After looking up the number of the Pensione Dandolo, Mrs. Gatti dialed, and a rapid conversation in Italian followed, presumably with Signora Dandolo. Then she handed the receiver to Nancy.
“Your friend will be on the line in a moment.”
“Mille grazie!”
“Ah, you are learning our beautiful language! Congratulations, my dear!” The signora walked off, beaming her approval.
Tara was delighted at being asked to tea at the palazzo and accepted happily. She was startled to learn that her father had been commissioned to design a set of glass animals for the Vetreria del Falcone. “What a strange coincidence!” she murmured.
“If it is a coincidence,” was the response.
“Nancy, what do you mean?! You’re not suggesting that that had anything to do with . . . with what happened to Daddy?”
“No, of course not. But if we could find out how he came to be chosen as the artist, it might shed a little more light on his work and what he was doing recently, which in turn might clue us in to whether anyone really did have a motive for trying to shoot him.”
“Yes . . . I see what you mean.” Tara’s voice was thoughtful and troubled.
“One other thing. Were you by any chance carrying a sea shell in your luggage?”
“A sea shell? Why, no. What a funny question! Why do you ask?”
Nancy hesitated. “I’ll explain tomorrow.”
“Okay, see you then. And thanks for inviting me!”
Nancy changed for dinner, which was held in a magnificent dining room with dark beams, brightened by Renaissance murals. Over the seven-course meal, the Marchese described his plans for the upcoming masquerade ball.
“It must be a famous occasion, if Miss van Holst has come all the way from Amsterdam to photograph it,” said Nancy.
Francesco del Falcone shrugged but smiled proudly. “It is certainly not the only Venetian ballo in maschera, but ours has been held by my family every year since the palazzo was built in 1595!”
“I’m sure Katrina’s photos will do it full justice!” Carson Drew’s remark earned him a dazzling smile from the beautiful Dutch woman.
Before retiring, Nancy decided to write a letter home to Hannah Gruen. The devoted housekeeper had cared for her like a mother ever since the untimely death of Mrs. Drew, when Nancy was only three.
Later, as Nancy sealed the letter, she glanced up from the antique rosewood desk just as someone was passing by in the corridor outside the sitting room. Her thoughts must have shown plainly on her face.
“ ’S’matter?” grinned Don Madison. “Surprised to see the hired help walking through the palace?”
“I . . . I guess you could put it that way,” Nancy admitted, blushing with embarrassment.
Madison chuckled drily. “Actually, I live here.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were a personal friend of the Marchese’s.”
“I’m not. Glassmakers have always ranked well up on the social scale in Venice. In olden times they were held virtual prisoners on Murano, but even so, they were allowed all sorts of special privileges. They could even marry into noble families.”
The young American’s smile took on a faintly sardonic tinge as he added, “Of course, I work for Crystalia Glass, which may soon buy out the Falcone works. I suppose that may have had a little bit to do with my being invited to stay here as a guest.”
“What about Pietro Rinaldi?” Nancy inquired with sudden interest. “What sort of relationship did he have with the Marchese?”
“Well, maybe not quite like a father and son but, at least, say, an uncle and nephew. The two families have always been fairly close, I guess. Pietro often came here to the palace.”
There was a brief silence before Nancy asked, “Did you have to work very late?”
Again Don Madison chuckled. “Late enough to miss dinner, but I grabbed a bite on the way. Why?”
His manner seemed friendly enough at that moment for Nancy to risk a rebuff. “Could you possibly take time tomorrow to show me Pietro’s flat?”
“Sure, why not?” was the cheerful reply.
For some reason Nancy found herself looking forward with keen anticipation to her return trip to Murano. In fact, her mood the next morning was sufficiently buoyant that she decided to push her luck and ask if she might go along with Don when he left the palace to go to work at the plant.
“Of course. Come on,” he responded. He seemed more reserved than he had been the previous evening, but at least there was no sign of the brusqueness that had put Nancy off at their first meeting.
