Among the thousand notable dining-places in London, Bonciani's
Restaurant, in Regent Street, is notable for its _recherche_ repasts.
It is by no means a pretentious place, for its one window displays a few
long-necked, rush-covered flasks of Tuscan wine, together with some
rather sickly looking plants, a couple of framed menus, and two or three
large baskets of well-selected fruit.
Yet to many, mostly clubmen and idlers about town, the Bonciani is a
feature of London life. In the daytime the passer-by sees no sign of
activity within, and even at night the place presents an ill-lit,
paltry, and uninviting appearance. But among the few in London who know
where to dine well, the little unpretentious place halfway up Regent
Street, on the left going toward Oxford Street, is well known for its
unrivalled cuisine, its general cosiness, and its well-matured wines.
The interior is not striking. There are no gilt-edged mirrors, as is
usual in Anglo-Italian restaurants, but the walls are frescoed, as in
Italy, with lounges upholstered in red velvet, a trifle shabby,
extending down the long, rather low room. Upon the dozen little
marble-topped tables, with their snow-white cloths, are objects seen
nowhere else in London, namely, silver-plated holders for the
wine-flasks; for with the dinner here wine is inclusive, genuine Pompino
imported direct from old Galuzzo in the Val d'Ema beyond Firenza, a red
wine of delicate bouquet which connoisseurs know cannot be equalled
anywhere in London.
One evening, about a week after the meeting between Gemma and Tristram
at Livorno, nearly all the tables were occupied, as they usually are at
the dining hour, but at the extreme end sat two men, eating leisurely,
and taking long draughts from the great rush-covered flask before them.
They were Tristram and Romanelli.
Four days ago the pair had met late at night at the railway station at
Leghorn, and the one hearing the other demand a ticket for London, they
got into conversation, and travelled through together, arriving at
Victoria on the previous evening. During the three days of travelling
they had become very friendly, and now, at the Italian's invitation,
Tristram was dining previous to his return on the morrow to Livorno, for
at that period Italy was approaching England on the subject of a treaty,
and the correspondence between our Ambassador and the Foreign Office was
considerable, necessitating despatches being sent to Italy almost daily.
"So you return to-morrow?" Romanelli exclaimed, twirling his tiny black
moustache affectedly. To men his foppishness was nauseating; but women
liked him because of his amusing gossip.
"Yes," the other answered, sighing. "I expected to get a few days' rest
in London, but this afternoon I received orders to leave again
to-morrow."
"Your life must be full of change and entertainment," the young Italian
said.
"Rather too full," the other laughed. "Already this year I've been to
Italy more than twenty times, besides three times to Constantinople,
once to Stockholm, twice to Petersburg, and innumerable trips to
Brussels and Paris. But, by the way," he added, putting down his glass
as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, "you know Leghorn well, I
think you said?"
"I'm not Livornese, but I lived there for ten years," the other
answered. "I came to London a year ago to learn English, for they said
it was impossible to get any sort of good pronunciation in Italy."
"I've passed through Pisa hundreds of times, but have only been in
Leghorn once or twice," observed the King's messenger. "Charming place.
Full of pretty girls."
"Ah! yes," cried Romanelli. "The English always admire our Livornesi
girls."
Tristram paused for a few seconds, then, raising his eyes until they met
those of his new acquaintance, asked--
"Do you happen to know a girl there named Fanetti--Gemma Fanetti?"
Romanelli started perceptibly, and for an instant held his breath. He
was utterly unprepared for this question, and strove vainly not to
betray his surprise.
"Fanetti," he repeated aloud, as if reflecting. "I think not. It is
not a Livornese name."
"She lives in Florence, I believe, but always spends the bathing season
at Leghorn," Tristram added. His quick eyes had detected the Italian's
surprise and anxiety when he had made the unexpected inquiry, and he
felt confident that his foppish young friend was concealing the truth.
"I've never, to my recollection, met any one of that name," Romanelli
answered with well-feigned carelessness. "Is she a lady or merely a
girl of the people?"
"A lady."
"Young?"
"Quite. She's engaged to be married to a friend of mine."
"Engaged to be married?" the young man repeated with a smile. "Is the
man an Englishman?"
"Yes, a college chum of mine. He's well off, and they seem a most
devoted pair."
There was a brief silence.
"I have no recollection of the name in Florentine society, and I
certainly have never met her in Livorno," Romanelli said. "So she's
found a husband? Is she pretty?"
"Extremely. The prettiest woman I've ever seen in Italy."
"And there are a good many in my country," the Italian said. "The poor
girl who died so mysteriously--or who, some say, was murdered--outside
the Criterion was very beautiful. I knew her well--poor girl!"
"You knew her?" gasped the Captain, in turn surprised. "You were
acquainted with Vittorina Rinaldo?"
"Yes," replied his companion slowly, glancing at him with some
curiosity. "But, tell me," he added after a pause, "how did you know
her surname? The London police have failed to discover it?"
Frank Tristram's brow contracted. He knew that he had foolishly
betrayed himself. In an instant a ready lie was upon his lips.
"I was told so in Livorno," he said glibly. "She was Livornese."
"Yes," Romanelli observed, only half convinced. "According to the
papers, it appears as if she were accompanied by some man from Italy.
But her death and her companion's disappearance are alike unfathomable
mysteries."
"Extraordinary!" the Captain acquiesced. "I've been away so much that I
haven't had a chance to read the whole of the details. But the scraps I
have read seem remarkably mysterious."
"There appears to have been absolutely no motive whatever in murdering
her," Arnoldo said, glancing sharply across the table at his companion.
"If it were really murder, there must have been some hidden motive,"
Tristram declared. "Personally, however, in the light of the Coroner's
verdict, I'm inclined to the opinion that the girl died suddenly in the
cab, and the man sitting beside her, fearing that an accusation of
murder might bring about some further revelation, made good his escape."
"He must have known London pretty well," observed Romanelli.
"Of course. The evidence proves that he was an Englishman; and that he
knew London was quite evident from the fact that he gave instructions to
the cabman to drive up the Haymarket, instead of crossing Leicester
Square."
Again a silence fell between them, as a calm-faced elderly waiter, in
the most correct garb of the Italian _cameriere_--a short jacket and
long white apron reaching almost to his feet--quickly removed their
empty plates. He glanced swiftly from one man to the other, polished
Tristram's plate with his cloth as he stood behind him, and exchanged a
meaning look with Romanelli. Then he turned suddenly, and went off to
another table, to which he was summoned by the tapping of a knife upon a
plate. The glance he had exchanged with the young Italian was one of
recognition and mysterious significance.
This man, the urbane head-waiter, known well to frequenters of the
Bonciani as Filippo, was known equally well in the remote Rutlandshire
village as Doctor Malvano, the man who had expressed fear at the arrival
of Vittorina in England, and who, truth to tell, led the strangest dual
existence of doctor and waiter.
None in rural Lyddington suspected that their jovial doctor, with his
merry chaff and imperturbable good humour, became grave-faced and
suddenly transformed each time he visited London; none dreamed that his
many absences from his practice were due to anything beyond his natural
liking for theatres and the gaiety of town life; and none would have
credited, even had it ever been alleged, that this man who could afford
that large, comfortable house, rent shooting, and keep hunters in his
stables, on each of his visits to London, assumed a badly starched
shirt, black tie, short jacket, and long white apron, in order to
collect stray pence from diners in a restaurant. Yet such was the fact.
Doctor Malvano, who had been so well known among the English colony in
Florence, was none other than Filippo, head-waiter at the obscure little
cafe in Regent Street.
"It is still a mystery who the dead girl was," Tristram observed at
last. "The man who told me her name only knew very little about her."
"What did he know?" Romanelli inquired quickly. "I had often met her
at various houses in Livorno, but knew nothing of her parentage."
"Nobody seems to know who she really was," Tristram remarked pensively;
"and her reason for coming to England seems to have been entirely a
secret one."
"A lover, perhaps," Arnoldo said.
"Perhaps," acquiesced his friend.
"But who told you about her?"
"There have been official inquiries through the British Consulate," the
other answered mysteriously.
"Inquiries from the London police?"