West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  Colonel Dunbar stared at Jo Gar.

  “Burker!” he muttered. “And I thought he was dumb—talking about going—‘up front’—after being aboard three weeks!”

  Jo Gar smiled. “That struck me as peculiar, when you told me about it, Colonel,” he stated. “So I looked over his service records. He was a seaman for eight years, before he entered the army, some two years ago.”

  The colonel wiped his face. He grunted. Major Jones had his eyes on the cabin ceiling.

  “He overdid it a bit,” Jo stated quietly. “He wanted to appear very stupid, you see. But he wasn’t stupid. He had an alert mind. I talked with him and referred to Major Jones as Captain Jones. He corrected me instantly. A stupid man would very likely not have noted my mistake. He wanted you to think that he knew very little about a ship, Colonel.”

  “But why—did he murder Captain Lintwell?” Colonel Dunbar muttered.

  Jo Gar shook his head. “He didn’t murder Lintwell,” he stated.

  “You misunderstood me, Colonel. I merely said that Burker was confined under guard. He was the accomplice.”

  The commanding officer was stiff in his chair now. Jo Gar lighted his cigarette, inhaled.

  “Your orderly delivered a false message to Captain Lintwell—a verbal message. It was to the effect that you wanted him at the foot of the starboard companionway, on Deck C. The transport was passing close to the cliffs at that moment—at the moment Burker delivered the message. She was nearing the Marine post—and there was a flag to be dipped, and to be saluted by the transport’s whistle. It is a heavy whistle, as you no doubt know.

  “Captain Lintwell was shot through the back of the head, at close range, as he turned his back on the killer. He was shot as the whistle boomed in salute—and the men were all at the rails. Deck C, near the spot where Lintwell was killed, is closed in except for a small space. No one was near—no one but the murderer. Burker was not present, but he was on the deck above. He heard the shot, but it was so faint that even the men beside him missed it. They were all cheering, you see.”

  The colonel swore softly. His eyes were narrowed now. Major Jones arose. His face was white, set grimly.

  “The motive was revenge,” Jo said slowly. “Burker’s job was to get a Colt without any record being made of it, and to deliver a message at the right time. He was paid well for it. He did both jobs. The murderer was—”

  He stopped. The colonel’s eyes were staring into his. Jo Gar did not look away from the colonel. Major Jones stepped past him—his shadow was for a second in the open doorway. The colonel looked up, startled.

  His eyes were staring out towards the deck now, towards the rail.

  Suddenly he jerked from the chair, crying hoarsely. “Jones—stop!”

  Jo Gar did not turn, did not look towards the deck. The muscles of his mouth twitched a little. He heard the cry from somewhere above.

  “Man overboard!”

  Seconds passed. Ship’s bells jangled. The engines shuddered. Jo Gar got up, walked out on the deck. He went to the rail, stared towards the stern. The transport was swinging wide now. He could see the fins. The water was filled with sharks.

  After a while the fins vanished from sight. The transport was coming around in a wide circle. On the bridge ship’s officers were using glasses. The colonel turned towards Jo, his face white, twisted.

  “It was—Major Jones?” he managed thickly.

  Jo Gar nodded. His face was sober, but his voice was still toneless. “A year ago—his wife killed herself,” he reminded. “You know of that, of course. I got it from Major Vane. It happened up in Alaska. She was there on a visit to some friends—army friends. I looked up Captain Lintwell’s service record—you gave me permission to examine all the men’s records, you remember, Colonel. I discovered that Lintwell was in Nome at the same time that Mrs. Jones was there. He had a way with women, you see.”

  The colonel nodded; he looked very tired, much older. Jo Gar spoke on:

  “I asked Captain Hungerford about the steam salute of the Marine post flag. He told me that Major Jones had seemed very interested about that. He had wanted to know how long after the transport started to move—it would take to reach the point of salute. Hungerford had told him not thinking much about it. I worked over Burker—his nerves—were breaking. He’d reached a point where he dreaded the thought of hearing the transport’s whistle again. Finally, I bluffed—told him that Major Jones was already under arrest, charged with murder. And Burker broke down—he told the truth.”

