Chapter 6: The Scrimshaw Incident (Part 2)
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
If you missed Chapter 1 (A Call to Arms), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 2 (Papa George), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 3 (Brothers in Arms), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 4 (East by West), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 5 (Sally), please click here.
If you missed Chapter 6 (The Scrimshaw Incident Part 1), please click here.
Hawaii Incorporated ~ Paradise Gained
For db
Our little systems have their day.
—from "In Memoriam A.H.H."
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Chapter 6: The Scrimshaw Incident (Part 1)
Created by AB Cooper
Narrated by Michael Smith
Saturday Afternoon, 16 May 1965, Big 5 Annual Meeting, The Goddard Ranch, Big Island
Michael Smith here, again.
The spot on the Japanese step-tansu chest where the scrimshaw had rested was now empty. I remembered Mrs. Worthington admiring it during the morning tour, her manicured finger trailing along the edge like she was sizing up an heirloom.
“When did you first notice?" I asked, shifting into defensive lineman mode. My job was to protect the quarterback, not rush to judgment. Before taking this latest problem to Rob, I needed to gather the facts.
“As part of my rounds,” Mario said, calm as ever, the way only a man who’s handled thorny issues on the mess decks at sea can be. “The piece was still there during the pre-lunch inspection. I checked the polish on the tansu myself. I always do a round before giving the order to plate the main course. That’s when I saw it was gone.”
“So, we’re thinking sometime between the PM’s welcome toast and when you came to get me?”
“I believe so, sir.” He frowned. “I feel awful. I’m technically the head of security when the Prime Minister is in residence. I let him down.”
“You can’t be everywhere,” I said, trying to reassure him. “Security didn’t see anything suspicious?”
“No, sir.”
“Let’s go to your office. We can speak privately.”
As we walked down the hall, I mentally mapped the scene of the crime like I was Hercule Poirot on a tropical version of the Orient Express. Starting from the step-tansu outside the senior Goddard suite, there was the row of guest bedrooms, including the one I usually took, now given to Keller. Past that, the guest bathroom and the old wooden church pew outside it. And there was the Noguchi’s Lunar Landscape that I mentioned earlier. This time its abstract curves and suspended shapes seemed to whisper, connect the dots.
We passed the great room, where a cluster of security guards in crisp Aloha shirts, khakis, and polished black shoes stood pointing and whispering, clearly distressed.
Inside Mario’s office, he shut the door behind us. I took the visitor’s chair while he sat on the edge of his own, just beside his neatly stacked papers.
“Let’s review what we know,” I said.
“Security was positioned in the great room per Madam Sally’s instructions,” Mario began. “They could see who entered the hallway, but not what happened once they were inside. She didn’t want guests feeling watched while using the facilities.”
“Whoever took the scrimshaw had privacy once they stepped into the hallway?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And no one saw anything?”
“No, sir. But the man on duty reported that three individuals—two adults and one child—asked him where the restrooms were between my pre-lunch inspection and when I noticed it was missing.”
“All three went to the bathroom?”
“Presumably. But he can’t say for sure.”
“Did he hear any toilets flush? Water running from the faucet?”
“No, sir. Once that bathroom door is closed, you can’t hear much, even from right outside the door. The security post was in the far corner of the great room, discreet like Madam Sally wanted. The walls in this place are unusually thick and insulated for a tropical house. The PM’s office is fully soundproof. The rest of the house’s walls aren’t far behind.”
“Right,” I said, thinking out loud. “She wanted to offer privacy, and someone took advantage of her hospitality.”
Mario nodded.
“Who were the three?”
“Mr. Langdon. Mrs. Worthington. And Master Frederick Ashcroft.”
“In that order?”
“No, sir. Mr. Langdon was first. Master Frederick was second. Mrs. Worthington was the last to go to the bathroom.”
I paused to think. “Now that I consider it, Thurston did leave the table shortly after we sat down. I was at the far end, so I couldn’t say why. Maybe the PM will know.”
“Could’ve just needed to freshen up,” Mario offered. “He did arrive late.”
“That would make sense,” I said. “What would be his motive?”
