West of Guam (51 page)

Kayil said in Filipino: “I have not seen you in a long time, Señor Gar. It is good that you come again.”

The Island detective nodded. He looked beyond the Malay, and as his eyes became accustomed to the bad light, he watched a man eating alone at a small table in a corner. Kayil spoke of the coming typhoon and said that he did not think it would be severe; he thought the Filipino in charge of the weather was no good.

At intervals Jo Gar nodded, but he watched the one in the corner. He was tall and thin, and he had a yellowish face. His cheek bones were high, and though there was much food before him and he was making motions with it, he was not eating. His gestures were quick and uncertain; he seemed nervous. He never turned his face directly towards Jo.

The Island detective turned his back on the one at the table. “That one, facing my back. The tall, thin one with the face of a

Chinese—his name?”

He spoke casually, and after he had spoken he yawned. Kayil looked over Jo’s right shoulder, and his black eyes flickered with recognition, then grew blank. He shook his head.

“I do not think I have ever seen him before, Señor,” he said slowly. “I think that he is a newcomer to my place.”

Jo Gar continued to smile lazily. He said: “I am searching for Señor Mallison.”

Again light flickered in the Malay’s dark eyes. Then he shook his head.

“For many days he has not come here,” he said. “I trust that he is not ill.”

The Island detective spoke with a touch of grimness in his voice.

“I trust—that he is not,” he agreed.

Kayil smiled broadly and said:

“You will dine here, Señor Gar.”

He spoke the name loudly, too loudly, but the faint smile did not go from Jo’s face.

“I have already dined,” he said, and turned very slowly so that he faced the corner table again.

His small body stiffened; his gray-blue eyes got very small. The chair had been shoved back from the table in the corner, and the tall, thin one with the yellow face was gone. Jo Gar’s eyes moved to the left; a Malay was coming through a swinging door with food on a tray. The Island detective said:

“The one who was eating there—he has left.”

Kayil looked towards the shoved-back chair and his eyes widened. He spoke to the waiter with the tray, in Malay, and the waiter answered that the tall one had paid for his food. Kayil shrugged.

“Through the kitchen one reaches the river street,” he said. “Sometimes customers enter and leave in that manner.”

Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. “But you had never seen this one before,” he reminded. “And you see all who enter here. A stranger would not be likely to leave through your kitchen.”

Kayil’s eyes grew small and bright. Jo Gar said:

“It is wise to be honest. I search for Señor Mallison—and also for one named Tavar, who works for Mallison.”

The Malay looked puzzled. “One named—Tavar?” he said thoughtfully.

Jo Gar said: “I think it was Tavar who just left, through your kitchen.”

Kayil shrugged and said: “Perhaps—I do not know, Señor Gar.”

Jo Gar smiled coldly. “I shall leave in the same manner,” he said.

He watched the Malay’s expression, without seeming to do so, but Kayil was being very careful now. His face was a brown mask and only his eyes seemed alive. The Island detective walked to the swinging door, pushed it aside and entered a small and not too clean kitchen. A cook blinked at him and muttered in Malay. Jo Gar went close to the cook and was feeling in his pocket for
pesos
when he heard footfalls behind him. He turned away from the cook, only glancing at Kayil. Through another doorway he reached an alley. It was very narrow, and beyond it he could see the river street and the
sampans
tied one alongside of another.

There was a low
adobé
wall running the left side length of the alley, and it was very dark. Jo Gar turned and went back into the kitchen. Kayil was smiling at him.

“I have changed my mind,” Jo said quietly. “I will leave as I entered.”

The Malay said: “That way is closer to the Escolta, Señor Gar.”

His voice held a peculiar, grimly amused tone. The Island detective nodded. He went from the low-ceilinged room to the street, and turned away from the river. He said very softly:

“Twice this evening—I have not followed after—”

He broke off, shrugging his narrow shoulders. As he neared the Escolta, with the gusts of typhoon wind tearing at his duck suiting and eddies of dust whirling in the narrow street, he breathed again:

“A swift pursuit is not always wise—”

He turned back in the direction of his office, and as he neared the store front occupied by the chief Filipino paper he saw that a crowd had gathered before it.

