West of Guam (36 page)

In the distance the engine of the departing car was making only a faint hum sound. Jo Gar smiled with his lips and kept narrowed eyes on the foliage ahead of the bullet-filled car, across the road. He half whispered:

“Machine-guns in Manila. And now here. Methods of the Western world, these are!”

There was faint sound from the foliage across the road. He saw the short figure of the Chinese chauffeur appear, crawling. The man glanced towards the car, then slowly straightened his body. For several seconds he stood motionlessly, looking towards the battered machine. Then his head turned; he glanced in each direction, along the road. He listened intently.

There was no sound of another car. The hum of the speeding one had died away. Jo Gar guessed that the spot was a deserted one, one from which the noise of the machine-guns would not reach habitation. The Chinese chauffeur moved slowly into the rough-surfaced, dirt road. He stood for a few seconds in front of the car, then walked around it. He stood with his back to Jo as the Island detective rose and lifted his Colt a little. The Chinese moved closer to the car, getting up on his toes and peering towards the floor at the rear.

Jo Gar stepped from the foliage to the roadbed. There was crackling sound as he did so, and the driver’s body swung around. His eyes went wide with fear as he stared at Jo. His breath made a whistling sound and he cried out shrilly in his native tongue.

Jo said quietly: “I was not—in the machine, you see.”

He smiled a little. The Chinese was staring at the gun now. His lips were drawn back from his teeth; his face was a mask of fear. Jo said:

“I think—you must die—for what you have done.”

He moved the gun up a little, and forward. The chauffeur started shrilling words in his native tongue. His body was shaking. Jo said:

“Stop it! You are not Benfeld’s chauffeur. This is not Benfeld’s car. It is a hired car. Perhaps your car. Will you answer my questions?”

The Chinese was staring at him. He jerked his head up and down. The Island detective said slowly: “You will certainly die, if you do not answer me truthfully. Who were those in the machine that just passed? Those who used the guns?”

The Chinese shook his head. Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed. He repeated the question in stilted Chinese, a tongue with which he had difficulty, in spite of his many years in Manila.

The driver said: “Me—not know!”

Jo Gar said, moving a little closer to the chauffeur:

“The Dutchman, Benfeld—he went to you and paid you money. Very good money. He told you that you were to act as his chauffeur. He furnished you with a new coat, though there was no time to make it fit. He told you where to drive me and how to signal with your headlights. He said you must then stop the car—and hide yourself. Is this not so?”

He had spoken very slowly and clearly. The chauffeur nodded his head. He said:

“He do not—tell me more.”

Jo Gar nodded and smiled grimly. He was thinking that Benfeld had taken a big chance. And yet, he had almost succeeded. There had been only a few seconds’ time between life and death—for Señor Gar.

The Island detective stopped smiling. He moved his gun hand a little.

“I think you must die,” he said steadily. “You would have killed me—”

The Chinese shook his head and shrilled words. After a few seconds he spoke more slowly. He said that he did not know that the big guns were to fire into the car. He did not know what had been about to happen. He was a poor man, and Benfeld had offered him much money.

Jo Gar cut him off, after a little time.

“I will give you a chance,” he said slowly. “There is a person I wish to see. He is Chinese. And he is—blind.”

He saw instantly that the chauffeur knew of such a man. And he saw that the man was of importance. But the driver shook his head.

“There are—more than one—blind Chinese in—”

Jo Gar interrupted again. “There is one of some importance,” he said. “Think carefully. Perhaps this one has a place where dishonest men go. Perhaps he is not a good person. Think well, for you are young to die.”

He spoke very slowly, and with no smile on his face. He held his Colt low and slightly forward of his right side.

The Chinese driver stared at him wildly. But he did not speak. Jo Gar said:

“Very well—I shall find him alone. But first I must silence you, so that you do not again interfere with me.”

The chauffeur threw out his hands. They were browned, and the fingers were jerking, twisting. He said:

“I know—him! I go—his place—”

Jo Gar lowered his Colt slightly. He nodded his head and smiled.

His voice was almost toneless when he spoke.

