West of Guam (45 page)

Kanochi frowned and made a little clicking sound. His eyes met Jo Gar’s; he spoke more hurriedly.

“I do not intend to pay the sum demanded; I have told the one who spoke with me that. It is a large sum. Vincente admits that he owes it. He will not tell me the name of the one he has a lost the money to, and he is frightened.”

There was a little silence. Jo Gar said slowly:

“It is Vincente’s duty to load the rifles, at the shooting gallery?”

Kanochi shook his head. His eyes were expressionless.

“It is Vincente’s duty to look after the clay targets,” he said tonelessly. “He replaces those that are shattered—the figures of ducks and such things, when the machinery carries them out of sight and below the level of fire. At intervals the shooting is stopped, and he works swiftly replacing pipes and the silver balls on the water that spouts. I think that he does very well. But this afternoon he was not steady. A Chinese by the name of Matoy loads the guns and cares for the customers. He reported that Vincente was very careless in replacing the targets.”

Jo Gar said: “Yet when he is out of sight he could not be hit? He is protected? And before he comes into range to replace the targets that do not move out of sight—all shooting is stopped?”

Kanochi said, frowning: “Yes—that is so.”

The Island detective inhaled and spoke slowly: “I should like to go to the
Park of the Moon,
and to talk with your son-in-law. What hour would be the most convenient?”

The fat man seemed thoughtful. “At eight it begins to cool—at eight-thirty or nine there are crowds. Between seven and eight the shooting gallery is not very busy.”

Jo Gar smiled. “I shall be there at seven-thirty,” he said.

Kanochi nodded. “Vincente starts his work at seven,” he said. “I will tell him to expect you, and that perhaps you can help him. But I do not think he will give you the name of the one to whom he owes this money—and who has threatened his life.”

Jo Gar rose as the fat one rose.

“If he will not—perhaps there will be some other way of learning this man’s identity,” he said.

Kanochi nodded. “I think that shooting gallery work is bad for one whose life has been threatened,” he said tonelessly. “And yet—” Jo Gar shrugged. “There are many ways of killing,” he interrupted. “But we must try to learn the identity of the one to whom Vincente owes money. Having learned it, we can perhaps convince the man that an accident around the shooting gallery might prove inconvenient for him.”

Kanochi’s eyes held a grim expression. “That is it—that is what I am afraid of—an accident,” he said very softly. “And it is good of you to take this case, Señor Gar.”

Jo Gar smiled, his gray-blue eyes looking beyond the fat man.

“It is good of you to think of me, Señor Kanochi,” he replied. “I shall be at the
Park of the Moon
at seven-thirty.”

He bowed slightly and the fat man left the room. It seemed slightly cooler after he had departed, and the odor was better. His bulk made sound going down the wooden steps to the street.

Jo Gar seated himself and stretched his short legs. He ran browned fingers through his graying hair and murmured very slowly:

“Señor Kanochi has lied before. He is a potential murderer. He does not care for his son-in-law. He has much money. Even should the publicity of an ‘accident’ at his shooting gallery mean a loss of business, I do not think the half-breed would regret too much. Yet he fears the ‘accident’ theory might not be strong enough. So he has invented a story—”

Jo Gar closed his eyes and was silent for several seconds. When he opened them he glanced at his wristwatch, saw that it was almost six o’clock. He rose from the wicker chair and said with a touch of grimness:

“If this Vincente were to be dead when I arrive at the
Park of the Moon
it would be extremely difficult for me. There would be only the voice that Señor Kanochi heard—”

The Island detective smiled with his colorless, thin lips pressed into a straight line. Then he parted them and corrected himself.

There would be only the voice that Señor Kanochi
says
he heard,” he murmured. “I feel it would be very wise for me to go early—to the shooting gallery.”

THE
PARK OF THE MOON
was a fairly large amusement place beyond a turn of the dark, sluggish watered Pasig, perhaps three miles from the curving Escolta. On all sides of the park but the river side were thatch-roofed houses of the Filipinos. It was not yet seven when Jo Gar arrived and paid off his
carromatta
driver, and there was still almost a bright light. And at once the Island detective knew that Señor Kanochi had lied to him. The park was well attended. It wasn’t crowded as yet, but the various rides and shows were all doing business. And in the distance he could hear the staccato crack of the shooting gallery; it reminded him of the sound he had heard from the porch of the house in San Francisco, weeks ago. But there was a difference. This shooting gallery sound was sharper, steadier. He moved in the general direction of it.

