West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  He let his words die, went towards the slot on the floor where Brail’s body had lain. The room was very quiet; he could hear the swift breathing of the maid, behind him. Cummings was breathing heavily, too.

  Jo Gar turned slowly. He walked a few feet towards the maid, then stopped. “You screamed last evening—when you saw the body. You did not go near the body. All you saw was a figure lying on the floor. Yet you screamed, again and again. You ran down the corridor screaming—”

  The maid spoke in a broken voice. “I was—frightened. I felt—that he was dead—lying there—”

  Jo Gar moved nearer her. “You are not afraid of a cat. A cat that belonged to a dead man. A cat that was in this room when the man was murdered, knifed—”

  She said in a strangled voice: “I’ve had—Siamese cats—before—”

  Sadi Ratan spoke in a protesting voice. “What is it that you want to know, Señor Gar?”

  The Island detective paid no attention to Ratan. He moved closer to the maid, his gray-blue eyes very small and his lips pressed together in a straight line. When he parted them he said very grimly: “You are the sort of woman who screams again and again when she sees a body lying on the floor—and yet you are not at all afraid of a dead man’s cat. A strange breed of cat—”

  There was fear in the girl’s eyes. She raised her browned hands, pressed palms against her face. Jo stepped forward quickly, caught her wrists in his hands. He said sharply:

  “Your fingernails are very short—I think a doctor would say they had been cut very recently.”

  The maid pulled herself away from him. She swore fiercely, in a half Spanish, half Filipino dialect. When she had finished Jo Gar slipped right-hand fingers in the right pocket of his duck suit.

  “And I do not think—that your nails were clipped short, last evening,” he said slowly.

  The maid’s eyes were staring into his. Sadi Ratan muttered something that was not distinguishable to Jo. The maid said brokenly:

  “I didn’t—do it—I didn’t! I know you think—I killed him. I didn’t!

  I knew when you sent for me—”

  Her words trailed off. She turned and started towards the door that led to the corridor. Jo Gar said sharply:

  “Wait!”

  She stopped, faced him slowly. The Island detective took the Colt from his pocket, held it low at his side. He smiled coldly at her.

  “I saw you ten days ago—a Sunday at a cock fight. You were not alone. The face of the one you were with interested me. I thought I had seen it before. I remembered that face—and a half hour ago I saw it again. Photographs of it have been sent around the world. You were with Pedro Savon—a very clever forger, thief and murderer—”

  The maid screamed shrilly loudly—the one word: “Pedro!”

  There was the crash of a gun from the corridor door, and as Jo’s body swung to one side something crackled on a far wall. A figure came into the room, swaying from side to side. Jo Gar dropped to his knees, saw the Siamese cat streak across the floor. Savon’s gun crashed again. The cat screamed and seemed to leap from the floor. Jo Gar squeezed the trigger slowly—his Colt crashed.

  Pedro Savon fell forward, struck the floor heavily. His gun spun from nerveless fingers. The maid cried out and ran towards the motionless body, but Sadi Ratan blocked her way, gun in his right hand. Jo Gar stood up, went over to Savon. The man was unconscious—the bullet had clipped him over the right ear. It was not a deep wound. The maid was fighting to get to his side. Cummings said grimly:

  “Is he dead, Gar?”

  Jo shook his head. “A doctor can save him, but what is the use? He won’t talk—we might just as well let him die here—”

  The maid pulled herself free from Ratan’s grip. She said bitterly: “No—don’t let him die—this way! I’ll—talk!”

  The Island detective said: “Good—fast, please.”

  She spoke hoarsely, in a strained voice. Her eyes were on the man on the floor.

  “Pedro went to Phelps, the valet. They drank together. Phelps hated Brail because he would not give him money to back him in the business. The business he wanted to start, in London. Pedro knew Brail carried a large sum of money and jewels. He offered to share with the valet. I met Pedro here in the Islands—I love him. We wanted to get away from here, and Pedro swore no one would be hurt.

