“They take me away—I no do kill! I tell him truth. I no do this—”
Sadi Ratan smiled sarcastically at Jo. “You were not attacked by the murderer,” he stated calmly. “Because the murderer was here.”
Jo Gar looked with narrowed eyes at the house-boy. “So?” he said softly. “And the motive, Lieutenant?”
Sadi Ratan smiled in a superior manner. “He had been drinking saké. He hated Señor Strett. The secretary had called him a stupid fool. He had even struck him. I have found unfinished saké in his quarters. It was almost a half hour before he could talk to us. He has admitted that Señor Strett called him stupid and struck him. And, Señor Gar, regard his right hand.”
Jo Gar moved near the Chinese. He spoke quietly: “You hated Señor Strett?”
The house-boy spoke Chinese rapidly. Jo Gar reached down and caught the right wrist of the Chinese in strong right-hand fingers.
Across the palm and fingers was a long, deep cut. It was a cut such as the blade of a knife might have made.
Sadi Ratan said: “You see, Señor Gar. Unless one is very clever, when striking another person, the blade of the knife may turn. He was injured as he murdered Señor Strett.”
The house-boy stopped his rapid talk. Jo Gar released the wrist.
He shrugged.
“He says that it is true he hated Señor Strett,” he informed Lieutenant Ratan and Edmond Neblo. “But he says that he did not kill him. He was often struck and called stupid because he did not fasten the screens, when told to do so. He was in his quarters and had drunk much saké when you came to him.”
Sadi Ratan smiled. “And the cut on his hand, Señor Gar?”
Jo spoke in Chinese, to the house-boy. When the Chinese had finished his reply Jo said:
“His story is very plain. He says that he was awakened in the night by the wind. Somewhat tardily he recalled Señor Strett’s instructions to make fast all the screens, and for this purpose he came silently to this room to repair his neglect.
“On entering, he says, above the wind noises he heard the gasping of struggling men. There was no light—when he entered—but he heard the voice of Strett cry out once in pain; a choked cry, as if he were being strangled. Then the men in their struggle were right upon him. He reached out, he says, and grasped an arm, a wrist. It was suddenly withdrawn and the knife sliced his palm.
“He jumped back; then heard Strett groan, and the thud of a falling body. He turned, he says, and fearing for his own life, fled into the gardens. A half-hour later, he made his way back to his room, bound his hand and drank deeply of saké. And thus you found him.”
“A very likely story,” murmured Sadi Ratan, “—for children.”
“I do not find it so,” Jo Gar said coldly.
The lieutenant of Manila Police shrugged elaborately, almost too elaborately.
“And does he describe this other man—who cut him? He started to tell me this same wild tale—but his guilt is too evident; the case against him too apparent.” He shrugged again, but at the same time his eyes were watching the little Island detective.
Jo Gar spoke again in Chinese to the house-boy.
“He says,” he said slowly, “that he could not see the man. He knows only that the wrist was large; the man was very strong. He could not hold him.”
Sadi Ratan lifted both hands and shoulders in sardonic gesture. Yet his eyes were very keen, although he veiled their expression from Jo Gar.
“So you see? How is it possible to find such a man—the man who used the knife, if there was one—through a thick, strong wrist alone? It is much simpler as it is.”
“Of course,” Jo Gar said agreeably. “Much simpler—for everybody except the boy here, and he will have great difficulty in making the court believe his story unless such a man is found and made to appear the guilty one. As you present it, Lieutenant, the case against him is very simple.”
Sadi Ratan swore.
“The police,” he said hotly, “do not wish to punish the innocent.”
“The police,” Jo Gar said softly, “are sometimes lazy. They often prefer the easiest, the simple way.”
Sadi Ratan swung towards him angrily, with a threatening gesture. He seemed on the point of striking the little detective.
“You cannot say that to me, damn you!” he stuttered. Jo Gar smiled slightly.
“The observation,” he said quietly, “was a generality. It shall not apply to Lieutenant Ratan unless he himself makes it applicable.”
The lieutenant seemed very angry; but behind his anger his eyes were shrewd.
“Very well,” he said with sudden dignity. “Let us look further into this matter. If the story he tells is true, why did he not at once cry for help, or at least, when he felt safe to return, inform Señor Neblo? Perhaps he can answer that to your satisfaction, Señor Gar!” he added triumphantly.
Jo Gar shrugged slightly.
“I think,” he said, “that he can.”
He spoke again to the boy.
“It is,” he interpreted for Neblo and the lieutenant, “as he feared—that he would be implicated in the murder. You know the Chinese. This boy is also stupid. He believed Señor Strett dead and did not wish to say anything in the matter. It was, of course, very stupid.”
“There remains then,” Sadi Ratan said with a tone of finality, “the necessity to discover this other man. For, surely, without him one must believe my simple story, and the boy will hang.”
“That is all very true,” Jo Gar agreed, “and without the real murderer, the boy will surely hang. I think, however, this man can be readily found.”
“What!” Sadi Ratan shouted, and Edmond Neblo echoed the exclamation. “You know the man—have known him all along, while we’ve had this senseless talk? Before God, Señor Gar, you try my patience; and, as you know, your license depends upon the agreeability of the police department. Who is this man? What is his name? I demand it.”
Jo Gar raised a slender, browned hand.
“My words,” he said slowly, “were, I think the man can be readily found. That means that he is yet to be found. First, however, it is necessary to discover a motive; for without a reason for the killing and its story, it would be useless to confront such a man. He would simply deny—we could do nothing.”
Sadi Ratan glanced about him with an air of exasperation. “Then let us make a beginning—” He left off, frowning.
Jo Gar passed a hand swiftly across his lips, to conceal their involuntary smile.
“I shall gladly save the Lieutenant,” he said, “much labor that may in the end prove fruitless. You have a prisoner,” he added, “a very plausible suspect. That should content you for tonight. Tomorrow, if you will meet me at my office, at nine. I shall take you to the murderer—or will leave the simple case as it stands entirely in your hands.”
Sadi Ratan frowned darkly.
“But—if you have reason to suspect a man, he might escape meanwhile.”
“He would scarcely, I think, give us so much evidence against himself,” Jo Gar said softly.
“Very well,” the lieutenant said gruffly, “we will leave it meanwhile at that. I have a prisoner, a very reasonable suspect—” he shrugged. “I have also a knife, such a knife as could have been used in the murder. It is stained with blood. I found it beside the boy—on his bed.”
“And I,” Jo Gar said softly, “have a fan, an amber fan, whose presence here has not yet been explained.”
Sadi Ratan glanced at him keenly; then turned and signed to the man in uniform to lead out the trembling house-boy.
“Do you leave with me, Señor Gar?” he asked, with elaborate politeness.
“No, I shall talk a while with Señor Neblo.” Sadi Ratan nodded stiffly to both and left.
Sadi Ratan and the little Island detective moved towards Calle Vanisto.
“It was only an accident,” Jo Gar said, “that I happened to see it; that my curiosity was aroused.”
“Perhaps you even stepped up
on it,” said the lieutenant of police slyly.
“It may be so,” Jo Gar murmured. “Often people stumble over what lies right before their eyes.”
“Still, we have yet to prove the story,” the lieutenant said, in different tone.
“The information you have given me will be helpful. Besides, a man who is guilty will often incriminate himself if pressed adroitly.”
“But you say the papers which Señor Neblo discovered only hinted at the person; did not give even his name or address?”
“It is so—But we shall soon see, for this is the place.”
It was ten minutes after nine when they entered the curio shop of Yut Gen. Sadi Ratan paused near the door and set himself to examine the many objects displayed. Jo Gar advanced farther.
Yut Gen himself came from the rear of the shop, moved soft-footed behind the evil-smelling counter. He was a moon-faced, youthful Chinese; his eyes were small and slitted. He was medium in height and was very stout. His wrists were thick and round.
