Raaker’s body swayed a little. The wind made noise in the trees beyond the house, and he stiffened. Jo Gar said in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper:
“If you had had even the courage of a certain type of criminal—and had gone to the Islands yourself, you might have had the diamonds now. If you had not used others—”
Raaker said fiercely: “Damn the diamonds—I’ve got you! They brought you here—”
Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. “And they’ve brought the San Francisco police here,” he said steadily. “They’ve brought tear gas and sub-machine-guns—and they’re bringing death here, Raaker.” Raaker’s eyes held rage again. He was losing control of himself.
He made a swift motion with his left hand, shaking fingers pointing towards the four stones on the table.
“Look at them—damn you!” he gritted. “Look at the four you couldn’t—reach! Look at them—”
Jo Gar looked into the eyes of Raaker. He shook his head.
“I’ve seen the others,” he stated quietly. “I’ve seen many diamonds, Raaker.”
Raaker laughed wildly. He backed towards a wall of the room. “You’ll never see diamonds again,” he said in a fierce tone. “Never,
Gar!”
He raised his gun arm slowly. From the cab outside there came the sharp sound of a horn, silence—and then another blast.
Jo Gar never took his eyes from the eyes of Raaker. He was smiling grimly.
He said very slowly: “Machine-gun bullets, Raaker. And choking, blinding gas. They’ll be waiting for you—after you get through squeezing that trigger.”
Raaker cried out in a shrill tone: “Damn you—Gar—that won’t help you any—”
There was a sudden engine hum as the cab driver accelerated the motor. Yellow light flashed beyond the house, along the road. O’Halohan was going for the police, starting his cab. For a second Raaker twisted his head towards the sound and the light. He was thinking of machine-guns—and tear gas—
Jo Gar was on his feet in a flash. The table went forward, over. The Island detective leaped to the right as Raaker cried out hoarsely, and the first bullet from his gun crashed into the table wood.
The second bullet from the gun ripped the cloth of Gar’s coat, and his right hand was coming up, with the Colt in it, when the cloth ripped.
He squeezed the trigger sharply but steadily. There was the third gun crash and Raaker screamed, took a step forward. His gun hand dropped; he went to his knees, stared at Gar for a second, swaying—then fell heavily to the floor.
Jo Gar went slowly to his side. He was dead—the bullet had caught him just above the heart. One diamond lay very close to his curved fingers; it was as though he were grasping for it, in death.
The other three Jo found after a five-minute search. Then he went from the room into the hall, and out of the house. The cab was out of sight; in the distance there was still colored light in the sky. The shooting gallery noise came at intervals. Jo Gar found a package in his pocket, lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes.
He said very softly, to himself: “I have all—of the diamonds. Now I can go home, after the police come. I hope my friend Juan Arragon—knows.”
He stood very motionless on the top step that led to the small porch, and waited for the police to come. And he thought, as he waited, of the Philippines—of Manila—and of his tiny office off the Escolta. It was good to forget other things, and to think of his returning.
Shooting Gallery
The little Island detective finds that a shooting gallery can be a handy place for a murder.
The fat man whose eyes were much more slanted than those of Jo Gar sat slumped in the fan-backed chair that had been made by Bilibid prison inmates and shook his round head from side to side. Between chubby fingers of his left hand he held a large palm leaf fan, with which he made faint but graceful motion. He spoke in precise English.
“It is good to have you back in Manila, Señor Gar. You were away a short time, yet it was much too long.”
Jo Gar smiled a little with his slightly almond shaped eyes and said politely:
“You are kind, Señor Kanochi. I am glad to be back, even though I arrive in the midst of the hot season. It is always good to be home.” A ceiling fan that turned very slowly stirred warm air in the tiny office just off the Escolta, main business street of Manila. Two lizards crawled languidly beyond the arc of the fan, and there were several annoying flies in the room. Jo Gar’s diminutive body rested passively in the wicker chair beside the desk; he looked beyond the half-breed Kanochi and seemed to be thinking of things not concerned with the man. Yet he was actually remembering all he heard of the fat one.
