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 Señora 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 José 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.
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!"