by Unknown
Ferraro frowned. “No,” he said. “But I had heard of him.”
Jo Gar relaxed again, inhaled. The one in white looked at the sea, shrugging.
“The murderers will be caught, of course. And the Von Loffler diamonds found. It is almost always so.”
Jo Gar closed his eyes and nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “It is so—almost always.”
Ferraro looked at him again. “There are few passengers aboard, who came on at Manila. But perhaps you do not care to be addressed as Señor Gar?”
Jo widened his gray-blue eyes. “Why should I object?” he asked in a puzzled voice.
The one in white said: “Well, there has been this robbery—these murders. Only two days ago. There was a thorough search at the dock. I was asked many questions, myself. It seemed amusing.”
Jo Gar said: “And you were formerly with the Constabulary?”
They both smiled; then Jo Gar said: “No, there is no secrecy. I am not of the police—I rather dislike the American who heads the force.”
Ferraro said: “But Juan Arragon—he was one of your countrymen—a good friend—”
He paused, shrugged narrow shoulders. “At least, so I have heard,” he said. “Having been in the Constabulary—”
Jo Gar nodded. “It is not so,” he said quietly. “Juan Arragon was of the Manila police. He was always fighting me.”
Ferraro said: “Oh, so that was it, Señor?”
The Island detective nodded very slowly. The man in white looked towards the water; then his eyes came back to Jo’s again.
“I am dining alone,” he said. “Will you join me?”
Jo thanked him and declined. “I do not think I shall dine tonight,” he said. “My stomach pains me.”
Ferraro expressed regret. He spoke a few words more and moved aft. His limp was barely noticeable, but it existed. Jo Gar reclined in his chair and remembered several things. Diamonds worth two hundred thousand dollars had been stolen from Delgado’s jewelry store, on the Escolta, in Manila. Delgado’s son had been murdered. A watchman had been murdered. And Juan Arragon had been murdered, after he had vanished in pursuit of one of the fleeing machines. His body had been returned to Jo Gar’s small office, with a forged note attached. And later in the night, while trailing a clue, the Island detective had been forced to shoot a Malay who had come at him with a knife. The Malay had talked. He had spoken of the leader of the diamond thieves as “the one who walks badly—always in white.”
For Liam Delgado, whose son was dead—and Von Loffler, who wished to recover the ten diamonds, Jo Gar had left the Islands. He had left aboard the Cheyo Maru because another was leaving on the same boat—a man dressed in white, who limped when he moved.
Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders. The sunset red was almost gone now. The Island detective thought:
When a man is a thief and a murderer he does not seek out one who hunts down thieves and murderers. And yet this Ferraro has approached me, has invited me to dine.
A little grimness came into the gray-blue eyes of the Island detective.
“Sometimes such a man is very confident,” he half whispered. “And sometimes he has been of the police.” He nodded his head a little and ceased to smile. “And sometimes,” he murmured very softly, “a dying man lies.” The Island detective sighed. “It is very difficult,” he said softly. “Even my own thoughts contradict.”
When Jo Gar turned his key in the lock of his cabin, stepped inside, he closed the door slowly behind him. He hummed a little Spanish tune, and his body was rigid. There were his two bags—and they were opened, the contents spilled about. The lock of his small trunk had been smashed; the tray lay crosswise. His clothes were scattered. The berth sheets had been ripped up—the cabin was almost a wreck.
Jo stood with his back to the door, stopped humming. He lighted one of his cigarettes, moved about the cabin carefully, using his eyes. He touched nothing. After a few minutes he pressed a button and waited for the Japanese steward. When the man came he was breathing heavily, and his black, round eyes were wide. They grew wider as he surveyed the cabin. The Island detective made a little gesture with his brown hands.
“You see,” he said. “There has been a search.”
The steward broke into his native tongue. He was very excited. He had just entered the cabin of Señor Ferraro, who was of the Philippine Constabulary. And it, too, had been entered. Luggage had been ransacked. An officer of the boat had been notified.
