West of Guam (27 page)

“I’m on edge, Señor Gar, as I told you. Yes, you are right. I wanted her to be protected, if there was any promise. A foolish promise, perhaps.”

Jo Gar nodded. “Yes,” he said tonelessly. “A foolish promise. What did she say to the third note?”

Major Crawford looked beyond Jo, towards the dry bed of a river near which the car was moving. He said steadily:

“She was frightened. She felt that one of the servants had taken a dislike to trying to frighten her. She knew of no promise. It was a ridiculous thing. But she was worried. At the Post, after the second note, I had a guard near the house, the quarters. Here I can’t do that. A friend, Lieutenant Avery, is the house now. It’s a little distance from town, you see.”

Jo Gar smiled. “The country up here is lovely,” he said. “And last night—”

Major Crawford spoke grimly. His brown eyes were almost closed. “I have asked her not to go outside the house without me, or Lieutenant Avery along. She went for a little walk in the garden—alone. I was questioning the servants, without letting them know about the notes. I’ve felt they shouldn’t know—they are easily frightened. There was a scream. Ben—that’s Lieutenant Avery—was upstairs cleaning up. We both reached the garden at the same time. Mary was lying in a path, unconscious. There was a bruise on her left temple—a knife lay a few feet from her. It had been thrown, had apparently turned in the air—the hilt, made of hardwood, had struck her forehead.”

Jo Gar turned expressionless eyes towards the car driver’s head. He said softly:

“So the notes were
not
jokes, you see.”

Major Crawford swore bitterly. “Lieutenant Avery carried her into the house. I got my Service Colt—and went all over the garden, and the house. There are only two servants—and I was questioning them when Mary screamed. A cook and a house-boy. You saw them—I brought them both with me.”

The Army car was gliding down a steep grade now. It turned abruptly to the right, started to climb again, in low gear. Thick, tropical foliage rimmed the narrow road. There was the dank, heavy odor of the jungle growth. It was cold. Jo Gar shivered a little.

“We’re climbing to the house now,” the major said. “It’s a bit isolated—but lovely. That is, it
would
be lovely if—”

He broke off. Jo Gar leaned back in the machine seat and half closed his eyes. His lean, brown face was turned towards the face of the Army officer.

“When your wife regained consciousness, what did she have to say?” he asked above the hum of the car engine.

The major shook his head. “Very little,” he replied. “She was bending over some flowers—there was a sound behind her, in the foliage. She straightened, turned. The knife struck her. She saw nothing, before losing consciousness.”

Jo frowned. “And you were talking with the two servants—and Lieutenant Avery was upstairs,” he murmured slowly.

Major Crawford nodded. The house was suddenly in sight—the road widened and became level. The driver pulled the machine to the left, stopped before a few steps of wood. There was a heavily screened porch. Major Crawford said bitterly:

“Welcome to
Silence House,
Señor. It was not named by me, but by the owner.”

Jo Gar rose in the rear of the car. He widened his eyes a little.

“Silence House,” he repeated softly. “I suppose it is quiet up here.”

The major shrugged broad shoulders. “Almost too quiet,” he said grimly. “Hello—there’s Avery now. Sleeping—”

Jo Gar stepped down from the car, mounted the steps, went through the door of the porch that the major held open. He saw the figure of the lieutenant, seated in a small, fan-backed chair. The officer was in mufti—he was slumped low, his head hanging forward, chin against his chest. The major stopped a few feet from him.

“Ben”—he said sharply—”I asked you to stay near—”

His words died. His eyes were wide on the right hand of the lieutenant. It hung over the side of the wicker chair—the fingers were slightly spread. There was a limpness about the hand—

Jo Gar moved swiftly to the slumped figure. He reached down, touched the right wrist. His body stiffened a little. His small fingers closed over the blond hair of the lieutenant. Slowly he raised the head. Major Crawford said hoarsely:

“God—he’s dead!”

The Island detective looked at the half-opened eyes, then at the hilt of the knife. There was a thin, red stain below the hilt, on the white shirt of the officer. Jo Gar lowered the head again, released his grip on the lieutenant’s chair. The major said in a weak voice:

“That’s the—same knife—that was thrown at—”

He sucked in his breath sharply, and Jo knew what he was thinking about. The Island detective did not move as the major went past him, into the house. He heard Crawford calling hoarsely: “Mary—Mary!” But still he did not move. The enlisted man who had driven the car was staring through the screening of the porch. He said shakily:

“Lieutenant Avery—is dead, sir?”

Jo Gar fumbled for another of his brown-paper cigarettes. When he found it he nodded his head. He lighted the cigarette.

“Quite,” he said softly, and went slowly into the house.

Captain Ramlin of the Constabulary stared down at the knife. Major Crawford sat in the chair beyond the table, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing. Jo Gar said slowly:

“The major is positive it is the same knife that was thrown at his wife.”

The Constabulary captain was a short man, stockily built. He nodded. Light from the table lamp was faint.

“The attempt failed. The murderer or murderers came into the house to try again. The lieutenant defended Mrs. Crawford. He was murdered, carried to the porch. Mrs. Crawford was—”

The captain stopped, looked narrowly at the major. He said calmly:

“Mrs. Crawford perhaps is being held a prisoner. If we can pick up the trail—”

He broke off again. Major Crawford said in a flat, dead tone: “She’s dead. They’ve killed her—somewhere in the mountains. I shouldn’t have left her—”

The Island detective shook his head. “Why did they not kill her in the house?” he asked. “It would have been simpler, safer. There was no one here, with Avery dead. It is difficult to carry a woman, dead or alive, and not leave traces. And why was Avery stabbed to death with the same knife thrown at Mrs. Crawford?

Major Crawford said in the same flat voice:

“I had the knife in the second drawer of my writing desk. The drawer was not locked. Only Avery saw me place it there.”

The Constabulary captain drew in a sharp breath. He nodded his head briskly.

“Lieutenant Avery was not in his uniform. He was not armed. When the house was entered—he got the knife from the drawer. But it was taken away from him. It happened that way.”

Jo Gar’s face was expressionless. Major Crawford said huskily: “You are doing everything—to find her, Captain?”

The captain nodded. “Of course,” he replied gently. “I have fifty men searching—and there are many regular army men on the search. We are doing everything, Major. I doubt that even Señor Gar could do more.”

There was sarcasm in his final words. But Jo Gar merely bowed his head slightly. He went across the room, looked down at the half-opened second drawer of the desk. Captain Ramlin was saying:

“House in perfect shape. No bruises on Lieutenant Avery’s body. Servants were with you, Major and behind you coming back. Enlisted driver assigned to you was with you. No one at the house but Avery and your wife. Avery an old friend. Your wife’s life had been threatened in three notes—you have not the slightest reason why. Her life had been attempted, and you had wired for Señor Gar. Doors not locked. Perhaps there will be fingerprints on the knife—perhaps not. And even if there are—it may not be of any help. We have the notes, of course.”

Jo Gar turned away from the half-opened drawer. He said very quietly:

“Your wife—she had never been in love with Lieutenant Avery?”

Major Crawford replied in a hard voice: “She had never been in love with him.”

Jo said: “He did not love
her?”

The major got up from his chair heavily. He stood near it, his eyes narrowed on the Island detective’s gray ones.

“He never—gave evidence of that,” he said grimly.

Jo Gar nodded. The Constabulary captain spoke in a surprised voice:

“That’s pretty thick, isn’t it, Señor Gar? Avery and—”

The Island detective shrugged. “They were here together. Mary Crawford is gone—Lieutenant Avery is dead. There is little evidence of a struggle. The knife was in a drawer. If the lieutenant had been struck in self-defense—had staggered to the porch chair—”

The Constabulary captain was watching Major Crawford closely. Jo Gar did not seem to be aware of the fact that the major was in the room. The major said in a dull tone, without anger:

“It was Avery who knew where the knife was—not my wife. And could he stagger to the chair on the porch—with such a wound? Would the knife remain in—”

He broke off. Jo Gar spoke very calmly.

“The drawer wasn’t locked. The knife might have been discovered. Avery might have been struck as he was standing directly in front of the chair—he simply fell back into it.”

The major said in a very low voice: “I must get out of the house—I’ll search around the place, not getting far away. I’ll be within call—” The Constabulary captain nodded. “I can come with you, Major—” he offered.

Crawford shook his head. He went out towards the front porch.

After several seconds Captain Ramlin said:

“His wife had no enemies—she quarreled with no servants. Strange.”

Jo Gar shrugged. Captain Ramlin turned his browned face towards the door that opened into the garden. He said slowly:

“I will look about—in the garden, Señor.”

Jo nodded. Ramlin went from the room. Jo Gar looked towards the half-opened door and thought:

“Why was Lieutenant Avery allowed to see where the major placed the knife? Why was his wife
not
allowed to know it was in the drawer? Why was it that the major came to meet me, rather than Avery? And why did he bring with him
both
servants?”

The Island detective moved about the room, went slowly to the front porch. He looked down at the chair in which there had been the dead body of Lieutenant Avery. He thought:

“It would require much time to learn of Avery’s past—and of Mrs. Crawford’s past. He is dead—she has vanished. It would be simpler to find her—”

He smiled faintly, murmured aloud: “A knife thrown in the Islands seldom turns in the air and strikes hilt first. A fighting man is seldom stuck in the heart. And why was Mary Crawford taken from the house?”

He moved to the center table and looked at the knife. The hilt was black—of hardwood. It looked old, much used. The blade was long, narrow. It had required strength to drive that knife blade almost to the hilt. More strength, perhaps, than Major Crawford’s wife had possessed.

Jo Gar shrugged. The major had said that he had known Avery for some five years. His wife had known the lieutenant the same length of time. He was a good friend, who had chanced to be spending his leave at the Island mountain resort, while the Crawfords had come up.

Jo thought: It could easily be so. I have talked with the servants, and in all Avery’s actions they saw nothing but friendliness. The Chinese have good eyes, and threats of Bilibid frighten them. But the manner of Avery’s death, if he were defending the vanished woman, is strange. Very strange. And there are notes—they are strange, too.

He went away from the center table, went out into the garden. It was a small garden, but beyond it the foliage was thick. A slope was less than an eighth of a mile in the rear of the house—a steep slope. There was heavy growth on the slope. Jo Gar shook his head slowly, thinking that it would be difficult to find a body, in the mountains. With only starlight it would be almost impossible. He was fifty yards from the house, with his back to it, when he heard the scream. It was sharp—high pitched. It came once—

And then it came again and again!—

Jo Gar swung around—his right hand got his automatic from a pocket of his suiting. He started towards the house—the screams still ringing in his ears. From some spot behind him he heard Captain Ramlin shout hoarsely! One of the Chinese servants cried out, from the kitchen side of the house. The screams seemed to come from the front of the place, and Jo Gar remembered that Major Crawford had left the house by way of the front porch.

Jo was inside the living-room now, glanced around the room. It was empty. His eyes swept the table—he halted suddenly. He held the gun low—and his body was bent forward slightly. He said very softly:

“It—is gone!”

There was no knife on the table. The weapon that the major had said had struck down his wife in the garden—the weapon whose blade had been buried in the flesh of Lieutenant Avery—it was gone. And seconds ago—hardly more than a minute ago—it had lain on the center, wicker table!

The Island detective moved swiftly towards the screened door that opened on the porch. Even before he had shoved the door open he saw Major Crawford. The officer was running along the road, towards the house. His Service Colt was gripped in his right hand. From the rear of the house Jo heard the Constabulary captain call again: “Major—Señor Gar!”