Murder Madness

Murder Madness

BEGINNING A FOUR-PART NOVEL

_By Murray Leinster_

[Illustration: _The heads leveled the revolver in spite of him, while
he flung his head from side to side in a frantic attempt to disturb
their aim._]

[Sidenote: Murder Madness! Seven Secret Service men had completely
disappeared. Another had been found a screaming, homicidal maniac,
whose fingers writhed like snakes. So Bell, of the secret "Trade,"
plunges into South America after The Master--the mighty, unknown
octopus of power whose diabolical poison threatens a continent!]


CHAPTER I

The engines of the _Almirante Gomez_ were going dead slow. Away up
beside her monster funnels her siren blew dismally, _Whoo-oo-oo-oo!_
and was silent for the regulation period, and blew desolately again
into the clinging gray mist that ringed her all about.

Her decks were wet and glistening. Droplets of water stood upon the
deck-stanchions, and dripped from the outer edge of the roof above the
promenade deck. A thin, swirling fog lay soggily upon the water and
the big steamer went dead slow upon her course, sending dismal and
depressing blasts from her horn from time to time. It was barely
possible to see from one side of the ship to the other. It was surely
impossible to see the bow from a point half astern.

Charley Bell went forward along the promenade deck. He passed Senor
Ortiz, ex-Minister of the Interior of the Argentine Republic. Ortiz
bowed to him punctiliously, but Bell had a sudden impression that the
Argentine's face was gray and ghastly. He checked himself and looked
back. The little man was climbing the companion-ladder toward the
wireless room.

* * * * *

Bell slipped on toward the bow. He did not want to give an impression
of furtiveness, but the _Almirante Gomez_ was twelve days out of New
York and Bell was still entirely ignorant of why he was on board. He
had been called into the office of his chief in the State Department
and told curtly that his request for leave of absence had been
granted. And Bell had not asked for a leave of absence. But at just
that moment he saw a rubber band on the desk of his immediate
superior, a fairly thick rubber band which had been tied into a
certain intricate knot. And Bell had kept quiet. He went to his
apartment, found his bags packed and tickets to Rio via the _Almirante
Gomez_ in an envelope on his dressing-table, and went out and caught a
train to the ship.

[Illustration]

And that was all he knew. The siren up above blared dolefully into the
fog. It was damp, and soggy, and depressing. The other passengers were
under cover, and the decks seemed to be deserted. From the saloon came
the sound of music. Bell pulled the collar of his light topcoat about
his throat and strolled on toward the bow.

He faced a row of steamer chairs. There was a figure curled up in one
of them. Paula Canalejas, muffled up against the dampness and staring
somberly out into the mist. Bell had met her in Washington and liked
her a great deal, but he swore softly at sight of her in his way.

The afternoon before, he had seen a stoker on the _Almirante Gomez_
pick up a bit of rope and absently tie knots in it while he exchanged
Rabelasian humor with his fellows. He had not looked at Bell at all,
but the knots he tied were the same that Bell had last seen tied in a
rubber band on a desk in the State Department in Washington. And Bell
knew a recognition signal when he saw one. The stoker would be off
watch, just now, and by all the rules of reason he ought to be out
there on the forecastle, waiting for Bell to turn up and receive
instructions.

* * * * *

But Bell paused, lit a cigarette carefully, and strolled forward.

"Mr. Bell."

He stopped and beamed fatuously at her. It would have been logical for
him to fall in love with her, and it is always desirable to seem
logical. He had striven painstakingly to give the impression that he
had fallen in love with her--and then had striven even more
painstakingly to keep from doing it.

"Hullo," he said in bland surprise. "What are you doing out on deck?"

Brown eyes regarded him speculatively.

"Thinking," she said succinctly. "About you, Mr. Bell."

Bell beamed.

"Thinking," he confided, "is usually a bad habit, especially in a
girl. But if you must think, I approve of your choice of subjects.
What were you thinking about me?"

The brown eyes regarded him still more speculatively.

"I was wondering--" said Paula, glancing to either side, "I was
wondering if you happen to be--er--a member of the United States
Secret Service."

Bell laughed with entire naturalness.

"Good Lord, no!" he said amusedly. "I have a desk in the State
Department building, and I read consular reports all day long and
write letters bedeviling the consuls for not including unavailable
statistics in their communications. That's my work. I'm on leave now."

* * * * *

She looked skeptical and, it may be, disappointed.

"You look as if you didn't believe me," said Bell, smiling. "I give
you my word of honor I'm not a member of the United States Secret
Service. Will that do to relieve your suspicions?"

"I believe you," she said slowly, "but it does not relieve my mind. I
shall think about other people. I have something important to tell a
member of the United States Secret Service."

Bell shrugged.

"I'm sorry," he said amiably, "that I can't oblige you by tipping one
of them off. That's what you wanted me to do, isn't it?"

She nodded, and the gesture was very much like a dismissal. Bell
frowned, hesitated, and went on. He was anxious to meet the stoker,
but this....

The siren droned dismally over his head. Fog lay deep about the ship.
The washing of the waves and dripping of water on the decks was
depressing. It seemed to be getting thicker. Four stanchions ahead,
the mist was noticeable. He found that he could count five, six,
seven.... The eighth was indefinite. But a bar materialized in the fog
before him, and the grayness drew away before him and closed in
behind. When he was at the forward end of the promenade, looking down
upon the forecastle deck, he was isolated. He heard footsteps some
distance overhead. The watch officer up on the bridge. Bell glanced up
and saw him as an indistinct figure. He waited until the officer paced
over to the opposite side of the bridge. The air throbbed and shook
with the roaring of the siren.

Bell slipped over the edge of the rail and swung swiftly down the
little ladder of iron bars set into the ship's structure. In seconds
he had landed, and was down upon that terra incognita of all
passengers, the deck reserved for the use of the crew.

* * * * *

A mast loomed overhead, with its heavy, clumsy derrick-booms. A winch
was by his side. Oddments of deck machinery, inexplicable to a
landsman, formed themselves vaguely in the mist. The fog was thicker,
naturally, since the deck was closer to the water's edge.

"Hey!" growled a voice close beside him. "Passengers ain't allowed
down here."

An unshaven, soot-smeared figure loomed up. Bell could not see the man
save as a blur in the mist, but he said cheerfully:

"I know it, but I wanted to look. Seafaring's a trade I'd like to know
something about."

The figure grunted. Bell had just given his word of honor that he
wasn't a member of the Secret Service. He wasn't. But he was in the
Trade--which has no official existence anywhere. And the use of the
word in his first remark was a recognition signal.

"What is your trade, anyways?" growled the figure skeptically.

"I sharpen serpents' teeth from time to time," offered Bell amiably.
He recognized the man, suddenly. "Hullo, Jamison, you look like the
devil."

* * * * *

Jamison drew nearer. He grunted softly.

"I know it. Listen closely, Bell. Your job is getting some information
from Canalejas, Minister of War in Rio. He sent word up to Washington
that he'd something important to say. It isn't treachery to Brazil,
because he's a decent man. Seven Secret Service men have disappeared
in South America within three months. They've found the eighth, and
he's crazy. Something has driven him mad, and they say it's a devilish
poison. He's a homicidal maniac, returning to the United States in a
straight-jacket. Canalejas knows what's happened to the Service men.
He said so, and he's going to tell us. His daughter brought the news
to Washington, and then instead of going on to Europe as she was
supposed to do, she started back to Rio. You're to get this formation
and pass it on to me, then try to keep your skin whole and act
innocent. You were picked out because, as a State Department man, hell
could be raised if you vanished. Understand?"

Bell nodded.

"Something horrible is going on. Secret Service can't do anything. The
man in Asuncion isn't dead--he's been seen--but he's cut loose. And
Service men don't often do that. He don't report. That means the
Service code may have been turned over, and hell to pay generally.
It's up to the Trade."

"I've got it," said Bell. "Here are two items for you. Miss Canalejas
just said she suspected I was Secret Service. I convinced her I
wasn't. She says she has important information for a Service man."

* * * * *

The brawny figure of the stoker growled.

"Damn women! She was told somebody'd be sent to see her father. She
was shown a recognition-knot with the outsider's variation. Given one,
for father. That'll identify you to him. But she shouldn't have
talked. Now, be careful. As nearly as we know, that chap in the
straight-jacket was given some poison that drove him insane. There are
hellish drugs down there. Maybe the same thing happened to others.
Look out for yourself, and give me the information Canalejas gives you
as quickly as God will let you. If anything happens to you, we want
the stuff to get back. Understand?"

"Of course," said Bell. He carefully did not shiver as he realized
what Jamison meant by anything happening to him. "The other item is
that Ortiz, ex-Minister of the Interior of the Argentine, is scared to
death about something. Sending radios right and left."

"Umph," growled Jamison. "One of our men vanished in Buenos Aires.
Watch him. You're friendly?"

"Yes."

"Get friendlier. See what he's got. Now shoo."

Bell swung up the ladder again. Mist opened before him and closed
again behind. He climbed over the rail to the promenade deck, and felt
a little flare of irritation. There was a figure watching him.

He slipped to the deck and grinned sheepishly at Paula Canalejas. She
stood with her hands in the pockets of her little sport coat,
regarding him very gravely.

* * * * *

"I suppose," said Charley Bell sheepishly, "that I look like a fool.
But I've always wanted to climb up and down that ladder. I suppose
it's a survival from the age of childhood. At the age of seven I
longed to be a fireman."

"I wonder," said Paula quietly. "Mr. Bell"--she stepped close to
him--"I am taking a desperate chance. For the sake of my father, I
wish certain things known. I think that you are an honorable man, and
I think that you lied to me just now. Go and see Senor Ortiz. Your
government will want to know what happens to him. Go and see him
quickly."

Bell felt the same flare of irritation as before. Women do not follow
rules. They will not follow rules. They depend upon intuition, which
is sometimes right, but sometimes leads to ungodly errors. Paula was
right this time, but she could have been wholly and hopelessly wrong.
If she had talked to anyone else....

"My child," said Bell paternally--he was at least two years older than
Paula--"you should be careful. I did not lie to you just now. I am not
Secret Service. But I happen to know that you have a tiny piece of
string to give your father, and I beg of you not to show that to
anyone else. And--well--you are probably watched. You must not talk
seriously to me!"

He lifted his hat and started astern. He was more than merely
irritated. He was almost frightened. Because the Trade, officially,
does not exist at all, and everybody in the Trade is working entirely
on his own; and because those people who suspect that there is a Trade
and dislike it are not on their own, but have plenty of resources
behind them. And yet it is requisite that the Trade shall succeed in
its various missions. Always.

* * * * *

The Government of the United States, you understand, will admit that
it has a Secret Service, which it strives to identify solely with the
pursuit of counterfeiters, postal thieves, and violators of the
prohibition laws. Strongly pressed, it will admit that some members of
the Secret Service work abroad, the official explanation being that
they work abroad to forestall smugglers. And at a pinch, and in
confidence, it may concede the existence of diplomatic secret agents.
But there is no such thing as the Trade. Not at all. The funds which
members of the Trade expend are derived by very devious bookkeeping
from the appropriations allotted to an otherwise honestly conducted
Department of the United States Government.

Therefore the Trade does not really exist. You might say that there is
a sort of conspiracy among certain people to do certain things. Some
of them are government officials, major and minor. Some of them are
private citizens, reputable and otherwise. One or two of them are in
jail, both here and abroad. But as far as the Government of the United
States is concerned, certain fortunate coincidences that happen now
and then are purely coincidences. And the Trade, which arranges for
them, does not exist. But it has a good many enemies.

* * * * *

The fog-horn howled dismally overhead. Mist swirled past the ship, and
an oily swell surged vaguely overside and disappeared into a gray
oblivion half a ship's length away. Bell moved on toward the stern. It
was his intention to go into the smoking-room and idle ostentatiously.
Perhaps he would enter into another argument with that Brazilian air
pilot who had so much confidence in Handley-Page wing-slots. Bell had,
in Washington, a small private plane that, he explained, had been
given him by a wealthy aunt, who hoped he would break his neck in it.
He considered that wing-slots interfered with stunting.

He had picked out the door with his eye when he espied a small figure
standing by the rail. It was Ortiz, the Argentine ex-Cabinet Minister,
staring off into the grayness, and seeming to listen with all his
ears.

Bell slowed up. The little stout man turned and nodded to him, and
then put out his hand.

"Senor Bell," he said quietly, "tell me. Do you hear airplane motors?"

Bell listened. The drip-drip-drip of condensed mist. The shuddering of
the ship with her motors going dead slow. The tinkling, muted notes of
the piano inside the saloon. The washing and hissing of the waves
overside. That was all.

"Why, no," said Bell. "I don't. Sound travels freakishly in fog,
though. One might be quite close and we couldn't hear it. But we're a
hundred and fifty miles off the Venezuelan coast, aren't we?"

* * * * *

Ortiz turned and faced him. Bell was shocked at the expression on the
small man's face. It was drained of all blood, and its look was
ghastly. But the rather fine dark eyes were steady.

"We are," agreed Ortiz, very steadily indeed, "but I--I have received
a radiogram that some airplane should fly near this ship, and it would
amuse me to hear it."

Bell frowned at the fog.

"I've done a good bit of flying," he observed, "and if I were flying
out at sea right now, I'd dodge this fog bank. It would be
practically suicide to try to alight in a mist like this."

Ortiz regarded him carefully. It seemed to Bell that sweat was coming
out upon the other man's forehead.

"You mean," he said quietly, "that an airplane could not land?"

"It might try," said Bell with a shrug. "But you couldn't judge your
height above the water. You might crash right into it and dive under.
Matter of fact, you probably would."

Ortiz's nostrils quivered a little.

"I told them," he said steadily, "I told them it was not wise to
risk...."

* * * * *

He stopped. He looked suddenly at his hands, clenched upon the rail. A
depth of pallor even greater than his previous terrible paleness
seemed to leave even his lips without blood. He wavered on his feet,
as if he were staggering.

"You're sick!" said Bell sharply. Instinctively he moved forward.

The fine dark eyes regarded him oddly. And Ortiz suddenly took his
hands from the railing of the promenade deck. He looked at his fingers
detachedly. And Bell could see them writhing, opening and closing in a
horribly sensate fashion, as if they were possessed of devils and
altogether beyond the control of their owner. And he suddenly realized
that the steady, grim regard with which Ortiz looked at his hands was
exactly like the look he had seen upon a man's face once, when that
man saw a venomous snake crawling toward him and had absolutely no
weapon.

Ortiz was looking at his fingers as a man might look at cobras at the
ends of his wrists. Very calmly, but with a still, stunned horror.

* * * * *

He lifted his eyes to Bell.

"I have no control over them," he said quietly. "My hands are useless
to me, Senor Bell. I wonder if you will be good enough to assist me to
my cabin."

Again that deadly pallor flashed across his face. Bell caught at his
arm.

"What is the matter?" he demanded anxiously. "Of course I'll help
you."

Ortiz smiled very faintly.

"If any airplane arrives in time," he said steadily, "something may be
done. But you have rid me of even that hope. I have been poisoned,
Senor Bell."

"But the ship's doctor...."

Ortiz, walking rather stiffly beside Bell, shrugged.

"He can do nothing. Will you be good enough to open this door for me?
And"--his voice was hoarse for an instant--"assist me to put my hands
in my pockets. I cannot. But I would not like them to be seen."

Bill took hold of the writhing fingers. He saw sweat standing out upon
Ortiz's forehead. And the fingers closed savagely upon Bell's hands,
tearing at them. Ortiz looked at him with a ghastly supplication.

"Now," he said with difficulty, "if you will open the door, Senor
Bell...."

Bell slid the door aside. They went in together. People were making
the best of boresome weather within, frankly yawning, most of them.
But the card-room would be full, and the smoking-room steward would be
busy.

"My cabin is upon the next deck below," said Ortiz through stiff lips.
"We--we will descend the stairs."

* * * * *

Bell went with him, his face expressionless.

"My cabin should be unlocked," said Ortiz.

It was. Ortiz entered, and, with his hands still in his pockets,
indicated a steamer-trunk.

"Please open that." He licked his lips. "I--I had thought I would have
warning enough. It has not been so severe before. Right at the
top...."

Bell flung the top back. A pair of bright and shiny handcuffs lay on
top of a dress shirt.

"Yes," said Ortiz steadily. "Put them upon my wrists, please. The
poison that has been given to me is--peculiar. I believe that one of
your compatriots has experienced its effects."

Bell started slightly. Ortiz eyed him steadily.

"Precisely." Ortiz, with his face a gray mask of horror, spoke with a
steadiness Bell could never have accomplished. "A poison, Senor Bell,
which has made a member of the Secret Service of the United States a
homicidal maniac. It has been given to me. I have been hoping for its
antidote, but--Quick! Senor Bell! Quick! The handcuffs!"


CHAPTER II

The throbbing of the engines went on at an unvarying tempo. There was
the slight, almost infinitesimal tremor of their vibration. The
electric light in the cabin wavered rhythmically with its dynamo. From
the open porthole came the sound of washing water. Now and then a
disconnected sound of laughter or of speech came down from the main
saloon.

Ortiz lay upon the bed, exhausted.

"It is perhaps humorous, Senor Bell," he said presently, in the same
steady voice he had used upon the deck. "It is undoubtedly humorous
that I should call upon you. I believe that you are allied with the
Secret Service of your government."

Bell started to shake his head, but was still. He said nothing.

"I am poisoned," said Ortiz. He tried to smile, but it was ghastly.
"It is a poison which makes a man mad in a very horrible fashion. If I
could use my hands--and could trust them--I would undoubtedly shoot
myself. It would be entirely preferable. Instead, I hope--"

He broke off short and listened intently. His forehead beaded.

"Is that an airplane motor?"

Bell went to the port and listened. The washing of waves. The
throbbing of the ship's engines. The dismal, long-drawn-out moaning
of the fog-horn. Nothing else.... Yes! A dim and distant muttering. It
drew nearer and died away again.

"That is a plane," said Bell. "Yes, It's out of hearing now."

Ortiz clamped his jaws together.

"I was about to speak," he said steadily, "to tell you--many things.
Which your government should know. Instead, I ask you to go to the
wireless room and have the wireless operator try to get in touch with
that plane. It is a two-motored seaplane and it his a wireless outfit.
It will answer the call M.S.T.R. Ask him to use his directional
wireless and try to guide it to the ship. It brings the antidote to
the poison which affects me."

Bell made for the door. Ortiz raised his head with a ghastly smile.

"Close the door tightly," he said quietly. "I--I feel as if I shall be
unpleasant."

* * * * *

Closing the door behind him, Bell felt rather like a man in a
nightmare. He made for the stairway, bolted for the deck, and fairly
darted up the ladder to the wireless room.

"Ortiz sent me," he said to the operator. "You heard that plane just
now. See if you can get it."

The operator looked up at him beneath a green eyeshade and grinned
crookedly.

"Talking to 'em now," he said.

The key flicked up and down, and a tiny dancing spark leaped into
being and vanished beneath its contact-point. The wireless room was
dark save for the bright, shaded light above the sending table. A file
of sent messages by an elbow. A pad for messages received was by a
hand. Stray wreaths of tobacco smoke floated about the room, leaping
into view as they drifted beneath the lamp.

"Is he bad?" asked the operator fascinatedly, his eyes fixed on his
key.

Bell felt his eyelids flicker.

"Very bad," he said shortly.

"They tell me," said the operator and shuddered, "your hands get
working and you can't stop 'em.... I'm playing, I am! I'm playing The
Master's game!"

* * * * *

The key stopped. He listened.

"They're going to try to swoop over the ship and drop it," he said a
moment later. "I don't think they can. But tell Ortiz they're going to
try."

Bell's eyes were narrow. It is not customary for a radio operator on a
passenger ship to speak of an ex-Cabinet Minister of the Argentine
Republic by his surname only. It bespeaks either impertinence or a
certain very peculiar association. Bell frowned imperceptibly for an
instant, thinking.

"You've--had it?" he asked sharply.

"God, no! I never took the chance! I saw the red spots once, and I
went to Rib--Say! You got a password?"

He was staring up at Bell. Bell shrugged.

"I'm trying to help Senor Ortiz now."

The operator continued to stare, his eyes full of suspicion. Then he
grimaced.

"All right. Go tell him they're going to drop it."

* * * * *

Bell went out. Gray fog, and washing seas, and the big ship ploughing
steadily on toward the south.... The horn blared, startlingly loud and
unspeakably doleful. Bell listened for other sounds. There were none.

Down the steep ladder to the promenade deck. Paula Canalejas nodded to
him.

"I saw you speak to Senor Ortiz," she said quietly. "You see?"

Bell was beginning to have a peculiar, horrible suspicion. It was
incredible, but it was inevitable.

