[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  At this, Mr. Clemens had a coughing fit. which I did not think at all natural. For myself. I felt the heat rising to my cheeks. “I could have had something like that in mind a few days ago. After last night. I don’t think I would be quite so ready to do so.”

  “Ahh.” said Capilano Rosalia. “And would you please tell me what happened last night to change your mind?” My first reaction was to tell him to mind his own business. but then I realized that he was doing just that. I outlined Frank Stephens’s job offer, my decision not to accept it, and Virginia’s embarrassing me in front of Mr. Clemens by assuming that I would be changing jobs. When I was done. I turned to Mr. Clemens. “I’m sorry not to have been more forthright with you. sir. But I just couldn't find an appropriate opportunity to refuse Mr. Stephens, and kept putting it off.”

  “Well, I know it’s hard to say no to people,” said my employer. “I’ve gotten in trouble that way myself. But I’m glad I won’t have to find a new secretary. I doubt there are many good candidates on this side of the Atlantic.” Capitano Rosalia had jotted down my explanation of what had gone on between me and Virginia. He looked up from his notes and said. “So, you say that the ladies were mistaken. In that case, I assume you do not know where Signorina Fleetwood might have gone after you spoke? Do you know of a particular place she might have gone?”

  “No, as I say, I didn’t know she meant to go anywhere except back to her friends at the party. The only places I have ever seen her are the museums, and a cafe in town where Americans congregate.”

  “Oh. yes. Cafe Diabelli.” said Rosalia. “That place often comes to our attention for one thing or another. The food is very good. too. We will ask there—perhaps she will appear. and the mystery will be solved.”

  “Except for the missing painting,” said Mr. Clemens. “That’s a story you don’t hear every day—a painting stolen right from the middle of a party. Well, good luck finding it—it was a nice piece of work, if you like the old masters.”

  “Ah. I like them very much.” said the captain, putting away his notebook. “But like you, I cannot afford to buy them. I thank you for your time, signori. I may have other questions later, but for now, a good morning to you.” He beckoned to Agente Maggio, who had stood with a placid expression during the interview, giving the impression that he understood very little of what was being said, unless one noticed his eyes. The captain gave us a formal bow that I found somewhat incongruous, and the two policemen swept out the door.

  “I’ll be damned.” said Mr. Clemens, staring at the door that closed behind them. “What do you make of that?”

  “I haven't the slightest notion what to make of any of it,” I confessed. “I’m surprised enough that Miss Fleetwood is missing, let alone the painting. I’m sure she couldn’t have stolen it.”

  “Maybe not.” said Mr. Clemens. “But if she didn’t take it, who did? And why would she fly the coop if she hadn’t—or at least unless she knew who had?”

  “I’m as baffled as you are.” I said. “But I expect the truth will come out. It probably will make a good story for you, when it does.” I tried to keep my tone light and easy, but from Mr. Clemens’ raised eyebrows, I knew I had not managed to hide my concern about Virginia. It was not like her to walk off without telling anyone. And it was worrisome that she had disappeared at the same time as the painting. I hoped she had not met with some misfortune. But Mr. Clemens did not press the subject, and I was just as glad to let it drop.

  I did not expect to learn any more about the missing painting that day. Mrs. Clemens’s cold had not gotten any better overnight, and so she stayed in bed. with her daughters bringing her meals and nursing her. Mr. Clemens went to his office and tried to work and read, but for the most part he fretted and paced, and wondered whether there was an American doctor to be found in Florence.

  For my part. I was catching up with tasks I had fallen behind in. There were always plenty of these—Mr. Clemens’s correspondence and his body of work in various stages of publication would have kept an entire squad of secretaries busy, had he insisted on complete efficiency in the management of his affairs. He was usually content with something less, and so I was under pressure only when some project needed to be pushed through quickly. But there was nothing urgent at the moment, and so I busied myself with odds and ends.

  I was completing letters of inquiry to several German spas where my employer thought Mrs. Clemens might find some relief from her chronic illness, when I became aware that he had been staring at me—for how long I couldn’t tell. I looked up to see that he had put down the book he'd been reading—some historical treatise on the Hundred Years’ War—and met his gaze. “Yes, sir?” I said, sensing that he wanted to talk.

  “I feel like stretching my legs,” he said. “Come on, let’s go out and grab a breath of fresh air while it’s still light.”

  We got our coats and walked out to a cedar-lined path affording a view of the city to the west, and the Tuscan hills beyond. There was a bit of a breeze blowing, but today the air was dry. and the light blue sky was almost cloudless. One could sense that the winter was gradually loosening its grip.

  A short distance from the villa. Mr. Clemens stopped and turned to me. “You know. Wentworth, you don’t have to feel guilty,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with getting offered another job. or about giving it serious consideration. That means you’re worth something to somebody besides me, and that can be valuable ammunition if you ever start to think I’m taking advantage of you. I’m glad you decided to stay on, but I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d taken that job.”

  “Well, I won’t be taking it.” I told him.

  “I gathered as much from what you told those silly-looking cops.” he said, fishing his tobacco pouch out of his pocket. “I wonder if their uniforms are supposed to make the people they’re chasing laugh so hard they can’t run away.”

  “I wouldn’t take them so lightly,” I suggested, scuffling my feet on the gravel path. “That Agente Maggio didn’t say much, but his eyes were taking in everything. I’ll bet he could list every item in the room after they left.”

  “Oh, I’m not about to underestimate them,” he said. “In fact. I’m mighty impressed. They were out here the next morning after a missing-person report—and they’d already talked to some of the other partygoers. That’s fast work— not what I’d expect in this part of the world.”

  “The missing painting probably made them take notice.” I speculated. “Art thieves at work in their jurisdiction might spur them to extraordinary efforts. I don’t know much about Florence, not from the short time I’ve been here, but I do know that art is one thing this city takes very seriously.”

  “You’re right about that.” he agreed. “They’ve got more paintings than Missouri has corn—you’d think they wouldn't miss one little piece. But I guess it'd be bad for business if they couldn't recover a missing Raphael. Stephens must be tearing his hair out.”

  “Yes, that must be the main thing on his mind at the moment,” I said, stuffing my hands into my coat pockets. “Well, that and Virginia’s disappearing at the same time. He must be wondering the same as the police—whether there’s any connection.”

  “Not whether there’s any connection, but what the connection is, I’d think,” said Mr. Clemens. He had his pipe packed by now, and was about to strike a match when his eyes lit up. “Say, Wentworth, you’re in a perfect spot to find out about this whole mess. Did you say you hadn’t given Stephens your answer on his job offer yet?”

  “I’m afraid so. I had made up my mind to tell him right before he invited us to last night's dinner party, and then it seemed tactless to accept the dinner invitation at the same time I was refusing his job. I thought I would wait until after, if he didn’t press me on the subject.”

  “Well, now it’s after, isn’t it?” said my employer. He looked at me intently, obviously expecting me to draw some conclusion from this bald statement.

  After a moment. I said.
“Do you want me to go over there this afternoon and decline his offer? I’d think it would be even less convenient now than it was before the party.”

  “There’s never a convenient time to tell somebody something he doesn’t want to hear.” said Mr. Clemens, striking his match and sheltering it from the breeze with the other hand. “If you wait for that, you and Stephens will both be on your deathbeds, and still not ready to inconvenience one another. No, today’s as good a time as any—he won’t know you've found out about the painting and the girl both being gone. In fact, I reckon it’d be a perfect time for you to find out what there is to learn about the situation.”

  “You’re going to play detective again.” I accused him. “I thought you’d sworn it off after that business in London.”

  “Did I?” he asked. He looked up from the burning match with an innocent expression. “Well, maybe I said something to that effect at the time. But that was a murder case—this doesn’t look that serious, does it? A stolen painting, a pretty young lady gone missing—those aren’t anywhere near as nasty as murder, are they?”

