Chapter Twenty One. The Admiral’s Secret.

Three weeks passed.

Old Sarzana has ever been a city of black conspiracy and clever intrigue. In those glorious days of the Venetian Republic persons of both sexes who were antagonistic, or in any way obstacles to the carrying-out of the secret plans of the Council of Ten, were “by accident” secretly poisoned or openly “assassinated,” as is shown in the many reports which even to-day repose in the secret archives of the Palace of the Doges at Venice. As mediaeval Sarzana was a veritable hot-bed of intrigue in those days when Venice ruled the Adriatic, so were desperate plots afoot in the yesterday of Cadorna’s triumphant advance into Austria. Enemy plots and counter-plots were hatched in those darkened houses upon the silent waterways, or by the open sea. One of them I now reveal for the first time.

Truth to tell, the Marchesa Elena had been forced, by the elegant, insidious Corradini, to accept traitorous service in the pay of Austria. Their usual meeting-place was in the old church of St. Antonio, which at vespers was always crowded by the devout, who, in the days of war, prayed for Italy’s victory. Sarzana had always been one of the most pious cities in Italy, and each evening the splendid old Cathedral was crowded. And in that crowd the pair met—kneeling side by side to whisper, and again near them knelt Madame Gabrielle.

In all Sarzana no woman worked harder at the great war-hospital established in the Communal Palace than the popular wife of the Admiral of the Port.

The Marchese, the most influential and delightful man in Sarzana, was, as everyone knew, the author of the many raids upon the enemy which had from time to time been carried out. Well known, too, it was, how the “mosquito” fleet of destroyers, piloted by him, had only a month ago entered the great harbour of Cattaro, opposite Rimini, and had sunk four big Austrian battleships at anchor there—four of the biggest ships of Austria’s navy.

About this time the wealthy Countess Malipiero—who was nowadays Elena’s most intimate friend, and who was constantly at the Admiral’s table—purchased a big sea-going motor-launch, a quiet, harmless old fisherman called Beppo, well known in Sarzana, being placed as skipper. Before the war, the Countess had, in secret, been in very poor circumstances, but owing to the death of a relative—so she explained—she had been left a substantial legacy.

One evening, as the Admiral and his wife were about to finish dinner tête-à-tête, the manservant announced that Captain Vivarini, the second in command, had called and desired to speak with his chief very urgently.

“Show the Captain to the study,” said the Marchese, as he rose at once and passed along to his cosy little den which overlooked the port.

Elena, instantly upon the alert, and suspecting that something unusual had happened, waited until the Captain had been conducted to her husband’s room, and then she crept silently along to the door, where she knew she could overhear the conversation, having listened there several times before.

On tiptoe she approached noiselessly over the soft Turkey carpet, and, placing her ear to the door, was enabled to hear news.

In brief, it was to the effect that one of the newest Austrian submarines had been captured intact, with officers and crew, off the Point of Cortellazo.

“The submarine Number 117 left Fiume only yesterday, according to its commander, whom I have interrogated,” the Captain reported.

“Benissimo!” exclaimed the Admiral, much gratified. “Then the enemy will not yet know of its capture. In the meantime we must act. The submarine belongs to Fiume, therefore, my dear Vivarini, she must return to Fiume.”

“Go back?” echoed the Captain.

“Yes. She must sail again to-night with an Italian crew,” said the Admiral. “She will enter Fiume harbour flying her own flag, but at the same time she will discharge torpedoes at as many of the vessels of war lying there as she can. You understand?”

“Santa Vergine! What a plan,” exclaimed the Captain enthusiastically. “Most excellent, Signor Marchese.”

“All must be done in strictest secrecy,” said the other, lowering his voice. “Not a single word must leak out, for there can be no doubt that there are spies here in Sarzana. News of our intentions gets across the Adriatic in an astounding manner sometimes. Not a syllable must be known, either regarding our capture or our intentions. Number 117 must return to-night.”