"I think I see," he said harshly. "But I don't dare believe it. Keep
quiet and don't speak to me unless I give you some sign it's safe!
It's--hellish!"

He went inside and swiftly down the stairs. He found a steward
hesitating outside the door of Ortiz's cabin. He touched Bell's arm
anxiously as he was about to go in.

"Beg pardon, sir," he said, and stammered. "I--I heard Mr. Ortiz
making some--very strange noises, sir. I--I thought he was sick...."

"He is," said Bell grimly. "He told me he does not want a doctor,
though. I'm looking after him."

He closed the door behind him, and Ortiz grinned at him. It was a
horrible, a terrible grin, and Ortiz fought it from his face with a
terrific effort of will. There was foam about his lips.

* * * * *

"_Dios!_ It was--it was devilish!" he gasped. "Senor Bell, _amigo
mio_, for the love of the good God get my revolver from my trunk. Give
it to me...."

Bell said shortly: "The airplane just radioed that it's going to try
to swoop overhead and drop a package on board the steamer. It doesn't
dare alight in this fog."

"I think," gasped Ortiz, "I think it would be well to tie my feet. Tie
them fast! If--if the package comes, if I--if I am unpleasant, knock
me unconscious and pour it into my mouth. I fear it is too late now.
But try it...."

Through the port came the muttering of a seaplane's engines. The noise
died away. Almost instantly the siren boomed hoarsely.

"Ah, _Dios!_" said Ortiz unsteadily. "There it is! Senor Bell, I think
it is too late. Would you--would you assist me to go out on deck,
where I might fling myself overboard? I--think I can control my legs
so long."

"Steady!" said Bell, wrenched by the sight of the man before him
fighting against unnameable horror. "Tell me--"

"It is poison," said Ortiz, his features fixed in a terrible effort of
will. "A ghastly, a horrible poison of the _Indios_ of Matto Grosso,
in Brazil. It drives a man mad, murder mad. It is as if he were
possessed by a devil. His hands first refuse to obey him. His feet
next. And then his body. It is as if a devil had seized hold of his
body and carried it about doing murder with it. A part of the brain is
driven insane, and a man goes about shrieking with the horror of what
crimes his body commits until the poison reaches that portion of his
brain as well. Then he is mad forever. That is what I face, _amigo
mio_. That is why I beg you, I implore you, to kill me or assist me to
the side of the ship so that I may fling myself overboard! The Master
had it administered to me secretly, and demanded treason as the price
of the antidote. He deman--"

* * * * *

Steady and strong, rising from a muttering to a steady roar, the sound
of airplane motors came through the port. Bell started up.

"Hold fast," he snapped savagely. "I'll go get that package when it
lands. Hold fast, I tell you! Fight it!"

He flung out of the cabin and raced up the stairs. The door to the
deck was open. He crowded through a group of passengers who had
discounted the dampness for the sake of a novelty--an airplane far out
at sea--and raced up to the upper deck. The roaring noise was
receding. The siren roared hoarsely. Then the noise came back.

For minutes, then, the ship seemed to play hide-and-seek with the
invisible fliers. The roaring noise overhead circled about, now near,
now seeming very far away. And the siren sent its dismal blasts out
into the grayness all about. Then, for an instant, a swiftly scudding
shadow was visible overhead. It banked steeply and vanished, and
seemed to have turned and come lower when it reappeared a moment
later. It was not distinct, at first. It was merely a silhouette of
darker gray against the all-enveloping mist. But its edges sharpened
and became clear. One could make out struts, an aileron's trailing
edge.

"Got nerve, anyhow," said Bell grimly.

It swept across the ship and disappeared, but the noise of its engines
did not dwindle more than a little. The blast of the siren seemed to
summon it back again. Once more it came in sight, and this time it
dived steeply, flashed across the forecastle deck amid a hideous
uproar, desperately, horribly close to the dangling derrick-cables,
and was gone.

* * * * *

Bell had seen it more clearly than anyone else on the ship, perhaps.
He saw a man in the pilot's cockpit between wings and tail reach high
and fling something downward, something with a long streamer attached
to it. Bell had an instant's glimpse of the goggled face. Then he was
darting forward, watching the thing that fell.

It took only a second. Two at most. But the thing seemed to fall with
infinite deliberation, the streamer shivering out behind it. It fell
at a steep slant, the forward momentum of the plane's speed added to
its own drop. It swooped down, slanting toward the rail....

Bell groaned. It struck the rail itself, and bounced. A sailor flung
himself toward it. The streamer slipped from his fingers and slithered
over the side.

Bell was at the railing just in time to see it drop into the water. He
opened his mouth to shout, and saw it sink. The last of the streamer
followed the dropped object down into the green water when it was
directly below him.

His hands clenched. Bell stared sickly at the spot where it had
vanished. An instant later he had whirled and was thrusting wide the
wireless room door. The operator was returning to his key, grinning
crookedly. He looked up sidewise.

"Tell them it went overside," snapped Bell. "Tell them to try it
again. Ortiz is in hell! To try again! He's dying!"

* * * * *

The operator looked up fascinatedly, his fingers working his key.

"Is he--bad?" he asked with a shuddering interest.

"He's dying!" snarled Bell, in a rage because of his helplessness. He
had forgotten everything but the fact that a man below decks was
facing the most horrible fate that can overtake a man, and facing it
with a steadfast gameness that made Bell's heart go out to him.

"They don't die," said the operator. He shuddered. "They don't die of
it."

His key stopped. He listened. His key clicked again.

"They only had two packages," he said a moment later. "They don't dare
risk the other one. They say the fog ends twenty miles farther on.
They're going to land up there and taxi back on the surface of the
water. It shouldn't be more than half an hour."

He pushed himself back from the table with an air of finality.

"That's all. They've signed off."

Bell felt rage sweeping over him. The operator grinned crookedly.

"Better go down and tie him up," he said, and licked his lips with the
fascinated air of one thinking of a known and terrifying thing.
"Better tie him up tight. It'll be half an hour more."

* * * * *

Bell went down the companion-ladder. The promenade was crowded with
passengers now, asking questions of each other. Some, frowning
portentously, thought the plane an unscheduled ocean flier who had
lost his way in the fog.

Paul Canalejas was close to Bell as he shouldered his way through the
crowd.

"That was for him?" she asked, without moving her lips.

Bell nodded.

"Tell him," she said quietly, "I--pray for him."

Bell nodded abruptly and went into the saloon. It was nearly empty. He
wiped the sweat off his face. It was horrible to have to go down to
Ortiz and tell him that at best it would be half an hour more....

Then there was a sudden scream below him, and then a shot. Bell jumped
for the stairs, his heart in his throat, and saw Ortiz coming out of
his stateroom door. His eyes were wide and agonized. His body....

Even in the incredibly short time before he reached the bottom of the
steps, Bell had time to receive the ghastly impression that Ortiz was
sane, but that his body had gone mad. Ortiz's face was white and
horrified. His hands and arms were writhing savagely, working at the
handcuffs on his wrists. His legs were carrying him at a curious,
padding trot down the hallway. One of the hands held a glittering
revolver. A steward was crouched behind a couch, his face white and
filled with stark terror. And Ortiz held his head back, as if
struggling to hold back and control his body, which was under the
control of a malignant demon.

"Out of the way!" cried Ortiz in a voice of terrible despair. "Get
someone to shoot me! Kill me! I cannot--ah, _Dios!_"

* * * * *

The hands leveled the revolver in spite of him, while he flung his
head from side to side in a frantic attempt to disturb their aim.

"Close your eyes!" panted Bell, and hurled himself upon--whom? It was
not Ortiz. It was Ortiz's body, gone mad and raging. The manacled arms
flailed about frenziedly. The gun went off. Again. Again....

Bell struck. He knocked the Thing that possessed Ortiz's body off its
feet. The hands groped for him. They clubbed at him with the revolver.
The feet kicked....

"Keep your eyes closed," gasped Bell, struggling to get the gun away
from those horrible hands. "It--it can't see when you keep your eyes
closed!"

Fighting insanely as the Thing was fighting, he could not identify it
with Ortiz himself. One of the hands unclosed from about the revolver
and clawed at his throat. It seemed to abandon that effort and
attacked Ortiz's face in a frenzy of rage, struggling to claw his eyes
open. The other held the weapon fast with maniacal strength.

At the horror of feeling one of his own manacled hands attacking his
face savagely as if it were itself a sensate thing, Ortiz opened his
eyes. They were wide with despair.

The hand with the revolver made a sudden movement, and Bell flung his
weight upon it as the clutching hand pulled the trigger. There was a
deafening report....

* * * * *

The body seemed to weaken suddenly in Bell's grip. It fought less and
less terribly, though with no lessening of its savagery. He managed to
get the revolver away from the hands that shook with unspeakable rage.
He flung it away and stood panting.

There was a crowd of people suddenly all about the place. Staring,
stunned, incredulous people who regarded Bell with a dawning, damning
suspicion.

Ortiz spoke suddenly. His voice was weak, but it was steady, and it
was full of a desperate relief.

"I wish to make a statement," he said sharply. "I--I wished to commit
suicide for personal reasons. Senor Bell tried to dissuade me. The
handcuffs upon my wrists were placed there with my consent. Senor Bell
is my friend and has done me no wrong. I shot myself, with intention."

Bell beckoned to the ship's doctor.

"Get him bandaged up," he ordered harshly. "There's no need for him to
die."

The body was writhing only feebly, now. Ortiz looked up at him, and
managed a smile. Again there was that incredible impression of the
body not belonging to Ortiz, or Ortiz as a sane and whole and
honorable, admirable man, and the feebly writhing body with its
clutching hands as some evil thing that had properly been defeated and
killed.

* * * * *

The doctor bent down. It was useless, of course. He made futile
movements.

"I wish to speak to my friend, Senor Bell," said Ortiz weakly. "I--I
have not long."

Bell knelt beside him.

"The Master's--deputy in Rio," panted Ortiz weakly, almost in a
whisper, "is--is Ribiera. In Buenos Aires I--I do not know. There was
a man--the one who poisoned me--but I killed him. Secretly. I do not
think--the Master knows. I pray that--"

He stopped. He could not speak again. But he smiled, and a few seconds
later Bell clenched his hands. Ortiz was gone.

Someone touched his arm. Paula Canalejas. He stared down at her and
managed to smile. It was not a very successful smile. He drew a deep
breath.

"I would like," said Bell wryly, "to think that, when I die, I will
die as well as this man did. But I'm afraid I shan't."

But Paula said:

"The airplane can be heard outside. It seems to be moving on the
surface."

* * * * *

And ten minutes later the plane loomed up out of the mist, queerly
ungainly on the surface of the water. Its motors roared impatiently as
if held in leash. It swung clumsily about, heading off out of sight in
the fog to turn. It came back, sliding along the top of the water with
its wing-tip floats leaving alternate streaks of white foam behind
them. A man stood up in its after cockpit.

Bell crowded to the rail. The man--goggled and masked--held up a
package as if to fling it on board. Bell watched grimly. But he saw
that the pilot checked himself and looked up at the upper deck. Bell
craned his neck. The wireless operator was waving wildly to the
seaplane. He writhed his hands, and held his hand to his head is if
blowing out his brains, and waved the plane away, frantically.

The pilot of the plane sat down. A moment later its motors roared more
thunderously. It is not safe to alight on either land or water when
fog hangs low, but there is little danger in taking off.

The seaplane shot away into the mist, its motors bellowing. The sound
of its going changed subtly. It seemed to rise, and grow more
distant.... It died away.

Bell halted at the top of the companion-ladder and saw the wireless
operator, with a crooked, nervous grin upon his face.


CHAPTER III

Bell saw what he was looking for, out in the throng of traffic that
filled the Avenida do Acre, in Rio. He'd seen it over the heads of the
crowd, which was undersized, as most Brazilian crowds are, and he
managed to get through the perpetual jam on the mosaic sidewalk and
reach the curb.

He stood there and regarded the vehicles filling the broad avenue,
wearing exactly the indifferent, half-amused air of a tourist with no
place in particular to go and a great deal of time in which to go
there. Taxis chuffed past, disputing right of way with private cars
which were engaged in more disputes with other cars, all in the rather
extraordinary bad temper and contentiousness which comes to the
Latin-American when he takes the wheel of an automobile.

As if coming to an unimportant decision, Bell raised his hand to an
approaching cab. It had two men on the chauffeur's seat. Of course.
All taxis in Rio carry two men in front. One drives, and the other
lights his cigarettes, makes witty comments upon passing ladies, and
helps in collecting the fares from recalcitrant passengers. The extra
man is called the "secretary," and he assists materially in giving an
impression of haughty pride.

The taxi ground to the curb. The secretary reached behind him
indifferently and opened the door. Bell did not glance at him. He
stepped inside and settled down languidly.

"The Beira Mar," he said listlessly.

The taxi started off with a jolt. It is the invariable custom in Rio
de Janeiro. And besides, it reminds the passenger that he is merely a
customer, admitted to the cab on suffrance, and that he must be
suitably meek to those who will presently blandly ignore the amount
registered by the meter and demand a fare of from eight to
twenty-seven times the indicated amount.

* * * * *

The cab went shooting down the Avenida do Acre toward the harbor. The
Avenida do Acre is officially the Avenida Rio Blanco, and it should be
called by that name, only people forget. The Beira Mar, however, is
named with entire propriety. It is actually the edge of the sea, and
it is probably one of the two or three most beautiful driveways in the
world.

The cab whirled past the crowded sidewalks. Incredible numbers of
people, with an incredible variation in the shades of their
complexions, moved to and from with the peculiar aimlessness of a
Brazilian crowd. A stout and pompous negro politician from Bahia,
wearing an orchid in his button-hole, rubbed elbows with a striking
blonde lady of the sidewalks on his left, and forced a wizened little
silk-hatted _parda_--approximately an octoroon--to dodge about him in
order to progress. A young and languid person, his clothes the very
last expiring gasp of fashion, fingered his stick patiently. He wore
the painstakingly cultivated expression of bored disillusionment your
young Brazilian dandy considers aristocratic. It was very probable
that he shared a particularly undesirable bedroom with four or five
other young men in order to purchase such clothing, but then, _farenda
fita_--making a picture--is the national Brazilian sport.

Bell lighted a cigarette. It was not wise to regard the secretary of
this particular taxi too closely, but if his face had been thickly
smeared with coal dust, and if he had had a two weeks' beard, and if
he had been seen on the forecastle of the _Almirante Gomez_, one would
have deduced him to be a stoker who had not used the name of Jamison.

* * * * *

The cab reached the Beira Mar, and turned to take the long route about
the bay. It it one of the most beautiful views to be found anywhere,
and tall apartment houses have been built along its whole length to
capitalize the scenery. True, the more brightly-colored ladies of the
capital have established themselves in vast numbers among these
apartment houses, but in their languid promenades they add--let us
say--the beauties of art to those of nature.

A voice spoke from the chauffeur's seat.

"Bell."

"Right," said Bell without moving. His eyes flickered, however, and he
found the device Jamison had inserted. A speaking-tube of sorts. Not
especially efficient, but inconspicuous enough. He stirred listlessly
and got his lips near it.

"All right to talk?" he asked briefly.

"Shoot," said Jamison from the secretary's seat beside the chauffeur.
"This man doesn't understand English, and he thinks I'm in a smuggling
gang. He expects to make some money out of me eventually."

Bell spoke curtly, while the taxi rolled past the Morro da Gloria with
its quaint old church and went along the winding, really marvelous
driveway past many beaches, with the incredibly blue water beyond.

"Canalejas is out of town," he said. "It isn't known when he'll be
back. I met his daughter at a dance at our Embassy here, and she told
me. We didn't dare to talk much, but she's frightened. Especially
after what happened to Ortiz. And I've met Ribiera, whom Ortiz named."

"I've been looking him up," growled Jamison through the speaking-tube.

* * * * *

Bell flicked the ash from his cigarette out the door, and went on
quietly.

"He's trying to get friendly with me. I've promised to call at his
house and have him take me out to the flying field. He has two planes,
he tells me, a big amphibian and a two-seater. Uses them for commuting
between Rio and his place back inland. He went out of his way to
cultivate me. I think he suspects I'm trying to find out something."

"Which you are," said Jamison dryly. "You've found out that Ortiz was
right at least about--"

Bell nodded, and frowned at himself for having nodded. He spoke into
the mouthpiece by his head with an expressionless face.

"He's practically fawned upon by a bunch of important officials and
several high ranking army officers. Suspecting what I do, I think he's
got hold of a devil of a lot of power."

Jamison scowled in a lordly fashion upon a mere pedestrian who
threatened to impede the movement of the taxicab by making it run over
him.

* * * * *

"Ortiz," said Bell quietly, "told me he'd been poisoned, and treason
asked as the price of the antidote. I've heard that the Brazilian
Minister for Foreign Affairs went insane six months ago. I heard,
also, that it was homicidal mania--murder madness. And I'm wondering
if these people who fawn upon Ribiera aren't paying a price
for--well--antidotes, or their equivalent. The Minister for Foreign
Affairs may have refused."

"You're improving," said Jamison dryly. The taxi rounded a curve and
a vista of sea and sand and royal palms spread out before it. "Yes,
you're improving. But Ortiz spoke of Ribiera only as a deputy of The
Master. Who is The Master?"

"God knows," said Bell. He stared languidly out of the window, for all
the world to see. A tourist, regarding the boasted beauties of the
Biera Mar.

"A deputy," said Jamison without emotion, "of some unknown person
called The Master poisoned Ortiz in Buenos Aires. And Ortiz was an
important man in the Argentine. Ribiera is merely the deputy of that
same unknown Master in Rio, and he has generals and state presidents
and the big politicians paying court to him. If deputies in two
countries that we know of have so much power, how much power has The
Master?"

* * * * *

Silence. The taxi chugged steadily past unnoticed beauties and
colorings. Rio is really one of the most beautiful cities in the
world.

"It's like this," said Jamison jerkily. "Seven Service men vanish and
one goes mad. You get two tips that the fate of Ortiz is the fate of
the seven men--eight, in fact. We find that two men dispense a certain
ghastly poison in two certain cities, at the orders of a man they call
The Master. We find that those two men wield an astounding lot of
power, and we know they're only deputies, only subordinates of the
Master. We know, also, that the Service men vanished all over the
whole continent, not in just those two cities. How many deputies has
The Master? What's it all about? He wanted treason of Ortiz, we know.
What does he want of the other men his deputies have enslaved? Why did
he poison the Service men? And why--especially why--do two honorable
men, officials of two important nations, want to tip off the United
States Government about the ghastly business? What's it got to do with
our nation?"

Bell flung away his cigarette.

"That last question has occurred to me too," he observed, and
carefully repressed a slight shiver. "I have made a guess, which is
probably insane. I'm going to see Ribiera this afternoon."

"He already suspects you know too much," said Jamison without
expression.

"I am"--Bell managed the ghost of a mirthless smile--"I am
uncomfortably aware of it. And I may need an antidote as badly as
Ortiz. If I do, and can't help myself, I'll depend on you."

* * * * *

Jamison growled.

"I simply mean," said Bell very quietly, "that I'd really rather not
be--er--left alive if I'm mad. That's all. But Ortiz knew what was the
matter with him before he got bad off. I know it's a risk. I'm
goose-flesh all over. But somebody's got to take the risk. The guess
I've made may be insane, but if it's right one or two lives will be
cheap enough as a price for the information. Suppose you chaps turn
around and take me to Ribiera's house?"

There was a long pause. Then Jamison spoke in Portuguese to his
companion. The taxi checked, swerved, and began to retrace its route.

"You're a junior in the Trade," said Jamison painstakingly. "I can't
order you to do it."

Bell fumbled with his cigarette case.

"The Trade doesn't exist, Jamison," he said dryly. "And besides,
nobody gives orders in The Trade. These are only suggestions. Now shut
up a while. I want to try to remember some consular reports I read
once, from the consul at Puerto Pachecho."

"What?"

"The consul there," said Bell, smiling faintly, "was an amateur
botanist. He filled up his consular reports with accounts of native
Indian medicinal plants and drugs, with copious notes and clinical
observations. I had to reprove him severely for taking up space with
such matters and not going fully into the exact number of hides, wet
and dry, that passed through the markets in his district. His
information will be entirely useless in this present emergency, but
I'm going to try to remember as much of it as I can. Now shut up."

* * * * *

When the taxi swung off the Biera Mar to thread its way through many
tree-lined streets--it is a misdemeanor, punishable by fine, to cut
down a tree in Rio de Janeiro--it carried a young American with the
air of an accomplished idler, who has been mildly bored by the
incomparable view from the waterside boulevard. When it stopped at the
foot of one of the slum covered _morros_ that dot all Rio, and a
liveried doorman came out of a splendid residence to ask the visitor
his name, the taxi discharged a young American who seemed to feel the
heat, in spite of the swift motion of the cab. He wiped off his
forehead with his handkerchief as he was assured that the Senhor
Ribiera had given orders he was to be admitted, night or day. When the
taxi drove off, it carried two men on the chauffeur's seat, of whom
one had lost, temporarily, the manner of haughty insolence which is
normally inseparable from the secretary of a taxicab chauffeur.

