“We’ll look into that.” said Mr. Clemens. “This is good work, Giovanni. To tell the truth. I was worried you might not want to help us—considering that your hideout got raided just after I left.”
Garbarini nodded again. “Some of the brothers thought maybe you tell the guardia, but Bruno and I tell them it is not so. You wouldn’t leave Wentworth to be burned up, any more than I leave my chess game. We have plenty enemies, we don’t need to go look for more.”
“I know how that feels.” said Mr. Clemens. “But for some reason. I keep making more enemies, anyhow. I reckon I'll have a few good ones before we’re done with this business.” He took a sip of his whisky, then looked up and added. “Assuming we all live to see how it comes out, that is.”
Garbarini didn’t seem to find this the least bit amusing; and I must say, neither did I. But before either of us could respond, there was a knock at the door. Mr. Clemens signaled to me to answer it. I opened it a crack, and saw the butler standing there. “Excuse, signore.” he said. “Capitano Rosalia is here and wishes to see Signore Clemens at once. Shall I bring him up here, or will you meet him downstairs?”
23
When he heard the butler’s announcement of who had come to visit, Mr. Clemens stood up. “Capitana Rosalia, eh?” he said, glancing in Garbarini’s direction. “I reckon I’ll meet him downstairs.” He began moving toward the door.
Garbarini quickly said, “Signore Clemens. I know you are worried that the captain finds me here. But if there is some good hiding place I can hear you talk with him. I want to listen. Perhaps I will learn something.”
Mr. Clemens nodded and signaled for the butler to wait. “Sure. I reckon I owe you that much,” he said to Garbarini. He looked around the room, presumably for somewhere for Garbarini to eavesdrop on the police, but there was nowhere a person could easily be concealed. He frowned and said, “Damn, where can we hide you7’
“That will not be necessary, my friend.” came a voice from the doorway. We all turned to see Capilano Rosalia standing there, both hands braced against the doorway. Behind him I could sec Agente Maggio. and peering over their shoulders, the flustered-looking butler.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” said Mr. Clemens, his voice an angry hark. “Nobody invited you upstairs.”
“This is not your America,” said the captain of carabinieri. stepping into the office. “Our police are not bound by the same rules, and that is a good thing in my opinion. But Signore Garbarini has nothing to fear from me today. He will walk away from here as free as he came—I promise him this.” He lifted up a hand as if swearing an oath.
“What?” Mr. Clemens and I said it almost in unison, while Garbarini stared at the policeman in utter disbelief.
“It is true.” said Capitano Rosalia. “Garbarini, you may leave at this very moment if you so desire, although I think it might be to everyone’s advantage if you stay for a few minutes.”
“I don’t understand,” said Garbarini. with a suspicious frown. “What you want from me?”
“The same thing Signore Clemens wants,” said Capitano Rosalia, waving his hand to indicate my employer. “Information to help us find the man who stole the painting and killed the young woman. You came here to talk about that, no?”
“If that is all you want, you are welcome to it.” said Garbarini, shrugging. He repeated the story he had told us about the man with the paint box at Diabelli’s.
“Ah, that is interesting, but we are one step ahead of you,” said Rosalia, with a satisfied smile. “This is what I come to tell Signore Clemens. We have recovered the stolen painting!”
“Recovered the painting?” echoed Mr. Clemens. He stared a moment, then said. “Wonderful! Sit down and tell us all about it. Would you like something to drink?”
“I think not, today; I have many things to attend to before evening.” said the captain, sliding into the chair my employer had indicated. “But it is very simple. An informant brought us word of a man offering stolen art for sale, late last night. This is our advantage over any private party, Signore Clemens—we have a network of sources that no single person could match. After checking that the information was reliable, we sent out a team first thing this morning and recovered the painting—although the thieves managed to escape us.”
“First thing this morning?” Mr. Clemens raised his brows and cast a quick look in my direction; I shrugged. In that instant he must have decided not to tell the captain about our own discovery—for it seemed impossible that this could be the same painting we had seen. “That’s very interesting.” my employer continued smoothly. “What part of town did you say this was in?”
The captain raised his own brows in return. “I did not say, but since you ask, it was in the Ollramo—not very far from where Signore Stephens lives. In fact, Maggio and I took the painting directly back to him so that he could verify that it was the one stolen from him.”
“I see,” said Mr. Clemens. “Well, it’s a shame you didn’t catch the thief while you were at it.”
“We search for him,” said Capitano Rosalia. “Perhaps Garbanni's information will be useful in that regard—although looking for an artist with a paint box at Diabelli’s is like looking for a priest near il duomo—there will be no shortage. Still, we will send an agent to visit the place and see what he can discover.”
“A good idea,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon Stephens is glad to have his picture back, but you can bet your hat he’ll be even gladder to see the murderer caught.”
“Yes, one would think so,” said Rosalia, wrinkling his brow. “Indeed, he did not appear quite as happy to have the painting back as I would have expected. No doubt you are right that he awaits the capture of the murderer.”
“Well, he’s got lots of paintings, but he only had one sister-in-law,” said Mr. Clemens.
“That is correct.” said the captain. “Alas, we cannot return the young lady as easily as we did the painting.”
“All the more reason to put all your efforts into catching the murderer.” said Mr. Clemens, standing up. “And now. Captain, unless you have other questions for me… ?”
“I think not.” said the captain, standing in turn. “As I say, we have a busy day ahead of us. We will let you know our progress in finding the killer, and my thanks for your help so far. Signore Garbarini. my thanks for your help, as well. Perhaps you and I can become allies, after all.” He bowed to us, and took his leave as Garbarini watched him, openmouthed.
But Agente Maggio did not leave. Instead, after following his superior downstairs, he came back to the office and leaned on the doorjamb, staring directly at my employer. “Signore Clemens, we need to talk,” he said.
“I reckon so!” said Mr. Clemens, standing up. “Come on in and set down. I tell you, I was sitting there wondering whether you were going to pull the rug out from under me while we were talking to your captain. Why didn't you tell him what we did this morning?”
“I don’t know what to tell him,” said Maggio, taking the chair next to Garbarini. “He sends for me right after you go away, so I don’t get to learn what you learn from Lorenzo—and since you don’t tell the capitano, I figure you don’t want him to know it. so I keep quiet. But now I think you better tell me. and I can decide what Capitano Rosalia needs to know.”
Mr. Clemens raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Well, if we’re working together, we need to play straight with each other. Here’s what we saw…” He gave a circumstantial account of our trip with Lorenzo, his offer to sell us the stolen Raphael, and our belief that these events had taken place in the home of Luigi Battista, the art dealer.
“That story is very interesting.” said Maggio. rubbing his chin. He had listened in silence as Mr. Clemens spoke, his eyes following my employer as he paced across the room while telling the story. “But with my own eyes I saw the Raphael that was recovered, and I heard Signore Stephens say it was the one that was stolen. Now I have to say, somebody is not tell
ing the truth, and I don’t know who it is.”
“’Tain’t me,” said Mr. Clemens. “We saw that Raphael the night it was stolen, and Lorenzo showed us the same painting today—I’ll eat my hat if it wasn’t the same. But if Rosalia recovered it early this morning, it couldn't have been at Battista's place when we saw it”
My jaw dropped. “There must be more than one Raphael,” I said. “That seems impossible, but…”
Mr. Clemens came to a halt and spun around to face us. “Not impossible if there’s some dirty dealing going on,” he said. “What does it mean if there are two Raphaels'?”
“Two?” asked Garbarini. “I think it may be three!”
“Then some of them are fakes,” I said. “But the original painting hasn't been stolen long enough for even Battista to paint a convincing copy, has it?”
Agente Maggio slapped his hand on the desk. “Here is what I think,” he said. “The false Raphaels could have been painted before the real one was stolen.”
“I don’t follow you,” I said. “How could that happen?’ But Mr. Clemens let out a low whistle. “Maggio's on the right track,” he said. “Maybe the old count Stephens bought it from had a copy or two made before he sold it— to remember his ancestors by, maybe. Or Stephens could have asked one of his artist buddies to do a copy of it, so he'd have a record for insurance purposes.”
“Yes, I seem to remember his saying something like that right after it was stolen,” I said, thinking back to the morning when the theft had been discovered. “Eddie Freeman had been doing the copy, I think, and Stephens was going to show it to the police to help them identify the original.”
“I see what the trick is,” said Garbarini. who had been following the talk with interest. “When the true painting is stolen, the one who has the copy offers to sell it, pretending to have the original. Is very clever, and the buyer does not ask hard questions, thinking he buys the stolen goods.”
“Yes, that’s the kind of thing I was thinking of,” said Mr. Clemens. “So, the question is, who’s got the original? Is it the one Stephens got back, or the one we saw at Battista's?’
“Battista is a known forger, so his must be the counterfeit.” I said. “Besides. Stephens wouldn't be fooled by a copy of a painting he owned.”
“You wouldn't think so,” said Mr. Clemens. “Hmm—I'm still not sure we've got all the angles figured. How long does it take somebody like Battista to run off a good copy? It's more than just a couple days’ work, isn’t it?”
“I’d think so.” I said. “I'm no painter, though. We need to ask an expert about that.”
Mr. Clemens clapped his hands together so abruptly that I jumped at the noise. “That’s the ticket, Wentworth! Let's invite Battista over here to tell us about fakes—and drop a broad hint just which fake it is we’re talking about. We’ll get our answer straight from the horse’s mouth—and look him in the eye while he’s giving it. I reckon I’ll know whether he’s telling us the truth or not.”
“That's all very good.” I said. “But what’s to keep Battista from declining the invitation? Or from refusing to answer our questions, once we get him here?’
Mr. Clemens had an answer for that. “I reckon the way to get him here is to send somebody he can’t ignore to deliver the invitation,” he said. “Somebody big. with a uniform on.” He looked over at Agente Maggio, who was sitting quietly. “How about it. Maggio—can you help us out?’
Maggio nodded. “I do it,” he said slowly. “You want me to bring him back with me, or just give the message?”
But before Mr. Clemens could answer, Garbarini frowned and shook his head. “You send the carabiniere, Battista runs away instead of coming to see you. Is what he would do if he thinks he is caught. Better you don’t talk about police until he is here and can’t get away.”
That sounded logical to me. “I think I should be the one to go.” I said. “I’ll tell him we want his expert opinion before we spend our money—I think I can play the part well enough to lure him in. He’ll think we’re ready to buy the painting, and try to convince us that he’s selling the real thing. Once he gets here, then we can bring out Agente Maggio if we think it'll make him talk.”
Mr. Clemens slapped his hand on his thigh, and said, “I’ll be damned, you two chess players are a move ahead of me. That makes a hell of a lot more sense than my idea. Sure, that's the way we'll do it—give him a few yards of rope, and see if he hangs himself.”
Garbarini made a face. “If he is to be hanged, he will have to do it himself. We have done away with that in Italy. In that, at least, we are a civilized country.”
“I’ve seen one hanging, of a rotten scoundrel who deserved to die if anyone ever did.” said Mr. Clemens soberly. “And if I could abolish hanging forever. I would. But there are times—whoever strangled that poor girl…” His voice trailed off. and he shook his head grimly.
Garbarini muttered something under his breath, but raised no overt objection, so I leaped in and turned the talk back to the previous subject. “Good. I’ll go deliver the invitation.”
“For tonight, after dinner, let's say.” said Mr. Clemens. “And Agente Maggio. I hope you can be here to play your part in this little show.”
“I will be here.” said Maggio. “The captain told me to stay, in fact, until he is certain he has captured the murderer.” He turned to me with an apologetic gesture. “Signore Wentworth, I am afraid he still thinks you might be the one who kills her.”
“As long as you don't think so,” I said. “I promise you. I'll be the happiest man in Florence once the real murderer is discovered and punished.”
“All the more reason to get cracking, then.” said Mr. Clemcns. “Head on over and see if you can lure Battista into our parlor. The sooner we can start asking him questions, the sooner I think we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
24
Giovanni Garbarini was also headed back into the city, so we walked over to the tramvia station together. The footpath followed the crest of a hill that gave us a fine view of Florence to the west. There were a few purple clouds around the sun. but the sky above the city had cleared up. and I thought we should have a clear day tomorrow. Perhaps it would be a bit warmer, as well—there was still a trace of winter in the air.
For a while, we trudged along and surveyed the scenery, but it seemed awkward to walk together in silence, and I said, “I hope you and Gonnella escaped from the police raid without any hurt.”
“None except to have the headquarters burned down.” he said. He kept his hands in his pockets; I had noticed that he had no gloves. “We can replace the things we lost. It will cost the man who owns the building much money to rebuild it. though, and to replace his printing press. That is why the polizia did it, of course. He is a good friend of our movement, and they want people to think it is not safe to befriend us. I hope it will not change his heart, but it cannot be easy for him.”
“I don’t understand your police.” I said. “On the one hand, they do something like that. But on the other. Capitano Rosalia comes all the way out to Settignano to tell us about finding the stolen Raphael.”
“Perhaps it is a trick.” said Garbarini. raising an eyebrow. “Maybe the capitano tells us they find the painting so he can see how we act. If so, I think we disappointed him. What makes me curious is, the capitano was not surprised at the news I told him—from which he might learn there are two Raphaels for sale in Firenze. If we can guess that, why can’t he? Or does he already know it and pretend not to?”
“That is a very interesting point,” I said. We had reached the tramvia stop by now. and I could see the cars approaching a short distance away. It was perhaps twenty minutes before the next scheduled tram, and I thought this must be the previous one, arriving late. In all my time in Italy, I had never seen a public conveyance arrive anywhere on schedule. I turned to Garbarini and said, “After I talk to Battista, perhaps I’ll go to Diabelli's and see if the other fellow is there. I suppose he might have been
arrested by now, though.”
“If he learned that the police had seized the stolen painting, he would leave the cafe before the carabinieri came for him.” said Garbarini. “I don’t think this is a good day to be selling stolen art in Firenze.”
“You’re right.” I said, and then the tram arrived in the station, and the half-dozen other passengers waiting for rides pushed forward to board. Garbarini and I joined them and soon we were on our way. Once aboard the noisy tram it was hard to talk, and so we said little until I left the car at Piazza Beccaria. a short walk from my destination. Then Garbarini clapped me on the shoulder and said. “We play chess again, my friend!”
“Yes,” I said. “And the next time. I’m going to win.” I stepped off the tram and waved to him as it pulled away. When it was gone. I walked across the tracks and followed Via Principale Eugenio north to Piazza Donatello.
When I entered Battista's shop I was met not by the little artist, but by an imposing woman—tall, with long hair and striking features, and dressed in a wild costume—something like what I imagined a gypsy dancer might wear. “I have come to see Signore Battista.” I said. “Is he here today?”
“Luigi not here today.” she said in a husky voice. “I am Angela—you want to buy something. I can sell you. What you want to see?”
“Actually, my business with Signore Battista was personal.” I said. “Do you know when he will be back?”
“He goes into the city, there all day,” she said. “You want to leave message, I tell him.”
I had no idea whether or not this woman knew of the conspiracy to sell the stolen painting, and thus I was reluctant to relay my message through her. But I said. ‘Tell him that Mark Twain would appreciate a visit from him this evening, to discuss a business matter. We are most anxious to see him—here is the address.” I gave her Mr. Clemens's card.
[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler Page 26
