Black Mask (Vol. 15, No. 2 — April, 1932)

The Siamese Cat by Ramon Decolta

Jo Gar, the little Island detective, hunts a cat and finds a murderer.

Sadi Ratan looked up from his desk and smiled at Jo Gar. The police office was hot, the streets of Manila were hot. Tropic heat had been fierce during the past few weeks; it would be fierce for many more. But the Filipino police lieutenant did not seem to mind heat. His brown face was handsome and his dark eyes seemed alert and unwearied. He said in an amused tone:

“You were surprised, Señor Gar, at my sending for you?”

Jo Gar dabbed at his face with a large handkerchief, got it in a pocket of his duck suit. His gray-blue eyes smiled a little.

“I was surprised at your request for me to come here, Lieutenant,” he corrected quietly.

The police lieutenant waved his left hand a little airily.

“We are very busy,” he said. “That escape of the Chinese from Billibid Prison — the disappearance of the English woman. Several small but annoying robberies. Yes, we are very busy.”

The Island detective got his stubby-fingered hands in the pockets of his duck coat and said nothing. Sadi Ratan inspected a fly-specked ceiling and the slowly swinging fan. Then he said:

“Knowing that you had not been retained by John Collings in the matter of the search for his wife, and knowing that you would not be interested in the search for the two escaped prisoners or these minor store hold-ups — I thought of you for another matter.”

He paused and smiled. Jo Gar smiled back at him and lighted a brown paper cigarette. He said:

“With your fine efficiency you will capture the escaped convicts quickly. The English woman has a habit of disappearing; she will return shortly. I am sure you can pick up the store thieves, Lieutenant.”

Sadi Ratan frowned slightly, then smiled again.

“Of course,” he said. “But I regret you have not been retained in any of these instances.”

The Island detective inhaled and wondered what the lieutenant of the Manila police was getting at. There was very little good feeling between them; it was the first time Sadi Ratan had sent for him. Jo said:

“Business cannot always be good.”

The police lieutenant made another gesture with his left hand.

“An American named Brail — Walter Brail — has been in to see me. He has been in Manila only a week or so. He is wealthy and wanders about the world. An unfortunate thing has occurred. He has lost a cat.”

Sadi Ratan looked down at a paper before him and tried not to smile. Jo Gar’s eyes were expressionless. He said nothing. The police lieutenant went on.

“It is a very unusual cat — he is much attached to it. A Siamese cat. He is very anxious to recover it, and that is not exactly a police matter. So I suggested you, Señor Gar.”

Jo Gar bowed very slightly. “It was kind of you, Lieutenant,” he said.

Sadi Ratan looked him in the eyes, smiling peculiarly.

“I told him that perhaps you would consider such an assignment below your dignity—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “On the contrary — I am a great lover of cats,” he interrupted. “Where shall I find this American, Lieutenant?”

Sadi Ratan’s eyes widened a little, then narrowed. He said:

“He is staying on the Bay, at the Manila Hotel. The cat escaped from his screened porch there. There has been much searching, and he is advertising, of course. He will be glad to see you, Señor Gar.”

The Island detective nodded, still smiling. “It was very good of you to think of me,” he said. “I shall try to return the favor at some time.”

Sadi Ratan gestured carelessly again. He looked at his wrist-watch.

“You will go to the hotel tonight, Señor?” he asked.

Jo Gar nodded. “I shall go there immediately,” he said. “The name is Walter Brail — and the American has lost a Siamese cat.”

The police lieutenant’s eyes were serious. “That is so,” he said. “And the best of luck, Señor Gar.”

Jo smiled and bowed again. He went from the office and to the Escolta, Manila’s main business street. It was almost nine o’clock in the evening, and not too many people were about. The Island detective hailed a carromatta, climbed slowly inside. He spoke to the Filipino driver in his native tongue, settled back in the comfortable seat.

The driver shrilled at his pony. The distance was short, and though Jo Gar thought a great deal about Sadi Ratan’s mocking tone, and the idea of sending for him — he reached only a half decision. The police lieutenant had thought it would be amusingly insulting, when he had not been retained by those concerned in more important matters, to call Jo over and suggest his search for a cat. And yet, he felt there was something beyond that. He doubted that Ratan, who was not a fool, would bother with such a childish sort of humor.

He was smiling a little as he left the carromatta, and entered the hotel. In a not uneventful career as a free lance detective he recalled that this was the first time he had ever been concerned with a Siamese cat.

The suave clerk behind the desk smiled and then looked serious.

“Mr. Brail is very disturbed,” he said. “He has created a great deal of worry in the hotel. He will be glad to see you Señor Gar. I will call him.”

Jo Gar nodded and waited. The clerk spoke to the switchboard girl and then motioned towards an enclosed phone. Jo went to it and when a heavy voice said: “Yes?” he said: “Señor Gar speaking, Mr. Brail. Lieutenant Ratan of the local police has told me you were interested in finding a Siamese cat—”

The heavy voice interrupted: “Ah... good, Señor Gar. I am glad you have come. Please come right up.”

The phone clicked. Jo went to the desk and the clerk smiled at him.

“It is two flights up, Number Twenty-eight — at the extreme north wing. Our finest suite. Shall I send a boy—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “I know the way — the opera singer who lost her bracelet occupied the same suite, about a year ago, I think.”

The clerk nodded. Jo smiled and said: “Mr. Brail is traveling alone?”

The clerk said: “He has his valet — an English valet. There are just the two of them, and there was the cat.”

The Island detective nodded. “A fine cat?” he asked.

The clerk nodded. “Very beautiful,” he said. “I saw it in the basket. Beautifully marked — very large.”

Jo smiled and moved towards the broad stairs. The hotel was low and spread out, with fine gardens and a beach on the Bay. Ceiling fans circled silently, and stirred iced air. Jo climbed the stairs slowly, accustomed to the tropics and knowing the results of speed. The corridors were wide; on the second flight he moved along the north wing towards the suite that faced the Bay, hung almost over the waters of it.

When he reached the double doors he knocked. After a few seconds he rang a bell that made sound he could hear from the corridor. Out on the Bay there was the deep-toned whistle of a big boat. Jo rang the bell again.

Seconds passed. He rapped sharply on one of the wooden doors, with his knuckles. The padding footfalls of a hotel maid sounded from along the corridor, and the Island detective went towards the woman. He said:

“I have just talked with Mr. Brail, in Suite Twenty-eight, from downstairs. He asked me to come up. He does not answer the bell, or my knock.”

He followed the Filipino maid back to the double doors. She rang the bell several times, tapped on the door. She called in a high-pitched voice: “Señor Brail... Señor Brail—”

There was no sound from within the suite. The maid jingled keys on a ring and turned one in a lock. She pushed open a door and called again: “Señor Brail!”

Jo Gar walked past her through a small foyer and into a large, wicker-chaired living-room. He was half way across the room when the Filipino maid screamed. She screamed terribly — and ran towards the corridor. Jo Gar went over and looked down at the figure of the man. The man was lying on his back, with his arms and legs spread. His eyes were opened. There was blood on his lips — and his hands showed long, jagged streaks of red, scratches. He was dead.

Jo straightened and looked around the room. His body stiffened as he glanced towards a wicker divan near the screened porch that hung over the Bay. The Siamese cat crouched motionlessly on the divan, its eyes focused on his figure. It was a dusty gray, huge for a cat. The black marking of its face and ears and the blueness of its eyes stood out in the reflected light from a table lamp. In the corridor the Filipino maid was still screaming, and there were sharp voices coming from below. Everything in the room was very motionless — Jo Gar, the body on the floor — and the figure of the Siamese cat.

Sadi Ratan stood just inside the living-room of the suite and frowned at Jo. The hotel clerk said:

“Mr. Brail left the hotel at about five o’clock. He returned at about eight-thirty — and a half hour before Señor Gar called. Perhaps not that long. He asked if his cat had been found, and said he’d sent his valet along the Bay front, to inquire at the houses. Then he went upstairs. Nobody called to see him, until Señor Gar arrived.”

Jo said: “That is, nobody announced that he was calling.”

The clerk shrugged. Sadi Ratan looked at the body, then at the medical man.

“Two knife wound — one in the back of the neck — one to the heart. They caused the death.”

The doctor nodded. “Apparently,” he said. “The scratches on the hands and wrists look like cat scratches.”

Sadi Ratan glanced towards the Siamese, sleeping on the divan. He frowned. Jo Gar said to the clerk:

“When did you last see Phelps, this valet?”

The clerk thought for several seconds. “Around four o’clock. He went out without stopping at the desk. He’s tall and very thin, He has a sad face.”

Sadi Ratan said: “It’s after nine-thirty, and he left at about four. That’s a long time to be walking around the Bay front, looking for the cat.”

The clerk looked at the Siamese. “How did it — get back here?” he asked.

Jo Gar spoke grimly. “The cat didn’t knife Brail in the neck and the heart. Brail spoke to me, say five minutes before I came into this room. That is, a heavy-voiced man spoke to me.”

The clerk said: “Señor Brail had a heavy voice.”

Sadi Ratan looked at Jo Gar narrowly. “He didn’t tell you over the phone that his cat had been returned, or had returned. Yet the chances are the cat was here then.”

Jo Gar shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said. “It’s possible for a person to go down from the screen porch. There are vines that are strong. The suite below is not occupied. There’s another stairway and several ways out of the hotel. After I spoke to Brail, if it was Brail, I talked at the desk a bit. Brail might have been dying then.”

Sadi Ratan said: “How about the cat?”

Jo Gar shrugged. “The clerk says the cat disappeared this morning at about ten o’clock. These Siamese can climb. It might have been wandering around on the roof. The roof was searched, but it might have been missed. The porch isn’t completely screened — the cat might have come back after Brail was murdered.”

Sadi Ratan said: “I want to see Phelps — I think Brail talked to you, and that the cat was here then. There is something very strange about this.”

Jo Gar smiled narrowly. “There is something very strange about most murders,” he said quietly.

The telephone at one end of the living-room made ringing sound. Jo Gar started towards it, but Lieutenant Ratan caught him by the arm.

“I will answer, if you do not object,” he said. “This is my investigation.”

The Island detective stood aside, shrugging. “I thought you had turned the case over to me,” he said slowly.

Sadi Ratan frowned. “A lost cat is not a murder case,” he stated. “This is a matter for the police.”

Jo Gar smiled a little more broadly. “I think you are correct,” he stated as the police lieutenant neared the telephone. “A very good matter, Lieutenant.”

The police lieutenant lifted the receiver. He listened for several seconds after he said: “Lieutenant Ratan speaking.” His body grew tense and he swore once, in Spanish. The Siamese cat uncurled itself and stood up. It jumped lightly from the divan and crossed the room, paying no attention to the body of Walter Brail. Jo Gar watched it closely, his eyes half closed. The room seemed to be growing hotter. Sadi Ratan said sharply:

“I will be there immediately — do not allow the body to be disturbed.”

He hung up the receiver, faced Jo Gar. His handsome face held a grim expression.

“Phelps is dead,” he said slowly. “His body has been found, along the Bay front, by some boys in swimming. He committed suicide and left a note. You will come with me, please, Doctor?”

The Island detective watched the doctor nod. Sadi Ratan looked at him thoughtfully.

“Would you care to come, also?” he asked.

Jo Gar sighed, shook his head. “I think not, Lieutenant,” he said tonelessly. “A murder and a suicide — it is most certainly a matter for the police.”

It was almost midnight when the Island detective went into Sadi Ratan’s office. The police lieutenant was slumped low in his chair, relaxed and smiling. He moved a palm leaf fan gracefully, so that wind struck his handsome face. Jo Gar closed the door behind him and stood near it.

“You appear pleased, Lieutenant,” he said.

Sadi Ratan nodded and gestured with the fan. “My men have captured the two escaped Chinese. The English woman has been found wandering beyond the city. And we have the murderer of Walter Brail. Things become quiet again.”

Jo Gar said: “You have Brail’s murderer?”

The police lieutenant nodded and took time in speaking. He was enjoying himself.

“The valet, Phelps, was the murderer,” he said in a satisfied tone. “It was all very simple.”

Jo Gar looked at his stubby, browned fingers. “Most murders are very simple,” he agreed.

Sadi Ratan continued to smile. “Phelps had been with Brail for almost ten years. He wrote in the note he left that he has hated Brail for the last three of them. He did not show his hatred. He hated Brail because he would not give him money, back him in a small business he wanted to start in London. Every year for the past three or four years Brail had promised to let him go, back him in this business. But he never did it. Phelps hated to travel, and Brail was traveling most of the time.

“A month or so ago Brail told the valet that he was leaving him ten thousand dollars, in his will, and that he could start his business after Brail’s death. He joked about it, showed Phelps the clause in the will. And the valet knew that Brail would never back him in his business while he was alive. He hated him all the more — Brail was in good health and younger, than Phelps. The valet thought about murder — he first thought about it in Shanghai. In the note he stated he almost went through with it ten days ago, in Nagasaki. He wanted that ten thousand dollars. Tonight he murdered Brail. And when he realized what he had done — he shot himself. He wasn’t the type who could kill and live, that was all.”

Jo Gar said very softly: “So?”

Sadi Ratan smiled a little. “He deliberately let the Siamese cat loose. He wanted to get Brail along the Bay front in some deserted spot. But he decided Brail was suspicious, would not go. He followed Brail here, knew that he had reported the loss of the cat to the police. At first he thought he would wait. Then he decided the missing cat would make things more difficult for the police. He returned from the supposed search and when Brail stepped away from the phone after talking to you, he stabbed him twice. He went down the vines, below the screened porch and was not seen. But he couldn’t stand being a murderer. He wrote this note — and shot himself.”

Jo Gar looked at the polished floor of the office.

“You’ve compared the handwriting with other writing of Phelps?” he said slowly.

Sadi Ratan nodded. “Naturally,” he said, still smiling. “We went right back to the hotel and got to work. We found a copy of Brail’s will, and the clause leaving the ten thousand to the valet was there. We compared handwriting of the last note — it was written hurriedly, of course, almost scrawled. But it is Phelps’ handwriting. Simply a murder for money, of greed. And Phelps was too weak for such a thing. He used the cat to attempt getting Brail from the hotel, in some deserted spot, searching. But that didn’t work.”

The Lieutenant of police smiled and shrugged. “So — you won’t have to worry about the Siamese cat, Señor Gar, after all.”

Jo Gar smiled a little. “On the contrary,” he said very quietly. “I think I shall have to worry very much about the Siamese cat.”

Sadi Ratan straightened in his chair. He narrowed his dark eyes.

“Why?” he asked.

Jo Gar’s eyes were expressionless. “Because the valet did not murder Brail. Because the valet did not leave the note you found — and because I do not think Phelps committed suicide,” he said tonelessly.

Sadi Ratan stared at him, his mouth slightly opened. He rose from the chair, said grimly:

“I am aware that you have been right several times in the past, Señor Gar. You have also been fortunate. But when you say what you have just said, in the face of the evidence we have—”

He broke off, gesturing widely with his arms. Jo Gar said quietly:

“You wished to amuse yourself, Lieutenant — and you thought you were insulting me by suggesting that I should search for a lost cat. There have now been two deaths. And because one appears to explain another, you eagerly accept any evidence that comes along. I do not accept your evidence.”

The police lieutenant said angrily: “The case is closed. We have the motive, the manner — and the confession. You have not been retained—”

The Island detective grinned. “I am retaining myself,” he interrupted. “My reward will be obtained in a way familiar to you, Lieutenant. I shall be amused at you.”

Sadi Ratan swore in Spanish. A nasty smile twisted his handsome face.

“The press will be amused — Señor Gar does not agree with the police and will hunt down the murderers of both Walter Brail and his valet,” he mocked.

The Island detective inhaled smoke from the Filipino cigarette.

“The press has been amused before,” he said quietly. “But not at me.”

Sadi Ratan shrugged. “Again — I wish you luck,” he said. “A simple case has been closed. The cat has returned. You are not satisfied — shall I tell you why?”

Jo Gar said: “Please do.”

The police lieutenant continued to smile. “You are disturbed because I suggested you hunt for the Siamese. When I suggested it you did not show it, Señor Gar. And the murder gave you the opportunity to be first on the scene. When it was cleared up so easily, by us—”

He smiled more broadly, bowed slightly. Jo Gar smiled back at him.

“By a pencil scrawl on paper,” he corrected. “That is what bothers me, Lieutenant. It is cleared up so easily.” Sadi Ratan sighed. “You prefer the mysteries of the Siamese cat, perhaps,” he said mockingly.

Jo Gar watched a thin curve of smoke from his cigarette, his eyes expressionless.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, and went from the office to the quiet of the hot Escolta.

In the morning the Island detective read in papers printed in several languages that Winton Phelps, English valet of Walter Brail, wealthy and eccentric American, had murdered for money to be left him, and had then, half mad with regret for what he had done, shot himself to death. The police had his confession note — the facts checked with a will found in Brail’s baggage, the handwriting was that of Phelps.

A Siamese cat had been lost by Phelps in an attempt to lure his master to a deserted spot, but Brail had been murdered in his hotel suite. Another item in all of the papers stated that it was believed by the police that Señor Gar had been engaged to search for the lost cat, which always traveled with the eccentric Brail, and that Señor Gar had stated he did not accept the police theory of murder and suicide.

Jo Gar smiled and breathed softly: “Always this Siamese cat — Sadi Ratan is much amused. He is not concerned with the fact that having murdered and escaped, having the ten thousand dollars left to him, this Phelps killed himself. And so quickly, after writing such a note. And Lieutenant Ratan is amused with the cat, yet he does not think too much about it.”

It was a reeking hot day, but the Island detective spent the morning moving about Manila, on the outskirts. He talked with two Chinese, and with a Malay who had a savage appearing Siamese cat. He asked many questions. After a light lunch he went to his home and had a siesta. At four he rode to the police station and received permission from a Filipino sergeant to look at photographs. It was almost six when he had finished, and Sadi Ratan was coming in as he went out. The police lieutenant grinned at him.

“You called to see me?” he asked.

The Island detective shook his head. “I have been looking at pictures,” he stated.

Sadi Ratan widened his dark eyes, brushed dust from his well-fitting khaki uniform.

“You found the one you sought?” he asked.

Jo Gar nodded. “I think that is so,” he said.

Lieutenant Ratan chuckled. “Was it of a cat?” he said gently.

The Island detective smiled back at Ratan. The lieutenant of police continued to chuckle and went inside of the police building. Jo Gar walked slowly in the direction of the Manila Hotel. At the desk he asked for Cummings, the director. Cummings was a short, red-faced man; he came to Jo’s side with a frown.

“I’ve been away — just got in this morning. Up at Baguio, keeping cool. Terrible thing — the valet killing Brail. Terrible for the hotel.”

Jo Gar nodded. “Unfortunate for Brail, also,” he said quietly. “You heard that Brail had a Siamese cat he was very fond of, perhaps?”

Cummings nodded. “Of course,” he replied.

The Island detective nodded. “Who is taking care of the cat now?” he asked.

Cummings frowned. “The floor maid,” he said. “She said she wasn’t afraid of it — I think she said she’d had one before at some time. So we turned it over to her until we get word from Brail’s relatives in New York. Terrible thing.”

The Island detective nodded his head thoughtfully. They moved towards some palms and Jo said very softly:

“Sadi Ratan is easily convinced, Mr. Cummings. I do not believe that the valet murdered Brail, nor that he committed suicide.”

The director blinked at Jo. “You don’t think — that the police are correct—”

Jo Gar shook his head. “The theory of the valet losing the cat to get Brail away from the hotel is weak. He must have had many chances to murder Brail, in more or less deserted spots. And if Phelps had stabbed Brail to death — then he committed suicide too soon after the crime. Also, I cannot quite see a man with the courage to murder not going through with what he started. And then, there is the Siamese cat.”

Cummings said: “What about it?”

Jo spoke tonelessly. “I have asked questions about the breed. They are savage, part monkey. At times they are very affectionate. Blood excites them — they are extremely nervous. Apparently I talked with Brail from downstairs here, within five minutes of the time he was stabbed. When we entered the suite he was dead. The Siamese cat was on the divan, and not the least bit disturbed. There were scratches on Brail’s hands and wrists.”

Cummings said: “Well?”

Jo Gar sighed. “I do not think Brail spoke to me on the telephone. I think he had been dead some little time — long enough for the cat to have gotten over its nervousness. If the cat had been in the room when Brail had been struck down it would have still been excited when I entered the room. If it had come in after the murder, the body and the blood would still have been having an effect.”

Cummings sucked in a deep breath. Jo Gar said very quietly.

“But the Siamese was almost sleeping — it was not at all excited.”

The hotel director half closed his eyes. “Well?” he said again.

Jo Gar shrugged. “The one who spoke to me as Brail was Brail’s murderer. Brail was dead at that time. He had been dead for some little time. As I went upstairs — the murderer escaped.”

Cummings said: “How about the scratches on Brail’s hands and wrists?”

The Island detective frowned. “According to the statements Lieutenant Ratan has been giving to the press, they were caused in the struggle. Fingernail scratches — of Phelps. He states that Phelps’ nails were quite long, and several were broken. I disagree with him, but I do not think they were cat scratches.”

Cummings said again: “Well?”

Jo smiled faintly. “Phelps was shot through the mouth. The gun muzzle was very close — but that does not mean it was suicide. I think he was murdered by the same ones who murdered Walter Brail.”

The hotel director said: “By the same ones?”

Jo nodded slowly. “Ones,” he repeated. “I do not know the motive. But I could make a guess. In my own way.”

The hotel director looked at Jo Gar narrowly. They had known each other over a period of years, and there were things that Cummings remembered.

“If I can help, Señor Gar—”

Jo’s eyes were slitted on the broad stairs beyond the palms. They were more almond shaped than usual.

“I would like to look over the suite again, more carefully,” he said. “The Siamese cat is now in the hotel?”

Cummings nodded. “The maid has quarters here — the cat is in her place, at the rear of the hotel.”

Jo took his eyes away from the broad stairs. “I would like the maid to bring the Siamese to the suite,” he said. “But first I should like to call Lieutenant Ratan. He might be interested.”

Cummings grunted. “He told me that you were a fool, and that the case was finished.”

The Island detective smiled tightly. “It is very likely that what he meant was that if I had been a fool the case would now be finished,” he said softly.

When Sadi Ratan came into the living-room of Suite Twenty-eight he stopped and stared at Jo Gar, then at Hernandez. Jo smiled and gestured towards Hernandez.

“I asked the señor to come here so that the Spanish papers could have the story,” he said. “You do not object?” His tone was expressionless.

Sadi Ratan grinned at the newspaperman. “Not if it is an amusing story,” he replied.

The Island detective spoke a little grimly. “I think you will like it,” he said. “There is a cat in it.”

He nodded to the hotel director who went to the telephone. Jo Gar said:

“I have just one request — I should like to do the talking, and I shouldn’t like anyone to show surprise at what I say. I think we’d better be sitting down and taking things easy, as the Americans say.”

They seated themselves. Cummings came away from the phone and said:

“She will be right along.”

Less than a minute later there was a rap on the half-closed door that led to the corridor. Jo said:

“Please come in.”

He was smiling as the maid entered, holding the Siamese cat in her arms. The cat regarded them stolidly; the light was fading and its eyes were very blue. Jo Gar looked at the maid and said:

“Just set the cat down and let it wander around, please.”

She said: “Si señor,” and did as instructed. The Siamese did not move around much; it stayed close to her and watched the others in the room. Jo rose slowly, still smiling.

“You are not frightened of the cat?” he asked the maid.

She shook her head, a very faint smile on her lips. She was dark haired, medium in size. She was good looking for a Filipino girl, slenderer than most of them. Her English was very good.

The Island detective said: “You are not frightened — of this one?”

Her dark eyes widened. The smile had gone from Jo Gar’s face.

“Of this one?” she repeated slowly.

The Island detective nodded. “This one has seen a man murdered,” he said very steadily and softly. “It has seen blood on the man’s—”

He stopped as the Filipino maid raised a hand towards her throat. She said in a choked voice:

“No... please—”

Jo Gar turned his head back to her and pointed towards the floor. He spoke loudly, huskily.

“Walter Brail’s body was lying about there — when I came in. The cat was on the divan. Brail was dead — there was blood on his lips. A knife wound in the heart and in the neck—”

He let his words die, went towards the spot on the floor where Brail’s body had lain. The room was very quiet; he could hear the swift breathing of the maid, behind him. Cummings was breathing heavily, too.

Jo Gar turned slowly. He walked a few feet towards the maid, then stopped.

“You screamed last evening — when you saw the body. You did not go near the body. All you saw was a figure lying on the floor. Yet you screamed, again and again. You ran down the corridor screaming—”

The maid spoke in a broken voice. “I was — frightened. I felt — that he was dead — lying there—”

Jo Gar moved nearer her. “You are not afraid of a cat. A cat that belonged to a dead man. A cat that was in this room when the man was murdered, knifed—”

She said in a strangled voice: “I’ve had — Siamese cats — before—”

Sadi Ratan spoke in a protesting voice. “What is it that you want to know, Señor Gar?”

The Island detective paid no attention to Ratan. He moved closer to the maid, his gray-blue eyes very small and his lips pressed together in a straight line. When he parted them he said very grimly:

“You are the sort of woman who screams again and again when she sees a body lying on the floor — and yet you are not at all afraid of a dead man’s cat. A strange breed of cat—”

There was fear in the girl’s eyes. She raised her browned hands, pressed palms against her face. Jo stepped forward quickly, caught her wrists in his hands. He said sharply:

“Your fingernails are very short — I think a doctor would say they had been cut very recently.”

The maid pulled herself away from him. She swore fiercely, in a half Spanish, half Filipino dialect. When she had finished Jo Gar slipped right-hand fingers in the right pocket of his duck suit.

“And I do not think — that your nails were clipped short, last evening,” he said slowly.

The maid’s eyes were staring into his. Sadi Ratan muttered something that was not distinguishable to Jo. The maid said brokenly:

“I didn’t — do it — I didn’t! I know you think — I killed him. I didn’t! I knew when you sent for me—”

Her words trailed off. She turned and started towards the door that led to the corridor. Jo Gar said sharply:

“Wait!”

She stopped, faced him slowly. The Island detective took the Colt from his pocket, held it low at his side. He smiled coldly at her.

“I saw you ten days ago — a Sunday, at a cock fight. You were not alone. The face of the one you were with interested me. I thought I had seen it before. I remembered that face — and a half hour ago I saw it again. Photographs of it have been sent around the world. You were with Pedro Savon — a very clever forger, thief and murderer—”

The maid screamed shrilly, loudly — the one word: “Pedro!”

There was the crash of a gun from the corridor door, and as Jo’s body swung to one side something crackled on a far wall. A figure came into the room, swaying from side to side. Jo Gar dropped to his knees, saw the Siamese cat streak across the floor. Savon’s gun crashed again. The cat screamed and seemed to leap from the floor. Jo Gar squeezed the trigger slowly — his Colt crashed.

Pedro Savon fell forward, struck the floor heavily. His gun spun from nerveless fingers. The maid cried out and ran towards the motionless body, but Sadi Ratan blocked her way, gun in his right hand.

Jo Gar stood up, went over to Savon. The man was unconscious — the bullet had clipped him over the right ear. It was not a deep wound. The maid was fighting to get to his side. Cummings said grimly:

“Is he dead, Gar?”

Jo shook his head. “A doctor can save him, but what is the use? He won’t talk — we might just as well let him die here—”

The maid pulled herself free from Ratan’s grip. She said bitterly:

“No — don’t let him die — this way! I’ll — talk!”

The Island detective said: “Good — fast, please.”

She spoke hoarsely, in a strained voice. Her eyes were on the man on the floor.

“Pedro went to Phelps, the valet. They drank together. Phelps hated Brail because he would not give him money to back him in the business. The business he wanted to start, in London. Pedro knew Brail carried a large sum of money and jewels. He offered to share with the valet. I met Pedro here in the Islands — I love him. We wanted to get away from here, and Pedro swore no one would be hurt.

“And then — Phelps lost his nerve. He said he would not rob Brail. He threatened to go to the police. Pedro said we must work fast — I let the Siamese cat out, hid it in my quarters. Pedro wanted Phelps out of the way, and knew that Brail would make him hunt for the cat. We were searching Brail’s luggage when he surprised us. He tried to fight, and I held his hands — while Pedro struck him — with the knife. The scratches — he got them — then—”

Her voice sank to a whisper. Jo Gar said quietly:

“And then—”

She said: “Pedro answered your telephone call. We got away — I had to work very quickly, washing my hands. I had brought the cat in when we came to search the rooms. We were going to leave quickly, on one of the big boats. The cat was excited, at first. But it grew calm before I let you in. Then I ran out, screaming. I couldn’t stand the sight of the body. And I didn’t know until hours later — that Pedro had murdered the valet. He was afraid he would go to the police. We had not taken anything, but Pedro knew Phelps would tell of the plans—”

She paused, and Jo Gar said: “Pedro forged the note?”

She nodded. “He knew about the will — and the clause in it. He said the police would find the will, and believe. Phelps had told Pedro many things, but he lost his nerve—”

Jo said: “Let her go, Lieutenant—”

Sadi Ratan stepped to one side, and the maid dropped on her knees beside Savon. Cummings said:

“The cat’s dead — one of this Pedro’s bullets got it.”

Jo Gar looked at Sadi Ratan with narrowed eyes. He smiled a little. Hernandez muttered:

“This is — a piece for the paper!”

The police lieutenant frowned. Jo Gar said slowly:

“It does not matter — but I was sure the Siamese would not have been so calm, if the murder had been committed as I was on my way up. Or unless it had been in the room — even longer than she says it was. But I was not far wrong.”

Cummings grunted. “I’ll call a doctor,” he said. “I would say you were just about right, Señor Gar.”

Sadi Ratan breathed softly: “The note — the gun beside Phelps’ body — the clause in the will—”

Jo Gar sighed. “You were so willing to be convinced, Lieutenant,” he said very quietly. “So willing that you could not, naturally, become interested in such an amusing creature as — a Siamese cat.”