RGL e-Book Cover©
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.
RGL e-Book Cover©
Cosmopolitan, August 1917, with "The Nitrate King"
Once I spotted a woman, in the back of the café, who sat
alone and seemed intensely interested in Bertha's table.
Rightly judging Burke's summons as a call to patriotic duty, Craig Kennedy hastens from Buenos Aires to Valpairoso to find an industry vital to the existence of his own country threatened through wartime plots. No wonder that he puts all his energy and intellect into fathoming the mystery.
"WHEN the secret service cabled in code that you were on your way, I could scarcely believe it. You are here not a moment too soon."
Kennedy and I had made a hurried trip across on the Trans-Andean railway from Buenos Aires, in answer to a cryptic request from our friend Burke of the secret service at home to go to Valparaiso.
Arrived in the city, our first visitor was a young man who introduced himself with an air of mystery in our room at the Hôtel d'Angleterre as James Fitzroy. One could not help recognizing him as a product of our Middle West.
"You understand," he explained confidentially, "I was sent down here ostensibly by the ammunition makers—really by the secret service. They gave me a job to cover me, but my job has just been to watch. The thing is getting too deep for me, though——" he added, a note of appeal in his youthful voice.
Kennedy nodded encouragingly, and Fitzroy leaned over and whispered:
"Since the last vapor loaded with nitrates was blown up, we are terribly alarmed. We don't know whether it's a bomb, or a submarine lurking out in the ocean, or a raider. But something must be done, and done quickly. You realize," he added earnestly, "that until the government plant at home for the manufacture of nitrates by electrolysis is completed, we are absolutely dependent on chance. We are taking fifty percent of Chile's supply. If that is cut off——"
Fitzroy drew back. Kennedy was alert in a moment. I could see what was working in his mind. I knew he was eager to return home, but here was a chance at hand to be of signal service to his country.
"There is some deep-laid intrigue going on here," pursued Fitzroy. "Several weeks ago, a woman, a very beautiful woman, superb—Madame Bertha Duval—arrived here." Fitzroy spoke of her with enthusiasm. "She is living at the Angleterre—very popular, too, and her dinners to the select circle of her friends are marvelous. I have been a guest on more than one occasion. Everyone who is anybody has met her—particularly those who are connected in any way with the nitrate industry, I have noticed. She's clever, most remarkably clever."
"Well, what has she done?" recalled Kennedy hastily.
"N-nothing—so far as I know. I tried to cultivate her acquaintance, but——"
Fitzroy smiled. There was no doubt that he was attractive specimen himself. I felt that he was somewhat piqued at not having cut more of a figure in her eyes.
"But what is she here for?" persisted Kennedy.
"That's the trouble—I don't know," he confessed, then added confidentially: "I suppose you have heard of Señor Caliche, the 'nitrate king,' as they call him? He owns considerable nitrate fields himself, but his real control comes through his influential position with the government tax-office. Caliche is a very wealthy man—owns this very hotel, for instance. Well, he has been one of madame's visitors."
"Tell me of him," nodded Kennedy.
"He owns a line of coasting steamers, too," expatiated Fitzroy. "Ultimately they will go through the canal, but just now those that go to North America and elsewhere are going through the straits. Caliche's main office is at Iquique, but he has offices here, too, in Valparaiso. The office here is in charge of his son-in-law, Carlos Braun, lately married to Caliche's only daughter, Zita, a splendid girl."
"A Chilean?" inquired Kennedy.
"Naturalized," nodded Fitzroy, catching the drift of Kennedy's query. "I see you anticipate me. Yes; since these sinkings, people have been looking askance at Braun. I think even Zita has noticed and felt it."
"Then you suspect him?" half-questioned Craig.
Fitzroy shrugged. He was plainly at sea.
"I have seen him with Madame Duval," he said slowly.
"Who else is in her little group?" pursued Kennedy.
