Chapter Twenty One. A Confidential Report.

Hubert Waldron halted on the threshold, his eyes fixed upon those of the spy.

“Well?” asked Ghelardi, with a sinister smile.

“All I desire to say is that I have the ear of His Majesty as well as yourself. And what I shall tell him will not be to your credit.”

The countenance of the Chief of the Secret Service broadened into a smile of open derision. In his high official position he was all-powerful in Italy—more powerful indeed than the whole Cabinet of Ministers.

“Neither will it be to your credit when I describe to the King what I have witnessed to-night,” he answered.

The Englishman had it upon the tip of his tongue to speak more openly, but on reflection realised that it would be more judicious to keep the information to himself. Jerningham knew that man who had been England’s arch-enemy while in the pay of his masters at Berlin; he had cause to know him—and well, too.

“Signor Ghelardi,” he said finally, “this matter is one of give and take. I offer you terms for your silence. If you refuse, then I shall act as I think fit.”

“Act just as you think fit,” was the Italian’s sneering response.

“Very well,” replied the diplomat, turning and walking up the corridor back to the ballroom.

Half an hour later he met His Majesty face to face.

“Ah, Signor Waldron, you are back again in Rome—eh?” the King exclaimed anxiously. “Well—anything to tell me?” he asked, dropping his voice.

His Majesty was passing through the Sala Regia alone, and there was nobody in the vicinity to overhear.

“Nothing, sir—only—”

“Only what? Quick,” he said impatiently. “It is rumoured in Brussels that Austria is mobilising for attack!”

“In Brussels!” exclaimed the King as they walked together. “How do you know that?”

“I have to-night returned from there.”

“Curious—very curious,” repeated His Majesty reflectively. “Here, as far as I know, we have heard nothing. Ghelardi’s agents in Vienna report by telegraph several times daily, but they can obtain no definite information, though it is known that troops are massing in the south—for manoeuvres—the old story.”

“I am still inquiring into the affair,” said Waldron. “As soon as I have anything to report I will seek audience of Your Majesty.”

“Yes; at any hour. I have instructed Villanova.”

“I have not spoken about the matter to Ghelardi,” the Englishman said as they left the great salon and turned into one of the corridors. Several men and women had halted to bow as His Majesty passed.

“Ghelardi has discovered nothing,” was the King’s hasty response. “He has all sorts of wild theories regarding the theft of the plans, but as far as I can see he has no clue whatever to the thief.”

“Then I shall continue to work without his aid,” Waldron declared, and a moment later he bowed and left His Majesty, who passed through a small door leading to the private apartments.

Next morning, at nine o’clock, Pucci, the brigadier of detective police, called at Hubert’s rooms, and produced a carefully written report, which the Englishman settled himself to digest.

It certainly was interesting reading.

While the brigadier sat smoking a cigarette, the diplomat ran through the document, which showed that Pucci had been extremely active during the week of his absence.

The private and public lives—with extracts from the dossiers at the Prefecture of Police—of His Excellency the Minister for War, of Lambarini, secretary of the Council of Defence, and of Pironti, the Minister’s private secretary, were all laid bare.

Of General Cataldi it was stated that, after long service in the army, he became General, commanding the Third Army Corps in Calabria. While occupying that post an army scandal occurred regarding the supply of stores, great quantities having been paid for and not delivered by the contractors. A court martial was held and four officers attached to the General’s headquarters had been sentenced to terms of imprisonment and dismissed the Service. Certain journals had accused the General himself of being cognisant of the misappropriation of funds, but this he had indignantly denied and had demanded of the Minister of War an inquiry into his conduct. This had been held, and a report returned that there were no grounds for the allegation. But even in face of that the journals in question had charged him with making scapegoats of the four imprisoned officers.

It was curious that a year later the General, who had hitherto, like all Italian officers, not been very well off, had suddenly appeared to be in possession of considerable funds. He had been transferred to Turin, where he had bought a large house and, with his wife, had entertained lavishly. Another lady, a certain youthful Countess in Milan, had attracted him, and in consequence, after a few months, his wife preferred to live apart.

Then, by reason of his lavish entertainments, his apparent wealth, and also because he had a number of influential friends in the Chamber of Deputies, he had been called by the King and given his portfolio as Minister of War.

The confidential report added that his present expenditure greatly exceeded his income, and that he was also heavily in debt, owing, in great measure, to the extravagances of the young Countess in question, who had now taken up her abode in Rome.

Against Colonel Lambarini nothing was known. He was happily married, with two charming children. He lived well within his income, and was of a plain and rather economic turn of mind. He ran into debt for nothing, and his wife had a private income of her own.

The King’s estimate of Lambarini was therefore perfectly correct.

With Pironti it was different. As His Excellency’s secretary he was a man who pandered in every way to all his Chief’s whims and foibles. He was a bachelor, and spent his evenings in the gaming clubs and other questionable haunts, and had been known to lose considerable sums at baccarat. He frequented the political cafés and the variety theatres, and it was also well-known in the army that no one could obtain the ear of His Excellency without first obtaining “the good graces of his secretary.”

“These good graces you mention, Signor Pucci, mean money, I suppose!” remarked Waldron suddenly in Italian.

“Si, signore,” replied the dark-faced detective, with a smile.

Continuing, the report stated that Pironti often associated with undesirable persons, and, further, that it was a known fact that he had received from many officers who had sought promotion douceurs to a considerable amount. Indeed in the army it was declared that so lax was His Excellency in his duties as Minister that he left Pironti to prepare the lists of both promotions and military decorations, merely taking care that the names of none of his enemies appeared there, and scribbling his signature to the decree for the King’s approval.

Hubert Waldon sighed when he had finished that most instructive document.

Then, rising, he placed it in a drawer of his writing-table and locked it safely away.

“So His Excellency and his secretary are not exactly above accepting bribes—eh?” he asked, throwing himself again in his chair.

“According to the result of my inquiries they seem to be both reaping a golden harvest,” Pucci said. “But perhaps not greater than in any other department.”

“The police excepted, I hope,” laughed the diplomat.

But the brigadier grinned. During his years of office he had known more than one person being given timely warning to escape when the Government, forced to prosecute, did not wish to expose a scandal. The Italian peasant may well say that the law for the count is exactly opposite to that for the contadino.

Hubert sat for some moments looking straight into the fire.

He saw that General Cataldi, with the assistance of his dishonest secretary, could enforce a secret toll from every officer who obtained promotion. While nearly every member of the Cabinet was doing the same thing, and every Deputy was giving or accepting bribes, often quite openly, it was not likely that anyone would dare to come forward and denounce them.

The motto of the Minister in Italy is to make a fortune while the office lasts. And they certainly do—as is proved by the constant scandals ever being exposed by the Press, while more are suppressed with hush-money.

But if this were so, and if His Excellency and his sycophant were reaping such a rich harvest, then would they dare to run such risks as to connive at the theft of the plans by a foreign agent?

According to Tonini, only His Excellency and the two secretaries entered the room wherein the plans reposed. Therefore, either His Excellency or his secretary must have extracted them.

Nevertheless this report of Pucci’s made it somewhat dubious whether these two corrupt officials, making the many thousands a year themselves, would go to such lengths as to betray their country into the hands of Austria.

Pucci sat there in silence, wondering what was passing through the diplomat’s mind. He was, of course, in ignorance of what had happened, and was puzzled as to the reason why Waldron was so inquisitive.

Hubert knew the General’s house well—a splendid villa of princely proportions, with delightful garden and terraces, about five miles out of Rome on the white, dusty road which leads to Civita Vecchia. It was near Malagrotta, in the picturesque hills through which still runs the ancient Via Aurelia, and looked down upon ancient Ostia and the broad mouths of the ancient Tiber.

Was he a traitor? Or was he innocent? That was the great and crucial question which he had to decide.

“And this Countess,” he exclaimed, addressing the detective presently. “I noticed that she is not named in your report.”

“No, signore. But her name is Cioni—of the Cionis of Firenze, one of the most ancient houses in Italy—the Countess Guilia Cioni.”

“A widow?”

“No, signore. She is daughter of the late Count Ferdinando Cioni, head of the house. Their palace is on the Lung ’Arno in Firenze.”

“Of what age is she?”

“Thirty.”

“You say she was from Milan.”

“They have a palace in Milan—in one of those short streets off the Piazza del Duomo.”

“And this woman is infatuated with the General, you say? Where does she live?”

“In an apartment in the Corso Vittorio.”

“She, no doubt, knows the chief source of his income—eh?”

“Without a doubt.”

Then Waldron thought deeply. A strange theory had crossed his mind.

“Has she a maid?”

“Yes, signore, a young woman from Borghetto named Velia Bettini.”

Waldron scribbled the name upon his shirt-cuff together with the address of the young Countess Cioni.

“Anything known of this maid?”

Pucci, who had done thoroughly the work entrusted to him, reflected for a moment, and then diving his hand into his breast-pocket, drew forth a well-worn note-book, which he searched for a few moments.

“Yes,” he replied. “I made a few inquiries at the Prefecture concerning her. She was previously in the service of the Marchesa di Martini, of Genoa, and was sentenced to six months’ imprisonment for stealing jewellery belonging to her.”

“How long ago?”

“Two years.”

“Anything else?”

“Well—her record is not exactly an unblemished one, signore,” the detective went on. “After her release she went to Paris and was in the service of a young French actress, Mademoiselle Yvonne Barlet, of the Gymnase. While there she passed herself off as a young lady of good family and became friendly with a wealthy young Frenchman, whose name, however I do not know.”

“And what else?”

“She returned to Italy and then entered the service of the Countess Cioni.”

“But this Countess Cioni—who is she? I do not seem to have heard of her in Rome Society.”

“She is not known—except in a certain circle. One of her intimate friends, however, is Her Royal Highness, the Princess Luisa.”

“The Princess Luisa?” echoed the Englishman. “Yes, signore. But, as you have heard, the Princess makes many strange and unfortunate friendships. She is, I fear, rather foolish.”

“But surely this friendship ought to be put a stop to, Signor Pucci. It is impossible for a Princess of the blood-royal to associate with such a person as this Contessa Cioni.”

The detective shrugged his shoulders and elevated his dark eyebrows.

Then he smiled that quiet meaning smile which all Italians can affect in moments of indecision.