I felt that his advice was good, and in further conversation over a
_piccolo_ at Giacosa's he suggested that I should employ a very shrewd
but ugly little old man named Carlini, who sometimes made confidential
inquiries on behalf of the Consulate.
An hour later the old man called at the _Savoy_, a bent, shuffling,
white-headed old fellow, shabbily dressed, with a grey soft felt rather
greasy hat stuck jauntily on the side of his head--a typical Florentine
of the people. They called him "Babbo Carlini" in the markets, I
afterwards learned, and cooks and servant-girls were fond of playing
pranks upon him. Believed by every one to be a little childish, he
fostered the idea because it gave him greater facilities in his secret
inquiries, for he was regularly employed by the police in serious cases,
and through his shrewdness many a criminal had been brought to justice.
In the privacy of my bedroom I explained in Italian the mission I wished
him to execute for me.
"Si, signore," was all he responded, and this at every pause I made.
His boots were sadly cracked and down at heel, and he was badly in want
of clean linen, but from his handkerchief pocket there arose a small row
of "toscani," those long, thin, penny cigars so dear to the Italian
palate.
"Recollect," I impressed upon the old fellow, "you must, if possible,
find a way of striking up an acquaintance with this individual, Paolo
Melandrini, obtain from him all you can about himself, and arrange so
that I have, as soon as possible, an opportunity of seeing him without
being myself observed. This matter," I added, "is strictly
confidential, and I engage you for one week in my service at a wage of
two hundred and fifty lire. Here are one hundred to pay your current
expenses."
He took the green banknotes in his claw-like hand, and with a muttered
"Tanti grazie, signore," transferred it to the inner pocket of his
shabby jacket.
"You must on no account allow the man to suspect that any inquiry is
being made concerning him. Mind that he knows nothing of any Englishman
in Florence asking about him, or it will arouse his suspicions at once.
Be very careful in all that you say and do, and report to me tonight.
At what time shall I meet you?"
"Late," the old fellow grunted. "He may be a working-man, and if so I
shall not be able to see anything of him till evening. I'll call here
at eleven o'clock to-night," and then he shuffled out, leaving an odour
of stale garlic and strong tobacco.
I began to wonder what the hotel people would think of me entertaining
such a visitor, for the _Savoy_ is one of the smartest in Florence, but
my apprehensions were quickly dispelled, for as we passed out I heard
the uniformed hall-porter exclaim in Italian--
"Hulloa, Babbo! Got a fresh job?"
To which the old fellow only grinned in satisfaction, and with another
grunt passed out into the sunshine.
That day passed long and anxiously. I idled on the Ponte Vecchio and in
the dim religious gloom of the Santissima Anunziata, in the afternoon
making several calls upon friends I had known, and in the evening dining
at Doney's in preference to the crowded _table-d'hote_ of English and
Americans at the _Savoy_.
At eleven I awaited old Carlini in the hall of the hotel, and on his
arrival took him anxiously in the lift up to my room.
"Well," he commenced, speaking in his slightly-lisping Florentine
tongue, "I have been pursuing inquiries all day, but have discovered
very little. The individual you require appears to be a mystery."
"I expected so," was my reply. "What have you discovered regarding
him?"
"They know him in Via San Cristofano. He has a small apartment on the
third floor of number eight, which he only visits occasionally. The
place is looked after by an old woman of eighty, whom I managed to
question. Discovering that this Melandrini was absent and that a cloth
was hanging from the window to dry, I presented myself as an agent of
police to explain that the hanging out of a cloth was a contravention of
the law and liable to a fine of two francs. I then obtained from her a
few facts concerning her _padrone_. She told me all she knew, which did
not amount to much. He had a habit of arriving suddenly, generally at
evening, and staying there for one or two days, never emerging in the
daytime. Where he lived at other times she did not know. Letters often
came for him bearing an English stamp, and she kept them. Indeed, she
showed me one that arrived ten days ago and is now awaiting him."
Could it be from Blair, I wondered?
"What was the character of the handwriting on the envelope?" I
inquired.
"An English hand--thick and heavy. Signore was spelt wrongly, I
noticed."
Blair's hand was thick, for he generally wrote with a quill. I longed
to examine it for myself.
"Then this old serving-woman has no idea of the individual's address?"
"None whatever. He told her that if any one ever called for him to say
that his movements are uncertain, and that any message must be left in
writing."
"What is the place like?"
"Poorly furnished, and very dirty and neglected. The old woman is
nearly blind and very feeble."
"Does she describe him as a gentleman?"
"I could not ask her for his description, but from inquiries in other
quarters I learned that he was in all probability a person who was in
trouble with the police, or something of that sort. A man who kept a
wine-shop at the end of the street told me in confidence that about six
months before, two men, evidently agents of police, had been very active
in their inquiries concerning him. They had set a watch upon the house
for a month, but he had not returned. He described him as, a
middle-aged man with a beard, who was very reticent, who wore glasses,
spoke with just a slight foreign accent, and who seldom entered any
wine-shop and who scarcely ever passed the time of day with his
neighbours. Yet he was evidently well off, for on several occasions, on
hearing of distress among the families living in that street, he had
surreptitiously visited them and dispensed charity to a no mean degree.
Apparently it is this which has inspired respect, while, in addition, he
seems to have purposely surrounded his identity by mystery."
