It was, I recall, at that period of the late unpleasantness in the
little Central American republic of Vespuccia, when things looked
darkest for American investors, that I hurried home one evening to
Kennedy, bursting with news.
By way of explanation, I may add that during the rubber boom Kennedy had
invested in stock of a rubber company in Vespuccia, and that its value
had been shrinking for some time with that elasticity which a rubber
band shows when one party suddenly lets go his end. Kennedy had been in
danger of being snapped rather hard by the recoil, and I knew he had
put in an order with his broker to sell and take his loss when a certain
figure was reached. My news was a first ray of light in an otherwise
dark situation, and I wanted to advise him to cancel the selling order
and stick for a rise.
Accordingly I hurried unceremoniously into our apartment with the words
on my lips before I had fairly closed the door. “What do you think,
Craig” I shouted. “It is rumoured that the revolutionists have captured
half a million dollars from the government and are sending it to--” I
stopped short. I had no idea that Kennedy had a client, and a girl, too.
With a hastily mumbled apology I checked myself and backed out toward
my own room. I may as well confess that I did not retreat very fast,
however. Kennedy's client was not only a girl, but a very pretty one, I
found, as she turned her head quickly at my sudden entrance and betray
a lively interest at the mention of the revolution. She was a
Latin-American, and the Latin-American type of feminine beauty is
fascinating at least to me. I did not retreat very fast.
As I hoped, Kennedy rose to the occasion. “Miss Guerrero,” he said, “let
me introduce Mr. Jameson, who has helped me very much in solving some of
my most difficult cases. Miss Guerrero's father, Walter, is the owner of
a plantation which sells its product to the company I am interested in.”
She bowed graciously, but there was a moment of embarrassment until
Kennedy came to the rescue.
“I shall need Mr. Jameson in handling your case, Miss Guerrero,” he
explained. “Would it be presuming to ask you to repeat to him briefly
what you have already told me about the mysterious disappearance of your
father? Perhaps some additional details will occur to you, things that
you may consider trivial, but which, I assure you, may be of the utmost
importance.”
She assented, and in a low, tremulous, musical voice bravely went
through her story.
“We come,” she began, “my father and I--for my mother died when I was a
little girl--we come from the northern part of Vespuccia, where foreign
capitalists are much interested in the introduction of a new rubber
plant. I am an only child and have been the constant companion of my
father for years, ever since I could ride a pony, going with him about
our hacienda and on business trips to Europe and the States.
“I may as well say at the start, Mr. Jameson, that although my father is
a large land-owner, he has very liberal political views and is deeply in
sympathy with the revolution that is now going on in Vespuccia. In fact,
we were forced to flee very early in the trouble, and as there seemed
to be more need of his services here in New York than in any of the
neighbouring countries, we came here. So you see that if the revolution
is not successful his estate will probably be confiscated and we shall
be penniless. He is the agent--the head of the junta, I suppose you
would call it--here in New York.”
“Engaged in purchasing arms and ammunition,” put in Kennedy, as she
paused, “and seeing that they are shipped safely to New Orleans as
agricultural machinery, where another agent receives them and attends to
their safe transit across the Gulf.”