  Death in the Pasig

  The Island Detective takes up a trail of justice and vengeance. …

  The ceiling fans stirred hot air and made faint creaking sounds as they turned slowly. Shrill, native voices reached the café from the blue-gray eyes on the tall glass of lemonade he was sipping at intervals. It was about as hot as he had ever remembered! Baguio would be better because of the altitude. Or perhaps an inter-Island trip would help.

  He raised his eyes to the bulk of Ben Rannis, noted that the manager of the Manila Hotel was pale, very pale. As Rannis stood near the screened doors and searched the café with his dark eyes, Jo Gar raised his right hand slowly and moved it from side to side. It was a languid motion—that of one who has spent many years in the tropics and has learned to conserve energy.

  Rannis saw him, moved swiftly towards the table. He weighed more than two hundred; he was a powerful man. There wasn’t much stomach, but he had broad shoulders and a great chest. He was several inches over six feet. Perspiration streaked his heavy face; he pulled a chair from the table, set it down closer to the one Jo Gar occupied.

  “You appear ill—and you hurry too much. What is it?”

  The Island detective spoke almost tonelessly. His English was precise. He was small in size, and his gray hair contrasted his brown, young face strangely. His slightly almond-shaped eyes were only half opened.

  Rannis muttered something that sounded like a curse. He was breathing hard; it was almost as though he had been running along the Escolta.

  “The Cleyo Maru’s in,” he said in his husky voice. “Got in two hours ago. Craise was aboard. He sent me a message. It was given to me over the phone by a Filipino who acted damned cheerful about it. He said ‘Meester Craise has arrived. He wishes me to tell you that information has come to him. You are in great danger. It is better to leave the city at once.’ Then he hung up.”

  Jo Gar frowned. “It was Craise’s brother you killed, two months ago, I think,” he said steadily.

  Rannis groaned. “You know damned well it was, Jo,” he replied. “And you know damned well Howard Craise is out to get me for it. One way or another. And it was an accident.”

  The Island detective shrugged his shoulders slightly. He smiled with his thin lips.

  “You had been drinking,” he reminded. “John Craise was not strong. You struck him very hard.”

  “He’d been drinking, too. He called me a nasty name. That all came out at the trial. Howard Craise knows all that, even if he was in England at the time.”

  Jo Gar sipped more of his lemonade. He turned his browned face slightly away from the hotel manager.

  “That is so,” he agreed. “And now he is not in England. He is in Manila. You have been called and told your life is endangered. Recently you have killed John Craise and have been acquitted of the charge of murder.”

  The hotel manager turned narrowed eyes towards Gar’s. He said hoarsely:

  “He’ll kill me, Jo. I can’t shoot. I want you to go to him, tell him how it was. You’d just come in on that transport—you worked the case. He knows you—he’ll believe you.”

  The Island detective smiled with faint mockery in his eyes.

  “You did not intend to murder his brother,” he said slowly, tonelessly. “I feel certain of that.”

  Ben Rannis shoved back his chair and rose. His voice was shaken, uncertain. But he kept it fairly low.

  “He’s at his brother’s place—fix it up, Jo. He
’ll get brooding—in this damned heat—”

  His voice broke. Fear was gripping the big man, and Jo Gar hated to see fear in a man’s eyes. He said slowly:

  “I will go to him. Where will you go?”

  Rannis swore. “Along the river—got to get a drink. Keep away from the hotel until you see him. The heat’ll get him thinking—”

  He turned, went slowly from the soft drink café. His fingers were twitching at his sides. Jo Gar shook his head very slowly. He finished his iced lemonade. His slitted eyes watched Rannis go through the screened doors, merge with the crowd on the Escolta; Filipinos, Chinese, Japanese, English, Spaniards—and a scattering of Americans, mostly Army men.

  Jo Gar sighed. He was aware of the fact, now made definite, that Benjamin Rannis was a coward. He was afraid of death, and yet he had killed. And the Island detective had given him a promise.

