by Todd Downing
“A remarkable man,” Rennert said. “Tindall Faudree’s career always interested me.”
“He was a remarkable man,” she said with a simple note of pride. “His life was a combination of the two qualities you mentioned about the fireplace: utility and beauty.” Her voice was soft, somewhat like that of the maid who had slipped out soundlessly. But it was the softness of Mexico, not that of the South above the Rio Grande.
“I understand that Professor Garnett Voice was doing some research on Colonel Faudree’s life,” Rennert said quietly.
“Yes.” Her eyes sought his face, and there was a faint flicker of curiosity in them. “He was copying some family letters, particularly those which dealt with his activities in the war and his migration to Mexico.” She paused. “Do you know Professor Voice?”
“No, I don’t.”
“I thought perhaps you brought some message from him. It’s strange that he hasn’t written or sent back for his papers since he went to the United States. He seemed so interested in his work.”
Rennert gauged the strength inherent in her face.
“You never considered the possibility that Mr. Voice might be unable to write”
“Unable to write? I don’t understand, Mr. Rennert. You mean on account of illness?”
“More than illness, Miss Faudree. I mean death.”
She did not move, but a shadow seemed to pass over her face, as if a hand had tilted the candles.
“I’m sorry,” Rennert said, “that I must be the one to break the news. I understand that Professor Voice was related to you. You have my full sympathy.”
Her fingers tightened their grip on the gold head of the cane.
“Please, Mr. Rennert—” her voice was perfectly steady—“do not think it necessary to temper the truth with consideration for me. Mr. Voice was a relative, as you say, but a distant one. He did not share the Faudree tradition as my sister and I know it. I see no need to pretend any great grief at his passing. But even if this were a shock to me, my words to you would be the same. A woman who has lived all her life in Mexico, as I have done, learns to face realities. You may speak to me as the head of the Faudree family, exactly as if I were a man.”
When he had finished she leaned forward out of the shadows, so that every detail of her face was limned by the candlelight.
“Tell me how you know this.”
He told her how identification had been made certain.
She sat motionless, her eyes fixed on his face. “You say he was murdered. It couldn’t have been suicide, or accident, could it—with the lime?”
“Not very well, Miss Faudree.”
“And it must have been done here, in San Angel, by the Pedregal?”
“All indications point to that.”
There was a pause. Rennert wanted to go slowly here, letting her thoughts follow whatever line of speculation they were engaged upon.
But there was an interruption. Shoes squeaked faintly down the side hall and stopped outside the door. Lucy turned her head sharply to listen.
Just as the silence began to be prolonged unduly the door opened, and another woman came in. She stopped on the threshold, as Lucy had done, and coughed discreetly. Her long fingers played nervously over the ribbons and ruffles and bows of a black-and-white flowered chiffon dress.
In a flurried tone she said, “I wonder if I’m intruding.”
There was an edge to Lucy’s voice: “Come in, Monica. I should like to present Mr. Roark—and Mr. Rennert. This is my sister Monica, gentlemen.”
“Oh, I know Mr. Roark. Of course I do. How are you, Mr. Roark?” She came into the room, raised her right hand uncertainly, checked it, then extended it.
“And Mr. Rennert. I am delighted, Mr. Rennert.” He felt the fluttering tips of her fingers. She was no taller than he, but he felt a bit overwhelmed by so many yards of rippling goods, by so much towering hair. This was dark brown, almost black, and fluffy, as if it had been recently washed.
She was a woman several years younger than Lucy, and it had doubtless always been her fate to be considered plain, if not homely. Yet Rennert wondered if she hadn’t missed a stately full-blown hand-someness by a rather narrow margin. Her brown eyes were large and luminous, despite the handicap of gold-rimmed glasses. The brows turned up slightly at the outer corners. Her mouth was wide and full but could never, he knew, soften to tenderness.
She was saying with increased exuberance:
“I know that I’m intruding. But I was up in Cornell’s room and saw John—John Biggerstaff, that is. Lucy, did you know that he was back and that he’d been injured in a wreck?”
Lucy said with total lack of interest, “No.” Monica turned her attention to Roark again. “I heard about the terrible discovery you men have made, so I had to come down and see you. And here is Mr. Roark, looking so severe, as if he had all sorts of state secrets on his mind. I know it must be a serious matter. But you can’t deceive me, Mr. Roark. I know you have your lighter, more frivolous moments, just like everyone else. Now don’t you?”
The young man contrived to keep his smile, but the corners of his mouth were tight.
“Of course,” he said dryly.
“But it’s all harmless, just relaxation from your duties, isn’t it? That’s what I told a friend of mine who was talking about the fast set that goes to the Foreign Club and other places to drink and gamble. She mentioned your name, but I told her—”
Lucy’s voice cut in sharply: “If you want to sit down, Monica, please do so. Mr. Roark and Mr. Rennert aren’t here to gossip.”
“Oh yes, of course.” She smoothed ineffectually at bunchy sleeves which did not come far enough down on her wrists. “If you really don’t mind, I will sit down for a while. This news has been such a shock to me.”
“You certainly don’t act as if it had been a shock.”
“Oh, but that’s just a—well, a defense mechanism with me. To keep from thinking about it.”
Rennert said, “We should be very glad to have you join our discussion, Miss Faudree. You may be of some assistance to us.”
“I may? Then I shall stay, by all means.”
While she was choosing a chair, Lucy addressed Rennert: “But do you know that Mr. Voice wrote me that he was going back to the United States?”
“When did you receive that letter?” he asked.
“Let’s see. It was one of the first days in May.”
“Did you notice where it was mailed?”
“In Mexico City, I believe.”
“Oh!” The exclamation from Monica made them turn their heads. She was leaning forward, her face agitated, and pulling at the corners of a handkerchief.
“I know,” she said. “It was written on May Day. It came on the second.”
“How can you be so sure, Monica?” Lucy demanded.
“I—well, I just happen to remember.”
“What were its contents, Miss Faudree?” Rennert had intended the question for Monica, but it was Lucy who answered.
“He said that he had been called away suddenly. He asked me to store his things for him, as he didn’t know when he would return.”
“The signature, I judge, appeared to be that of Professor Voice?”
Her gaze fell to the gigantic lotus flower which splashed the dark-green surface of the rug.
“The signature was typed,” she said.
“The entire letter as well?”
“Yes.”
“Did Voice own a typewriter?”
“Yes.”
Rennert tried to repress the unwarranted excitement which was ready to quicken his voice. “Did you by any chance keep that letter, Miss Faudree?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Of course, after all these weeks it was too much to expect. Nevertheless he was disappointed.
He tried, unsuccessfully, to include both sisters in a question. “Did you know about the threatening letters which were sent to Professor Voice last April?”
“Why
yes,” Lucy said in evident surprise.
“Did you believe that they were written in all seriousness by an extortionist?”
“No.” She considered for several seconds, then moved her head slowly back and forth. “Mr. Rennert, I know San Angel very well after a lifetime spent here. I know the people who live about the Pedregal. There have been times, during the Revolution, when such things might have happened. But now—I can’t believe that there are any such criminals in the neighborhood.”
“As far as I have ascertained, Mr. Voice received only two of these letters. Do you know if a third came just before his disappearance?”
“If so he said nothing about it.”
“To your knowledge did he have any enemies here or elsewhere in Mexico?”
Her negative was more decisive. “No, none at all, I’m sure. He had very few acquaintances even, as far as I know. He was a simple, inoffensive man. I can conceive of no one wishing him harm.”
“And you, Miss Faudree?” Rennert addressed Monica directly.
It seemed to take her a moment or two to comprehend the import of his words. She shook her head. “No, I don’t think he had any enemies. But I had a premonition that something like this was going to happen.”
“A premonition?” Rennert prompted.
“Yes. It was the tecolotes—the owls—out in the Pedregal. They made the most terrible noise with their hooting. Do you know what they say about the tecolote here in Mexico, Mr. Rennert?”
“Yes. The Indians consider it a harbinger of death. When was it you heard these tecolotes, Miss Faudree?” He glanced at Roark as he spoke. The latter was staring fixedly at Monica.
“Just before Mr. Voice went away,” she said. “That is, before we thought he went away.”
“While he was receiving those letters, then?”
“Yes.”
Very low, although distinct, was the tapping of Lucy’s cane. Her laughter rang across the room. “Mr. Rennert, you mustn’t listen to Monica too credulously. Both she and Marta are overfond of their omens and apparitions and buried treasures. There are always tecolotes out in the Pedregal.”
The handkerchief fluttered from Monica’s fingers. Mechanically Roark rose and stooped to retrieve it. She took it from him absently.
“Maybe that’s it!” Her voice was measured. “Maybe Mr. Voice found that treasure. Maybe somebody killed him to get it.”
Lucy laughed derisively. “What utter nonsense, Monica! Mr. Rennert will take you for a simpleton.”
Monica’s jaw was set obstinately.
Her voice was low and evidently intended to be portentous. “What if I were to tell you that I’ve seen proof that there’s a treasure buried between this house and the Pedregal?”
“Proof? You can’t have seen any proof.”
Monica dropped the handkerchief again.
“I have,” she said. “One of the gold coins.”
9
Dusk
Long after, Rennert’s memory retained that picture: the meager yellow glow of the candles spreading fanlike into the darkening room, glittering back from Lucy’s black eyes and seaming the handsome virile face which Roark kept upturned as he groped for the fallen handkerchief. In the utter silence which followed Monica’s pronouncement leather creaked faintly upon the young man’s person, his belt or one of his polished black shoes.
Incredulity, Rennert knew, was topmost in the minds of all three of them. If someone had laughed, smiled even, the spell would have been broken. But no one did. There had been something about the manner in which the words were spoken that carried too much conviction for that, but not enough for instant acceptance. Recollection of the momentary tableau was always to bring a wry smile to Rennert’s lips. Not a glimmer of the simple, ironic truth came to the minds of any of that group as Monica went on speaking.
She was obviously enjoying the sensation which she had caused. She flashed Roark a gracious smile as he handed her the handkerchief.
