The undercover man slumped down in his chair, regarded his superior with sullen hostility.
“Oh, I see,” he said. “You thought of it first.”
Sergeant Ackley met his gaze without so much as the quiver of an eyelash. “Yes,” he said. “I had written my report about an hour ago.”
“I see,” Beaver said, scraping back his chair. “Well, I should have known better— Do I outline any of this to Lester Leith?”
“You do not,” Sergeant Ackley said positively. “Let him pull his own chestnuts out of the fire.”
“I thought I had him interested in that case,” the spy said. “Gosh, I don’t know why he wouldn’t be interested in it! There’s a cold hundred thousand dollars to be picked up for the asking. The numbers on the bills aren’t listed, public sympathy is against the whole movement, Bonneguard is on the defensive, and will probably be brought before the grand jury, and I understand the government is figuring on deporting him. It’s an ironclad cinch for a hijacker; and then Leith goes ahead and gives me the runaround with this gold surfboard and all that stuff.”
“You never can tell,” Sergeant Ackley said thoughtfully. “He may not intend to use the skinny broncobuster with the cowboy hat; in other words, he may have padded out his order to keep you from figuring what he really has in mind.”
There was new hope on the spy’s face. “There may be something to that,” he conceded. “I would have sworn he was interested.”
“You should have reported those ads to me at once.”
“They sounded so foolish that I figured he was just giving me a runaround,” the spy said, “and thought it was better to pay no attention to them.”
Sergeant Ackley motioned toward the door with his thumb. “You get back on the job, Beaver,” he said. “I’ll do the thinking, and you’d better start now because I’ve got a lot of important work to do.”
Beaver scraped back his chair, lumbered toward the door. His face was a mask of sullen rage. In the doorway, he turned and said savagely:
“All right, I’ll get out, and let you write your report to Captain Carmichael.”
Sergeant Ackley pushed back the chair, and got to his feet.
“What was that, Beaver?” he demanded.
For a long moment, the two men locked eyes. Then the big spy shifted his.
“Nothing,” he said.
“It sounded like insubordination, Beaver. I’d hate to report you.”
“It was nothing. Forget it,” the spy said, and oozed through the door.
As soon as the door had closed, Sergeant Ackley whipped a piece of paper from the drawer of his desk, and started scribbling feverishly:
Report to Captain Carmichael on the Bonneguard Safe Job. I, Sergeant Ackley, have been thinking all night, for two nights, walking the floor, working out a theory which accounts for all the facts.
He paused to read the paragraph he had written and nodded with approval as he squared away and started writing the rest of the report, scratching his pen feverishly over the paper.
Chapter III.
Around the Island.
There were eight tawny-skinned Hawaiian girls, and fully half a dozen thin cow-punchers at Lester Leith’s apartment when the spy returned from his session with Sergeant Ackley.
Lester Leith frowned his disapproval, and said: “Dammit, Scuttle, you’ve been more than an hour getting the car from the garage. What the devil’s the idea? Did you think you were on a vacation?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the spy lied glibly with the facility born of long practice. “The car had a flat tire and I had the devil of a time getting it off. The rim was frozen solid to the wheel and—”
“Well, never mind,” Leith said. “Here are these people who have gathered in response to the ad. Get the name and address of each, and send the applicants into my private sitting room, One at a time. Give me a list of the names and addresses, and I’ll check them off as I interview the applicants.”
“Yes, sir,” the spy said, making a surreptitious appraisal of the Hawaiian girls whose dark, smoky eyes, hinting at the romantic possibilities of a friendly race, drew his attention as a magnet.
Lester Leith, ensconced in his private sitting room, set the stage for the interviews. After five minutes, the spy opened the door and oozed into the room.
“Here they are,” he said, “the names and addresses of all the applicants.”
“Very well, Scuttle. I’ll see the dancers first, the cowpunchers next.”
The first young woman through the door smiled at him with the frank friendliness of the Polynesian.
“What’s your name?” Lester Leith asked.
“Nano Kapiolani.”
Leith checked off her name and address on the list. “What do you know about the hula?” he asked.
“Everything,” she said, and for a moment her lips lost their smile. Her eyes were pleading and wistful. “If you people of the Mainland could only understand the spirit of our hula,” she said, “it would make for so much more enjoyment of our dances. The genuine hula isn’t a vulgar ‘grind’ such as you see at so many of the cheap exhibits. It’s a portrayal of nature. With our bodies, we imitate the swaying of trees in tropical winds. With our hands, we signify the action of our songs, the tiny wavelets hissing up the sand, the drifting of clouds across the sky, the— Here, let me show you.”
She kicked off her shoes, loosened the belt of her skirt, and, singing with the effortless ease of the native Hawaiian, began to sway in rhythm to the music.
When she had finished, Leith said: “You get the job. It may interest you to know that your activities will be in connection with the organization of the Hawaiian-American Aesthetic Art Association with offices in the Moronia Building. The purpose and scope of the organization will be to advance a greater appreciation of the artistic significance of the Hawaiian dances. Here’s a one-hundred-dollar advance on salary. That will cover your work for a week. The job may not last longer than that, but you’ll get another week’s salary in lieu of notice.”
“Shall I tell the other applicants that the position’s filled?” she asked, her eyes glistening with gratitude as she took the hundred-dollar bill.
“No,” Leith said. “I want to talk with each of them, but remember to hold yourself in readiness for a telephone call from me.”
She thanked him and went out. The spy promptly introduced the next applicant.
“Maui Huanemo,” the spy said.
“How did you get that first name?” Lester Leith asked her.
“I was born on Maui,” she said. “Most of the girls on the Hawaiian teams come from Oahu. They started calling me Maui as sort of a nickname, until now it’s the way I’m known in all of the booking agencies.”
“And what do you know of the hula?” Leith asked.
“I know too much,” she told him sadly.
“What do you mean?”
“I have learned that on the Mainland the Hawaiian hula has been turned from something beautiful and symbolic into something vulgar. In Hawaii, when we dance the hula, it is an attempt to interpret songs and legends with the rhythmic motion of our bodies. Whenever we portray ‘going around the island,’ it brings forth wild applause. That’s all you want of a hula. Even your ad emphasized that part of the hula dance. We—”
Lester Leith interrupted to say: “I’m sorry if you misunderstood the ad. As a matter of fact, I am a representative of the Hawaiian-American Aesthetic Art Association with offices in the Moronia Building. It is the purpose of the organization to advance an artistic appreciation of the true aesthetic value of the Hawaiian hula dances. If you are employed, you will be doing field work for the association, and may rest assured that everything you do will advance an appreciation of the Hawaiian dances. Are you acquainted with Nano Kapiolani, the young woman who was just in here?”