West of Guam (37 page)

The blind Chinese said in his native tongue, his voice calm: “Be careful—there is this Mendez—”

Benfeld’s eyes went around the room again. He said savagely:

“There’s no one else in here. If Chang said there was—he was lying to you, Ying. Or else he was—”

The chauffeur said in a shrill voice:

“I did not—steal the diamonds! That is not so—do not shoot—” A knife was suddenly in the right hand of the seated Chinese. He held it out, his sightless eyes gazing straight ahead. He said calmly:

“Be careful—is not a knife better?”

Benfeld said in a low, hoarse voice: “I tell you—Señor Gar had the diamonds. He lied to me. Was I not informed that Ferraro was bringing them? Gar lied. Either he was trying to get away with them, or he wants them for himself. And you—”

The chauffeur said shrilly: “When I reached my car—he was not there—”

Jo Gar watched Benfeld, with thoughts running through his brain. Benfeld figured that he had the diamonds, had gotten them from Ferraro and had lied to him. But did that mean that Ferraro had had more than one stone? Did it mean that someone on the
Cheyo Maru
had received the others, after all? Had Ferraro lied to him, dying?

Benfeld was staring at Dave Chang. He said very quietly:

“Why did you say Mendez was here? Why did you tell Tan Ying that?”

Jo Gar held his breath. He expected Chang to break any second now, to fail under the strain. He was between two guns, and he knew it. Jo had already gotten information from him; he had spoken of Mendez, and Jo Gar had forced him to use the name. The chauffeur was in a tight spot, but surely he must realize that if Jo Gar were to go down under the lead from Benfeld’s gun—he would have a better chance. He had talked, because Jo had forced him to talk. But with the Island detective dead—

Tan Ying said in the same passive voice: “The knife—it is better.”

The body of the blind Chinese was swaying again. Benfeld said in a harsh voice:

“Very well—throw it at my feet, Tan Ying.”

The knife fell several feet from Benfeld, but the judgment of the blind man was not bad. Benfeld glanced down at it, but did not move.

“Why did you say that Mendez was here?” he asked again. The blind Chinese said steadily:

“You do not hear me, Benfeld. I tell you someone—
was
here! I talked with him—”

The eyes of Benfeld were slitted on the screen now. Jo Gar held the muzzle of his gun steady. The chauffeur said weakly:

“It was Mendez—we met in the Street of the Lanterns. He was coming—”

Benfeld swore hoarsely. “Then where is he now?” he asked very slowly.

The Chinese driver made a little movement of his left hand. A browned finger pointed towards the screen. He said at the same instant:

“I do not know—he went out—”

The gun in the hand of Benfeld slanted a little. Jo Gar looked at it, squeezed the trigger of his Colt. When the gun jerked and the room filled with sound, he hurled his body to one side.

The bullet from Benfeld’s gun struck the wood of the screen, and then the wall back of it. Jo Gar pulled himself to his feet and swung around. Benfeld was sinking to the floor—he half raised his weapon. The blind Chinese said in a high-pitched voice:

“Dog of a—”

Benfeld’s gun crashed again. The aged Chinese screamed and pitched forward. The gun dropped from Benfeld’s right hand. He said thickly:

“The dead—do not—talk—”

His right hand reached out and groped for the knife the blind Chinese had tossed near him. Jo Gar said sharply:

“No—”

But it was Dave Chang who suddenly moved forward, bent down. He was screaming shrill words that had little meaning. His right-hand fingers were almost on the hilt of the knife when Benfeld gripped him, pulled him down. With a sudden, last strength the Dutchman raised the knife and struck. Jo Gar fired again, as the Chinese chauffeur groaned and rolled on his back.

Benfeld sat up a little and stared at him. There was red on his lips.

“Dead men—do not—talk—” he repeated weakly.

He lowered his head into outstretched arms and shivered a little.

Then his body was motionless.

Jo Gar went to him first. He was dead. The knife had struck into the chauffeur’s throat. He was trying to mouth words, but they did not come. And Jo Gar knew that they would never come again. He turned towards the blind Chinese. But he knew before he touched him that the man was dead.

