Number Six and the Borgia/Chapter 5

This, then, was the introduction of Tray-Bong Smith to the house of Cæsar Valentine—an unfortunate introduction if the police came to make inquiries as to this sudden death. But the man Ernest—his other name was Goldberg—was notoriously subject to fits. He was, moreover, given to alcoholic excess, and on two occasions Cæsar had had to send for the local doctor to prescribe for his retainer.

What had happened to the man in the night Smith could only guess. It is certain that he had some sort of an attack in the early hours of the morning, had dragged himself dowstairs [sic] to the visitor's room—why to his room? Cæsar explained. The room Smith had taken was one which he had usually occupied, and the man's words, “Cæsar, Cæsar!” addressed to Tray-Bong had been intended for his host.

There were the usual inquiries, and the man from Chi So's was amazed to discover how readily the authorities accepted Cæsar's explanation. While the visiting magistrate was in the house, Smith was hidden in a little room in a small tower at one corner of the building. The silent Madonna Beatrice brought him his meals, and if there were servants in the house the visitor did not see them. He was permitted to enter the great saloon that night, and found Cæsar smoking a long cigar and reading a book of poems. He looked up as Smith entered and motioned him to a chair.

“I'll get you out of France in a day or two,” he said. “That matter didn't get on to your nerves, I presume? It is very unfortunate, very unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate for all of us,” said Smith, taking a cigarette from the table and lighting it. “You saw him after I went to bed, of course?”

Cæsar raised his eyebrows.

“Why, 'of course?'” he asked softly.

“Because he died,” replied Smith brutally. “You saw him and had a drink with him—and he died.”

“What makes you think that?” Valentine asked after a while, and looked the other straight in the eye.

“For three years I have been a medical student,” drawled the guest, “and in the course of that three years I had acquaintance with a drug which is used extensively by oculists. It is a deadly poison, but, unlike other deadly poisons, leaves no trace—except one, which I looked for in the unfortunate Ernest.”

Cæsar's lips curled. “Was it present?”

Smith nodded and Cæsar laughed. He was genuinely amused. “You had better see Monsieur the Magistrate,” he said mockingly, “and reveal your suspicions.”

“There is a very excellent reason why I shouldn't,” said the gunman coolly, “only I think it is right, as between you and me, that there should be no pretense. Put your cards on the table, as I've already put mine.”

“You put your card in the Seine,” said Valentine dryly, “and you did not even send a wreath, as I have done for Ernest.”

He rose quickly and began to pace the room. “You shall see all my cards in time,” he continued. “I need such a man as you—a man without heart or mercy. Some day I will tell you a great secret.”

“I will tell you your secret now,” said Smith speaking slowly, and pointed to the coat of arms above the mantelpiece. “Why are those arms in this house?” he asked. “Why is this cipher and these fleur-de-lis embroidered in your carpet, Mr. Valentine. I don't know whether you are a madman, or whether you're sane,” Smith spoke in that slow drawl of his. “It may be just a form of megalomania, and I've seen pretensions almost as extravagant. But I think I've got you down fine.”

“What are the arms?” asked Valentine.

“They are the arms of Cæsar Borgia,” replied the other. “A bull on a gold ground is the family arms of the Borgias; the C. in the carpet was the Borgias' cipher.”

Valentine had stopped his pacing and stood now, his head bent forward, his narrowed eyes fixed on Smith. “I am neither a madman nor a vainglorious fool,” he said quietly. “It is true I am the last in the direct line of that illustrious man, Cæsar Borgia, Duke of the Valentincois.”

Smith did not speak for a long time. He had enough to think upon. In his early days at Oxford he had posed as an authority on the Renaissance, and knew the history of the Borgias backward. In his old rooms, before things smashed to pieces and the lanes of life so violently turned, he had had a copy of a cartoon reputedly by Da Vinci, inscribed 'Cæsar Borgia de France, Duke of Valentinois, Count of Diois and Issaudun, Pontifical Vicar of Imola and Forli.' And now he recalled the same bold, womanish face in the man who stood looking down at him, enjoying the sensation he had caused.

“Well?” said Cæsar at last.

“It is strange,” said Smith vacantly, then: “From what branch of the family do you descend?”

“Through Giralamo,” replied Cæsar quickly. “Giralamo was Cæsar's one son, After Cæsar's fall he was taken to France, through France to Spain, and was educated by the Spanish cardinals. He married, and his son went to South America and fought in Peru. The family was settled in the Americas for two centuries. My grandfather came to England as a boy, and I myself was educated in England.”

“It's amazing,” said, Smith, and felt that it was a feeble thing to say.

It was the Madonna Beatrice who snapped the tension. She came hurriedly into the saloon, without knocking, and Cæsar at the sight of her face walked across to meet her. There was a conversation in low tones. Cæsar uttered an exclamation of surprise, and then he looked round at his companion doubtfully. “Bring her in,” he said.

Bring her in? Smith was alert now. Was he to see that mysterious apparition about whom he intended in good time to tackle Cæsar? Or was it some inamorata of his—his question was answered almost before it was framed.

Madonna Beatrice waddled back into the room, and at her heels followed a tall, straight girl, so beautiful that she took the man's breath away. She looked from Cæsar to him and back again to Cæsar, her head held high, something of disdain in her attitude, and then she came slowly across to where Cæsar stood and brushed his cheek with her lips.

Smith looked at Cæsar. There was a smile in his eyes which indicated amusement and annoyance. Then he turned to his new-found friend and stretched out his hand.

“Stephanie,” he said, “this is Mr. Smith. Smith—I want you to meet—my daughter.”

His daughter! Smith's mouth opened in an involuntary grimace of surprise, and then, recovering himself, he held out his hand, which she took. Her steady eyes fixed him for a spell, and then she turned away.

“When did you come to Paris?” asked Cæsar.

“To-night,” said the girl, and the man Smith could have gasped again at the lie, for she was the girl in black who had stood upon the Quai des Fleurs the night before, and had seen him throw the detective into the Seine. That she had been a witness he knew when he looked into her eyes.