Chapter Twelve. A Word with His Excellency.

One morning, about ten days after Armytage had left Leghorn with Gemma, a rather curious consultation took place at the Italian Embassy in Grosvenor Square between Count Castellani, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James’, and Inspector Elmes, of the Criminal Investigation Department.

The Ambassador, a handsome, grey-haired man of sixty with courtly manner as became the envoy of the most polite nation in the world, stroked his beard thoughtfully while he listened to the detective. He was sitting at his big writing-table in the small, well-furnished room where he was in the habit of holding private conference with those with whom the Chief Secretary of Embassy had no power to deal. Elmes, smart, well-shaven, and ruddy, sat in a large easy chair close by, and slowly explained the reason of his visit.

“I remember the case quite well,” His Excellency exclaimed when the detective paused. “Some papers regarding it were placed before me, but I left my Secretary to deal with them. The girl, if I remember aright, arrived in London from Livorno accompanied by an unknown Englishman, and was found dead in a cab at Piccadilly Circus—mysteriously murdered, according to the medical evidence.”

“The jury returned an open verdict, but without doubt she was the victim of foul play,” Elmes said decisively.

“One moment,” the Ambassador interrupted, placing his hand upon an electric button upon the table.

In answer to his summons the thin, dark-faced Neapolitan man-servant appeared, and by him the Ambassador sent a message to the Secretary, who in a few moments entered.

He was younger by ten years than the Ambassador, foppishly dressed, but nevertheless pleasant-faced, with manners which were the essence of good breeding.

“You remember the case of the girl—Vittorina, I think her name was—who was found dead in a cab outside the Criterion?”

“Yes.”

“Did we make any inquiries of the police in Livorno regarding her identity?”

“Yes. Do you wish to see the reply?”

“You might send it in to me at once,” the Ambassador said; and the Secretary withdrew.

“What you have told me is certainly extraordinary—most extraordinary,” exclaimed His Excellency, addressing Elmes.

“All the inquiries I have made point to the one fact I have already suggested,” the detective said. “At Scotland Yard we received a request from your Excellency that we should carefully investigate the matter, and we are doing so to the very best of our ability.”

“I’m sure you are. I well recollect now signing a formal request to your Department to make searching investigation.”

At that moment a clerk entered, bearing a file of papers, which he placed before His Excellency.

“Now,” exclaimed the latter, “let us see what reply we received from the police of Livorno;” and he slowly turned over letter after letter. The correspondence had evidently been considerable. Its magnitude surprised the detective.

Suddenly the Count paused, and his brows contracted as he read one of the official letters. He glanced at the signature, and saw it was that of the Marquis Montelupo, Minister of Foreign Affairs at Rome. Twice he read it through. It was a long despatch, closely written, and as the Ambassador re-read it his brow darkened.

Again he touched the electric bell, and a second time summoned the Secretary of Embassy.

When the latter appeared His Excellency beckoned him into an inner room, and, taking the file of papers with him, left the Inspector alone with The Times.

After the lapse of some ten minutes both men returned.

“But what I desire to know, and that clearly, is, why this despatch was never handed to me,” His Excellency was saying angrily as they emerged.

“You were away at Scarborough, therefore I attended to it myself,” the Secretary answered.

“Did you not appreciate its extreme importance?” His Excellency cried impetuously. “Surely, in the interests of our diplomacy, this matter should have been placed immediately before me! This despatch, a private one from the Minister, has apparently been lying about the Embassy for the servants or any chance caller to read. The thing’s disgraceful! Suppose for one moment the contents of this despatch have leaked out! What would be the result?”

The Secretary made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders.

“Such gross carelessness on the part of any one connected with this Embassy amounts almost to treason,” the Ambassador continued, livid with rage and indignation. “We are here to do our utmost to preserve the honour and prestige of our nation. Is not our national motto, ‘For the country and the king’? Yet, because I was absent a week, a matter of the most vital importance is calmly shelved in this manner! Moreover, it was sent by special messenger from Rome; yet it has been allowed to lie about for anybody to copy!”

“Pardon me, your Excellency,” exclaimed the Secretary. “The file has been kept in the private safe until this moment, and the key has never left my pocket.”

