“The last I saw of Jack was about twenty minutes before the crash. He was going into his room, and said he was going to try to get some sleep. The heat has been fierce—he had a touch of dengue. Not much of one. Bill saw him about ten minutes before I did. Neither of us heard him leave the house, though he must have gone within five minutes or so after I saw him. The field is about ten minutes away. The ship is kept under a canvas hangar, but she was always ready for the air—that is, loaded with gas and oil.”
Jo Gar said slowly: “Always ready—why was that?”
Bill Carter spoke in his rather heavy tone. “Jack liked to feel he could always work the electric starter and get right off the ground. If he was out on a long flight he always fixed her for the air, before he left the hangar.”
Jo Gar looked at the low ceiling of the room. “Why do you suppose he felt the ship must always be ready for flight?” he asked steadily.
Carter and Tate exchanged glances, with little expression in the eyes of either. Erich Rooder shrugged.
“There was no reason, Gar,” he said a little sharply.
“It was just a habit with him. Time didn’t mean anything—and no one was after him, if that’s what you think.”
Jo Gar smiled with his lips. “I do not think,” he said pleasantly. “I ask questions.”
There was a little silence. Then Jo said quietly:
“So far as you three men know Branders had no enemies.”
Carter and Tate shook their heads. Rooder said in his guttural voice:
“Not an enemy. Everyone liked him.”
Jo Gar nodded. “Yet he always kept his plane ready for the air, and today he flew at the worst possible time.”
Carter stood up abruptly, his face twisted. “Look here, Señor Gar—” he started, but Rooder interrupted.
“Take it easy, Bill. Alwin has sent Gar up here to find out what happened. Gar is a detective, and he approaches death with the idea that it couldn’t very well be caused by an accident—ever.”
Jo Gar’s eyes held little expression. “At the moment I am more curious about Branders’ motive for the sudden flight, at such a time, than in the cause of the ship crash,” he said calmly.
Tate said: “My theory is that he felt like flying—the fever made him restless. He went out and flew. There was an accident. You’ve seen his body—no bullet holes in it, are there?”
Jo shook his head. “No bullet holes,” he agreed. “His head was badly battered and there are bones broken. I think he was killed instantly.”
Rooder nodded. “We had Doctor Cordozo over from his place.
He said death was instantaneous.”
Jo Gar looked at his wristwatch. It was almost three o’clock.
“I think I shall sleep in the room you have so kindly had prepared for me,” he stated as he stood up. “In the morning, as soon as it is light, I shall want to see the plane wreckage. It has not been touched?” Tate spoke nastily. “Certainly it’s been touched—we had to pull things apart to get him out of the wreck.” Jo Gar nodded. “Naturally,” he agreed.
Rooder spoke grimly. “But if there any bullet holes in the wings or wood—they’ll still be there for you, Señor.”
The Island detective let his eyes move from one face to another.
He was smiling almost pleasantly.
“I do not expect to find any bullet holes,” he said quietly. “That would be too much of a piece of luck.”
Tate’s eyes were very small and hard.
“Just what do you mean by that?” he demanded.
Jo Gar bowed slightly. “Nothing,” he said very precisely. “Very often I mean nothing by what I say.”
Rooder led the way from the room, and there was silence except for footfalls. Tate and Carter remained behind. At the room that had been prepared for the Island detective, Rooder stood aside.
“I am older than Bill and Harry,” he said. “I’ve been in the Islands longer. The fact that Alwin sent a detective out here doesn’t bother me so much. My feeling is that the crash was an accident.”
Jo Gar smiled. “It would seem that way,” he agreed. “Branders was a wealthy man?”
Rooder shrugged. “He wasn’t poor,” he replied.
A kerosene lamp gave wavering light to the room. Night tropical sounds reached the two men. A lizard moved across the ceiling, making a sound at intervals like soft kissing.
“There was a will?” Jo said slowly.