The
Park of the Moon
was filled with laughter—the laughter of Filipinos, Chinese, Japanese, and Spaniards. And there the laughter of the half-breeds—the offspring of marriage between these races. A scattering of English and Germans were in the park, and Jo Gar saw the American, Condon, wandering around with a grin on his browned face. He passed a merry-go-round that squeaked ancient music in waltz time. The staccato-clatter from the shooting gallery was increasing in tone now. Down the lane between side shows and rides he caught sight of a greater flare of lights.

And then, very suddenly, the crackling rifle sound ceased. It ceased abruptly and Jo Gar halted, his small body stiffening. Young Filipinos and Chinese moved past him, laughing. He stood motionless, waiting. He muttered:

“It might be—that he is replacing the targets—”

A woman screamed—a shrill, long-drawn note. There was the figure of a short, brown-faced man running towards the Island detective now. His face was twisted.

The Island detective moved his body, blocked the path of the running one. Others made way for him, but Jo said sharply:

“What is the trouble?”

The small Filipino swerved to one side, throwing out his right hand and saying shortly:

“Accident—at the—shooting gallery! I go for—doctor—”

Jo Gar stood quietly for several seconds, his gray-blue eyes very small. People were staring after the running menthe Island detective moved forward, towards the shooting gallery’s flare of light. Perspiration was on his face, and his lightweight shirt clung to the skin of his back. As he neared the lane opposite the shooting gallery he saw that a large crowd had gathered. It took him a half minute to fight his way through the crowd, to reach the counter of the shooting gallery.

Two of the park police, clad in white duck uniforms, were keeping the crowd back. Another came through the crowd as Jo reached the counter and looked across it. Clay ducks were moving from side to side—a silver ball was swinging in pendulum fashion. On the floor, near the line of moving ducks, lay a figure, two men bending over it.

Jo Gar reached the side of the nearest, white-clad policeman. He smiled at the man, said in Filipino:

“I am Señor Gar—Señor Kanochi asked me to come here. What has happened?”

The park guardian said grimly: “An accident, Señor. It is the son-in-law of Señor Kanochi—he has been shot.”

Jo Gar moved towards a small door at one side of the counter, opened it and went beneath the slanting roof of the gallery. On a small wicker chair a woman sat, rocking from side to side and moaning. A taller woman stood beside her; both were Filipinos. Jo Gar went past them and reached the two who bent over the motionless figure.

One of them turned; he was Chinese. Jo said: “You are the Matoy who loads the guns?”

The Chinese looked surprised. He nodded. He had a round face and a heavy body. His eyes were gray and small. The second man straightened and said in very good English:

“He is dead—there are two slugs in his brain. He died almost instantly.”

The man turned and Jo recognized him as Doctor Seth Connings, a rather well known English physician of the city. A woman’s voice asked a question in an uneven tone, and the Chinese, Matoy, moved away from the body. He went to the woman who was rocking back and forth on the wicker, and spoke. Almost instantly she screamed—again and again. The doctor sighed.

“I’ll have to quiet her,” he said. “She was his wife.”

Jo Gar stood looking down at the lean face of Vincente Calleo. He was thinking: “This woman who is screaming now is the one who screamed before. She did not know until the Chinese, Matoy, told her—that her husband was dead. She appears hysterical, and yet she was not beside her husband—she was in the chair over there.”

Her screams were attracting a greater crowd, but more park police were arriving now. The doctor was talking to the woman; her screams became wails. Jo Gar went to Matoy’s side and said:

“I am Señor Gar. Señor Kanochi asked me to come here, because his son-in-law’s life had been threatened. How did the accident occur?”

Matoy shook his head. He spoke Filipino, and swiftly.

