“That’s a very generous offer.” I said to Stephens, taking out my wallet. “But I pay my own debts. Let’s get it over with. Bob. Will you take fifty now and the balance Monday afternoon?”
“Fair enough.” growled Danvers. “I guess you’re square, after all, Cabot.” He took the money and we shook hands, but beyond paying his ten lira, I had already made up my mind to have no more to do with him. That would be easy, once I told Stephens that I was refusing his job offer. It would probably mean my being dropped by the entire American group at Cafe Diabelli.
All this I was ready to accept. I would find friends in other cafes—and in other cities—in due time. For all their wit and sophistication, I was not entirely comfortable with the group I had fallen in with here. But even if I was about to sever my relations with them. I still hoped to salvage something of my relationship with Virginia Fleetwood.
Stephens steered the conversation back onto safe subjects. but I thought the spirit had gone out of the evening. Freeman and Danvers drank more than they talked, and the argument had made me reluctant to put myself forward. The host and Jonathan Wilson did most of the talking; but accustomed as I was to Mr. Clemens’s table talk, their repartee seemed rather lifeless. When I judged that I had sat with the other men long enough to satisfy convention. I excused myself, and went looking for Virginia.
I found her with a group of women, sitting by the fire in the main room, just outside the dining room door. Virginia sat reading a magazine, while several others in the group were debating the relative merits of modem French painters. This was a subject on which I knew less than I wished—the names of Degas. Monet, Renoir, and others, were familiar to me, but I had still seen very few examples of their work.
I stood for a moment at the fringe of the circle, hoping to catch Virginia's eye, but she seemed absorbed in her reading, and the others babbled on without paying me the least notice. At last, feeling uncomfortable, I said in a quiet voice, “Excuse me, Virginia.”
To my chagrin, everyone’s conversation came to a halt and all the women turned to stare at me as Virginia looked up and said, “Yes. Mr. Cabot?”
I soldiered on. “Pardon the interruption, but I need to speak to you. Is there someplace where we won't disturb these ladies?”
She raised her brows. “Mr. Cabot, don’t you think we should have a chaperon?” she said crisply. This comment brought several ill-muffled giggles from the other women around the fire.
“I suppose I cannot object if you feel you need one,” I said, trying not to react. “I don’t think it will be necessary, though.”
“Really, Mr. Cabot, I would think that association with Mark Twain would have taught you to recognize a joke,” she said, rising to her feet. She smiled and winked at me. but her words had left a sting. She turned to the other ladies. “If you will excuse me? I do not expect to be long.”
This statement was greeted with a few more giggles, but I did my best to keep my rising anger from showing as I followed her away from the group.
She led me to a small, very tastefully appointed reading room just down a short hall from the gallery. There were bookshelves behind her, with a bottom row of oversized art books, and a large table with one open to a color lithograph of Raphael’s “Madonna del Granduca.” which I remembered from the Pitti. Virginia sat in a cane-backed chair, next to a dictionary stand, and looked expectantly up at me—I found myself more comfortable on my feet. “Now, Mr. Cabot, what did you wish to say to me?” she asked.
I realized I was not prepared to say what was upmost in my mind. Instead. I paced for a moment, then stopped and turned to her. “I don’t appreciate your putting pressure on me to accept your brother-in-law’s offer of a position.”
“Why, I did no such thing,” she said, tossing her head. “The last time we discussed the subject, it seemed clear you were going to take the job. You acted as if it were merely a matter of finding the right moment to give notice to Mr. Clemens.”
“Perhaps; even so, you should not have spoken of it in front of Mr. Clemens until you knew I had made the break. You put me in a very awkward position.”
“Pshaw,” she said, with a negligent wave of the hand. “Of course it’s awkward. Leaving a position is always awkward. but one gets over it soon enough.”
“Being made to appear as if I intend to leave, when in fact I don’t, is even more awkward. Now I have to go to Mr. Clemens and convince him I want to stay with him.”
“Why on earth would you want to stay?” she exclaimed. “His best days are behind him. and the pay is not congruent with your social position—at least, with the position you ought to have. With Frank, you would be on your way to earning a very substantial living. This is very foolish of you. Wentworth.” She shook her head as if I had been speaking complete nonsense, then smoothed the long folds of her dress and looked up at me.
“If I cared about my social position. I would have stayed home and joined my father's law practice,” I said testily. This was a subject on which my mother had been eloquent—if mere persistence had been able to wear me down, she would doubtless have done it long before I had come to Europe with Mr. Clemens. “There are more things in life than social position.” I added.
“There may be, but that's no reason to throw away what one already has.” she persisted. “With your name and your family connections, you would be ideal for the Boston position. Frank considers them your main qualifications.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I said. “It makes me wonder if the job is all I thought it to be.”
“I am beginning to wonder if you are all I thought you to be,” she retorted, her face now red, and her eyes staring. “In fact, I am beginning to wonder if you are not a fool.”
“I see that I have been mistaken in my assessment of our relationship,” I said, biting back my anger. “I suppose I should be glad to have learned this before I did make a fool of myself. I think we have said all we need to. Miss Fleetwood. My apologies for taking you away from your friends.”
She turned a cold eye on me. “I have said everything I mean to, Mr. Cabot. Please be so kind as to leave me.”
“Good evening,” I said, with a bow, and turned on my heels and left the room.
I strode straight past the circle of women by the fire and to the stairway. They looked up as I marched by, but if any of them said anything, I didn’t hear it. Downstairs. I called for my coat, determined not to stay any longer. I had nothing further to say to anyone there.
The butler brought my coat, and without another word to anyone, I stepped out the door and into the night.
The mist that had hovered along the river when we arrived at the party had lifted, although the air was still damp and chilly. But having made up my mind to leave before I had a ride home, I had given myself no choice but to set out on foot. Perhaps I would meet the carriage returning from Villa Viviani. If not, I was ready to walk the entire way. It would do me good.
I kept up a brisk pace so as to feel the cold as little as possible. Fortunately, I knew the way well. Getting myself lost, late at night in a foreign city, would not have been a pleasant prospect even on a fine summer night. But the best route home was along major streets, and there was a fair amount of traffic still about. I would have no trouble finding my way.
In fact. I found my way almost as accurately as a carriage driver whose horse knows the road by heart—and with almost as little attention to how I got there. Every now and then I would realize that I had reached a certain landmark or turning, without any memory of passing through the streets that brought me there. Instead, my mind kept returning to the confrontation with Virginia in that little reading room at the Stephenses. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and now the world looked different to me.
I had been attracted to Virginia by her apparent independence of thought. Like my employer in many ways, she—and indeed, the whole group of Americans residing in Florence—had abandoned the conventional notions of common society at home. Their concer
n for art and beauty, for the creative spirit, set them apart—or so I had thought. Now I was not so certain. It was one thing to speak of art and literature, to lay claim to the republic of ideas and the life of the mind. But all that had been revealed as a facade.
Virginia had made it clear that Stephens’s interest in me—and presumably her own—was only on account of my family connections. They looked upon me as a Cabot, as someone with entree into the higher levels of American society that were closed to them. To them. I was a tool to get wealthy people to part with as much of their money as possible, with a minimum of actual effort. And if I wouldn't help them accomplish that, I was of no particular use to them.
Was I being foolish? I didn’t object to earning a good living, not even to making a fortune for myself. But I wasn’t about to be a pawn in someone else’s cynical games.
Not even if that someone else was Virginia—or, I corrected myself, Miss Fleetwood—for now I realized that she and I were not, after all, suited. I felt a loss, even though we had never had any real understanding. Still, it must have been clear to everyone that we had been moving in that direction. Thank heaven I had not taken any irrevocable steps!
There was no longer any question of asking her to “wait for me” when I went traveling with Mr. Clemens, or of suggesting that her presence would be welcome if her travels should take her to the same distant city that my employer's itinerary had taken me. We could never be any more than friends now. Perhaps it was best so. She might well be as bitter about what she had learned of my character tonight as I was about my new insights into her. She must consider me naive, perhaps even stupid, for not wanting to be a part of Stephens's business. And, from her point of view, perhaps I was. But I was not about to change in that respect—not even for Virginia.
I realized that it might be awkward for her to see me again. Perhaps it might be best for me to absent myself from Cafe Diabelli for a few days—I might not be welcome in that tight-knit group, if they saw me as having toyed with Virginia's affections. I did not welcome the thought of losing that convivial company in addition to Virginia; but better that than making myself a possible cause of embarrassment and discomfort to all concerned.
I was so lost in these thoughts that I nearly missed the carriage coming back from Villa Viviani to fetch me home. But then the driver called out, “Ciao, Signore Cabot!” and I came to my senses. I climbed aboard, he turned his rig around, and we were home before I knew it.
7
I had awoke the next morning with a pounding in my head. This was a nuisance; while I had drunk a bit more than usual the night before. I had gone to bed clear-headed. Walking a third of the way home before meeting the carriage had burned off the drink, and much of the dinner as well. And my early departure from the party meant that I had gotten to bed at a quite respectable hour. So why did my head ache?
I shaved, bathed, dressed, and made my way downstairs, where the chef made me a plate of ham and eggs as good as one would find in the best American restaurant, with plenty of coffee to wash it down. By now. the headache was fading. I had not yet seen any sign of Mr. Clemens or his family, when the Clemens ladies' maid, Elsa—a young German girl who spoke almost nothing but her own tongue, with an occasional Italian or English word thrown in— came into the dining room and said. “Kommen Sie bitte, Herr Ventvort. Polizei hier sind.”
I understood that well enough. “Police? What in heaven's name can they want?” I said to myself. Not wanting to disturb Mr. Clemens—who if awake, was probably still in bed. reading—I went to see what the matter was.
There were two men at the door, one tail, the other short, dressed in black frock coats with red facings and cocked hats. In other circumstances I might have found these uniforms comical, but the men’s expressions were dead serious. “Good morning—how can I be of assistance?” I said in my still-rudimentary Italian.
The taller man replied with a volley of rapid-fire Italian of which I could make out close to nothing. My blank stare must have conveyed as much, because after an awkward silence the other fellow said, in good English. “We are here on police business, and we need to speak to some people here. Please, may we enter?”
