The Case of the Unconquered Sisters

by Todd Downing

  “Yes, Lucy.” Monica got to her feet with alacrity and stuffed the handkerchief into a pocket. “Oh, Mr. Rennert, we are so glad that you’re staying with us. I shall be so interested in watching you work. Will—”

  “Mr. Rennert is in a hurry, Monica,” Lucy said. “Didn’t you hear him say he wanted to look around before it gets dark?”

  “Yes, of course.” Monica hurried out.

  “Dinner will be at seven,” Lucy said when the sound of the shoes had died away across the hall. “Will you join us, Mr. Roark?”

  The young man hesitated. “I’m sorry, but I have an engagement in Mexico City.”

  “That’s too bad. Some other time then.”

  Rennert had been considering his next question. “Miss Faudree, there’s one more favor I’m going to ask of you. Might I examine the letters that Professor Voice was working on?”

  Her frown was very slight and almost instantly gone. “Why of course. They’re merely old family correspondence, but you are welcome to see them. I have them in my room. I will give them to you at dinner.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lucy looked about the room. Her laugh was too light and brittle to be the product of anything except nervous tension.

  “There is something for which I must apologize, Mr. Rennert. Your visit has coincided with the failure of the lights. There has been some accident on the line, I suppose, and the electricity is turned off. It may be impossible to have it repaired before tomorrow. Marta will leave candles in your room.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Faudree. I shall fare very well.” So that explained the unsatisfactory illumination of the candles while an electric lamp and wall brackets were unlit. This contingency would hamper his work irritatingly. One other night, down in Taxco, he had had to depend on wax tapers as he felt his way cautiously through a maze not unlike this….

  Monica returned and handed Lucy a number of old-fashioned keys on a thin blue ribbon.

  Lucy disentangled the knot. “This is the key to the storeroom in the loft of the coach house. There are stairs going up the north side. You will find Mr. Voice’s things there.”

  “By the way,” Rennert said as he took the key, “were any of his possessions missing when they were put away?”

  “I don’t think so. Marta carried them out. You may ask her if you wish. If you will ring for her, Monica, she can show Mr. Rennert to his room.”

  One of Monica’s hands rose to pat at her hair. “Oh, I will take them up, Lucy. I am going up anyway. I wouldn’t think of troubling Marta. Just come this way, Mr. Rennert and Mr. Roark.” She shepherded them toward the door.

  In the hall she fell into step between them and said as they started up the stairs:

  “Really, Mr. Rennert, you are my guest, you know. Your room belongs to me, not to Lucy.”

  “I trust you don’t begrudge me the welcome she extended?”

  “Not at all. I should have asked you if she hadn’t.” On the landing she saw his gaze go to the small vestibule at the foot of the rear stairs. “Those are the back stairs,” she explained. “The archaeologists use them to go to their work. It’s very convenient. That door on the right is to Lucy’s room, the other to the kitchen.”

  She paused at the head of the stairs and indicated the door behind them and to their right. “There’s my room. Those two doors at the end of the hall go to Cornell’s apartment upstairs and to the bath. Then across the hall is where Mr. Biggerstaff, Mr. Weikel and Dr. Fogarty live.” She led the way to the left of the stair well. “This is your room, Mr. Rennert.”

  Large and high-ceilinged as the chamber was, the four-poster bed against the west wall gave it a crowded effect. One scarcely noticed the other furniture—a tall wardrobe with a double mirror set in the doors, a secretary, old comfortable-looking chairs—before the magnificence of the bed.

  “I do hope you will like it here, Mr. Rennert.” Monica had the handkerchief out and was pulling at it again. “It’s the room where Mr. Voice stayed. Do you mind that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be—well, squeamish. You have a good view of the Pedregal from here too.”

  Roark had already walked over to the south window and was staring out.

  They joined him.

  The clouds had hidden the sun entirely now, and the place looked more desolate than ever, with its surface contours smoothed by the premature twilight. Sixty feet or so from the rear of the house the lava ended in a jagged wall twice the height of a man’s head. From what seemed a black, flat plain beyond three cacti stood out like obscene symbols of a phallic cult….

  Monica said suddenly, “Mr. Rennert, I want to ask you something.”

  “Yes?” His eyes and thoughts had been on those cacti, in alignment with this window so straight that it might have been premeditated.

  “It’s about that letter which was supposed to have come from Mr. Voice. Is it really important?”

  “It might have been very important, Miss Faudree.”

  “How?”

  “Each typewriter gives an individual writing which is easily identifiable. If, as I think, that letter was written by the murderer of Professor Voice, I might have located the machine on which it was made.”

  Monica was breathless. “Oh, I didn’t know that. Will you promise not to tell Lucy if I give you that letter?”

  10

  Drink

  At this rate, Rennert thought, it would become a habit to stare at Monica.

  “Then you have the letter?” he asked.

  She seemed uneasy under the gaze of the two men, fidgeting, while a spot of color appeared on either cheek. “Yes.”

  “In that case you may rely upon my promise.”

  “I can’t explain just why I don’t want Lucy to know about it, but you know how these things are, Mr. Rennert.”

  Rennert didn’t know what she meant, but said: “Of course. Would it be convenient for you to let me have it now?”

  The crimson of her cheeks was more pronounced. “I can’t give it to you right now, Mr. Rennert. It’ll take a little time. But I’ll give it to you. I promise.”

  Rennert was curious. “You don’t have it in the house?”

  “Oh yes, it’s in the house. In my room. But really I can’t give it to you now. You see,” she finished in a kind of desperation, “I have to find it first.”

  “You’ll look for it right away?”

  “Oh yes, as soon as I have a little time.”

  “Very well. Mr. Roark and I have to go upstairs for a few minutes. Then we want to look over the grounds. Perhaps you will have located it by that time and can give it to me at dinner?”

  “I’ll try, Mr. Rennert. You’re going up to see John?”

  “Yes. The doctor has given me the responsibility of seeing that he goes to bed and gets a rest. It’s about time I attended to my duties.”

  “You don’t need to worry about him at all, Mr. Rennert. John will want me to take care of him, I know. I was going back up there myself.”

  “Of course. But I promised the doctor—”

  “All right then.” Her tone was a trifle piqued. “We can go up together. But you will see that John will want me at his bedside.”

  As they went down the hall she said:

  “John is just the same as a nephew to me, Mr. Rennert. He’s such a dear boy, so kind and considerate. You mustn’t pay any attention to what Lucy said about him. She’s only jealous because he prefers me to her.”

  She paused at the door to the third flight of stairs. Her smile was arch. “Perhaps we’d better knock. You know these young people, Mr. Rennert. And I suppose it’s no secret to you by this time that John may be—I only say may be, understand—a real nephew to me one of these days.”

  Cornell opened the door just then. Rennert thought that there was a shade of annoyance on her face as she saw Monica. She smiled, however, and led them upstairs.

  “If an appetite’s any indication,” she said, “our pat
ient is on the road to recovery.”

  They found Biggerstaff sunk deep in a chair, a tray upon his lap. He was finishing a sandwich.

  “Hello!” he greeted, his mouth full. “Time’s not up yet, is it, Mr. Rennert?”

  “It is.”

  Monica had brushed past Rennert and was bending over Biggerstaff, her hands fluttering about the bandage.

  “My dear boy, you must go to bed immediately! I can’t have you running any risks with that poor head of yours. Why, there’s no telling what you might do to your brain. You must let me take you downstairs at once. I’ll sit with you till you fall asleep.”

  Biggerstaff shoved the tray onto a table, got up and said determinedly:

  “Now see here, Monica. I’ve told you I’m all right. There’s nothing to get bothered about. And I have something to say to Mr. Rennert and Mr. Roark. In private. Understand?”

  He looked very small and pugnacious, standing there in front of her.

  She quickly inserted a hand in the crook of his elbow and said to the others:

  “That’s typical of John. Not wanting to cause me any trouble.”

  Biggerstaff pulled himself free. His eyes twinkled as he held up his bandaged arm. “What I want, Monica, is somebody to help me out of my underwear.” And, in a note of triumph, as Monica raised her handkerchief to her mouth and coughed, “Shall we go downstairs, gentlemen?”

  As the three men walked toward the stairs he turned to Cornell, standing alone on one side of the room. “Good night, dear.”

  “Good night.”

  On the second floor Biggerstaff stopped. “Do you mind if I tell Dr. Fogarty about my job? It’ll only take a moment.”

  He was off down the hall. He knocked on the far door on the right-hand side, but there was no response. He started back and paused by the middle door. “I’ll tell Karl Weikel too, I guess.”

  He rapped on the panel.

  The door opened, and he said cheerfully, “Hello, Karl. How are you?”

  A “Hello” came in a decidedly guttural voice. “When’d you get back?”

  “This afternoon. Karl, I got some news. From the museum.”

  The hallway was rather dark, and Rennert had to shift his position before he had a view of the man who stood in the door. He was dressed in work clothes—corduroy trousers and boots. He was about Biggerstaff’s age and height, but a great deal broader and heavier. His head was large and covered with a shock of uncombed chalky hair. Rennert wondered how much the fellow’s tan and the poor light accounted for the sullen, forbidding cast of his coarse features, with the Semitic nose and thick lips.

  He said, “I suppose you got the job?”

  “Yes, I start to work September first.” Biggerstaff seemed confused when the other said nothing. “I—I thought I’d tell you about it.”

  “You don’t think it’s anything to boast about, do you?” Weikel demanded unpleasantly.

  “Why no, Karl. I’m not boasting.”

  “The hell you aren’t. What’re you telling me about it for, then?”

  “I thought you might like to know.”

  “I know you got the job. That’s enough.”

  “But, Karl, I didn’t…” Biggerstaff was getting angry.

  Weikel laughed loudly. “You didn’t tell’em who you are? Listen, don’t hand me that stuff—” he paused and underscored the syllables—“Biggerstaff!”

  He turned and slammed the door.

  Biggerstaff didn’t look at Rennert and Roark as he came down the hall and opened the door of his room. “Come in,” he said unsteadily.

  The room was of approximately the same size as Rennert’s. One corner had been partitioned off into a clothes closet. There were two chairs, a chiffonier and a brass bed, all inexpensive factory-made products. A small deal table stood by the window.

  Biggerstaff moved toward the bed. One side of his face was screwed up, and he was rubbing his thumb over his forehead above the eyebrows.

  “Let’s get those clothes off,” Rennert said sternly. “You can talk in the meantime.”

  “Oh, I think I can manage them all right. I just said what I did on account of Monica. She means all right, but she’s rather a trial at times. Cornell and I never have a chance to be together as long as we stay here. We usually have to go for a walk. But what I wanted to tell you was about those letters that came to Mr. Voice.”

  As he spoke he was endeavoring to wriggle out of his coat.

  Rennert stepped up to him and helped him slide the bandaged hand through the sleeve. Roark took the coat and carried it to the closet.

  “Thanks.” Biggerstaff’s fingers jerked at his tie and managed to get it unfastened.

  “Cornell and I were talking about those letters.” He sank onto the bed and began to unlace his shoes. “You remember I said that if you really thought they had any connection with his murder I’d tell you who I thought wrote them. It was only a suspicion, and it seemed like it’d be disloyal if I tried to throw suspicion on an associate of mine. But Cornell thinks differently. She says that all of us have got to help you by giving you all the information we can. So here goes. I don’t give a damn now if you do know it. I was sure—and I am sure that Karl Weikel wrote those letters.”

  He straightened suddenly, his eyes closed. His lips were white. “Just the blood running to my head,” he said as he forced a weak smile.

  Rennert gestured to Roark, who bent down and pulled off the shoe on which Biggerstaff had been working.

  When that was done he gently but firmly forced Biggerstaff down until his head rested against the pillow. “Take it easy, son. Take it easy.”

