The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

Ramon Decolta was the pseudonym of Raoul Whitfield, who spent much of his early life in the Philippines, where his father was attached to the Territorial Government in Manila. His familiarity with the Philippines, and Filipinos, enabled him to make a significant breakthrough in the way Asians were portrayed in pulp fiction — and in Western literature in general. Although the Dr. Fu Manchu novels were extremely popular, they portrayed the “Devil Doctor” as a malignant force with no redeeming virtues until the late books in the series. Earl Derr Biggers represented Charlie Chan respectfully, but he had only a minor role in the first book about him, and then was often shown as a comic figure. But with Jo Gar, Whitfield created an important character without condescension in a series of twenty-six short stories, twenty-four of which appeared in Black Mask between February 1930 and July 1933; two lesser stories ran later in the 1930s in Collier’s. It was only after the appearance of Whitfield’s Jo Gar and the success he enjoyed in the pages of Black Mask that Hugh Wiley began to write about Mr. Wong (who became a popular movie character, played by Boris Karloff) and that John P. Marquand created Mr. Moto, famously portrayed in films by Peter Lorre. Gar is a private detective who works from a seedy little office but lives in a fancy gated house with a houseboy, Vincente. Eighteen of the Black Mask Jo Gar stories were collected in Jo Gar’s Casebook (2002). The six connected stories that comprise Rainbow Diamonds have never before been published in book form. They ran in the February through August 1931 issues.

Diamonds of Dread Ramon Decolta

Jo Gar, the Island detective, takes up a trail of justice and vengeance.

The brown-faced driver of the carromatta shrilled words at the skinny pony, tugged on the right rein. He stood up in front of his small seat and waved his left arm wildly. Jo Gar leaned forward and watched the approaching machine sway down the narrow street. It was a closed car, mud-stained. It swung from side to side, traveling at high speed. For a second its engine was pointed to the right of the carromatta, now crowded far to one side of the street. And then it careened straight towards the small vehicle.

The driver shrilled one word. His small, scantily clad body curved from the front seat. For a second Jo Gar had an unobstructed glance of the speeding car. He muttered a sharp “Dios!” — hunched his small figure forward and jumped.

His sandals had not touched the broken, narrow pavement at the right side of the street when his ears heard the splintering of wood. A woman screamed, in a high, short note, down the street. There was another splintering sound — then the cry of the pony. Jo Gar’s diminutive body struck the pavement; he went to his knees, lost balance and rolled over on his back. His pith helmet snapped from his head, thudded like a drum lightly struck, away from him.

He wasn’t hurt, and got slowly to his feet. There was a great deal of excitement in the street. The pony had been dragged to the curb and lay on one side, tangled in the carromatta shafts. It was vainly trying to rise. The vehicle was a wreck. But the machine was still swaying on its way — a horn sounding steadily.

Near the Pasig the street curved sharply to the left. Even as Jo Gar stared after the machine, it swung far to the right. For a second he thought it would crash into the awninged Chinese shop at the curve. But it did not — it swung back into the middle of the street, was lost from sight. The sound of the horn died. Voices all about the Island detective were raised, pitched high. Chinese, Spaniards, Filipinos — the street was suddenly filled with them.

Jo Gar recovered his helmet, placed it on his head. The sun was still hot, though it was sinking over the bay. He moved towards the struggling pony, speaking sharply to the driver, who was shouting wildly after the vanished car. Together they freed the pony from the shafts and harness — it struggled to its feet and stood trembling, nostrils wide. The driver cursed steadily.

A brown, open car came down the street from the direction the other had come, horn screaming. Jo Gar narrowed his gray-blue eyes on the brown uniforms of Manila police — saw the face of Juan Arragon turned momentarily towards him. The Manila lieutenant of police shouted something — then the car was beyond. A wheel lifted wreckage of the carromatta, deposited by the crash car fifty yards distant, and sent it skimming towards the pavement. A voice behind Jo said excitedly:

“What the devil, Señor Gar! That was a close one for you—”

A man dressed in white duck was running down the street towards the wreckage of the carromatta. He wore no helmet. He shouted hoarsely, but slowed down as he neared the spot where the crowd had gathered. Jo Gar said in an unhurried tone:

“What is it, Grassner?”

The man in white duck was short, thick-set. He had the squarish face of a German. He widened blue eyes on the Island detective’s narrowed ones.

“Delgado’s!” he breathed heavily. “Robbery — there were three cars — different directions!”

Jo Gar said slowly: “Delgado’s — yes. Of course. And three cars—”

The carromatta driver was standing near the pony, cursing shrilly. Tears of rage ran down his brown cheeks. There was still much excitement. The Island detective said sharply to the driver:

“Please stop it! Your pony is not much hurt. You will be paid for the carromatta. That is enough!”

Grassner said thickly, breathing with difficulty:

“Herr Mattlien is dead. A bullet hit him.”

Jo Gar frowned. He had little use for Herr Mattlien. But robbery had now become murder. He asked in a low, almost toneless voice:

“You saw — the robbery?”

Grassner blinked at him with his small, blue eyes. He shook his head. People were crowding around them.

“I was in the International Bank, around the corner,” he said more calmly. “There were shots — and I ran out. Cars were moving away from Delgado’s, and Mattlien was running towards them, a gun in his hand. There were more shots — he fell. I went to him — he was dead.”

Jo Gar made a clicking sound. He shook his head, spoke to the carromatta driver.

“I am Señor Gar — come to my office later and I shall help you.”

The driver said: “I am a very poor man—”

The Island detective nodded. “It is true,” he agreed. “But you are also alive.”

He moved along the street, towards the corner near the Escolta, occupied by Delgado’s jewelry shop. A crowd was gathering; there were many police. A deadline had already been established, but Jo Gar was well-known; he went through the entrance, into the warm air stirred by the shop’s ceiling fans.

Arnold Carlysle, the American chief of Manila police, had arrived and was listening to words from the short, black-mustached owner of the place. Liam Delgado’s white hair was ruffled; he moved his hands nervously. Carlysle, listening, saw Jo Gar enter the shop. He beckoned to him.

Delgado was saying in his perfect English: “It was terrible! Ramon — my only son — dying as I came out from the vault—”

He turned away abruptly, covered his face with his long-fingered, brown hands. Carlysle spoke grimly to Jo:

“They used — American methods, Gar. Three cars — with license plates covered with dust. Four of the men came inside. Delgado’s son resisted — they shot him down. Mattlien, the German guard at the International Bank — he was shot down, in the street. They escaped in all directions — but we’ll get them, Gar!”

The Island detective nodded. He said in his toneless voice:

“One of the cars upset the carromatta in which I was approaching the Escolta. It was going towards the Pasig, and Juan Arragon was in close pursuit.”

Carlysle nodded grimly. “We heard the shots — at the station,” he said. “It was a daring robbery.”

Delgado had dropped into a wicker chair, near a counter. Jo Gar said quietly:

“Three machines — a double murder. And robbery — how much did they get?”

Delgado said in a dull tone, softly: “The Von Loffler diamonds. All ten of them. Two hundred thousand dollars, at least. And some small stones—”

Jo Gar widened his gray-blue eyes. Carlysle went to the entrance of the store and gave orders in a steady, hard voice. There was the clang of an ambulance gong, in the distance.

The Island detective said: “The Von Loffler diamonds. But I thought they were in the bank vault—”

Delgado’s tortured eyes met Jo’s. He said in a broken voice:

“Von Loffler brought them here this morning. I was to set them into a comb for his wife.”

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and nodded his head slowly. Delgado got to his feet, hands suddenly clenched at his sides. He said in a terrible voice:

“They will pay — for this! By... they will pay! My only son—”

Jo Gar spoke softly: “It is... very bad. You saw faces?”

The jewelry shop owner said: “They were masked — their whole faces. There were just the eye slits. Four of them were in here. They held guns, and the one who shot my son down was tall and well built. He was standing over Ramon — when I ran in—”

He turned away from the Island detective. Carlysle was coming into the shop again. There was a great deal of excitement outside, but inside there was almost silence. One white-clad clerk was walking back and forth behind a long display counter, muttering softly to himself.

Carlysle came close to Jo and spoke in the same grim tone.

“I have sent word to all the Constabulary stations. We shall pick up the cars in which they escaped.”

Jo said: “Have there been reports of stolen cars lately?”

The Manila Police head frowned. “Two reports — one yesterday — one this morning.”

The Island detective shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“I do not think it will help greatly to find the machines,” he observed.

Carlysle said: “Juan Arragon was in close pursuit. There is a possible chance.”

The Island detective nodded slowly. “Yes,” he agreed. “A chance.”

Liam Delgado faced them suddenly. His eyes were shot with red. He ran trembling fingers through his white hair. He said fiercely:

“There were four of them. I will have them — every one! I am wealthy — and I will use my wealth—”

There was the staccato cough of a motorcycle — a brown-uniformed figure rode to the curb before the shop. He dismounted, hurried inside. He was breathing heavily. He spoke rapidly in Filipino dialect to Carlysle. The head of the Manila police interrupted him sharply, telling him to speak more slowly. Jo Gar said quietly:

“He says Arragon’s car skidded, beyond the bridge. There was a crash into iron railing — the driver was hurt and the car disabled. Pedestrians have told him that Juan stopped another car, and continued the pursuit. The bandit machine was far ahead, running along the right bank of the Pasig.”

Carlysle groaned. “It will get away,” he muttered. “The bandits were masked — the drivers of the three machines may not have been noticed—”

Jo Gar looked towards the back of Liam Delgado. The jewelry shop owner was standing near a counter, his body rigid. Jo said slowly:

“One leaves the Island only by boat.”

Carlysle half closed his eyes. “There are many American visitors here — and English, too. Three boats sail in the next three days. Two of them are big vessels. It will be very difficult—”

He broke off. There was a little silence. Then the police head said slowly:

“But they have the diamonds — the Von Loffler stones. We can search thoroughly, at the docks.”

Jo Gar touched the tips of his stubby, brown fingers to almost colorless lips. His almond-shaped eyes were slitted, three-quarters closed.

“We can do many wise things,” he observed with a grimness strange in him. “But unfortunately, others can do wise things, also.”

At seven o’clock Jo Gar paused before the Manila Times office and read the large-lettered bulletin before which a small crowd had gathered. It told him that none of the bandits had been captured, that they had got away with diamonds valued in excess of two hundred thousand dollars — the “famous Von Loffler ten,” and that they had murdered Ramon Delgado and Herr Mattlien. It further stated that one escaping machine had crashed into a carromatta from which Señor Jo Gar and the driver had barely escaped with their lives. Also Lieutenant of Manila Police Juan Arragon, in pursuit of this crash car, was missing. He had hailed another car, with a Chinese driver, after the one in which he had been riding had skidded and crashed.

The machine, the Chinese and Juan Arragon — all had vanished along the right bank of the Pasig. The whole police force, aided by Island Constabulary, were hunting down the bandits. The Times offered a reward of five thousand dollars, and it was rumored that Liam Delgado would announce an offer of a large sum — for the bandits’ capture. Two of the machines used in the robbery had been found, abandoned. They had each been stolen. They were being examined for fingerprints. It was the most daring crime in the history of Manila.

The Island detective smiled grimly, and then he thought of Juan Arragon and the smile went from his face. He was fond of Arragon — the lieutenant of police had often blundered in the past, but he had always tried. And the item that mentioned his disappearance was not pleasant to read.

Jo turned his back to the bulletin and waited for a caleso to pass — one with a strong-looking horse. He waited only a few minutes.

Across the bridge, on the far side of the black-watered Pasig, there were several police cars. Along the road over which Juan Arragon was supposed to have pursued the car that had struck the carromatta in which Jo had been riding there were Constabulary officers. On the left were moored sampans and various other type craft — on the right of the road there were hundreds of native huts, thatch-roofed and similar.

From the main road other roads angled off — many of them. Relaxed in the caleso, Jo Gar frowned at the roads. Three miles along the river road and the country suddenly became deserted. There were fewer crossroads — native shacks were scattered. The ground was rolling; there were curves. A half dozen times Jo stopped the caleso and made inquiry of natives, but always the answer was the same — nothing had been seen of the pursued car, or of the one in pursuit.

It was growing dark when Jo ordered the caleso driver to turn back. He breathed softly to himself:

“The bandits inside the shop were not recognized. No attention has been paid to the machine drivers; even I would not recognize the man who drove the car that crashed into us. Some say it was a Chinese who was driving the car that Juan commandeered, others say it was a Jap. No one seems to be sure of the type of car. It is always so.”

He shook his head slowly. The caleso reached the Escolta, chief business street of Manila, and proceeded slowly towards the police station. Jo descended, paid the driver and climbed the stairs to the office of Carlysle. The American frowned into his eyes, shook his head slowly:

“Nothing — not a thing!” he breathed. “I don’t like the way things look, Señor Gar. Arragon has dropped from sight. He was alone with that driver of the car he picked up. One of the police officers with him was stunned in the crash — and Juan ordered the other one to look after him. And he’s dropped out of sight.”

Jo said very slowly, wiping his brown forehead with a handkerchief, and narrowing his eyes on a slowly revolving ceiling fan:

“The killers are very desperate. That is natural. They have valuable diamonds, and they have murdered two persons. They would not hesitate—”

He broke off, shrugged. Carlysle swore beneath his breath and watched the Island detective. He said, after a little silence:

“Juan Arragon thought very well of you, Señor Gar. You showed him up many times, but he always was good-natured about it. If you—”

He broke off. Jo Gar smiled a little and said in his toneless voice:

“Herr Mattlien is dead. Ramon Delgado is dead. Ten extremely valuable diamonds are missing. The method of the robbery was very modern. I am interested, of course.”

Carlysle said: “Good. Of course you are. The method was American, I’d say.”

The Island detective shrugged. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But it does not mean that Americans were the bandits.”

Carlysle said bitterly: “I hope not — for their sakes.”

Jo Gar lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes and said very slowly:

“I shall try to find Juan Arragon — but it is important that the vessels are watched. Very important.”

Carlysle said: “I’ve got everything working — we’re trying to find someone who can identify a driver of one of the three cars. The descriptions are all vague — guesswork.”

Jo Gar turned his small body slightly. He said in a tone touched with grimness:

“I will return for a few minutes to my office, then I shall move about.”

Carlysle’s eyes were narrowed. He said with a touch of eagerness:

“You will let me know — as soon as you learn something?”

Jo moved towards the door of the office. He nodded his head a little.

“If I learn something — I will let you know,” he said quietly, and went down the stairs to the street.

His small office was not far off the Escolta; the street was narrow and curving. There were few people on it; the shops were small and most of them had closed for the night. It was almost dark when he turned in at the entrance and climbed the narrow, creaking stairs. He climbed slowly, conserving his energy.

At the landing before his office he paused a few seconds, stood in the faint light from a small, hanging bulb. Then he went towards the door and reached for the knob. His office was seldom locked; he kept little of importance there.

When he opened the door there was a faint breeze from the window. He reached for the switch — and white light filled the room. For a second he stood motionless, his shoulders and head slightly forward. His eyes looked towards the wicker chair near the small table.

He recognized the uniform first. It was khaki in color. Next he recognized the figure. Juan Arragon’s body was half turned away from him — head and shoulders rested on the table. The helmet was not in sight — Arragon was bareheaded. His dark hair glistened in the white light. There was a definite inertness about the position of the body.

Jo Gar said very steadily: “Juan — Juan Arragon!”

From the Pasig there was the shrill note of a river launch whistle. A driver called in a high-pitched voice in the street below.

Jo Gar sighed. Then he stepped into his office, closed the door. He went slowly to the side of Juan Arragon. He looked first at the head, with the half-opened eyes. Then he found the two bullet holes, not far from the heart. There was little blood.

There were books on the floor; they had fallen as though swept from the table with force. An ink bottle had crashed and broken. Near the right, outstretched fingers of the dead police lieutenant was a bit of white paper. A stubby pencil lay beyond it. There were scrawled words on the paper. Jo Gar leaned forward and read them. After a few seconds he reread them, aloud.

“ ‘Calle Padrone — house in palmetto thick — high porch — shutters — go at once — I am shot — French—’ ”

That was all. Jo Gar straightened and turned his back on his friend. He went to the window and looked down towards the street, unseeingly. He felt very badly. Juan Arragon was dead, shot to death. They had worked together on many crimes. Now that was finished. Often Juan had been wrong, but he had always been fair.

Jo Gar slowly lighted a cigarette. He drew a deep breath and moved his lips a little. He said:

“I will find them, of course. They have murdered him. And Ramon Delgado. And Mattlien. Because of diamonds — ten of them.”

He stood motionless for several seconds. Then he shrugged, turned and went from the office. He did not look again at Juan Arragon. He walked, not too rapidly, the short distance to the police station.

Carlysle said, looking with wide eyes at the body of Juan Arragon:

“God — they got him! But he scrawled the address of the hide-out. We’ll get out there—”

Jo Gar shook his head slowly: “If you send men there — be very careful,” he said tonelessly. “The address was meant for me.”

Carlysle blinked. “Yes,” he agreed, “but that doesn’t make any difference—”

Jo Gar said softly: “You see the pencil — it is near the right-hand fingers. The writing — it is in English.”

Carlysle frowned. “It’s Arragon’s writing,” he breathed. “He could write English.”

The Island detective nodded. “He wrote with his left hand,” he said quietly. “If he were dying and wished to give me directions, I do not think he would write in English. And how did he get here?”

Carlysle stared at the dead police lieutenant. He muttered something the Island detective did not hear. Jo Gar said slowly:

“He was shot — and brought here. His handwriting was imitated. It is clever work. But they did not remember that Juan was left-handed. And I understand Filipino — he would have scrawled words to me in that language.”

Carlysle said: “They wanted you — to go to Calle Padrone — to the house in the thicket—”

Jo Gar said very quietly: “I should be very careful how your men approach the house.”

The American police head frowned. “They’re afraid of you, Jo,” he said grimly. “They planned this crime carefully. They know Juan has worked with you. They thought they’d get you — out of the way—”

He broke off. The muscles of the Island detective’s mouth twitched. He said:

“It is possible.”

Carlysle looked down at the scrawl. “They figured the shaky writing would get by — with you thinking Arragon was in bad shape when he wrote it. They didn’t know — he was left-handed. And I’d forgotten—”

He checked himself. Jo Gar spoke very quietly:

“The killers know of Señor Gar,” he said. “That is unfortunate.”

Carlysle, his eyes still narrowed on the scrawl, spoke grimly.

“There is this word ‘French,’ ” he said. “They wanted you to believe their nationality was French. That eliminates something — they’re not French.”

Jo Gar said nothing. He went to the window of his office and stood with his back to Carlysle and several of his men. The American police head gave orders. Then he spoke to the Island detective.

“The coroner will be here soon. I’m going to the Calle Padrone, with my men—”

Jo nodded. “I shall see you in a few hours,” he said quietly, and added in a toneless voice: “I hope.”

Carlysle frowned. “Delgado is offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward,” he said. “I’m going to have the boat passengers carefully checked, the luggage searched.”

He moved towards the door of the office. Jo Gar followed him. Carlysle said: “You going my way?”

The Island detective shook his head. His eyes were almost closed.

“I think it will be better for both of us,” he said softly, “if I go alone.”

Von Loffler sat across the table from Delgado and Jo Gar. He was a German who had lived many years in the Islands. His body was lean and he was not young. He looked at Delgado’s white hair and said thickly:

“It is very bad. The diamonds are insured, of course. But in England. I sympathize with Señor Delgado, and I agree with him. You have done much good work in the Islands, Señor Gar. These bandits and killers must be caught.”

Jo Gar said nothing. Delgado spoke in a firm, low voice.

“Señor Gar is more familiar with conditions here than other detectives might be. Lieutenant Arragon was his friend. I think we have much — the three of us — to work for, together. But Señor Gar — it is his business.”

Von Loffler nodded. His face was grim. His blue eyes narrowed on Delgado’s.

“Your son, Liam,” he said. “Señor Gar’s friend. And my diamonds.” His eyes flickered to Jo’s. “You will work for us, Señor?” he asked.

Jo Gar smiled with his thin, colorless lips pressed together. He parted them and said:

“Yes — but I feel it will be difficult. This was not an ordinary crime. It may mean that I must leave the Islands.”

Delgado said firmly: “I want my son’s killers — no matter where you must go.”

Von Loffler nodded his head slowly. “It is right,” he said. “You have the description of the stones — it is the best I can do.”

The Island detective nodded. He said very quietly:

“Just the three of us must know what I am doing. Even the American, Carlysle — he must not know. I shall need funds. It may prove expensive.”

Delgado shrugged. “That is simple,” he said.

Jo Gar got to his feet. “When Carlysle took his men to the Calle Padrone address he found only a deserted shack. There was not a clue — nothing. But had I gone—”

He spread his stubby-fingered hands. Von Loffler said:

“It will be dangerous, Señor. But that is your business.”

The Island detective looked expressionlessly at the room’s ceiling.

“It is so,” he agreed. “It is my business.”

Carlysle was smiling when Jo Gar moved along the cell block of the old police station and reached his side. He spoke with enthusiasm.

“I sent for you — we’ve got one of them. It’s just a matter of a few hours now, and we’ll have the others.”

Jo Gar made a clicking sound. He looked at the American head of police with widened eyes.

“That is very good,” he said slowly. “But how—”

Carlysle cut in on his calm voice. “I didn’t want you to waste time running around the city.”

Jo lowered his lids slightly. The change in the manner of Carlysle was very evident. He was almost patronizing now. He had one of the bandits — he would shortly have the others. He had done it without Jo Gar’s aid.

The Island detective was silent. Carlysle said with a narrow-lipped smile:

“Lieutenant Mallagin picked up the Chinese driver of the car Arragon commandeered, about an hour ago. Just after eleven. He was staggering along the Pasig road — on the other bank. He’d been badly beaten and was soaked. They had tried to drown him, but he regained consciousness and let his body float with the current. Then he crawled ashore. He recognized one of the bandits — a Filipino. We’ve traced the crime to Cantine, the half-breed that we turned loose from Billibid three months ago. He ran the hold-up.”

