[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler

by Peter J. Heck

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Mr. Stephens has a large circle of acquaintances in Florence: artists, dealers, collectors, a lot of the resident foreigners. If Virginia’s murder was somehow connected to that missing painting—and I’m beginning to think you’re right that it is—any of those others could be involved.”

  “Good point.” said Mr. Clemens. “We have to start somewhere, though, and I reckon the party guests will do as well as anybody else. Get some paper and let’s see if we can put together a list of who was there. Once we have that, you can add on others you think we ought to be looking at.”

  I took out my pocket notebook and was searching for a blank page when Clara returned to the room. “He’s in the kitchen.” she said. “The cook was afraid he was going to eat everything in sight, but instead he sat down and pulled out a book and started to read. So I don't think he'll be much trouble.”

  “Good.” said Mr. Clemens. “I'm afraid he won't be as much help as I’d hoped, but at least we got one useful fact out of him.”

  Clara stepped over to her father and lowered her voice. “There’s one thing more you need to know about him.” she said.

  “What’s that?” her father asked.

  “He understands English much better than he let on,” she said. “I figured that out when he answered one of your questions that I hadn’t translated. I don't think he knows he let it slip, and maybe it’s a good idea not to let him know you’re aware of it.”

  “Hah! I should have known it!” said Mr. Clemens, slapping his thigh with his open hand. “That old fox Rosalia must have told Maggio to play dumb, in hopes we’d say something incriminating in front of him.”

  “It’s just as well we have nothing to hide, then.” I said.

  “Don’t be too sure of that.” said Mr. Clemens. “A cop's whole job is to catch criminals, and that can make him see criminals everywhere he looks. Especially when he’s listening to conversations in a foreign language, he could misinterpret something innocent. My advice is not to say anything in front of him that you couldn't tell to your Sunday school teachers, because I guarantee you Rosalia's going to hear it next.”

  “I’ll remember that.” I said.

  “Good.” said Mr. Clemens. “Now. let’s see if we can remember all the people at that party. The sooner we catch the murderer, the sooner we can get that cop out of my kitchen.”

  12

  Compiling the roster of party guests took only a few minutes; I knew the majority of them from Cafe Diabelli. But writing down the names was just the beginning. Our next step was to separate real suspects from those who simply happened to be Frank Stephens’s guests the evening of the theft and murder. As we soon realized, for most of the guests, we had no idea to which category they belonged.

  “Well, if we eliminate the ladies, we can cut the list in half.” I said, staring at the paper.

  “I could have figured out that much without even writing down the names.” said my employer. “Come on, Wentworth, you’ve met these people before—you must have something more to put on the table. What can you tell me about Stephens, for example?”

  “He’s an affable fellow who seems a capable businessman,” I said, shrugging. “I haven’t seen any suspicious behavior from him. He was rather brusque when I turned down his job offer. Of course he had other problems on his mind at that point.”

  “You said he didn’t seem worried about the girl’s disappearance.” said Mr. Clemens. “Was it that he thought she’d turn up safe after all, or was he more concerned with the stolen painting?”

  “Both, I think.” I said, trying to recall the conversation. It seemed strange that it had been only a few hours earlier. After the news of Virginia’s murder, it seemed eons ago— almost as if it had been in another life. “He may have been trying to reassure his wife, of course. But he acted as if he expected Virginia to come walking in before dinner time.”

  “Well, maybe it was an act.” said Mr. Clemens. “I wish you’d still been there when Rosalia came to deliver the news. It would have told us something to see Stephens’s face when he was told the young lady'd been killed.”

  “I’m sure Capitano Rosalia has already learned whatever he could from Stephens's reaction, if there was anything unusual about it,” I said. “Of course, we can’t expect the captain to tell us all his conclusions.”

  “I reckon Stephens didn’t give anything away, either, if Rosalia still considers you the main suspect.” said my employer. “But then, Stephens is a salesman—a good poker face is a professional requirement.”

  “All of which brings us back around to the start,” I said. “If Stephens had anything to do with Virginia’s death, he wouldn’t reveal it to me. I suppose we have to consider him a suspect on grounds of proximity to her. but I can’t imagine what his motive could be.”

  Mr. Clemens wrinkled his nose and said, “I reckon I could imagine one, but that’s all it’d be—just imagining. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open, though. I ought to send you back over there to pay your respects to the bereaved— and to snoop a little, while you’re at it. Would it bother you to spy on them?”

  “I’m spending more time there than here.” I said. “But I suppose it’s all right, if it helps us find the killer. If nothing else, it would give me a chance to talk to anyone else who showed up—the others at the party were among her friends, so they’ll want to pay their condolences. And they wouldn’t be on their guard with me—they might tell me something they wouldn’t tell the police.”

  “At least if Maggio doesn’t hang over your shoulder listening,” said Mr. Clemens. “Good. then, you'll go there tomorrow morning. Now, who else among that crowd strikes you as suspicious?”

  I thought a second and then said. “Nobody, really. I had disagreements with one or two of them, but that doesn't make them murderers.”

  “Yes. you told me about that fellow you rented the bicycle from.” said Mr. Clemens. “I thought that idea was a recipe for trouble all along, but I have to admit I’m prejudiced against the damned things. Have you got it settled?”

  “I paid him most of what he wanted; I promised to give him the rest in Cafe Diabelli tomorrow.” I said bitterly. “And then I’ll say goodbye to the place. It was where I met Virginia—going there would just stir up memories.”

  “Wait a minute.” said my employer, sitting up straight. “Now’s when you should be going back there. You and she spent more time there than anywhere else, right?”

  “I suppose so,” I said.

  “So if she was killed by an acquaintance, the odds are it’ll be somebody else who spends his time there.” said Mr. Clemens. He'd stood up and begun pacing, a sure sign that his brain was racing full speed ahead.

  “We don’t know that.” I pointed out. “She could have been killed in the course of a robbery.”

  Mr. Clemens scoffed. “Then why’s Rosalia putting a guard on you? I doubt you look any more like a common thief to him than you do to me. and I can spot larceny from ten miles off. He may not be telling us all the details of her death, but we can damn sure figure that one out for ourselves.”

  “I wasn't thinking about a purse-snatching.” I said. “What if she stumbled upon someone in the process of stealing the Raphael, and they killed her to prevent her giving the alarm? Captain Rosalia said they did find the frame near her body.”

  “There’s an angle we need to look at,” said Mr. Clemens. “I see one problem with it. though. If she’d caught the thief in the act of stealing the painting, that would have happened right around Stephens’s villa. The whole point of taking the painting out of its frame is to make it easier to carry away unnoticed—the thief wouldn't have taken it half a mile away, and then cut it out. By then, he’s home free. So she must have been killed near home. But then they’d have found her body a lot quicker—in fact, the family or servants would have found it, instead of the cops. I doubt the thief would have taken time to hide her body if he was so anxious to get away.”

  “So.
what does this mean, then?” I mused. “Her death does seem connected to the painting, but how?”

  “What if she was a partner in the robbery, and got killed by the other robbers so they wouldn’t have to split the take with her?”

  “Impossible!” I protested. “Virginia wouldn't have been a part of any such scheme. It isn’t the least bit like her.”

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Clemens said. He walked over and put a hand on my shoulder and continued in a lower voice. “Look. Wentworth, you were very fond of her. and I know her death must hit you hard. But you didn’t know her all that long, or all that well. People can surprise you. even after years and years.”

  “Perhaps,” I admitted. “But when I told her I wasn’t taking the position with Mr. Stephens, she scolded me about missing such a sterling opportunity. That was why we parted on such unpleasant terms. I can’t imagine her taking his part so vigorously one moment, then helping someone steal his painting the next.”

  “Well, that’s even more of a puzzle, then.” said Mr. Clemens. “There’s got to be some connection between the theft and her murder, but damn me if I know what it is. There’s something we’re missing.”

  “If we can get Rosalia or Maggio to tell us the details they’re withholding, perhaps it’ll all make sense.” I said.

  “Yes. we’re back to that, aren’t we?” Mr. Clemens sighed. “Well, we can’t bet on the cops being cooperative, so we’ll have to find out whatever we can without their help. That’s why you’re going back to that cafe tomorrow— after all. you do have that debt to pay back. Come to think of it, this might be the time for me to go there with you. and see what I find out.”

  “I’ll be interested in what you think of the place,” I said, remembering his previous reluctance to visit it.

  “Oh, I reckon I already know what I think of it,” he said. “It’s the people there I’m interested in, now. Because I think that, when wec get right down to it, one of them is the killer.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Sure,” he said. “If that’s where all her friends spent their time. I say that’s where we’ll find her enemies, as well.”

  The rest of the afternoon passed quietly. Having set a course of action for the next day, neither Mr. Clemens nor I seemed to have the energy to do any more that day. The only thing I would think of doing, paying still another visit to Frank Stephens and his wife at their residence, could— and should—wait for the next day. I had been in their home twice in twenty-four hours, and both times had left on a sour note. Eager as I was to discover the killer and see him punished. I could not convince myself that appearing on that doorstep yet again—especially when I was under a cloud of suspicion—would produce anything useful.

  Instead, I retired to my own room for a bout of pacing and inner raging. I could not yet put a face to Virginia’s murderer, but that did not keep me from imagining driving my fist into it, again and again. I would find the killer— and then I would have my revenge.

  At the same time. I was racked with recriminations. Again I thought that, if Virginia and I had not parted in acrimony, she might not have gone out to meet her doom. I could not believe Mr. Clemens’s theory that she was involved with the disappearance of Stephens’s Raphael. But how to explain the painting’s being found near her body? I contrived and discarded a hundred theories, and when the German maid tapped on my door to announce that dinner was on the table, I was no closer to the answer than I had been before.

  I had very little appetite—I had drunk a bit too much wine in the afternoon, and now I felt tired and irritable. But I knew from previous experience that skipping the meal would make me feel worse later. More out of a sense of duty than actual hunger. I dragged myself downstairs for the Sunday meal.

  To my relief. Mrs. Clemens had evidently decreed that the murder was an unacceptable topic for dinner conversation. I assumed the ban was for my benefit, and I was glad of it. I was in no mood to broach the subject, and so we spoke on general topics and I was able to forget my shock and anger for minutes at a time. Little Jean, the youngest Clemens daughter, cast an occasional speculative glance in my direction, as if she hoped I would open the door to the forbidden subject, but I resisted her unspoken invitation and so we got through the entire meal with no allusion to it.

  After dinner. Mrs. Clemens said, “I think we should have some music. It has been a while since you played the piano for us, Clara—shall we all meet in the parlor?”

  I had meant to return to my room after the meal, but the food must have revived my spirits somewhat, for I found myself in the mood for a bit of music and song. I followed the family into the parlor, where Clara leafed through several pieces of sheet music before choosing something by Mendelssohn. She took her place at the keyboard and began to play; she was an excellent pianist, and whether by accident or design, the music had a profound calming effect on me. I sat back and let myself be swept along by the tranquil flow of melody, nodding my head to the rhythm.

  After a few minutes, the music came to an end. and I joined Clara’s proud parents in applauding her performance. An unfamiliar voice came from behind me—“Bella, signorina, Bella! Encore, per favorer.” I turned to look, and there was Agente Maggio. grinning and applauding with undisguised enthusiasm. Clara smiled and blushed a bit, and nodded toward the uninvited audience member, then looked through her pile of sheet music and chose another piece. She set it on the music rack and with a sly smile, began to play.

