West of Guam by Raoul Whitfield

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.
    Jo Gar stepped to one side. He struck outward and downward with the Colt. It battered heavily against the attacker’s head, just over the left ear. The man dropped—rolled over on his back. He was motionless.
    The Island detective drew a deep breath. He shifted the weapon, got a small flashlight from his pocket. When he looked down upon the figure there was a hard smile in his blue-gray eyes.
    “Like many tremendous schemes, Señor Craise,” he said very slowly, “it has failed.”
    Jo Gar let his eyes move from the figure of Juan Arragon to that of Arnold Carlysle. He was smiling cheerfully in spite of the heat in the police head’s office.
    “Señor Craise was always shrewd, cold,”