Part 1 (1/2)
XITLI, G.o.d OF FIRE.
Maxwell Grant.
CHAPTER I. AZTEC DRUMS.
KENT ALLARD stood by his window in the Hotel Hidalgo, overlooking Mexico City. He was watching the ever-mysterious transformation that dusk was bringing to the Mexican capital, a change unparalleled elsewhere.
By day, the city had lain basking in a gigantic bowl, its valley rimmed by the surrounding mountains, which included the great peaks of Popocatepetl and Ixtacihuatl. With darkness wiping away those summits, the city alone remained, its lights forming a twinkling carpet patched with areas of blackness.
Mexico City was taking on life. Even the traffic denoted by moving lights, was moving faster and more steadily. All afternoon it had stalled around the fourteen-acre Zocalo, or Plaza de la Const.i.tucion, blocked by a protest parade of school children who disapproved of certain teachers and wanted the government to know it.
Tomorrow the cab drivers threatened a parade of their own, demanding compensation for the fares that they had lost while traffic was jammed the day before. But in between those daytime problems, Mexico City would enjoy a night of glitter and gaiety, as was its wont.
To the keen eyes of Kent Allard, each new spot of light that appeared below possessed a significance. The lights were like living things that were being rallied and regimented to fight off night's encroachment.
Modern though Mexico City might be, it still lay in the great valley amid the plateau of Anahuac, once the heart of the Aztec empire. Here, until the death of Montezuma, last of the Aztec rulers, had stood the strange citadel of an even stranger race.
With darkness, all the weird legends of the past seemed to close in upon the modern city, creeping down from the time-haunted slopes of the Ajusco Mountains. The Aztecs lived anew, not merely in men's imaginations but in their descendants, the Indians of the mountainsides.
There were nights when the rarefied atmosphere of Mexico City carried distant throbs that were true echoes of the past, yet actual symbols of the present. This was one such evening, and Kent Allard recognized it. When the shrouding darkness thickened to a point where his keen eyes could not pierce it, his acute hearing served him.
From beyond the night-deepened waters of Lakes Chalco and Xochimilco, where remnants of famed floating gardens still drifted, Allard caught the faint thrum of Aztec drums, beating in a steady, gloomy rhythm. Those Aztec drums were bringing in some message from afar to the capital city, where a barbaric emperor no longer ruled.
They were carrying an old story, those drums; one that had been repeated, at intervals, during several centuries. The throbs were tuning: ”Loot - loot - loot -” telling that once again hostile searchers had come across some buried treasure, once the property of Montezuma or other Aztec kings, and were taking possession of the wealth.
Centuries ago, such drumbeats would have summoned hordes of Aztec warriors to the scene where the evil was in progress; but the armies of Montezuma existed no more. Though the drum throbs carried far and wide, they were little more than protest.
The beating of the drums was a duty pa.s.sed down through generations, and the news no longer stirred the blood of listeners. Yet Allard was intent when he harkened to the drums.
Had their rhythm changed, he would have known that a long-expected time had come - when surviving Aztecs might rally to a cause far more important than the protection of treasure belonging to a vanished dynasty.
The kings of the Aztecs had perished, and their power with them. But the G.o.ds of Mexico merely slept, like the giant volcano, Popocatepetl. Once disturbed, those ancient deities might rise again to rule, and all who acknowledged them would then obey.
There was a knock at Allard's door; as he turned to answer it the sounds of the drums faded, as though imagination, along with hearing, had been needed to discern them. A Mexican lieutenant in full-dress uniform was at the door.
”Senor Cuzana will see you,” announced the lieutenant, with a salute. ”He has requested that you come with me, Senor Allard.”
THEY rode along streets like boulevards, pa.s.sing theaters and cafes, through parks where strollers were enjoying the mild evening air. Near the leading park, the Alamedo, the car swung into the Paseo de la Reforma and followed that magnificent promenade to the residence of Senor Cuzana.
There, guided by the lieutenant, Allard was ushered into a salon where three men were seated. One was Senor Luis Cuzana, a bland but friendly Mexican official, connected with the presidential cabinet. The others were Americans, whose names Allard already knew. One was Graham Talborn, wealthy exporter from New Orleans, who had done much to stimulate trade between Louisiana and Central America. Talborn was tall, affable of manner; so energetic that he seemed youthful, except for his grizzled hair.
The other was James Carland, an oil operator who had, until recently, held large concessions in Mexico.
Carland looked old and haggard, with good reason. For two years he had been fighting to regain his oil interests, which had been outlawed by the Mexican government.
All three - Cuzana, Talborn, Carland - studied Kent Allard with interest. They remembered a time when he had been famous as an aviator; but at present Allard looked as though the world had forgotten him.
Allard was tall, and his gaunt features had a hawklike expression that suited a master of the skies. But his shoulders were stooped, as from weariness; the cane that he had used did not hide his limp, the souvenir of a forced landing some years before.
On Cuzana's table stood the model of a Mayan pyramid, which attracted Allard's eye. Cuzana lifted the top of the model and it came apart in sections, showing interior compartments.
”A replica of the great pyramid at Chichen Itza,” he said. ”They are building a full-scale reproduction in New Orleans to serve as a permanent Mayan museum.”
”We have already built it,” corrected Talborn. ”The interior of this model represents the arrangement of the new museum, not the ancient pyramid. We are quite sure that the museum will be open to the public in time for the West Indian Exposition.”
”Thanks to you, Senor Talborn,” acknowledged Cuzana. ”The museum could not have been completed, I understand, if you had not supplied the hundred thousand dollars still required.”
Carland thrust himself forward; his eyes were tiny, ugly beads that blazed from his haggard face.
”I was the man who promised that money!” stormed Carland. ”I could still give my donation, Cuzana, if your government had not robbed me of my oil concessions!”
”I am very sorry. Senor Carland,” - Cuzana's tone was cool - ”but the decision did not rest with my department.”
”But you could use your influence -”
”I have already used it. Nothing can be done. I tell you, officially, Senor Carland, that you can never hope to regain the concessions. The decision is final.”
Carland stared, swaying like a drunken man. Then, steadying, he flexed his features into a sneer. Turning on his heel, he left the salon without bidding anyone goodbye. Cuzana gave a bland shrug, then said in a tone of sincerity: ”I am very sorry for Senor Carland.”
”You don't need to be,” spoke Talborn promptly. ”He bought those concessions for a song and made the most of them while he had them. If he had salted away his cash instead of sinking it in other speculations, he wouldn't have to worry.
”Let me tell you something about Carland” - Talborn's tone became confidential - ”that may change your opinion of the fellow. When he announced that he could not pay his promised contribution of one hundred thousand dollars to the museum fund, it naturally worried many people, princ.i.p.ally EugeneBrendle, the contractor, who had a lot at stake.
”So Carland went to Brendle and borrowed fifty thousand dollars on very flimsy security. All that Carland gave Brendle was temporary t.i.tle to a few thousand acres of Louisiana swampland. Naturally, Brendle supposed that Carland would use the money toward the museum fund. Instead, Carland spent it.
”Poor Carland!” Talborn's tone was filled with contempt. ”You should say 'Poor Brendle!' He would be down and out if I hadn't saved the situation by donating the money that Carland had pledged but failed to supply.”
TALBORN'S denunciation put a new light on the matter. It brought a nod from Senor Cuzana, indicating that he was not surprised to learn of Carland's double-dealing.
”Mexico is better rid of such men,” declared Cuzana. ”They represent the old regime's faults. They came here at a time when men in power were willing to bargain away the republic's resources to the first person who offered money.”
Cuzana was a.s.sembling the model pyramid. He put it back in the box where it belonged. Then, unfolding a map of Mexico, he spread it on the table and turned to Allard.
”I have bad news for you, too,” said Cuzana, ”but it is the sort that I feel sure that you will be glad to hear. You came here, Senor Allard, to superintend a search, by air, for the missing expedition of Professor Darius Hedwin.
”Quite fortunately” - and Cuzana gave a whimsical smile - ”the expedition has found itself. As you know, they started from Chichen Itza” - he laid his forefinger on a point in the peninsula of Yucatan - ”and started into the interior. For a while we heard from them” - Cuzana's finger was making a curve from Yucatan, downward, then up toward Mexico City - ”and then communications ceased.
”The reason, we have learned, was because they expected to arrive here before anyone had cause to worry. But Professor Hedwin decided to stop at the ruins of Cuicuilco, less than twenty miles south of Mexico City. He has been there nearly a week.”
Talborn inserted a chuckle as Cuzana finished.
”And all the while,” added Talborn, ”the professor overlooked the trifling detail of informing us - until tonight, when a messenger came in with word. However, Mr. Allard, I feel sure that we can use you later in a search for undiscovered ruins as soon as we have raised more funds.”
”How soon will that be?”