“Not a whisper,” the Captain agreed, whereupon the Marchesa, a tall, slim figure in a dinner-gown of carnation pink, and wearing a velvet bow of the same shade in her hair, slipped back again to the salon, where she awaited her husband, pretending to read.

“Well, Captain Vivarini,” she exclaimed, greeting their visitor merrily as the two men entered. “Some new development, I suppose, eh?”

“Yes, Marchesa,” replied the handsome naval captain, bowing low over her hand with that peculiar Italian courtesy. “A little confidential matter,” and he laughed. Then, after a cigarette and a tiny glass of green certosa, the Admiral and the chief of his staff left.

As soon as they had gone, Elena rushed to her room, slipped off her dining-gown, and, putting on a tweed skirt and blouse, hurried from the house.

She slipped along the dark, narrow side street, until suddenly she emerged on to the moonlit promenade, and ascended the dimly lit stone stairs which led to the room occupied by Carlo Corradini. In response to her ring, the spy of Austria at once admitted her.

“Why, Elena! This is a surprise. What has happened?” he asked eagerly.

The Admiral’s wife passed into the little sitting-room, and, without seating herself, revealed hastily what was intended, adding: “I must return home at once or Guilio may wonder where I am.”

“What a plot!” exclaimed the dark-haired traitor. “It does the greatest credit to your husband’s ingenuity.” Then, suddenly reflecting, he said in a strange, hard voice: “If I act successfully your husband himself may be charged with giving away secrets to the enemy. If so, because you love him, you might denounce me, Elena.” After a second’s pause, he added: “I trust no one. Not even you. My life is at stake in this affair. Therefore, you will swear that, whatever happens, and even if suspicion be cast upon your husband, you will never betray me?”

“Of course, Carlo. Am I not Austrian? I swear it.”

The spy took from a table a book covered with shiny black leather, and pressed it very firmly into her hand. It was a copy of the New Testament.

“Kiss it—and swear,” he said.

In obedience, she acted as he wished, repeating a solemn oath after him.

“I trust you, Elena,” he said fervently, at the same time gallantly kissing the back of the white, slim hand which had held the book.

“And I trust you, Carlo,” she whispered. “Trust in me. No suspicion must rest upon anybody. I leave that to your own clever ingenuity.”

A few moments later she descended the steep stone stairs to hurry home as quickly as she could. Arriving at the great palazzo, she at once resumed her smart dinner-gown, and, entering the salon half an hour afterwards, sat down to await her husband’s return.

Ere she had done this, however, the motor-launch of the Countess Malipiero, driven by old Beppo, sped out from the harbour on pretence of taking an invitation to one of the lieutenants on board the battleship Italia, which was lying just within the Mole.

He slowed up alongside one of the guardships by the boom, and as he did so the great eye of a searchlight was turned full upon him. Then, at once recognised by the watchman on duty, he was allowed to pass out to sea. Being such a familiar figure, no suspicion had ever been cast upon the stern, patriotic old fellow.

Sometimes his boat was stopped and examined, but, as he never had anything aboard, it had become a habit with the guardships to allow him to pass unchallenged.

When about a mile from the boom, the old fellow drew a map from his pocket, and, having examined it very carefully by the light of a flash-lamp, consulted his compass. Then, altering his course, he sped along for nearly two hours in the darkening night, when at last he placed two green lights, one at port and one at bow.

He had started at ten, but it was nearly one o’clock in the morning when he began to grow anxious and consult his watch.

Presently he saw the slight tremor of a searchlight, and, fearing detection by some Italian ship, he at once extinguished all his lights, and, pulling up, waited for nearly half an hour. It was a dark, lonely vigil, but, with the aid of another cigar, the crafty old seafarer passed the time until he again ventured to relight his green lamps.

Scarcely had he done this when, about half a mile away, he saw a tiny light winking in the Morse code. He read the familiar signal, and, cutting off his engine, waited until, of a sudden, the low hull of a submarine came up in the darkness, quite close to him. Then, adroitly manoeuvring his launch, both the vessel and boat rising and falling in the heavy swell, he drew nearer.

“Is that Beppo?” shouted a voice in Italian from the submarine. “Yes,” shouted the old man. “I have something for you.” He took from his pocket a small leather bag-purse, such as men carry, one of those drawn through a ring, tied it upon a tight line, and, standing up, he flung it with a seaman’s precision over the conning-tower of the submarine.

“All right,” shouted the Austrian officer, for such he was. “Wait a moment till I’ve read what you have brought.”

For a few moments he disappeared into the body of the vessel, while Beppo hauled in his wet line. Then, when the officer reappeared, he shouted:

“All right, Beppo. No answer. Buona notte e buon viaggio.” That same evening a secret council had been held, presided over by the Admiral, when all the details were arranged. The officers and crew of the Austrian submarine Number 117 were safely under lock and key, and after the council, just before eleven o’clock, the Admiral himself visited the captured undersea boat, and inspected it. Commander Bellini, one of Italy’s most distinguished submarine officers, had been chosen, together with a picked crew, to attempt the raid, but none were informed, for the Marchese was determined this time to keep the secret of his plans.

Just before midnight a submarine, heavily awash, for the sea was rough, slipped away out of the harbour of Sarzana, winked a farewell message, and then, submerging so as not to be seen by other ships, was lost to view.

She was the raider, the intention of whose commander was to blow up, or damage seriously, at least half a dozen of the enemy’s ships lying off Fiume, on the other shore of the Adriatic.

The Italian crew consisted of a picked lot of fine patriotic fellows, who only now knew their desperate mission, and they knew also what their fate must be—either death or capture, when the truth became revealed.

After travelling swiftly all night, the periscope revealed at dawn the long, broken Austrian coast. Then, when within five miles of the entrance to the deep bay of Quarnero, at the end of which is situated Austria’s important harbour, the vessel emerged and ran up her Austrian colours. Before her, high upon the green point of Monte Grosso, which guards the entrance to the bay, a signal was made, to which Number 117 replied, and then, with her grey hull showing above the surface, she sped unsuspiciously up the channel, past the small wooded islands, and the pretty town of Abbazia, into the harbour, where lay fully a dozen war vessels, including three of the enemy’s biggest battleships.

Suddenly, however, just as she was about to discharge a torpedo at a battleship flying the Admiral’s flag, the thunder of guns rang out from all sides, and Number 117 became the target for concentrated fire from all the forts.

As the shells hit her she flew to pieces. Next second she was seen to be rapidly sinking with all on board, not a soul being able to escape from that rain of death.

The submarine had been entrapped, and the raid had ignominiously failed.

News of the disaster reached Admiral Michelozzo-Alfani through the Naval Intelligence Department in the afternoon, and he sat in his room astounded. So well kept had been his secret that he felt absolutely positive that, outside those officers who formed his Council, nobody had any knowledge of his intention. All of those officers were men above suspicion.

That there was a traitor somewhere he was more fully convinced than ever. Other minor secrets had been known to the enemy mysteriously from time to time, yet he had been utterly unable to trace the source of the leakage. Alone in his office at the port, he sat at his table, his brow resting upon his hands.

At noon, unknown to him, his wife had telephoned to the Countess Malipiero, but was informed by the latter’s maid that she had left hurriedly for Rome on the previous night, after a visit from her friend, Signor Corradini.

Throughout the afternoon she expected Carlo to call upon her, and became extremely anxious when he did not put in an appearance.

At last, unable to stand the strain longer, she sent her little sewing-maid round to Corradini’s flat, but the girl returned with the letter to say that, according to the donna di casa, the signor had left Sarzana hurriedly at ten o’clock the previous night.

The hours seemed like years as the guilty woman sat alone in her magnificent, old-world salon, pale, startled, and nervous. Upon her left hand she wore a white glove. She had worn it ever since the previous evening, and the reason had greatly perturbed her.

At last, at nearly ten o’clock that night, her husband returned, hard-faced and haggard. With him was his chief of staff, Captain Vivarini, Madame Gabrielle, and myself. The instant we entered the room she saw that Guilio was not his old self.

“Elena,” he said abruptly, in a deep, hard voice, “I have something to say to you, and I have brought Vivarini here as witness.”

“As witness,” she echoed, starting to her feet. “Of what?”

“As witness that you are innocent of the charge made against you, that you, though my wife, are a spy of Austria.”

“A spy,” she laughed uneasily, in pretence of ridicule. “Have you really taken leave of your senses, Guilio?”

“I have not. Tell me,” he demanded, “why are you wearing that glove?”

I saw that she held her breath. Her face was instantly blanched to the lips.

“Because last night I scratched my hand,” she replied.

“Please remove it, and allow me to see the scratch.”

“I refuse,” she cried angrily.

Next instant, at a sign from the Marchese, Vivarini and I seized her hand, when her husband, roughly tearing off the white kid glove, examined her palm.

He stood aghast.

“Dio!” gasped the horrified man. “The brand is here. You, Elena, my wife, you are the spy.”

“Guilio,” shrieked the unhappy woman, flinging herself frantically upon her knees before him. “Forgive me. Santa Madonna! Forgive me!”

“I may forgive you, Elena,” replied the Admiral, in a low, stern voice, “but Italy will never forgive.”

Then, turning abruptly, he left the room, the Captain following. But as he passed out two agents of the Italian secret police passed in, and a few seconds later the wretched woman found herself under arrest.

It was not until her trial by court-martial, in Milan, two weeks later, that the Marchesa learned, from the evidence given by Madame Gabrielle and myself, the truth of Carlo Corradini’s terrible vengeance—a long-nurtured grievance that he had held against her ever since those days in Budapest, when, on proposing to her, she had laughed him to scorn, and had actually told people of his poverty. He had sworn to be avenged, and truly his vengeance had been both ingenious and complete.

On the evening when she had brought to his room the information regarding the captured submarine he had handed her the Testament upon which to take her oath of secrecy. Upon the shiny black leather cover of that book he had traced with a solution of nitrate of silver, mixed with other chemicals, a geometrical design—a square divided in half, the lower part being left blank, and in the upper portion a “V”, above it being traced a small circle.

When he had placed the book into her palm it had left an indelible imprint upon her skin, a device which did not show itself until an hour later, when, very naturally, it greatly mystified her. Carlo Corradini had thus branded the woman he hated, and then, the coup having been made at Fiume, he had at once written an anonymous letter to Armand Hecq, head of the International Intelligence Bureau, denouncing the Admiral’s wife as an Austrian, who had divulged Italy’s secret.

In support of his allegation, he urged us to search the rooms of Carlo Corradini, where we should not only find evidence of espionage, but also the actual Testament by which the hand of the Marchesa had been branded. Further, that eighty thousand lire would be found in her possession, that being the price which Corradini had paid for the information concerning submarine Number 117.

The trial, held in camera, opened at eleven o’clock, and just before three sentence of death was pronounced. An hour later I was present when a firing party was drawn up in the yard of the great San Giovanni prison. Her eyes were bandaged, and the capital sentence was carried out.

Truly, Carlo Corradini was a scoundrel of the worst type, and his revenge was, indeed, a dastardly one. Fortunately, however, it reflected upon himself, for, four months later, he and his companion, the Countess, were captured, living in obscurity in a small coast village near Bari, in the extreme south of Italy, where they were hoping to escape to Greece.

Corradini’s own anonymous letter proved the most direct evidence against him, and ultimately both paid the same penalty as their victim, in the yard of the Prison of San Giovanni at Milan.

The End.