“Yours?” he said.
The boy reached for the weapon. His face was expressionless. There was no fear in his eyes. His hands were steady. He said slowly:
“She not mine—mine out back.”
Jo Gar grinned. Rosa Castrone was standing near a tall cabinet of dark wood. She had gained control of herself; her eyes met the Island detective’s. They held a mocking expression. Jo said:
“But you do dress your house-boy in khaki colored clothes, not white?”
She straightened. “I dress him in khaki,” she said defiantly. “He is a good boy. I dress him as I please. I do not want you here—”
Jo Gar took the knife from the boy’s brown fingers. He said: “I would have gone sooner had you not lied to me.”
She made a clicking sound with her tongue and mouth. It denoted disgust. She motioned to the boy; he went into the small hall, stood near the door that led to the street. Jo Gar said, quietly: “The typhoon is growing more severe—it will be bad for the houses along the Bay.” She said nothing. Jo Gar went out and moved towards the caleso whose driver was huddled down in the seat trying to protect himself from wind and rain. The Island detective did not like machines; he preferred a pony hauled carromatta to the caleso. But a horse got along better in wind and rain.
He instructed the driver to take him back to the Escolta, to cross the Bridge of Spain, skirt the Walled City and drive towards the Bay. The Filipino grumbled; he did not like the wind. But he drove. Jo Gar leaned back in the seat behind. He murmured to himself:
“Sam Ying is no good. He has been kidnapped. Mr. Harnville, I think, is involved. He compliments me by seeking to have me leave Manila. I refuse—a knife is thrown. Very shortly after this Mr. Harnville phones me. Perhaps he is surprised to hear my voice. Perhaps he expected another to answer, in which case he would make sure that person knew he had called, and the exact hour. He felt that he might need an alibi.”
The caleso rocked as a gust of wind caught it. The Filipino shrilled words at the horse. Rain slapped against the wood of the carriage. They were nearing the Escolta. Jo Gar lighted a cigarette with difficulty. He settled back in the seat.
“Sam Ying is being held for ransom but I do not think he will be released when it is paid. Rosa Castrone would like to talk, but she is afraid. I do not think she knows where Sam Ying is a prisoner. Perhaps Mr. Harnville does. Perhaps he is not afraid to talk—”
The Island detective hunched down in the seat, allowed his body to sway with the caleso. His thin lips were pressed tightly together. Twenty minutes later, as the caleso stopped before the palm fringed path of the Harnville house, he smiled at the driver and tipped generously. He was in a good humor. In the wind swayed caleso an idea had come to him—either a very good or a very bad idea.
A Spanish servant opened the door, showed him to a large room that faced the Bay. The house shook under the blasts of wind; Jo Gar was breathing heavily from his short walk up the path. He waited for almost ten minutes before Harnville entered. The Englishman was carefully dressed in duck; he was freshly shaven. But he frowned at Jo.
“A bit late, isn’t it, Señor Gar?” he asked. “Getting along toward midnight.”
Jo nodded. He smiled pleasantly. “I am sorry,” he said. “I’ve come to ask you about Sam Ying.”
Harnville looked puzzled. “Ying?” he muttered. “That fat chink who peddles the bad stuff around the Pasig?”
Jo nodded again. “It is the gentleman,” he said. “He is extremely obese.”
Harnville frowned. “You come to me at this hour of the night to talk about a chink!” he said, raising his voice. “What would I know about Ying?”
The Island detective shrugged. “Perhaps you know he left on the Toya Maru, for China,” he said slowly.
A slow smile spread across Harnville’s long face. “That isn’t a secret, is it?” he asked.
Jo Gar shook
The boy reached for the weapon. His face was expressionless. There was no fear in his eyes. His hands were steady. He said slowly:
“She not mine—mine out back.”
Jo Gar grinned. Rosa Castrone was standing near a tall cabinet of dark wood. She had gained control of herself; her eyes met the Island detective’s. They held a mocking expression. Jo said:
“But you do dress your house-boy in khaki colored clothes, not white?”
She straightened. “I dress him in khaki,” she said defiantly. “He is a good boy. I dress him as I please. I do not want you here—”
Jo Gar took the knife from the boy’s brown fingers. He said: “I would have gone sooner had you not lied to me.”
She made a clicking sound with her tongue and mouth. It denoted disgust. She motioned to the boy; he went into the small hall, stood near the door that led to the street. Jo Gar said, quietly: “The typhoon is growing more severe—it will be bad for the houses along the Bay.” She said nothing. Jo Gar went out and moved towards the caleso whose driver was huddled down in the seat trying to protect himself from wind and rain. The Island detective did not like machines; he preferred a pony hauled carromatta to the caleso. But a horse got along better in wind and rain.
He instructed the driver to take him back to the Escolta, to cross the Bridge of Spain, skirt the Walled City and drive towards the Bay. The Filipino grumbled; he did not like the wind. But he drove. Jo Gar leaned back in the seat behind. He murmured to himself:
“Sam Ying is no good. He has been kidnapped. Mr. Harnville, I think, is involved. He compliments me by seeking to have me leave Manila. I refuse—a knife is thrown. Very shortly after this Mr. Harnville phones me. Perhaps he is surprised to hear my voice. Perhaps he expected another to answer, in which case he would make sure that person knew he had called, and the exact hour. He felt that he might need an alibi.”
The caleso rocked as a gust of wind caught it. The Filipino shrilled words at the horse. Rain slapped against the wood of the carriage. They were nearing the Escolta. Jo Gar lighted a cigarette with difficulty. He settled back in the seat.
“Sam Ying is being held for ransom but I do not think he will be released when it is paid. Rosa Castrone would like to talk, but she is afraid. I do not think she knows where Sam Ying is a prisoner. Perhaps Mr. Harnville does. Perhaps he is not afraid to talk—”
The Island detective hunched down in the seat, allowed his body to sway with the caleso. His thin lips were pressed tightly together. Twenty minutes later, as the caleso stopped before the palm fringed path of the Harnville house, he smiled at the driver and tipped generously. He was in a good humor. In the wind swayed caleso an idea had come to him—either a very good or a very bad idea.
A Spanish servant opened the door, showed him to a large room that faced the Bay. The house shook under the blasts of wind; Jo Gar was breathing heavily from his short walk up the path. He waited for almost ten minutes before Harnville entered. The Englishman was carefully dressed in duck; he was freshly shaven. But he frowned at Jo.
“A bit late, isn’t it, Señor Gar?” he asked. “Getting along toward midnight.”
Jo nodded. He smiled pleasantly. “I am sorry,” he said. “I’ve come to ask you about Sam Ying.”
Harnville looked puzzled. “Ying?” he muttered. “That fat chink who peddles the bad stuff around the Pasig?”
Jo nodded again. “It is the gentleman,” he said. “He is extremely obese.”
Harnville frowned. “You come to me at this hour of the night to talk about a chink!” he said, raising his voice. “What would I know about Ying?”
The Island detective shrugged. “Perhaps you know he left on the Toya Maru, for China,” he said slowly.
A slow smile spread across Harnville’s long face. “That isn’t a secret, is it?” he asked.
Jo Gar shook
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