“I see,” said Mrs. Stephens, looking at me with a curious expression. Just then the maid returned with our drinks—a decanter of pleasantly dry sherry—with a dish of salted nuts on the side. There was an extra glass on the tray, a silent reminder that Frank Stephens was expected soon. We sipped, said a few polite phrases in praise of the wine, and then she returned to the subject. “I apologize for questioning you so closely. Mr. Cabot, but I hope you will understand that I am anxious to learn where my sister has gone. This is not at all like Virginia, to disappear without telling anyone where she is going.” Her face was pale, except for the dark circles beneath her eyes; I suspected she had slept poorly. My heart went out to her.
“I understand you,” I said. “Believe me. I share your concern. Please, feel free to ask anything you think I might be able to help with.” Somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware that Mr. Clemens had sent me here to ask questions, not to answer them. But perhaps by giving a few frank answers—after all. I had nothing to hide—I would get as many in return.
She sat holding her sherry glass directly in front of her. and raised her chin. I was struck with how much she resembled her sister. More mature, perhaps a bit less sophisticated. but very attractive in her own way. She looked up at me and asked. “Mr. Cabot, did you propose marriage to my sister last night?”
That was the second time that question had been asked, but I was still not quite prepared for it. I stammered for a moment, then said. “No, ma’am. Our conversation was on another subject entirely. I hope Virginia had no false expectations in that regard.”
Mrs. Stephens inspected me for a moment, then took another sip of her sherry. “I don’t know that she did.” she said. “However, several of the ladies present last night firmly believed that you meant to propose to her—in fact, when you left the party so abruptly, and with such a long face, the general conclusion was that you had proposed and been rejected.”
“No. ma’am.” I repeated. “We had argued, and I felt our relationship had taken a step backward. But it had not reached the point of my proposing. I would be surprised if Virginia thought it had.”
Mrs. Stephens shook her head. “Men are very often surprised to learn what women think,” she said, with an enigmatic smile. “Ginny liked you a great deal, and she told me that she thought you felt the same about her. Sisters do talk about these things to one another, you know, even when one of them is an old married woman.” Here she managed a little laugh.
“I would not characterize you thus, Mrs. Stephens,” I said, managing a smile. “But perhaps I should ask you an impertinent question of my own. Did Virginia ever indicate to you that she expected me to propose to her?”
Mrs. Stephens’s smile spread ever so slightly. “I don’t think I shall answer that,” she said, with a toss of her head. It was a mannerism I had seen in her sister. She leaned forward and continued in a low voice: “An unwritten law between sisters is not to reveal the things they talk about to one another. If Ginny wishes to answer that…”
“Well, I don’t know if I have the courage to ask her,” I admitted. “You say nobody saw her after I left. When did people realize that she was missing?”
“Not immediately,” Mrs. Stephens said, her expression serious again. “The ladies began talking about what to make of your departure, and when Ginny didn't return, I thought she wanted time to herself—that rejecting the proposal affected her more than she expected. After a while, I went to see if she was still in Frank’s library. When she wasn’t there, I decided she must have gone to her room. Now I think I should have gone to check on her, but at the time I thought that she needed her privacy, and I decided not to intrude.”
“That is all perfectly natural,” I said. “So when did you realize she had disappeared?”
Mrs. Stephens was about to speak, when we heard the downstairs door open, and footsteps in the hall. “That may be Frank,” she said, rising to her feel. “Perhaps he has news for us.” She turned expectantly, facing the stairs. I set down my wineglass and stood, moving a few paces away from her. I remembered another occasion when a man had come home to find me sitting with his wife, and had drawn the wrong conclusion. I did not want to repeat that scene, or its aftermath.
Sure enough, after a few moments. Frank Stephens came up the stairs, looking tired and perhaps a bit discouraged. But when his wife said. “Frank, Mr. Cabot has come to see you.” his expression became more animated, and he came over to shake my hand.
“Cabot! Good of you to come,” he said. “I take it you’ve heard the news?”
“Some of it,” I said, truthfully enough. “If this isn’t a good time for me to be here. I can come back tomorrow.” Stephens waved a hand. “No, no, no need of that.” he said. “We could use another good set of brains to help sort things out. You left the dining room before the rest of us— first with Clemens, then again when you went to talk with Ginny. Do you remember seeing the painting either of those times? The police think it must have been stolen during dinner.”
“I don’t remember noticing it, but I don’t remember noticing it missing, either.” I said. “When did you realize it was gone?”
Mr. Stephens was about to answer when his wife caught his eye. “Yes. Belle?” he said.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Frank,” she said. There was a tremor in her voice, and her gaze was averted; I wondered if she was afraid of him. But then she looked up and asked. “Is there any news at all about Ginny?”
“Nothing new,” he said, shaking his head. Then, looking at me. he said. “The police think she might have absconded with the painting, but of course that's absurd. They don’t know her, so they jump to the first conclusion they think of. She’s more likely gone off to mope about something—if she’s not back for supper tonight, it’ll be time enough to start worrying.”
“I certainly hope she comes back soon.” I said earnestly. “I can see how upset your wife is.” I did not mention that I was upset as well.
“Yes. well, we’re all upset,” he said, pacing back and forth. “That painting is worth a small fortune. Who would have thought it would be stolen right under my nose, with two dozen people here?”
“Is there any chance a guest might have taken it?”
“Well, the police are looking into that angle,” he said. “I suppose a couple of people here last night would be capable of it. but I’m at a loss to figure out how any of them had the chance. The only time somebody could have taken the painting without being seen was when we were all at dinner, and I don’t recall anyone leaving the dining room—at least, not until the Clemenses went home. If you didn’t notice it missing, that’s good enough for me.”
“I wouldn’t put too much weight on my not having seen it missing, because I wasn’t looking for it.” I said. “I was more concerned with getting Mr. and Mrs. Clemens safely off, and when they were gone. I came straight back up to the dining room.”
“Yes, of course.” said Stephens. He noticed the extra sherry glass, nodded, and poured a drink for himself. Then he looked back at me and said, ‘To answer your question, I don’t think anybody noticed that the Raphael was missing until after we’d finished with brandy and cigars in the dining room. A few people left after you did. but perhaps a third of us were still at the table. Jonathan Wilson decided to take another look at the painting—you must have heard him talking about wanting to buy it. Well, he went over to look at it and saw right away there was another painting hanging in its place. He came back and made some joke about my switching horses on him. and that’s when I realized something was wrong.”
“What did you do then?”
“I sent for the police right away,” Stephens said. “They aren’t very reliable in ordinary matters, but they don’t dawdle when it comes to art theft. Captain Rosalia was over here at once.”
“Yes, I met him.” I said. “He was out at Villa Viviani this morning—so he's obviously a man who takes his job seriously.”
“Rosalia and I are old allies.�
� Stephens said, grinning. “There was a case four or five years ago where I was offered several pieces that I recognized as part of a collection I was familiar with. I suspected they’d been stolen, and I got word to Rosalia. That tip let him capture a very active gang of art thieves. I wouldn't be surprised if that little piece of timely information helped him get his promotion to captain. So in a sense, he’s just repaying a favor.” Stephens smiled complacently at the memory, obviously proud of his role.
“Well, I hope he can repay it by getting your Raphael back.” I said. Then, noticing his wife’s face, I hastily added, “And by bringing Miss Fleetwood home safely, too.” Stephens seemed more worried about the missing painting than about his sister-in-law. But what if she had been abducted? Or perhaps she was lying somewhere ill, or injured. I tried to push such notions out of my mind, but without success.
“Yes, of course.” Stephens agreed distractedly. He took a few salted nuts, popped them into his mouth, and washed them down with a sip of the sherry. Then he looked at me and said, “It was after the police got here—Rosalia and another man—that we realized Ginny was missing. He wanted to speak to everyone in the house, and so Belle went to Ginny’s room to find her.”
“There was no sign she’d been in there at all.” said Mrs. Stephens. “The bed hadn't been slept in, and none of her clothes were missing. Except a winter cloak and hat, which of course you’d expect if she'd gone out into the night— but the butler hadn't seen her get them, and said he didn't see her leave. Captain Rosalia questioned him quite a bit on that point, or so I assume—they spoke in Italian, so I could only follow a little of it, but Frank translated for me.”
I thought a moment, then said, “She must have left some time after I did, but I suppose it could have been almost anywhere between then and when you found her missing. Do you have any idea when it could have been?”
“No,” said Stephens. ‘To tell you the truth, we thought she must have left directly after you did—in fact, we told Rosalia she might have run off to meet you somewhere. I’m sorry, but it seemed an obvious possibility at the time.”
“So that's why the police were out at Villa Viviani so early this morning!” I said, making the obvious connection. “I guess they must have been disappointed to find me there.”
“Disappointed might be an overstatement.” said Mr. Stephens. toying with his wineglass. “But I think Rosalia had more hopes for that line of investigation than I did—he didn’t quite understand that two young Americans might not be as impulsive as two Italians of the same age.”
“Well, once I told him what Virginia and I had been talking about. I think he understood that it was unlikely we’d run off together,” I said. “In fact, we had something of an argument, and it wasn't entirely patched up when I left.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that,” Stephens said, frowning. “I don’t want to intrude, but is there any chance the argument had something to do with her leaving?”
“I’ve thought about that, and can’t see how it would,” I said. I paused to take a deep breath and collect my courage, then plunged ahead. “She had been taking it for granted that I would accept the position you offered me, and said as much in front of Mr. Clemens. Naturally, that put me very much on the wrong footing with him.”
Stephens held up a hand to stop me. “Do I understand you correctly? Do you mean to tell me you don’t intend to accept the job?”
“I’m afraid so. sir,” I said. “It’s a fine opportunity for the right person, and I’m flattered that you would offer it to me. But after considering all my choices. I’ve decided to stay with Mr. Clemens. I—”
“I’d advise you to consider again.” Stephens broke in. He set down his wineglass and rubbed his hands together. “I can understand the attraction of working with a famous man—why, even my butler was impressed, when I told him Mark Twain was on the guest list. When I was your age. I might have found the association with his fame hard to resist, too.”
“Well. Frank, it’s more than that—” I began, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.
“I think you'll realize, if you look a little further ahead in life, that Clemens's fame isn’t going to rub off on you. Once you leave him. nobody will much care who you used to work for. A well-known man can turn into a has-been quicker than you can imagine. When you get to my age. you'll have seen it a hundred times. And all you'll have to show for it is the skills and experience of a secretary—that's all you’ll be qualified to do, in the eyes of any real businessman. Is that the kind of work you want to be doing when you're forty? Fifty?”
“Well, no—”
“I didn’t think so,” he said, cutting me off again. “You do have a head on your shoulders. Cabot. Now, what I’m offering you has a rock-solid future. Once you prove you can run a business, there’s no place on Earth you can’t go from there. What’s more, you’ll be meeting successful people from every walk of life. They’re the ones who buy art. and if you make the right impression on them, you could be set for life. Suppose you want to start your own business after a few years—why, if you’ve made friends with the right sort of people, getting start-up capital is the easiest thing in the world. Somehow, I don’t think the Boston Brahmins I’ve met would be quite as sanguine about putting their money in the hands of a fellow who’s never done anything more demanding than keeping track of someone else’s papers.” He set his wineglass on the mantelpiece and hooked both thumbs in his lapels, throwing out his chest. His posture made it clear he'd never kept track of anyone else’s papers.
“That’s not quite a fair description of what I do for Mr. Clemens.” I said, trying to get the reins back in my own hands.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s fair, if it’s what people think,” said Stephens, stepping forward to prod me with his forefinger. “Be honest, now—do your family and friends back home think you’ve made the right choice of a career? Would your professors at Yale endorse it? Or is this just a new way to sow your wild oats, gallivanting around Europe in the company of a humorous lecturer under the guise of having a job?”
That gave me a guilty twinge; my father had said something very like it when I told him of my decision to come to Europe with Mr. Clemens. But something—perhaps the prodding finger—made me stand my ground. “Sir, I have told you my decision. I suppose I should be flattered that you want to change my mind. I will not even take exception to your disparaging remarks about my work for Mr. Clemens. since you don’t really know the extent of my responsibilities. But I think it ungentlemanly of you to denigrate my employer’s character in an attempt to sway me.”
“I see.” said Stephens, his voice turning cold. “If this is the line you were taking with Ginny last night, I’m not surprised she was upset with you. Well. I guess I’ve learned my lesson. I didn’t think you would turn out to be such an ingrate, or such a fool.” This was turning out just as badly as I’d feared. I had held some hope he’d take my decision in stride, and move on. But it was not to be.
Still, I could try to bring things to as gracious a conclusion as possible. “Sir, I know that you have had your share of bad news today, and I am sorry to have added to it,” I said, putting down my empty glass. “I appreciate the hospitality you’ve shown me, and I wish I could accept your offer to take me into your business. I am certain that upon reflection you will realize that I am still very much in your debt, and that I feel no animosity toward you.”
“Perhaps,” he said, with a resigned expression. “You’re throwing away a golden opportunity, Cabot, and I think you’ll regret this in years to come. But I’ve led the horse to water, and that’s an end to it. I think we've said all we can say. I’ll have the butler bring your coat and hat.” He went over and touched the bell-pull.
I nodded. “Sir. before I leave, I want to reiterate my hopes for the speedy return both of your painting and of Miss Fleetwood.”
“Thank you,” he said, tight-lipped. “My wife and I share those hopes. Now, I believe it would be bes
t for you to go.”
I saw no reason to contradict him on that point, and so I made my departure without further conversation.
9
Upon my return to Villa Viviani. I found Mr. Clemens in his office, cleaning one of his pipes—one with a large briar bowl and a curved amber stem. The rest of his “working” pipes sat on the desk in front of him, awaiting their turns. He looked up as I entered and said. “Well, what’s the news, Cabot? Are the girl and the painting still among the missing, or did one or the other come back?”
I sat wearily down. “Neither’s back, I’m sorry to say. And from what Frank Stephens says, the police thought I had something to do with her disappearance.”
“Well, it’s an obvious inference from their point of view,” said Mr. Clemens, putting down his pipe tool and examining the bowl he’d been scraping out. “I’d have thought that myself, if I didn't know you as well as I do. Do they think she was the one who smouched the painting?”
“That’s another obvious inference, but Mr. Stephens didn’t place much stock in it—nor would I. On the other hand, his wife—Miss Fleetwood’s sister—was present while we were talking, and maybe he didn’t want to voice suspicions about her sister in front of an outsider.”
“Good point, Wentworth.” said Mr. Clemens, picking up the tool to take another scrape at the pipe bowl. He shook out the loosened residue, then looked up at me and said. “Why don’t you tell me the whole story, and we can both sort through it to see whether there’s anything useful.”
I recounted the entire visit, while he fiddled with his pipes, nodding at intervals and once or twice interrupting me to ask a clarifying question. When I was finished he said. “Well, that doesn’t get us much farther, does it? There's a long space—at least two hours, maybe more— between the last time anybody saw the painting and the first time anybody noticed it missing. And another long gap between when you saw Miss Fleetwood and when they realized she wasn't there. It's a shame none of the ladies went to talk to her after you left, or looked at the Raphael when they came out from dinner. Then we might have a better idea whether or not the girl and the painting vanished at the same time.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler Page 10
