When the Camera Chap went to keep his luncheon appointment the
following morning, Bates, who had some business to attend to at the
treasury department, accompanied him as far as the White House grounds.
As they were walking along Pennsylvania Avenue, a splendid touring car,
with a silver crest on the door panels and a liveried footman on the
box, passed them by. It contained two women, one of them a blonde, the
other very dark. The former, recognizing Bates on the sidewalk, bowed
graciously.
“That is Mrs. Fred V. Cooper, wife of the attorney general,” the
correspondent explained to his companion, noting that the latter was
staring at the automobile, as though fascinated. “She’s one of the
beauties of Washington.”
“And the other woman--the dark one--who is she?” the Camera Chap
demanded eagerly.
Bates smiled. “There’s a woman with a history,” he said. “She is Señora
Francisco Felix, wife of the former president of the Republic of
Baracoa. You remember reading about him, of course?”
“Oh, yes. He’s the chap who disappeared a couple of years ago.”
“Disappeared is a gentle way of putting it,” returned the other,
grinning. “He sneaked away in his private yacht, one memorable night,
and the good people of Baracoa awoke next morning to find that they
were minus a president, and incidentally the greater part of the
national treasury. The scamp took away with him every bolivar he could
lay hands on. The little republic would have gone bankrupt if General
Portiforo hadn’t stepped in and saved the situation.”
Hawley nodded. “Yes, I remember. What is his wife doing in Washington?”
“She’s been living here ever since her husband absconded. I guess she
didn’t find it exactly comfortable in Baracoa after the scandal. She
and Mrs. Cooper are great friends; they’ve known each other since they
were girls. The señora was educated in the United States; I believe
she and the attorney general’s wife were in the same class at Vassar.
She--why, what’s the matter, old man?”
Hawley had given vent to a sharp exclamation, at the same time gripping
his companion’s arm excitedly. “Did you notice that swarthy chap in the
taxicab which just passed?” he asked.
“The fellow with a beard? Yes. What about him?”
“Don’t happen to know who he is, do you?”
Bates shook his head. “I suppose he’s connected with one of the
Spanish-American embassies. There are so many of those fellows running
around Washington that it isn’t possible for us to know them all. Why
the interest in him?”
“This isn’t the first time I have seen him. I saw him in New York a
couple of weeks ago. He was shadowing Señora Felix.”
“Señora Felix!”
“Yes; this is not the first time I’ve seen her, either, although I did
not know who she was until now. The other day, Bates, I witnessed a
queer incident outside the Hotel Mammoth. I was passing there just as
that woman came out of the Thirty-fourth Street entrance and entered
a taxicab. My attention was attracted to her not only because of her
striking beauty, but because of the nervousness she displayed. As she
stepped into the cab she kept glancing about her in all directions, as
though aware that she was being watched. As she drove off I noticed
a man skulking in the doorway of a store on the opposite side of the
street. It was that same dark-skinned, bearded chap who just passed us.
I saw him hurry across the street and rush up to another taxi that was
waiting at the cab stand. I heard him instruct the driver to follow the
woman’s cab, no matter where it went. He spoke in English, but with
a decidedly foreign accent. My curiosity was aroused, and I decided
to see the thing out. I, too, jumped into a taxi and joined in the
procession.
“Straight down Fifth Avenue we went, as far as Washington Square.
Then the three of us turned into a side street, and came to a stop.
The woman’s cab had halted outside the door of a dingy-looking house
in a neighborhood which had seen better days, but which now consists
mostly of cheap rooming houses. The bearded man’s cab had drawn up
about fifty yards away. He jumped out quickly, and I alighted, too, as
inconspicuously as possible. A surprise awaited us both. The first cab
was empty. The woman had disappeared.”
Bates laughed knowingly. “She must have been wise to the fact that
she was being shadowed, and took advantage of a chance to drop out
somewhere along the trail.”
“Of course. It’s an old trick. You ought to have seen our bearded
friend’s face when he found that he had been fooled. He said a lot of
things to himself in Spanish. I have enough knowledge of that language
to know that his utterances weren’t fit for publication. Wonder if he’s
shadowing her again now.”
“Most likely,” said Bates. “I suppose he’s one of Portiforo’s spies.
Naturally, the present government of Baracoa would be interested in the
movements of Señora Felix. I presume they hope, by watching her, to get
a line on where her husband is.”
“You think she knows that?”
“It is more than a bare possibility. Felix hasn’t been heard of since
he landed from his yacht on the south coast of France two years ago,
but it is exceedingly likely that he has been in communication with his
wife. I understand they were a very devoted couple. In fact, it was a
surprise to everybody that when he skipped he didn’t take her along.
Well, here we are at the White House grounds. See you later, old man. I
am burning up with curiosity to know what the president wants of you.”
Bates’ curiosity in that respect was not destined to be gratified that
day, nor for many days after. When the Camera Chap returned from his
interview with the president, and dropped in at the _Sentinel_ bureau,
he was provokingly uncommunicative.
“It was a fine lunch,” he said. “The White House chef certainly knows
his business; and the president is a genial host. He is one of the most
democratic men I have ever met.”
“But what did you talk about?” Bates asked impatiently. “I know very
well that he didn’t send for you merely to make your acquaintance. What
did he want, old man? You can trust me, you know.”
“Of course I can,” the Camera Chap agreed cheerfully. “We discussed
many things--ranging all the way from Park Row to South America.”
“South America!” the correspondent exclaimed eagerly. “What did he have
to say about that?”
Hawley’s eyes twinkled. “He asked me whether I’d ever been out there,
and when I told him no he expressed great surprise, saying that I
certainly ought to make it a point to go; that he felt sure I would
find many interesting things to photograph in that part of the world.”
Hearing which Bates had a shrewd suspicion that the president had
suggested some particularly interesting thing to photograph in some
part of South America; but, although he was a past master in the art of
extracting information from unwilling lips, his efforts failed to draw
out the Camera Chap further along this line.
It was the president’s closing remark to Hawley which had compelled the
latter to adopt this sphinx-like attitude.
“I will not pledge you to secrecy,” the chief executive had said. “I
will merely urge you to be discreet, Mr. Hawley. I think I am able to
estimate a man at first sight, and if I did not feel that you could be
relied upon I would not have asked you to undertake this mission. You
realize, of course, that in addition to the risk you will be running, a
human life may depend upon your discretion.”