The Golden Face: A Great 'Crook' Romance

Then we proceeded by the night express to Madrid.

Mr. Lloyd insisted that I should stay with them at the Ritz, but, compelled to obey Rayne’s instructions, I was forced to excuse myself on the plea that two of Rayne’s co-directors were to stay at the Hôtel de la Paix, and Rayne had wished me to stay with them for certain business reasons.

With this explanation the old gentleman was satisfied, so when at last we arrived in the Spanish capital I saw them safely to the Ritz, then went on alone to the Puerta del Sol.

That night we dined together, and afterwards we went to the opera at the Teatro Real. Next day we met again, and on several days that followed. I took them to see the sights of the capital, the sights which everyone visits, the Armeria, the Academy, the Naval Museum, the street life of the Plaza Mayor and the Calle de Toledo, the afternoon promenades in the Retiro Park and the Paseo de Fernan Nuñez.

In all they evinced the greatest interest. To both uncle and niece it presented fresh scenes such as neither had before seen, and I realized that old Mr. Lloyd had become brighter and far more cheerful than when with us at Overstow.

I had been at the Hôtel de la Paix for about ten days, when on returning late one night from visiting with Miss Andrews the celebrated Verbena de la Paloma – the famous fair held in the Calle de la Paloma – I found, to my surprise, Duperré awaiting me.

I explained the situation, but when I mentioned the presence of old Lloyd’s niece his countenance instantly fell.

“Why in the name of Fate did the old fool bring her here?” he exclaimed. “I thought he would come alone!”

“She’s quite a nice girl,” I remarked. “Full of high spirits and vitality.”

But Duperré only grunted, and I saw by the expression of his face that he was far from pleased that the old man was not alone.

“I don’t want to be introduced yet,” he said. “At present, though we can meet here in the hotel, we must be strangers outside.”

“And what is the game?” I demanded boldly, for we were together in my bedroom overlooking the great square and the door was locked.

“Nothing that concerns you, Hargreave,” was his hard reply. “I know you’re foolishly squeamish about some things. Well, in this affair just act as Rudolph orders and don’t trouble about the consequences.”

I realized that some evil was intended. Yet it was prevented by the presence there of Sylvia Andrews. What could it be?

Next day I met uncle and niece as usual, and we went for a motor ride together out to Aranjuez, where we saw the Palacio Real, and then on to Toledo where we visited the wonderful cathedral and the great Elcazar. I did not get back to the hotel till past ten o’clock that night, but I found Duperré anxious and perturbed. Why, I failed to understand, except that he seemed filled with annoyance that his plans had somehow gone awry.

Two days later when I called at the Ritz with the intention of accompanying Mr. Lloyd and his niece over the mountains to Valladolid, I found them both greatly excited.

“Sylvia had a telegram an hour ago recalling her to London as her mother is ill, and I am going with her. I cannot allow her to travel alone. We leave by the express at six o’clock this evening,” Mr. Lloyd said. “I am so very sorry to depart so suddenly, Mr. Hargreave. We were both enjoying our visit so much,” he added apologetically.

This surprised me until I returned to my hotel to luncheon, when Duperré, meeting me eagerly in the hall, asked:

“Well, is the girl going?”

“Yes,” I said. “How do you know?”

He smiled meaningly, and I felt that in all probability the telegram recalling the girl had been sent at his instigation, as indeed I afterwards knew it had been. So cleverly had matters been arranged by the crooks that Mrs. Andrews was actually very unwell.

“Yes, she’s off to-night – and the old man also,” I said, glad that he was to get out of the mysterious danger that undoubtedly threatened him.

“What!” cried my companion, staggered. “Is the old fellow actually leaving also? At what time?”

“By the six o’clock train – the express to Irun,” I replied.

He was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said abruptly in a thick voice:

“I don’t want any lunch. I want to think. Come up to my room when you’ve had your meal,” and then, turning on his heel, he ascended in the lift.

On going to his room after luncheon I found him standing by the window, with his hands in his pockets, looking blankly out upon the great square below.

Close by, upon the writing-table, was a small medicine phial and a camel-hair brush, together with several pieces of paper. It struck me that he had painted one of the pieces with some of the colorless liquid, for, having dried, it was now crinkled in the center.

“Look here, Hargreave,” he said. “I want you to telephone to the girl Andrews and ask her to meet you this afternoon at four, say in the ladies’ café in the Café Suzio, so that you can have tea together. When you’ve done that come back here.”

I obeyed, in wonder at what was intended. Then when I returned, he said:

“Sit down and write a note to the old man, asking him to let you have his address so that you can collect any letters from the Ritz for him and forward them. He’ll think it awfully kind of you. And enclose an envelope addressed to yourself; it will save him trouble.”

This I did, taking paper and envelope from the rack in front of me. I was about to address the envelope to myself, when he said:

“That’s too large, have this one! It will fit in the other envelope,” and he took from the rack one of a smaller size which I used according to his suggestion.

“Now,” he said, “you go and take the girl out and I’ll see that this letter is delivered – and that you get an answer.”

I met Sylvia, and we had quite a jolly tea together. Then, at five o’clock, I left her at the door of the Ritz, saying that I had sent a letter to her uncle asking for his address, and that knowing he would be very busy preparing to leave I would not come in.

On entering the Hôtel de la Paix the concierge handed me two letters, one from old Mr. Lloyd in reply to my note and the other that had been left for me by Duperré.

“I have already left Madrid,” he wrote briefly. “Whatever you hear, you know nothing, remember. Wait another week and then come home.”

I was not long in hearing something, for within a quarter of an hour Sylvia rang me up asking me to come round at once to the Ritz.

In trepidation I took a taxi there and found old Mr. Lloyd in a state of unconsciousness, with a doctor at his side, Sylvia having found him lying on the floor of the sitting-room. The doctor told her that the old gentleman had apparently been seized by a stroke, but that he was very slowly recovering.

Sylvia, however, pointed out that his dispatch-box had been broken open and rifled. What had been taken she had no idea.

Inquiries made of the hotel staff proved that just after his niece had gone out a boy had arrived with a note requiring an answer, and had been shown up to Mr. Lloyd’s room. The old gentleman wrote the answer, and the boy left with it. To whom the answer was addressed was not known.

The only person seen in the corridor afterwards was a guest who occupied a room close by, a Spaniard named Larroca.

I recollected the name. It was the man I had seen at the Unicorn at Ripon!

I made discreet inquiries, and discovered that Madame Martoz was living in the hotel.

The truth was plain. I longed to denounce them, but in fear I held my secret.

Old Mr. Lloyd hovered between life and death for a week, when at last he recovered, but to this day he cannot account for the mysterious seizure. I, however, know that it was due to a certain secret colorless liquid with which the gum upon the envelope I had addressed to myself had been painted over by Duperré. The old gentleman had licked it, and within five minutes he had fallen unconscious.

When he was sufficiently well to be shown his dispatch-box he grew frantic.

In it had been his cheque-book containing four signed cheques, as it was his habit to send weekly cheques to the woman who acted as housekeeper at his flat at Hove, which, by the way, he very seldom visited.

By some means Rayne had got to know of this, and by that clever ruse his accomplice got possession of the cheques, and ere the old man could wire to London to stop payment, all four had been cashed for large amounts without question.

Rayne and his friends netted nearly ten thousand pounds, but to this day old Mr. Lloyd entertains no suspicion.

CHAPTER XI

THE GENTLEMAN FROM ROME

I knew that my love for Lola was increasing, yet I did not know whether my affection was really reciprocated.

We were close friends, but that was all. I was seated with her in the pretty morning-room one day about a fortnight after my return from Madrid, when the footman entered with a card.

“Mr. Rayne is not in, sir. Will you see the gentleman?”

“Cav. Enrico Graniani – Roma,” was the name upon the card.

“He’s a stranger, sir. I’ve never seen him before,” the servant added.

“I wonder who he is?” asked Lola, looking over my shoulder at the card. “Father doesn’t somehow like strangers, does he?”

“No,” I said. “But I’ll see him. Show him into the library.”

When a few moments later I entered the room I found a tall, elegant, well-dressed Italian who, addressing me in very fair English, said:

“I understand, signore, that Mr. Rayne is not in. I have come from Italy to see him, and I bring an introduction from a mutual friend. You are his secretary, I believe?”

I replied in the affirmative, and took the note which he handed me.

