style="font-size:15px;"> ". . . could go undetected."
"According to your chef, who is by the way a Spanish," said Kawamura, "elevator is a very busy place when food goes up and plates come down."
"That's what I mean. How could. . ."
"But in between," continued Kawamura, "no business is here."
"That means that. . . er, what must have happened here. . ."
"Cutting off of the head."
"Yes, must have happened while everyone was eating food upstairs."
J.B. tried to remember if he had seen Pete during the meal. With the welcoming speech, the raising and dimming of lights, the shuffling of late-arriving people, and the general commotion attendant with serving 350 meals all at once, Culhane realized that he couldn't even begin to pin down Pete's movements. He always seemed to be around, and then he wasn't.
"But there is strange thing," said Kawamura. "Your chef who is a Spanish said no one absolutely saw Pete down here."
"But surely, there must have been people from the kitchen wandering around the hallway, or something. Obviously Pete was here," said J.B. looking at the stain on the wall.
"That is not your Spanish chef's idea."
"How can he be certain?"
"Because," said Kawamura, "he made a strict instruction for everyone to tell to him if Pete comes here."
"And. . .?"
"No one told to him."
"I see."
"Because," said Kawamura, turning from the doorway and walking over to the stain on the wall, "your chef who is a Spanish said if Pete comes here, he will hit him with a. . . ," the captain made a chopping motion with his hand.
"A cleaver?"
"A cleaver."
"I see," said J.B.
* * * *
It was 2:30 in the morning when the interviews with the members, guests, and employees were finally over. J.B. sat with Kawamura in the nearly deserted ballroom and reviewed the lists. It was clear that the mass of information would have to be broken down and put on a computer if any sense was to be made of it.
Various plainclothes investigators and uniformed officers wandered in and out of the room delivering brief spurts of information to Kawamura, who took their intelligence with stoicism and apparent unconcern. Photographers, for some reason, were popping their flashbulbs around the dance floor, their chores at poolside and in the kitchen now finished.
J.B. and Kawamura were joined by Gordy Sparks, whose practical role in the affair seemed clear-cut and marginal, but whose official role, Discoverer of the Body—albeit from a height of four stories—was deemed significant. They were also joined by Butch Percy, the recreation director, who was judged to have been the last person too see Pete in the ballroom. The two men and their wives had shared a table near the side entrance.
"He was up and down a lot," reported Butch, "in fact I don't think he sat down for more than five minutes during the first half hour."
"What was he doing?" asked Kawamura yawning. "I mean, where did he go up and down?"
"He went, well, I don't know exactly, just everywhere to make certain arrangements were OK, and, like that."
"You stated earlier," Kawamura read from a crumpled note, "that you last saw him just before the soup was served."
"That's right."
"What happened?"
"He said, 'Excuse me.' "
"He said, 'Excuse me?' " asked J.B., puzzled.
"I'll handle this, Culhane-san."
"Call me J.B."
"Call me Tim."
"Good, I've been calling you different names all night."
"Ahem, he said, 'Excuse me?' " asked Kawamura, turning back to Butch.
"Yes, someone came up and whispered something to him. He said 'Excuse me,' got up, and left the table."
"Who was it?" asked Gordy suddenly.
"I'll handle this, Sparks-san."
"Call me Gordy."
"Call me Captain Kawamura. Who was it?"
"I don't know. I didn't even turn around and look. It was a man, I saw the arm of a tuxedo, and," Butch yawned, "that's all."
"It was about 7:30?"
"It was about 7:30."
Another policeman approached Kawamura, muttered a few sentences and Kawamura muttered a few back. The policeman walked toward the rear of the room and out the door.
"He said the autopsy report is being delivered in a few minutes."
"Autopsy report? I would have thought, I mean even from where I was standing," said Gordy, "that. . ."
"I know," said Kawamura, stifling a yawn, "but it makes things official."
"You know Tim," announced J.B., pausing to yawn, "I've been looking at this list your men made. A number of people I know were here tonight and they aren't on the list. Is it possible your men didn't question them all?"
"Impossible," stated Kawamura. "Isn't it?"
"Actually, a number of people, mostly those who went down to the pool area, left the club property through the back gate," said Butch. "My wife was one of them."
"You mean to say," said Kawamura, turning to look back in the direction of the interrogation room next to the stage, "that all the lists we made. . .?"
"I'm afraid so," said J.B. through the tail end of a yawn.
Kawamura threw his pencil on the table, slumped back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He opened them once to see J.B., Sparks, and Percy yawning, and closed them again. He was in the middle of a yawn of his own when a policeman with an official-looking document approached.
Kawamura looked up at the policeman after reading the document once. He looked at J.B. after reading the document a second time. He got up, walked around the table, and sat down again after reading it a third time.
"We have big mystery here at this club, J.B." said Kawamura reading the document a fourth time.
"You're telling me. Old Pete down there. . ."
"No, I mean big mystery," interrupted Kawamura.
"What. . .?"
'To
