Read Online West of Guam by Raoul Whitfield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Raoul Whitfield
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girl’s throat. He was not a doctor, and even though he was sure she was dead, he tried crude methods to force air into her lungs, as he gave orders to several natives crowding about the body.
When Juan Arragon, lieutenant to Carlysle, American head of the Manila Police, arrived in the palmetto jungle, some thirty minutes later, Jo Gar was standing near the body of Carmen Carejo, hands at his sides, eyes half closed. Arragon stared down at the dead girl.
“Murder,” he breathed softly. “What was the weapon—”
Jo Gar shifted the beam of his light towards the dark shawl the girl had worn. It lay on the earth near her head. Stretched across it was a four-foot strand of rope, of hemp. In spots it was stained scarlet. Arragon said slowly:
“She was strangled—by that hemp.”
Jo Gar nodded. Arragon knelt beside the shawl, narrowed his eyes on the rope strand. He muttered to himself:
“It is stained—with her blood.”
Jo Gar lighted one of his thin cigarettes. His eyes were on the mask-like face of Carmen Carejo.
“It is certainly—red hemp,” he said steadily.
Arragon rose and looked at Jo Gar. He asked in a curious voice: “You arrived here quickly—how was that so?”
The Island detective smiled a little. He looked Arragon in the eyes. “I was nearby—when she was murdered. I heard her scream. She called twice for her mother. Then her next cry was choked off. It was more than five minutes before some native women found her in here.
There are many paths.”
Arragon looked around the circle of native faces. His eyes came to Jo Gar’s again. He said softly:
“She is Carmen Carejo—Vincente’s girl.”
The Island detective nodded. He was thinking that Vincente Carejo had found his daughter, but that his purpose was defeated. He could not beat her now. He said quietly:
“Yes—it is Carejo’s girl. He was searching for her. He had retained me only a few hours ago. And now she has been strangled to death.”
Arragon kept his eyes narrowed on Jo Gar’s. He asked, in a sharper tone:
“Why did you come here?”
The Island detective smiled with his lips. He looked towards the dark shawl and the red-stained length of Manila hemp. He evaded the question.
“He was a strong man—this strangler,” he said. “See how the hemp cut into her skin. There was just a twist knot, Juan—the killer held the rope ends until she was dead, or very nearly dead. And we were all about the jungle here, trying to reach her.”
Arragon swore hoarsely. “If you have suspicions, tell them,” he pleaded. “The murderer cannot have got far away.”
Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “It is too bad,” he stated apologetically. “But I have no suspicions.”
It was midnight when Jo Gar went up the wooden stairs to Juan Arragon’s office at the police department. He knocked, and was told to enter. Arragon was talking with Vincente Carejo; he frowned at the Island detective.
“You did not tell me about Parker, this American,” he stated. “That was not right, Jo. That was very bad. It has given the murderer of Señor Carejo’s daughter a chance to escape.”
Vincente Carejo was perspiring freely. He nodded his head jerkily, wiped the skin of his neck near the collar with a large handkerchief. He was chewing betel -nut again; there was red about the corners of his thick lips. He spoke hoarsely with anger in his voice.
“Did I not retain you, Señor Gar? Were you not working for me? And why did you not tell what I had told you? This renegade has murdered my daughter.”
His voice was broken as he finished speaking. He shook his head slowly, muttering the name of the girl.
Arragon said: “I asked you if you had suspicions—you said that you had none. It is strange to me—”
Jo Gar smiled. “Parker is an American,” he said. “The girl was strangled by hemp—that is not the way of an American in killing.” Carejo straightened in his chair. There was rage in his dark eyes. “Parker is a clever man.
When Juan Arragon, lieutenant to Carlysle, American head of the Manila Police, arrived in the palmetto jungle, some thirty minutes later, Jo Gar was standing near the body of Carmen Carejo, hands at his sides, eyes half closed. Arragon stared down at the dead girl.
“Murder,” he breathed softly. “What was the weapon—”
Jo Gar shifted the beam of his light towards the dark shawl the girl had worn. It lay on the earth near her head. Stretched across it was a four-foot strand of rope, of hemp. In spots it was stained scarlet. Arragon said slowly:
“She was strangled—by that hemp.”
Jo Gar nodded. Arragon knelt beside the shawl, narrowed his eyes on the rope strand. He muttered to himself:
“It is stained—with her blood.”
Jo Gar lighted one of his thin cigarettes. His eyes were on the mask-like face of Carmen Carejo.
“It is certainly—red hemp,” he said steadily.
Arragon rose and looked at Jo Gar. He asked in a curious voice: “You arrived here quickly—how was that so?”
The Island detective smiled a little. He looked Arragon in the eyes. “I was nearby—when she was murdered. I heard her scream. She called twice for her mother. Then her next cry was choked off. It was more than five minutes before some native women found her in here.
There are many paths.”
Arragon looked around the circle of native faces. His eyes came to Jo Gar’s again. He said softly:
“She is Carmen Carejo—Vincente’s girl.”
The Island detective nodded. He was thinking that Vincente Carejo had found his daughter, but that his purpose was defeated. He could not beat her now. He said quietly:
“Yes—it is Carejo’s girl. He was searching for her. He had retained me only a few hours ago. And now she has been strangled to death.”
Arragon kept his eyes narrowed on Jo Gar’s. He asked, in a sharper tone:
“Why did you come here?”
The Island detective smiled with his lips. He looked towards the dark shawl and the red-stained length of Manila hemp. He evaded the question.
“He was a strong man—this strangler,” he said. “See how the hemp cut into her skin. There was just a twist knot, Juan—the killer held the rope ends until she was dead, or very nearly dead. And we were all about the jungle here, trying to reach her.”
Arragon swore hoarsely. “If you have suspicions, tell them,” he pleaded. “The murderer cannot have got far away.”
Jo Gar shook his head slowly. “It is too bad,” he stated apologetically. “But I have no suspicions.”
It was midnight when Jo Gar went up the wooden stairs to Juan Arragon’s office at the police department. He knocked, and was told to enter. Arragon was talking with Vincente Carejo; he frowned at the Island detective.
“You did not tell me about Parker, this American,” he stated. “That was not right, Jo. That was very bad. It has given the murderer of Señor Carejo’s daughter a chance to escape.”
Vincente Carejo was perspiring freely. He nodded his head jerkily, wiped the skin of his neck near the collar with a large handkerchief. He was chewing betel -nut again; there was red about the corners of his thick lips. He spoke hoarsely with anger in his voice.
“Did I not retain you, Señor Gar? Were you not working for me? And why did you not tell what I had told you? This renegade has murdered my daughter.”
His voice was broken as he finished speaking. He shook his head slowly, muttering the name of the girl.
Arragon said: “I asked you if you had suspicions—you said that you had none. It is strange to me—”
Jo Gar smiled. “Parker is an American,” he said. “The girl was strangled by hemp—that is not the way of an American in killing.” Carejo straightened in his chair. There was rage in his dark eyes. “Parker is a clever man.
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