[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  I started to order some wine for myself, but Stephens said, “Don't be silly, old fellow—have some of ours. There's plenty here, and you can buy the next bottle, if you want.” He picked up a large, straight-sided bottle from the table—it looked like a claret bottle—and filled my glass.

  I saluted him with the glass, and ventured a sip. then nodded in appreciation. “This is the same sort of wine I had yesterday, but quite a bit better,” I said.

  “Yes, I’d think so.” said Stephens. “They don’t put the good stuff in those straw fiascos I saw on your table—those are all right for picnics, where you can wet the straw in a stream and keep the bottle cool, but Chianti classico comes in these regular bottles. Pietro wouldn't have brought you that other stuff if he'd thought you could tell the difference.”

  “I suppose that’s the disadvantage of being a tourist,” I said. “I’m lucky to have fallen in with your crowd, I guess. Yesterday, Miss Fleetwood saved me from the picture huckster, and now you’ve shown me how to spot the good wine from the ordinary stuff. I suppose I’d have sorted it all out for myself by springtime, but you’ve saved me a winter's trouble.” I grinned at the group and at my luck at finding good company and good food. It might be a very pleasant winter, after all.

  “You’ll save yourself even more trouble if you can learn to speak the lingo,” said Bob Danvers, filling his own glass. “If you tell one of these fellows, sei cafone bandilo. he’ll know he can’t cheat you.”

  “Cafone bandito… I repeated. “What does it mean?”

  “It means that someone is a vulgar thief,” said Mrs. Atwater with a disapproving expression. “Perhaps Mr. Danvers finds it useful to go about insulting people, but if I were you I might choose a more refined instructor in the language. To begin with, his accent is deplorable.” Everyone laughed, and Danvers shrugged. “I’m never going to get work as an Italian tutor like you. but I know how to get what I want, and that’s all that matters to me.”

  “Bob has a point, but so does Mrs. Atwater,” said Frank Stephens. “Speaking even a little bit of Italian is fine—the locals always like that—but it’s even better if you speak it with the right accent. Then you can go anywhere and say anything.”

  “I fear I’ll never reach that state.” I admitted. “They don’t understand me when I tell them I can't speak their language, which you'd think would be the next thing to self-explanatory.”

  “What you want is a good instructor,” said Mrs. Atwater, with an air of confidence. “It makes a world of difference, hearing someone pronounce things correctly, and repeating them until you learn them.”

  “I suppose it does,” I agreed, twirling my wineglass. Mrs. Atwater had leaned forward, fixing me with an eager gaze, perhaps expecting me to engage her services as a tutor. I hastened to add, “Mr. Clemens has gotten someone to help his daughters with the language, and they seem to be coming along quite well. But I fear my work will take up too much time to let me get much practice.”

  “Mr. Clemens…” mused Virginia Fleetwood. “Would that be Mr. Samuel Clemens, the author who writes as Mark Twain? I saw in the papers that he was coming here.”

  “Yes, it is Mr. Clemens the author.” I said. “I am his secretary.”

  “Why, there’s a sensation in the making.” said Frank Stephens. “Mark Twain back in Florence! I wonder if he’s changed his opinions since he lampooned the city in that book of his, just after the war.” I smiled; this confirmed my suspicion that Mr. Clemens had not endeared himself to the local populace with his previous comments on their city. Seeing my smile. Stephens put his hand on my shoulder and continued: “You'll have to bring him here and introduce him around. Everybody interesting in Florence comes to Diabelli's. so of course he’ll want to see it as much as we’d like seeing him.”

  “I doubt he’ll come here any time soon.” I replied, remembering his lack of enthusiasm when I'd told him about the place. “He’s still preoccupied with getting the family moved into our new quarters. Perhaps he’ll come when his affairs are in better order.”

  “I should hope so,” said Mrs. Atwater, with a stem expression. “We could show him a few things he missed his last time here. He doesn’t appear to have seen the real Florence.”

  I found this line of conversation troublesome, not being familiar with Mr. Clemens’s earlier book on Florence. It struck me now that I should have read it before coming here as part of his establishment, to be able to speak up for my employer in his absence. But just then, Pietro arrived carrying our food, and by the time the orders were sorted out and all the dishes set on the table, the group had turned its collective mind to other subjects. But by now it was clear that Mr. Clemens had made himself a figure of some controversy in this city. This was no surprise; his views were often controversial, and he did not hesitate to express them. I would not let it bother me. I was here to enjoy myself, and I had found a very enjoyable situation.

  Mr. Stephens seemed to be the center of this little group, and he played the host very smoothly, refilling everyone’s glasses when they got low, and leading the conversation when it slowed. Since I was a newcomer, he made an effort to “bring me out.” and before long I found myself telling of my adventures with Mr. Clemens, from New York to the mouth of the Mississippi River, across the Atlantic, and in London. I rather enjoyed recounting some of the lurid incidents to which I had been a witness, making myself perhaps more the center of attention than some might find proper. But I did my best not to monopolize the conversation. or to exaggerate my own role in the events I had been part of.

  At last, Miss Fleetwood said. “My goodness, Mr. Cabot! You can’t complain that your time since college has been dull! I hope you haven’t come to Florence in hopes of being shot at, or attacked by bullies in the street! The town has been quite peaceful up until now. and I hope your presence won’t change it.” There was a twinkle in her eye. and I answered in the same spirit.

  “I can assure you I have no intention of looking for anyone to shoot at me,” I said. “In fact. I would consider the afternoon a ringing success if I could find someone to sell me a bicycle. That would be adventure enough for me. today.”

  “That shouldn't be hard to find.” said Frank Stephens. “Bob, you bought your bike here in Florence, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. and paid double what it’s worth,” said Bob Danvers. grumpily. “That was before I knew enough to keep from being robbed. The minute the rascal heard me speaking English, his eyes lit up. Worse. I was fool enough to take it for the price he asked instead of bargaining him down.”

  “Well. I’m afraid I’ll be a fool myself” I said. “I don’t speak enough Italian to find the bicycle salesman, let alone bargain with him.”

  “What you need to do is go bicycle-shopping with someone who speaks good Italian,” said Mrs. Atwater. “If you can put off your purchase till tomorrow morning. I’d be happy to come along. But I’m afraid I don’t know the first thing about bicycles, or what the prices ought to be.”

  “Well. I can tell you this much.” said Bob Danvers. “If you go to the cafone bandito I got mine from, the first price he wants you lo pay is bound to be twice what the thing is worth, if not triple.” He chuckled, low in his throat, and knocked back the rest of his wine.

  “Of course it is,” said Frank Stephens. “The whole country runs that way. As long as you know that’s how it works, there’s no real harm in it. It’s just when Americans or Englishmen come here and don’t know they’re supposed to haggle the price down. Believe me, it’s the same thing when I go to buy a painting. But in the end. all that matters is that you and the other fellow are both happy with the price.”

  “I don’t mind bargaining, as long as there’s someone along to help with the language.” I said. “But I don’t know much about bicycles, other than how to ride one. Are they all pretty much the same, or are there different types?”

  “The new ones are better, but more expensive,” said Bob Danvers. ‘That’s what comes of living in the ag
e of progress. Isn’t it grand?”

  “I suppose so,” I said, not quite convinced. Then a thought struck me. “I say—why don’t you come along tomorrow? You may be the only fellow here who’s actually bought one.”

  “Yes, and the worse luck is I never use the blasted thing.” said Danvers. “I’d sell it, except that having paid so much for it. I’d never get my money back. So it just sits around collecting rust, and reminding me what a fool I’ve been.”

  “That’s a shame.” I said. “I’d offer to take it off your hands, but it sounds like you don’t want to sell.”

  “I’m not against it in principle, anyhow,” Danvers agreed. “The problem is, I couldn't cheat somebody on the price if I knew I had to look him in the eye every day. That cuts out everybody here. I ought to put an advertisement in one of the English papers, and sell it to somebody who won’t be in town long enough to become friends, but I’m too lazy even for that.” He laughed again, and this time everyone joined in.

  ‘There’s the real truth.” said somebody. “He's not too honest to cheat us, just too lazy.” Even Danvers laughed at that palpable hit.