“I will give it to Mr. Rayne when he returns to-morrow,” I promised him. “Where shall he write to in order to make an appointment?”

“I am at the Majestic Hotel at Harrogate,” he answered. “I will await a letter – I thank you very much,” and he departed.

Next afternoon when I gave Rayne the letter of introduction he became at once eager and somewhat excited.

“Ring up the Majestic,” he said. “See if you can get hold of the Cavaliere, and tell him I will see him at any hour he likes to-morrow.”

I could see that after reading the letter brought by the Italian, he was most eager to learn something further.

After two attempts I succeeded in speaking with the Cavaliere Graniani, and fixed an appointment for him to call on the following morning at half-past eleven.

What actually occurred during the interview I do not know.

Across the table at luncheon, Rayne suddenly asked me:

“You know Italy well – don’t you, Hargreave?”

“I lived in the Val d’Arno for several years before the war,” I replied. “My people rented a villa there.”

Then, turning to Lola, he asked:

“Would you like to go for a trip to Italy with Madame and Hargreave?”

“Oh! It would be delightful, dad!” she cried. “Can we go? When?”

“Quite soon,” he replied. “I want Hargreave to go on a mission for me – and you can both go with him. It would be a change for you all.”

“Delightful!” exclaimed the well-preserved Madame Duperré. “Won’t it be fun, Lola?”

“Ripping!” agreed the girl, turning her sparkling eyes to mine, while I myself expressed the greatest satisfaction at returning to the country I had learned to love so well.

That afternoon, as I sat with Rayne in the smoking-room, he explained to me the reason he wished me to go to Italy – to make certain secret inquiries, it seemed. But the motive he did not reveal.

At his orders I took a piece of paper upon which I made certain notes of names and places, of suspicions and facts which he wished me to ascertain and prove – curious and apparently mysterious facts.

“Lola and Madame will go with you in order to allay any suspicions,” he added. “I place this matter entirely in your hands to act as you think fit.”

A week later, with Lola and Madame, I left Charing Cross and duly arrived in the old marble-built city of Pisa, with its Leaning Tower and its magnificent cathedral, and while my companions stayed at the Hôtel Victoria I went up the picturesque Valley of the Arno on the first stage of my quest.

At last, having climbed the steep hill among the olives and vines which leads from the station of Signa – that ancient little town of the long-ago Guelfs – I came to the old Convent of San Domenico, a row of big sun-blanched buildings with a church and crumbling tower set upon the conical hill which overlooked the red roofs of Florence deep below.

The ancient bell of the monastery clanged out the hour of evening prayer, as it had done for centuries, sounding loud and far through the dry, clear evening atmosphere.

Five minutes after ringing the clanging bell at the monastery door and being inspected by a brother through the small iron grill, I found myself with Fra Pacifico in his scrupulously clean narrow cell, with its truckle bed and its praying stool set before the crucifix, but on hearing hurried footsteps in the stone corridor outside I rose, and my strange friend exclaimed in Italian:

“No, Signor Hargreave! Remain seated. I am excused from attendance in the chapel. I had to meet you.”

The narrow little cubicle was bare and whitewashed. Fra Pacifico, of the Capuchin Order, with his shaven head, his brown habit tied around the waist with a hempen rope, and his well-worn sandals, had long been my friend. Of his past I could never ascertain anything. He had called humbly upon my father when we first went to live at old-world Signa, years before, and he had asked his charity for the poor down in the Val d’Arno.

“You will always have beggars around you, signore,” I remembered he said. “We up at the monastery keep open house for the needy – soup, bread, and other things – to all who come from eight to ten o’clock in the morning. If you grant us alms we will see that those who beg of you never go empty away. Send them to us.”

My father saw instantly an easy way out of the great beggar problem, hence he promised him a fixed subscription each month, which Fra Pacifico regularly collected.

So though I had returned to live in London and afterwards played my part in the war, we had still been friends.

On my arrival at Pisa I had made an appointment to see him, and as we now sat together in his narrow cell, I questioned him whether, by mere chance, he had ever heard of a certain lady named Yolanda Romanelli. It was quite a chance shot of mine, but I knew that he came from the same district as the lady.

He was evasive. He had heard of her, he admitted, but would go no further.

