[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  Capitano Rosalia sensed our resistance to his conjecture. He cleared his throat, then said, “Signora, we in the police consider these men dangerous. We do not know that they are holding your husband against his will, or that they mean to hurt him. but the anarchists have shown us that they are ready to take desperate measures—even robbery and assassination—to gain their ends. I do not advise you to trust them.”

  “I suppose I must take your word for it. then.” said Mrs. Clemens, a worried look on her face. “What do you propose to do?”

  “The city police are already working to arrest their known associates.” said the captain. “They will also keep watch on their usual haunts. Perhaps someone will spot them. And on the chance that they have left the city, my carabinieri are gathering intelligence from a wider network—including the army, which is very active against these revolutionaries. We have eyes and cars in many places. Signora Clemens, your husband's disappearance makes this case very much more important than a simple theft and murder. The highest level of government has taken notice, and we are putting our fullest efforts into solving it.”

  “I am glad to hear that,” said Mrs. Clemens. “I would be even gladder to hear my husband’s voice, and to see him coming through the door.”

  “Signora. we trust that we will be able to provide you with those pleasures.” said the captain, bowing.

  “I also trust that you will, Capitano Rosalia,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Can you tell me how soon you expect it to be?”

  “With any luck, it will be very soon,” he said, committing himself to very little. “But if the anarchists arc responsible for taking your husband hostage, they may well be getting in touch with you to demand ransom. For that reason, we will leave Agente Maggio here to guard your family. As far as I am concerned. Signore Cabot is no longer under suspicion for the young lady’s death.”

  “I am glad to be exonerated,” I said dryly. “But I hope this new political conspiracy doesn’t distract your men from investigating Miss Fleetwood’s death.”

  Capitano Rosalia said, “Signore Cabot, I believe that when we unravel the anarchist conspiracy, we will lay our hands on the person responsible for the young lady’s death. And now, if you will excuse me. Signora Clemens, I must go supervise the investigation. As soon as we have any news to report, I promise you will hear from me.”

  He stood, bowed, and took his leave. Maggio accompanied him. presumably to receive further orders.

  “Capitano Rosalia is barking up the wrong tree,” I said to Mrs. Clemens after the carabiniere captain and his agente had left the room. “The authorities are so anxious to crush the radicals that they see their handiwork everyplace that trouble flares up. I know the two fellows he was accusing, and they’re as innocuous a pair as you could think of—away from the chessboard, at least.”

  “Please sit down and try to relax, Wentworth,” said Mrs. Clemens, indicating the chair opposite her. “Your pacing makes me nervous—more nervous, I should say. I know that Samuel is capable of taking care of himself, of course. Perhaps he went with these two men of his own will, hoping to find more evidence concerning the murder. But I am not quite as confident as you about these chess players being harmless. How well do you really know them? Have you ever had an extended conversation with either of them?”

  I stopped and thought, still not sitting down. After a few moments. I said. “I suppose not—except to do a postmortem on a chess game. Still, if they were anarchists. I wouldn’t think they’d come to a meeting place of their party and do nothing but play chess—or watch other people play. I’ve never even seen them in a long conversation with someone else while there’s a game going on. which is almost always, when one of them is there.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Clemens, motioning again for me to take a seat opposite her. This time, I did as she requested, and then, after a brief pause, she said, “I wonder, though, whether your command of Italian is adequate for you to know what they were speaking of even if you were right next to them. I am not sure I could tell the difference between chess and revolution in a foreign language. Can you?”

  “I should think so.” I began, and then stopped myself. After a moment’s reflection. I admitted. “Well, now that you raise the question, perhaps not. Someone talking about an attack on the king could be referring to assassinating the King of Italy or to a position on the chessboard.”

  “That is what I mean.” said Mrs. Clemens. She reached out to touch my sleeve and looked into my eyes as she continued: “Playing a game with someone may shed light on that person’s character, but not enough for you to know their deeper motives or concerns. If the captain has evidence that these two men are dangerous radicals. I would give his information due weight.”

  “We don’t know whether it’s evidence or hearsay—or plain lies.” I said. “I'd guess that fellow Volponi is the one who accused them. He could be concocting his story out of whole cloth to ingratiate himself with the authorities.” Even as I made this statement. I found myself doubting it. Gonnella and Garbarini might be anything at all when they were not playing chess. I had some vague memory of someone saying that one or the other was a poet, but I had no idea whether that was true—or about which of them I had heard it. Whatever its truth, it had no real bearing on the captain’s accusations—any more than the dislike I had taken to Volponi for quarreling with my employer reflected on his veracity.

  Mrs. Clemens seemed to sense my reservations. “My instinct is to trust Capitano Rosalia, unless we have some strong reason to doubt him.” she said. “At least he has shown some concern for Samuel’s safety. That is the most important consideration, at the moment.” She sighed, and then began to cough, discreetly turning her head as she took her handkerchief from her sleeve. Her cold was better now than it had been, but I knew her health to be delicate. I hoped the added strain of her husband’s being in danger would not bring on a relapse.

  “I agree with you on Mr. Clemens’s safety.” I said. “But I still intend to find Miss Fleetwood’s murderer and see him brought to justice. And I don’t believe we ought to sit and wait for Capitano Rosalia to do something.”

  “I don’t object to your taking independent action, as long as you don’t endanger Samuel.” said Mrs. Clemens. Then she frowned and continued: “But the captain believes that he has been captured by the people who killed Miss Fleetwood. If that is so, they may have no qualms about harming him, if they believe themselves to be in danger of exposure. I wonder if leaving the investigation to the police may not be our safest course, after all.” She put her hand back on my arm. looking imploringly at me.

  “I understand your feelings. Mrs. Clemens.” I said, returning her gaze. “But one thing I have learned from your husband is that the police are not always right. I might accept the captain’s theory that the anarchists stole Mr. Stephens’s painting to finance their revolution. But that they lured a young American woman to a graveyard across the city, murdered her, and left the frame of the painting near her body is harder to believe. And the notion that they then swooped down on your husband in a cafe, where he was engaged in a political argument with one of their enemies, and spirited him away to hold him hostage, is beyond my ability to swallow.”

  I stood up and began pacing again, still talking. “Perhaps these revolutionaries are responsible for many of Italy’s troubles,” I said. “I have very little sympathy for their cause, in any case. But to blame this entire mystery on them is far too convenient for Capitano Rosalia. It lets him concentrate his energy on a target he already wants to hit. and never mind whether it’s the right one. I don't think his approach is going to find Miss Fleetwood’s murderer, and I don’t think it’s going to get your husband back home, either.”

  “And do you have an idea that will bring Samuel home?” asked Mrs. Clemens, in a quiet voice. She picked up her coffee—now long cold—and took a sip.

  “Frankly, I don’t know,” I said, dropping back onto the couch next to her. “I’m going to try to think of s
omething. One thing I can promise you, is that bringing your husband home safe is my highest priority.”

  “Don’t forget finding Miss Fleetwood’s murderer,” said Mrs. Clemens firmly. “Samuel had undertaken to find the man who killed her, and I would not wish you to forget that. Very well, I give you my permission to continue trying.” She paused again. “I think you would continue trying even without my permission, but that’s all right.” She smiled bravely, but I could sense her doubt.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I will do my best to justify your faith in me.”

  “Just do your best.” she said, smiling. “That will be enough. I am sure.”

  I wasn't so sure, but I said no more. It was high time to turn my intentions into a concrete plan. And that looked like an all-night job.

  It is one thing to find fault with another man's theory, but quite another thing to construct a better one. I was reminded of this when, in my own room, I began to mull over the facts available to me. These were sparse, but perhaps they would add up to something if I found the right way to look at them. Agente Maggio. who had returned to the kitchen after his talk with the captain, would call me if any news came.

  To begin with, there was the manner and place of Virginia’s death. There was also the remarkable circumstance that the frame of the stolen Raphael had been found near her body. This indicated that the theft and the murder were connected, but in what way?

  I reluctantly concluded that, much as I would like to, I could not dismiss outright the idea that she had been bringing the painting to someone in that section of the city. We knew that there were several art dealers’ shops near where the body had been found. Of course, the police knew this as well as I did.

  Did this mean that Virginia had been in league with those who stole the painting—or worse yet, had stolen it herself? I still could not bring myself to believe it of her. Had she perhaps observed someone making off with it, and followed them? But she would not have had time to send for a carriage to take her into town had she been in hot pursuit of a thief—at least, assuming it had been she who sent for a carriage the night of the party, as Agente Maggio's informant had reported. Possibly she had overheard the thief tell his own driver his destination, and told her driver to take her there. But why would she pursue a thief herself, instead of informing the police or her brother-in-law?

  None of this made sense, not even if one accepted Capitano Rosalia’s theory that the theft and murder were the work of anarchists. Even those who wanted to abolish all governments and laws need not be irrational on other topics. But there was no reasonable explanation for the picture frame’s being left near the body, with little attempt at concealment. Perhaps the killer had been surprised in his work, and fled before he could hide the body, or the frame—but then, the murder would have been reported earlier, would it not? And why had the whole business been conducted in a graveyard? Granted, it was a good place to meet if one were anxious to avoid being observed, but any private home would do as well—and would arouse far less suspicion.

  If Mr. Clemens had been present to look at the evidence, I am sure he would have made a more coherent picture of it than I was able to. But he was off somewhere unknown, possibly being held prisoner. And while I had promised Mrs. Clemens to make every effort to bring about my employer’s return, I had no more notion how to achieve that end than of how to penetrate the mysteries surrounding Virginia's death.

  I must have dozed off, for I awoke to find myself slumped across the table, now littered with papers covered with my questions and speculation. The clock read half past three in the morning. I was no closer to the answer than I had been when I had sat down. Discouraged, I dragged myself to my bed and crawled in. hoping that daylight would bring some sort of insight.

