Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE GOLD OF THE GODS
BY
ARTHUR B. REEVE
FRONTISPIECE BY WILL FOSTER
CONTENTS
I THE PERUVIAN DAGGER
II THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
III THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL DETECTIVE
IV THE TREASURE HUNTERS
V THE WALL STREET PROMOTER
VI THE CURSE OF MANSICHE
VII THE ARROW POISON
VIII THE ANONYMOUS LETTER
IX THE PAPER FIBRES
X THE X-RAY READER
XI THE SHOE-PRINTS
XII THE EVIL EYE
XIII THE POISONED CIGARETTE
XIV THE INTERFEROMETER
XV THE WEED OF MADNESS
XVI THE EAR IN THE WALL
XVII THE VOICE FROM THE AIR
XVIII THE ANTIDOTE
XIX THE BURGLAR POWDER
XX THE PULMOTOR
XXI THE TELESCRIBE
XXII THE VANISHER
XXIII THE ACETYLENE TORCH
XXIV THE POLICE DOG
XXV THE GOLD OF THE GODS
I
THE PERUVIAN DAGGER
"There's something weird and mysterious about the robbery, Kennedy.
They took the very thing I treasure most of all, an ancient Peruvian
dagger."
Professor Allan Norton was very much excited as he dropped into Craig's
laboratory early that forenoon.
Norton, I may say, was one of the younger members of the faculty, like
Kennedy. Already, however, he had made for himself a place as one of
the foremost of South American explorers and archaeologists.
"How they got into the South American section of the Museum, though, I
don't understand," he hurried on. "But, once in, that they should take
the most valuable relic I brought back with me on this last expedition,
I think certainly shows that it was a robbery with a deep-laid,
premeditated purpose."
"Nothing else is gone?" queried Kennedy.
"Nothing," returned the professor. "That's the strangest part of it--to
me. It was a peculiar dagger, too," he continued reminiscently. "I say
that it was valuable, for on the blade were engraved some curious Inca
characters. I wasn't able to take the time to decipher them, down
there, for the age of the metal made them almost illegible. But now
that I have all my stuff unpacked and arranged after my trip, I was
just about to try--when along comes a thief and robs me. We can't have
the University Museum broken into that way, you know, Kennedy."
"I should say not," readily assented Craig. "I'd like to look the place
over."
"Just what I wanted," exclaimed Norton, heartily delighted, and leading
the way.
We walked across the campus with him to the Museum, still chatting.
Norton was a tall, spare man, wiry, precisely the type one would pick
to make an explorer in a tropical climate. His features were sharp,
suggesting a clear and penetrating mind and a disposition to make the
most of everything, no matter how slight. Indeed that had been his
history, I knew. He had come to college a couple of years before
Kennedy and myself, almost penniless, and had worked his way through by
doing everything from waiting on table to tutoring. To-day he stood
forth as a shining example of self-made intellectual man, as cultured
as if he had sprung from a race of scholars, as practical as if he had
taken to mills rather than museums.
We entered a handsome white-marble building in the shape of a
rectangle, facing the University Library, a building, by the way, which
Norton had persuaded several wealthy trustees and other donors to
erect. Kennedy at once began examining the section devoted to Latin
America, going over everything very carefully.
I looked about, too. There were treasures from Mexico and Peru, from
every romantic bit of the wonderful countries south of us--blocks of
porphyry with quaint grecques and hieroglyphic painting from Mitla,
copper axes and pottery from Cuzco, sculptured stones and mosaics,
jugs, cups, vases, little gods and great, sacrificial stones, a
treasure house of Aztec and Inca lore--enough to keep one occupied for
hours merely to look at.
Yet, I reflected, following Norton, in all this mass of material, the
thief seemed to have selected one, apparently insignificant, dagger,
the thing which Norton prized because, somehow, it bore on its blade
something which he had not, as yet, been able to fathom.
Though Kennedy looked thoroughly and patiently, it seemed as though
there was nothing there to tell any story of the robbery, and he turned
his attention at last to other parts of the Museum. As he made his way
about slowly, I noted that he was looking particularly into corners,
behind cabinets, around angles. What he expected to find I could not
even guess.
Further along and on the same side of the building we came to the
section devoted to Egyptology. Kennedy paused. Standing there, upright
against the wall, was a mummy case. To me, even now, the thing had a
creepy look. Craig pushed aside the stone lid irreverently and gazed
keenly into the uncanny depths of the stone sarcophagus. An instant
later he was down on his hands and knees, carefully examining the
interior by means of a pocket lens.
"I think I have made a start," he remarked, rising to his feet and
facing us with an air of satisfaction.
We said nothing, and he pointed to some almost undiscernible marks in a
thin layer of dust that had collected in the sarcophagus.
"If I'm not mistaken," he went on, "your thief got into the Museum
during the daytime, and, when no one was looking, hid here. He must
have stayed until the place was locked up at night. Then he could rob
at his leisure, only taking care to confine his operations to the time
between the rather infrequent rounds of the night watchman."
