by Todd Downing
Although Christine couldn’t see his face she knew that he was deep in thought or idle reverie. His legs were expressive enough. Rolf had never been able to correct entirely an outward set which a saddle had given to his knees in boyhood. He was sensitive on the subject and, except in rare moments of inattentiveness, took pains to maintain as straight-limbed a posture as possible. Now (Christine smiled fondly) those legs resembled nothing so much as a pair of sturdy parentheses.
“Day-dreaming?”
He turned, automatically forcing his knees together, and grinned so that little crow’s-feet creased the corners of his candid grey-blue eyes. Except for the tan which darkened a ruddy complexion mottled by freckles, nearly fifty years of strenuous living had left slight mark on his lusty face.
“No.” He slipped an arm about her. “I’m being practical. Counting pennies. Making plans.”
“Plans?”
“Yes. Listen, honey.” His soft voice lost some of its drawl as eagerness infused it. “Why don’t we have the nursery built on now? Out over that terrace, like we talked about. So that it’ll be all ready—for this spring.”
She laughed and kneaded with her fingers the back of one of his broad hands: the left one, which still bore the brand of last fall’s hurricane in the form of an ugly scar.
“Impatient, aren’t you, dear? Don’t be. There’s plenty of time. We decided, you know, that we’d be better able to afford the extra room later.”
“I know. But I hadn’t counted on the money I made on that deal this morning in Matamoros.”
“The sale of that Mexican bullfighter’s ranch?”
“Yes. Darwin Wyllys is giving me a bigger commission than I expected.”
Christine gazed thoughtfully down the long rows of grapefruit trees which stretched to the winding road a mile south of them, to be succeeded on the other side by Hugh Rennert’s orange trees, not yet in fruit.
“Rolf,” she said suddenly, “I wish you hadn’t got mixed up in that business.”
“But why, honey?” His voice was solicitous.
“I can’t explain. But there’s something underhand about it all. All the secrecy. I wish you wouldn’t have anything to do with Dr. Torday’s organization. I don’t trust them.”
He laughed reassuringly and pressed her close against his side. “You’ve been reading too many mystery stories, sweetheart. Torday’s not any wicked old spider. And this deal only concerns Wyllys and Jarl Angerman. Let’s forget about it and talk about the nursery. Do you still have those samples of wallpaper? The ones with the little monkeys chasing their tails about?”
Impulsively, Christine kissed him. “All right, dear. We’ll go ahead with the nursery. Have it ready for a little red-headed roomer. But there’s not time now. Hugh Rennert’s coming for dinner, remember. And you have to fix the cocktails. Hurry now and get dressed.”
“All right.” He held her a moment longer. “Enjoyed our first Christmas together, honey?”
“The first one I ever did really enjoy. I didn’t have you for the others.”
“And this time next year there’ll be three of us.”
“And you’ll be barking your shins on toys and wishing you were a bachelor again. There’s Hugh’s car now. I’ll go down and meet him.”
In a mood of complete and complacent happiness she left the room and went down the stairs.
She was reliving that gloomy New York morning when Rolf had come hesitatingly into the interior decoration department over which she presided. She remembered how disconcerted she had been by his eyes and his smile and his boyish exuberance as they discussed the houses which he was building in a country that was remote to her as the moon. During their frequent conferences she had found it increasingly difficult to maintain the mask of impersonal friendliness which she wore for buyers. They lunched together. Then in one short breathless week she had discarded all her carefully-formulated plans for a professional career and was journeying with him towards the sun and the valley which had fulfilled its promise of being a magic one.
She met Rennert at the front door. He was bareheaded and looked cool and unwilted in blue flannels. She wondered, as she did every time she observed the vitality of his mature yet unlined face, why he had never married, and learned what it was to be happy.
II
When the Brownsville-Harlingen Highway was paved and shortened by the elimination of unnecessary windings, a ten-mile loop of the old roadbed had been left stranded, as it were, in the midst of property owned by Rolf Jester. At its northern intersection with the main artery of travel stood the Jester Hotel; at its southern, the old-fashioned residence which Dr. Bruce Lincoln had purchased three years before. Neighbours on the distended arc which stretched eastward of these two structures were Jester’s home, a square, severely simple example of modern architecture, and Rennert’s bungalow, with its modest acreage of citrus trees behind it. There was formed, thus, a closely knit little community, with what amounted to a private drive connecting its members.
Rennert was thinking, as he accompanied Christine across the smooth grass towards a group of orange-red chairs, of how quickly he had become assimilated here during the past two months, so that even before his house was completed he felt like an old resident. “You look happy,” he commented. “A nice Christmas?”
She laughed. “A Christmas in a new dimension, Hugh. It isn’t possible that there was a tree in Washington Square last night. Snow on the ground. Carols in the air.”
“And frozen fingers and colds and coughs,” he reminded, as he held a chair for her.
“Yes, those too.” She leaned back and looked at the globules of fruit which hung like crystal pendants in the mauve haze that was gathering about the dusty leaves. The sun was touching the flat horizon at a point which would advance steadily northward to Cancer, now that the winter solstice was past. Already the air was perceptibly cooler, with a tiny breeze exploring their faces. From inside the house came Rolf’s voice, uplifted in spirited song. “How have you spent the day, Hugh? Sleeping, I’ll bet.”
“You lose. I went to the bullfight over in Matamoros this afternoon.”
She turned her head in surprise. “Why, Hugh Rennert, whatever possessed you to do that?”
“Kent Distant over at the hotel had a couple of tickets. He found out I was going across anyway, so he talked me into going with him. I regretted it. A young matador was killed.”
“Not Carlos Campos?”
“Yes.”
She listened, frowning, to his account and repressed a shudder of repugnance. “How terrible! Rolf will be distressed to hear it. He knew Campos. Had some business dealings with him recently. How can you bear to sit through a bullfight, Hugh? I should think it would be sickening.”
“It is—if one has a seat close enough really to see what happens. That’s its primary attraction for people. They go the first time out of curiosity or to show that they have no prejudices. They go again for the perverse pleasure of having their feelings harrowed. After that, they either lose interest or become addicts. In the latter case, there’s something responsive in their natures. I suspect it’s the same thing that takes a lot of men and women to prize fights. Or hunting, so they can kill and mangle birds and animals and call it sport.”
“You think that accounts for the flood of books on bullfighting in the United States?”
“In great part. Of course, it’s a fad and won’t last long. I can’t decide whether these books smack more of the decadent, like Mirbeau’s Torture Garden, or of the small boy’s attempts to be shocking.”
“I’ve never read any of them. Only an article that came out in some magazine a few years ago. An exposé of the cruel features of bullfighting. The illustrations gave me the nightmare. I remember the title, The Last Trumpet. Did you read it?”
Rennert nodded. “Yes. It caused quite a sensation in this country, or in Texas at least.”
“Just lurid journalism, wasn’t it?”
“No, it wasn’t, Christin
e. The author knew what he was talking about. He took bullfighting merely as an example of the streak of cruelty which runs through Mexican life. A sort of childish cruelty, refined by a subtlety that goes back to the Aztecs with their blood rites. You can find it in all their literature. The stories of Mariano Azuela and the other Revolutionary writers. Bullfighting, the writer claimed, was far more dangerous and fatal in Mexico than in Spain. He listed internationally famous matadors who had met their deaths in the Mexico City ring. Antonio Montes, for one. He showed how deep-rooted the afición is, and quoted Lamartine: ‘Brutality to an animal is cruelty to mankind—it is only the difference in the victim.’ You can tell what an impression the article made on me.”
“The Mexican Government got indignant about it, didn’t they?”
“So much so that they barred the author from the country, as they did a well-known American novelist not many years ago. After a trip to Mexico she wrote a short story which they felt reflected discredit on their people. On the same principle they don’t permit travelers to take photographs of the beggars who infest the railway stations. A sort of pugnacious national pride, which of course has some justification. I’ve been trying to think of the name of the man who wrote The Last Trumpet. It appeared in a little magazine called N.E.W.S, as I recall. I never read anything more by him. One would have expected him to take advantage of his publicity.”
Christine looked around as the front door slammed loudly. “Here comes Rolf. He’ll remember. We were talking about that article once.”
Jester was carrying a tray with silver shaker and glasses. “Howdy, Hugh!” he greeted. “Ready for a Daiquiri?”
“I should say. I was afraid I was going to have to make it myself.”
“The old man’s a little slow to-night.”
As Jester busied himself at the table, Rennert compared him with the fellow in corduroys and boots whom he had met for the first time less than a year before: a fill-blooded beefy man, given to backslapping, gusty laughter and ribald jokes. The diamond was out of the rough now, polished and faceted by a few months of married life. It would have been difficult to find, Rennert thought, a more suitable agent for this transformation than Christine. A little younger than he, attractive in a blonde Junoesque way, edged by city life, she formed his necessary complement.
She took a glass from him, and asked: “Rolf, what was the name of that man who wrote the magazine article on Mexico we were discussing once—The Last Trumpet?”
“Oh, that. Simon Secondyne wrote it. Why?”
“Talking about bullfights made us think of it. Hugh was over in Matamoros to-day. That young Mexican Carlos Campos was killed.”
“Killed!” Jester echoed as he handed Rennert his drink. “How did it happen?” He lowered his big body on to the edge of a chair and listened, serious-faced, to Rennert’s story. “Too bad.” He shook his head. “Carlos was a nice young fellow. I knew him fairly well. Saw him only this morning, in fact.”
“It was on his father’s hacienda that the wreck occurred in which Dr. Torday was injured, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Manuel Campos was his father.”
“Rolf, I’d like to hear the details of that accident. Do you mind? Or you, Christine?”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I supposed Rolf had told you all about it long ago.”
“I don’t know why I never did.” Jester settled back in his chair and stared into his glass. “It happened—let’s see—four years ago next June. I was entertaining a bunch of people and trying to sell ’em land here in the Valley. I thought it would be a smart idea to let ’em see how nice it’d be to live in the United States, yet be able to be in a foreign country within an hour. So I arranged to take ’em over to Monterrey for one day, then down to the Campos hacienda for another. I knew old Manuel Campos pretty well and he’d invited me down on hunting trips. He had a big estate, I forget how many hundreds of acres, about a hundred and twenty miles southeast of Monterrey. The Tampico branch of the Mexican National Railroad runs through it. There’s a signal stop about a half-mile from the house. So I chartered a Pullman and off we went. There were eleven of us. Dr. and Mrs. Lincoln, Dr. Torday and his wife and her brother, David Distant from Oklahoma, a couple named Perkins from New Orleans, Matt Bettis and his brother Charles.”
Jester got up to replenish the glasses and Rennert said: “I didn’t know Matt Bettis had a brother.”
“Well, he hasn’t—now. Charles was killed two years ago. He was out in the country near here and some hunter shot him accidentally.”
Rennert was not surprised that no mention had ever been made of this fatality, nor that Rolf was obviously reluctant to dwell on it now. Such evasion was in accord with the doctrine which Chambers of Commerce have ingrained in residents of the Magic Valley: death has no place within its boundaries. Newspapers publish birth but not mortality statistics. No stones or tombs betray the true nature of occasional pleasant meadows. The visitor’s query as to the location of cemeteries is met by the bland assertion that the Valley is a healthy region where no one ever dies.
“It was Saturday noon,” Jester hurried on, “when we got there. The Pullman was sidetracked to be picked up by the north-bound train the next day. Campos entertained us royally, and the visit was a success—up until the end. Dr. and Mrs. Lincoln, Dr. Torday, Mr. and Mrs. Perkins and the porter were in the car Sunday afternoon when the train came in. It was going to pass the Pullman, then back up and attach it to the rear. But the switch had been turned and, instead of doing that, the engine crashed right into the sleeper. The Perkinses, Mrs. Lincoln and the porter were killed instantly. Dr. Torday’s neck was broken and we thought he was dying.” Jester finished his drink and sat for a moment, staring into space and worrying the end of his moustache.
“Dr. Lincoln wasn’t injured, then?” Rennert asked.
“No. He barely escaped, though. He stepped off the Pullman about one minute before it was hit.”
“I understood that Professor Radisson and Jarl. Angerman were there. They weren’t in your party?”
“No. Both of them were staying at the hacienda. Angerman was foreman. Radisson was a guest there while he made records of some of the native languages in that region. Well, we got Torday to a hospital in Monterrey as soon as possible. The doctors all said there wasn’t any hope for him. They gave him only a few days to live. But he fooled ’em and got better. Manuel Campos sent his family lawyer to arrange for a damage suit against the railway. He had the old Spanish ideas about hospitality, and felt it was up to him to see that his guests got justice. The railroad people knew how much influence he had, and that if the case got into court it’d go against them. Then, too, they were making a big play for tourist travel from the United States and didn’t want any more publicity than possible about the accident. So they settled out of court. They gave Dr. Lincoln and the Perkins’s relatives large indemnities. They made Torday a proposition: to pay him a lump sum in cash or a thousand dollars a week as long as he lived. They hoped he’d take the last offer, of course, then die. He took it—but didn’t die. For the last three and a half years he’s been drawing his money every week. With it he has built his radio station and sanatorium. He capitalized on his injury to draw business. I don’t have any idea how much he’s worth to-day.”
Jester turned his head at the faint peal of the telephone bell inside the house.
“About a year ago,” he continued, “the Mexican Railways asked the courts for relief from further payment. They claimed the thousand-dollar-a-week offer had been made with the understanding that Torday’s life was to be a short one. But from all indications he was going to live to a ripe old age. Torday fought their petition, of course. He got Manuel Campos to take his side again. Their combined influence was too much for the railroad, and the court said the contract was still binding.”
The little Mexican maid came to the door and in a soft voice called Rolf to the telephone.
He got up and added: “Now that Manuel Campos is dea
d, the Mexican National is trying again. The hearing is some time after New Year, over in Matarnoros. Odd case, isn’t it? Christine says there was another like it somewhere in the East a few years back.—Pardon me a moment, will you?”
Rennert turned to Christine: “I recall that case. A woman had her neck broken. Twenty-three years later she was still living and drawing indemnity from the railroad.”
“Yes. Rolf didn’t say anything about it, Hugh, but he felt just as responsible as Campos. I know he had specialists examine Torday at his own expense. Just like Rolf—” She was silent for a moment then looked steadily at Rennert. “It was like Rolf, too, to pass over the significant thing about that wreck.”
“The changing of the switch?”
She nodded. “He’d like to think it was an accident, but he knows it wasn’t. Someone broke the lock to do it. I’ve never seen that country down there, but from what Rolf says it’s desolate. Not a town within miles. Just a few little huts scattered through the mountains. It’s not likely there was a tramp wandering along the tracks. Besides the railroad sent out patrols in both directions to pick up any suspicious-looking characters. They didn’t find any. No, it was done by someone who was on the hacienda at the time. Someone”—her voice hardened—“who wanted to kill every soul in that party. I consider it a case of murder. And the guilt lies on Jarl Angerman.”
“Angerman?” Rennert glanced at her in surprise.
Christine was silent for a moment, her tranquil face gradually assuming a purposive set.
“Hugh,” she spoke firmly, “Rolf wouldn’t like me to talk about this to anyone but you. It wasn’t he who told me, in fact, but Bruce Lincoln. A few hours before that collision he and Torday were inspecting some of the buildings. They came across Angerman flogging a peon. They made him stop, of course. It could never be proven, but everyone was sure that the peon changed the switch out of revenge. That’s why I say Angerman was to blame.”