“You are wise—we shall go there together. We shall walk to a spot where perhaps we may obtain a ride. You will do as I say, and if you make one, slight mistake—”

He moved the Colt a little. The Chinese driver’s facial muscles were twisting. He was breathing quickly. He said:

“Tan Ying—he is very bad. Even if he does—not see—”

Jo Gar nodded. “Many men are very bad,” he philosophized quietly. “But after they are
dead
—how do we know what then happens?”

The driver half closed his staring eyes. He said in a shrill, shaken tone:

“If I take you to the place—they will kill me.”

Jo Gar shrugged. “And if you do
not
take me—
I
will kill you,” he said. “It is a difficult position.”

The driver said: “I am a poor man—”

The Island detective nodded. “Then you have less to live for,” he replied. “Let us start.”

The hour was almost midnight when Jo Gar and the Chinese chauffeur moved through the teeming streets of the Honolulu Chinese quarter. There was the sound of discordant music—the shrill, reedy notes that came down from rooms beyond balconies. The section was well lighted in spots, very poorly lighted in others. Jo Gar kept his body close to that of the chauffeur, and his Colt within the right pocket of his light suit coat. At intervals he let the weapon press against the chauffeur’s side.

They turned suddenly into a narrow alley that wound from the lighted street. There were few lights in the alley; the section was very quickly a poor one. The shops were squalid and dirty; no music came down from the rooms beyond the balconies.

The street curved more sharply at the far end. The Chinese at Jo’s side said thickly:

“It is—there—”

He pointed towards a narrow entrance, an oblong cut in unpainted wood. Strips on which letters were scrawled in Chinese, hung on either side of the entrance. Streamers of painted beads hung from the bamboo pole at the top of the entrance; they obscured the store beyond.

Jo said softly: “You will go—first—”

The driver’s face was twisted, but he forced a smile as his browned hands shoved aside the beads. They made a rattling sound; Jo followed into the shop. A kerosene light made odor and gave little flare. There was the usual musty, aged smell of such shops. Baskets were about, with nuts in them—and jars contained brightly colored candy. There were shelves with boxes marked with Chinese lettering.

No one was about, but at the rear of the store was another bead curtain. The Chinese driver glanced towards it. Jo Gar said in a half whisper:

“Do as you—were told.”

The chauffeur raised his voice and called in a shrill voice: “Tan Ying!”

A quavering voice replied, from the room beyond the second curtain. It said:

“Welcome, Dave Chang!”

Jo Gar smiled grimly. The Americanization of the Chinese never failed to amuse him. He touched Chang lightly and pointed towards the beads of the curtain.

The chauffeur said in Chinese: “You are alone, Tan Ying?”

Ying replied that he was alone. He asked that the driver would enter his humble abode. Chang moved towards the beaded curtain and Jo Gar followed him. He was very close to him as they passed through the beaded curtain into the rear room. Two kerosene lamps were burning, but there was a clutter of objects in the place. Buddha’s figure was in a corner; the light from the nearer lamp struck the face from an angle, making the figure seem very life-like.

Tan Ying was an aged Chinese. He sat cross-legged, but there was some object against which his back rested. He was obese and fat faced. His eyes were open but sightless. They shone whitely as he stared towards Chang. It was almost as though he were inspecting the chauffeur.

Jo Gar stepped soundlessly to one side of the beaded curtain. He took his Colt from his right-hand pocket, held it low at his side. He breathed as quietly as possible. But it was not enough. Tan Ying said quietly, steadily.

“You are not alone, Dave Chang.”

He spoke in his native tongue, and Chang sucked in his breath sharply. He twisted his head and looked at Jo. The Island detective smiled and nodded.

Chang said: “It is my Spanish friend, Mendez. He has arrived on the boat today.”

The blind Chinese nodded his fat face. His face was expressionless, except that his sightless eyes gave it a strange intenseness. He said:

“Welcome, Señor Mendez!”

Jo Gar spoke in Spanish. “You are good to welcome me, Tan Ying.” The Chinese smiled; he was almost toothless. The wick in one of the kerosene lamps was low; it flickered now and then. There was a little silence. Then Jo Gar said to the chauffeur, in Chinese:

“Will you speak of the business?”

The chauffeur’s body stiffened. He said very softly: “You are expecting the Dutchman, Tan Ying?”

Tan Ying’s fat body rocked a little from side to side. His lips tightened. He said:

“Why do you speak of him?”

