Bell saw what he was looking for, out in the throng of traffic that
filled the Avenida do Acre, in Rio. He'd seen it over the heads of the
crowd, which was undersized, as most Brazilian crowds are, and he
managed to get through the perpetual jam on the mosaic sidewalk and
reach the curb.
He stood there and regarded the vehicles filling the broad avenue,
wearing exactly the indifferent, half-amused air of a tourist with no
place in particular to go and a great deal of time in which to go
there. Taxis chuffed past, disputing right of way with private cars
which were engaged in more disputes with other cars, all in the rather
extraordinary bad temper and contentiousness which comes to the
Latin-American when he takes the wheel of an automobile.
As if coming to an unimportant decision, Bell raised his hand to an
approaching cab. It had two men on the chauffeur's seat. Of course.
All taxis in Rio carry two men in front. One drives, and the other
lights his cigarettes, makes witty comments upon passing ladies, and
helps in collecting the fares from recalcitrant passengers. The extra
man is called the "secretary," and he assists materially in giving an
impression of haughty pride.
The taxi ground to the curb. The secretary reached behind him
indifferently and opened the door. Bell did not glance at him. He
stepped inside and settled down languidly.
"The Beira Mar," he said listlessly.
The taxi started off with a jolt. It is the invariable custom in Rio
de Janeiro. And besides, it reminds the passenger that he is merely a
customer, admitted to the cab on suffrance, and that he must be
suitably meek to those who will presently blandly ignore the amount
registered by the meter and demand a fare of from eight to
twenty-seven times the indicated amount.
* * * * *
The cab went shooting down the Avenida do Acre toward the harbor. The
Avenida do Acre is officially the Avenida Rio Blanco, and it should be
called by that name, only people forget. The Beira Mar, however, is
named with entire propriety. It is actually the edge of the sea, and
it is probably one of the two or three most beautiful driveways in the
world.
The cab whirled past the crowded sidewalks. Incredible numbers of
people, with an incredible variation in the shades of their
complexions, moved to and from with the peculiar aimlessness of a
Brazilian crowd. A stout and pompous negro politician from Bahia,
wearing an orchid in his button-hole, rubbed elbows with a striking
blonde lady of the sidewalks on his left, and forced a wizened little
silk-hatted _parda_--approximately an octoroon--to dodge about him in
order to progress. A young and languid person, his clothes the very
last expiring gasp of fashion, fingered his stick patiently. He wore
the painstakingly cultivated expression of bored disillusionment your
young Brazilian dandy considers aristocratic. It was very probable
that he shared a particularly undesirable bedroom with four or five
other young men in order to purchase such clothing, but then, _farenda
fita_--making a picture--is the national Brazilian sport.
Bell lighted a cigarette. It was not wise to regard the secretary of
this particular taxi too closely, but if his face had been thickly
smeared with coal dust, and if he had had a two weeks' beard, and if
he had been seen on the forecastle of the _Almirante Gomez_, one would
have deduced him to be a stoker who had not used the name of Jamison.
* * * * *
The cab reached the Beira Mar, and turned to take the long route about
the bay. It is one of the most beautiful views to be found anywhere,
and tall apartment houses have been built along its whole length to
capitalize the scenery. True, the more brightly-colored ladies of the
capital have established themselves in vast numbers among these
apartment houses, but in their languid promenades they add--let us
say--the beauties of art to those of nature.
A voice spoke from the chauffeur's seat.
"Bell."
"Right," said Bell without moving. His eyes flickered, however, and he
found the device Jamison had inserted. A speaking-tube of sorts. Not
especially efficient, but inconspicuous enough. He stirred listlessly
and got his lips near it.
"All right to talk?" he asked briefly.
"Shoot," said Jamison from the secretary's seat beside the chauffeur.
"This man doesn't understand English, and he thinks I'm in a smuggling
gang. He expects to make some money out of me eventually."
Bell spoke curtly, while the taxi rolled past the Morro da Gloria with
its quaint old church and went along the winding, really marvelous
driveway past many beaches, with the incredibly blue water beyond.
"Canalejas is out of town," he said. "It isn't known when he'll be
back. I met his daughter at a dance at our Embassy here, and she told
me. We didn't dare to talk much, but she's frightened. Especially
after what happened to Ortiz. And I've met Ribiera, whom Ortiz named."
"I've been looking him up," growled Jamison through the speaking-tube.
* * * * *
Bell flicked the ash from his cigarette out the door, and went on
quietly.
"He's trying to get friendly with me. I've promised to call at his
house and have him take me out to the flying field. He has two planes,
he tells me, a big amphibian and a two-seater. Uses them for commuting
between Rio and his place back inland. He went out of his way to
cultivate me. I think he suspects I'm trying to find out something."
"Which you are," said Jamison dryly. "You've found out that Ortiz was
right at least about--"
Bell nodded, and frowned at himself for having nodded. He spoke into
the mouthpiece by his head with an expressionless face.
"He's practically fawned upon by a bunch of important officials and
several high ranking army officers. Suspecting what I do, I think he's
got hold of a devil of a lot of power."
Jamison scowled in a lordly fashion upon a mere pedestrian who
threatened to impede the movement of the taxicab by making it run over
him.
* * * * *
"Ortiz," said Bell quietly, "told me he'd been poisoned, and treason
asked as the price of the antidote. I've heard that the Brazilian
Minister for Foreign Affairs went insane six months ago. I heard,
also, that it was homicidal mania--murder madness. And I'm wondering
if these people who fawn upon Ribiera aren't paying a price
for--well--antidotes, or their equivalent. The Minister for Foreign
Affairs may have refused."
"You're improving," said Jamison dryly. The taxi rounded a curve and
a vista of sea and sand and royal palms spread out before it. "Yes,
you're improving. But Ortiz spoke of Ribiera only as a deputy of The
Master. Who is The Master?"
"God knows," said Bell. He stared languidly out of the window, for all
the world to see. A tourist, regarding the boasted beauties of the
Biera Mar.
"A deputy," said Jamison without emotion, "of some unknown person
called The Master poisoned Ortiz in Buenos Aires. And Ortiz was an
important man in the Argentine. Ribiera is merely the deputy of that
same unknown Master in Rio, and he has generals and state presidents
and the big politicians paying court to him. If deputies in two
countries that we know of have so much power, how much power has The
Master?"
* * * * *
Silence. The taxi chugged steadily past unnoticed beauties and
colorings. Rio is really one of the most beautiful cities in the
world.
"It's like this," said Jamison jerkily. "Seven Service men vanish and
one goes mad. You get two tips that the fate of Ortiz is the fate of
the seven men--eight, in fact. We find that two men dispense a certain
ghastly poison in two certain cities, at the orders of a man they call
The Master. We find that those two men wield an astounding lot of
power, and we know they're only deputies, only subordinates of the
Master. We know, also, that the Service men vanished all over the
whole continent, not in just those two cities. How many deputies has
The Master? What's it all about? He wanted treason of Ortiz, we know.
What does he want of the other men his deputies have enslaved? Why did
he poison the Service men? And why--especially why--do two honorable
men, officials of two important nations, want to tip off the United
States Government about the ghastly business? What's it got to do with
our nation?"
Bell flung away his cigarette.
"That last question has occurred to me too," he observed, and
carefully repressed a slight shiver. "I have made a guess, which is
probably insane. I'm going to see Ribiera this afternoon."
"He already suspects you know too much," said Jamison without
expression.
"I am"--Bell managed the ghost of a mirthless smile--"I am
uncomfortably aware of it. And I may need an antidote as badly as
Ortiz. If I do, and can't help myself, I'll depend on you."
* * * * *
Jamison growled.
"I simply mean," said Bell very quietly, "that I'd really rather not
be--er--left alive if I'm mad. That's all. But Ortiz knew what was the
matter with him before he got bad off. I know it's a risk. I'm
goose-flesh all over. But somebody's got to take the risk. The guess
I've made may be insane, but if it's right one or two lives will be
cheap enough as a price for the information. Suppose you chaps turn
around and take me to Ribiera's house?"
There was a long pause. Then Jamison spoke in Portuguese to his
companion. The taxi checked, swerved, and began to retrace its route.
"You're a junior in the Trade," said Jamison painstakingly. "I can't
order you to do it."
Bell fumbled with his cigarette case.
"The Trade doesn't exist, Jamison," he said dryly. "And besides,
nobody gives orders in The Trade. There are only suggestions. Now shut
up a while. I want to try to remember some consular reports I read
once, from the consul at Puerto Pachecho."
"What?"
"The consul there," said Bell, smiling faintly, "was an amateur
botanist. He filled up his consular reports with accounts of native
Indian medicinal plants and drugs, with copious notes and clinical
observations. I had to reprove him severely for taking up space with
such matters and not going fully into the exact number of hides, wet
and dry, that passed through the markets in his district. His
information will be entirely useless in this present emergency, but
I'm going to try to remember as much of it as I can. Now shut up."
* * * * *
When the taxi swung off the Biera Mar to thread its way through many
tree-lined streets--it is a misdemeanor, punishable by fine, to cut
down a tree in Rio de Janeiro--it carried a young American with the
air of an accomplished idler, who has been mildly bored by the
incomparable view from the waterside boulevard. When it stopped at the
foot of one of the slum covered _morros_ that dot all Rio, and a
liveried doorman came out of a splendid residence to ask the visitor
his name, the taxi discharged a young American who seemed to feel the
heat, in spite of the swift motion of the cab. He wiped off his
forehead with his handkerchief as he was assured that the Senhor
Ribiera had given orders he was to be admitted, night or day. When the
taxi drove off, it carried two men on the chauffeur's seat, of whom
one had lost, temporarily, the manner of haughty insolence which is
normally inseparable from the secretary of a taxicab chauffeur.
But though he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, Bell actually
felt rather cold when he followed his guide through ornately furnished
rooms, which seemed innumerable, and was at last left to wait in an
especially luxurious salon.
There was a pause. A rather long wait. A distinctly long wait. Bell
lighted a cigarette and seemed to become mildly bored. He regarded a
voluptuous small statuette with every appearance of pleased interest.
A subtly decadent painting seemed to amuse him considerably. He did
not seem to notice that no windows at all were visible, and that
shaded lamps lit this room, even in broad daylight.
* * * * *
Two servants came in, a footman in livery and the major-domo. Your
average _Carioca_ servant is either fawning or covertly insolent.
These two were obsequious. The footman carried a tray with a bottle,
glass, ice, and siphon.
"The Senhor Ribiera," announced the major-domo obsequiously, "begs
that the Senhor Bell will oblige him by waiting for the shortest of
moments until the Senhor Ribiera can relieve himself of a business
matter. It will be but the shortest of moments."
Bell felt a little instinctive chill at sight of the bottle and
glasses.
"Oh, very well," he said idly. "You may put the tray there."
The footman lifted the siphon expectantly. Bell regarded it
indifferently. The wait before the arrival of this drink had been
longer than would be required merely for the announcing of a caller
and the tending of a tray, especially if such a tray were a custom of
the place. And the sending of a single bottle only, without inquiry
into his preferences....
"No soda," said Bell. He poured out a drink into the tinier glass. He
lifted it toward his lips, hesitated vaguely, and drew out his
handkerchief again.
He sneezed explosively, and the drink spilled. He swore irritably, put
down the glass, and plied his handkerchief vigorously. A moment later
he was standing up and pouring the drink out afresh, from the bottle
in one hand to the glass in the other. He up-tilted the glass.
"Get rid of this for me," he said annoyedly of the handkerchief.
* * * * *
He saw a nearly imperceptible glance pass between the footman and the
major-domo. They retired, and Bell moved about the room exactly like a
young man who has been discomfited by the necessity of sneezing before
servants. Anywhere else in the world, of course, such a pose would not
have been convincing. But your Brazilian not only adopts _fazenda
fita_ as his own avocation, but also suspects it to be everybody
else's too. And a young Brazilian of the leisure class would be
horribly annoyed at being forced to so plebeian an exhibition in
public.
He moved restlessly about the room, staring at the picture. Presently
he blinked uncertainly and gazed about less definitely. He went rather
uncertainly to the chair he had first occupied and sat down. He
poured--or seemed to pour--another drink. Again he sneered, and looked
mortified. He put down the glass with an air of finality. But he
looked puzzledly about him. Then he sank back in his chair and
gradually seemed to sink into a sort of apathetic indifference.
* * * * *
He looked, then, like a very bored young man on the verge of dozing
off. But actually he was very much alert indeed. He had the feeling of
eyes upon him for a while. Then that sensation ceased and he settled
himself to wait. And meantime he felt a particular, peculiar gratitude
to the late American consul at Puerto Pachecho for his interest in
medicinal plants.
That gentleman had gone into the subject with the passionate
enthusiasm of the amateur. He had described _icus_, _uirari_ and
_timbo_. He had particularized upon _makaka-nimbi_ and _hervamoura_.
And he had gone into a wealth of detail concerning _yagué_, on account
of its probable value if used in criminology. As consul at Puerto
Pachecho he was not altogether a success in some ways, but he had
invented an entirely original method of experimentation upon those
drugs and poisons which did not require to be introduced into the
blood-stream. His method was simplicity itself. An alcoholic solution
"carried" a minute quantity of the drug in its vapor, just as an
alcoholic solution carries a minute quantity of perfuming essential
oil. He inhaled the odor of the alcoholic solution. The effect was
immediately, strictly temporary, and not dangerous. He was enabled to
describe the odors, in some cases the tastes, and in a few instances
the effects of the substances he listed, from personal experience.
* * * * *
And Bell had used his method as an unpromising but possible test for a
drug in the drink that had been brought him. He inhaled the strangling
odor of the spilled liquor on his handkerchief. And there was a drug
involved. For an instant he was dizzy, and for an instant he saw the
room through a vivid blue haze. And something clicked in his brain and
said "It's _yagué_." And the relief of dealing with something which he
knew--if only at second-hand--was so enormous that he felt almost
weak.
_Yagué_, you see, is an extract from the leaves of a plant which is
not yet included in materia medica. It has nearly the effect of
scopolamine--once famous in connection with twilight sleep--and
produces a daze of blue light, an intolerable sleepiness, and
practically all the effects of hypnotism. A person under _yagué_, as
under scopolamine or hypnosis, will seem to slumber and yet will obey
any order, by whomever given. He will answer any question without
reserve or any concealment. And on awakening he will remember nothing
done under the influence of the potion. The effects are not
particularly harmful.
Bell then, sat in an apparent half-daze, half-slumber, in the salon in
which he waited for Ribiera to appear. He knew exactly what he was
expected to do. Ribiera wanted to find out what he knew or suspected
about Ortiz's death. Ribiera wanted to know many things, and he would
believe what Bell told him because he thought Bell had taken enough
_yagué_ to be practically an hypnotic subject. Let Ribiera believe
what he was told!
When he came into the room, bland and smiling, Bell did not stir. He
was literally crawling, inside, with an unspeakable repulsion to the
man and the things for which he stood. But he seemed dazed and dull,
and when Ribiera began to ask questions he babbled his answers in a
toneless, flat voice. He babbled very satisfactorily, in Ribiera's
view.
* * * * *
When Ribiera shook him roughly by the shoulder he started, and let his
eyes clear. Ribiera was laughing heartily.
"Senhor! Senhor!" said Ribiera jovially. "My hospitality is at fault!
You come to be my guest and I allow you to be so bored that you drop
off to sleep! I was detained for five minutes and came in to find you
slumbering!"
Bell stared ruefully about him and rubbed his eyes.
"I did, for a fact," he admitted apologetically. "I'm sorry. Up late
last night, and I was tired. I dropped in to see those planes you
suggested I'd be interested in. But I daresay it's late, now."
Ribiera chuckled again. He was in his late and corpulent forties and
was something of a dandy. If one were captious, one might object to
the thickness of his lips. They suggested sensuality. And there was a
shade--a bare shade--more of pigment in his skin than the American
passes altogether unquestioned. And his hair was wavy.... But he could
be a charming host.
"We'll have a drink," he said bluntly, "while the car's coming around
to the door, and then go out to the flying field."
"No drink," said Bell, lifting his hand. "I feel squeamish now. I say!
Haven't you changed the lamps, or something? Everything looks
blue...."
That was a lie. Things looked entirely normal to Bell. But he looked
about him as if vaguely puzzled. If he had drunk the liquor Ribiera
had sent him, things would have had a bluish tinge for some time
after. But as it was....
Ribiera chaffed him jovially on the way to the flying field. And
introducing him to fliers and officials of the field, he told with
gusto of Bell's falling asleep while waiting for him. A very jolly
companion, Ribiera.
But Bell saw two or three men looking at him very queerly. Almost
sympathetically. And he noticed, a little later, that a surprising
number of fliers and officials of the airport seemed to be concealing
an abject terror of Ribiera. One or two of them seemed to hate him as
well.