West of Guam Page 9

  Parker swore softly. “Everything was going badly, after I left Barres’ cellar,” he said. “I got a carromatta—told the driver to take me to the Casa Club. The bird was out there. I remember falling, after I left the carromatta. My head hit something hard. Then I don’t remember anything—until just now—”

  He sank down on the cot. Arragon held out his left hand, opened the fingers slowly. Something lay coiled against his brown palm. He said grimly:

  You do not remember this, Señor?” Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on the coil.

  Arragon said in a tone that was slightly shaken:

  “I found it in a pocket, Señor—it is a piece of rope, of hemp.”

  Parker kept staring blankly at the hemp coiled in the police lieutenant’s palm. He muttered thickly:

  “A piece—of rope—”

  Jo Gar spoke. His voice was very steady, very soft.

  “Undoubtedly it matches the hemp with which Carmen Carejo was strangled,” he said. “It is an end not used in the murder.”

  Juan Arragon said:

  “Perhaps the rope was too long for convenience. You cut it—and being drunk with saké stuffed this piece in a pocket before you committed the crime. It was a crude murder—such as a drunken man would commit.”

  Parker shook his head slowly. The rage had died from his blue eyes.

  He said quietly:

  “I never saw—the rope before. I didn’t kill—the girl. I wanted to break off days ago. She was only a kid—not worth getting her mixed up with her father. She’d been beaten. I sent her a note last night—telling her I was through. I didn’t kill her—”

  Jo Gar said: “You sent her a note last night? You are sure?”

  Parker spoke grimly. “I’m damned sure. I gave it to the house-boy, with a silver dollar, at about ten o’clock. He said he’d see that she got it.”

  Juan Arragon shrugged at Jo Gar.

  “I do not believe him,” he stated.

  The Island detective reached for his packet of cigarettes. He gave Parker one; Arragon refused. Parker said brokenly:

  “Why—I wouldn’t know how to strangle—anyone—” Arragon smiled with his lips parted. He shrugged again.

  “It is very simple,” he stated. “One could do it, I think, even after three cups of saké.”

  From his right hip pocket he drew forth a pair of thin steel handcuffs. They glistened in the white light of the heated room as he moved with them towards the American.

  Vincente Carejo sat in the fan-backed chair of Juan Arragon’s office and glared towards the door. There had been the sound of footfalls on the wooden stairs; the door was suddenly shoved inward, opened. The American, Parker, stumbled into the light of the room. His shoulders were drooping, his chin sagged. His face was streaming with perspiration. The steel cuffs glittered on his wrists.

  “Dog!” Carejo gritted the word at the American. “To kill—my girl—”

  Arnold Carlysle, the American head of the Manila police, came into the room, followed by Juan Arragon. Arnold looked tired; his eyes were heavy-lidded, strained. Juan Arragon looked fresh, cool. He was smiling.

  Arnold said wearily: “It’s almost dawn, We were at it more than two hours.”

  Jo Gar came into the room. He seemed surprised to see Carejo.

  He smiled grimly.

  “We got it—the confession,” he said, “You were right, Señor Carejo.

  Parker has told us the truth.”

  Carejo stared at the prisoner. He rose from the chair, stood with his hands at his side. His voice was filled with rage.

  “You will die for this—but it will not bring my Carmen back. I could take your throat in my fingers—”

  “Steady!” Arnold Carlysle spoke in a sharp voice. “In order to complete the case against Parker we must have the statement of your house-boy, Malo. He is here?”

  Carejo shrugged. “He is downstairs,” he said. “In that police room. I do not see what more you need—the man has confessed.” Arragon said: “We must have everything—so that the prisoner cannot retract his statements. It is only a matter of form.”

  He went to the wooden steps and called down in his native tongue. Carejo took his eyes away from those of Parker. He smiled nastily at Jo Gar.

  “And you did not think it was this man who killed my girl!” he mocked. “It was not an American’s way, you said.”

  Jo Gar went over and stood near a window that faced the Escolta, the main thoroughfare of Manila. Few humans were on the street—a warm breeze was blowing in from Cavite, and the Bay.

