Moroni. On every hand I heard high praise of his skill. He was one of
the principal physicians at the great hospital at Gelsomino, and among
other of his illustrious patients there had been a Russian Grand Duke
and an Austrian princess who lived in a magnificent villa upon the
Viale dei Colli.
I went about the wonderful city of art collecting information
concerning the doctor, where and when I could, because a startling
fact had been revealed to me by Robertson, namely, that Moroni was De
Gex's medical attendant.
In the night-time when the narrow ancient side-streets of Florence,
with their ponderous prison-like palaces with iron-barred windows are
so ill-lit and cavernous, the place seems a city of evil deeds, as
indeed it was in the days of the Medici and of the Borgias.
As I trod those streets between the Porta Romana and Santa Maria
Novella, I confess that I became apprehensive of a nervous breakdown.
That a girl had been wilfully done to death in that West End mansion,
and that I had accepted a bribe to aid and abet the assassin, were
undeniable facts. The wealthy man evidently believed that, for my own
sake and in order to escape prosecution, I would not seek to solve the
enigma. Now, as I reflected upon my interview at the Villa Clementini,
I realized how artful he was in denying everything, and yet allowing
me a loophole for escape. He had mentioned blackmail--an ugly word
with ugly consequences--well-knowing that I dare not go to the
Metropolitan Police and make any statement of what I had witnessed or
of how I had acted.
I still held that five thousand pounds bribe intact. The accursed
notes were at the flat at Rivermead Mansions. My position was now
untenable. When that night I retired to my room I realized that the
situation was hopeless. How could I support any charge against a man
who, being a millionaire, could purchase manufactured evidence--as is
done every day--just as easily as he could purchase a cigar?
The evidence given in judicial courts in every European capital in
cases where the party, either plaintiff or defendant, is well
possessed of this world's goods, is usually tainted. In no place on
earth can money work more marvels than in a court of law. Witnesses
who make testimony a profession for big fees appear in every Assize
court in the world. And some of them are, alas! experts. True it is
that every man has his price, and the more so in these hard, post-war
days of riot and ruin. Justice and brotherly love departed with the
Victorian era. The old game of "Beat-your-neighbour-out-of-doors,"
played by our grandfathers, seems to be the only one practised in our
modern times.
With such thoughts I fell asleep.
Next day I spent in again wandering the old-world streets of Florence,
hoping to obtain another glimpse of Moroni and his fair charge. I went
to the Duomo and waited near that side-chapel where I had first seen
them. Then, as they did not come, I idled before a café in the Via
Calzajoli, and again in the Piazza della Signorina. But I saw nothing
of them. That afternoon I spent the winter sunshine in the Cascine,
the beautiful wood beside the Arno where the Florentines go each day
for the _passeggiata_, either in their old-fashioned landaus with
armorial bearings upon the panels, in modern motor-cars, or on foot.
The afternoon, though it was winter, was glorious, even though the
cold wind from the snow-tipped Apennines swept sharply down the
valley. Yet everyone was wrapped up warmly, and the fresh air was
invigorating.
Though I kept my eyes open everywhere, I failed to detect that slim
figure in rusty black.
I allowed the following day to pass. Then, at four o'clock in the
afternoon, I called at the house of Doctor Moroni in pretence of again
consulting him.
Upon the door of the great old house, now converted into spacious
flats, was a small, rather tarnished brass plate with the words: "Dr.
Moroni, Primo Piano."
So I climbed the wide stone stairs to the first floor, and rang the
bell. My summons was answered by a tall, swarthy, dark-eyed Italian
maid, who wore a dainty muslin apron, but no cap--as is the custom in
Italy. She was a Piedmontese, for in her hair she wore several of
those large pins with round heads of silver filigree placed in a
semicircle at the back of her head, until they formed a kind of halo.
"The Signore Dottore is at home," was her reply in Italian. "Be
pleased to enter."
And she showed me along a narrow hall to what was evidently Moroni's
waiting-room. The atmosphere of the place was close on account of the
charcoal stove, and the barely-furnished room smelt of some
disinfectant.
