[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

I took a sip of my own drink, then shrugged. “1 know him as a very strong chess player,” I said. “He beats me more often than not, but I enjoy the game. I think I learn something every time we play.”

  “I used to know a fellow like that,” said Mr. Clemens. “He was a Mississippi River pilot—George Haler. I haven’t thought of him in years. A good pilot. He played the flute, and he played chess—I don’t think I ever beat him. Well, I’d have beaten him sometimes, except that every time I had him cornered, he’d take back his last move and find another way to win.”

  “That’s not playing fair,” I said, laughing. “I didn’t know you played chess, though. We’ll have to try conclusions over the board some time.”

  Capitano Rosalia sat up straight in his chair, with a sour expression. “Signore Clemens. I have a very distinct feeling that your old friend was not the only one not playing fair,” he said. “You have not yet given me a satisfactory explanation of your whereabouts the last day and a half. You disappeared from Cafe Diabelli in the midst of a riot between radicals and patriots, and were rumored to have been taken hostage by anarchists. In fact, your wife was very worried about your absence. And yet this afternoon, Agente Maggio tells me that you came home on foot, claiming you had visited a friend overnight in the city.”

  “Yes, I believe that’s what I told him,” said Mr. Clemens, lounging back in his chair. “I ran across the fellow right after that fight in the cafe. He didn’t have a telephone, so I couldn’t call and tell Livy—of course, we don’t have one here, either, so it wouldn’t have done much good. But I sent a local boy with a written message. I didn’t know until I got home that it hadn’t gotten here. The little brat probably spent the lira I gave him on candy. I wish you hadn’t told Livy that stuff about anarchists kidnapping me, though. The last thing I wanted was for her to worry about me.”

  “This friend of yours will corroborate your story?” Capitano Rosalia's smile had no trace of warmth to it. “You can direct us to his residence?”

  “Oh. I’m afraid he’s left town.” said Mr. Clemens blandly. “That’s why it was so important to visit him last night, you see. He wasn’t going to be around much longer, so we stayed at his boarding house. I think he was on his way back to America.”

  The captain drained his drink—there wasn't much left— stood up. and stubbed out his cigar. “My friends, I suggest you think about today’s events, and about who your real friends are. Tomorrow, when you have reflected, we will talk some more. I remind you, there are dangerous men abroad in Firenze, men who killed your Miss Fleetwood. Perhaps with this in mind you will wish to reconsider your answers.”

  “I haven’t forgotten Miss Fleetwood.” I said, “and I appreciate your good services to me today. But you’re right; I’m in need of rest, after all that happened today. Thank you again, Capitano Rosalia. I'll talk to you in the morning.”

  “Good night, signori,” said the captain, bowing to us. Mr. Clemens showed him to the door, and returned. He picked up his cigar, which had burned down to a short stub, gave it a regretful look, and took one last puff before extinguishing it in the oversized cut-glass ashtray where Capitano Rosalia’s cigar butt already rested. Then he turned to face me.

  “Well, Wentworth.” he said, “you were telling the captain about eighty percent lies—I know, because I was there for a fair bit of it. What I don’t know yet is why. I reckon you better give me the whole story.”

  “Yes, sir.” I said. “I’m not certain of this, but I suspect that my ‘rescue’ from the police interrogator was prearranged, to make me more willing to talk to the captain. For one thing, they spoke English the whole time—on purpose, I think, to make me see Rosalia as a friend.”

  “Yes, and the timing was mighty convenient, wasn’t it?” said Mr. Clemens, nodding. “I wonder if Agente Maggio didn't manage to trail you to the anarchists' hideout, after all. Or maybe the cops knew where it was all along, and just didn’t have a handy excuse to raid it.”

  “I don’t mind their raiding it,” I said. “But to come in with guns blazing, and to set the place on fire—that was more than I can forgive. They might have killed me. Or Garbarini and Gonnclla. Whatever their politics, they don’t deserve to be shott…” I was going to go on about freedom of speech, but Mr. Clemens held up his hand to stop me.

  “Wait a minute, Wentworth. You don’t know it was the cops who torched the place,” said Mr. Clemens. He leaned against the mantelpiece and shook a finger at me. “It makes just as much sense to think the radicals did it, to keep the cops from getting evidence there wasn’t time to move away.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, turning partway around to face him. “If it was the anarchists. I’m almost certain Gonnella or Garbarini didn’t know about it.”

  My employer smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Why, just because they treated you all right up until then?”

  “No, because they told me to wait there when they left.” I said. “I think they’d have warned me to get out, if they knew their comrades were about to set the place afire. And one small thing, but it seems significant to me—I don’t think they’d have left their chess set to be burned up. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but those two are passionate about the game. I think they’d have grabbed the set if they knew there was going to be a fire.”

  “Hmmm—you may be right about that,” said Mr. Clemens, pacing back and forth. “It’s not absolute proof, but it rings true to human nature. But tell me this. Why would the cops try to bum the place down if they expected to find evidence there?”

  “For all I know, they put out the fire as soon as I was out the door.” I said, drumming my fingers on the arm of my chair. “Where they started the fire, there was nothing but bales of unused paper. I see the difficulty, though. The fire might have spread faster than they’d planned. Or I might have panicked, and then they'd have had to send somebody in to rescue me. So maybe it wasn't the police who set the fire. But I still don't think Gonnella or Garbarini had anything to do with it.”

  Mr. Clemens sat down opposite me and picked up his drink again. “Well, you were the man on the spot, so I've got to give your opinions due weight” he said. “Still, we’ve got to play ball with Rosalia on the murder investigation—even if his claim that the anarchists did it is pure moonshine. I feel the same as you about that—he's letting that idea color everything he sees. Maybe he’s doing it because it’s what his bosses have told him to do. I can’t tell; he’s smart enough to tell sense from nonsense, but you could say the same of many another man who’s fallen for some swindle or another. I have a better feeling about that Maggio—I think he’s more honest than Rosalia, at least as far as saying what he thinks and to hell with official policy.”

  “I like Agente Maggio. too.” I said. “But I'm not sure we can trust him, either. He does have to follow orders, and those come from Rosalia—or Rosalia's superiors.”

  “Right again.” said Mr. Clemens. “So we’re back on our own. as far as finding the rat who killed that girl. We’ll just have to find our own clues and figure out what they mean without help. Speaking of which, did you learn anything useful before the place went to blazes?”

  “One thing, at least.” I said, and I told him about the two men’s distrust of the art dealers on Piazza Donatello. “That fellow Battista seems especially shady,” I said. “They told me he often cheats both the artists and the customers on the same transaction. I wonder if he was candid with you because he recognized your face, and thought he could flatter you that way.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said my employer. “It’s a good bet that the thief took the painting up to that neighborhood to fence it to one of the dealers, whether it was Battista or not. But we still don’t know what the girl was doing there, unless she saw the thief taking the picture, and followed him up there. But why wouldn't she tell Stephens, instead of going out alone at night, to a strange part of town, to follow a criminal? I didn't get the sense she was the reckless type.”


  “Brave, but not reckless.” I agreed. “More likely, the thief took her hostage to prevent her from exposing him. then went to an isolated place and murdered her.”

  “Maybe, maybe.” said Mr. Clemens. He stood up and walked over to slosh some more brandy into his coffee cup. then turned to continue: ‘That makes more sense than the damn-fool anarchist plot the captain keeps trying to peddle, anyhow. Although I suppose we could be wrong about that, too.”

  “You saw Gonnella and Garbarini.” I said. “Did they strike you as cold-blooded killers?”

  “No. but you can’t always tell that.” said Mr. Clemens. “There was a fellow who’d killed twenty-six men by the time I met him—Slade, his name was, a division agent on the Overland Trail back in the sixties. It was worth your life to cross him, for he’d been known to shoot a man over a glass of whisky, and never give him a chance to defend himself. I knew his reputation. Hell, I was in mortal fear the whole time I was with him—but he was the most mild-mannered fellow I ever sat at a table with. He could've been a Quaker for all the trouble he gave me.”

  “Well, I suppose I could be wrong about Garbarini and Gonnella.” I conceded. “But if they were looking to murder me, they had all afternoon to slit my throat or knock me on the head—and they didn't. Unless something happened I don’t know about, they had no reason to change their minds.”

  “The police raid might be reason enough,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I reckon if they’d wanted you dead, they’d have killed you before they left the place. Instead, they left you with a fair chance to get out on your own. If they were caught by surprise, they might not have had the chance to get back to you. Still, I don’t like their setting the place on fire.”

  “And I still don't know for certain it was they who did it.” I responded. “In any case, I’m safe home, and there’s an end to our alliance with the anarchists. I doubt they'll be able to fulfill their own part of the bargain, in any case, with the police hot on their trails.”

  “You mean looking for clues to the murder?” said Mr. Clemens. “Well. I don’t know how much we’d have gotten out of them, anyhow. Maybe their contacts in the underworld are as good as they say, but they may not be so willing to pass on what they’ve learned. If the professional crooks learned that the anarchists were informing on them, they’d shut them out in a minute. I wasn't much counting on their help, anyway.”

  “Ah. so your offer to write an article defending them was never serious.” I said. This somewhat relieved me: 1 thought it rash for a visitor in a foreign country to take up the pen in support of an outlawed political sect. And in any case, whatever my personal opinion of my chess opponents, their politics seemed the pinnacle of lunacy to me.

  “Oh, I was dead serious.” my employer said, his eyebrows raised. “I’m still going to write it. As a matter of fact. I’ve got a first draft already done—I started it while I was at their place, and finished when I got back here.”

  My mouth fell open in amazement. “Are you pulling my leg again?” I said. There was nothing in his expression to indicate a humorous intention, but I knew that my employer had long practice at telling the most absurd lies with a straight face. “Their central tenet is to abolish government, and anyone can recognize the folly of that. Besides, their long record of assassinations and bombings gives the lie to their peace-loving rhetoric. What can you possibly say in their favor?”

  “Not so much in their favor as against the government’s.” said Mr. Clemens quite placidly. “It’s bad enough that Italy’s gone and given themselves a king, and all the other claptrap of royalty. But now they’re doing their level best to adopt all the worst traits of the older monarchies, right up to sending their army to seize colonies in Africa and enslave the natives. At least the anarchists and Socialists are willing to call it by its right name, which is theft and murder. That’s why the government is sending the cops to suppress them. And if they’re not being allowed to tell the truth, then somebody else has got to do it. It might as well be me.”

  “And what if they decide to suppress you?” I asked. “Capitano Rosalia seems a pleasant enough fellow, but I’m sure he can be as ruthless as anyone when it's to his advantage—or when he’s given direct orders to do so. I suspect that his rescuing me at the jail this evening was a charade, and I don’t like to think what might have happened if he’d decided I needed to be taught a lesson.”

  Mr. Clemens raised his chin. “I know the dangers, Wentworth.” he said. “Myself, I’m willing to take my chances. But old Francis Bacon was right as rain—no man with a wife and family can take on a corrupt government without thinking about what could happen to them. I’m not going to leave Livy and the girls exposed to danger. Before I publish anything that could cause trouble for them, I’ll make sure they’re good and safe in some country where the government doesn’t owe Italy any favors. For that matter. if you’re worried about your own safety, I’ll send you away, too. It’s one thing to take that kind of risk myself, but I’m not so arrogant as to subject somebody else to it without his consent.”

  “I’ll stick with you, sir,” I said, even though I’d seen enough in the Italian jail to know what I might be facing if the authorities decided to use me as a lever to put pressure on my employer.