His attitude concerning the lady I had mentioned filled me with curiosity.

In his coarse brown habit and hood he had always been a mystery to me. He was about forty-five years of age. He knew English, and spoke it as well as he did French, for, though a monk, he was a classical scholar and a keen student of modern science.

“Now, Fra Pacifico,” I said, as I reseated myself. “I know you are cognizant of something concerning this lady, Yolanda Romanelli. What is it? Tell me.”

Thus pressed, he rather reluctantly told me a strange story.

“Well!” I exclaimed at last when he had finished. “It is all really incredible. Are you quite certain of it?”

“Signor Hargreave, what I have told you is what I really believe to be true. That woman is in a high position, I know. She married the Marchese, but I am convinced that she is an adventuress – and more. She is a wicked woman! God forgive me for telling you this.”

“But are you quite certain?” I repeated.

“Signore, I have told you what I know,” he answered gravely, tapping his great horn snuff-box and taking a pinch, tobacco being forbidden him by the rules of his Order. “I have told you what I know – and also what I suspect. You can make whatever use of the knowledge you like. Yolanda Romanelli is a handsome woman – as you will see for yourself if you meet her,” he added in a strange reflective voice.

“That means going down to Naples,” I remarked.

“Yes, go there. Be watchful, and you will discover something in progress which will interest you. But be careful. As an enemy she is dangerous.”

“But her husband, the Marquis? Does he know nothing?”

Fra Pacifico hitched up the rope around his waist and made an impetuous gesture.

“Poor fellow! He suspects nothing!”

“Well, Pacifico,” I said, “do be frank with me. How do you know all this?”

“No,” he replied. “There are certain things I cannot tell you – things which occurred in the past – before I took my vow and entered this place. I was once of your own world, Signor Hargreave. Now I am not. It is all of the past,” he added in a hard, determined voice.

“You have been in London. I feel sure of it, Pacifico,” I said, for by his conversation he had often betrayed knowledge of England, and more especially of London.

“Ah! I do not deny it,” laughed the broad-faced, easy-going man, now again seated in his rush-bottomed chair. “I know your hotels in London – the Savoy, the Carlton, the Ritz, and the Berkeley. I’ve lunched and dined and supped at them all. I’ve shopped in Bond Street, and I’ve lost money at Ascot. Oh, yes!” he laughed. “I know your wonderful London! And now I have nothing in the world – not a soldo of my own. I am simply a Brother – and I am content,” he said, with a strange look of peace and resignation.

We who live outside the high monastery walls can never understand the delightful, old-world peace that reigns within – that big family of whom the father is the fat Priore, always indulgent and kind to his grown-up children, yet so very severe upon any broken rule.

Fra Pacifico had that evening told me something which had placed me very much upon the alert. I had not been mistaken when I suspected that he might know something of the woman Yolanda Romanelli – the woman whom Rayne had sent me to inquire about – and I felt that I had done well to first inquire of my old friend. He had hinted certain things concerning the Marchesa, the gay leader of society in Rome, whose name was in the Tribuna almost daily, and whose husband possessed a fine old palazzo in the Corso, as well as an official residence in Naples, where, in addition to being one of the most popular men in Italy, he was Admiral of the Port.

“May I be forgiven for uttering those ill-words,” exclaimed the monk, as though speaking to himself. “We are taught to forgive our enemies. But I cannot forgive her!”

“Why?” I asked.

“She has desecrated the house of God,” he replied in a low tense voice.

Two hours later I was back with Lola and Madame Duperré at the Hôtel Victoria at Pisa.

Coming from the lips of any other than those of Fra Pacifico I should have suspected that the Marchesa Romanelli had once done him some evil turn. Yet when a man renounces the world and enters the cloisters, he puts aside all jealousies and thought of injury, and lives a life of devotion and of strictest piety. Fra Pacifico was a man I much admired, and whose word I accepted without query.

Next day Lola was inquisitive as to my visit to the monastery, but I was compelled to keep my own counsel, and that evening we all three took the night express to Rome, arriving at the Grand at nine o’clock after a dusty and sleepless journey, for the wagons-lit which run over the Maremma marshes roll and rock until sleep becomes quite impossible.

