“Well, Castello was in with this doctor in a way, for he was engaged by
him to fetch herbs and flowers from the mountains—like the Manzanilla, for
instance, which only begins to grow at an elevation of twelve thousand
feet. Castello believed that the old fellow could make poisons too, as
well as antidotes; and said I to myself, ’Maybe that little dagger in the
cathedral was specially prepared, eh?’ Which would account for Carmona
hurrying off to Granada after it had found the wrong billet.
“Anyhow, I said I’d like to see the dog, so I was taken behind the red
curtain into Mr. Castello’s bedroom, and on a shelf lay a revolver which
might have been twin to the one you bought in Madrid.”
“It was still more nearly related,” said I.
“Well, I thought so, but wasn’t sure enough to call on the police. I went
away when I’d said nice things about the sick dog; but I didn’t go far. I
hung around till Castello’s visitor had been and gone, and then followed
him to the door of this house. Such a mild, intelligent looking,
well-dressed old gentleman, the herb doctor was; but I guess I needn’t
describe him to you!
“Next day I bought some things at a baker’s not far from here, and
buttered up the shopkeeper, saying his store was too good for the
neighbourhood. Of course he told me he had rich customers, and it was
jolly lucky I’d been fagging up Spanish for Pilar’s sake, or I should have
missed a lot, right there. I soon got him on the subject of the herb
doctor, his best client, who, though supposed to be well-off, and living
in a good house, did all his shopping himself and kept no servants. Nobody
knew much about him, except what he said of himself; that he could set
bones, and was able to make as much money as he liked, selling his herb
medicines to great personages. Who were the great personages? The baker
couldn’t tell; but the doctor had lived in his present house for years,
after taking it when in a bad state of repair, and having it done up
inside by workmen he brought from Madrid. From that day on, no one the
baker knew had ever been invited in, though he’d heard stories of veiled
ladies, and sounds of music at night.
“At that, the thought jumped into my mind that maybe the house was
Carmona’s, a little secret plaything of his. And I remembered reading
about a famous old palace in the Albaicín with an underground way to the
Alhambra. Why shouldn’t there be such a way from Carmona’s palace to the
doctor’s house? And what a convenient place it would be to keep a
troublesome person.”
“Or to kill one,” I amended.
“I thought of that; but I hoped. People don’t commit murder when their
blood is cool if they can get what they want cheaper. I went again to the
police, said I believed that my friend was detained against his will in
the house of Doctor Molina. But when they wanted my reasons I couldn’t
give any to convince them. They thought I was mad, and refused to search.
I was afraid they’d warn the old chap to look out for a crazy American, so
I hurried up and took matters into my own hands.
“I wasn’t sure enough of anything to jump on the man outside his own door
and do the burglar act openly, lest the police should jump on _me_, and I
should be laid by before I’d found you. But about that time I began to
have water on the brain; or rather, I got possessed with the idea of
sneaking into houses by means of conduits; and no wonder, when the whole
Albaicín is honeycombed with watercourses, gluddering and gurgling from
morning till night.
“In the next street to this, there’s a Moorish house of much the same
sort, being torn down. They were selling old tiles to curiosity dealers
one day, so I strolled into the _patio_. The pavement was up, and I saw
how the conduit ran underneath and supplied the fountain. That was
instructive. Opposite this place of Molina’s is a mill. I found out how
the miller got his water, and that after it turned his wheel, it poured in
this direction, being turned off every night about nine. At the miller’s
the conduit is open, only guarded by a rail; and I developed a taste for
making sketches and taking photographs—tourist in search of the
picturesque; miller got used to seeing me about, while I made myself
familiar with the landscape. Then I bought a crowbar and a little electric
lamp. The bar I hid under my coat; and when I was ready to shed the
garment, Ropes put it on. I guess it was a looser fit for him than that
conduit was for me, and there were twelve feet of conduit; good long
strait-jacket, but I’ve been in it a lot of times now, and feel quite at
home. You see, the job couldn’t be done in one go, for I had to make the
hole under the fountain bigger, and I’ve been tinkering away for nearly a
week, o’ nights when the water was stopped. And if I’d come up at last,
like a demon in a pantomime, to find I’d had my trouble for my pains, I
can’t say what I should have turned my wits to next.”
“Does Pilar know?” I asked.
“She and the Colonel went off in a hurry to Madrid just before I took the
job on. They thought they could influence the police at headquarters,
which was their principal reason for going; though they had one or two
others besides. But see here, you’ve got the story pat now, and you’re
looking a thousand per cent. more healthy than when you sat down at this
table ten minutes ago. Poor old Ropes, who always hangs about keeping
guard, will be mighty glad to see you; but before we open the door and
walk out as if we owned the house, let’s have a look round. There may be
something which will give me a chance to say ‘I told you so!’ to the
police.”
Refreshed with wine, and such scanty rations as Dick had allowed, I walked
steadily enough into the adjoining room, while Dick carried a lamp. There
were no such gorgeous decorations here, as in the suite I had reluctantly
occupied. A modern bed stood in one corner. There were shelves on the
wall, fitted with glass doors which protected jars and bottles. On a large
table lay an outfit for chemical experiments, and on another some yellow
flowers half buried in green leaves. In the window was a modern desk, and
Dick at once began to rummage among the few papers in the pigeon-holes.
There was nothing, however, which seemed to bear upon our affairs, with
the exception of a telegraph form, which I seized upon. It was dated June
first, and had been sent from a Madrid office. There was no signature, but
there was a hint of something secret in the three words it contained. “Day
after to-morrow.”
Dick and I stared at the paper, as if we expected the meaning of the
message to spring up to our eyes.
“My name’s not Richard D. Waring if Carmona’s signature oughtn’t to be
tacked on to that,” he said. “Now, we’ve something to go upon, for a
beginning. This telegram will be traced to the sender before I’m many
hours older; we can trust our dear old Cherub for that.”
“Day after to-morrow,” I repeated. “What’s going to happen day after
to-morrow, that Carmona should have wired to this man?”
“I should say it was his way of letting Molina know that the cage door
could open.”
“But why day after to-morrow? He—” I broke off suddenly, and it seemed
that my heart would stop beating. “Dick,” I began again, in a queer voice
that did not sound like my own, “is Monica—” I could not finish the
sentence. But Dick understood.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I saw you weren’t strong enough to bear it at
first. I wanted you to eat, and then—I’d have kept it back a bit longer if
I could, just till I got you to the hotel. She’s going to marry him—on the
third of June, Heaven knows why, though Pilar vows the girl can’t be to
blame, and that they’ve made her believe somehow she’s sacrificing herself
for your sake.”
“What day is this?” I asked.
“The first. The Royal Wedding was yesterday, and a terrible bomb
explosion, in which the King and Queen had a narrow escape, and—but come,
Ramón, I want to get you to the hotel.”
“I’m not going to the hotel,” I said. “I’m going to Madrid, to stop
Carmona’s marriage.”