Jo Gar said, in a slightly puzzled tone: “But you said you had one of them—”

Carlysle was excited; he made gestures with his hands.

“We’ll have the one he recognized,” he stated. “I meant we had found the Chinese driver.”

Jo Gar said slowly: “That is — good.”

Carlysle said: “I’ve got all the men out for the pick-up, and I didn’t want you going off at an angle.”

The Island detective half closed his eyes and spoke softly:

“And what became of the machine of this Chinese?” he asked.

Carlysle said: “He doesn’t know. A bullet hit Arragon as they were gaining on the other car. He collapsed. The Chinese used brakes — but the other car had stopped, and he was rushed. They knocked him unconscious — the road was deserted; it was around a curve.”

Jo Gar said slowly: “And you think Cantine was the leader — the half-breed?”

Carlysle made a grunting sound. “Sure of it,” he snapped. “The Filipino that this Chinese identified was one that served a term at Billibid — he was one of Cantine’s men. We’ll have them all pretty quick.”

The Island detective spoke in his toneless voice:

“That will be — very good.”

The American head of police chuckled. “We won’t have to worry about the boats that are sailing tomorrow,” he said. “Didn’t care much for that job, anyway. Passengers are easily insulted. It would have been difficult.”

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke above his head.

“I did not think this Cantine — possessed so much courage,” he said slowly.

Carlysle grunted. “He learned something — and took a chance,” he said. “He wasn’t so smooth. There was too much killing.”

The Island detective said: “May I talk — with the Chinese?”

Carlysle frowned a little. But he nodded his head.

“I’ll go along with you,” he replied.

Jo Gar smiled with his eyes. “I shall be honored,” he said simply.

The Island detective rose from the small wicker chair and smiled at Carlysle. He narrowed his eyes on the brown, fat face of the Chinese.

“He is of good breed,” he said slowly. “He speaks without becoming muddled, and clearly. You have been lucky.”

Carlysle smiled expansively. The head of the Manila police was in a genial humor.

“Not lucky, but rather careful, Gar,” he said.

Jo shrugged. “He staggered right into your hands,” he pointed out. “I meant that it was fortunate he was not killed — shot or drowned.”

Carlysle said nothing. He turned towards the door leading from the room in which Jo Gar had been questioning the Chinese. It opened as he faced it; Lieutenant Mallagin entered. He was breathing heavily, obviously excited.

He spoke in broken English. “I have captured — one of Cantine’s men. He is hurt — very much. He fell from a sampan deck — but will not talk. The doctor — he say he may die quick—”

Carlysle frowned. Jo Gar was watching Mallagin with expressionless eyes. He glanced at the Chinese — the man’s mouth was half opened; he was staring at the chunky-bodied Filipino.

The chief of police frowned. Mallagin said in a husky tone:

“I think it would be wise — to take this Chinese — to him — while he lives. He then might talk—”

Carlysle nodded. “Yes,” he said decisively. We’ll get him right there. Where is — this man?”

Mallagin said: “In the shop of Santoni, who deals in fruit — not far from the Spanish bridge. He is very bad.”

Carlysle nodded. He looked towards the Chinese. He said sharply:

“You are going with us — you will identify a man who is hurt.”

The fear that was in the eyes of the Chinese seemed to grow. He mumbled something that Jo Gar failed to understand; his hands were moving about strangely. The Island detective said:

“You think it is wise—”

The expression in the American’s eyes checked him. He smiled slightly and bowed. Carlysle said slowly:

“I’m taking charge of this case myself. In the past Juan Arragon did much good, and much harm, poor devil!”

The Island detective said nothing. Carlysle spoke to Lieutenant Mallagin.

“We will use my private car. There will be the driver and myself, and the Chinese. Yourself, of course — and pick two men in whom you have confidence.”

Mallagin nodded and turned away. Jo Gar said in a quiet voice:

“I should like to accompany you. Juan Arragon was my friend—”

There was a touch of coldness in Carlysle’s voice.

“I’m sorry — there will not be enough room. But I shall keep you informed—”

The Island detective narrowed his almond-shaped eyes. He said softly:

“I might replace one of the two men you told Lieutenant Mallagin to choose.”

Carlysle said steadily: “It is a police matter — and you are not of the police. Go ahead, Lieutenant — get your men.”

Jo Gar bowed slightly. He said in a faintly amused voice:

“I would choose one who can make notes of what your injured man may say.”

Carlysle frowned. “Of course,” he said in a hard tone. “That is understood.”

Mallagin looked stupidly at Carlysle. Jo Gar watched the Chinese with eyes that were almost closed. Carlyle glanced at the Island detective as he moved towards the door of the room. He said:

“I’m sorry, Gar — but this is a police case.”

Jo smiled a little. “I am sure it is being handled very well,” he said in a peculiar tone, and went through the doorway.

The black closed car of Carlyle pulled away from the police station, cut across the Escolta and headed towards the Pasig.

After a time they were close to the river on a street running to the Spanish bridge.

A half block behind, Jo Gar sat in a machine he had hired from Cormanda. His small body was not relaxed; in his right hand he gripped a Colt. Abruptly Cormanda jerked his head and said in a rising voice:

“Jo — they’re slowing down—”

The Island detective leaned forward, caught a glimpse of two red lights, across the road. He said in a swift voice:

“They were not repairing — at dusk—”

The Carlysle machine had almost reached the two lights. It halted. Jo Gar said:

“Stop, Cormanda—”

The small, open car stopped. The chauffeur of the car ahead got to the street and looked back at the car in which Cormanda and Jo Gar sat. He gestured towards the two red lights. Jo Gar spoke softly to his own driver:

“Get down — Cormanda — it is not good—”

The first machine-gun started a staccato clatter from an alley on the right. Almost instantly there was the drum of a second one — from a shuttered window on the left. Metal started to make sound. The chauffeur ran a few feet and sprawled to the street. At that moment, the Chinese sprang from the car, doubled over and ran to a door nearest the car. He disappeared. The other occupants of the car were crouched, out of sight, below the metal sides.

Jo Gar slipped out the right side of the small car and bent his body forward. He ran back over the street, keeping his short arms close to his sides and his head low. Suddenly he turned and moved down a second alley. One machine-gun had stopped drumming, but the other was still beating sound against the quiet of the night.

In the darkness of the alley Jo Gar paused for a second. He breathed heavily as he got his head slightly exposed and looked towards the Carlysle machine:

“The Chinese — was lying—”

A door shot open — the figure of the Chinese was pitched into the alley. Almost instantly it jerked, half spun. Then the man dropped to the pavement. The second machine-gun started to clatter again.

Jo Gar muttered: “And yet — they murdered him!”

Cormanda was reversing the small car now. It whined back from the red lights and the drum of bullets. Jo Gar swung back into the alley, moved rapidly along it. At the far end he saw the Pasig water and the silhouette of a sampan.

The machine-gun fire died. No sound but the whine of the reversing car came from the street behind the Island detective. He thought: They got the diamonds, but they were forced to kill. Ramon Delgado, Mattlien — Juan Arragon. And now the Chinese, perhaps others. Why do they trap and kill? Is it because they must leave the Islands? He thought: It is because they are clever and must clear the way.

He reached the row of sampans, moored abreast. There was a narrow path between piled, rotted planks and empty fish baskets. It led towards the next alley. Jo Gar gripped his Colt firmly and moved along it. At intervals he stopped and listened. The street he had left was very quiet. Only the river sounds reached his ears.

He had almost reached the next alley when he saw faint shadow. It was directly ahead — moving slowly.

A machine made sound in the distance; the engine getting into a roar — and dying gradually. A voice reached the ears of the Island detective; it sounded much like Carlysle’s, raised hoarsely.

And then the shadow ahead of him became a figure. Jo Gar lifted his automatic and said very quietly:

“Raise your arms!”

The figure swung towards him — he caught a glimpse, in the wavering, reflected light from a sampan, of a brown, lean face and wide, staring eyes. The man drew his breath in sharply — his hands swung upward. But the left one went up first, and the right brushed the belt of his soiled duck trousers as it moved.

Jo Gar said sharply: “No!”

The reflected light caught the gleam of the blade. Jo Gar steadied the muzzle of his automatic and squeezed the trigger. He rocked back on his heels, curved his body to one side. The other man’s right wrist made swift movement, even as his body jerked convulsively. The knife dug its blade point into the wood of a basket within six inches of Jo’s left arm.

The man sank to his knees and pressed both hands against his belt, at the stomach. He groaned. Jo Gar stepped out from the piled baskets and jerked a small flashlight from his pocket. For a second he stood close to the man who had fallen, and listened for sound from the alley ahead. There was none. But in the distance voices were calling.

He flashed the beam on the one hunched near his feet, widened his almond-shaped eyes. Then he moved the beam to the knife that had been thrown. He breathed very slowly:

“Malay—”

He kneeled beside the groaning man, held the gun close to him. He said quietly, in the Malay tongue:

“Why was the Chinese murdered?”

The man widened his eyes and shook his head. Jo Gar smiled coldly and pressed the muzzle against the man’s right side.

“If I shoot again — you will die,” he said. “You were with others — what were their names?”

The Malay shook his head. He was muttering to himself. Jo Gar said:

“The Chinese told the police that a man named Cantine committed the great robbery and murder. He was lying — and yet he was murdered. Why?”

The Malay was getting his breath with difficulty now. There were footfalls in the alley from which he had come. Jo Gar lifted his head, and heard the voice of Lieutenant Mallagin, cautioning one of his men. The Island detective spoke softly:

“Quickly — the police come. I am not of them. Why was the Chinese killed?”

The eyes of the man hunched beside him were staring. He said weakly, in his own tongue:

“His family — was given money. He was to lie — and then to die. He was — very poor.”

Jo Gar straightened a little and sighed. Then he lowered his head again.

“Who made — the arrangement?” he asked quietly.

The Malay shook his head. His body relaxed a little; he rolled over on his back. He said very weakly:

“It was — the one who walks badly — always in white—”

His lips closed; he shivered — cried out a little. There was a convulsive movement of his body, then it was still. From the alley Mallagin called:

“Who — is that?”

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and rose. He was thinking: The one who walks badly — always in white. But he said in a steady voice:

“It is Señor Gar — I have shot one of them.”

He heard the surprised exclamation from Lieutenant Mallagin. The Filipino came in close, stared down at the dead man. Carlysle, breathing heavily, was behind the lieutenant.

“The Chinese is dead — the chauffeur is dead,” he said. “One of my men is wounded. Mallagin and I escaped. You followed us?”

Jo Gar nodded. He said quietly: “This one tried to knife me — I was forced to shoot. He did not die instantly.”

Carlysle’s eyes widened. He said eagerly: “He talked?”

Jo nodded. His voice was almost toneless. “Cantine did not commit the robbery or murders,” he said. “The Chinese was paid to lie to you — and then to die.”

Carlysle stared at Jo. “The driver — paid to lie and then—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “He was not the driver,” he said slowly. “I spoke to him about machines — he knew very little. I was suspicious, and followed when you got word that one of Cantine’s men had been hurt.”

Carlysle breathed heavily. “You think it was a plan — to throw us off—” Jo Gar smiled a little. He glanced down at the dead man.

“If this man had not talked — you would have been after Cantine and his men” — he said quietly, a wrong scent.

Carlysle nodded his head very slowly. “He said nothing about who—”

Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “I have told you what he said,” he replied, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, Carlysle was looking down at the dead man and frowning.

“We shall have to watch the boats,” he said grimly. “They have the diamonds — and they have killed many men.” He looked narrowly at the Island detective. “They got away with their machine-guns — all but this man,” he said. “You will help us, Señor Gar?”

Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips. His colorless eyes seemed to be looking beyond the American head of police. He shook his head very slowly.

“No,” he said. “It is — a police matter.”

Carlysle stiffened. “Juan Arragon was your friend,” he reminded.

Jo Gar stopped smiling. “It is so,” he agreed. “But I will not help you, Señor Carlysle.”

The American turned away, muttering something that the Island detective did not hear. Lieutenant Mallagin moved after his chief. Jo Gar looked down at the figure of the Malay and breathed very softly:

“ ‘The one who walks badly — always in white.’ ”

He sighed, and his eyes half closed. He glanced towards the knife handle, protruding from the basket wood. River odors were in his nostrils — a pony whinnied in the distance. Jo Gar said very slowly, in a half whisper:

“For Juan Arragon — I will help — myself.”

The Man in White Ramon Decolta

An adventure of Jo Gar, the little Island detective, in search of murderers and their loot.

The Cheyo Maru took red color from the setting sun; her boat deck was soaked in it. The sea was calm; even the white wings of the gulls that rose and dipped astern were tinted red. Manila and the Island of Cavite were no longer to be seen astern. There were few people in the deck chairs; the first dinner gong had already sounded.

Jo Gar relaxed his short body, kept his almond-shaped eyes almost closed. Now and then he lifted his brown-paper cigarette, inhaled. It was almost as though he slept between puffs, but that was not so.

When the Japanese steward came rapidly towards his chair, the Island detective lifted his head slightly. The steward had been well tipped, and had been asked only a simple task. He reached Jo Gar’s chair now, bowed jerkily.

“He has left his cabin,” he said. “The man in white — the one who limps. He is coming.”

He spoke in his native tongue, which was the tongue in which Jo had spoken to him. When the Island detective jerked his head in a gesture of dismissal, the steward moved towards the stern of the liner and vanished from sight. Jo turned his head a little and watched the man in white approach. He was of medium size; dressed in duck. He had a lean face, and it was as though the sun had not touched it. It was almost the color of the spotless suit he wore. He moved slowly, as Jo had seen him move at the dock, several hours before the boat had sailed. There was a very slight limp; it appeared that he stepped lightly when weight was on his left leg.

The man’s face was turned away from him as he approached the spot opposite Jo’s chair. But as he neared it he took his eyes from the water, looked at Jo in a swift, searching glance. The man in white had blue eyes; they were small and expressionless. His lips were thin, and without much color.

He stopped suddenly, his eyes still on Jo. He said, a slow smile on his face:

“Señor Gar, isn’t it?”

Jo sat up and nodded. He even managed a little smile. He was very surprised, and tried not to let the other man know this.

The one in white nodded his head and seemed very pleased. His voice was soft, almost careless.

“Leaving the Islands?” he asked.

Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. “I have relatives in Honolulu,” he said. “Leaving the Islands — for more islands.”

The one in white chuckled a little. He said in an easy tone:

“I am Ferraro. For a time I was connected with the Constabulary. I have heard of you.”

Jo Gar bowed. Ferraro’s English was good though not perfect. There was a clipping of words, a cutting short, despite his leisurely manner of talking.

Ferraro said: “You leave at a bad time. A terrible crime — Delgado’s son, that watchman at the bank. And Juan Arragon. All dead.”

He shook his head. Jo Gar said: “You were acquainted with Señor Arragon?”

Ferraro frowned. “No,” he said. “But I had heard of him.”

Jo Gar relaxed again, inhaled. The one in white looked at the sea, shrugging.

“The murderers will be caught, of course. And the Von Loffler diamonds found. It is almost always so.”

Jo Gar closed his eyes and nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “It is so — almost always.”

Ferraro looked at him again. “There are few passengers aboard, who came on at Manila. But perhaps you do not care to be addressed as Señor Gar?”

Jo widened his gray-blue eyes. “Why should I object?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

The one in white said: “Well, there has been this robbery — these murders. Only two days ago. There was a thorough search at the dock. I was asked many questions, myself. It seemed amusing.”

Jo Gar said: “And you were formerly with the Constabulary?”

They both smiled; then Jo Gar said: “No, there is no secrecy. I am not of the police — I rather dislike the American who heads the force.”

Ferraro said: “But Juan Arragon — he was one of your countrymen — a good friend—”

He paused, shrugged narrow shoulders. “At least, so I have heard,” he said. “Having been in the Constabulary—”

Jo Gar nodded. “It is not so,” he said quietly. “Juan Arragon was of the Manila police. He was always fighting me.”

Ferraro said: “Oh, so that was it, Señor?”

The Island detective nodded very slowly. The man in white looked towards the water; then his eyes came back to Jo’s again.

“I am dining alone,” he said. “Will you join me?”

Jo thanked him and declined. “I do not think I shall dine tonight,” he said. “My stomach pains me.”

Ferraro expressed regret. He spoke a few words more and moved aft. His limp was barely noticeable, but it existed. Jo Gar reclined in his chair and remembered several things. Diamonds worth two hundred thousand dollars had been stolen from Delgado’s jewelry store, on the Escolta, in Manila. Delgado’s son had been murdered. A watchman had been murdered. And Juan Arragon had been murdered, after he had vanished in pursuit of one of the fleeing machines. His body had been returned to Jo Gar’s small office, with a forged note attached. And later in the night, while trailing a clue, the Island detective had been forced to shoot a Malay who had come at him with a knife. The Malay had talked. He had spoken of the leader of the diamond thieves as “the one who walks badly — always in white.”

For Liam Delgado, whose son was dead — and Von Loffler, who wished to recover the ten diamonds, Jo Gar had left the Islands. He had left aboard the Cheyo Maru because another was leaving on the same boat — a man dressed in white, who limped when he moved.

Jo Gar shrugged his narrow shoulders. The sunset red was almost gone now. The Island detective thought:

When a man is a thief and a murderer he does not seek out one who hunts down thieves and murderers. And yet this Ferraro has approached me, has invited me to dine.

A little grimness came into the gray-blue eyes of the Island detective.

“Sometimes such a man is very confident,” he half whispered. “And sometimes he has been of the police.” He nodded his head a little and ceased to smile. “And sometimes,” he murmured very softly, “a dying man lies.” The Island detective sighed. “It is very difficult,” he said softly. “Even my own thoughts contradict.”

When Jo Gar turned his key in the lock of his cabin, stepped inside, he closed the door slowly behind him. He hummed a little Spanish tune, and his body was rigid. There were his two bags — and they were opened, the contents spilled about. The lock of his small trunk had been smashed; the tray lay crosswise. His clothes were scattered. The berth sheets had been ripped up — the cabin was almost a wreck.

Jo stood with his back to the door, stopped humming. He lighted one of his cigarettes, moved about the cabin carefully, using his eyes. He touched nothing. After a few minutes he pressed a button and waited for the Japanese steward. When the man came he was breathing heavily, and his black, round eyes were wide. They grew wider as he surveyed the cabin. The Island detective made a little gesture with his brown hands.

“You see,” he said. “There has been a search.”

The steward broke into his native tongue. He was very excited. He had just entered the cabin of Señor Ferraro, who was of the Philippine Constabulary. And it, too, had been entered. Luggage had been ransacked. An officer of the boat had been notified.

Jo Gar made a clicking sound and nodded his head slowly.

“A clumsy person — this thief,” he said. “I have nothing of value here. I am a poor man. Yet see how he has thrown things about.”

The steward shrilled words — apologetic words. He had been away from the section only a short time. He had come on deck to do as Señor Gar had asked — to tell him that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin. He had come quickly and had taken a shortcut to the spot in which Señor Gar’s chair had been placed.

Jo Gar quieted the man. He narrowed his gray-blue eyes on the ransacked trunk, then turned abruptly. He said as he moved through the doorway to the narrow corridor:

“You do not think the cabin was entered — before you went above to tell me that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin?”

The steward was sure neither cabin had been entered before that time. Señor Ferraro’s cabin was only fifty feet distant from Señor Gar’s. And it was in the same condition.

Jo Gar said: “Perhaps there are others in similar state.”

He went along the narrow corridor to a wider one. The steward followed. Two ship’s officers, clad in white uniforms and gold braid, approached. The Chief Steward came from another direction. There was much swift talk — the Japanese who had charge of Jo’s cabin led the way to the one occupied by Señor Ferraro.

It was an outside cabin, much similar to Jo’s. It was in the same sort of disorder. Jo looked in — the others went inside. The Third Officer said in English:

“And your cabin was entered, too, Señor?”

Jo nodded. “I was on deck,” he said. “Señor Ferraro talked with me, about twenty minutes ago. Then he went to dine.”

The Third Officer said: “You are friends?”

Jo shook his head. “Acquaintances,” he corrected.

There was more talk. The Third Officer suggested that Señor Ferraro be notified, and while he was offering the suggestion the one with the limp came along the corridor. His blue eyes widened on the group. The Chief Steward said apologetically:

“Your cabin has been entered, Señor.”

Ferraro looked at Jo Gar, went to the doorway of his cabin. His eyes moved over the opened bags, broken trunk locks. He drew in a deep breath and said slowly:

“But why? I am a poor man—”

Jo Gar chuckled a little. He said: “Those were my words, Señor. I, too, have been treated like this.”

The one in white stared at Jo. Then he smiled a little with his thin lips. His face was bloodless; he had thin, yellowish hair.

His lips parted; he was about to speak, but he changed his mind. He went into the cabin and poked around among the clothes of a large bag. The officers were speaking with Jo when Ferraro uttered an exclamation.

“Ah — a woman!” he said.

Turning, he held out a white hand. In his palm lay the pin. It was perhaps two inches long. It had a setting so cheap that it could be immediately seen. There were a half dozen stones in the pin — but one was missing. They were glass — the glitter was false; they had not the appearance of even a clever imitation of diamonds.

The Third Officer took the pin and inspected it carefully. Jo Gar noted the cheapness of the metal — the flat backing. The pin clasp was bent — the whole thing a cheap job.

Ferraro stood close to the Third Officer. He said slowly, in his clipped-word manner:

“The sort of thing you buy on the Escolta for a few pesos. Cheap stuff — it fell while she was ransacking the place.”

The Third Officer nodded. “You have not suffered a loss?” he asked.

Señor Ferraro shrugged. “I have nothing of importance — to lose,” he stated.

He took the bar pin from the officer’s fingers. He juggled it carelessly about in the palm of his right hand, without looking at it.

The Chief Steward addressed Jo Gar.

“And you, Señor Gar? You have not lost anything of importance?”

Jo Gar smiled at Ferraro. “I am much in the position of Señor Ferraro,” he said quietly.

The Third Officer spoke in a peculiar tone.

“Neither of you gentlemen possess anything of great value — and yet each of you has been robbed.”

Ferraro smiled a little, his blue eyes on the half-closed ones of the Island detective.

