The Pearl Harbor Murders by Max Allan Collins Page A

their Tarzan books into the garbage can."
    "Sanctimonious nonsense," the German said. "Were you expected to soft-pedal your honest convictions, at the height of a bitter war?"
    "Well, I should have seen it coming, and blocked publication in Germany—it was dated material, wartime propaganda, and shouldn't have been reprinted, anywhere."
    Sterling said, "I guess politics and entertainment don't mix. You've never regained your footing over there, in all this time?"
    Kuhn answered for Burroughs, "Adam, you don't realize the extent of our friend's popularity—the fever turned into a furor...."
    Sterting frowned. "What does Hitler have to do with it?"
    Burroughs laughed, almost choking on his wine. "Not 'f¸hrer,' Adam—fur-or."
    Embarrassed, the FBI man said, "Sorry."
    "An understandable confusion," the German said urbanely. "After all, there were public burnings of your books, Edgar."
    Mrs. Kuhn asked the writer, "Did your German publishers ever ask you to offer an... explanation, or apology to your readers?"
    "An open letter from me was published," Burroughs said, and Kuhn—aware of this—was nodding. "I didn't apologize, exactly. The novel reflected what I thought and felt at the time I wrote it. I wasn't about to assume a spineless attitude and retract and apologize ad nauseam."
    With a nod—though stopping short of clicking his heels—Kuhn said, "Well, please allow me to offer an overdue apology myself, on behalf of the German people."
    "Thanks, Otto—though I prefer royalties to apologies."
    But much later that evening, after the last luau guests had departed the Niumalu, Burroughs—in his bungalow, preparing for bed—reflected on Tarzan the Untamed, which since the German uproar had been withheld from all markets. The businessman in him was thinking that the book was probably marketable again—and, when the war came, could go back into print, in America anyway. Tarzan bellowing the victory cry of the bull ape as he stood with his foot on the chest of a fallen German soldier, whose neck he'd snapped... that could prove to be a crowd-pleaser again, before too very long....
    Though it was after midnight, Hully wasn't home yet—off having a good time with his sailor pals, no doubt, prowling Hotel Street. Burroughs was in his pa-jama bottoms—he liked to sleep shirtless, in this tropical clime—about to shut off the light and climb in bed when a knock at the door interrupted him. Grumbling, he threw on a maroon rayon robe and went to the door.
    "Could I come in for a moment?" Pearl Harada asked, looking up at him through the screen door. The dark eyes in the lovely face conveyed urgency, and she seemed small, childlike, gazing up from the bottom step of the stoop.
    "If you're looking for Hully ..."
    "No, Mr. Burroughs—it's you I want to see." She was still wearing the low-cut gown, but a lacy shawl was slung around her shoulders, and over her dÈcolle-tage, whether out of modesty, or because of the cool night breeze, Burroughs couldn't say.
    He opened the screen door, glanced around, wondering if allowing this young beauty into his bungalow was an impropriety he'd pay for; then he sighed and nodded, gesturing her inside.
    He suggested she sit on the couch, which she did, and offered her a soft drink, which she refused.
    "I won't be here long," she assured him. "I know it's late... and I know this is an imposition. But it really is important."
    "All right," he said, pulling his typing chair over, sitting opposite her.
    "Has your son spoken to you about me?"
    "No he hasn't."
    Her eyes lowered to her lap, where her hands were clasped. "Hully's a nice boy—he probably will say something. But I saw him leave with Bill... and I couldn't take the chance."
    "What chance?"
    "That he would forget to ask you."
    "Ask me what?"
    "If... if you would arrange a meeting for me, with Bill's father."
    "Oh, my.... Young lady, please don't put me in the middle of—"
    She sat forward, her eyes glittering, the shawl slip-ping, and he