“Carlatti is an old fellow who keeps a book-shop where you can buy all sorts of Continental literature,” answered Aldobrandini. “All sorts — French, Italian, Spanish, Russian — everybody that isn’t English, you understand — goes to Carlatti, so he knows many. And if this man is a teacher of languages, what so likely as that Carlatti knows about him, eh?”

  “Just so,” said Wirlescombe. All right, I’ll go round. Where is this place?”

  “I go with you myself,” said Aldobrandini. “I introduce you. You wait one moment while I prepare myself for this walk, eh?”

  The proprietor of the Café Aldobrandini presently presented himself in a frock-coat and a silk hat, a pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves, and an exquisitely-rolled umbrella. He marshalled his companion with much state out of the restaurant and along the street, finally turning into a small alley, which seemed to be filled from end to end with heaps of ancient furniture. In the midst of all this confusion, he paused before a shop, the windows of which, obviously uncleaned for years, were filled with rows of books and pamphlets in a more or less dusty and dirty condition. Piles of books, similarly neglected, almost filled up the doorway; it was with difficulty that Wirlescombe and his companion made their way to the gloom within. And the detective had to strain his eyes before he became aware that in the midst of the gloom and the untidiness stood as strange and as remarkable a figure as he had ever met in the strange world around him.

  CHAPTER XII

  THE BROTHERS DI SPADA

  THE FIGURE WHICH the detective contemplated, not without feeling a certain sense of uncanniness and mystery, was that of a very diminutive old man, thin and spare almost to the verge of emaciation, who was clad in a long, much-worn overcoat of the colour and shape affected by hunting men, and several sizes too large for its wearer, a butcher handkerchief swathed liberally about a bird-like and sinewy neck, and a black skull-cap, from beneath which peered out a face that was of the colour of old ivory, and seemed at first sight to be no more than a covering of wrinkled skin over an understructure of prominent bone. The teeth had disappeared from his living skull; the aggressive nose and the square chin nearly met, but the little old man wore no spectacles, and as Wirlescombe grew accustomed to the darkness of the place, he saw that the black eyes were as bright and active as those of a girl. He stood, staring and wondering, as the strange figure laid down a great folio and turned enquiringly to him and his companion.

  Wirlescombe had given Aldobrandini permission to tell Carlatti who he was and what he wanted; he stood by, listening without understanding, while the two Italians talked rapidly in their own language. And at last he caught the name “Di Spada,” and saw the black eyes of the queer little man flash with a sudden comprehension and intelligence as they turned from the restaurant proprietor to himself. The next moment Carlatti had spoken softly to a curly-headed youth who was languorously sorting magazines into bundles in a corner of the much-encumbered shop, and had opened a door at the back of his counter. He stood aside, waving his visitors within with a polite, old-fashioned bow.

  Wirlescombe walked inside, secretly wondering how it was that all men like Carlatti, whether dealers in books, curiosities, furniture, odds and ends, invariably live in the midst of apparently hopelessly-jumbled lumber. This parlour or living room, or whatever its owner called it, reminded him of that other parlour in which, seven years before, Mr. Shipps, the second-hand clothes dealer, had received Adrian Graye and himself and had treated them to Schiedam and cigars — there was the same storing-up of all manner of things, the same dust, the same accumulation of objects which to Wirlescombe seemed worthless. And, apparently, the similarity was not to end there, for Carlatti had no sooner closed the door upon himself and his visitors than he took down a box of cigars from a shelf, silently offered it to the two men, and then, opening a cupboard, produced a tall, thin-necked bottle and three small glasses, which he proceeded to fill, also in silence. Aldobrandini, lighting his cigar, made expressive grimaces at the detective, winking at the yellow liquid which the old man was pouring out, and tapping his stomach with signs of supreme satisfaction at the prospect of tasting it. And Wirlescombe sipped what was given him, and took it to be one of those rare Italian wines which are known little of in England, and he murmured some compliment to his host and wondered if this was how the old fellow kept up a connection between his spirit and what flesh he had left. As for Carlatti, himself having lighted a cigar and sat down facing his visitors, he looked more like the ghost of what had been a man than a living and breathing one.

