West of Guam (54 page)

A Siamese cat had been lost by Phelps in an attempt to lure his master to a deserted spot, but Brail had been murdered in his hotel suite. Another item in all of the papers stated that it was believed by the police that Señor Gar had been engaged to search for the lost cat, which always traveled with the eccentric Brail, and that Señor Gar had stated he did not accept the police theory of murder and suicide.

Jo Gar smiled and breathed softly: “Always this Siamese cat—Sadi Ratan is much amused. He is not concerned with the fact that having murdered and escaped, having the ten thousand dollars left to him, this Phelps killed himself. And so quickly, after writing such a note. And Lieutenant Ratan is amused with the cat, yet he does not
think
too much about it.”

It was a reeking hot day, but the Island detective spent the morning moving about Manila, on the outskirts. He talked with two Chinese, and with a Malay who had a savage appearing Siamese cat. He asked many questions. After a light lunch he went to his home and had a
siesta.
At four he rode to the police station and received permission from a Filipino sergeant to look at photographs. It was almost six when he had finished, and Sadi Ratan was coming in as he went out. The police lieutenant grinned at him.

“You called to see me?” he asked.

The Island detective shook his head. “I have been looking at pictures,” he stated.

Sadi Ratan widened his dark eyes, brushed dust from his well-fitting khaki uniform.

“You found the one you sought?” he asked.

Jo Gar nodded. “I think that is so,” he said.

Lieutenant Ratan chuckled. “Was it of a cat?” he said gently.

The Island detective smiled back at Ratan. The lieutenant of police continued to chuckle and went inside of the police building. Jo Gar walked slowly in the direction of the Manila Hotel. At the desk he asked for Cummings, the director. Cummings was a short, red-faced man; he came to Jo’s side with a frown.

“I’ve been away—just got in this morning. Up at Baguio, keeping cool. Terrible thing—the valet killing Brail. Terrible for the hotel.”

Jo Gar nodded. “Unfortunate for Brail also,” he said quietly. “You heard that Brail had a Siamese cat he was very fond of, perhaps?”

Cummings nodded. “Of course,” he replied.

The Island detective nodded. “Who is taking care of the cat now?” he asked.

Cummings frowned. “The floor maid,” he said. “She said she wasn’t afraid of it—I think she said she’d had one before at some time. So we turned it over to her until we get word from Brail’s relatives in New York. Terrible thing.”

The Island detective nodded his head thoughtfully. They moved towards some palms and Jo said very softly: “Sadi Ratan is easily convinced, Mr. Cummings. I do not believe that the valet murdered Brail, nor that he committed suicide.”

The director blinked at Jo. “You don’t think—that the police are correct—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “The theory of the valet losing the cat to get Brail away from the hotel is weak. He must have had many chances to murder Brail, in more or less deserted spots. And if Phelps
had
stabbed Brail to death—then he committed suicide too soon after the crime. Also, I cannot quite see a man with the courage to murder not going through with what he started. And then, there is the Siamese cat.”

Cummings said: “What about it?”

Jo spoke tonelessly. “I have asked questions about the breed. They are savage, part monkey. At times they are very affectionate. Blood excites them—they are extremely nervous. Apparently I talked with Brail from downstairs here, within five minutes of the time he was stabbed. When we entered the suite he was dead. The Siamese cat was on the divan, and not the least bit disturbed. There were scratches on Brail’s hands and wrists.”

Cummings said: “Well?”

Jo Gar sighed. “I do not think Brail spoke to me on the telephone. I think he had been dead some little time—long enough for the cat to have gotten over its nervousness. If the cat had been in the room when Brail had been struck down it would have still been excited when I entered the room. If it had come in
after
the murder, the body and the blood would still have been having an effect.”

Cummings sucked in a deep breath. Jo Gar said very quietly:

“But the Siamese was almost sleeping—it was not at all excited.”

The hotel director half closed his eyes. “Well?” he said again.

Jo Gar shrugged. “The one who spoke to me as Brail was Brail’s murderer. Brail was dead at that time. He had been dead for some little time. As I went upstairs—the murderer escaped.”

Cummings said: “How about the scratches on Brail’s hands and wrists?”

The Island detective frowned. “According to the statements Lieutenant Ratan has been giving to the press they were caused in a struggle. Fingernail scratches—of Phelps. He states that Phelps’ nails were quite long, and several were broken. I disagree with him, but I do not think they were cat scratches.”

Cummings said again: “Well?”

Jo smiled faintly. “Phelps was shot through the mouth. The gun muzzle was very close—but that does not mean it was suicide. I think he was murdered by the same ones who murdered Walter Brail.”

The hotel director said: “By the same
ones?”

Jo nodded slowly “Ones,” he repeated. “I do not know the motive.

But I could make a guess. In my own way.”

The hotel director looked at Jo Gar narrowly. They had known each other over a period of years, and there were things that Cummings remembered.

“If I can help, Señor Gar—”

Jo’s eyes were slitted on the broad stairs beyond the palms. They were more almond-shaped than usual.

“I would like to look over the suite again more carefully,” he said. “The Siamese cat is now in the hotel?”

Cummings nodded. “The maid has quarters here—the cat is in her place, at the rear of the hotel.”

Jo took his eyes away from the broad stairs. “I would like the maid to bring the Siamese to the suite,” he said. “But first I should like to call Lieutenant Ratan. He might be interested.”

Cummings grunted. “He told me that you were a fool, and that the case was finished.”

The Island detective smiled tightly. “It is very likely that what he meant was that if I
had
been a fool the case would now
be
finished,” he said softly.

When Sadi Ratan came into the living-room of Suite Twenty-eight he stopped and stared at Jo Gar, then at Hernandez. Jo smiled and gestured towards Hernandez.

“I asked the Señor to come here so that the Spanish papers could have the story,” he said. “You do not object?” His tone was expressionless.

Sadi Ratan grinned at the newspaperman. “Not if it is an amusing story,” he replied.

The Island detective spoke a little grimly. “I think you will like it,” he said. “There is a cat in it.”

He nodded to the hotel director who went to the telephone. Jo Gar said:

“I have just one request—
I
should like to do the talking, and I shouldn’t like anyone to show surprise at what I say. I think we’d better be sitting down and taking things easy, as the Americans say.”

They seated themselves. Cummings came away from the phone and said:

“She will be right along.”

Less than a minute later there was a rap on the half-closed door that led to the corridor. Jo said:

“Please come in.”

He was smiling as the maid entered, holding the Siamese cat in her arms. The cat regarded them stolidly; the light was fading and its eyes were very blue. Jo Gar looked at the maid and said:

“Just set the cat down and let it wander around, please.” She said:

“Si
Señor,” and did as instructed. The Siamese did not move around much; it stayed close to her and watched the others in the room. Jo rose slowly, still smiling.

“You are not frightened of the cat?” he asked the maid.

She shook her head, a very faint smile on her lips. She was dark haired, medium in size. She was good looking for a Filipino girl, slenderer than most of them. Her English was very good.

The Island detective said: “You are not frightened—of
this
one?”

Her dark eyes widened. The smile had gone from Jo Gar’s face.

“Of
this
one?” she repeated slowly.

The Island detective nodded. “This one has seen a man murdered,” he said very steadily and softly. “It has seen blood on the man’s—”

He stopped as the Filipino maid raised a hand towards her throat. She said in a choked voice: “No please—”

Jo Gar turned his head back to her and pointed towards the floor. He spoke loudly, huskily.

“Walter Brail’s body was lying about there—when I came in. The cat was on the divan. Brail was dead—there was blood on his lips. A knife wound in the heart and in the neck—”

He let his words die, went towards the slot on the floor where Brail’s body had lain. The room was very quiet; he could hear the swift breathing of the maid, behind him. Cummings was breathing heavily, too.

Jo Gar turned slowly. He walked a few feet towards the maid, then stopped. “You screamed last evening—when you saw the body. You did not go near the body. All you saw was a figure lying on the floor. Yet you screamed, again and again. You ran down the corridor screaming—”

The maid spoke in a broken voice. “I was—frightened. I felt—that he was dead—lying there—”

Jo Gar moved nearer her. “You are not afraid of a cat. A cat that belonged to a dead man. A cat that was in this room when the man was murdered, knifed—”

She said in a strangled voice: “I’ve had—Siamese cats—before—”

Sadi Ratan spoke in a protesting voice. “What is it that you want to know, Señor Gar?”

The Island detective paid no attention to Ratan. He moved closer to the maid, his gray-blue eyes very small and his lips pressed together in a straight line. When he parted them he said very grimly: “You are the sort of woman who screams again and again when she sees a body lying on the floor—and yet you are not at all afraid of a dead man’s cat. A strange breed of cat—”

There was fear in the girl’s eyes. She raised her browned hands, pressed palms against her face. Jo stepped forward quickly, caught her wrists in his hands. He said sharply:

“Your fingernails are very short—I think a doctor would say they had been cut very recently.”

The maid pulled herself away from him. She swore fiercely, in a half Spanish, half Filipino dialect. When she had finished Jo Gar slipped right-hand fingers in the right pocket of his duck suit.

“And I do not think—that your nails were clipped short,
last
evening,” he said slowly.

The maid’s eyes were staring into his. Sadi Ratan muttered something that was not distinguishable to Jo. The maid said brokenly:

“I didn’t—do it—I didn’t! I know you think—I killed him. I didn’t!

I knew when you sent for me—”

Her words trailed off. She turned and started towards the door that led to the corridor. Jo Gar said sharply:

“Wait!”

She stopped, faced him slowly. The Island detective took the Colt from his pocket, held it low at his side. He smiled coldly at her.

“I saw you ten days ago—a Sunday at a cock fight. You were not alone. The face of the one you were with interested me. I thought I had seen it before. I remembered that face—and a half hour ago I saw it again. Photographs of it have been sent around the world. You were with Pedro Savon—a very clever forger, thief and murderer—”

The maid screamed shrilly loudly—the one word: “Pedro!”

There was the crash of a gun from the corridor door, and as Jo’s body swung to one side something crackled on a far wall. A figure came into the room, swaying from side to side. Jo Gar dropped to his knees, saw the Siamese cat streak across the floor. Savon’s gun crashed again. The cat screamed and seemed to leap from the floor. Jo Gar squeezed the trigger slowly—his Colt crashed.

Pedro Savon fell forward, struck the floor heavily. His gun spun from nerveless fingers. The maid cried out and ran towards the motionless body, but Sadi Ratan blocked her way, gun in his right hand. Jo Gar stood up, went over to Savon. The man was unconscious—the bullet had clipped him over the right ear. It was not a deep wound. The maid was fighting to get to his side. Cummings said grimly:

“Is he dead, Gar?”

Jo shook his head. “A doctor can save him, but what is the use? He won’t talk—we might just as well let him die here—”

The maid pulled herself free from Ratan’s grip. She said bitterly: “No—don’t let him die—this way! I’ll—talk!”

The Island detective said: “Good—fast, please.”

She spoke hoarsely, in a strained voice. Her eyes were on the man on the floor.

“Pedro went to Phelps, the valet. They drank together. Phelps hated Brail because he would not give him money to back him in the business. The business he wanted to start, in London. Pedro knew Brail carried a large sum of money and jewels. He offered to share with the valet. I met Pedro here in the Islands—I love him. We wanted to get away from here, and Pedro swore no one would be hurt.

And then—Phelps lost his nerve. He said he would not rob Brail. He threatened to go to the police. Pedro said we must work fast—I let the Siamese cat out, hid it in my quarters. Pedro wanted Phelps out of the way and knew that Brail would make him hunt for the cat. We were searching Brail’s luggage when he surprised us. He tried to fight, and I held his hands—while Pedro struck him—with the knife. The scratches—he got them then—”