William Le Queux - The Closed Book - Concerning the Secret of the Borgias

“Yes, I will,” I answered. “I don’t like him myself. Of late he has been far from straight.”

“And of late, it seems, he has been making secret inquiries of one of the Italian clerks here about your antecedents in England.”

“Whatever for? How can my antecedents concern him?”

“Ah, that’s the point, my dear Kennedy. He’s forming some ingenious plot or other; therefore we must be on the alert. When a man bribes one of the clerks to obtain information about an Englishman’s past, his parentage, and all the rest of it, there’s something devilish suspicious about it.”

“I should think so! I wonder what the old scoundrel is up to?”

“Some blackmailing business or other, most probably. If so, act with discretion, and we’ll have a chat with the chief of police. The present questore is terribly down on blackmailers.”

“But what can be the motive?”

“That’s more than either of us can tell. We must watch and form our own conclusions,” was the consul’s reply, leaning back in his white linen suit and stretching his arms above his head. “You see now,” he added, “why I am in favour of your leaving Tuscany without delay.”

“Yes, I see. But there’s some mystery about old Graniani, and we ought to clear it up.”

“Why should we trouble to do so?” he asked.

I had told him nothing about the incident which had occurred to arouse my suspicions while I was waiting for the fat prior of San Sisto; therefore, in a few words I briefly recounted what I had witnessed.

“Strange?” he exclaimed. “Remarkably strange! We must watch him, Kennedy. It almost looks as if, for some mysterious reason, he means mischief.”

We agreed as to this, and then fell to discussing the best means by which I might get rid of my house and have my collection of antiques packed for transmission to England.

Soon after noon I returned home to luncheon, and in crossing the Piazza Vittorio Emanuelle to take the electric tram my eyes caught a glimpse of a neat female figure in black, which struck me as strangely similar to that of the dark-eyed woman who had been closeted with the fat prior in Florence on the previous day. My first impulse was to turn and follow her, but not being sufficiently certain of her identity, I stepped upon the tram, although sorely puzzled. Was she in Leghorn for some secret purpose? I wondered. Somehow I felt convinced it was she.

On my arrival home, however, my suspicion became more than ever aroused, for I found old Nello in a terrible state of anxiety. On getting up he had discovered that my bed had not been slept in, and that I was absent. Being Italian, he feared that some disgrazia had happened to me.

Then, when I assured him that I had merely been out for a long walk instead of sleeping, he said:

“The hunchback antique-dealer is awaiting you, signore. He says it is most important that he should see you, so I have shown him upstairs to the study.”

His announcement took me aback. The old scoundrel was the last visitor I expected. Nevertheless, I drew a long breath to steady my nerves, and with calm resolution mounted the stairs.

“Scusi, signore!” exclaimed the ugly, disreputable-looking old man, holding his battered straw hat behind him, and bowing with as much studied grace as his deformity would allow. The Tuscan, always the essence of politeness, is a marvellous diplomatist. “I regret to disturb the signore,” he went on in his soft, musical speech; “but I was anxious to know if he met yesterday in Florence the prior of San Sisto?”

“I did,” I replied, amused at his ingenious attempt to affect ignorance of our meeting.

“And did you make any purchases?”

“I bought one book – a rare Arnoldus.”

“In manuscript?”

“Yes.”

“Bound in original oak boards, with an old brass clasp – eh?” he inquired, with a queer smile about the corners of his mouth. “May I be permitted to see it?”

His demand aroused my suspicions at once. It was evident that the prior had regretted having sold it to me, and had sent his agent to endeavour to get it back at any cost. Therefore, knowing the unscrupulous ways of some Italians in a cosmopolitan city like Leghorn, I did not intend to give the cunning old fellow sight of it.

“Why do you wish to inspect it? I’ve packed it away, and it would give me great trouble to get at it again.”

“Then the signore does really send things to England to sell again, as I have heard the people say?” suggested the old man somewhat rudely.

“No, I’m not a dealer,” I responded angrily. “Who told you so?”

“It is common gossip, signore,” replied the queer old fellow blandly. “But if you wish it, I’ll take steps to correct public opinion on that point.”

“Let the gossips say what pleases them,” I snapped. “I’ve never yet sold anything I’ve bought. I suppose they think that by the quantity of my purchases I must be going to set up a curiosity shop. But,” I added, “tell me, Graniani, why do you wish to see the manuscript I bought yesterday?”

“Oh, mere curiosity,” was his quick answer. “You know I’m interested in such things, and wanted to know how the prior treated you after my recommendation.”

“He treated me well enough, and I brought a bargain.”

“A bargain?” he echoed, and I fancied I detected a strange curl in his lip. “The reverendo does not sell many bargains. How much did you pay?”

“Ah!” I laughed, “I suppose you want to charge him commission – eh?”

The hunchback grinned, displaying his toothless gums, whereupon I took up the receipt and showed him the amount I had paid.

Again he expressed a desire to be allowed to see the book; but, feeling certain that he had come to me with some hidden motive, and at the same time wondering what plot against me the evil-looking old fellow was forming, I point-blank refused. I did not tell him that I knew of his presence in Florence on the previous day, deeming it best to reserve the knowledge to myself. Without doubt he had seen the book in Landini’s possession, and the desire to inspect it again was only a clever ruse.

“I think, signore, that hitherto my dealings with you have shown me to be trustworthy,” he said in a tone of complaint, “and yet you refuse to allow me to see a volume that I understand is most interesting.”

“And rare,” I added. “It has already been valued by Olschki, who declares it to be a unique specimen, and worth very much more than I gave for it.”

“I know, I know,” he replied with a sly wink. “The person who sold it to the prior knew its value and told me. But it is not a bargain, signore – depend upon it that you never get a bargain from the signor reverendo .”

“To whom, then, did it originally belong?”

“Ah, that I regret I am not at liberty to say, signore. I gave my word not to divulge the name. Our nobility who become so poor that they are compelled to sell their treasures to the rich foreigners, like yourself, are naturally very reticent about allowing themselves to be known as needy.” True, I had believed that the old fellow himself was a broken-down noble, some count or marquis who had a knowledge of antiques and who had fallen upon evil times; but the events of the last couple of days had caused me to change my opinion, and to regard him rather as a clever and crafty adventurer.

I could see by his manner that he was ill at ease, and after some conversation regarding an old Montelupo plate he had offered me at a fabulous price, I waited for him to speak.

“I really wish, signore, you would show me the manuscript,” he blurted forth at last. “Believe me, I have always acted in your best interests, and surely you will not refuse me such a small favour?”