Gold of the Gods

  Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

  THE GOLD OF THE GODS

  BY

  ARTHUR B. REEVE

  FRONTISPIECE BY WILL FOSTER

  CONTENTS

  I THE PERUVIAN DAGGER

  II THE SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

  III THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL DETECTIVE

  IV THE TREASURE HUNTERS

  V THE WALL STREET PROMOTER

  VI THE CURSE OF MANSICHE

  VII THE ARROW POISON

  VIII THE ANONYMOUS LETTER

  IX THE PAPER FIBRES

  X THE X-RAY READER

  XI THE SHOE-PRINTS

  XII THE EVIL EYE

  XIII THE POISONED CIGARETTE

  XIV THE INTERFEROMETER

  XV THE WEED OF MADNESS

  XVI THE EAR IN THE WALL

  XVII THE VOICE FROM THE AIR

  XVIII THE ANTIDOTE

  XIX THE BURGLAR POWDER

  XX THE PULMOTOR

  XXI THE TELESCRIBE

  XXII THE VANISHER

  XXIII THE ACETYLENE TORCH

  XXIV THE POLICE DOG

  XXV THE GOLD OF THE GODS

  I

  THE PERUVIAN DAGGER

  "There's something weird and mysterious about the robbery, Kennedy.They took the very thing I treasure most of all, an ancient Peruviandagger."

  Professor Allan Norton was very much excited as he dropped into Craig'slaboratory early that forenoon.

  Norton, I may say, was one of the younger members of the faculty, likeKennedy. Already, however, he had made for himself a place as one ofthe foremost of South American explorers and archaeologists.

  "How they got into the South American section of the Museum, though, Idon't understand," he hurried on. "But, once in, that they should takethe most valuable relic I brought back with me on this last expedition,I think certainly shows that it was a robbery with a deep-laid,premeditated purpose."

  "Nothing else is gone?" queried Kennedy.

  "Nothing," returned the professor. "That's the strangest part of it--tome. It was a peculiar dagger, too," he continued reminiscently. "I saythat it was valuable, for on the blade were engraved some curious Incacharacters. I wasn't able to take the time to decipher them, downthere, for the age of the metal made them almost illegible. But nowthat I have all my stuff unpacked and arranged after my trip, I wasjust about to try--when along comes a thief and robs me. We can't havethe University Museum broken into that way, you know, Kennedy."

  "I should say not," readily assented Craig. "I'd like to look the placeover."

  "Just what I wanted," exclaimed Norton, heartily delighted, and leadingthe way.

  We walked across the campus with him to the Museum, still chatting.Norton was a tall, spare man, wiry, precisely the type one would pickto make an explorer in a tropical climate. His features were sharp,suggesting a clear and penetrating mind and a disposition to make themost of everything, no matter how slight. Indeed that had been hishistory, I knew. He had come to college a couple of years beforeKennedy and myself, almost penniless, and had worked his way through bydoing everything from waiting on table to tutoring. To-day he stoodforth as a shining example of self-made intellectual man, as culturedas if he had sprung from a race of scholars, as practical as if he hadtaken to mills rather than museums.

  We entered a handsome white-marble building in the shape of arectangle, facing the University Library, a building, by the way, whichNorton had persuaded several wealthy trustees and other donors toerect. Kennedy at once began examining the section devoted to LatinAmerica, going over everything very carefully.

  I looked about, too. There were treasures from Mexico and Peru, fromevery romantic bit of the wonderful countries south of us--blocks ofporphyry with quaint grecques and hieroglyphic painting from Mitla,copper axes and pottery from Cuzco, sculptured stones and mosaics,jugs, cups, vases, little gods and great, sacrificial stones, atreasure house of Aztec and Inca lore--enough to keep one occupied forhours merely to look at.

  Yet, I reflected, following Norton, in all this mass of material, thethief seemed to have selected one, apparently insignificant, dagger,the thing which Norton prized because, somehow, it bore on its bladesomething which he had not, as yet, been able to fathom.

  Though Kennedy looked thoroughly and patiently, it seemed as thoughthere was nothing there to tell any story of the robbery, and he turnedhis attention at last to other parts of the Museum. As he made his wayabout slowly, I noted that he was looking particularly into corners,behind cabinets, around angles. What he expected to find I could noteven guess.

  Further along and on the same side of the building we came to thesection devoted to Egyptology. Kennedy paused. Standing there, uprightagainst the wall, was a mummy case. To me, even now, the thing had acreepy look. Craig pushed aside the stone lid irreverently and gazedkeenly into the uncanny depths of the stone sarcophagus. An instantlater he was down on his hands and knees, carefully examining theinterior by means of a pocket lens.

  "I think I have made a start," he remarked, rising to his feet andfacing us with an air of satisfaction.

  We said nothing, and he pointed to some almost undiscernible marks in athin layer of dust that had collected in the sarcophagus.

  "If I'm not mistaken," he went on, "your thief got into the Museumduring the daytime, and, when no one was looking, hid here. He musthave stayed until the place was locked up at night. Then he could robat his leisure, only taking care to confine his operations to the timebetween the rather infrequent rounds of the night watchman."

  Kennedy bent down again. "Look," he indicated. "There are the marks ofshoes in the dust, shoes with nails in the heels, of course. I shallhave to compare the marks that I have found here with those I havecollected, following out the method of the immortal Bertillon. Everymake of shoes has its own peculiarities, both in the number and thearrangement of the nails. Offhand, however, I should say that theseshoes were American-made--though that, of course, does not necessarilymean that an American wore them. I may even be able to determine whichof a number of individual pairs of shoes made the marks. I cannot tellthat yet, until I study them. Walter, I wish you'd go over to mylaboratory. In the second right-hand drawer of my desk you'll find apackage of paper. I'd like to have it."

  "Don't you think you ought to preserve the marks?" I heard Norton hint,as I left. He had been watching Kennedy in open-eyed amazement andinterest.

  "Exactly what I am sending Walter to do," he returned. "I have somespecially prepared paper that will take those dust marks up and give mea perfect replica."

  I hurried back as fast as I could, and Kennedy bent to the task ofpreserving the marks.

  "Have you any idea who might have an object in stealing the dagger?"Kennedy asked, when he had finished.

  Norton shrugged his shoulders. "I believe some weird superstitions wereconnected with it," he replied. "It had a three-sided blade, and, as Itold you, both the blade and the hilt were covered with peculiarmarkings."

  There seemed to be nothing more that could be discovered from a furtherexamination of the Museum. It was plain enough that the thief must havelet himself out of a side door which had a spring lock on it and closeditself. Not a mark or scratch was to be found on any of the window ordoor locks; nothing else seemed to have been disturbed.

  Evidently the thief had been after that one, to him priceless, object.Having got it, he was content to get away, leaving untouched the othertreasures, some of which were even intrinsically valuable for the metaland precious stones in them. The whole affair seemed so strange to me,however, that, somehow, I could not help wondering whether Norton hadtold us the whole or only half th
e story as he knew it about the daggerand its history.

  Still talking with the archaeologist, Kennedy and I returned to hislaboratory.

  We had scarcely reached the door when we heard the telephone ringinginsistently. I answered, and it happened to be a call for me. It wasthe editor of the Star endeavouring to catch me, before I starteddowntown to the office, in order to give me an assignment.

  "That's strange," I exclaimed, hanging up the receiver and turning toCraig. "I've got to go out on a murder case--"

  "An interesting case?" asked Craig, interrupting his own train ofinvestigation with a flash of professional interest.

  "Why, a man has been murdered in his apartment on Central Park, West, Ibelieve. Luis de Mendoza is the name, and it seems--"

  "Don Luis de Mendoza?" repeated Norton, with a startled exclamation."Why, he was an influential Peruvian, a man of affairs in his country,and an accomplished scholar. I--I--if you don't mind, I'd like to goover with you. I know the Mendozas."

  Kennedy was watching Norton's face keenly. "I think I'll go, too,Walter," he decided. "You won't lack assistants on this story,apparently."

  "Perhaps you can be of some assistance to them, also," put in Norton toKennedy, as we left.

  It was only a short ride downtown, and our cab soon pulled up before arather ornate entrance of a large apartment in one of the mostexclusive sections of the city. We jumped out and entered, succeedingin making our way to the sixth floor, where Mendoza lived, withoutinterference from the hallboy, who had been completely swamped by therush that followed the excitement of finding one of the tenantsmurdered.

  There was no missing the place. The hall had been taken over by thereporters, who had established themselves there, terrible as an armywith concealed pads and pencils. From one of the morning men alreadythere I learned that our old friend Dr. Leslie, the coroner, wasalready in charge.

