Whitney and her, "when Mr. Whitney happened along. I don't see Senora
de Moche in the tea room. Perhaps we may as well sit out here in the
corridor until she comes."
It was evidently his desire to see how Whitney and Inez would act, for
this was the first time we had ever seen them together.
"We were talking of the treasure," resumed Whitney, omitting to mention
the dagger. "Kennedy, we are not the only ones who have sought the peje
grande, or rather are seeking it. But we are, I believe, the only ones
who are seeking it in the right place, and," he added, leaning over
confidentially, "your father, Senorita, was the only one who could have
got the concession, the monopoly, from the government to seek in what I
am convinced will be the right place. Others have found the 'little
fish.' We shall find the 'big fish.'"
He had raised his voice from the whisper, and I caught Inez looking
anxiously at Kennedy, as much as to say, "You see? He is like the rest.
His mind is full of only one subject."
"We shall find it, too," he continued, still speaking in a high-pitched
key, "no matter what obstacles man or devil put in our way. It shall be
ours--for a simple piece of engineering--ours! The curse of
Mansiche--pouf!"
He snapped his fingers defiantly as he said it. There was an air of
bravado about his manner. I could not help feeling that perhaps in his
heart he was not so sure of himself as he would have others think.
I watched him closely, and could see that he had suddenly become even
more excited than before. It was as though some diabolical force had
taken possession of his brain, and he fought it off, but was unable to
conquer.
Kennedy followed the staring glance of Whitney's eyes, which seemed
almost to pop out of his head, as though he were suffering from the
disease exophthalmic goitre. I looked also. Senora de Moche had come
from the elevator, accompanied by Alfonso, and was walking slowly down
the corridor. As she looked to the right and left, she had caught sight
of our little group, all except Whitney, with our backs toward her. She
was now looking fixedly in our direction, paying no attention to
anything else.
Whitney was a study. I wondered what could be the relations between
these two, the frankly voluptuous woman and the calculating
full-blooded man. Whitney, for his part, seemed almost fascinated by
her gaze. He rose as she bowed, and, for a moment, I thought that he
was going over to speak to her, as if drawn by that intangible
attraction which Poe has so cleverly expressed in his "Imp of the
Perverse." For, clearly, one who talked as Whitney had just been
talking would have to be on his guard with that woman. Instead,
however, he returned her nod and stood still, while Kennedy bowed at a
distance and signalled to her that we would be in the tea room directly.
I glanced up in time to see the anxious look on the face of Inez change
momentarily into a flash of hatred toward the Senora.
At the same moment Alfonso, who was on the other side of his mother,
turned from looking at a newsstand which had attracted his attention
and caught sight of us. There was no mistaking the ardent glance which
he directed at the fair Peruvian at my side. I fancied, too, that her
face softened a bit. It was only for a moment, and then Inez resumed
her normal composure.
"I won't detain you any longer," remarked Whitney. "Somehow, when I
start to talk about my--our plans down there at Truxillo I could go on
all night. It is marvellous, marvellous. We haven't any idea of what
the future holds in store. No one else in all this big city has
anything like the prospect which is before us. Gradually we are getting
everything into shape. When we are ready to go ahead, it will be the
sensation of Wall Street--and, believe me, it takes much to arouse the
Street."
He may have been talking wildly, but it was worth while to listen to
him. For, whatever else he was, Whitney was one of the most persuasive
promoters of the day. More than that, I could well imagine how any one
possessed of an imagination susceptible to the influence of mystery and
tradition would succumb to the glittering charm of the magic words,
peje chica, and feel all the gold-hunter's enthusiasm when Whitney
brought him into the atmosphere of the peje grande. As he talked,
visions of hidden treasure seemed to throw a glamour over everything.
One saw golden.
"You will excuse us?" apologized Kennedy, taking Inez by the arm. "If
you are about, Mr. Whitney, I shall stop to chat with you again on the
way out."
"Remember--she is a very remarkable woman," said Whitney, as we left
him and started for the tea room.
His tone was not exactly one of warning, yet it seemed to have cost him
an effort to say it. I could not reconcile it with any other idea than
that he was trying to use her in his own plans, but was still in doubt
of the outcome.
We parted from him and entered the darkened tea room, with its wicker
tables and chairs, and soft lights, glowing pinkly, to simulate night
in the broad light of afternoon outside. A fountain splashed soothingly
in the centre. Everything was done to lend to the place an exotic air
of romance.
Alfonso and his mother had chosen a far corner, deeper than the rest in
the shadows, where two wicker settees were drawn up about a table,
effectually cutting off inquisitive eyes and ears.
Alfonso rose as we approached and bowed deeply. I could not help
watching the two women as they greeted each other.
"Won't you be seated?" he asked, pulling around one of the wicker
chairs.
It was then that I saw how he had contrived to sit next to Inez, while
Kennedy manoeuvred to sit on the end, where he could observe them all
best.
It was a rather delicate situation, and I wondered how Kennedy would
handle it, for, although Alfonso had done the inviting, it was really
Craig who was responsible for allowing Inez to accept. The Senora
seemed to recognize it, also, for, although she talked to Inez, it was
plain she had him in mind.
"I have heard from Alfonso about the cruel death of your father," she
began, in a softened tone, "and I haven't had a chance to tell you how
deeply I sympathize with you. Of course, I am a much older woman than
you, have seen much more trouble. But I know that never in life do
troubles seem keener than when life is young. And yours has been so
harsh. I could not let it pass without an opportunity to tell you how
deeply I feel."
She said it with an air of sincerity that was very convincing, so
convincing, in fact, that it shook for the moment the long chain of
suspicion that I had been forging both of her and her son. Could she be
such a heartless woman as to play on the very heartstrings of one whom
she had wronged? I was shaken, moreover, by the late discovery by
Kennedy of the foot-prints.
The Senorita murmured her thanks for the condolences in a broken voice.
It was evident that whatever enmity she bore against the Senora it was
not that of suspicion that she was the cause of her father's death.
"I can sympathize with you the more deeply," she went on, "because only
lately I have lost a very dear brother myself. Already I have told
Professor Kennedy something about it. It was a matter of which I felt I
must speak to you, for it may concern you, in the venture in which Mr.
Lockwood and your father were associated, and into which now Mr.
Whitney has entered."
Inez said nothing, and Craig bowed, as though he, too, wished her to go
on.
"It is about the 'big fish' and the concession which your father has
obtained from the government to search for it."
The Senorita started and grew a bit pale at the reference, but she
seemed to realize that it was something she ought to hear, and steeled
herself to it.
"Yes," she murmured, "I understand."
"As you no doubt know," resumed the Senora, "no one has had the secret
of the hiding-place. It has been by mere tradition that they were going
to dig. That secret, you may know or may not know now, was in reality
contained in the inscriptions on an old Inca dagger."
Inez shuddered at the mention of the weapon, a shudder that was not
lost on the Senora.
"I have already told Professor Kennedy that both the tradition and the
dagger were handed down in my own family, coming at last to my brother.
As I said, I don't know how it happened, but somehow he seemed to be
getting crazy, until he talked, and the dagger was stolen from him. It
came finally into Professor Norton's hands, from whom it was in turn
stolen."
She looked at Inez searchingly, as if to discover just what she knew. I
wondered whether the Senora suspected the presence of Lockwood's
footprints in the sarcophagus in the Museum--what she would do if she
did.
"After he lost it," she continued reminiscently, "my brother threw
himself one day into Lake Titicaca. Everywhere the trail of that
dagger, of the secret of the Gold of the Gods has been stained by
blood. To-day the world scoffs at curses. But surely that gold must be
cursed. It has been cursed for us and ours."
She spoke bitterly; yet might she not mean that the loss of the dagger,
the secret, was a curse, too?
"There is one other thing I wish to say, and then I will be through.
Far back, when your ancestors came into the country of mine, an
ancestor of your father lost his life over the treasure. It seems as if
there were a strange fatality over it, as if the events of to-day were
but living over the events of yesterday. It is something that we cannot
escape--fate."
She paused a moment, then added, "Yet it might be possible that the
curse could be removed if somehow we, who were against each other then,
might forget and be for each other now."
"But Senorita Mendoza has not the dagger," put in Kennedy, watching her
face keenly, to read the effect of his remark. "She has no idea where
it may be."
"Then it is pure tradition on which Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Whitney depend
in their search for the treasure?" flashed back the Senora quickly.
Kennedy did not know, but he did not confess it. "Until we know
differently, we must take their word for it," he evaded.
"It was not that that I meant, however," replied Senora de Moche. "I
meant that we might stop the curse by ceasing to hunt for the treasure.
It has never done any one good; it never will. Why tempt fate, then?
Why not pause before it is too late?"
I could not quite catch the secondary implication of her plan. Did it
mean that the treasure would then be left for her family? Or was she
hinting at Inez accepting Alfonso's suit? Somehow I could not take the
Senora at her face value. I constantly felt that there was an ulterior
motive back of her actions and words.
I saw Craig watching the young man's face, and followed his eyes. There
was no doubt of how he took the remark. He was gazing ardently at Inez.
If there had ever been any doubt of his feelings, which, of course,
there had not, this would have settled it.
"One thing more," added the Senora, as though she had had an
afterthought, "and that is about Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Whitney. Let me
ask you to think it over. Suppose they have not the dagger. Then are
their chances better than others? And if they have"--she paused to
emphasize it--"what does that mean?"
Kennedy had turned his attention to the Senorita. It was evident that
the dilemma proposed by de Moche was not without weight. She had now
coloured a flaming red. The woman had struck her in a vital spot.
"Mr. Lockwood is not here to defend himself," Inez said quietly. "I
will not have him attacked by innuendo."
She had risen. Neither the ardour of Alfonso nor the seeds of doubt of
the Senora had shaken her faith. It was a test that Kennedy evidently
was glad to have witnessed. For some day she might learn the truth
about the foot-prints. He understood her character better. The Senora,
too, had learned that if she were to bring pressure on the girl she
might break her, but she would not bend.
Without another word Inez, scarcely bowing stiffly, moved out of the
tea room, and we followed, leaving the mother and son there, baffled.
"I hope you will pardon me for allowing you to come here," said
Kennedy, in a low voice. "I did it because there are certain things
that you ought to hear. It was in fairness to you. I would not have you
delude yourself about Mr. Whitney, about--Mr. Lockwood, even. I want
you to feel that, no matter what you hear or see, you can come to me
and know that I will tell you the truth. It may hurt, but it will be
best."
I thought he was preparing the way for a revelation about the
foot-prints, but he said nothing more.
"Oh, that woman!" she exclaimed, as if to change the subject. "I do not
know, I cannot say, why she affects me so. I saw a change in my father,
when he knew her. I have told you how he was, how sometimes I thought
he was mad. Did you notice a change in Mr. Whitney, or haven't you
known him long enough? And lately I have fancied that I see the same
sort of change beginning in Mr. Lockwood. At times they become so
excited, their eyes seem staring, as if some fever were wasting them
away. Father seemed to see strange visions, and hear voices, was worse
when he was alone than when he was in a crowd. Oh, what is it? I could
think of nothing else, not even what she was saying, all the time I was
with her."
"Then you fear that in some way she may be connected with these strange
changes?" asked Kennedy.
"I don't know," she temporized; but the tone of her answer was
sufficient to convey the impression that in her heart she did suspect
something, she knew not what.
"Oh, Professor Kennedy," she cried finally, "can't you see it?
Sometimes--when she looks out of those eyes of hers--she almost makes
people do as she pleases."
We had come to the taxicab stand before the hotel, and Kennedy had
already beckoned to a cab to take her home.
As he handed her in she turned with a little shiver.
"Don't please, think me foolish," she added, with bated breath, "but
often I fear that it is, as we call it, the mal de ojo--the evil eye!"
XIII
THE POISONED CIGARETTE
There was not a grain of superstition in Kennedy, yet I could see that
he was pondering deeply what Inez Mendoza had just said. Was it
possible that there might be something in it--not objectively, but
subjectively? Might that very fear which the Senorita had of the Senora
engender a feeling that would produce the very result that she feared?
I knew that there were strange things that modern psychology was
discovering. Could there be some scientific explanation of the evil eye?
Kennedy turned and went back into the hotel, to keep his appointment
with Whitney, and as he did so I reflected that, whatever credence
might be given the evil-eye theory, there was something now before us
that was a fact--the physical condition which Inez had observed in her
father before his death, saw now in Whitney, and foresaw in Lockwood.
Surely that in itself constituted enough of a problem.
We found Whitney in the cafe, sitting alone in a leather-cushioned
booth, and smoking furiously. I observed him narrowly. His eyes had
even more than before that peculiar, staring look. By the manner in
which his veins stood out I could see that his heart action must be
very rapid.
"Well," he remarked, as we seated ourselves, "how did you come out in
your tete-a-tete?"
"About as I expected," answered Kennedy nonchalantly. "I let it go on
merely because I wanted Senorita Mendoza to hear certain things, and I
thought that the Senora could tell them best. One of them related to
the history of that dagger."
I thought Whitney's eyes would pop out of his head. "What about it?" he
asked.
"Well," replied Kennedy briefly, "there was the story of how her
brother had it and was driven crazy until he gave it up to somebody,
then committed suicide by throwing himself into Titicaca. The other was
the tradition that in the days after Pizarro a Mendoza was murdered by
it, just as her father has now been murdered."
Whitney was listening intently, and seemed to be thinking deeply of
something.
"Do you know," he said finally, with a nod to indicate that he knew
what it was that Kennedy referred to, "I've been thinking of that de
Moche woman a good deal since I left you with her. I've had some
dealings with her."
He looked at Kennedy shrewdly, as though he would have liked to ask
whether she had said anything about him, but did not because he knew
Kennedy would not tell. He was trying to figure out some other way of
finding out.
"Sometimes I think she is trying to double-cross me," he said, at
length. "I know that when she talks to others about me she says many
things that aren't so. Yet when she is with me everything is fine, and
she is ready soon to join us, use her influence with influential
Peruvians; in fact, there isn't anything she won't do--manana,
to-morrow."
All that Whitney said we now knew to be true.
"She has one interesting dilemma, however, which I do not mind telling
you," remarked Kennedy at length. "She cannot expect me to keep secret
what she said before all of us. Inez Mendoza would mention it, anyhow."
"What was that?" queried Whitney, dissembling his interest.
"Why," replied Kennedy slowly, "it was that, with the plans for digging
for the treasure which you say you have, suppose you and Lockwood and
your associates have not the dagger--how are you better off than
previous hunters? And supposing you have it--what does that imply?"
Whitney thought a moment over the last proposition of the dilemma.
"Imply?" he repeated slowly. Then the significance of it seemed to dawn
on him, the possession of the dagger and its implication in regard to
the murder of Mendoza. "Well," he answered, "we haven't the dagger. You
know that. But, on the other hand, we think our plans for getting at
the treasure are better than any one else has ever had, more certain of
success."
"Yet the possession of the dagger, with its inscription, is the only
thing that absolutely insures success," observed Kennedy.
"That's true enough," agreed Whitney. "Confound that man Norton. How
could he be such a boob as to let the chance slip through his fingers?"
"He never told you of it?" asked Kennedy.
"Yes, he told me of the dagger, but hadn't read the inscription, he
said," answered Whitney. "I was so busy at the time with Lockwood and
Mendoza, who had the concession to dig for the treasure, that I didn't
pay much attention to what Norton brought back. I thought that could
wait until Lockwood had been persuaded to join the interests I
represent."
"Did Lockwood or Mendoza know about the dagger and its importance?"
suggested Craig.
"If they did, they never said anything about it," returned Whitney
promptly. "Mendoza is dead. Lockwood tells me he knew nothing about it
until very lately--since the murder, I suppose."
"You suppose?" persisted Kennedy. "Are you sure that he knew nothing
about it before?"
"No," confessed Whitney, "I'm not sure. Only I say that he told me
nothing of it."
"Then he might have known?"
"Might have. But I don't think it very probable."
Whitney seemed to be turning something over in his mind. Suddenly he
brought his fist down on the little round table before us, rattling the
glasses.
"Do you know," he exclaimed, "the more I think about it, the more
convinced I am that Norton ought to be held to account for that loss!
He ought to have known. Then the presumption is that he did know. By
heaven, I'm going to have that fellow watched. I'm going to do it
to-day, too. I don't trust him. He shall not double-cross me--even if
that woman does!"
I wondered whether Whitney was bluffing. If he was, he was making a lot
of fuss over it. He talked more and more wildly, as he grew more
excited over his latest idea.
"I'll have detectives put on his trail," he blustered. "I'll talk it
over with Lockwood. He never liked the man."
"What did Lockwood say about Norton?" asked Kennedy casually.
Whitney eyed us a moment.
"Say," he ejaculated, "it was Norton brought you into this case, wasn't
it?"
"I cannot deny that," returned Kennedy quietly, meeting his eyes. "But
it is Inez Mendoza now that keeps me in it."
"So--you're another rival, are you?" purred Whitney sarcastically.
"Lockwood and de Moche aren't enough. I have a sneaking suspicion that
Norton himself is one of them. Now it's you, too. I suppose Mr. Jameson
is another. Well, if I was ten years younger, I'd cut you all out, or
know the reason why. Oh, YES, I think I will NOT tell you what Mr.
Lockwood suspects."
With every sentence the veins of Whitney's forehead stood out further,
until now they were like whipcords. His eyes and face were fairly
apoplectic. Slowly the conviction was forced on me. The man acted for
all the world like one affected by a drug.
"Well," he went on, "you may tell Norton for me that I am going to have
him watched. That will throw a scare into him."
At least it showed that the breach between Whitney and Norton was deep.
Kennedy listened without saying much, but I knew that he was gratified.
He was playing Lockwood against de Moche, the Senora against Inez. Now
if Whitney would play himself against Norton, out of the tangle might
emerge just the clues he needed. For when people get fighting among
themselves the truth comes out.
"Very well," remarked Craig, rising, with a hurried glance at Whitney's
apoplectic face, "go as far as you like. I think we understand each
other better, now."
Whitney said nothing, but, rising also, turned on his heel and walked
deliberately out of the cafe into the corridor of the Prince Edward
Albert, leaving us standing there.
Kennedy leaned over and swept up the ashes of Whitney's cigarettes
which lay in the ash-tray, placing them, stubs and all, in an envelope,
as he had done before.
"We have one sample, already," he said. "Another won't hurt. You can
never have too much material to work with. Let us see where he is
going."
Slowly we followed in the direction which Whitney had taken from the
cafe. There was Whitney standing by the cigar-stand, gazing intently
down the corridor.
Kennedy and I moved over so that we could see what he was gazing at.
Just then he started to walk hurriedly in the direction in which he was
looking.
"Senora de Moche!" exclaimed Craig, drawing me toward a palm.
It was indeed she. She had left the tea room and gone to her own room.
Now she was alighting from the elevator, and had started toward the
main dining-room, when her eyes had rested on Whitney. In spite of all
that he had said to us about her, he had received the glance as a
signal and was fluttering over to her like a moth to a flame.
What was the reason back of it all, I asked, as I thought of those
wonderful eyes of hers? Was it a sort of auto-hypnotism? There was, I
knew, a form of illusion known as ophthalmophobia--fear of the eye. It
ranged from mere aversion at being gazed at all the way to the
subjective development of real physical action from an otherwise
trivial objective cause. Perhaps Inez was right about the eyes. One
might fear them, and that fear might cause the precise thing to happen
which the owner of the eyes intended. Still, as I reflected before,
there was a much more important problem regarding eyes before us, that
of the drug that was evidently being used in the cigarettes. What was
it?
There was no chance of our gleaning anything now from these two who
made such a strange pair. Kennedy turned and went out of the nearest
entrance of the hotel.
"Central Park, West," he directed a cab driver, as we climbed in his
machine; then to me, after giving the number, "I must see Inez Mendoza
again before I can go ahead."
Inez was not expecting us so soon after leaving her at the hotel, yet I
think was just a little glad that we had come.
"Did anything happen after I left?" she asked eagerly.
"We went back and saw Mr. Whitney," returned Craig. "I believe you are
right. He is acting queerly."
"Alfonso called me up," she volunteered.
"Was it about anything I should know?" queried Craig.
"Well," she hesitated, "he said he hoped that nothing that had taken
place would change our own relations. That was about all. He was the
dutiful son, and made no attempt to explain anything that was said."
Kennedy smiled. "You have not seen Mr. Lockwood since, I suppose?" he
asked.
"You always make me tell what I hadn't intended," she confessed,
smiling back. "Yes, I couldn't help it. At least, I didn't see him. I
called him up. I wanted to tell him what she had said and that it
hadn't made any difference to me."
"What did he say?"