Chapter Twenty Nine
Entrapped
As all drew back aghast and terrified from the little face of carved stone, Gemma, who had tried the door only to discover the truth of Tristram’s appalling assertion, dashed instantly back to the table, and, regardless of the imminent risk she ran, took the small image in her hands.
“No, no!” they cried with one voice, haunted by the fear that at any second it might explode and blow them out of all recognition. “Don’t touch it! don’t touch it!”
“On the night when the two men completed their hellish invention, I watched through the shutters unseen,” she cried. “I saw Nenci explain how this deadly thing was charged, and the mode in which it was set. See!” In an instant all had grouped round her, as, turning the bust upside down, she eagerly examined it beneath the shaded lamp. The scratch running across the malachite base and up the outer edge of the removable portion was, she saw, contiguous to a mark higher up. Nenci had turned the circular base until the ends of the almost imperceptible line had joined.
Another instant and nothing could save them.
With trembling hands Gemma grasped it, as Nenci had done on the night when she had watched, and with a quick wrench tried to turn it back.
It would not move!
Next second, however, she twisted it in the opposite direction. As she did so there was a harsh grating sound, as of steel cutting into stone, a crack, as though some strong spring had snapped; and then all knew that the mechanism of the devilish invention had been disordered, and the frightful catastrophe thereby averted.
She bent down, opening Nenci’s bag, and took therefrom a second bust, exclaiming —
“He tricked us cleverly. Fortunately, however, I detected the difference in the markings of that green stone, or ere this we might each one of us have been dead.” Then, placing the two busts side by side, she pointed out the difference in the vein of the malachite which had attracted her attention, and thus caused her to make the astounding declaration which had held them petrified.
“You’ve saved us!” the Gobbo cried, addressing her.
“These men must not escape,” Gemma cried determinedly. “They shall not! Our lives have been endangered by their villainous treachery, and they shall not evade punishment.”
Chapter Thirty
“I Bear Witness!”
Next morning Gemma stood at the window of her bedroom, looking down upon Northumberland Avenue. She had breakfasted unusually early, and had chosen a dark-green dress trimmed with narrow astrachan – one of her Paris-made gowns which she knew fitted her perfectly and suited her complexion. She had stood before the long mirror in the wardrobe for some minutes, and, with a pride that may always be forgiven in a woman, regarded herself with satisfaction. They knew how to make a woman look her best in the Rue de la Paix.
The recollection of the previous night was, in the light of morning, horrifying. After leaving Sussex Square, she had stopped her cab at the telegraph office opposite Charing Cross Station, the office being open day and night, and had sent a long and urgent message to Rome explaining the situation. Already a reply reposed in the pocket of her gown, but it was unsatisfactory. The private secretary had wired back that the Marquis was away at his high-up, antique castle of Montelupo, “the Mountain of the Wolf,” between Empoli and Signa, in Tuscany. She therefore knew that many hours must elapse ere her cipher message was delivered to him. Even his reply could not reach her for four hours or so after it had been despatched from Empoli. But after sending the message to Rome, she had also sent one to Armytage at Aldworth Court, and was now awaiting his arrival.
Her hands were cold and nervous, her eyes heavy and weary, and her face deathly pale and haggard, for she had slept but little that night. She saw plainly that all her desperate efforts to free herself had been in vain. There had been a hitch somewhere, or that night the whole of that assembly at Lady Marshfield’s would have been arrested by detectives from Scotland Yard, at the instigation of Count Castellani, acting under telegraphic orders from Rome. Italy would thus have been able to rid herself of as desperate a gang of malefactors as ever stood in the dock of a criminal court. She had kept faith with the Marquis Montelupo, her master, and, in order to gain her freedom, had furnished the Ministry with full details of the plot. Her freedom of action had been promised her in exchange for this information, but with the stipulation that the conspirators must be arrested. The Marquis, cunning and far-seeing, was well aware that this would ensure greater secrecy, and hold her as his agent until the very end.
