Kitabı oku: «The Lady in the Car», sayfa 9
Chapter Nine
A Double Game
Lord Nassington drove his big red sixty horse-power six-cylinder “Napier” slowly up the Corso in Rome.
By his side was his smart chauffeur, Garrett, in dark-green livery with the hand holding a garland proper, the crest of the Nassingtons, upon his bright buttons.
It was four o’clock, the hour of the passeggiata, the hour when those wintering in the Eternal City go forth in carriages and cars to drive up and down the long, narrow Corso in order to see, and be seen, to exchange bows with each other, and to conclude the processional drive at slow pace owing to the crowded state of the street by a tour of the Pincian hill whence one obtains a magnificent view of Rome and the Tiber in the sunset.
Roman society is the most exclusive in the world. Your Roman princess will usually take her airing in her brougham with the windows carefully closed, even on a warm spring afternoon. She holds herself aloof from the crowd of wealthy foreigners, even though her great gaunt palazzo has been denuded of every picture and work of art years ago, and she lives with a donna di casa in four or five meagre rooms on the first floor, the remainder of the great place being unfurnished and untenanted.
There is more pitiful make-believe among the aristocracy of Rome than in any other city in the world. The old principessa, the marchesa, and the contessa keep themselves within their own little circle, and sneer at the wealthy foreigner and his blatant display of riches. One hears girls of the school-room discussing the social scale of passers-by, and disregarding them as not being “of the aristocracy” like themselves.
Truly the Eternal City is a complex one in winter, and the Corso at four o’clock, is the centre of it all. You know that slowly-passing almost funereal line of carriages, some of them very old and almost hearse-like, moving up and down, half of them emblazoned with coronets and shields – for the Italian is ever proud of his heraldry – while the other half hired conveyances, many of them ordinary cabs in which sit some of the wealthiest men and women in Europe who have come south to see the antiquities and to enjoy the sunshine.
Behind the lumbering old-fashioned brougham of a weedy marchesa, Lord Nassington drove his big powerful car at snail’s pace, and almost silently. In such traffic the flexibility of the six-cylinder is at once appreciated.
Both Garrett and his master had their eyes about them, as though in search of some one.
A dozen times pretty women in furs bowed to Lord Nassington, who raised his motor-cap in acknowledgment. The smart, good-looking young peer had spent a couple of months there during the previous winter and had become immensely popular with the cosmopolitan world who gather annually in the Italian capital. Therefore, when he had arrived at the Excelsior, a week before, word had quickly gone round the hotels, clubs, pastrycooks, and cafés that the young English motoring milord had returned.
Upon the table of his luxurious little sitting-room at the hotel were lying a dozen or so invitations to dinners, receptions, the opera, and a luncheon-party out at Tivoli, while Charles, his man, had been busy spreading some picturesque gossip concerning his master.
For the nonce his Highness Prince Albert of Hesse-Holstein was incognito, and as was the case sometimes, he was passing as an English peer, about whose whereabouts, position, and estates Debrett was somewhat vague. According to that volume of volumes, Lord Nassington had let his ancestral seat in Northamptonshire, and lived in New Orleans. Therefore, his Highness had but little to fear from unwelcome inquiry. He spoke English as perfectly as he could speak German when occasion required, for to his command of languages his success had been in great measure due.
Such a fine car as his had seldom, if ever, been seen in Rome. It was part of his creed to make people gossip about him, for as soon as they talked they began to tumble over each other in their endeavour to make his acquaintance. Both Garrett and Charles always had some interesting fiction to impart to other servants, and so filter through to their masters and mistresses.
The story running round Rome, and being passed from mouth to mouth along the Corso, in Aregno’s, in the Excelsior, and up among the idlers on the Pincio, was that that reckless devil-may-care young fellow in motor-coat and cap, smoking a cigar as he drove, had only a fortnight before played with maximums at Monte Carlo, and in one day alone had won over forty thousand pounds at roulette.
The rather foppishly dressed Italians idling along the Corso – every man a born gambler – were all interested in him as he passed. He was a favourite of fortune, and they envied him his good luck. And though they wore yellow gloves and patent-leather boots they yearned for a terno on the Lotto – the aspiration of every man, be he conte or contadino.
As his lordship approached the end of the long, narrow street close to the Porta del Popolo, Garrett gave him a nudge, and glancing at an oncoming carriage he saw in it two pretty dark-haired girls. One, the better looking of the pair, was about twenty-two, and wore rich sables, with a neat toque of the same fur. The other about three years her senior, wore a black hat, a velvet coat, and a boa of white Arctic fox. Both were delicate, refined-looking girls, and evidently ladies.
Nassington raised his cap and laughed, receiving nods and merry laughs of recognition in return.
“I wonder where they’re going, Garrett?” he remarked after they had passed.
“Better follow them, hadn’t we?” remarked the man.
A moment later, however, a humble cab passed, one of those little open victorias which the visitor to Rome knows so well, and in it was seated alone a middle-aged, rather red-faced English clergyman.
His lordship and he exchanged glances, but neither recognised each other.
“Good!” whispered the man at the wheel to his servant beside him. “So the Parson’s arrived. He hasn’t been long on the way from Berlin. I suppose he’s keeping his eye upon the girls.”
“Trust him,” laughed the chauffeur. “You sent him the snap-shot, I suppose?”
“Of course. And it seems he’s lost no time. He couldn’t have arrived before five o’clock this morning.”
“When Clayton’s on a good thing he moves about as quickly as you do,” the smart young English chauffeur remarked.
“Yes,” his master admitted. “He’s the most resourceful man I’ve ever known – and I’ve known a few. We’ll take a run up the Pincio and back,” and, without changing speed, he began to ascend the winding road which leads to the top of the hill.
Up there, they found quite a crowd of people whom Nassington had known the previous season.
Rome was full of life, merriment and gaiety. Carnival had passed, and the Pasqua was fast approaching; the time when the Roman season is at its gayest and when the hotels are full. The court receptions and balls at the Quirinale had brought the Italian aristocracy from the various cities, and the ambassadors were mostly at their posts because of the weekly diplomatic receptions.
Surely it is a strange world – that vain, silly, out-dressing world of Rome, where religion is only the cant of the popular confessor and the scandal of a promenade through St. Peter’s or San Giovanni.
At the summit of the Pincio Lord Nassington pulled up the car close to the long stone balustrade, and as he did so a young Italian elegant, the Marquis Carlo di Rimini, stepped up and seizing his hand, was profuse in his welcome back to Rome.
The Englishman descended from the car, lit one of his eternal “Petroffs,” and leaned upon the balustrade to chat and learn the latest scandal. The Marquis Carlo and he were fellow members of the Circolo Unione, one of the smartest clubs in Rome, and had played bridge together through many a night.
A whisper had once gone forth that the source of the over-dressed young noble’s income was cards, but Nassington had always given him his due. He had never caught him cheating, and surely if he had cheated the Englishman would have known it.
As they stood there, gazing across the city below, the sky was aflame in all the crimson glory of the Roman sunset, and even as they spoke the Angelus had, of a sudden, clashed forth from every church tower, the bells clanging discordantly far and near.
It was the hour of the venti-tre, but in the city nobody cared. The patient toilers in the Campagna, however, the contadini in the fields and in the vineyards who had been working on the brown earth since the dawn, crossed themselves with a murmured prayer to the Madonna and prodded their ox-teams onward. In Rome itself nowadays, alas! the bells of the venti-tre of spring and winter only remind the gay, giddy cosmopolitan crowd that it is the hour for tea in the halls of the hotels, or the English tea-rooms in the Corso.
An hour later, when his lordship entered his room at the Excelsior, he found the Reverend Thomas Clayton seated in his armchair patiently smoking and awaiting him.
“By Jove! old chap. You got through quick,” cried his lordship throwing off his coat and cap. “Well?”
“It’s a soft thing – that’s my opinion, the girl Velia is devilish pretty, and the cousin isn’t half bad-looking. I haven’t been idle. Got in at six – an hour late, of course, had a bath and breakfast and out. Saw a dozen people I know before noon, lunched at that little trattoria behind the post office where so many of the Deputies go, and learnt a lot. I’m no stranger here you know – lived here a year once – did a splendid bit of business, but had to slip. That was the year before we joined our forces.”
“Well, what do you know?”
