West of Guam (14 page)

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 me 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.

Jo Gar shook his head. He said in a very quiet tone.

“You are not surprised to learn that. I did not think you would be. But Sam Ying did not sail on the
Toya Maru.
” He smiled as Harnville stared at him. “He sailed on the
Parambigue,
a small steamer. She is now just making the Straits.”

Harnville was blinking at the Island detective. He started to say something, stopped. His long fingers were working nervously. With an effort he made a gesture with spread hands.

“What has all this to do with me?” he muttered. Jo Gar said:

“I will be very frank. You have little liking for Sam Ying. You own river boats—many of them. You did not think Ying paid enough for their use. There was a quarrel—and Ying got his boats elsewhere. You were losing money, and that did not suit you. You tried to prevent Sam Ying from using other river boats. A few
bancas
and
sampans
were sunk. These things are known.”

Harnville had a sneer playing around his lips. He looked down at the diminutive detective.

“What of it?” he demanded. “It’s a bit stiff—your coming here at this hour to tell me this.”

Jo Gar smiled.

“You were anxious to get me away from Manila—and there would have been only an untruthful reason for my going. You left me—and very soon after, a knife was thrown at me. And very soon after that you telephoned me, establishing the fact that you were at the Manila Hotel and could not have been near me when the knife was thrown.”

Harnville chuckled. “You traced my call—to make certain?” he asked mockingly.

Jo Gar shook his head. “I believed you,” he said simply. “You do not believe me. You do not think Sam Ying is aboard the
Toya Maru.
You are right. The substitute you placed aboard is on that ship. But you
do
think Sam Ying is being held a prisoner, in Manila. You are wrong. Ying is a very ordinary appearing Chinese. Many resemble him.
You
had little difficulty finding one who resembled him. It was also simple for Ying to do the same.”

Harnville stood motionless, his eyes on Jo’s. It was evident that he wanted to speak. But he did not. Jo Gar said:

“It is difficult, isn’t it? You want to tell me that I am very wrong. That you have kidnapped the right person. Your pride desires that. But you do not wish to admit that you are at all involved. That is foolish—Rosa Castrone has talked.”

Fear showed in Harnville’s eyes. He took a step towards the Island detective. The fear went from his eyes as he moved. Rage was gripping him. He said:

“I know Sam Ying—I know him better than you do—”

Jo Gar was smiling coldly. Harnville got control of himself. He smiled, too. It was a nasty, hating smile.

“I saw friends off on the
Toya Maru
—Sam Ying was aboard her.

You are trying to frame me, Señor Gar.”

Jo shook his head. “My interest is in Sam Ying,” he said quietly. “He is safely away, sailing towards his native land. I merely wanted to advise you that you are holding for ransom a substitute. Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

He bowed. He said slowly: “I do not think you have seen this man you hold. You have been too busy in other places. Sam Ying is a wise man. He knew that if you were to hold him for a large sum of money he could not call on the police. He is not anxious to expose the reason for such kidnapping—the boats were not used lawfully on the Pasig. So he went away. Last night several men broke into his house and took away a substitute, sleeping in Ying’s bed. Sam had already sailed. This morning you put aboard a fat Chinese who somewhat resembled Ying. That was not a bad idea, but mine was better.”

He moved away from the tall Englishman. Harnville was smiling.

He said in a mocking tone:

“It’s the most idiotic thing I’ve heard. Perhaps you accuse an accomplice of mine with throwing a knife at you from the palms?”

Jo Gar faced the taller man. He said in his toneless voice:

“Why do you say ‘from the palms’?
I
did not designate the spot from which the knife was thrown.”

Harnville’s face was white. He said harshly:

“I heard about it—at the Club. I’ve been there—”

The Island detective nodded. “I see,” he said. “I should be very careful, Mr. Harnville. Kidnapping is unwise—murder is more unwise.”

He went towards the door. Harnville stared after him, followed him to the door. The wind was blowing fiercely. Harnville said:

“You are very wrong—I shall go to the Island police in the morning.

The idea of your coming here at this hour—”

His words were lost as wind rushed into the house. Jo Gar pulled the door shut back of him, slanted his body into the typhoon gusts. He was smiling grimly. A half block from the Bay he found the
caleso.
The driver was standing in the shelter of the carriage, muttering to himself. Jo Gar smiled at him. He reached into a pocket of his light suit, now wet with the rain, gave the man a handful of silver. He said:

“I am of the police—turn your
caleso
and drive slowly towards the Bay. Swear at your horse loudly as you near the house on the right. If no one comes out, descend and work over the harness. I think someone will come and ask you to drive to some spot not many miles distant. Do so. If the man asks about such a person as me, say only that you passed another
caleso
going towards the Walled City as you drove out. Carry the person to the spot he wishes—attempt to see what house he enters. Then drive to Fernandez’ café off the Escolta, and report to me. There will be more silver for you.”

The driver’s eyes brightened. He nodded. He looked fairly intelligent. As he turned his
caleso
Jo Gar went across the street to the grounds of the Church of the Sisters. Palms protected him from eyes of a human riding in a
caleso.
The wind sang through them. After a few minutes he heard the clatter of the horses shoes—the
caleso
came past. The horse was running swiftly, a match flared behind the driver. Jo could not see the passenger. But he smiled faintly.

“Perhaps Mr. Harnville is stupid,” he murmured to himself. “He is wise to think that his machine would be recognized. But he is stupid to think that I would not think he would prefer a
caleso.”

Arragon, crouched beside Jo Gar, shook his head from side to side. The rain slapped against his ancient raincoat. He perspired, though it was not warm in the tangle of tropical growth across from the house in which only one light showed. He muttered:

“Harnville—the Englishman! Are you sure you are not mistaken, Jo?”

The Island detective shrugged.

“I am seldom sure of anything,” he said. “The
caleso
driver has said this is the house. If he does not come out soon, we will go inside.”

Arragon nodded. That was more to his liking. The lieutenant of Manila police preferred action to thought. He was often too anxious. Thus, he had often failed where Jo Gar, proceeding in an almost sleepy manner, had succeeded. Jo suited his action to the climate of the Islands. Manila was not New York, or San Francisco.

Rain dripped from the foliage—the wind sang a steady song. The street between their hiding place and the house with the one light showing in an upper window was one not far from the center of Manila. It was a bad district—low caste Chinese and Filipinos occupied the frame houses. They were small houses—strong gusts of the typhoon wind seemed almost to rock them.