  “I did not think Señor Parker strangled your girl.” Jo Gar said slowly.

  Vincente Carejo seated himself heavily in the fan-backed chair. He placed the palms of brown hands over his face. He muttered to himself. The American, Parker, stood with his head bent forward, his eyes on the polished floor.

  Arragon said:

  “It was as I thought. He believed we would think a strangling with hemp was a native crime. He had drinks, after buying the rope. When he pleaded with the girl to go away with him, and she refused, he was in a frenzy. It was a crude, terrible thing. And when he was suspected he tried to place the blame on Señor Carejo, not knowing that the Señor had dined with friends—and had remained with them all evening.”

  Carlysle shook his head. “It was fine work of Lieutenant Arragon’s,” he said. “You should have come to the police in the beginning, Señor Carejo.”

  Carejo took his hands away from his fat face and glared at Jo Gar. “I was afraid of the publicity,” he said.

  “And Señor Gar”—his voice was mocking again—“has a reputation.”

  There were footfalls on the steps. They grew louder—a small, dark-haired, Filipino came into the room. He had a lean face, dark eyes. There was no expression in them. They moved from one to another of the group. He raised an arm, pointed two browned fingers towards Parker.

  “That is the one,” he said slowly, and in good English. “He gave me the note, this morning. I was rising early, to get breakfast and to wax the floors. The cook is in the provinces. He gave me the note and a silver dollar.”

  Arragon asked: “What did you do with the note?”

  The house-boy smiled with his lips. He spoke with his eyes on the floor of the office.

  “I took it to my master. I awakened him. For many days I have been doing this.”

  Jo Gar chuckled harshly. “But you kept the silver dollar, even though you did not take the note to the girl,” he mocked.

  The house-boy nodded. There was no expression in his dark eyes as they met the Island detective’s.

  “I took the silver dollar—it was not good that I should not protect the Señorita.”

  Arnold Carlysle said grimly: “You have the note that Parker gave you this morning?”

  The house-boy reached into a pocket, handed Carlysle a folded slip of white paper. Carlysle opened it, shoved the writing before the prisoner’s eyes.

  “Your handwriting, Parker?” he demanded. Parker nodded his head slowly.

  “What’s the good of—all this?” he muttered weakly. “I’ve told you—I did it.”

  Carlysle said grimly: “It is a matter of record. You told us first that you gave the house-boy a note last night. You told Lieutenant Arragon it was at ten o’clock. We want to make sure you do not change your mind again.”

  Parker turned his body slowly, raised his eyes. They were narrowed on the dark ones of Malo. He said thickly:

  “You tricked me, Malo—you squealed on me.”

  The house-boy’s eyes flickered in a swift change of expression. Then they were sullen again, almost expressionless.

  “It was my duty to protect the Señorita,” he said steadily. Arnold Carlysle spoke in a low, hard voice.

  “You did not give Malo a note for the girl last night. You gave him a note this morning, as he has said. It was not a note breaking with her. It was one asking her to meet you in the palmetto jungle near the Casa Club. You were afraid of trou
ble—you—feared Vincente Carejo. You wanted to end it all. And you had been drinking much. So you strangled her. I will read the note.”

  Jo Gar’s gray-blue eyes went towards the figure of Carejo, tense in the fan-backed chair. The father of the dead girl was staring at the house-boy. The Island detective moved his eyes towards Malo, without moving his head. The house-boy was smiling with his lips—his eyes were on the note that Carlysle held in the fingers of his right hand. His body was bent forward a little.

  Arnold read in a clear, steady voice. He spoke each word slowly; there was silence except for his words:

  “ ‘Dear Carmen—meet me near the edge of the palmetto jungle, near the Casa Club, tonight at ten. We will go away. Leave the house when you receive this note—stay out of sight so you will not be traced. I love you—Dan.’ ”

  Carejo swore hoarsely in Spanish. Arnold Carlysle turned slowly towards Parker. He said in a hard voice:

  “You tricked the poor girl. You were not trying to break with her.

  You will go to Bilibid Prison for this, there to wait until—”

  The lights suddenly died in the room. Jo Gar moved swiftly and silently towards the door. Carejo sucked his breath in sharply. The house-boy muttered something indistinct. The office was in blackness. And then, from somewhere beyond the room, came the scream. It was a terrible cry—the scream of a woman. It was shrill, high-pitched.

  It died abruptly. There were two strangled words—

  “Madre—Madre!”

  Carejo was on his feet—he was crying huskily in a choked whisper: “Lights—the lights!”

  Jo Gar’s hands went up, out. He was close behind the house-boy now. A faint light from the tropical night sky filtered into the room. Gar’s hands came down—in his fingers was a length of rope. It was red in the faint light.

  The rope was twisted about Malo’s neck now. It was tightening. The house-boy’s body was twisting; he was choking. Carlysle’s voice sounded slowly:

  “You are the murderer, Malo—you are strangling as you strangled Carmen Carejo—”

  Malo screamed hoarsely. He cried out in choked English: “No—no—”

  Jo Gar twisted the hemp more tightly. The house-boy was strong, but the twist of the rope was too much for him. He went to his knees, gasping for air. A woman’s cry reached the room, faintly, choked:

  “Madre—Madre!”

  Arnold said slowly, calmly: “You are a murderer, Malo—confess before you die as the girl died—”

  Once again Jo Gar moved his hands. The house-boy swayed on his knees. His breath was coming in long gasps, weakly. He cried hoarsely:

  “Yes—yes—let me—breathe—”

  Jo Gar moved his hands towards each other. The house-boy got his left hand to his throat. He tore at the hemp. Arnold snapped the button—the lights flashed on. Malo had the rope in his hands. His eyes, wide with fear, stared at it. It was stained red. The red streaked his fingers.

  He flung it from him. His eyes met the staring ones of Vincente Carejo. He cried shrilly, one hand clutching at his throat, the fingers of the other pointing towards his master.

  “You—made me—do it! You paid me money—helped me—”

  Vincente Carejo’s face was white, twisted. His right hand went to a pocket of his duck suit. Jo Gar caught the color of a knife sheath, sewn in the slanted material. The blade flashed.

  Arnold shouted a warning. But it was Juan Arragon who leaped at the bigger man, battered the blade from his grasp. The weight of his body carried Carejo back against the fan-shaped chair. He went down heavily. Arnold had his gun out. Jo Gar stood near the door. There was a little smile playing around his thin lips. The house-boy sank to the wooden floor, sobbing.

  Dan Parker stood close to Arnold, staring down at the father of the dead girl. He spoke in a low, bitter tone:

  “You almost framed me, Carejo. I was down on my luck—and drunk. The drinks were doped, at Barres’ place and it was easy enough for Malo, here, to get the piece of hemp that matched the one he used on the girl—in my pocket. I never knew what happened. And you forged the note, of course—destroyed the one I really gave to Malo last night.”

  Carejo kept his arms over his face. His body was shaking as he lay on the floor. Jo Gar said quietly from his place near the door:

  “You write an easy hand to imitate, Parker. They gave the poor girl the note they wanted her to have. She destroyed it. She—”

  Carejo took his arms away from his white face. He said hoarsely: “You read—that note—”

  Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “You were clever, Señor,” he said. “We talked with our prisoner. We arranged the sort of note we felt you would use as a substitute. I imagine we did well. But Malo was guilty, you see. We secured Señora Castonne, of the police, and rehearsed her to scream as I heard Carmen Carejo scream. That was good. And there was the hemp—”

  Malo cried thickly: “It was red with—her blood—”

  Jo Gar reached for one of his brown-papered cigarettes. He shook his head.

  “It was red with betel-nut juice,” he corrected. “But that does not matter now. You used Malo, Señor Carejo, because he was faithful and could be bought. He had friends who went to Barres’ place and doped the saké Parker drank. They kept him out of sight until after the crime. Then he was taken to the house on the Calle Ventner. I do not know these friends—perhaps we will learn soon. It might go easier with you two.”

  Malo said brokenly: “I will—tell all.”

  Arnold Carlysle addressed Arragon. “Put cuffs on them,” he ordered. “Parker—you are free, of course. It is bad to play with half-breed girls—in the tropics.”

