West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  Jo Gar smiled faintly. It amused him to note the application of “Señor” and “mister” to an Englishman. Arragon had Spanish blood in his veins, as did the Island detective. Forms of address were confusing.

  He stood near the door of Arragon’s office, facing the police officer.

  He said slowly:

  “Señor Craise had much time, before he arrived in Manila, to cool his anger. He is a shrewd man. Circumstantial evidence is all against him. I will be honest with you. I, too, saw him riding towards the Pasig. Ben Rannis came to me in fear of him. He had a reason for his fear. I was answered from the house—but Señor Craise could not have been two places at once. Much of our evidence rests on what we saw with our own eyes. Perhaps others saw him, too. Supposing then, with one twist he could destroy this evidence—”

  He paused. Arragon nodded his head and made clicking sounds with his tongue.

  “It is difficult,” he agreed. “I, too, believe he might have desired us to see him. And others to see him. He has been questioned, released. He has returned to his home. Silbino is strolling near the house. What next?”

  Jo Gar placed his pith helmet over his gray hair. He smiled almost cheerfully.

  “A poet once wrote: ‘There is mystery in the black-watered Pasig,’” he said. “I shall go towards the river, because the poet is accurate. It is so.”

  Juan Arragon fanned himself slowly with a stained palm leaf, and rolled his little eyes towards the ceiling of the office.

  “It is damn so!” he said softly.

  Manuelo’s was a shack not far from the river—perhaps a hundred feet up a narrow alley. It was frequented by coolies, half-breed Spaniards, low class Filipinos, and others of the river. Manuelo himself was a small, emaciated human. He had bad teeth and a scarred face. His fingers were long and bony.

  He repeated a good many times that the Americano Rannis had come in for a drink. It had been sake, he thought. He could not remember. Many rivermen had crowded his place. He said that Rannis had looked very sick. He had not stayed long. Manuelo was not sure of the time. Señor Rannis had needed air. He had gone away. No, Manuelo did not know Señor Craise. He had never come to the place.

  And that was about all. The Chinos on the junk had difficulty in talking with Gar. They were not sure where the body had struck the water. They pointed at the spot where Rannis’ body had been seen—the one who had gone overboard said that he thought Rannis had moved his arms a little. But not after he had reached the Americano.

  After two hours along the Pasig, Jo Gar sighed and muttered to himself.

  “It is always so with the river Pasig. So little seen or heard. And it was not dark, even. Supposing, now, another than Howard Craise had been in that carromatta?”

  It was a thought, but he did not care much about it. There would have to be a remarkable similarity of humans. He had been fooled. Juan Arragon had been fooled. No, he did not think that. They were both familiar with Craise.

  He called Arragon’s office from a little tobacco shop just off the Escolta. Juan’s voice held an excited note.

  “Come to me at once!” he urged. “Here in my office we have the murderer of Señor Rannis! He has confessed.”

  Ten minutes later Jo Gar entered the office. His eyes went from the khaki colored uniforms of the two Filipino police to the figure slumped over the desk. Juan Arragon said sharply:

  “Donnell—up!”

  The man raised his head, turned slightly, stared at the Island detective. Jo Gar sucked in his breath, muttered to himself.

  “Marie! But they—are alike!”

  This man’s hair was a dirtier blond color. His eyes were bloodshot, larger than Señor Craise’s. He was more stooped—and looked older. But there was similarity—great similarity. In the carromatta, seated erect, they could have been easily mistaken.

  “He is—one Donnell. A sort of beachcomber,” Arrogan said slowly, a trace of excitement in his voice. “My men found him cowering across the Pasig from the scene of the crime. We have the knife—he tossed it away as they closed in. He has confessed. It was a terrible scheme—he knew of his resemblance to Howard Craise.

  For months he has awaited the Señor’s return. He has threatened Señor Rannis, again and again. He got into the carromatta after siesta time today, drove towards Manuelo’s. He knew that Señor Rannis went there. When Rannis came from the place he followed him to the river, knifed him, dragged him across the junks—threw him overboard. He made his escape. Later, when we were bringing Señor Craise to trial, he planned to give himself up, tell what he had done for sufficient money. Many thousands of dollars. He would force Señor Craise to pay—and then he intended to get away with the money. And not to confess. A tremendous scheme!”

