This turned out to be not far from the new Red Cross center which he had known in his earlier trip as the Manila Club and the shop was not new as Claire had said, but newly decorated, a squarish stucco house with a red-tile roof on which a façade-lifting job had been done to give it style and modernity.
A nicely dressed mestiza in her middle thirties met him in the big front room and he asked if Miss Maynard was free and presently Claire appeared and she was something to see in her print dress with its tiny sleeves and sleek snug lines. Her hair was smartly coiled and her make-up was exciting but when she saw him the correctly superior customer’s look she had fashioned slid away and her smile was warm.
“Hi,” she said unaffectedly. “How do you like it?”
Rankin said he liked it fine and the look he gave her made it clear that he referred to her and not the shop. He said he thought maybe she’d go out to dinner with him. She pursed her red mouth, considering the suggestion, and said she was about through for the day and why didn’t they go upstairs and discuss the matter. Without waiting for his answer, she spoke to the mestiza about closing shop and then led Rankin into another room, and up the stairs.
Here there was a big living-room, bedroom and bath, a dining-alcove, and kitchen, all newly furnished in wicker and chintz. There was even a tiny refrigerator in the kitchen and Rankin said she must know the right people. She said she hoped so and produced a bottle of gin and some vermouth.
“I could make you an omelette and a salad,” she said as he stirred the Martinis. “And there’s fruit for dessert—and coffee. Why don’t I put on something comfortable and—”
“I’d like that,” Rankin said.
That pleased her and her green eyes smiled when she said she’d only be a minute.
She came back shortly in a print housecoat with long sleeves and a cozy neckline. She put on an apron and said how about another Martini, and Rankin brought a chair into the kitchen and perched there, straddling it, and talking about this and that while she got things ready.
Later, when the dishes were done, they sat in the living-room and he asked her about the shop and her backer. He wondered if it could be Pascual Sanchez.
“Why would you think that?” she asked.
“He’s got plenty of cash apparently. He’s got his finger in a lot of things. With you around this could be a nice investment.”
She sipped her coffee but she made no answer and he reluctantly brought forth the thing that had been bothering him.
“You knew Ulio’s sister was alive,” he said. “You knew it in San Francisco.”
She was looking right at him when he spoke and he saw her eyes sober. She straightened her face and was suddenly busy with the coffee tray.
“No,” she said.
“You know Sanchez. You knew Lynn Kane was staying there.”
“I never met her.” She kept her gaze averted but her voice was even, unaccented. “I knew there was a girl staying with him and I’d heard her name was Kane. I didn’t know she was Ulio’s sister. I didn’t even mention it in San Francisco because he was so positive his sister was dead.”
Rankin let it go. He had no proof, nor could he make up his mind about believing her. It seemed important too, that he be able to come back here again when he knew more about the woman and her background, and it would do no good to antagonize her now.
He left at ten and it was all very pleasant and friendly, the things they said and the way they shook hands. But it was not the same. Somewhere the feeling of warmth and intimacy had been lost and in its place was an intangible reserve that told him that he had come too close to the truth, that she was hiding something and would henceforth remember to be careful what she said.
He carried this thought with him to Taft Avenue where he caught a bus and wedged himself inside. Unmindful of his discomfort as he rode back to town, he examined other things that had happened that day. He thought of Lynn and his visit to Sanchez. He thought again of Charlie Love and was annoyed at his desertion, for he had come to like the older man’s rustic wisdom and had counted on his loyalty.
Now, getting out at Plaza Santa Cruz, he moved on to Rizal, and the walks were still crowded with loitering pleasure seekers, so after a block of this he turned left, intending to detour the traffic and approach his room from the rear.
He did not realize he was being followed until after he had turned right at the next corner. It was a street of small shops and walled courtyards, quite dark except at the corners, and it was when he paused to light a cigarette that he heard the step behind him that stopped an instant after he did.
When he turned there was no one in sight, but the curbside pillars supporting the overhanging second floor were wide and he did not wonder at this but went on, hurrying automatically and estimating the distance to the Lingayen Gulf Café.
He had two blocks to go and the steps behind him were closer now and a glance over his shoulder told him the man who followed was making no further attempt to hide his presence but moving steadily along, close to the inside where the shadows were blackest.
He could not see the face beneath the turned-down hat-brim, but there was something vaguely familiar about the stocky shape, and when he looked again as the man passed a lighted second-story window he was sure. Carlos de Borja was fifty feet behind him, matching steps with him, moving straight ahead.
Rankin walked to the next corner, his mind made up and not bothering to glance back. He turned right, keeping close to the wall. He slipped the automatic from his pocket and made sure the safety was off before putting it back. He stopped. When Carlos de Borja turned the corner, Rankin went to meet him.
Apparently De Borja wasn’t ready for any such move. His pace slowed perceptibly. Rankin came on, with only twenty feet separating them now, his hand tightening on the gun as a cold fury struck through him.
For a few seconds back there he had been scared and he was angry at that, angrier still when he thought of the other’s probable intent. He saw De Borja’s hand move, saw it stop, still in sight. De Borja was five feet away, angling now as though to walk past.
