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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.”