"There are a number of Chileans. Then there is another nitrate exporter, Rinaldo Rascón, a Peruvian. I can't quite make him out. Sometimes, I think they are intimate. At other times, it seems as if he were fighting shy of her. I rather imagine he'd like to know her better if he dared. It's a rather perplexing drama. Let me see. Suppose I take you out to the races this afternoon in the fashionable suburb of Vina del Mar. We shall be able to see and observe them all. Besides, I know Señor Caliche quite well. He thinks I represent his best customers, you know. Is that agreeable to you?"
"Perfectly," assented Craig.
We had a few hours to wait, and Kennedy and I descended to the lobby, where he managed to make, from some Americans we met, discreet inquiries about Madame Duval. Judging by the counter-inquiries that were made at Craig's mention of her, she was a woman of uncertain age and antecedents, a veritable woman of mystery.
AT the appointed time, we met Fitzroy at the railroad station
and journeyed out with him and hundreds of others to the famous
race-track. The races, I observed, like the nitrate industry,
seemed to be almost a national institution in Chile. There, one
saw all the gay life of the city and countryside. Few motor-cars
appeared, however. Mostly the wealthy rode in carriages drawn by
pairs of horses. But it was a brilliant sight—the women in
gay colors, the men more somber except for here and there the
bright uniforms of some officers and cadets.
The race-course, the stands, the paddocks, all were splendid, and the Chileans were proud of them. Kennedy and I enjoyed ourselves to the utmost. But at this time there was something of greater interest to us than the race-meet.
Señor Caliche, who had once been one of the presidents, was now of the Board of Governors of the Jockey Club. Fitzroy seemed well acquainted with him. No sooner were we introduced by him than we were received with open arms.
Caliche himself was an elderly man, tall, straight as an arrow, striking of figure, white of hair and olive of complexion, distinguished even among the governors. A former abogado, since the wealthy all go into politics, the army, or the navy, he had used his legal and political influence to good advantage, and was now not only a large owner of nitrate deposits but practically head of the national system of taxation.
It was not long before we met Carlos Braun. He was perhaps thirty and well set-up. Though he spoke and acted in no way different from scores of young men about us, his face could not conceal his Teutonic lineage. Though his name might once have been Karl, it was easily now Carlos.
Nothing would do but that Señor Caliche must present us to the ladies and, as that was part of what our visit to the races was for, we did not have to simulate our pleasure. Señora Caliche and her daughter Zita were strolling about the stretch of lawn reserved for the wives and families of prominent members. I need not dwell on the graces of the señora further than to say that, whatever might be the morals of Señor Caliche, at which Fitzroy hinted, he was genuinely in love with her in a way which perhaps we northern races do not appreciate. As for Zita, Caliche regarded her with a pride that was well-nigh boundless. I could imagine no surer way of entering an unknown existence than to have harmed one hair of her pretty head. She was charming. The beauty of Chilean women is famous, their intellect undeniable. One does not look for both. Yet Zita had both.
Mindful of the impressions I had already received from Fitzroy, I watched the young couple narrowly. I was surprised to see that they were in perfect accord.
"I can't make it out," whispered Fitzroy, aside to Kennedy, as all eyes were riveted on the horses gliding around the perfect track. "The last time I saw them they were a most unhappy couple. Can it be that he has won her over to his side?"
I felt that perhaps, after all, Fitzroy might have been unduly suspicious of Braun. We were watching them together, when Fitzroy plucked at Kennedy's sleeve.
"There is Bertha Duval," he whispered.
Across the lawn he indicated a daintily-gowned woman. Even at our distance, I could see that she was one of those whose every line and action spoke intimately of sex. Hers was a different type from Zita's, more mature, more acquainted with the ways of men and the world. Though one might be on guard, one could not fail to be interested in her. As we looked, it was almost as though she felt our gaze. She turned, caught a glimpse of our little party, and bowed with a smile. I looked about quickly, to see that Caliche, at the moment, had chanced to be looking her way. He returned the bow openly. Braun, who was standing next to him, turned to see to whom he was bowing. Again Bertha Duval smiled, but he returned the salutation stiffly.
