I was no linguist, but I understood that much German. “Yes. I think I will play a game.” I said, sitting down in the seat vacated by his opponent. The other player shook up the pieces, and I drew Black. My opponent, who introduced himself as Herr Stenger, pushed his king's-pawn forward,and the battle was underway.
The initial moves were routine, but soon my opponent moved a pawn to a square where I could capture it with my bishop—not a blunder but a deliberate sacrifice my father had showed me when he taught me the game: Captain Evans' Gambit, he had called it. I had heard it was a favorite master opening, but beyond the first few moves, I didn’t know it. I considered my response. Accepting the sacrifice would give my opponent a fierce attack. Declining to capture the pawn was safer in the short run. but it would oblige me to defend a cramped position. After considering the alternatives. I threw caution to the winds and took the pawn: belter to go down fighting than to back off and let the other fellow box me in.
Half a dozen moves later, I had won another pawn, but I was beginning to think I should have declined the gambit. Still, if I could survive Stenger’s attack. I thought I might prevail in the end. That remained a very large if, however. My opponent’s replies came so quickly that it was obvious he was playing by rote, while I was on unfamiliar ground. He had both his queen and bishop aimed at my king, which I had been unable to get castled. A small group of spectators had gathered round the table, no doubt waiting to see who would get to challenge my opponent next. I heard occasional whispered comments in Italian; it was probably just as well I didn’t understand the language well enough to follow them. I had enough trouble trying not to lose the game.
That thought gave me a sort of mental jolt, and I realized that playing the game was good for me. I had been afraid that between the dull ache I felt whenever I thought of poor Virginia, and the nagging wony over my missing employer. I wouldn't be able to concentrate. Instead, the regular pattern of ranks and files and the unambiguous rules of play somehow cleared my mind. Thank God for chess, I thought. For a little while, at least, the tightness in my shoulders could dissolve while I worried about wooden pieces on a wooden board instead of precious human lives.
Herr Stenger moved a bishop to threaten the knight I had just stationed in front of my king. Retreating with the knight would leave me still unable to castle, but leaving it there for him to take left me vulnerable to an even more dangerous attack. I scanned the board with growing dismay; what could I do?
Then I realized that my opponent must expect me to move the knight. What if I launched a counterattack instead? If I put my queen’s bishop there… but to do so, I would have to move my queens’s-pawn, which would let him exchange it and increase the pressure on the knight… but then I would capture his pawn, and my bishop would be able to come out… Well, why not? The worst that could happen was that I would lose a game, and owe Stenger the price of a drink.
I made the pawn move. Now, for the first time, my opponent hesitated, frowning at the board. His memorized line of play must not have anticipated this defense. At last, he reached out and captured my pawn. I recaptured, and again he had to think. Two of my pawns were still vulnerable, but at least my queenside bishop was now free. The German captured the pawn I had just moved, and in response I brought my bishop out. attacking his queen. This would force him to move it, gaining me valuable time to get my king to safety. I waited for his response, calculating my next move.
My opponent looked the board over, then—instead of protecting his queen—moved a knight off the back row, blocking my advanced pawn. He hadn't seen the threat! I studied the board again, trying to make sure I hadn't overlooked some simple trap. Convinced that the move was sound. I picked up my bishop and took his queen. My opponent’s jaw fell as I removed the captured piece; then he slapped his hand on the table and exclaimed. “Ich bin ein Blinder!” I knew just how he felt; I had more than once fallen prey to that sort of blindness at the chessboard.
Herr Stenger stared at the position once more, and shook his head. With White’s main weapon, the queen, off the board, his position was a shambles. I turned my attention back to the board, and saw that if I could force the exchange of a few more pieces. I would have a decisive advantage. My opponent wanted nothing of that: instead, he threw his army into a desperate attack, sacrificing a bishop and checking my king in an attempt to pry open my formation. But now I had sufficient means for the defense, and after a few more moves. I traded off his other bishop and seized the initiative for myself. Seeing that he had no more winning prospects, the German resigned and handed over the stakes. “Bravo” he said, then added in English. “You play a good game.”
“Thank you.” I said, shaking his hand. “I was lucky to win it. Who else wants to play?”
“I play you,” said a familiar voice, and I looked up to see a slim, bearded man standing across the table from me. It was Garbarini—perhaps the best player at Cafe Diabelli. And, as I could not fail to be aware, one of the two reputed anarchists whom the police accused of abducting Mr. Clemens. I had never beaten him at chess. That record was likely to remain unbroken—I had a strong suspicion that I was going to have a hard time concentrating on this game. But I smiled and gestured toward the chair that Herr Stenger had vacated. Garbarini nodded and sat down.
Garbarini drew the Black pieces, so I had the initiative in the opening. I pushed a pawn ahead two spaces, and he responded symmetrically. Determined not to let him win too easily, I led the game into the tried-and-true Four Knights opening, placing my pieces as advantageously as possible without exposing myself to attack. After fifteen minutes of cautious maneuvering, we were in a tangled position. It was Garbarini’s move, and I waited while he studied the board. Several pieces on both sides were in jeopardy, but nothing had been captured—and, to my relief, I had so far avoided any outright blunders. Garbarini reached his hand out, hesitated—and made an innocuous-looking pawn move. He sat back with a sigh and I leaned forward to inspect the position.
