Jo Gar shook his head. He said in a very quiet tone.
“You are not surprised to learn that. I did not think you would be. But Sam Ying did not sail on the Toya Maru.” He smiled as Harnville stared at him. “He sailed on the Parambigue, a small steamer. She is now just making the Straits.”
Harnville was blinking at the Island detective. He started to say something, stopped. His long fingers were working nervously. With an effort he made a gesture with spread hands.
“What has all this to do with me?” he muttered. Jo Gar said:
“I will be very frank. You have little liking for Sam Ying. You own river boats—many of them. You did not think Ying paid enough for their use. There was a quarrel—and Ying got his boats elsewhere. You were losing money, and that did not suit you. You tried to prevent Sam Ying from using other river boats. A few bancas and sampans were sunk. These things are known.”
Harnville had a sneer playing around his lips. He looked down at the diminutive detective.
“What of it?” he demanded. “It’s a bit stiff—your coming here at this hour to tell me this.”
Jo Gar smiled.
“You were anxious to get me away from Manila—and there would have been only an untruthful reason for my going. You left me—and very soon after, a knife was thrown at me. And very soon after that you telephoned me, establishing the fact that you were at the Manila Hotel and could not have been near me when the knife was thrown.”
Harnville chuckled. “You traced my call—to make certain?” he asked mockingly.
Jo Gar shook his head. “I believed you,” he said simply. “You do not believe me. You do not think Sam Ying is aboard the Toya Maru. You are right. The substitute you placed aboard is on that ship. But you do think Sam Ying is being held a prisoner, in Manila. You are wrong. Ying is a very ordinary appearing Chinese. Many resemble him. You had little difficulty finding one who resembled him. It was also simple for Ying to do the same.”
Harnville stood motionless, his eyes on Jo’s. It was evident that he wanted to speak. But he did not. Jo Gar said:
“It is difficult, isn’t it? You want to tell me that I am very wrong. That you have kidnapped the right person. Your pride desires that. But you do not wish to admit that you are at all involved. That is foolish—Rosa Castrone has talked.”
Fear showed in Harnville’s eyes. He took a step towards the Island detective. The fear went from his eyes as he moved. Rage was gripping him. He said:
“I know Sam Ying—I know him better than you do—”
Jo Gar was smiling coldly. Harnville got control of himself. He smiled, too. It was a nasty, hating smile.
“I saw friends off on the Toya Maru—Sam Ying was aboard her.
You are trying to frame me, Señor Gar.”
Jo shook his head. “My interest is in Sam Ying,” he said quietly. “He is safely away, sailing towards his native land. I merely wanted to advise you that you are holding for ransom a substitute. Kidnapping is a serious crime.”
He bowed. He said slowly: “I do not think you have seen this man you hold. You have been too busy in other places. Sam Ying is a wise man. He knew that if you were to hold him for a large sum of money he could not call on the police. He is not anxious to expose the reason for such kidnapping—the boats were not used lawfully on the Pasig. So he went away. Last night several men broke into his house and took away a substitute, sleeping in Ying’s bed. Sam had already sailed. This morning you put aboard a fat Chinese who somewhat resembled Ying. That was not a bad idea, but mine was better.”
He moved away from the tall Englishman. Harnville was smiling.
He said in a mocking tone:
“It’s the most idiotic thing I’ve heard. Perhaps you accuse an accomplice of mine with throwing a knife at you from the palms?”
Jo Gar faced the taller man. He said in his toneless voice:
“Why do you say ‘from the palms’? I did not designate the spot from which the knife was thrown.”
Harnville’s face was white. He said harshly:
“I heard about it—at the Club. I’ve been there—”
The Island detective nodded. “I see,” he said. “I should be very careful, Mr. Harnville. Kidnapping is unwise—murder is more unwise.”
He went towards the door. Harnville stared after him, followed him to the door. The wind was blowing fiercely. Harnville said:
“You are very wrong—I shall go to the Island police in the morning.
