[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  “I didn't have a chance to tell you. at the time.” said Mr. Clemens. “I would have given more particulars, but suppose Rosalia or Maggio had gotten ahold of it? You’d have been thigh-deep in cops, and no more chance of getting here than getting to the moon. That's the same reason I couldn’t send a note home, with the cops watching the house. I just hope Livy isn't too worried about me.”

  “I fear she is,” I said, trying my best to make him feel guilty. I had been worried myself. I continued: “Capitano Rosalia told us that you'd been kidnapped, and has been hinting that your life might be in danger.”

  “Well, the fellows who picked me up weren't acting very dangerous,” said Mr. Clemens. “They were skedaddling just as fast as I was, even though they had a perfect chance to join in that bar fight and get a few licks at their enemies. That told me we had something in common: I mean common sense. And that was enough to convince me I was safe with ’em. unless the cops showed up with guns blazing. Do you think Rosalia or his boys followed you here?”

  “I don’t think so, but Maggio was at the cafe when I got the note, and he isn't stupid. I can't swear that he didn't guess what was going on.”

  “I reckon we’ll find out soon enough if he did.” said Mr. Clemens. “Meanwhile, why don’t you sit down and I'll fill you in on the story. Garbarini, do you still have any of that wine you had last night? It'd come in handy right about now.”

  “You wait, I bring you wine.” said Garbarini. nodding. He went over to the trapdoor, swung over and scurried down the ladder, and I heard him moving across the storeroom downstairs. A door creaked below, no doubt Garbarini going outside or into another room for the wine.

  “All right, he’ll be gone long enough for us to talk.” said Mr. Clemens. “He won't hurry back, because he figures those boys downstairs will stop us if we try to leave.”

  “I gathered as much,” I said. “Are you being held against your will?”

  “I don’t think so,” said my employer. “I haven't tried to leave yet, so nobody’s tried to tell me I can't. I don’t see much point in making a stink about it until I need to.”

  I didn't see the logic of that. “Need to leave? What do you mean? Of course you need to leave. Why are you staying with these people if you’re not a prisoner?”

  Mr. Clemens shrugged. “I’m not worried, as long as nobody's got a gun pointed at me. But to bring you up to date, when that donnybrook started back at the cafe. I decided it was the wrong place for a man who gets his daily exercise by loading his pipe. So I crawled under the tables, and ducked out the side door before anybody took a notion to hit me with anything. That’s when Garbarini and Gonnella spotted me. From what they’d heard me saying before the fight broke out, they figured I was in sympathy with their side, whatever that is.”

  “You mean you don’t know?” I asked, frowning. “Everyone seems convinced that they’re anarchists… or did they say Socialists?”

  “I reckon the distinction’s important to them, and to the people they’re trying to overthrow.” said Mr. Clemens. “But I doubt it matters a nickel’s worth, when you get to practical results. If they won an election, they’d throw out the king and the nobles, get rid of all the corrupt officials they could find, and put their own gang in power—and odds are, nobody outside the government would be able to tell much difference after six months.”

  “You surprise me,” I said. “Just yesterday, you were talking about how getting rid of the king would cure all Italy’s ills.”

  My employer waved a hand, dismissivcly. “Well, it would cure all the ills that are the king's fault, anyhow— and that’s no small portion. I wasn't just blowing smoke yesterday, Wentworth. I call it a crime for any man to set himself up as a lord over others, whether it’s a king and his subjects or a master and his slaves. Getting rid of all the kings in the world would go a fair way toward making it a better place. But would it turn Earth into Heaven? No, because the damned human race would think up some other nonsense to replace it with. The Socialists or anarchists don’t have the real answer to humanity’s problems—no more than the royalists or the capitalists or the Christian Scientists or the spiritualists do—because when you get down to brass tacks, you realize it’s humanity itself that's the problem.”

  “I wouldn’t deny that, sir,” I said. “But how did you end up here? Did you come with Garbarini and Gonnella of your own free will?”

