The Last Trumpet

by Todd Downing

  Bounty sighed.

  “I must go to work, Mrs. Mootz,” he said. “Maybe I’ll come back. I’ll take this rum with me and have it tested.” He brought out a handkerchief and carefully picked up the bottle. “Thanks a lot for the meal.”

  “I’m so glad you liked it, Mr. Bounty. Be sure now and send me some of your cards when it’s time for you to stand for re-election. It’ll give them to all my friends.”

  Bounty assured her that he would appreciate her support, and went with Rennert along the hall towards the study.

  Rennert’s face doubtless looked rather severe (as it usually did when his thoughts were busy), for the sheriff was apologetic.

  “I hadn’t had any breakfast, Hugh, and I was hungry,” he explained. “I really haven’t wasted any time. The county doctor has been here and carted away the body for a P.M. Bettis is sitting in a cell by now, nursing his jaw. I got the city chemist on the’phone. He promised to examine the eggnog or anything else I brought him this afternoon.” Bounty closed the door. “I thought I’d look this bottle over for finger-prints, just on the chance, then give it to him too. I’m sure Mrs. Mootz (darn, those were good eggs!) was telling the truth. Also little Anita, who’s inclined to be flirtatious, in case you know anyone who is interested. So it looks as if it had to be the rum. Unless Mrs. Torday told you something?”

  “Mrs. Torday only confirmed what I already knew.”

  Rennert’s eyes were roaming over the scene. The tea-wagon with its glass bowl—the scattered cups—the empty wheel-chair, with the black silk scarf over one arm—the table littered with papers and smoking equipment—the floor. “You won’t forget to give the chemist those trousers of yours?” he spoke abstractedly. “And that bandage which I have in my room. I’m counting on them being exhibits A and B. And”—he stepped forward and bent over—“I think this will be C.”

  Bounty stared at the object which Rennert handed him.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” he ejaculated softly. “You think Torday was killed with that?”

  “I’m willing to bet,” Rennert said, “that he was.”

  III

  Jarl Angerman’s height might have served as a measuring-rod in the construction of his cell in the Cárcel Municipal of Matamoros. As he lay full-length upon an iron cot clamped to the concrete floor, his head touched one wall while his feet projected over the end-rest almost to the opposite one. Had the cot been placed the other way, his body would have covered almost exactly the distance between the wall below the narrow barred window and the door by which Rennert entered.

  When the carcelero had turned the key in the lock, he reminded, “Diez minutos, señor, na más,” and stumped off down the corridor. Rennert stood for a moment, thinking the prisoner was asleep. Through the rusty iron bars squeezed the meagre light of a sun declining on the farther tropic. The place had the aguish dampness of old adobe, and the odour of an open drain struck him an almost physical blow.

  Angerman turned his head and gave Rennert a stare which was so apathetic as to lack recognition. His eyes were bloodshot and dull, with dark violet pouches below them. His cheeks and jaw bristled with blond stubble. The right side of his mouth was swollen and contused and still retained caked blood. There was blood on his rumpled clothing.

  “Hello, Angerman!” Rennert was brisk and cheerful. “They finally let me in to see you. I brought you some food that may be an improvement on frijoles. You’re not the first friend I’ve visited in a Mexican gaol.” He laid his package on the uncovered mattress by Angerman’s side.

  “Thanks. Sit down.”

  Angerman moved his feet and Rennert lowered himself to a precarious and uncomfortable seat on the corner of the cot.

  He lighted a cigarette, to combat the smell, and said: “I hear you had quite a party at The Triumph of the Emotions last night.”

  Angerman’s face wore no expression as he stared at the ceiling.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “We won’t then. They’ve given me only ten minutes anyway. But don’t feel too remorseful. Everyone has to break loose occasionally. Have you heard of Darwin Wyllys’s death?”

  “Yes, I heard them talking about it in the patio this morning, while we were being finger-printed.”

  “His sister need never know now that he was a drug addict.”

  Angerman’s lips tightened, and he was silent for a moment.