“Boncini, her father is, of course, Minister of the Interior, and a pretty slick customer. Made pots of money, they say, and only keeps in office by bribery. Half the money subscribed by charitable people on behalf of the sufferers from the recent earthquake down in Calabria went into his pocket. He bought a big villa, and fine estate, close to Vallombrosa a month or so afterwards.”
His lordship grunted.
“Picks up what he can?” he remarked. “One of us – it seems!”
“Exactly. And to do any business, we’ll have to be pretty cute. He’s already seen and heard a lot of you, and he knows that you’ve met his pretty daughter. Perhaps he fancies you’ll marry her.”
“The only use of marriage to a man, my dear Clayton,” exclaimed the devil-may-care adventurer blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke from his lips, “is to enable him to make a settlement upon his wife, and so wriggle from the clutches of his creditors.” The Parson laughed. Regarding the marriage tie his Highness, or “his lordship” rather as he was at that moment called, was always sarcastic.
“Really, old chap, you spread your fame wherever you go. Why, all Rome is talking about this wonderful coup of yours at Monte.”
“It was Garrett’s idea. He told them down in the garage, and Charles told a lady’s maid or two, I think. Such things are quite easy when one starts out upon a big bluff. But if what you’ve discovered about his Excellency the Minister Boncini is really true, then I shall alter my tactics somewhat. I mean that I must make the dark-haired daughter a stepping-stone to her father.”
“With care – my dear fellow,” exclaimed the Parson in that calm, clerical drawl habitual to him. “The girl’s cousin, Miss Ethel Thorold, is English. The sister of the Signora Boncini married a man on the London Stock Exchange, named Thorold.”
“That’s awkward,” exclaimed his lordship thoughtfully, “upsets my plans.”
“But he’s dead,” the Parson declared. His companion nodded satisfaction.
“Now Miss Ethel is, I’ve found, a rather religiously inclined young person – all praise to her. So I shall succeed very soon in getting to know her. Indeed, as you’ve already made her acquaintance you might introduce me as the vicar of some living within your gift.”
“Excellent – I will.”
“And what’s your plans?”
“They’re my own secrets at present, Tommy,” was the other’s quick answer. “You’re at the Grand, aren’t you? Well, for the present, we must be strangers – till I approach you. Understand?”
“Of course. Give me five hundred francs will you. I’m short?”
His lordship unlocked his heavy steel despatch-box and gave his friend five one-hundred franc notes without a word.
Then they reseated themselves, and with Charles, the faithful valet, leaning against the edge of the table smoking a cigarette with them, their conversation was both interesting and confidential.
A fortnight went by, and Rome was in the middle of her Pasqua fêtes. The night was perfect, bright and star-lit.
The great gilded ballroom of the huge old Peruzzi Palace, in the Via Nazionale, the residence of his Excellency the Minister Boncini, was thronged by a brilliant crowd, among whom Lord Nassington made his way, ever and anon bowing over some woman’s hand.
The bright uniforms, the glittering stars and coloured ribbons worn by the men, and the magnificent toilettes of the women combined to form a perfect phantasmagoria of colour beneath the huge crystal electroliers.
The political and social world of Rome had gathered there at the monthly reception of his Excellency, the rather stout grey-bearded man with the broad cerise-and-white ribbon of the Order of the Crown of Italy across his shirt-front, and the diamond star upon his coat. His Lordship strode through the huge painted salons with their heavy gilt mirrors and giant palms, and approached the man of power in that complex nation, modern Italy.
At that moment his Excellency was chatting with the French Ambassador, but on the Englishman’s approach he turned to him exclaiming in French:
“Ah! Lord Nassington! I am so pleased you could come. Velia told me of the slight accident to your car yesterday. I hope you were not hurt at all?”
“Oh! no,” laughed the debonair young man. “I had perhaps a close shave. My car is a rather fast one, and I was driving recklessly on the Maremma Road – a sharp turn – and I ran down a bank, that’s all. The car will be all right by to-morrow.”
“Ah, milord. The automobile is an invention of the future, without a doubt.”
“Most certainly. Indeed, as a matter of fact, I thought of making a suggestion to your Excellency – one which I believe would be most acceptable to the Italian nation. But, of course, here it’s quite impossible to talk.”
“Then come to-morrow morning to my private cabinet at the Ministry – or better still, here to luncheon, and we can chat.”