Kennedy bent down again. "Look," he indicated. "There are the marks of
shoes in the dust, shoes with nails in the heels, of course. I shall
have to compare the marks that I have found here with those I have
collected, following out the method of the immortal Bertillon. Every
make of shoes has its own peculiarities, both in the number and the
arrangement of the nails. Offhand, however, I should say that these
shoes were American-made--though that, of course, does not necessarily
mean that an American wore them. I may even be able to determine which
of a number of individual pairs of shoes made the marks. I cannot tell
that yet, until I study them. Walter, I wish you'd go over to my
laboratory. In the second right-hand drawer of my desk you'll find a
package of paper. I'd like to have it."
"Don't you think you ought to preserve the marks?" I heard Norton hint,
as I left. He had been watching Kennedy in open-eyed amazement and
interest.
"Exactly what I am sending Walter to do," he returned. "I have some
specially prepared paper that will take those dust marks up and give me
a perfect replica."
I hurried back as fast as I could, and Kennedy bent to the task of
preserving the marks.
"Have you any idea who might have an object in stealing the dagger?"
Kennedy asked, when he had finished.
Norton shrugged his shoulders. "I believe some weird superstitions were
connected with it," he replied. "It had a three-sided blade, and, as I
told you, both the blade and the hilt were covered with peculiar
markings."
There seemed to be nothing more that could be discovered from a further
examination of the Museum. It was plain enough that the thief must have
let himself out of a side door which had a spring lock on it and closed
itself. Not a mark or scratch was to be found on any of the window or
door locks; nothing else seemed to have been disturbed.
Evidently the thief had been after that one, to him priceless, object.
Having got it, he was content to get away, leaving untouched the other
treasures, some of which were even intrinsically valuable for the metal
and precious stones in them. The whole affair seemed so strange to me,
however, that, somehow, I could not help wondering whether Norton had
told us the whole or only half the story as he knew it about the dagger
and its history.
Still talking with the archaeologist, Kennedy and I returned to his
laboratory.
We had scarcely reached the door when we heard the telephone ringing
insistently. I answered, and it happened to be a call for me. It was
the editor of the Star endeavouring to catch me, before I started
downtown to the office, in order to give me an assignment.
"That's strange," I exclaimed, hanging up the receiver and turning to
Craig. "I've got to go out on a murder case--"
"An interesting case?" asked Craig, interrupting his own train of
investigation with a flash of professional interest.
"Why, a man has been murdered in his apartment on Central Park, West, I
believe. Luis de Mendoza is the name, and it seems--"
"Don Luis de Mendoza?" repeated Norton, with a startled exclamation.
"Why, he was an influential Peruvian, a man of affairs in his country,
and an accomplished scholar. I--I--if you don't mind, I'd like to go
over with you. I know the Mendozas."
Kennedy was watching Norton's face keenly. "I think I'll go, too,
Walter," he decided. "You won't lack assistants on this story,
apparently."
"Perhaps you can be of some assistance to them, also," put in Norton to
Kennedy, as we left.
It was only a short ride downtown, and our cab soon pulled up before a
rather ornate entrance of a large apartment in one of the most
exclusive sections of the city. We jumped out and entered, succeeding
in making our way to the sixth floor, where Mendoza lived, without
interference from the hallboy, who had been completely swamped by the
rush that followed the excitement of finding one of the tenants
murdered.
There was no missing the place. The hall had been taken over by the
reporters, who had established themselves there, terrible as an army
with concealed pads and pencils. From one of the morning men already
there I learned that our old friend Dr. Leslie, the coroner, was
already in charge.
Somehow, whether it was through Kennedy's acquaintance with Dr. Leslie
or Norton's acquaintance with the Mendozas and the Spanish tongue, we
found ourselves beyond the barrier of the door which shut out my rivals.
As we stood for a moment in a handsome and tastefully furnished living
room a young lady passed through hurriedly. She paused in the middle of
the room as she saw us and eyed us tremulously, as though to ask us why
we had intruded. It was a rather awkward situation.
Quickly Norton came to the rescue. "I hope you will pardon me,
Senorita," he bowed in perfect Spanish, "but--"
"Oh, Professor Norton, it is you!" she cried in English, recognizing
him. "I'm so nervous that I didn't see you at first."
She glanced from him to us, inquiringly. I recollected that my editor
had mentioned a daughter who might prove to be an interesting and
important figure in the mystery. She spoke in an overwrought, agitated
tone. I studied her furtively.
Inez de Mendoza was unmistakably beautiful, of the dark Spanish type,
with soft brown eyes that appealed to one when she talked, and a figure
which at any less tragic moment one might have been pardoned for
admiring. Her soft olive skin, masses of dark hair, and lustrous,
almost voluptuous, eyes contrasted wonderfully with the finely
chiselled lines of her nose, the firm chin, and graceful throat and
neck. Here one recognized a girl of character and family in the depths
of whose soul smouldered all the passion of a fiery race.
"I hope you will pardon me for intruding," Norton repeated. "Believe
me, it is not with mere idle curiosity. Let me introduce my friend,
Professor Kennedy, the scientific detective, of whom you have heard, no
doubt. This is his assistant, Mr. Jameson, of the Star. I thought
perhaps they might stand between you and that crowd in the hall," he
added, motioning toward the reporters on the other side of the door.
"You can trust them absolutely. I'm sure that if there is anything any
of us can do to aid you in--in your trouble, you may be sure that we
are at your service."
She looked about a moment in the presence of three strangers who had
invaded the quietness of what had been, at least temporarily, home. She
seemed to be seeking some one on whom to lean, as though some support
had suddenly been knocked from under her, leaving her dazed at the
change.
"Oh, madre de Dios!" she cried. "What shall I do? Oh, my father--my
poor father!"
Inez Mendoza was really a pathetic and appealing figure as she stood
there in the room, alone.
Quickly she looked us over, as if, by some sort of occult intuition of
woman, she were reading our souls. Then, instinctively almost, she
turned to Kennedy. Kennedy seemed to recognize her need. Norton and I
retired, somewhat more than figuratively.
"You--you are a detective?" she queried. "You can read mystery--like a
book?"
Kennedy smiled encouragingly. "Hardly as my friend Walter here often
paints me," he returned. "Still, now and then, we are able to use the
vast knowledge of wise men the world over to help those in trouble.
Tell me--everything," he soothed, as though knowing that to talk would
prove a safety-valve for her pent-up emotions. "Perhaps I can help you."
For a moment she did not know what to do. Then, almost before she knew
it, apparently, she began to talk to him, forgetting that we were in
the room.
"Tell me how the thing happened, all that you know, how you found it
out," prompted Craig.
"Oh, it was midnight, last night; yes, late," she returned wildly. "I
was sleeping when my maid, Juanita, wakened me and told me that Mr.
Lockwood was in the living room and wanted to see me, must see me. I
dressed hurriedly, for it came to me that something must be the matter.
I think I must have come out sooner than they expected, for before they
knew it I had run across the living room and looked through the door
into the den, you call it, over there."
She pointed at a heavy door, but did not, evidently could not, let her
eyes rest on it.
"There was my father, huddled in a chair, and blood had run out from an
ugly wound in his side. I screamed and fell on my knees beside him.
But," she shuddered, "it was too late. He was cold. He did not answer."
Kennedy said nothing, but let her weep into her dainty lace
handkerchief, though the impulse was strong to do anything to calm her
grief.
"Mr. Lockwood had come in to visit him on business, had found the door
into the hall open, and entered. No one seemed to be about; but the
lights were burning. He went on into the den. There was my father--"
She stopped, and could not go on at all for several minutes.
"And Mr. Lockwood, who is he?" asked Craig gently.
"My father and I, we have been in this country only a short time," she
replied, trying to speak in good English in spite of her emotion, "with
his partner in a--a mining venture--Mr. Lockwood."
She paused again and hesitated, as though in this strange land of the
north she had no idea of which way to turn for help. But once started,
now, she did not stop again.
"Oh," she went on passionately, "I don't know what it was that came
over my father. But lately he had been a changed man. Sometimes I
thought he was--what you call--mad. I should have gone to see a doctor
about him," she added wildly, her feelings getting the better of her.
"But it is no longer a case for a doctor. It is a case for a
detective--for some one who is more than a detective. You cannot bring
him back, but--"
She could not go on. Yet her broken sentence spoke volumes, in her
pleading, soft, musical voice, which was far more pleasing to the ear
than that of the usual Latin-American.
I had heard that the women of Lima were famed for their beauty and
melodious voices. Senorita Inez surely upheld their reputation.
There was an appealing look now in her soft deep-brown eyes, and her
thin, delicate lips trembled as she hurried on with her strange story.
"I never saw my father in such a state before," she murmured. "For days
all he had talked about was the 'big fish,' the peje grande, whatever
that might mean--and the curse of Mansiche."
The recollection of the past few days seemed to be too much for her.
Almost before we knew it, before Norton, who had started to ask her a
question, could speak, she excused herself and fled from the room,
leaving only the indelible impression of loveliness and the appeal for
help that was irresistible.
Kennedy turned to Norton. But just then the door to the den opened and
we saw our friend Dr. Leslie. He saw us, too, and took a few steps in
our direction.
"What--you here, Kennedy?" he greeted in surprise as Craig shook hands
and introduced Norton. "And Jameson, too? Well, I think you've found a
case at last that will baffle you."
As we talked he led the way across the living room and into the den
from which he had just come.
"It is very strange," he said, telling at once all that he had been
able to discover. "Senor Mendoza was discovered here about midnight
last night by his partner, Mr. Lockwood. There seem to be no clues to
how or by whom he was murdered. No locks had been broken. I have
examined the hall-boy who was here last night. He seems to be off his
post a good deal when it is late. He saw Mr. Lockwood come in, and took
him in the elevator up to the sixth floor. After that we can find
nothing but the open door into the apartment. It is not at all
impossible that some one might have come in when the boy was off his
post, have walked up, even have walked down, the stairs again. In fact,
it must have been that way. No windows, not even on the fire-escape,
have been tampered with. In fact, the murder must have been done by
some one admitted to the apartment late by Mendoza himself."
We walked over to the couch on which lay the body covered by a sheet.
Dr. Leslie drew down the sheet.
On the face was a most awful look, a terrible stare and contortion of
the features, and a deep, almost purple, discoloration. The muscles
were all tense and rigid. I shall never forget that face and its look,
half of pain, half of fear, as if of something nameless.
Mendoza had been a heavy-set man, whose piercing black eyes beetled
forth, in life, from under bushy brows. Even in death, barring that
horrible look, he was rather distinguished-looking, and his
close-cropped hair and moustache set him off as a man of affairs and
consequence in his own country.
"Most peculiar, Kennedy," reiterated Dr. Leslie, pointing to the
breast. "You see that wound? I can't quite determine whether that was
the real cause of death or not. Of course, it's a bad wound, it's true.
