West of Guam (29 page)

“Dead,” he said steadily. “Broken neck—I’d say. Came down head first.”

Jo Gar said nothing for several seconds. When he spoke it was in a tired voice.

“He was not a fool in this—it was the simplest way.”

The storm had passed, though thunder still rumbled in the distance. Rain dripped from the roof of
Silence House,
made sound on the foliage below the eaves. Jo Gar sat across the table from Captain Ramlin and Doctor McCall. He spoke steadily, in a low voice.

“He was half insane, with that cunning so often possessed at such a time. He did not write the notes—Avery wrote them. Or he had some other person write them. He wanted Mary Crawford—and she wanted Avery. I discovered only a few things—there was little time. But they were important. Avery was having a short leave—and then he was ordered to the States. He was to sail next week, on the Army transport. He thought that Major Crawford would be afraid, for his wife. He thought the notes would help—would make the major send her away from the Islands. Send her back to the States. Then it would be easy. So he wrote the notes—and
she
placed them where they would be found.”

The doctor muttered beneath his breath. Captain Ramlin shook his head slowly. Jo Gar went on:

“I think Crawford suspected. He was physically sick—and perhaps he’d suspected for a long time. There was just one way—a certain way. He played along with Avery—sent for me. He made mistakes. He must have known I would not bring much luggage—yet he sent
both
servants to the train to meet me. They came
ahead
of him, because they were in a slower car. The enlisted man came from Baguio and picked him up. The Army car was at his disposal, but was not kept at the house. You know that, of course. I learned it from the driver. And I learned something the major did not expect me to learn. Had he been more sane, he would perhaps have thought of it. Perhaps not. The driver did not come to the house for him—this time. He was coming, but Crawford met him down the slope a short distance. And said that he was afraid they would be late to meet me. But there was plenty of time. The driver knew that, and it seemed strange to him.”

Captain Ramlin said: “Good God—he murdered Avery and put him in the porch chair—
before
he left the house!”

Jo Gar nodded. “Perhaps he found Avery and his wife together, not far from the house. More likely he planned to get them together, because he had sent for me. He had found the knife the servant had lost—and he knew that I’d reason an Army man would use a gun, not a knife. He had the notes to show me. He knifed Avery to death—took him to the porch, propped him in the chair. He came to the train, met me. When we reached the house—he acted. In his room there is a scrapbook that shows pictures of him on the Post stage. He was in many shows. He forgot to destroy the book.”

Captain Ramlin swore softly. The doctor said, nodding:

“Yes—he was a fair actor. At the Club one night he gave imitations.” Jo Gar smiled a little. “I think he knocked his wife unconscious, bound and gagged her, left her in the woods. I think he knew that she had placed the notes—and wanted Avery. He hated her. When we went into the garden he risked a lot. He brought her to the porch—got the knife from the table. There are wounds on her head—perhaps she was already dead. A rock in his hands—he was strong. Perhaps she was not dead. He used the knife—and screamed. Again and again. That scream did not sound like a woman’s to me, though I could not be sure. He ran down the steps, turned and came back, gun in hand. He pretended he saw something—and ran into the woods, shooting.”

Captain Ramlin said: “And he knifed himself!” Jo Gar shrugged.

“I
think so,” he said. “It would be simple for him to hide a knife out there. One quick slash—and he was half mad, anyway. He moved around, lost blood—then came back. He was weak—and we’d heard the shots. But it seemed strange to me—the same knife had been used on Avery—and Mary Crawford. And yet the major was asking us to believe that the killer had dropped it, and had used
another
on him.”

The doctor nodded. He spoke softly.

“And in the garden—when Mary Crawford was struck on the head, the first time—and knocked unconscious?”

Jo Gar frowned. “Perhaps that was her own trickery,” he said. “Perhaps she or Lieutenant Avery found the knife, and arranged the thing. And Major Crawford, sure of their guilt, played along. Or perhaps it never happened. You see—I could talk with neither of them. Avery was dead—and the woman—”

He checked himself. Captain Ramlin said grimly:

“The screaming betrayed him—and the body you placed in the chair. When he tried to shoot her, with the blanks in the gun—”

Doctor McCall shook his head slowly. He listened to the rain on the eaves. Except for that sound and the very distant rumble of thunder, the house was quiet.

“The tropics does something to people—” McCall said softly. “They try to be cunning—but they do not always succeed.”

Jo Gar rubbed closed eyelids with his small, browned fingers.

“I shall return to Manila early in the morning,” he said slowly. “There is too much for me—in
Silence House.
”

The brown-faced driver of the
carromatta
shrilled words at the skinny pony, tugged on the right rein. He stood up in front of his small seat and waved his left arm wildly. Jo Gar leaned forward and watched the approaching machine sway down the narrow street. It was a closed car, mud-stained. It swung from side to side, traveling at high speed. For a second its engine was pointed to the right of the
carromatta,
now crowded far to one side of the street. And then it careened straight towards the small vehicle.

The driver shrilled one word. His small, scantily clad body curved from the front seat. For a second Jo Gar had an unobstructed glance of the speeding car. He muttered a sharp “Dios!”—hunched his small figure forward and jumped.

His sandals had not touched the broken, narrow pavement at the right side of the street when his ears heard the splintering of wood. A woman screamed, in a high, short note, down the street. There was another splintering sound—then the cry of the pony. Jo Gar’s diminutive body struck the pavement; he went to his knees, lost balance and rolled over on his back. His pith helmet snapped from his head, thudded like a drum lightly struck, away from him.

He wasn’t hurt, and got slowly to his feet. There was a great deal of excitement in the street. The pony had been dragged to the curb and lay on one side, tangled in the
carromatta
shafts. It was vainly trying to rise. The vehicle was a wreck. But the machine was still swaying on its way—a horn sounding steadily.