  Somehow, whether it was through Kennedy's acquaintance with Dr. Leslieor Norton's acquaintance with the Mendozas and the Spanish tongue, wefound ourselves beyond the barrier of the door which shut out my rivals.

  As we stood for a moment in a handsome and tastefully furnished livingroom a young lady passed through hurriedly. She paused in the middle ofthe room as she saw us and eyed us tremulously, as though to ask us whywe had intruded. It was a rather awkward situation.

  Quickly Norton came to the rescue. "I hope you will pardon me,Senorita," he bowed in perfect Spanish, "but--"

  "Oh, Professor Norton, it is you!" she cried in English, recognizinghim. "I'm so nervous that I didn't see you at first."

  She glanced from him to us, inquiringly. I recollected that my editorhad mentioned a daughter who might prove to be an interesting andimportant figure in the mystery. She spoke in an overwrought, agitatedtone. I studied her furtively.

  Inez de Mendoza was unmistakably beautiful, of the dark Spanish type,with soft brown eyes that appealed to one when she talked, and a figurewhich at any less tragic moment one might have been pardoned foradmiring. Her soft olive skin, masses of dark hair, and lustrous,almost voluptuous, eyes contrasted wonderfully with the finelychiselled lines of her nose, the firm chin, and graceful throat andneck. Here one recognized a girl of character and family in the depthsof whose soul smouldered all the passion of a fiery race.

  "I hope you will pardon me for intruding," Norton repeated. "Believeme, it is not with mere idle curiosity. Let me introduce my friend,Professor Kennedy, the scientific detective, of whom you have heard, nodoubt. This is his assistant, Mr. Jameson, of the Star. I thoughtperhaps they might stand between you and that crowd in the hall," headded, motioning toward the reporters on the other side of the door."You can trust them absolutely. I'm sure that if there is anything anyof us can do to aid you in--in your trouble, you may be sure that weare at your service."

  She looked about a moment in the presence of three strangers who hadinvaded the quietness of what had been, at least temporarily, home. Sheseemed to be seeking some one on whom to lean, as though some supporthad suddenly been knocked from under her, leaving her dazed at thechange.

  "Oh, madre de Dios!" she cried. "What shall I do? Oh, my father--mypoor father!"

  Inez Mendoza was really a pathetic and appealing figure as she stoodthere in the room, alone.

  Quickly she looked us over, as if, by same sort of occult intuition ofwoman, she were reading our souls. Then, instinctively almost, sheturned to Kennedy. Kennedy seemed to recognize her need. Norton and Iretired, somewhat more than figuratively.

  "You--you are a detective?" she queried. "You can read mystery--like abook?"

  Kennedy smiled encouragingly. "Hardly as my friend Walter here oftenpaints me," he returned. "Still, now and then, we are able to use thevast knowledge of wise men the world over to help those in trouble.Tell me--everything," he soothed, as though knowing that to talk wouldprove a safety-valve for her pent-up emotions. "Perhaps I can help you."

  For a moment she did not know what to do. Then, almost before she knewit, apparently, she began to talk to him, forgetting that we were inthe room.

  "Tell me how the thing happened, all that you know, how you found itout," prompted Craig.

  "Oh, it was midnight, last night; yes, late," she returned wildly. "Iwas sleeping when my maid, Juanita, wakened me and told me that Mr.Lockwood was in the living room and wanted to see me, must see me. Idressed hurriedly, for it came to me that something must be the matter.I think I must have come out sooner than they expected, for before theyknew it I had run across the living room and looked through the doorinto the den, you call it, over there."

  She pointed at a heavy door, but did not, evidently could not, let hereyes rest on it.

  "There was my father, huddled in a chair, and blood had run out from anugly wound in his side. I screamed and fell on my knees beside him.But," she shuddered, "it was too late. He was cold. He did not answer."

  Kennedy said nothing, but let her weep into her dainty lacehandkerchief, though the impulse was strong to do anything to calm hergrief.

  "Mr. Lockwood had come in to visit him on business, had found the doorinto the hall open, and entered. No one seemed to be about; but thelights were burning. He went on into the den. There was my father--"

  She stopped, and could not go on at all for several minutes.

  "And Mr. Lockwood, who is he?" asked Craig gently.

  "My father and I, we have been in this country only a short time," shereplied, trying to speak in good English in spite of her emotion, "withhis partner in a--a mining venture--Mr. Lockwood."