But though he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, Bell actually
felt rather cold when he followed his guide through ornately furnished
rooms, which seemed innumerable, and was at last left to wait in an
especially luxurious salon.

There was a pause. A rather long wait. A distinctly long wait. Bell
lighted a cigarette and seemed to become mildly bored. He regarded a
voluptuous small statuette with every appearance of pleased interest.
A subtly decadent painting seemed to amuse him considerably. He did
not seem to notice that no windows at all were visible, and that
shaded lamps lit this room, even in broad daylight.

* * * * *

Two servants came in, a footman in livery and the major-domo. Your
average _Carioca_ servant is either fawning or covertly insolent.
These two were obsequious. The footman carried a tray with a bottle,
glass, ice, and siphon.

"The Senhor Ribiera," announced the major-domo obsequiously, "begs
that the Senhor Bell will oblige him by waiting for the shortest of
moments until the Senhor Ribiera can relieve himself of a business
matter. It will be but the shortest of moments."

Bell felt a little instinctive chill at sight of the bottle and
glasses.

"Oh, very well," he said idly. "You may put the tray there."

The footman lifted the siphon expectantly. Bell regarded it
indifferently. The wait before the arrival of this drink had been
longer than would be required merely for the announcing of a caller
and the tending of a tray, especially if such a tray were a custom of
the place. And the sending of a single bottle only, without inquiry
into his preferences....

"No soda," said Bell. He poured out a drink into the tinier glass. He
lifted it toward his lips, hesitated vaguely, and drew out his
handkerchief again.

He sneezed explosively, and the drink spilled. He swore irritably, put
down the glass, and plied his handkerchief vigorously. A moment later
he was standing up and pouring the drink out afresh, from the bottle
in one hand to the glass in the other. He up-tilted the glass.

"Get rid of this for me," he said annoyedly of the handkerchief.

* * * * *

He saw a nearly imperceptible glance pass between the footman and the
major-domo. They retired, and Bell moved about the room exactly like a
young man who has been discomfited by the necessity of sneezing before
servants. Anywhere else in the world, of course, such a pose would not
have been convincing. But your Brazilian not only adopts _fazenda
fita_ as his own avocation, but also suspects it to be everybody
else's too. And a young Brazilian of the leisure class would be
horribly annoyed at being forced to so plebeian an exhibition in
public.

He moved restlessly about the room, staring at the picture. Presently
he blinked uncertainly and gazed about less definitely. He went rather
uncertainly to the chair he had first occupied and sat down. He
poured--or seemed to pour--another drink. Again he sneered, and looked
mortified. He put down the glass with an air of finality. But he
looked puzzledly about him. Then he sank back in his chair and
gradually seemed to sink into a sort of apathetic indifference.

* * * * *

He looked, then, like a very bored young man on the verge of dozing
off. But actually he was very much alert indeed. He had the feeling of
eyes upon him for a while. Then that sensation ceased and he settled
himself to wait. And meantime he felt a particular, peculiar gratitude
to the late American consul at Puerto Pachecho for his interest in
medicinal plants.

That gentleman had gone into the subject with the passionate
enthusiasm of the amateur. He had described _icus_, _uirari_ and
_timbo_. He had particularized upon _makaka-nimbi_ and _hervamoura_.
And he had gone into a wealth of detail concerning _yague_, on account
of its probable value if used in criminology. As consul at Puerto
Pachecho he was not altogether a success in some ways, but he had
invented an entirely original method of experimentation upon those
drugs and poisons which did not require to be introduced into the
blood-stream. His method was simplicity itself. An alcoholic solution
"carried" a minute quantity of the drug in its vapor, just as an
alcoholic solution carries a minute quantity of perfuming essential
oil. He inhaled the odor of the alcoholic solution. The effect was
immediately, strictly temporary, and not dangerous. He was enabled to
describe the odors, in some cases the tastes, and in a few instances
the effects of the substances he listed, from personal experience.

* * * * *

And Bell had used his method as an unpromising but possible test for a
drug in the drink that had been brought him. He inhaled the strangling
odor of the spilled liquor on his handkerchief. And there was a drug
involved. For an instant he was dizzy, and for an instant he saw the
room through a vivid blue haze. And something clicked in his brain and
said "It's _yague_." And the relief of dealing with something which he
knew--if only at second-hand--was so enormous that he felt almost
weak.

_Yague_, you see, is an extract from the leaves of a plant which is
not yet included in materia medica. It has nearly the effect of
scopolamine--once famous in connection with twilight sleep--and
produces a daze of blue light, an intolerable sleepiness, and
practically all the effects of hypnotism. A person under _yague_, as
under scopolamine or hypnosis, will seem to slumber and yet will obey
any order, by whomever given. He will answer any question without
reserve or any concealment. And on awakening he will remember nothing
done under the influence of the potion. The effects are not
particularly harmful.

Bell then, sat in an apparent half-daze, half-slumber, in the salon in
which he waited for Ribiera to appear. He knew exactly what he was
expected to do. Ribiera wanted to find out what he knew or suspected
about Ortiz's death. Ribiera wanted to know many things, and he would
believe what Bell told him because he thought Bell had taken enough
_yague_ to be practically an hypnotic subject. Let Ribiera believe
what he was told!

When he came into the room, bland and smiling, Bell did not stir. He
was literally crawling, inside, with an unspeakable repulsion to the
man and the things for which he stood. But he seemed dazed and dull,
and when Ribiera began to ask questions he babbled his answers in a
toneless, flat voice. He babbled very satisfactorily, in Ribiera's
view.

* * * * *

When Ribiera shook him roughly by the shoulder he started, and let his
eyes clear. Ribiera was laughing heartily.

"Senhor! Senhor!" said Ribiera jovially. "My hospitality is at fault!
You come to be my guest and I allow you to be so bored that you drop
off to sleep! I was detained for five minutes and came in to find you
slumbering!"

Bell stared ruefully about him and rubbed his eyes.

"I did, for a fact," he admitted apologetically. "I'm sorry. Up late
last night, and I was tired. I dropped in to see those planes you
suggested I'd be interested in. But I daresay it's late, now."

Ribiera chuckled again. He was in his late and corpulent forties and
was something of a dandy. If one were captious, one might object to
the thickness of his lips. They suggested sensuality. And there was a
shade--a bare shade--more of pigment in his skin than the American
passes altogether unquestioned. And his hair was wavy.... But he could
be a charming host.

"We'll have a drink," he said bluntly, "while the car's coming around
to the door, and then go out to the flying field."

"No drink," said Bell, lifting his hand. "I feel squeamish now. I say!
Haven't you changed the lamps, or something? Everything looks
blue...."

That was a lie. Things looked entirely normal to Bell. But he looked
about him as if vaguely puzzled. If he had drunk the liquor Ribiera
had sent him, things would have had a bluish tinge for some time
after. But as it was....

Ribiera chaffed him jovially on the way to the flying field. And
introducing him to fliers and officials of the field, he told with
gusto of Bell's falling asleep while waiting for him. A very jolly
companion, Ribiera.

But Bell saw two or three men looking at him very queerly. Almost
sympathetically. And he noticed, a little later, that a surprising
number of fliers and officials of the airport seemed to be concealing
an abject terror of Ribiera. One or two of them seemed to hate him as
well.


CHAPTER IV

Bell stepped out of a tall French window to a terrace, and from the
terrace to the ground. There was a dull muttering in the sky to the
east, and a speck appeared, drew nearer swiftly, grew larger, and
became a small army biplane. It descended steeply to earth behind a
tall planting of trees. Bell lighted a cigarette and moved
purposelessly down an elaborately formalized garden.

"More victims," he observed grimly to himself, of the plane.

Ribiera lifted a pigmented hand to wave languidly from a shaded chair.
There were women about him, three of them, and it sickened Bell to see
the frightened assiduity with which they flattered him. Bell had met
them, of course. Madame the wife of the State President of Bahia--in
the United States of Brazil the states have presidents instead of
governors--preferred the title of "Madame" because it was more foreign
and consequently more aristocratic than Senhora. And Madame the wife
of the General--

"Senhor," called Ribiera blandly, "I have news for you."

Bell turned and went toward him with an air of pleased expectancy. He
noticed for the first time the third of the women. Young, in the first
flush of youthful maturity, but with an expression of stark terror
lingering behind a palpably assumed animation.

"An acquaintance of yours, Senhor," said Ribiera, "is to be my
guests."

Bell steeled himself.

"The Senhor Canalejas," said Ribiera, beaming, "and his daughter."

* * * * *

Bell seemed to frown, and then seemed to remember.

"Oh, yes," he said carelessly, "I met her in Washington. She was on
the _Almirante Gomez_, coming down."

The next instant he saw Ribiera's expression, and cursed himself for a
fool. Ribiera's eyes had narrowed sharply. Then they half-closed, and
he smiled.

"She is charming," said Ribiera in drowsy contentment, "and I had
thought you would be glad to improve her acquaintance. Especially
since, as my friend, you may congratulate me. A contract of marriage
is under discussion."

Bell felt every muscle grow taut. The fat, pigmented man before
him....

"Indeed," said Bell politely, "I do congratulate you."

Ribiera looked at him with an expression in which a sardonic
admiration mingled with something else less pleasant.

"You are clever, Senhor Bell," he said heavily, seeming to sink more
deeply into his chair. "Very clever." He shifted his eyes to the women
who stood about him. "You may go," he said indifferently. His tone was
exactly that of a despot dismissing his slaves. Two of them colored
with instinctive resentment. His eyes lingered an instant on the
third. Her face had showed only a passionate relief. "You, Senhora,"
he said heavily, "may wait nearby."

The terror returned to her features, but she moved submissively to a
spot a little out of earshot. Bell found his jaws clenched. There is a
certain racial taint widespread in Brazil which leads to an
intolerable arrogance when there is the slightest opportunity for its
exercise. Ribiera had the taint, and Bell felt a sickening wrath at
the terrified submission of the women.

"_Si_," said Ribiera, suddenly adverting to insolence. "You are
clever, Senhor Bell. Where did you learn of _yague_?"