Near the Pasig the street curved sharply to the left. Even as Jo Gar stared after the machine, it swung far to the right. For a second he thought it would crash into the awninged Chinese shop at the curve. But it did not—it swung back into the middle of the street, was lost from sight. The sound of the horn died. Voices all about the Island detective were raised, pitched high. Chinese, Spaniards, Filipinos—the street was suddenly filled with them.

Jo Gar recovered his helmet, placed it on his head. The sun was still hot, though it was sinking over the bay. He moved towards the struggling pony, speaking sharply to the driver, who was shouting wildly after the vanished car. Together they freed the pony from the shafts and harness—it struggled to its feet and stood trembling, nostrils wide. The driver cursed steadily.

A brown, open car came down the street from the direction the other had come, horn screaming. Jo Gar narrowed his gray-blue eyes on the brown uniforms of Manila police—saw the face of Juan Arragon turned momentarily towards him. The Manila lieutenant of police shouted something—then the car was beyond. A wheel lifted wreckage of the
carromatta,
deposited by the crash car fifty yards distant, and sent it skimming towards the pavement. A voice behind Jo said excitedly:

“What the devil, Señor Gar! That was a close one for you—”

A man dressed in white duck was running down the street towards the wreckage of the
carromatta.
He wore no helmet. He shouted hoarsely, but slowed down as he neared the spot where the crowd had gathered. Jo Gar said in an unhurried tone:

“What is it, Grassner?”

The man in white duck was short, thick-set. He had the squarish face of a German. He widened blue eyes on the Island detective’s narrowed ones.

“Delgado’s!” he breathed heavily. “Robbery—there were three cars—different directions!”

Jo Gar said slowly: “Delgado’s—yes. Of course. And three cars—” The
carromatta
driver was standing near the pony, cursing shrilly. Tears of rage ran down his brown cheeks. There was still much excitement. The Island detective said sharply to the driver:

“Please stop it! Your pony is not much hurt. You will be paid for the
carromatta.
That is enough!”

Grassner said thickly, breathing with difficulty: “Herr Mattlien is dead. A bullet hit him.”

Jo Gar frowned. He had little use for Herr Mattlien. But robbery had now become murder. He asked in a low, almost toneless voice:

“You saw—the robbery?”

Grassner blinked at him with his small, blue eyes. He shook his head. People were crowding around them.

“I was in the International Bank, around the corner,” he said more calmly. “There were shots—and I ran out. Cars were moving away from Delgado’s, and Mattlien was running towards them, a gun in his hand. There were more shots—he fell. I went to him—he was dead.”

Jo Gar made a clicking sound. He shook his head, spoke to the
carromatta
driver.

“I am Señor Gar—come to my office later and I shall help you.” The driver said: “I am a very poor man—”

The Island detective nodded. “It is true,” he agreed. “But you are also alive.”

He moved along the street, towards the corner near the Escolta, occupied by Delgado’s jewelry shop. A crowd was gathering; there were many police. A deadline had already been established, but Jo Gar was well-known; he went through the entrance, into the warm air stirred by the shop’s ceiling fans.

Arnold Carlysle, the American chief of Manila police, had arrived and was listening to words from the short, black-mustached owner of the place. Liam Delgado’s white hair was ruffled; he moved his hands nervously. Carlysle, listening, saw Jo Gar enter the shop. He beckoned to him.

Delgado was saying in his perfect English: “It was terrible! Ramon—my only son—dying as I came out from the vault—”

He turned away abruptly, covered his face with his long-fingered, brown hands. Carlysle spoke grimly to Jo:

“They used—American methods, Gar. Three cars—with license plates covered with dust. Four of the men came inside. Delgado’s son resisted—they shot him down. Mattlien, the German guard at the International Bank—he was shot down, in the street. They escaped in all directions—but we’ll get them, Gar!”

The Island detective nodded. He said in his toneless voice:

“One of the cars upset the
carromatta
in which I was approaching the Escolta. It was going towards the Pasig, and Juan Arragon was in close pursuit.”

Carlysle nodded grimly. “We heard the shots—at the station,” he said. “It was a daring robbery.”

Delgado had dropped into a wicker chair, near a counter. Jo Gar said quietly:

“Three machines—a double murder. And robbery—how much did they get?”

Delgado said in a dull tone, softly: “The Von Loffler diamonds. All ten of them. Two hundred thousand dollars, at least. And some small stones—”

Jo Gar widened his gray-blue eyes. Carlysle went to the entrance of the store and gave orders in a steady, hard voice. There was the clang of an ambulance gong, in the distance.

The Island detective said: “The Von Loffler diamonds. But I thought they were in the bank vault—”

Delgado’s tortured eyes met Jo’s. He said in a broken voice:

“Von Loffler brought them here this morning. I was to set them into a comb for his wife.”

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and nodded his head slowly. Delgado got to his feet, hands suddenly clenched at his sides. He said in a terrible voice:

“They will pay—for this! By —— they will pay! My only son—” Jo Gar spoke softly: “It is—very bad. You saw faces?”

The jewelry shop owner said: “They were masked—their whole faces. There were just the eye slits. Four of them were in here. They held guns, and the one who shot my son down was tall and well built. He was standing over Ramon—when I ran in—”

He turned away from the Island detective. Carlysle was coming into the shop again. There was a great deal of excitement outside, but inside there was almost silence. One white-clad clerk was walking back and forth behind a long display counter, muttering softly to himself.

Carlysle came close to Jo and spoke in the same grim tone.

“I have sent word to all the Constabulary stations. We shall pick up the cars in which they escaped.”

Jo said: “Have there been reports of stolen cars lately?”

The Manila Police head frowned. “Two reports—one yesterday—one this morning.”