The Key

CHAPTER III THE LAST GASP

“I DID not expect you so soon, Mr. Berlett.”

The speaker was a crafty faced man who was seated in an armchair in the corner of a small but luxurious living room. He was looking toward Edwin Berlett who was standing by the curtained window.

The lawyer did not reply. He was staring from the window, out into the night. From this suite in the Hotel Nacional, he could view the brilliant lights of Rio de Janeiro. Beyond a balcony outside the window, he spied the long, curving twinkle of the crescent waterfront that seemed to dwindle endlessly in each direction.

“I supposed,” said the man in the chair, “that you were coming by boat. Mr. Curshing, when he sent his cable, announced that you were on your way. I did not expect you, Mr. Berlett, for a few days to come.”

“Quite right.” Berlett was terse as he swung from the window to face the man who was hunched in the chair. “I would have come by steamship, Sigler. It was Curshing who insisted that I come by plane. I thought that he would send a second cable. Evidently he decided it was unnecessary.”

There was a tinge of annoyance in Berlett’s tone. It brought a response from a third man who was seated in another corner. This man was a gray-haired Brazilian. He spoke in English, with barely a trace of Portuguese accent.

“It is well, Senhor Berlett,” he announced, “that you did come by air. The doctor does not think that Senhor Dilgin will live past midnight. His sudden illness is most unfortunate.”

“It is,” agreed Berlett. Then, swinging to Sigler, he ordered, brusquely: “Give me the exact circumstances.”

“The cable came from Curshing,” explained Sigler. “Mr. Dilgin had not been well; nevertheless, I showed him the message. I have been his secretary for seven years; I did not expect that so simple a cable could produce a shock.

“Mr. Dilgin began to worry. He said, sir, that the message meant trouble with the corporation. He wanted me to cable to New York. I restrained him, assuring him that you were on the way.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Dilgin called in the physician. The doctor seemed worried. Mr. Dilgin then insisted upon an attorney. That is why I summoned this gentleman” — he indicated the gray-haired Brazilian — “Senhor Dario.”

Berlett nodded. He again returned to the window. Staring out toward the crescent beach, he inquired:

“So you sent no cable to New York?”

“None, sir,” responded Sigler, with emphasis. “I went to the cable office; but merely to learn if other cables had come.”

“And you received no message outside of Curshing’s cable?”

“None, sir.”

“All right.” Berlett swung to Dario. “I have heard Sigler’s statement. Tell me your connection with the case, Senhor.”

BERLETT was looking squarely at Dario. The Brazilian was facing the American attorney. Warren Sigler relaxed. A slight smile showed on the secretary’s crafty face.

“Senhor Dilgin was very ill,” declared Dario, seriously. “I thought he wanted to make a will. He said no. He wanted to speak to you, he said, so that you could help his company.”

“Exactly,” returned Berlett. “That is why I have come here, Senhor. But since he wanted to talk to me, why did he send for you?”

“To have a witness,” explained Dario. “I handled some legal matters — of a slight sort — for Senhor Dilgin. He placed reliance in me.”

“I understand. Then you have, as yet, learned nothing?”

“Nothing. Up to last night, it was not alarming. But this morning, Senhor Dilgin became very bad. He has not been able to speak all day. We were sure that he would die.”

As Dario concluded, a door opened. A tall Brazilian, obviously the physician, came into view and looked toward Berlett. The lawyer returned a bushy gaze as he saw a smile upon the doctor’s lips.

“The patient has awakened!” exclaimed the physician, in English. “He has come from his coma. He can talk, Senhor. He has asked for you!”

The doctor held his hand upon the door knob, expecting Berlett to respond. The bushy-browed lawyer shook his head.

“Not yet, doctor,” he declared. “Let him recover his strength. He may have much to say.”

“No, no!” exclaimed the physician. “You do not understand, Senhor. The patient is not improved. He may die at any time. There is no chance for him” — the speaker paused with a sad shake of his head — “but it is possible that he will talk to you if you come quickly.”

“What do you think of it, Sigler?” inquired Berlett, turning to the secretary.

“I agree with you, Mr. Berlett,” returned Sigler. “Mr. Dilgin is apt to weaken when he sees you.”

“It will strengthen him!” protested the physician, in an excited tone. “Every minute counts, Senhor. Every minute! Come! At once!”

“Sigler tells me that Mr. Dilgin experienced his first shock when he read a cablegram,” retorted Berlett. “If that is true, he may experience another through the excitement of seeing me. I rely upon you, doctor, but remember: Sigler has been with Mr. Dilgin for years.”

The doctor waved his hands excitedly. He swung to Dario and loosed a flow of voluble Portuguese at which the gray-haired lawyer nodded. Firmly, Dario turned to Berlett.

“Senhor,” he said, “you must be guided by what the physician has said.”

“I do not want to be responsible for Dilgin’s death,” returned Berlett, coldly.

