blasts of the ship’s horn heralded their imminent departure. When a pilot boat began to ease the Alameda away from the wharf, the woman wearing the jade earrings straightened after one last wave and turned so abruptly from the rail that she bumped into Sabina.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “Quite all right. No harm done.”

  “I really should be more careful.” Her face was flushed with more than just the cold; the gleam of excitement in her eyes—large brown eyes, the pupils as round as chocolate drops—attested to that. “It’s just that I’m happy to be going home.”

  “You live in Hawaii then?” Sabina asked, smiling.

  “In Honolulu, yes. The Waikiki district.” Her answering smile was bright and warm. “You’re visiting, are you?”

  “Yes. My husband and I.”

  “Have you been to the Islands before?”

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “I envy you the pleasure of seeing them for the first time. Well, I must run, my husband will be waiting for me. Oh, I’m Margaret Pritchard, by the way. Mrs. Lyman Pritchard.”

  “We’re Sabina and John Quincannon.”

  Mrs. Pritchard said “How do you do?” to John, who bowed in return. Then she asked Sabina, “Are you traveling first-class?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are, too. I’m sure we’ll see one another again during the voyage. Aloha for now.” She hurried away.

  “Handsome woman,” John said.

  “And happily married, from the look of her.”

  He laughed. “I have eyes only for you, my dear.”

  “And what big eyes they are, my dear.”

  As cold as it was on deck, Sabina insisted on remaining at the rail until the steamer passed through the Golden Gate. A hot-coffee thaw, then, followed by luncheon in the dining saloon. Afterward John went to one of the smoking rooms to foul the air with the noxious pipe tobacco he favored, and she returned to their cabin. She was unpacking their trunks when he joined her. Whether on purpose or not, he had an uncanny knack for avoiding prosaic chores.

  When she finished, he surprised her by suggesting that they share “a relaxing nap”—a none too subtle euphemism, judging by the gleam in his eye.

  “Really, John,” she said. “In the afternoon?”

  “Why not in the afternoon? You yourself declared that this was to be a second honeymoon.”

  Well … why not, indeed?

  The bed was quite comfortable, and there was something about the ship’s motion and the gentle throb of its engines that made the bon voyage “nap” especially satisfying—a lovely start to their adventure.

  * * *

  Except for the weather, the first two days at sea continued to meet Sabina’s expectations. The sky remained overcast with intermittent showers and the wind blew sharp and cold, canceling deck games and outdoor seating, but there were enough indoor diversions to satisfy her, if not John. He spent much of Sunday studying the dossier on Lonesome Jack Vereen and Nevada Ned Nagle and the information on the Honolulu detective, George Fenner, that the Pinkertons had supplied, reading his favorite volumes of poetry by Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, and wandering the decks in spite of the inclement weather.

  Sabina, who hadn’t packed any reading matter of her own, took refuge in the ship’s well-stocked l
ibrary. One book caught her immediate attention—The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Among the dozen chronicles of the famous British sleuth’s exploits was “The Five Orange Pips,” which reminded her of the wedding gift she and John had received from Charles Percival Fairchild the Third, the benignly daft scion of a wealthy Chicago family who imagined himself to be Sherlock Holmes.

  The gift had been five tiny white-gold nuggets, no doubt meant to represent five orange pips. In the true account those pips had been omens of death; to Charles the Third’s upside-down way of thinking, the five gold nuggets were just the opposite, felicitous omens for the success of their marriage. She had been impressed by the offering, but not John. He couldn’t abide the man; “an infernal crackbrain” was the mildest of his descriptions. This was because Charles had rather amazingly proven himself to be a detective of considerable skill in his own right, having outmatched John’s deductive prowess on the occasion of their first meeting. Sabina, however, had a soft spot for him. He had helped to bring about the resolution of two of their other investigations, including one in which he was framed for the murder of his wealthy cousin; and before leaving San Francisco for parts unknown he had surprised her with a present of the kitten she’d named Eve.

  In the package with the five gold nuggets, which had been mailed from Salt Lake City, Charles had included a note stating that he planned to return to San Francisco shortly—a reunion that Sabina had been looking forward to. But six months had passed and Charles had yet to put in an appearance or to initiate contact again. Had something happened to him? She hoped not. Charles had a mercurial temperament and often acted on sudden whims (something she herself had imprudently done not long ago); he might well have postponed his return visit for some incomprehensible reason, still be in Utah or any of countless other places. She would not be surprised if one day a month or a year from now he walked into the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services—preferably when she was there alone.…