078 The Phantom Of Venice

by Carolyn Keene

  “Delighted to meet you both, Signorine! Please to come in!”

  As he led the way from the tiled vestibule up a dark, well-worn flight of stairs, the young man went on, half turning as he spoke, “Mi perdonate for not introducing myself. I forget my manners. I am Giovanni Spinelli, but you must call me simply Gianni!”

  He pronounced his nickname like “Zanni.” Nancy suddenly realized that this was Venetian dialect, which meant that Zorzi’s real name therefore was “Giorgio.”

  The stairway led to a second-floor apartment with a cluttered and disorderly, but cheerful, lived-in look. The furniture and carpeting seemed old and worn, but there were gay, colorful touches all about in the form of batik drapes, oriental cushions, sculptured ornaments and wall paintings.

  An attractive blond woman in her late thirties emerged from the kitchen in response to a volley of Italian from Gianni. As he gestured toward Tara, the woman rushed up to her and, with tears in her eyes, embraced the American girl emotionally. “Ah, mia poverina! To think that we must meet at last under such unhappy circumstances! I am Angela, of course, Angela Spinelli, your father’s dear friend! He loved you so much and spoke of you so often and so fondly!”

  It was obvious from the moisture glistening in her own eyes that Tara Egan was deeply moved. She introduced Nancy to Angela, who in turn explained that Gianni was her younger brother. She begged the American girls to join them in a meal of pasta, but upon learning that they had already lunched aboard the plane from Rome, she contented herself with serving them caffe espresso and dainty little almond-flavored Italian cookies.

  “And now,” Signora Spinelli said when her two visitors had been shown the proper hospitality, “I know that the time has come that we must talk about your father, my dear Tara, even though this will pain us both. No doubt you will wish to know the unhappy facts concerning his death.”

  Tara could only nod and bite her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

  “What I can tell you will not take long,” Angela went on sadly. “Rolf, your father, was returning home late one night in a hired gondola. Suddenly a shot rang out from the fondamenta, one of the quays or stone curbs that they were passing. This is what the gondolier reported later to the police, you understand? He said the noise startled him, and he looked to see where it came from, so at first he did not notice what was happening to your father. But then, from the corner of his eye, he saw his passenger toppling overboard. As he turned in horror, he saw your father fall with a splash into the water!”

  “B-but didn’t he try to rescue Daddy?!” Tara exclaimed.

  “Oh yes, of course, my dear! He rowed around and around, searching everywhere. But in the dark it was not easy to see, and although he spent much time looking, he says your father did not appear again above water.”

  Tara Egan burst into tears. Gianni, who had not taken a chair and was hovering about the room while the others conversed, rushed to comfort her.

  “Please! Do not weep, Signorina! It is most painful to Angela and me to see you grieving so! Believe me, we are ready to do whatever we can to help!”

  As he spoke, Gianni stroked Tara’s arm and hand. Until now, the smiling, handsome young man had seemed so vain and cocksure that Nancy was startled by his sudden change of manner and his tender concern for Tara Egan.

  Aloud, Nancy said cautiously. “May I too ask a question about Mr. Egan, Signora?”

  Angela Spinelli flung out her hands. “Ma naturalmente! Of course you may ask, cara! You are a friend of Rolf Egan’s daughter, and the two of you have come here together to learn what happened to him. What is it you wish to know?”

  “Are we to understand that he was—shot to death?”

  Angela shrugged her shoulders expressively. “As to that, who can say, my dear? The gondolier reported only that he heard a gun go off, or rather, what sounded like a gun going off. He cannot even be sure it was a shot.”

  “But if Daddy wasn’t hit, why else would he have fallen overboard?!” Tara hastened to protest.

  “Please do not be offended, cara, when I tell you that the gondolier said Rolf had been drinking vino that night, perhaps too much vino. The police say that he was probably tipsy and that is why he fell overboard. Or if there was, indeed, a shot, then the noise may have startled him and caused him to lose his balance—which, again, could explain why he fell into the water.”

