by Todd Downing
“Well, Dad didn’t take me very seriously. I suppose he thought it was just a passing fancy. He told me to go ahead. I went to the University of Chicago one term. I found, though, that I hadn’t really got away from the Biggers name and money. Everyone treated me like a millionaire playboy who wanted something to amuse himself with until he got a degree. I made good grades, but the other students acted as if they thought I was getting them because the profs knew who I was. I overheard a remark once, that I was being carried through in archaeology because the members of the department thought they could induce Dad to put some money into research. Well, that first summer I tried to get a job with an expedition that was going out from the university. Everybody was very nice, but I didn’t get it. They told me it’d be hard work and uninteresting. There was the feeling, too, that jobs ought to go to students who needed the money. I was pretty discouraged over the prospect. Then, at the beginning of the fall term, my father asked me if I wasn’t ready to quit playing with archaeology and take up banking for good. I sort of lost my temper. I told him I was going off to some university at a distance, where no one would know who I was, and become an archaeologist. He couldn’t understand my point of view, but he took it very well. He said I could go anywhere I wanted to, that my allowance would go on just the same. I said I didn’t want any allowance. I had enough saved up to put me through the university, plus what I could earn in the summers. So I went to Southwestern. I just added ‘taff’ to ‘Biggers’ and had a new name. It was easy. Then I got this job. And no one—” there was triumph in his voice—“ever knew who I was. No one has been able to accuse me of having things made easier for me because my father has money.”
“Except Karl Weikel,” Rennert said quietly. Biggerstaffs fingers mangled the cigarette upon the tray as if he were venting his feelings.
“Yes. Karl found out some way. That was our last year in college. He tried to borrow some money from me. When I told him I didn’t have it he called me a liar. Said he knew who my father was. I tried to explain that I wasn’t getting any money from home, and why, but he didn’t believe me. He made some rather nasty remarks about my being a capitalist and taking the bread out of working people’s mouths. That’s why he said what he did this afternoon when I told him about my job.”
“So that you owe the job only to your record at Southwestern?”
“Exactly.”
“Phi Beta Kappa, among other things?”
“Well, yes. I am a Phi Bete. I suppose that helped.”
“And it was fairly certain, when you and Weikel put in your applications this spring, that the place would go to you?”
“Yes, I think it was. What are you driving at?”
“This: That Phi Beta Kappa election, when you were chosen and Weikel wasn’t, proved this spring to be a turning point in both your lives. Weikel blamed Professor Voice—rightly or wrongly doesn’t matter—for his failure.”
The young man seemed bothered. His fingers plucked at the edge of the sheet. “Yes, I think you can put it that way. Mr. Rennert, what have you done about Karl?”
“I’m going to have another talk with him in a few minutes.” Rennert glanced at his watch. A car would be speeding now, on its way from the capital.
Biggerstaff asked, “Can you wait just a moment longer, Mr. Rennert? I haven’t really put my problem to you. I can write to my father and tell him I’ve decided to give up archaeology and come home to the bank. Cornell and I can be married and—” he laughed bitterly—“spend the rest of our lives moving in the best social circles. I suppose that’s the thing to do, although it’s hard as hell just when I’ve got the job I’ve been wanting so long.”
“You have never told Cornell of this?”
“No.” Biggerstaff turned away. “I’ve been afraid that she’d want me to choose Chicago. That even if she didn’t say so, she’d always blame me for all the things she couldn’t have on my small salary at the museum. I know I’m being unjust to her—but I’ve been afraid, that’s all. Mr. Rennert, what would you do?”
Rennert rose and took the empty glass from the table. “The Mexicans have a saying which covers the problem exactly, Biggerstaff. ‘Tomorrow is another day.’ I’ll give you one bit of advice right now. Tell Cornell. She’s a brave girl. She made a heroic sacrifice for you tonight.”
“A sacrifice?” Biggerstaff glanced up at him quickly. “What do you mean?”
