The red flare of the flames lighted the dark-colored water. The sampan being shoved out in the river now—it was drifting away from the other craft. Flames streaked up from it—over almost the entire length. The bank was close to Jo now—he swam with his uninjured arm working—the other useless at his side. He was tiring rapidly.
Then feet from a low barge-like river boat, he saw the other figure. For a second he thought it was Juan—and then the man’s face was twisted towards him. His hands were half closed—the fingers were clutching at air. It was Santos Costios!
The short Filipino went under as Jo got his own body close to him. The Island detective gripped him as he came up—the Filipino was drowning. He tried to grip Jo’s throat, failed. The Island detective struck him heavily with his right fist. His own body went under. When he came up Costios was sinking—Jo saw two figures on the flat boat ahead. One man was stripped to the waist—a coolie. He tossed a rope.
Jo Gar got an arm around the sinking body of the Filipino. The rope struck him across the face. He moved his numbing left arm and wrapped it around his body. The flat boat was close now. Red flames danced before Jo’s eyes. He felt hands gripping him, muttered hoarsely:
“Take—the Filipino—first—”
Jo Gar was kneeling beside the form of Santos Costios—the coolies were bending over him. A lighted torch shone on the twisted face of the Filipino. The Island detective said slowly:
“The saints—will be kind—if you talk—before—”
He stopped, breathing heavily. The Filipino spoke in a barely audible, broken tone.
“I kill—the—caleso driver. I choke—with belt. I wait for—Palerdo—”
Jo Gar stared down at the twisted face of Costios. There was a puzzled expression in his gray eyes. He said grimly:
“Do not—lie! You are dying—”
Costios widened his dark eyes. He shook his head slowly from side to side.
“I tell—truth,” he breathed weakly.
“The Señora—she love Dutchman. She get Palerdo to—kill her husband. He learn—hate her. He escape—come to me. We go to house—he kill her with shawl—”
Jo Gar narrowed his gray eyes. “At her house—Palerdo murdered her!” he breathed.
Costios said hoarsely: “I help him—Palerdo my half brother. I take her to caleso—ride with her. Make driver go—to Bay. Make him upset—caleso. He run—I catch him—choke—”
He stopped. Jo Gar swore softly.
“It was Palerdo, after all!” he breathed. “But why did he tell me the Malay woman—”
Costios said very softly: “Palerdo—he knew she was dead—he think you believe—not catch me—”
The Island detective looked down at the Filipino. Costios said slowly:
“Palerdo—he no care—after he kill. He no go back to—Bilibid. The caleso driver—he with Señora Mantiro long time. He bad—he know of Dutchman. And he know of Palerdo. I kill—”
Jo Gar said quietly: “What happened—on the sampan?”
Costios closed his eyes. “Police—let me free. I go to coolie—want him to take me—up river. He say, no. We fight—he have powder for make ditch in high country. Lamp fall down—”
He stopped talking. Jo Gar smiled with his lips. There were voices beyond the coolies bending over him—he looked up to see Juan Arragon standing close to him. The Manilla police lieutenant spoke in a breathless tone:
“Powder—in that—sampan. It let loose. You got—Costios?” Jo Gar got to his feet. He looked down at the Filipino.
“He was bargaining for an escape,” he said slowly. “Quarreled with the coolie who owned the sampan. He thinks he’s going to die, but he isn’t.”
Juan Arragon stared at the Island detective. He looked down at Costios.
“The coolie’s dead,” he stated. “Badly burned. We were lucky to—” The Filipino was staring at Jo Gar and cursing in a stronger voice. He was accusing the Island detective of tricking him. He was not going to die, after all.
Jo Gar interrupted, sighing. “I should have said, you’re not going to die yet,” he corrected. “For the murder of the caleso driver—you will die, of course. You are pleased?”
Costios cursed in a weaker tone. Juan Arragon turned puzzled eyes towards Jo Gar.
“He murdered the driver?” he breathed. “But who—murdered—Señora Mantiro?”
Jo Gar smiled. He narrowed his eyes on those of the police lieutenant.
“Congratulations. Juan,” he said in an amused tone. “You see, you were correct. Palerdo murdered the Señora. In her home—before your men arrived. He had thoughts of escape, until I ran into him, and tried to throw the police off by having his half brother, Costios, drive with the body to the Bay. When he failed to knife me—he decided a return to prison was not worthwhile. Costios strangled the caleso driver when the poor devil ran.”
Juan Arragon frowned. Then he smiled a little. “I was certain it was Palerdo,” he said simply.
Jo Gar felt his injured arm and smiled with his lips.
“You did very well,” he said, “under all the circumstances. Several things happened—and in one of them you were right.”
Silence House
Jo Gar is called to a house of murder.
Jo Gar descended from the fourth car of the train, removed his pith helmet and drew deep breaths of the mountain air. It had been months since he had visited Baguio, the mountain resort of Manila.
He saw Major Crawford coming towards him; half closed his almond-shaped eyes on the figure of the American officer. The major tried to smile as he came close to the Island detective, but Jo saw that his eyes were shot with red, that he was not a well man. He bowed, and the major said:
“I’m very glad you came, Señor Gar. I’m on the ragged edge—”
He broke off abruptly, turned and looked about him. Two Chinese servants came up and blinked at Jo. The Island detective said slowly: “I’ve just the one piece of luggage, Major. I have not planned for much of a stay.”
The major’s lip corners jerked a little. He forced a smile, pointed to the piece of luggage at Jo’s side. One of the servants lifted it. The major said very softly:
“That sounds too good to be true, Señor Gar. Unless you mean that you can only be with us a few days, in any event.”
Jo Gar shook his head. The servants went ahead; he walked by the major’s side.
“Baguio is a small place,” Jo said. “You have the threatening notes. I felt that perhaps we could trace the guilty person rapidly—and I could return.”
The major breathed something that Jo failed to catch. They went from the railway station, got into a khaki-colored Army car, marked with a large U.S.—and the serial number. It was driven by an enlisted man—the servants rode in a small truck. Jo Gar and the major sat in the rear seat.
The machine rolled away from the station; the streets of Baguio were not crowded. Jo Gar relaxed and offered the major one of his brown-paper cigarettes. It was refused. The officer sat erect in the seat, his body tense. Jo lighted the cigarette with difficulty, leaned back and said:
“Your wife—she is in good health?”
The major smiled bitterly. “No,” he said. “She is not a fool. I try to pretend the notes are silly things, jokes. But last night—”
He stopped abruptly. The Island detective watched him with narrowed gray eyes. He said:
“Last night—an attempt on her life was made?”
The major nodded, his face grim. The car slid almost silently through streets faced by gardens; the houses were set back, half hidden. They were low, rambling houses, well screened.
The major sat back and spoke softly. His voice was steady and held little emotion. But he was very nervous.
“There have been three notes. The first came to us at the Post, in Manila, before I came up here on leave. It was dropped on the screened porch of our place. It was addressed in a child-like hand—the letters seemed almost labored. A yellowish piece of paper, folded. My wif
e’s name written outside—Mary. It read: ‘You have not kept the promise—and you must die.’ ”
Jo Gar frowned. “A bit dramatic,” he said slowly. “Who found the note?”
The major said: “I was with Mary at the time. She saw it on the grass mat of the porch—I picked it up, saw her name. I handed it to her. She opened it and read it.”
Jo Gar nodded his small head very slowly. The major was frowning, his brown eyes were on Jo’s almost colorless ones.
“What was her reaction?” the Island detective asked.
Major Crawford shrugged his broad shoulders. He was a man of almost fifty, well built, with a square-cut face.
“She laughed,” he said. “She thought it was one of the Post children’s jokes. We forgot it very soon. But I did mention it to you, that day we met at the Manila Hotel.”
Jo Gar nodded. He had known the major slightly, for some six months. The man had always seemed to him a typical American Army officer.
“And the second note?” he said quietly. “How long after the first was it—”
“Exactly seven days,” the officer cut in. “The servants were packing us up for the trip here. Mary went with them into another room. The packing was being done in a spare room with a porch that opened at the side of the house. When she returned to the room she found the second note. It was addressed in the same way—the writing appeared identical. It read: ‘There is still time. Or do you prefer death?’ ”
Gar nodded. “No signature?” he asked.
The major shook his head. “Not on one of the three,” he said. “The second note my wife treated in the same manner as the first, though she was worried, I could see that. And it was growing very hot. We left for this place two days later. We’ve been here ten days today. After we’d been here five days, or seven from the time we found the second note—the third was in the house to which we are now going.”
Jo Gar pulled on his brown-paper cigarette and watched the car turn from a street near the end of town, into a dirt, country road. Mountain slopes were ahead and to the left. The air was almost cold; it was growing dark.
“I found it,” the major said slowly, “on my wife’s writing desk. She was out riding horseback—but she had written letters only a half hour before. It was addressed as the other two had been—in the same handwriting. It read: ‘There will be no more warnings—this is the last. You have promised.’ ”
The Army machine was climbing a slight grade. Jo Gar said: “You showed it to Mrs. Crawford?”
The major frowned. “Yes,” he said. “But not until the next morning. I was afraid it might frighten her—we’ve only been in the Islands six months—the first hot season has been very difficult. Her nerves have been in bad shape—and I hesitated. But then—”
He checked himself. Jo Gar waited and then spoke quietly:
“But then you felt that perhaps there might have been some promise—and you wanted her to know—”
He saw Major Crawford’s body grow rigid—anger showed in the officer’s eyes. The Island detective made a slow gesture with his small hands.
“It is difficult for me to be of any value—unless you are honest with me, Major.”
The major’s clenched hands relaxed. He said apologetically:
“I’m on edge, Señor Gar, as I told you. Yes, you are right. I wanted her to be protected, if there was any promise. A foolish promise, perhaps.”
Jo Gar nodded. “Yes,” he said tonelessly. “A foolish promise. What did she say to the third note?”
Major Crawford looked beyond Jo, towards the dry bed of a river near which the car was moving. He said steadily:
“She was frightened. She felt that one of the servants had taken a dislike to trying to frighten her. She knew of no promise. It was a ridiculous thing. But she was worried. At the Post, after the second note, I had a guard near the house, the quarters. Here I can’t do that. A friend, Lieutenant Avery, is the house now. It’s a little distance from town, you see.”
Jo Gar smiled. “The country up here is lovely,” he said. “And last night—”
Major Crawford spoke grimly. His brown eyes were almost closed. “I have asked her not to go outside the house without me, or Lieutenant Avery along. She went for a little walk in the garden—alone. I was questioning the servants, without letting them know about the notes. I’ve felt they shouldn’t know—they are easily frightened. There was a scream. Ben—that’s Lieutenant Avery—was upstairs cleaning up. We both reached the garden at the same time. Mary was lying in a path, unconscious. There was a bruise on her left temple—a knife lay a few feet from her. It had been thrown, had apparently turned in the air—the hilt, made of hardwood, had struck her forehead.”
Jo Gar turned expressionless eyes towards the car driver’s head. He said softly:
“So the notes were not jokes, you see.”
Major Crawford swore bitterly. “Lieutenant Avery carried her into the house. I got my Service Colt—and went all over the garden, and the house. There are only two servants—and I was questioning them when Mary screamed. A cook and a house-boy. You saw them—I brought them both with me.”
The Army car was gliding down a steep grade now. It turned abruptly to the right, started to climb again, in low gear. Thick, tropical foliage rimmed the narrow road. There was the dank, heavy odor of the jungle growth. It was cold. Jo Gar shivered a little.
“We’re climbing to the house now,” the major said. “It’s a bit isolated—but lovely. That is, it would be lovely if—”
He broke off. Jo Gar leaned back in the machine seat and half closed his eyes. His lean, brown face was turned towards the face of the Army officer.
“When your wife regained consciousness, what did she have to say?” he asked above the hum of the car engine.
The major shook his head. “Very little,” he replied. “She was bending over some flowers—there was a sound behind her, in the foliage. She straightened, turned. The knife struck her. She saw nothing, before losing consciousness.”
Jo frowned. “And you were talking with the two servants—and Lieutenant Avery was upstairs,” he murmured slowly.
Major Crawford nodded. The house was suddenly in sight—the road widened and became level. The driver pulled the machine to the left, stopped before a few steps of wood. There was a heavily screened porch. Major Crawford said bitterly:
“Welcome to Silence House, Señor. It was not named by me, but by the owner.”
Jo Gar rose in the rear of the car. He widened his eyes a little.
“Silence House,” he repeated softly. “I suppose it is quiet up here.”
The major shrugged broad shoulders. “Almost too quiet,” he said grimly. “Hello—there’s Avery now. Sleeping—”
Jo Gar stepped down from the car, mounted the steps, went through the door of the porch that the major held open. He saw the figure of the lieutenant, seated in a small, fan-backed chair. The officer was in mufti—he was slumped low, his head hanging forward, chin against his chest. The major stopped a few feet from him.
“Ben”—he said sharply—”I asked you to stay near—”
His words died. His eyes were wide on the right hand of the lieutenant. It hung over the side of the wicker chair—the fingers were slightly spread. There was a limpness about the hand—
Jo Gar moved swiftly to the slumped figure. He reached down, touched the right wrist. His body stiffened a little. His small fingers closed over the blond hair of the lieutenant. Slowly he raised the head. Major Crawford said hoarsely:
“God—he’s dead!”
The Island detective looked at the half-opened eyes, then at the hilt of the knife. There was a thin, red stain below the hilt, on the white shirt of the officer. Jo Gar lowered the head again, released his grip on the lieutenant’s chair. The major said in a weak voice:
“That’s the—same knife—that was thrown at—”
He sucked in his breath sharply, and Jo knew what he was thinking about. The Island detective did
not move as the major went past him, into the house. He heard Crawford calling hoarsely: “Mary—Mary!” But still he did not move. The enlisted man who had driven the car was staring through the screening of the porch. He said shakily:
“Lieutenant Avery—is dead, sir?”
Jo Gar fumbled for another of his brown-paper cigarettes. When he found it he nodded his head. He lighted the cigarette.
“Quite,” he said softly, and went slowly into the house.
Captain Ramlin of the Constabulary stared down at the knife. Major Crawford sat in the chair beyond the table, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing. Jo Gar said slowly:
“The major is positive it is the same knife that was thrown at his wife.”
The Constabulary captain was a short man, stockily built. He nodded. Light from the table lamp was faint.
“The attempt failed. The murderer or murderers came into the house to try again. The lieutenant defended Mrs. Crawford. He was murdered, carried to the porch. Mrs. Crawford was—”
The captain stopped, looked narrowly at the major. He said calmly:
“Mrs. Crawford perhaps is being held a prisoner. If we can pick up the trail—”
He broke off again. Major Crawford said in a flat, dead tone: “She’s dead. They’ve killed her—somewhere in the mountains. I shouldn’t have left her—”
The Island detective shook his head. “Why did they not kill her in the house?” he asked. “It would have been simpler, safer. There was no one here, with Avery dead. It is difficult to carry a woman, dead or alive, and not leave traces. And why was Avery stabbed to death with the same knife thrown at Mrs. Crawford?
Major Crawford said in the same flat voice:
“I had the knife in the second drawer of my writing desk. The drawer was not locked. Only Avery saw me place it there.”
The Constabulary captain drew in a sharp breath. He nodded his head briskly.
“Lieutenant Avery was not in his uniform. He was not armed. When the house was entered—he got the knife from the drawer. But it was taken away from him. It happened that way.”
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