“Of course not.” said Mr. Clemens, sitting back down in his chair and picking up his glass. “But most cops I’ve seen would rather lock up the first suspect they find than let people think they’re stumped by an important case. I don’t know whether you’ve paid any attention to my doings the last year or so—I’m not quite a household name, here in Italy. But solving murder cases has turned into one of my sidelines. Maybe Cabot and I can give you more help than you’d expect.”
Capitano Rosalia spread his hands and shrugged. “Signore Clemens, if you had been on the carabinieri as long as I have, you would expect no help at all with a case involving foreigners. If this affair follows the customary pattern, the American consul in Firenze will soon send me a message expressing grave concern, and insisting that the rights of Americans be protected, and making it clear that he expects me to arrest an Italian. So I tell you in all frankness, to carry on my investigation without such obstacles would make me very content, and to get any cooperation from the witnesses would be a small miracle. Actual help would be without precedent, and I am a realistic man. Now, Signore Cabot, are you ready for me to begin?”
“I think I'll have another glass of wine after all,” I said, walking over to the decanter. “But please, Capitano Rosalia. go ahead with your questions.” I filled my glass and turned to face my questioner, who had taken out a notebook and a pencil. “What can I tell you?”
“You were the last person who admits to have seen Signorina Fleetwood, living or dead. How long did you speak with her, would you say?”
“Half an hour, perhaps a little longer.” I said. “It was a little before nine o’clock when she and I went off to talk.”
“So you spoke with her until half-past nine, you think.” said the Captain, turning over a page as if to cross-check my statement with something he had already written. “Did you spend the entire time in Signore Stephens’s library?”
“Yes,” I said. “She was the one who chose that room. I had never been in the house before.”
“I see,” he said, jotting something down. “Now, when you left, did you go straight downstairs to the door, or did you stop and speak to anyone?”
“I spoke to the butler downstairs,” I said, “when he got me my coat. I went out through the main sitting room, where the other ladies were gathered. Mrs. Stephens said they talked about me after I left, so they can undoubtedly vouch for the time.”
“I assume, from what you’re asking, that you’ve established the time when Miss Fleetwood was killed.” said Mr. Clemens, peering at Rosalia over the rim of his glass.
“Actually, we are still waiting for the doctor’s opinion on that question,” said the policeman. “Until we have that information, we assume it could have happened at any time between when she left the other ladies to speak with Signore Cabot and the discovery of her body.”
Mr. Clemens took a sip of his drink and nodded. “If it turns out she was killed after Cabot left the place, he’s off the hook, you know “
“Not so,” said the captain. “He could have made an appointment to meet her outdoors, after he had left. Or he could have gone to meet her earlier today, when he returned to Signore Stephens’s place to ask about her.” I shook my head to deny this, but I was too stunned at everything that had happened to refute the captain’s implication.
Mr. Clemens leapt to my defense. “And he could have folded up the painting and put it in his hat, frame and all.” he said, dripping sarcasm. “That’s about as likely as a pig singing opera, though.”
“I would be very surprised if a pig sang opera.” said Capitano Rosalia severely. Then his eyes twinkled, and he added. “Perhaps it could manage to sing Wagner…”
His face turned serious again, and he said, “Signore Clemens, all comedy aside, you know I must think about improbable things as well as probable ones. A young woman has been murdered, you know. And just for your information, we have found the frame of the painting—empty, of course. So the idea of it being folded up. or at least rolled up. is not so impossible, after all.”
“My God, it would be ruined!” I said, thinking of brittle centuries-old canvas and delicate pigments. As soon as I said it. I felt ashamed of myself for caring so much about the painting when a young woman had died.
“I hope not.” said the captain quietly. “I would expect the thief to be very careful with this Raphael, so as to get a good price when he sells it. Although he may be willing to take a lower price, to get some money quickly. But he would still try to keep it in good condition, and so it may be when we recover it.”