  “I thought,” he said, “that you understood about yesterday morning—at Tonatiuh.”

  “One glance at Wyllys was enough to tell me. I knew, as soon as I considered the situation, why you wanted to be left alone with him. He was bargaining with you for an injection, wasn’t he?”

  The other nodded.

  “Was he after drugs at the bull-ring?”

  Another nod. “There are always men there selling them. He got some morphine and did not want me to know it. But he gave it to me when I asked him. He was a good fellow, Mr. Rennert, but he was weak. I did what I could for him. Dr. Torday would not have let him have any if he had known. I was breaking Darwin of the habit gradually.”

  “How many cigarette-holders,” Rennert asked quietly, “did you carve for Mrs. Torday to give her husband as a Christmas present?”

  Angerman’s head turned abruptly, and his blue eyes were bleak and non-committal as they regarded Rennert.

  “Four,” he answered cautiously.

  “You did the work at your house at Tonatiuh?”

  “Yes.”

  “What people visited your house while those holders were there?”

  “There was Darwin, he came every day,” the response was mechanical. “Professor Radisson stayed with me one day last week.”

  “There was no one else?”

  “I think Dr. Lincoln came to see Mr. Radisson once while I was not there.”

  Outside, the calcelero clinked keys and Rennert got to his feet. “I think,” he said, “that we shall find one of those holders was poisoned. It served its purpose in killing Dr. Torday.”

  Angerman sat upright. “Dr. Torday!” he echoed hoarsely. “He is dead?”

  “He died at noon to-day.”

  “You have arrested his murderer?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Angerman didn’t care at all, of course. His eyes were on the barred window and the far-away winter sunlight, and their bleakness was melting.

  “Because,” Rennert said, “I can’t.”

  20

  The Criminal and His Motive

  I

  Peter Bounty wore blue serge at dinner. But his suit, Rennert noted without appearing to do so, was a new one and in every respect impeccable. It rested with natural ease upon the erect frame of a man whose regular habitat might have been the dining-room of the Hotel Jester. More than one pair of feminine eyes lingered on the polished and handsome occupant of the chair opposite Rennert’s—and returned. Rennert was amused and elated and perhaps envious.

  By tacit agreement the two of them avoided during the meal the subject of the affair which had drawn them into association. Reference to it came after their table had been honoured by a visit from J. B. Sizemore, the pompous president of the Chamber of Commerce, who, Rennert was well aware, had more than once spoken openly of Cameron County’s need for a “streamlined” sheriff. Sizemore was effusive in his greeting of Bounty, called him “Peter,” and invited him and Mr. Rennert to attend the Chamber’s annual smoker. He had heard that Peter knew some good stories. Could he prevail on Peter to appear on the programme?

  Peter let himself be prevailed upon and, when Sizemore had billowed on, glanced at Rennert in time to detect the twinkle of amusement in the latter’s eyes. “You damned proselytizer!” he swore at him softly. “What are you trying to do—civilize me?”

  Rennert knew that the sheriff was immensely gratified at the reception which had been accorded him here, so he said with a bit of maliciousness: “I see your knuckles are skinned.”

  Bounty quickly lowered his right
hand from sight, then brought it back.

  “Yes,” he admitted as he gazed at it, “they do seem to be a little damaged. I was over in that orange grove this afternoon late. You know, the one between your house and the highway that you were too scrupulous to take from Torday. Nice bunch of trees there.”

  “Very nice. Did you try to climb one?”

  “No.” Bounty looked straight at him. “I wanted to have a talk with a fellow so I took him among the oranges, where we’d be close to Nature and not be disturbed. My object was to tell him what I thought of him, but I found I couldn’t put it into words. So I took off my coat and hat, my sheriff’s badge and gun, and temporarily resigned from office. I think he realized that I didn’t like him.”

  “It was Matt Bettis, I judge.”

  “Yes. Any—er—criticism, Hugh? I wasn’t acting as sheriff, remember.”

  “No criticism at all, Peter. May I ask what happened to Bettis afterwards?”

  “I told him there were’buses leaving town every few hours. I suggested that he get on one and be outside Cameron County by midnight. I hinted that we didn’t want to see him here again, ever. We don’t, do we, Hugh?”

  “We don’t as far as I’m concerned. Rolf Jester has taken charge here at the hotel, I notice, and things seem to be running along smoothly. Did Bettis make any kind of a confession?”

  “Sure. He knew we could never make a charge against him stick, now that Radisson is dead. Everything was just as you had it worked out. Matt and his brother read that article ‘The Last Trumpet’ on the train. At the hacienda Charles (Matt lays the blame on him) recognized the bull-ring as the one which had been photographed for the magazine. He tried to find out, just from curiosity, who Simon Secondyne was. No one knew. He got to thinking it over and decided it must be Radisson’s pseudonym. The copies of N.E.W.S. that Campos asked Jester to bring were meant for Radisson, who had probably not been able to see a published copy. Campos himself was a friend of the professor’s, so would keep still.

  “That night Charles left the Pullman and went up to the house. He stood at Radisson’s window and called him. Told him he knew he was Simon Secondyne and asked him how he’d like his information to get to the Mexican authorities. Radisson denied it. Then Bettis reminded him that the Campos bull-ring could be identified in the illustration. Also that he had left a thumb-mark on the photograph. That would prove he had taken the picture at least. The Mexican Government would need no more proof to expel him from the country. Radisson gave Bettis all the money he had on hand in exchange for his promise to keep still.”

  “Bettis, like almost every blackmailer, broke his promise.”

  “Matt swears that Charles had no intention of going any farther. But after they got to Brownsville they needed money to make payments on this hotel. Charles saw Radisson in Brownsville the next Christmas, found out where he was staying and telephoned him from a telephone-box, disguised his voice, and told him he needed ten thousand dollars. Radisson had better leave that sum in a specified place or he’d never get back into Mexico. Charles collected the money and saw how easy it would be to keep this up regularly. The next fall he wrote to Radisson and told him to be in Brownsville at Christmas-time with ten thousand dollars more. Bettis called him when he got there and ordered him to go to another spot in the country. There he’d find five homing pigeons in cages. Radisson was to put two one-thousand dollar bills in the quills which each bird had fastened to its wings, then turn them loose. There was no chance of following them across country, of course, so Radisson never knew where they went. After Charles’s death Matt decided to keep the blackmail game going. He called Radisson on Christmas night and told him to have the money ready tomorrow. He planned to take the pigeons out to-night, call Radisson again in the morning and tell him where to find them.” Bounty shook his head dolefully. “Wonder where Bettis will be in the morning?”

  Rennert was recalling his conversation of the afternoon before.

  “I was positive,” he murmured, “that Radisson was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know who had telephoned him at Lincoln’s house. That he wished he did know. The rest of his story was a fabrication, but that much was most emphatically true.” He glanced at his companion’s empty coffee-cup. “Why don’t we go over to my house, smoke our cigars and talk about shoes and ships and sealing-wax?”

  “Well,” Bounty mimicked Rennert’s tone of the day before, “why don’t we? Though you have to answer some questions before we get on to shoes and things. Juan Canard is coming to the office in the morning and I want to be perfectly sure of my ground. You’re adamant about letting your name appear?”

  “Adamant.”

  “Well, thanks. That’s all I can say.”

  “That’s enough.”

  In the lobby they came upon Kent Distant, who was sitting in a chair, smoking and glancing at the door. He got up when they approached and Rennert introduced him to Bounty.

  “Kent,” Rennert said, “Janell Lincoln asked me to tell you goodbye. She’s going away on a cruise, then back to school.”

  “Janell? Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Rennert.”

  “You don’t seem exactly dejected.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Rennert,” the young man was confidential. “Janell is a sweet little girl, of course, but—I suppose I oughtn’t to say this—but she’s too much of a prig for us ever to be very good friends.” He glanced uncertainly from one of the men to the other. “I’m waiting for Dad again. He went to mail some letters and was to have met me here fifteen minutes ago.”

  “You don’t need to worry about him any more, Kent. The case is finished. I’ll tell you and your father about it as soon as I have an opportunity.”

  “Finished!” Rennert didn’t know until he heard that exclamation how worried the fellow had been. “Who was the murderer?”

  “Professor Radisson.”

  “Radisson! Why, it doesn’t seem possible, Mr. Rennert. Everyone said he was such a scholar and so wrapped up in his work.”

  “That’s exactly the reason he committed murder, Kent.”

  II

  Rennert and Peter Bounty sat on the flagstone terrace of Rennert’s house and watched cigar smoke dissolve into moonlight. Their chairs were huge and soft and designed for lazy men.

  “I want you to tell me,” Bounty said, “how you built up your case against Radisson.”

  “Our case,” Rennert corrected. “Radisson attracted my attention the night I drove past his house and found he had been shot. According to his story, he had just started to put a cigarette between his lips with his left hand when the bullet struck that hand. Now what would happen in such an event? The cigarette would fall, of course. Yet there was no cigarette on the ground where the blood had flowed. There was no trace of the match which he said he had tossed away with his right hand. There might conceivably be an explanation for their disappearance. Someone might have come along before I did and picked them up. But it didn’t seem likely in such a short interval of time. My conclusion was that Radisson had not been smoking that cigarette. Why, I asked myself, should he lie about it? In order to lend credence to his story of having been fired at by someone in a car. A glowing cigarette would make an excellent target. Either he knew who had shot him and was trying to conceal this, or—he had shot himself. But why do either, I didn’t know.”

  “You suspected that he was shielding Lincoln, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, out of fear, perhaps. Especially the next day when Lincoln told me that the bullet had been thrown away. I even suspected Lincoln of poisoning the wound in some way, when I learned that Radisson’s condition was getting worse. I remembered that Lincoln had had a mirror in his pocket at the bullfight. I didn’t think he could have used it to flash the sun in Campos’s eyes, but it was possible. However, I couldn’t see, even dimly, any motive which I could pin on him.”

  “His wife,” Bounty reminded.

  “That was only in connection with the wreck. Changing the switch an
d swinging off the train at the last moment would have been such an excellent way of ridding himself of her. But that, I knew, wouldn’t account for all that had been happening since. When I went to your office I was inclined to think the motive lay somewhere in Torday’s affairs. Then I learned of the Secondyne article and saw the left thumb-print on the photograph. It clicked then. Radisson was Secondyne. He had tried to shoot off the thumb by which he could be identified. There’s no possible means by which the friction ridges of the skin can be altered. Neither cutting nor burning will do, because the pattern reappears as soon as the wound heals.”

  “I know. I’ve read it in the manuals of crime detection.”

  “So perhaps had Radisson. If he wanted to avoid having his thumb-print compared with that on the picture he had recourse to the only method possible. Last night, on my way home, my objects were two: to obtain a print of Radisson’s left thumb and to make sure that the medicine being used on his wound was bona fide. The discarded bandage which I found in Lincoln’s house would serve both purposes, I hoped. Blood or ointment might have taken a clear impression on the cloth. If not, iodine crystals would easily bring out the print.”

  “Then you didn’t make headway with that bandage because of the paint on the outside?”

  “No, I thought nothing of the paint at the time. The next morning I found the pigeons in the attic, and Rolf Jester told me of the payments which the Bettis brothers made on the hotel the first of every year. Blackmail seemed the logical way to account for their possession of the money. Rolf spoke then of his dog, which was suffering from some ailment which the veterinary couldn’t diagnose. Not being able to locate the specific trouble, Rolf was going to cure every possible cause of suffering by inflicting death. That was exactly what Radisson was doing. A blackmailer had gone from the Pullman to his room that night and levied toll. Radisson knew only that he was a left-handed man. He felt sure that it was one of the group on the Pullman, therefore he tried to make a clean sweep of everyone who could be guilty. Cutting the Gordian knot, as it were.”