Jo Gar made a clicking sound and nodded his head slowly.
“A clumsy person—this thief,” he said. “I have nothing of value here. I am a poor man. Yet see how he has thrown things about.”
The steward shrilled words—apologetic words. He had been away from the section only a short time. He had come on deck to do as Señor Gar had asked—to tell him that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin. He had come quickly and had taken a shortcut to the spot in which Señor Gar’s chair had been placed.
Jo Gar quieted the man. He narrowed his gray-blue eyes on the ransacked trunk, then turned abruptly. He said as he moved through the doorway to the narrow corridor:
“You do not think the cabin was entered—before you went above to tell me that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin?”
The steward was sure neither cabin had been entered before that time. Señor Ferraro’s cabin was only fifty feet distant from Señor Gar’s. And it was in the same condition.
Jo Gar said: “Perhaps there are others in similar state.”
He went along the narrow corridor to a wider one. The steward followed. Two ship’s officers, clad in white uniforms and gold braid, approached. The Chief Steward came from another direction. There was much swift talk—the Japanese who had charge of Jo’s cabin led the way to the one occupied by Señor Ferraro.
It was an outside cabin, much similar to Jo’s. It was in the same sort of disorder. Jo looked in—the others went inside. The Third Officer said in English:
“And your cabin was entered, too, Señor?”
Jo nodded. “I was on deck,” he said. “Señor Ferraro talked with me, about twenty minutes ago. Then he went to dine.”
The Third Officer said: “You are friends?”
Jo shook his head. “Acquaintances,” he corrected.
There was more talk. The Third Officer suggested that Señor Ferraro be notified, and while he was offering the suggestion the one with the limp came along the corridor. His blue eyes widened on the group. The Chief Steward said apologetically:
“Your cabin has been entered, Señor.”
Ferraro looked at Jo Gar, went to the doorway of his cabin. His eyes moved over the opened bags, broken trunk locks. He drew in a deep breath and said slowly:
“But why? I am a poor man—”
Jo Gar chuckled a little. He said: “Those were my words, Señor. I, too, have been treated like this.”
The one in white stared at Jo. Then he smiled a little with his thin lips. His face was bloodless; he had thin, yellowish hair.
His lips parted; he was about to speak, but he changed his mind. He went into the cabin and poked around among the clothes of a large bag. The officers were speaking with Jo when Ferraro uttered an exclamation.
“Ah—a woman!” he said.
Turning, he held out a white hand. In his palm lay the pin. It was perhaps two inches long. It had a setting so cheap that it could be immediately seen. There were a half dozen stones in the pin—but one was missing. They were glass—the glitter was false; they had not the appearance of even a clever imitation of diamonds.
The Third Officer took the pin and inspected it carefully. Jo Gar noted the cheapness of the metal—the flat backing. The pin clasp was bent—the whole thing a cheap job.
Ferraro stood close to the Third Officer. He said slowly, in his clipped-word manner:
“The sort of thing you buy on the Escolta for a few pesos. Cheap stuff—it fell while she was ransacking the place.”
The Third Officer nodded. “You h
ave not suffered a loss?” he asked.
Señor Ferraro shrugged. “I have nothing of importance—to lose,” he stated.
He took the bar pin from the officer’s fingers. He juggled it carelessly about in the palm of his right hand, without looking at it.
The Chief Steward addressed Jo Gar.
“And you, Señor Gar? You have not lost anything of importance?”
Jo Gar smiled at Ferraro. “I am much in the position of Señor Ferraro,” he said quietly.
The Third Officer spoke in a peculiar tone.
“Neither of you gentlemen possess anything of great value—and yet each of you has been robbed.”
Ferraro smiled a little, his blue eyes on the half-closed ones of the Island detective.
“It is very strange,” he said softly.
Jo Gar spoke tonelessly. “It seems very strange,” he agreed. “I shall return to my cabin and try to get things in order.”
