The Maya Stone Murders

by Malcolm Shuman

  “It is,” I said. “I spent a little time this morning reading about it in one of the books on the shelf there. It’s so sacred that betrayal is almost unthinkable.”

  “Which is why he would never have betrayed me,” Thorpe declared.

  “No, you have it wrong. You’re the one who betrayed him.”

  “What?”

  “From his point of view. You brought him to the golden land, the United States. You built him up in the eyes of his fellows. He used his experiences to accrue all kinds of prestige with them. Then what happened?” I hesitated, choosing my next words carefully. “In his eyes, you turned around and pulled the rug out from under him.”

  “But that’s absurd,” Thorpe blustered. “I don’t know what you mean. I was good to that man. Even when he got into trouble with his drinking, I always bailed him out.”

  “Of course you did,” I said. “Nobody ever said you weren’t a conscientious person. It’s probably your most important characteristic. It stands out to everybody that knows you. And in this case it extended to making sure that the immigration laws were strictly followed and that Artemio didn’t overstay his work permit.”

  “Of course. I can’t go around violating federal law.”

  “No. But federal law is not something a person like Artemio understands. In his country, law is something to be gotten around or even disregarded. More important, the tie between two men who are compadres obliterates any minor adherence to laws.” I lifted my hand to quiet his protest. “Remember, I’m talking from Artemio’s standpoint. Professor, I don’t think you realize what a disappointed, bitter man Artemio is. That was what fueled his drinking and made him start stealing from you.”

  Thorpe sighed. “I don’t really see how he could have stolen from us. I was very careful to monitor all field-work, and when I wasn’t there, Gordon or Astrid was there. The most that could have been picked up were bits and pieces. The very way you put it shows a layman’s understanding of archaeology.”

  Katherine gave me an apologetic look, but if Thorpe caught it, it didn’t sink in.

  “Unsophisticated people,” he lectured, “tend to think of archaeology as a search for treasure. Tombs and temples. King Tut’s tomb. And maybe it once was. But in the last thirty years, everything has changed. Today, archaeology is a study of other aspects of culture than simply the most obvious physical remains. In our case, we were looking for astronomical alignments and inscriptions that would cast light on the continuation of the classic Mayan system of time reckoning in eastern Yucatán. No gold, Mr. Dunn. No silver. And precious few artifacts at any one time.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “But over the course of three years’ work you did find some figurines and other objects that collectors would pay money for.”

  “Certainly, but only in the aggregate. I can’t imagine any individual piece worth more than a hundred dollars or so. And besides, the Mexican government won’t let us bring much out of the country. Most of what we excavate we clean, photograph, and catalog in our lab at Valladolid, after which it’s taken to Mérida, to the regional center for the National Institute.”

  “That’s an important point,” I said, “because that’s the key.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about systematic theft from the boxes where the artifacts were stored.”

  Thorpe’s eyes bulged. He was sweating now, trying hard not to believe it, and yet smart enough to know I was on to something.

  “But that’s impossible.” He gave a nervous little chuckle. “I think I’d recognize what was excavated at my own site.”

  “But weren’t you frequently away, attending to customs clearances, consulting with your Mexican colleagues, and so forth? How could you be there all the time?”

  “Well …” He raised his hands, and then dropped them.

  “Leeds was there, though,” I said. “He was your field supervisor. He would have known.”

  “But we kept records …”

  “Of course. But how can you tell from a record whether the piece is still in storage in Mexico without having somebody there to verify it? Boxes could be pilfered between the site and the National Institute office in Mérida, or opened at night in the lab before loading, the most valuable pieces taken out. All it would require would be bribery of a guard or a truck driver. It might be years before anybody got around to checking them in Mérida, from what Katherine told me.”

  “Well, yes, theoretically.” He brushed a hand back over his thinning brown hair and turned his back on us. When he turned around again there was something like determination, or as close as he could get to it. “There’s one way to find out about this. I’ll talk to Artemio. He’ll tell me, by God …”

  I looked over at Scott. “Do you know where Artemio lives?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “Go over there and if he’s at home, bring him here. Tell him the professor wants to see him.”

  “Give me five minutes,” the boy said. The door closed behind him and I turned back to Thorpe.

  “Bear in mind,” I said, “it wasn’t big-time theft. It was petty pilferage, because he was resentful, knowing this would be his last trip to the U.S. But I think in the process he saved some items out. The ones he thought were his best, and he smuggled them into the country with him. He figured he could make more without a Mexican middleman. He asked around and found a buyer. He convinced the buyer he could deliver a substantial shipment; all wishful thinking, of course. On that basis the buyer took his offerings, which were relatively worthless, a few hundred dollars at most. The buyer got rid of the merchandise almost immediately.” I told him how Leeds had seen the objects in the flea market and had bought them. “Leeds had no idea it was Artemio doing the pilfering. He thought it was you.”

  The statement hit Thorpe like a broadside and he seemed to wilt. “Me? I don’t understand.”

  “Part of it was the normal frustration and resentment a student feels regarding his major professor. But there was more.” Thorpe already appeared stricken and, whatever I thought of him, it gave me no pleasure to reduce him further. “Let’s just call it a personality thing,” I said. “He probably felt you didn’t give his theories enough weight. Anyway, he convinced himself that the only way to deal with you was to show you he knew about your alleged thefts.”

  “Insane,” Thorpe mumbled, shaking his head, but this time I knew he was accusing the dead man, not me. “My God, I never did that boy anything. Why would he turn on me?”

  “It might have stopped there, with Leeds’s eccentric little game,” I said. “But there was one other artifact he hadn’t shown anybody.”

  “Another artifact?” Thorpe cocked his head and I wondered how much was getting through after the initial shock.

  “A small piece of jade,” I said. “What’s commonly called an hacha. I suppose Artemio dug it up before he went to work for you, or not long afterward. He kept it as a kind of lucky piece. But then, when his luck started to turn, he decided to sell it. Of all the things he had found, it might bring a decent price. After all, it had some writing on it and he knew your people were intrigued by the ancient writing.”

  “Glyphs?” Thorpe croaked.

  “That’s right.” I reached into my pocket and grasped the little piece of stone. “Artemio included it with the artifacts he sold and the buyer let it go when he unloaded the merchandise on his own buyer. When Leeds saw it, he realized he had something unusual. Not unique, perhaps, but unusual. He set to work trying to make sense out of the writing, meanwhile carrying out his duel with you.”

  I took my hand out of my pocket, the jade clutched tightly in my fist. “I think,” I said, “that one of the points of difference between you and Leeds had to do with interpretation of the glyphs.”

  “That’s true,” Thorpe allowed. “He was one of the new bunch. Every bit of Mayan writing has to relate to some event in the lives of the kings or, even, the people.” His nose wrinkled in disgust. �
�Members of the old school, like myself, are supposed to be rigidly bound to the discredited belief that the glyphs are only records of celestial and astrological events. That is, reflections of the mythology. The difference is illusory, of course. No one, certainly not I, ever said that—”

  “I’m sure. The point, however, is that it took Leeds a little while to figure out what the glyphs on the hacha meant. And when he did, it opened a whole new world.”

  “Oh? And how was that?”

  It was my turn to shrug. “I don’t know, because I don’t read glyphs. But maybe you can tell us.” I opened my hand and he stared down in surprise at the jade. He picked it out of my hand and carried it over to the light.

  “Where did this come from?” he demanded. “Exactly?”

  “Artemio dug it up from the floor of Temple A,” Katherine said.

  “Temple A?” Thorpe’s lips puckered. “Odd. I’ve always wondered why that little structure was there. Doesn’t fit in with the essential symmetry of the site. Well, let’s see …” He squinted down, holding the jade up to his face.

  Katherine joined him beside the lamp. “We think the first element is the locative, meaning ‘at,’ and the second is ‘red’ something, followed by the glyph for the dry season.”

  Thorpe grunted, a man suddenly back in his element.

  “Amazing,” he declared. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s black nephrite. Nephrite is unknown in Central America. This must have come from the West Coast of the United States. The black color in itself is remarkable—it indicates a high quantity of iron oxide. But the style is almost Costa Rican. The stone must have been brought into the Mayan lowlands from the north, traded over an incredible distance, and the artisan who carved it must have come from south of the Mayan area—perhaps installed at Ek Balam as a sort of artist in residence.” He shook his head wonderingly. “And these glyphs; it reminds me in many ways of the Tuxtla statuette. But the Tuxtla had a calendrical inscription. This is not calendrical unless you count the reference to Yaaxkin, the dry month.”

  “You can read the glyphs, then?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Oh, yes. They’re clear enough. I can’t imagine why Leeds had any problem. You’re right about the ti. It means ‘at,’ and the Yaaxkin is clear enough. It is preceded by an element I take to be another locative.”

  “And the color red?” I asked.

  “Simple enough,” he declared condescendingly. “Actually there are two glyphs. The second part is unclear, but the combination appears enough in other texts for us to identify them.”

  “And?” I prodded.

  He sniffed and stared over at me with a superior air. “The elements are Chac Ek. Red Star. That’s the Mayan expression for the planet Venus. Then, the last is a double glyph, the star resting on the head of the characteristic spotted feline face.”

  “Then the entire message …” Katherine started but before she could finish, her front door flew open and we turned to see Scott standing in the doorway, his eyes wide, clothes disheveled.

  Katherine started toward him. “Scotty, what …?”

  His mouth worked wordlessly for a moment and then he got it out. “It’s Artemio,” he cried. “Somebody’s killed him.”

  19

  I muttered a curse. “Tell me exactly what happened,” I ordered.

  He slumped against the doorway, his face drained of color. “I parked in front and went around to the back. I knocked but nobody answered. There was a radio playing inside, so I tried the door. It was open. He … Artemio was on the bed. I smelled whiskey and at first I thought he was just drunk. Then I saw the blood.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Thorpe moaned.

  “Go on,” I said. “How had he been killed, could you tell?”

  Scott’s chest heaved as he fought for breath. “There was blood on his head, on one side, and it was all over the bed. I think somebody hit him. I didn’t see any weapon.”

  “Murdered while he was sleeping,” Thorpe declared. “This is terrible.”

  I took Scott by the arm and led him to the couch. Katherine had already read my mind and poured him a shot of bourbon. He tossed it down like a man in the desert offered a canteen. I went over to the telephone.

  “What are you going to do?” Thorpe asked, alarmed.

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “Oh,” he said. Then a crooked little smile twisted his face. “Well, they can’t say I did this one. I was here all the time. You’re all my witnesses.”

  “Yes,” I said with disgust, dialing the number. “You were here.” I asked for Mancuso and waited, hoping he would be there. I was lucky. Twenty seconds later I heard his voice.

  “Mancuso, listen: This is Micah Dunn. Don’t bother to trace this call. I’ll be off before you can get the number. Besides, I’m going to tell you where you can find me.” I told him about Artemio’s murder and gave him the address. I heard him yell the information to an associate and knew a radio car would be on the way. “Now: If you want to know who did it, meet me tonight at ten o’clock at the foot of Louisiana Street. Don’t bring an army. If they see you, it’ll be for nothing.”

  “Dunn, what the hell is going on?”

  “You’ll find out tonight,” I promised.

  “Jesus,” he snorted. “First your lady friend gets snatched, then I have an idiot coming in trying to confess to save his girlfriend, and now this …”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, this fellow Gladney. He’s scared to death we’re going to lock up his girlfriend because she’s got a mental record. He’s here now, claiming he killed goddamn Leeds, which is a crock, because we’ve got Claude St. Romaine’s prints all over the car. His and Cora Thorpe’s and your friend the professor’s, but not Gladney’s.”

  “And Astrid Bancroft? Were her prints in it?”

  “No, but her compact was. But what the hell? She says Thorpe gave her a ride the other day and she lost it. We can’t send somebody to the chair on that. But the poor jerk’s beside himself.”

  “How long has he been down there?”

  “Two hours. Came in just before the professor got sprung. And he’ll probably be here the rest of the day, the way he’s acting. DA’ll raise hell we don’t at least look at his confession.”

  “We all have our problems,” I said. “Just be there tonight.”

  “Wait a minute, Dunn. Do you know who did it?”

  “Be there,” I said and hung up.

  All three of them were looking at me. “My God,” Thorpe cried. “Do you know who did it?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And that’s why I can’t stay here. Mancuso is a good cop. He’ll be trying to trace that call. If he succeeds, then a police car will be on the way over. And if I end up back in jail, Sandy will be dead.” I started for the door but he reached out and grabbed my arm.

  “You mean you’re just … leaving?”

  “That’s right.” I looked down at his hand and he removed it. “I hope I can borrow your car for another few hours,” I told Katherine.

  “Take mine,” Scott offered. “They’ll expect to see Mom’s outside.” He reached into his pocket and handed me some bills. “It’s not much, only twenty or so, but you can’t go around without money.”

  “Thanks,” I said as he handed me the keys. “As for you,” I told Thorpe, “I think I’d go home. Your wife needs you there. She’s been playing a dangerous game. You can’t blackmail a killer without running a risk of being the next victim.”

  “Blackmail?” Thorpe’s mouth shot open.

  “Sorry to disillusion you,” I said, “but Cora’s a naughty girl.”

  I went out then and got into Scott’s car. Maybe Mancuso was willing to take my word and wait for nightfall, but I couldn’t count on it. I found a bar on Magazine where I wasn’t known and settled into a back booth, where it was dark. I ordered a beer and a sandwich and watched the TV, hoping the barkeep hadn’t been alerted for someone with a limp arm. It was Monday, and the p
lace was almost empty, which meant the bartender had more time on his hands than on a busier day. But he seemed content to ignore me and watch soap operas, shaking his head in disapproval at the machinations of the characters. At four the regulars started coming in. I got up and went to the pay phone in the corner.

  O’Rourke’s secretary put me through as soon as I identified myself. “I hope you aren’t busy tonight,” I said.

  “Jesus, Micah, what’s happening? I’ve been worried to death.”

  I told him where I was and he groaned. “They can’t do much to the beer,” he said, “but stay away from the muffalettas. No olive oil at all.”

  “I need you to be at the Harmony Street wharf tonight just before nine,” I said. “Park on Louisiana, near the ferry. If you see a couple of seedy types in a black Ford, don’t worry. I told Mancuso to be there at ten, but you know how antsy cops are. I figure they’ll be there at nine-thirty.”

  “No problem,” O’Rourke said. “Am I to assume you’re going to turn yourself in?”

  “Definitely. Right after I get Sandy loose.”

  “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Micah, for God’s sake, don’t try anything tricky.”

  “Of course not,” I said and hung up.

  Then I made another call and the person who answered wasn’t so happy to hear from me. But he listened to my demand and grudgingly agreed to comply.

  “Remember,” I said. “One hour.”

  I had another beer and then went out into the afternoon. It had clouded up and there was a smell of rain, mixed with the rich aroma of coffee from down on the wharves. I got into the car, removing the parking ticket on the windshield, and waited.

  He came at exactly four-fifty, a weasel-faced stub of a man with a Hawaiian shirt flapping loose in the sudden breeze. I opened the car door.

  “Nice to see you, Harry,” I said.

  Harry the Hawk threw down his cigarette and climbed in. “Goddamn, I get caught with you, Micah, it’s worth three years in the place. And I don’t mean the country club at Hunt, I mean goddamn Angola.”