West of Guam (18 page)

He recognized Mrs. Landon’s voice, though it was distorted as she spoke. Her words came to them clearly but without strength.

“ … the risk of doing this. It was a terrible thing. If I had only known, before I sailed—”

Her voice died. There was silence. Jo Gar waited long seconds, then stepped close to the door. He nodded to Juan Arragon, who slipped his right hand into the pocket of his khaki uniform. Jo Gar turned the knob, shoved open the door.

He stepped inside. The woman was in the arms of a man whose back was turned to them. She twisted free, stared wildly at Jo Gar, screamed. Arragon stepped into the room, closed the door behind him. The man swung around. Jo Gar said quietly:

“We are sorry. Love is a beautiful thing. We have come to arrest Mr. Price—for the murder of Gary Landon.”

Dean Price’s hatchet-shaped face was twisted. He took several steps towards a divan above which hung
Igorote
shields and spears. He sank down on the divan, said bitterly:

“It’s—a lie. You can’t come in here—”

Jo Gar said quietly: “We
are
here.” His eyes narrowed on the white face of Clara Landon. He smiled with his thin lips. “We are here because Mrs. Landon did as you instructed—went to the market square and then to the dock where your boat was waiting. I intercepted the woman who rode back to the Orient Hotel in Mrs. Landon’s place. She told of working for you, Mr. Price. So we are here. There are other reasons.”

Clara Landon sank into one of the fan-backed chairs. She moved her head from side to side. She said:

“There is a mistake—”

Jo Gar smiled a little with his blue-gray eyes. He said quietly:

“There were several. The motive for the strangling of Gary Landon was self-protection. He was a strong man, Price—you feared him. You feared him because you wanted his wife, and he had learned of that. He had told her that he would kill you if you persisted in seeing her. That was the quarrel the clerk overheard. It was after such a scene that Landon left the hotel last night. He was going to hunt you, Price. He bought no rope. You own most of the Filipino stores on the street where Locracia’s place is located. You set Locracia up in business, and you have promised to back Manuel’s son. We went to him tonight, after we learned your name. He has confessed to telling a story that was not true. You own the Spanish Theatre—and your—manager—Señor Flores, has also talked. Often in the last ten days you have met Clara Landon there. You suggested the suicide thought to Señor Flores, and he felt it would be wise to think the same way. It was a simple matter, Mr. Price, after we had your name.”

Dean Price said hoarsely: “It’s—ridiculous. I was on the bridge, asking you questions, as they were cutting the body down. That was just chance, like a number of—”

Jo Gar smiled more broadly: “It was not chance, Mr. Price,” he said. “It was deliberate. But it will do you no good. There is too much evidence against you. We have found the woman here. She is guilty, too.”

Clara Landon said hysterically: “No—I did not—”

Price cut in. His voice was hoarse; his eyes were wide, staring at Jo Gar.

“I suppose she lowered the body. I suppose Landon didn’t fight. He was out to get me, you say. You say I murdered him. Yet there isn’t a mark—”

The expression in Jo Gar’s eyes stopped him. The Island detective said:

“There isn’t a mark—except the mark of the rope,” he agreed. “And the medical examiner has stated death was due to strangulation. You strangled him, Mr. Price. But you
didn’t
lower him over the bridge. He didn’t die
dangling in the air.
A rope was twisted around his neck—the same one from which he was cut down. He was choked until death came. On your launch, Price. Then, late at night or in the early morning, the rope was fastened to the bridge. The launch brought the body down—he was lifted from the deck, slipped into the noose.”

Dean Price was on his feet, swaying. He was breathing heavily. He cried:

“It’s—not—true—”

Jo Gar said sharply: “It is true. We have talked with the ones who helped you—those on the boat. They have—talked—to save themselves. They accuse you—and this woman.”

He gestured towards Clara Landon. She rose to her feet, her eyes wide with fear.