At first he thought that the crowd was seeking news regarding the center of the approaching typhoon, but when he arrived in front of the pasted bulletin he saw that he had been mistaken. The bulletin was a brief one.

At nine-fifty the body of John Mallison had been pulled from the Pasig by two Filipino
sampan
men. Mallison had been alive before he was pulled out—the
sampan
men had heard his weak cries for help as his body had drifted down-stream. But he had been dead by the time a doctor reached the
sampan
to which he had been lifted, and he had not spoken after being pulled from the water. He had been stabbed twice in the throat and several times around the heart. The Manila police, working under Lieutenant Sadi Ratan, were seeking the criminal or criminals

It was almost midnight. Sadi Ratan sat in a chair before his polished desk in the police office assigned to him, his well-built body facing Jo Gar. He looked very handsome; his brown face was carefully shaven and his dark eyes held a slightly amused expression.

“He was a fool,” he said with assurance. “To go among rivermen after dusk, with a valuable piece of jade on his person—that is very foolish. He was murdered for the jade piece, that is all. It is very simple.”

The Island detective said: “Who was it that saw this piece he was murdered for, Lieutenant?”

Sadi Ratan smiled. “A Malay by the name of Kayil, who has come to me to tell of it. A waiter in his eating place. And a Filipino by the name of Vincente Galo, who was dining there. The Malay owner of the place says that the American had been drinking.”

Jo Gar nodded. “It appears to be very simple,” he agreed.

The police lieutenant smiled broadly. “Very,” he agreed. “You waste your time, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective shook his head. He spoke pleasantly to the man he knew hated him.

“Mallison was taken from the river at nine-fifty,” he said. “Shortly after ten I talked with the Malay, Kayil. I said that I was looking for Mallison and the Malay told me he had not been at his place for many days. He said he trusted Mallison was not ill.”

The lieutenant of police nodded and continued to smile. “So he has said,” he replied calmly.

“He did not at the time he talked with you know that Mallison had been murdered, of course. He says that he makes a practice of giving very little information about his customers. He has found it is not good for his trade.”

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette. “He is very thoughtful,” he said quietly.

Sadi Ratan nodded and showed even, white teeth.

“He has been of great help to us,” he said simply. “We have heard from other sources that the American had been drinking heavily.”

Jo Gar narrowed his almond-shaped eyes and ran browned, short fingers through his graying hair. There was a little silence, broken only by the sound wind made against screens. Then the Island detective said:

“I have been paid a retaining fee by the dead man. Some five thousand dollars’ worth of carved jade had been stolen from him, and he suspected an employee. He wished me to meet him at my office tonight. He arrived early and left a note. When I arrived a knife was thrown at me.”

Sadi Ratan sat up stiffly. He said:

“A knife was thrown at you?”

Jo nodded.

The police lieutenant relaxed. “It is good that it did not strike you,” he said in a not too convincing tone. “But then, you have enemies in Manila.”

The Island detective nodded. “That is so,” he agreed. “But Mallison named the employee he felt had stolen his jade, in the note he left. It might have been that he was followed, and that this employee was afraid of me—and threw the knife.”

Sadi Ratan said with a smile: “You mean that Mallison’s China man, David Tavar, might have thrown the knife?”

Jo Gar’s thin lips were pressed tightly together. He half closed his eyes, and tried not to show the surprise he felt.

Sadi Ratan was enjoying himself. “Tavar was the one Mallison wrote he suspected, I suppose,” he said too calmly. “Tavar came to me days ago, telling me that Mallison was drinking heavily and that Mallison hated him. He said that he was afraid Mallison might attempt to trap him in some way, and that he was acting very foolish with his jade.”

The police lieutenant inspected his fingernails, and yawned. Jo Gar said:

“Yes, Mallison wrote that he suspected Tavar. I have never seen Tavar. Is he tall and thin, with high cheek bones—”

The police lieutenant shook his head, chuckling. “On the contrary, he is short and rather fat. Black hair and a small mustache. A very jolly fellow.”

The Island detective pulled on his cigarette. Wind made hissing noise against a screen. Lieutenant Ratan said in a pleased tone:

“The center of the typhoon will pass to the northward. That is good.”

