The Last Trumpet

by Todd Downing

  Angerman set the tray upon the table at his employer’s left hand.

  “No,” he said, with no alteration of his face, as he proceeded to pour out the liquor.

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “No.” Angerman kept his eyes averted as he served Rennert.

  “Ah, there we are! History is discussed before Jarl, and he doesn’t even listen!” Torday fumbled in the depths of a square box of carved wood, brought out two ivory cigarette-holders, also ornately carved, dropped one back and put the other between his thin, bloodless lips. “He’d rather spend his time carving things than reading. Wouldn’t you, Jarl? This holder is a specimen of his work, Rennert. My wife had him make me some as a Christmas present. What do you think of it?”

  “Very fine work.”

  Angerman passed a flat box full of various brands of cigarettes—American, Mexican, Turkish—and held a match to the one which Torday inserted into the long tube.

  “Now, Jarl, you may sit on the right side of Mr. Rennert. No, move your chair a little closer to him.” The cripple drew slowly and contentedly upon tobacco whose sweet odour scented the room. “Rather like the line-up, isn’t it, Rennert?”

  Angerman sat bolt upright and stared out of the window. The curtains were drawn back and the noon sunlight was beginning to creep towards them over the waxed floor.

  Torday took his wide-mouthed glass in extremely white, delicate and flexible fingers. He was, Rennert had already noted, left-handed.

  “A toast, Rennert, to your success!”

  He set down the glass and said almost querulously: “Too much stage-setting, I’m afraid. What follows will be in the nature of an anticlimax.” He stared at Rennert’s tie, frowning and pursing his lips. “I scarcely know where to begin. It’s so much like trying to spear something in the atmosphere. Or catch hold of a bit of cloud.”

  “Suppose you begin,” Rennert suggested, “by telling me how you came to think of me in this connection.”

  Torday laughed. “I wish I could say that as soon as I suspected there was a plot on foot against me I thought of you as the one man in the world who could foil it. In fiction, I believe, that’s the way the threatened man appeals to the detective. But, alas! it’s not true. I knew of you, of course, and was aware that you had settled here. But this meeting wouldn’t have taken place, I fear, had it not been for a newspaper reporter. Juan Canard, of the Brownsville Sun. A hasty but capable youth. You met him yesterday at the bull-ring, I understand.”

  “Yes.” Rennert wondered if his face showed his surprise.

  “He has been trying to get an interview with me about my case against the railroad. I don’t care for that sort of publicity, so I kept putting him off. But he persisted, and I received him here yesterday afternoon, after he returned from Matamoros. Bluntly he outlined a theory of his and asked me to verify it. He linked the murder of Campos with the shooting of Charles Bettis two years ago, and with the attempt to force my car off the highway. There seems to be no keeping of secrets from the news clan. It showed, he said, that some agency had been at work all that time, ‘grimly determined’—I believe those were his words—to destroy me or, failing that, my supporters against the Mexican National. He pointed out that less than a week remains until the case comes up for final settlement. Judging by the death of Campos, that week would hold danger for us.”

  Torday sipped brandy slowly. “Frankly, I was astounded at his words. I told him that the whole thing was a figment of his imagination. He kept on, however. I got to thinking. And I began to see that it wasn’t so preposterous. There it was! Two of the witnesses to my accident had met violent deaths. I had barely escaped one. I didn’t commit myself, but brought the interview to a close. Just as he was leaving he asked me if I knew that Hugh Rennert was living near me. I could see that he wasn’t sure whether to believe me or not when I told him that I had never met you. He came straight out with his question then. Had I employed you to look into this matter? I said, of course, that I hadn’t. He explained that he had seen you at the bullfight with Dr. Lincoln and had wondered if you weren’t there to safeguard my supporters. I think I convinced him that he was wrong. Why, then, he wanted to know, didn’t I establish contact with you? He pointed out that you were the logical man to undertake an investigation. I couldn’t very well appeal to the police, since Bettis was killed in the United States and Campos in Mexico. Someone was needed who was acquainted with both sides of the Rio Grande. You spent a long time in the Customs and knew the border. Furthermore, you were a neighbour of four of the witnesses. You would be able to ‘keep an eye’ on them, he expressed it. He urged me to think about it and left. Well, I thought about it. And began to get uneasy. I called Bruce Lincoln and asked him something about you. I didn’t tell him why I was interested, as I didn’t want to alarm him. He gave you high praise. So”—Torday spread a palm in Rennert’s direction—“I commissioned Jarl to sound you out and bring you here if possible. You’re here. In the bright light of day I was inclined to think the whole thing a mare’s-nest. Until I heard that Xavier Radisson had been shot last night. Now—I don’t know what to think. What’s your honest opinion, Rennert?”

  “I’m going to hold back my answer for a moment. Canard’s theory is based on the assumption that the evidence of these men—Jester, Lincoln, Radisson, Bettis, Wyllys, Distant—is essential to your case. Is that true?”

  The other took a long time to plant another cigarette into the holder. Angerman rose, like an automaton, and struck a match for it.

  Torday emitted a ring of smoke, then said explosively:

  “You’ve put your finger on the crux, Rennert. As far as I can see, the testimony of these men doesn’t amount to a tinker’s damn. The railroad is not raising any question as to its liability. It’s merely contending that the indemnity which I am getting was agreed to under a misunderstanding. They thought I’d die but”—a wry smile twisted his lips—“I didn’t. I can see a very good motive on the part of the railway for doing away with me. But none at all for attacking anybody else.”

  “Another point, Dr. Torday. Do you really believe that an organization like the National Railways of Mexico would resort to such tactics in order to avoid payment of an obligation?”

  Torday’s laugh was dry and humourless. “You know the history of railroads and other corporations in this country, Rennert.”

  “Certainly. I have no illusions about big business. But neither am I ready to believe it entirely unscrupulous, without proof. But it’s futile to argue that point now. We seem to be agreed that even if the railroad people were deep-dyed villains they would have nothing to gain by this. Do you know of anyone else, any individual or group, who would like to see you lose this case? Or the stock question: Have you any enemies? Enemies who might believe the testimony of these men more important than it is.”

  The cripple smiled. “I’ll be frank with you, Rennert. I have business enemies, I am well aware. Rival radio stations. Medical interests. Landowners, perhaps. But they would gain nothing except by killing me. And I’m sure they all know that.”

  “Another personal question. How important to your continued operation of the radio station, sanatorium and so forth is this indemnity you are receiving?”

  “Would its loss leave me bankrupt, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would mean very little. A few years ago it would have been different. But now I could continue very well without it. Not”—Torday hastened to add—“that I am as rich a man as people think. One thousand dollars a week to me means a great deal of comfort, of luxury even, that I should be loath to lose. Especially since I feel it is only my right to receive it. This brandy, for instance. And that reminds me, Jarl, you’re neglecting Mr. Rennert. His glass is empty. Attend to it at once, please.”

  “Thank you,” Rennert said. “No more just now.”

  Torday seemed disappointed. “You can fill mine, Jarl. I know Mr. Rennert will pardon me if I go ahead.” There was deep am
usement in his eyes as he watched the big hands tipping the decanter. “You don’t seem to be taking much interest in this discussion, Jarl. Surely you would know if I had any enemies.”

  “I am sorry,” Angerman said very seriously, “but I do not know of any.” He went back to his chair and moved it a few inches farther away from Rennert’s.

  Torday’s smile was quick and malicious. “Please, Jarl, put your chair back where it was. You know that it pains me to shift my eyes back and forth so far. And Mr. Rennert may think you dislike being in such close contact with him.”

  “It is not that. It is the light.”

  “Oh, the light. I see. But you shouldn’t object to that. You take sunbaths. Sit down, please.”

  Deliberately Angerman returned the chair to its former position, and lowered himself into it. He rested his hands on his knees, taking care to cup them so that the palms would not disturb the crease in his trousers.

  Rennert glanced sideways at his face. The sunlight had encroached into the room so that it struck the top of the bar by the window. There was a quantity of glassware there and the reflection was a broken halo that played upon the bridge of Angerman’s nose. It must have taken stern self-control to sit as the man did, staring straight into it without a flicker of an eyelid.

  Rennert piled orange trees, golden-fruited, against the disgust which was settling upon him. Before he could see which way the balance was inclining, he said: “There’s one more question that I’d like to ask, Dr. Torday.”

  “Oh, yes. Certainly.” The other took his gaze from Angerman.

  “You spoke a few moments ago of spearing at something in the atmosphere. That maybe what I’m doing now. But”—Rennert leaned forward—“did you ever consider the possibility that the attacks on you and Radisson, Bettis and Campos are not only interlinked, but linked with something that goes farther back into the past?”

  “What?”

  “The wreck in which you were injured. The wreck that was caused by the deliberate changing of a switch.”

  III

  Torday made a pyramid of his fingers and scrutinized them amusingly, as a faint smile played about his lips. “What makes you ask that, Rennert?”

  “I’ve heard this matter discussed by you, Dr. Torday, and by others. I’ve been struck by the fact that all of you pass blandly over the question of who turned that switch. And why. Unless it was a random bit of sabotage it was done for the purpose of killing one or more of the individuals on that Pullman. The likelihood of a general holocaust didn’t deter the person who did it. I’ve heard one explanation. If it is true, I think it would be far-fetched to find any connection with the other tragedies. But I should like to hear your explanation.”

  “Mine,” Torday repeated. His eyes moved slowly in their sockets and fastened on Angerman’s face. There was a calculative narrowing of the lids. “I think at this point we must insist that Jarl break his silence. He can tell us who changed that switch. He can tell us why. Tell us, Jarl,” he urged gently.

  Angerman stared blankly into sunlight.

  Torday waited. When he saw that no reply was forthcoming he went on, in a voice which was perceptibly edged: “Then I shall have to tell him, Jarl. I can understand your reluctance to talk about it. Rennert, I suppose you know that Jarl was acting as foreman of the Campos hacienda at the time of my unfortunate visit there with Mr. Jester’s party to the moment of our departure our stay was marred by only one bit of unpleasantness. While strolling about enjoying the coolness of morning, Dr. Lincoln, another gentleman and I were attracted to one of the buildings by the sound of blows and by cries of pain. We came upon a most ugly scene. One that astonished and nauseated us. Jarl was flogging a peon.”

  Torday had been talking in a monotone, and his eyes had taken on the deep glow of concentration. He drained his glass hastily and dried his lips with the end of the black scarf.

  “We put a stop to it, of course. Jarl marched away without a word. We consulted with Mr. Jester and informed the owner of the ranch. He expressed his regrets and said that he would speak to Jarl. No further reference was made to the matter. But we heard before we left that the peon had been dismissed. I have never had any doubt that it was he who tampered with the switch. A case of misdirected revenge. Either he thought that Jarl would be on the Pullman or he was filled with resentment towards Americans in general. Perhaps he blamed the Campos family and struck at them through their guests.” His eyes came sharply to Rennert’s face. “You spoke of an explanation which you had heard. Was that it?”

  “Yes. Did the railroad accept it?”

  “I believe so. They were never able to locate the man, however, so couldn’t prove anything. Do you know that country, Rennert? Oh, of course you do. It was in that region that you investigated a murder case a few years ago, wasn’t it? Also on the Tropic of Cancer. A coincidence.”

  Rennert nodded.

  “Well,” Torday went on, “you know then how isolated those haciendas are. It was extremely unlikely that it could have been the work of an outsider. I see no reason why the blame should not be laid on that peon. Do you?”

  Rennert phrased his reply carefully: “I see no reason at all why the blame should not be laid on the peon.”

  Torday’s eyes bored into his, puzzled. “But you aren’t satisfied, I can see that. Why aren’t you?”

  “I assure you, Dr. Torday, that I cannot give a single specific reason why anyone should doubt that some nameless Mexican peon changed that switch.”

  Rennert started to get to his feet. He thought that an attack of some kind had come upon Torday and that the man’s head was being forced forward. He was trembling violently and his eyes were dulled as if by shock. But he regained his composure suddenly, and began consuming his cigarette with quick, nervous inhalations. He looked at Angerman. His eyes glowed, then flared into bright pinpoints which could be reflections of but one thing banked within him—hatred.

  “Of course,” he said fiercely, “I’ve always known who was really to blame.”

  Of course! Rennert was surprised that he hadn’t grasped at once the explanation for the cripple’s attitude toward Angerman, his studied taunts, his delight at seeing the broad, strong back bent to menial tasks before a spectator. It was a studied and subtle form of revenge against the man whom he held responsible for his broken body.

  Rennert’s gaze went swiftly to Angerman. The latter’s eyes maintained their unblinking stare, but had a different blueness. They were glistening and were as dark as the vermiform vein that throbbed on his temple. How, Rennert demanded of himself; could anyone be so insensate as to fail to gauge the emotional forces so resolutely held in check there? Torday didn’t fail to gauge them, of course. He was calculating them to a nicety, weighing them against some foil which he held.

  The answer clicked in Rennert’s mind, and he swore fervently to himself.

  The foil was Mrs. Torday.

  God, what a poisonous swamp he had stepped into!

  Torday talked in a dry little patter: “What a lusty young stallion he was that morning! Standing stiff-legged and solid in flaring riding-breeches, brand-new boots and polished spurs. It was dank and cool in that adobe room. But his face gleamed with sweat. For he had been working hard and long. One whip had come to pieces during the preliminaries. He was giving himself a few capricious moments with the left hand as he got the feel of a new one. Exploring with the beaded tip and testing his knowledge of anatomy—”

  Angerman got to his feet and shoved the chair aside. Twin depressions at his knees showed where his moist palms had flattened out the creases.

  “I think,” he said gravely, “that you are mad.”

  “No, Jarl,” Torday’s voice regained its level monotony, “I’m not mad. But I have been, I think. Not to understand sooner. I didn’t give you credit for enough intelligence. I saw that you were doing a thorough job with that whip. But I thought it was all a part of your day’s work. I see now. You wanted to leave your brand, didn’t you?�
��

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, yes, you do. You wanted to be able to point to that man’s back and say, ‘He changed that switch. He had a motive.’ You wanted exactly what you got. A scapegoat. And we were fools enough, all of us, to let you get by with it.”

  Angerman’s stony voice broke in: “You don’t think that I changed that switch.”

  “Of course you did. You were willing to kill a dozen people to get me out of the way. You tried again a year ago, and failed. You came to me and I gave you a job. You’ve got another scapegoat now—the Mexican Railways. You thought you could turn my car into a ditch some night and say a mysterious stranger crowded us off the road. You don’t dare let any suspicion rest on yourself. If you did you’d lose everything you’re trying to get. I even wish I could make you turn my chair over this minute. With a witness to prove you did it. Then I’d die knowing that I had beaten you for ever.”

  But Angerman was gone. They heard his tread in the hall and in the living-room. Through the open windows came the throb of a starting motor and the crunch of gravel beneath fast-spinning wheels.

  Torday’s eyes closed. He caught his breath with a little sucking sound. “Will you ring, Rennert? This has been too much for me. I let myself be carried away. I must go to bed. I will need your help now far more than I expected.”

  Rennert rose. “You will need,” he said, “far more help than I can or am going to give you.”

  8

  Sheriff

  I

  Peter Bounty was serving his second term as Sheriff of Cameron County. Of obscure genesis and no political affiliations, he had been elected to office as a dark horse. He had been kept there by the devotion of two mutually antagonistic elements. To the Mexicans he was Don Pedro, who sat at table with them and acted as godfather to their babies, who was as quick to take their side in matters of racial discrimination as he was to punish their peccadillos. To the booted, Stetson-hatted gentry of the ranches, whose power was on the wane, he was Pete, a rare comrade untouched by affectation or effeteness.