With the Eternal City Lola was delighted, though it was out of the season and the deserted streets were like furnaces. Still, I was able to drive her out to see some of the antiquities which I had myself visited half a dozen times before.

My notes included the name of a man named Enrico Prati, who lived humbly in the Via d’Aranico, and one evening, two days after our arrival, I called upon him. Lola had been anxious that I should stay for a small dance in the hotel, but I had been compelled to plead business, for, as a matter of fact, I had become filled with curiosity regarding the mission of inquiry upon which I had been sent.

Prati kept a wine-shop, an obscure place which did not inspire confidence. He was a beetle-browed fellow, short, with deep-set furtive eyes, and he struck me as being a thief – or perhaps a receiver of stolen property. The atmosphere of the place seemed mysterious and forbidding.

I told him that I had come from “The Golden Face.” At mention of the name he started and instantly became obsequious. By that I knew that he had some connection with the gang.

Then I demanded of him what he knew of the mysterious Marchesa Romanelli, adding that I had come from England to obtain the information which “The Golden Face” knew he could furnish.

I saw that I was dealing with a clever thief who carried on his criminal activities under the guise of a dealer of wines.

“Yes, signore,” he said. “I know the Marchesa. She is a leader of smart society, both here and in Naples. During the war she spent a large sum of money in establishing her fine hospital out at Porta Milvio. She was foremost in arranging charity concerts, bazaars, and other things in aid of those blinded at the war. Could such a wealthy patriotic woman, whose husband is one of Italy’s most famous admirals, possibly be anything other than honest and upright?”

His reply took me aback, until his sinister face broadened into a smile. Then I said:

“I admit that. But you know more than you have told me, Signor Prati,” and then added: “Because the woman has risen to such high favor and her actions have always shown her to be intensely charitable, there is no reason why she should not be wearing a mask – eh?”

He only laughed, and, shrugging his shoulders, replied:

“Go to Naples and seek for yourself. The suspicions of ‘The Golden Face’ are well-grounded, I assure you.”

So, unconvinced, I returned to the Grand Hotel full of wonder. I was not satisfied, so I determined to take Prati’s advice and see for myself what manner of woman was this Marchesa. Fortunately, although it was out of the season, she was in Naples. Having two old friends there I went south with my companions two days later, and we installed ourselves at the Palace Hotel with its wonderful views across the bay. I had little difficulty in obtaining an introduction to the woman whom I sought. It took place one evening at the house of one of my friends, who was now a Deputy.

When she heard my name, I noticed that she started slightly, but I bowed over her hand in pretense of ignorance.

She expressed gratification at meeting me, and soon we were chatting pleasantly. She was a handsome woman of about forty-five, dark-haired and beautifully gowned. With her was her daughter Flavia, a pretty, dark-eyed girl of twenty or so, bright, vivacious, and very chic. The latter spoke English excellently, and told me that she had been at school for years at Cheltenham.

CHAPTER XII

THE SILVER SPIDER

That night, after a chat with Lola, I sat in my room at the palace and could not help recollecting how strangely the Marchesa had started when my name had been uttered.

Did she know of my connection with “The Golden Face”? If she did, then she might naturally suspect me and hold me at arm’s length. Yet if she feared me, why should she have asked me, as well as Lola and Madame, to call at the Palazzo Romanelli?

I had thanked her, and accepted.

Therefore on Tuesday night, with Lola and Madame both smartly dressed, I went to the huge, old fifteenth-century palace, grim and prison-like because of its heavily barred windows of the days when every palazzo was a fortress, and within found it the acme of luxury and refinement, its great salons filled with priceless pictures and ancient statuary, and magnificent furniture of the Renaissance.

About thirty people were present, most of them the élite of Naples society, all the ladies being exquisitely dressed. My hostess expressed delight as I bowed and raised her hand to my lips, in Italian fashion, and then I introduced my two companions. A few moments after I found myself chatting with the pretty Flavia, who, to my annoyance, seemed to be very inquisitive concerning my movements.

As I stood gossiping with her, my eyes fell upon a little Florentine table of polished black marble inlaid with colored stones forming a basket of fruit, a marvel of Renaissance art, and upon it there stood a silver model of a gigantic tarantula, or spider, the body being about seven inches long by five broad, with eight long curved legs, most perfectly copied from nature.