  This was a livelier selection, and Agente Maggio’s face lit up with recognition. Clara nodded in his direction, and to my surprise, the policeman stepped over next to the piano and began to sing in his native tongue. Although I cannot count myself among the devotees of opera, even I recognized the melody: “La Donna Mobile,” from Giuseppe Verdi’s Rigoletto. He had a fine clear tenor voice, and his face assumed an animated expression as he delivered the aria.

  The music ended, and we all broke into hearty applause for the singing carabiniere. As we clapped. Mr. Clemens leaned over to me and said, in a stage whisper, “He’s a mighty fine singer, but I wonder if we can afford to put him up. He must have been eating damn near everything in the kitchen. Look at that sauce stain on his sleeve!”

  I turned to look at the policeman, who lifted up both his arms to look at the sleeves. I could see no stains, and wondered what Mr. Clemens was talking about. Then Agente Maggio's face changed and he glared at my employer.

  Mr. Clemens smiled and tucked his thumbs under his lapels. “Well, now we have that settled. You do understand English, don’t you? By the way, I did like your singing.” With his own ironic smile, the Italian policeman directed a little bow toward my employer. “I should know not to get caught with such a trick.” he said. “Congratulazione, signore.”

  “I had a pretty good idea already how much English you understood, thanks to my daughter,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I thought we all should know what was going on here. You and I and Cabot ought to talk about it a bit later. But for now, why don’t you and Clara do another song? I do enjoy that stuff, even when I don’t understand it.”

  “My pleasure, signore,” said the policeman, and after a quick consultation with his pianist—reverting to Italian for the purpose—he launched into another aria, familiar even though I could not remember its composer. I guessed the title to be “Caro Mio Ben,” but I knew too little Italian to make out the lyrics.

  After this number, the policeman (at Mrs. Clemens’s gesture) took a seat and listened to Clara play another piano solo, followed by her two sisters, neither of whom was quite her match—although little Jean had the excuse of many fewer years of study. Susy, while she seemed adequate technically, betrayed a lack of enthusiasm; perhaps the slight imperfections were the result of this rather than any lack of talent or practice.

  After all three of his daughters had played, Mr. Clemens said. “I wish I had my good old guitar here—I can’t play that piano near as well as the girls, and I reckon I'll make a fool of myself aft
er they’ve played. But I do think it’s time for some American music here.” He sat down at the piano and struck an experimental chord, then began to play and sing an old Negro spiritual in quite authentic dialect.

  While I had heard my employer sing several times before, Agente Maggio raised his brows—I doubt he had ever heard such a performance in his life. But when the Clemens daughters joined their father in the chorus, the policeman’s foot began to tap and his head to nod, and I could see that he was enjoying himself despite the unfamiliar material and style.

  The impromptu songfest made me wish that I could contribute to the performance. But while I had always been an enthusiastic singer, my training had progressed no farther than learning the notes of the scale. As for my repertory, it was limited to hymns and college drinking songs, none quite appropriate to the occasion. I wondered how a local policeman had become so conversant with Italian arias— then I remembered that of course he was a native, and that the songs were no more exotic to him than “Auld Lang Sync” or “Old Folks at Home” to me and my companions.

  Finally. Mr. Clemens started a more challenging selection. He hit several sour notes, stopped and tried to start the piece again, and broke down in the same place, even worse this time. Little Jean giggled, and her father turned toward her with a frown. But before he could say anything. Mrs. Clemens spoke up; “I think we have had a wonderful evening of song and music, but I fear I am a bit fatigued, and it is past Jean’s bedtime. Thank you. young ladies, and you too, Youth! And Agente Maggio, it is a pleasure to listen to such a voice.”

  “Grazie, signora,” said the policeman, smiling. He gave a deep bow as Mrs. Clemens and the three girls left the room.

  Mr. Clemens and I also stood as the ladies left, and then my employer turned to the policeman. “Well, agente, I think you’ve sung well enough to earn a glass of wine. The three of us need to talk a bit. now that we all know we can talk, and maybe a drink’ll make it go smoother.”