I caught Zita eying the woman sharply; then, to my amazement, I saw her exchange a glance with Carlos. Instead of the suspicion which I had been led to expect, it almost seemed as if there were complete understanding between the two. Again I looked toward Bertha. She had nodded toward a dark-haired, rather good-looking young man, with field-glasses slung over his shoulder jauntily. "That is Rascón," pointed out Fitzroy. As he joined the group, one could see that Rascón regarded Bertha with a sort of restraint, in spite of her evident cordiality toward him. Fitzroy scowled a bit, perhaps with a tinge of jealousy.
He then contrived to detach us, and a few moments later we were also in the group about Madame Duval.
AS Kennedy was introduced, their eyes met in direct appraisal
of each other. Madame Duval smiled with a frankness that was
assumed. I felt sure that she knew who Kennedy was, that her
interest was deliberate, that, even as she chatted and invited us
to a dinner that she was giving soon, it was a pose.
As Kennedy was introduced, their eyes met in direct appraisal of each other.
Kennedy allowed himself to fall into her mood. Almost eagerly he accepted her invitation. More cautious, I could not help glancing around. On the faces of her other admirers, I could see momentary dark flashes of anger. Who was this newcomer who seemed to conquer so easily? I was alarmed. Was that her game—to fascinate him and, at the same time, arouse jealousy of the others? From across the lawn, Zita, too, was watching. It was plain that whatever the men might think of madame the women had very little use for her. Fitzroy also was observing the little tête-à-tête. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He leaned over to me and whispered:
"See if you can't get him away. Don't you see people are beginning to notice them?"
Casually I sauntered over the few steps that separated us. As I did so, I could feel madame's cutting glance. I was the small boy who threw the stone just as the fish was about to take the bait. However, her vexation, if vexation it was, was only momentary, and as Kennedy left her, she let her hand linger in his much longer than pleased me. I was vexed myself. Was our continued association with these people affecting Craig?
THE last race had been run without Kennedy even knowing it,
and there followed one of the curious customs of this interesting
meet. Since everyone knew everyone else, as they sauntered from
the course, no one stopped to look for his own equipage. Each
took that which was nearest. They were all going to the same
place anyhow, Vina del Mar. Later, the driver of each carriage
and pair would return to his own master. It was really a great
saving of time.
Far from scheming to accomplish what Fitzroy desired, it would have been difficult to avoid it. We found ourselves detached from the gay throng and on our way to the Caliche chalet, welcome and honored guests for dinner. Like the rest, whose carriage we were in the Caliches did not know. The Caliche house at Vina del Mar was a beautiful place with terraced gardens, patches of green lawn, bowers of flowers, wide verandas overlooking the sea, and a splendid bathing-beach. They made us feel at home, and the only uncomfortable feeling that I had came from my knowledge that, in reality, we were spying on them. Their hospitality was charming; the dinner was excellent.
During the dinner I took particular note of the conversation between Zita and her husband. As I had observed before, there was apparently no constraint in their relations.
As the dinner progressed, I discovered that Kennedy was paying particular attention to the very deferential Japanese butler, whom the family all called Huroki. As I watched him, I saw, too, that there was something about Huroki that made one feel that he was above the station of butler. Once or twice I saw him hovering about the young couple attentively, and I felt sure that any stray scraps of conversation that might be of importance did not fall on deaf ears.
Once there was the sound of wheels on the gravel driveway outside, and the discreet Huroki disappeared for a few moments. When he came back, it was to announce that the Caliche carriage had been returned with many thanks. It had been used by Señor Rascón and some friends. I wondered whether, by some irony, Madame Duval had been among them. Rascón had driven to the hotel for dinner.
At the same time, Huroki brought a message to his master from the city. Señor Caliche opened it, after excusing himself, and read. As he did so, it seemed as if the contents of the letter quickly clouded the sunshine of the day. He leaned over and whispered something to Braun.
"These are troublous times," apologized Caliche finally. "Ordinarily, I forbid business to intrude on my life at home. But now it is different. You were going back to the city to-night?" he inquired, turning to us. "Yes? Then I am afraid we shall have to accompany you. You must let me drive you in my motor-car. It will be more pleasant."
Zita's face clouded at the mention of the return to the city. Carlos was a bit nervous. Huroki was alert.
Reluctantly we bade farewell to Señora Caliche and her beautiful daughter. It was still light, and the ride into the city was delightful. Very little was said by any of us, though I observed that Señor Caliche was, in business at least, on much closer terms with Fitzroy, who represented his big American customers, than I had imagined.
IN the city, Fitzroy excused us, and we left Caliche and Braun
with the promise to accept their hospitality soon again. Fitzroy,
who had been forced to be absent from the city now for several
hours, hastened around to the American consulate, which, he
explained, was a sort of secret and unofficial headquarters for
him.
A message was waiting for him. As he read it, he glanced, puzzled, at Craig.
"The Aconcagua, a nitrate-ship, has put into port!" he exclaimed quickly. "There is something wrong. They seldom come in here. I think I ought to pay a visit to her without waiting. Could I persuade you to come with me?"
"You might," smiled Kennedy. "What seems to be the trouble?"
"I don't know," shrugged Fitzroy.
NOT a quarter of an hour later, Fitzroy, who seemed to have
the characteristic Western ability to obtain quick action, had
found and hired the owner of a launch. Into it we stepped, and
soon were cutting our curling way in the moonlight through the
waves of one of the finest harbors I had ever seen.
"Over there," he indicated, pointing, "are several of the German ships interned since the beginning of the war. The second one, with the huge funnels, is the Kronprinz."
Our boatman seemed to know just where lay the Aconcagua and made directly for her. We had scarcely approached within some hundreds of yards of her, when, heading across our bow, between us and the ship, we saw a motor-boat much swifter than ourselves.
"Shut down your engine!" commanded Fitzroy, in Spanish, and, as we slowed down, the other boat circled and came up alongside.
"Fitzroy!" shouted our friend through the megaphone of his two hands before even the boat could challenge. "I'm going aboard."
The other boat fell away rapidly.
"Why did she put in?" called Fitzroy.
No answer came. Evidently they did not hear him. We looked at the secret-service man questioningly. He smiled.
"Just one of the scouts which are out constantly to see that there are no violations of neutrality—no dash for the sea unannounced," he explained darkly. "I suppose she has been detailed to watch the Aconcagua, too."
A moment later, we were alongside, and Fitzroy was signaling vigorously on a compressed-air whistle to attract attention. There was no real need. The watch had seen us. Having been passed by it, we were permitted to approach and, after a moment's parley, were swung up over the side, leaving the launch below.
Hardly had we reached the deck when we were greeted by the captain, Blake, an Englishman. Fitzroy displayed some credentials. Blake looked them over carefully, then bowed his acceptance.
Without a word, he led us forward and down a hatch. Amid the stinking burlap sacks of nitrate, he paused. The sacks had been tossed aside, as though some one had been burrowing among them. We looked as he pointed. There, among the sacks, just as he had found it, lay a dark object. He moved over an electric bulb on a cord and flashed the light full on it. Kennedy had dropped down quickly and was examining the thing closely. He looked up quickly at us as the words shot from him:
"A wireless-bomb!"
"Quite right," Blake nodded. "The foremast is right here. Some one, while we were loading at Iquique, must have rigged the thing, using the mast as a secret aerial. Perhaps there was some renegade member of the crew who arranged it. Several deserted up there—said it was the high wages that were being offered in the nitrate fields."
We looked at the thing in awe. There was explosive enough to have sent the ship careering headlong to the bottom at any preconcerted moment, if some one had not discovered the fine wires that connected it with the hidden aerial.