Kanochi said in a flat, thinnish voice, still moving the fan in his fingers:
“There is trouble in my Park of the Moon. I have come to you about it. If you are at liberty—”
He let his voice trail off; the questioning note gentle and polite. It was almost as though he regretted mentioning the matter to Jo Gar.
The Island detective said:
“I am at liberty, Señor. I have had a good rest since recovering the Von Loffler diamonds. Your Park of the Moon has greatly enlarged this season, I have heard.”
The fat one nodded his big head slowly. “I have spent much money, and I do not wish trouble,” he stated in a grim tone. “But one does not obtain always what one wishes, Señor Gar.”
Jo Gar smiled. “It is so,” he agreed.
The fat one sighed heavily. He listened a few seconds to the shrill sound of a native argument, in the calle below. One of Manila’s antiquated flivvers made a staccato sound. A tail of one of the two lizards on the ceiling dropped suddenly from the reptile’s body and struck the matting of the floor with a faint sound. The lizard scurried towards a corner of the ceiling. The shrill argument below was suddenly stilled.
Kanochi said:
“In my Park of the Moon I have installed a shooting gallery. It is already very popular. The Filipinos like to shoot. Many of them come in from the ranches for gaiety; come in from the plantations. Some are excellent shots with the rifles. My new shooting gallery is an attraction.”
Jo Gar said thoughtfully: “So many men have the desire to kill.”
Kanochi’s small, slanted eyes held a swift expression of surprise, which quickly vanished. He made a little gesture of agreement with his fat hands.
“It is unfortunately so,” he said. “But in the Park of the Moon they destroy only figures of clay, many of which move from side to side. And thus they learn to defend themselves.”
Jo Gar said quietly: “Very admirable is such a defense, Señor Kanochi.”
Suspicion flickered in the fat one’s eyes, but died almost instantly. “In my shooting gallery my son-in-law works,” Kanochi went on. “He is a Filipino of the name of Vincente Calleo. He is not a good son-in-law, Señor Gar, but I am a patient man. I wish to give him every opportunity. He gambles at the cock fights and drinks too much. He has lost several positions I obtained for him. Now he works for me. He is not too grateful and not too good a husband for my daughter. Yet there is much about him that I like. He is very young and perhaps will outgrow his faults. That is what I think to myself. I urge my daughter to be patient.”
The Island detective offered brown-paper cigarettes that were politely refused, lighted one himself. Kanochi said very slowly, his slanted eyes almost closed: “This morning I received a telephone call. The one who called said that Vincente owed him quite a sum of money, had owed it to him for some time. He did not give me his name, of course. He spoke Filipino, and many voices are alike. He said, ‘that if I did not at once give to my son-in-law sufficient money for him to pay his gambling debt—Vincente would be killed.’ ”
Jo Gar widened his eyes slightly. The ceiling fan made faint squeaking sound and the Island detective said:
“I shall have to oil the fan—in my absence it has been neglected.”
Kanochi frowned and made a little clic
king sound. His eyes met Jo Gar’s; he spoke more hurriedly.
“I do not intend to pay the sum demanded; I have told the one who spoke with me that. It is a large sum. Vincente admits that he owes it. He will not tell me the name of the one he has a lost the money to, and he is frightened.”
There was a little silence. Jo Gar said slowly:
“It is Vincente’s duty to load the rifles, at the shooting gallery?”
Kanochi shook his head. His eyes were expressionless.
“It is Vincente’s duty to look after the clay targets,” he said tonelessly. “He replaces those that are shattered—the figures of ducks and such things, when the machinery carries them out of sight and below the level of fire. At intervals the shooting is stopped, and he works swiftly replacing pipes and the silver balls on the water that spouts. I think that he does very well. But this afternoon he was not steady. A Chinese by the name of Matoy loads the guns and cares for the customers. He reported that Vincente was very careless in replacing the targets.”
