XI. The Artificial Paradise
It was, I recall, at that period of the late unpleasantness in thelittle Central American republic of Vespuccia, when things lookeddarkest for American investors, that I hurried home one evening toKennedy, bursting with news.
By way of explanation, I may add that during the rubber boom Kennedy hadinvested in stock of a rubber company in Vespuccia, and that its valuehad been shrinking for some time with that elasticity which a rubberband shows when one party suddenly lets go his end. Kennedy had been indanger of being snapped rather hard by the recoil, and I knew he hadput in an order with his broker to sell and take his loss when a certainfigure was reached. My news was a first ray of light in an otherwisedark situation, and I wanted to advise him to cancel the selling orderand stick for a rise.
Accordingly I hurried unceremoniously into our apartment with the wordson my lips before I had fairly closed the door. "What do you think,Craig" I shouted. "It is rumoured that the revolutionists have capturedhalf a million dollars from the government and are sending it to--" Istopped 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 towardmy 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, Ifound, as she turned her head quickly at my sudden entrance and betraya lively interest at the mention of the revolution. She was aLatin-American, and the Latin-American type of feminine beauty isfascinating at least to me. I did not retreat very fast.
As I hoped, Kennedy rose to the occasion. "Miss Guerrero," he said, "letme introduce Mr. Jameson, who has helped me very much in solving some ofmy most difficult cases. Miss Guerrero's father, Walter, is the owner ofa plantation which sells its product to the company I am interested in."
She bowed graciously, but there was a moment of embarrassment untilKennedy came to the rescue.
"I shall need Mr. Jameson in handling your case, Miss Guerrero," heexplained. "Would it be presuming to ask you to repeat to him brieflywhat you have already told me about the mysterious disappearance of yourfather? Perhaps some additional details will occur to you, things thatyou may consider trivial, but which, I assure you, may be of the utmostimportance."
She assented, and in a low, tremulous, musical voice bravely wentthrough her story.
"We come," she began, "my father and I--for my mother died when I was alittle girl--we come from the northern part of Vespuccia, where foreigncapitalists are much interested in the introduction of a new rubberplant. I am an only child and have been the constant companion of myfather for years, ever since I could ride a pony, going with him aboutour hacienda and on business trips to Europe and the States.
"I may as well say at the start, Mr. Jameson, that although my father isa large land-owner, he has very liberal political views and is deeply insympathy 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 seemedto be more need of his services here in New York than in any of theneighbouring countries, we came here. So you see that if the revolutionis not successful his estate will probably be confiscated and we shallbe penniless. He is the agent--the head of the junta, I suppose youwould call it--here in New York."
"Engaged in purchasing arms and ammunition," put in Kennedy, as shepaused, "and seeing that they are shipped safely to New Orleans asagricultural machinery, where another agent receives them and attends totheir safe transit across the Gulf."
She nodded and after a moment resumed
"There is quite a little colony of Vespuccians here in New York, bothrevolutionists and government supporters. I suppose that neither ofyou has any idea of the intriguing that is going on under the peacefulsurface right here in your own city. But there is much of it, more thaneven I know or can tell you. Well, my father lately has been acting veryqueerly. There is a group who meet frequently at the home of a SenoraMendez--an insurrecto group, of course. I do not go, for they areall much older people than I. I know the senora well, but I prefera different kind of person. My friends are younger and perhaps moreradical, more in earnest about the future of Vespuccia.
"For some weeks it has seemed to me that this Senora Mendez has had toomuch influence over my father. He does not seem like the same man heused to be. Indeed, some of the junta who do not frequent the house ofthe senora have remarked it. He seems moody, works by starts, thenwill neglect his work entirely. Often I see him with his eyes closed,apparently sitting quietly, oblivious to the progress of the cause--theonly cause now which can restore us our estate.
"The other day we lost an entire shipment of arms--the Secret Servicecaptured them on the way from the warehouse on South Street to thesteamer which was to take them to New Orleans. Only once before had ithappened, 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 treacherythere."
"Treachery?" I asked. "And have you any suspicions who might have playedinformer?"
She hesitated. "I may as well tell you just what I suspect. I fear thatthe hold of Senora Mendez is somehow or other concerned with it all. Ieven have suspected that somehow she may be working in the pay of thegovernment that she is a vampire, living on the secrets of the group whoso trust her. I suspect anything, everybody--that she is poisoninghis mind, perhaps even whispering into his ear some siren proposal ofamnesty and his estate again, if he will but do what she asks. My poorfather--I must save him from himself if it is necessary. Argument hasno effect with him. He merely answers that the senora is a talentedand accomplished woman, and laughs a vacant laugh when I hint to him tobeware. 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 atraitress, but had simply been scheming to win the heart and hence thehacienda of the great land-owner, when he came into possession of hisestate if the revolution proved successful.
"And finally," she concluded, keeping back the tears by an heroiceffort, "last night he left our apartment, promising to return early inthe evening. It is now twenty-four hours, and I have heard not aword from him. It is the first time in my life that we have ever beenseparated 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 thejunta. Senor Torreon said this morning that he left the home of SenoraMendez last night about ten o'clock in company with my father. He saysthey parted at the subway, as they lived on different branches of theroad. Professor Kennedy," she added, springing up and clasping her handstightly in an appeal that was irresistible, "you know what steps to taketo find him. I trust all to you--even the calling on the police, thoughI think it would be best if we could get along without them. Find myfather, senores, and when we come into our own again you shall notregret that you befriended a lonely girl in a strange city, surroundedby intrigue and danger." There were tears in her eyes as she stoodswaying before us.
The tenseness of the appeal was broken by the sharp ringing of thetelephone bell. Kennedy quickly took down the receiver.
"Your maid wishes to speak to you," he said, handing the telephone toher.
Her face brightened with that nervous hope that springs in the humanbreast even in the blackest moments. "I told her if any message came forme she might find me here," explained Miss Guerrero. "Yes, Juanita, whatis it--a message for me?"
My Spanish was not quite good enough to catch more than a word here andthere in the low conversation, but I could guess from the haggard lookwhich overspread her delicate face that the news was not encouraging.
"Oh!" she cried, "this is terrible--terrible! What shall I do? Why did Icome here? I don't believe it. I don't believe it."
"Don't believe what, Miss Guerrero?" asked Kennedy reassuringly. "Trustme."
"That he stole the money--oh, wh
at am I saying? You must not look forhim--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 policelater. We will respect your confidence."
"The junta had been notified a few days ago, they say, that a largesum--five hundred thousand silver dollars--had been captured from thegovernment and was on its way to New York to be melted up as bullion atthe sub-treasury," she answered, repeating what she had heard over thetelephone as if in a dream. "Mr. Jameson referred to the rumour when hecame in. I was interested, for I did not know the public had heard of ityet. The junta has just announced that the money is missing. As soonas the ship docked in Brooklyn this morning an agent appeared with theproper credentials from my father and a guard, and they took the moneyaway. It has not been heard of since--and they have no word from myfather."
Her face was blanched as she realised what the situation was. Here shewas, setting people to run down her own father, if the suspicions of theother members of the junta were to be credited.
"You--you do not think my father--stole the money?" she falteredpitifully. "Say you do not think so."
"I think nothing yet," replied Kennedy in an even voice. "The firstthing 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 besideher, clasping her hand in both of his and gazing earnestly down into therich flush that now spread over her olive cheeks.
"Miss Guerrero," he said, "you may trust me implicitly. If your fatheris alive I will do all that a man can do to find him. Let me act--forthe 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 theflight of her father and the removal of the bullion swallowed up, asit were, instantly, without so much as a trace in New York--looked veryblack for him. And yet, as she placed her small hand tremblingly in mineto say good-bye, she won another knight to go forth and fight her battlefor 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 amissing man in a city of four million people, find him without the aidof the police--perhaps before the police could themselves find him?
Kennedy seemed to appreciate my perplexity as though he read mythoughts. "The first thing to do is to locate this Senor Torreon fromwhom the first information came," he remarked as we left the apartment."Miss Guerrero told me that he might possibly be found in an obscureboarding-house in the Bronx where several members of the junta live. Letus try, anyway."
Fortune favoured us to the extent that we did find Torreon at theaddress given. He made no effort to evade us, though I noted that he wasan unprepossessing looking man--undersized and a trifle over-stout, withan eye that never met yours as you talked with him. Whether it was thathe was concealing something, or whether he was merely fearful that wemight after all be United States Secret Service men, or whether it wassimply a lack of command of English, he was uncommonly uncommunicativeat first. He repeated sullenly the details of the disappearance ofGuerrero, just as we had already heard them.
"And you simply bade him good-bye as you got on a subway train and thatis 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 queerlyin any way?" asked Kennedy keenly.
"No," came the monosyllabic reply, and there was just that shade ofhesitation about it that made me wish we had the apparatus we used inthe Bond case for registering association time. Kennedy noticed it, andpurposely dropped the line of inquiry in order not to excite Torreon'ssuspicion.
"I understand no word has been received from him at the headquarters onSouth Street to-day."
"None," replied Torreon sharply.
"And you have no idea where he could have gone after you left him lastnight?"
"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 butto notify the police and have a general alarm sent out."
The fire died in the eyes of Torreon. "Do not do that, Senor," heexclaimed. "Wait at least one day more. Perhaps he will appear.Perhaps he has only gone up to Bridgeport to see about some arms andcartridges--who can tell? No, sir, do not call in the police, I begyou--not yet. I myself will search for him. It may be I can get someword, some clue. If I can I will notify Miss Guerrero immediately."
Kennedy turned suddenly. "Torreon," he flashed quickly, "what do yoususpect about that shipment of half a million silver dollars? Where didit go after it left the wharf?"
Torreon kept his composure admirably. An enigma of a smile flitted overhis mobile features as he shrugged his shoulders. "Ah," he said simply,"then you have heard that the money is missing? Perhaps Guerrero has notgone to Bridgeport, after all!"
"On condition that I do not notify the police yet--will you take us tovisit Senora Mendez, and let us learn from her what she knows of thisstrange case?"
Torreon was plainly cornered. He sat for a moment biting his nailsnervously and fidgeting in his chair. "It shall be as you wish," heassented at length.
"We are to go," continued Kennedy, "merely as friends of yours, youunderstand? 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 hereached for the telephone.
"No," interrupted Kennedy. "I prefer to go with you unexpected. Putdown the telephone. Otherwise, I may as well notify my friend InspectorO'Connor of the Central Office and go up with him."
Torreon let the receiver fall back in its socket, and I caught just aglimpse of the look of hate and suspicion which crossed his face as heturned toward Kennedy. When he spoke it was as suavely as if he himselfwere the one who had planned this little excursion.
"It shall be as you wish," he said, leading the way out to thecross-town surface cars.
Senora Mendez received us politely, and we were ushered into a largemusic-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 acurious composition--very rhythmic, with a peculiar thread of monotonousmelody running through it.
The playing ceased, and all eyes were fixed on us. Kennedy kept veryclose to Torreon, apparently for the purpose of frustrating any attemptat a whispered conversation with the senora.
The guests rose and with courtly politeness bowed as Senora Mendezpresented 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 Icommented on the curious character of the music we had overheard as weentered.
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 asilver dish some curious, round, brown, disc-like buttons, about an inchin diameter and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick. Torreon motionedfrantically to the servant to withdraw, but Kennedy was too quick forhim. Interposing himself between Torreon and the servant, he made wayfor 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 Indiansof New Mexico which Senora Barrios has endeavoured to set to music sothat it can be rendered on the piano. Senora Barrios and myself fledfrom Vespuccia to Mexico at the start of our revolution, and when theMexican government ord
ered us to leave on account of our politicalactivity we merely crossed the line to the United States, in NewMexico. It was there that we ran across this very curious discovery. Themonotonous beat of that melody you heard is supposed to represent thebeating of the tom-toms of the Indians during their mescal rites. We arehaving a mescal evening here, whiling away the hours of exile from ournative Vespuccia."
"Mescal?" I repeated blankly at first, then feeling a nudge fromKennedy, I added hastily: "Oh, yes, to be sure. I think I have heard ofit. It's a Mexican drink, is it not? I have never had the pleasure oftasting it or of tasting that other drink, pulque--poolkay--did I getthe accent right?"
I felt another, sharper nudge from Kennedy, and knew that I had onlymade matters worse.
"Mr. Jameson," he hastened to remark, "confounds this mescal of theIndians with the drink of the same name that is common in Mexico."
"Oh," she laughed, to my great relief, "but this mescal is somethingquite different. The Mexican drink mescal is made from the maguey-plantand is a frightfully horrid thing that sends the peon out of his sensesand makes him violent. Mescal as I mean it is a little shrub, a god, acult, a religion."
"Yes," assented Kennedy; "discovered by those same Kiowa Indians, was itnot?"
"Perhaps," she admitted, raising her beautiful shoulders in politedeprecation. "The mescal religion, we found, has spread very largely inNew Mexico and Arizona among the Indians, and with the removal of theKiowas to the Indian reservation it has been adopted by other tribeseven, I have heard, as far north as the Canadian border."
"Is that so?" asked Kennedy. "I understood that the United Statesgovernment had forbidden the importation of the mescal plant and itssale to the Indians under severe penalties."
"It has, sir," interposed Alvardo, who had joined us, "but still themescal cult grows secretly. For my part, I think it might be more wisefor your authorities to look to the whiskey and beer that unscrupulouspersons are selling. Senor Jameson," he added, turning to me, "willyou join us in a little cup of this artificial paradise, as one of yourEnglish writers--Havelock Ellis, I think--has appropriately called it?"
I glanced dubiously at Kennedy as Senora Mendez took one of the littlebuttons out of the silver tray. Carefully paring the fuzzy tuft of hairsoff the top of it--it looked to me very much like the tip of a cactusplant, which, indeed, it was--she rolled it into a little pellet andplaced 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 noone 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 aspecies 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 itsbutton 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 stateof Jalisco, though only recently has it become known to science. TheIndians, when they go out to gather it, simply lop off these little endsas they peep above the earth, dry them, keep what they wish for theirown use, and sell the rest for what is to them a fabulous sum. Somepeople chew the buttons, while a few have lately tried making aninfusion or tea out of them. Perhaps to a beginner I had betterrecommend the infusion."
I had scarcely swallowed the bitter, almost nauseous decoction than Ibegan to feel my heart action slowing up and my pulse beating fuller andstronger. 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 thesame.
I seemed to feel an elated sense of superiority--really I almostbegan to feel that it was I, not Kennedy, who counted most in thisinvestigation. I have since learned that this is the common experienceof mescal-users, this sense of elation; but the feeling of physicalenergy and intellectual power soon wore off, and I found myself glad torecline in my easy chair, as the rest did, in silent indolence.
Still, the display that followed for an enchanted hour or so was such asI find it hopeless to describe in language which shall convey to othersthe beauty and splendour of what I saw.
I picked up a book lying on the table before me. A pale blue-violetshadow floated across the page before me, leaving an after-image of purecolour that was indescribable. I laid down the book and closed my eyes.A confused riot of images and colours like a kaleidoscope crowded beforeme, at first indistinct, but, as I gazed with closed yes, more and moredefinite. Golden and red and green jewels seemed to riot before me. Ibathed my hands in inconceivable riches of beauty such as no art-glassworker has ever produced. All discomfort ceased. I had no desire tosleep--in fact, was hyper-sensitive. But it was a real effort to openmy eyes; to tear myself away from the fascinating visions of shapes andcolours.
At last I did open my eyes to gaze at the gasjets of the chandelieras they flickered. They seemed to send out waves, expanding andcontracting, waves of colour. The shadows of the room were highlycoloured and constantly changing as the light changed.
Senora Barrios began lightly to play on the piano the transposed Kiowasong, emphasising the notes that represented the drum-beats. Strangeas it may seem, the music translated itself into pure colour--and therhythmic beating of the time seemed to aid the process. I thought of theuntutored Indians as they sat in groups about the flickering camp-firewhile others beat the tom-toms and droned the curious melody. What werethe visions of the red man, I wondered, as he chewed his mescal buttonand 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 lightbulbs which added to the flood of golden effulgence that bathed the roomand all things in it. I gazed next intently at the electric lights. Theybecame the sun itself in their steadiness, until I had to turn away myhead and close my eyes. Even then the image persisted--I saw the goldensands of Newport, only they were blazing with glory as if they wereveritable diamond dust: I saw the waves, of incomparable blue, rollingup on the shore. A vague perfume was wafted on the air. I was in an orgyof vision. Yet there was no stage of maudlin emotion. It was at leastelevating.
Kennedy's experiences as he related them to me afterwards were similar,though sufficiently varied to be interesting. His visions took the formsof animals--a Cheshire cat, like that in "Alice in Wonderland," withmerely a grin that faded away, changing into a lynx which in turndisappeared, followed by an unknown creature with short nose and pointedears, then tortoises and guinea-pigs, a perfectly unrelated successionof beasts. When the playing began a beautiful panorama unfolded beforehim--the regular notes in the music enhancing the beauty, and changes inthe scenes, which he described as a most wonderful kinetoscopic display.
In fact, only De Quincey or Bayard Taylor or Poe could have done justiceto the thrilling effects of the drug, and not even they unless anamanuensis had been seated by them to take down what they dictated, forI defy anyone to remember anything but a fraction of the rapid march ofchanges under its influence. Indeed, in observing its action I almostforgot 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 seemedto give her a fairy-like appearance; she seemed to float over the carpetlike a glowing, fleecy, white cloud over a rainbow-tinted sky.
Kennedy, however, had not for an instant forgotten what we were therefor, and his attention recalled mine. I was surprised to see that whenI 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. Kennedydid not beat about in putting his question, evidently counting on thesurprise 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 replythat would conceal anything she might otherwise have wished to conceal.
"About ten o'clock," she answe
red, then instantly was on her guard, forTorreon 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 responseto Torreon's warning. I did not notice, as did Kennedy, the smile thatspread over Torreon's features. The music had started again, and I wasoblivious to all but the riot of colour.
Again the servant entered. She seemed clothed in a halo of light andcolour, every fold of her dress radiating the most delicate tones. Yetthere was nothing voluptuous or sensual about it. I was raised aboveearthly things. Men and women were no longer men and women--they werebrilliant creatures of whom I was one. It was sensuous, but not sensual.I looked at my own clothes. My everyday suit was idealised. My handswere surrounded by a glow of red fire that made me feel that they mustbe the hands of a divinity. I noticed them as I reached forward towardthe tray of little cups.
There swam into my line of vision another such hand. It laid itself onmy arm. A voice sang in my ear softly:
"No, Walter, we have had enough. Come, let us go. This is not like anyother known drug--not even the famous Cannabis indica, hasheesh. Let usgo 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 whichall but Torreon joined, were bowed out with the same courtly politenesswith which we had been received.
As we left the house, the return to the world was quick. It was likecoming out from the matinee and seeing the crowds on the street. They,not the matinee, were unreal for the moment. But, strange to say, Ifound 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 wasfirst brought to the attention of scientists by explorers employed byour bureau of ethnology. Dr. Weir Mitchell and Dr. Harvey Wiley andseveral German scientists have investigated it since then. It is wellknown that it contains half a dozen alkaloids and resins of curiousand little-investigated nature. I can't recall even the names of themoffhand, but I have them in my laboratory."
As the effect of the mescal began to wear off in the fresh air, I foundmyself 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 Torreonand Senora Mendez had acted as if they were concealing something aboutthe whereabouts of Guerrero. Was she a spy? Did she know anything aboutthe loss of the half-million dollars?
Of one thing I was certain. Torreon was an ardent admirer of thebeautiful senora, equally ardent with Guerrero. Was he simply a jealoussuitor, 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 Kennedywas hurrying me. In fact, finding no plausible answer to my speculationsand knowing that it was useless to question Kennedy at this stage of hisinquiry, I did not for the moment care where we went but allowed him totake the lead.
We entered one of the fine apartments on the drive and rode up inthe elevator. A door opened and, with a start, I found myself in thepresence of Miss Guerrero again. The questioning look on her facerecalled the object of our search, and its ill success so far. Why hadKennedy 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 believethat Torreon knows where your father is and will let you know any momentnow. It is to his interest to clear himself before this scandal aboutthe money becomes generally known. Would you allow me to search throughyour 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 onSouth Street does it?" asked Kennedy at length.
"Not exactly; that would be a little too risky," she replied. "I believethey have a loft above the office, hired in someone else's name and notconnected with the place down-stairs at all. My father and Senor Torreonare the only ones who have the keys. Why do you ask?"
"I ask," replied Craig, "because I was wondering whether there might notbe something that would take him down to South Street last night. It isthe only place I can think of his going to at such a late hour, unlesshe has gone out of town. If we do not hear from Torreon soon I think Iwill try what. I can find down there. Ah, what is this?"
Kennedy drew forth a little silver box and opened it. Inside reposed adozen mescal buttons.
We both looked quickly at Miss Guerrero, but it was quite evident thatshe was unacquainted with them.
She was about to ask what Kennedy had found when the telephone rang andthe maid announced that Miss Guerrero was wanted by Senor Torreon.
A smile of gratification flitted over Kennedy's face as he leaned overto me and whispered: "It is evident that Torreon is anxious to clearhimself. I'll wager he has done some rapid hustling since we left him."
"Perhaps this is some word about my father at last," murmured MissGuerrero as she nervously hurried to the telephone, and answered, "Yes,this is Senorita Guerrero, Senor Torreon. You are at the office ofthe junta? Yes, yes, you have word from my father--you went downthere to-night expecting some guns to be delivered?--and you found himthere--up-stairs in the loft--ill, did you say?--unconscious?"
In an instant her face was drawn and pale, and the receiver fellclattering to the hard-wood floor from her nerveless fingers.
"He is dead!" she gasped as she swayed backward and I caught her. WithKennedy's help I carried her, limp and unconscious, across the room, andplaced her in a deep armchair. I stood at her side, but for the momentcould only look on helplessly, blankly at the now stony beauty of herface.
"Some water, Juanita, quick!" I cried as soon as I had recovered fromthe 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 withwater, smelling-salts, and brandy. "You fool. She fainted. Why couldn'tyou break it to her gently? What's that address on South Street? Youfound him over the junta meeting-place in a loft? Yes, I understand.What were you doing down there? You went down expecting a shipmentof arms and saw a light overhead I see--and suspecting something youentered with a policeman. You heard him move across the floor aboveand fall heavily? All right. Someone will be down directly. Ambulancesurgeon has tried everything, you say? No heart action, no breathing?Sure. Very well. Let the body remain just where it is until I getdown. 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 wererewarded by the first flutter of an eyelid. Then Miss Guerrero gazedwildly about.
"He is dead," she moaned. "They have killed him. I know it. My fatheris dead." Over and over she repeated: "He is dead. I shall never see himagain."
Vainly I tried to soothe her. What was there to say? There could beno doubt about it. Torreon must have gone down directly after we leftSenora Mendez. He had seen a light in the loft, had entered with apoliceman--as a witness, he had told Craig over the telephone--had heardGuerrero fall, and had sent for the ambulance. How long Guerrero hadbeen there he did not know, for while members of the junta had beencoming and going all day in the office below none had gone up into thelocked loft.
Kennedy with rare skill calmed Miss Guerrero's dry-eyed hysteria intoa gentle rain of tears, which relieved her overwrought feelings. Wesilently 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 chanceto escape."
"Not so fast, Walter," he cautioned as we spun
along in a taxicab. "Ourcase isn't very complete against anybody yet."
"But it looks black for Guerrero," I admitted. "Dead men tell no taleseven to clear themselves."
"It all depends on speed now," he answered laconically.
We had reached the university, which was only a few blocks away, andCraig dashed into his laboratory while I settled with the driver. Hereappeared 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 thesteps.
To one who knows South Street as merely a river-front street whose gloryof other days has long since departed, where an antiquated horsecarnow ambles slowly uptown, and trucks and carts all day long are in aperpetual jam, it is peculiarly uninteresting by day, and peculiarlydeserted and vicious by night. But there is another fascination aboutSouth Street. Perhaps there has never been a revolution in Latin Americawhich has not in some way or other been connected with this street,whence hundreds of filibustering expeditions have started. Whenever adictator is to be overthrown, or half a dozen chocolate-skinned generalsin the Caribbean become dissatisfied with their portions of gold lace,the arms- and ammunition-dealers of South Street can give, if theychoose, an advance scenario of the whole tragedy or comic opera, as thecase may be. Real war or opera-bouffe, it is all grist for the mills ofthese close-mouthed individuals.
Our quest took us to a ramshackle building reminiscent of the days whenthe street bristled with bowsprits of ships from all over the world, anage when the American merchantman flew our flag on the uttermost of theseven-seas. On the ground floor was an apparently innocent junk dealer'sshop, in reality the meeting-place of the junta. By an outside stairwaythe lofts above were reached, hiding their secrets behind windows opaquewith decades of dust.
At the door we were met by Torreon and the policeman. Both appeared tobe shocked beyond measure. Torreon was profuse in explanations whichdid not explain. Out of the tangled mass of verbiage I did manage toextract, however, the impression that, come what might to the othermembers of the junta, Torreon was determined to clear his own name atany cost. He and the policeman had discovered Senor Guerrero only ashort time before, up-stairs. For all he knew, Guerrero had been theresome 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 sopositive.
Kennedy listened impatiently, then sprang up the stairs, only to callback to the policeman: "Go call me a taxicab at the ferry, an electriccab. Mind, now, not a gasoline-cab--electric."
We found the victim lying on a sort of bed of sailcloth in a loftapparently devoted to the peaceful purposes of the junk trade, butreally a perfect arsenal and magazine. It was dusty and cobwebbed,crammed with stands of arms, tents, uniforms in bales, batteries ofMaxims and mountain-guns, and all the paraphernalia for carrying on areal twentieth-century revolution.
The young ambulance surgeon was still there, so quickly had we been ableto 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, "butI guess he was dead some minutes before I got here. Tried rhythmictraction of the tongue, artificial respiration, stimulants, chest andheart massage--everything, but it was no use:"
"Have you any idea what caused his death?" asked Craig as he hastilyadjusted his apparatus to an electric light socket--a rheostat, aninduction-coil of peculiar shape, and an "interrupter."
"Poison of some kind--an alkaloid. They say they heard him fall as theycame up-stairs, and when they got to him he was blue. His face was asblue as it is now when I arrived. Asphyxia, failure of both heart andlungs, that was what the alkaloid caused."
The gong of the electric cab sounded outside. As Craig heard it herushed with two wires to the window, threw them out, and hurrieddownstairs, 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 onthis 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 tellyou. I apply this cathode to his skin in the dorsal region; under theback of the neck, and this anode in the lumbar region at the base of thespine--just pieces of cotton soaked in salt solution and covering themetal electrodes, to give me a good contact with the body."
I was fascinated. It was gruesome, and yet I could not take my eyesoff it. Torreon stood blankly, in a daze. Craig was as calm as if hisevery-day work was experimenting on cadavers.
He applied the current, moving the anode and the cathode slowly. I hadoften seen the experiments on the nerves of a frog that had been freshlykilled, how the electric current will make the muscles twitch, asdiscovered long ago by Galvani. But I was not prepared to see it on ahuman being. Torreon muttered something and crossed himself.
The arms seemed half to rise--then suddenly to fall, flabby again. Therewas a light hiss like an inspiration and expiration of air, a ghastlysound.
"Lungs react," muttered Kennedy, "but the heart doesn't. I must increasethe 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 thatmescal on me hasn't worn off yet? Blue, blue everything blue is playingpranks before my eyes. Tell me, is the blue of that face--his face--isit changing? Do you see it, or do I imagine it?"
"Blood asphyxiated," was the disjointed reply. "The oxygen is clearingit."
"But, Kennedy," I persisted; "his face was dark blue, black a minuteago. The most astonishing change has taken place. Its colour is almostnatural now. Do I imagine it or is it real?"
Kennedy was so absorbed in his work that he made no reply at all. Heheard nothing, nothing save the slow, forced inspiration and expirationof 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 agreater 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. Hisheart 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 thisspecial induction-coil loaned to me by a doctor who had studied deeplythe process of electric resuscitation developed by Professor Leduc ofthe Nantes Ecole de Medicin. There is only one case I know of on recordwhich compares with this--a case of a girl resuscitated in Paris. Thegirl was a chronic morphine-eater and was 'dead' forty minutes."
I stood like one frozen, the thing was so incomprehensible, after themany surprises of the evening that had preceded. Torreon, in fact, didnot comprehend for the moment.
As Kennedy and I bent over, Guerrero's eyes opened, but he apparentlysaw nothing. His hand moved a little, and his lips parted. Kennedyquickly 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, andone mescal button rolled out into the palm of his hand. Kennedy regardedit thoughtfully.
"I suspect there is at least one devotee of the vision-breeding drugwho 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 saidanything.
Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach his apparatus from theelectric light socket behind Torreon.
"Car-ramba!" I heard as I turned suddenly.
Craig had Torreon firmly pinioned from behind by both arms. Thepoliceman quickly interposed.
"It's all right,--officer," exclaimed Craig. "Walter, reach into hisinside pocket."
I pulled out a bunch of papers and turned them over.
"What's that?" asked Kennedy as I came to something neatly enclosed inan envelope.
I opened it. It was a power of attorney from Guerrero to Torreon.
"Perhaps it is no crime to give a man mescal if he wants it--I doubt ifthe penal code covers that," ejaculated Kennedy. "But it is conspiracyto give it to him and extract a power of attorney by which you can getcontrol of trust funds consigned to him. Manuel Torreon, the game is up.You and Senora Mendez have played your parts well. But you havelost. You waited until you thought Guerrero was dead, then you took apoliceman along as a witness to clear yourself. But the secret is notdead, after all. Is there nothing else in those papers, Walter? Yes? Ah,a bill of lading dated to-day? Ten cases of 'scrap iron' from New Yorkto Boston--a long chance for such valuable 'scrap,' senor, but I supposeyou had to get the money away from New York, at any risk."
"And Senora Mendez?" I asked as my mind involuntarily reverted to thebrilliantly lighted room up-town. "What part did she have in the plotagainst Guerrero?"
Torreon stood sullenly silent. Kennedy reached in another of Torreon'spockets and drew out a third little silver box of mescal buttons.Holding all three of the boxes, identically the same, before us heremarked: "Evidently Torreon was not averse to having his victim underthe influence of mescal as much as possible. He must have forced it onhim--all's fair in love and revolution, I suppose. I believe he broughthim down here under the influence of mescal last night, obtained thepower of attorney, and left him here to die of the mescal intoxication.It was just a case of too strong a hold of the mescal--the artificialparadise was too alluring to Guerrero, and Torreon knew it and tried toprofit by it to the extent of half a million dollars."
It was more than I could grasp at the instant. The impossible hadhappened. I had seen the dead--literally--brought back to life and thesecret which the criminal believed buried wrung from the grave.
Kennedy must have noted the puzzled look on my face. "Walter," he said,casually, as he wrapped up his instruments, "don't stand there gapinglike Billikin. Our part in this case is finished--at least mine is.But I suspect from some of the glances I have seen you steal at varioustimes that--well, perhaps you would like a few moments in a realparadise. I saw a telephone down-stairs. Go call up Miss Guerrero andtell her her father is alive--and innocent."