Free Mele Kalikimaka Mr Walker by Robert G. Barrett

looked blue and inviting as the late afternoon sun added a golden touch to the turquoise of the ocean. Les tossed his diving gear in a bag, changed into a pair of thongs and went straight back downstairs.
    The tide was out and gently lapping against the swimming pool wall as Les walked around. Then he put his fins and that on and eased himself in on a small swell. The reason the water looked so clear from his window was because it was only shallow, a few feet deep at the most. Surprisingly the water was a little murky, but there were plenty of colourful fish and other things to look at and for winter the water was delightful. Les swam out to a big metal buoy in front of the pier, then dived up and down, getting a fish’s eye view of the kids ontheir boogie boards. He snorkelled around a bit more then got out and found that although he was feeling happy and relaxed as he stood with some other tourists under the showers near the railing, he was also starting to think again. There were definite things to do and get if he was going to make his week in Hawaii even more pleasant.
    Back in his room, Les had a shave then changed into his jeans and a blue polo shirt, then he went back downstairs to the ABC store, where he bought some fruit juices, milk, cereal and other odds and ends to either nibble on or drink while he was in his room. Norton also bought a six-pack of Millers Dry, a bottle of Bacardi and a bottle of Grape Crush, stopping by the ice machine on his floor to fill one of the small buckets provided. Satisfied his room was now sufficiently stocked up, Les had a bottle of beer then decided it was time for a feed. The hotel restaurant-diner called the Carvery had looked okay when he walked past. Norton caught the lift down again and decided to sample it.
    The Carvery was roomy, well lit and fairly crowded with well-heeled tourists from all over the world, though mainly Japanese. There was a long winding buffet stacked with salads and cold cuts, which curved around to the hot dishes, casseroles, satays, et cetera, and two chefs carving roast meats. Les got a stack of salad, roast beef, a bit of veg and a table by a window, then topped his meal off with buttered fresh bread rolls and endless coffee. The food was quite good and the waitress’s smile as nice as the coffee — nice enough for Les to leave a substantial tip. A walk after the meal would have beennice too, but the wind had come up, it wasn’t all that crash hot outside and Norton figured he’d had enough exercise for the day. Les decided to go to his room, put his feet up with a cool one and mull a few things over, then maybe go out later and have a sniff around Waikiki on Sunday night.
    There was a desk in the corner near the window. Les poured himself a large Bacardi and Grape Crush, sat the radio at one end, opened the mailing bag, threw the cap on his bed and spread the contents over the desk. He flicked the small ghetto blaster on and a DJ said, ‘Stereo 83. KIKI. Golden oldies and good time rock ’n’ roll. Comin’ at ya.’
    As Chubby Checker belted out ‘The Hucklebuck’, Les stared at himself in the mirror above the desk and said, You’re not Hercule Poirot or Jessica bloody Fletcher. You’re Les Norton. You’re here on a brief holiday and this is none of your business. But something didn’t gel. Something did gel, of that Les was almost certain, but something else just didn’t. Norton took a lengthy sip of his drink, sat down and turned to the photos of the murdered prostitutes.
    Norton stared at the closeups of the wounds and the bruising. Whoever the marine was doing the killing, he was a strong bastard all right. To drive the bayonet right in to the hilt, and do that much damage with one blow, he’d have to be. But it didn’t seem to work that way. And if it did work that way the bloke was a monster.
    Les shook his head and flicked through the photos while more music played, and