“Sir, that’s above my paygrade.”
I laughed. “Mine too…but Sally will know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I definitely saw Fred leave,” I added. “He and Penelope were bickering a few seats down from me. I didn’t think much of it when he got up. Figured he needed to cool off. Though now that I think about it, I’m not sure he’s mature enough for that. Maybe he just had to go the bathroom.”
“Or he wanted to pull a prank,” Mario suggested.
“Or,” I said, “his father put him up to it.”
Mario nodded.
“Although I’m not sure,” I said, “what Mr. Ashcroft’s motivation would be. He’s a bit of a square.”
“It’s all speculation,” Mario said. “Hard to know what’s really in someone’s mind—or heart.”
“True,” I agreed. “As you said, this is way above our paygrades. The best we can do is give the PM the facts.”
I stood and straightened my Aloha shirt. “Well, time to go be the bearer of bad news.”
“Good luck, sir,” Mario said with a grin. “That’s why you make the big bucks as private secretary.”
“Hardly,” I muttered.
I left his office and headed back to the hallway for one last look before finding Rob. As I rounded the corner, I collided with Mrs. Ashcroft. One of her riding boots landed squarely on my foot.
We pulled apart, and her expression changed from annoyed to focused. She gave me the kind of smile that didn’t say sorry. It said something closer to you’ll do.
“Fancy meeting like this,” she murmured, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, which was enough to leave me stammering like an idiot.
“Ahh, well, ahh,” was all I could get out.
“Heading to the powder room?” she asked.
“No, no,” I stuttered. “I came to get something out of my room.”
She looked at me like she was waiting for an invitation.
“If you wait here,” I said, “I’ll just be a sec and escort you back to the table.”
Without missing a beat, she said, “If you insist.” Then she waved me along, motioning with her hands. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting.”
I ducked into my room and scanned for something, anything, to make my excuse real. There was nothing. So, I pulled my notepad from my pants pocket, slid it into my breast pocket, and shut the door behind me.
I glanced at the step-tansu, letting my gaze linger too long on the empty space where the scrimshaw had been. When I turned, Mrs. Ashcroft was sitting on the church bench, watching me intently.
Did she know?
“Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, patting my chest pocket.
She gave me a quizzical look.
“My notebook,” I said quickly. “I came to get my notebook.”
“Oh,” she smiled. “I thought you had it in your pants pocket.”
Rob always said, when you're in a hole, stop digging. I was in a hole. And a bad liar to boot.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“Call me Elizabeth,” she said, offering her hand so I could help her up.
“Yes, ma’am. Elizabeth,” I said. “I’m sorry about misleading you. I was a bit flustered by our…collision.”
“That’s okay, dear,” she said, slipping her arm through mine and pulling in close, pressing her bosom against my side. “Let’s rejoin the group.”
Before I could move, she slipped her hand inside my jacket, across my chest, and tucked a card into the inner pocket.
“Call me anytime,” she said seductively.
Then she pushed us forward, chatting breezily about Sally’s “delightful taste” in furnishings, the “lovely” art on the walls, and how “the early afternoon light on the lava field…is spectacular”.
It was the longest short walk of my life—from the powder room to the lānai. And to make matters worse, she insisted I escort her all the way back to her seat, which just so happened to be next to Rob. Thankfully, she allowed enough space between us that I could breathe again.
Rob shot me a look that would’ve seemed meaningless to a casual observer. But I knew exactly what it meant: What the heck?
The look wasn’t lost on Mrs. Ashcroft either. She knew exactly what she was doing, even if I didn’t.
I retreated to my seat, where I was met by Thomas’s jibe.
“Where the heck you been?”
Still overwhelmed by the scrimshaw incident and Mrs. Ashcroft’s advance, I snapped, “Nothing of your concern.”
“Sorry,” he said. “These kids are driving me crazy. I could use some adult company…and, besides, your food’s going cold.”
He seemed genuine. So, I took a chance.
“Do you know anything about scrimshaw?”
He thought for a moment. “No,” he said. “Other than my grandmother collected it. You couldn’t swing a dead cat in her house without hitting a piece. Why?”