The Chief Steward said grimly: “We will make an investigation, of course. Perhaps the pin—”
Ferraro handed it to the Chief Steward. He looked at Jo.
“Señor Gar is quite skilled in these matters,” he said slowly. “He is an interested person, in this case.”
The Island detective smiled. “And you were formerly with the Island Constabulary,” he reminded. “You see with what little esteem the intruder has regarded us.”
The Third Officer said: “Perhaps it has been just a blundering affair—an attempt at quick robbery.”
Jo Gar nodded his head, and kept his brown face serious.
“That is very possible,” he agreed, and moved along the corridor towards his own cabin.
He was interrupted several times while he was adjusting things. It was not easy to think clearly, with so many people about. At ten o’clock the Third Officer came into the cabin, shutting the door behind him. He said very quietly:
“In matters such as this we always are suspicious of the cabin steward. We have questioned him at length. He states that you have tipped him generously, and that you had him come to you, on deck this evening, and warn you that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin and was going above for a bit of air before dining.”
The Third Officer paused. Jo Gar nodded, his brown face expressionless.
“It is so,” he said. “You wish to know the reason?”
The officer spread his hands in a little gesture, half of apology, half of assent. Jo said:
“I am weary of discussing Island matters. I wished to be alone. With the cabin steward advising me in time, I hoped to avoid Señor Ferraro for a few days. Unfortunately, I was unable to rise from the deck chair in time. So we met.”
The Third Officer frowned. Then he nodded his head, very slowly. He said:
“Thank you, Señor Gar.”
Jo smiled pleasantly. He said in a careless voice:
“You are keeping that imitation thing—that bar pin?”
The officer shook his head. “There was no loss to Señor Ferraro,” he said. “We shall make adjustment for any baggage damage. He asked me to leave the pin with him. He intends, I believe, to do some quiet investigating. He was with the Constabulary.”
Jo Gar nodded pleasantly. “That is quite the wisest thing to do, I think,” he said.
The Third Officer expressed regrets. The captain was disturbed. Such things seldom happened aboard the Cheyo Maru.
Jo Gar sighed. The Third Officer went from the cabin, turning at the door and smiling pleasantly. When he had gone Jo removed his palm beach suiting and got into clothes that were of dark silk. He waited a short time, went to the deck quickly, carrying a light blanket that bulked over his arm. His face held a tight smile as he approached the spot where his deck chair had been.
The night was warm and there was no moon. Most of the deck chairs had been collected and were being stacked together. Jo moved towards the deck steward, a tall Jap with eyes that were very black. He said:
“Please return my chair. I wish to rest a while on deck—I am sleepy and my cabin is stuffy.”
The deck steward bowed. Jo showed him the spot, one that was fairly secluded, aft of the second stack. When the chair had been set up he relaxed in it. The deck steward smiled and moved away.
After a short time Jo turned his head to one side and appeared to doze. The deck steward passed him, treading very softly. He halted, and through slitted eyes the Island detective saw that he was staring at him. Then the steward moved hurriedly forward.
Jo Gar lay motionless in the chair. There was the steady vibration of the engines, and the faint sound of steam reaching the air. From some spot below music reached the boat deck. Jo said very quietly:
“How calm the sea is!”
His lips held an ironical smile. He breathed evenly, closed his almond-shaped eyes.
Five minutes later there were three shots. The first one was a muffled, Maxim-silenced pop-cough. The second was smothered but had more sound. The third was a sharp crack sound.
Jo Gar, his small body tense, stepped out from behind the ventilator—caught sight of a black figure moving aft. He bent his body low, ran along the deck, his automatic gripped tightly in his right-hand fingers. From some spot forward a voice called with the shrill of the Jap tongue a word that sounded like:
“Hai!”
The dark figure ahead had reached the steps of the port companionway. It seemed almost to dive down them. Jo Gar slowed his pace, approached the steps carefully. When he reached the bottom of them he heard shouts. Men were coming up from the deck below.
He tried to get past them, but a short, chunky man caught him by the right arm and tried to get his gun away. Jo said sharply:
“Stop—a man came down here! I am after—him.”
He was breathing heavily. The chunky one wore a white uniform. He said in bad English:
“I—ship police. I see no one—”
Other men were coming up. Several of them were in dinner clothes. Jo Gar watched the Third Officer come into the group. He shook off the grip of the ship policeman, said grimly:
“I was on deck. Three shots were fired. A figure in black ran towards this companionway. I followed.”
A man in dinner clothes said: “I heard only two shots—from above.”
The Third Officer was beside Jo. He spoke in a soft tone.
“You are dressed in black, also, Señor Gar.”
Jo Gar nodded. “It is less conspicuous,” he replied. “I was on deck—and wished to be inconspicuous.”
The Third Officer said: “Why?”
Jo Gar raised his voice, but did not answer the question.
“And none of this group saw the man I was pursuing?” he asked.
None in the group had seen any person in black—but Jo. The Third Officer said:
“The shots were fired—at you?”
Jo Gar shook his head. “At my deck chair,” he said quietly. “I was some distance away.”
He read suspicion in the Third Officer’s eyes. The one in dinner clothes, who had spoken before, said grimly:
“You say there were three shots—I heard only two.”
Jo Gar shrugged. “The first was Maxim-silenced,” he replied. “If you will come to the boat deck—”
He broke off, turning. He went up the steps of the companionway, closely followed by the Third Officer. The others trailed along behind. When they reached the boat deck there were several other people. Two stood near the spot in which the steward had placed Jo’s chair.
The Third Officer used his flashlight; he muttered an exclamation as the beam fell across the chair. Jo Gar stood to one side, smiling a little. His eyes were on the brown mask that had rolled from the chair. He said:
“That is a mask that Sebastino, the Spaniard in Manila, made for me. It is a good likeness.”
He moved forward, lifted it. The others crowded around him. The plaster had been broken in two places. There was a hole in the left cheek—another in the forehead. The Island detective said very softly:
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“You see—the one in black was an excellent shot. The third bullet—”
He leaned over the chair and moved the cloth of the palm beach coat he had wrapped around the light blanket. There was a hole in the left lapel. He said in a toneless voice:
“There is where it struck. It was like this—”
He adjusted the trousers and coat, rested the face mask above the coat, laying it with the right cheek against the canvas of the deck chair. He said quietly:
“Switch off the light—and move back here.”
The Third Officer switched off the flashlight. The group moved away from the chair, towards the vessel’s port rail. They stood looking towards the mask and the palm beach material. In the faint light it resembled Jo Gar—sleeping in the deck chair. The mask was very life-like.
The Third Officer sucked in his breath sharply. The man in dinner clothes, who had spoken before, swore.
He said grimly: “It was—attempted murder, all right!”
Jo Gar nodded. “And the one who attempted it has got away,” he said. “Below that companionway—are there several avenues of escape?”
The Third Officer nodded slowly. “A corridor to the concert room. Another companionway, to the deck below. A narrow passageway to the radio room—”
Jo Gar said slowly: “That is enough.”
The Third Officer made a clicking sound. “We shall talk with the captain—you and I, Señor Gar,” he said.
Jo nodded. There was the sound of foot-falls—of a man running. A Jap came into the group, clad in the uniform of a subordinate officer. He addressed the Third Officer.
“Deck Steward Kamogi, sir!” he breathed. “He lies up forward, near your cabin. He’s—dead.”
The Third Officer spoke in Japanese. “Dead?” he asked. “Shot?”
The subordinate shook his head. “It was—a knife, sir,” he replied. “In the back!”
The Third Officer narrowed his eyes on the blue-gray ones of Jo Gar. He said very softly:
“The deck steward, Señor Gar.”
The Island detective looked towards the face mask in the chair. He said in a voice that held a suggestion of grimness:
