West of Guam (17 page)

Jo Gar smiled. “He had no insurance?” he asked.

Juan shook his head. “It was expensive for him to carry it,” he replied. “His widow informs me they were trying to save money for it. But his theatrical work meant that a high rate must be paid.”

The Island detective said: “Clara Landon—she has told me the dead man had no enemies. If she were trying to create enemies—”

The police lieutenant chuckled. He said in a very sure tone:

“She is not a fool, Jo. Suppose she were in love with—well, Señor Flores, say. She would not want him involved.”

Jo Gar made a clicking sound with his lips. He rolled his cigarette between them, inhaled deeply.

“If he had been unconscious when he was lowered over the water—there would have been some mark on his body, I should think,” he mused aloud, “But there is none—I have seen for myself. It is very strange.”

Juan Arragon stood up and smiled cheerfully at Jo.

“You want very much to believe this has been a murder, Jo,” he said. “For once you are wrong. I am convinced this Gary Landon hanged himself. It is finished.”

Jo Gar said: “I think it was murder. I do not agree that such a man as Landon would kill himself in such a fashion. Because you think so, and Señor Flores thinks so—and the Filipino clerk thinks so—I am even more doubtful.”

Arragon grunted in disgust. “You have been right too often, perhaps,” he said. “You wish to be different.”

Jo Gar said: “You have been wrong so much, Juan—but you still wish to be the same.”

He went to the street, moved along the Escolta. A
carromatta
pulled in close to the curb, after he had walked a square or so. He recognized the thin voice of Clara Landon.

“Señor Gar—”

He removed his straw hat, leaned towards the carriage. The widow of Gary Landon was dressed in black; she wore a thin veil. She said, smiling wanly:

“I think—I have been wrong, Señor. My grief has been—so great. I think perhaps poor Gary wanted to end everything. He was very temperamental. I do not think he was murdered. I wanted to—tell you.”

Jo Gar bowed. He said in a gentle voice:

“Perhaps you are right. I have found no evidence of murder. You have told me your husband had no enemies. Perhaps, after all, there was a quarrel—a little one—”

He watched her lower her veil. Her body was suddenly tense. She said, with an effort:

“Yes, there was. I tried to hide it, Señor Gar. I did not think Gary had taken it so seriously. I am terribly sorry—but there was a quarrel. At the hotel. I must accept what happened—”

Her voice broke. Jo Gar said quietly:

“That is much different, then. It gives us a motive for suicide. I think that is sufficient.”

She bowed her head. Jo Gar stepped back from the
carromatta.

The driver twisted in the little seat, grinned at him. Jo said quietly: “Proceed.”

The pony pulled the vehicle away. Jo Gar stared after it. He shrugged his shoulders.

“It is all very nice,” he murmured to himself. “Who can say her reactions were not normal? Hiding the real cause—then becoming calmer, stronger. Admitting the truth. Admitting that her husband took his own life.”

He waved to a
caleso
driver; when the larger carriage reached the curb beside him he pointed down the Escolta.

“The brown
carromatta
—a square distant. You see? Follow it, but do not go close. When it stops—you stop. That is clear?”

The driver was an aged, bulky man with teeth stained red from the constant chewing of
betel
-nut. He nodded. Jo Gar got inside the
caleso;
the driver spoke shrilly to the horse. The
caleso
jerked forward. It was after ten in the evening; the day had been a busy one. And in the many things Jo Gar had done he had missed his
siesta.
Always an early riser, he was now tired. But it was a physical weariness. His brain was alert.

His eyes watched the lights of the Escolta, some of them flaring strangely, the rain had ceased; it was warmer again. At intervals he caught glimpses of the brown-colored
carromatta
ahead. He nodded, murmured to himself:

“Yes, it is all very natural—the things these people have said. Señor Flores, Mrs. Landon—the clerk; at the Orient Hotel. And yet”—he smiled with his thin lips—”I am very certain that it was murder.”

