The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard Original)

by Unknown

  “Cabin C. 80 is vacant,” he said stiffly. “It is one of the poorest cabins on the ship.”

  The Island detective nodded his head. “The doors of vacant cabins are not always locked, are they?” he asked.

  The switchboard boy narrowed his eyes. “No, Señor Gar,” he replied. “They are left half-opened, for ventilation.”

  Jo Gar moved towards the main saloon, frowning. Too many persons aboard the boat knew too much about him; even the Chinese boy at the switchboard was now addressing him by his name. He murmured to himself:

  “It becomes—always more difficult.”

  In the smoking room the thin-lipped one was seated in the chair he had occupied before, still reading his magazine. The newspaper man was sprawled in a chair that faced the port-side entrance to the room. Jo Gar beckoned to him, watched him rise slowly, stroll towards the entrance. The Island detective walked slowly aft, and Porter followed in the same fashion. Behind a ventilator Jo halted and lighted a cigarette. Porter reached his side.

  “Well?” The Island detective’s voice was very low.

  Peter grinned. “You didn’t expect him to move around much in that length of time, did you?” he replied. “He only turned two pages of the magazine.”

  Jo said steadily: “He never left the chair?”

  Porter grunted. “All he moved was his fingers,” he replied.

  Jo sighed heavily. Then he showed white teeth in a slow smile.

  “You have been very kind—and I shall not need your help for the present, Señor Porter.”

  The newspaper man looked surprised. “He wasn’t the right guy, maybe?”

  The Island detective made the tip of his cigarette glow in the semidarkness.

  “After I left you I went to my cabin. I received a phone call that I half expected. But I expected, also, that the gentleman you were watching would make the call.”

  Porter whistled softly. “He didn’t,” he said. “That’s sure enough. He stuck right in his chair.”

  Jo Gar nodded. Porter said slowly: “I’m sorry it didn’t work out the other way—the way you expected, Señor Gar.”

  The Island detective smiled with his lips tight against the paper of the cigarette. He stood with his short legs spread, swaying with the roll of the ship. He had picked the thin-lipped passenger as the one who had called him, using the flat, peculiar tone. He had listened to most of the others talk—those who had come aboard at Honolulu.

  The others he had heard before; it had been a long trip from Manila. And the thin-lipped one had failed to answer quickly, naturally to the name of Tracy. He had not spoken to Jo—had not answered his question about the time. It was difficult to disguise a voice, and Jo felt that the thin-lipped one had not made the effort. Thus he had not spoken when addressed. And yet, there had been the phone call just received—and the thin-lipped one had not made it.

  Jo frowned down at the cigarette glow. Then, suddenly, his small body straightened; he drew a deep breath. Porter was watching him closely.

  “You got an idea—that time,” he muttered.

  The Island detective narrowed his eyes on Porter’s.

  He spoke very slowly and softly, and his eyes held little expression.

  “That is so, Señor Porter—but it is so difficult to tell whether it is a good idea.”

  The newspaper man said grimly: “If it isn’t—you’ll probably find out quick enough.”

  Jo Gar smiled narrowly. “That is the trouble,” he said simply.

  he door of Cabin C. 82 was tightly closed, locked. Jo Gar took from his pocket the small, adjustable key, worked with it swiftly and expertly. It was after nine o’clock, but the thin-lipped man was still seated in his chair in the smoking room. The cabin steward for this section of the Cheyo Maru was on the opposite side of the boat; Jo had come to Cabin C. 82 slowly and carefully.

  When the lock made a faint clicking sound he returned the master key to his pocket, moved the knob and slowly opened the door. He stepped inside quickly, shut the door without sound but did not lock it from the inside. The cabin was small and held the odor of cigarettes. There was little baggage about, but what there was bore the initials E. T. Jo Gar smiled a little, went towards cool-colored curtains that formed a protection for hung clothes. There was only a coat of gray material hanging behind the curtains.

  “Señor Tracy is traveling very lightly,” Jo observed in a half whisper.