“I was just wondering if it could be used like currency.”
“Like the Hawaiian dollar?” he asked.
“Yeah. I wonder if they ever used scrimshaw like money in the old days.”
“I doubt it,” he chuckled. “If they did, Puakalā School would’ve told us about it.”
“True,” I said, satisfied that Thomas didn’t know anything about the Queen’s scrimshaw. “I didn’t go there, but I know Hawaiian history is a big part of your school’s curriculum.”
“Don’t you know it,” he said. “From kindergarten all the way through high school.”
He stood up and stretched. “It looks like we’re about to break for the big-boy discussion. I’m going to hit the loo.”
“Good idea,” I said absentmindedly, just as I saw Rob stand and call for everyone’s attention. I started shoveling in as much Huli-huli chicken as I could, figuring I’d need the fuel for the afternoon ahead. It was delicious, even cold.
Rob cleared his throat. “Gentlemen! Let’s take our coffees to the backside lānai. I’ve got some Filipino cigars and a rare Hungarian Tokaji I’d like you to try.” Then, turning to Sally, he added, “My dear, where would you like to convene the ladies?”
I caught Sally’s eye and gave her a subtle head tilt that indicated trouble.
“Ladies, before we begin our afternoon activities,” Sally announced smoothly, “let’s take a moment to enjoy our coffee and freshen up. If you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to something in the kitchen. I’ll be back in a flash to brief you on the flower arranging ceremony I have in store.”
I hurried over to Rob and explained the situation.
“Okay,” he said calmly. “Brief Sally and have her see what she can dig up from the ladies. Then join me with the men. Tell Sally we’ll compare notes afterward.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and made my way to Mario’s office, where I found Sally questioning him.
“You’re confident none of the staff was involved?” she asked tersely.
Mario’s face was ashen. It must’ve been the first time he’d been on the receiving end of Sally’s crisis-management mode. When she was in that state, there was nothing personal about her intensity. She was simply cutting straight to the facts and the solution. Judging from his expression, Mario had never seen that level of pressure, not even when he served under Admiral “Bull” Halsey.
“Yes, ma’am,” Mario stuttered. “I can personally vouch for everyone on my staff.”
“We need to be absolutely sure,” she said firmly. “If we accuse one of the families and it turns out to be the staff, that’s the end.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mario said. “I’m terribly sorry, but I can…I can say with one hundred percent certainty that no one on my team would do such a thing.”
When Sally’s in this state, she can be oblivious to what it’s like on the receiving end. I stepped in.
“Mario,” I said gently, “you’ve handpicked everyone on your team, correct?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Michael.”
Sally stood with her arms folded, practically tapping her foot. I knew she’d only give me a fraction of a second to make my point.
“And you’ve spoken with your department heads?”
“Yes, sir. Head of housekeeping, head of service, the chefs, and even head of grounds. They’ve accounted for the whereabouts of all their subordinates. It wasn’t the staff.”
“I agree. They’re your people. What about housekeeping? Would any of them have accessed the guest hallway?”
“Matilda, sir. She’s my cousin in Australia’s daughter. You don’t think—”
“Of course not,” I said. “But maybe when the head of housekeeping interviewed her, the questioning wasn’t as thorough?”
“Oh,” Mario said, catching on. “I see your point. I’ll personally go speak with her.”
“Thanks. I’m sure your head of housekeeping doesn’t have your Navy training and may not know how to ask the right questions in an investigation.”
“Yes, sir,” Mario said, embarrassed. He turned to Sally. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“No worries, mate, as they say down under,” Sally said warmly, which I knew, and I suspect Mario knew, was her way of apologizing.
“Ma’am,” I said to Sally, “the PM asked us to reconvene in his study after the afternoon sessions. Our three suspects—”
“Yes, yes,” she said, cutting me off. “Mario briefed me. Thurston, Fred Ashcroft, and Evelyn Worthington. I’ll work on Evelyn.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to join the PM.”
Sally nodded, and I tore out of there.
