The Man in the Red Fez
The famous tropical port of Zamboanga lived up to its reputation as an
exotic place. As the taxi carried the Spindrifters from the airport past
the waterfront area, Rick saw bright-colored sails mixed with the drab
steel of cargo ships. There were many Moros, but Christian Filipinos
seemed to be in the majority.
The taxi took them to Bayot's Hotel, a rambling, picturesque affair only
two stories high, noted for the best food in the Sulu Sea region. The
hotel was almost overgrown with orchids and lush tropical creepers.
As the three checked in, Zircon began asking questions of the man at the
desk. "You had Dr. Briotti and Dr. Shannon as guests, I believe?"
"Yes. They stayed here for two days. I read of their disappearance.
Incredible."
"Can you tell us if they had any visitors?"
"I recall none."
Rick asked, "Did anyone show unusual interest in them?"
"Not that one could notice. You realize, Americans are not an unusual
sight. There are a number who live here."
"Did you know their Moro guide?" Scotty queried.
"I did not know him. I saw him, however. He was an unusual type."
"In what way?" Zircon asked quickly.
"He spoke no Chebucano. When I asked about this he said he was brought
up in Tawi Tawi where Chebucano is not spoken. I might have believed
this, except for one other thing."
"Yes?" Zircon prompted.
"He spoke excellent Spanish, which also is not spoken on Tawi Tawi."
Rick asked thoughtfully, "You think he might not have been a Moro?"
The man shrugged. "What is a Moro? It is simply a Filipino, of a
different religion, and to some extent a different way of life. An
educated Moro is like any other educated Filipino. I cannot say if this
guide was a Moro. He said he was."
Zircon nodded his understanding. "Do you know if they hired him here?"
"They did. I mean in this city, not in my hotel. I believe they met him
on the waterfront."
Rick had seen at once that the man was not a Filipino, and he thought he
recognized the accent as Spanish. He asked, "Are you the manager?"
"Yes. I may say, these questions you ask have already been answered by
me to Captain Lim of the constabulary. Perhaps he can help you."
"We intend to see him," Zircon replied. "Is his office nearby?"
"No, you will need a car, which I will arrange. He is at the fort,
Nuestra Senora Del Pilar. We call it simply Fort Pilar. Now I will show
you to your rooms."
Zircon had a room to himself, while Rick and Scotty shared one. The
rooms were small, and like all tropic hotel rooms, sparsely furnished
but adequate. The three changed clothes quickly and got into their
comfortable khaki trousers and shirts. When they returned to the lobby,
the manager had a car waiting, with one of the hotel's employees to
drive it.
Fort Pilar was a tremendous mass of hand-cut stone many feet thick,
pierced for muskets and cannon. It was obviously Spanish in design, and
very old. The walls were covered with creepers, and palms had sprung up
on what had once been a parade ground. Visible beyond the fort were the
clear waters of Basilan Strait.
A sentry took them to Captain Diosdado Lim, who greeted them courteously
and scanned the letter they had brought from Colonel Rojas.
"We are at your service," the captain said formally. "This letter makes
you more than guests. You are also friends. I welcome you."
"Thank you, Captain," Zircon replied with equal formality. "You knew of
our coming from Major Lacson?"
"Yes. We are prepared. We will send your car back and you will ride into
town with me. I will introduce you to the man from whom the boat was
hired."
"Any news of the boat?" Rick asked hopefully.
"Not yet. The seas are big and our outposts are few. But we will hope
for good fortune."
The captain had a stilted way of speaking, Rick noted. His English was
good, but he obviously didn't speak it often. The officer was young and
dark, and looked more Chinese than Filipino. He was probably a mestizo,
a person of mixed blood.
Zircon launched into questions as soon as they got underway in the
captain's sedan. It was soon clear that the officer had little to add to
what they already knew. He did say, however, that Azid Hajullah, the
Moro guide, had not been a local young man, and that the detachment on
Tawi Tawi did not know him. No one, apparently, knew where the guide had
come from. It sounded suspicious to Rick. He might have been a plant, to
betray the scientists to the unknown kidnapers.
Captain Lim took them to the boatyard operated by Jose Santos, a fat
little Filipino who had once served in the United States Navy. Santos
was friendly, and very sad about the scientists. Rick felt he honestly
was more disturbed about the two men than about his missing boat.
The _Sampaguita_, he said, was a thirty-foot auxiliary sloop with white
hull and red sails. It had once been the private yacht of an American
copra planter on Basilan who, alas, had been murdered by his Moro field
hands. Santos had not known the Moro guide, and had noticed nothing
unusual about him. And there the interview ended. Rick shook his head.
They were certainly not making progress.
"Is there anything I can do?" Captain Lim asked.
"I'm afraid not," Zircon replied. "Thank you, Captain. If you don't
mind, we'll walk back to the hotel. It's only a short distance. And I'm
sure the boys want to see this part of town. I do."
"Of course. Anyway, you must be my guests for dinner at the hotel. At
ten o'clock."
"We'll be delighted," Zircon answered. "Will you go back to the fort
now?"
"No. If you want me I will be at home, behind the hotel. It is the small
white cottage."
The three waved good-by, then turned toward the teeming wharf area,
which was also the town's market place. Just beyond the breakwater,
native outrigger boats with bright-colored sails in stripes and patterns
swept by in a kind of convoy.
Scotty asked an elderly Filipino who was watching, "Sir, may I ask the
name of that kind of boat?"
The Filipino smiled. "Colorful, yes? They are vintas. Moro boats from
Sulu Sea. They come to sell fish."
Scotty thanked him and the three walked slowly through the market place.
By unspoken consent they said nothing about their problem. All of them
knew they had reached a dead end, and none knew where to go from this
point.
They stopped once to watch two fighting cocks sparring with shielded
spurs. A few yards away they stopped once more, at a fruit vendor's
stall. Many of the fruits were new and strange. They took a moment to
learn about them from the vendor. There were mangosteens, not related to
mangoes, with red husks and pure-white fruit; lanzones that looked like
clusters of brown plums; foul-smelling but tasty durian; star apples,
and several varieties of banana, none of which looked like the Central
American variety.
Rick tried a mangosteen. He passed sections of the white fruit to Scotty
and Zircon, then bit into his, It was cool, tart, and delicious, unlike
anything he had ever tasted before. He decided he could become a
mangosteen addict in no time and started back to buy a bagful. A low
comment from Scotty stopped him.
"We've picked up a friend. He's been with us for the past ten minutes."
"Let's stop at this stand and look at the baskets," Zircon invited
casually.
They did so, and pretended great interest in the huge variety of woven
ware while Scotty maneuvered to look back the way they had come. Rick
saw his pal's face change, then Scotty fingered a basket and used it as
a cover while talking.
"It's nice to find a familiar face in a strange place," Scotty said.
"Believe it or not, it's the man in the red fez who trailed us in
Manila!"
"Are you certain?" Zircon asked swiftly.
"Yes. It isn't just the fez, it's the face. Besides, he's wearing the
same clothes."
Zircon's normally loud voice dropped to a whisper. "Lay a plan, Scotty.
We'll mousetrap him. I have a few questions I'd like to ask."
"All right. Let's move on and look for a place. This is too crowded."
They sauntered on, elaborately casual, stopping now and then to examine
goods in an open market stall or to marvel at the colors of fish offered
for sale. Rick wondered about the man in the red fez. Since he had
trailed them in Manila, and had come all the way to Zamboanga, his
interest in them must be linked to the missing scientists. Maybe, if the
man would talk, they could finally learn something of value!
Rick kept his eyes open, watching for a likely place to set a trap. He
saw that the market place ended in an open park that ran along both
sides of the street leading from the wharves into town. Up the street,
where the park ended, he saw a big warehouse marked with the name MANUAL
WEE SIT & CO.
"That shed is the best bet," Scotty said softly. "Let's step it up a
little, walk to the end of the warehouse, then go around the corner.
Look for a doorway in which we can wait for him."
The three walked faster, but only as tourists might do who had left an
interesting area and wanted to go elsewhere. They passed the end of the
warehouse and rounded the corner. There was an open shed-type door
there, and seated in front of it on a nail keg was an elderly Chinese,
smoking his water pipe and getting the afternoon sun. He didn't look up
at the three Americans.
"Step in the doorway," Scotty said swiftly. "The old man must be
dreaming about something. He won't bother us."
It was cool and dim in the warehouse. Rick saw flour barrels and case
after case of canned food, many with American brand names.
Scotty took a position just inside the door where he could watch through
the opening. In a moment he tensed, ready to spring. Rick saw the Moro's
shadow just as Scotty leaped.
Rick ran out, Zircon right behind him, in time to see Scotty confront
the Moro. The man's eyes widened. His hand flashed to his sash with the
speed of a striking snake and emerged with a short dagger, a vicious
thing with a wavy blade like a kris.
Scotty didn't hesitate. He let go with a punch that had his powerful
shoulder behind it. But fast as Scotty was, the Moro dodged, then lunged
forward with the knife.
Rick sprang forward to help, but Scotty was ready. The boy stepped to
one side and in the same motion grabbed the wrist that held the knife.
He doubled the Moro's arm back, twisting at the same time. Rick ran to
pick up the knife as it fell.
The Moro hadn't given up. He kicked out, his foot catching Scotty under
the armpit, breaking his hold. The Moro broke free and started to run.
"Get him!" Zircon bellowed.
Scotty dove, both hands outstretched, with Rick right behind him. One
of Scotty's hands caught the Moro by shirt and jacket, stopping him long
enough for the other hand to get a grip, too. The Moro plunged wildly
and the clothing ripped loose. By then Rick was in position. He
delivered a judo chop to the side of the Moro's neck. The man slumped to
the ground, the red fez dropping into the dust.
For the first time Rick got a look at the Moro's back, where Scotty's
frantic grab had bared it. The man was tattooed with a strange design. A
Moro kris was crossed with a barong, and both weapons dripped blood.
Above the knives, in bright blue ink, was a symbol composed of a short
horizontal line from which three vertical lines rose. The middle
vertical line was slightly taller than the other two.
[Illustration: _The man's back was tattooed with a strange design_]
Sound smote Rick's ears. He turned swiftly and saw that the old Chinese
had come to frightened life. The old man's eyes were open wide, staring
at the tattooed design. His mouth was open, and he was wailing at such
high pitch that Rick flinched.
Then the old man babbled something and ran like one possessed into the
shelter of the warehouse.
Scotty stared after him in amazement. "What got into him? He ran as
though he'd got a sudden look at the devil!"
Zircon hauled the groggy Moro to his feet. "Possibly he did," the
physicist stated. He pointed to the symbol. "This looks like a Chinese
character. Perhaps the old man recognized it."
Swift excitement ran through Rick. "If he did, maybe we've just hit a
jackpot!"