West of Guam (32 page)

“It is Señor Gar—I have shot one of them.”

He heard the surprised exclamation from Lieutenant Mallagin. The Filipino came in close, stared down at the dead man. Carlysle, breathing heavily, was behind the lieutenant.

“The Chinese is dead—the chauffeur is dead,” he said. “One of my men is wounded. Mallagin and I escaped. You followed us?”

Jo Gar nodded. He said quietly: “This one tried to knife me—I was forced to shoot. He did not die instantly.”

Carlysle’s eyes widened. He said eagerly: “He talked?”

Jo nodded. His voice was almost toneless. “Cantine did not commit the robbery or murders,” he said. “The Chinese was paid to lie to you—and then to die.”

Carlysle stared at Jo. “The driver—paid to lie and then—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “He was not the driver,” he said slowly. “I spoke to him about machines—he knew very little. I was suspicious, and followed when you got word that one of Cantine’s men had been hurt.”

Carlysle breathed heavily. “You think it was a plan—to throw us off—” Jo Gar smiled a little. He glanced down at the dead man.

“If this man had not talked—you would have been after Cantine and his men”—he said quietly, “a wrong scent.”

Carlysle nodded his head very slowly. “He said nothing about who—”

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “I have told you what he said,” he replied, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Carlysle was looking down at the dead man and frowning.

“We shall have to watch the boats,” he said grimly. “They have the diamonds—and they have killed many men.” He looked narrowly at the Island detective. “They got away with their machine-guns—all but this man,” he said. “You will help us, Señor Gar?”

Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips. His colorless eyes seemed to be looking beyond the American head of police. He shook his head very slowly.

“No,” he said. “It is—a police matter.”

Carlysle stiffened. “Juan Arragon was your friend,” he reminded.

Jo Gar stopped smiling. “It is so,” he agreed. “But I will not help you, Señor Carlysle.”

The American turned away, muttering something that the Island detective did not hear. Lieutenant Mallagin moved after his chief. Jo Gar looked down at the figure of the Malay and breathed very softly:

“ ‘The one who walks badly—always in white.’ ”

He sighed, and his eyes half closed. He glanced towards the knife handle, protruding from the basket wood. River odors were in his nostrils—a pony whinnied in the distance. Jo Gar said very slowly, in a half whisper:

“For Juan Arragon—I will help—myself.”

The
Cheyo Maru
took red color from the setting sun; her boat deck was soaked in it. The sea was calm; even the white wings of the gulls that rose and dipped astern were tinted red. Manila and the Island of Cavite were no longer to be seen astern. There were few people in the deck chairs; the first dinner gong had already sounded. Jo Gar relaxed his short body, kept his almond-shaped eyes almost closed. Now and then he lifted his brown-paper cigarette, inhaled. It was almost as though he slept between puffs, but that was not so.

When the Japanese steward came rapidly towards his chair, the Island detective lifted his head slightly. The steward had been well tipped, and had been asked only a simple task. He reached Jo Gar’s chair now, bowed jerkily.

“He has left his cabin,” he said. “The man in white—the one who limps. He is coming.”

He spoke in his native tongue, which was the tongue in which Jo had spoken to him. When the Island detective jerked his head in a gesture of dismissal, the steward moved towards the stern of the liner and vanished from sight. Jo turned his head a little and watched the man in white approach. He was of medium size; dressed in duck. He had a lean face, and it was as though the sun had not touched it. It was almost the color of the spotless suit he wore. He moved slowly, as Jo had seen him move at the dock, several hours before the boat had sailed. There was a very slight limp; it appeared that he stepped lightly when weight was on his left leg.

The man’s face was turned away from him as he approached the spot opposite Jo’s chair. But as he neared it he took his eyes from the water, looked at Jo in a swift, searching glance. The man in white had blue eyes; they were small and expressionless. His lips were thin, and without much color.

He stopped suddenly, his eyes still on Jo. He said, a slow smile on his face:

“Señor Gar, isn’t it?”

Jo sat up and nodded. He even managed a little smile. He was very surprised, and tried not to let the other man know this.

The one in white nodded his head and seemed very pleased. His voice was soft, almost careless.

“Leaving the Islands?” he asked.

Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. “I have relatives in Honolulu,” he said. “Leaving the Islands—for more islands.”

The one in white chuckled a little. He said in an easy tone:

“I am Ferraro. For a time I was connected with the Constabulary.

I have heard of you.”

Jo Gar bowed. Ferraro’s English was good though not perfect. There was a clipping of words, a cutting short, despite his leisurely manner of talking.

Ferraro said: “You leave at a bad time. A terrible crime—Delgado’s son, that watchman at the bank. And Juan Arragon. All dead.”

He shook his head. Jo Gar said: “You were acquainted with Señor Arragon?”

Ferraro frowned. “No,” he said. “But I had heard of him.”

Jo Gar relaxed again, inhaled. The one in white looked at the sea, shrugging.

“The murderers will be caught, of course. And the Von Loffler diamonds found. It is almost always so.”

Jo Gar closed his eyes and nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “It is so—almost always.”

Ferraro looked at him again. “There are few passengers aboard, who came on at Manila. But perhaps you do not care to be addressed as Señor Gar?”

Jo widened his gray-blue eyes. “Why should I object?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

The one in white said: “Well, there has been this robbery—these murders. Only two days ago. There was a thorough search at the dock. I was asked many questions, myself. It seemed amusing.”

Jo Gar said: “And you were formerly with the Constabulary?”

They both smiled; then Jo Gar said: “No, there is no secrecy. I am not of the police—I rather dislike the American who heads the force.”

Ferraro said: “But Juan Arragon—he was one of your countrymen—a good friend—”

He paused, shrugged narrow shoulders. “At least, so I have heard,” he said. “Having been in the Constabulary—”

Jo Gar nodded. “It is not so,” he said quietly. “Juan Arragon was of the Manila police. He was always fighting me.”

Ferraro said: “Oh, so that was it, Señor?”

The Island detective nodded very slowly. The man in white looked towards the water; then his eyes came back to Jo’s again.

“I am dining alone,” he said. “Will you join me?”

Jo thanked him and declined. “I do not think I shall dine tonight,” he said. “My stomach pains me.”

Ferraro expressed regret. He spoke a few words more and moved aft. His limp was barely noticeable, but it existed. Jo Gar reclined in his chair and remembered several things. Diamonds worth two hundred thousand dollars had been stolen from Delgado’s jewelry store, on the Escolta, in Manila. Delgado’s son had been murdered. A watchman had been murdered. And Juan Arragon had been murdered, after he had vanished in pursuit of one of the fleeing machines. His body had been returned to Jo Gar’s small office, with a forged note attached. And later in the night, while trailing a clue, the Island detective had been forced to shoot a Malay who had come at him with a knife. The Malay had talked. He had spoken of the leader of the diamond thieves as “the one who walks badly—always in white.”

For Liam Delgado, whose son was dead—and Von Loffler, who wished to recover the ten diamonds, Jo Gar had left the Islands. He had left aboard the
Cheyo Maru
because another was leaving on the same boat—a man dressed in white, who limped when he moved.

Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders. The sunset red was almost gone now. The Island detective thought:

When a man
is
a thief and a murderer he does not seek out one who hunts down thieves and murderers. And yet this Ferraro has approached me, has invited me to dine.

A little grimness came into the gray-blue eyes of the Island detective.

“Sometimes such a man is very confident,” he half whispered. “And sometimes he has been of the police.” He nodded his head a little and ceased to smile. “And sometimes,” he murmured very softly, “a dying man lies.” The Island detective sighed. “It is very difficult,” he said softly. “Even my own thoughts contradict.”

When Jo Gar turned his key in the lock of his cabin, stepped inside, he closed the door slowly behind him. He hummed a little Spanish tune, and his body was rigid. There were his two bags—and they were opened, the contents spilled about. The lock of his small trunk had been smashed; the tray lay crosswise. His clothes were scattered. The berth sheets had been ripped up—the cabin was almost a wreck.

Jo stood with his back to the door, stopped humming. He lighted one of his cigarettes, moved about the cabin carefully, using his eyes. He touched nothing. After a few minutes he pressed a button and waited for the Japanese steward. When the man came he was breathing heavily, and his black, round eyes were wide. They grew wider as he surveyed the cabin. The Island detective made a little gesture with his brown hands.

“You see,” he said. “There has been a search.”

The steward broke into his native tongue. He was very excited. He had just entered the cabin of Señor Ferraro, who was of the Philippine Constabulary. And it, too, had been entered. Luggage had been ransacked. An officer of the boat had been notified.

Jo Gar made a clicking sound and nodded his head slowly.

“A clumsy person—this thief,” he said. “I have nothing of value here. I am a poor man. Yet see how he has thrown things about.”

The steward shrilled words—apologetic words. He had been away from the section only a short time. He had come on deck to do as Señor Gar had asked—to tell him that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin. He had come quickly and had taken a shortcut to the spot in which Señor Gar’s chair had been placed.

Jo Gar quieted the man. He narrowed his gray-blue eyes on the ransacked trunk, then turned abruptly. He said as he moved through the doorway to the narrow corridor:

“You do not think the cabin was entered—before you went above to tell me that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin?”

The steward was sure neither cabin had been entered before that time. Señor Ferraro’s cabin was only fifty feet distant from Señor Gar’s. And it was in the same condition.

Jo Gar said: “Perhaps there are others in similar state.”

He went along the narrow corridor to a wider one. The steward followed. Two ship’s officers, clad in white uniforms and gold braid, approached. The Chief Steward came from another direction. There was much swift talk—the Japanese who had charge of Jo’s cabin led the way to the one occupied by Señor Ferraro.

It was an outside cabin, much similar to Jo’s. It was in the same sort of disorder. Jo looked in—the others went inside. The Third Officer said in English:

“And your cabin was entered, too, Señor?”

Jo nodded. “I was on deck,” he said. “Señor Ferraro talked with me, about twenty minutes ago. Then he went to dine.”

The Third Officer said: “You are friends?”

Jo shook his head. “Acquaintances,” he corrected.

There was more talk. The Third Officer suggested that Señor Ferraro be notified, and while he was offering the suggestion the one with the limp came along the corridor. His blue eyes widened on the group. The Chief Steward said apologetically:

“Your cabin has been entered, Señor.”

Ferraro looked at Jo Gar, went to the doorway of his cabin. His eyes moved over the opened bags, broken trunk locks. He drew in a deep breath and said slowly:

“But why? I am a poor man—”

Jo Gar chuckled a little. He said: “Those were my words, Señor. I, too, have been treated like this.”

The one in white stared at Jo. Then he smiled a little with his thin lips. His face was bloodless; he had thin, yellowish hair.

His lips parted; he was about to speak, but he changed his mind. He went into the cabin and poked around among the clothes of a large bag. The officers were speaking with Jo when Ferraro uttered an exclamation.

“Ah—a woman!” he said.

Turning, he held out a white hand. In his palm lay the pin. It was perhaps two inches long. It had a setting so cheap that it could be immediately seen. There were a half dozen stones in the pin—but one was missing. They were glass—the glitter was false; they had not the appearance of even a clever imitation of diamonds.

The Third Officer took the pin and inspected it carefully. Jo Gar noted the cheapness of the metal—the flat backing. The pin clasp was bent—the whole thing a cheap job.

Ferraro stood close to the Third Officer. He said slowly, in his clipped-word manner: