West of Guam (25 page)

“That is not news to you,” Jo said quietly. “I will be very honest. I do not think you strangled Señora Mantiro. You were waiting for darkness. Perhaps you
would
have strangled her. But there was another before you. I will make a bargain. Give me the murderer’s name—I will go from here. You will have the chance to escape.”

Palerdo laughed sharply. In the semi-darkness of the Filipino shack he looked like a giant, facing the diminutive detective. The short Filipino stood to one side, his eyes wide on Palerdo’s face.

“How should I know—who murdered Señora Mantiro?” Palerdo asked huskily.

Jo Gar smiled a little. “You do know,” he said quietly. “You have friends. But you have enemies, too.”

Palerdo sucked in his breath sharply. He spoke in a low tone:

“How do you know
I
did not murder those two?” he demanded, after a little silence.

Jo Gar said quietly:

“If you had murdered Señora Mantiro you would not have killed the
caleso
driver. You would have been satisfied—and there would have been nothing to hide. Whoever strangled the woman—strangled the driver to prevent him from giving a description of himself, of the killer.”

In the semi-darkness the Island detective caught the gleam of Palerdo’s eyes.

“I did not murder her,” the big man said slowly. “I did not kill the driver. The killer wants the police to think I did.”

Jo Gar smiled again. “Yes,” he said slowly. “You escaped to kill her—but one was ahead of you. An enemy. One who feared you—and wanted to be sure the police would hang you, this time. Who was it, Palerdo?”

The big native shook his head. He laughed in a throaty, grim way.

“Why should I say?” he asked. “If I do not escape—”

Jo Gar watched the knife in the big man’s right hand fingers. He spoke slowly, calmly.

“I will make a bargain with you. Tell me the name of the enemy who murdered Señora Mantiro. You will have the chance to escape. I do not think you can do that. I will not aid the police. I will find the murderer and if you are caught you will not be blamed for these crimes. You will not hang.”

He read indecision in Palerdo’s eyes. The big man was breathing heavily. Filipino laughter, shrill and loud, reached the interior of the thatch-roofed shack. A baby cried. From the distant Pasig came the faint whistle of a river boat. The shack reeked with odor. It was very hot.

Palerdo shook his head. He raised the knife.

“I know of you,” he said. “You are Señor Gar. You work with the police. You will trick me.”

Jo Gar shook his head. “I would not have blundered in this way—unless I came to help you,” he said simply. “I want the murderer of the woman and the driver—not you.”

Palerdo drew his body erect. “It was—Mona Taloy—the Malay!” he breathed sharply. “She is strong—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “It was—not a woman,” he said slowly. “You are not telling—”

There was a swift movement of Jo Gar’s body to the right. The right hand of Palerdo came up—the knife hissed through the air. It struck with a thud against the inner wall of the shack.

Jo’s right hand fingers tugged at the grip of his automatic. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Palerdo leap towards him—he squeezed the trigger—the bullet ripped through the pocket of his palm beach suit. Palerdo’s body jerked to one side—he fell heavily.

There were cries from beyond the shack. Jo Gar stared down at the body of the big man. He backed away from it, towards the doorway of the shack. The big man was tricking him—he had not been hit. Jo had seen that the bullet had struck across the room! And his aim had been too hurried.

The short Filipino cried out in a half wail. Jo Gar leveled the gun on the prostrate body of Palerdo.

“You are not hit,” he said grimly. “But now—I shall kill you. I shall kill you, Palerdo, and say that you resisted arrest—”

Outside there were shouts. The shot sound had attracted the attention of natives. The baby was screaming.

Palerdo pulled himself to his knees. His dark eyes were wide on Jo Gar’s almost colorless ones. There was fear in them.

“The Malay—Mona Taloy!” His voice was uncertain, hoarse. “I swear—it was—”

He collapsed suddenly. Jo Gar swore very softly, as he saw the red that streaked the soiled shirt the prisoner had taken from the ex-cart driver. Palerdo lay on his back, motionless. His eyes were half opened.

