[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  “For that matter, she couldn't have come back into the main room to take the painting without the other ladies seeing her.” I said. “She would have had to come right past where they were sitting. In fact, they were probably looking for her once they knew I’d left—if they were under the impression that I had been proposing to her, they'd have been dying of curiosity.” I shook my head at the notion. I had not thought that anyone suspected that I was interested in Virginia. But now it seemed that everyone knew—from her sister to her friends to, apparently, my own employer!

  Mr. Clemens nodded. “You’re right, she'd never have gotten out of the room without answering a hundred questions. So even if she did have something to do with the painting going off, she had to have done it before she talked to you. It couldn't have been on the spur of the moment afterward.”

  “What about the police’s idea that someone took it while everyone was in the dining room, eating?”

  “Makes as much sense as anything, but it has its problems. too,” he said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “It allows the thief to work without the owner or guests seeing him, but how did he avoid being spotted by the servants? They had to pass by there on the way from the kitchen to the dining room. They ought to have yelled their heads off if they saw somebody come in and take a painting off the wall.”

  “What if the servants were bribed?” I suggested. “If the painting's worth a small fortune—Mr. Stephens said as much—perhaps the thief could afford to buy off a whole household of servants.”

  “Could be,” said Mr. Clemens. He rubbed his right forefinger against his lower lip. “I'll bet you a nickel that Capitano what’s-his-name has thought of that, though—If he doesn't put the whole household to the inquisition, he ought to hand in that fancy uniform.”

  “Capitano Rosalia.” I supplied. “Apparently he’s investigated art thefts before—Stephens informed him when he was offered some stolen pieces a few years ago. So he may know some of the places stolen art turns up. There must be dealers who specialize in reselling it—I assume the thieves don't just steal paintings to hang over their own mantelpieces.”

  “Well, I’ve heard of a rascal in London who stole a Gainsborough to hang in his parlor,” said Mr. Clemens, with a mischievous grin. “But I reckon you’re right, for the most part—a painting ain't like cash, or jewelry, that you can pawn without a lot of fuss or attention. You have to find a collector willing to buy something he knows is stolen. and who doesn't care.”

  “That must be a strange breed of collector,” I said. “Why, they could never dare display it where anyone honest might see it. It’s as bad as if they stole it themselves.”

  “Well, if you get right down to it. things haven't changed that much since those no-account Medicis ran this town, you know.” said Mr. Clemens, picking up another pipe to clean. “The kind of people who can afford to buy a Raphael probably didn’t come by their money much more honestly than the average stickup artist or snake oil huckster. And most of their friends are no more honest than they are.”

  “Then I am glad to have turned down Frank Stephens’s job,” I said. “After hearing your description of my likely customers, I shall consider myself fortunate not to have been robbed at gunpoint by a gang of Boston Brahmins.”

  Mr. Clemens looked up from the pipe and raised an eyebrow. “Wentworth, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were developing a sense of humor. Maybe you have been working for me too long.” He winked playfully at me, but I pretended not to notice.

  “Mr. Stephens was trying to persuade me of that very point,” I said. “But I fear I’ve already refused his job offer, so you will have to keep me on a little while yet.”

  “Say, until after you’ve seen Africa and Australasia, hey? I reckon I could manage that…”

  “That would do very nicely, sir,” I said.

  He shook his head as if to caution me. “Hold your horses. Wentworth—you didn’t let me get to the if, and that may be bigger than you think. If it’s all up to me. I’ll take you along. But that's if I can go at all, and if I can convince Henry Rodgers, or whoever’s footing the bills, that I need to take along a secretary. I can’t undertake that kind of trip on my own say-so anymore, you know,” he said in a more serious tone.

  “I understand.” I said. “I think my chances are good enough, thank you.”

  “Well, then. I’ll keep you on—but if I catch you working up comic lectures on your own. I may have to let you go. This is a risky enough business without breeding my own competition.” He set down the pipe he had been working on and reached for a jar of tobacco.

  “I promise you, sir, I have no ambitions in that direction,” I said. Then, after a moment’s reflection. I added: “I won’t make the same promise about writing, though. If I ever find the time to write up some of my notes, you may find me in competition with you in that department.”

  He looked up from the tobacco jar and smiled. “I knew you had to be in this for something besides the salary.” he said. “Well, I’ll take my chances, there. One thing I’ll say: Finding the time—hell, making the time—is half the game. Everybody and his uncle thinks he could write, if only he could find the time. Most of ’em never do it. It’s the doing that matters—and until you’ve got the words down on paper. I won’t worry about you stealing my readers.”

  “I shall remember that.” I said. It occurred to me that I might have been writing at almost any point during the months I had spent with him. But what had I to show so far? I should have to make better use of my free time…

  These thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of Clara, Mr. Clemens’s middle daughter. She stuck her head into the office and said. “Father, there’s a fellow in a silly-looking uniform at the front door. He says he’s a policeman. and he’s come to see Signore Cabot. Shall I let him in?”

  “So soon?” said Mr. Clemens. “They must have found something interesting if they're back here again. Sure, let him in—we’ll talk to him downstairs.” Then, after a moment. he said, “Wait—maybe I’m jumping the gun.” He turned to me. “It’s you he wants to see, not me—do you want to talk to him?”

  “Why not?” I answered. “I haven’t done anything I need to worry about the police finding out.”

  “Well, I believe you. mostly—but will the cop? I managed to talk you out of a jail cell once, but that was someplace where I knew the language. How about this?—I go talk to him. try to feel out just what he’s looking for. You can listen from the next room and learn what this is all about. If it's nothing but routine, you can walk in and say you just got home. What do you say?” He winked at me again, but I recognized the serious import behind what he was suggesting—it wouldn't be the first time the police had arrested an innocent man to make it appear that they had solved a case.

  “Well, perhaps it would be the prudent course.” I said. “Still, I can’t see what I have to worry about.”

  “Neither do I, but this isn’t America, you know. There’s no Bill of Rights here, no ‘innocent until proven guilty’— hell, for all I know, the cops in this country still use the strappado when they aren’t getting answers they like. Why don’t we just find out the lay of the land before we let them have a chance to get their hooks in you?”

  I was not sure what the strappado was, but the sound of it was sufficient to convince me I didn’t want to learn about it firsthand. “Very well, we’ll do it your way.” I said, and we went downstairs together.

  At the bottom, Mr. Clemens pointed to an armchair beside the parlor door. “You sit there and keep your ears open; I’ll bring him into the parlor and leave the door ajar so you can hear. We’ll see what’s going on. and then decide what to do about it.”

  I nodded, and sat down in the chair. A minute or so passed; then I heard the other door to the parlor open, and footsteps going in. “Make yourself comfortable, Capitano Rosalia,” said my employer’s voice, identifying our visitor for me. “Now, can I get you a drink? A cigar?”

  “N
o. Signore Clemens.” said the captain. I heard the creak of upholstery springs—presumably he and my employer had taken seats. “Perhaps another time, but today I am here about important business. I came hoping to find Signore Wentworth Cabot. We are very curious to ask him the questions.”

  “Well, I’m sure sorry you missed him,” said Mr. Clemens. “He went out earlier—said he was going into the city to see Frank Stephens, the fellow who gave that party last night. For all I know, he’s still there. Maybe you ought to check.”

  “In fact, I have spoken to Signore Stephens since your man was there,” said the police captain. “He believed Signore Cabot was on his way to Villa Viviani—but now you say he is not here. Do you know where he might have gone?”

  “No.” said Mr. Clemens. I heard the scrape of a match, followed by a brief pause that I guessed was Mr. Clemens lighting his pipe. The odor of sulfur, then of tobacco smoke, wafted faintly through the door. I smiled at my guess’s being confirmed. Then my employer continued: “Cabot’s a grown man. I don’t make him account for where he goes or what he does, as long as he does his work to my satisfaction—which he does, I might add. There's a cafe in town he goes to sometimes, but I don’t know if it’s open on Sundays. Anyhow, he didn’t give me an itinerary, so I guess I can’t help you.”

  “Do you expect him back soon?” asked Capitano Rosalia. His voice was calm, cordial, exactly as if he were on an errand of no particular importance.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Clemens. “As I said, he didn't tell me his plans. If you want to leave a message. I'll have him get in touch with you. We don't have a telephone here, but maybe he’d come to the police station if you need to see him. Was there something particular you wanted to talk to him about?”

  “As you know, we are investigating the disappearance of a very valuable painting.” said the policeman. “It is possible that Signore Cabot saw or heard something that might help us find the person who took the painting.”

  “I reckon it’s possible.” said Mr. Clemens, speaking slowly as usual. His Missouri drawl contrasted sharply with the Italian police captain's animated, almost singsong speech. “Cabot likes those old paintings, a lot more than I do. so he might have paid more attention to it than I did.”

  “I see,” said the captain, his voice neutral. Hearing it, I was sorry that Mr. Clemens had mentioned my enjoyment of art. Well, there was no quick way to disprove any suspicions the captain might have, unless the Raphael showed up elsewhere. But even if Italian law differed from American in key respects. I found it hard to believe I was in danger of being arrested simply for having been at Stephens's home when the painting disappeared. If that were the case, then fifteen or twenty others stood in the same jeopardy…

  I suddenly realized that I had gotten lost in my thoughts, and hadn't been listening; the captain was still talking to Mr. Clemens… know whether he owed anyone money?” he said, apparently referring to me. He must be looking for possible motives for the theft, and I realized that several people had overheard my argument about money with Eddie Freeman. Of course, the sum involved there was nothing like what the painting must be worth—I wondered how much a stolen Raphael would bring—but sometimes the police didn’t see such things in proportion.

  “Not that I know of.” Mr. Clemens answered. “I pay him a fair salary, and give him a place to stay and three meals a day. He don’t smoke, or gamble, or buy fancy clothes, at least as far as I’ve seen. Hell, if he needed a quick loan, I hope he’d know he could come to me.”

  “But he was considering leaving this job. was he not?” The captain persisted. “He might not feel he could come to you for money.”

  “That's all straightened out.” said Mr. Clemens. “He’s staying with me. I’m happy to say.”

  “So he says today,” said Capitano Rosalia. “Are you sure he did not change his plan since yesterday?”

  “Maybe you should ask him about that instead of me,” said my employer. “Do you want me to send him over to see you when he gets home, or is tomorrow morning time enough?”

  “I will wait for him a little time longer.” said the captain genially. “It will save us all time, in the long run. And perhaps I will have something to drink, if you are still offering it.”

  “Sure, what’s your poison?” I heard the creak of springs again, and surmised that Mr. Clemens must have stood up.

  There was a brief silence, then Capitano Rosalia chuckled. “Ah, an americano joke. I forget you are the famous humorist—is that the word?—in your country. It is not very often that someone offers poison to a capitano di carabinieri—though I think I could name some people who would give it to me without asking if I wanted it! But a small glass of wine would be most welcome—without the poison, per favore. He chuckled again, amused at his own joke.

  “Coming right up.” said Mr. Clemens, and I heard him cross the room and ring for a servant. I heard another set of footsteps cross the room, as well, in heavier boots. It sounded as if Captain Rosalia had stood up and gone to look out a window—watching for me to return home? Neither man said anything for a moment while they waited for the servant.

  It wasn't until I heard the door behind me opening that I realized the servant would have to come directly past me to get to the room where Mr. Clemens and the policeman were waiting. I turned partway around in my chair, finger to my lips, to urge silence—but too late. The butler stopped in front of my chair and asked. “Signore Cabot, you rang?”

  It was not especially loud. Someone in the next room might not have heard it, had they been speaking with another person, or engrossed in a book. But Capitano Rosalia did not miss it; after all. he had come out to Settignano expressly to see me. I had barely time to jump up from my chair when I heard the captain's approaching footsteps and his voice. “Signore Cabot, what a pleasant surprise! Now I will not have to return here to talk to you.”

  “Oh. hello, Capitano Rosalia,” I said, trying my best to appear surprised. “I just returned from a long walk. I was coming to see Mr. Clemens, but when I realized he had a visitor, I decided to wait here…” The story sounded contrived even as I said it.

  The police captain did not bat an eye at the manifest falsehood. “Ah. then it is even more fortunate that I heard your name. Perhaps now you will join us for a drink—if Signore Clemens does not object?”

  “Oh. not a bit,” said my employer, who looked as embarrassed as I felt at having been caught in our little subterfuge. He somehow managed to smile and carry on: “Captain, you wanted wine, and I reckon I’ll have a whisky and soda. What about you, Cabot?”

  I ordered wine, then followed Mr. Clemens and the policeman into the parlor. I stood there for a moment wondering whether to talk or keep quiet, but then realized that I would have to answer the captain's questions eventually. Better to lead off with one of my own. “Have you had any success in finding the missing painting? Or Miss Fleetwood?”

  “None at all with the painting.” said the captain, with a shrug that spoke volumes. “With Signorina Fleetwood— well, we have found her.”

  “Oh. good.” I said. “That must be a great relief to her sister.”

  The captain's expression remained neutral, and he shook his head. “I am afraid it is not such good news as that. Signore Cabot.”

  “I don't follow you.” I began, and then the implication of what he said hit home. “Good Lord, you don’t mean to say…”

  “Signorina Fleetwood has been murdered.” he said, nodding. “We discovered her body just a short while ago. That is why I came to see you, Signore Cabot.”

  “Good Lord.” I said again, sinking into a chair. “It can’t be—that’s not possible,” I said, more to myself than to Rosalia. My knees felt weak, and my head was spinning. Virginia dead? I couldn't believe it. She had been so full of life, and it had been such a short while since I'd seen her—and suddenly I regretted that our last minutes together had been spent quarreling.

  Then I looked up at the Italian police officer, hoping
to find evidence in his face that this was a cruel ruse, meant to get me to blurt out a confession that I’d taken the painting. But Capitano Rosalia’s eyes were fixed on my face, and suddenly I felt very cold. “Surely you don’t suspect me?” I said, but I already knew the answer from those eyes.

  The captain looked at me intently for a moment before he said. “Signore Cabot, as far as we can determine, you were the last person to see the signorina alive—and everyone says you argued with her that very night. What choice do I have but to make you my first suspect?”

  10

  The news of Virginia’s death was a heavy blow to me. I stared at Capitano Rosalia, seeking some refutation of what he had just told me. But he looked me in the eye and said. “Signore Cabot. I must ask you some questions.”

  Mr. Clemens was on his feet, interposing himself between me and the Italian policeman. “Give the boy a chance to settle down, will you? Anybody can tell he’s taking this hard—he was very fond of the young lady. Do you need another drink, Wentworth?” He pointed to the wine decanter. which the servant had left for us.

  I waved away the offered drink. I had questions of my own. “How was she murdered? Where did you find the body?”

  The captain shook his head. “I am sorry, but I do not think I should tell you those details until we have spoken a bit. If you consider, you will understand why.”

  “Yes, of course.” I said. “You want to find out whether I know things only the killer would know. Very well, ask away—I don’t have anything to hide. I hope you will do me the courtesy of answering my questions once you know I had nothing to do with this terrible crime.”

  “If I can.” agreed Capitano Rosalia. “I do not wish to see an innocent man suffer, any more than I desire to see a guilty one go free.”