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ARTHUR B. REEVE

THE BLACK DIAMOND

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First published in Cosmopolitan, June 1917

This e-book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2021
Version Date: 2022-09-13

Collected in The Panama Plot, Harper & Brothers, New York, 1918

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Illustration

Cosmopolitan, June 1917, with "The Black Diamond"


Title

Craig leaped at the explanation. Here, by chance,
had come an unexpected piece of information.



Craig Kennedy is one of those men who find recuperation in variety and change of experience rather than in actual rest. His pleasure-trip has now been extended to the Southern Hemisphere, and we find his marvelous analytical faculties keener than ever in clearing up a most curious mystery with which he is confronted the moment he sets foot in Rio de Janeiro.




"COULD a man—in his sleep—murder another and then know absolutely nothing about it afterward? Would he be guilty?"

Kennedy and I were seated, one afternoon after our arrival, in a sort of café chantant on the Rua do Ouvidor, the Fifth Avenue of Rio de Janeiro, thoroughly enjoying this miniature of Paris. Here was a well-groomed Brazilian merchant with a party of ladies in the latest "creations," there an estate-owner in loose-fitting coat and white trousers. At various tables were young dandies—conquistadores—and Brazilian girls, whose dark, expressive eyes told in a glance more than a Northerner could have set down in a page.

Title

Here was a well-groomed Brazilian merchant
with a party of ladies in the latest "creations."

A very excited Brasiliero, Affonso de Bolido, our host at the Hôtel des Étrangers, had come in and joined us.

It was a strange query, but Bolido's manner showed only too plainly that he, at least, did not consider it hypothetical.

"You mean what we call in English 'somnambulism'?" returned Kennedy thoughtfully, lapsing from the unfamiliar Portuguese to the generally spoken French. "I have heard of at least one case at home where that was set up as a defense against a charge of murder. But why do you ask?" he added keenly.

The implied skepticism was lost on Bolido. He was looking over at another table. We followed the direction of his eyes and saw a remarkably pretty girl, fair-haired, slender, with a throat and chest that denoted the singer. She was sitting alone for the moment at a table near the little orchestra. Quite evidently she was one of the performers.

My surmise proved correct for, a moment later, as the piano sounded, she rose and began to sing.

"There is a young American engineer staying at the Étrangers," whispered Bolido, "Senhor Sherwin. I came here expecting to see him. He is usually here when the beautiful American, Tina Townley, sings."

As she finished and sat down, she had already seen that we were looking at and talking about her in a different way from the rest, and I noticed that she seemed nervous over it.

"Yes?" prompted Kennedy. "What about him?"

"It is very strange," muttered Bolido, bending closer over the very black coffee we were drinking. "Last night, I know that he came in and went to bed. I saw him go to his room. What happened afterward, I do not know. It is just that that is a mystery. His room is easy to get out of and into without disturbing the other guests. This morning, he did not get up. I thought it strange. He is usually about so early, I went to his room. There he was, in a heavy sleep, covered by a sheet. I bent over him. He was fully dressed. I roused him. He seemed dazed. His mind was blank. How he got dressed, he could not say."

"Was there nothing else?" prompted Kennedy.

Bolido whispered, as he showed us something under the table.

"Yes; on the bed—a handkerchief, spotted with blood."

Kennedy took it and examined it covertly. In one corner was an embroidered "X." Bolido leaned over closer. "And now I learn that, late last night, Ruiz Barboza, known in the city as a wealthy diamond merchant from Diamantina, was discovered in his room at the Grand Hôtel, dead."

"How did he die?"

Bolido shook his head.

"On a table stood a mysterious package, which he had apparently just opened. But it was empty. That is all anyone knows."

"But did Sherwin know him?" asked Kennedy. "Had there been trouble between them?"

"He knew him," Bolido affirmed. "As for trouble, I cannot say—positively. Sherwin had come here for the purpose of introducing scientific diamond mining. He had been in South Africa and knew the game. His scheme was to introduce modern hydraulic dredging in place of the old hand-washing methods. It may be that there was some trouble over that. Perhaps a change might have affected the interests of Barboza; perhaps he was against Sherwin. Then, too, there may have been some other rivalry."

He paused and glanced significantly at Tina.


MEANWHILE, a man had entered the cafe and come over to Bolido. To him, Bolido now bowed deferentially.

"Senhor Peixotto, who has charge of our criminal investigations," introduced Bolido. "This is Doctor Kennedy, the great criminologist from New York."

Peixotto shook hands most cordially while I repressed a smile. To them Kennedy was a savant, at least a doctor, and they were so punctilious about it. And here I must take occasion to pay my compliments to the police force of Rio. For Rio was a thoroughly modern city, even down to its criminals. Yet the police were among the few in the world who go absolutely unarmed.

"Where is la belle Ximena?" asked the police officer when, at last, we had established relations.

Bolido shrugged.

"Ximena de Oliviera, one of the singers," he explained to us. "I have not seen her. The guests seem quite content with the pretty Tina, however." Then he suddenly paused as though something had occurred to him. "Why?" he asked. "Did you wish to see her?"

The police officer looked from one of us to the other.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "Doctor Kennedy might consent to help us?"

"I should be only too happy," hastened Craig, "especially if it concerns the strange death of Senhor Barboza."

Peixotto's face seemed to brighten.

"Many thanks. Yes; it is that. And I shall tell you why I am here. Yesterday, I learn, Ximena went to the customs authorities and informed them that Barboza and his partner, Affonso Pereira, were planning to smuggle from the country, avoiding the government tax, a huge black diamond—thirty-one hundred and fifty carats at least—one that has been known as the 'Estrella do Noite'—'Star of the Night.' You know these carbonados are used for making diamond drills, and they are worth almost as much a carat as our splendid pure-white diamonds. I suppose the Star of the Night might be sold abroad for some four hundred thousand American dollars. You must understand that she would obtain half its value for informing," he emphasized impressively, then added: "But before the authorities could act to seize the great stone which they were concealing, came this murder. We sought Pereira immediately and searched. Confronted, he admitted the plot to smuggle, but knows nothing more. The diamond has been stolen!"

"Who is this woman—this informer?" asked Kennedy.

"Ximena?" replied Bolido quickly. "The former queen of the music-halls. She has been overshadowed, though, by Tina. They have all been friendly with Ximena—Barboza, Pereira, Sherwin—but not since la petite Americaine arrived. She is the new queen."

Involuntarily, I glanced in her direction again. I was surprised to see that Tina was quite agitated. She knew that she was being watched. Somehow, whatever might be the truth, I felt the greatest sympathy for her, a poor frail girl in a strange land, the victim of forces and conditions over which she had no control.

"Did your men find anything else in Barboza's room?" asked Kennedy, rapidly reviewing the scant evidence.

"Nothing—except a handkerchief spotted with blood. In one corner was an embroidered 'X.' That was why I thought that perhaps la belle Ximena might explain."

Kennedy and I exchanged glances.

"Sherwin—" began Bolido.

Kennedy trod on his toe sharply, and he cut short the words. Already the handkerchief was in Craig's pocket. Bolido nodded, appreciating Kennedy's desire to follow his own line of inquiry.

A few moments later, with a nod to me, Kennedy rose, and we made our way to the table of the pretty little American singer. She was pale and desperately nervous.

We introduced ourselves without concealment.

"I suppose you know," began Craig rapidly, watching the effect on her, "that there has been a murder committed—"

"Yes," she interrupted, before he could go on; "I know of it. It is terrible. I have heard of you at home, Professor Kennedy. Let me tell you," she went on, somewhat incoherent because of her nervousness. "You may not know, but I was really lured down here by an advertisement and the correspondence that followed an offer of a large salary. I was successful in vaudeville in New York, but I was ambitious. The money was too uncertain. So I took the chance. When I got here, I found that I was not the only one. We are given a few appearances on the stage for advertisement, and then—" She looked about significantly at the café chantant. "At home I would have needed only to give the story to the papers—call it attempted white slavery—but here!" She leaned forward and whispered, "It was Ruiz Barboza who advertised, who really brought me here!" It was a startling bit of information. "I wanted you to know," she continued, "in case you heard other stories, what the truth was."