Maybe he’s just shy, she thought. It was a surprising notion. Nancy found it rather pleasant.
As they chatted on the vaporetto, Don’s manner seemed to thaw again. Once or twice, Nancy glanced sharply over her shoulder.
“Anything wrong?” he inquired.
“Not really.” Nancy tried to shrug off his question with a smile. “I . . . I had a feeling someone was staring at me. . . . Probably my imagination.”
“It’d be surprising if some guy wasn’t staring at you,” said Don. “You’re very pretty.”
Nancy felt her cheeks turning pink.
Don had to check in at the vetreria, but did not keep her waiting long. Once work was in full swing, he told the plant manager, Signor Rubini, where he was going and that he would return in an hour. Then he and Nancy set off on foot.
Along the island’s shore, she could glimpse heaps of broken glass and other debris. Don noticed her glance. “You might not think so now,” he commented, “but Murano was once a fashionable beauty spot. Rich people would come here to stroll in the gardens and chat with poets and artists.”
Pietro’s flat was located in a neighborhood where master glassmakers had long resided. Nancy was surprised that Don had a key.
“Pietro liked company,” he explained. “Sometimes when he worked late, I’d bunk here overnight.”
It was a typical bachelor’s flat, comfortably if not very neatly furnished. Nancy saw no signs of a struggle. “What makes the police think he was kidnaped during the night?” she asked.
“Mostly because the lights were on when we came here looking for him the next day.”
Don led the way to a scarred, wormholed desk and pointed out a photo. It was a framed, colored snapshot showing Pietro Rinaldi on the beach with his attractive American fiancee. Pietro was a strongly built, hairy-chested fellow with a likeable grin. Nancy guessed that the picture had been snapped somewhere on the Jersey shore.
“The Marchese says Pietro chose the artist who designed those glass animals,” Nancy remarked. “Do you know why he picked Rolf Egan?”
“Well, Egan’s a talented artist, of course . . . but they were old friends.”
“Any idea where they met?”
“No, but they talked like old buddies. Could’ve been back in the States, I suppose.”
“Did you know Rolf Egan had a fatal accident?”
Don Madison was startled on hearing the details. “Wow! Almost sounds like a Mafia hit, doesn’t it?”
Nancy nodded, then stooped to pick up a playing card from the floor. It was lying face down by a wastebasket, as if someone had meant to throw it in but missed. It was the ace of diamonds.
“Any idea where this came from?”
Don shook his head. A search of the rooms failed to reveal any other cards.
The two walked back to the boat landing. The quay was crowded. Murano was already being overrun by its daily horde of tourists. Nancy realized that she and Don had scarcely spoken since leaving Pietro’s flat. She stole a look at her companion and found him regarding her with a strange intensity.
The throng stirred into motion as a vaporetto approached. Nancy felt a sudden nudge in the small of her back. It was sharp enough to send her stumbling forward. She flung out an arm to grasp the protective railing, but the sudden jerky movement had caused her heel to break off, and she lost her balance.
With a cry of fear, Nancy top
pled from the quay!
7
Shell Game
Strong arms seized her as she teetered precariously on the barrier! In another moment she would have gone over and plunged head-first into the water!
Nancy’s face was white, and her heart was pounding. It took a moment to collect herself. Suddenly she realized that her head was pressed against Don Madison’s chest, and he was embracing her tightly as she clung to him.
“You okay?”
She nodded wordlessly, and there was a brief eye-to-eye communion before they separated. Nancy sensed a certain reluctance on both their parts to end the embrace.
“Looked like someone pushed you,” Don said gruffly.
“Someone did. Then my right heel broke off and I lost my balance completely!”
They glanced around, but people were jostling past them to board the vaporetto. There was no chance now to identify the person responsible.
Suddenly Nancy remembered the prickly feeling she had had of someone watching her on the boat ride over to Murano. Was it possible that she’d been shadowed all the way from the palazzo?
If so, that push might have been no accident!
Nancy felt a chill of fear. Did someone want her dead? Or was she merely being warned? Maybe the intended message was that if she didn’t stop her investigations, she might suffer the same fate as Rolf Egan!
“Sure you’re all right?” Don had been watching her face and his expression showed real concern. He slipped an arm supportively around her waist.
Nancy smiled and nodded. “Quite sure. . . . Don’t worry, Don, I’ll be okay, aside from limping on one heel.”
It was the first time she had called him by his first name. Don hesitated a moment and seemed to swallow hard. “How about staying on for lunch?” he blurted.
“I’d love to, but someone is expecting me back at the palace.”
His face, which had lit up when she said “I’d love to,” fell again at her mention of a previous date. But his smile returned when Nancy explained that a girl friend was coming for tea.
“Okay. See you tonight then, I hope.”
“So do I. And thanks so much for taking me to Pietro’s!”
“My pleasure. Believe me!”
On the vaporetto, sailing back to Venice, Nancy was warily conscious of everyone who came near her. She also took care not to stand too near the rail. Her thoughts kept reverting to that moment when she’d almost been pushed off the quay, only to be saved by Don Madison.
What a heart-stopping experience it had been! Yet oddly, now, she found herself enjoying the recollection . . .
Nancy had planned on having tea in the palace courtyard. But the sepulchral, eyepatched butler Domenic, who seemed to have a habit of doing exactly as he pleased, apparently felt that guests should be formally received in the drawing room.
“Va bene, va bene,” he had muttered when Nancy tried to make her wishes clear. But when Tara arrived, he proceeded to lay out the tea in the drawing room.
The old fraud, thought Nancy, smiling in spite of her irritation. He understands exactly as much English as he wants to!
Maybe the air-conditioned drawing room was a better place to have tea—if one didn’t mind the lack of privacy. The afternoon sun was blazing, and the courtyard with its fragrant greenery was by no means free of insects.
Tara was entranced at the setting. “Wait’ll I tell Mom about this!” she murmured breathlessly. “Imagine being invited to a Venetian palace!”
She was even more thrilled when the Marchese del Falcone looked in on the two girls and welcomed Tara personally. He seemed as taken with the shy, willowy blond girl as she was with him.
“Where are you staying in Venice, my dear?” he inquired. “At a pensione? But that is absurd! You must come here and attend our masquerade ball tomorrow night! Would you not like to have your friend as a fellow guest, Nancy?”
“That would be marvelous!”
“Ebbene, it is settled, then. I shall send a servant to the pensione to arrange matters and fetch your luggage.”
Tara was overjoyed. But when she tried to express her gratitude, he merely smiled and brushed aside her thanks. “Prego! Non c’è di che!” he said, waving her imperiously to silence. “I beg you—it is nothing.”
Mr. Drew strolled into the drawing room and was also introduced to Tara. “I’m so glad Nancy met someone her own age on the flight over,” he remarked as they shook hands. “I’m sure it’ll make her stay in Venice much more enjoyable.”
“It’s a break for me, too!” Tara declared, wholeheartedly.
The bellpull sounded in the central corridor. Moments later, Domenic entered the drawing room to announce a visitor. He handed the Marchese a card, and there was a rapid exchange in Venetian dialect. As the butler exited, Falcone turned to his guests.
“I have a caller, it seems, an Englishman named Oliver Joyce. An art collector, apparently. If you will excuse me, I shall go and see what he wants.”
Before he could follow Domenic out of the room, however, the butler returned. With him was a tall, dapperly dressed man with a head that was shiny and bald, except for a wispy fringe of carrot-red hair.
“My dear Marchese,” Oliver Joyce beamed, holding out his hand, “how kind of you to see me! I should have written first, but I was passing this way on the Grand Canal and decided to take a chance that I might find you at home!”
Joyce explained that he was not only a collector, but a dealer in objets-d’art. “I have heard that you may soon consider selling some of your family art treasures,” he went on. “May I ask if these reports are correct?”
