by Todd Downing
“I’m sorry, Rolf. I’m taking advantage of your good nature, I know. But the truth is I’m groping in the dark myself—” Rennert’s chin had sunk and he was rubbing his forehead with his finger-tips, as if he would jog his brain out of its inertia. “Will you repeat Distant’s exact words, if you can?”
“He said: ‘If I were you, Mr. Jester, I think I would forget that I had seen that bull-ring. There’s danger in it for our host. If I were in his place I would burn it to the ground.’”
II
Two minutes must have passed before Rennert spoke wearily: “I can’t make sense out of it. Go on, will you, Rolf?”
Jester had been waiting patiently. “When we got back to the house,” he resumed, “we found everybody there, ready to go. We took leave of Manuel Campos and went down to the Pullman to eat lunch. I insisted on that for two reasons. I didn’t want to impose on his hospitality too much. And I knew how long-drawn-out Mexican meals are. I was afraid we’d miss the train if we waited. The cook had fixed sandwiches for us and the porter had taken them down to the car.”
“The porter. I’ve been overlooking him. Do you know what time he came to the house?”
“No, but I had told him to get the food and have it ready to serve right after twelve-thirty. I suppose he got it about twelve. When we got to the railroad track we changed our minds. There was a little cave in a hill near by. Angerman thought it would be more pleasant to eat there than in the Pullman. So he took some of us there.”
“You’re sure it was Angerman’s suggestion?”
“Yes, he and Mrs. Torday had ridden past there and had noticed it.”
“But until then your plan had been to eat in the Pullman?”
“Yes.”
“And was that plan generally known?”
“Oh, yes, I’d told the party about it the night before.”
“How did it happen that all the group didn’t go to the cave?”
“Well,” Jester answered reluctantly, “there’d been some unpleasantness that morning. After breakfast, Lincoln, Torday, and Perkins strolled about the grounds. They found Angerman disciplining one of the peons. They came to me about it. I didn’t know just what to do. It was none of my business, but I didn’t think Manuel would stand for anything like that if he knew about it. So I went and told him. He expressed his regrets and said he’d look into the matter; reprimand Angerman if he thought it necessary. But the three men snubbed Angerman afterwards and made it plain they’d rather eat in a Pullman than in his company. It was an embarrassing situation, and I’m afraid I didn’t handle it very well. Mrs. Torday did her best to ease things and came with us. But Dr. and Mrs. Lincoln, Torday, and the Perkinses left us.” Jester stopped, and cleared his throat, glanced once more at his watch, and frowned. “Eight-forty. I guess Wyllys isn’t coming.”
Rennert made no answer. There was none to make. He said thoughtfully: “So, if the trouble about the peon had not arisen, there wouldn’t have been anyone at all on the Pullman when the train struck it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“We’ve come to the wreck now.”
“Yes. The train was due about two-thirteen. We got to the tracks just as it came in sight. We were going to wait until the Pullman was attached before we got on. We were telling Carlos and Radisson goodbye when—it happened.” Jester winced. “It was so sudden that everybody was thrown into confusion, of course. Dr. Lincoln had come to the door of the Pullman and managed to swing himself to the ground just in the nick of time.”
Rennert sat with half-closed eyes as he tried to visualize the scene—and to sort out all its implications.
“Rolf,” he asked suddenly, “what kind of a woman was Mrs. Lincoln? I’ve never heard much about her.”
“Well, I’ll tell you.” Jester had the aggressive tone which he always assumed when he was forced to speak ill of someone. “She was all right—but somewhat of a fool. The gushy sort. Tried to be literary. Maybe she was, I wouldn’t know. She’d written the libretto for an opera, with the scene laid among the Aztecs. She was sending it round to a lot of big composers, trying to get them to write the music. She bored us by reading a lot of it aloud.”
“Had she been in Mexico before?”
“No, but she’d read a book, by this fellow who wrote about the Conquest. What was his name?”
“Prescott?”
“Yes. That got her enthused and she wrote her poetry. One of the Spaniards in her story had red hair. So she made me sit on a damned hot wall so she could take my picture and see how my hair looked in the sun. Said she wanted inspiration.” Jester (who always stoutly insisted his hair was brown) choked off further comment.
“Of course, Prescott himself was never in Mexico, yet managed to write about it well,” Rennert said absently. “When did you and Mrs. Lincoln have your communion with the sun?”
“The afternoon we got there. Just about five o’clock.”
“Where was the wall you sat on?”
“At the back of the house. It ran all the way round the grounds.”
“What sort of a wall?”
“Just an ordinary one, made out of stones. About five feet high.”
“Any coping?”
Rennert lighted another cigarette. “Where was Angerman at the time of the wreck?”
“He’d gone back to the house. Mrs. Lincoln had forgotten her kodak. She remembered it just before the train came in and Angerman volunteered to dash back after it.”
“Had the original plan been for Angerman, Radisson and Carlos Campos to lunch with you on the Pullman?”
“Yes, that had been arranged the night before. We asked Manuel, too, but he didn’t want to get out in the sun.”
Rennert kept his gaze centred on the glowing end of the cigarette as he asked:
“Rolf, what do you remember about the sun that noon?”
“The sun? Why, I remember it was hot as hell, that’s all.”
Rennert’s smile must have been exceedingly aggravating. “The entire group,” he said, “was gathered at the hacienda when you and Distant returned shortly after twelve-thirty?”
“Yes.”
“Were you all together up to the time you divided at the railroad track?”
“Yes. We were in different cars on our way to the track, but in sight of one another.”
“And after Dr. Torday, the Lincolns and the Perkinses went to the Pullman?”
“We were all together. Wait a minute, though!”—Jester checked himself—“Angerman went out to gather wood for a fire. That was right after we got to the cave.”
“How long was he gone?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes, something like that.”
“Long enough to have gone to the switch?”
“Yes, he’d have had time. We were close to the switch.”
“But not in sight of it?”
“No. But, Hugh,” Jester broke out, “he wouldn’t have had time to break it open, and to gather a big load of wood. Besides, we’d have heard the noise, if that’s what you’re driving at—and I can see it is; you’re all wet.”
“The switch might have been already broken, ready to turn. The wood already gathered, ready to pick up.”
“But why would Angerman want to do it anyway?”
“Dr. Torday thinks he did it to get rid of him, so as he could marry Mrs. Torday.”
Blood rushed to Jester’s face.
“I don’t believe that, Hugh. And I don’t think you do either.”
“I’m not saying whether I do or not. But we have to admit that it has been done.”
“But Angerman couldn’t have known that things would turn out as they did! That Torday would go to the Pullman and that he’d have a chance to change the switch before the train came.”
“He may have trusted to luck that that’s what would happen. That may have been why he suggested eating in the cave. Or—”
“What?”
“He may have changed the switch between twelve o’clock a
nd twelve-thirty, then planned to eat with you folks on the Pullman and swing off it with Mrs. Torday—just as Dr. Lincoln did.”
“Hold on! Why do you say ‘twelve o’clock?’ Why not any time that morning?”
“I went down to the railroad office this afternoon and got the time-table of the National Railways of Mexico which was in force that June. The Monterrey-Victoria section is a single track, remember. A south-bound train was scheduled to go through there at twelve-one every day. I presume it did. Do you happen to remember?”
“Yes,” was the ready response. “I remember hearing it whistle while I was riding with Distant. That was the signal everyone had agreed on to start back to the house. I see, the switch must have been thrown after that or the south-bound train would have hit the Pullman.”
“Besides, it was about that time the porter was absent from his post.”
Jester was perspiring freely and running his finger between his neck and his collar. “But, Hugh,” he exclaimed in exasperation more than anything else, “that would mean that Angerman and Mrs. Torday were in on it together. That they were going to let the train crash into a whole car-load of people just to kill one man. You’ve got to admit that’s absurd.”
