some discoveries in rome.
the mysterious flight of nardini, the prominent politician and minister for justice, was, it seemed, still the one topic of conversation in the “eternal city”, only that morning i had read a paragraph in the tribuna that the fugitive was believed to have reached buenos ayres. the embassy in london had evidently kept the secret i had divulged, and even the italian police were in ignorance that the man wanted for that gigantic embezzlement—for the sum stated to have disappeared was now known to be a very large one—was already in his grave.
the mysterious discovery at the dead man’s villa out at tivoli, that pleasant little town with the wonderful cascade twenty miles outside rome, greatly complicated the problem. and the girl who had been found in such strange circumstances was actually an intimate friend of lucie miller! the whole thing was assuming a shape entirely beyond my comprehension.
i presently thanked the old porter for his information, slipped another tip into his hand, and walked back to the corso, hugging the shade, and reflecting deeply upon what the old fellow had told me.
two or three facts were quite plain. the first was that miller would most certainly not be in rome if he had the slightest suspicion that the police were in search of lucie. therefore, although the doctor had acted as the fugitive’s secretary, he was in ignorance of the discovery made at the villa verde. again, had not nardini himself for some reason abstracted from the archives of the questura the official record of miller, his description and the suspicions against him?
therefore i saw that the police were hampered in their inquiries, because they were without information. again, the name of gennaro gavazzi, though not an uncommon one in italy, struck me as familiar from the first moment that lucie had uttered it in leghorn.
now, as i walked the streets of rome, i remembered. it came upon me like a flash. it had been written in that confidential police record that the doctor was a milanese, and that he was suspected of being an accomplice of the englishman.
and yet nardini, being aware of this, had actually appointed him one of his private secretaries!
that latter fact was one that showed either conspiracy or that nardini, crafty and far-seeing, employed the doctor with some ulterior motive.
i was anxious to see what sort of person this gavazzi might be.
i begrudged every moment i spent in rome, anxious as i was to be back near my well-beloved and shield her from the blackguard who held her in his power. yet this new development of the mystery held me anxious and eager.
already i was in possession of greater knowledge of the affair than the police themselves; therefore i hoped that i might, by careful action and watching, learn the truth.
somehow, by instinct it might have been, i felt that if i could but elucidate the mystery of the villa verde i should gain some knowledge that would release my love from her hideous bondage. i don’t know why, but it became a fixed idea with me. therefore i resolved to remain in rome at least a few days and carefully watch miller and his friend.
every moment, every hour, i thought of my sweet one who i knew loved me as passionately as i loved her, and yet who was now separated from me by a gulf which i was determined to bridge. she was ever in my thoughts, her beautiful face with those dear sad eyes ever before me, the music of her voice ever ringing in my ears. yes. she should be mine—mine if i died myself in order to save her!
towards evening i loitered up and down the via del tritone hoping to catch sight of the doctor and his english visitor, for i calculated that their probable habit was to dine at a restaurant. from the porter i had learnt that gavazzi was a bachelor, therefore he probably had arrangements en pension at one or other of the restaurants, in the manner of most single men in rome.
though i waited nearly two hours, from half-past six to half-past eight, i saw nothing of miller or of his host. the old porter noticed me, therefore having gauged his character pretty accurately i crossed to him and explained that i was waiting to see the doctor come out, as i was not certain whether he was the dr gavazzi whom i had known in venice some years ago. this little fiction, combined with another small tip, satisfied the old man, and i went forth into the street again, fearing that if i remained in the entrance miller, in passing, might recognise me.
it was a weary vigil, and one that required constant attention, for on a summer’s evening the streets of rome are crowded by the populace who come out to enjoy the cool air after the blazing heat of the day. another hour passed without sign of them. in any case they must have dined in their rooms—perhaps sent a servant out to a neighbouring cook-shop.
therefore i went round to the piccolo borsa, the small restaurant in the via della mercede, at which i always ate when in rome, and there snatched a hasty meal.
shortly before ten i returned to my vigil and learnt from my friend the porter that the doctor was still in casa. therefore i idled in patience, glancing from time to time up at the windows of the apartment in question. there were lights there, but the green persiennes were still closed, as they had been all day.
as the night wore on the street became extra full of idling promenaders, for it was festa and all rome was out to gossip, to lounge and to obtain a breath of the bel fresco. men were crying the evening newspaper in loud strident tones, and here and there walked the police in couples, with their epaulettes and festa plumes. before every café the chairs overflowed into the roadway, and every table was occupied by men and women, mostly in white cotton clothes, sipping sirops. rome is cosmopolitan only in winter. rome is the roman’s rome in summer, bright, merry and light-hearted by night; silent and lethargic by day—a city indicative of the italian temperament and the italian character.
