West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  Jo Gar’s face was expressionless. Major Crawford said huskily: “You are doing everything—to find her, Captain?”

  The captain nodded. “Of course,” he replied gently. “I have fifty men searching—and there are many regular army men on the search. We are doing everything, Major. I doubt that even Señor Gar could do more.”

  There was sarcasm in his final words. But Jo Gar merely bowed his head slightly. He went across the room, looked down at the half-opened second drawer of the desk. Captain Ramlin was saying:

  “House in perfect shape. No bruises on Lieutenant Avery’s body. Servants were with you, Major and behind you coming back. Enlisted driver assigned to you was with you. No one at the house but Avery and your wife. Avery an old friend. Your wife’s life had been threatened in three notes—you have not the slightest reason why. Her life had been attempted, and you had wired for Señor Gar. Doors not locked. Perhaps there will be fingerprints on the knife—perhaps not. And even if there are—it may not be of any help. We have the notes, of course.”

  Jo Gar turned away from the half-opened drawer. He said very quietly:

  “Your wife—she had never been in love with Lieutenant Avery?”

  Major Crawford replied in a hard voice: “She had never been in love with him.”

  Jo said: “He did not love her?”

  The major got up from his chair heavily. He stood near it, his eyes narrowed on the Island detective’s gray ones.

  “He never—gave evidence of that,” he said grimly.

  Jo Gar nodded. The Constabulary captain spoke in a surprised voice:

  “That’s pretty thick, isn’t it, Señor Gar? Avery and—”

  The Island detective shrugged. “They were here together. Mary Crawford is gone—Lieutenant Avery is dead. There is little evidence of a struggle. The knife was in a drawer. If the lieutenant had been struck in self-defense—had staggered to the porch chair—”

  The Constabulary captain was watching Major Crawford closely. Jo Gar did not seem to be aware of the fact that the major was in the room. The major said in a dull tone, without anger:

  “It was Avery who knew where the knife was—not my wife. And could he stagger to the chair on the porch—with such a wound? Would the knife remain in—”

  He broke off. Jo Gar spoke very calmly.

  “The drawer wasn’t locked. The knife might have been discovered. Avery might have been struck as he was standing directly in front of the chair—he simply fell back into it.”

  The major said in a very low voice: “I must get out of the house—I’ll search around the place, not getting far away. I’ll be within call—” The Constabulary captain nodded. “I can come with you, Major—” he offered.

  Crawford shook his head. He went out towards the front porch.

  After several seconds Captain Ramlin said:

  “His wife had no enemies—she quarreled with no servants. Strange.”

  Jo Gar shrugged. Captain Ramlin turned his browned face towards the door that opened into the garden. He said slowly:

  “I will look about—in the garden, Señor.”

  Jo nodded. Ramlin went from the room. Jo Gar looked towards the half-opened door and thought:

  “Why was Lieutenant Avery allowed to see where the major placed the knife? Why was his wife not allowed to know it was in the drawer? Why was it that the major came to meet me, rather than Avery? And why did he bring with him both servants?”

  The Island detective moved about the room, went slowly to the front porch. He looked down at the chair in which there had been the dead body of Lieutenant Avery. He thought:

  “It would require much time to learn of Avery’s past—and of Mrs. Crawford’s past. He is dead—she has vanished. It would be simpler to find her—”

  He smiled faintly, murmured aloud: “A knife thrown in the Islands seldom turns in the air and strikes hilt first. A fighting man is seldom stuck in the heart. And why was Mary Crawford taken from the house?”

  He moved to the center table and looked at the knife. The hilt was black—of hardwood. It looked old, much used. The blade was long, narrow. It had required strength to drive that knife blade almost to the hilt. More strength, perhaps, than Major Crawford’s wife had possessed.

  Jo Gar shrugged. The major had said that he had known Avery for some five years. His wife had known the lieutenant the same length of time. He was a good friend, who had chanced to be spending his leave at the Island mountain resort, while the Crawfords had come up.

  Jo thought: It could easily be so. I have talked with the servants, and in all Avery’s actions they saw nothing but friendliness. The Chinese have good eyes, and threats of Bilibid frighten them. But the manner of Avery’s death, if he were defending the vanished woman, is strange. Very strange. And there are notes—they are strange, too.

  He went away from the center table, went out into the garden. It was a small garden, but beyond it the foliage was thick. A slope was less than an eighth of a mile in the rear of the house—a steep slope. There was heavy growth on the slope. Jo Gar shook his head slowly, thinking that it would be difficult to find a body, in the mountains. With only starlight it would be almost impossible. He was fifty yards from the house, with his back to it, when he heard the scream. It was sharp—high pitched. It came once—

  And then it came again and again!—

  Jo Gar swung around—his right hand got his automatic from a pocket of his suiting. He started towards the house—the screams still ringing in his ears. From some spot behind him he heard Captain Ramlin shout hoarsely! One of the Chinese servants cried out, from the kitchen side of the house. The screams seemed to come from the front of the place, and Jo Gar remembered that Major Crawford had left the house by way of the front porch.

  Jo was inside the living-room now, glanced around the room. It was empty. His eyes swept the table—he halted suddenly. He held the gun low—and his body was bent forward slightly. He said very softly:

  “It—is gone!”

  There was no knife on the table. The weapon that the major had said had struck down his wife in the garden—the weapon whose blade had been buried in the flesh of Lieutenant Avery—it was gone. And seconds ago—hardly more than a minute ago—it had lain on the center, wicker table!

  The Island detective moved swiftly towards the screened door that opened on the porch. Even before he had shoved the door open he saw Major Crawford. The officer was running along the road, towards the house. His Service Colt was gripped in his right hand. From the rear of the house Jo heard the Constabulary captain call again: “Major—Señor Gar!”

  The Island detective stepped on the porch. It was lighted dully by the lamps from within the house. The wicker chair in which Avery’s body had been found was turned slightly. Sprawled across it was the figure of a woman. Dark hair trailed downward from her head—her white dress was disarranged—her arms hung loosely at her sides.

  Jo Gar started towards the figure—Stopped suddenly. He heard Major Crawford cry out; there was the sharp crack! of the Service Colt—once, twice. He saw the major swing around—run towards the left side of the house.

  Captain Ramlin came pounding through the house—reached the porch. He was breathing heavily. He stared at Jo Gar—saw the body of the woman, across the wicker chair. He said:

  “Good God! It’s—Mary Crawford!”

  Jo Gar stood stiffly as two more shots sounded. He spoke to Ramlin:

  “Go out there—around to the left. Major Crawford’s—seen something. I’ll see what can be done here.”

  Ramlin nodded, went down the steps and to the left. Jo Gar went to the body across the chair. He leaned over the woman, and after a few seconds straightened up. He placed his automatic in his pocket, went away from the dead woman and the chair. Near the edge of the lower step leading down from the porch, at the right side, he saw the knife. He stood and looked down at it, thinking. Five minutes later, when Captain Ramlin came up, breathing heavily, he was still standing near the
knife. Ramlin said:

  “I can’t—find the major—he’s crashing off in the woods—somewhere—”

  Jo Gar said: “Perhaps he’s close—to his wife’s murderer.”

  There was a peculiar tone to his voice. The Constabulary captain said hoarsely: “She’s—dead?”

  The Island detective nodded slowly. He looked down at the knife.

  Ramlin stared at it, swore harshly.

  “It was—on the table—in the living-room!” he breathed.

  Jo nodded again. “And more recently,” he said softly, in a grim tone, “it was in the body of Mary Crawford.”

  Major Crawford was lying on a broad, low divan. Doctor McCall finished bandaging his right arm, near the shoulder, stood up. The major said, in a voice choked with emotion:

  “Looked like—one of the chinks. But I couldn’t—be sure. Fired four times—ran into a tree and went down. He struck at me with the knife, while I was trying to get up. Then he was gone. The woods are thick, and it’s dark in there. By God—if I could get—”

  He stopped, closed his eyes. Doctor McCall said in a quiet voice:

  “You moved around a lot, after he knifed you. You lost a lot of blood. You must rest.”

  Captain Ramlin, standing close to Jo, nodded his head. The major groaned and rolled over on his left side. His right fist was clenched. The doctor went towards the center table of the living-room, from the divan on which Crawford was lying. He washed his hands slowly and carefully. Jo Gar went over to him, turned his back on the major and said in a very low voice:

  “The wound is not serious, Doctor?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Just a blade rip, but he moved around and lost blood,” he said. “Too bad he didn’t get that rotten killer.”

  “He might have made a mistake,” the Island detective said slowly. Doctor McCall straightened a little. He said:

  “You don’t think it was one of the servants? I suppose you have noted they have both vanished?”

  Jo smiled with his eyes almost closed. “The Chinese do not care for mysterious death. Many times I have seen servants vanish, in the Islands.”

  “I have seen them use knives,” McCall said.

  “Yes,” the Island detective said quietly. “And sometimes they throw knives. When they do—there is seldom a miss.”

  The doctor narrowed his eyes on those of the Island detective for a few seconds. Jo Gar was smiling with his lips; his own almond-shaped eyes were slitted. He nodded his head suddenly, as if he had just thought of something, turned away.

  Captain Ramlin came to him on the porch. He said huskily:

  “It’s pretty bad, Señor Gar. First Avery—now Mary Crawford.

  Those damn chinks—”

  Jo Gar shrugged. “Mary Crawford was a tall woman,” he said slowly. She was very healthy. Both of the missing servants were small and they did not look too strong, either of them. There were five or six knife wounds in the woman’s body. It requires strength to hold a struggling person.”

  Captain Ramlin said: “You don’t think one of the chinks—”

  He stopped. Jo Gar sighed. “I should like to find a motive,” he said softly. “But then, it is what anyone would like.”

  Ramlin swore softly. “I don’t trust the servants down here. The major says his wife was always good to them, but perhaps he was wrong.”

  The Island detective nodded. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But Lieutenant Avery is dead—murdered. And there are the notes. I do not think they were written by either of the servants.”

  The Constabulary captain frowned and stared up towards the distant sky. The night was bright with stars. Ramlin said:

  “I’ve got to go out and keep my men on the job. They’re searching the slopes—and I’ve got some of them looking around in town.”

  Jo Gar said: “What are they looking for?”

  Ramlin grunted. “They were looking for Mary Crawford,” he muttered. “Now I’ll have them after the chinks.”

  He went down the front steps. The Island detective went back into the house, stood still as he heard the doctor call sharply from the left side. He went past Major Crawford, who called to him weakly, found the doctor facing one of the two servants, in the kitchen. The Chinese was frightened—his eyes were wide. The doctor said:

  “Here’s one of ’em—I caught him sneaking in here.”

  The doctor held a gun low in his left hand. Jo Gar looked at the servant, smiled. He spoke very quietly to the man, using a jargon of Chinese and Filipino. The doctor stood motionlessly, frowning. Jo talked for several minutes, then said to the doctor:

  “He was frightened. There were the screams. He screamed and ran from the house. The other servant was outside, getting water. They both ran. They saw nothing—the other servant is hiding in one of the outhouses; he will not come in. He says there is death in this house—it is called Silence House, and death is silence.”

  The doctor swore grimly. “You believe that?” he asked.

  Jo Gar shrugged. “I will tell him to bring his companion inside,” he said. “You can talk with them—but you will not need the gun—it will only frighten them more.”

  He spoke again to the servant. He smiled as he talked, and his voice was pleasant. After a few minutes the Chinese went towards the door. The doctor was about to stop him, but Jo said sharply:

  “Let him go—I know these people. I have lived very close to them for years. He will return—with the other one.”

  The doctor muttered something that Jo did not catch. But he allowed the servant to go. The Island detective stood in silence until the two Chinese returned. They stared at him with wide eyes. The doctor said to Jo:

  “Keep them here—I want to show them something.”

