There was the sound of brakes beyond the room, the low beat of an idling engine. Two sharp blasts from a horn came into the room. Raaker jerked his head sharply, then turned his eyes towards Jo Gar again. The Island detective made no movement. He smiled with his lips pressed together. Raaker said:
“What’s — that?”
His voice was hoarse. Jo Gar parted his lips. He said:
“A signal from the police — that the house is properly covered.”
Raaker sucked in a deep breath. “I’ll get more than one of them — as they come in!” he muttered.
Jo Gar shook his head. “I do not think you will, Raaker. They will not come in. It is easier to wait for you — to go out.”
Raaker smiled twistedly, but there was fear in his eyes.
“They’ll come in, all right,” he breathed. “I’ll get you first — when they come. You won’t see them come in, Gar.”
Jo Gar smiled. “They will not come in,” he said softly. “If I do not go out, within the next ten minutes, they will unload the sub-machine-guns and the smoke bombs. They will know I am dead — and that there is a killer in the house. The smoke bombs — and the tear gas bombs — they will come in.”
Raaker said hoarsely. “—! How I hate you, you little half-breed—”
He jerked the gun slightly. The Island detective looked him in the eyes, still smiling.
“That is true,” he said. “You do hate me — and there is the blood of the Spanish and the Filipino in my veins. But I am not a criminal — a thief and a killer.”
Raaker turned his head slightly and listened to the steady beat of the cab engine. Then his eyes came back to the small figure of Gar, went to the four glittering diamonds on the table. He said thickly:
“With the others — over two hundred thousand dollars — I would have been fixed—”
He raised his gun arm slowly. From the cab outside there came the sharp sound of a horn, silence — and then another blast.
Jo Gar never took his eyes from the eyes of Raaker.
He said very slowly: “Machine-gun bullets, Raaker. And choking, blinding gas. They’ll be waiting for you — after you get through squeezing that trigger.”
Raaker cried out in a shrill tone: “Damn you — Gar — that won’t help you any—”
There was a sudden engine hum as the cab driver accelerated the motor. Yellow light flashed beyond the house, along the road. O’Halohan was going for the police, starting his cab. For a second Raaker twisted his head towards the sound and the light. He was thinking of machine-guns — and tear gas—
Jo Gar was on his feet in a flash. The table went forward, over. The Island detective leaped to the right as Raaker cried out hoarsely, and the first bullet from his gun crashed into the table wood.
The second bullet from the gun ripped cloth of Gar’s coat, and his right hand was coming up, with the Colt in it, when the cloth ripped. He squeezed the trigger sharply but steadily. There was the third gun crash and Raaker screamed, took a step forward. His gun hand dropped, he went to his knees, stared at Gar for a second, swaying — then fell heavily to the floor.
Jo Gar went slowly to his side. He was dead — the bullet had caught him just above the heart. One diamond lay very close to his curved fingers; it was as though he were grasping for it, in death.
The other three Jo found after a five-minute search. Then he went from the room into the hall, and out of the house. The cab was out of sight; in the distance there was still colored light in the sky. The shooting gallery noise came at intervals. Jo Gar found a package in his pocket, lighted one of his brown-paper cigarettes.
He said very softly, to himself: “I have all — all the Rainbow diamonds. Now I can go home, after the police come. I hope my friend Juan Arragon — knows.”
He stood very motionless on the top step that led to the small porch, and waited for the police to come. And he thought, as he waited, of the Philippines — of Manila — and of his tiny office off the Escolta. It was good to forget other things, and to think of his returning.
Subject to review
by Mary Adams Sarett
Mary Adams Sarett’s “Subject to Review” one of the eleven “first stories” which won special awards in last year s contest. It is an unusual story, told in documentary style, and although restrained in tone and deliberately mannered, has the impact of a real-life case history.
Mrs. Sarett majored in writing at Sarah Lawrence College and has been writing off and on since her graduation. In the last five years she has written what she describes as “an exceptionally bad novel” (we wonder), a number of plays which pleased only herself — and, in general, “bit off more than [she] could chew.” More recently, she tried her hand at short stories, but while these received encouragement, she did not actually sell one until EQMM offered to buy “Subject to Review.”
Yes, Mrs. Sarett’s first story is unusual — for who things of murder in the midst of battle? Who things of the murder of an individual while mass murder is the order of the day? Gilbert K. Chesterton once wrote a story in which he asked: “Where would a wise man hide a leaf?” And he answered: “In the forest.” And then GКС proceeded to have a man murdered on a battlefield — how better conceal a dead body than to surround it with many dead bodies? But Mrs. Sarett’s conception of murder on a battlefield is altogether different, and stems from far more realistic sources.
“Subject to Review” was inspired by newspaper accounts of just such tragedies as Mrs. Sarett has woven into her first story. True, the newspaper accounts were always vague and curiously incomplete, leaving plenty of room for a writer’s imagination. Once committed to her theme, however, Mrs. Sarett found that she had to bolster her imagination with considerable research; she studied official procedure and cross-examined many people whose war experiences were more intimate than hers and whose memories were still vivid and, in some instances, partially recorded. And Mrs. Sarett did her research welclass="underline" the stamp of authenticity shines through her tale of a military murder investigation.
POSTSCRIPT: Long after we had awarded a special prize to Mrs. Sarett’s first story, and after we had already purchased the tale for EQMM, it occurred to us that there was something strangely familiar about the author’s surname. “Sarett” is an uncommon name, and then we realized that it reminded us of Lew Sarett, the well-known poet, and winner of many Poetry Prizes. We dropped a note of inquiry to Mrs. Sarett, and she replied that she is Lew Sarett’s daughter-in-law. “Mr. Sarett,” she went on, “has been a great inspiration to me, both as a person and as a poet” — which illustrates again the inextricable relationship between poetry and ratiocination.
1412 Lukens Blvd.
Oakland, Calif.
April 10, 1945
Corporal Robert Chandler 3ххххххх
APO #xx, c/o Postmaster
San Francisco
Bob darling—
I know it’s been some time since I’ve written, but don’t think I’ve for-gotten you, dear. I must think of you every day a thousand times — everything I do alone makes me think of all the things we used to do together.
Your letters sound so discouraged. Darling, the war can’t last forever. Your mother and I are so glad you and Lee Graham are in the same outfit. Maybe you know I never liked Lee much, but of course it means a lot to you to have your best friend with you — and maybe the war will make more of a man of him. It does seem unjust, though, that he should be your superior officer.