West of Guam Page 10

  He smoked a brown-paper cigarette, rose slowly and strolled towards the patio. Outside the air was cool and filled with the sweetish odor of tropical growth. The water of the Bay, on which the Club patio fronted, was roughed up. Jo Gar could see the white-caps in the faint light that reached the sand from the Club. He stepped down from the porch, moved along the path. A gust of wind rocked his slight frame; he turned his head to the right. His keen eyes caught a faint movement beyond the palms that swayed close to the path, there was something white—a flash of it.

  Jo Gar took one step forward. He called out, rather sharply, in English:

  “Hello, there!”

  Something white flashed again. The Island detective was rocking back on his heels now. He let the gust of the typhoon gale carry him backward. There was a faint hiss—his blown coat material ripped, jerked. With one movement he had the knife pulled from the cloth—it had slashed through the pongee until the hilt had caught.

  He turned towards the swaying palms. For seconds he hesitated. Then he swung around, moved back towards the Club patio. The light was uncertain. He would be foolish to take chances in the fairly thick growth of palm.

  Inside the Club he went to his favorite chair. He was calm enough, though he felt suddenly let-down. The blade of the knife had not even pricked his skin, but it had been a very narrow escape. There was no other human in the room; he inspected the weapon. It was small, with a tapered, thin blade. The handle of wood had been wrapped in native grass. The wrapping would make the matter of discovering fingerprints extremely difficult.

  After a few minutes of examination he wrapped the knife carefully in a handkerchief, placed it in a pocket of his suit. He examined the tear in the material, smiling rather grimly. He finished one cigarette, lighted another. A small Filipino boy, very young, came into the room and called softly:

  “Señor Gar.”

  The Island detective rose. It was the telephone. He recognized Harnville’s voice. The Englishman spoke with something that approached a pleasantness of tone.

  “I want to apologize for my hastiness in leaving you—and for my lack of politeness,” Harnville said. “As my chauffeur was passing the Manila Hotel I realized that my feelings had got beyond control. So I had him stop—and I am calling to apologize. Affairs at the plantation have worried me. I am sorry for being so abrupt.”

  Jo Gar said: “I understand, Mr. Harnville. It is nothing—do not think more of it.”

  Outside the small booth Jo Gar glanced at his watch. It was nine-fifteen. It had been about ten minutes since the Englishman had left him. That would give Harnville just about time to reach the Manila Hotel, at the far end of the Luneta. Just about time. Perhaps his driver had sped along. One thing was certain—Harnville had wanted him to know he was calling from the Manila Hotel. Had wanted someone to know.

  Jo Gar got his soft straw, went outside and called for a carromatta. He gave the address, just off the Escolta, of the frame building in which he had an office. He relaxed in the seat back of the driver. When they got to the Luneta the wind rocked the cab. The rain was starting. As yet it was hardly more than a wind driven mist. Jo Gar murmured to himself:

  “It will be a storm, perhaps bad. Harnville has never been friendly with me. Yet he is extremely anxious for me to go to his plantation. Native help are cheap. Why does he care about two deaths?”

  The Island detective was smiling almost gently when the carromatta reached the address just off the Escolta. He paid the fare, went up to his small office. It was not a particularly comfortable place, he was seldom in it. The door was unlocked—the office was in darkness. But Gar’s ears were extremely sensitive; there was the breathing of a human. He snapped the switch—Juan Arragon was seated in the most comfortable of the two wicker chairs. He smiled at Gar.

  “I have been seated in the dark, thinking,” he said. “Your office was not locked.”

  The Island detective smiled. “It holds nothing of importance,” he replied. “Until you arrived, Juan, it was unimportant.”

  The lieutenant of the Manila police grinned up at him. He said: “You have torn your coat, Jo.”

  The Island detective nodded. “The wind is strong enough to blow one against things,” he replied.

  Arragon smiled with his lips. “Sharp things,” he said. “Like knife blades.”

  Jo Gar placed his hat on a small wicker table, seated himself near Juan and took the wrapped weapon from his pocket. He said as Juan gazed at it:

  “I have enemies, Juan. That is too bad. But I have friends, also. I was offered a trip to an Island plantation. Two natives have died there—suddenly. There was a pleasant fee; it is nice to know you are trusted. But I decided not to go. On a path near the patio of the Civilian Club this knife came in contact with my coat. That is not nice.”

