West of Guam (31 page)

Jo Gar smiled with his thin, colorless lips pressed together. He parted them and said:

“Yes—but I feel it will be difficult. This was not an ordinary crime.

It may mean that I must leave the Islands.”

Delgado said firmly: “I want my son’s killers—no matter where you must go.”

Von Loffler nodded his head slowly. “It is right,” he said. “You have the description of the stones—it is the best I can do.”

The Island detective nodded. He said very quietly:

“Just the three of us must know what I am doing. Even the American, Carlysle—he must not know. I shall need funds. It may prove expensive.”

Delgado shrugged. “That is simple,” he said.

Jo Gar got to his feet. “When Carlysle took his men to the Calle Padrone address he found only a deserted shack. There was not a clue—nothing. But had
I
gone—”

He spread his stubby-fingered hands. Von Loffler said:

“It will be dangerous, Señor. But that is your business.”

The Island detective looked expressionlessly at the room’s ceiling. “It is so,” he agreed. “It is my business.”

Carlysle was smiling when Jo Gar moved along the cell block of the old police station and reached his side. He spoke with enthusiasm. “I sent for you—we’ve got one of them. It’s just a matter of a few hours now, and we’ll have the others.”

Jo Gar made a clicking sound. He looked at the American head of police with widened eyes.

“That is very good,” he said slowly. “But how—”

Carlysle cut in on his calm voice. “I didn’t want you to waste time running around the city.”

Jo lowered his lids slightly. The change in the manner of Carlysle was very evident. He was almost patronizing now. He had one of the bandits—he would shortly have the others. He had done it without Jo Gar’s aid.

The Island detective was silent. Carlysle said with a narrow-lipped smile:

“Lieutenant Mallagin picked up the Chinese driver of the car Arragon commandeered, about an hour ago. Just after eleven. He was staggering along the Pasig road—on the other bank. He’d been badly beaten and was soaked. They had tried to drown him, but he regained consciousness and let his body float with the current. Then he crawled ashore. He recognized one of the bandits—a Filipino. We’ve traced the crime to Cantine, the half-breed that we turned loose from Bilibid three months ago. He ran the hold-up.”

Jo Gar said, in a slightly puzzled tone: “But you said you had one of them—”

Carlysle was excited; he made gestures with his hands.

“We’ll have the one he recognized,” he stated. “I meant we had found the Chinese driver.”

Jo Gar said slowly: “That is—good.”

Carlysle said: “I’ve got all the men out for the pick-up, and I didn’t want you going off at an angle.”

The Island detective half closed his eyes and spoke softly:

“And what became of the machine of this Chinese?” he asked.

Carlysle said: “He doesn’t know. A bullet hit Arragon as they were gaining on the other car. He collapsed. The Chinese used brakes—but the other car had stopped, and he was rushed. They knocked him unconscious—the road was deserted; it was around a curve.”

Jo Gar said slowly: “And you think Cantine was the leader—the half-breed?”

Carlysle made a grunting sound. “Sure of it,” he snapped. “The Filipino that this Chinese identified was one that served a term at Bilibid—he was one of Cantine’s men. We’ll have them all pretty quick.”

The Island detective spoke in his toneless voice:

“That will be—very good.”

The American head of police chuckled. “We won’t have to worry about the boats that are sailing tomorrow,” he said. “Didn’t care much for that job, anyway. Passengers are easily insulted. It would have been difficult.”

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke above his head.

“I did not think this Cantine—possessed so much courage,” he said slowly.

Carlysle grunted. “He learned something—and took a chance,” he said. “He wasn’t so smooth. There was too much killing.”

The Island detective said: “May I talk—with the Chinese?” Carlysle frowned a little. But he nodded his head.

“I’ll go along with you,” he replied.

Jo Gar smiled with his eyes. “I shall be honored,” he said simply.

The Island detective rose from the small wicker chair and smiled at Carlysle. He narrowed his eyes on the brown, fat face of the Chinese. “He is of good breed,” he said slowly. “He speaks without becoming muddled, and clearly. You have been lucky.”

Carlysle smiled expansively. The head of the Manila police was in a genial humor.

“Not lucky, but rather careful, Gar,” he said.

