Till The Old Men Die

by Janet Dawson

  “It was late afternoon. The soldiers were in a hurry to get to Clark. While they were waiting for me they’d found out about this shortcut up through the cane fields. So we took this road north. It was more like a track, really. The jeep broke down outside a little village called San Ygnacio.”

  “Dr. Manibusan’s village,” I said.

  “Yes,” Olivia Beddoes said. “He remembered the Americans in the jeep. He told me that’s why he started looking for me. The people were wonderful. They fed us, though they had very little to offer, and several of the men helped the soldiers work on the jeep. Around dusk we heard shots. The people were afraid of Japanese stragglers. They said some Japanese had been seen west of there, just the week before. The two soldiers I was with went to investigate. They came back with some Filipino partisans and a wounded man. I did what I could, but he died before morning.” Her hands, folded in her lap, now tightened into fists.

  “What happened? Or do you know?”

  “I know what I heard. My Tagalog was pretty good in those days. The leader of the partisans said several villagers had been ambushed by Japanese stragglers. Two men were killed outright. The third was the man I tried to save. His name was Carlos. I remember that because his wife was there, crying and saying his name over and over again.”

  “Something else made you remember,” I said, “something Dr. Manibusan wanted to know.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Two things, really. During the night Carlos drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes alert enough to hear what was being said. He kept saying something to his wife about a priest and an American. I don’t know what he meant by that, because when the village priest showed up, Carlos pushed him away. Then, while the men were talking and I was treating his wounds, he kept trying to speak. Finally he reached up, grabbed the front of my shirt, and pulled me close so I could hear.”

  “What did he say?”

  The Tagalog words rolled off her tongue as though etched permanently in her memory. “Taong sinungaling. Mamamatay tao. Kolaborador.” I looked at her, waiting for a translation. “Liar. Killer. Collaborator.”

  I could guess what the dying man meant by those words. The explanation he heard swirling around him was a lie told by those responsible for his death, who may have worked in collusion with the enemy. They were not merely words in a dictionary, but pejoratives that carried the stain of betrayal.

  “If the attackers weren’t Japanese, who were they?” I recalled Javier Manibusan’s speculations about the San Ygnacio incident and his brother Lito’s obsession with the manner of their father’s death.

  “I don’t know. I wondered about those partisans. They were a rough-looking bunch. Some of those guerrillas were less interested in fighting the Japanese than they were in fighting each other and grabbing what they could get. All I know is somebody in that room was lying, Jeri. I’ll never forget the look on that dying man’s face as he hissed those words. The two soldiers and I argued about it the rest of the way to Clark. I thought maybe we hadn’t gotten the whole story, but they were quite willing to accept the story about Japanese stragglers. They didn’t hear what that man said, but I did. They didn’t want to report the incident because of our unofficial side trip. I reported it anyway. I don’t know if anything ever came of it, but Dr. Manibusan had a photocopy of my report.”

  “Did he?” That might explain one of the documents in the missing envelope. “I think the dying man was Carlos Manibusan, the professor’s father,” I told her.

  She sighed heavily. “I remember several children hovering in the doorway. I wonder if one of them was Lito Manibusan.”

  “What was going on when Carlos spoke to you?”

  “The leader of the partisans was talking. He was a young man. I noticed that because he was so much younger than the men he was leading.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Short and stocky, with a squarish face and short black hair. He was dressed in fatigues, carrying a rifle. He looked tough and sure of himself. He took charge of things and didn’t kowtow to anyone.”

  “Did anyone refer to him by name?”

  “Dr. Manibusan asked me the same question,” Olivia Beddoes said, “so the answer must be important. There were a lot of people in the room, all of them talking at once, it seemed. But one of the partisans called his leader by a nickname. Filipinos are very fond of nicknames. He called him Pusa. It means cat.”

  An appropriate nickname, I thought, for someone who always seemed to land on his feet, exactly the words Alex had used at the fiesta when we talked about Maximiliano Navarro. Pusa, the cat, who still had a commanding presence, though his short and stocky body had thickened and the black hair above his square face was now silver.

  Twenty-five

  MEN IN POWER DO NOT GIVE UP POWER EASILY. But they can be made to feel uncomfortable. I hoped I was having that effect on Maximiliano Navarro. But he gave no sign of discomfort as we strolled through the garden of the white stucco house on Vallejo Street in San Francisco’s Pacific Heights. He seemed confident, affable, and mildly amused at my presumption in ringing his doorbell in the middle of this bright May afternoon. He must have been curious, though, or I wouldn’t have gotten past the series of taciturn men in sunglasses and suits who guarded the door and seemed to accompany him everywhere. The same two men I’d seen with him last week at Pacific Rim Imports now shadowed our steps as Navarro and I walked along a flagstone path to the back of the garden, where a stone fence marked the perimeter of Navarro’s property. We looked out at the view, a spectacular vista of the tree-covered Presidio and the Golden Gate Bridge beyond.

  “You haven’t said why you came, Miss Howard,” he said, the afternoon sun glinting off his silver hair as he fingered the glossy leaves of a jade tree planted along the path.

  “I came to offer my condolences on the death of a friend.”

  He raised his eyebrows, a polite question in his eyes and on his lips. “Which friend?”

  “Dolores Cruz Rios.”

  “Ah.” His blunt fingers found a dead twig on the jade tree and snapped it off. “Mrs. Rios and I had not been friends for quite some time. How did she die?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “How regrettable.” He didn’t look like a man who regretted anything.

  “She was killed Friday night. Where were you Friday night, Mr. Navarro?”

  He laughed. “Surely you don’t think I had anything to do with her death.”

  “Not directly. I’m just curious. I’ll bet you were somewhere in public, with lots of witnesses.”

  “I was having dinner at Postrio, with my wife, my son, and his fianceé. And of course my staff was present.” He indicated the bodyguards who stood on either side of us. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  “To a point. Let’s talk about another Friday night, earlier this year, in January. Your friend Hector Guzman threw a party for you at the St. Francis Hotel. He invited a roomful of his rich friends so that you could discuss your burning desire to be president of the Philippines. The soiree was set to begin at eight o’clock. You and Rick and Dolly arrived at the hotel about seven. You went into the Compass Rose bar for a drink. But you were interrupted by Dr. Lito Manibusan.”

  Navarro left off his inspection of the jade tree and turned to me with emotionless black eyes. “I don’t know anyone named Manibusan.”

  “I believe you met his father many years ago.” I shot Navarro a hard look, wanting to see some kind of emotion in his eyes, but they remained blank. “Dr. Manibusan was a history professor at Cal State Hayward. He approached you after your party entered the Compass Rose bar. You and Rick and the professor sat and the bodyguards stood. Then you told Dolly to make herself scarce. You didn’t order any drinks, but you and Dr. Manibusan had a rather heated conversation in Tagalog.”

  “Oh, was that his name?” Navarro said, not missing a beat. “Some man did accost us in the bar, but I don’t recall his name. Why is this significant?”

  �
��Dr. Manibusan was murdered shortly after he talked with you.”

  “Really? How distressing. The world is certainly a violent place, San Francisco as well as Manila.”

  He was really good at this, but then, he’d had years of practice. I fired a question at him. “What did you and the professor talk about?”

  “He had some questions about my war record.”

  “He wanted to talk about the murders of three men outside the village of San Ygnacio in Pampanga Province in the spring of 1945.” As I inched further and further out on this particular limb, I hoped that the subject would generate some sort of reaction from Navarro. But so far he remained impervious to the implied threat in my words, his square, pugnacious face untroubled by me or ghosts of the far or recent past.

  He tilted his head to one side, and his face assumed a thoughtful mien. “I am from Pampanga Province. And my partisans fought the Japanese all over that area.”

  “Yes, I know. Dr. Manibusan had an extensive file on you. I’ve read it. And he had a personal interest in what happened in San Ygnacio. One of those men was his father.”

  “The one I’m supposed to have met?” Navarro asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Because you were there. You and your cousin Efren Villegas. I think Dr. Manibusan accused you of killing those men in San Ygnacio for personal reasons.”

  “I have killed no one,” Navarro protested, raising his hands as if to ward off a blow. “Except during war, of course.”

  “Taong sinungaling. Mamamatay too. Kolaborador,” I repeated, hoping I said the Tagalog words correctly. They had a sting to them, no matter how mangled my pronunciation. So did their English equivalents. “Liar. Killer. Collaborator. Your father was accused of collaborating with the Japanese during the war.”

  “Those charges were never proved,” he protested.

  “Maybe that’s because the evidence was eliminated. Someone called you by those names a long time ago in a room in San Ygnacio. Lito Manibusan may even have seen you, though he was just a child at the time. He didn’t know who you were then, just that you had a nickname. It’s the same one you’ve carried ever since the war. Pusa. The cat. Cats are renowned for having nine lives, Mr. Navarro. But even cats run out of luck eventually.”

  The bodyguards gave no indication they had heard anything. They might have been constructed of the same material as the stone fence before us. Navarro finally reacted, turning to give me a hard look, revealing the iron fist he so frequently muffled in a velvet glove. “These are wild accusations you are making, Miss Howard. I wonder where on earth you came up with this ridiculous story.”

  “It’s the professor’s story. And he had proof, some documents he waved under your nose. Something that threatens to torpedo your political aspirations. So Lito Manibusan was stabbed to death on the seventh floor of the Sutter-Stockton garage shortly after he talked with you.” I jerked my chin in the direction of the veranda. Rick Navarro had just stepped through the back door of the house.

  “You sent Rick and Eddie Villegas after him to get those documents. But they didn’t succeed. The professor stuck everything in an envelope and mailed it before he left the hotel. And while Rick and Eddie were searching Dr. Manibusan, they found that empty microcassette recorder. The professor taped your conversation in the bar, Mr. Navarro. And I have a feeling you slipped up and said something incriminating.”

  Max Navarro’s silvery eyebrows drew together as he scowled, but his glare was not directed at me. It focused on Rick, walking rapidly toward us. Odd, I thought, looking from father to son. Something passed between them, swift as lightning, then was gone before I had time to interpret it.

  “What are you doing here, bothering my father?” Rick demanded, his voice sharp. Nothing indicated he’d heard me accuse him of murder.

  “I think your father can take care of himself. He has for years. Anyone who gets in his way winds up dead, like those men in San Ygnacio. I know you and Eddie went after Dr. Manibusan that night. Nina saw you. So did Dolores Cruz. And when you joined the party, Dolly saw blood on your cuff. She was holding that over your head as well as the envelope. You’re responsible for Dolly’s murder, Rick. I don’t care how many people saw you at Postrio the night she was killed.”

  “You cannot prove any of these ravings,” Navarro said, dismissing me with a swift, cutting gesture. He barked a command at his bodyguards, and they moved to flank me. I was being thrown out. I had succeeded in making Max uncomfortable. But he was right. I couldn’t prove any of it. Not until I got my hands on the contents of Dr. Manibusan’s envelope.

  As the two men with bulges under their arms deposited me in front of the Navarros’ Pacific Heights palace, I thought about the look that had passed between Max and his son. Max was sure Rick had the envelope, certain that he had nothing to worry about. But I’d been watching Rick’s face while I fired accusations at his father, and I had seen anxiety and a hint of desperation. Rick hadn’t found the envelope either. Dolly had hidden the treasure well. It was still out there for the taking.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find,” Belinda grumbled. “The cops have already been here.”

  After getting tossed out of Max Navarro’s house, I sped back to my side of the bay, coming directly to the Oakland branch of Mabuhay Travel. Belinda and I were the only ones there at the moment, and she was periodically fielding phone calls. “Did they search the place?”

  “Well, they looked around, but they didn’t take the joint apart, if that’s what you mean.”