"We disconnected it before we had been half a day out," went on Blake. "Our wireless-man tells me it is peculiarly constructed, and tuned to be affected only by a certain wave-length. He thinks he felt such impulses, but cannot be sure. But you can wager some one on the West Coast is more surprised to see us safely in port than even you are. After we disconnected the thing, we thought we had better put into Valparaiso. The information is too precious to trust to a wireless, even in code, that may be tapped. We may save other ships."
Kennedy bent over and examined the monstrous thing again. Its fangs had been drawn, so to speak, but it still retained enough of its original condition for it to be studied. It was undeniably clever, diabolical.
Through my mind flashed a thousand queries. Who had set it? Whence was it to be actuated and exploded? Was this the subject of the message that had reached Caliche and brought him back with Braun to the city?
Though we asked scores of other questions, Blake could not answer them. He had done his duty. He had saved the ship. He had warned others. Now he was awaiting orders before proceeding on his voyage. I marveled at the matter-of-fact way the man took it. We had come properly credited to him. He had told his story. That was all.
But, as we parted from him, I think even he began to realize that it was a scientifically romantic clue which he had placed in our hands.
As we bounded back over the choppy seas, we felt the added imperativeness for action. A chance discovery on a ship had revealed the method of the sinkings—at least, in part. But it had caught no one, so far pointed to no one. Who had set the thing? Who was to have exploded it by the long wireless arm of fate? I ran over the names of Caliche and Braun, and paused at the recollection of the mysterious woman we had met at the races.
ASHORE, we made our way up through the hilly section to the
Angleterre again. As if all three of us had had the same thought,
we passed through the lobby and on into the brilliantly-lighted
café.
I looked about. There, as I had hoped, was the mysterious woman whom I could not banish from my mind—Bertha Duval. She was surrounded by the usual gay party with which she was associated. As we watched, Señor Rascón, who had been sitting with another group at another table, rose and joined her. She turned to speak, and her eyes wandered to our doorway. She smiled and bowed in our direction, but not at Fitzroy or at me. Kennedy had been singled out and returned the salutation, making his way among the little tables, while we followed in his wake.
"Kennedy seems to have made a hit," muttered Fitzroy.
I was about to reply when I saw a slight scowl on Craig's face. He had overheard, and I kept silent.
As we joined them, I saw that among those whose backs had been toward us was Braun himself.
Outwardly, our welcome was hearty, but no one could fail to see a sidelong glance now and then from a fiery eye at Kennedy. If Kennedy were determined to push headlong into danger, I determined to keep watch myself. From time to time, I glanced about the café, seeking those who were most observant of us.
Once I spotted a woman, in the back of the café, who sat alone and seemed intensely interested in Bertha's table. She wore a black manto, an affair peculiar to Chile, wound about the head as a coif and falling to the feet. From where I sat, I could not see her face.
Kennedy seemed engrossed in attentions to Madame Duval. I was getting nervous. Finally, he turned and, aside to me, whispered,
"Slip out, you and Fitzroy, and follow that woman over there whom you are watching."
I nodded, and passed the word to Fitzroy. Yet I had an uncomfortable feeling that perhaps it was a ruse of Kennedy's to get us out of the way. Nevertheless, we excused ourselves.
Perhaps we were clumsy. At any rate the woman with the manto rose and left. Before we could get out, she had disappeared through the corridor and into a cab. Fortunately it was early, and another cab was at hand. We followed, passing a motor-car which I recognized as the Caliche car in which we had ridden. Our driver faithfully dogged the cab ahead. Almost before we knew, it pulled up abruptly, and we had to shrink back in our own. We were at the railroad station from which we had left in the afternoon for Vina del Mar.
Under the light, I caught just a glimpse of the face hidden by the manto. It was Zita's. She had come in on the train and was evidently going back by it.