There was a babble of voices beyond the two curtains of painted beads. Jo Gar went swiftly into the outer room. He thought, for a second, of trying to get away, of merging into the crowd of Chinese. But already the crowd was thick, and there would be police. He would be seen trying to get away, and there would be difficulties. It would be better to work
with
the police, to attempt explanation.

He lighted a brown-paper cigarette and leaned against the counter. Faces were beyond the beads that rattled from hands that swayed them. Benfeld had expected the diamonds to be brought to him. They had not come. He had thought that Jo possessed them. The blind Chinese had known things—and the driver of the car riddled with bullets had known something. Dying, Benfeld had silenced them both. Even at the end, he was protecting someone.

The Island detective moved his lips a little. He said questioningly: “Who is Mendez?”

When the first of the police entered the shop, Jo Gar had almost finished his brown-paper cigarette. The police officer was small and brown faced. He was breathing heavily. He said:

“What—is it?”

Jo Gar gestured towards the second beaded curtain, and the room beyond it. He said in a tone that was weary:

“It is—death.”

The police officer said: “Robbery?”

Jo Gar smiled with his eyes looking towards the curtain, shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Perhaps,” he said simply. “But very surely—it is death.”

Barrington regarded Jo Gar with frowning, dark eyes. He was tall, immaculately dressed, fresh-looking. He was the power and brains back of the native Hawaiian police force, and it was very evident that the Philippine Island detective’s calm annoyed him.

“I strongly advise you to return to your ship, Señor Gar,” he said slowly.

Jo Gar smiled with his thin, colorless lips. His almond-shaped eyes seemed sleepy, but were not sleepy. And Barrington sensed that. He stretched his long legs, rose from the wicker chair of his office. But he did not move about. He stared down at Jo.

“Ten extremely valuable diamonds—stolen in Manila,” he said quietly. “You have got one back—but nine are missing. You were forced to kill the man from whom you recovered the one, on the
Cheyo Maru.
That was unfortunate.”

Jo Gar nodded his head just a little. “Very unfortunate,” he agreed. “But also—very necessary.”

Barrington shrugged. “Perhaps you were too aggressive, Señor Gar,” he suggested.

Jo Gar smiled a little more broadly. He shook his head very slowly.

“I am never aggressive, Señor Barrington,” he returned very quietly.

“Manila is a city of heat—heat breeds laziness.”

The American made a peculiar, snorting sound. He turned towards his desk and glanced at the report of the Hawaiian police, made less than a half hour ago, at midnight.

“Benfeld, Tan Ying and Dave Chang—all dead. And you are not aggressive?”

Jo Gar shrugged almost casually. “Benfeld was the representative of the Dutch company that had insured the diamonds. For some reason he wished me to stop my search for them, and for the thieves who murdered to get them. He attempted to trap me. He used Chang for that purpose and Chang suffered. The blind Chinese, Tan Ying—I am not sure how he was involved. I think there was to have been a meeting at his place. More than one person was concerned in the Manila robbery and murders. Perhaps there was to be a meeting at Ying’s place. But Benfeld thought I had been shot to death, on the road beyond the city. I upset his plans—and there was sudden death.”

“Triple death,” Barrington said steadily. “You are sure you learned nothing?”

Jo Gar rose from his straight-backed chair. He lied impassively.

“Nothing—that seems to lead me anywhere,” he said. “It is like that Street of the Lanterns where Ying lived—much color and sound, and so difficult to see or hear beyond either color or sound.” Barrington half closed his dark eyes. He said very grimly:

“You are known to be in Honolulu, Señor Gar. It is known that you are after the Von Loffler diamonds, and that you seek the murderers of your friend Juan Arragon—and of that jeweler’s son, Delgado. Already there has been death. And dawn is hours away. I should strongly advise—”

Jo Gar’s lips made a clicking sound. “You have already suggested that I return to the
Cheyo Maru,
” he said calmly. “It is kind of you to think of my protection. Perhaps I shall accept your advice.”

Barrington continued to frown. “I hope so,” he said. “We will do everything possible, here. You will be in San Francisco in six days—and I wish you luck.”

Jo Gar smiled and bowed. They did not shake hands. The Philippine Island detective reached the street and kept his brown right-hand fingers in the right pocket of his light coat. A cool breeze swept from the direction of Pearl Harbor. The streets were almost deserted.