“Then why did you send it in here by a clerk, and not bring it yourself?” was His Excellency’s withering retort.

“It was impossible for me to return at that moment,” the Secretary explained. “I was dictating an important letter to catch the post.”

“I see from these papers that we wrote direct to the Questore at Livorno, and his reply came by special messenger, under cover from the Foreign Minister. Surely that in itself was sufficient to convince you of its extreme importance! Your previous experiences in Vienna and Berlin ought to have shown you that the Minister does not send despatches by special messenger unless he fears the cabinet noir.”

“I wrote formally to the Questore at Livorno, according to your instructions, and certainly received from the Ministry at Rome the reply attached. I must confess, however, that it did not strike me as extraordinary until this moment. Now that I read it in the light of recent occurrences, I see how secret is its nature. It is impossible, however, that any one besides myself has read it.”

“Let us hope not,” His Excellency snapped as he reseated himself. “It was most injudicious, to say the least;” and then with politeness he bowed to the Secretary as a sign that he had concluded his expressions of displeasure.

“It is most fortunate that you called,” the Ambassador observed, turning to Elmes when the Secretary had left. “If you had not, a most important matter would have escaped my attention. As it is, I fear I shall be too late in intervening, owing to the gross negligence which has been displayed. After the inquest had been held upon the body of the unfortunate girl, we wrote, it appears, to the police at Livorno to endeavour to discover who she was;” and he slowly turned over the papers one by one until he came to a formidable document headed, “Questura di Livorno,” which he glanced through.

“The police, it seems, have no knowledge of any person missing,” he continued slowly and deliberately, when he had read through the report. “The name Vittorina is, of course, as common in Tuscany as Mary is in England. The photograph taken by your Department after death had been seen by the whole of the detectives in Livorno, but no one has identified it. If we had had the surname, we might possibly have traced her by means of the register, which is carefully kept in every Italian town; but as it is, the Questore expresses regret that he is unable to furnish us with more than one item of information.”

“What is that?” asked Elmes eagerly.

“It is stated that by the last train from Livorno, one night in August, two persons, a man and a woman, inquired for tickets for London. They were informed that tickets could only be issued as far as Milan or Modane. The man was English, and the woman Italian. The detective on duty at the station took careful observation of them, as persons who ask for through tickets for London are rare. The description of the woman tallies exactly with that of the unknown Vittorina, and that of the man with the fellow who so cleverly escaped through the Criterion bar.”

“We already knew that they came from Leghorn,” the Inspector observed disappointedly; but the Ambassador took no notice of his words. He was re-reading for the third time the secret instructions contained in the despatch from the Minister at Rome, and stroking his pointed greybeard, a habit when unusually puzzled.

“You, of course, still have the original of that curiously worded letter found in the dead girl’s dressing-bag, and signed ‘Egisto’?” Count Castellani exclaimed presently, without taking his keen eyes off the despatch before him.

“Yes, your Excellency,” Elmes answered. “I have it in my pocket.”

“I should like to see it, if you’ll allow me,” he said in a cold, dignified voice.

The detective took out a well-worn leather wallet containing many notes of cases on which he was or had been engaged, and handed to the Ambassador the strange note which had so puzzled the police and the readers of newspapers.

His Excellency carefully scrutinised the note.

“It is strangely worded—very strangely,” he said. “Have you formed any opinion regarding the mention of Bonciani’s Restaurant in Regent Street? What kind of place is it? I’ve never heard of it.”

“The Bonciani is a small restaurant halfway up Regent Street, frequented by better-class Italians; but what the veiled references to appointments on Mondays can mean, I’ve at present utterly failed to discover.”

“This Egisto, whoever he is, writes from Lucca, I see,” His Excellency remarked. “Now, Lucca is only half an hour from Pisa, and if the man wished to say adieu to her, he might have taken half an hour’s journey and seen her off in the train for the frontier. Have you made any inquiries regarding this strange communication?”

“A letter has been written to the British Consul at Leghorn, in whose district Lucca is, sending him a copy of the letter, together with the evidence, and asking him to communicate with the authorities.”

“Has that letter been sent?” the Ambassador inquired quickly.

“No. I only made application for it to be sent when I was round at the Chief Office this morning.”

