“There is quite a little colony of Vespuccians here in New York, both
revolutionists and government supporters. I suppose that neither of
you has any idea of the intriguing that is going on under the peaceful
surface right here in your own city. But there is much of it, more than
even I know or can tell you. Well, my father lately has been acting very
queerly. There is a group who meet frequently at the home of a Senora
Mendez--an insurrecto group, of course. I do not go, for they are
all much older people than I. I know the senora well, but I prefer
a different kind of person. My friends are younger and perhaps more
radical, more in earnest about the future of Vespuccia.
“For some weeks it has seemed to me that this Senora Mendez has had too
much influence over my father. He does not seem like the same man he
used to be. Indeed, some of the junta who do not frequent the house of
the senora have remarked it. He seems moody, works by starts, then
will neglect his work entirely. Often I see him with his eyes closed,
apparently sitting quietly, oblivious to the progress of the cause--the
only cause now which can restore us our estate.
“The other day we lost an entire shipment of arms--the Secret Service
captured them on the way from the warehouse on South Street to the
steamer which was to take them to New Orleans. Only once before had it
happened, when my father did not understand all the things to conceal.
Then he was frantic for a week. But this time he seems not to care. Ah,
senores,” she said, dropping her voice, “I fear there was some treachery
there.”
“Treachery?” I asked. “And have you any suspicions who might have played
informer?”
She hesitated. “I may as well tell you just what I suspect. I fear that
the hold of Senora Mendez is somehow or other concerned with it all. I
even have suspected that somehow she may be working in the pay of the
government that she is a vampire, living on the secrets of the group who
so trust her. I suspect anything, everybody--that she is poisoning
his mind, perhaps even whispering into his ear some siren proposal of
amnesty and his estate again, if he will but do what she asks. My poor
father--I must save him from himself if it is necessary. Argument has
no effect with him. He merely answers that the senora is a talented
and accomplished woman, and laughs a vacant laugh when I hint to him to
beware. I hate her.”
The fiery animosity of her dark eyes boded ill, I felt, for the senora.
But it flashed over me that perhaps, after all, the senora was not a
traitress, but had simply been scheming to win the heart and hence the
hacienda of the great land-owner, when he came into possession of his
estate if the revolution proved successful.
“And finally,” she concluded, keeping back the tears by an heroic
effort, “last night he left our apartment, promising to return early in
the evening. It is now twenty-four hours, and I have heard not a
word from him. It is the first time in my life that we have ever been
separated so long.”
“And you have no idea where he could have gone?” asked Craig.
“Only what I have learned from Senor Torreon, another member of the
junta. Senor Torreon said this morning that he left the home of Senora
Mendez last night about ten o'clock in company with my father. He says
they parted at the subway, as they lived on different branches of the
road. Professor Kennedy,” she added, springing up and clasping her hands
tightly in an appeal that was irresistible, “you know what steps to take
to find him. I trust all to you--even the calling on the police, though
I think it would be best if we could get along without them. Find my
father, senores, and when we come into our own again you shall not
regret that you befriended a lonely girl in a strange city, surrounded
by intrigue and danger.” There were tears in her eyes as she stood
swaying before us.
The tenseness of the appeal was broken by the sharp ringing of the
telephone bell. Kennedy quickly took down the receiver.
“Your maid wishes to speak to you,” he said, handing the telephone to
her.
Her face brightened with that nervous hope that springs in the human
breast even in the blackest moments. “I told her if any message came for
me she might find me here,” explained Miss Guerrero. “Yes, Juanita, what
is it--a message for me?”
My Spanish was not quite good enough to catch more than a word here and
there in the low conversation, but I could guess from the haggard look
which overspread her delicate face that the news was not encouraging.
“Oh!” she cried, “this is terrible--terrible! What shall I do? Why did I
come here? I don't believe it. I don't believe it.”
“Don't believe what, Miss Guerrero?” asked Kennedy reassuringly. “Trust
me.”
“That he stole the money--oh, what am I saying? You must not look for
him--you must forget that I have been here. No, I don't believe it.”
“What money?” asked Kennedy, disregarding her appeal to drop the case.
“Remember, it may be better that we should know it now than the police
later. We will respect your confidence.”
“The junta had been notified a few days ago, they say, that a large
sum--five hundred thousand silver dollars--had been captured from the
government and was on its way to New York to be melted up as bullion at
the sub-treasury,” she answered, repeating what she had heard over the
telephone as if in a dream. “Mr. Jameson referred to the rumour when he
came in. I was interested, for I did not know the public had heard of it
yet. The junta has just announced that the money is missing. As soon
as the ship docked in Brooklyn this morning an agent appeared with the
proper credentials from my father and a guard, and they took the money
away. It has not been heard of since--and they have no word from my
father.”
Her face was blanched as she realised what the situation was. Here she
was, setting people to run down her own father, if the suspicions of the
other members of the junta were to be credited.
“You--you do not think my father--stole the money?” she faltered
pitifully. “Say you do not think so.”
“I think nothing yet,” replied Kennedy in an even voice. “The first
thing to do is to find him--before the detectives of the junta do so.”
I felt a tinge--I must confess it--of jealousy as Kennedy stood beside
her, clasping her hand in both of his and gazing earnestly down into the
rich flush that now spread over her olive cheeks.
“Miss Guerrero,” he said, “you may trust me implicitly. If your father
is alive I will do all that a man can do to find him. Let me act--for
the best. And,” he added, wheeling quickly toward me, “I know Mr.
Jameson will do likewise.”
I was pulled two ways at once. I believed in Miss Guerrero, and yet the
flight of her father and the removal of the bullion swallowed up, as
it were, instantly, without so much as a trace in New York--looked very
black for him. And yet, as she placed her small hand tremblingly in mine
to say good-bye, she won another knight to go forth and fight her battle
for her, nor do I think that I am more than ordinarily susceptible,
either.
When she had gone, I looked hopelessly at Kennedy. How could we find a
missing man in a city of four million people, find him without the aid
of the police--perhaps before the police could themselves find him?
Kennedy seemed to appreciate my perplexity as though he read my
thoughts. “The first thing to do is to locate this Senor Torreon from
whom the first information came,” he remarked as we left the apartment.
“Miss Guerrero told me that he might possibly be found in an obscure
boarding-house in the Bronx where several members of the junta live. Let
us try, anyway.”
Fortune favoured us to the extent that we did find Torreon at the
address given. He made no effort to evade us, though I noted that he was
an unprepossessing looking man--undersized and a trifle over-stout, with
an eye that never met yours as you talked with him. Whether it was that
he was concealing something, or whether he was merely fearful that we
might after all be United States Secret Service men, or whether it was
simply a lack of command of English, he was uncommonly uncommunicative
at first. He repeated sullenly the details of the disappearance of
Guerrero, just as we had already heard them.
“And you simply bade him good-bye as you got on a subway train and that
is the last you ever saw of him?” repeated Kennedy.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Did he seem to be worried, to have anything on his mind, to act queerly
in any way?” asked Kennedy keenly.
“No,” came the monosyllabic reply, and there was just that shade of
hesitation about it that made me wish we had the apparatus we used in
the Bond case for registering association time. Kennedy noticed it, and
purposely dropped the line of inquiry in order not to excite Torreon's
suspicion.
“I understand no word has been received from him at the headquarters on
South Street to-day.”
“None,” replied Torreon sharply.
“And you have no idea where he could have gone after you left him last
night?”
“No, senor, none.”
This answer was given, I thought, with suspicious quickness.
“You do not think that he could be concealed by Senora Mendez, then?”
asked Kennedy quietly.
The little man jumped forward with his eyes flashing. “No,” he hissed,
checking this show of feeling as quickly as he could.
“Well, then,” observed Kennedy, rising slowly, “I see nothing to do but
to notify the police and have a general alarm sent out.”
The fire died in the eyes of Torreon. “Do not do that, Senor,” he
exclaimed. “Wait at least one day more. Perhaps he will appear.
Perhaps he has only gone up to Bridgeport to see about some arms and
cartridges--who can tell? No, sir, do not call in the police, I beg
you--not yet. I myself will search for him. It may be I can get some
word, some clue. If I can I will notify Miss Guerrero immediately.”
Kennedy turned suddenly. “Torreon,” he flashed quickly, “what do you
suspect about that shipment of half a million silver dollars? Where did
it go after it left the wharf?”
Torreon kept his composure admirably. An enigma of a smile flitted over
his mobile features as he shrugged his shoulders. “Ah,” he said simply,
“then you have heard that the money is missing? Perhaps Guerrero has not
gone to Bridgeport, after all!”
“On condition that I do not notify the police yet--will you take us to
visit Senora Mendez, and let us learn from her what she knows of this
strange case?”
Torreon was plainly cornered. He sat for a moment biting his nails
nervously and fidgeting in his chair. “It shall be as you wish,” he
assented at length.
“We are to go,” continued Kennedy, “merely as friends of yours, you
understand? I want to ask questions in my own way, and you are not to--”
“Yes, yes,” he agreed. “Wait. I will tell her we are coming,” and he
reached for the telephone.
“No,” interrupted Kennedy. “I prefer to go with you unexpected. Put
down the telephone. Otherwise, I may as well notify my friend Inspector
O'Connor of the Central Office and go up with him.”
Torreon let the receiver fall back in its socket, and I caught just a
glimpse of the look of hate and suspicion which crossed his face as he
turned toward Kennedy. When he spoke it was as suavely as if he himself
were the one who had planned this little excursion.
“It shall be as you wish,” he said, leading the way out to the
cross-town surface cars.
Senora Mendez received us politely, and we were ushered into a large
music-room in her apartment. There were several people there already.
They were seated in easy chairs about the room.
One of the ladies was playing on the piano as we entered. It was a
curious composition--very rhythmic, with a peculiar thread of monotonous
melody running through it.
The playing ceased, and all eyes were fixed on us. Kennedy kept very
close to Torreon, apparently for the purpose of frustrating any attempt
at a whispered conversation with the senora.
The guests rose and with courtly politeness bowed as Senora Mendez
presented two friends of Senor Torreon, Senor Kennedy and Senor Jameson.
We were introduced in turn to Senor and Senora Alvardo, Senor Gonzales,
Senorita Reyes, and the player, Senora Barrios.
It was a peculiar situation, and for want of something better to say I
commented on the curious character of the music we had overheard as we
entered.
The senora smiled, and was about to speak when a servant entered,
bearing a tray full of little cups with a steaming liquid, and in a
silver dish some curious, round, brown, disc-like buttons, about an inch
in diameter and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick. Torreon motioned
frantically to the servant to withdraw, but Kennedy was too quick for
him. Interposing himself between Torreon and the servant, he made way
for her to enter.
“You were speaking of the music,” replied Senora Mendez to me in rich,
full tones. “Yes, it is very curious. It is a song of the Kiowa Indians
of New Mexico which Senora Barrios has endeavoured to set to music so
that it can be rendered on the piano. Senora Barrios and myself fled
from Vespuccia to Mexico at the start of our revolution, and when the
Mexican government ordered us to leave on account of our political
activity we merely crossed the line to the United States, in New
Mexico. It was there that we ran across this very curious discovery. The
monotonous beat of that melody you heard is supposed to represent the
beating of the tom-toms of the Indians during their mescal rites. We are
having a mescal evening here, whiling away the hours of exile from our
native Vespuccia.”
“Mescal?” I repeated blankly at first, then feeling a nudge from
Kennedy, I added hastily: “Oh, yes, to be sure. I think I have heard of
it. It's a Mexican drink, is it not? I have never had the pleasure of
tasting it or of tasting that other drink, pulque--poolkay--did I get
the accent right?”
I felt another, sharper nudge from Kennedy, and knew that I had only
made matters worse.
“Mr. Jameson,” he hastened to remark, “confounds this mescal of the
Indians with the drink of the same name that is common in Mexico.”
“Oh,” she laughed, to my great relief, “but this mescal is something
quite different. The Mexican drink mescal is made from the maguey-plant
and is a frightfully horrid thing that sends the peon out of his senses
and makes him violent. Mescal as I mean it is a little shrub, a god, a
cult, a religion.”
“Yes,” assented Kennedy; “discovered by those same Kiowa Indians, was it
not?”
“Perhaps,” she admitted, raising her beautiful shoulders in polite
deprecation. “The mescal religion, we found, has spread very largely in
New Mexico and Arizona among the Indians, and with the removal of the
Kiowas to the Indian reservation it has been adopted by other tribes
even, I have heard, as far north as the Canadian border.”
“Is that so?” asked Kennedy. “I understood that the United States
government had forbidden the importation of the mescal plant and its
sale to the Indians under severe penalties.”
“It has, sir,” interposed Alvardo, who had joined us, “but still the
mescal cult grows secretly. For my part, I think it might be more wise
for your authorities to look to the whiskey and beer that unscrupulous
persons are selling. Senor Jameson,” he added, turning to me, “will
you join us in a little cup of this artificial paradise, as one of your
English writers--Havelock Ellis, I think--has appropriately called it?”
I glanced dubiously at Kennedy as Senora Mendez took one of the little
buttons out of the silver tray. Carefully paring the fuzzy tuft of hairs
off the top of it--it looked to me very much like the tip of a cactus
plant, which, indeed, it was--she rolled it into a little pellet and
placed it in her mouth, chewing it slowly like a piece of chicle.
“Watch me; do just as I do,” whispered Kennedy to me at a moment when no
one was looking.
The servant advanced towards us with the tray.
“The mescal plant,” explained Alvardo, pointing at the little discs,
“grows precisely like these little buttons which you see here. It is a
species of cactus which rises only half an inch or so from the ground.
The stem is surrounded by a clump of blunt leaves which give it its
button shape, and on the top you will see still the tuft of filaments,
like a cactus. It grows in the rocky soil in many places in the state
of Jalisco, though only recently has it become known to science. The
Indians, when they go out to gather it, simply lop off these little ends
as they peep above the earth, dry them, keep what they wish for their
own use, and sell the rest for what is to them a fabulous sum. Some
people chew the buttons, while a few have lately tried making an
infusion or tea out of them. Perhaps to a beginner I had better
recommend the infusion.”
I had scarcely swallowed the bitter, almost nauseous decoction than I
began to feel my heart action slowing up and my pulse beating fuller and
stronger. The pupils of my eyes expanded as with a dose of belladonna;
at least, I could see that Kennedy's did, and so mine must have done the
same.
I seemed to feel an elated sense of superiority--really I almost
began to feel that it was I, not Kennedy, who counted most in this
investigation. I have since learned that this is the common experience
of mescal-users, this sense of elation; but the feeling of physical
energy and intellectual power soon wore off, and I found myself glad to
recline in my easy chair, as the rest did, in silent indolence.
Still, the display that followed for an enchanted hour or so was such as
I find it hopeless to describe in language which shall convey to others
the beauty and splendour of what I saw.
I picked up a book lying on the table before me. A pale blue-violet
shadow floated across the page before me, leaving an after-image of pure
colour that was indescribable. I laid down the book and closed my eyes.
A confused riot of images and colours like a kaleidoscope crowded before
me, at first indistinct, but, as I gazed with closed yes, more and more
definite. Golden and red and green jewels seemed to riot before me. I
bathed my hands in inconceivable riches of beauty such as no art-glass
worker has ever produced. All discomfort ceased. I had no desire to
sleep--in fact, was hyper-sensitive. But it was a real effort to open
my eyes; to tear myself away from the fascinating visions of shapes and
colours.
At last I did open my eyes to gaze at the gasjets of the chandelier
as they flickered. They seemed to send out waves, expanding and
contracting, waves of colour. The shadows of the room were highly
coloured and constantly changing as the light changed.
Senora Barrios began lightly to play on the piano the transposed Kiowa
song, emphasising the notes that represented the drum-beats. Strange
as it may seem, the music translated itself into pure colour--and the
rhythmic beating of the time seemed to aid the process. I thought of the
untutored Indians as they sat in groups about the flickering camp-fire
while others beat the tom-toms and droned the curious melody. What were
the visions of the red man, I wondered, as he chewed his mescal button
and the medicine man prayed to Hikori, the cactus god, to grant a
“beautiful intoxication?”
Under the gas-lights of the chandelier hung a cluster of electric light
bulbs which added to the flood of golden effulgence that bathed the room
and all things in it. I gazed next intently at the electric lights. They
became the sun itself in their steadiness, until I had to turn away my
head and close my eyes. Even then the image persisted--I saw the golden
sands of Newport, only they were blazing with glory as if they were
veritable diamond dust: I saw the waves, of incomparable blue, rolling
up on the shore. A vague perfume was wafted on the air. I was in an orgy
of vision. Yet there was no stage of maudlin emotion. It was at least
elevating.
Kennedy's experiences as he related them to me afterwards were similar,
though sufficiently varied to be interesting. His visions took the forms
of animals--a Cheshire cat, like that in “Alice in Wonderland,” with
merely a grin that faded away, changing into a lynx which in turn
disappeared, followed by an unknown creature with short nose and pointed
ears, then tortoises and guinea-pigs, a perfectly unrelated succession
of beasts. When the playing began a beautiful panorama unfolded before
him--the regular notes in the music enhancing the beauty, and changes in
the scenes, which he described as a most wonderful kinetoscopic display.
In fact, only De Quincey or Bayard Taylor or Poe could have done justice
to the thrilling effects of the drug, and not even they unless an
amanuensis had been seated by them to take down what they dictated, for
I defy anyone to remember anything but a fraction of the rapid march of
changes under its influence. Indeed, in observing its action I almost
forgot for the time being the purpose of our visit, so fascinated was I.
The music ceased, but not the visions.
Senora Mendez advanced toward us. The spangles on her net dress seemed
to give her a fairy-like appearance; she seemed to float over the carpet
like a glowing, fleecy, white cloud over a rainbow-tinted sky.
Kennedy, however, had not for an instant forgotten what we were there
for, and his attention recalled mine. I was surprised to see that when
I made the effort I could talk and think quite as rationally as ever,
though the wildest pranks were going on in my mind and vision. Kennedy
did not beat about in putting his question, evidently counting on the
surprise to extract the truth.
“What time did Senor Guerrero leave last night?”
The question came so suddenly that she had no time to think of a reply
that would conceal anything she might otherwise have wished to conceal.
“About ten o'clock,” she answered, then instantly was on her guard, for
Torreon had caught her eye.
“And you have no idea where he went?” asked Kennedy.
“None, unless he went home,” she replied guardedly.
I did not at the time notice the significance of her prompt response
to Torreon's warning. I did not notice, as did Kennedy, the smile that
spread over Torreon's features. The music had started again, and I was
oblivious to all but the riot of colour.
Again the servant entered. She seemed clothed in a halo of light and
colour, every fold of her dress radiating the most delicate tones. Yet
there was nothing voluptuous or sensual about it. I was raised above
earthly things. Men and women were no longer men and women--they were
brilliant creatures of whom I was one. It was sensuous, but not sensual.
I looked at my own clothes. My everyday suit was idealised. My hands
were surrounded by a glow of red fire that made me feel that they must
be the hands of a divinity. I noticed them as I reached forward toward
the tray of little cups.
There swam into my line of vision another such hand. It laid itself on
my arm. A voice sang in my ear softly:
“No, Walter, we have had enough. Come, let us go. This is not like any
other known drug--not even the famous Cannabis indica, hasheesh. Let us
go as soon as we politely can. I have found out what I wanted to know.
Guerrero is not here.”
We rose shortly and excused ourselves and, with general regrets in which
all but Torreon joined, were bowed out with the same courtly politeness
with which we had been received.
As we left the house, the return to the world was quick. It was like
coming out from the matinee and seeing the crowds on the street. They,
not the matinee, were unreal for the moment. But, strange to say, I
found one felt no depression as a result of the mescal intoxication.
“What is it about mescal that produces such results?” I asked.
“The alkaloids,” replied Kennedy as we walked slowly along. “Mescal was
first brought to the attention of scientists by explorers employed by
our bureau of ethnology. Dr. Weir Mitchell and Dr. Harvey Wiley and
several German scientists have investigated it since then. It is well
known that it contains half a dozen alkaloids and resins of curious
and little-investigated nature. I can't recall even the names of them
offhand, but I have them in my laboratory.”
As the effect of the mescal began to wear off in the fresh air, I found
myself in a peculiar questioning state. What had we gained by our visit?
Looking calmly at it, I could not help but ask myself why both Torreon
and Senora Mendez had acted as if they were concealing something about
the whereabouts of Guerrero. Was she a spy? Did she know anything about
the loss of the half-million dollars?
Of one thing I was certain. Torreon was an ardent admirer of the
beautiful senora, equally ardent with Guerrero. Was he simply a jealous
suitor, angry at his rival, and now glad that he was out of the way?
Where had Guerrero gone The question was still unanswered.
Absorbed in these reveries, I did not notice particularly where Kennedy
was hurrying me. In fact, finding no plausible answer to my speculations
and knowing that it was useless to question Kennedy at this stage of his
inquiry, I did not for the moment care where we went but allowed him to
take the lead.
We entered one of the fine apartments on the drive and rode up in
the elevator. A door opened and, with a start, I found myself in the
presence of Miss Guerrero again. The questioning look on her face
recalled the object of our search, and its ill success so far. Why had
Kennedy come back with so little to report?
“Have you heard anything?” she asked eagerly.
“Not directly,” replied Kennedy. “But I have a clue, at least. I believe
that Torreon knows where your father is and will let you know any moment
now. It is to his interest to clear himself before this scandal about
the money becomes generally known. Would you allow me to search through
your father's desk?”
For some moments Kennedy rummaged through the drawers and pigeonholes,
silently.
“Where does the junta keep its arms stored--not in the meeting-place on
South Street does it?” asked Kennedy at length.
“Not exactly; that would be a little too risky,” she replied. “I believe
they have a loft above the office, hired in someone else's name and not
connected with the place down-stairs at all. My father and Senor Torreon
are the only ones who have the keys. Why do you ask?”
“I ask,” replied Craig, “because I was wondering whether there might not
be something that would take him down to South Street last night. It is
the only place I can think of his going to at such a late hour, unless
he has gone out of town. If we do not hear from Torreon soon I think I
will try what. I can find down there. Ah, what is this?”
Kennedy drew forth a little silver box and opened it. Inside reposed a
dozen mescal buttons.
We both looked quickly at Miss Guerrero, but it was quite evident that
she was unacquainted with them.
She was about to ask what Kennedy had found when the telephone rang and
the maid announced that Miss Guerrero was wanted by Senor Torreon.
A smile of gratification flitted over Kennedy's face as he leaned over
to me and whispered: “It is evident that Torreon is anxious to clear
himself. I'll wager he has done some rapid hustling since we left him.”
“Perhaps this is some word about my father at last,” murmured Miss
Guerrero as she nervously hurried to the telephone, and answered, “Yes,
this is Senorita Guerrero, Senor Torreon. You are at the office of
the junta? Yes, yes, you have word from my father--you went down
there to-night expecting some guns to be delivered?--and you found him
there--up-stairs in the loft--ill, did you say?--unconscious?”
In an instant her face was drawn and pale, and the receiver fell
clattering to the hard-wood floor from her nerveless fingers.
“He is dead!” she gasped as she swayed backward and I caught her. With
Kennedy's help I carried her, limp and unconscious, across the room, and
placed her in a deep armchair. I stood at her side, but for the moment
could only look on helplessly, blankly at the now stony beauty of her
face.
“Some water, Juanita, quick!” I cried as soon as I had recovered from
the shock. “Have you any smelling-salts or anything of that sort?
Perhaps you can find a little brandy. Hurry.”
While we were making her comfortable the telephone continued to tinkle.
“This is Kennedy,” I heard Craig say, as Juanita came hurrying in with
water, smelling-salts, and brandy. “You fool. She fainted. Why couldn't
you break it to her gently? What's that address on South Street? You
found him over the junta meeting-place in a loft? Yes, I understand.
What were you doing down there? You went down expecting a shipment
of arms and saw a light overhead I see--and suspecting something you
entered with a policeman. You heard him move across the floor above
and fall heavily? All right. Someone will be down directly. Ambulance
surgeon has tried everything, you say? No heart action, no breathing?
Sure. Very well. Let the body remain just where it is until I get
down. Oh, wait. How long ago did it happen? Fifteen minutes? All right.
Good-bye.”
Such restoratives as we had found we applied faithfully. At last we were
rewarded by the first flutter of an eyelid. Then Miss Guerrero gazed
wildly about.
“He is dead,” she moaned. “They have killed him. I know it. My father
is dead.” Over and over she repeated: “He is dead. I shall never see him
again.”
Vainly I tried to soothe her. What was there to say? There could be
no doubt about it. Torreon must have gone down directly after we left
Senora Mendez. He had seen a light in the loft, had entered with a
policeman--as a witness, he had told Craig over the telephone--had heard
Guerrero fall, and had sent for the ambulance. How long Guerrero had
been there he did not know, for while members of the junta had been
coming and going all day in the office below none had gone up into the
locked loft.
Kennedy with rare skill calmed Miss Guerrero's dry-eyed hysteria into
a gentle rain of tears, which relieved her overwrought feelings. We
silently withdrew, leaving the two women, mistress and servant, weeping.
“Craig,” I asked when we had gained the street, “what do you make of it?
We must lose no time. Arrest this Mendez woman before she has a chance
to escape.”
“Not so fast, Walter,” he cautioned as we spun along in a taxicab. “Our
case isn't very complete against anybody yet.”
“But it looks black for Guerrero,” I admitted. “Dead men tell no tales
even to clear themselves.”
“It all depends on speed now,” he answered laconically.
We had reached the university, which was only a few blocks away, and
Craig dashed into his laboratory while I settled with the driver. He
reappeared almost instantly with some bulky apparatus under his arm,
and we more than ran from the building to the near-by subway station.
Fortunately there was an express just pulling in, as we tumbled down the
steps.
To one who knows South Street as merely a river-front street whose glory
of other days has long since departed, where an antiquated horsecar
now ambles slowly uptown, and trucks and carts all day long are in a
perpetual jam, it is peculiarly uninteresting by day, and peculiarly
deserted and vicious by night. But there is another fascination about
South Street. Perhaps there has never been a revolution in Latin America
which has not in some way or other been connected with this street,
whence hundreds of filibustering expeditions have started. Whenever a
dictator is to be overthrown, or half a dozen chocolate-skinned generals
in the Caribbean become dissatisfied with their portions of gold lace,
the arms- and ammunition-dealers of South Street can give, if they
choose, an advance scenario of the whole tragedy or comic opera, as the
case may be. Real war or opera-bouffe, it is all grist for the mills of
these close-mouthed individuals.
Our quest took us to a ramshackle building reminiscent of the days when
the street bristled with bowsprits of ships from all over the world, an
age when the American merchantman flew our flag on the uttermost of the
seven-seas. On the ground floor was an apparently innocent junk dealer's
shop, in reality the meeting-place of the junta. By an outside stairway
the lofts above were reached, hiding their secrets behind windows opaque
with decades of dust.
At the door we were met by Torreon and the policeman. Both appeared to
be shocked beyond measure. Torreon was profuse in explanations which
did not explain. Out of the tangled mass of verbiage I did manage to
extract, however, the impression that, come what might to the other
members of the junta, Torreon was determined to clear his own name at
any cost. He and the policeman had discovered Senor Guerrero only a
short time before, up-stairs. For all he knew, Guerrero had been there
some time, perhaps all day, while the others were meeting down-stairs.
Except for the light he might have been there undiscovered still.
Torreon swore he had heard Guerrero fall; the policeman was not quite so
positive.
Kennedy listened impatiently, then sprang up the stairs, only to call
back to the policeman: “Go call me a taxicab at the ferry, an electric
cab. Mind, now, not a gasoline-cab--electric.”
We found the victim lying on a sort of bed of sailcloth in a loft
apparently devoted to the peaceful purposes of the junk trade, but
really a perfect arsenal and magazine. It was dusty and cobwebbed,
crammed with stands of arms, tents, uniforms in bales, batteries of
Maxims and mountain-guns, and all the paraphernalia for carrying on a
real twentieth-century revolution.
The young ambulance surgeon was still there, so quickly had we been able
to get down-town. He had his stomach-pump, hypodermic syringe, emetics,
and various tubes spread out on a piece of linen on a packing-case.
Kennedy at once inquired just what he had done.
“Thought at first it was only a bad case of syncope,” he replied, “but
I guess he was dead some minutes before I got here. Tried rhythmic
traction of the tongue, artificial respiration, stimulants, chest and
heart massage--everything, but it was no use:”
“Have you any idea what caused his death?” asked Craig as he hastily
adjusted his apparatus to an electric light socket--a rheostat, an
induction-coil of peculiar shape, and an “interrupter.”
“Poison of some kind--an alkaloid. They say they heard him fall as they
came up-stairs, and when they got to him he was blue. His face was as
blue as it is now when I arrived. Asphyxia, failure of both heart and
lungs, that was what the alkaloid caused.”
The gong of the electric cab sounded outside. As Craig heard it he
rushed with two wires to the window, threw them out, and hurried
downstairs, attaching them to the batteries of the cab.
In an instant he was back again.
“Now, Doctor,” he said, “I'm going to perform a very delicate test on
this man. Here I have the alternating city current and here a direct,
continuous current from the storage-batteries of the cab below. Doctor,
hold his mouth open. So. Now, have you a pair of forceps handy? Good.
Can you catch hold of the tip of his tongue? There. Do just as I tell
you. I apply this cathode to his skin in the dorsal region; under the
back of the neck, and this anode in the lumbar region at the base of the
spine--just pieces of cotton soaked in salt solution and covering the
metal electrodes, to give me a good contact with the body.”
I was fascinated. It was gruesome, and yet I could not take my eyes
off it. Torreon stood blankly, in a daze. Craig was as calm as if his
every-day work was experimenting on cadavers.
He applied the current, moving the anode and the cathode slowly. I had
often seen the experiments on the nerves of a frog that had been freshly
killed, how the electric current will make the muscles twitch, as
discovered long ago by Galvani. But I was not prepared to see it on a
human being. Torreon muttered something and crossed himself.
The arms seemed half to rise--then suddenly to fall, flabby again. There
was a light hiss like an inspiration and expiration of air, a ghastly
sound.
“Lungs react,” muttered Kennedy, “but the heart doesn't. I must increase
the voltage.”
Again he applied the electrodes.
The face seemed a different shade of blue, I thought.
“Good God, Kennedy,” I exclaimed, “do you suppose the effect of that
mescal on me hasn't worn off yet? Blue, blue everything blue is playing
pranks before my eyes. Tell me, is the blue of that face--his face--is
it changing? Do you see it, or do I imagine it?”
“Blood asphyxiated,” was the disjointed reply. “The oxygen is clearing
it.”
“But, Kennedy,” I persisted; “his face was dark blue, black a minute
ago. The most astonishing change has taken place. Its colour is almost
natural now. Do I imagine it or is it real?”
Kennedy was so absorbed in his work that he made no reply at all. He
heard nothing, nothing save the slow, forced inspiration and expiration
of air as he deftly and quickly manipulated the electrodes.
“Doctor,” he cried at length, “tell me what is going on in that heart.”
The young surgeon bent his head and placed his ear on the cold breast.
As he raised his eyes and they chanced to rest on Kennedy's hands,
holding the electrodes dangling idly in the air, I think I never saw a
greater look of astonishment on a human face. “It--is--almost--natural,”
he gasped.
“With great care and a milk diet for a few days Guerrero will live,”
said Kennedy quietly. “It is natural.”
“My God, man, but he was dead!” exclaimed the surgeon. “I know it. His
heart was stopped and his lungs collapsed.”
“To all intents and purposes he was dead, dead as ever a man was,”
replied Craig, “and would be now, if I hadn't happened to think of this
special induction-coil loaned to me by a doctor who had studied deeply
the process of electric resuscitation developed by Professor Leduc of
the Nantes Ecole de Medicin. There is only one case I know of on record
which compares with this--a case of a girl resuscitated in Paris. The
girl was a chronic morphine-eater and was 'dead' forty minutes.”
I stood like one frozen, the thing was so incomprehensible, after the
many surprises of the evening that had preceded. Torreon, in fact, did
not comprehend for the moment.
As Kennedy and I bent over, Guerrero's eyes opened, but he apparently
saw nothing. His hand moved a little, and his lips parted. Kennedy
quickly reached into the pockets of the man gasping for breath,
one after another. From a vest pocket he drew a little silver case,
identical with that he had found in the desk up-town. He opened it, and
one mescal button rolled out into the palm of his hand. Kennedy regarded
it thoughtfully.
“I suspect there is at least one devotee of the vision-breeding drug
who will no longer cultivate its use, as a result of this,” he added,
looking significantly at the man before us.
“Guerrero,” shouted Kennedy, placing his mouth close to the man's ear,
but muting his voice so that only I could distinguish what he said,
“Guerrero, where is the money?”
His lips moved trembling again, but I could not make out that he said
anything.
Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach his apparatus from the
electric light socket behind Torreon.
“Car-ramba!” I heard as I turned suddenly.
Craig had Torreon firmly pinioned from behind by both arms. The
policeman quickly interposed.
“It's all right,--officer,” exclaimed Craig. “Walter, reach into his
inside pocket.”