The
caleso
jerked onward. The brown
carromatta
was beyond the Orient Hotel now. Still it was moving along the Escolta. And Manila’s main street was becoming an alley of Chinese now. It was swinging close to the river, the Pasig. The lights were fewer; many of them were flaring torches. Strange, discordant music reached the street. Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on the carriage that carried Clara Landon; he kept his small figure back of the bulk of the driver most of the time. He muttered softly:

“Perhaps, if there is enough rope—”

When the brown
carromatta
was lost from sight, near the marketplace, Jo Gar ordered his driver to stop. He descended, was reaching for silver coins when the driver touched his left arm, pointed to the far side of the market square, to the right of the Escolta. The brown-colored vehicle was circling the market square; the pony was walking. Jo Gar got back into the
caleso,
slumped low in the seat. He said quietly:

“Follow.”

When the
carromatta
had passed they followed along. The route led up the Escolta, to the Orient Hotel. At the hotel the figure in black descended. The
carromatta
driver was paid—it drew away from the entrance. Jo Gar, moving more swiftly than usual, got from the
caleso,
paid his driver and hurried into the hotel. He went directly to the clerk’s counter, but the woman in black was already moving up the stairs. There was no elevator.

The Filipino smiled at him. Jo Gar said: “Mrs. Landon has ascended?”

The Filipino nodded. “She has taken the key,” he replied. “It is very sad—”

But Jo Gar was moving towards the stairs. He went up them rapidly. The clerk had spoken of Room C12. That would be the third floor.

He came upon the woman at the second floor. She was breathing heavily; he could hear her drawing in deep breaths. She moved on, started up the third flight. Jo Gar said sharply:

“Mrs. Landon!”

The figure kept climbing the stairs.

Jo moved quickly to the woman’s side. He said: “You are tired, perhaps ill—”

She turned away from him. He caught her by the right arm, swung her around. She said weakly:

“No—please!”

And then the fingers of his right hand were jerking the veil: he stared into the white, pinched face of a woman he had never seen before. Her eyes were dark, wide with fear or pain. There were red spots on her cheeks.

Jo Gar said quietly: “You are ill—the steps are bad for you. It is your lungs, I think.”

The woman did not speak. The Island detective said:

“You were going to Mrs. Landon’s room. You have her key. That is unlawful. It will be necessary for you to come with me. I am Señor Gar, and my friend, Lieutenant Arragon, is of the police.”

There was terror in the woman’s eyes. She was a
mestizo,
mostly Filipino. But Spanish or Anglo-Saxon blood had given her skin a white tint. She was small, very thin. She did not speak.

Jo Gar said:

“You are dressed as Mrs. Landon was dressed when she spoke to me minutes ago. You have stepped into her
carromatta
when she stepped out in the market square. You did this because it was Mrs. Landon’s wish that if she were followed it would only appear natural that she should come to her hotel. But she did not come. Where is she?”

The woman shook her head. She said in broken English: “I do—not—know.”

Jo Gar shrugged his shoulders. He smiled into the woman’s dark eyes.

“We will go to the police,” he said simply. “Perhaps there you will be I persuaded to think more clearly.”

The woman started to speak, but her lips closed suddenly. She was breathing deeply and with an effort. The Island detective said:

“I do not like to take one who is ill to the police. It is not good for them. In Bilibid Prison much work is done. Many die there—”

The woman said: “I did not want to wear these clothes. I am not a bad woman.”

Jo Gar half closed his eyes. He said slowly: “I have seen you—you are in the house of Señor Flores—”

She shook her head. She said in a quieter tone: “No—that is not so.”

Jo Gar smiled. “Where is Mrs. Landon?” he asked. “She left the brown
carromatta
at the market square. Where did she go?”

The woman in black coughed. She shook her head from side to side. She said weakly:

“I do not know. I was told to come here. I had not seen Señora Landon before this. Even now I do not know her face. I am not able to climb so many stairs. The doctor—he has said—” Jo Gar interrupted in a soft, persuasive tone:

“You have done a wrong thing. There is a penalty for impersonating another. You must go to the police, unless you answer my questions truthfully. You do not know Mrs. Landon. Then perhaps you do not know that the police are searching for her. Her husband is dead—murdered.”

The woman’s eyes were wide with terror. She started to speak, choked. She said finally:

“I was sent to meet the brown-colored
carromatta.
It came on time. This woman, dressed much like myself, descended. I got inside. That is all I know. I gave to the driver the address given me—”

The Island detective said quietly: “It is not well to be connected with murder. It is much better to tell the truth. Who sent you to meet the
carromatta?”

The woman hesitated. She closed her eyes, swayed a little. Jo Gar did not touch her. He said:

“We will go now to the police—”

She cried weakly, shrilly: “No—no, please!” She was silent for several seconds. Then she spoke very softly. “I was sent to the square by—”

Her words died. She closed her eyes; he caught her in his arms as she crumbled towards the hardwood floor of the landing. She was very light; he lifted her, carried her up the remaining flight, moved towards Room C12. There was no one about. Steadying her with one arm, he took from her open, lace bag the key, turned it in the lock. When he had laid the woman on the bed he opened the shutters wide, moved towards the water pitcher. He said softly to himself:

“She has only fainted. But it will not be wise to wait here until Mrs. Landon returns. She is a clever woman. Or an obedient one. I must learn where to find her. The element of surprise is often—an important factor.”

He moved back towards the bed, and the motionless figure of the woman in black. He was smiling with his almond-shaped eyes.

Juan Arragon was nervous as the small car followed the road that ran along the river’s edge. The Pasig was narrower here than it was downstream near Manila. Caribou slept along the muddy banks; thatch-roofed huts were passed, from time to time. Arragon, working with the wheel, said:

“It is very strange—it seems incredible. And why you were suspicious—”

Jo Gar said, interrupting: “It is the weaklings who kill themselves over little love quarrels. Gary Landon was not a weakling. He was a strong man. But the woman, Clara—she was not strong. An actress, yes. But when she spoke to me an hour ago, on the Escolta, I was instantly more suspicious. She wanted me to think that now she, too, agreed that her husband had killed himself. But not until she had first cried of murder. She was very clever.”

Juan Arragon frowned. The car was slowing down. He said:

“We do not know much yet. We have nothing but the word of a servant.”

Jo Gar smiled. “That is much,” he replied. “Mrs. Landon did not think anyone would address the woman who returned in her place to the hotel. Grief is a barrier many fear. But I did not think Mrs. Landon, in so much sorrow, would drive around the Escolta and the market square, on such a night. And this half-breed woman did not sit at ease in the
carromatta,
or walk from it into the hotel as Mrs. Landon does.”

Juan Arragon grunted. “This is the place,” he said, gesturing towards the right. “There is the bay and the dock. The house, too.”

Jo Gar nodded. “We will leave the car some distance away, and walk to the house,” he said. “I think it will be a surprise.”

“Or perhaps—a mistake,” Arragon said grimly.

Jo Gar nodded. “There are many of each in life,” he replied with faint amusement, “We must accept the chance.”

The house was low and rambling; it was not the home of a poor man. There were many trees in the ground that surrounded it—the slope that rose to the screened front porch was perfectly landscaped. Jo Gar led the way; Lieutenant Arragon was just back of him. He muttered in a low voice:

“He is a very wealthy man—a powerful man. If we are wrong there will be trouble.”

Jo Gar said in a whisper: “If we are not wrong it will be good for you. Do not forget that.”

They reached the porch—the outer screen door was not locked. Jo opened it; they tiptoed to the front door. There were lights inside, dim and well shaded. They could see the wicker furniture, the huge, fan-backed chairs. There was a bell; Jo pulled the knob. It tinkled faintly, somewhere within the house. After a short time there was the pad of sandaled feet on hardwood flooring; the door was opened cautiously.

Arragon said: “It is Lieutenant Arragon, of the police. We wish to enter quietly. Do not give warning. Open the door.”

The door opened. The Filipino boy was small and wide-eyed. Jo Gar smiled at him.

“Your master is in—and with him is a lady. An English lady. You will tell us where we may find them.”

The boy, fear in his eyes, said brokenly:

“They are in the back—in the curio room. They have just arrived from the boat.”

Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. He said:

“Would they hear that bell—in the curio room?”

The boy swallowed hard. He replied in a strained voice: “I do not think so.”

Juan Arragon said: “Lead us to the door of the room—make no sound. It will be bad for you, if you fail to obey.”

They followed the house-boy down a hall that was dimly lighted. There was a sharp turn to the right, they descended several steps. There was a door ahead. Voices reached them faintly. The boy lifted an arm, gestured towards the door. Jo Gar led the way.