“Someone changed the switch.”
“The peon that Angerman whipped.” Jester stared at him, almost in fright. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t think he did it?”
Rennert considered his reply for a long time. “If I had to answer yes or no to that,” he said wearily, “I’d have to flip a coin. It’s the obvious thing to believe, all right. I wish I could convince myself—”
“Pete Bounty hasn’t appointed you deputy just to find out who turned that switch, has he? He’d know that’s out of his jurisdiction.”
“No. I’ve gone at this in a roundabout way, Rolf. Bounty appointed me to learn who murdered Charles Bettis and Carlos Campos. Who tried to murder Torday and Radisson.”
Jester snorted. “That’s the fantastic plot that Juan Canard talked to me about. He came to the house this afternoon and asked me what I thought of it. I told him it was a lot of poppycock about the National Railways of Mexico trying to slaughter a bunch of witnesses. Why, everyone knows that Torday’s case doesn’t depend on our evidence.”
“That’s the trouble, Rolf. It leaves such few alternatives. It’s possible that Torday has some enemy who doesn’t know of how little value your evidence is. It’s possible there’s something in the testimony of you men that someone doesn’t want brought out in court. There’s another.”
“Yes?”
Rennert drew his chair up to the desk and faced Jester. “The other is this: The much-discussed lawsuit of Torday’s has nothing to do with this affair. Some individual has a motive for killing every one or certain ones who were present at the hacienda on that date. A motive that in some obscure way is connected with the left hand and the Christmas season.” He went on to explain.
“And what is that motive?” Jester’s voice sounded odd.
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“And why are you mixed up in it?”
“Well—”
“I’ll tell you.” Jester’s eyes met and held Rennert’s. His face was unaccustomedly serious. “Hugh, I’d like to tell you something about yourself. May I?”
“Shoot.”
“You won’t get sore if I’m frank?”
“Of course not.”
“Well”—the blue-grey eyes were level and candid—“you’ve got one characteristic that I noticed as soon as I got acquainted with you. You probably don’t realize it, but you do take an ungodly delight in dissecting people; looking for obscure motives. I think you let it get away with you sometimes. Furthermore—tell me when to stop—way down inside you’re romantic as hell. I admit you’ve had some unusual experiences. But they’re exceptions. You want and expect something strange or exciting to happen every day. When it doesn’t, you use your imagination. That’s what you’re doing now. You’ve been wearing out the seat of your pants on those hotel chairs until you’re bored—stale. You crave a diversion. So you blare into my office and bawl me out for sitting in front of an open window. You warn me that somebody’s going to take a potshot at me. You need to do some hard work on that farm of yours, or to take up golf, or”—Jester’s gaze fell momentarily to the framed portrait of Christine which faced him—“get married maybe.” He grinned. “Got that digested?”
Rennert sat at his ease and studied Jester’s homely earnest face through a haze of blue smoke. “Thank you, Rolf,” he spoke lightly but with an underlying note of sincerity which the other could not mistake. “Stoutly said. Is there more?”
“Yes. Bruce Lincoln talked to Christine and me about going with him and his daughter on a little yacht trip out in the Gulf. Christine and I have made up our minds just this minute. We’re going. And we’re going to take you with us. You and I never have been out together on an excursion like that. We can have some fun, I know. It’s just what you need. Pardon me.” The telephone had rung.
Jester caught up the receiver and gave a brisk “Hello.” His voice changed, and he asked: “Who? Oh, yes, he’s here. Just a minute.”
He clapped a hand over the mouthpiece. “For you, Hugh. It’s Pete Bounty. He asked me if his deputy was here. I didn’t think for a moment who he meant.”
Rennert said, “Yes?” and was bantered by Bounty’s lazy, pleasant voice, “Deputy Rennert?”
“Yes, Chief.”
“Chief. Ahem! Very good. I called to see why you weren’t attending to duty.”
“I am, Chief. I expect I’m setting you a good example.”
“Not unless you’ve been looking at a corpse, you’re not.”
“A corpse?” Rennert leaned heavily against the desk.
As he listened he stared down at the scratch pad upon which Jester’s pencil was making idle markings while he waited. The big fingers began gradually to move the lead in spirals, broken by downward slashes, which took a definite shape before Rennert’s eyes. A dark and bulging cloud, like an opening fist, which was spitting out jagged shafts of lightning. A hurricane cloud, which for this resident of the Magic Valley symbolized all the intangible fears which he had been trying so resolutely to deny.
Rennert said: “I’ll be right down,” hung up, and looked at Jester. His voice held no reproof or triumph at all.
“Bounty was speaking from the International Bridge. About half an hour ago the Customs men stopped Dr. Torday’s car for an examination. Mrs. Torday was in it and Darwin Wyllys. Wyllys had been shot through the head while crossing the bridge.”
12
International Bridge
I
Not since the day that a revolutionary army occupied Matamoros and crowds swarmed to the Texas side of the Rio Grande for the vicarious thrill of being under gunfire, had Rennert seen so much confusion at the bridge. Solid ranks of automobiles filled the streets leading to it, their drivers exchanging good-natured persiflage with the perspiring police and members of the Border Patrol, who were trying to maintain a semblance of order. The explosion of fire-crackers made the scene all the more reminiscent of that other.
The gates, Rennert knew, had been closed.
He pushed and wriggled his way to the frame building which houses the United States Customs. Floodlights were on and in their hot insect-filled glare men, whose uniform Rennert had once worn, were making toilsome examination of luggage and passports, clearing the bridge. Duly thankful that such was not his job to-night, he walked towards the door.
“You might watch where you’re going,” complained a familiar pleasant voice.
Peter Bounty’s chair was tilted back against the wall, his heels were caught on the lower rung. His hands were in his pockets and his shoulders were slouched. He wore a grey felt hat, pulled down over his forehead, but as he raised his face Rennert could see that his features were keener and more zestful. His lips were thinner and seemed about to break into a farcical smile.
&nb
sp; There was a vacant chair beside him. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ve saved a grandstand seat for you. A great show.”
Rennert sat down. “You look as if you were enjoying it.”
“I think maybe I am. Rennert, this was neatly done. Damned neatly done. And they’re using all that energy out there looking for a gun that’s six feet deep in the sands of the Rio Grande. The old Rio Grande that never gives up its secrets. I like the Mexican name for it, Rio Bravo.” He trilled the r’s. “The untamed, untamable river.” Bounty’s vantage-point, Rennert saw, had been carefully chosen. They would be unnoticed here yet could scrutinize each pedestrian and each automobile which the Customs men let by.
Bounty had the faculty of adjusting his voice to a nicety to surrounding conditions, so that now it was a bland stream which poured effortlessly into Rennert’s ears.
“I called you as soon as I got here. They told me at the hotel where to find you. Here’s the dope from the Customs’ men—the hard-working Customs’ men who take everything in their stride. At eight-twenty—they’re sure of the time—Torday’s car drew up in front here. They know it and never examine it. Torday goes over every night in time for his seven-o’clock broadcast and comes back after his nine-o’clock one. Sometimes makes a trip home in between. They thought that’s what he was doing to-night. But there was a woman at the wheel instead of Angerman, so they took a look inside. Torday has a built-in couch affair, but he wasn’t on it. Another man was, a man who’d been shot. The woman was Mrs. Torday. She didn’t scream or faint, but told a lucid story. She had met him at the radio station in Matamoros and was taking him to an appointment in Brownsville. She didn’t know when he’d been shot. The traffic was heavy and she was occupied with her driving. But she was sure he was alive just before they reached the Mexican Customs. That was the last time she heard him speak.”
“Did the Mexican officials verify the fact that he was alive when he passed them?”
