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worked over Burker—his nerves—were breaking. He’d reached a point where he dreaded the thought of hearing the transport’s whistle again. Finally, I bluffed—told him that Major Jones was already under arrest, charged with murder. And Burker broke down—he told the truth.”

Death in the Pasig
The Island Detective takes up a trail of justice and vengeance. …
    The ceiling fans stirred hot air and made faint creaking sounds as they turned slowly. Shrill, native voices reached the café from the blue-gray eyes on the tall glass of lemonade he was sipping at intervals. It was about as hot as he had ever remembered! Baguio would be better because of the altitude. Or perhaps an inter-Island trip would help.
    He raised his eyes to the bulk of Ben Rannis, noted that the manager of the Manila Hotel was pale, very pale. As Rannis stood near the screened doors and searched the café with his dark eyes, Jo Gar raised his right hand slowly and moved it from side to side. It was a languid motion—that of one who has spent many years in the tropics and has learned to conserve energy.
    Rannis saw him, moved swiftly towards the table. He weighed more than two hundred; he was a powerful man. There wasn’t much stomach, but he had broad shoulders and a great chest. He was several inches over six feet. Perspiration streaked his heavy face; he pulled a chair from the table, set it down closer to the one Jo Gar occupied.
    “You appear ill—and you hurry too much. What is it?”
    The Island detective spoke almost tonelessly. His English was precise. He was small in size, and his gray hair contrasted his brown, young face strangely. His slightly almond-shaped eyes were only half opened.
    Rannis muttered something that sounded like a curse. He was breathing hard; it was almost as though he had been running along the Escolta.
    “The Cleyo Maru’s in,” he said in his husky voice. “Got in two hours ago. Craise was aboard. He sent me a message. It was given to me over the phone by a Filipino who acted damned cheerful about it. He said ‘Meester Craise has arrived. He wishes me to tell you that information has come to him. You are in great danger. It is better to leave the city at once.’ Then he hung up.”
    Jo Gar frowned. “It was Craise’s brother you killed, two months ago, I think,” he said steadily.
    Rannis groaned. “You know damned well it was, Jo,” he replied. “And you know damned well Howard Craise is out to get me for it. One way or another. And it was an accident.”
    The Island detective shrugged his shoulders slightly. He smiled with his thin lips.
    “You had been drinking,” he reminded. “John Craise was not strong. You struck him very hard.”
    “He’d been drinking, too. He called me a nasty name. That all came out at the trial. Howard Craise knows all that, even if he was in England at the time.”
    Jo Gar sipped more of his lemonade. He turned his browned face slightly away from the hotel manager.
    “That is so,” he agreed. “And now he is not in England. He is in Manila. You have been called and told your life is endangered. Recently you have killed John Craise and have been acquitted of the charge of murder.”
    The hotel manager turned narrowed eyes towards Gar’s. He said hoarsely:
    “He’ll kill me, Jo. I can’t shoot. I want you to go to him, tell him how it was. You’d just come in on that transport—you worked the case. He knows you—he’ll believe you.”
    The Island detective smiled with faint mockery in his eyes.
    “You did not intend to murder his brother,” he said slowly, tonelessly. “I feel certain of that.”
    Ben Rannis shoved back his chair and rose. His voice was shaken, uncertain. But he kept it fairly low.
    “He’s at his brother’s place—fix it up, Jo. He’ll get brooding—in this damned heat—”
    His voice broke. Fear was gripping the big man, and Jo Gar hated to see fear in a man’s eyes. He said slowly:
    “I will go to him. Where will you