Jo said: “You did not think you were seen—but I have eyes for the dark. I did not shoot at you, though my fingers held a gun, as they hold one now.”
The yellow-faced one made swift, breathing sound. His eyes looked downward. Jo Gar nodded his head. The piano and the violin were wailing swift, fierce music and in the center of the floor a Filipino and a half-breed girl were dancing, whirling about. Jo Gar glanced at them, turning his head swiftly. And he saw that the Malay, Kayil, was not where he had been. Then his eyes were on the dark eyes of the man seated across from him.
One of the yellow-faced one’s hands was on the table, but the other was out of sight. Jo said in a hard voice.
“Put both hands on the table.”
The one across from him hesitated. Jo Gar smiled and said in Malay:
“If I shoot you in here it will not be bad for me—it will only be bad for you.”
The left hand of the yellow-faced one came to the table surface. There were betel-nut stains on the fingers, red-brown on the yellowish skin. The man had long fingers, and the back of the hand was scarred.
Jo Gar smiled. “In Bilibid Prison you would work long hours, twisting bamboo. You would work for many years. It is very bad to throw a knife.”
The eyes of the thin one showed faint fear. Jo Gar stopped smiling.
He spoke again in Malay, softly and not perfectly.
“I will make a bargain with you. If you tell me the truth—you will not go to Bilibid.”
The one across from him said very hoarsely: “You are a fool—I do not know what you speak about.”
Jo Gar smiled with his gray-blue eyes almost closed. He said:
“The gun will make sound and the police will come in. You will not see them. You will be dead. I will have killed the one who tried to kill me.”
He moved his right arm slightly and watched the fear show in the yellow one’s eyes. Then he said softly:
“Or the gun will make no sound—and you will answer my questions. You will not go even to Bilibid. It is a bargain that I will make.” The one across from him spoke hoarsely. “I did not try to kill you.”
He spoke in English, and he accented the word “try.” Jo’s eyes widened a little. He was silent for several seconds, then he said:
“So—you threw the knife, but you did not throw well? You did not want to kill me?”
The yellow-faced one said:
“It is so.” He was breathing shortly, and his eyes were shifting away from Jo Gar’s.
Jo said: “You wished to frighten me—to make me think that an attempt had been made on my life. Who was it paid you to do that?” The yellow-faced one hesitated. Jo Gar moved his right arm again, and his gray-blue eyes were suddenly hard.
The man across from him said:
“The Americano—Mallison.”
The Island detective sat stiffly, staring at the yellow-faced one. Mallison had paid this man to miss him, with a knife. Mallison. Was Sadi Ratan right, after all? Had the American hated his China man, Tavar, so much that he had planned to trick the detective he had retained into believing Tavar was guilty? Had this yellow-faced one’s act been the beginning—and then had something gone wrong? Or was the one opposite him lying?
The music died again.
Jo Gar was silent for several seconds, then he said softly:
“You did not throw a knife that belonged to you?”
The other shook his head. “The Americano gave me the knife,” he said. “I held black cloth in my fingers when I threw it. That is all I know.”
Jo Gar’s eyes were slitted on the dark ones of the man across from him. He said suddenly:
“I think that you are lying.”
The thin one lifted a hand from the table and pointed a thin finger across the room. There was a round target, not more than a foot in diameter, hanging on a wall across from their table. It was such a target as tiny darts were thrown against, for sport. It was painted brown and red and black. Smoke drifted before it, from cigarettes. The yellow-faced one said:
“I do not miss, with the knife. I am Kanya, of Malay blood. I have done no wrong. I will show you. For years I guarded an Englishman who had a plantation on Mindoro.”
Jo Gar gripped his gun more tightly and said:
“Very well—show me that you do not miss—unless you wish to miss.”
He moved his chair slightly. The Malay made a swift movement and a long bladed knife flashed in his left hand. The left arm came up as he half rose from his chair. His fingers held the knife by the blade. The arm jerked forward and the knife sped towards the target, turning.
At the same instant a gun crashed. Jo Gar heard the yellow-faced one’s shrill cry as the bullet struck him. And very close to the target he saw the one who had used the gun. He was short and thick-set, and he had a small mustache. He had come suddenly from a corner thick with smoke, half backing from a table. But he had seen the yellow-faced one throw the knife, and he had seen Jo Gar. And he had not thought of the target.
Jo Gar realized, even as the knife blade quivered almost in the center of the target on the wall, what had happened. And he knew that the yellow-faced one had lied for Tavar, and that Tavar feared he had been crossed—and had thought that the yellow-faced one had intended the knife for him. Smoke drifted between the Island detective and Tavar. The short man’s eyes were staring at the body of the man he had shot, half sprawled across the table. Jo Gar rose suddenly.
Kayil stood near the entrance of the café, swaying a little, both hands at his sides. Everyone was very quiet.
Jo Gar said:
“I want you, Tavar. You stole jade from the American, Mallison.” His eyes never left the eyes of the short one. “You murdered him, tonight—knifed him. You went to the police and said he was drinking heavily, and that he was a fool with his jade. He was drinking, that is true, but he was not a fool. You said that he hated you, and you were afraid of him. You knew he was coming to me, and that he would tell me he suspected you. But you prepared for that, and you paid the Malay to throw a knife at me, but to miss me.
“I think that knife was one of yours—and you had intended to show that Mallison had it in his possession. You had friends lie for you about Mallison showing his jade tonight, and you had an alibi—you were with friends. And then, because you thought the yellow-faced one was trying to knife you—shot him. He was only throwing at the target—”
Tavar’s head jerked towards the target. Someone near the yellow-faced one said thickly:
“He is—dead.”
Jo Gar pulled his Colt from his pocket. Tavar’s gun hand jerked up and both guns crashed at the same time. Tavar fell forward, and the left side of Jo’s duck coat jerked as a bullet ripped it. Kayil moved his right hand downward and Jo fired for the second time. The Malay café owner swore, and gripped his right arm near the elbow. Jo backed against a wall and watched the rush for the doors. When it was over only four of them remained in the room. The dead yellow-faced one; Tavar collapsed on the floor, Kayil—and himself.
Jo Gar watched Kayil closely. Then he said, after long seconds:
“You are an accomplice—it will be worse for you if you do not tell the truth.”
Kayil shrugged. Jo said: “Move Tavar against that wall. See where my bullet hit him.”
When it was done, Kayil said: “Just under the heart—”
Tavar held his eyes open with an effort and said in a weak voice: “I wanted—money—to get away from these—damned Islands—I knifed him—and tried to fix it—as you said—I knew he’d go to you and say—he suspected me—and I wanted the police to laugh—at you—”
He closed his eyes. Jo Gar said steadily: “You and I, Kayil—we’ll go to your telephone. A doctor—and the police.”
Kayil shrugged. They went towards a telephone. Kayil breathed: “That damned target—”
Jo Gar smiled very grimly as he looked at the target on the wall and said in a tired voice:
“It was a damned one, certainly—for
Mallison’s China man!”
The Siamese Cat
The little Island detective hunts a cat—and finds a murderer.
Sadi Ratan looked up from his desk and smiled at Jo Gar. The police office was hot, the streets of Manila were hot. Tropic heat had been fierce during the past few weeks; it would be fierce for many more. But the Filipino police lieutenant did not seem to mind heat. His brown face was handsome and his dark eyes seemed alert and unwearied. He said in an amused tone:
“You were surprised, Señor Gar, at my sending for you?”
Jo Gar dabbed at his face with a large handkerchief, put it in a pocket of his duck suit. His gray-blue eyes smiled a little.
“I was surprised at your request for me to come here, Lieutenant,” he corrected quietly.
The police lieutenant waved his left hand a little airily.
“We are very busy,” he said. “That escape of the Chinese from Bilibid Prison—the disappearance of the English woman. Several small but annoying robberies. Yes, we are very busy.”
The Island detective got his stubby-fingered hands in the pockets of his duck coat and said nothing. Sadi Ratan inspected a fly-specked ceiling and the slowly swinging fan. Then he said:
“Knowing that you had not been retained by John Collings in the matter of the search for his wife, and knowing that you would not be interested in the search for the two escaped prisoners or these minor store hold-ups—I thought of you for another matter.”
He paused and smiled. Jo Gar smiled back at him and lighted a brown-paper cigarette. He said:
“With your fine efficiency you will capture the escaped convicts quickly. The English woman has a habit of disappearing; she will return shortly. I am sure you can pick up the store thieves, Lieutenant.”
Sadi Ratan frowned slightly, then smiled again.
“Of course,” he said. “But I regret you have not been retained in any of these instances.”
The Island detective inhaled and wondered what the lieutenant of the Manila police was getting at. There was very little good feeling between them; it was the first time Sadi Ratan had sent for him. Jo said:
“Business cannot always be good.”
The police lieutenant made another gesture with his left hand. “An American named Brail—Walter Brail—has been in to see me. He has been in Manila only a week or so. He is wealthy and wanders about the world. An unfortunate thing has occurred. He has lost a cat.”
Sadi Ratan looked down at a paper before him and tried not to smile. Jo Gar’s eyes were expressionless. He said nothing. The police lieutenant went on.
“It is a very unusual cat—he is much attached to it. A Siamese cat. He is very anxious to recover it, and that is not exactly a police matter. So I suggested you, Señor Gar.”
Jo Gar bowed very slightly. “It was kind of you, Lieutenant,” he said.
Sadi Ratan looked him in the eyes, smiling peculiarly.
“I told him that perhaps you would consider such an assignment below your dignity—”
Jo Gar shook his head. “On the contrary—I am a great lover of cats,” he interrupted. “Where shall I find this American, Lieutenant?”
Sadi Ratan’s eyes widened a little then narrowed. He said:
“He is staying on the Bay, at the Manila Hotel. The cat escaped from his screened porch there. There has been much searching, and he is advertising, of course. He will be glad to see you, Señor Gar.”
The Island detective nodded, still smiling. “It was very good of you to think of me,” he said. “I shall try to return the favor at some time.” Sadi Ratan gestured carelessly again. He looked at his wristwatch.
“You will go to the hotel tonight, Señor?” he asked.
Jo Gar nodded. “I shall go there immediately,” he said. “The name is Walter Brail—and the American has lost a Siamese cat.”
The police lieutenant’s eyes were serious. “That is so,” he said. “And the best of luck, Señor Gar.”
Jo smiled and bowed again. He went from the office and to the Escolta, Manila’s main business street. It was almost nine o’clock in the evening, and not too many people were about. The Island detective hailed a carromatta, climbed slowly inside. He spoke to the Filipino driver in his native tongue, settled back in the comfortable seat.
The driver shrilled at his pony. The distance was short, and though Jo Gar thought a great deal about Sadi Ratan’s mocking tone, and the idea of sending for him—he reached only a half decision. The police lieutenant had thought it would be amusingly insulting, when he had not been retained by those concerned in more important matters, to call Jo over and suggest his search for a cat. And yet, he felt there was something beyond that. He doubted that Ratan, who was not a fool, would bother with such a childish sort of humor.
He was smiling a little as he left the carromatta, and entered the hotel. In his not uneventful career as a freelance detective he recalled that this was the first time he had ever been concerned with a Siamese cat.
The suave clerk behind the desk smiled and then looked serious. “Mr. Brail is very disturbed,” he said. “He has created a great deal of worry in the hotel. He will be glad to see you Señor Gar. I will call him.”
Jo Gar nodded and waited. The clerk spoke to the switchboard girl and then motioned towards an enclosed phone. Jo went to it and when a heavy voice said: “Yes?” he said: “Señor Gar speaking, Mr. Brail. Lieutenant Ratan of the local police has told me you were interested in finding a Siamese cat—”
The heavy voice interrupted: “Ah—good, Señor Gar. I am glad you have come. Please come right up.”
The phone clicked. Jo went to the desk and the clerk smiled at him.
“It is two flights up, Number Twenty-eight—at the extreme north wing. Our finest suite. Shall I send a boy—”
Jo Gar shook his head. “I know the way—the opera singer who lost her bracelet occupied the same suite, about a year ago, I think.” The clerk nodded. Jo smiled and said: “Mr. Brail is traveling alone?”
The clerk said: “He has his valet—an English valet. There are just the two of them, and there was the cat.”
The Island detective nodded. “A fine cat?” he asked.
The clerk nodded. “Very beautiful,” he said. “I saw it in the basket. Beautifully marked—very large.”
Jo smiled and moved towards the broad stairs. The hotel was low and spread out, with fine gardens and a beach on the Bay. Ceiling fans circled silently, and stirred iced air. Jo climbed the stairs slowly, accustomed to the tropics and knowing the results of speed. The corridors were wide; on the second flight he moved along the north wing towards the suite that faced the Bay, hung almost over the waters of it.
When he reached the double doors he knocked. After a few seconds he rang a bell that made sound he could hear from the corridor. Out on the Bay there was the deep-toned whistle of a big boat. Jo rang the bell again.
Seconds passed. He rapped sharply on one of the wooden doors, with his knuckles. The padding footfalls of a hotel maid sounded from along the corridor, and the Island detective went towards the woman. He said:
“I have just talked with Mr. Brail, in Suite Twenty-eight, from downstairs. He asked me to come up. He does not answer the bell, or my knock.”
He followed the Filipino maid back to the double doors. She rang the bell several times, tapped on the door. She called in a high-pitched voice: “Señor Brail—Señor Brail—”
There was no sound from within the suite. The maid jingled keys on a ring and turned one in a lock. She pushed open a door and called again: “Señor Brail!”
Jo Gar walked past her through a small foyer and into a large, wicker-chaired living-room. He was half way across the room when the Filipino maid screamed. She screamed terribly—and ran towards the corridor. Jo Gar went over and looked down at the figure of the man. The man was lying on his back, with his arms and legs spread. His eyes were opened. There was blood on his lips—and his hands showed long, jagged streaks of red scratches. He w
as dead.
Jo straightened and looked around the room. His body stiffened as he glanced towards a wicker divan near the screened porch that hung over the Bay. The Siamese cat crouched motionlessly on the divan, its eyes focused on his figure. It was a dusty gray, huge for a cat. The black marking of its face and ears and the blueness of its eyes stood out in the reflected light from a table lamp. In the corridor the Filipino maid was still screaming, and there were sharp voices coming from below. Everything in the room was very motionless—Jo Gar, the body on the floor—and the figure of the Siamese cat.
Sadi Ratan stood just inside the living-room of the suite and frowned at Jo. The hotel clerk said:
“Mr. Brail left the hotel at about five o’clock. He returned at about eight-thirty—and a half hour before Señor Gar called. Perhaps not that long. He asked if his cat had been found, and said he’d sent his valet along the Bay front, to inquire at the houses. Then he went upstairs. Nobody called to see him, until Señor Gar arrived.”
Jo said: “That is, nobody announced that he was calling.”
The clerk shrugged. Sadi Ratan looked at the body, then at the medical man.
“Two knife wounds—one in the back of the neck—one to the heart. They caused the death.”
The doctor nodded. “Apparently,” he said. “The scratches on the hands and wrists look like cat scratches.”
Sadi Ratan glanced towards the Siamese, sleeping on the divan.
He frowned. Jo Gar said to the clerk:
“When did you last see Phelps, this valet?”
The clerk thought for several seconds. “Around four o’clock. He went out without stopping at the desk. He’s tall and very thin. He has a sad face.”
Sadi Ratan said: “It’s after nine-thirty, and he left at about four. That’s a long time to be walking around the Bay front, looking for the cat.”
The clerk looked at the Siamese. “How did it—get back here?” he asked.
Jo Gar spoke grimly. “The cat didn’t knife Brail in the neck and the heart. Brail spoke to me, say five minutes before I came into this room. That is, a heavy-voiced man spoke to me.”
West of Guam Page 40
