West of Guam (60 page)

He searched the shack thoroughly. He found nothing, left the place and walked northward again, avoiding natives who were working. In a half hour he found a cool spot on the slope of a hill. He was tired. He lay on his back, smoked two cigarettes, slept. When he awoke the heat of the afternoon was reaching the shade, and he dozed for several hours more. Then he left the spot and walked slowly in a wide circle. It was after dark when he reached the plantation house. He was soaked with perspiration and very tired.

Tate and Rooder were seated in the living room when he entered; Carter stood near the corridor that led to Jo’s room. No one spoke for several seconds and then the Island detective said:

“The Constabulary have arrived?”

Rooder and Tate watched him narrowly. Carter spoke in a low tone.

“Two of them were here, but they’re gone into Carejo for the night.”

Jo nodded. Rooder said: “You’ve been moving around, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective smiled a little. “Moving around,” he agreed.

Rooder looked at the ceiling. “We’ve held dinner up—such as it is,” he said. “Learn anything?”

Jo continued to smile.

“Good of you,” he replied. “I shall have a swift shower. I have learned something.”

Tate drew a quick breath. Rooder said: “What?”

Jo shrugged and went from the room. As he passed Carter the American said:

“The Constabulary members didn’t find a thing.”

Jo spoke without turning his head. “It does not matter.”

He went along the corridor to his room. The shower was a crude affair, but the water made noise when it fell from the tank. He waited several minutes before turning it on, but did not change his clothes. He took off his shoes, got his Colt in the right pocket of his duck coat. When he went from the room and along the corridor the sound of the shower water drowned other noises in the house.

He walked into the living-room silently. Rooder stood near a kerosene lamp, inspecting something he held in his left hand. Jo Gar stopped ten feet from him. He was inspecting a gun. Tate and Carter had their backs turned; Tate was saying:

“It’s the only—sure way—”

The Island detective stood motionless, his right hand in the right pocket, and the coat cloth slightly away from his side. Carter said grimly:

“If we knew what he’s been doing—”

Rooder looked up from the gun; his body stiffened. Jo Gar smiled with his blue-gray eyes half closed. The two Americans swung around. Carter sucked in his breath sharply. Jo looked at Rooder’s gun.

“Please place the gun on the table,” he said quietly. Rooder stared at him.

“What the hell do you mean—” he started, but the Island detective interrupted.

“On the table,” he repeated.

Rooder’s lean body relaxed. He shrugged, moved a foot or so and placed the gun on the table. Jo looked at the hands of the two Americans. He was still smiling a little.

“Which one of you murdered Won?” he asked calmly.

There was a little silence, then Rooder made chuckling sound that was not very pleasant.

“You mean which one of us murdered Branders,” he said mockingly.

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “No,” he said softly. “I do not mean that. The Chinese cook murdered Branders.”

Tate’s breath made harsh sound. Carter swore hoarsely and swung his body towards Rooder. Rooder’s teeth were clenched and his lips were parted. He kept his blue eyes on Jo’s almond-shaped ones. The Island detective said:

“There were things you did not know. And there were things you did know. You did
not
know that Branders called Alwin a few hours before the plane crashed—and swore that he would never fly again. You
did
know that there was a woman in his life, and that he was going to her, that she would marry him. That meant that you three would have to stay on here, run the plantation—and wait. Wait until he died. It meant something else—the will would probably be changed. So Won murdered him.”

Rooder said slowly and in his guttural voice: “God—what rot!”

Jo Gar shook his head. “Then one of you murdered Won—making it look like a native knifing. That was because I was here—you were becoming frightened. One of you burned the plane, but not because you were afraid I’d find bullet holes. There were none.”

Rooder said: “Of course not—it was an accident.”

The Island detective shook his head. “It was murder,” he said quietly. “Branders was knocked unconscious on the field or near the hangar. He was put in the plane and the stick was fastened back against his body. The engine was opened up. The plane took off—and climbed. A few hundred feet in the air, perhaps more—it fell off on a wing. It crashed. Branders was killed. It was murder.”