“It is very strange,” he said softly.

Jo Gar spoke tonelessly. “It seems very strange,” he agreed. “I shall return to my cabin and try to get things in order.”

The Chief Steward said grimly: “We will make an investigation, of course. Perhaps the pin—”

Ferraro handed it to the Chief Steward. He looked at Jo.

“Señor Gar is quite skilled in these matters,” he said slowly. “He is an interested person, in this case.”

The Island detective smiled. “And you were formerly with the Island Constabulary,” he reminded. “You see with what little esteem the intruder has regarded us.”

The Third Officer said: “Perhaps it has been just a blundering affair — an attempt at quick robbery.”

Jo Gar nodded his head, and kept his brown face serious.

“That is very possible,” he agreed, and moved along the corridor towards his own cabin.

He was interrupted several times while he was adjusting things. It was not easy to think clearly, with so many people about. At ten o’clock the Third Officer came into the cabin, shutting the door behind him. He said very quietly:

“In matters such as this we always are suspicious of the cabin steward. We have questioned him at length. He states that you have tipped him generously, and that you had him come to you, on deck this evening, and warn you that Señor Ferraro had left his cabin and was going above for a bit of air before dining.”

The Third Officer paused. Jo Gar nodded, his brown face expressionless.

“It is so,” he said. “You wish to know the reason?”

The officer spread his hands in a little gesture, half of apology, half of assent. Jo said:

“I am weary of discussing Island matters. I wished to be alone. With the cabin steward advising me in time, I hoped to avoid Señor Ferraro for a few days. Unfortunately, I was unable to rise from the deck chair in time. So we met.”

The Third Officer frowned. Then he nodded his head, very slowly. He said:

“Thank you, Señor Gar.”

Jo smiled pleasantly. He said in a careless voice:

“You are keeping that imitation thing — that bar pin?”

The officer shook his head. “There was no loss to Señor Ferraro,” he said. “We shall make adjustment for any baggage damage. He asked me to leave the pin with him. He intends, I believe, to do some quiet investigating. He was with the Constabulary.”

Jo Gar nodded pleasantly. “That is quite the wisest thing to do, I think,” he said.

The Third Officer expressed regrets. The captain was disturbed. Such things seldom happened aboard the Cheyo Maru.

Jo Gar sighed. The Third Officer went from the cabin, turning at the door and smiling pleasantly. When he had gone Jo removed his palm beach suiting and got into clothes that were of dark silk. He waited a short time, went to the deck quickly, carrying a light blanket that bulked over his arm. His face held a tight smile as he approached the spot where his deck chair had been.

The night was warm and there was no moon. Most of the deck chairs had been collected and were being stacked together. Jo moved towards the deck steward, a tall Jap with eyes that were very black. He said:

“Please return my chair. I wish to rest a while on deck — I am sleepy and my cabin is stuffy.”

The deck steward bowed. Jo showed him the spot, one that was fairly secluded, aft of the second stack. When the chair had been set up he relaxed in it. The deck steward smiled and moved away.

After a short time Jo turned his head to one side and appeared to doze. The deck steward passed him, treading very softly. He halted, and through slitted eyes the Island detective saw that he was staring at him. Then the steward moved hurriedly forward.

Jo Gar lay motionless in the chair. There was the steady vibration of the engines, and the faint sound of steam reaching the air. From some spot below music reached the boat deck. Jo said very quietly:

“How calm the sea is!”

His lips held an ironical smile. He breathed evenly, closed his almond-shaped eyes.

Five minutes later there were three shots. The first one was a muffled, Maxim-silenced pop-cough. The second was smothered but had more sound. The third was a sharp crack sound.

Jo Gar, his small body tense, stepped out from behind the ventilator — caught sight of a black figure moving aft. He bent his body low, ran along the deck, his automatic gripped tightly in his right-hand fingers. From some spot forward a voice called with the shrill of the Jap tongue a word that sounded like:

“Hai!”

The dark figure ahead had reached the steps of the port companionway. It seemed almost to dive down them. Jo Gar slowed his pace, approached the steps carefully. When he reached the bottom of them he heard shouts. Men were coming up from the deck below.

He tried to get past them, but a short, chunky man caught him by the right arm and tried to get his gun away. Jo said sharply:

“Stop — a man came down here! I am after — him.”

He was breathing heavily. The chunky one wore a white uniform. He said in bad English:

“I... ship police. I see no one—”

Other men were coming up. Several of them were in dinner clothes. Jo Gar watched the Third Officer come into the group. He shook off the grip of the ship policeman, said grimly:

“I was on deck. Three shots were fired. A figure in black ran towards this companionway. I followed.”

A man in dinner clothes said: “I heard only two shots — from above.”

The Third Officer was beside Jo. He spoke in a soft tone.

“You are dressed in black, also, Señor Gar.”

Jo Gar nodded. “It is less conspicuous,” he replied. “I was on deck — and wished to be inconspicuous.”

The Third Officer said: “Why?”

Jo Gar raised his voice, but did not answer the question.

“And none of this group saw the man I was pursuing?” he asked.

None in the group had seen any person in black — but Jo. The Third Officer said:

“The shots were fired — at you?”

Jo Gar shook his head. “At my deck chair,” he said quietly. “I was some distance away.”

He read suspicion in the Third Officer’s eyes. The one in dinner clothes, who had spoken before, said grimly:

“You say there were three shots — I heard only two.”

Jo Gar shrugged. “The first was Maxim-silenced,” he replied. “If you will come to the boat deck—”

He broke off, turning. He went up the steps of the companionway, closely followed by the Third Officer. The others trailed along behind. When they reached the boat deck there were several other people. Two stood near the spot in which the steward had placed Jo’s chair.

The Third Officer used his flashlight; he muttered an exclamation as the beam fell across the chair. Jo Gar stood to one side, smiling a little. His eyes were on the brown mask that had rolled from the chair. He said:

“That is a mask that Sebastino, the Spaniard in Manila, made for me. It is a good likeness.”

He moved forward, lifted it. The others crowded around him. The plaster had been broken in two places. There was a hole in the left cheek — another in the forehead. The Island detective said very softly:

“You see — the one in black was an excellent shot. The third bullet—”

He leaned over the chair and moved the cloth of the palm beach coat he had wrapped around the light blanket. There was a hole in the left lapel. He said in a toneless voice:

“There is where it struck. It was like this—”

He adjusted the trousers and coat, rested the face mask above the coat, laying it with the right cheek against the canvas of the deck chair. He said quietly:

“Switch off the light — and move back here.”

The Third Officer switched off the flashlight. The group moved away from the chair, towards the vessel’s port rail. They stood looking towards the mask and the palm beach material. In the faint light it resembled Jo Gar — sleeping in the deck chair. The mask was very life-like.

The Third Officer sucked in his breath sharply. The man in dinner clothes, who had spoken before, swore.

He said grimly: “It was — attempted murder, all right!”

Jo Gar nodded. “And the one who attempted it has got away,” he said. “Below that companionway — are there several avenues of escape?”

The Third Officer nodded slowly. “A corridor to the concert room. Another companionway, to the deck below. A narrow passageway to the radio room—”

Jo Gar said slowly: “That is enough.”

The Third Officer made a clicking sound. “We shall talk with the captain — you and I, Señor Gar,” he said.

Jo nodded. There was the sound of foot-falls — of a man running. A Jap came into the group, clad in the uniform of a subordinate officer. He addressed the Third Officer.

“Deck Steward Kamogi, sir!” he breathed. “He lies up forward, near your cabin. He’s... dead.”

The Third Officer spoke in Japanese. “Dead?” he asked. “Shot?”

The subordinate shook his head. “It was — a knife, sir,” he replied. “In the back!”

The Third Officer narrowed his eyes on the blue-gray ones of Jo Gar. He said very softly:

“The deck steward, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective looked towards the face mask in the chair. He said in a voice that held a suggestion of grimness:

“He would have been the first person I would have questioned.”

Captain Haroysan sat across the table from Jo Gar, his moon face crinkled, his black eyes narrowed on those of the Island detective.

“You knew your life was in danger — you changed your attire, arranged a trap—”

Jo Gar spread his brown, chubby hands.

“I sensed my life was in danger,” he corrected. “It was the deck steward—”

The captain of the Cheyo Maru frowned. He spoke slowly, shaking his head.

“It is very bad. The vessel has never had anything like this—”

Jo Gar smiled a little. “I have been very frank with you, Captain,” he said. “The one responsible for the theft of the Von Loffler diamonds is aboard your ship, I am sure of that. He knows that I am aboard. That does not please him. I think that he bribed the deck steward to tell him when I was sleeping. Then he wished to be safe. So the deck steward was knifed.”

The captain frowned. “And you bribed the steward of your cabin, to be told when Señor Ferraro was approaching you, on deck.”

Jo Gar nodded. “I wished to evade him,” he said.

The captain shrugged. “I do not believe that,” he replied.

The Island detective smiled. “Señor Ferraro’s cabin was broken into — so was mine,” he said. “That is puzzling.”

Captain Haroysan said sharply: “You are changing the point of the discussion.”

Jo Gar rose from his chair. “The Von Loffler diamonds are valued in excess of two hundred thousand dollars, Captain,” he said. “Already, more than a half dozen men have been murdered, because of them. One of those men was Juan Arragon, my friend. Another was Señor Delgado’s son. Both Von Loffler and Delgado have commissioned me to hunt down the thief and murderer. I had evidence that he was aboard your ship.”

The Japanese stood up also. He said grimly:

“If it satisfies me — I will take charge of him.”

Jo Gar sighed. “It is weak evidence,” he said quietly. “A Malay involved in an attempt to kill the American head of the Manila police gave it to me. He was dying at the time. It is not strong enough to make an arrest.”

The captain said: “And you want the diamonds, Señor Gar?”

Jo Gar nodded. “Of course,” he agreed.

The captain shrugged. “A murderer is aboard the Cheyo Maru,” he said. “In less than two weeks we shall be in Honolulu. But what is to happen — before we land—”

The Island detective said tonelessly:

“We will have the murderer of the deck steward. Perhaps we will have the Von Loffler diamonds.”

Captain Haroysan made a guttural sound.

“I have radioed Manila — about you, Señor. And about Señor Ferraro.”

Jo Gar said with a faint smile:

“And the information you received — it was good?”

Haroysan said with grim amusement: “It was even flattering. Señor Ferraro has seen honorable service with the Constabulary. You are much respected. And yet—”

The Cheyo Maru captain broke off abruptly. He shrugged. Jo Gar smiled sympathetically.

“And yet you are far from satisfied,” he finished.

The captain said nothing. His eyes were narrow lines of blackness. Jo Gar bowed slightly.

“I can understand your feelings, Captain,” he said softly. “I feel — much the same way.”

On the fourth day out the sky clouded, and there was wind. It was wind that blew gently at first, but increased steadily in velocity. There were rumors of a typhoon; the Cheyo Maru rolled badly. Racks were on the tables, and things creaked and rattled in the cabins. At four in the afternoon, with the sea growing steadily rougher, Jo Gar moved cautiously towards the cabin of Señor Ferraro and rapped on the door.

Ferraro called out: “Who is it?” And Jo answered him. The door was opened almost immediately.

The Island detective smiled and said: “Does the roughness bother you, Señor?”

Ferraro’s white face was a little twisted, but he managed a smile.

“I am not exactly a sailor,” he said.

Jo stepped inside the cabin. Ferraro closed the door behind him. Jo said:

“For the last two days I have been moving around in second-and third-class quarters. I think you were doing something along the same lines, yes?”

Ferraro nodded. “I had no luck,” he said.

Jo Gar smiled a little. “This morning I had a little,” he said. “I came across this.”

He placed a brown hand in a pocket of his palm beach suit and withdrew it again. In his palm was a pin. It was a bar pin, of cheap manufacture. It had four imitation diamonds in it — one hole was vacant. The glass was large in size, but not matched.

Ferraro stared at the pin. He took it in his fingers and inspected it. Then he looked towards the small table in his cabin. On an end of it was the pin he had found after his cabin had been ransacked. He went over and placed it beside the other.

“The same sort of junk!” he breathed. “It might mean something.”

Jo Gar nodded. “It might, but I’m afraid not,” he said. “There are always a lot of women traveling second and third class on these ships. Many of them like cheap jewelry. A lot of these women are the dregs of the Orient. Captain Haroysan has told me that often first-class cabins are robbed. Or rather, attempts are made to rob.”

Ferraro said: “But in this case — it was your cabin — and mine. And an attempt was made on your life.”

Jo Gar nodded. “Many attempts have been made — to murder me,” he said. “I found this pin in an empty third-class cabin. It lay beneath a berth.”

Ferraro said very steadily: “We were both in police matters. What if the person thought he could learn something, or she could learn something, by getting into our luggage?”

The Island detective nodded. “A possibility,” he said. “I’ve thought of that, Señor Ferraro.”

Ferraro looked down at the two cheap objects in his palm. He poked them over on their backs. Jo Gar said slowly:

“I don’t think that cheap stuff means anything. However, it is good to be careful.”

He smiled at Ferraro and lifted one of the pins in his fingers. He said:

“We each have one — now.”

Ferraro’s mouth muscles twitched. He started to say something quickly, but caught himself. Turning, he made a movement as though to toss the pin towards the table. The ship was rolling heavily: he was forced to brace himself. Jo Gar leaned against the door. Ferraro said, facing him, a smile on his face:

“Wait — this is the piece of junk you found, Señor Gar.”

There was a half-careless tone to his voice, yet he spoke hurriedly. Jo Gar looked at the bar pin in his hand.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I am sorry.”

They exchanged pins, both smiling. Jo slipped his into a pocket. He said:

“I’m going to nap — it’s getting steadily rougher. Sleeping helps.”

Ferraro tossed the pin towards the table. It struck it, but rolled from the surface to the floor. The one in white made an instinctive motion towards it, checked himself. He yawned, faced Jo.

“I’ll have a try at it,” he said.

Jo smiled and went outside. It took him five minutes to get to the captain’s quarters. In another ten minutes the cabin boy had been sent to Ferraro’s cabin. The Third Officer and Jo Gar, five minutes later, watched the one with the pale face following the cabin boy towards the captain’s quarters. He did not see them. They went swiftly to his cabin, and the Third Officer used the key. Inside, Jo Gar looked on the floor. The bar pin was not there. It lay on the small table, on its back, the cheap stones face downward.

Jo Gar picked it up and handed it to the Third Officer. They went silently from the cabin, locking the door behind them. The Cheyo Maru was rolling heavily.

The Third Officer said: “Getting a little rough, Señor.”

The Island detective nodded. “I trust so,” he said softly.

Fallibar, a diamond expert returning to the States, seated across from Jo Gar and Captain Haroysan, spoke quietly:

“The third stone is a fine diamond,” he said. “The others in the pin are just glass. Even this real one has been painted, to give it false glitter. Painted on the back. And crudely mounted. But then, all of them are just stuck in holes of the metal.”

There was silence. Fallibar studied the slip of paper Jo had given him. He nodded his head.

“It answers the description,” he said slowly. “It’s one of the Von Loffler stones. I’ve handled diamonds for thirty years, and I’d swear to that.”

Jo Gar sighed. “And it was lost, while Señor Ferraro’s cabin was being ransacked,” he said slowly.

The Third Officer said in a hard voice:

“Two of us have gone through everything he has in there. The purser is still detaining him, telling him there is a mistake in his passage papers. But we’re through — we have found nothing.”

Captain Haroysan regarded Jo with narrowed, dark eyes.

“Señor Gar has traced this one diamond,” he said. “I think it should be his affair.”

Jo smiled. “That is good of you,” he said. “I can think of only one way.”

The captain of the Cheyo Maru said quietly:

“You will need assistance?”

The Island detective smiled with his thin lips pressed together. He ran brown fingers across the skin of his forehead, then shook his head.

“I do not think so,” he said very softly. “It is difficult to tell.”

Fallibar said grimly: “There has been a murder, and your life has been attempted—”

Jo Gar smiled at the diamond expert who was returning to the States. The Cheyo Maru rolled sluggishly in the seas kicked up by the tail end of the typhoon.

“I shall not need assistance,” he said firmly. “If the captain will instruct the purser not to detain Señor Ferraro longer, I shall wait a little while, and then go to his cabin.”

The Third Officer said: “But he will notice, perhaps, that the bar pin has vanished.”

Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped eyes on the swaying walls of the Captain’s office.

“I am very sure that he will,” he agreed tonelessly.

When Jo Gar rapped lightly on the door of Ferraro’s cabin it was almost six o’clock. The one in white called again:

“Who is it?”

Jo Gar said: “Señor Gar.”

The door was opened and Jo went inside. He was smiling a little.

Señor Ferraro was dressed in white trousers and a white shirt. He wore slippers. He said in a rather sharp voice:

“I have been in the cabin only a few minutes. A mix-up in my passage papers, and the purser is very stupid. But when I returned here — that bar pin had disappeared.”

Jo Gar stood with his back to the door and extended the palm of his right hand towards Ferraro. He said quietly:

“I have the honor — to return it.”

Ferraro’s face got hard. He took the pin, stared at it. He said, in a surprised tone:

“But now — there are two stones missing!”

His lips were twitching; he was breathing hard. Jo Gar nodded almost pleasantly. He put his right hand in a pocket of his palm beach coat.

“We removed one of them — one was already missing,” he said.

Ferraro stared at the Island detective. He said nastily:

“ ‘We’ removed one?”

Jo nodded again. “Mr. Fallibar aided me,” he said. “He is a diamond expert — an acquaintance of the captain.”

He watched the little jerk of Ferraro’s body. The man in white was fighting for control. But he said in a hard, rising voice.

“But why — did you remove one?”

Jo Gar shrugged. “It was one of the Von Loffler stones,” he replied. “I noticed a difference in the color, when you showed me the bar pin. I had Mr. Fallibar inspect it. The stone we removed is one of the ten missing ones — and quite valuable.”

Ferraro said hoarsely: “It’s a mistake! How would that pin have been lost — in here—”

Jo Gar stopped smiling. He said patiently:

“It wasn’t lost in here, Señor Ferraro.”

He waited, watching the fear in Ferraro’s eyes, watching the man’s attempt at control. Then he said in an easy tone:

“A Malay that I shot in Manila was dying. He told me to find ‘the one who walks badly — always in white.’ I wanted to know who the leader was — of the ones that robbed Delgado’s store. I came aboard this ship — when I learned you were coming aboard, Ferraro!”

Ferraro said hoarsely: “You’re — mad, Gar! You think I—”

His voice broke. Jo Gar nodded and moved his right pocket material a little.

“I think the Malay made a mistake, Señor Ferraro,” he said. “You were not the leader of the diamond thieves. But you had been with the Constabulary, and you could aid them. You were valuable, and for your services you received one diamond. A very valuable stone.”

There was a sneer across Ferraro’s face. Jo Gar said:

“You were not worried about me being aboard. Perhaps you were offered a bigger reward — for my death. You wanted to create a mystery, and to show me that you possessed nothing of value. You did not work alone. You thought that a safe way to carry your diamond was in the cheap pin. And you used it to attempt throwing me off the trail. But you wished to kill, also. You bribed the deck steward — and he told you I was asleep. You fired three shots at what you thought was Señor Gar, and you got away. You wore dark clothes — and threw them overboard. Then you were in white — a man in white.”

Ferraro said hoarsely. “That is a lie! I did not—”

Jo Gar said: “It is not a lie. The dark coat did not get clear of the vessel. It caught over an open port, just above the waterline—”

Ferraro’s voice was almost a scream. He cried:

“You lie — you lie!”

Jo Gar said grimly: “I think that the first shot knocked the mask to the deck — you knew you had failed. You were afraid — and you went forward and knifed the deck steward so that he could not talk—”

Ferraro made a swift movement of his right hand. Jo Gar squeezed the trigger of his automatic. The Cheyo Maru was rolling — the bullet struck the mirror above the wash basin. Ferraro’s gun cracked — wood spurted from the door behind Gar.

The Island detective fired again. Ferraro’s body jerked; his gun arm dropped. He slumped slowly to his knees, swayed for a minute, rolled to the left as the vessel tilted in the rough seas.

Jo Gar said slowly: “You were too sure — you were not suspected, Ferraro. Too certain.”

The man in white turned his head a little. Jo Gar moved forward and got the gun away from him. He said in a steady voice:

“You tried to be careless — with that bar pin. But you showed it had value.”

Ferraro groaned. “That — damned coat—” he breathed in a tearing voice.

Jo said: “I was bluffing, Ferraro — it didn’t catch on the port. Who were the others? Who was the one who planned the diamond steal—”

Ferraro’s face was splotched with red. Blood was on his lips. He said thickly:

“It was that—”

He was coughing, his face twisted. Jo bent over him. Ferraro’s eyes were staring. He muttered thickly:

“The blind — Chinese — Honolulu — you can find—”

His muttering died. There was a convulsive shiver of his body. In the corridor there was the sound of foot-falls, voices. Jo Gar bent down, straightened again. He braced himself against the ship roll, opened the door. The Third Officer stared past him, at the body of Señor Ferraro.

He said: “He was — the one — you were searching for!”

Jo Gar shook his head. But he didn’t speak. The words of the dying Malay had helped. He was wondering if the last words of Ferraro would help, too. And he was making certain that he would remember them.

The Blind Chinese Ramon Decolta

Jo Gar, the little Island detective, finds strange things happen at the house of the blind Chinese.

It was just a little time after dusk. There was a crescent moon half-hidden by the jagged peak of the Pali; a cool breeze blew through the garden not far from the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Jo Gar relaxed in the wicker chair in which his diminutive body rested. But his gray-blue eyes were alert; they watched the mild ones of Benfeld, the Honolulu representative of the Dutch Insurance Company. Benfeld sipped his cool drink and said with a slight English accent:

“Herr Von Loffler had cabled me. It was in code and therefore quite safe. We are interested, of course. My home company insured the diamonds. A terrible crime.”

