[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  ”Ah, the signoras.” said Lorenzo, leering more than usual. Then his face turned more serious, and he said. “I am a free man, and I would not change that. A man needs to make his own decisions, without someone to tell him always he is wrong or foolish. My sister Angela—don't mistake me, I love her like a sister—but she makes her poor man almost a prisoner. I could not live like that, I tell you.”

  “I didn't think I could, cither, until I met the right woman,” said Mr. Clemens, shrugging. “When you do, you find out you can give up a lot of so-called freedom if you get something that's worth more. Considering what I was doing with my freedom, it was a pretty easy trade.”

  Met the right woman. The phrase jerked my thoughts back to the topic I couldn’t escape: Virginia Fleetwood. For a while. I had thought she was the right woman for me—had even considered giving up my work with Mr. Clemens to share my life with her. Despite our falling-out after I rejected Stephens’s offer to become part of his business. I thought we still might have found some way to make a common enterprise of our lives. Now' that was impossible…

  Between the dim light inside the carriage, and the rhythmic motion of the wheels, I found myself in a sort of reverie, preoccupied with what might have been, and how I might have prevented Virginia's death. And so, while I was vaguely aware of the conversation between my employer and our guide. I was caught by surprise when the carriage door opened and I realized we had stopped. “Come on, Wentworth, we’re here.” said my employer. “Let’s go see if this painting’s what it’s cracked up to be.”

  I alighted from the carriage, and had just enough time to notice my surroundings—a cobble-paved courtyard enclosed by an ancient-looking wall of brownish stone, over which the top of a pine tree loomed against the gray sky— before Lorenzo hustled us through a battered wooden door. Inside, the smell of tomatoes and olive oil greeted us as we went quickly through a kitchen where an ample-bosomed woman with gray hair done up in a bun stirred the contents of a black iron pot. She ignored us.

  Lorenzo led us through a short, dimly illuminated corridor lined with cupboard doors, past a wider door through which I saw a dining room with a pair of large oil portraits hanging over the mantelpiece on the wall opposite: a young man and a woman in modem dress. One of the portraits caught my eye as we swept past. If the subject was who it seemed to be at first glance. I now knew where Lorenzo had brought us. But before I could stop to examine the painting. Lorenzo turned and said, “Come quick, signore” We followed him to a small dark room where the curtains were pulled. After a moment’s fumbling, he lit the gas. and I saw that we were in a storage room, with a number of unframed canvases in vertical slots in a kind of open cabinet—I had seen a similar arrangement at Battista's shop. An art dealer's or collector’s home, then, I thought. That was no surprise, considering what our business here was.

  Mr. Clemens took in the room at a glance, nodded, and said. “Where's the Raphael?”

  “Ah. I like a customer who comes to the point.” said Lorenzo. He stepped over to an easel in the center of the room. “Here!” he said, and pulled away the cloth covering it.

  I gasped. There was the portrait of a beautiful blonde with laughing eyes, in the costume of a late-Renaissance contessa. The frame was missing, but I had no doubt this was the very painting that had disappeared from Frank Stephens's home.

  “Not bad,” said Mr. Clemens. “I like that face, and those colors. Take a look at it. Wentworth—tell me if you think it’s the real thing.”

  “It is the real thing, have no doubt,” said Lorenzo, smirking. as I stepped forward to examine the painting. Of course, my expertise was largely imaginary. I knew something of art, from visits to museums in America and on this first trip to Europe, but that left a great deal for me still to learn. Presumably if I had taken the job with Stephens, he would have trained me in the fine points of connoisseur- ship. but for now I was left to my own resources. I stared at the brushwork. not quite certain how to evaluate it.

  “It looks genuine enough” I said, turning to Lorenzo. “I could judge better in natural light.” I pointed at the gas fixture, then at the curtained window. Of course. I had never seen the painting in any other kind of light, so opening the curtains would tell me nothing about it. but the question seemed reasonable. Besides. I thought a glimpse of the neighbors’ houses (or whatever lay outside the window) might provide some clue to our whereabouts.

  “I am afraid we cannot grant that request.” said Lorenzo, with a peremptory gesture. He turned to my employer. “Signore Mark Twain, when you went to Piazza Donatello inquiring about a Raphael for sale, you were thinking about this very painting, no? Perhaps you can understand why my principal is not so anxious for people to know that he has it to sell—especially not the meddling neighbors, who are curious about everything and do not know how to keep their mouths shut. But now you have seen the painting. Are you buying it or not?”

  “You haven’t told me the price yet.” said my employer. He leaned forward and looked again at the painting. “It looks pretty good. I'll admit. But I don't claim to know a lot about painting; that's Cabot’s job. I just know what I like. Maybe I can afford to like this one. and maybe I can’t.”

  “An authentic Raphael is not for sale every day,” said Lorenzo, rubbing his hands together and grimacing. “If you wish it, there will be no bargaining. My principal will not part with this for less than two hundred thousand lira.”

  My employer frowned, then turned to me. “What’s that in dollars, Wentworth?”

  I did a quick mental calculation. “Forty thousand dollars, sir.” Even that figure was astronomical, as far as I was concerned. If forty thousand dollars was the going price for an old master, perhaps I had made a mistake in turning down Frank Stephens's job offer.

  “That’s an awful lot of money for something to put up on the wall,” said Mr. Clemens, peering at the canvas. “I’d be better off buying a few hundred good chromos and papering the walls with ’em.”

  Lorenzo pulled himself up straight. “Signore. I must remind you; My principal will hear no bargaining over the price. If you are not interested in this painting, there is no shortage of serious collectors in Firenze.”

  “I’m not arguing over the price so much as trying to determine the quality of the goods.” said Mr. Clemens. “You swear up and down it’s the real thing, but you bring us here in a closed carriage, and you won’t let Wentworth have a look at it in honest daylight. What conclusion am I supposed to draw from that?”

  “Draw what conclusions you will,” said Lorenzo, picking up the cloth cover he had removed from the painting. He began to drape it over the canvas and turned to look at us. saying. “If you are not going to buy, I do not think we need to waste any more of our time today.”

  “Not so fast, I haven’t ruled anything out,” said Mr. Clemens, stepping forward and raising his hands. “But I’m not used to pulling forty thousand bucks out of my hat. Can you give me a couple of days to get my hands on the money?”

  Lorenzo stopped with the cover partway over the canvas and looked at Mr. Clemens. “I cannot promise the painting will still be available by then.” he said. “My principal has no reason to prefer your money to anyone else’s. He is quite firm about getting his price, and as quickly as possible. If someone else offers the full price…”

  “What if I could give him a down payment?” said Mr. Clemens, interrupting. “I can raise ten thousand bucks by tonight, and bring you the rest by Saturday “

  “Signore Twain, we don’t do business that way.” said Lorenzo, with a patronizing chuckle. “We have something you want—not so? If you want it badly enough, then you will meet our terms. If you do not like our terms, there are others who will buy it.”

  “Damn it, I can raise the money if you’ll give me forty-eight hours.” said Mr. Clemens, slamming a fist into his palm. “I may even be able to get it by tomorrow afternoon. I’m talking about American money—gold dollars, not the funny stuff they use around here. Do yo
u want to do business or not?”

  “I will convey your offer to my principal,” said Lorenzo haughtily. “If it is acceptable to him, I will let you know. But do not delay. Signore Twain. If someone else appears with money in his hand, he will take the painting away with him. And now, if you do not mind, we will convey you and Signore Cabot to your home again.”

  Lorenzo rode back to Villa Viviani with us, no doubt to ensure that we would not attempt to peek out of the carriage windows to learn where we had been. Perhaps because my employer had not opened his pocketbook and dealt out forty thousand dollars, our guide was relatively subdued on the ride home—at least, in comparison with the ride out. Even so, he and Mr. Clemens managed to find enough subjects for conversation to keep the silences from becoming uncomfortable. For myself, I had plenty to think about.

  At last, our carriage entered the courtyard at Villa Viviani again, and we sent Lorenzo and his driver on their way in his own carriage. And, despite his earlier protestations of not being able to wait for Mr. Clemens. Lorenzo promised to get back in touch the next day to see if we had managed to raise the money. And then, with a wink and a smirk, he hopped back into his carriage and drove off.

  Mr. Clemens and I stood side by side, hands on hips, and watched it go. Then, before I could say anything, he turned to me and said. “So, it looks as if we've hooked our fish—how are we going to haul him in?”

  “The money ought to bring him back,” I said. “You aren't really going to raise forty thousand dollars, are you?”

  “Not hardly,” he said, wincing as if I’d suggested a visit to the dentist. “If I could get that kind of money overnight. I’d spend it on something more important than paintings of pretty Italian girls—like paying a few creditors. I hope our friend Lorenzo doesn't learn my real financial situation, or he's likely to slip the hook on us.”

  “Oh. I think I know where to find him.” I said smugly. “Or at least, I know where to find the Raphael, assuming they don’t sell it before the police get there.”

  “Aha, so you’ve been playing Sherlock,” said Mr. Clemens, grinning. “Well, come on inside and let me in on your discovery. I’m about ready for a drink. See if you can find Maggio, too—maybe he can help us decide what to do next.”

  I followed him into the front entrance, where we quietly closed the door and peered around. Maggio wasn’t in sight, but the butler appeared—for once, at least, alert to our arrival. “Is Agente Maggio here?” asked Mr. Clemens.

  “No, signore, he left right after you did.” said the butler. That was good news. I thought; perhaps he had trailed us, after all. I congratulated myself that I would be able to surprise him with word that I had already learned where we had gone.

  My employer shrugged. “Never a cop around when you really need them.” he said. “Well, when he gets back, send him up to my office. We need his brains in this business, too.”

  Upstairs in the office. Mr. Clemens went over to the mantelpiece where a whisky bottle sat, and poured a couple of lingers into a glass. He handed it to me. then poured himself a similar dose. We raised our glasses, took a sip, and then he turned to me and said. “Well, Battista got his claws into that painting quicker than I thought he would. I wonder if he stole it himself, or if he’s just fencing it for the real thieves?”

  I was thunderstruck. “How did you know it was Battista’s house we were in?” Of course, it was the same conclusion I had come to myself. It had been the little artist's portrait I had seen through the open dining-room door—a second glance on the way out had been sufficient to confirm my initial speculation as to the subject's identity.

  My employer shrugged. “It wasn't too hard, if you know how to add two and two together. I calculated that it took just about as long as when we'd driven with Maggio into that part of town, which is where a lot of the art dealers live, anyway. And from the quick look we got of the back entrance, I saw we were in town, not out in the country. The house obviously belonged to a successful dealer, and that points to Battista, as well.”

  “Very good deduction.” I said. “Still, most of that is true of any of the dealers at Piazza Donatello, not just Battista. What convinced you that it was his house we were in?”

  “Oh. he was the one dealer who recognized me when I was asking about buying a Raphael, and Lorenzo did know my name—so it made sense he was Battista’s agent. But I think what clinched it was when I saw Battista's name on a label attached to one of the paintings in that cabinet.” said Mr. Clemens, with an impish grin. “I thought that was a pretty good indication. What clues did you pick up?”

  It was lucky for him. right that instant, that I still had two fingers of good Scotch whisky in my glass, or I would undoubtedly have flung it at his head.

  “All right. Battista has the stolen painting.” I said, after I had regained my equanimity. As I had plenty of reason to know, it was difficult to stay angry with Mr. Clemens for very long. “What should our course of action be?”

  Mr. Clemens smoothed his mustache, thinking. “A good question.” he said. “It depends on whether or not we think he's the killer, and I don’t know what to think about that.”

  “Of course he’s the killer.” I said vehemently. “The frame of that painting was found next to Virginia's body; the robbery and the killing must be connected.”

  Mr. Clemens shook his head. “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean Battista did it. or even that he knew about it when he got the painting. He could be fencing it for somebody else, remember?”

  “Nonetheless, he’s an accessory to the crime,” I said bitterly. Now that I knew Battista was selling the painting. I was impatient to see him brought to justice. “I don’t see why we don't just tell Agente Maggio or Capitano Rosalia, and let the police do their job.”

  “That would be the easy thing to do, wouldn’t it?” said Mr. Clemens, staring at the scotch in his glass. He was silent for a long moment, swirling the amber liquid.

  Just then, there was a knock on the door, and it opened to reveal the butler. “Signore Wentworth, a man is here to see you.”

  “Who is it?” asked my employer. He looked first at the butler, then at me.

  “I’m not expecting anyone.” I said, rising to my feet.

  “He doesn’t give his name, but he says to give you this,” said the butler. He handed me a small carved wooden object; I looked at it and then held it up for Mr. Clemens to see. It was a knight from a chess set.

  “Oh-ho, that’s a different story,” he said, nibbing his hands together. “Bring the man on up, and don’t let anybody else see him.”

  A few moments later, the butler ushered in Giovanni Garbarini. wearing a winter coat and muffler, and holding a large floppy hat in his hand. Garbarini's eyes grew wide as they took in the office and its large shelf full of books. Mr. Clemens indicated a chair next to me. and the chessplaying anarchist took a seat. “Like a drink of whisky?” said my employer. “Or I can get you wine, if you’d rather.”

  “No, grazie. Signore Clemens,” said Garbarini, unbuttoning his coat. “I come to bring you some news, to show we keep our side of the bargain. But I should not stay long, with the polizia watching this house.”

  “And you want your wits about you when you leave,” said Mr. Clemens. “Unlike the other night, if I can believe my secretary’s story about what went on. Tell me—who set the place on fire?”

  “It was not my party that did it.” said Garbarini. “We had removed all our documents, so there was nothing left to hide. Besides, the place belongs to one of our friends. Why would we do something to hurt him? We might need his help again, and now he will be less willing to give it.”

  “Besides, you’d get damn-all help from me if you burned up Wentworth.” said Mr. Clemens, peering closely at the man sitting opposite him.

  “We were trying to escape.” said Garbarini, lifting his chin. Then he turned to look at me. “Signore Wentworth, we don’t know the police are to be shooting, and we don’t know they come with fire. If we know t
his, we wouldn’t have left you there. I am glad you were not hurt.”

  “I was pretty certain you didn’t set the fire,” I said. “For one thing. I couldn’t imagine you leaving behind your chess set if you knew the place was going to bum down. Which reminds me—you’ll want this back.” I handed him the carved wooden knight he’d sent up as a calling card.

  “Ah, grazie,” he said, smiling. He put the chessman in his coat pocket, then said. “Is hard to play without all the pieces. But I come to give you news. Just this morning, I and some friends are eating, and a man comes who says he knows of a Raphael painting for sale. From what he says, the one who sells the painting wants to sell it fast. I think this is the stolen painting you look for.”

  I said. “That’s all very good, but…”

  Mr. Clemens held up his hand and gave me a meaningful look, and I fell silent. “Yes, that’s good,” he said. “Do you know the seller’s name, or where the painting is?”

  “He didn’t say the seller’s name, no.” said Garbarini. with a shrug. He held out a hand, palm up, and explained. “People who trade in these things, they don't like to give names. Names make it too easy for polizia to find them.”

  “I understand that,” said Mr. Clemens, leaning his chin on the back of his hand. “Still, the man you talked to must have given people some way to get in touch with the seller, if they wanted to buy the painting.”

  “Si, that is what I come to tell you.” said Garbarini. with a grin. “A man who wants to see the painting must go to a certain cafe near the Uffizi. and look for an artist with a paint box. who sits on the terrace outside…”

  I sat up straight in my chair. “Wait a minute.” I said. “That’s Cafe Diabelli!” That reminded me that I had seen Lorenzo at the cafe, although I didn’t remember him with a paint box. He didn’t dress like most of the artists I had seen…”

  “Cafe Diabelli, that is what I thought when he said it,” Garbarini said, nodding. “Is not wise for me to go there, with the guardia looking for me. But if you go there and find this person. I think you find the stolen painting—and maybe you find the man who kills the poor American signorina. too.”