Jo Gar said: “I am Señor Gar. Last night there was in your window a fan of blue silk. I do not care for fans, but the handle of this one appeared to be of amber. I should like to see the fan.”
Yut Gen placed a lighted cigarette between his lips, tilted his chin high and regarded Jo through almost closed eyes. Slowly he shook his head.
“Never in my shop have I possessed such a fan as you describe,” he said in very good English. “Perhaps it was in some other shop—” Jo Gar smiled patiently. “I stood before your window last night. It was not yet ten-fifteen. The amber fan was beside the silver betel-nut box.”
Yut Gen’s small eyes grew smaller. “You are mistaken,” he said gently. “I have no amber in my shop.”
Jo Gar said: “Perhaps you have not, at this minute. Between ten and ten-fifteen last evening I saw with my own eyes the amber-handled fan. At one o’clock last night I returned to your window. The fan was not there.”
Yut Gen made clicking sounds and spread his browned hands.
“I think that you have seen the fan in some other shop, Señor,” he stated calmly. “Then, returning to my shop, you failed to see it. A not uncommon mistake.”
Jo Gar smiled, but his gray-blue eyes held a hard expression.
“In the home of Señor Edmond Neblo his secretary was murdered, last night. The murder occurred between ten o’clock and fifteen minutes of twelve, since he was seen alive at the earlier hour and his knifed body discovered at the later. The doctors have thought the crime was committed about eleven-thirty. Beneath a cabinet, and not far from the body of the murdered man, I have found a fan. Of blue silk, and with a long amber handle. Sea amber, unpolished. The fan is very unusual. I think it is the one I saw in your shop window last night.”
Yut Gen widened his small eyes. “How could that be so?” he demanded. “You saw the fan somewhere at ten-thirty—”
Jo Gar smiled, shook his head. “I saw the fan here not long after ten. If it had been removed from the window a few minutes after I left the Calle Vanisto—it might have been in the dead man’s possession before he was murdered. Or it might have been dropped by the murderer.”
Yut Gen twisted a large ring on a finger of his right hand. He was standing with his back against the long counter, leaning partially against it. He seemed quite at his ease.
“I am the owner of my shop. I do not recall such a fan as you speak about. I am sorry.”
There was a finality in his voice. Jo Gar placed his right hand in a pocket of his drill suit. His raincoat was opened.
“It is yet early in the morning. But I have talked to several persons. A Chinese house-boy is accused of the murder of Señor Strett. He is not the murderer.”
Yut Gen shrugged. The Island detective smiled agreeably.
“You have lied to me,” he said pleasantly. “And where there is death it is not well to lie.”
Yut Gen stopped toying with his ring. His face became set, his eyes sullen. Jo Gar said softly:
“The soles of the dead man’s sandals were wet, though he was supposed not to have left the house last evening. I did not think that the amber fan could have fallen to the floor and have been kicked beneath the cabinet, during a struggle. I do not think there was much of a struggle, because Señor Neblo was upstairs. He would have heard the sounds.”
Yut Gen said quickly: “There was wind in the—” He checked himself. Jo Gar smiled coldly.
“You remember that, the wind in the palms. You thought of that—when you struck with the knife—”
The Chinese said calmly: “There was a typhoon last night. There is always the sound of wind—”
Jo Gar narrowed his blue-gray eyes. “Señor Strett came to your shop last night. When he departed he had with him the amber fan. Why was that?”
Yut Gen shrugged slightly. “I know nothing of the fan of amber,” he said slowly.
The Island detective nodded his head. “Yes, you know of it,” he contradicted quietly. “You went to Señor Neblo’s house for it. You surprised Señor Strett in the study, but he had sufficient time to place the fan beneath the cabinet. You killed by the knife, and made your escape.”
Yut Gen’s forehead had deep lines in it. His bared lips showed teeth that were not even.
“You make talk, Señor Gar,” he breathed.
Jo Gar smiled pleasantly and his right hand fingers moved within the cloth of the coat pocket. Sadi Ratan, some feet away, was bent over the counter, eyes intent on a small carving of jade.
