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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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The illustrations for this story have been omitted. They were drawn by George Brehm (1878-1966), whose works are not in the public domain.
The Red Book Magazine, July 1914,
with "The Soldier of Fortune"
GUY GARRICK is always up to the minute. Each new phase of criminal science is absorbed and developed by him. In this story he finds a drug, originated and perfected in Mexico and only learned of by our police after refugees began to hasten across the border. Its effect facilitates the designs of a group of Mexicans to extract a fortune from a terrified woman.
"HELLO, Garrick—you couldn't have dropped in at a more opportune moment. Are you busy this evening?"
"Not especially," replied Garrick to the cordial greeting of John Burke, house detective at the Vanderveer Hotel. "I just came in for a chat with you. Why, what's the matter? Is there a round-up of hotel beats or is it 'con' men?"
"Neither," answered Burke, drawing the young detective quietly into an angle down the corridor from the hotel office. "You've heard of the beautiful Señora Castillo, I suppose?"
"Well, I understand that she was among the wealthy Mexican refugees staying here."
"Yes. We're having no end of trouble these days with them—plots and counterplots. They are masters at intrigue. Why, Garrick, you have no idea of what is going on under the apparently peaceful surface right here in our own city. But there is much more than even I know or can tell you."
"Indeed?" said Garrick. recalling the house man to his starting point. "But what about the Señora?"
"You know," slowly replied Burke, "she is a very beautiful woman."
"Which is no crime," smiled Garrick.
"Quite the contrary," smiled back Burke. "You see, it's this way. Lately I've been noticing her and she seems to have a lot of annoyers—admirers, I suppose they would call themselves. Why, whenever she appears downstairs there always seems to be some one staring at her. Until recently I don't think she paid much attention to any of them. At least, she didn't seem to."
"Rather a ticklish situation to deal with without putting your foot in it," commented Garrick.
"That's it," agreed Burke. "Now yesterday, one of them who looks like a Mexican called and sent his card up with something written on it in Spanish. The lady got away with the card before I knew anything about it, but I don't imagine it would have told us anything, for these people are too cautious for that. However, it had its effect. She saw the man in the parlor—a Señor Morelos, according to the page's recollection of the name on the card. Of course, I don't know what it was all about, but they seemed to be on friendly terms, although, when my attention was called to it, I could imagine that the Señora was nervous—and at least a little bit frightened. She didn't seem to regard him as an admirer."
"Has the fellow been around again?" asked Garrick.
"Yes. Not half an hour ago he sauntered into the café. I happened to catch sight of him and watched him for a few moments as he sat in a booth sipping a drink and poring over a piece of paper. He seemed to be in some perplexity, for finally he seemed to make up his mind about something. He tore up the paper into little pieces, threw part of them into the cuspidor and scattered the rest as he walked out into the corridor."
"Did you get the bits of paper?" asked Garrick quizzically.
"Yes, and I have pasted them together as well as I can. They seem to be a telegraphic message in a cipher. But I can't make anything out of it."
Burke spread out a sheet of paper on which he had carefully fitted together the yellow pieces of the telegram as if he had been playing with a jig-saw puzzle. Garrick scanned the reconstructed message keenly. From the date it had evidently been delayed in transmission. It was dated at El Paso, Texas, and read:
YEAOME & IESU ANL NRSEM ESDY NUCET SEYU EPNR SEUCND WUEVIC VOLLIT SNR
It was unsigned, and there was no clue to the sender, although it bore the address of Morelos, the Mexican-American Tea Room. New York.
Garrick had quickly written the message out again, reversed, and was reading it slowly.
RNS TILLOV CIVEUW DNCUES RNPE UYES TECUN YDSE MESRN LNA USEI & EMOAEY
"There are ten E's," he ruminated, tapping them off quickly with a pencil. "At first sight it looks as if E must really stand for E. It is always the letter most commonly used and here it is the most frequent."
Burke was waiting impatiently. "It will take time to puzzle the thing out," he broke in at length.
"Has the Señora made any complaint?" asked Garrick.
"N-no. To tell the truth I don't believe she would dare to complain, anyhow. You don't know how secretive some of these people are. They distrust us, even as allies. It's all very strange, and perhaps I'm wrong, but I fancy that during the past day or so, there has been a change in her." He paused.
"Where is Señor Castillo?" asked Garrick.
"Just the point," put in Burke. "I believe that he remained in Mexico and sent his wife up here for safety. There have been rumors in the papers that he has been captured by the bandits of his state. Naturally, you will say, that was enough to have caused a change in the Señora. But there is something else going on here. I wish to heaven I knew what it was."
"They are wealthy, I suppose?"
"Yes. I understand that Jose Castillo is one of the greatest haciendados in the country."
"Perhaps it may be blackmail—or she may be the victim of a get-rich-quick gang."
Burke shook his head. "I can't say," he replied dubiously. "But at any rate we've got to protect the reputation of the Vanderveer and the safety of its guests. I wanted your opinion, so I have taken the time to explain things to you. Now, if you'll come around with me to the Red Room and look in, I'll show you the man."
Burke led the way down the hall in much the manner of a hound eager for the right scent. From the shadow of a curtained door he pointed out to Garrick a couple seated at a table discussing something earnestly in a low tone.
Señora Castillo was really a very beautiful woman, would have been so without the added attraction of the latest Parisian creation which accentuated rather than concealed her exquisite form. From her hair-dress, which breathed of the Rue de la Paix, to the heels of her dainty slippers, she was a charming creature, artificial, it was true, as were many of her countrywomen of the same class, but with an attractiveness because of the very artificiality.
The man was a dark-faced, olive-skinned fellow, military in bearing, straight as an arrow, with a little black imperial and a distinguished shock of bushy dark hair. They were a striking couple.
"It's evident," whispered Garrick, "that he is an ardent admirer, whatever she may think of him."
"That's what I'm afraid of," returned Burke. "Sometimes I fancy she's afraid of him—and then again I think she is secretly flattered by him. She may be leading him a merry chase, playing a difficult game, for all I know, and my interference may mess things up in a serious manner. I give it up. Garrick."
Burke motioned to a waiter who was passing with a tray. A moment later he rejoined Garrick.
"I'm going to give you an example of the secret service I've built up here at the Vanderveer," he whispered with just a trace of pride. "This is the first time I've had a chance to try this on our friend Morelos. Always before he was either alone, or they sat where I couldn't get at them. You see, I want to find out what they are talking about. So I have given Charley his instructions. Now, watch."
Charley, the waiter, hovered about the table of the couple, putting seltzer in the glasses, straightening things on the next table, quick with a match or a spoon when it was needed, doing everything a most obsequious waiter could do to earn a tip—and overhear snatches of conversation.
"That's part of the system I have built up here for the protection of the hotel," commented Burke from their place of concealment. "I can use any employee of the hotel when I want to use him."
From time to time the waiter would glance toward the curtained door, as if waiting for a signal.
Perhaps ten minutes later, Burke crooked a finger and a moment later the waiter joined them, on some pretext, coming by a roundabout way.
"Is there anything to report?" asked Burke eagerly.
"They seem to be talking about a ransom. I heard the man say something about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
Burke gave a low whistle. "A ransom for Castillo!" he cried. "That's it, Garrick. They are negotiating. Did you hear the woman say anything, Charley?"
"No, I couldn't seem to catch what she said. But she seems to be pleading with him."
"The brute!" ejaculated Burke.
"I say, Charley," cut in Garrick, as the waiter passed again with a tray of fresh glasses. "Rub off those glasses carefully. Here, let me do it. Don't touch them. Or better yet—get the captain of the waiters. He can handle them carefully with gloved hands. And that will not excite suspicion, either. When they are through with the glasses, have them brought back here to me. Only tell him to handle them carefully—with gloves and only with the thumb and forefinger."
Several minutes later the empty glasses were in the possession of Garrick.
"Is there anywhere I can take these and not be disturbed?" asked the young detective.
"I have a room of my own—a sort of rogues' gallery—on the roof," smiled Burke. "No one will disturb us there."
"Good. Leave some one here to watch them and tip off Charley to keep his ears open still."
Up in Burke's room on the top floor, Garrick took the glasses and deftly shook over them some ordinary talcum powder which one of the bell-hops brought him. Lightly he blew the powder off with a few gentle puffs of his breath.
There on the smooth crystal surface, clear and distinct, came out a series of finger prints.
"Not as good as I could wish," he remarked thoughtfully, regarding the smudges on the glass. "But we'll have to do our best."
Hastily he ran over them, endeavoring to arrange them in their correct sequence. He was doing an elaborate calculation with figures on a piece of paper.
"Police headquarters—bureau of identification?" asked Garrick over the telephone, a few minutes later when he had finished his calculation. "Hello, Captain—this is Garrick. First rate—how are you? Have a pencil handy? Well, take this. Twenty-seven over twenty-nine. Yes. Here's the rest of it. I can't be sure. They are very poor prints. But if you'll look up what you have in the files, I'll be eternally in your debt. Call me at the Vanderveer—ask for the house man, Burke."
"Good idea, Garrick," complimented Burke as the receiver dropped back on its hook.
"Good if it works out," replied Garrick. "The bureau of identification is pretty clever, sometimes, on a very slender clue. I hope I've made the calculation correctly. It's pretty complicated, but if you give all the loops, whorls, arches and composites their proper arbitrary numerical value, it's certain, even though it does seem like a lot of gibberish when expressed in numbers."
Garrick had spread out the cipher message again.
"As long as your man downstairs is watching them, we may as well try to figure this out," he remarked.
For a long time he studied over the thing, trying all sorts of combinations and using every method he could think of in order to unravel the mystery it contained.
"Of course," he said, half to himself, "almost any cipher is readable, if you go at the thing scientifically. But I want to get at it quickly."
He was studying the message, as he had reversed it. Suddenly his face lighted up.
"I think I have it," he cried, "without all the elaborate calculation I had feared. Take those last letters, EMOAEY. It suggests to me MONEY—that is what they are after. The E probably was added from the previous word. If it is EMONEY that gives us A equals N. E equals E, of course, and the other letters are the same in both the cipher and the original, M equals M, O equals O. and Y equals Y."
"Humph!" exclaimed Burke, "that's too simple."
"It's not so simple, at that," urged Garrick. "But a little scientific common sense goes a long way in this business, Burke. The two things that interested them were money and Castillo. Well, take that first word RNS TILLOY. The letters STILLO suggest something. If R equals C and N equals A, then the other letters remain the same. S equals S, T equals T. I equals I. and L equals L. This is luck. Let me see how it works out."
Garrick was thoughtfully tapping on the table with the pencil, mentally trying to fit in what he had discovered with what had so far been hidden.
An idea seemed to flash over him all at once. He wrote the message out in the dots and dashes of the Morse alphabet without any abbreviations. To Burke it meant nothing. But Garrick ran his eye over it again, then paused a moment and began tapping with the pencil.
"By George, that's it, Burke," he cried excitedly. "Listen. I am tapping it out."
Clearly clicked out the letters of the original message:
YEAOME & IESU ANL NRSEM ESDY NUCET SEYU EPNR SEUCND WUEVIC VOLLIT SNR
"Now," he cried. "I reverse it."
Instead of the meaningless collection of letters, when it was reversed, the dots and dashes actually made words, some letters, which were formed by symmetrical combinations of dots and dashes, being the same, others formed by reversed combinations, being transposed.
The message read:
CASTILLO BRIBED GUARD, ESCAPED YESTERDAY. USE MESCAL AND SEIZE MONEY.
"Use mescal and seize money," repeated Burke, looking blankly at Garrick. "'Mescal'—that's that Mexican brandy."
Garrick was palpably excited by his discovery. "No—not the brandy. I don't believe that is what is meant. No, there is another thing of the same name, not a drink at all. It is called the mescal button, the peyote bean, and has powerful qualities as a stimulant. Castillo's estate was in the northern part of Mexico. That is where the mescal bean grows. Castillo has escaped."
"But the money," interrupted Burke. "What money?"
The telephone rang. Garrick answered it quickly.
"Police headquarters," he explained as he replaced the receiver. "They have something on 27 over 29—which means really the twenty-seventh division of the twenty-ninth row, as they classify finger prints, theoretically in thirty-two rows of thirty-two pigeon-holes each. There was just enough in those prints I took so that they didn't have to hunt through many files. But in one file they tell me they found prints which correspond to the combination I gave them. They are of a man named Santos, arrested first in 1911 for a minor offense and released, but now under indictment by the Federal grand jury for counterfeiting Mexican paper money in this country. Your friend Morelos is really Santos, without doubt."
Garrick and Burke were whisked down to the main floor to find out how matters progressed there.
Almost at the elevator door they were met by the waiter. Charley, in his excitement violating all the rules of the hotel.
"They have just gone out," he exclaimed.
"Together?" asked Burke.
"Yes, sir, and your man is shadowing them. He spoke to me as he followed them out, sir, and told me to tell you he'd hang on until he could get a chance to call you up."
"I suppose there's nothing to do until we hear from him," remarked Burke, impatiently. "He's a good man—perhaps he can shadow them better than even I could, for I'm never sure but that some of these people know me. They wouldn't be likely to know him. for even most of the servants here don't know who is working for me."
In spite of the fact that it would in all probability be only a matter of minutes before they heard from Burke's shadow. Garrick could scarcely restrain his impatience. Charley had faithfully hovered about the pair, but had overheard nothing except a couple of references to some apparently mutual friends, among them a Señora Mendez.
At last the telephone switchboard operator motioned to Burke, who was standing near the cigar counter, trying to look unperturbed. A moment later he emerged perspiring from the booth and rejoined Garrick.
"Where are they?" demanded Garrick.
"My man has shadowed them to the Mexican-American Tea Room."
"The place to which Morelos, or Santos, whoever he is, had his message delivered," exclaimed Garrick. "Where is it?"
"Scarcely around the corner. He shadowed them there, but did not go in because he wanted to be able to telephone us. He is watching across the street from a drug store."
"Do you know anything of the place, Burke?"
"Only that it is frequented largely by Mexicans in the city who want to discuss affairs in their native land to the accompaniment of dishes hot with assorted peppers."
"Burke," exclaimed Garrick under his breath, "I'll wager she is going to arrange to pay that ransom. We must follow her."
"They are a desperate people," remarked Burke slowly. "They will stop at nothing if they think you are interfering in their game."
"I'm ready for that," replied Garrick, who had been running the situation over hastily in his head. "Get me my office," he added to the telephone girl. "I think we can trust your man to watch them just a bit longer, since he has been so successful so far."
Garrick had scarcely finished describing a peculiar apparatus which he wanted one of his men to send up to the Vanderveer immediately and rejoined Burke at the cigar counter, when Burke laid his hand cautiously on his arm.
"Don't look around yet," whispered the house detective, "but after a minute, step over and light a cigarette. Then notice that Mexican standing at the desk, near the house 'phone."
Garrick did so. The Mexican was a swarthy man of medium height, good looking, and would have been inconspicuous, if it had not been that he had a peculiar sidelong glance from his dark eyes, as if he would watch without being watched or seeming to watch.
"I didn't hear whom he asked for," continued Burke, as Garrick rejoined him puffing vigorously, "but the clerk repeated the number of the room in such a way that I could hear it. It was the Señora's number."
"The plot is thickening," remarked Garrick, careful not to look at the newcomer, for the first rule in watching anyone is never to let the watched catch the eye of the watcher.
"Your young man is here," whispered the telephone girl to Garrick a few minutes later.
"Very well. Send him up to Mr. Burke's room. Burke, I want you to come up there again with me. Meanwhile, have some one else tail that man at—there he goes now. You'll have to do it yourself. Call me up here, as soon as you get an opportunity. If I'm not here I'll leave word what to do."
Quickly Garrick rode up again to Burke's little office on the top floor, where his boy had left a box which was quite small, including a dry battery. In the office he set it up on an ordinary tripod, much as if it had been the camera of a traveling photographer. Inside, however, was a small tantalum incandescent lamp, of peculiar shape and arranged so that it glowed from the current of the battery. Quickly adjusting the thing, he attached to it a sort of headpiece, then with a last look to he sure that everything was all right, he picked up a similar smaller instrument, and placed it under his coat, stuffing out the pocket on the opposite side to make it look as symmetrical as he could.
At the desk he hastily scrawled a note telling Burke that he was going around to the Tea Room and would call up before taking any further steps. He had scarcely turned the corner below the Vanderveer when he ran almost plumb into Burke himself.
"What's the matter?" asked Garrick. looking about at the deserted street and seeing no mysterious stranger. "Did you lose him?"
"No. He went around to that confounded tea room and went in. I thought there was no use in my staying there, too. and as it was only a step around here. I thought I'd come back to tell you. What shall we do?"
Burke had fallen into Garrick's stride as he lounged along, much like a sightseer to whom the night life of even a side street was interesting.
"What did the fellow who was watching the place say? Has she gone yet?"
"The Señora? No. But he seems much excited. There seems to be some kind of entertainment going on there, he says. I followed our mysterious friend around there and watched him go in."
"I think I'll just about sit in and belong—make it a regular party." laughed back Garrick.
"I'd go with you," answered Burke promptly, "only I'm afraid some of them know me. I'd be a hindrance rather than a help."
"No, I don't want you to go with me," answered Garrick quickly. "Two of us would excite twice as much suspicion as one lone sightseer looking for excitement."
Garrick paused on the corner. Down the street, Burke's shadow could be seen hanging nonchalantly about in a dim, unlighted part of the block.
"That wont do, either," remarked Garrick. "Some one is going to spot that man. I'm going into that tea room, and as soon as I do, I want you to withdraw him and go back to your office. You'll find that I have arranged a little surprise up there for you. In the middle of the floor there is something that looks very much like a camera on a tripod, except that instead of a black cloth to throw over your head there is a head-piece that fits over your ears. There are other exceptions, too—but if you'll just get back there and get that headgear on, and keep it on—well, I think you will learn something to your advantage soon. I may depend on you, Burke?"
"Absolutely, Garrick," replied Burke, as the two parted.
A minute later Garrick sauntered into the little Mexican tea room and curio shop. It was an old, three-story, brownstone house which had been altered with the uptown shift of trade, and now in the basement had the appearance of a cheap restaurant.
In spite of the fact that both Burke and his shadow had seen several people enter, the basement with its lines of white-linened tables was deserted.
Garrick paused. Now and then sounds indicated that upstairs, at least, there were guests, perhaps in private dining-rooms away from the interruptions of the common herd of customers who might drop in. A single waitress in the rear was reading a newspaper, the motion of her lips as she followed the words showing that she was none too familiar with that diversion.
As Garrick entered she rose and advanced toward him. She was small and copper-colored, evidently of the Mexican Indian type.
"I would like to see the—er—proprietor," he asked, repeating the question in as good Spanish as he could improvise.
"Señora Mendez?" queried the girl.
"Yes," he answered. "Is the Señora in?"
"I will see."
Her manner was half sullen, but Garrick was determined not to be frustrated until he had exhausted every means of finding out what was afoot, now that he had got so far.
Señora Mendez, who returned with the girl, from the mysterious region above stairs, was of quite a different type from that which Garrick had imagined. For one thing, he could not help noticing her languishing black eyes, which might in her younger days well have belonged to a Spanish dancing girl. Yet at the same time there was something shrewd and sharp about them, as if the owner had an eye to the main chance, whether it were a business deal or a romance.
Garrick bowed low. "I am going to give a dinner to some friends of mine, mostly Englishmen, who are interested in Mexico," he explained glibly. "I've heard a great deal of your cooking here, Señora, of your chiles and tortillas and frijoles. It isn't an ordinary dinner, I want, either. I expect to interest some of the people in a mine down there which I control. I am sure that you can give a Mexican tinge to the dinner—and I'll engage that it wont be any cheap affair."
The Señora had been watching him narrowly. Somehow or other he felt that he had made an impression.
"I should want a private dining-room that would seat about a dozen—comfortably," he added.
"I think we can accommodate you," replied the Señora, evidently struck by Garrick's positive assurance that it was "no cheap affair."
"Might I see the room?" he ventured.
She hesitated and eyed him sharply.
"You see I thought of this in preference to one of the big hotels because I want the dinner to be both good and appropriate to the occasion," he flattered.
"My largest private room is occupied by a party to-night," she replied.
"Aren't there any others?"
"Yes, only I am afraid they are too small."
"Still, I might get some idea of how the large one is fitted up, might I not?" persisted Garrick.
She was apparently considering. Here evidently was an American who wanted to rope his friends into some scheme and no doubt was more than ready to pay handsomely for any glamour that might be thrown around it to make it seem truly Mexican.
"I will show you one that is not as handsomely decorated as the big one," she agreed at length. "You understand we not only have this tea room and restaurant, but we also sell Mexican curios. All the decorations here are for sale."
"And very interesting they are, too," complimented Garrick, this time with genuine interest in the beautiful examples of Mexican weaving, of pottery, of art work, to say nothing of some treasures that would have delighted an archeologist.
Señora Mendez led the way upstairs, disclosing, in fact, several rooms. As they passed the door of one. a servant opened it. bearing a tray of little cups with a pungent, steaming liquid. Just for a moment Garrick caught a glimpse of the party inside. There were several ladies and gentlemen, all smoking the inevitable little cigarettes. One face, however, caught and held his attention. It was that of Señora Castillo. Beside her sat her dark-haired visitor at the Vanderveer. There was only time for a glance, but Garrick recognized none of the others—certainly there was no one who looked like the latest visitor at the hotel, he of the furtive glance.
Señora Mendez closed the door herself, with a little exclamation of vexation, then ushered Garrick into a smaller room down the hall.
On a piano in the larger room someone was playing a peculiar rhythmic composition with a curious thread of monotonous melody running through it, like the timeful beat of a drum.
"That is a strange piece of music," remarked Garrick, gazing about the room with an interest he did not have to feign.
"Yes, it is a song of the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico which has been set to music for the piano by one of the guests of the party. You catch the monotonous beat of the tom-toms in it?"
Garrick nodded. "Oh indeed," he remarked. "I think I have heard of it before. I believe that the Indians play it when under the influence of mescal."
Señora Mendez's dark eyes were more languishing than ever. Indeed the pupils looked as if they were expanded by a dose of belladonna. As Garrick caught her glance he realized that she was least partly under the influence of mescal.
He was not slow to take advantage of the knowledge. He knew that there was a sense of elation, of superiority that came to mescal users, and he determined on a bold stroke, to flatter her.
As she displayed the room, not without a touch of pride, he complimented her, adding quickly: "But, Señora. it is not only the room that is attractive. You Mexicans have a phrase, 'muy simpatica,' which, as I understand it literally mean 'very sympathetic' but really cannot be done justice to in English. I think it means that charming characteristic of personal attractiveness, the result of a sweet disposition. Anyhow, it may truly he said to fit the mistress of this house. You are muy simpatica."
Señora Mendez smiled graciously. "I am glad you like the place," she replied, "and I am sure that we shall be able to fix up the large dining room so that it will more than delight your guests."
The rhythmic beat of the music down the hall continued. Garrick seemed to catch the spirit of it.
"I should like to try mescal—once," he ventured. "What is it?"
"A shrub—a religion," she answered dreamily.
"Religion?" he repeated.
"Yes. The mescal cult has spread widely in the states along the Mexican border, and even now and then into more northern states. Your government has forbidden the importation of the plant."
"Is it anything like the drinks called pulque and mescal?" he ventured again.
"No indeed. They are common things. Mescal itself is really the tip of a little cactus plant which rises only half an inch or so from the ground. It grows in the rocky soil in many places in the state of Jalisco. The Indians when they go out to gather it simply lop off the little ends as they peep above the earth, dry them, keep what they wish for their own use. and sell the rest for what is to them a fabulous sum. Some people chew the buttons; others make them into a sort of tea or infusion, though that is not common."
"I should like to try it," repeated Garrick.
The Señora pushed an electric bell and a servant appeared. A few moments later she returned with a tray of the little mescal buttons, curious round disc-like things—about an inch in diameter and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick.
Señora Mendez took a button, pared off the fuzzy tuft of hairs on the top. rolled it into a pellet. placed it in her mouth and began to chew it slowly, with closed eyes.
Garrick did the same, carefully. The pungent taste told him that it was the same as the odor he had observed from the steaming cups that the servant had been carrying during his momentary glimpse into the larger room.
He felt a sense of physical energy and intellectual power, which soon, however, wore off. Then followed a display of images and colors, a confused riot like a kaleidoscope. The lights in the room became as steady and bright as the sun, only surrounded by the prismatic colors, blazing with glory as if they shone on sands of diamond dust. The ornaments, strange Mexican gods and objects of art, seemed to take on a glory that was almost supernatural until it was no longer any wonder to Garrick that in the untutored minds of the half savages the mescal button should have produced something like a religion. At the same time the strains of the curious Indian song floated in through the open door, down the hallway, apparently controlling the visions. The senses of hearing and sight were intoxicated.
The servant returned, clothed this time in a sort of halo of light and color, every fold of her dress radiating the most delicate tones. She whispered a word to the Señora, who quickly rose and excused herself. As she left, she seemed rather to float over the carpet than to walk.
Garrick had been waiting for just such an opportunity. Here he was, alone in the room. He had been careful not to take too much of the drug, and, for a moment as he heard the footsteps retreating, he threw open the window and breathed in the pure fresh outside air in gulps to clear his head.
Outside his door all was now quiet, except the sounds down the hall. What were they doing? He tiptoed silently along, fearful lest a loose board might betray him.
As he went he looked about into each of the little rooms. All seemed to be empty. Nowhere was there anyone who answered the description of the mysterious stranger.
He paused for a moment at the door. Inside, the group were discussing in low tones the fortunes of the war that was raging in their homeland. From the tone of her voice, which he recognized now and then, it was evident that Señora Castillo was far from being reassured that all would be well with her husband. She was evidently suffering a distress that even the reassurances of the entire party could not allay.
Further down the hall Garrick heard other voices, of a man and a woman. There was something familiar about them, and he crept along further.
Although he was not quite familiar enough to recognize the muffled voices, he could at least catch a word now and then.
"Where is the money?" he heard one of them ask.
"In a safety deposit vault downtown."
"Then we must get the key—and a power of attorney from her to open it."
"I have tried."
"Then keep on—you must."
There was a movement in the room as though the two were coming out again. Quickly Garrick retreated.
As he passed the door of the large dining-room he heard a voice say, "But even if I had the money here—in gold—what guarantee would I have that José would be released?"
He paused. It was evident what they were doing. They were getting the beautiful Señora Castillo more and more under the influence of the drug, weakening her reasoning powers, playing on her feelings—anything, to get the key to the safety deposit vault, or even to get her to agree to open it herself and hand out to them the coveted gold.
Should he warn her?
Only a moment's thought was needed to reject that thought. A warning might prove more dangerous now than an open alarm.
Quickly he retraced his steps to the little room from which he had come, determined to act in a slower but perhaps more effective way.
Voices down the hall caused Garrick to turn suddenly. He had delayed too long. It was impossible now to get back into the room without being seen.
"You—you are a spy!" cried Señora Mendez, catching sight of him.
Retreat was cut off.
Garrick could almost feel the fiery animosity which now snapped from the eyes of the Señora, who but a few moments ago had been talking with him so graciously.
A gruff voice whispered something and suddenly the lights in the hall were extinguished. He caught the word "incommunicado."
There was a rush, a sharp fight in the narrow passageway. Garrick could not see his assailants, nor had he any idea who they were save by the sounds which told him that he was hopelessly outnumbered.
He felt himself unceremoniously shoved along. They had come to a flight of stairs. As if by force of two or three men, he was slowly forced up, fighting every step.
At last a door seemed to open and with an irresistible impulse he was catapulted through.
Garrick was cornered. Here he was locked in a room apparently without window, a closet on the walls of which he might beat without effect, where even his voice was muffled and swallowed up. He heard them pile something against the door, which otherwise he might have battered down in time. He was unable to get out and give the alarm, unable to use the knowledge which he had so daringly risked his life to acquire.
What might not happen to the beautiful Señora at any moment now that they knew they had been watched, followed even to the very door of the little private dining-room?
He was bleeding profusely from a cut over his eye, but in the Cimmerian darkness that made no difference. Sight was useless here. His coat was torn, but he breathed a sigh of relief as he unslung the apparatus which he carried under his coat and found that it was practically unharmed. Quickly he worked, doing in seconds what otherwise might have taken minutes.
The tripod on which he would have set up his camera-like affair was broken, but he managed to patch it together.
"I'm locked in a sort of closet on the third floor of the Tea Room," he fairly shouted. "They are planning to get the Señora thoroughly under the influence of mescal and then—"
A groan sounded in the darkness beside him.
"My wife!"
Garrick drew back, startled.
What was the voice in the darkness? He blinked into the shadows but could see nothing. Suddenly a hand seemed to clutch his arm, sending shivers over him at its cold, clammy unexpectedness. A man. much more badly wounded than he, staggered at him from the floor, to which he had sunk in a half conscious stupor.
"Tell me—are they—is my wife—"
He stammered and would have fallen if Garrick had not caught him. In a moment he seemed intuitively to piece together the fragments of the scattered events of the evening, as Burke had pieced together the cipher.
"Castillo—you are Castillo," cried Garrick. "You came to the hotel tonight. In some way you found out that the Señora was here. You followed."
"Yes. I managed to bribe a guard of the bandits after I was captured and to reach the border in a load of fruit. I swam the river. Everywhere I went I seemed to be surrounded by enemies. I made up my mind to travel here as fast as I could without being recognized. Then I went to the hotel to find my wife. They told me she had gone. I did not give my name, but from the description I recognized that it was with Santos—curse his soul—a vagabond in the old days, whom I would have not soiled by hands with. I knew that he often came here. I had heard the bandits say so. But no sooner had I entered and demanded to see the Señora than they seized me and threw me in this room. And you—who are you?"
"A detective—working in the interest of your wife, though she does not know it," replied Garrick tersely, still fumbling with the apparatus he had set up.
Castillo, weakened though he was, beat upon the door in a frenzy. There was not even an echo from the barricade outside, not even a mocking laugh. It was maddening. He groaned and sank on the floor exhausted. What difference did it make if they were discovered and released sooner or later, if all the police in the great city were alarmed hours hence? Now was the time for action, now when even at that very moment the Señora was being drugged. Once in possession of the key, once having worked on her feelings to the breaking point, the wealth that the Castillos had saved from the wreck of their fortunes would amply repay the gang for all that they might lose here by flight.
Castillo turned to Garrick in despair.
"Hurry!" cried Garrick. "Get them before they can get away. Then release us. You will need a doctor, too. for the Señora. They have plied her with the stuff to a dangerous point. Only hurry—hurry!"
"What are you doing?" moaned Castillo. "Are you crazy? Are you talking to yourself or," he added in a tense whisper, "to God?"
"Listen—Castillo." cried Garrick. almost beside himself with excitement. "You see this thing I have here. It is a new form of wireless telephone. The other end of it I have set up on the top of the Vanderveer, where there is the least interference."
It was indeed a miracle that Garrick seemed to be asking. Through the seemingly impenetrable walls of brick and stone he had actually been talking to Burke.
Would it work? Garrick had reduced the sending apparatus which he carried with him to a minimum so that it could be more easily concealed. Beyond the fact that it had worked before he knew nothing.
The minutes seemed to lengthen into hours, as he waited.
Suddenly there was the sound of the vicious knocking down of whatever it was that had been used to barricade the door. Was it help—or was it their infuriated captors, ready now to wreak the cruel vengeance for which their race was so often noted?
The door crashed in and Garrick felt himself seized.
"Thank God! Man, but you took an awful chance," panted Burke, literally carrying him downstairs in his joy at finding him in no worse plight than he was.
Castillo staggered up and past them, stumbling, groping, falling down the steps.
He sank half-fainting at the feet of the Señora, to whom the Vanderveer house physician was applying such restoratives as the unusual character of the case suggested.
In the background a burly policeman was holding the discomfited Santos.
"It's no crime to give a private dinner party and have a little mescal," he was protesting. "Perhaps you do not realize that I am Morelos—the representative in the United States of the provisional government of—"
"Morelos?" cut in Garrick contemptuously. "You may call yourself Morelos, the soldier of fortune, but the infallible finger-print calls you Santos—swindler and counterfeiter."
Castillo had turned at the sound of voices. The look of enmity on his face as he caught sight of Santos was terrible.
"You may be thankful, Santos," ground out Garrick, "that I am going to put two prison walls between you and that man—one for each offense."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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