[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  And then, almost before I had the door closed behind me. there was Mr. Clemens, taking me by the elbow and saying. “Wentworth! I’ve been waiting for you all afternoon. I need to bounce a couple of ideas off that hard New England noggin of yours. Come set down and have a glass of whisky—while you’re wetting your whistle. I’ll tell you what I’ve cooked up. and then you tell me what you think of it.”

  “My head is at your disposal, sir,” I said, and I followed him into the sitting room, where he poured two generous bumpers. I had already taken on a fair cargo of Italian wine at the cafe, so I made sure to add an even more liberal helping of soda water than usual—else I might find myself crawling off to sleep at far too early an hour. With the drink diluted to my liking, I plopped myself on a sofa facing the fireplace, and turned to face my employer, who was perched on the arm of the same piece of furniture.

  “Here's my idea. Wentworth,” he said. “I’ve been puttering around Europe and America for nigh on to twenty-five years, with a few stops in the Holy Land and Egypt for variety's sake. And I was out in the Sandwich Islands before that—they call ’em Hawaii, nowadays. But crossing the ocean with Kipling made me think. There's a whole world I’ve never laid eyes on. Africa! Australasia! In-ja!” (He pronounced this last in the same exaggerated way as Mr. Kipling had.)

  “Now, I’ve always had a reputation for my travel writing, Wentworth,” he continued. I nodded. Indeed, it had been my impression upon our first meeting that he had written little else. “The novels and the humorous sketches and the political pieces are all very well, but three-quarters of the time, when somebody I haven’t met comes up to me and starts talking, they want to know where I’ve been lately and what I saw there. I’ve got high hopes for the two novels I'm working on, but something tells me it’s time to get back to the travel books. And what better excuse to go someplace I’ve never been?”

  “Africa, and India,” I said.

  “And Australasia.” he added. “The best part is, they speak English in all those places, so I can give lectures while I’m seeing the country—I can combine fundraising and research. It’s the perfect trick. Wentworth. What do you think?”

  “It sounds like a daunting expedition, sir, but I think you’re right—it’s perfect for you.”

  “The thing is. I’d have to take Livy, too. She’d never let me forget it if I didn’t, and she’d enjoy it every bit as much as I would. The question is, will Henry Rodgers spring for it?”

  “I don’t see why not, sir.” I said. In truth, never having met Mr. Rodgers. I had but the vaguest idea what he might agree to sponsor. I had heard him spoken of by businessmen in the terms a New England merchant captain might use for the Barbary pirates. So far I had not known him to flinch at any expense, including the raise in salary Mr. Clemens had given me a couple of months before in England. But paying for a round-the-world voyage might be a different story altogether.

  Mr. Clemens was going on ahead of me, though. He jumped to his feet and began to pace around the room, thinking out loud. “The way to do it would be westward; that way I could start out in America, go out to California, and pick up the Sandwich Islands on the outward leg. That’d be a great way to start the book about the trip— going back to my old haunts after twenty-five years.” He paused at the window and looked out; my gaze followed his. It was a clear night out, with stars twinkling over the distant hills.

  “That should be a fine journey,” I said. It was an understatement; it would be a journey few men take in an entire lifetime. And to take it in the company of Mr. Clemens would be an experience to dine out on for the rest of my days. And my ticket would be paid by Henry Rodgers. Better yet, I would be earning a salary the whole time! All of a sudden. Mr. Stephens's offer of a well-paid job in Boston, with occasional business trips to Europe, seemed less alluring.

  What gave me pause was the question whether, after a journey that might take six months, I could return to Florence and find Virginia Fleetwood waiting for me. The fact that I even considered this a possible objection to the plan was enough to make me hesitate. Just how much impression had that young lady made on me that I was weighing her in the balance against a journey round the world?— although I had to admit that, whatever her charms, they were not quite enough to tilt the scales.

  I had to force myself to concentrate again on Mr. Clemens. He was making plans about India, and I was already imagining myself riding an elephant…

  While I was excited by the prospect of accompanying my employer on his projected world tour. I did not at once turn down Frank Stephens’s offer of a job running his art gallery in Boston. A nagging voice in the back of my head kept telling me it was time to settle down and take a respectable sort of job. That solid New England common sense that Mr. Clemens seemed to believe I had between my ears doubted that his plans had any chance of coming to fruition. Traveling around the world and getting paid for the privilege was not an option in the sort of reality my New London upbringing and my Yale education had prepared me to inhabit.

  But there was another reason, as well, for my not giving Mr. Stephens a frank “No. thank you,” right away. I feared that he might take offense at my rejection of his offer, now that he had announced to everyone that he was “bringing me on board.” To hear him talk. I would be an utter fool to pass up such a golden opportunity. And while I did not feel as if I owed it to him to accept, I did worry that a refusal would make me unwelcome in his circle—and that might mean I would be banished from the company of Virginia Fleetwood.

  I continued to spend my afternoons at Cafe Diabelli, drinking and talking with the same crowd, and contriving ways to spend a few minutes in private with the young lady. The easiest way to accomplish this goal was for both of us to arrive at the cafe before our usual companions. Then we could sit out on the terrace, entirely proper, and talk about whatever we desired without worrying who was listening. And so we found ourselves together a few days after Frank Stephens’s job offer.

  I had arrived even earlier than usual and found none of the art crowd on hand yet. I started to lake a table, when a voice called out. “Eh. Americano!” I turned to find Garbarini. one of the cafe's unofficial chess champions, beckoning to me. “Come play a game.” he said, pointing to one of the boards. I hesitated, but he came across the room and grabbed me by the arm. “Don’t worry, you won’t miss your friends.” he said, with a grin. And so I took a seat opposite him and we began a game.

  He was a thin, intense fellow with a piercing gaze—one might have thought the chessboard had the winning moves printed on it in microscopic letters, and he was doing his best to read them with his bare eyes. In any case, he beat me almost every time we played. It was with some relief that, having lost a bishop and a knight, and with my castled king under attack. I became aware of someone standing to my side and looked up from the board to see Virginia Fleetwood watching the game.

  “How are you doing?” she asked, laying her hand on my shoulder. She had long since confessed her entire ignorance of the game.

  “I am hopeless.” I admitted. “I ought to resign the game and give Garbarini a chance to play someone who can put up a better fight.”

  My opponent looked up from the board and shrugged. “You no play so bad.” he said. Despite his broken, accented English, he was clearly a man of above-average intelligence. (I had heard that he was considered a poet of some promise in his own language.) He moved his hand in a chopping motion, like a cook cutting up vegetables, and continued: “You play-a too fast, and you think on other thing-a too much, but you don’ play-a so bad.”

  I smiled, then reached out and tipped over my king. “Thank you for the compliment, but I’m afraid you have me beaten in this game.” I said, doing my best to speak slowly and distinctly. I dug in my pocket and handed him the quarter-lira coin (the price of a small glass of wine) that was the customary stake for a game in Cafe Diabelli. “We will play again, and perhaps you will buy me the drink then.”

  “Grazie,” he said,
and we shook hands. “You come play again, maybe you win-a.” He emphasized this statement with a broad gesture of invitation.

  “I’ll do that.” I said, smiling. I had enjoyed the game despite losing. I followed Virginia to our usual table on the terrace.

  “You should be careful around that fellow. Wentworth,” she said as we sat down. “Frank won’t hire him because the polizia keep him under constant scrutiny.”

  “I don’t follow you,” I said. “I understood him to be a poet, not an artist. What work would Frank have for him, in any case?”

  “He may scribble a few verses,” she said. There was a little frown on her face, but I did not think it hurt her looks. “But he earns his living as a typesetter, doing odd jobs for various local printers. Frank's business gives him occasional need for all sorts of craftsmen, but he doesn’t want to use someone in bad odor with the law. And it doesn't look good for you to associate with such a person.”

  “I suppose I can see the point,” I said. “What sort of trouble is Garbarini supposed to be in? Is he a thief or something?”

  “No, Frank says he’s a Socialist—or some such breed of radical,” she said, shaking her head. “So’s that other man he plays with—the plump one. Gonnella.”

  “Well, neither has ever said a word to me about anything but chess.” I told her. “They could be good solid Republicans for all I can tell.”

  “Politics over here isn’t like home.” Virginia said. Her voice was low and conspiratorial, and she glanced around as if to see who might be listening. “It’s best to keep one’s opinions quiet. They’ve got a kingdom nowadays, but that’s not very old—the nation itself isn’t very old. although of course the country is. So even calling yourself a Republican might be dangerous, here. My point is, you’d best keep your distance from those fellows.”

  “Well, of course you’ve been here longer than I, and speak the language better,” I conceded, “but I can’t see the harm in a friendly game of chess, even with an outright Red”

  “You may not, but it’s the police’s opinion that counts.” she said, reaching out to take my hand. “And Frank would be very upset if you ended up in trouble with the authorities. He has important plans for you. and I think he would have to think twice if you got yourself in trouble with the law.”

  “Oh. Virginia, that's not going to happen.” I said, looking her in the eye. It felt good to sit holding her hand. But in the back of my head, I recalled a night spent in a New Orleans jail cell, on suspicion of murder. Perhaps that episode was best left unmentioned. Besides. I reminded myself, I might well refuse Mr. Stephens’s offer, so my putative criminal past was of no consequence. But I didn't want to broach that subject to Virginia just yet…

  The silence was about to grow awkward when Pietro came and took our orders. A few minutes later. Eddie Freeman and Bob Danvers came rollicking in and began telling us how they’d talked their Italian landlady's pretty daughter into posing for Eddie, who planned to sell the painting to raise money to pay their rent. The way they told it. everything possible had gone wrong, culminating in the mother’s throwing the painting into the fireplace when she discovered that her daughter had posed in the nude, and Bob drunkenly trying to fish the canvas out of the flames before it was ruined. The story scandalized Virginia and made me nearly choke on my wine from laughing. Before they were done, the rest of our friends had sat down at our table, and the story had to be repeated—and any worry about my chess opponent's unsavory politics was forgotten, for the time being, at least.

  Frank Stephens arrived later than usual, all smiles. “I want you all to drop any plans you have for Saturday evening.” he said, standing at the head of the table as if addressing a board meeting. “I'm throwing a dinner party, and you’re all invited.”

  There was a general round of cheering and excited laughter. “What’s the occasion?' said Bob Danvers, after the applause died down a bit. “You know I’m never one to skip a party, but this is pretty short notice. Did your rich uncle die?” This caused more laughter and Bob stood up and took a bow. We were all in a merry mood by now.

  “No. but the next best thing,” said Stephens, with a broad grin. “I’ve closed a deal that’s been brewing for months, and now I’m the proud owner of three Raphaels—well, they’re from his studio, at least. They’ve been hidden in some villa out in Fiesole for generations. The old bandit who had them decided that his continued comfort is worth more than portraits of his ancestors. It took some doing to come up with the price he was asking, but I think I've buyers for two of them. They’ll be hanging on my wall for all of you to admire before dinner.”

  “Raphaels!” said Jonathan Wilson. “You rotter, you never told me you were going to get anything of that ilk. I’d have bid for those, you know. Damn me, if I like them enough, I’ll outbid whoever you’ve sold them to.”

  “We can do better than that. Wilson.” said Stephens. “I told you. one isn’t yet spoken for—a charming contessa. the former owner’s great-great-grandmother. I'll give you first shot at it, if you’re in the mood to buy. But I warn you—the old don I got them from made me pay through the nose, and I’m not about to let this one go at a loss.”

