The Ely miner. [volume] (Ely, Minn.) 1895-1986, 1942-08-06
CHAPTER w

Every day was new day at San
Alejo, fresh and cool and clean at
dawn no matter what the blazing
sun might bring later. Even the
asphalt underfoot was toned up by
the dew as Curt swung along for
his early appointment with Montaya.
Curtis mind should have been toned
up, too, by the tangy air so much
like a Fall morning at home, but
his last words to Lee just now-he'd
read the pucker between her eyes
were still in his ears.
Don't you be worrying about
Fora MITCHELL" he'd told her. Il
admit suicide doesn't sound like her,
but we hadn't seen her for six years
and that length of time will work
changes in any of us"
1T was her little girl was think
ing Of" Lee had answered him So
berry.
''I'n find out about her"
Curt made his way to Montaya's
Office, a high-ceilinged room PAN
eled and furnished in unvarnished
whitewood. An impression of cool
blinds and grass rug.
Curt came to the point before
Senior Montaya could breach bust
ness. He said, suggestively, "The
news of Mrs. MitchelPs death was
considerable shock to us-to my wife
and me-"
Montaya looked at him in silence
as though the words needed elabora-
ton.
81 mean, we should hardly have
expected suicide of Fora Mitchell,
especially as she was leaving a
small child"
Nor did I expect it." The senior
made this statement as a sort of
admission. He fumbled among pa
pers ON his desk, bringing forth two
large square envelopes. Apparent
1y he'd had them ready.
From one he spread several pho
tographs before Curt. They showed,
from different angles, Fora Mitchell
slumped over in a bamboo pea
cock" chair, her head at curious
angle. There was bullet-hole in
her left temple, and blood had run
from the wound, coagulated, stained
her dress.
Her left hand, hanging over the
arm of the chair, held a gun Curt
recognized as a Luger. A Lugeri
he thought instantly. Funny!
Where'd she get that?
He recalled how Mitchell had al
ways favored a Colt As against all
foreign makes of small arms.
Another question forced itself on
Curtis mind. Why hadn't the physi-
cal shock relaxed Zora's fingers and
made her drop the gun? He be-
came aware that Montaya was
speaking.
sc. best to photograph the
scene. We discovered her in the
early evening, and there was no
time to bring Government medi-
cal examiner from Soledad. In this
country, as you know, bodies must
be buried before noon on the day
after DEATH"
Curt nodded silently, but his eyes
still chung to the photographs.
Now, in the case of her hus-
band, we had no chance to obtain
photographs on the ground. The
body was moved to Tempujo. But
we did the best we could. I had
sketches made"
From the second envelope Mon
taya spread out these sketches, and
with them a map marked with an
x and two photographs of the body
as it lay on the fiat handcar.
can inquest was held, of course,
as in the case of Mrs. Mitchell.
Both-ah, incidents were quite prop
erly handled by our local police. We
have a comandancia here, another
at Tempujo."
The sketches and the map were
value1ess, but the photographs
Curt picked up one of them. The
picture was sickening, the body
slashed and mutilated beyond recog-
milton. Many of the cuts were clean,
however, and something about these
clean cuts rang bell in Curtis mind.
Yet the reason didn't at once click
that cuts which didn't bleed had
to be made after death, after the
blood stops coursing in the body.
Unrecognizable. A thought flashed.
Curt looked for the hand
wrong side he reached for the
other picture. All, yes, there it was,
the right hand with the little finger
missing. An old wound. The dead
man was Mitchell, all right. Curt
had been with him when that mutt
lation occurred. It was when both
worked for Associated Fruit Crow
ers.
Mitchell had been paving over
some mahogany railroad ties fur
nished by a local contractor. A
scorpion had stung him on that fin
ger, and, though Mitchell was a
hard-boiled egg, he had his super
stitions. Selling a machete from a
laborer close at hand, he had hacked
off the finger before Curt could stop
him.
The incident was vivid in Curtis
memory as he stood looking at the
photographs of the dead man. He
put them down.
what about their little girl?" he
asked. "Only five, isn't she?"
"Ah, but it is sad about her. Poor
little thing. We have her at the
hospital for the present, where the
nurses can look after her. I am
trying to get in touch with relatives
in the States"
Montaya stacked the photographs
and sketches, replaced them in their
envelopes. He drew from his pocket
an oversize cigarette case and
tamped against the lid one of the
special six-inch Turkish cigarettes