That night Bell turned burglar. To attempt a rescue of Paula was simply
out of the question. He was entirely aware that he would be expected to
do just such a thing, and that it would be adequately guarded against.
Therefore he prepared for a much more desperate enterprise by
burglarizing a bookstore in the particularly neat method in which
members of The Trade are instructed. The method was invented by a member
of The Trade who was an ex-cabinet maker, and who perished disreputably.
He killed a certain courier of a certain foreign government, thereby
preventing a minor war and irritating two governments excessively, and
was hanged.
The method, of course, is simplicity itself. One removes the small nails
which hold the molding of a door panel in place. The molding comes out.
So does the panel. One enters through the panel, commits one's burglary,
and comes out, replacing the molding and the nails with reasonable care.
Depending upon the care with which the replacing is done, the means of
entrance is more or less undiscoverable. But it is usually used when it
is not intended that the burglary ever be discussed.
Bell abstracted two books, wrapping paper and twine. He departed, using
great care. He walked three miles out of town and to the banks of the
Paraguay. There he carefully saturated the pages of both books in
water, carefully keeping the bindings from being wetted. Then he tore
one book to pieces, saving the leaves and inserting them between the
leaves of the other book. Then, with a brazil nut candle for
illumination, he began to write.
* * * * *
You see, when two thoroughly wetted pieces of paper are placed one above
the other with a hard surface such as the cover of another book under
them, you can write upon the top one with a stick. The writing will show
dark against the gray of the saturated paper. You then remove the top
sheet and end the writing reproduced on the bottom sheet. And then you
can dry the second sheet and find the marking vanished--until it is
wetted again. It is, in fact, a method of water-marking paper. And it is
the simplest of all methods of invisible writing.
Bell wrote grimly for hours. The book he had chosen was an old one, an
ancient copy of one of Lope de Vega's plays, and the pages were wrinkled
and yellow from age alone. When, by dawn, the last page was dried out,
there was no sign that anything other than antiquity had affected the
paper. And Bell wrapped it carefully, and addressed it to an elderly
senora of literary tastes in San Juan, Porto Rico, and enclosed an
affectionate letter to his very dear aunt, and signed it with an
entirely improbable name.
It was mailed before sunrise, the necessary stamps having been filched
from the burglarized bookstore and the price thereof being carefully
inserted in the till. Bell had made a complete and painstaking report of
every fact he had himself come upon in the matter of The Master and his
slaves and appended to it a copy of the report of the dead Secret
Service operative Number One-Fourteen. He destroyed that after copying
it. And he concluded that since he had been given dismissal by Jamison
in Rio, he considered himself at liberty to take whatever steps he saw
fit. And since the Senhorina Paula Canalejas had been kidnapped by
agents of The Master, he intended to take steps which might possibly
bring about her safety, but would almost certainly cause his death.
The report should at least be of assistance if the Trade set to work to
combat The Master. Bell had no information whatever about that still
mysterious and still more horrible person himself. But what he knew
about The Master's agents he sent to a lady in Porto Rico who has an
astonishingly large number of far ranging nephews. And then Bell got
himself adequately shaved, bought a hearty breakfast, and, after one or
two heartening drinks, was driven grandly to the residence of the Senor
Francia, deputy of The Master for the republic of Paraguay.
* * * * *
The servants who admitted him gazed blankly when he gave his name. A
door was hastily closed behind him. He was ushered into an elaborate
reception room and, after an agitated pause, no less than six separate
frock-coated persons appeared and pointed large revolvers at him while a
seventh searched him exhaustively. Bell submitted amusedly.
"And now," he said dryly, "I suppose the Senor Francia will receive me?"
There was more agitation. The six men remained; with their weapons
pointed at him. The seventh departed, and Bell re-dressed himself in a
leisurely fashion.
Ten minutes later a slender, dark skinned man with impeccably waxed
moustaches entered, regarded Bell with an entirely impersonal interest,
took one of the revolvers from one of the six frock-coated gentlemen,
and seated himself comfortably. He waved his hand and they filed
uneasily from the room. So far, not one word had been spoken.
* * * * *
Bell retrieved his cigarette case and lighted up with every appearance
of ease.
"I have come," he said casually, "to request that I be sent to The
Master. I believe that he is anxious to meet me."
The dark eyes scrutinized him coldly. Then Francia smiled.
"_Pero si_," he said negligently, "he is very anxious to see you. I
suppose you know what fate awaits you?"
His smile was amiable and apparently quite friendly, but Bell shrugged.
"I suppose," he said dryly, "he wants to converse with me. I have been
his most successful opponent to date, I think."
Francia smiled again. It was curious how his smile, which at first
seemed so genuine and so friendly, became unspeakably unpleasant on its
repetition.
"Yes." Francia seemed to debate some matter of no great importance. "You
have been very annoying, Senor Bell. The Senhor Ribiera asked that you
be sent to him. It was his intention to execute you, privately. He
described a rather amusing method to me. And I must confess that you
have annoyed me, likewise. Since the Cuyaba plantation was destroyed my
subjects have been much upset. They have been frightened, and even
stubborn. Only last week"--he smiled pleasantly, and the effect was
horrible--"only last week I desired the society of a lady who is my
subject. And her husband considered that, since the _fazenda_ was
destroyed, The Master would be powerless to extend his grace before
long, in any event. So he shot his wife and himself. It annoyed me
enough to make me feel that it would be a pleasure to kill you."
* * * * *
He raised the revolver meditatively.
"Well?" said Bell coldly.
Francia lowered the weapon and laughed.
"Oh, I shall not do it. I think The Master would be displeased. You seem
to have the type of courage he most desires in his deputies. And it may
yet be that I shall greet you as my fellow deputy or perhaps my fellow
viceroy. So I shall send you to him. I would say that you have about an
even chance of dying very unpleasantly or of being a deputy. Therefore I
offer you such courtesies as I may."
Bell puffed a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
"I'm about out of cigarettes," he said mildly.
"They shall be supplied. And--er--if you would desire feminine society,
I will have some of my pretty subjects...."
"No," said Bell bluntly. "I would like to speak to the Senhorina
Canalejas, though."
Francia chuckled.
"She left for Buenos Aires last night. The Senhor Ribiera sent a most
impatient message for her to be sent on at once. I regretted it, but he
had The Master's authority. I thought her charming, myself."
The skin about Bell's knuckles was white. His hands had clenched
savagely.
"In that event," he said coldly, "the only other courtesy I would ask is
that of following her as soon as possible."
Francia rose languidly. The revolver dangled by his side, but his grip
upon it was firm. He smiled at Bell with the same effect of a horrible,
ghastly geniality.
"Within the hour, Senor," he said urbanely. "With the guard I shall
place over you it is no harm, I am sure, to observe that The Master is
at his retreat in Punta Arenas. You will go there to-morrow, as I go
to-night."
He moved toward the door, and smiled again, and added pleasantly:
"The Senhorina was delivered to the Senhor Ribiera this morning."
* * * * *
Matters moved swiftly after that. A servant brought cigarettes and a
tray of liquors--which Bell did not touch. There was the sound of
movement, the scurrying, furtive haste which seems always to imply a
desperate sort of fear. Bell waited in a terrible calmness, while rage
hammered at his temples.
Then the clattering of horses' hoofs outside. A carriage was being
brought. Soldiers came in and a man beckoned curtly. Bell stuffed his
pockets with smokes and followed languidly. He was realizing that there
was little pretense of secrecy about the power of The Master's deputy
here. Police and soldiers.... But Paraguay, of all the nations of the
southern continent, has learned a certain calm realism about
governmental matters.
The man who has power is obeyed. The man who has not power is not
obeyed. Titles are of little importance, though it is the custom for the
man with the actual power eventually to assume the official rank of
authority. Since the President in Asuncion was no more than a figurehead
who called anxiously upon the Senor Francia every morning for
instructions concerning the management of the nation, Francia
indifferently ignored him whenever he chose and gave orders directly.
There would be very little surprise and no disorder whatever when The
Master proclaimed Paraguay a viceroyalty of his intended empire.
* * * * *
The carriage went smartly through the cobbled streets with a cavalry
escort all about it. An officer sat opposite Bell with his hand on his
revolver.
"I am receiving at least the honors of royalty," Bell commented coldly
to him, in Spanish.
"Senor," said the officer harshly, "this is the state in which the
deputies of The Master were escorted."
He watched Bell heavily, but with the desperate intentness of a man who
knows no excuses will be received if his prisoner escapes.
Out of the town to a flying field, where a multi-engined plane was
warming up. It was one of the ships that had been at The Master's
_fazenda_ of Cuyaba, one of the ships that had fled from the burning
plantation. Bell was ushered into it with a ceremonious suspicion.
Almost immediately he was handcuffed to his seat. Two men took their
place behind him. The big ship rolled forward, lifted, steadied, and
after a single circling set out to the southeast for Buenos Aires.
* * * * *
The whole performance had been run off with the smoothly oiled
precision of an iron discipline exercised upon men in the grip of deadly
fear.
"One man, at least," reflected Bell grimly, "has some qualities that fit
him for his job."
And then, for hour after hour, the big ship went steadily southeast. It
flew over Paraguayan territory for two hours, soaring high over the Lago
Ypoa and on over the swampy country that extends to the Argentine
border. It ignored that border and all customs formalities. It went on,
through long hours of flight, while mountains rose before it. It rose
over those mountains and passed over the first railroad line--the first
real sign of civilization since leaving Asuncion--at Mercedes, and
reached the Uruguay river where the Mirinjay joins it. It went roaring
on down above the valley of the Rio Uruguay for long and tedious hours
more. At about noon, lunch was produced. The two men who guarded Bell
ate. Then, with drawn revolvers, they unlocked his handcuffs and offered
him food.
* * * * *
He ate, of exactly those foods he had seen them eat. He submitted
indifferently to the re-application of his fetters. He had reached a
state which was curiously emotionless. If Paula had been turned over to
Ribiera that morning, Paula was dead. And just as there is a state of
grief which stuns the mind past the realization of its loss, so there is
a condition of hatred which leads to an enormous calmness and an
unnatural absence of any tremor. Bell had reached that state. The
instinct of self-preservation had gone lax. Where a man normally thinks
first, if unconsciously, of the protection of his body from injury or
pain, Bell had come to think first, and with the same terrible clarity,
of the accomplishment of revenge.
He would accept The Master's terms, if The Master offered them. He would
become The Master's subject, accepting the poison of madness without a
qualm. He would act and speak and think as a subject of The Master,
until his opportunity came. And then....
His absolute calmness would have deceived most men. It may have deceived
his guards. Time passed. The Rio de la Plata spread out widely below the
roaring multi-engined plane and the vast expanse of buildings which is
Buenos Aires appeared far ahead in the gathering dusk. Little twinkling
lights blinked into being upon the water and the earth far away. Then
one of the two guards touched Bell on the shoulder.
"Senor," he said sharply above the motors' muffled roar, "we shall land.
A car will draw up beside the plane. There will be no customs
inspection. That has been arranged for. You can have no hope of escape.
I ask you if you will go quietly into the car?"
"Why not?" asked Bell evenly. "I went to Senor Francia of my own
accord."
* * * * *
The guard leaned back. The city of Buenos Aires spread out below them.
The tumbled, congested old business quarter glittered in all its
offices, and the broad Avenida de Mayo cut its way as a straight slash
of glittering light through the section of the city to eastward. By
contrast, from above, the far-flung suburbs seemed dark and somber.
The big plane roared above the city, settling slowly; banked steeply and
circled upon its farther side, and dipped down toward what seemed an
absurdly small area, which sprang into a pinkish glow on their descent.
That area spread out as the descent continued, though, and was a wide
and level field when the ship flattened out and checked and lumbered to
a stop.
A glistening black car came swiftly, humming into place alongside almost
before the clumsy aircraft ceased to roll. Its door opened. Two men got
out and waited. The hangars were quite two hundred yards away, and Bell
saw the glitter of weapons held inconspicuously but quite ready.
He stepped out of the cabin of the plane with a revolver muzzle pressing
into his spine. Other revolver muzzles pressed sharply into his sides as
he reached earth.
Smiling faintly, he took four steps, clambered up into the glistening
black car, and settled down comfortably into the seat. The two men who
had waited by the car followed him. The door closed, and Bell was in a
padded silence that was acutely uncomfortable for a moment. A dome light
glowed brightly, however, and he lighted nearly the last of the
cigarettes from Asuncion with every appearance of composure as the car
started off with a lurch.
* * * * *
The windows were blank. Thick, upholstered padding covered the spaces
where openings should have been, and there was only the muffled
vibration of the motor and the occasional curiously distinct noise of a
flexing spring.
"Just as a matter of curiosity," said Bell mildly, "what is the excuse
given on the flying field for this performance? Or is the entire staff
subject to The Master?"
Two revolvers were bearing steadily upon him and the two men watched him
with the unwavering attention of men whose lives depend upon their
vigilance.
"You, Senor," said one of them without expression or a smile, "are the
corpse of a prominent politician who died yesterday at his country
home."
And then for half an hour or more the car drove swiftly, and stopped,
and drove swiftly forward again as if in traffic. Then there were many
turns, and then a slow and cautious traverse of a relatively few feet.
It stopped, and then the engine vibration ceased.
"I advise you, Senor," said the same man who had spoken before, and in
the same emotionless voice, "not to have hope of escape in the moment of
alighting. We are in an enclosed court and there are two gates locked
behind us."
Bell shrugged as there was the clatter of a lock operating. The door
swung wide.
* * * * *
He stepped down into a courtyard surrounded by nearly bare walls. It had
once been the _patio_ of a private home of some charm. Now, however, it
was bleak and empty. A few discouraged flowers grew weedily in one
corner. The glow of light in the sky overhead assured Bell that he was
in the very heart of Buenos Aires, but only the most subdued of rumbles
spoke of the activity and the traffic of the city going on without.
"This way," said the man with the expressionless voice.
The other man followed. The chauffeur of the car stood aside as if some
formality required him neither to start the motor or return to his seat
until Bell was clear of the courtyard.
Through a heavy timber door. Along a passageway with the odor of
neglect. Up stairs which once had been impressive and ornamental. Into a
room without windows.
"You will have an interview with the Senorita Canalejas in five
minutes," said the emotionless voice.
The door closed, while Bell found every separate muscle in his body draw
taut. And while his brain at first was dazed with incredulous relief,
then it went dark with a new and ghastly terror.
"They know _yague_," he heard himself saying coldly, "which makes any
person obey any command. They may know other and more hellish ones yet."
* * * * *
He fought for self control, which meant the ability to conceal
absolutely any form of shock that might await him. That one was in store
he was certain. He paced grimly the length of the room and back
again....
Something on the carpet caught his eye. A bit of string. He stared at it
incredulously. The end was tied into a curious and an individual knot,
which looked like it might be the pastime of a sailor, and which looked
like it ought to be fairly easy to tie. But it was one of those knots
which wandering men sometimes tie absent mindedly in the presence of
stirring events. It was the recognition-knot of the Trade, one of those
signs by which men may know each other in strange and peculiar
situations. And there were many other knots tied along the trailing
length of the string. It seemed as if some nervous and distraught
prisoner in this room might have toyed abstractedly with a bit of cord.
Only, Bell drew it through his fingers. Double knot, single knot, double
knot.... They spelled out letters in the entirely simple Morse code of
the telegrapher, if one noticed.
"RBRA GN ON PLA HRE ST TGT J."
Your old-time telegrapher uses many abbreviations. Your short-wave fan
uses more. Mostly they are made by a simple omission of vowels in normal
English words. And when the recognition sign at the beginning was
considered, the apparently cryptic letters leaped into meaning.
"RiBeRA GoNe ON PauLA HeRe SiT TiGhT Jamison."
When the door opened again and a terribly pale Paula was ushered in,
Bell gave no sign of surprise. He simply took her in his arms and kissed
her, holding her very, very close.