West of Guam Read online

  “Keep everyone off this section of the deck, Adjutant!” he ordered crisply. “Two M.P.s should be able to see to that. Send for Major Vane—”

  “I’ve done that,” Jones stated quietly. “He sent word from the hospital that Private Bulking is having convulsions—that he’ll get up here as soon as he can. Lieutenant Robards came along right after I found him here—he found there was no pulse. Dead ten minutes or so, he said.”

  “He guessed,” the commanding officer corrected. “Very good—come up above with me, Adjutant. See about the guard first.”

  Jones moved away and gave orders. The colonel glanced at his wrist watch. It was five minutes past four. He looked down at the murdered man again. Browned skin was becoming a bit yellow. He noted that Lintwell’s uniform was immaculate, as usual. Then he moved towards the steps of the companionway, climbed. There was a mild swell now. The effort of the trip down below had soaked him in perspiration. He felt vexed and irritable.

  “Have that killer—by dark!” he muttered. “Damned fool to think he could get away with—that sort of stuff!”

  It was almost midnight. The Thomas nosed her way through a phosphorescent sea, rocking lazily in a mild swell. Guam was behind—miles behind. The night was hot, filled with stars. The transport steamed to the westward. In the colonel’s cabin five men were gathered. Four of them were officers—one was a civilian. The colonel was speaking.

  “It stands like this: At precisely thirty seconds after the ship’s bells had struck four o’clock, Major Jones came up from D Deck and found the body of Captain Lintwell. Lieutenant Robards was next on the scene—that medical officer pronounced the captain dead. He stated that he did not believe Lintwell had been dead more than ten minutes. There was no one about when Jones, here, came along. Major Vane probed—the bullet is regulation. Colt .45. Major Vane feels that death was instantaneous. The bullet entered the back of the head—and almost emerged back of the left eye. Major Vane and I both feel that suicide was extremely unlikely.” The commanding officer smiled faintly. His eyes went to those of the transport captain—Hungerford. That gentleman said nothing. He merely shrugged his shoulders. Majors Jones and Vane merely nodded their heads. The civilian spoke:

  “Not suicide,” he stated tonelessly but with assurance. “Lintwell was left-handed. The entrance point of the bullet was slightly to the right of the head, just above the neck. The bullet traveled towards the left eye. Impossible for a left-handed man to shoot that way—couldn’t bend the wrist that much. Death was instantaneous but we can’t find the Colt. Very little chance that Lintwell could have shot—then flung the gun overboard.”

  The colonel grunted. His eyes were on the civilian. He rather disliked all civilians; Jo Gar was no exception. He didn’t like the name, in the first place. He didn’t like the lack of emotion that Gar exhibited. And he didn’t like Gar’s looks.

  The civilian half closed his blue-gray eyes, relaxed in the uncomfortable chair. His body swayed slightly as the transport rolled. He was a young man, but he looked rather old. His hair was gray; he was medium in size, but because of the loose way he carried himself he appeared rather small. His face was brown—very brown. He had good teeth, a narrow lipped mouth, fine features. His eyes were slightly almond-shaped, and they were seldom normally opened. They held a peculiar squint. Jo Gar wore soiled white trousers and a white shirt. His shoes had once been white, but his quarters on D Deck had prevented them from remaining so. He had abandoned socks at the same time that the Thomas had abandoned Honolulu.

  “Captain Hungerford tells me that you have done some fine crime detection work, in the Islands, Mr. Gar.” The colonel smiled with his lips. “He suggested, when we were making no progress, our calling you up here. We shall go right along with our investigation, of course—but we thought you might work—say, under cover.”

  Jo Gar smiled with half closed eyes. He spoke tonelessly, as always. “It is the better way—under cover. Your blundering will help me.”

  The colonel flushed. He tapped on the seat of his wicker chair with a couple of knuckles. Major Jones swore beneath his breath.

  “I fail to see where we have blundered,” he stated simply. Jo Gar continued to smile with lazy, blue-gray eyes.

  “You have not,” he replied. “I spoke in the future tense.”

  The colonel grunted. Only Captain Hungerford was smiling, and he allowed his dark eyes to meet the eyes of Gar. The colonel became sarcastic.

  “We have called you in, Mr. Gar. That was damn sensible, wasn’t it?”

  The toneless-voiced one smiled faintly. He shook his head.

  “It was very stupid,” he stated. “But it was not a blunder. I came up alone—and I made sure that no one knew I was coming. In fact, I planted an alibi for myself. But that isn’t important—it’s done. There is a civilian under guard below—and he has a tongue. I caught up with him in two months, Colonel. He didn’t expect me to do that. He thinks he is fairly clever—therefore he thinks—I am extremely clever. If he is believed by the enlisted men—”

  “An enlisted man didn’t murder Captain Lintwell.” The colonel was emphatic. “Only a few of them carry Colts.”

  “One of them—was sufficient,” Jo Gar stated. “You blunder, Colonel. You are sure of something. That is bad—one should never be sure.”

  The colonel was holding back angry words. The civilian got to his feet.

  “I’m going to talk with a certain lieutenant who told his wife she was a fool, two nights ago,” he said slowly. “I want to know why he told her that.”

  The colonel stared at him.

  He spoke grimly.

  “How do you know he told her she was a fool?” he demanded.

  Jo Gar smiled without opening his eyes very far. He stood near the door.

  “You are a truthful man, Colonel,” he stated. “I overheard you telling Major Jones that the lieutenant had done so.”

  He nodded good-night to the three other officers, smiled at the colonel. He went from the cabin very quietly. There were no footfall sounds. The colonel swore harshly.

  “The man’s a fool—or a genius!” he muttered.

  Captain Hungerford lighted his pipe, got to his feet and stretched. “It’ll take one of the two—to get this killer,” he stated quietly. “And

  Jo Gar has the genius of playing a fool, Colonel.”

  “No motive—no clues,” Major Jones muttered. “Beats the devil, it does!”

  Colonel Dunbar reached for his pitcher of ice water. Civilians aboard a transport annoyed him. Ship’s bells. Midnight. Eight hours of work, and they had gotten nowhere. He looked out through the cabin door opening. The transport swung lazily towards the Islands. She was a slow boat. This trip she was a death boat. And aboard her was a killer.

  “The men know of the murder, of course?” The colonel felt foolish when he asked that.

  Jones replied. “Of course—and the roll call showed everybody was aboard, including all of the ship’s crew.”

  The colonel shook his head slowly. He was hot, tired and irritated. “We’ll work out the report tomorrow, Adjutant,” he said grimly.

  “For the present we’ll just rate it murder—west of Guam!”

  Jo Gar lay stretched on a hatch cover, aft of the radio room. He appeared to be sleeping—the hot, tropical sun beat down on his body. He was not sleeping. And the sun did not dull his brain. Jo was thinking.

  “So many motives,” he murmured to himself. “The colonel no doubt is a fine soldier. In this matter he is the great blunderer.”

  Jo Gar thought best under circumstances which would have dulled most human’s brains. But Jo had been born in the tropics, raised in the Islands. With his body slugged by heat—his brain was most active. It was almost noon now, and he had come from a chat with the colonel. He had read the colonel’s report—even in it there was a blunder. Jo Gar detested errors.

  “The murder,” he had pointed out to the colonel, “was not committed west of Guam. You have it written
so here. The transport was steaming beneath the cliffs, almost, when Captain Lintwell was shot down. Agana was not to the eastward.”

  The colonel had stared, then had sworn grimly.

  “Find the killer—never mind such small details,” he had gritted. “For example—why didn’t someone hear the shot? A Colt makes a noise.”

  Jo Gar had only smiled. He felt that the commanding officer had little confidence in him. He had got away as soon as was possible. Now he stirred his baking limbs, chuckled.

  “So does steam escaping—make a noise,” he murmured. “There is the Marine post, atop the cliffs. And the flag that is dipped. And the salute by whistle. Three blasts. That is good!”

  He sat up on the hatch, swung his legs over the edge. Up on A Deck he caught a flash of white. A woman was swinging along rather briskly. It was very hot—and the woman was Lieutenant Solter’s wife. She was very young and very beautiful. The night before the transport had reached Guam her husband had told her, heatedly, that she was a fool. He had pointed out that Captain Lintwell’s reputation was not an enviable one. He had suggested that his wife walk the deck less in the captain’s company.

  Jo Gar smiled faintly. Helen Solter was doing so, at the moment. It was she who had told him, with reluctance, that her husband had rather hated Captain Lintwell. The captain was owed much bridge money by Lieutenant Briggs. Charlie Briggs was her husband’s best friend. Her husband disliked gamblers, anyway. Captain Lintwell had been a gambler. And Helen Solter had also assured Jo Gar that her husband had been at her side, watching the Island of Guam slide out of sight, for fully a half hour after the transport had started to steam out from her anchorage beyond the coral reefs.

  As for Lieutenant Briggs, he had been below, with his company. Sergeant Walker had accompanied him during an inspection. The alibis of the two lieutenants were excellent.

  “So many motives,” Jo Gar murmured as he got to his feet, “and not a clue.”

  He went to his quarters and dressed rather immaculately in white. Outside the colonel’s cabin he found a private with red hair and a cheerful grin. Privates were not allowed on A Deck, so Jo Gar guessed out loud.

  “You are possibly the colonel’s new orderly? He told me he contemplated a change.”

  The orderly nodded. “He fired Sam Burker—I’m the new orderly. My name’s Tod Harraker, and at the time the murder was committed I was—”

  Jo Gar smiled. “It doesn’t matter where you were, Tod,” he stated. “Where will I find Burker?”

  The new orderly told Jo where he thought Burker might be found. The door of the colonel’s cabin opened, and Dunbar frowned at him. The orderly stiffened.

  “Why Burker?” the colonel demanded of Gar. “He’s too dumb to know anything about a murder.”

  Jo smiled more broadly. But his voice was as toneless as ever. “Stupidity is sometimes a virtue, Colonel,” he philosophized. “I wanted to know something about music—I hear that Burker plays a mouth organ.”

  The colonel swore. Jo Gar moved forward along the deck. Near the starboard companionway he almost ran into Mrs. Solter. She was rather pale. She looked ill, despite the fact that the Thomas was navigating through a sea of glass.

  “Have you learned anything, Mr. Gar?” she asked in a low tone.

  Jo nodded. It seemed to him that Helen Solter was breathing heavily.

  “Many things,” he replied. “All unimportant.”

  He imagined there was a flickering expression of relief in her dark eyes. But he wasn’t sure. He bowed and moved down the steps of the companionway. On C Deck, aft, he discovered the former orderly. Burker was lying in the shade of a ventilator, with his eyes closed. He was lying on his back. Jo moved up close, careful that his figure cast no shadow in the sunlight beyond the reclining private. His rubber-soled shoes allowed him to move quietly. From a pocket of his white trousers he drew an Army Colt. He squeezed the trigger.

  There was a sharp click. Burker’s body jerked—in a flash the man was sitting up. He twisted around, stared at Jo. There was fear in his eyes.

  “Jeeze!” he muttered. “That gave me a jolt!”

  He smiled sheepishly. His nose was crooked and he had slightly stooped shoulders. His eyes were dark, rather squinted.

  “I noted that fact,” Jo stated quietly. “Why did it?”

  The former orderly smothered an oath. He shook his head.

  “I dunno,” he replied. “But it did.”

  Jo Gar slipped the Colt back into his pocket. Private Burker wet his lips with the tip of a sick looking tongue. He started to get up, but Jo shook his head.

  “Don’t rise,” he stated. “I’m Mr. Gar—perhaps you—know that.” The private nodded. “Guess we all do,” he stated. “You’re that Manila soft-shoe—the guy that always gets his man.”

  He chuckled. It was a nervous chuckle. Jo Gar shook his head. “Not always,” he stated. “Two years ago I failed. China is a difficult country. A transport at sea has advantages.”

  Private Burker looked towards the rail. He kept a half smile on his face. Jo Gar spoke tonelessly.

  “The colonel has been in a bad humor,” he stated. “He replaced you with a new orderly. Why?”

  Burker grunted. “I dunno,” he replied. “Maybe he thinks I’m dumb. Guess it’s the heat—I ain’t used to this sort of thing.”

  Jo nodded. “You took word to the colonel, that Captain Lintwell was dead,” he stated. “You happened to come along, just after Captain Jones found the body.”

  “Major Jones,” Burker corrected. “I had a message from—Captain Drake. I was bringing it up to the colonel.”

  Jo Gar nodded again. His gray-blue eyes held the dark ones of the former orderly.

  “Burker,” he said slowly, “the colonel was right. You are stupid. But you have tried to be clever. Very clever. Get up and come with me.”

  The former orderly was staring at Jo Gar. He got to his feet. “I don’t get you,” he muttered. “You’re on the wrong track—”

  Jo Gar smiled faintly. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “Just walk ahead, please—aft of this spot—”

  Burker stared blankly. “Which way?” he muttered. “I ain’t wise to—”

  “Back, towards the stern, the rear of the boat,” Jo said slowly. “It isn’t far. You’ll find steps there—they lead down to the ship’s brig, jail, or what-not. That’s where we’re going, Burker.”

  The private’s body stiffened. Jo Gar slipped his right hand into the right pocket of his duck trousers.

  “If I were to squeeze the trigger again it would not click, Burker,” he warned. “Possibly you know why.”

  The former orderly’s face was turned towards Gar’s. His facial muscles were twitching. He smiled with an effort.

  “You got me wrong,” he stated. “I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at.”

  Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips. He spoke in a low voice.

  “You contradict yourself, Private,” he advised. “However, I want your nerves to relax. I want you to have quiet. Please walk aft, Private. That’s—fine.”

  It was five minutes of four. The Thomas was steaming westward; a mild breeze was kicking up some white through the blue-green tropical water. The water, however, was not rough. It was very hot. Colonel Dunbar drank ice water, and cursed. Major Jones dabbed at his face with a damp handkerchief. He would have preferred to wipe his face, but his bristling mustache prevented that.

  “The men are holding up well, all things considered,” he stated. “This murder has given them something to talk about. I hear they are laying bets—”

  “Hell!” The colonel snorted the word. “What sort of bets?”

  “Three to one that this Jo Gar won’t produce the killer before we reach port,” the major stated. “And I don’t see how the odds got that low.”

  The colonel snorted again. “From what I hear he’s asked questions of about everybody on board,” he stated. “And he’s learned nothing of importance.”

  Jo Gar bo
wed slightly from the open door of the cabin. The colonel reddened. He muttered something about “gum-shoes.”

  Jo spoke cheerfully.

  “I have located the murderer of Captain Lintwell, Colonel,” he announced.

  The commanding officer stared at Jo. Major Jones stared, too. He spoke crisply.

  “Who, Mr. Gar?”

  Jo seated himself in a chair. He smiled faintly at the colonel.

  “I said that I had located him. But there are a few questions, first.

  He is aboard the transport.”

  Major Jones swore. The colonel looked disgusted.

  “I dislike such humor, Mr. Gar,” he muttered. “Of course he’s aboard.”

  “He might have gone over the side,” Jo pointed out. “He might have been someone not accounted for in the roll call check-ups. Someone who came aboard at Guam.”

  The colonel grunted. Major Jones smiled cynically.

  “But he wasn’t,” Jo said quietly. “And therefore Private Burker is confined under guard—”

  “Burker!” The colonel’s face was red. “That dumb orderly? Are you sure, Gar?”

  Jo fingered one of the peculiar, brown-papered cigarettes, of which he seemed to have an unlimited supply.

  “The murderer of Captain Lintwell,” he stated slowly, “was not dumb, Colonel. You may remember that sergeant who ran wild—Schaeffer. He injured two of the ship’s crew. He is still in the ship’s hospital, and in bad shape. Investigation showed me that his Service Colt had never been found. Lieutenant Grace, his immediate superior, felt that he had thrown it overboard.

  “I had doubts. Particularly so, after my examination of all the .45s aboard, after the murder. None had been cleaned recently—and that was what I had thought I might be able to determine. Sergeant Schaeffer did not toss his Colt overboard, before he was calmed down. It was used to murder Captain Lintwell.”