Tate swung his body away and moved blindly a few feet. He had a hand pressed over his mouth—the back of his right hand. His face was twisted. Carter stood motionless. Rooder was breathing heavily; his eyes went to the right pocket of Jo’s duck coat.

The Island detective said: “You burned the plane because you wanted me to believe Branders might have been shot down, if I refused to believe it an accident. I had no proof that there were no bullet holes. You paid Won to knock Branders unconscious. Which of you murdered the Chinese?”

Tate stopped moving blindly towards a shuttered window and faced the Island detective. His eyes were wide. Carter was silent. Rooder said huskily:

“It’s—damned rot—you can’t talk that—”

Jo Gar said in a sharp tone: “You do not have to answer. I know.” His eyes went to those of Tate.
“You
murdered Won, Tate.”

Tate’s lips parted. “No—” he breathed in a whisper. “That’s—a lie! A lie!”

Jo Gar slipped his left hand into the left pocket of his coat. He drew out a knife. He held it so that Tate’s staring eyes could see it, then bent downward, slid it across the waxed floor towards the American.

“That’s the knife used on Won. I found it in your room. In the dirt of that plant pot. Rooder told me it was yours.”

Tate turned his head towards Rooder. His face was twisted and his fingers were working jerkily. Rooder said:

“I never—”

Tate swore fiercely. He twisted his head, stared at the knife. When he reached for it Rooder said hoarsely:

“For God’s sake, Harry—”

Tate screamed above Rooder’s voice: “You tried to—frame me. You put the knife in my room. You dirty—killer—”

His hand went upward and backward. Rooder leaped towards the table and the gun he had placed there. The thrown knife missed his moving body and battered against a wall. Jo Gar said:

“Stop—Rooder!”

Rooder’s right hand was lifting the gun when he squeezed the trigger of the Colt. Crash sound filled the room. Rooder half turned and fired one shot as Tate rushed at him. Tate’s body doubled forward; he went down heavily. Jo squeezed the trigger the second time. Rooder let his gun slip from his fingers. He stumbled several feet, half fell into a wicker chair. Carter stood motionless, watching Jo’s gun hand.

The Island detective said: “Look at Tate, Carter.”

Carter moved towards the body. Jo Gar picked up the gun Rooder had used on the American. Carter straightened.

“He’s dead,” he said tonelessly.

Jo walked towards the chair in which Rooder was slumped. He kept Carter ahead of him, motioning him back with the Colt. Rooder looked up at him dully.

“I picked—the wrong, man,” he said thickly, weakly. “I might have had better luck—with Carter.”

Carter shook his head. “You wouldn’t have,” he said grimly. “I wouldn’t have helped. I suspected you, Rooder—but I thought you were too strong to be caught. Too sure of what you were doing.”

Rooder smiled wearily at Jo Gar. “The knife trick—that got him, Gar,” he said softly. “You picked the weakest of the three—and worked on him. But you’d never have found the knife I used on Won.”

Jo Gar was silent. Rooder breathed slowly. “You were—wrong about Won knocking out Branders. I did that. I got him in the plane and used a strap to hold the stick back. After the crash I found only—part of the strap. That’s why I burned her. And I thought Won might have seen me. So I—knifed him. I knew Branders was going back—to England. I wanted—the plantation share. I told Tate—he kept Carter—out of the way—we were sure it would seem an—accident—”

He closed his eyes, and his body slipped forward. When Jo Gar leaned down and looked at him his eyes were open again, and he was dead. He straightened up and looked at Carter. Carter said:

“Tate was losing his nerve all day. You were away, and he didn’t know where. He was nearly crazy by dark. He was even saying strange things in front of me—something about—it being the only sure way. I think they meant to kill you, Señor Gar.”

“I think so,” Jo agreed. “And I had no proof. I spent the day walking—and sleeping. And thinking.”

Carter drew a deep breath. “And Branders was strapped in the plane—she climbed until she fell off on a wing, crashed.”

Jo Gar nodded his head. “Things like that are much more successfully done during a war,” he said softly. “I must telephone Señor Alwin.”

Carter wiped his browned face with a handkerchief. “I can drive you to Carejo—I suppose everything will be all right—here.

The Island detective looked at the two figures that were motionless in the room.

“I think so,” he agreed tonelessly.

