West of Guam (26 page)

The Island detective listened to the droning voice that sounded from the last
sampan
now. It was the voice of Costios. The Island detective frowned.

“And why did you hold this back?” he asked softly.

“Palerdo had friends—and you have clients,” Arragon said in a whisper. “I did not know—how you stood. You trapped Palerdo, but he
killed himself.
I could not—be sure.”

Jo Gar swore softly. “It did not matter—your distrust,” he said. “But Palerdo did not murder the woman—or the driver.”

Arragon lifted his head higher, stared towards the thatch roof of the last
sampan.

“Costios swears—that Malay woman—”

He broke off. A voice sounded shrilly from within the covered space of the last craft in the line of four. It died—then rose again. There was panic in the tone—shrilling fear!

Jo Gar got to his knees, pulled himself to his feet. He got his automatic in the fingers of his right hand, leaped to the deck of the covered
sampan.
Arragon was at his side as he made his way towards the opened end of the craft, at the stern. The
sampan
swayed slightly to the current of the Pasig.

They came to a narrow portion of the deck; Jo Gar led the way. The automatic was held slightly before him and low. His body was crouched. He was smiling a little at the thought of Juan Arragon fearing that he might be working for Palerdo’s friends. The Manila police lieutenant never completely trusted him.

The voice that had shrilled fear was silent now. Jo Gar stopped smiling, moved towards the stern of the
sampan
more slowly. The sudden silence might mean one of two things—that Juan and he had been heard, or that one man had silenced another.

Jo muttered under his breath: “Under the roof of this
sampan
we will find the murderer of Señora Mantiro and the
caleso
driver. We will learn why Palerdo lied even as he was about to kill himself.” Back of him he could hear the swift breathing of Arragon.

And then, suddenly, there was the roar of the explosion. The
sampan
seemed to lift from the water—the thatch roof shot into the darkness—red streaking through it!

Jo threw his left hand before his face, twisted his body to the right. He felt a force lift him from the deck—heard Juan Arragon cry out hoarsely in his native tongue. Then the warm water of the Pasig was closing over him—he went underneath the surface!

He came up slowly, fighting for air. He was not a strong swimmer, but he was calm. There was a numbing pain in his left arm and shoulder—where a section of the
sampan’s
roof had battered him. Twisting his head, he saw the red flames licking through the remaining section of the
sampan’s
roof. There were shouts—torches were moving along the other craft. They were trying to cut the burning boat loose.

Jo Gar sucked in deep breaths of air—struck out towards the bank on left. He heard Juan Arragon call out shrilly—from some spot nearer the bank. There were other shouts, from coolies and natives on the river craft.

The red flare of the flames lighted the dark-colored water. The
sampan
being shoved out in the river now—it was drifting away from the other craft. Flames streaked up from it—over almost the entire length. The bank was close to Jo now—he swam with his uninjured arm working—the other useless at his side. He was tiring rapidly.

Then feet from a low barge-like river boat, he saw the other figure. For a second he thought it was Juan—and then the man’s face was twisted towards him. His hands were half closed—the fingers were clutching at air. It was Santos Costios!

The short Filipino went under as Jo got his own body close to him. The Island detective gripped him as he came up—the Filipino was drowning. He tried to grip Jo’s throat, failed. The Island detective struck him heavily with his right fist. His own body went under. When he came up Costios was sinking—Jo saw two figures on the flat boat ahead. One man was stripped to the waist—a coolie. He tossed a rope.

Jo Gar got an arm around the sinking body of the Filipino. The rope struck him across the face. He moved his numbing left arm and wrapped it around his body. The flat boat was close now. Red flames danced before Jo’s eyes. He felt hands gripping him, muttered hoarsely:

“Take—the Filipino—first—”

Jo Gar was kneeling beside the form of Santos Costios—the coolies were bending over him. A lighted torch shone on the twisted face of the Filipino. The Island detective said slowly:

“The saints—will be kind—if you talk—before—”

He stopped, breathing heavily. The Filipino spoke in a barely audible, broken tone.

