The Mysterious Mr. Miller

“A lady! Who was she?”

“Nobody seems to know. There’s all sorts of reports about, of course. I hope the police will find him. They must arrest him some day, don’t you think so, signore?”

“Perhaps,” I said, thinking deeply. “But I’m interested to hear about the lady. What is it you’ve heard?”

“Only very little. According to the rumour, the police found at the Villa Verde, out at Tivoli, after he had gone, the dead body of a young lady locked in the study. It was at once hushed up, and not a word of it has been allowed to get into the papers. The Government gave orders to the police, I suppose, to suppress it, fearing to make the scandal graver. I heard it, however, on very good authority from my son who is in the carabinieri and stationed at Tivoli. The body, he says, was that of a well-dressed young lady about twenty-six or seven. When the carabineers went with the commissario to seal up the fugitive’s effects, they found the body lying full length on the carpet. She still had her hat on and seemed as though she had suddenly fallen dead. Another curious thing is that the doctors discovered no wound, and don’t seem to know what was the cause of her death.”

“That’s strange!” I remarked. “I suppose they photographed the body?”

“Of course. But the portrait hasn’t been published because the police are compelled to hush up the affair.”

“Does your son know any further particulars, I wonder?”

“No more than what he’s told me. He says that quite a number of secret police agents have been over to Tivoli trying to establish the lady’s identity, and that they think they know who she was. He was here only yesterday and we were talking about it.”

“And who do they think she was?”

“Well, my son has, of course, a lot to do with the police, and a few days ago a friend of his of the squadra mobile told him that they had established the fact that the dead girl was English.”

“English! Do they know her name?”

“No, only they say that she was in Rome a great deal last winter, and was seen generally in the company of a tall, dark, English girl, her friend. Indeed, they say that both of them were seen in the Corso, accompanied by a middle-aged English gentleman, about a week before Nardini took to flight. They had apparently returned to Rome.”

“And they know none of their names?”

“They’ve found out that the English signore stayed at the Grand, they don’t know where the young ladies were living, probably at some small pension. They are now doing all they can to find out, but it is difficult, as most of the pensions are closed just now. They’ve, however, discovered the name of the dead girl’s friend – through some dressmaker, I think. It was Mille – Milla – or some name like that. The English names are always so puzzling.”

“Miller!” I gasped, staring at the old fellow, as all that Lucie had admitted to me regarding her visit to the villa at Tivoli flashed through my bewildered brain. “And she was the intimate friend of this unknown girl who has been found dead in the empty house and whose tragic end has been officially hushed up!”

Chapter Thirty

Some Discoveries in Rome

The mysterious flight of Nardini, the prominent politician and Minister for Justice, was, it seemed, still the one topic of conversation in the “Eternal City”, Only that morning I had read a paragraph in the Tribuna that the fugitive was believed to have reached Buenos Ayres. The Embassy in London had evidently kept the secret I had divulged, and even the Italian police were in ignorance that the man wanted for that gigantic embezzlement – for the sum stated to have disappeared was now known to be a very large one – was already in his grave.

The mysterious discovery at the dead man’s villa out at Tivoli, that pleasant little town with the wonderful cascade twenty miles outside Rome, greatly complicated the problem. And the girl who had been found in such strange circumstances was actually an intimate friend of Lucie Miller! The whole thing was assuming a shape entirely beyond my comprehension.

I presently thanked the old porter for his information, slipped another tip into his hand, and walked back to the Corso, hugging the shade, and reflecting deeply upon what the old fellow had told me.

Two or three facts were quite plain. The first was that Miller would most certainly not be in Rome if he had the slightest suspicion that the police were in search of Lucie. Therefore, although the doctor had acted as the fugitive’s secretary, he was in ignorance of the discovery made at the Villa Verde. Again, had not Nardini himself for some reason abstracted from the archives of the Questura the official record of Miller, his description and the suspicions against him?

Therefore I saw that the police were hampered in their inquiries, because they were without information. Again, the name of Gennaro Gavazzi, though not an uncommon one in Italy, struck me as familiar from the first moment that Lucie had uttered it in Leghorn.

Now, as I walked the streets of Rome, I remembered. It came upon me like a flash. It had been written in that confidential police record that the doctor was a Milanese, and that he was suspected of being an accomplice of the Englishman.

And yet Nardini, being aware of this, had actually appointed him one of his private secretaries!

That latter fact was one that showed either conspiracy or that Nardini, crafty and far-seeing, employed the doctor with some ulterior motive.

I was anxious to see what sort of person this Gavazzi might be.

I begrudged every moment I spent in Rome, anxious as I was to be back near my well-beloved and shield her from the blackguard who held her in his power. Yet this new development of the mystery held me anxious and eager.

Already I was in possession of greater knowledge of the affair than the police themselves; therefore I hoped that I might, by careful action and watching, learn the truth.

Somehow, by instinct it might have been, I felt that if I could but elucidate the mystery of the Villa Verde I should gain some knowledge that would release my love from her hideous bondage. I don’t know why, but it became a fixed idea with me. Therefore I resolved to remain in Rome at least a few days and carefully watch Miller and his friend.

Every moment, every hour, I thought of my sweet one who I knew loved me as passionately as I loved her, and yet who was now separated from me by a gulf which I was determined to bridge. She was ever in my thoughts, her beautiful face with those dear sad eyes ever before me, the music of her voice ever ringing in my ears. Yes. She should be mine – mine if I died myself in order to save her!

Towards evening I loitered up and down the Via del Tritone hoping to catch sight of the doctor and his English visitor, for I calculated that their probable habit was to dine at a restaurant. From the porter I had learnt that Gavazzi was a bachelor, therefore he probably had arrangements en pension at one or other of the restaurants, in the manner of most single men in Rome.

Though I waited nearly two hours, from half-past six to half-past eight, I saw nothing of Miller or of his host. The old porter noticed me, therefore having gauged his character pretty accurately I crossed to him and explained that I was waiting to see the doctor come out, as I was not certain whether he was the Dr Gavazzi whom I had known in Venice some years ago. This little fiction, combined with another small tip, satisfied the old man, and I went forth into the street again, fearing that if I remained in the entrance Miller, in passing, might recognise me.

It was a weary vigil, and one that required constant attention, for on a summer’s evening the streets of Rome are crowded by the populace who come out to enjoy the cool air after the blazing heat of the day. Another hour passed without sign of them. In any case they must have dined in their rooms – perhaps sent a servant out to a neighbouring cook-shop.

Therefore I went round to the Piccolo Borsa, the small restaurant in the Via della Mercede, at which I always ate when in Rome, and there snatched a hasty meal.

Shortly before ten I returned to my vigil and learnt from my friend the porter that the doctor was still in casa. Therefore I idled in patience, glancing from time to time up at the windows of the apartment in question. There were lights there, but the green persiennes were still closed, as they had been all day.

As the night wore on the street became extra full of idling promenaders, for it was festa and all Rome was out to gossip, to lounge and to obtain a breath of the bel fresco. Men were crying the evening newspaper in loud strident tones, and here and there walked the police in couples, with their epaulettes and festa plumes. Before every café the chairs overflowed into the roadway, and every table was occupied by men and women, mostly in white cotton clothes, sipping sirops. Rome is cosmopolitan only in winter. Rome is the Roman’s Rome in summer, bright, merry and light-hearted by night; silent and lethargic by day – a city indicative of the Italian temperament and the Italian character.

I was just about to relinquish my watch, believing that the doctor and his English friend did not intend to come forth that evening, when I suddenly saw Miller in a white linen suit and straw hat emerge from the big doorway into the street, accompanied by a short, black-bearded, dark-faced Italian of about thirty-five, who also wore a straw hat, fashionably-cut suit of dark cloth, and a drab cotton waistcoat across which was a thick gold albert.

They turned towards the Piazza Colonna, and I at once followed, keeping them well in sight. The doctor appeared to be something of a dandy, for he carried yellow gloves, notwithstanding the oppressive heat, and the crook of his walking-stick was silver gilt. He wore a red cravat, a high collar, and his jacket was cut narrow at the waist with ample skirts, slit up at the back, and turned-over cuffs.

He was a typical Roman elegant, but his face had craft and cunning plainly written upon it. Those dark searching eyes were set too closely together, and although there was a careless, easy-going expression upon his countenance I could see that it was only feigned.

What, I wondered, was the urgent business which had brought Mr Miller post-haste from England?

Deep in conversation they passed up the Corso for a little distance, then turning at the Puspoli Palace they traversed the small streets leading to the Tiber until they reached the Via di Repetta, up which they continued until they suddenly turned into a narrow, ill-lit, dirty street to the right and disappeared into an uninviting wine-shop, one of those low little drinking-houses which abound in the poorer quarters of Rome.

That it was a low neighbourhood I could see at a glance. I had never explored that part of the “Eternal City” before, and had not had time to notice the name of the street.

A few moments after the two men had disappeared I sauntered past and glanced inside. The ceiling was low, and blackened by the lamp suspended in the centre. Upon shelves around were many rush-covered flasks of wine, while at the end was a pewter counter where a coarse tousled-haired woman was standing washing glasses.

At the table three forbidding-looking men, with their felt hats drawn over their eyes, were drinking and throwing dice, shouting excitedly at each throw, while one man rather better dressed was sitting apart writing a letter, with a long cigar between his lips.

There was, however, no sign of the doctor and his companion who, it seemed, had passed straight into the room beyond. It was hardly the place in which one would have expected to find the owner of that Dorsetshire manor, and I now saw the reason why the doctor had, ever and anon, looked round as though in suspicion that they might be followed.

They had an important appointment there, without a doubt. And, moreover, they were no strangers to the place.

I would have given worlds to have been able to get a peep behind that closed door.

I was, however, forced to remain idling up and down the street, watched and commented upon by the groups of women gossiping at their doors, and scowled at by the men who seemed to lurk smoking in the shadows. They recognised by my clothes and my walk that I was a forestiero, a stranger, and wondered probably whether I was not an agent of police.

After half an hour Miller and his friend came out, accompanied by a young girl, hatless, as is the mode among the people, and with a bright yellow scarf twisted around her neck. She was about seventeen, good-looking, wore big gold ear-rings and showed an even set of white teeth as she spoke to Miller and laughed.

Together they set off along the Lugo Tevere, crossed the Ponte S. Angelo, and plunged into that labyrinth of narrow dirty streets that lay between the river and St. Peter’s. Presently, in a dark street off the Borgo Pia, the girl left them, and halting they stood talking together after lighting cigarettes.