West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  Yut Gen lifted his right hand, but there was no knife in it. Red spread from the fingers of the left hand, resting on the counter. Yut Gen spread his lips and seemed to bite into the large ring with his teeth. Jo Gar stood very quietly as the Chinese made sucking sound. After a few seconds Yut Gen’s body slipped down beside the counter.

  When Sadi Ratan, with the Island detective, stooped over him the poison of the ring had brought death. Jo Gar straightened up.

  “It might have been,” Lieutenant Sadi Ratan said slowly, “as you said. I think it is enough on which to let the house-boy go.”

  “Suicide is often an admission of guilt,” Jo Gar murmured.

  “You were very clever,” the lieutenant said, in the same tone. “We should work more closely together, Señor. I might even consider resigning in order to enter and strengthen your private agency.”

  “I fear,” Jo Gar murmured, “that the loss to the Force would be too great, Lieutenant.”

  The Mystery of the Fan-backed Chair

  Even in the far off Philippines there is no such thing as murder without a clue.

  A long-tailed lizard scurried across the ceiling toward the three-bladed, slow-turning fan. It made sound like dry leaves in a faint wind, and Baba arched his back, rising from the floor near the shuttered window. Jo Gar, paying no attention to the Siamese cat or the lizard, rolled a brown-paper cigarette between two brown slender fingers of his left hand, half closing his gray-blue eyes.

  There were footfalls, light and unhurried, beyond the waxed floor of the office; a light tapping against the old wood of the door Jo Gar faced. The Island detective said almost tonelessly:

  “Come, Sidi Kalaa.”

  River sound, drifting over a reeking-hot Manila from the Pasig, reached his ears as the door opened and Kalaa entered from the outer office. The little man, half Malay, half Arab, came to within a few feet of the desk. His face was a brown mask, a flat mask of dark eyes, lips parted slightly showing white, even teeth. He spoke in precise English.

  “It is the Miss Samson of the appointment.”

  Jo Gar said: “She has been in Manila so short a time that she is prompt. Yes, Sidi Kalaa.”

  He suspected always that there was not so much Arab blood within the veins of his assistant as Kalaa would have wished him to believe, but it pleased him to address the man with the formal “Mister,” and he knew it pleased Kalaa. As the door to the outer office was opened, his eyes went to the lizard scuttling away from the ceiling fan.

  From the room beyond Kalaa said: “Señor Gar, it is Miss Samson.” She came into the room gracefully, as Jo Gar rose from the fan-backed chair. She was tall and slender, cool in thin white. Her face was oval and her eyes were blue. Her skin was very white.

  She said nervously: “Señor Gar, it is good of you to see me. They told me you were a very busy man. But I—”

  Something flickered slightly down from the ceiling; the lizard made dry sound as it zigzagged toward a wall. Baba crouched, leaped upward near an end of the desk. The girl shrank back, raised a white gloved hand to her lips, stifled a cry.

  The Siamese landed quietly on his feet as Jo Gar said sharply: “Baba! No, it is not good for you to do that.” He said in a softer tone, in Tagalog; “Omalis ka!”

  The cat moved instantly to a far corner of the room. Jo Gar’s thin lips parted in a smile; he gestured toward a wicker chair.

  “Please be seated. I am sorry. It is the time when our lizards shed their tails. Lizards are a delicacy to my Siamese.”

  He watched some of the fear go from her blue eyes as she took her gloved hand away from her lips. She smiled a little, moved toward the chair.

  “It’s—silly of me, Señor Gar. But I’m—”

  She seated herself, and Jo Gar eased his slim figure to the fan-backed chair. He ran browned fingers of his right hand over his gray hair, pushed a lacquer box of brown-paper cigarettes toward her.

  “You are nervous. The heat, perhaps, Miss Samson. And the cat startled you.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed, and the muscles around her mouth tightened. She said suddenly: “I’m damned nervous! I’ve been nervous for days now; ever since we sailed from Honolulu. I can’t stand it—not much longer. So I’ve”—she spread her hands in a swift gesture—”come to you.”

  The gray, slanted eyes of the detective smiled reassuringly into hers. “The manager of the Manoa Hotel is a good friend of mine. He has told me that you felt someone should know of a trouble—”

  She interrupted, speaking hurriedly, with rising excitement. “You know that my name is Joan Samson. My brother was Conrad Samson, he lived here in Manila. Perhaps you—”

  She paused, shivered slightly. The Siamese, in the far corner, lowered his black head, stretched. His nails made scraping sound on the waxed floor. Joan Samson bit her lower lip nervously.

  Jo Gar said: “Baba has been with me many years. Do not be nervous. You were speaking of your brother. I remember that he was the victim of a Chinese who ran amok in the old Walled City.”

  She said slowly and more steadily: “Yes, he was stabbed to death. That was a month ago. He loved to walk about, particularly in strange sections of cities. I haven’t seen him in two years. At first, when I was notified in San Francisco of his death, I didn’t think I would come here. His body was returned to the States, but before it arrived, I received a letter.”

  Her eyes widened suddenly; seemed to fix on something behind Jo Gar. She said in a husky voice: “That fan-backed chair you’re sitting in—”

  Jo Gar smiled. “It is a very fine one, Miss Samson. One of the finest ever made by the prisoners at Bilibid.”

  “Oh, my God!” Her voice was a whisper in the office.

  The detective said tonelessly: “It is not good for your mind and eyes to be filled with fear. My fan-backed chair is exceedingly comfortable.”

  Her eyes were on his. “He wrote they would—kill him—that way,” she said softly.

  Jo Gar touched match flare to a new brown-paper cigarette. “Your brother wrote he would be murdered?” He rolled the cigarette between his fingers.”

  She said: “Yes. The letter came after he had been knifed to death, supposedly by that insane Chinese. He wrote he had been threatened; that his enemy was an Oriental, and that he had been told he would die seated in a fan-backed chair.”

  The detective inhaled deeply. “He wrote you he had been warned he would die in a fan-backed chair. He did not die in a fan-backed chair. The Chinese who knifed him was found dead in a narrow street not far from the place where he accosted your brother. He had struck a child and an old woman, before he killed your brother. There were many knife wounds in the body of the Chinese. He was dead when the police found him. The medical report was insanity from drink—and death by his own hand.”

  The girl touched a handkerchief to her lips. “I didn’t want to come here, but somehow I felt that I should. There were only the two of us left. We weren’t close; saw each other only every two or three years. But I felt something was wrong. I felt that perhaps Conrad hadn’t just happened to cross an insane man’s path. The last letter, his fear—”

  She broke off and Jo Gar spoke quietly.

  “You have the letter?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said slowly.

  Faint surprise showed in the gray-blue eyes of the Manila detective. The girl said:

  “It was stolen from my cabin on the Tayo Maru, somewhere between Honolulu and Manila.”

  Jo Gar leaned forward, his eyes slitted on hers. His short-cropped gray hair gave age to the youth of his face; his lean left-hand fingers toyed with a jade paper cutter many years old.

  “You were traveling to Manila alone?”

  She shook her head. “A very good friend—Barbara Prentice—came with me. We travel together often. We both have sufficient income—” She paused.

  “That was only one thing—Conrad’s letter vanishing. Three days out of Manila I found this on the floor of our cabin.”

/>   She reached in her bag, handed him a slip of paper. On it were scrawled in pencil the words: “For you, it shall be death in the fan-backed chair! Do not leave the boat at Manila! The wise one leaves death alone as Conrad Samson did not.”

  Jo Gar said slowly, looking at the pencilled scrawl: “In what way did your brother not leave death alone?”

  The girl shrugged. “He collected carved wood. Now and then he sent me a piece. An Igorrote image; a Chinese box. Cases of his collection were returned to me. He often left Manila; went to small islands.”

  The detective nodded. “There was the theft of his letter, then this note found on your cabin floor. And then—”

  She said: “Then this—lying on the floor.”

  She placed on the surface of his desk a loop of cord. He lifted the loop, looked at the slipknot. When he spread the cord out, its length was about three feet.

  He said softly, “Hemp—island hemp, I should say.”

