“I rather think that will be helpful,” said he. He came over andstood in deep thought while the two professionals were examiningthe body. “You say that three people came out form the flat whileyou were waiting downstairs,” said he at last. “Did you observethem closely?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Was there a fellow about thirty, black-bearded, dark, of middlesize?”
“Yes; he was the last to pass me.”
“That is your man, I fancy. I can give you his description, andwe have a very excellent outline of his footmark. That should beenough for you.”
“Not much, Mr. Holmes, among the millions of London.”
“Perhaps not. That is why I thought it best to summon this ladyto your aid.”
We all turned round at the words. There, framed in the doorway,was a tall and beautiful woman—the mysterious lodger ofBloomsbury. Slowly she advanced, her face pale and drawn witha frightful apprehension, her eyes fixed and staring, her terrifiedgaze riveted upon the dark figure on the floor.
“You have killed him!” she muttered. “Oh, Dio mio, you havekilled him!” Then I heard a sudden sharp intake of her breath,and she sprang into the air with a cry of joy. Round and roundthe room she danced, her hands clapping, her dark eyes gleamingwith delighted wonder, and a thousand pretty Italian exclamationspouring from her lips. It was terrible and amazing to see such awoman so convulsed with joy at such a sight. Suddenly she stoppedand gazed at us all with a questioning stare.
“But you! You are police, are you not? You have killed GiuseppeGorgiano. Is it not so?”
“We are police, madam.”
She looked round into the shadows of the room.
“But where, then, is Gennaro?” she asked. “He is my husband,Gennaro Lucca. I am Emilia Lucca, and we are both from NewYork. Where is Gennaro? He called me this moment from thiswindow, and I ran with all my speed.”
“It was I who called,” said Holmes.
“You! How could you call?”
“Your cipher was not difficult, madam. Your presence here wasdesirable. I knew that I had only to flash ‘Vieni’ and you wouldsurely come.”
The beautiful Italian looked with awe at my companion.
“I do not understand how you know these things,” she said.
“Giuseppe Gorgiano—how did he—” She paused, and thensuddenly her face lit up with pride and delight. “Now I see it! MyGennaro! My splendid, beautiful Gennaro, who has guarded mesafe from all harm, he did it, with his own strong hand he killedthe monster! Oh, Gennaro, how wonderful you are! What womancould ever be worthy of such a man?”
“Well, Mrs. Lucca,” said the prosaic Gregson, laying his handupon the lady’s sleeve with as little sentiment as if she were aNotting Hill hooligan, “I am not very clear yet who you are orwhat you are; but you’ve said enough to make it very clear that weshall want you at the Yard.”
“One moment, Gregson,” said Holmes. “I rather fancy that thislady may be as anxious to give us information as we can be to getit. You understand, madam, that your husband will be arrested andtried for the death of the man who lies before us? What you say maybe used in evidence. But if you think that he has acted from motiveswhich are not criminal, and which he would wish to have known,then you cannot serve him better than by telling us the whole story.”
“Now that Gorgiano is dead we fear nothing,” said the lady. “Hewas a devil and a monster, and there can be no judge in the worldwho would punish my husband for having killed him.”
“In that case,” said Holmes, “my suggestion is that we lock thisdoor, leave things as we found them, go with this lady to her room,and form our opinion after we have heard what it is that she has tosay to us.”
Half an hour later we were seated, all four, in the small sittingroomof Signora Lucca, listening to her remarkable narrative ofthose sinister events, the ending of which we had chanced towitness. She spoke in rapid and fluent but very unconventionalEnglish, which, for the sake of clearness, I will make grammatical.
“I was born in Posilippo, near Naples,” said she, “and was thedaughter of Augusto Barelli, who was the chief lawyer and once thedeputy of that part. Gennaro was in my father’s employment, andI came to love him, as any woman must. He had neither moneynor position—nothing but his beauty and strength and energy—somy father forbade the match. We fled together, were married atBari, and sold my jewels to gain the money which would take us toAmerica. This was four years ago, and we have been in New Yorkever since.
“Fortune was very good to us at first. Gennaro was able to do aservice to an Italian gentleman—he saved him from some ruffiansin the place called the Bowery, and so made a powerful friend.
His name was Tito Castalotte, and he was the senior partner ofthe great firm of Castalotte and Zamba, who are the chief fruitimporters of New York. Signor Zamba is an invalid, and our newfriend Castalotte has all power within the firm, which employsmore than three hundred men. He took my husband into hisemployment, made him head of a department, and showed hisgood-will towards him in every way. Signor Castalotte was abachelor, and I believe that he felt as if Gennaro was his son, andboth my husband and I loved him as if he were our father. Wehad taken and furnished a little house in Brooklyn, and our wholefuture seemed assured when that black cloud appeared which wassoon to overspread our sky.
“One night, when Gennaro returned from his work, he broughta fellow-countryman back with him. His name was Gorgiano, andhe had come also from Posilippo. He was a huge man, as you cantestify, for you have looked upon his corpse. Not only was his bodythat of a giant but everything about him was grotesque, gigantic,and terrifying. His voice was like thunder in our little house.
There was scarce room for the whirl of his great arms as he talked.