“Then stop it,” His Excellency said. “In this matter Consular inquiries are not required, and may have the effect of thwarting the success of the police. If you will leave this letter in my hands I shall be pleased to make inquiries through the Ministry, and at once acquaint you with the result.”

“That will be extremely kind of you, your Excellency,” the Inspector said; for he at once saw that the Ambassador had far greater chance of discovering some clue than he had. A request from the Italian representative in London would, he knew, set the police office in a flutter, and all their wits would be directed towards discovering the identity of the writer of the extraordinary missive.

“This piece of evidence will be quite safe in my hands, of course,” added the Count. “If I am compelled to send it to Italy, in order that the handwriting should be identified, I shall make it a condition that it shall be returned immediately. Do you speak Italian?”

“A little, your Excellency,” he answered. “I’ve been in Italy once or twice on extradition cases.”

“Then you can read this letter, I suppose?” the courtly diplomat asked, eyeing him keenly.

“Yes. I made the translation for the Coroner,” answered Elmes, with a smile.

“Well, it does you credit. Very few of our police, unfortunately, know English. In your inquiries in this case, what have you discovered?” the Ambassador asked. “You may be perfectly frank with me, because the woman was an Italian subject, and I am prepared to assist you in every way possible.”

“Thanks,” the detective said. “Already I’ve made—and am still making—very careful investigations. The one fact, however, which I have really established is the identity of the mysterious Major—who was waiting on the platform of Charing Cross Station, who was introduced to the girl, who afterwards spoke to her English companion in the Criterion, and whose photograph, fortunately enough, was found in the dead girl’s dressing-bag.”

“The Major?” repeated His Excellency, as if reflecting. “Ah! yes, of course; I recollect. Well, who is that interesting person?” he asked.

“The photograph has been identified by at least a dozen persons as that of a Major Gordon Maitland, who lives in the Albany, and who is a member of the Junior United Service Club.”

“Maitland!” echoed the Ambassador, starting at the mention of the name. “He’s rather well known, isn’t he? I fancy I’ve met him somewhere or other.”

“He’s very well known,” answered Elmes. “It is strange, however, that he left London a few days after the occurrence, and has not left his address either at his chambers or his club.”

“That is certainly curious,” the Ambassador agreed. “It may, however, be only accidental that he left after the tragic affair.”

“I have made judicious inquiries in quarters where he is best known, but absolutely nothing is discoverable regarding his whereabouts, although I have three officers engaged on the case.”

“You have found out nothing regarding his friend, the mysterious Englishman, I suppose?”

“Absolutely nothing. All trace of him has vanished as completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.”

“He may have been an American, and by this time is in New York, or even San Francisco,” the Count hazarded.

“True, he might have been. Only Major Maitland can tell us that. We are certain to find him sooner or later.”

“I sincerely hope you will,” the Ambassador said. “I am here to guard the interests of all Italian subjects, and if the life of one is taken, it is my duty to press upon your Department the urgent necessity of discovering and punishing the assassin. If, however, I can be of any service to you in this matter, or can advise you, do not hesitate to call on me. You can always see me privately if you send in your card;” and rising, as a sign the interview was at an end, His Excellency bowed, and wished the detective “good-morning.”

The instant Inspector Elmes had closed the door the Ambassador took up the letter found in the dead girl’s bag, together with the file of papers lying before him. Carrying them swiftly to the window, he readjusted his gold-rimmed pince-nez, and hurriedly turned over folio after folio, until he came to the secret despatch with the sprawly signature of the Italian Minister of Foreign Affairs. Then, placing the letter beside the despatch, he closely compared the signature with the handwriting of the letter.

His face grew pale, his grey brows contracted, and he bit his lip.

The “l’s,” “p’s” and “t’s” in the strange missive were exactly identical with those in the signature to the closely written despatch which had been penned by the private secretary.

With trembling hand he held the soiled scrap of paper to the light.

“The watermark shows this to be official paper,” he muttered aloud. “There is certainly some deep, extraordinary mystery here—a mystery which must be fathomed.”

Again he glanced at the long formal despatch. Then the Ambassador added, in a low, subdued, almost frightened tone: “What if it proved that the Marquis Montelupo and ‘Egisto’ are one and the same?”