William Le Queux - The Day of Temptation

“I have the letter here,” interrupted the Coroner, addressing the jury. “Its translation reads as follows: —

”‘Dear Vittorina,

”‘Be extremely cautious if you really mean to go to England. It is impossible for me to accompany you, or I would; but you know my presence in Italy is imperative. You will easily find Bonciani’s Café, in Regent Street. Remember, at the last table on the left every Monday at five.

”‘With every good wish for a pleasant journey,

“The letter, which has no envelope,” added the Coroner, “is dated from Lucca, a town in Tuscany, a week ago. It may possibly assist the police in tracing friends of the deceased.” Then, turning to the constable, he asked, “Well, what else was in the lady’s bag?”

“This photograph,” answered the officer, holding up a cabinet photograph.

“Why!” cried the cab-driver, who had taken a seat close to where the policeman was standing. “Why, that’s a photograph of the Major!”

“Yes,” added the barmaid excitedly, “that’s the same man who came up to the gentleman while he was speaking to me. Without doubt that’s the Major, and an excellent portrait, too.”

“Strange that this, of all things, should be in the dead woman’s possession, when we have it in evidence that she was introduced to him only half an hour before her death,” observed the Coroner. “Very strange indeed. Every moment the mystery surrounding this unknown woman seems to grow more impenetrable.”

The jury, after a long deliberation, returned an open verdict of “Found dead.” In the opinion of the twelve Strand tradesmen, there was insufficient evidence to justify a verdict of murder, therefore they had contented themselves in leaving the matter in the hands of the police. They had, in reality, accepted the evidence of the analyst in preference to the theory of the doctor, and had publicly expressed a hope that the authorities at Scotland Yard would spare no pains in their endeavours to discover the deceased’s fellow traveller, if he did not come forward voluntarily and establish her identity.

This verdict practically put an end to the mystery created by the sensational section of the evening Press, for although it was not one of natural causes, actual murder was not alleged. Therefore, amid the diversity of the next day’s news, the whirling world of London forgot, as it ever forgets, the sensation of the previous day. All interest had been lost in the curious circumstances surrounding the death of the unknown Italian girl in the most crowded of London thoroughfares by reason of this verdict of the jury.

The police had taken up the matter actively, but all that had been discovered regarding the identity of the dead woman was that her name was probably Vittorina – beyond that, absolutely nothing. Among the millions who had followed the mystery with avidity in the papers, one man alone recognised the woman by her description, and with satisfaction learnt how ingeniously her death had been encompassed.

That man was the eminently respectable doctor in the remote rural village of Lyddington. With his breakfast untouched before him, he sat in his cosy room eagerly devouring the account of the inquest; then, when he had finished, he cast the paper aside, exclaiming aloud in Italian —

“Dio! What good fortune! I wonder how it was accomplished? Somebody else, besides ourselves, apparently, feared her presence in England. Arnold is in Livorno by this time, and has had his journey for nothing.”

Then, with his head thrown back in his chair, he gazed up at the panelled ceiling deep in thought.

“Who, I wonder, could that confounded Englishman have been who escorted her to London and who left her so suddenly? Some Jackanapes or other, I suppose. And who’s the Major? He’s evidently English too, whoever he is. Only fancy, on the very night we discussed the desirability of the girl’s death, some unknown person obligingly did the work for us!” Then he paused, set his teeth, and, frowning, added, “But that injudicious letter of Egisto’s may give us some trouble. What an idiot to write like that! I hope the police won’t trace him. If they do, it will be awkward – devilish awkward.”

A few minutes later the door opened, and a younger man, slim and pale-faced, entered and wished him “good-morning.”

“No breakfast?” the man, his assistant, inquired, glancing at the table. “What’s the matter?”

“Liver, my boy, liver,” Malvano answered with his usual good-humoured smile. “I shall go to town to-day. I may be absent the whole week; but there’s nothing really urgent. That case of typhoid up at Craig’s Lodge is going on well. You’ve seen it once, haven’t you?”

“Yes. You’re treating it in the usual way, I suppose?”

“Of course;” and the doctor, advancing to the table, poured out a cup of coffee and drank it, at the same time calling to his man Goodwin to pack his bag, and be ready to drive him to the London train at ten-twenty.

His assistant being called to the surgery a few minutes later, Malvano sat down at his writing-table, hastily scribbled a couple of telegrams, which he folded and carefully placed in his pocket-book, and half an hour later drove out of the quiet old-world village, with its ancient church spire and long, straggling street of thatched cottages, on his way to catch the train.

Beside the faithful Goodwin he sat in silence the whole way, for many things he had read that morning sorely puzzled him. It was true that the lips of Vittorina were sealed in death, but the letter signed “Egisto,” discovered by the police in her dressing-bag, still caused him the most intense anxiety.

At the same hour that Malvano had been reading the account of the previous day’s inquest, Frank Tristram was sitting in his handsome, well-furnished chambers in St. James’s Street. He had breakfasted early, as was his wont, and had afterwards started his habitual cigarette. The room in which he sat was a typical bachelor’s quarter, filled with all sorts of curios and bric-à-brac which its owner had picked up in the various corners of the earth he had visited bearing despatches from the Foreign Office. Upon the floor lay a couple of fine tiger-skins, presents from an Indian rajah, while around were inlaid coffee-stools and trays of beaten brass from Constantinople, a beautiful screen from Cairo, a rare statuette from Rome, quaint pictures and time-yellowed ivories from the curiosity shops of Florence and Vienna, savage weapons from Africa and South America, and a bright, shining samovar from St. Petersburg. In a corner stood the much-worn travelling-bag which he kept always ready packed, and hanging upon a nail above the mantelshelf was the blue ribbon with its silver greyhound, the badge which carried its owner everywhere with the greatest amount of swiftness, and the least amount of personal discomfort. Over the fireplace, too, were many autographed portraits of British ambassadors and distinguished foreign statesmen, together with those of one or two ladies of this constant traveller’s acquaintance.

As he lay back in a wicker deck-chair – the same in which he had taken his after-luncheon nap on board many an ocean steamer – well-shaven, smart, and spruce, his legs stretched out lazily, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he sighed deeply.

“Italy again!” he grumbled to himself as he took up a scribbled note on official paper. “Just my infernal luck. Italy is the very last place I want to visit just now, yet, by Jove! the Chief sends me a message to start this morning.” And rousing himself, he stretched his arms and glanced wearily at the little carriage clock. The discarded newspaper on the floor recalled all that he had read half an hour before.