  Biggerstaff went on talking, jerkily:

  “Karl’s never been a particular friend of mine, though I’ve known him for a long time. Since he’s a member of our party, though, I’d like to keep him out of trouble if I can. I still don’t think he had anything to do with a murder, but I do think he wrote those letters.”

  “I suppose you have reasons for thinking that?” Rennert said quietly. He was unbuttoning Biggerstaff’s shirt while Roark pulled off his trousers. The young man made no resistance.

  “It’s only a suspicion,” he talked on. “But here’s what I’ve got to go on. Weikel and Mr. Voice never got on together. They had trouble back in the university. I know that Karl disliked Voice and was always threatening to get even with him. I remember borrowing a magazine from Karl this winter sometime. There was a story in it about some bandits who kidnapped an American and held him for ransom out in the mountains. When his friends wouldn’t pay the money they—well, they cut him up pretty badly and sent him into town. He had to walk after the soles of his feet had been flayed. Well, I know that Karl read that story. And when I saw the letters that Voice got, I remembered that the letters were worded about the same as those in the story. I’ll tell you what I did. I was in Karl’s room one day and saw that magazine in a stack of others. I looked at it—and sure enough, they were almost identically the same. Even to the three cacti. That was the title of the story. Those three back of the house may have reminded him of it. Now that’s all I know, and I hope you won’t think from that that Karl did kill Voice. But—but Cornell wanted me to tell you.”

  He finished breathlessly and lay very still, his eyes closed.

  Roark had found a pair of pajamas and was pulling the trousers over Biggerstaff’s legs. With his knife Rennert slit the strap of the undershirt and drew it off. He was rather concerned about the young fellow’s condition and wanted to avoid any disturbance of the bandage.

  “You needn’t worry, Biggerstaff. I promise you I won’t jump to any conclusions about Weikel. We’ll talk it over tomorrow.”

  “There’s one thing more, Mr. Rennert.”

  “What’s that?”

  “About two months ago I took another shipment of stuff to the border. Pottery. When they unpacked it at the museum there were forgeries in it.”

  Rennert’s fingers stopped on the top button of the pajama coat. “We
re they ever accounted for?”

  “No. The pottery was genuine when it was packed. I know because I helped. Dr. Fogarty decided it must have been done at the railway station or on the train. I couldn’t stay in the baggage car all the time,” he concluded defensively.

  “Of course not,” Rennert agreed. “Forget about it for the present. Where’s that sedative the doctor gave you?”

  “In my coat pocket,” Biggerstaff said as he slipped between the sheets.

  Rennert found the small oblong box while Roark procured a glass of water from the bathroom. He dissolved two of the tablets and handed the tumbler to Biggerstaff.

  The latter propped himself up on an elbow and grinned in embarrassment as he stared into the colorless liquid. “I feel like a damned sissy being taken care of this way, but my head does hurt a little, I’ll admit.”

  Rennert came back from the window, which he had opened several inches. “Drink that, and you’ll be all right. We’ll see you in the morning.”

  “All right. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  He had the glass at his lips as they went out.

  11

  Fist

  Karl Weikel was crossing the hall toward the stairs as they came out. He gave them a bold, direct stare but did not pause or make any gesture of greeting.

  Rennert waited until the rear door had slammed shut, then beckoned Roark to follow him. He opened the door of Weikel’s room, and they went in.

  The arrangement of these quarters was identical with that of Biggerstaff’s, save that there was a single window instead of two. The air was bad, charged with a disagreeably medicinal odor.

  Rennert smiled as he saw Roark regarding him questioningly. “My customs training,” he explained. “I can’t keep away from people’s personal belongings. They never fail to answer questions.”

  He began a swift, methodical examination of the room.

  In the space which had been partitioned off as a closet he found a pair of half-soled shoes, a gray-and-black striped suit, much worn, and a raincoat; on the ledge above, a felt hat, an imitation-leather suitcase, empty, and, pushed back on one end, four mousetraps. One of these he brought down.