“The whereabouts of everyone between eight and nine tonight have become very important. I’ll tell you why tomorrow. When she learned that, she tried to hide from me the fact that you had been out of your room during that time. She told me that the cigarette stub in Monica’s room was hers. She even tried to smoke a cigarette to prove it. Now, young man, I’m going to stand over you until this sedative is down your throat.”
Rennert went into the bathroom, filled the glass with water and dropped in two of the tablets. He gave it to Biggerstaff and watched him swallow it, then lie back with a wry face.
“Now,” he said as he took the glass, “both you and Monica are disposed of for the night. Hasta mañana.” He extended a hand, his left.
Biggerstaff took it eagerly. His palm was as large as and much rougher than Rennert’s.
“Thanks, Mr. Rennert. I’ll repay you sometime—” He stopped, and his jaw fell slightly. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said slowly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“This is the first occasion I’ve had.” Rennert withdrew his hand.
“Is that the reason you’ve been so interested in me?”
Deliberately Rennert prevaricated. “Yes.”
“Well, thanks.” Biggerstaff laughed. “But nothing short of finding a hidden treasure is going to help Cornell and me.”
Rennert stared at him for a moment.
“Strange,” he said, “that you should say that.”
24
Proof
“Well?” Rennert said on the threshold of Weikel’s room.
The candle there had burned very low, and a thin pencil of smoke rose from the shriveled wick which protruded from the wax. The weakening rays shifted and flickered over the heavy, fleshy face of the young man who sat slumped in the chair, hands clasped between his knees.
Rennert’s keen eyes took tally of the bedroom slippers on the big feet planted squarely on the floor, the dry, dusty boots in the angle between the bed and the closet, the threadbare Brussels carpet unstreaked by moisture.
He said, “Since I left you, Diego Echave has been found murdered in the coach house. The police are on their way here from Mexico City. You have perhaps ten minutes to say things to me.”
Weikel gripped his hands together so tightly that, sun-darkened as they were, the knuckles stood out white.
“What do you want to know?” Rennert noted the change in his voice. Most of its gruffness was gone, replaced by a plaintive, defensive note.
“I want you to tell me about the letters which were sent to Professor Voice and about the owls which hooted at his window.”
Half a minute went by.
A spasmodic twitching went over Weikel’s face. It passed, and he spoke in a sudden, almost incoherent outburst:
“All right. I’ll tell you….”
Perhaps five of those minutes had gone when two cars chugged through the mud of the lane and came to a stop in front of the house.
“That will do, Weikel,” Rennert said. “I think this is the police.”
Weikel raised his tiny bleared eyes. “What are you going to do? Send me to jail?”
Rennert regarded him for a moment. Gone now was most of his antipathy toward this young man who, not altogether by his own fault, had damned himself so long and so miserably. He remembered his words to Roark that afternoon, that the trail of the letters would lead to a person in some kind of prison. The cell between whose narrow walls Weikel paced was likely to be as loath some as those of Ulúa. Certainly it had bred as ugly things.
He said at the door, “No, I’m not going to sen
d you to jail, Weikel. A psychiatric clinic is the place for you.”
It was the best he could do.
Once again he was walking down that long silent hall, descending the carpeted treads to the landing, crossing this to the measured tick of the clock below, going down the steep flight to the rear door. Every inch of that route was familiar to him now. He knew where the boards creaked, where there were rents in the dark, flowered wallpaper, and where seeping moisture had left paler bloated spots.
The rain had diminished to a fine drizzle when he stepped on the spongy grass. It was piercingly cold as he waited at the foot of the old cedar tree, his light playing about its base until voices and the flashes of a torch told him that the newcomers were turning the side of the house and advancing in the direction of the coach house.
He met them at the doors, his light playing briefly upon two stolid dark-visaged policemen in uniform, an elderly man who carried a black case, and coming to rest upon the face of Lieutenant Tresguerras.
