Gianni seemed to sense what was going through her mind. He smiled confidently and took a step toward her.
He must have followed us here, Nancy realized, and just waited for a chance like this!
The thought of being spied on by someone like Gianni filled her with distaste. And what if Tara should walk into the room and find them together, especially after her jealous outburst the night before!
“Please go away,” she said aloud.
Instead he came a step closer. She could smell his masculine scent and the fragrance of his after-shave cologne. A panicky feeling of weakness assailed her.
Suddenly he seized her in his arms and kissed her! For a moment Nancy was too shocked to resist—and perhaps part of her responded to the warmth of his lips on hers.
Then fury and sheer indignation took over. She broke free of his embrace and slapped him hard. Her sapphire eyes were blazing.
“Leave me alone,” she warned between her teeth, “or I’ll call a guard!”
Gianni’s face went as white as her own, except for the reddish imprint of her hand on his cheek. “So, you are in love with that American grullo from the glass factory!” he muttered in a voice thick with rage.
Then he turned abruptly and walked out of the room. Nancy was trembling.
Luckily she had recovered her poise by the time Tara rejoined her. But the encounter with Gianni had spoiled her pleasure in their tour of the House of Gold.
Tara was eager to window-shop, so after leaving the Ca d’Oro the girls caught a water bus to the Rialto. This famous covered bridge over the Grand Canal was lined with a double arcade of shops. Goods of all kinds were on display—jewelry, fabrics, glassware, shoes, lingerie, linens—every possible item, it seemed, to tempt the buyer. Tara was unable to pass up a gaily embroidered peasant blouse. Nancy bought a sleek pair of leather gloves for Hannah and an elegant silk tie for her father.
As they made their way down the marble steps on the eastern side of the bridge, Nancy felt a slight tug on her shoulder bag. She glanced around quickly, but in the swarming crowd, it was impossible to tell who might have snatched at it in passing, or even whether it had been done on purpose.
Then she saw what had caused the tug.
A folded slip of paper was tucked under the flap of her bag!
10
Rendezvous with Danger
Nancy’s pulse was racing. She opened the paper as they walked along. It bore a hastily penned note:
Meet me on Piazzetta at 6:00
under Winged Lion.
A Friend of R’s
Beneath the message, the sender had drawn a four-cornered lozenge—the shape of a diamond in a pack of playing cards.
“What’s the matter?” said Tara, who had noticed Nancy’s sudden odd behavior.
“I’ll explain later.” Nancy smiled as calmly as she could. “Hungry enough for lunch?”
“Starved!”
“Let’s find a place to eat, then.”
With the Rialto behind them, they were now walking down the Merceria, Venice’s main shopping street. It was lined on both sides with shops and stalls, but these were plentifully interspersed with restaurants, trattorias, caffes, gelaterias, rosticcerias, and eating places of all kinds.
The girls chose a terraced outdoor cafe and settled themselves at a pleasant little table under a striped umbrella. Nancy had planned to confine herself to a salad, but was unable to resist the luscious-looking canneloni that Tara ordered. By the time they had finished lunch, topped off with a dessert of lemon sherbet and chocolate sauce, both girls felt sated.
“Whew! I could sit here for the rest of the afternoon,” said Tara.
“Likewise. But don’t forget, we still have to find costumes for the masked ball tonight.”
“Oh, that’s right! Any idea where to go?”
“Yes, Don Madison recommended a place . . . right here on the Merceria, in fact.” Nancy fumbled in her bag for the address.
“That reminds me. What was that paper you were frowning over just as we left the Rialto—some kind of note?”
Nancy nodded and reluctantly showed her friend the pink slip. Tara’s eyes widened as she read it. “Hey, what’s this all about?”
“Someone slipped it under the flap of my bag. Now you know as much as I do.”
“I don’t get it.” Tara looked bewildered. “What does this ’Friend of R’s’ mean, for instance?”
“Good question. The R could stand for the last name of the kidnaped glassblower, Pietro Rinaldi . . . or it might even refer to your father’s first name, Rolf.”
Her words seemed to electrify Tara. “Oh, Nancy!” she gasped. “Do you really think that’s possible?”
The teen sleuth shrugged. “There’s one way to find out.”
“You mean—you’re going to keep the appointment?”
“How else can I find out?”
“But, Nancy, what if it’s dangerous? I mean, my dad was shot or drowned, and another man’s been kidnaped. What if someone wants you out of the way, too, just because you’re trying to solve those crimes?!”
The same thought had occurred to Nancy, especially when she recalled her frightening experience on the boat landing on Murano. Nevertheless, she tried to reassure her friend. “St. Mark’s Square is the most popular tourist spot in Venice, Tara. No one would dare try to harm me right out in public! Now come on, let’s go find that costumer Don told me about.”
The shop was farther along the Merceria. Its windows were crammed with costumes of all nationalities and periods, as well as masks and falsefaces. As the two girls stood looking at the colorful display, a familiar voice suddenly spoke.
“Buon giorno, Signorine!”
Nancy’s heart sank. It was Gianni Spinelli again! Tara’s face lit up eagerly as she turned to greet the handsome young Venetian. But Nancy felt a surge of anger. How dare he show his face again, after what had happened just a few hours earlier at the Ca d’Oro!
Tara began chattering away about how they had come to pick out costumes for the masquerade ball which the Marchese del Falcone was giving tonight at his palazzo.
“May I come in with you?” asked Gianni. “Perhaps I can help by translating, if the shop owner does not understand English.”
“Oh, wonderful! We’d love that, wouldn’t we, Nancy?”
The titian-haired teen responded with a cool smile which didn’t reach her eyes. Much to her satisfaction, the shop owner spoke English fluently. When Nancy told him why they had come, and that his shop had been recommended by Don Madison, the plump, mustachioed costumer exclaimed, “Ah, si! Ma certo! I was just about to wrap his costume and send it to the Palazzo Falcone!”
He showed them a dashing eighteenth-century getup featuring a plumed hat, cloak and rapier. “He will go as a deadly swordsman, you see? An assassin—of female hearts, no doubt!” The costumer twirled his mustache and tittered appreciatively at his own wit.
After long discussion and the trying on of various costumes, Tara finally chose the gown and headdress of a medieval princess, while Nancy decided to be an Oriental dancing girl. The proprietor promised to send their selections promptly to the palazzo, along with Don Madison’s costume.
When they left the shop, Gianni excused himself. He said he had an urgent assignment to cover for his work as an aspiring news reporter. Nancy had noticed a tiny miniature camera tucked in his coat pocket. She thought it was more likely he was a paparazzo, the kind of photographer who pesters celebrities and tries to snap sensational photos of them, which he can sell for high prices. But she was too pleased and relieved by his departure to give the matter a second thought.
The afternoon was well along, but the high point of the day’s sightseeing still lay ahead at the southern end of the Merceria. This was the world-famous square called Piazza San Marco, which Napoleon had once called “the drawing room of Europe.” It was framed on three sides by arcaded buildings with shops and cafes, and on the fourth by the Basilica of St. Mark’s. A
s always, the huge square was thronged with tourists and strollers. A tall bell tower overlooked the scene, while pigeons flocked overhead or alighted boldly on the mosaic pavement.
Nancy decided at first sight that the Basilica, with its five Oriental domes, was the most gorgeous and exotic church she’d ever seen. Over its doorway pranced four beautiful bronze horses brought home as loot from the pillage of Constantinople.
On entering, the interior seemed bathed in a golden glow from the Byzantine mosaics glittering in the vaulted cupolas overhead. The golden altarpiece was studded with precious stones.
One corner of the Piazza opened onto a smaller square, or Piazzetta, leading down to the waterfront, with the pink marble palace of the Doges on one side. The girls had scarcely an hour to view its splendid halls and treasures of art. Nancy made up her mind to return again for a more leisurely inspection before leaving Venice.
When they emerged, it was a quarter to six. “Oh, Nancy! Are you sure you want to keep that appointment?” Tara fretted anxiously.
