RGL e-Book CoverŠ
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 CoverŠ
Cosmopolitan, October 1917, with "The Coca Gang"
The man dropped wearily into a chair and glanced
hastily over at a very handsome woman who was
sitting with another man at the end of the porch.
Craig Kennedy is now hurrying home, anxious to offer his valuable services to his country in war-time. Will they be needed? That remains to be seen, but, meanwhile, he cannot resist the opportunity to be of assistance in solving a mystery when appealed to on his arrival at Callao, Peru, on his way to the States.
"ARE those hills really yellow? The sea is yellow—the sky—this hotel—everything is yellow!"
I looked up at the bright-green plains that rose from Callao to the mountains of Lima, whose white towers could be seen against the Cordilleras which reared their heads into the clouds. Quickly my gaze reverted to the man beside us.
There was certainly nothing yellow about the hills. As for the sea, it was an even deeper blue than the clear sky. The stucco hotel was anything but yellow. Had the man suddenly become insane?
Kennedy took a stop nearer to him and grasped his arm. The man was struggling with himself, as though to overcome some powerful feeling.
"May I help you?" Kennedy asked.
Once or twice the man gulped. "Just a moment—perhaps—it will pass." We waited, watching him keenly.
Kennedy and I had taken the first steamer, the Yunca, from Valparaiso, and it had put into Callao to unload and load for a day or two on our journey northward. We were now in a hurry to get back to the States, where Kennedy felt his highly specialized services would be most valuable in war-time.
Restive over the delay, we had planned to pass the time in Lima, eight miles from the seaport, and were waiting after luncheon at the Callao Hotel for the train to start.
On the veranda near us was a rather reticent American tourist. Just what to make of him I did not know, but we had observed him closely along with the others whom we had already seen in the dining-room. If it had been in New York, I should have said that he was of the type all too common on Broadway, one that I believe the newspapers at home were calling "tango-touts" and "lounge-lizards." Down here in Peru, he looked strangely out of place. He was one of the "wise ones," and, by so much, the easier to frame up than a man less sophisticated. His sudden exclamation was, therefore, all the more remarkable.
The man dropped wearily into a chair and glanced hastily over at a very handsome woman who was sitting with another man at the end of the porch. Then he turned his gaze. I gained the impression that he knew them, yet in his panic could not make up his mind whether to call on them or not for aid.
We already knew the woman, Seņora Tyra Suarez. She had come aboard the ship with us at Valparaiso. Whether she was a Chilean or an Argentinian or what not, no one seemed to know, but her type was unmistakably Latin, and she was undeniably beautiful, with dark eyes and hair, and olive skin with a trace of rich color.
For a time we had suspected her of being in some political intrigue, especially as, just then, South America was honeycombed with plotters. But even the closest scrutiny had failed to uncover anything definite, though I knew that Kennedy was still suspicious of her.
At Callao, Seņora Suarez had been greeted effusively by a rather prepossessing young man. At first, I had guessed that he was a Colombian, for I overheard him say that he had come from Bogota and had just arrived, after stopping at Guayaquil. Later, to our surprise, we learned that he was Seņor Fernando Suarez, her husband. And yet we were not fully satisfied that these outward relations were all that they appeared to be. The couple was a mystery.
The man before us was wildly struggling to control himself. Momentarily, I saw his hands reach into his pockets and withdraw. Clutched in one hand it seemed as if there were some papers, which he crumpled and tore at in his frantic efforts to grip himself.
His exclamation had been loud enough to attract the attention of everyone. Two Peruvians from another group on the veranda sprang forward.
There were three of them together: a man approaching middle age, a younger man of official appearance, and a young woman. Her face was of a pale-olive color, which accentuated her luxuriant black hair and large, luminous eyes. In many respects she seemed to be a Peruvian, for, with Peruvians, pallor is considered a mark of beauty.
I had been watching the little group, for I fancied I saw the gradual development of a little drama. The lady with the two Peruvians was ardently sought after by both, though she accepted only the attentions of the younger man, much to the chagrin of the elder. Now and then, from scraps of conversation, I gathered that her name was Carla.
Only a few moments previously, the arrival of Seņor and Seņora Suarez from the dinner-table had attracted the younger man, who relaxed his attentions to Carla noticeably. Once or twice I saw Seņora Suarez and Carla exchange glances, at first as though of appraisal, which quickly turned into a faint suggestion of conflict. Suarez himself was plainly vexed at the ill-concealed flirtation with his wife. The elder Peruvian redoubled his attentions to Carla, but her response was purely mechanical.
It was from this drama that the frightened exclamation diverted us. Together, we bent over the man. He was mumbling, as though it were difficult to frame words, while with his hands he now clutched frantically at his throat. As his head turned slowly from side to side, he paused, with his eyes riveted on a doorway behind us. I looked around quickly. In the doorway was standing another American, who appeared to be watching us all. The man before us was plainly in distress. With a heroic effort, he seemed to summon all the strength which was evidently ebbing from him.
"It's green!" he gasped weakly. "Everything is turning green!"
Even this slight effort appeared to prostrate him. We regarded him helplessly. The onset had been so sudden that there was not a chance of summoning medical assistance.
Almost before we knew it, he sank back in his seat. Kennedy leaned over quickly and placed his hand on the man's heart. The expression on Craig's face told the story. The man was dead.
Almost stunned by the suddenness of the event, I could do nothing but stare at the huddled figure in the chair. What manner of strange and sudden death was this? A moment before he had seemed to be in perfect health and master of himself. Of course, there might be some organic cause which a doctor might discover, but as one hasty explanation after another surged through my mind, I felt sure that the man had been stricken down by some unknown hand in a mysterious way. How else could be explained that terrible illusion of seeing yellow, then green? What was, it?
Before anyone noticed, Kennedy reached into the man's pocket and drew forth the wad of crumpled papers, shoving them into his own pocket without being observed.
Suarez had by this time approached, followed by his wife, who bent over timidly.
"Is—he—dead?" she asked, in a startled whisper. "What was the matter?"
There was no need of an answer. The looks on our faces told the story plainly enough. She looked about. Almost accusingly her eye fell on the silent figure in the doorway.
"That man has been watching and following him," she whispered to us. "I have noticed it ever since I have been here. Who is he?"
We turned to look. The man in the doorway had disappeared.
Kennedy dropped down on his knee now, and was about to examine the dead man more carefully when the younger Peruvian intervened brusquely.
"I will take charge here," he asserted, in a positive tone. "I am Doctor Joaquin, secretary of the Ministry of Justice. Don Pedro, would you call the police for me?"
By this time, the attendants at the hotel had come forward and gathered in a frightened and bewildered group. None of them seemed to know what to do, but Doctor Joaquin soon asserted his authority.
Casually, Kennedy drew his card from his pocket and presented it to the young man, who glanced at it.
"I cannot help it," remonstrated Doctor Joaquin, studying the card with every outward mark of deference. "There must be no interference with the police. After they have made their investigation, if you care to offer your services, perhaps they may avail themselves of the privilege. Meanwhile, no one may touch him until the police arrive."
It was all said in the most polite manner, but there was a thinly veiled hostility back of it. Did it indicate anything? Almost invariably during our travels, Kennedy had been welcomed by officials. This, however, was a clear rebuff. Was it significant?
THERE was nothing to do but submit. There seemed to be no way
of interfering, either. The man plainly was an official,
evidently, as he asserted, a secretary of the Ministry, for, a
moment later, when the police arrived, they recognized him and
took orders from him with deference.
Had his discourtesy been studied and for a purpose? Or was it merely due to the official mind that could not stand outside interference, even when it came in the shape of aid?
It was only a moment before Kennedy withdrew from the group altogether. I thought at the time that he was deeply offended, and indeed he was. But his anger was only momentary. Rather, it served to spur on his tenacity. It was not the first time that his help had been refused. Besides, here was an American, dead, mysteriously, in a foreign land. Even though he might not be a very high type of man, still he was an American and, as such, was entitled to justice. Who was the other American? Did he know something of the mystery? Was he another of our countrymen of whom we had found a number that gave us no pride of our own land in South America?
I followed Kennedy, and at once saw that he had a purpose in withdrawing. Inside the doorway, he looked about. No one was watching. He paused and drew from his pocket the crumpled papers, smoothing them out. One of them proved interesting, and, as he pointed. I read what was cryptically written on it.
Do not recognize me. Go ahead with the affair. If I can get through you the right information, you have my promise that you shall not be held.
"Evidently the dead man was mixed up in something which he was on the point of betraying to some one else," commented Kennedy. "He seems to have offered to play informer. Perhaps he had been discovered and was put out of the way before he could accomplish his purpose of betrayal and get immunity."
Passing through to a short hall, Kennedy stopped for a moment at the office of the hotel. There was now general turmoil in the place with the arrival of the police. The clerk, however, had kept his head, and had not left the office further than to stand in sight of the desk.
"What was the name of the man?" queried Kennedy.
The clerk pointed to an entry on the register made the day before. I read:
LEON SANDERS, NEW YORK, U.S.A.
There was only one question in my mind now. Who was Leon Sanders, and why had he been killed? By this time I was thoroughly convinced that his was not a natural death.
Kennedy did not stop to debate the subject even with himself. Instead, he made his way to the dining-room, which we had just left. I remembered that each of the parties on the veranda had occupied certain tables. That of Sanders had been in a corner, where he was served last by the waiter.
Kennedy made his way over to the table. On it still stood the remains of the meal that the tourist had ordered. Quickly Kennedy gathered up bits of food from the various dishes that remained.
"Might I speak with you a moment, Professor Kennedy?" interrupted a voice behind us.
We turned. I had half expected that it meant some more official interference.
To my relief, it was the silent American who had disappeared from the doorway and had evidently been following us. Without a word, he handed a note to Kennedy, and we glanced at it. It was without address or signature, but the bold scrawl reminded me of the handwriting I had seen on the register just a moment before. It was worded as though the receiver would know perfectly well who was the sender. I read:
I know who you are, and that you have been trailing the coke gang from New York to Panama and now down here. There is more to the thing than you suspect. I cannot write it. If I tell you the truth, will you let me go free?
Hurriedly I pieced together the import of the two notes The first, found on Sanders, was the answer to this second.
Our new acquaintance was ready with an explanation before we were able to ask a question.
"My name is Denton," he whispered confidentially, looking about to be sure no one was listening. "United States customs inspector. We have been following a gang that was smuggling cocaine into New York, and I was sent down here from Panama to nip the plot at its source. I was about up with this man Sanders when—this happened," he added disgustedly, returning the note to his pocket.
"A coke gang," considered Kennedy. "Who are in it? Do you suspect any of the people outside?"
Denton shook his head blankly.
"Perhaps any of them—perhaps all," he replied. "There was that elderly man, for instance. That was Don Pedro, the owner of one of the big coca plantations up in the mountains. Doctor Joaquin, of course, you have reason to know. The woman, Carla, I cannot place. She has been here some time, I imagine—for she has acquired all the characteristics of the Limeņa, if, indeed, she is really not one."
"Then they are all strangers to one another?"
"As far as I could prove it, they are. But I could swear that they know each other—all of them. Come; let us make a search of our own before anyone forestalls us."
WITHOUT consulting even the clerk at the desk, Denton led the
way up the stairs and paused before the door of the stranger's
room. He drew from his pocket a skeleton key and opened the door.
Each of us working feverishly, we literally turned things upside
down in the vain hope of getting the truth. Search as we might,
however, we could discover nothing.
Among other things in Sanders' luggage was a pile of current magazines, some that had evidently been bought when he was leaving New York, perhaps a month before; others he had bought here in South America. Kennedy picked up one and held it thoughtfully before him.
"Peculiar!" he muttered, as though weighing the magazine. "It seems heavier than paper."
Craig looked at it a minute, then tried to open the pages. It would not open.
"I thought it was strange," he remarked triumphantly. "See—the pages are all glued together!"
He tore off the cover and pried with his knife at the advertising matter underneath. It tore readily.
The body of the magazine had been hollowed out carefully. It opened neatly now, disclosing a mass of white powder. Kennedy wet his forefinger, and some of the powder adhered. He touched just a trifle to his tongue. Then he handed the thing to me. I did the same. It had a bitter taste. The end of my tongue seemed to become cold and numb for just a moment.
"Cocaine!" Craig exclaimed, as I looked at him inquiringly.
"Exactly!" cried Denton excitedly. "It was as I suspected. Don't you understand? The duty on cocaine is high. Not only that, but, under our internal-revenue law, every importer and distributor of the drug must register. It becomes possible then to trace every ounce that comes into the country legitimately. Smuggle it in, and you not only evade the high duty but avoid being watched, and can sell it secretly to drug-users at a fabulous profit."
"Indeed," agreed Kennedy, interested, "I can readily see that this underground railway for the smuggling of the stuff must have been a very profitable business. Without a doubt, the coca gang might have become rich."
"What shall we do with these fake magazines?" I questioned, looking about nervously for fear that we might be discovered in the room. "Seize them?"
Denton glanced at Kennedy, who decided quickly.
"We can't go through them all," he negatived, after a moment's consideration. "The shipment of cocaine is too valuable to lose. Some one will try to claim it. That will be our chance to fasten the guilt on the right person perhaps. Come: I think we had better go."
WE reached the main floor of the hotel not a moment too soon.
Evidently we had been missed, or, at least, Denton had been, for
no sooner were we down there than a man in uniform stepped back
of a pillar, though not so quickly but that we saw him. We walked
through the lobby. From pillar to pillar the man followed. It was
evident that the man had been detailed to find Denton and watch
him.
Denton saw it at once and was furious. Nevertheless, complaint would do no good.
"They can't do anything to me," he fumed. "Yet it is exasperating to be hampered that way at such a time."
There seemed to be no way by which he could avoid being watched just now. I felt with him that no protest would avail.
Still, though he was watched, it did not prevent him from watching. We saw that Kennedy had acted not a moment too soon. For, almost immediately, the police, finished now with their examination of the body, which had been removed, seized the effects of Sanders. An official seal was placed on the room, so that no one unauthorized might enter and nothing might be taken away.
As for Denton, though the authorities did not dare actually to seize him on any pretext, he was now to be under constant surveillance. It was a peculiar condition, yet not more peculiar than many other anomalies in life. Here was the man who had come to enforce law now held under suspicion. The real criminal, whoever he might be, was free, perhaps honored and respected.
"There's only one way for you fellows to work." urged Denton, aside. "I will play my part here. You play yours. I am going to watch those fake magazines and the cocaine. Whenever we have anything to report, we must get in touch—secretly, though. I have no faith in anyone now."
KENNEDY had been restive ever since we arrived. The delay in
getting home at the war-crisis had weighed on his mind. Now,
however, he seemed reconciled, at least for the time. Here was a
mystery, ready to hand. It was a challenge to him, for we lacked
the very essential thing that had been ours almost uniformly of
late—official help. Instead, the influence of Doctor
Joaquin seemed to be thrown squarely against us. What was the
reason of this? Was he one of the coke gang? Or had some one
poisoned his mind against Denton, perhaps ourselves also?
The various groups on the veranda were preparing, by this time, to leave for Lima, having already missed one train. After a hasty farewell and promise to Denton, we decided to adhere to our original plan of going, also, especially as our baggage had already been shipped and was probably waiting for us at the Hotel de Lima.
On the train, to my astonishment, I saw that Seņor and Seņora Suarez, Don Pedro, Doctor Joaquin, and Carla were engaged in a most friendly conversation, as though chance had thrown them together. Had their previous attitude been merely a pose, or was some one of the group taking advantage of the strange event to gain the confidence of another?
The new friendliness gave Doctor Joaquin the opportunity he sought. Throughout almost the entire journey, he talked raptly with Seņora Suarez, who seemed to be quite content to allow him to monopolize her. Carla showed no evidence of jealousy that I could detect; yet, somehow, I felt that she was concealing her real feelings. Don Pedro, as before, appeared to be delighted, and to his attentions Carla proved somewhat more responsive. Suarez controlled any resentment he might have, but one could see that, underneath, he was of a fiery, passionate nature.
Try as I might to place each in the scheme of events, I was unable to do so. Plainly there was something more going on than appeared on the surface.
