West of Guam (15 page)

Jo Gar said:

“I think we shall go inside. We will go openly—you stay in the rear. I will knock upon the door.”

They moved across the dimly lighted street. Juan Arragon went around to rear—Jo knocked on the dark wood of the door. He stood with his right hand fingers touching the grip of his Colt lightly. His eyes moved constantly. No one came. He knocked again. When they broke open the door, five minutes later, there was no sound from within. The house was poorly furnished. There were crude toys scattered about—no humans were about. Juan Arragon said:

“I will ask questions, next door.”

When he returned he said that a Chinese family rented the house. They had many children and had been in the provinces for several days. The neighbors knew little about them.

Jo Gar shrugged. “Harnville was clever—or the
caleso
driver lied,” he said simply. “There is no typhoon cellar in the place.”

Juan Arragon muttered to himself. They went outside the house, after bracing the broken door securely. Juan said:

“Perhaps you were wrong, Jo—perhaps Harnville did not leave his residence. Perhaps this time it is
you
who have worked too rapidly.”

The Island detective smiled grimly. He replied: “More likely I have not worked rapidly enough, Juan.”

The lieutenant shrugged. “Sam Ying is of little importance, in any case,” he stated.

Jo Gar nodded.

“Others are of more importance,” he agreed. “Others interest me.” Juan Arragon was frowning. “It is like seeking a ghost,” he said. “The name of Sam Ying is registered aboard the
Toya Maru,
after all.”

Jo Gar smiled. He pointed beyond the house near which they were standing.

“An eighth of a mile distant is the home of Rosa Castrone,” he said. “With a key a man could let himself in the front of this house. He could then go out by the rear, cut across between other houses, and reach the Castrone home very quickly. Let us go there.”

Juan Arragon sighed. “When one has blundered, it is better to start afresh,” he said. “I do not think Rosa Castrone would like Harnville. She loves Sam Ying—and Harnville has long been Ying’s enemy. Why would the Englishman go to her?”

Jo Gar smiled with his narrow lips pressed together.

“It is one of the facts we will perhaps learn,” he said softly, and they turned their backs to the gusts of wind blowing in from the Bay.

The bell tinkled under pressure from Jo Gar’s fingers. No lights showed in the house—the
Avenida Mandiez
was deserted. There were faint sounds inside now; they reached the two men on the porch against the shrill of the wind. A voice said in native tongue:

“Who is there?”

Juan Arragon replied, “Open quickly. It is the police.”

The latch snapped. A light flashed on. They stepped inside. The Filipino boy that Jo had questioned blinked sleepily at them. Jo Gar said in a hurried, breathless tone:

“Quick—we have just received word! The center of the typhoon—is almost here. You have a cellar?”

Fear shone in the boy’s eyes. He muttered to himself in his native tongue. He was calling upon the saints. A gust of wind rattled the windows, shook the house. Juan said:

“Hurry—there is little time. The storm is terrible—”

The boy was afraid. But he was fighting something. Jo Gar caught him by an arm.

“You have a typhoon cellar here!” he said grimly. “Take us there!”

The house-boy was shaking his head from side to side. He cried out in terror:

“There is no—typhoon cellar—”

The Island detective said fiercely to Arragon:

“He’s hiding something. Rosa told me this was one of the few houses that has one, in this section. We will all be killed—the house isn’t strongly built—”

Arragon drew his gun suddenly. The house trembled under a gust of the wind. The police lieutenant jammed the gun muzzle against the house-boy’s right side.

“Quick!” he ordered. “Take us—down!”

Something was ripped loose, on the roof. It crashed against the side of the house. The wind was shrilling. The house-boy moved away swiftly—Jo Gar following. Arragon followed him. They went through a bedroom, into a closet. The house-boy pointed towards the flooring. Jo Gar whispered:

“You pull on the ring—you go down first—”

The house-boy glanced towards the gun Arragon was holding. He pulled on the ring—the square of wood came up. His body was vanishing from sight now. There was the crash of a gun. The house-boy screamed; his body slipped from the ladder.