His Lordship expressed his thanks, and then moved off in search of the pretty Velia.
For the greater part of the evening he dangled at the side of the good-looking girl in turquoise chiffon, having several waltzes with her and afterwards strolling out upon the balcony and sitting there beneath the starlight.
“What a charming man your friend Mr Clayton is!” exclaimed the girl in English, as they were sitting together apart from the others. “Papa is delighted with him.”
“Oh, yes – a most excellent fellow for a parson,” his Lordship laughed, and then their conversation turned upon motors and motoring.
“How is your shoulder this evening?” she inquired.
“Not at all painful,” he declared. “It’s nearly all right again. The car will be ready for the road to-morrow afternoon. I’m lunching with you here, and I wonder if you and your cousin will come with me for a run out to Tivoli afterwards?”
“I should be delighted,” she said. “Our car is only a sixteen ‘Fiat’ you know, and we never travel faster than a cab. It would be such fun to have a run in your beautiful ‘sixty’! I don’t suppose papa would object.”
“I’ll ask him to come, too,” laughed the man by whom she had become so attracted, and then they returned for another dance. Her ears were open, and so were those of the shrewd old man who controlled the internal affairs of the kingdom. There were whisperings everywhere, regarding the young man’s wealth, his good fortune, and his aristocratic family.
His Excellency had not failed to notice the attraction which the young English peer held for his daughter, and also that he paid her marked attention. Therefore the old man was extremely self-satisfied.
Next day after the little family luncheon at the Peruzzi Palace at which only the Signora Boncini, Velia, and her cousin Ethel were present, his Excellency took his guest aside in his small private room for their coffee and cigarettes.
Nassington offered the Minister one of his “Petroffs” which was pronounced excellent.
Then, after a brief chat, his Lordship came to the point.
“The fact is, your Excellency,” he said, “a suggestion has occurred to me by which the Italian Government could, while benefiting the country to an enormous extent, at the same time secure a very handsome sum annually towards the exchequer.”
“How?” inquired the shrewd old statesman.
“By granting to a group of substantial English financiers a monopoly for the whole of the motor-transport of Italy,” his Lordship replied, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips. “You have, in every part of the kingdom, great tracts of productive country without railways or communications. At the same time you have excellent roads everywhere. The concession, if granted, would be taken up by a great firm who handle motor-traction, and certain districts, approved by your government, would be opened up as an experiment. Would not that be of national benefit?”
“I see,” replied the statesman stroking his beard thoughtfully. “And you propose that the earnings of the syndicate should be taxed by our Department of Finance?”
“Exactly.”
A keen, eager look was in the old man’s eyes, and did not pass unrecognised by the man lounging in the armchair in picturesque indolence.
“And suppose we were to go into the matter,” the Minister said. “What attitude would your Lordship adopt?”
“Well – my attitude would be this,” Nassington replied. “You give me the proper concession, signed by the Ministers, and I guarantee to find the capital among my personal friends in financial circles in London. But on one condition,” he added. “That the whole matter is kept secret. Afterwards, I venture to think the whole country, and especially the rural population will be grateful to your Excellency.”
Boncini instantly saw that such a move would increase his popularity immensely in the country. The idea appealed to him. If Lord Nassington’s friends were ready with capital, they would also be ready, he foresaw, with a very substantial sum for bribery. Personally he cared not a rap for the progress of Italy. While in office, he intended to amass as much as he could. He was the all-powerful man in Italy at the moment. But next year he might be – well where more than one Minister as powerful as he, had found himself – in prison!
“There are difficulties,” his Excellency said with some hesitation. “My colleagues in the Cabinet may raise objections. They may not see matters in the light that I do. And the Senate, too – they – ”
“I know. I quite understand your Excellency,” exclaimed his Lordship, lowering his voice into a confidential whisper. “Let us speak quite frankly. In a gigantic matter of this sort – a matter of millions – certain palm-oil has to be applied – eh?”
The old man smiled, placed his hands together and nodded.
“Then let us go further,” Lord Nassington went on. “I submit in all deference – and, of course, this conversation is strictly in private between us, that should you think favourably of the scheme – my friends should secretly place a certain sum, say one hundred thousand pounds sterling at your Excellency’s command, to apply in whatever way you may think best to secure the success of the proposition. Are you willing?”