  She paused again and hesitated, as though in this strange land of thenorth she had no idea of which way to turn for help. But once started,now, she did not stop again.

  "Oh," she went on passionately, "I don't know what it was that cameover my father. But lately he had been a changed man. Sometimes Ithought he was--what you call--mad. I should have gone to see a doctorabout him," she added wildly, her feelings getting the better of her."But it is no longer a case for a doctor. It is a case for adetective--for some one who is more than a detective. You cannot bringhim back, but--"

  She could not go on. Yet her broken sentence spoke volumes, in herpleading, soft, musical voice, which was far more pleasing to the earthan that of the usual Latin-American.

  I had heard that the women of Lima were famed for their beauty andmelodious voices. Senorita Inez surely upheld their reputation.

  There was an appealing look now in her soft deep-brown eyes, and herthin, delicate lips trembled as she hurried on with her strange story.

  "I never saw my father in such a state before," she murmured. "For daysall he had talked about was the 'big fish,' the peje grande, whateverthat might mean--and the curse of Mansiche."

  The recollection of the past few days seemed to be too much for her.Almost before we knew it, before Norton, who had started to ask her aquestion, could speak, she excused herself and fled from the room,leaving only the indelible impression of loveliness and the appeal forhelp that was irresistible.
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  Kennedy turned to Norton. But just then the door to the den opened andwe saw our friend Dr. Leslie. He saw us, too, and took a few steps inour direction.

  "What--you here, Kennedy?" he greeted in surprise as Craig shook handsand introduced Norton. "And Jameson, too? Well, I think you've found acase at last that will baffle you."

  As we talked he led the way across the living room and into the denfrom which he had just come.

  "It is very strange," he said, telling at once all that he had beenable to discover. "Senor Mendoza was discovered here about midnightlast night by his partner, Mr. Lockwood. There seem to be no clues tohow or by whom he was murdered. No locks had been broken. I haveexamined the hall-boy who was here last night. He seems to be off hispost a good deal when it is late. He saw Mr. Lockwood come in, and tookhim in the elevator up to the sixth floor. After that we can findnothing but the open door into the apartment. It is not at allimpossible that some one might have come in when the boy was off hispost, have walked up, even have walked down, the stairs again. In fact,it must have been that way. No windows, not even on the fire-escape,have been tampered with. In fact, the murder must have been done bysome one admitted to the apartment late by Mendoza himself."

  We walked over to the couch on which lay the body covered by a sheet.Dr. Leslie drew down the sheet.

  On the face was a most awful look, a terrible stare and contortion ofthe features, and a deep, almost purple, discoloration. The muscleswere all tense and rigid. I shall never forget that face and its look,half of pain, half of fear, as if of something nameless.

  Mendoza had been a heavy-set man, whose piercing black eyes beetledforth, in life, from under bushy brows. Even in death, barring thathorrible look, he was rather distinguished-looking, and hisclose-cropped hair and moustache set him off as a man of affairs andconsequence in his own country.

  "Most peculiar, Kennedy," reiterated Dr. Leslie, pointing to thebreast. "You see that wound? I can't quite determine whether that wasthe real cause of death or not. Of course, it's a bad wound, it's true.But there seems to be something else here, too. Look at the pupils ofhis eyes, how contracted they are. The lungs seem congested, too. Hehas all the marks of having been asphyxiated. Yet there are noindications on his throat of violence such as would be necessary ifthat were the case. There could have been no such thing as illuminatinggas, nor have we found any trace of any receptacles which might haveheld poison. I can't seem to make it out."

  Kennedy bent over the body and looked at it attentively for severalminutes, while we stood back of him, scarcely uttering a word in thepresence of this terrible thing.

  Deftly Kennedy managed to extract a few drops of blood from about thewound and transfer them to a very small test-tube which he carried in alittle emergency pocket-case in order to preserve material for futurestudy.

  "You say the dagger was triangular, Norton?" he asked finally, withoutlooking up from his minute examination.

  "Yes, with another blade that shot out automatically when you knew thesecret of pressing the hilt in a certain way. The outside triangularblade separated into three to allow an inner blade to shoot out."

  Kennedy had risen and, as Norton described the Inca dagger, looked fromone to the other of us keenly.

  "That blade was poisoned," he concluded quietly. "We have a clue toyour missing dagger. Mendoza was murdered by it!"