THERE was nothing to do but return, which we did with all the
speed permitted us. As we passed the Caliche car, still waiting,
I saw that Senor Caliche was in it now, evidently getting ready
to start. An instant later, Carlos Braun appeared in a doorway. I
might almost say that he ran toward the car. It was quite evident
that something was on his nerves. I heard Caliche direct the
driver, and, a second later, they were whisked away in the
direction of Vina del Mar.
We rejoined Kennedy at the Angleterre. He was alone. Madame Duval had retired.
"She is a very clever woman, Walter." he remarked, "most remarkable."
"What happened after I left?" I asked hastily.
"Very little," he replied. "I was watching Braun and Rascón. I think Braun is trying to let himself down easy."
"And Rascón is profiting by his example?" I hastened to ask, hoping by innuendo to warn off Kennedy.
Craig smiled as though he saw through my attempt, and I figuratively retreated reflecting how futile is advice where a woman is concerned.
NEITHER of us was prepared, I am sure for the unexpected news
that awaited us in the morning as Fitzroy burst in on us.
Out at Vina del Mar, Carlos Braun had been discovered by Zita unconscious, and now was dead!
We lost no time in getting there, and, as we expected, we found Zita in a terrible state of grief and the Caliche family wildly upset.
Huroki, observant, impassive, admitted us, and, in the confusion, no one seemed to think it strange that we were there. Kennedy and I did not intrude, but we managed to get aside with the doctor who had been summoned when Carlos was discovered, his life flickering out.
As nearly as the doctor could describe it, his mouth seemed to be dry. He had suffered a quick prostration with loss of the power to swallow or speak. The pupils were dilated as though there had been paralysis of the eyes. Both pharynx and larynx had been affected; there was respiratory paralysis, and the cranial nerves were involved.
"It was typically a condition due to some toxic substance which selectively paralyzes and depresses," he concluded. "I have here in this bottle some of the contents of the stomach. Would you care to analyze it?"
This was precisely what Kennedy desired. At a convenient opportunity, he examined the body.
"Was it a poison, do you think?" I asked him, when he had finished.
"I shall have to see later," he replied, speaking aside to the doctor, who nodded.
A few moments later, we were conducted to the kitchen. There Kennedy systematically took samples of every bit of food in the house. Then we returned to the city, where Craig went directly to our room and began unpacking his traveling laboratory, which was standing him in such good stead.
I LEFT him at work and wandered downstairs. No one I knew was
about, and I sauntered out to the street, doing nothing but kill
time. At last, I decided it might be possible Craig had found
something and I returned to the hotel. As I entered, I saw a
familiar figure leaving another door. It was Huroki.
I hurried up to our rooms. Craig was gone. On a table stood his materials. I did not know whether he had finished or not. Down-stairs, I could find no trace of him.
Imagine my surprise, on glancing out of the window, to see him strolling along toward the hotel with Bertha Duval. It was a shock to me. Quite evidently, he had deserted in the midst of a very important investigation to snatch a few minutes alone with her. As I watched, I reflected that Carlos had been her friend.
Kennedy was oblivious to me until he turned from a prolonged farewell to Bertha, then, catching sight of me, came over to where I was standing. There was no use concealing anything, and he did not attempt it. He offered no explanation, and I merely glanced at my watch to remind him that it was time for luncheon.
We were about to enter the dining-room when he drew back.
"I think," he said slowly, "that we will take our meals in our own rooms."
Rather startled, I could not object, and from our rooms, after clearing a table, we gave our orders. As we waited, I cautiously broached the subject of Bertha. He deftly turned the conversation.
Finally, our waiter arrived with soup. To my astonishment, before Kennedy would touch it, he dipped out a bit and began testing it.
"It's all right," he nodded finally.
My appetite, however, had fled.
Again, when a roast appeared, he went through the same process. This time, however, he looked up strangely.
"A good thing I thought of this," he commented.
"How is that?" I asked eagerly.
"It contains the toxin of the bacillus botulinus," he replied.
"And that is—what?"
"Well," he began, "botulism may well be ranked among the most serious diseases. It is hard to understand why, even to-day, it is not more common. It is one of the most dangerous forms of food-poisoning."
"Then the meat is bad?" I asked.
"Not naturally," he added. "Some one has made it so—to look as though it were natural food-poisoning. Bacillus botulinus produces a toxin that is extremely virulent. Hardly more than a ten-thousandth of a cubic centimeter would kill a guinea-pig. This, however, is botulin, the pure toxin formed in meat and other food-products, added for our especial benefit." I was aghast.
"Was it botulin that killed Braun?" He nodded.
"It is a food-disease. Yet I have found no trace in the food samples. Nor has anyone here at the hotel been affected."
Whence had the botulin come, I wondered. Evidently, some one was afraid Craig would discover too much. I thought of Bertha Duval and of Huroki's presence in the hotel that morning, but refrained from saying anything.
I had hardly recovered from my surprise when a knock sounded on the door. It was Fitzroy, bursting with information.
"What do you think?" he cried. "Aboard the Kronprinz they have discovered a secret wireless-tap. The wireless was supposed to have been dismantled. But from it had been run a fine wire to the funnel and thence to a little room below. The wireless-dynamo had been sealed, but connection had been made with the ship's dynamo. It was from the interned ship that were sent the secret impulses to explode the wireless-bombs!"
For a moment, Kennedy was silent. "Walter, tell Fitzroy of what I have discovered," he said, rising. "You must excuse me—for the present."
Abruptly he left the room. Instead of telling Fitzroy, however, I leaned over and whispered:
"I don't like his growing intimacy with Bertha Duval. Ten to one he is going to see her. Let us follow."
KENNEDY was making his way rapidly down the stairs. It had
been a good guess. We paused on the landing above the hall in
which was Bertha Duval's suite, because we heard footsteps. From
our vantage-point, we could see Rascón leaving. Was he, too, in
the toils? Once he turned, as though watching Craig. It was a
tense drama that centered about this woman of mystery.
Back in our apartment, I had scarcely begun to tell Fitzroy about the botulin when a message arrived for him from the consulate. He tore it open and read it in great excitement.
"It is from Caliche!" he exclaimed. "Some one has accused Zita before the authorities of murdering her husband, and there is a secret investigation going on. Señor Caliche and the señora are frantic. What rot—Zita a murderess! I must go out there."
"Wait," I cried, determined, now that I had a valid excuse, to summon Kennedy.
I was prepared to have Craig angry at me, but the importance of my news, perhaps, saved me. With Fitzroy, we were soon on our way again to Vina del Mar.
Caliche himself met us at the door in a high state cf anger.
"It is outrageous!" he blustered. "Some one—I would kill him, if I knew who has started this gossip. Now, Señor Fitzroy, we understand each other. You must help me."
Zita, who had been in a terrible state of grief in the morning, was now almost prostrated. As she told her story, one could see that the poor girl had for weeks been torn between her love of country and love for her husband. It had been an acid test. The poor little bride had been involuntarily turned into a spy—a spy against her own husband.
"Two days ago," she cried, looking from one to the other of us wildly, "finally—I was told—of Carlos—that he was sending information to some one! I could stand it no longer. I charged him with it. He admitted it. What was I to do? Leave him? He begged me to forgive him, promised to undo what he had done. I was happy. I had won. His love for me was greater than anything else. But I was afraid—afraid some one might take revenge on him. If he was in danger because of me, I wanted to be near him. And then—this!"
She glanced through her tears with a shudder at the room where his body now lay. Was it true? Or was she shielding somebody?
Outside, Caliche spoke to us in an undertone.
"There is no use concealing anything," he said earnestly. "I have known all the time, Señor Fitzroy, who you really are. And, Professor Kennedy, I have heard also of you. You must do something."
Fitzroy bowed. I could see that he was somewhat surprised that Caliche had penetrated his "cover." Might it indicate anything?
I do not know what was in Kennedy's mind, but, catching sight of Huroki down the hall, he darted after him. Relentlessly he questioned the little Jap. But Huroki moved not a muscle. What was back of that Oriental calm? Was he the real criminal? At least, I felt he knew something more than he told. Was he playing a subtle game? His passivity was in sharp contrast to the mercurial feelings of his master.
Relentlessly he questioned the little Jap.
IT was again night when we reached the city and the
Angleterre. We dined and strolled out on the streets for a breath
of air and relaxation. But there was no relaxation. The case was
too tense. Finally, Kennedy, who had curbed his impatience, led
our steps back to the hotel, and I noted that his tone was more
than casual when he suggested that we look into the café.
In an alcove, he spied Bertha Duval, and about her, sipping light wine, a little group, a subdued group, for the events of the day had come close to them.
Kennedy made his way over to them, while we followed. I fancied there was a mock back of the smile that Bertha gave me. I had taken him away from her this afternoon, but had not been able to keep him away. The others, including Rascón, greeted us sourly. We sat down and, in the rearrangement, Kennedy contrived to place himself next to Bertha.
"You are not drinking to-night," she rallied him, indicating the full glass before him.
Kennedy picked it up by its thin stem and poised it.
"I trust there is no botulin in this?" he remarked impersonally, and I felt as if there had been an electric shock in the words.
"Why," she exclaimed quickly, "what do you mean?"
He set the glass down and drew something from his pocket.
"In your room, this afternoon. I found this vial," he said quietly.
"In your room, this afternoon. I found this vial," he said quietly.
Not a sound could be heard as he spoke. I scrutinized her face narrowly as, in utter surprise, she said,
"In my room?"
"Yes; it is the same poison that killed poor Carlos—the toxin of a deadly bacillus."
One could literally feel the consternation.
For a moment, Bertha Duval seemed to catch her breath. Much as I feared what might happen, I must admit that I was delighted. I had misjudged Craig. Instead of Bertha playing with Craig, he had been playing a part with her. She was furious.
"It is a plant!" she cried vehemently.
"Still, I have made my tests." repeated Craig quietly. "I find that botulin killed Carlos. Here is botulin."
"And—you insinuate——"
"Nothing," he interrupted calmly, then leaned over and fixed his eyes on hers. "Madame Duval—who are you?"
She seemed unable to escape his glance. Rapidly her keen mind must have worked. I could see that he had brought about a situation where she was forced to declare herself. With mounting color, she faced him.
"I have just come from Vina del Mar," he pursued, in an even tone. "Some one has been spreading rumors about Zita."
Bertha Duval seemed to wince. For a moment, she hesitated.
"It was I who discovered what Carlos Braun was doing!" she blurted out. "Two days ago I told Zita. I am of the British secret service."
IF a wireless-bomb itself had been exploded, the startling
effect could not have been greater on the group, It was as though
Kennedy had wrung the words from her. Now she was speaking
rapidly. Something more than her own cleverness was at stake.
"Huroki, one of my confederates placed to watch Braun, gave me this this morning," she continued, taking a paper from her chatelaine. "He found it, crumpled, in the car in which Carlos and Señor Caliche rode last night."
Craig seized the paper and read:
You are a traitor to your country. Though nominally a Chilean, you are still by law one of us. You know the punishment for treason. To-night you will take this—or I shall be compelled to act.
Reinald Rask.
I saw it all now. Braun, fronted by two allegiances, choosing love and, with it, death. Craig turned abruptly.
"So," he ground out, "it was a plot to ruin Caliche, the nitrate king, through his son-in-law—a war-measure. Failing to poison me when I was on the track, you thought to cast suspicion on Bertha Duval. Yours was the little wireless-room on the Kronprinz. You are the real murderer of Carlos. Just a minute——"
He dashed a glass from the hand of Rinaldo Rascón—not a Peruvian, but the foreign agent, Reinald Rask.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.