He shook his head. “You can’t write off the evil so cleanly, Wentworth” he said. “That’s why I’m not impressed with a fellow who can hang a pack of Raphaels on his wall for a dinner party. First I want to know what he did to get ’em. But I guess I can find that out on Saturday, as well.”
“Yes. and you will behave yourself. Youth.” Mrs. Clemens said very firmly.
“Why of course,” said my employer, a look of surprise on his face. “Whatever gave you the idea I might do anything else?”
Not surprisingly, the Cafe Diabelli group was excited at the news that Mr. Clemens would be among the dinner guests.
“That's the icing on the cake,” said Bob Danvers. “I’ve seen loads of Raphaels before, in museums and galleries, better stuff than Frank's got. But shaking Mark Twain’s hand isn't something a fellow gets to do every day.”
“Well. I’m glad he’s decided to come out of his shell.” said Mrs. Atwater. She took a sip of her wine and soda water—she'd long since given up trying to teach the Italian cook at Diabelli's to brew tea to her specifications—and continued: “I can understand he's got books to write, but one would think he'd need human society, as well. A writer who loses contact with the world won't have much to write about.”
“I don’t think Mr. Clemens has lost contact with the world.” I said. “He’d claim just the opposite.”
‘That the world's lost contact with him?” said Virginia, smiling. “That would be quite a problem. I'd think.”
“Yes, especially if they stop buying his books,” said Danvers. “Then you’d be out a job. old boy.”
“Well, that'll be a moot point soon enough.” said Eddie Freeman. “Cabot’ll be back in Boston, overseeing the gallery… say, what’s that fellow doing? Isn’t that your bicycle. Bob?”
I followed his gaze to a spot across the street where I’d gotten in the habit of tying up the bicycle while in the Cafe Diabelli. It was in plain view of the terrace where our group gathered, and so I considered it safe. Sure enough, there was a little fellow with dark hair and a huge mustache leaning over the bicycle I was renting from Danvers. I stood up and shouted. “Leave that alone, you rascal.”
“Hey, that’s my bike!” said Danvers, rising to his feet at the same time. “Ladro, ladro!”
The fellow started as he heard the shouts, then bent to his task with renewed vigor. Cursing now, Danvers vaulted the low wall between us and the street; I was right behind him. but the thief had the bicycle loose and was already in the saddle. I put on a burst of speed to try to cut him off before the comer, but Danvers had taken the same line, and (he next thing I knew, the two of us had fallen in a tangle in the street. I hopped up almost at once, but the thief was rounding the comer, his left hand raised in the two-fingered salute I had come to recognize as a signal of contempt. “The bastard's gone.” said Danvers, coming to a halt beside me. “I’d have had him if you hadn't gotten in the way.”
“You tripped me” I snapped. I had fallen hard, and skinned the palm of my left hand catching myself on the paving stones. At least I had managed not to tear my jacket or trousers.
“We’ll never catch him.” said Danvers, staring at the comer the thief had gone around. Then he turned to me with a scowl and said. “You owe me money, old man.”
“Yes. of course.” I said, staring down at my palm. “I’m bleeding, hang it all.”
‘To hell with that. I’ve lost my bike.” said Danvers, with more hostility. “You should’ve left it someplace safer.”
“Safer! It was in plain view, right across the street. I’d have caught him if you hadn't tripped me.”
“You owe me a new bike,” insisted Danvers. He struck a belligerent pose, as if he were ready to fight me.
“Here, here, both of you calm down.” said Mrs. Atwater, who stood just inside the terrace wall. “The bike’s gone, and you won’t get it back by arguing with each other. Come on back here and we'll figure out what to do next.” Danvers nodded and dropped his fists, and we both turned back to the terrace. We climbed over the low wall and took our seats again. I looked at my injured hand; I would have to find some way to clean it. For now. I dabbed at it with a napkin, hoping to get most of the dirt off. “We should call the police.” I said.
Eddie Freeman guffawed. “There’s a waste of time,” he said. “I doubt there’s anything less interesting to an Italian policeman than the theft of a foreigner’s property. Unless he stands to benefit personally from it, of course.”
“I understand that they accept bribes.” said Heinrich Muller, a German art student who was one of Frank Stephens’s freelance copyists. He had a very earnest expression. emphasized by his high forehead and thick spectacles.
“They do. but that won’t do much good with a stolen bike,” said Eddie, shaking his head. “Even if the thief isn’t the policeman's cousin, you’d have to pay more than the bike’s worth to get them interested. You might as well go buy another—or go look around the flea markets and see if you can get this one back cheap. I guess the rascal will sell it for ten or twelve lira, enough for a few drinks. You may be able to get it back for twenty-five, if you're a sharp bargainer.”
“That's not coming out of my pocket.” said Bob Danvers, still hot under the collar. “Cabot owes me the money, and I want it without a lot of nonsense.”
“I don't carry that much around with me.” I said. “But how about letting me see if I can find a replacement? Then you'll get back a bike. I’ll apply what I pay for it against the rent, and we’ll both be no worse off than we were. If I give you the money. I’m still going to have to find a ride into town.”
“You’d buy one. and give it to Danvers?” said Eddie Freeman. “Lord. I thought I’d seen everything in the world, but that’s a topper.”
“It’s the fair thing to do.” I said. “Or at least to try. If I can’t find a decent bike for less than what I’d owe Bob, then I’ll just give him the money and start riding the tramvia.”
“What if you buy some piece of trash?” Danvers objected. “That wasn’t a cheap bike, you know.”
“Don’t worry “ I told him. “I’m the one that has to ride it. so it’s my neck I'm risking if it breaks down.”
“He’s got a point, you know,” said Eddie Freeman. “The worst that can happen is you get enough to buy a new bike—or pay the rent and buy meals for a couple of weeks. I’m still waiting to get paid for the work I’m doing, so one of us needs to bring in some money.”
“All right.” said Danvers grudgingly, “I’ll give you until Monday next week—that ought to be long enough to find a bike. If you haven’t got one by then, or if I don’t like the one you get, you owe me what it costs to replace the stolen one.”
“Done.” I said. We shook hands on it. and the conversation turned to other subjects.
I intended to find a replacement bicycle immediately, but as it turned out, my time for the next few days was not my own. Mr. Clemens received a large package of galley proofs in the mail from England, and for a while everything else took second place to reading and correcting them. With no need to go into town. I had nothing to remind me of the stolen bicycle, and so of course by Saturday my bargain with Bob Danvers was still unfulfilled. I thought I would still have the weekend, and if I couldn’t find a suitable replacement bicycle by then. Bob would have to understand. As far as I was concerned, my commitment to my employer overrode my private business.
Mrs. Clemens joined in the work—my employer always called her his most trustworthy editor—and despite her delicate health, worked well past her usual bedtime. This made the work go faster, and she proved her worth by catching a number of printer's errors that escaped both her husband and me. Alas, this dedication had a price—by Friday afternoon. she was beginning to look fatigued, and by Saturday. she had a nasty cough. It was evident she had come down with a full-blown winter cold. Nor was she alone in her affliction—little Jean, the youngest Clemens daughter, was in bed with the same illness.
Whe
n Mr. Clemens realized that his wife was ill, he began to talk of canceling the dinner engagement. “Well, Livy, we’ll just have to let Wentworth describe the pictures to us,” he said to his wife. “Nothing Raphael ever painted is worth taking you out to catch your death of pneumonia.” His tone was jocular, but it was obvious he was concerned for her.
Mrs. Clemens would hear nothing of it. “We haven’t seen a soul but each other since we came here.” she said. “It’ll be good for both of us to get out and meet some local people. And I do want to see the paintings. Besides. Youth, you need a break from work as much as I do. We can come home right after dinner, if it gets to be too much.”
And so, my employer agreed to attend the party despite his better judgment—or so he claimed. I thought he was in fact as eager as his wife to be out and about, but he let concern for her health override his own preference. In any case, late Saturday afternoon, the three of us climbed into the carriage and set out for Florence, to dine with Frank Stephens and his other guests, and to admire his Raphaels.