“Let me guess.” said Mr. Clemens, setting down his glass. “You found the frame near the young lady’s body, didn’t you?”
“Yes, very close by,” said the captain. “But again, you will excuse me if I don’t say more—there are things only the guilty person would know', capisce?”
Mr. Clemens knit his brows. “I capisce. You’re forgetting something, though—we’re as anxious to catch this killer as you are. I only met Miss Fleetwood once, but anybody who’d murder a young girl deserves everything the law can do to him. Besides, Wentworth thought a lot of her, and his opinion counts for a lot with me.”
“You appear to know your secretary well, signore.” said the captain, rubbing his bearded chin. “I do not have that advantage, and so I cannot take his word at face value. I will tell you in all frankness, if he were not attached to someone so prominent. I would already have taken him into custody—foreigners associated with a crime often disappear before we can ask all our questions. And in fact. Signore Wentworth hid from me when I came to your door. That is not the way an innocent man acts.” He looked at me with accusation plain on his face.
My heart sank. Not the way an innocent man acts—it did look that way! “What am I supposed to say?” I temporized. “I have answered all your questions, and I have told the truth.”
“You have not said anything I know to be untrue.” said Capitano Rosalia, nodding. “However…”
“However what?' Mr. Clemens growled. “If you think Cabot’s lying about something, why don’t you say so? At least give the man a chance to deny it.”
The captain sat up straight and squared his shoulders. “Signore Clemens, my superiors are anxious to prove that our city holds no danger for foreign visitors. They want to show that we are making, ah, diligent efforts to solve the case. I have been given hints that it would be a good thing to arrest your secretary and let him prove his innocence afterward…”
“While the real murderer gets away!” exclaimed Mr. Clemens. “So that’s what passes for police work in this city, is it?”
“It is what passes for police work in many cities.” said the captain soberly. “As perhaps you may gather from my telling you all this, I sometimes disagree with my superiors.”
“I’m glad to hear that, at least.” said my employer. “I would hate to think I’d been wasting my time arguing with a damn fool who was going to do just what he was told to do, whether or not it made any sense.”
“Signore, I am in accord with you—but on the other hand, I have to show proper subordination to my superiors, whatever I may think. They have made it very clear to me that we must make progress in the case.”
“Does that mean what I think it does?” I said, making as if to stand up from my chair.
Mr. Clemens was more direct. “Damn it, if you’re going to arrest the boy anyway…”
“No, no.” said the captain, smiling and holding up his hand to stop our protests. “Signori. I know a way to make my superiors content without restricting the liberty of your secretary, whom I do not yet believe is the murderer. Listen now, and I will make everything clear. I am going to place Signore Cabot under the guard of Agente Maggio…”
“What?” I said. “Am I to be followed everywhere I go by a policeman?”
“This is not so bad.” said the captain, with a shrug. “I do not limit where you may go as long as you remain near Firenze. Believe me. you will prefer this to b
eing locked in a cell.”
“Still, it’s as good as announcing to the world that you consider me a criminal,” I pointed out. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to associate with me.”
“The agente will not sit by your side in the cafe, or lean over your shoulder to read your letters.” said the captain smoothly. “I will instruct him to allow you to enter a private home without him—and trust you not to go out the back door while he is watching the front.”
Mr. Clemens poked his finger at the captain's chest. “What about in here? I'll be damned if I'm going to have that big galoot sitting in my parlor, scaring the ladies and wearing out the furniture. It’s against the Constitution.”
The captain laughed. “I did not know your American Constitution was so concerned about the ladies. But I will put your mind to rest. I will instruct Agente Maggio to stand guard outside in the courtyard, and keep his distance from the ladies and the furniture, unless you invite him in. We will hope the weather remains dry for him. But, for your part, you must instruct Signore Cabot not to leave the villa by a secret way. If Maggio comes looking for him and he is not where he is supposed to be, there will be bad consequences.”
Mr. Clemens nodded and said. “Well, it's not the answer I'd have chosen, but I take it you aren't going to give us any choice about it.”
