West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  Benfeld said suddenly: “Of course, I have it! You will use my car. I shall get other conveyance. In the morning we shall meet again.”

  He smiled cheerfully. Jo Gar protested. But Benfeld would not listen to him.

  “Better still—” he said, and his voice died away as he frowned thoughtfully. Then he said with a smile: “I have two cars. You will remain here, Señor Gar—and I will drive to my appointment. It is a monthly affair, an important one. I will then send my chauffeur to you, with the other car, the open one. I will drive my own, when I return home, which will be late. In the morning I will come to your hotel.”

  Jo Gar bowed a little. “You are very good,” he said softly. “You are very kind.”

  Benfeld glanced at his wristwatch and rose to his feet. He called a Chinese waiter and insisted upon paying for the drinks. Jo Gar rose and they shook hands. Jo said:

  “Of course you realize you must be discreet about this affair—”

  Benfeld said sharply: “Of course, Señor Gar. I think you have done very well. I will have my chauffeur return here within twenty minutes, say. You will not be too chilled in an open car?”

  The Island detective shook his head. “I would like an open machine,” he replied. “It is very good of you.”

  Benfeld smiled. “You will be able to see more of the Island,” he said. He bowed. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  Jo Gar bowed a little. “Until tomorrow,” he agreed.

  The Dutchman went slowly from the garden, towards the palm-studded street. He walked erectly, with his shoulders thrown back. He bowed to two men seated at a small table in the garden. Then he was lost from sight behind a high, tropical hedge. Jo Gar reseated himself and called the waiter.

  “Iced claret,” he ordered.

  He slumped in the wicker and watched the crests of the palms sway in the breeze. It was true that he was many miles from Manila. But other things were not so true. Perhaps he had lost the trail of the remaining nine Von Loffler diamonds—perhaps not. The thing that Benfeld did not know was that Señor Ferraro had used a few words, lying on the floor of his cabin on the Cheyo Maru. Most men, when they felt death coming close, used words. And Ferraro had said: “The blind Chinese—Honolulu—you can find—”

  That was all he had said. And in the city of Honolulu, with a tremendous Chinese population, there would be more than one Chinese who was blind. But that did not mean that the trail was lost.

  The waiter brought the iced claret. Jo Gar sipped it and smoked another cigarette. He thought:

  The Dutchman, he is well established here. He perhaps has a fine reputation. But why did he question me so? And he has not a poker face. He is not experienced in these things. There is much that he would like to know, yet he has an important engagement. And my boat is sailing at noon tomorrow.

  Jo smiled a little, with his lips pressed together.

  “And he feels I would enjoy riding in an open machine,” he murmured softly.

  Music from a stringed orchestra reached his ears. It was the soft, lazy music of the Hawaiians. The Manila detective nodded his head very slowly.

  “There is a possibility”—he half whispered, looking down at his drink—”that he is correct. I shall very soon see.”

  Some twenty minutes later a waiter came to Jo Gar’s table and said that his car was just beyond the garden. Jo thanked him and paid for the drink. He went slowly to the street in which the palms rose. The car was a short distance from the garden entrance. It was a small car, well polished. It seemed of an old make. The driver was a short Chinese. He wore a white coat that was several sizes too large for him, no hat. His trousers were not so clean as his coat. He smiled, showing broken yellow teeth, and bowed awkwardly.

  “Señor Gar?” he asked.

  Jo frowned. He thought first that Benfeld was a fool, using his name to a servant. And then he smiled with his eyes. He nodded.

  “Yes,” he said in English. “You are Señor Benfeld’s chauffeur?”

  He spoke slowly and clearly. The Chinese nodded his head. He said:

  “It is so—I am—chauffeur.”

  Jo Gar nodded. He looked into the rear of the open car. The seat was clean, but the floor mat was not so clean. The top was back, and the sides of the car were low. It was not unlike many other cars Jo had noticed—cars that were hired out to tourists on the Island.

