it was not. But it took more than that to deny anything he asserted.
Lockwood's face was a study. I cannot say that it betrayed anything
except disapproval of the mere discussion of the subject. In fact, it
left me in doubt as to whether Whitney himself might not have been
bluffing, in the certainty of finding the treasure--perhaps had already
the secret he denied having and was preparing to cover it up by
stumbling on it, apparently, in some other way. I recognized in Stuart
Whitney as smooth an individual as ever we had encountered. His was all
the sincerity of a crook. Yet he contrived to leave the whole matter in
doubt. Perhaps in this case he actually knew what he was talking about.
The telephone rang and Lockwood answered it. Though he did not mention
her name, I knew from his very tone and manner that it was Senorita de
Mendoza who was calling up. Evidently his continued absence had worried
her.
"There's absolutely nothing to worry about," we heard him say. "Nothing
has changed. I shall be up to see you as soon as I can get away from
the office."
There was an air of restraint about Lockwood's remarks, not as though
he were keeping anything from the Senorita, but as though he were
reluctant for us to overhear anything about his affairs.
Lockwood had been smoking, too, and he added the stubs of his
cigarettes to the pile in the ash-tray on Whitney's desk. Once I saw
Craig cast a quick glance at the tray, and I understood that in some
way he was anxious to have a chance to investigate those cigarettes.
"You saw the dagger which Norton brought back, did you not?" asked
Kennedy of Whitney.
"Only as I saw the rest of the stuff after it was unpacked," he replied
easily. "He brought back a great many interesting objects on this last
trip."
It was apparent that whether he actually knew anything about the secret
of the Inca dagger or not, Whitney was not to be trapped into betraying
it. I had an idea that Lockwood was interested in knowing that fact,
too. At any rate, one could not be sure whether these two were
perfectly frank with each other, or were playing a game for high stakes
between themselves.
Lockwood seemed eager to get away and, with a hasty glance at his
watch, rose.
"If you wish to find me, I shall be with Senorita de Mendoza," he said,
taking his hat and stick, and bowing to us.
Whitney rose and accompanied him to the door in the outer office, his
arm on his shoulder, conversing in a low tone that was inaudible to us.
No sooner, however, had the two passed through the door, with their
backs toward us, than Kennedy reached over quickly and swept the
contents of the ash-tray, cigarette stubs, ashes, and all, into an
empty envelope which was lying with some papers. Then he sealed it and
shoved it into his pocket, with a sidelong glance of satisfaction at me.
"Evidently Mr. Lockwood and the Senorita are on intimate terms,"
hazarded Kennedy, as Whitney rejoined us.
"Poor little girl," soliloquized the promoter. "Yes, indeed. And
Lockwood is a lucky dog, too. Such eyes, such a figure--did you ever
see a more beautiful woman?"
One could not help recognizing that whatever else Whitney might have
said that did not ring true his admiration for the unfortunate girl was
genuine. That was not so remarkable, however. It could hardly have been
otherwise.
"You are acquainted, I suppose, with a Senora de Moche?" ventured
Kennedy again, taking a chance shot.
Whitney looked at him keenly. "Yes," he agreed, "I have had some
dealings with her. She was an acquaintance of old Mendoza's--a woman of
the world, clever, shrewd. I think she has but one ambition--her son.
You have met her?"
"Not the Senora," admitted Craig, "but her son is a student at the
University."
"Oh, yes, to be sure," said Whitney. "A fine fellow--but not of the
type of Lockwood."
Why he should have coupled the names was not clear for the moment. But
he had risen, and was moving deliberately up and down the office, his
thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, as though he were thinking of
something very perplexing.
"If I were younger," he remarked finally, of a sudden, "I would give
both of them a race for that girl. She is the greatest treasure that
has ever come out of the country. Ah, well--as it is, I would not place
my money on young de Moche!"
Kennedy had risen to go.
"I trust you will be able to unearth some clue regarding that dagger,"
said Whitney, as we moved toward the door. "It seems to have worried
Norton considerably, especially since you told him that Mendoza was
undoubtedly murdered with it."
Evidently Norton kept in close touch with his patron, but Kennedy did
not appear to be surprised at it.
"I am doing my best," he returned. "I suppose I may count on your help
as the case develops?"
"Absolutely," replied Whitney, accompanying us out into the hall to the
elevator. "I shall back Norton in anything he wants to keep the
Peruvian collection intact and protected."
Our questions were as yet unanswered. Not only had we no inkling as to
the whereabouts of the dagger, but the source of the four warnings that
had been sent us was still as much shrouded in mystery.
Kennedy beckoned to a passing taxicab.
"The Prince Edward Albert," he directed briefly.
VI
THE CURSE OF MANSICHE
We entered the Prince Edward Albert a few minutes later, one of the new
and beautiful family hotels uptown.
Before making any inquiries, Craig gave a hasty look about the lobby.
Suddenly I felt him take my arm and draw me over to a little alcove on
one side. I followed the direction of his eyes. There I could see young
Alfonso de Moche talking to a woman much older than himself.
"That must be his mother," whispered Craig. "You can see the
resemblance. Let's sit here awhile behind these palms and watch."
They seemed to be engaged in an earnest conversation about something.
Even as they talked, though we could not guess what it was about, it
was evident that Alfonso was dearer than life to the woman and that the
young man was a model son. Though I felt that I must admire them each
for it, still, I reflected, that was no reason why we should not
suspect them--perhaps rather a reason for suspecting.
Senora de Moche was a woman of well-preserved middle age, a large
woman, with dark hair and contrasting full, red lips. Her face, in
marked contradiction to her Parisian costume and refined manners, had a
slight copper swarthiness about it which spoke eloquently of her
ancestry.
But it was her eyes that arrested and held one's attention most.
Whether it was in the eyes themselves or in the way that she used them,
there could be no mistake about the almost hypnotic power that their
owner possessed. I could not help wondering whether she might not have
exercised it on Don Luis, perhaps was using it in some way to influence
Whitney. Was that the reason why the Senorita so evidently feared her?
Fortunately, from our vantage point, we could see without being in any
danger of being seen.
"There's Whitney," I heard Craig mutter under his breath.
I looked up and saw the promoter enter from his car. At almost the same
instant the roving eyes of the Senora seemed to catch sight of him. He
came over and spoke to the de Moches, standing with them several
minutes. I fancied that not for an instant did she allow the gaze of
any one else to distract her in the projection of whatever weird ocular
power nature had endowed her with. If it were a battle of eyes, I
recollected the strange look that I had noted about those of both
Whitney and Lockwood. That, however, was different from the impression
one got of the Senora's. I felt that she would have to be pretty clever
to match the subtlety of Whitney.
Whatever it was they were talking about, one could see that Whitney and
Senora de Moche were on very familiar terms. At the same time, young de
Moche appeared to be ill at ease. Perhaps he did not approve of the
intimacy with Whitney. At any rate, he seemed visibly relieved when the
promoter excused himself and walked over to the desk to get his mail
and then out into the cafe.
"I'd like to get a better view of her," remarked Kennedy, rising. "Let
us take a turn or two along the corridor and pass them."
We sauntered forth from our alcove and strolled down among the various
knots of people chatting and laughing. As we passed the woman and her
son, I was conscious again of that strange feeling, which psychologists
tell us, however, has no real foundation, of being stared at from
behind.
At the lower end of the lobby Kennedy turned suddenly and we started to
retrace our steps. Alfonso's back was toward us now. Again we passed
them, just in time to catch the words, in a low tone, from the young
man, "Yes, I have seen him at the University. Every one there knows
that he is--"
The rest of the sentence was lost. But it was not difficult to
reconstruct. It referred undoubtedly to the activities of Kennedy in
unravelling mysteries.
"It's quite evident," I suggested, "that they know that we are
interested in them now."
"Yes," he agreed. "There wasn't any use of watching them further from
under cover. I wanted them to see me, just to find out what they would
do."
Kennedy was right. Indeed, even before we turned again, we found that
the Senora and Alfonso had risen and were making their way slowly to
the elevators, still talking earnestly. The lifts were around an angle,
and before we could place ourselves so that we could observe them again
they were gone.
"I wish there was some way of adding Alfonso's shoe-prints to my
collection," observed Craig. "The marks that I found in the dust of the
sarcophagus in the Museum were those of a man's shoes. However, I
suppose I must wait to get them."
He walked over to the desk and made inquiries about the de Moches and
Whitney. Each had a suite on the eighth floor, though on opposite sides
and at opposite ends of the hall.
"There's no use wasting time trying to conceal our identity now,"
remarked Kennedy finally, drawing a card from his case. "Besides, we
came here to see them, anyhow." He handed the card to the clerk.
"Senora de Moche, please," he said.
The clerk took the card and telephoned up to the de Moche suite. I must
say that it was somewhat to my surprise that the Senora telephoned down
to say that she would receive us in her own sitting room.
"That's very kind," commented Craig, as I followed him into the
elevator. "It saves planning some roundabout way of meeting her and
comes directly to the point."
The elevator whisked us up directly to the eighth floor and we stepped
out into the heavily carpeted hallway, passing down to Room 810, which
was the number of her suite. Further on, in 825, was Whitney's.
Alfonso was not there. Evidently he had not ridden up with his mother,
after all, but had gone out through another entrance on the ground
floor. The Senora was alone.
"I hope that you will pardon me for intruding," began Craig, with as
plausible an explanation as he could muster, "but I have become
interested in an opportunity to invest in a Peruvian venture, and I
have heard that you are a Peruvian. Your son, Alfonso, I have already
met, once. I thought that perhaps you might be able to give me some
advice." She looked at us keenly, but said nothing. I fancied that she
detected the subterfuge. Yet she had not tried, and did not try now to
avoid us. Either she had no connection with the case we were
investigating or she was an adept actress.
On closer view, her eyes were really even more remarkable than I had
imagined at a distance. They were those of a woman endowed with an
abundance of health and energy, eyes that were full of what the old
character readers used to call "amativeness," denoting a nature capable
of intense passion, whether of love or hate. Yet I confess that I could
not find anything especially abnormal about them, as I had about the
eyes of Lockwood and Whitney.
It was some time before she replied, and I gave a hasty glance about
the apartment. Of course, it had been rented furnished, but she had
rearranged it, adding some touches of her own which gave it quite a
Peruvian appearance, due perhaps more to the pictures and the ornaments
which she had introduced rather than anything else.
"I suppose," she replied, at length, slowly, and looking at us as if
she would bore right through into our minds, "I suppose you mean the
schemes of Mr. Lockwood--and Mr. Whitney."
Kennedy was not to be taken by surprise. "I have heard of their
schemes, too," he replied noncommittally. "Peru seems to be a veritable
storehouse of tales of buried treasure."
"Let me tell you about it," she hastened, nodding at the very words
"buried treasure." "I suppose you know that the old Chimu tribes in the
north were the wealthiest at the time of the coming of the Spaniards?"
Craig nodded, and a moment later she resumed, as if trying to marshal
her thoughts in a logical order. "They had a custom then of burying
with their dead all their movable property. Graves were not dug
separately. Therefore, you see, sometimes a common grave, or huaca, as
it is called, would be given to many. That huaca would become a cache
of treasure in time. It was sacred to the dead, and hence it was wicked
to touch it."
The Senora's face betrayed the fact that, whatever modern civilization
had done for her, it had not yet quite succeeded in eliminating the old
ideas.
"Back in the early part of the seventeenth century," she continued,
leaning forward in her chair eagerly as she talked, "a Spaniard opened
a Chimu huaca and found gold that is said to have been worth more than
a million dollars. An Indian told him about it. Who the Indian was does
not matter. But the Spaniard was an ancestor of Don Luis de Mendoza,
who was found murdered to-day."
She stopped short, seeming to enjoy the surprised look on our faces at
finding that she was willing to discuss the matter so intimately.
"After the Indian had shown the Spaniard the treasure in the mound,"
she pursued, "the Indian told the Spaniard that he had given him only
the little fish, the peje chica, but that some day he would give him
the big fish, the peje grande. I see that you already know at least a
part of the story, anyhow."
"Yes," admitted Kennedy, "I do know something of it. But I should
rather get it more accurately from your lips than from the hearsay
of any one else."
She smiled quietly to herself. "I don't believe," she added, "that you
know that the _peje grande_ was not ordinary treasure. It was the
temple gold. Why, some of the temples were literally plated over
heavily with pure gold. That gold, as well as what had been buried in
the huacas, was sacred. Mansiche, the supreme ruler, laid a curse on
it, on any Indian who would tell of it, on any Spaniard who might learn
of it. A curse lies on the finding--yes, even on the searching for the
sacred Gold of the Gods. It is one of the most awful curses that have
ever been uttered, that curse of Mansiche."
Even as she spoke of it she lowered her voice. I felt that no matter
how much education she had, there lurked back in her brain some of the
primitive impulses, as well as beliefs. Either the curse of Mansiche on
the treasure was as real to her as if its mere touch were poisonous, or
else she was going out of her way to create that impression with us.
"Somehow," she continued, in a low tone, "that Spaniard, the ancestor
of Don Luis Mendoza, obtained some idea of the secret. He died," she
said solemnly, flashing a glance at Craig from her wonderful eyes to
stamp the idea indelibly. "He was stabbed by one of the members of the
tribe. On the dagger, so I have heard, was marked the secret of the
treasure."
I felt that in a bygone age she might have made a great priestess of
the heathen gods. Now, was she more than a clever actress?
She paused, then added, "That is my tribe--my family."
Again she paused. "For centuries the big fish was a secret, is still a
secret--or, at least, was until some one got it from my brother down in
Peru. The tradition and the dagger had been intrusted to him. I don't
know how it happened. Somehow he seemed to grow crazy--until he talked.
The dagger was stolen from him. How it happened, how it came into
Professor Norton's hands, I do not know.
"But, at any rate," she continued, in the same solemn tone, "the curse
has followed it. After my brother had told the secret of the dagger and
lost it, his mind left him. He threw himself one day into Lake
Titicaca."
Her voice broke dramatically in her passionate outpouring of the
tragedies that had followed the hidden treasure and the Inca dagger.
"Now, here in New York, comes this awful death of Senor Mendoza," she
cried. "I don't know, no one knows, whether he had obtained the secret
of the gold or not. At any rate, he must have thought he had it. He has
been killed suddenly, in his own home. That is my answer to your
inquiry about the treasure-hunting company you mentioned, whatever it
may be. I need say no more of the curse of Mansiche. Is the Gold of the
Gods worth it?"
There could be no denying that it was real to her, whatever we might
think of the story. I recollected the roughly printed warnings that had
been sent to Norton, Leslie, Kennedy, and myself. Had they, then, some
significance? I had not been able to convince myself that they were the
work of a crank, alone. There must be some one to whom the execution of
vengeance of the gods was an imperative duty. Unsuperstitious as I was,
I saw here a real danger. If some one, either to preserve the secret
for himself or else called by divine mandate to revenge, should take a
notion to carry out the threats in the four notes, what might not
happen?
"I cannot tell you much more of fact than you probably already know,"
she remarked, watching our faces intently and noting the effect of
every word. "You know, I suppose, that the treasure has always been
believed to be in a large mound, a tumulus I think you call it, visible
from our town of Truxillo. Many people have tried to open it, but the
mass of sand pours down on them and they have been discouraged."
"No one has ever stumbled on the secret?" queried Kennedy.
She shook her head. "There have been those who have sought, there are
even those who are seeking, the point just where to bore into the
mounds. If they could find it, they plan to construct a well-timbered
tunnel to keep back the sand and to drive it at the right point to
obtain this fabulous wealth."
She vouchsafed the last information with a sort of quiet assurance that
conveyed the idea, without her saying it directly, that any such
venture was somehow doomed to failure, that desecrators were merely
toying with fate.
All through her story one could see that she felt deeply the downfall
and betrayal of her brother, followed by the tragedy to him after the
age-old secret had slipped from his grasp. Was there still to be
vengeance for his downfall? Surely, I thought to myself, Don Luis de
Mendoza could not have been in possession of the secret, unless he had
arrived at it, with Lockwood, in some other way than by deciphering the
almost illegible marks of the dagger. I thought of Whitney. Had he
perhaps had something to do with the nasty business?
I happened to glance at a huge pile of works on mining engineering on
the table, the property of Alfonso. She saw me looking at them, and her
eyes assumed a far-away, dreamy impression as she murmured something.
"You must know that we real Peruvians have been so educated that we
never explore ruins for hidden treasure, not even if we have the
knowledge of engineering to do so. It is a sort of sacrilege to us to
do that. The gold was not our gold, you see. Some of it belongs to the
spirits of the departed. But the big treasure belonged to the gods
themselves. It was the gold which lay in sheets over the temple walls,
sacred. No, we would not touch it."
I wondered cynically what would happen if some one at that moment had
appeared with the authenticated secret. She continued to gaze at the
books. "There are plenty of rare chances for a young mining engineer in
Peru without that."
Apparently she was thinking of her son and his studies at the
University as they affected his future career.
One could follow her thoughts, even, as they flitted from the treasure,
to the books, to her son, and, finally, to the pretty girl for whom
both he and Lockwood were struggling.
"We are a peculiar race," she ruminated. "We seldom intermarry with
other races. We are as proud as Senor Mendoza was of his Castilian
descent, as proud of our unmixed lineage as any descendant of a 'belted
earl.'"
Senora de Moche made the remarks with a quiet dignity which left no
doubt in my mind that the race feeling cut deeply.
She had risen now, and in place of the awesome fear of the curse and
tragedy of the treasure her face was burning and her eyes flashed.
"Old Don Luis thought I was good enough to amuse his idle hours," she
cried. "But when he saw that Alfonso was in love with his daughter,
that she might return that love, then I found out bitterly that he
placed us in another class, another caste."
Kennedy had been following her closely, and I could see now that the
cross-currents of superstition, avarice, and race hatred in the case
presented a tangle that challenged him.
There was nothing more that we could extract from her just then. She
had remained standing, as a gentle reminder that the interview had
already been long.
Kennedy took the hint. "I wish to thank you for the trouble you have
gone to," he bowed, after we, too, had risen. "You have told me quite
enough to make me think seriously before I join in any such
undertaking."
She smiled enigmatically. Whether it was that she had enjoyed
penetrating our rather clumsy excuse for seeing her, or that she felt
that the horror of the curse had impressed us, she seemed well content.
We bowed ourselves out, and, after waiting a few moments about the
hotel without seeing Whitney anywhere, Craig called a car.
"They were right," was his only comment. "A most baffling woman,
indeed."
VII
THE ARROW POISON
Back again in the laboratory, Kennedy threw off his coat and plunged
again into his investigation of the blood sample he had taken from the
wound in Mendoza's body.
We had scarcely been back half an hour before the door opened and Dr.
Leslie's perplexed face looked in on us. He was carrying a large jar,
in which he had taken away the materials which he wished to examine.
"Well," asked Kennedy, pausing with a test-tube poised over a Bunsen
burner, "have you found anything yet? I haven't had time to get very
far with my own tests yet."
"Not a blessed thing," returned the coroner. "I'm desperate. One of the
chemists suggested cyanide, another carbon monoxide. But there is no
trace of either. Then he suggested nux vomica. It wasn't nux vomica;
but my tests show that it must have been something very much like it.
I've looked for all the ordinary known poisons and some of the
little-known alkaloids, but, Kennedy, I always get back to the same
point. There must have been a poison there. He did not die primarily of
the wound. It was asphyxia due to a poison that really killed him,
though the wound might have done so, but not quite so quickly."
I could tell by the look that crossed Kennedy's face that at last a ray
of light had pierced the darkness. He reached for a bottle on the shelf
labelled spirits of turpentine.
Then he poured a little of the blood sample from the jar which the
coroner had brought into a clean tube and added a few drops of the
spirits of turpentine. A cloudy, dark precipitate formed. He smiled
quietly, and said, half to himself, "I thought so."
"What is it?" asked the coroner eagerly, "nux vomica?"
Craig shook his head as he stared at the black precipitate. "You were
perfectly right about the asphyxiation, Doctor," he remarked slowly,
"but wrong as to the cause. It was a poison--one you would never dream
of."
"What is it?" Leslie and I asked simultaneously.
"Let me take all these samples and make some further tests," he said.
"I am quite sure of it, but it is new to me. By the way, may I trouble
you and Leslie to go over to the Museum of Natural History with a
letter?"
It was evident that he wanted to work uninterrupted, and we agreed
readily, especially because by going we might also be of some use in
solving the mystery of the poison.
He sat down and wrote a hasty note to the director of the Museum, and a
few moments later we were speeding over in Leslie's car.
At the big building we had no trouble in finding the director and
presenting the note. He was a close friend of Kennedy's and more than
willing to aid him in any way.
"You will excuse me a moment?" he apologized. "I will get from the
South American exhibit just what he wants."
We waited several minutes in the office until finally he returned
carrying a gourd, incrusted on its hollow inside surface with a kind of
blackish substance.