Jo shrugged. “He staggered right into your hands,” he pointed out. “I meant that it was fortunate he was not killed—shot or drowned.”

Carlysle said nothing. He turned towards the door leading from the room in which Jo Gar had been questioning the Chinese. It opened as he faced it; Lieutenant Mallagin entered. He was breathing heavily, obviously excited.

He spoke in broken English. “I have captured—one of Cantine’s men. He is hurt—very much. He fell from a
sampan
deck—but will not talk. The doctor—he say he may die quick—”

Carlysle frowned. Jo Gar was watching Mallagin with expressionless eyes. He glanced at the Chinese—the man’s mouth was half opened; he was staring at the chunky-bodied Filipino.

The chief of police frowned. Mallagin said in a husky tone:

“I think it would be wise—to take this Chinese—to him—while he lives. He then might talk—”

Carlysle nodded. “Yes,” he said decisively. We’ll get him right there.

Where is—this man?”

Mallagin said: “In the shop of Santoni, who deals in fruit—not far from the Spanish bridge. He is very bad.”

Carlysle nodded. He looked towards the Chinese. He said sharply:

“You are going with us—you will identify a man who is hurt.”

The fear that was in the eyes of the Chinese seemed to grow. He mumbled something that Jo Gar failed to understand; his hands were moving about strangely. The Island detective said:

“You think it is wise—”

The expression in the American’s eyes checked him. He smiled slightly and bowed. Carlysle said slowly:

“I’m taking charge of this case myself. In the past Juan Arragon did much good, and much harm, poor devil!”

The Island detective said nothing. Carlysle spoke to Lieutenant Mallagin.

“We will use my private car. There will be the driver and myself, and the Chinese. Yourself, of course—and pick two men in whom you have confidence.”

Mallagin nodded and turned away. Jo Gar said in a quiet voice:

“I should like to accompany you. Juan Arragon was my friend—” There was a touch of coldness in Carlysle’s voice.

“I’m sorry—there will not be enough room. But I shall keep you informed—”

The Island detective narrowed his almond-shaped eyes. He said softly:

“I might replace one of the two men you told Lieutenant Mallagin to choose.”

Carlysle said steadily: “It is a police matter—and you are not of the police. Go ahead, Lieutenant—get your men.”

Jo Gar bowed slightly. He said in a faintly amused voice:

“I would choose one who can make notes of what your injured man may say.”

Carlysle frowned. “Of course,” he said in a hard tone. “That is understood.”

Mallagin looked stupidly at Carlysle. Jo Gar watched the Chinese with eyes that were almost closed. Carlysle glanced at the Island detective as he moved towards the door of the room. He said:

“I’m sorry, Gar—but this is a police case.”

Jo smiled a little. “I am sure it is being handled very well,” he said in a peculiar tone, and went through the doorway.

The black closed car of Carlysle pulled away from the police station, cut across the Escolta and headed towards the Pasig.

After a time they were close to the river on a street running to the Spanish bridge.

A half block behind, Jo Gar sat in a machine he had hired from Cormanda. His small body was not relaxed; in his right hand he gripped a Colt. Abruptly Cormanda jerked his head and said in a rising voice:

“Jo—they’re slowing down—”

The Island detective leaned forward, caught a glimpse of two red lights, across the road. He said in a swift voice:

“They were not repairing—at dusk—”

The Carlysle machine had almost reached the two lights. It halted.

Jo Gar said:

“Stop, Cormanda—”

The small, open car stopped. The chauffeur of the car ahead got to the street and looked back at the car in which Cormanda and Jo Gar sat. He gestured towards the two red lights. Jo Gar spoke softly to his own driver:

“Get down—Cormanda—it is not good—”

The first machine-gun started a staccato clatter from an alley on the right. Almost instantly there was the drum of a second one—from a shuttered window on the left. Metal started to make sound. The chauffeur ran a few feet and sprawled to the street. At that moment, the Chinese sprang from the car, doubled over and ran to a door nearest the car. He disappeared. The other occupants of the car were crouched, out of sight, below the metal sides.

Jo Gar slipped out the right side of the small car and bent his body forward. He ran back over the street, keeping his short arms close to his sides and his head low. Suddenly he turned and moved down a second alley. One machine-gun had stopped drumming, but the other was still beating sound against the quiet of the night.

