Ashton-Kirk opened a drawer and took out a folded paper.
“When you called me on the telephone the other day,” said he, “I at once set about looking up the Campe family history. My records had the facts up to a few years ago. But I wanted complete information, so I sent one of my men out to look them up. This is his report, brought in to me this morning.”
He seated himself upon a corner of the table and unfolded the paper. Then he read:
“Report of Later Proceedings of the Campes.
“The family of Campe, as shown by such information as it is possible to secure from banks doing business with them, contracting firms who undertook their various enterprises and importing houses who have come into financial contact with them, have been very clever and able. They slipped naturally from the wreckage of one government into the favour of the next without loss of any sort. Their interests grew; and they seemed in a fair way to become to Central America what the Rothschilds are to Europe, when suddenly about three years ago, things took a change. Frederic Campe, Sr., head of the house, at about that time, met his death while on board his yacht Conquistador, at Vera Cruz. Something went wrong—just what it was will never be known, for no one on board escaped—and the vessel was blown to atoms. Less than six months later, William Campe, brother to the one lately dead, also met a sudden and violent end. He was attending the ceremonies held at the opening of a great concrete bridge which the family had provided the money to build, when he in some unaccountable manner fell from it and was killed.”
“Humph!” ejaculated Scanlon, and knocked the ash from his cigar.
“Henry, eldest son of Frederic, was the next to go,” read the crime specialist. “One morning, not a great while after the affair at the bridge, he was found stabbed to death in his own hall-way. The nature of the wound which let out his life showed that the attack was a particularly vicious one. Some very keen and very heavy weapon must have been used, as the young man was cut open from his chest to his waist line.”
Bat Scanlon sat suddenly erect in his chair.
“Hello!” said he, in surprise. “Hello! What’s this!”
“The nature of the wound has a rather familiar sound, I think,” said Ashton-Kirk.