As she was talking, a man had entered, a swarthy fellow, broad-shouldered, well set up, perhaps some five feet eight, and with a robust voice. He greeted Tina familiarly. For a moment she hesitated, then returned the greeting pleasantly and introduced us. To our astonishment, it was Pereira himself. He did not, as I had expected, treat us with extreme caution. On the contrary, he seemed to welcome knowing us. Perhaps he noted the surprise on my face. At least his remark would have indicated it, a few moments later, as we conversed.

"Since the diamond is gone, I have nothing now to lose," he repeated regretfully. "Ximena has had her revenge on Barboza—and on me, too. The diamond is gone. Even if they get it back, I shall lose it, anyway."

Pereira made no concealment of the fact, also, that he was trying to help as much as possible in solving the murder of his partner. He had the air of a man who had come for a purpose and was waiting for an opportunity.

"You would like to know something?" he asked, at length. "Not half an hour ago, I saw Mr. Sherwin with Ximena on the Avenida Central. I followed them. They are now probably together where I left them," he concluded, mentioning the name of another café not far from us. "I think she must have been on her way here."

Tina looked startled. It was quite apparent that Pereira had retailed the information purposely. All is said to be fair in love and war. Perhaps, as between Sherwin and himself, this was both.

Tina excused herself, apparently to sing. But it was only an excuse. Kennedy's watchful eyes detected her as she disappeared, darting out of a rear door of the hall.

Illustration


BEFORE Pereira himself realized it, we excused ourselves and followed. The Rua do Ouvidor was a narrow thoroughfare, and it was thronged. Tina was nowhere in sight. But, instinctively, Kennedy threaded his way to the other café which Pereira had mentioned. We entered cautiously. Not far from the door we saw Tina herself, watching.

There they were indeed—Sherwin and Ximena. Though we had never seen either, we knew by Tina's intense look. But instead of the clandestine meeting, which Pereira had hinted at, they seemed now to be actually quarreling.

I saw a quiet smile, as though of reassurance, flit over Tina's face as she watched. What the matter in dispute was, we could not even conjecture at such a distance. Kennedy was planning how to get near them without attracting attention, when suddenly Ximena rose with a flourish, her eyes blazing with resentment against Sherwin, and swept out of the cafe. For a moment he gazed with set features after her, then followed nonchalantly, as though, after all, her whims were no affair of his. We turned. Tina was gone.

We watched Sherwin saunter out. He was a tanned, lean, keen-eyed, quick fellow, a type of adventurous American one frequently meets in the lands south of us. As he turned down the street, Kennedy debated a moment whether to follow him or not.

"I think we had better go to the Grand," he decided quickly. "That should really be our starting-point."


WE managed to find our way thither unaided. Fortunately, Peixotto had arrived before us.

A representative of the police was in charge, and there had been much activity, with little result. There was no question that all the authorities were nonplused.

Carefully Kennedy began by a thorough examination of Barboza's body. There were no external wounds; no trace of poison had so far been discovered. If it was a natural death, the cause had not been determined.

I felt sure that Kennedy's thoroughness would uncover something. Nor was I mistaken. It seemed that it was the face on which Craig centered his attention. It was livid and swollen, horribly drawn as if both in pain and fear. Evidently, death must have come quickly, for even if there had been a cry in the night, no one had heard it, and Barboza had not lived long enough to summon help. Craig was deeply interested in the face, going over the skin carefully with his strong pocket-lens.

He paused finally, then handed the lens to me. I looked also. Through it. I could see two or more fine punctures, as nearly as I could make out. Had it been a needle? Had he received an injection of some new and curious poison? I recalled a case we had had where the victim had died from curare, the famous South American arrow-poison. As I bent close, I noticed a peculiar putrescent odor. Was it the poison? Kennedy shook his head slowly when I hinted at this.

"See, Doctor Kennedy—the box which we found on the table!" interrupted Peixotto, before I could extract from Kennedy more of his suspicions.

Craig picked it up and examined it. Outside there was nothing on the box that offered a clue at first sight. Something like an address had been cut away. That was gone. In its place, Barboza's name had been scrawled.

In one corner, however, were some marks in black ink, and, as Kennedy found them, I saw Peixotto eying him closely.

I bent over, too, as Kennedy spelled out, "Martin—" then stopped.