“Remember!” Dario wagged a finger in Berlett’s face. “I am here to represent Senhor Dilgin. We are in Brazil, not in the United States. I can protest to the law!”

Berlett stood indignant at the challenge. For a moment, conflict seemed impending. Then came an interruption. The door of the bedroom opened. A Brazilian nurse appeared. The woman shook her head as she spoke in Portuguese to the physician.

“You see!” exclaimed the doctor. “It is too late, Senhor. The nurse thinks that Senhor Dilgin has died. Come! You have delayed too long.”

SOBERLY, the four men filed into the sickroom. Stretched in a bed lay the withered form of Torrence Dilgin. Illness had played havoc with a frame that Edwin Berlett had remembered as robust. Scrawny hands; cheek bones in a dried face; these were the motionless impressions of Torrence Dilgin that showed above the sheets.

Life had apparently ended. The physician approached the near side of the bed to make an examination. Dario was beside him. Berlett crossed the room and stood at the other side of the bed.

“I think,” announced the physician, “that he is dead. If you had come sooner, Senhor—”

“This is no time to discuss the matter,” interposed Berlett. “The fact that he subsided quickly proves that he could not have talked.”

The sound of Berlett’s voice produced a magical effect. Like a corpse from its coffin, Torrence Dilgin came to life. Scrawny hands twitched while blued eyelids opened. Torrence Dilgin was staring straight toward Edwin Berlett!

“You are here!” gasped Dilgin. With an amazing effort, the old man clawed his body half upright. “Here! Berlett! With witnesses! Listen!

“The key! Get it, Berlett. For — for the company. The key! One — one million — dollars—”

Berlett caught Dilgin’s shoulders. The withered frame was sagging. Leaning along as Dilgin sank, Berlett spoke these words.

“What key? Who has it?”

An incoherent gasp came from Torrence Dilgin’s lips. Dried lips twitched, trying to repeat a name. The gasp, however, made the word inaudible. Slipping from Berlett’s grasp, Torrence Dilgin rolled sidewise in the bed and spoke no more.

It was the physician who took charge. No question remained. That gasp had been Torrence Dilgin’s last. When the doctor announced that the old man was dead, the three visitors filed from the room. They assembled beyond the door which the nurse closed behind them.

EDWIN BERLETT strolled to the window. He stood staring toward the lights. It was impossible to determine the emotion that the death scene had inspired in his mind. When Berlett swung from the window, his face had all its firmness.

“Sigler,” he ordered, “get your notebook. Take down the death statement as I heard it.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the secretary.

Word for word, Berlett repeated the dying words. Finished, he turned to Dario. The Brazilian lawyer nodded.

“It is exactly as I heard it,” he announced. “But there was one thing, Senhor. There was a name which Senhor Dilgin tried to speak—”

“Did you hear it?” questioned Berlett, keenly.

“No, Senhor,” returned the Brazilian, “but you were close—”

“I could not catch the name,” interposed Berlett simply. “In accordance with Torrence Dilgin’s apparent wishes, I shall require affidavits from you, Senhor Dario, and from the physician. Did you hear the last words, Sigler?”

“No, sir. Only a few of them.”

“Your statement will not be needed. Perhaps, after I have made my report in New York, I may be able to trace this reference to a key and the sum of one million dollars.

“However” — Berlett paused to eye Dario steadily — “that will be my concern. You, Senhor, are but a witness. Your affidavit will end your connection with the case. It will be a matter for the United States, not for Brazil.”

“Very well, Senhor,” bowed Dario, in acknowledgment. “I understand.”

Edwin Berlett returned to his window. His meditative gaze again sought the sparkling lights of the city. Beyond the glow of lights in the Parque da Acclamacao, he stared toward that inevitable stretch of landlocked bay.

Dying words! Edwin Berlett had heard them. They were the beginning of a revelation; Torrence Dilgin’s statement of a strange secret which involved a key and the sum of one million dollars.

Yet more important than the words themselves had been the final gasp. A name — lost amid the dying breath — was the answer upon which Torrence Dilgin’s secret hinged. To Edwin Berlett, the old millionaire had tried to give the all important words.

Who was the person whom Torrence Dilgin had tried to name? What could that person reveal regarding the old man’s statements of a key and one million dollars? Had the secret died with Torrence Dilgin?

From the solemn look upon Edwin Berlett’s steady face, one would have supposed the secret gone. Senhor Dario, viewing Berlett’s profile from one side, was clucking sadly. Warren Sigler, seeing that same profile from the opposite angle, was repressing a triumphant smile.

Brazilian and American had watched by Torrence Dilgin’s bedside while awaiting Edwin Berlett’s arrival. Yet the effect of Dilgin’s apparent failure to convey a final clue to Berlett had produced an opposite effect.

Where Senhor Dario felt that misfortune had been the reward of a long vigil, Warren Sigler was satisfied that his own hopes had been fulfilled.