Vultures in the Sky

by Todd Downing

  “No,” the monosyllable fell tonelessly from his lips.

  “I wonder,” Rennert said incisively, “if all of you realize exactly the situation in which you stand? You’re as powerless here, as utterly cut off from escape, as if you were on a desert island. You might get away from this car, yes, but there would remain the desert. For miles on all sides of us there are nothing but a few huts, miserable little villages along the railroad. We’re certain to be missed by the train crew before long. They will return for us. If one of you has left this car, you’ll be found as soon as daylight comes. If not along the railroad, the soldiers will probably not bother searching for you. The desert will do their job for them.”

  He paused and looked from one vague outline of a man to another.

  “Now, since that is clear, the one of you who is guilty should realize that by such acts as this he can only delay retribution. When a criminal begins to strike out to prevent discovery he’s on the defensive and his time is short. To one of you I have only this to say—either confess now or quit making things worse for yourself. Unless you silence every person on this car, you cannot guard yourself. And even then, the fact that you remain will in itself condemn you.”

  “See here!” Spahr’s voice held unusual firmness. “Why are you so sure that one of us three is guilty? It looks to me as if there were no doubt that Jeanes is the guilty man. He killed this porter, then uncoupled the car and got away. I don’t know whether it was Searcey here or Radcott who hit King, but I don’t think that’s any proof that either one of them is guilty. Circumstantial evidence can point against anyone,” he paused, “you know that yourself in my case, and I’d say that one of these two men didn’t want King to say something that would incriminate him. But that’s no proof of his guilt.”

  “Not necessarily a proof of his guilt, no, Spahr. The proof of that will lie now in his silence when he knows that King is going to recover in a few moments and will go ahead with what he started to say, unless—” Rennert’s pause was momentary but Spahr supplied the ending.

  “Unless he is silenced, you mean.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I see,” Spahr said weakly. It was as if the sudden energy which he had displayed were vitiated now, its essence seeping out of an unexpected leak in the dike of his assurance.

  The only sound to break the stillness was the soft steady gurgle of Searcey’s pipe. The odor of his tobacco was strong and pungent in the confined space in which they stood.

  From the berth beside them came a louder groan and a stirring. Rennert lit another match.

  “All right!” Radcott’s voice was a snapped wire. “I was the one who hit him.”

  He moved to the berth opposite that in which King lay and sank onto it. He rested an elbow upon his knee and propped his chin against the palm of a hand.

  “I suppose I was a damn fool to do it,” he went on in a strained voice, “but I didn’t stop to think. The only thing that came into my mind was that I didn’t want him to tell about the knife. I was afraid that you’d think—”

  “Suppose,” Rennert cut in, “that you tell us about this knife, Radcott.”

  Radcott nodded and drew in his breath. He expelled it noisily and said: “I suppose it was the knife the porter was killed with, I don’t know. It was a small one, a cheap one. It was in one of the boxes of popcorn that I had in my sample case. The company I work for puts things like that in as premiums, you know. The soldiers didn’t open any of the boxes when they searched my things and I didn’t say anything about having a knife in one of them. Later, I got it out and put it in my pocket. I said something to King about having it, thought I could trust him to keep his mouth shut.” He shot an angry glance in the direction of the berth.

  Rennert brought out the knife and held the match close to it. “That the knife, Radcott?”

  The other looked down. “Yes,” he murmured.

  “And what became of this knife?”

  “I don’t know! I lost it somewhere. It slipped through a hole in my pocket, I suppose. I felt for it a while ago and found that it was gone.”

  “When was that?”

  “After the train had pulled out and left us.”

  “Did anyone but King know that you had this knife?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t tell anybody else about it. Of course, someone may have seen me get it out of the box and anybody could have picked it up off the floor after it fell out of my pocket.”

  Rennert turned to Searcey. “Is this the knife that Jeanes had?”

  Searcey bent over and peered down at Rennert’s palm. “Yes,” he said, “I think it is.”

  A hoarse choking sound came from the berth and King thrust his feet over the edge. He sat up and for a moment or two held his head in his hands.

  He raised his eyes then and looked across the aisle at Radcott. His hands fell quickly and his voice rose high and shrill: “You know who killed the porter, then, do you? You know who killed these others? He’s the one!”

  “Shut up, you damn fool!” Radcott snapped at him. “Don’t pull that stuff!”

  “You know it now, don’t you?” King got unsteadily to his feet and stood before Rennert. “He had a knife and when the lights went out in his car he got up and went down the aisle toward the place where the porter was standing. I know because I was sitting next to him.”

  “I got up, yes, but so did the rest of you. You did yourself.” Radcott’s voice hardened. “And since you’re so damned free with your remarks about me what about yourself? You’re the only one who knew I had the knife. How do we know you didn’t pick it up when it fell?”

  He leaned forward and deliberately spaced his words: “And what about your alibi for the time when that woman was killed? We both said we stayed in the smoker after we left the diner, but we didn’t say anything about my going to the lavatory, did we? How do I know you stayed in the smoker during that time? You could have gone out and come back and I wouldn’t have known anything about it.” He got to his feet. “What have you got to say about that, you damn sniveling old hypocrite?”

  Rennert hastily struck another match. In the increased light he observed as best he could King’s face.

  The man stood as if paralyzed, staring at Radcott. His face was working convulsively, he opened and closed his mouth but no sound came from it.

  Faintly, out of the distance, came the scream of a train’s whistle.

  22

  With Drawn Blinds (12:10 A.M.)

  “¡Señor! ¡Señor!” the conductor’s excited voice shrilled down the passage. “¡Es el tren!”

  Rennert felt relief surge over him in recurrent waves. He was all at once desperately tired and his eyes felt heavy with sleep.

  He looked into the obscurity before him where four men stood. “Your last chance,” he said, “for a confession before the Mexican authorities take charge. We arrive in San Luis Potosí within an hour. Does anyone have anything to say?”

  No one spoke. No one, it seemed, so much as moved.

  Rennert waited a moment. Then he said: “Very well” curtly, and walked between them down the aisle. He had the curious feeling that heavy breathless silence was closing in behind him, like waves in the backwash of a ship.

  He found the conductor standing on the front platform of the car, his gaze fixed eagerly on the rear lights of the train, approaching at what seemed a snail’s pace over the desert.

  “They have missed us at last and come back,” the aftermath of relief seemed to rob the man’s voice of inflection.

  They stood in silence, then, and watched the lights approach. Soon uniformed men could be seen grouped about the rear doorway. Then voices clear and loud over the rails between them. Someone called out to the conductor. He shouted back a response. The train slowed down still more, the space between the cars narrowed, there was a shock as they touched.

  Spanish flowed in staccato waves.

  Rennert stood to one side during the confusion which their getting und
er way again entailed. He watched the excited interview between the conductor and several trainmen, he saw the overalled brakeman gesticulating wildly and heard his vehement protestations: “¡Pues, no sabía yo, no sabía yo!”

  Lights flashed on in the Pullman.

  The train whistle shrilled again, steam surged out in waves of hissing sound, a creaking strain passed like a tremor through the car and they moved forward.

  Ten minutes later, Rennert sat in the diner, the sound of wheels against rails becoming again an accustomed pleasant monotony in his ears.

  Across from him sat the voluble excited Sergeant Estancio. Sergeant Estancio was repeating, as he leaned over the table and gesticulated with a hand which held a cigarette cupped between thumb and forefinger:

  “We were almost to San Luis Potosí when I saw that the Pullman was missing from the train. I had the train stopped at once.” (Rennert did not miss the emphasis on the first person.) “We came back, señor, at once and found you here. The brakeman says that it was not his fault, he says that it was this man—this americano—who uncoupled the cars. He says that he talked to him while we were waiting for the new engine, that he asked him how one uncoupled the cars. This brakeman,” a slight expressive shrug, “is not too intelligent, señor. He explained how it was done. He says that this man uncoupled the cars—not he.” A pause. “As for myself, I do not know. There will be inquiries. Yes, there will be inquiries.”

  Rennert said thoughtfully: “This americano is still on the train?”

  “Cómo no, señor. He is up in the first-class coach. He is being guarded. It is thought,” the sergeant glanced about him quickly and lowered his voice, “that he is a labor agitator from the United States and that he comes to Mexico to help the cause of these strikers.”

  “Was there any disturbance up the line?”

  “Disturbance?” the man’s quick black eyes darted to Rennert’s face. “There was a shot or two fired at the train, yes. Close to the place where the ties had been piled upon the track when the engine passed on its way to San Luis Potosí. No harm was done.”

  Rennert asked: “Is it permitted to talk to this americano whom you have under guard?”

  “Yes, señor, my instructions from Saltillo are that I am to allow you to act as you will until we arrive at San Luis Potosí. There the authorities will take charge.” The sergeant rose with alacrity. “You wish to have this man brought here?”

  “Yes, if you will be so kind.”

  “Very well.” He turned and walked quickly toward the rear.

  Rennert sat and gazed thoughtfully at the carefully drawn blinds over the windows until the Sergeant returned, preceded by Jeanes.

  Rennert made a motion to the prisoner to be seated. He obeyed like a man in a daze. The sergeant sat across the aisle.

  Jeanes’ eyes seemed to have sunk far into hollows in his face, where they glowed brightly, like reflections of the fierce consuming heat of inner fires. His face had the pallor of death. He laid his hands upon the tablecloth and clasped them together so tightly that the knuckles stood out sharply against the skin.

  He did not speak but Rennert detected in his whole manner a definite exaltation that bothered him more than he would have admitted. He thought: He acts as if he had succeeded, not failed, in some enterprise.

  “And so, Mr. Jeanes, we meet again.”

  Jeanes’ lips were tightly pressed together, bloodless. He sat as if unconscious of his surroundings.

  “You realize as well as I the situation in which you find yourself,” Rennert went on quietly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice still more. “May I say that I am very sorry indeed that circumstances have been such that I have had to play a part in bringing it to pass?”

  Jeanes looked up at him and his lips parted in a kindly smile. “I forgive you,” he said in a low vibrant voice, “you knew not what you did.”

  “I think, Mr. Jeanes, that I have known all along. At least, I know now. But I feel that you yourself are to blame. In your zeal for a cause, however worthy that cause may be, you have become blinded to everything else. Even human life has lost in value for you.”

  “No, my friend,” the voice was gentle and patient, “human life has taken on for me its greatest value, that of sacrifice.”

  Rennert knew the futility of argument. He felt a tinge of pity for this man, going so willingly, so eagerly even, to what could be nothing but death that he had already tasted of the cup of self-immolation and found pleasure in its bitterness.

  He said: “By your action in uncoupling that car you put yourself into the hands of the Mexican authorities. If I can, however, I shall be glad to help you out of the results of your folly. You are a citizen of the United States?”

  For a long time Jeanes did not answer. A glow in his deep-set eyes and a slow tensing of the muscles of his interlocked lingers alone testified to the struggle which was going on within him.

  He said in a clear high voice: “I am a citizen of France.”

  There was in it, Rennert felt, nothing of the heroic. It was the calm statement of the pride in nationality that clings to man even in his flight to the stars.

  “In that case,” he said, “I am afraid that I can do little for you.”

  He brought out of his pocket the knife with which the porter had been stabbed and the paper which had come into King’s possession at Saltillo.

  “In return for an answer to a question and an assurance from you with regard to one matter I am willing to make no mention of this paper to the authorities.” He paused. “The question is—has this knife ever been in your hands?”

  Jeanes’ burning eyes had fixed themselves immediately upon the paper. He took them away from it as with an effort and looked at the knife.

  “No,” he said, “that knife has never been in my hands.”

  “Have you seen it before?”

  “Yes,” Jeanes spoke as if his thoughts were elsewhere, “I have seen it.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Pullman. One of the passengers—Mr. Radcott, I believe his name is—took it from a box of confections.”

  “Did anyone else see him take it out?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Was there anyone else in the Pullman at the time?”

  “Only Miss Talcott. She, I believe, was reading at the time.”

  Rennert said after a moment: “The assurance which I want is that there is no further danger to this train or to its passengers. Will you give that to me?”

  Jeanes was silent for a long time, his eyes again upon the paper which Rennert held.

  “I cannot assure you of that,” the words fell at last, like icy particles, from his lips.

  Rennert’s eyes narrowed. The feeling of pity which he had experienced left him at the realization of what this man’s words implied.

  “You’re willing then,” his voice hardened as he returned the knife and the paper to his pocket, “to let a train full of innocent people run straight ahead into destruction?”

  Jeanes’ smile gave a ghastly effect to his white face. “I too am on this train,” he reminded gently.

  Rennert stared at him as the realization of his own impotence broke upon him. That was it—the ties had been heaped upon the rails in order to allow this man an opportunity to escape. The plan had fallen through, the engine alone had been stopped, and Jeanes was being carried along with the rest of them—to what predestined holocaust none but he knew.

  Rennert glanced at his watch, noticing as he did so that Jeanes’ eyes fixed themselves quickly on its face. He gestured to the sergeant and looked straight into Jeanes’ eyes.

  “In case we do not meet again,” he said, “may your soul find the mercy you wished for mine.”

  Jeanes’ face still retained its set gentle smile. “I thank you, my friend,” he murmured as he rose to face the soldier.

  He turned down the aisle and walked with shoulders erect toward the door.

  Rennert sat for a long time, deep in thought,
and did not realize at first that the train was slackening its speed. He watched the sergeant come back into the diner and glance quickly up and down the sides of the car, making sure that the blinds were still drawn.

  The man stopped beside his table and said in an expressionless voice: “It was here, señor, that the ties were piled upon the track.”

  Rennert nodded absently. “Will you ask the conductor to come here?” he said.

  “Cómo no, señor.”

  When the conductor came Rennert motioned him to be seated. He spoke to him in a low voice for several minutes. When he was sure that the man understood what he was to do he got up and said: “Just before we stop at San Luis Potosí, remember. I shall be with him in the Pullman.”

  “Yes, señor.”

  Rennert walked back into the other car, upon which the hush of exhaustion seemed to have settled.

  Radcott, Searcey, and Spahr sat in the smoker, without speaking. Radcott was slumped down upon the seat, his eyes fixed in a steady stare at the floor. His face was damp chalk. Searcey’s teeth were clamped upon the stem of his empty pipe and there was a noticeable slackness about his mouth.

  He took the pipe from his mouth and said grimly: “Well, what’s the news from the front?”

  “The front is San Luis Potosí,” Rennert said. “We shall be there in a few minutes now.”

  Spahr looked up from the corner by the window, where he sat smoking a cigarette with quick nervous puffs. “Is it my imagination,” he demanded, “or is the train beginning to slow down again?”

  “It was at this point,” Rennert told him, “that the engine crew found ties piled upon the track when it was on its way back to San Luis.”

  “Oh,” Spahr said flatly, “they’re watching the track now, is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And these blinds,” he gestured toward the window, “have been pulled down in case of shooting?”

  “Yes.”

  Searcey’s blank eyes swept Rennert’s face. “Did Jeanes get away?” he asked.

  “No, he is still on the train, up front.”

  Searcey slid the pipe back into his mouth, his teeth clicked against the stem. “In custody?”