by Unknown
“Triple death,” Barrington said steadily. “You are sure you learned nothing?”
Jo Gar rose from his straight-backed chair. He lied impassively.
“Nothing—that seems to lead me anywhere,” he said. “It is like that Street of the Lanterns where Ying lived—much color and sound, and so difficult to see or hear beyond either color or sound.”
Barrington half closed his dark eyes. He said very grimly:
“You are known to be in Honolulu, Señor Gar. It is known that you are after the Von Loffler diamonds, and that you seek the murderers of your friend Juan Arragon—and of that jeweler’s son, Delgado. Already there has been death. And dawn is hours away. I should strongly advise—”
Jo Gar’s lips made a clicking sound. “You have already suggested that I return to the Cheyo Maru,” he said calmly. “It is kind of you to think of my protection. Perhaps I shall accept your advice.”
Barrington continued to frown. “I hope so,” he said. “We will do everything possible, here. You will be in San Francisco in six days—and I wish you luck.”
Jo Gar smiled and bowed. They did not shake hands. The Philippine Island detective reached the street and kept his brown right-hand fingers in the right pocket of his light coat. A cool breeze swept from the direction of Pearl Harbor. The streets were almost deserted.
The Island detective smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed, moved slowly in the direction of the docks. They were not far from the building in which Barrington had his office. And as he walked, with his eyes glancing sharply from the corners, Jo Gar sighed. His stubby fingers tightened on the grip of the automatic in his right coat pocket.
“Señor Barrington does not wish more death—in Honolulu,” he murmured very softly. “He is anxious for my departure—he thinks of my health.”
Jo’s white teeth showed in a swift grin. It faded, and he reached with his left-hand fingers for one of his brown-paper cigarettes. The street became suddenly an alley; his eyes caught the slanting masts of ships, their rigging beside the docks. He was ten feet along the alley when he halted, struck the match. But even as the flare dulled his vision, he saw the shape that slid from the doorway less than twenty yards distant. He heard the swift intake of the short man’s breath, saw the right arm go upward and back!
The Island detective moved his left hand away from his face, let his short body fall forward. As he went down his right hand shoved the material of his coat pocket ahead of him—started to squeeze the trigger.
But there was no hiss of a knife hurled through the air, and no crack sound from his automatic. He relaxed his grip, rocking on his knees, as he watched the figure of the man who had slid from the doorway bend forward. The man’s head was held low—his body was almost doubled as he pitched downward. He choked terribly but weakly—there was a sharp crack as his head battered against the broken pavement of the alley.
Jo Gar swayed to his feet. He moved back into the darkness of a narrow doorway on the opposite side of the alley from that where the short one had fallen. He waited, his back flattened against a wooden door that did not give, holding his breath.
The man who had collapsed made no movement. His head had struck heavily, but Jo knew that he had been unconscious before he had fallen. And yet, when he had slid from the doorway across the alley, his movements had been swift and sure. He had sucked in his breath, drawn back an arm. And Jo was sure there had been a knife in his hand.
Minutes passed. There were the faint sounds of machines, in the direction towards the city center, away from the docks. A cool wind rustled some paper down the alley. It was quite dark, and Jo could not see beyond the body of the man. Once he had heard foot-falls in the distance, and the sound of high-pitched voices. The alley was on the edge of the Chinese quarter, perhaps in it.
His right forefinger pressed the steel of the automatic trigger—the material of his right pocket was held clear of his side. But he made no movement. Five minutes passed. Jo Gar shivered a little. He was sure that death had come to the one across the alley from some spot directly behind him—and that the person who had caused the death was waiting silently, for some other movement in the narrow alley.
He breathed slowly, carefully. His right wrist was aching from the tensity of his grip on the automatic, and his eyes moved only from the motionless figure on the pavement to the blackness of the low doorway behind the figure. The shacks along the alley appeared to be closed, deserted. But the entrances existed—and in the one almost opposite him was the human cause of another person’s death. Unless—and there did not seem much chance of that—there had been an escape through the shack beyond the motionless, sprawled figure.
The Island detective listened to the shrill whistle of a small boat, beyond the docks. He relaxed his body a little, but suddenly it was tense again. He had heard, very distinctly, a faint chuckle. It had not come from the doorway in darkness, beyond the collapsed figure, but from some spot above him.
He raised his head slightly. The shacks were low—less than fifteen feet high. Clouds were over a crescent moon; the night had become dark. But he could see nothing on the roof of the shack opposite.
And then, very softly and quietly, the voice sounded. It was low and throaty—and very calm.
“Señor Gar—you are comfortable?”
Jo Gar did not move his body. There was a quality to the voice, an accent of grim amusement. He had a definite feeling that he was trapped—that the death of the man across the alley had been a part of the trap. He did not speak. The voice sounded again—from above, and to the left. The roof of a shack on his left and on his side of the alley held the speaker, he guessed.
“You will kindly disarm yourself—step into the alley, Señor Gar.”
The Island detective raised his automatic higher, withdrew it from the right pocket. He moved only his right arm. The voice said, after a short pause:
“Do not be a fool, Señor Gar!”
The accent was clear. He had heard the same accent of precise English in Manila. It was Spanish—this man’s native language. And the speaker was calm—very calm. He was sure of himself.
Seconds passed. Then the voice said, a little more loudly:
“Sí, but very low, and—now!”
Jo Gar heard the steely hiss of the knife. He drew his legs together. The left trouser material, just above his ankle, was jerked sharply. Wood made dull sound as the knife blade cut into the door at his left side. His body was rigid.
The voice somewhere above said with sharp amusement:
“Señor Gar—you are comfortable?”
The Island detective sighed. The cat played with the mouse, but more wisely than most cats. Jo Gar reached down, jerked the knife loose from wood and cloth. He tossed it into the alley. Straightening, he said as steadily as he could:
“What is it you wish, Señor Mendez?”
Again there was the chuckle. And then a short silence. Jo Gar was thinking: It is Mendez. Chang said, before dying in the shop: “It was Mendez. We met in the Street of the Lanterns. He was coming—” That was what Chang had said. Mendez coming to meet someone, in Honolulu. Perhaps the one in white. The one Jo had been forced to shoot to death, on the Cheyo Maru, and from whom he had got the one Von Loffler diamond. But Mendez knew that Jo had killed, and he had trapped him now, and was toying with him, grimly amused.
The Island detective stood motionless, looking at the body across the alley. The voice from above came quietly:
“Kindly disarm yourself—step into the alley, Señor Gar.”
Jo sighed again. He bent forward and tossed the automatic into the alley. There was a flashlight beam that picked it up, then faded. Jo stepped from the doorway, moved out a few feet. The voice said:
“Face towards the docks.”
The tone was hard now, sharp. Jo did as directed. He stood for seconds, his eyes slitted, his body slightly relaxed. He expected death at any moment, from behind. But it did not come. There were sounds on the roofs of the s
hacks, sounds behind him. But he did not turn. And then the same, hard voice sounded, directly behind him.
“Go to the alley end, walk slowly. There will be a closed car. Enter it. I shall be near you, and I advise you to be wise.”
The Island detective moved slowly forward. The alley narrowed, then widened. At the dock end there was a small, dirty machine. It was closed, and there was the fat, brown-yellow face of a Chinese faintly lighted by the instrument board light. The man did not turn his head, but a rear door of the machine opened as Jo neared it. The voice, now close behind, said:
“Step inside.”
Jo got into the car. A figure made room for him. The seat had space for three, back of the driver. Jo dropped heavily beside the one already seated. The one who had spoken got in and sat on his right. The interior of the car was very dark, but Jo saw that the man’s features were sharp, his face long.
He said to the driver, in an easy tone:
“Yes—and do not go too fast.”
It was as though everything had been carefully planned. Jo tightened his lips. He was sure that the one on his right was the man known as Mendez, and he was sure that Mendez was hard and extremely clever. He had been followed from the police station to the building in which Barrington had an office, and Mendez had waited. Perhaps something had gone wrong, and there had been a death in the alley, or perhaps nothing had gone wrong, and it had been part of the scheme of things.
The man on Jo’s right said softly: “It will not take very long, I hope, Señor Gar.”
Jo smiled a little. He nodded his head. “You are Señor Mendez?” he asked.
The man was tall and thin. He had long, slender-shaped hands and wore a dark coat. That much Jo could see as the car moved slowly along the street by the docks.
He said: “Sí—Señor Mendez. There have been words about me?”
The Island detective turned his head towards Mendez. He spoke very steadily.
“Chang spoke of you—and Tan Ying.”
The grim quality returned to Mendez’ voice again. He spoke very slowly.
“And both Ying and Chang are dead. That is too bad.”
Jo Gar smiled, showing his white, even teeth. Then his lips pressed together.
“So many people die—for diamonds,” he observed.
Mendez nodded. His face was turned towards the driver’s back. The machine was running slowly out of town; it was not going towards the beach, but through the poorer section of Honolulu.
“It is so,” Mendez agreed. “But you are a curious one, Señor Gar. Even so—why should you die—for diamonds?”
The Island detective said nothing. He tried to keep his body relaxed, but there was a threat in Mendez’ words. It was a question that Mendez asked, and yet only half a question.
The machine was out of the town now; it was running through the tropical growth, and there was suddenly a moon showing through the clouds.
Mendez made a gesture with his long right hand. He said almost cheerfully:
“It is pretty, Señor—these warm countries. They make one want to live.”
The Island detective kept his eyes to the front. For almost five minutes the car moved at good speed over a road that was fairly smooth. Then it slowed, turned abruptly to the left. The road became narrower. It was of dirt now, and the country was rolling. The moon seemed strangely bright for its size—and the car passed through what appeared to be a pineapple plantation. The one on Jo’s left let his body rock with the car motion, but he did not look at the Island detective.
Mendez made another gesture with his right hand.
“It is not unlike the Philippines,” he said slowly. “You would like to return some day, Señor Gar?”
Again there was the mocking quality in his voice. Jo turned his head, and the two regarded one another. Mendez’ skin was a light brown color; his eyes were dark. They were cruel eyes, and intelligent. The man’s features were good, but his lips were very thin and the curve of his mouth was barely perceptible. He had a sensitive face—but it was also a brutal face.
Jo Gar said steadily: “Yes—I should like to return—some day.”
Mendez nodded. “It will not be difficult for you,” he returned. “You are not—a fool.”
The car jerked suddenly off the road. It ran a short distance, scraping foliage, so narrow was the path it traveled. It stopped. The one on Jo’s left leaned forward and looked at Mendez, but he did not speak. Mendez said:
“That is all—but stay.”
The door on the left was opened. Mendez said pleasantly, as the one to whom he had spoken descended:
“We will leave the machine, Señor. I have a gun in my right hand. There is a small plantation house just beyond the car. Will you walk towards it?”
Jo Gar let his eyes widen a little on the dark eyes of the Spaniard. He said quietly:
“You can murder me here—just as well, Señor Mendez.”
For a second he saw sardonic amusement creep into the thin-faced one’s eyes. And then a puzzled expression showed. But he knew that Mendez was acting now.
“Murder you?” The Spaniard laughed in a chuckling way. “Why do you think of murder, Señor Gar?”
The Island detective smiled. “Does it seem so strange?” he replied. “After all—you are aware of the Von Loffler diamonds. For them there has been much murder.”
Mendez nodded, his face suddenly serious. “That is so,” he agreed. “But you were not satisfied.”
Jo Gar’s gray-blue eyes showed no expression. “Not satisfied?” he said very tonelessly.
Mendez frowned. “At the house we can talk more easily,” he said. “Please descend.”
Jo Gar shrugged. He got from the car, saw the thatch-roofed house through the thinned foliage, up a slope a short distance. There were windows, but no lights. The house was well protected from even the narrow path. The dirt road was a hundred yards or more distant, and the other road perhaps a half mile.
The Island detective moved slowly up a path that wound. He heard Mendez instruct the driver to turn the machine and take it down near the dirt road. As he walked slowly up the slope he heard the engine of the car changing speed. Twice the brakes made squealing sounds. There was no sign of the one who had been seated on his left.
He was certain of one thing—Mendez held death for him. Perhaps there was information that the Spaniard wanted first. Perhaps he would make promises. But in the end there would be death. He could read it in the dark eyes, feel it in the cold amusement of Mendez’ voice. And it was in the mockery of the Spaniard’s words, too.
Behind him he heard the Spaniard’s foot-falls, very close. He moved slowly, and he was thinking fast. There was a better chance outside, here on the path, than there would be within the thatch-roofed plantation house. If he could take Mendez by surprise—
The Spaniard said almost pleasantly: “It is the fine view that Señor Benfeld liked here. The dawn—it is all red. The sun rising from the water—”
He let his voice die. He was breathing a little heavily now. Jo Gar said, suddenly stopping and breathing as though with difficulty:
“Benfeld tried to kill me, Mendez. He was a representative of the insurance company handling the Von Loffler stones. He thought I would be off my guard, because of that. How much was he offered—for my death?”
Mendez said cheerfully: “Enough, Señor Gar. But he was a fool—and not careful enough. He knew that you were trained in hunting down people, yet he was careless.”
Jo Gar moved slowly up the slope again. He was breathing very heavily, though he was not tired. Behind him he could hear Mendez. And he was sure that the Spaniard was not pretending. He slowed his pace just a little, spoke haltingly.
“I will make—a bargain with you—Señor Mendez. If you will let me—have the chance—”
He uttered the last word softly, easily. And then, like a cat, he let his body swing around—he leaped at the figure of the man behind and several feet below him on the path!
&n
bsp; But even as his short body shot through the air—he knew that he had lost. He saw Mendez’ body stiffen—the features of the long, sharp face were twisted into a mask of hate. The Spaniard’s body swung to one side. His right hand went up and then came down. Something gleamed dully in it. The first time it struck Jo a glancing blow on the shoulder. But as his hands and knees hit the earth—it struck him again, in a second chopping motion. Pain streaked across the back of his head—the yellow light of the moon became a curtain of black. He lost consciousness.
The room held little furniture, and what there was of it was bamboo. There was a table and two chairs, and between the windows a small bookcase. Mendez stood near the bookcase, his back to the wall of the house that was little more than a shack. The lamp on the table had a faulty wick, or the oil was bad. The light was faint and uneven. Shadows were on the walls. Mendez said in a conversational tone:
“You are lying, Gar. You have been lying for an hour. And there are few hours left to you. You were successful, in the Islands—but the Philippines are not like these islands. They are hotter—and the brain of that breed is stupid. You killed a man, on the Cheyo Maru. And that man had with him ten diamonds. They were worth more than two hundred thousand dollars. You tell me you found only one of them. You are lying.”
Jo Gar slumped in one of the bamboo chairs. Pains stabbed across his head. The gun that Mendez used was a heavy one, and the Spaniard had struck him with a savage motion. There was blood on the Island detective’s face, and on the fingers of his right hand. He was tired. Three times in the last hour Mendez had struck him. Once the one who had sat on his left in the car had struck him—he was a Chinese with a stupid, typical face. He sat in a chair and watched the Island detective now, his eyes expressionless. The driver of the car was not in the plantation shack.
Jo said thickly: “I have told you the truth, Mendez. From the one in white—the one the Malay spoke of before he died, in Manila—I got only one diamond. It was he who told me of the blind Chinese. That was why I went there.”
