COBRA
BY
MARTIN BROWN
AND
RUSSELL HOLMAN
A NOVELIZATION OF THE
FAMOUS STAGE SUCCESS
BY MARTIN BROWN
Illustrated with scenes from the photoplay
A Ritz-Paramount Picture starring
RUDOLPH VALENTINO
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Made in the United States of America
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY
GROSSET & DUNLAP
COBRA
CHAPTER I
Even for southern Italy, where superlative scenery is as common as
wine, the view from the terrace of the Café Del Mare on such a night
was enchanting.
In the moonlight the rocky shore line for half a mile or more was
almost as clearly defined as by day. A hundred precipitous feet
below, the oily waters of the bay gleamed like highly polished glass.
The riding lights of a score of sea craft shone palely. Four miles
to sea, Capri nestled brightly in the semi-darkness. Only for the
intervening hills, the café might have commanded a spectacle of the
acres of crowding lighting that was Naples, five miles to the
northeastward across a segment of the crescent bay.
Nevertheless the corpulent Italian with the bristling moustachios
scowled. He stood in the doorway of the Café Del Mare, with
fairyland spread before him, and scowled. His grievance was
professional. He was the proprietor of the café, and his annoyance
at the moonlit panorama was due to the fact that it had not brought
him more customers and liras.
He turned from his frowning contemplation of the bay and vented his
mental displeasure upon the dozen or more Italians chattering around
the tables on the terrace. Bah! They would sit there all night and
talk and quarrel and laugh, but they bought only once in a great
while. There was little money in Italians. They were useful only as
local color for the real spenders, the tourists. For some reason the
Café Del Mare did not attract many tourists.
At the present moment the establishment sheltered but three, all of
them seated inside. It was stuffy and dimly lighted in there. Also
a piano, a guitar and a harp were being tortured with execrable
results only a few feet from them. But they seemed to prefer the
discords to the noise of the natives on the terrace.
Of the three tourists, the hawk-like Englishman and his mouse-like
wife had already incurred the displeasure of Signor Palladino, the
proprietor. The Englishman, who was in Italy for his health, had
complained testily in schoolroom Italian that the salad was
indigestible and the wine not at all what he had ordered. There had
been words, and hostilities would probably be renewed when the check
arrived.
The third tourist, sitting apart by the open window overlooking the
bay, was young and apparently an American. He did not, however,
drink everything on the card, as Americans in Italy do. He had been
sitting there now for nearly an hour, his one bottle of wine
consumed. An expression of quiet, well-bred contentment was upon his
rather delicate blond features. He was an unobtrusive patron, but
not a profitable one.
Seated quite near the American was the remaining male sharing the
hospitality of Signor Palladino's red-tiled roof and enduring his
"orchestra." He was also young, and strikingly handsome in the dark,
polished, bold-eyed manner of the true Italian aristocrat. He could
be accused neither of parsimony nor of abstemiousness. Although he
had been lounging at his table but ten minutes, already he had drunk
two bottles of wine and had ordered a third. The black-eyed little
flower-girl, noting his thirst and his good looks, entered from her
vain round of the terrace tables and approached him with her wares.
He saw in a rapid appraisal how pretty and vivacious she was. His
dark eyes narrowed slightly and a smile curled his full lips. He not
only bought from her; he pressed her white hand and bestowed upon her
her largest gratuity in many weeks.
The proprietor watched this bit of by-play, and his scowl deepened.
He knew this young Italian well; he had known his father and his
grandfather before him. As the flower girl, still blushing, hurried
past Signor Palladino to think it over in the outer air, the
proprietor caught her by the elbow and muttered a guttural reprimand,
"Tend to your business."
She smiled pertly and flashed back, "The customers are my business.
You tell me always to be nice to them. Besides--he is very good
looking."
"And very penniless," sneered Palladino.
"Ah, but his looks--they excuse a lot," the flower miss insisted
softly.
"They do not pay bills. And they cause trouble," retorted the
proprietor. As she flounced away, he watched the trim back of the
half-grown girl. Palladino sighed, heavily, as fat, old men sigh.
He had cherished ambitions in the flower-girl's direction for a
while. But, alas! _he_ was not young and handsome and bold.
"Ah, buona sera, signor," rumbled a voice at the proprietor's elbow.
For such a large fellow, Palladino turned quickly. His face assumed
for an instant the professional mask of benignant welcome. But he
dropped it quickly as he recognized the owner of the voice.
The newcomer was a huge hulk of an Italian well past middle age,
though trying hard to conceal the fact. He was much too
ostentatiously clad in garments that fairly sobbed for the immediate
attention of tailor and laundress. The purple cravat, for instance,
though tied with extreme care, was stabbed with a diamond so immense
that it could not possibly be real. The cravat was spotted with
grease, and its borders were frayed. The accoster of Signor
Palladino carried in his yellow-gloved hand a thick yellow cane,
ornately carved and wore a slightly wilted carnation in his
button-hole.
"Signor Minardi has doubtless come to pay his reckoning of last
evening," suggested the proprietor in Italian and with evident
sarcasm.
Victor Minardi coughed, to conceal confusion. He had expected a
chilly reception. Last night there had been rather an unpleasant
altercation between himself and Signor Palladino. Having returned
but yesterday from a two months' business sojourn in Rome, Victor
Minardi had assembled a few friends in the evening at the Café Del
Mare and officiated at a welcome home reception. At the conclusion,
very late, of the festivities he had been quite confused and loud.
He had lacked sufficient liras to pay his reckoning. There had been
words and threats, but he had escaped with the debt still unsettled.
"Perhaps I will very soon pay you what I owe--and more," offered
Minardi. The blinking of his small, weak eyes was intended to be
shrewdness.
Palladino shrugged his fat shoulders.
"If Count Rodrigo Torriani is here," Miniardi continued, "I will
maybe tell you more quickly than you think. Tell me--is he here?"
The proprietor sniffed at Minardi and said contemptuously, "You
expect Count Torriani to pay for you and you do not even know what he
looks like?"
"I have not the honor of his acquaintance," said Minardi, "but my
daughter Rosa has. And I have with me a specimen of his handwriting
that may prove valuable." He drew from his pocket a wrinkled sheet
of paper. As Palladino, curiosity at last aroused, reached for it,
Minardi held it gently out of his reach. "If there is somewhere we
can talk--in private," offered Minardi. He looked around and met
with a start the interested face of the little flower-girl, who in
her rounds had paused near them. She moved away at once, the
suspicious looks of the two men following her.
Palladino plucked at the shiny sleeve of Minardi and they stepped
outside in the shadow of the cool stucco wall. In the flickering
light of the ornamental lantern near the entrance-way, the former
read from the paper.
Rosa mia:
My car will be waiting outside the Café Del Mare at ten to-morrow
night. I can hardly live until I again kiss your sweet lips.
RODRIGO.
Palladino looked significantly at his companion, his natural avarice
stirred by the opportunity held out to him. "That he should break
the heart of my innocent Rosa!--there are things, Palladino, that a
father cannot endure. My family, my honor demand satisfaction."
The proprietor recognized the feelings of the outraged father by
advising that they be voiced in a lower tone.
"After all, Count Torriani is not the only Rodrigo in Italy," said
Palladino. "Your daughter Rosa must know more than one."
"I intercepted this note at noon, when I awoke. A boy brought it
when Rosa was in Naples at her work. I questioned her when she
returned. She has admitted that Torriani is the man. There are
other letters more ardent than this one. See!" And he drew out a
packet from his pocket.
Palladino pondered the matter. In his mercenary breast blended the
new Fascisti-inspired dislike of the aristocrats with the ingrained
contempt of the shopkeeper for his betters. He did not especially
loathe young Count Rodrigo Torriani, last scion of a once powerful
but now quite penniless family of local aristocrats. Nor did he fear
him. He merely debated in his mind whether the gossip regarding the
Torriani debts was accurate and whether to join Minardi in his
venture was not to blackmail an empty purse. About Rosa's alleged
injury and her father's concern over it, Palladino had no illusions.
The question was simply whether the letters in Minardi's greasy coat
were valuable enough to merit a risk. On the whole, he decided they
were. He drew Minardi closer to him and drew up a plan.
The young Italian inside the Café Del Mare, having partaken of his
fourth bottle of wine and glanced at his watch, was preparing to
depart when the proprietor, looking very unctuous and important,
approached and whispered into his ear, for several minutes. The
young man smiled and nodded. The smile approached a sneer as his
eyes followed the back of Palladino lumbering over to the side door
of the café, which led down steps to the sea-wall, and opening it.
