West of Guam (48 page)

“The house was locked?” Lemere shook his head.

“The front door was not locked. The screen door was closed, on the veranda, and the rear door was locked. But the front door was not locked.”

Jo Gar’s eyes rested on a spear that looked as though the design was Igorrote.

“Just why did you take the cook and your house-boy along with you, Lemere?” he asked slowly.

Lemere swore. “I was sore—and the Chink cook was my find. I’ve had him for five years. He’s good. My idea was to get out of here with my servants; I didn’t intend coming back—they were mine and I wanted them out—”

The Island detective nodded. “But they would have been forced to return for their things.”

Lemere said heavily: “You don’t believe me, Señor Gar?”

Jo said: “Yes, I believe you, Monsieur Lemere.”

The Frenchman wiped his face with the hand-kerchief. His left hand was shaking.

“I had a place in mind—one that I could get right into. I had the feeling that I’d show it to my servants and say: ‘We move into here tonight.’ But I cooled down on the way in. I was coming back to suggest to Gerry that we go into some cold weather for a change.

We’ve made a little money. And when I got here—”

He broke off and stared towards the lounge. Jo said:

“You looked for the gun—did not find it?”

Lemere said: “Nothing had been touched in here. I didn’t see any gun. I thought at first he might have gone crazy, killed himself. We keep the guns downstairs in a closet. They’re all there.”

Jo said, “Delancey had perhaps—an enemy?”

Lemere shook his head. “He had few friends, and no enemies so far as I know.”

The Island detective frowned. He rose suddenly and went to a corner of the room that was quite dark. He stood looking towards the wall and said quietly:

“Nothing was missing from this room?”

Lemere shook his head. “Not a thing,” he replied. “I’ve looked around—”

“What was it that has hung here—and does not hang here now?” Jo asked steadily.

Lemere rose with swiftness for his size. He reached the Island detective’s side, stared towards a small space on the wall that was a different color from the rest. It was cleaner—dust had not accumulated on the spot. Lemere drew in a deep breath.

“Good God!” he muttered. “There is something missing. I didn’t notice it—in this corner—”

Jo Gar spoke softly: “What was here, Monsieur Lemere?”

Lemere said: “A mask—A Javanese mask. When we had the argument, after
siesta
time, I remember seeing it. I stood over here, and Delancey was at the other end of the room, shouting. I looked at the mask—”

He went close to the wall and said: “It hung on a nail. There was a mouthpiece in the back of it, of bamboo—it hung on that. The nail’s still here.”

Jo Gar nodded. “What about the mask?” he asked. “Was it valuable—and who got it? How and where?”

And for the second time the Island detective expected something touched and colored by the tropics, the jungle, tribal customs—and got nothing of the sort. Lemere said:

“It wasn’t much. Ten years old, maybe. I got it for the equivalent of a couple of American dollars, at Bangkop, the capital of Java. It was a dance mask, made of wood. Pretty good sculpture, but not important. Painted red and black—and gold color. A demon mask.”

The Island detective said: “A demon mask?”

Lemere frowned. “But that doesn’t mean anything. It was a dance mask, but not a ceremonial dance mask. They use them in their plays—the good spirits wear masks and do sort of a fighting dance with the bad spirits, the demons. It usually ends up with the good spirits winning. This missing mask had staring eyes and a wide mouth with gold, long teeth. It was held between the teeth of the dancer, by the bamboo mouthpiece. There are many of them in Java. But where could it—”

He broke off. Jo Gar said: “If it wasn’t important, why did you buy it?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “It was cheap—I got it just before we left. Had some Dutch money I didn’t want to bother changing. And anyway, there’s a nice profit in that stuff. I can sell it in the States for around fifty dollars.”

Jo Gar said a little grimly: “You mean that you could sell it for that price, if you had it.”

Lemere said hoarsely: “But where did it go?”

The Island detective smiled a little. “And why did it go?” he asked in return. “Was Señor Delancey with you when it was bought?”

Lemere shook his head. “No,” he said. “He’s never cared much about it—no reason why he should. He glanced at it when I showed it to him, that’s all. I don’t think he ever spoke of it.”

Jo spoke quietly: “Is there any chance that you might be mistaken as to the mask’s value? Any chance that someone might have demanded the mask and on being refused—”

The Frenchman said: “Not a bit,” very decisively.

Jo Gar sighed. He went over and looked down at the body of Gerald Delancey. Then he turned away and said thoughtfully:

“You left Delancey after a quarrel, leaving him alone in this house. You were gone two hours and forty minutes, and the front door was not locked. When you returned Delancey was dead. Apparently from bullets in the brain and throat—the autopsy will clear that up. The gun used was missing, and also a Javanese dance mask that you had noticed hanging here on the wall during your last quarrel.”

Lemere ran his tongue over moist lips and said: “Yes—and the mask was of little value.”

Jo Gar nodded slowly. “Of little value, apparently,” he said. “Now, will you please send the three servants to me here? And then send for the police.”

Lemere said softly: “Damn the police.”

The Island detective went to the small window that faced the Pasig. It was growing quite dark. The screen was very securely fastened.

“I’m afraid damning the police would do little good,” he suggested. “Please send for them and tell them the truth. They will do interesting things.”

Lemere said grimly: “All right—and what will you do, Señor Gar?”

The Island detective spoke tonelessly: “I shall talk and think,” he replied. “Counteracting a bad habit with a good one.”

The Frenchman moved towards the door of the long, narrow room.

“You’ve got to help me, Señor Gar,” he said huskily. “I will pay you well. This is a terrible thing.”

The Island detective watched a banca move down-stream, lanterns lighted. He did not reply to the Frenchman and Lemere spoke again, hoarsely.

“I’ll telephone the police.”

He went from the room and his footfalls made sound on the stairs that led to the floor below. Jo Gar moved away from the small window and looked with half closed eyes at the nail which had held the object that was gone. He said very softly:

“A Javanese mask—of little value—”

Sadi Ratan stood in the living room, downstairs, looking more handsome than ever. His drill uniform fit his fine figure very perfectly. He spoke in his usual, loud voice.

“Major Kelvey is at Baguio; I will handle this murder myself—I have the authority. Your cook and house-boy were with you during the time you were absent from this house—they are therefore exonerated. The murdered man’s house-boy I am not through with. He is shifty and uncertain, and I have already caught him in one lie.”

Jo Gar widened his eyes and Lemere said in a surprised tone:

“He lied, eh?” He was silent for several seconds, then spoke thoughtfully: “Well, he could have been here while we were away.”

Jo Gar looked at the lieutenant of Manila police and then inhaled smoke from his brown-paper cigarette. Sadi Ratan frowned at him. “Doctor Renan states that the bullet in the brain of the dead man would have caused instant death. There is no chance of this being suicide—because the gun has not been found. The screens of both windows are secure, and it would not have been possible for the
Americano
to have tossed the gun out, in any case.”

Jo Gar said: “Lieutenant—you have learned a motive for the murder? His servant had reason to kill him?”

Lieutenant Ratan said sneeringly. “Chinese servants do not always need motives for murder. A sudden rage—”

The Island detective smiled. “You are correct, of course,” he said.

The Frenchman spoke in an excited tone. “My ——! I’d almost forgotten that! Gerry struck this Chink Gao, several days ago. Struck him with his walking stick. Hit him twice.”

Sadi Ratan said: “Ah! He did that, Monsieur Lemere?”

The big Frenchman frowned. “Of course, that doesn’t mean—”

He broke off. Jo said: “In the Islands many masters strike their servants, unfortunately.”

Sadi Ratan said loudly. “Why did he strike Gao?”

Lemere hesitated. He looked at Jo and then at the lieutenant of Manila police. He shrugged.

“I suppose you should know the truth,” he said. “It doesn’t mean that Gao is guilty of murder. He’s been wailing ever since he learned that Delancey was dead. But he was caught in the curio room, upstairs—by Gerry. Or rather, he was caught just outside the room. He had one of those carved
Igorrote
spoons on him. The handle shaped into a head. Not very valuable, but Gerry was pretty sore. He called him a thief and hit him a few cracks.”

Sadi Ratan said: “Ah! His servant was a thief. But why did he not inform the police?”

Lemere shrugged again. “The spoon had no great value. We’ve got a drawer full of them in one of those tables up there. You know how servants are-they take a fancy to something, and just want it. Gerry thought the cane blows would cure him from petty theft like that.”

Jo said slowly: “The Chinese are usually quite honest, Monsieur Lemere. They give the least trouble—”

The police lieutenant said sharply: “There are some forty Chinese serving terms in Bilibid prison, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective bowed slightly. “You are undoubtedly correct, Lieutenant,” he stated.

The Frenchman spoke softly but hoarsely. “I don’t think Gao did it,” he said. “He may be a petty thief, but he isn’t a killer. He’s never had a gun, and I don’t think he can shoot.”

The lieutenant of police spoke grimly. “That can very easily be determined. But first we will go to his quarters and search for the mask that is missing. I think we will find it.”

A clock struck ten. There was a breeze blowing across the Pasig, but it was not a very cool one. The Frenchman blinked at the police lieutenant.

“You think we will find—the Javanese mask?” he breathed. “You think—Gao stole it?”

Sadi Ratan shrugged, and his dark eyes met Jo Gar’s with faint contempt.

“He is a thief and a liar. The mask and the spoon were worth little. But he was whipped and he hated the one who had whipped him. He knew that the
Americano
and you had quarreled, Monsieur Lemere. The bullets that killed Delancey were not fired at a great distance. And the fact that one entered the brain and another the throat proves that the murderer was not a fine shot. It would not have been difficult for this servant of his to have bought or stolen a gun. And after he had killed he stole the mask. He might have thought it had value, and we would be thrown off the track. Or he might have stolen it to show his contempt—the Chinese are strange people.”

Jo Gar chuckled, and watched anger flare in the police lieutenant’s eyes.

“And the Manila police are strange people, also,” he said softly. “Very strange.”

Sadi Ratan said loudly: “Because you were fortunate in the shooting gallery murder—”

Jo Gar chuckled again. “Go and search for the Javanese mask, Lieutenant Ratan. Do what you will with this servant, Gao. It will be all very foolish. He did not murder Delancey, and I do not think he stole the mask.”

The lieutenant of police drew in a sharp breath. He stood very erect and glared at the Island detective. He started to speak, but did not. Lemere spoke wearily:

“Delancey is dead, murdered. The mask is the only thing missing from that room, so far as I know. The servants are witnesses to the fact that I was away when the murder occurred. It happens that we were together all of the time and there are others who saw me, of course—”

Sadi Ratan smiled. “You are not suspected, Monsieur Lemere. The only fault I have to find with you is that the police were not notified before Señor Gar.”

Jo Gar smiled pleasantly. “The handicap of arriving after me is nothing to a man of your ability, Lieutenant,” he stated.

The Filipino looked hatred at the Island detective, and Jo Gar thought of the difference in this second-in-command to the American head of the Manila force—and the dead Juan Arragon. This man hated him. Arragon had disagreed with him, argued with him, but he had never hated.

“And, too,” Jo said quietly, “you might not have noticed that the mask was missing from the room. I am glad to be able to give you that information.”

Sadi Ratan turned away. At the door of the living-room he turned.

“Will you please accompany me, Monsieur?” he asked Lemere.

Lemere glanced at Jo Gar, who nodded.

The Frenchman said: “Won’t you come along, Señor Gar?”

Sadi Ratan frowned but Jo Gar smiled a little.

“You are kind,” he replied. “But you wish me to search for the murderer even though the police are working to the same end?”