The Chinese made a twisting movement; his left hand flashed upward past his right side. Jo Gar squeezed the trigger of the Colt. The gun sound vibrated in the small cabin. The Chinese fell to his knees and coughed. The knife slipped from his fingers and struck the floor as he pitched face downward.
Jo Gar stood motionlessly. Sadi Ratan moved a few feet and lifted the knife. There were shouts in the corridors beyond the cabin. Lieutenant Ratan said:
“Yes—this would have made such a wound as killed Jacobi.”
Jo Gar said slowly: “Toya—you were a fool. There was blood on Jacobi that did not come from his wound. You had a record. Your name was on the passenger list. I knew Jacobi could not have been stabbed by Virginia Crale—and have reached his cabin. I knew she had fallen at the second or third blow, and could not have gotten to his cabin. So when I saw your name—”
He paused. Sam Toya moaned and rolled over on his left side. Jo Gar said:
“I know why you murdered Virginia Crale. But why did you knife the baron?”
The Chinese spoke in a weak whisper. “In Manila they called him—the man from Shanghai. But he was—hated there. He stole—made bad bargains. One Chinese—wanted many pieces back—Jacobi’s and the woman’s. I was paid well! Now they—are both dead—and the chests can be—bought back—”
He fell over on his back. Jo Gar walked to his side, leaned forward. When he straightened up he said:
“He is dead.” He smiled grimly, half closing his eyes. “A killer who Jacobi used to gain something he failed to get—because another person used him to murder—” he paused and then went on softly—”the man from Shanghai.”
Sadi Ratan said thickly. “Toya was Chinese—and blood is thicker than money.”
Jo Gar sighed. “It was Toya’s blood that betrayed him,” he said quietly.
The Amber Fan
The little Island detective, pits a fan against a knife in a murder.
The small shop window of Yut Gen, whose tiny store sprawled less than a half square from the Pasig River, was almost in darkness as Jo Gar padded slowly along the narrow Calle Vanisto. The rice and chicken had been good, at the home of Rinaldo Darian, and there had been a plentiful supply of wine. At nine o’clock Rinaldo had spoken again of the typhoon. The wind was growing severe; the rain was coming more heavily in gusts. The Number Six typhoon signal was flying over Manila, and already much damage had been done in the native quarter.
At ten, against the wishes of his host, Jo Gar had departed. Over his white duck suit he wore a light Army rain-coat. His pith helmet was of khaki and the rain could damage it little. He wore the strap under his chin. The streets were wet, but sandals were not of importance; he had many pairs.
When he reached the shop of Yut Gen the flickering light at the rear of the store threw moving shadows on the display of the one window. This section of Manila was not well lighted, and stores were few. A gust of wind rocked the Island detective. He moved close to the fly-spotted glass and tightened the strap of his pith helmet.
The odor of spices made him sniff deeply; he stood near the window, facing it, and wiped warm rain from his face with the back of a stubby-fingered hand. His gray eyes watched the moving shadows in the small window, and with his back to water and wind his almond-shaped eyes wandered over the objects on display.
The jade pieces, even in the poor light, he could see were bad. The bead strings were the usual things. There were some wood carvings, some spoons done by the Igorrote tribe. In a corner of the window was an opium pipe, elaborate and not very graceful.
Jo Gar was about to turn away, to move on towards the river, when his eyes discovered the fan. For several seconds he stood motionless, then moved his brown face so that it almost touched the wet glass of the window.
It was a small fan. The flat portion of it was circular, six inches or less. The material was silk of a blue-green color. The handle was round, almost a foot in length. The material was the color of old, brown wood, but to the keen eye of Jo Gar it was more than wood.
“Amber,” he said softly. “Not the vegetable—but sea amber.”
The typhoon wind swayed his short figure; his eyes moved from the handle of the flat fan to the object beside it. The object was a small silver box. The lid was open, with a chain stretched behind. The interior of the box was of wood and was stained red.
Jo Gar murmured: “Betel-nut—and a cheap box. But the fan—”
He stood for several seconds, straining his eyes, looking at the heavy, rich, brown of the fan’s handle. There was a grace in the carving of it, a distinction in the simplicity.
