“It will strengthen him!” protested the physician, in an excited tone. “Every minute counts, Senhor. Every minute! Come! At once!”
“Sigler tells me that Mr. Dilgin experienced his first shock when he read a cablegram,” retorted Berlett. “If that is true, he may experience another through the excitement of seeing me. I rely upon you, doctor, but remember: Sigler has been with Mr. Dilgin for years.”
The doctor waved his hands excitedly. He swung to Dario and loosed a flow of voluble Portuguese at which the gray-haired lawyer nodded. Firmly, Dario turned to Berlett.
“Senhor,” he said, “you must be guided by what the physician has said.”
“I do not want to be responsible for Dilgin’s death,” returned Berlett, coldly.
“Remember!” Dario wagged a finger in Berlett’s face. “I am here to represent Senhor Dilgin. We are in Brazil, not in the United States. I can protest to the law!”
Berlett stood indignant at the challenge. For a moment, conflict seemed impending. Then came an interruption. The door of the bedroom opened. A Brazilian nurse appeared. The woman shook her head as she spoke in Portuguese to the physician.
“You see!” exclaimed the doctor. “It is too late, Senhor. The nurse thinks that Senhor Dilgin has died. Come! You have delayed too long.”
SOBERLY, the four men filed into the sickroom. Stretched in a bed lay the withered form of Torrence Dilgin. Illness had played havoc with a frame that Edwin Berlett had remembered as robust. Scrawny hands; cheek bones in a dried face; these were the motionless impressions of Torrence Dilgin that showed above the sheets.
Life had apparently ended. The physician approached the near side of the bed to make an examination. Dario was beside him. Berlett crossed the room and stood at the other side of the bed.
“I think,” announced the physician, “that he is dead. If you had come sooner, Senhor—”
“This is no time to discuss the matter,” interposed Berlett. “The fact that he subsided quickly proves that he could not have talked.”
The sound of Berlett’s voice produced a magical effect. Like a corpse from its coffin, Torrence Dilgin came to life. Scrawny hands twitched while blued eyelids opened. Torrence Dilgin was staring straight toward Edwin Berlett!
“You are here!” gasped Dilgin. With an amazing effort, the old man clawed his body half upright. “Here! Berlett! With witnesses! Listen!
“The key! Get it, Berlett. For — for the company. The key! One — one million — dollars—”
Berlett caught Dilgin’s shoulders. The withered frame was sagging. Leaning along as Dilgin sank, Berlett spoke these words.
“What key? Who has it?”
An incoherent gasp came from Torrence Dilgin’s lips. Dried lips twitched, trying to repeat a name. The gasp, however, made the word inaudible. Slipping from Berlett’s grasp, Torrence Dilgin rolled sidewise in the bed and spoke no more.
It was the physician who took charge. No question remained. That gasp had been Torrence Dilgin’s last. When the doctor announced that the old man was dead, the three visitors filed from the room. They assembled beyond the door which the nurse closed behind them.
EDWIN BERLETT strolled to the window. He stood staring toward the lights. It was impossible to determine the emotion that the death scene had inspired in his mind. When Berlett swung from the window, his face had all its firmness.
“Sigler,” he ordered, “get your notebook. Take down the death statement as I heard it.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the secretary.
Word for word, Berlett repeated the dying words. Finished, he turned to Dario. The Brazilian lawyer nodded.
“It is exactly as I heard it,” he announced. “But there was one thing, Senhor. There was a name which Senhor Dilgin tried to speak—”
“Did you hear it?” questioned Berlett, keenly.
“No, Senhor,” returned the Brazilian, “but you were close—”
“I could not catch the name,” interposed Berlett simply. “In accordance with Torrence Dilgin’s apparent wishes, I shall require affidavits from you, Senhor Dario, and from the physician. Did you hear the last words, Sigler?”
“No, sir. Only a few of them.”
“Your statement will not be needed. Perhaps, after I have made my report in New York, I may be able to trace this reference to a key and the sum of one million dollars.
“However” — Berlett paused to eye Dario steadily — “that will be my concern. You, Senhor, are but a witness. Your affidavit will end your connection with the case. It will be a matter for the United States, not for Brazil.”
“Very well, Senhor,” bowed Dario, in acknowledgment. “I understand.”
Edwin Berlett returned to his window. His meditative gaze again sought the sparkling lights of the city. Beyond the glow of lights in the Parque da Acclamacao, he stared toward that inevitable stretch of landlocked bay.
Dying words! Edwin Berlett had heard them. They were the beginning of a revelation; Torrence Dilgin’s statement of a strange secret which involved a key and the sum of one million dollars.
Yet more important than the words themselves had been the final gasp. A name — lost amid the dying breath — was the answer upon which Torrence Dilgin’s secret hinged. To Edwin Berlett, the old millionaire had tried to give the all important words.
Who was the person whom Torrence Dilgin had tried to name? What could that person reveal regarding the old man’s statements of a key and one million dollars? Had the secret died with Torrence Dilgin?
From the solemn look upon Edwin Berlett’s steady face, one would have supposed the secret gone. Senhor Dario, viewing Berlett’s profile from one side, was clucking sadly. Warren Sigler, seeing that same profile from the opposite angle, was repressing a triumphant smile.
Brazilian and American had watched by Torrence Dilgin’s bedside while awaiting Edwin Berlett’s arrival. Yet the effect of Dilgin’s apparent failure to convey a final clue to Berlett had produced an opposite effect.
Where Senhor Dario felt that misfortune had been the reward of a long vigil, Warren Sigler was satisfied that his own hopes had been fulfilled.
CHAPTER IV
FROM THE DARK
TWENTY-FOUR hours had elapsed since the death of Torrence Dilgin. The piazza of the splendid Hotel Nacional was thronged with evening visitors. The glittering lobby buzzed with gaiety. A death in an obscure suite high above was no disturbance in the life of this huge hotel.
A tall stranger entered the lobby. American in appearance, he was evidently an arriving guest. Stopping at the desk, he received a registration card and signed his name as Lamont Cranston. The clerk affixed a room number and asked if any special service was required.
“Yes,” came the statement, in a quiet tone. “I believe that I may have friends stopping here. Do you have a list of Americans registered at this hotel?”
“Certainly, Senhor.” The clerk turned and obtained a card that bore a list of names. “We have occasional inquiries like yours. We keep this list in readiness.”
The clerk watched the new guest as he studied the list. The man behind the desk at the Hotel Nacional had observed many unusual travelers, but never one who had impressed him more distinctly. Lamont Cranston’s countenance might well have been hewn from living rock. Molded with the firmness of a statue, it was almost masklike.
Though Cranston’s head was slightly inclined, the clerk could catch the flash of burning eyes. Involuntarily, the man behind the desk followed the direction of Cranston’s gaze — toward the list that the new guest was studying.
Beside one name was a check mark in red ink. Cranston’s eyes were focused upon that name. Almost involuntarily, the clerk found himself leaning forward to deliver a low-toned explanation.