Jo Gar said: “Yet when he is out of sight he could not be hit? He is protected? And before he comes into range to replace the targets that do not move out of sight—all shooting is stopped?”
Kanochi said, frowning: “Yes—that is so.”
The Island detective inhaled and spoke slowly: “I should like to go to the Park of the Moon, and to talk with your son-in-law. What hour would be the most convenient?”
The fat man seemed thoughtful. “At eight it begins to cool—at eight-thirty or nine there are crowds. Between seven and eight the shooting gallery is not very busy.”
Jo Gar smiled. “I shall be there at seven-thirty,” he said.
Kanochi nodded. “Vincente starts his work at seven,” he said. “I will tell him to expect you, and that perhaps you can help him. But I do not think he will give you the name of the one to whom he owes this money—and who has threatened his life.”
Jo Gar rose as the fat one rose.
“If he will not—perhaps there will be some other way of learning this man’s identity,” he said.
Kanochi nodded. “I think that shooting gallery work is bad for one whose life has been threatened,” he said tonelessly. “And yet—” Jo Gar shrugged. “There are many ways of killing,” he interrupted. “But we must try to learn the identity of the one to whom Vincente owes money. Having learned it, we can perhaps convince the man that an accident around the shooting gallery might prove inconvenient for him.”
Kanochi’s eyes held a grim expression. “That is it—that is what I am afraid of—an accident,” he said very softly. “And it is good of you to take this case, Señor Gar.”
Jo Gar smiled, his gray-blue eyes looking beyond the fat man.
“It is good of you to think of me, Señor Kanochi,” he replied. “I shall be at the Park of the Moon at seven-thirty.”
He bowed slightly and the fat man left the room. It seemed slightly cooler after he had departed, and the odor was better. His bulk made sound going down the wooden steps to the street.
Jo Gar seated himself and stretched his short legs. He ran browned fingers through his graying hair and murmured very slowly:
“Señor Kanochi has lied before. He is a potential murderer. He does not care for his son-in-law. He has much money. Even should the publicity of an ‘accident’ at his shooting gallery mean a loss of business, I do not think the half-breed would regret too much. Yet he fears the ‘accident’ theory might not be strong enough. So he has invented a story—”
Jo Gar closed his eyes and was silent for several seconds. When he opened them he glanced at his wristwatch, saw that it was almost six o’clock. He rose from the wicker chair and said with a touch of grimness:
“If this Vincente were to be dead when I arrive at the Park of the Moon it would be extremely difficult for me. There would be only the voice that Señor Kanochi heard—”
The Island detective smiled with his colorless, thin lips pressed into a straight line. Then he parted them and corrected himself.
There would be only the voice that Señor Kanochi says he heard,” he murmured. “I feel it would be very wise for me to go early—to the shooting gallery.”
THE PARK OF THE MOON was a fairly large amusement place beyond a turn of the dark, sluggish watered Pasig, perhaps three miles from the curving Escolta. On all sides of the park but the river side were thatch-roofed houses of the Filipinos. It was not yet seven when Jo Gar arrived and paid off his carromatta driver, and there was still almost a bright light. And at once the Island detective knew that Señor Kanochi had lied to him. The park was well attended. It wasn’t crowded as yet, but the various rides and shows were all doing business. And in the distance he could hear the staccato crack of the shooting gallery; it reminded him of the sound he had heard from the porch of the house in San Francisco, weeks ago. But there was a difference. This shooting gallery sound was sharper, steadier. He moved in the general direction of it.
The Park of the Moon was filled with laughter—the laughter of Filipinos, Chinese, Japanese, and Spaniards. And there the laughter of the half-breeds—the offspring of marriage between these races. A scattering of English and Germans were in the park, and Jo Gar saw the American, Condon, wandering around with a grin on his browned face. He passed a merry-go-round that squeaked ancient music in waltz time. The staccato-clatter from the shooting gallery was increasing in tone now. Down the lane between side shows and rides he caught sight of a greater flare of lights.