  “I figured you’d say that, Wentworth.” said Mr. Clemens. He walked over and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘That’s one of the things I like about you—you aren’t afraid to stand up to a bully. But I don’t want you to be reckless about it, either. If you find yourself in hot enough water that you want to change your mind, I’ll understand—hell, maybe you’ll make me change my own mind, if I'm being enough of a fool. Don’t think you have to jump in front of a bullet, just because you said you’d stick with me.”

  “I appreciate your saying that, Mr. Clemens,” I said, looking him in the face. “But I’ve got a job to do—and not just for you. Whoever killed Miss Fleetwood is still at large, and I mean to do whatever I can to track that murderer down and see that he pays the penalty for his crime. If that means exposing myself to personal danger, it's a small price to pay.”

  “I can't say I’m sorry you feel that way.” said Mr. Clemens, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “But I think we’re going to need more than courage to solve this puzzle. We’ve been going over the same ground again and again, and getting nowhere. Let’s sleep on it, and sec if we can come up with some fresh ideas in the morning. Today has been way too various for my taste, and I reckon you’ve had more than your share of fun, too.”

  “I wouldn’t put it in quite those words, sir,” I said, standing up. “But I’m not about to contradict you. either.” I returned his smile, and then we drained our drinks and went upstairs to our beds.

  21

  I slept like a log, despite my midnight dose of coffee and brandy; the brandy must have trumped the coffee, or perhaps I was just so tired the coffee made no difference. Still, I was up by eight o'clock, and when I came downstairs to the breakfast table, I found Mr. Clemens there before me. His plate—the well-cleaned bone of a beefsteak and several rinds of toast still on it—was shoved to one side, and his coffee cup sat half-full next to his elbow. He was writing. “Good morning, Wentworth!” he said, looking up as I came in. “Have the cook get you some breakfast, and then come help me figure this out.”

  I went through the swinging door into the kitchen and found Agente Maggio sitting on a stool by the stove, a thin book in his hands. He looked at me over his spectacles as I came in and said, “Ciao, Signore Wentworth. Is good to see you back at home.”

  “What on earth are you doing here?” I said, somewhat heatedly. “Haven't you done enough by sending the police with guns and torches to harass me? I’m surprised Mr. Clemens let you in the door.”

  “It was Signora Clemens let me in,” said Maggio equably. He put the book down on the counter next to him, and stood up. “But I don't send the police after you, yesterday, because I don't know where you are.”

  “I don’t believe that,�
� I said. “The police came in firing their guns, set the place on fire, and took me to the station like a common criminal. Then your captain very conveniently showed up, just in time to prevent their interrogator from whipping me. I’m sure it was done on purpose, to frighten me into talking to the police. This isn't the way you treat an American citizen.”

  “I don’t know how the capitano finds out where you are, because I don't tell him.” said Maggio, shrugging. “When I leave the cafe, I come right back here, and stay until after dark. You ask Signorina Clara—she talk to me a long time. She speaks very good Italian. Signore Clemens comes home to eat. and I come back to the kitchen to wait until night, when I go home. You ask the cook—he can tell you I was here.”

  I was taken aback by the carabiniere’s answers—if he was not telling the truth, he was a much smoother liar than I had given him credit for. But I thought I saw a loophole in his story. “If you came right back here, how did the police know where I was staying? You must have followed me there, or told somebody else to follow me.”

  “I don’t know what place you went to.” said Agente Maggio insisted. “But stop a minute—don’t you think the guardia know where these people have their meetings? They watch them all the time, not just yesterday. They don’t need me to tell them where you are.”

  I thought a moment and said. “You must have known I was going off with Garbarini, though. If your captain considers him and his group so dangerous, why didn’t you inform him of where you thought I was going?”

  Maggio smiled. “I have my own mind,” he said. “Giovanni Garbarini looks me in the eye when he comes in the cafe, and I stare back at him, very serious. But he acts like he doesn’t worry—and he would worry if he’s the one that kills the signorina. He knows my face. So I decide to watch what happens. Then he gives you that piece of paper; I think it must be a message from your padrone, and so I let you go with him. I come back here, and when Signore Clemens comes home. I think everything is good. Nothing to tell Capitano Rosalia.”