  The man who resembled Howard Craise dropped his head in his arms. He cried out hoarsely:

  “Let me go—into the Bay! The sharks—”

  He had a broken, husky voice. His body looked thinner than Craise’s. Collapsed across Juan Arragon’s desk he was a pitiful figure of a beaten man.

  “Do they not look alike?” Arrogan asked grimly.

  “You see, after the murder his nerve deserted him. He went to pieces. Is it not fortunate we were careful with Señor Craise? You see he did speak with you over the telephone.

  Jo Gar nodded his head slowly. The phone bell rang. Arragon answered it. He smiled. His white teeth showed.

  “I will come soon to your home, Señor Craise,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I have news of importance. I will be there within the half hour.”

  He hung up the receiver, smiled faintly at Jo Gar.

  “It was Señor Craise—asking for news,” he said. His eyes fell on the collapsed figure. He spoke sharply to the Filipinos, telling them to take him to a cell.

  They half dragged the man to the door. Jo Gar stood aside, frowning. Arragon was smiling broadly. He rubbed his browned hands together. There was the sound of clattering as the Filipinos dragged the prisoner down the narrow stairs that led to the corridor through which they would walk to the cells.

  “It is well we were not too hasty with Señor—”

  Arragon’s voice died. A strangled scream sounded from below. There was a heavy thud—the sound of a body falling. Jo Gar jumped towards the door. The wooden stairs had a landing half way down—the remaining steps were slanted in the opposite direction, hidden from his sight. There was a low groan—another crash of a body going down. He could hear heavy breathing as he started down the stairs, Arragon at his heels. On the landing they turned, stared down.

  One Filipino was on his knees, holding his head with both hands. Red stained the fingers. The other was lying motionless against the corridor wall, face downward. The screened door opening on the alley just off the Escolta.

  The caleso, pulled by a sturdy horse, moved swiftly towards the Bay. It was a dark night; there was no moon. A hot breeze blew in from the direction of Cavite. The Luneta, flanked by the Manila Hotel and the Army and Navy Club, was behind now.

  Jo Gar sat in the open carriage and fingered the Army Colt. His lips were pressed tightly together; he was frowning with narrowed eyes. The police search was being carried out along the big boat waterfront, not along the Pasig. Juan Arragon was thinking of the prisoner’s word—“Let me go—into the Bay. The sharks—”

  A broken man—a prisoner who had looked so much like an important citizen of Manila, had suddenly, savagely twisted himself from the grip of the two Filipinos supporting him along the corridor. With one blow he had knocked one Filipino unconscious. As the other had reached for his short club the prisoner had battered him against the wall of the corridor, had jerked the club from his grip—and had struck him heavily over the head with it. Then he had made his escape. He had possessed the strength of a madman, truly.

  The caleso driver pulled up the horse, twisted his brown face. Jo Gar paid the man, slipped from the carriage, moved swiftly towards the Bay. He kept close to an old stone wall on his right.

  There
were lights in the Craise house on the Bay. But the Island detective did not enter through the scrolled iron gate. He went through a narrow passage in the wall, moved through the heavy, tropical growth of the garden.

  He circled the big house at the rear, reached the Bay side. Stars gave faint light to the water. In the distance he heard the muffled exhaust of a power boat. He halted, listened. The boat was going away—but it was not so far distant. He smiled grimly, moved more rapidly around the house. And then, crouched low and moving swiftly, he saw the figure that had left the sand behind and was coming towards the growth near the house.

  Jo Gar waited, the Colt gripped in his right hand fingers. He could see the figure now—the man was ten feet from him. The Island detective spoke quietly, sharply:

  “Up—Donnell!”

  The figure stiffened. Gar heard the quick intake of breath. And then the man leaped towards him.

  Jo Gar stepped to one side. He struck outward and downward with the Colt. It battered heavily against the attacker’s head, just over the left ear. The man dropped—rolled over on his back. He was motionless.

  The Island detective drew a deep breath. He shifted the weapon, got a small flashlight from his pocket. When he looked down upon the figure there was a hard smile in his blue-gray eyes.

