mac.thepearlharbormurders-第10部分

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　any　man　for　loving　a　woman　like　this？
　〃I've　written　about　women　like　you；〃　he　told　her。　〃But　I've　met　damn　few。〃
　〃I。。。　I　don't　understand。〃
　He　stood；　holding　out　his　hand　to　her。　〃I'll　help　you。　I'll　talk　to　Colonel　Fielder；　and　set　the　meeting　up　here　at　my　bungalow。。。　discreetly。　Tomorrow　soon　enough？〃
　〃Oh；　Mr。　Burroughs；〃　she　said；　beaming；　and　she　almost　threw　herself　off　the　couch　into　his　arms；　holding　on　to　him；　tight。　Face　pressed　sideways　against　his　chest；　she　said；　〃Hully　is　a　lucky　boy；　having　a　father　like　you。〃
　〃Yeah；　I'm　a　peach。〃　He　patted　her　back；　gently。　〃Now　get　out　of　here　before　I　fall　in　love　with　you；　myself；　you　little　vixen。　Scoot！〃
　The　dark　eyes　were　teary　with　joy；　her　smile　a　white　slash　of　happiness；　as　she　scurried　out　of　the　bungalow；　thanking　him　as　she　went。
　Wishing　he　were　thirty　years　younger；　Burroughs　sighed　and　headed　into　the　bedroom。　There's　a　Jane　any　Tarzan　might　fall　for；　he　thought。　He　slipped　out　of　the　robe　and…bare…chested；　in　the　pajama　bottoms…　crawled　under　a　single　sheet　of　his　bed；　a　flower…scented　breeze　whispering　in　the　open　window；　fluffing　sheer　curtains；　the　lap　of　waves　on　the　nearby　beach　soothing　him；　lulling　him　to　sleep。
　Deep　asleep；　dreaming；　he　believed　he'd　awakened；　hearing　a　sound。　In　his　dream；　he　opened　eyes　that　in　reality　were　tightly　shut；　and　saw…shrouded　in　darkness…a　figure　standing　across　the　room　from　him。　The　figure　gradually　revealed　itself　to　be　female…a　tall；　beautiful　female　who　moved　into　a　shaft　of　pure；　heavenly　light；　slanting　through　the　window。
　The　woman's　flesh　was　an　emerald　green；　her　hair　scarlet；　her　voluptuous　body　bare　but　for　strategic　scatterings　of　gold　sequins　that　appeared　to　have　been　applied　to　her　naked　skin。　She　seemed　to　be　approaching　him；　reaching　out　to　him；　and　he　sat　up；　and　reached　out　for　her。。。。
　A　roar　from　the　darkness…for　the　bedroom　had　bee　a　cave…announced　a　third　player；　and　a　mammoth　man…beast　lumbered　into　view　。。。　a　pair　of　tusks；　a　huge　single　eye；　a　fiercely　muscular　build　matted　with　fur　with　two　arms　on　either　side；　each　thick　pawlike　hand　clutching　a　scimitarlike　blade；　four　swords　slashing　at　the　air；　threatening　the　green　woman；　who　fell　as　the　blades　cleaved　her　emerald　flesh；　blood　the　color　of　gold　splashing；　and　Burroughs　tried　to　move；　but　found　himself　paralyzed　in　bed；　screaming　in　protest；　unable　to　move；　too　late　to　save　the　beautiful　emerald　girl；　too　late。。。。
　Then　he　was　sitting　up　in　bed；　drenched　in　sweat；　catching　himself　in　mid…scream。
　Quickly　Burroughs　got　up　out　of　bed；　raced　to　his　typewriter；　snapped　on　his　desk　lamp；　and　sat　in　front　of　the　keyboard；　fingers　flying。　Before　it　could　fade；　he　recorded　the　dream；　in　its　every　detail。　Such　nightmares　came　to　him　regularly…often　involving　some　terrible　creature　or　unidentified　danger。　Many　of　the　plots　and　characters　in　his　novels　and　stories　had　been　literally　dreamed　up；　he　would　routinely　rise　from　a　bizarre　nightmare　and；　as　calmly　professional　as　a　secretary；　jot　down　notes。