  He went from the kitchen. Jo Gar half closed his eyes and smiled.

  He said in a low tone:

  “The man is bringing with him a knife. He will show it to you suddenly—like this—”

  He made a swift gesture from his right side, extending his right hand, fingers opened. He said, smiling:

  “Do not be afraid. Be very truthful. Do not lie—”

  His low words died as the doctor came into the room. He went close to the two servants, extended his left hand suddenly. The knife lay in his palm. Jo smiled a little. The doctor said:

  “It is—yours? Yours?”

  His eyes went from one servant to the other. The shorter of the two shook his head, looked at his companion. The taller one’s eyes were wide with fear. He stared at Jo. The Island detective shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

  “A fool is often one because he lies,” he said very softly.

  The taller servant stared at the knife in the doctor’s palm. He nodded his head rapidly. He said in a voice filled with panic:

  “She is mine—she is mine! I tell you I no use—she go away—”

  He broke off into rapid jargon. Jo Gar slowed him down. The doctor was staring at the taller of the servants with narrowed eyes. His left hand held the knife, but his right went towards the pocket in which the gun rested.

  The servant stopped talking, panting. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes held nothing but fear. Jo said to the doctor, very softly: “He lost the knife, somewhere about the house, two days ago. He has been searching for it since. He did not kill.”

  The doctor said grimly: “I’d hate to have that story to tell, just the same. We’ll turn them both over to the Constabulary. He did the jobs, all right. Dirty, yellow—”

  Jo said quietly: “White men have killed—in the Islands, Doctor.”

  He turned, went from the room. Major Crawford, lying on the divan, said weakly:

  “What is it—Señor Gar? For God’s sake—what—”

  Jo Gar spoke tonelessly. “The knife—it is owned by the taller of your two servants,” he said simply.

  Major Crawford got to a sitting position. His brown eyes were narrowed; rage showed in them. They were streaked with red. He swore fiercely.

  “A
chink—did in Avery! A damn, dirty chink got my—”

  He got to his feet. Jo Gar stood watching him. He nodded his head slowly.

  “But you must be calm, Major,” he said. “There is the law—”

  The major said hoarsely: “Damn the law—I’m a white man! Where’s my gun?”

  The Island detective shook his head. “That is—not right,” he said quietly. “It will do no good. The servant is a prisoner—the Constabulary will take care of him.”

  The major sank back on the divan, groaned. He touched his bandaged right shoulder, rolled over on his left side. His body shook—smothered sounds came from his lips. Jo Gar said very gently:

  “I am very—sorry for you.”

  For several seconds he stood looking at the officer. Then he went slowly towards the screened porch of Silence House, and out into the darkness.

  It was almost two in the morning. There was a storm in the mountains, distant now but nearing the slope on which Silence House had been built. Jo Gar stood on the screened porch, beside the doctor. McCall was medium in size, with a lean, browned face. He was frowning.

  “I’ll see if he’s sleeping,” he said suddenly. “I’ve given him some tablets, but not enough to induce heavy sleep. But if you’re wrong—” The Island detective shrugged. “You are not sure that I am wrong,” he said softly. “The lightning is strong enough—it is a chance we must take. Tomorrow it may be too late.”

  The doctor shivered a little. Thunder rumbled in the distance—the woods were lighted by flashes of lightning that ran across the sky. They outlined the house. They were less vivid than the lightning flashes of the States—gave a wavering light that held for several seconds.

  The doctor said: “All right—everything is ready, inside?”

  Jo nodded, “It was a disagreeable work,” he said. “But there is much we do not know.”

  Doctor McCall spoke very quietly. “It is only because you know the natives—and the chinks,” he said. “You have a reputation. But if you’re wrong—”

  Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips pressed closely together.

  “I agree,” he said simply. “It is very easy to lose one’s reputation.” The doctor led the way into the house. He went close to the divan. Major Crawford lay with his left arm thrown across his face—his head was turned towards the wicker chair several feet from the divan. He was breathing heavily.