The Key

CHAPTER V AT PERNAMBUCO

DAYS had passed since The Shadow’s arrival in Rio de Janeiro. The Steamship Southern Star had made its scheduled sailing from the Brazilian capital. Steaming more than a thousand miles northward, it had reached the final Brazilian port. The ship was at anchor in the harbor of Pernambuco.

Edwin Berlett was standing beside the rail of a stern deck. The lawyer was studying the widespread city, with its causeways connecting a central island with mainland and peninsula. Strolling across the deck to gaze out into the harbor, Berlett looked toward the open sea.

Somewhere in the direction of the ocean lay the hidden reef that served as protection to Pernambuco’s harbor. Within a few hours, the Southern Star would be steaming through one of the navigable passages that pierced the reef, guided by a pilot who would know the hidden channel.

Passengers, standing by, were discussing the harbor, which had been improved to accommodate vessels the size of the Southern Star. Among them was a distinguished looking personage whose acquaintance Berlett had made. He was Lamont Cranston, wealthy New Yorker, who had come aboard the ship at Rio.

“Mr. Berlett.”

The lawyer swung at the sound of his own name. Warren Sigler had approached. Berlett raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“I have completed all the work you gave me, sir,” responded the secretary. “Is there any other duty?”

“Not at present.”

“Then I shall go ashore, sir.”

“For how long? The boat sails in three hours.”

“I shall be back in one.”

“Very well. Come to my stateroom when you return. No — I shall not be there. I am going down for a while; but after that I shall be in the smoking salon. Come there.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sigler walked away and descended by a companionway. Berlett remained by the rail to finish the perfecto that he was puffing. Unnoticed by the lawyer, Lamont Cranston left the group of passengers. He had overheard Berlett’s conversation with Sigler.

FIVE minutes later, Edwin Berlett finished his smoke. He threw his cigar stump overboard and strolled along the deck. He stopped at a passage that led into the ship. Reaching a door, he unlocked it and entered a sumptuous cabin. Furnished in old-fashioned style, the stateroom was almost a combination of living room and bedroom.

The bed was large and comfortable. A huge wardrobe closet provided space that Berlett did not require for his limited supply of clothing. A writing desk was stationed in the corner. Upon it lay an opened box of cigars. Berlett advanced to fill his pocket with perfectos.

The lawyer stopped. Beneath the box was a sheet of paper, folded in peculiar, diagonal fashion. Berlett recognized that this must be a message. Unfolding the paper, he read the note.

A steady, crafty look showed on the lawyer’s face. Berlett gripped the message between his hands. He tore it while he nodded; then smiled as he pulled the paper to shreds. Strolling slowly from the cabin, Berlett returned to his spot on deck.

Lamont Cranston had come back. Keen eyes were watching Berlett as the lawyer let fragments of paper drift into the harbor breeze. Fifteen minutes passed; then twenty. Berlett shifted to the shore side of the ship. He eyed the wharf as though expecting Sigler’s return.

In contrast to his usual calm, Berlett seemed unusually anxious. When a half hour had passed, he left the deck and went into the smoking salon. Here he was greeted by a trio of card players who were whiling away the harbor hours with pinochle. In response to their insistence, Berlett joined the game.

IT was not long before Warren Sigler entered. The secretary had arrived back well within the hour. He saw Berlett at the card table and approached. The lawyer looked up from his hand.

“I have an appointment in fifteen minutes,” he announced, glancing at a clock in the smoking salon. “It will be in my cabin. It is very important. I do not wish to be disturbed. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” returned Sigler.

“I shall return here afterward,” added Berlett. “You will find me after my appointment. But do not come to my cabin while I am there. If any one inquires for me, say that I am ashore.”

The pinochle players were studying their hands. They thought nothing of the conversation. Berlett rejoined the game in casual fashion. Warren Sigler strolled from the smoking salon. His face wore a knowing smile.

The secretary made directly for Berlett’s cabin. He found the door unlocked. He entered. He went to the wardrobe closet and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him. He was waiting ready to be a hidden witness to the interview.

IN less than fifteen minutes, Edwin Berlett arrived at his cabin. He closed the door and seated himself at the writing desk. A few minutes passed. A cautious knock sounded. Berlett went to the door and opened it.

A tall, dark-visaged stranger entered. Berlett invited the visitor over by the desk and offered him a perfecto, which the arrival accepted.

Seating himself, Berlett faced his visitor. Both men were smoking; through clouds of smoke, Berlett studied the face of the man before him.

The stranger was evidently a Brazilian. Berlett did not seem surprised at that fact; indeed, his first statement, a question, indicated that he had expected a visitor of that nationally.

“You are Carlos Mendoza?” he asked.

“Yes,” returned the stranger, “a fellow passenger from Rio.”

“I have seen you on the ship.”

“Only occasionally, I suppose. I have been keeping out of sight.”

“So you mentioned in the note that you left here.”

There was a pause. Mendoza was talking in excellent English, but it had the peculiar accent common to Portuguese and Brazilians.

“Senhor,” announced Mendoza, “I shall tell you my exact purpose here. I was once a secret agent of the Brazilian government; I am now engaged in private investigation.”

“So your note informed me.”

“I took passage at Rio de Janeiro at the wish of Senhor Dario, the lawyer. He placed me here that I might afford you protection; and that I might also deliver you some important evidence.”