“I didn’t—I didn’t!” she screamed. “I begged—Dean—not to do it. I tell you—I wasn’t there! I warned him that Gary was coming—to the dock—to the launch. I sent a boy. But I wasn’t there! I swear it—I swear—”

Her voice died. She turned her back, walked slowly, unsteadily towards Dean Price. He said grimly:

“Well—that finishes—me.”

He sat down on the divan again. The woman went over and leaned against a wall. She buried her face in her arms and started to cry. Juan Arragon said:

“I guess you were right, Jo.”

Price stared stupidly at the Island detective. He muttered:

“That damned, squealing crew. I can forgive a woman. We couldn’t keep away from each other. I knew he was going to take her away. And when I heard he was coming after me—”

He checked himself. Jo Gar said quietly:

“I think it would be wise for you to tell the whole truth, Mr. Price. The crew say it was you who held Landon—”

Dean Price cut in grimly: “That’s a lie! He was coming to get me—that will be my defense. We caught him as he came along the deck. One of the boys dropped the rope over his neck, tightened it. I held one arm—others of the crew gripped him from behind. He tried to struggle. He was strong. But the rope was tight around his throat; he couldn’t twist his head. It was only a matter of seconds. That damned, squealing crew—”

Jo Gar said: “The crew didn’t squeal, Mr. Price. We haven’t been aboard the launch. I was hitting in the dark, because I felt it had happened as you have said.”

Dean Price swore grimly. The woman was sobbing. Juan Arragon said, with grudging admiration in his voice:

“You felt it was not suicide, from the beginning, Jo.”

The Island detective looked towards the many weapons hanging on the walls of the room. He spoke in his toneless manner.

“They gave Landon—sufficient rope. I was giving
them
enough rope, Juan.”

When Jo Gar stepped from the caleso, on the sun-rotted planks of the dock near the Manila Hotel, he glanced towards the stern rail of the yacht and saw Vandeer, the Holland detective, leaning against it and smiling down at him. Jo removed his pith helmet, wiped his forehead with a large-sized handkerchief, and sighed.

“I thought so,” he breathed wearily. “There is too much native blood in me. Randonn lacks the complete trust.”

He attended to his baggage, saw that it was started aboard. When he had paid the caleso driver he moved slowly up the narrow gangplank and was met on the awninged deck by the chief steward. The man was tall and thin; he towered over the diminutive Island detective.

“Señor Gar?” he guessed. “I will see you directly to your cabin.” Jo smiled a little. “I trust there is a fan,” he said.

The chief steward nodded. “There is,” he replied. “It will be cooler when we steam off Formosa. Your luggage has gone ahead.”

Jo Gar nodded. He followed the tall man astern; the yacht was not particularly trim or new; her decks, where there were no awnings, baked in the hot sun. Vandeer came along and smiled at Jo. He was a ruddy-faced Hollander who had been in the Islands only a short time. He had broad shoulders, slightly rounded, and wore shell glasses over his blue eyes.

“So you did come,” he said in a voice that was pleasant but that held a hint of mockery. “It is good to see you, Señor.”

Jo Gar narrowed his almond-shaped eyes on those of the Hollander, said languidly:

“I feel my presence is unnecessary, with you aboard, Mr. Vandeer.

But I was urged. It will be a change.”

The Hollander chuckled. “We will all feel safer, Señor,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “You have done much fine work in Manila, I hear.”

Jo Gar bowed his head slightly and moved on. When the chief steward stood aside and he entered the deck cabin it was agreeably cool. A small fan whirled—the air was cooler than the breeze blowing over the Bay.

The chief steward said: “We have our own cooling system, you see.

The air is iced.”

Jo Gar sat in a small wicker chair and carefully set his helmet on the cabin flooring.

“I’m sure it will be—a most pleasant journey,” he said thoughtfully.

The chief steward bowed and withdrew. The Island detective stowed his luggage away in leisurely fashion and was reclining on the berth when Sanford Randonn tapped on the closed door of the cabin.