  Juan Arragon widened his eyes. He said: “You did not catch the one who tossed it?”

  Jo Gar smiled. “I do not chase knife throwers among palms, at night,” he replied. “You have been here long?”

  The police lieutenant shook his head. “Not more than a half hour,” he rated. “I thought you would come here, after the news reached you.”

  The Island detective said slowly: “The news has not reached me—what is it?”

  Juan Arragon frowned. “I thought you had heard,” he said. “Sam Ying departed suddenly on the Toya Maru, for China.”

  Jo Gar relaxed in his chair. Sam Ying was a wealthy Chinese, an extremely wealthy Oriental. For several years the police had been attempting to stop his traffic with various races in Manila. It was Sam Ying who furnished drink and dope to the poor, and accordingly became wealthy. It was Sam Ying who was to blame when a coolie went berserk and slashed other humans with a knife. But these facts the police had found it difficult to prove. And now Ying had gone away from the Islands.

  “It is true—that is news,” Jo Gar stated. “But it appears to be good news. And why do you feel it would bring me here?”

  Juan Arragon leaned forward in his wicker. He said quietly:

  “You have been working against Ying for a month or so. There was a subscription taken up by several good citizens of Manila. You were selected by them to investigate Sam Ying’s affairs. So, I thought you would come to the office, after learning the news.”

  Juan Arragon smiled and relaxed in the wicker chair. Jo Gar smiled, too. He glanced at the blade of the knife resting on the table, touched it with his browned fingers.

  “The police are observant,” he said slowly. “It is so, of course. Perhaps, though, you do not think Sam Ying departed on the Toya Maru. Perhaps there was a Chinese aboard who somewhat resembled Ying, and who registered under Ying’s name. Perhaps you sent a radio to the vessel, and received a reply saying that the man aboard did not answer to your very complete description. And perhaps you have come to tell me that.”

  Arragon widened his dark eyes on the gray-blue ones of the Island detective. He said:

  “You think of too many things. But, it is so. The Sam Ying the police have been interested in is not aboard. We were curious, though we have no charges against him. We knew that you were more interested than we—you have aided us—I come to you.”

  Jo Gar nodded. “It is good of you,” he said politely. “Have you any idea why Ying should be registered—and not aboard?”

  Arragon shook his head. But his eyes held a peculiar expression.

  He rose.

  “There will be the usual storm troubles—I must go,” he said.

  Jo Gar rose, too. He said quietly: “It is fortunate I did not agree to sail from Manila. Perhaps I would have missed something.”

  Juan Arragon nodded. “It is fortunate the thrown knife did not strike your body,” he observed.

  Jo Gar stopped smiling. He said quietly:

  “Typhoon winds all blow towards a moving center. The center is quite calm. Perhaps Sam Ying is now dozing comfortably, not thinking of knives or trips to remote islands.”

  Juan Arragon said: “Perh
aps he will sleep a long time, Jo.”

  Jo Gar shook his head. “He is worth much more alive,” he observed. “He will give much to remain so.”

  The police lieutenant nodded. “There might have been a mistake, aboard the Toya Maru, of course. But I do not think so.”

  Jo Gar smiled wearily. “Sam Ying was very much in love with that half-breed girl. I saw her on the Escolta, only a few hours ago. I do not think he would leave her so hurriedly, carelessly.”

  Juan Arragon frowned. “Her name is Castrone—Rosa Castrone.

  She lives on the Avenida—”

  “I know,” Jo Gar interrupted quietly. “Perhaps I shall go there first. It is a quiet street—there would be less danger from knives that fly through the air.”

  Arragon smiled with grim, small eyes. As he went out he said softly:

  “A journey away from Manila might have been wiser, Jo.”

  The Island detective nodded. “I am like the cock Rameriz had at the Casa Club, two weeks ago,” he said. “You remember—it was almost blind. It didn’t seem to know just where to leap. But it would not be beaten.”

