Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

“How does the salesman explain the money?”

“Not very well,” the storekeeper said. “He claims that yesterday in town he ran into an old friend. They hadn’t seen each other in years. The salesman says this man had borrowed money from him long ago. When they met yesterday, the man said he was now in a position to pay his debt with interest. He pulled out a wad of money and handed it to the salesman.”

“It should be easy to find the old friend and ask if the story’s true.”

“According to the salesman, the man mentioned he now lives abroad somewhere. He was only in town for one day. There’s no way to contact him. You’d think the salesman would have come up with a better story.”

“Yes, you’d think he would have.”

Lencho fanned himself with the palm frond. “It’s nice to have company, Efraín, but you don’t have to stay here in the sun,” he said.

“Well... maybe I will go back to the shade for a while. I’m very sorry about your cousin.” Efraín hadn’t forgotten about his sick cow, but he needed to ask Soto something before the man rode off on whatever errand had brought him here.

Soto was still on his horse. He’d moved over to the mango tree to get a better look at the chestnut. “What sort of bills did you give Mr. Ramos?” Efraín asked.

“Small bills. The policeman asked me that. I don’t remember how many of which kind, though. More or less what was in the valise. When Ramos’ widow gets here I may make her an offer for this horse.”

Efraín dismounted and tied the bay to the tree. He eased over to the chestnut. “Good shoulders,” he said.

“Means a smooth gait,” Soto concurred.

The chestnut stamped its hoof with displeasure at Efraín’s presence. This was exactly the kind of animal a well-to-do cattleman would ride, steady for its owner but independent with strangers. Efraín knew it was in a category beyond anything he and Sulema would ever own, except in their dreams. But he enjoyed looking.

Efraín studied the most important part of the horse, its legs. He didn’t see any bone or joint problems, but the sleek white stockings were marred by several raw scrapes.

Efraín looked around the countryside while wondering if he should tell Soto to wait a few days before bothering the widow with business. Beyond the cantina pasture he saw a small pink house nearly smothered by purple bougainvillea. The Vargas family lived there, he recalled. Was that a face peering through the flowers? Efraín ducked through the barbed wire fence and cut across the pasture.

“Mr. Vargas!” Efraín greeted the man through masses of bloom. “How are you?”

“More or less, more or less. My rheumatism, you know. And then this scandalous event. Lucky we weren’t murdered in our bed. Marta’s nerves—”

“Yes, it’s terrible,” Efraín interrupted. “How did you hear about it?”

“I had just climbed into the hammock on the porch to let my breakfast settle. Suddenly I heard an awful yelling coming from the cantina. Marta ran out of the house with a dishcloth in her hand. I hadn’t seen her run since a hawk tried to steal her best laying hen three years ago. ‘I knew something horrible would happen, living this close to a cantina,’ she said. You know, she thinks we should have built our house over by her parents’ place when we got married.”

The Vargases had married thirty years before.

Efraín tried to remember why he’d come to see Mr. Vargas. “I heard Mr. Ramos was beaten. Did you see the body?”

“Yes, Marta came back for a sheet, and I covered him with it. I suppose he was beaten to death — he wasn’t shot or stabbed. I didn’t see any marks on him. I don’t think it was that salesman. More likely a gang from the city did it. Young people don’t know how to work any more. No respect, either. When I was six years old, my papa put a machete in my hand and said, ‘Son, you see this ricefield? I want all the weeds out of it by dark.’ Well, I whacked and chopped till—”

Mrs. Vargas stepped out of the house and poked her husband with her sun umbrella. “He doesn’t want your life story,” she told him. “And I think you’re wrong about a gang. That horse wouldn’t let even one stranger come up to it at night. It was dark of the moon, remember. I think it was somebody Mr. Ramos trusted, who got right next to the horse and then yanked him off and hit him on the head with something. A person who knew he was too drunk to struggle.” She gave Efraín a meaningful look, then gestured toward Lencho in the distance. “I’m taking that poor man some lemonade.” She held up a tall glass.

Efraín really wanted to talk to the young man who’d found the body. He excused himself and went back to the cantina.

“Hot day,” he commented to the room at large.

People nodded.

He turned to Belicia. “Has Wilfredo come back yet?”

She shook her head. “He better not have lamed my mare.”