　He'd　had　these　useful　nightmares　for　many　years；　ever　since　receiving　a　blow　on　the　head　during　his　stint　as　a　cop　in　Salt　Lake　City。　At　first　there　had　been　torturous　headaches；　as　well；　but　these　had　faded；　and　the　dreams　remained。　He　was　quite　accustomed　to　them；　but　neither　of　his　wives　nor　his　children　had　ever　got　used　to　his　nocturnal　thrashing　and　bellowing；　his　moans　and　screams　frequently　awakening　them。
　Both　of　his　wives　had　insisted　that　he　sleep　in　a　separate　bedroom。
　He　was　right　up　to　where　the　scimitar…wielding　man…beast　had　entered　the　dream　when　another　scream　echoed　across　the　night…not　his　own。
　A　woman's　scream；　a　scream　of　terror；　cut　off　abruptly！
　The　cry　came　from　outside；　had　found　its　way　through　an　open　window；　and　seemed　to　be　ing　from　the　dkection　of　the　beach。　He　threw　on　the　maroon　robe；　not　even　bothering　to　sash　it；　and　ran　barefoot　into　the　night；　finding　his　way　through　the　palm　trees　in　his　backyard；　toward　where　the　purple　ocean　blended　with　the　purple　sky；　with　only　the　stars　to　show　the　difference；　padding　down　onto　the　white　sand；　which　looked　gold　in　the　moonlight；　like　the　sequins　on　the　emerald　woman　in　his　dream。
　This　nightmare　had　a　woman　in　it；　too；　but　Burroughs　was　not；　unfortunately；　sleeping：　she　lay　sprawled　ten　or　fifteen　yards　down　the　sandy　expanse；　lying　near　the　surf；　which　rolled　gently　but　insistently　onto　the　shore。　A　man　was　kneeling　over　her；　touching　her　shoulder　with　one　hand；　blood　glistening　on　the　other。
　Burroughs　could　already　see　who　the　woman　was：　Pearl　Harada；　still　in　her　blue　gown；　askew　on　her　side　on　the　sand；　her　skull　crushed；　blood　turning　the　beach　black　around　her　rained　head。　Nearby　lay　a　blood…spattered　stone；　one　of　the　thick；　roundish　rocks　used　in　the　luau　imu…an　impromptu　weapon　anyone　might　have　picked　up。
　The　man　bending　over　the　obviously　dead　girl　was　a　handsome　if　pockmarked　Hawaiian　from　her　band…　the　trombone…playing　leader；　Harry　Kamana。
　All　of　this　the　writer　took　in；　in　a　heartbeat；　and　then　he　was　running　toward　the　kneeling　man　and　the　dead　girl；　yelling；　〃You！　Don't　move！〃
　The　musician　looked　up　sharply；　his　eyes　wild；　but　he　did　not　obey　Burroughs；　rather　he　scrambled　to　his　feet　and　ran；　heading　down　the　beach。
　Though　Burroughs　was　in　his　sixties　and　his　quarry　in　his　thirties；　the　writer　was　bigger　than　the　slight；　slender　Hawaiian；　still　in　his　dance…band　aloha　shirt；　and…as　it　turned　out…faster。
　He　threw　himself　at　the　fleeing　musician；　tackling　him；　bringing　him　down　onto　the　sand；　rolling　with　him　until　they　were　both　in　the　water；　where　the　surf　licked　the　shore。　The　writer　had　the　younger　man　around　the　knees；　but　Kamana　squirmed　out　of　his　grasp；　pulling　Burroughs　forward；　and　the　writer　lost　his　robe；　was　climbing　to　his　feet　in　the　surf　in　just　his　pajama　bottoms；　chest　as　bare　as　Tarzan；　and　Kamana　tried　to　ran　again；　but　he　was　running　in　wet　sand　and　didn't　get　very　far　before　Burroughs　slammed　a　fist　into　the　man's　back；　nailing　a　kidney。