Rankin moved over, blocking him off the curb.
He did not take the gun out but the muzzle made a threatening bulge in his side pocket. He did not know whether De Borja saw it or not but De Borja stopped and stood very still.
“Where are you going, Mac?”
“Me?” The tone was softly accented and even in the darkness Rankin could see the sickly smile, the shifty, uncertain eyes. “To the corner,” De Borja said. “To Rizal Avenue.”
Rankin was still tight all over, his fury shaking him inwardly as he thought of the man’s galling boldness. He took his hand from his pocket because he no longer trusted himself.
“Try this again,” he said, “and I’ll probably kill you. All right, beat it!”
De Borja waited for him to step aside but Rankin did not move. He made the fellow walk around him, into the gutter, then followed two paces behind him all the way to the corner. De Borja did not falter nor glance back. At the intersection he turned right and lost himself in the crowd. Rankin went on to the Lingayen Gulf Café.
It was rather crowded and the five-piece pseudo-hot combination was blasting away at the rear beyond the tiny dance floor. He went to the bar and ordered whisky, forgetting where he was until he had gulped the drink and reached quickly for the water chaser.
He made a profane reference to the liquor’s heritage and the bartender said sure it was local stuff and made from sugar cane. “What do you expect for sixty cents?” he said. “It used to be a dollar.”
Rankin asked where Victor, the proprietor, was and in a few minutes he came along behind the bar, a heavy-set man, taller than most Filipinos but darker too, with curly hair that suggested some mixture of Negro blood. He had a deep resonant voice and asked if Rankin’s room was satisfactory, and if there was anything he could do.
“Did you send Charlie Love up to see me?” Rankin asked.
“Yes, sir,
” Victor said. “He told me you hired him.”
“What do you know about him?”
Victor hesitated, his glance evasive. He made some vague references to Charlie’s honesty. He did not know much about Charlie but he seemed like a nice enough sort.
“Seen him lately?” Rankin asked.
“No. Is something wrong?”
“I don’t know. I can’t find him,” Rankin said.
Rankin knew his room had been searched the minute he turned on the light but he felt no surprise and went quickly to his bag, pawing through it, pleased that his two unopened Scotch bottles were intact, and removing his bathing-trunks. There was a change pocket hidden inside the waistband of these and he unbuttoned this when he felt the folded paper he had placed there earlier.
Satisfied that no substitution had been made and that this was the note signed by John Kane which Ulio had enclosed with the will, he returned it to the change pocket and felt inside his coat to reassure himself that the will was intact.
When he had poured a drink of Scotch he sat down on the bed to examine the will again. The drink warmed him comfortably but traces of hate still lingered as he reconstructed his brush with De Borja and it was a minute or two before he could consider the incident calmly.
Then, thinking back, and understanding the reason behind the encounter, he began to feel a certain grim satisfaction at the way things were starting to move. De Borja worked for Sanchez. Sanchez knew that he, Rankin, would make trouble if he could; therefore it would seem that Sanchez was sufficiently worried to start a counterattack in the only way he knew—by threats of force in the person of De Borja!
He thought about the will and the copy Marie Dizon had, and realized that it was lucky he was carrying the document when his room was searched. Then the kernel of an idea took root in his mind and began to sprout. He wondered what would happen if he put the word out that the will had been stolen. He coddled the idea as he undressed, not knowing what particular good he could accomplish but intrigued somehow by the thought that it might serve to confuse Sanchez. He dropped off to sleep knowing the pressure had begun and liking the feeling it gave him.
11
CHARLIE LOVE SHOWED UP the next morning, his sweat-stained hat in his hand and a tired look around his eyes. Sheepishly and with elaborate apologies, he said he’d learned that a friend of his was in a little trouble in San Fernando and he had hurried out there to help straighten things out.
“It was pretty late when I got back so I didn’t come around,” he said.
“You just happened to get word about your San Fernando friend while you were sitting there waiting for me in front of Sanchez’s office?”
Charlie examined his hat and nodded his yellow-gray head. “That’s it,” he said. “There were two or three fellows out looking for me and one happened to spot the car.”
Rankin knew there was no point in further questioning. There was, he guessed, much independence and pride in Charlie Love, and the choice was a simple one. He could accept the story and take Charlie back, or he could doubt it with cross-questioning and have the old guy walk out on him.
“Okay,” he said, more because he liked the man than because he wanted the car. “Only next time stick around long enough to let me know what the score is, will you?”
Charlie swallowed visibly, a simple matter for a neck so scrawny, and looked relieved. “Won’t be no next time, Mr. Rankin,” he said.
Spence Rankin had carefully studied the newspapers he had bought two days previous without finding any personal advertisement that indicated Ulio’s authorship, and he went now to Jerry Walsh’s office and got a list of the other local four-page dailies. Before the day was over he had visited all but two of these—two which were closed for the day—without learning anything about Ulio or any advertisement he had inserted, and in his travels he managed also to spread the word that some papers had been stolen from his room.
He told Charlie Love; he told Victor, in the café. He went to Jerry Walsh’s office and hinted as much to Lynn, suggesting that she knew who was responsible. She was properly indignant at his inference but he did not care and went so far as to point out the obvious motive behind the theft, adding that it did not matter too much since Marie Dizon had a properly attested copy that would be equally valid in court.
The next day he went back to the two newspapers that had been closed the day before. At neither place could he get any information about Ulio Kane or any personal notice that had been inserted by him, but he did learn one thing. He discovered he was being followed.
He saw the man first when he left the last newspaper office and that he noticed him at all was simply because he looked cleaner than the others who lounged outside the doorway and wore a neat khaki-colored suit, faded from repeated washings but recently pressed. Rankin thought nothing of it then, nor later when he spotted the man on the sidewalk in front of the café. But the third time told him the other’s presence was no coincidence.
It was late afternoon then and he was going to see Jerry Walsh when he remembered that he was short of cigarettes. Instead of getting into the elevator, he stopped in the dim, dark-walled foyer and went back to ask Charlie to buy some while he was waiting. Then, as he stopped beside the car, his glance went beyond it and the man in the khaki suit was on the other side of the street reading a newspaper.
Rankin eyed him narrowly, remembering the other two occasions now, and finding nothing unusual about the fellow’s appearance beyond his neatness, a certain body thickness not often seen in Filipino men, and a flat-topped hat with a wide and curling brim.
“We might keep an eye on him,” he said, calling Charlie Love’s attention to the man. “He may be another one of Sanchez’s boys.”
“Another one?” Charlie said.
“There was a guy named De Borja. He tried following me a couple of nights ago but I haven’t seen him since.”
Jerry Walsh was not in but Lynn Kane was at her desk, surveying him with cool indifference as she told him she expected Jerry back but could not be sure just when. Rankin said he would wait and went over to Jerry’s desk by the window.
Lynn’s back was to him and he watched her blond head as it bent over the typewriter. Now and then the machine was still as she straightened up to think of a phrase and once she put her hands up and shook out her hair, tossing her head backward. It was pleasant just watching her and he found his resentment vitiate as he made excuses for her attitude and beliefs. No matter what he thought the attraction he had first felt remained. Even being in the same room with her did something to him, stirring up the old excitement.
Absently as his mind examined the subject of Lynn Kane, he picked up a pencil and began to doodle on a sheet of copy paper. He signed his name and copied it again. He did this nine times before he realized it and then, with no thought at all of inspecting the letters, he found himself studying them, idly at first and then with a growing concentration that made him forget everything else.
Carefully, a letter at a time, he inspected those signatures. He took each S and compared it with the others; he took the e’s and the n’s, matching the angles and curves and the way they slanted from the vertical. Then the turbulence was in his mind and he knew finally that what he had first thought a coincidence was in truth a proven fact.
He straightened slowly, staring, not at anything in the room but seeing in his mind the possibilities of his discovery. Howard Austin had said he thought he could prove that the bill of sale Sanchez had was a fake. He was not ready to tell how he expected to do so and the more Rankin thought of it the more he was convinced that there was no other way but this.
For he knew now that no matter how many times he signed his name those signatures would never be the same. Similar, yes. All seemingly alike, but not one identical with any other.
He said, “Hah!” aloud and saw Lynn Kane glance round. He grinned at her because he felt so good. He crumpled up the paper and threw it in the corner and just then Jerry Walsh came
in.
“No use looking for the Scotch,” the newsman said, “because I took it home.”
“Is it good Scotch?”
“It’s wonderful Scotch.”
“And you’re grateful to me,” Rankin said.
“Undyingly.”
“Hah!” said Rankin again. “Have you got a photographer assigned here with you?”
“Sure,” Walsh said, his tired eyes mirroring surprise. “Ed Kelly.”
“I want to borrow him for an hour. For a little private deal.”
“Well”—Walsh wrinkled his brow—“I guess so. When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll tell him,” Walsh said. “But if it’s a private job you’ll have to make your arrangements with Kelly.”
Rankin said he would. He said he’d stop by for Kelly in the morning and to consider the bottle of Scotch paid for. Then he was at Lynn Kane’s desk, grinning down at her because he could not help it, the thing he said surprising him because it was born of spontaneity and popped out as the impulse struck him.
“Look,” he heard himself say, “how about having a drink with me before you go home?” He saw the violet eyes widen, the startled smile on her mouth, and hurried on. “No quarrels, no lectures, just a couple of civilized drinks. To prove there’s no hard feeling,” he added. “Will you?”
She eyed him quizzically and her tone was cool but not hostile. “I might,” she said. “If you’re sure about the lecture part.”
Rankin did not believe it but the fever was in him, whipping up a state of happy recklessness where anything was possible.
“Some place where they have good whisky and small crowds.”
Jerry Walsh grunted. “You don’t know what you’re saying, pal,” he remarked dourly, but Rankin ignored this and waited impatiently for Lynn to get ready.
“Do you know where we can get Scotch?” he said when they crossed the sidewalk and got into Charlie Love’s sedan.
Dangerous Legacy Page 10