Palladino peered back at his patron and indicated that he might use
this exit. The young man again nodded. As the flower-girl passed
his table he nodded to her too, but differently. The nod told the
flower-girl that what she had stolen in to whisper to him five
minutes previously was being confirmed. The young man drained his
wineglass. Drama lurked in the offing. He was thoroughly enjoying
himself.
What happened next promised at first to add to his rather sardonic
sense of humor. The young American, having paid his bill, arose,
took up his hat and prepared to depart. Since the newly-opened side
door was handy and framed an alluring view of the moonlit bay, the
American went through it and down the steps toward the sea wall. At
once the young Italian, for whom the door had been opened, arose and
slipped over to the shadows just inside the exit. He did not have to
wait long. Almost at once came heavy scurrying footsteps outside. A
deep voice roared in Italian, "So, Count Torriani, we meet at last!"
Minardi had leaped from his ambush.
Warned by the proprietor that the trap was set and to seize the
admirer of Rosa as he sought escape through the side door, Minardi
accosted the American with the exuberance of a shaggy great St.
Bernard dog leaping at a burglar.
"There is some mistake," protested the American quietly in Italian.
He was not nearly as excited as his accuser.
"No, no," cried Minardi, whipping himself into a fine frenzy. "I
have sought you all day. About my Rosa. You have mistreated her.
It is a serious thing." He laid hold of the coat lapels of the
American, at the same time wondering why the fellow did not bid him
be quiet and come along to talk business in private. Palladino,
lurking further along in the shadow and quite aware a mistake was
being made, deemed silence the better course for himself. Let
Minardi suffer for his error, the stupid cabbage.
"I know nothing of your Rosa. You have the wrong man," said the
American, and he tried to pass his tormentor.
"Bah! You cannot fool me. I am Rosa's papa. Look!" Minardi
whipped the letters from his pocket and waved them in the air. He
turned and waved them in the faces of the dozen or more of his
countrymen who, attracted by the noise, had at once deserted their
tables and wine and were clustering about him.
"This man has injured my daughter, my family! He must pay. Is it
not right?" cried Minardi, inspired by his audience. They muttered.
They regarded the American with sullen suspicion and rising anger.
They had no interest either in Minardi or his daughter. But they
were of a low order of city-bred Italians who are always spoiling for
a row and are on the side of the contestant with the louder voice.
To the young aristocrat, viewing and hearing the controversy from the
shelter of Signor Palladino's side door, it seemed that at this point
the comedy had proceeded far enough. It had ceased to appeal to him.
So he stepped out and down the stone steps and ranged himself beside
the American, who had turned a little white in the face of the rising
menace but was otherwise composed.
"Can I be of assistance?" asked the Italian.
The American welcomed the unlooked-for offer. He pointed to Minardi.
"This man is accusing me of something I know nothing about. He
evidently thinks I am someone else. I can't seem to make him see his
mistake." At the same time he handed his card to his would-be
rescuer.
The card read: "John Dorning, Dorning and Son, Antiques, New York."
The young Italian flicked the card with a flourish. His lean jaw
squared and he turned on Minardi. "You have made a grave error," he
said rapidly in Italian. "This gentleman is an American. He is not
the person you seek at all." And as Minardi broke into a shrill
protest, he interrupted, "Stop! Do you want to be arrested? Do you
wish the American Consul to prosecute you? Fool! Go! And tell your
friends to go also."
He turned swiftly to the American and said in low-voiced English,
"And we had better go too. These people are stupid and quarrelsome.
Come along. My car is the other side of the inn."
He turned his back upon the crowd and forged away rapidly, the
American following. They broke through bushes and the scent of
disturbed flowers assailed their nostrils. They dodged through
shadows. At length they came out where a low-hanging Isotta roadster
was drawn up just out of the road. Behind them sounded pursuing
voices and the crackling of bushes. Some one hurled a stick that
landed in a flower bed short of them. They could distinguish
Minardi's voice booming futilely amid the din.
The young Italian turned his head back toward them and laughed
derisively into the moonlight as he pressed his foot upon the starter
of his car. With a roar and the sudden pungent odor of petrol, the
Isotta leaped forth like a leopard springing at a bullock.
A half mile of silent and hard driving, along the shore road, and the
car was whipped abruptly to the left into a rough dirt highway and
started climbing. The driver slowed down, due to rocks and ruts,
furnishing an opportunity for conversation.
"I neglected to introduce myself," he smiled. "I am Rodrigo
Torriani, the admirer of Rosa."
John Dorning jolted about in sober silence.
"That, of course, put me under obligation to rescue you when the fool
Minardi mixed us up," explained Count Rodrigo gayly. "Now I am
taking you to my home--for a drink, at least, if you will honor me."
"It is I who am honored," said Dorning without enthusiasm. He did
not wish to offend his rescuer. But he would have preferred now to
have banished this whole unpleasant episode from his mind by being
taken at once back to his hotel in Naples. He had had himself driven
out along the shore in an open carriage from his stuffy hotel for the
sake of the view and the air. The carriage and its patient driver
were even now waiting for him at the café. Dorning had sat at the
Café Del Mare for half an hour absorbing a bottle of wine and the
glories of the moonlit bay. Then had come this tumultuous
destruction of his solitude, followed by the jouncing escape beside
this handsome young Italian of about his own age, which was
twenty-five. Dorning fancied neither the man nor his gayety.
"Ah--we arrive!" sang out Count Rodrigo suddenly and celebrated the
fact by swinging so sharply in through the iron gates that Dorning
was almost flung from the seat. They glided around a circular drive
and stopped in front of a typical stucco Renaissance palace looming
massively in the half-darkness and even in the bad light showing the
need of repair.
The Italian led the way through the great grilled door and into the
stone-paved entrance hall with its high ceilings and elaborately
frescoed walls. John Dorning's interest was aroused at once.
Whatever the Count Torriani was, his residence showed almost
immediate prospects to the entering visitor of being a treasure house
of Italian art and sculpture.
Count Rodrigo clapped his hands. "Maria! Maria!" he called. And to
Dorning, "Please sit down." He glanced at his guest, who was wholly
occupied in surveying the shadowy Renaissance angels and saints on
the wall opposite. "You are interested in murals!--but, of course,
Dorning and Son. I remember the shop on Fifth Avenue. I was in New
York last summer. I shall be glad to show you around this place. I
have some originals that are considered very good."
He clapped his hands again. "Maria!" he called. Maria appeared.
She was past middle age and fat and sleepy. She panted in anxiously
and nodded vigorously as Rodrigo ordered wine. She panted in again
soon, a scrolled solid silver tray with wine bottles and glasses in
her hand, and set it down before the two men. They drank solemnly to
the destruction of Minardi.
John Dorning was almost immediately glad that he had come. Amid
these splendors of a bygone day he was at home. Peace and
contentment, aided by the wine, crept over him. The sixteenth
century chair upon which he sat, the intricately carved table which
held his wine-glass, the frescoed walls, the painted ceilings--these
were part of his world, the world he loved.
Young Count Rodrigo sensed what sort of man his guest was at once,
and was pleased. For there was in the young Italian, among other
qualities less desirable, a strain of appreciation of the beautiful.
He was proud of the masterpieces of art which his run-down palace
sheltered. He abandoned abruptly his description, over the second
glass of wine, of how Minardi's mistake had come about and switched
the conversation to the Renaissance and what it owed to the famous
Giotto, a rare specimen of whose work hung before them.
John Dorning warmed up at once. In half an hour he found himself
liking his host and rendering silent tribute to the man's intimate
knowledge of the whole range of Italian painting and sculpture. The
flippancy had gone out of Torriani's manner. The two men argued,
agreed, split, and drank more wine. Maria, waddling in and out with
refreshments, wondered if she would ever again get to her bed.
Dorning suggested that one trouble with the Renaissance painters was
that they laid too little emphasis upon technical perfection.
"Technical perfection--bah!" cried Torriani, springing up, spilling
his wine, striding over to the painting by Giotto. "Look at this,
man! Look at it. And try to tell me what knowledge of form and mere
technical cleverness have got to do with a genius like Giotto, who
_feels_, who spreads the very breath of life upon canvas!" The black
eyes flashed. Torriani thumped his chest.
Dorning wondered, in a whimsical turn of thought, how a man like this
could also be the "admirer of Rosa."
It was long after midnight when Rodrigo escorted his guest to a
bedchamber once occupied by Lorenzo the Magnificent.