by Todd Downing
It was a cheap contraption, such as might be bought in any store, and gave no evidence of recent usage. Its prongs were stained reddish brown with what looked like rust, but wasn’t.
Roark, who had been standing in the center of the room watching him, laughed slightly and said:
“As your slow-witted Watson, is it my cue to ask what’s the meaning of that thing?”
Rennert shook his head slowly. “Please don’t. I’d find it difficult to hide the fact that I haven’t the faintest idea. It may be that the young man simply doesn’t like mice.”
He put the trap back into place and turned to the table which stood to one side of the window.
On its surface were disorderly stacks of papers, an old pipe, and a can of cheap tobacco, a few desiccated bones. In the center lay a dozen or more fragments of pottery, some glued together, others single. On each of them had been pasted a small label with a number and a name printed in ink.
Rennert sank into the chair and drew from his pocket the two threatening letters which had been sent to Professor Voice. One by one he picked up the shards and compared the printing with that on the letters.
He looked up to meet the gaze of Roark, who was standing at his shoulder. “Well, Watson, what’s the verdict?”
“I’d say that Weikel was our letter writer,” Roark said without hesitation.
Rennert nodded. “Unfortunately printing isn’t as easily identified as handwriting. But I shouldn’t be surprised if an expert could find something in the way of proof here. The ink perhaps. At any rate, we can see.”
He found a discarded newspaper, selected several of the pottery fragments and wrapped them up.
“Looks bad for Weikel, doesn’t it?” Roark commented. “After what Biggerstaff told us about him.”
Rennert was silent for a moment.
“You went to college, didn’t you?” he asked suddenly.
“Yes.”
“And doubtless considered yourself so important that you thought some of your professors spent all their time thinking up ways to discriminate against you. If you didn’t get a high grade in some course, it wasn’t because you didn’t deserve it, but because of favoritism.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“I know it was in my case. It’s the natural undergraduate attitude. Silly, but understandable. Well, I haven’t told you yet that I wired a friend of mine who’s teaching at Southwestern University for information about these archaeologists. Particularly their relations with Voice. Here’s his reply.”
He took a telegram from his pocket and handed it to Roark. “Wordy, but he wasn’t paying for it.”
He watched the other’s face as he read:
DR. FOGARTY HIGHLY RESPECTED MEMBER OF FACULTY HERE BEFORE RESIGNATION TO GO TO TEAGUE MUSEUM STOP JOHN BIGGERSTAFF EXCELLENT RECORD SCHOLASTIC AND PERSONAL STOP KNOW OF NO CONNECTION WITH VOICE STOP KARL WEIKEL EXCELLENT RECORD SOME SUBJECTS POOR IN OTHERS STOP FREQUENTLY IN TROUBLE WITH AUTHORITIES ACCOUNT RADICAL AGITATION STOP WAS REFUSED DEGREE LAST SPRING BECAUSE HE STRUCK VOICE IN LATTER’S OFFICE STOP ACCUSED VOICE LOWERING HISTORY GRADE TO KEEP HIM OUT PHI BETA KAPPA STOP MADE THREATS
Roark gave vent to a low whistle as he folded the telegram and handed it back to Rennert. “Phi Beta Kappa! Hmmm. Well, I suppose it won’t be the first time there’s been scandal in the order.” Rennert said, “Is it because I’ve been out of the halls of learning so long that I find it hard to take undergraduate grudges seriously? Election to an honor society is a big thing at the time, but it diminishes in retrospect. And when it comes to murder! I’ll swear, Roark, I can’t see it!”
“I admit it sounds a bit preposterous. But the Phi Beta Kappa election may have been only one factor.”
Rennert nodded. “True.” He glanced at the window and got up. “We’d better hurry if we’re going to look over the grounds before dark.”
Back in his own room Rennert deposited the bundle of pottery in a drawer of the wardrobe.
“Exhibit B, I suppose,” Roark commented. “The letters are A.”
“You forget the bullet from Voice’s skull. That’s A.”
“Oh yes.” Roark tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand. “It’s from a revolver of the same caliber as the one you got from Cornell, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Rennert’s finger explored the right-hand vest pocket in which it reposed, securely sealed in a small envelope.
“You’re going to compare the bullets?”
“I’ll have a ballistics expert do it.”
Roark cupped his hands over a match. “You’re not expecting that they’ll be the same, are you?”
“I think it’s improbable that they are.”
The gray-blue eyes looked squarely into Rennert’s. “See here, Rennert, I haven’t got the interest in this business the old man has. I don’t give a whoop in hell about the Teague influence. But I don’t want to see Cornell drawn into this. You can take my word for it that she’s as straight a girl as ever lived. I knew her a long time ago. She won’t have changed.”
“My interest in her gun doesn’t necessarily imply any suspicion of her, Roark. Remember that Biggerstaff used that gun. Others may have. It’s only common sense to have its bullets examined.”
“Oh sure, I know.” Roark seemed mollified. “I just thought I’d make it clear about Cornell.” He glanced at his watch. “Did you want me to stay out here for dinner? I could break that date if necessary.”
“By no means. All I want to do right now is get acquainted with these people. For that reason I’m glad of the invitation to stay in the house.”
“That was rather a surprise. I didn’t know how Lucy would receive you. As long as she thinks you’re safeguarding the family honor, she’ll turn the place over to you. By the way, the chauffeur’s waiting out in front. He can get your bags for you. Where are they?”
“I travel light. One gladstone. It’s at the San Angel Inn. I had it sent out from the airport.”
“Good. You can call the hotel from here and cancel your reservation.”
“Didn’t I understand both you and Biggerstaff to say that the phone wasn’t in order?”
Roark frowned. “I’d forgotten that.”
“I’ll make sure.”
Rennert went into the hall, where the telephone stood on a low table between the stairs and his room. He consulted the directory and dialed the number of the inn.
While he waited for a response the door of Cornell’s apartment opened and Monica Faudree came out.
Evidently the failing light prevented her from seeing them, for she started directly across to Biggerstaff’s room.
Rennert called, “Oh, Miss Faudree, I wouldn’t go in there if I were you. Biggerstaff’s asleep.”
She wheeled about, momentarily disconcerted, and advanced a few steps in his direction. “I was just going in to sit beside him until I was sure he was asleep. I’m sure my presence would soothe him. I’ve been talking to Cornell about how dangerous these head injuries can be sometimes. I want to be sure he’s resting.”
“He was sleeping soundly when we left him,” Rennert prevaricated. “You might wake him up if you went in. That would be unwise, I know.”
Her chin rose slightly. “Mr. Rennert, I know more about what John needs than you do. I’ll take my knitting in, and if he’s asleep I’ll just sit there until dinnertime.” She turned and marched in the direction of her room.
Rennert let the receiver fall.
“No answer?” Roark said sharply.
“The line’s dead.”
The other cleared his throat nervously. “Strange that the lights and the telephone should both be out of commission. There hasn’t been any storm to break the wires.”
Rennert stared thoughtfully down the hall, where the darkness was thickening so swiftly.
“The strange thing,” he said, “is the coincidence which Lucy mentioned. With my visit.”
Both of them were silent as Monica came out of her room, a knitte
d bag swinging on her arm. She paused. “Oh, you wanted to use the phone, didn’t you? I’m so sorry. You see—” she faltered—“something’s wrong with it. I don’t know what. Was it anything important?”
“No, nothing important. Have the telephone and lights been out of order long?”
“Only today.” She was already headed toward Biggerstaff’s room again.
They saw her turn the knob quietly and go in. Just as the door closed they had a glimpse of her face. She was smiling.
Roark said, “Damn! Well, no matter. The chauffeur will attend to it. While he’s gone I can introduce you to Fogarty, if he’s at the excavations. What do you want me to tell him about you?”
“Merely explain that I’m from the United States customs. Leave the rest to me.”
Their sleeves touched as they went down the narrow flight of stairs to the vestibule.
“I wonder,” Roark said, “what Weikel meant by his remark to Biggerstaff about that museum job? About telling who he was?”
Rennert shook his head. “I’ve been wondering that myself.”
“He seems all right. And it looks as if Cornell were in love with him, doesn’t it?”
“From what I’ve observed, yes.”
“I don’t think she’d make a mistake,” Roark said slowly as he opened the door.
Outside, they stood for a moment looking at the scene.
The ground between them and the lava was covered to about half its extent by thick, lush grass. This ended abruptly upon an expanse of bare, dark soil cut by gullies.
On their left were the remains of a cedar tree, shattered by lightning at some distant time. On their right was the coach house, a huge wooden structure modeled after the residence.
At the base of the cliff an iron gate had been set in a narrow opening some five feet high. In a semicircle about this were mounds of debris, cemented by time and the weather to the semblance of prehistoric truncated pyramids.
On one of these a man was standing. He was tall, well over six feet, with bunched shoulders and long arms. His head was bare, and he was staring fixedly out over the lava.
As the two of them watched he raised his right hand with a jerky movement and, like an angry child, shook his fist in the direction of the swirling rain clouds which were blanketing Mount Ajusco.
“Dr. Fogarty,” Roark whispered.
12
Clay
At the sound of their feet on the loose stones the man turned to survey them, his heavy brows drawn into a frown.
He had a long, lined face with rugged features tanned to a chrome-leather hue. In contrast his candid gray-blue eyes seemed extraordinarily light.
“Hullo!” His gruffness made the words sound like a challenge.
“I don’t know that you remember me, Dr. Fogarty.” Roark stepped up. “I’m Delaney Roark, from the United States Embassy.”
“Oh yes, yes.” Fogarty shook hands perfunctorily.
“And this is Mr. Rennert, of the United States Customs Service.”
The archaeologist’s hand took Rennert’s briefly, then went to lodge in the hip pocket of his dust-streaked corduroy trousers. There was only passing interest in his glance.
“It’s enough to try Job’s own patience!” He reverted to his own preoccupation.
Roark passed a palm back from the even part of his hair. “What’s wrong, Doctor?”
“Wrong?” Fogarty’s heavy shoes grated on the gravel. He jerked the hand from his pocket and pointed to the sky over the lava. It was a large hand, calloused, and tufted on the back with thick hairs powdered by dust.
“The rain!” he said. “Don’t you see it? It comes every day now. We’re having to postpone work until next season. It’s maddening.”
“But this is the regular time for the summer rains to begin, Doctor.” Rennert tried to be conciliating. “Surely you must have been expecting them?”
“Expecting them? Yes. But, man, look what they’re interrupting. That’s what I wasn’t expecting. Look!” He squatted on the ground and gestured toward a burlap bag spread there. On it were a dozen or so broken pieces of pottery, reddish brown in color, and a smaller object of terra cotta in the shape of a human body.
“Molded!” Fogarty exclaimed. “Molded, I’m positive! Do you realize what that means? Do you? In an Archaic site?”
He looked somewhat like a tortoise, old and no longer agile, sitting there on his heels and craning his head around to look up into their faces. Suddenly his chapped lips broke into a good-natured smile.
“Sorry!” he chuckled. “Of course you don’t realize. I was forgetting myself. I was excited. See this figurine. It’s made on a mold, one of a pattern.”
He held it out with no seeming intention of relinquishing his grasp on it. When Rennert took it from his hand with sudden interest, he frowned and warned quickly, “Be careful with it, please.”
He got to his feet, his surprise at Rennert’s minute examination of the piece apparent.
“This site, gentlemen, belongs to what we call the Archaic period, the earliest known in Mexico. Prior to the Toltec and the Aztec. Of the same date, we’ve thought, as that at Copilco, which Professor Gamio studied. But all true Archaic pottery is modeled by hand, not molded. Each piece made separately. At least that has been the consensus of opinion for years. Now, what’s the answer? Is this a post-Archaic site? No, I’m sure it’s not. The pottery we’ve found, the skeletons, all tell the same story. Gentlemen, why not the alternative theory? That we have come to a transitional site—between the true Archaic and what we call so vaguely the Toltec? But—mark this—it lies under the same lava as the undoubtedly true Archaic site at Copilco. You see what that means? It places these people at a much more advanced state of culture than we had thought. Therefore it extends their horizon backward—who knows how many centuries? Man may have come to the Valley of Mexico much, much earlier than we have believed. The importance of this find may be—why, it may be epochal!”
Rennert’s fingers still held the little piece of ancient clay. He was staring down at it so intently that he was oblivious of Fogarty’s expectant glance.
It was a grotesque caricature of a naked human being, perhaps an inch and a half high. The head was broad and tapered to a small, angular chin. The face was blank and moronlike, with features represented by mere scratches in the clay. Contrasting with this was the mouth, wherein the malignancy of the thing resided. The lips were huge and blubbery, and were set in an evil, mocking snicker. The body might have been the work of an idle child, save for the buttocks, which were realistically fashioned but so disproportionate that they made the whole seem some figment of a feverish imagination.
“Almost eight months we have worked here!” Fogarty was going on, with Roark for an audience. “At first we found nothing. We tunneled further and further back under the lava and found nothing. It was discouraging, I can tell you. Then we began to come across some pottery and figurines. All of them modeled by hand, as was to be expected. Then for weeks work was stopped on account of lack of funds. We started again—and found nothing. And now, when we’ve come to what is undoubtedly the beginning of a large site, with buildings, mind you, buildings—the rains stop us. Gentlemen—” his voice vibrated with intensity—“I’d almost be willing to see all the crops in the Valley die if I could have one more month of work!”
“You have my sympathy, Doctor,” Rennert said, “but three months isn’t so long to wait.”
Fogarty’s head began to go to and fro mechanically.
“This must be my last season,” he said. “I’m growing too old for such active work. I must turn it over to younger, more active men.”
There was a moment of silence.
Rennert said, “I’m interested in this figurine, Doctor. May I ask if it is unusual? I’m not referring to the manner of manufacture, of course, but to the design. I’m under the impression that I have seen many like it in museums here in Mexico.”
Dr. Fogarty, suddenly mindful of the
artifact, took it from Rennert’s hand and slipped it into a pocket.
“Oh yes,” he said, “they’re very common. Archaeologists dig’em up by the hundreds. You’ll find many similar to this one.”
“I have always been fascinated—and a little repelled—by the grotesqueness of some of them. This one for example.”
“Yes.” There was a good-natured twinkle in the archaeologist’s eyes as he looked at Rennert. “You can see that the Mexican flair for caricature is deep-rooted. Some of these terra-cotta pieces are startlingly lifelike. Others are, as you say, grotesque. The worker would seize on some prominent feature of one of his neighbors and distort it out of all proportion. Some of them, too, are doubtless images of dwarfs and freaks. Even in historic times these were looked on with a little awe. Montezuma had a menagerie of them.”
He continued to regard Rennert. “You say you’re with the U. S. Customs Service?”
“Yes, stationed at Laredo.”
“At Laredo, huh? We send a lot of stuff through there.”
“So I know, Doctor. It is in connection with your shipments that I’m here.”
“It is? Anything wrong?”
“The last shipment of skeletons which Mr. Biggerstaff was taking up was damaged in a wreck of the Mexican National.”
“Damaged! Oh, my God!” In his agitation Fogarty shoved a hand through his thinning gray hair. “This is the last straw! Where’s Biggerstaff? Why didn’t he make a report to me?”
“Mr. Biggerstaff was injured. I brought him down with me by plane. He’s in his room now.”
There was genuine concern on the archaeologist’s face. “Is the boy seriously hurt?”
“Not seriously. He won’t be able to work for a few weeks, however.”
“In his room, you say? I’ll go see him.”
“We’ve given him a sedative by the doctor’s orders. He’s not to be disturbed until morning.”
“Oh! But what became of the skeletons?”
“They were sent on to the museum in San Antonio. I believe that the damage can be repaired very easily. I am down here to make a few inquiries about that shipment.”