Jo Gar dropped downward. He heard the gun crash again—cloth of his left coat sleeve jerked. His feet struck soft earth. He was up—his right hand gripped his gun. And then he heard the hiss of the knife. He caught a glimpse of the house-boy’s right arm. A figure ten feet away uttered a choking cry. There was a whining cry from a woman.

Jo Gar got to his feet. He stared towards the figure of Harnville. The knife had caught him in the side; he was pressing his palms against his coat material, groaning. He said:

“You damn—half-breed!”

Jo Gar went over and kicked his gun to one side. Juan Arragon said:

“The house-boy’s all right—you shot too soon, Harnville.”

Jo Gar looked at the girl. Her face was white—there was terror in her blue eyes. The Island detective said:

“Where is Sam Ying, Rosa?”

She motioned with her head. The light in the typhoon cellar was dim. Jo Gar went past her and looked down at the bound figure of the Chinese. He removed the gag from Sam Ying’s mouth—the man-made guttural sounds. Jo Gar looked at Harnville. He said slowly: “You were right, Harnville. It isn’t a substitute. You did get Sam Ying, at that.”

The Englishman pressed his hands against his side and gritted out words. “You knew that damn well—when you tricked me into coming here to make
sure
I had him!”

Jo Gar smiled almost cheerfully. “I am glad you did not think of that until this moment,” he said quietly.

Juan Arragon and Jo Gar sat in the police lieutenant’s office. The typhoon was less severe now; the center was not expected to pass over Manila. It would not be a tremendously damaging storm. It was almost three o’clock. Arragon was smoking a small cigar; Jo fingered one of his brown-paper cigarettes. He said slowly:

“Harnville was too anxious. He wanted to be sure. He wanted me away from Manila. That was because I have had some good fortune lately—and also because he knew I was watching Sam Ying. Ying had no use for me—he suspected that certain citizens had requested me to seek evidence against him. But Harnville’s idea was to have me go away—in case it was suspected that Ying had not sailed on the
Toya Maru.
”

Arragon nodded. “He had sworn that house-boy to secrecy,” he said. “When he dropped into the cellar Harnville didn’t care if he was a boy who had done much for him. He’d given away the hiding place—so Harnville fired. And the boy used his knife, though neither of them is much hurt.”

Jo Gar smiled. “Or perhaps he was afraid the boy might talk,” he suggested. “It was almost a confession, when he threw that knife. I knew then that it was he who tried to knife me. But I suspected it, in any case. He was wearing a white house coat when he tossed the knife. I’ve seen the boy before this, marketing with Rosa. He has always been dressed in white. Suddenly he wears khaki. But I could not be sure. That was insufficient evidence. It is the cool season; khaki is worn now. It was Harnville who betrayed things. First in trying to get me away by an offer. And then, so soon after the attempted knifing, he called me to apologize. It was not a natural act. But when he mentioned throwing a knife
‘from the palms’
I knew something was very wrong. I had not mentioned the palms to him or to anyone else.”

Juan Arragon nodded. He pulled on his little cigar.

“And there was the light he left in the empty house,” the police lieutenant said. “You did not speak of that.”

Jo chuckled. “Again, we could not be sure. His idea was that if he were followed it would be natural for the light to appear. He immediately slipped out the rear way, went to Rosa. They intended to get a large sum of money for Sam Ying. She is tired of him, and besides, he is too obese. Harnville thought that her typhoon cellar was an excellent place to hold the Chinese. The substitution was not difficult—Ying was kidnapped first.”

Arragon grinned. “As you say, most fat Chinese look alike,” he agreed. “And here in Manila there are many fat Chinese.”

Jo Gar shrugged. “My only chance was to cause him to betray himself—this Harnville,” he said. “He is not a good character. He has never liked me. Had I gone to his plantation I doubt that I should have returned. But I did not go. There were too many signals of storm. I preferred to cause him to believe that his aides had kidnapped a man substituted for Sam Ying. He knew that my clients were trying to deport Ying—and when I told him that the Chinese had sailed on the
Parambigue
he was worried. There was the ransom money involved—the money he hoped to obtain. He had to go to Rosa’s house, see for himself.”

Juan Arragon said: “It will not go easy with him, or with Rosa and the house-boy.”

Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders. He rolled the brown-paper cigarette between his lips, said tonelessly:

“I think that this time Sam Ying will
really
sail for his native land.