No arrest had, however, taken place. All her plans had failed utterly, and, in a paroxysm of despair, she told herself that she was still, even at that moment, as far off gaining her freedom as ever she had been. Her tiny white hands clenched themselves in despair.
“I love him!” she murmured hoarsely. “I love him; but Fate always intervenes – always. Shall I never be released from this terrible thraldom? I pray day and night, and yet – ”
She paused. Her eyes fell upon the small ivory crucifix standing upon a pile of books beside her bed. She sank upon her knees, clasped her hands, and her thin white lips moved in fervent prayer.
Suddenly, while her head was still bent upon her breast in penitence, as she craved forgiveness for violating the oath she had taken to these men who sought her death, a master-key was placed in the door and the chambermaid entered.
“Pardon, Madame,” the girl exclaimed in French, drawing back as soon as she saw her, “I thought you had gone out. A gentleman has just been shown to your sitting-room, and is waiting.”
“A gentleman!” Gemma repeated blankly, rising to her feet. Then she recollected. It was her lover who had come in response to her telegram. What could she tell him?
“Very well,” she answered. “I’ll see him at once;” and as the girl withdrew, she stood looking at herself despairingly in the mirror. Again she dare not tell him anything. She was still beneath a double thraldom of guilt.
With both her hands she pushed back the mass of gold-brown hair from the pale fevered brows, sighing; then, rigid and erect, walked down the corridor to her own sitting-room. Her heart beating wildly, but with a glad smile upon her face, she entered.
Instantly she halted. Her look of pleasure gave place to one of hatred. Her visitor was not Charles Armytage, but the man who, only twelve hours before, had secured her and her companions within that room with the terrible engine of death in their midst. It was Lionello Nenci, who stood with his back to the window, his hands idly in his pockets. His sallow face was that of a man haunted by terror, and driven to desperation. His cheeks were pale beneath their southern bronze, and his black eyes glittered with unnatural fire as he advanced towards her.
“You!” she gasped in withering contempt. “You! The mean despicable cur who sought to kill us!”
“Yes!” he answered unabashed. “Shut the door. I want to speak to you.”
In involuntary obedience she closed the door, and the portière fell behind her.
“I should have thought, after your infamous conduct last night, you would not ever dare to face me again,” she cried in scorn. “Such treachery is only worthy of gaol-birds and traitors.”
“You deserved it,” he laughed roughly. “You are one of the latter. It was you,” he went on mercilessly – “you, with your innocent-looking face, who gave the whole plot away, who exposed us to the Ministry, and put the English police upon us; you who sought our arrest and punishment. It is but what was to be expected of such a woman as yourself, the spy and mistress of Montelupo.”
“Mistress!” she echoed, in an instant frenzy of passion. “I’m not his mistress. I swear I’ve never been. You know that’s a foul lie!”
“Every one in Italy believes it,” he said, with a brutal laugh. “When they know that you were implicated in the plot, and gave it away to him, it will confirm their suspicions.”
She looked at him, intense hatred in her glance.
“And you have come here to tell me this!” she cried. “Having failed in your dastardly attempt last night, you come here to-day to taunt me with the past!”
“No. The reason I’ve called is to calmly explain the position. The police are already upon us, but the Doctor and Romanelli have left London. I unfortunately, am unable, for I’ve no money,” he added, in a whining tone. “I’ve come to throw myself upon your generosity; to ask you for some.”
“You wish me, the woman whom you denounce as a spy and traitor – whom you and your infamous companions endeavoured to kill – you ask me to furnish you with funds so that you may escape the punishment you deserve?” she cried in scorn, amazed at his boldness. “I shall not stir a finger to save you,” she answered promptly.
“Come,” he said. “There’s no time to lose if I’m to escape. Remember, I’m the man for whom the police of Europe have been searching in vain these last two years, ever since I escaped from Elba; and if I’m again to evade them, it will be expensive. If you’re not prepared to sacrifice yourself, then give me money and let us part. You are rich, and can well afford it,” he added. “Come. Take my advice, and let the whole thing end here. Assist me this, the last time, and I swear to you that I’ll say nothing implicating you, even if afterwards I’m arrested.”
“If I give you money, it is on the understanding that you will not in future levy blackmail,” she said, eyeing the cringing man before her with contempt. “Recollect that any communication from you will result in your immediate arrest. You know, one word from me at the Ministry and the police will follow you, wherever you may be.”
“I agree,” he cried eagerly.
She drew from her purse three English notes, each for five pounds, and handing them to him said —
“This is all the money I have at the moment, without drawing a cheque.”
“It’s not enough – not half enough,” he declared in a tone of dissatisfaction, glancing at the clock. “There’s little time to lose. A North German Lloyd boat sails from Southampton for New York this afternoon, and the train leaves Waterloo at noon. This money won’t even buy my passage and necessaries.”
She reflected for an instant, and glanced down at her fragile hands. An instant later, in sheer desperation, she cried —
“Then take my rings!” And twisting them one by one from her fingers, including the antique one of turquoise and diamonds, she laid them, together with her brooch, on the little writing-table where they were standing. “They’re worth at least five thousand francs,” she said. “Take them, sell them, do what you like with them, but never let us meet again.”
Eagerly he took up one – a beautiful diamond half-hoop ring, and glancing at it in admiration, was about to place it in his vest-pocket, when there came a loud rap at the door, and the message-boy, shouting her hotel number, ushered in two men.
Nenci turned quickly towards the door, and shrank back in terror and dismay.
The men who entered were Tristram and Armytage. The face of the latter was dark with determination. He had not expected to find Gemma with a stranger; moreover, the fact that her rings and brooch lay upon the table between her and her visitor puzzled him.
“Ah, dearest!” she cried, rushing towards him, her nervous hands outstretched. “You have come back to me at last – at last!”
Without taking her proffered hands, he looked straight into the sallow, evil face of the Italian. Nenci boldly met his gaze.
“This is the scoundrel who, as I’ve just told you, endeavoured last night to destroy Gemma, myself, and several other persons at Lady Marshfield’s?” Tristram cried, glaring at the black-haired inventor of the terrible engine of death.
“And this,” retorted Nenci, pointing at the Captain – “this man is a murderer! It was he who killed Vittorina Rinaldo!”
“You’re a liar?” Tristram answered, his face livid and set. “The evidence against me is circumstantial enough, perhaps, to convict me of the crime, but I am innocent – absolutely innocent. I myself was the victim of a dastardly plot. Little dreaming of what was intended, I escorted her from Leghorn to London, and thus unwittingly myself created circumstances which were so suspicious as to fasten the terrible guilt upon me. But I declare before Heaven that I’m in ignorance of both the motive and the secret means by which the crime was accomplished!”
The outlaw laughed a harsh, dry laugh. His demeanour at the first moment of their entry into the room had been one of fear. Now he was fiercely defiant, and affected amusement at their demeanour.
“If you can prove your innocence, then do so,” he said grimly. “According to the papers, you left the cab, entered the bar, spoke to your accomplice, the Major, whoever he was, and then escaped by the back entrance.”
“True,” replied the King’s Messenger. “But my hurried flight had nothing whatever to do with the murder of Vittorina, nor did my conversation with the Major bear upon it in any way whatever. I merely expressed surprise at meeting him there after leaving him at the station; and he, too, was surprised to see me. Then, while in the bar, I suddenly recollected that, in the hurry of alighting from the train, I had left in the carriage a despatch-bag given me by one of the messengers of the Embassy in Paris to convey to London; and knowing that the train would be shunted out, perhaps down to the depot at Nine Elms, I made all speed back to Charing Cross, where I found that a porter had already discovered it, and taken it to the lost-property office. I had no fear of Vittorina’s safety, for I had already given the cabman the address in Hammersmith, and every second was of consequence in recovering my lost despatches.”
“But the Major’s photograph was discovered in Vittorina’s bag,” Nenci cried in a tone of disbelief. “How do you account for that?”
“I don’t know. To me, that fact is a mystery, although I have since entertained a suspicion that the Major, when he met me, must have been aware that the girl’s life was to be taken. He called upon me afterwards, and we were both afraid of arrest upon circumstantial evidence. I was aware that he was implicated in some shady transactions in the City, for he confessed to me his intention of leaving England secretly.”
“Your story is ingenious enough,” Nenci replied, “but it will never convince a jury of your innocence. You can’t clear yourself. It’s absolutely impossible.”
“One moment,” interrupted Armytage, who, standing beside his well-beloved, had been intently watching the face of this desperate malefactor during this argument – “one moment,” he said coolly. “This visit is a very fortuitous circumstance. A face such as yours, one never forgets – never. We have met before.”
“I think not, signore,” the other answered, smiling with that ineffable politeness which so often nauseates. “I haven’t the pleasure of knowing you, save that I presume you are the affianced husband to the Signora Contessa.”
“But I know you, although it isn’t much of a pleasure,” Armytage answered quickly, in a voice that showed that he was not to be trifled with. “You declare that we’ve never met before. Well, I’ll just refresh your memory,” he went on, slowly and deliberately. “One night, the night previous to leaving for Italy, while passing the Criterion on my way from the Junior United Service to the Alhambra, I saw a cab stop and my friend Captain Tristram alight and enter the bar, when almost next moment a man brushed past me. Beneath the electric light I saw his face distinctly. I saw him raise his hat, mount the step of the cab, shake hands cordially with the girl sitting inside the vehicle, and at once dart away. I didn’t enter the Criterion, as I had an appointment with a man at the Alhambra, and was late. Next morning, however, when in the train between London and Dover, on my way to Italy, I read in the paper that the girl I had seen had been murdered.” He paused for an instant to watch the effect of his words; then declared, in a voice which betrayed no hesitation.
“The man who brushed past me and mounted on the steps of the cab was you! It was you who killed her!”
The colour died from Nenci’s face. He tried to speak. His lips moved, but no sound escaped them. This unexpected denunciation fell upon him as a blow; it crushed him and held him speechless, spell-bound.
“Is it really true?” cried the Captain, open-mouthed, as astonished as the murderer himself.
“This man before you was the murderer. To that I bear witness!” Armytage replied.
“She was going to his house at Hammersmith,” Tristram said, perplexed. “There must have been some motive in killing her before she arrived there.”
“Of course. It’s easy to discern that such a crime allayed all suspicions. No one would dream that the man calmly waiting at home expecting her arrival was actually the man who murdered her.”
The dark-faced outlaw, watching the two men with covert glance, made a swift movement towards the door. But Tristram was too quick for him, and springing forward, placed his back against it, saying —
“No, when you leave this room you will be accompanied by a constable. It isn’t safe to trust you out alone.” Then, turning to his old college friend, he added, “What you’ve just said, Armytage, has renewed life within me, old fellow. I knew I was the victim of some foul plot or other, but I never suspected this man of being the actual assassin. His character’s desperate enough, as witness his mean, dastardly attempt upon us last night; but I never dreamed it possible for a man to commit murder so neatly as he did.”
“You are determined to keep me here?” Nenci cried, his eyes glaring savagely like an animal brought to bay.
“I am determined to give you up to the police,” Tristram answered. “Remember, I am suspected, and I now intend to clear myself.”
“And risk arrest for the conspiracy.”
“There’s no proof that I was ever associated with you,” the Captain answered. “The word of a murderer isn’t worth much.”
“You are prepared for the revelations that I can make?”
