West of Guam (66 page)

“The body?” he said in accented English. Jo Gar said:

“In the study beyond.” He raised the fan slightly. “I found this fan beneath the wicker cabinet. Mr. Neblo has never seen it before, and is certain that his secretary did not have it in his possession. I think the handle is amber. I have not touched the handle—there may be fingerprints on it.”

Neblo said: “I have called Señor Gar in—want him on the case.” Lieutenant Ratan bowed slightly. He extended fingers and took the fan on the circular rim of the flat part. His dark eyes examined the handle. He sniffed it.

Jo said: “There is no odor. When the police have determined the presence or absence of prints it will be simple to burn the handle or rub it. Then you can—”

Sadi Ratan said sharply: “I am familiar, Señor Gar, with the methods of discovering amber. But this is nothing. Let us look into the matter of the murder.”

Jo Gar bowed. “If you will pardon me, Mr. Neblo,” he said quietly, “I will return for a short time to my house. In our haste to reach your home I neglected to bring my automatic. I would feel more safe—” Lieutenant Ratan smiled. “Perhaps you would take mine, Señor Gar?” he said mockingly. “The murderer might attack you during your return to your home.”

“You are kind, Lieutenant,” Jo Gar’s voice was expressionless. He moved towards the door. “But I am sure that while
you
are so near my home—the murderer will not dare to strike again.”

It was almost one o’clock when the small car of the Island detective pulled into the curb a quarter square from the banks of the Pasig. Jo descended and walked through the rain, with the typhoon wind behind him, along the
Calle Vanisto.
The night was very dark; the typhoon had increased in velocity; few people were about. An old Chinese passed him as he neared the shop of Yut Gen, hunched forward against the gusts of wind and showers of rain.

Before the small window Jo Gar halted. There was no flickering light at the rear of the shop now, and something had gone wrong with the nearest street light. Jo drew the pocket flash from his raincoat, snapped the button. The yellow beam struck the wet glass, penetrated beyond. The Island detective sucked in a swift breath.

The
betel
-nut box was where it had been a few hours before. The jade, the beads and the carved spoons had not been moved. But the amber fan was not in the window.

Jo Gar stood with his browned face close to the glass of the small shop. His gray-blue eyes were almost closed. After a short time he turned towards the door of the shop, stood facing it. Then, slowly, he shook his head, walked past the door and towards his small car.

When he reached the house of Edmond Neblo he swore softly in Spanish. He did not enjoy driving his car, preferred the
caleso.
He went along the path as the wind rocked the palms, crossed the porch, entered the house.

In the living-room were Neblo and Lieutenant Ratan. The policeman who had accompanied Ratan was placing shining handcuffs on a small, fat-faced Chinese, who was protesting shrilly in his native tongue. He stared at Jo, broke into bad English:

“They take me away—I no do kill! I tell him truth. I no do this—”

Sadi Ratan smiled sarcastically at Jo. “You were not attacked by the murderer,” he stated calmly. “Because the murderer was
here.
”

Jo Gar looked with narrowed eyes at the house-boy. “So?” he said softly. “And the motive, Lieutenant?”

Sadi Ratan smiled in a superior manner. “He had been drinking saké. He hated Señor Strett. The secretary had called him a stupid fool. He had even struck him. I have found unfinished saké in his quarters. It was almost a half hour before he could talk to us. He has admitted that Señor Strett called him stupid and struck him. And, Señor Gar, regard his right hand.”

Jo Gar moved near the Chinese. He spoke quietly: “You hated Señor Strett?”

The house-boy spoke Chinese rapidly. Jo Gar reached down and caught the right wrist of the Chinese in strong right-hand fingers.

Across the palm and fingers was a long, deep cut. It was a cut such as the blade of a knife might have made.

Sadi Ratan said: “You see, Señor Gar. Unless one is very clever, when striking another person, the blade of the knife may turn. He was injured as he murdered Señor Strett.”

The house-boy stopped his rapid talk. Jo Gar released the wrist.

He shrugged.

“He says that it is true he hated Señor Strett,” he informed Lieutenant Ratan and Edmond Neblo. “But he says that he did not kill him. He was often struck and called stupid because he did not fasten the screens, when told to do so. He was in his quarters and had drunk much saké when you came to him.”

Sadi Ratan smiled. “And the cut on his hand, Señor Gar?”

Jo spoke in Chinese, to the house-boy. When the Chinese had finished his reply Jo said:

“His story is very plain. He says that he was awakened in the night by the wind. Somewhat tardily he recalled Señor Strett’s instructions to make fast all the screens, and for this purpose he came silently to this room to repair his neglect.

“On entering, he says, above the wind noises he heard the gasping of struggling men. There was no light—when he entered—but he heard the voice of Strett cry out once in pain; a choked cry, as if he were being strangled. Then the men in their struggle were right upon him. He reached out, he says, and grasped an arm, a wrist. It was suddenly withdrawn and the knife sliced his palm.

“He jumped back; then heard Strett groan, and the thud of a falling body. He turned, he says, and fearing for his own life, fled into the gardens. A half-hour later, he made his way back to his room, bound his hand and drank deeply of saké. And thus you found him.”

“A very likely story,” murmured Sadi Ratan, “—for children.”

“I do not find it so,” Jo Gar said coldly.

The lieutenant of Manila Police shrugged elaborately, almost too elaborately.

“And does he describe this other man—who cut him? He started to tell me this same wild tale—but his guilt is too evident; the case against him too apparent.” He shrugged again, but at the same time his eyes were watching the little Island detective.

Jo Gar spoke again in Chinese to the house-boy.

“He says,” he said slowly, “that he could not see the man. He knows only that the wrist was large; the man was very strong. He could not hold him.”

Sadi Ratan lifted both hands and shoulders in sardonic gesture. Yet his eyes were very keen, although he veiled their expression from Jo Gar.

“So you see? How is it possible to find such a man—the man who used the knife, if there was one—through a thick, strong wrist alone? It is much simpler as it is.”

“Of course,” Jo Gar said agreeably. “Much simpler—for everybody except the boy here, and he will have great difficulty in making the court believe his story unless such a man is found and made to appear the guilty one. As you present it, Lieutenant, the case against him is very simple.”

Sadi Ratan swore.

“The police,” he said hotly, “do not wish to punish the innocent.”

“The police,” Jo Gar said softly, “are sometimes lazy. They often prefer the easiest, the simple way.”

Sadi Ratan swung towards him angrily, with a threatening gesture. He seemed on the point of striking the little detective.

“You cannot say that to me, damn you!” he stuttered. Jo Gar smiled slightly.

“The observation,” he said quietly, “was a generality. It shall not apply to Lieutenant Ratan unless he himself makes it applicable.”

The lieutenant seemed very angry; but behind his anger his eyes were shrewd.

“Very well,” he said with sudden dignity. “Let us look further into this matter. If the story he tells is true, why did he not at once cry for help, or at least, when he felt safe to return, inform Señor Neblo? Perhaps he can answer that to
your
satisfaction, Señor Gar!” he added triumphantly.

Jo Gar shrugged slightly.

“I think,” he said, “that he can.”

He spoke again to the boy.

“It is,” he interpreted for Neblo and the lieutenant, “as he feared—that he would be implicated in the murder. You know the Chinese. This boy is also stupid. He believed Señor Strett dead and did not wish to say anything in the matter. It was, of course, very stupid.”

“There remains then,” Sadi Ratan said with a tone of finality, “the necessity to discover this other man. For, surely, without him one must believe my simple story, and the boy will hang.”

“That is all very true,” Jo Gar agreed, “and without the real murderer, the boy will surely hang. I think, however, this man can be readily found.”

“What!” Sadi Ratan shouted, and Edmond Neblo echoed the exclamation. “You know the man—have known him all along, while we’ve had this senseless talk? Before God, Señor Gar, you try my patience; and, as you know, your license depends upon the agreeability of the police department. Who is this man? What is his name? I demand it.”

Jo Gar raised a slender, browned hand.

“My words,” he said slowly, “were, I think the man can be readily found. That means that he is yet to be found. First, however, it is necessary to discover a motive; for without a reason for the killing and its story, it would be useless to confront such a man. He would simply deny—we could do nothing.”

Sadi Ratan glanced about him with an air of exasperation. “Then let us make a beginning—” He left off, frowning.

Jo Gar passed a hand swiftly across his lips, to conceal their involuntary smile.

“I shall gladly save the Lieutenant,” he said, “much labor that may in the end prove fruitless. You have a prisoner,” he added, “a very plausible suspect. That should content you for tonight. Tomorrow, if you will meet me at my office, at nine. I shall take you to the murderer—or will leave the simple case as it stands entirely in your hands.”

Sadi Ratan frowned darkly.

“But—if you have reason to suspect a man, he might escape meanwhile.”

“He would scarcely, I think, give us so much evidence against himself,” Jo Gar said softly.

“Very well,” the lieutenant said gruffly, “we will leave it meanwhile at that. I have a prisoner, a very reasonable suspect—” he shrugged. “I have also a knife, such a knife as could have been used in the murder. It is stained with blood. I found it beside the boy—on his bed.”

“And I,” Jo Gar said softly, “have a fan, an amber fan, whose presence here has not yet been explained.”

Sadi Ratan glanced at him keenly; then turned and signed to the man in uniform to lead out the trembling house-boy.

“Do you leave with me, Señor Gar?” he asked, with elaborate politeness.

“No, I shall talk a while with Señor Neblo.” Sadi Ratan nodded stiffly to both and left.

Sadi Ratan and the little Island detective moved towards
Calle Vanisto.

“It was only an accident,” Jo Gar said, “that I happened to see it; that my curiosity was aroused.”

“Perhaps you even stepped upon it,” said the lieutenant of police slyly.

“It may be so,” Jo Gar murmured. “Often people stumble over what lies right before their eyes.”

“Still, we have yet to prove the story,” the lieutenant said, in different tone.

“The information you have given me will be helpful. Besides, a man who is guilty will often incriminate himself if pressed adroitly.”

“But you say the papers which Señor Neblo discovered only hinted at the person; did not give even his name or address?”

“It is so—But we shall soon see, for this is the place.”

It was ten minutes after nine when they entered the curio shop of Yut Gen. Sadi Ratan paused near the door and set himself to examine the many objects displayed. Jo Gar advanced farther.

Yut Gen himself came from the rear of the shop, moved soft-footed behind the evil-smelling counter. He was a moon-faced, youthful Chinese; his eyes were small and slitted. He was medium in height and was very stout. His wrists were thick and round.

Jo Gar said: “I am Señor Gar. Last night there was in your window a fan of blue silk. I do not care for fans, but the handle of this one appeared to be of amber. I should like to see the fan.”

Yut Gen placed a lighted cigarette between his lips, tilted his chin high and regarded Jo through almost closed eyes. Slowly he shook his head.

“Never in my shop have I possessed such a fan as you describe,” he said in very good English. “Perhaps it was in some other shop—” Jo Gar smiled patiently. “I stood before your window last night. It was not yet ten-fifteen. The amber fan was beside the silver
betel
-nut box.”

Yut Gen’s small eyes grew smaller. “You are mistaken,” he said gently. “I have no amber in my shop.”

Jo Gar said: “Perhaps you have not, at this minute. Between ten and ten-fifteen last evening I saw with my own eyes the amber-handled fan. At one o’clock last night I returned to your window. The fan was not there.”

Yut Gen made clicking sounds and spread his browned hands.

“I think that you have seen the fan in some other shop, Señor,” he stated calmly. “Then, returning to my shop, you failed to see it. A not uncommon mistake.”

Jo Gar smiled, but his gray-blue eyes held a hard expression.

“In the home of Señor Edmond Neblo his secretary was murdered, last night. The murder occurred between ten o’clock and fifteen minutes of twelve, since he was seen alive at the earlier hour and his knifed body discovered at the later. The doctors have thought the crime was committed about eleven-thirty. Beneath a cabinet, and not far from the body of the murdered man, I have found a fan. Of blue silk, and with a long amber handle. Sea amber, unpolished. The fan is very unusual. I think it is the one I saw in your shop window last night.”