West of Guam (53 page)

The suave clerk behind the desk smiled and then looked serious. “Mr. Brail is very disturbed,” he said. “He has created a great deal of worry in the hotel. He will be glad to see you Señor Gar. I will call him.”

Jo Gar nodded and waited. The clerk spoke to the switchboard girl and then motioned towards an enclosed phone. Jo went to it and when a heavy voice said: “Yes?” he said: “Señor Gar speaking, Mr. Brail. Lieutenant Ratan of the local police has told me you were interested in finding a Siamese cat—”

The heavy voice interrupted: “Ah—good, Señor Gar. I am glad you have come. Please come right up.”

The phone clicked. Jo went to the desk and the clerk smiled at him.

“It is two flights up, Number Twenty-eight—at the extreme north wing. Our finest suite. Shall I send a boy—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “I know the way—the opera singer who lost her bracelet occupied the same suite, about a year ago, I think.” The clerk nodded. Jo smiled and said: “Mr. Brail is traveling alone?”

The clerk said: “He has his valet—an English valet. There are just the two of them, and there was the cat.”

The Island detective nodded. “A fine cat?” he asked.

The clerk nodded. “Very beautiful,” he said. “I saw it in the basket. Beautifully marked—very large.”

Jo smiled and moved towards the broad stairs. The hotel was low and spread out, with fine gardens and a beach on the Bay. Ceiling fans circled silently, and stirred iced air. Jo climbed the stairs slowly, accustomed to the tropics and knowing the results of speed. The corridors were wide; on the second flight he moved along the north wing towards the suite that faced the Bay, hung almost over the waters of it.

When he reached the double doors he knocked. After a few seconds he rang a bell that made sound he could hear from the corridor. Out on the Bay there was the deep-toned whistle of a big boat. Jo rang the bell again.

Seconds passed. He rapped sharply on one of the wooden doors, with his knuckles. The padding footfalls of a hotel maid sounded from along the corridor, and the Island detective went towards the woman. He said:

“I have just talked with Mr. Brail, in Suite Twenty-eight, from downstairs. He asked me to come up. He does not answer the bell, or my knock.”

He followed the Filipino maid back to the double doors. She rang the bell several times, tapped on the door. She called in a high-pitched voice: “Señor Brail—Señor Brail—”

There was no sound from within the suite. The maid jingled keys on a ring and turned one in a lock. She pushed open a door and called again: “Señor Brail!”

Jo Gar walked past her through a small foyer and into a large, wicker-chaired living-room. He was half way across the room when the Filipino maid screamed. She screamed terribly—and ran towards the corridor. Jo Gar went over and looked down at the figure of the man. The man was lying on his back, with his arms and legs spread. His eyes were opened. There was blood on his lips—and his hands showed long, jagged streaks of red scratches. He was dead.

Jo straightened and looked around the room. His body stiffened as he glanced towards a wicker divan near the screened porch that hung over the Bay. The Siamese cat crouched motionlessly on the divan, its eyes focused on his figure. It was a dusty gray, huge for a cat. The black marking of its face and ears and the blueness of its eyes stood out in the reflected light from a table lamp. In the corridor the Filipino maid was still screaming, and there were sharp voices coming from below. Everything in the room was very motionless—Jo Gar, the body on the floor—and the figure of the Siamese cat.

Sadi Ratan stood just inside the living-room of the suite and frowned at Jo. The hotel clerk said:

“Mr. Brail left the hotel at about five o’clock. He returned at about eight-thirty—and a half hour before Señor Gar called. Perhaps not that long. He asked if his cat had been found, and said he’d sent his valet along the Bay front, to inquire at the houses. Then he went upstairs. Nobody called to see him, until Señor Gar arrived.”

Jo said: “That is, nobody
announced
that he was calling.”

The clerk shrugged. Sadi Ratan looked at the body, then at the medical man.

“Two knife wounds—one in the back of the neck—one to the heart. They caused the death.”

The doctor nodded. “Apparently,” he said. “The scratches on the hands and wrists look like cat scratches.”

Sadi Ratan glanced towards the Siamese, sleeping on the divan.

He frowned. Jo Gar said to the clerk:

“When did you last see Phelps, this valet?”

The clerk thought for several seconds. “Around four o’clock. He went out without stopping at the desk. He’s tall and very thin. He has a sad face.”

Sadi Ratan said: “It’s after nine-thirty, and he left at about four. That’s a long time to be walking around the Bay front, looking for the cat.”

The clerk looked at the Siamese. “How did it—get back here?” he asked.

Jo Gar spoke grimly. “The cat didn’t knife Brail in the neck and the heart. Brail spoke to me, say five minutes before I came into this room. That is, a heavy-voiced man spoke to me.”

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.