The Day of Temptation
- -
- 100%
- +
“I remember the case quite well,” His Excellency exclaimed when the detective paused. “Some papers regarding it were placed before me, but I left my Secretary to deal with them. The girl, if I remember aright, arrived in London from Livorno accompanied by an unknown Englishman, and was found dead in a cab at Piccadilly Circus – mysteriously murdered, according to the medical evidence.”
“The jury returned an open verdict, but without doubt she was the victim of foul play,” Elmes said decisively.
“One moment,” the Ambassador interrupted, placing his hand upon an electric button upon the table.
In answer to his summons the thin, dark-faced Neapolitan man-servant appeared, and by him the Ambassador sent a message to the Secretary, who in a few moments entered.
He was younger by ten years than the Ambassador, foppishly dressed, but nevertheless pleasant-faced, with manners which were the essence of good breeding.
“You remember the case of the girl – Vittorina, I think her name was – who was found dead in a cab outside the Criterion?”
“Yes.”
“Did we make any inquiries of the police in Livorno regarding her identity?”
“Yes. Do you wish to see the reply?”
“You might send it in to me at once,” the Ambassador said; and the Secretary withdrew.
“What you have told me is certainly extraordinary – most extraordinary,” exclaimed His Excellency, addressing Elmes.
“All the inquiries I have made point to the one fact I have already suggested,” the detective said. “At Scotland Yard we received a request from your Excellency that we should carefully investigate the matter, and we are doing so to the very best of our ability.”
“I’m sure you are. I well recollect now signing a formal request to your Department to make searching investigation.”
At that moment a clerk entered, bearing a file of papers, which he placed before His Excellency.
“Now,” exclaimed the latter, “let us see what reply we received from the police of Livorno;” and he slowly turned over letter after letter. The correspondence had evidently been considerable. Its magnitude surprised the detective.
Suddenly the Count paused, and his brows contracted as he read one of the official letters. He glanced at the signature, and saw it was that of the Marquis Montelupo, Minister of Foreign Affairs at Rome. Twice he read it through. It was a long despatch, closely written, and as the Ambassador re-read it his brow darkened.
Again he touched the electric bell, and a second time summoned the Secretary of Embassy.
When the latter appeared His Excellency beckoned him into an inner room, and, taking the file of papers with him, left the Inspector alone with The Times.
After the lapse of some ten minutes both men returned.
“But what I desire to know, and that clearly, is, why this despatch was never handed to me,” His Excellency was saying angrily as they emerged.
“You were away at Scarborough, therefore I attended to it myself,” the Secretary answered.
“Did you not appreciate its extreme importance?” His Excellency cried impetuously. “Surely, in the interests of our diplomacy, this matter should have been placed immediately before me! This despatch, a private one from the Minister, has apparently been lying about the Embassy for the servants or any chance caller to read. The thing’s disgraceful! Suppose for one moment the contents of this despatch have leaked out! What would be the result?”
The Secretary made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders.
“Such gross carelessness on the part of any one connected with this Embassy amounts almost to treason,” the Ambassador continued, livid with rage and indignation. “We are here to do our utmost to preserve the honour and prestige of our nation. Is not our national motto, ‘For the country and the king’? Yet, because I was absent a week, a matter of the most vital importance is calmly shelved in this manner! Moreover, it was sent by special messenger from Rome; yet it has been allowed to lie about for anybody to copy!”
“Pardon me, your Excellency,” exclaimed the Secretary. “The file has been kept in the private safe until this moment, and the key has never left my pocket.”
“Then why did you send it in here by a clerk, and not bring it yourself?” was His Excellency’s withering retort.
“It was impossible for me to return at that moment,” the Secretary explained. “I was dictating an important letter to catch the post.”
“I see from these papers that we wrote direct to the Questore at Livorno, and his reply came by special messenger, under cover from the Foreign Minister. Surely that in itself was sufficient to convince you of its extreme importance! Your previous experiences in Vienna and Berlin ought to have shown you that the Minister does not send despatches by special messenger unless he fears the cabinet noir.”
“I wrote formally to the Questore at Livorno, according to your instructions, and certainly received from the Ministry at Rome the reply attached. I must confess, however, that it did not strike me as extraordinary until this moment. Now that I read it in the light of recent occurrences, I see how secret is its nature. It is impossible, however, that any one besides myself has read it.”
“Let us hope not,” His Excellency snapped as he reseated himself. “It was most injudicious, to say the least;” and then with politeness he bowed to the Secretary as a sign that he had concluded his expressions of displeasure.
“It is most fortunate that you called,” the Ambassador observed, turning to Elmes when the Secretary had left. “If you had not, a most important matter would have escaped my attention. As it is, I fear I shall be too late in intervening, owing to the gross negligence which has been displayed. After the inquest had been held upon the body of the unfortunate girl, we wrote, it appears, to the police at Livorno to endeavour to discover who she was;” and he slowly turned over the papers one by one until he came to a formidable document headed, “Questura di Livorno,” which he glanced through.
“The police, it seems, have no knowledge of any person missing,” he continued slowly and deliberately, when he had read through the report. “The name Vittorina is, of course, as common in Tuscany as Mary is in England. The photograph taken by your Department after death had been seen by the whole of the detectives in Livorno, but no one has identified it. If we had had the surname, we might possibly have traced her by means of the register, which is carefully kept in every Italian town; but as it is, the Questore expresses regret that he is unable to furnish us with more than one item of information.”
“What is that?” asked Elmes eagerly.
“It is stated that by the last train from Livorno, one night in August, two persons, a man and a woman, inquired for tickets for London. They were informed that tickets could only be issued as far as Milan or Modane. The man was English, and the woman Italian. The detective on duty at the station took careful observation of them, as persons who ask for through tickets for London are rare. The description of the woman tallies exactly with that of the unknown Vittorina, and that of the man with the fellow who so cleverly escaped through the Criterion bar.”
“We already knew that they came from Leghorn,” the Inspector observed disappointedly; but the Ambassador took no notice of his words. He was re-reading for the third time the secret instructions contained in the despatch from the Minister at Rome, and stroking his pointed greybeard, a habit when unusually puzzled.
“You, of course, still have the original of that curiously worded letter found in the dead girl’s dressing-bag, and signed ‘Egisto’?” Count Castellani exclaimed presently, without taking his keen eyes off the despatch before him.
“Yes, your Excellency,” Elmes answered. “I have it in my pocket.”
“I should like to see it, if you’ll allow me,” he said in a cold, dignified voice.
The detective took out a well-worn leather wallet containing many notes of cases on which he was or had been engaged, and handed to the Ambassador the strange note which had so puzzled the police and the readers of newspapers.
His Excellency carefully scrutinised the note.
“It is strangely worded – very strangely,” he said. “Have you formed any opinion regarding the mention of Bonciani’s Restaurant in Regent Street? What kind of place is it? I’ve never heard of it.”
“The Bonciani is a small restaurant halfway up Regent Street, frequented by better-class Italians; but what the veiled references to appointments on Mondays can mean, I’ve at present utterly failed to discover.”
“This Egisto, whoever he is, writes from Lucca, I see,” His Excellency remarked. “Now, Lucca is only half an hour from Pisa, and if the man wished to say adieu to her, he might have taken half an hour’s journey and seen her off in the train for the frontier. Have you made any inquiries regarding this strange communication?”
“A letter has been written to the British Consul at Leghorn, in whose district Lucca is, sending him a copy of the letter, together with the evidence, and asking him to communicate with the authorities.”
“Has that letter been sent?” the Ambassador inquired quickly.
“No. I only made application for it to be sent when I was round at the Chief Office this morning.”
“Then stop it,” His Excellency said. “In this matter Consular inquiries are not required, and may have the effect of thwarting the success of the police. If you will leave this letter in my hands I shall be pleased to make inquiries through the Ministry, and at once acquaint you with the result.”
“That will be extremely kind of you, your Excellency,” the Inspector said; for he at once saw that the Ambassador had far greater chance of discovering some clue than he had. A request from the Italian representative in London would, he knew, set the police office in a flutter, and all their wits would be directed towards discovering the identity of the writer of the extraordinary missive.
“This piece of evidence will be quite safe in my hands, of course,” added the Count. “If I am compelled to send it to Italy, in order that the handwriting should be identified, I shall make it a condition that it shall be returned immediately. Do you speak Italian?”
“A little, your Excellency,” he answered. “I’ve been in Italy once or twice on extradition cases.”
“Then you can read this letter, I suppose?” the courtly diplomat asked, eyeing him keenly.
“Yes. I made the translation for the Coroner,” answered Elmes, with a smile.
“Well, it does you credit. Very few of our police, unfortunately, know English. In your inquiries in this case, what have you discovered?” the Ambassador asked. “You may be perfectly frank with me, because the woman was an Italian subject, and I am prepared to assist you in every way possible.”
“Thanks,” the detective said. “Already I’ve made – and am still making – very careful investigations. The one fact, however, which I have really established is the identity of the mysterious Major – who was waiting on the platform of Charing Cross Station, who was introduced to the girl, who afterwards spoke to her English companion in the Criterion, and whose photograph, fortunately enough, was found in the dead girl’s dressing-bag.”
“The Major?” repeated His Excellency, as if reflecting. “Ah! yes, of course; I recollect. Well, who is that interesting person?” he asked.
“The photograph has been identified by at least a dozen persons as that of a Major Gordon Maitland, who lives in the Albany, and who is a member of the Junior United Service Club.”
“Maitland!” echoed the Ambassador, starting at the mention of the name. “He’s rather well known, isn’t he? I fancy I’ve met him somewhere or other.”
“He’s very well known,” answered Elmes. “It is strange, however, that he left London a few days after the occurrence, and has not left his address either at his chambers or his club.”
“That is certainly curious,” the Ambassador agreed. “It may, however, be only accidental that he left after the tragic affair.”
“I have made judicious inquiries in quarters where he is best known, but absolutely nothing is discoverable regarding his whereabouts, although I have three officers engaged on the case.”
“You have found out nothing regarding his friend, the mysterious Englishman, I suppose?”
“Absolutely nothing. All trace of him has vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.”
“He may have been an American, and by this time is in New York, or even San Francisco,” the Count hazarded.
“True, he might have been. Only Major Maitland can tell us that. We are certain to find him sooner or later.”
“I sincerely hope you will,” the Ambassador said. “I am here to guard the interests of all Italian subjects, and if the life of one is taken, it is my duty to press upon your Department the urgent necessity of discovering and punishing the assassin. If, however, I can be of any service to you in this matter, or can advise you, do not hesitate to call on me. You can always see me privately if you send in your card;” and rising, as a sign the interview was at an end, His Excellency bowed, and wished the detective “good-morning.”
The instant Inspector Elmes had closed the door the Ambassador took up the letter found in the dead girl’s bag, together with the file of papers lying before him. Carrying them swiftly to the window, he readjusted his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and hurriedly turned over folio after folio, until he came to the secret despatch with the sprawly signature of the Italian Minister of Foreign Affairs. Then, placing the letter beside the despatch, he closely compared the signature with the handwriting of the letter.
His face grew pale, his grey brows contracted, and he bit his lip.
The “l’s,” “p’s” and “t’s” in the strange missive were exactly identical with those in the signature to the closely written despatch which had been penned by the private secretary.
With trembling hand he held the soiled scrap of paper to the light.
“The watermark shows this to be official paper,” he muttered aloud. “There is certainly some deep, extraordinary mystery here – a mystery which must be fathomed.”
Again he glanced at the long formal despatch. Then the Ambassador added, in a low, subdued, almost frightened tone: “What if it proved that the Marquis Montelupo and ‘Egisto’ are one and the same?”
Chapter Thirteen
A Discovery in Ebury Street
The soft, musical Tuscan tongue, the language which Gemma spoke always with her lover, is full of quaint sayings and wise proverbs. The assertion that “L’amore della donna è come il vino di Champagni; se non si beve subito, ricade in fondo al calice” is a daily maxim of those light-hearted, happy, indolent dwellers north and south of Arno’s Valley, from grey old Lucca, with her crumbling city gates and ponderous walls, across the mountains, and plains to where the high towers of Siena stand out clear-cut like porcelain against the fiery blaze of sunset. Nearly every language has an almost similar proverb – a proverb which is true indeed, but, like many another equally wise, is little heeded.
When Armytage and Gemma had arrived in London, he had not been a little surprised at the address where she stated some friends of hers resided. While still in the train, before she reached London, she took from her purse a soiled and carefully treasured piece of paper, whereon was written, “76, Bridge Avenue, Hammersmith”; and to this house they drove, after depositing their heavy baggage in the cloakroom. They found it a poor, wretched thoroughfare off King Street, and in the wet evening it looked grey, depressing, and unutterably miserable after the brightness of Italy. Suddenly the cab pulled up before the house indicated – a small two-storied one – but it was evident that the person they sought no longer lived there, for a board was up announcing that the house was to let. Armytage, after knocking at the door and obtaining no response, rapped at the neighbouring house, and inquired whether they were aware of the address of Mr Nenci, who had left. From the good woman who answered his inquiries he obtained the interesting fact that, owing to non-payment of the weekly rent, the landlord had a month ago seized the goods, and the foreigner, who had resided there some six months, had disappeared, and, being deeply in debt among the neighbouring small shops, had conveniently forgotten to leave his address.
“Was Mr Nenci married?” asked Charlie Armytage, determined to obtain all the information he could.
“Yes, sir,” the woman answered. “His wife was a black-faced, scowling Italian, who each time she passed me looked as though she’d like to stick a knife into me. And all because I one day complained of ’em throwing a lot of rubbish over into my garden. My husban’, ’e says ’e’d go in and talk to ’em, but I persuaded him not to. Them foreigners don’t have any manners. And you should just have seen the state they left the ’ouse in! Somethin’ awful, the lan’lord says.”
“Then you haven’t the slightest idea where they’ve gone?”
“No, sir. Back to their own country, I hope, for London’s better off without such rubbish.”
Returning to the cab, he told Gemma of the departure of her friends, and suggested that for the present she should stay at the Hotel Victoria, in Northumberland Avenue, while he took up his bachelor quarters in Ebury Street. Therefore they drove back again to Charing Cross; and having seen her comfortably installed in the hotel, he drove to his own rooms.
He had written to his housekeeper from Paris, and on entering his cosy little flat, with its curiously decorated rooms with their Moorish lounges and hangings, found a bright fire, a comfortable chair ready placed for him, his spirit-stand and a syphon of soda ready to hand, and Mrs Wright, his housekeeper, welcoming him back cordially, and expressing the hope that his journey had been a pleasant one.
Having deposited his bag, he washed, dressed, swallowed a whisky-and-soda, and drove back to the Victoria, where he dined with his well-beloved.
At eleven o’clock next morning, according to his promise, he came to the hotel, and they drove out in a taxi to see some of the principal streets of London. She had chosen a dress of dark grey, which fitted her perfectly, and beneath her large black hat her fair face and blue eyes looked the perfect incarnation of innocence and ingenuousness. As he had anticipated, all was strange to her, and in everything she became deeply interested. To her, London was a revelation after the quiet idleness of Tuscany. They drove along the busy Strand, past the Law Courts, down Fleet Street with its crowd of lounging printers, and up Ludgate Hill. At St. Paul’s they alighted and entered the Cathedral. Its exterior was admired, but at its bare interior she was disappointed. She had expected the Duomo of London to be resplendent in gilt and silver altars, with holy pictures, but instead found a great, gaunt building, grey, silent, and depressing.
Armytage noticed the blank look upon her beautiful countenance, and asked her her opinion.
“It is fine, very fine,” she answered in her pure Tuscan. “But how bare it is!”
“This is not a Catholic country, like yours,” he explained. “Here we don’t believe in gaudy altars, or pictures of the Vergine Annunziata.”
“Are all your churches the same, Nino?” she inquired. “Are there no altars?”
“Only the central one, and that is never golden, as in Italy.”