But there seems to be something else here, too. Look at the pupils of
his eyes, how contracted they are. The lungs seem congested, too. He
has all the marks of having been asphyxiated. Yet there are no
indications on his throat of violence such as would be necessary if
that were the case. There could have been no such thing as illuminating
gas, nor have we found any trace of any receptacles which might have
held poison. I can't seem to make it out."
Kennedy bent over the body and looked at it attentively for several
minutes, while we stood back of him, scarcely uttering a word in the
presence of this terrible thing.
Deftly Kennedy managed to extract a few drops of blood from about the
wound and transfer them to a very small test-tube which he carried in a
little emergency pocket-case in order to preserve material for future
study.
"You say the dagger was triangular, Norton?" he asked finally, without
looking up from his minute examination.
"Yes, with another blade that shot out automatically when you knew the
secret of pressing the hilt in a certain way. The outside triangular
blade separated into three to allow an inner blade to shoot out."
Kennedy had risen and, as Norton described the Inca dagger, looked from
one to the other of us keenly.
"That blade was poisoned," he concluded quietly. "We have a clue to
your missing dagger. Mendoza was murdered by it!"
II
THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
"I should like to have another talk with Senorita Inez," remarked
Kennedy, a few minutes later, as with Dr. Leslie and Professor Norton
we turned into the living room and closed the door to the den.
While Norton volunteered to send one of the servants in to see whether
the young lady was able to stand the strain of another interview, Dr.
Leslie received a hurry call to another case.
"You'll let me know, Kennedy, if you discover anything?" he asked,
shaking hands with us. "I shall keep you informed, also, from my end.
That poison completely baffles me--so far. You know, we might as well
work together."
"Assuredly," agreed Craig, as the coroner left. "That," he added to me,
as the door closed, "was one word for me and two for himself. I can do
the work; he wants to save his official face. He never will know what
that poison was--until I tell him."
Inez had by this time so far recovered her composure that she was able
to meet us again in the living room.
"I'm very sorry to have to trouble you again," apologized Kennedy, "but
if I am to get anywhere in this case I must have the facts."
She looked at him, half-puzzled, and, I fancied, half-frightened, too.
"Anything I can tell you--of course, ask me," she said.
"Had your father any enemies who might desire his death?" shot out
Kennedy, almost without warning.
"No," she answered slowly, still watching him carefully, then adding
hastily: "Of course, you know, no one who tries to do anything is
absolutely without enemies, though."
"I mean," repeated Craig, carefully noting a certain hesitation in her
tone, "was there any one who, for reasons best known to himself, might
have murdered him in a way peculiarly likely under the circumstances,
say, with a dagger?"
Inez flashed a quick glance at Kennedy, as if to inquire just how much
or how little he really knew. I got the impression from it, at least,
that she was holding back some suspicion for a reason that perhaps she
would not even have admitted to herself.
I saw that Norton was also following the line of Kennedy's questioning
keenly, though he said nothing.
Before Kennedy could take up the lead again, her maid, Juanita, a very
pretty girl of Spanish and Indian descent, entered softly.
"Mr. Lockwood," she whispered, but not so low that we could not hear.
"Won't you ask him to come in, Nita?" she replied.
A moment later a young man pushed open the door--a tall, clean-cut
young fellow, whose face bore the tan of a sun much stronger than any
about New York. As I took his appraisal, I found him unmistakably of
the type of American soldier of fortune who has been carried by the
wander-spirit down among the romantic republics to the south of our own.
"Professor Kennedy," began Senorita Mendoza, presenting us all in turn,
"let me introduce Mr. Lockwood, my father's partner in several ventures
which brought us to New York."
As we shook hands I could not help feeling that the young mining
engineer, for such he proved to be by ostensible profession, was
something more to her than a mere partner in her father's schemes.
"I believe I've met Professor Norton," he remarked, as they shook
hands. "Perhaps he remembers when we were in Lima."
"Perfectly," replied Norton, returning the penetrating glance in kind.
"Also in New York," he added.
Lockwood turned abruptly. "Are you quite sure you are able to stand the
strain of this interview?" he asked Inez in a low tone.
Norton glanced at Kennedy and raised his eyebrows just the fraction of
an inch, as if to call attention to the neat manner in which Lockwood
had turned the subject.
Inez smiled sadly. "I must," she said, in a forced tone.
I fancied that Lockwood noted and did not relish an air of restraint in
her words.
"It was you, I believe, Mr. Lockwood, who found Senor Mendoza last
night?" queried Kennedy, as if to read the answer into the record,
although he already knew it.
"Yes," replied Lockwood, without hesitation, though with a glance at
the averted head of Inez, and choosing his words very carefully, as if
trying hard not to say more than she could bear. "Yes. I came up here
to report on some financial matters which interested both of us, very
late, perhaps after midnight. I was about to press the buzzer on the
door when I saw that the door was slightly ajar. I opened it and found
lights still burning. The rest I think you must already know."
Even that tactful reference to the tragedy was too much for Inez. She
suppressed a little convulsive sob, but did not, this time, try to flee
from the room.
"You saw nothing about the den that aroused any suspicions?" pursued
Kennedy. "No bottle, no glass? There wasn't the odour of any gas or
drug?"
Lockwood shook his head slowly, fixing his eyes on Kennedy's face, but
not looking at him. "No," he answered; "I have told Dr. Leslie just
what I found. If there had been anything else I'm sure I would have
noticed it while I was waiting for Miss Inez to come in."
His answers seemed perfectly frank and straight-forward. Yet somehow I
could not get over the feeling that he, as well as Inez, was not
telling quite all he knew--perhaps not about the murder, but about
matters that might be related to it.
Norton evidently felt the same way. "You saw no weapon--a dagger?" he
interrupted suddenly.
The young man faced Norton squarely. To me it seemed as if he had been
expecting the question. "Not a thing," he said deliberately. "I looked
about carefully, too. Whatever weapon was used must have been taken
away by the murderer," he added.
Juanita entered again, and Inez excused herself to answer the
telephone, while we stood in the living room chatting for a few minutes.
"What is this 'curse of Mansiche' which the Senorita has mentioned?"
asked Kennedy, seeing a chance to open a new line of inquiry with
Lockwood.
"Oh, I don't know," he returned, impatiently flicking the ashes of a
cigarette which he had lighted the moment Inez left the room, as though
such stories had no interest for the practical mind of an engineer.
"Some old superstition, I suppose."
Lockwood seemed to regard Norton with a sort of aversion, if not
hostility, and I fancied that Norton, on his part, neglected no
opportunity to let the other know that he was watching him.
"I don't know much about the story," resumed Lockwood a moment later as
no one said anything. "But I do know that there is treasure in that
great old Chimu mound near Truxillo. Don Luis has the government
concession to bore into the mound, too, and we are raising the capital
to carry the scheme through to success."
He had come to the end of a sentence. Yet the inflection of his voice
showed plainly that it was not the end of the idea that had been in his
mind.
"If you knew where to dig," suddenly supplied Norton, gazing keenly
into the eyes of the soldier of fortune.
Lockwood did not answer, though it was evident that that had been the
thought unexpressed in his remarks.
The return of the Senorita to the room seemed to break the tension.
"It was the house telephone," she said, in a quiet voice. "The hall-boy
didn't know whether to admit a visitor who comes with his sympathy."
Then she turned from us to Lockwood. "You must know him," she said,
somewhat embarrassed. "Senor Alfonso de Moche."
Lockwood suppressed a frown, but said nothing, for, a moment later, a
young man came in. Almost in silence he advanced to Inez and took her
hand in a manner that plainly showed his sympathy in her bereavement.
"I have just heard," he said simply, "and I hastened around to tell you
how much I feel your loss. If there is anything I can do--"
He stopped, and did not finish the sentence. It was unnecessary. His
eyes finished it for him.
Alfonso de Moche was, I thought, a very handsome fellow, though not of
the Spanish type at all. His forehead was high, with a shock of
straight black hair, his skin rather copper-coloured, nose slightly
aquiline, chin and mouth firm; in fact, the whole face was refined and
intellectual, though tinged with melancholy.
"Thank you," she murmured, then turned to us. "I believe you are
acquainted with Mr. de Moche, Professor Norton?" she asked. "You know
he is taking post-graduate work at the University."
"Slightly," returned Norton, gazing at the young man in a manner that
plainly disconcerted him. "I believe I have met his mother in Peru."
Senorita Mendoza seemed to colour at the mention of Senora de Moche. It
flashed over me that, in his greeting Alfonso had said nothing of his
mother. I wondered if there might be a reason for it. Could it be that
Senorita Mendoza had some antipathy which did not include the son?
Though we did not seem to be making much progress in this way in
solving the mystery, still I felt that before we could go ahead we must
know the little group about which it centred. There seemed to be
currents and cross-currents here which we did not understand, but which
must be charted if we were to steer a straight course.
"And Professor Kennedy?" she added, turning to us.
"I think I have seen Mr. de Moche about the campus," said Craig, as I,
too, shook hands with him, "although you are not in any of my classes."
"No, Professor," concurred the young man, who was, however,
considerably older than the average student taking courses like his.
I found it quite enough to watch the faces of those about me just then.
Between Lockwood and de Moche it seemed that there existed a latent
hostility. The two eyed each other with decided disfavour. As for
Norton, he seemed to be alternately watching each of them.
An awkward silence followed, and de Moche seemed to take the cue, for
after a few more remarks to Inez he withdrew as gracefully as he could,
with a parting interchange of frigid formalities with Lockwood. It did
not take much of a detective to deduce that both of the young men might
have agreed on one thing, though that caused the most serious of
differences between them--their estimation of Inez de Mendoza.
Inez, on her part, seemed also to be visibly relieved at his departure,
though she had been cordial enough to him. I wondered what it all meant.
Lockwood, too, seemed to be ill at ease still. But it was a different
uneasiness, rather directed at Norton than at us. Once before I had
thought he was on the point of excusing himself, but the entrance of de
Moche seemed to have decided him to stay at least as long as his rival.
"I beg your pardon, Senorita," he now apologized, "but I really must
go. There are still some affairs which I must attend to in order to
protect the interests we represent." He turned to us. "You will excuse
me, I know," he added, "but I have a very important appointment. You
know Don Luis and I were assisting in organizing the campaign of Stuart
Whitney to interest American manufacturers, and particularly bankers,
in the chances in South America which lie at hand, if we are only awake
to take advantage of them. I shall be at your service, Senorita, as
soon as the meeting is over. I presume I shall see you again?" he
nodded to Kennedy.
"Quite likely," returned Kennedy drily.
"If there is any assistance I can render in clearing up this dreadful
thing," went on Lockwood, in a lower tone to us, "you may count on me
absolutely."
"Thank you," returned Craig, with a significant glance. "I may have to
take up that offer."
"Do so, by all means," he reiterated, bowing to Norton and backing out
of the door.
Alone again with Inez Mendoza, Kennedy turned suddenly. "Who is this
Senor de Moche?" he asked. "I gather that you must have known him in
Peru."
"Yes," she agreed. "I knew him in Lima"; then adding, as if by way of
confession, "when he was a student at the University."
There was something in both her tone and manner that would lead one to
believe that she had only the kindliest feelings toward de Moche,
whatever might be the case, as it seemed, with his mother.
For a moment Kennedy now advanced and took Senorita Inez by the hand.
"I must go now," he said simply. "If there is anything which you have
not told me, I should like to know."
"No--nothing," she answered.
He did not take his eyes from hers. "If you should recall anything
else," he persisted, "don't hesitate to tell me. I will come here, or
you may come to the laboratory, whichever is more convenient."
"I shall do so," she replied. "And thank you a thousand times for the
trouble you are going to in my behalf. You may be sure that I
appreciate it."
Norton also bade her farewell, and she thanked him for having brought
us over. I noticed also that Norton, though considerably older than any
of us, had apparently succumbed to the spell of her wonderful eyes and
face.
"I also would be glad to help you," he promised. "You can usually find
me at the Museum."
"Thank you all," she murmured. "You are all so kind to me. An hour ago
I felt that I had not a friend in all this big city--except Mr.
Lockwood. Now I feel that I am not quite all alone."
She said it to Norton, but it was really meant for Kennedy. I know
Craig shared my own feelings. It was a rare pleasure to work for her.
She seemed most appreciative of anything that was done for her in her
defenceless position.
As we passed out of the apartment house and sought our cab again,
Kennedy was the first to speak, and to Norton.
"Do you know anything more about these men, Lockwood and de Moche?" he
queried, as we sped uptown.
"I don't know a thing," he replied cautiously. "I--I'd much prefer not
to talk of suspicions."
"But the dagger," insisted Kennedy. "Have you no suspicions of what
became of it and who took it?"
"I'd prefer not to talk of mere suspicions," he repeated.
Little was said as we turned in at the campus and at last drew up
before Norton's wing of the Museum.
"You will let me know of any development, no matter how trivial?" asked
Kennedy, as we parted. "Your dagger seems to have stirred up more
trouble than there was any reason to suppose when you came to me first."
"I should say so," he agreed. "I don't know how to repay the interest
you have shown in its recovery. If anything else materializes, I shall
surely get word to you immediately."
As we turned to leave, I could not help thinking of the manner of
Lockwood and Norton toward each other. The name Stuart Whitney ran
through my head. Stuart Whitney was a trustee of the University who had
contributed heavily, among other things, to Norton's various
expeditions to South America. Was it that Norton felt a peculiar
loyalty to Whitney, or was he jealous that any one else should succeed
in interesting his patron in things South American?
The actions of the two young men, Lockwood and de Moche, recurred to
me. "Well," I remarked, as we walked along, "what do you think it is--a
romance or a simple crime-hunt?"
"Both, I suspect," replied Craig abstractedly. "Only not simple."
III
THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL DETECTIVE
"I think I'll go into the University Library," Craig remarked, as we
left Norton before his building. "I want to refresh my mind on some of
those old Peruvian antiquities and traditions. What the Senorita hinted
at may prove to be very important. I suppose you will have to turn in a
story to the Star soon?"
"Yes," I agreed, "I'll have to turn in something, although I'd prefer
to wait."
"Try to get an assignment to follow the case to the end," suggested
Craig. "I think you'll find it worth while. Anyhow, this will give you
a chance for a breathing space, and, if I have this thing doped out
right, you won't get another for some time. I'll meet you over in the
laboratory in a couple of hours."
Craig hurried up the long flight of white-marble steps to the library
and disappeared, while I jumped on the subway and ran downtown to the
office.
It took me, as I knew it would, considerably over a couple of hours to
clear things up at the Star, so that I could take advantage of a
special arrangement which I had made, so that I could, when a case
warranted it, co-operate with Kennedy. My story was necessarily brief,
but that was what I wanted just now. I did not propose to have the
whole field of special-feature writers camping on my preserve.
Uptown I hurried again, afraid that Kennedy had finished and might have
been called away. But when I reached the laboratory he was not there,
and I found that he had not been. Up and down I paced restlessly. There
was nothing else to do but wait. If he was unable to keep his
appointment here with me, I knew that he would soon telephone. What was
it, I wondered, that kept him delving into the archaeological lore of
the library?
I had about given him up, when he hurried into the laboratory in a high
state of excitement.
"What did you find?" I queried. "Has anything happened?"
"Let me tell you first what I found in the library," he replied,
tilting his hat back on his head and alternately thrusting and
withdrawing his fingers in his waistcoat pockets, as if in some way
that might help him to piece together some scattered fragments of a
story which he had just picked up.
"I've been looking up that hint that the Senorita dropped when she used
those words peje grande, which mean, literally, 'big fish,'" he
resumed. "Walter, it fires the imagination. You have read of the wealth
that Pizarro found in Peru, of course." Visions of Prescott flashed
through my mind as he spoke.
"Well, where are the gold and silver of the conquistadores? Gone to the
melting-pot, centuries ago. But is there none left? The Indians in Peru
believe so, at any rate. And, Walter, there are persons who would stop
at nothing to get at the secret.
"It is a matter of history that soon after the conquest a vast fortune
was unearthed of which the King of Spain's fifth amounted to five
million dollars. That treasure was known as the peje chica--the little
fish. One version of the story tells that an Inca ruler, the great
Cacique Mansiche, had observed with particular attention the kindness
of a young Spaniard toward the people of the conquered race. Also, he
had observed that the man was comparatively poor. At any rate, he
revealed the secret of the hiding-place of the peje chica, on condition
that a part of the wealth should be used to advance the interests of
the Indians.
"The most valuable article discovered was in the form of a fish of
solid gold and so large that the Spaniards considered it a rare prize.
But the Cacique assured his young friend that it was only the little
fish, that a much greater treasure existed, worth many times the value
of this one.
"The sequel of the story is that the Spaniard forgot his promise, went
off to Spain, and spent all his gold. He was returning for the peje
grande, of which he had made great boasts, but before he could get it
he was killed. Prescott, I believe, gives another version, in which he
says that the Spaniard devoted a large part of his wealth to the relief
of the Indians and gave large sums to the Peruvian churches. Other
stories deny that it was Mansiche who told the first secret, but that
it was another Indian. One may, I suppose, pay his money and take his
choice. But the point, as far as we are concerned in this case, is that
there is still believed to be the great fish, which no one has found.
Who knows? Perhaps, somehow, Mendoza had the secret of the peje grande?"
Kennedy paused, and I could feel the tense interest with which his
delving into the crumbling past had now endowed this already
fascinating case.
"And the curse?" I put in.
"About that we do not know," he replied. "Except that we do know that
Mansiche was the great Cacique or ruler of northern Peru. The natives
are believed to have buried a far greater treasure than even that which
the Spaniards carried off. Mansiche is said to have left a curse on any
native who ever divulged the whereabouts of the treasure, and the curse
was also to fall on any Spaniard who might discover it. That is all we
know--yet. Gold was used lavishly in the temples. That great hoard is
really the Gold of the Gods. Surely, as we have seen it so far in this
case, it must be cursed."
There was a knock on the laboratory door, and I sprang to open it,
expecting to find that it was something for Kennedy. Instead there
stood one of the office boys of the Star.
"Why, hello, Tommy," I greeted him. "What seems to be the matter now?"
"A letter for you, Mr. Jameson," he replied, handing over a plain
envelope. "It came just after you left. The Boss thought it might be
important--something about that story, I guess. Anyhow, he told me to
take it up to you on my way home, sir."
I looked at it again. It bore simply my name and the address of the
Star, not written, but, strange to say, printed in ungainly, rough
characters, as though some one were either not familiar with writing
English or desired to conceal his handwriting.
"Where did it come from--and how?" I asked, as I tore the envelope open.
"I don't know where, sir," replied Tommy. "A boy brought it. Said a man
uptown gave him a quarter to deliver it to you."
I looked at the contents in blank amazement. There was nothing in the
letter except a quarter sheet of ordinary size note paper such as that
used in typewritten correspondence.
Printed on it, in characters exactly like those on the outside of the
envelope, were the startling words:
"BEWARE THE CURSE OF MANSICHE ON THE GOLD OF THE GODS."
Underneath this inscription appeared the rude drawing of a dagger in
which some effort had evidently been made to make it appear three-sided.
"Well, of all things, what do you think of that?" I cried, tossing the
thing over to Kennedy.
He took it and read it; his face puckered deeply. "I'm not surprised,"
he said, a moment later, looking up. "Do you know, I was just about to
tell you what happened at the library. I had a feeling all the time I
was there of being watched. I don't know why or how, but, somehow, I
felt that some one was interested in the books I was reading. It made
me uncomfortable. I was late, anyhow, and I decided not to give them
the satisfaction of seeing me any more--at least in the library. So I
have had a number of the books on Peru which I wanted reserved, and
they'll be sent over later, here. No, I'm not surprised that you
received this. Would you remember the boy?" he asked of Tommy.
"I think so," replied Tommy. "He didn't have on a uniform, though. It
wasn't a messenger."
There was no use to question him further. He had evidently told all
that he knew, and finally we had to let him go, with a parting
injunction to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut.
Kennedy continued to study the note on the quarter sheet of paper long
after the boy had gone.
"You know," he remarked thoughtfully, after a while, "as nearly as I
can make the thing out with the slender information that we have so
far, the weirdest superstitions seem to cluster about that dagger which
Norton lost. I wouldn't be surprised if it took us far back into the
dim past of the barbaric splendour of the lost Inca civilization of
Peru."
He waved the sheet of paper for emphasis. "You see, some one has used
it here as a sign of terror. Perhaps somehow it bore the secret of the
big fish--who knows? None of the writers and explorers have ever found
it. The most they can say is that it may be handed down from father to
son through a long line. At any rate, the secret of the hiding-place
seems to have been safely kept. No one has ever found the treasure. It
would be strange, wouldn't it, if it remained for some
twentieth-century civilized man to unearth the thing and start again
the curse that historians say was uttered and seems always to have
followed the thing?"
"Kennedy, this affair is getting on my nerves already."
While Craig was speaking the door of the laboratory had opened without
our hearing it, and there stood Norton again. He had waited until Craig
had finished before he had spoken.
We looked at him, startled, ourselves.
"I had some work to do after I left you," went on Norton, without
stopping. "In my letter-box were several letters, but I forgot to look
at them until just now, when I was leaving. Then I picked them
up--and--look at this thing that was among them."
Norton laid down on the laboratory table a plain envelope and a quarter
sheet of paper on which were printed, except for his own name instead
of mine, an almost exact replica of the note which I had received.
"BEWARE THE CURSE OF MANSICHE ON THE GOLD OF THE GODS."
Kennedy and I looked at him. Already, evidently, he had seen that
Kennedy held in his hand the note that had come to me.
"I can't make anything out of it," went on Norton, evidently much
worried. "First I lose the dagger. Next you say it was used to murder
Mendoza. Then I get this. Now, if any one can get into the Museum to
steal the dagger, they could get in to carry out any threat of revenge,
real or fancied."
Looked at in that respect, I felt that it was indeed a real cause of
worry for Norton. But, then, it flashed over me, was not my own case
worse? I was to be responsible for telling the story. Might not some
unseen hand strike at me, perhaps sooner than at him?
Kennedy had taken the two notes and was scanning them eagerly.
Just then an automobile drew up outside, and a moment later we heard a
tap at the door which Kennedy had closed after the entrance of Norton.
I opened it.
"Is Professor Kennedy here?" I heard a voice inquire. "I'm one of the
orderlies at the City Hospital, next to the Morgue, where Dr. Leslie
has his laboratory. I've a message for Professor Kennedy, if he's in."
Kennedy took the envelope, which bore the stamp of Dr. Leslie's
department, and tore it open.
"My dear Kennedy," he read, in an undertone. "I've been engaged in
investigating that poison which probably surrounds the wound in the
Mendoza case, but as yet have nothing to report. It is certainly none
of the things which we ordinarily run up against. Enclosed you will
find a slip of paper and the envelope which it came in--something, I
take it, that has been sent me by a crank. Would you treat it seriously
or disregard it? Leslie."
As Kennedy had unfolded Leslie's own letter a piece of paper had
fluttered to the floor. I picked it up mechanically, and only now
looked at it, as Craig finished reading.
On it was another copy of the threat that had been sent to both Norton
and myself!
The hospital orderly had scarcely gone when another tap came at the
door.
"Your books from the library, Professor," announced a student who was
employed in the library as part payment of his tuition. "I've signed
the slip for them, sir."
He deposited the books on a desk, a huge pile of them, which reached
from his outstretched arms to his chin. As he did so the pressure of
his arms released the pile of books and the column collapsed.
From a book entitled "New and Old Peru," which fell with the pile,
slipped a plain white envelope. Kennedy saw it before either of us, and
seized it.
"Here's one for me," he said, tearing it open.
Sure enough, in the same rude printing on a quarter sheet were the
words:
"BEWARE THE CURSE OF MANSICHE ON THE GOLD OF THE GODS."
We could only stare at each other and at that tell-tale sign of the
Inca dagger underneath.
What did it mean? Who had sent the warnings?
Kennedy alone seemed to regard the affair as if with purely scientific
interest. He took the four pieces of paper and laid them down before
him on the table. Then he looked up suddenly.
"They match perfectly," he said quietly, gathering them up and placing
them in a wallet which he carried. "All the indentures of the tearing
correspond. Four warnings seem to have been sent to those who are
likely to find out something of the secret."
Norton seemed to have gained somewhat of his composure now that he had
been able to talk to some one.
"What are you going to do--give it up?" he asked tensely.
"Nothing could have insured my sticking to it harder," answered Craig
grimly.
"Then we'll all have to stick together," said Norton slowly. "We all
seem to be in the same boat."
As he rose to go he extended a hand to each of us.
"I'll stick," repeated Kennedy, with that peculiar bulldog look of
intensity on his face which I had come to know so well.
IV
THE TREASURE HUNTERS
Norton had scarcely gone, and Kennedy was still studying the four
pieces of paper on which the warning had been given, when our
laboratory door was softly pushed open again.
It was Senorita Mendoza, looking more beautiful than ever in her plain
black mourning dress, the unnatural pallor of her face heightening the
wonderful lustrous eyes that looked about as though half frightened at
what she was doing.
"I hope nothing has happened," greeted Kennedy, placing an easy-chair
for her. "But I'm glad to see that you have confidence enough to trust
me."
She looked about doubtfully at the vast amount of paraphernalia which
Craig had collected in his scientific warfare on crime. Though she did
not understand it, it seemed to impress her.
"No," she murmured, "nothing new has happened. You told me to call on
you if I should think of anything else."
She said it with an air as if confessing something. It was apparent
that, whatever it was, she had known it all the time and only after a
struggle had brought herself to telling it.
"Then you have thought of something?" prompted Craig.
"Yes," she replied in a low tone. Then with an effort she went on: "I
don't know whether you know it or not, but my family is an old one, one
of the oldest in Peru."
Kennedy nodded encouragingly.