“It is so,” Jo agreed. “You alone live behind your shop. You alone are the proprietor. You have no relatives, and few friends. In the window of the shop you have a valuable fan. An expert has this morning assured me it is worth many pesos—the amber is very old, and very good. The secretary of Señor Neblo visits you secretly, when he is thought to be working on reports. He leaves, taking with him this amber fan. You follow him, and murder him. And you lie to me. That is the talk I make.”
The Chinese made a faint hissing sound as he drew in a deep breath. “Because the soles of a man’s shoes are wet—does that prove that this man has visited me?”
Jo Gar smiled calmly. “Last night I talked with Señor Neblo—we found letters—letters which Señor Strett would not have allowed others to see, and which he had concealed cleverly. One was a demand to pay a gambling debt—tomorrow; if not paid, the holder of his obligation would appeal to Señor Neblo, and explain—certain matters of his secretary.
“Other papers were memoranda of money advanced to you at different dates; demands for repayment, references to your refusal even so recently as last week, and, what is of most interest, a promise to call upon you last evening, with the threat of exposing your affairs if you did not make some settlement immediately. Shall I explain that to you?”
“It means nothing to me—If you wish to talk—” Jo Gar said slowly, smiling with his thin lips:
“For weeks the Manila police have been suspicious of you. For such a small shop too many men leave here, during the night. Too many men enter.”
The wind of the typhoon made rattling sounds, outside the shop. Between the blasts could be heard the shuffling of Sadi Ratan’s feet as he moved nearer, along the counter. Jo kept his narrowed eyes on the small ones of Yut Gen.
“I was not concerned with your shop, until the fan vanished from your window. I then became interested. Señor Strett was also interested in your shop. It was he who furnished you the money to purchase the opium. So that men could come here—and go from here. And you did not repay him. You promised at first; then you refused outright. You relied on his fear that Señor Neblo and the officials would learn of his connection with the illicit traffic.
“But Strett was desperate. That demand of the gambling debt and danger of exposure through that source made him so. He came to you in the late evening, when the typhoon was blowing and—received no satisfaction; only a repetition of your threat.”
Jo Gar spoke slowly, confidently; yet his eyes watched the
slit eyes before him as if for confirmation.
“And he probably told you,” he went on, steadily, “that an anonymous letter to the police would draw you into prison. Then he left hurriedly; but, in going; he snatched up a thing of ready value—the amber fan.”
Yut Gen dropped his cigarette to the floor and set his heel upon it; then he glanced up impassively.
“It is possible,” Jo Gar continued, “that you discovered the theft. It is more probable that you started to think of the anonymous letter which Señor Strett in his desperation would write—for revenge. His secret notes that we found hinted of it.
“You followed him shortly, gained entrance to the house and to the study. As you came, he switched off the light, tossed the fan beneath the cabinet.”
Jo Gar paused a moment; then continued tonelessly:
“After you had killed him, you did not look for the fan. You feared the house-boy who had entered the struggle and then fled. Perhaps—” Yut Gen interrupted him, with a glance towards Sadi Ratan, who was standing not far from them, but with his shoulder turned and apparently not listening.
“I do not think I wish to hear you any further, Señor Gar,” the Chinese proprietor said. “It is only talk and means nothing to me. I know of no such fan as you describe. You have no possible way of connecting me with this murder you speak of. It is—”
“Fool!” Jo Gar hissed. “You were too confident, too careless. Why, you even neglected to change your clothing.”
The stubby fingers of his left hand pointed with quick gesture. “See—the blood spots still on the cuff—”
Involuntarily, with a start, the eyes of the Chinese snapped downward. Then his whole body tensed. His small black eyes blazed into the gray-blue ones of the little Island detective.
“Damn you!” he snarled in frantic rage.
Apparently forgetful of the lieutenant of police, his left hand flashed from behind him. Jo Gar saw the knife, and the fingers of his right hand in his pocket clenched.
The shop was filled with the sound of the explosion. The knife slipped from Yut Gen’s mangled left hand.
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