But then he landed a wild blow to my shoulder, and my temper flared. “Don’t blame me for Virginia’s death.” I shouted, trying to ward off his fists. And yet I could not escape a sense of guilt—would she have gone out that fateful night if I had not argued with her? I might never know.
Danvers continued to flail at me. I finally got his arms pinned, but he kicked at my shins. Hoping to end it quickly, I threw my weight forward and took him to the floor. I landed on top of him. and the air went out of him with a whoop. By then there were others standing over us, saying “Get them apart.” and I felt hands on my shoulders. I let myself be hauled off my opponent and stood upright facing Danvers. Eddie Freeman was behind him. holding his arms, and I could see Mr. Clemens and the butler hovering in the background.
“You should both be ashamed of yourselves,” said Jonathan Wilson, who had his arms around my midsection. “This is no place for your quarrels.”
“The stingy cur should know better than to stick his face in here.” growled Danvers, still glaring at me. My jaw ached, and there was a salty taste in my mouth—blood, I supposed.
I bit back a harsh response, and said instead. “Danvers, I’ll pay you your ten lira, and as far as I’m concerned, that’ll be the last we have to do with one another. I don't go looking for trouble.”
Danvers made a vulgar suggestion about the ten lira, and Mr. Wilson clucked his tongue. “I’ll chalk that up to the liquor, Mr. Danvers. If you want my advice, you’ll take Cabot’s offer and call it quits. Mr. Cabot. I think you made a mistake coming here today.”
“So it appears,” I said. “I want no quarrel with anyone here. I'll give you Danvers’ money, and leave. Maybe you should hold it till he sobers up. Mr. Clemens, if you want to stay longer, I’ll go find our driver and come back with the carriage.”
“A good idea,” said my employer, nodding. “I don't think I’ll be long.”
Wilson let go my arms, and I fished a ten-lira Banco di Toscana note out of my wallet and gave it to him. The butler already had my coat and hat, and I put them on and left. The butler told me where the drivers were accustomed to await their masters' summons, and so I set off on foot to find our carriage.
In good weather, the drivers gathered at a small park a short distance off, where there was a watering trough and shade for the horses. There were five or six rigs tied up, and a group of drivers was a short distance away, sitting on a low stone wall and talking animatedly. (I had by now come to the conclusion that no Italian was capable of talking in any other fashion.)
As I had hoped, Agente Maggio was in the midst of them, gesturing and taking part in the conversation just as if he were one of their fraternity instead of a disguised policeman. He looked up as I came into view, saw my disheveled clothing, and raised an eyebrow. “Ah. signore, what is wrong?” he asked, getting to his feet and coming toward me.
The other drivers, hearing Maggio speak in English, turned to look; one of them reached down and concealed a wine bottle that had been sitting on the wall next to him. I was at first offended that he thought he had to hide his drinking from me. but then I recalled that they had no idea who I was—only that I was a well-dressed foreigner, and consequently they must see me as one of the bosses rather than as a comrade.
“A misunderstanding,” I said, and told him about the fight with Danvers. “My only regret is that I wasn't there long enough to learn anything really useful,” I concluded.
“Perhaps the other signore will learn something,” said Maggio. rubbing his chin. Then he continued in a lower voice as we walked toward the carriage. “But see. I learn something myself today. There is Paolo, the husband of my cousin Sophia.” He nodded to indicate one of the drivers, a thin, dark-skinned man with a drooping black mustache and a weak chin. “Paolo is cocchiere for the English Signora Atwater, who attends the party the night the young lady and the Raphael both disappear.”
“Yes, Mrs. Atwater’s there today.” I said. “The other night, she chided Mr. Clemens for not showing proper deference to the old masters.”
“Paolo don’t tell me about that,” said Maggio. “But late that night, he’s waiting for the signora to go home, and a man comes from the Stephens house asking if somebody wants to take an American lady up to the city. Paolo got to wait for Signora Atwater so he can’t take the job. but another driver—a man he don’t know—does the job.”
“And you think that ride was for Miss Fleetwood,” I said.
“I think so,” said Maggio, nodding. “The other ladies, they have their own coaches, or ride with someone else. Signorina Fleetwood, she left alone—unless somebody tells lies. To know for sure, we got to find that other driver. I ask the other men, but so far nobody remembers who it is.” By now we had reached the carriage, and Maggio untied the reins. He gestured to me to climb up next to him on the driver’s seat so we could continue talking while he drove back to Stephens's house.
“Well, I wouldn’t think it’d be too hard to find the driver we're looking for,” I said. Most likely, the driver had been someone who worked regularly in this part of Florence. The drivers for the other guests at Stephens’s party would have had the same problem as Paolo—if they were off on another errand when their employers called for them, they would find themselves in trouble.
“Maybe not as easy as you think,” said Maggio, flicking the reins. “Most of these men, they all know each other, 'cause the foreigners they work for go the same places all the time, so the drivers see each other while they wait. Somebody they don’t remember, maybe he isn’t a regular driver at all.”
“Do you mean he was an impostor?” I said, and then all sorts of horrors began to rush into my imagination. What if he had been the sort of beast who preys upon unprotected women, and who seized upon the opportunity to slake his unspeakable thirsts? Could Virginia's last minutes have been even more terrible than I had hitherto believed?
If Agente Maggio had any such sinister notions, he was not about to voice them. “Maybe.” he said, shrugging. “More likely, just a substitute driver. Or maybe somebody new the other men don’t know yet. But still, if nobody remembers him, he’s not so easy to find.”
“I suppose we shall have to find out if any of Stephens's guests have changed drivers recently.” I said.
“When I tell this to the capitano. he will learn if that is so,” said Maggio, matter-of-factly. “We in the police have ways of finding these things out. Don’t you worry. Signore Cabot. If this is an important clue, we will know soon. We will catch the one who murders your lady friend.”
“I wish I had your confidence.” I said. “The more I find out, the more nebulous the entire case appears.”
“Nebulous?” asked Maggio. then immediately said, “Ah, nebuloso, cloudy. I think your language, it takes many words from Italian. But remember, the clouds may be thick today, but always the light comes through.”
“That is undeniably true,” I said, and then my spirits sank again. “But I’m afraid that even the brightest light will do nothing to bring back Miss Fleetwood.”
“This. alas, is true.” said Maggio. Having conceded this much, he scratched the calf of one leg with the toe of his other boot. We rode in silence for the rest of the short trip back to Stephens’s house.
It was just as well; I was in no mood for conversation. My mind went off on a dozen side tracks. What was Virginia doing visiting a cemetery at midnight? Who was the mysterious driver who took her there? How was she connected to the stolen painting? Just as we turned into Stephens’s drive, I looked up and saw Mr. Clemens coming out the front door.
He waved to Maggio and me. “Come along, boys,” he called. “I’ve got another clue to follow, halfway across town from here.”
Maggio stopped the carriage, and Mr. Clemens climbed in. Next thing I knew, we were back on Ponte Vecchio, heading into the heart of Florence.
15
“I can’t understand why, after ignoring the place for months, now you want to go to Cafe Diabelli.” I said
to Mr. Clemens. I had been surprised when he told Agente Maggio our destination. “I have no desire to see the place again,” I added, “although I suppose I can go in without actual inconvenience as long as Bob Danvers isn’t there.”
“He was still at Stephens’s when I left, still soaking up the free drinks,” said my employer. “So you shouldn’t worry about him showing up at the cafe. Anyway, you have as much right to go into the place as that rum-bum does, and don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”
“That's easy enough to say,” I said. “But if he thinks I was somehow responsible for Virginia's death, I’ll feel uncomfortable around him even if he doesn't start another fight. And if he convinces others of it…”
“You're not responsible for that girl’s death, and you damn well ought to know it,” said Mr. Clemens. “Danvers is a worse skunk than I thought if he tries to make it look as if you are responsible. Maybe that fight between you two got broken up too soon. If he’d gone on long enough to get you really mad. I reckon you'd have taught him not to spread lies about you.”
“I’m not in the business of teaching lessons.” I said, slowly shaking my head. “If I never had to swing my fist at anyone again, I'd be just as happy.”
“There are times you have to fight.” said Agente Maggio. turning back to look at me. “That is one thing I learn young. Is best if you don’t have to hurt somebody, but you don't always have choices.”
“I understand that.” I said. “But I don’t have to like it.” Then, after reflecting a moment, I returned to the subject I'd asked Mr. Clemens about earlier. “You still haven’t told me what you expect to learn at Diabelli’s.”
“Well, all I’ve got is a rumor, to tell the truth,” said Mr. Clemens, smoothing his mustache with a thumb and forefinger. “That Wilson fellow—the one that was angling to buy the painting before it disappeared—said he’d heard about a plot by anarchists to steal old masters and hold them for ransom, to raise money for the revolution. He thought that might have happened to the Raphael that Stephens lost. Of course, nobody’s asked for ransom yet. so that’s pure speculation. But I figured it couldn't hurt to find out whether it’s got any chance of being true.”
“I still don’t see the connection,” I said.
“Wentworth, you continue to amaze me.” said Mr. Clemens. “Do you mean to say you’ve been going to Cafe Diabelli all this time and didn’t know it was one of the main haunts in all Florence for Socialists, anarchists, and other political wild men?”
“Is true,” said Maggio. turning his head again, to look at me with a sober expression, although I thought there was a hint of amusement around the comer of his eyes. “We watch that place very close. Mostly nothing happens but talk, talk, plenty talk. But if revolution ever happens in Firenze. I bet you good money that’s where they plan it.”
“I thought Italy already had its revolution.” I said. “Wasn’t that twenty-five or thirty years ago, when Garibaldi united the country?”
“The Risorgimento changes some things, but not everything,” said Maggio quietly. “These revolutionaries don’t think Garibaldi got to finish what he started. They want a country like America, with no kings, everybody rich.”
I laughed bitterly. “Everybody rich? I’d like to show those people the New York slums. Then they’d sing a different tune about Americans being rich.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge them. Wentworth.” Mr. Clemens said. “You may not think so, but you’re a rich man compared to most people here in Italy. A farm worker here might go his whole life without tasting meat more than a few times.”
“It is true,” said Maggio again quietly. “But these are not the farm workers who talk so much in Cafe Diabelli. These anarchists get their ideas from books and newspapers. Maybe they think to steal a painting is good for the revolution. The workers, they think the revolution is to eat three meals a day.”
“You don’t talk like a cop,” said Mr. Clemens, his eyebrows raised. “Cops back home will run you into jail for talking about the revolution.”
“I don’t know how American cops talk.” said Maggio. shrugging. “I know about farmers that don’t get enough to eat. I know about a cocchiere that don’t have money to take his bambino to a doctor when she gets sick. These borghesi stonati”—I didn’t understand the phrase, but the way he spat it out. I could guess it meant something like “stupid burghers.” He went on: “If they steal a painting, it don’t feed the farmers. If they kill an American signorina, it don’t cure the bambino. Maybe they do these things, or maybe not. But that’s their idea how to make the revolution. I say they’re bastardi and nothing else.” He clucked his tongue and guided the horses around a comer into the street where our destination lay.
“I don’t know much Italian, but I know that word,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding. He clapped the policeman on the shoulder. “Maggio, you’re one of the damnedest cops I ever met up with. I don’t know if there are any more like you, but I’m glad Captain Rosalia picked you to follow Cabot around.”
“That’s good, because I got to keep doing it until we find the murderer.” said Maggio. He reined in the horses. “Here we are, signori—Cafe Diabelli.”
I had barely stepped over the threshold of Cafe Diabelli when the waiter Pietro came over to me and said. “Signore Cabot, I was so sorry to learn about Signorina Fleetwood. We all liked her very much, and I know you must be very sad. too.” His expression made it clear the condolence was heartfelt.