Jo nodded his head. “The murders were incidental,” he said in his toneless voice. “The one who planned the robbery perhaps thought it could be accomplished without a killing. He was mistaken. Delgado’s son was murdered in the jewelry store. There was the bank guard, who was killed outside. And then Juan Arragon, my friend, who was in pursuit. An attempt was made to murder the American chief of police. In Manila he is not too well liked. I was forced to shoot a Malay, and he spoke of a ‘man in white — who walks badly.’ I traced such a man aboard the Cheyo Maru.”

Benfeld said grimly: “And you were forced to shoot him to death. But you learned something.”

Jo Gar widened his eyes slightly. He had only told the insurance representative certain things, not too much.

“Very little,” he corrected.

Benfeld shrugged. He was a tall man, with a long face and blond hair.

“You recovered one of the diamonds,” he said.

Jo Gar sighed a little. He smiled and straightened in his wicker. Palm trees swayed beyond the garden, and yet Honolulu was not like Manila. It was cooler, less tropical in a sense.

“Señor Ferraro was a fool,” he said placidly. “The Malay who spoke of him might have thought he was the important one of the bandits. But he was not. Perhaps he talked with the Malay, who I think was one of the robbers. But Ferraro was given only one of the ten Von Loffler stones.”

Benfeld relighted a thin cigar and nodded his long head very slowly.

“And you have said he tried to murder you, on the Cheyo Maru,” he said.

The Island detective nodded. “In Manila — many people have tried to murder me,” he said simply. “The stolen diamonds are worth more than two hundred thousand dollars. There was a diamond expert on the boat, by chance. He has valued the diamond I recovered from this Ferraro at in excess of twenty thousand dollars. It is one of the Von Loffler stones, of course. I think, had Ferraro succeeded in murdering me, he would have received another.”

There was a flickering light in Benfeld’s eyes. He said very softly:

“Who would have given it to him, Señor Gar?”

Jo Gar got a brown-paper cigarette from a pocket of his light-colored suit coat. He smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed.

“Ferraro died during the fourth day out from Manila,” he said very softly. “I spent the remaining days in attempting to associate him with some other person on the boat. It was a failure.”

Benfeld frowned. Gray smoke curled upward from his thin lips. He was silent for several seconds.

“Then, as it stands, Señor Gar—” he said thoughtfully — “you have recovered one of the Von Loffler stones. You are thousands of miles from Manila. And you have completely lost the trail of the others.”

Jo Gar closed his eyes. It was peculiar — the way Benfeld regarded the situation. It was almost as though the Dutch insurance representative was pleased. He was certainly extremely inquisitive. He had received a cable from Von Loffler, there was no doubt about it. And Jo considered that the German owner of the nine missing diamonds had been foolish, even though he had sent the message in code. But then, this man seated across from him represented the company that had insured the diamonds. That company would suffer a severe loss if they were not recovered.

He had not answered Benfeld’s question — the long-faced one said quietly:

“Of course, I understand that your friend was murdered. Juan Arragon. And also that Señor Delgado wishes to bring to justice the person that murdered his son. And already you have recovered one diamond. But the trail—”

His voice died away; he frowned and shrugged. Jo Gar opened his eyes and smiled at the Dutchman.

“The trail is lost,” he said simply. “There are nine diamonds still missing. They are worth almost two hundred thousand dollars.”

Benfeld cleared his throat and said in a tone that was so careless Jo noticed it:

“If this Ferraro — had only spoken, before he died!”

Jo Gar inhaled smoke from his brown-paper cigarette. He lifted his glass with stubby, brown fingers. He sipped a little of the cool liquid.

“It would have helped — very much,” he said simply.

He looked towards the swaying palm trees and remembered the words that Señor Ferraro had used. Benfeld did not know of those words, and he would not know of them. The man was getting at something.

The Dutchman shook his head and sighed heavily. He said:

“The company will investigate, of course. But it will be very difficult, I fear. And what are your plans, Señor Gar?”

Jo Gar shrugged. “The Cheyo Maru remains in port until noon tomorrow,” he said. “She will be in San Francisco within six days. I shall make the voyage aboard her. Only a few passengers disembarked here — and I have made quite certain they are not involved.”

Benfeld said slowly: “Of course, you have had much time to learn who was landing.”

Again there was the peculiar tone of his voice. It was almost as though he were slightly amused. But the next second he was frowning, shaking his long head.

“The nine Von Loffler stones!” he murmured. “And diamonds are so simple — to hide away.”

Jo Gar nodded and said wearily: “It will be good to sleep on shore tonight. Ship travel tires me. I think I shall retire, after a brief drive about.”

He waited for the obvious offer. But it did not come. Benfeld lived in Honolulu; he had brought Jo to this garden from the small hotel in which he had taken a room. Yet he was not offering to drive him about for a short time.

Jo Gar waited in silence. Finally Benfeld said:

“I was trying to think of some way — I have an engagement it will not be possible for me to break—”

The Island detective said protestingly: “Do not even consider it.”

Benfeld said suddenly: “Of course, I have it! You will use my car. I shall get other conveyance. In the morning we shall meet again.”

He smiled cheerfully. Jo Gar protested. But Benfeld would not listen to him.

“Better still—” he said, and his voice died away as he frowned thoughtfully. Then he said with a smile: “I have two cars. You will remain here, Señor Gar — and I will drive to my appointment. It is a monthly affair, an important one. I will then send my chauffeur to you, with the other car, the open one. I will drive my own, when I return home, which will be late. In the morning I will come to your hotel.”

Jo Gar bowed a little. “You are very good,” he said softly. “You are very kind.”

Benfeld glanced at his wristwatch and rose to his feet. He called a Chinese waiter and insisted upon paying for the drinks. Jo Gar rose and they shook hands. Jo said:

“Of course you realize you must be discreet about this affair—”

Benfeld said sharply: “Of course, Señor Gar. I think you have done very well. I will have my chauffeur return here within twenty minutes, say. You will not be too chilled in an open car?”

The Island detective shook his head. “I would like an open machine,” he replied. “It is very good of you.”

Benfeld smiled. “You will be able to see more of the Island,” he said. He bowed. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Jo Gar bowed a little. “Until tomorrow,” he agreed.

The Dutchman went slowly from the garden, towards the palm-studded street. He walked erectly, with his shoulders thrown back. He bowed to two men seated at a small table in the garden. Then he was lost from sight behind a high, tropical hedge. Jo Gar reseated himself and called the waiter.

“Iced claret,” he ordered.

He slumped in the wicker and watched the crests of the palms sway in the breeze. It was true that he was many miles from Manila. But other things were not so true. Perhaps he had lost the trail of the remaining nine Von Loffler diamonds — perhaps not. The thing that Benfeld did not know was that Señor Ferraro had used a few words, lying on the floor of his cabin on the Cheyo Maru. Most men, when they felt death coming close, used words. And Ferraro had said: “The blind Chinese — Honolulu — you can find—”

That was all he had said. And in the city of Honolulu, with a tremendous Chinese population, there would be more than one Chinese who was blind. But that did not mean that the trail was lost.

The waiter brought the iced claret. Jo Gar sipped it and smoked another cigarette. He thought:

The Dutchman, he is well established here. He perhaps has a fine reputation. But why did he question me so? And he has not a poker face. He is not experienced in these things. There is much that he would like to know, yet he has an important engagement. And my boat is sailing at noon tomorrow.

Jo smiled a little, with his lips pressed together.

“And he feels I would enjoy riding in an open machine,” he murmured softly.

Music from a stringed orchestra reached his ears. It was the soft, lazy music of the Hawaiians. The Manila detective nodded his head very slowly.

“There is a possibility” — he half whispered, looking down at his drink — “that he is correct. I shall very soon see.”

Some twenty minutes later a waiter came to Jo Gar’s table and said that his car was just beyond the garden. Jo thanked him and paid for the drink. He went slowly to the street in which the palms rose. The car was a short distance from the garden entrance. It was a small car, well polished. It seemed of an old make. The driver was a short Chinese. He wore a white coat that was several sizes too large for him, no hat. His trousers were not so clean as his coat. He smiled, showing broken yellow teeth, and bowed awkwardly.

“Señor Gar?” he asked.

Jo frowned. He thought first that Benfeld was a fool, using his name to a servant. And then he smiled with his eyes. He nodded.

“Yes,” he said in English. “You are Señor Benfeld’s chauffeur?”

He spoke slowly and clearly. The Chinese nodded his head. He said:

“It is so — I am — chauffeur.”

Jo Gar nodded. He looked into the rear of the open car. The seat was clean, but the floor mat was not so clean. The top was back, and the sides of the car were low. It was not unlike many other cars Jo had noticed — cars that were hired out to tourists on the Island.

He stepped inside as the driver held the door open. He said:

“I do not care to go far from the heart of the city. Along the beach, and past the old Palace of the—”

He checked himself. The chauffeur was trying desperately to understand his English. He had spoken fast, but not too fast. And this man had spoken first in English.

Jo Gar sighed a little. He said very slowly:

“We will go — where you wish. You have been told — where to take me?”

The driver’s face lighted. He jerked his head up and down, showing his broken teeth again.

“Me told — what do,” he said cheerfully. “Me know — where go.”

Jo smiled and nodded. The driver got into the front seat. When the car moved forward it jerked and made much noise. It reminded Jo of the car owned by himself, back in Manila. And the chauffeur was hardly the sort one might expect Benfeld to have.

The Island detective sat back in the seat. The streets were not too well lighted; as the car moved along the lights grew fewer, and there were not so many hotels. The foliage was thicker. There was a cross-roads ahead, and Jo was sufficiently familiar with Honolulu to know that the beach was to the right. But the driver turned the car jerkily to the left. The road grew narrower, and the houses far apart. There was the sweet odor of the foliage, and in the distance the slopes of mountains.

Jo Gar leaned forward and said above the clatter of the machine:

“I would prefer — the beach road—”

The driver jerked his head a little and nodded. He said in a shrill, raised tone:

“Me come — back along beach. He tell me — go by mountain road first—”

Jo Gar sat back in the seat and got his Colt from the holster under his left thigh. He smiled a little, but it was a grim smile. Once he turned in the rear seat, raised himself slightly and glanced behind. There were no lights of another car, but he was not reassured. The road on which they were driving was growing narrower. It was rough, and there were no shoulders.

Suddenly the headlights went out. They came on again almost instantly, then were extinguished. Jo’s body was rigid; he could see that the driver was leaning forward slightly, back of the wheel. The lights flashed on. The car was moving slowly up a fairly steep grade. Foliage was thick on both sides of the road.

The Island detective leaned forward and called sharply:

“You have trouble — with the lights?”

The Chinese jerked his head around, nodded. His almond-shaped eyes held a hard expression; they seemed to glitter. His lips were drawn back. The car slowed down, halted. The Chinese used the emergency brake gratingly. He turned his head all the way and said shrilly:

“Him go bad. You wait — me fix.”

He slid from the seat back of the wheel, got to the left side of the car. He went swiftly towards the headlights, which seemed to be showing dimly. Jo Gar was leaning forward in the seat, his gray-blue eyes narrowed.

He heard the other machine before he saw it. There was the roar of an engine — the car seemed to be speeding up the far side of the slope on which the car in which Jo was seated was resting. There were no lights, but the engine roar was increasing in sound.

The Chinese heard the roar, too. He stood near the lights, his small body rigid. He called shrilly:

“Me need — stick. Me get — him!”

His body swung around; he moved towards the right side of the road, the thick foliage. As he neared it there was a flare of light beyond the crest of the slope. Headlights of the approaching car had been suddenly switched on. But they slanted high, above the standing car and above the road.

The Chinese driver’s body crashed through the foliage; his back was turned to Jo as he went into it. The island detective moved with surprising swiftness. In a flash he was out of the car. He ran, in darkness, his small body bent low, to the left side of the road, dived into the thick foliage. Branches and leaves struck against his outflung arms. He went to his knees, let his body drop flat. Back of him the road was suddenly yellow-white with the glare from headlights.

There was the increasing roar of the car engine. And then the staccato beat of the guns. Metal made sound, and there was the shattering sound of glass. The air was filled with the clatter — Jo Gar could hear the bullets pounding into the body of the car.

The engine roar had diminished momentarily. Now it increased in volume. The clatter of the guns died away. There had certainly been more than one gun, and they had been machine-guns. Few bullets had missed the car in which he had been seated.

The engine roar became a hum as the car from which the bullets had been loosed sped back towards the heart of Honolulu. Jo Gar lay motionless, listening to the decreasing sound. His Colt was gripped in the fingers of his outflung right hand.

He moved about very quietly, pulling his body nearer the road and parting the foliage a little. He could see the machine now. There was light from the stars and crescent moon. The windshield was shattered, both headlights had been shot out. He could see bullet marks along the side facing him. The rear left tire was flat.

In the distance the engine of the departing car was making only a faint hum sound. Jo Gar smiled with his lips and kept narrowed eyes on the foliage ahead of the bullet-filled car, across the road. He half whispered:

“Machine-guns in Manila. And now here. Methods of the Western world, these are!”

There was faint sound from the foliage across the road. He saw the short figure of the Chinese chauffeur appear, crawling. The man glanced towards the car, then slowly straightened his body. For several seconds he stood motionlessly, looking towards the battered machine. Then his head turned; he glanced in each direction, along the road. He listened intently.

There was no sound of another car. The hum of the speeding one had died away. Jo Gar guessed that the spot was a deserted one, one from which the noise of the machine-guns would not reach habitation.

The Chinese chauffeur moved slowly into the rough-surfaced, dirt road. He stood for a few seconds in front of the car, then walked around it. He stood with his back to Jo as the Island detective rose and lifted his Colt a little. The Chinese moved closer to the car, getting up on his toes and peering towards the floor at the rear.

Jo Gar stepped from the foliage to the road-bed. There was crackling sound as he did so, and the driver’s body swung around. His eyes went wide with fear as he stared at Jo. His breath made a whistling sound and he cried out shrilly in his native tongue.

Jo said quietly: “I was not — in the machine, you see.”

He smiled a little. The Chinese was staring at the gun now. His lips were drawn back from his teeth; his face was a mask of fear. Jo said:

“I think — you must die — for what you have done.”

He moved the gun up a little, and forward. The chauffeur started shrilling words in his native tongue. His body was shaking. Jo said:

“Stop it! You are not Benfeld’s chauffeur. This is not Benfeld’s car. It is a hired car. Perhaps your car. Will you answer my questions?”

The Chinese was staring at him. He jerked his head up and down.

The Island detective said slowly: “You will certainly die, if you do not answer me truthfully. Who were those in the machine that just passed? Those who used the guns?”

The Chinese shook his head. Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed. He repeated the question in stilted Chinese, a tongue with which he had difficulty, in spite of his many years in Manila.

The driver said: “Me — not know!”

Jo Gar said, moving a little closer to the chauffeur:

“The Dutchman, Benfeld — he went to you and paid you money. Very good money. He told you that you were to act as his chauffeur. He furnished you with a new coat, though there was no time to make it fit. He told you where to drive me and how to signal with your headlights. He said you must then stop the car — and hide yourself. Is this not so?”

He had spoken very slowly and clearly. The chauffeur nodded his head. He said:

“He do not — tell me more.”

Jo Gar nodded and smiled grimly. He was thinking that Benfeld had taken a big chance. And yet, he had almost succeeded. There had been only a few seconds’ time between life and death — for Señor Gar.

The Island detective stopped smiling. He moved his gun hand a little.

“I think you must die,” he said steadily. “You would have killed me—”

The Chinese shook his head and shrilled words. After a few seconds he spoke more slowly. He said that he did not know that the big guns were to fire into the car. He did not know what had been about to happen. He was a poor man, and Benfeld had offered him much money.

Jo Gar cut him off, after a little time.

“I will give you a chance,” he said slowly. “There is a person I wish to see. He is Chinese. And he is — blind.”

He saw instantly that the chauffeur knew of such a man. And he saw that the man was of importance. But the driver shook his head.

“There are — more than one — blind Chinese in—”

Jo Gar interrupted again. “There is one of some importance,” he said. “Think carefully. Perhaps this one has a place where dishonest men go. Perhaps he is not a good person. Think well, for you are young to die.”

He spoke very slowly, and with no smile on his face. He held his Colt low and slightly forward of his right side.

The Chinese driver stared at him wildly. But he did not speak. Jo Gar said:

“Very well — I shall find him alone. But first I must silence you, so that you do not again interfere with me.”

The chauffeur threw out his hands. They were browned, and the fingers were jerking, twisting. He said:

“I know — him! I go — his place—”

Jo Gar lowered his Colt slightly. He nodded his head and smiled. His voice was almost toneless when he spoke.

“You are wise — we shall go there together. We shall walk to a spot where perhaps we may obtain a ride. You will do as I say, and if you make one, slight mistake—”

He moved the Colt a little. The Chinese driver’s facial muscles were twisting. He was breathing quickly. He said:

“Tan Ying — he is very bad. Even if he does — not see—”

Jo Gar nodded. “Many men are very bad,” he philosophized quietly. “But after they are dead — how do we know what then happens?”

The driver half closed his staring eyes. He said in a shrill, shaken tone:

“If I take you to the place — they will kill me.”

Jo Gar shrugged. “And if you do not take me — I will kill you,” he said. “It is a difficult position.”

The driver said: “I am a poor man—”

The Island detective nodded. “Then you have less to live for,” he replied. “Let us start.”

The hour was almost midnight when Jo Gar and the Chinese chauffeur moved through the teeming streets of the Honolulu Chinese quarter. There was the sound of discordant music — the shrill, reedy notes that came down from rooms beyond balconies. The section was well lighted in spots, very poorly lighted in others. Jo Gar kept his body close to that of the chauffeur, and his Colt within the right pocket of his light suit coat. At intervals he let the weapon press against the chauffeur’s side.

They turned suddenly into a narrow alley that wound from the lighted street. There were few lights in the alley; the section was very quickly a poor one. The shops were squalid and dirty; no music came down from the rooms beyond the balconies.

The street curved more sharply at the far end. The Chinese at Jo’s side said thickly:

“It is — there—”

He pointed towards a narrow entrance, an oblong cut in unpainted wood. Strips on which letters were scrawled in Chinese, hung on either side of the entrance. Streamers of painted beads hung from the bamboo pole at the top of the entrance; they obscured the store beyond.

Jo said softly: “You will go — first—”

The driver’s face was twisted, but he forced a smile as his browned hands shoved aside the beads. They made a rattling sound; Jo followed into the shop. A kerosene light made odor and gave little flare. There was the usual musty, aged smell of such shops. Baskets were about, with nuts in them — and jars contained brightly colored candy. There were shelves with boxes marked with Chinese lettering.

No one was about, but at the rear of the store was another bead curtain. The Chinese driver glanced towards it. Jo Gar said in a half whisper:

“Do as you — were told.”

The chauffeur raised his voice and called in a shrill voice:

“Tan Ying!”

A quavering voice replied, from the room beyond the second curtain. It said:

“Welcome, Dave Chang!”

Jo Gar smiled grimly. The Americanization of the Chinese never failed to amuse him. He touched Chang lightly and pointed towards the beads of the curtain.

The chauffeur said in Chinese: “You are alone, Tan Ying?”

Ying replied that he was alone. He asked that the driver would enter his humble abode. Chang moved towards the beaded curtain and Jo Gar followed him. He was very close to him as they passed through the beaded curtain into the rear room. Two kerosene lamps were burning, but there was a clutter of objects in the place. Buddha’s figure was in a corner; the light from the nearer lamp struck the face from an angle, making the figure seem very life-like.

Tan Ying was an aged Chinese. He sat cross-legged, but there was some object against which his back rested. He was obese and fat faced. His eyes were open but sightless. They shone whitely as he stared towards Chang. It was almost as though he were inspecting the chauffeur.

Jo Gar stepped soundlessly to one side of the beaded curtain. He took his Colt from his right-hand pocket, held it low at his side. He breathed as quietly as possible. But it was not enough. Tan Ying said quietly, steadily:

“You are not alone, Dave Chang.”

He spoke in his native tongue, and Chang sucked in his breath sharply. He twisted his head and looked at Jo. The Island detective smiled and nodded.

Chang said: “It is my Spanish friend, Mendez. He has arrived on the boat today.”

The blind Chinese nodded his fat face. His face was expressionless, except that his sightless eyes gave it a strange intenseness. He said:

“Welcome, Señor Mendez!”

Jo Gar spoke in Spanish. “You are good to welcome me, Tan Ying.”

The Chinese smiled; he was almost toothless. The wick in one of the kerosene lamps was low; it flickered now and then. There was a little silence. Then Jo Gar said to the chauffeur, in Chinese:

“Will you speak of the business?”

The chauffeur’s body stiffened. He said very softly:

“You are expecting the Dutchman, Tan Ying?”

Tan Ying’s fat body rocked a little from side to side. His lips tightened. He said:

“Why do you speak of him?”

Jo Gar said: “It is because I am to meet him — in Honolulu, Tan Ying. That is the reason.”

The lips of the fat Chinese relaxed a little. A clock chimed, and Tan Ying listened to it. He said, after a little silence following the chimes:

“The Dutchman — he is already late.”

Jo Gar sighed a little. He moved his body and turned so that when Benfeld came in he could easily cover him with his weapon. The driver was looking at him with tortured eyes; Chang was feeling fear.

The blind Chinese said suddenly, in very precise English:

“It has gone well, Dave Chang?”

Jo Gar felt his body stiffen. The driver nodded his head, and looked at Jo again. The Island detective nodded and smiled.

Chang said: “It has gone well, Tan Ying.”

The blind Chinese smiled again. His body continued to rock from side to side. There was a small screen near the print-covered wall at Jo’s back. It was perhaps four feet high, and as many long. It was within several feet of the wall. Jo Gar moved quietly to it, stood close to it. He raised his gun a little and nodded at Dave Chang.

The chauffeur hesitated. Jo Gar’s face grew hard; he narrowed his gray-blue eyes. Chang said:

“Señor Mendez will be of use to the Dutchman, Tan Ying.”

The blind Chinese stopped swaying. He said in his native tongue:

“It may be so.”

There was the sound of beads rattling, at the entrance of the shop. The blind Chinese stiffened, and Dave Chang half turned his body. Jo Gar raised his weapon, leveled it at the chauffeur. Then he stepped behind the screen and bent downward. He got his right eye near a section crack. There was little light on the screen. From the outer room there was the sound of tapping. He counted a half dozen taps; they were soft and well spaced.

The blind Chinese raised his voice and said:

“It is the way of the Western lands—”

There was the sound of footfalls. The beads of the inner curtain rattled and Benfeld came into the room. He straightened, looked sharply about. He said in a hard tone, in English:

“You — Chang — what was it that happened?”

The blind Chinese said softly: “Dave Chang — he has told me it is well.”

Benfeld said fiercely in English: “He lied! When we got back there, after ten minutes, there was no body in the car. You — Chang—”

The chauffeur said hoarsely, fear in his voice:

“I do not know — what happened! I did as I was told. I signaled with the lights, and when I saw the beam of your car — I ran to the foliage. When I returned, there was no sign of Señor Gar. I swear it.”

Benfeld said grimly: “What did you do? Why didn’t you stay near the car?”

Chang replied in a shrill tone: “I was frightened. One of the bullets from your machine — it almost struck me. I went into the foliage, wandered around. Then I remembered that we were to be here at twelve.”

Benfeld drew a deep breath. He kept his right hand out of sight in the pocket of a light coat he was wearing. He had on a soft hat, pulled low over his face.

The blind Chinese was muttering to himself. He stopped it and said:

“Señor Mendez is here, you see.”

There was a little silence. Jo Gar watched Benfeld stare about the room. There was a puzzled expression on the Dutchman’s face.

The right pocket of his coat moved a little. There was fear in Chang’s eyes, but he did not look towards the screen. Jo Gar’s body was tense, but he waited. Benfeld said in English:

“What is this? What do you mean?”

The blind Chinese seemed to sense that something was wrong. His head did not move, but he spoke very softly and very calmly.

“Dave Chang — he brought with him Señor Mendez. I have spoken with him, but a few minutes ago. Chang said that he would be of use to you.”

With his one eye back of the section crack, Jo Gar watched Benfeld move away from the chauffeur. He saw the glint of steel as the Dutchman’s gun came out of his pocket. Chang was breathing rapidly; fear was gripping him. Benfeld’s eyes went about the room in a swift glance. The low-wicked lamp sent light wavering over the walls.

Benfeld said: “By God, Chang — you’ve tricked us—”

The Chinese chauffeur said in a shrill voice:

“No — it is not so! I have not—”

Jo Gar raised his Colt and got the muzzle within a half inch of the section crack. Benfeld was in a line, but beyond the Chinese chauffeur. He had his long face lowered a little; his eyes were slitted on Chang’s. He said:

“By God — you have. I’ve told you too much. I’ve been a fool. But I’ve got you — in here. Gar had those diamonds on him. He got them from Ferraro. He lied to me. You took them from him—”

The blind Chinese said in his native tongue, his voice calm:

“Be careful — there is this Mendez—”

Benfeld’s eyes went around the room again. He said savagely:

“There’s no one else in here. If Chang said there was — he was lying to you, Ying. Or else he was—”

The chauffeur said in a shrill voice:

“I did not — steal the diamonds! That is not so — do not shoot—”

A knife was suddenly in the right hand of the seated Chinese. He held it out, his sightless eyes gazing straight ahead. He said calmly:

“Be careful — is not a knife better?”

Benfeld said in a low, hoarse voice: “I tell you — Señor Gar had the diamonds. He lied to me. Was I not informed that Ferraro was bringing them? Gar lied. Either he was trying to get away with them, or he wants them for himself. And you—”

The chauffeur said shrilly: “When I reached my car — he was not there—”

Jo Gar watched Benfeld, with thoughts running through his brain. Benfeld figured that he had the diamonds, had gotten them from Ferraro and had lied to him. But did that mean that Ferraro had had more than one stone? Did it mean that someone on the Cheyo Maru had received the others, after all? Had Ferraro lied to him, dying?

Benfeld was staring at Dave Chang. He said very quietly:

“Why did you say Mendez was here? Why did you tell Tan Ying that?”

Jo Gar held his breath. He expected Chang to break any second now, to fail under the strain. He was between two guns, and he knew it. Jo had already gotten information from him; he had spoken of Mendez, and Jo Gar had forced him to use the name. The chauffeur was in a tight spot, but surely he must realize that if Jo Gar were to go down under the lead from Benfeld’s gun — he would have a better chance. He had talked, because Jo had forced him to talk. But with the Island detective dead—

Tan Ying said in the same passive voice:

“The knife — it is better.”

The body of the blind Chinese was swaying again. Benfeld said in a harsh voice:

“Very well — throw it at my feet, Tan Ying.”

The knife fell several feet from Benfeld, but the judgment of the blind man was not bad. Benfeld glanced down at it, but did not move.

“Why did you say that Mendez was here?” he asked again.

The blind Chinese said steadily:

“You do not hear me, Benfeld. I tell you someone — was here! I talked with him—”

The eyes of Benfeld were slitted on the screen now. Jo Gar held the muzzle of his gun steady. The chauffeur said weakly:

“It was Mendez — we met in the Street of the Lanterns. He was coming—”

Benfeld swore hoarsely. “Then where is he now?” he asked very slowly.

The Chinese driver made a little movement of his left hand. A browned finger pointed towards the screen. He said at the same instant:

“I do not know — he went out—”

The gun in the hand of Benfeld slanted a little. Jo Gar looked at it, squeezed the trigger of his Colt. When the gun jerked and the room filled with sound, he hurled his body to one side.

The bullet from Benfeld’s gun struck the wood of the screen, and then the wall back of it. Jo Gar pulled himself to his feet and swung around. Benfeld was sinking to the floor — he half raised his weapon. The blind Chinese said in a high-pitched voice:

“Dog of a—”

Benfeld’s gun crashed again. The aged Chinese screamed and pitched forward. The gun dropped from Benfeld’s right hand. He said thickly:

“The dead — do not — talk—”

His right hand reached out and groped for the knife the blind Chinese had tossed near him. Jo Gar said sharply:

“No—”

But it was Dave Chang who suddenly moved forward, bent down. He was screaming shrill words that had little meaning. His right-hand fingers were almost on the hilt of the knife when Benfeld gripped him, pulled him down. With a sudden, last strength the Dutchman raised the knife and struck. Jo Gar fired again, as the Chinese chauffeur groaned and rolled on his back.

Benfeld sat up a little and stared at him. There was red on his lips.

“Dead men — do not — talk—” he repeated weakly.

He lowered his head into outstretched arms and shivered a little. Then his body was motionless.

Jo Gar went to him first. He was dead. The knife had struck into the chauffeur’s throat. He was trying to mouth words, but they did not come. And Jo Gar knew that they would never come again. He turned towards the blind Chinese. But he knew before he touched him that the man was dead.

There was a babble of voices beyond the two curtains of painted beads. Jo Gar went swiftly into the outer room. He thought, for a second, of trying to get away, of merging into the crowd of Chinese.

But already the crowd was thick, and there would be police. He would be seen trying to get away, and there would be difficulties. It would be better to work with the police, to attempt explanation.

He lighted a brown-paper cigarette and leaned against the counter. Faces were beyond the beads that rattled from hands that swayed them. Benfeld had expected the diamonds to be brought to him. They had not come. He had thought that Jo possessed them. The blind Chinese had known things — and the driver of the car riddled with bullets had known something. Dying, Benfeld had silenced them both. Even at the end, he was protecting someone.

The Island detective moved his lips a little. He said questioningly: “Who is Mendez?”

When the first of the police entered the shop, Jo Gar had almost finished his brown-paper cigarette. The police officer was small and brown faced. He was breathing heavily. He said:

“What — is it?”

Jo Gar gestured towards the second beaded curtain, and the room beyond it. He said in a tone that was weary:

“It is — death.”

The police officer said: “Robbery?”

Jo Gar smiled with his eyes looking towards the curtain, shrugged his narrow shoulders.

“Perhaps,” he said simply. “But very surely — it is death.”

Red Dawn Ramon Decolta

Jo Gar, the little Island detective, waited with killers for the coming of the red dawn in Honolulu.

Barrington regarded Jo Gar with frowning, dark eyes. He was tall, immaculately dressed, fresh-looking. He was the power and brains back of the native Hawaiian police force, and it was very evident that the Philippine Island detective’s calm annoyed him.

“I strongly advise you to return to your ship, Señor Gar,” he said slowly.

Jo Gar smiled with his thin, colorless lips. His almond-shaped eyes seemed sleepy, but were not sleepy. And Barrington sensed that. He stretched his long legs, rose from the wicker chair of his office. But he did not move about. He stared down at Jo.

“Ten extremely valuable diamonds — stolen in Manila,” he said quietly. “You have got one back — but nine are missing. You were forced to kill the man from whom you recovered the one, on the Cheyo Maru. That was unfortunate.”

Jo Gar nodded his head just a little. “Very unfortunate,” he agreed. “But also — very necessary.”

Barrington shrugged. “Perhaps you were too aggressive, Señor Gar,” he suggested.

Jo Gar smiled a little more broadly. He shook his head very slowly.

“I am never aggressive, Señor Barrington,” he returned very quietly. “Manila is a city of heat — heat breeds laziness.”

The American made a peculiar, snorting sound. He turned towards his desk and glanced at the report of the Hawaiian police, made less than a half hour ago, at midnight.

“Benfeld, Tan Ying and Dave Chang — all dead. And you are not aggressive?”

Jo Gar shrugged almost casually. “Benfeld was the representative of the Dutch company that had insured the diamonds. For some reason he wished me to stop my search for them, and for the thieves who murdered to get them. He attempted to trap me. He used Chang for that purpose and Chang suffered. The blind Chinese, Tan Ying — I am not sure how he was involved. I think there was to have been a meeting at his place. More than one person was concerned in the Manila robbery and murders. Perhaps there was to be a meeting at Ying’s place. But Benfeld thought I had been shot to death, on the road beyond the city. I upset his plans — and there was sudden death.”

“Triple death,” Barrington said steadily. “You are sure you learned nothing?”

Jo Gar rose from his straight-backed chair. He lied impassively.

“Nothing — that seems to lead me anywhere,” he said. “It is like that Street of the Lanterns where Ying lived — much color and sound, and so difficult to see or hear beyond either color or sound.”

Barrington half closed his dark eyes. He said very grimly:

“You are known to be in Honolulu, Señor Gar. It is known that you are after the Von Loffler diamonds, and that you seek the murderers of your friend Juan Arragon — and of that jeweler’s son, Delgado. Already there has been death. And dawn is hours away. I should strongly advise—”

Jo Gar’s lips made a clicking sound. “You have already suggested that I return to the Cheyo Maru,” he said calmly. “It is kind of you to think of my protection. Perhaps I shall accept your advice.”

Barrington continued to frown. “I hope so,” he said. “We will do everything possible, here. You will be in San Francisco in six days — and I wish you luck.”

Jo Gar smiled and bowed. They did not shake hands. The Philippine Island detective reached the street and kept his brown right-hand fingers in the right pocket of his light coat. A cool breeze swept from the direction of Pearl Harbor. The streets were almost deserted.

The Island detective smiled with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed, moved slowly in the direction of the docks. They were not far from the building in which Barrington had his office. And as he walked, with his eyes glancing sharply from the corners, Jo Gar sighed. His stubby fingers tightened on the grip of the automatic in his right coat pocket.

“Señor Barrington does not wish more death — in Honolulu,” he murmured very softly. “He is anxious for my departure — he thinks of my health.”

Jo’s white teeth showed in a swift grin. It faded, and he reached with his left-hand fingers for one of his brown-paper cigarettes. The street became suddenly an alley; his eyes caught the slanting masts of ships, their rigging beside the docks. He was ten feet along the alley when he halted, struck the match. But even as the flare dulled his vision, he saw the shape that slid from the doorway less than twenty yards distant. He heard the swift intake of the short man’s breath, saw the right arm go upward and back!

The Island detective moved his left hand away from his face, let his short body fall forward. As he went down his right hand shoved the material of his coat pocket ahead of him — started to squeeze the trigger.

But there was no hiss of a knife hurled through the air, and no crack sound from his automatic. He relaxed his grip, rocking on his knees, as he watched the figure of the man who had slid from the doorway bend forward. The man’s head was held low — his body was almost doubled as he pitched downward. He choked terribly but weakly — there was a sharp crack as his head battered against the broken pavement of the alley.

Jo Gar swayed to his feet. He moved back into the darkness of a narrow doorway on the opposite side of the alley from that where the short one had fallen. He waited, his back flattened against a wooden door that did not give, holding his breath.

The man who had collapsed made no movement. His head had struck heavily, but Jo knew that he had been unconscious before he had fallen. And yet, when he had slid from the doorway across the alley, his movements had been swift and sure. He had sucked in his breath, drawn back an arm. And Jo was sure there had been a knife in his hand.

Minutes passed. There were the faint sounds of machines, in the direction towards the city center, away from the docks. A cool wind rustled some paper down the alley. It was quite dark, and Jo could not see beyond the body of the man. Once he had heard foot-falls in the distance, and the sound of high-pitched voices. The alley was on the edge of the Chinese quarter, perhaps in it.

His right forefinger pressed the steel of the automatic trigger — the material of his right pocket was held clear of his side. But he made no movement. Five minutes passed. Jo Gar shivered a little. He was sure that death had come to the one across the alley from some spot directly behind him — and that the person who had caused the death was waiting silently, for some other movement in the narrow alley.

He breathed slowly, carefully. His right wrist was aching from the tensity of his grip on the automatic, and his eyes moved only from the motionless figure on the pavement to the blackness of the low doorway behind the figure. The shacks along the alley appeared to be closed, deserted. But the entrances existed — and in the one almost opposite him was the human cause of another person’s death. Unless — and there did not seem much chance of that — there had been an escape through the shack beyond the motionless, sprawled figure.

The Island detective listened to the shrill whistle of a small boat, beyond the docks. He relaxed his body a little, but suddenly it was tense again. He had heard, very distinctly, a faint chuckle. It had not come from the doorway in darkness, beyond the collapsed figure, but from some spot above him.

He raised his head slightly. The shacks were low — less than fifteen feet high. Clouds were over a crescent moon; the night had become dark. But he could see nothing on the roof of the shack opposite.

And then, very softly and quietly, the voice sounded. It was low and throaty — and very calm.

“Señor Gar — you are comfortable?”

Jo Gar did not move his body. There was a quality to the voice, an accent of grim amusement. He had a definite feeling that he was trapped — that the death of the man across the alley had been a part of the trap. He did not speak. The voice sounded again — from above, and to the left. The roof of a shack on his left and on his side of the alley held the speaker, he guessed.

“You will kindly disarm yourself — step into the alley, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective raised his automatic higher, withdrew it from the right pocket. He moved only his right arm. The voice said, after a short pause:

“Do not be a fool, Señor Gar!”

The accent was clear. He had heard the same accent of precise English in Manila. It was Spanish — this man’s native language. And the speaker was calm — very calm. He was sure of himself.

Seconds passed. Then the voice said, a little more loudly:

“Sí, but very low, and — now!”

Jo Gar heard the steely hiss of the knife. He drew his legs together. The left trouser material, just above his ankle, was jerked sharply. Wood made dull sound as the knife blade cut into the door at his left side. His body was rigid.

The voice somewhere above said with sharp amusement:

“Señor Gar — you are comfortable?”

The Island detective sighed. The cat played with the mouse, but more wisely than most cats. Jo Gar reached down, jerked the knife loose from wood and cloth. He tossed it into the alley. Straightening, he said as steadily as he could:

“What is it you wish, Señor Mendez?”

Again there was the chuckle. And then a short silence. Jo Gar was thinking: It is Mendez. Chang said, before dying in the shop: “It was Mendez. We met in the Street of the Lanterns. He was coming—” That was what Chang had said. Mendez coming to meet someone, in Honolulu. Perhaps the one in white. The one Jo had been forced to shoot to death, on the Cheyo Maru, and from whom he had got the one Von Loffler diamond. But Mendez knew that Jo had killed, and he had trapped him now, and was toying with him, grimly amused.

The Island detective stood motionless, looking at the body across the alley. The voice from above came quietly:

“Kindly disarm yourself — step into the alley, Señor Gar.”

Jo sighed again. He bent forward and tossed the automatic into the alley. There was a flashlight beam that picked it up, then faded. Jo stepped from the doorway, moved out a few feet. The voice said:

“Face towards the docks.”

The tone was hard now, sharp. Jo did as directed. He stood for seconds, his eyes slitted, his body slightly relaxed. He expected death at any moment, from behind. But it did not come. There were sounds on the roofs of the shacks, sounds behind him. But he did not turn. And then the same, hard voice sounded, directly behind him.

“Go to the alley end, walk slowly. There will be a closed car. Enter it. I shall be near you, and I advise you to be wise.”

The Island detective moved slowly forward. The alley narrowed, then widened. At the dock end there was a small, dirty machine. It was closed, and there was the fat, brown-yellow face of a Chinese faintly lighted by the instrument board light. The man did not turn his head, but a rear door of the machine opened as Jo neared it. The voice, now close behind, said:

“Step inside.”

Jo got into the car. A figure made room for him. The seat had space for three, back of the driver. Jo dropped heavily beside the one already seated. The one who had spoken got in and sat on his right. The interior of the car was very dark, but Jo saw that the man’s features were sharp, his face long.

He said to the driver, in an easy tone:

“Yes — and do not go too fast.”

It was as though everything had been carefully planned. Jo tightened his lips. He was sure that the one on his right was the man known as Mendez, and he was sure that Mendez was hard and extremely clever. He had been followed from the police station to the building in which Barrington had an office, and Mendez had waited. Perhaps something had gone wrong, and there had been a death in the alley, or perhaps nothing had gone wrong, and it had been part of the scheme of things.

The man on Jo’s right said softly: “It will not take very long, I hope, Señor Gar.”

Jo smiled a little. He nodded his head. “You are Señor Mendez?” he asked.

The man was tall and thin. He had long, slender-shaped hands and wore a dark coat. That much Jo could see as the car moved slowly along the street by the docks.

He said: “Sí — Señor Mendez. There have been words about me?”

The Island detective turned his head towards Mendez. He spoke very steadily.

“Chang spoke of you — and Tan Ying.”

The grim quality returned to Mendez’ voice again. He spoke very slowly.

“And both Ying and Chang are dead. That is too bad.”

Jo Gar smiled, showing his white, even teeth. Then his lips pressed together.

“So many people die — for diamonds,” he observed.

Mendez nodded. His face was turned towards the driver’s back. The machine was running slowly out of town; it was not going towards the beach, but through the poorer section of Honolulu.

“It is so,” Mendez agreed. “But you are a curious one, Señor Gar. Even so — why should you die — for diamonds?”

The Island detective said nothing. He tried to keep his body relaxed, but there was a threat in Mendez’ words. It was a question that Mendez asked, and yet only half a question.

The machine was out of the town now; it was running through the tropical growth, and there was suddenly a moon showing through the clouds.

Mendez made a gesture with his long right hand. He said almost cheerfully:

“It is pretty, Señor — these warm countries. They make one want to live.”

The Island detective kept his eyes to the front. For almost five minutes the car moved at good speed over a road that was fairly smooth. Then it slowed, turned abruptly to the left. The road became narrower. It was of dirt now, and the country was rolling. The moon seemed strangely bright for its size — and the car passed through what appeared to be a pineapple plantation. The one on Jo’s left let his body rock with the car motion, but he did not look at the Island detective.

Mendez made another gesture with his right hand.

“It is not unlike the Philippines,” he said slowly. “You would like to return some day, Señor Gar?”

Again there was the mocking quality in his voice. Jo turned his head, and the two regarded one another. Mendez’ skin was a light brown color; his eyes were dark. They were cruel eyes, and intelligent. The man’s features were good, but his lips were very thin and the curve of his mouth was barely perceptible. He had a sensitive face — but it was also a brutal face.

Jo Gar said steadily: “Yes — I should like to return — some day.”

Mendez nodded. “It will not be difficult for you,” he returned. “You are not — a fool.”

The car jerked suddenly off the road. It ran a short distance, scraping foliage, so narrow was the path it traveled. It stopped. The one on Jo’s left leaned forward and looked at Mendez, but he did not speak. Mendez said:

“That is all — but stay.”

The door on the left was opened. Mendez said pleasantly, as the one to whom he had spoken descended:

“We will leave the machine, Señor. I have a gun in my right hand. There is a small plantation house just beyond the car. Will you walk towards it?”

Jo Gar let his eyes widen a little on the dark eyes of the Spaniard. He said quietly:

“You can murder me here — just as well, Señor Mendez.”

For a second he saw sardonic amusement creep into the thin-faced one’s eyes. And then a puzzled expression showed. But he knew that Mendez was acting now.

“Murder you?” The Spaniard laughed in a chuckling way. “Why do you think of murder, Señor Gar?”

The Island detective smiled. “Does it seem so strange?” he replied. “After all — you are aware of the Von Loffler diamonds. For them there has been much murder.”

Mendez nodded, his face suddenly serious. “That is so,” he agreed. “But you were not satisfied.”

Jo Gar’s gray-blue eyes showed no expression. “Not satisfied?” he said very tonelessly.

Mendez frowned. “At the house we can talk more easily,” he said. “Please descend.”

Jo Gar shrugged. He got from the car, saw the thatch-roofed house through the thinned foliage, up a slope a short distance. There were windows, but no lights. The house was well protected from even the narrow path. The dirt road was a hundred yards or more distant, and the other road perhaps a half mile.

The Island detective moved slowly up a path that wound. He heard Mendez instruct the driver to turn the machine and take it down near the dirt road. As he walked slowly up the slope he heard the engine of the car changing speed. Twice the brakes made squealing sounds. There was no sign of the one who had been seated on his left.

He was certain of one thing — Mendez held death for him. Perhaps there was information that the Spaniard wanted first. Perhaps he would make promises. But in the end there would be death. He could read it in the dark eyes, feel it in the cold amusement of Mendez’ voice. And it was in the mockery of the Spaniard’s words, too.

