by Todd Downing
“I will go if you wish,” Flores said.
He went in while Rennert and Miss Fahn waited. After a moment she walked to the edge of the paving and, with an attempt at casualness which did not deceive him, looked up at the sky.
The Tolmans were walking slowly along the west side of the patio, the girl’s hand resting lightly in the crook of her husband’s elbow. Neither was talking.
Flores came out and said without his usual smile: “Mr. Falter will be with us in a moment. He is not feeling well.”
“Oh.” Miss Fahn’s teeth sank very gently into her lower lip. “Let us walk on,” she said to Rennert.
They met the Tolmans by the dining-room door.
“Good evening, Mrs. Tolman. Good evening, Mr. Tolman,” there was agitation beneath the formality of Miss Fahn’s voice. “Have you folks met Mr. Rennert?”
“Yes,” Tolman answered, “we’ve had the pleasure.” He had on a well-worn linen suit. In a glance Rennert’s practiced eye took in the careful pressing to which it had been subjected and the little spot on the cuff where the coat had been neatly mended. The man’s face bore a pleasant, rather abstracted smile but on each cheekbone was visible a hectic flush.
Ann Tolman’s eyes met Rennert’s for an instant as she murmured: “Good evening, Mr. Rennert.” She wore a printed frock whose crispness and freshness did not quite make up for the white drained look on her face. Rennert noted the quickness with which her gaze left him to travel to Arnhardt, who was standing to one side, his back and one foot propped against the wall, and staring straight ahead of him.
“Hasn’t it been warm today?” Miss Fahn was saying in a preoccupied manner, half her attention on Falter’s door. “I thought it would be, so I told Maria this morning to prepare a salad for dinner tonight, something crisp. Her ideas of salads are really impossible.”
Ann brought her attention back: “But didn’t you know that Lee had returned?”
“Lee?” Miss Fahn frowned. “No, I didn’t. I’d hoped that we had gotten rid of him for good. Maria’s cooking may be lacking in some respects but I always feel—well, so much more comfortable if she’s in the kitchen. I feel so much freer to give her suggestions. Well, here comes Mr. Falter at last.”
Something about the sharp way she said it made Rennert turn. He saw at once that something was wrong.
“Shall we go in?” Miss Fahn said hurriedly to Rennert. As he escorted her into the room she whispered: “It’s perfectly obvious what the trouble is. This has happened before but never so bad as this. It will be better if we pretend that we don’t notice it.” She raised her voice and indicated the chair on her right. “You may take this place, Mr. Rennert.”
As Rennert held her chair for her he was observing Falter, who was making his way to the opposite end of the long table. The man’s face was gray ash beneath his tan and little beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead. He stood for a moment, one hand gripping the edge of the table, and stared straight at a bowl of white carnations in the center. He dropped heavily into his chair.
Rennert took his place beside Arnhardt. Flores sat beyond the latter and, on the opposite side, the Tolmans. Rennert was feeling decidedly uneasy. Falter wasn’t drunk, he knew that. He was in pain, however, and, unless he read his face wrongly, was keeping himself going by sheer force of will.
The kitchen door creaked and Lee came into the room with a soup-laden tray.
Miss Fahn glanced at him and frowned.
“Lee!” her voice was imperative. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”
Lee looked at her. His face was blank but his eyes glittered as they reflected the light of the unshaded electric bulb.
“No, miss, not forget anything. Soup all hot. Burn like—”
She checked him with an uplifted hand.
“That will do, Lee. I am referring to your white jacket. Didn’t I tell you always to wear it when you were serving? Please go and put it on at once.”
The steaming bowls tilted perilously as the Chinaman began to shift his hands.
“Too hot, miss, to wear goddamned jacket. Kitchen hot like—”
“That’s enough, Lee. Please go and put that jacket on. Do it before you serve the soup.”
Lee’s lips moved soundlessly, the soup slid toward the other end of the tray and he turned back into the kitchen.
“So trying,” Miss Fahn was saying to Rennert in an undertone, “to preserve the conventions in a country like this.” She went on, something about “keeping servants in their places” and “Englishmen who always dress for dinner, even in the tropics.” Rennert was thinking: She is a little girl in pigtails, playing at keeping house and aping with the air of a grande dame a world that isn’t hers. Then she was clearing her throat and addressing the table: “Did you hear the dreadful news that just came over the radio? About the hurricane that was due to strike Tampico this evening? I think that a prayer would be appropriate—a prayer for the safety of those who are upon the sea tonight, whose lives are in danger.”
She lowered her chin to rest upon a cameo brooch and in the strained hush that fell upon them began to intone: “Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm doth bind the restless wav.…”
Rennert ventured a glance about the table.
Arnhardt was leaning back in his chair, staring across the carnations in the Talavera jar at Ann Tolman’s hair, to which the electric light was lending a metallic sheen. (Rennert’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There was something almost fierce about the intensity of the young man’s gaze and a softness, in that unguarded moment, about the rough outlines of his face.)
“… the mighty ocean deep its own appointed limits kee.…”
Flores sat upright in his chair, as with one hand he marshalled knife and fork and spoon into position. There was an openly derisive smile on his lips.