* * * * *

Bell inhaled leisurely. His muscles were tense, but he gave no outward
sign. Instead, he sat down comfortably upon the arm of a chair facing
Ribiera's. The only way to meet insolence is with equal insolence and
a greater calm.

"Ah!" said Bell pleasantly. "So you found out it didn't work, after
all!"

Ribiera's eyes contracted. He became suddenly enraged.

"You are trifling with me," he said furiously. "Do you know the
penalty for that?"

"Why, yes," said Bell, and smiled amiably. "A dose of--er--poison of
The Master's private brand."

It was a guess, but based on a good deal of evidence. Ribiera turned
crimson, then pale.

"What do you know?" he demanded in a deadly quietness. "You cannot
leave this place. You are aware of that. The people here--guests and
servants--are my slaves, the slaves of The Master. You cannot leave
this place except also as my slave. I will have you bound and given
_yague_ so that you cannot fail to tell me anything that I wish to
know. I will have you tortured so that you will gladly say anything
that I wish, in return for death. I will--"

"You will," said Bell dryly, "drop dead with seven bullets in your
body if you give a signal for anyone to attack me."

* * * * *

Ribiera stared at him as his hand rested negligently in his coat
pocket. And then, quite suddenly Ribiera began to chuckle. His rage
vanished. He laughed, a monstrous, gross, cackling laughter.

"You have been my guest for two days," he gasped, slapping his fat
knees, "and you have not noticed that your pistol his been tampered
with! Senhor Bell! Senhor Bell! My uncle will be disappointed in you!"

It seemed to impress him as a victory that Bell had been depending
upon an utterly futile threat for safety. It restored his good humor
marvelously.

"It does not matter," he said jovially. "Presently you will tell me
all that I wish to know. More, perhaps. My uncle is pleased with you.
You recall your little talk with the wireless operator on the
_Almirante Gomez_? You tried to learn things from him, Senhor. He
reported it. Of course. All our slaves report. He sent his report to
my uncle, The Master, and I did not have it until to-day. I will admit
that you deceived me. I knew you had talked with Ortiz, who was a
fool. I thought that in his despair he might have spoken. I gave you
_yague_, as I thought, and informed my uncle that you knew nothing.
And he is very much pleased with you. It was clever to deceive me
about the _yague_. My uncle has high praise for you. He has told me
that he desires your services."

Bell inhaled again. There was no question but that Ribiera was totally
unafraid of the threat he had made. His gun must have been tampered
with, the firing-pin filed off perhaps. So Bell said placidly:

"Well? He desires my services?"

* * * * *

Ribiera chuckled, in his gross and horrible good humor.

"He will have them. Senhor. He will have them. When you observe your
hands writhing at the ends of your wrists, you will enter his service,
through me. Of course. And he will reward you richly. Money, much
money, such as I have. And slaves--such as I have. The Senhora...."

Ribiera looked at the terrified girl standing thirty or forty feet
away. He chuckled again.

"My uncle desires that you should be induced to enter his service of
your own will. So, Senhor, you shall see first what my uncle's service
offers. And later, when you know what pleasures you may some day
possess as my uncle's deputy in your own nation, why, then the fact
that your hands are writhing at the ends of your wrists will be merely
an added inducement to come to me. And I bear you no ill will for
deceiving me. You may go."

Bell rose.

"And still," he said dryly, "I suspect that you are deceived. But now
you deceive yourself."

He heard Ribiera chuckling as he walked away. He heard him call,
amusedly, "Senhora." He heard the little gasp of terror with which the
girl obeyed. He passed her, stumbling toward the gross fat man with
the light brown skin and curly hair. Her eyes were literally pools of
anguish.

* * * * *

Bell threw away his cigarette and began to fumble for another. He was
beginning to feel the first twinges of panic, and fought them down.
Ribiera had not lied. Bell had been at this _fazenda_ of his--which
was almost a miniature Versailles three hundred miles from Rio--for
two days. In all that time he had not seen one person besides himself
who did not display the most abject terror of Ribiera. Ribiera had
made no idle boast when he said that everyone about, guests and
servants, were slaves. They were. Slaves of a terror vastly greater
than mere fear of death. It--

"Senhor!... _Oh, Dios!_" It was the girl's voice, in despair.

Ribiera laughed. Bell felt a red mist come before his eyes.

He deliberately steadied his hands and lighted his cigarette. He heard
stumbling footsteps coming behind him. A hand touched his arm. He
turned to see the girl Ribiera had pointed out, her cheeks utterly,
chalky white, trying desperately to smile.

"Senhor!" she gasped. "Smile at me! For the love of God, smile at me!"

In the fraction of a second, Bell was mad with rage. He understood,
and he hated Ribiera with a corrosive hatred past conception. And then
he was deathly calm, and wholly detached, and he smiled widely, and
turned and looked at Ribiera, and Ribiera's whole gross bulk quivered
as he chuckled. Bell took the girl's arm with an excessive politeness
and managed--he never afterward understood how he managed it--to grin
at Ribiera.

"Senhora," he said in a low tone, "I think I understand. Stop being
afraid. We can fool him. Come and walk with me and talk. The idea is
that he must think you are trying to fascinate me, is it not?"

She spoke through stiffened lips.

"Ah, that I could die!"

Bell had a horrible part to play while he walked the length of the
formal garden with her, and found a pathway leading out of it, and led
her out of sight. He stopped.

"Now," he said sharply, "tell me. I am not yet his slave. He has
ordered you...."

She was staring before her with wide eyes that saw only despair.

"I--I am to persuade you to be my lover," she said dully, "or I shall
know the full wrath of The Master...."

* * * * *

Bell asked questions, crisply, but as gently as he could.

"We are his slaves," she told him apathetically. "I and _mi
Arturo_--my husband. Both of us...." She roused herself little under
Bell's insistent questioning. "We were guests at his house at dinner.
Our friends, people high in society and in the Republic, were all
about us. We suspected nothing. We had heard nothing. But two weeks
later Arturo became irritable. He said that he saw red spots before
his eyes. I also. Then Arturo's hands writhed at the ends of his
wrists. He could not control them. His nerves were horrible. And mine.
And we--we have a tiny baby.... And Senhor Ribiera called upon my
husband. He was charming. He observed my husband's hands. He had a
remedy, he said. He gave it to my husband. He became normal again. And
then--my hands writhed. Senhor Ribiera told my husband that if he
would bring me to him.... And I was relieved. We were grateful. We
accepted the invitation of the Senhor Ribiera to this place. And he
showed us a man, in chains. He--he went mad before our eyes. He was a
member of the United States Secret Service.... And then the Senhor
Ribiera told us that we faced the same fate if we did not serve
him...."

* * * * *

Bell had thrust aside rage as useless, now. He was deliberately cold.

"And so?"

"It is a poison," she said unsteadily. "A deadly, a horrible poison
which drives men murder mad in two weeks from the time of its
administration. The Senhor Ribiera has an antidote for it. But mixed
with the antidote, which acts at once, is more of the horrible poison,
which will act in two weeks more. So that we are entrapped. If we
disobey him...."

Bell began to smile slowly, and not at all mirthfully.

"I think," he said softly, "that I shall gain a great deal of pleasure
from killing the Senhor Ribiera."

"_Dios_--" She strangled upon the word. "Do you not see, Senhor, that
if he dies we--we--" She stopped and choked. "We--have a tiny baby,
Senhor. We--we would...."

Again sick rage surged up in Bell. To kill Ribiera meant to drive his
slaves mad, and mad in the most horrible fashion that can be imagined.
To kill Ribiera meant to have these people duplicate the death of
Ortiz, as their greatest hope, or to fill madhouses with snarling
animals lusting to kill....

"It is--it is not only I, Senhor," said the girl before him. She was
utterly listless, and in the agony of despair. "It is Arturo, also.
The Senhor Ribiera has said that if I do not persuade you, that both
Arturo and I.... And our little baby, Senhor!... Our families also
will be entrapped some day. He has said so.... He will give that
poison to our baby.... And it will grow up either his slave, or--"

Her eyes were pools of panic.

"Oh, God!" said Bell very quietly. "And he's offering me this power!
He's trying to persuade me to become like him. He's offering me
pleasures!"

* * * * *

He laughed unpleasantly. And then he went sick with helplessness. He
could kill Ribiera, perhaps, and let only God know how many people go
mad. Perhaps. Or perhaps Ribiera would merely be supplanted by another
man. Ortiz had said that he killed The Master's deputy in Buenos
Aires, but that another man had taken his place. And the thing went
on. And The Master desired a deputy in the United States....

"Somehow," said Bell very softly, "this has got to be stopped.
Somehow. Right away. That devilish stuff! Can you get hold of a bit of
the antidote?" he asked abruptly. "The merest drop of it?"

She shook her head.

"No, Senhor. It is given in food, in wine. One never knows that one
has had it. It is tasteless, and we have only Senhor Ribiera's word
that it has been given."

Bell's hands clenched.

"So devilish clever.... What are we going to do?"

The girl stuffed the corner of her handkerchief into her mouth.

"I am thinking of my little baby," she said, choking. "I must persuade
you, Senhor. I--I have been tearful. I--I am not attractive. I will
try. If I am not attractive to you...."

* * * * *

Bell cursed, deeply and savagely. It seemed to be the only possible
thing to do. And then he spoke coldly.

"Listen to me, Senhora. Ribiera talked frankly to me just now. He
knows that so far I am not subdued. If I escape he cannot blame you.
He cannot! And I am going to attempt it. If you will follow me...."

"There is no escape for me," she said dully, "and if he thinks that I
knew of your escape and did not tell him...."

"Follow me," said Bell, smiling queerly. "I shall take care that he
does not suspect it."

He gazed about for an instant, orienting himself. The plane that had
just landed--the last of a dozen or more that had arrived in the past
two days--had dipped down on the private landing field to the north.

There was a beautifully kept way running from the landing field to the
house, and he went on through the thick shrubbery amid a labyrinth of
paths, choosing the turnings most likely to lead him to it.

* * * * *

He came out upon it suddenly, and faced toward the field. There were
two men coming toward the house, on foot. One was a flying pilot,
still in his flying clothes. The other was a tall man, for a
Brazilian, with the lucent clarity of complexion that bespeaks
uncontaminated white descent. He was white-haired, and his face was
queerly tired, as if he were exhausted.

Bell looked sharply. He seemed to see a resemblance to someone he knew
in the tall man. He spoke quickly to the girl beside him.

"Who is the man to the left?"

"Senhor Canalejas," said the girl drearily. "He is the Minister of
War. I suppose he, too...."

Bell drew a deep breath. He walked on, confidently. As the two others
drew near he said apologetically:

"Senhores."

They halted with the instinctive, at least surface, courtesy of the
Brazilian. And Bell was fumbling with his handkerchief, rather
nervously tying a knot in it. He held it out to Canalejas.

"Observe."

It was, of course, a recognition-knot such as may be given to an
outsider by one in the Trade. The tall man's face changed. And Bell
swung swiftly and suddenly and very accurately to the point of the
other man's jaw.

He collapsed.

* * * * *

"Senhor Canalejas," said Bell politely, "I am about to go and steal an
airplane to take what I have learned to my companion for transmission.
If you wish to go with me...."

Canalejas stared for the fraction of a second. Then he said quietly:

"But of course."

He turned to retrace his steps. Bell turned to the girl.

"If you are wise," he said gently, "you will go and give the alarm. If
you are kind, you will delay it as much as you dare."

She regarded him in agonized doubt for a moment, and nodded. She fled.

"Now," said Bell casually, "I think we had better hasten. And I hope,
Senhor Canalejas, that you have a revolver. We will need one. Mine has
been ruined."

Without a word, the white-haired man drew out a weapon and offered it
to him.

"I had intended," he said very calmly, "to kill the Senhor Ribiera.
His last demand is for my daughter."

They went swiftly. The plane Bell had seen alight some fifteen or
twenty minutes before was just being approached by languid mechanics.
It was, of course, still warm. Canalejas shouted and waved his arm
imperiously. It is probable that he gave the impression of a man
returning for some forgotten thing, left in the cockpit of the plane.

* * * * *

What happened then, happened quickly. A few crisp words in a low tone.
A minor hubbub began suddenly back at the house. Canalejas climbed
into the passenger's seat as if looking for something. And Bell
presented his now useless automatic pleasantly at the head of the
nearest staring mechanic, and while he froze in horror, scrambled up
into the pilot's cockpit.

"Contact!" he snapped, and turned on the switch. The mechanic remained
frozen with fear. "Damnation!" said Bell savagely. "I don't know the
Portuguese for 'Turn her over'!"

He fumbled desperately about in the cockpit. Something whirred. The
propeller went over.... Canalejas shot with painstaking accuracy,
twice. The motor caught with a spluttering roar.

As a horde of running figures, servants and guests, running with the
same desperation, came plunging out on the flying field from the
shrubbery. Bell gave the motor the gun. The fast little plane's tail
came up off the ground as she darted forward. Faster and faster, with
many bumpings. The bumpings ceased. She was clear.

And Bell zoomed suddenly to lift her over the racing, fear-ridden
creatures who clutched desperately at the wheels, and then the little
ship shot ahead, barely cleared the trees to the east of the field,
and began to roar at her topmost speed toward Rio.


CHAPTER V

The Trade--which does not exist--has its obligations and its code, but
also it has its redeeming features. When a man has finished his job,
he has finished it. And as far as the Trade was concerned, Bell had
but little more to do. But after that--and his eyes burned smokily in
their depths--there was much that he intended to do. He sat in one of
the _bondes_ of the Botanical Garden half of the street railway system
of Rio, and absent mindedly regarded the scenery. This particular
_bonde_ was headed out toward the Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas, by which
salty mass of water Bell would meet Paula Canalejas. He would receive
a package from her, which he would deliver to Jamison. And then he
would be free, and it was his private intention to engage in an
enterprise which was very probably a form of suicide. But there are
some things one cannot dismiss with a sage reflection that they are
not one's business. This matter of Ribiera was definitely one of them.

* * * * *

The escape from Ribiera's _fazenda_ had been relatively easy, because
so thoroughly unexpected. The little plane had climbed to five
thousand feet and found a stratum of cloud that stretched for very
many miles. Bell had emerged from it only twice in the first hour of
flight, and the second time the sky was clear all about him. That he
was pursued, he had no doubt. That Ribiera had wireless communications
with Rio, he knew. And he knew that instant, and imperative orders
would have gone out for his capture.

Rio would not be a healthy place for him. If Ribiera had power over
high government officials, he had surely indirect power over the
police, and a search for Bell would be in order at once. Yet Canalejas
assuredly expected to return to Rio.

A shouted question with the motor cut out, and a nodded answer. Bell
headed for Petropolis, which is Rio's only real summer resort and is
high in the hills and only an hour and a half from it by train. It was
surprisingly satisfactory to be handling a swift plane again, and Bell
allowed himself what he knew was about the only pleasure he was likely
to have for some time to come.

Something of his hatred of Ribiera, however, came back as he prepared
to land. He managed to crack the plane up very neatly, so that it
would be of no use to Ribiera any more. And at the same time, of
course, the cracking-up provided an excellent excuse for Canalejas to
continue on by train.

* * * * *

They talked very briefly by the puffing engine.

"It is best," said Canalejas, "for you, Senhor, to remain here
overnight. I believe Senhor Ribiera has given orders for us both to be
looked for, yet as a Cabinet Minister I am still immune from arrest by
the ordinary police. If I reach my home I shall be able to do all that
is necessary."

"And you will prepare a message for me to carry," said Bell.

"It is ready," said Canalejas. He smiled faintly. "No, Senhor. I have
instructions to give my daughter. She will deliver the information to
you to-morrow. Let me see. At the edge of the Lagao Rodrigo de
Feitas, at nine o'clock. She is the only messenger I can trust. I
think that is all."

Bell hesitated uncomfortably.

"But you, sir," he said awkwardly. "You have been poisoned, as Senor
Ortiz was."

"But certainly," said Canalejas. His smile was ironic as before. "But,
unlike Senor Ortiz, I have no hope. I have arranged for my daughter to
conceal herself and escape from Brazil. I have prepared for
everything, Senhor. As you know, I had intended to kill Senhor
Ribiera. In returning with you I have merely delayed my own death by a
few hours."

Still smiling, and with the air of one entering a train for the most
casual of journeys, Canalejas entered the coach.

* * * * *

And Bell, sitting in the _bonde_ next morning, saw with an uncanny
clarity the one weak point in Ribiera's hold upon his subjects. When
they had courage to fear nothing more than death, they could defy him.
And not many could attain to that courage. But a few....

"I'll have some help, anyway," muttered Bell savagely to himself.

It it a long ride to the Botanical Gardens, from which one half the
surface lines of Rio take their name. On the way out to the Lagao
Rodrigo de Feitas, which, is close by the Garden itself, Bell had time
to work over for the thousandth time the information he possessed, and
realize its uselessness. Two things, only, might be of service. One
was that Ribiera was the nephew of the person referred to as The
Master, and yet was evidently as much subjected to him as his own
victims to himself. The other was that the ultimate end of all the
ghastly scheme was in some fashion political. If wealth alone had been
Ribiera's aim, the gathering of his slaves would have had a different
aspect. The majority of them would have been rich men, men of
business, men who could pay out hundreds of thousands a month in the
desperate hope of being permitted to remain sane. There would not have
been politicians and officials and officers of the army.

"The key men of the country," growled Bell inaudibly, "enslaved to
Ribiera. They give him the power he's after more than cash. And it's
those key men who have more to lose than money. There's such a thing
as honor...."

Three times the conductor stopped beside him and suggestively rattled
the coins in his box. Three times Bell absent mindedly paid the fare
for the zone. But the ride is a long one, and he had had time to
realize the hopelessness of any single-handed attack upon the thing he
faced long before the end.

Then he absently moved through the amazing collection of tropic and
near tropic growths that is the Botanical Garden until he came at once
to Paula and the Lagoa Rodrico de Freitas.

* * * * *

It was alive with birds, and they hopped and pecked and squabbled
without acrimony within feet of her seated figure. Bell knew that she
had been waiting for a long time. He looked quickly at her face. It
was quite pale, but entirely tearless.

"Here is the message, Senhor Bell," she said quietly, "but I think I
have been followed."

Bell growled in his throat.

"I did not discover it until I reached this spot," she said evenly.
"And I did not know what to do. If I left, I would be seized and the
message taken--and I think that someone would have waited here for
you. So, in part to gain time, and in part because I hoped you might
have some resource, I remained."

"How many of them?" asked Bell shortly.

"Two," she said quietly. She looked at him, her large eyes entirely
calm and grave.

"Give me the package," said Bell briefly. "They'll be more anxious to
get it back than to bother you. And I'll either knock them cold or
hold them in a scrap until you get away."

She reached in her pocket and handed him a small thick envelope. He
stuffed it in the side pocket of his coat.

"I will walk away," he observed, "and they'll follow me. Can you
arrange to give me some sign that you're safe?"

"By the gateway," she told him. "My handkerchief. I shall start as
soon as you have vanished. If I am followed, I will drop this
handkerchief, as it is. If I am not followed, I will tie a knot. But
what can you do?"

"I'll do something," said Bell coldly. "Something!"

* * * * *

She smiled, with the same odd bitterness her father had shown.

"My father--shot himself," she said briefly. "I have no particular
hope of doing better. But I shall not be Ribiera's slave."

She remained quite still. Bell moved away. He hurried. There was thick
jungle ahead, a section of the Gardens that is painstakingly preserved
untouched and undisturbed, that visitors to the capital of Brazil may
observe a typical sample of the virgin interior. He dived into that
jungle as if in flight.

And very shortly after, two men dived in after him. They hesitated,
these men, because your policeman of Rio does not like to injure his
uniform, and there are many thorns in jungle growths. But they entered
it, having first drawn small glittering weapons. And then from the
jungle came silence.

* * * * *

It seemed to be silence. But there may have been some small unusual
noises. It would not be easy to tell if they were unusual or not,
because there are peculiar flashes of charm in certain Brazilian
institutions. The preservation of the spot of jungle itself is one.
Another is the fact that in the Gardens all manner of wild things
live at large and provide unexpected and delightful surprises to the
usually foreign visitors.

So there were noises, after a bit. Such noises as some grunting wild
thing might have made, perhaps. But they might also have been the
gasping of a man as breath was choked out of him.... And there was a
cracking sound a little later, which might--of course--have been any
one of any number of accidental and perfectly natural causes. And it
might have been a man upon whom another man had hurled himself, when
the second man landed on his jaw. And thrashing noises a little later
might have been anything.

But after what seemed a long time, Bell emerged. Alone. He was
breathing quickly, and there were scratches on his face and hands
which--well, which might have been made by thorns. He went swiftly
back toward the spot where Paula had waited. He looked cautiously. She
was gone.

And then Bell went leisurely, in the studious fashion of a person
going through the Botanical Gardens because it was the thing to do,
toward the gateway and the surface cars. As he neared the gate his
eyes roved with apparent casualness all about. He saw a tiny speck of
white on the edge of the roadway. It looked as if it had been flung
from a car. Bell picked it up. It was Paula's handkerchief, and there
was no knot whatever in it. In fact, its lacy edge was torn.

"They've got her," said Bell, apparently unmoved.

* * * * *

He waited for a car. A bulky figure wearing thick spectacles came
placidly from the Gardens. It waited, also, for the car. The car
arrived, in its two sections of first and second class; the first
reserved for _cavalhieros_, which is to say persons wearing coat,
shirt, collar, necktie, hat, shoes and socks, and carrying no parcel
larger than a brief case. Lesser folk who lacked any of the sartorial
requirements for admission to the first class section, or wore
_tomancos_ instead of shoes, heaped themselves into the second section
and paid one-third of the fare in the first.

Ball took his seat in the first section. It was comfortably filled.
The bulky person with the thick spectacles wedged himself carefully
into the space beside Bell. He unfolded a copy of the _Jornal do
Commercio_ and began to regard the advertisements. Presently he found
what he was looking for. "_O Bicho_," said medium-sized type. Beside
it was a picture of a kangaroo. The gentleman with the thick
spectacles resignedly fished into his pockets and found a lottery
ticket. He tore it into scraps and threw them away. Then he began to
gaze disinterestedly at the scenery and the other passengers in the
car.

* * * * *

Bell drummed on his knee. With one's forefinger representing a dot,
and one's second finger serving as a dash, it is surprising how
naturally and absentmindedly one may convey a perfectly intelligible
message to a man sitting within a reasonable distance. When the man is
alongside, the matter is absurdly simple.

Presently the man with the thick lenses got out his paper again, as if
bored by vistas such as no other city in the world can offer. His
paper was in the pocket which pressed against Bell. If in getting out
his newspaper he also abstracted a thick fat envelope from Bell's
pocket and placed it in his own, and if all this took place under a
sign--even in the section reserved for _cavalhieros_ of approved
raiment--solemnly warning passengers against "_batadores de
carteiras_," or pickpockets--well, it was an ironical coincidence
whose humor Bell did not see.

He was busily tapping out on his knee the briefest possible account of
what he had learned at Ribiera's _fazenda_ up country.

"_One chance for me_," he tapped off at the end. "_If I can kidnap
Ribiera I can make him talk. Somehow. He has big amphibian plane kept
fueled and ready for long trip. I think he is back in Rio to direct
hunt for me. Paula kidnapped. My job finished. On my own now._"

The man with thick spectacles did not nod. He seemed to be looking
idly at his paper, but it was folded at an article very discreetly
phrased, beneath a photograph of Senhor Teixeira Canalejas, Minister
of War, who had very unfortunately been found dead that morning. He
had been depressed, of late, but there were certain circumstances
which made it as yet impossible to determine whether he had killed
himself or was the victim of an assassin.

"_Getting set for me_," tapped Bell grimly on his knee. "_Ribiera told
me too much._"

* * * * *

The man with thick spectacles yawned and turned the paper over. Under
a smaller headline--which would only find a place on a Brazilian
sheet--"A Regrettable Incident"--an item of more direct importance was
printed. It told of an unnamed Senhor from the United States of the
North America, who as the guest of a widely known Brazilian gentleman
had behaved most boorishly, had stolen an airplane from his host and
broken it to bits on landing unskilfully, and had vanished with
priceless heirlooms belonging to his host. It read, virtuously:

No names are mentioned because the American Senhor has been
widely introduced in Rio society as a person with an
official status in Washington. It is understood that an
inquiry is to be made of the Ambassador as to the status of
the young man, before any action is taken by the police. It
is to be expected, however, that he will at least be
requested to leave the country.

Bell managed the barest flicker of a smile. Arrest, of course.
Detention, most courteously arranged, while the Ambassador was
communicated with. And Ribiera.

"_Give me dismiss_," he tapped on his knee.

The gentleman in the thick spectacles ran his finger thoughtfully
about the edge of his collar. In the Trade that is a signal of many
varied meanings. A hand across the throat in any fashion means, "Clear
out, your job is finished," "Save your skin as best you can," and "Get
away without trying to help me," according to circumstances. In this
case it relieved Bell of all future responsibility.

He yawned, tapping his lips with the back of his hand, signaled for a
stop of the car, and got out. Five minutes later he had signaled a
taxicab and given Ribiera's address. In six minutes he was being
whirled toward the one house in all Rio de Janeiro from which his
chance of a safe departure was slightest. In little more than half an
hour he had dismissed the cab and was gazing placidly into the
startled eyes of the doorman. The doorman, like all of Rio where
Ribiera was known and feared, knew that Bell was being hunted.

Bell handed over his card with an inscrutable air.

"The Senhor Ribiera," he said drily, "returned to the city last night.
Present my card and say that I would like to speak to him."

* * * * *

The doorman ushered him inside and summoned the major-domo, still
blinking his amazement. And the major-domo blinked again. But Bell
followed with the air of an habitue, as he was again ushered into the
luxurious salon in which he had once been offered a drugged drink.

Again he sank down in a softly padded chair and surveyed the pictures
and the minor objects of decadent art about him. Again he lighted a
cigarette with every appearance of ease, and again had the impression
of eyes upon him. The major-domo appeared, somewhat agitated.

"The Senhor Ribiera," he said harshly, "will see you only if you are
not armed. He requires your word of honor."

Bell smiled lazily.

"I'll do better than that," he said languidly. "I haven't had time to
buy a revolver. But the automatic he had put out of commission is in
my pocket. Present it to him with my compliments."

He handed over the weapon, butt first. The major-domo blinked, and
took it. Bell sat down and smiled widely. He had been expected to be
uproarious, to attempt to force the major-domo to lead him to Ribiera.
And, of course, he would have been led past a perfectly planned ambush
for his capture--but he might have killed the major-domo. Which would
not disturb Ribiera, but had disturbed the servant.

* * * * *

Bell smoked comfortably. And suddenly hangings parted, and Ribiera
came into the room. He smiled nervously, and then, as Bell blew a puff
of smoke at him and nodded casually, he scowled.

"I came," said Bell deliberately, "to make a bargain. Frankly, I do
not like to break my word. I was under obligations to deliver a
package from Senhor Canalejas to a certain messenger who will take it
to my government. I have done it. But I am not, Senhor Ribiera, a
member of the Secret Service. I am entirely a free agent now, and I am
prepared to consider your proposals, which I could not in honor do
before."

He smiled pleasantly. Effrontery, properly managed, is one of the most
valuable of all qualities. Especially in dealing with people who
themselves are arrogant when they dare.

* * * * *

Ribiera purpled with rage, and then controlled it.

"Ah!" he rumbled. "You are prepared to consider my proposals. There
are no proposals. The Master may be amused at your cleverness in
escaping. I do not know. I do know that I am ordered to make you my
slave and send you to The Master. That, I shall do."

"Perhaps," said Bell blandly: "but I can go without food and drink for
several days, which will delay the process. And while I cannot
honorably tell you how to stop the man bearing Senhor Canalejas'
package to my government, still ... If I willingly accepted a dose of
_yague_ in token of my loyalty to The Master...."

Ribiera's good humor returned. He chuckled.

"You actually mean," he said jovially, "that you think you were given
some of The Master's little compound, and that you wish to make terms
before your hands begin to writhe at the ends of your wrists. Is not
that your reason?"

Bell's eyes flickered. He had been horribly afraid of just that. But
Ribiera's amusement was reassuring.

"Perhaps," said Bell. "Perhaps I am."

* * * * *

Ribiera sat down and stretched his fat legs in front of him. He
surveyed Bell with an obscene, horrible amusement.

"Ah, Senhor," he chuckled, "some day we will laugh together over this!
You yet hope, and do not yet know how much better it will be for you
if you cease to hope, and cultivate desires! The Master is pleased
with you. You have just those qualities he knows are necessary in
dealing with your nation. He is not angry with you. It is his
intention to use you to extend his--ah--influence among the officials
of your nation. You know, of course, that in but a little more time I
will hold all Brazil--as I now hold this city--in the hollow of my
hand. Four of the republics of this continent are already completely
under the control of The Master's deputies, and of the rest, Brazil is
not the most nearly subdued. A year or two, and The Master will
become Emperor, and his deputies viceroys. And it is his whim to give
you the opportunity of becoming the first deputy and the first viceroy
of North America. And you come to me and offer--you, Senhor!--to make
terms! I believe even The Master will laugh when he hears of it."

"But," said Bell practically, "do you accept my terms?"

Ribiera chuckled again.

"What are they, Senhor?"

"That you release the daughter of the Senhor Canalejas and pledge your
word of honor that she will not be enslaved."

* * * * *

Ribiera's word of honor, of course, would be worth rather less than
the breath that was used to give it. But his reception of the proposal
would be informative.

He chuckled again.

"No, Senhor. I do not accept. But I will promise you as a favor,
because my uncle The Master admires you, that within a few weeks you
shall enjoy her charms. I do not," he added with amused candor, "find
that any one woman diverts me for a very long time."

"Oh," said Bell, very quietly.

He sat still for an instant, and then shrugged, and looked about as if
for an ash tray in which to knock the ashes from his cigarette. He
stood up, carrying the tube of tobacco gingerly, and moved toward one
by Ribiera's elbow. He knocked off the ash, and crushed out the tiny
coal. He fumbled in his pockets.

The next instant Ribiera choked with terror.

"Let me explain," said Bell softly. "I did not give your major-domo my
word that I was unarmed. I merely gave him a weapon. I got these from
two policemen who tried to arrest me an hour or so ago. And I also
remind you, Senhor, that if the armed men you have posted to prevent
my escape try to shoot me, that the inevitable contraction of my
muscles will send two bullets into your heart--even if I am dead. I
am a dead man, Senhor, if you give the word, but so are you if you
give it."

Ribiera gasped. His eyes rolled in his head.

"Send for her," said Bell very gently. "Send for her, Senhor. I
estimate that she has been in this house for less than half an hour.
Have her brought here at once, and if she has been harmed the three of
us will perish very promptly, and half of Rio will go mad after our
death."

And the muzzles of two revolvers bored into the fat flesh of Ribiera's
body, and a gasp that was almost a wail of terror came from the
watchers--armed watchers--who dared not kill the man they had been
posted to guard Ribiera against.

Ribiera lifted his hand and croaked an order.

(_To be continued._)

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