Free West of Guam by Raoul Whitfield

quietly. “She has had no mother for many years—yet she cries out: ‘Madre—Madre.’ She does not call for her father. Is not that strange?”
    Arragon rose from his chair and moved slowly back and forth in the hot office. The circular fan creaked.
    “It might be instinct—to call for her mother,” the lieutenant said. Jo Gar shook his head. “It was hatred of her father,” he replied.
    “But Señor Carejo did not strangle his daughter. He was very careful. He was too careful, Juan. He dined with three friends this evening—he was not out of their sight from seven o’clock until one of your men traced him to the Hermossa house and brought him here. That is strange for Vincente has led a lonely life. Señors Hermossa, Carno and Allisi—they had not spent an evening with him for months, until tonight.”
    Juan Arragon stopped pacing back and forth. He stared down at Jo Gar. There was faint admiration in his small eyes.
    “While we have been seeking Parker—you have been seeking Vincente Carejo,” he murmured. “Why were your suspicions turned that way?”
    The Island detective listened to a carromatta driver shrilling at his pony in the street below. He replied quietly:
    “Vincente is stupid. He came to me seeking help—he wanted me to find his girl. But what was his reason? It was so that he might beat her. She was ‘a devil,’ he told me. His anger was not directed toward this American, Parker. That was strange, for one of his breed. Carmen was pretty—not beautiful. I do not think Parker was in love with her. I gambled on my thoughts in the matter. Americans do not strangle with rope. Carejo does not often dine with three friends. It was a perfect alibi, Juan—very perfect.”
    The lieutenant of Manila police said very slowly:
    “Very well—we know that Vincente did not murder his daughter. We assume that Parker did not commit the crime. Who, then, is the guilty one?”
    Jo Gar rose from his chair. “There is a house on the Calle Ventner where the American Parker sleeps,” he stated. “He had not arrived there a half hour ago. Will you come with me to the house?”
    Arragon jerked his head downward. He smiled grimly. “Shall I take a weapon?” he asked.
    The Island detective placed his pith helmet over his grayish hair.
    He smiled cheerfully.
    “I cannot see the harm in that,” he replied in a mild tone.
    The house on Calle Ventner was a poor one. It was a rambling, two-story affair constructed along bastardized Spanish lines. There was some rusted grilled iron-work—and a patio with the screening broken in several places. Naked children slept on the small patio that fronted the place. Jo Gar and Arragon—left the carromatta at the roadside; Gar led the way in. There were voices inside—a baby cried. After the Island detective had called out a few times an aged Filipino came to the door. His eyes widened as he looked into the face of the police lieutenant.
    “The Americano, Parker—he has returned?” Jo Gar asked.
    The Filipino nodded. He said that the Americano had been drinking much; he had come in perhaps ten minutes ago. He had assisted him to his room, and had partially undressed him. There was a cut on the Americano’s face, and scratches, also.
    He led the way up creaking stairs. The house was filled with bad odors. Jo Gar was behind the old Filipino; behind him he heard Arragon muttering:
    “Finger nails make scratches—on a man’s face.”
    The Island detective said nothing. They reached the doorway of a room at the rear of the house. The door was opened; the white electric glare, as the Filipino pushed the button, showed up the cheapness of the room. The house was close enough to the heart of Manila to be supplied with power.
    Arragon ordered the Filipino from the room; the man went, muttering to himself. Jo Gar moved to the cot across which the body of Parker slanted. He shook the American roughly. Arragon went to a pitcher that contained water—he dumped a portion of it