West of Guam by Raoul Whitfield Page B

showed his red-stained teeth in a nasty smile. He nodded his head.
    “This Parker—he is a cheap gambler,” he said slowly. “He bets on the cockfights, and when he loses he does not always pay. My girl—she is too good for him.”
    Jo Gar rolled a thin cigarette between his short, browned fingers. He regarded the single lizard crawling upside-down across the ceiling of his tiny office above Wong Ling’s place, on the Escolta. He said quietly:
    “When did she go away—and how?”
    Carejo swore through tight-pressed lips. He shrugged his shoulders.
    “She was to go to Baguio this morning. She slept in the house. But she did not appear at the breakfast table. She has taken nothing with her—no clothes. A few dollars, perhaps. I have searched the city—she is not to be found. Nor is the American, Parker. I have come to you.”
    The Island detective frowned. “Manila is not a big city, neither is it small,” he mused aloud. “It is Saturday evening—there will be cockfights tomorrow. You have a picture of your girl?”
    Carejo reached into a pocket of his white duck suit, produced a picture. It was a clear snapshot; it showed a dark-haired, slender girl of about eighteen. She was rather pretty, in the way of the Islands, which was not a lasting way. She had large eyes and a rather thin face. “Her name is Carmen—she is a devil,” Carejo said. “A bamboo stick does not frighten her.”
    Jo Gar smiled. “Love is not annoyed by beatings,” he philosophized. “I think I have seen this American, this Parker. A tall, blond fellow, with blue eyes. And you say he is a renegade?”
    Carejo shrugged his broad shoulders. He narrowed his eyes on Jo Gar’s.
    “He has been in Manila only a few months. He came over from Nagasaki with a few prize cocks—but the birds did not win much here. Then he was involved in some cheating affair, at the Casa Club. He is no good.”
    The Island detective tapped cigarette ash to the polished floor of his office. He said in an apologetic voice:
    “It may be difficult. I require a retainer—”
    Carejo placed five crisp bills on the wicker table beside his fan-backed chair.
    “You know where I reside,” he said. “You have Carmen’s picture. You know something of this Parker, and you can easily learn more. But I would like it not made public. How will you go about it?”
    Jo Gar reached for a palm-leaf fan, waved heated air against the brown skin of his face. He smiled pleasantly “That I do not know,” he said. “But I shall walk about a bit. Perhaps I shall ask a few questions.”
    Carejo grunted. “I’ve walked about and I’ve asked questions,” he muttered.
    The Island detective nodded. He said cheerfully:
    “Perhaps you have not walked in the right places, nor asked the correct questions.”
    Vincente Carejo rose. He muttered something that Jo Gar did not catch. Then he said, more clearly:
    “I want my girl back!”
    Jo Gar rose and bowed a little. After Carejo had departed the Island detective seated himself in the more comfortable fan-backed chair and half closed his eyes.
    “He is half Spanish, half Filipino,” he murmured. “It is a strange way he has—wanting his daughter back, so that he may beat her. Another of his type would use a knife on this Parker. But this Carejo—”
    Jo Gar let his murmur trail away, closed his eyes. It was as though he were sleeping in the evening heat. But he wasn’t sleeping. He was thinking of certain questions he would ask—and certain Manila streets he would walk. A beginning was always important.
    At Barres’ curio store, on the Calle Avida, he was told that the Americano Parker had been present an hour ago. It had taken Jo Gar three hours to come upon the Barres’ store; the information was welcome. In the rear, down five stone steps, was a fair-sized cellar. Parker had been drinking. He had taken three cups of saké. He had been drinking, but he had not been drunk. He had not stated his destination, but had bragged