He came in at Jo’s call, smiled as the Island detective sat up. Randonn was lean-faced, quick in movement—an extremely active man for his fifty-odd years. He did not appear to notice heat. With his energy and fine organizing ability he had made millions in the Islands, in a period of some twenty years. He said in a thin, nervous tone:

“I hope you won’t mind my having Vandeer along. He’s done work for me many years, you know. I really hadn’t intended to take him on this trip, until a few days ago. But he seemed terribly hurt, disturbed. So I altered my plans.”

Jo Gar smiled. He made a slow, graceful gesture with his right hand. Lowering his voice, he asked softly:

“You have the pearls aboard?”

Randonn frowned. Then he shrugged, nodded his head. He said nervously:

“God—they are beautiful things, Gar. I hate to have them out of my sight. Sara loves to look at them. They are the most beautiful—” The Island detective said quietly: “Your man Toyen will be able to reproduce them—the imitations will be just as beautiful. Toyen is the best workman on such matters, in the Orient.”

Randonn nodded, smiled. The yacht whistle sounded a long-drawn wail. The millionaire got to his feet.

“Vandeer does not know the real purpose of the trip,” he said. “You do. Sara, myself and you are the only three who know. Vandeer believes we are Nagasaki bound so that I may purchase some important altar jewels. I have done that before. There are so many shrines near Nagasaki. But I do not want Vandeer to know that the pearls are aboard.”

Jo Gar bowed. He did not speak. Randonn opened the cabin door and stepped on deck. The engines of the yacht were turning over, there was slight vibration. The wealthy Englishman said:

“It was a lucky deal, Gar. But I will feel much more secure when—” He checked himself. The whistle of the yacht wailed again. Jo Gar slipped his small feet into sandals and moved slowly to the deck.

Randonn smiled at him and went forward. The Island detective looked towards the stern and saw the Hollander at the rail. He frowned.

“It was a lucky deal—” he repeated slowly. “Randonn has often been wise and correct. Perhaps he is wise now—”

He thought of the pearls. They were the finest he had ever seen. He had looked at many, in the South Seas and the Orient. He was something of an authority on them. Randonn had paid a big price for the small lot, but they were worth twice as much as he had paid. And Toyen could imitate them beautifully, so that Sara Randonn could roll them in her fingers, wear them. But first they must reach Nagasaki—and Toyen.

The yacht was swinging clear of the dock now. Friends were waving. Jo Gar saw Juan Arragon climb hurriedly from a
carromatta,
move towards the edge of the dock. Jo waved his short arms—and the Manila police lieutenant grinned and waved back. The city became drowned in a sea of heat waves as the yacht headed out past Cavite and the Rock. After a while Jo went back into his cabin and lay on the berth again.

He dozed and was awakened by a Filipino boy who told him lunch was being served. He dressed, went forward towards the gay-colored awning under which several tables had been placed. The breeze was warm. Randonn smiled at him and gestured towards a table.

“Better than the dining saloon,” he said. “The captain tells me we’re in for a calm trip.”

Jo Gar looked beyond the millionaire; his eyes flickered on those of the Hollander. Vandeer was smiling. The Island detective said quietly:

“That is very—nice to know.”

The island of Formosa was a mile to port of the Eastern Star as the yacht rode steadily through a nasty swell. It was dark; dinner had been served in the saloon, but several of Randonn’s guests had not appeared. During the day the sea had been rough—at dusk, when the rugged coast line of Formosa had been sighted, the yacht was rolling heavily.

Jo Gar walked from the smoking room, turned towards the bridge. The door of Randonn’s cabin was suddenly opened—Randonn stepped to the deck. His face was white, twisted. He stared at the Island detective. Jo went to his side; Randonn shoved him into the cabin, closed the door. He said grimly:

“The pearls—they’re gone!”

Jo Gar half closed his eyes. He said in a quiet tone: “Where did you have them?”

The Englishman took from a small writing desk a camera. It was box-like, old. He opened one end of it. He said bitterly:

“They were in a small chamois bag—stuffed in here. The camera was on my desk. On top of it were two rolls of film. I was sure they would be safe. No one would think of looking in a camera—it was right there on the desk. And no one knew—”