West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  Jo Gar went to the counter. There were two rifles in a line. He inspected both—each was completely loaded with the special, small caliber shot used for the range. Three other rifles lay in different positions—two were empty—all shot having been ejected. The third had three small caliber slugs ready for action.

  The Island detective faced the milling crowd and said clearly in Filipino:

  “Those of you who were shooting when this accident occurred—please call out.”

  No person called out. Jo Gar said more slowly:

  “You who were shooting were not to blame—the dead one should not have been within range. It will help me if you will speak.”

  No person spoke. The Island detective went away from the counter and to the woman on the wicker chair. There was horror in her eyes as she looked up at him. He said quietly:

  “I sympathize greatly with you—but I must ask questions. You know your husband’s life had been threatened?”

  The woman’s eyes were dark and wide. Jo Gar spoke Filipino to her and Doctor Seth Connings did not understand his words. The woman said:

  “Yes—he had told me—he was worried—”

  Her voice was broken. Jo Gar said: “You saw—what happened?” Horror showed more clearly in her eyes. She had a thin face, and was small, slight. She was pretty, but the tropics would not allow her to be pretty much longer.

  She replied weakly: “I often come to the—shooting gallery. Several persons were shooting—I moved near the counter. Matoy, the Chinese, went through a small door as I called to him. He had a gun in his hand. I was very near the counter—the guns were making sounds. And then Vincente’s head came in sight, his shoulders—”

  Her voice broke. Jo Gar said quietly:

  “Please go on.”

  She said: “He groaned and threw out a hand—he fell forward, across a row of clay targets. I screamed—and there was the crowd rushing—”

  She covered her face with her hands. The English doctor frowned at Jo.

  “She’s in pretty bad shape,” he said.

  Jo Gar nodded. “These questions are necessary,” he replied. “You were just passing, Doctor?”

  The Englishman stiffened and said coldly: “I was just looking about the park. And sampling some of the cool drinks. There have been rumors of epidemic—”

  Jo Gar smiled faintly and nodded. “Of course,” he said. “You have the interest of the city at heart.” He looked down at the woman again. Her eyes were staring into his. “You would remember any of those shooting?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I saw only their backs—I think they were Filipinos. There were many near the counter who were watching—not shooting.”

  Jo Gar sighed. He thought of making another appeal to the crowd beyond the counter, but sensed it would be useless. A man was dead—and Filipinos, Chinese and half-breeds could be very silent when they thought silence wise. They would think silence wise now, he knew that.

  Moving away from the woman he said to Matoy:

  “May I see the little room into which you carried the gun that did not work?”

  The eyes of the Chinese held a faint flicker of light. He bowed slightly and led the way into a small room at the right side of the counter. The walls were of light wood—a small window faced the lane along which the crowd moved. There was a bamboo table in the room, a gun rack and a chair. On shelves along one of the walls were ammunition boxes and cleaning materials. The entrance from the spot near the counter was the only entrance to the room. On the bamboo table rested a range gun. It was very warm in the small room.

  The Chinese stood close to Jo Gar, coughing dryly, as the Island detective inspected the weapon. It was jammed—the trigger would not squeeze. Jo Gar set it on the table again. The Chinese said:

  “You are satisfied, Señor Gar?”

  Jo Gar said slowly: “I did not doubt your word, be sure of that.

  These things are necessary.”

  The Chinese bowed. It seemed to Jo that there was faint mockery in his eyes. He said slowly:

  “Why do you think Vincente rose from the rear of the range—rose among the clay targets? He knew there were persons shooting. Yet he placed his body within striking distance of the slugs. And he was killed. Why?”

  Matoy shook his head from side to side, frowning. He said after several seconds:

  “He has been worried—it was the gambling debts he owed. He has been careless. It was almost time for him to replace certain of the targets. Perhaps there was a pause for a second in the shooting—perhaps he thought he heard me ring the bell—”

  Jo Gar said: “Ah—there is a bell that you ring?”

  The Chinese nodded. “It is just outside the door,” he said. “It rings loudly, in the rear of the range. It is the signal that shooting has stopped, that the guns are all in my possession.”

