West of Guam (24 page)

Howker groaned. He said hoarsely:

“He wouldn’t come through—with them. I was sure he knew where they were. He drew the knife—and I got him with it.”

Jo Gar said very softly: “And the pearls were in the hilt—in your palm as you stabbed.”

There was a little silence, broken by the shrilling of voices beyond the room. Then Jo said in a toneless voice:

“We will go to the street—to the police. You are wounded. There will be no escape, this time.”

Howker swore beneath his breath, got to his feet. He stood with his body hunched forward, his face twisted. Jo Gar said quietly:

“Go towards the stairs, please.”

The captain moved forward slowly. He muttered to himself: “And I had them—in my fingers—”

The Island detective said in a cold voice:

“There are more uses than one—for the knives of Nagasaki.”

Juan Arragon stood before the Island detective, his dark eyes narrowed, perspiration streaking his brown face. He was breathing heavily—he had run up the wooden stairs to Jo Gar’s office. Few natives of Manila run up stairs during the hot season, and the lieutenant of the Manila Police was not a fool. There had been a reason for his haste.

“Palerdo has escaped!” he said in his husky voice. “It is the first escape from Bilibid Prison in years. The guards at the Work Gate have become careless. Palerdo choked the driver of an ox cart into unconsciousness dragged him to a ditch the prisoners had been marched away from a few minutes before, and stripped him of his clothes. The ox cart driver wore a big sun helmet—Palerdo hunched beneath it and drove through the Work Gate. His escape was discovered almost immediately.”

Juan Arragon stopped and drew a deep breath. Jo Gar half closed his gray eyes and smiled a little.

“Almost immediately,” he repeated. “They did not find him?” Juan swore in his native tongue. He shook his head.

“He has vanished,” he said. “We were notified almost immediately. Palerdo is very strong—and very fierce. We sent men to Señora Mantiro’s house—she was not there. A servant informed the men she was driving in her carriage, and might be found on the
Luneta.
Men were sent there—”

He paused, swore again in his native tongue. Jo Gar made a clicking sound with his colorless lips pressed together.

“Almost immediately?” he finished mockingly.

The lieutenant of police frowned. He wiped perspiration from his face with a large, soiled handkerchief.

“It is not too humorous, Jo,” he stated. “You remember what Palerdo swore, when he was taken to Bilibid, after the trial?”

Jo Gar nodded, rose from his wicker chair. He moved his diminutive body so that warm air circulated by the ceiling fan got inside of his white shirt.

“Palerdo is strong—and desperate,” he agreed. “You were wise in getting men directly to Señora Mantiro’s establishment. If she is out riding—so much the better. I think Palerdo will wait for darkness. Perhaps he will not seek to harm her.”

Juan Arragon smiled coldly. “He has never forgotten to hate her,” he stated. “If he is not caught—he will kill her.”

The Island detective nodded. “I think that is so,” he agreed. “Before he worked in Señora Mantiro’s house, as gardener, he did business bringing plants down the Pasig, from the high country. He sold them in a little store off the Escolta—yes?”

The lieutenant of police nodded. “While you were in Nagasaki half of that block burned,” he said. “Señora Mantiro owned most of the buildings. It was strange.”

Jo Gar widened his eyes. “Perhaps Palerdo did not at that time plan to escape,” he said slowly. “He has always possessed many friends. Señora Mantiro had insured the property?”

Juan Arragon nodded. “And her life,” he said in a peculiar tone. “But I’m worried, Jo. Palerdo hates her—”

Jo Gar nodded. “Protect her—that is the most important thing. I will go down along the Pasig and talk with some natives who have sharp eyes.”

Juan shook his head. “They may have sharp eyes, but if they have sharp brains they will
not
have seen Palerdo, Jo,”

The Island detective spoke musingly. “It is one thing to murder a man—and another to murder a woman,” he said.

Juan Arragon shook his head.

“Palerdo should have died for the killing of Carlos Mantiro,” he stated. “The widow interfered, wanted mercy for him. But he hates her as much as a human can hate.”

Jo Gar said slowly, as he reached lazily for his pith helmet:

“That case always puzzled me, Juan. Palerdo knifed Carlos Mantiro, in his garden, after the Señor had struck his wife. It is strange that he should hate her so much. His act was one of passion, you would think.”

