[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler
Page 27
“I don't know when he gets home.” she said again, taking the card and putting it on the counter. Then she put her fists on her hips and looked at me for a moment, sizing me up. After a moment, she nodded and said. “If you go looking for him, try Cafe Diabelli—maybe he still there. Is near Uffizi. on Via—”
“Ah, thank you very much,” I said. “I know the place quite well. I will look for him there.” And I turned and left the shop.
I found myself whistling as I walked back toward the tramway stop, to ride the rest of the way into Florence. Now I was certain I knew the answer to one question that had been puzzling us. It must be Battista himself who was at Diabelli’s. hawking the counterfeit Raphael.
I wondered if Stephens would be there. After a moment’s thought I decided it would be better if he weren't. At least, I wouldn't have to decide whether to tell him what Battista was doing right under his nose. I’d had my share of moral dilemmas the last few days, and I was not in the mood for still another.
Diabelli's was crowded when I entered. Volponi was reading aloud from a dog-cared manuscript, with extravagant gestures; Pietro and his minions were darting between tables, bringing food and drink to their patrons; the odors of coffee, pipe tobacco, and good food filled the air. In one comer, somebody was strumming softly on a guitar. And at the tables against the back wall, there were three chess games in progress, and a handful of spectators awaiting their turns. Just walking through the door was enough to give me a jolt of energy, as if someone had connected me to an electrical wire. Coming into the place on a brisk spring day, I remembered why I had liked Diabelli’s so much when I first saw it. I had been afraid it might remind me too much of Virginia, but to my surprise I found that I was glad to be back.
I was tempted to play a game of chess, just to see if my marathon session with the cafe’s two uncrowned champions had done anything to improve my game. But my mission for Mr. Clemens came first. I looked around the room for Battista—or for his clandestine agent, Lorenzo—but saw neither one. Perhaps I would find my quarry out on the terrace, where many of the artists were wont to congregate around Stephens's table. I pushed through the doors and stepped outside.
As I had expected, there was a good-sized group around the tables usually occupied by Frank Stephens, although he was not present this afternoon—no surprise, so soon after Virginia's funeral. Nor was Battista among those present, much to my disappointment. Nonetheless, there were plenty of familiar faces. Eddie Freeman and Heinrich Muller were there, engaged in animated discussion over some pencil drawings that lay on the table. Penelope Atwater and Jonathan Wilson sat side by side, drinking wine and sharing a plate of roasted peppers and anchovies. At a nearby table Sarah Woods sat tete-&-tete with a young Italian violinist she had introduced to the group—Basile was his name, if I remembered correctly. Somewhat to my relief. Bob Danvers was also among the missing. I should be able to approach the group without encountering the overt hostility he had displayed toward me recently.
“That face just isn’t right,” I heard Freeman say. “There's something about the expression—nobody’d ever draw a face that impertinent-looking in the quatrocento…”
“You are wrong.” said Muller, shaking his finger at the bigger man. “A Saint John of Fra Angelico with the identical expression I will show you in the Boboli palace. Because it is old, it does not mean it is without life…”
“Good afternoon,” I said, stepping up to the table and addressing myself to Jonathan Wilson, who seemed to be playing the role of host in Stephens’s absence. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Certainly not.” said Wilson amiably. “Good to see you. Cabot. Pull up a chair, we’ve got some wine—I’ll have Pietro fetch you a glass.”
“Thanks.” I said, taking a chair from a nearby table and sitting down across from him. I was inwardly relieved that Wilson, at least, was ready to welcome me back into the group. I didn’t know how many of them shared Bob Danvers’ belief that I was responsible for what had happened to Virginia. “I can’t stay long,” I said, “but I guess I’ll have a drink before I head home. It’s been a busy day. and likely to stay so through the evening.”
“It’s been busy all around.” said Wilson, leaning forward with a confidential air. “Did you hear the news?”
“What news?” I said. “I’ve been so tied up in Mr. Clemens’s business. I’ve barely had time to draw a breath before now.”
“The police have found that Raphael,” he said, with the air of a man playing a trump card. “They took it to Stephen’s place just before noon, for him to verify that it was the stolen one. I can’t wait for him to come here and tell us the story.”
“That’s wonderful news!” I said, trying my best to appear surprised. “Did the police catch the thief?”
“I hear the fellow got away,” said Wilson. “As best I understand it, they’d gotten word that it was being offered for sale by somebody down in the Oltramo—curiously enough, not that far from where it was stolen. They broke into the place this morning, but the seller made his escape by a back door.”
“A shame.” I said. “Odds are the thief is the one who murdered Virginia, as well. I wish they’d caught him.”
“Well, there’s no way to know if this man was the thief,” said Wilson. “More likely it’s just a middleman, selling the painting and giving the thief a share of the price. That’s the usual routine with stolen goods. I understand.”
“It makes sense,” I said. “Well, now that Stephens has it back, you’ll have another chance to buy it.”
“Perhaps.” said Wilson. He took a sip of his wine, then sighed. “Until the piece is authenticated, I'm not certain I’d pay what Stephens was asking.”
“Authenticated?” I asked. Without knowing it, Wilson had hit on the exact question Mr. Clemens and I had been pondering. “Why, is there some doubt about it now?”
Wilson grunted. “Enough to make me think twice about laying out the money, anyhow. The man the police say was selling it is a known forger of old masters. So there’s a chance this is a copy, not the original. Although I can’t see how somebody could turn out a decent copy on such short notice. At least, not one good enough to fool Frank Stephens.”
“Ah, I understand your caution,” I said. Just then. Pietro passed the table and Wilson signaled to him. The waiter nodded, and soon returned with a glass for me. I filled it from the bottle on the table, then said to Wilson. “Thanks for the wine. By the way, I wonder if you’ve seen Luigi Battista today. I was by his shop looking for him, and the woman in charge said he might be here.”
“Ah, that would be Angela.” said Heinrich Muller, chuckling. “I don’t know what Battista sees in her—she has a temper like a mad hornet. Did she sting you, my friend?”
“No, she was moderately civil to me.” I said. “But that’s neither here nor there. Has Battista been here?”
“Not today,” said Wilson. He took one of the roasted peppers on his fork, lifted it halfway to his mouth, then looked at me with a curious frown and said. “If he comes in. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. though. What do you want with that old forger, anyhow?”
“Mr. Clemens is thinking about investing in a painting, and he’s got the same worry you do, whether it’s genuine,” I said. I took a sip of my wine, then twiddled the stem of the glass in my hand before continuing: “He likes to get his opinions from the horse’s mouth, and since Battista is a leading, ah, copyist of old masters, he thought he’d ask him to examine the piece for him.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief.” said Penelope Atwater briskly. “It’s a good theory, but you’d best be careful the thief you’re setting doesn’t rob you himself.”
“Aye, there’s the rub.” said Wilson, chuckling. “Old Luigi pretends to be honest, but you need to watch him like a hawk. What sort of painting is Clemens buying, anyway? From the way he talked at Stephens’s party. I didn’t take him to be the sort of chap that’d be in the market for art.”
“Well, there's a first time for everything.” I said. I took another sip of wine—it was excellent, as usual—and went on. “In fact, it was the Raphaels at Frank Stephens’s party that piqued Mr. Clemens’s interest. He was rather taken by the one that was stolen, in fact.”
“Well, if the Raphael turns out genuine, I hope he won’t start bidding against me.” said Wilson.
“Perhaps he will.” I said. “I can’t always predict what he’ll do once he gets an idea into his head.”
“That must make it… amusing to work for him,” said Wilson, with another chuckle. “But he wouldn’t be the first man I’ve gone head-to-head with for a painting I like. If he wants that Raphael, he’d best be ready to open his purse strings—I’ll promise him that, no two ways about it.”
Eddie Freeman leaned his elbows on the table and said. “If you fellows are so determined to spend your money on art, why don’t you give it to somebody who needs it? Right here you’ve got an artist who can paint you anything you've a mind to see. I’ll set up my easel and start right in on it, for half of what you’d pay for something from one of those rascals who's dead and in his grave three hundred years.”
I laughed. “I think Mr. Clemens would agree with you,” I said. “But, speaking as someone who's already on his payroll, I think he'd want you to set a more reasonable price.”
“Reasonable?” Eddie scoffed. I could tell now that he’d had his share to drink; his voice was slurred and his eyes didn’t seem to focus very well. “I can do anything the old masters could do—I’ve studied them all. Ask Frank when he gets back—I can do Botticelli. Titian. Leonardo—the only difference between my stuff and theirs is that mine is better. Why should you buy an old painting with fading colors and chipping paint when you can get a bright new one? Ninety-nine people out of a hundred couldn't see any difference between them if you stuck their noses in the wet paint.”
“Well, that’s a blamed good question, Eddie,” said Wilson. “You’ve got a good eye and a good hand, from what I’ve seen. But it isn’t the ninety-nine who set the prices; it’s the one percent, and one percent of that, who insist on the real thing and can afford to pay what it’s worth.”
Eddie reached—somewhat unsteadily—for his wineglass, and knocked back the contents. Then he leaned forward again and pointed at Wilson. “The one percent of one percent aren’t as smart as they think.” he said. “Luigi Battista’s been selling fakes for years.” He turned to me. “Don't put too much faith in old Luigi—he’d sell his mother's eyeteeth for hard cash. He’d as soon trick you as walk across the street.”
“Maybe he is a trickster.” I said. I tossed back my own glass of wine and stood up. “But perhaps Mr. Clemens can keep him honest. In any case, if he comes by here, please give him my message. He’s welcome at Villa Viviani this evening. And let him know that time is of the essence, will you, Wilson?”
“I’ll tell him if I see him.” said Wilson.
Penelope Atwater tossed her head. “If you can’t find him. I'm sure you could get one of us to look at the painting,” she said. “Jonathan is an excellent judge, and I fancy I've a rather good eye, if I say so myself. Or perhaps Eddie or Heinrich would be willing to do it—they’re both experienced copyists, you know.”
“Best not ask Wilson.” said Muller. “If he thinks it’s real, he’ll tell you it is false and snatch it for himself!” Everyone laughed, although Wilson’s face turned red and his laughter seemed forced.
“Thank you for the suggestion.” I said. “I’ll pass it on to Mr. Clemens—but I think he’s already made up his mind to use Battista.”
“If you let Battista in the house, watch out he doesn’t steal the silver.” jeered Eddie Freeman. There was another round of laughter, but I was on my way out, and saw nothing to be gained in responding to Freeman’s gibes.
Back at Villa Viviani, I reported my apparent lack of success to Mr. Clemens. He nodded and said, “Well, we didn’t give him much notice. Maybe he’ll get the message, and if he does, maybe he’ll come. Or maybe not—these Italians don’t worship punctuality the way we Yankees do. It must be the hot weather—people are the same way down South, back in America. All we can do is wait and see if he shows up. I guess.”
I stood looking out the window at the courtyard—empty, this time of day. “Yes. I suppose there’s always the chance he had a previous engagement, too. We can’t expect everyone to drop all their appointments just because we want to see them.”
Mr. Clemens grimaced. “Hell, that’s true even in America. For me. it’s truer now than it used to be, since I lost my money. I used to think people were interested in me for myself—for my talk, for my ideas, for my accomplishments. But when I didn’t have the money to set a fancy table with seven courses and the best champagne, a lot of my friends—not all of them, mind you, but some I expected better of—discovered previous engagements when I asked them over! It’s a mighty humbling experience, Wentworth. Lord, how it'll open a man's eyes. Carnegie and Rockefeller ought to try it.”
“Perhaps you should write them a letter proposing the experiment,” I said. I drummed my fingers on the window-pane, then turned to look at him. “You're beginning to sound like an anarchist yourself, you know?” I said. “Have you been working on that article you promised them?”
“Pretty near finished it,” he said, leaning back in his chair and stretching. “I don't expect they'll like everything I say, but I didn’t promise them that. They’ll like most of it. and they ought to have known beforehand what kind of horse they were buying.”
“I suspect that as long as the byline reads ‘Mark Twain.’ and it isn't an outright attack on them, they'll consider it an asset,” I said. “They can't have won many respectable supporters.”
“Oh. they have their share.” said Mr. Clemens. “There’s a ready market for almost any kind of political nonsense, if you wrap it up pretty enough. I hear tell old Leo Tolstoy has been promoting some mighty strange ideas lately, for example. And he's more or less sensible, compared to some of his countrymen. But that’s no more than you'd expect, given the government they’ve got to live under.”
“I suppose so,” I said. I sat down on the broad windowsill and continued. “The more I see of other countries, the gladder I am to be an American.”
“We don’t do everything right, but we do have a few important things figured out,” he agreed. Then he threw a glance toward the clock over the mantelpiece, and said, “But it’s almost time for supper. Let’s go join Livy and the girls.”
At the dinner table, all the Clemens daughters wanted to talk about was the discovery of the painting—and the puzzling appearance of a second copy of it. Little Jean could barely contain herself when she learned that we had invited Battista to visit us. “Is he the murderer?” she demanded, nearly jumping out of her chair. “Can we see him when he comes?”
“Certainly not!” said Mrs. Clemens. “Besides, the man might not even come tonight.”
“That's right,” said my employer, helping himself to a warm roll. “But I don’t see any reason not to let the girls see Battista when he comes. Livy. If I act as if I trust him— bring him to meet the family and do all the normal things I’d do for somebody visiting my home—then he’s likely to talk more openly when we do get down to business. I doubt we’re in any danger from him.”
Mrs. Clemens’s face turned hard and she shook her head to signify her opposition. “Miss Fleetwood was perhaps twenty-five—not very much older than Susy is. And there is a very good possibility that Mr. Battista was the one who murdered Miss Fleetwood. Or have you abandoned that theory. Youth?”
Mr. Clemens picked up his wineglass and leaned back in his chair. “If you’d seen Battista, you might have your doubts about him being the murderer. He’s a little banty rooster of a fellow. He’d have a tough job overpowering a healthy young woman, in my opinion. Of course it’s not impossible—but it’s not the way I’d see him murdering somebody. With a dagger, maybe, or with a pistol…”
My employer got an impish grin. “Now. Livy, I shouldn’t have to remind you that Wentworth here has been a suspected murderer at least twice since I’ve met him. and he comes from one of the best families in New England. Why, he’s even been arrested twice. Watch what you say, or you’ll hurt his feelings.”
All three Clemens girls began to giggle, and I opened my mouth to protest—it hardly mattered what I said, since I knew Mr. Clemens would take it as pretext for another impertinent remark. I knew, by now, not to take his gibes seriously—they meant that he considered me one of his inner circle, and therefore a proper subject for wit. But before I could object to having two false arrests held against me, the door burst open and in came Agente Maggio. He was breathing heavily, as if he’d been running, but his face was white as a sheet.
“Signora Clemens. I ask your pardon for interruption.” he said. “Signori. come with me—I have very bad news.”
Mr. Clemens stood up at once, exclaiming. “What the devil? Excuse us. Livy, but we’d better see what this policeman wants.” His wife nodded her assent—obviously distressed at the interruption—and I arose to follow them.
As we hurried out the dining room door. I heard little Jean’s voice behind us saying. “Can I come?” and her mother’s sharp hiss of admonition. Then we were in the hallway, and Mr. Clemens stopped and said. “All right. Maggio. what's the trouble?”
“Very bad trouble.” said Maggio. “Luigi Battista is outside, not far from here. He is dead.”
“Dead!” Mr. Clemens and I said the world practically in unison. Then Mr. Clemens asked. “How?”
The carabiniere's face was distraught. “Signore Clemens. the body looks to me as if he was strangled.”