The Island detective leaned down and touched a wrist. There was no pulse. In the left hand fingers of the dead man was a short, curved knife. Jo Gar sighed a little. Palerdo had flung one knife—and when it had failed to strike the mark he had ripped his heart with the short, curved one. He was dead—and before he had died he had lied. The Island detective was sure of that. He had preferred death to a prison return. Señora Mantiro was dead. Palerdo had been sure he would be taken prisoner again. Yet he had lied.

Jo Gar kept the muzzle of his gun pointed towards the short Filipino. Perspiration streaked his face. He shrugged.

“We will go outside,” he said to the short one. “I was wrong. Palerdo murdered the woman—and the driver. I have done well. We will go outside—and seek the police.”

Juan Arragon came into Gar’s office at eleven o’clock. It was a bright night, with a moon and the sky filled with stars. But it was very hot. The lieutenant of police dropped into a wicker chair and frowned at the Island detective.

“That native swears that Palerdo did not murder the woman and the
caleso
driver. He swears by all the saints that Palerdo told
you
that, before he stabbed himself to death. He says that a Malay woman—one Mona Taloy—committed the double murder. He is lying, of course.” Jo Gar nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “I was wrong in thinking Palerdo did not strangle the two. I was trying to bluff him, in the shack—so I tried to bargain with him. The native lies.”

Juan Arragon was watching the Island detective closely. He smiled.

“Then why—did
you
go to the Malay woman’s hut—an hour ago, Jo?” he said suddenly.

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes a little. “Loose ends of the rope,” he said casually.

Juan Arragon shook his head. “Under the third degree—Filipinos are all the same,” he said slowly. “When you say that this native is lying I do not think you believe that, Jo. You were lucky—and he led you to Palerdo. But now it is I who have changed my mind. I do not think Palerdo murdered Señora Mantiro or the driver.”

Jo Gar smiled. “You are becoming wise, Juan,” he said slowly. “Well, I will be honest with you. I have never thought that he did. But I wanted the native who led me to him to think that I thought him the murderer.”

Juan Arragon said: “Why?”

The Island detective chuckled. “So that he would swear to you that the Malay woman was guilty—and perhaps tell you more than Palerdo told me.”

Juan Arragon looked puzzled. “And yet you were trying to throw me off the track a few minutes ago,” he said softly.

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette. He smiled with his eyes almost closed.

“I like to work alone,” he said. “The Malay woman did not murder Señora Mantiro. Palerdo was lying to me, before he died. That short native—what is his name?”

“Santos Costios,” the police lieutenant replied.

“Costios—he lied, also,” Jo stated. “We have not found the murderer of the woman and the driver.”

Juan Arragon frowned. “You have seen the Malay woman?” he said slowly, “You are sure
she
is not lying.”

Jo Gar inhaled cigarette smoke and smiled with his thin lips.

“You do not pay much attention to native accidents, Juan,” he said quietly. “Yes, I have seen the Malay woman, Mona Taloy. She lies in the morgue. Two hours before Palerdo escaped she fell and was crushed between
sampans,
while selling nuts on the river.”

Juan Arragon swore softly. His eyes were wide on Jo Gar’s.

“And Palerdo did not know that!” he breathed. “But why did he name her—”

Jo Gar sighed heavily. “Perhaps if we could learn
that
answer,” he said simply, “it would be easier to find the killer of Señora Mantiro—and the
caleso
driver.”

Torches and lamps flared lights from the decks of the river boats. It was almost midnight, and for thirty minutes Jo Gar had been following the short form of the native, Santos Costios. It had taken much persuasion to have Juan Arragon release the man. But he had done so—and Jo Gar had been trailing along behind since Costios had strolled along the Escolta, had wandered carelessly along the curving streets near the Pasig—and then had come more rapidly to the docks near the market.

It had been difficult work. Costios was suspicious. He was constantly turning about, doubling in his tracks and retracing short distances. But the Island detective moved swiftly and quietly. He was a half-breed, and the instincts of a half-breed were his now. And he knew that Costios was not being careless, as he pretended. The short Filipino was going to a place of importance. This time he was making sure that he was not followed.

The
sampans
were tied one to another, near the marketplace. From the shadow of one Jo Gar watched Costios leap to the deck of a craft with a curved roof of thatch. He vanished from sight. Jo Gar waited a little, then followed. There were four
sampans,
side by side. He stood near the thatch roof of one, and smiled a little.