He is a sick and frightened man. My clients will be glad.”

Juan Arragon smiled. “The typhoon helped us,” he mused. “Signals of storm, you say. But you had eyes for them. Your clients are often glad, Jo.”

The Island detective closed his eyes. There was a little smile showing on his lips.

“The saints are often good,” he said simply, “to those who help themselves.”

Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders, let his grayish-blue, almond-shaped eyes stare down over the rail of the bridge. He could see the body dangling from the rope; the wind that blew a drizzling, cool rain in from the Bay rocked the dead shape. The white face was upturned; the chin pressed against the hemp. Below there were several
sampans;
Chinese looked up at the body and kept their lips closed. Rain struck the black water of the river quietly; long legged birds skimmed the surface, some distance from the
sampans
screaming shrilly at intervals. A launch streaked out from the docks; Jo could see the khaki colored uniforms of Filipino police.

The bridge was at least forty feet above the surface of the water at this point. One end of the rope was knotted around the rail support almost at the Island detective’s feet. And the shape that dangled at the end of the rope was not many feet above the surface of the water. Jo Gar, shaking his head slowly, said:

“It is very curious. Such a long rope. The body hanging so far below the bridge.”

He listened to the
putt-putt
of the official launch as it neared the water spot above which the body rocked and swung in the breeze. He recognized the figure of Lieutenant Juan Arragon; he smiled and waved a hand. Juan waved back.

Jo Gar said in his toneless voice, to himself:

“The launch deck is only a few feet above the water—they reach the body with ease. If it is suicide the neck has surely been broken. Such a drop from the bridge. Certainly thirty feet or more.”

A voice from behind him said in the tone of an American: “What is it, Señor Gar? Someone fall in?”

Jo Gar watched the slash of the knife—saw the body collapse into the arms of several native police, standing close to Juan Arragon on the launch deck. He straightened, turned and faced Dean Price. He said slowly:

“The body did not reach the water, Mr. Price. See—there is one end of the rope.”

He pointed towards the rail support, around which the rope was wound and knotted. Price stared down at it. He was a tall, lean man of about forty-five. His slicker seemed to cling to his thin body. He had a sharp, hatchet-like face. Tropic sun had burned the skin almost black. His blue, watery eyes came up and met Jo Gar’s squinted ones.

“Suicide, eh?” he muttered, and looked over the rail. The Island detective smiled. He said slowly:

“A strange way to suicide, Mr. Price. And yet, a broken neck is very certain.”

Dean Price straightened; he smiled with his thin lips. He said grimly:

“They’ve cut him down. White or—”

The American checked himself; his eyes held a confused expression.

Jo Gar said quietly, smiling a little:

“Not brown like myself, Mr. Price. White—like yourself.”

Price reached for a cigar and offered one to the Island detective. Jo shook his head. Price spoke in embarrassment: “I meant no offense, Señor Gar.”

Jo nodded. “It is all very well,” he replied tonelessly. “I imagine the man is dead, just as both of us will be some day.”

Price frowned. He said in a slightly aggressive tone: “Well, it was his doing, anyway.”

Jo Gar looked down at the knotted rope and nodded very slowly. “It is a possibility,” he said. “Perhaps you are right.”

She was small and dainty in appearance; her skin was very white. Her hair was almost a golden color, and her blue eyes were filled with tears as she spoke. She had a thin voice, but it was steady in tone.

“He did not kill himself, I know that, Señor Gar. If the police think so—they are fools. It was not suicide.”

Jo Gar leaned back in his chair and looked at the fly-specked wall. He smiled. He did not speak, and the girl, after a few seconds of silence, went on.

“He was in good spirits. We had just received a contract to tour through the bigger cities of the Orient—and we were going to Australia. It was a nice booking, one of the few made in Manila. He was—murdered—oh, I know he was—”

Her voice broke. Jo Gar leaned forward in the chair and spoke quietly:

“You were married to him?”

She nodded. “Ten days ago, very quietly. We came here from England together, you see. On the same boat. I work on the wire—but my act wasn’t going well. We met on the boat, and talked a great deal—talked theatrical business, I mean. After about ten days—I guess we were in love. We talked of working together, doing a double—”