  In the tropical, jungle-like garden behind the hotel, a man stood absolutely motionless. The broad trunk of the coconut palm tree behind which he lurked protected him from being seen by anyone on the hotel’s wide, sweeping porch. The tense set of the man’s features showed his growing impatience. The broad porch ran around all four sides of the white, sprawling Royal Poinciana Hotel on Waikiki Beach, in Honolulu, Hawaii. The porch was called the “deck,” and it had been designed to resemble the promenade deck of an ocean liner. It was an open porch, or deck, with brightly colored floral-patterned umbrellas spreading welcome shade. The deck was spotted with lounge and captain’s chairs, and its teak-wood floor was marked off at regular intervals with shuffleboard courts. The fore deck, that part of the porch running across the front of the hotel, overlooked the beautiful beach and its rolling, coiling breakers. Chairs and tables scattered on it were occupied by people waiting for the noon meal. On the rear deck, overlooking the carefully planned, luxuriant jungle-garden, only one couple could be seen. “Will they never leave?” the man muttered to himself. He looked at his watch, then carefully peered around the tree, looking up at the deck jutting out from the hotel’s second floor. Just as he did so, the couple got up from their chairs and walked leisurely away, heading for the other side. The man waited until they rounded a corner and were out of sight. Then he moved swiftly. His linen-clad figure was a white flash against broad green leaves as he dashed for the steps leading up to the now unoccupied porch. Once on the deck, he moved casually, as though he were just another tourist. He walked softly on crepe-soled shoes, making not a sound. Nearing the center of the porch, the man pressed his back against the white-painted wall, almost blending into it except for his dark, swarthy face. Now he moved sidewise, crab-like, until he reached a partly opened latticed door. He stopped, pressing his head against the slight crack where the door was hinged. Moments passed. Then he heard the sharp jangling sound of a telephone ringing from within the room beyond. Next he heard the soft pad of feet on thick piled carpet as the room’s occupant crossed the floor to take the call. Now the prowler abandoned his extreme caution. He looked through the partly opened door. He saw the back of a man sitting at a telephone table. The prowler carefully pulled the door open and slipped into the room. Its occupant had the phone’s receiver to his ear. “On your call to Mr. Thomas Brewster in Indianapolis, Indiana, sir,” the operator was saying, “they are ringing that number now.” The prowler crept closer until he was within an arm’s length of the seated man. “Yes,” the man said into the telephone. “I’ll hold the line.” With his free hand he pulled a well-used pipe from his jacket pocket and stuck it in his mouth. Then he patted the table for matches. He opened a drawer and felt in it. The prowler watched his prey anxiously. He was an old man, with shaggy white hair hanging down almost to his collar. Unable to find a match, the old man had just started to turn when the operator spoke again. “This is Honolulu, Hawaii, calling Mr. Thomas Brewster,” she said. A few seconds passed. “Here’s your party, sir.” The prowler stood there, arms raised, the fingers of his cupped hands spread like talons just over the old man’s shoulders. |
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