Murder on the Tropic

by Todd Downing

  “No. A doctor came up from Victoria and certified to sunstroke so there was no difficulty about getting the body across the border. But I was telling you about those caramels. When I packed up his things to take back to Amarillo I slipped the box into a compartment of my own grip. I don’t know just why. I only stayed until the funeral was over then came right back down here. I hadn’t even unpacked so the caramels were still there. The next morning I got them out and examined them. It was a new box. Only two were gone, the ones that Stahl had eaten. The next one in the same row looked as if it had been handled. I started to cut it open. It fell apart and I could see that it had been cut open before and pressed together again. In the center was a white powder.”

  “What was its appearance?”

  “Small crystalline grains. I’ll show it to you.”

  “You still have it then?”

  “Yes, it’s in the box with the others. That’s what I was getting from the top of the wardrobe in your room when you came in this afternoon.”

  “You never had the candy examined?”

  “No.” Arnhardt hesitated. “I hid it until I could make up my mind what to do. I didn’t decide until tonight.”

  Rennert tried to keep reprimand out of his words.

  “But you could have shown the powder to a chemist or a druggist. You would not necessarily have implicated anyone.”

  Arnhardt’s voice sounded all at once sick: “But I haven’t told you everything yet. There were fingerprints on that caramel.”

  15

  A Box of Caramels

  Far to the southeast lightning was a thin dagger of fire touching the mountain tops and splashing their crests with sullen crimson.

  Arnhardt seemed to be staring at the lightning as he said: “Fingerprints are definite evidence, you know.”

  “Incontrovertible,” Rennert said. “But they might possibly be Stahl’s. Perhaps he picked up this piece of candy and put it back in the box.”

  “I thought of that. I found some letters of his, though, and saved them. I suppose one could get impressions of his fingers from them—to make sure.”

  “I have apparatus here for examining prints, Arnhardt. Let me have these things. We’ll have proof then.”

  “All right,” it seemed dragged from his throat, “I will. Anything’s better than this damned uncertainty.

  “It may be that the prints will prove not to be those of the person you suspect.”

  Arnhardt straightened suddenly and one of his hands (warm iron-hard bone and flesh) touched Rennert’s on the stone bench.

  “What makes you think,” he asked, “that I suspect anyone?”

  “Because,” Rennert answered him evenly, “if you had not suspected someone very strongly—someone whom you are afraid is guilty—you wouldn’t have hesitated so long about having those fingerprints examined.”

  The hand drew away from his.

  “You’re right. I did—I do—suspect a certain person. If it had stopped with Stahl’s death I probably would never have said anything. But now—this can’t go on! Falter and Miguel, with myself probably next!”

  “Yourself?”

  “Yes, can’t you see that it’s hitting everyone connected with the hacienda?”

  The thought darted into Rennert’s mind: I wonder if that is why Solier did not want to come down. On account of fear that he would meet Stahl’s fate. He said: “Falter suspects Stephen Tolman.”

  He could hear Arnhardt’s labored breathing. “And not me?”

  “To be frank, he suspects both of you.”

  “Did he tell you why he suspects Tolman?”

  “He thinks he may be holding a grudge against him on account of a misunderstanding in San Antonio.”

  “And,” Arnhardt said miserably, “I wouldn’t blame Tolman if he did. You know about it?”

  “Only what Falter told me. Embezzlement, he said.”

  “That’s his version, of course. I’ve never been able to find out how far he—and my stepfather—were involved in it. There was something wrong with the books of one of the land companies they were sponsoring. I don’t know the details but some of the stockholders got suspicious and demanded an investigation. Tolman got the blame. Solier was president of the company. He didn’t press any charges. Just shipped Tolman off down here. It looked to me as if he didn’t want too much light thrown on the matter and so used him as a scapegoat.”

  “You got this version of the story from Tolman?”

  “Well, no,” Arnhardt hesitated, “from Ann—Mrs. Tolman.”

  Rennert remembered the unaccustomed softness on Arnhardt’s face as he had gazed across the dinner-table at Ann Tolman’s burnished hair and indulged in private speculation as to the real reason for the young man’s reluctance in the matter of the fingerprints.

