The Gold of the Gods | Page 3

telephone ringing
insistently. I answered, and it happened to be a call for me. It was the
editor of the Star endeavouring to catch me, before I started downtown
to the office, in order to give me an assignment.
"That's strange," I exclaimed, hanging up the receiver and turning to
Craig. "I've got to go out on a murder case--"
"An interesting case?" asked Craig, interrupting his own train of
investigation with a flash of professional interest.
"Why, a man has been murdered in his apartment on Central Park,
West, I believe. Luis de Mendoza is the name, and it seems--"
"Don Luis de Mendoza?" repeated Norton, with a startled exclamation.
"Why, he was an influential Peruvian, a man of affairs in his country,
and an accomplished scholar. I--I--if you don't mind, I'd like to go over
with you. I know the Mendozas."
Kennedy was watching Norton's face keenly. "I think I'll go, too,
Walter," he decided. "You won't lack assistants on this story,
apparently."
"Perhaps you can be of some assistance to them, also," put in Norton to
Kennedy, as we left.
It was only a short ride downtown, and our cab soon pulled up before a
rather ornate entrance of a large apartment in one of the most exclusive
sections of the city. We jumped out and entered, succeeding in making
our way to the sixth floor, where Mendoza lived, without interference
from the hallboy, who had been completely swamped by the rush that
followed the excitement of finding one of the tenants murdered.

There was no missing the place. The hall had been taken over by the
reporters, who had established themselves there, terrible as an army
with concealed pads and pencils. From one of the morning men already
there I learned that our old friend Dr. Leslie, the coroner, was already
in charge.
Somehow, whether it was through Kennedy's acquaintance with Dr.
Leslie or Norton's acquaintance with the Mendozas and the Spanish
tongue, we found ourselves beyond the barrier of the door which shut
out my rivals.
As we stood for a moment in a handsome and tastefully furnished
living room a young lady passed through hurriedly. She paused in the
middle of the room as she saw us and eyed us tremulously, as though to
ask us why we had intruded. It was a rather awkward situation.
Quickly Norton came to the rescue. "I hope you will pardon me,
Senorita," he bowed in perfect Spanish, "but--"
"Oh, Professor Norton, it is you!" she cried in English, recognizing him.
"I'm so nervous that I didn't see you at first."
She glanced from him to us, inquiringly. I recollected that my editor
had mentioned a daughter who might prove to be an interesting and
important figure in the mystery. She spoke in an overwrought, agitated
tone. I studied her furtively.
Inez de Mendoza was unmistakably beautiful, of the dark Spanish type,
with soft brown eyes that appealed to one when she talked, and a figure
which at any less tragic moment one might have been pardoned for
admiring. Her soft olive skin, masses of dark hair, and lustrous, almost
voluptuous, eyes contrasted wonderfully with the finely chiselled lines
of her nose, the firm chin, and graceful throat and neck. Here one
recognized a girl of character and family in the depths of whose soul
smouldered all the passion of a fiery race.
"I hope you will pardon me for intruding," Norton repeated. "Believe
me, it is not with mere idle curiosity. Let me introduce my friend,
Professor Kennedy, the scientific detective, of whom you have heard,
no doubt. This is his assistant, Mr. Jameson, of the Star. I thought
perhaps they might stand between you and that crowd in the hall," he
added, motioning toward the reporters on the other side of the door.
"You can trust them absolutely. I'm sure that if there is anything any of
us can do to aid you in--in your trouble, you may be sure that we are at

your service."
She looked about a moment in the presence of three strangers who had
invaded the quietness of what had been, at least temporarily, home. She
seemed to be seeking some one on whom to lean, as though some
support had suddenly been knocked from under her, leaving her dazed
at the change.
"Oh, madre de Dios!" she cried. "What shall I do? Oh, my father-- my
poor father!"
Inez Mendoza was really a pathetic and appealing figure as she stood
there in the room, alone.
Quickly she looked us over, as if, by same sort of occult intuition of
woman, she were reading our souls. Then, instinctively almost, she
turned to Kennedy. Kennedy seemed to recognize her need. Norton and
I retired, somewhat more than figuratively.
"You--you are a detective?" she queried.