　Kamana　blurted　a　cry　of　pain；　fell　facedown；　splashing　into　the　shallow　water；　then　flipped　around　and；　making　a　shrill　whining　war　cry；　came　up　at　Burroughs；　small　sharp　fists　flying。
　The　older　man　ducked　and　weaved；　and　threw　a　hard　right　hand　into　the　musician's　belly；　doubling　him　over；　then　finished　him　with　a　left　to　the　chin　that　didn't　have　much　power；　but　was　enough　to　drop　the　man。
　〃You　want　more；　you　son　of　a　bitch？〃　Burroughs；　looming　over　him；　asked；　breathing　hard；　but　not　as　hard　as　the　younger　man。
　〃No　。。。　no。。。　〃　Kamana's　voice　was　high…pitched；　hoarse；　he　was　on　his　hands　and　knees　in　the　shallow　surf。
　Burroughs　grabbed　the　man　by　the　arm　and　hauled　him　to　his　feet；　dragging　him　down　the　beach；　heading　to　the　bungalow。
　The　writer　paused　at　the　girl's　body。　He　didn't　bother　to　take　her　pulse…her　skull　had　been　caved　in　by　that　rock；　her　brains　were　showing。　Rage　and　nausea　and　sorrow　rose　in　him；　a　volcano　of　emotions　threatening　to　erupt。　He　turned　to　the　musician；　wanting　to　throttle　the　bastard；　but　something　stopped　him。
　The　man　was　weeping。
　
　
　FIVE
　Sad　Song
　
　After　the　luau　wound　down；　Hully　Burroughs　had　been　in　no　mood　to　join　his　sailor　friends　Bill　Fielder　and　Dan　Pressman　in　any　Hotel　Street　excursions。　Bill　had　been　rather　on　the　morose　side…he'd　learned　about　Colonel　Fielder's　displeased　reaction　at　seeing　his　son　and　the　Japanese　songstress　on　the　dance　floor；　and　Pearl　herself　had　begged　off　any　after…hours　date；　pleading　fatigue　from　her　night　on　the　bandstand。
　This　meant　Bill　would　get　plastered；　while　Dan　would　be　on　the　prowl　for　dames；　and　in　that　part　of　town；　the　likely　candidates　served　up　love　for　a　fee。　Hully　was　interested　in　acpanying　neither　a　drunk　nor　a　tomcat；　and　instead　headed　to　the　Royal　Hawaiian；　where　Harry　Owens's　orchestra　was　playing。　Nobody　pulled　off　that　hapa　haole　sound　better；　and　Hully's　odds　of　meeting　a　nice　young　female…a　tourist　maybe；　as　the　absent；　much…missed　Marjorie　Petty　had　been…were　far　better　than　down　at　sleazy　Hotel　Street。
　He'd　gotten　very　lucky…not　in　the　way　the　sailors　on　Hotel　Street　did；　either。　He　danced　several　slow　tunes　with　a　pretty　brunette　named　Marion　Thrasher；　a　local　girl　in　her　early　twenties　out　celebrating　a　friend's　birthday。　She　was　down…to…earth　and　friendly；　so　different　from　the　girls　in　California；　all　of　whom　seemed　to　be　aspiring　actresses　（expecting　Hully　to　land　them　a　part　in　a　Tarzan　picture！）。　All　he'd　〃scored〃　were　a　few　lovely　if　tentative　smiles；　some　conversation　and　a　phone　number。。。　but　he　was　walking　on　air。
　Or　rather　driving　on　air；　in　his　father's　Pierce　Arrow　convertible；　one　hand　on　the　wheel；　elbow　resting　on　the　rolled…down　window；　enjoying　the　way　the　stirred…up；　sweetly　scented　breeze　raffled　his　hair。　He　loved　this　little　low…rise　city　of　Honolulu；　which　hid　shyly　under　banyans　and　flowering　shrubs；　palm　trees　towering　over　telephone　poles。
　Waikiki　itself　was　a　bohemian　village；　increasingly　given　over　to　hotels　and　inns；　but　still　with　room　for　clapboard　houses；　fisherman's　shacks；　picket　fences　and　vacant　lots。　On　an　evening　like　this…well；　early　morning；　as　it　was　approaching　one