West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  It was a thirty-minute drive. Manila was left behind—for more than ten minutes they passed between rows of native thatch-roofed huts, dimly lighted. The road was narrow and of dirt; the sweet odor of tropical growth in variety filled the heated air. And then, suddenly, the driver called shrilly to the horse—the caleso was turned to the right. A circular thatch-roofed arena loomed faintly before them in the thick gloom. It was the Casa Club.

  Jo Gar descended, instructed the driver to wait. He went directly to the entrance of the cockfighting arena, walked inside. Two kerosene lamps dimly lighted the interior—there was the odor of dried blood, of earth—and of thatch. Tier after tier of wooden planks rose from the small, circular arena. Wind whistled the roof. There was no other human present.

  Jo Gar murmured to himself: “It is an unpleasant place—”

  The scream was terrible. It came from the silence, somewhere beyond the cockpit, but not very far distant, it was shrill, high pitched. A woman’s cry—of terror and pain. And then, wailingly, he caught two words in Spanish—

  “Madre—Madre!”

  There was another scream—it was choked off. Voices—native voices—rose from the thatch-roofed huts near the cockpit. Jo Gar turned, went out through the main entrance. He circled the Club, keeping close to the bamboo side poles. At the rear he distinguished figures running—they were moving towards a thick growth of palmetto, a hundred yards from the Casa Club. There were few huts near the growth.

  There were no more screams. A path led into the tangle of palmetto. The Island detective came to it. Brown figures—those of half-naked Filipinos—were moving about. There was much confusion. Jo Gar said, in the native tongue:

  “What has happened?”

  No one seemed to know. There were many paths now, leading through the small jungle to native huts on all sides. Jo Gar took one of them; he had a small flashlight which he used. Filipinos crowded close to him, followed him. He heard one mutter to another: “It is Señor Jo Gar—he is the prison man—”

  And then a sudden wailing rose, across the thick growth of palmetto. It was a sustained wailing, and Jo Gar turned, moved towards the sound. It took him several minutes to thread the confusing paths and come upon the spot where the natives were grouped around a figure that lay on the ground. He spoke roughly, went through the group. The white beam from his flashlight slanted down on the motionless figure.

  One glance at the white face was enough for him. The eyes were staring—the red lips were parted. The face was twisted, contorted. Fingers were clenched; the earth around the body showed signs of human struggle. A red mark showed across the white throat, but it was not the mark of a knife.

  Jo Gar bent low. He breathed to himself: “It is Carmen Carejo—she is dead.”

  There was no pulse. The body was warm; it seemed almost alive. The Island detective loosened the rope that had been drawn about the girl’s throat. He was not a doctor, and even though he was sure she was dead, he tried crude methods to force air into her lungs, as he gave orders to several natives crowding about the body.

  When Juan Arragon, lieutenant to Carlysle, American head of the Manila Police, arrived in the palmetto jungle, some thirty minutes later, Jo Gar was standing near the body of Carmen Carejo, hands at his sides, eyes half closed. Arragon stared down at the dead girl.

  “Murder,” he breathed softly. “What was the weapon—”

  Jo Gar shifted the beam of his light towards the dark shawl the girl had worn. It lay on the earth near her head. Stretched across it was a four-foot strand of rope, of hemp. In spots it was stained scarlet. Arragon said slowly:

  “She was strangled—by that hemp.”

  Jo Gar nodded. Arragon knelt beside the shawl, narrowed his eyes on the rope strand. He muttered to himself:

  “It is stained—with her blood.”

  Jo Gar lighted one of his thin cigarettes. His eyes were on the mask-like face of Carmen Carejo.

  “It is certainly—red hemp,” he said steadily.

  Arragon rose and looked at Jo Gar. He asked in a curious voice: “You arrived here quickly—how was that so?”

  The Island detective smiled a little. He looked Arragon in the eyes. “I was nearby—when she was murdered. I heard her scream. She called twice for her mother. Then her next cry was choked off. It was more than five minutes before some native women found her in here.

  There are many paths.”

  Arragon looked around the circle of native faces. His eyes came to Jo Gar’s again. He said softly:

  “She is Carmen Carejo—Vincente’s girl.”

  The Island detective nodded. He was thinking that Vincente Carejo had found his daughter, but that his purpose was defeated. He could not beat her now. He said quietly:

  “Yes—it is Carejo’s girl. He was searching for her. He had retained me only a few hours ago. And now she has been strangled to death.”

  Arragon kept his eyes narrowed on Jo Gar’s. He asked, in a sharper tone:

  “Why did you come here?”

  The Island detective smiled with his lips. He looked towards the dark shawl and the red-stained length of Manila hemp. He evaded the question.

  “He was a strong man—this strangler,” he said. “See how the hemp cut into her skin. There was just a twist knot, Juan—the killer held the rope ends until she was dead, or very nearly dead. And we were all about the jungle here, trying to reach her.”

  Arragon swore hoarsely. “If you have suspicions, tell them,” he pleaded. “The murderer cannot have got far away.”

  Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “It is too bad,” he stated apologetically. “But I have no suspicions.”

  It was midnight when Jo Gar went up the wooden stairs to Juan Arragon’s office at the police department. He knocked, and was told to enter. Arragon was talking with Vincente Carejo; he frowned at the Island detective.

  “You did not tell me about Parker, this American,” he stated. “That was not right, Jo. That was very bad. It has given the murderer of Señor Carejo’s daughter a chance to escape.”

  Vincente Carejo was perspiring freely. He nodded his head jerkily, wiped the skin of his neck near the collar with a large handkerchief. He was chewing betel-nut again; there was red about the corners of his thick lips. He spoke hoarsely with anger in his voice.

  “Did I not retain you, Señor Gar? Were you not working for me? And why did you not tell what I had told you? This renegade has murdered my daughter.”

  His voice was broken as he finished speaking. He shook his head slowly, muttering the name of the girl.

  Arragon said: “I asked you if you had suspicions—you said that you had none. It is strange to me—”

  Jo Gar smiled. “Parker is an American,” he said. “The girl was strangled by hemp—that is not the way of an American in killing.” Carejo straightened in his chair. There was rage in his dark eyes. “Parker is a clever man. That is the way he would kill—my poor girl.”

  Jo Gar shrugged. Juan Arragon, a puzzled expression in his eyes, spoke in a hard voice:

  “He will not get too far away. We have notified the Constabulary.”

  The Island detective stood near a window of the office. He shook his head.

  “Parker is not beyond the city—the Constabulary will not find him,” he said. “I am sure of that.”

  Carejo got heavily to his feet. He blinked at Jo Gar.

  “If you are crossing me—I will make trouble for you,” he breathed. “Parker is the murderer of my girl. The police can force you to tell what you know—”

  Jo Gar said slowly: “The police can force me to tell nothing, Señor Carejo. They attempted such a thing, some years ago—and failed. I am not crossing you. You have retained me to find your daughter. I have found her. But I shall go farther—I shall find her murderer. Perhaps you would like to beat him, now that you cannot beat her.”

  Arragon’s body tensed at his last words. His eyes went to those of the dead girl’s father. Carejo’s face was flushed beneath the ta
n. He said hoarsely:

  “You mock me. It is cruel. I am sorry for those words. I go now to my casa—I wish to be alone. But the American Parker—he is the strangler of—”

  His voice had risen shrilly. Now it died. He moved from the office of Juan Arragon without speaking to either man. He went slowly down the wooden steps. Jo Gar closed the door of the office, took a chair.

  “The American Parker did not strangle the girl, Juan,” he said quietly. “I have been very busy since leaving the vicinity of the Casa Club. I do not think that Parker, at this moment, knows Carmen is dead.”

  Arragon wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. His eyes were narrowed on Jo Gar’s.

  “Who did murder her, Jo?” he asked.

