West of Guam (30 page)

The Island detective shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“I do not think it will help greatly to find the machines,” he observed. Carlysle said: “Juan Arragon was in close pursuit. There is a possible chance.”

The Island detective nodded slowly. “Yes,” he agreed. “A chance.” Liam Delgado faced them suddenly. His eyes were shot with red. He ran trembling fingers through his white hair. He said fiercely:

“There were four of them. I will have them—every one! I am wealthy—and I will use my wealth—”

There was the staccato cough of a motorcycle—a brown-uniformed figure rode to the curb before the shop. He dismounted, hurried inside. He was breathing heavily. He spoke rapidly in Filipino dialect to Carlysle. The head of the Manila police interrupted him sharply, telling him to speak more slowly. Jo Gar said quietly:

“He says Arragon’s car skidded, beyond the bridge. There was a crash into iron railing—the driver was hurt and the car disabled. Pedestrians have told him that Juan stopped another car, and continued the pursuit. The bandit machine was far ahead, running along the right bank of the Pasig.”

Carlysle groaned. “It will get away,” he muttered. “The bandits were masked—the drivers of the three machines may not have been noticed—”

Jo Gar looked towards the back of Liam Delgado. The jewelry shop owner was standing near a counter, his body rigid. Jo said slowly:

“One leaves the Island only by boat.”

Carlysle half closed his eyes. “There are many American visitors here—and English, too. Three boats sail in the next three days. Two of them are big vessels. It will be very difficult—”

He broke off. There was a little silence. Then the police head said slowly:

“But they have the diamonds—the Von Loffler stones. We can search thoroughly, at the docks.”

Jo Gar touched the tips of his stubby, brown fingers to almost colorless lips. His almond-shaped eyes were slitted, three-quarters closed.

“We can do many wise things,” he observed with a grimness strange in him. “But unfortunately,
others
can do wise things, also.”

At seven o’clock Jo Gar paused before the Manila
Times
office and read the large-lettered bulletin before which a small crowd had gathered. It told him that none of the bandits had been captured, that they had got away with diamonds valued in excess of two hundred thousand dollars—the “famous Von Loffler ten,” and that they had murdered Ramon Delgado and Herr Mattlien. It further stated that one escaping machine had crashed into a
carromatta
from which Señor Jo Gar and the driver had barely escaped with their lives. Also Lieutenant of Manila Police Juan Arragon, in pursuit of this crash car, was missing. He had hailed another car, with a Chinese driver, after the one in which he had been riding had skidded and crashed.

The machine, the Chinese and Juan Arragon—all had vanished along the right bank of the Pasig. The whole police force, aided by Island Constabulary, were hunting down the bandits. The
Times
offered a reward of five thousand dollars, and it was rumored that Liam Delgado would announce an offer of a large sum—for the bandits’ capture. Two of the machines used in the robbery had been found, abandoned. They had each been stolen. They were being examined for fingerprints. It was the most daring crime in the history of Manila.

The Island detective smiled grimly, and then he thought of Juan Arragon and the smile went from his face. He was fond of Arragon—the lieutenant of police had often blundered in the past, but he had always tried. And the item that mentioned his disappearance was not pleasant to read.

Jo turned his back to the bulletin and waited for a
caleso
to pass—one with a strong-looking horse. He waited only a few minutes.

Across the bridge, on the far side of the black-watered Pasig, there were several police cars. Along the road over which Juan Arragon was supposed to have pursued the car that had struck the
carromatta
in which Jo had been riding there were Constabulary officers. On the left were moored
sampans
and various other type craft—on the right of the road there were hundreds of native huts, thatch-roofed and similar.

From the main road other roads angled off—many of them. Relaxed in the
caleso,
Jo Gar frowned at the roads. Three miles along the river road and the country suddenly became deserted. There were fewer crossroads—native shacks were scattered. The ground was rolling; there were curves. A half dozen times Jo stopped the
caleso
and made inquiry of natives, but always the answer was the same—nothing had been seen of the pursued car, or of the one in pursuit.

It was growing dark when Jo ordered the
caleso
driver to turn back.

