“I think it would be better,” Ulio said during the morning. “You will be of more value if we pretend we do not know each other when we land.”
“What about Claire?” Rankin asked.
“I have spoken to her. I do not think she will give it away. You see,” he added, “if Pascual Sanchez should know of my arrival it is possible that I may be watched. I do not know what will happen but if you are not suspected you will have more freedom.”
Rankin thought it over, aware of the advantage of such an arrangement should any trouble develop, but not entirely convinced.
“What am I supposed to be doing in town?” he asked.
Ulio shrugged. “You are looking for a job and a future in Manila. Is that not so? You are a flyer and I have heard that Sanchez is promoting an inter-island air service.” He smiled. “You could ask him for a job.”
“It’s an idea.”
“In a day or two our pretense may no longer be necessary,” Ulio said. “It is just that it seems best to be sure how I stand first. I will take your baggage in town with me and arrange for a room for you, and at two thirty I will meet you.” He mentioned an address and a street corner. “Any carromata driver should know where it is.”
Rankin made sure of this before he dickered with the driver and now, moving along Dewey Boulevard, he checked again.
“opô,” said the driver. “You see this corner we approach? It is the next.”
Alighting at the proper intersection, Rankin paid the four pesos agreed upon and watched the carromata roll away, aware now that here as in the business section, the destruction of what had once been lovely homes was vast and shocking. The grass between the pavement and the harbor, once a luxuriant green, was trampled and brown. Beyond, the water was cluttered with shipping, obscuring the distant Rock and Mariveles, and it seemed to him that out of all this only the broad acacia trees were the same.
An ancient and colorless sedan that escaped the bantam class by a foot of wheelbase rounded the corner as he lit a cigarette, slowing down until he glanced up. When Ulio saluted from behind the wheel and continued along Dewey, he started after it, watching it cross the next intersection and turn into a driveway in the middle of the block.
Two or three cars passed him as he walked along, one going rather slowly and turning at the corner beyond the driveway. He stopped here to glance up and down the street and when he saw no one he walked past the gutted walls of what had once been the Kane home, to a two-story garage at the rear. The wide doors were gone but the second-floor windows were shuttered, the door closed.
Ulio got out of the car he had parked off to one side and led the way up an outside stairway to a narrow veranda that ran along three sides of the second floor. Unlocking the door he moved into the hot and musty dimness beyond.
“I’ll open the windows,” he said, and when he had done so there were only four battered rattan chairs, a table, and a lamp. The floor, bare and dusty, was mahogany and there was another door which Ulio opened, revealing a bedroom with two iron beds, mattresses, and mosquito bars.
“I will stay here,” Ulio said. “Perhaps if everything is all right you will share it with me, but for a day or two I have secured a place for you in town. It is not what you have been used to—it is over a café—but I have friends there and it is clean.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Rankin said. “What do we do first?”
“For you there is nothing but to amuse yourself until this evening. For myself there is much to do. I shall want to put ads in some of the papers.”
“For what?”
Ulio grinned. “The telephone service is not very good here yet. But there are many small newspapers. To locate someone or arrange a meeting, you put in a personal notice.”
“To see if you can get a line on your father?”
“If he is alive. I have many people to see, many of whom will be surprised to find I am not dead as reported. I shall get in touch with Pascual Sanchez and also I shall need some money. Come,” he said and led the way down the stairs to the garage.
The front half of this had been used for cars but there was a concrete wall part way back and an open door through which Ulio went. Here was a hall giving on two concrete walled rooms, both empty, and what apparently had been a tiny bath, though nothing remained now but jagged ends of pipe broken off close to the floor.
“This was for the chauffeur and his wife,” Ulio said and gestured disgustedly to indicate the emptiness about him. “Looters,” he said. “What the Japs did not take the Filipinos did, though I suppose one can hardly blame them.”
Then, to Rankin’s surprise, he dropped to one knee in the corner of the right-hand room and brushed the dust aside until the brick flooring was revealed. He removed a brick which was loose and winked slowly.
“My father and I arranged this place,” he said. “Even if the building was destroyed the floor would still be here. Also if you should find this brick loose and remove it you would find nothing. But look! With this out the next brick slides and it is here”—he demonstrated as he spoke—“that there is a space.”
He hesitated, groping far into the opening; then he gave an excited cry and pulled out a long metal box, rusty and earth-stained.
“Yes,” he said breathlessly. “You see? We put this here on January 8, 1942, when the Japs were already in the city, my father and I. Julian was already on Bataan and Lynn was in the house packing so that we alone knew of this.”
He stood up as Rankin watched, and opened the box. “There are papers here—my father’s will and the deed to the mine and other things.” He removed a sheet that had a bluish tint, examined it, then took out a sheaf of new bills. “Also money,” he said, and handed it to Rankin.
A little bewildered and unable to think of anything to say, Rankin counted fifty hundred-peso notes while Ulio returned the box. Then the little man counted off five bills and handed them back.
“Take them,” he said as Rankin started to protest. “You will need all that and more, and there is more.” He replaced the bricks and brushed his trousers. “We put fifty thousand pesos there. After the liberation when I thought there was no one left but me, I gave forty-five thousand to a friend. He promised to give Marie Dizon whatever she needed and keep the balance for me. We can use that now, eh, Spence?”
Rankin exhaled noisily. “All right,” he said. “I guess I’ve seen everything.”
“Then why not go and inspect your room. The bartender downstairs, Victor, is a friend of mine. Have a drink, but do not get drunk; then meet me here at nine thirty tonight. I expect to have work for you.”
At five thirty that afternoon Spencer Rankin turned off Rosario Street and entered a six-story, not too damaged building which, if the traffic cop’s directions were right, housed the office of the American Press Association. He had a bottle of excellent Scotch under his arm which he intended to trade for information, and he was looking for an American girl and a fellow named Jerry Walsh, who had palled around with him for a few days on Morotai.
He had already made up his mind to look up Walsh before he arrived, but he found out about the girl from the man named Victor who ran the Lingayen Gulf Café. It was here that Ulio had arranged for Rankin to stay—there were six rooms on the floor above the café and his was somewhat discouraging by American standards, but clean—and when he straightened out his things he went downstairs for a beer and made inquiries about Pascual Sanchez.
Victor, who had talked freely about other things, seemed definitely evasive on the subject of Sanchez. He knew where Sanchez lived and where his office was; beyond that he had no opinion to offer about the man, and the only other thing Rankin learned was that an American girl was staying at the Sanchez house. Victor did not know her name, so he said, but he seemed to remember that she worked in the office of the American Press Association.
This was good news to Rankin because he knew Jerry Walsh worked out of the same office. He hoped the girl was moderately attractive because he
expected to spend some time with her. He had no idea why she should be staying with Sanchez but he had a hunch that with the proper cultivation she could be the source of much information that might be of use to Ulio. If Jerry Walsh happened to be around it would be a cinch to meet her; if not, he was on his own and that might be all right too.
Now he found the single elevator working and rode to the fifth floor where a sign directed him to a long narrow office facing the street. At the far end, by the window, Jerry Walsh sat hunched over some copy on his desk, but after the first glance it was the girl who sat at the other desk that held Rankin’s attention, and he was very glad he had come.
She wore a yellow linen dress that looked expensive and imported and her hair was tawny and softly waved, falling forward slightly in its long bob as she assaulted a typewriter with two fingers. Her complexion matched her hair and she had a cute nose with a smudge on it, and in that moment before she looked up a frown was working on her forehead.
“Hello,” she said, and smiled. “Looking for someone?”
Rankin said hello, glad somehow that her eyes were violet and friendly and very pleased indeed that he had made those inquiries about Pascual Sanchez. He smiled back at her and, raising his voice, not looking at Walsh, he said:
“Does a guy named Jerry Walsh work here?”
Feet scraped the floor and a chair creaked. “Well, I’m damned,” a voice said.
Jerry Walsh was a lanky man who looked forty and probably was not, with lusterless brown hair that seldom behaved. He had ordinarily a voice that was both weary and indifferent and his eyes, more amber than brown, were stamped deeply with disillusionment. Yet there was a smile in them now as he took Rankin’s hand and asked what he was doing in town and when did he get in.
“This morning,” Rankin said. “I’m looking for a way to make my fortune.”
“Hah,” said Walsh. “What’s that you got under your arm?”
“Take it easy.” Rankin removed the bottle and examined it, a glance toward the girl telling him that she was enjoying the scene. “Guys who were here last year told me this stuff cost fifty-five bucks a bottle—when you could get it. So I brought a case. Eight bottles in my trunk on the boat and four in my flight bag. Here,” he said. “From me to you.”
“I love you dearly,” Walsh said. He patted the bottle lovingly and grinned at the girl. “See the kind of friends I have, Candy…. This is Spence Rankin—Miss Kane.”
Rankin shook hands purposely so he could see what hers felt like, happy with her smile and the way the still friendly eyes inspected him.
“Hello again,” she said. “Where did you know Jerry?”
Rankin told her. He wanted to add something that was both bright and complimentary and found that he was suddenly tongue-tied, a somewhat unusual condition for him. He let himself be led away to a chair by Walsh’s desk and Walsh was saying, “How’d you know I was here?”
“On account of you’re famous,” Rankin said, “I guess. I saw some pieces of yours in the States date-lined Manila and I figured you were either working out of here or else the bureau chief.”
Walsh grunted sardonically and spoke to the girl. “Make a note of that, Lynn,” he said. “Remind me to ask for a raise…. Where you staying?” he said to Rankin.
“A place called the Lingayen Gulf Café.”
“Off Rizal? You can do better than that.”
“It’s all right for a couple of days while I look around,” Rankin said and then something clicked in his brain and he sat very still, old memories surging through him and a sudden prickling moving coldly along his nape. No longer hearing what Walsh said, he watched the girl and she was still smiling and he tried to think back, to tell himself that this thing that he had heard was a mistake.
His mind repeated the name, Lynn. He struggled to recall the photograph of his half sister Ulio had in college. That girl had been around sixteen or seventeen and the picture, in black and white, furnished no clue as to coloring. The remembered outlines too were vague now and he tried to tell himself it was silly, believing she could be the one. Ulio had said his half sister was dead; he had shown the bracelet and spoken of the bodies in the gutted house as proof of this. And yet—
When he could stand it no longer Rankin stood up, leaving Walsh open-mouthed in the middle of the sentence. The girl watched him curiously, no longer smiling, and he went toward her, the tension in him now, the suspense he felt akin to fear. He leaned over her desk, seeing her draw back and not knowing the things he felt were revealed in his face.
“Did he say Lynn?” he asked quietly. “Lynn Kane?”
“Why—yes.”
“Did you have a brother—a half brother? Ulio Kane?” Her glance wavered and fell. “Yes,” she said. “He’s dead.”
“No.”
“He was killed in February 1945.”
Rankin shook his head and she stared at him, lips parted and eyes wide. He saw the growing whiteness in her cheeks and nearly said, “He’s right here in Manila. I came in with him.” Then he remembered his promise.
It was a hard thing to do. A strange excitement throbbed inside and he had to beat back the words, to tell himself that another day would not matter and that when she knew the truth she would forgive him.
“I saw him in San Francisco two weeks ago.”
Her hands gripped the edge of the desk. She rose slowly, like one in a trance, her eyes dark with pain and bewilderment.
She turned to Walsh. She said, “You must be mistaken,” and stared again at Rankin.
“No.” He spoke sharply. “I saw him. I was four years in college with him. I ought to know.” He swallowed and said, “He let them list him as killed to throw the Japs off. He thought you were dead, and your father, and so it didn’t matter so much—”
She did not give him a chance to finish. She believed him now. She gave a little cry that was half laugh, half sob, a choking sound deep in her throat.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes wet, “Spence Rankin. Of course. I remember…. Jerry, do you hear? Ulio’s alive.”
Then, without warning, she flung herself at Rankin and hugged him hard and spun away to throw her arms about Walsh and after that things were a little confused for Rankin.
He heard her talking without knowing what she said, watching her blond hair flying and the bright excitement in her eyes. He stood there, grinning delightedly, enjoying her happiness, wanting most of all to join in and be hugged again. Then, all at once, it hit him.
He remembered why he had come. He remembered what Victor had said. And it no longer made sense. Ulio Kane’s sister could not possibly be staying with Pascual Sanchez. There must, then, be some other girl who worked for Walsh.
He saw she was no longer looking at him but beyond him and then she cried, “Howard!” and ran to a man who stood in the doorway. She put her hands on his shoulders and tried to shake him. “Ulio’s alive!”
Rankin watched her, a tinge of annoyance at this intimacy confusing him still more. He was introduced without getting the name and saw that Howard was a tall—a good two inches more than six feet—well set-up man, with sandy hair and glasses. He wore white trousers and a sport shirt and looked as puzzled as Rankin felt.
The girl was still talking but Rankin no longer heard her. He had to find out about Sanchez and he did not know how to do it. He could not say, “Look here, you don’t live with Pascual Sanchez do you?” He could not let on that it was any of his concern—not yet. There was, of course, some mistake but he had to be sure and presently he thought of a way to do it.
“We ought to have a drink on this,” he said. “Not out of your bottle, Jerry,” he added, chuckling. “I mean we ought to go somewhere. I was going to ask Jerry about a guy named Sanchez,” he said to Lynn. “I thought if I could meet him I might get a job flying; but that can wait.”
“You want to meet Pascual Sanchez?” Lynn looked at Walsh as though sharing some mutual secret and laughed. “Well, that’s exactly what you’re go
ing to do.”
“Oh?”
“That’s where we’ll have our drink. That’s where I live and that’s where you’re going to have dinner. Please. You’ve got to. I have to know all about Ulio.”
Rankin felt as though he’d been slugged. He heard every word she said. He knew it was true. But he could not accept it so quickly, and wanted desperately to get out, to tell Ulio and find some explanation. Then he remembered that there was no way of reaching his friend until nine thirty. He watched the girl step into an alcove and start to fix her face in the mirror as though the matter was closed; then he was able to think a little, to see that perhaps it would be a good thing to meet this Sanchez in his home and find out all he could.
Still a little stunned, his original warm expansiveness withered and gone, he walked to Walsh’s desk, spoke softly.
“How long has she been staying with Sanchez?”
“Ever since Santo Tomas.” Walsh hesitated, eyes speculative as he saw the open incredulity in Rankin’s face.
“He’s taken care of her ever since he got her out six months before the liberation.”
Spence Rankin straightened slowly, hearing Lynn Kane call to him. Unable now to reason logically or even to think, he followed her and Howard from the room.
5
THE HOUSE WHERE PASCUAL SANCHEZ LIVED was a couple of miles beyond where the Kane house had stood and like it, fronted on Dewey Boulevard. It sat well back, protected in front by a high iron fence and at the sides by stone walls built somewhat wider at the bottom than at the top, like a medieval fortress.
The house itself looked old and was of one story, with a high, gently sloping roof and a wide porch that extended across the width of the living-room so that it became in fact a part of it. Howard Austin—Rankin got the name straight on the drive out—parked his car in front of the steps and as they went up a man rose from an upholstered wicker chair to greet them, a highball in one hand.
Dangerous Legacy Page 4