by Todd Downing
“What did your other caller look like?”
“A young fellow. Mexican or part Mexican. A salesman, I imagine.”
“Rather stocky build, good-looking face with too much forehead and jaw?”
“Yes, that describes him.”
Rennert was thoughtful. “I think that was Juan Canard, a reporter for the Brownsville Sun. Do you know him?”
“Canard? No, I don’t. Why should he come here?”
“For an interview. Perhaps it’s just as well you didn’t see him.” Rennert didn’t pursue this lead. “Professor, I understand you received a telephone call at Dr. Lincoln’s house about half an hour before you were shot last night. I don’t like to pry into your affairs, but the close sequence of events made me wonder about that call. Would you object to telling me who it was from?”
Radisson had recourse to his glass before replying. “I don’t know who it was,” his voice had a convincing ring of sincerity. “I only wish I did.” He looked straight at Rennert as if inviting the latter to read in his eyes the truth of his assertion.
Rennert believed him, but also speculated at the impression which he received that Radisson was putting an importance on that incident which he had not done.
“Just what was said?” he prompted.
“A man’s voice, very low, asked if I were Professor Radisson. Then he inquired how long I was going to be in Brownsville. I told him my plans were indefinite, that I should probably leave the middle of next week. That was all. He hung up. I called the operator and asked her to trace the call. It came from a telephone-box in a drug-store, that was all I could learn.”
“The voice was not familiar?”
“No.”
“You do plan to leave the middle of the week?”
“As soon as some typing is completed. That should be before New Year.”
“You don’t intend to stay for the hearing of Dr. Torday’s case then?”
“I hadn’t considered that in my plans. I signed the affidavit for Jarl Angerman this morning. According to him, that was all that was necessary. I shouldn’t object to testifying on Torday’s behalf if it suited my convenience, but I certainly don’t intend to discommode myself for him.”
Whatever it was which had vibrated within the speaker had quieted now. He was a pain-wracked man, a worried one, perhaps a frightened one, who was passively answering questions. There was something here, possibly irrelevant to the case, which Rennert felt was eluding him. He thought of that bare expanse of sandy road-bed and the blood which had glistened in the moonlight.
“Then that telephone call did not cause you to take your stroll last night?” he asked.
“No. Well, indirectly it did, I suppose. It served to interrupt my work. On my way to and from Dr. Lincoln’s house I got a few breaths of fresh air and wanted more.”
“You’re certain that nothing at all was said which would lead the person at the other end of the wire to think you might walk along that particular stretch of road?”
“No, I’m certain there wasn’t.”
“Is it possible that someone might have designs on your life for some cause unconnected with Dr. Torday’s case?”
Radisson shook his head. “I know very few people here. I come to the Valley two or three times a year to get my notes typed, my teeth taken care of, that sort of thing. But I have made very few acquaintances. Lincoln’s friends, mostly, like yourself.”
“You are usually here at Christmas-time?”
“Yes, it’s the one season of the year when I get a nostalgia for the United States. A week or so and I’m ready to leave.”
“You have been here the last two Christmases?”
“The last three or four, as I remember. I ran across Lincoln once and we renewed the acquaintance which we had begun at the time of his visit to the hacienda. This old carriage house wasn’t in use, except one room as a garage. I had it fixed up as you see it now. I can come here and feel at home. While I’m away I know that my possessions, such as they are, will be looked after. A very satisfactory arrangement. Oh”—he became more aloof—“I see what you mean by your question. Yes, I was here when Bettis was killed and when Torday had his escape.”
“Has it struck you as odd that all these crimes, including last night’s affair, should have occurred at the Christmas season?” Radisson gave a decided start and passed his tongue quickly over his lips. “Christmas! They have occurred then. I never thought of it. Of course, Torday’s suit against the railroad comes up right after New Year. If there is any skull-duggery going on it would have to be done now.”
“These crimes have another point in common. I’d like very much to know if you can throw any light on it. Bettis, Campos and Torday have all been left-handed. You were shot in the left hand. Does that mean anything to you?”
Radisson moved uneasily, took a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over his face. “Mr. Rennert, you are an amazing man. I know something of your past experiences. Once you take charge of a case it leaves the realm of the commonplace and becomes bizarre.” He regarded his bandaged member thoughtfully. “You know all the connotations of the left hand. Our word ‘Sinister’ comes from it. Inauspicious, ill-omened. From the Roman auguries. Although I don’t believe all of them agreed. Some held that the left hand was a favourable one. But nowadays we always look on it as unfavourable. We speak of the bar sinister and the sinister aspect of the planets. I say, Mr. Rennert, isn’t that reading too much into this?”
“Probably. The mention of the left hand means nothing to you in connection with anything that ever happened on the Campos hacienda?”
“On the hacienda?” Radisson’s head moved slowly in a negative. “Carlos Campos, of course, was left-handed, as you have said. I believe he owed some of his success as a bullfighter to the fact. But I can think of nothing else.”
“About that wreck. What was your theory as to who turned the switch?”
The other’s gaze wandered from Rennert’s face to the table. “Do you mind filling the glasses again, Mr. Rennert?” He requested a strong drink for himself. “I am adverse to talking about that wreck,” he stated when Rennert was back in his chair. “To do so, especially in this connection, would be unfair to a certain individual. I feel that he has suffered quite enough for the indirect part he had in it.”
II
“You refer to Jarl Angerman and his flogging of the peon?”
Radisson frowned quickly. “Yes. I suppose Bruce Lincoln told you of it?”
“Dr. Lincoln has never mentioned the matter to me.”
“I suppose the account you heard originated with him, though,” Radisson said rather querulously. “Bruce conceived a dislike for Jarl on that occasion. It has coloured his actions and thoughts with regard to him ever since. I have never been able to convince Bruce that he is doing Jarl an injustice.”
“You believe that he is?”
“I know it. Rennert, I know Jarl Angerman far better than most people. I was thrown into intimate contact with him during my stays at the Campos hacienda. I was there the day he drifted in, on his way to the Tampico oil-fields to look for a job. Old Manuel Campos took an immediate liking to him and offered him a place. Jarl was a good worker and popular with everyone. He is as fine a type of manhood as I ever expect to see. That surprises you, doesn’t it?”
“I admit it does. I’d like to hear you amplify.”
“Everyone judges Jarl by his exterior, thinks of him as a block of bone and muscle. Which isn’t true at all. Jarl is a simple soul, a lovable one. He’s extremely unfortunate in that he is intensely high-strung, proud and sensitive, but all his life has repressed outward show of emotion. As a result, it eats away on him, so to speak. It makes him miserable and he draws more into himself. On rare occasions it culminates in an outburst. Particularly if he drinks a little, something he very seldom does. He’s so immensely strong that he is liable to do more damage than the ordinary man under such circumstances. Now, I know nothing of this flogging.
It occurred just before the wreck and, naturally, we had all we could think of afterwards. I left the hacienda soon after and Jarl never had an opportunity to tell me about it. I believe he would have done so eventually because he had gradually come to confide in me. I never urged him, however. From that day to this no mention of the matter has been made between us. Either Jarl was in one of his rages that morning or he had a reason for what he did. A reason that to him made it right. If that were true, no power on earth could stop him from going ahead. I’ve always defended him and I’m going to continue to do so.”
Radisson had been talking forcefully, almost fiercely, and he sank back now as if exhausted.
“Thank you,” Rennert said, “that has been most illuminating. You say he was popular with everyone. You include the men who worked for him, the peons?”
“Certainly. They adored him.” Radisson smiled weakly. “It was the old story of Quetzalcoatl, the White God. Jarl was big and blond where everyone else was small and dark. I could understand how the Toltecs came to worship the original Viking who was shipwrecked on their shores. I could understand why the legend is so curiously persistent in Mexico.”
“Have you seen much of Angerman lately?”
“No, I haven’t, I’m sorry to say. He visits me here occasionally, but Dr. Lincoln’s attitude toward him makes it a little awkward. I spent a day and a night at his house down in Tonatiuh after I arrived the first of this week. I came away feeling invigorated. I spend a great deal of my time alone, as you know, Rennert. When I come suddenly into contact with the city again I’m disconcerted by its materialism, its suborthnation of everything to the scramble for money and power. It’s a relief to associate with a man like Jarl, who has ideals and isn’t ashamed of them. That sounds terribly old-fashioned and Sunday-schoolish, doesn’t it? But it’s the way I feel.”
“I’m exceedingly glad the subject came up, Professor. I only met Angerman this morning. I wonder if you would do me, and perhaps Angerman as well, a favour when you have the opportunity? Advise him to make a clean breast to me about that flogging.”
“Why, yes”—it was said hesitantly—“I will if you think it best. Although I admit I don’t like to broach the subject, just why do you want to know about it?”
“I want to make certain that it was the peon who changed the switch.”
Radisson set down his glass with a thud. “What do you mean to imply?”
“There’s no real evidence that it was he, as far as I have learned. Do you know of any?”
“Why, no. Everyone took it for granted that he did it.”
“Was he seen in the vicinity of the switch? That would be circumstantial evidence at least.”
“Not that I know of.” The wounded man spoke inattentively, as a car had come to a stop in the drive.
“Can you tell me where the members of Mr. Jester’s party were from twelve o’clock noon on?”
“Noon.” Radisson frowned. “That has been so long ago, Mr. Rennert. I don’t think I know where any of them were. No, I know I don’t. The day before I had received some completed recordings of native speech that I had made. I was listening to them in my room. Dr. Torday and Darwin Wyllys came in. I left them there and took my gramophone outside, found a shady place by a wall, and played my records. I must have been there for half an hour or longer.”
“I judge that Torday and Wyllys wanted to be alone.”
“Well, I thought it better to leave them alone.” Radisson turned to the door, through which the tall and stalwart form of Dr. Lincoln could be seen approaching. “Wyllys had been riding and had suffered a slight touch of the sun. His brother-in-law thought he ought to rest before returning to the Pullman.”
“He recovered?”
“Oh, yes. Hello, Bruce.”
Lincoln paused on the threshold, glanced inside, then entered at once. “Good afternoon, Rennert.” His eyes sharpened as they rested on Radisson. “You look as if you weren’t feeling well, Xavier.”
“I’m not. My arm is hurting.”
“It is?” The doctor scrutinized the bandage, felt the pulse, and frowned deeply. “I’m going to put you to bed,” he said crisply. “You shouldn’t have stayed up talking like this.”
“I’m sorry.” Rennert rose. “It was my fault. May I wait and see you for a moment, Doctor, when you are through?”
“Why, yes. What is it?”
“I want to get the bullet which you took out of Professor Radisson’s hand.”
Lincoln tucked his black case under his arm. “Oh, that bullet. I’m sorry about that, Rennert. It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, I left it in the basin after I extracted it. This morning the maid was cleaning up my study and emptied the water down the drain. The bullet went with it. I suppose you had identification in mind?”
“Yes.”
“It’s unfortunate, isn’t it?”
The badge pressed, hard and reassuring, against Rennert’s chest. “It’s more than unfortunate, Doctor,” he said. “It’s criminal.”
10
The Triumph of the Emotions
I
In the good old days of Don Porfirio, before the Contrato Social was read in Mexico and before thirsty yanquis began to pour over the International Bridge with their clinking dollars, The Triumph of the Emotions was the refectory of a convent, where pale women whose names had been long and noble ones of Spain ate simple fare, securely immured from sun and evil.
That world ended, and if any grey ghosts lingered they must have crossed themselves in pious horror at the bedlam which took its place. The walls were plastered in yellow and daubed with weird and gaudy paintings, spurious offspring of Rivera’s revolutionary murals and the lascivious lithographs of a Texas saloon. A waxed floor was laid, tables and booths installed. Native musicians were set to mastering American jazz. The establishment prospered—for a time. To-day it has sunk doubtless to the category of a cheap cantina or has been put to other less lawful uses. Nothing endures on the border.
Kent Distant’s eyes detected signs of this approaching degeneracy the night he escorted Janell Lincoln into the place. The festoons of paper and the imitation ivy which hung from the balcony and twined about the pillars were bedraggled and flyblown. There were cracks in the plaster. A vermilion and pink lady had lost a leg.
Although it was early—not much past seven-thirty—this was Saturday night and holiday season, so that most of the tables were occupied by groups of Americans in various stages of inebriation. A few enamel-faced women sat alone, smoking and scrutinizing each newcomer with jaded eyes. The odours of cooking and tobacco and perfume were heavy in the air.
“Greenwich Village,” was Kent’s comment.
He saw that his companion was determined to keep her illusions. “That’s probably only on the surface, Kent. The guidebooks say that once you cross the Rio Grande you’re in another civilization, centuries old. They can’t be wrong.”
He glanced down at her quizzically, thinking how young was the face beneath that chic little hat.
A waiter in a frayed evening-suit approached, bowed obsequiously, and at Kent’s insistence guided them up the stairs to the balcony. It was Mr. Rennert’s advice, he had explained to Janell on the way over. They wouldn’t have unsteady dancers colliding with their table. There wouldn’t be so much danger of becoming involved in a fracas.
“El Triunfo de las Emociones.” Janell read aloud the words at the top of the menu. “What a funny name for a cabaret.”
“Yes, Mr. Rennert told me about that. It’s a typical Mexican name for a cantina, a bar. But not for a place like this. It seems they took it from a travel book some American wrote. He saw it on a little cantina down in Cuernavaca. While he was getting material on Mexico from an automobile, Mr. Rennert said.”
He lapsed into silence, staring at the card. “What’s the matter, Kent?” Janell asked. “You seem nervous this evening.”
“Sorry!” he said hastily. “I am a little nervous
—about Dad.”
“You haven’t heard from him?”
“No.” She probably would think it strange that he didn’t go on and talk unreservedly about his feelings, as people she was accustomed to did. But it always cost him a wrench to do that, especially where his father was concerned. There was a part of one’s self that ought never to be exposed. It was—well, sacred, in a way-in a way that white people could never comprehend. For in this attitude, as in few others, Kent’s Indian blood differentiated him.
“What are we going to order?” he asked. “Mr. Rennert suggested we try venison. This is deer season and it’s usually all right in these border restaurants.”
Janell was bewildered by the menu. It was typewritten in Spanish and English, but many of the words were the same and meant nothing to her. Enchiladas, tacos, tortillas …
“I don’t even see chili con carne.”
“You won’t,” he told her. “It’s not Mexican at all. A German dish invented in San Antonio. That’s what Mr. Rennert told me.”
They decided on venison, with a random choice of Mexican accompaniments.
“I haven’t told you,” she said, “about our cruise, have I?”
“Your cruise? No.”
“Father has a friend—a former patient of his—down at Point Isabel, who owns a yacht. He’s up north for the holidays, and left word for Father to use the yacht if he wanted to. We decided to-day that we’d go on a little trip out in the Gulf. Be gone about a week.”
