“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.”
The Amateur Murderer
by Carroll John Daly
A client asks Race Williams for protection — of the two-gun kind.
1
There were two things that sent me to Baltimore. Curiosity and money. I knew nothing about the case. A lad giving the name of Hulbert Clovelly had paid for a long-distance call, asked me to leave immediately for Baltimore and go straight to the Carleton Hotel and wait for his ring. When he backed up that request with a wire for five hundred dollars I believed that he meant it — and went.
The Carleton Hotel proved a good shack. I scribbled the name Race Williams smack across the register, picked me a good room and bath, did a wash and ate a dinner which would set my client back $4.85 when he got the expense account. I’m not on a diet, you understand. Then I went to my room and waited.
Almost on the minute of twelve my phone rang. It was not the same voice that called me on the long distance. At least, I didn’t think it was. The calmness had gone out of it; a fear had crept in. It was a wavering, shaky voice, with a gulp to it.
“Mr. Williams — Race Williams — the private detective?” The voice had a squeak at the end of it which nearly took my ear off.
“That’s right,” I cheered him up. “You are—?” and I waited.
“Hulbert Clovelly. Things have taken a bad turn. I need you.” And he went on to tell me of the money he had sent me.
“Yes, yes — I know all that,” I cut in on him. “What do you want? If it is imperative — important — you better lay a finger on it right off the bat.” And when he started to argue: “No, you don’t have to explain. If it isn’t legitimate, you’ll be the sorry one.” And I put a bit of a threat in that, for contrary to the general opinion of so-called private detectives, I never work a crooked racket. There were lads who’d gladly pay five hundred berries, or even more to trap me to my death. And fair is fair. Any time a lad puts up that much money to trap me, he is entitled to a bit of a run for his money. And I’m the boy to give him that run.
“Now,” I finished, “tell me what’s on your chest; if you need me right away, or—”
“Need you! Right away!” He damn’ near split my ear drum. “The — he has taken refuge in a warehouse. They are hunting him out now, to... to... to— Don’t you understand? They are going to do him to death — kill him — murder him.”