He pointed out to her tombs of great men about whom she had read long ago in her school days at the Convent of San Paolo della Croce, in Florence, and in them she was much interested. But afterwards, when they drove round St. Paul’s churchyard, into Cheapside, where the traffic was congested and progress was slow, she looked upon the mighty, crowded city with eyes wide-open in wonder as a child’s. At every point she indicated something which she had never before seen, and Bennett’s clock striking midday caused her as much delight as if she had been a girl of twelve. Hers was an extraordinary temperament. As he sat beside her, listening to her original remarks anent things which to his world-weary eyes were so familiar as to be unnoticeable, he saw how genuinely ingenuous she was, how utterly unlike the callous adventuress which once, in Livorno, he feared her to be.
To show and explain to her all the objects of interest they passed was to him an intense pleasure.
They returned by way of Cannon Street, where he pointed out the great warehouses whence emanated those objects so dear to the feminine heart – hats and dresses; past the Post Office, with its lines of red mail-carts ready to start for the various termini; along Newgate Street with its grim prison, across the Holborn Viaduct, and thence along Oxford and Regent Street to the hotel.
“How busy and self-absorbed every one seems!” she again remarked. “How gigantic this city seems! Its streets bewilder me.”
“Ah, piccina mia,” he answered, “you’ve only seen a very tiny portion of London. There are more people in a single parish here than in the whole of Florence.”
“And they all talk English, while I don’t understand a word!” she said, pouting prettily. “I do so wish I could speak English.”
“You will learn very soon,” he answered her. “In a couple of months or so you’ll be able to go out alone and make yourself understood.”
“Ah no!” she declared with a slight sigh. “Your English is so difficult – oh, so very difficult! – that I shall never, never be able to speak it.”
“Wait and see,” he urged. “When we are married, I shall speak English to you always, and then you’ll be compelled to learn,” he laughed.
“But, Nino,” she said, her eyes still fixed upon the crowd of persons passing and repassing, “why are all these people in such a dreadful hurry? Surely there’s no reason for it?”
“It is business, dearest,” he answered. “Here, in London, men are bent on money-making. Nine-tenths of these men you see are struggling fiercely to live, notwithstanding the creases in their trousers, and the glossiness of their silk hats; the other tenth are still discontented, although good fortune has placed them beyond the necessity of earning their living. In London, no man is contented with his lot, even if he’s a millionaire; whereas in your country, if a man has a paltry ten thousand lire a year, he considers himself very lucky, takes life easily, and enjoys himself.”
“Ah,” she said, just as the cab pulled up before the hotel entrance, where half a dozen Americans, men and women, lounging in wicker chairs, began to comment upon her extreme beauty, “in London every one is so rich.”
“No, not every one,” he answered, laughing. “Very soon your views of London will become modified;” and he sprang out, while the grey-haired porter, resplendent in gilt livery, assisted her to alight.
An incident had, however, occurred during the drive which had passed unnoticed by both Gemma and her companion. While they were crossing Trafalgar Square, a man standing upon the kerb glanced up at her in quick surprise, and, by the expression on his face, it was evident that he recognised her.
For a few moments his eyes followed the vehicle, and seeing it enter Northumberland Avenue, he hurried swiftly across the Square, and halted at a respectable distance, watching her ascend the hotel steps with Armytage.
Then, with a muttered imprecation, the man turned on his heel and strode quickly away towards St. Martin’s Lane.
When, a quarter of an hour later, Armytage was seated with her at luncheon in the great table d’hôte room, with its heavy gilding, its flowers and orchestral music, she, unconscious of the sensation her beauty was causing among those in her vicinity expressed fear of London. It was too enormous, too feverish, too excited for her ever to venture out alone, she declared. But he laughed merrily at her misgivings, and assured her that very soon she would be quite at home among her new surroundings.
“Would you think very ill of me, piccina, if I left you alone all day to-morrow?” he asked presently, not without considerable hesitation.
“Why?” she inquired, with a quick look of suspicion.
“No, no,” he smiled, not failing to notice the expression on her face. “I’m not going to call on any ladies, piccina. The fact is, I’ve had a pressing invitation for a day’s shooting from an uncle in the country, and it is rather necessary, from a financial point of view, that I should keep in with the old boy. You understand?”