Behind him he heard the Spaniard’s foot-falls, very close. He moved slowly, and he was thinking fast. There was a better chance outside, here on the path, than there would be within the thatch-roofed plantation house. If he could take Mendez by surprise—

The Spaniard said almost pleasantly: “It is the fine view that Señor Benfeld liked here. The dawn — it is all red. The sun rising from the water—”

He let his voice die. He was breathing a little heavily now. Jo Gar said, suddenly stopping and breathing as though with difficulty:

“Benfeld tried to kill me, Mendez. He was a representative of the insurance company handling the Von Loffler stones. He thought I would be off my guard, because of that. How much was he offered — for my death?”

Mendez said cheerfully: “Enough, Señor Gar. But he was a fool — and not careful enough. He knew that you were trained in hunting down people, yet he was careless.”

Jo Gar moved slowly up the slope again. He was breathing very heavily, though he was not tired. Behind him he could hear Mendez. And he was sure that the Spaniard was not pretending. He slowed his pace just a little, spoke haltingly.

“I will make — a bargain with you — Señor Mendez. If you will let me — have the chance—”

He uttered the last word softly, easily. And then, like a cat, he let his body swing around — he leaped at the figure of the man behind and several feet below him on the path!

But even as his short body shot through the air — he knew that he had lost. He saw Mendez’ body stiffen — the features of the long, sharp face were twisted into a mask of hate. The Spaniard’s body swung to one side. His right hand went up and then came down. Something gleamed dully in it. The first time it struck Jo a glancing blow on the shoulder. But as his hands and knees hit the earth — it struck him again, in a second chopping motion. Pain streaked across the back of his head — the yellow light of the moon became a curtain of black. He lost consciousness.

The room held little furniture, and what there was of it was bamboo. There was a table and two chairs, and between the windows a small bookcase. Mendez stood near the bookcase, his back to the wall of the house that was little more than a shack. The lamp on the table had a faulty wick, or the oil was bad. The light was faint and uneven. Shadows were on the walls. Mendez said in a conversational tone:

“You are lying, Gar. You have been lying for an hour. And there are few hours left to you. You were successful, in the Islands — but the Philippines are not like these islands. They are hotter — and the brain of that breed is stupid. You killed a man, on the Cheyo Maru. And that man had with him ten diamonds. They were worth more than two hundred thousand dollars. You tell me you found only one of them. You are lying.”

Jo Gar slumped in one of the bamboo chairs. Pains stabbed across his head. The gun that Mendez used was a heavy one, and the Spaniard had struck him with a savage motion. There was blood on the Island detective’s face, and on the fingers of his right hand. He was tired. Three times in the last hour Mendez had struck him. Once the one who had sat on his left in the car had struck him — he was a Chinese with a stupid, typical face. He sat in a chair and watched the Island detective now, his eyes expressionless. The driver of the car was not in the plantation shack.

Jo said thickly: “I have told you the truth, Mendez. From the one in white — the one the Malay spoke of before he died, in Manila — I got only one diamond. It was he who told me of the blind Chinese. That was why I went there.”

Mendez’ sharp face held a dull hatred now. It was clear that he did not believe the man who had tried to trick him on the sloping path that led to the plantation shack. Jo Gar knew that he had lost much, in that attempt. But he also knew that from the beginning Mendez had determined to kill.

The Spaniard said in a toneless voice: “You are a fool, Gar. For years you have been lucky. But that was with Chinks and Island half-breeds. I will tell you something — because now it will not matter. Either you are lying — or two others are lying. On the Cheyo Maru were three persons who might have had the Von Loffler stones. The man you murdered was one of them. But the diamonds were not separated. One person had the ten of them. That was agreed upon. And you got one from the man you killed. Which means that you are lying. You got them all.”

Jo Gar shook his head. “Only one,” he said steadily. “How do you know the truth of what you say?”

Mendez smiled. “I was one of the three persons — aboard the Cheyo Maru,” he said steadily. “I did not travel first-class. I did not have the diamonds. The man you killed had them — all ten of them. And you have them now. You are a fool — because they will do you no good.”

The Island detective pulled his short body up a little. He said very slowly:

“There was — the third man—”

He watched Mendez’ eyes narrow. But the Spaniard shook his head.

“I said that either you lie, or two others lie,” Mendez said grimly. “I am one of those two others, and I do not lie. And the other one — she is—”

His body stiffened; for a second rage showed in his eyes. And then suddenly, as though he remembered that it would not matter, he relaxed. He smiled grimly. Jo Gar widened his almost colorless eyes.

“A woman—” he said very slowly. “There was a woman who—”

His own voice died away. Mendez smiled coldly. He lighted a cigarette.

“It makes no difference to you,” he said. “You have killed one of the three who might have had the diamonds. I tell you that I was one of the three, and I did not have them. A woman was the other. You say you have one of the stones. I say you have them all.”

Jo Gar said thickly: “Then why did I go to the shop of the blind Chinese?”

Mendez continued to smile. “That is simple,” he replied. “Benfeld, who had told us much about the diamonds because he was in Holland when they were insured, and because he needed money which we gave him, was desperate when told that if he did not help us he would be exposed. He attempted to have you murdered, but he worked crudely, and you were suspicious. You avoided our guns — but you knew that there was a blind Chinese in Honolulu who was important. You were curious. You had the diamonds, but you wanted the thieves, the killers. And you were lucky — until you left Barrington.”

The Island detective shook his head. Mendez was about to bargain with him, to make an offer — a final offer. He knew that. But Mendez would not bargain honestly. He could not. There had been three persons on the Cheyo Maru — three who were important. And one had been a woman. One was Mendez. The other was dead. Jo Gar had recovered one diamond — nine were missing. Yet he believed Mendez in one thing — the Spaniard was convinced that the man he had killed had possessed all of the diamonds, and that the Island detective had them now.

Jo Gar said slowly: “I tell you the truth, Mendez. Ten diamonds were stolen in Manila. I have recovered only one of them. I do not think the man I killed had more than that one. I believe you — you have none of them. The woman has tricked you into thinking—”

The Spaniard moved across the room and struck him heavily over the face. He stepped back, rage in his eyes. The Island detective pressed his lips tightly together. Mendez backed across the room. He took his gun from a pocket, stared at Jo. His eyes flickered to those of the Chinese, and he suddenly became thoughtful.

Jo Gar’s tongue touched his lips and tasted blood. His brain was working clearly, in spite of the blow. He had something to work on now. Benfeld had given information that had led to the thieves tracing the diamonds, learning where they were. Three had got away from Manila aboard the Cheyo Maru, and one was a woman. He had not thought about a woman.

He muttered very softly: “It is she — who has the other nine stones. In some way — she got them, leaving the man in white only one—”

His muttering stopped as he watched Mendez’ eyes slit on his. The Spaniard was smiling with his thin, straight lips — but his eyes held a cold hatred. He looked at Jo Gar, but he spoke to the Chinese.

“You tell driver — no need him. You take rifle and go where I show. Driver go back to Honolulu — keep quiet or it be bad. You stay with rifle ready. You know what I tell — much gold for you. Good?”

The Chinese rose and grinned. He said in the same doggerel manner:

“Good.”

He showed red gums as he grinned at Jo Gar. Then he went from the plantation shack, closing the door back of him. Mendez waited several minutes, and then glanced through one of the windows that faced the east. The shack was almost atop a rise — the moonlight seemed brighter now.

Mendez said tonelessly: “For you — it will be a — red dawn, Señor Gar. One way or the other. If you tell me the truth — you will watch the sun come up from the path and go back to town. If you refuse to do that — you will go out of this room — and the Chinese with the rifle—”

He broke off, shrugged. Jo Gar said wearily:

“I have told you — the truth.”

The Spaniard walked to within a few feet of him, stared down at him.

“One of Tan Ying’s men tried to knife you tonight, Gar,” he said slowly. “That was hate. He did not knife you because he was knifed first. I used him — to help me. Two hundred thousand dollars is more money than I need. Half of that is sufficient — for me. The other half — that is for you.”

Jo Gar stared at the Spaniard. “And — the woman?” he said slowly.

He watched Mendez’ facial muscles twitch. But the thin-faced one showed his teeth in a smile.

“I will — see to her,” he said slowly, softly.

Jo Gar shook his head. “You could not — run the risk of allowing me to go free, Mendez,” he said steadily. “If I gave you five diamonds — you would kill me — very swiftly.”

Eagerness showed in the Spaniard’s dark eyes. He took a step nearer Jo.

“I swear to it — by the name of—”

His words died; rage replaced the eagerness in his eyes. Jo Gar was shaking his head slowly. The Island detective said:

“I have recovered — only one stone.”

Mendez reached down and struck him across the left temple with his right fist. Jo pulled himself up from the chair, but was battered down again by a sharp blow. He slumped low, groaning. Mendez moved away from his chair.

There was the sound of a match striking, and a little later Jo smelled the odor of a cigarette. He rocked his head from side to side, but did not look up. Mendez said grimly, harshly:

“You will have — until dawn. And then you will go outside — walking. The Chinese is less than fifty yards distant, with the rifle. I will remain inside until the sound of the shots has died. The Chinese will go away — after he has seen you fall. It is all — very simple.”

Jo Gar raised his head slightly. He wiped red from his face with the back of his right hand.

“That will not get you — the Von Loffler — diamonds,” he breathed thickly.

Mendez pulled on his cigarette, leaned against a wall of the plantation shack and smiled.

“If you go to your death — that way — I will believe you,” he said. “Then I will know where to look. But she has never—”

Jo Gar tried a grim smile. “She has never — lied before?” he muttered. “Women are often — like that. There must be — the first time. And white glass — worth thousands — is a reason for — lies.”

Mendez pressed his lips tightly together. “You’ve tricked — too many men, Señor Gar,” he breathed. “I hate you for that — and I do not believe you. You have the diamonds — ten of them.”

Jo Gar raised his eyes. Suddenly his body stiffened. He said weakly:

“I do not think — they are worth it. But five — that is too many — to give. I will — give you — three—”

Mendez dropped his cigarette and crushed it with his shoe sole. He took rapid steps to Jo’s side. His eyes were shining.

“You will give — five!” he snapped.

The Island detective stared at him stupidly. But he shook his head from side to side. Mendez swore and struck at him savagely. The Island detective let his head fall low; he closed his eyes. Mendez struck him again, then moved across the room.

“By dawn,” he muttered hoarsely, “you will give me — the five!”

Jo Gar said weakly, his eyes expressionless:

“And what proof have I — that you will let me go away from here — safely?”

Mendez shrugged his shoulders. He was confident of winning. He felt that Jo was breaking down; it had been a long night. Ten diamonds — perfect and of large carat. Two hundred thousand dollars! The Island detective could read his thoughts. He was so sure of winning, so sure the man in the chair before him possessed the diamonds.

And Jo was thinking of a woman — of the third of the three who had held up the Delgado jewelry store in Manila, and one of those responsible for the death of his friend Juan Arragon. She would be one of many women aboard the Cheyo Maru, which would leave Honolulu for San Francisco at noon — but he knew that he would not be aboard the boat that had brought him from Manila.

Mendez would see to that. The Mendez who stood before him now, mocking and battering him. The Mendez who was convinced that he had the ten Von Loffler diamonds, and who had already told him too much.

“Red dawn” — the Spaniard had said. There had been a mockery in those words, too. His lips shaped themselves into a bitter smile as he remembered the advice that Barrington had given him — advice to return to the Cheyo Maru.

Mendez said very slowly: “Well — there is an end to this, Gar. I will give you five minutes. The sun is getting up. I have much to do. If you swear to me—”

Jo Gar got unsteadily to his feet. Mendez regarded him with a twisted smile. The Island detective was unarmed and very weak. And once before tonight he had failed to surprise the Spaniard. Mendez said grimly:

“Steady — you are not accustomed to being — knocked around—”

The Island detective said thickly: “I do not want to die, Mendez. I will tell you the truth. But you must swear to me — that I will go free.”

Mendez’ eyes showed eagerness again. But the next second they had narrowed, and held a hard expression.

“I swear to you — that you will go free — if you tell me where the diamonds are.”

Jo Gar nodded his head. He knew that no matter what he said he would not go free. He raised his head and looked Mendez squarely in the eyes with his bloodshot ones.

“I did get them — from the one — on the boat,” he said steadily, softly. “I have had them — with me — on me. But in the car — it seemed very bad. I was — afraid. I had them in one of my Manila cigarette packages, mixed with a few cigarettes—”

He paused, swayed a little. Mendez stepped in very close to him. His voice was shaking.

“In your — cigarette package!” he breathed fiercely. “You had them—”

Jo Gar nodded as Mendez’ voice died. He said weakly, brokenly:

“The Chinese — on my left. He had a sack-like coat. I slipped the cigarette package — in a pocket — his right pocket.”

Mendez swore sharply. He muttered angrily:

“The Chinese—”

His body swung away from Jo Gar instinctively. His fingers clutched at the knob of the door that opened on the path. And then, suddenly, he remembered. There was the rifle.

His body started to turn, but even as he threw up his arms in protection, Jo Gar swung outward and downward with the chair he had lifted from the floor. All his remaining strength was in the swing. Wood crackled as Mendez’ arms were battered downward — the bamboo was not heavy, but Jo had found power for his final chance.

The Spaniard’s arms swung loosely — his head fell sideways under the impact of the blow. He staggered back from the door, his eyes staring. And in a swift movement Jo Gar had the door opened.

Mendez struck at him weakly — the Island detective had little power in the blow that caught the Spaniard on the right shoulder, spinning him around. But it knocked Mendez off balance — he plunged towards the opened door. He was almost to his knees as his body angled beyond the plantation shack.

The first shot crashed. There was a second — and then two more. Jo Gar stood motionless, listened to two more shots from the repeating rifle. Then there was silence, and later a crashing in the foliage below the shack.

After a long minute the Island detective went outside and made certain that Mendez was dead. Then he went back into the room. It was all red with the rising sun. He sat in a chair for a few minutes. He got a package of Manila cigarettes from a pocket and lighted one. He thought of the woman a man who was now dead had spoken about. Five minutes later when he stepped over the body of Mendez to leave the plantation shack he did not look down. But as he went down the path towards the road he muttered thickly:

“He did not lie — about two things. The Chinese was waiting — with his rifle. And the dawn was — very — red.”

Blue Glass Ramon Decolta

Jo Gar, the little Island detective, finds that bullets often come with diamonds — when the diamonds are stolen ones.

When the cabin phone made a buzzing sound, Jo Gar was dozing. A soft, warm breeze blew in through the port; the Cheyo Maru was some seven hours away from the Hawaiian Islands — and Honolulu. The diminutive detective sat up wearily and turned his bruised face towards the French phone. When he spoke his words were low and precise:

“Yes — this is Señor Gar.”

The voice at the other end of the wire was flat, almost expressionless. It was low and a bit throaty.

“You would give much, Señor — to recover the other nine Von Loffler diamonds?”

The questioning note was very faint, but the words had an immediate effect on Jo Gar. His small body stiffened; he sucked in his breath sharply. There was silence at the other end of the line. Jo said, finally:

“Yes — much.”

There was another silence. Then the voice sounded again, with no more expression.

“How much, Señor Gar?”

The Philippine Island detective narrowed his gray-blue, slightly almond-shaped eyes. He said very quietly:

“I do not appreciate jokes. Many aboard this boat are naturally aware of my identity. Quite a few men have died because of the Von Loffler stones. If you are—”

“I am not joking.” For the first time there was some tone in the other’s voice. “I have information that will be of value to you.”

Jo Gar said steadily: “Then pardon me. If you will allow me to talk with you in your cabin—”

For the second time there was an interruption. The other’s words were sharp now — very sharp.

“I have asked you a question, Señor Gar. I am aware of many things concerning the Von Loffler stones. Ten were stolen from the jewelry shop in Manila. You have recovered one. Your friend Juan Arragon has been murdered. You have killed — and others have killed. You believe that the nine missing stones are aboard this vessel, and that a woman has them in her possession. Is it not so?”

The Island detective closed his eyes. “It is as you say,” he said simply. His mind was working very fast; his head was clear enough.

The voice continued: “You very narrowly escaped death more than once — in Honolulu, Señor Gar. The missing stones are worth almost two hundred thousand dollars. I can tell you that the one who carried out the orders of Benfeld, and who was responsible for murders that included your friend Arragon — that person is aboard the Cheyo Maru.”

There was a pause. The voice said: “Speak, please, Señor Gar.”

Jo Gar smiled with a touch of grimness. “I am still in my cabin, Señor,” he replied.

The other said: “That is wise. You will be wiser not to attempt tracing this call. It will prove useless.”

The Island detective said: “Perhaps that is so.”

There was a short silence. Then the other said in the same, flat voice:

“You would be well rewarded if you were to return to Manila with the missing stones, and the murderer, Señor Gar. There would be rest for you. That is why I ask the amount you would be willing to pay.”

Jo Gar said slowly: “I am a poor man.”

The other’s voice became sharp again. “You have been fortunate, Señor Gar. In the States it will be different. And the diamonds will not be difficult to sell.”

The Island detective’s voice held a grim note. “They are very fine stones, and perfectly matched. By this time they are very well known. Perhaps they would be extremely difficult to sell.”

Impatience was evident in the voice that came from the other end of the wire.

“You are not a fool — you know the stones will not be difficult to dispose of, Señor Gar. You know they will be smuggled through the customs officers. And in San Francisco you will lose the trail you were lucky enough to pick up. Even if you should blunder on—”

The voice died. Jo Gar said grimly: “All this being so, why do you call me?”

The voice said: “I do not care what becomes of the nine diamonds, or of a certain murderer. I need money. I call you to give you the chance, the big chance. You have traveled many miles, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective spoke in a low voice. “How do I know that you will direct me to the right person?”

The voice held a hard note. “I do not expect you to trust me, señor. You may pay after you are convinced.”

The Island detective was silent. The other said:

“The question is — how much will you pay?”

Jo Gar replied steadily: “There is a reward of ten thousand dollars offered by the owner of the Manila jewelry shop, whose son was killed. I imagine the insurance company would pay twenty thousand dollars for the return of the stones.”

“No — that will not do.” The other’s voice was steady. “That is all in the future. I must have payment now. If I do not have it — the murderer and the diamonds will vanish when the Cheyo Maru arrives at San Francisco. That is all.”

Jo Gar spoke gently into the French phone mouthpiece. His eyes were almost closed.

“I do not carry thousands of dollars about with me. I am a poor man.”

The voice said calmly: “You are known to the captain of the boat. I am not asking much. Five thousand dollars, and one half of your reward, when you receive it, Señor Gar. And I am not to be betrayed.”

Jo Gar widened his eyes and smiled. “You are only to betray,” he said grimly.

The other’s voice was very low and hard. “That is — quite so,” he said. “You agree?”

The Island detective stopped smiling. “I agree,” he said simply. “I will pay five thousand dollars to you, in the manner you direct, after the stones are recovered and the murderer is under arrest. I will give you half of my reward when it is paid. I am very tired. Your identity will not be known, only to me.”

“No,” the other said. “It will not be known to you. I will trust you. If you do not pay, I will kill you. That will be very simple, since you will not know against whom to guard.”

Jo Gar said tonelessly: “Yes — very simple.”

There was a short pause. The other’s voice was very flat when it reached Jo’s ear again.

“In Cabin C. 15 there was a woman named Jetmars. She has with her a little girl of about eight. She got aboard at Manila, and dresses in black most of the time. Possibly you have seen her.”

The Island detective said steadily: “Yes — I have noticed her, and the little girl.”

The voice said: “In her cabin or on her person, or on the person of the little girl — are the diamonds. When you have obtained them I will communicate again with you. I will know the time.”

Jo Gar said. “And she is also a murderess?”

The voice replied flatly: “Yes.”

There was a clicking sound, and when Jo spoke again there was no answer. He hung up the receiver, threw a light robe about him and hurried from the cabin. When he reached the small cabin that held the Cheyo Maru switchboard, he was breathing swiftly. A Chinese boy stared at him with dark, long eyes.

“I am Señor Gar,” Jo said softly. “An important call just reached me in Cabin B. 10. I would like very much to know where it came from — what part of the boat.”

The Chinese boy said easily: “I remember making the connection. It came from one of the three phones in the men’s smoking room.”

The Island detective smiled a little wearily.

“Thank you,” he said, and moved back towards his cabin. Inside, he removed his robe, lighted a brown-paper cigarette and lay flat on his back, blowing thin streams of smoke towards the cabin ceiling. There was very little motion to the boat.

“Curious,” Jo murmured. “A woman who dresses in black. A little girl. And the one who gives me the name tells me the woman is a killer and possesses the stones. He would share a large reward with me, and he will kill me if I refuse to pay his share. He is very careful—”

The Island detective sat up slowly as the phone made a buzzing sound again.

“Señor Gar,” he said.

The flat voice came clearly. “I told you it would be useless to attempt tracing the call, Señor. You have made a bargain. If you do not stick to it—”

Jo Gar said grimly: “You will kill me?”

The other replied: “Yes.”

The Island detective was silent for a few seconds. Then he said:

“In that case you will be able to collect the diamonds and the reward. You will not have to share anything.”

There was a tight-lipped smile on his face as he spoke. But the one at the other end of the wire said sharply:

“It is simpler for you to do — than for me. That is why I made an offer.”

Jo Gar inhaled smoke from his cigarette. “Look about the smoking room,” he suggested. “Is there a short man present — rather heavy? Smoking a cigar — very black?”

The man at the other end of the phone chuckled. It was a dry, rasping chuckle.

“Thinking that such a person might be present, I am not making this call from the smoking room,” he said almost pleasantly. The switchboard boy will tell you I am calling from the sun deck, port side.”

Jo Gar said: “Pardon — I shall make no further effort to learn your identity.”

The other chuckled again. “Thank you, Señor,” he mocked. “But even should you change your mind — it will be of no use. A pleasant trip — and good fortune.”

Again there was the clicking sound. Jo Gar went away from the cabin phone, frowning.

“I think the gentleman is a liar,” he muttered very softly, “but I can not afford to simply think. As for this being a pleasant trip—”

He squeezed the brown paper of the cigarette with stubby fingers, raised his narrow shoulders very slowly in a half shrug.

“He is too wise for that,” he said with finality. “It will be extremely unpleasant — for one of us.”

