[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  “Pietro would be better advised to tend to his customers.” I said, with a chuckle. Then, reflecting on it, I asked. “Do these Italians never think of anything else? I’m sure we’ve done nothing to put any such idea in poor Pietro's feverish mind.”

  Virginia laughed. “I’m quite sure Pietro is capable of jumping to conclusions with no help whatsoever from us.” she said. “To hear him talk, he is the greatest lover in all Florence, so he might be expected to imagine others to share his preoccupations.”

  “Why, I have never heard a word to that effect from him,” I said, surprised.

  “Silly Wentworth, that's because you don’t understand enough Italian.” she said, looking at me with an amused expression. “I assure you. he has almost no other subject of conversation when he speaks to his compatriots. It is quite droll.”

  I thought for a moment, then said, “I suppose we ought to disabuse him of this notion. It would be a shame to let him labor under such a misconception.”

  “It might not be such a shame.” she said, looking into my eyes. “I think it would be diverting. Besides, it doesn’t matter what we tell him—he won't believe anything that goes against his natural disposition. So we might as well make the most of it. Shhh! Here he comes with our wine.” To my surprise, she reached over and gave my hand a little squeeze, then snatched her hand back as the waiter came closer.

  Pietro was beaming as he reached the table. He made a production of pouring the wine, and (rather to my embarrassment) winked at me and said. “Enjoy, signore!” as he set the bottle down. There was no doubt he was referring to something more than just the wine.

  “Do you see?” Virginia said, with a little giggle. “Now he will give us especially good service—and I think he has brought us a better wine than usual. Of course, you'll have to give him a good tip today—but he is a good waiter, after all.”

  I tasted the wine, which was indeed better than I usually got. “Goodness!” I remarked. “If this is what one gets for pretending to be a lover, perhaps I shall learn to keep up the pretense.”

  She put down her wineglass and wiped her lips with the napkin. “You needn’t pretend for my sake,” she said, with a smile that might have meant anything. It wasn't until later that day, when I was riding my bicycle up the hill to Villa Viviani, that I realized just how many things that smile might have meant.

  I suddenly realized that my employer had been speaking to me for some little time, and that I had no idea what he said. “Excuse me. sir?” I said, looking up from the pages I had been proofreading—had been, until my thoughts had wandered off someplace else. We were sitting in the large upstairs room that Mr. Clemens had taken for his office— he at his desk, and I at a long table set at right angles to it so we could pass papers back and forth without rising from our chairs. The south-facing window behind him gave plenty of light to work by during the day.

  “Damnation, Wentworth, what are you mooning about? If I didn’t know better. I’d think you had a lady friend.” said Mr. Clemens, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms above his head. Then he straightened up and peered at me. “Hmmm—maybe I don’t know as much as I thought. Do you have a lady friend?”

  “She’s a friend.” I admitted. “I don’t think that’s what you’re asking about, though “

  “You know what I’m asking about,” said Mr. Clemens, peering at me. His brows were arched, and there was a quizzical little smile around his mouth. “Now, is she just a friend, or could she be something a little bit more interesting?” He leaned back in his chair again, nodding.

  My first impulse was to tell him it was none of his business. Then I recalled to whom I was speaking, and bit back my response. “A bit more interesting, perhaps.” I said mildly, shuffling a few papers and trying to pretend I hadn't already looked at them.

  “And it’s none of my meddling business just how much more interesting. Am I right?”

  It was as if he'd read my mind. I laughed and slid the papers back atop the pile and said. “I was about to tell you that, but now I guess I shan’t. She's a young American woman staying in the city with her married sister. She’s very bright, and very interested in art.”

  “And interested in you, I reckon.” said Mr. Clemens, bending down to open one of the drawers in his desk—the one where he kept a jar of tobacco. “Just make sure not to tell her how little I pay you. or she might stop being interested.”

