THE MASCOT
ARSENIO opened the door of the apartment with his latchkey and stood
aside to let me pass in first. The door of his sitting room, the long,
narrow room which I have described before, stood slightly ajar, and a
light shone through it. I advanced across the passage—the hall could
hardly be called more—and flung the door wide open as I entered,
Arsenio following just behind.
There, in the middle of the room, two or three paces from the big
bureau, one side of which flapped open, showing shelves and drawers,
stood Louis the valet, the waiter from that “establishment” of
Arsenio’s at Nice, the seller of the winning ticket, the author of
Arsenio’s luck. In his left hand he held, clasped against his body,
a large black leather portfolio or letter case; in his right was the
revolver which his master had given him to clean.
He stood quite still, frightened, as it seemed, into immobility,
glaring at us with a terrified face. He had thought that we were safely
bestowed, round the table downstairs, for some time to come. Our
footsteps on the stairs had disturbed him when his work was almost
finished; our entrance cut off his retreat. Even if he had had the
presence of mind to bar the door, it would have given him only a brief
respite; escape by the window was impossible; but he did not look as if
he were capable of reckoning up the situation, or his chances, at all.
He was numb with fear.
“Drop that thing, you scoundrel!” I cried; and it is my belief to this
day that he would have obeyed me, put down his weapon, and meekly
surrendered, if he had been let alone. He was certainly not built for
a burglar or for deeds of violence, though I suppose the possession of
the revolver had nerved him to this enterprise of his.
But Arsenio did not let him alone, or wait to see the effect of my
order. Even as I spoke, he dashed forward in front of me, uttering
a wild cry; it did not sound like fear—either for his money or for
his life—or even like rage; really, it sounded more like triumph
than anything else. And he made straight for the armed man, utterly
regardless of the weapon that he held.
Thus put to it, Louis fired—once, twice. Arsenio ran, as it were, right
on to the first bullet. I had darted forward to support his attempt
to rush the thief—if that really was what he had in his mind—and he
fell back plump into my arms, just as the second bullet whizzed past
my head. Then with a yell of sheer horror—at what he had done, I
suppose—Louis dropped the revolver with a bang on the floor, dropped
the fat portfolio too with a flop, and, before I, cumbered with
Arsenio’s helpless body, could do anything to stop him, bolted out of
the room like a scared rabbit. I heard his feet pattering down the
stairs at an incredible pace.
Arsenio was groaning and clutching at his chest. I supported him to his
shabby old sofa, and laid him down there. Then I violently rang the
bell which communicated with the ground floor where Amedeo abode.
The next moment Lucinda came into the room—very quickly, but calmly.
“Did he do it himself, after all?”
“No, Louis; he’d been rifling the bureau; and the revolver——”
“Ah, it was Louis that I heard running downstairs! I’ll look after him.
Go for a doctor.” There were no telephones in the old _palazzo_; the
owner had not spent his precarious gains in that fashion!
“I thought of sending Amedeo——”
“You’ll be quicker. Go, Julius.” She knelt down by Arsenio’s sofa.
As I went on my errand—I knew of a doctor who lived quite close—I met
old Amedeo, lumbering upstairs, half-dressed, and told him what had
happened. “He looks very bad,” I added.
Amedeo flung up his hands with pious ejaculations. “As I go by the
_piano nobile_ I’ll call Father Garcia, and take him up with me. Don
Arsenio’s a good Catholic.”
Yes! That fact perhaps had something to do with the course which events
had ultimately taken that night!
When I got back with the doctor—he had gone to bed, and kept me
waiting—Arsenio had been moved into his bedroom. The priest was still
with him, but, when he was informed of the doctor’s arrival, he came
out and Amedeo took the doctor in to the patient, on whom Lucinda was
attending.
Father Garcia was a tall, imposing old ecclesiastic, of Spanish
extraction, and apparently a friend of the Valdez family, for he spoke
of “Arsenio” without prefix. “I have done my office. The doctor can
do nothing—Oh, I’ve seen many men die in the war, and I can tell!
