The Florentine Dagger: A Novel for Amateur Detectives

by Ben Hecht

“Nobody ever suspected. During the twenty years we lived in New York father was constantly devoted to her. She was in his mind his wife, and despite everything she remained so to the end. He never ceased to suffer because of the position she insisted upon occupying, and he frequently made love to her, trying to persuade her to marry him instead of her remaining his housekeeper. But it was odd about poor mother. She would grow puzzled when he became tender, and then her excitement would begin. He was frightened of bringing on the violence—we called them spells—and he would drop the subject. She would go around for several days murmuring to herself and looking reproachfully at father, whom she had grown to regard as a friend and protector. And if he pressed the matter she would break out with the words: ‘I can’t marry you. Don’t you understand?’ And she would stand and look at him with terror in her eyes.

“As I grew up I became aware of all this and of what was going on. Father made no secret of it. She was my mother. Somehow his quixotic devotion inspired a similar affection in me. She was more than a mother—an unfortunate to be protected and watched over. Through all the years of his success and his rise to fame he remained absolutely faithful to this self-imposed trust of his. There was never another woman in his life than the memory of the beautiful actress that was buried in the simple-minded housekeeper.”

She paused and looked sadly at De Medici.

“So much for the past,” she sighed. “Perhaps you can’t understand how a man could be faithful and as kind as poor father.”

“I can,” De Medici answered. “It is sometimes easier to love a memory than a woman ... and easier to be faithful to one.”

“Well,” Florence continued, “what I’ve told you is only part of it. There were other things that happened. I’ll have to speak of them too because ... well, because they form the story. I can hardly talk of them even now. Oh, it was terrible! There were times when Floria returned, the same Floria who had screamed for months in the London hospital. I remember the first time I saw her. It was about twelve years ago. I came home from school and found mother, that is Jane, dressed in a ball gown and talking to father in a voice I had never heard before. She was playing the part of La Tosca. When I arrived father was in tears. We both managed somehow to quiet her and after an hour she fell asleep. When she woke up she was Jane again. And there was no memory in her mind of the scene she’d been through. She worked around for days, looking dully at us and only half alive. But after this Floria returned a number of times and each time more and more violently. We never knew when one of the spells would come to her and we spent all our time watching her, trying to anticipate her and soothe her. But despite all our efforts we could do nothing. Floria would come and father would at once begin to act. It was the only way to humor her. Several times I sat by crying my eyes out and watching him play Baron Scarpia for her.

“We tried everything—remedies, travel, and even several specialists. But the only thing we found able to bring her out of her spells, to end quickly the delusion which would sweep her, was to let her have her own way for a while. Father discovered that if he indulged her for a few minutes and played the part of the Baron, if he let her dress herself as Tosca, the Floria obsession would collapse of itself. And particularly if I were present and watching. Otherwise the delusion would last for hours—even days. And all this kept on through years. Oh, it was awful! But he would never consider for a moment sending her away. She was his wife to the last. I’ll tell you about the night ... about the night he was killed,” she concluded for a space with a sigh.

De Medici sat waiting, his hand on hers and his eyes staring miserably at her saddened face.

“On the night he was killed,” she resumed, “the same thing happened that had happened frequently before. Floria returned. Father, worried and frightened by the fact that my engagement party was to take place in a few hours, telephoned me. He told me briefly over the phone that she was in one of her spells. I understood. There was a chance, if he humored her and if I were present, that we might rid her of the mania in a short while. I rushed out of the theater beside myself. To have this thing happen on this night seemed to me almost too much to bear. I was beside myself with fear and grief. You know, when one has guarded a secret so carefully all one’s life, one becomes almost like the secret itself. I was not ashamed of having it known that Jane was my mother. But under poor father’s influence, I had all my life worked with him to keep the secret of her insanity hidden from our world. And it was as if something beautiful would be soiled for him more than for me if it were discovered.

“I got home in a few minutes. I had a key and let myself in. Father had set the little scene as he frequently had done before. He had even put on the black beard that he wore when he played Scarpia for her. He had found that these details served to convince mother of the reality of the scene and to shorten the awful thing. I ... I opened the door. He was sitting in a chair with his back to me as I entered. I saw mother raise the dagger and strike him, screaming at the same time. I stood still. I thought for the moment it was another one of the awful make-believes I’d witnessed so often. And I waited for father to stand up. He did. He stood up slowly and turned and saw me and nodded with a smile. The dagger was in his heart and he stood smiling at me. The act was over for him, the terrible scene that he had so often played. It was over forever this time. And as he fell he snatched at the thing on his chin and tore it off.