“The other choice is to let your secretary be locked up, as my superiors would prefer.” said Rosalia. “Signore Clemens. I would not offer this if I did not understand you to be a man I can trust. I am extending that trust to your secretary. You realize I must take the responsibility for this myself. I will have to answer hard questions if I have misjudged.”
Mr. Clemens shot an inquiring look at me, and I said, “I don’t like being followed by a policeman, but I agree it’s better than going to jail. How long do you intend to keep me under watch?”
“Who can tell? If we find the murderer today, then Agente Maggio can go home and all will be as it was. Perhaps it will take several days—perhaps even longer. One thing, though. As long as we have you under guard, the real killer may think he is safe. Then he may make a mistake—attempt to sell the painting, for example. But I cannot predict the future.”
“And if you don't find the real killer?” asked Mr. Clemens. “I reckon you aren't going to pay for Maggio to go to Australasia if I decide to go there—and you’d better not ask me to leave Cabot behind.”
“Signore Clemens, we will have to decide that when the time comes.” said the captain, smiling. “It would not be the first time a trail has grown too cold for us to follow, but I hope it will not happen. This is a vicious crime, and I want to find the beast who did it. But for now, I think this is the best answer we have to our problems. Are we agreed? Do I have your word that your secretary will not run away?”
Mr. Clemens looked at me again. “Cabot, I can’t promise for you, but I’ll stand behind whatever you decide.”
I tried to think of an alternative, but nothing came to mind. Well, if something did. perhaps the captain would accede to a modification in the plan. Until then. I could not see that I had any choice—unless I wanted to learn how an Italian jail compared with the New Orleans lockup where I had spent several long hours. Besides, how could I work to prove my innocence—or to find the real killer—if I was in jail? I sighed, thinking of poor Virginia, and said. “Very well. I accept.”
Capitano Rosalia left a short while later, leaving Agente Maggio stationed outside the front door. He and Mr. Clemens had jousted with questions and answers a bit more, but neither had learned much of consequence from the other. This left the captain somewhat ahead of us, since he knew the details of Virginia’s death and neither I nor my employer had any significant information except what he had told us. In truth. I was not anxious to learn how Virginia had died. What I really wanted was to see her still alive, hut I had begun to understand that this was not possible.
I stared out the window as the captain gave Agente Maggio whatever final orders he needed, and remarked. “We’d best hope the police can find the murderer quickly. Agente Maggio may be a good fellow, but I don’t look forward to having him trail me all over the city.”
“Well, you could always stay at home and work.” said Mr. Clemens, with a twinkle in his eye. “I’d think you'd have had your fill of museums and cathedrals by now, anyway.”
“Very amusing,” I snapped. “My point was that I won’t be able to do anything useful in finding the murderer.” I began to pace the floor. I still had a hard time believing what had happened. But I knew I had to do whatever I could to find the murderer. This was no abstract puzzle to be solved, no case of some stranger being killed. It was Virginia, and I meant to see her killer brought to justice.
“Sorry.” Mr. Clemens said quietly. “I know how you must feel about that girl being killed—it's damned hard when somebody close to you dies. But you don’t have to take the whole job on your shoulders, Wentworth. I suspect that captain’s going after the case with all his resources.”
“He may be. but I’m not used to sitting on the sidelines and letting the police do their job,” I said. ‘To tell the truth. I have much less confidence in the police than I did before I became your secretary “
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” said Mr. Clemens. He tucked his pipe into a pocket and retrieved his drink. “It's at least one particular in which I’ve improved upon your Yale education. But don't give up on our finding the murderer just yet. You may have a cop following you around, but there’s none following me. We can go our separate ways, and I can do just as much as I’ve always done.”
