Hernandez hesitated. Then:
"Why, they are even beginning to blame you for the death of that man found in the river, although they don't know, as we do, that someone shot him."
Condon frowned. "Somehow I suspect as much. But you are sure your information—what you tell me—is correct?"
Hernandez nodded. "I am positive of it. Farther than that I feel that I have discovered what is behind it all. You know you told me a week ago to look into it"
"Yes?"
"It is voodooism. A witch doctor who lives in the jungle is behind the trouble here. And a white man is behind the witch doctor!"
Condon started. "You mean—?"
For a moment Hernandez said nothing, staring at the desk before him. Then:
"Armstrong!"
Condon's hands twitched nervously. "How do you know—or suspect—this, Hernandez?"
"I am positive, Mr. Condon. I have a man working under me whom I trust implicitly. He is an Indian-one of those commonly known as a Mosquito Indian—they live down on the Mosquito Coast, you know"
"Yes. Go on. What about him?"
"Well, he is a very intelligent fellow. Not a drop of black blood in his veins. Of course, many of the Indians in this country have their own superstitious beliefs, but not so this man. For years he has worked around foreigners—those ideas, if he ever had them, have been supplanted by those of civilization.
"This man told me that the witch doctor—an old dried-up black fellow, no telling how old he is—has been coming to the plantation. He was here the night before the water was poisoned. He has been here since. And lately the laborers have been going to see him—holding ceremonies and that sort of thing.
"And tonight" Hernandez lowered his voice—"they go again! They are to be there at ten o'clock. The witch doctor is going to tell them that their lives are not safe on this plantation as long as you have anything to do with it. Tomorrow they will leave. And no other laborers will come here. Then—Armstrong thinks he can buy you out. You see, with Armstrong in charge, the curse will be removed."
Condon secured a box of cigars from his desk, handed it to Hernandez, found a box of matches, lighted a cigar himself.
"Hmm! Pretty clever scheme. But—Oh! hang it, Hernandez, do you suppose this can he correct?"
Hernandez regarded his cigar thoughtfully. "I know it is!"
"Well"
"Just a moment, please, Mr. Condon. There is one chance for us—only one. That is to discredit the witch doctor. Once the superstitious mixed breeds and blacks find that he is not infallible, that there is something more powerful than he, they will lose confidence in him. They will believe nothing he has told them. But until that is done the case is hopeless. You see, many of the men working here were raised on superstition—on voodooism. The blacks brought it from Africa, and their descendants in this and the other nearby countries cling to it. And, as I have said, we have them here from many places."
"How are we to discredit the witch doctor?"
Hernandez smiled. "Armstrong visits him at eight o'clock this evening, to pay half the price for running the laborers away from here. He is to pay the other half when they are gone. Of course. he has paid something all along for the various little jobs, but this is the big one—the big money job."
"What on earth would that old fellow want with money?"
