The Last Trumpet

by Todd Downing

  “I was waiting then to snap a picture of Carlos Campos at the Moment of Truth. I knew he was to be one of Torday’s witnesses. I went over the list. Matt Bettis. He had had a brother who was shot in a hunting accident. By whom no one ever knew. Campos went in with the sword, the horns got him, and I clicked the camera. In a few moments I heard about the mirror. Then my mind clicked. The Bettis fellow, Torday, Campos. But there wasn’t time to consider the pros and cons of it. I had to get my pictures to the office. I bumped into you and Dr. Lincoln. Lincoln, another witness. You”—Canard made a gesture with his right hand—“a man with a lot of experience in the detective line. A man who had recently given up one job and come to live in the neighbourhood of Lincoln, Jester, Radisson and Bettis—I jumped to the conclusion that Torday had hired you. I really didn’t believe you when you denied it. I didn’t know whether to believe Torday or not when he denied it. But I thought if he was telling the truth, I’d advise him for his own good to make a deal with you. So I’ve gone ahead writing a rehash of the Torday neck-breaking episode—”

  “You called on Professor Radisson this afternoon?”

  “Yes, among the others. He was at home, I think, because his car was there, but he didn’t answer the bell.”

  “Did you call him last night, at Dr. Lincoln’s house?”

  “Last night? Why, no.” Canard waited a moment, then resumed. “As I say, I’ve gone ahead with a dull story, waiting for a chance to talk to you.”

  “It’s Peter Bounty you’ll have to talk to.”

  “I expected you to say that. My plan hasn’t worked out just as I thought it would. But I think the results will be the same. Something will be uncovered now that you’re working on the case. I’m responsible, in a way, for getting you into it. Peter Bounty is a square-shooter. I’ll have my scoop and earn my rise. Here’s the gaol.”

  Their sojourn at the drab and fort-like building which is the Municipal Prison of the city of Matamoros was either satisfactory or unsatisfactory, Rennert wasn’t sure which. They were met by guards with fixed bayonets, who only after long argument consented to summon a superior officer. A stodgy little man appeared and informed them waspishly that they could see no one at this hour of the night. He finally yielded to Rennert’s blandishments enough to lead them into a grimy office, produce a ledger, and state that one Jarl Angerman had been confined to a cell at eight-thirty. The charge was disturbance of the peace. He would remain there until Monday morning, when the judge would hear his case and assess his fine.

  Rennert looked back at the dismal glow of electric bulbs through barred windows and decided that the visit had been satisfactory, inasmuch as it proved conclusively that Angerman had an alibi for the time of Wyllys’s murder. Although it left himself facing a wall which was almost blank.

  “Mr. Rennert,” Canard said thoughtfully as they drove away, “do you want—gratis and with no strings attached—some information which I don’t think Peter Bounty had when he talked to you? It happened before he got to the bridge.”

  “Certainly, if you want to give it to me.”

  “The first question that Torday asked when he arrived was this: ‘Has Jarl Angerman crossed the bridge to-night?’ No one remembered. But it was plain that he suspected Angerman had meant to shoot him and had hit Wyllys instead. Now here’s a little theory that you’ve probably already considered. It’s not positive that Wyllys was shot on the bridge. The Mexican Customs men can’t swear that he was alive when the Torday car passed them. To get from the radio station to the bridge that car would have to pass along the street where The Triumph of the Emotions is located. A very dark street in places. And Angerman turned up at The Triumph of the Emotions ahead of time. He raised a rough-house. He couldn’t have found a better way to let everyone know he was there, or on his way to gaol, at eight-twenty.”

  “We have Mrs. Torday’s statement.”

  Canard negotiated a difficult turn.

  “Yes,” he said, “you have Mrs. Torday’s statement. That’s all.”

  14

  The Mark of the Beast

  I

  Kent Distant’s voice was unusually loud when he opened his door to Rennert’s knock. “Come in, Mr. Rennert! My father’s here. Was waiting on me when I got back from Matamoros.” He closed the door and caught Rennert’s elbow. “Dad, this is the man I’ve been telling you about. Mr. Hugh Rennert.”

  The height of the man who straightened from his task of unpacking a suitcase was a little less than Rennert’s, his girth was a warning to the latter. His face was a brown full moon, although its shade was much lighter than that of many a white man after a few weeks of steady exposure to the Texas sun. It was rendered disharmonic only by slightly prominent cheek-bones and by a large mouth, which was widened now by a jovial smile. His black hair was thin and straight, his cheeks and jaw smooth and glabrous. His eyes were black, with the Mongoloid fold, and animated by friendliness as they rested on Rennert’s.

  “I am jealous of you, Mr. Rennert,” he said as they shook hands. “I come here to see my boy and I find him talking of nothing but you. You have been taking good care of him, he tells me. I thank you.” There was a peculiar but not unpleasant intonation to his voice which made it a bit difficult to understand.

  Rennert was properly deprecatory about his services. “I suppose he told you that we had been worried about you.”

  “Yes”—Distant laughed happily—“but I came.”

  Kent, shoulder to shoulder with his father, was a foot the taller if not more. “He thinks that makes everything all right, Mr. Rennert. Do you know what he did? He went clear down to San Antonio to visit. Then over to Corpus Christi. He missed his train there and came on down on the’bus. Otherwise he’d have got here at eleven-thirty-five last night. In time to spend Christmas with me. The last twenty-five minutes of it, that is. But sit down, Mr. Rennert.”

  “I haven’t come for a visit, Kent. It’s about bedtime, and I know your father’s tired.” Rennert sat on the edge of a chair. “Have you told him why we were worried?”

  “Yes, I told him all I knew. And about to-night on the bridge. Have you heard about that, Mr. Rennert?”

  “Yes, that’s what I came to see you about.” Rennert turned to the elder man. “I’m sorry, Mr. Distant, that we have to greet you with such unpleasantness. Do you mind if I monopolize Kent for a few minutes? I’m anxious to learn what he saw tonight.”

  “That is all right. I do not think he could go to bed happy unless he talked with you. I will listen.”

  “Now then, Kent,” Rennert said, “let’s hear everything that happened at The Triumph of the Emotions and on the bridge.”

  The young man told his story painstakingly. Rennert went over it with him in detail, questioning him particularly as to the time of Angerman’s arrival. He leaned back, satisfied. The information was essentially the same as that which he had gained from the waiter in the night club.

  He gave then to the father a short précis of the situation. “Does it suggest anything to your mind?” he asked. “The recurrence of these crimes at Christmas-time. The fact that three of these men have been left-handed.”

  Distant sat altogether passive, with his hands clasped against his stomach. Rennert found his attention centering on those hands, they were so small and graceful, almost bare of hairs. The man’s feet, too, were small, shod in polished leather, and rested lightly upon the floor.

  “No,” Distant said gravely, “it does not mean anything to me, Mr. Rennert. But it is like a story that one begins in the middle. I will think about it.” His voice was exceedingly pleasant when one became accustomed to it. He made little use of the stress accent, so that his phrases were entities rather than his words. He emphasized his gutturals, as Jarl Angerman did, and had difficulty with the letter “r,” which he either dropped entirely or converted into an “l,” like a Mexican.

  “I’m under the impression,” was Rennert’s comment, “that you were present at the beginning of this story, o
n the Campos hacienda. You missed what followed. I don’t suppose that during the past three and a half years you have ever suspected that an attempt had been made on your life?”

  “No, Mr. Rennert.” Distant seemed fairly amused by the idea.

  “You visited here in the Valley once during that time, I believe?”

  “Yes, in October. A year ago last fall.”

  “And nothing out of the way happened then?”

  “No, nothing at all happened.”

  “I’m satisfied that this affair is definitely localized. I promised not to tarry, Mr. Distant. But let me ask you about one matter. I was talking with Mr. Jester to-night about the morning you and he went riding. He stated that on your return to the house you stopped at a small bull-ring. He was under the impression that something about it interested you. You asked him if he had ever seen it before. When he replied that he had observed the arena on a previous visit, you suggested that he forget about it. That it was a danger for your host. I should like very much to know what you meant by that.”

  “Oh, yes, that bull-ring.” The Indian’s eyes brightened. “I remember. I meant to explain to Mr. Jester later, when we were out of Mexico. I had seen a reproduction of a photograph of that arena-in a magazine. Mr. Jester had seen it too, but he did not recognize it. He had several copies on the train. We all read an article in it about Mexico. But I do not think the others noticed, when we got to the hacienda, that one of the pictures had been taken there.”

  Rennert was sitting forward again.

  “What was the name of that article—and the author?”

  Distant pursed his lips. “Let me see—”

  “Was it ‘The Last Trumpet,’ by Simon Secondyne?”

  “That was it! ‘The Last Trumpet.’”

  Tense, Rennert fumbled for a cigarette. “I recall now it must have been about that time the article appeared. The magazine was called N.E.W.S., wasn’t it?”

  “That was it. North, East, West, South.”

  The flame of Rennert’s match trembled a bit. “And the danger you spoke of?”

  Distant hesitated. “The Mexican Government did not like that article. They barred the author from the country. I thought it was just as well that they did not know that one of the pictures for it had been taken on the Campos hacienda. There might be trouble.”

  “Did you learn anything about the author or when he had visited the hacienda?”

  “No, I said nothing more about it.”

  “You say this article was read on the train. Did any of the party appear to know the author?”

  “I do not think so.”

  Rennert glanced at his watch and rose hurriedly. “I’m going to ask you to excuse me now, Mr. Distant. I see I have just time to reach the Public Library before it closes. I want to read ‘The Last Trumpet’ again, if I can locate it.”

  “I hope that I have helped you, Mr. Rennert. It will be part payment to you for what you have done for my boy.”

  “At least you have given me a glimmer of light, Mr. Distant. I needed it.” Rennert stood, hat in hand. “Was there by any chance another guest at the Campos hacienda at the time of your visit? Besides Professor Radisson, I mean.”

  Distant shook his head. “I do not think so.”

  “It was a large place, I understand. An individual could easily have remained out of sight—in his room, say—during the twenty-four hours you were there?”

  “Yes, he could have done that.”

  Kent had been balancing himself on the balls of his feet, agog with interest. “But, Mr. Rennert, who would want to hide from the members of that party?”

  “A man, perhaps, who wished to keep his presence in Mexico a secret from the authorities, to whom he was persona non grata.”

  “Oh! You mean this Simon Secondyne?”

  “Yes. Simon Secondyne.”

  II

  One man still lingered at the checking desk of the Brownsville Public Library, although the reading rooms were being cleared of their occupants. His back was turned to the door, and the edge of the counter pressed against his stomach as he leaned over an open book. A middle-aged lady was busily recording the numbers of a stack of other volumes.

  Rennert’s face must have showed his surprise as he came to a halt before the solidly planted, protruding barrier of the man’s rear and heard him say: “Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t read this book, Miss Archer?”

  The attendant smiled, shook her head and, without diminishing the speed of her pencil, eyed Rennert and the clock. “No, I haven’t read it. There are so many books on Mexico, you know, that it’s hard to keep up with all of them.”

  The man tilted his head to look up at her. “Now, Miss Archer,” he protested, “you ought to know better than that. This has everything that anybody needs to know about Mexico. Everything. Writing about Mexico might as well have stopped with it.”

  “But it’s a novel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s a novel, but—”

  That blue serge suit would have to go to the cleaner soon. The seat of the trousers was outlined by dust and streaked by what looked like red paint.

  Rennert stepped up to the desk and asked: “What’s the name of that novel, Peter?”

  Bounty turned swiftly and for an instant let confusion pinken the tips of his ears. “Oh, hello, Ren—Hugh. I didn’t know you were standing there.”

  “You had my approach blocked, so I had to eavesdrop.” The book, Rennert saw, was Susan Smith’s The Glories of Venus. He glanced at Bounty with understanding. “The one Mexican item,” he said, “on my desert island list.”

  Miss Archer evidently thought it time to intervene. “Mr. Bounty,” she told Rennert brightly, “is one of our most regular patrons. He’s so versatile and his tastes are so catholic. I don’t think we could close the library on Saturday nights unless he had been in for his week’s supply of reading matter.”

  Rennert took the hint. “I’m very anxious, Miss Archer, to get a copy of a magazine called N.E.W.S. for three years ago last June, or thereabouts. I wonder if you could help me out? It’s most important.”

  She hesitated and looked significantly at the clock.

  Rennert smiled, and Bounty, accepting his cue, smiled too. Under this double battery of masculine persuasiveness, Miss Archer capitulated. “I’ll see. N.E.W.S. I don’t remember that magazine.” She went to consult a card file.

  “Don’t go unless you’re in a hurry, Peter,” Rennert said in response to Bounty’s inquiring glance. “I may have something to interest you.”

  Bounty stood on one foot. “I suppose you were sort of surprised to find me here.”

  “Maybe that works both ways.”

  “No, it would seem to anybody the most natural thing in the world for you to be in a library. But with me, a border sheriff, it’s different. You can imagine the laugh I’d get if people knew I spent my time reading things like this.” He indicated the green-and-orange volume before him.

  “I understand now,” Rennert said, “why you get along with Mexicans so well. Anyone who appreciates The Glories of Venus would.”

  “It expresses things they would if they could. Their attitude toward life and death. Vacilada. After seeing Wyllys’s bloody body to-night I felt I needed something to steady me.” Bounty turned pages with the true book-lover’s excitement. “Remember this definition of vacilada? ‘Life is the greatest insult that can be offered to a human being,’” he read, ‘“and yet if you will only accept that fact, you can manage to enjoy yourself thoroughly a great deal of the time.’ Mexico, huh?”

  “Um-huh,” Rennert agreed. “Mexico.”

  Back came Miss Archer, bearing in triumph a dusty, dog’s-eared magazine with a pale blue cover. “Magazines really are not supposed to be taken out of the library. And it’s almost closing time.”

  Bounty was cajoling and managed to let his hand touch hers. “Aw, let him take it, Miss Archer. I’ll see that he brings it back.”

  Miss Archer was flu
stered and adjusted her spectacles more firmly on the bridge of her nose. “Of course, if you say it’s all right, Mr. Bounty.”

  Rennert was quick to pursue his advantage. He persuaded the lady to consult indices and files. He learned that N.E.W.S. had been a short-lived publication, quietly going the way of so many little magazines a few months after this issue. Nothing could be found to indicate that Simon Secondyne had written more than this one article, ‘The Last Trumpet.’

  At last Rennert gave it up, thanked her, and left the library with Bounty. They paused on the steps, and Bounty said: “There’s a little hamburger joint down on the next corner, Hugh. I think I’ll go get a bite. Come along and eat with common folks.”

  “I know the place, Peter. I eat there frequently. Let’s go.”

  Bounty perched sideways in a booth and ate hamburgers that were fat and succulent with mustard and pickles and onions. He drank milk, and his face was contented. Only his eyes showed that he was listening to Rennert’s words.

  Rennert talked, ate sparingly, and thought how odd it was that there was nothing at all gross about the sight of the man across the little table, wedged into a tight little corner redolent of the kitchen and consuming so much food with so much gusto. A sleek and healthy young animal satisfying one kind of hunger as the man had sought fodder for another in the library. Odd, too, how he kept thinking of Bounty as young, although he was sure the latter’s age approximated his own. What fountain of youth had he tapped? Rennert wondered.

  Almost before he realized it, Rennert had given an account of most of his actions since leaving Bounty’s office some seven hours earlier. The interviews with Radisson, Lincoln, Jester, Canard, Distant.

  He finished and faced two more hamburgers and another glass of milk which had come at his companion’s order. “No more,” he said firmly. “There’s a limit.”