West of Guam (22 page)

“The lock does not matter too much, Mr. Vandeer,” he said softly, tonelessly. “The pearls are not in the room.”

He bowed and went down the wide stairs ahead of the Hollander and Ichito Toyen.

The slant-eyed Japanese stood beside a rickshaw that was neither new nor comfortable in appearance. The one between the shafts had a scarred face, broad, rounded shoulders and finely muscled legs. He looked at Gar without expression in his small eyes. The one who professed to be Toyen’s servant grinned.

“It is five, ten minutes—very short time,” he stated. “I will come behind.”

The Island detective nodded. He climbed into the rickshaw, seated himself. His eyes went to the porch of the Oriental; he saw in the semi-darkness the figure of Vandeer, near the rail. Jo smiled at the man behind.

“It will be good to see your master again,” he stated. “Let us go.” The one who had lied to him spoke in a shrill tone to the rickshaw man. They moved down the slope—the street was lighted dimly. The motion of the rickshaw was easy and steady—the one between the shafts held back his strength until they neared the foot of the winding street. Then he cried out, pulled hard and turned sharply to the right. Coolies scattered from his path—the street became darker as they progressed.

Jo Gar shoved his right hand into a pocket of his coat and gripped the weapon within. He turned his head slightly and watched the Japanese who was trotting along behind the rickshaw. The man moved gracefully; he kept his eyes on the store fronts which they were passing. The windows were filled with nuts, foods in variety. Charcoal fires gleamed in the burners; Jo could see the figures of squatted humans around the glowing coals.

The wind whipped down a street that had now become a road. Flaming torches showed ahead and to the right and left. The rickshaw seemed to be moving away from the river and towards the rising rice terraces. They passed what appeared to be a temple. The rickshaw man was moving more slowly now. But his pace was a steady one.

From the water there came the deep toned whistle of a big ship, and almost immediately, from some spot ahead, there were the distant tones of a gong. Jo Gar smiled with his lips pressed together. “Strange city,” he murmured. “The old—and the new.” His fingers loosened, then tightened on the grip of the automatic in the right pocket of his overcoat. He breathed softly: “The new—and the old.”

As he breathed the last word he was thinking of knives. Vandeer was right, of course. And Toyen, also. Captain Howker and Deming—they had escaped from the yacht. They hated him. They wanted the pearls they had killed to procure—and then had not obtained. And they had sent a Japanese to trick him. He was very sure of that.

The rickshaw rolled over a dirt road now. There were bamboo huts along the road, most of them set back a short distance. It was a squalid section, on the outskirts of the city. There was faint light from the stars—and torches along the route. The road swung sharply to the left; Jo Gar twisted in the rickshaw seat.

The Japanese was not trotting along behind the vehicle now. He had vanished!

The Island detective leaned forward, slipped to the spot where his feet had rested. The rickshaw man noticed the change in balance, started to turn. Jo let his body swing ahead of the right wheel, struck the dirt of the road on his feet. He fell forward, went to his knees.

There was a thud from the rickshaw—the faint hiss that preceded it, ended in that sound. It was a sound not unlike that of a knife hilt battering against the cushion. Jo swung to his feet, half turned. He heard the hiss a second time, twisted his body to one side. An object streaked close to his head, struck the dirt beyond him.

The rickshaw was off to one side of the road now, the shafts dragging in the dirt. Jo caught a glimpse of the broad-shouldered Japanese. He was running in bent-over fashion, towards a hut off the road. A torch catapulted flaming through the darkness, struck the road close to the Island detective. His figure was a target in the flames, but only for a second.

He leaped to his right. One knife struck his trailing coat material—the other fell short, clattered over the little stones of the road. Jo Gar moved with his head and shoulders bent low—moved in zig-zag fashion. His right hand held the automatic, but he did not use it. He was breathing heavily.

He kept moving, but his eyes could see only the faint shapes of figures—human figures—across the road. He ran to the left, towards a small house that was set back twenty feet or so. The place was dark; he moved towards the rear. There was a small bamboo structure not far behind the house—he ran towards it.

When he stood with his back against the poles that supported the little house, he sucked in deep breaths of air. His eyes stared towards the rear of the larger house, but no figures came into sight. It had been a very narrow escape. Perhaps he had been a fool. But he had felt that Howker and Deming would try to deal with him. He had thought that they would make a bargain for the pearls.

Instead, knives had been flung. Only the fact that he had noticed the vanishing of the Japanese who had posed as Toyen’s servant had saved him. Perhaps they had intended to search him, after the knives had struck into his body.

Jo Gar shook his head slightly. He didn’t think that Howker would believe he would bring the pearls to Toyen. And yet, the yacht captain might have thought that. And the man was a killer.

A shape moved faintly in the darkness, near the rear of the larger house. Jo Gar stood motionless; his diminutive body was tense. He held the automatic low in his right hand fingers. For several seconds the figure near the rear of the bamboo shack was motionless. And then it moved, directly towards Jo. A voice said shakily:

“Señor Gar—Señor Gar—”

It was the voice of the Japanese who had run along behind the rickshaw. Jo raised his right hand slightly, spoke in a low tone:

“I am here—I hold a gun in my right hand. Come forward, please.” The Japanese sucked in his breath sharply. He moved towards the Island detective. He said softly:

“The rickshaw was attacked—by thieves. I was pulled off the road. You are not hurt?”

Jo Gar smiled a little in the darkness. He said steadily:

“Stop there—do not come closer. I shall kill you—very soon.”

The Japanese cried out thickly: “I am the servant of Ichito Toyen—I come to—”

“You are a liar,” Jo Gar interrupted very softly. “Keep your voice low, and answer my questions. You have tricked me and I—”

Something rustled behind the little house of bamboo.

