The Last Trumpet

by Todd Downing

  His attention was brought back to his companion by a low, “Rennert, I’m in a predicament.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  Lincoln glanced up at the box to which his daughter and young Distant had gone. Neither was visible. “Janell gave me her purse to keep. There’s a mirror in it. I wouldn’t like to have them find it on me.”

  “Don’t worry. There’ll be dozens of mirrors in this section. Over three hundred people.”

  “Women will have them, yes. But they might get suspicious if they found one on a man. I don’t know what to do. If I drop it, I’ll only call attention to it.”

  But he was not called on to make a decision. Somebody shouted. Heads jerked about. Fingers pointed. A small round mirror was sailing over the crowd, in the direction of the arena. Down it went, in a glittering arc, and shattered against the top of the wooden fence.

  Mirrors of every description followed. Bottles. Fruit. A yell of triumph at the foiled representatives of the law. Men and women milled about in the aisles, some moving toward the exits, the majority scrambling down to the lower seats, regardless of the protests of those already in possession. The police, wisely realizing the impossibility of exerting any further control and doubtless secretly relieved at this termination of the affair, disappeared.

  The band struck up a popular march, and everyone turned to the arena in high good humour. The bull had been drawn into a passageway, to be slaughtered unceremoniously, and men were smoothing out the sand where Campos had fallen. This was a gala occasion indeed, with three more bulls to come.

  “For the love of heaven, Rennert,” Dr. Lincoln said, “let’s get out of here.”

  II

  Rennert nodded and preceded him up the aisle, shouldering a passage through the throng. There is little shoving among Mexican crowds, so that these tactics, being unexpected, proved effective. In a few minutes they had gained the exit and were descending the long ramp which sloped to the street level.

  “I told Janell and Kent that I’d meet them at the foot here,” Dr. Lincoln said. “I don’t suppose they’ll stay much longer. Kent came over in your car?”

  “Yes. I’ll wait for him.”

  “Will you and he take care of Janell until I get back. I—”

  At the end of the incline Dr. Lincoln stepped back hastily to avoid collision with a young man who came dashing round the corner from one of the lower exits. At his side hung a camera, attached to a strap which went over his shoulder, and in his right hand he carried a long black case.

  “Pardon me, Doctor. I’m sorry.” He was, Rennert judged, of mixed Mexican and Texan parentage. An alert-looking fellow, stockily built, with a light olive face which would have been handsome had it not been for the preponderance of forehead and jaw.

  Lincoln’s loss of composure was but momentary. “Quite all right, Canard. My fault as much as yours.”

  The other hitched the strap farther up on his shoulder. “I got some good pictures of that fight. I was hurrying to get them over to the office in time for the late evening edition. Campos is dying, they say. The horn got him in the abdomen.” He made no motion to go, but stood and glanced from Dr. Lincoln’s face to Rennert’s. His black eyes were bright and inquisitive.

  “This is Mr. Rennert, Canard,” the physician said in an offhand manner. “Juan Canard, of the Brownsville Sun.”

  The newspaper-man took Rennert’s hand, and his smile was charmingly Mexican. “I knew you by sight, Mr. Rennert. It is a pleasure to meet you.” He glanced speculatively up at the exit which they had used. “You were sitting on the east side?”

  “Yes,” Lincoln affirmed, with a very slight frown of annoyance.

  “Can you tell me then about the mirror? Who used it?”

  “We were next to the right aisle, about half-way back on the tendidos. We didn’t know about the mirror until the police told us.”

  There was a quizzical glint in Canard’s eyes as he looked at Rennert. “Even you didn’t know, Mr. Rennert?”

  “I doubt whether anyone did except the person who used it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Assuming that it was a man, he doubtless held his hat in his lap or between his knees. It would be easy enough to keep the mirror hidden from the view of those behind and beside him by the crown and brim of the hat. Only a person sitting directly in front of him could have seen. And there wasn’t much danger of anyone turning round at that crucial moment.”

  “Very true.” Canard glanced at Dr. Lincoln. “I believe Campos was to have been one of Dr. Torday’s witnesses against the Mexican National Railways.”

  “Yes.” The answer was stiff and cautious.

  “I wonder how his death will affect the case?”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say. If you’ll excuse me, Canard, I must be going. If you want any statement you’ll have to see Dr. Torday.”

  “About like interviewing the Lama of Tibet,” was the dry comment.

  “Talk to Jarl Angerman, then. There he is across the street. I’ll be back as soon as I can, Rennert.” Dr. Lincoln walked toward the rear of the amphitheatre.

  Rennert’s eyes followed Canard’s through the white glare to the man who stood like a sentry by the gate of the improvised parking place opposite. He was well over six feet in height, and his body was given colossal proportions by the heat waves which went up from the asphalt. The sun beat with dazzling effect upon his clothing; a hat of hard white straw, a starched white shirt, an immaculate, perfectly creased suit of white linen, thick-soled white canvas shoes. It would have been difficult to determine his age; his Nordic features, bronzed by the sun, had such an impassive sculptured appearance. His eyes were on the vast vaulted spaces between the concrete pillars which supported the stands, searching methodically through the groups of men who were standing or moving about there.

  “If Dr. Torday is as accessible as a Lama,” Canard said, “Angerman there is as communicative as the Colossus of Rhodes.”

  “So that’s Jarl Angerman!” Rennert spoke to himself as much as to his companion.

  “Yes. Don’t you know him?” Canard seemed for some reason surprised. “He’s Torday’s lieutenant, strong-arm man, or whatever you want to call him. Runs the sanatorium south of here. Acts as if one of his patients had escaped.”

  Rennert was a bit puzzled by the reporter’s manner. Of Dr. Torday and his organization he knew very little. The air was full, of course, of emanations from his radio station, situated just outside the jurisdiction of the Federal Radio Commission of the United States. Interspersed among its bilingual programmes were short lectures by the crippled physician himself, subtle combinations of trite sermonizing and advertisement of the fountain of youth which he had fenced in on the shores of Tamaulipas.

  “Have a beer with me, Mr. Rennert,” Canard invited suddenly.

  Rennert accepted, and they walked to a near-by puesto. Canard propped an elbow on the counter and watched the people who were leaving the amphitheatre. The majority of these were Americans, trying to appear unshaken by their visit to a shambles, and Mexican women with restive small children.

  “I understand you’re building a house outside Brownsville, near Rolf Jester’s place.”

  Rennert told him that he was.

  “Doing any more detective work?”

  Rennert laughed heartily. “Good lord, no! That all went into limbo with my Customs job. I’m a farmer now. Or will be when my citrus trees begin to produce.”

  Canard regarded him with disconcerting directness, stroking his long jaw, where hairs showed blue-black beneath the closely shaven skin. “Honest?”

  “Honest to God. Do you mind telling me why you asked that?”

  “Sure not.” Canard drank luke-warm beer as if he liked it. “You know about Torday’s accident, I suppose?”

  “I know he was injured in a train wreck down in Mexico. His neck broken. That’s about all.”

  “It happened about three and a half years ago. On the hacienda tha
t belonged to the father of this Carlos Campos. Rolf Jester had a party of prospective land buyers down there on an excursion. Their Pullman was put on a side-track. A train ran into it. Somebody had changed the switch. Dr. Lincoln’s wife and a couple of other people were killed. Torday’s neck was broken and they thought he’d die. So the Mexican National Railways offered him a thousand dollars a week indemnity. But he didn’t die. He held them to their bargain. They have applied to the courts for relief. The case comes up next week.” Canard drained his bottle. “One of the witnesses who was to have testified on Torday’s behalf was murdered a few minutes ago. Quite convenient for one side, wasn’t it?” Another bull must have been sent into the arena, for a roar went up from the crowd within and over their heads—a roar that seemed to send pulsations through the solid concrete structure.

  As he waited for it to subside Rennert saw Janell Lincoln and Kent Distant making their way down the incline. Both of them were smiling, but showed plainly the stress of emotion. The girl’s face was chalk-white, her eyes were bright and the lids suspiciously red, her fingers played nervously with Distant’s sleeve. A tightness about the young man’s lips vanished as he caught sight of Rennert.

  “We decided that we’d had enough for one afternoon,” he said with unconvincing lightness. “We left as soon as the crowd thinned out at the exit.”

  Janell looked about anxiously. “Where’s Father?”

  Rennert explained Dr. Lincoln’s absence, and, since Canard seemed attached to him, performed the introductions.

  Canard’s head went forward at the name Distant. “Any relation to the man who is going to testify in Dr. Torday’s lawsuit?” he asked quickly.

  “Yes, that’s David Distant, my father.”

  “Is he here—or in Brownsville?”

  “Not yet, but I’m expecting him any time.”

  “Where will he be staying?”

  “At the Jester Hotel.”

  Over at their left an urchin tossed a fire-cracker in their direction, then scurried behind a pillar. At the sharp explosion Janell started and passed a hand across her forehead. “I’d like to sit down, Kent. This sun has given me a headache. I don’t suppose Father thought to leave the keys to our car with you, Mr. Rennert?”

  “He didn’t. Take Miss Lincoln to mine, Kent. I’ll wait here until her father returns.”

  “What was the excitement down in your section?” Distant asked as he took the keys from Rennert. “We drew our chairs back after Campos was horned, but I heard the yelling.”

  His eyes flashed as he listened to Rennert’s account. “What a foul trick! And they didn’t catch the person who did it?”

  “No. It was the easiest and safest method of murder I ever saw. But I think you’d better not keep Miss Lincoln standing here any longer, Kent.”

  “That’s all right.” She laughed weakly. “Father didn’t give you my purse either, Mr. Rennert?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well. I’d probably feel worse if I saw myself in a mirror. Glad to have met you, Mr. Canard.”

  They walked away and Rennert turned to the reporter. The latter’s lids had drooped slightly, but there was a sharply speculative look in his eyes as they rested on the girl’s back.

  “You still haven’t told me,” Rennert reminded him, “why you thought I was engaged in detective work.”

  “Oh.” The other jerked himself back to attention and smiled. “Why, I thought Dr. Torday might have hired you to keep an eye on his witnesses. To prevent exactly what happened to Campos.”

  “I have never even seen Torday. I have had no dealings with him at all.” Rennert studied Canard, wondering whether he was being entirely frank. There was a seriousness behind his sang-froid….

  “Who are these witnesses?” he asked.

  “I’ve got their names here.” The reporter reached into his pocket and brought out a memorandum book. “I’m supposed to write a story on the case before it goes to court.” He thumbed through the leaves, then folded back the cover.

  “Dr. Paul Torday,” he read. “His wife, Irene Torday. Her brother, Darwin Wyllys. Jarl Angerman, the big gladiator standing across the street. Dr. Lincoln. Professor Xavier Radisson. Roll Jester. Matt Bettis. David Distant, of Oklahoma. Know many of them?”

  “Jester and Bettis. Radisson slightly. Dr. Lincoln, of course.” Rennert frowned. “See here, Canard, if you have any information—”

  Canard slipped the book back into his pocket and adjusted his shoulder-strap again. “I have no information,” he said airily. “I’m looking for some. Can I give you a lift into Brownsville, Mr. Rennert?”

  “No, thanks. And thanks for the beer.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The young fellow looked at him squarely. “To tell you the truth, I hoped it would loosen up your tongue a little. But it didn’t. I’m afraid you’re too good a poker player, Mr. Rennert.”

  “I’m a rotten poker player. I assure you, Canard, that my sleuthing is going to be confined to my fruit trees. Insect pests.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  III

  The ambiguous parting irritated Rennert, and he sought solace in another bottle of beer. He felt exactly as if he had been listening to talk in a foreign language of which he understood no word save his own name, used with what significance he did not know. He began to draw on his dignity.

  And so paid scant attention at first to the actions of one man among the dozens under the stands.

  This was an American, wearing an unpressed Palm Beach suit of good cut and obviously expensive material. He was of slightly above medium height, but slender to the point of emaciation. He was moving, with quick steps, in Rennert’s direction, keeping inside the rows of pillars and taking care to place each group of idlers between himself and the street. Now and then he stopped—and watched.

  Rennert forgot his beer. The man was watching Jarl Angerman.

  The latter had not moved from his position. His hard blue eyes, narrowed against the sun, continued tirelessly to scan the scattering crowd. More than once the smaller man barely eluded their gaze by darting behind some shelter.

  There was an open space between the booth where Rennert stood and the foot of the ramp. The stragglers who left the amphitheatre either turned to the left, towards the front of the structure, or continued straight ahead to the parking place. The fugitive (that’s how Rennert thought of him) remained for a long time behind a pillar at the edge of this expanse, looking across in an attitude of indecision.

  Rennert had an unobstructed view of his face. It was a delicately featured face, handsome and at the same time weak. The skin had an unhealthy indoor pallor, so that the eyes—black, deepset, intensely bright—dominated the other features. There was a shifting, hunted look in them which gave Rennert a start.

  A plump Mexican couple, in the midst of loud altercation, stepped off the incline and started for the street. The man darted behind them and adjusted his steps to theirs, keeping his head bowed and turned away from Angerman. But at the edge of the shade the pair changed their minds and, instead of proceeding towards the parking place, turned to the left.

  The pale-faced man stood as if paralysed, and his eyes met Angerman’s across the quivering heat waves which rose from the strip of asphalt.

  Angerman did not speak or make any gesture at all, but kept his eyes fixed, rather sadly, on the other’s face. The latter went deathly pale, his lips trembled spasmodically and, as if under the compulsion of some unspoken command, he moved toward the huge white-clad figure. In a seeming daze he walked into the sunlight and across the street, heedless of traffic.

  He stopped directly in front of Angerman and the two faced each other without speaking. Then Angerman lifted an arm, ponderously, and laid it about the frail unsteady shoulders. He kept them in his embrace as he drew the man gently towards the automobiles.

  From the arena came the muffled thunder of applause and the shrill call of a trumpet, almost drowning the grave voice of Dr. Lincoln a
t Rennert’s elbow.

  “Carlos Campos is dead. He passed away soon after they got him to the infirmary. Suffered horribly. There was no possible chance of saving him. These abdominal injuries—”

  Rennert turned. “Did he make any further statement about the mirror before he died?”

  Dr. Lincoln shook his head. His face looked grey and aged, and his kindly eyes were limpid. “There was no time. He died cursing the name of his saint.” He cleared his throat. “Where’s Janell?”

  “In my car, with Kent Distant. Shall we join them?”

  “Yes, Rennert. Let’s get away from butchery.”

  They walked in silence to the street and paused on the kerb to allow a long steel-grey roadster to glide out of the parking place and speed past them towards Matamoros. Jarl Angerman was at the wheel, looking neither to the right nor to the left. His bulk almost hid the huddled figure on the seat beside him.

  “Who,” Rennert asked, “is Angerman’s companion?”

  Dr. Lincoln coughed in the powdery alkaline dust which the car had whipped up. “Darwin Wyllys,” he said. “Dr. Torday’s brother-in-law.”

  “One of Dr. Torday’s witnesses?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Lincoln said absently. “Yes.”

  3

  Magic Valley

  I

  Christine Jester paused in the doorway of the bedroom and gazed at her husband’s back. He was standing by the south window, in the full spate of sunlight which still poured between the green chintz curtains at the west. The warm cugrave voice of Dr. Lincolnprous rays burnished his fine auburn hair to redness and accentuated the healthy glow of the thick flesh at the nape of his neck. He was in his shirt sleeves. One hand was jammed into a pocket of his trousers, the other was plucking at his stubby moustache.