  Juan Arragon was at the head of the stairs now. He smiled at Jo Gar.

  “You are not so blind, Jo,” he stated. The Island detective shrugged.

  “I am not so blind as to make long journeys without knowing sufficient things,” he said. “I am not so blind as to walk into the path of a thrown knife.”

  Arragon said: “Or to believe that our friend is really aboard the

  Toya Maru.”

  Jo Gar chuckled. “That is where he would like to be, I think,” he said, and went back into his tiny office.

  Rosa Castrone was a plump girl of perhaps twenty. She had blue eyes and blonde hair, but she was not the true Spanish type. She was half Filipino; her lips were too thick and her features too big. The house on the Avenida Mandiez was small and simply furnished; the boy had taken Jo Gar into a room that was filled with storm sounds. Rosa had come after a few minutes. They had spoken first of the storm. Now Jo said:

  “I was surprised to learn that Sam Ying had departed so suddenly. We are friends. He has spoken of you. I think he is much in love with you, and I think he is to be envied. Will he return soon, do you know?”

  She said quietly: “He will be back within the month. It was a business trip. But you are mistaken—Sam Ying is not in love with me. We have been just friends.”

  Jo Gar widened his eyes. He decided that Rosa Castrone was lying. He said:

  “I have money for him—quite a large amount. He has told me that should he suddenly go away you would act for him. He has no family in Manila, no relations.”

  The girl was staring at him. She started to speak, but her lips closed tightly. Jo said:

  “It is not always easy to raise a large sum of money hurriedly. That is why Sam Ying came to me and made arrangements. Perhaps he left some word with you, some address.”

  Suspicion showed in her eyes. She shook her head. “I do not understand,” she said.

  Jo Gar smiled. “I will be very definite,” he told her. “Sam Ying saw much of you before he departed. He did not depart, however, on the Toya Maru. A Chinese answering his description in a general way, and registering as Sam Ying did depart. Sam Ying is very wealthy, but his wealth was not all obtained strictly according to Island law.”

  He stopped. He was still smiling, but Rosa Castrone had become sullen. Her eyes were narrowed on his. She shrugged.

  “Sam Ying went to China,” she said. “That is all I know.” Jo nodded.

  “Sam Ying has been kidnapped,” he stated quietly. “He is being held because he will not pay an amount of money. It is bad of you not to pay it.”

  She laughed harshly. She turned her back on him and walked towards a window, the shutters of which were drawn. The wind was singing through the palms beyond the house—the avenida was fringed with them. Suddenly she faced him.

  “Why do you say that?” she flared. “Why is it bad of me not to pay it? You have just said that you have money for him—that he came to you and made arrangements. Why do you not—”

  She stopped abruptly. The expression in Jo Gar’s eyes stopped her. He was smiling in a cold mocking way.

  “So you do admit that someone must pay money?” he said in a quiet tone. “Ying is not then aboard the Toya Maru?”

  There was hatred in her eyes. She was breathing heavily.

  “I do not know what you are saying,” she said. “You are not of the Island police—they do not want Sam Ying. You have not been sent for, Señor Gar. It is late in the evening—all I know is—”

  She hesitated. Then she shrugged her rather thick shoulders. “Sam Ying has gone to China,” she said. “He sailed on the Toya

  Maru.”

  Jo Gar bowed just a little. He was smiling almost pleasantly.

  “I am sorry to have made you admit that he is being held for a large sum of money,” he stated. “He is in an unfortunate position—he cannot call for the police. Perhaps he was himself forced to go to the steamship office and register for the journey he did not make. Sam Ying is himself beyond the law.”

  Rosa said sharply: “What do you care? What does it matter to you? You would be anxious to bring charges against him. He gave you no money—you are keeping none for him. He never went to you. You have lied to me!”

  The Island detective smiled, shrugged his narrow shoulders. He said:

  “You have lied to me.” He moved close to her; his eyes were on hers. “So has Mr. Harnville.”

  For a second he was sure fear flickered in the blue of her eyes—and then she was staring at him almost stupidly. He moved away from her, but he did not turn his back.

  “If Sam Ying was being held—and you were to blunder—he would be killed,” she said suddenly.