The old man rose from his chair, and standing before the younger man stretched forth his hand.
“Perfectly,” he said as the other grasped it. “We agree.”
“And if I frame the form of the concession you will agree to it and, in return for an undertaking of the payment of one hundred thousand pounds into – where shall we say – into the head office of the Credit Lyonnais in Paris in the name of your nominee, you will hand me the legal concession confirmed by the Italian Government?”
“I agree to hand you the necessary documents within a fortnight,” responded his Excellency. “The adoption of motor-traction in the remote districts for bringing wine and produce to the nearest railways will be of the greatest boon to our country.”
“Of course, my friends will leave the whole of the details, as far as finance on your side is concerned, to you,” his Lordship said. “You can administer the official backsheesh so much better than any one else.”
“Within a fortnight you shall be able, my lord, to hand your friends the actual concession for motor-transport throughout the kingdom of Italy.”
For another half-hour they discussed certain details, Lord Nassington talking big about his wealthy friends in London. Then, with his daughter and his niece, his Excellency accepted his guest’s invitation for a run out to Tivoli to take tea.
The “sixty” ran splendidly, and the Minister of the Interior was delighted. Before the girls, however, no business was discussed. Velia’s father, who, by the way had once been a clever advocate in Milan, knew better than to mention affairs of State before women.
During the run, however, he found himself counting upon the possibilities of Velia’s marriage with the amiable young English aristocrat who, upon his own initiative, had offered to place one hundred thousand sterling unreservedly in his hands. At most the present Cabinet could last another year, and then – well, oblivion if before then he did not line his nest snugly enough. The thought of the poor widows and orphans and starving populace down in Calabria sometimes caused him a twinge of conscience. But he only laughed and placed it aside. He had even been unscrupulous, and this young English peer was his friend, he would use to best advantage.
Though Lord Nassington was an eligible husband for his daughter, yet, after all, he was not a business man, but a wealthy “mug.” As such he intended to treat him.
At the little café, near the falls, where they took tea the conversation ran on motors and motoring, but his Excellency could not disguise from himself that the young peer was entirely fascinated by his good-looking daughter.
They lingered there until the mists began to rise and the red afterglow was fast disappearing; then they ran past the sulphur springs and on the broad highway back to the Eternal City at such a pace that his Excellency’s breath was taken away. But Lord Nassington drove, and notwithstanding the accident of two days previously, the Minister felt himself perfectly safe in his hands.
Three weeks went by. His Lordship took a flying visit to London, and quickly returned. Both he and the highly respectable clergyman of the English church, the Reverend Thomas Clayton, became daily visitors at the Peruzzi Palace. In the Corso the pretty Signorina Boncini and her cousin were often seen in his Lordship’s car, and already the gossip-loving world of Rome began to whisper that an engagement was about to take place.
The valet, Charles, also made a quick journey to London and back, and many telegrams were exchanged with a registered cable address in London.
One afternoon, in the private cabinet of that colossal building, the Ministry of the Interior, his Excellency handed his English friend a formidable document bearing many signatures with the official seal of the Government embossed, a document which gave Lord Nassington the exclusive right to establish motor-transport for both merchandise and passengers upon every highway in the kingdom. In exchange, his Excellency received an undertaking signed by a responsible firm in the City of London to place to the account of Madame Boncini at the Credit Lyonnais in Paris the respectable sum of one hundred thousand pounds within seven days.
“I shall return at once to London,” his Lordship said replacing the formidable document in its envelope, “and in exchange for this, the financial group will at once pay in the sum to Madame’s account in Paris, while the actual sum for the concession will be paid here, in Rome, to the Department of Finance, on the date stipulated.”
“Benissimo,” replied the grey-bearded statesman, holding one of his long Toscano cigars in the candle which he had lit for that purpose. “It is all settled. You will dine with us at home to-night.”
His Lordship accepted, and after further discussion regarding several minor details of the concession he rose and left.
That night he dined at the Peruzzi Palace, seated next his Excellency’s charming daughter, and next morning left the Excelsior in his big red car, to run as far as Bologna and thence return to London by rail.
With her father’s consent Velia her cousin and Signora Ciullini, her aunt, accompanied him and they set out across the Maremma for marble-built Pisa, where the girls were to return home by rail.