‘To whom do you need to speak?” I asked, standing in the doorway. “Has there been a crime?” It occurred to me that perhaps they had come to investigate the stolen bicycle. If so, I was ready to revise my opinion of Italian policemen—an opinion based entirely upon hearsay.
“Yes, signore, a very serious crime.” said the short policeman. whose more elaborate uniform suggested a higher rank. “We must speak to Signore Clemens, and to Signore Cabot.”
“I am Signore Cabot.” I said. The mention of Mr. Clemens. who of course had nothing to do with the bicycle, put to rest any notion that their business had to do with that. “Please come in. and I will call Mr. Clemens.”
The two men followed me into the front room, where the German maid waited. “Elsa, bring Herr Clemens here,” I said, and she nodded and went out—which I hoped meant she understood me. There was an uncomfortable interval while I stood with the two policemen, who looked with undisguised curiosity at the room and its furniture—and at me—but remained silent. Having nothing to volunteer in the way of conversation. I stood and waited with them. It seemed a long time.
At last, Mr. Clemens came down the stairs. He entered the room looking markedly grumpy (as he often did before breakfast), and turned to me. “What’s the matter here. Wentworth?” he said. “Who are these fellows? I couldn't get a lick of sense out of that girl.”
“You are Signore Clemens?” said the short man. stepping forward. He had silver-gray hair and a close-trimmed beard. A pair of silver-rimmed spectacles gave his face a serious cast, but his eyes looked as if they could twinkle when the occasion was right.
“If that’s who you’re looking for, I’m the one,” said my employer. “And who am I talking to?”
“I am Capitano Rosalia of the carabinieri, and this is Agente Maggio. my assistant.” said the gray-bearded policeman. He took a notebook and pencil out of his coat pocket. “We are informed that you and Signore Cabot attended a dinner at the home of Signore Frank Stephens last night—is that so?”
My employer shrugged. “Sure, we went to Stephens’s—me and my wife and my secretary. What happened that you’re interested in?”
Capitano Rosalia spread his hands. “Excuse me. Signore Clemens, it is the custom here for the police to ask the questions. When you were there did Signore Stephens show you some paintings?”
I could see that Mr. Clemens was annoyed at the policeman’s insistence on setting the agenda, but he held his temper and said. “That’s right. What about ’em?”
The captain persisted “Did you notice in particular a portrait of a young woman, said to be by Raphael?”
“Sure.” said Mr. Clemens. ‘The main reason we went there, besides eating dinner, was to see the Raphaels. Stephens was trying to sell me the one you asked about, but I don't have that kind of money.”
“Not many of us can afford a Raphael.” said the captain, nodding. “Did you happen to see if it was there when you left?”
“No. we came home right after dinner because my wife was ill. I wasn't paying attention to anything else.” said Mr. Clemens. Then he raised and eyebrow and said. “What’s happened to the painting?”
“That is what we would like to discover,” said the police captain. “Signore Cabot, did you notice this painting r’
I thought for a moment. “Yes, of course. But as far as I know it was still there when I left.”
“And when was that?”
“Some time after Mr. Clemens—two or three hours later, perhaps.” I said. “It might have been around ten o’clock when I left, and it was almost eleven when I got home. I walked partway, and then our coachman met me and brought me home.”
“Did anyone see you arrive here?” asked the captain.
“The coachman brought me to the door. I didn’t talk to anyone inside, but perhap
s one of the servants heard me come in.”
“We will question the servants if we need to confirm that,” said Rosalia, looking in his book. “We understand that you spent some time alone with Signorina Fleetwood before you left. Is that true?”
“Yes, but I don’t see how that’s your business,” I said, somewhat more heatedly than I intended. Mr. Clemens's eyebrows rose even higher than before, and I caught a flicker of a smile around his lips, but he said nothing.
“It may become our business.” said the captain, again shrugging. “Did Signorina Fleetwood say anything to you that indicated she was planning to leave the party?”
“No. nothing of the sort.” I said. “What—”
Mr. Clemens broke in. “I see what the captain’s getting at. That picture’s missing, and so’s the girl. And they think there’s a connection.”
“You have it precisely,” agreed the captain, with a thin smile. “As far as we can learn. Signore Cabot was the last person to speak to Signorina Fleetwood. Nobody admits seeing her at all after he left. Is that not interesting?”
“Perhaps, but it has no particular significance.” I said. “We didn't discuss the painting at all. and nothing she said to me indicated she was going to leave the party. That is where she lived. Mrs. Stephens is her sister.”
“Yes, we know that,” said Capitano Rosalia. “Mrs. Stephens told us that she expected her sister to stay there. She wondered if your talk changed her sister’s mind.”
“Of course not.” I said. “What would I have said that might have made her leave?”
“I was hoping to learn that from you,” said the captain, spreading his hands again. “Pardon me if I seem to be impolite, Signore Cabot, but it is the nature of my work that I sometimes find it necessary to ask impolite questions. I will tell you this: The other ladies, when they heard you ask to speak with her. thought you were going to propose marriage to her. Is that true?”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler Page 8