  He got his small body back of the curtains, arranging them so that he had a slitted view of the room, where they met. For several minutes he remained motionless. Then he stepped from behind the curtains and started the search. He worked very slowly and thoroughly, placing each object that he touched in the same spot from which he had raised it. Twice there was sound in the corridor, but neither time did he lock the cabin door. Instead, he got his diminutive body behind the curtains that faced the door from the opposite end of the cabin, waited.

  He finished his search in a little over ten minutes, straightened and sighed. The phone made a buzzing sound, three times. Jo got his right-hand fingers over the grip of his Colt, moved behind the curtains and was motionless. Several minutes passed, and then there were footfalls in the narrow corridor beyond the cabin. A key turned in the lock—there was muttering. The door opened with a small crashing sound, but the thin-lipped one did not immediately enter. He stood in the doorway—his eyes going about the room. Through the very thin slit where the curtains met Jo Gar watched him.

  His body relaxed suddenly; he entered the cabin, closed the door behind him, locked it. His eyes kept moving about. He lifted the smaller of the bags, opened it, looked inside. When he placed it on the floor again he was frowning. But the frown became a grin—a slow grin that twisted his thin lips.

  “He’s been in here,” he said in a peculiar, flat voice. “A lot of good that did him!”

  Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. This was the one who had called him; he knew that now. He moved the muzzle of the Colt slightly, so that it was pointed towards the body of the thin-lipped one.

  After he had drawn a small curtain across the port, the thin-lipped man placed a towel over the knob of the door, draping it so that it covered the keyhole. Then he seated himself at a small table beneath the center light, and faced the port. His left side was turned towards Jo. From a vest pocket he took a red-colored, large-sized fountain pen. His face was grim as he unscrewed an end of it. The table at which he sat had a green surface; the thin-lipped one spilled the diamonds across it very carefully. He chuckled, staring at them and poking them with a long, white finger.

  Jo Gar straightened his cramped body a little. He drew the Colt from his pocket, extended it through the slit in the curtains. His eyes could count five diamonds—he thought there was another on the table surface but he could not see it.

  “A hundred—thousand!” The thin-lipped one’s voice was not so flat now. “And with Gar chasing the Jetmars woman—”

  He chuckled again, huskily. Jo Gar said in a cold, hard voice:

  “—you might easily have got the stones through the customs—”

  The man at the table jerked his body straight. His right-hand palm flattened over the diamonds; his white face turned towards the curtains. Jo parted them with his left hand, stepped away from them. His face was expressionless. He held the Colt very firmly.

  “But you weren’t so wise,” Jo said calmly and softly. “You don’t know how much I knew, how much I had been told. So you thought I might be watching you, rather than the woman in black. You didn’t know that Mendez had told me a woman had the Von Loffler diamonds. You called me, after she had given you the diamonds, afraid of me. The two of you gave the child beads of blue glass, cut very much like the Von Loffler stones. You wanted me to believe what you had suggested—that the woman in black was smuggling the stones through the customs—so that you could get them through without trouble. But you played too strongly.”

  The thin-lipped man was staring at him, breathing slowly and
heavily. His right palm was still flat over the diamonds; his left arm rested on the table. The ship rolled and his body swayed with it. Jo Gar said:

  “You didn’t disguise your voice—and you couldn’t speak to me when I addressed you, for fear of detection. That worried you. You knew you were being watched by Porter, and you had a confederate call me while you were seated in the smoking room. You had worked well with him, but his voice was not exactly like yours. Even so, for a little time I thought that you were not the one who had called me. And then I realized what you had tried to do—to make me believe that very thing. And I knew that you were the one. So I came here—for the diamonds—nine of them.”

  There was a little silence. The thin-lipped man said in a harsh, strained tone:

  “You got to Jetmars—you scared her and—she squealed.”

  The Island detective shook his head. “I haven’t spoken a word to her,” he said steadily. “You were too worried about yourself—and too greedy. You betrayed yourself.”

  The thin-lipped one took his palm away from the diamonds. Jo Gar said softly:

  “Please keep both arms—on the table. How many stones—are there?”

  The one at the table did not speak. Jo Gar moved the gun muzzle sharply.

  “Many men have died because of the stones,” he reminded. “One more thief—one murderer—it would not matter too much. How many stones—have you?”

  The thin-lipped one said huskily, the peculiar flat note barely evident:

  “Five—the woman has—the others. Three of them. You have one, Gar.”

  There was hatred in his voice as he used the Island detective’s name. Jo said softly:

  “I would not lie—where are the other three stones?”

  The thin-lipped one said savagely: “I tell you—the woman in black—she has them. She would not give them all to me. She is the one who—”

  The Island detective smiled coldly. His gray-blue eyes were almost closed.

  “Raise your arms,” he said slowly, “Keep them raised. If you do not—”

  He made a swift—strangely swift movement for him, as the thin-lipped one obeyed. When he stepped away from the man at the table there were five diamonds in his left palm. They felt warm and very good. He said steadily:

  “We will stay here until a certain diamond expert comes to the cabin, with the captain. When the stones have been inspected we will go to the woman in black. We will obtain the other three stones.”

  The lips of the man at the table were tightly pressed and thinner than ever. He parted them suddenly.

  “It is she who—”

  The phone buzzed. Jo Gar moved towards it, but did not take his eyes from the figure of the man in the chair. He spoke into the mouthpiece, as he slipped the diamonds into a pocket.

  “Señor Gar—”

  Porter’s voice said: “Did the buzz catch you in time? He went from the smoking room pretty fast.”

  The Island detective kept his eyes on the thin-lipped one. He said:

  “Yes—it reached me in time. I was prepared for Mr. Tracy. Will you please call the captain and tell him—”

  His words died as the thin-lipped one hurled himself from the chair, slashing his right arm at the Colt. Jo squeezed the trigger of the gun as it was battered to one side. There was a crashing sound, and then the thin-lipped one’s fingers were on his throat; his white face was close to Jo’s.

  He muttered hoarse, distorted words as his fingers tightened their grip. He was strong; the swinging arms of the detective failed to hurt him. Already Jo’s breath was coming in short gasps; his efforts to get free of the man’s grip were growing weaker.

  His head was pulled close to the thin-lipped one’s body; there was a mist in his eyes. Blackness was coming now; he was choking terribly. He felt his body swung to one side; his head was battered against the wall of the cabin. And then, once again, the room was filled with a crashing sound. The strangler’s body jerked; he cried out hoarsely. His fingers went away from Jo’s throat; he swung gropingly towards the cabin door. Jo stared towards it, his vision clearing. It was half opened.

  Voices reached him faintly from the corridor; they grew louder. The thin-lipped one was down on his knees now; he sprawled at full length, his left-hand fingers pawing at the small of his back. Then, very suddenly, he was motionless.

  Jo Gar stared towards the half-opened door. He breathed hoarsely, sucking in deep breaths of air:

  “He would have killed me—and yet—he was murdered—the woman in black—”

  He couldn’t be sure, but he thought his eyes had seen dark color, just after the shot had crashed. And if the woman in black had thought that the thin-lipped one had said too much, if she had overheard, following him to his cabin—

  Porter’s voice was calling from the corridor:

  “Señor Gar—Señor Gar!”

  There were heavier footfalls now. Gar tapped the pocket into which he had slipped the diamonds. He was sure they were real. Five of them, and there was the one he already had recovered. Six stones—with three still missing. And the one who could have told many things—he was dead.

  The Island detective knew that, even before he bent over the man, calling hoarsely:

  “Yes—Porter—it is—all right—”

  Porter came into the room, pulling up short at the sight of the man on the floor.

  “Heard the crash sound—over the phone—” he muttered.

  Jo Gar straightened and smiled a little. “I was forced to shoot,” he said more clearly. “But he got me by the throat—”

  Ship’s officers were inside the room now. The second officer stared at the figure on the floor, then at Jo.

  “You shot him?” he breathed. “You had to shoot him, Señor—”

  Jo Gar shook his head. Porter leaned down suddenly and lifted something from the floor near the doorway. The Island detective said:

  “He had five of the Von Loffler diamonds—I’ve got them now. I tried to shoot him, but I failed. He was shot in the back, from the corridor.”

  The second officer drew in a sharp breath. “You saw who it—”

  Jo Gar shook his head. “I saw nothing,” he said very slowly. He was sure that he had seen black color—the color of a woman’s dress. “He was choking me—”

  The newspaperman extended a palm. “What’s this?” he muttered. “Just picked it up near the doorway.”

  Jo looked at the bead in Porter’s palm. He shook his head very slowly.

  “It looks very much,” he said huskily but with little tone, “like a bit of blue glass.”

  Diamonds of Death

  Ramon Decolta

  Jo Gar, the little Island detective, collects.

  HE ROOM WAS IN A cheap hotel, a few blocks from Market Street. The room had two windows, one of which faced the Bay. Jo Gar, his small body sprawled on the narrow bed, shivered a little. San Francisco was cold; he thought of the warm winds of Manila and the difference of the bays. He sighed and said softly to himself:

  “Four diamonds—if I had them I could return to the Islands. I do not belong away from them—”

  The telephone bell on the wall jangled; Jo Gar stared towards the apparatus for several seconds, then rose slowly. He was dressed in a gray suit that did not fit him too well, and his graying hair was mussed. He unhooked the receiver and said:

  “Yes.”

  A pleasant voice said: “Inspector Raines, of the customs office. I have information for you.”

  Jo Gar said: “That is good—please come up.”

  He hung up the receiver and stood for several seconds looking towards the door. One of his three bags had been opened, the other two he had not unlocked. The Cheyo Maru, bringing him from Honolulu, had arrived three hours ago, and there had been much for the Island detective to do. In the doing of it he had gained little. Perhaps, he thought, Inspector Raines had done better.

  He took from one of his few remaining packages a brown-paper cigarette, lighted it. His gray-blue eyes h
eld a faint smile as he inhaled. Down the hall beyond the room there was the slam of the elevator’s door, and foot-falls. A man cleared his throat noisily. Jo Gar put his right hand in the pocket of his gray suit at his right side, went over and seated himself on the edge of the bed, facing the door. A knock sounded and the Philippine Island detective called flatly:

  “Please—come in.”

  The door opened. A middle-aged man entered, dressed in a dark suit with a light coat thrown across his shoulders. The sleeves of the man’s suit were not within the coat sleeves; it was worn as a cape. Raines had sharp features, pleasant blue eyes. His lips were thick; he was a big man. He said:

  “Hello, Señor Gar.”

  Jo Gar rose and they shook hands. Raines’ grip was loose and careless; he looked about the room, tossed a soft, gray hat on a chair. Jo Gar motioned towards the other chair in the room, and the inspector seated himself. He kept the coat slung across his shoulders.

  Jo Gar said slowly, almost lazily:

  “Something was found?”

  The inspector frowned and shook his head. He took from his pocket a small card. His picture was at one corner of the card, which was quite soiled. There was the printing of the Customs Department, some insignia that Gar merely glanced at, a stamped seal—and the statement that Albert Raines was a member of the San Francisco customs office.

  Raines said: “The chief thought I’d better show you that right away, as we hadn’t seen each other.”

  The Island detective smiled. “Thank you,” he replied, and handed the card back. “Something was found?”

  Raines shook his head. “Not a thing,” he said. “We held her up for two hours, and we searched everything carefully. We even searched the child—the child’s baggage. We gave her a pretty careful questioning. For that matter—everybody on the boat got about three times the attention we usually give. And we didn’t turn up a stone.”

  Jo Gar sighed. Raines said grimly: “If the diamonds were on that boat—they got past us. And that means you’re in a tough spot, yes?”

  The Island detective said: “I think that is very much—what it means.”