  There was difficulty in getting the connection, nothing was done hurriedly in the Islands. A Chinese servant answered the phone. He was not sure that his master would speak with Señor Gar. His master was sleeping. Yes, he knew it was past siesta hours, but his master was very weary. He would see about the matter.

  Jo Gar held the receiver, waited. Several minutes passed. Then a voice came to him. It possessed a slightly English accent. It was a heavy-toned voice.

  “Are you there? Howard Craise speaking.” The Island detective said slowly:

  “It is Señor Gar. You perhaps remember me in matters of the Island police. I would like to come to you, talk with you. It is the matter of your brother’s death.”

  He paused. There was silence at the other end. Then the voice sounded again. It seemed colder in tone.

  “At six, say? Here, at the house?”

  Jo Gar watched a carromatta pass, in the street. The pony was white.

  He said:

  “At six, thank you. I will arrive.”

  He heard the click of the receiver at the other end. The Craise house was beyond the Walled City, perhaps a mile along the Bay. It was a fine old place. Spanish, built many years ago. The Craise brothers owned plantations, not on Luzon but further south.

  The Island detective left the café. It was almost five, but the heat was still very severe. He turned off the Escolta, moved down a narrow, winding street towards the Pasig. Behind him there was the clatter of a pony’s hoofs. A native voice shrilled at the animal, urging greater speed. Jo Gar stepped into an evil-smelling doorway, turned. The carromatta passed close to the broken curbing; he saw the driver clearly. Back of the little seat, in the interior of the small, two-wheeled carriage, he saw another figure. Then the carromatta was beyond him, going rapidly towards the river Pasig.

  Jo Gar stepped from the doorway, looked for another conveyance. There was none in sight. He sighed heavily. One could not answer a telephone three miles from the Escolta—and yet arrive on a narrow street just off the Escolta two minutes later. For that reason Jo Gar was very anxious to keep track of the carromatta which had just passed him, bearing as a passenger Howard Craise.

  In five minutes he obtained a carromatta, gave the driver instructions. There was no sign of the two-wheeled conveyance in which he had seen Howard Craise. After a half hour tour of the narrow streets running towards the Pasig from the Escolta, Jo Gar descended and paid the driver. It was slightly cooler; he would sip another iced drink, hire another carromatta and go out to the Craise house. Filipinos could gossip; he did not wish to give his last driver the opportunity to talk—not with some servant in the vicinity of the Craise home.

  He had his drink, hailed a native driving a good sized pony, and was driven at fair speed to the Craise house on the Bay. The Island of Cavite could be plainly seen; Jo stood on the wide porch and frowned at it. When the Chinese servant opened the door, however, he was smiling.

  He waited less than five minutes in a large room that was almost cool. Howard Craise came downstairs rather noisily; he was medium in size with blond hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in a suit of white duck, but he did not look so cool.

  “I awakened you?” The Island detective smiled at him.

  Craise shook his head. He seemed a little nervous. He had a peculiar way of blinking his eyes, as though he were in bright sunlight rather than in a dark room.

  “I was reading—lying around and reading,” he said. “Good to be ashore, we had a rough passage.”

  Jo Gar nodded. “I will arrive directly at the object of my call,” he said. “Mister Benjamin Rannis has been murdered.”

  He watched Craise’s body jerk—watched the right hand come upward, then relax. He saw the blue eyes widen, narrow again. And then Howard Craise spoke:

  “But it’s only been—”

  He checked himself. The Island detective nodded, smiling pleasantly.

  “A very short time since you had your Filipino boy call and threaten him,” he finished. “That is true.”

  Craise was staring at him. His fists clenched; there was sudden anger in his eyes. He spoke in a hard tone:

  “You’re accusing me of killing Rannis? You mean to tell me—”

  Jo Gar looked hurt. He moved his head from side to side, slowly. “He was murdered while you were sleeping, or reading,” he pointed out. “But it was unwise of you to have your servant threaten him. He has probably told several people of the matter.”

  Howard Craise wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He smiled nastily.

  “Of course no servant of mine called him and threatened him. That’s absurd. If it’s circumstantial evidence you are counting on—”

  He checked himself again. Rage was in his eyes. Jo Gar bowed slightly.

