A SOLDIER OF CASTILE.
“Heavens! They have just sized up my condition and sent an ambulance,”
Barker grunts, as his eyes rest for the first time on that marvel of
vehicular construction, a Cuban volante, which the good-natured captain
of the sloop has secured for his late passenger.
But before he clambers into the conveyance the detective, whose
professional instincts are now awakening, ascertains from the driver
that the American steamer City of Havana has not yet arrived, although
due that morning.
Barker begins to feel better. “Things seem to be coming my way at last,”
he thinks complacently. “I’ll take no chances this time. John Barker,
detective, will be the first to greet Cyrus Felton when that gentleman
steps on Cuban soil. Now for the hotel and a bath, a visit to the
American consul and then to the wharf of the Red Star Line, wherever
that is.”
It is a very different individual from the woebegone passenger on the
little smuggler that three hours later lounges about the dimly lighted
freight sheds of the American Steamship Line, awaiting the arrival of
the overdue vessel. “Richard’s himself again,” he remarks; “or will be
when his long-neglected appetite is appeased. I hope the City of Havana
will not keep me up all night.”
The night wears on—the longest, Barker assures himself, with one
exception, that he ever knew, and the sun is well above the horizon ere
his heart is cheered by the boom of a cannon on Moro castle, announcing
the arrival of a foreign vessel. It is the American liner, and by the
time the various custom officers, summoned by the signal gun, have
arrived on the wharf, the steamer is being moored to the pier.
Barker has taken a position where he can command a view of the
gang-plank, and with a grim smile he awaits the disembarking of the
passengers. There are not many. A few Havana business men, a score or
two of Cubans, three or four Spanish officers and half a dozen Americans
cross the plank, and then there is a lull in the procession.
Barker’s smile fades and there is a suspicion of anxiety in his
expression as the tall, slim form of Cyrus Felton does not appear.
“Perhaps he is sick,” the detective thinks. “I will go aboard and
inquire of the purser.”
No; there was no passenger on this trip named Felton, that officer
states, running his eye down the rather abbreviated passenger list.
Barker stares vacantly at the purser. Rapidly there passes through his
mind the circumstances preceding his interesting journey to Havana—the
departure of Felton and Miss Hathaway from the St. James; his (Barker’s)
hurried trip to Key West; the unavailing effort to interview Mrs.
Harding; the voyage in the smuggler to Havana; last night’s long and
weary vigil.
And Felton did not sail on the City of Havana after all!
Without a word of thanks to the courteous purser, the detective slowly
turns and retraces his steps. He walks aimlessly from the wharf, his
disappointment for the time being too bitter for expression.
But John Barker, whatever his errors of judgment, is a clear-minded,
persistent man, and after a half-hour’s walk in the enervating
atmosphere of a Havana midday he pulls himself up with a start.
“Well,” he says as he wipes the perspiration from his face, “I’m euchred
this time, it appears, and must make the best of it. But this is the
deciding trick, and by heaven,” the detective grinds his teeth, “I will
track Cyrus Felton down if it takes the rest of my life! I have it! I’ll
see if the son, Ralph Felton, is actually here, as Ashley believes. If
he is, I will at least have something to show for my trip to this
awfully hot hole. Now for something to eat at the grand hotel Pasaje, if
I can find the way. It’s mighty lucky I know some Spanish.”
The shadows are lengthening toward night when Barker awakens from the
sound slumber into which his “siesta” after a comfortable meal has
developed. He is feeling greatly refreshed and ready to pick up again
the tangled threads of the trail that he has followed so far.
“Now for a little stroll about the city, to see what the place is like,”
he thinks, as he lights a cigar and saunters down the broad street.
Half an hour later, Barker has strayed farther from the hotel than he
realizes and has unwittingly penetrated into the most disreputable
quarter of Havana. For a brief rest he enters a cafe, and seating
himself at a table in a corner of a room orders a light drink,
absent-mindedly speaking in English.
Two dark-browed, yellow-skinned Cubans, who have been conversing
earnestly in low tones at a table adjoining Barker’s, glower at the
newcomer, but as he gives his order to the waiter in English they resume
their interrupted conversation. Barker idly sips his jerez and wonders
what Jack Ashley will say on receiving the letter he left for him in New
York.
Suddenly the word “Americano,” hissed by one of the two Cubans, arrests
his attention and he strains his ears to hear in what connection the
word was used. The pair are talking in low tones, but the detective’s
trained sense is able to comprehend the tenor of the conversation.
The Cubans are discussing the assassination of some person, an American,
and presumably that American is John Barker!
The detective slips his hand around to his hip pocket, and as his
fingers close over the butt of a 38-caliber pistol his pulse resumes its
calm and even beat and he proceeds to make a mental inventory of the
prospective assassins.
“Absolutely the most villainous-looking brace of cutthroats I ever saw,”
he sums up. “But why should they plot to lay me out? Do they take me for
a New York millionaire in disguise, and think I carry a million or two
around in my pocket? Ah, so you were not the distinguished individual
picked out by the precious pair, Barker. It’s some other American. But
who? And how can I manage to warn him of his danger?”
Barker rapidly revolves the situation, while covertly watching the
Cubans. He suddenly starts, as from words uttered by one of them, as
they arise to leave the cafe, he becomes aware that the cold-blooded
crime planned within his hearing is to be carried out within the next
hour or so.
“There’s nothing for me to do but to shadow the pair,” he mutters, as he
steps again into the now moonlit street.
It is a simple matter for the experienced detective to keep the Cubans
in sight, especially as they never once take pains to glance backward.
They have traversed several streets, when the detective observes that
they have halted and are apparently loitering near a larger and rather
more elaborate cafe than the majority.
“So the American is in that cafe,” reflects Barker; “now, which is the
better plan, to go in and endeavor to pick out my fellow-countryman and
warn him, or keep in the rear of these chaps and swoop down on them at
the proper moment? The latter I guess is the safer. We’ll see what we
will see.”
The wait is not a long one. Evidently the Cubans are familiar with the
habits of the person they are seeking, for within fifteen minutes a
rather tall young man emerges from the cafe, stopping a moment to light
a cigar, and then starts down the shadowy street. Barker, after the
first glance, pays little heed to the newcomer, for his quick eye notes
that he wears the undress uniform of a Spanish officer. To his surprise,
however, he perceives that the two Cubans are stealthily following the
man.
“So it is not an American after all,” thinks Barker, as he steals
silently along. “But I can’t stand back and see a human killed in cold
blood, whatever his nationality, and I won’t!”
It is nearly 10 o’clock now and the street is deserted. As the form of
the officer emerges into a clear patch of moonlight, Barker perceives
that the Cubans have narrowed the distance that separates them from
their prey, and he hastens to close up the gap between himself and the
trio.
He is not too soon. When less than two rods from the Cubans he sees the
flash of steel in the hand of the foremost of the pair.
“Look out!” Barker’s voice rings out in English, loud and clear, and
with the words he springs forward with a speed that rivals his sprinting
in his football days.
“Tackle low!” The whimsical thought flashes through his brain as he
clears the intervening space. And he does. The nearest Cuban goes down
with a bone-breaking thud, the moonlight glitters for a second on
something bright in Barker’s hand, there is a sharp click, and the
detective springs to his feet.
But there is no further need for his services. The other Cuban is
speeding like the wind down the street.
“I owe you one for this, my friend,” says the cause of the exciting
episode in excellent English, as he strides up to Barker and warmly
presses his hand. “But for your timely shout I should now be lying face
downward there with the stiletto ornamenting my back. But what have you
done to this scoundrel? He lies like a log.”
“Oh, he’ll be all right in a few moments,” replies Barker, carelessly
glancing down at the prostrate figure. “He went down so hard the wind
was knocked out of him. Then I handcuffed him. Are there any policemen
handy? If so, we can notify them and have him arrested.”
“Never mind the police. The soldiers will take care of this cutthroat,”
returns the other. “But come to my quarters while I endeavor to express
adequate thanks for your service to-night. They are near by and I will
send a detail of men for this rascal.”
“Oh, never mind the thanks,” Barker replies carelessly. “It was nothing.
I happened to overhear the pair planning to knife some one, and I
followed to see the fun. Only I must admit I thought from their talk
that their intended victim was one of my own countrymen, an American.”
“So I am, or was, by birth. But I am now an officer in the Spanish army,
Capt. Alvarez, of the staff of his excellency, the captain-general.”
It is as well that a fleecy cloud at the moment dims the moonlight, for
Barker, trained to control his emotions though he is, cannot avoid a
sudden start.
Alvarez! the man beside him is Ralph Felton!
“Ah, here we are,” continues the self-expatriated American, as he stops
before a large mansion facing the plaza. “Excuse me a moment while I
send a man or two to look after your handcuffed friend.”
Alvarez hurries to the rear of the building and returning shortly
conducts Barker to a comfortably furnished room on the first floor. “My
sleeping-room,” he explains. “Now, tell me how you happened to overhear
that precious pair planning to assassinate me.”
Barker briefly details the events leading up to the attack on Alvarez,
the latter listening with knitted brows, but without comment.
“Well, now of yourself,” he says, when Barker has concluded.
Barker hesitates a moment, the while studying the face before him.
“Cyrus Felton’s son, or his double” he thinks. Then he takes a sudden
resolution. “I am a soldier of fortune,” he laughs. “I came down here to
see the country and a little fighting maybe. My name is Parker;
residence, the world. What are the chances for a commission in the
Spanish army?”
“Hardly good for a commission. But”—Alvarez looks Barker over
shrewdly—“I should like to do you a service, and may. What do you say to
becoming my orderly?”
Barker’s eyes flash. He appears to deliberate for a moment, and finally
says: “I would like nothing better.”
“Good! To-morrow, then, will see you enrolled as a soldier of Spain!”
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