Rooder’s voice was toneless. “Yes,” he said. “I happen to know about it. Branders had only a few relatives, distant. He didn’t care anything about them. He left most of his money—a couple of hundred thousand—to Roger Alwin. The plantation here was left to us.”
Jo Gar said very quietly: “Us?”
Rooder said: “A half interest to me—and a quarter each to Harry and Bill. We got along very well together—Jack liked us enough to do that. He knew we’d keep things going.”
Jo Gar said: “The fruit is good?”
He could hear Rooder breathing heavily. “Fine,” the German replied. “About the best yield we’ve ever had.”
The Island detective looked towards the screened windows of the room.
“How much would you say the plantation was worth—counting the fruit, of course?”
Rooder said instantly: “Around a hundred thousand—probably more than that.”
There was silence, then the German spoke slowly: “And now you have your motive for this murder, Señor Gar.”
The Island detective smiled and shook his head. He said in a gentle tone:
“No—now I have a possible motive for a possible murder.”
Rooder bowed his head slightly. “Good night, Señor Gar,” he said.
Jo stood very still.
“Good night, Herr Rooder,” he said pleasantly.
Rooder went along the corridor; his sandals made faint slap sound. Jo Gar inspected his automatic, removed his duck coat and stretched out beneath the mosquito netting on the bed. He did not undress. At intervals he heard the murmur of voices in the living-room. Then he heard them no more. A door slammed, somewhere in the house. Jo Gar breathed very softly:
“Alwin gains several hundred thousand. Rooder fifty thousand. Tate and Carter twenty-five thousand apiece. Because there was an accident, and Branders was killed.”
His gray-blue eyes were half closed in an ironical smile. He said very slowly:
“Branders might have lived many years—if there had been no accident.”
After that he dozed for a while. At four o’clock he rose, pushed the mosquito netting aside, and got his small flashlight from a bag. He changed to duel trousers that were black and put on a black shirt. Then he removed a screen noiselessly from a window, waited a short time, climbed outside. The room was on the level with the patio. The crescent moon made light, and there were the stars. He moved very quietly away from the house, in the direction that Rooder had told him the field and the wrecked plane were. He moved slowly, carefully. He was less than five hundred yards from the house, in a fairly thick palm grove, when he noticed a red glow ahead. He moved more rapidly up a slope. The crackling sound reached his ears before he was at the crest of it. The glow was becoming steadily brighter. There was a sudden roar.
Jo Gar broke into a trot. When he reached the crest of the palm studded slope he got to his knees and crawled along. There was another explosion, and then he was looking down at the small, level field. At the far end of it the wreckage of the plane was making a bright blaze. Pieces of it, sections, had been flung some distance by the explosion. The sky was reflecting the glow. In the direction of the house, behind him, he heard shouts.
He smiled grimly, lying motionless and watching the plane burn. After a few minutes he parted his thin, colorless lips and said softly: “So often when there is one accident—there is very quickly another.
Dawn light and the first heat that came with it was in the living-room when Jo Gar entered it. Rooder sat staring at the waxed floor; he lo
oked up quickly when the Island detective came into the room.
“We were looking for you,” he said sharply. “We went to your room, but you weren’t there.”
Jo Gar smiled slightly. “All three of you?” he asked pleasantly.
Rooder frowned. “As it happened, the three of us did go to your room together,” he said. “The plane burned—I suppose you know that?”
The Island detective nodded. “I was restless—couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d go along and have a look at the wreckage. Cooler at night.” He watched a flickering expression in the German’s blue eyes.
Rooder said tonelessly.
“You get there before she burned?”
The Island detective shook his head. “I was on my way when the fire started,” he replied. “What do you suppose caused it?”
Rooder swore. “I suppose the crash crossed up the electric system in some way. Short circuit—something burned out and the doped material went up. Takes some time for that to happen—a wire might have been sizzling since the crash.”
The Island detective nodded. “It might have,” he agreed quietly.
Rooder drew a deep breath. “You left your room through a window, Señor Gar. You didn’t want any of us to know where you were going. And then the plane burned. I suppose you think she was set off, so that you couldn’t find the bullet holes in the fabric?”
Jo Gar shook his head. “But all three of you came to my room to tell me that the plane was burning,” he pointed out pleasantly. “I could hardly suspect any of you.”
Rooder’s blue eyes smiled coldly. He stretched out in the wicker chair and watched the detective. After a short silence Jo said:
“How about a woman, Rooder? Could there have been one interested in Branders—or could he have been interested in one?”
Rooder shrugged, then shook his head. “I never knew of one,” he replied. “He never spoke of one—to any of us.”
The Island detective sighed slowly “He had a touch of dengue,” he said tonelessly. “He felt like flying—and he took off. The worst time of the day. Something went wrong, and he crashed and was killed. A short circuit caused delayed fire, and the plane was destroyed.”
Rooder shrugged. “That is what I think,” he stated. “And Alwin simply meant that an investigation should be made—which I understand. He—and the three of us here gain material things by Branders’ death, of course.”
Jo Gar nodded. Tate came into the room, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He was frowning.
“Going to be another scorcher, as usual,” he said. “Where’s that damned Chink cook, Erich? I want something to eat, and I can’t find him.”
Rooder widened his eyes. Jo Gar inspected the brown-paper of a cigarette. Carter entered the room and sat down. He looked narrowly at Jo, but he did not speak.
Rooder said: “Won should be around—he’s usually up at this time. Come to think of it—I didn’t see him near the plane, when it was burning. Most of the Filipinos were there.”
Tate said slowly: “He’s a heavy sleeper. I’ll send one of the boys over to his shack.”
He turned towards the door that led out to the patio at the side of the living-room. But he stopped suddenly. There were shrill shouts and the sounds of someone running swiftly. A screen door slammed and a half naked Filipino boy came into the room. He spoke several words in his native tongue, then said rapidly:
“Tony Won—I find him—him dead—”
There was silence in the room, except for the rapid breathing of the Filipino boy. Rooder stood up. Carter stiffened in his chair, but did not speak. Tate broke the silence.
“Dead?” he said heavily. “Are you—sure?”
The Filipino boy’s eyes were very wide and black. He nodded. “Me sure—very much cut with knife,” he jerked.
Jo Gar lighted the cigarette he had been inspecting. Carter swore very slowly. The Island detective spoke in a soft voice:
“That is too bad. I was thinking, just a few minutes ago, of talking to him. It was he who saw the airplane fall.”
Rooder said sharply. “Take us to where you found him, Juan. You coming, Señor Gar?”
The Island detective nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It may be that the knifing was not an accident.”
Tate swung around so that he faced Gar. His eyes were very small and the fingers of his hands, at his sides, were moving.
“Listen here, Gar—”
Rooder said sharply: “Stop that, Harry—it won’t do any good.
Señor Gar has been paid to make an investigation.” Jo smiled very faintly. “It is so,” he said simply.
Tate turned away from him. “Go on,” he ordered the boy.
They went from the room, crossed the patio, went around to the rear of the plantation house. The Filipino boy led them away from it, towards a single shack, small and dirty, near thick palm foliage. No other shacks were close to this one, which was the nearest one to the house.
The door of the shack was open; the Filipino boy stood aside. Rooder went in and Jo followed him. Carter and Tate came in slowly.
The Chinese cook was lying on his back. He was short and fat and his eyes stared at the ceiling of the shack. There was blood on his throat and face, and his hands were covered with it. He was naked.
Jo Gar moved close to the body, looked down. Rooder said in his slightly guttural voice:
“His hands are slashed; he put up a fight. Got him in the throat.
Probably he couldn’t scream much.”
The Island detective moved around the body; his eyes narrowed and expressionless. Tate stood near the opened door, breathing heavily. Carter said:
“Doesn’t look as if he’s been dead very long. I’d better send for Doc Cordozo again.”
Rooder’s blue eyes were watching the small figure of Jo Gar. He spoke softly:
“Yes—get Cordozo here. And get all the servants outside. I think I know why this happened.”
Jo Gar looked at the German. “Why did it happen?” he asked quietly.
Rooder shrugged. “Won didn’t get along too well with the hands. There have been complaints. He’s allowed so much for food, and it was complained that he has been putting some of the money aside for himself, cutting down the food.”
The Island detective smiled just a little. “And for that reason he was murdered,” he said.
Rooder frowned. “Men have been murdered for a less logical reason than that—in the Islands,” he stated.
Jo nodded.
“And for a more logical reason,” he said simply.
There was silence except for Carter, outside, calling several names, giving orders. Jo Gar moved about the shack, searching with his eyes. He touched nothing. Tate said:
“If we could find the knife—”
Rooder swore. “We won’t,” he interrupted. “A knife is too easy to hide, out here.”
Jo Gar walked past both men, went through the doorway of the shack. There had been no rain for months—the ground was hard. He moved over it for a short distance, circled the shack. It was growing steadily hotter. Erich Rooder came from the shack and stopped close to him.
“I can see your side of it, Señor Gar,” he said easily. “You think one of us shot down Branders, and then, when you arrived, got worried. The plane was burned by one of us, before you could see the bullet holes. Won murdered by one of us because one of us thought he might have seen something.”
Jo Gar looked thoughtful. Rooder said: “You think the three of us are protecting each other—or the guilty one.”
The Island detective frowned. “I think the plane crash was an accident,” he said slowly. “I think the fire was caused by a short circuit. I think Won was knifed because he did not give so much food to the hands. Does that please you?”
Rooder’s eyes held a hard expression. “It would please me, if I didn’t think you were lying,” he said sharply.
Jo Gar bowed very slightly. “I shall be glad to hear what the servants say,
and what the doctor says,” he replied. “I do not think you will find the knife.”
He turned away, towards the plantation house, and Rooder spoke in a puzzled voice.
“Where can we get you—”
The Island detective stopped and faced Rooder. He was smiling with his lips, but his eyes held no expression.
“I am going to my room and sleep,” he said. “Sleep allows me to think more clearly, when I awake. Perhaps there is something I have not thought about.”
Rooder’s lips parted, and Jo waited for him to speak. But he said nothing. The Island detective turned away and went slowly back to the house. In his room he undressed and lay naked on the bed, on his back, his eyes staring at the ceiling. At intervals he could hear shouts, and after a half hour or so he heard the sounds of a car arriving. It was apparently an ancient car—it made a great rattle and wheeze.
The Island detective dozed for a half hour or so, rose and dressed. The Colt he inspected fully, slipped into a hip pocket of his trousers. He adjusted his pith helmet carefully, went outside and towards the flying field and the wreckage. He was soaked with perspiration when he reached the house again, almost an hour later. Cordozo, Tate and Rooder were in the living-room, sipping cool drinks. Rooder clapped his hands and ordered one for Jo.
“Been to the field again?” he asked pleasantly.
Jo Gar nodded. He seated himself in a wicker chair, wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“Again,” he agreed.
Rooder remained seated but gestured towards the doctor.
“Doctor Cordozo—Señor Gar,” he said.
They both nodded. Cordozo was short and thick-set; he had a browned face with a spatulate nose. His eyes were very small and his arms long. He spoke thickly but decisively.
“I can report to you, Señor Gar, that Branders was instantly killed in the plane crash. The cook was knifed to death, and it is doubtful that he was able to cry out. He died more slowly, but he was quickly unconscious. I should say he had been dead several hours when discovered.”
Jo nodded and said nothing. Rooder said:
“Carter’s out seeing that the work goes on—it’s got to, you know.” Jo nodded again.
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