In the darkness of the alley Jo Gar paused for a second. He breathed heavily as he got his head slightly exposed and looked towards the Carlysle machine:

“The Chinese—was lying—”

A door shot open—the figure of the Chinese was pitched into the alley. Almost instantly it jerked, half spun. Then the man dropped to the pavement. The second machine-gun started to clatter again.

Jo Gar muttered: “And yet—they murdered him!”

Cormanda was reversing the small car now. It whined back from the red lights and the drum of bullets. Jo Gar swung back into the alley, moved rapidly along it. At the far end he saw the Pasig water and the silhouette of a
sampan.

The machine-gun fire died. No sound but the whine of the reversing car came from the street behind the Island detective. He thought: They got the diamonds, but they were forced to kill. Ramon Delgado, Mattlien—Juan Arragon. And now the Chinese, perhaps others. Why do they trap and kill? Is it because they must leave the Islands? He thought: It is because they are clever and must clear the way.

He reached the row of
sampans,
moored abreast. There was a narrow path between piled, rotted planks and empty fish baskets. It led towards the next alley. Jo Gar gripped his Colt firmly and moved along it. At intervals he stopped and listened. The street he had left was very quiet. Only the river sounds reached his ears.

He had almost reached the next alley when he saw faint shadow.

It was directly ahead—moving slowly.

A machine made sound in the distance; the engine getting into a roar—and dying gradually. A voice reached the ears of the Island detective; it sounded much like Carlysle’s, raised hoarsely.

And then the shadow ahead of him became a figure. Jo Gar lifted his automatic and said very quietly:

“Raise your arms!”

The figure swung towards him—he caught a glimpse, in the wavering, reflected light from a
sampan,
of a brown, lean face and wide, staring eyes. The man drew his breath in sharply—his hands swung upward. But the left one went up first, and the right brushed the belt of his soiled duck trousers as it moved.

Jo Gar said sharply: “No!”

The reflected light caught the gleam of the blade. Jo Gar steadied the muzzle of his automatic and squeezed the trigger. He rocked back on his heels, curved his body to one side. The other man’s right wrist made swift movement, even as his body jerked convulsively. The knife dug its blade point into the wood of a basket within six inches of Jo’s left arm.

The man sank to his knees and pressed both hands against his belt, at the stomach. He groaned. Jo Gar stepped out from the piled baskets and jerked a small flashlight from his pocket. For a second he stood close to the man who had fallen, and listened for sound from the alley ahead. There was none. But in the distance voices were calling.

He flashed the beam on the one hunched near his feet, widened his almond-shaped eyes. Then he moved the beam to the knife that had been thrown. He breathed very slowly:

“Malay—”

He kneeled beside the groaning man, held the gun close to him.

He said quietly, in the Malay tongue: “Why was the Chinese murdered?”

The man widened his eyes and shook his head. Jo Gar smiled coldly and pressed the muzzle against the man’s right side.

“If I shoot again—you will die,” he said. “You were with others—what were their names?”

The Malay shook his head. He was muttering to himself. Jo Gar said:

“The Chinese told the police that a man named Cantine committed the great robbery and murder. He was lying—and yet he was murdered. Why?”

The Malay was getting his breath with difficulty now. There were footfalls in the alley from which he had come. Jo Gar lifted his head, and heard the voice of Lieutenant Mallagin, cautioning one of his men. The Island detective spoke softly:

“Quickly—the police come. I am not of them. Why was the Chinese killed?”

The eyes of the man hunched beside him were staring. He said weakly, in his own tongue:

“His family—was given money. He was to lie—and then to die. He was—very poor.”

Jo Gar straightened a little and sighed. Then he lowered his head again.

“Who made—the arrangement?” he asked quietly.

The Malay shook his head. His body relaxed a little; he rolled over on his back. He said very weakly:

“It was—the one who walks badly—always in white—”

His lips closed; he shivered—cried out a little. There was a convulsive movement of his body, then it was still. From the alley Mallagin called:

“Who—is that?”

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and rose. He was thinking: The one who walks badly—always in white. But he said in a steady voice: