West of Guam

by Raoul Whitfield

  The clerk said: “Señor Brail had a heavy voice.”

  Sadi Ratan looked at Jo Gar narrowly. “He didn’t tell you over the phone that his cat had been returned, or had returned. Yet the chances are the cat was here then.”

  Jo Gar shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said. “It is possible for a person to go down from the screen porch. There are vines that are strong. The suite below is not occupied. There’s another stairway and several ways out of the hotel. After I spoke to Brail, if it was Brail, I talked at the desk a bit. Brail might have been dying then.” Sadi Ratan said: “How about the cat?”

  Jo Gar shrugged. “The clerk says the cat disappeared this morning at about ten o’clock. These Siamese can climb. It might have been wandering around on the roof. The roof was searched, but it might have been missed. The porch isn’t completely screened—the cat might have come back after Brail was murdered.”

  Sadi Ratan said: “I want to see Phelps—I think Brail talked to you, and that the cat was here then. There is something very strange about this.”

  Jo Gar smiled narrowly. “There is something very strange about most murders,” he said quietly.

  The telephone at one end of the living-room made ringing sound. Jo Gar started towards it, but Lieutenant Ratan caught him by the arm.

  “I will answer, if you do not object,” he said. “This is my investigation.”

  The Island detective stood aside, shrugging. “I thought you had turned the case over to me,” he said slowly.

  Sadi Ratan frowned. “A lost cat is not a murder case,” he stated. “This is a matter for the police.”

  Jo Gar smiled a little more broadly. “I think you are correct,” he stated as the police lieutenant neared the telephone. “A very good matter, Lieutenant.”

  The police lieutenant lifted the receiver. He listened for several seconds after he said: “Lieutenant Ratan speaking.” His body grew tense and he swore once, in Spanish. The Siamese cat uncurled itself and stood up. It jumped lightly from the divan and crossed the room, paying no attention to the body of Walter Brail. Jo Gar watched it closely, his eyes half closed. The room seemed to be growing hotter. Sadi Ratan said sharply:

  “I will be there immediately—do not allow the body to be disturbed.”

  He hung up the receiver, faced Jo Gar. His handsome face held a grim expression.

  “Phelps is dead,” he said slowly. “His body has been found, along the Bay front, by some boys in swimming. He committed suicide and left a note. You will come with me, please, Doctor?”

  The Island detective watched the doctor nod. Sadi Ratan looked at him thoughtfully.

  “Would you care to come, also?” he asked.

  Jo Gar sighed, shook his head. “I think not, Lieutenant,” he said tonelessly. “A murder and a suicide—it is most certainly a matter for the police.”

  It was almost midnight when the Island detective went into Sadi Ratan’s office. The police lieutenant was slumped low in his chair, relaxed and smiling, he moved a palm leaf fan gracefully, so that wind struck his handsome face. Jo Gar closed the door behind him and stood near it.

  “You appear pleased, Lieutenant,” he said.

  Sadi Ratan nodded and gestured with the fan. “My men have captured the two escaped Chinese. The English woman has been found wandering beyond the city. And we have the murderer of Walter Brail. Things become quiet again.”

  Jo Gar said: “You have Brail’s murderer?”

  The police lieutenant nodded and took time in speaking. He was enjoying himself.

  “The valet, Phelps, was the murderer,” he said in a satisfied tone. “It was all very simple.”

  Jo Gar looked at his stubby, browned fingers. “Most murders are very simple,” he agreed.

  Sadi Ratan continued to smile. “Phelps had been with Brail for almost ten years. He wrote in the note he left that he has hated Brail for the last three of them. He did not show his hatred. He hated Brail because he would not give him money, back him in a small business he wanted to start in London. Every year for the past three or four years Brail had promised to let him go, back him in this business. But he never did it. Phelps hated to travel, and Brail was traveling most of the time.

  “A month or so ago Brail told the valet that he was leaving him ten thousand dollars, in his will, and that he could start his business after Brail’s death. He joked about it, showed Phelps the clause in the will. And the valet knew that Brail would never back him in his business while he was alive. He hated him all the more—Brail was in good health and younger than Phelps. The valet thought about murder—he first thought about it in Shanghai. In the note he stated he almost went through with it ten days ago, in Nagasaki. He wanted that ten thousand dollars. Tonight he murdered Brail. And when he realized what he had done—he shot himself. He wasn’t the type who could kill and live, that was all.”

  Jo Gar said very softly: “So?”

  Sadi Ratan smiled a little. “He deliberately let the Siamese cat loose. He wanted to get Brail along the Bay front in some deserted spot. But he decided Brail was suspicious, would not go. He followed Brail here, knew that he had reported the loss of the cat to the police. At first he thought he would wait. Then he decided the missing cat would make things more difficult for the police. He returned from the supposed search and when Brail stepped away from the phone after talking to you, he stabbed him twice. He went down the vines, below the screened porch and was not seen. But he couldn’t stand being a murderer. He wrote this note—and shot himself.

  Jo Gar looked at the polished floor of the office.

  “You’ve compared the handwriting with other writing of Phelps?” he said slowly.

  Sadi Ratan nodded. “Naturally,” he said, still smiling. “We went right back to the hotel and got to work. We found a copy of Brail’s will, and the clause leaving the ten thousand to the valet was there. We compared handwriting of the last note—it was written hurriedly, of course, almost scrawled. But it is Phelps’ handwriting. Simply a murder for money, of greed. And Phelps was too weak for such a thing. He used the cat to attempt getting Brail from the hotel, in some deserted spot, searching. But that didn’t work.”

  The lieutenant of police smiled and shrugged “So—you won’t have to worry about the Siamese cat, Señor Gar, after all.”

  Jo Gar smiled a little. “On the contrary,” he said very quietly. “I think I shall have to worry very much about the Siamese cat.”

  Sadi Ratan straightened in his chair. He narrowed his dark eyes. “Why?” he asked.

  Jo Gar’s eyes were expressionless. “Because the valet did not murder Brail. Because the valet did not leave the note you found—and because I do not think Phelps committed suicide,” he said tonelessly.

  Sadi Ratan stared at him, his mouth slightly opened. He rose from the chair grimly:

  “I am aware that you have been right several times in the past, Señor Gar. You have also been fortunate. But when you say what you have just said, in the face of the evidence we have—”

  He broke off, gesturing widely with his arms. Jo Gar said quietly:

  “You wished to amuse yourself, Lieutenant—and you thought you were insulting me by suggesting that I should search for a lost cat. There have now been two deaths. And because one appears to explain another, you eagerly accept any evidence that comes along. I do not accept your evidence.”

  The police lieutenant said angrily: “The case is closed. We have the motive, the manner—and the confession. You have not been retained—” The Island detective grinned. “I am retaining myself,” he interrupted. “My reward will be obtained in a way familiar to you, Lieutenant. I shall be amused at you.”

  Sadi Ratan swore in Spanish. A nasty smile twisted his handsome face.

  “The press will be amused—Señor Gar does not agree with the police and will hunt down the murderers of both Walter Brail and his valet,” he mocked.

  The Island detective inhaled smoke from the Filipino cigarette.

  “The press has
been amused before,” he said quietly. “But not at me.”

  Sadi Ratan shrugged. “Again—I wish you luck,” he said. “A simple case has been closed. The cat has returned. You are not satisfied—shall I tell you why?”

  Jo Gar said: “Please do.”

  The police lieutenant continued to smile. “You are disturbed because I suggested you hunt for the Siamese. When I suggested it you did not show it, Señor Gar. And the murder gave you the opportunity to be first on the scene. When it was cleared up so easily, by us—”

  He smiled more broadly, bowed slightly. Jo Gar smiled back at him.

  “By a pencil scrawl on paper,” he corrected. “That is what bothers me, Lieutenant. It is cleared up so easily.”

  Sadi Ratan sighed. “You prefer the mysteries of the Siamese cat, perhaps,” he said mockingly.

  Jo Gar watched a thin curve of smoke from his cigarette, his eyes expressionless.

  “Perhaps,” he agreed, and went from the office to the quiet of the hot Escolta.

  In the morning the Island detective read in papers printed in several languages that Winton Phelps, English valet of Walter Brail, wealthy and eccentric American, had murdered for money to be left him, and had then, half mad with regret for what he had done, shot himself to death. The police had his confession note—the facts checked with a will found in Brail’s baggage, the handwriting was that of Phelps.

  A Siamese cat had been lost by Phelps in an attempt to lure his master to a deserted spot, but Brail had been murdered in his hotel suite. Another item in all of the papers stated that it was believed by the police that Señor Gar had been engaged to search for the lost cat, which always traveled with the eccentric Brail, and that Señor Gar had stated he did not accept the police theory of murder and suicide.

  Jo Gar smiled and breathed softly: “Always this Siamese cat—Sadi Ratan is much amused. He is not concerned with the fact that having murdered and escaped, having the ten thousand dollars left to him, this Phelps killed himself. And so quickly, after writing such a note. And Lieutenant Ratan is amused with the cat, yet he does not think too much about it.”

  It was a reeking hot day, but the Island detective spent the morning moving about Manila, on the outskirts. He talked with two Chinese, and with a Malay who had a savage appearing Siamese cat. He asked many questions. After a light lunch he went to his home and had a siesta. At four he rode to the police station and received permission from a Filipino sergeant to look at photographs. It was almost six when he had finished, and Sadi Ratan was coming in as he went out. The police lieutenant grinned at him.

  “You called to see me?” he asked.

  The Island detective shook his head. “I have been looking at pictures,” he stated.

  Sadi Ratan widened his dark eyes, brushed dust from his well-fitting khaki uniform.

  “You found the one you sought?” he asked.

  Jo Gar nodded. “I think that is so,” he said.

  Lieutenant Ratan chuckled. “Was it of a cat?” he said gently.

  The Island detective smiled back at Ratan. The lieutenant of police continued to chuckle and went inside of the police building. Jo Gar walked slowly in the direction of the Manila Hotel. At the desk he asked for Cummings, the director. Cummings was a short, red-faced man; he came to Jo’s side with a frown.

  “I’ve been away—just got in this morning. Up at Baguio, keeping cool. Terrible thing—the valet killing Brail. Terrible for the hotel.”

  Jo Gar nodded. “Unfortunate for Brail also,” he said quietly. “You heard that Brail had a Siamese cat he was very fond of, perhaps?”

  Cummings nodded. “Of course,” he replied.

  The Island detective nodded. “Who is taking care of the cat now?” he asked.

  Cummings frowned. “The floor maid,” he said. “She said she wasn’t afraid of it—I think she said she’d had one before at some time. So we turned it over to her until we get word from Brail’s relatives in New York. Terrible thing.”

  The Island detective nodded his head thoughtfully. They moved towards some palms and Jo said very softly: “Sadi Ratan is easily convinced, Mr. Cummings. I do not believe that the valet murdered Brail, nor that he committed suicide.”

  The director blinked at Jo. “You don’t think—that the police are correct—”

  Jo Gar shook his head. “The theory of the valet losing the cat to get Brail away from the hotel is weak. He must have had many chances to murder Brail, in more or less deserted spots. And if Phelps had stabbed Brail to death—then he committed suicide too soon after the crime. Also, I cannot quite see a man with the courage to murder not going through with what he started. And then, there is the Siamese cat.”

  Cummings said: “What about it?”

  Jo spoke tonelessly. “I have asked questions about the breed. They are savage, part monkey. At times they are very affectionate. Blood excites them—they are extremely nervous. Apparently I talked with Brail from downstairs here, within five minutes of the time he was stabbed. When we entered the suite he was dead. The Siamese cat was on the divan, and not the least bit disturbed. There were scratches on Brail’s hands and wrists.”

  Cummings said: “Well?”

  Jo Gar sighed. “I do not think Brail spoke to me on the telephone. I think he had been dead some little time—long enough for the cat to have gotten over its nervousness. If the cat had been in the room when Brail had been struck down it would have still been excited when I entered the room. If it had come in after the murder, the body and the blood would still have been having an effect.”

  Cummings sucked in a deep breath. Jo Gar said very quietly:

  “But the Siamese was almost sleeping—it was not at all excited.”

  The hotel director half closed his eyes. “Well?” he said again.

  Jo Gar shrugged. “The one who spoke to me as Brail was Brail’s murderer. Brail was dead at that time. He had been dead for some little time. As I went upstairs—the murderer escaped.”

  Cummings said: “How about the scratches on Brail’s hands and wrists?”

  The Island detective frowned. “According to the statements Lieutenant Ratan has been giving to the press they were caused in a struggle. Fingernail scratches—of Phelps. He states that Phelps’ nails were quite long, and several were broken. I disagree with him, but I do not think they were cat scratches.”

  Cummings said again: “Well?”

  Jo smiled faintly. “Phelps was shot through the mouth. The gun muzzle was very close—but that does not mean it was suicide. I think he was murdered by the same ones who murdered Walter Brail.”

  The hotel director said: “By the same ones?”

  Jo nodded slowly “Ones,” he repeated. “I do not know the motive.

  But I could make a guess. In my own way.”

  The hotel director looked at Jo Gar narrowly. They had known each other over a period of years, and there were things that Cummings remembered.

  “If I can help, Señor Gar—”

  Jo’s eyes were slitted on the broad stairs beyond the palms. They were more almond-shaped than usual.

  “I would like to look over the suite again more carefully,” he said. “The Siamese cat is now in the hotel?”

  Cummings nodded. “The maid has quarters here—the cat is in her place, at the rear of the hotel.”

  Jo took his eyes away from the broad stairs. “I would like the maid to bring the Siamese to the suite,” he said. “But first I should like to call Lieutenant Ratan. He might be interested.”

  Cummings grunted. “He told me that you were a fool, and that the case was finished.”

  The Island detective smiled tightly. “It is very likely that what he meant was that if I had been a fool the case would now be finished,” he said softly.

  When Sadi Ratan came into the living-room of Suite Twenty-eight he stopped and stared at Jo Gar, then at Hernandez. Jo smiled and gestured towards Hernandez.

  “I asked the Señor to come here so that the Spanish papers cou
ld have the story,” he said. “You do not object?” His tone was expressionless.

  Sadi Ratan grinned at the newspaperman. “Not if it is an amusing story,” he replied.

  The Island detective spoke a little grimly. “I think you will like it,” he said. “There is a cat in it.”

  He nodded to the hotel director who went to the telephone. Jo Gar said:

  “I have just one request—I should like to do the talking, and I shouldn’t like anyone to show surprise at what I say. I think we’d better be sitting down and taking things easy, as the Americans say.”

  They seated themselves. Cummings came away from the phone and said:

  “She will be right along.”

  Less than a minute later there was a rap on the half-closed door that led to the corridor. Jo said:

  “Please come in.”

  He was smiling as the maid entered, holding the Siamese cat in her arms. The cat regarded them stolidly; the light was fading and its eyes were very blue. Jo Gar looked at the maid and said:

  “Just set the cat down and let it wander around, please.” She said:

  “Si Señor,” and did as instructed. The Siamese did not move around much; it stayed close to her and watched the others in the room. Jo rose slowly, still smiling.

  “You are not frightened of the cat?” he asked the maid.

  She shook her head, a very faint smile on her lips. She was dark haired, medium in size. She was good looking for a Filipino girl, slenderer than most of them. Her English was very good.

  The Island detective said: “You are not frightened—of this one?”

  Her dark eyes widened. The smile had gone from Jo Gar’s face.

  “Of this one?” she repeated slowly.

  The Island detective nodded. “This one has seen a man murdered,” he said very steadily and softly. “It has seen blood on the man’s—”

  He stopped as the Filipino maid raised a hand towards her throat. She said in a choked voice: “No please—”

  Jo Gar turned his head back to her and pointed towards the floor. He spoke loudly, huskily.

  “Walter Brail’s body was lying about there—when I came in. The cat was on the divan. Brail was dead—there was blood on his lips. A knife wound in the heart and in the neck—”