The Black Widow - Mark Kane Mysteries - Book Three: A Private Investigator Crime Series of Murder, Mystery, Suspense & Thriller Stories...with a dash of Romance

by John Hemmings

  Lucy thought this through. “I can see that,” she said. “But I think there’s something you’re overlooking.”

  “Which is?”

  “The driver’s license in the shoe. Your theory about that was that it was put there by Larry so that his body would be identified when it was found – as a clue to lead police to his killer. If they knew who the dead man was then it would help them find his assailant. If he was killed accidentally then that can’t be the explanation.”

  “The finding of the license can still be made to fit the big picture,” I said, “with a minor adjustment. Even if his death was an accident it would be a difficult decision to commit his body to the sea without any hope for a Christian burial one day. This would be especially true if Cary was present – you know how fervently religious the Filipinos are? Placing the license in the shoe before disposing of the body would ensure that when it was eventually found it would be identified and the remains given a proper burial.”

  “Let’s get back to Manila,” Lucy said. She’d cheered up a bit. “If you’re right and we can make Dale see sense then we can still help him. But maybe we should run all this past Cary first. What do you think? If she already knows about it, we could explain that it’s in Dale’s interests for her to come clean. To tell us what she knows – what really happened.”

  “That’s a possibility – I’ll give it some more thought. We’re going to visit the bar anyway tonight and we have to pass Cary’s house on the way there − and the way back. Let’s have an early dinner next door and then head off.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Firehouse

  We walked to the Café next door for dinner. We were getting to be their best customers. Neither of us was very hungry so we ordered some pancit to share – thin noodles in a soy dressing with pieces of pork, shrimps, green onion and cooked lettuce.

  “The more I think about your new theory the more it makes sense,” Lucy said, between mouthfuls of food. “And I hope you’re right because it still means we can help if Dale’s frank with us, especially with Cary’s backing.”

  “And I hope I’m right too, so that I can get back to earning a living again,” I said.

  “I had an email from Brenda this morning,” she said. “Nothing’s going on there. ‘All quiet on the western front’ is what she actually wrote.”

  “Quite a wit then, our Brenda.” I said.

  “She wants to know when we’re coming back.”

  “Well let’s hope we have some good news for her tomorrow,” I said.

  After dinner we hired a taxi to take us to Manga Beach. On the way I spoke to Lucy about Cary.

  “I don’t think we should see Cary before we’ve spoken to Dale,” I said. “He’s our client after all. If he decides to dig his heels in and stick to his guns, we’ll just have to let it go. If he decides to come clean and Cary is in a position to help him then it’ll be a matter for them. Either way I can’t afford to stay here much longer.”

  Just before eight the taxi rolled into the town. A number of garish bars, hardly noticeable during the daytime, lined each side of the main street. We’d booked a return trip in the taxi, so I told the driver to be there to pick us up in an hour, and then we set off down the street to look for the Firehouse. It was situated on a dusty street corner and loud music wafted out through the swing doors. Inside a bar about fifty feet long ran the full length of the room, and behind the bar was a stage. The bottom of the stage was at eye level for the patrons seated at the bar, of which there were not many; it was probably too early. On the stage three fireman’s poles were arranged equidistantly apart and either side of each was a bikini-clad girl holding the pole with one hand and lazily moving from one foot to the other in time with the music, with movements that I guessed were designed to simulate dance steps. Everything in the bar looked shiny and new, except the girls who looked tired and jaded. In front of the bar was an open area where I guessed customers would eventually be seen cavorting with the girls, and part of this area was a raised dais about six inches from the floor.

  I ordered a beer and a coke for Lucy, and asked the waiter if we could see the manager. He didn’t ask me why. A few minutes later a middle-aged Filipino dressed in dark trousers and a barong tagalog introduced himself.

  “Yes sir, I’m the manager, my name is Rico. What can I do for you?” he said, in heavily accented English.

  “I’d like to speak to one of the bar owners if possible. I’m here with my assistant making some inquiries on behalf of the PNB about the death of an American citizen – nothing directly to do with this establishment,” I said. I gave him a copy of Santos’ letter. “I believe the owners of the bar, or at least most of them, were acquainted with the deceased and I’m trying to fill in some background to the inquiry. I won’t take up much of their time.”

  “Mr. Rosario is here tonight,” he said. “I’ll go and find out if he’ll see you.”

  After a few minutes Rico was back. Would I care to follow him?

  He led us up some stairs at the edge of the bar to an office situated in a cock-loft. Behind a desk was an elderly Filipino chewing a toothpick. He stood up as we came in.

  “I’m Manny,” he said, “Manny Rosario. I’m told you are making enquiries into the death of Mr. Sands.” He sat down and motioned us to do the same. He removed the wooden toothpick from his mouth, leaned back in his semi-circular desk chair, and continued.

  “It is very tragic what happened to Mr. Sands. He drowned I am told. He and I were business partners once, I expect you are aware of that, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything relating to his death.”

