West of Guam (69 page)

“You depart suddenly. You have obtained information that interests you?”

Jo Gar smiled thinly. “You are always kind to me, lieutenant. But, to be truthful, you know my feelings for fan-backed chairs.”

Lieutenant Ratan nodded, smiling. “You have several in your home, a fine one in your office. Perhaps it is that you seek another?”

The detective said: “It is so, lieutenant. I seek another. And there is little time to find it.”

He ducked his head, went from the café to the Escolta. A gray-ponied
caleso
clattered by and he called to the driver, who shook his head.

“The day has been hot,” he said. “I go to dine.”

The detective said, “I am Señor Jo Gar. I go to prevent death. Your dining must wait.”

The driver stared at him. “It is so,” he agreed, his dark eyes wide. “It is the Island detective.”

Jo Gar climbed into the
caleso.
“The Manoa Hotel—and very fast, please.”

The driver frowned. “Speed will kill my pony,” he stated in Tagalog.

Jo Gar swore at the driver. “Laziness will cause a human death. Let the pony die. I will buy another for you.”

The whip crackled and the
caleso
jerked forward, the driver shrilling words. Filipinos and Japanese, Chinese and Italian—the mixed breeds of the Islands—stared at the racing pony of the
caleso
as it swayed along the Escolta.

As they neared the Manoa Hotel Jo Gar looked at the sunset over Cavite and the bay. It was blood-red and commencing to fan. Already it was not unlike the rising wicker curve, some five feet high, of his finest fan-backed chair.

Before the hotel the
caleso
halted; Jo Gar was out of it swiftly. He paid the driver generously. “May your rice taste well!” he called over a shoulder, hurrying into the hotel.

It required minutes to find Balding. When he appeared, Jo Gar spoke with speed unusual for him.

“When I left the hotel shortly after six-thirty I saw a Chinese—an elderly man—bearing a fan-backed chair on his back. He was moving toward the rear of the hotel.”

He paused, watching the Englishman’s eyes. Balding said:

“Yes, that would be for Mr. Veiller. He sailed this afternoon for an inter-island trip, but he returns in a week. He requested that the chair be placed in the room he occupied, awaiting his return. He purchased it yesterday and was much pleased with it. I was glad to have it placed—”

“In what room?” Jo Gar interrupted harshly.

The hotel manager stared at him. “Mr. Veiller occupied Room A-30. It overlooks—”

Jo Gar said: “Follow me quickly to the room. And get a key to the door, please!” He started toward the broad stairway leading to the first floor.

Balding called after him. “It was reported to me that Mr. Veiller forgot to leave his key, took it with him to the inter-island boat.”

Jo Gar halted, turned. “There is no inter-island boat sailing today. He did not
forget
to leave his key. Get another—and hurry!”

Balding moved toward the desk of the hotel, and Jo Gar hurried up the stairs. Room A-30 was in an opposite wing from the suite occupied by Joan Samson and Barbara Prentice. The corridors which Jo Gar walked were wide and dark against the sun, silent. When he reached the shuttered door, he placed an ear against wood, listened. There was no sound. He rapped sharply.

He was rapping for the second time when Balding came along the corridor. He silently handed the detective a key. As it turned in the lock, lights in the corridor were dashed on from below.

Jo Gar opened the door, moved along a short hall faintly lighted from the corridor. At the doorway to the large room he halted, stood motionless.

Behind him Balding sucked in a swift breath. “God!” he said huskily. “Miss Prentice—in the fan-backed chair!”

The light that filtered into the room was red from the sunset. The curving back of the huge wicker chair rose several feet above the girl’s head. Her white hands hung limply over the sides of the wicker; she was sitting erect—so erect her position was unnatural. The color of her face was ghastly.

Jo Gar hurried to the side of the chair. His slant eyes were little more than slits as they looked at the thin cord fastened through the wicker of the chair’s fan-shaped back and tight against the throat of the girl.

Quickly he opened his penknife, carefully forced the blade point between the skin and the cord, cut its strong loop.

The girl’s head fell forward. Jo Gar caught her by the shoulders.

He said to the hotel manager: “Get a doctor—quickly.”

He carried the girl to a divan as Balding’s footfalls died in the corridor, rubbed her throat with practiced fingers, felt no beat from her pulse. Ten minutes later when Balding came in with Van Caan he was still working over her.

While the doctor examined her, Jo Gar went back to the chair to inspect the cut rope which had fallen to the waxed floor. It was similar to the piece of hemp Joan Samson had shown him, and about the same length. He was holding it in his fingers, looking down at it, when he heard the words of Doctor Van Caan:

“She is—dead.”

Sidi Kalaa stood near the door of the suite at the far end of the hotel, as Jo Gar, Balding and Doctor Van Caan approached it. Jo Gar said quietly to him: “Good evening, Sidi Kalaa. No one has entered or left this suite since you arrived?”

Sidi Kalaa nodded. “No person has entered or departed through this door since I arrived, Señor Gar.”

“It is well,” the detective said. “Please remain here a short time, Sidi Kalaa.”

He led the way to the living room of Joan Samson’s suite, followed by the hotel manager and the doctor. As Jo Gar lighted a brown-paper cigarette, the doctor spoke slowly.

“A case of mistaken identity, Señor Gar, That is my theory, from what you have told us Miss Samson told you. The murderer or murderers mistook Barbara Prentice for Joan Samson. They got her into that room on some pretext—strangled her. Perhaps Joan Samson’s brother was murdered, after all and was not the victim of a crazed Chinese. In Manila there was fear of the sister, and a terrible mistake was made.”

Balding nodded his head. “Miss Samson’s fears were justified, you see. It is a terrible thing to have to tell her of this.”

“The shock will be great,” Doctor Van Caan said. “It might even—kill her.”

The detective’s eyes held a distant expression. He faced the doorway of the room in which he had looked down at Joan Samson. “It might—even kill her,” he repeated softly.

He stood motionless, eyes almost closed. Then, suddenly, he drew a deep breath.

“Will you gentlemen please accompany me?” he asked.

He led the way into the bedroom. When he reached the motionless form of Joan Samson he stood beside her for long seconds. She was lying on her right side, arms relaxed, her face pale. Her profile was very beautiful.

Doctor Van Caan said thoughtfully: “She will sleep for several hours yet. It’ll be damned tough telling her.”

Balding said: “I must call the police, Señor Gar, much as I hate the publicity.”

The detective raised his right hand in a halting gesture. “Please,” he said. “Listen to me for a few minutes. After that, you may call the police.”

Balding shrugged and seated himself on the arm of a chair facing the bed on which Joan Samson was lying.

The doctor moved closer to the girl touched her right wrist. After a half minute or so he said: “Good! Quite strong.”

Jo Gar spoke evenly. “Joan Samson came to me, stated she was in trouble. She said her traveling companion believed she would be murdered. She had received a threatening note; a letter had been stolen; a coil of rope had been placed in her steamship cabin. She was to be strangled in a fan-back chair, which was the manner of death intended for her brother.”

The doctor nodded. “The letter that was stolen had been from her brother to her, stating that he had been warned he would be strangled to death—in a fan-backed chair.”

Jo Gar smiled faintly. “Rather elaborate idea, I think. It would have been much simpler to knife.”

Balding said shortly: “They
did
knife him. But the Oriental mind is a colorful one. The strangling idea pleased the murderer more.”

The detective watched the doctor nod again, in confirmation of the manager’s words. The smile went from his face.

“Supposing that, for reasons unknown to us, Conrad Samson left all his money to a woman,” he said slowly. “A woman who was
not
his sister—not Joan Samson. And supposing that, in the event of this other woman’s death, the money would revert to the sister. That is the motive for a crime on the sister’s part, is it not?”

The manager and doctor were staring at him. Neither of them spoke. A hot wind rustled palm trees beyond the room, beyond the balcony.

“I have some reputation as a detective.” Jo Gar smiled faintly, almost sardonically. “If Joan Samson came to me, made me believe she was in danger, was to be strangled in a fan-backed chair—”

He broke off, shrugged. His eyes went to the motionless form of Joan Samson. Her breathing was slow, regular.

“I would, as I did, take the case,” the detective went on. “And then what happens? Joan Samson cannot find her companion, Barbara Prentice, who was so worried about Joan. She is afraid something may have happened to Barbara Prentice. She becomes hysterical; is given a sleeping powder. A search is made for her companion, who is found strangled to death in a fan-backed chair. Doctor Van Caan believes the murder a case of mistaken identity. So does Mr. Balding. Señor Gar tells the police what has been told him. And what do the police think?”

The doctor said swiftly: “Murder; mistaken identity. And evidently Conrad Samson was murdered deliberately.”

“It is possible,” Jo Gar said slowly.

Balding’s eyes had narrowed on his. “But Señor Gar would not agree with us or with the police, eh? Señor Gar thinks that Joan Samson was trying for a perfect crime—and that she murdered Barbara Prentice so she could get her brother’s money!”

Jo Gar moved away from the sleeping girl, turned and faced her. “That is so,” he said quietly.

The breathing of Joan Samson was unchanged, slow and quiet. Doctor Van Caan said huskily:

“Impossible! She has been unconscious for hours. The sleeping powder—”

Jo Gar coughed dryly. I believe you told me she refused to have an injection, doctor. How was the sleeping powder administered?”

Van Caan frowned. “She did refuse an injection. I gave her the glass containing the powder and water. She went into the bathroom—”

The detective nodded. “You did not actually see her swallow the drug?”

Van Caan’s frown deepened. “No,” he said.

Jo Gar smiled almost sadly. “You did not wait for Sidi Kalaa to arrive at the hotel, to watch outside Miss Samson’s suite, did you, doctor?”

Van Caan shook his head.
“ You
did not seem much worried about her being in danger. It was only a matter of ten or fifteen minutes. It was the other woman, Barbara Prentice, who appeared to be in danger.” The detective’s voice was calm. “She was,” he said. “It was after I left you, doctor, and you left the hotel—it was then that Joan Samson strangled Barbara Prentice to death in the fan-backed chair.”

Balding stood up stiffly. “By God, Señor Gar, that’s a hard one to believe!”

Jo Gar looked down at the evenly breathing girl. “There was this man Veiller—the one who left the room in which we found Miss Prentice strangled. He expected a fan-backed chair. He vacated the room saying he was taking an inter-island boat. That was a mistake. No boat sailed; the next sails tomorrow. He wanted his room held. When was the fan-backed chair placed in it, Mr. Balding?”

“This morning,” said the manager.

Jo Gar nodded. “This Veiller neglected to turn in his key.”

Balding spoke quickly. “No reason why he should have turned it in—he retained the room.”

“There was a better reason than
that
for not turning it in,” the detective said. “He gave that key to Joan Samson.”

“How do you know that?” the doctor demanded.

Jo Gar did not answer the question. “When I left you, doctor, after you told me she would be unconscious for hours, I passed a carrier of a fan-backed chair. He was moving toward the hotel.”

Balding said: “But the fan-backed chair in which we found Miss Prentice dead—
that
was put in the room this morning.”

The detective nodded. “There is a fountain between the hotel grounds and the Escolta. The carrier of the chair was hot, thirsty. That chair did not come to the hotel, the bearer was only taking a short cut. But the sight of it being carried toward the hotel gave me an idea. And when Sadi Ratan told me that Conrad Samson’s money had been left to Barbara Prentice—”

He broke off as Balding muttered sharply. The doctor’s eyes narrowed:

“I insist Miss Samson is under the influence—”

There was the jangle of a telephone bell. Balding started toward a small table near the bed. But Jo Gar, moving swiftly, caught him by the arm. He raised a finger to his thin lips, pressed it against them in signal for silence. He went to the telephone, lifted the receiver, pressed it tight against his left ear. A voice said: “Is Mr. Balding there please? He is wanted at the desk.”

Jo Gar said sharply: “My God! They have him, you say? Veiller? Where? On his way toward Baguio? And he has confessed! What’s that? Please take it slowly—”

He paused, watched the sudden heavier breathing of Joan Samson. “Yes,” he went on. “Joan Samson strangled the Prentice girl? She wanted money. She was in love with Veiller and they needed her brother’s money. It is a written confession, and you—”

The sound Joan Samson made was half scream, half moan. She sat up as Jo Gar replaced the receiver, rocking from side to side, staring at him wildly.

“Yes, yes!” she half shouted. “I did it! I strangled her. I hated her, hated her! She hated Gordon Veiller, she made my brother hate him. And I love him! She made my brother leave her all his money; all I got was wooden images, idols he collected! I strangled her, I tell you!”

Her eyes were savage lights in her white face. Her lips twisted, and she beat on the bed with her clenched fists.