  There was a sob in Signora Spinelli’s voice as she spoke, and she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. Despite her rather operatic manner and gestures, Nancy sensed that she had loved Rolf Egan very much and was as deeply grieved over losing him as Tara.

  “What did the gondolier see when he looked toward the sound?” Nancy asked gently. “Could he make out anyone on the quay?”

  “He is unsure of that, also. He thinks he may have noticed something move—as if, for instance, someone had darted into a passageway between two buildings. It could have been a gunman, perhaps. But his attention was distracted almost at once by his passenger falling into the water, so he had no chance to see clearly. Besides, it was very dark along the canal at the place where the accident occurred, and the only light came from the gondolier’s own lantern.”

  “And Mr. Egan’s body was never recovered?”

  “Unfortunately not. The police assume that the current and tide carried it far out into the lagoon, perhaps even out to sea.”

  Tara was sobbing softly now, and Gianni continued to comfort her with pats on the shoulder. Angela Spinelli looked at them. Nancy could see that she was proud of her handsome young brother, and it was not hard to understand why. With his dark good looks and sleek athletic build, a good many Venetian girls and female tourists were no doubt attracted to him. Nancy realized her own gaze was continually straying in his direction, and she could feel a tingling warmth spreading through her whenever she let her eyes linger.

  It’s a good thing I won’t be seeing too much of this fellow, she thought, or I could easily wind up being Female Victim Number nine hundred forty-seven!

  Nevertheless, Nancy’s feelings toward Gianni weren’t totally positive. There was a certain glitter in his luminous dark eyes, and a feline grace to his rippling muscular movements which seemed to hint that he could be as cruel and heartless as he was handsome.

  Looking back at his sister, Nancy said, “Tell me, Signora, wh—”

  “Please! You must call me Angela.”

  “Very well . . . Angela . . . what do you think happened to Tara’s father? Did someone kill him?”

  “Ah, mamma mia! How can you ask me such a terrible question?! I simply do not know!”

  “Did he have any enemies? Was there anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”

  This time Signora Spinelli took longer to answer. At last she shook her head. “No . . . none that I know of.”

  Yet Nancy, observing the expression that flickered over her face, strongly suspected that thoughts had just passed through Angela’s mind that might well have some bearing on Rolf Egan’s tragic mishap.

  Tara, meanwhile, had stopped crying with a final convulsive sob. “Nancy’s good at solving mysteries,” she murmured tearfully. “In fact, in America, she’s quite famous as a detective.”

  “Èvvero?” said Angela with a look of surprise. “Then perhaps one day she may be able to explain to us all this terrible thing that happened to your caro padre!”

  But Signora Spinelli’s voice sounded far from hopeful.

  Nancy slipped an arm around Tara’s shoulders and helped her pull herself together. Tara responded to her attentions and also flashed a grateful glance at Gianni. In return, the handsome Italian youth favored her with a dazzling smile calculated to melt the heart of any susceptible female.

  “I . . . I suppose we’d better go over Daddy’s personal effects.” Tara asked.

  “Si,” said Angela. “Perhaps now would be as good a time as any.”

  As they rose from their chairs, Gianni shifted his gaze from Tara and looked directly at Nancy. To h
er surprise, it was an arrogantly sensual glance—a smiling macho challenge, loaded with frank and open desire.

  Nancy felt a nervous shiver pass through her. How could he look at her like that when just a moment ago he had been showing so much tenderness toward Tara? The vibes he was giving off seemed like a boast, almost a threat, that he could have any girl he wanted, whenever he cared to take her.

  The boast or threat, whichever it was, left Nancy with a chill of mistrust.

  Angela took Tara through the apartment, showing her Rolf Egan’s belongings. They were surprisingly few—a limited wardrobe of clothing, a drawerful of personal papers including an envelope of snapshots taken over the years, and assorted art equipment, paintings and sketches.

  Nancy, who had a keen artistic eye, found his canvases colorful and charming. They reflected Rolf’s adventurous, bohemian spirit and certainly showed a good deal of talent. Yet she doubted that any of them would bring very high prices if exhibited at an art gallery. She privately concluded that Rolf Egan had been a gifted commercial artist, but not a creative genius.

