West of Guam (10 page)

Jo Gar stepped to one side. He struck outward and downward with the Colt. It battered heavily against the attacker’s head, just over the left ear. The man dropped—rolled over on his back. He was motionless.

The Island detective drew a deep breath. He shifted the weapon, got a small flashlight from his pocket. When he looked down upon the figure there was a hard smile in his blue-gray eyes.

“Like many tremendous schemes, Señor Craise,” he said very slowly, “it has failed.”

Jo Gar let his eyes move from the figure of Juan Arragon to that of Arnold Carlysle. He was smiling cheerfully in spite of the heat in the police head’s office.

“Señor Craise was always shrewd, cold,” he said slowly. “He was not one to forget that Ben Rannis had struck his brother down. I do not believe too much in the similarity of humans. But he did fool me, in Juan’s office. Belladonna to enlarge the eye pupils, dirt-matted hair, no erectness like that of himself. And the changed voice. Neither Juan nor myself knew him too well, you see. And he’d been away for months. This English friend of his who has confessed to imitating Craise’s voice—that was a clever touch. Calling up, pretending it was Craise—with Craise passing as a beachcomber, right in Juan’s office at the time. And it was this Condon who answered my call to the house, of course.”

Juan Arragon nodded his head slowly. “Had Craise got back to his house we would have been beaten,” he said. “He could have received me, immaculately attired. He would have been clean, changed. In a dark room I would not have noticed his eyes. But of course, after the escape, he realized I would be busy—and that would give him more time.”

Jo Gar nodded. “He murdered Rannis, just as he as Donnell told us. He got back to the house from the murder in time to receive me. Your Filipino guard was not too good, Juan, though it is a large place for one man to watch. Craise went out again, after you released him. There was sufficient time. He went to the Pasig, crouched along the bank—and when your men found him he threw the knife away. Said he was Donnell—and looked—a beachcomber. After his escape he got to the big boat piers where he hid and waited. After dark Condon met him in a power boat. He brought him to the Bay house.”

Arnold Carlysle smiled faintly. “But for you Señor Gar, we would have assumed that a man resembling Craise had tried a pretty plan and had failed. And had then preferred drowning—and the sharks.”

Jo Gar said nothing. He wondered if Arnold Carlysle would not have preferred it that way. But it was not for him to say.

“I was suspicious,” he said slowly. “Before I knew Rannis had been murdered, when I told Craise that—he was very startled. I was almost too soon for him. He hadn’t expected it this fast. And then, very suddenly, he was too cool. He was thinking too much of the future, of the circumstantial evidence that he knew he could beat.”

Arragon shrugged. “Death in the Pasig,” he said slowly, “is always difficult.” He smiled at Jo. “Not being a fool, I congratulate you.”

Jo Gar fanned himself slowly with his pith helmet. He smiled in return.

“Perhaps I had the better opportunity,” he said quietly. “But not being too modest—I am pleased. Señor Craise is not an inferior actor.” Carlysle frowned down at the polished floor of his office. Juan Arragon nodded agreement. Jo Gar closed his eyes, stopped fanning his browned face, and drowsed. He suddenly felt very weary.

Vicente Carejo might have been an immaculate Island Englishman, so far as his dress was concerned. From his pith helmet to his white shoes he was spotless. But the
betel
-nut that he chewed betrayed him. And when his lips parted a little too much there was the red that stained his teeth and gums. He had a fat face and body; his darkish eyes held no expression. He said in a thick voice:

“My girl has left me. I wish her found, so that I may beat her.”

Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped, blue-gray eyes half closed. The arms of the Island detective were folded; his body was relaxed.

“There are the police,” he suggested. “On the Escolta is the Missing Persons Department.”

Carejo made a grunting sound without parting his thick lips. “Manila police are fools,” he said. “You are not a fool. I have come to you. It is that pig of an American—that renegade Parker. But I do not seek trouble. It is my daughter I want.”

The Island detective nodded. “So you may beat her,” he suggested quietly.

Carejo showed his red-stained teeth in a nasty smile. He nodded his head.

“This Parker—he is a cheap gambler,” he said slowly. “He bets on the cockfights, and when he loses he does not always pay. My girl—she is too good for him.”

Jo Gar rolled a thin cigarette between his short, browned fingers. He regarded the single lizard crawling upside-down across the ceiling of his tiny office above Wong Ling’s place, on the Escolta. He said quietly:

“When did she go away—and how?”

Carejo swore through tight-pressed lips. He shrugged his shoulders.

“She was to go to Baguio this morning. She slept in the house. But she did not appear at the breakfast table. She has taken nothing with her—no clothes. A few dollars, perhaps. I have searched the city—she is not to be found. Nor is the American, Parker. I have come to you.”

The Island detective frowned. “Manila is not a big city, neither is it small,” he mused aloud. “It is Saturday evening—there will be cockfights tomorrow. You have a picture of your girl?”

Carejo reached into a pocket of his white duck suit, produced a picture. It was a clear snapshot; it showed a dark-haired, slender girl of about eighteen. She was rather pretty, in the way of the Islands, which was not a lasting way. She had large eyes and a rather thin face. “Her name is Carmen—she is a devil,” Carejo said. “A bamboo stick does not frighten her.”

Jo Gar smiled. “Love is not annoyed by beatings,” he philosophized. “I think I have seen this American, this Parker. A tall, blond fellow, with blue eyes. And you say he is a renegade?”

Carejo shrugged his broad shoulders. He narrowed his eyes on Jo Gar’s.

“He has been in Manila only a few months. He came over from Nagasaki with a few prize cocks—but the birds did not win much here. Then he was involved in some cheating affair, at the Casa Club. He is no good.”

The Island detective tapped cigarette ash to the polished floor of his office. He said in an apologetic voice:

“It may be difficult. I require a retainer—”

Carejo placed five crisp bills on the wicker table beside his fan-backed chair.

“You know where I reside,” he said. “You have Carmen’s picture. You know something of this Parker, and you can easily learn more. But I would like it not made public. How will you go about it?”

Jo Gar reached for a palm-leaf fan, waved heated air against the brown skin of his face. He smiled pleasantly “That I do not know,” he said. “But I shall walk about a bit. Perhaps I shall ask a few questions.”

Carejo grunted.
“I’ve
walked about and
I’ve
asked questions,” he muttered.

The Island detective nodded. He said cheerfully:

“Perhaps you have not walked in the right places, nor asked the correct questions.”

Vincente Carejo rose. He muttered something that Jo Gar did not catch. Then he said, more clearly:

“I want my girl back!”

Jo Gar rose and bowed a little. After Carejo had departed the Island detective seated himself in the more comfortable fan-backed chair and half closed his eyes.

“He is half Spanish, half Filipino,” he murmured. “It is a strange way he has—wanting his daughter back, so that he may beat her. Another of his type would use a knife on this Parker. But this Carejo—”

Jo Gar let his murmur trail away, closed his eyes. It was as though he were sleeping in the evening heat. But he wasn’t sleeping. He was thinking of certain questions he would ask—and certain Manila streets he would walk. A beginning was always important.

At Barres’ curio store, on the Calle Avida, he was told that the
Americano
Parker had been present an hour ago. It had taken Jo Gar three hours to come upon the Barres’ store; the information was welcome. In the rear, down five stone steps, was a fair-sized cellar. Parker had been drinking. He had taken three cups of saké. He had been drinking, but he had not been drunk. He had not stated his destination, but had bragged much about Diablo, the cock he was fighting tomorrow at the Casa Club.

Jo Gar smiled and talked about other things. There had been an earthquake in Mindoro, the next island south of Luzon; some of Barres relatives were very frightened. A Malay sailor had run amuck along the
Luneta,
several hours ago. He had knifed a wealthy Chinese by the name of Lin. There would soon be some of the nuts in from China—the ones Jo Gar liked so well.

The Island detective lingered for a half hour or so. It was not yet ten o’clock; he hailed a
caleso
with a sturdy-looking horse, instructed the Filipino driver to take him to the Casa Club. The driver grinned, showing fine, white teeth. Jo Gar settled back on the cushion of the two-wheeled conveyance. It was in his mind that if Parker had taken several drinks, and had bragged about his fighting-cock Diablo, the American might go to the Casa Club. The entries were often kept near the pits, for several days before the Sunday fights.