  “Of course I did, Wentworth,” said Mr. Clemens. “Remember. the cops were promoting the theory that these boys—or their political bedfellows—were responsible for stealing that painting and for killing the young lady when she caught them. I figured the best way for me to find out if they had anything to do with it was to come home with them and keep my eyes open.”

  “Perhaps.” I said. “But why did you stay overnight? You must have known your wife would worry.”

  A cloud crossed my employer’s face, and I knew he felt a twinge of guilt. “Well, after a bit. I realized the fellows I was talking to didn’t know everything that was going on; I needed to talk to somebody higher up in their party. I said I’d come back in the morning—it’s not too far from the cafe, so I could find it again. And then their faces got real hard, and I could see there was trouble. I knew right away what I’d said—letting them know I could find the place again made them worry I’d come back leading the cops. So then they said they could let me meet one of their bosses, but I had to stay overnight. I didn't like that, but they weren’t going to give me any choice.”

  “Garbarini and Gonnella made you a prisoner?” I was, suddenly angry at my two chess opponents.

  “No, they were gone by then—it was a couple of other men. big fellows with guns in their pockets. I was worried that I’d gotten in over my head, to tell you the truth. But then another fellow showed up, somebody older—one of their leaders. I guess, if anarchists are allowed to have leaders. Anyhow, he apologized and told me they’d have to move their headquarters now that I knew where it was. And that would take long enough that I’d have to stay overnight. Nothing personal—but they couldn't risk my giving away their location, even accidentally. And that meant I couldn’t even send a message home.”

  I was about to protest, but he raised a finger to his lips, to silence me. at the same time pointing with his other forefinger to the floor. From below came the sound of footsteps—Garbarini, returning with the wine. The steps came over to the ladder, and then we could hear Garbarini climbing. In a moment, he appeared, carrying a large earthen jug. He put the jug on the table and took down cups from the shelf above. ‘I bring the vino, like you ask.” he said, smiling. “Now we drink a little, talk a little, see what bargain we can make.”

  “Bargain?” I asked. “What do we have to bargain over?”

  “The usual horse-trade,” said Mr. Clemens, reaching out to take a cup of the wine from Garbarini. “We're going to figure out what I can do for these fellows, and what they can do for me, and how much of the one is worth how much of the other.”

  “Signore Mark Twain is the famous writer, with great respect from everyone.” said Garbarini as he handed me a cup. “He could do much to make our cause known to the people.”

  “I’m sure he could,” I said. I look a sip of my wine; it was a robust red. earthy and full-bodied. Surprised. I raised my glass to Garbarini and nodded. ‘This is very good wine.” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Zio Giovanni works in the vineyard.” said Garbarini, with a grin. “He makes sure the owner don't send all the best to the turista. We Italians need good vino to drink, too.”

  “Well, this turista appreciates your saving some of the good stuff,” said Mr. Clemens. “And I'm willing to write a few words for the cause of justice, by way of thanking you—but there is something else you and your boys could do for me. And if I understand the argument I’ve been given by certain policemen, it would work to your own benefit, as well.”

  “Ah. you mean Capitano Rosalia.” said Garbarini. “He wants to blame us for the young
American’s death, not so?”

  “That’s what it looks like to me,” said Mr. Clemens. “Now, I'm as anxious as he is to find out who’s responsible, since she was a particular friend of Wentworth here.”

  “Yes.” said Garbarini. with a somber expression. He turned and put his hand on my shoulder, saying, “I see you with her in Cafe Diabelli. I am sorry she dies—I know you must be very sad.”

  “Sad, and very angry,” I said. Looking Garbarini in the eyes. I couldn't believe that he was responsible for her death. But the rational part of my mind knew that he would have said the same words, even if he were guilty. “I want the killer brought to justice,” I said. “If you and your friends can help me find him. I will be very much in your debt.”

  “So—we each have something the other wants, then,” said Mr. Clemens, setting his cup on the table. “That’s a starting place. But let’s make sure we all know what we’re asking for. You want Mark Twain to write something to tell the people about your cause. All right—I’m willing to undertake that. But don’t expect me to parrot your party’s platform. Because I can tell you, sight unseen, that I won’t agree with it—I’ve never seen anybody’s boilerplate I could swallow whole.”

  “Swallow boilerplate?” Garbarini looked puzzled for a moment, then laughed. “You would need the very good stomach indeed, signore. But I will promise you. we do not expect you to be the faithful parrot. Gonnella and I, we are poets—we know that the name means nothing if the heart does not come with it. You will write what you write, and we will trust you to be Mark Twain—the man who is not afraid to look Giuseppe Volponi in the face and tell him that the king is a thief.”

  “That’s the only terms I’d write on.” said my employer. “But let’s find out about the other half of the bargain. You say you can help find out who killed the girl—and stole the painting, too. Why should I believe you can do this better than Capitano Rosalia? He seems to be a pretty good cop when he isn't looking after his own ambitions.”

  Garbarini shrugged. “We want to find the one who did it, because if we do not, Rosalia and his men will continue to say that we are the killers, and use that lie to hurt us every way they can. By finding the true murderer we can take the blame from ourselves.”

  Mr. Clemens put his hand on the table between himself and Garbarini and said. “I believe that part. But wanting to do something ain't the same as doing it—if it was, I reckon you’d already be running the country, or letting it run itself, if you mean what you say about getting rid of government. What I want to know is, what're your qualifications for catching this killer?”

  Garbarini leaned his elbows on the table and looked my employer straight in the face. “Signore Clemens, I might also ask your qualifications for catching the killers you have caught—that news has come even to Italy. But here is my answer: The government has declared us criminals because of our politics—and by so doing, it has made us consort with thieves, counterfeiters, smugglers, and so forth. We understand their language, we know their meeting places, we travel in the same circles. If something is talked of by the criminals of Firenze, the anarchists will hear it. If someone has stolen a valuable painting and is trying to sell it, I think that we will learn of it before Capitano Rosalia and his agentes.”

  “Well, that makes more sense than most of what the police tell me.” said my employer, rubbing his chin. “It doesn't answer one important question…”

  “Whether we are the killers?” said Garbarini. He sipped his wine, then continued: “You have a big imagination, Signore Mark Twain—this is a compliment, if I say it of your writings, but perhaps it is not so good in this matter. Capisce? We draw attention to ourselves by coming forward to help—now you know who we are, and where one of our meeting places is. I do not think you will go home and tell Capitano Rosalia these things, but some of my comrades fear that you will.”

  “And I think you boys are smart enough to clear out of this meeting place and never use it again, once I’m gone.” said Mr. Clemens. “That's how I’d play it if I were you. But I see your point. We have to trust each other not to renege on this deal, even though sticking to it might mean betraying somebody else we have to deal with—in my case, the captain, in yours the crooks you do business with.”

  “You summarize it well.” said Garbarim. smiling. “We will trust you, and you will trust us. And we will do our best for each other. Because we both have something to gain as well as something to lose.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way,” said Mr. Clemens, now leaning forward in his turn, to look Garbarini in the eye. “Now, when can I go back home to write that article I promised?”

  For the first time, Garbarini failed to meet my employer’s gaze straight on. “There is a small problem.” he said.

  “A small problem?” I echoed him. “I don’t like the way you said that.”

  “Neither do I.” said Mr. Clemens. “What’s the catch?” Garbarini spread his hands in front of him. palms up. “If it is for me to say, you both go home right now. as you please. But it is not for me alone.”

  “Wait a minute,” snapped Mr. Clemens. He stood and pointed at Garbarini. “I thought I was doing business with honest men. Who says I can’t go home?”

  “Signore Clemens, nobody says that.” said Garbarini. His lean face was impassive, but he sat back in his chair as if he feared that my employer might become violent. After a moment, he continued: “You can go home at once, if you wish. We have someone to lake you to the tramvia, and from there you should have very little trouble.”

  “What?” Mr. Clemens peered at Garbarini as if he were examining some exotic creature. ‘Then what’s the problem you were talking about?”

  Garbarini’s face took on an apologetic look. “Signore Clemens, you are free to go, but I am afraid that Signore Cabot must stay with us a little while longer.”

  At this revelation. I confess I was speechless. However, Mr. Clemens more than made up for my lack of words. In the end, though, it did neither of us any good.

  19

  If you had told me, before I went to Italy, that I would spend most of a day with two Italian poets, eating, drinking. playing chess, and talking of whatever crossed our minds. I would have thought it a delightful prospect. Reality—waiting in a dingy garret while the anarchists finished moving their headquarters—was somewhat less attractive.

  Garbarini had explained the situation to me and Mr. Clemens as best he could, considering that neither my employer nor I saw the necessity for my staying behind. Both of us were willing to promise to keep the location of the anarchists’ headquarters secret until they had time to move, and to cover their trail. But from their point of view, the danger of exposure required more security; thus, my role was to act as collateral for Mr. Clemens’s discretion. While neither of us liked the arrangement, we had no choice but to accept it. Since they had already held him overnight, they saw no reason why I should object to a few more hours.

  To their credit. Bruno Gonnella and Giovanni Garbarini (I had learned their Christian names) did their best to make my captivity as comfortable as possible. One or the other of them stayed with me the entire time, keeping me well supplied with food and drink—and chess and conversation. And after a while, I was able to relax and enjoy my enforced idleness, and the chance to play chess against two expert players. After a dozen or so games. I had managed to defeat Gonnella twice, to stalemate Garbarini once, and to a draw by perpetual check once against each opponent. This, considering my previous record against these same players, could be taken as progress. Or it may have meant no more than that they had partaken more liberally than I of the wine.

  I tried not to indulge too freely in the wine, knowing that my situation might change without warning. If my captors had more sinister intentions than they had so far shown, if their superiors had a change of heart, I would need to have my wits about me. And so, while Gonnella and Garbarini continued to refill my cup whenever they saw it empty, I was careful that it did not become
empty too often!

  As the light through the lone window faded to dusk, Gonnella went down the ladder and returned with a loaf of heavy dark bread and a round of cheese, which we shared among us. It was a frugal meal, but a good one—the cheese was excellent, in fact—and in any case, I was hungry enough not to complain. The three of us washed it down with more wine—with food. I felt I could drink a bit more freely—the two Italians talking at a great rate in their own language, with occasional laughter—I could understand just enough to decide that they were speaking of painting, and of Raphael in particular. Annoyed at being left out of a conversation that might relate to the stolen painting, and more importantly to Virginia’s death. I frowned, and asked. “What's so amusing?”

  “I am sorry,” said Gonnella. “Is easy to forget you don’t know our language so well. We talk about the stolen painting. and Giovanni tells me your padrone Signore Mark Twain says he wouldn’t pay so much for a Raphael when he could buy a copy for much less.”

  “Yes. I’ve heard him say much the same.” I said. “He doesn’t put much stock in the old masters.”

  “Signore Twain has better reason than many connoisseurs,” Garbarini said. “Many Raphaels that cost thousands of lira are the copies, or the counterfeits. There are many artists in Firenze, and all over Italy, who do such work, and many dealers who sell it to Inglesi or… to other foreigners.”

  “Yes, I met one such,” I said, and told them of our visit, the day before, to the shop of Luigi Battista, after seeing where the frame of the painting—and Virginia's body— had been found.

  “We know that street,” said Gonnella. fingering one of the knights from the chess set. which we had pushed aside to make room for our dinner. Even in this cheap wooden set, the knights were hand-carved with an unusual attention to realistic detail. “Many artists live and work near Porta Pinti,” he continued. “Maybe twenty, twenty-five years ago, three painters asked the city to let them build their studios on some empty land there. The city agreed, and now the streets there are named for great artists—Donatello, della Robbia. Masaccio, and others.”