much about Diablo, the cock he was fighting tomorrow at the Casa Club.
Jo Gar smiled and talked about other things. There had been an earthquake in Mindoro, the next island south of Luzon; some of Barres relatives were very frightened. A Malay sailor had run amuck along the Luneta, several hours ago. He had knifed a wealthy Chinese by the name of Lin. There would soon be some of the nuts in from China—the ones Jo Gar liked so well.
The Island detective lingered for a half hour or so. It was not yet ten o’clock; he hailed a caleso with a sturdy-looking horse, instructed the Filipino driver to take him to the Casa Club. The driver grinned, showing fine, white teeth. Jo Gar settled back on the cushion of the two-wheeled conveyance. It was in his mind that if Parker had taken several drinks, and had bragged about his fighting-cock Diablo, the American might go to the Casa Club. The entries were often kept near the pits, for several days before the Sunday fights.
It was a thirty-minute drive. Manila was left behind—for more than ten minutes they passed between rows of native thatch-roofed huts, dimly lighted. The road was narrow and of dirt; the sweet odor of tropical growth in variety filled the heated air. And then, suddenly, the driver called shrilly to the horse—the caleso was turned to the right. A circular thatch-roofed arena loomed faintly before them in the thick gloom. It was the Casa Club.
Jo Gar descended, instructed the driver to wait. He went directly to the entrance of the cockfighting arena, walked inside. Two kerosene lamps dimly lighted the interior—there was the odor of dried blood, of earth—and of thatch. Tier after tier of wooden planks rose from the small, circular arena. Wind whistled the roof. There was no other human present.
Jo Gar murmured to himself: “It is an unpleasant place—”
The scream was terrible. It came from the silence, somewhere beyond the cockpit, but not very far distant, it was shrill, high pitched. A woman’s cry—of terror and pain. And then, wailingly, he caught two words in Spanish—
“Madre—Madre!”
There was another scream—it was choked off. Voices—native voices—rose from the thatch-roofed huts near the cockpit. Jo Gar turned, went out through the main entrance. He circled the Club, keeping close to the bamboo side poles. At the rear he distinguished figures running—they were moving towards a thick growth of palmetto, a hundred yards from the Casa Club. There were few huts near the growth.
There were no more screams. A path led into the tangle of palmetto. The Island detective came to it. Brown figures—those of half-naked Filipinos—were moving about. There was much confusion. Jo Gar said, in the native tongue:
“What has happened?”
No one seemed to know. There were many paths now, leading through the small jungle to native huts on all sides. Jo Gar took one of them; he had a small flashlight which he used. Filipinos crowded close to him, followed him. He heard one mutter to another: “It is Señor Jo Gar—he is the prison man—”
And then a sudden wailing rose, across the thick growth of palmetto. It was a sustained wailing, and Jo Gar turned, moved towards the sound. It took him several minutes to thread the confusing paths and come upon the spot where the natives were grouped around a figure that lay on the ground. He spoke roughly, went through the group. The white beam from his flashlight slanted down on the motionless figure.
One glance at the white face was enough for him. The eyes were staring—the red lips were parted. The face was twisted, contorted. Fingers were clenched; the earth around the body showed signs of human struggle. A red mark showed across the white throat, but it was not the mark of a knife.
Jo Gar bent low. He breathed to himself: “It is Carmen Carejo—she is dead.”
There was no pulse. The body was warm; it seemed almost alive. The Island detective loosened the rope that had been drawn about the
Jo Gar smiled and talked about other things. There had been an earthquake in Mindoro, the next island south of Luzon; some of Barres relatives were very frightened. A Malay sailor had run amuck along the Luneta, several hours ago. He had knifed a wealthy Chinese by the name of Lin. There would soon be some of the nuts in from China—the ones Jo Gar liked so well.
The Island detective lingered for a half hour or so. It was not yet ten o’clock; he hailed a caleso with a sturdy-looking horse, instructed the Filipino driver to take him to the Casa Club. The driver grinned, showing fine, white teeth. Jo Gar settled back on the cushion of the two-wheeled conveyance. It was in his mind that if Parker had taken several drinks, and had bragged about his fighting-cock Diablo, the American might go to the Casa Club. The entries were often kept near the pits, for several days before the Sunday fights.
It was a thirty-minute drive. Manila was left behind—for more than ten minutes they passed between rows of native thatch-roofed huts, dimly lighted. The road was narrow and of dirt; the sweet odor of tropical growth in variety filled the heated air. And then, suddenly, the driver called shrilly to the horse—the caleso was turned to the right. A circular thatch-roofed arena loomed faintly before them in the thick gloom. It was the Casa Club.
Jo Gar descended, instructed the driver to wait. He went directly to the entrance of the cockfighting arena, walked inside. Two kerosene lamps dimly lighted the interior—there was the odor of dried blood, of earth—and of thatch. Tier after tier of wooden planks rose from the small, circular arena. Wind whistled the roof. There was no other human present.
Jo Gar murmured to himself: “It is an unpleasant place—”
The scream was terrible. It came from the silence, somewhere beyond the cockpit, but not very far distant, it was shrill, high pitched. A woman’s cry—of terror and pain. And then, wailingly, he caught two words in Spanish—
“Madre—Madre!”
There was another scream—it was choked off. Voices—native voices—rose from the thatch-roofed huts near the cockpit. Jo Gar turned, went out through the main entrance. He circled the Club, keeping close to the bamboo side poles. At the rear he distinguished figures running—they were moving towards a thick growth of palmetto, a hundred yards from the Casa Club. There were few huts near the growth.
There were no more screams. A path led into the tangle of palmetto. The Island detective came to it. Brown figures—those of half-naked Filipinos—were moving about. There was much confusion. Jo Gar said, in the native tongue:
“What has happened?”
No one seemed to know. There were many paths now, leading through the small jungle to native huts on all sides. Jo Gar took one of them; he had a small flashlight which he used. Filipinos crowded close to him, followed him. He heard one mutter to another: “It is Señor Jo Gar—he is the prison man—”
And then a sudden wailing rose, across the thick growth of palmetto. It was a sustained wailing, and Jo Gar turned, moved towards the sound. It took him several minutes to thread the confusing paths and come upon the spot where the natives were grouped around a figure that lay on the ground. He spoke roughly, went through the group. The white beam from his flashlight slanted down on the motionless figure.
One glance at the white face was enough for him. The eyes were staring—the red lips were parted. The face was twisted, contorted. Fingers were clenched; the earth around the body showed signs of human struggle. A red mark showed across the white throat, but it was not the mark of a knife.
Jo Gar bent low. He breathed to himself: “It is Carmen Carejo—she is dead.”
There was no pulse. The body was warm; it seemed almost alive. The Island detective loosened the rope that had been drawn about the
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