"With some object, no doubt," I remarked.
"Certainly," was the queer old man's response. "All my inquiries tend
to show he is a man of secrecy and that he is concealing his real
identity."
"It may be that he keeps those rooms merely as an address for letters,"
I suggested.
"Do you know, signore, that is my own opinion?" he said. "He may live
in another part of Florence for aught we know."
"We must find out. Before I leave here it is imperative that I should
know all about him, therefore I will assist you to watch for his
return."
Babbo shook his head and fingered his long cigar, which he was longing
to smoke.
"No, signore. You must not appear in the Via San Cristofana. They
would note your presence instantly. Leave all to me. I will employ an
assistant, and we shall, I hope, before long be shadowing this
mysterious individual."
Recollecting that strange letter in Italian which I had secured from the
dead man's effects, I asked the old fellow if he knew any place called
San Frediano--the place appointed for the meeting between the man now
dead and the writer of the letter.
"Certainly," was his reply. "There is the market of San Frediano behind
the Carmine. And, of course, there is the Church of San Frediano in
Lucca."
"In Lucca!" I echoed. "Ah, but it is not Florence."
Nevertheless, now I recollected, the letter distinctly appointed the
hour of meeting "at vespers." The place arranged was therefore most
certainly a church.
"Do you know of any other Church of San Frediano?" I inquired.
"Only the one in Lucca."
It was evident, then, that the meeting was to take place there on the
6th of March. If I did not ascertain any further facts concerning Paolo
Melandrini in the meantime, I resolved to keep the appointment and watch
who should be present.
I gave Carlini permission to smoke, and, seated in a low easy-chair, the
old fellow soon filled my room with the strong fumes of his cheap cigar,
at the same time relating to me in narrow details all that he had
gathered in that Florentine slum.
The secret connexion between Burton Blair and this mysterious Italian
was a problem I could not solve. There was evidently some strong motive
why he should appoint him controller of Mabel's fortune, yet it was all
an utter enigma, just as much as the mysterious source from which the
millionaire had obtained his vast wealth.
Whatever we discovered I knew that it must be some strange revelation.
From the first moment I had met the wayfarer and his daughter, they had
been surrounded by striking romance, which had now deepened, and become
more inexplicable by the death of that bluff, hearty man with a secret.
I could not help strongly suspecting that the man Melandrini, whose
movements were so mysterious and suspicious, had had some hand in
filching from Blair that curious little possession of his which he had,
in his will, bequeathed to my keeping. This was a strange fancy of
mine, and one which, try how I would, I could not put aside. So erratic
seemed the man's movements that, for aught I knew, he might have been in
England at the time of Blair's death--if so, then the suspicion against
him was gravely increased.
I was feverishly anxious to return to London, but unable yet to do so
ere my inquiries were completed. A whole week went by, and Carlini,
employing his son-in-law, a dark-haired young man of low class, as his
assistant, kept vigilant watch upon the house both night and day, but to
no avail. Paolo Melandrini did not appear to claim the letter from
England that was awaiting him.
One evening by judiciously bribing the old servant with twenty francs,
Carlini obtained the letter in question, and brought it for me to see.
In the privacy of my room we boiled a kettle, steamed the flap of the
envelope, and took out the sheet of notepaper it contained.
It was from Blair. Dated from Grosvenor Square eighteen days before, it
was in English, and read as follows:--
"_I will meet you if you really wish it. I will bring out the papers
with me and trust in you to employ persons who know how to keep their
mouths shut. My address in reply will be Mr. John Marshall, Grand
Hotel, Birmingham_.
"_B.B_."
The mystery increased. Why did Blair wish for the employment of persons
who would remain silent? What was the nature of the work that was so
very confidential?
Evidently Blair took every precaution in receiving communications from
the Italian, causing him to address his letters in various names to
various hotels whither he went to stay a night, and thus claim them.
Mabel had often told me of her father's frequent absences from home, he
sometimes being away a week or fortnight, or even three weeks, without
leaving his address behind. His erratic movements were now accounted
for.
Consumed by anxiety I waited day after day, spending hours on that
maddening cipher on the playing-card, until, on the morning of the 6th
of March, Carlini having been unsuccessful in Florence, I took him with
me up to the old city of Lucca, which, travelling by way of Pistoja, we
reached about two o'clock in the afternoon.
At the _Universo_ I was given that enormous bedroom with the wonderful
frescoes which was for so long occupied by Ruskin, and just before the
Ave Maria clanged away over the hills and plains, I parted from Babbo
and strolled tourist-wise into the magnificent old mediaeval church, the
darkness of which was illuminated only by the candles burning at the
side altars and the cluster before the statue of Our Lady.
Vespers were in progress, and the deathlike stillness of the great
interior was only broken by the low murmuring of the bowed priest.
Only about a dozen persons were present, all of them being women--all
save one, a man who, standing back in the shadow behind one of the huge
circular columns, was waiting there in patience, while of the others all
were kneeling.
Turning suddenly on hearing my light footstep upon the marble flags, I
met him next second face to face.
I drew a quick breath, then stood rooted to the spot in blank and utter
amazement.
The mystery was far greater than even I had imagined it to be. The
truth that dawned upon me was staggering and utterly bewildering.