  “Suppose,” he said, “you give me those caramels and letters of Stahl’s now. I shall compare the prints the first chance I get.”

  “All right.” Arnhardt heaved himself to his feet.

  They came into the patio and turned to the left. He threw open his door and fumbled for the light.

  “Come in,” he said as its weak illumination bathed the room.

  Rennert watched him as he went to a wardrobe trunk in the corner, unlocked it and swung it open.

  “Here it is,” he turned with the box in his hands.

  Rennert took it and with careful fingers removed the lid and a thin sheet of waxed paper. Underneath were packed firmly three rows of light brown caramels. At one end of the center row were two empty spaces. He held the box to the light and looked at the next piece. It was slightly misshapen. He fixed the lid in place again.

  “And here,” Arnhardt had gone back to the trunk, “are those letters of Stahl’s.” He gave Rennert a thick manila envelope, sealed, and watched him as he put it into a pocket. “You’ll want to get fingerprints of everyone here, of course.”

  “Yes, that can easily be done. Since you are being so helpful we might start by taking yours.”

  “Mine?” Arnhardt frowned. “Why mine? You know they aren’t the ones on that caramel.”

  Rennert noted the young man’s reaction to his words. It was, he had always found, an interesting and infallible index to the human ego—this implicit assumption of one’s own immunity from ordeals imposed so readily on others. As such, he discounted its importance.

  “There are other objects to be considered besides the caramel,” he said equably.

  “With fingerprints on them?”

  “Yes.”

  Arnhardt’s rather heavy lips drew together in a hard straight line to break in a moment into a wry smile.

  “All right, I haven’t any objection. How’s it done?”

  “That will serve.” Rennert nodded toward the table, where stood a bottle of ink.

  “Well, this is a novel experience for me,” Arnhardt said as he strode to the table and uncorked the bottle. He laughed. “I’d like to be present when you tell Miss Fahn you want to take her fingerprints. I imagine she’ll take to the idea like the proverbial cat to water.”

  Rennert said as he laid two sheets of paper flat upon the table: “Miss Fahn probably won’t know when her prints are obtained.”

  He took Arnhardt’s right hand, daubed the fingers lightly with ink from the cork and pressed them upon the paper. First the four fingers, then the thumb. He did the same with the left hand, smiled and folded the sheets.

  “Thank you, Mr. Arnhardt.”

  “You’ll let me know as soon as you find out about those caramels?”

  “Yes, as soon as

  Feet scraped harshly on the paving-stones outside and the rapping on the door was sharp and imperative.

  Arnhardt stepped forward and opened it.

  Bertha Fahn stood on the threshold. Her face was coarse gray parchment and her eyes seemed to bulge behind the thick lenses of the spectacles.

  “Will you please come, Mr. Arnhardt. Miguel has just died.”

  Arnhardt’s eyes w
ent swiftly to Rennert’s face.

  “Excuse me, will you, Rennert?” He jammed his hands in his pockets and accompanied the woman into the patio.

  Her voice came back to Rennert’s ears, smothered by the air and by the billows of fragrance: “I went in to see if there was anything I could do for him. He had just died. Maria wouldn’t talk to me. I don’t know whether she understood what I said or not—”.

  Rennert’s mood, as he left the room, was a fatalistic one that held at the same time the dregs of bitterness. Miguel had died, as he had known he would die. Just as (the odor of the frangipani flowers was too sweet, clogging his nostrils) he knew that Falter would die before the night was over. Unless far off in San Antonio—

  He started toward his room, glanced at the lighted door of the dining room and directed his steps in that direction.

  He found, as he had hoped, the table still partially uncleared. The water tumblers still stood as they had been left when the meal was terminated so abruptly by Falter’s fall.

  From a ledge he took a lacquered Uruapan tray and, handkerchief in hand, began to place the glasses upon it. Keeping in mind the arrangement at dinner he wrote upon slips of paper the names of the persons to whom they appertained and slipped them underneath.

  Lee came in before he had finished. He smiled blandly and seemed to have no curiosity at all as to Rennert’s actions.

  “You have plenty of glasses, Lee?”

  “Yes, boss, plenty glasses.”

  “I’m going to take these to my room then. I’ll return them in the morning.”

  “All light, boss,” with a sound that must have been a chuckle. “Won’t have to wash’em then.”

  “By the way, Lee,” Rennert picked up the tray, “you have entire charge of the kitchen, I believe?”

  “Yes, do all work. Work all time.” The Chinaman shook his head resignedly as he began piling dishes recklessly one upon another.

  “Do any of the people here ever bother you by visiting the kitchen?”

  Lee gave a quick sideways jerk to his head and looked up at him.

  “Goddamn women,” he said with emphasis.

  “What women?” Rennert persisted.

  “Old Mexican woman, she come out and cook leaves, make tortillas. I have to wash her dishes. Smell like hell. Miss Fahn, too, she big pain light here,” emphatically he rubbed his flat paunch. “She all time monkeying around. I tell her go to hell.”

  “I wish, Lee, that you would keep everyone out of the kitchen for a day or two. If anyone insists on coming in, let me know.” He took a coin from his pocket and flipped it to the table.

  Lee pocketed it swiftly.

  “All light, boss, I tell you. You give Miss Fahn kick in pants, yes?”

  “Well,” Rennert smiled at the vision this evoked, “I won’t guarantee to do exactly that. Has Maria brought any dishes in this evening?”

  “Yes, old bowl she feed Miguel with.”

  “I’d like to get that too.”

  For the first time a questioning look came into Lee’s eyes.

  “You want to take all dishes?” he asked.

  “No, just these glasses and Maria’s bowl.” Rennert accompanied him into the kitchen. “Show me the bowl and I’ll pick it up.”

  “There it is,” pointing to a low pottery bowl on a cluttered table.

  With his handkerchief Rennert picked it up and put it beside the glasses on the tray.

  “By the way,” he said as he started back into the dining room, “you might give me that glass over there on the shelf.”

  Lee placed the glass on the tray and followed him out. His face was suddenly convulsed with inner mirth.

  “You dlink some of Mistah Falter’s whisky, eh?” he asked.

  “No,” Rennert assured him with a smile, “I’m cold sober.”

  Lee shook his head.

  “Think you dlink some, yes. It make you clazy too.”

  16

  The Path of Storm

  Rennert set the wave-band switch to the section of the dial in which was the frequency of the San Antonio station and moved the dial slowly back and forth until a voice, almost unrecognizable as that of Solier, was calling out of the crackling and spluttering of increased static: “Station W10XAKI, San Antonio, calling station XADY, Mexico. Station W10XAKI, San-”

  He turned the tone control quickly to “deep” and moved to the transmitter.

  “Station XADY, Mexico, answering station W10XAKI, San Antonio.”

  “That you, Rennert?”

  “Yes, Mr. Solier.”

  “This static is hell, isn’t it?”

  “The description is mild.”

  “What’s the news? How’s Falter?”

  “No better. Did you get in touch with a doctor?”

  “I haven’t been able to find one who’s willing to undertake the trip down there.”

  “You inquired about any poisoning of which yellow vision is a symptom?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t find anyone who ever heard of it. How’s Miguel Montemayor?”

  “He died a few minutes ago.”

  “He did! Terrible! You think then that Falter—hasn’t much chance?”

  “Very little, I’m afraid.”

  “Do you know anything more about what the trouble is?”

  “Not yet. I was sure that some doctor there would give us a lead on that.”

  Rennert wondered if the static were entirely responsible for the nervous agitation in Solier’s voice: “No. No one that I’ve talked to so far.” A pause. He thought that Solier had gone. Then the word leaped at him: “Rennert?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell me frankly what’s on your mind, man. Do you think those men were poisoned accidentally?”

  “Frankly, Mr. Solier, I do not. I think they were deliberately poisoned—as George Stahl was poisoned two weeks ago.”

  “Stahl, too? Good God, Rennert, that doesn’t seem possible. Still, I suppose it is the natural supposition. Have you found out yet just how they were given the stuff?”

  “I think it was given to Miguel in some whisky which was in a bottle in one of the rooms.”

  “Which room?”

  “The room which Mark Arnhardt had been occupying.”

  “Mark Arnhardt?”

  “Yes, the room on the east side, next to the sala. Arnhardt has been living in it since you left. Falter had Miguel move Arnhardt’s things out this afternoon so that I could move in. Those were your instructions, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “My theory is that Miguel saw the whisky bottle there and drank out of it.”

  “What does Arnhardt say?”

  “That the bottle was there when he moved in. He says he never touched it.”

  “Do you believe his story?”

  “It sounded straightforward enough. I’m reserving judgment.”

  “That leaves Arnhardt in charge down there, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he cooperating with you?”

  “Yes, he is convinced now that his stepfather’s death is linked up with Miguel and Falter’s case. He has, I think, given me some information about the circumstances of Stahl’s death that will prove a material aid in clearing up the case.”

  “Bringing Stahl’s death into it puts a new aspect on things, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.”

  “Does Arnhardt suspect anyone in particular?” Rennert hesitated.

  “Yes, he does. He hasn’t as yet mentioned the name, however.”

  Another long racking pause.

  “Rennert?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m worried as hell about things down there. I think I ought to be on the ground. I don’t like the idea of Arnhardt being in control. I’m coming down there in the morning. By plane. I’ll start at daylight. Expect me by the middle of the morning at the latest.”

  “I’ll be glad of your assistance, Mr. Solier. You will bring a doctor if possible?”

  “
Yes, even if I have to kidnap one.”

  “The weather conditions are rather unsettled here, Mr. Solier.”

  “They are? What’s it doing?”

  “Clouds coming up from the southwest. Moving, according to radio reports, in a northeast direction. One of those circular movements in a hurricane that it’s hard to tell about. It’s the same storm that hit Tampico this evening.” In a northeast direction. That meant that unless there were some unpredictable deflection in the storm’s course the hacienda lay directly in its path. If (the fear had been present all evening in the back of his mind) it were to interfere with their communicatio.…

  “Well,” Solier didn’t seem greatly worried, “I’ll see what report they have at the airport in the morning. The mountains will probably break the storm up during the night. Anything else now, Rennert? It’s time for our stations to go off the air now.”

  “Nothing at present, Mr. Solier.”

  “Well, then, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  17

  An Empty Holster

  Rennart walked to his room, his ears still ringing with the din of static. While speaking with Solier an unpleasant thought had obtruded itself into his mind. It concerned the whisky which he was sure Miguel had drunk while preparing the room for his arrival. The whisky which was to have stood so temptingly before his eyes when he entered, hot, dusty, and thirsty from his trip. His eyes narrowed in speculation. It became important to find out how many people at the hacienda knew that he was to occupy that room.…

  He locked the door and ran his eyes over the laden tray. His lips puckered in a soundless whistle as he set beside it the box of caramels, Stahl’s letters, the envelope containing the tablets from Falter’s desk, the water bottle and the empty whisky flask. From a suitcase he took an aluminum container, and from it a vial of black powder, a small camel’s-hair brush and a magnifying lens.

  He lit a cigarette and set to work.

  It must have been an hour later that he leaned back in his chair and stared at the table top. His eyes ached from the strain to which they had been subjected and the tray beside him was covered with cigarette stubs.

  The glasses and the pottery bowl were arrayed before him, each holding down a slip of paper. The letters were in the same row. Pushed aside to his left were the water and the whisky bottles. These were not causing the frown that cut into his forehead, however. It was the piece of caramel that lay carefully dissected upon a sheet of paper. He had just gone over the prints for the fourth time, counting ridges, classifying them into spirals and whorls, and comparing them painstakingly with those on the glasses, the bottles, the letters and the bowl. His collection was complete: Falter, Arnhardt, Stephen and Ann Tolman, Bertha Fahn, Flores, Miguel and Maria (the prints of both had been on the bowl), Lee.