  He stepped inside as the driver held the door open. He said:

  “I do not care to go far from the heart of the city. Along the beach, and past the old Palace of the—”

  He checked himself. The chauffeur was trying desperately to understand his English. He had spoken fast, but not too fast. And this man had spoken first in English.

  Jo Gar sighed a little. He said very slowly:

  “We will go—where you wish. You have been told—where to take me?”

  The driver’s face lighted. He jerked his head up and down, showing his broken teeth again.

  “Me told—what do,” he said cheerfully. “Me know—where go.”

  Jo smiled and nodded. The driver got into the front seat. When the car moved forward it jerked and made much noise. It reminded Jo of the car owned by himself, back in Manila. And the chauffeur was hardly the sort one might expect Benfeld to have.

  The Island detective sat back in the seat. The streets were not too well lighted; as the car moved along the lights grew fewer, and there were not so many hotels. The foliage was thicker. There was a crossroads ahead, and Jo was sufficiently familiar with Honolulu to know that the beach was to the right. But the driver turned the car jerkily to the left. The road grew narrower, and the houses far apart. There was the sweet odor of the foliage, and in the distance the slopes of mountains.

  Jo Gar leaned forward and said above the clatter of the machine: “I would prefer—the beach road—”

  The driver jerked his head a little and nodded. He said in a shrill, raised tone:

  “Me come—back along beach. He tell me—go by mountain road first—”

  Jo Gar sat back in the seat and got his Colt from the holster under his left thigh. He smiled a little, but it was a grim smile. Once he turned in the rear seat, raised himself slightly and glanced behind. There were no lights of another car, but he was not reassured. The road on which they were driving was growing narrower. It was rough, and there were no shoulders.

  Suddenly the headlights went out. They came on again almost instantly, then were extinguished. Jo’s body was rigid; he could see that the driver was leaning forward slightly, back of the wheel. The lights flashed on. The car was moving slowly up a fairly steep grade. Foliage was thick on both sides of the road.

  The Island detective leaned forward and called sharply: “You have trouble—with the lights?”

  The Chinese jerked his head around, nodded. His almond-shaped eyes held a hard expression; they seemed to glitter. His lips were drawn back. The car slowed down, halted. The Chinese used the emergency brake gratingly. He turned his head all the way and said shrilly:

  “Him go bad. You wait—me fix.”

  He slid from the seat back of the wheel, got to the left side of the car. He went swiftly towards the headlights, which seemed to be showing dimly. Jo Gar was leaning forward in the seat, his gray-blue eyes narrowed.

  He heard the other machine before he saw it. There was the roar of an engine—the car seemed to be speeding up the far side of the slope on which the car in which Jo was seated was resting. There were no lights, but the engine roar was increasing in sound.

  The Chinese heard the roar, too. He stood near the lights, his small body rigid. He called shrilly:

  “Me need—stick. Me get—him!”

  His body swung around; he moved towards the right side of the road, the thick foliage. As he neared it there was a flare of light beyond the crest of the slope. Headlights of the approaching car had been suddenly switched on. But they slanted high, above the standing car and above the road.

  The Chinese driver’s body crashed through
the foliage; his back was turned to Jo as he went into it. The Island detective moved with surprising swiftness. In a flash he was out of the car. He ran, in darkness, his small body bent low, to the left side of the road, dived into the thick foliage. Branches and leaves struck against his outflung arms. He went to his knees, let his body drop flat. Back of him the road was suddenly yellow-white with the glare from headlights.

  There was the increasing roar of the car engine. And then the staccato beat of the guns. Metal made sound, and there was the shattering sound of glass. The air was filled with the clatter—Jo Gar could hear the bullets pounding into the body of the car.

  The engine roar had diminished momentarily. Now it increased in volume. The clatter of the guns died away. There had certainly been more than one gun, and they had been machine-guns. Few bullets had missed the car in which he had been seated.

  The engine roar became a hum as the car from which the bullets had been loosed sped back towards the heart of Honolulu. Jo Gar lay motionless, listening to the decreasing sound. His Colt was gripped in the fingers of his out-flung right hand.