It was a thirty-minute drive. Manila was left behind—for more than ten minutes they passed between rows of native thatch-roofed huts, dimly lighted. The road was narrow and of dirt; the sweet odor of tropical growth in variety filled the heated air. And then, suddenly, the driver called shrilly to the horse—the
caleso
was turned to the right. A circular thatch-roofed arena loomed faintly before them in the thick gloom. It was the Casa Club.

Jo Gar descended, instructed the driver to wait. He went directly to the entrance of the cockfighting arena, walked inside. Two kerosene lamps dimly lighted the interior—there was the odor of dried blood, of earth—and of thatch. Tier after tier of wooden planks rose from the small, circular arena. Wind whistled the roof. There was no other human present.

Jo Gar murmured to himself: “It is an unpleasant place—”

The scream was terrible. It came from the silence, somewhere beyond the cockpit, but not very far distant, it was shrill, high pitched. A woman’s cry—of terror and pain. And then, wailingly, he caught two words in Spanish—

“Madre—Madre!”

There was another scream—it was choked off. Voices—native voices—rose from the thatch-roofed huts near the cockpit. Jo Gar turned, went out through the main entrance. He circled the Club, keeping close to the bamboo side poles. At the rear he distinguished figures running—they were moving towards a thick growth of palmetto, a hundred yards from the Casa Club. There were few huts near the growth.

There were no more screams. A path led into the tangle of palmetto. The Island detective came to it. Brown figures—those of half-naked Filipinos—were moving about. There was much confusion. Jo Gar said, in the native tongue:

“What has happened?”

No one seemed to know. There were many paths now, leading through the small jungle to native huts on all sides. Jo Gar took one of them; he had a small flashlight which he used. Filipinos crowded close to him, followed him. He heard one mutter to another: “It is Señor Jo Gar—he is the prison man—”

And then a sudden wailing rose, across the thick growth of palmetto. It was a sustained wailing, and Jo Gar turned, moved towards the sound. It took him several minutes to thread the confusing paths and come upon the spot where the natives were grouped around a figure that lay on the ground. He spoke roughly, went through the group. The white beam from his flashlight slanted down on the motionless figure.

One glance at the white face was enough for him. The eyes were staring—the red lips were parted. The face was twisted, contorted. Fingers were clenched; the earth around the body showed signs of human struggle. A red mark showed across the white throat, but it was not the mark of a knife.

Jo Gar bent low. He breathed to himself: “It is Carmen Carejo—she is dead.”

There was no pulse. The body was warm; it seemed almost alive. The Island detective loosened the rope that had been drawn about the girl’s throat. He was not a doctor, and even though he was sure she was dead, he tried crude methods to force air into her lungs, as he gave orders to several natives crowding about the body.

When Juan Arragon, lieutenant to Carlysle, American head of the Manila Police, arrived in the palmetto jungle, some thirty minutes later, Jo Gar was standing near the body of Carmen Carejo, hands at his sides, eyes half closed. Arragon stared down at the dead girl.

“Murder,” he breathed softly. “What was the weapon—”

Jo Gar shifted the beam of his light towards the dark shawl the girl had worn. It lay on the earth near her head. Stretched across it was a four-foot strand of rope, of hemp. In spots it was stained scarlet. Arragon said slowly:

“She was strangled—by that hemp.”

Jo Gar nodded. Arragon knelt beside the shawl, narrowed his eyes on the rope strand. He muttered to himself:

“It is stained—with her blood.”

Jo Gar lighted one of his thin cigarettes. His eyes were on the mask-like face of Carmen Carejo.

“It is certainly—red hemp,” he said steadily.

Arragon rose and looked at Jo Gar. He asked in a curious voice: “You arrived here quickly—how was that so?”

The Island detective smiled a little. He looked Arragon in the eyes. “I was nearby—when she was murdered. I heard her scream. She called twice for her mother. Then her next cry was choked off. It was more than five minutes before some native women found her in here.

There are many paths.”

Arragon looked around the circle of native faces. His eyes came to Jo Gar’s again. He said softly:

“She is Carmen Carejo—Vincente’s girl.”

The Island detective nodded. He was thinking that Vincente Carejo had found his daughter, but that his purpose was defeated. He could not beat her now. He said quietly: