Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 11, No. 51, February 1948

Yeggs Florentine by Guy Gilpatric[8]

Mr. and Mrs. Wells came out of the Grand Hotel and paused on the sidewalk looking around. “Nope, no taxi,” said Mr. Wells to the doorman. “Just going for a stroll to look the town over. Which way’s the Ponte Vecchio?”

They crossed the square and walked along the Lungarno Torrigiani, which runs beside the Arno. “Gosh, that’s a muddy river,” observed Mr. Wells. “I wonder what kind of fish those soldiers are trying to catch? Sunfish, I bet. Oh, yes, look, Mama, there’s the Ponte Vecchio there. Looks just like the pictures, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wells, who hadn’t been listening. “I wish we’d had the car come ’round. I know we’ll get lost.”

“Yes? Well, I notice every time we roll up to any place in that Isotta, zip go the prices. The chauffeur gives the storekeepers a high-sign and gets maybe a twenty per cent rake-off on everything we buy.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Wells, doubtfully, “I’ve got an idea my feet are going to hurt. Oh, look here, Tom — here’s a jeweler here.”

“Sure,” said Mr. Wells. “But Faustino says they’re all yeggs on this side of the river, and he ought to know! We’ll go down to the bridge, cross over, and...”

“Wait a minute, Tom; do wait a minute. Now, look, Tom, there’s a nice one there — the one with the red stones, sort of.”

“Sure, he’s probably got a gross of them, all junk. Oh, look, Bella, see the way they’ve got shops built right on the bridge. Say, now, that’s interesting, isn’t it? I mean, it’s quaint, now, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wells. “My, these cobbles are terrible! Oh, why, look, Tom, those shops look like jewelry shops. Look, Tom, they are jewelry shops, every one of them!”

“Unh-huh,” agreed Mr. Wells. “All gyp jewelry shops. Lot of junk made up for the tourists, like Atlantic City. — Wonder what that statue is... Oh, why, it’s Benvenuto Cellini! Sure, don’t you remember in the guidebook, Bella? He had his shop out here on the bridge.”

When they had crossed the bridge, they came to a large shop the window of which was filled with jewelry. “There!” exclaimed Mrs. Wells, halting resolutely and pointing at the fifth necklace from the left. “There’s what I want, Tom, yes, just exactly! See, it’s the sardonyx one. It’s exactly...”

“S-h-h! Wait a minute, wait a minute!” muttered Mr. Wells out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t go getting all excited! Don’t you see that man in there piping us off and getting set to gyp us? Keep on walking past and...”

“Oh, you make me sick!” declared Mrs. Wells. “I’m going in anyway.”

The Italian took the necklace out of the window and laid it on the counter. “Oh, yess!” he said. “Ees beootifoola teeng, I guarantee ees ver’ old. I guarantee ees make five a hone-dred years ago, een da quattrocento.”

“Hunh!” grunted Mr. Wells, picking it up as Mrs. Wells reached for it. “It looks pretty new to me. What are you asking for it?”

“Seex-a tosanda lira — all handa carve. Ver’ chip, sir!”

“Six thousand’s what you’re asking, but what will you take?” snorted Mr. Wells.

“Seex-a tosanda lira ees da price, sir. Ees ver’ chip! See, ees beootifoola stone, beooti...”

“Oh, shucks, talk like a business man!” urged Mr. Wells. “I s’pose you’re used to a lot of Americans who...”

The Italian bowed stiffly. “I am sorry,” he said. “Our price-a ees feex, we are estableesha house of feexa price.”

“Horse feathers!” declared Mr. Wells. “Come on, Mama, I told you this bird was a yegg. Now, down here in the little side streets...”

“Now, you shut up, Tom Wells!” said Mrs. Wells, blushing with embarrassment. “Six thousand wasn’t much for that and you know it.”

“Now, Bella, Bella, please!” begged Mr. Wells. “Just you leave this to me. I tell you all these birds on the main streets are gyps. Why, if that thing had been a genuine antique we couldn’t have bought it for ten thousand lira.”

“Well, it was exactly what I wanted. I’m going to remember that address — Via Benfratelli, Number 61.”

“Look!” exclaimed Mr. Wells. “Here’s a quaint little street. This is the kind of a place to find bargains. Let’s go down here.”

“Why, Tom, it’s only an alley. Phew, smell it? And those cobbles...”

“Oh, now, Ma, say, for goodness’ sake, what do you expect, Michigan Boulevard?”

They walked along an alley which twisted, turned, and finally came to a blind end. As they were about to go back, Mr. Wells peered into a doorway and saw an old man bending over a workbench on which were several pieces of jewelry.

“See there, Bella, look inside there!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Come on!”

As they entered, the old man arose, bowed, and offered Mrs. Wells his chair.

“Good morning, lady and gentleman,” be beamed. “I speak-a good English.”

“Fine!” said Mr. Wells, glancing around the dark little shop and nodding at Mrs. Wells. “We were looking for a necklace, something kind of heavy gold — real antique of course — with sort of square sardonyx stones in it.”

“Ah, yes?” said the old man, wrinkling his forehead. “Ah, I do not know eef I have still such piece... pardon, please, I go see.” He hobbled into the gloom in the rear of the shop and disappeared behind a curtain.

“Now!” whispered Mr. Wells. “This is the kind of a place to snag off bargains! There’s no flash fronts or frock coats about this place. I told you we’d find something if...”

“Pardon,” said the Italian. “Here ees someteeng...”

“Ah-ha! There!” exclaimed Mr. Wells. “Look that one over, Bella!”

“Oh, why, it’s just like the other one!”

“Hunh — it’s just like the other one, but, boy, what a difference! You can tell that this one wasn’t made day before yesterday!”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Wells, trying it around her neck.

“Fine-a antique!” declared the old man, proudly. “I sell-a only da fine-a antique.”

“Yes,” repeated Mrs. Wells. “How much is...”

“What are you asking for it, brother?” broke in Mr. Wells. “I mean, what’ll you take, no fooling?” Once more the Italian wrinkled his forehead. “For thees lady, I maka special price,” he said. “Ten tosanda lira — ver’ chip!”

Mr. Wells winked at him and poked him in the ribs. “Yes, yes, go on — I’m listening!” he chuckled.

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “Ah-ha!” he laughed. “I see-a thees gentleman ees smart-a man. Nine-a tosanda five honed red?”

“I heard you the first time. Nine thousand!” said Mr. Wells, slapping him on the back and reaching for his wallet. “How about it?”

“Ah,” sighed the old man, shaking his head but smiling at Mrs. Wells. “Your gentleman ees ver’ smart-a man! But for you, lady, I say yes. I sell eet for nine-tosanda lira.”

“At-a-boy!” approved Mr. Wells. “Here’s your money, and now we’re all happy. Put it on and wear it home, Bella. Guess it was worth the walk and the sore feet, hey?”

“You walk-a far?” inquired the Italian sympathetically. “You like-a taxi for hotel, lady?”

“Oh, could you get one?” asked Mrs. Wells, looking out at the dismal alley.

“Yes. Please come-a thees way.” He led them to the rear of the room, drew aside the curtain, and ushered them into a bright and spacious and familiar jewelry store. “Here ees da fronta my shop,” he explained proudly. “Via Benfratelli, Number 61.”