I couldn't believe my eyes. The pawn move had removed the sole defender from his queen's knight, which was under attack from my bishop. Capturing the knight would check his king and at the same time the bishop would attack one of his rooks. Had he blundered, or was he setting a trap? Was I about to beat him. or was the little wooden horse a gift from the Greeks?
The more I examined the position, the simpler it seemed. Even his best defense left me a rook ahead. I made the play, said. “Check.” and sat back to see how Garbarini would respond.
He stared at the board as if seeing it for the first time, and muttered something ugly-sounding under his breath. He turned his king on its side and reached out his hand. “Is a very good move,” he said, as I accepted the congratulatory handshake. “I cannot win after such a stupid error.” He reached in his pocket and handed me something—a quarter-lira coin. But as I took the coin. I realized there was also a folded-up scrap of paper with it. I nodded, put both items in my pocket, and—too stunned to say anything— watched him leave the table and the cafe. The game had already fled my mind, replaced by a burning curiosity about the paper—obviously a message—Garbarini had given me. It must be news of Mr. Clemens!
But before I could collect myself, another player sat down opposite me, and perforce I was in a third game. By this time, my concentration had evaporated, and I played like a beginner. He soon had me tied up in knots—-down three pieces, with my king exposed to a merciless cross fire. The position was a dead loss even if I could have summoned all my wits to defend it. I sighed, turned over the king, and paid the forfeit. Another player took my place, and I walked over to the terrace doorway. Out there. I would be able to read the note away from prying eyes.
My path took me past Agente Maggio, who sat there with his newspaper. He was still wearing the spectacles. He looked up as I went past, and raised an eyebrow. I said nothing, but no sooner had I gone through the terrace doors than he was behind me. He pulled a small cheroot out of his pocket and lit it. giving himself a
n ostensible reason for coming outside. He had taken off the spectacles, too. I glanced around, and was relieved to notice there was no one else outside with us.
“Did you see what just happened?” I asked.
“You play with the anarchist.” the carabiniere said in a low voice. “You must have played very good to beat him.”
“I’m not sure—I think he might have lost on purpose.” I said. “He gave me this.” I took the piece of paper from my pocket, still folded, and showed it to him.
“What you waiting for?” asked Maggio. tapping the ash from his cigar. “Read it.”
I opened the paper, wondering what sort of message Garbarini had slipped to me. Would it be a ransom note? A warning to keep my nose out of the anarchists’ business? Would I even be able to read it? I had no idea what to expect. Thus, it was a genuine surprise and a great relief to see the familiar handwriting of my employer. The note read:
Wentworth—
I’m all right. Go to No. 44 Via Tomabuoni and wait there for the man who gave you this. He'll bring you to me. Don’t tell the cops.
—SLC
“It’s nothing, after all.” I said. “Just an IOU for the money he owes me for losing the game.” I folded it up again and returned it to my pocket. I began to feel sorry I had told Agente Maggio about the note.
“Too bad.” said Maggio. giving an exaggerated shrug. “I hope maybe it’s a message from your padrone “
I feared he was going to ask me for the note, and I had no idea how to refuse a policeman such a request; but after a moment I realized he wasn’t going to ask. I breathed a little easier. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I was hoping for, too,” I said, with a grimace that must have signaled my mendacity like a red flag. “Although I don’t know why they’d think I’d be here to get a message, in the first place.”
“Is right,” said Maggio. He took a puff on the cheroot and looked out toward the street. “Maybe they send messages like that back to Villa Viviani. Maybe we should go there now.”
“Well, I want to wait for the American crowd to arrive,” I said, trying to appear nonchalant. “They gather at those tables on the terrace. I’d like to talk to a couple of Miss Fleetwood's friends. Maybe you should go back to the villa and wait to see if there’s any news—I’ll come back on the tramvia a little later.”
“You sure you don’t want to ride back with me?” asked Maggio, pointing inside the cafe, toward the exit. “Sometimes the tramvia is slow, and you got to walk at the other end.”
“I appreciate the offer,” I said blandly. “But thanks. I want to talk to the others who knew Virginia. I should be home by dinner time. I’m sure.”
Maggio hesitated, and I thought he was going to insist on my returning home with him. but then he shrugged. “I see you then,” he said. “Ciao.”
“Ciao,” I said. Causally, I look a seat at a terrace table and watched him go through the door back inside. The moment it closed behind him. I had my Baedeker out of my pocket, looking for the quickest way to Via Tomabuoni. As soon as I had a good idea which way I was going, I hopped the low terrace wall and began walking. I didn’t know what awaited me at 44 Via Tomabuoni, but Mr. Clemens wanted me to go there. That was good enough for me.
18
Via Tomahuoni was a short walk from Diabelli's. but I took my time getting there I wasn't sure whether Agente Maggio had swallowed my story about the note’s being unimportant. So I took a roundabout route, stopping several limes to look at shop windows and once to step inside a church and leave it by a different door, in hopes of confusing the carabiniere if he had decided to follow me. At last, convinced that Maggio was not on my trail. I strode briskly over to Via Tomabuoni and began to search for number 44.
