“My Dear Comrades: Castro, the half-breed, double-crossed us. His cut-throat crowd, I have just learned, are now waiting for me outside, and I am writing this note in the hope that you will follow me up and find it. You must at once leave Brazil. Castro has informed certain political hangers-on of the treasure. These fellows have trumped up a charge against the three of us of having murdered de Silva. In five minutes I shall leave this room by the window in an attempt to escape. I have never yet waited for a Spaniard to come and get me. I like to go to him first.“If you don’t hear from me before Tuesday you may reasonably assume that I have been done in. The game is big and they’ll go the limit. DO NOT TRUST ANYBODY, not even the local American consul. He probably is all right, but in this land of ‘honest graft’ the trail leads to high places, believe me. Get that boat for New York that leaves Wednesday at four in the afternoon. Good-bye and good luck!“HARDY.”
“My Dear Comrades: Castro, the half-breed, double-crossed us. His cut-throat crowd, I have just learned, are now waiting for me outside, and I am writing this note in the hope that you will follow me up and find it. You must at once leave Brazil. Castro has informed certain political hangers-on of the treasure. These fellows have trumped up a charge against the three of us of having murdered de Silva. In five minutes I shall leave this room by the window in an attempt to escape. I have never yet waited for a Spaniard to come and get me. I like to go to him first.
“If you don’t hear from me before Tuesday you may reasonably assume that I have been done in. The game is big and they’ll go the limit. DO NOT TRUST ANYBODY, not even the local American consul. He probably is all right, but in this land of ‘honest graft’ the trail leads to high places, believe me. Get that boat for New York that leaves Wednesday at four in the afternoon. Good-bye and good luck!
“HARDY.”
I heard a sob from Anderson as we finished reading the missive. That the indomitable Hardy had come to his end seemed incredible, and yet not only had Tuesday gone by with no word, but this was Wednesday, and less than three hours remained before the boat sailed, with our passage and berth arrangements still to be made.
Outside, our taxi, with its motor still running, waited for us, and if ever mortal men were in a dilemma Anderson and I were those individuals. Finally Anderson strode over to me, and, with a look in his eyes such as I had never before seen, he said:
“I can’t go and leave Hardy without making some effort to help him.”
I gripped his hand. What a relief! It seemed almost as if already we had rescued him—and yet there we were, two utter strangers in that great South American city, with a band of conscienceless rascals after us, backed by the power of the law!
We started down the stairs where we observed the old house-wife. She was reading a newspaper, which she now hurried to show us. And there, in a comparatively prominent place, was the news that Hardy had been killed in what was designated as a street brawl. Even our slight knowledge of Spanish made that short paragraph all too intelligible.
Into the taxi we hurried, with Anderson pinching my arm.
I regarded him in surprise.
“Different driver,” he said, nodding to the man on the front seat.
I glanced sharply at the fellow, but could not say.
“Let’s go on,” I murmured, “and trust to luck.”
“You bet you!” returned the young man. “But there won’t be any luck about it. We’ll try this.”
When the chauffeur turned around for instructions he got them in forcible and understandable proportions. Anderson’s revolver was within six inches of his back. The man went white.
“A vapor!The boat!” ordered Anderson.
The vigor of that driver’s assent was comical. His head rocked and bobbed with eagerness.
“Si! Si! Madre de Dios!” he exclaimed.
Several years have passed since the occurrence of the foregoing events, and young Anderson since has married. In his nest of a home, to which I am a frequent bachelor visitor in good standing, there is prominently located a certain replica of a beautiful young female just budding into womanhood. It represents the best in the art of the Ataruipe and is regarded by the lady-of-the-house as perhaps just the least bit too naturalistic.
Among artists and archaeologists, however, it has inspired more controversy than anything else in the present century. The trend of opinion is that the figure is an extravagant but exceedingly clever bit of modern work which is being foisted on a gullible public, ever too quick to give credence to cock-and-bull stories of lost treasure such as Anderson and I relate.
They ask for the camera and photographs that Van Dusee had. We say that we did not miss them until on the boat bound for New York; that they were probably stolen from our rooms at the hotel in Rio de Janiero.
They ask us for sight of some of the marvelous jewels. We show them some of the smaller ones, but they tell us these are ordinary and may have been acquired any place; and at their insistence for a view of the big gems we are compelled to advise them that the package handed us by the clever hotel clerk was a duplicate of the one we gave him containing the select stones brought by us from the Caverns of the Ataruipe; that we learned that it contained common pebbles some time before the port officials at Rio de Janiero went through our effects, confiscating everything they could find and seeming particularly happy at discovering the package described so minutely in their search-warrant—the one the scoundrel hotel clerk made up in imitation of Bobby’s wrapping, which we had been careful to restore to its original appearance after discovering the cheat.
“Yes, but how did you save this beautiful statue if they got everything else?” is the final thrust.
And here Anderson lapses into silence, for the matter is a delicate one. It involved thrusting the small package into the arms of a handsome young lady who stood in the throng that curiously watched us come aboard the ship at the last moment under the guardianship of numbers of Brazilian officials, who hovered over us with the eagerness of flies. As she caught Anderson’s eye and got the idea that leaped from it, I am sure she giggled with delight at the ruse, for she was pure American.
Once a year each of us receives a communication from Rio de Janiero that purports to come from government officials. The letters are entirely preposterous in their content—they read like the notorious Spanish legacy letters so long the vogue of confidence men, and speak urgently, earnestly—yea, almost beseechingly—of untold wealth that awaits us if we will but come to Rio de Janiero and assist in the quest for the lost Caverns of the Ataruipe.
But we feel, young Anderson and I, that constant and continuous governmental search must be going forward for the immense treasure; and we feel, further, that in all fairness to the world at large that wonderful collection of art material should be restored to humanity; but we find it difficult indeed to see just why two Americans—even conceding that their help might be of value, which is doubtful—should assist a greedy and unjust officialdom that is absolutely guilty of the death of the best guide and friend it was ever the good fortune of either of us to have encountered.
Another story by JULIAN KILMAN will appear in the next issue of WEIRD TALES. It is called “The Well,” and it’s a “creepy” yarn, warranted to give you “goose-flesh” thrills.