however, she sidestepped the smiling throng and hurried on down the escalator, to take her seat on one of the articulated buses, which transported passengers between the arrivals hall and the terminal buildings.
By the time she had collected her luggage from the carousel and summoned a cab, the sun was sinking and, giving the address of the small hotel she remembered, just off Kalakaua Avenue, she settled back to enjoy the ride. Through the open windows of the cab, the air was deliciously warm and pungently familiar. Even before they crossed the Kapalama Canal, she could smell the Dole Canneries, and the water tank, painted to resemble a pineapple, rose like a huge yellow dome, sprouting its prickly stalk.
To her right, the less attractive aspects of the island’s economy gave way to the waving masts of the yacht marina. Dozens of sailing craft, from modest dinghies to ocean-going schooners, were moored in the basin, and Laura couldn’t help but wonder if Jason still owned his schooner. Not that it had any relevance, she assured herself impatiently, determinedly turning her attention to the exotic elegance of a floating restaurant moored at the quay. How Jason Montefiore might or might not be conducting his private affairs was no concern of hers.
The cab was approaching Kalakaua Avenue, and Laura gazed out at the towering hotel blocks. There seemed more than she remembered, even the ‘Pink Palace’, as the Royal Hawaiian Hotel used to be called, was overshadowed now by the looming curve of the Sheraton. But the market place was still there, where Jason had once bought her a string of real pearls and the engraved gold medallion, she still carried in her handbag.
Just beyond the imposing towers of the Hyatt Regency, the cab turned into a side street and a hundred yards down, past an intersection, came to a halt outside the modest façade of the Kapulani Reef Hotel. Laura climbed out, dragging her suitcase after her, and handed over the necessary dollars. Thank goodness she had remembered the name of this place, she thought, looking up at its faded exterior. The paint was chipping on the balconies, and the sun had yellowed its colour-washed walls. But so far as she knew, its reputation was still intact, and one of the girls at the agency used to recommend it. Of course, that was more than three years ago now, but it could not be helped. Hotels in Waikiki were expensive, and those Jason had taken her to were quite beyond her means. The Kapulani used to be both clean and reasonable, and she did not have a lot of choice in the matter. Besides, with luck, it might only be for a couple of nights.
She had ‘phoned ahead from San Francisco, and she was expected. A polite receptionist had her sign in, and then a Chinese porter was summoned to take her to her room. The lift transported them three floors up to room number 409, and Laura felt obliged to tip the man, even though his manner was anything but friendly. Still, he had carried her suitcase, she reflected, as she took a proper look at her surroundings.
It was clean and neat, she had to admit, the bed one of the wide divans she had become used to during the time she had worked in Honolulu. There was a chest of drawers and a fitted closet, a round glass-topped table and a chair, and the ubiquitous colour television, standing by the open balcony doors. There was also a telephone, the one object Laura most wanted to see, but she put her immediate impulses aside and walked into the adjoining bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later she emerged, considerably cooler and fresher after a shower. Wrapped in a towel, she threw her soiled clothes on to the chair, and then rescued the key to her suitcase from her handbag and deposited the case on the bed.
There was a definite disorganisation to the contents of the suitcase, but it couldn’t be helped. For the past three days, she had thought little about her appearance, and the garments she had packed with reasonable care in London, were now muddled beyond belief. That they were not more creased was due to the resiliency of modern fabrics, and she drew out the short-sleeved shirt and pants that were first to hand.
Running a brush through the fine silky hair, that she generally plaited and wore in a single braid for working purposes, Laura contained her impatience and walked out on to the balcony. It was getting dark, but the air was as soft and velvety as a moth’s wing. The temperature stayed balmy most of the time, only becoming hot and sticky in the summer when the wind called the kona blew. Usually, the climate was perfect, a delicious blend of sun and trade winds, that made the islands a garden paradise.
Away to the right, Laura could hear the sound of the surf, as it creamed along the shoreline, and she was tempted to leave what she had to do until the morning and go for a walk along the beach. It would be so nice to forget her troubles for a while, and enjoy the exotic beauty of her surroundings. But then, the memory of Pamela, lying in the hospital in San Francisco, returned to haunt her, and putting the brush aside, she quickly threaded her hair into its neat queue.
Crossing the room to where the ‘phone sat, on the low bureau beside the bed, Laura reflected that even that image was not as disturbing as the scene which had met her eyes on her arrival in San Francisco. If she hadn’t responded to Pamela’s ‘phone call so promptly, if she hadn’t ignored Pierce’s complaints about her ingratitude, and taken the first available flight from London, she might never have found her sister alive. As it was, Pamela had been unconscious, the terrible meaning of the empty bottle of sleeping tablets on the table beside her, telling their own tale. Laura shivered, even now. Without her unexpected intervention, Pamela would be dead—and all because of Mike Kazantis.
Before picking up the ‘phone, she reached for her bag, and drew out the handful of letters she had found scattered about her sister’s body. Without them, she might never have learned the name of the man who had caused her sister so much heartbreak. Pamela could have refused to tell her. Indeed, at first, she had denied any connection between the letters and her attempted suicide. But when the doctors at the Mount Rushmore Hospital had informed Laura that her sister was pregnant, she had immediately understood the situation.
Of course, Mike Kazantis’s name would have meant nothing to Pamela. It was less than two years since she had applied for a nursing post in Sausalito, and her work with the elderly, and very rich, Mrs Amy Goldstein, had seemed far removed from the commercial success of Jason Montefiore.
Naturally, after her own experiences in the United States, Laura had tried to persuade her younger sister not to leave England. But short of explaining exactly why she had returned to London, there was little she could say; and besides, it had seemed unlikely that Pamela would make the same mistakes.
Laura shook her head now, and reached for the ‘phone. It was not a situation she had ever expected to have to deal with. When she was making her arrangements to accompany Pierce to the Camargue at the beginning of March, Pamela had been writing, saying how happy she was, and there had been no mention of her relationship with Jason’s brother-in-law. Had she known he was married? Was that why she had not mentioned his name to her sister? The little Laura had read of his letters, gave no evidence one way or the other. All that was clear was that the letters had ceased, approximately six weeks ago. The most recent postmark was March 14th, and Laura had had no difficulty in making the association.
She rang the club first, guessing that as it was after six o’clock Jason was most likely to be there. If he was in Honolulu, of course, she reflected, crossing her fingers. There was no absolute guarantee. Just her own recollection of his movements, and the fervent hope that this trip to Hawaii had not been a fool’s errand.
A man answered, a man whose voice she didn’t recognise, and adopting her most confident tone, she asked to speak to Mr Montefiore. ‘It’s a personal matter of some urgency,’ she explained, hoping that by mentioning the personal nature of her call, the man would at least be curious.
‘Just a minute,’ he said, and the line went dead, indicating she assumed that she had been dealt with by a switchboard, and that her call was receiving more serious attention. Come on, come on, she urged impatiently, running first one, and then a second, moist palm over the knees of her trousers. Jason wasn’t the Pope,