Jo Gar said: “It is because I am to meet him—in Honolulu, Tan Ying. That is the reason.”

The lips of the fat Chinese relaxed a little. A clock chimed, and Tan Ying listened to it. He said, after a little silence following the chimes:

“The Dutchman—he is already late.”

Jo Gar sighed a little. He moved his body and turned so that when Benfeld came in he could easily cover him with his weapon. The driver was looking at him with tortured eyes; Chang was feeling fear.

The blind Chinese said suddenly, in very precise English: “It has gone well, Dave Chang?”

Jo Gar felt his body stiffen. The driver nodded his head, and looked at Jo again. The Island detective nodded and smiled.

Chang said: “It has gone well, Tan Ying.”

The blind Chinese smiled again. His body continued to rock from side to side. There was a small screen near the print-covered wall at Jo’s back. It was perhaps four feet high, and as many long. It was within several feet of the wall. Jo Gar moved quietly to it, stood close to it. He raised his gun a little and nodded at Dave Chang.

The chauffeur hesitated. Jo Gar’s face grew hard; he narrowed his gray-blue eyes. Chang said:

“Señor Mendez will be of use to the Dutchman, Tan Ying.”

The blind Chinese stopped swaying. He said in his native tongue: “It may be so.”

There was the sound of beads rattling, at the entrance of the shop. The blind Chinese stiffened, and Dave Chang half turned his body. Jo Gar raised his weapon, leveled it at the chauffeur. Then he stepped behind the screen and bent downward. He got his right eye near a section crack. There was little light on the screen. From the outer room there was the sound of tapping. He counted a half dozen taps; they were soft and well spaced.

The blind Chinese raised his voice and said: “It is the way of the Western lands—”

There was the sound of footfalls. The beads of the inner curtain rattled and Benfeld came into the room. He straightened, looked sharply about. He said in a hard tone, in English:

“You—Chang—what was it that happened?”

The blind Chinese said softly: “Dave Chang—he has told me it is well.”

Benfeld said fiercely in English: “He lied! When we got back there, after ten minutes, there was no body in the car. You—Chang—”

The chauffeur said hoarsely, fear in his voice:

“I do not know—what happened! I did as I was told. I signaled with the lights, and when I saw the beam of your car—I ran to the foliage. When I returned, there was no sign of Señor Gar. I swear it.”

Benfeld said grimly: “What did you do? Why didn’t you stay near the car?”

Chang replied in a shrill tone: “I was frightened. One of the bullets from your machine—it almost struck me. I went into the foliage, wandered around. Then I remembered that we were to be here at twelve.”

Benfeld drew a deep breath. He kept his right hand out of sight in the pocket of a light coat he was wearing. He had on a soft hat, pulled low over his face.

The blind Chinese was muttering to himself. He stopped it and said:

“Señor Mendez is here, you see.”

There was a little silence. Jo Gar watched Benfeld stare about the room. There was a puzzled expression on the Dutchman’s face.

The right pocket of his coat moved a little. There was fear in Chang’s eyes, but he did not look towards the screen. Jo Gar’s body was tense, but he waited. Benfeld said in English:

“What is this? What do you mean?”

The blind Chinese seemed to sense that something was wrong. His head did not move, but he spoke very softly and very calmly.

“Dave Chang—he brought with him Señor Mendez. I have spoken with him, but a few minutes ago. Chang said that he would be of use to you.”

With his one eye back of the section crack, Jo Gar watched Benfeld move away from the chauffeur. He saw the glint of steel as the Dutchman’s gun came out of his pocket. Chang was breathing rapidly; fear was gripping him. Benfeld’s eyes went about the room in a swift glance. The low-wicked lamp sent light wavering over the walls.

Benfeld said: “By God, Chang—you’ve tricked us—” The Chinese chauffeur said in a shrill voice:

“No—it is not so! I have not—”

Jo Gar raised his Colt and got the muzzle within a half inch of the section crack. Benfeld was in a line, but beyond the Chinese chauffeur. He had his long face lowered a little; his eyes were slitted on Chang’s. He said:

“By God—you have. I’ve told you too much. I’ve been a fool. But I’ve got you—in here. Gar had those diamonds on him. He got them from Ferraro. He lied to me. You took them from him—”