The more direct road was by Orvieto, but it is not so good as that wide, open road across the fever-marshes of the Maremma, therefore his Lordship resolved on taking the latter.
The day was glorious, and travelling for all they were worth with only two stops to refill with petrol, they ran into Pisa late that same night. The sleeping-car express from Paris to Rome was due in half an hour, therefore after a scrambling meal at the Victoria the aristocratic motorist saw the girls and their aunt safely into the train – kissing Velia in secret by the way – and waving them “addio,” watched the train glide out of the big echoing station again.
Then, with Garrett at his side, he turned the big car with its glaring head-lights out of the big gates through the town along the Lung’ Arno and into the high road for Florence.
In the early morning he passed through the dimly-lit deserted streets of the City of the Medici, and away beyond, through Prato, to the foot-hills of the Appenines where he began to ascend that wonderfully engineered military road which runs, with many dangerous turns for motorists, high up across the mountain range, and ends in the long colonnaded street of old Bologna.
It was noon ere he drew into the Piazza before the station, and giving Garrett instructions to continue on to Milan and north to Berlin where the car was to be garaged, he took the afternoon express for the frontier at Chiasso, travelling thence via Bâle to Ostend and London.
On entering his snug chambers at five o’clock one afternoon, he found Charles and the Parson smoking and awaiting him. That evening the trio held a long and earnest consultation. The official document was carefully examined, and the names of many city firms mentioned. The Parson seemed to possess a remarkable intimate knowledge of city life.
“Old Boncini is a clever old thief,” remarked the reverend gentleman. “He’s feathering his nest finely – all the money in his wife’s name.”
“My dear fellow, half the Cabinet Ministers of Europe only use their political influence in order to gain fortune. Except the British Government there isn’t a single one which isn’t corrupt.”
“Well, Albert, my dear boy, you certainly seem to have got hold of a good thing,” the Parson remarked. “His Corrupt Excellency seems to place every faith in you. Your four-flush was admirable all the time.”
“It took a bit of working, I can tell you. He’s as slick as a rat.”
“But he doesn’t suspect anything wrong?”
“Hasn’t the slightest idea of it, my dear Tommy. He fancies I’m going to marry his daughter. The fat old mother is already imagining herself mother-in-law of a British peer.”
“Yes. All Rome knows that you’ve fallen in love with the pretty Velia, and that you’ve told her the tale. What a fellow you are with the ladies.”
“Why?” he laughed taking a cigarette. “They are all very charming and delightful. But in my career I generally manage to make them useful. It’s really remarkable what a woman will do in the interests of the man whom she fancies is in love with her. Fortunately, perhaps, for me, I’ve only been in love once.”
“And it resulted in a tragedy,” remarked the Parson quietly, knowing that he referred to the Princess.
His Lordship sighed, flinging himself down in his armchair, worn out by long travel.
“My dear boy,” he said with a weary sigh, “if I ever got married I’d soon go mothy – everybody does. Married people, whatever their position in life, settle down into the monotonous groove that is the death of all romance. Before a man marries a girl they have little dinners together at restaurants, and little suppers, and all seems so bright and gay under the red candle-shades. We see it on every hand. But why should it all be dropped for heavy meals and dulness, just because two people who like one another have the marriage service read over them?”
The Parson laughed. His friend was always amusing when he discussed the question of matrimony.
During the next four days his Lordship, in the character of Mr Tremlett – as he was known in certain circles in the City – was busy with financiers to whom he offered the concession. His story was that it had been granted by the Italian Government to his cousin, Lord Nassington, and that the latter had given it into his hands to negotiate.
In the various quarters where he offered it the concession caused a flutter of excitement. The shrewdest men in the City saw that it was a good thing, and one after the other craved a day to think it over. It really was one of the best things that had been offered for a long time. The terms required by the Italian Government were not at all heavy, and huge profits were certain to be made out of such a monopoly.
The great tracts of fertile land in central and southern Italy would, by means of motor-transport, be opened up to trade, while Tremlett’s picturesque story of how the concession had been snatched away from a strong group of German financiers was, to more than one capitalist, most fascinating.
Indeed he saw half a dozen of the most influential men in the City, and before a week was out he had got together a syndicate which could command a couple of millions sterling.
