Quincannon had no intention of going to either Kailua or Hilo on the morrow. Lonesome Jack Vereen had no more departed the inter-island steamer in Hilo than he himself had; the grifter must have come here with Stanton Millay. Why had Millay — and perhaps his sister — lied about it? And where was Vereen now? On his way back to Honolulu, his business with Millay quickly completed? It was possible, but Quincannon had the feeling that that was not the answer. The answer, he was convinced, lay either here on the ranch or close by.
An overnight stay suited him, therefore. He was tired, the prospect of a night camped out in the volcanic wasteland held no appeal, and a morning departure better fitted the initial plan of action he had devised. He accepted Grace Millay’s invitation.
17
SABINA
“I hate this place,” Philip Oakes said as he and Sabina approached the Pettibone home along the front drive. “From the minute I first laid eyes on it I hated it.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Look at it. It doesn’t belong here. It’s not a Hawaiian house, it’s a San Francisco house. An exact replica of the one my uncle lived in with my aunt before she died.”
“Is that why he had it built, as a monument to her memory?”
Oakes emitted a sound halfway between a laugh and a snort. “My uncle didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body. Not a sentimental bone. He never loved my aunt, he tolerated her for the same reason he tolerated me — family loyalty. What he loved, the only thing he loved besides making money, was the house he owned in the Western Addition. He hated having to sell it.”
“Then why did he? Why did he leave San Francisco and move here after your aunt died?”
“He had no choice, his business partners forced him into it. Expansion of trade with the Pacific and Far East markets meant bigger profits with the base of operations here. He couldn’t bring the Western Addition house with him, so he had this one built, an exact copy. The furniture... he even had that shipped over with the rest of his belongings. A replica inside and out. Inside and out. It—” Abruptly Oakes broke off, gave his head a sharp shake. “I shouldn’t be talking to you like this.”
“I won’t repeat anything you’ve said.”
“All right, then. Never mind. It doesn’t matter how I feel about the house. I won’t be living in this monstrosity much longer, now that he’s dead. No, not much longer.”
It was not the house he hated, Sabina thought as they neared the front entrance, it was his uncle. The enmity must stem from reliance on Gordon Pettibone for his livelihood, and having to share space not only with him but with the woman with whom he was apparently cohabiting. That was why Philip Oakes drank to excess, perhaps was even a contributing factor in his amorous pursuits. His uncle’s sudden demise had not completely freed him of the yoke; only financial independence would accomplish that, thus his desperate desire for the insurance money.
Immediately upon entering the house, even though she had been prepared, Sabina had the eerie sensation of having stepped out of Waikiki and into a stateside manse. The wide foyer was hung with gold-framed mirrors; the broad curving staircase had ornate newel posts and carpeted risers. Through an archway she could see into a parlor burdened by heavy, waxed mahogany furniture and stodgy paintings in baroque frames. There was nothing anywhere even remotely Hawaiian.
The Chinese houseman, Cheng, appeared from inside the parlor. He was short, slightly stooped, stoic; he showed no surprise at seeing Sabina, acknowledging her presence with nothing more than a slight bow. Oakes did not bother to introduce them.
“We’ll be in the study, Cheng,” he said. Then, “Miss Thurmond... where is she?”
“She resting in her room.”
“Good. Then she won’t bother us.”
He led Sabina down a central hallway off which opened other archways that provided glimpses of a sitting room and dining room. At a short cross-hallway he turned right and halted at a set of double oak doors. There was a six-inch gap between the two halves. A twisted piece of metal that was part of a bolt lock was visible in the opening. When Oakes drew one of the halves open, Sabina noted that a brass key still jutted askew from the keyhole inside.
“How was the door lock forced?” she asked.
“With a poker. A poker from the parlor fireplace.”
“Were you the first to arrive in response to the pistol shot?”
“No, Cheng was. Then me.”
“And Miss Thurmond?”
“Just after I forced the lock.”
Oakes went first into the darkened study, turned a wall switch to illuminate a heavy brass chandelier. The large room had the austere atmosphere of a museum display. Neatly filled bookshelves covered one wall; more colorless paintings adorned a second; damask drapery covered the rear wall. A brick-and-mortar fireplace occupied the fourth wall, its mantelpiece bare, nothing on the clean-swept hearthstones other than a set of brass fire tools and a small stack of cordwood. Two overstuffed leather armchairs, two ornate floor lamps, a smoking stand, and a long writing table flanked by a pair of straight-backed chairs comprised the furnishings.
The floor was carpeted here, too, the nap a dark tan color on which crusted bloodstains were still visible despite an effort having been made to remove them by scrubbing. Sabina made out a dark splotch near one of the armchairs, faint streaks over a distance of some three feet, and a smaller splotch five feet from the fireplace — all of which indicated that Gordon Pettibone had crawled away from the spot where he was mortally wounded. Not toward the door, however. Why not?
She asked Oakes, “Exactly where was your uncle lying when you broke in?”
“There.” He pointed to the second splotch.
“Facedown or on his back?”
“Facedown.”
“And the pistol?”
“A short distance away.”
“How short a distance? Inches, a foot or more?”
“About a foot. About twelve inches. Captain Jacobsen thinks that when my uncle fired the shot into his chest, the recoil knocked the pistol out of his hand and it bounced away that far. Doesn’t seem likely to me. Does it seem likely to you?”
No, it didn’t. The weapon had lain some four feet from the evident firing point, a possible but unlikely distance for it to have gone as a result of recoil. It was also possible that Pettibone had been crawling toward the firearm, perhaps to shoot himself a second time, a coup de grâce, but that, too, seemed problematical.
Oakes said, “Much more likely he flung the pistol away after it went off accidentally. Eh? Eh?”
More likely, yes. But only by a small margin.
“Was Mr. Pettibone in the habit of coming in here in the middle of the night?” Sabina asked.
“No. Not as far as I know.”
“Why do you think he did so at three A.M., armed with his pistol?”
“Not to kill himself,” Oakes said. “No, not to kill himself.”
“Why, then? He had to have some reason.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was awakened by a noise of some sort — he was a light sleeper — and came down to investigate.”
“There haven’t been any burglaries or attempted burglaries in the neighborhood, have there?”
“No. But he didn’t trust the natives. Didn’t like Hawaiians.” A frown pleated Oakes’s brow. “It doesn’t matter why he came here when he did. All that matters is that he accidentally shot himself.”
Sabina let that pass, too, without comment. “Did you hear noises prior to the gunshot?” she asked.
“No. No noises.”