Turning away, he saw that the shutters of the shop were down over the entrance. For a few seconds more he paused. He might obtain entrance, bargain for the fan. But such an entrance might only antagonize Yut Gen, who was not too charming a character.
Jo Gar shrugged, lowered his head against the wind and rain, and moved towards the Pasig.
“Tomorrow,” he breathed huskily, “will do.”
At the Bridge of Spain, although the distance to his home was short, he hailed a caleso that was motionless, climbed inside. The horse was ancient and the two-wheeled carriage was wet inside as well as out. The Island detective gave the Filipino driver the address of his house and sat back against the cane seat. He was filled with chicken and rice, and the wine had made him drowsy. Closing his gray-blue eyes, he dozed. When he reached the Spanish gate of his home he had forgotten completely the amber fan.
AT MIDN IG HT Jo Gar was awakened by what he thought was a vase crashing to the floor. He sat up and swore in two languages at his house-boy Vincente. He had told the boy to be sure all the vases were in safe places. A second crash, and he sat up in bed. Vincente’s voice called shrilly:
“Señor Gar—if you please—Señor Gar!”
The Island detective shook his head and stared towards the door of his bedroom.
“What is it?” he demanded sleepily.
The house-boy said: “Señor, the Americano Edmond Neblo is here. He say it is much important you come awake.”
Jo Gar swung his short legs from the bed, shoving the mosquito netting to one side.
“And so you must pound my door to pieces,” he muttered. “Tell him I will be down soon.”
He threw cold water from the basin on his face, dressed rapidly and moved from the room. The house seemed to rock in the gusts of typhoon wind, and rain beat against the glass of the windows. It was very hot.
When he crossed the waxed floor of his small living-room Neblo was standing near the door that led to the patio. The American’s drill suit was wet; his white face was soaked with rain. He moved towards Jo.
“Señor Gar,” he said shakily, “I’ve notified the police, but I wanted you, too. A terrible thing has happened.”
Jo Gar said: “What is it that has happened, Mr. Neblo?”
The American rubbed wet fingers across his eyes. He said tonelessly:
“My secretary, Howard Strett, has been murdered.”
The Island detective narrowed his eyes. “Murdered?” he repeated. “You are sure?”
Edmond Neblo said bitterly: “God, yes. In my house. I called the police and then came here for you. I live only two squares away, you know.”
Jo Gar nodded. The American was a six-foot, heavily built man. He had brown hair and eyes, and a small, brown mustache. He was an exporter to the United States of hemp, and owned several large properties on the smaller islands. More than once Jo had watched him play polo, on the field near the Walled City.
“I will come immediately,” he said. “May I offer you a drink?”
Neblo shook his head. “I haven’t touched the body. The police should be along soon, though they have a distance to come. I know of your reputation, of course.”
Jo Gar clapped his hands, told Vincente to bring him his helmet and raincoat. He got a pocket flashlight from a drawer. He said as Vincente helped him into his coat:
“It was a knife wound—that killed y
our secretary?”
Neblo looked surprised. “Yes, but how did—”
Jo Gar interrupted wearily: “It is most often the knife, here in the Islands.”
He placed the dry pith helmet on his head, led the way to the patio and towards the calle beyond. Outside the iron gate, they turned towards the Bay. The typhoon wind swung palm leaves along the street, and they had to bend their bodies forward against the force of it.
Neblo, keeping his head low and twisted towards the lowered head of the Island detective, spoke jerkily:
“I turned in at ten—I hate this damned wind. I left Strett in the small room off my living-room, a sort of study. He was finishing up some business reports, and said he’d be through by midnight. He seemed—cheerful enough.”
Rain made sharp sound against their lowered helmets. Neblo went on in a louder voice:
“I couldn’t sleep. The damned Chink hadn’t filled my whiskey decanter. The two servants were in their separate house, back of my place. A short while ago, I took the decanter and went down to fill it from a bottle of whiskey I knew was in the dining-room.”
