Gold of the Gods Read online

  IV

  THE TREASURE HUNTERS

  Norton had scarcely gone, and Kennedy was still studying the fourpieces of paper on which the warning had been given, when ourlaboratory door was softly pushed open again.

  It was Senorita Mendoza, looking more beautiful than ever in her plainblack mourning dress, the unnatural pallor of her face heightening thewonderful lustrous eyes that looked about as though half frightened atwhat she was doing.

  "I hope nothing has happened," greeted Kennedy, placing an easy-chairfor her. "But I'm glad to see that you have confidence enough to trustme."

  She looked about doubtfully at the vast amount of paraphernalia whichCraig had collected in his scientific warfare on crime. Though she didnot understand it, it seemed to impress her.

  "No," she murmured, "nothing new has happened. You told me to call onyou if I should think of anything else."

  She said it with an air as if confessing something. It was apparentthat, whatever it was, she had known it all the time and only after astruggle had brought herself to telling it.

  "Then you have thought of something?" prompted Craig.

  "Yes," she replied in a low tone. Then with an effort she went on: "Idon't know whether you know it or not, but my family is an old one, oneof the oldest in Peru."

  Kennedy nodded encouragingly.

  "Back in the old days, after Pizarro," she hurried on, no longer ableto choose her words, but blurting the thing out directly, "an ancestorof mine was murdered by an Inca dagger."

  She stopped again and looked about, actually frightened at her owntemerity, evidently. Kennedy and his twentieth-century surroundingsseemed again to reassure her.

  "I can't tell you the story," she resumed. "I don't know it. My fatherknew it. But it was some kind of family secret, for he never told me.Once when I asked him he put me off; told me to wait until I was alittle older."

  "And you think that may have something to do with the case?" askedKennedy, trying to draw out anything more that she knew.

  "I don't know," she answered frankly. "But don't you think that it isstrange--an ancestor of mine murdered and now, hundreds of yearsafterward, my father, the last of his line in direct descent, murderedin the same way, by an Inca dagger that has disappeared?"

  "Then you were listening while I was talking to Professor Norton?" shotout Kennedy, not unkindly, but rather as a surprise test to see whatshe would say.

  "You cannot blame me for that," she returned simply.

  "Hardly," smiled Kennedy. "And I appreciate your reticence--as well asyour coming here finally to tell me. Indeed, it is strange. Surely youmust have some other suspicions," he persisted, "something that youfeel, even though you do not know?"

  Kennedy was leaning forward, looking deeply into her eyes, as if hewould read what was passing in her mind. She met his gaze for a moment,then looked away.

  "You heard Mr. Lockwood say that he had become associated with a Mr.Whitney, Mr. Stuart Whitney, down in Wall Street?" she ventured.

  Kennedy did not take his eyes from her face as he sought to extract thereluctant words from her.

  "Mr. Whitney has been largely interested in Peru, in business and inmining," she went on slowly. "He has given large sums to scholars downthere, to Professor Norton's expeditions from New York. I--I'm afraidof that Mr. Whitney!"

  Her quiet tone had risen to a pitch of tremulous excitement. Her face,which had been pale from the strain of the tragedy, was now full ofcolour, and her breast rose and fell with suppressed emotion.

  "Afraid of him--why?" asked Kennedy.

  There was no more reticence. Once having said so much, she seemed tofeel that she must go on and tell her fears.

  "Because," she went on, "he--he knows a woman--whom my father knew." Asudden flash of fire seemed to light up her dark eyes. "A woman ofTruxillo," she continued, "Senora de Moche."

  "De Moche," repeated Kennedy, recalling the name and a stillunexplained incident of our first interview. "Who is this Senora deMoche?" he asked, studying her as if she had been under a lens.

  "A Peruvian of an old Indian family," she replied, in a low tone, as ifthe words were forced from her. "She has come to New York with her son,Alfonso. You remember--you met him. He is studying here at theUniversity."

  Again I noted the different manner in which she spoke the two names ofmother and son. Evidently there was some feud, some barrier between herand the elder woman, which did not extend to Alfonso.

  Kennedy reached for the University catalogue and found the name,"Alfonso de Moche." He was, as he had told us, a post-graduate studentin the engineering school and, therefore, not in any of Kennedy's ownclasses.

  "You say your father knew the Senora?" asked Kennedy.

  "Yes," she replied, in a low voice, "he had had some dealings with her.I cannot say just what they were; I do not know. Socially, of course,it was different. They did not belong to the same circle as ours inLima."

  From her tone I gathered that there existed a race prejudice betweenthose of old Spanish descent and the descendants of the Indians. That,however, could not account for her attitude. At least with her theprejudice did not extend to Alfonso.

  "Senora de Moche is a friend of Mr. Whitney?" queried Kennedy.

  "Yes, I believe she has placed some of her affairs in his hands. The deMoches live at the Prince Edward Albert Hotel, and Mr. Whitney livesthere, too. I suppose they see more or less of each other."

  "H-m," mused Kennedy. "You know Mr. Whitney, I suppose?"

  "Not very well," she answered. "Of course, I have met him. He has beento visit my father, and my father has been down at his office, with Mr.Lockwood. But I do not know much about him, except that he is what youAmericans call a promoter."

  Apparently, Inez was endeavouring to be frank in telling hersuspicions, much more so even than Norton had been. But I could nothelp feeling that she was trying to shield some one, though not to theextent of consciously putting us on a wrong scent.

  "I shall try to see Mr. Whitney as soon as possible," said Kennedy, asshe rose to go. "And Senora de Moche, too."

  I fancied that Senorita Inez, although she had not told us much, feltrelieved.

  Again she murmured her thanks as she left and again Kennedy repeatedhis injunction to tell everything that happened that could possiblyhave any bearing on the case.

  "That's a rather peculiar phase," he considered, when we were alone,"this de Moche affair."

  "Yes," I agreed. "Do you suppose that woman could be using Whitney forsome purpose?"

  "Or Whitney using her," suggested Kennedy. "There's so much to be doneat once that I hardly know where to begin. We must see both of them assoon as possible. Meanwhile, that message from Dr. Leslie about thepoison interests me. I must at least start my tests of the bloodsamples that I extracted. Walter, may I ask you to leave me here in thelaboratory undisturbed?"

  I had some writing on my news story to do, and went into the room nextto the laboratory, where I was soon busily engaged tapping mytypewriter. Suddenly I became conscious of that feeling, which Kennedyhad hinted at, of being watched. Perhaps I had heard a footstep outsideand was not consciously aware of it. But, at any rate, I had thefeeling.

  I stopped tapping the keys and wheeled unexpectedly about in my chair.I am sure that I caught just a fleeting glimpse of a face dodging backfrom the window, which was on the first floor.

  Whose face it was I am not prepared to assert exactly. But there was aface, and the fleeting glimpse of the eyes and forehead was just enoughto give me the impression that they were familiar, without enabling meto identify them. At any rate, the occurrence made me feel decidedlyuncomfortable, especially after the warning letters that we had allreceived.

  I sprang to my feet and ran to the door. But it was too late. Theintruder had disappeared. Still, the more I thought about it, the moredetermined I was to try to verify an indistinct suspicion, if possible.I put on my hat and walked hurriedly over to the office of theregistrar.

  Sure enough, I f
ound that Alfonso de Moche had been at the Universitythat day, must have attended a lecture an hour or so before. Havingnothing else to do, I hunted up some of his professors and tried toquiz them about him.

  As I had expected, they told me that he was an excellent student,though very quiet and reserved. His mind seemed to run along the lineof engineering, and particularly mining. I could not help coming to theconclusion that undoubtedly he, too, was infected by the furore fortreasure hunting, in spite of his Indian ancestry.

  Yet there seemed to be surprisingly little known about him outside ofthe lecture room and laboratory. The professors knew that he lived withhis mother at a hotel downtown. He seemed to have little or nothing todo with the other students outside of class work. Altogether he was anenigma, as far as the social life of the University went. It lookedvery much as though he had come to New York quietly to prepare himselffor the search for the buried treasure. Had the Gold of the Gods luredhim into its net, too?

  Reflecting on the tangle of events, the strange actions of Lockwood andthe ambitions of Whitney, I retraced my steps in the direction of thelaboratory, convinced that de Moche had employed at least a part of histime lately in spying on us. Perhaps he had seen Inez going in and out.Suddenly it flashed over me that the interchange of glances between deMoche and Lockwood indicated that she was more to him than a mereacquaintance. Perhaps it had been jealousy as well as treasure huntingthat had prompted his eavesdropping.

  Still reflecting, I decided to turn in at the Museum and have a chatwith Norton. I found him nervously pacing up and down the little officethat had been accorded him in his section of the building.

  "I can't rid my mind of that warning," he remarked anxiously, pausingin his measured tread. "It seems inconceivable to me that any one wouldtake the trouble to send four such warnings unless he meant it."

  "Quite so," I agreed, relating to him what had just happened.

  "I thought of something like that," he acquiesced, "and I have alreadytaken some precautions."

  Norton waved his hand at the windows, which I had not noticed before.Though they were some distance above the ground, I saw now that he hadclosed and barred them at the expense of ventilation. The warningsseemed to have made more of an impression on him than on any of therest of us.

  "One never can tell where or when a blow will fall with these people,"he explained. "You see, I've lived among them. They are a hot-bloodedrace. Besides, as you perhaps have read, they have some queer poisonsdown in South America. I mean to run no unnecessary chances."

  "I suppose you suspected all along that the dagger had something to dowith the Gold of the Gods, did you not?" I hinted.

  Norton paused before answering, as though to weigh his words."Suspected--yes," he replied. "But, as I told you, I have had no chanceto read the inscription on it. I can't say that I took it veryseriously--until now."

  "It's not possible that Stuart Whitney, who, I understand, is deeplyinterested in South America, may have had some inkling of the value ofthe dagger, is it?" I asked thoughtfully.

  For a full minute Norton gazed at me. "I hadn't thought of that," headmitted at length. "That's a new idea to me."

  Yet somehow I knew that Norton had thought of it, though he had not yetspoken about it. Was it through loyalty to the man who had contributedto financing his expeditions to South America?

  "Do you know Senora de Moche well?" I ventured, a moment later.

  "Fairly well," he replied. "Why?"

  "What do you think of her?"

  "Rather a clever woman," he replied noncommittally.

  "I suppose all the people in New York who were interested in Peru knewher," I pursued, adding, "Mr. Whitney, Mendoza, Lockwood."

  Norton hesitated, as though he was afraid of saying too much. While Icould not help admiring his caution, I found that it was mostexasperating. Still, I was determined to get at his point of view, ifpossible.

  "Alfonso seems to be a worthy son, then," I remarked. "I can't quitemake out, though, why the Senorita should have such an obviousprejudice against her. It doesn't seem to extend to him."

  "I believe," replied Norton reluctantly, "that Mendoza had been onrather intimate terms with her. At least, I think you'll find the womanvery ambitious for her son. I don't think she would have stopped atmuch to advance his interests. You must have noticed how much Alfonsothinks of the Senorita. But I don't think there was anything that couldhave overcome the old Castilian's prejudice. You know they pridethemselves on never intermarrying. With Lockwood it would have beendifferent."

  I thought I began to get some glimmering of how things were.

  "Whitney knows her pretty well now, doesn't he?" I shot out.

  Norton shrugged his shoulders. But he could not have acquiesced betterthan by his very manner.

  "Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Whitney know best what they are doing," heremarked, at length. "Why don't you and Kennedy try to see Senora deMoche? I'm a scientist, you know. I dislike talking about speculations.I'd prefer only to express opinions about things that are certainties."

  Perhaps Norton wished to convey the impression that the subjects I hadbroached were worth looking into. At least it was the impression Iderived.

  "Still," he continued slowly, "I think I am justified in saying thismuch: I myself have been interested in watching both Alfonso de Mocheand Lockwood when it comes to the case of the Senorita. All's fair,they say, in love and war. If I am any judge, there are both in thiscase, somewhere. I think you had better see the Senora and judge foryourself. She's a clever woman, I know. But I'm sure that Kennedy couldmake her out, even if the rest of us can't."

  I thanked Norton for the hint that he had given, and after chatting afew moments more left him alone in his office.

  In my room again, I went back to finish my writing. Nothing furtheroccurred, however, to excite my suspicions, and at last I managed tofinish it.

  I was correcting what I had written when the door opened from thelaboratory and Craig entered. He had thrown off his old, acid-stainedlaboratory smock and was now dressed to venture forth.

  "Have you found out anything about the poison?" I asked.

  "Nothing definite yet," he replied. "That will take some time now. It'sa strange poison--an alkaloid, I'm sure, but not one that oneordinarily encounters. Still, I've made a good beginning. It won't takelong to determine it now."

  Craig listened with deep interest, though without comment, when Irelated what had happened, both Norton's conversation and about thestrange visitor whom we had had peering into our windows.

  "Some one seems to be very much interested in what we are doing,Walter," he concluded simply. "I think we'd better do a little moreoutside work now, while we have a chance. If you are ready, so am I. Iwant to see what sort of treasure hunter this Stuart Whitney is. I'dlike to know whether he is in on this secret of the Gold of the Gods,too."