West of Guam by Raoul Whitfield Page A

he said slowly. “He was not one to forget that Ben Rannis had struck his brother down. I do not believe too much in the similarity of humans. But he did fool me, in Juan’s office. Belladonna to enlarge the eye pupils, dirt-matted hair, no erectness like that of himself. And the changed voice. Neither Juan nor myself knew him too well, you see. And he’d been away for months. This English friend of his who has confessed to imitating Craise’s voice—that was a clever touch. Calling up, pretending it was Craise—with Craise passing as a beachcomber, right in Juan’s office at the time. And it was this Condon who answered my call to the house, of course.”
    Juan Arragon nodded his head slowly. “Had Craise got back to his house we would have been beaten,” he said. “He could have received me, immaculately attired. He would have been clean, changed. In a dark room I would not have noticed his eyes. But of course, after the escape, he realized I would be busy—and that would give him more time.”
    Jo Gar nodded. “He murdered Rannis, just as he as Donnell told us. He got back to the house from the murder in time to receive me. Your Filipino guard was not too good, Juan, though it is a large place for one man to watch. Craise went out again, after you released him. There was sufficient time. He went to the Pasig, crouched along the bank—and when your men found him he threw the knife away. Said he was Donnell—and looked—a beachcomber. After his escape he got to the big boat piers where he hid and waited. After dark Condon met him in a power boat. He brought him to the Bay house.”
    Arnold Carlysle smiled faintly. “But for you Señor Gar, we would have assumed that a man resembling Craise had tried a pretty plan and had failed. And had then preferred drowning—and the sharks.”
    Jo Gar said nothing. He wondered if Arnold Carlysle would not have preferred it that way. But it was not for him to say.
    “I was suspicious,” he said slowly. “Before I knew Rannis had been murdered, when I told Craise that—he was very startled. I was almost too soon for him. He hadn’t expected it this fast. And then, very suddenly, he was too cool. He was thinking too much of the future, of the circumstantial evidence that he knew he could beat.”
    Arragon shrugged. “Death in the Pasig,” he said slowly, “is always difficult.” He smiled at Jo. “Not being a fool, I congratulate you.”
    Jo Gar fanned himself slowly with his pith helmet. He smiled in return.
    “Perhaps I had the better opportunity,” he said quietly. “But not being too modest—I am pleased. Señor Craise is not an inferior actor.” Carlysle frowned down at the polished floor of his office. Juan Arragon nodded agreement. Jo Gar closed his eyes, stopped fanning his browned face, and drowsed. He suddenly felt very weary.

Red Hemp
The Island Detective hunts for a girl whom a man wants found—so that “he may beat her. …”
    Vicente Carejo might have been an immaculate Island Englishman, so far as his dress was concerned. From his pith helmet to his white shoes he was spotless. But the betel -nut that he chewed betrayed him. And when his lips parted a little too much there was the red that stained his teeth and gums. He had a fat face and body; his darkish eyes held no expression. He said in a thick voice:
    “My girl has left me. I wish her found, so that I may beat her.”
    Jo Gar smiled with his almond-shaped, blue-gray eyes half closed. The arms of the Island detective were folded; his body was relaxed.
    “There are the police,” he suggested. “On the Escolta is the Missing Persons Department.”
    Carejo made a grunting sound without parting his thick lips. “Manila police are fools,” he said. “You are not a fool. I have come to you. It is that pig of an American—that renegade Parker. But I do not seek trouble. It is my daughter I want.”
    The Island detective nodded. “So you may beat her,” he suggested quietly.
    Carejo