[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  “I don't disrespect your country, just your king.” said Mr. Clemens, leaning back in his chair. I turned to see the person he was talking to: a bald-headed man with a round belly, a full beard, and a scowl that would have done a stage villain proud. I remembered his name: Volponi. Battista had chacterized him as a pundit, ready to expostulate on any subject that came to hand. He was a regular at Diabelli’s, sitting at his favorite table amid a crowd of acolytes, playing the literary lion.

  “The king and the country, they are one,” said the bearded man. He scowled more fiercely, then said. “I know you. You are Mark Twain. Your slanders of Italia do not surprise me now that I recognize you.”

  “Well, you have the advantage of me in that respect.” said my employer, calmly sipping his wine before continuing. “Who are you, and what country do you normally slander?”

  “I am Giuseppe Volponi,” the man thundered, striking his chest with one fist. “And I slander no one! I tell the truth, and if the guilty take offense, it is themselves they should blame!”

  “Now there's a man after my own heart.” said Mr. Clemens. slapping his hand on the table. “Sit down and have a glass of this wine and let’s try to figure out which one of us is telling the real truth. I reckon a good argument is just the thing to work up my appetite.”

  Volponi hesitated just a fraction of a second, but then the temptation of a free glass of wine overcame whatever reluctance he might have had to drink with a man who bore no respect for kings. He took a chair from a nearby table and sat down between me and my employer, leaning his elbows on the table. I caught Pietro’s eye, and he brought another glass, which Mr. Clemens filled from our bottle of Chianti.

  The silence that had followed Mr. Clemens’s opening diatribe against kings had somewhat abated, as those in the dining room resumed eating and drinking. But we were no less the focus of attention; the group of hangers-on who sat at Volponi’s table had turned to face us, and over at the chess tables, Garbarini (evidently having made his move) was looking over his shoulder at us while Gonnella studied the board. I knew that my employer had some purpose in baiting the crowd, but I wondered whether he had thought through the consequences.

  Volponi sipped his wine, nodded in appreciation, then said, “You came here many years ago and wrote a book that all the world read, mocking our beautiful city and our glorious history. I thought that years might bring you wisdom, but I can see it is not so.” While he had a heavy accent, his English was quite good, formed on the British model as was common with those Italians who spoke our language well.

  “Changing your mind isn’t wisdom, if you were right to start with.” said Mr. Clemens, leaning back in his chair and putting his thumbs in the lapels of his white suit. “And let’s get one thing straight—if I were such an enemy to Florence. I wouldn't have come here to live. I just don’t pretend it’s perfect, any more than I do back home. You ask the folks in Arkansas, or Washington, or Boston, or a few dozen other places, what I’ve said about them, and you might think Italy has got off pretty easy.”

  “You Americans do not respect history, because you have none of your own.” said Volponi, shaking his head vigorously. “Italia has been glorious before, and she will be so again. As Vittorio Emanuele proclaimed, she must not only be respected; she must make herself feared. King Umberto understands this, and in Francesco Crispi he has a man who can make it so.”

  “Crispi’s a crook,” said Mr. Clemens. “But everybody's scared of the Socialists, so they forget about that. Crispi will probably send the army somewhere in Africa to shoot the natives and enslave the survivors. That’s wrong when England does it, and it’s wrong when Belgium does it, and when France and Germany do it, and it’ll be damn well wrong when Italy does it. If there’s any justice in the world, the natives will throw it all back in his face.”

  “You speak of the Socialists,” said Volponi. scowling even more fiercely. “You Americans pay them to revolt in Sicily—Crispi has proof of it. America would like to destroy our nation. But Crispi will do what is needed. If we need to imprison every Socialist in Sicily—and in all of Italy for that matter—we will do it, to protect our glorious country. And the fico to America, if it does not like it.” He made an abrupt gesture with his right hand.

  “I guess a nation that’s survived the Caesars and the Medicis and the Borgias won’t be much bothered by a petty thief like Crispi,” said Mr. Clemens. “He may think he can derail the Socialists—and maybe he has, for now—but they’ll be around to dance at his funeral unless he solves the problems they’re addressing. Hell, he is one of the problems they’re addressing.”

  “You are no better than a Socialist yourself.” said Volponi. in a deep rumbling voice. “I should report you to the police “

  Abruptly, I became aware that the room was again silent, and that our table had become the center of a ring of spectators. So far, they had let Mr. Clemens and Volponi do all the talking. But now, from behind me. a voice growled. “You do so at your peril, Volponi. We know where you live.”

  I turned to see the speaker. It was Gonnella, the chess champion, who had left his game to watch the debate between my employer and the cafe’s resident polymath.

  Another voice answered Gonnella. “What kind of Italian defends a foreigner against one of his own?” The speaker was one of Volponi’s hangers-on—a handsome youth wearing a colorful, artfully disheveled outfit, which on close inspection revealed expensive materials and workmanship. A rich boy playing bohemian, I thought.

  Then another bystander said something harsh in Italian— or so I assumed, for the would-be bohemian youth responded by blurting out an epithet of his own. then lunging forward and taking a wild swing at Gonnella. Gonnella ducked under it and grappled with his assailant, and the next thing I knew, there were voices raised and fists flying all around us.

  My first thought was to protect Mr. Clemens, who was (for all his talk of a rough-and-tumble youth), after all, a mature man of sedentary habits. But no sooner had I stood up from my seat than I was accosted by a wild-haired fellow wearing a corduroy suit and thick spectacles, who attempted to bludgeon me with a half-full wine bottle. I was perforce in my second fight of the day, I managed to grab his arm. spilling wine on both of us. and wrestle his weapon out of his grasp, only to find myself attacked from behind by someone who seemed intent on ripping off my jacket. Out of the comer of my eye I saw Mr. Clemens slip out of his chair and take shelter under the table, so I decided I could concentrate on defending myself.

  The next few minutes were pure chaos. I don’t know how many actual fights were going on, but it seemed as if the whole room had become a field of combat, with bottles flying, chairs and tables tipping over, and invective spewing forth in four or five languages. The waiters made an effort to break up the fighting, but after one was knocked senseless and another fell back with blood streaming from his nose, they abandoned the attempt. I saw Pietro dash out the door, no doubt to summon help before the entire place was destroyed.

  Meanwhile, I had plenty to keep me occupied. I disposed of my first two assailants with a little effort, and turned again to look to Mr. Clemens’s safety—the best plan seemed to be to get him out of the room, if that was possible. But right at that moment, another fellow decided I was of the enemy camp—I have no idea what side of the fight he thought I was on, or even how many sides there were—and came rushing at me like an enraged bull.

  I picked up a chair to fend him off. but his bulk and his momentum carried me backward and I found myself pinned in a comer. Luckily, the chair kept him at sufficient distance that he couldn't land a blow, and I managed to keep him at bay until he decided to look for easier game. Again I turned to look for my employer, but I had lost track of which table he'd ducked under.

  At that point someone shouted, “Polizia!” The door flew open and a half-dozen uniformed men poured through, brandishing clubs. There was a sudden exodus of combatants through the doors leading to the terrace, leaving a fair number of dazed
and maimed on the field. At last free of my assailants, I cast my eye around for my employer, hoping to see him emerge unscathed. But Mr. Clemens was nowhere to be seen.

  16

  Don’t worry about your padrone,” said Agente Mag|gio. “He’ll come back before you know it.”

  The carabiniere and I sat at a table on the terrace of Cafe Diabelli, while Pietro set the waiters and cleaning staff to repairing the damage. The police had rounded up everyone still inside the cafe, without bothering to ask who had done what. They were about to haul me off to the local clink, when Maggio—who’d seen a group of police going toward the cafe and followed them—showed his identification and vouched for me. Now we were trying to figure out what had happened to Mr. Clemens, who had been among the missing when the police arrived.

  “It’s easy for you to say that.” I answered, taking a sip of wine. Pietro had replaced the bottle spilled at my table— very generously, in my opinion, since my employer had incited the melee that led to its spilling. I looked at the Italian policeman and continued: “But what if he’s hurt and can’t come back? I should have done more to protect him.”

  “He’s a very smart man.” said Maggio. wiping his chin with his coat sleeve. “I think he crawls out between people’s legs while they fight. That’s what a smart man does in a fight—go someplace else very fast. That way, when the guardia come, he don’t get arrested. I bet Signore Clemens is home when you go there.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said, remembering that my employer had a penchant for making snap decisions and telling me about them afterwards. I remembered the time he had impulsively gone off overnight into the Louisiana bayou country, leaving me to guess where he might be. Perhaps this was another of those times… but I had no confidence that it was so. And I did not relish the prospect of looking Mrs. Clemens in the eye and telling her I had no idea where her husband was… even though I suspected that she had heard similar reports more than once before.

  This train of reflection was interrupted by the arrival of a uniformed policeman who came over to Maggio and spoke in rapid Italian. Maggio replied, and after a few brief exchanges, the other officer turned and left. “What did he say?” I asked, realizing even as I said it that it might well be none of my business.

  “No sign of Signore Clemens.” said Maggio. with a shrug. “They got seven or eight men in jail, and five more they take to the hospital to get patched up. And a few, they let go. I told them what your padrone looks like, and they say they didn't see him. I didn’t expect them to, but you don’t know before you ask.”

  “This doesn’t make sense.” I said. “He may have run off during the fight, but he should have come back after it was over, to see if I was all right or if I needed help. The only reason I can think of for that is that he can't come back.”

  “He isn’t in jail,” said Maggio. “He didn’t go to the hospital. He didn’t go to where I waited with the horses, and he didn’t come back here.” He counted off these points on his fingers as he made them, then spread his hands and shrugged. “So where else did he go? Best guess is back home, like I said. He can ride the tramvia. same as anybody else.”

  “He could have.” I granted. “But that's not the kind of thing he'd do. He would avoid the fighting—he’s not a young man anymore—but he’d have come back afterward. If he’s not here, and not in jail, and not in the hospital, then something’s happened to him. I’m afraid it’s something serious.” For what must have been the fifth time, I looked around the cafe, searching for a cabinet or other hiding place where my employer might be concealed. But there was nothing I had not seen on my previous visits. Indeed, only three tables were occupied. Usually, at this time of day, the place was full. I didn't like the inaction, but I could think of nothing better to do but wait here for him.

  “Could be serious,” said Maggio. “But right now, I don’t know what it is. And the captain told me to watch you, not him. You want my best advice, you stay here and finish up your wine. If Signore Clemens don’t come back by then, we go back to Settignano and wait for him. And if he don’t come there. I tell the capitano and we let him decide what to do next.”

  Having no better suggestion to offer, I did as Agente Maggio suggested. But when the bottle was empty. Mr. Clemens had still not returned. And so, with great trepidation. I let Maggio drive me home to Villa Viviani. Along the way, my head was full of terrible possibilities—Mr. Clemens's body would be found floating in the Arno, or dumped at the end of an alley. Alternately, persuaded by Maggio’s optimism, I found myself expecting to walk in the door to discover my employer sitting there, loading a pipe, and spinning some preposterous story of his escape and journey home.

  But there was no news when we arrived, and even Maggio could no longer keep from frowning.

  It had fallen to me to deliver to Mrs. Clemens the news of her husband's disappearance, and she had borne it well, considering that it came when she was fighting a severe cold on top of her usual frail health. She had taken affairs in hand, jotting down a list of officials for me to contact, and other steps to be taken. I had already seen evidence of her considerable presence of mind in such emergencies, and I set about following her instructions.

  At the same time, Agente Maggio had sent for his superior, and Capitano Rosalia arrived with commendable haste. Now we were sitting with that officer in the front room, sipping coffee and awaiting the captain’s advice.

  “I regret to report that there is no sign of Signore Clemens anywhere in the quarter.” said Capitano Rosalia gravely. “The police have searched with care.”

  “What do you think this means?” asked Mrs. Clemens. “If he had just gone off with a friend without informing me. that would be no great matter. But for him to disappear in the middle of a riot, and not to get in touch afterward— that is not at all in character. I fear he has met with some sort of accident.”

  “That was our first thought.” said Capitano Rosalia, nodding. “But an agente went to the police stations and the hospitals, showing a picture of your husband—there was one in the newspaper after his arrival here—and we are certain that he is in none of those places.” He paused and held out his cup. which Mrs. Clemens refilled for him. He thanked her. then sat in silence for an awkward moment as he added sugar and stirred his coffee.

  Then he continued: “However, two men we arrested after the fight in the cafe did recall seeing him. and from what they have said…” He paused again, seeming to gather his thoughts, then leaned forward and said. “We are considering the possibility that he has been taken hostage.”

  “What?” Mrs. Clemens gasped, and her hand flew to her mouth. The lid to the sugar bowl fell to the floor—luckily it landed on the carpet, and escaped damage. She bent to pick it up. but her ashen face revealed her state of mind. I started to rise to go to her, but Agente Maggio was there before me. He took her arm and guided her to a chair and helped her into it. His face showed genuine concern, and I thought how lucky we were to have had him assigned to watch me. Few policemen in any country would be as sensitive.

  The captain's face was full of concern, too. He cleared his throat and said. “Signora Clemens, it gives me no pleasure to bring such hard news, but we must face facts. The police will need your help “

  At this request, Mrs. Clemens’s composure returned. “Yes, of course,” she said, nodding. “Please forgive me, I have not been well. And now this shock… But of course I will do anything I can to help. Tell me what you need, and if it is in my power, you shall have it.”

  She looked out the window for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts, then turned back to the captain and said, ’Tell me everything. On what do you base your supposition that my husband is being held against his will?’

  “Yes, I find that hard to credit,” I said. “Whom do you suspect of holding him hostage?’

  “We suspect the Socialists or the anarchists,” said Rosalia. “Members of both those outlaw parties frequent Cafe Diabelli.”

  “I doubt e
ither of those parties would consider him an enemy, after hearing the positions he espoused in his argument with Giuseppe Volponi—have you spoken to him, by the way?’

  “Yes, of course,” said Rosalia. “Signore Volponi is one of our main sources of information—alas, he is in the hospital with a broken arm. He reports that Signore Clemens was taken from the cafe by two men he knows to be revolutionary agitators.”

  “What? Who are these men?’ I asked. “And why do you take Volponi’s word for it?’

  “Volponi is a loyal subject of King Umberto.” said Rosalia, shifting uncomfortably. “He has given us information on radical activities in the past, and it has always turned out to be very accurate. As for the men he identifies, they are regular customers at Cafe Diabelli. In fact, we have reason to believe that you know them. Signore Cabot. Their names are Gonnella and Garbarini.”

  “What?' I exclaimed again. “That is impossible!” But even as I said it, I remembered Virginia’s warning me against too close an association with the two chess players, on the grounds that the police were watching them. Now I learned that Volponi was a spy for the police. It began to seem as if everyone at Diabelli’s were something more than they appeared! When my employer and I had gone to the cafe to research a possible political motive for Virginia's murder, it had all seemed a bit far-fetched to me. But now I realized it might well be true.

  Mrs. Clemens evidently shared my doubts. “Grant, for a moment, that he left the cafe with these men.” she said, holding up her hand. “Perhaps they were simply helping my husband escape the brawl. Why must there be some sinister motive attached to a good deed?”

  My employer's wife had regained her normal aplomb. I admired her confidence even more than before. If I was worried about her husband's safety, how much more worried must she be? Yet neither of us was ready to accept that Mr Clemens had been taken hostage. Ironically, my earlier imaginings of my employer being injured or worse had given way to a conviction that nothing so terrible could have happened—a conviction I shared with his wife. This might be just another of his escapades.