West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  Carlysle nodded. He looked towards the Chinese. He said sharply:

  “You are going with us—you will identify a man who is hurt.”

  The fear that was in the eyes of the Chinese seemed to grow. He mumbled something that Jo Gar failed to understand; his hands were moving about strangely. The Island detective said:

  “You think it is wise—”

  The expression in the American’s eyes checked him. He smiled slightly and bowed. Carlysle said slowly:

  “I’m taking charge of this case myself. In the past Juan Arragon did much good, and much harm, poor devil!”

  The Island detective said nothing. Carlysle spoke to Lieutenant Mallagin.

  “We will use my private car. There will be the driver and myself, and the Chinese. Yourself, of course—and pick two men in whom you have confidence.”

  Mallagin nodded and turned away. Jo Gar said in a quiet voice:

  “I should like to accompany you. Juan Arragon was my friend—” There was a touch of coldness in Carlysle’s voice.

  “I’m sorry—there will not be enough room. But I shall keep you informed—”

  The Island detective narrowed his almond-shaped eyes. He said softly:

  “I might replace one of the two men you told Lieutenant Mallagin to choose.”

  Carlysle said steadily: “It is a police matter—and you are not of the police. Go ahead, Lieutenant—get your men.”

  Jo Gar bowed slightly. He said in a faintly amused voice:

  “I would choose one who can make notes of what your injured man may say.”

  Carlysle frowned. “Of course,” he said in a hard tone. “That is understood.”

  Mallagin looked stupidly at Carlysle. Jo Gar watched the Chinese with eyes that were almost closed. Carlysle glanced at the Island detective as he moved towards the door of the room. He said:

  “I’m sorry, Gar—but this is a police case.”

  Jo smiled a little. “I am sure it is being handled very well,” he said in a peculiar tone, and went through the doorway.

  The black closed car of Carlysle pulled away from the police station, cut across the Escolta and headed towards the Pasig.

  After a time they were close to the river on a street running to the Spanish bridge.

  A half block behind, Jo Gar sat in a machine he had hired from Cormanda. His small body was not relaxed; in his right hand he gripped a Colt. Abruptly Cormanda jerked his head and said in a rising voice:

  “Jo—they’re slowing down—”

  The Island detective leaned forward, caught a glimpse of two red lights, across the road. He said in a swift voice:

  “They were not repairing—at dusk—”

  The Carlysle machine had almost reached the two lights. It halted.

  Jo Gar said:

  “Stop, Cormanda—”

  The small, open car stopped. The chauffeur of the car ahead got to the street and looked back at the car in which Cormanda and Jo Gar sat. He gestured towards the two red lights. Jo Gar spoke softly to his own driver:

  “Get down—Cormanda—it is not good—”

  The first machine-gun started a staccato clatter from an alley on the right. Almost instantly there was the drum of a second one—from a shuttered window on the left. Metal started to make sound. The chauffeur ran a few feet and sprawled to the street. At that moment, the Chinese sprang from the car, doubled over and ran to a door nearest the car. He disappeared. The other occupants of the car were crouched, out of sight, below the metal sides.

  Jo Gar slipped out the right side of the small car and bent his body forward. He ran back over the street, keeping his short arms close to his sides and his head low. Suddenly he turned and moved down a second alley. One machine-gun had stopped drumming, but the other was still beating sound against the quiet of the night.

  In the darkness of the alley Jo Gar paused for a second. He breathed heavily as he got his head slightly exposed and looked towards the Carlysle machine:

  “The Chinese—was lying—”

  A door shot open—the figure of the Chinese was pitched into the alley. Almost instantly it jerked, half spun. Then the man dropped to the pavement. The second machine-gun started to clatter again.

  Jo Gar muttered: “And yet—they murdered him!”

  Cormanda was reversing the small car now. It whined back from the red lights and the drum of bullets. Jo Gar swung back into the alley, moved rapidly along it. At the far end he saw the Pasig water and the silhouette of a sampan.

  The machine-gun fire died. No sound but the whine of the reversing car came from the street behind the Island detective. He thought: They got the diamonds, but they were forced to kill. Ramon Delgado, Mattlien—Juan Arragon. And now the Chinese, perhaps others. Why do they trap and kill? Is it because they must leave the Islands? He thought: It is because they are clever and must clear the way.

  He reached the row of sampans, moored abreast. There was a narrow path between piled, rotted planks and empty fish baskets. It led towards the next alley. Jo Gar gripped his Colt firmly and moved along it. At intervals he stopped and listened. The street he had left was very quiet. Only the river sounds reached his ears.

  He had almost reached the next alley when he saw faint shadow.

  It was directly ahead—moving slowly.

  A machine made sound in the distance; the engine getting into a roar—and dying gradually. A voice reached the ears of the Island detective; it sounded much like Carlysle’s, raised hoarsely.

  And then the shadow ahead of him became a figure. Jo Gar lifted his automatic and said very quietly:

  “Raise your arms!”

  The figure swung towards him—he caught a glimpse, in the wavering, reflected light from a sampan, of a brown, lean face and wide, staring eyes. The man drew his breath in sharply—his hands swung upward. But the left one went up first, and the right brushed the belt of his soiled duck trousers as it moved.

  Jo Gar said sharply: “No!”

  The reflected light caught the gleam of the blade. Jo Gar steadied the muzzle of his automatic and squeezed the trigger. He rocked back on his heels, curved his body to one side. The other man’s right wrist made swift movement, even as his body jerked convulsively. The knife dug its blade point into the wood of a basket within six inches of Jo’s left arm.

  The man sank to his knees and pressed both hands against his belt, at the stomach. He groaned. Jo Gar stepped out from the piled baskets and jerked a small flashlight from his pocket. For a second he stood close to the man who had fallen, and listened for sound from the alley ahead. There was none. But in the distance voices were calling.

  He flashed the beam on the one hunched near his feet, widened his almond-shaped eyes. Then he moved the beam to the knife that had been thrown. He breathed very slowly:

  “Malay—”

  He kneeled beside the groaning man, held the gun close to him.

  He said quietly, in the Malay tongue: “Why was the Chinese murdered?”

  The man widened his eyes and shook his head. Jo Gar smiled coldly and pressed the muzzle against the man’s right side.

  “If I shoot again—you will die,” he said. “You were with others—what were their names?”

  The Malay shook his head. He was muttering to himself. Jo Gar said:

  “The Chinese told the police that a man named Cantine committed the great robbery and murder. He was lying—and yet he was murdered. Why?”

  The Malay was getting his breath with difficulty now. There were footfalls in the alley from which he had come. Jo Gar lifted his head, and heard the voice of Lieutenant Mallagin, cautioning one of his men. The Island detective spoke softly:

  “Quickly—the police come. I am not of them. Why was the Chinese killed?”

  The eyes of the man hunched beside him were staring. He said weakly, in his own tongue:

  “His family—was given money. He was to lie—and then to die. He was—very poor.”

  Jo Gar straightened a little and sighed
. Then he lowered his head again.

  “Who made—the arrangement?” he asked quietly.

  The Malay shook his head. His body relaxed a little; he rolled over on his back. He said very weakly:

  “It was—the one who walks badly—always in white—”

  His lips closed; he shivered—cried out a little. There was a convulsive movement of his body, then it was still. From the alley Mallagin called:

  “Who—is that?”

  Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and rose. He was thinking: The one who walks badly—always in white. But he said in a steady voice:

  “It is Señor Gar—I have shot one of them.”

  He heard the surprised exclamation from Lieutenant Mallagin. The Filipino came in close, stared down at the dead man. Carlysle, breathing heavily, was behind the lieutenant.

  “The Chinese is dead—the chauffeur is dead,” he said. “One of my men is wounded. Mallagin and I escaped. You followed us?”

  Jo Gar nodded. He said quietly: “This one tried to knife me—I was forced to shoot. He did not die instantly.”

  Carlysle’s eyes widened. He said eagerly: “He talked?”

  Jo nodded. His voice was almost toneless. “Cantine did not commit the robbery or murders,” he said. “The Chinese was paid to lie to you—and then to die.”

  Carlysle stared at Jo. “The driver—paid to lie and then—”

  Jo Gar shook his head. “He was not the driver,” he said slowly. “I spoke to him about machines—he knew very little. I was suspicious, and followed when you got word that one of Cantine’s men had been hurt.”

  Carlysle breathed heavily. “You think it was a plan—to throw us off—” Jo Gar smiled a little. He glanced down at the dead man.

  “If this man had not talked—you would have been after Cantine and his men”—he said quietly, “a wrong scent.”

  Carlysle nodded his head very slowly. “He said nothing about who—”

  Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “I have told you what he said,” he replied, and closed his eyes.

  When he opened them, Carlysle was looking down at the dead man and frowning.

  “We shall have to watch the boats,” he said grimly. “They have the diamonds—and they have killed many men.” He looked narrowly at the Island detective. “They got away with their machine-guns—all but this man,” he said. “You will help us, Señor Gar?”

  Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips. His colorless eyes seemed to be looking beyond the American head of police. He shook his head very slowly.

  “No,” he said. “It is—a police matter.”

  Carlysle stiffened. “Juan Arragon was your friend,” he reminded.

  Jo Gar stopped smiling. “It is so,” he agreed. “But I will not help you, Señor Carlysle.”

  The American turned away, muttering something that the Island detective did not hear. Lieutenant Mallagin moved after his chief. Jo Gar looked down at the figure of the Malay and breathed very softly:

  “ ‘The one who walks badly—always in white.’ ”

  He sighed, and his eyes half closed. He glanced towards the knife handle, protruding from the basket wood. River odors were in his nostrils—a pony whinnied in the distance. Jo Gar said very slowly, in a half whisper:

  “For Juan Arragon—I will help—myself.”

  The Man in White

  An adventure of Jo Gar, the little Island detective, in search of murderers and their loot.

  The Cheyo Maru took red color from the setting sun; her boat deck was soaked in it. The sea was calm; even the white wings of the gulls that rose and dipped astern were tinted red. Manila and the Island of Cavite were no longer to be seen astern. There were few people in the deck chairs; the first dinner gong had already sounded. Jo Gar relaxed his short body, kept his almond-shaped eyes almost closed. Now and then he lifted his brown-paper cigarette, inhaled. It was almost as though he slept between puffs, but that was not so.

  When the Japanese steward came rapidly towards his chair, the Island detective lifted his head slightly. The steward had been well tipped, and had been asked only a simple task. He reached Jo Gar’s chair now, bowed jerkily.

  “He has left his cabin,” he said. “The man in white—the one who limps. He is coming.”

  He spoke in his native tongue, which was the tongue in which Jo had spoken to him. When the Island detective jerked his head in a gesture of dismissal, the steward moved towards the stern of the liner and vanished from sight. Jo turned his head a little and watched the man in white approach. He was of medium size; dressed in duck. He had a lean face, and it was as though the sun had not touched it. It was almost the color of the spotless suit he wore. He moved slowly, as Jo had seen him move at the dock, several hours before the boat had sailed. There was a very slight limp; it appeared that he stepped lightly when weight was on his left leg.

  The man’s face was turned away from him as he approached the spot opposite Jo’s chair. But as he neared it he took his eyes from the water, looked at Jo in a swift, searching glance. The man in white had blue eyes; they were small and expressionless. His lips were thin, and without much color.

  He stopped suddenly, his eyes still on Jo. He said, a slow smile on his face:

  “Señor Gar, isn’t it?”

  Jo sat up and nodded. He even managed a little smile. He was very surprised, and tried not to let the other man know this.

  The one in white nodded his head and seemed very pleased. His voice was soft, almost careless.

  “Leaving the Islands?” he asked.

  Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. “I have relatives in Honolulu,” he said. “Leaving the Islands—for more islands.”

  The one in white chuckled a little. He said in an easy tone:

  “I am Ferraro. For a time I was connected with the Constabulary.

  I have heard of you.”

  Jo Gar bowed. Ferraro’s English was good though not perfect. There was a clipping of words, a cutting short, despite his leisurely manner of talking.

  Ferraro said: “You leave at a bad time. A terrible crime—Delgado’s son, that watchman at the bank. And Juan Arragon. All dead.”

  He shook his head. Jo Gar said: “You were acquainted with Señor Arragon?”

  Ferraro frowned. “No,” he said. “But I had heard of him.”

  Jo Gar relaxed again, inhaled. The one in white looked at the sea, shrugging.

  “The murderers will be caught, of course. And the Von Loffler diamonds found. It is almost always so.”

  Jo Gar closed his eyes and nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “It is so—almost always.”

  Ferraro looked at him again. “There are few passengers aboard, who came on at Manila. But perhaps you do not care to be addressed as Señor Gar?”

  Jo widened his gray-blue eyes. “Why should I object?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

  The one in white said: “Well, there has been this robbery—these murders. Only two days ago. There was a thorough search at the dock. I was asked many questions, myself. It seemed amusing.”

  Jo Gar said: “And you were formerly with the Constabulary?”

  They both smiled; then Jo Gar said: “No, there is no secrecy. I am not of the police—I rather dislike the American who heads the force.”

  Ferraro said: “But Juan Arragon—he was one of your countrymen—a good friend—”

  He paused, shrugged narrow shoulders. “At least, so I have heard,” he said. “Having been in the Constabulary—”

  Jo Gar nodded. “It is not so,” he said quietly. “Juan Arragon was of the Manila police. He was always fighting me.”

  Ferraro said: “Oh, so that was it, Señor?”

  The Island detective nodded very slowly. The man in white looked towards the water; then his eyes came back to Jo’s again.

  “I am dining alone,” he said. “Will you join me?”

  Jo thanked him and declined. “I do not think I shall dine tonight,” he said. “My stomach pains me.”

  Ferraro expressed regret. He
spoke a few words more and moved aft. His limp was barely noticeable, but it existed. Jo Gar reclined in his chair and remembered several things. Diamonds worth two hundred thousand dollars had been stolen from Delgado’s jewelry store, on the Escolta, in Manila. Delgado’s son had been murdered. A watchman had been murdered. And Juan Arragon had been murdered, after he had vanished in pursuit of one of the fleeing machines. His body had been returned to Jo Gar’s small office, with a forged note attached. And later in the night, while trailing a clue, the Island detective had been forced to shoot a Malay who had come at him with a knife. The Malay had talked. He had spoken of the leader of the diamond thieves as “the one who walks badly—always in white.”

  For Liam Delgado, whose son was dead—and Von Loffler, who wished to recover the ten diamonds, Jo Gar had left the Islands. He had left aboard the Cheyo Maru because another was leaving on the same boat—a man dressed in white, who limped when he moved.

  Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders. The sunset red was almost gone now. The Island detective thought:

  When a man is a thief and a murderer he does not seek out one who hunts down thieves and murderers. And yet this Ferraro has approached me, has invited me to dine.

  A little grimness came into the gray-blue eyes of the Island detective.

  “Sometimes such a man is very confident,” he half whispered. “And sometimes he has been of the police.” He nodded his head a little and ceased to smile. “And sometimes,” he murmured very softly, “a dying man lies.” The Island detective sighed. “It is very difficult,” he said softly. “Even my own thoughts contradict.”

  When Jo Gar turned his key in the lock of his cabin, stepped inside, he closed the door slowly behind him. He hummed a little Spanish tune, and his body was rigid. There were his two bags—and they were opened, the contents spilled about. The lock of his small trunk had been smashed; the tray lay crosswise. His clothes were scattered. The berth sheets had been ripped up—the cabin was almost a wreck.

  Jo stood with his back to the door, stopped humming. He lighted one of his cigarettes, moved about the cabin carefully, using his eyes. He touched nothing. After a few minutes he pressed a button and waited for the Japanese steward. When the man came he was breathing heavily, and his black, round eyes were wide. They grew wider as he surveyed the cabin. The Island detective made a little gesture with his brown hands.