  Jo Gar frowned at her.

  “That would be unfortunate,” he replied, “for you.” She cried out shrilly, in a rage:

  “What have I—to do with it?”

  He smiled at her. He shrugged. At a sharp clap of his hands the house-boy came pattering into the room. Jo Gar beckoned to him. The boy came to his side. He was very small, with large, black eyes. He looked very innocent.

  With a swift movement the Island detective slipped the wrapped knife from his pocket.

  He unwrapped it—held it towards the house-boy. “Yours?” he said.

  The boy reached for the weapon. His face was expressionless. There was no fear in his eyes. His hands were steady. He said slowly:

  “She not mine—mine out back.”

  Jo Gar grinned. Rosa Castrone was standing near a tall cabinet of dark wood. She had gained control of herself; her eyes met the Island detective’s. They held a mocking expression. Jo said:

  “But you do dress your house-boy in khaki colored clothes, not white?”

  She straightened. “I dress him in khaki,” she said defiantly. “He is a good boy. I dress him as I please. I do not want you here—”

  Jo Gar took the knife from the boy’s brown fingers. He said: “I would have gone sooner had you not lied to me.”

  She made a clicking sound with her tongue and mouth. It denoted disgust. She motioned to the boy; he went into the small hall, stood near the door that led to the street. Jo Gar said, quietly: “The typhoon is growing more severe—it will be bad for the houses along the Bay.” She said nothing. Jo Gar went out and moved towards the caleso whose driver was huddled down in the seat trying to protect himself from wind and rain. The Island detective did not like machines; he preferred a pony hauled carromatta to the caleso. But a horse got along better in wind and rain.

  He instructed the driver to take him back to the Escolta, to cross the Bridge of Spain, skirt the Walled City and drive towards the Bay. The Filipino grumbled; he did not like the wind. But he drove. Jo Gar leaned back in the seat behind. He murmured to himself:

  “Sam Ying is no good. He has been kidnapped. Mr. Harnville, I think, is involved. He compliments me by seeking to have m
e leave Manila. I refuse—a knife is thrown. Very shortly after this Mr. Harnville phones me. Perhaps he is surprised to hear my voice. Perhaps he expected another to answer, in which case he would make sure that person knew he had called, and the exact hour. He felt that he might need an alibi.”

  The caleso rocked as a gust of wind caught it. The Filipino shrilled words at the horse. Rain slapped against the wood of the carriage. They were nearing the Escolta. Jo Gar lighted a cigarette with difficulty. He settled back in the seat.

  “Sam Ying is being held for ransom but I do not think he will be released when it is paid. Rosa Castrone would like to talk, but she is afraid. I do not think she knows where Sam Ying is a prisoner. Perhaps Mr. Harnville does. Perhaps he is not afraid to talk—”

  The Island detective hunched down in the seat, allowed his body to sway with the caleso. His thin lips were pressed tightly together. Twenty minutes later, as the caleso stopped before the palm fringed path of the Harnville house, he smiled at the driver and tipped generously. He was in a good humor. In the wind swayed caleso an idea had come to him—either a very good or a very bad idea.

  A Spanish servant opened the door, showed him to a large room that faced the Bay. The house shook under the blasts of wind; Jo Gar was breathing heavily from his short walk up the path. He waited for almost ten minutes before Harnville entered. The Englishman was carefully dressed in duck; he was freshly shaven. But he frowned at Jo.

  “A bit late, isn’t it, Señor Gar?” he asked. “Getting along toward midnight.”

  Jo nodded. He smiled pleasantly. “I am sorry,” he said. “I’ve come to ask you about Sam Ying.”

  Harnville looked puzzled. “Ying?” he muttered. “That fat chink who peddles the bad stuff around the Pasig?”

  Jo nodded again. “It is the gentleman,” he said. “He is extremely obese.”

  Harnville frowned. “You come to me at this hour of the night to talk about a chink!” he said, raising his voice. “What would I know about Ying?”

  The Island detective shrugged. “Perhaps you know he left on the Toya Maru, for China,” he said slowly.

  A slow smile spread across Harnville’s long face. “That isn’t a secret, is it?” he asked.