XXII
THE VANISHER
It was Juanita, Inez Mendoza's maid, frantic and almost speechless.
"Why, Juanita," encouraged Kennedy, "what's the matter?"
"The Senorita!" she gasped, breaking down now and sobbing over and overagain. "The Senorita!"
"Yes, yes," repeated Kennedy, "but what about her? Is there anythingwrong?"
"Oh, Mr. Kennedy," sobbed the poor girl, "I don't know. She is gone. Ihave had no word from her since this afternoon."
"Gone!" we exclaimed together. "Where was Burke--that man that thepolice sent up to protect her?"
"He is gone, too--now," replied Juanita in her best English, sadlybroken by the excitement.
Kennedy and I looked at each other aghast. This was the hardest blow ofall. We had thought that, at least, Inez would be safe with a man likeBurke, whom we could trust, detailed to watch her.
"Tell me," urged Kennedy, "how did it happen? Did they carry heroff--as they tried to do the other time?"
"No, no," sobbed Juanita. "I do not know. I do not know even whethershe is gone. She went out this afternoon for a little walk. But she didnot come back. After it grew dark, I was frightened. I remembered thatyou were here and called up, but you were out. Then I saw thatpoliceman. I told him. He has others working with him now. But I couldnot find you--until now I saw a light here. Oh, my poor, little girl,what has become of her? Where have they taken her? Oh, MADRE DE DIOS,it is terrible!"
Had that been the purpose for which we had been sent on wild-goosechases? Was Inez really kidnapped this time? I knew not what to think.It seemed hardly possible that all of them could have joined in it.
If she were kidnapped, it must have been on the street in broaddaylight. Such things had happened. It would not be the firstdisappearance of the kind.
Quickly Kennedy called up Deputy O'Connor. It was only too true. Burkehad reported that she had disappeared and the police, especially thoseat the stations and ferries and in the suburbs had been notified tolook for her. All this seemed to have taken place in those hours whenthe mysterious telephone calls had sent us on the wrong trail.
Kennedy said nothing, but I could see that he was doing some keenthinking.
Just then the telephone rang again. It was from the man whom we hadleft at the Prince Edward Albert. Senora de Moche had gone out anddriven rapidly to the Grand Central. He had not been able to find outwhat ticket she bought, but the train was just leaving.
Kennedy paced up and down, muttering to himself. "Whitney first--thenLockwood--and Alfonso. The Senora takes a train. Suppose the firstmessage were true? Gas and oil for a trip."
He seized the telephone book and hastily turned the pages over. At lasthis finger rested on a name in the suburban section. I read: "Whitney,Stuart. Res. 174-J Rockledge."
Quickly he gave central the number, then shoved the receiver again intothe telescribe.
"Hello, is Mr. Whitney there?" I heard later as he placed the recordagain in the phonograph for repetition.
"No--who is this?"
"His head clerk. Tell him I must see him. Kennedy has been to theoffice and--"
"Say--get off the line. We had that story once."
"That's it!" exclaimed Craig. "Don't you see--they've all gone up toWhitney's country place. That clerk was faking. He has alreadytelephoned. And listen. Do you see anything peculiar?"
He was running all three records which we had on the telescribe. As hedid so, I saw unmistakably that it was the same voice on all three.Whitney must have had a servant do the telephoning for him.
"Don't fret, Juanita," reassured Kennedy. "We shall find your mistressfor you. She will be all right. You had better go back to the apartmentand wait. Walter look up the next train to Rockledge while I telephoneO'Connor."
We had an hour to wait before the next train left and in the meantimewe drove Juanita back to the Mendoza apartment.
It was a short run to Rockledge by railroad, but it seemed to me thatit took hours. Kennedy sat in silence most of the time, his eyesclosed, as if he were trying to place himself in the position of theothers and figure out what they would do.
At last we arrived, the only passengers to get off at the little oldstation. Which way to turn we had not the slightest idea. We lookedabout. Even the ticket office was closed. It looked as though we mightalmost as well have stayed in New York.
Down the railroad we could see that a great piece of engineering was inprogress, raising the level of the tracks and building a steel viaduct,as well as a new station, and at the same time not interrupting thethrough traffic, which was heavy.
"Surely there must be some one down there," observed Kennedy, as wepicked our way across the steel girders, piles of rails, and aroundhuge machines for mixing concrete.
We came at last to a little construction house, a sort of generalmachine-and work-shop, in which seemed to be everything from a file toa pneumatic riveter.
"Hello!" shouted Craig.
There came a sound from a far corner of a pile of ties and a momentlater a night-watchman advanced suspiciously swinging his lantern.
"Hello yourself," he growled.
"Which way to Stuart Whitney's estate?" asked Craig.
My heart sank as he gave the directions. It seemed miles away.
Just then the blinding lights of a car flashed on us as it came downthe road parallel to the tracks. He waved his light and the carstopped. It was empty, except for a chauffeur evidently returning froma joy ride.
"Take these gentlemen as far as Smith's corner, will you?" asked thewatchman. "Then show 'em the turn up to Whitney's."
The chauffeur was an obliging chap, especially as it cost him nothingto earn a substantial tip with his master's car. However, we were gladenough to ride in anything on wheels, and not over-particular at thathour about the ownership.
"Mr. Whitney hasn't been out here much lately," he volunteered as hesped along the beautiful oiled road, and the lights cast shadows on thetrees that made driving as easy as in daylight.
"No, he has been very busy," returned Craig glad to turn to account theopportunity to talk with a chauffeur, for it is the chauffeur in thecountry who is the purveyor of all knowledge and gossip.
"His car passed us when I was driving up from the city. My boss won'tlet me speed or I wouldn't have taken his dust. Gee, but he does wearout the engines in his cars, Whitney."
"Was he alone?" asked Craig.
"Yes--and then I saw him driving back again when I went down, to thestation for some new shoes we had expressed up. Just a flying trip, Iguess--or does he expect you?"
"I don't think he does," returned Craig truthfully.
"I saw a couple of other cars go up there. House party?"
"Maybe you'd call it that," returned Craig with a twinkle of the eye."Did you see any ladies?"
"No," returned the chauffeur. "Just a man driving his own car andanother with a driver."
"There wasn't a lady with Mr. Whitney?" asked Craig, now rather anxious.
"Neither time."
I saw what he was driving at. The Senora might have got up there in anyfashion without being noticed. But for Inez not to be with Whitney, norwith the two who must evidently have been Lockwood and Alfonso, wasindeed strange. Could it be that we were only half right--that they hadgathered here but that Inez had really disappeared?
The young man set us down at Smith's Corner and it proved to be onlyabout an eighth of a mile up the road and up-hill when Whitney's houseburst in sight, silhouetted against the sky.
There were lights there and it was evident that several people hadgathered for some purpose.
We made our way up the path and paused a moment to look through thewindow before springing the little surprise. There we could seeLockwood, Alfonso, and Senora de Moche, who had arrived, after all andprobably been met at the station by her son. They seemed like anythingbut a happy party. Never on the best of terms, they could not beexpected to be happy. But now, if ever, one would have thought theymig
ht do more than tolerate each other, assuming that some commonpurpose had brought them here.
Kennedy rang the bell and we could see that all looked surprised, forthey had heard no car approach. A servant opened the door and before heknew it, Kennedy had pushed past him, taking no chances at a rebuffafter the experience over the wire.
"Kennedy!" exclaimed Lockwood and Alfonso together.
"Where is Inez Mendoza?" demanded Craig, without returning the greeting.
"Inez?" they repeated blankly.
Kennedy faced them squarely.
"Come, now. Where is she? This is a show-down. You may as well lay yourcards on the table. Where is she--what have you done with her?"
The de Moches looked at Lockwood and he looked at them, but neitherspoke for a moment.
"Walter," ordered Kennedy, "there's the telephone. Get the managingeditor of the Star and tell him where we are. Every newspaper in theUnited States, every police officer in every city will have the story,in twelve hours, if you precious rascals don't come across. There--Igive you until central gets die Star."
"Why--what has happened?" asked Lockwood, who was the first to recoverhis tongue.
"Don't stand there asking me what has happened," cried Kennedyimpatiently. "Tickle that hook again, Walter. You know as well as I dothat you have planned to get Inez Mendoza away from my influence--tokidnap her, in other words--"
"We kidnap her?" gasped Lockwood. "What do you mean, man? I knownothing of this. Is she gone?" He wheeled on the de Moches. "This issome of your work. If anything happens to that girl--there isn't anIndian feud can equal the vengeance I will take!"
Alfonso was absolutely speechless. Senora de Moche started to speak,but Kennedy interrupted her. "That will do from you," he cut short."You have passed beyond the bounds of politeness when you deliberatelywent out of your way to throw me on a wrong trail while some one wasmaking off with a young and innocent girl. You are a woman of theworld. You will take your medicine like a man, too."
I don't think I have ever seen Kennedy in a more towering rage than hewas at that moment.
"When it was only a matter of a paltry poisoned dagger at stake and afortune that may be mythical or may be like that of Croesus, for all Icare, we could play the game according to rules," he exclaimed. "Butwhen you begin to tamper with a life like that of Inez de Mendoza--youhave passed the bounds of all consideration. You have the Star?Telephone the story anyhow. We'll arbitrate afterward."
I think, as I related the facts to my editor, it sobered us all a greatdeal.
"Kennedy," appealed Lockwood at last, as I hung up the receiver, "willyou listen to my story?"
"It is what I am here for," replied Craig grimly.
"Believe it or not, as far as I am concerned," asserted Lockwood, "thisis all news to me. My God--where is she?"
"Then how came you here?" demanded Craig.
"I can speak only for myself," hastened Lockwood. "If you had askedwhere Whitney was, I could have understood, but--"
"Well, where is he?"
"We don't know. Early this afternoon I received a hurried message fromhim--at least I suppose it was from him--that he had the dagger and wasup here. He said--I'll be perfectly frank--he said that he wasarranging a conference at which all of us were to be present to decidewhat to do."
"Meanwhile I was to be kept away at any cost," supplied Kennedysarcastically. "Where did he get it?"
"He didn't say."
"And you didn't care, as long as he had it," added Craig, then, turningto the de Moches, "And what is your tale?"
Senora de Moche did not lose her self-possession for an instant. "Wereceived the same message. When you called, I thought it would be bestfor Alfonso to go alone, so I telephoned and caught him at the garageand when my train arrived here, he was waiting."
"None of you have seen Whitney here?" asked Kennedy, to which allnodded in the negative. "Well, you seem to agree pretty well in yourstories, anyhow. Let me take a chance with the servants."
It is no easy matter to go into another's household and without anyofficial position quiz and expect to get the truth out of the servants.But Kennedy's very wrath seemed to awe them. They answered in spite ofthemselves.
It seemed clear that as far as they went both guests and servants weretelling the truth. Whitney had made the run up from the city earlier inthe afternoon, had stayed only a short time, then had gone back,leaving word that he would be there again before his guests arrived.
They all professed to be as mystified as ourselves now over the outcomeof the whole affair. He had not come back and there had been no wordfrom him.
"One thing is certain," remarked Craig, watching the faces before himas he spoke. "Inez is gone. She has been spirited away without evenleaving a trace. Her maid Juanita told me that. Now if Whitney is gone,too, it looks as if he had planned to double-cross the whole crowd ofyou and leave you safely marooned up here with nothing left but yourcommon hatred of me. Much good may it do you."
Lockwood clenched his fists savagely, not at Kennedy but at the thoughtthat Craig had suggested. His face set itself in tense lines as heswore vengeance on all jointly and severally if any harm came to Inez.I almost forgot my suspicions of him in admiration.
"Nothing like this would ever have happened if she had stayed in Peru,"exclaimed Alfonso bitterly. "Oh, why did her father ever bring her hereto this land of danger?"
The idea seemed novel to me to look on America as a lawless, unculturedcountry, until I reflected on the usual Latin-American opinion of us asbarbarians.
Lockwood frowned but said nothing, for a time. Then he turned suddenlyto the Senora, "You were intimate enough with him," he said. "Did hetell you any more than he told us?"
It was clear that Lockwood felt now that every man's hand was againsthim.
I thought I could discover a suppressed gleam of satisfaction in herwonderful eyes as she answered, "Nothing more. It was only that Icarried out what he asked me."
Could it be that she was taking a subtle delight in the turn ofevents--the working out of a curse on the treasure-secret which thefatal dagger bore? I could not say. But it would not have needed muchsuperstition to convince any one that the curse on the Gold of the Godswas as genuine as any that had ever been uttered, as it heaped up crimeon crime.
We waited in silence, the more hopeless as the singing of the nightinsects italicized our isolation from the organized instruments of manfor the righting of wrong. Here we were, each suspecting the other, inthe home of a man whom all mistrusted.
"There's no use sitting here doing nothing," exclaimed Lockwood inwhose mind was evidently the same thought, "not so long as we have thetelephone and the automobiles."
These, at least, were our last bonds with the great world that hadwrapped a dark night about a darker mystery.
"There are many miles of wire--many miles of road. Which way shall weturn?"
Senora de Moche seemed to take a fiendish delight in the words as shesaid them. It was as though she challenged our helplessness in the faceof a power that was greater than us all.
Lockwood flashed a look of suspicion in her direction. As for myself, Ihad never been able to make the woman out. To-night she seemed like asort of dea ex machina, who sat apart, playing on the passions of agroup of puppet men whom she set against each other until all should beinvolved in a common ruin.
It was impossible, in the silence of this far-off lonely place in thecountry, not to feel the weirdness of it all.
Once I closed my eyes and was startled by the uncanny vividness of amind-picture that came unbidden. It was of a scrap of paper on which,in rough capitals was printed:
BEWARE THE CURSE OF MANSICHE ON THE GOLD OF THE GODS.