From the spot in which Jo Gar was seated the two fighting cocks were whirling, feathered forms bouncing from the dark earth of the pit. Filipinos, Japanese, Chinese, Malays and Portuguese filled the rising tiers of wooden benches; their shouts were shrill and fierce. The betting was good; already there had been several fights. The event now under way was the last fight of the evening; one of the cocks, a small bird named Riazo, was the champion of a distant Philippine province. Riazo seemed to be winning and the majority of the crowd liked it.

The Island detective rolled the brown-paper cigarette between two short brown fingers of his right hand. His face was expressionless; it was as though he were unconscious of the excitement around him. At intervals he raised his right hand so that it was before his brown face. The fingers of the hand were spread carelessly; his blue-gray eyes looked between them.

Cardoro sat on his right, some twenty feet away, in the small box reserved for persons of importance. Cardoro was a magician—Cardoro the Great. He was Spanish, but spoke several languages. Only five days ago he had reached Manila from Australia, and already he was the talk of the city. Crowds stormed the box office of the theatre at which he executed his magic. His name was on the lips of the mixed breeds of the Islands. He was a savage magician, working with knives and poisons. He made incisions on people and there was blood in evidence. Yet it was only a trick. The audience saw incisions that did not exist, and blood that was only colored water. But they liked it, and Cardoro was great. Therefore he occupied the box of honor.

The shrill shouts now became a scream. Jo Gar smiled slightly as the favorite sank on the dark ground. It rose and launched itself into another attack. The larger bird met the attack with a more vicious one. The silver spurs glittered in the light shooting down on them. Riazo was battered back, fell on its side. The larger bird was on top of it now, spurs working. Riazo’s movements were convulsive. Suddenly there were no more movements. The shrill of the crowd hushed. Filipinos were in the pit—bending over the birds.

Jo Gar said very softly, “Another champion is dead.”

He raised his right hand again, spreading the fingers. Cardoro was on his feet in the box. He was staring towards the ground of the pit. He had large black eyes and a face that seemed very pale among the brown ones about him. His body was straight; he was a big man. His face seemed strained.

A Filipino standing in the pit raised a short arm and said into the silence:

“Riazo is dead!”

He spoke in Spanish, and before he could repeat the announcement in another language Cardoro had cried out. His voice carried over the close-packed circular arena.

“No!” he cried in Spanish. “It cannot be!”

Heads were jerked in his direction. A jeering voice from somewhere below reached Jo Gar’s ears.

“It is so—Riazo is even too dead for
your
magic, Señor Cardoro!”

Jo Gar narrowed his blue-gray eyes very little. There was the edge of a smile on his tight-pressed lips. He looked down at the one who had jeered up at the magician. It was Markden, an American who handled many bets. Many bets that were large. Markden was a gambler; it was rumored that he made good sums on the fighting cocks. It was also rumored that some of his bets were placed after he had advance knowledge of certain facts. The Chinese did not trust him, and the Chinese were known as the wisest of the gamblers.

Cardoro’s big body was swaying a little from side to side. His arms were drawn upward, the elbows extended, and his fists were clenched. There were white gloves on his hands; he wore them to protect his fingers, which were long and extremely sensitive. He called above the murmur of the crowd:

“I will not—”

His voice ceased abruptly. Jo Gar watched him turn from the box, saw a rather pretty girl lift a hand as though to stop him. But the magician paid no attention to her. The Island detective watched Cardoro move down wooden steps to a narrow exit. When he looked at Markden again the gambler was facing the direction in which the magician had gone. He was a small, slight man—slighter even than Jo. There was a set expression on his face. His body was tense under the glare of the lights, but as Jo’s eyes watched he saw the man relax. He shrugged his narrow shoulders, looked down at the form of the dead bird.

The Filipino official who had announced the defeat of the champion now lifted the live winner in his hands. He turned slowly with the fighting cock above his head.

“The new champion!” he called.
“Garcia the First!”

There was shrill sound in the arena. A group of Portuguese sailors started down towards the pit. There was the odor of varied tobaccos and of heat of people.
Betel
-nut chewers passed Jo, and there were red stains on the planks. It was very hot.