“I don’t like that,” I said. Before he could argue with me. I added. “It could be dangerous. What if you're talking with the killer and say the wrong thing—something that lets him know you’re getting too close to him? If I were with you. you'd have some protection. Alone…”
Mr. Clemens scoffed. “You're turning into a mother hen. Wentworth,” he said. “I've run into my share of dangerous varmints, and I’m still around to tell the tale. Maybe I can’t knock ’em down and sit on 'em the way you can, but I can convince 'em I’m not dangerous. A joke or two at my own expense will usually do that.”
I persisted. “Whoever we’re after killed a young woman in cold blood. What makes you think they'll stop short at killing an American humorist?”
He frowned. “For one thing. I won’t give anybody reason to suspect that I'm investigating the murder,” he said. “I don't have any official status, anyhow—that captain made it pretty clear he didn't think we could help him. And for that matter, maybe we can’t. Hell. I don’t even speak the lingo here.”
“That is a formidable barrier.” I agreed. I was beginning to think that Mr. Clemens had met a case that offered no opportunity for an amateur sleuth to solve it. Even I, who had been among the victim’s circle of acquaintances, had no clear notion where to begin. It was hard just thinking of Virginia as “the victim”—I didn’t want to delve into the details of her death. But if we were going to find her killer, and bring him to justice, we couldn’t avoid facing those terrible facts. “Perhaps we would be better off letting the police do their job. this time,” I said, reluctantly.
Mr. Clemens walked over to the window and looked out—at Agente Maggio, I thought. He shook his head and turned back. “In other circumstances, maybe I’d agree with you. For now, you have a certain degree of freedom, so your famous American boss won’t squawk to the ambassador—but I’ll guarantee you the cops would be all over you if you tried to get on a train headed out of town. What this plan really does is give Rosalia some breathing room— he can tell his boss he’s keeping an eye on you, without making any other progress in the case. Sooner or later, though, he’s going to have to show results. If he needs to make an arrest to keep him in good odor with his boss, he may decide to nab you. And once they’ve got a suspect in jail, what’s to stop them from putting on some sort of sham trial and getting a fraudulent conviction? Unless we want to take a chance on that
, we better take the bit in our own teeth.”
“I see what you mean,” I said. “Still, Rosalia seemed a decent enough fellow. He didn’t have to allow me to stay free. What makes you think he’d change his mind?”
“Wentworth, this is Machiavelli’s hometown.” said Mr. Clemens. “That good old Florentine got all his ideas from watching his fellow-citizens stab each other in the back while pretending to be good neighbors, smiling and saying pious things. Capitano Rosalia is from the same town— except he’s had the benefit of four hundred years of refinement on old Niccolo’s so-called ethics. Maybe the captain’s a decent fellow in spite of it all. but that ain’t the way any smart man would bet.”
I shook my head. Every time I thought I had become accustomed to Mr. Clemens’s cynicism, he would surprise me. Still, for once, he appeared to have reason on his side. “Very well,” I said. “I don’t want to oppose any plan that could bring Miss Fleetwood’s murderer to justice. Perhaps the danger to you isn't all that great.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he said confidently. But, of course, he was wrong.
11
The longer I thought about it, the angrier I became. Someone had killed Virginia. That someone would pay for his crime—I would make it my personal business to see to that. And nobody had better get in my way, including Capitano Rosalia and his officers. I wanted to rush right out and start searching for the killer—but as of that moment, I had no idea where to start.
“I want to find the brute who did this,” I said. “I’d spring the trap on the gallows myself, if they’d let me.”
“I think they go by Napoleonic code in Italy, so maybe they use the guillotine.” said Mr. Clemens. “But I know just how you feel—any man who hasn't felt it sometime in his life is no man at all, in my book. We’ll find the killer, all right—between you and me and the police, he won’t get away with this.”
“That would be all very well if the police didn’t treat me as their main suspect,” I said. “We’ll have trouble finding the killer with all the impediments Rosalia's put in the way. A policeman with orders to follow me everywhere I go. A flat refusal to tell me how Virginia died. You’d think he’d rather see the case go unsolved than have anyone but himself solve it.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler Page 12