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Ebook has 1135 lines and 69308 words, and 23 pages

Release date: December 3, 2023

Original publication: New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1925

Credits: Al Haines

COBRA

BY MARTIN BROWN AND RUSSELL HOLMAN

A NOVELIZATION OF THE FAMOUS STAGE SUCCESS BY MARTIN BROWN

Illustrated with scenes from the photoplay A Ritz-Paramount Picture starring RUDOLPH VALENTINO

GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

COBRA

Even for southern Italy, where superlative scenery is as common as wine, the view from the terrace of the Caf? Del Mare on such a night was enchanting.

In the moonlight the rocky shore line for half a mile or more was almost as clearly defined as by day. A hundred precipitous feet below, the oily waters of the bay gleamed like highly polished glass. The riding lights of a score of sea craft shone palely. Four miles to sea, Capri nestled brightly in the semi-darkness. Only for the intervening hills, the caf? might have commanded a spectacle of the acres of crowding lighting that was Naples, five miles to the northeastward across a segment of the crescent bay.

Nevertheless the corpulent Italian with the bristling moustachios scowled. He stood in the doorway of the Caf? Del Mare, with fairyland spread before him, and scowled. His grievance was professional. He was the proprietor of the caf?, and his annoyance at the moonlit panorama was due to the fact that it had not brought him more customers and liras.

He turned from his frowning contemplation of the bay and vented his mental displeasure upon the dozen or more Italians chattering around the tables on the terrace. Bah! They would sit there all night and talk and quarrel and laugh, but they bought only once in a great while. There was little money in Italians. They were useful only as local color for the real spenders, the tourists. For some reason the Caf? Del Mare did not attract many tourists.

At the present moment the establishment sheltered but three, all of them seated inside. It was stuffy and dimly lighted in there. Also a piano, a guitar and a harp were being tortured with execrable results only a few feet from them. But they seemed to prefer the discords to the noise of the natives on the terrace.

Of the three tourists, the hawk-like Englishman and his mouse-like wife had already incurred the displeasure of Signor Palladino, the proprietor. The Englishman, who was in Italy for his health, had complained testily in schoolroom Italian that the salad was indigestible and the wine not at all what he had ordered. There had been words, and hostilities would probably be renewed when the check arrived.

The third tourist, sitting apart by the open window overlooking the bay, was young and apparently an American. He did not, however, drink everything on the card, as Americans in Italy do. He had been sitting there now for nearly an hour, his one bottle of wine consumed. An expression of quiet, well-bred contentment was upon his rather delicate blond features. He was an unobtrusive patron, but not a profitable one.

Seated quite near the American was the remaining male sharing the hospitality of Signor Palladino's red-tiled roof and enduring his "orchestra." He was also young, and strikingly handsome in the dark, polished, bold-eyed manner of the true Italian aristocrat. He could be accused neither of parsimony nor of abstemiousness. Although he had been lounging at his table but ten minutes, already he had drunk two bottles of wine and had ordered a third. The black-eyed little flower-girl, noting his thirst and his good looks, entered from her vain round of the terrace tables and approached him with her wares. He saw in a rapid appraisal how pretty and vivacious she was. His dark eyes narrowed slightly and a smile curled his full lips. He not only bought from her; he pressed her white hand and bestowed upon her her largest gratuity in many weeks.

The proprietor watched this bit of by-play, and his scowl deepened. He knew this young Italian well; he had known his father and his grandfather before him. As the flower girl, still blushing, hurried past Signor Palladino to think it over in the outer air, the proprietor caught her by the elbow and muttered a guttural reprimand, "Tend to your business."

She smiled pertly and flashed back, "The customers are my business. You tell me always to be nice to them. Besides--he is very good looking."

"And very penniless," sneered Palladino.

"Ah, but his looks--they excuse a lot," the flower miss insisted softly.

"Ah, buona sera, signor," rumbled a voice at the proprietor's elbow. For such a large fellow, Palladino turned quickly. His face assumed for an instant the professional mask of benignant welcome. But he dropped it quickly as he recognized the owner of the voice.

The newcomer was a huge hulk of an Italian well past middle age, though trying hard to conceal the fact. He was much too ostentatiously clad in garments that fairly sobbed for the immediate attention of tailor and laundress. The purple cravat, for instance, though tied with extreme care, was stabbed with a diamond so immense that it could not possibly be real. The cravat was spotted with grease, and its borders were frayed. The accoster of Signor Palladino carried in his yellow-gloved hand a thick yellow cane, ornately carved and wore a slightly wilted carnation in his button-hole.

"Signor Minardi has doubtless come to pay his reckoning of last evening," suggested the proprietor in Italian and with evident sarcasm.

Victor Minardi coughed, to conceal confusion. He had expected a chilly reception. Last night there had been rather an unpleasant altercation between himself and Signor Palladino. Having returned but yesterday from a two months' business sojourn in Rome, Victor Minardi had assembled a few friends in the evening at the Caf? Del Mare and officiated at a welcome home reception. At the conclusion, very late, of the festivities he had been quite confused and loud. He had lacked sufficient liras to pay his reckoning. There had been words and threats, but he had escaped with the debt still unsettled.

"Perhaps I will very soon pay you what I owe--and more," offered Minardi. The blinking of his small, weak eyes was intended to be shrewdness.

Palladino shrugged his fat shoulders.

"If Count Rodrigo Torriani is here," Miniardi continued, "I will maybe tell you more quickly than you think. Tell me--is he here?"