The Marchese smiled sadly. “An employee has been kidnaped, so it is necessary for me to raise a large ransom on short notice. I hope that my bankers may be able to arrange a loan on my family’s olive groves and other land holdings. If not,” he shrugged, “then our few remaining works of art may go on the block. . . . But not just yet.”
Nevertheless, he graciously consented to show Mr. Joyce around the palace. Soon afterward, Carson Drew also left the drawing room to dictate some legal documents on tape to airmail back to his office in River Heights.
“By the way, Nancy,” said Tara as the two girls resumed their interrupted tea, “you were going to tell me something about a shell.”
“Yes, it was the strangest thing, Tara. When I unpacked yesterday, this is what I found in my suitcase . . .”
Nancy reached into her pocket and took out the white Angel’s Wing.
Tara’s eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. She sat very still, staring at the sea shell.
8
A Sinister Sign
“What is it, Tara?” Nancy asked. “Is anything wrong?”
Tara shook her head silently without taking her eyes off the shell. She seemed to be having difficulty finding her voice.
Nancy explained, “When we went through Customs, I thought this might somehow have gotten transferred from your suitcase to mine. I mean, that, maybe one of the inspection officers replaced it in the wrong bag, by mistake. . . . You say that’s not the answer, though?”
“No. It couldn’t have come from my suitcase.”
“But you’ve seen this before?”
“Maybe not that particular shell, but one just like it.” Tara reached out for the Angel’s Wing and her hand closed around it almost fondly.
The teenage sleuth was intrigued. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Tara’s lips trembled and her eyes suddenly glistened with moisture. “Oh, Nancy, this is really unusual! Do you remember me telling you how my father once came to New York unexpectedly and took me to the Jersey beach, and how we sunned ourselves in the sand all afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“I found a shell like this and gave it to Daddy. He told me he’d always carry it with him as a keepsake—to remind him of the fun we had that day!” Tara’s voice broke emotionally.
Nancy was touched, but her instincts as a detective were also aro
used. “You’re sure this isn’t the same shell?”
“How could it be? . . . Even if it were, there’s no way I could tell for sure.”
Nancy tactfully changed the subject, and the two girls were soon engaged in a lively conversation about their shopping and sightseeing plans. As they talked, Nancy saw Katrina van Holst passing by in the corridor.
“Come and join us,” she invited, “if you can spare a few minutes.”
The smiling Dutchwoman, who carried two cameras as well as a shoulder bag around her neck, came into the drawing room and was introduced to Tara Egan. She accepted a cup of tea and sat down briefly to chat with the girls.
“Are you in Italy alone or with a group?” she asked Tara. On learning what had brought her from America, Miss van Holst sympathized warmly and expressed a hope that Tara might still take home pleasant memories of Venice, despite her father’s tragic accident.
“Just visiting the Marchese’s palace is something I’ll never forget,” said Tara. “And the masquerade ball sounds thrilling!”
Presently, after a brief tour of the palazzo’s upper floors, the Marchese returned to the drawing room with his English caller. He showed the art dealer two oil paintings of Venetian scenes, then led him to a tall glass cabinet.
Nancy couldn’t help noticing the keen, sidelong glances that Oliver Joyce kept casting in all directions while the Marchese was speaking. They seemed oddly out of key with his urbane, foppish manner and his show of peering intently through a monocle at whatever was being described. Nancy had a feeling that the Englishman’s sharp eyes were recording every detail of the palace scene.
She also noticed something even odder about his right trouser leg, just above the ankle.
From inside the glass cabinet, the Marchese del Falcone took out a lovely Fabergé egg—one of the world-famous creations of Carl Peter Fabergé, court jeweler to the tsars of Russia. Jeweled and enameled in intricate designs, the eggs were intended as Easter gifts. Each contained a precious “surprise.”
The one that the Marchese now opened contained a spectacular firebird with emerald eyes and ruby and diamond feathers. “My grand-uncle brought this back to Venice,” said the Marchese. “He was at one time the Italian ambassador to Russia.”
078 The Phantom Of Venice Page 5