i was just about to relinquish my watch, believing that the doctor and his english friend did not intend to come forth that evening, when i suddenly saw miller in a white linen suit and straw hat emerge from the big doorway into the street, accompanied by a short, black-bearded, dark-faced italian of about thirty-five, who also wore a straw hat, fashionably-cut suit of dark cloth, and a drab cotton waistcoat across which was a thick gold albert.
they turned towards the piazza colonna, and i at once followed, keeping them well in sight. the doctor appeared to be something of a dandy, for he carried yellow gloves, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, and the crook of his walking-stick was silver gilt. he wore a red cravat, a high collar, and his jacket was cut narrow at the waist with ample skirts, slit up at the back, and turned-over cuffs.
he was a typical roman elegant, but his face had craft and cunning plainly written upon it. those dark searching eyes were set too closely together, and although there was a careless, easy-going expression upon his countenance i could see that it was only feigned.
what, i wondered, was the urgent business which had brought mr miller post-haste from england?
deep in conversation they passed up the corso for a little distance, then turning at the puspoli palace they traversed the small streets leading to the tiber until they reached the via di repetta, up which they continued until they suddenly turned into a narrow, ill-lit, dirty street to the right and disappeared into an uninviting wine-shop, one of those low little drinking-houses which abound in the poorer quarters of rome.
that it was a low neighbourhood i could see at a glance. i had never explored that part of the “eternal city” before, and had not had time to notice the name of the street.
a few moments after the two men had disappeared i sauntered past and glanced inside. the ceiling was low, and blackened by the lamp suspended in the centre. upon shelves around were many rush-covered flasks of wine, while at the end was a pewter counter where a coarse tousled-haired woman was standing washing glasses.
at the table three forbidding-looking men, with their felt hats drawn over their eyes, were drinking and throwing dice, shouting excitedly at each throw, while one man rather better dressed was sitting apart writing a letter, with a long cigar between his lips.
there was, however, no sign of the doctor and his companion who, it seemed, had passed straight into the room beyond. it was hardly the place in which one would have expected to find the owner of that dorsetshire manor, and i now saw the reason why the doctor had, ever and anon, looked round as though in suspicion that they might be followed.
they had an important appointment there, without a doubt. and, moreover, they were no strangers to the place.
i would have given worlds to have been able to get a peep behind that closed door.
i was, however, forced to remain idling up and down the street, watched and commented upon by the groups of women gossiping at their doors, and scowled at by the men who seemed to lurk smoking in the shadows. they recognised by my clothes and my walk that i was a forestiero, a stranger, and wondered probably whether i was not an agent of police.
after half an hour miller and his friend came out, accompanied by a young girl, hatless, as is the mode among the people, and with a bright yellow scarf twisted around her neck. she was about seventeen, good-looking, wore big gold ear-rings and showed an even set of white teeth as she spoke to miller and laughed.
together they set off along the lugo tevere, crossed the ponte s. angelo, and plunged into that labyrinth of narrow dirty streets that lay between the river and st. peter’s. presently, in a dark street off the borgo pia, the girl left them, and halting they stood talking together after lighting cigarettes.
the girl hurried on and was lost in the darkness, yet they were evidently awaiting her return.
my own position was a difficult one, for i feared that at any moment gavazzi’s quick eyes might detect me and point me out to miller who would recognise me. for fully a quarter of an hour the pair remained there, until at last the girl returned, bringing with her a young man about twenty-two, a low-born swaggering young fellow who wore his soft grey hat askew, and walked with his hands in his pockets, a man of distinctly criminal type who had probably never done an honest day’s work in his life. by the light of the street lamp i saw that he bore across his cheek an ugly cicatrice from an old knife-wound, and that upon his chin was a mole upon which the hair was allowed to grow. the latter was significant—it was the mark of that powerful secret society of criminals, the camorra.
the girl, who was probably his inamorata, introduced them, whereupon he lifted his hat with his finger and thumb and swung it back upon his head with a twist—an action by which one camorrist betrays his allegiance to the initiated.
for a few moments they conversed together, then the girl, wishing the trio buona sera, sped away, and passing me was again lost in the darkness, while the men, walking together slowly, came on in my direction. the doctor was conversing with the young man in low whispers, and it seemed to me that he was giving him certain instructions. but i could not, of course, approach sufficiently near to overhear what was said. miller was listening, but said nothing, except when addressed by his friend.
outside the massive castel s. angelo there is a cab-rank, and all three entered a closed cab.
that there was some dark conspiracy in progress i could not doubt. the presence of that young swaggerer—a man capable of committing any crime i could see—was distinctly suspicious. besides they dare not be seen with him; therefore they took a closed cab, the only one upon the rank on that hot night.
they moved off across the bridge, and when they were a hundred yards away i got into one of the open cabs and told the driver to follow, for i was determined at all hazards to ascertain what cunning scheme was in progress.
fortunately, on account of my linen suit being dirty, i had exchanged it for one of dark blue serge, therefore i was not so conspicuous in the darkness as was miller. to my surprise they drove direct to the railway station, where they alighted and the doctor went to take tickets. noticing this, i told my driver to jump down and overhear their destination, promising him five francs for the information.
in a moment he was gone, while i minded his horse.
five minutes later he returned, saying:—
“the signore has taken three second-class tickets to tivoli.”
tivoli! what, i wondered, was their object in going out to tivoli at that hour?
i watched them pass the barrier on to the platform; then i myself took a ticket for the same destination, passed through, and entered an empty compartment of the waiting train. i saw, however, that while miller and his friend were in a second-class carriage, the young man in the grey felt hat was in a third-class compartment. they were evidently taking precautions not to be seen in his company.
i was sorely tempted to slip across to the police office and ask the delegato to allow a detective to accompany me. yet if i did this i should only be giving miller into the hands of the police, and thus quite ruin all my chances of discovering the truth. no. if i wished to find out what was in progress i was, i saw, compelled to continue fearless and alone.
something desperate was in progress, otherwise they would never have sought the services of that young camorrist. miller was far too gentlemanly a rascal to associate with common criminals.
the train was a slow omnibus one, and it was past midnight before we drew into the station of tivoli. i held back, allowing all three to alight before me, and saw that, on the platform, they separated and passed out singly, as though unacquainted. a detective was idling at the barrier as is always the case in italy, but their appearance did not attract him and they took the dark road leading towards the ancient town which in the daytime commands such beautiful views of rome and the campagna, the town that has always been a popular summer resort even since the augustan age when maecenas, hadrian and the emperor augustus himself had their villas there, and gave their marvellous fêtes.
as i followed the trio, who still walked separately, i could hear the quiet of the night was broken by the thunder of the giant waterfalls, for me a fortunate circumstance, as the sounds of my footsteps were deadened. in miller a strange transformation had been effected. he had been conspicuous in his suit of white, yet now he was in dark clothes. he had adopted the trick often practised by malefactors of wearing one suit over the other, so as to be able to enter a place wearing a light suit and gay-coloured scarf, and leave it three minutes afterwards dressed entirely differently. he had simply slipped off his white cotton suit while in the train and had either thrown it out of the window, or left it beneath the seat of the railway-carriage.
railway searchers and platelayers, even in england, find complete suits of clothes more often than one would imagine.
from the station at tivoli the road to the town, part of the ancient valeria, runs down to the st. angelo gate. there it branches out in two ways, one entering the town across a high bridge, and the other continuing up the hill and out into the country.
the three men took this latter road, a winding tortuous one which led up past an ancient castle and away to the heights behind. there were no lights, but the night was not exactly dark, and i could distinctly see the white road before me and the figures moving forward. one had gone on rapidly in front, while the other two also walked separately as though strangers.
suddenly i saw the figure nearest me leave the road and pass into a vineyard. then a few minutes later, as i went on, i lost sight of the other two and at the same time found that we had reached a splendid old cinquecento villa, an enormous place the back of which abutted on to the road. its great square windows were closely barred as they had been in those old turbulent days when every house had been a fortress, and from the great entrance gate with its crumbling stone lions on either side ran a long dark cypress avenue. the ponderous gate was covered with sheet iron so that i could see only the tops of the trees within.
this was, i supposed, the villa verde, the country-house of the man who had died unrecognised in the boarding-house in shepherd’s bush.
there was no door leading to the roadway save the great entrance gate. through that miller and his companions had certainly not passed, therefore i concluded that they had reached the house by a secret way through the vineyard.
careful to remain always in the shadow, and moving with greatest caution, i retraced my steps, entered the vineyard at the point where i had seen one figure disappear, and after a few moments discovered a narrow path through the trailing richly laden vines which led through an open gate to a small side door in a wing of the great old building.
i tried it. the handle yielded. they had passed through there, without a doubt!
should i enter there? was i not perhaps risking my life in so doing? they were a desperate trio. i knew well my fate, if they discovered that i had learned their secret.
i held my breath. then with sudden resolve, i slowly pushed the door open and peered eagerly within.
next instant i drew back aghast.
what i saw there staggered me. i was not prepared for it.
i could distinctly hear my own heart beating within me.
