by Todd Downing
And it is not so many years ago that the little mountain village of Tomochic, in Chihuahua, became a Mecca for religious fanatics, under the apostalship of the Maid of Cabora, and led to one of the bloodiest wars of the Diaz Regime.
Small wonder then that with these and countless other examples of curious interminglings of pagan and Christian worship in their minds, city-dwellers are not at rest in Mexico today.
Recently a German explorer returned to the Capital after a three months’ stay in the mountainous regions of the Southwest. He reports the discovery, on an isolated mountain peak south of Lake Patzcuaro in the state of Michoacan, of a rude altar, made of stones laid one upon another in the shape of a small pyramid. This, he affirms, shows indications of having been recently erected, although there were no human-habitations near by and the dwellers in the nearest villages professed ignorance of the altar and of its purpose.
This discovery, which is causing considerable consternation in that section of Mexico, calls to mind the hideous human sacrifices with which the ancient Aztecs worshipped their gods and sought to propitiate them in times of danger.
Such occasions were particularly those when the heavenly bodies left their ordered routine in the skies. Greatly dreaded were the demons Tzitzimime, whose advent to destroy the world was greatly feared during eclipses.
When the eclipse came dogs were pinched to make them howl and a noise was made by striking the doors or furniture of the huts, thus frightening off the Tzitzimime. The Emperor Montezuma, who was in constant consultation with the astrologers, kept in his zoological gardens a collection of albinos, reserved for sacrifice at such times.
Many educated Mexicans, who are inclined to make light of rumors of survivals of pagan practices such as human sacrifices by the knife, admit nevertheless that propitiation of the elements of nature may take other forms.
In this connection reported renewal of the Cristero outbreaks, which in 1927 plunged Mexico into turmoil, takes on added significance.
Under the guise of defenders of the Church against governmental persecution, native fanatics who have confused the forms of Christianity with those of pre-Conquest paganism may, it is admitted by many, substitute for the ancient knife of sacrifice the more modern but no less effective rifle and bayonet.
Blood may yet induce the sun of Mexico to uncover its face!
Spahr had evidently ransacked several encyclopedias for information, striving to refurbish timeworn properties of horror. The result was a rather dismal failure, Rennert reflected as he read on to the end.
He glanced at his watch, decided that food would help, and got up, thrusting the paper back into his pocket.
As he advanced down the aisle he saw Jeanes glance about quickly. His gaze rested for an instant on Rennert’s face then traveled about the car.
When Rennert came abreast of him he said with lips that scarcely moved: “I should like to speak with you, Mr. Rennert.’
Rennert sat down opposite him.
For several moments Jeanes said nothing but sat staring at a point just above Rennert’s head as if he had become all at once unaware of the other’s presence.
Rennert regarded him curiously. The man puzzled him. He thought of him (as had Miss Talcott) as a man consumed by some inner white-hot fire which sent occasional curious strainings to the surface of his ice-fragile face. Somewhere, at the back of Rennert’s mind, recognition tapped elusively. (Of the passengers in that coach during those tense twenty-four hours, this man was to remain longest in his memory. Probably because the man himself, as well as the mission which had brought him to Mexico, remained to the last partially unexplained. Whether Paul Xavier Jeanes were his real name or an assumed one he was never certain. The silence of Mexico was to envelop him as effectively as the gray adobe wall behind which he disappeared the next morning, at the little railway station outside Mexico City where the sun glinted against naked bayonets.)
At last Jeanes lowered his eyes to Rennert’s face. The ice in them was deep and hard and misty blue.
“I have done a terrible thing,” he said in a low vibrant voice. “I have presumed to bear witness against a fellow man too hastily, without asking myself if my weak human senses might not err. Yet I was so sure—”
“What is it that is troubling you?” Rennert asked quietly.
The words slipped slowly through Jeanes’ lips: “I was sure that I felt the corduroy trousers of Mr. Searcey when someone leaned over the seat in front of me. Now, I am not sure.”
“What has caused you to believe that you might be mistaken about the corduroy?”
“A few minutes ago,” Jeanes held his hands spread out in front of him and stared at them, “I felt an object exactly like that which touched my hand in the tunnel. It was,” he paused and said almost inaudibly, “a fiber bag.”
6
Heliophobia (1:15 P.M.)
Sunlight poured in below the lowered blinds and bathed the diner in glare. A pencil of it, striking the water-bottle on the table across the aisle, was shattered to glittering bits of crystal.
The dark concave lenses of William Searcey’s glasses stared at the vacant tables by the windows to his left. He stood in the aisle for a moment, hesitantly, then approached the table where Rennert sat alone.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked as he laid a hand upon the back of the chair opposite Rennert’s.
“Sure not. Sit down.” Rennert took his gaze from the contorted masses of rock through which the train was passing and his thoughts from the words which he had just heard from Jeanes’ lips. He watched Searcey lower his weight into the chair and glance out the window. The muscles about the oval panes of his glasses twitched spasmodically.
“Going right up, aren’t we?” Searcey remarked conversationally. “You can feel the difference in altitude already.”
“Yes, the engine seems to be having difficulty in making the grade.”
“Do you have a watch?”
“Yes,” Rennert drew it out. “One-twenty.”
Searcey frowned. “We’re running late, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
The small lips tightened a bit. “That will put us into Mexico City late tomorrow morning, I suppose.”
“Trains are usually able to make up their lost time when they get up onto the plateau.”
There was an interval of silence. Searcey had reached forward for a menu and was studying it. He had put on a loose Norfolk jacket, of the same material as his trousers, and looked warm and ill-at-ease. Rennert had an opportunity to observe the man’s sunburnt face. None of its surface had escaped the cruel searing of the sun’s rays, although the throat below his squared-off jaw showed a splotch of whiter skin. Shaving had evidently been a painful operation, for a stubble of dead-white hairs protruded from the blistered flesh of his cheeks, his upper lip, and his chin. The effect of these colorless hairs was rather startling, seen in contrast with the glossy dark-brown hair that covered his head.
He pushed the menu aside and looked up at Rennert. A halfsmile was on his lips.
“I suppose,” he said, “that I ought to apologize for forcing myself on you like this.”
“Not at all. Glad of your company.”
“As a matter of fact,” Searcey said a bit awkwardly, “I didn’t want to sit on the other side because of the sun. Its glare hurts my eyes.” A large hand went up to his glasses and adjusted them more securely upon the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been exposed to the sun quite a bit lately, as you’ve probably noticed.”
“As a matter of fact, I had noticed it,” Rennert said with a sympathetic smile.
“I’ve been down in the lower Rio Grande Valley, having some land cleared for growing citrus-fruit. That sun’s no place for a white man to be.”
The middle-aged mestizo waiter set Rennert’s dessert before him and thrust an order-blank and pencil in front of Searcey. He picked up the pencil, held it poised over the paper as if in indecision, then hastily scribbled upon the surface. He pushed the
blank toward the waiter.
When the latter had left, Rennert thought that Searcey’s gaze rested for a moment upon the ice-cream which lay before him.
“Go right ahead,” the man said, “don’t wait on me.”
Rennert began upon the ice-cream.
At the next table Spahr and Miss Van Syle sat across from each other. Several diminutive bottles of Hennessy cognac stood before the newspaperman, empty. He was leaning forward, elbows on the table, and talking rapidly and a bit too loudly. “Of course you’ll probably find Mexico City rather dull after Paris,” he was saying, “at least judging from what friends of mine have told me about it. But I’ve got the addresses of some people down there—in the American Colony—who ought to be able to give us some pointers. One of them has promised to give me a card to the American Club.” The woman rested against the back of her chair and looked at him through the coiling smoke of a cigarette. From time to time she delicately sipped Sauterne from the glass in front of her.
Beyond them the silver-gray knot of hair at the back of Miss Talcott’s head was visible above the starched white collar.
Searcey sat staring out the window until Rennert finished his ice-cream.
He leaned slightly forward then and asked in a lowered voice: “What happened back in Saltillo when they took that Mexican’s body off the train? Did they find out the cause of his death?”
“No,” Rennert set down his glass, “the doctor was unable to say from a brief examination.”
“There’s still no reason to think it wasn’t heart failure or something like that, then?”
“No.”
Searcey’s fingers slowly and methodically marshaled the silverware into position. “All that excitement for nothing, then,” he said without looking up.
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?” the blank dark surfaces of the glass rose to meet Rennert’s gaze.
“It is possible, of course, that a more careful examination in Saltillo may reveal particulars about his death that will necessitate further investigation.”
“Of the passengers in the Pullman?”
“Yes.”
Searcey compressed his lips and silently watched the waiter place a sandwich and a cup of coffee before him. When the waiter had gone he said, without making any motion to begin his meal: “But they let us go ahead on this train?”
“Yes, there was not sufficient reason to stop anyone.”
Searcey picked up his sandwich. Rennert glanced for a moment from the window. The train had come to a panting stop at a little dusty station of gray stone.
“I noticed that several extra soldiers got on the train at Saltillo.”
Rennert turned his head and saw that Searcey was holding the sandwich in his hand, regarding it thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he said, “doubtless as extra precaution in case of trouble caused by the strike.”
“Oh!” Searcey said with, Rennert felt, a careful lack of expression, “I had been wondering why they got on.” He bit into the sandwich, hungrily.
Miss Van Syle rose and walked slowly down the aisle toward the door. Spahr followed her.
As she passed their table Rennert saw Searcey look up. The muscles of his eyes looked as if they were contracting into a nearsighted squint as he stared at her face. As if conscious of the directness of his gaze she turned her head and looked down at him. He made a slight uncertain inclination of the head and moved his lips as if to speak. There was no recognition in her eyes, however, as she moved forward with a graceful studied gait.
“Funny,” Searcey remarked when the door had closed behind her and Spahr, “I thought for a minute I knew that woman. I thought I recognized her when she was standing on the platform at San Antonio last night, but I guess I was mistaken. Know who she is?”
“Miss Van Syle,” Rennert replied—and added with a touch of malice, “of the Long Island Van Syles, I believe.”
Searcey shook his head and took another bite of the sandwich. “Don’t know her,” he said.
Rennert glanced out the window again. The little station still stood motionless, bathed in the glare of the sun.
“I’ve been intending to ask you something,” he said carefully, “about last night.”
Searcey’s jaws were still. “Yes?” he said indistinctly.
“Some time before we got to Laredo the Mexican who died in the Pullman this morning was sitting on the last seat in the rear of the car, two seats beyond your berth. You have number eight, don’t you?”
“No, I was sitting there this morning but I have upper six, above Radcott.”
“Well, it makes no difference really. I was merely wondering if by any chance you had heard the sound of voices back there.”
“Voices?” the glasses were staring directly at Rennert. “He was talking to someone?”
“Not that I know of but it struck me as a rather late hour for him to be sitting up, unless he had company.”
Searcey was silent for a moment. He laid the remnants of the sandwich carefully upon his plate and asked: “I suppose it was the porter who saw the Mexican back there?”
“Yes.”
Searcey thought a moment. “I was trying to remember,” he said slowly. “I was wakened by the noise when we crossed the border but I don’t believe that I heard anyone talking in the car then. I had been asleep for some time before that.”
“Did you observe this Mexican very closely when you saw him last night?”
There was no expression at all on Searcey’s face as he stared at Rennert and said: “When I saw him?”
“Yes, in the smoker.”
“Oh.” (Rennert’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. As flat as the monosyllable had been, he thought that he detected a faint note of unguarded relief in it.) “I’d almost forgotten that. No, I didn’t pay any particular attention to him. Why?”
Rennert took the stickpin from the lapel of his coat and held it out. “Do you remember,” he asked casually, “if he was wearing this in his tie or elsewhere?”
Searcey’s brows contracted into a thoughtful frown as he looked at the pin. “Yes,” he nodded slowly, “I believe he was wearing that in his tie—or at least one like it.”
Rennert returned the pin to his lapel. “I supposed that it was his.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“On the floor by the seat where he was sitting last night.”
Rennert glanced out the window again. The train’s delay at this little station was beginning to worry him. Nervousness was so rare with him that he recognized its symptoms with something approaching alarm.
“If you’ll pardon me,” he said, “I think I’ll get out and stretch my legs. We seem to be delayed here for some reason.”
“That’s bad,” Searcey’s frown deepened. “The fourth time it’s happened. San Antonio, the border, Saltillo, and now here. Looks as if the cards were stacked against us on this trip.” He paused. “By the way, do you ever play poker?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about a game this afternoon? It’ll help kill the time and may take our minds off—other things.”
“Sorry,” Rennert said frankly, “but I don’t think I could keep my thoughts on cards. I’m a poor player anyway.”
He thought that Searcey looked at him oddly. “Worried?” he asked quietly.
“Frankly, yes.”
“About what’s happened or what’s going to happen?”
Rennert laughed and got to his feet. “Both, I suppose.”
“What time is it now?”
Rennert consulted his watch again. “One thirty-five.”
Searcey kept his gaze on Rennert’s face. “Let me know what you find out about the delay here, will you?” he asked. “I don’t want to get out in the sun.” He paused. “I expect I have more reason to worry than you.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s important that I get into Mexico City on time in the morning. I’ve got an offer of a job down there—and it closes at no
on.”
“Even with a few delays we should be in Mexico City long before noon,” Rennert said as he turned down the aisle.
He stepped out upon the platform and half closed his eyes against the glare.
The station was Carneros.
It lay lethargic and baking beneath the afternoon sun. Far away, across the cacti-sprinkled desert, the austere brown and blue mountains, flecked with cloud shadows, were wavering mirages.
The conductor stood beside the car, gazing with a worried expression in the direction of the engine. “What’s the matter?” Rennert inquired.
The man shrugged wearily. “It is the engine, señor. They are having trouble with it. Up to this point the grade has been very steep. We are almost to the level of Mexico City now.” He pulled out his watch. “We are very late but we will make up the time when the new engine meets us.” He returned the watch to his pocket and glanced around nervously.
Rennert noticed the direction of his gaze. He looked up into the sky. It was clear and blue, with an occasional fleecy white cloud close upon the horizon. High overhead another vulture floated in almost imperceptible spirals.
“You are getting a new engine?” he asked, as he took his gaze from the sky and felt in his pocket for cigarettes. There was, he had to admit, something rather disquieting about the unfailing presence of those damned zopilotes.
“Yes,” the conductor was starting toward the steps, “they have wired to San Luis Potosí for another engine to meet us at Vanegas.”
“The grade is downward from here to Vanegas, isn’t it?”
“Yes, there will be no difficulty, I am sure. And with the new engine all will go well. Con permiso, señor.”
Rennert drew soothing smoke into his lungs as he looked about him.
By the corner of the station Preston Radcott stood, bareheaded in the sun. His arms were crossed and he was staring absently across the desert at the mountains.
The platform was deserted save for a beggar who crouched in the dust and looked with motionless eyes across the glare.