  And then—Phelps lost his nerve. He said he would not rob Brail. He threatened to go to the police. Pedro said we must work fast—I let the Siamese cat out, hid it in my quarters. Pedro wanted Phelps out of the way and knew that Brail would make him hunt for the cat. We were searching Brail’s luggage when he surprised us. He tried to fight, and I held his hands—while Pedro struck him—with the knife. The scratches—he got them then—”

  Her voice sank to a whisper. Jo Gar said quietly:

  “And then—”

  She said: “Pedro answered your telephone call. We got away—I had to work very quickly, washing my hands. I had brought the cat in when we came to search the rooms. We were going to leave quickly, on one of the big boats. The cat was excited, at first. But it grew calm before I let you in. Then I ran out, screaming. I couldn’t stand the sight of the body. And I didn’t know until hours later—that Pedro had murdered the valet. He was afraid he would go to the police. We had not taken anything, but Pedro knew Phelps would tell of the plans—”

  She paused, and Jo Gar said: “Pedro forged the note?”

  She nodded. “He knew about the will—and the clause in it. He said the police would find the will, and believe. Phelps had told Pedro many things, but he lost his nerve—”

  Jo said: “Let her go, Lieutenant—”

  Sadi Ratan stepped to one side and the maid dropped on her knees beside Savon. Cummings said:

  “The cat’s dead—one of this Pedro’s bullets got it.”

  Jo Gar looked at Sadi Ratan with narrowed eyes. He smiled a little.

  Hernandez muttered:

  “This is—a piece for the paper!”

  The police lieutenant frowned. Jo Gar said slowly:

  “It does not matter—but I was sure the Siamese would not have been so calm, if the murder had been committed as I was on my way up. Or unless it had been in the room—even longer than she says it was. But I was not far wrong.”

  Cummings grunted. “I’ll call a doctor,” he said.

  “I would say you were just about right, Señor Gar.” Sadi Ratan breathed softly: “The note—the gun beside Phelps’ body—the clause in the will—”

  Jo Gar sighed. “You were so willing to be convinced, Lieutenant,” he said very quietly. “So willing that you could not, naturally become interested in such an amusing creature as—a Siamese cat.”

  The Black Sampan

  Jo Gar hunts a murderer on the banks of the Pasig.

  It was nearing the hour of the swift tropic twilight; a warm breeze blew in from Manila Bay and stirred the palm trees in the fringe of almost jungle growth between the narrow white beach and the low, straggling Spanish house. There had been a pink, fan-shaped sunset in the sky, but most of the light had faded now. Gulls screamed over the water and somewhere on the opposite side of the house a parrot shrilled monotonously.

  Jo Gar stood near the black shape of the sampan, which rested in a cleared space about fifty yards from the house and towards the fringe of jungle growth. His gray-blue eyes were frowning. The sampan was like hundreds of others drifting on the water of the Pasig, the narrow curve of water that twisted through the City of Manila and emptied into the Bay. That is, it was like others in size and shape. But there were differences. This particular sampan rested on earth. And all the wood of it was black. The mast was black, and the drooping canvas of the sail had been painted black. Not a dull color, but a rich, almost glossy black. There was something funereal in the appearance of the craft, resting on land, with the palm trees swaying slightly between it and the water of the Bay. The color was funereal, and even the shape added to the effect.

  Beside h
im, Harvey Wall said slowly and in his deep voice:

  “I heard one terrible, shrill cry—I was in my study. I got a gun and came right out. My Chinese cook was upstairs, in his quarters. He came out behind me. We found Vincente as you see him now, but not until we’d searched quite a bit. You see, we didn’t think to look in the sampan immediately.”

  The Island detective moved closer to the sampan, and Wall moved almost silently behind him. The American was a tall, lean man with gray eyes and slightly gray hair. There was a stoop to his narrow shoulders and his face was well browned. His voice was extraordinarily deep for a man of his build.

  The dead figure of Vincente was lying sprawled on the deck of the sampan, the left arm flung out so that the hand almost touched the base of the mast. In the breeze the rings of the sail made faint scraping sound against the mastwood. Vincente’s dark eyes were opened wide—he seemed to be staring in painful surprise at the darkening sky, as he lay on his back. There was blood on his throat, and more on his white shirt, over the heart. He was a small, wiry Filipino, and even the pain of his death had not robbed him completely of a dark handsomeness.

  Jo Gar said softly: “You were not aware that he had enemies?”

  Wall said with decision: “I do not think Vincente had an enemy. I can’t understand it, unless robbery was the motive, and he surprised thieves who were waiting in the palm growth, for darkness to come.”

  Jo Gar leaned down and his gray-blue eyes searched the deck of the sampan, which was fairly small, near the body. He moved around the craft slowly, examining the ground, which was hard and dry from months without rain. Then he came close to the sampan and looked at the dead man again. The swift, tropical twilight came and was gone—it was suddenly dark.

  Wall said in a steady, low voice: “Vincente has been with me for five years. He was more than my house-boy. I trusted him completely. Sometimes he did business for me. I live more or less of a secluded life, since I sold out my plantations up the river and on the other side of Luzon. Only Vincente and the cook, Sarong, live with me.”

  Jo Gar nodded. “Sarong is not a Chinese name,” he observed. “Malay, perhaps?”

  Wall said: “There may be Malay blood, but the man is Chinese. He was upstairs in his quarters when I heard the one scream. My study is on the second floor, and the servants have small rooms above, in the one high portion of the house. I called to Sarong as I came down, and he answered me.”

  The Island detective used the beam of a small flashlight on the ground around the sampan.

  “What did this Sarong answer, when you called, Señor Wall?” he asked quietly.

  Wall said:

  “He replied—’I come, Señor.’ That was all. And I could hear him moving hurriedly.”

  Jo Gar nodded again. He snapped off the beam of the flash, so that they were in darkness. There was a short silence, then the parrot shrilled again. Jo spoke thoughtfully.

  “If he had been knifed in the throat first—I do not think the scream would have been shrill. He was struck over the heart first, then in the throat. Filipino cry of surprise or pain is most always shrill. As it is in anger.”

  Harvey Wall swore very grimly.

  “There was just the one scream, high—of pain. It was terrible. I’ll hear it at night—forever.”

  Jo Gar said quietly: “I think not. One forgets these things in time.

  You have notified the police?”

  Wall spoke a little huskily. “I told Sarong to notify them, after you had arrived. I wanted you here first. I think that perhaps you work more slowly and more thoughtfully.”

  The Island detective bowed a little. “You are kind,” he replied.

  There was the sound of a car arriving at the far side of the house. A car door slammed. Harvey Wall said:

  “Sarong will bring them here.”

  Jo Gar looked towards the sky and his eyes were almost closed. He spoke in a gentle voice.

  “I think I shall take a short walk through the palms and along the beach,” he said very softly. “The sampan here—it has been painted recently?”

  Harvey Wall spoke in a toneless voice. “I am a sentimental man. When I came to the Islands, fifteen years ago, I was broke. I had to borrow the money to start in business, and my first business was hauling stuff down the river. I had two sampans—this is the first one I bought. I have always kept it, and when I sold that fleet of mine—I brought it over here. That was about a year ago. The ants were getting at it—it’s had several coats of paint.”

  Jo Gar nodded slowly. “The color is peculiar,” he said quietly. “Any particular reason for the color?”

  Harvey Wall turned so that he faced the house. There were the sounds of voices, growing louder.

  “Vincente painted it, and this time he said he had bought a new kind of paint. It was supposed to be thick and it contained a great deal of lead. He thought that would do for the ants and protect the wood.”

  The Island detective spoke very softly. “You suggested the color?”

  Harvey Wall shook his head. “I was away at the time. But I do not object to the color. Why?”

  Jo Gar shrugged and moved away from the sampan and the dead man, towards the fringe of palm trees that swayed in the breeze.

  “It is a strange color for a sampan,” he said.

  There was irritation in Wall’s voice. “It’s a strange place for a sampan, too,” he said. “But neither of those facts is helping us to find Vincente’s murderer.”

  The Island detective paused for a few seconds: “Often one can never tell what is helping in the search for a murderer,” he observed. Harvey Wall said: “Well, you know more about this sort of thing than I do. But I think Vincente surprised thieves and they—or one of them—knifed him. Perhaps it was only one thief that he surprised.” The voice of Lieutenant Sadi Ratan sounded more clearly, and a flashlight beam cut through the darkness, near a side of the house. Jo Gar said:

  “Why should Vincente have surprised a man lying in wait to enter the house, after darkness? Why should the man have been waiting? Why couldn’t he come here after dark? But if he was here—why should he be surprised?”

  Irritation was again evident in Harvey Wall’s tone.

  “I merely advanced my theory, Señor Gar. I would prefer to ask the questions and have you answer them.”

  The Island detective moved in the darkness. “I shall do my best Señor Wall,” he said tonelessly. “But it is almost always simpler to ask questions than to answer them.”

  Lieutenant Sadi Ratan straightened up and faced the door as Jo Gar entered the library of the Wall house. There was perspiration on Ratan’s handsome face, his dark eyes were frowning.

  “The Chinese is either a fool or a murderer,” he announced in his loud, sure voice.

  Jo Gar smiled a little and said: “Good evening, Lieutenant. It has been cooler today.”

  Harvey Wall was pouring himself a drink of whiskey from a decanter. He said suddenly:

  “Good God! To think that my two servants hated each other! I never suspected—”

  The Chinese sat impassively in a small wicker chair, and the light from a lamp struck full on his face. It was a round, brown face. His eyes were black and very small and they held no expression.

  Sadi Ratan said: “He admits he hated Vincente, and he says Vincente hated him. The hatred was very strong. But he knows nothing whatever about the knifing of the house-boy.”

  Jo Gar inspected the brown paper of his cigarette. “What is it that makes him a fool, Lieutenant?” he asked slowly.

  Sadi Ratan swore in Spanish. He wiped his forehead with a brown colored handkerchief.

  “I said he was either a fool or a murderer,” he corrected. “If he is not a murderer—he is a fool for telling me he hated the dead man.”

  The Chinese said in a flat voice: “I not a fool.”

  He said it as though he were patiently correcting some slight error. Jo Gar’s blue-gray eyes were on the dark ones of the lieutenant of Manila
police.

  “Perhaps the Chinese believes that even if he does admit that he hated Vincente—that does not make him a murderer,” he said gently.

  Harvey Wall downed his whiskey and turned towards Sadi Ratan. “How could Sarong have done this thing?” he demanded impatiently. “I told you he was in his room, above my study. I called to him, just after the scream, and he answered me. He came from the house behind me, and we searched together.”

  The Chinese closed his eyes. Ratan looked at him with a peculiar expression in his dark ones.

  “His room has a small balcony—it faces the sampan,” he said simply. Jo Gar smiled a little. “It would be remarkable knife throwing, Lieutenant,” he said.

  Sadi Ratan shrugged again, and Harvey Wall blinked at him.

  “Good God! What stupidity!” he breathed. “You mean to tell me you think this cook killed Vincente by throwing a knife from his balcony? How about the two wounds? And where would the knives have gone? And how could any person throw so accurately at such a distance? And what—”

  He groaned and broke off suddenly, appealing with his eyes to Jo. The Island detective was looking at a wicker floor lamp and the light it cast on the waxed floor of the library. He was thinking about Sadi Ratan. The man was not a fool—he was trying to get at something, and was using his apparent stupidity as a mask.

  The Chinese said impassively: “I no—kill Vincente.”

  Sadi Ratan spoke in a rising voice, “You hated him, and he’s dead, murdered. Señor Wall called to you, and he thought he heard you answer.”

  Harvey Wall sucked in a noisy breath. “You mean—Sarong wasn’t in his quarters?” he muttered. “You mean—”

  He checked himself. There was a little silence and then Jo Gar said quietly:

  “If I cared to believe that the cook murdered Vincente—I would prefer the lieutenant’s theory. That Sarong was not in his quarters. You did not actually see him leave the house behind you, Señor Wall?” Harvey Wall’s eyes were wide. “No,” he admitted. “I was in too much of a hurry to get outside. I didn’t wait for him. But I heard footfalls, and the voice that answered me sounded like Sarong’s. When I got around the house near the sampan, he came around—”