He’s just conscious, but he can hardly speak—it hurts him to try.
Poor Arsenio! His father was a very worthy man, and this poor boy
was a good son of the Church. For the rest——!” He shrugged his ample
shoulders; he was probably reflecting the opinions of the aristocratic
and antiquated coterie which Arsenio had been in the habit of laying
under requisitions when he was in Venice. “But a curious event, a
curious event, just after his prodigious luck!” Father Garcia’s eyes
bulged rather, and they seemed to grow bulgier still as, between sniffs
at a pinch of snuff, he exclaimed slowly, “Three million francs! Donna
Lucinda will be rich!”
The old fellow seemed disposed to gossip; there was nothing else to do,
while we awaited the verdict.
“A gamester, I’m afraid, yes. His father feared as much for him—and a
good many of my friends had reason to suspect the same. You’re a friend
of his, Mr.—er——?”
“My name’s Rillington, sir,” I said.
He raised his brows above his bulging eyes. “Oh!—er—let me see! Wasn’t
Donna Lucinda herself a Rillington—or am I making a mistake?”
“Only just,” said I. I couldn’t help smiling. “Donna Lucinda all but
became a Rillington——”
“Ah!” he interrupted. “Now I remember the story. Some visitors from
London brought it over in the early days of the war—I think they were
propaganda agents of your nation, in fact. It was before Italy made the
mis——it was before Italy joined in the war.”
“Donna Lucinda’s maiden name was Knyvett. Her mother and she once
rented this very apartment from Arsenio, I believe.”
“Yes, and I think I remember that too.” However, he did not seem
to remember too much about it, for he went on. “And so the romance
started, I suppose! She’s a very beautiful woman, Mr. Rillington.”
The expression in his eyes justified my next remark. “Whatever else one
may say about the poor fellow, he was a devoted lover to his wife, and
she was—absolutely true to him.”
“I’m old-fashioned enough to think that that covers a multitude of
sins. She’s not, I gather, a Catholic?”
“No, I believe not.”
“A pity!” he said meditatively; whether he was thinking of Lucinda’s
soul or of her money, I didn’t know—and I will forbear from
speculating. If he was thinking about the money, it was, of course,
only with an eye—a bulging eye—on other people’s souls—as well as
Lucinda’s.
“Pray, sir,” I asked, on a sudden impulse, “do you know anything of a
friend of Arsenio’s here—Signor Alessandro Panizzi?”
“I know what everybody knows,” he replied with a sudden
fierceness—“that he’s a pestilent fellow—a radical, a freemason, an
atheist! Was he a friend of Arsenio’s?”
“Oh, well, I really don’t know. I happened to meet them walking
together on the Piazza this afternoon, and Arsenio introduced me.”
“Then he kept worse company than any of us suspected,” the old priest
sternly pronounced. If the opinion thus indicated was a just one,
Signor Panizzi must be a very bad man indeed! I was just adding hastily
that I knew nothing of the man myself (he had looked the acme of
respectability) when Lucinda opened the door of the room and beckoned
to me. With a low bow to Father Garcia, who was still looking outraged
at the thought of Signor Panizzi, I obeyed her summons.
“He has only a few minutes to live,” she whispered hurriedly, as we
crossed the passage. “He seems peaceful in mind, and suffers little
pain, except when he tries to speak. Still I’m sure there’s something
he wants to say to you; I saw it in his eyes when I mentioned your
name.”
He was in bed, partly undressed. The end was obviously very near.
The doctor was standing a yard or two from the bed, not attempting
any further ministration. I bent over Arsenio, low down, nearly to
his pale face, and laid my hand gently on one of his. He did look
peaceful; and, as he saw me, the ghost of his monkeyish smile formed
itself on his lips. He spoke, with a groan and an effort: “I told
you—Julius—that fellow would—bring me luck. But you never believed—you
never believed—in my——” His voice choked, his words ended, and his
eyes closed. It was only a few minutes more before we left him to the
offices of old Amedeo and the old wife whom he summoned from their
cupboard of a place on the ground floor.