“I’m prepared for anything so long as you meet with your deserts,” the Captain responded.
For an instant the wretched man, his sallow face haunted by a look of unutterable dread, glanced from one to the other. Then, convinced that all were determined, and realising that escape was now utterly impossible, he stepped forward, and, snatching up from the table the antique ring set with the turquoise and diamonds, with a quick movement slipped it upon the little finger of his left hand. They watched him in wonder.
“You think to have a magnificent revenge,” he cried, glaring wildly at them. “But I will cheat you yet. Watch!” And with the thumb and finger of his right hand he pressed the large turquoise.
From beneath the ring there escaped a dark-red bead of blood.
“Go!” he shrieked hoarsely, his face haggard, deathlike. “Go, call the police! Denounce me, do your worst, but you will only take my lifeless body. May it be of service to you. This you intended should be a fine coup of vengeance. But I’ll cheat you yet! I’ll cheat you – I – ”
“Ring, and call in the police,” Armytage suggested.
“Useless! useless!” the wretched man gasped, his face drawn and distorted as, clutching the back of the chair, he stood swaying forward slightly. “Can’t you see that all your carefully planned revenge is unavailing?”
They regarded him in blank astonishment. Even as they looked his face changed, and he was seized by convulsions which shook him from head to foot.
“Can’t you see?” he cried wildly. “I’ve cheated you, and I’m dying. On my finger is the death-ring – the pretty finger ornament which, when pressed, punctures the skin beneath and injects a poison which is swift, and to which there is no known antidote.”
“Heavens!” cried the Captain, glancing at the ring the assassin had assumed. “Now that I remember, Vittorina wore a ring exactly similar to that! Upon her hand after death was a strange discoloration which puzzled the doctors. Then she was murdered by a simple pressure of the hand, which inflicted a puncture beneath the ring, and the latter, being irremovable on account of the post-mortem swelling, the cause of death remained concealed. Truly the means by which she was killed were as cunning and swift as the manner in which the crime was accomplished.”
The haggard, white-faced culprit stood swaying forward, holding the chair, his black eyes starting from his head, his parched tongue protruding, his lips drawn, his whole appearance horrible. In those moments of intense agony a jumble of half-incoherent words, like the gibbering of an idiot, escaped him; yet from them it seemed as though he were living his whole evil life again, and that scenes long since past flashed before him, only to be succeeded by this final one – more tragic, more terrible, more agonising than them all.
“I told you that the police should never take me!” he gasped with extreme difficulty. “Montelupo’s bloodhounds have already scented me to-day, but I’ve tricked them as I’ve tricked you. I’m not afraid of death. I’m no coward. See!”
And again he grasped the ring, and, grinding his teeth, pressed the tiny steel point therein concealed deep into the flesh.
Then he gave vent to a loud, harsh laugh, meant to be derisive, but sounding horrible in combination with the death-rattle in his throat. His life was fast ebbing. Great beads of perspiration rolled off his white brow. Again he tried to speak, but the single word “Vittorina,” hoarse and low, was the only one that passed his twitching lips. His bright, glassy eyes, still flashing a murderous hatred in the agony of death, were fixed immovably upon his accuser, when suddenly, almost without warning, he was seized with frightful convulsions, his jaws set, the light died from his face, his legs seemed to give way beneath him, and, reeling, he fell headlong to the floor, carrying the chair with him.
Both men in an instant knelt eagerly beside him.
Tristram quickly loosened his vest, and placed his hand upon his heart. It had already ceased its action.
The subtle Eastern poison – for such it afterwards proved to be – had done its work swiftly, completely. Lionello Nenci – conspirator, murderer, and outlaw, one of the most desperate and dangerous characters that Italy has produced during the past decade, and the miscreant whose arrest had been stipulated by the Marquis Montelupo in his compact with Gemma – was dead.
Le Funaro was free. The terrible thraldom which had compelled her to act as secret agent of the State was for ever ended.