Dangerous Legacy

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I know many named José.”

  “Is it your father’s handwriting?”

  “It is his signature.”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  Ulio gestured toward the door. “I found it under there when I came in eight nights ago.”

  “Why?” Rankin pressed. “I mean why didn’t José give it to you instead of—”

  “He might have thought it dangerous to see me. He might have discovered that I was being watched.” He stood up. “Even before this I knew I was being followed.”

  Rankin’s practical mind fought against his expanding excitement, the impulse to scoff strong until he met his friend’s troubled gaze.

  “Why?” he said quietly. “What’s the rest of it?”

  Ulio began to pace. “Before the war my father had several interests. Copra and a coconut oil plant on Mindanao, the automobile agency in Manila, some apartment buildings. Also there was a gold mine.”

  “You were beginning to work it when I was there,” Rankin said.

  “My brother went to the University School of Mines. When he graduated he spent most of his time poking around the Baguio district, where, at one time, there was one of the richest mines in the world. In the end he found something and Father backed him, though it was not until ’41 that we knew what we had.”

  He stopped pacing and looked at Rankin. “The Japs fought from that mine after they had stolen the machinery. Parts of it are flooded and shafts are blocked. When I came out of the hospital I knew I would need pumps and compressors and drills and there would be none in the Philippines so I wanted to get credit for this machinery here and have it shipped before I left. That’s when I learned that a man named Sanchez claimed title to the mine. The manufacturers and supply houses that I called on told me their Manila representatives had seen the bill of sale signed by my father.”

  “So maybe he sold it.”

  Ulio shook his head grimly. “I know of this man Sanchez. He claims to be a Spaniard, though he is a Filipino citizen and a member of our Senate. During the occupation he collaborated and I thought our people would shoot him once the war was over. Apparently he played both sides and there were many who testified that he helped the guerrillas too. I know that while my father was in Santo Tomas he sold to Sanchez his automobile agency—the name and good will, for we did not own the building—for fifty thousand pesos which Father had paid over to the guerrillas. But I talked with him that last day in Manila and I know he would not sell the mine.”

  “You think Sanchez figured you were dead and pulled a fast one,” Rankin said.

  “With me gone there would be none to contest his claim. Now it is obvious that he knows I am alive, that I have been trying to get machinery to work the mine.”

  “Have you got any yet?”

  “Finally. Not much but enough for a start. Sanchez will know of this too. He will guess that I will return soon and I have an idea he will like that.”

  “Why?” Rankin asked.

  “I think I can prove his claim is false,” Ulio said, a new intensity in his words. “And once I am in Manila Sanchez will have to take steps to prevent my proving any such thing. For a man like Sanchez such a thing would not be difficult—in Manila.”

  “Wait a minute.” Rankin rose and put his glass aside, impressed by what he’d heard but reluctant to accept the story. “You mean this Sanchez wants you back in Manila so he can knock you off?”

  “It’s more than a possibility. That’s why I’d like you to come.”

  Rankin sighed heavily, his grin wry. He ran his fingers through his hair; he scratched his neck. “What am I supposed to be, a bodyguard?”

  “Something like that. Until Sanchez is taken care of. I need someone, Spence, and there isn’t anyone else I know of here, and if there was I’d still pick you.”

  “It sounds screwy,” Rankin said. “It sounds like a bad play. The gold mine, the villainous killer, the hero beset by insuperable odds—”

  “I think I can prove it is no play,” Ulio said softly. “What time will you be free tomorrow afternoon?”

  Rankin thought a moment and said four o’clock would be all right for him; then he listened while Ulio Kane explained what he wanted to do.

  2

  SPENCE RANKIN MADE THREE BUSINESS CALLS the next morning and two during the afternoon. He did not sell any printing. He had trouble concentrating on such things as paper stock and typography and prices, because he kept thinking of Ulio Kane, remembering nearly every word that had been said, remembering too the quiet urgency of his friend’s tone and the way his grave dark eyes had asked for understanding. Now, moving into the lobby of the Blake Hotel, he found himself looking forward with some impatience to the demonstration that Ulio had suggested.

  The clock over the desk told him he was ten minutes early and he glanced about for an empty chair, spotting one presently next to one of the round supporting pillars where he could keep an eye on the elevators. Opening the afternoon paper but making no attempt to read, he let his gaze move slowly about the busy lobby, ignoring the bustling guests who moved in a constant stream to and from the desk and elevators, and concentrating on those who, like himself, were waiting.

  Most of these were men and occupied with newspapers or conversation. Across from him two women sat at opposite ends of a leather divan, one perched stiffly on the edge while she watched the main entrance with an air of expectancy, the other slumped back with crossed legs, smoking indifferently.

  It was another minute or so before he noticed that someone else who held a folded newspaper had his interest centered elsewhere, and there was something so unusual about the man and his manner that Rankin gave him his attention, discovering finally that the focal point of this interest was the elevators and those who spilled from them each trip. Held by something he could not analyze, he found the man’s face swart and heavy in profile, the nose somewhat blunt, the ears large. He had removed neither his coat nor hat and under this the hair was black and shiny.

  Still intrigued by the fellow’s unflagging vigilance, Rankin let his imagination go, finding something sinister in the face and sloping forehead that fitted perfectly the story Ulio had told. Of course the guy was probably an Italian vineyard owner up from the valley and waiting for momma and the kids, but he had the makings of a first class heavy and was, in appearance, villainy personified.

  It amused Rankin to so endow him and he continued to watch surreptitiously until Ulio Kane stepped from the elevator and started slowly across the lobby. Then, as Rankin reached for his hat, he got a surprise. The man he had been watching stood up when Ulio passed; when Ulio stopped at the newsstand to buy cigarettes, he pretended to stretch and fold his paper.

  Rankin rose, no longer amused. Aware of Ulio’s plans, he walked to the side entrance. When he glanced back Ulio was just going out the other door and the stocky man was twenty feet behind.

  Rankin stepped out into the foggy afternoon air and strolled to the corner. A moment later Ulio walked past and started across the intersection. Rankin lit a cigarette, taking the opportunity to glance back up the street. Under the marquee the stocky man was watching; then, instead of attempting to follow Ulio, he turned abruptly and went back into the hotel.

  Across the street a man in a trench coat and a gray hat pushed away from the light post and jaywalked in the middle of the block. He did not hurry but something in the way he moved, his obliviousness to those about him as he fixed his gaze farther down the street, caught Rankin’s attention. When he started along the sidewalk a hundred feet behind Ulio, Rankin strolled after him, still wondering about the man with the swart skin and big ears.

  Before they had gone a block he knew the man in the trench coat was following Ulio. For the little Filipino was taking his time as they had agreed, stopping now and then to look at a store window, and in each instance his follower also found something of interest in the nearest door or window.

  Rankin grinned, his interest quickening, and for once
he welcomed the fog which had been sweeping in from the sea since early afternoon. Oakland and the outline of the Bay Bridge had long since vanished. Telegraph Hill was lost to sight somewhere off to the right and as the thick gray mist swirled down into the streets, lights winked on here and there in shop windows.

  The fading light pleased Rankin, so did the side street down which Ulio presently turned. Here there were no store windows to tempt one: a couple of restaurants, a hardware store, loft buildings, and those who walked along looked neither right nor left but kept their chins tucked in against the dampness.

  Rankin was no more than thirty feet behind the man when Ulio turned into the alley. When the trench-coated figure followed, Rankin quickened his pace, moving round the corner of the building and no longer bothering to be quiet about it.

  Ulio was nearly to the far end of the alley, the man about halfway along it, when he heard Rankin and glanced back. When he continued, still looking back, Rankin called to him and lengthened his stride.

  “Wait a second. I want to talk to you.”

  He was close now, feeling the quick inspection of the narrowed gaze, seeing the mouth tighten.

  “Go roll your hoop, Mac,” the man said. “I’m busy.”

  He turned away. Rankin reached out and took his arm. “You’ve been following a friend of mine,” he said. “I want to know why.”

  “Okay,” the man said. “If that’s the way you want it,” he said and pivoted, bringing up his right.

  It was quick and smoothly done. It might have worked had Rankin not been set. As it was he caught the fist in his open palm and hooked hard as he stepped in, a nice punch, clean and well-timed, a little lucky perhaps to clip the jaw so neatly.

  That was all. The man bounced off the brick wall behind him and fell down, his hat tumbling after him. Rankin pulled him to a sitting position, glanced over his shoulder to make sure he had not been seen, and bent down. He heard Ulio running up as he opened the man’s coat. When he saw the cardcase in the vest pocket he slipped it out and removed a card.

  “What’s that for?” Ulio asked.

  “To show us where he works,” Rankin said. “Let’s go.”

  At the corner they caught a taxi and Rankin read off the address from the card. In the center it said, William Estes, Confidential Investigations. Below and to the left it said, A. K. Garrity.

  They left the cab on Market Street in front of a grubby three-story walk-up next to a stationery store, and by that time Ulio was worried.

  “I don’t think you should,” he said. “I just wanted to prove to you that I wasn’t imagining things.” He followed Rankin across the sidewalk and up the stairs. “Let it go at that, Spence,” he pleaded. “We know who’s behind this. You can’t expect to make this man tell you who hired him.”

  “I can try.”

  “You’ll only get in trouble.”

  “A little more won’t kill me.”

  He located the proper door halfway down the hall and entered, finding himself in an outer office equipped with typewriter and desk behind a rail, a bench and a table with magazines on it in front. The smell of cheap perfume lingered in the air but there was no one there so he opened the gate and went on to the door of a connecting office.

  “You can wait out here if you want,” he said, and went in.

  A man looked up from behind a flat-topped desk in the corner of the room, a paunchy man of fifty or so with a triple chin and small gray eyes. He wore a blue suit and a flowery red and yellow tie. There was a pearl on the tie.

  “I didn’t hear you knock,” he said with some resentment.

  Rankin advanced to the center of the room and gave it a quick look to make sure they were alone. “That’s because I used my silent knock,” he said. “Are you Estes? You’ve got a guy named Garrity working for you. He’s been tailing a friend of mine.”

  “Has he?”

  “I want to find out who hired you.”

  “When you go out,” the fat man said, “close the door quietly and read what it says. You’ll find the word confidential.”

  Rankin grinned at him and nodded toward the filing-cabinets behind the desk. “Maybe you keep records that tell about such things,” he said and started forward.

  He did not see the desk drawer open nor could he see the man’s hands. Nothing changed in the heavy face; there was in fact no noticeable movement at all until he took the second step and saw the gun poke up above the desk top and point at his stomach.

  He stopped, his grin fixed but mirthless. “Use that and they’ll give you the gas chamber.”

  “Not the way I’ll use it,” Mr. Estes said. “I always make it a point to shoot low.” The muzzle angled down. “Say at the knee. That’s to give the victim something to remember me by. Don’t forget to close the door quietly.”

  Rankin looked at the bland fat face. “I’ll try,” he said. “And give my regards to Garrity. Tell him if I catch him following my friend I’ll slap him down again.”

  The door was ajar and Rankin closed it quietly. Ulio watched him, shaking his head. “I told you that wasn’t the way.”

  “I’ll bet Garrity doesn’t bother you any more.”

  Ulio chuckled and was strangely happy going down the stairs. “Remember the time you almost lost the Washington game because you slugged that tackle?”

  “He’d been giving me the knee,” Rankin said.

  “You were never bitter though.”

  “Who’s bitter?”

  “You were last night. In there”—he chuckled again—“you were the Spence I knew. Going along, laughing at the tough ones, sticking your chin out, not giving a damn.”