  “For a Raphael. I’ll empty out my pockets soon enough.” said Wilson firmly. “Well. Stephens. I think you can count on my being at your party. Congratulations, sir!”

  “Hear, hear!” said Penelope Atwater. “I shall never have the wherewithal to hang a Raphael in my parlor, but it would please me no end to sit and admire yours. Frank— even if they are being shipped off to Boston the next morning.”

  “You’ll be more than welcome, my dear.” said Stephens. Then he turned to me. “Cabot. I hope you’ll extend an invitation to Mr. Clemens and his wife to join us for the occasion. I've been hoping to make his acquaintance ever since you told me he was in the neighborhood, and now I’ve got something for him to come see. Please let him know that Isabella and I will be most eager to have him at dinner.”

  “I shall extend the invitation this evening.” I said. “And my congratulations upon your acquisition, as well.”

  “You’ll be handling your share of old masters, too. when you come on board.” he said, leaning over to speak to me in a low voice. “Maybe seeing these pieces will help you make up your mind.”

  “I do look forward to seeing them.” I said, quite truthfully. I still hadn't decided what was the best way to tell him I was leaning toward declining his offer.

  “Good, good.” he said. “I know it’s hard to contemplate leaving a position with such a famous man as Mark Twain, but this is a golden opportunity. I’ve been looking for a bright, trustworthy young fellow to fill this spot for some time now, and I think you’re the man for it. Be sure to come talk to me if you still have any doubts or questions.”

  “I shall, sir,” I said.

  “Good, and don’t forget to invite Mr. and Mrs. Clemens for Saturday. Isabella is dying to meet him, and so am I. Even if I am planning to hire you away from him.” He laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder.

  I joined in laughing with him. but it occurred to me that putting my current employer and a man who was trying to hire me away from him in the same room might not be comfortable for me. But of course, having promised to invite Mr. Clemens to the party, I had no choice but to do so. However, to see these newly discovered Raphaels. I could tolerate a good bit more discomfort than I expected to find at Frank Stephens's dinner table.

  5

  I had at first felt a bit awkward about inviting my employer to meet my new friends in the city. After all. while I considered myself his social equal, we moved for the most part in different sets. When we found ourselves together on social occasions, it was often a reception where the famous author was dumped in with a jumbled group of local admirers, from whom he needed periodic rescuing— at which point I would step in to earn my keep. So it seemed a bit odd to relay an invitation from one of my friends to my employer and his wife.

  But Mr. Clemens was enthu
siastic. “I feel in the mood for something different,” he said. “Livy and I have been cooped up here the whole season, it seems. Do us good, getting out to see some different faces. I guess I ought to be able to trust your taste in friends by now.”

  “I should hope so, Youth,” said Mrs. Clemens dryly. “Considering the old friends you have introduced me to from time to time. I would be inclined to trust Wentworth’s taste far more than yours.”

  “Now, Livy, you should be more charitable,” drawled my employer. “Wentworth hasn’t had all my advantages, you know. Give him a few more years, and I reckon he can hook up with a bunch of scoundrels every bit as crooked as my old pals off the River.”

  Mrs. Clemens smiled. “In any case, we shall have the opportunity to judge for ourselves. If nothing else, Mr. Stephens may have a good story to tell about finding these Raphaels he's going to show us. And if his taste in company matches his taste in painting, so much the better”

  “Well, we’ll find out on Saturday” said Mr. Clemens. As he walked over to the window facing westward toward Florence and looked out, my gaze followed him. The sun had already set, and the city's lights had begun to appear—warmer and more diffuse than the winter stars that shone through a few thin clouds above the western hills.

  Mr. Clemens turned and saw where I was looking. “Lovely view, isn’t it?” he said. “You'd never think, just to see it. that this city was built by some of the most ruthless and greedy men who ever lived. The worst man I ever met was a piker next to the Medicis. And these people damn near worship them.”

  “They left a legacy of beauty” I argued. “The evil they did was buried with them, but the good lives on”