Free West of Guam by Raoul Whitfield Page B

hemp coiled in the police lieutenant’s palm. He muttered thickly:
    “A piece—of rope—”
    Jo Gar spoke. His voice was very steady, very soft.
    “Undoubtedly it matches the hemp with which Carmen Carejo was strangled,” he said. “It is an end not used in the murder.”
    Juan Arragon said:
    “Perhaps the rope was too long for convenience. You cut it—and being drunk with saké stuffed this piece in a pocket before you committed the crime. It was a crude murder—such as a drunken man would commit.”
    Parker shook his head slowly. The rage had died from his blue eyes.
    He said quietly:
    “I never saw—the rope before. I didn’t kill—the girl. I wanted to break off days ago. She was only a kid—not worth getting her mixed up with her father. She’d been beaten. I sent her a note last night—telling her I was through. I didn’t kill her—”
    Jo Gar said: “You sent her a note last night? You are sure?”
    Parker spoke grimly. “I’m damned sure. I gave it to the house-boy, with a silver dollar, at about ten o’clock. He said he’d see that she got it.”
    Juan Arragon shrugged at Jo Gar.
    “I do not believe him,” he stated.
    The Island detective reached for his packet of cigarettes. He gave Parker one; Arragon refused. Parker said brokenly:
    “Why—I wouldn’t know how to strangle—anyone—” Arragon smiled with his lips parted. He shrugged again.
    “It is very simple,” he stated. “One could do it, I think, even after three cups of saké.”
    From his right hip pocket he drew forth a pair of thin steel handcuffs. They glistened in the white light of the heated room as he moved with them towards the American.
    Vincente Carejo sat in the fan-backed chair of Juan Arragon’s office and glared towards the door. There had been the sound of footfalls on the wooden stairs; the door was suddenly shoved inward, opened. The American, Parker, stumbled into the light of the room. His shoulders were drooping, his chin sagged. His face was streaming with perspiration. The steel cuffs glittered on his wrists.
    “Dog!” Carejo gritted the word at the American. “To kill—my girl—”
    Arnold Carlysle, the American head of the Manila police, came into the room, followed by Juan Arragon. Arnold looked tired; his eyes were heavy-lidded, strained. Juan Arragon looked fresh, cool. He was smiling.
    Arnold said wearily: “It’s almost dawn, We were at it more than two hours.”
    Jo Gar came into the room. He seemed surprised to see Carejo.
    He smiled grimly.
    “We got it—the confession,” he said, “You were right, Señor Carejo.
    Parker has told us the truth.”
    Carejo stared at the prisoner. He rose from the chair, stood with his hands at his side. His voice was filled with rage.
    “You will die for this—but it will not bring my Carmen back. I could take your throat in my fingers—”
    “Steady!” Arnold Carlysle spoke in a sharp voice. “In order to complete the case against Parker we must have the statement of your house-boy, Malo. He is here?”
    Carejo shrugged. “He is downstairs,” he said. “In that police room. I do not see what more you need—the man has confessed.” Arragon said: “We must have everything—so that the prisoner cannot retract his statements. It is only a matter of form.”
    He went to the wooden steps and called down in his native tongue. Carejo took his eyes away from those of Parker. He smiled nastily at Jo Gar.
    “And you did not think it was this man who killed my girl!” he mocked. “It was not an American’s way, you said.”
    Jo Gar went over and stood near a window that faced the Escolta, the main thoroughfare of Manila. Few humans were on the street—a warm breeze was blowing in from Cavite, and the Bay.
    “I did not think Señor Parker strangled your girl.” Jo Gar said slowly.
    Vincente Carejo seated himself heavily in the fan-backed chair. He placed the palms of brown hands over his face. He muttered to himself. The American, Parker,