  As the two girls finished looking over his work, Angela clapped her hands and exclaimed to Tara with a smile, “Ah, si! Suddenly I remember now!”

  “Remember what?”

  “There is something your father wanted very much for you to have! In fact he was planning to send it to you just before his terrible accident! Aspetta uno momento! I shall go and get it!”

  As she rushed off, Tara and Nancy exchanged curious glances, both intrigued by her words. What special gift had Rolf Egan left his only daughter? The two girls waited with keen interest to see what Angela would show them.

  3

  The Watcher in the Shadows

  To Tara’s and Nancy’s surprise, Signora Spinelli soon returned, carrying some bright-colored fabric. It proved to be a chef’s apron with an attractive pictorial design in blue, yellow and green.

  The design showed a figure in a chef’s hat, flipping an egg in a skillet over the stove. Above this was scripted a motto in Italian: Per fare una frittata, si deve spaccare un uovo!

  Angela Spinelli was watching Tara with a sympathetic smile. “No doubt you are wondering how your father came to give you such a thing,” she said. “The answer is simple. Recently he was hired by a pottery firm in Milan to design a line of kitchenware to be sold in American department stores. Along with the dishes and bowls and cups, Rolf insisted the complete set should also include an apron—and this is how he saw it. His client was delighted with the results! But do not ask me why he wished to send one to you.”

  “I think I know why,” said Tara, and Nancy saw that her lashes were once again wet with tears. “Daddy used to love to play chef!”

  “Ah, si, cara! You are so right!” exclaimed Angela. “Here in Italy, most men would be ashamed to take their wife’s place in the kitchen. But Rolf loved to cook! His fettucini was exquisite and so were his American—how do you say?—hamburgers!”

  Tara nodded and took out her handkerchief to dab her eyes while she went on, “I can still remember when I was little, before my parents were divorced, we’d have cookouts in the yard, at the summer cottage where we were staying. Daddy loved to put on an apron and a big old chef’s hat while he prepared the meal—and then do funny things to make me laugh. . . . Somehow I knew the whole thing was a show he was putting on, just to amuse me!”

  Her voice broke again, and she blew her nose to hide her emotion.

  Nancy had learned a few words of Italian during an earlier trip abroad, but not enough to translate the motto. To give Tara time to regain her composure, she pointed to the lettering on the apron and asked curiously, “What does it say?”

  “To make an omelet, one must break an egg,” Angela replied with a smile.

  A faintly puzzled expression flickered over Tara’s face. Then she sighed and gathered up the apron. “May I take this with me?”

  “Of course, my dear. Rolf meant it for you.”

  “I’ll come back later for the rest of the things.”

  “But, cara, why must you go?” Angela flung out her arms impulsively. “Surely you will stay here with me while you are in Venice! Gianni comes to visit and keep me company at times, now that Rolf is no longer here. But that is no problem! He can easily return to his regular quarters, so there will be plenty of room! To me you are like a daughter, mia poverina, surely you understand that?”

  Tara hesitated uncertainly, and Nancy saw her eyes swing from Angela toward Gianni as her lips parted in a shy smile.

  Gianni beamed a look of irresistible appeal at her, adding to his sister’s plea. “Ah, si! Angela is right! You must certainly stay here with us . . . after all, you are like one of the family, non è véro? Please say that you will do so, Tara!”

  Nancy could see her wavering. She could also imagine what was going through her friend’s mind. If Tara stayed with Angela Spinelli, she was bound to see more of Angela’s handsome young brother.

  As she thought of Tara’s unhappy home life and her obvious need for affection following the loss of her father, Nancy felt another sudden pang of mistrust. It would be so easy for a smooth, macho operator like Gianni to take advantage of a girl in Tara’s present situation and state of mind!

  Even more disturbing were the mysterious circumstances surrounding her father’s tragic accident . . . On the spur of the moment, Nancy spoke up before her friend could reply. “Tara has already checked into a pensione.”

  “But that is no matter!” said Angela. “I am sure they will let her check out again with no charge when they learn that Tara has been invited to stay with relatives.”

  Nancy looked doubtful. “Maybe, but she didn’t just take the room today. It was reserved in Tara’s name before she left New York. We’ll see what they say,” she went on smoothly. “Whatever happens, Tara will be coming back here for her father’s belongings, and meanwhile she’ll have to see about her own things at the pensione. There’s no need to decide right this minute.”

  Angela glanced at Tara, who still looked hesitant but apparently was swayed by Nancy’s words. “Ebbene, just as you wish, my dear,” Angela said. “But please remember that you are always welcome here.”

  Nancy promptly moved toward the door. “Well, shall we be going then, Tara?”

  “Y-yes . . . I guess we’d better.”

  “Let me come with you!” Gianni volunteered eagerly. “Then if Tara should decide to return to my sister’s, I can assist with her luggage!”

  There was no polite way to refuse.

  As they went outside, Nancy’s sharp eyes noticed a figure lurking on the other side of the rio, or side-street canal, on which Angela Spinelli’s apartment was located. The man was standing in a shadowy passageway, so that it was impossible to make out much of his face or appearance, but she was sure she had glimpsed the same person standing there when she and Tara had arrived.

  Gianni talked brightly and entertainingly as they made their way back over the quays and little bridges to the Pensione Dandolo. When they arrived, Nancy said to him with a smile, “Thanks so much for coming with us. And please tell your sister how much I enjoyed meeting her!”

  “I shall be glad to wait until Tara decides what she wishes to do.”

  “No, thanks,” she replied firmly. “We have some things to arrange, so we may be quite a while. If she does decide to stay with your sister, she can phone to let you know—right, Tara?”

  “Uh, y-yes . . . I guess that makes sense.”

  “Va bene, let me give you Angela’s number.” Gianni wrote it down and handed it to Tara, then held the door of the pensione open for the two girls. “Ciao then, Signorine!”

  As the girls entered the pensione, his lustrous amber-green eyes met Nancy’s sapphire-blue ones for a moment. His bold smile seemed almost mocking, as if to say: I can read you like a book, Nancy Drew! Don’t think you can keep me away from Tara forever—or from you either, if I should decide that you are the one I want!

  Ups
tairs, in the comfortable but old-fashioned-looking bedroom Signora Dandolo had assigned to Tara, the blond girl exclaimed to Nancy: “Oh, my goodness! Isn’t Gianni gorgeous?!”

  “That’s for sure. He’s so handsome, I don’t quite trust him.”

  “Is that why you stopped me from accepting Angela’s invitation, because you thought he might make a pass at me?”

  “Well, partly that, perhaps, but . . .” Nancy paused to marshal her thoughts. She was also wondering how to say most tactfully what was on her mind. “Tara, can you think of any reason why someone might have wanted to harm your dad?”

  “No, not at all! That business about someone shooting at him sounds crazy! I’m sure Daddy never hurt anyone, at least not intentionally. So why should anyone want to hurt him?”

  “If we could answer that, we’d probably know exactly what happened, but we can’t and we don’t,” Nancy said ruefully. “That’s what worries me, Tara. Let’s just suppose some nut did want to shoot your father, for revenge or whatever. How do we know he may not try to hurt you too?”

  Tara stared in amazement at the teenage sleuth. “Are you serious?”

  Nancy shrugged drily, “Anything’s possible.” She went on to describe the faceless watcher she had seen lurking in the shadows, across the canal from Angela’s flat.

  Tara shivered. “That does sound a bit scary!”

  “Then stay here, at least, overnight, and we’ll talk some more tomorrow. Maybe the trouble just involves Angela, so if you’re here at the pensione, you’ll be in no danger.”

  “All right, if you say so. But what about you, Nancy?”

  “I have to go on to a place called the Palazzo Falcone. My dad’s expecting me there. It belongs to a wealthy Venetian who owns a glassworks on the island of Murano. Daddy’s a lawyer, and he came here on behalf of a client who wants to buy the glassworks. But there’s been a kidnaping that may affect the deal. That’s why Daddy sent for me. He hopes maybe I can help solve the crime.”