It was eight o’clock. William Brand, Vera Garcia and I sat together in the untidy Brand living-room. The ore sample lay on the desk by the window. William Brand, whom I had known in Mexico as Bill Halliday, had recovered from his unpleasant hour in the closet. Vera, with her lightning Slavic changes of mood, was no longer full of fury. In fact, she was enthusiastic about me again. We had learned from the hotel that Junior had been to the Montedoro. Thanks to my efforts, she, like Brand, had probably escaped an unpleasant death.
A great deal had happened in a short time. Mr. Brand’s connection with the Government was impressive. An F.B.I. man had already come and removed Frank Liddon, the erstwhile bridegroom from Yucatan. The F.B.I. had also picked up Junior at the local police precinct. They were both now safely out of the picture.
Brand had told me his story, too. As I had expected, the version given me by Frank Liddon of the affair’s beginnings in Peru had been perfectly true. He had merely reversed the role played by himself and the real Brand. It had been Brand, as Halliday, who had come from New Orleans to try to protect his niece, and Liddon, as the bridegroom, who had warned her against “Halliday”, lured her to Chichén-Itzá and killed her. That afternoon when he had inveigled me here to the Brand apartment “the bridegroom” had been smart enough to realize that the true story would be the most convincing one with which to lull me into a mood of confidence where I would hand over the ore sample.
But after Deborah’s death the true story, of course, was quite different from Liddon’s, which from that point had been invented for my benefit. Not knowing Liddon by sight, “Halliday”, seeing Deborah with me at Chichén, made the logical mistake of thinking that I was the menace. He had seen us leaving on our early morning trip to the cenote and had followed. He had heard the scream and reached the cenote, not early enough to have seen “the bridegroom” killing Deborah, but earlier than the manager and I. He had just had time to pick up the pocket-book and make his escape before we arrived in the clearing.
He had taken the pocket-book, of course, because he hoped, even with Deborah dead, that he might still salvage the chart and the ore. Neither he nor Liddon had known that the chart was in a detective story until Lena’s prattle at the Reforma had made them tumble to it, and neither of them, of course, had ever had a chance to guess that Deborah had hidden the ore in the jar of sunburn cream. It was that lucky accident which had kept Liddon from searching my bathroom when he ransacked the apartment in Mexico City.
When “Halliday” found there was nothing of seeming importance in the pocket-book, although he was too cautious to throw it away until it had been analyzed for invisible writing, he was not only convinced that I had murdered Deborah, but almost sure that I had also taken the chart and the ore. He had at first completely overlooked “the bridegroom”—in his concentration on me. That was why he tried to steal my bag at the airport.
Later, in Mexico City, he had put Vera on to me. It was only after Junior slugged me at Los Remedios that he saw his mistake and realized that “the bridegroom” and “the bride” were the real Liddon and his associate. From then on he never exactly knew what I was—whether I was an independent crook working on my own or whether I was in fact just an innocent tourist who had become accidentally involved. But since Liddon and his henchman were after me, it was obvious that I was the one who had the chart and the ore which he was so desperately trying to get. I was still the key.
After the Los Remedios episode, “Halliday’s” attitude to me had become more complicated. There were two objectives for him then. One to try either by winning my confidence or by trickery to get the chart and the ore out of me himself, the other to keep me from falling into the hands of Liddon and Junior. Vera’s function, of course, had been to win my confidence. Halliday himself had concentrated on protecting me. That was why he had rescued me from Junior in the taxi and why he had played drunk in his apartment so that I should feel secure enough from him to spend the night in the only place where he knew I would be safe from Junior.
My own suspicions of him and of Vera had made everything much more difficult for them. Towards the end Vera had been almost sure that I was what I claimed to be and felt that I should be taken into their confidence. But, because of the extreme importance of the issue at stake and because she was sure I was far too suspicious of them to believe anything they said, they had decided it was wiser to keep me in the dark and still hope to get the ore from me by trickery.
It was no wonder, I thought, that I had taken it on the chin in Mexico. I thought of the hoary old gag about the pigeon caught in the badminton game. That’s what I’d been. Liddon and Junior against Vera and Halliday—with Lena Snood and me for shuttlecocks.
“If only you’d been a little dumber, Mr. Duluth,” said Brand, with a wry smile, “things would have been a lot easier. But you’d seen through me enough to be so suspicious of me that I knew it would be hopeless to try to confide in you. It was the same with Vera. Once you’d overheard her call to me, from your apartment, she knew that whatever she did you’d never trust her. So long as we were all in Mexico, we had no choice. Luckily you figured out Deborah’s Joan of Arc cryptogram and decided to come to New Orleans. Once you were here in our own territory, we felt reasonably sure of you. If Liddon hadn’t broken in here, slugged me and taken my place, I would myself have told you the truth.
I looked at him. The change in his appearance since he had declared himself was astonishing. The features, even the expressions were the same, but the bumbling, businessman’s convention act was completely gone. He looked what he was—a very intelligent, forceful man. I admired him profoundly as an actor.
“You certainly put on a great performance,” I said.
He shrugged. “I didn’t, because it didn’t fool you. Liddon was the one who was successful. He made three attempts to kidnap you, and you never suspected him. You never even recognized the boy as the ‘bride’ from Chichén-Itzá.”
“That’s something I don’t get,” I said. “Why the female impersonation in Chichén and here in New Orleans? Just to confuse the issue?”
“Oh, no. That was strictly necessary. The F.B.I. have already identified the boy at the Peruvian Embassy. He’s a notorious underworld character in Lima. In fact, right now he’s wanted by the police for murder. When Liddon decided to hire him as his trigger man, the only way to smuggle him across the border was in disguise. That’s a pretty powerful organization Liddon belongs to, you know. It was easy enough for them to fake a passport with the boy as Liddon’s wife.”
“So that’s why he never dressed up in Mexico. He only needed the red suit and the wig for crossing borders on the passport.”
“Exactly.” Brand’s face was grave now. “Well, this has been a pretty grim affair. Deborah and poor little Mrs. Snood. I feel particularly bad about her. And Joseph, too.” He paused. “The Peruvian Government is already getting ready to clean up the whole group of them. I only hope they will be in time to rescue Joseph.” He sighed. “But we mustn’t be too gloomy about it. If Joseph is right about the thorium—and he almost certainly is—the importance of this thing’s being in the right hands is incalculable. At least, after all the disasters, we have got what we needed—the ore sample and the chart.”
“The chart,” I echoed. “Then you’ve got the detective story back?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The F.B.I. man found it on Liddon?”
He blinked. “No, Mr. Duluth. I’ve had the book for several days.”
He felt in his pocket and brought out the small bright edition of The Wrong Murder. He opened it to the back page and, leaning across the desk, held it out for my inspection. The edges of the pages showed where they had been glued together. Drawn across their centre in neat, fine pencil was a detailed chart.
“The area of the vein,” he said. “We already know the general neighbourhood. With this, there’ll be no difficulty in locating the exact position.”
I looked at him blankly. “But how could you have had the book several days. Lena had it yesterday. Liddon kidnapped her and killed her for it.”
“I’m afraid the copy Lena Snood had was not the right one.” Brand’s lips moved in a faint smile. “Remember her party at Ciro’s when I arrived in a slightly intoxicated condition? On the plane from Merida, Lena said the book she was reading had been Deborah’s, and I guessed its importance. I came to the party with another copy I’d bought downtown. When I went to the bathroom, I took the one from beside Lena’s bed and substituted the other copy.”
My admiration for William C. Brand, the actor, rose even higher. Even at his most seemingly inane, he had been on the ball. Poor Lena! After Liddon had kidnapped her, he had discovered that her book was not the right one. No wonder he had been so eager to lure me to Cuicuilco and capture me alive.
“Yes, Mr. Duluth,” Brand was saying, “I had the book. All we needed was the ore sample. Thanks to your ingenuity and—well, doggedness, we have that now.”
Everything was clear to me by then—almost everything.
“There’s one thing,” I said. “How in the world did you work that apartment on the Calle Dinamarca?”
Brand smiled at Vera. “That was easy. Vera owns a lot of real estate in Mexico. That was one of her furnished apartments that she rents. It happened to be vacant, and the new tenants were moving in the next day. She gave me the key.”
He glanced at his watch and got up, putting the ore sample in his pocket. “Well, I’ve got to be going now. I’ve a date with an F.B.I. mineralogist down at the laboratory. We’re going to check on this thing right away.”
He held out his hand. “You were planning to catch the ten o’clock plane to New York, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“There’s no need for you to hang around if you don’t want to. Later, we’ll need you. Obviously, you’ll keep this under your hat. You realize its importance to America, and to the world, in fact.” He grinned. “Give my love to your wife.”
He waved to Vera and left.
Vera got up. So did I. She was still wearing the tomato-red suit. I couldn’t imagine how anyone who had spent so long trussed up in a bath-tub could look so blooming.
She was smiling, her warm, generous smile. I moved closer and took her arms.
“Overwhelming women in bathrooms is not a regular habit of mine,” I said. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
She shook back her dark hair. “Forgive? You speak of forgive when all the time I lie and cheat and trick? It is I who say how sorry.”
“There’s a bouquet for you, too. You certainly put on a performance to end all performances.”
“Performance?” She looked indignant. “What is it, this performance? You think I am different from what I am?”
“The accent, the…”
“Still you speak from the accent?” The temper was gleaming up in her eyes. “Still you think I am the fake? This is the way I talk. Always so. If I could speak different, you think I not want to?”
“And I guess you’re a ballerina, too?”
“Of course I am the ballerina. The artiste of the ballet. And the critics, they say, if I work, work…”
“And you married the old Mexican?”
“What you think? He is my dream lover? Of course I marry the old man—for his money. And he die. Why you think I take the tuberoses and the lilies?”
“You’re all that?” I said. “And you’re working for the U.S. Government on the side. What a girl!”
“Who say I work for the U.S. Government?” Her eyes were still flashing, but she laughed her big, gusty laugh. “You think they hire the girl like me with the brain of the bird? Pouff! Is ridiculous.”
“Then how do you fit in this picture? I still don’t see.”
“How I fit?” She shrugged. “Because Mr. Brand he call me up from the telephone in Mexico and say: ‘Vera, I need you to help.’ That is how I fit.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Mr. Brand?” She looked pleased. “Ah, you are jealous. You think of the foot that talks under the table. Pouff! Is crazy. That I make up. There is no foot under the table from Mr. Brand and me. My mother, you know I speak of her? She, too, is the dancer? The great…”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then is that way. This mother of mine, a year ago she marry Mr. Brand.”
I blinked. “So you’re Halliday’s step-daughter?”
“Step? Is that what you say? Step?” She moved a little closer, Her face was tilted up to mine. “But is nonsense to talk more of such things. You think of New York, I know. You think of this—this sexy woman who waits for you.”
She was very close and very attractive. I thought of a lot of things that would never be. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I guess I do.”
“Then you telephone to her,” she grinned. “Always you men who are attractive are beasts to the woman. How she know when you arrive in New York? You tell her? You send the cable? No. Oh, no, she is to sit there and wait till the great big man choose to come.” She brandished her arm toward the desk. “Telephone.”
Vera, the champion of wives, was something new to me. But the telephone idea was a good one. I went to it and gave our New York number. It was a strange sensation, waiting for the connection—like passing from one world to another.
And then I heard Iris’ voice: “Hello.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Peter!” Her voice was edged with excitement, and the excitement came tingling through my veins, too. “Peter, where are you? In Mexico?”
“No,” I said. “New Orleans. I’m catching the ten o’clock plane.”
“New Orleans. What happened? Get grounded?”
I glanced at Vera. “No, I didn’t get grounded. It’s quite a story.”
“A story? You mean something’s happened? Something exciting?”
“It was. Very exciting.”
“With nice people?’
I glanced at Vera again. “Wonderful people. Out of this world.”
“I can’t wait to hear. I can’t wait for you to come back anyway.”
I thought of her at the other end of the wire. Just the thought of her was enough to make everything else seem faintly unreal.
“I can’t wait either, Iris.”
“Then hurry. You don’t have much time. Get off the phone quick. Good-bye, darling.”
“Good-bye.”
I put the receiver back on the stand. Vera had crossed to my side. Under the black, woolly lashes her eyes were almost wistful.
“Wonderful people,” she repeated. “Is me?”
I smiled at her. “Is you.”
A shadow of suspicion crossed her face. “But what is it, this Out of This World?”
I put my arms around her and kissed her. It was a sad kind of kiss remembering things that had never happened.
“Out of this world,” I said, “is marvellous, beautiful, charming, clever—the greatest artiste of the ballet in four hemispheres….”
Two weeks later Iris and I were lying in bed together, eating breakfast and playing with the Sunday paper. As Iris leaned across me to reach for the drama section and the announcement of the casting of my play, I noticed a small paragraph at the bottom of the page I was reading.
American Archæologist returns from jungle, it said. It went on to announce that Joseph Brand, well-known Finnish-American archæologist had mysteriously showed up again at the camp of his expedition. That was all it said, but I could read a lot more into it. The Peruvian Government had been busy. Liddon’s associates were almost certainly in the bag.
“Darling,” said Iris, brandishing the drama section, “there’s a wonderful picture of me. Look. It’s one of the new ones. Hasn’t it come out well?”
I slid my arm around her and looked, “Lindissima,” I said.
She glanced at me suspiciously. “What’s that? Lindissima?”
“Beautiful,” I said.