“Thank you. Pietro.” I said, moved by his sincerity. “It was a great shock to everyone. I will be a long time getting over it”
“Would you like to sit at your regular table outside, signore?” asked Pietro. “It is a very warm day today, and some of your friends are already here.”
“No. I think I’ll sit inside today.” I said. “How about that table over there?” I remembered that Viginia had warned me that my chess opponents were among the political radicals whom Maggio said made Cafe Diabelli a regular meeting place, and they preferred the indoor tables. Pietro showed no surprise at the request, but took us to the table I had indicated—one near the center of the room, a good vantage point to see and hear what was going on throughout the cafe.
Mr. Clemens and I took our seats, and asked Pietro what was being served for luncheon. After hearing the choices, we both ordered the beefsteak—an excellent local specialty—and decided to share a bottle of Chianti classico, the good red wine to which Frank Stephens had introduced me. After a few minutes, Pietro returned with our wine and poured us each a glass. Then, while waiting for our meal, we settled back to eavesdrop, hoping to overhear something that would lead us to the art thief—and thence to Virginia’s murderer.
As on my previous visits to the cafe, I found myself immersed in an ocean of talk in an unfamiliar language. Over the weeks, my ear had learned to pick out the occasional phrase, but I had associated mainly with other English-speakers. and so had not progressed as well as I might have. Now it occurred to me that the two men speaking so excitedly at the next table could be hatching a detailed plot to assassinate the King of Italy and to bum the Sistine Chapel to the ground without my understanding one word in twenty. And Mr. Clemens was no more conversant in Italian than I. How were we ever going to locate the radicals we had come here to find?
Mr. Clemens’s mind seemed to be elsewhere. He took a final puff on his cigar, stubbed it out, and sat back in his chair. “You know, Wentworth,” he began, “that Maggio fellow is full of surprises. First, he turns out to be a fine singer. Now, today, he showed me he has a damn sight more good sense than a lot of men in his job.”
“What do you mean, sir?” I asked. Mr. Clemens was speaking more slowly than usual, and in a voice that must have carried to the far comers of the room. I recognized at once that he was playing to an audience, with me as a sort of interlocutor. This was a ploy we had engaged in before. My part in the ruse would be to speak just enough to give the illusion of a conversation, without actually saying anything that
would interfere with his purpose—whatever that turned out to be.
“You can’t have a real revolution and still have a king.” he said. “All these Italians did was throw out one set of thieves and put in another. If they ever want to do something about the people’s real problems, first thing they’ll do is put the toes of their boots to that king’s tail end.”
My first instinct at hearing these sentiments was to agree with them; after all, I was as patriotic an American as any. My ancestors had fought against King George and his minions. I had little sympathy with royalty or hereditary titles. But here in a foreign kingdom, in a room full of its citizens. I thought it imprudent to say so. By the time Mr. Clemens finished speaking, the room was silent as a tomb—a simile I suddenly hoped was not too apt. Belatedly, the thought flashed through my mind: More of these people understand English than I realized.
“Aren’t the Italians entitled to choose the form of govemment that suits them best?” I asked, looking around nervously. There were men at the nearby tables staring in our direction. Even at the far side of the room, where the chess players congregated. Gonnella—one of the best players in the cafe—had looked up from his game with his archrival Garbarini to peer in my employer's direction.
“It would serve ’em right if they chose it,” said Mr. Clemens, “but I'd be surprised if they really did. No man who wasn’t taking bribes ever chose of his own free will to live under a king. We got rid of ours in America, and a damn good thing. But as long as a country lets any bully with a crown tell them what to do, the only people who'll get a fair shake in that country are the king's own friends and family.” Mr. Clemens put his glass down with just enough force to splash a little wine onto the tablecloth. It seemed an appropriate gesture for the words.
“You speak a great deal of things that are none of your business,” said a heavily accented voice from behind me. “Why do you come to Italia if you disrespect our country?”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler Page 17