  I awoke in a cold sweat, after dreams of a fight with hideous masked men in a graveyard. In the distance I had seen Mr. Clemens being dragged away with a rope around his neck. Holding the other end of the rope was Bob Danvers. I shook my head to exorcise the phantom images. A glance at the window showed the sky still dark; I turned over and went back to sleep, but when I woke again, with light beginning to wash over the eastern sky, I was no better rested. With a yawn, I sat up on the edge of the bed. I had too many things to do to afford the luxury of sleeping late.

  Unfortunately, I was not sure which things I needed to do first. I got out of bed and began dressing, anyway. It would be better to do something than to do nothing, and if I did enough things, perhaps one of them would work. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the best one I had at the moment.

  17

  Over breakfast. I decided on a simple strategy. I had last seen my employer at Cafe Diabelli. Therefore I would return there. It was possible that a waiter, or one of the customers, would know where Gonnella or Garbarini lived. If I pretended to be interested in finding them for a game of chess, I might learn something that the police, whom many people distrusted, had not been able to discover.

  At the same time. I thought I would try to learn just how early Virginia Fleetwood might have spoken to any of the crowd at Diabelli’s about Stephens’s acquiring three Raphaels—an event that anyone interested in the arts would have considered of high importance. She hadn’t mentioned them to me before Stephens announced his party, and that struck me as curious. Had she herself not known of his acquisition until he announced it? Or had she kept the news a secret, so as not to spoil her brother-in-law’s surprise? And might she have told one of her other friends something of interest about them after the announcement?

  My mind was swirling with unanswered questions. There was another question, too. What kind of danger was my employer in? Had he just gone off on one of his whimsical expeditions, or had he really been abducted by dangerous radicals? Would there be another body in the Protestant cemetery?

  Just as I was getting ready to leave for the café, I remembered that I still hadn't found a replacement for the stolen bicycle. I would now have to walk over to the tramvia, ride into town, and walk from the station at Plaza di Giudici over to the cafe. More annoying, having repaid Bob Danvers the money I owed him, I was now short of funds myself. I had enough for the tram ride, but that would leave me without much to spend in the cafe. This would ordinarily be but a minor nuisance; Pietro was not the sort to push a regular customer to keep buying drinks every time he walked past the table. But buying other people drinks was a good way to get them to talk to me. and my shortage of cash would limit my ability to buy. Had my employer been at home, he would have advanced me sufficient funds. But I did not feel I could make the same request of his wife.

  I threw on my coat and was on my way out the door when I met Agente Maggio standing outside. He said, “Where you go. Signore Cabot?”

  “Back to Cafe Diabelli.” I said. “I don't know if I can find out anything useful there, but it’s the best plan I can think of.”

  Maggio nodded. “That's a good idea—maybe we find something out.” he said. “But no fights this time, capisce? I don't like to owe those city police more favors for letting you go.”

  “Wait a minute.” I said. “You aren’t coming along, are you? The captain said you’d be staying here in case a message came from the anarchists.”

  “The signora is a very smart woman—she knows what to do with messages,” said the carabiniere, shrugging. “I don’t think she needs somebody to protect her. You the one going out to look for trouble, so you the one I got to stay with. Come on, help me get the horses hitched up.”

  That settled that. I followed Maggio to the carriagehouse, and a short while later we were on our way into town.

  This time. Agente Maggio came with me into the cafe, but he took a separate table so as not to give anyone reason to think we were together, just in case someone recognized him as a police officer. He ordered his coffee, then took out a pair of spectacles—which looked incongruous on such a robust man, but perhaps they would help disguise his appearance—and sat back to study II Sforzo, a newspaper of some sort. Its
name meant nothing to me, but of course I did not read the Italian papers.

  That left me to decide where I wanted to begin my search. The American crowd, including Stephens's friends, were not at their usual table on the terrace. Belatedly, I remembered that this was the day that had been set for Virginia Fleetwood’s funeral—they would all be there. While I felt a pang of guilt for missing that final chance to bid her farewell, I knew that my presence at the services would only create more awkwardness. So it might be just as well that I had more pressing business. The best memorial I could make to her was to bring her killer to justice. That thought made me feel better. Having a purpose was as healing as anything a minister could say over Virginia’s remains.

  With no other Americans present, I looked around at the Italian habitues of Cafe Diabelli to see who might know something of use to me. I was glad to see that Giuseppe Volponi and his clique were not yet present. But there was a chess game in progress, and (recalling that the men supposed to have abducted my employer were regulars at the chessboards) I made my way over to see who was playing and with what success.

  The players (a German and an Italian, both of whom I knew by sight though not by name) had reached an endgame with rooks on both sides. The German was playing White; he was ahead by a bishop, and the player on the other side was struggling to promote an advanced pawn. It seemed to me that both sides had good chances, but after a few more desperate moves, Black put his king and rook on the same diagonal. White’s bishop surged into action, checking the king, and after it moved out of the way, swooped down upon the undefended rook. Scowling. Black tipped over his king and pulled a quarter-lira coin out of his pocket. “Danke schon.” said his opponent, grinning. Then he looked up at me and said. “Mochten Sie spielen, Freund?”