CHAPTER XIV
Itwas quarter of eleven when Jurka’s car left Belvoir. Along the shore road it sped, a low, fleeting shadow lured by its own projecting rays, as if some sinister genie of the night were drawing it irresistibly on towards the city glow in the west.
The Count smoked thoughtfully, leisurely, selecting cigarettes from a black and gold enameled case as one selects favorites from a seraglio. Fate had tendered him the information he had come to America after, and he already contemplated a pleasurable return to Switzerland first, and then to Sofia with the profits from what he cleverly dubbed Love’s plunder.
He had recognized them the instant Carlota had stepped into the full light. First the tiara with its splendid center ruby, the Zarathustra, and the curious Byzantine setting. The ruby was one of the three greatest in the world. It had been taken, centuries before, from a shrine of the Zoroastrians beyond the Caspian country. Slipping from hand to hand it had brought untold carnage and horror to the land whose queen wore it on her brow. Only half a centurybefore it had been coveted by a woman of the Balkans whose ambition led her throneward. She had been maid of honor to an emotional, harassed queen, and had stepped over her dead body to wed her son. The price of the ruby had been one keen, swift knife-thrust through her heart and another for the blundering, love-blind prince. Ten years after, the ruby had been found in a Cairo curio-shop by one who knew its value, and had been sent out to seek the jewel marts of Amsterdam. It had been returned to the Bulgarian state coffers until Paoli, in the zenith of her beauty and fame, had received it from the hands of the crown prince, mounted in the tiara with other gems fit to bear it company.
The girl Carlota could not be aware of the value or tremendous significance of the rubies, Jurka reflected, else why should she subject herself to the danger of wearing them in public? Taken with the necklace and stomacher, they represented an immense sum, entirely apart from their peculiar antiquarian value. Yet she had donned them for this charity fête as if they had been paste.
Touching the mother-of-pearl button concealed in the buff suède cushions, he drew a small, black-belted card-case from his breast pocket, and opened a folded oblong of thintracing-paper. Drawn upon it delicately was a perfect sketch of the settings holding the crown rubies. Jurka held it close to the shaded bulb, studying the detail carefully until the car approached the city.
“Choose quiet streets,” he ordered through the speaking-tube. “Make haste!”
His early arrival was unexpected by Georges, and the valet stood on guard as the key sounded in the outer lock.
“Pardon, excellenza,” he begged. “I did not know whom to expect.”
“Find me Steccho at once. Take him in a taxi to the Park entrance at Columbus Circle. Dismiss the car there and walk into the shadows of the Park. I will pick you up a hundred yards beyond the Monument at twelve-thirty.” He paused to glance at his own reflection in the long mirror, adding, as to his chauffeur, “Make haste!”
Back at Belvoir Carlota had dressed while Jacobelli paced up and down outside her door. The maid assisted her excitedly, fondling the jewels and gown as she packed them.
“You were a triumph, Miss Roma,” she said. “They talk of nothing but you outside.”
Carlota did not answer. Her face was pale and determined. Jacobelli had telephoned the Lafayette after demanding from her Maria’swhereabouts. He had had the Marchese paged, and had asked him most sarcastically where he imagined Carlota might be at that hour. Where, returned the old Marchese genially, but in her own bed, reposing restfully, after a most severe headache?
“She is not that,” stormed Jacobelli. “She is out here—at Belvoir, Long Island, at the home of Mrs. Nevins, wasting her voice for charity with a person who claims he is her teacher. I bring her back with me at once.”
The Marchese protested that Carlota could not have any wrong intentions, that Maria must not be alarmed.
“Alarmed!” repeated Jacobelli solemnly. “I would so alarm her that never would she permit the girl out of her sight until her début. I tell you this is not a joke, Veracci. She has scaled the wall of Tittani, mark me. You will understand when you see this man. Meet us at the apartment. Not only has she sung here to-night, but she has wasted also the Paoli jewels. She has worn the priceless rubies of Margherita as if they were garnets.”
He lingered in the corridor booth, and Ames watched eagerly for a glimpse of Carlota before she left. Mrs. Nevins was delicately, pointedly cynical and distant with him.
“My dear Mr. Ames, can’t you see that thisis all rather unpleasant for me? Of course the girl is very pretty and her voice is a rarity, but, after all, was it not somewhat unprofessional and unsportsmanlike of you to enter her in a race for amateurs, as it were?”
“But I never dreamt for an instant that she was from a famous or professional family,” Ames denied earnestly. “I don’t believe that ranting old rascal, anyway, not until I hear it from her own lips.”
“No?” she smiled. “Of course I did not know she was engaged to you. But you believe Count D’Istria surely. It all places me in a most delicate situation and jeopardized the success of the entire evening. Nathalie will be prostrated to-morrow. She had such faith in you.”
“But I can explain everything,” Ames replied moodily. Why on earth was Carlota lingering so long when Jacobelli might reappear any instant.
“I fear the opportunity is lost, although I do not doubt your aptitude for explaining anything.” She gave him her hand with a little, pitying smile. “She will be Jacobelli’s pupil after to-night, Mr. Ames. If you will send me your bill for expenses and services of Miss Roma and yourself, my secretary will mail you a check. Ah, my dear boy, you were too promisinga genius to have permitted a little infatuation for this girl to ruin your career.”