“I kill—the—
caleso
driver. I choke—with belt. I wait for—Palerdo—”

Jo Gar stared down at the twisted face of Costios. There was a puzzled expression in his gray eyes. He said grimly:

“Do not—lie! You are dying—”

Costios widened his dark eyes. He shook his head slowly from side to side.

“I tell—truth,” he breathed weakly.

“The Señora—she love Dutchman. She get Palerdo to—kill her husband. He learn—hate her. He escape—come to me. We go to house—he kill her with shawl—”

Jo Gar narrowed his gray eyes. “At her house—Palerdo murdered her!” he breathed.

Costios said hoarsely: “I help him—Palerdo my half brother. I take her to
caleso
—ride with her. Make driver go—to Bay. Make him upset—
caleso.
He run—I catch him—choke—”

He stopped. Jo Gar swore softly.

“It was Palerdo, after all!” he breathed. “But why did he tell me the Malay woman—”

Costios said very softly: “Palerdo—he knew she was dead—he think you believe—not catch me—”

The Island detective looked down at the Filipino. Costios said slowly:

“Palerdo—he no care—after he kill. He no go back to—Bilibid. The
caleso
driver—he with Señora Mantiro long time. He bad—he know of Dutchman. And he know of Palerdo. I kill—”

Jo Gar said quietly: “What happened—on the
sampan?”

Costios closed his eyes. “Police—let me free. I go to coolie—want him to take me—up river. He say, no. We fight—he have powder for make ditch in high country. Lamp fall down—”

He stopped talking. Jo Gar smiled with his lips. There were voices beyond the coolies bending over him—he looked up to see Juan Arragon standing close to him. The Manilla police lieutenant spoke in a breathless tone:

“Powder—in that—
sampan.
It let loose. You got—Costios?” Jo Gar got to his feet. He looked down at the Filipino.

“He was bargaining for an escape,” he said slowly. “Quarreled with the coolie who owned the
sampan.
He thinks he’s going to die, but he isn’t.”

Juan Arragon stared at the Island detective. He looked down at Costios.

“The coolie’s dead,” he stated. “Badly burned. We were lucky to—” The Filipino was staring at Jo Gar and cursing in a stronger voice. He was accusing the Island detective of tricking him. He was not going to die, after all.

Jo Gar interrupted, sighing. “I should have said, you’re not going to die yet,” he corrected. “For the murder of the
caleso
driver—you will die, of course. You are pleased?”

Costios cursed in a weaker tone. Juan Arragon turned puzzled eyes towards Jo Gar.

“He
murdered the driver?” he breathed. “But who—murdered—Señora Mantiro?”

Jo Gar smiled. He narrowed his eyes on those of the police lieutenant.

“Congratulations. Juan,” he said in an amused tone. “You see, you were correct. Palerdo murdered the Señora. In her home—before your men arrived. He had thoughts of escape, until I ran into him, and tried to throw the police off by having his half brother, Costios, drive with the body to the Bay. When he failed to knife me—he decided a return to prison was not worthwhile. Costios strangled the
caleso
driver when the poor devil ran.”

Juan Arragon frowned. Then he smiled a little. “I was certain it was Palerdo,” he said simply.

Jo Gar felt his injured arm and smiled with his lips.

“You did very well,” he said, “under all the circumstances. Several things happened—and in
one
of them you were right.”

Jo Gar descended from the fourth car of the train, removed his pith helmet and drew deep breaths of the mountain air. It had been months since he had visited Baguio, the mountain resort of Manila.

He saw Major Crawford coming towards him; half closed his almond-shaped eyes on the figure of the American officer. The major tried to smile as he came close to the Island detective, but Jo saw that his eyes were shot with red, that he was not a well man. He bowed, and the major said:

“I’m very glad you came, Señor Gar. I’m on the ragged edge—”

He broke off abruptly, turned and looked about him. Two Chinese servants came up and blinked at Jo. The Island detective said slowly: “I’ve just the one piece of luggage, Major. I have not planned for much of a stay.”

The major’s lip corners jerked a little. He forced a smile, pointed to the piece of luggage at Jo’s side. One of the servants lifted it. The major said very softly:

“That sounds too good to be true, Señor Gar. Unless you mean that you can only be with us a few days, in any event.”