By this time the police were on the scene; there is no need to detail
their formalities, though they took some time. The case appeared a
simple one, but Lucinda and I were told that we must stay where we
were, pending investigations, and the arrest and trial of Louis; we
knew him by no other name, and knew about him no more than what Arsenio
had told me. They let Lucinda retire to her apartment soon after
midnight, and me to mine half an hour later; one of them remained
on duty in the hall of the _palazzo_; and, of course, they took that
portfolio away with them.
In the end the formalities proved to be just that, and no more. Two
days later a body was found in the Grand Canal, having been in the
water apparently about thirty hours. Amedeo and I identified it. The
inference was that, although Louis had no stomach for fighting, he had
that form of courage in which his master had at the last moment failed;
it is probable that he was not a good Catholic. I felt indebted to him
for the manner of his end; it saved us a vast deal of trouble. Poor
wretch! I do not believe that he had any more intention of killing
Arsenio than I had myself. The knowledge of all that money overcame his
cupidity; perhaps he felt some proprietary right in it! The possession
of the revolver probably screwed him up to the enterprise. But the
actual shooting was, I dare swear, an instinctive act of self-defense;
Arsenio’s furious, seemingly exultant, rush terrified him. Anyhow,
there was an end of him; the mascot had brought the luck and, having
fulfilled its function, went its appointed way.
But by no means yet an end of Don Arsenio Valdez! That remarkable
person had prepared posthumous effects, so characteristic of him
in their essence, yet so over-characteristic, that he seemed to be
skillfully burlesquing or travestying himself: in those last days
he must have been in a state of excitement almost amounting to
light-headedness (he had seemed barely sane at the banquet), a complete
prey to his own vanity and posturing, showing off on the brink of the
grave, contriving how to show off even after it had closed over him;
and speculating—I do not in the least doubt—how all the business would
impress Lucinda. One thing fails to be said about it: he succeeded in
stamping it with that vinegary comedy which was the truest hall mark of
Monkey Valdez.
Quite early on the morning after the catastrophe—if that be the right
word to use—I was sitting in my room, musing over it and awaiting
a summons from Lucinda, when I was favored with a call from that
eminently respectable (?), most pestilent (?) person, Signor Alessandro
Panizzi. After elaborate lamentations and eulogies (it would have
warmed Arsenio’s heart to hear them), and explanations of how he, in
his important position, was in close touch with the police authorities,
and so heard of everything directly it happened, and consequently had
heard of this atrocious crime as soon as he was out of his bed—he
approached the object of his visit. I was, he had understood from the
deceased gentleman, his confidential friend; also an intimate family
friend of Donna Lucinda; was I aware that Don Arsenio had made a
disposition of his property on the afternoon of the very day of his
death?—“a thing which might impress foolish and superstitious people,”
Signor Panizzi remarked with a sad but superior smile. He himself, as
a notary, had drawn up the document, which Don Arsenio had executed
in due form; it was in his custody; he produced from his pocket a
copy, or rather an abstract, of the operative part of it. To sum up
this instrument as briefly as possible, Arsenio bequeathed: First, ten
thousand lire to the Reverend Father Garcia, in trust to cause masses
to be said for his soul, should Holy Church so permit (it sounded
as if Arsenio had his doubts, whether well-founded or not, I do not
know, and, as things had turned out, immaterial); secondly, the entire
residue of his estate to his wife, the most excellent Signora Donna
Lucinda Valdez, his sole surviving near relative; but, thirdly, should
the said most excellent Lady, being already fully provided for (!),
accept only the _palazzo_—as it was his earnest wish that she should
accept it, his ancestral residence—and renounce the inheritance of his
personal estate, then and in that case, he bequeathed the whole of that
personal estate to Signor Alessandro Panizzi and two other gentlemen
(I forgot their names, but they were both, I subsequently learnt from
Father Garcia, “pestilent” friends of Panizzi’s, one may suppose, and
naturally pestilent), on a trust to apply the same, in such ways as the
law permitted, to the use and benefit of the City of Venice and its
inhabitants, which and who were so dear to the heart of the adopted but
devoted son of the said City, Arsenio Valdez.
“It is prodigious!” said Signor Alessandro Panizzi. He handed me the
abstract, adding, “You will perhaps like to show it to the Excellent
Lady?” He paused. “It is, of course, a question what course she will
adopt. The sum is a large one, I understand.”
The anxiety that showed itself in his voice was natural and creditable
to a Venetian patriot—and quite intelligible too in a gentleman who
saw himself with the chance of handling an important public trust.
There would be _kudos_ to be got out of that! But I did not pay much
attention to his anxiety.
“You’re right. It is prodigious,” I said, smiling broadly in spite of
myself. How Arsenio must have enjoyed giving those instructions! No
wonder he had looked complacent when I met him with Panizzi on the
Piazza; and no wonder that Panizzi had been so deferential. A foretaste
for Arsenio of the posthumous praise which he was engineering—the talk
of him after his death, the speculation about him! Because, of course,
he was quite safe with Lucinda—and he knew it. He was obliged, I
believe, though I do not profess to know the law, to leave her part of
his property. But it was handsome, more gallant and chivalrous, to give
it all to her—in the sure and certain knowledge that she would not take
the money brought by the winning ticket! And, next to her in his heart
came his dear City of Venice! If not beloved Lucinda, then beloved
Venice! The two Queens of his heart! What a fine flourish! What an exit
for himself he had prepared! The plaudits would sound loud and long
after he had left the stage.
“It is, of course, possible,” I found Signor Panizzi saying, “that our
lamented friend had discussed the matter with his wife and that they
had——”
“Well, that’s not at all unlikely. You’d like me to tell her about
this?”
“It would, no doubt, be convenient to have, as soon as possible, an
indication of her——”
“Naturally. I’ll speak to her, and let you know her views as soon as
possible. It is a large sum, as you say. She may desire to take time
for consideration.” I knew that she would not take five minutes.
“I may tell you—without breach of confidence, I think—that our lamented
friend was at first disposed to confine his benefaction, in the event
of its becoming operative by his wife’s renunciation, to distinctly
ecclesiastical charities. I allowed myself the liberty—the honor—of
suggesting to him a wider scope. ‘Why be sectional?’ I suggested. ‘The
gratitude, the remembrance, of all your fellow citizens—that would be
a greater thing, Don Arsenio,’ I permitted myself to say. And the idea
appealed to him.”
“Really, then,” I remarked, “Venice is hardly less indebted to
you—Venice as a whole, I mean—than to poor Arsenio himself!”
“No, no, I couldn’t allow that to be said. But I’m proud if I, in any
way, had a humble——”
“Exactly. And if that comes out—and surely why shouldn’t it?—everybody
will be very grateful to you—except perhaps the distinctly
ecclesiastical charities! By the way, do you know this Father Garcia?
He’s living in this house, on the first floor, and we called him in to
see Arsenio—last night, you know,—before he died.”
“I don’t know Father Garcia personally,” he said stiffly, “but very
well by repute.” He paused; I waited to see what he would say of Father
Garcia. “An utter reactionary, a black reactionary, and none too good
an Italian.” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Strongly suspected of
Austrian sympathies!”
“I see,” I replied gravely. He had almost got even with the old
priest’s “pestilent.”
He rose and bade me a ceremonious farewell. As he went out, he
said, “This bequest—and whether it comes into operation or not, it
must receive publicity—coming from a member of the old reactionary
nobility—from a Spanish Catholic—may well be considered to mark a stage
in the growing solidarity of Italy.”
That seemed as much as even Arsenio himself could have expected of it!