  “I suppose if it ever got to that point. I’d have to think about finding some more settled employment.” I said, and then stopped, surprised at myself for being so blunt. I hadn't meant to say any such thing, but there it was. The question that had been in the back of my mind was now squarely on the table. And having said it, I began to wonder if it was true.

  Mr. Clemens, to his credit, treated my statement seriously. “I reckon that's inevitable, sooner or later. I can't afford to pay a lot—well, I suppose I could, since Henry Rodgers is the one digging in his pockets for it—but this is a job created with somebody like you in mind: a young fellow who isn’t tied down with a family, and who wants to see some of the world while he can. I need to be on the road, and so does my secretary. Livy’s used to her husband’s being away for months at a time, but I doubt there are many young ladies who’d see that as an attractive proposition.”

  “I don’t think we’ve reached that point yet.” I said. “Perhaps she’d be able to travel with me.”

  “Maybe, if she has money of her own.” said Mr. Clemens. He’d picked up one of his corncob pipes and was stuffing it with tobacco. He concentrated on that task for a moment, then looked up and said. “Is this all what-if and could-be, or are you serious about her? Because if you are. I’d like to get a look at her with my own eyes. Again, you can tell me it’s none of my damned business. But I reckon it is my business, if there’s a chance it’ll cost me a good secretary.”

  That gave me pause. I had come to enjoy my employment with Mr. Clemens. Indeed, I was very fortunate to have gotten the opportunity to travel across America and Europe with a man who attracted interesting people and remarkable events. It would come to an end at some point, but was I ready to abandon it just yet? I was not likely to find another situation so suited to my nature.

  My employer must have sensed my confusion, because he said, “I’m sorry. Wentworth, I didn’t mean to put you on the torture rack. I’ll just ask you to let me know if I should start worrying about having to replace you. And if you decide you're getting serious about this young lady, I promise not to embarrass you too much if you bring her here to meet me. Now. what was it we were doing before we got off on this?”

  “You’d asked me something, and I still don’t know what it was.” I admitted, blushing.

  “Hell, we’ve barely got one working brain between the pair of us.” he said. “I guess if we don’t remember what it was, it can’t have been worth the bother.”

  “I suppose it’ll come to us.” I agreed. I picked up the papers I’d been reading before he interrupted me, and tried to find my place. Mr. Clemens nodded, and began looking for a match, and we said no more on the subject that morning. But I was not so naive as to think it would not come up again.

  In the meantime. I began to divide my days between work and sleep at Villa Viviani and recreation in Florence with Frank Stephens's group. The center of our pursuits was Cafe Diabelli. where we drank coffee and wine, watched the chess games and the passersby. and talked endlessly. Stephens had an easy way of bringing everyone into the conversation, and the knack of launching a subject that made ample fuel for discussion by the rest of us. whether the mood was serious or playful.

  In particular, Stephens and his circle were great connoisseurs of art. This arose naturally from his business buying paintings for several clients back in America. But he also cultivated the company of young artists, several of whom were among our regular group. He seemed to know most of the artists working around Florence, as well—it was not unusual for one or two of them to come by our table
during an afternoon at the cafe, paying their respects. He told me his clients would often ask for first-rate copies of famous old master paintings. He would commission a local artist to sit a few days in front of the original painting and produce a copy. “There’s a science to knowing who to give that kind of work,” he told me. “Now. if somebody wants a Botticelli, Luigi Battista is just the man for it— you’d think he’d studied under old Sandro. But he can’t do Fra Angelico worth beans—for that, I'd use Guisetti, or even Eddie Freeman. Eddie’s developing a nice touch for the quattrocento.”

  “Do you mean that?” said Eddie, walking in with his paint box and easel under his arm. “I’ll have to raise my rates, then.” He stowed his gear against the terrace wall and sank into a chair.