  “I admire the way you think, Señor,” he said quietly. “Circumstantial evidence is quite unsatisfactory—in the Islands, of course. I merely wanted to inform you—”

  The bell tinkled. Silently the Chinese servant went to the door. He opened it, stepped aside. Juan Arragon, of the City police, his fat face a brown mask, came toward them. He nodded towards Jo Gar, bowed to Howard Craise.

  “Will you be so kind as to come with me to the City?” he asked. “We have just taken the body of Mister Benjamin Rannis from the Pasig River. He is dead, perhaps murdered. You are, implicated.

  My superiors are anxious that you—”

  Craise smiled with his lips. “Frame-up, eh?” he muttered. “Of course I’ll come—Wong, my helmet!”

  He moved towards the square reception hall. Juan Arragon let his eyes meet Jo Gar’s.

  “You do not seem surprised—to learn of Mister Rannis’ death,” he said slowly.

  Jo Gar smiled. “I had just informed Señor Craise accordingly,” he said simply.

  He watched Arragon’s eyes narrow in surprise. The Manila police officer was no fool. He said very quietly:

  “I came here very rapidly. In a machine. The body was just discovered. Yet you already knew?”

  Jo Gar said slowly: “Why did you come here so quickly?”

  The fat-faced officer smiled a little. His voice was very smooth as he replied:

  “There was certain evidence.”

  The Island detective nodded. “That was my reason for coming here without knowing that Señor Rannis had been murdered,” he said very slowly. “There was certain evidence.”

  Jo Gar sat in the fan-backed, wicker chair, made by prisoners in Bilibid, and smiled faintly into the eyes of Juan Arragon. It was much cooler—tropical night had dropped over Manila. He spoke in a soft, steady tone.

  “Señor Rannis was a coward, plainly. He did, however, give me work at times. I had promised to help him. He came to me in the café, afraid of Howard Craise. He had reason to fear the brother of the man he had struck down so hard that his fist caused death. I agreed to intercede. I called the Craise house, and I was answered by a servant who informed me he did not like to disturb his master. That was an untruth, you say. You tell me that Howard Craise did not speak to me at the time I mention—that you saw him in a carromatta only a few minutes later, driving toward
s the Pasig.”

  The Manila police officer nodded, showed white teeth in a smile. “Perhaps you saw him, also,” he said softly. “You went to his home, informed him that Señor Rannis had been murdered, before you knew that. There was a reason. You are clever, yes?”

  Jo Gar chuckled. “We are both clever,” he qualified. “And so is Howard Craise.”

  Juan Arragon shrugged his shoulders. “I do not see in what manner,” he said. “He has a servant threaten a man he is bound to hate. He has another talk over the telephone for him. And he allows both you and me to see him riding towards the spot where the body of the man he threatened is dragged from the Pasig. Is that clever?”

  The Island detective gestured with his hands spreading out, palms up.

  “He allows us both to see him, you say,” he observed slowly. “Perhaps it is very, very clever!”

  He rose slowly, reached for his pith helmet. Arragon was watching him curiously. They were friends of old. Five years ago, before he had become a private investigator, Jo Gar had worked on the Manila police force.

  “We are handling Mister Craise with what the Americans call the gloves,” Arragon said slowly. “He is friendly with many important personages. He dines at Señor Carlysle’s home. We must be careful, but sincere.”

  Jo Gar nodded. Arnold Carlysle was the American who headed the police force, an organization combining Americans and Filipinos. There were times when the solution of crime, in Manila, was a delicate affair.

  “There were two knife wounds,” Arragon went on. “One in the back, almost between the shoulder blades. The other just over the heart. Chinos on the junk near the shore heard the splash. One of them went overboard for the body. Mister Rannis had taken drinks at Manuelo’s—two or three. He had left, saying he was much in need of air. There are many river boats, junks and sampans, anchored side by side within a square of Manuelo’s. I feel that Mister Craise could have reached the junk near which the splash was heard within three minutes after the time I saw him riding in the carromatta. I feel that murder was committed shortly after these three minutes. Señor Craise possessed a motive.”