  “Why are you asking me?” I retorted. “It looks to me as if you’ve let your curiosity get the better of you. And you certainly have no personal stake in this affair.” As I said those words. I realized that I had a personal stake in it. I worried that Virginia Fleetwood might somehow be involved. Even though our disagreement last night had made me think twice about our relationship, I still liked the young lady. I did not like to think that she was mixed up in something possibly… criminal. There was no other word for it.

  My employer shook his head. “A cop comes to my door, routs me out of bed. and asks me questions while his partner takes inventory of my parlor, as if I’d be fool enough to go to somebody's house and hook a Raphael and then hang it on my own wall the next day. If that ain’t personal, neither’s a punch in the nose,” he said. The match had burned down close to his fingers, and he shook it out and dropped it on the path before continuing. “Besides, you pointed out yourself that there’s a story in it. If stories aren’t my business, I don’t know what is.” He looked pleased with himself.

  I wasn’t convinced by this. “If you’re so interested in the story, why aren’t you going to get it yourself?”

  “Because I trust you, Wentworth.” he said. “Besides, you can go there without anybody paying you much attention. You have real business there. I can’t walk across the street without somebody taking notice, and if I show up someplace where something suspicious has happened, half the city will know about it by nightfall. Besides. I can’t leave Livy, sick as she is.”

  “I suspect your daughters can take care of her as well as you can—if not better.” I noted. “But I suppose the rest of your argument holds. Very well, I’ll go over there to assuage your curiosity. What do you want me to ask about?”

  “The obvious things. I suppose,” said Mr. Clemens, pointing the stem of the still-unlit pipe at me. “Who noticed the picture missing, and when they noticed it. Who found out the young lady was missing, and when. Who was still there at the time. Who’d left, and when.”

  “The police will already know those things.” I pointed out.

  “Sure, but they won’t tell ’em to me,” said Mr. Clemens. He dug in his pocket for another match. “You can get it straight from the horse’s mouth—start off by telling Stephens that you’ve thought about his job offer and decided you can’t take it—and then you can ask for Miss Fleetwood, and act surprised when they say she’s gone. That’ll give you an opening to get them talking about the rest.”

  “What if they don’t want to talk? Stephens may be angry when I turn down his offer, and order me out of the place.”

  “Maybe—that’s a risk we’ll take.” Mr. Clemens said, turning his steps back toward the villa. “I don’t see him as a fellow who loses his temper over nothing, though. Even if he does, we’re no worse off than we are right now. Now, go ahead before it gets too late. The coachman will take you over there—I’m not going anywhere today.”

  Resigned to the confrontation I had put off for so long, I stopped to tell the driver to hitch up his team. I did not relish the idea of bringing Frank Stephens his third piece of bad news in less than twenty-four hours. Then again, I reasoned, my refusal of his job was probably the least disturbing item of business he had to deal with today.

  Besides. I was every bit as curious as Mr. Clemens to learn more about the disappearance of Virginia Fleetwood and the painting. I found myself hoping that I might arrive there to discover that Virginia had returned home after all. That would ease my mind a good deal—even though seeing her would be awkward after our unpleasant parting the night before. Still, it would be good to know that she was safe. It might even be sufficient compensation for the fact that I was turning down a steady, respectable job. the likes of which I could not expect to be offered any time soon again.

  8

  On the coach ride from Villa Viviani to Frank Stephens’s residence. I had plenty of time to stare out the window at the afternoon sun on the Arno and ponder my errand. Having gone on similar missions for Mr. Clemens before, I was no novice at entering someone’s home under false pretenses and tricking them into telling me things they might not have volunteered.

  But somehow this felt different. Other times, I had been sent to get information from people with whom I had no particular connection. At most, I had met them socially a couple of times. But Frank Stephens had befriended me; had offered me a position in his business. I had sat at his table in Cafe Diabelli many times, and he had often told the rest of us to put our money away, that he was paying for our drinks. I was not quite comfortable spying on him— there was really no more complimentary term for it.

  On the other hand, I did have legitimate business at his home: first to give him my answer regarding his job offer, and then to ask about his sister-in-law—a friend, almost more than a friend, about whom I had good reason to be concerned. I would not pry answers out of him. What Mr. Stephens told me of his own free will would have to suffice.

  But I did hope to learn what had happened to the missing painting, as well as to Virginia.

  That much I had resolved upon when I stepped out of Mr. Clemens’s carriage and knocked on Stephens’s door. The butler answered, and I asked if Mr. Stephens was at home. The fellow shook his head, and said. “No. signore, he is not.” and all of a sudden I was at a loss. Of all the scenarios I had played out in my mind, the last thing I had expected was to find him away from home.

  “Can you tell me when he is expected back?” I began, thinking that if it was not too long. I might take a little drive around this quarter of the city and return.

  But hardly were the words out of my mouth than I heard a woman’s voice within: “Who is there, Carlo? Do they have any word of my sister?” The butler turned his head to answer, and over his shoulder I saw Mrs. Stephens on the stairs, looking anxiously toward the door. “Mr. Cabot, is that you?” she said, coming down the stairs and toward me. “You must have heard the news—I am so worried about my sister.” she said. The butler stepped aside, and the next thing I knew, I was in the door.

  “I have heard the bare outlines.” I admitted, now anxious myself. It was clear that Virginia had not yet turned up. I said. ‘To tell the truth, I was hoping to find your husband at home.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Frank had to go over to Eddie Freeman’s. Eddie’s been making a copy of the Raphael. and Frank thought that if it was far enough along, he could give it to the police to help them find the stolen painting. He’d already given them a photograph, but of course it didn’t begin to suggest the color of the original.”

  “No, I’d think not,” I said, remembering the vibrant color of the painting I’d seen the night before. Then, almost without thinking, I began asking the questions Mr. Clemens wanted answers to. “Do you have any idea just when it disappeared?”

  “All I know is that we noticed it gone sometime after you had left.” said Mrs. S
tephens. “The police think someone must have taken it while we were all at dinner, since that was the one time when it could have been done without being observed. Whoever took it had moved another painting of about the same size there, so we didn’t notice it missing when we came out—not until someone went to look closely.”

  “Ah. that’s a clever trick,” I said, nodding. “I’m trying to remember whether it was there when Mr. and Mrs. Clemens left, and for the life of me I can’t.”

  “Frank will be back soon, and perhaps he’ll have heard something new from the police,” she said. “Would you like to come sit while you wait for him? I’m sure he’d be disappointed to hear that he missed you.”

  “Yes. thank you. Mrs. Stephens.” I said. “I was hoping for a chance to speak to him.” I took a few steps into the foyer, and she closed the door behind me. The butler took my coat, and I followed my hostess upstairs. She led me to a seat near the fire and rang for the maid to bring us drinks. I found myself wanting to look at the place where the painting had hung; but I realized that another subject would be nearer the top of her mind, as it was near the top of my own. “What about your sister? Has there been any news of her?”

  She leaned forward and looked pleadingly at me. “Nothing. Mr. Cabot, nothing at all. I wonder if Ginny might have said something to you last night. As far as anyone can determine, you were the last person who spoke to her.”

  “Really?” I remembered that the policeman had said that, but I hadn’t taken it at face value; it had seemed more like a ploy to see how I would respond. “I can’t remember her saying anything at all unusual—as far as I knew, she intended to go right back to the party and carry on as before.”

  “She didn't seem… upset?”

  “No,” I said. Then, after a moment’s thought, I corrected myself: “Well, she was upset with me. We had a misunderstanding, and she and I needed to talk about it—that's why I asked to talk with her in private, away from the other ladies.”