“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 wrist-watch. 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 imposter 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 — than 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 street lights 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 Hashed before his eyes.