There was a light mist, threatening to turn into a drizzle, as we left Villa Viviani, and so we traveled with the carriage’s top up and the windows covered. While the weather was nowhere near as severe as what one would expect back home in New England this time of year, there was enough chill in the air for all of us to put on topcoats. I had heard that occasional light frost and even flurries of snow were not unknown in this part of Italy, but we had seen neither one to date—a damp chill was the worst Tuscany had shown us. Still. Mr. Clemens grumbled about the weather, saying. “If I’d known we were due for London fogs. I might as well have stayed in London.” Remembering the climate there, I was not inclined to agree with him.
Our destination was in the Oltramo—the section of Florence on the south bank of the Arno, and so our driver took us down from the plaza of Santa Croce to a road skirting the river embankment as far as Ponte Vccchio. where we crossed over to the south side. I got occasional glimpses of ancient buildings as we passed—there were few people on the streets this evening—and there were several gloomy vistas across the river, flat gray and showing nary a ripple today. Had I not seen it under far brighter skies. I might have drawn the conclusion that Florence was a dreary, forbidding city. And Mrs. Clemens’s cold had acted as a wet blanket both on her spirits and on those of my employer. I hoped the atmosphere at the party would cheer them both up.
Frank Stephens’s residence was a modest palazzo dating from the early eighteenth century—almost a modem structure, by Florentine standards. At a glance, the gardens were pleasantly laid out. but the weather gave us no leisure to inspect them; we hurried inside and delivered our coats to a tall, hawk-nosed servant, who spoke English with a trace of accent. “Signore Stefans expects you.” he said, motioning us toward a broad stairway. Above. I could hear the sound of voices in animated conversation, and a warm light at the top of the stairs invited us to ascend and join in the merriment.
Halfway up the stairs, Mrs. Clemens (who was leaning on her husband’s arm) stopped and began coughing. Her husband looked at her anxiously, and I paused to see if I might be of assistance to them. Hearing footsteps at the top of the stair, I turned to see Frank Stephens descending to meet us. a look of concern plain on his face. “Hello.” he said. “Can I be of any help?”
Mrs. Clemens shook her head, but continued coughing. “She’s got a bit of a cold,” said Mr. Clemens. “I didn’t want to bring her out. but she insisted.”
“Well, now that you're here, I hope you can come upstairs,” said Stephens, turning to Mrs. Clemens. “You can sit by the fire if you’d like, and I think we can get you something warm to drink—something good for that cough, anyhow.”
“I’ll be all right,” said Mrs. Clemens, but her weak voice belied her. “Let me rest for just a moment. Are you Mr. Stephens? Thank you for the invitation.”
“I’m honored to have you. Mrs. Clemens, and your illustrious husband.” said Stephens. “I’d apologize for the weather, except I don’t take any responsibility for it.”
It took a few moments for Mrs. Clemens to regain enough strength to climb the rest of the way to the second floor and I could see how worried my employer was. His wife had a history of heart trouble, and while it normally did not interfere with her activities, the incipient cold had weakened her. After getting her settled in a seat by the fire, he turned to me and said in a low voice. “I don’t know how long we’ll be able to stay, Wentworth. I’d be a lot happier to get her home in bed.”
“Just say the word, and I’ll go have the carriage come around front.” I said. “But I think she should regain her strength here by the fire for a little while—it can’t be good to take her right back out into the damp again.”
“You’re right,” he agreed, frowning. “But try to keep an eye on the weather—it’s bad enough to take Livy out in the fog and drizzle, but a downright soaking would be even worse for her.”
I nodded my agreement, then looked around and saw that we were in a large rectangular room paneled in light wood—oak, I thought, or maple. The ceiling was high, and a big crystal chandelier full of brightly burning candles gave the room a warm glow. At the opposite end from the fireplace, a group of musicians were setting up in a corner—a string quartet. Stephens had clearly made a considerable effort to impress his guests.
