by Todd Downing
Rennert’s gaze was on the window as he said: “In one way, you’re right. She did borrow the hatbox. She borrowed it from the Ollie Wright whom she left back in Texas.”
“A friend?”
“Herself.”
She studied his face for a moment. “I wonder if I know what you mean,” she murmured.
He continued to gaze out the window.
“I didn’t mean to be enigmatic,” he said. “It was just that the appropriateness of your expression struck me. The story of Miss Van Syle is a common one, one that always makes me just a little bit rebellious at the suffering life works on so many of us.”
“I know,” she said without thinking. His tanned, rather rugged and homely features belied the slight huskiness which she thought that she detected in his voice. “I should like to hear her story, if you wish to tell me,” she said.
“It goes something like this, I think. There was in a small town in Texas a girl by the name of Ollie Wright. She was a schoolteacher—the fourth grade—and would have been perfectly happy and contented had she not had dreams. She dreamed of being Coralie Van Syle, of the Long Island or something Van Syles, and of traveling about the world in a private compartment, of looking condescendingly at the Ollie Wrights of the world over a jade cigarette holder. Instead, however, of doing as most girls would have done, letting their dreams lose the sharpness of their outlines through apathy or putting them resolutely aside, Ollie Wright determined that for one summer, one brief glorious summer, she would be Coralie Van Syle. Whatever became of her afterwards, she would have that memory. When she boarded this train last night she was in every detail Coralie Van Syle, except for that hatbox, probably utilized at the last moment for clothing which would not be contained in Coralie Van Syle’s expensive new luggage, for a passport made out in her real name and for a diary. She lived for one day as Coralie Van Syle.”
Miss Talcott’s eyes were vague as they too sought the window for an instant. ‘“One crowded hour of glorious life’” she murmured.
“I’ve been wondering,” Rennert said, “if it was worth what it cost.”
“Of course it was,” her reply was firm. “I’m sure it was. She didn’t, you see, have to come back to reality.”
For a long time she didn’t speak but sat staring out the window, through which crept vague night-sounds.
She turned her head, then, and had the same unruffled smile upon her lips as she said: “You see, I suppose, the only part of this girl’s story that makes it at all interesting?”
“You mean the hatbox?”
“Yes,” a bit of brightness came into her eyes as she looked at him, “Ollie Wright’s hatbox. It was a remnant of her real life that she didn’t succeed in discarding. It represented Ollie Wright. It killed Coralie Van Syle.”
“The Albatross about her neck.”
“Exactly. Posada could have made a sublime cartoon out of that, couldn’t he? …”
18
Ties upon the Track (10:15 P.M.)
Spahr raised dull red-rimmed eyes as Rennert stepped into the smoker. He was still sitting, lethargic, upon the leather cushions. He did not speak.
Rennert sat down beside him.
“You should have told me the truth about your conversation with Searcey back in the diner,” he said quietly.
Spahr stared straight in front of him and clasped his hands more tightly together. “You’ve talked to Searcey?” he asked in a flat voice.
“Yes.”
“He told you about the cigarette holder?” his lips were moving as if he were unconscious of their action.
“Yes. I think that you had better tell me exactly what happened.”
Spahr’s face was white and rigid as chalk. He sat for a moment without speaking.
“I suppose I’d better,” he said at last. “I thought maybe you’d take my word for it and wouldn’t talk to Searcey.” He made a strangled sound in his throat. “Miss Van Syle left her cigarette holder in the diner. I had it in my hand when I went out, I was going to take it to her. Searcey saw it and made some crack about it. I answered him and we both went on out.” He paused and went on with a quickened voice. “I left Searcey at the smoker and went to her compartment and knocked at the door. There wasn’t any answer, so I went away—to the smoker.”
“And the cigarette holder?” Rennert asked quietly.
“I don’t know. I suppose I lost it somewhere. I don’t know what became of it.”
Rennert said evenly: “That cigarette holder was lying beside her body when I found her, Spahr.”
The soft regular purr of the electric fan was a throbbing accentuation of the silence which lay heavy upon the little room.
Out of the distance, eerie in the profound stillness, came the shriek of a train’s whistle.
Rennert drew a breath of relief. The engine at last and the resumption of movement toward their destination! He hadn’t realized to what extent it had depressed him. This slow slow waiting …
Spahr’s knuckles cracked loudly as he jerked apart his intertwined fingers and buried his head in his hands.
“There’s only one explanation for that cigarette holder,” Rennert told him. “You entered Miss Van Syle’s compartment—”
With a frenzied movement Spahr ran his fingers through his hair. “But somebody could have planted it there,” he interrupted, “to put the blame on me!”
“There was scarcely time for that, Spahr, and you forget the matter of the lights.”
“The lights?” Spahr raised his head and stared at Rennert.
“Yes, the fact that you didn’t remember when they were extinguished. That happened when you stood in the darkened compartment, before you turned on the lights—if you did turn them on.” The muscles about Spahr’s eyes twitched convulsively. “Do you mind,” he asked, “if I have a drink?”
“I believe,” Rennert reached for the bell, “that a hair of the dog that bit you is recommended now.”
“Thanks,” Spahr said.
“Remember that we are going to be in San Luis Potosí soon and that this is going to be your last chance, probably, to tell the truth.”
“Yes, I know,” Spahr’s voice was lifeless.
They sat in silence until the porter had come and taken the order.
Ahead the whistle shrilled nearer.
Spahr looked up. “That our engine?”
“Yes, I presume it is.”
Spahr fumbled for a cigarette.
The porter came softly into the room with whisky and soda water. As he fixed Spahr’s drink and handed it to him Rennert asked: “That’s the new engine, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” the man answered. “We will start in a few minutes.” For a fraction of a second longer than necessary his black eyes rested on Rennert’s, an unusual brightness glinting in them.
As Spahr drained his glass in gulps and set it on the floor beside him, Rennert said to the Mexican in Spanish: “You have something to tell me?” He hazarded the question, since there had been no expression in the eyes, only a reflection of something which might have been fear.
The little man glanced swiftly in Spahr’s direction and said in a sibilant undertone: “When you have the time, señor, I wish to speak to you.” There was an odd tenseness in his manner and his hand jerked toward the glass.
“Very well,” Rennert regarded him curiously, “I shall see you in a few minutes.”
“Before we get to San Luis Potosí, señor.”
“Before?”
“Yes,” the man turned away his eyes, “I am leaving the train in San Luis.”
Rennert frowned.
Before he could say anything more Spahr broke in with: “What about bringing some matches in here? There haven’t been any here all evening.”
The porter stood in the doorway, inclined his head and said: “Very good, sir, I shall bring some.” Without another glance at Rennert he was gone.
Rennert brought out a packet of matches and handed them to Spahr. He watche
d the latter light the cigarette which had been dangling from the side of his mouth.
Spahr handed the matches back, drew a lungful of smoke and expelled it without sound. “That’s better!” he said with an almost normal voice.
“You’re ready now to tell me what happened?”
“Yes.” Spahr stared at the end of the cigarette and said slowly. “I did go into Miss Van Syle’s compartment, you’re right. She had been rather—well, agitated about something—back in the diner and had had a crying spell, so I was kind of worried about her. I opened the door—it was unlocked—and went in. I saw her there, lying on the floor. I don’t remember exactly what I did then. I remember closing the door and feeling for the light. I turned it on and saw that she was dead. I must have dropped the cigarette holder then, I don’t remember. The room was close and hot and I got sick. I went out and shut the door behind me. That was when I went to the smoker.”
He leaned back in the seat, let his head rest upon the leather and looked straight into Rennert’s eyes. “That’s the truth, Mr. Rennert! I’ll swear to God it is! She was already dead when I went in.”
Rennert kept his eyes on Spahr’s. “Her hatbox was open when you were there?”
“Her hatbox? I don’t know, I didn’t notice.” Stark fear was in Spahr’s eyes as he demanded hoarsely: “Do you believe what I’ve said?”
A bell jangled up front and the hissing of steam came faintly to their ears. A slight quivering went through the car, as if at an impact.
Rennert got to his feet. “You asked me that same question before, Spahr, and I answered it. My answer is the same now.” He turned and left the room.
He walked to the steps and swung lightly to the ground. The conductor was standing, lantern in hand, and gazing toward the front of the train. He turned as Rennert approached and a smile broke the dark surface of his face.
“It is the engine from San Luis Potosí.”
“Good.” Rennert stood beside him and watched the flashing of lights at the front of the train. “Did you learn what caused the delay in bringing it?”
The man stared again straight in front of him, the smile gone. “There were ties piled upon the track,” he spoke as if unwillingly, “between here and San Luis. It took time to remove them.”
Ties upon the track! Rennert was immediately alert, as if cold water had douched his face. He experienced, at the same time, a feeling of something approaching relief. They were becoming tangible now—all these vague hints of danger that had come with such persistent repetition throughout the day. He admitted to himself now how much they had worried him, hovering as they had like invisible particles of dust about the train and making their presence known only by irritation of the senses.
He asked in a level voice: “What happened while they were removing the ties?”
The conductor’s manner was odd. It was as if he had quietly retired into a private world of his own, bounded by horizons of impregnable reserve. He said: “Nothing happened, señor.”
There it was again, the intangibility of the whole affair. It came edging in upon them again, like unseen mist out of the darkness. Nothing had happened. As if those ties had materialized out of the night to lie upon the track and delay still further the advance of this train that had been meeting delays with steady purposive monotony all day.
“There was no indication of the persons who put the ties there? Of their purpose?”
“No, there was nothing.”
“There was no town near by?”
“No, it was between Moctezuma and Bocas.”
“There were—” Rennert hesitated, then went ahead, “no shots fired at the crew?” Damn it, the man was already so terrified, unless he missed his guess, that there was no need to evade the issue. “No, señor, there were no shots,” the answer came.
The train’s warning whistle cut into the stillness.
“I think, señor, that we are ready to start now. Con permiso.” The conductor moved toward the steps and mounted them as with an effort.
Rennert followed, passed the man at the top of the steps and made his way toward the Pullman. Behind him he heard the door closed against the darkness and the silence and the vast immutability of the desert.
The porter was engaged in making up Rennert’s berth. Beyond, green curtains masked the berths on either side of the aisle. From the rear came the low murmur of voices and he saw Radcott lean out of one of the seats and glance down the aisle.
Rennert stood beside the porter and said in a low voice: “When you finish, go back into the diner. I shall join you there.”
“Muy bien, señor,” it was a mere wisp of sound and the little man did not turn his head.
Rennert never knew whether those whispered words of his had been overheard or whether one person in that car, seeing the two of them engaged in speech, had guessed the import of his words. Probably the latter, since the fear that had stalked this person’s mind all day must by this time have been verging on blind panic.
He walked toward the rear. There, on either side of the door, he found King and Radcott in one seat and Searcey on the other side of the aisle.
Radcott had removed his tie and was flipping it against his knee. “Off at last, are we?” he asked with unnatural gayety.
“At last. The engine has arrived from San Luis Potosí.”
King consulted his watch. “Only three hours and fifty minutes late,” he observed dryly.
Searcey looked worried. “With no more delays we ought to make up part of our lost time during the night, oughtn’t we?”
“Yes—” Rennert felt a gentle tug at his elbow and turned.
It was the conductor, his face looking tired and haggard and dirt-streaked under the lights. His eyes met Rennert’s with a look of inquiry. “You wished to see me, señor?”
“No,” Rennert frowned, “it wasn’t I.”
The man seemed bothered. “But the gentleman in the diner said that it was you,” he insisted.
As the lights were extinguished Rennert was looking into his suddenly fear-filled eyes.
The unmistakable sound of the train’s gradual acceleration of speed was in Rennert’s ears, the steady puffing crescendo and the click of wheels upon rails. Yet there was discernible no movement at all in the Pullman.
“What the hell?” Radcott’s voice sounded muffled in the unrelieved darkness that enveloped them.
Rennert pushed past the conductor and sped down the aisle. Behind him he heard the man’s labored breathing as he followed.
He came out from the passage and stood at the door, staring across empty space at the receding lights of the train. Dust whipped his face and tormented his eyes, yet he saw, with all the distinctness of a scene caught by a spotlight, the tall erect figure of Jeanes framed by the rectangle of the door of the last car.
19
Matches Flare Briefly (10:40 P.M.)
Out of the darkness at Rennert’s side came a startled choking exclamation from the throat of the conductor. His fingers caught Rennert’s arm in a frantic grip.
The door of the diner had become now no more than a faint point of light and the rumble of the train came back to them faintly, muffled by the swiftly incrowding silence of the desert. Overhead the stars glittered in stark isolation, pin pricks in the thick enveloping mantle of the sky.
“This car—” the conductor’s voice was a shell, “—it has been uncoupled.” His fingers released Rennert’s arm. “There has been a mistake!”
“No,” Rennert’s voice was cold and hard, “there has been no mistake.”
Silence from the other while realization came. Then, “Madre de dios!” like a spate released, from the dam of Anglo-Saxon reserve his blood flooded back to its meridionality. “We are lost!” his despairing cry echoed into the night.
“You saw the man who stood at the rear door of the train?” Rennert’s level voice stemmed the flow of emotion.
“Yes.”
“It was he who sent you back to see me?”
“Yes.”
Rennert stood for a moment, staring into the utter blackness of the night which had engulfed the last vestige of man-made light. He thought:
It has come at last, the moment toward which this car of people has been moving so inevitably!
Resolutely he shook off the momentary feeling of helplessness that assailed him and turned back into the Pullman. He heard the conductor following, in silence.
In the passage he came upon a dim figure, standing at the door of the smoker. The faint glow of a low-burning cigarette stub illuminated the lower part of Spahr’s chalk-white face.
“What’s the matter?” the young man asked in an unsteady voice.
“Come back into the Pullman with me,” Rennert said, and waited for him to precede him.
Spahr drew upon the cigarette, staring across it at Rennert’s face. Without a word he moved forward.
Rennert stood in the aisle and felt in his pocket for matches. He brought out a packet and counted them with his fingers. Three remained. (Three tiny ephemeral splinters of wax-coated wood confronting the vast dark world that had thrown its shroud over them!)
Someone (King it was) struck a match and held it aloft. Its flame flickered, sank and rose to cast a weak momentary light over the narrow tomblike passage between the curtains.
In the center of the aisle, in front of King, stood Searcey and Radcott, their eyes fixed inquiringly on Rennert’s face. Miss Talcott sat upon the edge of her berth. She had evidently been about to retire and wore a dark dressing gown and slippers. Spahr stood to the right of the aisle, one hand grasping the curtains of Rennert’s berth. At the rear, just at the edge of the illumination, stood the Mexican soldier who had been stationed upon the observation platform.
It was a scene which Rennert was never to forget, a taut fearclad moment in which eight dissimilar people faced one another, drawn together by the magnet of a common dread of what might lie beyond the light.
They seemed to be waiting for him to speak.
He tried to keep cool normalcy in his voice as he said: “This car has been uncoupled from the rest of the train, which has gone on without us. There is nothing we can do except wait until they miss us and come back.”
