West of Guam (28 page)

The Island detective stepped on the porch. It was lighted dully by the lamps from within the house. The wicker chair in which Avery’s body had been found was turned slightly. Sprawled across it was the figure of a woman. Dark hair trailed downward from her head—her white dress was disarranged—her arms hung loosely at her sides.

Jo Gar started towards the figure—Stopped suddenly. He heard Major Crawford cry out; there was the sharp
crack!
of the Service Colt—once, twice. He saw the major swing around—run towards the left side of the house.

Captain Ramlin came pounding through the house—reached the porch. He was breathing heavily. He stared at Jo Gar—saw the body of the woman, across the wicker chair. He said:

“Good God! It’s—Mary Crawford!”

Jo Gar stood stiffly as two more shots sounded. He spoke to Ramlin:

“Go out there—around to the left. Major Crawford’s—seen something. I’ll see what can be done here.”

Ramlin nodded, went down the steps and to the left. Jo Gar went to the body across the chair. He leaned over the woman, and after a few seconds straightened up. He placed his automatic in his pocket, went away from the dead woman and the chair. Near the edge of the lower step leading down from the porch, at the right side, he saw the knife. He stood and looked down at it, thinking. Five minutes later, when Captain Ramlin came up, breathing heavily, he was still standing near the knife. Ramlin said:

“I can’t—find the major—he’s crashing off in the woods—somewhere—”

Jo Gar said: “Perhaps he’s close—to his wife’s murderer.”

There was a peculiar tone to his voice. The Constabulary captain said hoarsely: “She’s—dead?”

The Island detective nodded slowly. He looked down at the knife.

Ramlin stared at it, swore harshly.

“It was—on the table—in the living-room!” he breathed.

Jo nodded again. “And more recently,” he said softly, in a grim tone, “it was in the body of Mary Crawford.”

Major Crawford was lying on a broad, low divan. Doctor McCall finished bandaging his right arm, near the shoulder, stood up. The major said, in a voice choked with emotion:

“Looked like—one of the chinks. But I couldn’t—be sure. Fired four times—ran into a tree and went down. He struck at me with the knife, while I was trying to get up. Then he was gone. The woods are thick, and it’s dark in there. By God—if I could get—”

He stopped, closed his eyes. Doctor McCall said in a quiet voice:

“You moved around a lot, after he knifed you. You lost a lot of blood. You must rest.”

Captain Ramlin, standing close to Jo, nodded his head. The major groaned and rolled over on his left side. His right fist was clenched. The doctor went towards the center table of the living-room, from the divan on which Crawford was lying. He washed his hands slowly and carefully. Jo Gar went over to him, turned his back on the major and said in a very low voice:

“The wound is not serious, Doctor?”

The doctor shook his head. “Just a blade rip, but he moved around and lost blood,” he said. “Too bad he didn’t get that rotten killer.”

“He might have made a mistake,” the Island detective said slowly. Doctor McCall straightened a little. He said:

“You don’t think it was one of the servants? I suppose you have noted they have both vanished?”

Jo smiled with his eyes almost closed. “The Chinese do not care for mysterious death. Many times I have seen servants vanish, in the Islands.”

“I
have seen them use knives,” McCall said.

“Yes,” the Island detective said quietly. “And sometimes they
throw
knives. When they do—there is seldom a miss.”

The doctor narrowed his eyes on those of the Island detective for a few seconds. Jo Gar was smiling with his lips; his own almond-shaped eyes were slitted. He nodded his head suddenly, as if he had just thought of something, turned away.

Captain Ramlin came to him on the porch. He said huskily:

“It’s pretty bad, Señor Gar. First Avery—now Mary Crawford.

Those damn chinks—”

Jo Gar shrugged. “Mary Crawford was a tall woman,” he said slowly. She was very healthy. Both of the missing servants were small and they did not look too strong, either of them. There were five or six knife wounds in the woman’s body. It requires strength to hold a struggling person.”

Captain Ramlin said: “You don’t think one of the chinks—”

He stopped. Jo Gar sighed. “I should like to find a motive,” he said softly. “But then, it is what anyone would like.”

Ramlin swore softly. “I don’t trust the servants down here. The major says his wife was always good to them, but perhaps he was wrong.”

The Island detective nodded. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “But Lieutenant Avery is dead—murdered. And there are the notes. I do not think they were written by either of the servants.”

The Constabulary captain frowned and stared up towards the distant sky. The night was bright with stars. Ramlin said:

“I’ve got to go out and keep my men on the job. They’re searching the slopes—and I’ve got some of them looking around in town.”

Jo Gar said: “What are they looking for?”

Ramlin grunted. “They
were
looking for Mary Crawford,” he muttered. “Now I’ll have them after the chinks.”

He went down the front steps. The Island detective went back into the house, stood still as he heard the doctor call sharply from the left side. He went past Major Crawford, who called to him weakly, found the doctor facing one of the two servants, in the kitchen. The Chinese was frightened—his eyes were wide. The doctor said:

“Here’s one of ’em—I caught him sneaking in here.”

The doctor held a gun low in his left hand. Jo Gar looked at the servant, smiled. He spoke very quietly to the man, using a jargon of Chinese and Filipino. The doctor stood motionlessly, frowning. Jo talked for several minutes, then said to the doctor:

“He was frightened. There were the screams. He screamed and ran from the house. The other servant was outside, getting water. They both ran. They saw nothing—the other servant is hiding in one of the outhouses; he will not come in. He says there is death in this house—it is called
Silence House,
and death is silence.”

The doctor swore grimly. “You believe that?” he asked.

Jo Gar shrugged. “I will tell him to bring his companion inside,” he said. “You can talk with them—but you will not need the gun—it will only frighten them more.”

He spoke again to the servant. He smiled as he talked, and his voice was pleasant. After a few minutes the Chinese went towards the door. The doctor was about to stop him, but Jo said sharply:

“Let him go—I know these people. I have lived very close to them for years. He will return—with the other one.”

The doctor muttered something that Jo did not catch. But he allowed the servant to go. The Island detective stood in silence until the two Chinese returned. They stared at him with wide eyes. The doctor said to Jo:

“Keep them here—I want to show them something.”

He went from the kitchen. Jo Gar half closed his eyes and smiled.

He said in a low tone:

“The man is bringing with him a knife. He will show it to you suddenly—like this—”

He made a swift gesture from his right side, extending his right hand, fingers opened. He said, smiling:

“Do not be afraid. Be very truthful. Do not lie—”

His low words died as the doctor came into the room. He went close to the two servants, extended his left hand suddenly. The knife lay in his palm. Jo smiled a little. The doctor said:

“It is—yours? Yours?”

His eyes went from one servant to the other. The shorter of the two shook his head, looked at his companion. The taller one’s eyes were wide with fear. He stared at Jo. The Island detective shrugged his shoulders very slightly.

“A fool is often one because he lies,” he said very softly.

The taller servant stared at the knife in the doctor’s palm. He nodded his head rapidly. He said in a voice filled with panic:

“She is mine—she is mine! I tell you I no use—she go away—”

He broke off into rapid jargon. Jo Gar slowed him down. The doctor was staring at the taller of the servants with narrowed eyes. His left hand held the knife, but his right went towards the pocket in which the gun rested.

The servant stopped talking, panting. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes held nothing but fear. Jo said to the doctor, very softly: “He lost the knife, somewhere about the house, two days ago. He has been searching for it since. He did not kill.”

The doctor said grimly: “I’d hate to have that story to tell, just the same. We’ll turn them both over to the Constabulary. He did the jobs, all right. Dirty, yellow—”

Jo said quietly:
“White
men have killed—in the Islands, Doctor.”

He turned, went from the room. Major Crawford, lying on the divan, said weakly:

“What is it—Señor Gar? For God’s sake—what—”

Jo Gar spoke tonelessly. “The knife—it is owned by the taller of your two servants,” he said simply.

Major Crawford got to a sitting position. His brown eyes were narrowed; rage showed in them. They were streaked with red. He swore fiercely.

“A chink—did in Avery! A damn, dirty chink got my—”

He got to his feet. Jo Gar stood watching him. He nodded his head slowly.

“But you must be calm, Major,” he said. “There is the law—”

The major said hoarsely: “Damn the law—I’m a white man! Where’s my gun?”

The Island detective shook his head. “That is—not right,” he said quietly. “It will do no good. The servant is a prisoner—the Constabulary will take care of him.”

The major sank back on the divan, groaned. He touched his bandaged right shoulder, rolled over on his left side. His body shook—smothered sounds came from his lips. Jo Gar said very gently:

“I am very—sorry for you.”

For several seconds he stood looking at the officer. Then he went slowly towards the screened porch of
Silence House,
and out into the darkness.

It was almost two in the morning. There was a storm in the mountains, distant now but nearing the slope on which
Silence House
had been built. Jo Gar stood on the screened porch, beside the doctor. McCall was medium in size, with a lean, browned face. He was frowning.

“I’ll see if he’s sleeping,” he said suddenly. “I’ve given him some tablets, but not enough to induce heavy sleep. But if you’re wrong—” The Island detective shrugged. “You are not sure that I am wrong,” he said softly. “The lightning is strong enough—it is a chance we must take. Tomorrow it may be too late.”

The doctor shivered a little. Thunder rumbled in the distance—the woods were lighted by flashes of lightning that ran across the sky. They outlined the house. They were less vivid than the lightning flashes of the States—gave a wavering light that held for several seconds.

The doctor said: “All right—everything is ready, inside?”

Jo nodded, “It was a disagreeable work,” he said. “But there is much we do not know.”

Doctor McCall spoke very quietly. “It is only because you know the natives—and the chinks,” he said. “You have a reputation. But if you’re wrong—”

Jo Gar smiled with his thin lips pressed closely together.

“I agree,” he said simply. “It is very easy to lose one’s reputation.” The doctor led the way into the house. He went close to the divan. Major Crawford lay with his left arm thrown across his face—his head was turned towards the wicker chair several feet from the divan. He was breathing heavily.

Captain Ramlin was slumped in a chair across the room. He nodded as the two men entered the room, said nothing. Lightning yellowed the room, showing the furniture clearly. The shutters were opened.

Jo Gar stood close to the wall, in a spot not easily seen from the divan. Captain Ramlin rose from his chair, went silently into the next room. The doctor stood near the Island detective. Jo said softly, listening to a louder rumble of thunder:

“A fool is often one—because he speaks—the truth.”

He held his right hand low—squeezed the trigger of the gun. It crashed, filling the room with sound. The body on the divan moved—the head and shoulders of Major Crawford came up. He was facing the chair near the divan. The room was in darkness.

And then the lightning ran across the sky—and yellow light came into the room. Major Crawford’s breath was sucked in raspingly. His body was rigid—his brown eyes were staring—staring at the figure in white, in the chair. For brief seconds he looked into the wide eyes of his wife—and then he screamed!

Again and again his screams filled the room. They were high pitched, shrill. They had a peculiar quality. They were the screams of a woman—a woman who was being hurt. They were the screams that Jo Gar had heard from the garden of the house—and that Captain Ramlin had heard.

Lightning ran the sky again—and the figure in white still sat slumped in the chair facing the divan, eyes wide—on the wild eyes of Major Crawford. And then the wounded man saw the gun. It lay almost at his wife’s feet. His right hand reached for it—he raised it. Distorted words twisted from his lips.

Gun sound filled the room as he squeezed the trigger again and again. The rumble of thunder was drowned by the sound. Lightning came once more—and the figure in white had not moved. No bullets had struck the woman in the chair—her eyes still stared at Major Crawford.

It was then that he flung the gun from him and screamed again.

It was then that Jo Gar said in a voice that shook a little:

“You can only kill a human being once, Crawford—and you have done that.”

The doctor threw out an arm and tried to stop the major—as he flung himself towards them. But Major Crawford swung to one side—he was near the door now. His body crashed through the screening—he went down. He was up almost instantly—and down the steps. He ran wildly to the right of the house—arms above his head, mouthing words they failed to distinguish as they followed. Captain Ramlin breathed:

“It was Crawford—who screamed—on the porch—”

When they reached the rocky ledge and looked over it they saw the body of the major, thirty feet below. They went down the trail cautiously, with lightning flashes to show the way. The doctor bent over the figure of the army officer. After a short time he rose, faced Jo Gar.