THE GOLDEN ANTONIO
“Signor--for the love of heaven!”
The Strand was crowded with a matinée throng, and the idle folk which
promenade that famous thoroughfare before the Easter holiday filled the
sidewalks.
To the man in a hurry the indolence of the loitering, sauntering
pleasure-seekers was anathema. Frank Gallinford was that man in a
hurry, for the 6:30 Burboro’ express waits for no man, and, though
Charing Cross was in sight, there remained only two minutes to get
through the crowd, into the station, and on to the platform.
He cursed the idlers deeply and earnestly as he elbowed and pushed
his way forward. To leave the sidewalk was to court disaster, for
the roadway was blocked with traffic, and, moreover, an intelligent
authority had had it dug up at its busiest portion and railed off to
half its width for repairs.
Frank Gallinford had stepped from the curb into the roadway, and from
the roadway on to the curb again, dodging between the hawkers who
vended their wares; he had sprung away from the wheels of devastating
motor cars and buffeted stout and leisurely gentlemen in his effort to
reach the station on time, but he seemed as far from his objective as
ever.
Then he suddenly felt his sleeve clutched and the words:
“Signor--for the love of heaven!”
They were gasped rather than spoken, and the language employed was
Italian.
Frank stopped and looked round with a bewildered frown. Who spoke to
him in Italian in this most English Strand?--and who knew that he was
acquainted with the language?
The man at his elbow was unquestionably Latin. His long, cadaverous
face, covered with a week’s growth of beard, was working almost
convulsively in his agitation. The big black eyes that stared at him
from beneath two shaggy brows blazed as only Southern eyes can blaze.
In a moment the Englishman’s anxiety to catch his train was forgotten.
The soft accents which he knew so well and loved so well came to his
ears like the first sigh of the breeze that ripples the Adriatic on
summer nights. It stirred memories of a simple and charming peasantry,
it brought visions of the marble palaces of the old Venetian nobility.
“Well, my friend?” he asked kindly.
“I cannot speak to you here,” said the man, dropping his voice and
speaking quickly. “You remember me, signor?--Romano--I was your foreman
on the harbour works at Cattaro.”
Frank remembered, and his hand dropped in a friendly salute on the
other’s shoulder.
“Remember you, Lorenzo mio!” he laughed. “Why, how ever could I forget
you! You were the man who swam out to me when I was seized with
cramp--confound you, you saved my life!”
A faint smile flickered across the lips of the little Italian, and then
the look of anxiety came again.
“Follow me,” he whispered, “this is urgent; you do not know, you cannot
understand.”
With no other word, he plunged into the throng, and Frank Gallinford,
keeping him in sight, followed.
Romano turned the first corner he reached. It was a steep street which
led down into the Adelphi.
Here the stream of traffic dried up. Into the gloomy depths only the
most experienced travellers, who knew this contributed a short cut
to the District Railway station, ventured, and the two men had the
thoroughfare to themselves.
When they had gone fifty yards the Italian stopped, and Frank observed
that he chose a spot midway between two street lamps where the light
was dimmest and most uncertain.
“Signor,” he said, speaking rapidly, almost incoherently, “you know
me a little. I am a mason, and I was brought to London to work on the
new Italian restaurant in Regent Street. I have no friend in London,
no one to whom I can turn--and I am in despair”--he wrung his hands,
and his voice, though he kept it low by sheer effort of control, was
shrill--“and then I saw your face--your strong, calm English face in
that great crowd, signor--like a saint, signor....”
Frank was too accustomed to the extravagance of the Italian compliment
to feel embarrassed, though he had never overcome the sense of shyness
which comes to the more phlegmatic Anglo-Saxon in face of florid
flattery.
“I am not feeling particularly angelic, Lorenzo,” he said, with a
rueful smile as the recollection of his lost train occurred to him.
“Listen, signor,” the man went on. “Years ago, when I was younger,
I was in New York--and for a joke, signor--I swear it was no more
than a youthful jest--I joined a society. I took oaths--I thought
nothing of it. Then I went away to my own country, later to
Montenegro, then to Italy again--and now to London. And, signor,
they have found me--my society. And they tell me I must do horrible
things--horrible--horrible.”
He covered his face with his hands and groaned. Frank was puzzled.
He knew of these secret societies, had indeed seen their milder
manifestations. He had endured an exasperating strike on more occasions
than one as a result of some offense given to an official of a society.
But never had he glimpsed the tragedy, the underlying horror, of these
mysterious associations.
He laid his hand gently on the other’s arm.
“My friend,” he said soothingly, “you need not worry--this is England.
These things do not happen here. If you are threatened, go to the
police----”
“No, no, no!” protested the man, frantic with terror; “you do not
understand. My only hope is to get away ... if I could reach the
Argentine--come--come!”
He dragged the other with him to the nearest street lamp, fumbling in
his pocket the while.
“They want me for many reasons,” he said, “and for this most of all.”
His coat was one of those heavy cloth coats which Italian labourers
wear, the corners of the pockets ornamented with tiny triangles of
rusty black velvet. From the depths of a pocket the man produced a
little case. It looked like a jewel case, and the Englishman observed
that it was very new. Romano’s trembling hand sought for the catch. He
found it after awhile, and the satin-lined lid flew open. On a bed of
dark blue velvet lay a little medallion.
“San Antonio,” said the Italian, in a hushed, eager voice.
It was a beautiful piece of work. The background was made up of small
diamonds, the Saint with the Babe was in gold relief. This was no
stamped and minted impression, but a piece of rare and delicate carving.