On the third day out the Cheyo Maru was rolling a bit; spray was breaking over the prow and there were not too many passengers on the decks. Jo Gar stood near the starboard rail, well aft, and watched the woman in black and the little girl who accompanied her. The woman was middle-aged, had a rather sharp, sunburned face. The child was not very pretty. She was stringing beads. The woman paid little attention to her, and none to the other passengers. Jo had been watching her closely for two days, and yet he had not appeared to be watching. And he had listened to many voices of men, hearing none like the one that had come over the phone. He had not expected that.

He was working under a handicap; he felt that he was being watched and he did not know the person who watched him. He had learned that the woman who wore black much of the time was named Rosa Jetmars, that she had come aboard at Manila and that the child was her daughter. The purser volunteered the information that he understood Mrs. Jetmars was Spanish, had married an American in the Islands. Her husband had died very recently. His body was not aboard the vessel, but it was thought that his widow was going to the States and his family. That was all the Island detective had learned. It had little to do with the nine missing diamonds.

Someone near the rail called attention to a school of flying fish. It was a large one; the little girl jumped from her deck chair, started towards the rail. She tripped, fell awkwardly, crying out. Beads scattered and rolled across the deck. Jo Gar started forward, but an elderly man had already lifted the girl. Something blue rolled and struck against Jo’s right shoe. The woman in black was bending over the girl. She seemed angry. She spoke in Spanish and very rapidly. Her back was turned to Jo.

He leaned down and picked up the bead. It was peculiarly cut, for a bead — touch told him that instantly. He glanced at it, his eyes narrowing. Several men were picking up other beads from the deck surface — much fuss was being made over the child. The woman in black had taken her back to her chair, was talking rapidly to her. Jo Gar slipped the bead in his pocket and stared at the vanishing school of flying fish.

When he glanced towards the woman in black again she was still talking to the child. Men were putting beads in the girl’s lap. There was laughter now, and the woman in black did not seem so angry. After a few minutes Jo Gar went below, locked his cabin door and got the one Von Loffler diamond from its tiny pocket in the cork of one of his medicine bottles.

He compared it with the bead, which was blue. His lips parted and he said very softly:

“The cutting is — exactly the same!”

An hour later, in the captain’s cabin, he had the diamond expert who had helped him earlier in the trip examine the bead. When the expert had finished his examination he said in a puzzled voice:

“It is exceptionally well cut — diamond cut. Nothing cheap about the cutting. A great deal of care has been taken — for a piece of blue glass.”

Jo Gar said slowly: “There is no doubt but what it is glass?”

The expert smiled at him. “Not a bit — it is blue glass, cut as a fine diamond might be. A good-sized diamond. Like, say, one of the Von Loffler stones you—”

Jo Gar’s frown stopped him. The captain raised his head and stared at Jo. But the Island detective simply reached for the bead, slipped it into a pocket of his light suiting. He reached for his packet of cigarettes.

The captain of the Japanese liner said in his stiff English:

“It is very curious, Señor Gar—”

The Island detective showed his white teeth in a lazy smile. He nodded his head very slowly.

“Very curious,” he agreed cheerfully. “But many curious facts are not too important.”

The captain said: “It will not be very long before we dock in San Francisco, Señor. It has been an exciting voyage for you, and not very successful. One diamond recovered — and nine still missing.”

Jo Gar offered cigarettes, lighted one. The diamond expert spoke.

“But he has this bit of blue glass — it may be that it is important.”

The Island detective smiled. “In what way?” he asked.

The two others looked at each other. The captain shrugged, smiled. The diamond expert muttered to himself. The captain said:

“Each of us has our profession — yours is a difficult one, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective grinned. “Often I am given unexpected help,” he said. “Perhaps it will be that way — before we land.”

He went towards the door of the captain’s cabin, still smiling. But when he had bowed to the two men and was outside, his smile faded. He went without too much haste to his cabin, and had been inside only a few minutes when the phone buzzed. The flat voice said:

“I have additional information for you, Señor. The diamonds are to be smuggled through the customs as the child’s beads. Perhaps they will be dipped in ink, or painted blue.”

Jo Gar said evenly: “Thank you. But the diamonds have no holes in them — how can they be strung?”

There was slight impatience in the other’s tone.

“Perhaps there will be some beads cut somewhat like the diamonds, in a box the child has. Some will be strung, but others will not be strung. It is not likely the customs officers will examine each bead in the box.”

Jo Gar was smiling grimly, but his voice was serious.

“That is so. It is a clever idea.”

The other’s voice said: “But do not work too fast, Señor. I do not think the child has the diamonds, at present.”

The clicking sound followed. Jo hung up and looked out of the port, at the roughening water. He thought: Nor do I think the child has them at the present moment. The woman in black was not much concerned about the spilled beads, when the girl fell on the deck. If I were to get into the cabin occupied by the woman and child, find a box of beads — I would probably find no diamonds. And yet, if I wait until the customs inspection is made—

He turned away from the port, frowning. He breathed softly:

“This one who calls — he knows so much. And yet he would share much with me. He would lose a great deal of money by doing that. The whole reward would be his if he did not—”

He broke off, and his gray-blue eyes got very small and long. After a short time he inspected his Colt automatic, slipped it into a pocket of his light coat, stuffing a handkerchief over it. When he reached deck he walked slowly towards the bow, conscious, as usual, of the curious glances the passengers directed towards him.

He circled the deck twice; the second time he noted that the woman in black and the child had vacated their chairs. A middle-aged man approached, walking unsteadily as the boat rolled. He looked at Jo, but there was no expression in his blue eyes. He had flabby, pale skin and very thin lips. They were almost opposite each other when the boat rolled more sharply. The Island detective let his small body strike the left side of the thin-lipped one, knocking him off balance.

“Pardon,” Jo said. “I’m very — sorry.”

He stood close to the other man, watched anger show in the blue eyes. More than anger showed, he thought. It was as though the thin-lipped one hated him fiercely, and had hated him for more than seconds.

“It was very careless of me,” Jo said.

The other man’s lips parted. He started to speak, but did not. A faint smile showed in his eyes; slowly his face twisted with it. He jerked his head downward abruptly, in an awkward bow. He shrugged, moved away from the Island detective.

Jo Gar continued his walk around the deck. But he did not meet the thin-lipped one on the starboard side. He did not see him again in the next half hour, and when he did locate the man he was in the smoking room, seated at a small table and with his back turned to the entrance from the port side of the deck.

A steward strolled along and smiled amiably at Jo. He beckoned to him, handed him a dollar bill. He designated the chair occupied by the thin-lipped one.

“That gentleman I seem to know,” he said. “I should like you to go to the far end of the smoking room, then turn and come back. You will be able to see him. I should like to know his name. You are the deck steward?”

The steward nodded. He went into the smoking room and Jo Gar went to the port rail. When the steward returned he was smiling cheerfully.

“I placed his chair for him,” he said. “He is a Mr. Tracy. He came aboard at Honolulu.”

Jo nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “It is not the one with whom I am acquainted.”

He did a few more turns on the deck, his face expressionless. Then he went below and talked to the purser. Mr. Eugene Tracy occupied Cabin C. 82. He had booked passage at the last moment and had been forced to take a cabin on the lower deck, though he had wanted better quarters.

Jo Gar went up above and saw that the thin-lipped one was still in the smoking room. He was reading a magazine, and was slumped low in a comfortable chair. The Island detective moved close to the chair, very quietly. No other person was near the two of them; Jo spoke sharply but low, his voice holding a faint questioning note.

“Mr. Tracy?”

His words were very clear, but the one in the chair did not move. Jo stepped directly in front of the chair and looked down at the magazine that hid the thin-lipped one’s face.

“Mr. Tracy?” he said again.

The man in the chair lowered his magazine. He looked at the Island detective with his blue eyes wide and questioning. Jo stared at him stupidly, shook his head.

“I’m sorry — again,” he stated. “It is another Mr. Tracy I’m looking for — and they pointed you out. Please pardon me.”

The one in the chair smiled almost pleasantly. He nodded his head, raised his magazine. Jo said very quietly:

“Have you the time, by any chance?”

Anger edged into the eyes of the man in the chair. Then the forced smile showed again. He shook his head. Jo bowed and moved away. As he went towards his cabin there was a half smile on his browned face. He was thinking that the thin-lipped one was a very silent person.

After dinner Jo Gar watched the thin-lipped man take the same chair he had occupied hours before, in the smoking room. The Island detective went to his cabin and changed from his dinner clothes to a dark, lightweight suiting. He wore a dark-colored shirt and was knotting a black bow tie when there was a knock at the cabin door. At his call a tall, slender man entered, closing the door carefully behind him.

“The captain said you had something for me to do,” he said cheerfully. “My name’s Porter — I’m an American and traveling to Frisco from Honolulu through courtesy of the line. I do ship news for a San Diego paper, and this is sort of a vacation.”

Jo Gar nodded. “It is very simple,” he said. “In the smoking room at present there is a man named Tracy. I will go up with you and point him out. I would like you to stay as close to him as is possible, for the next few hours, and to remember what he does. That is all. I shall be glad to pay—”

Porter smiled, shaking his head. “Not necessary, Señor Gar,” he interrupted. “I’m glad to help out. And I won’t talk.”

Jo Gar smiled back at the newspaper man. “You would be very foolish if you did,” he said. “There wouldn’t be anything to talk about.”

They went on deck and after walking several times around it, Jo pointed out the thin-lipped man. There was a vacant chair near him; Porter said he would go in and use it. Jo nodded.

“Do not come to me and do not speak to me if we meet later. I will speak first to you.”

The newspaper man went into the smoking room. Jo passed the woman in black and the child, on the way to his cabin. The boat was rolling quite a bit and the woman looked sick and tired. She wore no jewelry and she paid little attention to the child, who trailed along behind her.

When he reached the cabin his phone was making a buzz sound. Jo Gar closed the door behind him, locked it. He lifted the instrument, said slowly:

“This is Señor Gar.”

The voice was flat and low. It said: “Mrs. Jetmars is having the child attract attention to itself. She is letting passengers see that the child has an interest in beads.”

Jo Gar said nothing. The voice continued:

“I point this out to you, because perhaps you do not believe she has the diamonds for which you are searching.”

The Island detective said with his almond-shaped eyes almost closed:

“Perhaps it would be wise for me to enter her cabin, with the ship’s captain, while she is absent. A thorough search—”

“I do not think it would be wise,” the voice cut in. “But that is up to you, of course.”

There was the clicking sound. Jo hung up and went to the ship switchboard room again. When he had asked the question the operator smiled cheerfully.

“The call came from Cabin C. 80,” he stated. “I have been paying attention to the calls since you first asked me—”

He had been looking at a small book as he was speaking. His voice died abruptly; he widened his dark eyes on Jo Gar’s expressionless ones.

“Cabin C. 80 is vacant,” he said stiffly. “It is one of the poorest cabins on the ship.”

The Island detective nodded his head. “The doors of vacant cabins are not always locked, are they?” he asked.

The switchboard boy narrowed his eyes. “No, Señor Gar,” he replied. “They are left half-opened, for ventilation.”

Jo Gar moved towards the main saloon, frowning. Too many persons aboard the boat knew too much about him; even the Chinese boy at the switchboard was now addressing him by his name. He murmured to himself:

“It becomes — always more difficult.”

In the smoking room the thin-lipped one was seated in the chair he had occupied before, still reading his magazine. The newspaper man was sprawled in a chair that faced the port-side entrance to the room. Jo Gar beckoned to him, watched him rise slowly, stroll towards the entrance. The Island detective walked slowly aft, and Porter followed in the same fashion. Behind a ventilator Jo halted and lighted a cigarette. Porter reached his side.

“Well?” The Island detective’s voice was very low.

Peter grinned. “You didn’t expect him to move around much in that length of time, did you?” he replied. “He only turned two pages of the magazine.”

Jo said steadily: “He never left the chair?”

Porter grunted. “All he moved was his fingers,” he replied.

Jo sighed heavily. Then he showed white teeth in a slow smile.

“You have been very kind — and I shall not need your help for the present, Señor Porter.”

The newspaper man looked surprised. “He wasn’t the right guy, maybe?”

The Island detective made the tip of his cigarette glow in the semidarkness.

“After I left you I went to my cabin. I received a phone call that I half expected. But I expected, also, that the gentleman you were watching would make the call.”

Porter whistled softly. “He didn’t,” he said. “That’s sure enough. He stuck right in his chair.”

Jo Gar nodded. Porter said slowly: “I’m sorry it didn’t work out the other way — the way you expected, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective smiled with his lips tight against the paper of the cigarette. He stood with his short legs spread, swaying with the roll of the ship. He had picked the thin-lipped passenger as the one who had called him, using the flat, peculiar tone. He had listened to most of the others talk — those who had come aboard at Honolulu.

The others he had heard before; it had been a long trip from Manila. And the thin-lipped one had failed to answer quickly, naturally to the name of Tracy. He had not spoken to Jo — had not answered his question about the time. It was difficult to disguise a voice, and Jo felt that the thin-lipped one had not made the effort. Thus he had not spoken when addressed. And yet, there had been the phone call just received — and the thin-lipped one had not made it.

Jo frowned down at the cigarette glow. Then, suddenly, his small body straightened; he drew a deep breath. Porter was watching him closely.

“You got an idea — that time,” he muttered.

The Island detective narrowed his eyes on Porter’s.

He spoke very slowly and softly, and his eyes held little expression.

“That is so, Señor Porter — but it is so difficult to tell whether it is a good idea.”

The newspaper man said grimly: “If it isn’t — you’ll probably find out quick enough.”

Jo Gar smiled narrowly. “That is the trouble,” he said simply.

The door of Cabin C. 82 was tightly closed, locked. Jo Gar took from his pocket the small, adjustable key, worked with it swiftly and expertly. It was after nine o’clock, but the thin-lipped man was still seated in his chair in the smoking room. The cabin steward for this section of the Cheyo Maru was on the opposite side of the boat; Jo had come to Cabin C. 82 slowly and carefully.

When the lock made a faint clicking sound he returned the master key to his pocket, moved the knob and slowly opened the door. He stepped inside quickly, shut the door without sound but did not lock it from the inside. The cabin was small and held the odor of cigarettes. There was little baggage about, but what there was bore the initials E. T. Jo Gar smiled a little, went towards cool-colored curtains that formed a protection for hung clothes. There was only a coat of gray material hanging behind the curtains.

“Señor Tracy is traveling very lightly,” Jo observed in a half whisper.

He got his small body back of the curtains, arranging them so that he had a slitted view of the room, where they met. For several minutes he remained motionless. Then he stepped from behind the curtains and started the search. He worked very slowly and thoroughly, placing each object that he touched in the same spot from which he had raised it. Twice there was sound in the corridor, but neither time did he lock the cabin door. Instead, he got his diminutive body behind the curtains that faced the door from the opposite end of the cabin, waited.

He finished his search in a little over ten minutes, straightened and sighed. The phone made a buzzing sound, three times. Jo got his right-hand fingers over the grip of his Colt, moved behind the curtains and was motionless. Several minutes passed, and then there were footfalls in the narrow corridor beyond the cabin. A key turned in the lock — there was muttering. The door opened with a small crashing sound, but the thin-lipped one did not immediately enter. He stood in the doorway — his eyes going about the room. Through the very thin slit where the curtains met Jo Gar watched him.

His body relaxed suddenly; he entered the cabin, closed the door behind him, locked it. His eyes kept moving about. He lifted the smaller of the bags, opened it, looked inside. When he placed it on the floor again he was frowning. But the frown became a grin — a slow grin that twisted his thin lips.

“He’s been in here,” he said in a peculiar, flat voice. “A lot of good that did him!”

Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. This was the one who had called him; he knew that now. He moved the muzzle of the Colt slightly, so that it was pointed towards the body of the thin-lipped one.

After he had drawn a small curtain across the port, the thin-lipped man placed a towel over the knob of the door, draping it so that it covered the keyhole. Then he seated himself at a small table beneath the center light, and faced the port. His left side was turned towards Jo. From a vest pocket he took a red-colored, large-sized fountain pen. His face was grim as he unscrewed an end of it. The table at which he sat had a green surface; the thin-lipped one spilled the diamonds across it very carefully. He chuckled, staring at them and poking them with a long, white finger.

Jo Gar straightened his cramped body a little. He drew the Colt from his pocket, extended it through the slit in the curtains. His eyes could count five diamonds — he thought there was another on the table surface but he could not see it.

“A hundred — thousand!” The thin-lipped one’s voice was not so flat now. “And with Gar chasing the Jetmars woman—”

He chuckled again, huskily. Jo Gar said in a cold, hard voice:

“—you might easily have got the stones through the customs—”

The man at the table jerked his body straight. His right-hand palm flattened over the diamonds; his white face turned towards the curtains. Jo parted them with his left hand, stepped away from them. His face was expressionless. He held the Colt very firmly.

“But you weren’t so wise,” Jo said calmly and softly. “You don’t know how much I knew, how much I had been told. So you thought I might be watching you, rather than the woman in black. You didn’t know that Mendez had told me a woman had the Von Loffler diamonds. You called me, after she had given you the diamonds, afraid of me. The two of you gave the child beads of blue glass, cut very much like the Von Loffler stones. You wanted me to believe what you had suggested — that the woman in black was smuggling the stones through the customs — so that you could get them through without trouble. But you played too strongly.”

The thin-lipped man was staring at him, breathing slowly and heavily. His right palm was still flat over the diamonds; his left arm rested on the table. The ship rolled and his body swayed with it. Jo Gar said:

“You didn’t disguise your voice — and you couldn’t speak to me when I addressed you, for fear of detection. That worried you. You knew you were being watched by Porter, and you had a confederate call me while you were seated in the smoking room. You had worked well with him, but his voice was not exactly like yours. Even so, for a little time I thought that you were not the one who had called me. And then I realized what you had tried to do — to make me believe that very thing. And I knew that you were the one. So I came here — for the diamonds — nine of them.”

There was a little silence. The thin-lipped man said in a harsh, strained tone:

“You got to Jetmars — you scared her and — she squealed.”

The Island detective shook his head. “I haven’t spoken a word to her,” he said steadily. “You were too worried about yourself — and too greedy. You betrayed yourself.”

The thin-lipped one took his palm away from the diamonds. Jo Gar said softly:

“Please keep both arms — on the table. How many stones — are there?”

The one at the table did not speak. Jo Gar moved the gun muzzle sharply.

“Many men have died because of the stones,” he reminded. “One more thief — one murderer — it would not matter too much. How many stones — have you?”

The thin-lipped one said huskily, the peculiar flat note barely evident:

“Five — the woman has — the others. Three of them. You have one, Gar.”

There was hatred in his voice as he used the Island detective’s name. Jo said softly:

“I would not lie — where are the other three stones?”

The thin-lipped one said savagely: “I tell you — the woman in black — she has them. She would not give them all to me. She is the one who—”

The Island detective smiled coldly. His gray-blue eyes were almost closed.

“Raise your arms,” he said slowly, “Keep them raised. If you do not—”

He made a swift — strangely swift movement for him, as the thin-lipped one obeyed. When he stepped away from the man at the table there were five diamonds in his left palm. They felt warm and very good. He said steadily:

“We will stay here until a certain diamond expert comes to the cabin, with the captain. When the stones have been inspected we will go to the woman in black. We will obtain the other three stones.”

The lips of the man at the table were tightly pressed and thinner than ever. He parted them suddenly.

“It is she who—”

The phone buzzed. Jo Gar moved towards it, but did not take his eyes from the figure of the man in the chair. He spoke into the mouthpiece, as he slipped the diamonds into a pocket.

“Señor Gar—”

Porter’s voice said: “Did the buzz catch you in time? He went from the smoking room pretty fast.”

The Island detective kept his eyes on the thin-lipped one. He said:

“Yes — it reached me in time. I was prepared for Mr. Tracy. Will you please call the captain and tell him—”

His words died as the thin-lipped one hurled himself from the chair, slashing his right arm at the Colt. Jo squeezed the trigger of the gun as it was battered to one side. There was a crashing sound, and then the thin-lipped one’s fingers were on his throat; his white face was close to Jo’s.

He muttered hoarse, distorted words as his fingers tightened their grip. He was strong; the swinging arms of the detective failed to hurt him. Already Jo’s breath was coming in short gasps; his efforts to get free of the man’s grip were growing weaker.

His head was pulled close to the thin-lipped one’s body; there was a mist in his eyes. Blackness was coming now; he was choking terribly. He felt his body swung to one side; his head was battered against the wall of the cabin. And then, once again, the room was filled with a crashing sound. The strangler’s body jerked; he cried out hoarsely. His fingers went away from Jo’s throat; he swung gropingly towards the cabin door. Jo stared towards it, his vision clearing. It was half opened.

Voices reached him faintly from the corridor; they grew louder. The thin-lipped one was down on his knees now; he sprawled at full length, his left-hand fingers pawing at the small of his back. Then, very suddenly, he was motionless.

Jo Gar stared towards the half-opened door. He breathed hoarsely, sucking in deep breaths of air:

“He would have killed me — and yet — he was murdered — the woman in black—”

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought his eyes had seen dark color, just after the shot had crashed. And if the woman in black had thought that the thin-lipped one had said too much, if she had overheard, following him to his cabin—

Porter’s voice was calling from the corridor:

“Señor Gar — Señor Gar!”

There were heavier footfalls now. Gar tapped the pocket into which he had slipped the diamonds. He was sure they were real. Five of them, and there was the one he already had recovered. Six stones — with three still missing. And the one who could have told many things — he was dead.

The Island detective knew that, even before he bent over the man, calling hoarsely:

“Yes — Porter — it is — all right—”

Porter came into the room, pulling up short at the sight of the man on the floor.

“Heard the crash sound — over the phone—” he muttered.

Jo Gar straightened and smiled a little. “I was forced to shoot,” he said more clearly. “But he got me by the throat—”

Ship’s officers were inside the room now. The second officer stared at the figure on the floor, then at Jo.

“You shot him?” he breathed. “You had to shoot him, Señor—”

Jo Gar shook his head. Porter leaned down suddenly and lifted something from the floor near the doorway. The Island detective said:

“He had five of the Von Loffler diamonds — I’ve got them now. I tried to shoot him, but I failed. He was shot in the back, from the corridor.”