"It seems to have been postmarked at Martinique," he concluded quickly. The police officer nodded.

"We saw that, too," he replied, somewhat pleased at Kennedy's confirmation and impressed. "That, of course, may not have had anything to do with the use of the box in this instance, though it may prove a clue of value."

"Quite right," agreed Craig, peering inside. All about the inside, it seemed as if the box were spotted with light-yellowish encrustations which, at first, would have escaped even sharp scrutiny. Kennedy scaled something off and examined it.

"You mentioned having found a handkerchief," he remarked, as though anxious not to overlook anything.

"Yes," assented Peixotto, motioning to the officer in charge.

The officer displayed it. Sure enough, in the corner was an embroidered "X," just like the handkerchief which Bolido had showed us. And it was spotted with blood, also. What could such a coincidence mean? Involuntarily, I reverted to Ximena and Sherwin in the café, quarreling.

"I may keep this to study more closely?" asked Craig.

"Certainly," agreed Peixotto.

"And the box, too?" he asked, closing down the lid.

The official consented readily.

With the box and the handkerchief, Kennedy hurried back to our rooms at the Étrangers, where stood the traveling laboratory in its case, as it had been landed from the ship, still packed. He unlocked it, tore it open, and eagerly plunged into work, having before him both the handkerchief picked up by Bolido in Sherwin's room and that which had been found near Barboza's body.


IT was now late in the afternoon. I would have liked to help Kennedy at his work, but it was impossible at this stage. So, as usual, I concluded that I might make myself a great deal more useful by making myself scarce.

As I sauntered out from the hotel, it occurred to me to return to the music-hall at which we had been introduced to the mystery, in the hope that I might still see some of the principals and learn from them something additional.

My reasoning proved to be correct. Sherwin had evidently gone to the café, arriving just after Ximena, who was also there. Tina still showed the strain under which she was laboring. At her table sat both Sherwin and Pereira. Ximena was not with them, but at another table, although she did not seem to lack admirers. It must have been a trying situation for Tina.

Nor was I long in discovering just what was going on above the surface, though I had to guess what was underneath. Ximena and her friends were doing their best to embarrass Tina. It was not difficult, for not everyone was as friendly to Americans as most of those whom it was our good fortune to meet. Ximena was acting for all the world like a bitterly jealous woman. Perhaps she had been trying to win Sherwin and had not succeeded. I felt that, at least, their quarrel was sincere. The more I gathered of the fragments of conversation that floated over to us, as they were intended to float, the more sure I was that Ximena was eager to vent her pique on the little American. Both Sherwin and Pereira were angry also.

It came Tina's turn to sing again, and she rose. As she did so, Ximena made some feline remark. It was not lost. Tina faced the music-hall to sing. But it seemed that Ximena and her party of dandies loomed too large. Already unnerved, Tina's voice trembled, and she could not go on.

The conductor of the music nodded petulantly to Ximena, who rose tauntingly and took Tina's place. There was lacking both the sweetness and culture in her voice that Tina possessed, yet there was no denying that she acquitted herself with credit. At least, she had an efficient claque in the persons of the men who had been sitting with her. She carried herself with all the assurance of a music-hall queen who refused to be dethroned.

By the time Ximena had finished, Tina had regained her composure. It seemed as though a quick glance of sympathy from Sherwin had worked wonders. She was taking a firm grip on herself.

Ximena swept past haughtily after her triumph. As she sat down, one of the young fellows with her saw that she had dropped her handkerchief when she rose to sing and that it had been lying unnoticed on the floor. He stooped, with a flourish, to pick it up and restore it to her. As he did so, Tina's quick eye caught it.

Like a spark, an idea seemed to flash through her mind.

"See," she whispered, not so much to Sherwin, Pereira, or myself, who had joined them, as to herself, "there is an 'X' embroidered on it. There was an 'X' on the handkerchief the police found in the room of Ruiz Barboza."

I watched Sherwin's face. Bolido had said nothing to him of the handkerchief in his room. Sherwin, however, was unmoved. If he had done something in his sleep, I asked myself, would not he act in just that unconcerned manner? Could Bolido's theory, wild and fanciful though it seemed, have a real foundation?

Tina had not reckoned in her impulsive remark that voices that carry in one direction may carry equally in another. Ximena had heard. She turned instantly.