  He moved about very quietly, pulling his body nearer the road and parting the foliage a little. He could see the machine now. There was light from the stars and crescent moon. The windshield was shattered, both headlights had been shot out. He could see bullet marks along the side facing him. The rear left tire was flat.

  In the distance the engine of the departing car was making only a faint hum sound. Jo Gar smiled with his lips and kept narrowed eyes on the foliage ahead of the bullet-filled car, across the road. He half whispered:

  “Machine-guns in Manila. And now here. Methods of the Western world, these are!”

  There was faint sound from the foliage across the road. He saw the short figure of the Chinese chauffeur appear, crawling. The man glanced towards the car, then slowly straightened his body. For several seconds he stood motionlessly, looking towards the battered machine. Then his head turned; he glanced in each direction, along the road. He listened intently.

  There was no sound of another car. The hum of the speeding one had died away. Jo Gar guessed that the spot was a deserted one, one from which the noise of the machine-guns would not reach habitation. The Chinese chauffeur moved slowly into the rough-surfaced, dirt road. He stood for a few seconds in front of the car, then walked around it. He stood with his back to Jo as the Island detective rose and lifted his Colt a little. The Chinese moved closer to the car, getting up on his toes and peering towards the floor at the rear.

  Jo Gar stepped from the foliage to the roadbed. There was crackling sound as he did so, and the driver’s body swung around. His eyes went wide with fear as he stared at Jo. His breath made a whistling sound and he cried out shrilly in his native tongue.

  Jo said quietly: “I was not—in the machine, you see.”

  He smiled a little. The Chinese was staring at the gun now. His lips were drawn back from his teeth; his face was a mask of fear. Jo said:

  “I think—you must die—for what you have done.”

  He moved the gun up a little, and forward. The chauffeur started shrilling words in his native tongue. His body was shaking. Jo said:

  “Stop it! You are not Benfeld’s chauffeur. This is not Benfeld’s car. It is a hired car. Perhaps your car. Will you answer my questions?”

  The Chinese was staring at him. He jerked his head up and down. The Island detective said slowly: “You will certainly die, if you do not answer me truthfully. Who were those in the machine that just passed? Those who used the guns?”

  The Chinese shook his head. Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed. He repeated the question in stilted Chinese, a tongue with which he had difficulty, in spite of his many years in Manila.

  The driver said: “Me—not know!”

  Jo Gar said, moving a little closer to the chauffeur:

  “The Dutchman, Benfeld—he went to you and paid you money. Very good money. He told you that you were to act as his chauffeur. He furnished you with a new coat, though there was no time to make it fit. He told you where to drive me and how to signal with your headlights. He said you must then stop the car—and hide yourself. Is this not so?”

  He had spoken very slowly and clearly. The chauffeur nodded his head. He said:

  “He do not—tell me more.”

  Jo Gar nodded and smiled grimly. He was thinking that Benfeld had taken a big chance. And yet, he had almost succeeded. There had been only a few seconds’ time between life and death—for Señor Gar.

  The Island detective stopped smiling. He moved his gun hand a little.

  “I think you must die,” he said steadily. “You would have killed me—”

  The Chinese shook his head and shrilled words. After a few seconds he spoke more slowly. He said that he did not know that the big guns were to fire into the car. He did not know what had been about to happen. He was a poor man, and Benfeld had offered him much money.

  Jo Gar cut him off, after a little time.

  “I will give you a chance,” he said slowly. “There is a person I wish to see. He is Chinese. And he is—blind.”

  He saw instantly that the chauffeur knew of such a man. And he saw that the man was of importance. But the driver shook his head.

  “There are—more than one—blind Chinese in—”

  Jo Gar interrupted again. “There is one of some importance,” he said. “Think carefully. Perhaps this one has a place where dishonest men go. Perhaps he is not a good person. Think well, for you are young to die.”

  He spoke very slowly, and with no smile on his face. He held his Colt low and slightly forward of his right side.

  The Chinese driver stared at him wildly. But he did not speak. Jo Gar said:

  “Very well—I shall find him alone. But first I must silence you, so that you do not again interfere with me.”

  The chauffeur threw out his hands. They were browned, and the fingers were jerking, twisting. He said:

  “I know—him! I go—his place—”

  Jo Gar lowered his Colt slightly. He nodded his head and smiled.

  His voice was almost toneless when he spoke.

  “You are wise—we shall go there together. We shall walk to a spot where perhaps we may obtain a ride. You will do as I say, and if you make one, slight mistake—”

  He moved the Colt a little. The Chinese driver’s facial muscles were twisting. He was breathing quickly. He said:

  “Tan Ying—he is very bad. Even if he does—not see—”

  Jo Gar nodded. “Many men are very bad,” he philosophized quietly. “But after they are dead—how do we know what then happens?”

  The driver half closed his staring eyes. He said in a shrill, shaken tone:

  “If I take you to the place—they will kill me.”

  Jo Gar shrugged. “And if you do not take me—I will kill you,” he said. “It is a difficult position.”

  The driver said: “I am a poor man—”

  The Island detective nodded. “Then you have less to live for,” he replied. “Let us start.”

  The hour was almost midnight when Jo Gar and the Chinese chauffeur moved through the teeming streets of the Honolulu Chinese quarter. There was the sound of discordant music—the shrill, reedy notes that came down from rooms beyond balconies. The section was well lighted in spots, very poorly lighted in others. Jo Gar kept his body close to that of the chauffeur, and his Colt within the right pocket of his light suit coat. At intervals he let the weapon press against the chauffeur’s side.

  They turned suddenly into a narrow alley that wound from the lighted street. There were few lights in the alley; the section was very quickly a poor one. The shops were squalid and dirty; no music came down from the rooms beyond the balconies.

  The street curved more sharply at the far end. The Chinese at Jo’s side said thickly:

  “It is—there—”

  He pointed towards a narrow entrance, an oblong cut in unpainted wood. Strips on whic
h letters were scrawled in Chinese, hung on either side of the entrance. Streamers of painted beads hung from the bamboo pole at the top of the entrance; they obscured the store beyond.

  Jo said softly: “You will go—first—”

  The driver’s face was twisted, but he forced a smile as his browned hands shoved aside the beads. They made a rattling sound; Jo followed into the shop. A kerosene light made odor and gave little flare. There was the usual musty, aged smell of such shops. Baskets were about, with nuts in them—and jars contained brightly colored candy. There were shelves with boxes marked with Chinese lettering.

  No one was about, but at the rear of the store was another bead curtain. The Chinese driver glanced towards it. Jo Gar said in a half whisper:

  “Do as you—were told.”

  The chauffeur raised his voice and called in a shrill voice: “Tan Ying!”

  A quavering voice replied, from the room beyond the second curtain. It said:

  “Welcome, Dave Chang!”

  Jo Gar smiled grimly. The Americanization of the Chinese never failed to amuse him. He touched Chang lightly and pointed towards the beads of the curtain.

  The chauffeur said in Chinese: “You are alone, Tan Ying?”

  Ying replied that he was alone. He asked that the driver would enter his humble abode. Chang moved towards the beaded curtain and Jo Gar followed him. He was very close to him as they passed through the beaded curtain into the rear room. Two kerosene lamps were burning, but there was a clutter of objects in the place. Buddha’s figure was in a corner; the light from the nearer lamp struck the face from an angle, making the figure seem very life-like.

  Tan Ying was an aged Chinese. He sat cross-legged, but there was some object against which his back rested. He was obese and fat faced. His eyes were open but sightless. They shone whitely as he stared towards Chang. It was almost as though he were inspecting the chauffeur.

  Jo Gar stepped soundlessly to one side of the beaded curtain. He took his Colt from his right-hand pocket, held it low at his side. He breathed as quietly as possible. But it was not enough. Tan Ying said quietly, steadily.