The idea of your coming here at this hour—”
His words were lost as wind rushed into the house. Jo Gar pulled the door shut back of him, slanted his body into the typhoon gusts. He was smiling grimly. A half block from the Bay he found the caleso. The driver was standing in the shelter of the carriage, muttering to himself. Jo Gar smiled at him. He reached into a pocket of his light suit, now wet with the rain, gave the man a handful of silver. He said:
“I am of the police—turn your caleso and drive slowly towards the Bay. Swear at your horse loudly as you near the house on the right. If no one comes out, descend and work over the harness. I think someone will come and ask you to drive to some spot not many miles distant. Do so. If the man asks about such a person as me, say only that you passed another caleso going towards the Walled City as you drove out. Carry the person to the spot he wishes—attempt to see what house he enters. Then drive to Fernandez’ café off the Escolta, and report to me. There will be more silver for you.”
The driver’s eyes brightened. He nodded. He looked fairly intelligent. As he turned his caleso Jo Gar went across the street to the grounds of the Church of the Sisters. Palms protected him from eyes of a human riding in a caleso. The wind sang through them. After a few minutes he heard the clatter of the horses shoes—the caleso came past. The horse was running swiftly, a match flared behind the driver. Jo could not see the passenger. But he smiled faintly.
“Perhaps Mr. Harnville is stupid,” he murmured to himself. “He is wise to think that his machine would be recognized. But he is stupid to think that I would not think he would prefer a caleso.”
Arragon, crouched beside Jo Gar, shook his head from side to side. The rain slapped against his ancient raincoat. He perspired, though it was not warm in the tangle of tropical growth across from the house in which only one light showed. He muttered:
“Harnville—the Englishman! Are you sure you are not mistaken, Jo?”
The Island detective shrugged.
“I am seldom sure of anything,” he said. “The caleso driver has said this is the house. If he does not come out soon, we will go inside.”
Arragon nodded. That was more to his liking. The lieutenant of Manila police preferred action to thought. He was often too anxious. Thus, he had often failed where Jo Gar, proceeding in an almost sleepy manner, had succeeded. Jo suited his action to the climate of the Islands. Manila was not New York, or San Francisco.
Rain dripped from the foliage—the wind sang a steady song. The street between their hiding place and the house with the one light showing in an upper window was one not far from the center of Manila. It was a bad district—low caste Chinese and Filipinos occupied the frame houses. They were small houses—strong gusts of the typhoon wind seemed almost to rock them.
Jo Gar said:
“I think we shall go inside. We will go openly—you stay in the rear. I will knock upon the door.”
They moved across the dimly lighted street. Juan Arragon went around to rear—Jo knocked on the dark wood of the door. He stood with his right hand fingers touching the grip of his Colt lightly. His eyes moved constantly. No one came. He knocked again. When they broke open the door, five minutes later, there was no sound from within. The house was poorly furnished. There were crude toys scattered about—no humans were about. Juan Arragon said:
“I will ask questions, next door.”
When he returned he said that a Chinese family rented the house. They had many children and had been in the provinces for several day
s. The neighbors knew little about them.
Jo Gar shrugged. “Harnville was clever—or the caleso driver lied,” he said simply. “There is no typhoon cellar in the place.”
Juan Arragon muttered to himself. They went outside the house, after bracing the broken door securely. Juan said:
“Perhaps you were wrong, Jo—perhaps Harnville did not leave his residence. Perhaps this time it is you who have worked too rapidly.”
The Island detective smiled grimly. He replied: “More likely I have not worked rapidly enough, Juan.”
The lieutenant shrugged. “Sam Ying is of little importance, in any case,” he stated.
Jo Gar nodded.
“Others are of more importance,” he agreed. “Others interest me.” Juan Arragon was frowning. “It is like seeking a ghost,” he said. “The name of Sam Ying is registered aboard the Toya Maru, after all.”
Jo Gar smiled. He pointed beyond the house near which they were standing.
“An eighth of a mile distant is the home of Rosa Castrone,” he said. “With a key a man could let himself in the front of this house. He could then go out by the rear, cut across between other houses, and reach the Castrone home very quickly. Let us go there.”