The proprietor sniffed at Minardi and said contemptuously, "You expect Count Torriani to pay for you and you do not even know what he looks like?"

"I have not the honor of his acquaintance," said Minardi, "but my daughter Rosa has. And I have with me a specimen of his handwriting that may prove valuable." He drew from his pocket a wrinkled sheet of paper. As Palladino, curiosity at last aroused, reached for it, Minardi held it gently out of his reach. "If there is somewhere we can talk--in private," offered Minardi. He looked around and met with a start the interested face of the little flower-girl, who in her rounds had paused near them. She moved away at once, the suspicious looks of the two men following her.

Palladino plucked at the shiny sleeve of Minardi and they stepped outside in the shadow of the cool stucco wall. In the flickering light of the ornamental lantern near the entrance-way, the former read from the paper.

Rosa mia:

My car will be waiting outside the Caf? Del Mare at ten to-morrow night. I can hardly live until I again kiss your sweet lips.

RODRIGO.

Palladino looked significantly at his companion, his natural avarice stirred by the opportunity held out to him. "That he should break the heart of my innocent Rosa!--there are things, Palladino, that a father cannot endure. My family, my honor demand satisfaction."

The proprietor recognized the feelings of the outraged father by advising that they be voiced in a lower tone.

"After all, Count Torriani is not the only Rodrigo in Italy," said Palladino. "Your daughter Rosa must know more than one."

"I intercepted this note at noon, when I awoke. A boy brought it when Rosa was in Naples at her work. I questioned her when she returned. She has admitted that Torriani is the man. There are other letters more ardent than this one. See!" And he drew out a packet from his pocket.

Palladino pondered the matter. In his mercenary breast blended the new Fascisti-inspired dislike of the aristocrats with the ingrained contempt of the shopkeeper for his betters. He did not especially loathe young Count Rodrigo Torriani, last scion of a once powerful but now quite penniless family of local aristocrats. Nor did he fear him. He merely debated in his mind whether the gossip regarding the Torriani debts was accurate and whether to join Minardi in his venture was not to blackmail an empty purse. About Rosa's alleged injury and her father's concern over it, Palladino had no illusions. The question was simply whether the letters in Minardi's greasy coat were valuable enough to merit a risk. On the whole, he decided they were. He drew Minardi closer to him and drew up a plan.

The young Italian inside the Caf? Del Mare, having partaken of his fourth bottle of wine and glanced at his watch, was preparing to depart when the proprietor, looking very unctuous and important, approached and whispered into his ear, for several minutes. The young man smiled and nodded. The smile approached a sneer as his eyes followed the back of Palladino lumbering over to the side door of the caf?, which led down steps to the sea-wall, and opening it. Palladino peered back at his patron and indicated that he might use this exit. The young man again nodded. As the flower-girl passed his table he nodded to her too, but differently. The nod told the flower-girl that what she had stolen in to whisper to him five minutes previously was being confirmed. The young man drained his wineglass. Drama lurked in the offing. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

What happened next promised at first to add to his rather sardonic sense of humor. The young American, having paid his bill, arose, took up his hat and prepared to depart. Since the newly-opened side door was handy and framed an alluring view of the moonlit bay, the American went through it and down the steps toward the sea wall. At once the young Italian, for whom the door had been opened, arose and slipped over to the shadows just inside the exit. He did not have to wait long. Almost at once came heavy scurrying footsteps outside. A deep voice roared in Italian, "So, Count Torriani, we meet at last!" Minardi had leaped from his ambush.

Warned by the proprietor that the trap was set and to seize the admirer of Rosa as he sought escape through the side door, Minardi accosted the American with the exuberance of a shaggy great St. Bernard dog leaping at a burglar.

"There is some mistake," protested the American quietly in Italian. He was not nearly as excited as his accuser.

"No, no," cried Minardi, whipping himself into a fine frenzy. "I have sought you all day. About my Rosa. You have mistreated her. It is a serious thing." He laid hold of the coat lapels of the American, at the same time wondering why the fellow did not bid him be quiet and come along to talk business in private. Palladino, lurking further along in the shadow and quite aware a mistake was being made, deemed silence the better course for himself. Let Minardi suffer for his error, the stupid cabbage.

"I know nothing of your Rosa. You have the wrong man," said the American, and he tried to pass his tormentor.

"Bah! You cannot fool me. I am Rosa's papa. Look!" Minardi whipped the letters from his pocket and waved them in the air. He turned and waved them in the faces of the dozen or more of his countrymen who, attracted by the noise, had at once deserted their tables and wine and were clustering about him.

"This man has injured my daughter, my family! He must pay. Is it not right?" cried Minardi, inspired by his audience. They muttered. They regarded the American with sullen suspicion and rising anger. They had no interest either in Minardi or his daughter. But they were of a low order of city-bred Italians who are always spoiling for a row and are on the side of the contestant with the louder voice.

To the young aristocrat, viewing and hearing the controversy from the shelter of Signor Palladino's side door, it seemed that at this point the comedy had proceeded far enough. It had ceased to appeal to him. So he stepped out and down the stone steps and ranged himself beside the American, who had turned a little white in the face of the rising menace but was otherwise composed.

"Can I be of assistance?" asked the Italian.

The American welcomed the unlooked-for offer. He pointed to Minardi. "This man is accusing me of something I know nothing about. He evidently thinks I am someone else. I can't seem to make him see his mistake." At the same time he handed his card to his would-be rescuer.

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