The men were just settling in. One of our stewards, dressed smartly in a crisp white jacket, black bow tie, perfectly pressed trousers, and shiny black shoes, was pouring Tokaji into special glasses.
Rob motioned me over to the empty seat on his left. “I saved it for you.”
“Gentlemen,” he said smoothly, “let’s make ourselves comfortable. The view is magnificent, and we have important matters to discuss.”
Mario appeared with the humidor of Filipino cigars Rob had promised. He was slightly out of breath and gave me a knowing look.
“These are compliments of Papa George,” Rob announced, “from his special source in Manila.”
“I hope he’s not CIA,” quipped Jimbo Everton, lighting his cigar on the first go.
“If he were,” roared Papa George, “he’d be one of your employees, no doubt. What’s your Filipino market share these days, Jimbo?”
“We broke fifty, sir. Fifty point oh-one, to be precise.”
“Well done, my boy. You’re making Hawaii proud.” Papa George leaned back. “Is Marcos going to beat President Macapagal this November?”
“It’s rare for the incumbent to lose in the Philippines,” Jimbo replied, “but my guess is Marcos might pull it out. He seems to be running an effective campaign.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll win either way, Jim,” said Harold Worthington, still struggling with his cigar. “Must be nice not having to deal with Commie trade unions.”
I took a sip of my Tokaji while watching Mario shoo away the drinks steward. I’m not usually a fan of sweet digestifs, but this one wasn’t bad. Its honeyed flavor was balanced by a sharp touch of acidity and lingered on my palate. It was like dessert in a glass, rich but not overly sweet.
“Well, Harold,” remarked Walter Ashcroft, the banker, “if you converted your operation from break-bulk cargo to McLean’s box containers, you could eliminate a substantial portion of your workforce.”
“Easier said than done,” Harold snapped. “The Commies are making it impossible.”
“Speaking of Commies,” interrupted Thurston Langford, “how the hell did you get ahold of this Tokaji, Rob? Another CIA source?”
“It came from a friend in Vienna,” Rob answered. “The Soviet tanks stopped the ‘56 revolution, but they sure didn’t crush the Hungarian spirit. Since then, there’s been a surge in underground trade between Hungary and Austria—including Tokaji.”
“Same is true of Poland and West Germany, added Jimbo. “even East Germany, for that matter. I’m watching Poland closely…In a strange twist, Harold, if the Poles push back the Soviets, it may just be because of the trade unions.”
“And the Catholic Church,” Papa George added.
“Gentlemen,” Rob said, between puffs on his cigar, “this discussion is fascinating and all...” He shot me a look to get ready for battle. “Time to begin our real discussion.”
Harold grunted. “About damn time. This tea party’s gone on long enough…Rob…what’s this nonsense about breaking ties with—”
“I want to know,” Thurston interrupted, wagging his finger, “what the hell were you thinking... snubbing the Gazette and holding these, what did you call them, public listening forums or some such garbage?”
I chuckled to myself. Here it comes. Rob once told me, never ask a question in court that you don’t know the answer to.
Rob paused, no doubt relishing the moment before sticking the knife in.
“I can assure you, Thurston, I didn’t need to give any thought to snubbing you.”
Jimbo piled on. “Thurston, you aren’t afraid of the people, are you?”
Thurston huffed.
Walter the banker asked, “What did the people say?”
“Universal approval,” I answered, referring to the Islands of Profit strategy.
Thurston sneered. “So, you’re going to completely upend our entire way of life because of a few hand-picked panels of housewives and activists?”
Papa George took his turn. “Aren’t you being a little hard on your readers, Thurston? They’re more than capable of making up their own minds when presented with the unvarnished truth.”
Thurston turned to Harold and gave him a pleading look. Harold jumped into the ring like one half of the Fabulous Kangaroos, tagging in to take on Team Rob in what was shaping up to be a full-on wrestling match.
“Prime Minister, with all due respect,” said Harold, “you seem to have made up your mind already. Your so-called listening tours are nothing more than subterfuge.”
Keller, who had been quietly puffing on his cigar and sipping Tokaji with a bemused look on his face, tapped in with a rhetorical question.