As the train pulled into Lima, Kennedy held me back, so that they would have a chance to get off first while we observed them. They had considerable luggage, and, in the excitement of disentangling it and entrusting it to porters to be carried out to waiting hacks, there was some confusion. We were in no hurry, especially after we heard the order given to take them to the same hotel to which we ourselves were going.
At last, the confusion was straightened out, and Kennedy and I sauntered down the car-aisle, passing the seats where the party had been sitting.
As we did so, Kennedy's foot touched something that had evidently dropped from the pocket of one of the coats—a little packet. He stooped down and picked it up.
Outside, the party was just driving off, and we hurried now to get the only other hack left, to follow them in case any of them changed their minds as to their destination.
They were well ahead of us, but a quiet injunction to the driver was sufficient to keep them in sight. Kennedy settled back in the worn upholstered seat and drew forth the packet again—just a little black-leather case. He opened it. Inside was a bottle of dark-colored glass. As he drew forth the cork and rolled out some of the contents in the palm of his hand, I saw that the bottle contained some sort of powder—colorless, or rather whitish, shiny, flat, rhombic prisms. He held the powder to his nose, but it evidently had no odor. A grain or two placed on his tongue did not seem to give him any clue, and I tried the experiment myself. It had a slightly bitter taste, and my first thought was that it might be cocaine. In the light, the crystals seemed to begin turning yellow.
"What is it?" I queried at length. "Coke?"
Kennedy shook his head.
"Coca, you know, is the 'wonder-plant of the Andes,' the 'divine plant' here in Peru. All the Indians in the mountains chew the leaves, and they say it is indispensable to them. The salt which is most commonly used by us is colorless, odorless, and crystalline—decidedly bitter, as you already know. But this is not cocaine. The bitterness is not the same. Nor does it have the same effect on the tongue that a few grains of cocaine have. I don't know what it is. I shall have to find out."
By this time, we had pulled up at the hotel. The party had already arrived, entered, and the members had gone to their rooms. Our own luggage, such of it as we had sent ashore for our short stay, had arrived, and Kennedy gave orders that it should be taken directly up to the suite which had been assigned to us.
In the room, Kennedy set to work after unpacking his traveling laboratory. Soon he was deeply immersed in the study of the food he had taken from Sanders' table in the hotel in Callao and in an analysis of the contents of the little vial which he had picked up.
THERE was nothing that I could do to help him, and, in order
that nothing might divert his attention from the examination he
had undertaken, I determined to go out and watch the various
members of the party or, at least, look over the city.
Down-stairs, as I was passing a handsomely furnished salon, I happened to glance in. There were Seņora Suarez and Carla. Before they could see me, I slipped back of the portičres at the door. I had least of all expected to see them together, but, I reflected, perhaps the men had left them alone and they could not do otherwise. At least, it would be worth while observing them when they did not know that they were observed, possibly discovering their true feelings toward each other.
They were talking earnestly, though I could not hear what they were saying. A moment later, however, I was glad that I had concealed myself, for together they were approaching the doorway. As they passed, it was Seņora Suarez who was speaking.
They were talking earnestly, though I
could not hear what they were saying.
"One must sink personal feelings," she remarked. "It is the result that must be accomplished. My dear girl, you have nothing to fear from me. Already I have repressed my own feelings."
Carla demurred as they disappeared down the hall, but I could not catch what was said. Had they been talking of Doctor Joaquin? What did Seņora Suarez hint at? There was no doubt that, even though there was some bond between the two women, Carla, at least, was secretly jealous of Tyra.
A moment later, I saw them enter a carriage and drive off for the usual afternoon show of beauty and fashion on the boulevards of the city.
I looked about and made inquiries. None of the men was at the hotel. I determined to seek out Don Pedro. Inquiry developed that, when he was in Lima, he spent most of his time at the Progreso Club, and, through an American at the capital, I obtained an introduction to the club.
The Progreso Club was one of the handsomest buildings in Lima, facing the Plaza Mayor, on which are the cathedral, the national palace, and other buildings. The club, however, was deserted. None of those whom I sought was there, and I sauntered out again, determined to look over the city for an hour or so.
Although Lima was in the tropics, it was neither hot nor cold, with little rain and not too much sun. I found it a city of contrasts, with splendid carved balconies of former times, mud-roofed houses, ancient churches, and a population which in itself was an interesting study. Parisian attire rubbed elbows with sandaled Indian. One even met bull-fighters with gold-embroidered lace and red-silk stockings. Even when we had landed, I saw that the busy port of Callao partook of the mystery of this elemental land.
As I walked along, watching the passing throng of carriages, I began studying the occupants. Carla was indeed not unlike the typical Limeņa, who is a charming figure set down in a pleasing social life, intelligent, vivacious, modest, with the true traits of femininity which women in other countries affect to despise. It is a pretense which nature refuses to accept.
While I observed this fascinating city, one of the frequent mists arose. It fell like a veil over the bare mountains, and seemed almost to drench the sunlight. Now and then a glimpse through it showed a faint sheen of sharp cliffs, with lines of light-green velvet stretching away between the mountains and myself.
The crowd seemed to have had enough of its promenade and was turning reluctantly homeward. In a stylish rig I saw Seņora Suarez and Doctor Joaquin. Evidently she had been able to detach herself from Carla. I waited about, expecting to see Carla with Don Pedro, but saw no one else whom I recognized.
WHEN I returned to the room. Kennedy was apparently finishing
up his work and, to my joy, I could see by his manner that he had
discovered something. Even before I had a chance to ask a
question, he beckoned me over to his improvised
laboratory-table.
Before him, in a rack, stood a test-tube about half full of a liquid. From the little brown glass which he had picked up he poured some grains of the rhombic crystals.
"Not soluble in water," he remarked and he poured out some alcohol into another test-tube and dropped the crystals into it.
They dissolved slowly as he gently shook the tube. Then he placed the tube in the rack beside the first one. Reaching over into his traveling laboratory, he took from one of the little shelves a bottle labeled "Alcoholic Potassium Hydroxide," and poured some of the contents into each of the tubes before him.
The contents of the tubes slowly turned a brilliant red. As he watched the transformation. Kennedy held in his hand a bottle of sulphuric acid. The redness had scarcely diffused itself through the entire amount of the liquid when he poured several drops of the acid into each tube. One after the other, he held them in the flame of a burner until the liquid bubbled and boiled. As it did so, its color changed again, this time to a beautiful shade of violet.
"It was the same poison—both in the food and in the vial that we found," he remarked triumphantly. "That is the test for santonin."
"'Santonin?'" I repeated. "What is that? Has it anything to do with cocaine?"
Kennedy shook his head.
"Nothing directly. It merely happens to be the poison that was used in this case. I suppose that whoever used it thought that cocaine would be too readily discovered. I have an idea that it was placed in the food from this vial—perhaps as the waiter passed or set down his tray. If you recall, Sanders sat in a corner, where he was waited on last. The rest of us were between him and the door that led to the kitchen."
"But what is the drug?" I asked, remembering its terrible effect.
"It is well known in the Levant, where it is sometimes known as Levant worm-seed. It comes from the dried flower-tops of the Artemisia santonica. I might have recognized it by its effect, although I did not expect to see such a thing in this part of the world. Vision is most strongly affected by santonin. Sanders' case was typical.
"First, the victim sees everything about him yellow, and, if enough of the drug has been administered, this yellow vision slowly changes to green, followed by convulsions, insensibility, and death. In small bulk, it is free from any taste that will betray it if it is masked by the taste of food. In fact, the drug is usually administered for medicinal purposes in some form of confection. Sometimes, also, even a small amount has been known to produce unexpectedly bad results."
I was about to question Kennedy further when the door of our room opened quickly. It was Denton, greatly excited.
I was about to question Kennedy further when the door of
our room opened quickly. It was Denton, greatly excited.
"What's the trouble?" demanded Craig.
"Trouble enough!" exclaimed Denton. "I'm glad I remained to watch. All of Sanders' effects were taken from Callao to Lima by a police order from here."
There was plainly in his manner an implication that he suspected that the order had come from Doctor Joaquin, or, at least, that it was from some one working through the secretary.
"Worse than that," he hurried on. "I saw the American consul. I made inquiries. Somewhere, either in transit or after the baggage arrived here, the magazines have been stolen."
IT was indeed a blow. Why had they been taken? It might have
been for the sake of destroying the evidence. It was a harder
question to decide by whom they had been taken. All of the party
had been away from the hotel during the afternoon. It might have
been done by any of them.
"We must locate them," pondered Kennedy, realizing the increased importance they now possessed as witnesses.
We regarded each other blankly for a moment. How were we to locate the magazines? It seemed impossible. Finally, it was Kennedy who spoke. "I wonder if any of our friends are in the hotel now. I can see no other way than to watch them. Perhaps one of them may give a clue."
A few minutes later, down at the hotel desk, Craig made inquiries.
"They have not returned yet," replied the clerk, adding, "although I did see Don Pedro enter with a package. He has gone away."
A package! I almost felt my heart leap. We were all attention at once, but a sign from Kennedy prevented us from betraying any more interest. We walked away slowly.
With a hasty glance about to see that we were not observed, Kennedy led the way to the staircase, and we mounted. Don Pedro's room was on the third floor. Kennedy signed to Denton to try again his skeleton key. As we entered, we could hardly repress an exclamation. There, on a table, lay a carefully wrapped, bulky package. Kennedy tore off the wrapper Sure enough, there were the very magazines we sought. Hastily, one after another, he ripped them open, caring little whether the contents were spilled or not Each he examined carefully.
"Look!" he exclaimed, under his breath, as he drew from the covers of one a paper which had been concealed carefully.
I was not prepared for the surprise it gave me. It was in reality a message to a junta in New York. It was astounding. Some one was plotting revolution! The document told the story. It was at a time when German gold was being shipped for safety out of the United States. German activities in South America were evidently far-reaching, including not only attempts to gain active aid and to maintain neutrality but even stir up trouble for governments. This revolution was being financed by some of the money. Arms and munitions were being gathered in Colombia and at other points on the coast. The cocaine plot was only a cover. I wondered what part Don Pedro played in it? Did he, too, know? Or was he only a tool?
"Something must be done, and done quickly," planned Kennedy, as we went down-stairs again, almost in a daze. "The Yunca will sail north probably to-morrow. If we remain to clear up this mystery, it may be days before we get even as far as Panama on our way home. Yet we cannot leave the case unsolved."
We were passing by this time the salon of the hotel where I had seen Seņora Suarez and Carla. Kennedy paused and looked in. No one was there. It was a beautiful room, gorgeously furnished. In the center of the ceiling was a huge chandelier which, by indirect lighting, flooded the room with an almost shadowless light. As Kennedy looked about the room, it seemed as if a plan occurred to him. After a hasty conference, he despatched Denton on an errand, with parting instruction:
"Get some as deep saffron as you can—the other's bright green."
No sooner was Denton on his way than Craig summoned one of the servants of the hotel and, slipping a jingling bribe of gold into his ready hand, asked to have a tall step-ladder brought.
"And now, Walter," he added briskly, "I have a commission for you, too. I want you to find Don Pedro and Doctor Joaquin. Get them here on any pretext as soon as possible. I will attend to Suarez, the seņora, and Carla, for they will return here any moment, I am sure."
Recalling what I had heard before about the habits of Don Pedro, I decided that the best thing to do would be to try the Progreso Club again, now that the afternoon's promenade was over. The club, as I entered, presented a far different appearance from what it had done some hours before. Now it was crowded. Looking over the crowd, I saw not only Don Pedro but Doctor Joaquin also at a table in the café, deeply engaged in the popular game of dominoes.
I joined them, wondering how they would receive me after the rebuff they had given Kennedy earlier in the day. To my delight, they were rather cordial, though on guard.
"I left Professor Kennedy at the hotel enjoying a chat with the ladies," I remarked casually.
It was a good opening. Both men shot quick glances at me.
"And I accepted a commission from the ladies to ask you to dine with them, if I saw you here," I added, boldly faking.
The ruse worked perfectly. Don Pedro and Joaquin, rather than let a newcomer monopolize the attention of Tyra and Carla, finished the game quickly, swept off the board, and forgot to play the rubber.
Chatting amiably, I accompanied them to the hotel, hoping that I had not succeeded too quickly for Craig. As we approached the salon, to my relief I saw that I had not. Both Suarez and the seņora were there with Kennedy, and, as we entered, Carla also came in from the hall. Seeing us, I caught on her face just the trace of a suspicious inquiry.
As we met, Doctor Joaquin attempted to excuse the official action at Callao. Kennedy accepted the explanation, though it was clear that it veiled something else. Don Pedro was too delighted by the fiction that he had been sent for to care about anything. I wondered, as I watched them, whether they were all in the gang.
FIRST, of course, a refreshment was in order, and Kennedy
ordered a little absinthe. By the time it arrived, the party was
a bit more sociable.
Regardless of the manner with which he played with fire, Kennedy took advantage of a lull in the conversation.
"Strange," he remarked. "Almost in every city I have visited lately, I have found secret agents at work seeking to array South America against the United States. Take it here—if a revolution could be arranged, quite enough would be accomplished."
It was as though he had exploded a big gun. What promised to be a friendly chat was instantly transformed. If dark looks could have accomplished their purpose, I felt that Kennedy would have been annihilated. But he did not pay any attention to them.
"Some one, I believe, has been taking advantage of a cocaine-smuggling scheme. That poor fellow, Sanders, for instance, was merely a tool without knowing it. But he must have discovered something, and his life was sacrificed to conceal the secret. By the way, Doctor Joaquin, has there been any official report as to the cause of his death?"
"No," shrugged Doctor Joaquin; "the theory sounds as if he perhaps might have been a drug fiend himself. They say the users are subject to hallucinations."
"Hardly," asserted Kennedy, taking the aside with serious politeness. "No; it was not cocaine that caused his death."
No one betrayed, even by a look, knowledge of what Kennedy was driving at.
"It was a queer poison from the Levant," he shot out suddenly, toying, meanwhile, in an exasperatingly matter-of-fact way, with his untasted absinthe, as though fascinated by its green color. "It was santonin, which has the strange effect of making the victim literally see yellow and green."
"How would anyone here in Peru ever know anything of such a drug?" demanded Doctor Joaquin skeptically.
"How?" repeated Kennedy. "Think a moment. Who controls the Levant? In what secret service might one have been assigned hither and thither, going, perhaps, from the Turkish government to Latin America—always seeking to stir up trouble?"
He paused a moment while the tension threatened an explosion. Suddenly there was the sharp cry of a woman.
"Yellow—everything is turning yellow!"
Suddenly there was the sharp cry of a woman.
"Yellow—everything is turning yellow!"
It was Carla, who had sprung to her feet, staring about.
I, too, was startled by the exclamation, but more so as I looked about. Indeed it was true. Everything in the salon was slowly turning to yellow before my very eyes. It was a most horrible sensation as I realized it, knowing what I already knew. I looked about at the others. There was no bravado now. In its place was real terror.
I turned to Craig. He was standing, calmly watching us all. Aside to me he made a reassuring sign. Consternation reigned in the little group before us.
Slowly the saffron light faded out into a weird green.
A moment, and I remembered Craig's preparations and his careful instructions to Denton. He had arranged the lights in three banks of white, yellow, and green in the indirect chandelier. Where was Denton? Was he operating a concealed switch?
Each of the group looked panic-stricken at the others. Carla especially seemed ghastly under the green light. Don Pedro stared at Doctor Joaquin, uncomprehending.
"A plot—against the country?" he gasped. "I thought I was selling cocaine."
Joaquin did not reply. Was he dupe or leader?
"You have betrayed him—you knew I lost the packet he gave me on the train!"
It was Tyra, pale and agitated, facing Carla.
"You were jealous—determined on revenge. You knew whom I really loved, whose secret I hid. You could not sacrifice yourself—even for a time!"
Weeping and protesting, Carla drew back, clinging to Joaquin.
"All right, Denton!" called Kennedy. "I have the clue."
The lights flashed white again.
"There will be no revolution or smuggling, either," Craig ground out, as his pistol yawned coldly in the face of Fernando Suarez. "But there are, I take it, still in Peru laws against murder."
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.