by Todd Downing
The Case of the Unconquered Sisters
A Hugh Rennert Mystery
Todd Downing
Contents
1 Skull
2 Lead
3 Wire
4 Joke
5 Threat
6 South
7 Gun
8 Gold
9 Dusk
10 Drink
11 Fist
12 Clay
13 Loft
14 Shot
15 Owl
16 Yawn
17 Creak
18 Sleep
19 Blank
20 Pick
21 Key
22 Lie
23 Name
24 Proof
25 Hand
26 Hat
27 End
1
Skull
Where the ground slopes sharply away from the Texas end of the International Bridge at Laredo, exposing the layers through which the Rio Grande has cut its bed, two men stood in the sun and gazed at a low hand truck on a railway siding.
The older, more deeply tanned man had both fists propped against his hips and was shaking his head discouragingly.
“What an unholy mess! What is it?”
“Bones,” his companion answered, holding his eyes narrowed to a squint against the glare of the sun.
The other glanced at him and spat on the close-packed gravel.
“Keerist!” he ejaculated in mock amazement. “I wish I’d had a college education. Here I was thinking it was a croquet set.”
“I mean,” the younger man explained seriously, “it’s a shipment of prehistoric skeletons going to a museum in the United States.”
He averted his eyes to watch a group of naked Mexican children splashing in the shallow water below. He had only three months in the border customs service behind him and still felt resentful at the river for the way it had disillusioned him. Some damned fool in a cramped New York room had written a romantic lyric about a rose blooming by the Rio Grande. He had never seen this muddy stream trickling through sand to the gulf, that was certain. Roses, hell!
The older man had walked over to the truck and was poking a stick into the debris of desiccated bones and cracked plaster and the splintered wood of packing cases.
“Well, we never know when we’re well off, do we, Crockett?” he commented. “I thought I had a lousy job, going through the grips and groceries of every Mex and tourist who crosses the line. But this would be a sweet way to spend your time—digging up these old boys. They got kinda busted up when that baggage car was derailed, didn’t they?”
“Yes. Everything else is up at the customs house. I’m waiting for them to come for this.”
“Where’d they dig up these bones?”
“Near Mexico City, I think.” There had been a sharp note in the question, which made Crockett turn his head. “What’s the matter?”
The other was leaning over the edge of the truck, his face blurred by the shimmering heat waves sent up by the rails.
“How long they supposed to’ve been dead?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Thousands of years, I suppose. Why?”
“Thousands of years, huh? Well, there’s something rotten in Mexico then. This baby here ain’t been dead no thousand years. Come take a look.”
Crockett approached and glanced down at the skull, neck vertebrae and shoulder blades which a fracture in the gray-white plaster had laid bare.
When he turned away there was a suspicious whiteness about his lips. “Looks like you’re right,” he said weakly.
“I know damn well I’m right! See here, son, you run up and get Doc Drexel. And you might notify Rennert, too.” The man laughed dryly. “Rennert likes murder cases.”
“Murder?”
“Yeah. Take a squint at the bullet hole in this skull. You can’t tell me they had bullets in Mexico a thousand years ago.”
2
Lead
“Busy, Mr. Rennert?”
The young man paused on the threshold of the bare boxlike office.
Hugh Rennert laid down his pen and settled back in the swivel chair, so that the breeze from the diminutive electric fan played over his thinning brown hair.
“Hello, Crockett,” he said cheerfully. “I’m always busy at this time of year. But come in and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Crockett sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair.
“It’s about the baggage car that was derailed this afternoon, Mr. Rennert. The railroad people cleared the track and loaded the damaged stuff onto hand trucks on the siding. I was there keeping an eye on things until they went through the customs. McCook came along and got to looking at the last truck. There was a shipment of skeletons on it, in plaster casts, going to a museum in the United States. They were pretty badly broken up. He called my attention to something and thought I ought to notify you.”
“Yes?”
“Two of the skeletons were old and dried up. But one of them was recent. That is, the man hadn’t been dead very long.”
“It was in a plaster cast, too?”
“Yes, just like the rest. No one would have noticed the difference if the casts hadn’t been broken. There was something else, Mr. Rennert. There’s a bullet hole in the skull.”
Rennert leaned forward. “You’re sure of that?”
“Yes. I told Dr. Drexel, and he went down to look at it. He had the whole truckload taken up to his office. Was that all right?”
“Certainly. Is anyone accompanying this shipment of skeletons?”
“Yes. There was a young man with them in the baggage car after they went through the Mexican customs. He was knocked unconscious. Dr. Drexel has him in his office now.”
“To whom was this shipment consigned?”
“The Teague Museum in San Antonio.”
“Very good, Crockett. Thank you. I’ll go over to the doctor’s office at once. You might try to locate the fellow’s luggage.”
“Yes sir.”
Lowering his hatbrim against the afternoon heat that stabbed at his eyeballs, Rennert set out across the bare expanse of sand to the frame building where Dr. Drexel presided over his antiseptics and vaccines.
He waited in the outer office while the youthful assistant penetrated into the inner sanctum. In a few moments Drexel came out, clad in the white apron that always made his tall, rawboned frame look as if it were in a strait jacket.
“Hullo, Hugh.”
He sank into a chair, indulged in his usual witticism about the weather and went on without a pause:
“The M.D., having viewed the body, states that it is that of a male, age uncertain as yet, about five feet eight inches in height. Deceased has been in that category approximately six or seven weeks, part of the time reposing in lime. Cause of death probably this.” He opened his left fist over a sheet of paper and let fall a pellet of lead. “It penetrated the middle of his forehead to the brain. Make what you can of it, Sherlock, and tell me—since when have jobs like this been a part of my duties?”
Rennert smiled. “Come, come, Doctor! I only wanted to find out whether you really were an M.D. or just took a course in needle jabbing.”
He scrutinized the bullet for a moment, then replaced it on the table.
“What about the other skeletons?” he asked.
“I’d say that Gaul was still divided in three parts when they were put underground.”
“They’re that old?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Any clothing or other means of identification?”
“Nary a bit of clothing. No signet ring, no broken cuff link, no scrap of paper clutched in the bony talons. There’s a dental plat
e that might help though.”
“Good. I understand that you have here the young man who was hurt in the wreck. May I see him?”
“You may look at his youthful physiognomy, if you wish, provided you don’t try to fingerprint him or give him the third degree yet. He’s still unconscious from a rather nasty crack on the head. A fractured wrist, too, I think. I don’t believe he’s seriously hurt, but you can’t tell about these head injuries. I’ve got him in the inner office. Want to go in?”
“Yes.”
Drexel got up and led the way into a small adjoining room where sunlight filtered through drawn blinds.
On an iron cot against the far wall lay a man clad in underwear. A sheet covered the lower part of his body, and bandages swathed the right side of his head. Against so much whiteness his tanned face looked like a dark nut on whose compressed surface features had been carved. He had a square chin and well-shaped mouth, both emphasized by the lean line of his jaw, a short, blunt nose and a wide forehead marred by a scar over the left eyebrow. The outward tilt of the tips of his ears and the arc of lighter skin where the black, springy hair began to recede were the results, evidently, of wearing a hat a great part of the time.
He was of medium height and slender, but the bare left arm which lay upon the sheet was tightly muscled and the hand large and calloused.
As Drexel bent over to explore the bandages with long, delicate fingers, Rennert turned to the clothing draped upon a chair at the foot of the bed. There was a snap-brimmed straw hat stained by perspiration, a suit of tropical worsted and a pair of square-toed tan shoes.
Rennert felt in the inside pocket of the coat and brought out a billfold and two long manila envelopes. He carried them into the next room and sat down at Drexel’s desk. Too many years in the customs service, he reflected, give one a sublime disregard for the privacy of another man’s possessions.
One of the envelopes contained a passport dated the previous October and made out to John Clay Biggerstaff, of San Antonio, age twenty-six. The purpose of his sojourn in Mexico was given as archaeological work.
In the other envelope was a permit whereby the Teague Museum was authorized to export from Mexico three skeletons. These were described in some detail. They belonged to what was specified as the Archaic culture and had been discovered at San Angel, a suburb of Mexico City. Their age was estimated to be two thousand years. The lengthy and profusely stamped document had been signed by an inspector of the Department of Archaeology of the Mexican government.
The billfold of tooled Russian leather showed the marks of long usage but was obviously an expensive one. The name “John Biggerstaff” was stamped on one of the flaps. Rennert frowned suddenly and slanted it against the light. “John Biggers,” he saw, was the name which had been put there originally. Later the “taff” had been added. To an unpracticed eye the difference in the lettering would not have been noticeable.
Rennert continued his examination. Inside he found ninety-odd pesos in Mexican bills and the return portion of a Mexico City—Laredo ticket. Between the two flaps, protected by a slip of glassine, was the photograph of a girl.
Her hair seemed to be blowing in the wind, and she was laughing as she held one hand to keep it in place. She wasn’t an exceptionally beautiful girl, although her features were well molded in a small, oval face. Her eyes were dark and wide-spaced on either side of a high-bridged nose.
Across the bottom of the photo had been written “Love, Cornell.”
Rennert looked up as Dr. Drexel came into the room. The latter caught sight of the object of Rennert’s attention and came to stand at his shoulder.
“So this is how our overpaid customs men spend their time! Gazing at tokens of young love. Nice-looking girl, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” Rennert agreed abstractedly. His eyes traveled away from the laughter on the girl’s lips to the thing which lay like a bruised dead bug on the white paper.
“Ugly, isn’t it?” Dr. Drexel’s voice softened. “The girl, the boy and—that. It’d be easy enough, Hugh, to pass the buck on this. Ship the body on through and let the museum in San Antonio worry about it.”
“I know,” Rennert said. “Don’t tempt me.”
Drexel laughed dryly as he watched Rennert’s eyes go to the window which framed the Rio Grande and, beyond it, the flat deserts of Mexico melting into a haze of heat.
“Hell, Hugh, you can’t fool me. You’re straining on the leash already, scenting clues. You’re as bad as the Mikado for taking your crime seriously. Well, I’ll go take another look at our Mr. X.”
He went out whistling,
“My object all sublime,
I shall achieve in time,
To let the punishment fit the crime,
The punishment fit the crime.”
3
Wire
HUGH RENNERT
UNITED STATES CUSTOMS
LAREDO, TEXAS
DENTAL PLATE BELONGED PROFESSOR GARNETT VOICE ON LEAVE FROM SOUTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY FOR RESEARCH IN MEXICO STOP OTHER DESCRIPTIONS CORRESPOND STOP IDENTIFICATION SURE STOP WIRE INFORMATION
JAMES KERRIGAN
CHIEF OF POLICE
4
Joke
There is a window of the United States Embassy in Mexico City which looks out over lush green grass to cream-colored walls draped with masses of crimson and magenta bougainvillaea.
In the middle of a June afternoon a worried man sat at a desk by this window and took his eyes unwillingly from contemplation of the quiet sunlit scene. He was an extremely important man in various spheres of activity in two countries. Most Mexican newspapers and those American ones of a certain political leaning accoladed this importance by referring to him as a personage.
He looked now in the open appraisal which is the privilege of the mighty at the man who sat across from him.
This man sat erect, yet at ease, and smoked with evident and unassumed pleasure one of the cigars from the box of lacquered wood on the desk. The Personage liked his quiet air of competence, the cut of his features—homely and at the same time distinguished—the firm, square chin offsetting a hint of sensitiveness about the lips. Most of all he liked the clear, direct gaze of the brown gray-flecked eyes.
“Mr. Rennert—” he spoke with ponderous precision—“there have been many confidential conversations in this room. In the course of them I have asked many men for assistance in official matters. A few, a very few, I have asked for personal favors. This time my request is both official and unofficial.”
On the rostrum he had acquired the knack of clearing his throat so as to graduate the emphasis which he wished to place on his next words. Now there was an impressive and prolonged vibration of the cords in the fleshy throat.
“I suppose it is no secret to you that I am responsible for your journey to Mexico City. It is my duty, of course, to look into the death of a citizen of the United States, particularly when it occurs under suspicious circumstances. There is no doubt about the identification of this body, is there?”
“None at all.”
“Of course. I knew you must have made sure before you took any steps. Now, I could have gone ahead with an investigation with the assistance of our own staff, the Mexican government and the federal district police. This is the procedure which would be followed in ordinary circumstances. I am going to explain to you why I wished someone not connected with any of these groups to take charge. I am going to be quite frank with you, Mr. Rennert, since I rely on your discretion. When I have finished, I want you to express yourself just as frankly. If you do not care to become further involved in the matter, simply say so. I assure you that I shall have no criticism to make of your decision. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.” Rennert’s smile was pleasant—and noncommittal.
“Very well then.” Here began a groping for words which did not escape Rennert’s attention, despite the increase of diplomatic gravity which was intended to hide it. “You may or may not know how much
political influence the Teague interests have in the Southwest” (It seemed for an instant that there was going to be a pause here, but there wasn’t), “where my constituency is. I hope for obvious reasons that we can avoid antagonizing them. I have no theory at all to advance as to how the body of this professor came to be found among the archaeological specimens consigned to the Teague Museum. Perhaps Mr. Roark, to whom I am going to introduce you in a moment, will have. What I wanted to impress upon you is the need for extreme delicacy in handling this situation.”
Through the heavy silence drifted the hum of traffic on the street outside the walls. Rennert had leaned forward to knock the ash from his cigar and returned to the same position. He made a good listener, the personage thought. He didn’t try to show interest by interposing interjections or betray impatience by fidgeting. (To tell the truth, Rennert was mildly amused by this preamble. He remembered rumors that occupancy of this important foreign office was a step on the road to the United States Senate. He knew how much smoother Teague oil could make that road.)
The dignified voice went on, a little more easily:
“The embassy has a particular interest in this affair for another reason. Mr. Voice appealed to us this spring for protection. He was worried on account of some letters.”
“Letters?” Rennert said a bit sharply.
“Yes. He had been receiving letters, supposedly from some Mexican bandit, threatening him with abduction and bodily harm unless he paid a sum of money. He came here in a state of considerate agitation. He showed me one of the letters.”
The speaker turned a pair of steel-gray eyes on Rennert’s face. “I wonder if you have any idea how common such occurrences are, Mr. Rennert? How often United States citizens come to the embassy with such stories?”
“Frequently I imagine.”
“Almost every month. Sometimes it is merely an excuse to enter and look around the embassy. Sometimes it is a desire for publicity. More often it’s nothing but a practical joke that has been played on some simple-minded tourist by his friends. So many of them come down here with the idea that Mexico is overrun with outlaws. If there isn’t a bandit scare they are disappointed. There was one instance where a group of Americans actually hired some Mexicans to kidnap one of their friends and hold him for a day or two out in the mountains. You have no idea how much worry this causes us. We can’t treat the matter lightly to their faces or they will write indignant letters to newspapers in the United States. It’s very difficult to know what to do.”