Jo Gar looked at the mat on which he was standing.

“You believe Mallison—or Tavar?” he asked.

Sadi Ratan shrugged. “Mallison made no complaint to the police. You are a private detective. He went to you. But Tavar came to me. He was with friends from seven until eleven tonight—I have their names.”

Jo smiled a little grimly. “Friends are often kind,” he said.

Sadi Ratan spoke in an irritated tone. “John Mallison had been drinking heavily. He had been foolish with his jade. He was foolish again tonight. He hated an employee, and he wished to hurt him. Tonight he talked too much, and he was murdered, knifed for the jade pieces he had with him and which several persons saw.”

Jo Gar spoke thoughtfully. “And he was murdered at a time when the man he suspected or
said
he suspected of robbery, was with friends.”

The police Lieutenant nodded. “Yes,” he said.

Jo smiled.
“Why
did Mallison hate this China man of his?” he asked.

The lieutenant smiled back at the Island detective.

“Because of a woman,” he said “You do not perhaps think the reason sufficient?”

Jo said: “Completely sufficient, Lieutenant. The woman is unnamed?”

Once again the amused expression showed in Sadi Ratan’s eyes.

“I have her name,” he said. “Sorry, Señor Gar.”

Jo Gar bowed slightly. “And you will report the murder as one growing out of robbery—by rivermen, probably.”

Sadi Ratan nodded. “Murder because the American was a drunken fool,” he said. “Still—we shall try of course to find the murderer or murderers.”

Jo said, nodding: “You place no importance on the note Mallison left for me, or the fact that he retained me? Or the fact that he named this Tavar?”

Sadi Ratan smiled. “Mallison hated his China man,” he said shortly. “I am convinced of that.”

Jo frowned. “You have released Tavar?” he asked.

The police lieutenant spoke with impatience.

“He was never arrested, detained. He came to me of his own accord.”

Jo nodded. “Of course,” he said thoughtfully, and turned towards the doorway of the office.

The police lieutenant spoke cheerfully. “Be careful, Señor Gar, I am sorry to hear of that knife that was thrown.”

Jo faced the lieutenant, smiling. “You are kind,” he said quietly. “I shall be very careful, Lieutenant.”

He bowed and went from the office. In the street, not many feet from the Escolta, he breathed to himself:

“Very careful, Lieutenant—much more careful I think than you have been.”

Music sounded in Kayil’s place—the music of a thin-toned piano and a violin. It was a few minutes after one. Jo Gar stood at the end of the alley that led to the kitchen for several seconds, his expressionless eyes almost closed. The typhoon wind was making sound along the river behind him—
sampan
men were working to keep their craft from battering against each other, but there was no flare of torches.

The music died and the Island detective shrugged his narrow shoulders. He transferred his Colt to the right side pocket of his duck coat, kept fingers on the grip of the weapon. With his left hand he pushed open the kitchen door, went inside.

The Malay chef blinked at him in the glare of heaped coals. Jo Gar smiled and went across the dirty kitchen and into the room beyond. It was well filled with humans—Malay, Chinese, Japanese and Filipinos. They were men of the river, and some of them had women with them. They were poor men, and rough looking. One very tall Malay stood near the other entrance to the room, talking with Kayil whose back was turned to the Island detective.

Jo Gar let his eyes move about the room; he saw the one he had seen earlier, sitting in the same corner, alone. The man was watching him; the color of his cheekbones showed yellow in the dull light.

The Island detective moved to the table in the corner, smiling a little. When he reached the table he halted and looked down at the tall, thin one. He spoke first in Chinese, very softly and rapidly, and when he had finished the thin one shook his head.

Jo spoke in Filipino, saying: “I would like to sit with you and talk.”

There was a stupid expression in the dark eyes of the seated one. He shook his head slowly from side to side.

Jo Gar said in English: “I wish to talk with you.”

The seated one spoke very hoarsely yet softly. “What is it—that you want?”

Jo Gar moved aside, smiling, and pulled over a rough bamboo chair from another table. The piano and violin made sound again, from a far corner of the room. The Island detective sat down, keeping fingers on his gun. He leaned across the table, so that his head was not far from the yellow-faced one’s.