The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

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: