West of Guam (57 page)

“The newspapers are complimenting you, Lieutenant,” he stated pleasantly. “But then, they have done that before.”

Sadi Ratan frowned. “I have made mistakes,” he said. “They have complimented me too soon. But this time I am right. Sarong was the murderer. You arrived on the scene ahead of me, Señor Gar, but you reasoned poorly. I regret that, sincerely.”

Jo Gar smiled and bowed. “I would regret it also, Lieutenant,” he replied cheerfully, “if I believed it was so.”

The Island detective drove through the
Luneta,
between the Manila Hotel and the Army and Navy Club while the Constabulary Band was playing its final number. The sun was very low, beyond the Island of Cavite, but tonight there were no clouds in the sky and the sunset was not beautiful. The driver of the
caleso
made low, clucking sounds to his thin horse, and Jo Gar smoked a brown-paper cigarette.

Near the Army and Navy Club he told the driver to stop, and descended from the carriage. He walked slowly along the avenue that wound nearest the Bay and when he was within five hundred yards of the Wall house it was almost dark.

When he reached the gate on the avenue frontage of the place the twilight was rapidly fading; it was gone as he used the key he had obtained from Wall an hour ago, in the city. There were no lights showing; Harvey Wall was staying with friends for the night. Jo Gar moved very quietly through the foliage just off the cinder path, circled the house and approached the spot where the black
sampan
rested, from the far side.

He stood motionless for almost five minutes, listening carefully. Gulls were crying, over the water, but the parrot did not make sound. The Island detective raised his eyes and saw the dark shape of the house rising beyond the
sampan.
He smiled faintly, waited another five minutes. There were no alien sounds to be heard; his smile became a frown.

And then, as he bent down and got first on his knees, then flat on the ground, he heard the light noise of footfalls. They seemed to be coming from the direction of the Bay. At intervals they ceased completely, then he would hear them again. And they increased in sound—the one who was making them was coming nearer.

The light from the stars was brighter tonight, but Jo Gar did not move his head as the person who was making the footfall sounds passed within ten yards of him. He waited for almost a minute, and when the sounds were very light he looked up. The black
sampan
was only a shape in the semi-darkness—a coffin-like shape, with the mast a tombstone.

But near it stood a small figure—and as his eyes became accustomed to the light Jo saw that it was the girl, Maria Tondo. She was standing motionless near the
sampan,
but her head was thrown back. She was looking, Jo realized, not at the craft but at the house.

For several seconds she stood without making any movement. Then she turned and moved back towards the Bay, passing so close to him as he lay flat among the dried palm leaves and shrubbery that he could hear her even breathing.

After another thirty seconds or so he raised his head. He got very slowly to his feet, moved carefully through the fringe of palms towards the beach and the water of the Bay. When he reached the Bay side of the palm thicket he could see her walking along the beach. Near the end of the Wall property line there was an outrigger that Harvey Wall sometimes used for swimming. The girl went straight to it, seated herself on it. Her back was to Jo Gar—she was facing the beach of Herr Saaden.

Jo Gar straightened and smiled grimly. He worked his way slowly along the edge of the palm fringe, getting nearer the outrigger. It was slow work, and once he halted for seconds and fingered the Colt in the right-hand pocket of his lightweight suit, getting the safety lock off.

When he reached a spot almost opposite the beached outrigger he crouched low and waited. The figure of the girl was very still. And then, from some spot farther along the fringe of palms, he heard a long, low whistle.

The girl’s body moved. She stood up, but did not go away from the outrigger. She turned her head slightly and whistled as the other had whistled—long and softly.

Jo Gar’s gray-blue eyes were expressionless as he waited. When the figure of the man came along the sand he drew in a short breath. He slipped his right hand into the right pocket of his coat and closed his short fingers over the grip of the gun.

When the man reached the girl’s side he took her in his arms. Their bodies were close together for seconds. They stood facing the water, after a time, and Jo could hear the low murmur of their voices.

He stepped out from the fringe of palms; moved as quietly as he could across the pebbles and sand of the narrow beach. His eyes were on the two figures; they had stopped talking now. When he was within twenty-five feet of them, directly behind them, his right shoe struck against a piece of driftwood. The sound was sharp, and they both swung around.