  When I gave my statement to Griffin and Harris after Dolly’s death, I didn’t tell them about the envelope, so they wouldn’t be looking for it either at the condo or at the travel agency. I told Belinda what I was searching for and she looked skeptical. “A brown envelope? We get dozens of brown envelopes every day. Besides, how do you know she didn’t keep it at the condo?”

  “Because whoever killed her was looking for it, and I don’t think he found it there. I figure she hid it somewhere else. Next logical place — work.”

  “I’ll help you,” she said grudgingly, “but I’ve got work to do. And I close the office at six.”

  The clock Belinda indicated hung like a pointed reminder next to a poster of a Philippine beach, and it read a quarter to four. I set to work, going through Dolly’s desk while Belinda looked through filing cabinets. She made slow progress, though. The phone kept ringing and she had to leave the cabinets and spend some time with a couple who wanted to go to Hong Kong.

  Dolly’s desk was full of the sort of debris that collects in drawers — paper clips, boxes of staples and file labels, scissors, letter opener, rubber bands, pencils, and pens with missing caps. There wasn’t much that was personal. One drawer on the side of the desk held work-related files, and behind those I found a glossy fashion magazine and a month-old copy of the Philippine News. Another drawer yielded a couple of unpaid parking tickets on Charles Randall’s white Thunderbird. The top drawer rattled with loose pencils and pens, rolling unchecked amid paper clips and rubber bands and bits of paper. I pulled out some of the papers. Yellow Post-it notes, pink phone-message slips, and some pasteboard bits. Only two were identifiable, half of a ticket from the Grand Lake Theatre, the movie palace down the street, and a parking stub from the Oakland Airport, dated last week.

  “Nothing here,” I said, turning from the desk.

  “Likewise,” Belinda said. She pulled out the bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets and quickly rifled through the contents.

  “Did she keep any personal items here at all?”

  “We both kept some stuff on the shelf in the bathroom, like cosmetics, a hairbrush, toothpaste, and a toothbrush. Mine’s in a straw basket, but Dolly kept hers in a red-and-yellow bag.” Belinda straightened and stretched as the phone summoned her. “And there’s a mug and some coffee back in the supply room. I drink decaf, but Dolly liked that heavy-duty stuff from Peet’s.”

  The bathroom was a cubicle on the right side
of the hallway near the travel agency’s back entrance. I pushed open the door and switched on the light, surveying the amenities, which were basic. Stool and sink were the standard white porcelain, and the only other furnishing was the shelf that Belinda mentioned. I spotted Belinda’s basket and the toiletry bag. The shelf also held several rolls of toilet paper, a box of facial tissues, and some cleaning supplies. I took the tissue box apart, my fingers searching for something that might have been tucked between the layers, then conducted a similar inspection of the toilet paper, finding nothing. The cleaning supplies didn’t have anything hidden in them either.

  I gave Belinda’s basket a cursory inspection, then opened Dolly’s bag of toiletries. There was nothing stuck in the lining, nor was there anything in the case but the items Belinda had mentioned. I dumped everything back into the bag and moved across the hallway to the supply room. There I found a small refrigerator next to a table that held a beat-up toaster oven, a drip coffee maker, and a roll of paper towels. Two mugs, rinsed out, sat with tops down on a neatly folded dishtowel. I opened the refrigerator and saw the remains of someone’s lunch and a quart of milk, slightly sour. Belinda’s decaffeinated coffee was in a jar neatly labeled with her name. Next to it I saw a dark brown one-pound bag of Peet’s 101 Blend, the industrial-strength stuff that takes paint off walls and sterilizes your coffee cup. Could Dolly have tucked the envelope or its contents into the bag? I reached for the coffee with one hand and the paper towels with the other.

  “What are you doing? You’re making a mess, that’s what you’re doing.” Belinda folded her arms and looked exasperated as I scooped ground coffee out of the bag onto the paper towels I had spread out on the table. The supply room was redolent with the aroma. “Just what do you expect to find?”