  The Island detective shook his head. “I had thought it was Vincente,” he said steadily, and smiled at the surprise in Arragon’s eyes. “But that was wrong, and I did not think that way for much time. But I have learned some things. Carejo threatened to kill his daughter if she again saw Parker. The house-boy has told me that. She has seen Parker several times since the first threat was made. Two days ago Vincente told her that he would kill Parker and beat her—if she again saw the American. This morning, early, a note was given to the house-boy by Parker. He delivered it to the girl—she has been giving the boy money for such service. It was just before dawn—and it was still dark when the boy saw her creep from the house. She was next seen dead.”

  Arragon shrugged. “It does not look good for Parker,” he said. Jo Gar smiled with his eyes half closed. He spoke tonelessly.

  “I do not say that Parker could not have strangled the girl—he is strong enough. He has lived long enough around the Islands to know how such things are done with rope. But I say he did not kill her. There were prints of naked feet—and of feet on which there were shoes—in the palmetto growth. There were too many footprints to be of use. But what was Parker’s motive, Juan?”

  The police lieutenant shrugged. “She searched for him all day—at evening she found him. She told him it was the end. They must not see each other. She was afraid of her father. It was a crime of passion. If Parker could not have her—no one else should have her. Perhaps he had been drinking. They were alone, on a path of the palmetto jungle. He acted quickly—got away. There are many such crimes.”

  Jo Gar lighted one of his thin, brown-papered cigarettes. He nodded. “There are many such, but this was not one,” he said. “Carmen has been motherless for more than a dozen years. She hated her father, Vincente. She would not tell Parker that she would never see him again. She loved him—and she must have known that he could take care of himself.”

  Arragon said: “Why do you say she hated Vincente?”

  “I heard her screams,” the Island detective replied quietly. “She has had no mother for many years—yet she cries out: ‘Madre—Madre.’ She does not call for her father. Is not that strange?”

  Arragon rose from his chair and moved slowly back and forth in the hot office. The circular fan creaked.

  “It might be instinct—to call for her mother,” the lieutenant said. Jo Gar shook his head. “It was hatred of her father,” he replied.

  “But Señor Carejo did not strangle his daughter. He was very careful. He was too careful, Juan. He dined with three friends this evening—he was not out of their sight from seven o’clock until one of your men traced him to the Hermossa house and brought him here. That is strange for Vincente has led a lonely life. Señors Hermossa, Carno and Allisi—they had not spent an evening with him for months, until tonight.”

  Juan Arragon stopped pacing back and forth. He stared down at Jo Gar. There was faint admiration in his small eyes.

  “While we have been seeking Parker—you have been seeking Vincente Carejo,” he murmured. “Why were your suspicions turned that way?”

  The Island detective listened to a carromatta driver shrilling at his pony in the street below. He replied quietly:

  “Vincente is stupid. He came to me seeking help—he wanted me to find his girl. But what was his reason? It was so that he might beat her. She was ‘a devil,’ he told me. His anger was not directed toward this American, Parker. That was strange, for one of his breed. Carmen was pretty—not beautiful. I do not think Parker was in love with her. I gambled on my thoughts in the matter. Americans do not strangle with rope. Carejo does not often dine with three friends. It was a perfect alibi, Juan—very perfect.”

  The lieutenant of Manila police said very slowly:

  “Very well—we know that Vincente did not murder his daughter. We assume that Parker did not commit the crime. Who, then, is the guilty one?”

  Jo Gar rose from his chair. “There is a house on the Calle Ventner where the American Parker sleeps,” he stated. “He had not arrived there a half hour ago. Will you come with me to the house?”

  Arragon jerked his head downward. He smiled grimly. “Shall I take a weapon?” he asked.

  The Island detective placed his pith helmet over his grayish hair.

  He smiled cheerfully.

  “I cannot see the harm in that,” he replied in a mild tone.

  The house on Calle Ventner was a poor one. It was a rambling, two-story affair constructed along bastardized Spanish lines. There was some rusted grilled iron-work—and a patio with the screening broken in several places. Naked children slept on the small patio that fronted the place. Jo Gar and Arragon—left the carromatta at the roadside; Gar led the way in. There were voices inside—a baby cried. After the Island detective had called out a few times an aged Filipino came to the door. His eyes widened as he looked into the face of the police lieutenant.