The Island detective smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed, moved slowly in the direction of the docks. They were not far from the building in which Barrington had his office. And as he walked, with his eyes glancing sharply from the corners, Jo Gar sighed. His stubby fingers tightened on the grip of the automatic in his right coat pocket.

“Señor Barrington does not wish more death—in Honolulu,” he murmured very softly. “He is anxious for my departure—he thinks of my health.”

Jo’s white teeth showed in a swift grin. It faded, and he reached with his left-hand fingers for one of his brown-paper cigarettes. The street became suddenly an alley; his eyes caught the slanting masts of ships, their rigging beside the docks. He was ten feet along the alley when he halted, struck the match. But even as the flare dulled his vision, he saw the shape that slid from the doorway less than twenty yards distant. He heard the swift intake of the short man’s breath, saw the right arm go upward and back!

The Island detective moved his left hand away from his face, let his short body fall forward. As he went down his right hand shoved the material of his coat pocket ahead of him—started to squeeze the trigger.

But there was no hiss of a knife hurled through the air, and no crack sound from his automatic. He relaxed his grip, rocking on his knees, as he watched the figure of the man who had slid from the doorway bend forward. The man’s head was held low—his body was almost doubled as he pitched downward. He choked terribly but weakly—there was a sharp crack as his head battered against the broken pavement of the alley.

Jo Gar swayed to his feet. He moved back into the darkness of a narrow doorway on the opposite side of the alley from that where the short one had fallen. He waited, his back flattened against a wooden door that did not give, holding his breath.

The man who had collapsed made no movement. His head had struck heavily, but Jo knew that he had been unconscious before he had fallen. And yet, when he had slid from the doorway across the alley, his movements had been swift and sure. He had sucked in his breath, drawn back an arm. And Jo was sure there had been a knife in his hand.

Minutes passed. There were the faint sounds of machines, in the direction towards the city center, away from the docks. A cool wind rustled some paper down the alley. It was quite dark, and Jo could not see beyond the body of the man. Once he had heard foot-falls in the distance, and the sound of high-pitched voices. The alley was on the edge of the Chinese quarter, perhaps in it.

His right forefinger pressed the steel of the automatic trigger—the material of his right pocket was held clear of his side. But he made no movement. Five minutes passed. Jo Gar shivered a little. He was sure that death had come to the one across the alley from some spot directly behind him—and that the person who had caused the death was waiting silently, for some other movement in the narrow alley.

He breathed slowly, carefully. His right wrist was aching from the tensity of his grip on the automatic, and his eyes moved only from the motionless figure on the pavement to the blackness of the low doorway behind the figure. The shacks along the alley appeared to be closed, deserted. But the entrances existed—and in the one almost opposite him was the human cause of another person’s death. Unless—and there did not seem much chance of that—there had been an escape through the shack beyond the motionless, sprawled figure.

The Island detective listened to the shrill whistle of a small boat, beyond the docks. He relaxed his body a little, but suddenly it was tense again. He had heard, very distinctly, a faint chuckle. It had not come from the doorway in darkness, beyond the collapsed figure, but from some spot above him.

He raised his head slightly. The shacks were low—less than fifteen feet high. Clouds were over a crescent moon; the night had become dark. But he could see nothing on the roof of the shack opposite.

And then, very softly and quietly, the voice sounded. It was low and throaty—and very calm.

“Señor Gar—you are comfortable?”

Jo Gar did not move his body. There was a quality to the voice, an accent of grim amusement. He had a definite feeling that he was trapped—that the death of the man across the alley had been a part of the trap. He did not speak. The voice sounded again—from above, and to the left. The roof of a shack on his left and on his side of the alley held the speaker, he guessed.

“You will kindly disarm yourself—step into the alley, Señor Gar.” The Island detective raised his automatic higher, withdrew it from the right pocket. He moved only his right arm. The voice said, after a short pause:

“Do not be a fool, Señor Gar!”

The accent was clear. He had heard the same accent of precise English in Manila. It was Spanish—this man’s native language. And the speaker was calm—very calm. He was sure of himself.