  A sudden inspiration struck me. “Would you consider renting it to me?” I said. “That way you’d get back part of what you paid for it. instead of letting it sit idle. And I wouldn’t have to worry about disposing of it. or paying to ship it, when I leave.”

  “There’s a fellow with a head on his shoulders,” said Frank Stephens, slapping his hand on the table. “I’d take him up on that. Danvers.”

  “It does sound like a good idea.” said Danvers, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not sure what I should charge, though. It’s a good bike, so I won’t give it away for nothing. How about a lira a day?”

  I thought for a moment, calculating the price from the currency exchange tables I’d memorized. “That’s six dollars a month.” I said. “I could buy one in a couple of months, at that rate. How much do new ones cost, anyway?” I remembered my college friends paying something like ten dollars for a bicycle in New Haven… but had those been new or used? I wasn’t sure.

  “It’s not a bad price,” argued Danvers, warming to his subject. “You’d pay more than that if you rode the tramvia into town every day. And you won’t have to walk to the tramvia stop, either.”

  “Yes, but I could sit and read on the tramway cars,” I said, recognizing the word despite its Italian disguise. “Besides, I doubt I’d use it every day, once Mr. Clemens gets me back on my regular work schedule.”

  “There you go, haggling as if you’d both been doing it for years.” said Miss Fleetwood, laughing. “Are you sure you’re not both Italians masquerading as Americans? Make it half a lira a day, and be done with it—unless you want to entertain us with your justifications for robbing one another!”

  “She’s right, you know.” said Danvers, breaking into a broad grin. “Half a lira—that’s a dime a day. Let’s shake on it, and when we’ve finished here. I’ll take you to my place to get the bike.”

  “Done—as long as I like the way it rides.” I said, and we shook hands.

  I rode the bicycle back to Villa Viviani in time for supper that evening.

  3

  If I expected Mr. Clemens to be impressed with my new acquisition. I learned better the second I brought it through the front gate into Villa Viviani. He took one look at the bicycle and snorted. “Jesus. Wentworth, make sure that thing has a muzzle on before you turn it loose in the house.”

  “It’s not alive.” I said, knowing even as I said it that my employer was under no such delusion.

  “No, but it is dangerous.” he said. “What did you want one of those things for, anyway? There must be a hundred better ways to get someplace—more comfortably and conveniently. and without doing all the work yourself.”

  “It’s quicker than walking, and cheaper than the tramway.” I said, trying to be calm and reasonable. “And I can go at my own leisure, rather than waiting for your driver to be free.”

  “Well, it’s your neck.” he said, with a trace of resignation in his voice. “Just don’t come calling to me if the thing takes a nip out of you, or runs off when you forget to tic it up.”

  “I doubt I shall have to.” I said brusquely. I thought perhaps he was trying to bait me into a comic argument, but this evening I was not in the mood for one of his “leg-pulls.” Perhaps the ride out from the city had tired me.

  He must have sensed my mood, because he said. “Well, good luck with it. anyhow. Come on inside—there’s just time for a drink before supper.” This offer had the desired effect; I leaned the bicycle inside the front gate, under a bit of an overhang, and joined him inside, and soon was in a far better mood.

  I soon became quite used to the bicycle, and though (between my work and the occasional rainy spell) I did not use it every day, it became my preferred mode of transportation into Florence. It provided me a welcome degree of freedom, as it let me double the range I could travel on a given day. I congratulated myself on having made a good deal, and gladly paid Bob Danvers the agreed-upon rent every week when we met in the cafe. As often as not. he’d spend it on drinks that same day. but he seemed pleased with the bargain as well.

  I also became a regular denizen of Cafe Diabelli. and the crowd I had first met there became my most frequent companions when I was away from my employer’s villa. To tell the truth, my time was much more my own now than when we had been on the road, traveling about giving lectures. As long as the work got done, Mr. Clemens was content to let me finish it in the morning and have the balance of the day to myself. So, more days than not. noontime would find me riding down the winding road from Settignano. with glimpses of the river Arno off to my left, through the little village of Coverciano. swinging south of Campo di Marte toward Piazza Beccaria, then south to the river and along it toward the heart of town, where Frank Stephens and his group of friends would be gathering.