“The Malay woman—sold nuts—to
sampan
men,” he breathed softly. “Perhaps Palerdo—”

He broke off, shrugged his narrow shoulders. There was the sound of a stringed instrument on the water—in the distance a man’s voice sang huskily.

Jo Gar moved towards the flat deck of the second
sampan.
When he jumped from one craft to the other it was with a cat-like lightness. He pressed his body close to the roof of the craft, listened for several seconds. And while he was listening his eyes were moving about. In the distance he could see the Bridge of Spain, curving low across the black-watered river.

“It was near this spot—that the Malay woman—died,” he murmured softly. “It is strange—”

Many things were strange. It was strange that Palerdo had hated Señora Mantiro. Men killed women’s husbands because of love for the wife, not because of hatred. Jo Gar shook his head a little.

Voices reached him, very faintly. They did not come from the shore, the market—but from the last
sampan
in the line of four. One was guttural, louder now. The other had a flat sound that the Island detective recognized. It was pitched low, but it was the voice of Santos Costios.

Jo moved to the third
sampan.
It was uncovered, and he bent his body low as he went across the deck. He was straightening—ready for the leap to the last craft, when he heard the sound of faint movement behind him. His body swung around—he dropped flat on the deck. A figure moved slowly around the roof of the second
sampan
—jumped to the deck of the one on which Jo was lying.

The Island detective gripped his gun with his right hand fingers, lay motionless. A voice said, in a whisper:

“Jo!”

The Island detective raised his head. He swore beneath his breath. The river water made gurgling sounds along the stern of the
sampan.
The figure of Juan Arragon was crawling towards Jo now.

The Island detective lay motionless, a frown on his face. Arragon reached his side, got his head close to Jo’s. He spoke softly: “This is the spot—the Malay woman—”

Jo Gar cut in very quietly. “You followed—me here—”

The Manila police lieutenant said: “You followed—Costios here.

You may—need me—”

Jo Gar made a low, clicking sound. His face was very close to Arragon’s.

“You are—thoughtful,” he said with irony.

They lay in silence. In the craft beyond there was the murmur of voices. Juan said in a whisper:

“I released—Costios. I am responsible—for him.”

The Island detective smiled faintly in the semi-darkness. He said in a very low voice:

“You do not trust me, Juan. Why?”

The Manila police lieutenant was silent for several seconds. Driftwood—a heavy piece of it—struck against the stern of the
sampan,
on which they were lying. It bumped along the side. Arragon said in a whisper:

“I do not know what happened—before Palerdo died.”

Jo Gar sucked in his breath sharply. “You think that he told me more than I have told you,” he said. “And that I desire credit—for myself.”

Juan Arragon did not reply. Jo lay flat on the
sampan
deck, his eyes half closed.

“You came to me—in the first place,” he reminded. “You come to me—so often. And you are always afraid—”

He broke off as a voice rose, from the last
sampan.
It was not the voice of the short Filipino, Costios. It had a deeper, throatier tone. The dialect Jo Gar did not understand. Beside him, Arragon lifted his head.

“Malay, I think,” he said softly.

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on those of the police lieutenant.

“It is you who have held back, this time, Juan,” he breathed. “You left me in the dark—it is a wonder I got this far. But I was sure Palerdo would not have murdered the
caleso
driver, had he killed the woman. Why did Palerdo knife Carlos Mantiro?”

He asked the question sharply, heard Juan Arragon’s breath sucked in. There was a little silence except for the raised tones of the man speaking in the fourth
sampan
from shore. Then Juan whispered:

“Mantiro struck his wife—Palerdo was present. He was hot tempered—”

Jo Gar said softly: “You do not lie well. Why did he
hate
Señora Mantiro?”

Juan Arragon said very slowly. “There was the Dutchman, Bucher. She loved him. She was clever—she led Palerdo to believe that she loved—”

Jo Gar sighed softly. “And you kept that from me, Juan. She used Palerdo, to murder her husband—so that she could have Bucher. And Palerdo learned of that—and hated her.”

Juan Arragon said quietly: “And Bucher left the Islands. We got that much—but there was no evidence. The woman played on Palerdo’s emotions. That is why he got off with life.”