Free West of Guam by Raoul Whitfield Page A

on Parker’s blond hair. It was warm water, but it helped. The American sat up stupidly, blinked at the two men. Arragon snapped words at him.
    “Why did you murder—Carmen Carejo?”
    Parker stared at Arragon. His face was scratched badly; there was a two-inch cut across his forehead. He was dressed in soiled duck; his shirt was torn in several places. He muttered thickly:
    “Carmen—murdered! I don’t understand—”
    Arragon was frowning down at him. He spoke sharply:
    “You strangled her—in that palmetto jungle back of the Casa Club.
    You—come with us. You talk—”
    Parker got unsteadily to his feet. His head was clearing. He said grimly:
    “To hell with you! You can’t frame me for anything—”
    He groaned, dropped down on the bed again. He muttered weakly: “Carmen—dead! The poor, damn fool of a kid—”
    Arragon jerked Parker to his feet again. The police lieutenant was short, but he had strength. He said:
    “You shall talk, Señor Parker! You shall tell us why you strangled—” Parker twisted his body to one side. He shoved hard with his right arm. There was rage in his blue eyes. He was a big man, strong. Arragon went back against a wall of the room, he reached for his gun. It was a long-muzzled weapon—a Luger. He was leveling it when Parker leaped at him. In a flash the American had battered it from Arragon’s grip, had sent the Filipino spinning across the room.
    “That is not good, Parker.” Jo Gar spoke quietly. He stood near the bed, facing the American as he turned. He was smiling; his parted lips showed white teeth. In his right hand he held an Army Colt. He held it steadily. He spoke in a low, conversational tone. “That is not good, because you have nothing to fear.”
    Parker stood with his hands at his sides, frowning towards Jo Gar. Arragon picked himself up from the wood flooring of the room. He cursed in his native tongue. He came towards the American again. Jo Gar spoke:
    “I do not think you are guilty!” he said. “Please raise your hands—allow Lieutenant Arragon to look into your pockets.”
    Parker raised his arms slowly. He said to Arragon:
    “You can’t third degree me. If that poor kid has been killed—I can guess who did it.”
    Arragon moved forward and slid his left hand into the right pocket of Parker’s soiled duck coat. Jo Gar asked a question.
    “I would like to know your guess, Señor Parker,” he said. Parker muttered his reply in a thick tone.
    “The kid’s father—he hated her enough to do it.”
    Jo Gar shook his head. “It is a bad guess, Señor,” he returned. “Vincente Carejo was with three friends at the time the murder was committed.”
    Parker stared at the Island detective. Arragon took his hand from another pocket, smiling with his small eyes.
    “Perhaps you were with friends, at the time of the murder, Señor,” he suggested with sarcasm.
    The American swayed a little as he stood by the cot.
    “I don’t remember,” he said slowly. “I had a few drinks at—” He checked himself. Jo Gar smiled and spoke.
    “At Barres’ place. We know of it. You drank saké—three cups of it. You were not so drunk when you left. You bragged about a bird you were planning to fight at the Casa Club tomorrow—Diablo. What else do you remember?”
    Parker swore softly. “Everything was going badly, after I left Barres’ cellar,” he said. “I got a carromatta —told the driver to take me to the Casa Club. The bird was out there. I remember falling, after I left the carromatta. My head hit something hard. Then I don’t remember anything—until just now—”
    He sank down on the cot. Arragon held out his left hand, opened the fingers slowly. Something lay coiled against his brown palm. He said grimly:
    You do not remember this, Señor?” Jo Gar narrowed his eyes on the coil.
    Arragon said in a tone that was slightly shaken:
    “I found it in a pocket, Señor—it is a piece of rope, of hemp.”
    Parker kept staring blankly at the