Jo Gar walked forward, a smile on his face. The sand gave light to the scene, and he watched their hands carefully. The man’s breath was coming sharply. The girl’s eyes were wide. She said in a half whisper:

“Señor—Gar!”

Jo Gar smiled more broadly. He nodded his head, and stopped within ten feet of them. The man was a Filipino—he had a sharp face and a small mustache. His hair was very black and clipped short. He wore a white shirt and white trousers, and his feet were bare. There was a red sash around his waist.

The Island detective said: “Yes, it is Señor Gar. And this is the house-boy, Carinto, I suppose? The house-boy of Herr Saaden.”

The Filipino’s thick lips parted; he half muttered something, nodding his head jerkily. Jo Gar continued to smile. His eyes flickered to the eyes of the girl.

“You do not grieve long,” he said with faint mockery. “One love is dead—only a short time. Yet already you have another.”

The girl’s body stiffened, and the man made a slight movement with his left hand.

Jo Gar said sharply: “No! My fingers hold a gun!”

There was silence except for the short breathing of the two. Jo Gar looked at the Filipino and said softly:

“The house-boy of Herr Saaden—and the murderer of Vincente!” The girl screamed and raised her hands to her face. The Filipino ripped at the left side of his red scarf and the blade of the knife shone in the beach light. But he did not throw it. Instead he leaped forward, the knife held low in his hand. His arm was moving upward as he leaped.

Jo Gar twisted to one side and squeezed the trigger of the Colt. The Filipino groaned as the shot crashed; he fell heavily to the sand near the feet of the Island detective. The girl screamed again, took her hands away from her face and rushed at him. Jo Gar lifted his gun again, let his hand drop. The girl was tearing at him with her fingers, when he got a grip on her throat. His skin was ripped twice before she was quiet, relaxed in his arms.

He let her slip to the sand, turned the house-boy over on his back. The knife he twisted from his weak grip. There were cries from the direction of the Saaden house, and the beams of flashlights were showing.

Jo Gar straightened up and looked down at the Filipino. The girl stirred in the sand and moaned. Jo Gar said heavily:

“The bullet is in your shoulder—you won’t die—yet. Why did you—murder Vincente?”

Carinto cursed in his native tongue. The girl pulled herself to her knees and faced Jo.

“If we tell the truth—will it help?” she asked.

Jo Gar nodded. “The truth always helps,” he said a little grimly. “How much, I cannot say.”

The girl said: “We’d saved money—to get married. Vincente did not want it. He saw that Juan drank, and then he gambled with him. He won all of his money. Juan did not think it was honest, and he knew why Vincente had done it. He caught him near the black
sampan
—and killed him. Vincente screamed, but Juan did not care. He put him on the
sampan.
He said it looked like a coffin—and he got away. He thought that Sarong would be suspected, because he knew the Chinese hated Vincente. He had lost money to him also—and the two had quarreled much. Juan thought that Señor Wall knew that, but he did not. I went to the house tonight; it was dark and I thought we were safe—”

Her voice broke. The thick voice of Herr Saaden was calling, and Jo Gar answered him. On the sand Juan Carinto was groaning. Jo Gar held his Colt low at his side; his eyes were expressionless. He nodded his head very slowly.

“It will interest Lieutenant Ratan to know that he was correct in one thing,” he murmured tonelessly. “He said that murder was almost always for a woman or money.”

The flashlight beams were moving nearer and the voices were growing louder. Jo Gar looked out over the water and sighed.

“And Vincente spent so much time painting the spot where his body was to rest,” he said with irony. “He even chose the proper color—”

Herr Saaden came limping up and asked questions. Jo Gar answered them, and after a short silence he said:

“We will take the wounded man to your house, and from there I will call Lieutenant Ratan.”

The Dutchman nodded his head. “He will be pleased,” he said seriously.

Jo Gar smiled a little grimly. “He will be delighted,” he said. “When he realizes that he did not recognize what a poor actress your kitchen maid is, and that he thought Sarong was much more clever than I did, and that he failed to wonder why your house-boy, Carinto, was so eager to come forward and state that he had seen the Chinese practicing with knives—he will be delighted.”

