Sant of the Secret Service: Some Revelations of Spies and Spying
Tekst“I have not. Tell me,” he demanded, “why are you wearing that glove?”
I saw that she held her breath. Her face was instantly blanched to the lips.
“Because last night I scratched my hand,” she replied.
“Please remove it, and allow me to see the scratch.”
“I refuse,” she cried angrily.
Next instant, at a sign from the Marchese, Vivarini and I seized her hand, when her husband, roughly tearing off the white kid glove, examined her palm.
He stood aghast.
“Dio!” gasped the horrified man. “The brand is here. You, Elena, my wife, you are the spy.”
“Guilio,” shrieked the unhappy woman, flinging herself frantically upon her knees before him. “Forgive me. Santa Madonna! Forgive me!”
“I may forgive you, Elena,” replied the Admiral, in a low, stern voice, “but Italy will never forgive.”
Then, turning abruptly, he left the room, the Captain following. But as he passed out two agents of the Italian secret police passed in, and a few seconds later the wretched woman found herself under arrest.
It was not until her trial by court-martial, in Milan, two weeks later, that the Marchesa learned, from the evidence given by Madame Gabrielle and myself, the truth of Carlo Corradini’s terrible vengeance – a long-nurtured grievance that he had held against her ever since those days in Budapest, when, on proposing to her, she had laughed him to scorn, and had actually told people of his poverty. He had sworn to be avenged, and truly his vengeance had been both ingenious and complete.
On the evening when she had brought to his room the information regarding the captured submarine he had handed her the Testament upon which to take her oath of secrecy. Upon the shiny black leather cover of that book he had traced with a solution of nitrate of silver, mixed with other chemicals, a geometrical design – a square divided in half, the lower part being left blank, and in the upper portion a “V”, above it being traced a small circle.
When he had placed the book into her palm it had left an indelible imprint upon her skin, a device which did not show itself until an hour later, when, very naturally, it greatly mystified her. Carlo Corradini had thus branded the woman he hated, and then, the coup having been made at Fiume, he had at once written an anonymous letter to Armand Hecq, head of the International Intelligence Bureau, denouncing the Admiral’s wife as an Austrian, who had divulged Italy’s secret.
In support of his allegation, he urged us to search the rooms of Carlo Corradini, where we should not only find evidence of espionage, but also the actual Testament by which the hand of the Marchesa had been branded. Further, that eighty thousand lire would be found in her possession, that being the price which Corradini had paid for the information concerning submarine Number 117.
The trial, held in camera, opened at eleven o’clock, and just before three sentence of death was pronounced. An hour later I was present when a firing party was drawn up in the yard of the great San Giovanni prison. Her eyes were bandaged, and the capital sentence was carried out.
Truly, Carlo Corradini was a scoundrel of the worst type, and his revenge was, indeed, a dastardly one. Fortunately, however, it reflected upon himself, for, four months later, he and his companion, the Countess, were captured, living in obscurity in a small coast village near Bari, in the extreme south of Italy, where they were hoping to escape to Greece.
Corradini’s own anonymous letter proved the most direct evidence against him, and ultimately both paid the same penalty as their victim, in the yard of the Prison of San Giovanni at Milan.