“Harold, are you suggesting the Prime Minister needs your approval?”
“No, no,” he stammered. “I’m just asking why throw the baby out with the bathwater?”
“Harold,” Jimbo said sternly, “you of all people know that our families have had more than enough time to transition to this moment. We can’t keep choosing our interests over Hawaii’s.”
“Easy for you,” snapped Harold. “HIG wins regardless of what happens.”
“You can too,” said Keller, “if you embrace the box containers.”
“We have no contacts in Asia,” Thomas lamented.
His father shot him a disapproving look.
Team Rob exchanged glances around the circle, each man silently weighing who would step in to play the heavy. Papa George, the elder statesman, read the moment and moved first.
“Thomas, son, we understand this change will be hard. But for sixty-five years, your family has effectively enjoyed a protected export market to the U.S. That’s no longer sustainable. An independent republic like Hawaii cannot afford to remain reliant on the U.S. for its economic security.”
He paused, letting it sink in, then added, “Even if Johnson weren’t threatening us with a two-hundred percent tariff, we’d still need to diversify.
“LBJ is giving us a gift,” added Jimbo, “A chance for a clean start.”
Thomas looked to his father for guidance. Harold was staring down at the floor.
“S-s-sir,” Thomas stuttered. It was painful to watch. But to his credit, he stopped, took a breath, and composed himself. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.
“Sir, the Worthington family understands the need for Hawaii to diversify its trading partners. But it should be done gradually. It’s too risky to drop the U.S. and go all in on Southeast Asia.”
He had a point. It was risky. Not only was Southeast Asia on the frontlines of the Cold War, but its economies were fragile. The region had been ravaged by the Japanese during the war and was struggling to recover.
Jimbo jumped in to outline the opportunity.
“While I agree that Southeast Asia is still emerging,” he said, “the success of my operations there makes me more bullish than you, Thomas. But look at Japan. It’s taking off. It needs raw materials, food, and a friendly port. In a post-America Hawaii…Japan, not Southeast Asia, becomes our cornerstone.”
“Hogwash,” Harold snorted. “Asia’s going Red. Western Europe is barely holding on, clinging to these so-called social democratic policies—neither fish nor fowl. If the Soviets don’t roll into West Germany with tanks, the Commies will rise up in Paris, London, Vienna, Berlin, Naples – who knows - and subsume the whole continent. We cut ties with America, and it’ll only fuel the fires – the fires I’m already seeing on my docks. We’ll be Red in no time. Defying Johnson will be our death knell.”
“You want to know what I think,” Thurston interjected, “I think—”
“Thurston,” Keller said, “if we wanted your opinion, we’d give it to you.”
(Keller’s dig was puerile, a reminder of the highly strained relationship between the Goddard brothers and Thurston.)
Thurston sneered at Keller and pressed on. “I think Johnson’s tariff is just an excuse, an excuse to do what the Goddards have been wanting to do ever since Reverend Goddard bailed the Queen out of prison. And that’s break with the U.S. Isn’t that the case, Rob?”
Papa George cleared his throat and turned to Thurston, looking him straight in the eye. “Sir, I kindly submit that you are out of line.”
He then addressed the group. “Let’s remember why we’re here. This isn’t about markets or money. It’s about Hawaii’s soul. We are an independent Republic, and our constitution is clear—no nukes in Hawaii. The question is not if we are going to reject Johnson’s tariff threat. The question is how we are going to do it.”
All eyes turned to Rob.
“Over to you Prime Minister,” Thurston said.
Rob sat forward, resting on the edge of his chair. “Papa George is correct. We will pivot to Asia and perhaps other Commonwealth nations, with or without the U.S. I have the full backing of the Tripartite and the LDP.”
“So, this was all a ruse?” Harold grumbled.
“No, Harold,” Rob said. “I am here to ask for your support.”
“Well, you aren’t getting mine,” Thurston snapped, barely able to contain his anger. He stood up, face flushed. “Or the Gazette’s!” He stomped off toward the flower arrangements, shouting, “Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Saddle up the horses! It’s time to go!”