  “Well, Cabot, you see what comes of being generous with your praise.” said Stephens, with a little laugh. “Now poor Eddie will get a swelled head and I’ll never get good work out of him again. If I'd known the rascal was listening, I’d have said he shouldn’t be allowed to paint a barn.”

  “Now. Frank, that’s not fair of you.” said Eddie, with a frown. There was an edge to his voice as he continued: “You know how hard I’ve worked.”

  “Yes, you have, and I’ll buy you a drink to prove I’m only joshing you,” said Stephens, laughing. “How about you, Cabot? Are you ready?”

  “I believe so,” I said. As if on cue, Pietro, the waiter, came into view, and Stephens signaled to him. He came over to our table and we gave him drink orders. When he had left, I turned to the other two and said. ‘Tell me, is there really that much market for copies of the old masters? Can someone make a decent living at that sort of work?”

  “Good enough to keep body and soul together while I work on my own things.” said Eddie, with a shrug. “The market for paintings by a young American nobody's ever heard of is about as good as the market for sand in Araby. But I can go to the museums and do a couple of copies a week, and sell them for enough to cover room and board, and have time left over to work on my style. Of course, it’s more fun to sit here and pass the time with good chaps from back home. If I were a little bit quicker. I could make a better living at it. But it takes me a while to get things just right I’m lucky I made friends with Frank—between him and a couple of the local dealers. I’ve got a regular market for the stuff.”

  “When you find a good man for the job you’ve got, you’re a fool not to use him.” said Stephens, nodding. “And as it happens, the art market’s booming back home, and so I can find work for someone like Eddie. For that matter, there’d be a lot for you. if you’d want to come on board “ I was taken aback by this statement. “You must be joking,” I said. “I’m all but a novice at drawing, and I’ve never had a paintbrush in my hand in my life. There can’t be any market for the kind of thing I’d turn out.”

  Stephens and Eddie both laughed. “Well, if we were selling modem French stuff. I think even you could turn out a marketable canvas in a day or two.” said Stephens. “But that’s not what I had in mind. You're a bright young fellow. Cabot. You went to a good school, and you come from the right kind of people. You have easy access to circles where not everybody would have entrée.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” I said. I had never thought of myself in those terms, but there was undoubtedly some advantage to being a Cabot—at least in New England. I had been reminded very forcefully of that point when my father tried to persuade me to abandon my position with Mr. Clemens and study for the bar. “What does that have to do with art?’

  “Why, everything in the world.” said Stephens. “It’s just the sort of people you know back home who are the customers for art. That’s the way it’s been all through history—the wealthy and the well-bred have always been the patrons of art. There’s more fine art in Boston parlors than in half of Europe, and a man who can help the folks back home find what they want can live pretty well, let me tell you. I’m living proof of it.”

  “What do you have in mind?” I said.

  “I need an agent who can look after the American end of things.” said Stephens. “Somebody who can run my gallery in Boston. Of course that fellow wouldn't be just a shopkeeper—he’d be doing a fair amount of travel over here, and to London and Paris, too. He’d be the link between the European operation, where we find the paintings, and the market back home, where we find the people who want something to hang in the dining room. Virginia says she’s been to the galleries with you and that you know your art pretty well. I’ve seen the same, and I think you’d be a good man for the job. What do you say?”

  I thought for a moment before replying, “I don’t know what to say. I’m flattered that you’d consider me for the position. But as you know, I already have a job with Mr. Clemens.” I was somewhat flustered at this offer, which to me seemed to come out of the blue. Apparently Stephens and his sister-in-law, Virginia, had been talking about me for some time.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that.” said Stephens. “I can see how the association with somebody so well-known as Mark Twain would have its advantages for a young fellow. But if you don’t mind my saying so, the position doesn’t offer any great future prospects. You’re not going to take over writing his books, once he’s gone. In fact, from talk I’ve heard. Clemens is pretty much washed up now, just riding on his name.”