  Her voice was a whisper again, hoarse. She lifted her hands to her throat. “A strangler’s knot, Barbara said!”

  “When did she say that?” he asked.

  “When I first showed her the cord. She said she’d read about such a knot being used in the East. She begged me not to leave the boat at Manila. She won’t leave the hotel. She thinks—”

  He waited several seconds, then spoke. “What does she think, Miss Samson?”

  She straightened her slender body. Her voice was calmer. “Barbara thinks that Conrad did something terrible in his collecting. Desecrated some tribal grave, perhaps. Took something that had to do with death. He was warned to replace it but didn’t. So he was—killed. She read something like that, she says. He was to have been strangled in a fan-backed chair. But he was killed another way. Barbara thinks the Chinese who killed him wasn’t mad. He pretended to be, and then he was killed by others of the tribe so that he could never talk.”

  Jo Gar smiled faintly. “Your friend is an amateur detective. She reads and has an imagination. I am a professional detective with little imagination. There are tribes on the islands decorating burial grounds with wooden images and objects. There might be a tribe whose chief would be so incensed that he would warn a collector thief, then murder. The murder might be accomplished in such a way as your friend suggests. It is possible but highly improbable. …

  “Who might have known that you were coming to Manila to investigate your brother’s death? Who would have followed from the States, or met the boat at Honolulu? Have you any of the objects your brother collected with you?”

  She spoke softly. “Two—an Igorrote spoon and an old fan. It’s very old Chinese, Conrad wrote when he sent it. I haven’t any of the things that were in the boxes shipped after he died. As for the other part, Barbara says someone either in San Francisco or on the boat knew I was Conrad’s sister. He was assigned to frighten me. Someone feared I might prove Conrad was murdered. That person might be caught.”

  “She has been reading mystery tales of the Orient, I am afraid,” said Jo Gar.

  Joan Samson frowned at him, “Then why was his letter which stated he was afraid of being murdered stolen from me? Why did I find the note threatening me with death in a fan-backed chair? And why was the cord left in my cabin?”

  The detective spoke tonelessly: “I should like you to return to the Manoa Hotel. In fifteen minutes I must confer with a plantation owner whose rice weighs less when it reaches Manila than when it is put aboard the sampans miles away. When I have finished I shall come to the hotel. I should like to talk with your friend, and also I may see the two objects your brother sent you.”

  Her eyes held fear. “I am almost afraid to—” She paused, rose.

  Jo Gar looked up at her. “My assistant. Sidi Kalaa, will accompany you.”

  She seemed relieved. “You will wish a retaining fee, Señor Gar. I have—”

  He rose, shaking his head slowly. “Later, I think. Do not be afraid. But please remain in the hotel until I have seen you.” He clapped his hands and called, not too loudly: “Sidi Kalaa!”

  The girl went slowly toward the door to the outer office as footfalls sounded; the Siamese cat moved like a small, dark tiger toward Jo Gar and the fan-backed chair.

  It was almost six when Jo Gar left the office. Near the outer door he stooped and patted the Siamese. When he closed the door behind him, he locked it with the key he had used for almost a dozen years. He went slowly down wooden steps, one flight to the street. Walking half a square, he reached the Escolta, main business street of Manila, hailed a caleso driver and instructed the Filipino to drive to the Manoa Hotel.

  At the hotel he dismissed the caleso, went along a palm-fringed patio entrance into the foyer. At the desk he was requested to announce himself; he moved to a booth and was connected with Suite A-12. A masculine voice said:

  “This is Doctor Van Caan speaking.”

  Jo Gar narrowed his eyes. “It is Señor Jo Gar, doctor,” he replied. “Miss Samson is expecting me. I trust there is no illness—”

  The doctor said: “Oh, yes, Señor Gar. She spoke of you. Won’t you come up?”

  The detective hung up the receiver, left the phone booth. As he walked toward the wide stairway rising to the first floor the English manager of the hotel John Balding, hurried toward him. There was a worried expression on his thin face.

  He drew Jo Gar aside, “Señor Gar, I am glad you have arrived. This American—she is in some great trouble.”