  He spoke slowly and deliberately with a pronounced Philippine accent. He had loose-fitting dentures in place of his upper teeth and made a slight sucking noise as he drew them back into place after he spoke.

  “I’m not expecting you to know anything about that,” I said. “I’m interested in your former business relationship.”

  Manny seemed mildly surprised by my remark. He eyed me suspiciously and slipped his toothpick back between his dentures and his lower teeth.

  “There’s not much to tell. He was one of several persons who invested in a new bar which was planned. Unfortunately, he had to withdraw eventually because he wasn’t able to come up with his share of the money.”

  “I understand that the proposed bar is the one we’re in now.”

  Manny pondered this for a moment. “This bar is in the same location, it’s true, but the investors are different.”

  “They’re the same aren’t they?” I said, “except for Mr. Sands and Mr. Porter.”

  “The core investors are the same, but after Mr. Sands and Mr. Porter withdrew we found another investor to replace them.”

  “What happened to the money that Sands and Porter invested before they withdrew?”

  “Well, that was already spent,” Manny said.

  “On what, exactly? Do you have any accounts from that time?”

  Manny waved his hand dismissively as if trying to dispel a fly that was bothering him. “In order to obtain a license for premises such as these,” he said, “there are certain expenses that need to be paid that don’t appear on any formal accounts; to smooth the way forward. To ‘oil the wheels’, I think you say in your country.”

  “According to my information, Mr. Rosario, neither Mr. Sands nor Mr. Porter withdrew. They were told that the bar had to close because of a lack of funds. They were told that everyone was in the same boat as them – that all the money had been lost.”

  “At that time we didn’t expect to be able to, how shall I put it, resurrect the bar. It was believed that the venture was finished. Luckily some time later we received an offer from another party, so we were able to salvage it.”

  “Then don’t you think you should reimburse Mr. Porter and Mr. Sands’ widow for the amount they invested in the bar – or at least some of it?”

  “Perhaps in the fullness of time, wh
en the business is more established and we are making a profit we might consider an ex gratia offer to our former investors. I’m not an unreasonable man, Mr. Kane. I’m a businessman, but I’m not without a heart.”

  “Who took over Mr. Sands’ and Mr. Porters’ share of the bar, Mr. Rosario?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose the partner’s names, Mr. Kane. Somebody might expect us to pay some tax in due course.” He smiled broadly, his dentures falling noticeably. He sucked them back into place.

  “I expect your manager showed you the letter from Superintendent Santos,” I said. “I’m sure there are other ways that I can find out the information I’m asking for. Since I’m only inquiring into the circumstances of Mr. Sands’ death, it might be more prudent to supply the information to me rather than have some government department looking into the matter in due course.”

  Rodriguez smiled again; this time a thin, closed-lip smile.

  “Very well,” he said. “But I cannot give you any formal document you understand. These things are confidential. The new investor’s name is Antonio Gonzales.”

  The name meant nothing to me. I hardly expected it would.

  “Well we won’t trouble you anymore,” I said. “But you might like to make a mental note about the possible ex gratia payment – in case it slips your mind in future.”

  “Please make yourself at home in the bar,” Rosario said. “Everything’s on the house. But now if you’ll excuse me?”

  Lucy and I went downstairs to the bar. We didn’t linger. We walked down the road to look for our taxi. It was less than an hour since we’d parted company with the taxi driver and he was nowhere to be seen. Close to where the taxi had dropped us there was a bench seat made from a plank of wood balanced between two oil drums. We sat down to wait.

  And then my cell phone rang. It was Cary. She’d found the receipt.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Receipt

  “Well, perhaps my carefully thought-out theory is incorrect after all,” I said to Lucy as we drove back to the hotel.

  “It’s probably a forgery,” Lucy said.

  “You still have bad vibes about Cary, don’t you,” I said.

  “Female intuition.”

  “Your female intuition didn’t seem to work too well the last time we were there. Anyway if it’s a good enough forgery to spring Dale and get us out of here it’ll be fine by me.”

  “Even if he’s guilty of Larry’s death and Cary’s covering up for him?”

  “Suppose it is a forgery, and suppose my theory’s correct. Perhaps this is the best solution.”

  “You just want to get home – you’re letting your analytical mind be swayed by considerations of convenience,” Lucy said.

  “That’s not fair, Lucy. Our job was to get Dale out of jail. We gave him the benefit of the doubt and tried to establish that he wasn’t responsible for Larry’s death, and in doing so we’ve been trying to find evidence that someone else was responsible. But we’re not policemen; we have no duty to investigate this case to its conclusion. We have to stick to our original assignment. My latest theory, having reviewed all the facts we’ve been able to uncover, is that Larry’s death was probably caused by Dale but that it was probably accidental. Now Cary says she has found the receipt which Dale told us about, so maybe my theory was wrong. But suppose it is a forgery – the receipt is probably good enough to get Dale released. I’m pretty sure he isn’t a murderer, and that’s what he’s being held for. Suppose he is released as a result of a falsified document? If Larry’s death was accidental, as I suspect, then what real damage is done? Don’t forget that Larry was Cary’s husband – to whom she was apparently devoted – and if she’s complicit in some way in trying to secure Dale’s release using a false document then who are we to argue?”

  “I guess you’re right. As usual,” she said, digging me in the ribs.

  “Here’s the plan,” I said; “a quick drink in The Café when we get back and then an early night. We’ll go and see Cary tomorrow, collect the receipt and get back to the hotel. We can arrange a dinner for Paul, Gary and Hendriks, if they’re available, and head back to Manila the day after.

  “By a quick drink do you mean only one drink or more than one that you’re going to drink quickly?” Lucy said.

  I didn’t bother to reply.

  The next morning, we were up early. For the first time in a week I was in high spirits. The news from Cary had cheered me up considerably. After breakfast I called the police headquarters in Manila and was told that Santos would be on duty later in the afternoon. I didn’t want to talk to anyone else so I’d have to wait. I called Cary and said we’d be up to see her after lunch, then we went for a walk along the sandy promenade near the hotel. Lucy was in a pensive mood.

  “I thought you’d be more cheerful,” I said.

  “End of vacation blues I expect,” she said. “Can we still go to Bangkok?”

  “I guess so. If we can get this sorted out tomorrow, we could fly out over the weekend and spend a couple of days there before heading home. The work’s probably piling up for me there.”

  “Don’t you think that Brenda would’ve called if there’d been any inquiries?”

  “Yes, that’s been puzzling me a bit. You’d better call her again. Maybe she’s off sick or something and the office is unmanned. Or unwomanned.”

  “She sent me another email yesterday,” Lucy said. “She’s happy to help out until we get back but she asked if she could forward the calls and work from home.” Lucy eyed me mischievously. “She says there isn’t much to do and it sometimes feels like the walls are closing in on her.”

  “She’s supposed to be doing her college work. If there’s nothing to do then she should be able to do lots of it, especially as she won’t be distracted by staring out of the window.”

  Lucy ignored my rather perceptive observation.

  “So shall we relax a bit this morning, then we can motor up to see Cary after lunch and get the receipt? I can book us a flight back to Manila tomorrow,” Lucy said.

  “Okay, I’d better call Gary or Paul to see if they’re free for dinner tonight; Hendriks too, if he’s about.”

  Lucy wanted to visit a local shopping mall to find a suitably ethnic gift for Brenda. While she was getting ready I called Paul.

  “Both you and Gary have been very helpful,” I said. “This is probably our last day in Subic so we wondered if you’d join us for dinner; maybe at the Lighthouse. I ate there the night we arrived.”

  “Have you solved the case then?”

  “No, we haven’t. But we hopefully have enough to get Dale released from custody and that’s what we were hired to do. I’ll explain when I see you.”

  Paul said he’d contact Gary and we’d meet at eight. “Okay to bring the sheilas?” he said.

  “The…”

  “Girlfriends, mate; the other halves.”

  “The more the merrier,” I said. “It’ll distract Lucy from counting how many drinks I’ve had.”

  “I heard that,” said Lucy, as she came out of the bathroom.

  “I don’t know why the CIA wastes all that money on listening devices,” I said, “when they could just hire you.”

  “The CIA couldn’t afford me,” she said.

  We booked a taxi for two-thirty. On the way to Cary’s Lucy asked if I was going to tell Cary about the leads we’d got on possible suspects.

  “I mean if the receipt’s genuine then we’re still no nearer solving the case, are we?” she said. “We may as well give her the benefit of the research we’ve already done.”

  “Yes, there’s no harm in it. I think we should also give Cary the benefit of any doubt at this stage and assume that the receipt is a genuine one unless there’s a good reason to suspect otherwise. After all my theory’s just that – a theory − it isn’t foolproof. For all we know Larry’s death might have been a random killing or a robbery
gone wrong. I’m not planning on mentioning any of it to Santos, but she may want it investigated. It’s up to her.”

  Cary greeted us at the door. She was excited and bubbly. She hugged Lucy again and this time I got one too.

  “I’ve got some good news,” Cary said, “some really good news. I’ve got some Lambanog to celebrate. Have you tried it?”

  We sat as before. “Sorry,” I said, “some whatanog?”

  Cary laughed. “Lambanog. Its Philippine vodka – it’s made from coconuts.”

  “I’m game for anything,” I said, “how about you, Lucy?”

  “I’m on the wagon.”

  “Understandably,” I said.

  “I’ll try it Cary, but Lucy will stick to juice.”

  Cary brought a bottle to the table and a jug of fresh pineapple juice and some lemons. “We don’t usually drink it by itself because it’s too strong.” She poured a small measure of the alcohol into two of the glasses and then squeezed in some lemon juice before adding the pineapple juice. She poured a glass of pineapple juice for Lucy.

  “Are you sure you won’t try it Lucy?”

  “She can have a sip of mine,” I said.

  “Cheers,” said Cary. I took a sip. Lucy sipped her juice.

  “So you found the receipt?” I said. “Can you show it to me?”