“Regarding Warren Sigler?”

“Yes.”

“Hm-m,” mused Berlett. “I thought that Dario had told me all there was to know. He spoke to me the night before I left Rio.”

“I know that, Senhor. But he did not tell you that I was working on the case. I was watching the room of this secretary, Warren Sigler. Let me tell you what the man did.

“After all had gone, he appeared in his room bringing two small bottles. He wrapped them in pieces of crumpled newspaper. A chambermaid was on the floor. He told her to empty the wastebasket, in which he had placed the hidden bottles.”

“You saw Sigler do this?”

“No. I heard him instruct the maid. I went into his room and searched the basket. I found the bottles and removed them before the maid took away the waste paper. Those bottles, Senhor, I have with me, wrapped in cotton. They had contained arsenic inside; on the outside, they have traces of finger prints which must be Sigler’s.”

“Why was I not informed of this?”

“I made my report to Dario just before the Southern Star left Rio de Janeiro. Dario ordered me aboard. I came as an ordinary passenger. I hold the evidence, Senhor.”

“With you?”

“Yes, Senhor.”

“Show me the bottles.”

Carlos Mendoza arose with an apologetic laugh. He placed his hand upon his pocket, as though seeking to protect his prize.

“I cannot do that, Senhor,” he announced, politely. “Unless you wish to—”

“Wish what?”

“To remain in Pernambuco.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“You should, Senhor,” laughed Mendoza. “I am a Brazilian, like Senhor Dario. I must obey the law of my country. Should I give you this evidence, I must announce the fact to the authorities. That will mean the arrest of Warren Sigler. He will be held in Pernambuco.”

“The same trouble as at Rio,” observed Berlett.

“Exactly, Senhor,” responded Mendoza, wisely, “but Pernambuco is the last port in Brazil. The ship sails after sunset. Once it has reached the open sea—”

“I understand. The Southern Star flies the American flag. It will be a case for my country.”

“Yes. Should we be stopping at another port in Brazil, the captain would turn the case over to the authorities of that city. But we are leaving Brazil altogether, Senhor. Once I have given you the evidence, we can visit the captain. We shall demand the arrest of Warren Sigler.”

Edwin Berlett pondered. Mendoza watched him shrewdly. The lawyer put another question.

“That will work,” he decided, “but it still might make trouble for Dario and Antone—”

“No, Senhor. All is different now. Here is the story. I was hired by Senhor Dario simply to watch Warren Sigler, because Dario represented Senhor Dilgin, who died very suddenly. The night before the ship sailed, I found these bottles. I did not report until shortly before the Southern Star left Rio de Janeiro.

“I kept watching Warren Sigler, seeking to obtain finger prints that would match those on the bottles. I failed, until after the Southern Star was leaving this harbor, Pernambuco. Obtaining the finger prints, I was unfortunately beyond Brazilian law. That will be my story. What could I do but come to you, Senhor?”

“It sounds well,” agreed Berlett, “but for one thing. You will have to get Sigler’s finger prints.”

“I have them already, Senhor,” laughed Mendoza, in a cunning tone. “I found a paper in the file which Sigler used in the Hotel Nacional. It had finger prints that match those on the bottles. It was a blank sheet, Senhor.

“I shall say that I placed that sheet of paper in Sigler’s cabin, here aboard the Southern Star. I shall add, Senhor, that it was not until the ship left Pernambuco that I obtained the impressions.”

“Good.” Berlett arose and clapped Mendoza on the back. “Your plan will work. It is justifiable under the circumstances. Sigler will have no come-back.”

“Then I shall see you, Senhor—”

“In this cabin, after the pilot ship has left the Southern Star outside of Pernambuco harbor.”

“Very good, Senhor. That will be our last contact with Brazil. But remember, you must be careful that Sigler does not suspect.”

“That will be easy. Come here with your evidence. Bring your credentials. You can then tell me your story officially and present the evidence. We will go to the captain, with the evidence still in your possession.”

“It is agreed, Senhor.”

Edwin Berlett conducted Carlos Mendoza to the door of the cabin. He waited until the Brazilian had passed along the corridor. Then Berlett, himself, stepped from the cabin. As he turned to close the door, the lawyer stared back into his room. He smiled as he noted the door to the wardrobe closet, which was visibly ajar.

STROLLING to the smoking salon, Berlett seated himself in a chair and lighted a cigar. Five minutes later, Sigler appeared. Berlett was writing memoranda upon a sheet of paper when the secretary found him.

“Take care of these letters,” ordered Berlett, passing his penciled items to Sigler. “Hurry them through and mail them ashore, by air mail. You have an hour yet, Sigler.”

“Yes, sir.”

The secretary thrust the notes in his pocket. He left the smoking salon. Edwin Berlett settled back in his chair.

Glancing about, he saw no sign of Carlos Mendoza. Edwin Berlett chuckled. Strolling from the salon, he reached the gangplank and also went ashore.

Carlos Mendoza had suggested a clever game as a follow-up of his note to Edwin Berlett. Warren Sigler had overheard the talk in full. There was a reason for Edwin Berlett’s chuckle. The crafty lawyer could foresee a different outcome than the one called for in his conversation with Carlos Mendoza.