  My first image of Florence had been as a center of the art world—and the city had lived up to its reputation in that regard. But before long. I began to acquire a taste for Italian food, especially that of Florence and the adjacent Tuscan region, which has its own characteristic dishes. I picked up a smattering of Italian—at least enough to ask directions as I made my way around the city, and to bargain with shopkeepers or street merchants. I found myself first watching, then playing, the occasional game of chess in the cafe. I had learned the game as a boy in school, and thought myself rather good at it until I met the habitués of Cafe Diabelli. But I won often enough to keep coming back, and even managed to make the two local champions—Garbarini and Gonnella—work a bit before they managed to checkmate me.

  And, bit by bit, I found myself spending a great deal of time in the company of Virginia Fleetwood.

  I had been at first somewhat hesitant to become too close to her—quite frankly, my luck with the fair sex had not been at all good. And so I felt it safer to hold myself back from too close a relationship. Odds were that either she or I would soon move on; in fact, my employer had scheduled a series of lectures in Germany once the warm weather came, and I would perforce accompany him—indeed, accompany him gladly, since my thirst for travel was still unslaked. So I felt it might be premature to treat this interesting young woman as more than a friend.

  And yet, I began to feel that she was more than a friend, and I began to believe that she saw me in the same light as I saw her. Even at our first meeting, I had been impressed by her energetic rebuff of the importunate photograph-vendor, by her easy command of Italian, and by her ready smile. Talking to her at greater length, and on a wide variety of subjects. I learned that she could articulate her opinion with considerable grace and wit—yet without seeming a bluestocking. She was well read, and (as I soon learned) had quite a passable singing voice. She drew well, too. delineating the essentials of a scene or a person in a few deft strokes. And more than once, she made me laugh despite myself. I found myself almost regretting that Mr. Clemens would require my presence on his
upcoming lecture tour.

  These ideas had come to a head one morning in mid-February. Mr. Clemens and the family had gone for a day’s excursion out to Fiesole. giving me the day free. I met Virginia at Palazzo Pilti, the official residence of the King of Italy in Florence. Virginia was as avid as I about painting, and the Pitti gallery was rated as one of the gems of Florence—where old masters were as common as apples in an orchard. I hardly need say I was looking forward to seeing this collection.

  At Virginia’s suggestion. I met her at the Uffizi. whence we could take the long corridor over Ponte Vecchio to the Pilti. a passageway built by Vasari to allow the Medicis to pass unseen between their palaces. This corridor, lined with woodcuts, engravings, and portraits of the Medicis, popes and cardinals, and other notables, is a museum in its own right. Perhaps a busy Medici might have traversed it in ten minutes; it took us over half an hour, and we did not linger to see everything.

  At the far end, we climbed two flights of stairs to the Pitti galleries. Here, it became apparent that Corridoio Vasari had been but an appetizer for the feast of fine art that awaited us. In the first of the rooms alone—the Saloon of the Iliad, named after the ceiling frescoes—were works by Titian. Rubens, Raphael, Giorgione, Veronese, and a pair of Virgins by del Sarto.

  I could have spent the rest of the day in that first gallery, but after a while, Virginia smiled and said. “There’s more, you know.” She took my hand and led me to the Saloon of Saturn—where my mouth practically fell open to discover four Raphaels on the walls! And thus it went all day long. Room after room presented whole walls of old masters. Perhaps the Uffizi outdid it in sheer number of works displayed, but I doubt even that great gallery could match the Pitti in the overall splendor of its offerings. It was with some reluctance that we finally dragged ourselves out of the galleries and back across the river to Cafe Diabelli to eat.

  The usual American crowd had yet to appear, and so we sat at a small table by ourselves. We spent a few moments deciding on our meals—I chose chicken, while Virginia took soup—and asked Pietro, the waiter, to bring us a small bottle of a local white wine, which I had come to appreciate as much as the red Chianti. He smiled and promised to bring us a good bottle, and left us to ourselves. Virginia watched him go, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, “I think Pietro suspects us of being lovers.”