The Affair in Death Valley

By Clifford Knight

The Affair in Death Valley, first published in 1940, features true-to-life descriptions of Death Valley places, buildings, and natural features, and centers on three murders and an attempted murder. Amateur detective Huntoon Rogers, an English professor from California, investigates, and eventually solves the mystery. Clifford Reynolds Knight (1886-1963) authored twenty-four crime novels between 1937 and 1952, often notable for their exotic settings, beginning with the Red Badge prize winning The Affair of the Scarlet Crab. Eighteen of Knight’s books feature Huntoon Rogers, each title beginning with The Affair of...”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phocion Publishing
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781789129755

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Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE AFFAIR IN DEATH VALLEY

A Huntoon Rogers Mystery

CLIFFORD KNIGHT

The Affair in Death Valley was originally published in 1940 by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc., New York.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

DEDICATION 6

1 7

2 14

3 21

4 28

5 35

6 43

7 50

8 58

9 65

10 72

11 80

12 86

13 95

14 102

15 110

16 117

17 124

18 130

19 138

20 144

21 151

22 157

23 164

24 170

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 177

DEDICATION

To Madeleine and Lee Shippey,

Not only with recollections of a journey together to Death Valley,

but because of a friendship that endures.

* * *

Every character in this book is entirely fictitious and no reference whatever is intended to any person.

1

As I think back upon that strange series of events in Death Valley, I realize that nothing that anyone of us connected with it could have done would have stopped its sinister progress short of the final tragic act. For we were like spectators trapped in our seats, compelled to witness the play that went on before our unwilling eyes, powerless to intervene, unable to stop the horrid drama.

Incidentally, I believe that up to that time the affair in Death Valley was Huntoon Rogers’ most brilliant case. Had he not been present when it all happened, the thing to this day, I am sure, would have remained an unsolved mystery.

It began late on a November day. Our car topped the crest at Ibex Pass and as if floating headed swiftly down the long grade into a desolate region already purpling with the dusk. Darkness for the last half hour had been creeping into lonesome desert canyons and stealing along the eastern slopes of barren mountains, although distant snow-capped peaks still stood up in lonely grandeur in the fading sunlight.

The highway, dropping rapidly downward from the pass behind us, rounded a shoulder of the mountainside, and there suddenly revealed before our eyes was one of those startling panoramas of desert country. Unbelievably red in the light of sunset, like a sheer face of glowing slag, a brooding mountain seemed to stand like an angry, evil sentinel in an eerie, unreal world, down into which our car continued to float.

It looms like the gates of hell, said Huntoon Rogers solemnly from the seat beside me. He hadn’t spoken in the last hour, for the long afternoon in the desert had wearied him. But the apparition now before us roused him completely.

The road turns to the left before we get to it, I reminded him. He made no response. His eyes were fixed upon the tremendous scene. Any old desert rat, though, I added, probably would tell you that you’re as close to hell right around in this country as you’ll ever get on earth.

I hope they have a good dinner at the Amargosa, he said. I’m hungry.

A light truck of a sudden turned into the highway off a desert road, and our tires squealed on the pavement and the car swayed violently as its speed fell off, but we avoided a collision. However, neither the driver of the truck nor his companion on the seat looked back as they drew rapidly away from us through the gathering dusk in the direction of Death Valley Junction. I muttered something about a fool driver and switched on the headlights. Huntoon Rogers said nothing.

The highway soon became a twisting road through an unkempt region of salt and alkali which in the fading daylight looked like dirty snow. Twice I ran up close behind the truck prepared to pass it and then slackened speed as our headlights swept the vehicle. There was something familiar about the driver’s back, something about his battered hat, the set of his shoulders as he sat hunched over the wheel. But I couldn’t pronounce the name that was at the tip of my tongue. It was this puzzling over his identity that prevented my noticing what lay on the floor of the truck.

Not until we were passing through the odd little community of Shoshone, which was weird and ghostlike in the darkness, did I discover what was in the body of the truck. I did not speak of it immediately, but continued to study its shape and size while I kept the headlights upon it. At length I slackened speed and let the truck draw ahead, a curious sensation of cold playing along my spinal column.

You know what it is, don’t you, Joe? Huntoon Rogers’ voice startled me, coming as it did out of the darkness at my side.

I can guess.

They wrap them in canvas that way.

Yes, I know. That is, sometimes they do.

Certainly; when they find them out in places difficult to get to.

The truck drew on ahead of us, its single red taillight shining balefully back at us through the gloom as if it resented our discovery that a dead man lay wrapped in canvas on the floor of the truck.

All trace of daylight had now vanished from the sky and we rolled along in a strange world. The old railway line, reminiscent of the great days of gold excitement in the desert camps of Tonopah, Goldfield and Rhyolite at the turn of the century, kept silent pace for several miles alongside the highway.

We seem almost to be standing still, Rogers complained.

We’re doing fifty, I replied, glancing at the speedometer.

Really? It’s an illusion.

We kept our distance behind the truck with its gruesome load, using the taillight as a guide. Otherwise I’d not have driven so fast.

I ought to know the driver of that truck, I said at last. So?

There’s something familiar about him.

He’ll probably stop at the Junction.

If we weren’t so far from Independence I’d say that he was a part-time deputy sheriff from over there, named Dick Stocker. But it’s almost two hundred miles from where we first saw him below Shoshone to Independence—across Death Valley, the Panamints and the Argus Range, and on up Owens Valley—

What do you mean part-time deputy sheriff?

Just special jobs into the back country where the regular force probably would get lost. That’s all they use him for. Or did.

Well, some of these California counties are bigger than whole states back East. Why wouldn’t a deputy sheriff be found two hundred miles away from the county seat? Rogers’ voice sounded not only as if he were hungry but as if hunger were affecting his temper. We had lost the railway line. A light glimmered feebly somewhere off in the desert, and then ahead and to the right a group of lights like a constellation in the black void of the night sky came into view, shining brightly although still several miles away.

I stepped up the speed and we closed the distance between us and the truck. We followed the vehicle with its gruesome burden around to the hotel and parked alongside it, and got out stiffly to stretch our legs after our long drive.

Hello, Dick, I called to the driver of the truck, who was making his way toward the hotel entrance.

The tall, slightly stooped figure turned and gazed at me searchingly. Although I could not see his eyes in the dim light, I knew that they were the bluest, clearest eyes I had ever seen.

Oh, hello, Hibbard! Was that you who nearly hit me back there where I come off the Tecopa road?

Well, I didn’t hit you, did I? I answered, taking the huge hand which was like a warm, rough piece of granite and which cracked the knuckles in my fingers in a single powerful shake.

No, you didn’t, he grinned. How are you? Haven’t seen you since that time we went pokin’ around the old Cerro Gordo together. You were going to write a story.

I want you to meet a friend of mine, Dick, I said.

I introduced Rogers. The other man had disappeared and it was explained later that he was John Foster, a man the deputy had picked up at the Junction earlier in the day to accompany him into the desert beyond Tecopa. Rogers reminded us that it was getting late and that he was still hungry, so we entered the hotel and walked through the little lobby into the dining room. Warmth and light and the comforts of civilization after the miles of barren desert were welcome. We climbed onto stools at the lunch counter and ate hungrily.

Food was more important than conversation at the moment, more so even than the questions I meant to ask. The waitress had just set our dessert before us when a tall, youthful figure in grayish-green uniform with stiff-brimmed hat and polished brown boots came in from the lobby.

Hello, Dick, the young man called, removing his gloves and putting them carefully on the counter beside his hat. Find him?

Yes, I did. Meet these fellows, Otis, the deputy said to the newcomer. Otis Barton, park ranger, Joe Hibbard and Huntoon Rogers—friends of mine.

We shook hands and the ranger sat down at the counter.

Have any trouble locating him? asked Barton after he had ordered a cup of coffee.

I could have walked to where he was blindfolded. The deputy pushed away what remained of his dessert with a gesture of distaste for all food, fished a sack of tobacco from his pocket and rolled a meager cigarette. He set it alight with a match which he exploded on his thick thumbnail. He didn’t have anything much on him, he announced, the cigarette flopping on his lower lip.

The huge fist explored again in a pocket and then from rough fingers there dropped one by one on the counter among the dishes a pearl-handled pocketknife, a billfold stuffed with currency, and the cap from a fountain pen. Stocker made an awkward full-arm movement to indicate that these were all he had found on the dead man.

Count it for me, Otis. The deputy indicated the billfold.

The ranger reached for the expensive, almost new leather billfold, removed the money and counted it, stacking the bills neatly in a little pile. We waited in silence until he had finished.

Two hundred eighty-five dollars, he announced.

There ain’t anything else in it, is there, Otis? Cards? Papers?

The ranger searched the billfold. Nothing, he said. How old a man was he, Dick?

I’d guess he was fifty-five; maybe sixty. It’s a little hard to say.

The deputy continued to smoke his thin, lumpy cigarette, gazing contemplatively at the pitiful collection of personal effects.

If I’d found his coat, maybe there’d be more, he suggested. But I didn’t. Wasn’t any shirt neither.

Just where did you find the body, Dick? asked the ranger.

Pahrump Valley; this side the Nevada state line. Ten-twelve miles beyond Tule Spring, and about four-five miles off the road. Outside of Death Valley. So it ain’t anything for you rangers to worry about. Been dead two months—no, make it three.

It’s an odd thing, observed Otis Barton, a sober light in his alert brown eyes, but they usually imagine they’re wading in water, or swimming.

Yeah, echoed the deputy. They do. I remember one time over in north of the Panamint Valley, settin’ on a hillside, me and another deputy, to rest. We’d been huntin’ a fellow who was lost. All of a sudden we see him about a quarter of a mile away. He was just tearin’ off his shirt. He throwed it down and begun to run. We grabbed our canteens and caught him. He was plumb crazy by then. Thought we were goin’ to try to drown him. He was steppin’ high like he was wadin’ in water. We made him drink a little water, as much as we could, because his tongue was all swelled up, and then we had to fight him to keep him away from it. It don’t take long to die of thirst in the desert. All you have to do is be careless just once about your water supply.

They start walking in circles—or running, said Barton.

This fellow we picked up today had too. His tracks was still plain in the sand.

The ranger took up his gloves and hat and climbed off his stool.

Where you goin’, Otis? Stocker’s eyes shifted to the ranger.

I’ve got to be moving. Have to take a man from the park service to the train at Las Vegas tonight. He’s still waiting outside for me. Wouldn’t come in. Headache bothering him.

Vegas? How far is Vegas from the Junction here?

A hundred and eight miles. The ranger drew on his gloves, standing smartly beside the counter, the silver badge on his jacket reflecting the bright lights in the all but deserted dining room. What are you going to do with the body?

I’ll take it on over to Independence tonight, I guess.

Mentally I traced the lonesome road across Death Valley, up over the Panamints and down into the deep valley beyond them and then up over the Argus Range and on to the county seat in Owens Valley. I shouldn’t want to drive the one hundred fifty desolate miles alone with a dead man who had died horribly of thirst three months before. I looked at Huntoon Rogers, who until now had sat a silent listener at the deputy sheriff’s elbow. His thoughts were still on the objects on the counter. He reached forward and picked up the fountain pen cap and turned it about in his fingers. After a moment he rubbed it on the sleeve of his coat and examined it again.

Anything wrong with it? inquired Stocker.

I was just wondering why it was worn and scratched that way on the end. The marks seem recent. Looks as though the cap might have been rubbed on rocks or in hard sand. He gave it to the deputy. The latter dropped the end of his cigarette in his coffee cup and looked closely at the cap.

I guess you’re right about it, Mr. Rogers. He gathered up the other objects and stuffed them in the side pocket of his coat. That was two hundred and eighty-five, wasn’t it, Otis?

That’s right, Dick. Well—so long. I’m glad to have met you, gentlemen, the ranger said, looking at Rogers and me. Are you going on down to Furnace Creek tonight?

Yes, I answered.

Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow, then. He waved a gloved hand and disappeared, leaving a feeling of friendliness and efficiency behind him.

Dick Stocker climbed off the counter stool and we walked out to the desk in a corner of the lobby. Over near the fireplace, where a small fire was burning, two gray-haired women tourists sat comfortably knitting and talking.

The manager and his wife, standing behind the desk, were restless, which of course was understandable, for the gruesome object in the truck outside was a disturbing thought.

Some desert rat, was he, Dick? inquired the youngish manager in a subdued voice.

The man’s name was Edward Long. He was small and dapper in appearance, and a tiny mustache grew in a thin line across his upper lip. His dark hair was oiled flat to his skull and one thought of night clubs and masters of ceremony rather than the desert when he spoke.

Desert rats don’t have creases in their pants, Ed. Stocker’s voice was a low rumble. This fellow might have been a college professor. Or a doctor.

Why do you say that?

Looked like it. He had a goatee.

Oh— Long shuddered perceptibly. How did you happen to find him?

Some fellow was flyin’ over that part of the desert a couple of days ago, and he reported seein’ the fellow layin’ out there.

I bought a package of cigarettes and we went outside—to the obvious relief of the manager, who followed us out.

One more question, Dick, he pressed. How did he happen to die out there? Where was his car?

Didn’t see any sign of a car. Didn’t have a canteen neither.

How would he get where he was, then?

Walk, I guess, Ed.

It sounds queer to me.

Dick Stocker did not reply. He was rolling another of his lumpy cigarettes. A match exploded against his thumbnail, and the flare lighted up his rugged face. A lot of queer things happen around here, Ed. You’ve been here long enough to know that. Well, I’m still a long ways from home, boys. So long; I’ll be seein’ you.

We called after him as he walked down to his truck. A few moments later the truck’s motor roared, the lights flashed on, and the vehicle backed away and headed off on the road to Death Valley.

Let’s go, urged Huntoon Rogers as the truck disappeared. Good night, Mr. Long. That was a good dinner, he said pleasantly to the manager, and walked over to our car and climbed in.

I followed him, and soon we were rolling along the dark road which drops down Furnace Creek Wash into Death Valley. Only once did we catch a glimpse of Stocker’s tail-light far ahead of us in the darkness. Neither Rogers nor I felt like talking. The tragic fate of the dead man weighed upon us. The checking station just inside the park boundary was closed when we approached it, and so we did not stop, but continued on down the wash, the air becoming warmer as we dropped down to the lower end of the three-thousand-foot grade. At last we rounded the final curve and drew up in front of the inn.

Again there was light and warmth and the comforts of civilization. The lobby and the lounges were filled with contented people. Bright paintings of bizarre desert scenes were upon every wall. The smart efficiency of metropolitan service was extended to us, which made it the more difficult to realize that vast lonesome desert stretches surrounded us on every hand; still more difficult, even, to realize the tragedy that had been enacted in the desert.

I can’t get my mind off of it somehow, Hunt, I said to Rogers as the bellboy closed the door softly upon us and left us alone in our room.

He did not reply for a long moment, but continued to stand at the window and gaze down over the broad reach of black desert, to the ranch which lay below the inn, its lights sparkling like strange diamonds in the darkness.

There’s no other region on earth, I guess, that’s had the long and somber history that Death Valley has, he remarked meditatively.

Yes, I know, I answered. But I’m talking about the dead man. Who was he? And why did he die like that? As Stocker said, desert rats don’t have creases in their pants. What do you see in it? You haven’t told me, but I know you’re thinking something—

Thinking? No, I’m just hoping, he interrupted, turning from the window, his mild blue eyes fixed searchingly upon me. He had drawn to his full height of nearly six feet. There was something resentful in his manner.

I looked at him carefully: at the strong nose, the slightly flaring ears, the thinning light hair on his head. He was an attractive man, a man of benign appearance, an engaging personality. We were in Death Valley together at my suggestion that we look over some of the old ghost towns of the region.

Yes, I know, I said, prepared to drop the matter. I know what you’re hoping, and I hope so too—that one of your famous cases is not beginning to get under way. I really came up here to look about some for the old ghost towns—

What puzzles me is why his fountain pen is scored on the end. And—where’s the rest of the pen? Why wasn’t it all together?

It is a bit of a puzzle, isn’t it?

2

The croaking of a raven wakened me and I rolled out of bed, realizing as I stumbled to my feet that I had slept dreamlessly. Huntoon Rogers had disappeared and I was left with the annoying thought that he had dressed and vanished without my hearing him. Through the window I could look down upon the camp at the ranch, where already there were signs of life. Two horseback riders were setting out upon an early-morning excursion; a motor car was maneuvering near the filling station. Beyond the camp, towering above the valley floor were