He flicked off the ash of his inevitable cigarette, much as if it were the opposition of the governments they were to encounter.
It was evident that the Captain was much impressed by Constance. Yet she instinctively disliked the man. His cameraderie had something offensive about it, as contrasted with the deferential friendship of Santos.
With all her energy, however, Constance plunged directly into her work. Indeed, even at the start she was amazed to find that money for a revolution could be raised at all. She soon, found that it could be done more easily in New York than anywhere else in the world.
There seemed to be something about her that apparently appealed to those whom she went to see. She began to realize what a tremendous advantage a woman of the world had in presenting the case and convincing a speculator of the rich returns if the revolution should prove successful. More than that, she quickly learned that it was best to go alone, that it was she, quite as much as the promised concessions for tobacco, salt, telegraph, telephone monopolies, that loosed the purse strings.
Her first week’s report of pledges ran into the thousands with a substantial immediate payment of real dollars.
“How did you do it?” asked Santos in undisguised admiration, as she was telling him one night of her success, in the dusty, cobwebbed little ship chandlery on South Street where the Junta headquarters had been established.
“Dollar diplomacy,” she laughed, not displeased at his admiration. “We shall soon convert American dollars into Vespuccian bullets.”
They were alone, and a week had made much difference in the fascinating friendship to Constance.
“Let me show you what I have done,” Ramon confided. “Already, I have started together the ‘counterfeiting plant,’ as you call it.”
Piece by piece, as he had been able to afford them, he had been ordering the presses, the stamping machine, and a little “reeding” or milling machine for the edges of the coins.
“The paper, the ink, and the bullion, we shall order now as we can,” he explained, resting his head on his elbow at the table beside her. “Everything will be secured from firms which make mint supplies for foreign governments. A photo-engraver is now engaged on the work of copying the notes. He is making the plates by the photo-etching process—the same as that by which the real money plates are made. Then, too, there will be dies for the coins. Coined silver will be worth, twice the cost of the bullion to us. Why,” he added eagerly, “a few more successful days, Senora, and we shall have even arms and ammunition.”
A key turned in the door. Santos sprang to his feet. It was Gordon.
“Ah, good evening,” the Captain greeted them. The fact that they had been talking so earnestly alone was not lost on him. “May I join the conspiracy?” he smiled. “What luck to-day? By the way, I have just heard of a consignment of a thousand rifles as good as new that can be bought for a song.”
Santos, elated at the progress so far, told hastily of Constance’s success. “Let us get an option on them for a few days,” he cried.
“Good,” agreed Gordon, “only,” he added, shaking his finger playfully at Constance, as the three left the headquarters, “don’t let the commander-in-chief monopolize all your time, Remember, we all need you now. Santos, that was an inspiration to get Mrs. Dunlap on our side.”
Somehow she felt uncomfortable. She half imagined that a frown had flitted over Santos’ face.
“Are you going to Brooklyn?” she asked him.
“No, we shall be working at the Junta late to-night,” he replied, as they parted at the subway, he and Gordon to secure the option on the guns, she to plan for the morrow.
“I have made a good beginning,” she congratulated herself, when, later in her rooms, she was going over the list of names of commission merchants who handled produce of South American countries.
There was a tap on the door.
Quickly, she shoved the list into the drawer of the table.
“A gentleman to see you, downstairs, ma’am,” announced the maid.
As she pushed aside the portieres, her heart gave a leap—it was Drummond.
“Mrs. Dunlap,” began the wily detective, seeming to observe everything with eyes that seldom had the appearance of looking at anything, “I think you will recall that we have met before.”
Constance bit her lip. “And why again?” she queried curtly.
“I am informed,” he went on coolly ignoring her curtness, “that there is a guest in this house named Santos—Ramon Santos.”
He said it in a half insinuating, half questioning tone.
“You might inquire of the landlady,” replied Constance, now perfectly composed.
“Mrs. Dunlap,” he burst forth, exasperated, “what is the use of beating about? Do you know the real character of this Santos!”
“It is a matter of perfect indifference,” she returned.
“Then you do not think a warning from me worth troubling about?” demanded the detective.
Constance continued to stand as if to terminate the interview.
“I came here,” continued the detective showing no evidence of taking the hint, “to make a proposition to you. Mrs. Dunlap, you are in bad again. But this time there is a chance for you to get out without risk. I—I think I may talk plainly? We understand each other!”
His manner had changed. Constance could not have described to herself the loathing she felt for the man as it suddenly flashed over her what he was after. If she had resented his familiarity before, it brought the stinging blood to her cheeks now to realize that he was actually seeking to persuade her to betray her friends.
“Do you want to know what I think?” she scorned, then without waiting added, “I think you are a crook—a blackmailer,—that’s what I think of a private detective like you.”
The defiance of the little woman amazed even Drummond. Instead of fear as of the pursued, Constance Dunlap showed all the boldness of the pursuer.
“You have got to stop this swindling,” the detective raged, taking a step closer to her. “I know the bankers you have fooled. I know how much you have worked them for.”
“Swindling?” she repeated coolly, in assumed surprise. “Who says I am swindling?”
“You know well enough what I mean—this revolution that is being planned to bring about the new state of Vespuccia, as your friends Santos and Gordon call it.”
“Vespuccia—Santos—Gordon?”
“Yes,” he shouted, “Vespuccia—Santos—Gordon. And I’ll go further. I’ll tell you something you may not care to hear.”
Drummond leaned over closer to her in his favorite bulldozing manner when he dealt with a woman. All the malevolence of the human bloodhound seemed concentrated in his look.
“Who forged those Carlton Realty checks?” he hissed. “Who played off the weakness of Dumont and Beverley against the clever thefts of Murray Dodge! Who is using a counterfeiter and a soldier of fortune and swindling honest American bankers and business men as no man crook—you seem to like that word—crook—could ever do?”
Constance met him calmly. “Oh,” she laughed airily, “I suppose you mean to imply that it is I.”
“I don’t imply,” he ground out, “I assert—accuse.”
Constance shrugged her pretty shoulders.
“I want to tell you that I am employed by the Central American consulates in this city,” blustered Drummond. “And I am waiting only for one thing. The moment an order is given for the withdrawal of that stuff from the little shop in South Street—you know what I mean—I am ready. I shall not be alone, then. You will have the power of the United States Secret Service to deal with, this time, my clever lady.”
“Well, what of that?”
“There is this much of it. I warn you now against working with this Sant
os. He—you—can make no move that we do not know.”
Why had Drummond come to see her? Constance was asking herself. The very insolence of the man seemed to arouse all the combativeness of her nature. The detective had thought to “throw a scare into” her. She turned suddenly and swept out of the room.
“I thank you for your kindness,” she said icily. “It is unnecessary. Good-night.”
In her own room she paced the floor nervously, now that the strain was off. Should she desert Santos and save herself? He had more need of her help now than ever before. She did not stop to analyze her own feelings. She knew he had been making love to her during the past week as only a Spaniard could. It fascinated her without blinding her. Yes, she would match her wits against this detective, clever though she knew he was. But Santos must be warned.
Santos and Gordon were alone when she burst in on them, breathlessly, an hour later at the Junta.
“What is the matter?” inquired Ramon quickly, placing a chair for her.
Gordon looked his admiration for the little woman, though he did not speak it. She saw him cast a sidewise glance at Santos and herself.
Though the three were friends, it was evident to her that Gordon did not trust Santos any further than the suspicious Anglo-Saxon trusts a foreigner usually when there is a woman in the case.
“The Secret Service!” exclaimed Constance. “I have just had a visit from a private detective employed by one of the consulates. They know too much. He has threatened to tell all to the Secret Service, has even had the effrontery to ask me to betray you.”
“The scoundrel,” burst out Santos impulsively.
“You are not frightened?” Gordon asked quickly.
“On the contrary, I expected something of the sort soon, but not from this man. I can meet him!”
“Good,” exclaimed the Captain.
There was that in his voice that caused her to look at him quickly. Santos had noticed it, too, and a sullen scowl spread over his face.
Intuitively Constance read the two men before her. She had fled from one problem to a greater. Both Santos and Gordon were in love with her.
In the whirl of this new discovery, two things alone crowded all else from her mind. She must contrive to hold off Drummond until that part of the expedition which was ready could be got off. And she must play the jealous rivals against each other with such finesse as to keep them separated.
Far into the night after she had left the Junta she debated the question with herself. She could not turn back now. The attentions of Gordon were offensive. Yet she could have given no other reason than that she liked Santos the better. Yet what was Santos to her, after all? Once she had let herself go too far. She must be careful in this case. She must not allow this to be other than a business proposition.
The crisis for her came sooner than she had anticipated. It was the day after the visit of Drummond. She was waiting at the Junta alone for Santos when Gordon entered. She had dreaded just that. There was no mistaking the man.
“Mrs. Dunlap,” began Gordon bending down close over her.
She was almost trembling with emotion, and he saw it.
“You can read me like a book,” he hurried on, mistaking her feelings. “I can see that you know how much I think of you—how much I—”
“No, no,” she implored. “Don’t talk to me that way. Remember—there is work to do. After it is over—then—”
“Work!” he scorned. “What is the whole of Central America to me compared to you?”
“Captain Gordon!” she stood facing him. “You must not. Listen to me. You do not know—I—please, please leave me. Let me think.”
She did not dare accept him; she could not reject him. It seemed that with an almost superhuman effort Gordon gripped himself. But he did not go.