Neblo swore bitterly. “Then—I found Strett. He was lying—well, you’ll see how that is—I didn’t touch him except to try his pulse. He was dead.”
Jo Gar twisted his head towards Neblo and said tonelessly, against the whine of the wind:
“How many servants do you employ?”
Neblo replied: “Two—a Filipino cook and a Chinese house-boy. We spend most of our time traveling through the Islands. Didn’t make much fuss—with the house here in Manila.”
They crossed a street that was within a short square of the Bay. Jo Gar said: “There would be, perhaps, a reason for one or both of the servants—to hate your secretary?”
Neblo shook his head, and water sprayed downward from his helmet.
“If there was any reason—I never knew it. The servants seldom spoke. The house-boy is stupid. Damned if I know why I kept him on.”
Jo Gar smiled faintly. “Most house-boys are stupid,” he philosophized. “That is why they are house-boys.”
Neblo said: “Here we are.” He turned to the right; they went through a half-opened gate and along a palm-lined gravel path. Lights of the house were beyond; the wind made much sound in the palms. All around the house, set in a tropical growth of foliage, the typhoon made racket.
They went through a door in the screening, crossed a porch and entered the living-room directly. Neblo said a little shakily:
“I didn’t wake the servants—I called the police and then went right to you. He’s—in there—”
He pointed beyond the living-room. Jo Gar removed his helmet and walked slowly across the polished floor. When he reached the entrance of the study he stood for a few seconds, looking around. Then he went past the desk, which was littered with papers, and looked down at the body of Howard Strett.
The secretary lay on his stomach, his head twisted sidewise so that it faced the room. His white shirt was stained with red. There were knife wounds in his back, and when Jo carefully lifted the upper part of his body he found more knife wounds around the heart. Some of them were slashes, but most of them deep and straight.
He lowered the body to the divan, faced the head towards the room. When he looked towards the living-room Edmond Neblo was standing motionless, his palms covering his face. The Island detective turned his small body slowly, using his gray-blue eyes on the floor, the few wicker chairs, the surface of the desk. Suddenly he drew in a sharp breath.
Walking a few feet, he leaned down and lifted the fan from the spot where it had rested, under a small, wicker cabinet. Only the blue silk of the flat portion had protruded; the cabinet rested on four knobs of wood which raised the lower shelf about an inch from the polished floor of the study.
Jo Gar held the fan by the rim of the blue silk’s circle, half closed his eyes on the handle. It was the color of brown-black wood; there was a grace in the carving, a distinction in the workmanship. The flat surface of the fan was about six inches in diameter; the handle was almost a foot in length.
Neblo said huskily, from the other room: “It seems unbelievable—Howard murdered—like this!”
Jo Gar went slowly from the room, reached Neblo’s side. He held the amber-handled fan so that light from the floor-lamps of the living-room struck it.
Neblo blinked at the fan. “What’s that?” he demanded.
The Island detective said: “You have not seen it before?”
Neblo reached for the handle, but Jo moved it swiftly to one side.
“Pardon, Mr. Neblo. I found it under the wicker cabinet, in your study. You have not seen it before?”
Neblo frowned at the fan.
“Never,” he said. “It’s a fan—Chinese, looks like.” He leaned forward, got his head close to the handle. His brown eyes widened.
“Say—that handle looks like amber, to me! The real thing.”
Jo Gar nodded his head slowly. He ran the stubby fingers of his left hand through his gray hair.
“I think it is amber,” he said. “Perhaps your secretary owned it.”
Neblo was frowning. “No, I’m sure he didn’t,” he said. “Strett wasn’t interested in anything like that. Never picked up any curios. Didn’t like Chinese—” He broke off and then went on in a puzzled tone. “You found it in the study—say, how the devil—”
Jo Gar said quietly: “You are very sure it is not something belonging—”
Neblo interrupted impatiently: “Certainly I’m sure. I’m sure that handle is amber—damn good amber. You know what that means, Señor Gar—there’s a lot of it there. That’s a valuable fan.”