  And then Wirlescombe received a surprise. For the voice which came from the skull-like head was as clear and strong as it was low and sweet. And here, at any rate, was perfectly-spoken English and cultured English, as the detective was quick to observe. At the first words he became all attention, recognising that by sheer chance he had hit upon something out of the ordinary.

  “And so, Mr. Wirlescombe, you are from New Scotland Yard?” said the bland and mellifluous voice.

  “I am, Mr. Carlatti. Here is my card. I am much obliged to you for seeing me.”

  “And you want to ask some questions of me — about a man named Di Spada?”

  “If you have no objection, Mr. Carlatti.”

  “None. But, I know, or, I should say, have known, two men named Di Spada. What is the Christian name of the Di Spada you are interested in?”

  The detective pulled out his note-book and consulted a paper which he took from one of its pockets. “Lucien.”

  “Just so. Lucien di Spada is a professor of languages. He lives at Austerlitz Mansions, in Maida Vale.”

  “That is the man, Mr Carlatti. And — the other.” Carlatti smiled. He took up his glass and sipped thoughtfully at its amber contents.

  “The other? The other is Stefano di Spada.”

  “And — who is he?”

  “He is the brother of Lucien.”

  Wirlescombe paused in his questioning. He was not quite sure of his ground, and he did not know that he particularly wished for information outside the particular limits of his immediate needs.

  “What I want,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “is any information I can get about Lucien di Spada.”

  “I am disposed to give you any information I can give, Mr. Wirlescombe,” replied Carlatti. “I quite understand what you are, and I can make a shrewd guess why you want information.”

  “Do you remember the murder of Marco Graffi, at his flat in Austerlitz Mansions, seven years ago?” asked Wirlescombe, going bluntly to his point.

  “I do. I remember everything about it. I have all the newspaper cuttings which concern it. I remember your name in connection with it.”

  “Did you know Lucien di Spada at that time!”

  “I did.”

  “What was he doing then, Mr. Carlatti?”

  “He was earning his living by giving lessons in French and Italian and in making translations for the publishers.”

  “A good living?”

  “I should say he was just able to support himself.”

  “You know that he took over Marco Graffi’s business or connection? Well, he Bad money, then. Can you account for that?”

  Carlatti shrugged his attenuated shoulders.

  “No! I heard of what he had done, and I was surprised. Up to then he had been very poor — very poor, indeed.”

  “Well, this brother — Stefano. What was, or is, he?”

  “He was a medical man, practising amongst his poorer countryfolk, here in Soho.”

  ‘Where is he now?”

  “That I do not know. I should like to know. He owes me money. He owes me for a set of valuable medical instruments which I obtained for him, and for a small library of medical works with which I supplied him. Therefore, I say, I should like to know where he is."

  "But you know where his brother, Lucien, is. Haven’t you asked him for information?”

  Carlatti smiled.

  “I have only seen Lucien di Spada once since he succeeded Marco Graffi. That is six years ago. I then asked him for news of his brother and reminded him of Stefano’s debt to me. He replied that he had nothing to do with his brother’s whereabouts or his affairs, and that Stefano’s debts were not his. And that, of course, was true — and so I troubled Lucien no further.”

  “Then — this Stefano disappeared. How? Suddenly?”

  “Suddenly. It was, now I come to think of it, about the time of the murder of Marco Graffi. He — just disappeared.”

  “And you have never heard of him since?”

  “I have never heard of him since, and I can confidently assert that he has never been heard of again in the Italian quarter of London. I am in constant touch with people who would know if Stefano di Spada ever came back, and I have heard nothing.”

  Wirlescombe had no more to ask and he said so. The old man gave him a searching look.

  “All this is, of course, between ourselves,” he said. “I see you trust Mr. Aldobrandini; then, well, may I ask you a question? Then — is all this in any relation to the murder of Marco Graffi seven years ago?”