Juan Arragon smiled a little. “The Señora is very beautiful,” he said. “Palerdo would never talk. He would never even state why he threatened to kill Señora Mantiro. But he
did
threaten. And now he has escaped.”

Jo Gar moved towards the stairs that led down from his tiny office.

The Manila police lieutenant followed him.

“I hope my men have found the Señora,” he breathed, and sighed heavily.

Jo Gar turned his head slowly and half closed his almond-shaped eyes.

“I hope they have found her—
alive,
” he said simply.

The Island detective was talking with Sansino, the dealer in crawfish, when he heard the screaming of the police car’s siren. There were few police cars in Manila, and only two of them were equipped with sirens. Jo Gar hurried from the ill-smelling store, held up a hand as Juan Arragon’s little machine swerved towards the curb to avoid hitting a
carromatta
whose driver was too excited to be of much help.

Brakes squealed—Arragon snapped open the rear door. Jo widened his eyes, questioned the police lieutenant. Arragon nodded.

“Hurry!” he urged.

“An overturned
caleso
has been found, near the beach, beyond the Rondo house!”

Jo Gar got inside, frowning. The police driver drove from the
Luneta,
towards the Army and Navy Club. The Manila Hotel lay in a haze near the Bay. It was terribly hot.

Jo Gar said above the shrilling of the siren:

“It was—only the overturned
caleso?”

Juan Arragon nodded. “But it was Señora Mantiro’s
caleso,
” he said grimly.

The police car turned to the right, towards the Bay beach. The houses were scattered in this section; there was thick foliage between them. The driver of the car made a sharp turn—they were suddenly upon the overturned
caleso.
They descended. Filipinos made room for them. The horse that had drawn the carriage stood quietly, near the vehicle. A native policeman came to Juan’s side. He said a few words in his native tongue—both Juan and Jo Gar followed him to the palms that fringed the beach, perhaps a hundred feet from the spot where the
caleso
was overturned.

The body lay with the eyes staring. The mouth was slightly opened; there was no color in the lips. A black lace shawl of fine workmanship lay a few feet from Señora Mantiro. A short, English looking man stood a little distance away. He spoke as Jo looked at him.

“I am Doctor Potter. The officer stopped me as I was driving past this spot, along the beach road. The woman is dead—she was strangled with the shawl. I loosened it, of course, but I should say I was ten minutes or so too late.”

Juan Arragon looked down at the dead woman and muttered a prayer in his native tongue. When he finished Jo Gar said slowly:

“There has been no trace of Palerdo?”

Juan shook his head. “No trace” he said. “And he has murdered the Señora.”

Jo Gar smiled a little. “You are always so sure—you police,” he said. “What you mean is that Señora Mantiro has perhaps been murdered.” Juan Arragon stared at Jo Gar. “He threatened her—he hated her. He has great fingers, and was known as a strangler. It is said that he—”

Jo Gar frowned. “He did not strangle the Señora’s husband,” he interrupted gently. “He used a knife. Where is the
caleso
driver?”

The khaki uniformed police officer shook his head from side to side. His dark eyes looked stupid.

“I come this way,” he said in stiff English, “and here is the
caleso.
I have seen him before—it is Señora Mantiro’s. I go quick and telephone. I return—I think I go to beach. Find the body. I stop the doctor. Some others come—and then you. I do not see driver.”

Jo Gar nodded. Juan Arragon said: “He was a Filipino—and is probably hiding.”

Jo smiled with his gray eyes. “Or still running,” he said. “He is important, Juan.”

The police lieutenant frowned. “Palerdo—he is
more
important,” he said slowly. “You learned something, Jo?”

The Island detective shook his small head. He narrowed his almond shaped eyes on the body of the dead woman.

“Nothing” he said steadily. “He has not been seen along the Pasig.”

Juan Arraron shrugged. “Of course he has not been seen—”

He stopped. There was a shrill cry from a brown-faced native, beyond the spot where the body lay, in the palms. Juan Arragon led the way towards the one who had shouted; when Jo arrived at his side he was kneeling beside a form that lay motionless.

“The
caleso
driver!” he told Jo. His voice was excited. “Strangled—dead. His belt has been used. Palerdo is—a double murderer, this time!”