Along the walls, and on two or three movable screens at the end of the room away from the fire were hung an impressive selection of paintings, many by the Florentine masters of an earlier era. At first I was stunned at how much it must have cost Stephens to acquire such a treasury of art; then I recalled that buying and selling art was his stock in trade, and that many pieces were on temporary display, destined for some wealthy collector in America. Or perhaps Stephens hoped to entice some of his guests tonight to make an offer for them.
In the corner farthest from the stairway were the Raphaels. Stephens had set two large floor candelabra along the wall to shed additional light on the paintings, and several guests had gathered to examine them. Seeing that my employer and his wife were settled for the moment. I strolled over to take a look for myself. Two of the paintings were clearly a matched pair of portraits; a sharp-chinned gentleman and a rather plain lady in the formal dress of the early sixteenth century, both looking rather stem and ancestral. These two canvases were of modest size—perhaps two by two and a half feet—but the workmanship and the presence of a good quantity of gold in the costumes and ornaments indicated that the original owner had paid a good price for them. While I cannot pretend to be an expert, I thought that any museum would have been pleased to have either of them in its collection.
But it was the third painting that caught the eye. a young woman of exceptional beauty, a striking blonde in a light blue gown, her hair flowing free, and a touch of mischief in her eyes. The artist had captured her for the ages. I thought; and while the other two were undeniably the work of a master, this one lit up the room. One wanted to hear her speak, to hear her laugh—to spend an hour gazing into her brilliant blue eyes. I almost thought I knew her. she seemed so alive here—but she had no doubt gone to her grave three centuries before I was born. I wondered who she had been, and what her history was—perhaps Stephens had learned some of that from her former owner. I would have to be sure to ask him.
“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” murmured Jonathan Wilson, noting my interest in the third painting. “That’s the one Stephens says I can buy, if I've a mind to. I’m trying to decide how much the master did himself, and how much is apprentice work. The face and hands are his, of course. But the rest—I suppose I ought to get it looked at, but damn me if I’m not almost ready to buy it on the spot, before somebody else snatches it up “
“I envy you the opportunity.” I said, keeping my own voice low—it felt as if we were in a museum rather than in someone’s parlor. “If my budget could stretch that far, she’d be on my wall this evening.”
“Yes. I quite agree. This is quite a discovery for Stephens. I
must say—but he seems to have a nose for the old masters. Perhaps he’ll let you in on the secret, and you can do as well.”
“Perhaps he will,” I said, somewhat uncomfortably. While I still had not refused Frank Stephens’s offer of a position in his dealership, I had pretty much decided to remain with Mr. Clemens. I simply had not found an opportune moment to tell Stephens my decision. I would have to do so without much more delay, but tonight was not the proper time for it. Unwilling to pursue the subject. I excused myself and returned to Mr. and Mrs. Clemens, who were still seated by the fire.
Despite my employer’s worries, the fire and a cup of hot tea with honey seemed to have revived Mrs. Clemens’s spirits. The musicians had begun playing, too, a sprightly piece I thought might be by Haydn; it lightened the mood of the whole room. Mrs. Clemens's color had returned somewhat to her checks, and she smiled bravely at the other partygoers, several of whom had come to inquire about her—and. not at all incidentally, to introduce themselves to her husband.
Among the group was Virginia Fleetwood, very striking in a wasp-waisted dark green dress with a pearl choker. Her strawberry-blond hair was topped with an elaborate pearl- studded comb in a sort of Spanish style. Her eager glance and bright smile raised my spirits, which I now realized had been low, no doubt from a combination of overwork, bad weather, and anxiety over Mrs. Clemens’s condition. But now I was beginning to feel in a mood for the party, and I was glad to see that my employer’s wife was showing more energy.
After a few words to Mrs. Clemens. Virginia turned to my employer and said, “What a pleasure to meet you. Mr. Clemens! I have been enjoying your books since I was a little girl.”
Mr. Clemens raised his eyebrows and said. “Why, that must be all of seven or eight years ago. You can’t be more than fifteen, young lady.”
Virginia laughed and blushed. “I am afraid it is a bit more than that, but I will claim a woman’s prerogative regarding the exact figure. In any case, we are honored that you and your wife were able to join us. Mr. Cabot has told me so many interesting stories about you.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler Page 6