The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

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: