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—”