I glanced at Rob. He was cool as a cucumber. Papa George’s face was resolute. Keller had a gleam in his eye. Jimbo remained neutral.
Harold turned to Rob. “Prime Minister, if I were to support you, would you (a) consider calling up the Self-Defense Force to put down the labor radicals, and (b) compensate my businesses for the disruption your policy will inflict?”
“No, Harold.”
“Well, in that case,” he said, standing and bowing stiffly, “thank you for your hospitality, Prime Minister.” He then bowed to Papa George. “Sir, I will take my leave now.” Turning to Thomas, he added, “Son, notify the pilots. It’s time to go.”
We watched Thomas run toward the house, presumably to use the telephone, while Harold walked proudly, head held high, in the direction of the ladies. By now, they had had enough time to absorb what was happening. Thurston was already leading Evelyn by the elbow at a fast clip toward the barn and their horses.
“Well, that went splendidly,” quipped Keller, breaking the silence.
“Yes, indeed,” said Jimbo. “What are the next steps?”
“Proceed as planned,” replied Rob. “Changing subjects, I have a ranch matter I must attend to.” He turned to me. “Michael, please round up Sally and Mario and meet me in my study in five.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, already on my feet and looking toward the ladies. Sally was on her way over, so I held up my hand to signal five. She turned and headed to the house. I made a beeline for the kitchen to pick up Mario.
Rob and Sally were already deep in conversation when Mario and I entered the Prime Minister’s study.
Sally’s face was tense, while his appearance was almost sanguine. He motioned for Mario and me to take a seat on the sofa by the window.
“Michael, do you have your notebook?”
“Of course, sir.”
“After we finish with this scrimshaw business,” he said, “draft an encrypted telex to the Tripartite. Inform them that Islands of Profits proceeds as planned but without the support of Langdon and Worthington.”
“Ashcroft, sir?”
“No. Ashcroft’s on board. After you left, he pledged his cooperation.”
“He had no choice,” Sally scoffed.
“It makes no difference,” Rob replied. He turned back to me. “Without the support of Langdon and Worthington. Full stop.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rob paused to collect his thoughts.
“Send another telex to ISA to follow…in all caps: SHADOW KINGFISH…MINNOW, AND PARROT. Full stop.”
“Yes, sir. I confirm ISA level three priority on Harold, Thomas, and Thurston…Ashcroft?”
“Yes. WATCH ABACUS.”
“Confirmed, sir. ISA level one baseline for Ashcroft. Full stop.”
“Good. I could use a drink,” Rob said, walking over to the bar. “Anyone else?”
We all shook our heads.
With his back to us, Rob scooped ice into a cut crystal tumbler etched with a lion. He poured two fingers, brought the glass to his lips, then paused. He set it back down without taking a sip.
He turned around and said to me, “Michael, one more telex. Ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For the Tripartite to follow…all caps: CAGE PARROT. Full stop.”
Sally and I looked at each other in shock. Seeing our reaction, Mario’s expression turned ashen.
“Do you really want to pick a fight with a man who buys ink by the barrel?” Sally asked.
“I don’t intend to lose,” Rob replied.
She didn’t seem pleased with the answer. “Okay,” she said.
“Just okay?” he asked.
“Taking over his company seems extreme, especially when we don’t know if he was the culprit.”
Rob’s eyes widened, and he smiled. “Oh, I see where you’re coming from. CAGE means to create a competing newspaper to counter Thurston’s propaganda. He’s going to come out hard against Islands of Profit. I have no interest in taking over the Gazette.”
She exhaled with visible relief. “And the surveillance isn’t because of the scrimshaw?”
“I’ve ordered it because, as you know, Worthington and Thurston have declined to support Islands of Profit,” he said. “But if we can’t solve whodunit, we might have to put some flatfoots on the suspects.”
“I feel much better,” Sally said.
“Good,” said Rob. “So, where do we stand with our three suspects—Thurston, Evelyn, and young Fred? Who, I don’t think did it, by the way. He’s a petulant teenager, but not a prankster. And I can’t think of any other reason he’d lift the piece.”