I had sat there for some moments when I heard a door open, and men's
voices sounded speaking in English:
"Very well, signore," I heard the doctor say. "I will be up at the
villa at eleven o'clock."
"Good," replied the other. "You will not be troubled by Robertson this
time. He will be away. I am sending him on a message to Pisa, as I do
not want him about; he is too inquisitive. Besides, you will not come
to the house. You quite understand where we shall meet?"
"Quite, signore," replied Moroni.
By the mode in which the doctor addressed his visitor, and the mention
of Robertson, it was plain that he was speaking with Oswald De Gex.
Why was the butler to be sent to Pisa? I wondered.
I sat breathless, listening to the footsteps along the hall, and to
Moroni wishing his visitor good afternoon.
A few moments later he opened the door brusquely and with a pleasant
smile apologized for keeping me waiting. Then he conducted me to his
consulting-room, a gloomy, frowsy little apartment much over-heated,
as is usual in Florentine houses in winter.
"Well?" he asked. "And how do you feel now, Mr. Garfield?"
My reply was the reverse of satisfactory. The mixture had done me
good, I said, but I still felt excruciating pains after eating. In
consequence, he felt my pulse and took my temperature, while I, on my
part, strained my ears listening for any feminine voice. Was the girl
whose secret I sought still there?
Once I heard a woman's voice, but she cried in Italian to a
fellow-servant named Enrichetta, hence she was probably the maid who
had admitted me.
Moroni, after he had concluded his examination, seemed a little
puzzled. No doubt I had, in my ignorance, described some imaginary
symptom which was not in accordance with what he expected to find. He,
however, gave me another prescription, and as he wrote it I wondered
how he would act if he knew that my object in becoming his patient
was to probe the mystery of the affair in Stretton Street.
I had at least gained knowledge of his intended visit to the Villa
Clementini unknown to the butler, Robertson. He was to be there either
at eleven o'clock that night or at eleven next morning. It occurred to
me that I might possibly learn something of interest if I watched the
doctor's movements at the hours indicated.
"Your symptoms rather puzzle me," said the doctor at last, eyeing me
from beneath his bushy black brows. "To tell the truth, I fancy you
must have eaten something poisonous at one of the restaurants. They
sometimes use tinned food which is not quite good, and it sets up
irritant poisoning. I had a case very similar to yours last week. The
climate here did not suit him, and he has returned to England."
"Oh! I hope to be better in a few days, doctor," I said cheerfully,
for I was anxious for another opportunity to visit him. I wanted to
see, and if possible speak in secret with the girl who bore such a
striking resemblance to the dead Gabrielle Engledue.
On returning to the hotel I rang up the Villa Clementini and inquired
for Robertson. In a few moments I spoke to him, asking if he were
coming down to the Gambrinus.
"I'm sorry," he replied. "I have to go to Pisa by the eight o'clock
train. But I shall be back to-morrow morning."
By that I established the fact that Oswald De Gex had an appointment
with Moroni at eleven o'clock that night, and not on the following
morning.
I ate my dinner at Bonciani's, near the station, a place little
patronized by foreigners, but where one obtains the best Tuscan
cooking--and after an hour or so over coffee at the Bottegone, I took
a taxi up to Fiesole. The night was cold but dry and moonlit. As we
ascended the steep hill a glorious panorama spread before us, for
below lay the valley of the Arno with the twinkling lights of the
ancient city, and the great pale moon upon the shimmering river
rendering it like a scene from fairyland. And as we went up beyond San
Domenico, through those lands which in spring and summer are so
fruitful with their vines and olives, two peasant swains passed,
chanting one of the old _stornelli_, those quaint love-songs of the
Tuscan _contadini_--the same which have been sung for centuries in and
about old Firenze:
Acqua di rio.
Teco sarò di luglio e di gennaio
Dove tu muori te, morirò anch'io.
Tuscany is essentially a land of love, where the fierce flame of
affection burns in the hearts of all the people, and where a hot word
is quickly followed by a knife-thrust, and jealousy is ever cruel and
unrelenting.
Arriving at last in the little piazza, at Fiesole, where a number of
people were awaiting the last tram to take them back into Florence, I
alighted, paid the man, and continued my journey on foot, still
climbing the high road which led through the chestnut woods of
Ricorbico, until at last I found myself at the corner of the grounds
of the Villa Clementini, close to a pair of gates of mediæval
wrought-iron which closed the south entrance to the magnificent
domain.
On either side of the road were high walls with tall cypresses behind
which cast their deep shadows over the highway, rendering it dark
around the entrance. I glanced at my luminous wristwatch--a relic of
my war service--and found that it still wanted ten minutes to eleven.
Therefore I drew back beneath the wall, and in the black shadow
awaited the millionaire's visitor to pass on to the main entrance.
I suppose I had been there ten minutes or so when I detected
approaching footsteps in the darkness, and presently the doctor's
familiar figure appeared in the patch of moonlight, only to be
swallowed up in the black shadows a moment later. Approaching the
great iron gates which were a side entrance to the grounds, he drew a
key from his pocket, unlocked them easily, and passed in without,
however, re-locking them after him. His visit there was undoubtedly a
secret one, or De Gex would not have given him the key of the entrance
he used himself, nor would he have sent away his butler, Robertson.
The visitor's footsteps suddenly ceased, for he was undoubtedly
crossing the grass. In consequence, I stole on tiptoe up to the gates,
and entering, saw in the moonlight that Moroni was stealing along in
the opposite direction to the great country mansion, many of the
windows of which were illuminated. As I halted my ears caught the
strains of orchestral music. A waltz was being played, for, as I
afterwards knew, a gay ball was in progress, the cars entering and
leaving by the main carriage road.
A few seconds later I crept on in the direction the doctor had taken.
At first I feared that, as is so often the case in Italy, savage dogs
might be kept there at night to attack any thief or intruder. But as
Moroni had entered so boldly, it was evident that if any were kept
there they were that evening locked up. Hence, I went forward in
confidence until I came to the edge of a beautiful lake lying
unruffled in the moonlight, and surrounded by many pieces of ancient
statuary, most of them moss-grown and lichen-covered.
As I turned a corner there came into view a large white summer-house
with a domed roof, supported by columns--a kind of temple such as one
often finds in the gardens of ancient Italian villas. The marble-built
summer-house, with carved escutcheons, was a fashion of the
seventeenth century. As I peered forward I saw Moroni walking in the
full light, approaching the place, from which a dark figure emerged
and came forth to meet him.
Instantly I again halted, and straining my eyes recognized that the
man who was in evening dress was the owner of that palatial home.
They retired into the summer-house together. What, I wondered, was the
object of that secret meeting?
It struck me that perhaps if I succeeded in approaching the spot I
might overhear some of their confidential conversation, therefore I
stole forward, always keeping in the shadow, and treading upon the
grass, my eyes ever upon my goal.
The stillness of the night was unbroken, save by the harsh clanging of
the convent bell down at San Domenico, and the howl of a distant dog,
while ever and anon bursts of dance music from the villa reached my
ears.
At last, by skirting a shrubbery in almost pitch darkness, and
scratching my hands and face badly, I succeeded in gaining the rear of
the little marble temple, and on hearing De Gex's voice I drew back
and waited, scarce daring to breathe. I could hear my own heart beat
as I listened intently to certain words distinctly audible.
"Then you think he has suspicions--eh, Moroni? What you tell me is
interesting, but also alarming."
"I feel certain he has. He would not have consulted me for an
imaginary ailment were it not so."
"Then he must have seen her somewhere in Florence and recognized her!
I was a fool to suggest that she should be brought here--so near to
me! I was a fool to allow him to slip through my fingers!"
"I pointed that out to you at the time," remarked the Italian doctor
with a sigh. "But what you have just shown to me is amazing. I never
dreamed of that!"
He had evidently shown him something in the moonlight.
"Well, I don't intend that this fellow shall pry into my affairs,"
snapped the millionaire. I recognized that hard metallic voice of his,
and it recalled to me all those strange happenings on that November
night.
"I do not really see, if we act boldly, what we have to fear," said
the doctor in his very fair English.
We! Then they were both implicated in the plot, whatever its nature.
"Fear!" echoed De Gex. "Suppose he made some very compromising
statement to the London police."