And then, very suddenly, the crackling rifle sound ceased. It ceased abruptly and Jo Gar halted, his small body stiffening. Young Filipinos and Chinese moved past him, laughing. He stood motionless, waiting. He muttered:
“It might be—that he is replacing the targets—”
A woman screamed—a shrill, long-drawn note. There was the figure of a short, brown-faced man running towards the Island detective now. His face was twisted.
The Island detective moved his body, blocked the path of the running one. Others made way for him, but Jo said sharply:
“What is the trouble?”
The small Filipino swerved to one side, throwing out his right hand and saying shortly:
“Accident—at the—shooting gallery! I go for—doctor—”
Jo Gar stood quietly for several seconds, his gray-blue eyes very small. People were staring after the running menthe Island detective moved forward, towards the shooting gallery’s flare of light. Perspiration was on his face, and his lightweight shirt clung to the skin of his back. As he neared the lane opposite the shooting gallery he saw that a large crowd had gathered. It took him a half minute to fight his way through the crowd, to reach the counter of the shooting gallery.
Two of the park police, clad in white duck uniforms, were keeping the crowd back. Another came through the crowd as Jo reached the counter and looked across it. Clay ducks were moving from side to side—a silver ball was swinging in pendulum fashion. On the floor, near the line of moving ducks, lay a figure, two men bending over it.
Jo Gar reached the side of the nearest, white-clad policeman. He smiled at the man, said in Filipino:
“I am Señor Gar—Señor Kanochi asked me to come here. What has happened?”
The park guardian said grimly: “An accident, Señor. It is the son-in-law of Señor Kanochi—he has been shot.”
Jo Gar moved towards a small door at one side of the counter, opened it and went beneath the slanting roof of the gallery. On a small wicker chair a woman sat, rocking from side to side and moaning. A taller woman stood beside her; both were Filipinos. Jo Gar went past them and reached the two who bent over the motionless figure.
One of them turned; he was Chinese. Jo said: “You are the Matoy who loads the guns?”
The Chinese looked surprised. He nodded. He had a round face and a heavy body. His eyes were gray and small. The second man straightened and said in very good English:
“He is dead—there are two slugs in his brain. He died almost instantly.”
The man turned and Jo recognized him as Doctor Seth Connings, a rather well known English physician of the city. A woman’s voice asked a question in an uneven tone, and the Chinese, Matoy, moved away from the body. He went to the woman who was rocking back and forth on the wicker, and spoke. Almost instantly she screamed—again and again. The doctor sighed.
“I’ll have to quiet her,” he said. “She was his wife.”
Jo Gar stood looking down at the lean face of Vincente Calleo. He was thinking: “This woman who is screaming now is the one who screamed before. She did not know until the Chinese, Matoy, told her—that her husband was dead. She appears hysterical, and yet she was not beside her husband—she was in the chair over there.”
Her screams were attracting a greater crowd, but more park police were arriving now. The doctor was talking to the woman; her screams became wails. Jo Gar went to Matoy’s side and said:
“I am Señor Gar. Señor Kanochi asked me to come here, because his son-in-law’s life had been threatened. How did the accident occur?”
Matoy shook his head. He spoke Filipino, and swiftly.
“I do not know, Señor. I was having trouble with one of the guns, and took it into the small room at one side, to inspect it more carefully. Several were shooting. I heard suddenly a scream—and hurried from the room. Vincente’s wife was at the counter, pointing across it at the fallen figure of her husband. There was suddenly a great crowd—the English doctor came, and the park police—and yourself—”
Jo Gar said steadily: “You remember those who were shooting?”
There were little wrinkles around the eyes of the Chinese. He seemed to be thinking hard. But he shook his head.
“There has been much business—so many have used the guns. I think one was tall and skinny, Señor. I think three were shooting when I left with the gun I wished to repair. But they might have stopped shooting—and others might have started. I left several loaded guns on the counter. The three were Filipinos, I think, Señor. But I could not be sure—”
West of Guam Page 34