“I ran into his mother outside the powder room,” I said, “Could Elizabeth be behind it?”
“There was nothing in my conversations with her at the flower arranging,” Sally reported. “Indeed, she seemed most interested in learning more about you, Michael, for some reason.” She added that last part with a knowing smirk.
I blushed and briefed them on my encounter, leaving out the salacious parts.
“Typical,” Sally said. “Elizabeth was always a flirt at Puakalā School. Walter’s a bit dull. I’m not surprised she’s graduated to preying on young men.”
“Now, now,” Rob said lightly. “Let’s not resort to gossipy judgment. Elizabeth is who she is. I don’t think she’s a thief or a conspirator.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Sally. “You think her behavior toward Michael is appropriate.”
“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is, she’s an attractive woman with money. She’s just wielding her power. No need to bring in Walter—”
“Should we rule out Fred and his mother?” I asked. My job as private secretary was to protect their blind side, especially when little marital spats threatened to escalate.
“I think so,” Rob said. “I see no motive. Walter’s a banker. Elizabeth runs in the high society crowd. None of them mix with Pacific Islanders. They have no reason to call in a favor. What do we think about Evelyn Worthington?”
Mario spoke up for the first time. “She’s an interesting one, Prime Minister,” he said. “On Michael’s recommendation, I personally interviewed the staff, not just the department heads. I spoke with my cousin Matilda—”
“How’s she doing?” asked Rob.
“Well, thank you, sir. She’s thrilled to be living here and prefers Hawaii to Sydney. My brother’s not so happy, though. Her being so far from home and all.”
“Well, if my daughter were on the opposite side of the Pacific, you’d be my first pick to watch over her and beat the boys away with sticks.”
Mario smiled. “Yes, sir. I’m doing my best.”
“Mario, continue please,” Sally said impatiently. “What did you learn?”
“It’s strange, ma’am,” Mario replied. “Matilda was the duty attendant today. One of her jobs is to tidy up the powder room after each use. She said that Fred left it a mess—lid up, unflushed. Thurston flushed and put the lid down but left soap suds in the basin…”
I was beginning to wonder where Mario was going with all the toiletry detail when he said, “The strange thing was, Mrs. Worthington left the bathroom pristine. Even the toilet paper was folded in that v-shape you like, ma’am.”
Sally nodded her appreciation for Mario’s attention to detail.
“It sounds like she didn’t use the facilities,” I said. “That is strange.”
“Did you pick up any clues at the flower arranging?” asked Rob.
“None,” Sally replied. “She was her usual insufferable self, complaining about this and that. I guess she didn’t like the pūpūs. She droned on about the poke and how raw fish is bad for you.”
“Yeah, from my end of the table,” I added, “it was obvious she didn’t like the fish.”
Rob nodded. “That was the excuse she gave for leaving the table. She told me she was going to the powder room.”
“That could’ve been misdirection,” said Sally.
“Absolutely,” said Rob. “And while I think the pristine bathroom is suspicious, there’s also the possibility she was just being her fastidious self. She was several years ahead of me at Puakalā, but even as a young lad, I remember how particular she was. In the library, she would lay out her things just so—her pencil case here, her books stacked neatly. I once saw her take out a ruler to align the spines of her books.”
“That was Evelyn,” scoffed Sally. “And she hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Correct,” said Rob. “So, I don’t think we have enough evidence to confront her. What about Thurston?”
“Did you boys learn anything at your little men’s powwow?” Sally asked with a tinge of derision. She never liked being relegated to the women’s activities.
“Besides Thurston storming out and Worthington walking off crying,” Rob said dryly. “No, nothing new.”
“What about Thomas?” I asked. “He’s smarter than he looks. He made some legitimate points during our men’s discussion.”
“I take your point,” said Rob. “In terms of motive, Worthington has the most to gain by nicking the scrimshaw. I could see Harold and Thomas needing the scrimshaw to leverage the Pacific Islanders against the Communists.”