Jo Gar’s eyes were expressionless. He spoke in a toneless voice.

“You are always so quick, Juan,” he said quietly. “It is too bad you did not give the Señora protection more swiftly.”

The police lieutenant rose from his knees and frowned at the Island detective.

“It is too bad Palerdo escaped!” he snapped.

Jo Gar looked down at the body of the dead
caleso
driver.

“This man—this woman—I do not think they were murdered by Palerdo,” he said quietly.

Juan Arragon stared at him. The native policeman made a clicking sound.

Juan said: “You are mad, Jo Gar—it is the work of that strangler—” The Island detective shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, Juan,” he said softly. “But remember, Palerdo
knifed
the woman’s husband. These are stranglings. There are other matters—”

Juan Arragon narrowed his dark eyes. He said fiercely:

“We will have Palerdo—and the murderer of these two. I must send all of the men—”

Jo Gar smiled with his lips pressed together. He looked down at the dead
caleso
driver again.

“After Palerdo?” he said calmly, mockingly. “That is very nice—for the
real
murderer, Juan!”

The street wound from the Escolta, main business avenue of Manila, towards the Pasig. Jo Gar traveled very slowly along the narrow cobbles; he wiped his brown skin continually with the large handkerchief. He had been talking to only a few natives, but those few were important ones. They were ones who had known Palerdo before the big Filipino had stabbed the husband of Señora Mantiro to death. Jo Gar smiled a little, showing his white teeth, as he thought of that case. Palerdo had confessed. Señor Carlos Mantiro had beaten his wife. She had cried out—Palerdo had stabbed him three times. The defense had not been sufficient—he had been sentenced to life imprisonment. And in prison, during one of his outbursts, he had threatened the life of the Señora. After that, he had remained silent. He had great hands—huge for a native. There were rumors of past stranglings. And now Palerdo was free—and the Señora and her
caleso
driver were dead, strangled.

Jo Gar narrowed his gray eyes, shrugged. He was thinking that for once Juan Arragon might be right. Palerdo had committed the crime. But there was no certainty. In an hour it would be dark—Palerdo was still free. It was as though he had vanished into the black water of the Pasig. Not once since his escape had he been seen.

The Island detective stood near the narrow entrance of a nut store and watched a short Filipino come to the street from a store a hundred yards distant. The man was nervous; he moved his head from side to side—watched people. A uniformed policeman was across the street. The short Filipino turned his back to the officer. When he was gone he hailed a
carromatta.
There were bags in the short one’s hands—and he was poorly dressed. Yet he rode in a
carromatta.

Jo Gar hailed one that came along behind the other. He ordered the driver to follow, not drawing too close. The ride was to a squalid part of the city—the short Filipino descended before a series of bamboo shacks close together. Jo Gar paid his driver, dismissed him. He pulled his soiled, pith helmet low over his eyes and followed the man. He was quite close when the short one stepped suddenly through the entrance of a shack that seemed ready to fall apart. Jo Gar hesitated—then acted quickly, almost blindly. He stepped inside the shack almost on the heels of the brown, short one. He heard breath sucked in sharply—heard a man say in hoarse English:

“Fool!”

The light was dim inside the shack, but the sun had been sinking and there had not been too much glare outside. Jo Gar stared past the short man—saw the figure half crouched in the far corner of the shack. The man’s hands hung at his sides—they were big hands. The fingers of the right one held something that gleamed in the faint light of a smoking lamp.

Jo Gar smiled a little. He said slowly:

“Do not you be a fool, Palerdo. Your friend was anxious—but he did look around. And I am not of the police.”

Palerdo straightened a little. His right hand came up slightly. Jo Gar turned the palms of his hands towards the man, spread his short fingers.

“I have no weapon,” he said. “I do not come to take you back to prison. I am Jo Gar.”

Palerdo muttered something that Jo did not quite catch. He spoke sharply to the short native, in the Filipino tongue. He told him that he was a fool—that he should not have come to the shack until after dark. Jo Gar said quietly:

“Señora Mantiro is dead, strangled. Her
caleso
driver is dead, also strangled.”

Palerdo had a big head for a native. His dark eyes were expressionless. His grip on the knife was unrelaxed.