  He tugged at Rankin’s sleeve as they stood on the curb looking for a cab. “What about it now?” he asked. “Will you go to Manila?”

  “Sure,” Rankin said. “Why not?”

  Claire Maynard was waiting at a corner table in the cocktail lounge and what she saw when she looked up was a small dark man with dancing eyes and a grin that spread from ear to ear, and a taller compactly built man with a rugged, somewhat homely face and laughing blue eyes.

  “Well,” she said as they sat down. “You might at least stop grinning long enough to say hello. What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing is funny,” Ulio said. “It is only that I feel so good. We will have a celebration.” He beckoned to a waiter. “Twelve-year-old Scotch for Spence and me and a champagne cocktail for you.”

  “Scotch for me too, darling,” Claire said.

  “A very wonderful thing has happened,” Ulio said after he gave the order. “Spence is going to Manila with us.”

  Claire Maynard, about to open her cigarette case, glanced up sharply, her green eyes enigmatic in that instant that she turned from Ulio to Spence Rankin. Then she smiled and selected a cigarette.

  “How nice,” she said. “It really does call for a celebration, doesn’t it?”

  Rankin noticed the hesitation before the smile and wondered if she thought his being along would cramp her style with Ulio. Then he remembered that he did not know exactly what her style was and forgot about it when he saw the happy grin on his friend’s face.

  It made him feel good, knowing that he was responsible. It was nice to sit there, forgetting for the moment the past and thinking only of the future. He was not sure whether it was because he was going back to Manila as he had so often dreamed of doing that made him feel this way, or whether it was the promise of action and a worth-while chance among new scenes. It may have been simply the satisfaction of knowing that he would no longer have to try to sell printing. In any case, the reasons did not matter. It had been a long time since he had felt this way and it was enough to be here, to feel that fine warm glow inside him that came from doing something for a friend.

  They sailed eight days later aboard the S.S. Molokai with a passenger list of ninety and cargo for the Far East. It was ten o’clock at night before they got under way and by that time Ulio Kane was happily drunk. When, a little later, the al
cohol caught up with him and he began to nod, Spence Rankin shook his shoulder and glanced at Claire Maynard.

  “You want to go to bed, Ulio?”

  Ulio lifted his head and smiled, his eyes glassy. “Yes,” he said. “I am sorry, but I will not regret the hang-over that will follow because I knew what I was doing.”

  “Sure.” Rankin said. “You had one coming.”

  “It has been a long time,” Ulio said, “since I have dared to let down. I think I have been a little afraid this past month.” He put his hand on Rankin’s arm and pulled himself erect. “But now that you are here, Spence, it will be all right.”

  Claire went below with them to get her coat and when Rankin had put Ulio to bed he met her in the purser’s lobby and they made a tour of the main deck before climbing the ladder to the boat deck. Here they leaned against the rail between two hooded lifeboats and lit the last two cigarettes in Rankin’s case.

  For a while they did not speak but stood staring out across the rippled surface of the sea. There was no moon but the sky was clear and starlit, the white superstructure of the ship standing out boldly against the night. Behind them a couple were huddled on a metal settee behind a ventilator but there was no other life or movement about except the angry hiss of water along the ship’s side and the faint vibration of her engines.

  Busy with his thoughts as Claire continued the silence, Rankin relived the past few days, a little amazed that Ulio could have managed things so quickly. Fortunately his immunization record needed only one booster shot and Ulio had friends in the State Department so that the passport came through promptly. He was not able to arrange for them to fly all the way, due to the heavy air traffic between the mainland and Oahu, but he did secure three seats from Honolulu to Manila.

  “A sweet guy,” he said presently. “Is it all right to ask how you two stand?”

  “In what way?” She waited and when he did not answer she said, “We’re, well—just good friends. He’s been wonderful to me. I don’t know how I’d have stood those weeks in San Francisco without him. I’m very fond of him, Spence.”