"My handkerchief?" she cried excitedly. "No, no—it was not mine! One can buy handkerchiefs with an embroidered 'X' at a dozen shops on the Rua do Ouvidor!"

There was an innuendo in the tone. Ximena was baffling.

Something else there was, too, to the remark, which Ximena had not calculated upon.

Addressed to no one in particular but to all at the other table, it was all that was needed to excite the already tense feelings of the mercurial Pereira.

"True," he taunted; "but it was you who betrayed him—betrayed us to the customs officials." There was almost a hiss in his tone.

"It was you—both of you—who spurned me!" she scorned, with blazing fury.

As she drew herself up, her hand resting lightly on a thin-stemmed glass in which bubbled and sparkled a liquid concoction of trouble, it seemed that an uncontrolled impulse seized her. The glass flashed from her hand, spilling its contents on me as she flung it.

Pereira's hand went up, and the glass shattered against it, cutting the flesh.


Title

Pereira's hand went up, and the glass shattered against it.


For a moment there was a general mêlée, in which a flying splinter gashed Ximena's arm. I sprang forward, dodging, just in time to come between Pereira and Ximena. His bleeding hand seized the arm of my white-linen coat just as some one behind pulled him back. I dipped my handkerchief in some water in a glass and wiped off the blood on Ximena's arm. It was only a slight wound, but the music-hall was in an uproar. Challenges and cards were passing, enough for a dozen duels, and I am sure that only the timely arrival of a policeman prevented real bloodshed.

I turned. Both Sherwin and Tina had been cut by bits of flying glass.

"I must get away—I must!" cried Tina, clinging to Sherwin.

It was easy to appreciate what she meant. Her continued presence might precipitate trouble again at any moment. And Sherwin was in no mood to stop at anything.

"Come with me," I suggested, looking at their cuts, "Kennedy will fix you up."

The two exchanged glances. Then they looked at the crowd. It was anything but friendly. Perhaps going with me was the lesser evil. At any rate, a moment later, I had them outside and in a sort of cab on the way to the Étrangers.


HURRIEDLY I explained to Kennedy what had happened, and, from a simple little emergency-kit, he began to fix them up, picking out some stray splinters of glass and washing the little cuts, while I excused myself to go into the next room and change my stained coat. When I returned, I saw that Craig had finished and was mildly questioning them to draw them out.

"It is certainly a most remarkable case, that of Barboza," he ventured, while I scanned the faces of the couple narrowly.

Sherwin returned my gaze searchingly, then faced Kennedy. Without flinching, he replied harshly:

"Yes—I know the story that is being whispered about. I know they are saying that I murdered him—in my sleep. No one says how. Perhaps that will come next—I don't know. All I know is that I awoke this morning feeling strange—and fully dressed. I can say this, though: I'm glad he is dead."

There was a bitterness in his tone and a sidelong glance at Tina that left no mistake as to his meaning. The girl uttered a little suppressed cry as he ground the words out. Was she concealing something?

Sherwin was indeed a problem. I tried to explain him. Was he shielding her? Was this brazenness a pose?

The more I saw of them, the plainer it was that Sherwin was deeply in love with Tina with all the gallantry of his nature. And Tina was just as deeply in love with him. It was a strange romance between these two adventurers whom fate had thrown together. Was there a deeper, sinister aspect? What motives might her situation have given either of them? I thought again of the handkerchiefs monogrammed with "X." Were they realty Ximena's? Had jealousy or revenge, as well as the desire for gain, played their parts?

Neither Sherwin nor Tina was at ease with us. It seemed that Tina was fearful of saying too much, though Sherwin made no effort to conceal his feelings. It was not long before they excused themselves, thanking us, and Sherwin accompanied Tina to her hotel. I looked inquiringly at Kennedy as they left. If he had any suspicion, his face did not betray it.

"Have you made any progress?" I asked in desperation, finally. "What were the spots on that box?"

"That was venom—snake-venom," he replied frankly. "In that box, a live snake was sent to Barboza. That explains the strange marks I found upon his face. It was a poison more subtle than any concocted by man, and administered by fangs more delicate than any hypodermic. In perfection of mechanism and precision, the apparatus of reptiles excels the most exquisite appliances devised by makers of surgical instruments. The whole apparatus in the snake is like a hypodermic bulb-syringe, the fangs like a needle with an obliquely cut point and slit-like outlet. The bulb is the poison-gland, from which is ejected a pale, straw-colored, half-oleaginous fluid."

"There are no marks that show whence the deadly thing came?" I queried.

"No," he replied; "nothing that we have not already discovered. However, you know Brazil is famous for its snakes. Pretty nearly all varieties are found here." He considered a moment. "I believe it is generally accepted," he resumed, "that there are two agents present in venom. One is a peptone and the other a globulin, one neurotoxic, the other hemolytic. Not only is the general nervous system attacked instantly, but the coagulability of the blood is destroyed. One unites with nerve-cells, destroying them; the other destroys the red corpuscles. Often the result is an inability to move or speak. That may have been what happened in this case. The blood is left dark and liquid. That, too, I observed. Still, that leaves us with two very important problems unsettled—what sort of serpent it was, and whence it came."

Kennedy paced up and down, weighing the next move in the game.

"We often do not realize the scientific achievements of this country," he mused aloud. "Its contributions have been marvelous. Not the least, either, has been in the study of venomous serpents. Just outside the city are the famous scientific gardens and Institute. We shall have to call in outside aid. Let us go there."


A FEW minutes later, we were in a motorcar, speeding to the Institute. Our eyes were raised to the hills as we passed splendid roads and promenades, stately houses, with gardens and flowery walks. Rio was a revelation.

Through the wonderful gardens of the Institute we whirled, and at last pulled up at the main entrance. Kennedy's card seemed to be a passport. It was only a matter of minutes before we were ushered by a deferential attendant into the study of one of the great authorities on snakes, Doctor Lucena, a distinguished-looking man, whose high forehead, drowned by a wealth of snow-while hair, would have made him a striking figure in any assemblage.

Courteously he welcomed us, while I concealed my impatience at the usual interchange of amenities, so graceful at all times, yet almost maddening when there was urgent business at hand.

Kennedy did his best to accord with custom, and soon succeeded in bringing the conversation around to the murder of Barboza and the discoveries he had just made. As he detailed them, Doctor Lucena grew more and more excited.

"I think I can help you—somewhat," he said. "Yesterday, a package just arrived, containing a fer-de-lance, the Lachesis lanccolatus of Martinique, was stolen on its way here. Also, this morning we find missing a shipment of antivenin that was on its way to India. You know it is here we make much of the protective serum that is used all over the world, taking it from horses treated with increasing doses of the venom. It neutralizes one of the two poisons, the nervous poison, enabling the individual to devote all his vitality to overcoming the irritant poison. It is the nervous poison that is the chief death-dealing agent in venom. We advise all travelers to carry the protective serum if they are going where they arc likely to be exposed to snake-bite. There must be some connection between the cases."

Craig leaped at the explanation. Here, by chance, had come an unexpected piece of information.

"You have not been able to trace the loss to any particular person?" he asked, as Doctor Lucena imparted the precious information.

"No," he replied slowly, as our hopes faded; "the packages were lost in transit. Both were plainly marked so that no one could have mistaken the contents."

We were further along in solving our mystery. Yet the big problem remained. Who had stolen the fer-de-lance and the antivenin?

Doctor Lucena was profuse in his promises to keep us informed of any new evidence that might crop up.

"I am sorry that you cannot stay to see our collection," he regretted, as we took our leave. "However, if there is anything I can do to aid you, command me."

We thanked him and departed. Doctor Lucena had, apparently, given Kennedy a new idea. Back again in our room, he plunged into a new series of tests with redoubled interest.

"I wish, Walter," he asked, hardly looking up from a test he was making, "that you would find Peixotto. There is no reason why he should not be told what I have discovered, and about the theft from the Institute. Perhaps he can help us on that."


GLAD of the commission, I hastened to execute it. It was not so easy, however, to find the police head. It was only after waiting for some time at headquarters that I was able to see him when he returned by chance. He listened with intense interest as I told him what we had done, but, although the theft had been reported, none of those under him was able to add anything to what we knew of the disappearance of the fer-de-lance and the antivenin.

"There is something, though, that I think will interest you," he added, after noting the new facts. "After that fracas in the café, this afternoon, I had both Pereira and Ximena questioned again separately. We have learned a little more about the Star of the Night. It seems that it was discovered by an Indian workman, who stole and hid it. Barboza and Pereira bought it from another Indian, who stole it from the finder. You see, it already seems to have left a trail of crime in its wake. We believe that Sherwin knew of it, knew that they had it. He was desperate for money, we know, for he had not succeeded in interesting any of the diamond concessionaires in his plans. More than that," he concluded, drawing back to emphasize the point, "Tina lived at the Grand, where Barboza also lived. Mr. Sherwin was a frequent caller."

It was plain that, aside from the strange discovery of Bolido and Sherwin's own statements, the American was under new suspicion.

"Besides," went on the police officer, "we know of the intimacy of this Tina and Senhor Barboza."

I recollected what she had told us on our first meeting to forestall this fact. As I weighed it, I could not help seeing that her underlying hostility against Barboza might be interpreted as worse than this supposed intimacy. In my sympathy for her, I decided to say nothing about it. Whatever I might fear or hope for Tina, however, I could not escape the conclusion that each fact was building up something the more damning for Sherwin.

There was one thing that I could not reconcile with any theory that I had yet formed: the jealousy of Ximena. It looked as though she were having her revenge on Tina, on Barboza, on Pereira, on Sherwin—all. And yet the handkerchiefs with the embroidered "X"—I was back again to my suspicions of Sherwin. Had he obtained them, left one purposely in Barboza's room, and had Bolido's officiousness resulted in the discovery of the other, unused? Was Sherwin's supposed sleep-walking merely a herring drawn across the trail? Improbable though it was, the more I thought of it the more I was convinced that it was at least possible. Might it not be a convenient refuge when once the evidence pointed one way too strongly? Certainly, it was a weird, almost uncanny defense. I pictured to myself a man brooding over his own and another's wrongs until, sleeping and waking, what consciously he repressed became an unconscious desire. Might that brooding not become a real part of his nature, preying on his mind until, under the stress, he became temporarily irresponsible? It was a fascinating theory. Would anyone believe it?


FILLED with such thoughts after my unsatisfactory interview with Peixotto, I hastened to rejoin Kennedy, to see what further progress he had made.

It was growing late when I got to him. He seemed to have about finished whatever task he had set himself, yet insisted on pausing to have me recite my story. I had scarcely started when Bolido burst in on us. He was visibly agitated, wide-eyed, and almost breathless.

"The saints defend us," he muttered thickly, "but that room in which he was murdered is haunted by his spirit!" Almost together we urged him to go on. "I have just been to the Grand," he raced ahead. "My friend, the proprietor, summoned me. Such strange noises—in the darkness—in the room! Come and see!"

Kennedy needed no second invitation. Ten minutes later, we were back again at the Grand, standing expectant, silent, just outside the door of the room where Barboza's body had lain.

"Listen!" cautioned Bolido, "There—do you hear it?"

There most surely were noises—strange, uncanny sounds—in the room. One with a brilliant imagination might easily have conjured up a specter.

Kennedy stepped suddenly into the room, with a light. There was a peculiar squeak, a squeal. As nearly as I could place it, it seemed to come from the wall. But there was nothing there.

Quickly Kennedy began tapping the wall with his walking-stick. Near the base, in a corner of the floor, was a small break in the plaster. He poked his stick through it.

There was a hiss, and he drew back in surprise. Instantly, I understood. The deadly fer-de-lance, king among the poisonous serpents of the world, had escaped from the box and, after biting Barboza, had hidden in the wall. The squeak had been a rat or other small animal, the noises the gliding of the serpent through the partitions after its prey. The case was taking a new and unexpected turn now. Quickly Kennedy planned.

"Walter," he directed, "I shall leave you to notify Peixotto that I want all brought here immediately. I am going out to see Doctor Lucena again and shall return directly. Lose no time."


KEENLY on edge now, as I saw things developing so rapidly. I did not lose any time in getting the police in action. We found Tina in her room in the hotel without any trouble—Sherwin was with her. It was a little more difficult to locate Pereira, but we found him at his club on the Avenida. Ximena was still at the music-hall. They were an unwilling group, but the compulsion of the police was more than any of them could overcome.

We had scarcely returned when Kennedy and Doctor Lucena arrived, carrying a heavy wicker basket. As Lucena uncovered it, a beautiful chocolate-colored, yellow-bellied, regularly spotted snake uncoiled its seven feet of sinuous body on the floor. We drew back.

"Nothing to be alarmed at," reassured the doctor, picking it up, I might almost have said, fondly. "It is the mussurana, one of our Brazilian snakes—not poisonous. Indeed, it attacks and eats most of the poisonous snakes. Their venom seems to be innocuous to it."

The mussurana writhed and, in a friendly way, coiled about his neck as he spoke. It turned itself about, actually licked his face with its three-pronged tongue.

I shuddered at the sight. The reptile, however, offered no resistance to being uncoiled and held at arm's length.

Tina suppressed a little scream, though neither of the men betrayed their feelings, seemingly being on guard.

For Ximena, the snake had an uncanny fascination.

"My investigations," Kennedy began, taking advantage of the state of mind in which the snake had thrown them all, "have shown that it was a snake—the deadly fer-de-lance—which killed Barboza. On a handkerchief that was discovered here. I found a blood-stain—not of Barboza, for the blood had something in it that his blood did not contain."

He paused, and Ximena flashed a look of protest, but he gave her no chance to interrupt. "Whoever stole the fer-de-lance before sending it to Barboza took the very wise precaution to inoculate with some antivenin stolen at the same time, in case of accident. The blood of a certain person here will show changes, corresponding alone to the blood on that handkerchief—on two handkerchiefs. For in inoculating, perhaps purposely, a vein must have been opened. That is the blood that is on the handkerchiefs with the embroidered 'X'."

"They were not mine!" cried Ximena, interrupting vehemently. "Some one—who hates me—left them about!"

Kennedy, however, ignored the interruption.

"Fortunately," he pursued calmly, "I have been able, in one way or another, to get blood samples from all of you—from Ximena on Mr. Jameson's handkerchief after that affair at the music-hall, from Pereira on Mr. Jameson's coat, which I do not think he has missed yet, from Tina and Sherwin on gauze used as I washed out the cuts made by the flying glass. I have studied all the blood spots and—"

There was a noise in the wall, We drew back. Like a streak, the mussurana wriggled out of the basket and over the floor into the hole in the wall. Almost instantly, we heard sounds as of a terrific struggle.

The thin partition bent and billowed as the two reptiles battled. With shrieks, the women retreated to the far end of the room. Nor were the rest of us much better under control, although we would not betray it. Suppose, at any moment, the partition broke under the strain? It was not a reassuring thought.

It seemed minutes that the struggle lasted, though, in reality, it was merely seconds.

Then came a shout from Doctor Lucena.

"The mussurana has triumphed!" he cried, pointing to the heaving spots on the wall, further apart than the length of either serpent. "He has bitten the fer-de-lance close to the head—and is swallowing him. See—the lashing of its tail!"

He had hardly spoken when something heavy dropped on the floor out of the hole in the wall. We jumped back. Was it the partition giving way, as we had feared?

"Look!" exclaimed Tina, wide-eyed.

There on the floor lay the famous Estrella do Noite!

Some one had hidden it in the hole. When the deadly fer-de-lance took refuge, by some strange chance it had been in the very spot where the great diamond was hidden.

Craig picked it up and regarded its sparkling, inky depths, black already with murder and intrigue.

Suddenly he wheeled.

"In the blood of one person," shot out Kennedy, "I find changes that could be wrought only by an injection of antivenin. The spotted handkerchiefs were only a plant—a dangerous plant."

"But—the sleep-walking?" interrupted Bolido.

"Sleep-walking?" queried Kennedy. "There was no sleep-walking. After sending the fer-de-lance to Barboza, the sender went to Sherwin's hotel, intending to kill him also. Instead, he was chloroformed. The person dressed him—left the handkerchief—to throw suspicion on another. He would have had both Tina and the hidden jewel for himself. Either Sherwin or Ximena would be suspected. But your own blood, Pereira, convicts you!"


THE END


Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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