The Stolen War-Secret. Arthur B. Reeve
was not as easy to understand as a native, or was the general impression he sought to convey really founded on that instinct which no true detective can afford to be without?
“In other words,” McBride pursued, uninterrupted by Kennedy who was only too glad to glean any impression the house-man might have received, “I was never quite able to fathom her. You see, yourself, that she could not even have made much of a confidant of her maid. She was just the type I should pick out as—as the agent of somebody.”
“You mean that she was playing a game?” I interjected.
“Yes,” he acquiesced. “You know as well as I do that if any one wants to accomplish anything, get information that it is hard to get, the first thing necessary is to employ a woman of the world. Why men will tell their inmost secrets to a clever woman, if she knows how to play the game right. I can’t persuade myself that—that it was all perfectly straight. She must have had a purpose in being here. I don’t know what it could be. But—well—this tragedy shows that there must be something hidden under the surface. She—she might have been a spy.”
Kennedy was watching McBride’s face encouragingly, but without a word so far.
He was evidently thinking of Colonel Sinclair. Sinclair, I knew, was a very wealthy mine-owner down in the southern state of Oaxaca in Mexico. I recalled having seen him once or twice—a tall, wiry, muscular man on whose face the deep tan showed that he had lived for years in the neighborhood of the tropical sun. Could Colonel Sinclair know anything of the mysterious death of Madame Valcour?
“A spy,” pondered Kennedy at length. “What other people have you seen her with—or have reason to think she was with?”
“Why,” replied McBride contemplatively, “I understand that she used to go around a good deal to a place which they call the Mexican-American Tea-Room—just around the corner from here.”
“The Mexican-American Tea-Room. Do you know anything of the place?”
“Not much—only that it seems to be frequented largely by people in the city who want to discuss affairs down in Mexico to the accompaniment of dishes that are hot with peppers and chillies. It’s a peculiar place. They have a cabaret upstairs in the evening. I believe it is—well—pretty swift.”
Kennedy seemed at last to have received some hint that indicated a possible line of action.
“I think I’ll drop in there before Leslie gives this thing out to the papers,” he decided. “Walter—come on—this is the life!”
II. The Mexican Cabaret
CHAPTER II
THE MEXICAN CABARET
WE EASILY found the Mexican-American cabaret and tea-room which McBride had mentioned. McBride himself refused to accompany us because it was likely that some of Valcour’s visitors, if they happened to be there, might recognize him. Kennedy was better pleased to have it that way also, for McBride, whatever his other merits, had detective stamped over him from his hat on the back of his head down to his square-toed shoes.
The house was an old-fashioned, high-stooped structure, just around the corner from the Vanderveer, in the neighborhood where business was rapidly replacing residences.
Apparently the entrance was through what had once been a basement, but which had been remodeled.
We entered the low door. There did not seem to be anybody dining downstairs. But now and then sounds indicated that up stairs there were many people, and that they were thoroughly enjoying the entertainment the cabaret afforded.
Passing by a dark-skinned individual who seemed to serve as both waiter and look-out for the room downstairs, we mounted the steps, and on the parlor-floor found a full-fledged cabaret in operation.
With a hasty, all-inclusive glance about, Craig selected a seat down near a little platform where there were several performers and a small dancing-floor fringed with little tables and chairs.
Fortunately it was such a place as New Yorkers in search of the picturesque often drop in upon, especially with friends from out of town, and our entrance did not, therefore, excite any comment whatever.
A waiter promptly appeared beside us, and Kennedy leisurely scanned a bill of fare which enumerated all sorts of tortillas, chilli con carnes, tamals and frijoles. We ordered and began to look about us.
It was as strange and interesting a gathering as one could have found anywhere in the city. As nearly as I could make out there were refugees from Mexico, of every class and condition and nationality, who seemed to be in the habit of meeting there nightly. There were soldiers of fortune preparing to go down there if they got the chance. Here was a man who had fled from Vera Cruz on a transport, there was another aching to get away and break into the country as soon as there were any signs of the lifting of the embargo.
There were Mexicans, Americans, English, French, Germans—all who were interested in the unhappy republic south of us, all talking in animated tones, except now and then when a mutual confidence was exchanged between some of them, all seeming to know each other, if not to be on friendly terms with one another. What was seething under the surface an outsider could not judge. But of one thing I felt certain. If Valcour had been of this group, certainly none of them showed any knowledge of the tragedy, or if they did they were consummate actors and actresses.
THE music, furnished by a piano, mandolins and guitars on the platform, started up.
Across from us was a party of men and women talking to a woman, dark-eyed and olive-skinned, the type of Spanish dancing-girl. As the music started the girl rose.
“Who is that?” asked Craig of the waiter who had brought us our order.
“Señora Ruiz,” he replied briefly, “one of our best dancers.”
We watched her intently. There was something fascinating about the woman. From the snap of her black eyes to the vibrating grace of her shapely ankle there was something that stamped her as unique. She seemed to realize the power nature had given her over the passions of men, to have the keen wit to play them off, and the joy of living to appreciate the dramas which were enacted.
She began with the danza de sombrero. A sombrero was placed on the floor and she danced about it, in and out, now drawing near and now gliding away without touching it. There was something fascinating, not so much about the dance as about the dancer, for the dance itself was interminable, monotonous.
Several times I saw that Kennedy had caught her eye, and when at last the dance ended she contrived to finish close to our table, so close that it was but a turn, an exchange of looks, a word or two, and, as cabaret dancers will, she was sitting at our table a moment later and Kennedy was ordering something.
The Señora spoke very good English and French, and the conversation glided along like a dance from one subject to another, for she had danced her way into almost every quarter of the gay world of America and Europe.
It was not long before Kennedy and she were discussing Mexican dances and some how or other those of the south of Mexico were mentioned. The orchestra, meanwhile, had burst forth into a tango, followed by a maxixe, and many of the habitues of the cabaret were now themselves dancing.
“The Zapotecs,” remarked Kennedy, “have a number of strange dances. There is one called the Devil Dance that I have often wished to see.”
“The Devil Dance?” she repeated. “That usually takes place on feast-days of the saints. I have seen it often. On those occasions some of the dancers have their bodies painted to represent skeletons, and they also wear strange, feathered head-dresses.”
The waiter responded