She left him standing in the ivory and green salon, furious and helpless. At length the door of Carlota’s dressing-room opened, and she emerged, slim and demure in her long black velvet evening cloak. It was made with a monk’s hood falling back from her head, and as she hesitated, looking cautiously about for Jacobelli, he thought of Juliet, awaiting the return of the nurse in the garden.
Before he could reach her Jacobelli appeared, and took her resolutely under his care. Only one long look passed between them, but to Ames it was a promissory note from hope drawn on to-morrow. As he stood alone after they had gone, the Italian maid came from the room, and gave him a note, her black eyes filled with mystery.
“It is from her,” she whispered. “My name is Assunta Rizzio. My home is within sight of the tower windows of hers in Italy, and I love her. You may call upon me if you need me. See, I live here.”
He smiled gratefully, and crumpled the card she gave him into his pocket while he looked at Carlota’s last word:
It is all quite true, but I am alone to blame. I thought Mr. Phelps might have told you, and youwere but playing our little game with me, of Pierrot and Columbine. Now, it is all over, is it not? You will hate me for ruining your opera, and I do not blame you. I am sorry, it is all I can say. I thought I was helping you. Give my love to Dmitri. He was right, was he not?—and behold, the Princess Fiametta should never have left the wall of Tittani.
It is all quite true, but I am alone to blame. I thought Mr. Phelps might have told you, and youwere but playing our little game with me, of Pierrot and Columbine. Now, it is all over, is it not? You will hate me for ruining your opera, and I do not blame you. I am sorry, it is all I can say. I thought I was helping you. Give my love to Dmitri. He was right, was he not?—and behold, the Princess Fiametta should never have left the wall of Tittani.
He passed down into the court. It was nearly empty, only the few who remained for Mrs. Nevins’s private supper and dance. Ward talked with the ambassador, listening as D’Istria told happily of his memories at the old Contessa’s villa. As Ames approached, he turned to him eagerly, his fine, lean face alert with appreciation.
“It was superb, Mr. Ames, a most beautiful little conception. I trust that you may have a public production before long.”
The praise was unexpected, coming after the scene with Jacobelli and Mrs. Nevins. Griffeth felt almost a boyish gratitude surge through him warmly, and he thanked D’Istria with a break in his voice.
“The score is in Casanova’s hands now,” he told him, while Ward’s gray eyes never left his face. “I had hoped he might be here to-night.”
“He could not. To-night he gives a large reception himself after the concert at the Ritz. It will give me great pleasure to draw his attentionto the score when I see him, if you will permit.”
With the ambassador’s hand-clasp toning his new outlook on life and opportunity, Ames passed the long half-circle of waiting cars in the courtyard, and made for the station on foot. Dmitri had been right in his estimate of patronage. In the reaction he longed for a quiet talk and smoke with him beside the copper brazier.
As Carlota came into the glow of the porte-cochère’s spreading light, Jacobelli took her handbag from her.
“Mr. Ward is kind enough to take you to your home,” he said authoritatively. “He will be here presently.”
He set her two suitcases in beside her, but she neither answered him nor even met his glance. Sinking back in the corner of the heavily cushioned car, she closed her eyes, feigning utter weariness. It was Griffeth’s last look that haunted her thoughts. Would the girl Assunta give him her note. She knew that she had done wrong professionally, that she had been guilty of almost an unpardonable error, yet it was not of Ward she thought, nor of Casanova and the chance that she might lose the financier’s patronage. The tender irresistible harmonies of “Cerca d’Amore” filled her brain. She couldbarely resist humming them, and smiling defiantly at the two moody faces after Ward joined them, and the car turned towards the city. Ward smoked small black cigars until the interior of the car was hazy with smoke and the maestro coughed irritably, but the other man paid no attention to him, merely watched Carlota. Jacobelli rambled on during the trip, but always striking the same motif.
“This to me, to Jacobelli! My greatest pupil jeopardizes her whole career by appearing prematurely at a charity fête for an unknown composer.”
“I did it for love of Italy,” Carlota told him with sudden passion. “If you were truly a patriot, you would be glad.”
“Love of Italy!” Jacobelli groaned at her stroke of diplomacy. “Bah! Love, yes, but not for Italy. You are infatuated with this nobody, this lapper from the saucer of cream people like Mrs. Nevins sets for patronage. This is not the professional strain in you of the Paoli. This is the Peppino Trelango strain. He delighted in the silken cushion, the easy path of the rich patron. You are an ingrate!”
He folded his arms and leaned back austerely. Carlota forced herself to keep silent before Ward. He moved, shifting his position so that he might see her better. She had drawn thevelvet monk’s hood over her head, but every arc light they passed threw a flashing radiance into the car and showed him her pure, beautiful profile, delicately Roman, and the glamour of her near presence unnerved him.
“And those jewels which you have not the sense to value!” burst forth Jacobelli again. “I shall warn the Marchese to act at once as your guardian and place them in the safety-deposit vault. You shall not have them to play with.”
“I do not want them in the vault. I shall sell them and pay you and Mr. Ward for everything and return to Italy with Maria.”
“To Italy!” repeated Jacobelli dryly. “Ben trovato! With this boy here.”
Ward looked with musing eyes at the bag beside the maestro.
“When you are ready to dispose of them,” he said deliberately, “come to me. I did not know you were in possession of these, but I have heard of the rubies. I collect rare jewels. The Zarathustra would be brought to me by dealers ultimately, and I prefer to pay you the full price if you wish to part with it.”
“I will remember,” Carlota said clearly, meeting his eyes for the first time.
They left him at the Fifth Avenue entrance to his club. He made no further allusion to therubies, and Carlota forgot them in listening to Jacobelli’s flood of argument until they reached the apartment. She would throw up her career after all they had done for her, merely in a fit of pique because they objected to her throwing herself away. The Marchese and Maria had not returned.
“I shall not trust you,” declared Jacobelli. “I shall guard you until they come back.”
Carlota faced him suddenly, in the small vestibule, her eyes brilliant with resentment and pride.
“I prefer to be alone, signor,” she told him. “I think even your authority must end here in my own home.”
He stared at her in amazement, and bowed as he stepped back from the door.
“I repeat the one word which fits you, ingrate!”
The door closed, and in the sudden reaction of nervous tension Carlota sank on the low couch, her face on her arms. It was nearly twelve by the clock on Maria’s desk. Surely they would come now any minute, and she would have to confess everything before Jacobelli had an opportunity of presenting his version. Somehow she felt the old Marchese would sympathize with her, he who was still a faithful voyageur along the coasts of romance,but Maria would see only the wreck of her career and her ingratitude to Ward.
The memory of him brought back his offer to purchase the rubies. She opened the bag, and drew them out on the velvet cushions of the couch. Maria had called them priceless, these glowing bits of imprisoned glory. Against the gray brocade of the cushion, their vivid, blood-red hue fascinated her, but only with the thrill at their beauty. She was like Paoli on whom they had been lavished. There was no craving in her nature for outer ornamentation, no lure from wealth or jewels. She touched them now curiously, half regretfully. Ward had said he would become their purchaser at any time when she wished to dispose of them. She rose with quick resolution and searched for his telephone number in the book. The bell rang with startling sharpness in the still room. She raised the receiver, expecting to hear Ames, but the suave, cheery tones of the Marchese sounded over the wire.
“Maria would have me call you up before we went on to Casanova’s reception, to be sure you were quite all right. You are, yes? The headache better? Ah, that is good. We may be late, about two, I think. You are to rest yourself, understand.”
“Oh, tell her I understand, and she is noteven to think of me,” Carlota exclaimed eagerly. “It was dear of you to call me up.”
She hung up after the Marchese’s laughing, courtly rejoinder. Two whole hours before they would return. It seemed as if Fate had opened wide the way for her to go. She called Ward’s number with surety. He had not yet returned, Ishigaki informed her, but was expected at any moment. He would give him the message.
At the same moment Georges paused before a row of low red-brick buildings on East Twenty-Eighth Street, towards Lexington Avenue. They were very quiet, private-appearing residences. Narrow, one-story porches of iron grill-work clung to each, overhung with scrawny, rugged vines that defied the city soil to make them vacate. In the basement of one was a barber shop, discreet seeming and customerless. The second floor of another bore a small sign, “Bulgarian Restaurant.” Each carried over its entrance bell a slip of white paper, pasted to the brick, “Furnished Rooms.”
Here, then, Georges hesitated, not knowing certainly which house held the object of his quest. It was after midnight by five minutes. The lights in the restaurant burned low. A footfall down the street towards the subway station made him turn. The late pedestrianwas young and in evening dress, with a raincoat flapping back in the swirling autumn wind. The air was damp and salty with the scent of the incoming tide up the East River. He started up the steps of the house next to the restaurant when Georges accosted him. Did he know where a man named Steccho lived, Ferad Steccho?
“I don’t live around here,” Ames replied. “Wait a minute. I’ll ask my friend.”
He tapped upon one of the windows opening on the narrow iron porch, and both heard the sound of a violin within, a queer, soft harmony of undertones. Dmitri sat cross-legged on his couch like a merchant in a Bagdad bazaar, his head twisted over his violin as though it had been the head of a girl he loved held in the curve of his arm.
On a stool beside the table was Steccho, brewing coffee in a long-handled copper urn he held over a brazier of charcoal. He started up at the sound of a step on the porch, but Dmitri calmed him.
“It is only Griff,” he said, rising to open the door. Ames stood on the threshold, his hand on the knob. And the boy at the brazier heard him ask where Ferad Steccho lived. Before he could warn Dmitri, Georges had caught the answer and was bowing before him.
“I disturb you, I fear,” he said gravely. “I merely sought an old friend.”
Steccho’s face was rigid with alarm and fear. The skin seemed to tighten over his high, swarthy cheekbones. His eyes were brilliant, his lips a mere line of red in the graying tan of his face.
“I come!” he responded.