  Jo Gar let his narrowed eyes meet those of the American, Parker.

  He spoke quietly.

  “It is particularly bad—when a girl’s father has married her mother for the wealth of several sugar plantations in the Islands—and then has learned that the mother has died leaving the estate to her daughter, when she becomes of age.”

  Vincente Carejo stared at the Island detective as the steel cuffs snapped over his thick wrists. He said heavily:

  “You learned that, too—”

  Jo Gar nodded. “Americans do not strangle with hemp,” he said. “Señor Arragon was too much concerned with the crime of passion, I think. He was interested in the American, Parker. I was interested in your affairs, Señor. There was little enough time, but I have access to the Bureau of Philippine Island Records. My friend, Señor Burneu, helped me. We found your wife’s will.”

  Carejo groaned. His pale face was streaked with perspiration. He stared dully at Jo Gar. The Island detective shrugged his narrow shoulders.

  “You retained me to find your girl, Señor. Perhaps you thought that after she was found, even though she was found murdered, I would think you a loving father. Even though you desired to beat her. I did not reason that way.”

  Arnold Carlysle looked at Jo Gar. “It was rather fine work, Señor Gar,” he said. “Carejo would have gotten the plantations, with the girl out of the way. He was using Parker to cover the crime.”

  Jo Gar gestured gracefully with spread, brown hands.

  “The girl hated him,” he said simply. “She called for her mother, as she died. Yet she had lived with her father for years. I based much on her last words.”

  He walked across the room and picked up the length of red-stained hemp. He smiled ironically at Vincente Carejo.

  “You did not give yourself quite enough rope,” he said mildly. “In Bilibid Prison they will undoubtedly remedy that fault.”

  Signals of Storm

  A knife is thrown in the dark and Jo Gar, the Island detective, reads its message.

  Harnville brushed a bit of loose tobacco from his immaculate duck suiting, half closed his brown eyes and smiled. He sat in the most comfortable fan-backed chair in the Civilian Club, and that fact annoyed Jo Gar. His own wicker was not uncomfortable, but he much preferred the one on which the Englishman rested his long body. H
arnville said in his precise, soft voice:

  “Certainly I am offering you sufficient money. It is only a two-day journey—there is an inter-Island boat sailing tomorrow. You would be very comfortable.”

  Jo Gar nodded. “That is probably quite true,” he agreed. “But you do not seem to care to give me the details. I do not like traveling about in the typhoon season—if you would tell me exactly what it is there would be for me to do, perhaps I might go. Otherwise—”

  He shrugged. Harnville frowned at him. He said with impatience in his tone:

  “I haven’t been to the plantation for three months. Two men have been killed there. I do not like the looks of things—it would be good to have you go out there. I can’t tell you what the exact trouble is. You need only be gone a week or so.”

  Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. But he shook his head. His slightly almond-shaped eyes were almost closed. He ran stubby brown fingers through his gray hair.

  “It is starting to blow tonight,” he said quietly. “The Number Three typhoon signal has been hoisted. I do not like the small inter-Island steamers in these storms. You are not definite enough, Mr. Harnville. These deaths might have been accidental. No, I prefer to remain in Manila.”

  The tall Englishman got slowly to his feet. He frowned down at the diminutive Island detective. He said nastily:

  “You have had some luck—and you now can choose what to do. I congratulate you.”

  He bowed sardonically. Jo Gar continued to smile, but the expression in his gray-blue eyes was not so pleasant.

  “It is nice to be congratulated, Mr. Harnville,” he said. “But I feel unworthy.”

  Harnville turned away, went towards the screened doors of the Civilian Club. Jo Gar watched him go with narrowed eyes. He heard the man call loudly for his car; it seemed to him that Harnville was always shouting at the Filipino he had trained as a driver.

  Wind, coming in rising gusts, rattled the windows of the Civilian Club. It was still warm, but it was growing cooler. This was the first typhoon of the season. Outside the Club he could see the shapes of palms bending in the wind that blew over the Bay. He had the feeling that the storm would be severe.