Manila After Dark
Out of the _Asiatic Dream's_ forward hold swung the sleek shape of an
airplane fuselage. Rick bristled with nervous energy as he watched. He
yelled, "Watch it! Take it easy with that winch!"
Scotty patted him on the shoulder. "Take it easy yourself before you pop
a gusset. They're doing all right."
Rick didn't take his eyes off the plane. "Okay. But if they drop it,
we'll hike into the mountains instead of flying in style. Hey, you! Lift
it! Lift it clear of the rail!"
The plane was Rick's new Sky Wagon, a powerful little four-place job
that had replaced his beloved Cub, wrecked by saboteurs, as related in
_Stairway to Danger_. It had less than ten hours' flying time, and he
didn't want it wrecked by having a careless winchman bash it against
something. But in spite of his fears, the fuselage was lowered safely
onto the waiting truck, the wings in their crates were brought out, and
in a short time the boys were riding with the plane out to Manila
International Airport.
The day was still young. The freighter had anchored off the Manila port
area during the night, berthing in the early hours. The Spindrift party
had checked into the Manila Hotel, and Tony, leaving the boys to
supervise the unloading and clearance of their equipment, had gone off
to the University of the Philippines. Now the crates of equipment were
in the customs shed waiting to be picked up, and the plane was en route
to the airport to be assembled. Everything was going smoothly,
except ...
"Chahda," Rick mused. "Where do you suppose he went?"
"The day I can figure out Chahda's comings and goings is the day I
polish my crystal ball and solve the rest of the world's mysteries. He's
probably off studying _The World Almanac_."
Chahda had been registered at the Manila Hotel but had checked out three
days before their arrival. He had left no forwarding address and no
message.
"He's probably somewhere in the Indian colony of Manila," Rick
speculated. "Quite a few Indians here, mostly Hindus. They call 'em
Bombays, Tony said."
"He'll show up," Scotty said. "He always does. Wonder how Tony is making
out?"
Tony had gone to see a colleague, a Filipino archaeologist by the name
of Dr. Remedios Okola. It was through Okola that arrangements had been
made with the Philippine Government for their expedition--or would be
made. Their permit had not yet been issued.
"I didn't know they had a university here." Scotty added, "Until Tony
started writing to this Filipino scientist."
"You should read the stuff Tony brought," Rick replied. "The Philippines
has a dozen universities."
Scotty grinned. "Chahda is probably taking a course in one of them.
Getting a degree of D.D."
Rick took the bait. "What? Doctor of Divinity or Doctor of Dentistry?"
"Neither. Dean of Disappearances."
Rick groaned. Still, it was true. Chahda was the most disappearing
person he had ever known. The truth was, as he well knew, Chahda loved
the dramatic. The little Hindu boy thoroughly enjoyed baffling his pals
with theatrical appearances and disappearances. Not that he did his
vanishing act just for fun, however. There was usually a good reason.
Arrangements had been made by mail and confirmed by phone that morning
for hangar space at Manila International Airport. While giant
transpacific passenger liners landed or took off, and while the busy
twin-engined island hoppers of Philippine Air Lines kept the field
active, the boys assembled the Sky Wagon.
Even allowing for Rick's pride of ownership, the Sky Wagon was a beauty.
It was painted pure white with a red strip along the fuselage. It could
carry four, plus a fair amount of cargo. It had flaps which permitted
slow landings and short take-offs, and it had retractable landing gear
and variable-pitch propeller.
Under the rear seats was a special feature--a small hatch through which
a winch-driven cable could be operated.
This was a typical Rick Brant labor-saving device. Back home, Rick was
the errand boy for Spindrift Island, an island off the New Jersey coast
where the famous Spindrift Foundation was located. Until he acquired the
Sky Wagon, his grocery shopping meant landing at Whiteside Airport,
hiking into town, picking up the groceries, lugging them back, loading
them in the Cub and flying back to Spindrift.
Now he could phone in his order, get into the Sky Wagon, lower the
weighted cable, and swoop low over the grocery store, which was located
on the outskirts of Whiteside. The hook at the end of the cable snagged
another cable hung between two steel poles on the roof of the store. The
sack of groceries--it was a special strong canvas sack--were on the
cable and needed only to be reeled into the plane.
It worked fine. The only trouble was that Rick had never collected eggs
intact. The shock of the pickup was a little too much. When he solved
that problem, he would make arrangements with the electronic supply
house in Newark to let him put up the same kind of rig. Eventually, he
hoped, he would get so efficient that he never would have to land on the
mainland except to deliver a passenger or to pay a personal visit.
Rick and Scotty checked the plane over with the greatest of care, and
then Rick got in and started the engine. He let it warm up, watching his
instruments. Everything was fine. He motioned to Scotty, who was
watching and listening from outside.
Scotty got in, and Rick taxied to the end of a runway. While he revved
up the engine, Scotty obtained take-off permission from the control
tower, and in a few moments they were air-borne, enjoying the sudden
drop in temperature.
"First time I've stopped sweating in a week," Scotty said.
Rick nodded and motioned to pump up the landing gear. The hydraulic
system worked on a hand pump between the two front seats. It was not as
satisfactory as a motor-driven pump, but it took no electric power and
used up no valuable weight. Besides, a few strokes on the pump did the
job. He leveled off at five thousand feet above the city.
Below, the Pasig River cut the city in half. They traced the line of the
great wall around Intramuros, the ancient walled city, and they found
the white mass of the American Embassy across Dewey Boulevard from some
very modern apartments. They passed over the Manila Hotel, then saw the
ruins of infamous Fort Santiago.
Inland, the land was lush green with high mountains rising in the
distance. To the north lay Mountain Province, and behind the screen of
mountains was their destination.
There was still work to be done, so Rick reluctantly took the Sky Wagon
down again. It was in perfect condition; no need for further flight.
They lunched at a modern drive-in on Dewey Boulevard, the split-lane
highway that runs along the edge of Manila Bay, then picked up their
crates of supplies at customs. This was a light expedition, so there
were only three crates. One held their camp gear and trail clothing.
Another crate held Tony Briotti's special tools and reference books. The
third held the most important object of the expedition--the Spindrift
Experimental Earth Scanner, called SEES for short, and further
abbreviated by the boys to a sibilant hiss.
"How's the SS working?" Scotty would ask, and Rick would answer: "'Sfine
'scan be."
The boys were old hands at expeditions and they had learned from bitter
experience about the number of unexpected things that can happen to
baggage, so in spite of some opposition from the hotel clerk, they
insisted on stowing the supplies in their room. This done, they got into
bathing trunks and cooled off in the hotel pool. There was nothing to do
now but wait for Tony--and Chahda.
When they returned from their swim a message was waiting, brought by a
messenger from Tony Briotti. Rick read it, then handed it to Scotty.
They were to have dinner with Tony's colleague Okola, and an Assistant
Secretary of the Interior, a Mr. Lazada, at the latter's house. Dinner
was at ten. They were to arrive a half hour early, and wear dinner
jackets.
"Dinner at ten!" Scotty was stunned. "It must be a mistake. No one could
live until that hour without food."
The desk clerk overheard the comment and smiled. "Old Spanish custom,
sir. Many Filipinos follow Spanish custom."
"Very fine for those who are used to it," Rick said. "But here's one
Americano who is not going to follow Filipinos who follow old Spanish
custom."
"Two Americanos," Scotty corrected. "We will follow old American custom
of snack early, English custom of dinner at eight, and then Spanish
custom of dinner at ten. That way we get plenty chow, hey?"
This exchange was for their own benefit. The clerk did not overhear
because they were hurrying to their rooms to change.
It was not too early to get into dinner jackets. They hauled out what
Scotty called their "penguin rigs" and got into them. In spite of
feeling a little self-conscious, they looked brown and handsome in their
white tropical jackets with maroon bow ties.
They found a table on the porch, looking out over Manila Bay and the
great field called The Luneta. By turning a little Rick could see the
traffic on Dewey Boulevard. Rick had never seen anything like it.
Apparently Filipino drivers were all mad at something, and all under the
impression that no other vehicles were on the road. Also, Filipino
drivers obviously had wild affection for their horns. They tooted
constantly.
"The life of a pedestrian must be less than ten minutes in this town,"
Scotty commented.
"Pedestrians are nothing but the raw material for accidents," Rick
agreed. "Look at that!"
Among the busses, the cars, and the jeeps that ranged the boulevard
trotted a half-dozen two-wheeled carriages drawn by tiny horses. These
were the _calesas_ of bygone days, still competing with Manila's
countless taxis for passengers.
"We should hire two and have a chariot race," Scotty suggested.
They had a sandwich and a cold drink made with _calamansi_, the pungent
small Philippine limes, then walked across the boulevard to where the
great wall of the old city rose high in the air. The wall was of huge
stone blocks, rising about four times the boys' height into the air. It
was perhaps twenty feet thick at the base.
Within the walls there had once been a city of a hundred thousand
people, but it was there that in World War II the Japanese had chosen to
make their last stand. Most of the people of the city had been wiped
out, along with their Japanese captors, and of the ancient buildings
only a cathedral remained. The area had been bulldozed flat in most
places, and Quonset-type warehouses, called _bodegas_, had replaced the
ruined Spanish buildings.