The second officer drew in a sharp breath. “You saw who it—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “I saw nothing,” he said very slowly. He was sure that he had seen black color — the color of a woman’s dress. “He was choking me—”

The newspaperman extended a palm. “What’s this?” he muttered. “Just picked it up near the doorway.”

Jo looked at the bead in Porter’s palm. He shook his head very slowly.

“It looks very much,” he said huskily but with little tone, “like a bit of blue glass.”

Diamonds of Death Ramon Decolta

Jo Gar, the little Island detective, collects.

The room was in a cheap hotel, a few blocks from Market Street. The room had two windows, one of which faced the Bay. Jo Gar, his small body sprawled on the narrow bed, shivered a little. San Francisco was cold; he thought of the warm winds of Manila and the difference of the bays. He sighed and said softly to himself:

“Four diamonds — if I had them I could return to the Islands. I do not belong away from them—”

The telephone bell on the wall jangled; Jo Gar stared towards the apparatus for several seconds, then rose slowly. He was dressed in a gray suit that did not fit him too well, and his graying hair was mussed. He unhooked the receiver and said:

“Yes.”

A pleasant voice said: “Inspector Raines, of the customs office. I have information for you.”

Jo Gar said: “That is good — please come up.”

He hung up the receiver and stood for several seconds looking towards the door. One of his three bags had been opened, the other two he had not unlocked. The Cheyo Maru, bringing him from Honolulu, had arrived three hours ago, and there had been much for the Island detective to do. In the doing of it he had gained little. Perhaps, he thought, Inspector Raines had done better.

He took from one of his few remaining packages a brown-paper cigarette, lighted it. His gray-blue eyes held a faint smile as he inhaled. Down the hall beyond the room there was the slam of the elevator’s door, and foot-falls. A man cleared his throat noisily. Jo Gar put his right hand in the pocket of his gray suit at his right side, went over and seated himself on the edge of the bed, facing the door. A knock sounded and the Philippine Island detective called flatly:

“Please — come in.”

The door opened. A middle-aged man entered, dressed in a dark suit with a light coat thrown across his shoulders. The sleeves of the man’s suit were not within the coat sleeves; it was worn as a cape. Raines had sharp features, pleasant blue eyes. His lips were thick; he was a big man. He said:

“Hello, Señor Gar.”

Jo Gar rose and they shook hands. Raines’ grip was loose and careless; he looked about the room, tossed a soft, gray hat on a chair. Jo Gar motioned towards the other chair in the room, and the inspector seated himself. He kept the coat slung across his shoulders.

Jo Gar said slowly, almost lazily:

“Something was found?”

The inspector frowned and shook his head. He took from his pocket a small card. His picture was at one corner of the card, which was quite soiled. There was the printing of the Customs Department, some insignia that Gar merely glanced at, a stamped seal — and the statement that Albert Raines was a member of the San Francisco customs office.

Raines said: “The chief thought I’d better show you that right away, as we hadn’t seen each other.”

The Island detective smiled. “Thank you,” he replied, and handed the card back. “Something was found?”

Raines shook his head. “Not a thing,” he said. “We held her up for two hours, and we searched everything carefully. We even searched the child — the child’s baggage. We gave her a pretty careful questioning. For that matter — everybody on the boat got about three times the attention we usually give. And we didn’t turn up a stone.”

Jo Gar sighed. Raines said grimly: “If the diamonds were on that boat — they got past us. And that means you’re in a tough spot, yes?”

The Island detective said: “I think that is very much — what it means.”

Raines said in a more cheerful tone: “Well, the chief said you recovered six of the stones, between Manila and San Francisco — that’s not at all bad.”

Jo Gar smiled gently: “I was — extremely fortunate,” he said. “But the woman in black — I had hopes that the four diamonds—”

Raines said quickly: “So had we. When we got your coded wire telling us that you suspected her of the murder of the man you recovered five stones from, but that you couldn’t prove a thing against her, we figured we might be able to help. We weren’t. But we did as you requested — when she left the dock we had a man follow her.”

The Island detective said: “Good — she went to a hotel?”

Raines shook his head. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever been out around the Cliff House, Señor Gar. It’s a spot out on a bunch of jagged rocks, about an hour from town. A sort of amusement park has grown up around it. Seals fool around in the rocks and the tourists go for it strong. The woman took a cab, and our man took another. She went to the amusement park near the Cliff House.”

Jo Gar’s gray-blue eyes widened slightly.

“She spent more than three weeks on the Cheyo Maru,” he breathed slowly. “And when she landed and had been cleared after an exhaustive customs examination, she went to an amusement park. Strange.”

Raines made a grunting sound. “Damn’ strange,” he said. “Took all the baggage, which included a trunk we’d gone very carefully through. And the child.”

Jo Gar narrowed his eyes and looked beyond the inspector. He said quietly:

“In Manila we have an amusement park that is quite large. After entering the main gate there are many places one can go.”

Raines nodded. “It’s like that here. Only this park has several entrances, and you can drive through a section of it. The cab went in one entrance, stopped for a while near a merry-go-round — went out another. Then it went to a house and stopped. The luggage was taken inside, and the woman and child went in. Our man stayed around a short time, but nothing else happened.”

The Island detective said: “You have the address?”

Raines nodded. He took from his pocket a small slip of paper, on which were scrawled some words, handed it to Jo Gar.

The Island detective read: “ ‘One hundred and forty-one West Pacific Avenue.’ ”

Raines nodded. “That’s it — Cary said it was a frame house, set back a short distance from the road. The section isn’t much built up out there.”

Jo Gar nodded. “It is very good of you to bring me this information,” he stated.

Raines made a swift gesture with both hands. “That’s all right,” he said. “Cary has another job just now, or he’d have come along to tell you about it. Looks queer to me.”

The Island detective spoke slowly. “It is not necessary to drive through the amusement park, in order to reach this address?” he asked.

Raines said: “Hell, no — that’s what seems funny. That woman was trying to hide where she was going. Maybe she figured she might be followed.”

Jo Gar nodded. “I think you are right,” he said.

Raines got to his feet, held out his right hand.

“Sorry the office couldn’t get something on her at the pier,” he apologized. “But you know where she is — and you know she acted funny getting there.”

Jo Gar smiled and shook the inspector’s hand. He sat down on the bed again as Raines took his hat. When Raines reached the door, he said:

“Luck on those other four.” He grinned and went out. Going along the corridor he whistled. The elevator door slammed.

Jo Gar got to his feet with remarkable speed for him. He got his coat and hat, was out of the room quickly. He used the stairs instead of the elevator. When he reached the small lobby he saw Raines light a cigar, go outside and raise a hand. A cab pulled close to the curb. When it started away the Island detective hailed another parked some feet from the hotel entrance. He said to the driver:

“Follow that machine, please — but do not move too close to it. When it halts, halt some distance away.”

The driver looked at Jo curiously but nodded his head. The two cabs moved from one street to another. There was a great deal of traffic, but Jo’s driver was skillful. For perhaps ten minutes the two cabs moved through the city, apparently keeping in the heart of it. Finally the leading cab curved close to a building that had a large clock set in granite stone. It halted. Unfamiliar as Jo was with San Francisco, he recognized the building as a railroad station of considerable importance. There were many porters about, and cabs were everywhere.

As his own cab pulled close to the curb Jo watched Raines alight and pay his driver. The inspector hurried into the station, and when he was out of sight Jo paid up and left his cab. He pulled his hat low over his eyes, straightened his small body a little, went into the station. Almost instantly he saw Raines. The man was at a luggage checking counter; as Jo watched from a safe distance he saw Raines handed two large-sized valises. A porter picked them up; Raines gestured towards another clock inside the station and said something. The porter hurried away, followed by the inspector.

Jo Gar followed, being careful not to be seen. When Raines and his porter went through a train gate, the Island detective halted near it, a peculiar smile on his face. After a few minutes the colored porter came back through the gate. Jo beckoned to him.

“The gentleman whose luggage you just carried to the train — I think he was a friend of mine. You saw his ticket?”

The porter shook his head slowly: “He tol’ me his car and seat number — didn’t show no ticket,” he replied.

Jo Gar frowned. “How did you know what train to take him to?” he asked slowly.

The porter grinned. “That’s right,” he said. “He wanted the Chicago train.”

The Island detective drew a sharp breath. He handed the porter a quarter, walked slowly back into the station’s waiting room.

“Mr. Raines had barely time to make his train,” he breathed softly. “Yet he was very kind to me — and said nothing about leaving on such a journey.”

He took a cab back to his hotel, found everything in his room in perfect order. He called the customs office and after considerable inquiry was told that Inspector Raines had left for his hotel some hour or so ago. He said:

“Yes, he has been here. I wondered if he had returned.”

There was a pause, questions were asked at the other end, and he was informed that Raines was not expected to return for special night work, but that he would be on duty in the morning. Jo Gar thanked his informant and hung up the receiver.

He sat on the edge of the small bed and watched a light sign flash in the distance. A ferry boat was a glow of moving light, on the Bay waters. The air seemed very cold. Jo Gar decided that the real Inspector Raines had met with injuries, and that a certain person had impersonated him, had told him an untrue story about a certain woman in black — and had then departed from the city of San Francisco. He decided that he was expected to go to the house at One hundred and forty-one, West Pacific Avenue, that he was supposed to believe the woman had acted suspiciously in going there.

He said softly and slowly: “I have the six diamonds — they have the four. I am in a strange city, and a card with a seal on it was expected to make a great impression. But one man’s picture can replace another’s — very easily—”

He rose and looked at his wristwatch. It was almost eight o’clock. He inspected his Colt automatic, slipped it back into a pocket of his coat. The phone bell rang, and when he lifted the receiver and gave his name he was told that the customs office was calling, and that Inspector Raines had been found unconscious in an alley not far from the piers. He was still unconscious and it was not certain that he would live. He had apparently been struck over the head with a blunt instrument. The customs office felt that Señor Gar should know why he had failed to arrive, and also that all passengers on the Cheyo Maru had been passed through the office. One had been followed as requested, but her cab had been lost in traffic. The office was very sorry.

Jo Gar said: “I am very sorry to hear of Inspector Raines’ injuries. I will call at the office tomorrow. Thank you for calling.”

He hung up the receiver, went to the window that faced the Bay and the distant, lighted ferry boat. His gray-blue eyes were smiling coldly. He thought: They did not expect Inspector Raines to be found so soon. They did expect me to go immediately to the address the impostor gave me. They might easily have escaped with the four diamonds, but they chose to lead me to them. They wish the six in my possession, being very greedy. But I am warned, directly and indirectly.

The Island detective turned away from the window and moved towards the room door. He breathed very softly:

“Just the same — I shall go directly to the address given me.”

Jo Gar left his cab a square from One hundred and forty-one West Pacific Avenue. He had picked the driver with care; the man was husky in build and young. He had a good chin and clear eyes, and he said his name was O’Halohan. Somewhere in the Islands Jo had read that the Irish were fighters.

He said now: “I am a detective — and I’m going inside of the house at One hundred and forty-one. Here is a ten-dollar bill. In about five minutes I want you to drive to the front of the house and blow your horn twice. After that just stay in your seat. Wait about ten minutes — then blow your horn again, twice. If I do not come to a window or the door, and call to you — go to the police and tell them I went into the house and was prevented from coming out. That is all — is it clear?”

The driver nodded. “I got a gun,” he said. “And a permit to carry it. Suppose, after the second time I blow my horn, you don’t show. Why not let me come in and get you out?”

The Island detective smiled narrowly. “You are young and strong, but neither of those qualities might be of too great value. Neither of us might come out.”

The driver said: “If it looks that bad — what you goin’ in alone for?”

Jo Gar continued to smile. He said patiently:

“I have an idea it will be better that way. You must follow my instructions.”

The driver nodded. “You’re doing the job,” he muttered. “I’ll be down there in five minutes, and make the horn racket. I’ll give it to you again in ten. Then if you don’t show I’ll head for the police.”

The Island detective nodded. “That is the way,” he said. “Don’t get out of the car.”

The driver said: “Supposing I hear you yelling for help — I still stick inside?”

Jo said grimly: “You will not hear me calling for help, Mister O’Halohan. My visit is not at all complicated. After you blow your horn twice — the second time, I will either give you instructions, or you will go for the police.”

The driver said: “You win.”

Jo Gar half closed his almond-shaped eyes. “It may be very important to me — that you do just as I have instructed. You are sure you understand?”

The driver nodded; his eyes met Jo Gar’s squarely.

“It ain’t anything tough,” he stated.

Jo Gar spoke very quietly. “It is extremely simple.”

He half turned away from the cab, and heard the driver say harshly:

“Yeah — if it works.”

The Island detective moved along the broken pavement of the sidewalk, a thin smile on his browned face.

“It will be just as simple,” he said in a low tone, a half whisper, “if it doesn’t work. But much more final — for me.”

Number One hundred and forty-one was a rambling one story house in not too good condition. There were no streetlights near it; tall trees rose on either side. The nearest house to it was almost a square distant; opposite was a lot filled with low brush. The section was quiet and pretty well deserted, but less than a half mile away there was the flare of colored lights in the sky. And at intervals Jo Gar could hear distant and faint staccato sounds — the noise of shooting gallery rifles.

He did not hesitate as he reached the front of the house. A yellowish light showed faintly beyond one of the side windows. The pavement that ran to a few steps was broken and not level.

Out of the corners of his gray-blue eyes, as he moved towards the steps, Jo saw that the lights of the cab had been dimmed — their color did not show on the street in front of the place. A cold wind made sound in the trees as he reached the steps, moved up them. His right hand was in the right pocket of his coat, gripping the butt of the automatic.

He stood for a few seconds, his eyes on the number plate, which seemed new and had been placed in a position easily seen. The house was old, the section of San Francisco was not too good — but the number plate was in excellent condition.

The Island detective’s lips curved just a little. But the smile that showed momentarily on his face was not a pleasant one. He had a definite feeling that this house marked the end of the trail. He thought of the ones who had died in Manila, when Delgada’s jewelry store had been robbed — he thought of the men who had died since then. A vision of Juan Arragon’s brown face flashed before his eyes.

He touched the index finger of his left hand to a button near the number plate, heard no sound within the house. One hand at his side, the other in his right pocket — he stood in the cold wind and waited. He had come to this house, but he had not been tricked. He was gambling — gambling his life, in a strange country, against his chances of recovering the four missing Von Loffler diamonds, against the final chance of facing the one who had planned the Manila crime.

He could not be positive of anything, but he sensed these things. This was to be the finish, one way or the other. He would return to Manila — or he would never leave this house alive. He felt it, and he was suddenly very calm. From somewhere within he heard foot-falls; there was the sound of a bolt being moved, the door opened very wide.

Jo Gar looked into the eyes of a man who had a smiling face. It was a thin, browned face, and the eyes were small and colorless. The man was dressed in a brown suit, almost the color of his skin. There was nothing striking about the one who had opened the door, unless it was the smallness of his colorless eyes.

The eyes looked beyond the Island detective, to the sidewalk and road. The man moved his head slightly and Jo Gar said:

“I am Señor Gar, a private detective who arrived only today in San Francisco. I arrived on the Cheyo Maru — and have come here in search of a woman who was on that boat. She had with her a child—”

He stopped and looked downward at the dull color of black that was the metal of the gun held by the man in the doorway. The man had made only a slight movement with his right hand; the gun’s muzzle was less than three feet from Jo’s body.

Jo Gar smiled into the smiling eyes of the one in the doorway.

“I have made a mistake?” he asked very quietly.

The one in the doorway shook his head. “On the contrary,” he said in a voice that was very low and cold, “you have come to the correct place. I have been — expecting you.”

He stepped to one side, and Jo Gar walked into a wide hall. The light was dim, and though there were electric bulbs about, it was furnished by a lamp whose wick was uneven. The place was very cold. It had the air of not having been lived in for a long time, and there was no evidence about showing that it would be lived in.

The thin-faced man said: “The first room on your right, please. Lift your hands slightly.”

Jo Gar raised his hands slightly, went through a narrow doorway into a room that seemed even colder than the hall. The light in the room was better — there were two lamps. Blinds were drawn tightly. Beside a small table was a stool that might have been made for a piano.

The one with the gun said in the same, cold voice:

“Sit on the stool, Gar — put your hands on the table. Keep them there.”

Hatred crept into his voice as he uttered the last three words. Jo Gar did as instructed. He said quietly:

“I knew that the man you sent to me at my hotel lied. I followed him to the station, and watched him leave the city. I returned to the hotel and the customs office informed me that one of their men, who was coming to me with information of no great importance, had been knocked unconscious. I knew then how the card presented me had been obtained, and that I was expected to believe a story that pointed to suspicious action by a woman I was interested in — and that I was expected to come to this address.”

There was hatred showing in the small, colorless eyes of the thin-faced one. He stood almost ten feet away from Jo Gar, facing him.

“But you came, knowing all this.”

Jo Gar smiled a little. “When you made that movement and held that gun on me — my fingers were on the trigger of my own gun. I could have shot you down — I did not.”

There was a flicker of expression in the standing one’s eyes. He said:

“You are very kind, Señor Gar.”

Mockery and hatred were in his tone. Jo Gar said slowly:

“No — not kind. I have six diamonds that you would like. I think that you have four I would like. You wanted me here to bargain with me. You wanted me here so that you could trap me, then offer me my life for the six diamonds. You have worked that way, with your accomplices, since the robbery was effected.”

The thin-faced one smiled and showed white, even teeth.

“You would risk your life and six diamonds — for the four you say I have?”

Jo Gar smiled gently. “My life is not too important,” he said. “I have never regarded it that way. I came here because I knew the one responsible for many deaths would be here.”

The thin-faced one said mockingly: “And you were not trapped? You simply wanted to see that person who you hated because of Arragon’s death, and because of things done to you?”

The Island detective kept his hands motionless on the table surface. He shook his head.

“No,” he replied. “Not exactly. I wanted to see that one taken by the police. And that is practically assured, now.”

He watched the facial muscles of the thin-faced one jerk, saw his colorless eyes shift towards the blinds of the windows. His gun hand moved a little, in towards his body. Rage twisted his face, and then he smiled. It was a grotesque, mask-like smile. The brown skin was drawn tightly over the face bones and the lips were pressed together. Jo Gar said:

“I remember you, Raaker. You were in the insurance business in Manila until a few years ago. There was about to be a prosecution, and you left the Islands.”

The thin-faced one said with hoarseness in his voice:

“And I have never forgotten you, Señor Gar. You tell me you have come here, not caring about your life — and that the police are outside. Well — I didn’t bring you here to get your six diamonds, Gar — Von Loffler’s diamonds. I brought you here because I hate you. I want to watch your body squirm on the floor, beside that stool.”

Jo Gar said quietly: “That was how you knew about the Von Loffler diamonds — that Dutch Insurance Company. You stayed out of Manila, Raaker — you couldn’t risk coming back. You hired men. Some of them tricked you — and each other. The robbery was successful, but you lost slowly. All the way back from Manila, Raaker, you lost. You used men and women, and they tried to kill me — too many times. They were killed — there were many deaths. Those were diamonds of death, Raaker — and you only got four of them. The woman in black brought them to you — I think she was the only one who was faithful.”

Raaker was breathing heavily. He made a sudden movement with his left hand, plunging it into a pocket. When it came out four stones spilled to the surface of the small table. Three of them only rolled a few inches, but one struck against a finger of the Island detective’s left hand. Raaker said fiercely:

“I hate you, Gar. You drove me from the Islands, with your evidence. I hated Von Loffler, too. He took all his properties away from me, because he learned that I was gambling, because he was afraid of the insurance. So I learned about the stones, where they were. And I planned the robbery. I stayed here — and got reports. I tried to direct. But you were on that boat—”

He broke off, shrugged. “You are going to die, Gar. So I can talk. The woman came to me with the diamonds. Four of them. And by the time she brought them to me here — she hated me. She had seen too much death. She’s gone away, with her child — and you’ll never find her, Gar. She killed a man on the Cheyo Maru, and that made her hate me all the more. She had to kill him, before he could talk — to you!”

Jo Gar said steadily: “I don’t think — I want to find her, Raaker. I know now who planned the crime, who caused the deaths. And you are caught, Raaker—”

There was the sound of brakes beyond the room, the low beat of an idling engine. Two sharp blasts from a horn came into the room. Raaker jerked his head sharply, then turned his eyes towards Jo Gar again. The Island detective made no movement. He smiled with his lips pressed together. Raaker said:

“What’s — that?”

His voice was hoarse. Jo Gar parted his lips. He said:

“A signal from the police — that the house is properly covered.”

Raaker sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll get more than one of them — as they come in!” he muttered.

Jo Gar shook his head. “I do not think you will, Raaker. They will not come in. It is easier to wait for you — to go out.”

Raaker smiled twistedly, but there was fear in his eyes.

“They’ll come in, all right,” he breathed. “I’ll get you first — when they come. You won’t see them come in, Gar.”

Jo Gar smiled. “They will not come in,” he said softly. “If I do not go out, within the next ten minutes, they will unload the sub-machine-guns and the smoke bombs. They will know I am dead — and that there is a killer in the house. The smoke bombs — and the tear gas bombs — they will come in.”

Raaker said hoarsely. “—! How I hate you, you little half-breed—”

He jerked the gun slightly. The Island detective looked him in the eyes, still smiling.

“That is true,” he said. “You do hate me — and there is the blood of the Spanish and the Filipino in my veins. But I am not a criminal — a thief and a killer.”

Raaker turned his head slightly and listened to the steady beat of the cab engine. Then his eyes came back to the small figure of Gar, went to the four glittering diamonds on the table. He said thickly:

“With the others — over two hundred thousand dollars — I would have been fixed—”

His voice broke. Jo Gar said quietly: “Yes, you could have had things easy, Raaker. If I had not taken the same boat that your accomplices took — if things had turned out differently in Honolulu—”

Raaker stared at him, his little eyes growing larger. He said slowly:

“Where are — the other six stones?”

Jo Gar smiled. “In the vaults of the customs office,” he replied. “You did not think I would bring them here?”

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.