As if scripted by providence, the whop-whop of the Worthingtons’ helicopter began to vibrate through the windows, followed by a knock at the door. Mario opened it. Jope, the ranch’s head of security, entered. A burly Pacific Islander of Fijian descent, he played for the Republic’s national rugby team when off duty. Matilda stood beside him.
“Mister Mario, sorry to bother you,” said Jope. “Matilda has something to say. I think you’ll want to hear it.”
“Come in,” Rob called from behind his desk.
Matilda, a confident Eurasian girl of seventeen or eighteen, stepped forward. She had her mother’s blonde hair and her father’s brown eyes, the same as Mario’s.
“Madam and sirs,” she said. “When I was making my rounds, I saw the younger Worthington man come out. When I went in to tidy up, I saw the toilet tank cover was ajar. It wasn’t seated properly. The rest of the bathroom was perfect, exactly the way I left it. I reported it to my department head, who reported it to Mr. Jope. That’s why I’m here.”
“Well done,” said Rob, turning to me. “I think we have enough evidence.”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” I said, already tearing out of the room and grabbing Jope by the arm to follow me.
The next moments sped by. We reached the helipad just as the three Worthingtons, heads bowed against the wind, were moving toward the helicopter. Seeing me waving, the pilot began shutting down the engine, clearly recognizing that something was up.
I caught up to Harold, who was the last to board, and grabbed his arm.
“Sir! Sir!” I shouted over the noise. “The Prime Minister wants to see you!”
The rotors slowed to a dull roar as Jope moved to the pilot’s window.
“No can do!” barked Harold. “Need to get back!”
“Sir!” I insisted. “This helo is grounded…until further notice!”
Harold was about to blow his stack. Mrs. Worthington and Thomas looked on in horror from the cabin as Jope suddenly appeared behind me, scooped Harold up like a deflating rugby ball, and marched him straight back to the Prime Minister’s study.
Back in the study, Harold folded like a cheap suit. Our suspicions were correct. Evelyn had made a show of disliking poke so that she’d have a viable excuse to leave the table. She swiped the Queen’s scrimshaw from the step-tansu and hid it in the toilet tank, meticulously replacing the cover. After the blow-up at the men’s meeting, Harold went to retrieve Evelyn while Thomas doubled back to collect the scrimshaw. Their plan was to make a clean getaway in their helicopter. If not for Matilda’s keen eye for detail, they would have pulled it off.
Harold finished his confession by admitting he’d intended to use the scrimshaw to buy a favor from the Pacific Islanders and quell unrest in the longshoremen’s union.
What happened next was a classic Rob power play.
“Well, you know,” Rob said to Harold, “I could charge you with a treasonous offense punishable by—”
It was just Harold, Rob, Jope, and me in the study. Rob never dressed people down in public.
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Harold said, crestfallen. Any trace of haughtiness had vanished, replaced by complete submission, not just to Rob, but to the state, and perhaps even to our Maker.
“Well, the good news is that I’m going to let bygones be bygones.”
“Thank you, sir.” Harold perked up, a flicker of hope, just before Rob brought down the hammer.
“In return,” Rob said sternly, with the full weight of his personal presence and the authority of the state, “not only will you publicly endorse Islands of Profit, you will support it every day with every fiber in your body.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“You will convert your break-bulk cargo to box containers.”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“I’ll help you clean up your union. But if you so much as cross me—even in thought—I will—”
“Yes, Prime Minister. You can depend on me.”
“Thanks, Harold. I hope I can,” said Rob. “Give my best to Evelyn and Thomas. Safe trip home.”
With that, Jope escorted a deflated Harold out of the study and back to the helicopter. I closed the door behind them and turned to Rob.
“Do you want me to downgrade KINGFISH’s threat level to TRACK or WATCH?”
“No,” he said. “Upgrade it to level 4.”
“VISE?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes,” Rob said. “He’s a devious guy. Even with capital punishment hanging over his head, he’ll find a way to torpedo Islands of Profit without leaving any fingerprints.”
“Done, PM,” I said, and departed to file the Tripartite and ISA telexes.
Next on the docket:
A trip to Japan to meet Emperor Hirohito.
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