“Signor,” said Lorenzo, “a month ago a man who was a friend of mine
brought this to me--how it came to him I do not know. He asked me to
take care of it, and in time--these were his words, signor--to restore
it to----”
A motor car came swiftly down the street, and the Italian looked around
apprehensively.
“Take it!”
He thrust the case into Gallinford’s hands, clicking it close as he did
it.
“But----”
“Take it--ah!”
The car drew up abreast of them and, as the lacquered door swung open,
Romano shrank back against the railings.
Two men alighted, and they were followed by a woman.
She was tall, slim, graceful. Frank could not see her face, for it was
thickly veiled, but her voice was low and sweet.
“This is the man,” she said, and pointed to the cowering Italian.
The two men sprang at Romano and caught him by the arms. There was the
click of handcuffs.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Gallinford, though, with a sinking
heart, he anticipated the answer.
“This man has taken a jewel of mine,” the lady replied.
“What does she say--what does she say?” asked the Italian. The
conversation had been in English; Frank translated.
“It is a lie--a lie!” screamed Romano, struggling desperately as they
dragged him toward the car. “Save me, for God’s sake, signor!”
The Englishman hesitated. He had all the national repugnance of a
“scene.” He knew that the Italian would at any rate be safe at the
police station--and if he were guilty, as it seemed probable, he needed
no protection. The whole story was a cock-and-bull invention.
“Where are you taking him?” he asked.
“To Marlborough Street,” said one of the men gruffly.
“Go quietly, Lorenzo,” said Frank, turning to the struggling man. “I
will follow you.”
But the prisoner had gone limp; he had fainted.
They lifted him into the car and the men jumped in after. The woman
waited expectantly. Then Frank saw a second car behind. As the first
car manœuvred to turn, he heard voices in altercation. Lorenzo had
recovered from his swoon; there was a scuffle, and the Italian’s head
appeared at the window.
“Signor!”--there was agony in his voice--“tell Signor Tillizini----”
A hand was placed over his mouth, and he was dragged back as the car
rolled-up the hill and into the slow-moving traffic.
Frank waited. He half expected the woman to speak. Then it occurred to
him that she would regard him, if not as an accomplice, at least as a
friend of the arrested man, and he went red.
She stepped lightly into the second car. This did not turn, but made
its way downhill.
It was on the point of moving off when he remembered with a shock that,
if he was not the thief, he was all unwillingly a receiver. The jewel
was still in his pocket.
The car was on the move when he realized this and sprang to the door of
the carriage.
“Madame,” he said, “a word--I have something to say--I have----”
Through the open window of the car he saw the woman draw back.
“I want you----” he began, and jumped back as he saw the flash of
descending steel.
He was just in time.
The thin stiletto aimed at him struck the edge of the window, and
Frank, temporarily dazed, stumbled to his knees in the muddy road as
the car jerked ahead and vanished round the corner of Adam Street.
One glimpse he got of a white hand still clasping the hilt of the
quivering poignard--a white hand on a finger of which glowed a square
black opal.
He rose slowly to his feet, dumbfounded. He was furiously angry. She
had evidently mistaken him for a robber.
He brushed the mud from his knees with a handkerchief, and collected
his thoughts, swearing softly.
Here was he, a prosaic young engineer on his way to meet his fiancée
in prosaic Burboro’, engaged in an adventure which was three parts
melodrama and one part comedy.
“This comes from listening to plausible Italians,” he said savagely. He
made his way to the Strand and hailed a taxicab.
“Marlborough Street police station,” he directed.
He would rid himself of this infernal jewel and clear himself, at any
rate.
The sergeant returned his greeting curtly, taking in the mud-stained
figure with professional suspicion.
“Romano?” he said. “No, we haven’t a Romano here.”
“He has just been arrested by two of your men,” said Frank.
“No warrant has been executed for a man of that name,” said the
sergeant, shaking his head. “Just wait a minute and I’ll ask Bow
Street.”
He went into an adjoining room, and Frank heard the tinkle of a
telephone.
By and by the officer returned.
“Neither Bow Street nor Vine Street know anything about it,” he said.
Briefly the young man told the story of the arrest, omitting only
the fact that the jewel reposed in his pocket. He had no desire to
find himself detained. With Lorenzo to confirm his story and with the
prosecutrix present to identify the jewel, it would be different. And
he had, too, an overpowering desire to explain to the murderous lady,
in person, his honourable intentions.
“No, sir,” the sergeant went on, “we’ve no Italians--we’ve had enough
of them since the Red Hand started operations in England. But since Mr.
Tillizini began working for Scotland Yard, they haven’t been so busy.”
“Tillizini?” cried Frank, with a start.
The sergeant nodded.
“That’s the gentleman,” he said complacently; “if you want to know
anything about Italian criminals, you’d better see him--108, Adelphi
Terrace; anyway, you’d best come back again--the C.I.D. men may be
working independently.”
Frank walked in the neighbourhood of the station until ten o’clock that
night. He sent a wire to his host and dined at a Piccadilly restaurant.
The clock was striking the hour when he again mounted the steps of
Marlborough Street station.
The sergeant was not alone. Three overcoated men were talking together
in one corner of the room.
“Here he is,” said the sergeant, and the three turned and surveyed the
young engineer gravely.
“What was the name of that Italian you were inquiring about?” asked the
sergeant.
“Lorenzo Romano,” replied Frank. “Have you found him?”
The officer nodded grimly.
“Picked him up in the Embankment Gardens--an hour ago,” he said.
“Where is he?” asked Frank.
“In the mortuary,” said the sergeant, “with twenty-five knife wounds in
his body.”