  “The Americano, Parker—he has returned?” Jo Gar asked.

  The Filipino nodded. He said that the Americano had been drinking much; he had come in perhaps ten minutes ago. He had assisted him to his room, and had partially undressed him. There was a cut on the Americano’s face, and scratches, also.

  He led the way up creaking stairs. The house was filled with bad odors. Jo Gar was behind the old Filipino; behind him he heard Arragon muttering:

  “Finger nails make scratches—on a man’s face.”

  The Island detective said nothing. They reached the doorway of a room at the rear of the house. The door was opened; the white electric glare, as the Filipino pushed the button, showed up the cheapness of the room. The house was close enough to the heart of Manila to be supplied with power.

  Arragon ordered the Filipino from the room; the man went, muttering to himself. Jo Gar moved to the cot across which the body of Parker slanted. He shook the American roughly. Arragon went to a pitcher that contained water—he dumped a portion of it on Parker’s blond hair. It was warm water, but it helped. The American sat up stupidly, blinked at the two men. Arragon snapped words at him.

  “Why did you murder—Carmen Carejo?”

  Parker stared at Arragon. His face was scratched badly; there was a two-inch cut across his forehead. He was dressed in soiled duck; his shirt was torn in several places. He muttered thickly:

  “Carmen—murdered! I don’t understand—”

  Arragon was frowning down at him. He spoke sharply:

  “You strangled her—in that palmetto jungle back of the Casa Club.

  You—come with us. You talk—”

  Parker got unsteadily to his feet. His head was clearing. He said grimly:

  “To hell with you! You can’t frame me for anything—”

  He groaned, dropped down on the bed again. He muttered weakly: “Carmen—dead! The poor, damn fool of a kid—”

  Arragon jerked Parker to his feet again. The police lieutenant was short, but he had strength. He said:

  “You shall talk, Señor Parker! You shall tell us why you strangled—” Parker twisted his body to one side. He shoved hard with his right arm. There was rage in his blue eyes. He was a big man, strong. Arragon went back against a wall of the room, he reached for his gun. It was a long-muzzled weapon—a Luger. He was leveling it when Parker leaped a
t him. In a flash the American had battered it from Arragon’s grip, had sent the Filipino spinning across the room.

  “That is not good, Parker.” Jo Gar spoke quietly. He stood near the bed, facing the American as he turned. He was smiling; his parted lips showed white teeth. In his right hand he held an Army Colt. He held it steadily. He spoke in a low, conversational tone. “That is not good, because you have nothing to fear.”

  Parker stood with his hands at his sides, frowning towards Jo Gar. Arragon picked himself up from the wood flooring of the room. He cursed in his native tongue. He came towards the American again. Jo Gar spoke:

  “I do not think you are guilty!” he said. “Please raise your hands—allow Lieutenant Arragon to look into your pockets.”

  Parker raised his arms slowly. He said to Arragon:

  “You can’t third degree me. If that poor kid has been killed—I can guess who did it.”

  Arragon moved forward and slid his left hand into the right pocket of Parker’s soiled duck coat. Jo Gar asked a question.

  “I would like to know your guess, Señor Parker,” he said. Parker muttered his reply in a thick tone.

  “The kid’s father—he hated her enough to do it.”

  Jo Gar shook his head. “It is a bad guess, Señor,” he returned. “Vincente Carejo was with three friends at the time the murder was committed.”

  Parker stared at the Island detective. Arragon took his hand from another pocket, smiling with his small eyes.

  “Perhaps you were with friends, at the time of the murder, Señor,” he suggested with sarcasm.

  The American swayed a little as he stood by the cot.

  “I don’t remember,” he said slowly. “I had a few drinks at—” He checked himself. Jo Gar smiled and spoke.

  “At Barres’ place. We know of it. You drank saké—three cups of it. You were not so drunk when you left. You bragged about a bird you were planning to fight at the Casa Club tomorrow—Diablo. What else do you remember?”