Juan Arragon sighed. “When one has blundered, it is better to start afresh,” he said. “I do not think Rosa Castrone would like Harnville. She loves Sam Ying—and Harnville has long been Ying’s enemy. Why would the Englishman go to her?”
Jo Gar smiled with his narrow lips pressed together.
“It is one of the facts we will perhaps learn,” he said softly, and they turned their backs to the gusts of wind blowing in from the Bay.
The bell tinkled under pressure from Jo Gar’s fingers. No lights showed in the house—the Avenida Mandiez was deserted. There were faint sounds inside now; they reached the two men on the porch against the shrill of the wind. A voice said in native tongue:
“Who is there?”
Juan Arragon replied, “Open quickly. It is the police.”
The latch snapped. A light flashed on. They stepped inside. The Filipino boy that Jo had questioned blinked sleepily at them. Jo Gar said in a hurried, breathless tone:
“Quick—we have just received word! The center of the typhoon—is almost here. You have a cellar?”
Fear shone in the boy’s eyes. He muttered to himself in his native tongue. He was calling upon the saints. A gust of wind rattled the windows, shook the house. Juan said:
“Hurry—there is little time. The storm is terrible—”
The boy was afraid. But he was fighting something. Jo Gar caught him by an arm.
“You have a typhoon cellar here!” he said grimly. “Take us there!”
The house-boy was shaking his head from side to side. He cried out in terror:
“There is no—typhoon cellar—”
The Island detective said fiercely to Arragon:
“He’s hiding something. Rosa told me this was one of the few houses that has one, in this section. We will all be killed—the house isn’t strongly built—”
Arragon drew his gun suddenly. The house trembled under a gust of the wind. The police lieutenant jammed the gun muzzle against the house-boy’s right side.
“Quick!” he ordered. “Take us—down!”
Something was ripped loose, on the roof. It crashed against the side of the house. The wind was shrilling. The house-boy moved away swiftly—Jo Gar following. Arragon followed him. They went through a bedroom, into a closet. The house-boy pointed towards the flooring. Jo Gar whispered:
“You pull on the ring—you go down first—”
The house-boy glanced towards the gun Arragon was holding. He pulled on the ring—the square of wood came up. His body was vanishing from sight now. There was the crash of a gun. The house-boy screamed; his body slipped from the ladder.
Jo Gar dropped downward. He heard the gun crash again—cloth of his left coat sleeve jerked. His feet struck soft earth. He was up—his right hand gripped his gun. And then he heard the hiss of the knife. He caught a glimpse of the house-boy’s right arm. A figure ten feet away uttered a choking cry. There was a whining cry from a woman.
Jo Gar got to his feet. He stared towards the figure of Harnville. The knife had caught him in the side; he was pressing his palms against his coat material, groaning. He said:
“You damn—half-breed!”
Jo Gar went over and kicked his gun to one side. Juan Arragon said:
“The house-boy’s all right—you shot too soon, Harnville.”
Jo Gar looked at the girl. Her face was white—there was terror in her blue eyes. The Island detective said:
“Where is Sam Ying, Rosa?”
She motioned with her head. The light in the typhoon cellar was dim. Jo Gar went past her and looked down at the bound figure of the Chinese. He removed the gag from Sam Ying’s mouth—the man-made guttural sounds. Jo Gar looked at Harnville. He said slowly: “You were right, Harnville. It isn’t a substitute. You did get Sam Ying, at that.”
The Englishman pressed his hands against his side and gritted out words. “You knew that damn well—when you tricked me into coming here to make sure I had him!”
Jo Gar smiled almost cheerfully. “I am glad you did not think of that until this moment,” he said quietly.
Juan Arragon and Jo Gar sat in the police lieutenant’s office. The typhoon was less severe now; the center was not expected to pass over Manila. It would not be a tremendously damaging storm. It was almost three o’clock. Arragon was smoking a small cigar; Jo fingered one of his brown-paper cigarettes. He said slowly:
“Harnville was too anxious. He wanted to be sure. He wanted me away from Manila. That was because I have had some good fortune lately—and also because he knew I was watching Sam Ying. Ying had no use for me—he suspected that certain citizens had requested me to seek evidence against him. But Harnville’s idea was to have me go away—in case it was suspected that Ying had not sailed on the Toya Maru.”
Arragon nodded. “He had sworn that house-boy to secrecy,” he said. “When he dropped into the cellar Harnville didn’t care if he was a boy who had done much for him. He’d given away the hiding place—so Harnville fired. And the boy used his knife, though neither of them is much hurt.”
Jo Gar smiled. “Or perhaps he was afraid the boy might talk,” he suggested. “It was almost a confession, when he threw that knife. I knew then that it was he who tried to knife me. But I suspected it, in any case. He was wearing a white house coat when he tossed the knife. I’ve seen the boy before this, marketing with Rosa. He has always been dressed in white. Suddenly he wears khaki. But I could not be sure. That was insufficient evidence. It is the cool season; khaki is worn now. It was Harnville who betrayed things. First in trying to get me away by an offer. And then, so soon after the attempted knifing, he called me to apologize. It was not a natural act. But when he mentioned throwing a knife ‘from the palms’ I knew something was very wrong. I had not mentioned the palms to him or to anyone else.”
Juan Arragon nodded. He pulled on his little cigar.
“And there was the light he left in the empty house,” the police lieutenant said. “You did not speak of that.”
Jo chuckled. “Again, we could not be sure. His idea was that if he were followed it would be natural for the light to appear. He immediately slipped out the rear way, went to Rosa. They intended to get a large sum of money for Sam Ying. She is tired of him, and besides, he is too obese. Harnville thought that her typhoon cellar was an excellent place to hold the Chinese. The substitution was not difficult—Ying was kidnapped first.”
Arragon grinned. “As you say, most fat Chinese look alike,” he agreed. “And here in Manila there are many fat Chinese.”
Jo Gar shrugged. “My only chance was to cause him to betray himself—this Harnville,” he said. “He is not a good character. He has never liked me. Had I gone to his plantation I doubt that I should have returned. But I did not go. There were too many
signals of storm. I preferred to cause him to believe that his aides had kidnapped a man substituted for Sam Ying. He knew that my clients were trying to deport Ying—and when I told him that the Chinese had sailed on the Parambigue he was worried. There was the ransom money involved—the money he hoped to obtain. He had to go to Rosa’s house, see for himself.”
Juan Arragon said: “It will not go easy with him, or with Rosa and the house-boy.”
Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders. He rolled the brown-paper cigarette between his lips, said tonelessly:
“I think that this time Sam Ying will really sail for his native land.
He is a sick and frightened man. My clients will be glad.”
Juan Arragon smiled. “The typhoon helped us,” he mused. “Signals of storm, you say. But you had eyes for them. Your clients are often glad, Jo.”
The Island detective closed his eyes. There was a little smile showing on his lips.
“The saints are often good,” he said simply, “to those who help themselves.”
Enough Rope
The Island detective finds it strange that a man should hang from a forty-foot rope.
Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders, let his grayish-blue, almond-shaped eyes stare down over the rail of the bridge. He could see the body dangling from the rope; the wind that blew a drizzling, cool rain in from the Bay rocked the dead shape. The white face was upturned; the chin pressed against the hemp. Below there were several sampans; Chinese looked up at the body and kept their lips closed. Rain struck the black water of the river quietly; long legged birds skimmed the surface, some distance from the sampans screaming shrilly at intervals. A launch streaked out from the docks; Jo could see the khaki colored uniforms of Filipino police.
The bridge was at least forty feet above the surface of the water at this point. One end of the rope was knotted around the rail support almost at the Island detective’s feet. And the shape that dangled at the end of the rope was not many feet above the surface of the water. Jo Gar, shaking his head slowly, said:
“It is very curious. Such a long rope. The body hanging so far below the bridge.”
West of Guam Page 11