“Yes.” She seemed in no haste to proceed. “I saw one of the coins. Señor Echave, the Mexican who comes here to inspect the finds that these archaeologists make, was showing it to Marta the other day when I happened up. He said that he found it out on the Pedregal. But I know that wasn’t true.”
She paused and looked about her. Waiting, Rennert knew, for a question.
“How did you know it wasn’t true?” he asked.
“Because I saw him pick it up out of a gully that the rain had washed along the wall north of the coach house. He was walking along the edge of this gully and looking down into it. Then I saw him stoop and pick something up. When he was showing it to Marta I went up to see what it was. Of course, after he said that he had found it in the Pedregal, I couldn’t very well contradict him. I did act very knowing, though, to show him that he wasn’t deceiving me.”
“What was it like, Monica?” Lucy asked with increasing interest.
“Well, I’ve never seen a coin exactly like it. It wasn’t Mexican, I’m sure. It was square, about the size of a five-centavo piece, and had little knobs at the top and bottom. It had lain in the ground so long that you couldn’t tell much about it. There were letters, though, in some foreign language and a date. I told John—Mr. Biggerstaff—about it. I thought he might know what kind of coin it was or might look it up in the National Library in Mexico City, but he was getting ready to go on his trip, so he didn’t pay much attention.”
“On his last trip, to the border?”
“Yes. It was about a week ago. If you want to see the coin, Señor Echave still has it.”
“He has?”
“Yes, it’s on a string about his neck. At least that’s what Marta told me. If you find buried gold and carry a piece of it close to your heart, it’ll bring you good luck, you know.”
The tattoo of Lucy’s cane was increasing in tempo.
“Mr. Rennert,” she said, “all this talk is getting you nowhere, and I know that you’re a busy man. The answer to the problem of Mr. Voice’s murder lies, I am sure, not with us, but with a group of archaeologists who are living upstairs. They are the Teague Museum party, and it was in their shipment that you found the skeleton. I may as well tell you that they are here in the house against my wishes. I know them only slightly.”
“But, Lucy,” Monica said, “you know John Biggerstaff.”
“On the contrary, Monica, I do not know him at all. He seems a nice enough, well-mannered young man, but I doubt very much that he is what he pretends to be.”
Monica’s laugh rattled. “It’s Lucy who’s being imaginative now, Mr. Rennert. She thinks that John is a suspicious character because of his accent.”
“His accent?” Rennert was interested.
“Yes,” Lucy broke in firmly. “Mr. Biggerstaff has called on me several times. Last Easter he brought me a present of some lilies. I endeavored to draw him into conversation about his background. He seemed very reticent about this, although he assured me that he was born and raised in the South, that his ancestors had fought in the Civil War. When I questioned him more closely, however, I found that he either could not or would not give me a single bit of specific information. He spoke in a very pronounced Southern accent. Too pronounced to be real. I am sure that he has affected it, for what reason I can’t imagine. I had heard him talking to his companions in an altogether different voice. Therefore I have my doubts about him.”
She was silent for a moment, her lips compressed. She seemed to be deliberating the advisability of continuing on this subject. Abruptly she changed.
“The other young man, Weikel I think his name is, is most uncouth. He has no breeding at all. My few experiences with him have been most unpleasant. He used to throw stones at the songbirds about the house, then leave them lying on the ground wounded. I soon put a stop to that. Then this spring he began putting his traps downstairs, in the halls and in the kitchen. He was very insolent to Marta when she told him not to do it.”
Rennert asked curiously, “His traps?”
“Yes, mousetraps. He complained of being bothered with mice in his room. He felt at liberty to go over the entire house, laying traps. I caught him at it once.” Lucy’s lips set grimly. “Since then I have not had occasion to speak to him.”
She seemed to drift away into thought again, then turned to him in quick decision. “Mr. Rennert, it is your mission here in Mexico to clear up this mystery, is it not?”
“Yes, Miss Faudree. Mr. Roark here is assisting me.”
“As you can see, it is a matter of honor for me to aid you in every way possible, since Professor Voice was a guest in our home at the time of his death. But the news is so unexpected that I can think of no solution at the moment. Perhaps tomorrow I shall be of more help. In the meantime you will, of course, honor us by accepting our hospitality during your stay in Mexico.”
Rennert was frankly surprised. “But, Miss Faudree, that would be too much of an imposition. I can obtain quite comfortable accommodations at the San Angel Inn.”
She raised a hand in an imperative gesture. “Mr. Rennert, the Faudrees have always been famed for their hospitality. I should feel that I had failed our tradition if I allowed you to stay in a common inn while you are doing us a service. Let us consider the matter settled. I am only sorry that we can offer you no more in the way of entertainment. Since my father’s death we have lived very quietly here. I trust, though, that the spirit of hospitality has remained unimpaired.”
“Thank you, then, Miss Faudree. I shall be delighted to avail myself of your invitation.”
“Would you like to be shown to your room now?”
“At any time. Would you mind if Mr. Roark took me about the grounds before it gets too dark?”
“Not at all. You are to make yourselves perfectly at home.”
“And you spoke of Mr. Voice’s belongings. Would it be convenient for me to look them over?”
“Certainly. They are in the coach house. Monica, get my keys, will you?”
