The Affair of the Dead Stranger

By Clifford Knight

The Affair of the Dead Stranger, first published in 1944, is a murder mystery featuring amateur sleuth Huntoon Rogers, an English professor from California, and is set, like many of Knight’s books, in an exotic location. In this case, the setting is Taxco, Mexico, an important silver-mining and jewelry-making center. Clifford Reynolds Knight (1886-1963) authored twenty-four crime novels between 1937 and 1952, 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: 9781789129762

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Publisher’s Note

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 OF THE DEAD STRANGER

A Huntoon Rogers Mystery

CLIFFORD KNIGHT

The Affair of the Dead Stranger was originally published in 1944 by Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc., New York.

DEDICATION

To Helen Louise and Chick

* * *

The incidents and the characters in this story are entirely fictitious,

and no reference is intended to actual happenings

or to any person whatever.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

DEDICATION 4

TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

1 7

2 11

3 17

4 23

5 28

6 34

7 40

8 46

9 52

10 58

11 63

12 69

13 75

14 81

15 87

16 93

17 99

18 105

19 112

20 118

21 123

22 130

23 135

24 139

25 144

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 152

1

All that day in Taxco it was impossible to get the dead man out of my mind. His face had been covered with a square of dark cloth, and he had lain that morning on the narrow cobbled street with candles burning at head and feet. Buzzards soared in the blue sky; round and round they wheeled like somber monitors of death. A lean, dusty sow snuffed near by, searching out grains of corn spilled on the uneven surface of the street.

And all the while an awed group of humble Mexicans milled slowly in the presence of death, stopping, uncovering, staring, moving on.

Pedro now stood regarding the dead man thoughtfully. The day before he had leaped upon the running board of the car as we climbed with whining gears to the hotel, and announced himself a guide in Taxco. His boyish face was solemn, his large dark eyes were troubled. To my question he replied:

"No one knows his name, señor. He is a stranger."

Mexican?

Of course.

How did it happen?

It was in the night. They say a car on the Acapulco road must have killed him.

But what will they do? His being a stranger—

"They will bury him, señor—this afternoon."

A burro pack train clattered by over the cobbles, and I turned up the street to the hotel. The way was steep and narrow. The words Mexican holiday kept saying themselves over to me in my mind. Mexican holiday! New scenes. Strange customs. Songs and dances and blue skies and a warm sun in February. They all had helped create a holiday mood. And then to be brought up against the cold hard fact of death in the street, and candles burning and campesinos shuffling about, uncovering humbly in the presence of the dead. The body was that of a young and vigorous man.

Taxco seems like something out of this world when it is first encountered in the mountains below Mexico City; a village of silversmiths where time has stood still since colonial days. But even so death knows its way about among the crooked, narrow, steeply-climbing streets.

All day the scene kept coming back to trouble me. In the middle of the afternoon I went out on the sun terrace at the hotel, sat down and tried not to think of what I had seen that morning. The meager, spartan life of Taxco was shut away by the hotel building at my back; the view was to the south across ranges of purple mountains toward Acapulco. The highway far below the hotel made one sweeping curve around the base of a long-descending slope and disappeared. Overhead the buzzards wheeled tirelessly round and round.

Of course one had only to look down and to the left over the tops of the coral trees to see the cemetery on its little rounded hill where in the bright sunshine the crowded tombstones gleamed like a fresh growth of toadstools pushed up from the dark earth. And so I didn’t look in that direction.

The warm sun and the quiet made me drowsy. American voices near by talked of Cuernavaca and the volcano at Paricutin, and tequila and late trains. I went to sleep. I knew the dead man, of course. I had seen him somewhere and we had drunk a tequila cocktail together. At a bar in someone’s home, where there was rattan furniture and a red tile floor. Let’s have another, he said, smiling. At some point with tequila, of course, there’s a definite limit—but you don’t know it until after you wake up. A very gracious, attractive fellow he was; he laughed heartily when he said it.

Beastly way dreams have of slipping up on one! He’d slapped me on the shoulder. I opened my eyes to find that the sun was well down behind the mountain on which the hotel was perched, and homing buzzards were alighting heavily in the leafless coral trees whose strange blossoms glowed like rich red embers on the darkening slopes below.

You saw the funeral, didn’t you, Professor? a woman’s voice inquired.

Yes. It was most interesting. Particularly the music. It was beautifully done. There was a violin and a flute, a clarinet and tuba. Two men and two women carried the coffin on their shoulders. The mourners sang as the procession moved along. Their voices were plaintive and reverent and very beautiful. They tell me that the man was a stranger.

I leaned forward to see who was speaking. He was a fellow named Rogers. Huntoon Rogers. He had been in the same car with me on the trip from Mexico City to the pyramids. He was a professor of English in the university in California, and had proved an interesting traveling companion. While touring in Mexico, or, elsewhere for that matter, you keep running into the same people; Professor Rogers had shown up in Taxco.

He was sitting on the stone railing of the sun terrace now, talking to a small group of tourists. The Mexican sun had tanned him. He was a large man. He wore no hat and his thinning blond hair was brushed straight back over his well-rounded skull. His mild blue eyes had a way of twinkling when he talked; he had a strong nose and his ears stood out noticeably from his head.

Hello, Wiley, he said, observing that I was awake. Have a nap?

Yes, I did.

We were talking of the dead stranger and his funeral.

I know.

Rogers later sat down to dinner with me on the terrace that .overlooked the town. Darkness had fallen, and the round moon was rising. The soft-footed Indian girl with her black hair in braids down her back, had removed the soup plates.

I nearly starve waiting for dinner time here in Mexico. Rogers smiled. Dinner at a quarter to eight is cruelty to an American stomach.

But you can’t hurry the Mexican—or make him change his ways.

I suppose not.

He buttered a piece of rich dark bread, his gaze shifting to the tile roof tops of the town below us where moonlight was beginning to settle.

I’m going down to see a man tonight. Like to go along? You might find him interesting.

Yes, of course.

He’s an American. Scion of an old and wealthy family. He comes down here to Taxco occasionally, and stays for months at a time.

I can’t imagine anybody wanting to stay for more than a day or two in Taxco, interesting though it is.

Oh, he paints a little, Rogers explained. He’s done some etching too.

Taxco would be more interesting to an etcher, I should say, than to a painter.

I dare say you’re right.

Thoughts of the dead stranger intruded.

I was wondering— I began, then stopped, not a little dismayed at what I had started to say...

Yes? A look of curiosity was in Rogers’ eyes.

Sorry, I said. It was only a dream, really. You were talking about the funeral when I wakened out there on the sun terrace late this afternoon.

Oh, the funeral. It was an interesting experience. The man was a stranger. And yet there was music, and mourners.

That’s just the point; they said he was a stranger. Is anybody ever a stranger? Someone knew him, of course. No one is ever so devoid of human contacts that he is completely alone—Pardon me, though, I halted abruptly. I’m just a little off the beam, perhaps. What I had in mind to say was that I’m puzzled about the man’s identity.

Did you know him? Rogers’ blue eyes were intent upon mine.

I don’t know. That is, I dreamed out there on the terrace this afternoon, that he and I had had a tequila cocktail together somewhere in a home where there was a bar. There was a red tile floor and rattan furniture.

I wanted to drop the matter now that I had broached it. But Rogers’ interest was aroused.

Did you see the dead man’s face?

No. He was lying on a sort of low pallet, with a dark cloth over his face. The head was turned slightly to the side. There was something, though, about the head—the shape of it. And the hair was very dark and slightly waved. That’s what I can’t forget—that’s what keeps knocking inside my head. That’s the part that isn’t the dream.

And therefore, you have a feeling that you knew him?

But he was a Mexican, I countered.

"He wore shoes, though, instead of guarachas."

I noticed that. These people who have gone barefooted all their lives here in this rough country, or worn the light sandals, have the most amazing feet.

Haven’t they, though?

But the point, Professor Rogers, is that I don’t know any Mexicans. I never drank a tequila cocktail with one in my life.

Odd, isn’t it?

It could have been a fancied resemblance. After all there aren’t so many different types of head and hair. One not infrequently mistakes strangers for his friends; or, notes astounding likenesses.

Does a name or the circumstance of some meeting back home with a person resembling the dead stranger occur to you?

No. So what do I do?

I wouldn’t do anything if I were in your situation. I would forget it.

Perhaps I should.

The Indian girl placed the entree on the table, and farther down the terrace three mariachis began to sing. The voices of the singers and the soft thrumming of their guitars; the moonlight on the old tile roofs of the quaint town perched on the mountain slopes below, the soft night air contrived to bring back the mood of the Mexican holiday I had come so far to enjoy. The grim dark scene of the dead stranger on the cobbled street with candles burning at his head and feet was no longer in my thoughts.

2

Professor Huntoon Rogers and I set off down the hill from the hotel, our path lighted by the moon. Neither of us spoke until we reached the first turn in the street where the retaining wall ended. Here a rubbish dump on the downward slope gave off a faint disagreeable odor.

I came by here early this morning, said Rogers. Imagine! Searching through the rubbish were two buzzards, a thin, hungry dog, an old sow and a man. All on this one small rubbish heap.

Nothing is wasted in Taxco apparently.

We continued along the cobbled street. From dimly lighted houses came the occasional sharp tap of a hammer as some silversmith labored over a bit of jewelry for the tourist trade.

At the first fountain in the street, a dark figure detached itself from the shadows and fell into step with us.

"Good evening, señores. I am Pedro."

We greeted the boy. He spoke English well, having learned it, he said, from the tourists.

"Señores, he began after a short silence, I have a piece of silver."

I am not interested in silver, Pedro, I answered.

"But this is different, señor. It is something I have not seen before. It was not made in Taxco. It was not made in Iguala, either, where they make the silver beads. I will show it to you."

We halted in the rays of a dim light from an uncurtained window. Pedro put the piece of silver in my hand. Its design suggested a sunburst and it was about the size of a half dollar. A woman’s pin, I thought. But the back of it was smooth; there was no means by which it could be fastened to a dress. It might have been a pocket piece, for its surfaces were worn.

No, I said.

"But I ask only two pesos, señor"

Rogers took it from me and turned it about in his large fingers.

Where did you get it?

The boy seemed disappointed. He was a most engaging youth. His face fell when Rogers returned it to him.

"Señor he said, addressing Rogers, I am truthful. Was given to me for a service I performed. Señor Velasco, the coffin maker, only half an hour ago said: ‘Pedro, I give you this, because I owe you something."

"You see, señor, Pedro explained, when word came of the dead stranger lying on the Acapulco road, I ran to the house of Señor Velasco to tell him."

From my billfold I took out two pesos and gave them to the boy and he thanked me with a polite bow.

By any chance, Pedro, asked Rogers, did the coffin maker say where the silver came from?

"Yes, señor. He found it on the body of the dead stranger."

We started to turn away. Pedro spoke.

"Could I be of some more services, señores?"

No, thank you.

Good night, then.

"Muy buenas noches, Pedro," said Rogers.

Our footsteps echoed in the narrow street as we walked onward.

The dead stranger has a way of popping up in our path, hasn’t he, Wiley?

Rogers’ voice contained a note of grim humor, as if he realized my predicament. We passed the place on the street where that morning the body had lain, which was just before one reached the station where the second class busses stopped for passengers. Neither of us spoke of it, however.

In the small plaza before the cathedral a peanut vender with his little piles of peanuts spread out upon the ground still hoped for customers; the open air bar of fresh fruit juices was doing business, and from a bench under the huge trees came the sound of a guitar and a voice singing one of Mexico’s innumerable songs about a rancho.

We kept to the near side of the plaza and went down the street alongside the cathedral, whose high towers soared into the moonlight.

It’s not far now, Wiley. Only a door or two. As I said earlier, the man we’re to see comes of an old and widely known family, a name familiar in almost every household in America up until this present generation. The name is Durkin—Felix Durkin. I thought you’d be interested in meeting him. Here we are now.

He rapped on a door and we waited in the dark shadows in the narrow street. There were voices and laughter from within. I looked up at the soaring walls of the cathedral, marveling at what silver had done for Taxco. Because he had found silver here long years before and because he was grateful, one Jose de la Borda had built this cathedral, paying for it from his full purse.

The door opened suddenly and light streamed out into the dark street, bathing us in its rays.

Mr. Durkin. I’m Huntoon Rogers—

Rogers? Hunt Rogers! Come in, come in, you master sleuth, and welcome!

I followed Rogers inside, wondering a bit at this strange greeting. Durkin and Rogers were simultaneously patting each other on the back, performing what the Mexicans call the bravos, in their enthusiasm.

This is Osborn Wiley, Mr. Durkin. Rogers turned to me. I keep running across him down here in Mexico. He tells me he writes things. But they sound headachy to me—in the field of aesthetics.

Welcome, Mr. Wiley. I won’t hold that against you, he said, laughing heartily and shaking my hand. The only charge I’d bring would be associating with this master mind, this nemesis of the evil doer, this amateur criminologist—I hope you’re not in the same business as a side line—

Honestly, I said somewhat bewildered. I’m only this moment learning with whom I’ve been associating. Is he—?

Sure. The one and only Huntoon Rogers, who’s never happy unless he’s hunting down a killer.

Well, I said, "I’ve seen him off and on now for ten days, and this is the first I’ve heard of his being the Huntoon Rogers. I thought the name was familiar, but I just didn’t place it—"

Come in, both of you, and make yourselves at home. I want you to meet a couple of lonesome Americans.

The sudden transition from dark narrow streets to the brightly lighted room, the enthusiastic welcome on the threshold had obscured the fact that two persons sat watching us.

Miss Elsie Tatum, our host said, turning to a woman sitting comfortably in a