He breathed softly to himself:

“The bandits inside the shop were not recognized. No attention has been paid to the machine drivers; even I would not recognize the man who drove the car that crashed into us. Some say it was a Chinese who was driving the car that Juan commandeered, others say it was a Jap. No one seems to be sure of the type of car. It is always so.”

He shook his head slowly. The
caleso
reached the Escolta, chief business street of Manila, and proceeded slowly towards the police station. Jo descended, paid the driver and climbed the stairs to the office of Carlysle. The American frowned into his eyes, shook his head slowly:

“Nothing—not a thing!” he breathed. “I don’t like the way things look, Señor Gar. Arragon has dropped from sight. He was alone with that driver of the car he picked up. One of the police officers with him was stunned in the crash—and Juan ordered the other one to look after him. And he’s dropped out of sight.”

Jo said very slowly, wiping his brown forehead with a handkerchief, and narrowing his eyes on a slowly revolving ceiling fan:

“The killers are very desperate. That is natural. They have valuable diamonds, and they have murdered two persons. They would not hesitate—”

He broke off, shrugged. Carlysle swore beneath his breath and watched the Island detective. He said, after a little silence:

“Juan Arragon thought very well of you, Señor Gar. You showed him up many times, but he always was good-natured about it. If you—”

He broke off. Jo Gar smiled a little and said in his toneless voice: “Herr Mattlien is dead. Ramon Delgado is dead. Ten extremely valuable diamonds are missing. The method of the robbery was very modern. I am interested, of course.”

Carlysle said: “Good. Of course you are. The method was American, I’d say.”

The Island detective shrugged. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But it does not mean that Americans were the bandits.”

Carlysle said bitterly: “I hope not—for
their
sakes.”

Jo Gar lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes and said very slowly:

“I shall try to find Juan Arragon—but it is important that the vessels are watched. Very important.”

Carlysle said: “I’ve got everything working—we’re trying to find someone who can identify a driver of one of the three cars. The descriptions are all vague—guesswork.”

Jo Gar turned his small body slightly. He said in a tone touched with grimness:

“I will return for a few minutes to my office, then I shall move about.”

Carlysle’s eyes were narrowed. He said with a touch of eagerness:

“You will let me know—as soon as you learn something?”

Jo moved towards the door of the office. He nodded his head a little.

“If
I learn something—I will let you know,” he said quietly, and went down the stairs to the street.

His small office was not far off the Escolta; the street was narrow and curving. There were few people on it; the shops were small and most of them had closed for the night. It was almost dark when he turned in at the entrance and climbed the narrow, creaking stairs. He climbed slowly, conserving his energy.

At the landing before his office he paused a few seconds, stood in the faint light from a small, hanging bulb. Then he went towards the door and reached for the knob. His office was seldom locked; he kept little of importance there.

When he opened the door there was a faint breeze from the window. He reached for the switch—and white light filled the room. For a second he stood motionless, his shoulders and head slightly forward. His eyes looked towards the wicker chair near the small table.

He recognized the uniform first. It was khaki in color. Next he recognized the figure. Juan Arragon’s body was half turned away from him—head and shoulders rested on the table. The helmet was not in sight—Arragon was bareheaded. His dark hair glistened in the white light. There was a definite inertness about the position of the body.

Jo Gar said very steadily: “Juan—Juan Arragon!”

From the Pasig there was the shrill note of a river launch whistle. A driver called in a high-pitched voice in the street below.

Jo Gar sighed. Then he stepped into his office, closed the door. He went slowly to the side of Juan Arragon. He looked first at the head, with the half-opened eyes. Then he found the two bullet holes, not far from the heart. There was little blood.

There were books on the floor; they had fallen as though swept from the table with force. An ink bottle had crashed and broken. Near the right, outstretched fingers of the dead police lieutenant was a bit of white paper. A stubby pencil lay beyond it. There were scrawled words on the paper. Jo Gar leaned forward and read them. After a few seconds he reread them, aloud.

