by Todd Downing
“How do you know that?” Roark was listening intently, his eyes shifting only momentarily from Rennert’s face to the cigarette.
“You remember I found in the pocket of Voice’s coat an envelope, on the back of which he had written a series of numbers. Their significance finally dawned on me. They were the numbers of lottery tickets which he had bought. The man was desperate for money with which to pay the supposed extortionist and resorted to this means of obtaining some. In one of the drawers of my wardrobe I found a newspaper dated May 2, with a list of the winning numbers in the National Lottery drawing of the previous day. One of Voice’s numbers won twenty-five thousand pesos.”
Rennert took the torn section of the paper from his pocket and passed it to Roark. The latter glanced at it without comment and started to hand it back. “There’s a news item beside the lottery advertisement which you might read,” Rennert said.
The other perused this, then laughed slightly as his fingers creased it. “Do you think that’s apropos?”
“I should think so.”
“I suppose so. Go ahead with your story.”
“Someone knew about Voice’s luck. Probably had seen the tickets which he had purchased and noted their numbers, foreseeing the possibility of taking advantage of the extortionist farce in case the man did obtain some money. At any rate, this person threw a stone through Voice’s window that night, after the latter had got home from Mexico City. About the stone was a note, supposedly from the anonymous letter writer. Voice was reminded that now he had no excuse for not paying. The entire twenty-five thousand may have been demanded. Voice agreed to leave the money on the Pedregal that night. You agree that we have here a motive for his murder, don’t you?”
Roark hesitated, his lower lip drawn in.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “twenty-five thousand peso would certainly be a motive.”
“I don’t know exactly what happened that night,” Rennert went on. “I think that Voice left the money on the lava, then hid to see who would carry it off. When he did see who it was, he confronted this person. The shooting of Voice was probably an impulsive action, regretted as soon as it was done. The disposition of the body was simple, with digging implements and lime in the coach house. It took but a few minutes to undress Voice and bury him by the wall. The clothing, of course, would be burned to avoid identification. Unfortunately for the murderer, a Phi Beta Kappa key fell from his watch chain while he was digging.”
Roark leaned forward, his nostrils flaring. “A Phi Beta Kappa key!” he echoed,
“Yes, the murderer is a Phi Beta Kappa. Membership in that fraternity can be proven easily enough, of course. That key, bearing his name, remained with the body of his victim until last week. The murderer may have been unaware that he had dropped it in such a compromising place. He may have decided that it would be too risky to disinter the body, so trusted that it would never be found. But he hadn’t counted on the heavy rains at the beginning of the summer. They washed a gully along that wall and exposed Voice’s skeleton and the key. Now, as to how that skeleton came to be in the shipment which we found at the border. I have here a statement from Dr. Fogarty. It’s self-explanatory.”
Roark read this through, slowly at first, then more hurriedly.
“I see,” he said as he returned it. “That explains the conversation between Fogarty and Echave which you overheard.”
“Yes. Echave intended to abstract one of the prehistoric skeletons and sell it to a private collector. But when Marta showed him the skeleton which the rains had exposed it doubtless appealed to his sense of humor to put this in the plaster cast in place of the other. A characteristic Mexican touch. I feel sure that he didn’t know it was the body of a murdered man. He probably didn’t examine it closely. If he had known or even suspected what it really was, I’m sure he wouldn’t have taken the risk. He had nothing to gain by it, since the difference in age of the bones would be detected at the museum. Later he found this Phi Beta Kappa key in the same spot. He thought it was a gold coin and suspended it about his neck.
“That’s my reconstruction of everything that happened up to my arrival on the scene. I’m satisfied that in the main it’s correct. Then the murderer learned that two things threatened his safety: the letter which he had sent to Lucy Faudree with Voice’s signature and which Monica had kept; the key with his name on it, which was on Echave’s person. He made two attempts to secure the letter. One, while Monica was out of the room before dinner; the other, while she was downstairs eating. The second time she returned sooner than he had expected. As nearly as I can gather from her account this morning, he hid in the wardrobe when he heard her coming, then, when she went to the bath, secured the letter and got away. It’s evident, then, that the murderer was in possession of or could be identified with the typewriter on which that letter was written. There remained the Phi Beta Kappa key. He made an engagement with Echave to meet him in the coach house. He killed him with a pick and hid the body, intending to return later and bury it as he had that of his first victim. Have I stated everything clearly? Any questions or comments?”
Roark’s brows were drawn together in a frown.
“No,” he said. “You’ve stated it very well, Rennert. But I can’t see that you have any proof of the murderer’s identity. The typewritten letter has doubtless been destroyed by now. So that’s out. You don’t have the Phi Beta Kappa key. Its owner may have hidden it or may even be wearing it. In either case you can’t prove that it’s the one Echave found.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the proof which I do have? Two bullets, both from the same 37 caliber revolver. One of them found in Voice’s skull.”
Roark leaned back and tapped a fingernail against his front teeth as he stared fixedly at a picture on the opposite wall. “Have you had these bullets compared yet?”
“Lieutenant Tresguerras brought them to Mexico City last night. I am to get the report of the ballistics expert this morning.”
“So you had to bring the police into it?”
“It was unavoidable after Echave’s murder. They’ve given me permission to terminate the case as I see fit, however.”
“When are you going to get the report on those bullets?”
“At ten.”
“Then I suppose you’ll see the old man?”
“Yes. Do you want to go with me?”
Roark lit another cigarette. He held it between his lips for a long time without seeming to draw upon it. He removed it finally and spat away a shred of tobacco. “No. I’d rather not. Did I understand correctly—that I can say what is to be done before things go any farther?”
“Yes.”
Roark looked at him. “Do you mind telling me why, Rennert?”
“For one reason, because both of us will wish as little scandal as possible stirred up. Then, too, my personal feelings enter into this a bit. I have been involved, more or less against my will, in several murder cases. This is the first one in which I have understood the extenuating circumstances so well. I’m not a professional detective or a policeman, thank God. I can put my own interpretation on justice. I think you’ll understand how I feel.”
“I do.” Roark got up abruptly, threw back his shoulders and took a deep breath. “May I think it over a few minutes?”
“Yes. I shall not make any report at the embassy until ten. Shall I call you then?”
“Yes, if you will.”
Rennert was on his feet, pulling down his coat. “I scarcely feel presentable enough to show myself at the embassy. I came away from the Faudree house wearing a gun in this holster.” He touched his left side. “I’m afraid its bulge is too conspicuous. What do you think?”
“I agree with you.”
“May I leave it here?”
“All right.”
Rennert removed the revolver and laid it on a table.
Roark’s eyes fastened on it. “That’s not Cornell’s, is it?”
“No. This is my own.”
Roark h
esitated. “Have you seen Cornell?”
“Not this morning.”
“When you do, tell her that I’m sorry all this had to happen at her house, will you?”
“Certainly. Anything else?”
“That’s all. Well, Mr. Rennert, adiós.”
“Adiós, Roark.”
Their hands met.
At the touch of the older man’s fingers, Roark’s face stiffened. His eyes searched the light-brown ones for an instant. Then he laughed so uncontrollably that his shoulders shook and his voice was unsteady.
“You keep your surprises well, Rennert.”
26
Hat
On the lawn outside a window of the United States Embassy a mower sliced blades of grass still wet from the night’s rain. The bougainvillaea looked splattered with fresh paint, intensely bright.
The man who sat at a desk by this window was looking at neither the bougainvillaea nor the grass nor the spun silk of the Mexican sky, however. He was probably unaware of the metallic clatter of the lawn mower. He was gazing across the mahogany surface and saying:
“You work fast, Mr. Rennert.”
Rennert was drawing dubiously upon a cigar. It was a little too soon after breakfast to be consuming such a large and black cigar, however excellent the quality. He said:
“Things moved fast. I only tried to keep up with them.”
“You seem to have been successful.” A clearing of the throat. “But now we come to the crux of the question—the identity of the murderer. You haven’t told me that yet.” (Rennert’s recital so far had been almost identical with that in Roark’s apartment.)
Rennert glanced at his watch. “May I use your telephone?”
“Why certainly.”
Rennert called the office of Lieutenant Tresguerras. After greetings had been exchanged he asked, “Did your ballistics expert compare the markings on those two bullets?” There was an answer. Rennert said, “Thank you. I was sure they would,” and hung up.
He looked across the desk. “You stated in this office yesterday that I might name my compensation for my efforts in this case. Is that correct?”
“Why—certainly. That will be arranged. Anything you say. Within reason, of course.”
“What I want is your sanction for something I have already done. You will understand in a moment.”
Rennert took up the telephone again. “The apartment of Delaney Roark,” he said to the switchboard operator.
The man at the desk heard:
“Rennert speaking, Roark. I’m at the embassy. I have called police headquarters. The two bullets match…. Not yet…. I thought you would. Yes, I’ll hold it.”
Rennert took the receiver from his ear and held it away a few inches as he waited.
The sound of the shot carried across the smooth mahogany of the desk.
Rennert let the receiver fall and stared at crimson and magenta bougainvillaea.
It was several seconds before the other man spoke: “Rennert, do you mean … ?”
The cigar had been a mistake. Rennert compressed his lips as he ground it into a tray.
“Of course,” he said gruffly. “The murderer was Delaney Roark. The bullet in Voice’s skull matched the bullet from his gun which I found in the body of an owl he killed six weeks ago.”
The swivel chair creaked as a heavy body shifted backwards. Again there was a long silence, during which the two men did not look at each other. The lawn mower whirred on,
“Do you want to tell me now, Mr. Rennert?”
Rennert sat down. His normally soft, rather slow voice was hurried and clipped:
“A hat was the first thing that made me consider Roark as suspect. He was bareheaded when he and I went to the coach house yesterday afternoon. He left me there, looking through Voice’s belongings, while he went to the plaza with the chauffeur. When he returned, some time later, he was wearing a hat, the same hat which I knew he had put on a rack in the hall. Yet he told me that he had left my gladstone in the car because he had no key to the house. It was a little thing, but it made me wonder. All the more so when I learned that during the time he was gone someone had entered Monica Faudree’s room and searched for the letter which had arrived after Voice’s death. If he had gone into the house, I thought, he had taken his hat to justify his presence there, should anyone see him, then had neglected to replace it. Later, while he was supposed to be in Mexico City, the same room was entered again. This time the letter was stolen. That letter, then, was essential to someone’s security. Yet as far as I was aware, only Roark and I knew that Monica had it. Why, I asked myself, was it so incriminating? There were two typewriters in the house, Voice’s own and Dr. Fogarty’s. If it were proven that the typing was that of either of those machines, no one individual would be seriously implicated. Fogarty’s machine was borrowed frequently by his assistants. I remembered then that I was carrying in my pocket the letter of credentials which you had Roark write out for me on his machine here in the embassy. There, I saw, was an explanation. Roark had typed the supposed letter from Voice on the same machine. Had I obtained that letter I would have had in my pocket all the evidence required. At any moment I might be prompted to make a comparison of the typing.”
Rennert heard a murmur which mingled with that of the lawn mower. It sounded like, “My God, right here in the embassy!”
He went on: “I saw how Roark could enter the house so readily without announcing his presence by knocking. It was possible that he had kept a key which he had found in Voice’s pocket, but I doubted that. I remembered that he had helped me undress young Biggerstaff. When I searched Biggerstaff’s clothing I didn’t find the key with which he had unlocked the front door upon our arrival. While Roark was not the only person who might have taken that key, he at least had had the opportunity. But I could think of no possible motive which he might have had for killing Voice until I learned of the lottery ticket. I knew the kind of life a young bachelor in the diplomatic service would be leading, even before Cornell Faudree told me of his debts. I knew that the salary which he was receiving here couldn’t be a large one. It was reasonable to assume that twenty-five thousand pesos would have tempted him, particularly since he would think that Voice would leave it on the Pedregal for someone else if he didn’t take it. Voice had a key to the upstairs storeroom of the coach house, so from there Roark had access through a trap door in the loft to the room where the shovels and lime of the archaeological party were kept.”
“But this Mexican inspector—Echave—you mean that Delaney murdered him too? So brutally, with that pick?”
“Yes. He was beside himself with fear lest he be found out. I admit that for a moment there I considered Dr. Fogarty in the role of murderer. The removal of Echave coincided so nicely with the implication of the Mexican in the theft of the archaeological specimens and his suggestion of a possible motive for the latter’s murder of Voice. Had I not found Echave’s body when I did it would have been buried. The supposition would have been that he had fled because of his guilt. But the embassy chauffeur, when he returned from shadowing Echave, told me that Roark had spoken to Echave on the plaza before the latter boarded the Mexico City streetcar. Also, that Roark’s orders had been that it was not necessary to follow Echave back to San Angel. I saw what Roark had done. Under the pretense of identifying Echave for the chauffeur’s benefit, he had made an appointment with the inspector to meet him at the coach house before the time for his appointment with Fogarty. Then he saw to it that the chauffeur was not present when Echave returned. He killed him in order to obtain the Phi Beta Kappa key which he had dropped in Voice’s grave.”
“But how did you know that Delaney was a Phi Beta Kappa?”
“I didn’t, but I remembered your saying that he had an excellent college record in the United States. I thought it likely that this would have carried Phi Beta Kappa membership. This morning I shook hands with him and gave him the fraternity grip. He returned it automatically.”
The swi
vel chair creaked very faintly. “I see. You—went to his apartment?”
“Yes. I let him know that I was convinced of his guilt. I gave him a newspaper clipping which contained the numbers that had won prizes in the lottery. In the next column was a news item about a suicide who had staked all his money on the drawing but hadn’t won. I gave my gun to Roark.”
Rennert got up. “Over the phone just now he told me that my reconstruction of his actions was correct. I trust, then, that my report is satisfactory. I’m leaving for the border this afternoon.”
The man at the desk seemed to have recovered from his agitation of a few minutes before. His eyes had a speculative look, as if his thoughts had journeyed on to something else. His fingertips were joined and tapping lightly on his chin.
“Yes, yes,” he murmured. “Quite satisfactory. There will be a certain amount of scandal, of course. That’s unavoidable. But I think it can be hushed up soon. It need have no repercussions on my— But tell me, Mr. Rennert, how did you happen to know the Phi Beta Kappa grip? I thought those things were supposed to be kept a secret?”
Rennert said dryly, “I went to college once myself.”
27
End
San Antonio, Texas
Dec. 20, 193—
Dear Mr. Rennert:
I thought I would write you a letter rather than send you a Christmas card. I was going to write several times this fall, but I have been very busy here at the museum.
I am sending you a clipping from a Mexico City newspaper about the auction sale of the postage stamps on those old letters of Lucy’s. It says that the most valuable of them were Postmaster issues. I did not know what that meant, but I looked it up and it means stamps that the postmasters in the South made themselves before the Confederacy issued regular stamps. I had no idea that anybody would pay so much for old stamps until you told us last summer. It was certainly lucky for Cornell and me that you thought of that.