Herr Saaden looked puzzled, but Jo Gar only smiled very faintly. He was not very concerned—whether Herr Saaden understood or not.

Alwin threaded his way slowly between the table-crowded Pasig Café; his stubby fingers were moving the thin stem of a palm fan and his fat face was beaded with perspiration. Jo Gar looked up from his tall claret and widened his blue-gray eyes slightly. It was seldom anyone in Manila saw Alwin frown; the big man was exceedingly good-natured. Yet he was frowning now.

He turned sidewise and his bulk rocked a table as he squeezed between two of them. An empty glass crashed to the polished floor of the café, but Alwin did not even turn to look at it. He came on slowly until he reached the table at which Jo Gar sat. With his eyes on Jo he pulled out the other chair; it creaked under his weight.

The Island detective smiled faintly. “It is the curry that you eat that gives you such weight,” he said.

Alwin paid no attention to him. He lighted what was left of the cold, twisted cigar between his thick lips His stubby fingers took it away from his teeth and he leaned towards Gar.

“I have just had a telegram from Rooder,” he said. “Jack Branders is dead.”

Jo Gar’s eyes became less almond shaped as he widened them on the black ones of Roger Alwin.

“Branders dead,” he said very slowly. “It was an—accident?”

Alwin’s eyes grew hard. “He crashed in his airplane,” he said softly and in a strange tone. “He was taking off from that field near his plantation house, if you want to call that fruit place of his a plantation. Something went wrong. The plane went over on a wing, crashed. Perhaps only one hundred feet. Branders was dead when Carter and Tate got to the ship, after hearing the crash. They were in the house taking a
siesta.
That’s all that was in the telegram.”

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. Alwin wiped perspiration from his face with a large handkerchief. The ceiling fans made faint tinkling sounds and from the
Calle Diaz
came the shrill cries of the native nut sellers. Heat came into the café in waves, and the ceiling fans distributed them.

The Island detective said: “It is too bad—I had heard that Branders intended to stop flying.”

Alwin’s black eyes seemed very small. “He called me this morning at ten o’clock and asked me to find a buyer for the plane,” he said grimly. “He said he would never fly again. He wanted me to find a buyer quietly, and he said he didn’t intend to tell anyone on the plantation that he was going to quit.”

Jo Gar whistled very softly. His eyes read the thought back of Alwin’s. That thought was that Branders was known as a man of decision. He took time in making decisions, but once made there was never any change. Drink had almost beaten him before he had decided never to touch liquor again. He had decided one evening at the Manila Club. So far as anyone the Island detective knew was concerned, he had never been seen to drink liquor again. His house-boy had stolen from him, after five years of service. Branders liked the house-boy, but he told him that if he ever stole again, he would send him to Bilibid. He caught the house-boy, almost a year later, in the act of stealing some small silver change. He had sent him to Bilibid—the boy was still in prison. There were other cases.

The Island detective spoke very softly: “Did he tell you
why
he intended never to fly again?”

The fat man nodded; his eyes were very grim. “He has wanted to marry a woman in England—for several years. She has refused again and again. This morning in his mail there was a letter saying she would marry him. He intended to take no more risk—lately he has had several narrow escapes. The country out there is not good for flying.”

Jo Gar said steadily. “He did not say anything about having one last flight?”

Alwin pounded a fist on the wood of the table, and glasses jumped about. He got his big head nearer Jo’s.

“Damn it—I tell you he said he was through! ‘I’ll never fly again!’ he said. And he said it that way. I tell you he
meant
he was through.” Jo nodded and ran browned fingers through his graying hair. He shifted his small, slender body a little, and reached into a pocket of his duck suit for a loose, brown-paper cigarette. He did not speak.

The big man said: “I want you to go up there, Señor Gar. When can you start?”

The Island detective looked thoughtfully at the big clock on a bare wall of the café. It was almost four o’clock. He said:

“I can go by train to Carejo—and I think there is a train at six. I will be there almost at midnight, and someone from the plantation can meet me and drive me over.”