  Jo Gar said softly, “Perhaps it is not so great as her imagination.” The hotel manager shook his head. “I sent her to you, and when she returned, about an hour ago, she entered her suite. Her companion, Miss Barbara Prentice, was not there. Miss Samson sent for me, and when we could not find her companion on the grounds of the hotel she became hysterical. I then called Doctor Van Caan. He found it necessary to give her a sleeping powder.”

  Jo Gar frowned. “I was on my way to the suite now. But if Miss Samson is sleeping—”

  The manager spread his hands. “Her screams were very disturbing. Doctor Van Caan, of course, is—”

  “A very fine physician,” the detective agreed. “No person about the hotel has seen Miss Prentice?”

  The manager shook his head. “Not since she was seen returning to her suite with Miss Samson after lunch. And Miss Samson stated incoherently that she had left Miss Prentice in the suite when she went to see you.”

  Jo Gar nodded. “I will go up and talk with the doctor,” he said.

  He smiled at the manager; walked slowly up the wide stairs. When he reached the door of the suite Doctor Van Can stood just inside. They bowed to each other, went into the living room.

  The doctor said: “She was highly hysterical. I was forced to give her a rather strong sleeping powder. It will be hours before she will regain consciousness. She spoke of you—and I regretted having to give her the powder, knowing she would be unable to talk to you. But she managed to tell Mr. Balding and myself that she felt something terrible had happened to her companion. Balding stated that he had sent Miss Samson to you, and he thought that perhaps she had told you of her fears and perhaps that would clear up the apparent mystery of her companion’s absence. Her condition was such that I was forced to give her the powder.”

  Jo Gar spoke softly. “May I see her?”

  The doctor led the way to a partially closed door, opened it. Joan Samson was lying on a divan, motionless. Her breathing was slow, regular. She was dressed in white pajamas.

  The Doctor said: “I got her to undress, then gave her the powder. She refused an injection, and it was a bit of a job to get her to take the powder. But ten minutes later she was sleeping like a baby. She said you were coming, so we didn’t call you.”

  Jo Gar nodded. They moved out of the room, closed the door behind them.

  “I trust nothing has happened to her companion,” said the doctor. He looked narrowly at Jo Gar. He was a short, thick-set man of Dutch descent. His reputation was fine; he had been some twenty-odd year
s in the Islands.

  “I shall make inquiries, doctor,” said Jo Gar. “It will be what hour, do you think, before she is able to talk?”

  The doctor shrugged. “I should say perhaps midnight. Perhaps later, it is a strong drug.”

  Jo Gar bowed to the doctor. “I shall remain awake and in the meantime do what I can about finding her companion. It is perhaps worry over things that seem more important than they really are. As for Miss Prentice she may have wished to walk about the town. It is cooler now.”

  The doctor said: “But Miss Samson stated that her friend was afraid and would never have left the hotel alone. She seemed to feel that her friend had been lured away—something like that.” The detective moved toward the door, looking at his wrist watch. It was six-thirty precisely. “I will do all I can,” he said. “And I will return here about eleven, unless I am called sooner.”

  The doctor nodded. “I will return in a few hours. She will be all right until then. But perhaps—”

  The detective interrupted. “Yes, I will have my assistant in the corridor outside until I return.”

  He smiled, bowed, left the suite. In the foyer he telephoned Sidi Kalaa at his home, gave him the number of the suite, told him to remain in the corridor outside, when he arrived.

  Balding came up to him, looking more worried than before. “Perhaps we should call the police.”

  Jo Gar shrugged. “There would be publicity,” he said. “Miss Samson is sleeping. Her friend is not around the hotel, but there are many places of interest. It is a new city, a new atmosphere. A walk, perhaps, despite the fact that Miss Samson feels her friend would not have left the hotel.”

  Balding said: “You think we should wait, then, for a while?”

  Jo Gar said tonelessly: “For a while, I think I will make inquiries.” He left the hotel. No more were the heat waves rising from the paving of the Luneta, where the Constabulary Band would play in a few hours, in the park between the Manoa Hotel and the Army and Navy Club. The sun was sinking over the Island of Cavite, over the Bay of Manila. There would be a fan-shaped sunset, blood-red, Jo Gar decided.