The Craig Kennedy Scientific Detective MEGAPACK ®. Brander Matthews
this plot, literally to the hand that directed it.” He paused a moment.
“Yesterday I found that anaerobe cultures were being received by some one in the Belleclaire, and—”
“They were stolen from me. Some one must have got into my office, where I was studying them.” Doctor Gavira had pressed forward earnestly, but Craig did not pause again.
“Who were these agents sent over to wage this secret war at any cost?” he repeated. “One of them, I know now, fell in love with the daughter of the man against whom he was to plot.” Marjorie cast a furtive glance at Fitzhugh.
“Love has saved him. But the other? To whom do these deadly germs point? Who dum-dummed and poisoned the bullet? Whose own fingers, in spite of antiseptics and manicures, point inexorably to a guilty self?”
Rae Melzer could restrain herself no longer. She was looking at the file and brush, as if with a hideous fascination. “They are mine—you took them,” she cried, impulsively. “It was she—always having her nails manicured—she who had been there just before—she—Alma Hillman!”
XI
THE GUN-RUNNER
“With the treaty ratified, if the deal goes through we’ll all be rich.”
Something about the remark which rose over the babel of voices arrested Kennedy’s attention. For one thing, it was a woman’s voice, and it was not the sort of remark to be expected from a woman, at least not in such a place.
Craig had been working pretty hard and began to show the strain. We had taken an evening off and now had dropped in after the theater at the Burridge, one of the most frequented midnight resorts on Broadway.
At the table next to us—and the tables at the Burridge were so close that one almost rubbed elbows with those at the next—sat a party of four, two ladies in evening gowns and two men in immaculate black and white.
“I hope you are right, Leontine,” returned one of the men, with an English accent. “The natural place for the islands is under the American flag, anyway.”
“Yes,” put in the other; “the people have voted for it before. They want it.”
It was at the time that the American and Danish governments were negotiating about the transfer of the Danish West Indies, and quite evidently they were discussing the islands. The last speaker seemed to be a Dane, but the woman with him, evidently his wife, was not. It was a curious group, worth more than a passing glance. For a moment Craig watched them closely.
“That woman in blue,” he whispered, “is a typical promoter.”
I recognized the type which is becoming increasingly frequent in Wall Street as the competition in financial affairs grows keener and women enter business and professional life.
There were plenty of other types in the brilliantly lighted dining-room, and we did not dwell long on the study of our neighbors. A few moments later Kennedy left me and was visiting another table. It was a habit of his, for he had hundreds of friends and acquaintances, and the Burridge was the place to which every one came.
This time I saw that he had stopped before some one whom I recognized. It was Captain Marlowe of the American Shipping Trust, to whom Kennedy had been of great assistance at the time of the launching of his great ship, the Usona. Marlowe’s daughter Marjorie was not with him, having not yet returned from her honeymoon trip, and he was accompanied by a man whose face was unfamiliar to me.
As I recognized who it was to whom Kennedy was speaking, I also rose and made my way over to the table. As I approached, the captain turned from Kennedy and greeted me cordially.
“Mr. Whitson,” he introduced the man with him. “Mr. Whitson is sailing tomorrow for St. Thomas on the Arroyo. We’re preparing to extend our steamship lines to the islands as soon as the formalities of the purchase are completed.”
Marlowe turned again to Kennedy and went on with the remark he had evidently been making.
“Of course,” I heard him say, “you know we have Mexico practically blockaded as far as arms and munitions go. Yet, Kennedy, through a secret channel I know that thousands of stands of arms and millions of rounds of ammunition are filtering in there. It’s shameful. I can’t imagine anything more traitorous. Whoever is at the bottom of it ought to swing. It isn’t over the border that they are going. We know that. The troops are there. How is it, then?”
Marlowe looked at us as if he expected Kennedy to catch some one by pure reason. Kennedy said nothing, but it was not because he was not interested.
“Think it over,” pursued Marlowe, who was a patriot above everything else. “Perhaps it will occur to you how you can be of the greatest service to the country. The thing is damnable—damnable.”
Neither Kennedy nor I having anything definite to contribute to the subject, the conversation drifted to the islands and Whitson’s mission. Whitson proved to be very enthusiastic about it. He knew the islands well and had already made a trip there for Marlowe.
A few moments later we shook hands and returned to our own table. It was getting late and the only type that was left to study was the common Broadway midnight-life genus. We paid our check and were about to leave. For an instant we stopped at the coat-room to watch the late arrivals and the departing throng.
“Hello!” greeted a familiar voice beside us. “I’ve been looking all over town for you. They told me you had gone to the theater and I thought I might possibly find you here.”
We turned. It was our old friend Burke, of the Secret Service, accompanied by a stranger.
“I’d like you to meet Mr. Sydney, the new special consular agent whom the government is sending to the Danish West Indies to investigate and report on trade conditions,” he introduced. “We’re off for St. Thomas on the Arroyo, which sails tomorrow noon.”
“Great Scott!” ejaculated Kennedy. “Is everybody daffy over those little islands? What takes you down there, Burke?” Burke looked about hastily, then drew us aside into a recess in the lobby.
“I don’t suppose you know,” he explained, lowering his voice, “but since these negotiations began, the consular service has been keenly interested in the present state and the possibilities of the islands. The government sent one special agent there, named Dwight. Well, he died a few days ago. It was very suspicious, so much so that the authorities in the island investigated. Yet the doctors in the island have found no evidence of anything wrong, no poison. Still, it is very mysterious—and, you know,” he hinted, “there are those who don’t want us down there.”
The Secret Service man paused as though he had put the case as briefly and pointedly as he could, then went on: “I’ve been assigned to accompany the new consul down there and investigate. I’ve no particular orders and the chief will honor any reasonable expense account—but—” He hesitated and stopped, looking keenly at Kennedy’s face. I saw what he was driving at.
“Well—to come to the point—what I wanted to see you about, Kennedy, is to find out whether you would go with me. I think,” he added, persuasively, “it would be quite worth your while. Besides, you look tired. You’re working too hard. The change will do you good. And your conscience needn’t trouble you. You’ll be working, all right.”
Burke had been quick to note the haggard expression on Kennedy’s face and turn it into an argument to carry his point. Kennedy smiled as he read the other’s enthusiasm. I would have added my own urging, only I knew that nothing but a sense of duty would weigh with Craig.
“I’d like to think the proposal over,” he conceded, much to my surprise. “I’ll let you know in the morning.”
“Mind,” wheedled Burke, “I won’t take no for an answer. We need you.”
The Secret Service man was evidently delighted by the reception Kennedy had given his scheme.
Just then I caught sight of the