  “It may have some bearing on it, eventually,” replied Wirlescombe. “Why, have you any notions on that matter, Mr. Carlatti?”

  Before replying to the detective’s question, the old bookseller rose and refilled his visitors’ glasses, greatly to the satisfaction of Aldobrandini, who smacked his lips with the gusto of the connoisseur and muttered praises of the wine in his own language.

  “A great many notions,” said Carlatti, resuming “his seat. “A great many!”

  “For example?” suggested Wirlescombe.

  But the old man shook his head.

  “To talk of notions,” he said, “is to talk of air. We might waste much valuable time. But — I think, Mr. Wirlescombe, that if you found the murderer of the man who stayed with Aldobrandini here, the man whose body was discovered in the empty house round the corner, you would find the murderer of Marco Graffi.”

  Wirlescombe nodded. The idea was one which he himself had formed long before and had often thought over.

  “Mr. Carlatti,” he said. “Have you ever formed any conclusion as to what became of that girl?”

  “Only that the running away of the girl had nothing to do with the murder.”

  “Where, then, do you suppose she escaped to?”

  “Hundreds of young girls disappear in London, Mr. Wirlescombe. Disappear — for ever.”

  “Yes,” said Wirlescombe. “And occasionally reappear when and where they are least expected, “ he said to himself. “Well, I am much obliged to you, Mr. Carlatti. I may call to see you again.”

  He went away with Aldobrandini, impressing the necessity of silence upon the restaurant keeper, and, returning to headquarters, interviewed two of his most trusted subordinates. To one of them he entrusted the task of keeping a strict watch upon Lucien di Spada, now quartered at the Carlton; to the other he assigned the duty of observing the doings of Lady Wargrave. As to himself, he engaged in finding out everything that he could about the late Robert Wargrave’s marriage, the terms of his will, the financial position of the young widow. And for the hundredth time he took out his dossier of papers and documents relating to the Graffi affair, and for the thousandth time wished that he had been able to find out who the man was that he had seen lying dead in the empty house.

  Ten days later old Carlatti walked into his room.

  “I came to see you of my own free will,” said the strange old man. “I have news for you, Stefano di Spada has returned to London.”

  Wirlescombe’s eyes asked for further information as he motioned his visitor to a chair.

  “Yesterday,” continued Carlatti, “Stefano entered my shop. He was evidently en granda tenue. He looked fat, sleek, prosperous. ‘Ah, Carlatti, old friend!’ said he, ‘I come to pay you all that money I owe you! Confess, now, that you will be glad to see it.’

  ‘You ought to pay me six years’ interest on it, Dr di Spada,’ said I. ‘That I will do with pleasure,’ said he. ‘I am in funds — I have prospered.’ And therewith he made himself as good as his word.”

  “Good for you, Mr. Carlatti,” remarked the detective.

  “As I told you that he owed me money, I felt it due to him to tell you that he now owes me none,” said the old bookseller.

  “Just so,” agreed Wirlescombe. “And — where has he been?”

  “He did not tell me, except that he had been travelling about the world; also that he was quickly off again from London. And, further, that he and his brother Lucien had come into money.”

  “Ah!” said Wirlescombe. “That accounts.”

  But Wirlescombe did not tell Carlatti, nor Quarendon, nor anybody, that he was even then aware that Lucien di Spada, and Stefano, and Stefano’s wife were quartered at Ashendyke Manor, and that every move of theirs was being faithfully watched and recorded and reported upon by his (Wirlescombe’s) satellites. He remained patiently waiting, watching, investigating, until the right moment came, conscious that he was being posted in every movement. When the moment came, well, then — the world would know.

  The moment came when, early one afternoon, a stylishly-attired young gentleman, who, from his appearance, might have been a simple-minded youth about town, came in and told Wirlescombe that the two brothers Di Spada had that day visited the Faculty Office at Doctors’ Commons — where special marriages are obtainable by folk who have the wherewithal to pay for them.

  Then Wirlescombe put the warrant for the arrest of Gemma Graffi in his pocket and set out for Ashendyke.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE TRUSTEES INTERVENE

  “POISONED!” REPEATED HERBERT with emphasis. “Cleverly and devilishly poisoned! I’ll stake all the professional reputation I’ve got on it.”

  Adrian Graye, watching his friend with sombre eyes, saw that Herbert was strangely moved. He wiped the perspiration off his forehead, yet this was a chilly September day, and his hand trembled as he put back his handkerchief.

  “It’s — hellish!” he said. “Hellish! And one’s so — helpless.”

  Graye found his tongue. Up to then he had felt dumb.

  “You didn’t — didn’t tell — her?” he asked.

  “Tell — her! Not for the world — yet. But somebody’s got to be told. It’ll — probably take a long time — that’s the diabolical ingenuity of it. What devils!”

  “You’re sure of it, Jack?”

  “Certain!”

  Graye assumed a look of stern resolve.

  “Shall I go up and have it out?” he said. “I will!”

  “Not for the world! That would only make matters worse. No! You must keep out of it. There’s only one thing that I can see.”

  “Well?”

  “The trustees. They’ve got the right to see this child, to know all about him. Now, if they would go to the house and take some big specialist with them — eh?”

  “Yes. But — what about their reason for obtruding the big specialist?”

  “A natural desire on their part to know how the young baronet really is.”

  Graye nodded.

  “I see. That’s good. But who are the trustees?”

  “Old Withers told me that. There is some good in gossiping, after all, you see. A Mr. Cornelius Spilsbury, a London solicitor, is one; Sir Austin Wrexham is the other.”

  “Then — you’d better communicate with them at once, hadn’t you!”

  “I’ll go up to town and see Spilsbury — yes, at once. There’s nothing much to do to-day. You’ll do it. Throw me that time-table, Adrian! Here we are, train at two-eighteen. I can catch that. They must intervene — they must see that child! Otherwise—”

  Thus it came about that at the very time that Wirlescombe left London with the warrant in his pocket, three elderly gentlemen got out of a train at Ashendyke Station and were met by Dr. Herbert, who had seen all three in town the previous day. The stationmaster and his satellites, who witnessed the meeting, could have told them that by the previous train Lucien and Stefano di Spada had arrived from London — but he could not have told them that by the next train Wirlescombe was coming as a consequence. Neither he nor they had any idea or foreknowledge of what that afternoon was to witness at Ashendyke Manor.

  But, in plain truth, this particular September afternoon is full of events and of dramatic surprises. It is such a beautiful and calm September afternoon that no one, seeing and feeling it, would ever imagine that anything but peaceful things could happen upon it. And yet, to all the folk, the men and the women who are being brought together on a small stage for an hour or two, it is anything but peaceful; it will be remembered for ever by all as a day on which many unpleasant matters came up to the surface of their life’s sea, and insisted on being considered and — dealt with.

  The three gentlemen from London go away with Dr. Herbert in his car; they are driven to his house in the corner of the green. He introduces them to Graye. One of them who has heard of the affair from Herbert, congratulates Graye on what he did when the young Sir Robert Wargrave was attacked by diphtheria. And Graye blushes, and mumbles something to the great man; he has no desire to have that little affair recalled — it is of no importance. What is of importance is the urgent question of the moment.

  “Now, how do we proceed, how do we proceed!” asks Sir Austin Wrexham, a nervous, excitable old gentleman, who may be choleric and a little hasty under provocation. “What do you suggest, Spilsbury, what do you suggest!”

  Mr. Spilsbury, a portly, dignified man, who looks as if he ought to sit on the Woolsack instead of at his office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, waves a white hand.

  “I have thought it all out, my dear Sir Austin,” he replies blandly. “You and I and Sir Benjamin call on Lady Wargrave. We desire, as trustees under the will of the late Sir Robert, to assure ourselves as to the present state of health of his son, the present baronet. We have brought our friend, the eminent physician, Sir Benjamin Broadstairs, to see little Sir Robert. And — Sir Benjamin sees him.”

 

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