Dangerous Legacy

by George Harmon Coxe

  “I’ve got to have someone to talk to,” he said. “I’ve got some local whisky and we can have a couple of drinks. I’m half nuts,” he said. “Would you mind awfully?”

  Rankin was beyond caring where he slept. He said so. He said maybe it was a good idea, and with no feeling for humor but wanting to get the big man’s mind on some other subject, he said, “You don’t snore, do you? Because if you do I’ll walk out on you.”

  To his surprise Austin was diverted. He paused and then in all seriousness he said, “No, I don’t think so, Spence.” He gave the matter further consideration and said he was pretty sure he didn’t snore.

  Howard Austin had a room with a private family in the Malate district. It was large and comfortably furnished, and had its own entrance and an adjoining shower. It was not, Austin said, like having an apartment, but in Manila a guy was lucky to have a clean place and a bath.

  “For a long time there wasn’t any water to speak of,” he said. “What a town.”

  He got some water and glasses and took a beer bottle from a drawer. The bottle had a cork in it, covered with wax, and he chipped this away, explaining that bottles were still short in the city and that this was the way the local distilleries had been selling their gins and whiskies.

  “Twelve ounces—almost,” he said, pouring two drinks. “For five pesos.”

  Rankin said he was getting used to the stuff, which was true. He said he didn’t mind it at all, though it didn’t do too much for you. He took off his coat and loosened his shoes and when they’d had a couple of quick ones Austin began to talk about Lynn again, emptying his pockets as he did so.

  He dumped bills, change, keys, and a knife from his trousers before he hung them up; he took a handful of papers from his coat—a couple of letters that had come to the office, bills, two envelopes with glassine openings from the bank, a postcard. When he sat on one of the beds and began to unlace his shoes his melancholia came back and he started in cursing the city and the police department.

  Rankin listened without interest. He did not even want another drink and said so. He had never felt lower and the headache was back and he wished Austin would go to bed and turn the lights out but he knew this would not happen until the big man finished the bottle, which he did presently, standing in his shorts.

  “A thing like this couldn’t happen in New York or San Francisco,” he said, his voice edged with rancor.

  “Why?”

  Austin glared at him, his gray-blue eyes funny-looking without the glasses. He pointed the bottle at Rankin. “Because it’s civilized there. They’ve got phones and taxis and a police department you can go to and—”

  Rankin cut him off. “Even there you couldn’t make a complaint on what we know. We’d have no right to report her as missing. Maybe she’s just out or staying with a friend.”

  He said a little more along the same line but he didn’t believe any of it. He thought the same thing Austin did and was discouraged to the point of sickness. He finally got into bed and turned his back on the big man. He told him to turn off the light and go to sleep; he said they could see Sanchez in the morning.

  Pascual Sanchez was breakfasting on the porch in pajamas and sandals when Rankin arrived with Howard Austin at nine o’clock the next morning. Sanchez did not get up but greeted them with his droop-lidded grin and it was hard to know what to say.

  They had, Rankin realized, no right to trespass or get tough and you couldn’t go up to a man like this and say where the hell were you last night. But Austin came as close to it as he could and Sanchez heard him out, nothing changing in his face.

  “I was out with some business friends,” he said, crunching a piece of toast. “Lynn is in the country, at least that’s what she told me before she left.”

  “Where in the country?” Austin demanded.

  “She didn’t say. With some girl friend.” Sanchez sipped coffee, wiped his thin lips daintily. “I believe she did mention the girl’s name but I can’t recall it now. I’m sorry.”

  “Yes, you are,” Austin said.

  He moved up to the table and continued profanely in a voice that shook. He held his hands at his sides with an obvious effort and Sanchez kept on eating, the color deepening in his thick face, but not looking up. Finally he pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Rankin moved up to Austin, afraid of what he might do, and Sanchez looked them over, a head shorter than Austin but unafraid.

  “I’m afraid you’re upset, Howard,” he said quietly. “You should learn to control yourself.” He stuck his chin out an inch. “I might remind you that I don’t have to take this sort of abuse, but if I felt the way you do about Lynn’s absence I should probably report her to the police as missing. Now, if you’ll excuse.”

  He nodded to Rankin. He turned and left them standing there and Rankin grabbed Austin’s arm and held on.

  “Let’s go see the sergeant,” he said. “I guess it’s time we did report it.”

  In his little cubbyhole at Bilibid, Sergeant Esteban listened sympathetically to Austin’s story, his broad face grave and his eyes attentive.

  “Yes,” he said. “Pascual Sanchez could easily do such a thing. What I do not understand is why he should want to make this girl disappear. You saw her yesterday afternoon,” he said to Rankin. “You talked about Sanchez?”

  Rankin nodded, knowing what he wanted to say. He could not go into the matter of John Kane and the ring he had shown Lynn, but he saw there was no need for this.

  “I told her I could prove Sanchez’s claim on the mine was a phony. It was the first time I’d been able to make any impression on her and before I got through I’m pretty sure I convinced her.”

  “Then that’s it.” Austin slammed his fist on the desk. “Don’t you see? She’s been loyal to the guy all along; she wouldn’t even listen when you tried to tell her what a rat he was. Now all of a sudden Spence convinces her so what does she do? She goes direct to Sanchez—because she’s that kind of a girl.”

  He hesitated to see if they were following his reasoning. “Sanchez has been sort of an idol and when she finds out how he’s kidded her along she’s furious. She’d never dream he’d harm her and if she did it wouldn’t stop her. Not Lynn. She’s stubborn and she’s got a mind of her own, and she’s just the kind who would shoot off her mouth and never think of being scared. She went to bat with Sanchez and somehow she talked too much and he saw the spot he was in and had to do something about it. I’m telling you, it’s got to be that way.”

  Rankin heard Esteban evaluating the things Austin had said but his mind was busy with his thoughts. They were not pleasant thoughts, for he was judging himself now and finding very little he approved of. Mostly the pattern was one of regrets and shortcomings and wasted opportunities, and more often than not the trouble was discouragingly consistent. All his life he had attacked his problems in the easiest way, which for him was directly and without imagination. Seldom did he consider costs but wound up swinging both fists, and though this method sometimes worked admirably and had done so the other morning in Sanchez’s office, it was no good now.

  He could not go back to Sanchez and beat his brains out and hope by force to find out where Lynn was. It gave him a whipped and hopeless feeling to admit his helplessness, and he slumped in his chair, his rugged face grim as he tried to think of some other way to strike back. It was not easy to accept new concepts, but with the voices of the others unheard in his ears it came to him finally that there was no other way but to work with his brains this time instead of his fists.

  It irritated him that this should be so and that there was no alternative, but gradually a little of the bitterness and frustration gave way to logic. He assayed Sanchez, his probable plan, and his reason for wanting Lynn out of the way. He began to scheme, searching for weak points in the other’s tactics. Presently he realized that he, himself, must have some importance in any plan of Sanchez’s. He had started things and he was still a threat.

  “Look,” he
said abruptly. “What if Sanchez tried to grab me?”

  Esteban left his sentence unfinished. He inspected Rankin thoughtfully but without surprise. Austin stared.

  “Why,” he asked, “should he want to grab you?”

  “Never mind why.” Rankin sat up, excited. “Take my word for it that I can make him want to grab me. Where’s that little guy, Silvestre, that’s been following me?” he said to Esteban.

  The sergeant rose and left the room, returning a minute later with Silvestre. Silvestre saluted the room with a grin and removed his wide-brimmed hat. He wore the same khaki suit and it still looked neat.

  “Hi,” Rankin said. “I meant to tell you yesterday that I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t know you were a cop.” He let his mouth grin. “You nearly broke my neck.”

  “You hit good too.” Silvestre grinned back. “Hard.”

  “He followed me for a week,” Rankin said to Esteban. “Could he do it again?”

  Esteban glanced at Silvestre and let him answer. “With luck,” Silvestre said.

  “Okay.” Rankin spread his hands. “Sanchez grabs me and Silvestre finds out where we go and gets help and you move in.”

  Esteban said, “Hmm.” He massaged his broad nose. “You will threaten Sanchez and he will have you picked up. Has it occurred to you that he might think it more simple to have you shot in the back from some doorway?”

  “Certainly it’s occurred to me.”

  Rankin silently reviewed his plan. He did not want to go into detail about John Kane but he was confident that he would be worth more to Sanchez alive than dead. He thought about the ring, wondering guiltily if Lynn had told Sanchez about it, thereby precipitating her disappearance. In any case John Kane was now the crux of the whole thing. Kane could ruin Sanchez’s hope of ever getting the mine. Sanchez had been looking for John Kane and he still wanted him. At the moment he, Rankin, was the only contact and Sanchez would be silly to have him killed.

  “Sure,” he said. “But he won’t, not the way I’m going to play it. Did you find out about the gun?” he said, digressing as though considering the other matter closed.

  “It is the same that killed Ulio,” Esteban said. “And still missing.”

  “Charlie Love?”

  “No news.”

  “Okay.” Rankin stood up. “I’m going to see Sanchez.”

  “You’re taking an awful chance,” Austin said, “sticking out your neck like that.”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice,” Rankin said. “How else are we going to find Lynn? Just make sure,” he said to Esteban, “that you know where I go.”

  “I’ll follow you myself,” Austin said, but Esteban vetoed the suggestion immediately.

  “You have not the skill or practice. There are many here besides Silvestre. I will handle it. You can use the bakery truck,” he said to Silvestre. “We will discuss it presently.”

  “The only thing is,” Rankin said, “don’t be in too much of a hurry.”

  Esteban frowned. “In what way?”

  “If this thing works and you find out where I’m taken, don’t bust in until you’ve looked around. Maybe they’ll take me where Lynn is and maybe they won’t.” He paused, not doubting any longer that his scheme would work, and said, “Take your time. Give me a chance to find out what the score is. You’ll have to use your own judgment but don’t rush things.”

  Esteban looked worried. He gave a slanting glance to Austin and Rankin and shrugged. “I don’t like it,” he said, “but I will do what I can.”

  “I’ll stick with Esteban,” Austin said. He was still upset and jittery. He wanted to shake hands. “Take care, fella,” he said. “We’ll do our part, believe me.”

  Rankin winked at him. He grinned at Silvestre. “You’re the guy I’m counting on,” he said. He said he was going back to his room and when things were set to let him know and he’d go see Mr. Sanchez.

  19

  WHEN SPENCE RANKIN went to the Sanchez house at two o’clock that afternoon, he found his man in the study and wasted no time on preliminaries. He said there was no point in kidding around and he had come to put his cards on the table.

  “You know where Lynn is,” he said, “and you probably know that John Kane is around. I’m giving you until six o’clock to get Lynn back here.”

  Sanchez tongued the inside of his mouth. He let his lids droop a little more when he smiled. “And if she’s not back?” he said.

  “I go to the Provost Marshal. I can’t pin murder on you—yet, but I’ve got enough evidence to make a fair case. I can prove once and for all you don’t own that mine and I can produce John Kane whenever I like.”

  He said more, lying when he had to and making certain threats that he knew he could not enforce. But he knew too that Sanchez had no way of telling how much he said was true and he spoke with sardonic confidence, his voice direct and hard.

  “Think it over,” he said finally.

  “I will.” Sanchez watched him step to the door and his low, hoarse voice was strangely quiet. “If you don’t hear from me I’ll see you at six.”

  Rankin went out to Charlie Love’s car and drove slowly back to town, not knowing whether he had made the proper impression or not. He reviewed the things he had said and tried to remember how Sanchez reacted and how he had looked. It added very little to his original hopes and when he realized that there was nothing he could do but wait he went in to see Jerry Walsh.

  He spent a half hour sitting at Lynn’s desk and talking things over with Walsh and then went to his room, half expecting to find someone waiting for him and knowing disappointment when nothing happened. After a while he went down to the café and no one seemed to pay him any attention so he got a beer and went over to one of the tables.

  It was pretty hard to sit there with nothing to do but think and he went absently through his pockets, looking for nothing in particular but finding among other things the two notes Marie Dizon had left for him. He read them both and reread them, the old irony and bitterness suffusing his thoughts when he recalled this girl and what she had done and how they had felt about Ulio Kane.

  He retraced in fancy her probable movements that afternoon she had been killed and as he went over the first note again he found certain words that stood out above the rest. I think I’ll stop by the Kane place first, she had written. He had accepted this to mean that she would look for him there before going home, and knowing he was late, he had driven directly to her house to find her gone again.

  Now, in some alchemy of the subconscious, he saw there might have been another reason why Marie should have gone to the garage. If she had been carrying something she was afraid of, if she wanted to be sure that this something was securely hidden.

  Spence Rankin stood up and went out fast, Sanchez and his present plan forgotten. He did not bother to look about or consider the moment but got into the sedan and drove rapidly across the Pasig and down Dewey to the Kane house, swinging the car past the gutted walls and parking near the garage.

  He got out, leaving the door open, and walked through the open doorway, blinking away the half-blindness that came after the brightness outside and going directly to the little room with the hiding-place in the floor.

  In less than a minute he had the metal box out and open. He found the usual papers there and something else that had not been there before, two folded sheets stiffer than the rest and newer-feeling. He could not identify them in the semidarkness so he stepped toward the window, seeing now the penciled scrawl on the clean, outside fold.

  There was something familiar about the size and shape of the sheets and the perforated edge along one side but he could not identify them in that moment and did not try. Instead he concentrated on the writing, recognizing it as Marie’s and knowing what she had done. For the words read:

  I’ll tell you about these when I see you. Until then this is the safest place for them.

  It was just as well he was close to the window; otherwise he might have
been caught with the box in his hand. As it was he heard the faint cracking sound outside and turned quickly, not bothering to examine the papers. Uncertain as to what came next but knowing the sound might have been made by someone stepping on a bit of rubble near the house, he stooped and replaced the box. He slid the bricks in place and stepped into the hall.

  When he moved through the dimness into the garage part of the building he was sure about the sound and grateful for the instinct that had made him heed it. For directly in front of him, fanned out and no more than three paces ahead, four men moved toward him.

  They saw him the same instant he became aware of them, and they moved at once, rushing in as one said, “Agad!” Then they were on him and he was swinging both hands.

  The next minute was one of confusion for Rankin. The light from the wide doorway was in his eyes and he could distinguish neither faces nor features. But he felt a curious atavistic happiness in that minute and the shock in his fists and shoulders was nice to feel as his blows slammed in.

  He saw one man go down and lie still. He was vaguely aware that a second went down and got up, and his eyes were adjusted to the gloom now as he tried to throw off the arms that grabbed him from behind. Spinning suddenly and ducking low, he tossed the weight on his back over his shoulder, finding now only one man between him and the door.

  He could have run for it then. Or he could have stayed and cleaned up properly now that the odds were more even. He might have done so had not two things happened. As simultaneously as a man might see two things at once, he noticed the gun in the hand of the man who was rising, a gun not held in the manner for shooting, but reversed so that it might be used to club with. He also saw by some magic of vision, the length of the driveway and the small truck that was at that moment passing slowly on the street.

  Scared now, a little sick at his stupidity, he stopped and backed to the wall, hands at his sides and breathing hard. The truck was gone now but he had seen the word Bakery on its side and remembered Silvestre. That he had not already been shot told him the quartet had been ordered to take him alive, that this thing he had hoped for and nearly spoiled had happened.