The Island detective shrugged. “It is worth many pesos,” he agreed. “But unpolished amber like this is not always detected. You do not think Mr. Strett might have picked it up somewhere, even found it? Might have regarded the fan carelessly, not informing you, telling you of it?”
Neblo shook his head. “Howard would have told me, all right. He might have laughed at it, or sneered at it, but he’d have showed it to me.”
He narrowed his eyes on the almond-shaped ones of Jo Gar. “That fan!” he breathed excitedly. “The murderer of Howard
Strett—”
Jo Gar shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said quietly. “It is not, however, the type of fan one would carry about. And in typhoon weather the natives or other races seldom carry any fans with them. Also, this fan is valuable, and not likely to be carried from one’s home.”
There were the sounds of footfalls and of voices, beyond the house. Neblo said:
“The police, I suppose.”
Jo Gar faced Lieutenant Sadi Ratan as he came into the living-room. Sadi frowned at Jo. A uniformed policeman halted behind Sadi Ratan, near the door leading to the porch.
Neblo said: “I am Edmond Neblo. I telephoned for the police. My secretary has been—murdered. This is Señor Gar, or have you—”
Jo Gar said tonelessly: “The Lieutenant and myself are acquainted, Mr. Neblo.”
Sadi Ratan nodded coldly. He removed his helmet and raincoat. His uniform was well fitted and spotless, and his slender figure showed it well.
“The body?” he said in accented English. Jo Gar said:
“In the study beyond.” He raised the fan slightly. “I found this fan beneath the wicker cabinet. Mr. Neblo has never seen it before, and is certain that his secretary did not have it in his possession. I think the handle is amber. I have not touched the handle—there may be fingerprints on it.”
Neblo said: “I have called Señor Gar in—want him on the case.” Lieutenant Ratan bowed slightly. He extended fingers and took the fan on the circular rim of the flat part. His dark eyes examined the handle. He sniffed it.
Jo said: “There is no odor. When the police have determined the presence or absence of prints it will be simple to burn the handle or rub it. Then you can—”
Sadi Ratan said sharply: “I am familiar, Señor Gar, with the methods of discoveri
ng amber. But this is nothing. Let us look into the matter of the murder.”
Jo Gar bowed. “If you will pardon me, Mr. Neblo,” he said quietly, “I will return for a short time to my house. In our haste to reach your home I neglected to bring my automatic. I would feel more safe—” Lieutenant Ratan smiled. “Perhaps you would take mine, Señor Gar?” he said mockingly. “The murderer might attack you during your return to your home.”
“You are kind, Lieutenant,” Jo Gar’s voice was expressionless. He moved towards the door. “But I am sure that while you are so near my home—the murderer will not dare to strike again.”
It was almost one o’clock when the small car of the Island detective pulled into the curb a quarter square from the banks of the Pasig. Jo descended and walked through the rain, with the typhoon wind behind him, along the Calle Vanisto. The night was very dark; the typhoon had increased in velocity; few people were about. An old Chinese passed him as he neared the shop of Yut Gen, hunched forward against the gusts of wind and showers of rain.
Before the small window Jo Gar halted. There was no flickering light at the rear of the shop now, and something had gone wrong with the nearest street light. Jo drew the pocket flash from his raincoat, snapped the button. The yellow beam struck the wet glass, penetrated beyond. The Island detective sucked in a swift breath.
The betel-nut box was where it had been a few hours before. The jade, the beads and the carved spoons had not been moved. But the amber fan was not in the window.
Jo Gar stood with his browned face close to the glass of the small shop. His gray-blue eyes were almost closed. After a short time he turned towards the door of the shop, stood facing it. Then, slowly, he shook his head, walked past the door and towards his small car.
When he reached the house of Edmond Neblo he swore softly in Spanish. He did not enjoy driving his car, preferred the caleso. He went along the path as the wind rocked the palms, crossed the porch, entered the house.
In the living-room were Neblo and Lieutenant Ratan. The policeman who had accompanied Ratan was placing shining handcuffs on a small, fat-faced Chinese, who was protesting shrilly in his native tongue. He stared at Jo, broke into bad English:
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