West of Guam (9 page)

“Will you be so kind as to come with me to the City?” he asked. “We have just taken the body of Mister Benjamin Rannis from the Pasig River. He is dead, perhaps murdered. You are, implicated.

My superiors are anxious that you—”

Craise smiled with his lips. “Frame-up, eh?” he muttered. “Of course I’ll come—Wong, my helmet!”

He moved towards the square reception hall. Juan Arragon let his eyes meet Jo Gar’s.

“You do not seem surprised—to learn of Mister Rannis’ death,” he said slowly.

Jo Gar smiled. “I had just informed Señor Craise accordingly,” he said simply.

He watched Arragon’s eyes narrow in surprise. The Manila police officer was no fool. He said very quietly:

“I came here very rapidly. In a machine. The body was just discovered. Yet you already knew?”

Jo Gar said slowly: “Why did you come here so quickly?”

The fat-faced officer smiled a little. His voice was very smooth as he replied:

“There was certain evidence.”

The Island detective nodded. “That was my reason for coming here without knowing that Señor Rannis
had
been murdered,” he said very slowly. “There was certain evidence.”

Jo Gar sat in the fan-backed, wicker chair, made by prisoners in Bilibid, and smiled faintly into the eyes of Juan Arragon. It was much cooler—tropical night had dropped over Manila. He spoke in a soft, steady tone.

“Señor Rannis was a coward, plainly. He did, however, give me work at times. I had promised to help him. He came to me in the café, afraid of Howard Craise. He had reason to fear the brother of the man he had struck down so hard that his fist caused death. I agreed to intercede. I called the Craise house, and I was answered by a servant who informed me he did not like to disturb his master. That was an untruth, you say. You tell me that Howard Craise did not speak to me at the time I mention—that you saw him in a
carromatta
only a few minutes later, driving towards the Pasig.”

The Manila police officer nodded, showed white teeth in a smile. “Perhaps you saw him, also,” he said softly. “You went to his home, informed him that Señor Rannis had been murdered, before you knew that. There was a reason. You are clever, yes?”

Jo Gar chuckled. “We are
both
clever,” he qualified. “And so is Howard Craise.”

Juan Arragon shrugged his shoulders. “I do not see in what manner,” he said. “He has a servant threaten a man he is bound to hate. He has another talk over the telephone for him. And he allows both you and me to see him riding towards the spot where the body of the man he threatened is dragged from the Pasig. Is that clever?”

The Island detective gestured with his hands spreading out, palms up.

“He
allows
us both to see him, you say,” he observed slowly. “Perhaps it is very, very clever!”

He rose slowly, reached for his pith helmet. Arragon was watching him curiously. They were friends of old. Five years ago, before he had become a private investigator, Jo Gar had worked on the Manila police force.

“We are handling Mister Craise with what the Americans call the gloves,” Arragon said slowly. “He is friendly with many important personages. He dines at Señor Carlysle’s home. We must be careful, but sincere.”

Jo Gar nodded. Arnold Carlysle was the American who headed the police force, an organization combining Americans and Filipinos. There were times when the solution of crime, in Manila, was a delicate affair.

“There were two knife wounds,” Arragon went on. “One in the back, almost between the shoulder blades. The other just over the heart. Chinos on the junk near the shore heard the splash. One of them went overboard for the body. Mister Rannis had taken drinks at Manuelo’s—two or three. He had left, saying he was much in need of air. There are many river boats, junks and
sampans,
anchored side by side within a square of Manuelo’s. I feel that Mister Craise could have reached the junk near which the splash was heard within three minutes after the time I saw him riding in the
carromatta.
I feel that murder was committed shortly after these three minutes. Señor Craise possessed a motive.”

Jo Gar smiled faintly. It amused him to note the application of “Señor” and “mister” to an Englishman. Arragon had Spanish blood in his veins, as did the Island detective. Forms of address were confusing.

He stood near the door of Arragon’s office, facing the police officer.

He said slowly:

“Señor Craise had much time, before he arrived in Manila, to cool his anger. He is a shrewd man. Circumstantial evidence is all against him. I will be honest with you. I, too, saw him riding towards the Pasig. Ben Rannis came to me in fear of him. He had a reason for his fear. I was answered from the house—but Señor Craise could not have been two places at once. Much of our evidence rests on what we saw with our own eyes. Perhaps others saw him, too. Supposing then, with one twist he could destroy this evidence—”

He paused. Arragon nodded his head and made clicking sounds with his tongue.

“It is difficult,” he agreed. “I, too, believe he might have desired us to see him. And others to see him. He has been questioned, released. He has returned to his home. Silbino is strolling near the house. What next?”

Jo Gar placed his pith helmet over his gray hair. He smiled almost cheerfully.

“A poet once wrote: ‘There is mystery in the black-watered Pasig,’” he said. “I shall go towards the river, because the poet is accurate. It is so.”

Juan Arragon fanned himself slowly with a stained palm leaf, and rolled his little eyes towards the ceiling of the office.

“It is damn so!” he said softly.

Manuelo’s was a shack not far from the river—perhaps a hundred feet up a narrow alley. It was frequented by coolies, half-breed Spaniards, low class Filipinos, and others of the river. Manuelo himself was a small, emaciated human. He had bad teeth and a scarred face. His fingers were long and bony.

He repeated a good many times that the
Americano
Rannis had come in for a drink. It had been sake, he thought. He could not remember. Many rivermen had crowded his place. He said that Rannis had looked very sick. He had not stayed long. Manuelo was not sure of the time. Señor Rannis had needed air. He had gone away. No, Manuelo did not know Señor Craise. He had never come to the place.

And that was about all. The Chinos on the junk had difficulty in talking with Gar. They were not sure where the body had struck the water. They pointed at the spot where Rannis’ body had been seen—the one who had gone overboard said that he thought Rannis had moved his arms a little. But not after he had reached the
Americano.

After two hours along the Pasig, Jo Gar sighed and muttered to himself.

“It is always so with the river Pasig. So little seen or heard. And it was not dark, even. Supposing, now, another than Howard Craise had been in that
carromatta?”

It was a thought, but he did not care much about it. There would have to be a remarkable similarity of humans. He had been fooled. Juan Arragon had been fooled. No, he did not think that. They were both familiar with Craise.

He called Arragon’s office from a little tobacco shop just off the Escolta. Juan’s voice held an excited note.

“Come to me at once!” he urged. “Here in my office we have the murderer of Señor Rannis! He has confessed.”

Ten minutes later Jo Gar entered the office. His eyes went from the khaki colored uniforms of the two Filipino police to the figure slumped over the desk. Juan Arragon said sharply:

“Donnell—up!”

The man raised his head, turned slightly, stared at the Island detective. Jo Gar sucked in his breath, muttered to himself.

“Marie! But they—are alike!”

This man’s hair was a dirtier blond color. His eyes were bloodshot, larger than Señor Craise’s. He was more stooped—and looked older. But there was similarity—great similarity. In the
carromatta,
seated erect, they could have been easily mistaken.

“He is—one Donnell. A sort of beachcomber,” Arrogan said slowly, a trace of excitement in his voice. “My men found him cowering across the Pasig from the scene of the crime. We have the knife—he tossed it away as they closed in. He has confessed. It was a terrible scheme—he knew of his resemblance to Howard Craise.

For months he has awaited the Señor’s return. He has threatened Señor Rannis, again and again. He got into the
carromatta
after
siesta
time today, drove towards Manuelo’s. He knew that Señor Rannis went there. When Rannis came from the place he followed him to the river, knifed him, dragged him across the junks—threw him overboard. He made his escape. Later, when we were bringing Señor Craise to trial, he planned to give himself up, tell what he had done for sufficient money. Many thousands of dollars. He would force Señor Craise to pay—and then he intended to get away with the money. And not to confess. A tremendous scheme!”

The man who resembled Howard Craise dropped his head in his arms. He cried out hoarsely:

“Let me go—into the Bay! The sharks—”

He had a broken, husky voice. His body looked thinner than Craise’s. Collapsed across Juan Arragon’s desk he was a pitiful figure of a beaten man.

“Do they not look alike?” Arrogan asked grimly.

“You see, after the murder his nerve deserted him. He went to pieces. Is it not fortunate we were careful with Señor Craise? You see he
did
speak with you over the telephone.

Jo Gar nodded his head slowly. The phone bell rang. Arragon answered it. He smiled. His white teeth showed.

“I will come soon to your home, Señor Craise,” he said into the mouthpiece. “I have news of importance. I will be there within the half hour.”

He hung up the receiver, smiled faintly at Jo Gar.

“It was Señor Craise—asking for news,” he said. His eyes fell on the collapsed figure. He spoke sharply to the Filipinos, telling them to take him to a cell.

They half dragged the man to the door. Jo Gar stood aside, frowning. Arragon was smiling broadly. He rubbed his browned hands together. There was the sound of clattering as the Filipinos dragged the prisoner down the narrow stairs that led to the corridor through which they would walk to the cells.

“It is well we were not too hasty with Señor—”

Arragon’s voice died. A strangled scream sounded from below. There was a heavy thud—the sound of a body falling. Jo Gar jumped towards the door. The wooden stairs had a landing half way down—the remaining steps were slanted in the opposite direction, hidden from his sight. There was a low groan—another crash of a body going down. He could hear heavy breathing as he started down the stairs, Arragon at his heels. On the landing they turned, stared down.

One Filipino was on his knees, holding his head with both hands. Red stained the fingers. The other was lying motionless against the corridor wall, face downward. The screened door opening on the alley just off the Escolta.

The
caleso,
pulled by a sturdy horse, moved swiftly towards the Bay. It was a dark night; there was no moon. A hot breeze blew in from the direction of Cavite. The
Luneta,
flanked by the Manila Hotel and the Army and Navy Club, was behind now.

Jo Gar sat in the open carriage and fingered the Army Colt. His lips were pressed tightly together; he was frowning with narrowed eyes. The police search was being carried out along the big boat waterfront, not along the Pasig. Juan Arragon was thinking of the prisoner’s word—“Let me go—into the Bay. The sharks—”

A broken man—a prisoner who had looked so much like an important citizen of Manila, had suddenly, savagely twisted himself from the grip of the two Filipinos supporting him along the corridor. With one blow he had knocked one Filipino unconscious. As the other had reached for his short club the prisoner had battered him against the wall of the corridor, had jerked the club from his grip—and had struck him heavily over the head with it. Then he had made his escape. He had possessed the strength of a madman, truly.

The
caleso
driver pulled up the horse, twisted his brown face. Jo Gar paid the man, slipped from the carriage, moved swiftly towards the Bay. He kept close to an old stone wall on his right.

There were lights in the Craise house on the Bay. But the Island detective did not enter through the scrolled iron gate. He went through a narrow passage in the wall, moved through the heavy, tropical growth of the garden.

He circled the big house at the rear, reached the Bay side. Stars gave faint light to the water. In the distance he heard the muffled exhaust of a power boat. He halted, listened. The boat was going away—but it was not so far distant. He smiled grimly, moved more rapidly around the house. And then, crouched low and moving swiftly, he saw the figure that had left the sand behind and was coming towards the growth near the house.

Jo Gar waited, the Colt gripped in his right hand fingers. He could see the figure now—the man was ten feet from him. The Island detective spoke quietly, sharply:

“Up—Donnell!”

The figure stiffened. Gar heard the quick intake of breath. And then the man leaped towards him.