Stephen Tolman held his head slightly inclined but was regarding Falter sideways.
“… hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the se.…”
The fingers of both Falter’s hands were grasping the tablecloth, their tendons white against the tight skin. The cords of his temples stood out, glistening with perspiration.
“… who didst brood upon the chaos dark and rude…”
A chair crashed against the tiles.
Miss Fahn raised her head, a startled look on her face.
Falter had gotten to his feet and was swaying to and fro. He raised a hand and brushed it across his eyes.
“What’s the matter with these lights?” he demanded thickly.
“Why, nothing at all, Mr. Falter.” Miss Fahn’s voice was edged with acerbity. “If you will just sit down—”
He took away his hand and fixed, with difficulty, his eyes on the electric light.
“Who in the hell,” he said, “put a yellow bulb in there?”
He fell forward. An outstretched hand struck the Talavera jar, overturning it and the white carnations.
11
Sick Room
Ann Tolman closed the door of Falter’s bedroom noiselessly behind her and faced Rennert. She raised both her hands and buried her fingers in her hair, pushing it slowly upward. The movement stretched the skin tight over her cheekbones and gave her eyes a wild terror-filled look.
“He’s suffering,” she said, “terribly. I don’t know any way to relieve him. You still want to talk to him?”
“Yes, if you don’t think it would harm him.” Rennert was watching her closely. After he and Arnhardt had half-carried, half-guided Falter to his room she had quietly and competently assumed the role of nurse, issuing orders for quiet and gently assisting in his undressing. If, Rennert thought, she were to crack up now there was no one to whom he could turn for clear-headed assistance.
“I told him,” she spoke in a strained voice. “He wants to see you. I’ll wait out here.”
Rennert went inside.
Falter lay with one hand thrown over his eyes. Ann had cupped a piece of paper over the electric bulb so th
at its light was directed against the ceiling, leaving the bed in shadow.
Rennert sat upon the edge of a chair.
“Mr. Falter?” He spoke softly.
Falter took away his hand and looked at him for a moment dazedly.
“Hello, Rennert.” He spoke hoarsely. “Glad you’re here. This is pretty bad.”
“You are in pain?”
“Yes. Stomach mostly. And Rennert—”
“Yes?”
“That light bulb wasn’t yellow, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
A pause while a hand pulled clumsily at the front of his perspiration-dampened pajamas.
“Then I know how Stahl felt.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
“I got sick a little before dinner. Came in and lay down. All of a sudden everything was yellow. Like a weak yellow light had been turned on. It got worse. When I went in to the dining room I could hardly see.” He raised himself on an elbow and stared at Rennert, the muscles of his face working. “Rennert, you know what this means?”
“Yes?”
“Poison, man, poison!” His voice rose. “First Stahl, then Miguel, then myself. If I’d only had sense enough to see it before! I’d have shot the bastard, whoever he is.”
“And who,” Rennert asked, “do you think is doing it?”
Falter lay back on the pillow, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” his voice was choked. “I’m not sure, that is.”
“The possibilities are rather limited, you know.”
“Yes. Only two.”
“Two?”
“Arnhardt and Tolman. Arnhardt and I have never gotten along. He thought he could step in and have as much say-so about running this place as I. He’s in love with that Tolman girl, too. She has worked on his sympathies. Told him that we framed her husband—Solier and I—on that San Antonio deal.”
“I don’t believe I know about that.”
“Tolman was working for us then, collecting rents and notes. There was a shortage in the funds. We didn’t press any charges of embezzlement. Knew the fellow was hard up. Brought him down here so that he could draw our plans for us.”
“Has Tolman ever made any threats?”
“No, but I suppose he might be too smart for that.”
“But what advantage would it be to him to make attempts on yours and Stahl’s lives?”
“His way of getting even.”
Rennert thought a moment.
“But Miguel?” he asked. “Why should Tolman or Arnhardt or anyone else want to poison him?” Falter was silent for a long time.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “There’s no reason that I know of.”
“You have been bothered with stomach trouble for some time, I believe?”
“Yes, ever since I came down to this damned country.”
“Has it been getting any worse lately?”
“Since I ran out of those tablets, yes.”
“Tell me what you ate or drank this afternoon.”
“Nothing except that whisky.”
“While I was with you?”
“Yes.”
“But I drank out of the same bottle.”
“Yes.” It seemed to come reluctantly from Falter’s thick throat. “That’s so.”
“You didn’t drink any more after I left?”
“No.”
“And those tablets—you took no more of them?”
“Yes, one more. After I left you in the patio.”
“You and I were gone for perhaps fifteen minutes, when we went to the kitchen with Lee. Where was the box of tablets during that time?”
“On the desk out in the office.”
“It was in the same place when you came back as when you left?”
“I think so. I didn’t notice particularly. I took one more and put the box in the upper drawer of the desk.”
“Was the taste of the second one you took like that of the first?”
“I didn’t notice any difference. They’re bitter as hell. You think that someone may have come in while we were gone and poisoned them?”
“It looks as if that were the only answer.” Rennert got to his feet. “I’m going to talk to Solier now on the radio. I’ll have him send a doctor down. Is there anything I can do for you?”
With an effort Falter moved so that he lay on his side.
“I’d like some water—cool water.”
“I’ll have Mrs. Tolman bring it to you. Let me know if there’s anything else.”
“All right, Rennert. Thanks.”
Ann Tolman was standing by the window of the outer room, staring out into the patio. She turned as Rennert came out.
“Mr. Falter would like some water. Would you mind getting it for him?”
“Of course not. You’ll stay here in case he wants anything? It will only take a moment.”
“Yes.”
When she had gone Rennert went to the desk and opened the top drawer. The box of tablets which he had given to Falter that afternoon lay in one corner. He took it out and held it to the light. Upon the top of it was pasted the label of a San Antonio drug store bearing the typewritten name of a physician and a number. He took out an envelope, shook several of the white tablets into it and returned it, carefully folded, to his pocket. As he put the box back into place his eyes rested on the holster of tooled leather that filled most of the space. From it protruded the butt of a pistol. It was, he saw as he half-drew it out, a Colt automatic.
He was closing the drawer when Ann Tolman came back into the room carrying a jug of water and a glass.
“There’s a question I’d like to ask you, Mrs. Tolman.”
“Yes?”
“It’s about George Stahl’s death. Do you remember whether or not he kept talking about things being yellow up to the time of his death?”
“Oh, no,” she answered readily. “That was only at first, after they had brought him in out of the sun. He seemed to get his normal eyesight back after an hour or so.”
“Thank you,” Rennert said. “I’ll go now. Call me in case you need me.”
“Mr. Rennert,” she checked his movement of departure with a low controlled voice, “I want to thank you for having kept still about this afternoon. I feel that I owe you an explanation. When we have time to talk I’ll tell you—I’ll try to tell you, that is—about it.”
Before he could reply she had gone.
12
Static
“Station Xady, Mexico, calling station W10XAKI, San Antonio. Station XADY, Mexico, calling station W10XAKI, San Antonio. Station XADY…”
Rennert stood before the transmitter and kept up the call at regularly spaced intervals.
His eyes went to the window, within whose narrow frame the stark ramparts to the south were crimson with sun and rocks and stunted trees and phallic cathedral-cactus were hazed softly in mauve.
The desolate grandeur of the sight and his position at the instrument emphasized his remoteness and the tenuous link that connected him with the world beyond the mountains. Suppose one of these wires or tubes were to refuse service. There would remain nothing but wasteland between him and the nearest town that hugged the ribbon of lonely highway.
“… calling station W10XAKI, San Antonio.”
The answer came suddenly, eerily out of the brittle crackle of atmospherics: “Station W10XAKI, San Antonio, answering station XADY, Mexico.”
“Solier?”
“Yes, Mr. Rennert. Glad to know you got there safely. How was the trip?”
“Not too bad. I’m afraid that I must report a serious state of affairs here at the hacienda.”
“What’s the matter?” It was the first time the hollow disem-bodied voice had altered its mechanical tone.
“Both Mr. Falter and Miguel Montemayor were taken ill this afternoon. I believe their condition is serious.”
“Montemayor?” A pause. “What does the trouble seem to be?”
�
��It seems to be poisoning although I can’t as yet determine the nature. In my opinion they need medical attention immediately, before the night is over if possible. I wondered if it would be possible to send a doctor down here?”
“I don’t know. The place is so isolated—”
“You can at least get a message down to Monterrey or Victoria.”
“I’ll try.”
“I want to impress upon you, Mr. Solier, the need for haste.”
“Exactly what happened?”
“Montemayor was ill when I arrived. Falter’s attack came at the dinner-table, about forty-five minutes ago. A curious circumstance, that you might mention to the doctor, is that both of them have had the illusion at first that objects about them were yellow. The doctor may know of some illness or poisoning of which this is a symptom.”
“What was that? Yellow?”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause.
Solier’s voice came again as if from a phonograph record over whose grooves a worn needle was grating: “I’ll tell the doctor, Mr. Rennert. You mean that they are out of their minds?”
“No, I don’t think so. I believe that something actually happened to their sight. The same thing, I am told, occurred when George Stahl was brought in out of the sun.”
“George Stahl? You’re sure of that?”
“Falter and Arnhardt and Mrs. Tolman all recall it. I don’t think it can be a coincidence.”
“It doesn’t seem likely. Everything else all right down there?”
“I haven’t had time to do more than get the lay of the land as yet. I have the feeling, though, that things have about reached the breaking point here.”
“What do you mean?”
Rennert found it difficult to explain to this black metal ear just what he did mean. He said: “There’s a tension here, an undercurrent of repressed emotions that rather worries me. It’s like sitting on top of a volcano.”
“That’s not very definite, Mr. Rennert. I hope you aren’t letting your nerves run away with you.”
“I’m not. I know it sounds vague but it’s hard to put my feeling into words.”
“What about the water?”
“Another bottle disappeared last night.”