While I had passed through this neighborhood before, I had not had any particular business there. Now I saw that along the street were a variety of shops and restaurants, half a dozen interesting palazzi, the Hotel Londres. and the British and American consulates. The street was busy, with a considerable number of tourists. I heard English. French, and German—and at least one language I didn’t recognize—in addition to Italian, as I scanned the numbers on the buildings I passed.
Number 44 sported a sign in English: D. Preswick, Chemist: the British term for what we Americans call a drugstore. I peeked through the window, past an array of bottles in various sizes, shapes, and colors, trying to decide whether I should wait inside or out. It wasn't a place one would drop into without specific business there, and I had no idea whether or not the proprietor would let me stay once he saw that I wasn’t a customer. I doubted whether he knew anything of Mr. Clemens’s whereabouts, unless he was in league with the anarchists—which seemed unlikely. On the other hand, if anyone had followed me here, I would be conspicuous waiting on the street. That decided me; I went inside.
A bell rang as I entered. Inside, the shop had the exotic blend of odors I had always associated with a pharmacy. There were shelves displaying various tonics, pills, and powders, only a few of which were familiar to me. Shaving brushes, razors, combs, soft soap, and the like occupied another rank of shelves, and to the rear of the store was a wooden counter, littered with bottles, vials, papers, and jars, beyond which was a curtain-covered doorway. “Be there in an instant.” said a high-pitched. British-accented voice from behind the curtain. Then the speaker added in Italian “Subito, signore, subito.”
“Oh, take your time,” I said. Indeed. I saw no reason at all why the shopkeeper should hurry out to attend to me, since I had no business with him. Embarrassed. I walked over to inspect a cabinet of shaving supplies. Perhaps I would pretend to be in the market for a new brush, or some shaving soap…
To my surprise, the person who emerged from behind the curtain was not the shopkeeper, but my chess opponent of a short while ago: Garbarini. Of course. He and his comrades must have some understanding with the proprietor. “Good, you come very quick.” he said. “Does the carabiniere follow you?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “He said he was going back to Settignano. and I did my best to lose anyone trying to track me here. Will you take me to Mr. Clemens?”
Garbarini put a finger to his lips. “Don’t say names,” he whispered, motioning toward the back room with a jerk of his head. I took that to mean that he didn’t want the pharmacist to know our business in any more detail than necessary. This made sense if he was not a member of their conspiracy.
I nodded my assent, and he went on. “I take you there. But we go out a back way, to make sure we don’t be followed. Come.”
I followed him through the curtain, and got a brief glimpse of a rabbit-faced little man who pretended to concentrate on his bottles and potions, and to ignore the two intruders leaving his shop through the back door. Then we were out in the alley, and I forgot about him.
Garbarini looked in both directions and. seeing the way clear, pointed to the left. We set off rapidly, leaving me no time to wonder just what sort of trouble I had gotten myself into.
Speaking as little as necessary, Garbarini led me along a twisting route into a part of Florence I had never visited. Much of the way was through backstreets and unmarked alleys, with few other pedestrians, and I had little time to take note of landmarks or compass directions. So while I could make out the Duomo at a distance. I had no clear idea in what quarter of town we were, and I am certain that was as my guide intended. He had only my word for it that a squadron of armed carabinieri was not dogging my steps, and I myself could not have sworn I hadn’t been followed to our meeting place.
We went into the side-alley door of a nondescript building, near which two rough-looking men lounged, drinking from a jug—ordinary loafers, to the casual eye. But their alert stance and penetrating stare as I came into view, and the way they relaxed after Garbarini nodded to them, told me all I needed to know. They were guards, and he had just told them I was no threat. Perhaps he thought so: for myself. I reserved the right to prove otherwise, if Mr. Clemens had come to harm.
Garbarini put his finger to his lips, and pointed to a ladder in the far comer, leading up to an open trapdoor in the ceiling. I nodded to indicate my understanding, crossed the room and climbed the ladder. At the top was a small garret room, with rough furniture—a low bed. a couple of wooden chairs, and a table along one wall beneath the single window. A shelf below the window held a selection of crockery. enough for one or two to dine—although there was no cooking equipment in view. At the table sat my employer, with pen and paper before him. He looked up as I came through the trapdoor and said. “Ah, it's good to see you, Wentworth. You didn’t happen to bring along any of my Durham pipe tobacco, did you? This Italian stuff ain’t worth the tinder to set it on fire.”
“Quite frankly, sir, pipe tobacco was the last thing on my mind this morning,’ I said. I noted with relief that he looked hale and hearty, and most importantly, uninjured.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” said my employer, laying down his pen. For a fleeting instant there was a disappointed look on his face, then he pointed to Garbarini, who had followed me up the ladder, and was now standing, with folded arms, between me and the trapdoor. “Did this fellow tell you what's going on?” he asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“No.” I said. “All I know is what you said in that note to me. which was hardly informative. When you didn’t return, we had no idea where you might have gone.”
[Mark Twain Mysteries 05] - The Mysterious Strangler Page 20