“Of course I’m sure. Now you go back to the palazzo and tell Daddy I shan’t be long.”
Two towering columns overlooked the mole, or jetty. One bore a statue of Venice’s original patron saint, Theodore, standing oddly triumphant over a crocodile. The other was topped by the unforgettable Winged Lion of St. Mark’s.
Nancy saw Tara aboard a motoscafo. Then she settled herself on the round base of the lion column. From there she could gaze out over the harbor, where the Grand Canal joined the lagoon.
There was no telling, of course, from which direction her contact might come. Nancy’s keen eyes scanned the Piazzetta. Minutes passed. Presently she heard the giant mechanical figures on the square’s clock tower strike six gongs.
Once again Nancy’s gaze swept the scene. Her pulse quickened as a stocky man in safari garb came walking toward her. He had a scarred, deeply tanned face, and his lips twitched in a flickering smile of identification. She knew this was him.
But suddenly he seemed to freeze. His smile changed to a snarl of anger. Without a word to Nancy, he turned and hurried away!
11
Secret Search
Nancy sprang to her feet in dismay. She was sure the khaki-clad stranger had been coming to speak to her. But something had frightened him off!
There was no use going after him now. He was already disappearing into the crowd. Pursuit might only convince him that she’d tried to turn their rendezvous into a trap.
Another figure suddenly caught Nancy’s eye, that of a dark-haired, handsome young man.
Gianni Spinelli! He was strolling toward her with a faintly mocking smile on his lips.
Nancy suddenly clued in and fumed in frustration. So that’s who alarmed the mystery man and spoiled everything! Nancy was furious. The grinning idiot! He’d just wrecked her chance of learning something important—maybe a clue that would have unlocked the whole mystery!
“Are you following me again?”
“Cara! How can you talk to me like that?”
He was mocking her, getting back for the way she had slapped him at the Ca d’Oro.
Nancy’s jaw clenched. Why waste words on such a vain creep! Slipping past his outstretched hand, she headed for the Grand Canal. Minutes later, she was riding back to the palazzo in a water-taxi.
As the boat cruised along, she put Gianni out of her mind and concentrated on the mystery man.
Thinking over what had just happened, she sensed something about him that seemed strangely familiar. But what was it? . . . Surely not his face. With his bone-deep tan and that livid scar running at an angle from the corner of one eye down across his cheek, he was altogether too distinctive. Nancy had trained herself to be observant and remember faces. If she’d seen him somewhere before, even just glimpsed him in a crowd, Nancy felt instinctively that his features would have lingered in her memory. As it was, they rang no bells.
Wait a minute . . . something stirred at the back of her mind. A figure in the shadows . . .
Suddenly Nancy remembered! A man had been lurking across the canal when she and Tara and Gianni had come out of Angela Spinelli’s apartment. She hadn’t seen him clearly enough to make out any details, but wasn’t his general appearance somewhat like that of the mystery man who had tried to meet her just now under the lion column?!
That must be it, Nancy concluded.
Arriving at the palace, she paid her boatman and scampered up to the loggia. She was still a bit uncertain whether courtesy required her to use the bellpull or simply walk in.
The problem was solved when Domenic opened the door. He must have seen her arriving.
“Is Signorina Egan here?” Nancy inquired.
“Si.” The cadaverous butler jerked his head upward in the general direction of their room.
Nancy mounted the graceful staircase. A glance at her wristwatch showed that it was just six-thirty. I wonder if our costumes got here okay, she thought. I should’ve asked Domenic.
Their room lay well down the corridor from the gallery. Nancy opened the door—and stopped short in consternation.
The room had been ransacked! Both girls’ luggage had been unpacked by a maid soon after their arrival and arranged neatly in the drawers of a big old cassetone. But now the drawers had been yanked out and clothing scattered all over. Several of the drawers were still hanging open.
The wardrobe, too, had obviously been searched. Dresses had been pulled from their hangers.
Tara sat huddled in a chair, her face pale and frightened.
“Good night! What happened?” said Nancy.