  “Like many tremendous schemes, Señor Craise,” he said very slowly, “it has failed.”

  Jo Gar let his eyes move from the figure of Juan Arragon to that of Arnold Carlysle. He was smiling cheerfully in spite of the heat in the police head’s office.

  “Señor Craise was always shrewd, cold,” he said slowly. “He was not one to forget that Ben Rannis had struck his brother down. I do not believe too much in the similarity of humans. But he did fool me, in Juan’s office. Belladonna to enlarge the eye pupils, dirt-matted hair, no erectness like that of himself. And the changed voice. Neither Juan nor myself knew him too well, you see. And he’d been away for months. This English friend of his who has confessed to imitating Craise’s voice—that was a clever touch. Calling up, pretending it was Craise—with Craise passing as a beachcomber, right in Juan’s office at the time. And it was this Condon who answered my call to the house, of course.”

  Juan Arragon nodded his head slowly. “Had Craise got back to his house we would have been beaten,” he said. “He could have received me, immaculately attired. He would have been clean, changed. In a dark room I would not have noticed his eyes. But of course, after the escape, he realized I would be busy—and that would give him more time.”

  Jo Gar nodded. “He murdered Rannis, just as he as Donnell told us. He got back to the house from the murder in time to receive me. Your Filipino guard was not too good, Juan, though it is a large place for one man to watch. Craise went out again, after you released him. There was sufficient time. He went to the Pasig, crouched along the bank—and when your men found him he threw the knife away. Said he was Donnell—and looked—a beachcomber. After his escape he got to the big boat piers where he hid and waited. After dark Condon met him in a power boat. He brought him to the Bay house.”

  Arnold Carlysle smiled faintly. “But for you Señor Gar, we would have assumed that a man resembling Craise had tried a pretty plan and had failed. And had then preferred drowning—and the sharks.”

  Jo Gar said nothing. He wondered if Arnold Carlysle would not have preferred it that way. But it was not for him to say.

  “I was suspicious,” he said slowly. “Before I knew Rannis had been murdered, when I told Craise that—he was very startled. I was almost too soon for him. He hadn’t expected it this fast. And then, very suddenly, he was too cool. He was thinking too much of the future, of the circumstantial evidence that he knew he could beat.”

  Arragon shrugged. “Death in the Pasig,” he said slowly, “is always difficult.” He smiled at Jo. “Not being a fool, I congratulate you.”

  Jo Gar fanned himself slowly with his pith helmet. He smiled in return.

  “Perhaps I had the better opportunity,” he said quietly. “But not being too modest—I am pleased. Señor Craise is not an inferior actor.” Carlysle frowned down at the polished floor of his office. Juan Arragon nodded agreement. Jo Gar closed his eyes, stopped fanning his browned face, and drowsed. He suddenly felt very weary.

  Red Hemp

  The Island Detective hunts for a girl whom a man wants found—so that “he may beat her. …”

  Vicente Carejo might have been an immaculate Island Englishman, so far as his dress was concerned. From his pith helmet to his white shoes he was spotless. But the betel-nut that he chewed betrayed him. And when his lips parted a little too much there was the red that stained his teeth and gums. He had a fat face and body; his darkish eyes held no expression. He said in a thick voice:

  “My girl has left me. I wish her found, so that I may beat her.”

  Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped, blue-gray eyes half closed. The arms of the Island detective were folded; his body was relaxed.

  “There are the police,” he suggested. “On the Escolta is the Missing Persons Department.”

  Carejo made a grunting sound without parting his thick lips. “Manila police are fools,” he said. “You are not a fool. I have come to you. It is that pig of an American—that renegade Parker. But I do not seek trouble. It is my daughter I want.”

  The Island detective nodded. “So you may beat her,” he suggested quietly.

  Carejo showed his red-stained teeth in a nasty smile. He nodded his head.

  “This Parker—he is a cheap gambler,” he said slowly. “He bets on the cockfights, and when he loses he does not always pay. My girl—she is too good for him.”

  Jo Gar rolled a thin cigarette between his short, browned fingers. He regarded the single lizard crawling upside-down across the ceiling of his tiny office above Wong Ling’s place, on the Escolta. He said quietly:

  “When did she go away—and how?”

  Carejo swore through tight-pressed lips. He shrugged his shoulders.

  “She was to go to Baguio this morning. She slept in the house. But she did not appear at the breakfast table. She has taken nothing with her—no clothes. A few dollars, perhaps. I have searched the city—she is not to be found. Nor is the American, Parker. I have come to you.”

  The Island detective frowned. “Manila is not a big city, neither is it small,” he mused aloud. “It is Saturday evening—there will be cockfights tomorrow. You have a picture of your girl?”

  Carejo reached into a pocket of his white duck suit, produced a picture. It was a clear snapshot; it showed a dark-haired, slender girl of about eighteen. She was rather pretty, in the way of the Islands, which was not a lasting way. She had large eyes and a rather thin face. “Her name is Carmen—she is a devil,” Carejo said. “A bamboo stick does not frighten her.”

  Jo Gar smiled. “Love is not annoyed by beatings,” he philosophized. “I think I have seen this American, this Parker. A tall, blond fellow, with blue eyes. And you say he is a renegade?”

  Carejo shrugged his broad shoulders. He narrowed his eyes on Jo Gar’s.

  “He has been in Manila only a few months. He came over from Nagasaki with a few prize cocks—but the birds did not win much here. Then he was involved in some cheating affair, at the Casa Club. He is no good.”

  The Island detective tapped cigarette ash to the polished floor of his office. He said in an apologetic voice:

  “It may be difficult. I require a retainer—”

  Carejo placed five crisp bills on the wicker table beside his fan-backed chair.

  “You know where I reside,” he said. “You have Carmen’s picture. You know something of this Parker, and you can easily learn more. But I would like it not made public. How will you go about it?”

  Jo Gar reached for a palm-leaf fan, waved heated air against the brown skin of his face. He smiled pleasantly “That I do not know,” he said. “But I shall walk about a bit. Perhaps I shall ask a few questions.”

  Carejo grunted. “I’ve wa
lked about and I’ve asked questions,” he muttered.

  The Island detective nodded. He said cheerfully:

  “Perhaps you have not walked in the right places, nor asked the correct questions.”

  Vincente Carejo rose. He muttered something that Jo Gar did not catch. Then he said, more clearly:

  “I want my girl back!”

  Jo Gar rose and bowed a little. After Carejo had departed the Island detective seated himself in the more comfortable fan-backed chair and half closed his eyes.

  “He is half Spanish, half Filipino,” he murmured. “It is a strange way he has—wanting his daughter back, so that he may beat her. Another of his type would use a knife on this Parker. But this Carejo—”

  Jo Gar let his murmur trail away, closed his eyes. It was as though he were sleeping in the evening heat. But he wasn’t sleeping. He was thinking of certain questions he would ask—and certain Manila streets he would walk. A beginning was always important.

  At Barres’ curio store, on the Calle Avida, he was told that the Americano Parker had been present an hour ago. It had taken Jo Gar three hours to come upon the Barres’ store; the information was welcome. In the rear, down five stone steps, was a fair-sized cellar. Parker had been drinking. He had taken three cups of saké. He had been drinking, but he had not been drunk. He had not stated his destination, but had bragged much about Diablo, the cock he was fighting tomorrow at the Casa Club.

  Jo Gar smiled and talked about other things. There had been an earthquake in Mindoro, the next island south of Luzon; some of Barres relatives were very frightened. A Malay sailor had run amuck along the Luneta, several hours ago. He had knifed a wealthy Chinese by the name of Lin. There would soon be some of the nuts in from China—the ones Jo Gar liked so well.

  The Island detective lingered for a half hour or so. It was not yet ten o’clock; he hailed a caleso with a sturdy-looking horse, instructed the Filipino driver to take him to the Casa Club. The driver grinned, showing fine, white teeth. Jo Gar settled back on the cushion of the two-wheeled conveyance. It was in his mind that if Parker had taken several drinks, and had bragged about his fighting-cock Diablo, the American might go to the Casa Club. The entries were often kept near the pits, for several days before the Sunday fights.