“I do not know, Señor. I was having trouble with one of the guns, and took it into the small room at one side, to inspect it more carefully. Several were shooting. I heard suddenly a scream—and hurried from the room. Vincente’s wife was at the counter, pointing across it at the fallen figure of her husband. There was suddenly a great crowd—the English doctor came, and the park police—and yourself—”

Jo Gar said steadily: “You remember those who were shooting?”

There were little wrinkles around the eyes of the Chinese. He seemed to be thinking hard. But he shook his head.

“There has been much business—so many have used the guns. I think one was tall and skinny, Señor. I think three were shooting when I left with the gun I wished to repair. But they might have stopped shooting—and others might have started. I left several loaded guns on the counter. The three were Filipinos, I think, Señor. But I could not be sure—”

Jo Gar went to the counter. There were two rifles in a line. He inspected both—each was completely loaded with the special, small caliber shot used for the range. Three other rifles lay in different positions—two were empty—all shot having been ejected. The third had three small caliber slugs ready for action.

The Island detective faced the milling crowd and said clearly in Filipino:

“Those of you who were shooting when this accident occurred—please call out.”

No person called out. Jo Gar said more slowly:

“You who were shooting were not to blame—the dead one should not have been within range. It will help me if you will speak.”

No person spoke. The Island detective went away from the counter and to the woman on the wicker chair. There was horror in her eyes as she looked up at him. He said quietly:

“I sympathize greatly with you—but I must ask questions. You know your husband’s life had been threatened?”

The woman’s eyes were dark and wide. Jo Gar spoke Filipino to her and Doctor Seth Connings did not understand his words. The woman said:

“Yes—he had told me—he was worried—”

Her voice was broken. Jo Gar said: “You saw—what happened?” Horror showed more clearly in her eyes. She had a thin face, and was small, slight. She was pretty, but the tropics would not allow her to be pretty much longer.

She replied weakly: “I often come to the—shooting gallery. Several persons were shooting—I moved near the counter. Matoy, the Chinese, went through a small door as I called to him. He had a gun in his hand. I was very near the counter—the guns were making sounds. And then Vincente’s head came in sight, his shoulders—”

Her voice broke. Jo Gar said quietly:

“Please go on.”

She said: “He groaned and threw out a hand—he fell forward, across a row of clay targets. I screamed—and there was the crowd rushing—”

She covered her face with her hands. The English doctor frowned at Jo.

“She’s in pretty bad shape,” he said.

Jo Gar nodded. “These questions are necessary,” he replied. “You were just passing, Doctor?”

The Englishman stiffened and said coldly: “I was just looking about the park. And sampling some of the cool drinks. There have been rumors of epidemic—”

Jo Gar smiled faintly and nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You have the interest of the city at heart.” He looked down at the woman again. Her eyes were staring into his. “You would remember any of those shooting?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I saw only their backs—I think they were Filipinos. There were many near the counter who were watching—not shooting.”

Jo Gar sighed. He thought of making another appeal to the crowd beyond the counter, but sensed it would be useless. A man was dead—and Filipinos, Chinese and half-breeds could be very silent when they thought silence wise. They would think silence wise now, he knew that.

Moving away from the woman he said to Matoy:

“May I see the little room into which you carried the gun that did not work?”

The eyes of the Chinese held a faint flicker of light. He bowed slightly and led the way into a small room at the right side of the counter. The walls were of light wood—a small window faced the lane along which the crowd moved. There was a bamboo table in the room, a gun rack and a chair. On shelves along one of the walls were ammunition boxes and cleaning materials. The entrance from the spot near the counter was the only entrance to the room. On the bamboo table rested a range gun. It was very warm in the small room.

The Chinese stood close to Jo Gar, coughing dryly, as the Island detective inspected the weapon. It was jammed—the trigger would not squeeze. Jo Gar set it on the table again. The Chinese said:

“You are satisfied, Señor Gar?”

Jo Gar said slowly: “I did not doubt your word, be sure of that.

These things are necessary.”

The Chinese bowed. It seemed to Jo that there was faint mockery in his eyes. He said slowly:

“Why do you think Vincente rose from the rear of the range—rose among the clay targets? He knew there were persons shooting. Yet he placed his body within striking distance of the slugs. And he was killed. Why?”