"Rick, look at this!" Scotty called, pointing to a fern-like plant that
grew near the wall. "Watch." He touched it and the leaves rolled into
tight tubes. "How about that?"
A Filipino gentleman, immaculate in a white nylon suit, watched them for
a moment, then joined them. "The plant is strange to Americans, I think.
It is a sensitive mimosa. You have the mimosa in America, but not this
variety."
"It's good of you to explain, sir," Rick said.
"Not at all. In Tagalog, the plant is called _makahiya_. It means,
literally, 'I am ashamed when you touch me.'"
"It's ashamed, so it closes up," Rick said. "That's charming. Tagalog
must be a picturesque language."
The Filipino nodded. "It has a certain flavor. Allow me to introduce
myself. I am Colonel Felix Rojas of the Philippine constabulary."
Rick took his first good look at the Filipino and immediately recognized
the soldierly bearing and lean fitness of the professional soldier. He
introduced himself and Scotty.
Colonel Rojas smiled. "The young men who are going to dine with the
esteemed Assistant Secretary tonight, eh? Welcome to our country." He
bowed and walked away, leaving them openmouthed. Then, as an
afterthought, he turned. "Surprised? Don't be. We are interested in
strangers until their intentions are known. Yours are above reproach."
His smile faded. "However, you may be interested in another bit of
Tagalog." He spoke briefly a phrase that seemed to be mostly vowels.
"What does it mean?" Scotty asked.
The colonel's eyes searched theirs. "What good is hay to a dead horse,"
he said and walked away.
The boys stared at each other.
"A very good question," Rick said at last. The colonel had vanished into
the Manila Hotel. "Scotty, what good is hay to a dead horse?"
"The deceased equine has little use for hay," Scotty said. "Obviously.
Was that a warning?"
"I don't know what it was," Rick said. The phrase could have been a
warning, but of what? And how had the colonel known where they were
dining? He put the question aloud.
Scotty shrugged. "Doesn't the constabulary come under the Department of
the Interior? Maybe Lazada told him. A colonel would be pretty high rank
in the constabulary; he could even be the commander."
The Philippine constabulary had a long and distinguished history. It was
similar to a police force, but was a military organization. It was, Rick
thought, something like a cross between the American state militia, the
Texas Rangers, and any good state police force.
"I'm snowed," Rick said at last. "The only thing I'm sure of is that he
wasn't looking for information when he asked what good is hay to a dead
horse. Come on. Let's start for Lazada's."
The way led across busy Taft Avenue, named for the American president,
across the Ayala Bridge which spanned the Pasig River, and past Malaccan
Palace. The palace was the equivalent of our White House. In its time
Spanish, American, and Japanese conquerors of the Philippines had lived
there. Now it housed the president of the Republic of the Philippines.
It was very dark by the time they passed the palace. They left the
street-lighted area and entered an area of old Spanish houses. The Pasig
River was very close. They could smell the water hyacinth which floated
endlessly down to the sea.
The air was heavy with unshed rain. The boys had long since shed their
jackets and were carrying them. Now the heat seemed to push down on
them, muffling even the sound of their leather soles on the cobbles.
They passed a solitary street light and Rick read the sign. They were on
the right track. The hotel clerk's directions, obtained before they ate,
had been very good.
"Almost there," Rick whispered, then wondered why he hadn't spoken
aloud.
Apparently Scotty was feeling the same physical oppression because he
didn't comment on the whisper.
The houses were two-story, old Spanish style, with much wrought-iron
fancy work. Few lights showed. Such houses presented only blank faces to
the street. The life inside them found its open air in secluded patios
in the rear.
"We must be getting close," Scotty said. His voice was very low.
Rick unsnapped his key ring. It had a pencil flashlight attached. He
shot the light over the house fronts, searching for a number. A
cream-colored lizard darted frantically out of the circle of light into
protecting darkness.
"Two more numbers," Rick said. "Must be the house after the next one."
He flashed the tiny light ahead and froze as he saw the shape of a man.
Beside him, he felt Scotty tense.
It was silly to stand frozen. Rick moved ahead, slowly, and the shape
took form. Turban, flowing tunic with sash. Fiercely whiskered face. A
Sikh guard.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Sikhs--Indians--were noted for their
bravery and fighting ability, and they could be found in most cities of
the Far East, usually employed as private guards or police.
The Sikh came to attention and Rick noted that he was rather small for
his race. Most Sikhs were big men. He had kept the light on the bearded
face, noting that the beard was neatly tied in the Sikh fashion. Brown
eyes stared unblinkingly. A hoarse voice said, "This ees house of
Meester Secretary Lazada. Please to enter."
Suddenly the voice changed and Rick nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Go right on up the stairs, meatheads. Scotty must be hungry. He always
is."
Rick choked.
"Chahda!"