Murder on the Tropic by Todd Downing

Author:Todd Downing
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Media
Published: 2020-06-14T16:00:00+00:00

19

Plastic Wax

He stepped into the room and she closed the door behind him. She gestured toward a chair and as he sat down resumed her seat by the table. It gave her confidence in herself—this rigid posture in the hard straight chair, with books and papers ranged before her in curt business-like fashion. It was a safeguard of a sort against the vaguely disturbing effects of contact with masculinity which made her feel ill at ease.

She picked up a fountain pen and held it upright, like a proud masthead, as she said: “What can I do for you, Mr. Rennert?” It sounded, she knew, unbearably prim, so she added colorlessly: “Or is this just a social call?”

Suddenly she remembered their encounter under the frangipani tree, when he had surprised her in such a foolish attitude, with her face buried in that flower. It was another vision which the frangipani had brought to her with its smell—a scene from a novel by a lady writer whose works had been frowned upon by her parents. She wondered, angrily, if he had known that she had almost blushed and what he had thought of her as she chattered on inanely about the blood-tree of Yuquane to cover up her agitation.

His smile was pleasant but she had the feeling that his clear brown eyes were studying her closely.

“There is nothing to be done for Miguel or Maria tonight,” he said. “A doctor should be here in the morning.”

“I’m so sorry about Miguel’s death.” She spoke with genuine feeling, wishing that she could forget the stolid-faced woman who had crouched beside the bed and stared with dry reproachful eyes at the little Virgin upon the wall.

A pungent scorching smell stung her nostrils. Hastily putting out a hand to the tray, where the hot wax must have come into contact with something, she took out the albums and envelopes and cards. The wax slid further down. She had to lay the things upon the table in order to retrieve it. She dropped it beside the candle and bent over her treasures.

Apparently no damage had been done. The wax had touched only the edges of some of the envelopes. She started to put them back into the tray and remembered the man who sat a few feet away from her, remembered with a stab of alarm what Mr. Falter had said about him the day before. That he was a Treasury Department agent, one of those alert-eyed men who kept a watch at the border—

In confusion she looked at him, saw that his eyes, before they rose to meet hers, had been fixed on the albums and the envelopes.

“Oh, pardon me,” she laughed forcedly. “I was afraid that some of my things were being damaged.”

“Quite all right, Miss Fahn.” His tone seemed to her too conversational, as if he were trying to hide his suspicion.

Her fingers were unsteady as she arranged the things in the tray and carried it to the trunk.

“Let me help you.” He started to get up.

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