As Otaka withdrew with the empty cups, we rose to continue our inspection of the wonders of the shop. There were ivories of all descriptions. Here was a two-handled sword, with a very large ivory handle, a weirdly carved scabbard, and wonderful steel blade. By the expression of Craig’s face, Sato knew that he had made a sale.
Craig had been rummaging among some warlike instruments which Sato, with the instincts of a true salesman, was now displaying, and had picked up a bow. It was short, very strong, and made of pine wood. He held it horizontally and twanged the string. I looked up in time to catch a pleased expression on the face of Otaka.
“Most people would have held it the other way,” commented Sato.
Craig said nothing, but was examining an arrow, almost twenty inches long and thick, made of cane, with a point of metal very sharp but badly fastened. He fingered the deep blood groove in the scooplike head of the arrow and looked at it carefully.
“I’ll take that,” he said, “only I wish it were one with the regular reddish-brown lump in it.”
“Oh, but, honorable sir,” apologized Sato, “the Japanese law prohibits that, now. There are few of those, and they are very valuable.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Craig. “This will do, though. You have a wonderful shop here, Sato. Some time, when I feel richer, I mean to come in again. No, thank you, you need not send them; I’ll carry them.”
We bowed ourselves out, promising to come again when Sato received a new consignment from the Orient which he was expecting.
“That other Jap is a peculiar fellow,” I observed, as we walked along uptown again.
“He isn’t a Jap,” remarked Craig. “He is an Ainu, one of the aborigines who have been driven northward into the island of Yezo.”
“An Ainu?” I repeated.
“Yes. Generally thought, now, to be a white race and nearer of kin to Europeans than Asiatics. The Japanese have pushed them northward and are now trying to civilize them. They are a dirty, hairy race, but when they are brought under civilizing influences they adapt themselves to their environment and make very good servants. Still, they are on about the lowest scale of humanity.”
“I thought Otaka was very mild,” I commented.
“They are a most inoffensive and peaceable people usually,” he answered, “good-natured and amenable to authority. But they become dangerous when driven to despair by cruel treatment. The Japanese government is very considerate of them—but not all Japanese are.”
CHAPTER XII
THE ARROW POISON
Far into the night Craig was engaged in some very delicate and minute microscopic work in the laboratory.
We were about to leave when there was a gentle tap on the door. Kennedy opened it and admitted a young man, the operative of the detective agency who had been shadowing Bernardo. His report was very brief, but, to me at least, significant. Bernardo, on his return to the museum, had evidently read the letter, which had agitated him very much, for a few moments later he hurriedly left and went downtown to the Prince Henry Hotel. The operative had casually edged up to the desk and overheard whom he asked for. It was Senora Herreria. Once again, later in the evening, he had asked for her, but she was still out.
It was quite early the next morning, when Kennedy had resumed his careful microscopic work, that the telephone bell rang, and he answered it mechanically. But a moment later a look of intense surprise crossed his face.
“It was from Doctor Leslie,” he announced, hanging up the receiver quickly. “He has a most peculiar case which he wants me to see—a woman.”
Kennedy called a cab, and, at a furious pace, we dashed across the city and down to the Metropolitan Hospital, where Doctor Leslie was waiting. He met us eagerly and conducted us to a little room where, lying motionless on a bed, was a woman.
She was a striking-looking woman, dark of hair and skin, and in life she must have been sensuously attractive. But now her face was drawn and contorted—with the same ghastly look that had been on the face of Northrop.
“She died in a cab,” explained Doctor Leslie, “before they could get her to the hospital. At first they suspected the cab driver. But he seems to have proved his innocence. He picked her up last night on Fifth Avenue, reeling—thought she was intoxicated. And, in fact, he seems to have been right. Our tests have shown a great deal of alcohol present, but nothing like enough to have had such a serious effect.”
“She told nothing of herself?” asked Kennedy.
“No; she was pretty far gone when the cabby answered her signal. All he could get out of her was a word that sounded like ‘Curio-curio.’ He says she seemed to complain of something about her mouth and head. Her face was drawn and shrunken; her hands were cold and clammy, and then convulsions came on. He called an ambulance, but she was past saving when it arrived. The numbness seemed to have extended over all her body; swallowing was impossible; there was entire loss of her voice as well as sight, and death took place by syncope.”
“Have you any clue to the cause of her death?” asked Craig.
“Well, it might have been some trouble with her heart, I suppose,” remarked Doctor Leslie tentatively.
“Oh, she looks strong that way. No, hardly anything organic.”
“Well, then I thought she looked like a Mexican,” went on Doctor Leslie. “It might be some new tropical disease. I confess I don’t know. The fact is,” he added, lowering his voice, “I had my own theory about it until a few moments ago. That was why I called you.”
“What do you mean?” asked Craig, evidently bent on testing his own theory by the other’s ignorance.
Doctor Leslie made no answer immediately, but raised the sheet which covered her body and disclosed, in the fleshy part of the upper arm, a curious little red swollen mark with a couple of drops of darkened blood.
“I thought at first,” he added, “that we had at last a genuine ‘poisoned needle’ case. You see, that looked like it. But I have made all the tests for curare and strychnin without results.”
At the mere suggestion, a procession of hypodermic-needle and white-slavery stories flashed before me.
“But,” objected Kennedy, “clearly this was not a case of kidnaping. It is a case of murder. Have you tested for the ordinary poisons?”
Doctor Leslie shook his head. “There was no poison,” he said, “absolutely none that any of our tests could discover.”
Kennedy bent over and squeezed out a few drops of liquid from the wound on a microscope slide, and covered them.
“You have not identified her yet,” he added, looking up. “I think you will find, Leslie, that there is a Senora Herreria registered at the Prince Henry who is missing, and that this woman will agree with the description of her. Anyhow, I wish you would look it up and let me know.”
Half an hour later, Kennedy was preparing to continue his studies with the microscope when Doctor Bernardo entered. He seemed most solicitous to know what progress was being made on the case, and, although Kennedy did not tell much, still he did not discourage conversation on the subject.
When we came in the night before, Craig had unwrapped and tossed down the Japanese sword and the Ainu bow and arrow on a table, and it was not long before they attracted Bernardo’s attention.
“I see you are a collector yourself,”