“Search me.” Tara shrugged helplessly. “It was like this when I got back.”
“Have you told anyone yet?”
“No. It was so scary and upsetting, I . . . I didn’t know what to do! Besides, I was afraid of messing up clues or evidence.”
“What about our costumes? Have they arrived?”
“Yes.” Tara indicated two boxes on her bed. “They must have come just before I got back. They were still in the downstairs hall, so I brought them up myself.”
Nancy dropped her parcels containing the gifts she had purchased on her bed and sat down to collect herself. Tara had mentioned clues, but there were certainly none in plain sight.
With a sigh, Nancy rose and began wandering about the room, straightening up at random while she tried to marshal her thoughts.
Obviously the marauder had been searching for something, but what?
“Did you check your belongings to see if anything’s missing?” she asked Tara.
“Yes, and nothing’s gone as far as I can tell.”
“What about money or valuables?”
“My money’s mostly in traveler’s checks, and I was carrying those with me, in my purse. Other than that, and this ring and watch I’m wearing, I didn’t bring anything very valuable.”
“What about things belonging to your father, or pertaining to your father?”
Tara looked startled. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. I didn’t bring anything of Daddy’s to Italy with me—I mean, no official documents or identification. There’s that apron, of course, that Angela gave me . . .”
“Is it still here?”
“Yes, in that top drawer that’s hanging open.”
Nancy walked to the window, drew aside the draperies and gazed down pensively at the Grand Canal. Rightly or wrongly, the intruder must have thought she or Tara had something valuable or important . . . why else the search?
Wait a sec, Nancy reflected. What about that spook who scared the wits out of us—was he looking for something too? Is that why he came sneaking into our room in the middle of the night?
Maybe he’d paid them another visit! It had obviously been a hasty visit, too frantic and hurried to put things back in place, probably because he feared they might return at any moment.
This reminded Nancy of the way the “Friend of R’s” had been alarmed and left when he spotted Gianni. She’d known at o
nce that he’d seen someone when his gaze turned away from her. . . .
Suddenly a thought flashed through Nancy’s mind. The spook must have spotted something, too—something important. Of course! That’s why he’d paused just before fleeing out the door!
But what had he seen?
Nancy walked quickly to the door and tried to repeat the actions of the skull-faced spook.
“What are you doing?” Tara asked curiously.
“Trying an experiment.” Let’s see now, Nancy thought, he was sort of looking off to the right—which meant that his gaze would have been directed toward the . . . toward the dressing table!
Something on the dressing table must have caught his eye.
Like what . . . ?
The rainbow paperweight!—the souvenir she’d bought on Murano for Aunt Eloise’s collection. That had to be the answer! There was nothing else of value on the table, just the girls’ toilet articles and cosmetics.
Nancy confided her idea about the paperweight to Tara, who looked relieved and slightly confused.
“Gee, it’s beautiful, but I didn’t realize it was so valuable! How much did you pay for it, Nancy, if you don’t mind my asking?”
The teen sleuth chuckled, “No fortune, or I couldn’t have bought it!”
If correct, Nancy realized, her deduction proved something else—namely that last night’s skull-faced phantom was not the same intruder who had ran sacked their room this afternoon. Otherwise the rainbow paperweight would now be gone.
In a cautious afterthought, she tucked the oval glass weight into the toe of one of her shoes, which seemed a safe temporary hiding place.
Feeling better because of her brief exercise in detection, Nancy glanced at her watch. “It’s past seven!” she cried. “We’d better hurry up and get ready for the masked ball!”
12
Masquerade
An hour or two later, the two girls descended the main staircase of the palazzo in costume. Tara looked appropriately romantic and graceful as a princess of the Renaissance. Nancy felt wickedly exotic in her gauzy Arabian Nights garb as a dancing girl. Both wore silver domino masks, but Nancy had realized too late that her costume provided no way of disguising her telltale red-golden tresses. She had no intention, however, of letting such a trifling oversight spoil her enjoyment of the evening.
078 The Phantom Of Venice Page 7