  There was a burst of noise from across the room, and I looked to see two men standing up, their fists raised as if to fight. Then somebody said something in Italian, and the two broke into laughter and threw their arms around one another. One of them called out for wine, and I saw Pietro hurrying toward the table. Stephens, who had been watching along with me. chuckled and took up his previous subject. “It’s been quite a while since your boss has had a successful book, you know. The times have changed. Readers today are more in the mood for Henry James than a rough old fellow from the frontier, or so it seems to me.”

  “Perhaps.” I said. “I think Mr. Clemens may have a few more arrows in his quiver, though.” But as I said this. I was all too aware of the projects he was working on—a novel about Joan of Arc, and another about identical twins caught up in a murder trial. Neither seemed likely to rejuvenate his career. Still, Mr. Clemens had been very good to me. and despite our discussion about my leaving his employment. I was not in a great hurry to do so.

  “Well, maybe he does,” said Stephens. “But I think you’d be a good man for the opening I have, and I’m offering it to you. Why don’t you take a few days and think it over? If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. Just to lay my cards on the table. I think you ought to know that the position pays two hundred dollars a month. There’d be a commission on what you sold, as well, but you can bank on the two hundred.”

  “Really?” I said, trying to be nonchalant. “That seems a very fair offer.” It was more than twice what Mr. Clemens was paying me. All of a sudden, the notion of life as an art dealer in Boston began to look very' attractive.

  Just as I was beginning to absorb the possibilities, Mrs. Atwater arrived, arm in arm with Jonathan Wilson with news of a new opera opening that night. That, and the arrival of Pietro with our drinks, diverted the course of talk away from the offer Frank Stephens had made. But my mind kept turning it over, and finding it more and more attractive the more I considered it. Perhaps the time had come to take my leave of Mr. Clemens and make my own way in the world.

  4

  Bicycling home from the cafe that evening. I found myself mulling over Frank Stephens’s offer of a job managing his art business in Boston. It was an offer I had to take seriously—if only for the very respectable salary he had offered me. (And presumably, if I did well, commissions would increase the amount of my income.) While my main business would be in Boston, he had indicated that regular European travel was an important responsibility—a duty that I, for one. would find far from onerous. And, for that matter, Boston was far from an onerous place to be stationed. As Stephens had reminded me. I had family there.

  The liability of t
he offer was the loss of my position with Mr. Clemens, which despite its low pay and irregular hours, I had come to enjoy. If I left his employment, I couldn't expect to find myself in quite so many colorful situations, or meeting such a heterogenous mixture of humanity as I had. Even more attractive was the prospect of traveling with him—always first class, always in interesting company, and always to the most enjoyable destinations imaginable. Would I get another opportunity to see so many distant lands at someone else’s expense if I went back to Boston and settled into the art business?

  That all depended on Mr. Clemens, though—and he was among the most unpredictable men in the world. He was in straitened financial circumstances, and if he lost the favor of his millionaire patron. Mr. Henry Rodgers, he might well find himself unable to afford my services. And my employment had led me into several unsavory, nay even dangerous. predicaments. Stephens’s proffered job could hardly find me becoming quite so intimate with police detectives and murder victims as I had in Mr. Clemens’s employment—or listening to bullets whizzing past my head. All things considered, that had to be counted in favor of accepting Stephens’s offer.

  All that tumbled through my head as I pedaled out of town, past Campo di Matte, through sleepy Coverciano. and up the hilly roads to Settignano. And yet, as I turned into the gateway of Villa Viviani, another factor kept intruding into my musings: Virginia Fleetwood. Would she be willing to give up Florence and follow me back to Boston if I accepted Stephens’s offer? Alternately, would she be interested in a fellow whose career consisted in following an eccentric writer about, looking after his papers and his hotel reservations? Or was I deluding myself in imagining that she even thought of me in the same way that I found myself thinking of her? By the time I propped my bicycle up against the wall outside the villa door, I was still as far from arriving at a decision as I had been when Stephens made his offer.