Constance was distracted, what if Santos with his fiery nature should find Gordon talking to her alone? She must temporize.
“One week,” she murmured. “When the Arroyo sails—that night—I shall give you my answer.”
Gordon shot a peculiar glance at her—half doubt, half surprise. But she was gone. As she hurried unexpectedly out of the Junta she fancied she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure. It must have been Drummond. Every move at the Junta was being watched.
At the boarding house all night she waited. She must see Santos. Plan after plan whirled through her brain as the hours dragged.
It was not until almost morning that, seeing a light, he tapped cautiously at her door.
“You were not at the Junta to-night,” he remarked.
There was something of jealousy in the tone.
“No. There is something I wanted to say to you where we should not be interrupted,” she answered as he sat down.
A fold of her filmy house dress fluttered near him. Involuntarily he moved closer. His eyes met hers. She could feel the passions surging in the man beside her.
“I saw Drummond again, to-day,” she began. “Captain Gordon—”
The intense look of hatred that blazed in the eyes of Santos frightened her. What might have happened if he instead of Gordon had met her at the Junta she could not have said. But now she must guard against it. It flashed over her that there was only one thing to be done.
She rose and laid her hand on his arm. As quickly the look changed. There was only one way to do it; she must make this man think they understood each other without saying so.
“You must get the counterfeiting plant down on the island—immediately—alone. Don’t tell any of the others until it is there safely. You were going to send it down on the Arroyo next week. It must not go from New York at all. It must be shipped by rail, and then from New Orleans. You must—”
“But—Gordon?” His voice was hoarse.
She looked at Santos long and earnestly. “I will take care of him,” she said in a tone that Santos could not mistake. “No—Ramon, no. After the revolution—perhaps—who shall say? But now—to work!”
It was with a sigh of relief that she sank to rest at last when he had gone. For the moment she had won.
Piece by piece, Santos and she secretly carried out the goods that had already been collected at the Junta, during the next few days. Without a word to a soul they were shipped south. The boxes and barrels remained in the musty shop, apparently undisturbed.
Next the order for the arms and ammunition was quietly diverted so that they, too, were on their way to New Orleans. Instead, cases resembling them were sent to the Junta headquarters. Drummond, least of all, must be allowed to think that there was any change in their plans.
While Santos was at work gathering the parts, the stamping machine, the press, the dies, the plates, and the rest of the counterfeiting plant which had not yet been delivered, Constance, during the hours that she was not collecting money from the concession-grabbers, haunted the Junta. There was every evidence of activity there as the week advanced.
She was between two fires, yet never had she enjoyed the tang of adventure more than now. It was a keen pleasure to feel that she was outwitting Drummond when, as some apparently insurmountable difficulty arose, she would overcome it. More delicate was it, however, to preserve the balance between Santos and Gordon. In fact it seemed that the more she sought to avoid Gordon, the more jealously did he pursue her. It was a tangled skein of romance and intrigue that Constance was weaving.
At last all was ready. It was the night before the departure of Santos for the south. Constance had decided on the last interview in her own rooms where the first had been.
“I shall go ahead preparing as if to ship the things on the Arroyo,” she said. “Let me know by the code the moment you are ready.”
Santos was looking at her, oblivious of everything else.
He reached over and took her hand. She knew this was t
he moment against which she had steeled herself.
“Come with me,” he asked suddenly.
She could feel his breath, hotly, on her cheek.
It was the final struggle. If she let go of herself, all would be lost.
“No, Ramon,” she said softly, but without withdrawing her hand. “It can never be—listen.”
It was terrific, to hold in check a nature such as his.
“I went into this scheme for—for money. I have it. We have raised nearly forty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand you have given me as my share.”
She paused. He was paying no attention to her words. His whole self was centered on her face.
“With me,” she continued, half wearily withdrawing her hand as she assumed the part she had decided on for herself, “with me, Ramon, love is dead—dead. I have seen too much of the world. Nothing has any fascination for me now except excitement, money—”
He gently leaned over and recovered the hand that she had withdrawn. Quickly he raised it to his lips as he had done that first night.
“You are mine,” he whispered, “not his.”
She did not withdraw the hand this time.
“No—not his—nobody’s.”
For a moment the adventurers understood each other.
“Not his,” he muttered fiercely as he threw his arms about her wildly, passionately.
“Nobody’s,” she panted as she gave one answering caress, then struggled from him.
She had conquered not only Ramon Santos but Constance Dunlap.
Early the next morning he was speeding southward over the clicking rails.
Every energy must be bent toward keeping the new scheme secret until it was carried out successfully. Not a hint must get to Drummond that there was any change in the activities of the Junta. As for the Junta itself, there was no one of those who believed implicitly in Santos whom Constance need fear, except Gordon. Gordon was the bete noire.
The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Page 192