Jo Gar shook his head. The servants went ahead; he walked by the major’s side.

“Baguio is a small place,” Jo said. “You have the threatening notes. I felt that perhaps we could trace the guilty person rapidly—and I could return.”

The major breathed something that Jo failed to catch. They went from the railway station, got into a khaki-colored Army car, marked with a large U.S.—and the serial number. It was driven by an enlisted man—the servants rode in a small truck. Jo Gar and the major sat in the rear seat.

The machine rolled away from the station; the streets of Baguio were not crowded. Jo Gar relaxed and offered the major one of his brown-paper cigarettes. It was refused. The officer sat erect in the seat, his body tense. Jo lighted the cigarette with difficulty, leaned back and said:

“Your wife—she is in good health?”

The major smiled bitterly. “No,” he said. “She is not a fool. I try to pretend the notes are silly things, jokes. But last night—”

He stopped abruptly. The Island detective watched him with narrowed gray eyes. He said:

“Last night—an attempt on her life was made?”

The major nodded, his face grim. The car slid almost silently through streets faced by gardens; the houses were set back, half hidden. They were low, rambling houses, well screened.

The major sat back and spoke softly. His voice was steady and held little emotion. But he was very nervous.

“There have been three notes. The first came to us at the Post, in Manila, before I came up here on leave. It was dropped on the screened porch of our place. It was addressed in a child-like hand—the letters seemed almost labored. A yellowish piece of paper, folded. My wife’s name written outside—Mary. It read:
‘You have not kept the promise—and you must die.’ ”

Jo Gar frowned. “A bit dramatic,” he said slowly. “Who found the note?”

The major said: “I was with Mary at the time. She saw it on the grass mat of the porch—I picked it up, saw her name. I handed it to her. She opened it and read it.”

Jo Gar nodded his small head very slowly. The major was frowning, his brown eyes were on Jo’s almost colorless ones.

“What was her reaction?” the Island detective asked.

Major Crawford shrugged his broad shoulders. He was a man of almost fifty, well built, with a square-cut face.

“She laughed,” he said. “She thought it was one of the Post children’s jokes. We forgot it very soon. But I did mention it to you, that day we met at the Manila Hotel.”

Jo Gar nodded. He had known the major slightly, for some six months. The man had always seemed to him a typical American Army officer.

“And the second note?” he said quietly. “How long after the first was it—”

“Exactly seven days,” the officer cut in. “The servants were packing us up for the trip here. Mary went with them into another room. The packing was being done in a spare room with a porch that opened at the side of the house. When she returned to the room she found the second note. It was addressed in the same way—the writing appeared identical. It read:
‘There is still time. Or do you prefer death?’ ”

Gar nodded. “No signature?” he asked.

The major shook his head. “Not on one of the three,” he said. “The second note my wife treated in the same manner as the first, though she was worried, I could see that. And it was growing very hot. We left for this place two days later. We’ve been here ten days today. After we’d been here five days, or seven from the time we found the second note—the third was in the house to which we are now going.”

Jo Gar pulled on his brown-paper cigarette and watched the car turn from a street near the end of town, into a dirt, country road. Mountain slopes were ahead and to the left. The air was almost cold; it was growing dark.

“I found it,” the major said slowly, “on my wife’s writing desk. She was out riding horseback—but she had written letters only a half hour before. It was addressed as the other two had been—in the same handwriting. It read:
‘There will be no more warnings—this is the last. You have promised.’ ”

The Army machine was climbing a slight grade. Jo Gar said: “You showed it to Mrs. Crawford?”

The major frowned. “Yes,” he said. “But not until the next morning. I was afraid it might frighten her—we’ve only been in the Islands six months—the first hot season has been very difficult. Her nerves have been in bad shape—and I hesitated. But then—”

He checked himself. Jo Gar waited and then spoke quietly:

“But then you felt that perhaps there
might
have been some promise—and you wanted her to know—”

He saw Major Crawford’s body grow rigid—anger showed in the officer’s eyes. The Island detective made a slow gesture with his small hands.

“It is difficult for me to be of any value—unless you are honest with me, Major.”

The major’s clenched hands relaxed. He said apologetically: