The Treasure-Train Part 26

It was rather a large contract. If the story had reached the newspaper stage, I should have known how to go about it. For there is no detective agency in the world like the Star, and even on the slender basis that we had, with a flock of reporters deployed at every point in the city, with telephones, wires, and cables busily engaged, I might have gathered priceless information in a few hours. But, as it was, whatever was to be got must be got by me alone.

I found Teresa de Leon registered at the Pan-America, as Craig had surmised. Such inquiries as I was able to make about the hotel did not show a trace of reason for believing that Jose Barrios had been numbered among her visitors. While that proved nothing as to the relations of the two, it was at least rea.s.suring as far as Anitra and Eulalie were concerned, and, after all, as in such cases, this was their story.

Not having been able to learn much about the lady, I decided finally to send up my card, and to my satisfaction she sent back word that she would receive me in the parlor of the hotel.

Teresa de Leon proved to be a really striking type of Latin-American beauty. She was no longer young, but there was an elusiveness about her personality that made a more fascinating study than youth. I felt that with such a woman directness might be more of a surprise than subtlety.

"I suppose you know that Senor Barrios is very seriously ill?" I ventured, in answer to her inquiring gaze that played from my card to my face.

For a fleeting instant she looked startled. Yet she betrayed nothing as to whether it was fear or surprise.

"I have called his office several times," she replied, "but no one answered. Even Senor Sandoval was not there."

I felt that she was countering as cleverly as I might lead. "Then you know Mr. Sandoval also?" I asked, adding, "and Mr. Page?"

"I have known Senor Barrios a long time in Cuba," she answered, "and the others, too--here."

There was something evasive about her answers. She was trying to say neither too much nor too little. She left one in doubt whether she was trying to shield herself or to involve another. Though we chatted several minutes, I could gain nothing that would lead me to judge how intimately she knew Barrios. Except that she knew Sandoval and Page, her conversation might have been a replica of the letters we had discovered. Even when she hinted politely, but finally, that the talk was over she left me in doubt even whether she was an adventuress. The woman was an enigma. Had revenge or jealousy brought her to New York, or was she merely a tool in the hands of another?

I was not ready to return to Kennedy merely with another unanswered question, and I determined to stop again at the hotel where Barrios and his sister lived, in the hope of picking up something there.

The clerk at the desk told me that no one had called since we had been there, adding: "Except the tall gentleman, who came back. I think Senorita Barrios came down and met him in the tea-room."

Wondering whether it was Page or Sandoval the clerk meant, I sauntered down the corridor past the door of the tea-room. It was Page with whom Anitra was talking. There was no way in which I could hear what was said, although Page was very earnest and Anitra showed plainly that she was anxious to return to the sick-room up-stairs.

As I watched, I took good care that I should not be seen. It was well that I did, for once when I looked about I saw that some one else in another doorway was watching them, too, so intently that he did not see me. It was Sandoval. Jealousy of Page was written in every line of his face.

Studying the three, while I could not escape the rivalry of the two men, I was unable to see now or recollect anything that had happened which would convey even an inkling of her feelings toward them. Yet I was convinced that that way lay a problem quite as important as relations between the other triangle of Eulalie, Teresa, and Barrios. I was not psychologist enough to deal with either triangle. There was something that distinctly called for the higher mathematics of Kennedy.

Determined not to return to him entirely empty-mouthed, I thought it would be a good opportunity to see Eulalie alone, and hurried to the elevator, which whisked me up to the Barrios apartment.

Doctor Scott had not left his patient, though he seemed to realize that Eulalie was a most efficient nurse.

"No change," whispered the doctor, "except that he is reaching a crisis."

Interested as I was in the patient, it had been for the purpose of seeing Eulalie that I had come, and I was glad when Doctor Scott left us a moment.

"Has Mr. Kennedy found out anything yet?" she asked, in a tremulous whisper.

"I think he is on the right track now," I encouraged. "Has anything happened here? Remember--it is quite as important that you should tell him all as it is for him to tell you."

She looked at me a moment, then drew from a fold of her waist a yellow paper. It was a telegram. I took it and read:

Beware of Teresa de Leon, Hotel Pan-America.

A FRIEND.

"You know her?" I asked, folding the telegram, but not returning it.

Eulalie looked at me frankly and shook her head. "I have no idea who she is."

"Or of who sent the telegram?"

"None at all."

"When did you receive it?"

"Only a few minutes ago."

Here was another mystery. Who had sent the anonymous telegram to Eulalie so soon after it had been evident that Kennedy had entered the case? What was its purpose?

"I may keep this?" I asked, indicating the telegram.

"I was about to send it to Professor Kennedy," she replied. "Oh, I hope he will find something Won't you go to him and tell him to hurry?"

I needed no urging, not only for her sake, but also because I did not wish to be seen or to have the receipt of the telegram by Kennedy known so soon.

In the hotel I stopped only long enough to see that Anitra was now hurrying toward the elevator, eager to get back to her brother and oblivious to every one around. What had become of Page and the sinister watcher whom he had not seen I did not know, nor did I have time to find out.

A few moments later I rejoined Kennedy at the laboratory. He was still immersed in work, and, scarcely stopping, nodded to me to tell what I had discovered. He listened with interest until I came to the receipt of the anonymous telegram.

"Did you get it?" he asked, eagerly.

He almost seized it from my hands as I pulled it out of my pocket and studied it intently.

"Strange," he muttered. "Any of them might have sent it."

"Have you discovered anything?" I asked, for I had been watching him, consumed by curiosity, as I told my story. "Do you know yet how the thing was done?"

"I think I do," he replied, abstractedly.

"How was it?" I prompted, for his mind was now on the telegram.

"A poison-gas pistol," he resumed, coming back to the work he had just been doing. "Instead of bullets, this pistol used cartridges charged with some deadly powder. It might have been something like the anesthetic pistol devised by the police authorities in Paris some years ago when the motor bandits were operating."

"But who could have used it?" I asked.

Kennedy did not answer directly. Either he was not quite sure yet or did not feel that the time was ripe to hazard a theory. "In this case,"

he continued, after a moment's thought, "I shouldn't be surprised if even the wielder of the pistol probably wore a mask, doubly effective, for disguise and to protect the wielder from the fumes that were to overcome the victim."

"You have no idea who it was?" I reiterated.

Before Kennedy could answer there came a violent ring at the laboratory bell, and I hurried to the door. It was one of the bell-boys from the hotel where the Barrioses had their apartment, with a message for Kennedy.

Craig tore it open and read it hurriedly. "From Doctor Scott," he said, briefly, in answer to my anxious query. "Barrios is dead."

Even though I had been prepared for the news by my last visit, death came as a shock, as it always does. I had felt all along that Kennedy had been called in too late to do anything to save Barrios, but I had been hoping against hope. But I knew that it was not too late to catch the criminal who had done the dastardly, heartless deed. A few hours and perhaps all clues might have been covered up. But there is always something that goes wrong with crime, always some point where murder cannot be covered up. I think if people could only be got to realize it, as my experience both on the Star and with Kennedy have impressed it on me, murder would become a lost art.

Without another word Kennedy seized his hat and together we hurried to the hotel.