THE DIAMOND QUEEN
"Meet _Sylvania_ Quarantine midnight. Strange death Rawaruska. Retain
you in interest steamship company. Thompson, Purser."
Kennedy had torn open the envelope of a wireless message that had come
from somewhere out in the Atlantic and had just been delivered to him at
dinner one evening. He read it quickly and tossed it over to me.
"Rawaruska," I repeated. "Do you suppose that means the clever little
Russian dancer who was in the 'Revue' last year?"
"There could hardly be two of that unusual name who would be referred to
so familiarly," returned Craig. "Curious that we've had nothing in the
wireless news about it."
"Perhaps it has been delayed," I suggested. "Let me ring up the _Star_.
They may have something now."
A few minutes later I rejoined Craig at the table. A report had just
been received that Rawaruska had been discovered, late the night before,
unconscious in her room on the _Sylvania_. The ship's surgeon had been
summoned, but before he was able to do anything for her she died. That
was all the report said. It was meager, but it served to excite our
interest.
Renee Rawaruska, I knew, was a popular little Russian dancer abroad who
had come to America the season previous and had made a big hit on
Broadway. Beautiful, strange, fiery, she incarnated the mysterious Slav.
I knew her to be one of those Russian dancers before whose performances
Parisian audiences had gone wild with admiration, one who had carried
her art beyond anything known in other countries, fascinating, subtle.
Hastily over the telephone Kennedy made arrangements to go down to
Quarantine on a revenue tug that was leaving to meet the _Sylvania_.
It was a weird trip through the choppy winter seas of the upper bay and
the Narrows, in the dark, with the wind cold and bleak.
The tug had scarcely cast off from the Battery, where we met it, when a
man, who had been watching us from a crevice of his turned-up ulster
collar, quietly edged over.
"You are Professor Kennedy, the detective?" he began, more as if
asserting it than asking the question.
Craig eyed him a moment, but said nothing.
"I understand," he went on, not waiting for a reply, "that you are
interested in the case of that little Russian actress, Rawaruska?"
Still Kennedy said nothing.
"My name is Wade--of the Customs Service," pursued the man, nothing
abashed. Sticking his head forward between the corners of his high
collar he added, in a lowered voice, "You have heard, I suppose, of the
great amber diamond, 'The Invincible'?"
Kennedy nodded and I thought hurriedly of all the big stones I had ever
heard--the Pitt, the Orloff, the Koh-i-noor, the Star of the South, the
Cullinan, and others.
"The Invincible, you know," he added, "is the largest amber diamond in
the world, almost the size of the famous Cullinan, over three hundred
carats. It was found in the dry diggings of the Vaal River, a few miles
from Kimberley. The dry diggings are independent of the De Beers
combine, of course. Well, its owner has always been in the position of
Mark Twain's man with the million-dollar bank-note who found it too
large to cash. No one knows just what an amber diamond of that size is
really worth. This one is almost perfect, resembles the huge top of a
decanter stopper. It's a beautiful orange color and has been estimated
at--well, as high as close to a quarter of a million, though, as I said,
that is all guesswork."
"Yes?" remarked Kennedy, more for politeness than anything else.
Wade leaned over closer.
"The Invincible," he whispered, shielding his lips from the keen, biting
gale, "was last known to belong to the De Guerres, of Antwerp. One of my
special agents abroad has cabled me to look out for it. He thinks there
is reason to believe it will be smuggled into America for safe keeping
during the troubles in Belgium."
It seemed to make no difference to the customs man that Kennedy did not
exactly welcome him with open arms. "The De Guerres are well-known
dealers in diamonds, one of the leading houses in the 'city of
diamonds,' as Antwerp has been called. One of the De Guerres is on the
_Sylvania_, the junior partner--" he paused, then added,--"the husband,
I believe, of Rawaruska. I thought perhaps you might be willing to try
to help me."
"I should be glad to," replied Kennedy tersely, pondering what the
officer had told us.
Nothing more was said on the trip and at last we came to the _Sylvania_,
lying grim and dark of hull off the little cluster of Quarantine
buildings, with myriads of twinkling lights on her, far above but
scarcely relieving the blackness of the leviathan form.
Thompson, the purser, a quiet, unexcitable Englishman, met us as we came
over the side, and for the moment we lost sight of our new-found friend,
Wade.
"Perhaps you didn't know it," informed Thompson as we made our way
through the ship, "but Rawaruska was married--had been for some time."
"Who was her husband?" queried Kennedy, seeking confirmation of what we
had already heard.
"Armand De Guerre, a Belgian, of Antwerp," was the reply, "one of the
partners in a famous old diamond-cutting firm of that city."
Kennedy looked at the purser keenly for a moment, then asked, "Were they
traveling together?"
"Oh, yes,--that is, he had engaged a room, but you know how crowded the
boats are with refugees fleeing to America from the war. He gave up his
room, or rather his share of it, to a woman, a professional saleswoman,
well known, I believe, in Antwerp as well as the Rue de la Paix in Paris
and Maiden Lane and Fifth Avenue of your city, a Miss Hoffman--Elsa
Hoffman. She shared the room with Rawaruska, while De Guerre took his
chances in the steerage."
As we walked down one of the main corridors we noticed ahead of us a
seemingly very nervous and excited gentleman engaged apparently in a
heated conversation with another.
"Monsieur De Guerre," whispered Thompson as we approached.
The two seemed to be just on the point of parting, as we neared them,
and, I think, our approach hastened them. I could not hear what one of
them said, but I heard De Guerre almost hiss, as he turned on his heel,
"Well, sir, you were the last one seen with her alive."
A moment later the purser introduced us to De Guerre. There was
something about him which I can hardly express on paper, a sort of
hypnotic fascination. I felt instinctively that such a man would wield a
powerful influence over some women. Was it in his eyes, or was it merely
his ardent foreign grace?
"You _must_ find out the truth," he cried eagerly. "Already they are
saying that it was suicide. But I cannot believe it. It cannot be.
No,--she was murdered!"
Kennedy ventured no opinion, but now, more than ever, hastened to
signify to the purser that he wanted to look over the ground as quickly
as possible before the ship docked.
Rawaruska, we found, had occupied Room 186, on the port side of one of
the lower decks. Kennedy seemed to be keenly interested, as we
approached the room in which the body still lay, awaiting arrival at the
pier a few hours later.
The stateroom, apparently, ran to the very skin of the vessel and the
ports opened directly on the water, not upon an outside deck, as with
the rooms above it. It was an outside room at the end of a sort of
cross alleyway, and it was impossible that anyone could have reached it
except through the corridors.
Attached to it was a little bath and directly across from the bath, on
the other side, was another small room which was occupied by her maid,
Cecilie, a French girl.
In the main bedroom was a double bed, a couch, a wardrobe, and a small,
thin-legged writing or dressing table.
On the white bed lay the now cold and marble figure of the once
vivacious little dancer who had enchanted thousands in life--petite,
brunette, voluptuous. Rawaruska was beautiful, even in death.
Her finely chiseled features, lacking that heaviness which often
characterizes European women, were, however, terribly drawn and her
perfect complexion on which she had prided herself was now all mottled
and bluish.
As Kennedy examined the body, I could not help observing that there
seemed to be every evidence that the girl had been asphyxiated in some
strange manner.
Had it been by a deft touch on a nerve of her beautiful, soft neck that
had constricted the throat and cut off her breath? I had heard of such
things. Or had it been asphyxiation due to a poison that had paralyzed
the chest muscles?
The purser, as soon as we came aboard, had summoned the ship's surgeon,
and we had scarcely arrived at Rawaruska's room when he joined us. He
was one of those solid, reliable doctors, not brilliant, but one in whom
you might place great confidence, a Dr. Sanderson, educated in
Edinburgh, and long a follower of the sea.
"Was there any evidence of a struggle?" asked Kennedy.
"No, none whatever," replied the doctor.
"No peculiar odor, no receptacle of any kind near her that might have
held poison?"
"No, nothing that could have been used to hold poison or a drug."
Kennedy was regarding the face of the little dancer attentively. "Most
extraordinary," he remarked slowly, "that congested look she has."
"Yes," agreed Dr. Sanderson, "her face was flushed and blue when I got
to her--cyanotic, I should say. There seemed to be a great dryness of
her throat and the muscles of her throat were paretic. Her pupils were
dilated, too, and her pulse was rapid, as if from a greatly increased
blood pressure."
"Was she conscious?" asked Kennedy, almost reverently turning over her
rigid body and looking at the back of her neck and the upper spine. "Did
she recognize anything, say anything?"
"She seemed to be in a state of amnesia," replied Sanderson slowly.
"Evidently if she had seen anything she had forgotten or wouldn't tell,"
he added cautiously.
"Who found her?" asked Craig. "How was she discovered?"
"Why, Miss Hoffman found her," replied the purser quickly. "She called
one of the stewards. She had been sitting in the library reading until
quite late and Rawaruska had retired early, for she was not a good
sailor, they tell me. It must have been nearly midnight when De Guerre
and a friend, pausing at the library door on their way from the smoking
room, saw Miss Hoffman, and all three stopped in the Ritz restaurant for
a bite to eat.
"De Guerre walked down the corridor with Miss Hoffman afterwards," he
continued, "and left her as she went into the room with his wife.
Perhaps a minute later--long enough anyway so that he had reached the
other end of the corridor--she screamed. She had turned on the light and
had found Rawaruska lying half across the bed, unconscious. Miss Hoffman
called to the steward to summon Dr. Preston, but he came to me first,
instead."
"Dr. Preston?" repeated Kennedy.
"Yes, a young American physician, the friend who had been with De Guerre
in the smoking room part of the evening, and later made up the party in
the restaurant," vouchsafed Sanderson.
"The man De Guerre was talking to as we came down the hall," put in
Thompson.
"H'm," mused Kennedy, evidently thinking of the remark we had overheard.
"I've talked with him now and then myself," admitted Sanderson; "a
bright fellow who has been studying abroad and after many adventures
succeeded in getting across the border into Holland and thence to
England. He managed to squeeze into the steerage of the _Sylvania_,
though, of course, like De Guerre, he was classed as a first-cabin
passenger. He had become very friendly with Rawaruska and her party
while they were waiting for bookings in London."
Thompson leaned over. "The steward in the corridor tells me," he said in
a low tone, "that early in the evening Dr. Preston and Rawaruska were
on the promenade deck together."
I tried vaguely to piece together the scraps of information which we had
gleaned. Kennedy, however, said nothing, but was now leaning over the
body of the little dancer, looking at the upper region of her spine
attentively. Quietly, from a group of three or four little red marks on
her back he squeezed out several drops of liquid, absorbing them on a
piece of sterile gauze.
A moment later, De Guerre, who had quietly slipped away during the
examination, as if unable to bear the sight of the tragedy, returned,
and with him was a young woman.
"Miss Elsa Hoffman," he introduced.
Elsa Hoffman was of a fascinating type, tall, finely gowned, of superb
poise, physically perfect. One could not help admiring her deep blue
eyes and blonde radiance. Indeed, I felt that one must rely much on her
attractions in pursuit of her business of selling gems to wealthy men
and women. Still, in spite of her evident poise, the tragedy seemed to
have oppressed and unnerved her.
She did not seem to be able to add much to the scanty stock of facts we
had, even after repeating the story of her discovery of Rawaruska, which
was substantially as the purser had already told it.
"I--I think perhaps Mr. Kennedy ought to question Cecilie," she
suggested finally, turning toward De Guerre, who nodded his assent.
A sudden movement in the passageway followed, and the door opened
quietly. A man entered, a youngish fellow of fine physique and
attractive face. I recognized him immediately as Dr. Preston. His
apparently usually debonair manner was visibly subdued by the presence
of death.
Evidently he had just heard that someone was investigating the tragedy
and had hastened to be present. Both De Guerre and Elsa nodded to him, a
trifle coldly. Only a moment did he pause to look at the drawn face on
the pillow, then stood apart, ill at ease until Kennedy had finished his
minute examination.
As Kennedy moved away from the bed, Dr. Preston contrived to place
himself near him and apart from the rest.
"Mr. Kennedy," he began in a husky undertone, "they tell me you have
been engaged to investigate this--this awful affair."
Kennedy assented.
"If there is anything I can do to help you," Preston added anxiously, "I
hope you will command me. In fact," he added as Kennedy nodded while
Preston glanced covertly at De Guerre and Miss Hoffman, "I hope you'll
get at the truth."
"Thank you," responded Kennedy, meeting his eye squarely this time; "I
shall be glad to call on you if occasion arises."
I watched Preston closely, not quite making out just what he was driving
at, nor the reason for the strained relations that now seemed to exist
among the former friends. Still following Kennedy's every motion,
Preston retired to the position of a more than interested spectator.