  Jo Gar said: “Let us go outside. It is very hot.”

  They went outside and Jo Gar looked at the small button of the signal bell. When he pressed it there was instant ringing sound, quite loud, at the rear of the shooting gallery. He looked towards the counter, and Matoy, reading his thought, said steadily:

  “The button cannot be reached from beyond the counter. No playful youths could make it ring.”

  Jo Gar nodded. He saw the fat form of Señor Kanochi fighting through the crowd. The half-breed entered the shooting gallery, went directly to Vincente’s widow. He bent over her and spoke for several minutes. Then he straightened, mopping his face with a big handkerchief. He looked around, caught sight of Jo.

  He came towards the Island detective, his eyes holding a dull expression. His thinnish voice wavered.

  “You were—too late, Señor Gar.”

  Jo nodded his head and said very softly: “Too late,” he agreed. “I am very sorry.”

  Kanochi said in the same shaken voice: “He has murdered him—the one who threatened to do it—”

  Jo Gar said nothing. The pupils of Kanochi’s eyes moved about within the slant-shape. He said without looking at the Island detective:

  “You have learned anything—of importance?”

  Jo Gar hesitated, and was conscious of a sudden tenseness of Kanochi’s body. But he shook his head.

  “I have learned—nothing of importance,” he replied softly.

  The half-breed sucked in a deep breath, making hissing sound.

  “I want this murderer, Señor Gar!” he said with a strange fierceness. “You must find him.”

  Jo Gar was silent for several seconds. When he spoke his voice was almost toneless.

  “I know the motive, Señor Kanochi—and that will help, perhaps.” Kanochi nodded. “I will pay you well,” he said, and moved toward

  Vicente’s widow again.

  Jo Gar stood motionless for several seconds. When he ran his handkerchief over the wet skin of his face he was smiling grimly. And he was thinking that Vincente’s widow had lied to him, and that the Chinese, Matoy, had lied to him. And that Señor Kanochi had lied to him again.

  Lieutenant Sadi Ratan was very handsome and well built for a Filipino. He had dark eyes and good features, he was tall and erect. His white duck uniform fitted him exceedingly well. He stood near the chair into which Jo Gar had sunk rather wearily, after shaking hands with the visitor to his office.

  “I have come at the request of Major Kelvey, Señor Gar,” the Filipino lieutenant of police said in a tone that was so loud and assured that it annoyed Jo. “He is displeased because you took things in your hands, after arriving by chance at the shooting gallery directly after the accident.”

  The Island detective smiled a little. “I am sorry,” he said. “A new police chief and a new police lieutenant. I must grow accustomed to the changes which have occurred since I left Manila.”

  Sadi Ratan stood more stiffly. He said in a cold tone, loudly:

  “We are aware of your reputation, Señor Gar—but we do not wish interference. You are a private detective. You arrived by chance early on the
scene of the accident—”

  Jo Gar sighed and said quietly: “I did not arrive by chance, lieutenant. And I do not think the scene was one caused by accident.”

  There was faint amusement in the dark eyes of the well built Filipino. Jo Gar saw it and thought: This one will not be a Juan Arragon, but that does not mean he will be less shrewd. He dislikes me more than Arragon did, that is all. And the new head of police dislikes me also.

  Lieutenant Ratan spoke in his loud tone. “I have done some hours of investigation. Vincente Calleo gambled and owed money. His life was threatened, but that was just a bluff. If he were killed he could not pay, and the one he owed the money to wished mostly for payment. So he was not murdered. He was frightened, worried. Perhaps he mistook the bell used on the new ride for the one that signals all clear at the shooting gallery. He rose from behind the protecting strip of bullet-proof steel, and he was struck twice by the slugs. The shooters vanished, afraid of something there was no need to be afraid of. It was an accident. I shall report it as such.”

  Jo Gar smiled. “The police will miss Lieutenant Arragon as much as I feared,” he said simply. “Offer my apologies to Major Kelvey. I inspected the guns and asked questions because Señor Kanochi had engaged me on the case, and because I felt immediate action was necessary.”

  Lieutenant Ratan said, amusement in his dark eyes:

  “But you did not know of the new ride—the cars that dip over tracks, which has a bell very much like the one in the shooting gallery?”

  Jo Gar looked at his wristwatch. It was after eleven and the night was very hot. He said, wearily:

  “I know of it now.”

  The new police lieutenant smiled coldly. “I am pleased to have informed you, Señor Gar,” he said. “You did not realize that the one who was owed money would gain nothing by murdering the man who owed it to him?”

  Jo Gar’s smile widened. He shrugged. “I realize it now, Lieutenant Ratan,” he said simply.

  The Police lieutenant stood very straight. There was mild contempt in his dark eyes.

  “Perhaps you have been away from the Islands too long—on this last journey, Señor Gar,” he suggested.

  Jo Gar nodded. “Perhaps, Lieutenant,” he agreed passively.

  The lieutenant bowed slightly. “I go now to make my report,” he said. “In it I shall include your opinions, which I do not think are worth much, Señor.”

  Jo Gar rose and bowed. “Undoubtedly they will make your own opinion seem stronger,” he said.

  For a brief second their eyes met, then Lieutenant Ratan turned and went from the office. His footfalls sounded on the wooden steps very much like his voice—precise, loud—and very sure. Jo Gar smiled as he seated himself again. He lighted a brown-paper cigarette and puffed contentedly. The footfall died away.

  The Island detective inspected his favorite Colt automatic, slipped it into a pocket of his white drill suit. He rose, after finishing the cigarette, drew a deep breath.

  “In spite of the very splendid report that Lieutenant Ratan is about to make on the shooting galley accident—I think—I shall now go and talk with the murderer of Vincente Calleo,” he said very softly.

  The Chinese, Matoy, sat stiffly in the chair near a window of his house not far from the Park of the Moon. His eyes shifted about, went to the gleam of the Pasig, not far from the stilted house. Jo Gar stood in the doorway and said quietly:

  “I know that the police of Manila believe that Vincente’s death was an accident. But Señor Kanochi does not believe so. He wishes me to bring to justice the murderer.”

  Matoy’s eyes held a peculiar expression. He said dully:

  “Of course—it was the Señor’s son-in-law who was killed. If he thinks Vincente was murdered, he would naturally wish the murderer to be caught.”

  Jo Gar said: “It was not an accident. The police are wrong in thinking so. It was murder.”

  Matoy’s eyes became very small. He said in the same dull voice:

  “What good does it do a murderer to kill the man who owes him gambling debts? One does not collect from a dead man.”

  Jo Gar smiled a little. “Lieutenant Ratan has asked the same question,” he said slowly. “But have I said to you that the one to whom Vincente owed money was the one who killed him?”

  Matoy’s eyes widened; he coughed dryly, made short gasping sounds.

  “You have not said that to me, Señor,” he managed, after a few seconds.

  Jo Gar nodded. The Chinese was watching him closely; there was fear in his eyes now. Perspiration streaked his face. Jo Gar said very quietly:

  “I have gone to the new ride in the Park of the Moon. It did not start until tonight, at almost seven. As it did not start until then—the bell used for the signal that the cars were about to start was not used. Perhaps the bell was tested in the morning, but in the morning Vincente Calleo was not at work in the shooting gallery. He did not know of the bell.”

  The Chinese sat heavily in the wide chair, breathing quickly. He kept his eyes on those of the Island detective. Jo Gar said suddenly, more sharply:

  “But you knew of the bell, Matoy! Why did not you warn Vincente?”

  The Chinese rose a little from the chair, his hands gripping the wicker arms, said hoarsely:

  “I—knew of—the bell?” Jo nodded.

  “It was you who spoke to the owner of the ride, Herr Schrenn, the German, about a suitable bell. You suggested a certain shop not far from the Luneta. Herr Schrenn went there and purchased the bell that was shown him first. But before he went to the shop you visited it, Matoy. And you told the shopkeeper the sort of bell you felt Herr Schrenn should purchase.”

  Fear was in the eyes of the Chinese clearly now. He started to say something, stopped. He coughed, and his face crimsoned with the effort. The coughing spell was sustained. When it was over Jo Gar said very softly and very quietly:

  “The new ride is at the rear of shooting gallery, less than a hundred yards distant. There is much clatter in the Park of the Moon, and often the bell in the shooting gallery sounds more faintly than at other times. It is true that Vincente’s life had been threatened and that he was frightened. His nerves were not good. He made a mistake, rose into the range of bullets when the bell of the new ride rang. He thought you had pressed the button of the shooting gallery bell.”

  The Chinese stared at Jo, saying nothing. The Island detective said: “It would have been simpler if you had pressed the button of the shooting gallery bell, but you refused to do that. Still you have assisted a murderer, Matoy. And that is very bad, very serious.”

  Matoy said hoarsely: “No—Señor Gar it is not so—I did not think about the bell—”

  Jo Gar said very quietly: “They will take you to Bilibid Prison, and if you do not die—”

  The Chinese cried out, “No—it was accident. Three or four persons were shooting—”

  Jo Gar shook his head. “It was not an accident,” he said firmly. “If you are wise you will go at once to the office of Lieutenant Ratan, the new lieutenant of police. You will tell him that I sent you to him, and you will tell him who suggested to you that Herr Schrenn should purchase a certain sort of bell. If you do not go to the lieutenant—”

  He shrugged, half turned his back on Chinese. Matoy cried out in a choked voice:

  “I will tell—you, Señor—”

  Jo Gar shook his head. “You do not need to tell me, Matoy,” he said. “I know. You will go to Lieutenant Ratan, at the police station.”

  He went from the stilted, thatch-roofed house. The Chinese loader of shooting gallery guns was coughing terribly as he left. There was a small smile on the face of the Island detective.

  “I will go now and talk to the murderer of Vincente Calleo,” he murmured to himself.

  Señor Kanochi fanned himself slowly with his palm leaf, his slanted eyes on the gray-blue ones of Jo Gar. The veranda of the Kanochi house was large and well furnished with wicker. In the distance were the colored lights of the
Park of the Moon, and at intervals a faint, hot wind drifted tinny music to the veranda. Señor Kanochi watched Jo light a brown-paper cigarette. He spoke in his thinnish voice:

  “Lieutenant Ratan, of the police, has convinced me that it was an accident, Señor Gar. It is a terrible thing. Vincente was often a fool, but he was young. And as I said, I have patience. He might have rid himself of his bad habits. But he was worried about the threat, and he mistook the bell of the new ride—”

  Jo Gar interrupted quietly. “Does it not strike you as strange that the new ride used a similar bell?”

  Kanochi widened his small eyes. For a few seconds he was silent, then he shook his big head.

  “No,” he said simply. “The Chinese, Matoy, bought the shooting gallery alarm for me. He is not too bright. I think he might have suggested a similar bell to the owner of the new ride, never thinking—”

  Jo Gar said quietly: “You reason clearly, Señor Kanochi. That is exactly what the Chinese did.”

  He watched the flicker of light in Kanochi’s eyes. The half-breed drew a deep breath and sighed. He spoke in a sad tone.

  “Lieutenant Ratan has pointed out that the one to whom Vincente was indebted would not have killed him—it would have gained him nothing. It was just a threat. The death was an accident—a terrible accident.”

  The Island detective smiled very faintly. He wiped his face with a handkerchief; the heat seemed to be beating down on the veranda. He spoke very slowly and tonelessly.

  “It was terrible, Señor Kanochi—but it was not an accident. It was murder.”

  The fat half-breed sat more stiffly in the chair. Jo Gar said with the same toneless quality in his voice:

  “You would like to hear what actually happened, Señor?”

  Kanochi’s fat face was splotched with reddish color. His eyes were small and very slanted. His thinnish voice grated nastily.

  “Lieutenant Ratan reports that it was an accident, Señor Gar—his word will do for me.”

  Jo Gar smiled.

  “It will not do—for—me,” he replied simply. “Matoy, the Chinese, has confessed. He has told me many things. Even now he is at the police station.”