At first glance Jaime Heliodoro Tresguerras seemed scarcely worthy of such a resounding and bellicose name. He was of slight, almost delicate build, with a certain effeteness of manner. This was offset by the strong strain of Indian blood which manifested itself in the high cheekbones, the straight jet-black hair, the still expressionless eyes with their deceptive aspect of Buddhalike introspection. Rennert had known many men who had been thrown off their guard by the harmless exterior, so that they had forgotten to watch those eyes.
The Mexican’s electric torch must have revealed some of the emotional strain under which Rennert had been laboring, for the latter felt the black eyes boring into his as they shook hands.
“So we meet another time, Señor Rennert! And it must be death which brings us together.”
“That pleasure,” Rennert said, “takes some of the ugliness from death.” He glanced at the man who had paused on the threshold and at the two policemen who had planted themselves, atlantean, on either side of the doorway.
“This,” Tresguerras said, “is Dr. Sierra.” He added significantly, “He is discreet.”
Of Sierra Rennert never obtained more than a vague impression of a gloomy face, a pair of imposing waxed mustaches and a strong reek of brandy.
He led them into the chilly interior of the place and to the south-east corner. He directed his flashlight toward what lay on the boards.
Tresguerras’ face did not lose any of its impassivity. “Quién es?”
Rennert told him.
Just for a moment there was a rather dangerous glint in the black eyes.
“I had not expected to find the dead man one of my countrymen.” He stressed the Spanish sibilants. “The embassy of the United States told us something of this matter. As it seemed to be an affair of their citizens we agreed to let you take charge. We did not know there was danger to one of ours.”
“Nor did I expect it,” Rennert admitted. “Unfortunately this man was not altogether without blame. Come. While the doctor finishes I will tell you. These men will remove the body?”
Tresguerras walked with Rennert to the doorway. He listened, staring out into the night, to a succinct statement. He stepped aside as the two policemen went out with a plank upon which lay the flattened form of the murdered man. He bade the doctor good night. “Continue, Señor Rennert.”
Rennert concluded, “That is the situation. It is difficult to know what to do. It is, primarily, the affair of the United States Embassy. My advice is to put the disposition of it into their hands.”
The Mexican was silent for a moment. A Mexican’s silence can be very expressive.
“Is there not danger,” he said, “that the embassy will hush the matter and let the murderer go without punishment?”
“I will promise to see that the murderer is punished.”
“Muy bien,” Tresguerras agreed. “I have confidence in you, Señor Rennert.”
“Gracias.”
“You are certain that you are right about the identity?”
From the right-hand pocket of his vest Rennert produced two small sealed envelopes.
He gave them to the Mexican and said, “As certain as I can be until you give me a report on these.”
“They are … ?”
“Bullets from two 32 caliber revolvers. One of them was taken from the skull of the first murdered man. I want them compared.”
“Tonight?”
“There’s no need of such haste. I can’t interrupt the sleep or the amusement of the embassy at this hour. May I call in the morning?”
“Sí.”
“At ten?”
“At ten.”
A few minutes later Rennert was in his room removing his wet shoes and socks. As he put on slippers his face was stern and thoughtful, and the grim set of his lips made almost unrecognizable the tune which he was whistling.
It was that air from Gilbert and Sullivan which Dr. Drexel had whistled that hot afternoon in Laredo:
“… Let the punishment fit the crime …”
He suppressed a yawn of weariness, lit a cigarette and sat down at the secretary. He took the bundle of letters which had been the object of Professor Voice’s study, slipped off the rubber band and began to turn them over with slow fingers.
He did not stop until the dimming of the light told him that the electric battery was nearing exhaustion.
As he undressed he philosophized sleepily upon how profoundly trivialities of one day—a woman’s favorite recipe, a lover’s message, a dinner invitation—could alter the course of life three quarters of a century later.
It wasn’t until he was about to climb into bed that he remembered the door.
He walked over and turned the key in the lock. After all, the murderer was still free.
25
Hand
Delaney Roark lived in one of the larger and more pretentious apartment houses which have sprouted in the Colonia Roma, south of the United States Embassy and the Avenida Chapultepec.
Rennert, surveying its modernistic façade as he went up the sidewalk, found his conviction reinforced that the charm of Mexico City was being destroyed by foreign architectural importations. Comfortable, convenient, but …
He shrugged and passed by the sleepy gaze of the concierge into a carpeted hall full of imitation colonial chairs, potted tropical palms, American bridge lamps and Puebla urns. He located Roark’s quarters and pressed the bell. He had to wait several moments before the door was opened.
Roark was in shirt sleeves and exuded a faint hygienic aroma of soap and shaving lotion. The toilet had not been able to remove the evidence of strain or dissipation, however. His eyes were dull and slightly bloodshot, and lines etched their corners. The skin of his face was sallow.
His frown vanished as he recognized his visitor. “Why, good morning, Mr. Rennert. Come in.”
“It’s an early hour for a call, but I wanted to talk to you before you went to the embassy.”
“Perfectly all right.”
Roark ushered him into a living room which was in considerable disarray. Ash trays were overflowing, newspapers lay scattered on the floor, and the gray felt hat, still damp, reposed where it had been tossed upon a table. The air was stale and musty with over-night smoke and pervasive whisky fumes.
“Had breakfast?” Roark asked as he raised a blind. His eyes blinked as the morning sunshine poured in.
“Yes.”
“I have coffee and rolls sent up every morning. I was just finishing my coffee. I’ll bring it in if you don’t mind.”
He went out and returned in a moment, cup in hand. He found Rennert ensconced in an overstuffed chair, administering to his nose with a handkerchief.
“Catch cold last night?” he inquired.
“Yes. I got my feet wet digging.”
“Digging?” in a tone of puzzlement.
“Yes. I got interested in the tecolotes which bothered Professor Voice and dug one up.”
Roark sank onto the sofa and threw one leg ov
er the other. “Oh, that one we buried under the cedar tree?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” He gulped some of the coffee avidly. “Did the result justify your cold?” he asked in an offhand manner as he set the cup down.
“Yes,” Rennert said. “It did.”
There was a moment of silence while the other took out a cigarette and searched in the smoke stand for a match. He found one, lit it, and his eyes stared into its flame for a moment.
“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve learned?” he suggested. “I may be able to comprehend it now that I’ve had some coffee.”
“That’s why I’m here. I’m returning to Laredo today. I wanted to see you unofficially before I went to the embassy.”
The light, sharply defined eyebrows rose. “You don’t mean you’re giving up the case?”
“I’ve done all that I can. I’m going to put the results into your hands. When I’ve finished you can tell me what’s to be done.”
“All right. Go ahead.” Roark’s lips were occupied with the cigarette, and his eyes were narrowed against its smoke.
“First,” Rennert began, his voice quiet, conversational, “the extortion letters and the tecolotes. Weikel confessed to me last night that he was responsible for both. As you know, he had felt resentment toward Voice for a long time on account of his failure to make Phi Beta Kappa. Last April the question of a job with the Teague Museum came up. Both Weikel and Biggerstaff put in applications, although it was fairly certain that Biggerstaff would get the place on account of his scholastic record. This renewed and intensified Weikel’s grudge. He cast about for some way to vent his spite on the professor and hit upon the idea of the letters. In the drawings he made use, more or less consciously, of the clay figurines which were always before his eyes. The owls were merely an elaboration. The Pedregal, as we were told, abounds in them, but they seldom venture near the house. You remember Lucy Faudree telling about the mousetraps which Weikel set?”
“Yes.”
“He used mice to draw the owls to Voice’s window. He would hang them by a string just above the upper sash, where they couldn’t be seen from the room. This attracted more and more tecolotes every night, of course. He saw to it that Voice knew of the superstition that their screeching foretold death. Thus he felt he was avenging his wrongs on the professor. A childish and sadistic procedure which tells a great deal about the young fellow’s mental and emotional processes. But enough of that. The second thing I’ve learned is that Voice had in his possession the sum of twenty-five thousand pesos on the night of May first.”