"And in doing so he would compromise himself! He posed as a medical
man, and gave the death certificate in return for payment--five
thousand pounds. Beyond, he committed forgery by signing the name of
Gordon Garfield. No, Mr. De Gex, I feel sure he will never court
prosecution. He may busy himself in trying to solve what no doubt
appears to him a complete enigma--as indeed it is to us. But he will
never expose us--_never_!"
The millionaire grunted dubiously.
"Well, what are we to do now? What do you suggest, Moroni? Your brain
is always so fertile where crooked business is concerned."
"I have no suggestion. I came here to learn yours."
"Yes. I called you here to show you what I have shown you, and also
because I have a certain person here as guest at my wife's dance
to-night--you know whom I mean."
"Certainly. She is equally dangerous. You asked me to bring the little
tube. Here it is. But I urge you to use it with extreme caution. When
you break the glass be certain that none of the jelly inside touches
your fingers. If it does, wash them instantly in carbolic. It is
highly contagious."
De Gex gave vent to a queer laugh of satisfaction, as, no doubt, he
took the mysterious glass tube in his hand.
"I am not yet certain whether to try the experiment--or not," he
remarked with hesitation.
"It is, to say the least, a highly dangerous one."
"You mean dangerous from the point of view of discovery--eh?"
"No, not at all. Your act cannot be discovered, but it may be
dangerous for yourself and those about you--highly dangerous. I have
obeyed your orders, signore, as I always do, and I have brought it.
But my suggestion is that you should not break that tube and disperse
its contents."
"You seem to be growing unusually apprehensive, my dear Moroni. The
appearance in Florence of this young electrical engineer seems to have
quite upset you!" he laughed harshly. I could hear every word.
"I confess his presence here has not inspired me with confidence. We
do not know the extent of his knowledge, or what he has discovered,"
replied the doctor. "If he establishes one fact--you know to what I
refer--then he will become a very grave menace to us both."
"But surely he won't dare to reveal anything for his own sake. That is
why I made the bribe a substantial one."
"If he established that one fact to which I have referred, then it
would be quite within the bounds of possibility that he might face the
music, and lay bare the whole facts of the mystery of Stretton
Street," Moroni remarked in a rather lower tone. "At present I think
he will keep a still tongue."
"Then one thing is quite plain," said the millionaire. "He must not be
allowed to prosecute his inquiries any further. And it is for you,
Moroni, to rid us of this ever-growing menace. If he is allowed to go
on, then we shall one day awake to find our secret revealed."
"I quite agree. But how shall we act?"
"Ah! I leave that to you," replied De Gex. "You have many ways and
means within your power. He is a patient of yours," he added grimly.
"Yes. But I happen to know that he is sufficiently wide awake not to
take any of my mixtures."
"Ah! Then he suspects you! You must act with greatest caution, Moroni.
Act as you will, but we must, at all costs, get rid of this fellow."
"I suggested that after the affair at Stretton Street. It would then
have been so very easy."
"I know! I was a fool! I did not foresee the consequences if he met
and recognized the girl. Even now we do not know where and how he met
her. But the menace to us is the same. We must get rid of him--and
quickly, too! The trap must be baited--and what better bait than the
girl herself?"
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH
LITTLE MRS. CULLERTON
For nearly half an hour Oswald De Gex and the Italian doctor, Moroni,
sat chatting in the darkness.
De Gex apologized to his visitor for not offering him a cigarette,
remarking that the striking of a match might reveal their presence to
anyone strolling in the grounds, for guests at dances frequently have
that habit.
"Indeed, after you have gone, Moroni, I am meeting the lady whom I
mentioned, and shall walk with her outside here. I want to speak with
her in private."
"But surely that is dangerous!" exclaimed the doctor instantly.
"Why?"
"If you intend to act as you say you should not hold any clandestine
meeting with her," Moroni suggested.
"I shall take your advice and preserve this little tube intact," and
he paused, "intact at least for the present," he added. "Hence there
can be no harm in leaving the ballroom and coming out into the fresh
air--eh?"
"In that case I see no risk."
"The only risk we run is in allowing young Garfield to make inquiries
here, in Florence. When he saw me, I, of course, denied everything.
But I know that he must have noticed how upset I was at his
reappearance."
"Well, we have decided to suppress him, have we not?" said Moroni
briefly. "And now it is getting late and my taxi is awaiting me down
in Fiesole. So I had better be going."
"Have a care that the fellow does not meet her--not until you are
quite prepared," the millionaire urged. "And lose no time in making
ready. Each day's delay is increasingly dangerous."
"I do not disregard the fact, signore," replied the Italian, and next
moment they emerged from the little Greek temple, and having walked a
short distance, they parted, De Gex returning to the house, while
Moroni made his way back past the lake to the gate.
When the mysterious millionaire had disappeared, I approached the
broad terrace which ran along the side of the house from which such a
wonderful panorama of the Apennines was to be obtained. If he brought
his lady guest out, as was his intention, then he no doubt would
descend from the terrace, for I saw two couples walking there as I
approached.
Beneath a tree I took cover and waited--waited to establish the
identity of the person whom he had marked down as his next victim.
That night I had gained much knowledge of intense interest, yet it all
served to puzzle me the more.
That Tito Moroni was his accomplice I had established beyond doubt,
and equally that there had been a grave and deep-laid conspiracy
against me. And further, it seemed to be intended that I should again
meet the mysterious pale-faced girl in black, and that the meeting was
meant to be fatal to me.
Fortune had certainly been upon my side that night, otherwise I might
have acted in good faith and fallen into some cleverly-baited trap.
That the doctor of the Via Cavezzo was a dangerous malefactor was
proved by the airy manner in which he had brought to his rich client
that little glass tube which I, of course, had not seen, but which he
had no doubt put into the hands of his wealthy and unscrupulous host.
The more I reflected as I stood beneath the great oleander, the more
puzzled did I become. What was it that De Gex had shown the doctor
beneath the pale light of the moon? It was evidently something which
greatly surprised Moroni, and yet he had made but little comment
concerning it.
But the chief mystery of all was the whereabouts of that poor inert
girl Gabrielle Engledue. I waited, eager for the return of the tall,
well-set-up man in evening clothes, the man who so much in the public
eye was engaged in such a strange career of wickedness and crime.
It seemed incredible that the immensely rich man whose name was so
constantly in the papers as a generous patron of the arts, and a pious
philanthropist, should be implicated in such devil's doings as those
of which I had already proved him to be the author.
The discordant clanging of that convent-bell again aroused me to a
sense of my surroundings. I saw upon the terrace before me several men
strolling, smoking cigarettes, and with them their fair partners
wrapped in rich cloaks and furs. They had come out after supper to
admire the wonderful moonlit scene, for before them rose the
snow-tipped mountains in a long serrated range, the high Apennines
which divide the Adriatic from the Mediterranean.
Suddenly, almost before I was aware of it, a man and a woman passed
close to me. The figure revealed by the cold bright moon was that of
De Gex, who had now put on a light coat, while at his side walked a
slim, tall young woman wrapped warmly in a rich fur coat. The diamonds
in her fair hair gleamed in the moonlight, but unfortunately she had
passed into the shadow before I could gain a glimpse of her features.
So that was the intended victim--the woman to whom the dangerous
contents of that tiny glass tube was one day, sooner or later, to be
administered.
They went forward towards the edge of the placid lake, hence I sprang
upon the grass and followed them as noiseless as a cat. Little did the
owner of the great Villa Clementini dream that I was lurking in such
close vicinity.
They halted beside one of the ancient statues of yellow marble, a
heavy-limbed representation of Bacchus crowned with vine leaves, where
they admired the fairy-like scene. It was indeed glorious. Beneath the
pale moonlight lay the placid lake like a mirror, for no breath
stirred from the mountains, and beyond in the mystic light rose the
snow-capped peaks far away beyond the chestnut forests of Vallombrosa.
There is a charm in all seasons and at all hours about those ancient
villas of Tuscany; those country mansions of the nobles which have
seen the tramp of men in armour and in plush, and bear upon them the
crumbling escutcheons of races which have been rulers for five
centuries, and whose present descendants are perhaps waiters in Paris,
London, or New York.