The Island detective hesitated, then went on.

“And I shall kill you, unless you talk the truth to me. You understand?”

The Japanese was breathing heavily. There was a faint sound from Jo Gar’s right. Someone was moving from the rear of the small house—creeping around towards him. And the Japanese was talking again.

“I did not trick you—it was the thieves. They thought you were a wealthy American, perhaps—”

Jo Gar said: “Do I appear to be an American?”

The Japanese was silent for several seconds. The rustling sound had died. Jo Gar said:

“You have tricked me—I will kill you!”

He squeezed the trigger of the gun. There was a sharp crack!—the Japanese screamed shrilly. Jo whirled around, moved swiftly to the right, close to the bamboo poles of the small house. He saw the figure crouched close to the curve of the rear wall, five feet from him—saw the upraised arm. As he dropped to his knees he fired twice.

The human groaned, leaned against the poles beside him, slipped to the earth. Jo Gar turned his head and looked towards the spot where he had left the Japanese. He could see no dim figure.

He crawled towards the man who lay on the earth, then rose to his feet. A voice said huskily:

“You got me—in the stomach—damn Howker!”

Jo Gar said softly: “Deming—it is you. Where is—Howker?”

The man on the ground groaned. His face showed white in the darkness. He gritted out the words:

“He bribed that red-haired deckhand—to get us loose. We got ashore in a boat. He said we had to get—you. Or we’d go back to Manila—for murder.”

Jo Gar stood motionless, looking down at the figure of the second officer. He said slowly:

“You helped him—on the yacht. He murdered Randonn. But he does not care—about you. Where is he—now?”

Deming started to say something, stopped. Jo Gar said softly:

“If you talk—I will send someone here to you. If you do not talk—I will use another bullet—”

The second officer swore thickly. He muttered in a voice that was barely audible:

“He’s at—the hotel—the pearls—”

His voice broke. Faint light caught the blade of the knife that lay on the earth beside him. Voices were shrilling, towards the road.

Jo Gar leaned down and lifted the knife. It was long-bladed, with a short hilt. The voices were growing louder. He leaned towards the body of the second officer.

“Help will reach you—do not talk about—the pearls—”

He stopped. The second officer was unconscious. There was faint heart action. Jo straightened, moved towards the terraces beyond the small house, keeping the structure between him and the road. When he reached the first of the rice ditches he turned sharply to his right and moved forward slowly, his body bent low.

He heard voices, raised and borne to him on the wind. One sounded like that of the Jap who had posed as Toyen’s servant. He had not fired at the man, but into the earth near the spot where he had stood. He moved on steadily. After a few minutes the voices did not reach him. Once, looking back, he saw the flare of many torches. He guessed that Deming had been discovered.

After a short time he reached a dirt road. It converged with another, a quarter of a mile or so beyond. Jo turned his collar high, bent his head low. The streets were crowded; he came suddenly into a section where there was a celebration. Fire crackers were being set off—there were banners and serpent designs hung and streaming from long poles.

Jo Gar moved through the crowded streets of the section. He found a rickshaw, got into it. The driver grinned at him, showing yellow, broken teeth. Jo smiled wearily at him.

“Hotel Oriental,” he instructed, and was forced to repeat the words twice before the man understood.

As the rickshaw moved slowly from the crowded section of the city the Island detective relaxed in the seat and touched the hilt of the knife he had found beside Deming, with his left hand fingers. He murmured to himself:

“Howker—he is not a fool. How difficult it would be for the officials to prove that he or Deming would murder a Filipino with—Nagasaki knives.”

The one who pulled the rickshaw was not so young or so strong as the other man had been. It took almost ten minutes to reach the street on which the Oriental Hotel faced. There was a curio shop a half block from the steps that led to the hotel porch. Jo stopped the rickshaw in front of the shop, descended and paid the one with the yellow teeth.

When the man moved off Jo went slowly towards the hotel. He ascended the stairs to the porch and thought to himself: Seven more bullets—in the gun. That is good.

He went inside; the hotel was dimly lighted, though the hour was not late. The Island detective climbed the wide stairs almost silently. His muscles ached; he was tired. His body was not accustomed to such effort. As he approached the door of his room he moved slowly. He reached into his pocket for the key—tried the knob before he inserted it. The door opened under slight pressure.

Jo drew in a deep breath, sighed. He did not use the key, but opened the door cautiously. The room was dark—he snapped the switch near the door, his right hand holding the material of the pocket forward. The one electric bulb glowed not too brightly.

The Island detective moved forward, stared down at the figure lying on the floor, not far from the small bed. He said slowly:

“Toyen!”

The pearl expert was lying face downward, but his dress and clothing identified him. Jo moved rapidly to his side, turned him over. The dark eyes of Ichito Toyen stared at him unseeingly. One glance was sufficient. The Japanese was dead.

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on the hilt of the knife, the blade of which was buried just below Toyen’s heart. The hilt was crimson stained; it was of wood that looked old. The Island detective fingered Toyen’s left wrist; he straightened, stared about the room. There was no disorder.

The shutters were drawn; the few chairs were in the same position as when he had left the room, locking the door after him. And yet Ichito Toyen had returned to that room—and was lying dead, knifed through the heart.

The Island detective went to the edge of the bed and seated himself. He faced the window. He said in a whisper:

“There was the Hollander, Vandeer. And there was a man who has murdered once—Howker. Which of the two—”

A voice said very quietly: “You will keep your hands at your sides—and you will not turn! You will make no sound, Gar. It is very important that you obey me—for you!”

Jo’s body had tensed—it relaxed now. He narrowed his eyes on the shutters of the windows, listened to the distant crackling of fireworks. He said in a voice that was very soft: