West of Guam (59 page)

Jo Gar broke into a trot. When he reached the crest of the palm studded slope he got to his knees and crawled along. There was another explosion, and then he was looking down at the small, level field. At the far end of it the wreckage of the plane was making a bright blaze. Pieces of it, sections, had been flung some distance by the explosion. The sky was reflecting the glow. In the direction of the house, behind him, he heard shouts.

He smiled grimly, lying motionless and watching the plane burn. After a few minutes he parted his thin, colorless lips and said softly: “So often when there is one accident—there is very quickly
another.

Dawn light and the first heat that came with it was in the living-room when Jo Gar entered it. Rooder sat staring at the waxed floor; he looked up quickly when the Island detective came into the room.

“We were looking for you,” he said sharply. “We went to your room, but you weren’t there.”

Jo Gar smiled slightly. “All three of you?” he asked pleasantly.

Rooder frowned. “As it happened, the three of us did go to your room together,” he said. “The plane burned—I suppose you know that?”

The Island detective nodded. “I was restless—couldn’t sleep. So I thought I’d go along and have a look at the wreckage. Cooler at night.” He watched a flickering expression in the German’s blue eyes.

Rooder said tonelessly.

“You get there before she burned?”

The Island detective shook his head. “I was on my way when the fire started,” he replied. “What do you suppose caused it?”

Rooder swore. “I suppose the crash crossed up the electric system in some way. Short circuit—something burned out and the doped material went up. Takes some time for that to happen—a wire might have been sizzling since the crash.”

The Island detective nodded. “It might have,” he agreed quietly.

Rooder drew a deep breath. “You left your room through a window, Señor Gar. You didn’t want any of us to know where you were going. And then the plane burned. I suppose you think she was set off, so that you couldn’t find the bullet holes in the fabric?”

Jo Gar shook his head. “But all three of you came to my room to tell me that the plane was burning,” he pointed out pleasantly. “I could hardly suspect any of you.”

Rooder’s blue eyes smiled coldly. He stretched out in the wicker chair and watched the detective. After a short silence Jo said:

“How about a woman, Rooder? Could there have been one interested in Branders—or could he have been interested in one?”

Rooder shrugged, then shook his head. “I never knew of one,” he replied. “He never spoke of one—to any of us.”

The Island detective sighed slowly “He had a touch of
dengue,
” he said tonelessly. “He felt like flying—and he took off. The worst time of the day. Something went wrong, and he crashed and was killed. A short circuit caused delayed fire, and the plane was destroyed.”

Rooder shrugged. “That is what I think,” he stated. “And Alwin simply meant that an investigation should be made—which I understand. He—and the three of us here gain material things by Branders’ death, of course.”

Jo Gar nodded. Tate came into the room, wiping his face with a handkerchief. He was frowning.

“Going to be another scorcher, as usual,” he said. “Where’s that damned Chink cook, Erich? I want something to eat, and I can’t find him.”

Rooder widened his eyes. Jo Gar inspected the brown-paper of a cigarette. Carter entered the room and sat down. He looked narrowly at Jo, but he did not speak.

Rooder said: “Won should be around—he’s usually up at this time. Come to think of it—I didn’t see him near the plane, when it was burning. Most of the Filipinos were there.”

Tate said slowly: “He’s a heavy sleeper. I’ll send one of the boys over to his shack.”

He turned towards the door that led out to the patio at the side of the living-room. But he stopped suddenly. There were shrill shouts and the sounds of someone running swiftly. A screen door slammed and a half naked Filipino boy came into the room. He spoke several words in his native tongue, then said rapidly:

“Tony Won—I find him—him dead—”

There was silence in the room, except for the rapid breathing of the Filipino boy. Rooder stood up. Carter stiffened in his chair, but did not speak. Tate broke the silence.

“Dead?” he said heavily. “Are you—sure?”

The Filipino boy’s eyes were very wide and black. He nodded. “Me sure—very much cut with knife,” he jerked.

Jo Gar lighted the cigarette he had been inspecting. Carter swore very slowly. The Island detective spoke in a soft voice:

“That is too bad. I was thinking, just a few minutes ago, of talking to him. It was he who saw the airplane fall.”

Rooder said sharply. “Take us to where you found him, Juan. You coming, Señor Gar?”

The Island detective nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It may be that the knifing was not an accident.”

Tate swung around so that he faced Gar. His eyes were very small and the fingers of his hands, at his sides, were moving.

“Listen here, Gar—”

Rooder said sharply: “Stop that, Harry—it won’t do any good.

Señor Gar has been paid to make an investigation.” Jo smiled very faintly. “It is so,” he said simply.

Tate turned away from him. “Go on,” he ordered the boy.

They went from the room, crossed the patio, went around to the rear of the plantation house. The Filipino boy led them away from it, towards a single shack, small and dirty, near thick palm foliage. No other shacks were close to this one, which was the nearest one to the house.

The door of the shack was open; the Filipino boy stood aside. Rooder went in and Jo followed him. Carter and Tate came in slowly.

The Chinese cook was lying on his back. He was short and fat and his eyes stared at the ceiling of the shack. There was blood on his throat and face, and his hands were covered with it. He was naked.

Jo Gar moved close to the body, looked down. Rooder said in his slightly guttural voice:

“His hands are slashed; he put up a fight. Got him in the throat.

Probably he couldn’t scream much.”

The Island detective moved around the body; his eyes narrowed and expressionless. Tate stood near the opened door, breathing heavily. Carter said:

“Doesn’t look as if he’s been dead very long. I’d better send for Doc Cordozo again.”

Rooder’s blue eyes were watching the small figure of Jo Gar. He spoke softly:

“Yes—get Cordozo here. And get all the servants outside. I think I know why this happened.”

Jo Gar looked at the German. “Why did it happen?” he asked quietly.

Rooder shrugged. “Won didn’t get along too well with the hands. There have been complaints. He’s allowed so much for food, and it was complained that he has been putting some of the money aside for himself, cutting down the food.”

The Island detective smiled just a little. “And for that reason he was murdered,” he said.

Rooder frowned. “Men have been murdered for a less logical reason than that—in the Islands,” he stated.

Jo nodded.

“And for a more logical reason,” he said simply.

There was silence except for Carter, outside, calling several names, giving orders. Jo Gar moved about the shack, searching with his eyes. He touched nothing. Tate said:

“If we could find the knife—”

Rooder swore. “We won’t,” he interrupted. “A knife is too easy to hide, out here.”

Jo Gar walked past both men, went through the doorway of the shack. There had been no rain for months—the ground was hard. He moved over it for a short distance, circled the shack. It was growing steadily hotter. Erich Rooder came from the shack and stopped close to him.

“I can see your side of it, Señor Gar,” he said easily. “You think one of us shot down Branders, and then, when you arrived, got worried. The plane was burned by one of us, before you could see the bullet holes. Won murdered by one of us because one of us thought he might have seen something.”

Jo Gar looked thoughtful. Rooder said: “You think the three of us are protecting each other—or the guilty one.”

The Island detective frowned. “I think the plane crash was an accident,” he said slowly. “I think the fire was caused by a short circuit. I think Won was knifed because he did not give so much food to the hands. Does that please you?”

Rooder’s eyes held a hard expression. “It
would
please me, if I didn’t think you were lying,” he said sharply.

Jo Gar bowed very slightly. “I shall be glad to hear what the servants say, and what the doctor says,” he replied. “I do not think you will find the knife.”

He turned away, towards the plantation house, and Rooder spoke in a puzzled voice.

“Where can we get you—”

The Island detective stopped and faced Rooder. He was smiling with his lips, but his eyes held no expression.

“I am going to my room and sleep,” he said. “Sleep allows me to think more clearly, when I awake. Perhaps there is something I have not thought about.”

Rooder’s lips parted, and Jo waited for him to speak. But he said nothing. The Island detective turned away and went slowly back to the house. In his room he undressed and lay naked on the bed, on his back, his eyes staring at the ceiling. At intervals he could hear shouts, and after a half hour or so he heard the sounds of a car arriving. It was apparently an ancient car—it made a great rattle and wheeze.

The Island detective dozed for a half hour or so, rose and dressed. The Colt he inspected fully, slipped into a hip pocket of his trousers. He adjusted his pith helmet carefully, went outside and towards the flying field and the wreckage. He was soaked with perspiration when he reached the house again, almost an hour later. Cordozo, Tate and Rooder were in the living-room, sipping cool drinks. Rooder clapped his hands and ordered one for Jo.

“Been to the field again?” he asked pleasantly.

Jo Gar nodded. He seated himself in a wicker chair, wiped his face with a handkerchief.

“Again,” he agreed.

Rooder remained seated but gestured towards the doctor.

“Doctor Cordozo—Señor Gar,” he said.

They both nodded. Cordozo was short and thick-set; he had a browned face with a spatulate nose. His eyes were very small and his arms long. He spoke thickly but decisively.

“I can report to you, Señor Gar, that Branders was instantly killed in the plane crash. The cook was knifed to death, and it is doubtful that he was able to cry out. He died more slowly, but he was quickly unconscious. I should say he had been dead several hours when discovered.”

Jo nodded and said nothing. Rooder said:

“Carter’s out seeing that the work goes on—it’s got to, you know.” Jo nodded again.

After a short silence Rooder spoke very slowly:

“We got nothing from any of the servants. None of them knew a thing, and they all protested that Won had given them very good food. They all say that they loved him like a brother.”

The Island detective smiled a little. “Naturally,” he said.

Rooder frowned at the waxed floor of the living-room. “It is what happened,” he muttered. “They wanted a new cook—and they knew their complaints had caused no change. So they murdered Won—that is the way it is done out here.”

Jo Gar looked at the ceiling. “I might agree with you, except for one thing,” he said. “With Branders alive and not paying any attention to their complaints—they might have killed Won. But with Branders dead—they would wait. When things quieted down they would speak to you. If you refused they might kill. But they could not
know
that you would refuse.”

Rooder smiled with his lips; his eyes were hard. “They
did
know,” he contradicted. “They knew last night, before you arrived.”

Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette. “They came to you, and you refused to let Won go?” he asked.

Rooder’s smile went away. He shook his head.

“No, Won came to me,” he said slowly. “He demanded more money for the commissary. He said that some of the hands were threatening him, and he was afraid. He refused to name those who threatened. I suspected that he had been stealing, and I refused to give him more. He undoubtedly told the hands.”

The Island detective said: “Branders was already dead.”

Rooder nodded. “Of course,” he said.

Jo Gar inhaled and removed the cigarette from his lips. “And now Won is dead,” he said quietly. “You would think that he would have told the hands the food would be better in the future, and would have stopped stealing for a while.”

Rooder smiled grimly. “He was a fool,” he said.

Jo Gar drew a deep breath, sighed. The doctor yawned and apologized.

“I will make my report to the Constabulary,” he said. “It is murder, and they will be here soon. It will do no good.”

Rooder shook his head. His eyes were on Jo’s. “No good,” he agreed. “Natives are natives.”

Jo rose and smiled towards Rooder. “I shall not be here for lunch,” he said. “Perhaps not for dinner. Do not wait for me, please. I hope to return before midnight.”

He watched the flicker of expression in Rooder’s eyes. The doctor yawned again. Rooder said:

“Would you like the flivver, Señor Gar?”

The Island detective shook his head. “You are kind,” he replied. “I shall not need it.”

He smiled and went from the room, conscious that the eyes of Rooder and Tate were following him. Outside he met Carter, coming towards the screened porch. Carter was frowning.

“They won’t work the way they should,” he breathed. “And they all know who knifed Won. Not that it’ll do any good—we couldn’t even beat it out of them. And the Constabulary won’t try to do that.”

The Island detective said: “The Constabulary is wise.”

He went around the house and towards the flying field. When he reached the slope and the thick foliage he picked a spot which held less insects than most spots, and crouched down. After a few minutes he heard faint sounds that grew louder. He did not see the figure that passed on towards the field and the wreckage. When the sounds had died away he changed his original direction, walked northward for several miles until he reached a small, bamboo shack that held an ant-eaten cot and a chair. The shack was for the field hands, but it had evidently not been used for weeks. It was hot inside. There were insects. Jo Gar swore several times.