West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  He listened to the putt-putt of the official launch as it neared the water spot above which the body rocked and swung in the breeze. He recognized the figure of Lieutenant Juan Arragon; he smiled and waved a hand. Juan waved back.

  Jo Gar said in his toneless voice, to himself:

  “The launch deck is only a few feet above the water—they reach the body with ease. If it is suicide the neck has surely been broken. Such a drop from the bridge. Certainly thirty feet or more.”

  A voice from behind him said in the tone of an American: “What is it, Señor Gar? Someone fall in?”

  Jo Gar watched the slash of the knife—saw the body collapse into the arms of several native police, standing close to Juan Arragon on the launch deck. He straightened, turned and faced Dean Price. He said slowly:

  “The body did not reach the water, Mr. Price. See—there is one end of the rope.”

  He pointed towards the rail support, around which the rope was wound and knotted. Price stared down at it. He was a tall, lean man of about forty-five. His slicker seemed to cling to his thin body. He had a sharp, hatchet-like face. Tropic sun had burned the skin almost black. His blue, watery eyes came up and met Jo Gar’s squinted ones.

  “Suicide, eh?” he muttered, and looked over the rail. The Island detective smiled. He said slowly:

  “A strange way to suicide, Mr. Price. And yet, a broken neck is very certain.”

  Dean Price straightened; he smiled with his thin lips. He said grimly:

  “They’ve cut him down. White or—”

  The American checked himself; his eyes held a confused expression.

  Jo Gar said quietly, smiling a little:

  “Not brown like myself, Mr. Price. White—like yourself.”

  Price reached for a cigar and offered one to the Island detective. Jo shook his head. Price spoke in embarrassment: “I meant no offense, Señor Gar.”

  Jo nodded. “It is all very well,” he replied tonelessly. “I imagine the man is dead, just as both of us will be some day.”

  Price frowned. He said in a slightly aggressive tone: “Well, it was his doing, anyway.”

  Jo Gar looked down at the knotted rope and nodded very slowly. “It is a possibility,” he said. “Perhaps you are right.”

  She was small and dainty in appearance; her skin was very white. Her hair was almost a golden color, and her blue eyes were filled with tears as she spoke. She had a thin voice, but it was steady in tone.

  “He did not kill himself, I know that, Señor Gar. If the police think so—they are fools. It was not suicide.”

  Jo Gar leaned back in his chair and looked at the fly-specked wall. He smiled. He did not speak, and the girl, after a few seconds of silence, went on.

  “He was in good spirits. We had just received a contract to tour through the bigger cities of the Orient—and we were going to Australia. It was a nice booking, one of the few made in Manila. He was—murdered—oh, I know he was—”

  Her voice broke. Jo Gar leaned forward in the chair and spoke quietly:

  “You were married to him?”

  She nodded. “Ten days ago, very quietly. We came here from England together, you see. On the same boat. I work on the wire—but my act wasn’t going well. We met on the boat, and talked a great deal—talked theatrical business, I mean. After about ten days—I guess we were in love. We talked of working together, doing a double—”

  Her voice broke again. Jo Gar said very gently.

  “Gary Landon—he was a very strong man. Lieutenant Arragon has told me of some clippings he found in your rooms. He was an acrobat?”

  The girl shook her head. “He was a crack shot,” she said. “But he was strong—very strong. He closed his act by going up a—” She stopped, covered her white face with her fingers. Her body trembled.

  The Island detective said softly:

  “I know how difficult it is, Mrs. Landon. But it is necessary, too.

  He went up a rope, hand over hand?”

  She took her hands away from her face. She said shakenly:

  “Yes—and then he fired at the targets as he swung in the air, holding to the rope by one hand. It was a good finish for an act.”

  Jo Gar nodded. He said in a voice that held little expression: “He had enemies?”

  She shook her head. “Everyone liked Gary,” she said quietly. “He hadn’t an enemy.”

  Jo Gar frowned up at the ceiling of his tiny office. The girl dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She said:

  “We lived at the Orient Hotel. We were always together. We had started to pack. Gary left our room at about ten o’clock last night. He went out to get some special cigars he always smoked. He said he might take a little walk, perhaps to the Luneta, or along the Bay. I was tired and went to bed. I woke at about one; Gary hadn’t returned. I was worried. At three I called the police. I called every hour after that, until just after dawn. Then they found—”

  She checked herself. Jo Gar leaned forward and touched her trembling hands with his own browned ones. He said: “You hadn’t quarreled?”

  She shook her head. “Never,” she said emphatically. “He kissed me, just before he left the hotel—”

  The Island detective smiled a little. He got up and stood looking down on the narrow alley that ran between the Pasig and the Escolta. It was growing dark; the rain had ceased.

  “He was a strong man,” he said. “He could have fastened the rope to the railing, tossed the length over the bridge. He could have gone down in the darkness, hand over hand.”

  He stopped. The girl said. “He didn’t. I know he didn’t. Why would he?”

  Jo Gar shrugged. “He could have used a boat—there was a slip knot at the lower end of the rope. The boat could have gone on. But finding that dangling rope, in the darkness—”

  The girl said dully: “But why? Why would Gary do such a thing? He didn’t. He was lowered from the bridge. He was unconscious. It was—murder.”

  Jo Gar turned towards the door of the office, which was closed.

  There was a soft knock. He said: “Come in, Juan.”

  The girl rose. She looked at Lieutenant Arragon once, then turned her eyes away. She said to Jo Gar:

  “I haven’t much money. But Gary Landon didn’t kill himself. That’s a reflection on him—and on me. I won’t have it that way. I’ll pay you as much as I can. Will you help me?”

  The Island detective took her hands in his. He said simply:

  “I do not work always for money. I will surely try to help you.” She smiled through her tears.

  “I am going to the Orient Hotel,” she said. “If you wish to see me—I’ll be there.”

  Jo Gar went to the door of the office with her. Juan Arragon, stepping to one side, said very slowly:

  “The verdict of the coroner’s jury is suicide, I have just been told. There is evidence of no violence other than strangulation. Mr. Landon was an expert with rope. Perhaps, fearing that he would fight, after the rope tightened, he made certain that the bridge was far above. Weakened from the effort of getting down, combined with the first strangulation he believed it would be impossible for him to save himself. Perhaps he did not try to do that, but he thought of it. That is my theory. The coroner’s verdict is a good one.”

  The girl said very softly: “It was murder. You are wrong.”

  She went into the hall, moved slowly down the wooden steps towards the alley. Jo Gar turned back into the office, closed the door. Juan Arragon said grimly:

  “You think we’re wrong, again, Jo?”

  The Island detective shrugged. He stood near the window and listened to the strange sounds of Manila traffic—the horns of automobiles, the shrilling voices of caleso and carromatta drivers, the clatter of the ponies’ shoes against the street surfaces. And there were river sounds, too. From the Bay the deep-toned note of an ocean boat’s whistle. He said after a few seconds:

  “I am not satisfied. The girl says her husband was happy. They were booked for theat
rical work and were leaving soon. He had no enemies. His neck was not broken; there were no bruises, wounds. It was a strange way to die, Juan.”

  The lieutenant of Manila police smiled with his dark eyes. He said: “Not for one who is strong—who can climb a rope. He wanted enough of it. He wanted to be sure instinct for life would not defeat him. He did not want to have an easy climb to safety.”

  Jo Gar said: “There are many ways of killing oneself without using rope. He was also an expert shot.”

  Juan smiled. “I suggested you to his widow, when it was clear she was not satisfied with our investigation today. I think perhaps they had quarreled—we have traced the rope. It was bought from Manuel Locracia’s store. Forty feet of it. Manuel’s son sold it to Landon. He remembered the man because the boy had seen his act at the Spanish Theatre, a few days ago. Landon stated, he needed the rope for practice. He specified that it must be very strong.”

  Jo Gar said: “What hour was the rope bought—and what day?” Juan made a chuckling noise. “It was bought at about ten-twenty, last night,” he said. “Locracia’s store is often open until eleven. He is a thrifty man. Señor Landon did not lose much time. The medical examiner stated the body had been hanging between four and eight hours. River men discovered it at five.”

  Jo Gar nodded. “It is a strange thing,” he said slowly. “But then, death is often strange.”

  Juan Arragon smiled, showing his white teeth.

  “And women are so often in love with more than one man,” he said quietly.

  Jo Gar widened his eyes a little; he went towards a wicker chair, lifted a slicker and a soiled straw hat. He said:

  “You have not told me all you know, Juan. You have found Mr.

  Landon’s widow to be in love with another man?” Arragon bowed.

  “It might be wise to talk with Señor Flores, manager of the Spanish Theatre,” he said. “It was about the Señor that a man and his wife quarreled so loudly it was necessary for the clerk at the Orient Hotel to request quiet in their room.”

  Jo Gar frowned. “That is unfortunate,” he said slowly. “Mrs. Landon did not mention it.”

  Juan Arragon bowed again. There was a broad grin on his round face.

  “I did not think she would,” he said, with soft grimness.

  Alverez Flores was a short, heavy man with shaggy, gray eyebrows and fine teeth. He frowned at Jo Gar, shrugged his shoulders to question after question and did not at all favor the interview. He knew little about Gary Landon; the act was not too good, the man who shot at targets while swinging from a rope had not been talkative—and the rain brought dampness into Señor Alverez’ chest. Perhaps it was the dengue.

  Jo was sympathetic. He said, after a little silence:

  “Clearly Landon was annoyed by his wife. That fool woman—”

  He broke off as Flores showed anger in his eyes. The theatre manager sucked his breath in with a hissing sound; his arms stayed at the sides of his drill suiting, but the fists were clenched. Jo Gar said:

  “It is always some street rat of a woman, picked up by a man, that—” He shrugged, turned away from the theatre manager. He could hear the man’s heavy breathing as he moved a few feet away. And then Flores laughed. It was a bitter, strange laugh. Jo Gar turned slowly, looked at the theatre man with surprise in his narrowed eyes.

  Flores said:

  “It is—as you say, Señor Gar. Most always it is for women that men kill themselves.”

  The Island detective nodded. “The police are clearly correct; it is suicide,” he said quietly. “But I am interested in such cases, and the manner in which Mr. Landon died was unusual. The long rope—”

  Señor Flores shrugged. He glanced at photographs on the wall of his theatre office.

  “He was a strong man, Señor Gar,” he said. “So often men try to die—and fight against their desire. Half strangled, weakened from the effort of lowering himself, Landon would have had great difficulty in climbing to the bridge again. Perhaps he knew that.”

  Jo Gar said: “He could have dropped into the water, after loosening the noose about his neck. He could swim, you see.”

  Flores said sharply: “He could not—think of so many things as one trained in your fashion, Señor Gar.”

  The Island detective bowed slightly. He said softly:

  “You flatter me, Señor Flores. But you are undoubtedly correct. I am going towards the Manila Hotel. Perhaps you are walking in that direction?”

  The theatre manager appeared regretful. He shook his head. He smiled.

  “There is theatre business,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  Jo Gar made a pleasant gesture and went from the office. He reached the Escolta; the street was crowded. He turned towards the Bay. His lips moved very little as he murmured to himself:

  “Señor Flores is a deft man. But he is quite aware of the fact that Gary Landon could not swim.”

  The desk clerk at the Orient Hotel was a suave Filipino; he had recently returned from the States, where he had studied law. His position at the hotel was only temporary; he made Jo Gar instantly aware of that. He was not unwilling to talk. He had his own theory.

  “It was very much of an argument, Señor. And the walls of this establishment are not too thick. Also, there was a sick English lady in an adjoining room. Upon her complaint I was forced to ascend and speak to the occupants of Room C12. They were instantly regretful, as I have told the police.”

  Jo Gar nodded.

  “Life is filled with quarrel sound,” he philosophized.

  “You caught perhaps some words of anger as you approached the room?”

  The Filipino made a gesture with his immaculate hands. He said smilingly:

  “Señor Landon was a strong man. It seemed plain to me that I must be diplomatic. So I hesitated—to formulate the method of my entrance.”

  To Gar grinned. “You are very wise,” he said simply.

  The clerk smiled broadly. Then the smile vanished. He lowered his voice, glanced around the small lobby of the hotel.

  “The Señor was saying that he was finished. He had been made a fool, a goat, an ass. He was sick of it all. The lady did not love him. She loved another. He was going to do some terrible thing. He would perhaps jump from one of the bridges.”

  The Filipino stopped. He shrugged.

  “It was not right for me to listen. I knocked, told of the English lady being ill, requested more quiet. Then I descended. A few minutes later Señor Landon descended. He was surely in a fierce mood. He looked neither to the right nor left, and hurried from the hotel. That is all, Señor Gar.”

  The Island detective nodded, a serious expression in his eyes. He said tonelessly, raising his narrow shoulders a little:

  “A pity—to do such a terrible thing. A lovers’ quarrel.”

  The Filipino looked sad. His dark hair was slicked so perfectly to his small head.

  “It is good that I was able to tell of his words and actions, to the police. Much effort is saved.”

  Jo Gar closed his eyes and rubbed the lids gently with the tips of his third finger and thumb. His left hand fingers tapped lightly on the counter behind which the clerk stood. When he opened his eyes again he smiled pleasantly at the Filipino.

  “The one who is now dead did not mention a name—the name of the one he suspected his wife of loving?”

  The Filipino shook his head. He said thoughtfully:

  “His wife was very handsome, Señor. Perhaps he was jealous of little smiles. They had only recently arrived from England. We appreciate the women more, in the Islands, I think. We smile oftener, and mean less.”

  Jo Gar grinned again. “I repeat, you are very wise,” he said softly. “Undoubtedly it was simply a foolish act. One works with rope—and one instantly turns towards it—to die. An interesting affair.”

  The Filipino looked sad again. “It is unfortunate—she is quite left alone,” he said slowly.

  The Island detective offered a brown-paper cigarette. It wa
s refused; he rolled one, between his lips, said quietly:

  “She will soon learn to smile again. There are so many men.”

  The Filipino widened his eyes, made a chuckling sound in his throat.

  “That is very true, I think,” he replied, as Jo Gar moved away from the counter.

  Juan Arragon shifted papers about, on his desk. He said, without looking at Jo:

  “There was a quarrel. Landon was temperamental. Regardless of what Clara Landon told you, I do not think their act was doing so well. The girl is very pretty. Many humans have used a rope in order to find death. Landon was familiar with a rope, but conscious of the fact that he must completely defeat any instinctive effort to fight for his life. Few use the bridge late at night. It was dark, rainy. He waited for an opportunity, fastened the rope, went down and let the noose tighten. I do not think he fought much. The neck was not broken—the skin was bruised only as much as one might expect. At dawn he was found. Clara Landon is like many women—she seeks to defend him, and herself. She wishes to create enemies. But it was suicide.”

  Jo Gar smiled. “He had no insurance?” he asked.

  Juan shook his head. “It was expensive for him to carry it,” he replied. “His widow informs me they were trying to save money for it. But his theatrical work meant that a high rate must be paid.”

  The Island detective said: “Clara Landon—she has told me the dead man had no enemies. If she were trying to create enemies—”

  The police lieutenant chuckled. He said in a very sure tone:

  “She is not a fool, Jo. Suppose she were in love with—well, Señor Flores, say. She would not want him involved.”

  Jo Gar made a clicking sound with his lips. He rolled his cigarette between them, inhaled deeply.

  “If he had been unconscious when he was lowered over the water—there would have been some mark on his body, I should think,” he mused aloud, “But there is none—I have seen for myself. It is very strange.”

  Juan Arragon stood up and smiled cheerfully at Jo.

  “You want very much to believe this has been a murder, Jo,” he said. “For once you are wrong. I am convinced this Gary Landon hanged himself. It is finished.”