“ ‘Calle Padrone—house in palmetto thick—high porch—shutters—go at once—I am shot—French—’ ”

That was all. Jo Gar straightened and turned his back on his friend. He went to the window and looked down towards the street, unseeingly. He felt very badly. Juan Arragon was dead, shot to death. They had worked together on many crimes. Now that was finished. Often Juan had been wrong, but he had always been fair.

Jo Gar slowly lighted a cigarette. He drew a deep breath and moved his lips a little. He said:

“I will find them, of course. They have murdered him. And Ramon Delgado. And Mattlien. Because of diamonds—ten of them.”

He stood motionless for several seconds. Then he shrugged, turned and went from the office. He did not look again at Juan Arragon. He walked, not too rapidly, the short distance to the police station.

Carlysle said, looking with wide eyes at the body of Juan Arragon:

“God—they got him! But he scrawled the address of the hideout. We’ll get out there—”

Jo Gar shook his head slowly: “If you send men there—be very careful,” he said tonelessly. “The address was meant for
me.
”

Carlysle blinked. “Yes,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t make any difference—”

Jo Gar said softly: “You see the pencil—it is near the right-hand fingers. The writing—it is in English.”

Carlysle frowned. “It’s Arragon’s writing,” he breathed. “He could write English.”

The Island detective nodded. “He wrote with his
left
hand,” he said quietly. “If he were dying and wished to give me directions, I do not think he would write in English. And how did he get here?”

Carlysle stared at the dead police lieutenant. He muttered something the Island detective did not hear. Jo Gar said slowly:

“He was shot—and brought here. His handwriting was imitated. It is clever work. But they did not remember that Juan was left-handed. And I understand Filipino—he would have scrawled words to me in that language.”

Carlysle said: “They wanted you—to go to Calle Padrone—to the house in the thicket—”

Jo Gar said very quietly: “I should be very careful how your men approach the house.”

The American police head frowned. “They’re afraid of you, Jo,” he said grimly. “They planned this crime carefully. They know Juan has worked with you. They thought they’d get you—out of the way—”

He broke off. The muscles of the Island detective’s mouth twitched.

He said:

“It is possible.”

Carlysle looked down at the scrawl. “They figured the shaky writing would get by—with you thinking Arragon was in bad shape when he wrote it. They didn’t know—he was left-handed. And I’d forgotten—”

He checked himself. Jo Gar spoke very quietly:

“The killers know of Señor Gar,” he said. “That is unfortunate.”

Carlysle, his eyes still narrowed on the scrawl, spoke grimly.

“There is this word ‘French,’” he said. “They wanted you to believe their nationality was French. That eliminates something—they’re not French.”

Jo Gar said nothing. He went to the window of his office and stood with his back to Carlysle and several of his men. The American police head gave orders. Then he spoke to the Island detective.

“The coroner will be here soon. I’m going to the Calle Padrone, with my men—”

Jo nodded. “I shall see you in a few hours,” he said quietly, and added in a toneless voice: “I hope.”

Carlysle frowned. “Delgado is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward,” he said. “I’m going to have the boat passengers carefully checked, the luggage searched.”

He moved towards the door of the office. Jo Gar followed him.

Carlysle said: “You going my way?”

The Island detective shook his head. His eyes were almost closed.

“I think it will be better for both of us,” he said softly, “if I go alone.”

Von Loffler sat across the table from Delgado and Jo Gar. He was a German who had lived many years in the Islands. His body was lean and he was not young. He looked at Delgado’s white hair and said thickly:

“It is very bad. The diamonds are insured, of course. But in England. I sympathize with Señor Delgado, and I agree with him. You have done much good work in the Islands, Señor Gar. These bandits and killers must be caught.”

Jo Gar said nothing. Delgado spoke in a firm, low voice.

“Señor Gar is more familiar with conditions here than other detectives might be. Lieutenant Arragon was his friend. I think we have much—the three of us—to work for, together. But Señor Gar—it is his business.”

Von Loffler nodded. His face was grim. His blue eyes narrowed on Delgado’s.

“Your son, Liam,” he said. “Señor Gar’s friend. And my diamonds.” His eyes flickered to Jo’s. “You will work for us, Señor?” he asked.