Bert Wilson at Panama

by J. W. Duffield

There was no way, Wah Lee averred. The house swarmed with servants, and detection would be certain. Every window and every room in the mansion was ablaze with light. Unless he could make himself invisible, the attempt was hopeless.

Circling about the house, in the shadow of the shrubbery, Bert studied the location of the room that the Chinaman had pointed out as the library. It was on the second floor, and a broad veranda surrounded the house, about two feet beneath the window. Near by, a giant tree upreared its branches. With a parting word of caution, Bert shied up the tree with the agility of a cat. He ensconced himself firmly on a projecting branch, and peered through the heavy foliage.

The room into which he looked was a spacious one and furnished with all the sumptuousness of Eastern luxury. Exquisite tapestries draped the walls, and priceless jades and porcelains bespoke the taste as well as the wealth of the owner. Quaint weapons and suits of armor, doubtless worn at some time by a shogun or samurai ancestor gave a touch of grimness to a beauty and delicacy of ornament that might otherwise have been excessive.

At a magnificent library table of ebony, inlaid with pearl, a man was seated with his head on his hand, in an attitude of profound thought. His left hand, playing with the ivory handle of a dagger that lay on the desk, betrayed a certain restlessness, as though he were waiting for someone. From time to time he raised his head, as if listening. At last he threw himself back in his chair with a gesture of impatience, and, with unseeing eyes, looked out of the window. And now, Bert, from his leafy covert, could study his face at leisure.

It was a typical Japanese face, with the high cheekbones and slanting eyes that marked his race. But nothing could hide the proofs of breeding and culture that were revealed in every feature. It was the face of a statesman, a scholar, a warrior, a prince. The habit of command was stamped upon it, and in his eyes glowed a spirit of resolution that almost reached fanaticism. Bert felt instinctively that here was a foeman worthy of any man's steel, a formidable enemy who would sweep away like chaff anything that stood between him and the accomplishment of his purpose.

Once or twice, Bert had seen him in Colon, a notable figure even in a town at that time filled with notables. No one seemed to know much about him. Three years ago, he had appeared in Panama and purchased a large landed estate. He had spent enormous sums in developing it, until it had become famous throughout the Isthmus for its extent and beauty. That the owner was fabulously wealthy could not be doubted. But beyond this, all was conjecture. He had no official position or diplomatic mission. No breath of suspicion had ever been attached to him of being in any sense hostile to American interests. His suavity, his courtesy, his unquestioned wealth and standing had won for him universal respect. And yet, if Bert's suspicions proved true, the accomplished Japanese gentleman into whose eyes he was looking, was the most dangerous foe that America had in the whole wide world.

A door opened and another Japanese entered the room. He was older than the man seated at the desk, and his face was creased with the deep lines of wisdom and long experience. He might have been, and probably was, one of the "elder statesmen"—that august body, that, at home and abroad, guided the destinies of the nation. He saluted ceremoniously the owner of the house, and they were soon engaged in an animated conversation.

Then a man of a different type was ushered in by an obsequious servant. He was dressed in American fashion, but his face indicated a Spanish origin. He was a Cuban who had been educated as a civil engineer in one of the scientific schools of the United States. His features were alert and intelligent, but there was a certain shiftiness in his eyes, and something about him gave an indefinable air of dissipation. He had been employed for a time in harbor work at Vera Cruz, but had killed a man in a brawl and been forced to flee the country. On the Canal, there were eighty-seven distinct nationalities engaged in the work, and, in view of the great demand for labor, he had no difficulty in securing employment, the more easily as he was an expert in his profession. He had been assigned to the Gatun section of the work, with his quarters in the city of Colon.

The Japanese secret service, in its search for a suitable tool, had become possessed of the facts regarding the murder for which the man, Ofirio, by name, was wanted by the Mexican authorities. With infinite caution and by slow degrees, they had approached and sounded him. They appealed to his fears and his avarice. As regards the first, they could betray him to his pursuers. For the second, they promised him an amount of money greater than he could expect to earn in the course of his natural life, and a safe refuge in Japan. Under the stress of these two primal emotions, he had yielded, and, for a year past, had been in the power and the pay of Namoto, the Japanese, in whose library he was at that moment standing. He it was who had dropped the paper that Wah Lee had so fortunately retrieved and which had given Bert the first hint of the appalling disaster that threatened his country.

Bert noticed the subtle something in the air of Namoto—a mixture of power, disdain, and condescension—as he motioned the engineer to a seat. From a stray word or two that came to him, he noted that they were talking in English, which both understood, while neither could speak the native language of the other.